That fucking little prick.
How could she have missed it for this long? The answer was obvious — until a few hours ago, Angus's device didn't stay on all the time. It cycled, signaling every six hours and then only for a few seconds. It was a hard signal to catch, but that didn't make her feel any better. She was trained in signals intelligence, for crying out loud, and at one time the U.S. Government considered her the best in the world. To be outfoxed by a cock-sucking scientist was simply too much.
That fucking little prick.
He'd invented a way to communicate with the surface from who knew how far underground. The system also probably served some mapping function, like an underground GPS with the pyramid devices taking the place of satellites. If that was the case, there were more of these things, at least three for triangulation purposes. And she'd have to track down every single one. How fucking long would that take?
She'd underestimated Angus Kool. She should have followed him from the get-go. He talked to this pyramid-like machine from around three miles underground via rhythmic patterns of seismic waves. The unit, in turn, broadcast those messages into the air. The system was pure genius.
Kayla reached into the pyramid and yanked the antennae from the transmitter. Maybe the device would yield some information. She picked up the surprisingly light device and carried it back to her warren. She didn't have time to examine it now, because she had to find the rest of the fucking little prick's handiwork.
Connell stared out the funnel. The line of silverbugs stretched off into the distance, jerking and convulsing. “Got any bright ideas, O'Doyle?"
"No sir,” O'Doyle said. “I was hoping you might have something clever.” O'Doyle had spread the H&K rounds evenly among them — Connell had only five shots in his weapon. Definitely not enough to waste on a seemingly endless supply of jittering silverbugs. The machines seemed to pick up on this fact somehow; the line ran from the tunnel edge back as far as they could see, over the mass of deflated rocktopi corpses littering the tunnel floor.
O'Doyle turned toward Sanji and Veronica. Fear gripped their faces and stole their breath. “You two keep an eye on those cracks,” O'Doyle said. “You do the same, Mack."
Mack nodded slowly and kept his hand on the wall, steadying himself. He looked around slowly, blankly, the pain in his head evident in his every movement.
Connell peered intently down the tunnel, looking for a flash of color. He spoke quietly, so that only O'Doyle could hear. “We're not going to be able to hold off another attack."
"I know that,” O'Doyle said softly.
The cave filled with the sound of clicks and whirs and buzzes, all the ambiance of the silverbug's sickening, jerking dance. No one spoke.
Then, finally, the wait ended.
The scraping dead-leaf sound filtered up the tunnel like the dry hissing of a poisonous snake, slowly building into a raspy cacophony that melded with the mechanical silverbug sounds. Screeches poked at the air like needles punched into eardrums. The wafting smell of dog shit and rotting fruit made Connell's nose wrinkle involuntarily.
They came down the tunnel, moving slower this time, no longer hurtling forward. They moved at a deliberate pace, like a cat sneaking up on an unsuspecting squirrel. Their light looked different… muted.
"Let's make them think about coming closer,” O'Doyle whispered as he hugged the H&K to his shoulder, looked down the sight and squeezed off a single shot.
clank
O'Doyle's head snapped up as he and Connell stared into the tunnel's dimness. They'd both expected a rocktopi's screeching death-squeal, but only heard the sound of a bullet ricochet off… metal?
Steadily the rocktopi moved closer, into the headlamp light, revealing both the reason for their deliberate pace and for the sound of the ricochet. Like a phalanx of Roman soldiers, the rocktopi moved forward carrying shields of glossy metal that cast back distorted headlamp reflections.
"This is not good,” O'Doyle said.
Connell counted three shields pushed edge to edge in the narrow tunnel, moving slowly forward like the plunger of a syringe. He couldn't make out how many rocktopi perched behind the moving metal wall. The shields, rectangular and roughly hewn, pressed forward, the promise of death huddled behind them.
They were stuck between a bottleneck of rocktopi and a two-hundred-foot drop. The flashing, glowing creatures pressed closer, closer, taking their time. Silverbug clicks and whirs excitedly filled the air, accompanied by the occasional small screech emanating from behind the silvery shields.
"We've got to go down the cliff,” Connell said, unable to stop himself from slowly backing up.
O'Doyle shook his head. “You know we'll never make it."
"It's either some of us make it or we all die."
"But you can't get down with your knee,” O'Doyle said sternly.
"I'm not going."
O'Doyle looked away from the oncoming threat and gaped incredulously.
"I'm staying right here,” Connell said. “Mack too. We'll have to let the rocktopi get close before we can use the guns accurately. You get the rest of the party as far down as you can. I'm still in charge here and you'll do what I tell you. Now move!"
O'Doyle blinked a few times, seemingly unable to comprehend the situation, then turned and sprinted the short distance to the others.
Connell turned to face the oncoming death. Only forty yards separated him from the metal phalanx. He felt fear spin wildly through his stomach and chest. He easily fought down the urge to turn and run — mostly because there was nowhere to go. Five shots. He'd gotten everyone into this, after all, and if anyone had to die, it seemed logical he be the next.
A wave of sweat broke out on his brow, trickling down his cheeks, stinging his numerous blisters. His grip tightened on the weapon, its feel and weight now familiar and comforting. He shuddered at unbidden thoughts of platinum knives tearing into his belly, spilling his blood and intestines all over the dirty cave. A gut wound was supposedly the worst way to go. Would he still be alive when they hacked him to pieces?
He tried to swallow but couldn't. He stood helpless, waiting for the right moment, as the rocktopi closed the distance to thirty yards. Their subtle lights cast soft red and orange hues on the tunnel's walls and ceiling. The dull gleam of his headlamp reflected off the three shields aligned in the front rank. The shields’ edges gleamed with a razor's brightness, leaving streamers of afterglow illusion dancing on his retinas. They looked as if they'd just been cut from a large, slightly curved sheet of metal, the fronts dull with age while the thick edges flashed as his head turned from one to the next to the next.
He suddenly missed his wife more than ever. For the first time he felt grateful she was dead. She wouldn't hear of a husband hacked to pieces by some alien monstrosity deep in the Earth's bowels. He wished he could look at her picture one last time before he died.
The rocktopi closed to twenty yards, their rancid odor almost overpowering. He saw glowing bodies and the onyx-colored spots peeking out from the spaces between shields. His body started shaking uncontrollably. He raised the gun and tried to draw a steady aim, but the weapon's barrel twitched in time with his rebellious muscles.
He fired. The bullet smacked dead center into the center shield, bouncing off with a spark and a whine, disappearing unseen into the tunnel's endless dark spaces.
Four shots left.
The rocktopi kept coming.