Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [90]
Lieutenant Harold had used the last of his strength to drag himself out of the bunker, which had been the colony’s main residence complex until just about a day ago. The bunker was where the last of the colonists had huddled after the invaders destroyed the brave people in the administration center.
To the best of Harold’s knowledge, he was the outpost’s only survivor. And then, only barely. The skin on one side of his body was dark and cracked, the result of severe radiation burns. And something inside him had been damaged. Every few minutes, he coughed up blood and had to clench his teeth against the intolerable pain.
But at least he was alive. The others—the people with whom he had shared the bunker—were gone. Just like that, without a trace, except for the stink of disruptor energies that yet lingered in the still, hot air.
If he hadn’t been buried under a collapsing interior wall during one of the heavier salvos, he probably would have been just as dead as the rest of them—just as untraceable. As it was, the concealing debris had probably saved his life. It had kept the lizard-beings from finding him and frying him like the others.
Harold shivered at the thought of the invaders. He had only caught a glimpse of them, but it had been enough. They were as cruel-looking, as cold-blooded, and as efficient as their fiery green beams. Like many of his comrades, he had screamed for them not to shoot. After all, there were women and children in the bunker.
But none of that made any difference to the lizard men. They had simply fired their weapons of destruction. And fired. And fired.
And where were they now? Had they left, their hellish job accomplished? Or were they still here somewhere? Gazing across the plaza, Harold saw no evidence of them, only waves of shimmering desert heat. But then, it was difficult to trust his senses, what with all he had been through.
Steeling himself, he tried to pull his body forward again, in the direction of the ruined administration building. Maybe the communication system was still intact, he told himself. Maybe he could call for help, warn other colonies about the horror that had overcome them.
But as he inched ahead, a wave of nausea overtook him, and he started to dry-retch uncontrollably. Finally, spent, he looked up—hoping that he had made some progress toward the administration center, knowing full well that he hadn’t.
Gritting his teeth, he took another stab at it. This time, movement came a little easier. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not, but he continued crawling. And, eventually, reached the debris that was all that remained of the administration building.
Setting his back against a partially destroyed wall, he took a burning breath and let it out. There was no communication equipment here. There wasn’t anything at all, except a few twisted hunks of metal and some severed cables.
Then something caught his eye. Something moving across the plaza. His heart thudded in his chest. The invaders?
No. Not them, he realized. It was a handful of men in Starfleet uniforms. A landing party—a couple of them in gold shirts like his own, another one in the red shirt of operations, three more in the blue of science and medicine. And they were coming his way, as if they had spotted him and wanted to help.
Unless … they were a mirage. They could have been, too. An illusion born of suffering and fever, of wanting and needing, aided and abetted by the blinding rays of the afternoon sun.
No. Illusions didn’t talk. And he could hear these men talking, their words getting louder and louder, more and more distinct as they approached. Finally, they were right in front of him, and there was no doubt as to their authenticity. They were close enough now, and tangible enough, for him to see that one of them was a Vulcan.
Two of the men knelt beside him—a goldshirt with captain’s bars on his sleeve and a doctor. The physician pulled up one of Harold’s eyelids as he activated his tricorder.
“Shock,” he announced. “Radiation