by Dean Koontz
The light behind the milky glass winked out, and Leland took his hand away. The inner door opened.
They stepped into a huge natural tunnel that had been improved by human hands. The domed rock overhead was lost in darkness because the lighting fixtures were suspended from black metal scaffolding, creating the illusion of a ceiling perhaps twenty or thirty feet below the true ceiling. The tunnel was sixty feet across and led into the mountain about a hundred and twenty yards. In some places the rock walls had natural contours, but in other places they carried the imprints of dynamite blasts and jackhammers and other tools that had been used to widen the narrow portions of the passageway. Incoming trucks could drive along the concrete floor to unloading bays beside immense cargo elevators that went down into deeper regions of the facility.
A guard sat at a table beyond the door by which Leland and Horner entered. Considering the remoteness of Thunder Hill, the extent of sophisticated defenses, and the thoroughness with which VIGILANT examined all visitors, a lone sentry seemed superfluous to Leland.
Evidently, the sentry was of that same opinion, for he was not prepared for trouble. His revolver was holstered. He was eating a candy bar. Reluctantly, he looked up from an old novel by Jack Finney.
He wore a coat because the open areas of the Depository were never heated; only the enclosed living quarters and work areas were kept warm. An enormous power supply was provided by a mini hydroelectric plant that harnessed an underground river, plus backup diesel generators, but there was not enough to warm the mammoth caverns. The subterranean temperature was a stable fifty-five degrees, quite bearable if one dressed for long work periods in the chilly air, as the guard had done.
He saluted. “Colonel Falkirk, Lieutenant Horner, you’re cleared to see Dr. Bennell. You know how to find him, of course.”
“Of course,” Falkirk said.
Ten feet to the left, the burnished steel surface of the giant blast doors glimmered softly in the fluorescent light, looking rather like the sheer face of a great glacier. Leland and Lieutenant Homer turned right, away from the big doors, and walked deeper into the mountain, toward the elevators.
Thunder Hill Depository was equipped with hydraulic lifts of three sizes, the largest of which rivaled the enormous elevators on aircraft carriers. A carrier’s lifts were used to bring planes from the ship’s hold onto the flight deck, and Thunder Hill’s also lowered and raised planes, among other things. In addition to 2.4 billion dollars of equipment and materiel—freeze-dried food, medicine, portable field hospitals, clothing, blankets, tents, handguns, rifles, mortars, field artillery, ammunition, light military vehicles such as Jeeps and armored personnel carriers, and twenty backpack nukes—the vast storage dump contained a variety of useful aircraft. First, the helicopters: thirty Sikorsky S-67 Blackhawk antitank gun-ships; twenty Bell Kingcobras; eight Anglo-French Westland Pumas, general purpose transports; and three big Medevac choppers. No conventional aircraft were stored at Thunder Hill, but there were twelve vertical takeoff jets of the type manufactured in England by Hawker Siddeley and known there as Harriers, but which were called AV-8As when in U.S. service. Because the Harriers were equipped with powerful vectored-thrust engines, the craft could land and take off vertically, without need of a runway. In a grave crisis—for example, subsequent to a limited nuclear strike and a land invasion by enemy troops—the aircraft of Thunder Hill, both choppers and Harriers, could be lifted to the top level, rolled out through the massive blast doors, and sent hurtling into the sky.
However, the current crisis did not involve war or require the unleashing of the Depository’s aircraft, so Leland and the lieutenant bypassed the two immense elevators. They also passed the two smaller but still oversize cargo elevators, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls, and took one of the three smallest cabs—about the size of a standard lift in a hotel—down into the bowels of Thunder Hill.
Medical supplies, food, guns, and all ammunition were stored on the third level, the bottom floor of the complex, in a network of chambers which had been caulked, equipped with pressure-release bores, and fitted with doors for the purpose of blast containment. On the second—the middle—level, all the vehicles and aircraft were kept in other huge caverns, and it was there, too, that the staff lived and worked.
Leland and Lieutenant Homer got off the lift at the second level. They stepped into a lighted, circular, rock-wall chamber three hundred feet in diameter. It served as a hub—in fact, personnel called it The Hub—from which four other caverns opened; and still more rooms lay beyond those four. The larger of those deep vaults contained—among other things—the aircraft, Jeeps, and armored personnel carriers.
There were no doors on three of the four caverns which led off The Hub, for there was no serious danger of fire or explosion on that level. But the fourth chamber did, indeed, have doors, for it contained the secret of July 6, which Leland and many others had conspired to conceal. He stopped now, a few steps out of the elevator, to study those portals, which were twenty-six feet high and sixty-four feet wide. They were made of cross-braced two-by-fours rather than steel, because they had been jerry-built to meet an emergency situation; there had been no time to order a fabricated metal door to close off the cavern. They reminded the colonel of the enormous wooden doors in the wall that had protected the frightened natives from the beast on the other half of their island in the original King Kong. Considering what lay behind these doors, that horror-movie image did not inspire confidence. Leland shuddered.
Lieutenant Horner said, “Still gives you the creeps, huh?”
“You mean you’re comfortable with it now?”
“Hell, no, sir. Hell, no.”
Inset in the bottom of one of those huge wooden barriers was a much smaller, man-sized door through which researchers entered and exited the room beyond. An armed guard was positioned there to allow entrance only to those with the proper pass. The activities in that forbidden chamber had nothing to do with the other—primary—functions of the Depository, and ninety percent of the personnel were not permitted access to the area. Indeed, ninety percent did not know what was in that cavern.
Around the circumference of The Hub, between the openings to other caverns, buildings had been erected along the walls and anchored to the rock. The structures dated to the first year of the Depository’s construction, back in the early 1960s. Then, they had served as offices for engineers, superintendents, and the Army’s project officers. Over the years, an entire subterranean town had been erected in other caverns —sleeping quarters, cafeteria, recreation rooms, laboratories, machine shops, vehicle service center, computer rooms, even a PX, among other things. They were now occupied by the military and government personnel who were doing one- and two-year tours of duty at Thunder Hill. In the buildings, there was heat, better lighting, inside and outside telephone lines, kitchens, bathrooms, and all the myriad comforts df home. They were constructed of metal panels coated with baked blue or white or gray enamel, with only small windows and narrow metal doors. Though they had no wheels, they somewhat resembled motor homes or house trailers drawn in a circle, as if they were the property of a modern-day encampment of gypsies who had found their way to this snug haven, 240 feet below the winter snows.
Now, turning from the forbidden chamber with the wooden doors, Leland walked across The Hub toward a white metal structure—Dr. Miles Bennell’s offices. Lieutenant Homer fell in dutifully at his side.
The summer before last, Miles Bennell (whom Leland Falkirk loathed) had moved into Thunder Hill to head all scientific inquiry into the events of that fateful July night. He’d only been out of the Depository on three occasions since then, never for longer than two weeks. He was obsessed with his assignment. Or something worse than obsessed.
A dozen officers, enlisted men, and civilians were in sight within The Hub, some crossing from one adjoining cavern to another, some just standing in conversation with one another. Leland looked them over as he passed them, unable to understan
d what kind of person would volunteer to work underground for weeks and months at a stretch. They were paid a thirty percent hardship bonus, but to Leland’s way of thinking, that was inadequate compensation. The Depository was less oppressive than Shenkfield’s small, windowless warrens, but not by much.
Leland supposed he was slightly claustrophobic. Being underground made him feel as if he were buried alive. As an admitted masochist, he should have relished his discomfort, but this was one kind of pain he did not seek or enjoy.
Dr. Miles Bennell looked ill. Like nearly everyone in Thunder Hill, he was pasty-faced from being too long beyond the reach of sunlight. His curly black hair and beard only made his pallor more pronounced. In the fluorescent glare of his office, he looked almost like a ghost. He greeted Leland and Lieutenant Horner curtly, and he did not offer to shake hands with either of them.
That suited the colonel fine. He was no friend of Bennell’s. A handshake would have been sheer hypocrisy. Besides, Leland was half-afraid that Miles Bennell had been compromised, that the scientist was no longer who or what he appeared to be ... was no longer entirely human. And if’that crazy, paranoid possibility was in fact true, he wanted no physical contact with Bennell, not even a quick handshake.
“Dr. Bennell,” Leland said coldly, using the hard tone of voice and icy demeanor that always elicited quaverous obedience, “your handling of this security breach has been either criminally inept, or you’re the traitor we’re looking for. Now, hear me loud and clear: this time, we’re going to find the bastard who sent those Polaroid snapshots—no more broken lie detectors, no more botched interrogations—and we’re going to find out if he’s the one who teased Jack Twist into returning, and we’re going to come down on him so hard he’ll wish he’d been born a fly and spent his life in a stable sucking up horseshit.”
Utterly unruffled, Miles Bennell smiled and said, “Colonel, that was the best Richard Jaeckel impression I’ve ever seen, but entirely unnecessary. I’m as anxious as you to find the leak and plug it.”
Leland wanted to punch the son of a bitch. This was one reason he loathed Miles Bennell: The bastard could not be intimidated.
Calvin Sharkle lived on O‘Bannon Lane in a pleasant middle-class residential neighborhood in Evanston. Father Wycazik had to stop twice at service stations to ask directions. When he got to the comer of O’Bannon and Scott Avenue, only two blocks from Sharkle’s address, he was turned back by policemen manning an emergency barricade formed by two black-and-white cruisers and one paramedic van. There were also television crews running around with minicams.
He also knew at once that the trouble on O’Bannon Lane was not merely coincidental. Something was happening at the Sharkle house.
In spite of temperatures in the mid-twenties and wind gusting to thirty miles an hour, a crowd of about a hundred had gathered outside the police barricade—on the sidewalks and on the lawns of the corner houses. Passing traffic on Scott Avenue was slowed by gawkers, and Stefan had to drive almost two blocks at a frustratingly slow pace before he found a parking space.
When he walked back to the crowd and became part of it, seeking information from the well-bundled onlookers, Father Wycazik found that they were for the most part a friendly and strangely excited group. But creepy, too. Not blatantly weird. In fact, they were ordinary people—except for their totally insensitive fascination with the tragedy unfolding before them, as if it were as legitimate a source of thrills as a football game.
It was definitely a tragedy, and one of a particularly horrible nature, which Father Wycazik discovered a minute after he joined the crowd and began to ask questions. A florid-faced, mustachioed man in a plaid hunting jacket and toboggan hat said, “Jesus, man, don’t you watch the goddamned TV?” He was not the least restrained because he did not know he was talking to a priest; Stefan’s topcoat and scarf concealed all evidence of his holy office. “Christ, fella, that’s Sharkle down there. Sharkle the Shark, man. That’s what they’re callin’ him. Guy’s a dangerous loony. Been sealed up in his house there since yesterday, man. He shot him two of his neighbors and one cop already, and he’s got him two goddamn hostages who, if you ask me, got about as much chance as a fuckin’ cat at a Doberman convention.”
Tuesday morning, via Pacific Southwest Airlines, Parker Faine flew into San Francisco from Orange County, then caught a connecting West Air flight to Monterey. It was an hour’s trip up the California coast on PSA, a one-hour layover in San Francisco, and then only thirty-five minutes to Monterey. The journey seemed shorter because one of the other travelers, a pretty young woman, recognized his name, liked his paintings, and was in the mood to be enthralled by his burly charms.
In Monterey, at the small airport rental agency, he hired a vomit-green Ford Tempo. It was an offense to his refined sense of color.
The Tempo’s tempo was satisfyingly allegro on flat roads but a bit adagio on the hills. Nevertheless, he required less than half an hour to find the address Dom had given him for Gerald Salcoe, the man who had stayed at the Tranquility Motel with his wife and two daughters on the night of July 6, and who had thus far been unreachable by both phone and Western Union. It was a big Southern Colonial manor house, hideously out of place on the California coast, set on a prime half-acre, in the shade of massive pines, with enough elaborately tended shrubbery to employ a gardener one full day a week, including beds of impatiens that blazed with red and purple flowers even now, in January.
Parker swung the Tempo into the majestic circular driveway and parked in front of broad, flower-bordered steps that led up to a deep pillared veranda. In the shadows of the trees, there was sufficient gloom to require lights indoors, but he saw none at the front windows. All of the drapes were tightly shut, and the house had a vacant look.
He got out of the Tempo, hurried up the steps, and crossed the wide veranda, voicing his objection to the chilly air as he went: “Brrrrrrr.” The area’s usual morning fog had cleared from the airport, permitting landings, but it was still clinging to this part of the peninsula, bearding the pines, weaving tendrils between their trunks, muting the impatiens’ brilliant blooms. Winter in northern California was a more bracing season than in Laguna Beach, and with the added damp chill of fog, it was not at all to Parker’s taste. He had come dressed for it, however, in heavy corduroy slacks, a green-plaid flannel shirt, a green pullover that mocked Izod-Lacoste by featuring a goofy-looking appliquéd armadillo on the breast instead of an alligator, and a three-quarter-length navy peacoat with sergeant’s stripes on one sleeve: quite an outfit, especially when accented by Day-Glo-orange running shoes. As he rang the doorbell, Parker looked down at himself and decided that maybe sometimes he dressed too eccentrically, even for an artist.
He rang the doorbell six times, waiting half a minute between each ring, but no one came.
Last night, when a man named Jack Twist had called him at eleven o‘clock from a pay phone in Elko, claiming to have a message from Dom, and had asked him to go to a specific pay phone in Laguna for a callback in twenty minutes, Parker had still been working on a new and exciting painting that he had begun at three o’clock that afternoon. Nevertheless, deeply involved as he was with the work, he had hastened to the booth as directed. And he had agreed to the trip to Monterey without hesitation. The fact was that he had plunged into work as a means of taking his mind off Dom and the unfolding events in Elko County, for that was where he really wanted to be, neck-deep in the mystery. When Twist told him about Dom’s and the priest’s psychic demonstration—floating salt and pepper shakers, levitating chairs!—nothing short of World War III could have prevented Parker from going to Monterey. And now he was not going to be defeated by an empty house. Wherever the Salcoes were, he would find them, and the best place to start was with the neighbors.
Because of the half-acre lots and walls of intervening shrubbery, he could not easily walk next door. Back in the Tempo, as he put the car in gear, he glanced at the house again, and at first he thought he saw movement a
t one of the downstairs windows: a slightly parted drape falling back into place. He sat for a moment, staring, then decided the movement had been a trick of fog and shadows. He popped the handbrake and drove around the second half of the circular driveway, out to the street, delighted to be playing spy again.
Ernie and Dom parked the Jeep Cherokee at the end of the county road, and the pickup with the tinted windshield halted two hundred yards behind them. Perched on its high all-terrain tires, with goggle-eyed spotlights on its roof, it looked (Dom thought) like a big insect poised alertly on the down-sloping lane, ready to skitter toward a hidey-hole if it saw someone with a giant economy-size can of Raid. The driver did not get out, nor did the passenger, if there was one.
“Think there’s going to be trouble here?” Dom asked, getting out of the Cherokee and joining Ernie at the side of the road.
“If they’d meant trouble, they’d already have made it,” Ernie said. His breath steamed in the frigid air. “If they want to tag along and watch, that’s all right by me. To hell with them.”
They got two hunting rifles—a Winchester Model 94 carbine loaded with .32 special cartridges, and a .30/06 Spring-field —from the back of the Jeep Cherokee, handling the weapons conspicuously in the hope that the men in the pickup would be encouraged to remain peaceable by the realization that their quarry could fight back.
The mountain still rose on the western side of the lane, and forest still clothed those slopes. But the land that fell away to the east had become a broad treeless field, the northern end of the series of meadows that lay along the valley wall.
Although snow had not yet begun to fall, the wind was picking up. Dom was thankful for the winter clothes he had purchased in Reno, but he wished he had an insulated ski suit like Ernie was wearing. And a pair of those rugged lace-up boots instead of the flimsy zippered pair he now wore. Later today, Ginger and Faye would stop at a sporting-goods store in Elko with a list of gear needed for tonight’s operation, including suitable clothes for Dom and everyone else who did not already have them. At the moment, however, the insistent wind found entrance at Dom’s coat collar and at the unelasticized cuffs of his sleeves.
Leaving the Cherokee, he and Ernie went over the side of the road, down into the sloping meadow, continuing their inspection of the Thunder Hill perimeter on foot. The high, electrified chainlink fence with the barbed-wire overhang led out of the trees farther back; it ceased to parallel the northward course of the county road, turning east and down toward the valley floor. The snow in the meadow was ten inches deep, but still below the tops of their boots. They slogged two hundred yards to a point along the fence from which they could see, in the distance, the enormous steel blast doors set in the side of the valley wall.
Dom saw no signs of human or canine guards. The snow on the other side of the fence was not marked by footprints or pawprints, which meant no one walked the perimeter on a regular schedule.
“A place like this, they’re not going to be sloppy,” Ernie said. “So if there aren’t any foot patrols, there must be one hell of a lot of electronic security on the other side of this fence.”
Dom had been glancing toward the top of the meadow, a little worried that the men in the all-terrain truck might be up to something with the Cherokee. This time, when he looked back, he saw a man in dark clothes, starkly silhouetted against the snow. The guy wasn’t around the Cherokee and seemed to have no interest in it, but he had come down from the edge of the county road, descending a few yards into the inclined meadow. He was standing up there, unmoving, maybe a hundred and eighty yards above Dom and Ernie, watching them.
Ernie noticed the observer, too. He tucked his Winchester under his right arm and lifted the binoculars he had been carrying on a strap around his neck. “He’s Army. At least that looks like a regulation Army greatcoat he’s wearing. Just watching us.”
“You’d think they’d be more discreet.”
“Can’t follow anyone discreetly, not in these wide-open spaces. Might as well be forthright. Besides, he wants us to see what he’s carrying, so we’ll know our rifles don’t worry him.”
“What do you mean?” Dom asked. “What’s he carrying?”
“A Belgian FN submachine gun. Damn fine weapon. It can fire up to six hundred rounds a minute.”
If Father Wycazik had watched television news, he would have heard about Calvin Sharkle last night, for the man had been a hot story for twenty-four hours. However, he’d stopped watching TV news years ago, for he’d decided that its relentless simplification of every story into stark black and white issues was intellectually corrupt and that its gleeful concentration on violence, sex, gloom, and despair was morally repellent. He also might have read about the tragedy on O’Bannon Lane on the front pages of this morning’s Tribune and Sun-Times, but he had left the rectory in such a hurry that he’d had no time for newspapers. Now he pieced the story together from information provided by those in the crowd behind the police barricades.
For months, Cal Sharkle had been acting... odd. Ordinarily cheerful and pleasant, a bachelor who lived alone and was well-liked by everyone on O’Bannon Lane, he’d become a brooder, dour and even grim. He told neighbors he had “a bad feeling about things,” and believed something “important and terrible is going to happen.” He read survivalist books and magazines, and talked about Armageddon. And he was plagued by vivid nightmares.
December first, he quit trucking, sold his rig, and told neighbors and relatives the end was imminent. He wanted to sell his house, buy remote property in the mountains, and build a retreat like those he had seen in the survivalist magazines. “But there isn’t time,” he told his sister, Nan Gilchrist. “So I’ll just prepare this house for a siege.” He didn’t know what was going to happen, did not understand the source of his own fear, though he said he was not concerned about nuclear war, Russian invasion, economic collapse, or anything else that alarmed most survivalists. “I don’t know what... but something strange and horrible is going to happen,” he told his sister.
Mrs. Gilchrist made him see a doctor, who found him fit, suffering only from job-related stress. But after Christmas, Calvin’s previously garrulous nature gave way to a closed-mouth suspicion. During the first week of January, he had his phone disconnected, cryptically explaining: “Who knows how they’ll get at us when they come? Maybe they can do it over the phone.” He was unable or unwilling to identify “they.”
No one considered Cal really dangerous. He had been a peaceful, kind-hearted man all his life. In spite of his new eccentric behavior, there was no reason to think he would turn violent.
Then, yesterday morning at eight-thirty, Cal visited the Wilkersons, the family across the street, with whom he had once been close but from whom he had recently kept his distance. Edward Wilkerson told reporters that Cal said, “Listen, I can’t be selfish about this. I’m all prepared, and here you are defenseless. So when they come for us, Ed, it’ll be okay if you and your family hide out at my place.” When Wilkerson asked who “they” were, Cal said, “Well, I don’t know what they’ll look like, or what they’ll call themselves. But they’re going to do something bad to us, maybe turn us into zombies.” Cal Sharkle assured Wilkerson that he had plenty of guns and ammunition in his house and had taken steps to make a fortress of the place.
Alarmed by talk of weapons and shootouts, Wilkerson had humored Cal and, as soon as the man left, had called his sister. Nan Gilchrist had arrived at half-past-ten with her husband and had told a worried Wilkerson that she would handle it, that she was sure she could persuade Cal to enter the hospital for observation. But after she and Mr. Gilchrist went into the house, Ed Wilkerson decided they might need some backup, so he and another neighbor, Frank Krelky, went to the Sharkle house to provide what assistance they could.
Wilkerson expected Mr. or Mrs. Gilchrist to answer the bell, but Cal himself came to the door. He was distraught, nearly hysterical—and armed with a .20-gauge semiautomatic shotgun. He accused his neighbor
s of being zombies already. “You’ve been changed,” he shouted at Wilkerson and Krelky. “Oh God, I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known. When did it happen, when’d you stop being human? My God, now you’ve come to get us all in one swoop.” Then, with a wail of terror, he opened fire with the shotgun. The first blast took Krelky in the throat at such close range that it decapitated him. Wilkerson ran, was hit in the legs as he reached the end of Sharkle’s front walk, fell, rolled, and played dead, a ruse that saved his life.
Now Krekly was in the morgue, and Wilkerson was in the hospital in good enough condition to talk to reporters.
And Father Wycazik was at the entrance to O’Bannon Lane, where a young man in the crowd behind the police line was eager to fill in the last of it for him. The man’s name was Roger Hasterwick, a “temporarily unemployed beverage concoctionist,” which Stefan suspected was an out-of-work bartender. He had a disturbing gleam in his eyes that might have been a sign of intoxication, drug use, lack of sleep, psychopathy, or all four, but his information was detailed and apparently accurate: