Now what voices is he hearing?
After a moment of listening, he explained, "I’ve worked here for a long time now. This whole complex has a smell to it, a feel, and a sound."
"Yes? What?"
"Something just … changed. It’s a vibration … a noise … I’m not sure—"
"Sanchez, we don’t have time for this."
"Oh, Jeez. I think someone just turned on full power to the lower levels. It feels like either new generators kicked on or the regular ones just doubled output."
Liz soaked that in for a moment, then told him, "If that's true, then we really—I mean we really—have to get moving."
—
The doors to the elevator car opened and the well-dressed figure of what had once been Dr. Ronald Briggs exited first. Major Gant came next, with Jolly’s gun motivating him from behind.
Thom moved but he did not exactly walk; he shuffled along, hunched over like one of Dr. Frankenstein's assistants. He realized that if any of his men still lived and saw him, they might mistake him for one of the entity's mindless minions.
Who are you kidding, Thom? You've been a mindless minion for other entities. Dr. Frankensteins by other names. Friez and Borman, for example.
No, not mindless. It would be easier to be mindless. Better. No—you still have enough of a brain to think, so why have you refused to use it all these years?
"I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Major Gant," Briggs interrupted his thoughts. "I realize that you must be in horrible pain and, quite frankly, you’re slowing us down. But don’t blame me. I’m not the one who designed this complex without an express elevator. Quite an inconvenience."
"I appreciate your concern." Gant tried to sound smart but the grunts of pain between the words took away any of the stubborn tone of disobedience he was trying to project.
The small group continued along the now well-lit corridor of sublevel 7.
"There’s one thing I do not understand."
"Please, Major Gant, ask away. It will help pass the time."
"Why are you bothering to bring me along? I mean, could you not have left me all locked up, then—once you become omnipotent—have me blow my brains out from a distance?"
Gant did manage to slip some sarcasm into "omnipotent," but the entity appeared not to notice, or care.
The creature did not answer right away. Thom was not sure whether it did not know how to answer or it was thinking of other things. Regardless, an answer did eventually come.
"I’m looking forward to actually seeing you shoot yourself. I think, Major, that when death finally comes for you, you won’t have a clever remark. And with your body in such bad shape, any hopes of heroic sacrifice are also gone. You’ll die just like all the other soldiers they sent in over the years: a failure. Then again, maybe I’ll just suck out your brains and make you one of my pets, like Jolly here. Maybe have you drive to your home and beat your wife to death with a baseball bat. How does that sound?"
They approached another elevator door—the door he and Brandon had used to enter the level after the lopsided battle on the floor above.
Thom resisted the bait. "That’s a rather long answer. Long enough that I don’t buy it. You need me at your side for some reason."
"Not relevant to me," Briggs’s form said as it stopped in front of the open elevator doors.
"You know what I think? I think I am your canary in the coal mine, that's what I think. You are not sure what is going to happen when the V.A.A.D. is activated."
"I know what will happen."
"You think you know. When Campion hits that switch you are expecting to become all-powerful. But you are not sure. So here I am. You cannot control everyone. How many heads can keep you out? Half? One out of three? Seven out of ten? Sure, you managed to stock Red Rock with the type of minds you could influence, all thanks to pushing Borman around, I suppose. But the real world is one big collection of conflicted, confused, and emotionally compromised people. The type of people you cannot control."
"Pointless speculation."
"I do not think so. I think that is exactly the point. You have been operating at low power for the last twenty years. Is that how long it took to come up with a solution to being stuck only halfway in this universe? You think the V.A.A.D. will blow open that hole and you will come pouring through, full power and all. But will that be enough to crack open stubborn skulls like mine? That is why I am here. When Campion hits the switch, you will test your power on me. If you can make me shoot myself, I suppose everything is going to plan. If not—what? Back down to the basement?"
Briggs swallowed hard. "I’ve changed my mind, Major. Instead of having you shoot yourself, I’m going to have you eviscerate your own body with something rusty and sharp. Something horrible. You will scream a lot."
"You know, for a God-like creature you are spiteful and full of hate, aren’t you? You’re nasty, too, huh? When I saw what you did to Ruthie—now that was something."
The face on Briggs’s body showed hints of a smile, as if recalling something pleasurable.
"I’m just guessing here, but when you first got your power I bet she resisted you. Then you managed to overpower her, but after all these years you still remember her rejecting you. So it was not enough to kill her; you had to degrade her and reject her. Was that satisfying for you? Was it satisfying how you tortured and mutilated that hippie chick psychic years ago?"
The entity fully smiled at that memory. "Oh yes, I remember her. My gift to all the hardworking soldiers of the base. I hope they enjoyed her."
"You have quite a misogynistic streak."
They stepped into the elevator car. Briggs’s fingers pushed a button and the car started up.
Like the rest of the underground labyrinth, the elevator was now bathed in light. Gant smelled dust burning as power ran through neglected electrical cords and lightbulbs.
He considered his situation. Jolly stood behind him with an MP5 submachine gun. The elevator was even more confined than the hallways of the complex, so this was his best chance to disarm Jolly. However, he needed to lean against the elevator wall to stay upright and he could move his left arm only about four inches in either direction before an excruciating pain locked things down.
No.
He could not attack. It might as well be a two-year-old holding the submachine gun; Thomas Gant was in no condition to do anything. The entity had done a good job of neutering his foe. Thomas Gant was, for all intents and purposes, a spectator.
All he could do now was watch and see how it all ended.
34
Campion turned down the hall leading toward the primary Red Lab, leaving Wells and Galati at the four-way intersection, their guns pointed at the door with the biohazard symbol. Slurps, moans, and crunches continued, but slowed, replaced more by snaps and snarls, the sounds of a scuffle.
"I don't think I want to know what those things in there are doing," Sal said to Jupiter Wells, "but it sounds like they're about done."
Wells's SCAR-H trembled in his hands but remained aimed at the slightly ajar door.
"Man, tell me you've been in a more fucked up situation than this. Make some shit up if you have to, I'll believe it."
Sal shook his head. "No, sorry, this is the new benchmark for fucked up."
"What?" Wells turned his head and faced his friend. "You've been telling bullshit stories all these years and the one time I actually want to hear it you've got nothing?"
Sal did not have time to answer. The door with the biohazard label opened and the monsters lurking therein moved out of the shadows and into the bright light of the hall.
Three of them, the tallest maybe over five feet, but each hunched and holding its arms over its face in reaction to light brighter than any they had experienced in all their life. They snarled and growled as if trying to attack the bright.
"Those aren't spiders, man," Wells said as he and his partner instinctively retreated a step and then two. "Are you seeing what I'm
seeing?"
Sal answered, and while he tried to sound scientific, reasoned, and in control his words trembled, "Ah, humanoid, bipedal, um, pasty white skin, um—"
"Yeah, that's what I see, too."
The creatures grew as accustomed to the light as possible. One by one their arms lowered.
Eyes almost pure white with only a tiny speck of black where a pupil should be. Mouths full of crooked and jagged teeth. Welts, bruises, sores, and gashes everywhere. Pieces of cloth served as clothing and covered very little of their sickening skin, which seemed like plastic shrink-wrapped over bundles of bones. Blood and gore splashes— the remains of whatever meal they had recently finished—decorated their bodies.
They hissed. They clawed the ground. They braced in preparation to rush.
"Damn it, Sal, are those things … are they human?"
"I … I have no clue. But they kind of look like, Jesus man, they kind of look like—"
"Kids. Yeah, I know. Maybe it's an illusion. You afraid of kids?"
Without taking his eyes from his sights Sal considered, sort of tilted his head and shrugged, saying, "Maybe a little."
The trio of beasts charged the two soldiers, who, as per orders, retreated to draw the action away from the Red Lab and Campion's work.
—
Thunder and Sanchez found their path to the vestibule blocked by a pair of heavily armed sentries.
"Stand down," she commanded, but she knew, even before the words left her lips, that the command would hold little weight with the guards.
"Sorry, ma'am, General Borman ordered us to not let any one pass, especially you."
Corporal Sanchez apparently knew the two men and addressed them by their first names: "Billy, Ted, remember who’s in charge around here. It’s the colonel. Now stand down."
"Sorry, sir," Billy replied.
Ted sounded more conciliatory as he explained, "Sammy, the general went in there a minute ago. He gave us our orders directly. You know the drill, man, a couple of stars beats an oak leaf any day."
Liz understood.
Her job had been to filter out and send away any of the men whose minds were not completely focused; not entirely disciplined. Minds so unlike her own, minds that were not conflicted by the roles they played in the dark games of places like Red Rock.
The general—or whatever pulled the general's leash—wanted focused, disciplined minds because those types of minds could be controlled and manipulated. Minds that accepted what they saw at face value and did not question. Minds susceptible to illusion, voices, and impulses.
"Listen to me," she tried again. She kept her distance, fully aware that these men would shoot without hesitation. "You said Borman went in there. He was in full dress uniform, wasn’t he?"
The two sentries exchanged a glance.
Liz repeated, "Wasn’t he?"
It was obvious from the guards’ expression that, yes, the general had been in full dress uniform and despite their focused minds they had found such pomp unusual.
Sanchez took the opening, "Doesn’t that seem strange to you? Billy, Ted, think about it."
"Use your heads," Liz pleaded. "Good soldiers don’t just follow orders, they don’t just do what they’re told, they think. There is a line between focused and mindless, between disciplined and manipulated."
Sanchez added, "You guys have been here almost as long as I have. Do you feel it? Billy, do you feel the vibration? Do you hear the hum? Someone has turned on all the power down there. Something is going on beneath us."
"We have our orders," Billy replied.
"General Borman is being used by whatever is down there," she said but, again, kept her distance. Force would not win this battle. If it came to blows she and Sanchez would end up dead. "It has manipulated everything, all of us, for years. All getting ready for this day. Today. It’s counting on all of us to be good little robots, to not question what we’re told, what we see. But think, damn it, think! You have to think and you have to make a decision. If you make the wrong decision, we are all going to die."
The sentries kept their guns pointed in accordance with their orders.
"Think," Liz tried one last time. "Please, be soldiers, real soldiers. Not just good little robots."
35
Campion pushed through the heavy double doors with his gun ready. His eyes swept side to side in search of targets and threats. The Red Lab was quiet, no sign of movement in either the main room or the isolation chamber at the back.
As in the rest of the complex, the lights here had inexplicably come to life. A few of the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling-mounted light panels had failed to work, but he could see everything—from the ancient equipment to the mattress in the corner surrounded by scraps of food and supplies to the streaks of blood on the floor
At the center of it all stood a table and something covered in a cloth. He placed the duffle bag on the floor, raised his rifle, and approached the hidden object, his laser target falling on the white sheet.
When in arm's reach, he grabbed the cover and yanked it off, revealing an old-style console radio—no, wait. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes again he saw that his eyes had played a trick.
No, it was not a radio but Dr. Briggs’s experiment. A strange, square contraption at rest on a table with all sorts of protrusions and dials and buttons and wires attached to a thick conduit that ran across the floor and back into the isolation chamber, where it interfaced with additional gear.
The captain did not know how the enigmatic box did what it did, but he knew it was ground zero of Briggs's experiment, whatever that might have been. That type of understanding was not germane to his mission.
What did matter was that it was, in fact, his lucky day. Dr. Twiste’s bag with the two V.A.A.D. battery packs lay on the floor in front of the machine.
Campion did not stop to wonder why it was all so easy; he did not question why fate had seen fit to bless his mission. He accepted what his eyes saw, and his eyes saw that all the tools he needed to complete his objective were now at hand. He had the batteries, he had the V.A.A.D. main unit, he had the knowledge of how to operate it (where’d I pick that up from?), and he had the laboratory all to himself.
From somewhere far, far away came the sound of gunshots. Like everything else not associated with activating the V.A.A.D., those gunshots were unimportant to him. They might as well have been a universe away.
He knelt and set his weapon aside, certain he would face no interruptions.
Campion pulled the two metallic, brick-like batteries from the bag that had once been carried by Dr. Brandon Twiste. He then set the V.A.A.D. unit on the floor and carefully attached those batteries.
He recalled the instructions that had wormed their way into his mind. It was now time to take readings, make adjustments, and set the device to detonate.
Captain Campion was not sure what would happen after that. For some reason, that did not seem important. He cared about only one thing: follow orders and complete the mission.
And when the mission is done, Captain, use your sidearm to blow your brains out, will you?
Okay, sure.
—
Major Gant walked a pace behind the entity dressed in the body of Dr. Ronald Briggs. A pace behind Gant followed the thing that had once been a man named Jolly but was now a cross between guard dog and zombie, with a healthy dose of demon mixed in.
He heard, from further back, another sound. It seemed as if at least one more had joined the entourage, but kept its distance
For a moment, he thought maybe one of his men—Campion? Franco?—had picked up their trail and followed, perhaps contemplating an attack. But the sounds he heard came across less as footsteps and more as something shuffling, scurrying along.
One of the entity's warped children, no doubt, following its father at a discreet distance, always just around the last corner, as if playing a game. Maybe merely curious, possibly called by its master, but yet another obstacle to any chan
ce of gaining his freedom and stopping Briggs.
Major Thom Gant felt certain he would soon die. He was not eager to die; that would not be the best way to characterize his state of mind. However, death would end the conflict tearing at his soul. On one side of that conflict stood the instincts programmed into his body from years of training, discipline, and following orders. The other side of that conflict rose from corners of his mind where conscience and question tried to light fires of revolt against that programming.
Alas, he knew he was not the only victim of that conflict. He had dragged Jean into his personal battle zone. She was collateral damage. She had been mutated from a happy young girl into a lonely woman who accepted loneliness with a dignified resolve.
She deserved better, and perhaps if he did die she might find something better.
—
The door to the vault room buzzed and opened. The sound startled General Borman’s attention away from the two soldiers who worked on the quarantine bulkhead, cutting away the metal plate Borman had welded into place the day before.
Lieutenant Colonel Liz Thunder took two tentative steps into the white room, much to the ire of the general.
"You? I gave orders that you were not permitted in here!"
She gazed around the room like a child walking through the world's grandest toy store. She stood in the most guarded and most feared room in all the world, at least as far as the Pentagon was concerned.
That, of course, begged many questions. If the government feared what lay in the levels below, why had they not sent an entire battalion of troops through the vault? Why not gas the lower levels or, at the very least, cut off the oxygen supply?
The reason for the failure to use extreme measures stood in front of Colonel Thunder: General Harold Borman, the Pentagon’s darling when it came to unconventional enemies, and their expert on Red Rock.
Whatever lived in the bowels of the quarantine zone had not wanted a mass of troops or a cloud of nerve gas sent against it. Therefore Borman and Vsalov had opposed such measures. Their words about that menagerie of horrors were gold in the halls of Washington.
Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle Page 29