Perfect Little Stitches and Other Stories Page 4

  “You’ll have all the help you need. Let’s begin.”

  John felt a sudden apprehension. “Hey, take it easy. What’s the rush?” He looked from one blank face to the other. “What’s going on?”

  The man said, “An unidentified craft landed on Australian territory.”

  Oh, Christ. Now John knew why the Defence Force had come to his door: because of that one experience he’d had in Nam; one insane, inexplicable mind-fuck of an experience that had landed him and the survivors of his scout party a psych evaluation each and one week’s leave. A crawling sensation moved through his body. Jesus, he could even feel the shrivelling of his ball sack.

  “Why not use vehicles?” he said. “The weather this time of year is okay for choppers or Hagglunds.”

  The man said, “There’s a constant EMP surrounding the area of the craft.”

  “Like a force field? I didn’t think an EMP could work like that.” When they did not answer, John added, “Do you realise how old I am? Besides, I haven’t done any soldiering for a long time.”

  “We need your dog skills,” the woman said. “But according to your war records, an incident happened to you in Vietnam that would also make you handy as a consultant.”

  So after all this time, he thought, the Defence Force believes me. Arseholes.

  “A consultant?” John mashed out his cigarette. “Forget it. I’ve seen that particular sci-fi movie, and I know how it turns out.”

  The woman said, “Twenty thousand dollars for the weekend. Cash.”

  Twenty thousand? More than he made in a whole year? Even though his balls had been trying to crawl back into his body, John had shaken hands on the deal.

  Idiot, he thought. Now he and this soldier were going to die somewhere in this vast, white Antarctic desert, and die horribly. He should have listened to his balls.

  “Where are we headed?” the soldier said.

  “I think we’re closest to the French claim,” John said. “We’re too far away to reach Davis, Casey or Morgan.”

  “Who are they?”

  Oh Jesus, was the bloke kidding? John said, “Australia’s three permanent research stations, you fucktard. Don’t you bastards prep for missions anymore?”

  But John was underprepared too. The Defence Force had packed him and the dogs last night and flown them to Antarctica. While the commanders and soldiers discussed the mission, John was out shooting a couple of seals, gutting and skinning them, making the weekend’s dog food. By the time he returned, the soldiers were kitting up, so he never got properly briefed. He hadn’t had time to read up on anything, had not stepped foot on this continent for over twenty years, could not get his bearings from the landscape. Right now, John was trying to navigate by the sun, for Christ’s sake. Dumont d’Urville Station wasn’t very big. In all likelihood, his estimations were a few kilometres out and they would miss it. Even if he found the station, it might be shut. Due to katabatic winds and ice, the French kept the station closed for months at a time. Which months? John couldn’t remember.

  The dogs were tiring. He could feel it through the reins.

  Dear God, he thought, I don’t want to die here.

  The soldier, hindered by his armour and snow gear, twisted to look behind. The sled momentarily lost its centre of balance. John leaned over to compensate as a fountain of ice flew up from a blade.

  “Watch it,” he said. “If you tip us over, I’ll leave you behind.”

  “I can’t see them.” The soldier faced front, wiped ice crystals from his goggles. “You think they’ve frozen to death?”

  “Who can tell?”

  “It’s common sense,” the soldier said. “Fucken giant cockroaches or whatever. They didn’t have equipment, no gear, no protection. They’ve frozen to death for sure.”

  John glanced back. Only a flat sheet of ice as far as the eye could see, a mountainous range shimmering like a mirage on the horizon, everything tinted a cool blue from the sky and, just visible, a glint of sunlight reflecting off the alien craft. Yes, of course it was alien. The suits had said on the plane ride over that it might be North Koreans. Bullshit. John had taken one look at that smooth, organic, luminescent UFO and known it was nothing from this earth.

  He checked his watch. He and the soldier had been sledding for about an hour. So they had travelled about fifteen kilometres from the craft. If he slowed the dogs, let them trot, he would conserve their strength. The dogs were not endurance runners. They were used to carrying families on short jaunts, not slogging through snow for 140 kilometres at a stretch. Maybe he could stop after another hour. They could all rest, eat something. He would swap out Nikita’s team with either Buck’s or Samson’s.

  “What’s your name?” John said to the soldier.

  “Papadopoulos. The team calls me Pup. I mean, they used to call me Pup.”

  “If we can’t make it to the extraction point,” John said, “what’s the contingency plan?”

  “Did you see what those fuckers did to Corporal O’Rourke? Burrowed into his guts and turned him inside out. I never would have believed it possible.”

  “Yeah, I saw it.” The things had been hiding, had ambushed the soldiers. The attack had lasted mere seconds. John said, “What’s Plan B?”

  “And Dobson. Shit, it was like he walked into a couple of rotor blades.”

  “Tell me about Plan B.”

  Pup looked around at him, swivelling his head on top of his neck. The goggles didn’t show the boy’s eyes, but John recognised shock in the body language.

  “We go back to where we landed,” Pup said. “Pick up is nine hours after drop-off. Three hours on the sleds, three hours of recce, three hours to get the fuck out of there.” He put his gloved hand on John’s arm as if to take the reins. “So you see? We’ve got to turn around.”

  John shook him off. “No way.”

  “But the extraction team won’t be able to find us.”

  “Once we get out of the EMP force field, we can make contact via radio. You’ve got a radio, haven’t you?”

  “No sir. The radio’s in Tobin’s gear. Tobin is the radioman. I mean, he used to be the radioman. Did you see what happened to him back there?”

  “I don’t know one of you bastards from the other.”

  “A fucken giant cockroach dug into his throat and punched out his guts. Wham, fast as a bolt of lightning.”

  “Have you got any other way of contacting the commanders?”

  Pup whistled as if in admiration. “Like a fucken bolt of lightning.”

  John looked back. The horizon was empty.

  “Easy!” he yelled to Nikita.

  She slowed. The other dogs followed suit, dropping their heads, exhausted already. But so was John. Despite his warm and waterproof clothing, his arthritic joints were hurting, stiffening, his fingers hardening into claws on the reins.

  Stop bitching, he thought, and concentrate.

  From memory, Dumont d’Urville Station was a scattered collection of red buildings arranged as if at random across the rocky outcrop of the archipelago. The young John Lansky had thought the station resembled carriages of a derailed red-rattler. Very hard to miss. Now there was nothing but ice.

  “You got a compass?” he said.

  Pup began to pat at his pockets, as if searching absentmindedly for lost cigarettes. God, John could do with a smoke. Depending on how the compass reacted, he might be able to figure their position in relation to the geographic and magnetic South Poles. He peered at the sun. It should be low and moving in a counter-clockwise position at this time of day and year. Shouldn’t it?

  Okay, they could be lost.

  The idea of it chilled him to the marrow, colder than any Antarctic wind. Before them lay ice, ice and more ice. Where was Dumont d’Urville? He looked behind them again. No sign of those things.

  “Te
ll me,” he said. “Can we contact the extraction team ourselves?”

  Pup did not answer. It sounded like he was humming a tune.

  “We’ll keep going for another hour or so,” John said. “Then we ought to stop for a break, drink some water, eat something, and rest the dogs. Okay, Pup?”

  The boy kept humming.

  The dogs huddled together, dozing, bellies full of seal meat. With the portable cooker, Pup had rehydrated two ration packs: beef curry with rice. Now, they drank coffee.

  “Lance Corporal Lee reckoned you fought these cockroaches before,” Pup said, “back when you served in Nam.”

  John sighed. “I saw them but I didn’t fight them.”

  “What happened?”

  “No one believed me. That’s what happened.”

  Pup waited.

  John sipped at his coffee. Finally, he said, “Me and some other blokes were the scouts. We heard screaming from behind. I figured the Viet Cong had done their usual trick: skip the scouts to catch the main party unawares. So we all ran back to help.” John’s throat closed, made a faint choking sound.

  “And what did you find?” Pup said.

  John flung the coffee dregs into the snow, where they hissed and pitted into holes of their own making. “Those things.”

  “Doing what?”

  “What they did to your blokes: running through everyone like buzz saws, like each man had somehow swallowed a grenade and triggered it.”

  Jesus Christ, each thing as big as a rat, with about twelve legs, an articulated exoskeleton, numerous sets of mandibles swirling and chopping. But the speed of those creatures was the heart-stopper. As if the laws of physics didn’t apply. Living things of that size and bulk could not move that fast, John knew, could not fly without wings, could not change course in mid-air like that, could not smash through armour and helmets and bodies like a mortar shell and not incur any damage themselves.

  Pup nodded. “Back there at the spaceship; did you see those other pricks?”

  John held his breath. So he had not been dreaming. Yes, at an opening in the craft’s skin had stood tall, impossibly skinny, bone-white figures. He said, “It’s like they’re the ones in command, and these…cockroaches…are their guard dogs, chasing off any intruders.”

  “Dirty shitsacks,” Pup said. “Okay, what’s the plan?”

  “We exit the EMP range, find the French station, use their radio to contact the extraction team, and get the fuck out of here.”

  “And if we can’t find the French station?”

  John got up from his seat on the sled. “Let’s go. We’ve been here twenty minutes already.”

  John and Pup were travelling with Samson’s team. They would make better time if Pup drove his own sled, but John did not trust the boy’s state of mind. Nikita and Buck trotted their teams alongside. The pace was brisk but sustainable. John figured they would exit the EMP range any minute now. But where was Dumont d’Urville station?

  As if the same thought had occurred, Pup said, “Fuck. We’re lost.”

  John hesitated. “Against this landscape, we stand out like proverbial dog’s balls. The chopper pilot will find us, easy.” Unless the suits had decided to let them die, and burn all paperwork. Clearly, this was in no way a legal reconnaissance.

  Pup flung out his arm and pointed.

  Dead ahead, 12 o’clock, a line of things was coming at them.

  Goddamn, John thought, a classic pincer move. They circled ahead of us. How far must they have ranged to the left and right on this endlessly flat landscape to keep out of sight? How fast could those things actually travel?

  “Whoa,” he yelled to Samson. The lead dog pulled up. Nikita’s and Buck’s teams pulled up too. Alarmed, the dogs flattened their ears and began whimpering.

  “We’ve got to turn back,” Pup said, trying to take the reins.

  But John knew better. This was a trap. The oncoming things were hoping to direct the dogsleds 180 degrees where the ambush waited. Lions hunted in the exact same way. Oh God, John thought, his legs beginning to shake.

  These things are hunting us.

  “Gee!” he cried. Samson aimed the dog team to the right.

  “Don’t run at a fucken right-angle,” Pup said. “They’ll catch us. Turn back.”

  “No, it’s a pincer move.”

  The dogs dragged the sled at top speed over the snow. As if anticipating this reaction, a scattering of things lay ahead in wait. Shit, they had created a giant loose circle; the majority at the front and back, some on either side.

  “Ready your weapon,” John said.

  Pup fumbled next to him. John had his .22 but it was unloaded. The magazines were in his pack.

  Fuck.

  Samson wailed. John wouldn’t give the command to change course. Samson, God bless him, would not disobey. Pup kept fumbling with his weapon. The things, about a dozen of them, gained ground at astonishing speed. They were on a collision course. John felt his bowels start to involuntarily loosen.

  Buck, heading an empty sled, balked, howled and peeled off to the left.

  “On by!” John yelled, ordering Buck to ignore the distraction. “Buck, on by!”

  No good. Buck and the chained four dogs ran higgledy-piggledy across the snow and away. The approaching things seemed to hesitate. Some peeled off to chase Buck’s team. The remainder, about half a dozen, came straight at John and Pup.

  Crack.

  The tremendous noise punched John’s eardrums. Flinching, disorientated, he almost lost footing on the sled.

  Crack.

  Shit, it was Pup, his F88 Austeyr rifle on single-shot mode, picking off the things one by one.

  Crack.

  John saw a thing arc up into the air and flip into the snow. He chanced a look to the left. Buck’s team was down, blood spraying in giant red Catherine wheels. Buck, Panda, Fritz, Sugar, Rufus…John’s heart squeezed down into a fist at the loss.

  Crack.

  The remaining things were almost upon them. Pup killed them in a flurry of shots, and then shouldered his F88 as if he thought nothing of it. They were sledding across clear snow, the carnage behind them dwindling into the distance. The things attacking Buck’s team were not following.

  “Holy shit, boy,” John said. “Did you miss a single shot?”

  “Not one.”

  John clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the best shooting I’ve ever seen.”

  “Oh, fucken hell,” Pup moaned. “Fuck me dead.”

  John looked at Nikita, running her team alongside. She gave him a wounded glance. John scanned the landscape: ice, ice and more ice. The sun looked in the same spot as before. If they were not lost before, they were definitely lost now. At least they were alive. In a little while, he’d steer the dogs back to their original course in hopes of finding Dumont d’Urville. At least they must be clear of the craft’s EMP by now.

  Pup said, “I’m gonna spew.”

  “Whoa,” John said, and the team stopped.

  Pup shifted the layers of his balaclava and emptied a stomach’s worth of curry into the snow. John caught sight of a meagre beard. The poor kid, John thought, he’s too young. Every soldier is too damn young.

  “Hike!” John yelled, and Samson began to sprint. The other dogs followed suit. The slushy sound of the blades cleaving snow began again.

  “Sorry about that,” Pup said. “Look, I’m not a pussy.”

  “There’s no shame in losing your lunch. Not in a situation like this. Better drink something before you dehydrate.”

  They had come to a stop. No choice.

  The dogs snarled, whimpered and barked, tails down, ears flattened. Working quickly, John swapped the gear back to Nikita’s sled. Meanwhile, Pup turned on the spot in a tight circle, F88 at his shoulder, trying to cover every point. When John beg
an to unchain Samson and his team, Pup said, “What are you doing?”

  “Giving them a fighting chance. If we survive, we’ll head out on Nikita’s sled. Do your best to protect Nikita’s team if you can, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “How much ammo have you got?” John said.

  “Not enough.”

  “How many things do you count?”

  “Hard to tell,” Pup said, flat and lifeless. “Maybe thirty or forty.”

  Fuck. John’s rifle held five bullets in a magazine, and the damn thing was bolt action too. Scrambling, the sweat pouring from his armpits despite the cold, his knees trembling, he dug from his pack the handful of magazines. As he slid one into the .22, the rest into his pocket, he said, “What are they doing now?”

  “Just watching, I guess.”

  John looked around. The things had them fenced on all sides. The distance between us and them, he figured, about fifty metres. “See how they’re hesitating?” he said, unable to mask the quaver in his voice. “That’s good. They’re unsure of us.”

  “But creeping in closer and closer,” Pup said. “How near do you want them to get before we start shooting?”

  “I don’t know. They’ll probably attack as soon as we shoot.”

  Samson and his unchained team raised their hackles and bared fangs. As if aware of their own helplessness, Nikita and her chained dogs crowded together and whined. The wind gusted hard, full of gritty snow.

  “You got any tactical suggestions?” John said. “We could stand back to back.”

  A deafening stutter of bullets erupted from Pup’s F88. For about two seconds, he swung it from left to right. A dozen or more things jumped and split apart in a line of bloodless grey guts. Then Pup was out of ammo and fitting another box magazine.

  A suspended moment, then everything occurred at once.

  Chaos, John thought, utter chaos.

  The things flew over the snow at them, the free dogs ran out to meet them, and John fired, reloaded, fired. One of his dogs, Simba, turned inside out in an explosive aerated spray, followed by Raven. Dear God. Pup let loose another devastating round of automatic fire.