Holes in the Ground (19 page)

But… where did that banana on the counter come from?

“I was going to quote Julius Ceaser,” the banana said. “Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. But it seems you already did.”

Shit.
Mu.
That annoying little multidimensional fruit who made fun of everyone.

“Funny,” Chandelling said. “Now why don’t you leave.”

“Don’t you mean
split
?” the banana asked.

“Just go away.”

“I’m staying for the show, Doc. You see, someone is dying to meet you.”

That’s when Chandelling noticed a figure shuffle into his room.

Bub? To heal me?

No. It wasn’t the batling.

It was someone who stank like a corpse.

And looked like a corpse.

And walked like a corpse. Well… walked like a walking corpse.

“Braaaaaaains,” the zombie said.

Chandelling screamed, two octaves higher than his normal voice. He immediately leapt out of bed—losing his balance because of the narcotic painkillers he’d insisted be administered—and fell to the floor.

The zombie was on him in three steps, reaching down with its rotten hands and immediately biting Chandelling in the scalp.

“Your brain… smells so good,” the undead abomination growled between bites. “So rich and spicy…”

Chandelling screamed, trying to force the creature away, but it continued to gnaw, tearing back the skin until its rotting teeth were scraping against his exposed skull.

“What’s eating you, Doc?” Mu asked.

For a dead man, the zombie was amazingly powerful, and there was a disgusting
CRACK!
followed by a most disturbing slurping sound.

“Something on your mind, Doc?” Mu said.

I can’t let this goddamn thing eat my brain!

Chandelling fought with all he had, but he was pinned to the floor, and the zombie’s fingers probed the hole it had made in his skull, trying to make it larger. Which it did, breaking the skull in half.

“Talk about a splitting headache,” Mu said.

The zombie began to chomp, slurping up Chandelling’s gray matter.

Dr. Chandelling’s last thought—

—was devoured.

Jerry stared down the barrels of six guns, one of them belonging to Rimmer. The boy immediately raised his hands over his head. The imps repeated the gesture.

“Hold your fire,” Rimmer said, scowling. He had that scowl down to a science. Jerry bet the mercenary could curdle milk with it.

“Monsters! Behind him!” Handler adjusted his aim, pointing his weapon at one of the imps.

“They ain’t monsters,” Jerry said. “They’re like Smurfs. Only uglier.”

Rimmer’s scowl deepened, something Jeremy didn’t think was possible. “You let them out?”

“They were already out. But they saved me from the unicorn.”

“They saved you from a unicorn?”

“I know. It sounds lame. But they did. They’re on our side.”

“Prove it.”

Without hesitation, Jerry got down on one knee and opened up his arms. “C’mere, little guy. I won’t hurt you.” He reached for one of the imps, who didn’t back away or struggle as Jerry picked it up. The creature was cool to the touch, and somewhat clammy, but it was docile.

“See? It’s not spitting acid in my face, or trying to tear out my throat. It’s one of the good guys.”

Rimmer lowered his rifle. The other soldiers did the same.

“You’re in trouble, kid,” Rimmer said.

“We’re all in trouble. The imps and the unicorn are out. What else has gotten free in this crazy little zoo of yours?”

Rimmer didn’t answer. Which itself was an answer.

“Everything?” Jerry asked, his eyes getting wide. “Everything is free?”

Rimmer checked his pager, then gave his men a hand motion. They followed him into the elevator, surrounding Jerry with buff testosterone.

“Subbasement 5,” Rimmer said.

“Wait! I’m not going back down there.” Jerry made a try for the door, but Rimmer clapped a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“You had a chance to be locked in a nice, safe cell. You chose otherwise.”

“I changed my mind. A cell sounds absolutely fabulous right now.”

The lift doors closed, and Jerry felt his sphincter clench as the elevator began to descend.

“I’ll have you know you’re endangering the life of a minor,” Jerry said. “I’m young and defenceless.”

“Have you fired a gun before?” Rimmer asked.

“A real one? I’m from the UK, you nutter. Our cops don’t even carry guns. Why? You gonna lend me yours?”

“Hell, no. But if my men and I get killed, feel free to pick up one of ours and try your best.” Rimmer held up his rifle. “This is a Kriss Vector carbine. It’s forty-five caliber and uses Glock 21 magazines with sleeve extenders, so the mags are interchangeable with our sidearms.”

Rimmer showed him the button on the side of the complicated-looking rifle to release the magazine. Then he shoved it back in and pulled a lever off the side. “This is the charging handle. You pull it out, put your thumb on the bolt hold, and rack it back. Take off the safety here, and you’re ready to fire. When you fire the last shot, the bolt will stay back. Pull the release to load your next mag. Got all that?”

“No. But this reminds me of the scene in
Aliens
where Hicks teaches Ripley how to shoot the pulse rifle.”

Rimmer raised an eyebrow. “You watch too many movies.”

“Which is probably why I’m not freaking out right now. I’ve been desensitized to seeing monsters on the loose. Show me again. I’ll get it.”

Rimmer pressed the button to drop the magazine, then reloaded.

“Do I need to rack it again?” Jerry asked.

“No, because I didn’t fire. Bullet is still in the chamber. See?”

This time, when Rimmer pulled the charging handle, a bullet popped out the side ejector port. One of the imps grabbed it, offering the treasure up to Jerry.

Jerry took the bullet, squinting at it. “Does this explode when it hits a target?”

“No.”

“Spray cyanide?”

“No.”

“So what does it do?”

The doors opened, and one of the giant harvestmen spiders stuck one of its clawed legs into the hallway. Rimmer bore down on it and pulled the trigger, turning it into a gory mess of arachnid parts.

“It kills things,” Rimmer answered, popping in another magazine.

“I think I just shit myself.” Jerry’s eardrums felt like he’d just endured a four hour Metallica concert, front row.

The spider’s cellmate was clinging to the wall, approaching quickly. Apparently, guns didn’t frighten the creature.

Handler took point and fired, but the spider leapt onto the ceiling with incredible speed, avoiding the burst. A millisecond later it dropped on Handler’s shoulders.

No one fired—they obviously didn’t want to risk shooting Handler—and the spider’s mandibles opened and it bit the man on the neck.

Handler dropped to his knees, screaming. A gout of blood exploded from his mouth and his eyes swelled in their sockets. Slowly the guard’s torso expanded, blowing up like a balloon. Then he split open at the ribs and a thick white substance spilt forth from his carcass.

Rimmer strode forward and fired his newly reloaded rifle, aiming point blank. He emptied an entire magazine into the spider, forcing it off of Handler and shredding it to bits.

“Jesus,” one of Rimmer’s men said, kneeling down to examine Handler, who was deader than dead. “That was—”

Before the guard could finish, something pounced on him. Something man-shaped, with claws and shark-like teeth.

One of those nosferatu dracula-things.

It bit a big hunk out of his neck, then leapt into the elevator, jaws snapping and talons flailing.

Panic ensued.

There was gunfire and yelling and snarling. Jerry raced down the hallway, head lowered in a crouch, cradling the one imp like a rugby ball while its family chased behind. He ducked past another dracula-thing, narrowly avoiding its swiping claws,

“Keep going!” Rimmer yelled from behind them. It was followed by the burp of his machinegun, and a terrible screech that Jerry guessed came from one of the draculas.

Then Jerry stopped abruptly, skidding on his feet and almost falling onto his arse, because blocking the hallway was—

Is that a goddamned yeti?

The beast stood almost three meters high, covered with scraggly white fur. Like someone crossed a polar bear with a gorilla. It had a pungent, musky odor. Jerry wondered if, like the imps, it was friendly. Then the thing roared, opening a maw filled with dozens of teeth, thin and long as nails, but opaque as icicles.

“In the cell!” Rimmer shouted. “Now!”

Without thinking, Jerry ran into the first open and empty cell he saw, to his right, and quickly spun around. Rimmer hit some buttons on the LED and then slipped in before the door closed.

Both men caught their breath, and then Jerry looked through the Plexiglas cell door and watched two draculas dart past.

“Your men?” Jerry asked.

“I think West got away in the elevator.”

“The others?”

Rimmer gave a small shake of his head.

Down the hallway, the draculas screeched and the yeti roared. Jerry approached cautiously, and peered at the ensuing battle. The yeti swung out with its arms, keeping the draculas at a distance.

“Can they get in here?” Jerry asked.

“Only if they have a key and the code. Cell is solid.”

“Can we get out?”

Rimmer didn’t answer.

“We can’t get out?”

“I have my pager. I can text someone.”

“Who?”

Rimmer blew out a stiff breath. “Whoever is left.”

Dr. Gornman sat in her lab and stared at the computer screen, flipping from security camera to security camera. All of her lab assistants had fled. A few had made it to the surface. Most had gone back to their rooms first, for their belongings. A big mistake, as many were slaughtered or eaten. Gornman lost count of all the creepy things crawling the halls, but some stand-outs included a horse-sized six-legged chameleon called a basilisk, a fanged bull the staff sarcastically called the
mad cow
, and a giant, two-headed cobra, which fought with itself over which mouth got to devour Gornman’s secretary, Henrietta. The left head won, and Henrietta was now a lump in the snake’s midsection.

It was all so very terrible.

And so wonderfully cathartic.

In some cases, she’d listened to her co-workers complaints, pathetic fears, and boring dreams for years and years. Too many psychiatric sessions to count, and Gornman was convinced that all but a few employees deserved the fate they received. Casterov, a tech-head, had been lamely hitting on Gornman since she’d first arrived at the Spiral, using his sessions to make lewd proposals. When an ostrichgator bit off his junk, Gornman actually laughed. And Ramish, an analyst, who had an almost Freudian obsession with fondling the gold necklace her grandmother had given her, was disembowelled by a chupacabra, her intestines looped around her own neck. Could it be more poetically ironic than that?

Gornman thought about all the time she’d wasted here, how her substantial talents had been almost criminally underutilized. Kane had finally dangled the carrot of leadership in front of her after a decade of zero appreciation and mistreatment, but it had been too little too late. Ruling the world at Bub’s side was infinitely preferable to commanding this petty little fiefdom. Gornman didn’t regret her actions.

Hell, she relished them.

Her only regret was coming to the Spiral in the first place.

After losing her mother—her only surviving relative—to cancer, Gornman had been intent on becoming a medical researcher. She longed to add her name alongside
Pasteur
and
Jenner
, and other great minds who had improved the health of the entire world. She wanted to make sure that no other young girls lost their mothers like she did.

Then she was hit by a truck. Literally.

The driver had been drunk. He’d hopped the curb and plowed into her at a bus stop while she’d been sitting on the bench, studying for her finals.

She spent over two years in the hospital, in near constant pain.

For the first year she didn’t have a single visitor. Her family was all dead, and her studies always pushed away any friendships, Gornman reached a depth of despair that made her consider suicide more than once. Between the excruciatingly painful rehab and the debilitating loneliness, she switched her major in college to psychiatry to try and figure herself out. And she did.

The reason she couldn’t connect to other people was because they were all beneath her. Intellectually. Emotionally. Spiritually.

Deus Manus had reached out to her in the hospital a year into her rehab. They’d been watching her progress for a while, impressed by her medical acumen and her strong will. Their job offer—good money and benefits in a secluded hole in the ground—was perfect. Gornman would only have to treat a few dozen people, at most, and she wouldn’t have to go out into the real world to deal with reality. She readily accepted their offer to join.

Three years later, she completed medical school. A day after that, a black SUV pulled up outside her dorm and took her away. She had been at the Spiral ever since.

And now it looks like I finally have my chance to shine.

All Gornman needed was for Bub to find her before one of those creatures did.

She switched cameras on her monitor, watching as—was that Tyler from Human Resources?—get excoriated by a giant, four-tailed scorpion.

That’s when the alarm went off.

Not the general alarm. That had rung when the Sun-demon escaped the infirmary.

This was the evacuation alarm. Protocol Omega. The one that warned the Spiral’s workers that they had half an hour to get the hell out, before the entire facility filled up with quick-setting concrete.

Kane.

That idiot General was going to bury them all. Gornman hadn’t thought he had the guts to do it. But then, he was probably abandoning ship.

She had to stop him before that asshole saved the human race.