Bad Compony

by ReadStart


2. - Over the What Blue Yonder?

Well, looks like the gang’s all here,” Sweets smiled. “All without so much as a scratch.”

Sarge saw a glimpse of me and pointed out otherwise. “Uh, ‘not a scratch’?’”

Er… ok, metaphorically I guess.”

God damn, the Hell where you jumped by?” He gawked, “I heard some gunfire—but your rig looks like confetti for Christ’s sake! And what’s that pine smell?”

“He... had a bit of a tussle with the 'local fauna',” Sweets admitted, “B-but I’ve checked him, he’s fine, Sarge! No chance of him bleeding out on us.”

I gave a weak grin to Sarge as he looked back at me.

God… what mauled your ass in the first place?” he asked.

“Ooh, I know!” Hags claimed, “It was these little, coyote-sized dogs! They're runnin’ all over the place, and I got a few ‘em—and they 've got these weird, green glowin’ eyes, and wood for skin—Red, I’m serious! And if my money's where my mouth is—I think we're dealin' with... Chupacabras.”

Gahdamnit Hags, don’t get all ‘conspiracy’ on me now! That’s Sweet’s specialty, not yours.”

Hey, I’m not–”

“–Naw, c’mon, Sarge!” he cut off Sweets, “I’m tellin ya they're real! If you’d seen half the proof I have for those little goat-suckers, you'd be able to start your own museum for–”

“–Just shut it, Haggard,” Sarge finally told him. “Sweetwater? You found out where we are yet? We should get on with start boy-scoutin’ our asses outta here before nightfall.”

“Oh… well, Sarge. I don’t think that’s happening.” Sweets pulled out a GPS tracker, only to show a “GPS SIGNAL LOST/NOT RECEIVING” error flashing on the screen. “I’ve been trying to get a ping since landing, and I've already ruled out batteries and a bad receiver…”

Sarge grabbed it from him and took it over to a clearing in the branches. He thumbed a button on the side and still got nothing. “Huh… Uh, think we can just wait for it to reconnect or what?”

“No—augh, this isn’t just something we can wait on, Redford! We aren't just off course, we are lost!” Sweets snatched it back and threw it for a bit of percussive maintenance on the side of a tree. After watching Sweet’s confidence die in front of us, I’d realized we were a bit in trouble... at least more trouble than what those wolves were.

Well? You ain’t getting a signal or what?” Hags asked from a distance.

“No, it’s not even getting a ping from up there, be it a civvy or mil net satellite! Not a damn dime of all of our fucking tax dollars up there are working on US fucking soil!” He paused for a breather. “But that’s not the part that scares me… I mean... either everything up there's knocked out—or we are not where we think we are!

“Knocked out?” I weighed in, “That’s… impossible, trashing everything in space in an hour?”

“Exactly!” Sweets pointed to me. “Not even that Scalar field would’ve had the range to hit ‘em that far out!” He took another moment to calm down. “You... know what though? I might know why everything’s so off here—why we're in this bind in the first place. Now sure, as far as my theories usually go, it might sound like I’m speaking out of a crack pipe… but if you let me expl–”

“Good God, I knew it!” Hags crossed his arms and leaned back against another tree. “This one better be some mind-blowing shit to waste our sweet time out here, Sweetwater.”

"Oh, oh no! Now this is just as brain-fondling as theories come, pal. Just be glad I did all that research on Kirilenko’s toys."

"Very, very little..."

He paused again, folding his hands in a professor’s cradle while pacing around, readying himself to explain everything in simple English. "Ahh… Alright: So, creating a Scalar field calls for a very, very exact amount of energy in a molecular-sized space—that’s the basic idea—and if you pump in too little energy into the equation, nothing happens. Too much energy and the field resonates within itself, collapses, and doesn't last long enough to do shit. But—if you were to go way overboard with the power in the core's final moment by—I dunno—shooting out a breaker or something—”

He looked at me as he said that part.

“—I... read in an interesting paper while we were looking for that Sangre del Toro ship—that I really regret skimming over now. It talked about the possibility... of a hypothesis... that you—might just be able to theoretically create a wormhole if you fuck it up hard enough that could potential drop us somewhere else in the universe.” He ended his lecture with a worried smile on his face.

Bullshit–” “No way in Hell, Jose–” Hags and I spoke out together, all while Sarge threw up his hands, turned back, and trailed-off behind us.

“No—now look, look! I’m not saying that’s what happened—but it makes a lot of sense to me that–”

“–Oh, of course it makes sense to ya, Mr. Space Odyssey. Did ya leave your brain back on the plane, or did the Martians scoop it out it first?”

C'mon! Like you’ve got a better idea that almost explains everything!”

“Why yes—I do have one: It’s called getting lost on a day GPS is out. Now, we may not be in Texas, but we sure as Hell gotta be somewhere in the USA.”

I don’t think so, Hags…

“Say what Sarge?”

I turned to see Sarge looking up at the sky as he went on, “That ain’t the same Sun I’ve seen for 44 fuckin’ years.”

I was going to ask, “Why?” But I saw my answer as clear as day.

With all that had been happening, I guess no one thought about looking up. The sun was now a yellow-ish circle with an orange ring of fire seemingly… drawn on it. It belonged on a fridge more than it did in the sky. And like a scribble hung up by magnets, we could stare right at it. It wasn't... there’s no way you could look at it and call it normal. We were all shocked to see something that’s always been there was just so… wrong now. Hags was spooked enough to aim his shotgun at the thing.

“No! N-naw, that ain’t—that can’t be real! It’s all wrong!” he yelped.

“But… it's where all the shadows are being cast from,” Sweets muttered with a sense of disbelief.

“Hmm—Feels warm too,” Sarge added.

“That’s... new,” was all I managed to say.

Damn, good eye Marlow,” Sarge chuckled.

"It isn’t gonna blow up on us, is it, Sarge?"

"The Hell you askin' me that, Hags?"

“Well, ya did notice it first.”

Bah, let’s just… act like it ain't a problem ‘till it becomes one, alright?”

Hah, if you really think–” Sarge gave Hags a hand to zip it as he turned to Sweets.

"Sweetwater, I should be questioning my ability to lead for saying this—but for the time being… we're gonna have to go off that theory of yours."

“HA Haaa, yes!” He pointed his fingers to do a few air jabs at Hags. “See? I told you it made sense you–.”

“–But here’s what we’re doin' now,” Sarge droned out Sweets, “We’ll head over to secure what we can from what’s left of that plane—then we’ll get on outta these woods. I don’t care if the dirt under us is Earth or not; Ain’t no use in dying lost out here. We all clear on that?”

Sweets raised a hand. “Where exactly is the crash?”

Sarge pointed at a break in the treetops behind Sweets to a trail of smoke pouring into the sky. “That looks promisin’,” he said, “Now, let's get goin'… Hell, we probably need to check if Kirilenko still needs a warm welcome.”

Sheeit,” Hags smiled. “Judgin’ by that fall, 20 bucks says we won’t recognize that poor S.O.B.”


The crash was three clicks out from us, and we arrived without another encounter. That was the good news. The bad was that sections of the cabin were thrown around everywhere, still partially intact, and tossed around an area the size of a golf course. But somehow through all of that… the housing for the super-weapon was still in one major piece. We checked it out first.

“Well, Hags—I’m givin’ you a chance to come clean: were you bettin’ 20 against all or one of us?”

Hags turned back to Sarge after prying open the jammed bulkhead door to the weapon control room. “Uhh… shit—reckon I’ll just… give it to Pres. Once we get back to the States.”

“Fine by me,” I chirped.

Sweets then confronted him on his choice before we moved on. “Oh, you gotta be kidding me. You’re just giving it to him because you still think ‘newbie’ here is gonna die on us, aren’t you?”

“Wuh—I AM not…”

Ignoring their arguing, I started to think about the more immediate issues. Somehow, Kirilenko was in one piece after the crash—still stuck in his soapbox.

Backtracking to our time of the plane, Sweets and I saw Kirilenko after the weapon went off. He was stuck behind the door to the armored 'soapbox’ he kept taunting us from using the plane's intercoms. The door was warped shut by the C4 used to blast past the armored-glass housing, which was what caused the plane to break up in the first place. I shuffled over to the door before jumping to knock on the porthole window and give him a one-finger salute. He stopped trying to break out of the door and just glared at me—both of us knowing it was over for him.

Anyway, he died on arrival—and was made more dead after Hags spazzed out and lit up his body after prying the door to the box open. His head was still in one piece—showing a deep gash over his forehead from the landing.

After arguing with Sweets, Hags closed the door on the Russian and we backed off the soapbox. Sweets strolled around and took a second look at the Scalar core's mount, which was in an unnervingly decent shape, considering its history. He pointing out the damage to what looked like a fuse box to me, claiming it as evidence to his theory.

Sarge had been ignored us and managed to climb on top of a cabin to take a long look around the site, and soon called us over to rally under him.

“Ok... looks clear from here… Boys, start digging ‘round for anythin’ we can use! I’ll be lookin’ further 'round the crash for somethin’ we're gonna need. Let’s meet up, say… here in an hour or two. Should have some good stuff then. Keep your coms open.”

Sweets and I nodded, but Hags spoke up. “Wait... our tac-com radio stuff still works?”

Sarge shrugged and pressed on his earpiece. “No shit,” he mocked on-air, “Sweets?”

“Yeah, of course I read—” he hailed back, “—But mind you, we're only on AM transmission now, not a satellite set-up. We should be good for one or two miles at best now–”

“–Why the Hell ain’t my piece workin’, technotard?” Hags asked shaking the mic in his hand.

“Uh… is it on?”

Godalmighty, Sweetwater…” Hags flipped it on and stuck it in his ear. “Alright, I’m good. Let’s get’er done.”


An hour and a half went by as smoothly as they could in a plane wreck. We scraped the plane for Spetsnaz surplus, or whatever that unit on board had. Sweets hit up something akin to the barracks while Haggard's instincts lead him straight too what remained of an armory. It was crushed under the floor of a cabin, so it was a tight squeeze—but that didn’t stop him.

I was… doing the dirty work, looting a few of the bodies tossed around the place before Hags called me over to help him.

“Damn—looks like… hmmfp—they were ready for one helluva fight with what they’ve got down here. Oof-” He crawled out of the hold with five other guns strapped to him. “There’s like—30 more where that came from to dig through… Hey, catch these will ya?” Hags slung all the guns off him and tossed them at me. One slipped into the dirt through my arms, since catching 50 pounds of gun doesn't come naturally.

Hey! Watch yourself with those; you’re gonna be cleanin’ off what ya drop!”

“You’re throwing rifles at him and you’re telling him to be careful?” Sweets passed by us with three duffle-bags worth of stuff to add to the pile near some old elf-house looking tree.

"Well, we ain’t exactly got a rulebook to follow out here."

“And that means you can’t hand them off to Pres in a reasonable manner?”

“No… but it don’t make me wanna either.”

After making his way back with his next haul, Sweets asked something else. “You know, how are we even moving this gear anyway? I’m not hiking 20 miles with three bags, six guns, and a few thousand rounds on me.”

Hags quickly popped out of his hole to backtalk Sweets, “Gee, I dunno? Where do you keep all your negativity? That seems like a big-ass space we could use.”

"Oh, get some new material, you thick-headed hick," Sweets shot back.

“Well, why don’t ya go find Sarge and whine to him ‘bout that? Fuckin’ cheese puff… Also, Pres? Could you get this one for me—thanks.” Hags had a recoilless launcher ready for me at my feet to haul off.

The conversation died until Sweets brought back a few more bags. “My question still stands, guys.”

I decided to take a jab at it. “There were vehicles stored on the plane, right? GAZ Vodniks?”

“Oh yeah—yeah, I remember ducking behind a few of ‘em. But I haven't seen them anywhere. Might have just spread way out during the fall… do you think that’s what Sarge is looking for?”

“Hope so!” Hags muffled voice called from the hold, “There’s enough room in one of those Vod’s to carry us and all the gear we’ll need out here, includin’ your attitude.”

“Oh, ok. So what about for your infinite ignorance? That black hole of information between your ears has quite the mass there, you sure it’ll carry that?”

Well, it’s got more of a chance to fit in there than you stand to get some pus-”

Sarge then called in through coms, “Boys, listen up… guess what I’ve just found? Over,” he… almost seemed to giggle.

“You… got eyes on wheels, over?” I guessed.

Excellent guess, Marlow! For being correct, I’ll give you the chance to drive this baby back to the dump you’re in. Now get over to your Southwest-ish. Bring a jerry can if you can fi—The fuck is that?”

“Sarge? Somethin’ spook ya, over?” Hags chimed in.

Yeah, I’m lookin’ at some—flying, Goddamn, chicken-lizard thing now, and it’s real pissed… whuh? Ah? AHHh- Shit! My foot! Get over here! Shits happenin’ and this thang’s closin’ in on me, God!

Sweets grabbed a sloshy fuel can from the stash and we both ran vaguely towards the Southwest with guns in hand. Hags was stuck squeezing out of the armory, still talking to Sarge.

"Hey, just shoot it if you think it's gonna bite ya.”

“It ain’t that! I—I can’t pull my rifle on it, dammit! This is some bullahrgghh! Don’t… look ah-” His voice sputtered out.

“Sarge? Sarge! Saaaarrge! God, dang-dammit, he’s out! Y’all two get after him, I’ll catch up!”