as thinking of the lies they hear at home," said
Arlene, instantly regretting the reference. We didn't
want Jill constantly fixating on the slaughter of Mom
and Dad.
     But the more serious tone affected Jill positively.
She went back to the table and helped finish the
unwrapping. She didn't look south more than about
five or six times. Seven, tops. Being a professional, I
was trained to notice details like eye movements.
"What time is it?" Arlene asked, yawning again.
She definitely deserved some sack time.
     "Ask Fly," said Jill, "he's got the cl-cl-clock."
"Why didn't they have our conference down here,
where we could talk, instead of using the pads?" asked
Arlene,
     I shrugged. "Aliens might think it was weird if
'customers' come over and the cooks disappear down
into the basement with them."
     "Won't they think it just as strange if the customers
disappear alone?"
     "Well, let's hope not."
I turned to Jill. "Earlier, you said you might be able
to communicate with him on a computer, through
one of those jacks. What's the next step?"
     She went back to examining the body with the
proper detachment. "Can you do it?" I asked.
"Yes and no."
     "Care to explain?"
"Yes I can connect, if you get me the cables I need.
One has to have a male Free-L-19, the other a male
Free-L-20, both with a two-fiber mass-serial connec-
tor at the other end."
     I sure hoped somebody else knew what the hell that
meant. "Where do you think we can get all that?"
"Try upstairs; if they don't have any, try Radio
Shack or CompUSA."
     After writing down the kind of jacks required, I
took the list upstairs and showed it to the chem guys.
They didn't have what we needed, but the captain
produced an Auto Club map and pointed out the
nearest Radio Shack.
     Kind of reassuring that L.A. still had its priorities.
Back in the basement, I asked who wanted to go.
And the result was predictable: "I'll go," said Jill.
"Anyone but Jill," I said. "Maybe I should--"
"Why can't I go?"
     "I know there's not much to do in Riverside except
shop," I admitted, "even before the demons came.
But we've been through this already, Jill. We're still in
the you're-not-expendable period."
     "I'll go," said Albert.
"Fine," I said. "Now Arlene can get some sack--"
"I'll go with him, Fly," said Arlene.
     "But you were yawning only a moment before!"
"I'm not tired now," she said, real perky.
     I did what anyone in my position would do. I
shrugged. If Arlene had surrender papers for me, I
would have signed them on the spot.
     29
Lately, I thought I was overdoing quotations
from the Book. I'd never had so vivid a recollection
for the Word until the world changed. I'd found time
to read the scriptures once more in the new era, and
now the words stayed with me, perhaps because the
altered world made the tales of the Book seem more
vivid.
     The original Mormons were condemned not only
for taking multiple wives, a behavior that might have
been cause for sympathy instead of resentment. What
upset other Americans of the nineteenth century was
the claim that God would reveal a whole new history
to newly chosen saints. The concept of Latter Day
Saints was more offensive to the Christian majority of
that time than any personal behavior or economic
consequences.
     My favorite Bible passage was John 21:25, the end
of the Gospel According to Saint John, and it should
have been the perfect shield against such prejudice;
but most Christians pay little attention to the Word:
And there are also many other things which Jesus
did, the which, if they should be written every
one, I suppose that even the world itself could
not contain the books that should be written.
Amen.
     They liked those words just fine in theory; practice
was something else again. The portions where the
Book of Mormon disagrees with established Christian
practices didn't help either. People got really upset
when they were told they were not merely wrong, but
diabolically wrong, on the subject of baptism.
Hell. Arlene and I were about to go back into hell.
We were trying to save living babies from burning in
the hell on Earth. She was a good friend and comrade.
I liked her a lot and hoped I would not witness her
death. But since becoming bold about her sinful
interest in me, she was making me uncomfortable. I
would find her a lot easier to deal with if I weren't
tempted by her.
     Or if she would consent to. . . Jesus! Give me
strength! Am I really ready to contemplate holy union?
I grimaced; it was a very big step, a life commitment,
and I was too chicken to think about it yet. I didn't
feel much older than Jill!
     My soul was troubled because I did desire Arlene. A
verse from Nephi kept running through my mind, like
a public service announcement:
     O Lord, I have trusted in thee, and I will trust in
thee forever. I will not put my trust in the arm
of flesh; for I know that cursed is he that
     putteth his faith in the arm of flesh. Yea, cursed
is he that putteth his trust in man or maketh
flesh his arm.
     "A buck for your thoughts," Arlene said, standing
very close to me. We were taking our first rest stop in
an alley. Lately, I was coming to feel safer in alleys
than in open spaces.
     "I was remembering a passage from the Book."
"You want to share it with me?" she asked. I looked
deep into her bloodshot eyes, the prettiest sight in the
world, and there was no mockery or sarcasm. I wasn't
about to tell her how hard I was trying to resist
temptation and that right now I spelled sin beginning
with a scarlet letter A.
     But there was an earlier passage from the Second
Book of Nephi that spoke directly to any warrior's
heart. I quoted it instead:
     "O Lord, wilt thou make way for mine escape
before mine enemies! Wilt thou make my path
     straight before me! Wilt thou not place a stum-
bling block in my way--but that thou wouldst
clear my way before me, a hedge not up my
     way, but the ways of mine enemy."
"Good plan," said Arlene.
     "God's plan."
She touched my arm, and I felt relaxed instead of
tense. "Albert, what if I told you I'd be willing to
study your religion to see what it's about?"
I wasn't expecting that. "Why would you do that?"
I asked, probably too suspicious. In the Marines, I got
too used to being sucker-punched by antireligious
bigots.
     "I'm not promising to convert or anything," she
told me, "but I care about you, Albert. You believe in
these things, and I want to understand."
     "Cool," I said; but I was still suspicious of her
motives.
     She dropped the other shoe: "So if I'm willing to
study what you believe, would you be willing to relax
a little and we could get together?"
     I'd expected more subtlety from someone as intelli-
gent as Arlene, but then again, Marines were not
famous for an indirect approach. I had to close my
eyes before shaking my head. I couldn't make the
word no come out.
     "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable," said
Arlene.
     "You may mean the best," I told her, "but it doesn't
matter what we do or say. Unless we're married, we
can't make love."
     "You mean we can't even fool around?" she asked.
"I mean we can't have sex together unless we're
married."
     I could tell by her expression I was a more surpris-
ing phenomenon than the spidermind. "You're kid-
ding," she said. "Not even touching?"
     "Not sexual touching." I wished she'd let up!
She looked away from me, almost shyly. "I'm only
talking about a little fun."
     I tried a new tack. "How can you think of fun when
the world is dying?"
     "Seems like a good time to me," she said. "We
could use a break."
     "Arlene, any sex outside of marriage is fornication,
even just touching. That kind of touching. The sin is
in the thought."
     She mumbled something. I could have sworn she
asked, "How about inside marriage?" But she turned
away and pretended she hadn't spoken. I suppose
Arlene was as freaked about the thought as I was.
I didn't think I was making the best possible case
for my faith, but God isn't about winning a popularity
contest. He doesn't have to.
     "Albert, if you ever feel differently, I'll be there for
you." I could tell she'd run out of things to say. At this
moment, I probably seemed more alien than a steam-
demon or a bony.
     Fortunately, the rest break was over. I pointed to
my watch and Arlene nodded. We could return to the
far less dangerous territory of fighting monsters in
hell. At least I knew what to expect from them.
Nothing else stood between us and the Radio Shack
except the corpses of some dead dogs. We broke into
the abandoned store, kicking in the inadequately
padlocked door. We used our day-night goggles to
hunt through the darkness, not wanting to use a
betraying light. A number of large spiderwebs were
spun across a wall of boom boxes, proof that one
Earth life form might survive the invasion un-
changed. I was surprised that the store didn't seem to
have been looted . . . but then, what for?
     "We should be able to find the jacks for Jill," said
Arlene, who giggled right afterward. It took me a
moment to recognize what was funny.
     She was right, though. In the store's unlooted
condition, we found the jacks very quickly. She
pocketed them and headed for the front of the store,
but stopped at a counter. Something had caught her
eye; I couldn't see what.
     "I need to ask you a question," she said.
"Ask away."
     "Do you love someone?"
"That's a very personal question."
     "That's why I'm asking," she followed up. "Do
you?"
     She deserved an answer. "Yes, but she's dead."
"You never made love to her?"
     "She died before we married."
"Thank you for telling me," she said. "I'm not
trying to probe you, Albert. I've succeeded in reveal-
ing too much of myself. Now let's get back before I say
something else stupid."
     She went out the door, and I glanced at the counter
to see a demo music CD of Golden Oldies, led off by
Carly Simon singing "Nobody Does it Better." I'd
never heard the song but I could imagine the subject
matter. Jesus help us; was this a divine retribution? I
shuddered; I hadn't seen any rainbows since the
invasion.
     We didn't exchange another word on the way back.
Her expression was grim, hard. She was probably
angry with herself for opening up to me without
finding out first how I really felt. Nonreligious people
usually had this trouble with us. We really meant it.
No wonder we came off like nuts. How could I tell
Arlene that she was probably allergic to nuts?
30
     I let Jill take the next nap on the couch. For a
crazy moment I envied the mummy for sleeping so
long. Jill didn't seem all that rested when Arlene and
Albert returned, but any sleep had to be better than
none.
     Jill asked if there was any coffee, and it turned out
that the chems stored it in the basement. Hot-tap
coffee helped bring her around, and with dark circles
under her eyes and still yawning, she got to work on
the man who was no longer a mummy but still plenty
cyber.
     She attached the necessary wires, brought up her
ultramicro and started hacking. I still had my doubts
that this would actually work; but the more excited
Jill became, the more I was converted.
     Then she said the magic words, "Yes, yes, yes!" and
got up to pump her arm and strut like a guy. I doubt
that sex will ever give her that much excitement.
About a minute passed while she fiddled with the
TracPad, listening to handshaking routines on the
audio-out. She gave the first report: "I've made con-
tact with his brain at seventeen thirty-two. His name
is Kenneth Estes."
     "Does he know where he is?" I asked.
Jill hesitated, and then spelled it out: "He thinks
he's dead and in hell."
     "Can we talk to him?" I asked.
"Yup," said Jill. "I can type questions, and you can
read his answers. But you have to scan through the
random crap; it's a direct link to Ken's brain."
"All right, you interpret," I replied. "The first thing
is find out who he is and why he's important enough
for demon gift-wrapping."
     Arlene sat up on the couch where she'd almost
dozed off. This could well be too interesting to miss.
Albert sat in a chair, but he was wide-awake. Jill
tapped for a long moment at her tiny keyboard, using
all ten fingers, much to my surprise. I thought all
hackers were two-finger typists, it was a law or some-
thing. She read the first part of the man's story:
"As I said, his name's Ken Estes. He's a computer
software designer slumming as a CIA analyst. Low-
level stuff, not a field agent or anything. He was born
in--"
     "No time for the family background," I inter-
rupted. "Keep him focused on how and why he
     became a cybermummy."
Somewhere, water was dripping. I hadn't noticed it
before, but it was very annoying while waiting for Jill
to pass on the messages in silence. Finally, she spoke
again: "When the aliens landed and started the war,
Ken was told by his superiors that the agency had
developed a new computer which the operator
     accessed in V.R. mode."
"What's V.R.?" Albert asked.
     "Old term; this guy's in his thirties! Virtual Reality;
we call it burfing now, from 'body surfing,' I think."
"Oh, the net," said Albert.
     "We'll go back to school later," I jumped in. "Get
on with it, Jill!"
     "High-ranking officers within the agency induced
Ken to accept the implants 'for the good of the United
States.' Told him he'd be able to help fight the aliens.
Instead, it turned out they were traitors within the
Company--"
     Jill stopped for a moment, swallowing hard. She
took another sip of coffee before continuing. We were
back to her deep disgust for human traitors. She made
herself read on. She wouldn't be guilty of dereliction
of duty.
     The high-ranking officers had cooperated with the
aliens, joining a criminal conspiracy against the coun-
try they were sworn to defend--and incidentally,
against their own species. Ken "told" us more
through Jill: Company 'borged me, attached me to
alien net, one not part conspiracy waited too long, tried
to save killed conspiratora-tora-tora befora took him
out. . .
     "How did the aliens intend to use him?" I asked.
Jill asked, and the answer came: Hoped him conduit
betwalien biotechputer netputer and webwide human
d'bases crlsystems.
     "Jeez, it's like a sci-fi James Joyce," I said. "From
now on, you interpret, Jill. It gives me a headache!"
"We live in a science fiction world," said Arlene,
wandering over from the couch, wide-awake, as Ken's
tale unfolded. "Fly, I'd like to ask a question," she
said.
     "Be my guest."
"Jill, would you ask him how much of the alien
technology was biologically based?"
     Jill asked and passed on: "Ken says that all the alien
technology is biotech, except for stuff they stole from
subject races, like the rocket technology for the flying
skulls."
     "Yes!" exclaimed Arlene, as excited as Jill at a
moment of vindication. "We've been on the right
track all along, Fly. The original enemy went as far
with biological techniques as they possibly could.
Perhaps the first species they conquered lived on the
same planet, but had a mechanical technology they
were able to adapt to their own use. Eventually, they
conquered the Gate builders; we monkeyed with the
Gates, turned them on, and the invaders poured
through. That would explain why in any choice be-
tween organic and mechanical, they always opt for the
biological."
     "And it would also explain why our own technology
shows up in odd places," I agreed, "and why they use
firearms."
     "They're pragmatic," said Albert. "Their study of
us proves that, these demonic forms they take."
I tried to get the show back on the road: "Jill, can he
tell us how they communicate with one another?"
There was a long stretch before Jill helped us out
with our immediate communication needs. "He says
it hurts to think about this, but he will. He ...
realizes we're free. I've told him a little about us and
... he does want to help."
     "Tell him we appreciate anything he can do," I said.
Another moment passed and he answered the ques-
tion beyond my expectation: "There are neural path-
ways integrated into the computers. Psi-connections
carry all the orders. The aliens don't need to tell their
slaves what to do! They merely think the orders, but
it's different than merely thinking. No word. Project?
Psimulcast?"
     "Does Ken know where the commands originate?"
I asked.
     "He doesn't understand the question," Jill an-
swered quickly.
     "Uh, I'm not asking if he knows where the ultimate
leaders happen to be right now. But does he know
how the chain of command functions for the inva-
sion?"
     Jill's forehead showed some extra furrows as she
passed on my thoughts, probably doing some translat-
ing along the way. Finally, Ken passed on a detailed
report, filtered through Jill.
     "Question is meaningless; no hierarchy."
"Hive culture? Collective?"
     "Nope; they just. .. huh? Uh, they just all do the
same thing. The aliens themselves; the slaves--I
think that means everyone not part of 'the people'--
fight like crazy. That's why they're not 'the people.'"
"Can Ken issue commands?"
     "Fly, that's what he was made for! Receive alien
commands and convey them to human systems."
     "I mean, the other way 'round?"
She tapped, stared. "He doesn't understand the
question. It's like he's not allowed to think about it or
see the question. Some sort of protected-mode thing
firm-wired in. Wait, he's talking again . ..
"This 'invasion fleet' is actually an exploration
fleet. Highest-intel aliens are the entities inside the
spiderminds. Send out fleets, probe, when feasible
conquer alien worlds, no reason other than raw pow-
er. Well, Ken can't understand the reason, if there is
one.
     "Slave masters with an expanding empire, but more
interested in finding new genetic material to absorb
into their web-of-life--which is how they think of
it--than they are in having new individual slaves . . .
especially short-lived, contentious slaves."
Jill stopped talking and took off the headphones,
rubbing a hand across her forehead. "Are you all
right?" asked Arlene.
     "Little headache. I'll be all right," she said.
"You need to stop?" I asked.
     "No. Hey, I just had a brainstorm! If we could get
Ken jacked into one of the alien terminals and
override the safeties, we could sabotage their net!"
"Brilliant idea," I said. "Why didn't I think of
that?" I winked. "Maybe we could sabotage their
entire technology base."
     "There's a problem. When he's connected to the
net, there are built-ins that override his human voli-
tion. The monitor can't take over the CPU."
     "It can if it has its own chip set and special
programming," muttered Arlene.
     "The program that shuts off his brain must have a
'front end' somewhere in his brain," Jill said--to
herself, I presumed. "If I can find it, I can disable it,
or I'm not Jill Hoerchner."
     "Are you?" asked my pal.
Jill glanced over at her and added, "I'd need a quiet
place where I can be undisturbed for several days.
Days, not hours."
     There were several hundred questions I wanted to
ask Ken; but we heard a loud noise from upstairs. It
didn't sound like more of the headbanger music. It
sounded like heavy feet thumping around upstairs.
Maybe it was aliens coming to pick up their supply of
zombie brew.
     I was pissed that the chems hadn't warned us when
these "guests" would pay them a visit; then I realized
that the aliens wouldn't stick to any kind of set
program. All the more reason for the captain and the
doctor to maintain their act.
     Very quietly, Arlene flicked off the one light in the
basement ceiling. We sat in the dark. We heard raised
voices; the chems were denying that they'd seen a
human "strike team" or a human wrapped in ban-
dages.
     I heard the telltale hiss of imp talk; I held my breath
. . . there were a lot of feet tramping around up there.
A new kind of voice spoke next, a grating, metallic
monotone. It sounded like a robot from an old sci-fi
movie, or something speaking through a vocoder.
Once this voice entered the conversation, our hu-
man allies sounded frantic. I had a bad feeling about
this. Good agents would put on a believable act. Good
agents would stick to the part, right to the point of
death. But were they?
     The next sound we heard was all too familiar: a
powerful explosion shook the house, followed by the
smell of fire from above. Before we could even think
about acting, there was another explosion, and now
smoke began to drift down the wooden steps to our
hiding place.
     We listened to the alien storm troopers start tearing
the place apart. They'd convinced me of their sinceri-
ty in trying to find us. I huddled the others and said:
"The bastards will find the basement. Our only hope
is if the cooks dug an escape tunnel, one that exits
from here."
     Keeping the light off didn't make it any easier, but I
hadn't noticed a tunnel when we could see. If my pipe
dream produced a real pipe, the opening would be
hidden anyway. We rummaged through spare equip-
ment, desperately trying not to make noise. The stuff
was mainly metal, so the process wasn't easy.
The chems had stored their chemical stuff in the
basement. Tanks of volatiles, glassware, a fire extin-
guisher, jars and jars of chemicals (and I was grateful
the glass was thick). There were plenty of shelves and
books. And nowhere behind any of this did we find a
secret opening.
     We hunted the walls, shaking bookcases that might
be doors, checking fireplaces for hidden holes, any-
thing at all! I was about to give up when my hands
came to rest on a bookcase that seemed bolted down,
unlike the others.
     I started tugging on various books to see if one of
them was a trigger mechanism. Two things happened
simultaneously. First, I found a book that wouldn't
move. Never had I been happier to find something
stuck.
     Second, with a triumphant howling, the imps found
the trapdoor and flung it wide, letting light pour into
the basement.
     We froze; I was a statue holding up the bookshelf;
Albert stood nearby, holding the naked Ken in a
fireman's carry; Jill was part of that tableau, holding
her CompMac ultramicro, still jacked into Ken; and
Arlene was on the other side of the basement room, in
the gloom. Of the five of us, Ken did the best job of
playing dead, but he had an unfair advantage.
A thing dropped down the open trap.
     This baby looked vaguely humanoid--oh, they
were keeping at it--but definitely alien. The yellow-
white, naked body maintained the hell motif so
popular with the invaders. No obvious genitalia. The
arms and legs were unusually small and thin. The
most outstanding feature was the way the skin rippled
like bubbling marshmallows over an open fire. I
wondered if this might be one of their enslaved races.
As it came closer, it dawned on me why the spindly
limbs were irrelevant to its effectiveness in battle. The
new monster was hot. I mean, fires-of-hell-make-
your-eyeballs-pop hot. No wonder the skin rippled
from the amazing heat. He was like a mirage in the
desert made into burning sulfur-flesh, the most "hell-
ish" creature yet.
     There were books on the shelf right next to it. They
burst into flame from his proximity, lighting the
room, and the wood of the shelf charred right before
our eyes. Maybe it was an optical illusion, but it
appeared that actual flames danced along the thing's
skin. The little voice in the back of my head started
shrieking: Saved the best for last! The trouble with the
little voice was that it was so damned optimistic.
As the living torch moved closer, I saw its eyes
weren't really eyes--more like a ring of flaming dots
so bright that it hurt to look at them. I wondered how
we might appear to this creature; I also wished I had a
barrel of ice water to throw on the uninvited guest.
The others were as confused as their fearless leader.
Arlene was able to fire off a short burst from her AB-
10. The thing didn't even react, but Arlene's machine
pistol became so hot she had to drop it. Then the fire-
thing moved between the others and Yours Truly,
focusing on me.
     Having cut me off, the monster put on a little magic
act. It was so bright, I couldn't turn away, no matter
how painful. . . and I watched its body actually con-
tract, becoming brighter as it squeezed together--like
it was about to explode.
     Training took over, the healthy respect we were
taught for all kinds of explosives. I had no desire to
become Marine flambe.
     I dove to the side, screaming inarticulately; every-
one got the idea, falling flat, trying to cover himself.
Fireboy exploded, a blast lancing out and disintegrat-
ing the bookshelf where I had stood a moment before.
Albert threw himself over Ken's body, then left Ken
on the floor and grabbed his Uzi clone. We had all the
light we could use.
     The big Mormon opened fire. The big gun actually
sounded soft compared to the horrific explosion from
the alien, but the result was the same as with Arlene.
Did the thing generate a heat field around its immedi-
ate body surface, heat so intense that bullets dissolved
before getting through?
     One good plan was growing in my head: run away!
This was a much better plan than it sounded. Rising
shakily to my feet, I could see quite clearly the tunnel
we'd been trying to find. The shelf I'd been exploring
had indeed covered the exit, and the explosion had
done a superb job of open sesame. I considered how to
rescue the others, or at least Jill and Ken. The mission
wasn't a burnout case yet.
     For some reason, the fire monster seemed to have a
thing for me; it targeted me again. I recognized the
telltale signs. Looking right at me (if those black dots
counted for eyes), it began to contract, powering up
for another burst.
     Before I ended my career as a piece of toast, Arlene
came to the rescue. She got right behind the monster
and opened fire from behind. Having learned her
lesson about wasting bullets on this guy, she used the
fire extinguisher.
     Never discourage initiative, that's my motto!
She sprayed the thing, snarling, "Goddamned fire-
eater!" It was the best name she'd invented in quite a
while.
     The monster screamed. The fire extinguisher was
actually extinguishing the fire! This suggested a whole
new approach to dealing with the monsters: properly
labeled household appliances could restore Heaven
on Earth.
     Arlene kept pouring the foam on the fire-eater, who
was making a sound somewhere between a screeching
cat and sizzling bacon. If the Marine Corps were
around after we'd saved the world, I'd recommend a
special medal for Arlene as master of unconventional
weaponry: first the chainsaw, now the safety equip-
ment.
     I have the highest possible regard for women who
save my life.
     "Move out!" I bellowed to one and all, issuing one
of my favorite orders. Everyone liked the idea just
fine. Except for one imp, that is, without the brains to
avoid tough Marines who had just stopped a monster
compared to which an imp isn't fit to light cigars.
Imps aren't generally all that bright, of course, so I
don't know why I was surprised. The ugly little sucker
dropped through the hole and threw a flaming wad of
snot that I refused to take seriously. On the other
hand, one of those wads cashed the chips of Bill
Ritch. The thought made me doubly mad, so ...
I returned fire with my double-barreled, thinking
how I actually preferred an honest, all-American duck
gun like this one to the fascist, pump-action variety.
Yeah! The imp split down the middle, the guts making
a Rorschach test. Better than a riot gun, no question
about it.
     We hauled ass down the tunnel as I ran our list of
liabilities. There was only one, actually, but it was big.
If we'd gotten the shelf open and closed behind us,
we'd have a decent chance right now. However, all the
monsters in the world knew where we'd gone, and the
hordes would be hot on our heels.
     Reinforcing this idea was the hissing, growling,
slithering, wheezing, roaring, shlumping, and thud-
thud-thudding a few hundred meters behind us.
There was nothing to do but run like thieves in the
night.
     Arlene brought the fire extinguisher with her; God
knows why, unless we ran into another of our brand-
new playmates. Albert and Jill were strapped, so their
hands were free to carry Ken. Poor Ken. The way he
was getting knocked around, bruised, and cut, he
would have been doing a lot better if the bandages had
been left on. If we got out of this, I promised to buy
him a whole new body bandage.
     The tunnel, winding snakelike, was terribly narrow,
lined with raw earth and occasionally propped with
wooden braces. The little voice in the back of my
head insisted we were perfectly all right, so long as the
passage wasn't blocked. This was the same voice that
always told me to leave the umbrella home right
before the heaviest rainfall of the year.
     Now, it's not like we hit a real cave-in. If we had,
we'd simply have died right there. But a partial cave-
in we could deal with.
     Albert threw his massive frame at the wall of dirt,
and it shifted. We were slowed down by Jill and
Arlene pushing Ken through, while Albert yanked
from the other side. I guarded the rear with the
shotgun loaded, ready for bear. No bears.
     A few feet ahead, we hit the outside of a huge pipe
and found a hole buzz-cut right through it. We opened
it, and I wished I'd left my olfactory senses back on
Mars.
     "Ew!" said Jill, another unsolicited but insightful
commentary.
     Sewer main. We were assailed by the odor of
methane.
     "Dive in, the offal's fine!" said Arlene cheerfully.
The sound of our pursuers only fifty meters back
made the idea a lot more appealing. We could hear
their raspy breathing.
     We ducked into the sewers, very careful that Ken
shouldn't accidentally drown. We'd come this far
together, and he was starting to feel like a member of
the family.
     As we ran we heard the last sound anyone wants to
hear underground: the roar and whoosh of a rocket. I
crashed into the others, making Albert drop Ken.
Something heavy, smelling of burnt copper, whizzed
over our heads; a nasty little rocket that just started to
curve, heat-seeking, but couldn't quite make the turn.
It blew a hole in the pipe instead.
     And I'd thought the tunnel smelled bad before!
I shook the dust out of my eyes and coughed, then
lifted Jill from the ground. Tears were pouring down
her face, but she wasn't crying; my eyes were watering
too. Albert jerked Arlene to her feet, and they both
checked on Ken, who was lying facedown with a pile
of dirt on his head.
     Jill opened his mouth, shoveled the dirt out, and
made sure he hadn't swallowed his tongue. He
coughed, and Jill got to her feet, handing Ken off like
a sack of wheat. I loved watching a fourteen-year-old
do what was considered criminal in the previous
world: act like an adult.
     "Over here," yelled Albert, pointing to a small
hatch leading to a cramped corridor. The monsters
were big; they'd have a hard time following.
Albert went first, probably not a good idea. I
preferred Jill and Arlene in front. If we were am-
bushed from behind, the girls might still get through,
and Albert and I could hold off the Bad Guys; the
mission would go on.
     But it was too late to do anything about it now. At
least we knew that anywhere Albert went, the rest of
us could easily follow. I brought up the rear, hanging
back to delay, if necessary.
     The corridor walls were lined with pipes. When I
caught up with the others, they were trying to open a
pressure hatch at the far end. I brought bad luck with
me--the sound of another rocket.
     Albert and I dived left, Arlene and Jill right, taking
Ken with them. Our actions confused the heat-seeker:
it turned partially starboard, exploding and rupturing
several pipes. Again we had the fun of choking and
gagging on a huge burst of methane.
     Albert grunted as he turned the difficult pressure
hatch; we heard the gratifying sound of metal grinding
against metal. He didn't open the portal a moment
too soon.
     Looking back, I saw imps, zombies, and one bony.
That answered the question of who'd been firing
rockets. Bringing up their rear was either another fire-
eater or the one Arlene had sprayed with the foam. If
the latter, he'd be looking for payback.
     Arlene stepped up, fire extinguisher pointed, ready
for round two. I suddenly remembered something
from my raucous high school daze. "No!" I shouted.
"Get back! Get through the hatch right now!"
She got.
     Coming out last, I slammed the hatch shut and
spun the wheel. "That's not going to last," said
Albert.
     "Won't need to," I said, backing away. "Everybody,
get way back!"
     Albert's face was a mask of puzzlement; then it
dawned on him what was about to happen.
     "Hope you all really like barbecue," I addressed the
troops. "Hey, Arlene. Remember when they built the
L.A. subway?"
     "Yeah . . ." she said, scowling, still confused.
The mother of all gas explosions rocked us off our
feet, blowing the hatch clean off its hinges; the flying
metal could have killed any of us in the path.
I staggered to my feet. It didn't take a lot of nerve to
go over and check on the results; just a strong stom-
ach. Nothing survived that explosion, not even the
fire-eater.
     As I peered into the maw of hell, I saw nothing left
of the alien pursuers except shreds of flesh and a fine
mist of alien blood. And of course the lingering odor
of sour lemons.
     "What happened?" asked Jill, stunned. At least, I
assume that's what she asked; all I could hear was a
long, loud alarm bell.
     I'd counted on the fire-eater; thankfully, it was hot
enough to set off the methane.
     Jill was completely recovered from being stunned.
She jumped up and down and shouted something,
probably some contemporary equivalent of yowza.
We old folk were still a little shell-shocked as we
continued along the sewer. After several twists and
turns, it dawned on us we were lost.
     Arlene had a compass, and now was the time to use
it. "We've got a problem," she said; I was just starting
to be able to hear again. "It shows a different direc-
tion every time."
     "Electric current in the pipe switches," I said.
"Take averages, figure out a rough west."
     No matter where we were and what was happening,
the watchwords must be "Go west, go west." We'd
find the computer in L.A., so the President had told
us; hope he knew what he was talking about. There,
we guaranteed a reckoning the enemy would long
remember.
     31
We continued westward until we finally
     emerged several klicks from where we'd entered.
Night was falling again. We'd had a busy day.
"Transportation," Albert pointed out. We beheld
an old Lincoln Continental, covered in some kind of
crud halfway between rust and slime, making it
impossible to determine its original color. It probably
had an automatic transmission; the mere thought
made me shudder.
     Albert went over and opened the unlocked door.
There was no key. "I'll bet it still runs," he said, lying
down on the seat so he could look up at the steering
column. He did violence to the crappy housing and
started fiddling with the wires. A moment later the
engine coughed into life.
     "You hot-wired the car," said Jill, impressed.
"Sure," he said.
     "I'm surprised you'd know how to do that," she
said.
     "Why?" he asked, getting out of the dinosaur.
"Was that part of sniper training?" Jill wanted to
know.
     "Part of my troubled youth."
"I wish more Mormons were like you," she told
him.
     "The Church was good for me, Jill," he told her. "It
turned my life around."
     "Which way were you facing?" she asked jokingly.
"Toward hell," he said.
     "You're still facing that way," observed Arlene,
"every time you take a step."
     "Yes," he agreed, "but now I'm able to fight it. I'd
rather blast a demon than give him my soul."
We'd had this conversation before. I preferred
opting out this time. Arlene didn't mind a dose of
deja vu, apparently, but then, she was sweet on the
guy. "They're aliens," she said.
     "Sure," he agreed. "But for me, they're demons
too."
     One man's image of terror is another man's joy
ride. Speaking of which, the old Lincoln was enough
of a monster for me. I was half sorry it still ran. A
quick look at the gas gauge told the story: half a tank,
plenty to make it to Los Angeles.
     One thing about an old family car: there was plenty
of room for our family, including Ken propped up
between Jill and Arlene in the backseat. I was happy
to let Albert drive. I rode shotgun.
     Albert flipped on the lights in the twilight and
triumphantly announced, "They work!"
     "Great," I said. "Now turn them off."
"Oh, right," he said like a little boy caught playing
with the wrong toy. We drove along without lights,
heading toward the diminished glow of Ellay.
"Do you have a new plan?" Arlene asked.
     Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw that Jill was
sleeping. "Of course," I said. "Always. I think we
should hijack a plane, elude any pursuit--"
     "Yeah," Albert interrupted. "I wonder if they have
any aircraft? I haven't seen any."
     "Maybe they're using zombie pilots," Arlene com-
mented hopefully. Zombie pilots would not have fast
reflexes.
     "So, as I was saying," I continued, "we take our
plane and hot-tail it to Hawaii. There we find the War
Technology Center and take them Ken. With help
from Jill, we plug Ken into the bionet and crash the
whole, friggin' alien system."
     "Good plan," said Albert.
"Ditto," said Arlene.
     It was good to be appreciated. With a proper
respect for Yours Truly, I might yet help Arlene to find
God. I was certain that Albert wouldn't mind that.
"Wonder if there'll be monsters at the city limits,"
said Albert at length.
     "Don't see why they'd have that much organiza-
tion," I answered, "after what we've seen. What do
you think, Arlene?" I asked, glancing into the rear-
view mirror again. She'd joined Jill in the Land of
Nod. Given the condition of Ken Estes, the backseat
had become the sleeping compartment of this particu-
lar train.
     "The girls are taking forty," commented Albert
with a touch of envy.
     "How are you holding up?" I asked.
"Driving in the dark without lights keeps the old
adrenaline flowing."
     "I know what you mean. But if you can use some
relief, I'll spell you."
     He risked taking his eyes off the black spread of
road long enough to glance over. "You're all right,
Fly. I see why Arlene respects you so much."
"She's told you that?"
     "Not in so many words. But it's an easy tell."
We both tried to discern something of the road. The
horizon was bright, in contrast to the darkness right
in front of us. It was that time of day. I rubbed my
eyes, suddenly starting to lose it.
     "Why don't you take a nap?" he suggested.
"No. Should at least be two of us awake, and I want
to make sure you're one of them."
     "Right."
Exhausted but too wired to sleep, we made it into
Los Angeles at night. We didn't run into any monster
patrols on the way. Maybe they were saving up some
real doozies for us at the Beverly Center.
     At the outskirts of the city, zombie guards shuffled
back and forth in a caricature of military discipline.
Even a zombie would have noticed our approach if
we'd had the headlights on. Score one for basic
procedure.
     Albert took a side road, but we ran into the same
problem. "How long do I keep this up?" he asked.
"All night, I'd say, if I hadn't prepared for this."
"How?"
     "I didn't throw out the lemons we didn't get around
to using before. I wrapped them in plastic wrap from
the MREs. We still have them with us."
     "To borrow from Jill, ick!" he said. "Who's been
carting around that rotting crap?"
     "You, Bubba!"
"Just for that, Fly, you get to wake the girls." The
man knew a thing or two about revenge.
     We parked and I woke up Jill first. Then I let Jill
risk tapping Arlene on the shoulder. Some tough
Marines you wake with kid gloves--or better yet,
with a kid. Arlene came to with a start, but she was
good. Very good.
     The night air felt pleasantly cool. As we spoiled it
with spoiled citrus, Jill asked, "What about Ken?"
"Lime and lemon him too," said Arlene. "We've all
got to be the same to the zombie noses."
     "So, walk or ride?" asked Albert.
"Don't see any reason to give up these wheels
before we have to," I said, amazing myself, consider-
ing how I regarded the old Lincoln. "With the win-
dows down, we ought to pass."
     "I look dead enough to keep driving," said Albert.
We all piled back in, thought rancid, graveyard
thoughts, and rolled.
     As we approached the first zombie checkpoint, I
started worrying. There hadn't been any other cars
around. But we'd seen a fleet of trucks with zombie
drivers back i