Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle

by Anthony DeCosmo

  Instead of speaking, he nodded.

  "Why, there are even inventory lists of every last piece of equipment, supplies, weapons, and everything else that each of these teams took in with them. I mean, down to their shoelaces."

  Sanchez finally broke: "Ahh, excuse me, ma'am, but, so what?"

  "So what? Look around this room, corporal. Look at all the paperwork. These aren't records of old experiments or base personnel. These are entry team records. Dozens upon dozens of them."

  He glanced again at the shelves and the clutter that barely fit in the room. Corporal Sanchez began to understand.

  "Corporal, if you think that’s interesting, wait until you see this."

  She grabbed a stack of papers and walked over to Sanchez. She forced those papers into his hands.

  "I started pulling the inventory lists; the shit the teams took in. Take a look."

  Sammy hesitated to take his eyes from hers; he still was not sure if she was completely in control. Nonetheless, he examined the inventory sheets and read about the type of things the entry teams had taken into the quarantine zone over the years.

  "What in God’s name …" his thoughts trailed off.

  "God? I’m thinking General Borman."

  He stuttered, "What do we do now?"

  That stopped Thunder’s rant. Her tone—which had been a combination of sarcasm, anger, and fear—grew nervous but determined.

  "Well, as commander of this base I believe I deserve an answer."

  Sanchez smiled.

  "I believe you do, ma'am."

  27

  "What do you figure this place was, Cap?" Galati asked as he sat on the floor, his back against a stainless steel wall.

  Campion surveyed the dark surroundings. Only the tiniest pinpricks of light offered any illumination. That is why he had chosen this spot for a rest.

  "Specimen containment, probably," Campion thought.

  The area was old and dirty and full of clutter from broken equipment, discarded furniture, litter, and a thick layer of grime over everything. Yet there was no mistaking the cages built for small animals, the feed tubes stuck to bars, the small tabletops for opening up the beasts of scientific burden to understand what that nifty new drug had done, how had the brain cells been altered, whether it could withstand another 100 milligrams of saccharin.

  Nothing moved now. The animals were long gone.

  "Say, Captain," Wells asked after taking a swig from his canteen, "How much further we got to go?"

  Campion removed his cap and scratched behind his ear as he thought. The comforting weight of his MP5 machine gun rested reassuringly on his lap.

  "Not far. I've got a feeling we can access the main ventilation shaft at the end of this hallway. We should be able to drop down onto sublevel 8 not far from the primary lab facility. Then it’s a short hop skip and a jump and we’re at the target zone."

  "Piece of cake, right Boss?"

  "That’s right, no problem," Campion said.

  Galati pulled his own canteen from his pack. He popped the top, but before the bottle touched his lips he asked, "So is this V.A.A.D. thing going to be hard to use?"

  Campion did not reply. After several seconds both Wells and Galati gave the captain their complete attention as they waited for an answer.

  None was forthcoming.

  "Oh my fucking God," Wells said. "You have no clue how to work it, do you?"

  Campion did not respond.

  "Cap … sir," Galati was more respectful but equally as surprised. "What’s this all about if you can’t get that thing going?"

  "Stow it, right now, both of you. Captain Twiste was trained on this the thing. Besides, he’s got the batteries. It’s no good without the batteries. We will rendezvous with Major Gant and Captain Twiste and he’ll operate it. End of story."

  Galati and Wells fell silent, but they knew it was not the end of the story.

  —

  Twiste told Gant the good news: "The bleeding has really slowed down."

  "Unfortunately the pain has not slowed down nearly as much."

  The two had sat for a long time, although in the dark it was hard to tell if a couple of hours had passed or just a whole lot of minutes. Regardless, they had heard no movement from outside the locked office for quite some time.

  "I’ve been thinking," Twiste speculated. "Briggs was looking for God, right?"

  "Not really. Not God as the Bible thinks of it. More like a particle that was at the center of creation."

  "Sounds like God to me."

  Gant replied, "I suppose it is a matter of perspective."

  "Point is, what if he succeeded, but didn’t find what he had been expecting?"

  "I do not follow."

  "You know me, always the good Catholic," Twiste smiled. "If my Sunday school teachers were right, if there is a God, then doesn’t it follow that … well … maybe Briggs found the opposite of God."

  "Give me a moment while I struggle with the idea of you as an altar boy."

  "Pure as the driven snow," Twiste chuckled.

  "You mean all that snow growing in your hair? I suppose I should be more respectful to my elders."

  "All right, all right, you got your shots in. But listen to what I’m saying. What if Briggs didn't exactly find God, but something else?"

  "You are forgetting that he was not looking for the Creator; he was looking for a particle."

  "Yes, the particle at the center of creation. But play along with me."

  "Very well. You mean, what if he found the devil?"

  Twiste shrugged and said, "He sure is a mean son of a bitch. Sadistic. Petty. Sounds like the devil to me."

  "Or just your average IRS agent."

  "Funny coming from the guy who needs me to do his taxes every year."

  The door to the tiny office unbolted and swung open in one quick motion. Even the dim light of the Red Lab appeared bright compared to the solitary lamp in the office-turned-holding-cell.

  Jolly stood there motioning for Twiste and Gant to stand. His breath whistled through his teeth right where there should have been a chin.

  Twiste said, "He’s hurt."

  Jolly did not care. Gant tried to stand. He got most of the way up, thanks to a helping hand from Twiste, but Jolly had to step in and haul the major out of the office, nearly throwing him into the lab.

  The entity in the form of Dr. Ronald Briggs stood with Andrew and Ruth on his flanks. It spoke through Briggs’s mouth, and while it may not have been human there was no mistaking the anger in the way it gritted its teeth. "You did not tell me that your Captain Campion does not know how to operate the V.A.A.D."

  Gant could not resist: "You didn’t ask."

  Jolly instantly whacked Gant's damaged knee with the collapsible baton. He screamed and hunched but did not fall.

  Twiste jumped: "Campion has the device. I was carrying the batteries to power it."

  "Yes, of course. You were chosen for training. You will activate the device."

  The last part of the thing’s words seemed more as if it were thinking aloud than addressing Brandon. The body of Briggs turned to walk away, as if the issue had been settled.

  "I won’t do it."

  Briggs’s attention fully returned to Twiste, who said, "I think I’ve figured you out. Whatever you are."

  "You know nothing," it said.

  "You are God?"

  "Yes," it answered.

  "Where did you come from—heaven?"

  The question appeared to throw the entity.

  Twiste went on, "You're not from heaven, but you aren't from our world, either. You are a different type of life form, maybe made of pure energy or maybe … maybe," Twiste stole a glance at Gant and said, "… maybe pure thought."

  He turned back to Briggs. "Point is, you’re stuck down here. See, the way I figure it, this experiment opened up a hole into a new plane of existence—something that crosses paths with this world on a subatomic level. Hell, maybe something that really was p
art of the God particle."

  "I AM GOD."

  "No, no you’re not," Twiste corrected while Gant struggled with a new bout of pain, hearing the conversation and seeing the action from a sort of mental distance, almost apart from it. "You have some sort of power, some sort of mental power. The way I figure, maybe you’re a being that’s completely made up of what we would call mental energy, maybe psychic energy. Shit, maybe even a ghost of some sort."

  "You will operate the device. You will complete your mission."

  "No, I don’t think so. The V.A.A.D. isn’t going to shut the hole Briggs opened, it’s going to widen it. You may be all Mr. God and whatnot down here, but you’re still stuck down here. Open that hole and I guess you’ll be a lot more powerful and a lot more mobile. All of you will come through, and that would be bad news."

  Gant recovered his composure enough to say, "Captain, do not say any more."

  But Twiste would not stop.

  "Come to think of it, maybe you put the idea in their head. You order your three lackeys here through some sort of mind control. I was impressed how you pulled sharp shooting out of the head of Roberts and put it into Ruthie’s head over there; pretty good. You’ve even managed to make me see some things that aren’t there, like that whole big band shit when we walked in."

  Gant realized his friend had become courageous because he had decided to die, right there and right then. He was agitating the entity into dispatching him in something like suicide-by-cop, except in this case the reason was to avoid assisting this evil being.

  "But you know what," Twiste said, not asked. "For some reason you just can’t get me or the major here to do anything. Oh, you can throw up an illusion or two, but you can't get in and force us. Something in our heads is keeping you out."

  Briggs turned scarlet red.

  Ruthie marched over like a marionette on strings. The gun she held she pointed at Major Gant.

  "I will kill him right now," the entity said with its human face. "And his blood will be on your hands."

  Twiste did not hesitate, as if he had foreseen this move: "Go ahead. You already said you’re going to kill Thom anyway after you're done with whatever it is you need from him. What is that, by the way?"

  Again, the entity said nothing, and Gant was impressed. He had seen Brandon Twiste outtalk and outwit a number of adversaries, officers, and politicians over the years, but now he parried with God.

  "Besides, Thom would agree that saving the world from whatever you’ve got planned is worth his life."

  Despite the gun pointed in his direction, Gant managed to smile. He was proud of his friend, and if they were to die in the next few moments, at least it would be for a good reason.

  And Jean will be free to go and live.

  "There are ways to die, horrible ways to die," the thing threatened.

  Again a countermove: "There are horrible ways to die. You’ve inflicted them on people already. And you’d inflict all types of horrors on people like my family, my children, my grandchild. To spare them, I’ll suffer whatever you have in store for me." Twiste turned to Gant, "Sorry, Thom, but I think it’s for the best."

  "Yes, yes it is," Thom agreed.

  The figure of Ronald Briggs turned away with clenched fists. Gant knew what was coming next: pain.

  "You sound brave," the entity said. "But down here, this is reality. No mind games. Major Gant could survive a dozen wounds. Then I will call in my children to eat him alive. And you will be responsible for how he dies because you refuse your God."

  "Wait a second—that’s' it, isn't it? That's what they are." Twiste turned to Gant. "He keeps calling them his children. Those things, in the hall. I just sort of thought that you were playing the God game and calling all creatures your children. But that's not the case, is it? You mean that very literally, don't you?"

  "They are my children."

  "His children, Thom. Feral children. Born in this place. Pale skin because they don't see the sun. Savage children, raised like animals, used like guard dogs, who the hell knows what they've been eating. Probably … Jesus, probably cannibals to boot."

  Twiste faced Ruth.

  "You're the mother, aren't you? They're your children. Twenty years of bearing this thing's offspring."

  Her expression—that vacant expression—turned sad. Gant saw decades of torment there. Not neglect, but a form of torture perhaps no man could ever really know.

  Twiste flashed Gant a glance and Thom saw what his friend had done. With the exception of Jolly, Twiste had thrown their captors off balance. The entity looked elsewhere, grappling with some emotion, almost certainly anger and frustration. Andrew trembled and his dead eyes alternated between Gant and Briggs and Twiste, unsettled to the point that Thom worried a nervous spasm might let a bullet fly. Ruth faded off into some horrible memory. Of all the souls tortured in the Hell Hole, none could know her misery.

  Point was, Twiste had given them a chance … and they proceeded to take it.

  Brandon lunged for the M9 Beretta Ruth held and easily pried it from her hands.

  At the same time, Thom jumped for Andrew's weapon, but he did not make it far. Two big hands—Jolly's hands—clamped down on his shoulders and literally threw him across the room. He smashed into a gurney and dropped to the floor.

  A solitary gunshot rang out.

  The entity—Briggs—stood perfectly still with an expression of very human horror fixed on his face. In that instant, Gant took note of the thing's fear and realized that, no, it was not all-powerful. It was petty, mean … and weak.

  The gunshot came from Andrew. Twiste's attack had been enough to jerk that trigger finger, shooting a bullet into Brandon's gut at nearly point-blank range.

  The puppet-body of Ronald Briggs put both of its hands to its head, as if suffering an intense migraine. As his hands moved, so did the hands of Ruthie and Jolly, mimicking their master.

  Andrew, however, looked very much alone and lost. He dropped the gun like it glowed red-hot.

  Briggs’s mouth formed a word that started quiet and grew louder: "No … no … no ... NO … NO!! NONONONONONONO!"

  Ruthie and Jolly echoed his words over and over again until their chorus filled the lab. Just when Gant thought his eardrums would bust, the screams stopped, though they were followed by a howl of anger.

  Andrew was no longer the instrument of the entity's emotion but, rather, the target. The frail old man with the zombie eyes retreated a step but could not escape Jolly, who bore down on him like a tsunami of rage.

  No gun this time. Apparently a bullet would be too quick, too merciful. No, nothing expressed rage and frustration like a blunt instrument. In this case, Jolly attacked with Gant's collapsible baton, raising it high and then slamming it into Andrew's skull. Gant heard a sick crack, like a coconut being smashed. Andrew crumpled without a word of protest, dead already.

  But the blows continued, one after another, pummeling the carcass into a bloody bag. While the giant soldier did the work, Ruthie stood to the side, swinging her arm in perfect unison with the executioner, striking air with an empty hand.

  Briggs's face wore an expression of hatred, anger, and frustration, akin to a disturbed child whose frustration had boiled over into violence.

  Blow after blow continued to fall. Andrew's head smashed into pulp, every bone in his body pulverized until snaps and cracks gave way to soft thumps. Finally, Jolly stopped.

  Then it happened. Gant was lucky to be looking directly at Dr. Briggs when it occurred, or he might have missed it.

  Briggs's face changed. In one second it was the snarling, occupied expression of the one who claimed to be God … then that expression became almost ghost-white and blank. The eyes grew wide; childlike.

  He spoke so soft that even in the silence of the lab Thom nearly missed it.

  "Help me."

  Gant stumbled to his feet. He reached out.

  "Dr. Briggs? Ronald, are you in there? Can you hear me? Fight it, Briggs—fight IT!"<
br />
  It faded, replaced by a snarl again, but a clearly exhausted snarl. Nonetheless, Thom saw Jolly rush toward him, wielding the baton. Bits of gore dripped from the weapon as it swung toward his head, but it missed and struck his shoulder instead, sending him to the floor. After this no further blows came.

  The body of Dr. Briggs retreated to the sanctuary in the room full of mist. Jolly stood still, gasping out exhausted breaths.

  Doing his best to ignore the new pain in his shoulder, Thom crawled over to Brandon. The man lay on the floor, a few last gasps of air exhaling from his lungs. Thom grabbed his hand and looked into his eyes.

  "Captain ... Brandon, can you hear me?"

  He blinked; his eyes moved, but just a little as his life poured out onto the floor.

  "Damn it, damn it Brandon," he said. He considered, closed his eyes for a second, and then said, "You are right. I have … I have questions."

  Maybe that was a smile tugging at Twiste's lips. Maybe Gant had just imagined it.

  "I do not trust any of them, not one damn bit. I have questions, but that just makes things harder. I guess, I guess," he looked away, around the room, and when he returned his eyes to his dying friend he told him, "I guess they programmed me too well. I don't know how to do things any other way."

  Gant felt Brandon squeeze his hand—just a little—and then his eyes glazed over and his fingers went limp.

  28

  General Harold Borman stood in his quarters in front of the mirror in his dress uniform, carefully positioning each of his hard-earned medals on his breast.

  After all, he knew he must prepare. For what? Well, that was the question, but his sixth sense had never failed him before, so he would not ignore the feeling of needing to prepare this time.

  From Vietnam to Panama to the Gulf and all the shadowy places in between, he had always been aided by his gut as much as his brain.

  His analytical mind, his cold sense of brutal strategy, the ease with which he could make those hard decisions—that certainly contributed to his success and promotion. But over the decades a sort of sixth sense had helped keep him alive and had aided him in his quest for increased authority. Indeed, ever since coming to Red Rock, his power had grown exponentially, and he always seemed ready for whatever might come.