o either kiss him or bite off his round knob of a nose. Instead, she said two words: "You're on." Goforth was just as stubborn. He was native to Geor- gia but might as well have been from Missouri when it came to matters of proof. "Every Muh-reen is a rifleman fust," he said. "If'n you want to spoht thet thang, missy, then you had best pick up yer cute lil' buns and follow me tuh the rifle range." 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. "Hey, Fly," he said, "howzabout grabbin' thet sack o' apples?" As I hoisted the apples and made tracks, I could honestly say that I didn't have a clue what old Goforth was up to. 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 walked on over to Arlene and said, "Private, you need a whole helpin' o' guts to wear thet 'do. Takes more'n jes' a steady rifle hand, thet it do!" At least he didn't call her "missy" this time. Holding up his hand, palm toward me, he shouted, "Fly, toss me one of those apples. Ya'll watch a history lesson." Now that I finally had the idea, I was none too happy, but Arlene just smiled--a little, thin smile. I think she guessed what the gun' was scheming. I slapped the apple into the gunnery sergeant's paw. He casually tossed and caught it a few times, then asked Arlene: "Yuh lak historee, lil' lady?" He was laying the accent on so thick I could barely understand him. "Let me guess," she said with a thick grin. "You like William Tell." Goforth looked crestfallen that she had outguessed him, stealing some wind from his sails. But if verbal teasing wouldn't do the job, he was more than ready to push this thing on to the real thing. 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. He didn't bag on me the way he was doing to Arlene, He gestured to Dodd to bring over the artillery, and Dodd brought a .30-99 bolt-action sniper rifle, top of the line. Goforth flashed Arlene a big, soapy grin; but she held her ground. Made me wonder, not just about the gun', but the other guys, who leered and chuckled unpleasantly. Plen- ty 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 ... but I kept it to myself. She was going to play this one out to the bitter end. I figured that from the way she planted her feet, put her arms behind her and said, "Go for it!" Abruptly, everybody stopped laughing. Gunny Goforth noticed but wasn't about to back down with eight, I'm sure it was, eight guys watching. With an almost delicate concern, he carefully placed the apple on her head. Then he took the .30-99 and slowly backed away from her. He aimed just as carefully and said, in a voice that had lost all the sarcasm, "Last chance, honey." I thought "honey" sounded better than "missy." Arlene didn't move, but I could see that she was trembling ever so slightly beneath her bravado. I sure as hell didn't blame her. Goforth took a deep breath and said, "All right, darlin'... I suggest in the strongest terms thet you don't flinch none." I was the one who jumped when he squeezed off a shot--and damned if the apple didn't split perfectly down the middle, each half falling on either side of her head! Everybody let out his breath, and a ragged cheer erupted. "Way to go, Gunny!" said one man. "Fox Company ichiban!" said another. We'd forgotten one item. We'd forgotten that Arlene had put her skull on the line. The drama wasn't over until she said it was. 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. I saw what she was carrying before the gun' did. 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 .30-99 from the table, staring expectantly at Goforth and cocking one of her eyebrows. I never doubted what Goforth would do. His basic sense of fair play could be counted on; and he had guts. He wasn't about to lose his men's respect. Not Goforth! So, in the words of the old-time baseball player, it was deja vu all over again. He put the apple on his head, his icy eyes boring into Arlene's. She watched him just as intently; no lovers were ever more focused on one another. She cocked and raised the rifle, which wasn't even fitted with a scope, just iron sights. A few of the men backed farther away from the cone of fire surrounding the gunnery sergeant. That pissed me off, so I deliberate- ly 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. Goforth had his own concerns: "If you have to miss," he said so softly that it didn't even sound like him, "please tuh make it high?" He smiled with an effort. The request seemed reasonable enough. Arlene said nothing. She lifted the rifle nice and slow. She didn't make us wait; she pounded out a shot, and the apple was blown off Goforth's head. 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. "It's you, Private," he said. And I was pretty damned sure he wouldn't be calling her "missy" again. She didn't miss, you see. Some of the boys took to calling her Will, though. 7 The odds against Arlene's survival in this hell- ish maelstrom were astronomical; but then, so they were against mine. 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. Of course, I could always get to the nuclear plant level really fast, so long as I didn't mind the sudden stop at the end. "Damn, I knew this was too good to be true," I said out loud. 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 couldn't turn it to save my life. 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. It was as if I'd been cast inside the oldest labyrinth in the universe and would spend the rest of my life trying to find my way through the maze. Damn imagination acting up again . .. memory was better; at least it gave me something to hold on to. A link to the past, a better past. Then I saw old Gunnery Sergeant Goforth, walking down the corridor in my direction. The failing light made it difficult to make out skin tones; but the smooth, purposeful way he walked made me think he couldn't be a zombie. It was Gunny Goforth--and he was alive! "Gunny!" I shouted, ecstatic to have finally found another live one in this nightmare. He didn't answer; my God, that should have told me something. He raised his old .30-99 and aimed it right at my chest. I threw myself to the floor just as the bullet seared over my head. "Damn you to hell!" I shouted, outraged that the universe had decided to foist a new, improved zombie on me. Too late; I'm sure he already was--and me with him. This new horror seemed even more unfair than that crazy brown monster with the spikes. I'd settled into a nice, predictable pattern about what to do with zombies. No fair changing the rules now! Hey, Gunny, you're still a pal. He marched straight for me, no deviations, no duck- ing, 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 didn't just lie on the floor, waiting for that unaccepta- ble outcome. I had plans of my own. In life, Gunny Goforth could shoot--hell, could shoot the apple off a young Marine's head. 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. It was the biggest mess I'd made on this godforsaken rock of a moon so far. The splatter was sort of an artistic statement. But I must have gotten something in my eye. I kept blinking, but it wouldn't go away. Somebody was laughing, sort of a crazy, whacked-out cackle. "Shut up!" I screamed at the jokester, wiping my cheeks. 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. Running multiplication tables in my head helped me chill while I scavenged Goforth's pack for ammo. 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'd never done hallucinogens as a kid, and it just wasn't fair for my imagination to suggest a giant, white skull had gone flying past (on its way to the demonic head shop, no doubt). So I made a deal with my imagination: if it didn't throw any more Halloween balloons at me, I'd give it a break when it wanted to go traipsing down memory lane. I can be fair. I ran like a madman up the corridor, jogging a couple of times. Whatever it was, I'd lost it for now. Emerging into a big open room made me feel more claustrophobic. That might sound fairly nutty but you'd have to see this place for yourself. I wasn't bothered by the incredibly high, arched ceiling, supported by gro- tesque pillars that would be more at home in some ancient palace in India. No, what bothered me was that this huge room was full of barrels of that noxious, green liquid I thought I'd left behind--and good riddance. 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 .. . none of the zombies seemed to notice me. There really wasn't time for a sanity check, but I ran a quick one anyway. I'd read about a mental condition or a philosophy (I forget which) called solipsism: you think of something, and it happens. The ultimate case is when you think you're all that exists, and the whole universe is your dream. 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! Well. . . what can I lose? I closed my eyes and concen- trated 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. Opening my eyes to excruciating pain, I discovered I wasn't alone on the floor: whatever had blown me down got the nearest few zombies as well. I decided that solipsism was a load of crap. And when I looked up, my old friend was back, the crusty, brown monster with ivory-white spikes . . . and he'd brought his buddies. They watched me stagger to my feet, and they laughed. Then one of them wound up and threw something, some sort of mucus ball that burst into bloodred flames as it left the creature's hand. 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 produc- ing the fire with their bare hands . . . and their aim was deadly. The monsters hissed, pointing directly at Yours Truly; then the zombies noticed me for the first time and began shooting. They weren't too particular about innocent zombies getting in the way, either--and whenever one zombie would shoot another, or a demon would pelt a bunch with a flaming mucus ball, the monster victims would turn on their monster allies, completely forgetting about me. 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 . . . and again I dived to the side as a whirring, screaming hunk of steel buzzed my helmet. This time there was no mistake: it was a goddamned flying skull with flaming rocket ex- haust spewing out the back. It turned and banked, trying to mow me down and chew me up with razor-sharp, steel teeth, like one of those wind-up "chattering skulls" gone mad. 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. This time a fireball almost fried me. There was just no way I could get to the demons from here without being toasted . . . and the shotgun range was too short to pop them where I crouched. While I dithered, I heard a whirring behind me, then a harsh, iron screech. Sure enough, the flying skull had sailed around the pillars and spotted me again. I can take care of you at least, you F/X reject! I whipped the riot gun around and fired from the hip, not even taking time to aim. It was the best mistake of my life. The little bugger skittered out of the way; I tried to track as I fired, and I popped one of the toxic barrels instead. It exploded with a terrific concussion, kicking me in the body armor like a mule and tearing off a chuck of my kevlar vest. The skull vanished in a spray of metal gears and exploding JP-5. Almost immediately, my bruised eardrums were as- saulted by another explosion, then another and a fourth. Five or six more barrels touched off in rapid succession. All I could think was thank God I was on the other side of the pillar. An acrid cloud of blue smoke swirled around the walls and floor . . . residue from the explosive oxidation of the toxic goo. Gasping, I peeked around the pillar at a scene of astonishing carnage. Zombies and demons alike had been torn to shreds and strips of gray flesh, their parts mingling in a hellish mulligatawny. The stench of a thousand sour lemons permeated the room, even driving out the horrible, burning smell of the toxic fumes. Jesus, I thought, I hope the cameras got the shot. I climbed shakily to my feet and padded toward the door, chastened by the awesome destructive power in those forty-gallon drums. At the edge of the room I found the only other survivor. The demon crawled along the ground with its hands, one leg blown entirely off and the other twisted into a crazy angle. It leaked yellow pus, globules that burst into flame as soon as they dripped off the monster's body. I leveled my shotgun at its head. "Die, you dumb animal," I said with a smile. "Aaanimaaal," repeated the demon, "not. . ." I paused, startled. I didn't know they could talk. "You're right," I prodded, "at least animals kill you clean or leave you alone." It twisted its head all the way around to stare up at me while lying belly down on the floor. My stomach turned at the sight. "You--are aanimaals when we fix planet." I curled my lip, but my heart leaped. Which planet was that? Mars? Or did the aliens' plan include Earth? "We'll mow you down as fast as you bubble up out of the sewers, you piece of filth." The alien monster laughed, opening its mouth wide enough to swallow a man's head. "Weee throw rocks . . . big rocks." The image was ludicrous; but I got a premonitory shudder. Somehow, I guessed the emphasis was on the word "big." 8 Despite my better judgment, I was too intrigued for the moment by the sound of pure evil pleading its case. "Why haven't the others spoken to me? Can you all talk?" It opened its mouth wide, exposing gums full of squirming cilia and teeth that rolled and shifted position. "Not... all ssssame, like you-mans not sssame." The alien crawled on a bit farther. I don't think it was trying to escape; it knew that was impossible. I began to worry that it was leading me toward something. Ahead of me was a greenish stone wall carved in bas relief with a hideous, demonic face. Somehow, I doubted that was an original furnishing in the Phobos base of the Union Aerospace Corporation. "How aren't we the same?" I prodded. I felt in my gut that I was on the verge of something important. "Ssssome . . . fear," it gasped. Its face showed no sign of distress, but I knew from the shudder that wracked its body that it was very near death. "Othersss sssstrong . . . you ssstrong." Good Lord--was this alien thing admitting a grudging respect for Fly Taggart? "Few ssstrong, like you ssstrong . . . mosst good for ssslavesss. You-man ssslavesss." A thought buried deep behind my ears thrust itself forward. I wasn't too fatigued to pick up that slip of the tongue; even a tongue as thick and brutish as this one. Few strong--others strong . . . there must be other hu- mans who were still themselves and still breathing! When hell came to Phobos, I had to keep hope locked up in a small space without a zip code. I kept a poker face; the monster might be smart enough to spot my eagerness at the possibility that one of the living might be Arlene. Any human survivor would change the Phobos situa- tion dramatically: food and water were minor problems, but I could only operate so long without sleep. With no one to stand guard, giving in to exhaustion was suicide. But I couldn't keep going forever; and if I couldn't rest, all the ammo in the solar system would not save me. "I'm touched by your concern for my survival," I said. "Deal," he unexpectedly offered, ignoring the sarcasm. "You . . . live; you work; you help." All I had to do was work with the alien invaders and help them conquer the human race, and they might graciously allow me to live as a slave. Jesus, how tempt- ing, I thought. I decided that I liked the ones who grunt better. What did these creeps want from me? "I've got a great idea. Why don't you tell me what the hell you're after?" The thing laughed. The sound grated on my nerves like a ripped bagpipe. "Hell... we after," it declared. "Ssssurrender . . . help; you live, you-man." "As a zombie?" "You live, not deadwalk; you sssee othersss." "What others? Who else survived? Did a girl survive?" Great, Fly; nice and subtle. Does it even know what a girl is? Does it care? "You help . . . you sssee othersss." I stared down at the loathsome thing. I knew I had gotten all the intel from it that I could. "Let me answer," I said at last, "louder than mere words can do. Tell me if this is tough enough." Without another thought, I pointed the shotgun at the monster's upper chest and pumped a round at point- blank range. The alien jerked--then amazingly, stared up at me, still alive by a thread. The alien grimaced, facial muscles finally growing rigid. Then for a moment it relaxed. "We could eat anybody onccce," it declared. Then it stopped moving; even the cilia in its mouth stood up straight and froze. The demon was dead. After catching my breath, I started getting angry. It was one thing to fight a human enemy, but battling malignant demons? Every time I killed one of these humanoid things, I felt like doing a hundred more. That might be the only good to come of this latest encounter. Give no quarter and kill, kill, kill. Kind of reassuring to learn that all that Marine training hadn't been a waste of time. Of course, the rational portion of my brain still made plans. I wanted to climb down and out of this hangar and reach my next objective, the nuclear plant. The plant was the most dangerous item to fall into enemy hands. Better it should fall into my hands. Making one last circuit of the zombie bodies, I scav- enged for blessed ammunition. I'd have killed for a decent backpack; come to think of it, that's probably how I would have to get one. I was running out of pockets for the ammo. So, how to get out of the hangar? My playmates found their way in; all I had to do was reverse the process. First thing was to hug the wall and make a nice, slow circuit of the big, ugly room. The damned monsters bothered me a lot less than the architecture changing on me. I'd never been in Phobos Base before, but I'd talked to guys down on Mars who knew these installations; there was no way this place hadn't undergone a change as bug-nut crazy as the demonic characters themselves. And what made that more upsetting than the monsters was the idea that the floor you walked on, the wall you brushed against, the damn place could turn on you and become something else. Like a cartoon world that sud- denly turns everything into rubber . . . except you. If this kept up, Yours Truly was going to place his imagination on short rations. I leaned against the wall, and suddenly it was like those old Abbott and Costello movies back Earthside: the wall had a hidden door. I even tripped going through the blasted thing. In my mind a laugh track played and played and played. I fell into a new corridor, which I followed to a rising wall at the south end of the hall. There was another of those crazy platforms near at hand. Instinct told me to give it a wide berth, and who am I to argue with my most cherished faculty? When I reached the wall, I found another switch, which I flipped. The wall shooooshed up, revealing a down staircase; it was an encouraging sign--the nuke plant was down another level or two, I vaguely remembered. Cautiously, I started down the stairs, grateful for steady light. My reward was the biggest slime pool yet, waiting at the bottom. If only I'd remembered to bring swimming trunks, I could have gone in for a dip. Best toxic sludge in the whole solar system right here--come one, come all. Skirting the pool, pressed against the wall, I finally ran out of hangar. Along the narrow corridor past the toxin, I found the shredded body of another one of those brown- leather, spiky demons. If it were a talker, someone had already silenced it forever with seven or eight rounds from a Sig-Cow. Score another for the Corps. The bug lay against a sliding door that belonged on a dumbwaiter. I yanked it open, happy to take out my frustrations on something that didn't shoot, claw, or flame me back. Sure enough, it was a lift, barely big enough for a big guy to squeeze into. I spotted a funny mark on the wall, as if someone had started to draw a map using a bright, red paint stick--we use them to blaze trails in forests or urban environments. Whoever it was had been inter- rupted in mid-map. I studied it for a bit, then shrugged; whatever he was trying to tell me got lost in the transla- tion. I scrunched inside the tiny lift, wondering which of the two buttons would take me down to the plant. Staring at the labels, I decided to push the one marked "Nuclear Plant." And they say you don't get an education in the service! With a jerk, the tiny lift sank, swerving and rattling all the way, as much as screaming out Here I come! to the whole world. Well, to the whole Phobos pressure zone, I guess. I didn't have to guess whether this important part of the base had fallen into enemy hands. The minute I stepped off the platform, I was in the soup up to my neck. This particular recipe called for more zombies than I thought could be crammed into such a small space. Come to think of it, the space wasn't all that small. I guess when it's wall-to-wall corpse-sickles, it's easy to lose track of the finer points of design. For the first time in my life I felt what it was like to be claustrophobic from being surrounded by walls of hu- man flesh--well, formerly human flesh. I couldn't un- derstand why I wasn't dead meat. Two things worked in my favor: first, so many zombies were sardine-canned in the room, they could hardly move, and most of them didn't even know I was there. Second, it had become clear to me by now that the only use for brains in a zombie was for gray and white color contrast when you blasted their heads like rotten fruit. Even Gunny Used-to-Be-Goforth had been operating on motor reflexes, and he was the most dangerous one yet. There was plenty of time to think about such things because there was really nowhere for me to go, and I was waiting for one of them to notice me. Then one of those wonderful moments of dumb luck added the final spice to the soup. Another contingent of zombies trooped into storage, and one of the shambling creeps elbowed aside another, simply trying to find somewhere to stand. In the tiny, new space created, I noticed an undamaged map on the wall! By this time, I'd arrived at the conclusion that zombies were not responsible for the destroyed radio equipment, the vandalized maps, the deliberately wasted weapons. The advantage of attending my first zombie convention was that there apparently wasn't room for the demon monsters to get in here and do their damage; the space was being used for zombie storage. Trying to look dead on my feet--not difficult--I shambled a few meters to where I could get a better view of the map--it was a full schematic of the entire station seen from the side. Unfortunately, it didn't include overhead views for each level; but at least I could see how far down the station went. My God, it even had a You Are Here arrow! I was indeed at the nuclear plant level; above me was the hangar, while still below were the Toxin Refinery-- didn't that sound appetizing--Command & Control, the labs, Central Processing, and MIS. Jesus . . . only six more levels to clear; I was afraid it would be thirty! Funny how what I was seeing triggered memories of malls and shoppers. Best not to dwell on that. . . Somewhere in the back of my head a shrill voice screamed for me to get the hell out of that room. I figured this situation was too lucky to last. Without false modesty, I can say I was proven a prophet. In that sea of pale, dead faces, two dry as dust eyes came to rest on Yours Truly. Hoping the unfocused eyes would continue their survey of the room, I didn't move a muscle . . . which was normally what the zom- bies did when they had no orders and had not spotted a human: they stood and did nothing. Except, that is, for the one who wouldn't stop staring at me. I wasn't about to make the first move. I'd been through a lot lately but I could still count. It seemed like this could go on forever; but then, out of nowhere, a zombie-child separated itself from the rest of the throng and stumbled toward me. Jesus! For a second I didn't recognize that she was as dead as the rest. Seeing plenty of zombies recruited from soldiers made it easy to forget the UAC civilians that had been on this base. But somehow I'd never dreamed there would be children here. The kid headed straight for me, mouth opening and closing but no sounds coming out. Then those soft, wet, cold hands were rubbing on my arm . . . and I couldn't stifle my reflexes. I put my arm around her to comfort her. All hell broke loose. Staring-boy opened his mouth, too; but instead of words, he belched an inarticulate roar. But he was so hemmed in by his fellows, he couldn't raise the pistol in his right hand. Impatient guy that I am, I acted: I tilted up my shotgun and squeezed the trigger. A dead-center blast helped a lot. I pumped the slide, then pounded home another shot to clear a path. Then I was running as fast and hard as I could to the left. In close quarters like this there was no opportunity to use the rifle. My best bet was to find elbow room where I could at least make a stand but that wouldn't put me in a cul de sac. The sounds pounding in my ears told me that they were following me, but I wasn't about to turn around and take a head count. I ducked into an open doorway, then turned like Custer at bay. Three of the creatures shambled past, not even noticing me--the fourth was not so obligingly stupid. It pushed through the doorway, and I raised the shotgun. Just before I turned that face into an explosion of red, something about it reminded me of my grandfather. I wish that hadn't happened. I was doing all right until then. The trouble was that every time I made careful calcula- tions about what I could do in terms of stamina, willpow- er, and even strategy, the old emotions got completely away from me. I'd thought I was a better Marine than this. Then again, they'd never trained us for a nonstop horror show. I needed a break. I needed to lie down for five minutes because my lower back was killing me and there was a muscle spasm in my right shoulder blade. A nice cold drink of water would have gone a long way toward cooling the fire in my brain. But seeing old Granddad's face on the umpteenth zombie was the latest straw breaking the latest camel's back. I couldn't shoot. I just couldn't! I grabbed it by its coveralls and shoved it backward with superhuman, adrenaline strength. It bowled over some of its buddies; then one in the back rank raised a lever-action rifle and tried to blow my fool head off. I slapped the deck face first, and the bullet scorched the air, blowing apart one of the zombies that had missed the turnoff a few seconds back, splattering the other two with what passes for zombie brains. The creatures went mad. That shot must have kicked their IFF off-line, because they opened up on their zombie brethren, who cheerfully returned fire. In sec- onds, every zombie was shooting wildly at anything that moved! I stayed very, very still, frozen on the ground, trying as hard as I could to look like a "dead" zombie. 9 When the ammo finally ran dry, the jerking bodies above me started tearing each other limb from limb, as if auditioning for modern ballet. I seized the opportunity to roll out from under the forest of legs; the rifle was strapped to my back, but in the chaos of the moment, I left the shotgun behind. I ran, and this time I wasn't followed. After thirty heart-pounding seconds, I was alone with me, myself, and I. And somewhere along the route, I had stooped and grabbed a pack, one of Fox Company's--but I had no memory of having done so! I was utterly lost. I silently cursed at being reduced to the Sig-Cow and wandered more or less aimlessly . . . terrified of shadows, where half an hour ago I stalked with confidence. With just a pistol and a semi-auto rifle, I avoided confrontation wherever I could. With no map, I wasn't sure what part of the plant I had reached; then I pushed through another of those trick doors--I would have missed it had I not been sliding along the walls like a mouse--and found the computer room. The lights were blinking on and off, just what I needed for a headache after everything else. When the light was on, it had a sickly blue-green color that didn't do my empty stomach any good. So far as I could tell, I was alone here, at least in this section. I wasn't happy about the way the corridor went up a little ways and disappeared around a bend. I decided then and there if I ever try to be an architect, all my buildings would borrow from my old high school gymnasium--a big, empty space where you can't possi- ble hide anything. May not be much in the way of privacy, but there are advantages all right. Placing my back firmly against a wall, I took inventory of the contents of my new pack. First thing that jumped out at me was ammo for the missing shotgun. I was going to have to replace that as soon as possible. Dude Dardier would have wanted it that way. I had some 10mm rounds for the Sig-Cow that also fit the pistol, a bit of water or other liquid, chewing gum . . . and a small, little metal object that appeared to be a shiny flashlight battery. I had no idea what the last was; the UAC logo was printed on the side, not the globe and eagle of the Corps emblem. First order of business was checking the liquid. I was worried it might be vodka or gin or rubbing alcohol or something other than what I wanted it most to be. But at long last I was in for a bit of good luck: it was water. While I took a first grateful sip, repressing the desire to finish it off with one gulp, I picked up the batterylike object with my other hand. Then I realized what it was. I'd heard about, but never seen, a rocket this small. Correction: I had seen one in a UAC weapons demo video when they were trying to sell it to the Pentagon. (We didn't buy it--I wish we had!) Yeah, these were special little babies, all right. But no one from Fox Company had been carrying any rocket launchers. This kind of ordnance was for desert fighting. Where had this rocket come from? I laughed out loud. Not smart in this situation, but it was becoming a bad habit. If evil demons could be lurking anywhere, and the walls and floors were meta- morphosing into Halloween decorations, why couldn't there be a state-of-the-art tac rocket in a forgotten backpack? Maybe I'd find a tomahawk next. At least I'd stopped laughing. The rational part of my brain was trying to figure out where I might find a rocket launcher. Made sense. I was trying real hard to listen to the little voice that made sense. Only trouble was that a much louder voice was roaring from somewhere lower in the brain. It wanted me to find the rocket launcher, too, but for a less defensible reason. I guess I'd been more upset by the roomful of zombies than I'd realized--or maybe I'd been this freaked-out all along, and was only now realizing it. My God, did I really want to find that missing launcher just so I could eat a rocket? Suicide isn't in my nature. I'm an extrovert type, more likely to frag someone, say a certain butthead lieutenant, than snuff Yours Truly. That's sort of a job requirement for the Marines. The battlefield doesn't cure depression. But the tac-sit here on Phobos was a lot worse than a battlefield. Having to go through the same crap over and over is just part of life. I know guys who have been married. But what had happened on Phobos was so far beyond normal repetition that it turned me totally cold and numb. If I could just find one living person! That thing had said . . . had implied that someone still lived. Jesus, if there's such a thing as the soul, then mine had been beaten black and blue. Maybe I wasn't being completely honest with myself. I could have killed myself with the rifle. There are other ways, too, God bless our training. Waiting for the launch- er could have been just a good excuse for postponing the inevitable. Maybe. Or maybe if I found the launcher, I really would put the tube in my mouth and, as they say, "fire and forget." Fortunately, I never had to make that decision. I found something else instead. I stood in a long, steel corridor that curved off to the right; the only light came from a bluish, fluorescent tube that curved along the left wall and a sporadic white overhead spot. I crept as near as possible to one of those white-light areas . . . somehow I felt better surrounded by more natural colors, even though it made me more of a target. Then I glanced to my left and saw it. I didn't trust my eyes at first. They hadn't been doing much to encourage trust lately. But if what I was seeing was real, then I wouldn't be fooling around with any more self-destructive fantasies. Directly in front of my nose, scrawled with the same red paint stick that had started drawing a map in the dumbwaiter, were two capital letters: A.S. An arrow was drawn by the same dye marker, pointing to the right at a downward angle. I stared at the mark, memory working furiously. Two years back I had gone to see the old James Mason movie, Journey to the Center of the Earth. I didn't know who Jules Verne was--but Arlene had insisted. She loved sci-fi of any type. We made a big event out of it. We had just come off a three-month stint in Peru, torching coca-leaf fields so they'd never be processed into cocaine, and we were ready for an old-movie orgy. We didn't usually eat junk, but for this special occasion, we gorged on the unhealthi- est popcorn we could buy, even including black market liquid grease-butter. I