Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle

by Anthony DeCosmo

  They came close enough to see.

  No more illusions of party garb. Tattered clothes on the man and woman. Aged faces that looked only one step more human than the things that had pursued Gant and Twiste throughout the complex.

  The man was balding with wiry gray hair, cheeks covered in stubble, eyes vacant and wide. He wore pants that might have been white once, a long time ago, but were stained with a palette of colors ranging from mud and dirt to rust and blood. He might be wearing an ancient dress shirt, but it too was dirty beyond recognition, to the point that it seemed more like skin than a garment.

  How could Gant have possibly mistaken this figure for a suave dancer?

  The woman seemed a little cleaner, her blond hair ragged and dirty but relatively healthy. She wore a khaki dress of sorts mended from a potpourri of materials, and a black turtleneck that appeared two sizes too large. Yet her eyes were even further gone than the man’s, almost glasslike; a doll.

  Neither the man nor the woman held a weapon or moved in a threatening manner. It became apparent that they had stepped forward expecting the newcomers to hand over their weapons without complain.

  Gant maintained his posture, ready to fire.

  "We are here to help; we are friends," Twiste said, but his words were delivered with too much shake to sound convincing.

  "Yo, bro, hand over the hardware," the radio broadcast.

  Gant stepped off and drew a bead on the man.

  "Come on, doctor," the Major said. "We have a mission to finish."

  A hand clamped down on him from behind and in that moment Thom realized that the radio, the streamers, and the dancers had conspired to keep his attention focused forward instead of scanning for threats. One such threat had apparently moved in behind, undetected either because of the shadows or because of their host's ability to conjure illusion.

  Whatever the case, the hand was real enough, and very strong, coming from a person at least a foot taller than the major.

  He tried to turn and face the threat, but a gun barrel pressed into the back of his skull. He heard something like a chuckle in his ear.

  "Thom …" Twiste said as his eyes focused on what gripped Gant's shoulder.

  If Twiste considered taking action, he stopped when the double doors swung open again and in the glow of light from the outside hall he saw a mass of the smaller creatures: pale white skin, big black pupils, with skin pulled taut over emaciated skeletons.

  They seemed ready to rush in, but something held them at bay. The inference, however, was clear. Despite their guns, Gant and Twiste were in no position to resist.

  Again the tuner glowed green and a voice spoke to the things at the door, "Easy children, no reason to get excited. Major Gant and Captain Twiste are going to cooperate. They are here to help."

  Another hand came in and pulled away his gun. At that point, the grip released and Thom turned to face his attacker and realized he had seen him before: through the window in the storage room.

  He did wear green army BDUs; a little of the camouflage pattern could be seen through layers of grime and dirt. It was hard to tell whether it was the man's skin that hung in tatters or the fabric of his clothes, because, like the rest of the denizens trapped down there, the difference between skin and clothes had blurred over the years.

  Blemishes—cracks, cuts, bruises, and abrasions, many of which seemed old but not fully healed, covered the man’s neck. His head and face were covered in that same mixture of gore and dirt that coated everything in this world, but it was his mouth that garnered the most attention; all the skin around his lower jaw had been removed, possibly burned away, leaving white teeth and pink gums visible to the world and giving the creature the illusion of a permanent smile.

  The sight stunned Gant into inaction, particularly with the added vision of a trio of pale-skinned devils hovering a few feet away at the entrance. Their black eyes stared at him, their teeth gnashed, and he knew they saw him as a feast waiting to be consumed.

  Gant felt his hand reaching for his sidearm, but Brandon stopped him.

  "Thom, as long as we’re alive, we have a chance."

  While Gant’s eyes alternated between the seven-foot creature hovering over him and the group at the door, the female dancer moved in and relieved Thom of the rest of his weapons, including his pistol, knife, and collapsible baton. The male did the same to Twiste, finding only his handgun, which he took and then pointed at the soldiers.

  Through the green glow on the tuner the voice spoke, "It's okay, children, go along and play." The creatures at the entrance retreated; the heavy lab doors shut. "Jolly, bring them closer so they can see."

  The man in the tattered BDU's—“Jolly”— pushed Thom and Brandon toward the radio. At the same time, a few small lights came back on, without the color, however. Just normal lights—two panels in the ceiling, leaving plenty of shadows—but enough to see their surroundings for what they really were.

  A laboratory with white walls and silver trim, with neglected equipment ranging from computers to microscopes. Gant saw a dirty old mattress in one corner that must be living quarters for one of the occupants. He smelled pungent odors ranging from what might be urine to a moldy, moist odor.

  Out of place odds and ends, including a stack of tissues, a frying pan, and a coat rack, lay around the area, contrasting with the scientific gear. Stains on the walls, broken light fixtures, and a puddle of something smelly in a corner illustrated the decay of the place from cutting-edge research center to some kind of high-tech rat hole.

  Behind the radio stood another wall, this one dominated by a rectangular window: an observation window. A heavy bulkhead to the left of the window clearly led to an isolation room of some kind, which the observation window looked in on. Just moments before, Gant had thought he saw a paper banner hanging there.

  The view through the window was clouded—literally. A surreal fog swirled against the heavy glass, apparently filling the small chamber therein.

  The ancient radio spoke: "Pay no attention to the thing behind the curtain."

  Something cut through the cloud and touched the window, like a sea creature moving through an ocean of mist, bumping against the aquarium glass as it swam past. Whatever it was, it was large, but in that quick, foggy glimpse Gant saw only a fluid block of dull green mass.

  It disappeared again so fast—vanished—that he could not be sure he had seen it at all. Perhaps it, too, was just another illusion in this place of deception.

  Influences, Thunder had said.

  While Gant and Twiste puzzled over what they saw … or thought they saw … the radio spoke once more.

  "Come closer," it encouraged, almost beckoned.

  Gant did take a step toward the radio and spoke, although his eyes remained focused on the observation window and the fog there.

  "I am Major Thom Gant." It sounded absurd to repeat what the intelligence already knew, yet the soldier simply did not know how to proceed. He was a fighter, not a negotiator. His position of weakness—of helplessness—was uncomfortably new.

  "We mean you no harm."

  The radio dial flared green. "Not true, but that is irrelevant."

  "Who are you?"

  The radio dial remained lit but no words came. Nothing moved in the mist.

  "Who are you?" Thom repeated.

  "I am God."

  Gant glanced at Twiste, who absently scratched a patch of gray hair on his head but otherwise remained transfixed, either by fear or by curiosity, probably both.

  "I am your God," the voice reiterated. "Kneel."

  The male and female—the dancers—immediately collapsed to their knees, as did “Jolly” behind them.

  A strong impulse flooded Gant's mind. For a moment, he accepted the idea that this voice was the voice of his God. That impulse told him how right, how proper, how important it was that he—Major Thom Gant—drop to his knees before the image of a 1930s RCA radio. That this was the one true Creator.

  How st
range Gant found that impulse. It did not frighten him; he easily pushed it aside. He found it curious, as if a fly had tried to attack him and he was able to capture it in a jar.

  He tilted his head and closed his eyes, then opened them again and found the impulse gone. Again, had it really been there, or was it just a figment of his imagination?

  Thom again stole a look at Twiste. He saw the young doctor seemingly shaking away cobwebs and realized Brandon had experienced the same thing and also cast it aside.

  Gant looked toward the RCA again. "You are not my God, I will not kneel before you."

  The light in the dial changed from green to red. An angry red. Thom felt a vibration. In the ground? In the air? No. Neither. The vibration bounced through his consciousness. A ripple of thought. And while it did no harm, he found it as curious as that strange impulse.

  He realized that the thing in the lab had tried to control his mind, the way it had controlled so many others over the years. But it had failed. Why?

  Then the light on the radio eased green again. The vibration ceased.

  The voice returned and calmly said, "You shall kneel. If not now, soon."

  Gant held his hand in front of his eyes. Could it be possible that everything he saw and felt was a dream?

  His hand looked real. The smells around him—of age and decay—were too rich to be fake. Part of it might be a dream, but another part real. Finding that line of distinction might be the answer to saving his life and completing the mission.

  The voice of God returned.

  "Brandon Twiste, remove the variable accelerator device from your pack."

  With one hand still holding Twiste's pistol, the male dancer took the duffel bag from Brandon's hand, stepped closer to the radio, knelt, and opened it. The servant removed the two heavy batteries and placed them on the floor in front of the RCA. He then stepped away cautiously but with an expression approximating content, as if he had successfully run an important errand for his boss.

  There was a long pause before the voice from the radio spoke again. "This is not the device. These are the power units for the device." The radio dial turned from green to red. "Where is the variable accelerator? Where is the variable accelerator?"

  Both dancers hurried to the bag and frantically rummaged through it, as if maybe the V.A.A.D. hid inside.

  "Well, I don't have it," Twiste answered and Gant found himself impressed with his friend's cool demeanor.

  "Where did you leave it?"

  Twiste hesitated to answer. The dial burned red. Gant felt that mental shockwave race across his mind, this time much more sharply than the first; this time accompanied by pain.

  "WHERE IS IT!?"

  The double doors to the lab swung open. A trio of inhuman creatures perched at the entrance, howling and grunting at the angry voice of their father. The lot of them seemed tethered by the thinnest of leashes, wanting, crying, to be let loose.

  Gant interceded, "We did not leave it anywhere. We are a reconnaissance team. We did not bring the device in. It is our job to—"

  The big creature in the BDU's slammed the butt of Gant's own weapon against the back of the major's head hard enough that Thom saw stars. He hunched over, but refused to fall; that would seem too much like kneeling.

  "You are lying. I know what your mission is, Major. If Captain Twiste carried the power units, then your other captain must have the main unit. Captain … Campion."

  Gant took the opportunity to gather intelligence.

  "He's dead. Your pets killed him."

  The radio dial eased from red to green.

  "No, Major, he is alive. And …" the voice paused, as if checking a fact before answering. "And in possession of the unit. That's unfortunate. Sometimes my children get overexcited and they can be difficult to control, particularly up there. It is their playground, of sorts. Still, I'll do my best to see to it he finds his way to us."

  24

  "Oh, now this is just fucking perfect," Wells reacted to the sight of a dead end illuminated only by the tactical and portable lights the men carried.

  Office doors to the right, equipment cabinets to his left, yet nothing but massive electrical boxes and panels covering the wall where the corridor terminated.

  "Then we have to go the other way," Galati said nonchalantly.

  "Brilliant idea," Jupiter Wells responded. "That means trying to go through that bioweapons lab. I don't know about you, but I'd like to avoid anthrax spores or whatever shit they were cooking up in here."

  "Relax," Campion said as he studied his wrist computer. "We’ve got a problem; we just have to solve it. Think."

  Wells grunted but held his tongue.

  "What does the map say, Captain?" Galati asked.

  Campion squinted at the display. "It's not really complete for this section. Hard to make anything out. According to this, there is literally nothing in front of us. We may have to go back."

  Wells complained, "Great. If those things don't get us, the shit in the lab will. We should have brought CBRN gear."

  "Fuck that," Galati volleyed. "I'm not walking around down here with that shit on. Can't see, hardly can move, and sweat your ass off."

  Wells, of course, fired back, and so it continued until the two men realized that Captain Campion remained silent. In fact, Campion appeared in a trance, staring at the wall in front of them, where a pair of big electrical boxes sat. Insulated cords exited the boxes and disappeared into the wall.

  "Hello? Captain?" Wells called.

  "Huh? What?"

  "You with us? You look like you're sleepwalking."

  Campion glanced at the two of them, then realized they were right. Still, there was something about this wall. He ran his hand over it, touching the flexible wire conduits sprouting from the electrical boxes.

  Galati's head spun around and he said, "Um, I think I hear something coming."

  A sound like shuffling footsteps reached them out of the dark. Something approached through the dark, and they had nowhere to run.

  Campion, meantime, felt an idea bloom, although it did not really feel like his idea; more like someone else's finding its way into his thoughts. He saw the wall in front of him … and he also saw a maintenance chute inside that wall, something not noted on his map or mentioned during the pre-mission briefing.

  Yet he knew it was there.

  "Galati," Campion called, but Sal remained fixed on the darkness behind, waiting for an attacker to charge. "Salvatore!"

  That worked. Galati faced Campion.

  "You have a demo kit, right? I need to blow a hole in this wall right now!"

  "A hole? You want to blow a fucking hole in the wall?" Wells griped.

  "Do it. Now."

  Galati shouldered his weapon and pulled the kit from his utility belt, producing three molded charges ready for use.

  "Use them all"

  "Where?"

  Campion directed the soldier to three specific points along the dead-end wall.

  "We’re running out of time!" Wells kept his voice as low as possible while his light searched the dark hall behind them, waiting for his spiders to return.

  "Rig it up. Hurry."

  Galati placed the charges and linked them to a detonating cord. As he worked—his fingers fumbling—he told Campion, "This stuff isn’t meant for taking down walls. It’s meant for popping open doors. It won’t even make a scratch."

  "The wall is weaker here. They had to make repairs to the main lines in '87. They jackhammered through the concrete and got lazy patching it up. Most of what’s here is drywall."

  Wells gasped, "How the hell do you know that?"

  Instead of answering Wells, Campion asked Galati, "Are you ready?"

  "Um … yes, ready to blow."

  "Then back away. Everyone in there," and Campion directed them into a maintenance closet, where they took refuge among brooms, mops, and jugs of cleaning chemicals. Galati held the detonator.

  "Fire in the hole!"

  BAM
.

  Plumes of smoke rocketed along the hall carrying a shower of plaster. Before the debris even settled, Campion rushed to examine the damage, waving his hands to hurry away the smoke. After a moment he saw that the explosives, perfectly placed to take advantage of where the structure had been weakened during repair work more than twenty-five years ago, had done their job. The dead-end now offered a neat square hole where drywall had replaced jackhammered concrete.

  Inside that hole ran a tangle of flexible, insulated wire conduits resembling vacuum hoses. Campion reached in and muscled them apart as if pushing aside curtains. Galati leaned over and used the tactical light on his G36 to illuminate a tight tunnel dropping down to the next sublevel.

  "How did you know?" Wells's panicked tone added a dash of contrition.

  "I don't know how I knew, I just did. Now get in," Campion ordered.

  The soldiers barely fit through the hole, and the conduit was even tighter, particularly as they tried to transport the bag holding the V.A.A.D. Still, Sal Galati found a grip on tiny metal rungs embedded in the concrete wall to guide the conduits and began to descend, followed by Wells.

  Before he followed them down, Campion turned his attention to the long dark hallway they had escaped. He heard the grunts and groans of something nasty, probably not the German soldiers he had seen before. Maybe the true nature of their enemy.

  Whatever came, surely it could have rushed the small group by now? What held it—or them—back?

  It's not my job to worry about that. I have only one mission: get the V.A.A.D. to the Red Lab on sublevel 8.

  Captain Campion planned to do just that.

  25

  The light on the radio dial faded, but not entirely. Like the last glowing embers of an extinguished fire, the dial offered just enough green to make its presence known.

  Gant found it difficult to track the passing of time. Of course, sitting in near-darkness did not help, but it was more than that. A cloud of uncertainty hung over everything; he could not trust his mind or his eyes.

  He recalled the stories Liz told of self-mutilation, of voices calling from behind the vault door, of emotions running amok and officers acting irrationally.