The Signal

by John Sneeden

  As the stinging in his eyes faded, VanGelder grunted and lifted his head. He found it hard to see, but he wasn’t sure if that was simply because of all the smoke or because he had lost his glasses. He only saw that he was situated directly underneath the counter inside a cubicle. As he pushed himself up onto his elbows, his memory began to come back. He remembered that they had been gathered in that same space when the German had started the collider. The explosion had taken place at some point after that, but VanGelder couldn’t remember exactly when.

  The gunfire continued around him and was so deafening that it hurt his ears. One group appeared to be firing from just over the wall to his left, while another group appeared to be returning fire from near the windows.

  As his strength returned, the Dutch physicist pulled his legs underneath the desktop. He didn’t appear to be in the line of fire, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He could hear shots ripping through the skin of a cubicle not far away. Other rounds glanced off equipment, ricocheting in every direction.

  VanGelder tried to locate his glasses. It was hard to make anything out in the darkness and through the thick smoke, but as he turned to the right, he did see something else: a human leg. The suit pants looked familiar. Mironov?

  As he pondered that question, he saw a flashing light on the other side of the cubicle. The light would appear for a moment, twisting and turning, and then disappear. He squinted and soon realized he was looking at a screen saver on the monitor that the German had used to access the system.

  What about the collider? Nobody had stopped the collider. While the tremors had calmed considerably, the floor was still vibrating beneath him.

  Letting out a groan, VanGelder got up on all fours, determined to get to the computer and shut down the system. Most of the CERN keyboards and mice were wireless, so he just needed to get over there and grab them.

  But did he have the strength? And would he be shot the minute he got up? Good questions, but he knew he had no choice. The collider was still operating at energy levels it likely couldn’t withstand, and if not shut down, the whole facility might be blown to pieces.

  Clenching his teeth, VanGelder stood up and stumbled over to the other side of the cubicle. He pushed the chair out of the way and then felt around for the keyboard, which he found quickly. He used his right hand to search for the mouse. He patted everywhere but was coming up empty. Where was it? On a whim, he stuck his hand around the base of the monitor and finally found the hard plastic lump. He stuffed it into his pocket.

  The monitor suddenly glowed with light as it moved it out of screen-saver mode. VanGelder heard a loud voice speaking in Russian across the room. He’d been spotted. Two shots rang out, with one clipping his arm and the other clanging off a nearby hard drive.

  VanGelder reeled in pain from the gunshot. He realized how unrealistic all of those scenes from the movies were, with the protagonist simply grunting a little after being shot while at the same time continuing to fight on.

  But it was not the time to concentrate on his pain. If he stayed exposed much longer, the next bullet would take him down. Summoning all his remaining strength, he took two steps and dove toward the place he’d been hiding before. In mid-flight he heard another shot ring out, and two seconds later he thought a hot poker had been plunged through his side and into his abdomen. He landed short of the desk and rolled underneath, still clutching the keyboard and mouse.

  The pain in his midsection was almost unbearable. Reaching down, he found the place where the bullet had entered his body. As he probed the red hole in his shirt, a stream of crimson flowed out. He knew immediately what that meant. He knew his life would now be measured in minutes, not years.

  Realizing he didn’t have much time, VanGelder pulled himself up into a sitting position. His head spinning due to the loss of blood, he placed the keyboard in his lap and the mouse by his side.

  It was time to shut things down.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  “BRETT, DO YOU read?” Zane stood in the center of the elevator as it plunged down into the bowels of the earth. Nothing. The only response in his earbuds was crackling static.

  His mind kept returning to what he had seen only moments before: the emotionless unblinking eyes that had focused on him with malevolent intent.

  But was the image even real? What if it was a hallucination? The lingering effects of the tranquilizer, coupled with smoke inhalation and stress, could’ve easily combined to produce something that didn’t even exist.

  But what if it wasn’t a hallucination? What if it was real and there were more of them waiting below? The thought reminded him of those still above.

  Zane realized he must try to reach them one more time, so he spoke into the radio mic on his cuff. “Skinner, do you read? Skinner?”

  Once again, only static. It was official; communication was no longer an option. If something were roaming the halls above, then the others would have to deal with it.

  Eventually the car began to slow as it neared its destination. He had no idea what to expect, but he realized that there was a very good chance that Marrese might still be near the elevator, and he needed to be prepared to act as soon as the doors opened.

  The car groaned to a halt, and Zane could see there was an outer door similar to the one he had entered through on the ground floor. He looked out the window but there was only Stygian darkness beyond.

  The door slid open at the same glacial pace as the one above. Fortunately for Zane, it opened with relatively little noise. Gripping his gun in both hands, he stepped out of the car and cleared in both directions. He was greeted by a loud humming sound that likely came from the collider, which was still running.

  As the elevator door closed, Zane used the last splash of light to take in the surroundings. He was standing in an alcove on one side of a cavernous chamber. The monstrous space stretched as far as he could see, perhaps the equivalent of two football fields. There were three grated metal walkways above that wrapped around the perimeter.

  There were tunnel openings at each end of the chamber. A large metallic pipe emerged from each one, meeting in the center at an odd-looking ribbed cylinder. Zane surmised that the cylinder was where the subatomic particles were violently brought together.

  Unable to hear anything above the humming sound, Zane stepped out into the chamber and immediately caught sight of movement on the far end. He took a few steps in that direction and detected a gaping hole in the ceiling—the lower end of the crater he’d seen in the building aboveground. He could see the bottom of the funnel cloud spinning in the space.

  Suddenly there was the loud clang of metal, followed by the sound of voices.

  Marrese.

  The noises came from the far side of the chamber, so the operative moved about ten yards in that direction and stopped. Directly in front of him stood row after row of wooden crates and pieces of equipment. To his right he could see that a tower of scaffolding had been built around the ribbed detector, a sign of the recent renovations that had taken place.

  Zane cautiously entered the maze of wooden crates. He paused at each one, alert for a possible ambush. At one point his foot hit a metal tool and sent it clanging a few feet. Cursing under his breath, the operative crouched into a defensive position and remained still for two minutes. Hearing nothing, he stood up and began walking again.

  Three minutes later, he heard muffled voices up ahead, barely discernible above the humming that seemed even louder in the middle of the chamber. He paused, listening, and eventually determined that the voices were coming from somewhere near the entrance to the tunnel, a short distance ahead and to the right.

  As he moved in that direction, he realized the voices echoed, bouncing through the crates like sounds at the bottom of a canyon. That meant it was going to be difficult to pinpoint their precise location until he was directly on top of them.

  A few minutes later, Zane saw something else that brought him to a halt: the beam of a flashlight boun
cing around on a wall. Slipping his finger behind the trigger of the Glock, he walked down a long aisle in the direction of the light. About halfway there, he was able to make out a conversation. One person, who Zane assumed to be Marrese, spoke in a hiss.

  When he closed to within twenty yards, the operative came to a stop. He didn’t want to risk getting too close and getting caught by the beam of the flashlight. As he paused, he realized a second man was speaking now. His voice was a mixture of meekness and firm resolve. He must have had his back to Zane, because the operative could only hear snippets of what he was saying. “There are always second chances with God. He… his grace… extend to…”

  Philippe? It didn’t seem possible and yet Zane would’ve known that voice anywhere. Did that mean VanGelder was still aboveground?

  “Shut your mouth,” hissed Marrese. “You disgust me. The only reason you’re still alive is that I may need you to get me out of…”

  Zane waited to see if he could pick up any further pieces of the conversation, but there were only muffled whispers. Since the beam of the flashlight was no longer visible, he crept up to the final crate and crouched down behind it. He could see an arm up against the front corner. Someone, likely Philippe, was sitting on the floor.

  As he waited, Zane smelled the rancid stench of rotting flesh. It was faint, as though the source was still some distance away, but there was no doubt it was the same smell he smelled in the corridor outside the elevator.

  Philippe spoke, his voice now clear. “There is no need to tie me up,” he said in accented English. “I’ve told you that you have nothing to fear.”

  There was a loud smacking sound. “Shut up,” Marrese said.

  The crate shook a bit as they tied the pastor up.

  After a long minute of silence, Marrese said in Italian, “They’re here.” Zane wasn’t fluent in Italian, but knew enough to follow the basics. “I can… I can feel their presence.” His voice was shaking with excitement.

  “Where are they?” another man asked in Italian.

  There was a pause, and then Marrese answered, “They’re coming through the tunnel. Hurry up.”

  “Shall we go to meet them?”

  “No, we aren’t going anywhere. You’re going to stand over there and watch him while I go in and bring them out.”

  “Shouldn’t I go with you in case—”

  “Was I not clear?” Marrese snapped. “Stand over there and watch this piece of filth.”

  The conversation continued, but the men were walking away and Zane couldn’t make anything out. The operative seized the opportunity, crawling along the concrete until he was mere inches from Philippe. He then raised his Glock and pressed it into his arm, whispering, “Nice and easy.” The pastor shuddered. “It’s Zane Watson. Don’t move.”

  The man relaxed a bit and nodded. He turned his head and whispered, “I’ve been praying that someone might come. It’s so good to hear your voice, even if you do have this bad habit of pointing guns at me.”

  “Where is the man with the gun?”

  “He’s standing over at the mouth—”

  All of the sudden, the flashlight beam turned in their direction. Philippe flinched but remained still. A few seconds later, it turned in another direction.

  “Did he hear us?” Zane asked.

  “I don’t think so. He’s too far away. I think he was just making sure I’m still here.”

  “Exactly how far away is he?”

  “I’d say about twenty meters.”

  “Are your wrists are bound?”

  There was a long pause before Philippe finally answered in a whisper. “Sorry, he seemed to be looking my way. Yes, my arms are tied to the crate, and my ankles are tied together with rope.”

  “How are you, physically?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Zane had wanted to pull the pastor behind the crate and then engage the man holding the flashlight, but the fact that Philippe was tied to it thwarted those plans. “Okay, listen to me. When I give you the word, I need you to lean forward just a bit. We’re going to start by cutting you off of the crate.”

  “Okay,” Philippe whispered.

  Zane pulled a knife out of his pocket. “Lean forward. Remember, just a bit.”

  As Philippe leaned forward, Zane used the knife to saw through the cuffs.

  “Oh no,” Philippe said, his body flinching.

  “What?” Zane asked, thinking he’d accidentally cut Philippe’s wrist.

  “Something is coming out of the tunnel.”

  “What is it?”

  Philippe mumbled something Zane couldn’t quite understand.

  “What did you say?

  “Rephaim,” Philippe’s voice was barely a whisper.

  Zane had no idea what the pastor was talking about, so he turned his attention back to sawing through the plastic restraints. Seconds later the cuffs fell free.

  Leaning forward, he whispered, “Okay get ready. I’m going to pull you behind the crate, which is likely going to draw the attention of our friend. When I pull you back I’m going to toss you the knife and then take care of him.”

  “And what do I do?”

  “You cut that rope and then run back to the elevator. I'll join you as soon as I can.”

  “Here we go,” Zane said, grabbing Philippe by the arm and pulling him around the corner of the crate.

  “Hey!” a voice shouted. The beam of the flashlight turned in their direction, and a shot rang out, splintering the wood just above the operative’s head.

  Zane tossed the knife to Philippe, stepped out into the open, and raised his gun.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  THE LOSS OF blood was taking its toll on Markus VanGelder’s body. His head was spinning, and he barely had enough strength to strike the keyboard positioned in his lap. Lines of glistening sweat streamed down his forehead, which required him to reach up periodically and wipe with a wet sleeve. He knew his life was coming to an end, but he pressed on.

  What normally would have taken the physicist about five minutes had taken perhaps fifteen or twenty. His mind was in the process of shutting down, and his cognitive skills were fading by the second.

  Summoning all of his remaining mental capacity, the physicist managed to click through the final screens. When he entered the command to shut the system down, a box appeared, warning him that turning off the system completely, without a gradual slowing, could result in irreversible damage to the equipment and the endangerment of lives.

  At the bottom of the box was a sentence blinking in red: WOULD YOU LIKE TO OVERRIDE?

  Markus VanGelder wiped the sweat from his forehead one last time. He drew in a deep breath and raised his finger in the air.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  AFTER STEPPING OUT from behind the crate, Zane took in the scene in an instant. Marrese’s disciple was standing about twenty or thirty yards away, trying to hold his flashlight with one hand and shoot the pistol with the other. It wasn’t a recipe for success, but any man with a loaded gun, even a crazed loon, was dangerous.

  The disciple fired another shot. Zane used his index finger to activate the laser sight and instantly a red dot appeared on the floor near the shooter. He directed it upwards until it finally rested on the man’s chest. Target acquired, he squeezed the trigger. There was a loud spit and the man fell backwards, the flashlight flying out of his hand and spinning across the floor.

  When it came to a stop, the cone of light illuminated the mouth of the tunnel. Marrese was there, kneeling on the floor and rocking back and forth in some sort of spiritual trance. It was now obvious he was making his final descent into full-blown madness.

  Then, as Zane’s eyes moved upwards, he saw something that froze his blood. Hovering over the priest, just outside of the light, was the dark outline of what could only be described as a giant. Its twenty-foot frame was like that of a man, although the shape of its head was not even remotely human.

  The operative watched as the creature
leaned over, grabbed the priest, and lifted him into the air.

  “It’s me,” Marrese screamed in a pleading voice. “I’m the one who called you. I’m the one you’re here for.” But the creature either couldn’t understand or didn’t care, and he violently flung the priest’s body against the wall, the impact making a sickening thud.

  As Zane stared at the scene, transfixed, the giant’s head turned abruptly in his direction. It made a deep guttural noise and began to move in his direction.

  The operative raised his gun and fired twice before turning and sprinting back down the dark aisle that ran through the crates. A few seconds later, he heard the thud of footsteps turn the corner in pursuit. Despite its size, the giant was chasing after him with frightening speed.

  When Zane reached the end of the aisle, he began to weave back and forth through the crates that were scattered across the floor, figuring that the creature was too large to pass through some of the openings. As he did, he tried to move generally in the direction of the elevators.

  A minute later, out of breath, he came to a halt. Something didn’t feel right and he needed get his bearings. As he looked around, he noticed that the cylindrical detector was on his left. Using that as a point of reference, he turned and looked toward the corner where the elevator should be. Only it wasn’t there. Instead there were only large stacks of boxes. Somehow he had gotten off track. Somehow he was now lost.

  As he tried to figure out which direction to take, Zane heard the soft thud of footsteps nearby.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  AS VANGELDER PREPARED to shut down the collider, his thoughts drifted back to his daughter in Holland. He could see her in his mind’s eye, the beautiful blond hair tied up in a ponytail. The Dutchman smiled as he also remembered her thick, black-framed glasses. They touched a tender place in his heart because it was the myopia she’d inherited from him that made them necessary.