From what I could surmise from the gory tableau, someone had attempted a risky maneuver, perhaps to regain another section of the base, and it backfired.
The humans' new avenue of attack became nothing more than a doorway for the Ss'sik'chtokiwij barge through. They should have never lowered their eastern barrier.
The guns I found on the floor had faults in them, a couple had their triggers depressed, and when I tried to fire off a round, nothing came out, despite their chambers being full. Other weapons appeared to have caught fire.
A few people attempted to flee the fight, but someone shot them in the back. Another victim appeared to have been murdered for a similar infraction.
Ss'sik'chtokiwij fed on the bodies of the victims, causing the children to shudder and draw close to me.
None of those dining approached us, probably because I was bigger, and Pain circled us, scouting for danger.
Dalgren had been mauled, reduced to a bloody pile of meat.
Devon, being the prettier one, had been selected as an egg receptacle. A Ss'sik'chtokiwij busied herself dragging him through the open gate, perhaps intending to take him all the way to Grandmother's place.
Sadly, Amber and Magda got dragged along that same route, Xylena taking the redhead.
Too late to rescue them. I could tell by the scent. The egg would hatch very soon. Killing the host would be the only thing I could do, and, well, I could either protect the children by not making other Ss'sik'chtokiwij angry, or kill the hosts and put the children in danger. It seemed better to merely survey the scene and locate a secure hiding place. I would explain all this to the children later, when we got there.
On impulse, I checked Dalgren's body, as it had been momentarily abandoned by the one eating him, and thereupon discovered a computer chip poking out his pocket. I put it in my purse to examine later.
I caught Shelly's scent. Gone too. With egg.
Grandmother always did want to be surrounded by grandkids. Though I'm sure, like any good grandparent, she'd prefer to only deal with them a few hours per day, and let them be someone else's problem after that.
Frye, with her injured leg, I suppose, was deemed unfit, so the other Ss'sik'chtokiwij just ate her. And Uncle Sam, though I doubt he proved as fibrous as his cereal.
The other doctors: Gone.
The patients: Gone.
Cierra the prostitute: Dead.
The woman with the `weave' and the strap shoes: Dead.
The two humans I'd seen playing piggyback: Dead.
The murderous army man: Dead.
David Barnett, AKA Ninja Vampire: Dead.
Rosa Hernandez: Dead.
Nick from unit 210. `JCobb.' `DSiegler.'
Nobody left alive. I decided we'd seen enough.
"Some nice people have cleaned out your home," I offered. "Maybe we could see abut getting you dried off there?"
"Nice dead people," Timmy said gloomily. Rebecca shuddered.
"I'm sorry. I only wished to help you to the nearest place where you could get dry. And I believe your home is much cleaner now. I saw men scouring the living room. It's much safer there, at any rate."
"We do have a drier..."
We crossed beyond the east barrier, passing Ssorzechola's tabernacle. A barrier leading to the aboveground bridge had also been lowered, this time by industrious Ss'sik'chtokiwij.
A few of my race sniffed and came close to the children, but I growled at them like a possessive dog with its bone, and it actually caused them to retreat.
So far I had been lucky. I didn't know how long my luck would hold out.
As we climbed the flight of stairs leading to the bridge, encountered the shredded remains of one of the `nice dead people,' the African man in plaid. His carpet cleaning companion, the guitarist, I discovered headless in the middle of the bridge.
Upon reaching the hallway on the other side, I suddenly discovered a large brown man inhabiting the space.
Tyrone Rockett.
Somehow he had survived.
"Hi!" I called, desperate for any human companion to socialize with.
"I rebuke thee, Satan, in the name of the Lord Jehovah!" he shouted, running into a dwelling with greater haste than I'd ever seen the man display before.
The door shut quickly, and there he stayed for a long time.
Before the atmospheric machinery came, colonists used `ion washers', which basically sprayed a special powder on fabric, a powder that absorbed dirt and odor by friction. `Driers' simply heated this powder, extracted it, and recycled it back into the `washer.' The Jordens possessed one in their bathroom.
Once Newt and Timmy stood dry and comfortable in refreshed attire, I asked if they needed dinner. They both said no, the events of the previous hours apparently having soured their stomachs.
I checked the Jorden's little refrigerator and the cabinets, but only found rotten food and cans of things the children didn't care for, such as canned spinach, asparagus, water chestnuts, carrots, mushroom soup, or rice. We would have to forage for our next meal.
Also, the children could not sleep in their beds. Even with the smells of death purged from the dwelling, they insisted on returning to their little fort.
Up until this point, I have attempted to keep this narrative continuous, more or less easily done, due to there being people and conversations present to mark the passage of time.
But now, after the humans made their final stand against the Ss'sik'chtokiwij, only the children and I remained, and the children seldom felt like talking. Time lost its meaning. To me, they almost seemed like young Ss'sik'chtokiwij, silently following the pack leader.
I found this tablet computer across the hallway from the fort. Rebecca showed me how to charge it up and use the word processing program. A slow, painstaking process, but all good writing requires careful thought anyway, so I do not mind so much. Time was a luxury we had ample amounts of.
What you have read so far has been typed on this device, recorded, as faithfully as I could, from memory. Since I have had little access to clocks or calendars until now, I cannot pinpoint the dates and times for many of these events, though I'm not sure any of that matters anymore.
Also, being on a non-earth planet, our calendars, days, months, years, end up getting recorded a little differently.
Therefore, for my next series of entries, I shall not record my account by dates, but rather by the amount of days which have passed since the official end of the colony (After Colony Date, or ACD), as a condemned man counts the days by tic marks on the wall, rather than a true calendar that has since lost its meaning.
ACD 1:
The children awoke starved from the previous night. We had undisturbed passage to Food Storage, but I decided to stockpile food supplies in the fort, just to avoid future dangerous confrontations.
We had bags. The children helped.
Will try to get more tomorrow. Cold goods, of course, are impossible.
Note: Must get can opener. Children objected to me melting can lids.
Also, need to retrieve other tablet computers from the lab. The children coveted mine, so I only got a page done of my autobiography done tonight.
Poor Rebecca. Without one of those electronic devices to occupy her mind, her thoughts kept returning to her classmates. She actually asked me to find them.
"They are most likely dead," I told her, but she said she didn't care, she wanted to know.
I promised to start a search tomorrow.
ACD 2:
Grits do not soften like oatmeal when hot water is poured upon them. Timmy attempted this today because he couldn't find the colony manufactured Cream of Wheat.
Instruction cards say to microwave with water or heat on a stove with water, like rice. When we tried again, the grits swelled out of the bowl, creating a huge sticky mess in the microwave.
I experimented with eating cooked synthetic bacon. Delicious!
On the way back to our hideout, I found a bomb fragment near the barricade. The fragment had Arabic writing on it, and so did the wall at which it had been planted. I can't read Arabic, but it seems to be strong evidence in favor of sabotage, regardless. An explosive charge could explain why the barricade did not close.
As promised, I began a search for Rebecca's classmates, though I confess my low expectations.
Without knowing the students' scents, I had a difficult task ahead of me. I did not relish making a systematic sweep of every single dwelling on the base. Though I could differentiate between human adult and child smells, I found the task was easier said than done, and I kept finding Ss'sik'chtokiwij everywhere.
Compounding the problem: I and Devon's men had collapsed several hallways leading to the places where Rebecca wanted to look.
I imagined myself moving from door to door, knocking, fighting the door locking mechanisms, or climbing through ventilation ducts, dropping down to unlock a room, only to have the children abducted in my absence. The possibility for conflict seemed endless.
When I had reached the point of giving up, Timmy got the bright idea to look his classmates up on the teacher's computer.
Mrs. Pedersen taught second and third grade on alternating days. On Wednesdays, she served as full time pediatrician, and Fridays they always had the children's `Work Day', in which children assisted their parents with the family business (like wildcatting), or, in the case of a parent being absent or of disreputable employment, a random worker needing help.
[0000]
A woman named Melinda Courtney took over the rest of the time, though other women did substitute from time to time.
As in any small school, the teacher didn't specialize. Mrs. Pedersen taught Math, Social Studies, English, History, Literature, Music and Art.
Upper grades had offerings like Business, Agriculture, Job Placement and Sex Ed, and the instructors varied a bit more, but they had their own all-around teachers.
Mrs. Pedersen's dwelling stood inconveniently outside the fortification, a unit down from the mess hall and the barricade in which Snake had been murdered.
The barricades in this area hadn't been designed to allow for passage, and naturally Ss'sik'chtokiwij proof, or, to be more precise, Ss'sik'chtokiwij resistant. I could have cut through these barriers, but it would have been more trouble than it was worth, especially when we needed barricades for protection.
My usual solution of crawling through vents wouldn't work. If it had been that easy to get out of the compound, my Ss'sik'chtokiwij kin would have already infiltrated the compound long before now.
The naked ends of the ducts hung open before the barricade, but when I sent Pain to investigate, she said they offered no ingress, that smaller vents had been installed in the roof to compensate.
The roof.
The fortification had been built on the lower level. I hadn't thought about what went on upstairs, but the colonists must have done something to prevent Ss'sik'chtokiwij from melting through the ceiling, dropping down and killing them. In order to access the room of Mrs. Pedersen, we more than likely would need to go up there anyway, or slogging through the sewers.
Of course, if even that had been easy, Devon and the others would have died a long time ago.
We climbed a staircase to the upper level, near the aboveground bridge, taking the westward leading corridor to explore the maze of housing units.
The source of debris for the barriers became readily apparent:
The area resembled a teetering demilitarized zone, or a poorly constructed attic in a ramshackle old house, ready to collapse at any moment.
The ceiling had groaned many times as I accompanied Devon and his associates around the place, but I had no idea how dangerous it had become until I witnessed these half demolished dwellings balancing precariously over bomb craters on their rickety pieces of flooring. The firm looking continuous ceiling beneath hid it all from the untrained eye.
I could not identify who or what had been housed in each upstairs home, but I could say, with a fair amount of certainty, that nothing living remained in them. One would have to be completely devoid of one's senses to fail to notice such a dramatic change in environment.
A long silver box rose from the floor to the roof, apparently the exhaust from the base's kitchen stove, the structures surrounding it, judging by their shape, most probably the upper areas of Food Storage we examined this morning.
Small fires steadily burned in several areas, filling the area with unpleasant aromas of burnt plastic, rubber, and melted paint. Only a matter of time before that became a problem.
I found only dead Ss'sik'chtokiwij in this area, either due to the explosions, or overzealous human warriors.
Obviously, we could only take the most circuitous route to our destination. Even getting within a few yards of these chasms put us on leaning ramps, bits of flooring that creaked and threatened to give way.
As we traveled on, I could make guesses about our location, based on the architectural features (such as pipes above the showers), and the type of crater. The most dramatic one stood near the northern entrance of the compound.
A unit down, I found the results of my own handiwork (is it proper to say `clawdiwork'?). The corridor above my first set of detonations lay too close to the gate to be safe, the supports too weakened. One misstep, and I would send an entire home crashing into the sewer.
The section north of the demolished area looked safer, but only if we cut through a locked dwelling. I doubted the children's lockpicking skills, and their ability to leap across the large crater around the corner. And would the floor on the opposite side could hold weight?
Pain, ever the trusted and helpful companion, scurried around the structure to find a way in.
Easier than I imagined. A large chunk of the rear end had been destroyed in the blast.
After waiting roughly ten minutes for her to figure out the inner locking mechanism, the door popped open, and, to my surprise, I found myself in the home of my late friend Mike (I recognized his scent the moment the door opened).
Earlier, I had passed a Ss'sik'chtokiwij with a giant hole in her head. Well, thought I. That explains that. He'd become quite skillful with the Pale Ones' weapon.
Mike worked in the mess hall. Although for the most part constrained by management and economics to make rather basic uninspired meals for people with no discerning taste, he had been known to surprise people with the occasional gourmet special. The scents of fine cooking improvised from rough ingredients lingered in the air.
The living space, or what had been left of it, featured an Asian. Long rectangular boards bearing Chinese calligraphy, framed scenes of Tokyo, and a poster of a woman in a yellow jumpsuit brandishing a samurai sword, also, framed picture of a scary Luchador.
A video collection reflected his varied interests: Quentin Tarantino, wild comedies, Japanese cartoons, movies about gangsters, and Hispanic pugilism. The television lay broken on the floor near the wall, so you couldn't watch any of it.
On a wooden coffee table, I found a copy of John Carter and a sock monkey with its gray paws driving nails into its woolen eyeballs, an example of the man's unique sense of humor.
Adjacent to this, a framed portrait of my friend and a young woman who had chosen to color her hair to a shocking pink.
His kitchen: Not much more than a counter with a big hole behind it, the dining area slanted, the table standing on its end, chairs mashed on top of it from the pull of gravity. A bed dangled strangely off to one side of the unit, the rest of the bedroom gone below somewhere. Perhaps he'd used the area for target practice.
Fortunately, the place had a back door, since it would have made the area that much harder to navigate.
The hallway beyond: Basically a bridge over a chasm, leading to a storm shielded window at the far end.
Across from Mike's dwelling, I found another home, this one with its door hanging conveniently at a diagonal. I only had to shove to knock it to the floor.
Floor this place did not have much of, just a wide plank overlooking the debris strewn interior of the housing unit below. Its furniture may have once been nice, but the collapse reduced it all to a dusty `secondhand.'
To one side stood a recliner and Ottoman on an island of flooring. A TV lay behind it, clearly once a fixture on the intact wall behind it. A red light flickered off and on, perhaps due to some small amount of electric current going through the set.
I didn't find a door on the opposite end, only an untrustworthy narrow walkway leading through a low hole near the blast area. The flooring there remained stable enough to walk on.
At the end of this path, the flooring stabilized, the housing units still in one piece.
Timmy further simplified matters by telling me that Mrs. Pedersen had a window, indicating a dwelling along the far wall. We only needed to get into the home above it and climb down.
I tried the door on the first dwelling at the end of the row, but had a tough go at it because it hadn't been damaged. I hoped that Gretchen Goose would come to my aid, she did not, despite me asking politely. I suppose, other than helping her become self aware, I really hadn't been much of a friend to her, so she owed me no favors. Either that, or she couldn't hear me.
Though still not strong enough to rip the entire security lock out of a wall and open a door like my mother, I did manage to lick my claws, slide them into the cracks around the panel, and tug it out.
Mom made it seem so simple.
The mechanism only jammed, not unlike the breakable glass piece in a safe that renders it permanently closed.
"Are you certain you don't know how to pick locks?" I asked Timmy.
He shook his head.
"Then I fear we may never locate your classmates."
Rebecca darted to a window at the end of a nearby hallway, pushing a button that opened the storm shield. "You can break her window."
I took a deep breath. "All right."
"It's Plexiglas," said Timmy. "I know because I got mad and threw a paperweight at it one time."
"Then maybe you can just open it, or melt it," Rebecca said.
The windows on the base had been designed for a planet with no atmosphere. Local engineers retrofitted them to allow for ventilation.
I suppose its capacity for allowing people to climb outside did not rank high on the list of design features. The design appeared to be more suited for cooling, and dispelling unpleasant fumes, so it only opened about ten inches. I didn't have a prayer of squeezing that small.
I ended up melting the frame around the window and pushing the whole thing out, giving us all a cold shower in the process.
Not as spectacular as you might think. The window and frame merely hit the mud below with a wet slap.
I gazed into the rain for a moment, glanced at the children with apprehension. "This might be dangerous. I'm going to need to leave you alone for a moment."
Rebecca clenched her little hands into fists. "I want to know."
"Very well."
I set Pain beside them, pressing my faceplate to hers, because we can't really lock eyes with each other. "Let me know the second you see or hear anything unusual."
My little aunt gave me a grave nod.
I crawled out into the rain, the children observing my progress with breathless anticipation.
Try this experiment sometime: Flood a bare concrete floor or other smooth surface with a constant stream of water, then attempt to affix a suction cup or toilet plunger to it.
Frictionless, I slid five feet down the outer wall, frowning with annoyance at the open mouthed spectators back at the hole.
I dug my claws into the metal (I mostly caught hold of seams and brackets), sliding my slulwidmi back and forth until the suckers flexed out the air and took hold. Only then did I manage to climb back up to where I was supposed to be.
Upon reaching the window of the locked dwelling, I found myself thwarted by its storm shielding. I looked around, but couldn't find any dwelling that had theirs up.
I would have to do some work.
Water diluted my acid a little, but it still worked, especially when I cupped my claws around it, and let it pool.
I had just melted the heavy shutter off its framework and started on the window when Timmy screamed.
[0001]
I glanced up and saw a pair of black chitinous claws yanking the boy into the building's interior.
The girl disappeared a second later.
The very thing I had fearfully tried to prevent had happened, and only mere seconds to prevent the deaths of two children.
Abandoning my project, I scrambled to the window hole, though awkwardly, due to the aforementioned traction issues.
I burst into the hallway just in time to catch a scarred Ss'sik'chtokiwij pressing Rebecca against the wall, one clawed hand around her throat. The boy lay on his back, in a half sitting position. It seemed he had attempted to fight back, but Hissandra just shoved him to the floor.
The children whimpered, but, I daresay, seemed less frightened of her than they had been of certain human monsters.
"Hissandra! Leave them alone!"
Purring in amusement, my sister just grabbed the girl's chin, turning her head from side to side. Rebecca looked tense, but made no sound. "This is the one you kept from us, in the place with the plants, is it not?"
I swallowed, wondering where this was going. "Yes, sister. I care for her very deeply."
She purred again, letting go of the child. "You know, Grandmother and I have been talking about this, and we both think you are compensating for not having a larva of your own. Even this `Pain' you have with you, it is not the fruit of your own suaakudsi."
I sighed. "I have taken a vow of non-reproduction."
"Is this like your vow not to eat human flesh?"
The comment made me wonder if she were the one who had laid the dead human in front of our hiding place.
I shook my head. "Egg laying is not the same as the need for nourishment. A human can go their entire life without reproducing, with no ill effect. They call this a `vow of celibacy'."
Hissandra nodded slowly. "I understand some of your beliefs, but I still think you're compensating for your lack of larva. You would be wise to at least plant eggs in these two, once they grow older."
"The wisdom of the world is foolishness to God."
Hissandra sighed. "Sh'kassk'dwuissueblik, sometimes I feel as if you were speaking a foreign language."
"That's because you are lost, and such things are spiritually discerned. You need discernment from God's Holy Spirit."
She shook her head. "I wish I could understand you."
"Then let's share minds. I'm certain that would help."
I bared my Wooby Worms.
Hissandra stared at me for a moment, like she would take me up on the offer. "Did Ssorzechola do that to you?"
I nodded, drawing the worms back into my mouth. "But I gladly bear this mark of suffering for the name of Christ."
Since she remained where she was, and didn't comment, I tried once more. "This will all become clear once we share minds."
"How can you when yours is damaged?"
"With God, all things are possible."
Another long pause. I thought for sure she would agree, but instead..."What are you doing up here with that window?"
I told her of the children's request.
She snorted. "Sh'kassk'dwuissueblik, both you and I know that there are no living humans in this area. If they keep persisting with such nonsense, why not just eat them and be done with it?"
I'm ashamed to admit it, but the thought had occurred to me. The heart is, by nature, deceitful and sinful. "You should already know that I cannot do that. If either of these young ones were harmed in any way, it would cause me great sadness and despair. I have lost so many that I cared about. The loneliness would be unbearable."
"I've lost loved ones too..." She raised a claw to Rebecca's face, brushing her hair to the side. Hissandra's expression almost looked...loving.
She gave me a glance, shook her head, and scuttled off.
The encounter left me shaken, my heart pounding in a new way I never thought it would.