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We were all supposed to carry head-talks, so we could communicate And I always made time to check the faces. I knew I could stand it. Now that I knew what to do, it was just some sickening sort of exercise. I waited until it started repeating itself; after a moment, a chill crept down my neck: the thing was repeating itself exactly, like a tape loop. Suddenly more scared than I had been in hours, I put it out of its misery and mine. I backed up into a dark alcove, praying nobody had a light-amp glasses or an infrared sensor.

I needed to think this through. A single strip of hellishly bright luminescence flickered off and on high in the center of the ceiling; a bare sun bulb was all that was left of the lighting system. The strobe effect made shadows look like monsters, creeping toward me. I figured I was safe for the moment. Phobos was pretty obvious; they were here, at Phobos Base. They came to Phobos. I started feeling nauseated. My skin began to creep up and down my bones. And what was on the other side?

Well, hell, I supposed. I swallowed the nausea back down. Sweat dripped down my forehead, stinging my eyes. The target was Earth. Terra mostly firma. Home sweet hovel. I accepted the fact that I was a dead man. Taking a breath, I swung my rifle around, finger outside the trigger guard, and stepped out of the alcove. I continued around a corner toward the clicking noise. Suddenly I saw what looked like a working radio! The back was ripped out in a way that showed clear sabotage.

There was somebody else wandering around here. Turning a corner in the corridor, I saw more evidence of some kind of strategy: on the wall, a map to the installation had been burned beyond recognition, while the space around it was only slightly singed.

Ahead was a hatchway, the door open. The light directly over it was broken; but a steady, green glow emanated from beyond the narrow opening; the glow did not come from any electrical source I could think of. Even as I moved toward the entrance, I knew I wanted to be anywhere else but here. This was the loving, sweet aroma of something that should have been buried, or better yet, flushed.

It literally burned my nostrils. I fumbled for the mask that accompanied the combat armor. My hands shook as pulled it over my mouth and nose, wondering what horrible, toxic fumes I was breathing.

The surge of air from the suit augmented the bad air; but it did little good. Every warning klaxon in my body was screaming; my skin tingled, and the proverbial hair on the back of my proverbial neck jumped up and did some PT. Pools of thick, green liquid bubbled on both sides of me. The stuff was luminescent, probably radioactive. The prudent decision was to stay as far away from the green slime as humanly possible.

No sooner had this thought crossed my mind than a ton of bricks slammed into me from the right, knocking the 10mm pistol out of my holster and into the green toxin. Something had decided to run the experiment after all.

The 10mm made a hissing sound as it disappeared from view. I had problems of my own. Flipping over, I struggled to get to my feet and bring my big Sig-Cow into play, if I could figure out what the hell hit me. The impact had blurred my vision. I stood up, dizzy, shaking my head. The figure that had hit me so hard stood just out of sight, in the shadows.

I assumed it was another zombie, but a stronger one than I had encountered before. Then it cut loose with a hiss, and more of that clicking sound I had been hearing. Well, one little mystery solved. The strength in this—zombie? I rolled my M around and skated to the side, waiting for the creature to come to me. He did. As the large body moved into sight, I saw brown, leathery skin, rough like alligator hide, with ivory-white horns sticking out from chest, arms, and legs. The head was inhumanly huge, with maddened slits of red for eyes.

It was a monster! It was a demon. My first reaction was to laugh. This was a childhood nightmare, a bogeyman. It took a few steps toward me where the light was better. Movement made the figure less ridiculous. Shadows played across its rough hide, and I saw that the wrinkled flesh under the eyes were wet. I hated to admit that it really was flesh. The eyes flickered with an angry red light. The worst features were the lips curling back to reveal ugly, yellow canines. This was no Halloween mask with a rigid grimace.

Just an alien bastard, I told myself over and over; I was a lot more comfortable with the idea of an alien, even an alien soldier—a cosmic-grunt. Not a The extraterrestrial stopped advancing.

It turned its head at an angle no human could copy, but kept its eyes fixed on me. Mexican standoff. No communication seemed possible with the hollow shells who used to be my buddies or UAC workers; the most I could drag out of them was simple parroting of what they had heard, before or after death.

But this one was different. But it threw me a curve by smiling wide and silently mouthing the same question, Who are you, seeming to mock me. The grotesque humanoid slowly lifted its right hand up to its shoulder and stroked the white protrusion of bone, allowing its thumb to linger on the sharp point. The sight was very strange and it did not suggest peaceful intentions. Definitely a Mexican stand-off. I suddenly got nervous about leaving my hand exposed. The sharp teeth suggested a healthy appetite.

I became acutely aware of my environment. The bubbling, green sludge behind me burbled louder, and for the first time, I thought I heard the monster breathing. Pure instinct took over. Soldiers sometimes take a sharp breath just before attacking.

Whatever the thing was, it was not stupid. It charged me, clawing for ray throat with one set of nails while the other hand fended off my bayonet. That was the only good news; if it was afraid of my blade, then surely the alien would bleed if I stuck it. I stopped pushing and suddenly pulled with the monster, instead of against it. I fell backward, and four hundred pounds of leathery skin and iron muscle dropped on top of me—and right onto my bayonet. With an inhuman scream that nearly ruptured my eardrums, the demon died, convulsing a few last times before instantly stiffening into what felt like a stone statue.

I was mighty damned glad to learn that demons did bleed, at least on Phobos. I was relieved for some reason that the blood was red.

I was less pleased to feel the stone weight of the monster crushing me into the floor. Jesus and Mary, did I wish I could turn off the Phobos gravity generator, just for a moment! Years spent in Catholic school came back to me; I remembered an old penguin, Sister Beatrice, who was obsessed with the biblical injunction to avoid unclean things.

Unclean things! Jumping too quickly to my feet, I slipped in the slick, red goo—right next to one of the bubbling pits of green sludge. Heat poured from the boiling, green liquid waste.

I took a moment to catch my breath. It had been difficult enough to accept the fact of people—buddies! Reality was bad enough at the moment. Not since childhood had I really felt a desire to pray. The first monsters of my life had been stern nuns refusing to answer the questions of an inquisitive mind. But now I felt a need for God, if only to have a power big enough to swear an oath on.

Hell, they could hear my footsteps, anyway. The small voice of reason was growing smaller all the time; scientific knowledge! Physical law! Like the song says, biggest lie you ever saw. Survival came first; killing lots of monsters. Learning something useful about the enemy was just fine, so long as it came third. And there was the problem of how I would communicate any useful discovery; and to whom. Ahead were the remains of yet another smashed radio. A human hand still touched the controls.

The hand was not attached to an arm. The best explanation was that the body probably lay dissolving at the bottom of the pool of green slime. Making my way out of this section seemed the most important move for all three goals, if only to get away from the hot, green liquid.

The monster had thrown me off. If I could meet one two-legged nightmare, I could meet more. What were the laws for monsters? How about creatures that could exist outside the domes, in airless space?

I made myself stop. I heaved a sigh of relief to leave the toxic-spill room, clearing the jammed brass from my Sig-Cow receiver; it made little difference—I only had two or three rounds left and nowhere to stock up. As if being rewarded for a bad attitude, there was another collection of inanimate dead just through the doorway, awaiting inspection. For the first time since this nightmare began I actually felt relief at the sight of human corpses.

At least they were human. Not zombies, not monsters. But somewhere in the back of my brain I had already figured out that the zombies were no-brainers. Sure beat the hell out of imagining super-monsters that could do anything! As I surveyed the dead men, the damaged weapons, the lack of ammo, and for dessert, a smashed radio, I finally understood what must have been going through the minds of these soldiers as their lives were ripped out of them. They stopped thinking and started reacting instead —and were cut down, one by one.

A heavy rumble from behind grabbed my attention. Setting a new record for spinning around, I realized I had to go back into the blasted toxic-spill room to check this out. I arrived at this conclusion because of the large, metal platform which finished lowering itself right in front of my nose. To enter or not to enter? Staying behind meant facing inconceivable danger and unimaginable odds. Or something.

The corridor ahead had two appealing features: there were no slime pits and the light was brighter. The latter decided me. There had to have been some good reason to make the choice I made.

I backed up and took a flying leap; fear lent my feet wings. I landed short and teetered on the edge of the biggest pool of green crud in creation. I windmilled my arms Then the pain struck. My leg was on fire from toe to thigh. I lurched forward, falling on my face; my foot was free of the toxin, but I shouted through clenched teeth.

Fighting a suicidal impulse to grab my still-wet foot, I wrapped my arms around my gut instead. If a zombie or monster demon had stumbled across me then, it could have snuffed me with my blessing.

It was minutes before the throbbing pain in my leg subsided. I scraped my foot against the floor, rubbing off as much of the toxin as I could; but my leg swelled tight and angry red inside my ruined boot. I followed the corridor until I came to a room on the right. Something made me hesitate about going in. Maybe it was because the door was closed. I had my weapon at the ready even though two shots from now the Sig-Cow would be nothing but a fancy spear. Kicking the door was easy; looking into the room was hard.

There was one lone body on the floor, female, her back to me. For a cold-gut second, I thought she might be Arlene. Her face was unmarked, still cute, still a little girl with red hair who had a big surprise for any man who thought she was easy pickings. I wondered if a monster or zombie had gotten her.

The ugly wound was in her stomach. I stared for a moment, coaxing her dead body to talk to me Then I figured it out: Dudette was lying on top of something, shielding it from dry zombie eyes.

I touched her gently, then gingerly slipped over her corpse. I felt like a ghoul, but feelings were a luxury. With a shotgun in my arsenal, my survival rating took a big leap up the charts. I checked the bore and found no obstructions. There were plenty of shells in the bandoleer around her body. I thanked Dudette for being a Marine to the end.

Back in the corridor, I found remains of a map on the wall. The Bad Guys evidently followed a plan, proven by destroyed radio gear and vandalized wall maps. But this time there was just enough left of the map to figure out the basic direction toward the lift, which I prayed was still working.

Being properly armed did wonders for my psychology; I decided maybe I would do well to generate a tactical plan. Getting to the nuclear plant was the next logical move; it had the largest concentration of equipment. I found the lift without further molestation; naturally, it was broken, shot to hell—the hydraulics leaked away from numerous gunshot holes. But the manual escape hatch still worked.

Placing myself back into a narrow, confined space was about as appealing as it sounded, and my damned imagination started bugging me again at precisely the moment duty called. My imagination was not very patriotic; it needed six weeks of boot camp. There was a dim light in the shaft, very, very dim. Every square foot of the base was supposed to be constantly lit, bright as day, except for the barracks. As I climbed down the long shaft, it occurred to me to think about something cheerful, a silver lining that must exist somewhere in these storm clouds.

There had to be something. And there was. I figured the nuclear plant must be at least six stories down. Just keep climbing, that was all I could do. Watch out for demons. Real simple. I preferred thinking about Arlene. I remembered the day she showed up from Parris Island and joined the real Corps, the fighting Corps.

I looked up from monkeying with the sticky belt-advance on a. Catching her eye told me all I had to know. She knew what she was doing, all right. The Corps is protective of its haircut, flat on the top and shaved on the sides. God help the Navy, Army, or Space Force puke who shows up on one of our bases in a high-and-tight! But Arlene was no innocent. Lieutenant Weems pre-punch took one look at Arlene Sanders, a long, hard look, and curled his lip.

He watched her hand her packet to PFC Dodd, who stared at her like she had two heads. So far as I know, that was the first time they ever met, they who were destined for Of course, the opinion of Lieutenant Weems was already a debased currency by this time.

But the opinion of the other men mattered. Goforth looked like Aldo Ray in those old John Wayne movies. He was heavyset, muscular but not fat; he shaved his head but would probably be bald anyway. Goforth was a Franks tank with legs, a few freckles mixed in along with the Rolled Homogenous Armor. The gunny made a big deal of sauntering over to Arlene and let loose with his thick, Georgian drawl:. She looked him in the eye. That was all. Not a bad answer, really, but I thought that under the circum-stances a few words of reason might be in order.

I volunteered myself for the task. Partly because I liked a woman with guts; partly because I respected the men in the Corps-and felt their position could be expressed in a more thoughtful manner than Gunny Goforth was likely to manage.

But mainly I spoke up because at some deep level I hate all rules, symbols, rituals, fighting words, gang colors, routines, decorations, medals, trophies, badges. Besides, I was making no headway with the damned. You gotta earn it. That seemed a nice ice breaker. She must have agreed because she spoke to me, not Goforth.

The first retort that crossed my mind was to take a big bite of the red apple that happened to be in my hand. The longer it took to chew and swallow the piece of apple, the more profound would be my clever rejoinder, it seemed to me. So I did. And Goforth took a step closer to Arlene, deliberately breaking her space. Arlene stood her ground, not budging an inch. In between bites of the apple, I thought I would essay another arbitration. There was no arguing with that, but there was plenty of apple left to crunch.

Arlene Sanders leaned forward into his space, close enough to either kiss him or bite off his round knob of a nose. Goforth was just as stubborn. He was native to Georgia but might as well have been from Missouri when it came to matters of proof. She gave him a curt nod. Challenge accepted. They started to leave, then Goforth noticed my juicy, red apple, which had tasted much better than the discussion, far as I was concerned.

The range was a short walk. Every man who had been present for the exchange of words followed along. No one wanted to miss entertainment of this high a caliber, no pun intended. Goforth looked crestfallen that she had outguessed him, stealing some wind from his sails. I could see it in his face; there was no humor left.

When I had first joined Fox Company, Goforth went out of his way to make me feel welcome. About the worst he did was to tag me with the nickname Fly. Goforth flashed Arlene a big, soapy grin; but she held her ground.

Plenty of men are solid guys, decent fathers and husbands, but revert to Wolfman when confronted by physical prowess in a woman. As Goforth lived up to his name and went forward with the William Tell bit, I was getting panicky She was going to play this one out to the bitter end. Abruptly, everybody stopped laughing. With an almost delicate concern, he carefully placed the apple on her head.

Then he took the. Everybody let out his breath, and a ragged cheer erupted. As Goforth basked in his moment of glory, the boys all praising him, Arlene walked toward him. Her hands were behind her back and she was smiling sweetly. She held an apple up until he saw it; then she tossed it to him. Silence again; nobody moved. Then just as smoothly as you please, Arlene Sanders picked up the. I never doubted what Goforth would do. His basic sense of fair play could be counted on; and he had guts.

Not Goforth! So, in the words of the old-time baseball player, it was deja vu all over again. She watched him just as intently; no lovers were ever more focused on one another. A few of the men backed farther away from the cone of fire surrounding the gunnery sergeant.

That pissed me off, so I deliberately took a few steps closer to the duel. Something about this girl inspired confidence that she was no more likely to blow away a spectator than the gunnery sergeant. The request seemed reasonable enough. Arlene said nothing. She lifted the rifle nice and slow. Corporal Stout ran over and picked it up. It was still mostly in one piece, but there was a gratifying furrow a little high off the center. After a long moment, during which no one said a word, Goforth walked up to Arlene Sanders.

Putting hands on his hips, he made a big show of inspecting her high-and-tight, while we all held our breath. Goforth bent down, examined her right side, left side, back, front, then looked her evenly in the eye, winked and nodded. Hope that she might have made it kept me going; fury at the thought of her death spurred me to action. Maybe just when I was running out of steam, the need for revenge would inspire Yours Truly. As if to test my newfound resolve, Phobos threw some more at me.

Glancing down, I saw that the access shaft did not descend the full six stories required to reach the nuclear plant. The ladder ended in a few ragged shreds of metal; an explosion had cut off the rest of that route. Just before running out of ladder, I saw a thick, metal hatchway leading to the next level down. It looked solid, heavy; a pressure lock held it shut; I would have to spin the wheel to open the door, a happy trick when the ladder ended a couple of rungs above the hatch.

For a moment I was stymied. I could just barely reach the wheel by hanging one-handed from the last rung; but I had no leverage I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and thought for several seconds. Jesus—what am I, stupid all of a sudden? I rotated around the ladder, lowered myself until my lower legs poked through the last hole, then slowly let my body down until I dangled upside down from my knees.

Now I had the leverage; all it took was muscle. I cranked the wheel clockwise, loosening it until it spun freely. I wrestled open the door —and now for the hard part. Holding tight to the wheel of the now-open door, I straightened my legs, dropping heavily as the wheel spun.

I clung to it grimly, swinging back and forth until I finally stopped swinging. I edged around the door, caught the corresponding wheel on the inside and swung myself up and into the shaft.

I lost nothing but any desire I might have had to take my name to heart and become a Human Fly as a career path. The access shaft led me into a tunnel where the light was crappy again, flickering on and off like some sicko nightclub. It was tall enough to stand, and I did. After five meters I decided this was the weirdest stretch of architecture yet.

The light was lousy, but it was good enough to make out the walls—plain and gray with an oddly rough-hewn surface, as if hacked out of the rock with a magic ax. Large, rectangular designs everywhere gave the feeling of a colossal cemetery. More than anything else, the strong impression of something truly ancient and evil permeated the narrow corridor. Alien, and yet familiar somehow. Damn imagination acting up again.. A link to the past, a better past.

Then I saw old Gunnery Sergeant Goforth, walking down the corridor in my direction. He raised his old. I threw myself to the floor just as the bullet seared over my head.

This new horror seemed even more unfair than that crazy brown monster with the spikes. No fair changing the rules now! He marched straight for me, no deviations, no ducking, no turning sideways to make a more difficult target.

An obliging guy in his way. Of course, he was working the bolt on his sniper rifle, trying to blow my head from Phobos back to Earth. I had plans of my own. In death, he shot better than all the other zombies. And he blinked. I rolled back and forth, waiting until he was ten meters away; then I shouldered the riot gun and squeezed. The splatter was sort of an artistic statement. But I must have gotten something in my eye. Somebody was laughing, sort of a crazy, whacked-out cackle.

The laughter stopped, and only then did I realize the mirth was courtesy of a poor jarhead named Fly. This was no good. I had to get a handle on the situation. My breathing slowed to something sane, and my heartbeat took a licking but kept on ticking. In fact, I was so calm I barely blinked when a whirring, metallic skull sailed past my head. This time I was sure my imagination was off on a wild toot. I can be fair. I ran like a madman up the corridor, jogging a couple of times.

Emerging into a big open room made me feel more claustrophobic. The empty, cavernous room was a perfect place for a congregation of Halloween goblins and all species of zombie, fast and slow, dull and the cognitive elite. No sooner had this unpleasant thought crossed my cranium than the floodgates opened and they started pouring into the room from all directions.

I shrank back into the shadows, trying to look dead and mindless; it worked for a few moments.. Man, I was ready to buy into that, if only I could dream away these monsters as quickly as I seemed to be filling up this room with them!

I closed my eyes and concentrated real hard, wishing away the bogeymen. While I was thus occupied, I was blown off my feet by an explosion and searing heat right over my head. And when I looked up, my old friend was back, the crusty, brown monster with ivory- white spikes. They watched me stagger to my feet, and they laughed. I dived across a burned zombie, and the flaming phlegm spun me buttocks over boots.

I looked for a weapon, a glint of metal, a tube, something! But no, these demons were actually producing the fire with their bare hands. The monsters hissed, pointing directly at Yours Truly; then the zombies noticed me for the first time and began shooting. While I ran screaming from one side of the room to the other, I filed that little datum somewhere in the back of my brain for future use.

Now the room was really filling up with at least a dozen zombies and three leathery demons. This time there was no mistake: it was a goddamned flying skull with flaming rocket exhaust spewing out the back. But the fireballs were the main problem; the brown demons were a lot tougher than the zombies. Suddenly, I was grateful for the pillars; they provided cover, at least. Making a mad dash for the nearest, I fired off the shotgun at the remaining zombies. Catching my breath, I risked running to the next pillar.

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