FAuthor/Pseudonym: LadyNRA
Fandom: Tremors – The Series
TEAM: Burt Gummer & the rest of the group
RATING: Bordering on PG-13
ARCHIVE: Lemme know if that's what you want to do
SUMMARY: Burt has a tough rescue on his hands and El Blanco is making his task difficult.
DISCLAIMER: Thanks to Universal Studios and Stampede Entertainment, as well as the SciFi Channel for the creation of various aspects of Tremors. They own the characters, not me. To coin a phrase from a fellow fanfic writer, "I'm just playing with 'em, and I'm not making money off of 'em, so there's no need to sic the litigators on me.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was my first Tremors: The Series story, written around 2003. Thanks to my beta reader Shadoe. Any mistakes including typos etc here are solely mine.
NOTHING BUT TROUBLE
by LadyNRA
Red wings sliced through the warm, dry air, caught a thermal and with a small bump gained additional altitude. She was a thing of beauty, her new owner had assured his wife. Worth every penny. Sleek, versatile, and definitely on the endangered list.
With expert hands, the fiftyish man grasped the yoke in strong hands, caressing it with one thumb absent-mindedly, much as he had been for the last 2 hours since their last take off. With pride, he glanced at the blurred silver rotation of the propellers, and pondered the route ahead. Not for first time, he wondered if he'd made a sound choice taking this path across the more desolate parts of the southwest.
Listening to the drone of the twin radial Wasp engines, he idly reached up to make some adjustments to the air/fuel mixture and smiled contentedly.
When he'd found the old Grumman Goose moored to a rotting deck off one of the Florida Keys, he'd fallen in love. An avid admiring of old aircraft, the Goose had been one of those planes he'd dreamed about owning but knew it was nothing but a fantasy never to be realized. Then he and his wife had happened on the old plane, falling into disrepair when it's elderly pilot had closed down a tour business but for reasons only known to him, had refused to sell it to anyone else. There had been buyers, he was told, since a few other air service companies in the areas took tourists around in those seaplanes still serviceable.
He still didn't know what had convinced the old man to sell. Maybe it was the look, not just of yearning, but of sheer love for the old 'girl' that had convinced the elderly man that his baby would be in good hands. The deal had been made. It hadn't been easy on the new owner. Like a potential buyer ogling the car of his dreams, he'd apparently displayed his desire too openly, and the old man's rheumy eyes hadn't missed such an unveiled expression. Consequently, he'd walked away richer, and the new owner, though chagrined at the cost, flew away a whole lot happier.
It had taken Gregory Barron several weeks to fix her up enough to make her serviceable. His wife, Peggy, had patiently waited out this phase, while her husband alternately bestowed great affection up on her for her sacrifice while badgering, cajoling, and even begging his employer clear across the country to give him 'just a little more time'.
If was for that reason that Barron had not opted to take a longer route back to the Seattle area.
He'd convinced his family that one of the beautiful features of the Goose was her versatility. "She is what they refer to as amphibious", he'd explained to his eldest son, a soon-to-be high school senior. The boy was clearly not overly impressed by his father's newest toy.
"So what," he'd shrugged, both verbally and physically. Tossing his shoulder length wavy hair back from his face, he had sighed, knowing the answer would come despite his disinterest.
Trying to stir up his son's enthusiasm, he'd extolled, "Come on, JD! This old girl is a treasure. Last of a dying breed. Yeah, they make 'em newer and faster now, but look how long she has lasted."
When the boy didn't say anything further, he'd patiently explained. "They say it's an amphibious aircraft because she can land on water or land."
Still no response.
That had been the deciding factor. They could take a land route, come down in the various lakes along the way or avail themselves of any number of small or larger runways.
The old seaplane cutting through the clear, cerulean skies appeared to hang incongruously over the dusty brown desert dirt and scrub brush leading into the valley already coming into view. Slow and steady, she flew on, her crimson wings wagging gently side to side as they caught errant breezes. Barron, an experienced pilot of small planes, expertly made the necessary corrections.
A sudden updraft of heated air caught them by surprise, causing the woman dozing in the copilots chair to jerk awake. He patted her arm, marveling at the satin smoothness of it, despite the fact that years were already given his companion of 25 years a pleasing matronly appearance. The woman's blue eyes smiled back though she said nothing.
He glanced toward the cabin where he caught sight of his son, headphones already growing from his temples, gazing into 'nothing.' His head rocked slightly to the rhythm but he paid his father no mind. Behind him Ginny Shepard was staring at the window, seemingly mesmerized by the endless browns and grays of the land as it passed beneath them. Elbow resting on an armrest, her chin balanced on an upturned palm, she unconsciously sighed at the rare patches of greenery, appreciating the break in monotony of the otherwise barren terrain. Next to her, though Greg couldn't see him, was Marty Shepard; however, Greg didn't need to know what was occupying his friend's time. The snores wafting forward were doing a splendid job of battling the loud hum of the Goose's engines.
One of those engines burped lazily, and Greg unconsciously made another adjustment to the mixture. Fourth time in ten minutes, he guessed. Though not too concerned, he didn't like the unknowns, and this was enough to heighten his awareness of the plane's functions. Yet another stutter from the port engine made the hands grip the yoke grip harder.
His wife watched the reaction of her beloved's hands and felt her spine tighten. "Something wrong?" she queried succinctly, trying not to sound too worried.
"Don't think so, sweetheart. I replaced the plugs but who knows, maybe they fouled up. Garbage in the fuel tanks, sludge from sitting there too long, who knows. I'll put down in the next airport and see if we can't get a mechanic to take a good long look."
"Sounds fine by me. I'd like to stretch my legs anyway."
Just then, the burp turned into a loud belch and the little plane bucked at the insult. Seemingly buffeted by invisible hands, she groaned, and the port engine belched louder, accompanied by a plume of dark smoke that billowed out of the engine cowling.
Muttering an uncharacteristic curse, Greg cut the fuel supply to the already faltering propellers. He feathered them, to reduce wind drag, and hit the control to release the fire extinguisher.
"Dad?" His son called, poking his head between them.
"Go back and belt in," he ordered his son. The boy frowned and parted lips as if to reply then thought better of it. He heard a muttered conversation between Ginny and Marty.
He hastily made some adjustments to give the engines the necessary power without overtaxing them, then glanced back.
To allay their concerns, he called, "Listen guys, the blessing of a double engine plane in this case is that we still have one sound engine left. We won't be winning any races, but she'll be able to make it in okay this way."
As if intentionally trying to make a liar out of him, the starboard engine gave a couple of burps, some other colorfully rude noises, and gave up the ghost just like its twin. Beside him, his wife moaned in terror but thankfully, didn't panic.
Quickly, Barron lowered the landing gear, so that the wheels dropped down to a level lower than the pontoons. There was still some hope. She still had some maneuverability in the hands of a seasoned pilot, and if luck was with them, he would be able to put them down.
More updrafts buffeted them, and he realized they were entering the large valley, the slopes dropping and widening. Getting on the radio, he called out a mayday, but got little more than static. Surprised and dismayed, he hollered at his wife to find the last batch of maps they'd picked up on their last stop. She hurriedly located the flight map needed, and ripped it open. It showed an airport closer to a little 'city' named Bixby, but they'd never make it that far, not by a long shot. In fact, he was wondering if betting against himself might now have been a better investment at the moment, just as the plane lost a great deal of altitude.
"If you're not buckled in, do it now!" he barked at his passengers. His wife sat rigid, only her eyes flickering with raw fear. The flight maps lay on her lap still open but beginning to slip down. Trying to get her mind off what lay ahead, he yelled, "What do the regular road maps say is ahead."
As if awaking from a dream, she gazed glassy-eyed at them. "Looks like…Perfection Valley, Nevada,"
"Perfection, my foot," he muttered, fighting to keep the wings level while looking for a safe place to put down, post haste. Yet, as a little voice, deep in his head, was wondering where he'd heard that name before, but he ran out of time. "Hang on" he yelled, "Like it or not we're landing…now!"
The ancient seaplane valiantly tried to remain airborne but the effort was futile. The dry desert air closer to the ground gave no support and she was already too low to continue taking brief advantage of the thermals.
To Greg Barron's horror, he realized the lay of the land was deceiving. It wasn't nearly as level as he'd first assumed, at least not in the spot before them. Rutted hills and uneven ground was broken by boulders liberally strewn around them. Some of those boulders stretched rocky arms skyward as it trying to pluck them out of whatever little bit of sky was left to the hapless travelers. But what horrified Barron more was the fast approaching site of high tension lines just ahead. This section of lines bisected the valley, far off any roads he could make out, and, in a moment of irrationality, wondered who made use of the power so far from civilization.
Straining muscles pulled back on the yoke, trying to get just that tiny bit of air under his wings, anything to help them clear the lines. But another gust of wind caught his pride and joy, and she yawed left suddenly, heading toward one gleaming silver high-T tower.
Peggy shrieked, surrendering to the terror of the moment. She hurled a silent prayer skyward, just as the still smoking port wing smashed into the tower. As the wing was ripped loose, the remaining fuel in the wing's tank erupted into a blistering ball of flame and rolling inky smoke.
The plane lurched on, almost rolling nose first into the ground, but she managed to upright herself as if desperately trying to protect the man who had lovingly cared for her over the past few weeks. It was a valiant effort but destined to fail. Everyone knew it. The Goose did a barrel roll, came upright, and nearly touched down. One rock outcropping tore off the starboard pontoon and landing gear. The nose dug into the soil raising a furrow of dust and dirt. The remaining wing was torn free, spraying airplane fuel over the surrounding dry shrubs and uneven ground. The little plane flipped stern over stem. In the course of her somersault, she hit a jagged solitary boulder and the fuselage ripped in half. Unknown to her passengers, she continued her forward momentum another eight feet.
When the dust finally settled ten minutes later, there was no sound aside from a faint echo from off the walls of the distant hillside and the crackle of burning airplane parts and brown grasses.
Below the surface, within his self-made tunnel, El Blanco stirred. His primitive senses were slowly coming to life after a two day somnolent period spent resting and digesting his latest meal, two coyotes, several hapless bunnies, a burro, and a wild goat that had long ago found a hole in a fence and wandered off. The goat had previously managed to avoid the enormous albino worm but the quadruped's number had suddenly come up. Now, it was nothing but a pile of liquefied nutrients in El Blanco's gut, and the giant worm's dormancy was fading. But not so much that he was ready to hunt once again.
The great creature, descended from a Precambrian life form that had existed long before dinosaurs, let the minute tremblings of tiny mammals pass by undisturbed. Too small to be attractive to his simple senses. Just as he was about to return to what passed for sleep, the ground surrounding his leathery body shook violently. The graboid became instantly alert. Like a shark, El Blanco had lines running the length of his body that fed a constant stream of information back to his primitive brain. Those sensors covered most of El Blanco's tough upper skin as well as along his sides. They were screaming now, alerting the huge worm-like creature that a potential and very large meal could be nearby. As he roused himself, the faint glimmering of hunger grew exponentially with each passing minute. By the time the graboid grew close to that which had attracted him, the gnawing in his belly flared into a ravenous hunger.
By the time El Blanco was within a mile of the site, he was moving at a prodigious pace, burrowing at a speed almost as fast as a man could run. Unfortunately, the vibrations that had fanned out in all directions had ceased. There was no motion at all aside from more tiny animals. Confused, at least as much as the creature could feel confusion, the graboid halted. And waited. Whatever had made such a ruckus was bound to get moving again, and once it did, the hunger would be sated.
Deep within the semi-darkness of his own subterranean dwelling, Burt Gummer lay sprawled across the plain sheets of his bed. In repose, he looked a bit younger than his 48 years, his face almost serene, as his breath gently passed between slightly parted lips. Suddenly, his mouth pulled into a taut line, and his breathe came out in a series of ragged gasps.
Burt shifted unconsciously, unaware of the growing beads of sweat that began to dot his skin.
They were starting again, the dreams, as they often did, but lately something had changed. He'd known his night time enemies when they had first intruded on his sleeping moments, and had learned to cope with the ever increasing frequency of his nightmares. Since the "start" of the graboid invasion, he'd often been plagued by them, and truth be told, he suspected everyone in the vicinity of Perfection didn't sleep soundly for long. It came with the territory. You live near monsters and you can't help but have them creep into your night time thoughts as well. But this dream was different, though Gummer was too far 'out of it' to realize this. This creature, hiding in the shadows, was faceless, formless, relentless, and impervious to anything Burt's all-to-vivid imagination could throw at it. The survivalist's heart started to pound, and he found himself frantically grasping for weapons he no longer had. Taking flight was rarely an option but at that moment it was preferable than facing whatever horror was stalking him, looming ever closer, it's hot, fetid breath, assailing his nostrils as he gulped for the air necessary to give his long legs flight.
Claws, razor sharp grazed his skin, stopping his forward momentum, and he heard the blizzard-like rush of stale air as it spread its jaws for the kill.
With a barely stifled howl of terror, Gummer bolted upright in his barracks-style bed, and shivered at the memory that still clawed at him, trying to drag him back down into the nightmare. Lungs heaving, heart trying to force its way out of his throat, he pulled in several lungfuls of air and swung his legs over the side of the bed. As his bare feet hit the floor, he used one free hand to wipe the dampness from his skin. With some effort, he brought his breathing under control, and waited for the painful pounding within his rib cage to quiet.
"This was the worst one yet!" he muttered to himself with a weary shake of his head. "Damn MixMaster!" He added, knowing that it was unknown monsters bourn from the pit of a concrete hell far below the mountain that worried him the most. Now MixMaster, the gene splicing concoction was loose on the valley, and nothing was certain anymore.
Groaning from the ache of muscles that didn't seem rested at all, he grimaced at the soaked "Burt Gummer Survival School" t-shirt that clung to his lean body. "The dreams," he thought once more, but slowly became aware that the air around him was warm… uncomfortably so. As he straightened up, he looked briefly at the battery backup LED clock, whose front panel glared a harsh red set of numbers. 07:30.
Sighing, Burt turned to glance through the gloom at the empty bed, and for the first time in many years, wished Heather was still with him. At least, then, when the dreams had hit, he could turn to her, pull her silky softness into his arms. She would cradle his head in the hollow of her neck and shoulder, make shushing sounds like a parent comforting a child caught in the grip of night terrors, and whisper reminders that none of it was real. Now, he didn't even have that. Heather was long gone, married to someone else. He was still…alone. And all this was definitely real. Living nightmares included.
It was then that his head cleared fully, and he realized several things almost simultaneously. The low wattage fluorescent bulb he kept on the most distant workbench, just to provide enough light to keep him from crashing into anything in the darkness, was no longer lit, and the amber emergency light nearest the bunker's entrance was sending forth its dull orange glow, barely illuminating the doorway. The hum of his small auxiliary gasoline-powered back up generator broke though the pulsing in his ears. No wonder only the amber light and the glow of screens from a few early warning systems were working. Something had cut the power to his compound.
A steadily growing fear for his friends in the tiny town of Perfection motivated him to get to his feet. By habit, he immediately slipped his feet into the hard-soled suede moccasin slippers carefully placed beside the bed every night in the event he needed to make a dash for the safe room. Peeling off the sweat soaked t-shirt, he hurled it angrily into a pile with several other articles of clothing that needed washing.
Dressed in nothing more than military issue skivvies and his slippers, he walked over to a circuit breaker box. Next to the panel was a key switch. Taking down the key, threw inserted it in the lock, and gave it a turn. The electric-start main generator rumbled to life. In addition to lighting and monitors, a secondary set of ventilation fans kicked in drawing out the musty odor of perspiration and buried concrete. He jotted down a mental note to hook up all the fans to his backup systems because, clearly, the set up he had now wasn't working at optimum efficiency. Finally, he shut the auto-start auxiliary system down.
After hastily dressing in clean clothing and tightly lacing his military issue boots, something he could easily accomplish in a matter of two or three minutes, he went to his periscope, complete with the recently installed blueblocker lens, and took a careful look around. A full 360 degree turn yielding nothing near the compound, and the only thing out of the ordinary was a vague dark smudge of what appeared to be smoke far in the distance, east of his compound.
Moving to his work bench, he looked at his seismograph equipment. The older unit basically recorded earth tremors, and had no warning bells or whistles but was nevertheless quite serviceable. Right before his eyes was the unmistakable close sharp spikes of fairly sizable, yet brief, shaking of the earth. Reasonably insulated as he was, he hadn't felt it, but the machine didn't lie. Something had disturbed the ground…but no so close that his wrist seismo had gone off. That only blared its warning when El Blanco was plowing through the ground within close proximity to the person wearing the alarm.
Taking a sip of water from his canteen, and frowning slightly at the warm brackish taste, he reached for his CB 'walkie' and spoke clearly into mic.
"Jodi? Nancy? What's going on?"
The gentle voice of Nancy Sterngood was the first to break through the soft hiss of the radio. "Concerning what?" Sighing with consternation, Burt adjusted the squelch just to keep him busy, and waited. No amount of heckling was going to make her cough up information any quicker, so with practiced patience, he gave her the opportunity to volunteer additional information. When none was forthcoming within a reasonable period of time, which for him was about 15 seconds, he again pressed the talk button.
"Your power out?"
"Yes, yours?" Her voice was calm, serene, characteristic of her nature, except when she was ticked off at him for something, which, it seemed, was a good part of the time.
"Affirmative, however, my backup generator is up and running."
"Naturally," Jodi Chang, owner of Walter Chang's Market, cut in. Burt let it go. He could 'hear' her smile even though he couldn't see it.
Taking another quick swig from the canteen, he then asked, "Where's Tyler?"
Again Jodi's broke though the low static. "I don't know. Rosalita occasionally forgets to turn her radio on but Tyler's pretty good about such things."
"Agreed," he interjected, and before he could get in another word, her heard Jodi say, "He's here now. Said he dropped the radio. He thinks he might have damaged it. Can you take a look at it later?"
Burt grunted and shook his head. So much to do and so little time. "Listen, I've got something I want to investigate. Jodi, you try to reach someone at the power company over in Bixby and see if they have a problem there or if it's local. Tyler, you sit tight while I do a reconnaissance of the territory. I'll call if I need back up."
"Roger that, Burt," Tyler's gentle masculine voice drawled through the radio. "If you need me, holler!"
"Not likely," Gummer replied, half smiling smugly to himself.
"What?" Nancy chimed in. "You hollering, or you needing help?"
Burt's answer was succinct. "Both!"
After putting the radio in a knap sack, Gummer dumped the water from his canteen, and replenished it from a fresh plastic bottle. Then, throwing his canteen, binoculars, and some MRE's in it, he looked over his gun collection, already ruminating on what would suit his particular needs on this occasion. He strapped on one pistol and his hunting knife, one on each upper thigh, tightened the straps to both in place, threw some extra previously loaded magazines in his vest pockets, and drew down the HK -93A3 rifle. He wasn't anticipating any problems from El Blanco that a couple of his modified flash-bang grenades couldn't handle but being prepared was always a smart move. Plus, there was his 'secret weapon stashed on board his truck that would, hopefully, give the lumbering worm a bit of a painful surprise.
With another cautious glance through the periscope, he then opened the bunker door, and took a look off in the distance where could barely discern the odd smudge in the sky. Someone not looking for it would never have noted its existence. "Well, you definitely didn't cause the power problem, otherwise I'd still have electric." he reasoned aloud. With electric supplies coming from Bixby, only line problems southwest of his compound would have killed the power. Something may have caught fire to the northeast. And he wanted to know what.
Hopping in his reworked Chevy open cab truck, he tossed his sack, his vest with the grenades, and his gloves on the passenger seat. As an after thought, he pulled the canteen and binoculars free of the sack, and rested them within easy reach.
Opened the gate of his compound, Burt drove his pickup through the opened posts, then paused long enough to close up the compound. Next, he rechecked his wrist seismo for proper functioning. Last, but certainly not least, he slipped on his dark aviator sunglasses before turning toward his destination.
Slowly, and then with increasing speed, the big truck lumbered up the road for several miles before veering off into unmarked terrain. The road was bumpy and the truck hung up in some places, but Burt expertly guided it through the ruts and gullies, around boulders, and up gently sloping hills. Eventually, he passed one large metallic tower and saw the overload light atop it glowing white. That meant one thing. Something had caused the switch to trip, a system designed to keep the nearest transformer from blowing and spewing toxic chemicals all over the ground. Before the graboids had showed up, the light had made locating the problem that much quicker. Now, however, they didn't come around unless they got extreme hazard pay for it.
Rough terrain forced a slight detour, but he got back on track quickly.
The sun's heat was already building to a nearly uncomfortably level by the time the survivalist was able to get a good look at the waning pillar of smoke. Black, for sure. Petroleum products, fuel oils, tar, and the like, burned that color. Not a good sign. He felt a trickle of sweat cross his cheek, and he swiped at in irritation. It wasn't too much longer before he got close enough to view the wreckage through his binoculars. Aircraft, he saw, one boldly crimson wing nearly upright, leaning against a boulder. This one was going to be messy, he could feel it.
Suppressing an unexpected shudder, he plunged on as the terrain became slightly more irregular. Pulling the canteen out of the bag, he took a swallow, wiped the back of his lips with one leather-gloved hand, and, after setting the canteen back on the seat, once more set the binoculars in front of his eyes. "Definitely not good," he again concluded dryly.
Up ahead he could see the damaged electric tower, the short ends of the dangling wires swaying in the slight breeze. A small copse of dry brush had lit up nearby commingling grayish brown plumes with pitch black smoke but already that was dying down, the wind dispersing it before it got up high enough for anyone in Perfection was likely to see it.
Nearby, a wash, dry now that the spring rains had faded into memory, paralleled the power lines for a way, then angled toward the collection of boulders precariously supporting the ruptured aircraft. Carefully, he maneuvered his truck down the side of the wash, confident that this was the easiest, quickest route over the terrain. The truck took the hill at an angle, fat tires biting deep into the parched soil. It slid slightly, then caught again. Burt guided it carefully, at a slight angle to the hill, preferring to keep from running grill first into the wide ditch.
At that exact moment, Gummer's wrist seismo screamed out its warning. "No, No! Not now!" He angrily howled at the approaching graboid, though the thought never left his lips. He pondered the alternatives. Silence the engine versus trying to drive out of immediate vicinity. Grab for his pistol? All but useless against the underground creature.
The tires slipped, loudly, but bit more firmly a second later. More noise to attract the graboid. Burt's hand rocketed toward the key in the ignition. Running was no longer an option. El Blanco was too close. He craned his neck trying to see if he could detect the tell-tale sign of graboid movement, the shifting of the dirt above its enormous body.
He saw it alright. About 10 feet away…and suddenly the graboid, in all its hulking glory, burst through the side of the gully, right into the transfer case beneath his truck's chassis. In less than a heartbeat, the four wheel drive vehicle flipped over to its side, rolled over once, then again, and spun 180 degrees, before coming to rest, belly up, roll bar sinking into the soft dirt of the wash.
El Blanco, roaring its confusion and fright at being unexpected exposed to the air, plunged snout first into the ground and almost immediately disappeared from sight. The graboid didn't know what had happened, didn't know what he had collided against, but the giant worm was once again sensing movement back from where he had just come. Hunger growing by the minute, he burrowed back toward his original prey.