DOOM NOVEL SCENES: Arlene Sanders #1

THE OPENING SCENE
I watched  the gunny;  Arlene Sanders  was whispering something  in hisear. She was our scout, the lightest of the  Light Drop. PFC  Sanders  could fade into the night  so not even  a werewolf  could sniff her out.  My  best buddy. She might have been more; once, we had--no; we were  buddies. We didn't talk about that night. Anyway, she had Dodd, and I don't separate bookends.
Arlene backed away, backed past me, throwing me a wink as she vanished. She would  swing in a wide arc, ease around  behind the still-moving shades, and report  back to the lieutenant and Gunny Goforth via a secured line. I'd find out soon enough.
Goforth put  his hand to his ear; he was  listening to Arlene's report, trying to stifle the lieutenant with his other hand.
But Weems saw a  ghost  to his  left, a specter to his right.  We  were surrounded! In Weems's mind--I use  the term loosely--they  were Indians, we were the 7th Cav, and he was Custer.
"The lieutenant isn't going to stand for this!" snapped the lieutenant.
"Goforth, take out those soldiers!"
The gunny broke his own drill. "Sir, we don't even know who they are... Sanders says they're wearing robes and hoods--"
"Scythe of Glory!" said Weems, again raising his voice.
"No sir, just robed men--"
"Gunny, I gave you an order... now take down those men!"
Arlene flashed past me again. "What the hell's going on?" she hissed.
"Weems wants us to take 'em down. "
"Fly, they're monks! You gotta stop the crazy son of a bitch!"
I was the second-ranking noncom; Goforth would listen to me, I thought. I hunched  over  and  jogged  to the gunnery  sergeant.
"Gunny,  Arlene says they're monks."
"Taggart,   right?"  said   Weems,   as   if  bumping  into  me  at  an oyster-shucking party.
"Sir, they're just monks. "
"Do you know that for sure? Does anyone know that for sure?"
"Sanders said--"
"Sanders  said! Sanders  said! Does Sanders have to  deal  with Colonel Brinkle every week?"
"Sir," began  the  gunny, "I think we should recon the group before  we open fire."
Weems  looked him in the  face, shaking in fury. "As long as I'm giving the orders here, Marine, you'll obey them. Now take down those men!"
I snapped. Maybe  it was the bodies, or  the  body parts.  The mountain air, thin oxygen. A gutful of Weems, Arlene's frightened, incredulous stare, the  way  Goforth's jaw set  and  he turned to give the order--a twenty year man, he wasn't going to throw it away over a bunch of lousy religious dinks.

ARLENE AND HER SCI-FI
Honor  wasn't  just  something you did to credit  cards.  A lie  wasn't called spin  control,  and  spin was something  you only put  on a cue ball.
Yeah, right, you think you know more about it than  I? I know it was all BS, even in the  Corps.  I know the  service was riddled up  and down with lying sacks of dung, like everything else. "There is no cause so noble it will not attract fuggheads;" one  of those sci-fi writers Arlene is always shoving at me, David Niven or something.

DEMONS COMING THROUGH THE GATE
While Grayson was providing this fragmentary report, he punctuated his description with bursts from his rifle. Before he could become more coherent, we heard an inarticulate roar of animal pain from whatever he was shooting, and then he shouted, "I can't put it down!" The next scream we heard was fully human.
My whole body went cold. Jesus--Arlene was down there. Keep cool, keep your head--she's a Marine, damn it!
One of the Rons looked like he was about to throw up.
"Okay," I said, "this has gone on long enough. We know we're in this together. Give me a gun and let's make some plans." If Arlene were being shot at, God damn it, I intended to shoot back! The honor of the Corps was at stake, not to mention my best buddy's life.
Sorry, Rons; Arlene PFC Sanders means more than the both of you rolled together!

FLY TALKS ABOUT ARLENE #1
I could see myself doing the job of zombie exterminator until I was the only biped left standing on Phobos. These living dead characters weren't very good soldiers. Yeah, I could dust them all. Except for one little detail.
      I couldn't bear coming up against what used to be Arlene Sanders. No, that wasn't very appealing at all. It's not like she was my girl; she had her Dodd, and it seemed to satisfy her. Dodd and I didn't really like each other, but we tolerated for Arlene's sake.
      Not love, I swear. It's just that Arlene lived in the same world I did, and I mean a lot more than just wearing the same uniform. She wasn't like any other girl I'd been ... I mean, any other girl I'd known.
      Arlene remembered being awakened by a D.I. heaving a trash can down the hall, same as me. She remembered the jarhead getting all over her; "on your face, down-up- down-up-down-up--you keep pumpin' 'em out until I get tired!" She knew about reveille at 0500, PT (Physical Training), or a dainty, eight-mile run at 0505.
      Arlene knew the smell of disinfectant. She knew all about scraping two years of accumulated crud off a wall with a chisel so the next guy could slap on a quarter-inch- thick splash of anti-corrosion paint.
      She'd spent just as many months as I wrestling a goddamned floor buffer up and down a corridor, while already dog-sacked from hours of PT, obstacle course, combat training, small-arms, endless, mindless instruction on how to break down and reassemble a Sig-Cow while blindfolded, and lectures on the exotic venereal diseases of Kefiristan, Mars, Phobos Base, and Ohio .. . hours that always seemed to add up to twenty-six or twenty-eight per day.
      Arlene figured out a lot about me in record time. She was bright, and just as committed to a military career as any other man in the outfit. She'd become my best buddy in the platoon.
      As I sat there, wiping blood and crud from my face in the eye of an impossible hurricane, it helped to think about Arlene. Recalling her features drove the monsters from my mind. I played a little game with myself, not letting the horror rise up and engulf the picture I was drawing.
      I don't think I've ever seen a better-looking woman than Arlene, objectively considered. She wasn't drop- dead gorgeous in the conventional sense. To use an older phrase from a braver age, she was "right handsome." Five-ten and compactly built, she worked out more than anyone else in the platoon. She had beautiful, well-cut muscles.
      (Once, when for a few days she thought she might be "with child"--not mine--Gates had said, "She's such a man, I bet she got herself pregnant." He didn't say it loudly.)
      I liked how she looked at everyone through slitted eyes, giving her a hooded serpent look. She was not to be trifled with, as one skank found out when he thought it was funny to sneak up behind her and pull down her pants.
      The rest of us were certainly interested in seeing all we could of her well-shaped posterior; but we weren't idiots. Without turning around, she backhanded him perfectly and broke his nose. At the time all I could think of was how much I enjoyed seeing her move. We're talking ballet here.
      Of course, there was a lot more to Arlene; she had a brain. Those are in short supply in the service, even in Light Drop, and I hated to see one go to waste. I took her to Corps music concerts, and she dragged me to old sci-fi movies. We got drunk together sometimes. We played poker, too; but my only chance against her was when I was stone-cold sober.
      One night we got so drunk that we fumbled our way into a kiss. It just didn't feel right. We were buddies, not lovers.
      Arlene and I reached an unspoken agreement where we didn't talk about that night. As if to prove what a pal she could be, she started setting me up with dates. She had girlfriends who were always first-rate in one way or another, and they liked to oblige her by hanging with her pal. I didn't kick. I just didn't seem able to return a commensurate favor.
      Arlene told me once how she wanted to save up some money and go to college someday. I didn't hold that against her. I wished the best for her.
      The best. That thought shot down my reverie in flames. What could the best be for her now, in this place? Death, I guessed; anything would be better than gray flesh, dry, unblinking eyes, and jerking limbs.
      "No," I heard myself talking to no one, "she'd never allow herself to be turned into one of those."
      But what if this reworking took place after death?

SHOOTING APPLES OFF HEADS
As I climbed down the long shaft, it occurred to me to think about something cheerful, a silver lining that must exist somewhere in these storm clouds. There had to be something.
      And there was. I hadn't found Arlene's body yet ... and so long as I didn't know what had happened to her, there was hope.
      I figured the nuclear plant must be at least six stories down. Just keep climbing, that was all I could do. Climb. Hope. Watch out for demons. Real simple. I preferred thinking about Arlene.

      I remembered the day she showed up from Parris Island and joined the real Corps, the fighting Corps. I looked up from monkeying with the sticky belt-advance on a .60 caliber auto-stabilized, and I saw a brutal babe in cammies, spats, webbing, and sporting a newly shaved high-and-tight. Catching her eye told me all I had to know. She knew what she was doing, all right. The Corps is protective of its haircut, flat on the top and shaved on the sides. We're talking a sign of distinction, a challenge thrown at every other service. God help the Navy, Army, or Space Force puke who shows up on one of our bases in a high-and-tight! What happens afterward is why God made Captain's Mast.
      But Arlene was no innocent. She wore her cut high and proud, and wore a single, red, private's stripe.
      Lieutenant Weems (pre-punch) took one look at Arlene Sanders, a long, hard look, and curled his lip. He watched her hand her packet to PFC Dodd, who stared at her like she had two heads. So far as I know, that was the first time they ever met, they who were destined for ... well, not love, exactly; extreme lustlike. (After about a year of ignoring him with all her might, then another six months of despising him, she shamefacedly confessed to me that she'd spent the night in his fiat.)
      All in all, not the best-foot-forward on this first day for the first woman in Fox Company.
      Of course, the opinion of Lieutenant Weems was already a debased currency by this time. But the opinion of the other men mattered. And no one could express that company opinion with more eloquence than Gun- nery Sergeant Goforth, the company's "grand old man." Hell, he was in his late thirties, an eighteen-year Marine, the last ten in Light Drop.
      Goforth looked like Aldo Ray in those old John Wayne movies. He was heavyset, muscular but not fat; he shaved his head but would probably be bald anyway. Goforth was a Franks tank with legs, a few freckles mixed in along with the Rolled Homogenous Armor.
      The gunny made a big deal of sauntering over to Arlene and let loose with his thick, Georgian drawl: "Hooo-eeee! Where'ud the lay-dee get thuh purty "do?"
      She looked him in the eye. That was all. Not a bad answer, really, but I thought that under the circum- stances a few words of reason might be in order.
      I volunteered myself for the task. Partly because I liked a woman with guts; partly because I respected the men in the Corps-and felt their position could be expressed in a more thoughtful manner than Gunny Goforth was likely to manage. But mainly I spoke up because at some deep level I hate all rules, symbols, rituals, fighting words, gang colors, routines, decorations, medals, trophies, badges . . . and anything else that suggests one human being is to be taken more seriously than another in a given situation simply on the basis of plumage. Besides, I was making no headway with the damned .60 cal.
      I was sitting on the mess hall table and felt very much above it all as I said, "Private, a high-and-tight is not a fashion statement. You gotta earn it."
      That seemed a nice ice breaker. She must have agreed because she spoke to me, not Goforth. "I'm as much a Marine as the next man," she said, glancing at me before returning her steady attention back to the gunny.
      The first retort that crossed my mind was to take a big bite of the red apple that happened to be in my hand. The longer it took to chew and swallow the piece of apple, the more profound would be my clever rejoinder, it seemed to me.
      So I did. And Goforth took a step closer to Arlene, deliberately breaking her space. Arlene stood her ground, not budging an inch.
      In between bites of the apple, I thought I would essay another arbitration. "You know," I essayed, "a high-and- tight is not mil-spec for ladies."
      "It's not regulation for men, either," she shot back. There was no arguing with that, but there was plenty of apple left to crunch.
      Gunny Goforth didn't have an apple. "Any Muh-reen who wears thet 'do," he said, "sure as hell is gonna earn it, missy." I thought the "missy" was a bit much.
      Arlene Sanders leaned forward into his space, close enough to 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.

FLY FINDS ARLENES INITIALS ON THE WALL
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 can honestly say that I have never enjoyed a trip to the movies so much.
      In the movie, Arne Saknussem, world's greatest adven- turer, was the first to explore the secrets of Earth's inner world; he leaves his initials marked in candle soot at different levels, so anyone coming afterward can follow his route. The arrows point out the path he took when the caverns branched off.
      I stared at the mark. A.S.--Arne Saknussen; A.S.. . . Arlene Sanders.
      My gut dropped to my boots. Arlene! Arlene was alive? It had to be ... what other explanation was there? She was alive . . . and she was doing just what I was doing: going deeper into the station, hoping to find a radio or another living human, or maybe her old pal, Fly. She was drilling deeper into this hell, hoping to find a way out!
      There was no doubt in my mind: A.S. meant my bud was still alive ... or at least, she'd been alive up to that point, alive and still herself. She must have survived the firefight that killed her platoon.
      All thoughts of self-destruction were wiped away in an instant. I felt supercharged. For the first time since stepping foot on this damned space rock, I was happy! I moved forward, military discipline reasserting itself, putting some breaks on the warrior who would still be needed for the killing time.
Discovering that lovely A.S. had been the most pleasant surprise of the day (yeah, I know day and night are pretty tricky concepts when you're stranded on a space rock the size of an average-sized garbage dump); but the second piece of good news was how this blue sphere had just made me feel like a billion dollars.
      Now that I was feeling like a new man, I was more dedicated than ever to the proposition of finding Arlene and exiting the nuclear plant. Easier said; Arlene's arrow pointed me to the blue sphere--but was that all? Maybe I should follow the arrow down the computer-room corridor, I thought, and forget the door leading to the patio. Then again, maybe she didn't even see the hidden door, and I just stumbled through it, misreading her arrow.
 I returned to the computer room and headed in the direction of Arlene's arrow. After twenty minutes of winding through the maze, I ended up right back at the arrow again! "Well, that was a real brainstorm," I grumbled.
      I decided to leave a small mark of my own, a simple F, next to her initials whenever I found them. This would prevent my mistaking one mark for the next--and anyone else, Arlene or maybe the "Ron" twins, who came this way again would know he was not alone.
      I followed her mark again, this time picking a different route; and at last I made eye contact with some company, however unwelcome. One of the familiar brown monsters with the painful, white spikes was eating something, its back to me.
      Up to now I'd been spared seeing them eat. It sat on a table, hunched over, making hard, crunching noises. I caught a glimpse of something red in its jaws as it turned its head to the side; fortunately, it didn't check its six.
      If I'd found another shotgun by now, I would have blasted the blasphemy from behind . . . but sometimes frustration is the father of fortune, for suddenly I heard a whole bunch of the bastards walking right past me--on the other side of the thin, computer-maze wall.
      If I had followed my gut instincts and shot the demonic son of a bitch, I would have been ambushed. Shaking from a retroactive adrenaline rush, I silently told myself that my objectives were to find Arlene and get the hell out of here, off Phobos, and find a radio somewhere!
      Then a thought hit me like a ton of slag. Arlene wouldn't bother taking time in this hellhole to scribble her mark unless she had a damned good reason. Not just to point out the sphere--if she knew it was there, she'd have used it herself like a good soldier.
      The only logical conclusion was that the arrow pointed the way out of the nuclear plant--the way Arlene Sanders had already gone. Like Arne Saknussen, she marked her own trail for all who followed.
      So why hadn't I found it? Same way Arlene missed the patio door: there had to be another hidden door nearby that I had missed.

THE HALLWAY BEFORE THE BARONS
Then, by god, I saw it--another A.S., biggest one yet! Even in the heart of hell, I was cheered to know I wasn't alone. I didn't exactly whistle a tune, but I smiled grimly.
      Arlene's mark was accompanied by a crude drawing of a skull and crossbones with an arrow pointing straight ahead. A second arrow pointed out a narrow slit in the wall, a slit that was a friendly hole-in-rock, not pulsating or anything disgusting; a slit into what looked to be the outside. We were hundreds of meters below the surface of tiny Phobos, but there was goddamn daylight coming through that opening.
      But that was one mother of a narrow crack. Could I get through that? Could Arlene, even? I touched the edge of the slit--tacky blood, a couple of hours old, tops. She had gone out, right there. She shoved herself so hard, tearing at that crack, that she flayed off huge strips of skin--but she didn't care. She wanted out; she wanted out bad; she wanted out right then, not five seconds later.
      Leading me to the obvious conclusion: Arlene had seen something up ahead that even she was too terrified to face.

  I stared at the skull and crossbones. Whatever was up ahead was bad enough for Arlene to claw her way through a tiny crack in the wall rather than face it. Yet she wasted precious seconds leaving the warning for Yours Truly.
      So now what? I sat on the floor, pounding my head with my hand in frustration. If I went forward, I was on my own. Arlene was no coward ... if the Thing ahead scared the bejesus out of her, enough that she forced her way through a crack several sizes too small--then what in God's name was it?

FLY FINDS ARLENE IN E2M1
  Moving to investigate, I saw a crack of light in the wall, then another and another until the yellow lines had formed a perfect square. Secret doors were losing their appeal for me. If this one were going to improve my opinion, then it had better offer something better than the usual collection of monsters. I shoved open the door with one mighty heave.
      A bloody, naked figure held a gun pointed directly at my face. By reflex, I shoved my own piece right between its eyes.
      "DROP THE GUN!"
      "DROP THE FREAKIN' GUN!"
      "PUT IT DOWN, I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL BLOW YOUR FOOL HEAD--"
      "--WHERE I CAN SEE THEM, PUT YOUR HANDS UP--"
      "--AND DON'T MOVE OR--"
      "--GROUND! ON THE GROUND, MOVE!"
      Her eyes. Her eyes were alive. And she spoke . . . words. By now we both stood, each pistol pressed against the others face, eyes wide with fear, wonder, and hope-- Was it? Could it be? Could she be?--shouting at the top of our voices in pain, rage, and desperate need.
      My hammer was cocked, but my finger outside the trigger guard; I had just begun to suspect, just begun . . .
      Something clicked in my brain. The penny dropped. I recognized the bloody, disheveled, pallid creature.
      A dream come true--if true--in a world that specialized in nightmares. Panting before my face, watching warily, ready to fire off half the magazine if necessary, stood the reason I had come this far and hadn't yet given up.
      I wanted to say her name, but I couldn't. We were each locked in a perimeter of silence, holding a gun against each others face, doubts and paranoia having the only voice. One of us would have to say something.
      She went first. "Drop the friggin' gun!" The command came from a lifetime of giving not an inch or trusting without two forms of picture ID ... and that had been back on Earth! She'd worked hard, her every friendship based on a sense of honor. She'd kicked her way onto the Mars mission. And this is what she'd found.
      But she'd survived. And I'd survived. She'd kept me alive with every A.S. and arrow; and maybe her fantasy that I'd come after her kept her alive--why else use our private code, a link between just the two of us?
      But now there was no room for sentiment, only for certainty.
      "You are a dead man if you do not drop the freaking gun now."
      Oops. My arm and hand had been through too much to even consider it. My body was wired for instant responses. The same as her body if she were still the old Arlene. The only reason I hadn't blown her away automatically was the time spent praying she was alive, and a willingness to take a risk right now that she wasn't really a zombie. No zombie had ever spoken before. And somehow, covered with mud and gore, she looked too damned bad to be a zombie. Only the living could look that fried!
      "Arlene, your ass is mine," I replied. "I've had the drop on you since I opened the damned door."
      Zombies didn't talk that way, either. They didn't tease or smile a moment later when awareness crept across a human face. She returned that smile, and I knew every- thing would be all right.
      "Your finger wasn't even on the trigger, big guy. I'd have blown you away before you fumbled around and found it." She was wounded, disheveled, filthy, terrified, naked . . . and totally, totally alive.
      "You're alive!" I shouted.
      "No, really?" she shouted back.
      We slowly lowered our weapons simultaneously, mirror images of each other. Grinning.
      Staring me up and down, she commented, "Nice fashion statement." I'd forgotten I was buck naked. My damned reflexes insisted on embarrassing me, and I reflexively covered myself.
      Well, I guess it was one more proof I was still fully human. I doubt that zombies are modest. "Turn your back, for Christ's sake," I implored.
      "I will not" she answered, eyes roving where they shouldn't. "You're the first decent thing I've seen since this creep show began."
      If we kept this up, maybe things would get so bloody normal that the monsters would simply pack their suit- cases and leave.
      Arlene could dish out a hard time when she wanted. I decided to get dressed, and finally I noticed the corpses and stripped one. She reached out a hand. "No, Fly; don't put those on yet. Please?"
      My right foot was halfway into a boot far too small to fit. It stretched, conforming to the size of my foot: one size truly fits all. Arlene turned as red as the crimson wall. "Jesus, I'm sorry, Fly. You're my buddy; I shouldn't have made you uncomfortable. Forgive me?"
      I finished dressing. It didn't take long. Now it was my turn to look her over, which I did with a lot more subtlety than she did with me. I kept my eyes moving where she'd let hers stop in embarrassing places. God, she looked good. All the dirt and blood almost gave her the appearance of being dressed in a weirdly hip-punk outfit. Her slender waist, tight, firm thighs, medium bust, and long arms made me think of more than the undeniable fact that she had the body of the ideal orbital pilot--her ultimate goal when she'd earned enough in service to take a hiatus, get a degree, and take a commission. Space travel needed the occasional boost in morale.
      She finally got the idea. There were plenty of corpses around with uniforms waiting to be stripped. I watched her from the corner of my eye as she followed my example. The best aspect of these form-fitting uniforms was the way they conformed to every contour of the human body. She looked just as good in clothes.
      I tried to think of something appropriate to say, then grunted, punching her shoulder middling hard. "Now I forgive you," I said with a grin. The grin didn't last long. I'd completely forgotten about the bullet wound in my shoulder. The pain finally caught up with me as the adrenaline wore off.
      "Jeez, that looks bad," she said. "Maybe there's some Medikits around here. You mind holding still while I do some alterations on your shoulder? Meanwhile, tell me where the hell you came from."
      Seemed like a fair deal to me. "Long as you tell me what happened to you, A.S. You and the company. And what the hell were you doing hiding in a cupboard?"
      She made me go first. I recapped everything that had happened since I left Ron and Ron behind in the mess hall. She'd been through the same crap; I didn't need to be overly detailed about the killing. It would be nothing more than a sentence completion exercise.
      While I told her my adventures, hoping I wasn't boring her, we weren't standing still. With the soft suction sounds of our boots on the cold, stone floor, we went hunting for medical supplies. "I'd rather go up against a dozen zombies than one of these monster aliens," I was telling Arlene as she yanked open a closet door.
      Dozens of shotguns cascaded down on us like bales of hay . . . heavy, painful bales of hale. Fortunately, they weren't loaded.
      Staring at the pile of weapons for a long moment, I put on my best annoyed face and asked Arlene: "Can't you keep your space neat and tidy?"
      Rolling her eyes, she scooped up one of the weapons and tossed it to me. She took one, too. I regretted leaving behind such a beautiful pile of weaponry. But Arlene and I only had four hands between us. We still needed a Medikit, and Arlene was starving. With the burning sensation growing in my arm, the Medikit was first on the list.
      Then I was going to get my Recon Babe out of this hellhole. I'd e-mail her, if that's what it took to pack her back to Mars. No, Earth.
      "Get your crap together," I said, "and take mental notes."
      "Notes?"
      "We've got to give a full report when we get back. We're blowing this popcorn stand."
      Arlene smiled wanly. "You have any good ideas on that one, Ace?"
      "I left a land-cart back at the entrance; we can hot-rod it back to the air base and take the troopship back to Mars. Or even Earth ... it should be able to make it."
      Arlene looked around, studying the architecture.
      The architect must have been hired by the Addams Family. Nothing seemed normal. The surface of the walls was rough, twisted, the sickening color of internal organs. Skulls, monster faces, and decay dominated every- where I chanced to glance.
      Arlene coughed politely. "Just two problems with that plan. First, we're not on Phobos anymore, Toto."
      "Huh?"
      "We're on Deimos, and there ain't no land-carts, or rockets, either. We used all the ships to bug our people out four years ago. Fly, we're stuck here, and we don't even know where 'here' is!"

COMING ACROSS A CACODEMON
This head wasn't handsome enough to be a movie star. Its grotesque skin was made of millions of squirming, knotted, bloodred worms stretched over a huge, inflated balloon. For an instant I thought of the floating blue sphere.
      Staring into the single red eye of this floating pumpkin with a tube for a mouth, I doubted it would make me feel like a million . . . years old, maybe.
      I dived sideways as the pumpkin spit a ball of lightning out the tube mouth, burning my scalp and hair as it sailed past. It exploded against the wall, producing a million slivers of blue-flickering electricity that had every hair on any part of my body standing at attention.
      "Mary, Mother of God!" I cried. "Another one that shoots stuff!"
      I ran back toward Arlene, shouting, "Run, run, run!" With pain and surprise still fresh, I couldn't think of anything else to do.
      But the floating head hadn't been in Arlene's face; she was still in control. The red ball floated around the corner, and she let it have a blast from behind.
      It rebounded from the blast, roaring in pain, then slowly turned to face her. While it did, I caught hold of myself.
      I blasted the floating pumpkin from my angle. As it turned back to me, Arlene skated to the side and blasted it again.
      Now we both knew what to do. We dropped naturally into a standard Light Drop tactic--move, fire, move again, fire again. The ball did a lot of bouncing. Whatever life force kept it going hadn't left it yet. But we kept firing.
      Then it died the messiest monster death I had seen so far. One moment the ball was bouncing against the walls; the next, there came a spray of sticky, blue goo that smelled like caramelized pumpkin pie and sounded like an overripe squash dropped ten stories. I seriously considered losing the lunch I had struggled so hard to ingest.
      "Oo-rah!" exulted Arlene. "Smashing pumpkins into small pieces of putrid debris! What the hell was that?"
      "Um. I was going to ask you the same question."
      I couldn't take my eyes off the disgusting, deflated remains. We should have been expecting brand new monsters, but this floating beach-ball thing was so weird, it meant anything was possible.
      That scared the hell out of me. It meant we might run into something indestructible, or at least unkillable.
      "What, ah, do you want to call this one?" Arlene asked.
      I'd forgotten our little game. It was a good question, but my mind was blank. "Call it a pumpkin," I suggested at last.
      Arlene wasn't impressed. She wrinkled her nose as if smelling limburger cheese. "I didn't mean that as a serious name, Fly. We need something more. . . frightening."
      "All right, then, you name it."
      "No dice, Fly. First person who sees a monster has to name it. That's the rule."
      I was about to demand to know why she got to make the rules; I stifled myself in time. Of course she made the rules--she was the female.
      "Then it's a pumpkin, Arlene." I put my foot down. Maybe I'll get lucky and she'll dislike my name enough that the rule will change.

BARON OF HELL
  "What in God's name was that?" Arlene gasped, still shaking.
      "No naming game for this baby," I said. "Already has a name. You're looking at the same model of Hell Prince you dodged when you slipped through the crack on Phobos, before the Gate. This is what was tramping down the corridor while you scrawled a skull and C- bones on the wall."
      She shook her head, clearing alien cobwebs and appearing truly weary for the first time. "Boy, if the light had been better, you'd have been on your own, Fly, 'cause I sure as hell wouldn't have wasted two seconds making a mark with that mother staring me in the face."
      "Oh yes you would have."
      "Egomaniac."
      We needed all the cheering we could give each other.

THE KEY UNDER THE RED CRUSHER
We crossed into a narrow corridor with red-glowing walls, floor, and ceiling, so bright that it hurt our eyes. We heard a familiar thud- thud at the end of the hall; it sounded like more flesh blocks.
      Variety is the spice of life, even on Deimos. The sounds came from a piece of stamping machinery that didn't seem to be the least bit organic. I was grateful for that.
      "Oh, great," said Arlene, "some jerk has tossed another key card onto the base." The implication was that we couldn't walk away from something so valuable as another computer key card.
      A giant, metal piston repeatedly smashed down to within a few centimeters of the base, stamping anything on the base into powder. "Arlene, why would anyone put the card out for us, except as bait? We don't need it."
      "We used the blue card to get this far," she insisted. "What's behind the mystery yellow door?"
      "But Arlene .. ." She was through listening. The only way to get the yellow key card was to slide across the base, grab it, and roll off the other side before the stamping part came down to turn the contestant into pate.
      She backed away, measuring the piston's rise and fall with her eyes. I was about to stop her and tell her about the patented Fly technique for opening doors; then I remembered my meager supply of rockets.
      "At least let me do that," I said.
      "You? Corporal Two-left-feet on the drill field?"
      I opened my mouth to angrily protest; then I realized she was right--understating it, if anything. I never could get the timing right on anything more complicated than dress-right-dress or point-and-shoot.
      My heart in my mouth, I watched Arlene count, timing the piston. Then quickly, before she could think better of it or I could object again, she jumped just as it hit the low point and started to rise again.
      Arlene sprinted across the room and threw herself into a face-first baseball slide, scooping the key card in her arms. She slid to a halt... but she was still on the base!
      For an instant she froze. I couldn't possibly reach her in time--and a horrible image flashed through my mind.
      If Arlene died, in the next cycle, I knew I would jump on the machine and die alongside her.
      Thank God I didn't have to make that decision; at the last second she made a panic roll off the platform.
      Arlene left the key card on the stamper, near the edge; but it was a simple matter, when the piston rose, to scoop it off from where she stood.
      She pocketed it... and good thing; past the stamping machine was a thick airlock door, tough as a bank vault, surrounded by yellow lights. I doubt a rocket would even have scratched the chrome. Maybe a SAM.

ARLENE AND THE PINKIE DEMON
We stepped aboard one at a time, me first, teleporting to a long corridor with barred windows looking outside. Arlene bent over for a closer view and pulled back with a gasp.
      "Let me guess," I said. "You didn't see the stars or Mars."
      Swallowing hard, she motioned for me to look for myself. She wasn't in the mood for humor. Blood had drained from her face, a reaction I'd never before seen in Arlene. I put my face against the window.
      As a child, I'd seen a painting in a museum that gave me my first nightmare. I hadn't thought of it in years; but now it came back to me.
      Beyond the window was a river of human faces, hundreds of them, each an island in an ocean of flesh. Each face had a horrified expression stamped on it, each a damned soul.
      The spectacle achieved its purpose. We were both distracted. Otherwise we wouldn't have been so careless as to allow a stomping, single-minded demon to get close enough to clamp its jaws on Arlene's back and shoulder.
      Her cries were echoed by each face in the river of damned souls, each screaming Arlene's pain and torment.
Arlene!" I shouted. I grabbed the monster with my hands and literally pulled it off her before it could position itself to take a second and certainly lethal bite.
      It stumbled clumsily. I grabbed the AB-10 and pumped two dozen rounds into its open, blood-caked maw. It didn't get up.
      I was almost afraid to touch her. Blood pumped out of the horrible, fatal wound.
      Arlene was dying.
      Her face was sallow, eyes vacant and staring. One pupil was dilated, the other contracted to a pinpoint. There was nothing I could do, not even with a full medical lab.
      But damn her, she was not going to die here and join that river of faces.
      As gently as I could, I lifted Arlene's bleeding body in my arms and carried her out of that circle of hell. Her rasping breath was a call to arms, a signal that life and hope still remained in the young gal.
      I set her down at the end of the corridor; the lift door was blocked by a river of what appeared to be lava. Hoping the red stuff was at least no worse than the green stuff, I dashed across into an alcove where a single switch mocked me.
      I flipped it, causing a path to rise up through the "lava." So far, so good. I ran back, grabbed Arlene, and walked across the path as quickly as possible.
      At the last step before reaching the lift, I heard a grinding noise from behind. I paused and looked back: a new path rose slowly, leading to an alcove hidden from view except from where I now stood.
      The cubbyhole contained another one of the blue-face spheres that I thought I'd never see again, the one item that I had hesitated to tell Arlene about because it seemed so incredible.
      The sight was like another of the adrenaline bursts. Quickly, before the path could lower again, I powered her across, not bothering to stop and pick up pieces of equipment that fell from us, some landing on the path, some lost in the lava. I had a great terror that the sphere would fly away just before I got there, like a carnival balloon just out of reach.
      I reached it, hesitated for a moment--then literally threw Arlene onto the sphere to make sure I wouldn't be the one to touch it first.
      With a nearly audible silent pop, the blue liquid was all over her; and the red liquid on her body, the blood, evaporated into the blue. Arlene sat up and coughed, looking like someone coming out of a deep sleep.
      "How do you feel?"
      "My shoulder hurts like a son of a bitch. What the hell happened?"
      "Pinkie decided to have you for a midnight snack. I put him on a diet. You sure you're all right?"
      Standing up, she shook her arm, staring in wonder at the shredded sleeve and tooth marks. "What in god's name did you do to me?"
      I figured the time had finally come to tell her about the magical blue spheres. She had no trouble believing me.

LIFT SCENE
  The lift had barely begun to grind slowly downward when suddenly Arlene reached past me and pushed the red "kill" button. The elevator stopped, falling silent.
      "Why did you kill the power?"
      She stared at me before answering. For a moment I had a terrible fear that something had gone wrong with the blue sphere and she was going to turn into a zombie in front of me. Instead she asked, "Fly, are you starving, or is it just me?" I shook my head. She continued: "Maybe it's that blue thing, but I'm so famished I could swallow one of those pink demons."
      "How about floating pumpkin pie for dessert?"
      "And I'm suddenly exhausted. Fly, I need some sleep." I had completely lost track of the supplies. Arlene hadn't. "Don't you ever listen to training videos? Never wander into battle without MREs." She demonstrated the truth of her maxim. Suddenly, I realized I was hungrier than I thought. A Meal Ready to Eat sounded like the finest, gourmet cuisine in the solar system.
      "A stopped elevator as a secure base. I never would've thought of it."
      "Next best thing to a Holiday Inn," she added, raising an eyebrow. Arlene showed a domestic side that sur- prised me. While we talked, she took the packages of freeze-dried food and mixed them in the water of her canteen. "Sorry it'll be cold," she said as I watched her shake the contents with the skill of a bartender preparing the perfect martini.
      "That's all right, beautiful. I like cold--" I picked up the package, glanced at the title. "--cold beef stew."
      I also liked the fact that Arlene was alive. As we chowed down, I felt the strongest emotions since finding her on Deimos.
      Maybe she sensed the inappropriate feelings coming off me in waves. She lowered her head and blinked rapidly, as if stopping herself from crying by main force.
      "What's wrong?" I asked.
      "Don't want to tell you."
      "Why not?"
      She hesitated. "Willy," she said. "PFC Dodd."
      "Oh." I squirmed uncomfortably.
      "I've been forcing myself not to think about him. He's dead, isn't he? Or ... worse."
      "You don't know that! I thought you were dead or reworked, but I found you alive."
      "Find anybody else?"
      I didn't say anything.
      "Fly, I've accepted the fact. That he's dead, I mean. I don't think I could face--the other possibility." She looked up, her eyes moist but not tearing. "Promise me something."
      "Anything possible."
      "If we find him and he is, you know . . . and if I can't do it... will you? Promise? And don't mention him again."
      I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Funny lump in my throat. Yeah, babe; I'll be happy to blow away my rival for your hand if he should happen to turn up a zombie. No problemo!

COMING UP WITH A NAME FOR THE IMPS
I pointed at the brown carcass of a spiny. "So if you don't want me calling it a demon," I said, "how about a spiny?"
      "How about an imp?"
      "An imp?"
      "Why not? I had a book of fairy tales when I was a kid with goblins and things. The picture closest to this critter had the caption 'imp.' It was playing with magical fire."
      Our game was becoming fun. We didn't have a lot of entertainment at the moment. "I dunno," I said. "Some- thing about the head reminds me of an old monster movie about a fish-guy who lived in a lagoon."
      "He's an imp," she insisted, reminding me that tough Marine or not, she was still a woman.
      My mother didn't raise any fools. "He's an imp," I agreed.
      "We should name the others, too," she said, encouraged. "We've got zombies, imps, demons or pinkies, and hell-princes. What do we call the rest?"
      I laughed. "That's pretty biblical, isn't it?"
      She stared blankly.

ARLENE NEEDS SOME ENCOURAGEMENT (lol)
 Too many, too many monsters, monsters, monsters," I muttered.
      "Monsters, monsters everywhere," she echoed. "I don't suppose it matters if there are any new types. We're doomed no matter what."
      "Don't say that, Arlene. We've been able to kill everything we've come up against so far. That matters. The weapons and ammunition give us a fighting chance."
      "Rats in a maze," she said in a tone of voice new to her. She sounded defeated. I didn't like that one bit. "You were right, Fly. Even if we always find enough ammo, it won't save us. There are millions of them. They are testing us."
      They are!
      At a moment like this I realized how important it was that we had each other. I'd experienced this same sense of defeat on Phobos, and for less cause. Now it was my turn to encourage the natural fighting spirit that burned so deeply in her.
      "Then how we respond to this is part of the test, as well. We won't defeat them by firepower. That's only to buy us time so we can reason out a solution."
      She looked at me without blinking and asked, "Fly, what if there is no solution?"
      "Don't believe that!" I urged, and in so doing helped convince myself. "If they were unbeatable, they wouldn't need to collect data on us."
      That took some of the shadows out of her dark mood. "Don't worry," she said. "I won't let you down."
      She'd been my buddy, my pal. We'd been careful not to confuse the issue by trying to be lovers. But this was the right moment to take her in my arms, bring our faces close together and whisper, "It's you and me. We'll go to the end together. We'll make them pay for everything."
      "Outstanding," she said breathily, transforming the traditional Marine bravado into something very different. A moment passed between us that reminded me of the time we could have been lovers and chose buddies instead. Now I kissed her hard and she responded. We might not have another chance. And we weren't going any farther than this; not in a place where we could so easily be reworked into dead meat, still on the hoof.
"I'm feeling better," she said. "My brain is working again. You know, we're in a good spot to do some damage."

CHAINSAW TIME
  "Hold fire!" It was Arlene's voice, and I couldn't imagine that she'd gone nuts. I risked turning my head. She stood in the doorway, holding the chain saw. Then with a chugga-mmmmmm, chuggga-mmmmmm, she pulled the cord. Third time was the charm, and it kicked to life with an honest roar to drown out all but a steam-demon's scream.
      Elbowing past me, she lifted the buzzing blade and let the teeth bite into the nearest demon. "Die, Pinkie, die!" she screamed. It sounded odd, but the results were great: red blood splashed us both, and she kept at it, screaming a war cry that just might scare a fallen angel.
      Arlene waded through them, working the saw, beads of sweat and drops of blood covering her face. A demon arm fell to the floor, blood exploding in a torrent. She slipped on the gore, but the movement carried her forward and the saw buried itself in the chest of the next demon, ripping a death gurgle from the creature.
      I tried to get to her to help, but the demon corpses were in the way. She worked the chain saw loose but fell backward, swinging it in a wide arc. A large demon swung its claw down hard and knocked the chain saw out of her hand.
      Before Arlene could get away, another claw ripped her open. She didn't scream but fell silently.
      The sight drove me mad. Somewhere in the back of my mind I'd accepted the likelihood of our being blown to bits; but I wouldn't have us die like animals!
      Picking up the saw, I revved it and finished the damned job, shoving the blade into the face of the one who had hurt her. I lost count of how many were left but I kept at it, swinging the chain saw back and forth, covering the walls with gore. Finally, there was nothing left to kill.
      The red haze lifted and I remembered Arlene. Turning back, I saw that Ritch was with her, trying to stanch the bleeding with improvised first-aid. My right sleeve was already in tatters, so it was a simple matter to rip off a strip of cloth and use it for bandages. We patched her up as best we could.
      Her face was pale and she was weak; but she was alive. "Can you move?" I asked.
      "Move or die," she wheezed, "so I'll move." We helped her stand up. I started to pick up her shotgun and pass it to Ritch, but she shook her head. "That's mine," she said, reclaiming it proudly. I wasn't about to argue.

---

We started to bypass the collapsing pier, going for the other door instead; but suddenly Arlene said, "Fly, I have a feeling we should duplicate our actions as precise- ly as we can."
      "Arlene, last time the demons creamed you in that narrow hallway," I reminded her. She nodded, a bit shaky at the thought. She wasn't in any condition to survive a bout like that again. I pursued the point: "We've already deviated by not taking Weems's and Yoshida's pistols and by killing the pumpkins outside."
      "I know," she said. "I don't have any good argument except for female intuition." I was about to make a crack about the unlikelihood of that particular attribute in Arlene Sanders, but I saw that she was deadly serious. She glared at me until I saw reason.
      We left Ritch in the corridor. He wasn't in shape for what we had in mind. Of course, after we cleared a path for him, he could stroll through in relative safety. We ran like bats out of Deimos down the pier, this time charging through the illusory wall of flame and blowing away the imps we knew to be on the other side.
      There was another reason I'd insisted we leave Ritch behind, one I kept to myself: I half thought we'd find a second Bill Ritch hanging from the ceiling here.
      We didn't. . . and I never brought the subject up to Arlene or Ritch. God only knows whether they thought of it themselves--probably, but they kept quiet as well.
      We slipped back by the secret corridor and used the same trick on the pumpkins and imps inside the room. It was a lot easier when we knew what to expect. This time I knew where the last pumpkin would be floating in ambush when I opened the door, and I enjoyed not being surprised. Pop goes the pumpkin.
      Crossing the patio, Arlene grabbed the chain saw and revved it up; but she made me promise to start shooting the moment she lost it this time. Except that this time, since she knew what to expect, she didn't slip and wasn't out of position where a demon could knock the chain saw out of her hand. She ducked. She weaved. She sawed all the demons to death. It was hard to believe she'd been seriously injured only a short time before; but having a chance to get it right the second time did wonders for her psychological recovery.

ARLENES BOYFRIEND AS A ZOMBIE
 "Zombie!" Ritch called out anti-anticlimactically. No one ever shot at us with human weapons except former humans. Another shot missed high, but there was no third attempt on Yours Truly.
      Arlene turned to fire--and froze! "F-Fly . . ." she whispered hoarsely.
      I stared. Jesus; it was Arlene's worst nightmare come true. Wilhelm Dodd, or what was left of him, lurched toward our little group, shifting his twelve-gauge to get a better shot.
Arlene stared at him approaching, her mouth open, face pale as a ghost. I didn't want to do it, but she'd made me promise!
      Feeling sick, I raised my own weapon. I knew what would happen: I would blow the f'ing SOB away--and Arlene would hate me for the rest of her natural life . . . which might not be a very long time at that.
      Then a miracle happened.
      Just as my finger tightened on the trigger, Arlene's face suddenly hardened. The color returned. She closed her mouth.
      Then she pumped a shell into the receiver, shouldered her riot gun, and blew the zombie-Dodd's face off.
      Nobody said anything; Ritch took his cue from our awkward silence. I put my hand on Arlene's shoulder, and she spoke. Her voice croaked like a rusty can tied behind a very old car. "He was already gone, Fly. And I didn't want him to come between my buddy and me."
      There was that damned peculiar lump again. I blinked --dust in my eye, I guess--and squeezed her shoulder so hard she winced. But she didn't move to push my hand away.
      She knew what would happen if I were the one to kill the reworked Wilhelm Dodd . . . and she wouldn't allow that to happen.
      Evidently, our friendship was as important to her as it was to me.
      I'd forgotten that the zombies had ever been human; I made myself forget. But the staring face of Willy Dodd wouldn't let me get away with it any longer. He was a man, a Marine, and very important in my life. Now that he was gone--I didn't know what to think about Arlene and me.
      Best not to think at all, I advised me; it was good advice, and I took it.
      Arlene was taking it hard. Sitting on the floor, she put her head between her legs and took a series of long, deep breaths. I wanted to comfort her but felt helpless. "Arlene ..." I reached out to touch her. She shook her head and pulled away. Any other situation, I would have left her alone to mourn in private. But there was no privacy on Deimos except the solitude of the grave.
      Ritch understood what was going on and kept his mouth shut. I liked him more and more. I glanced at my wristwatch, a pointless act in this place, perhaps; but it helped somehow: a tiny act of useless normalcy.
      "Arlene," I said, gently as I could, "we've got to split. You need to pull it together."
      "Leave me alone!" she said, keeping her face turned away. "Don't look at me."
      This didn't seem like a good time to push the envelope. I'd never seen her this badly shaken; without another word, I sat down, back-to-back with her, and kept watch while she got it out of her system. Ritch stood a little farther up the hallway, gun out, eyes averted.
      Every so often her entire body shuddered; I pretended not to notice. When she finished, she wiped her eyes and stood up. "Let's move, Corporal," she said. She was a PFC and I outranked her, but it was all right. The fighting tone of voice was back.