by Andrew Dorn
A weapon, Ballard had said. Some type of cannon.
It was an unusual affirmation, but there were no doubts in Redding’s mind he was telling the truth. The events of the last hours had kept him, and his unit, one step behind. They had been fighting the sludge, trying to contain it, while they should have been investigating its origin. He was short of staff and had decided to pull back and wait for reinforcements but he could see now it had been a mistake. They should have fixed the helicopter earlier and directly addressed the cause of the contamination instead of trying to curb its progress. They had lost precious time and underestimated the speed at which events had progressed. It now seemed like they were already too late and to make matters even worse, they had lost contact with the only person able to relay critical information.
“What do you think Ballard meant by a ‘cannon’?” Redding said.
“I have no idea, sir,” Monroe said, easing into the chair facing the Major’s impeccable desk. “I mean we have not seen anything like that in our containment zones.”
Redding nodded, deep in thought. Some of their efforts had not been totally in vain. His unit had found a way of slowing down the sludge. By blasting it with water. They had pumped water from a nearby creek, filled up the unit’s fire truck and used fire hoses equipped with wide nozzles to spray the sludge down. It had worked, up to a point, until some of the pumps conked out and the fuel powering the generators ran out. Still, it was better than nothing, better than seeking to incinerate the goo to cinder. Redding’s fists clenched as he looked back upon their losses. Losing people was always a tragedy but the way it had gone down, the utter uselessness of it boiled his blood. Here was an enemy without a face, without a discernible objective to attack. It spread out across acres of land, in no apparent pattern, save the absolute obliteration of the habitat. He had drawn upon well known protocols, ones he assessed would be appropriate for the situation, but the sludge had defied all conventional planning.
And now it was building some kind of weapon.
“If it really is a weapon, then we are in deep crap.” Redding said, passing a hand through his thinning hair. “Can you imagine that sludge slithering into Boston or New York?”
“No sir,” Monroe said. “I mean I can imagine it... but I don’t want to entertain the thought it could happen.”
“Indeed.”
Redding lurched out of his chair and screwed his cap back on his head.
“Let’s go Lieutenant. Let’s see if we can get the helo into the air.”
Simon felt the commotion before the sound reached his ears. There was an abnormally deep growl then a great rip as if the sky was being shred apart.
“What the—
Simon’s question lingered in the air for a millisecond before a second booming noise crashed down right above his head. The entire cavern shook with a massive jolt, the sound deafening in the confined volume.
Simon’s mind reeled with conjectures. There had been an explosion, that was a given, but he had no clue on what caused it. He turned aside and stared into the gloom of the tunnel, the one he and Emmeline had emerged from. There was a thick cloud of dust falling to the ground. The cloud expanded across the width of the tunnel, coming his way.
There was movement within the dust, great displacements of air which morphed the cloud’s appearance into a contorted, confusing pall. To his stupefaction, he realized what was happening: the tunnel was breaking apart. The passage was collapsing, sending huge slabs of stones crashing into the floor with enormous force.
“We have to get out of here!” Simon shouted over the fracas.
“But there’s no way out!”
“Yes, there is!”
He sprang to his feet, pulling Emmeline along, and glided down the incline as the cloud of dust roared behind them.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Emmeline objected.
“There is no other way!”
More pieces of the ceiling rained down in a great blur of noise and dust, sending torrents of fractured rock all around the cavern. Simon felt the sting of a projectile lodge itself between his shoulder blades. He took notice but dismissed it as inconsequential and kept on running. His objective was the front end, still open, of the Seeder. He knew full well it was an insane idea. A few minutes ago, he had observed a miniature version of the object exit the very opening he was now dashing into. There was no time to dwell on what they would find inside, let alone if they could even survive its environment, but they had to try. It was either that or be pancaked by tons of rock, not something he wished to experience at the moment.
“We can’t go in there,” Emmeline called over the sound of crashing stone. “It’s suicide!”
“I’m all open to other ideas,” Simon yelled back.
Fifteen meters behind Emmeline, a slab of granite as big as a small car smashed to the floor, hurtling more accretions of minerals every which way. Emmeline shrieked as splinters of stalagmites sailed right over her head like meteors streaking into the atmosphere. She quickened her pace, throwing back her head to where the slab had fallen. The giant boulder had lodged itself sideways in the tunnel, sealing it from top to bottom. She stared for half a second at the scene. There would be no escape possible from that section of the cavern, not anymore. Whatever produced the explosion had also ruined their only way out.
The Seeder loomed ahead, mysterious and dark, like an ancient monument weathered by eons of storms. Simon glanced up at it as he raced inside the circular hole, the opening his brain had referred to as a yawning maw. It was too late for second guesses.
And as he hurried past the threshold between the cavern and the machine, between reality and the unknown, he understood at once he had made a terrible mistake.
43 Anna and Declan
ANNA CURTIS’ RIGHT arm went up in a protective posture, a futile but automatic attempt at warding away the huge spire toppling her way. For a moment, she experienced the strange sensation of being separated from one’s body, as if she was watching the events unfold from the sidelines. Her intellect knew she was experiencing an artifact of reality due to stress, but her gut instinct was more succinct: it was screaming for her to move. It was a discorporate effect she had never felt before, and it was discomforting at a basic, primitive level.
Indecision is your worst enemy, as dad used to say, when as a youth, she played soccer on fields of sharply cut grass and pleasant evenings. She had no choice but to act this time. Indecision is the enemy.
The spire’s outer support wires had snapped like so much brittle glass, leaving the towering structure unsupported; and gravity was gaining hold of its swaying momentum. The knowledge of one’s imminent demise wasn’t supposed to drag for so long, Anna mused.
But that’s how it was going.
She was unconsciously holding onto Declan’s left shoulder, transfixed by the teetering danger.
Declan turned and said something which she didn’t understand.
“What?”
“We have to run!”
And on those words, Declan pulled her by the hand and ran away at top speed. She could see the shadow of the behemoth gaining on them, swallowing up the whole area in darkness.
“Don’t stop!” Declan shouted.
She accelerated her pace even more, fighting back the urge to look back at the spectacle.
“This way!”
She heard Declan’s warning and saw him brusquely veer to his right, out of the shadow’s imprint. She followed suit, racing after him. Up ahead, she could make out a white object gleaming dully, like a lighthouse in heavy fog. Declan ran toward it and she held fast, her survival instinct kicking into high gear.
An instant later, the spire slammed into the ground with a thundering crash, throwing up a massive cloud of gray particles into the already dusty atmosphere.
Anna stopped running and turned around to view the damage. The spire was destroyed. It lay in a heap of fragmented pieces, some as big as cars, others barely larger than small stones. T
he thing was dead, out of order.
And she was still alive, and so was Declan.
They had made it!
“We did it!” She said, a trace of disbelief in her voice. She spun around, expecting Declan to be at her side.
But he wasn’t there. He had entered the white object, the one she had spotted right before The Big Gun almost squashed her. The rush of adrenaline in her veins ceded to one of shock as she recognized the object. What she was looking at was the mangled crew compartment of the Starwind.
It had survived the explosion and lay at an odd angle amongst other wreckage, mostly pieces of the ship’s hull. Declan popped his head out of the hatch, beckoning her inside.
She took a step forward and stopped. The cloud of dust was engulfing her into its blur, swirling about where she stood. Putting a hand out, she set about making her way towards the wreckage. The dust was so thick she had to bend down and grope her way forward, eyes stinging from the coarse particles hitting her face. In a matter of minutes, the situation had deteriorated. She had gone from elation to dismay and back to survival once again.
It was disheartening.
“Anna!”
Declan’s warning sounded miles away. Visibility was non-existent, close to zero, and she had no other choice but to hunker down and wait for the storm to abate. Dust lodged itself in her eyes and nose and she did her best to protect herself from the worst of it. Tears fell freely down her cheeks as she strove to scrape away the soot caking her face. There was a strong pull on her arm, quite sudden, and she was yanked inside the crew compartment. Still gagging from the dust, she heard the hatch slam shut with a clang.
“Are you hurt?” Declan asked, hands on her shoulders.
She shook her head and heard him sigh in relief.
“This way,” Declan said.
They retreated deeper inside the compartment, dust trailing after them. The door to the compartment’s storage area was tightly jammed but Declan rammed into it like a linebacker and it flew wide open. He guided Anna inside then secured the door the best he could. Still wheezing with effort, Anna, at last, took a seat on the floor.
She coughed for a solid minute before her breathing returned to normal.
“Thank you,” Anna said, opening an eye to take in her surroundings.
He stared at her in concern. Her appearance was a shock: she was ashen from head to toe. The dust had seemingly imbedded itself into the fibers of her clothes, the strands of her hair, the pores of her exposed skin. She would need an industrial grade wash-down to clean herself up, no doubt about it.
Tossing aside boxes marked OFFICE USE ONLY, he rummaged the cramped compartment in search of the one thing they needed right now.
Bingo!
Triumphantly, he dug out a brand new, factory-sealed, bottle of water.
“Here, drink this.”
Anna glanced up at him. Her eyes were red and puffy and the streaks of dirt covering her face gave her a haunting look. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” Declan said, cleaning away the dust from her hair.
With shaking hands, she removed the stubborn cap of the bottle then pulled long gulps in one continuous swig.
“Good water,” Anna said, handing him the bottle. Declan nodded, wholly agreeing with the statement as the precious liquid quenched his parched throat.
“We almost didn’t make it,” Anna said, shaking her head. She stared at the overall integrity of the hull, observing the large number of dents in the metal skin, like so much battle damage. The damage was extensive but the compartment had maintained its integrity which she thought was remarkable, in the circumstances.
“Captain Ballard,” Anna began. Her eyes clouding over. “Do you think he could have...” she left the question unfinished, afraid her words might seal the fate of the good captain.
“I...” Declan hesitated. “I don’t know, really.”
She watched his expression and could see the pain in his eyes. It was clear to him the captain could not have survived the explosion of his ship. She turned aside, afraid her own doubts would alarm him even more. She admired the way Ballard had taken charge those last moments before everything changed for the worse. He had saved her, and Declan, that was a given, but perhaps he had saved a lot more people too.
“Poor Captain Ballard... he didn’t have a chance.”
Declan nodded, eyes glued to the floor of the hold. He had his left hand up as if he was concentrating his attention on something other than her voice.
“What is it?” Anna asked.
“I thought I’d heard something,” Declan said with a shake of the head. “Probably just debris bouncing around... or my nerves,” he finished with a forced laugh.
They listened in silence for a few minutes. Every noise from outside was a question mark, keeping them on edge, but as time went by, and all grew quiet again, their confidence improved. Declan ventured to hunt for more useful stuff. The hold was small, not much larger than an average size bathroom but it was full of cubbyholes and overhead bins, which held more items than at first glance. Anna watched in silence, eyelids drooping, as he tossed aside various objects of no use: paper-based notebooks, plastic utensils and cups, Aerios marketing material, a tattered magazine. Then she heard him exhaled in satisfaction.
“Ah, this is good.”
He pulled out a yellow plastic box. The words EMERGENCY KIT were stamped in bold red letters across the side. He hunkered down next to Anna. “Take a look inside, perhaps there is something to soothe those dark mysterious eyes of yours.”
She grinned at his clear reference to her unkempt appearance then flipped the two latches upward. The box opened with a low pop.
There was a disturbance in the air, to her right.
She turned aside. A second swishing sound came to her ears, muffled but distinctive. She looked to Declan. He had a confused expression on his face.
And then she noticed the arrow in his chest.
44 Reprogramming
AS SOON AS he set foot inside the Seeder, Simon instinctively knew he was in deep trouble. His analogy, that what they were seeing of the object was just the point of the iceberg, was confirmed at once. He found himself in a passageway leading to a veritable labyrinth of tunnels, all of them intertwined in an incomprehensible pattern.
Simon stared with bewilderment at the sheer eeriness of his surroundings. Here, the assumption the Seeder was some kind of machine was challenged to its limit. The whole interior felt organic, not artificial. The flooring, if one could call it that, consisted of a soft, spongy membrane, semi-translucent, that let light in from deeper still, down as far as the eye could see.
The impression of being ensnared in a gigantic flytrap of sorts was reinforced by the floor’s bounciness. He was struggling to stay upright, engulfed by the sensation of being tossed around by a demonic trampoline. A wave of nausea swept through him and he had to remain perfectly stock-still not to retch. The alienness of the environment weighed heavily on his capacity to cope and he felt disoriented and scared. Breathing hard, he doubled over, beads of perspiration trickling down his forehead.
There was a hand on his shoulder.
It was Emmeline.
“Are you ok?”
Her voice seemed distant even though she was right beside him.
Simon shook his head. He was definitely not feeling good. A corner of his mind wondered why Emmeline didn’t seem as affected as he was.
It seems to have no effect on her. What the hell is going on? Is it my claustrophobia?
He concentrated on breathing normally, on forcing the air inside his lungs.
It wasn’t working.
Everything about the Seeder was playing on his nerves. An analogy popped into his head. A haunted house. That’s how it felt. One of those make-believe houses still popular in amusement parks. The ones with the fake ghosts and goblins popping up every minute or so as you blindly groped in the dark and searched for the exit. The analogy ended, however, with the culprit beh
ind the scares. Here, the guilty party was much different.
And the Seeder had its own rules.
The headache he sensed coming flared up at once in his head, like a supernova exploding in a corner of deep space. There was no escaping it, so complete was its effects on him. He let out a moan of pain and put both hands to the side of his head. Alarmed, Emmeline watched, helpless.
“Simon, what’s wrong?”
Emmeline’s words bounced around his skull, like bowling balls in a steel drum. He flinched, the pain bursting forth again.
“Headache,” he managed with effort.
Emmeline stared, taken aback, as he grimaced in pain. There was nothing else she could do but talk to him and work to ease his pain. She massaged his temples, making a circular pattern with her thumbs.
“Try to focus on something nice, a place you like to go, or a meal you enjoy,” she said, her voice soothing. “Try to shoo away the pain in your head, like you would a pesky mosquito.”
Simon sought to stay focused on Emmeline’s concerned face. There was a flare of light in his brain and his eyes rolled up, becoming white.
“Simon!”
He put a hand out and felt Emmeline grab it, but the world continued to dissolve around him. Darkness filled every corner of his mind, overshadowing all he held dear, all he treasured. In a dim area of his intellect, he wondered if he wasn’t imagining it all, if he wasn’t suffering a horrid nightmare.
If he was even still alive.
I’m losing my mind.
He could sense it deep down in his soul. The subconscious place where he holed up from all the scary things in life. His soul knew. He could not trick it into believing he wasn’t who he was. The entity known as Simon Macomber was in a precarious position, teetering on the abyss of alienation.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
The Seeder had ways, other than physical manipulations, to get what it needed. As the waves of pain assailed his mind, Simon could discern the intelligence behind it. He had been contaminated for a purpose. The Seeder had a plan. It always did.