Quietly, “What in God’s name are you babbling about?”
On Mr. Condy’s left, Servy coughs, and that intense gaze swings to him. “Sir. He’s talking about Abraham Lincoln, sir.” On his other side, Jiminy is fighting to keep a smile off his face.
Drews looks far less amused. “I do not appreciate having my time wasted, Mr. Condy.”
He sits back in his chair, grinning. “Ahhhh, I needed a joke. These guys liked it. We all need to loosen up in here. Why be so tense? At least with this job, you’re not having to shoot at humans for once.”
The soldiers’ faces abruptly go straight. Drews doesn’t react; he only stares.
“Alright, alright, I’ll tell you the short version of the real story. After that, I want to know what the timeline is on me getting back to my trailer. Now that the cat’s going to be out of the bag, I might as well try to help you mop up this mess I’ve made, but I cannot miss my shows and I like sleeping in my own bed.”
Drews closes his eyes as if fighting for patience. “Perhaps I could summon Mr. de la Mora to drive you.”
The old man gives him a strange look. “Hey, now. I had nothing to do with any of that.”
“Your story, please, Mr. Condy.”
The old man clears his throat and stares into space for a minute, sucking on his teeth in thought. A few times, he opens his mouth to speak, then pauses, then contemplates.
At last, “It started about two years ago. You’re going to think I was a druggie, or mentally unstable, but my life was pretty normal at that point. Lived in Gothic, worked from home — coded all day, played games all night. I was pretty happy. Had no reason to make any of this happen.”
Drews doesn’t take notes; he takes in every movement, every syllable of this confession. “Go on.”
“Out of the blue, I started having these horrible nightmares. There were these . . . things attacking me, but without touching me.” With his hands, he indicates tall columns to his left and right. “These towering, pan-dimensional monsters — I call them the Angels. Every night, I’d see them standing, unmoving, and then they’d wrench at my mind—” He squeezes his eyes shut, warding off a bad memory that comes at him like a drill bit between the eyes.
Drews sets his tablet on the table and sits back, watches the old man shudder. “Why would they do that?”
Mr. Condy opens his eyes a little, squints at him. “I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me.” Thinks on it. “This wasn’t a mere dream or even a hallucination. What you have to understand is that the beings I call the Angels exist, somewhere. They were communicating with me across the gulf between our dimensions.”
“And they used this ability to . . . mentally torture you?”
“Not for nothing. Once they had me driven to the absolute brink of insanity, they dumped a bunch of schematics into my head and told me to build a machine through which they could communicate properly. All I had to do to make the nightmares stop was decode these schematics and build this machine.”
Silence.
“So you built the machine.”
“So I built the machine.” Condy stares down at his own hands, momentarily awash with guilt. “I know it seems selfish. But I didn’t know. I swear to God, I didn’t know what it would do.”
“What did it do, Mr. Condy?”
“It really is a communication device. Best I can figure, it sends signals out into the space between universes. I assumed at the time that there was no possible way to transfer matter across that barrier — so I figured that if I built their communication device, they couldn’t do any worse than say mean things, right? Anything to make the nightmares stop.”
“You don’t have to get defensive.”
Condy bites the inside of his cheek for a moment, then nods. “Not to you.”
“How do you even know that your machine is responsible?”
“I’d been sending ‘anybody out there’ signals for a year, with no responses. The nightmares had mostly stopped being nightmares, but I was still seeing shit. There was a mountain in the dreams, right? This fucked-up mountain, like a triangle, like no natural mountain.”
If Drews were a black cat, his ears would prick up. Instead, he is motionless.
Condy breathes for a long moment, then adds, “And then, when the monsters came, and everyone was being evacuated, I saw a rip in space-time. A portal.”
“And you took a peek.”
“Who wouldn’t? What rational human being would see one of those things and not go, ‘eeee’? So I peeked.” He stares at Drews intently for a moment, then closes his eyes. “And I saw the mountain.”
Silence.
Drews leans back in his chair, regarding the old man. “And then you came back to Earth.”
“Of course. I’d have been crazy to stay over there, where the monsters were coming from. Besides, I was a wreck. Suddenly I knew that all this death and destruction was my fault.” He shudders. “Besides: The Angels might have been waiting for me. I don’t want to know what kind of sick reward they have in store for their little puppet. Sometimes, in the dreams, I’d leave the mountain and head south across the grass, and there was this . . . this wood—”
The corner of Drews’ mouth finally pulls back a fraction as he regards the old man.
Condy frowns at him. “What does that grin mean? Is it off to the gulag with me?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“The gulag? Well, that’s a relief.”
“The other world. It’s a beautiful place.” Drews’ gaze has gone a little misty. “The predators . . . ”
Mr. Condy freezes, processing what he’s just heard. His mouth, taut in a smirk, slowly loosens in surprise. “You . . . You’ve been there? What about the Angels?”
“We’ve encountered nothing like these ‘Angels’ you describe.”
The old man sits back, stunned. “Can people survive over there?”
“With the right armaments, it’s a paradise. Who knows — on our next expedition, we may need a technician. Can you rewire electronics on the fly while in great personal danger, Mr. Condy?”
“I was born for it,” he whispers reverently. This is the first time Drews has truly had his interest; the prospect of visiting that other world under guard, without the threat of the Angels, literally makes him salivate.
“You were telling me about the mental communications you were having with entities from the other side.”
He nods distractedly, then forces his thoughts back to the topic at hand. “After I figured out that I’d been used like a chump, I didn’t touch the machine for months — was afraid of making things worse. Then, today, I found something that made it worth blowing the dust off.” All humor drains from his face. “The glowing blue orb. Do you know what it is?”
“I can tell you that we obtained them from the other side. But I’m more interested in your ‘machine’.”
Condy coughs. “Please keep in mind that I am the only living human who understands the machine and has any chance of building another one if you’ve blown it up. I’m also your best shot at closing these portals.”
Silence.
Drews slowly gets to his feet. “I’d like to show you something, Mr. Condy. I think you’ll find it . . . educational.”
The old man rises cautiously, grabbing his gloves from the table. “Is this the part where you drop me through a trap door and I get eaten by something?”
“I don’t intend to kill you, if that’s what you’re asking.” As the soldiers escort the old man around the table and follow Drews out of the room, he adds, “Though I’m afraid you won’t be going home tonight.”
In the corridor, Mr. Condy shoots him a look of wide-eyed consternation.
“We try not to make unnecessary forays into or through the city,” Drews explains as they walk — him leading the way, Mr. Condy in the middle, the soldiers taking up the rear. “It may be several days before we can escort you back out to the fence. In the meantime, your stay here will be comfortable a
nd your cooperation will earn you freedom of movement.”
Condy grimaces at his back. “Is this a regular thing? Do you often turn prisoners into happy little team members?”
Drews walks in silence for a minute, during which time they continue down a long corridor of painted grey cinder blocks. The light is just a little too bright, the walls a little too solid; Condy stares at them, no doubt becoming aware that he is underground.
At last, Drews nods at a passing doorway. “We’ve outfitted a barracks, but we have several vacancies, one of which I will have prepared for you.”
Condy grunts. “’Vacancies’. The place looks deserted. High turnover?”
“We’ve recently moved the CDC’s research personnel and technicians to the fences, and no longer house any acicular team members—”
“Hang on, ‘acicular’?”
“. . . ancillary. I misspoke.” They reach a black barred gate, beyond which is a stairwell leading down. “Gentlemen, I will escort Mr. Condy from here. If anyone needs me, I have my radio.”
“Yes, sir,” the two soldiers chorus with varying levels of enthusiasm. They head back the way they came, no doubt bursting with new gossip.
Drews swipes a card and presses his thumb to a panel. Something clicks deep inside the wall, and the gate slides to one side. “Watch your step, Mr. Condy.”
The old man hesitates, staring down the stairwell into deep darkness. He won’t be allowed to turn back — and he wouldn’t even if he could. He may die in that dungeon, but better to die than to live a life in which he never learned what waited in these shadows.
As he steps through, motion-activated lights begin to click on overhead. Drews leads him down into the basement’s deserted second level. Condy tingles with the sensation of being buried alive.
“I truly wished to recruit Mr. de la Mora,” Drews says suddenly. “He struck me as a brave and reliable officer. But circumstances forced him to choose sides before he had all the facts, and he chose poorly.”
Condy’s face twitches into a dark grimace. “‘Struck me as brave and reliable’ my ass. You don’t think that about someone and then blow their brains out as soon as they turn on you.”
“On the contrary. I’ve done it several times. Recently.”
“That makes me so excited about your job offer.”
Drews watches him; they’ve come to the first bend in the corridor. “You possess a level of intelligence that Mr. de la Mora lacked. I can promise that you will be forgiven for quite a bit more. Trust your sense of self-preservation, and you will do fine here. Having a conscience will get you killed.”
He snorts. “Oh, of course. It’s not like having a conscience is all that separates us from the monsters.”
Drews says nothing, only leads him to another corridor. There, way up ahead, at the end of this last hallway of painted grey blocks, there is a reinforced steel door that has obviously been installed only recently. As Drews undergoes the half-dozen security checks to confirm his identity, Mr. Condy stares at the door as if the Nightmare King waits behind it.
“There was an important lesson I eventually intended to teach Mr. de la Mora,” Drews murmurs, though his words carry harshly in this underground. “With you, I think I’ll move it up.” The door disengages and swings inward a little; Drews pushes it the rest of the way open and chocks it with a handy cinder block. “Don’t worry; the door can also be opened remotely in case we become trapped.”
“Do I look worried? Maybe you’re the one who’s worried.”
Drews says nothing, but stands by the door and beckons for the old man to enter.
Inside is what must look at first like a random storeroom full of the equipment, tables, and filing cabinets that once filled the building. Mr. Condy pokes forward, trying to find their lesson — looking certain he is about to be dropped through a trap door. “You got a light?”
Drews stoops to switch on a halogen work light. The two men are momentarily blinded as it fills the room with white. Drews hurriedly dims it.
Centered in the new light are three large, metal cylinders, each the size of a refrigerator. Each contains a small window; the first two are empty, and through the third, dark water can be seen.
“The first two are empty, but the one on the right . . .” Drews holds out a flashlight. “Go ahead. Take a look.”
Mr. Condy takes the flashlight. He’s too curious not to, even if his stomach churns with dread. The future is a narrow corridor, but he is at least finally approaching its end.
He stands next to the tank for several minutes, aiming the flashlight into its window, staring.
At last, “Please tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”
Drews has quietly moved to stand almost directly behind Mr. Condy, so that he can monitor the unmoving black shape hanging inside the tank. “You don’t have to worry; there are multiple failsafes if it even attempts to escape—”
“Jesus Christ, can it move?”
It can’t. “Its body is kept desiccated and immobilized. Most life functions have stopped.” It can’t breathe. “But it is still alive — and if it were set free, it would kill everyone in this facility and break quarantine immediately.”
“Is it human, or just human-shaped?”
“It is a billion needles arranged in the shape of a human. Our invaders are swiftly adapting, taking this form in order to earn our trust.” Lies. “The previous Director honored them with the name Homo sapiens acicularis, and for her generosity, they killed her.” That’s a lie! That’s a goddamn lie!
The old man has gone pale, but there’s a hint of skepticism in his eyes. “So it’s like a Lady Terminator or something? Unfeeling killing machine?”
“On the contrary. They have learned to mimic emotion, and can appear extremely sympathetic. Of all our enemies — dragons, exes, vines — this species is the most dangerous.” It didn’t have to be this way. “And this specimen is the most evil.” It didn’t have to be this way!
Mr. Condy looks torn. On the one hand, it’s tempting to succumb to the terror of interdimensional needle-invaders, and part of him truly wants to believe that such drastic measures may be necessary.
But.
Inside the tank hangs a shape wrapped tightly in black plastic and then vacuum-sealed inside a thick, clear layer. The body is unnervingly elongated — toes pointed, knees locked together, hips twisted, breasts flattened, wrists bound behind, shoulders squeezed down—
—head thrown back, mouth wide—
And all of it shrunken, the black plastic having shriveled and folded in on itself, the body wearing away and smoothing out until the lower and upper jaws are separated by a frozen scream that runs ear to ear.
In the minutes he’s spent looking at it, the captive has not moved at all.
Mr. Condy tries to swallow, but his throat is dry.
Drews lays a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Is this one of your Angels, Mr. Condy?”
No! he wants to shout. No, you fucking psychopath! That’s a human being! I don’t know how you’re keeping her alive, but for the love of God, let her go!
“No,” he manages. “I don’t think those have literal, physical forms.”
The tall man nods faintly but doesn’t seem pleased with this answer. “Well, regardless, I hope this convinces you that safety is our highest priority.”
Mr. Condy turns and follows him out — but as he goes, his eyes are everywhere, scanning the walls and corners and ceiling. He notes a tube of cords leading from the desiccation tanks to the steel door. He can’t see how they pass through, but spots them again in the hall beyond.
He’s some kind of world-class hacker, and he’s making note that the room is on the network. He doesn’t want to be here any more than the God-forsaken woman in the tank does — and this little room has now become a part of his plans.
He doesn’t notice the whisper-thin black thread that runs along the cables, that squeezes with them through a hole in the steel door’s frame. Outside in th
e hallway, the thread continues up a groove in the wall and then runs along the ceiling. It is invisible to those walking past, and even close inspection would reveal only a faint line on the stone.
Just outside the claustrophobic room, at the place where wall meets ceiling, there sits an eye no larger than an appleseed. It watches the two men walk past, though their images are colorless and out of focus.
Compared to the skull-crushing darkness of the desiccation tank, it is a vibrant experience.
The thread continues up into the facility, across the walls and ceiling of every room.
The thread bears many eyes.
The FEMA camp is in chaos. Soldiers go from trailer to trailer, forcing open doors and ordering the last few civilians out into the road. From there they are evacuated down muddy roads, to covered trucks that will carry them to new refugee sites. Those being brought in from the trailers are escorted carefully, so that they don’t see the young woman bleeding out in the community center parking lot.
Condy cowers his way around the side of the huge building and makes it to Lucas’ truck, parked in the grass between the community center and fence. The doors hang open; he climbs inside and slowly shuts the door facing the action, staying low so he won’t be spotted. His laptop lies untouched on the passenger seat, and he heaves a sigh of relief.
From the back seat: “What’s going on out there?”
Condy nearly hits the roof of the cab, then holds both hands to his chest. “Jesus! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Zechariah sits crouched in the back seat, his eyes on the soldiers that have taken over the camp. “Have you seen Lucas?”
“I think he met up with the head soldier. The hell are you doing in here?”
He shrugs. “Instincts said not to go near the soldiers.”
Condy pulls the computer into his lap and resists the strong urge to hug it like a child. “I need to get out of here. You with me?”
New Night (Gothic Book 2) Page 7