Spots: Holes

A Web Serial by M.C.A. Hogarth

74. In the dark.	76. Butterflies.

75. Holes

Control Room. Peaches leans over, staring at the monitor. "Recon 1, this is Lieutenant Bonnet. Can you give us better footage of that door?"

[ Base ] Claws : Control, this is Recon 1. We're on it, ma'am.

He and Spots examine the door, mounted into a pocket.

Spots, brushing at its surface. "Looks like they reapply the dirt? It's real, not painted."

Claws. "Not real high tech, that. Hell if we almost walked right past it though."

Spots. "Fortunately we were looking."

[ Base ] Claws : Control, we're gonna go through.

[ Base ] Control 1 : Copy that, Recon 1.

He and Spots share a hesitation... then they both step through—

—into a long, narrow corridor.

—a very, very long narrow corridor. Barely wide enough for them to stretch their arms apart, but extending far behind their lights.

Claws. "What the..."

Spots touches his arm and points down. Every ten feet there's a hole.

Claws. "****."

Spots approaches one, crouches next to it and slowly... slowly bends to look over the edge. "Black as pitch. Must be deep."

Claws joins her. "Crap. It's just wide enough for one of 'em to climb straight up, ain't it."

Spots. "Look at the gouges in the walls. They probably use their pincers as pitons."

Claws looks over his shoulder at the row of holes. "How many you think? Seventy? Ninety?"

Spots. "We could count them..."

[ Base ] Peaches : Negative, Recon 1. We have mechanical drones for a reason. Time to head back.

[ Base ] Claws : Yes, ma'am.

He pauses, then passes a gloved hand through the dirt until he finds a small stone. "One more thing. Hey, Spots, boost your audio." He holds the stone above the hole. "Start," he says, dropping it. He and Spots lean forward. When it makes a noise:

Claws. "Stop."
Spots. "There."

Claws. "That should give 'em something to estimate depth." He stands. "All right, I'm done."

They step out. While Claws closes the door, Spots crouches alongside the crab she killed. "Hey, Claws?"

"Yeah?"

"Look at this."

Claws examines the corpse. "Looks like a Mark One? Like the junk crabs they've been throwin' at us."

Spots. "It looks like a Mark One, Claws. But look here, along the sides. And here, along the spine. The seams are different. And there's a pattern, a matte pattern. Same color, different texture."

Claws. "You ain't tellin' me this is a disguised bug."

Spots. "I'm telling you it doesn't look like the Mark Ones we've been killing."

Claws. "..."

[ Base ] Claws : Control, this is Recon 1. Ma'am, we gotta anomalous crab here. You want us to drag it in?

[ Base ] Peaches : Recon 1, this is the Lieutenant. If you can get it back, then yes. But if at any point you run into trouble, you drop it and run, understood?

[ Base ] Claws : Copy that, ma'am.

She and Claws share a look, then they each take a leg and start dragging.

Claws, muttering. "I'm touching a freakin' cockroach."

Spots. "A costumed cockroach."

Claws. "A spyin' cockroach."

Spots. "That almost sounds like a song."

Claws. "The lyin' spyin' cockroach? Ain't done nobody good?"

Spots. "Picked a fine time to leave me!"

Claws. "Four thousand children and a crop in the Warren..."

Spots. "..."

Spots. "Wow, you're too young to know that song."

Claws. "Pshaw. Who don't know 'Lucille'? That's classic."

Spots, muttering. "Way to make a girl feel old, Claws."

Claws, mock prim. "Classic is a compliment, ma'am."

Spots. "You get back to me about that in a decade or two."

74. In the dark.	76. Butterflies.