Doom. Infernal sky After the crash course in Freds 101, the remainder. Prologue "Why are there monsters?" An exhausted woman looked at her little boy, who had asked the question that was burning in her own mind. His voice didn't tremble. She reached over to wipe his face. They were not wearing camo right now, and the smudges of dirt were only dirt. It wasn't right for a ten-year-old to be a seasoned veteran of war, she thought, but all of the human survivors on Earth understood what it meant to fight for their lives against alien invaders. A long time ago, when she was ten, her only question was "Are there real monsters?" What a wonderful world that had been, a sane world where nightmares stayed where they belonged, lodged in the gray matter between the ears. Only in dreams would you encounter giant floating heads that spit ball lightning; angry crimson minotaurs; shambling hu- man zombies fresh from their own death; flying metal skulls with razor teeth dripping blood; ghosts colder than the grave; fifteen-foot-tall demons with heavy artillery in place of hands; obscenely fat shapes, only vaguely humanoid, that could crush the life from the strongest man in a matter of seconds; and, finally, there was the special horror of the mechanical spider bodies with things inside them that were far worse than any arachnid. There was no way to answer David, no explanation for why dream shapes crawled across the land that once was a country called the United States on a planet called Earth. She thanked God that her son was still alive. After her husband died, there were only three of them. Three. The number made her cry. They weren't three for long. She'd never had time to grieve over the man she loved. The monsters didn't give her any time at all. Her daughter, Lisa, had been thirteen. At least her husband had died bravely, ripped apart by the steel legs of a spider-thing. For a brief moment the woman had caught a glimpse of the evil face peering out from the dome mounted on top of the mechanical body. She couldn't stop herself crying out! Her husband couldn't hear her. But the spider- thing heard everything. She still blamed herself for that momentary loss of control. Her daughter might have been alive today if Mom hadn't freaked out and drawn the attention of the mechanical horror at that instant. The sounds of the monster were the worst part as it headed toward the remaining members of the family. The heavy pounding would stay in the woman's head forever, along with the screaming of her terrified daughter-- right before the girl's head was torn off. A human head makes a sound like nothing else when it's played with and crushed. She thanked God David hadn't seen what hap- pened to his sister. But lately she found herself wondering if she should ever give thanks for anything again. Although she'd always been religious, she was forgetting how to pray. She told herself it was like the Book of Job: everyone was being tested as everything was taken away. But the Book of Job didn't have spider-things in it. "I don't know why there are monsters," she said, finally responding to her son's question. "These crea- tures come from outer space. We've learned some important things about them." "What?" he asked. She looked out the window of the basement where they'd been hiding for the past week. It was a clear night, and she could see the stars. She used to feel peaceful when she looked at the night sky; now she hated those eternal spots of fire. "We've learned they can die," she said quietly. "They are not what they appear to be. They're not real demons." "Demons? Like the minister used to tell us about?" She smiled and ran her fingers through what was left of her son's hair. "They can't take you to hell," she said. "They can't do anything to your soul. Real demons don't need guns or rockets. And, as I said, real demons don't die." David looked out the window for a while and then said, "But they are monsters." "Yes," she agreed. "We have to believe in them now. But I want you to promise me something." "What, Mom?" She pulled him close and tried not to notice his missing arm. "There's something more important than believing in monsters, David. Our minister thought we were in End Times. He didn't even try to fight the spider-things, except with his cross and his Bible. But they can be fought with weapons. The human race will prevail! If we have faith in ourselves. I want you to promise that you'll always believe in heroes." "Heroes will save us," he echoed her. The two of them stood together for a long time, looking out the window at the blind white stars. 1 "So how did you guys escape from that death trap?" asked Master Gunnery Sergeant Mul- ligan. "With one mighty leap, sir ..." I began, but he didn't like my tone of voice. "Oh, don't give me that, Corporal Taggart," he said. "You guys are holding out on me. You can't tell me you were trapped near the top of a forty-story building in downtown L.A. with all those freakin' demons after you, and then just leave it there." When he said "you guys," he meant we didn't have to call him sir. Not here, not now. "That's exactly it," I said with a big grin. "We left!" "We probably ought to tell him," said Arlene sleep- ily. She stretched like a cat in her beach chair, her breasts seeming to point at the horizon. She'd left her bikini top back at the hotel. The view was spectacular from every angle. For the last few days we'd been pretending that life had returned to normal. Hawaii was still a stronghold of humanity. On a good day the sky was normal. Blue, blue everywhere, and not a single streak of bilious alien green. The wonderful sun was exactly what it ought to be--yellow, round, and not covered with a new rash of sunspots. At least not today. We'd slapped on plenty of suntan lotion, and we were soaking up the rays. We weren't going to waste a good day like this. The radar worked. The sonar worked. The brand-new really good detection equipment worked, too. Every detection device known to man was in use for sea and sky. We almost felt safe. So the three of us decided to play. The master gun was a great guy. Off duty, he liked to be called George. He didn't mind being teased, either. Hawaii Base employed the services of a number of scientists and doctors. I'll never forget Arlene's reac- tion when they said that Albert was going to be all right, despite his having taken a face full of acidic imp puke. Best of all, he wasn't going to be blind. Once Arlene heard that, she allowed herself to genuinely relax. I was damned glad that our Mormon buddy had pulled through. He'd proved to be one hell of a marine all the way from Salt Lake City to the monster rally in L.A. What was more, he'd proved to be a true friend. The docs said they could bring Ken back all the way. Not that Ken had been exactly dead; but he might as well have been when the alternative was to exist as a cybermummy, serving the alien warlords who had turned Earth into a charnel house. He'd already helped us against the enemy by communicat- ing to us through the computer setup our teenage whiz kid, Jill, had thrown together in record time. Arlene and I had used every kind of heavy artillery against the demonic invaders, first on Phobos, then on Deimos, and finally on good old terra firma. Jill had taught us that a good hacker was invaluable in a war against monsters. That's why we were so happy when we landed at Oahu and found not only a fully operational military establishment but also a prime collection of scientists. Arlene and I were warriors. Our task was to buy the human race that most precious of all commodities: time. Victory would require a lot more than muscle and guts; it would require all the brainpower left on the old mud ball. We needed to learn everything about these creatures that had brought doom to the human race. And then we would pay them back ... big time. Yeah, Arlene and I felt good about the men and women in white coats. For one thing, they said it was okay to swim. It had been such a long time since I'd plunged my body into something as reasonable as cool salt water that I hardly cared about their reports. If it didn't look like a pool of green or red sludge, that was all I needed to know. The Pacific Ocean looked fine to yours truly, especially today as we enjoyed fresh salt breezes that would never carry a whiff of sour-lemon zombie stench. Jill had decided to spend the day working instead of joining us. One of the best research scientists had taken her under his wing. Albert had gone to town. Of course, the "town" was every bit as much a high- security military zone as the "hotel." (I'd never had better barracks.) After what we'd all been through, this place was heaven on earth. The other islands were also secure, but they were not set up for the easy life we enjoyed here. As I took a sip of my Jack Daniel's, I reflected on the miracle that I felt secure enough to risk taking a drink. For the past month of nonstop hell, first in space and then on Earth, I wouldn't have risked dulling my senses for a second, or saturating my bodily tissues with anything but stimulants. Earth could still count on Corporal Flynn Taggart, Fox Company, Fifteenth Light Drop Infantry Regiment, United States Marine Corps, 888-23-9912. I was in for the duration. Glancing over at Arlene, I was pleased to see that she was healing nicely. Even though we treated each other as best buddies instead of potential lovers, I wasn't blind. Even the flaming balls of demon mucus hadn't burned out my capacity to see that PFC Arlene Sanders had the perfect female body, at least by my standards: slender but with well-cut muscles and with everything in ideal proportion. Sometimes Arlene did her mind-reading act. Now she glanced in my direction and gave me the once- over. I guess similar thoughts were going through her mind. More than our bodies were healing. Our souls had taken a beating. When we first arrived on the island, and Arlene could finally accept that we had found a pocket of safety, she had tried to sleep; but she was so stressed out that only drugs could take her under. Even then she'd wake up every half hour, just as exhausted as before. I wasn't doing too well when we first arrived, either. But I was too worried about her to pay attention to my own aches and pains. She said she'd never felt so empty. She couldn't stop worrying about Albert. So I told her all the things she'd said to me when I was down. About how it was our turn to man the barri- cades and we had to keep going, past every obstacle of terror and fatigue and despair. Then I shook her hard and told her to come out of it because we were on vacation in Hawaii, dammit! Master Gun Mulligan was an invaluable help throughout this period of adjustment. He was an old friend none of us had ever met before. You meet that kind in the service when you're lucky. It makes up for all the Lieutenant Weems types. Of course, you should only tease a friend so far. The master gun had every right to know how we'd pulled off our "impossible" escape from the old Disney Tower. He just had the bad luck to be caught between Arlene Sanders and Fly Taggart in a game of who- gives-in-first. "All right," said Mulligan, half to himself, slipping a little as he climbed out of his beach chair. He was a big man, and he was right at the weight limit. He didn't really have to worry about it, though. No one would worry about the minutiae of military rules for a good long time. If you could fight and follow orders, the survivors of civilization as we know it would sure as hell find you a task in this human's army. Mulligan planted his feet firmly, put his hands on his sizable hips, and gave us his personal ultimatum. "Here's the deal," he said. "I'm going back to the 'hotel' to bring us a six-pack of ice-cold beer. When I return, I have every intention of sharing the wealth. That's what will happen if you make me happy. But if you want to see a really unhappy marine, then don't tell me how the two of you escaped from a forty-story building with a mob of devils after your blood when the two of you are in a sealed room, the only exit to which is one window offering you a sheer drop to certain doom." "You've expressed yourself with admirable clarity," said Arlene. She loved showing off that college educa- tion. Didn't matter to me if she ever graduated. She'd picked up plenty of annoying traits for me to forgive. "Yeah, right!" he said. "We'll take your suggestion under advisement." Arlene laid it on thicker. "Bullshit!" said Mulligan, turning his back on us and storming off down the beach. "One, two, three, four," I said. "We love the Marine Corps," he boomed back at us, still headed toward his--and maybe our--beer. "I think we'd better tell him," I said. "He wants to know who the big hero is," she replied. "So he can get an autograph." I noted that she didn't say "his" or "her." "You're on," I replied. God, it was fine to sit in the sun, soaking up rays and alcohol, watching the gentle waves rolling in to the shore, seeing an actual seagull once in a while . . . and giving a hard time to a really nice man who was a newfound friend. Our moment of pure relaxation was interrupted, but not by anything satanic. It was an honor when the highest-ranking officer in Hawaii--and maybe in the human race, for all we knew--strolled over to talk to us while he was off duty. He wasn't our commanding officer, so that made us slightly more at ease when he insisted on it. The way Arlene blushed suggested she would have worn the top to her bikini if she'd expected a visit from the CO of New Pearl Harbor Naval Base, Vice Admiral Kimmel. "What are you two up to?" asked Admiral Kimmel. We hadn't noticed him walking down the beach. He'd come from the direction where the sun was in our eyes. "Sir!" came out of our mouths simultaneously and we started to get up. "As you were, marines." Then he smiled and re- peated his pleasantry as if he expected an answer. "We were unprepared for your surprise attack," Arlene said to the commanding officer and got away with it. He laughed. The admiral continued standing. Sometimes rank avoids its privileges. He took off his white straw hat and used it to fan himself in the sweltering heat. His thin legs were untouched by the least hint of tan, but there was plenty of color, courtesy of his Bermuda shorts and the tackiest Hawaiian shirt of all time. When he was off duty, he wore this uniform to announce his leisure. "I'm glad someone of your generation knows the history of her country," the admiral said, compli- menting Arlene. "It's a strange coincidence that I have the same name as the admiral who was here when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. How much of our history will be destroyed in this Demon War, even if the human race survives? Guard what is in your head. The history books of the future may be written by you." Arlene sighed. "When we go back into action I don't think we'll be doing much writing, except for reports." "Signing off with famous last words," I threw in helpfully. It suddenly occurred to me that I might know something about the admiral that would be news to Arlene, who was the acknowledged expert on science-fiction movies and novels. It would be nice to stump her right here and now on something impor- tant. Before I could get a word out, though, Arlene smiled and said, "Fly, are you familiar with Admiral Kimmel's book? He's a Pearl Harbor revisionist." Damn! She had done it to me again, making exactly the point I was about to make. With this final proof of Arlene's telepathic ability, I decided in all future combat situations to let her go over the hill first. Especially if there happened to be a steam demon on the other side. Admiral Kimmel chuckled. "If I hadn't been friends with the late president of the United States, I would never have written that book," he told us, remembering pre-invasion days. The president had died when Washington was captured by the bad guys. "He was the one who changed my mind about Pearl Harbor," the admiral continued, "not my Japanese wife, as many believe. I believe the evidence proves that top officials in Washington withheld important information from the commanding officers at Pearl Harbor before the Japanese attack in December of 1941. Well, we don't have to worry about that sort of nonsense in this war." I nodded, adding, "There's no Washington." As we talked, I noticed that Arlene became more relaxed. We discussed our military backgrounds in the days before the monsters came. I was glad we had a man in charge of the island who had been a division officer on a battleship, and a captain seeing action in the Gulf before that. He'd been doing a shore tour as a commander when the world capsized. "There's a pleasant sight," he said, pointing at the sea. There was a cloud on the horizon. A small white cloud. He started to leave and then turned back, his face suddenly as stern as a bust of Julius Caesar. His mouth was his strongest feature as he said, "They won't beat us. It's as if these islands have been given a second chance. There will never be a surprise attack here, not ever again. Let them come, in their thou- sands or their millions. We're going to teach them that we are worse monsters than they are. This is our world, and we're not giving it up. And it won't stop there. We'll take the battle to them, somewhere, somehow. . . ." He wanted to keep talking, but he'd run out of words, so his mouth kept working in silence, like a weapon being fired on an empty chamber after the ammo is used up. We both felt the emotion from this strong old man. Arlene stood up and put her hand on his arm. She helped him regain his composure. The gesture wasn't regulation, but who cared? For years I'd been asked why a rabid individualist like me had chosen a military life. Some of the people who asked that question understood that I wanted a life with honor, especially after having lived with a father who didn't have a clue. They could even understand someone putting his life on the line for his fellow man. It was individualism that confused them. I became a marine because I believe in freedom: the old American dream that had defied the nightmares of so many other countries. Every Independence Day I made a point of reading the Declaration of Indepen- dence out loud. I loved my country enough to fight for it. Now we faced an enemy that threatened everything and every- one on the planet. Any military system that had its head stuck up its own bureaucratic ass was finished. Now was the time to adapt or die. Now was the time to really send in the marines! 2 "I almost brought you some iced tea," said Mulligan, "with lots of lemon." Arlene and I both grimaced. "He's getting mean," she said. "A sadist," I agreed. We'd told the master gun plenty about our adventures, and he had fixated on the way Albert, Jill, Arlene, and I had passed our- selves off as zombies by rubbing rotten lemons and limes all over ourselves. The odor of the zombies had forever spoiled the taste of citrus for me. " 'Course I could let you have one of these instead," Mulligan continued, holding out two frosty Limbaugh brews, one in each paw. "The man's getting desperate," I said. "Who goes first?" asked Arlene, ready to spill the beans; and Mulligan hoped they would be tastier than the typical MRE. The admiral had left us. He looked like an old beachcomber as he wandered down the beach. I thought about what he'd said--how he'd tied the past and future together with these precious islands as the center of his universe. Maybe they were the center of the universe for all humanity. "Beers first," I volunteered, holding my hand out. Mulligan looked as happy as Jill when I let her drive the truck. He passed out the brews and settled his considerable bulk back in his beach chair. "Once upon a time ..." I began, but Arlene punched me so hard it made her breasts jiggle very nicely. With that kind of encouragement, I got plenty serious. "We had to take down the energy wall so Jill could fly out of L.A. and get here," I began. "In the Disney Tower we located a roomful of computers hooked into a collection of alien biotech--" "Yeah, yeah," Mulligan said impatiently. "I re- member all that. Get to the window already!" So I did. We were too high. I'd never liked heights, but it seemed best to open the windows. "We took down the energy wall, at least," I had said over my shoulder. "Jill must notice it's gone and start treading air for Hawaii." Arlene nodded, bleak even in victory. I didn't need alien psionics to know she was thinking of Albert. "The war techies will track her as an unknown rider," added Arlene, "and they'll scramble some jets; they should be able to make contact and talk her down." "Great. Got a hot plan to talk us down?" I asked my buddy. Arlene shook her head. I had a crazy wish that before Albert was blinded, and before Arlene and I found ourselves in this cul-de-sac, I'd played Dutch uncle to the two lovebirds, complete with blessings and unwanted advice. Somehow this did not seem the ideal moment to suggest that Arlene seriously study the Mormon faith, or some related religion, if she really loved good old Albert. The sermon went into my favorite mental file, the one marked Later. She shook her head. "There's no way," she began, "unless . . ." "Yes?" I asked, trying not to let the sound of slavering monsters outside the door add panic to the atmosphere. Arlene stared at the door, at the console, then out the window. She went over to the window as if she had all the time in the world and looked straight down. Then up. For some reason, she looked up. She faced me again, wearing a big, crafty Arlene Sanders smile. "You are not going to believe this, Fly Taggart, but I think--I think I have it. I know how to get us down and get us to Hawaii." I smiled, convinced she'd finally cracked. "Great idea, Arlene. We could use a vacation from all this pressure." "You don't believe me." "You're right. I don't believe you." Arlene smiled slyly. She was using the early-bird- that-got-the-worm-smile. "Flynn Taggart, bring me some duct tape from the toolbox, an armload of computer-switch wiring, and the biggest goddam boot you can find!" The boot was the hard part. The screaming, grunting, scraping, mewling, hiss- ing, roaring, gurgling, ripping, and crackling sound effects from beyond the door inspired me to speed up the scavenger hunt. Hurrying back to the window with the items, I saw Arlene leaning out and craning her neck to look up. "Do you see it?" she asked as I joined her. Clear as day, there was a window washer's scaffold hanging above us like a gateway to paradise. When the inva- sion put a stop to mundane activities, all sorts of jobs had been left uncompleted. In this case, it meant quantities of Manila hemp rope dangling like the tentacles of an octopus. A few lengths of chain, with inch-long links, were even more promising than the rope. The chain looked rusted, but I was certain that it would support our weight. The tentacles started above us and extended well below the fortieth floor--not all the way to the ground, but a lot farther away from the demons in the hallway working so hard to make our acquaintance. Arlene used the duct tape and the wiring to create a spaghetti ladder that didn't look as if it would hold her weight very long, never mind my extra kilos. But we needed an extra leg up to get over to the ropes. "Great," I said. "This looks like a job for Fly Taggart." Before I could clamber out the window, however, her hand was on my arm. "Hold on a minute," she said. "My idea, my mission." The locked door was rattling like a son of a bitch, and the thought of our entrails decorating the office made me a trifle impatient. That was one kind of spaghetti I could pass over. "Arlene," I said, as calmly as possible under the circumstances, "I have absolute confidence in you, but this is no time to hose the mission. Let's face it, I have more upper body strength and a greater reach than you do, so I should go first." While I explained the situation, we both worked feverishly to finish our makeshift rope. Then I tied it around my waist. Naturally I gave her no opportunity to argue. I was at that window so fast she probably feared for my life. A good way to keep her from staying pissed. I took one mighty leap, making sure she held the other end of the lifeline, and I climbed up and over, where I grabbed hold of the nearest rope and started lowering myself, groaning a bit at the strain and reminding myself that I had all this great upper body strength. I only wished I had more of it to spare. Once I was on the ropes, I swung myself over to where Arlene could reach them more easily. She clambered out the window over my head and fol- lowed my lead. The annoying voice in the back of my head chose that precise moment to start an argument. Damned voice had a lousy sense of timing. Getting tired, are you? Feeling a bit middle-aged around the chest area? Old heart hanging in there? The arms are strong from all those push-ups and pull-ups, but how's the grip? Your hands are weaker than they used to be, aren't they? You know, you haven't had these injuries looked at . . . "Nothing a blue sphere couldn't fix up," I mut- tered. Medikits aren't good enough for you, Corporal? You'd rather trust in that alien crap, huh? And how do you know that you and Arlene weren't altered in some diabolical manner when your lives were saved in that infernal blue light? "I'm hanging from a freakin' rope and you choose this moment to worry about that?" I shouted. "Fly, are you all right?" Arlene called down. "Okay," I called back, feeling like a complete idiot. Normally I don't argue out loud with the voice in my head. "Don't go weird on me now," she said. "If I fall, I want my strong he-man to catch li'l ol' me." "No problemo," I promised. "But I think we're getting enough exercise as things stand." Well, at least I'd convinced her I was playing with a full deck again. As if life had become too easy for us, the door in the office flew off with such force that it smashed through what was left of the window and went sailing in the direction of the freeway. The door was as black and twisted as if someone had turned it into burned toast and tossed it in the trash. The first monster to peer out the window, if black dots count as eyes, was one of the things Arlene had wisely dubbed a fire eater. It must have only recently joined the other pukes and taken care of the door problem for them. In a flash it could solve the rope problem, too, burning our lifeline to cinders. We didn't have a fire extinguisher this time. Fire Guy wasn't alone, either. He was the gate- crasher, bringing with him a whole monster conven- tion. They'd be pouring down the ropes after us like molasses on a string if we didn't do something fast. I stopped the story there because I wanted to finish my beer, and because I had my eye on another can of Limbaugh. The master gun had brought a six-pack, so with the aid of higher arithmetic, I figured I had another one coming. "And?" asked Mulligan, fire in his eye; and the way his mouth was working you could say fire in the hole, too. "As the fire eater was getting ready to burn our ropes--and you can always tell an attack is coming by the way its skin bubbles and its body shimmers like a heat mirage in the desert--I swung out and then came in hard, kicking in a window with one try. In the remaining seconds I pulled the rope taut and Arlene shimmied down into my arms as tongues of flame raced after her. But we'd made it to a much lower floor. We had a twelve-story head start, so we booked." "Story is right!" thundered Mulligan. "I've never heard so much bullshit!" For one grim moment I wasn't at all sure I'd be getting my second beer. 3 "Hold on," said Mulligan, guarding his small ocean of beer as the larger ocean sent armies of waves to die on the beach, "I'm not buying it. When I was a kid, I was in the Boy Scouts. I carried the heaviest knapsack on camping trips. I won all the merit badges. I was a good scout, but other kids still beat me up and teased me all the time. Do you want to guess why?" "Why?" asked Arlene, genuinely interested and not the least bit annoyed by the mysterious direction the conversation was taking. "Partly because I was a chunky kid, but also because I loved comic books. They thought I was gullible or something. They thought I'd believe damn near anything. But I'm telling you, Fly"--he turned those cold blue eyes on me--"this story of yours is bullshit." "You believe the part about his starting to lose his mind while he was on the rope, don't you?" asked Arlene. "Well. . ." Mulligan began. "I left nothing out of my gospel rendition," I said. "Especially not the verisimilitude," Arlene threw in. "Huh?" came the response from both Mulligan and me. "Still sounds bogus to me," concluded the master gun, inhaling the rest of his brew. "That's because it didn't happen that way," said Arlene. "I'll give you the authentic version--for an- other beer." "Yeah, right," the sergeant said morosely, but he handed her a beer, and she started her engines. "With one mighty leap . . ." she began. George Mulligan groaned. "Flynn Taggart, bring me some duct tape from the toolbox, an armload of computer-switch wiring, and the biggest goddamn boot you can find!" He looked at me like I was crazy, but he did it. The scaffold was our ticket out of there, but first we had to get over to it. It made sense for me to go first because I weighed less. The ledge was narrow and the chains and ropes were sufficiently out of reach so that a lifeline seemed like a good idea. At least it would give me more than one chance in case I fell. The sounds at the heavy reinforced door told me two things. First, there was one hell of an enemy out there. Second, the most powerful ones could not be in front. A hell-prince would have huffed and puffed the door down faster than a politician would grab his pension. Even a demon pinkie could have chewed his way through that door as if it was a candy bar. So the wimps were up front, and this gave us a little more time. While Fly was collecting the stuff, we received more evidence supporting my theory. I heard screams that I'd have recognized anywhere--the noise imps make when they're being ripped apart. They were up front and not strong enough to break through. It occurred to me that this military-quality door dated back to the time of Walt Disney himself. I was glad that Disney had been a paranoid right-wing type, according to the biographies. A more trusting sort would never have installed the door that was saving our collective ass. But it wasn't going to hold much longer. "Got it!" Fly announced, trotting back with the wire, tape, and boot. "What's your plan?" I told him. I showed him. He nitpicked. "I should go first because of upper male body strength and a longer reach . . ." "I weigh less! Besides, it's my idea. You're going to be too busy to go first anyway." He opened his mouth to ask what I meant, but the shredding of the door provided the answer. Talons appeared like little metal helmets, leaving furrows behind them as they sliced through the last barrier between us and them. Grabbing his Sig-Cow, Fly started blasting through the door before the first one even appeared. I saw that my buddy wouldn't be able to help with the makeshift rope so I tied one end to a heavy safe and the other around my waist and clambered out the window pronto. Luck was with me. Fly and I disagree about luck: he thinks you make your own; I think you're lucky or you're not. The ledge was so narrow that I couldn't imagine Fly negotiating it. The stupid little lifeline came apart before my hand was on one of those beautiful, thick, inviting ropes. I shouted my patented war cry, based on all the westerns I'd seen when I was a kid, and jumped the rest of the way. I knew I'd better be right about luck. I swung far out and heard a long creaking sound overhead, which was fine with me as long as it wasn't followed by a loud snap. Just a steady creaking, as the rope settled into supporting my weight. I didn't waste a moment swinging over to a sturdy-looking cable chain. I didn't trust the chain, so I tested it out. The damned thing snapped, and I hung over L.A, like an advertisement, glad for the rope. My left hand was covered with rust. I would have thought that the chain would outlast the rope, but maybe some of the links were caught in a random energy beam. A lot of stuff raced through my mind. I filed most of it for future reference--if I had a future. The stuff overhead reminded me of the last time I was aboard ship--on the ocean instead of in space, I mean. The only reason I wasn't splattered all over the street below was that the window-washing equipment was securely attached on the roof. I hoped no alien energy burst had done any damage up there. "Fly!" I yelled. "Coming, coming, coming!" he shouted back. There was no double entendre in either of our minds. My bud would either be a fly on the wall out here or a squashed bug inside. He chose fly on the wall. I made like Tarzan, or maybe I should say Sheena of the Jungle, and swung over toward the window. The scaffolding held. Fly held on. As he leaped out the window, a red claw the size of his head missed severing his jugular vein by an inch. I couldn't believe I used to feel sorry for the Minotaur trapped in the lair until Theseus came to put him out of his misery. I'd never look at those old myths the same way. We started down. The ropes wouldn't get us to ground level, but half a loaf is better than none. If we could descend below the monsters we might have a chance to hoof it down to the street before they could catch up with us. I was counting on their habit of getting in each other's way and tearing each other up when they should have been focusing on us instead. Fly had it tougher than I did because he was hanging like a piece of sacrificial meat directly outside the window where the enemy was massing. He was holding the rope with one hand, leaving the other free to fire repeatedly at that rectangle of horror and doom. "Fly, I'll cover you if you climb lower," I promised. Grateful for the time I'd spent rappelling down cliffs in my high school days, I maneuvered so that the rope was wrapped around me like a lonely boa constrictor, freeing my gun hand. As I started firing thirty-caliber rounds at the window, Fly slung his weapon over his shoulder and used both hands to lower himself. When he was safe enough--safety being relative when you're playing tag with all the denizens of hell--he yelled, "My turn to cover you!" I made like a monkey and headed straight for certain death. Fly kept up a barrage that was truly impressive. The odds were at an all-time low, but as I made it past the window, I was ready to rethink my position on God. Fly and Albert had God. I had luck . . . and a fireball that came so close it singed my hair. Well, my high-and-tight needed a trim. Fly ran out of rope and I joined him just in time to see his very special expression, the one he only wears when Options 'R Us has closed its doors permanently. I couldn't help myself. I looked up. There is no mistaking a fire eater. And this one was getting ready to fry everything it could see. The only hope was to break one of the windows, get inside the building quicker than a thought, and then haul ass down to the street. We had one chance. Fortunately we'd brought along that really big boot. "Aw, gimme a break, you two," begged Mulligan, thoroughly beaten. "I don't care how you escaped from the tower. It's none of my business. I'll never ask again." He threw the remaining beers at Fly and me as if they were grenades. The way the brews were shaken up, they might as well have been. While I pointed mine at the broad expanse of the Pacific Ocean and fired off the white spray, Mulligan changed his tone. He didn't sound like a wily old master gun. He didn't even sound like a marine. He sounded like a Boy Scout trying to requisition a last piece of candy. "Okay," I said. "I'll tell you the rest, from the point where Fly and I have no disagreements about what happened." "Thank you," said our victim. 4 No sooner had Mulligan agreed to be a good boy and let me finish my story than he changed his mind. Just like a man. "Uh, Sanders," he said. "Yes, George?" "How about we do it a little differently this time? I'll ask questions and you answer 'em. How's that?" "Is that your first question?" I asked the master gun. "Arlene," Fly addressed me with his I'm-not- worried-yet tone of voice, the one he uses right before he tells me that I've gone over the line. He has a big advantage in these situations: he seems to know where the line is. Mulligan just sat there grinning, waiting for a better response from a mere PFC. "Okay," I said. "What do you want to know?" "Looks like I should've brought more beer," he admitted. Fly still had some Jack Daniel's left, so he'd be feeling no pain. All I had to get me through was truth, justice, and the American way. "When you reached ground level, you didn't have any wheels waiting for you," Mulligan said. There's no way you could've outrun a mob of those things." "No problem," I told him. "I hot-wired a car." He grimaced. "Now I suppose Corporal Taggart will tell the story of how he was the one who--" "No," Fly happily interrupted. "Arlene hot-wired the car all by herself. Can't imagine where a nice girl like her ever picked up such a specialized skill." I gave Fly the finger and didn't even wait for Mulligan to ask what happened next. "I drove like crazy for the airport with Fly riding shotgun. I had the crazy idea I could hot-wire a plane and fly Fly out of there." "Thanks," said Fly. "Let me get this straight," Mulligan returned to the fray. "At that time you didn't realize the teenager was still waiting for you." "Jill," said Fly. "Jill," Mulligan repeated. I enjoyed this next bit. "We'd told her in no uncertain terms that she was not to wait for us. We'd risked our lives taking down the force field so Jill could fly Albert and Ken to safety." "So naturally she disobeyed orders," said Fly. "You've got quite a kid there," observed the master gun with true respect for Jill. Fly and I exchanged looks. "Jill is loyal." Fly spoke those words with dignity. Mulligan steered the discussion back to my mono- logue: "So you only had to drive to the airport . . ." "Except we didn't make it in the first car. No great loss, as it was an unexploded Pinto. Until it exploded! A hell-prince stepped right out into the middle of the street and you know what happens when they fire those green energy pulses from their wrist-launchers." "You trade in the old model you're driving for a new one." Mulligan grinned; he was into the spirit of the thing now. "Thanks to my superb driving skills--" "You were weaving all over the road like a drunk on New Year's Eve," Fly interjected. "Exactly," I agreed without missing a beat. "So we survived the surprise attack. I slammed the car into a row of garbage cans, and we wasted no time exiting the vehicle and returning fire." "I wondered what Corporal Taggart was doing all this time," said Mulligan. "Watching the rear," said Fly. "Perhaps you've forgotten we were being chased." "So then what?" "Good luck was what," I told the master gun. "An abandoned UPS truck was parked on the side of the street. We made our way over to it, simply hoping it was in working order. Well, we hit the jackpot. Inside was a gun nut's paradise, a whole shipment addressed to Ahern Enterprises." "The bazooka," said Fly. "Don't forget to tell him about the bazooka." Poor Mulligan ran out of beer. He was on his own now. "The hell-prince, as you call him, didn't fry your butts before you could use all this stuff?" "Nope," I said. "His second shot missed us by a country klick." "Then what happened?" "We fried his butt," I recounted. "But . . ." Mulligan started a thought and came to a dead stop. He tried again.