Enormity by W.G. Marshall

Author:W.G. Marshall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Night Shade Books
Published: 2011-12-29T05:00:00+00:00

As the two men cautiously retraced their steps, creeping along on cat feet, Queen asked, “How the hell could that woman survive here for so long? It’s fucking hell.”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t budged and given herself away.”

“It’s not just that. How could she survive the bacteria and everything else? She’s got nothing!”

“I haven’t seen too many bacteria, have you? I don’t think there’s much in the way of flora around here, either. It’s pretty antiseptic.”

“Are you kidding me?” Queen looked around at the rank swamp surrounding them. “It’s a fucking jungle!”

“Not really—I think what we’re seeing is pretty ordinary stuff: sweat, sebum, shed epithelium. Only the quantities are extraordinary. It’s the sweat that may be helping her the most—it contains a natural disinfectant called lysozyme.”

“That’s revolting.”

“Don’t knock it. It’s protecting us, too.”

One by one, most of the men found each other. There were two casualties: Staff Sergeant Steve Hannigan, the big NASCAR buff, was missing, presumed dead, but they found Lt. Porfirio “Roy” Roybal—the little that was left of him. His body looked like roadkill that had been all but disposed of by busy traffic, rendered not only anonymous but indefinable by species. Hamburger. Roy had liked to say he was from the real Las Vegas: Las Vegas, New Mexico.

They left him there and spread out so as to not draw further attention, fanning toward Manny’s forehead. It was not a tremendous hike; the top of that scalp, enormous as it was, measured less than twenty acres. What made it slow going was the slippery uneven footing and their cautious pace—no one wanted to bring the wrath of the Finger down upon them again.

Nearing the grove’s edge, they began to feel a cool breeze. Tall hairs rustled as powerful gusts washed through, and there was a sense that beyond the farthest trunks lay open country—a bare, windy plateau. It got colder and still windier, the chill slightly ameliorated by huge billows of steam that rolled in like surf.

“Coming to the anterior hairline,” said Dennison.

Then they were there, bracing themselves against the furious tempest as they took in the view, like tourists overlooking Niagara Falls. In front of them, the shiny moonlit dome of Manny’s forehead extended outward, sloping gradually downhill until it vanished from sight somewhere below. It was not absolutely smooth, but resembled a pitted mudflat prickled with sparse reeds. Slime was being blown off it into their faces. Beyond was the panorama of the night landscape: the Earth from six-thousand feet up, black with a few distant twinkles of light. It was a breathtaking sight, and dizzying; the dark horizon swayed like the sea, re-apprising them of their unstable platform.

“Now for the tricky part,” shouted Dennison.

They were prepared for this—as prepared as any human being could be. As elite AFSOC operators, most of them had started out by distinguishing themselves first as Navy SEALS, Army Rangers, and the Marine Force Recon, or combinations of these. In Queen’s flight only Deitz and Wayne Aponte, piloting the CV-22, were lifelong Air Force men.

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