Down: Trilogy Box Set

by Glenn Cooper

Arabel felt at her own clothes. Her skirt was loose and zipperless, absent buttons her shirt was half-open, and her bra, missing its hooks was flapping underneath. She finally spoke in a trembling voice. “Please, can you tell me what’s happening?”

  “We must stay very quiet,” Delia said, standing away from the window. “I think we’re in the place where your sister’s been.”

  “I don’t have any idea what you mean,” Arabel said. “I demand to know what’s going on. Where’s the canteen? Where’s the laboratory? Have we been drugged?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Delia implored, but Arabel would not be mollified.

  There was a wooden door secured by a simple wooden latch. Arabel went for it. When Delia tried to stop her she pushed the older woman aside, undid the latch, and flung the door open hard enough that it loudly struck the side of the house.

  Arabel stared out in shock. She repeated the same question as her young son, “Where are we?”

  Delia roughly pulled her back inside and latched the door. She knew where they were but she couldn’t make herself say the word. She couldn’t because to say it was to make it real.

  She couldn’t say, “Hell.”

  2

  John Camp awoke in pain and momentary confusion in a surgical recovery suite at the Royal London Hospital. A rotund male nurse was checking his blood pressure and appeared to aim a chuckle in his direction which confused John even more. As it happened, the nurse had just been told about the curious instructions John had given the surgeons moments before the anesthesia kicked in.

  “Make sure you use double or triple the number of stitches as usual,” John had told them.

  “And why is that?” he had been asked through a surgical mask.

  “I can’t tell you,” John had said. “Just do it. The wound needs to be strong.”

  “Welcome back,” the nurse said.

  John blinked. His voice was thin and raspy, his vocal chords like sandpaper. “What’s so funny?”

  “Funny? Nothing. Nothing at all. The operation’s over. You did just fine.”

  “Operation? Oh yeah, I remember. Fuck.” He grimaced.

  “Pain?”

  John nodded.

  “I’ll just get you a jab of morphine.”

  With the narcotic coursing through his system he nodded off and began to dream.

  The dream was about Hell.

  He was trapped inside a fetid rotting room, pounding on the locked door. Solomon Wisdom was on the other side, telling him he could not let him out. No one could. It was his fate. Then Thomas Cromwell was standing beside him, knee deep in human flesh, informing him that King Henry was very cross with John, very cross indeed.

  “Will you repent?” Cromwell asked.

  “I repent.”

  Through the door Wisdom laughed, “Repent all you want. It matters not. What’s done is done.”

  When John awoke again he was in a private room in a ward. The window glowed orange in the sunset. Emily had been waiting by his bed and when she saw his eyes flutter open she tried to envelop one of his large hands with her small one.

  “How’re you feeling?” she asked.

  “Worse than before.”

  “I talked to your surgeon. They made a good-sized incision to clean out the infection. That drip is your antibiotics, two of them, actually, until they get the culture results from your wound.”

  “Bad bugs in Hell, I guess,” John said, searching for the bed controls.

  Emily found the box and raised him up to a more comfortable position.

  “Better?”

  “Better,” he said. He asked for ice chips and she spooned some into his mouth. “What were you up to while I was getting my insides cleaned out?” he asked.

  “I was in the lab going over data.”

  “And?”

  “I’m sure Matthew is right. The high collision energies produced strangelets and gravitons in surprising abundance. The interaction between the two must account for the phenomenon.”

  “Phenomenon. That’s one of the greatest euphemisms of all times.”

  “Well, you know the way we scientists tend to speak.”

  “Is there a count yet?”

  “A count?”

  “How many people are missing.”

  “Four from Dartford. Arabel, the children, and Delia, the MI5 lady. South Ockendon’s still a muddle. They haven’t caught any of the Hellers who entered there.”

  He waved off more ice chips. “What a fuck up.”

  Emily nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I can’t bear to think what Arabel and the kids are going through. They must be so scared.”

  “Dirk isn’t a bad kid, relatively speaking. I’m hoping he’s helping them. And his brother’s got to be there too. Trevor told me Duck bonded with Delia May. She’ll know we’ll be mounting a rescue effort.”

  Emily nodded. “I know. I talked to Trevor this afternoon. He also told me he’d been seeing Arabel during the past month.”

  “Really?”

  “Seems he fancies her. He’s as worried as I am.”

  “Well, he’s a good man. It wouldn’t surprise me if he volunteered for the mission.”

  Emily crumpled the tissue and put it in her handbag. “I don’t want you to go, John.”

  He stifled an incipient laugh because it hurt too much. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “I didn’t just have surgery. I don’t have a life-threatening infection.”

  “I’ll be okay in a few days. I heal fast. I’m a soldier, Emily. This is what I do. You were amazing. I’m proud of how you were able to survive but you’re a scientist. You need to stay here and figure out how to fix the problem. You do what you do best and I’ll do what I do best.”

  “I’m sorry, John, but I’m going. If Arabel, Sam, and Belle hadn’t been caught up in this then I would never voluntarily go back. But I won’t be put off. You know how stubborn I am. My mind is made up.”

  “Well, I’m not changing my mind either.”

  They smiled at each other. It was settled.

  The large executive conference room at the Massive Anglo-American Collider at Dartford was filling up for the 8 a.m. meeting. There was no pre-assigned seating and participants instinctively sorted themselves according to their own perceived importance. Leroy Bitterman and Karen Smithwick, the US and UK energy secretaries, took prime chairs at the head of the table. Close to them were Campbell Bates, the FBI director, and George Lawrence, the director general of MI5. Ben Wellington from MI5 sat beside Trevor Jones. Senior scientists at MAAC, including Matthew Coppens and David Laurent, and Stuart Binford, head of the lab’s public affairs department, rounded out the assembly. Henry Quint came in and assumed the empty seat at the head had been saved for him. When he approached it, Smithwick waved him off and with his eyes cast downward in embarrassment, he took a chair against the wall.

  Ben leaned toward Trevor and said, “Is John Camp being patched into this?”

  “I don’t think so,” Trevor said. “He’s having some kind of scan this morning.”

  “Where’s Dr. Loughty?”

  Trevor scanned the room. “I’d better find her.”

  She was at her desk, staring at something.

  “Hey there,” Trevor said gently, sitting down. “Just wanted to let you know the meeting’s starting.”

  She responded to his attempt at a bright smile with a worn-out sigh. “I lost track of time. I suppose I’ve gotten out of the habit of clock watching.”

  “Yeah, I can understand that.”

  She gave her telephone a weary look. “I was just talking to my parents.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “They’re so confused. They’re happy I’m all right, of course, but they’re devastated that Arabel and the kids have gone missing now.”

  “What’d you tell them?”

  “Am I talking to Trevor, a friend, or Trevor, the deputy-head of security?”

  “Friend.”

  �
��I strayed from the script. I had to.”

  “How far did you go?”

  “Believe me, I didn’t use the word Hell once. I called it another dimension, that MAAC opened a passageway to another dimension. I told them we’d get Arabel, Sam, and Belle back.”

  “Did they believe you?”

  “I don’t know. They were too scared to ask a lot of questions.”

  “Just so you’re aware, they signed the Official Secret’s Act.”

  “I know.”

  “Did you tell them you were going back?”

  “Not yet, but I will. I have to.”

  “We’ve got to go to the meeting.” When he stood, he saw what she’d been staring at. It was the charcoal drawing Caravaggio had sketched of her. “That’s a good likeness,” he said.

  She placed it in her top drawer. “I’m quite fond of it.”

  The meeting began when Emily and Trevor arrived. Matthew had a seat saved next to him. Emily knew everyone except for the man sitting between Bitterman and Smithwick. He had a pugnacious, florid face, which seemed ballooned owing to an overly tight collar and tie knot. She asked Matthew about him but he didn’t know him either.

  Trevor was asking the same thing of Ben.

  “His name’s Trotter. Anthony Trotter. He’s MI6. Word is the prime minister wanted him involved. Guess what the lads in MI6 call him?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” Trevor whispered back.

  “Pig.”

  Trevor stifled a laugh. “Can you imagine the stick he got at school?”

  At the same time Campbell Bates was asking his counterpart at MI5 what he thought about Trotter’s involvement.

  Lawrence whispered his answer. “As delighted as you would be if you were made second fiddle to the CIA.”

  “Shall we begin?” Smithwick asked. “Dr. Bitterman and I will be co-chairing this meeting. We are now twenty-two hours into this present incident. This working group will meet daily to coordinate the response. The first order of business is introducing Anthony Trotter from the Intelligence Services. Mr. Trotter is the ACSS, the assistant chief of the Secret Service, and is an adviser to the Cabinet’s Cobra committee. He will, effective immediately, be taking over operational command of MAAC from Dr. Quint. I think we can all appreciate that the scientific mission of MAAC has taken a back seat to the security issues, which have come to the fore in a most alarming way. Are there any questions?”

  Emily raised her hand.

  “Please go ahead, Dr. Loughty,” Smithwick said.

  Emily made no effort to sound diplomatic. She’d been through too much for that. “Do you have any background in science, Mr. Trotter?”

  He had been doodling on his pad and looked at her from under his droopy eyelids. “I do not.”

  “Who here thinks it’s a good idea to place a scientific installation in the hands of a non-scientist?” she asked. “Everyone here knows I am beyond livid that Dr. Quint exceeded the energy parameters of Hercules I and we have to deal with the disastrous consequences of that action. But solving our present dilemma will require the best possible scientific management, not a bureaucratic management.”

  “Might I?” Leroy Bitterman asked.

  “Please,” Smithwick said.

  Bitterman warmly smiled at Emily and said in an avuncular tone, “First, I want to publicly say what I privately told Dr. Loughty yesterday, that I so admire the courage and tenacity she displayed under what must have been the most appalling circumstances. We owe her an enormous debt of gratitude for what she has done and what she has volunteered to do again. I want to assure you, Dr. Loughty, publicly and emphatically, that we will not compromise the scientific integrity of MAAC or diminish the work that needs to be done to solve the most pressing problem we have, namely plugging the inter-dimensional hole once all our people have been rescued. With your input, we will be convening a panel of international experts in particle physics and cosmology to assist the scientific staff at Dartford. Mr. Trotter is an expert in other matters and will not interfere with purely scientific and technical administration. He has the confidence of the US and UK governments in handling the complex security and secrecy issues which have arisen. I hope that addresses your concerns.”

  Emily returned the smile. “Thank you, Dr. Bitterman. That was very helpful and yes, I have some names I’d like to suggest for this advisory panel.”

  Smithwick then resumed her control of the meeting and dryly laid out an agenda as if this were a routine session about oil production quotas in the UK’s North Sea Economic Zone. Emily found her bloodless demeanor wanting and she squirmed in her seat.

  “Hearing no comments on the agenda,” Smithwick said, “let’s begin with a review of the security response to the present situation. Perhaps Mr. Trotter might lead this discussion.”

  Trotter cleared his cigar-irritated throat. He was not an imposing man, but he fancied himself Churchillian and to promote this image, he smoked Romeo y Julieta Havanas, the brand favored by the great man himself.

  “Thank you, madam secretary. As you are aware, SIS has been asked to take the lead on this and to coordinate the activities of MI5, the military, the Metropolitan Police, and other relevant police and emergency services departments. Why the SIS, which is charged with foreign threats, rather than the domestic MI5 apparatus, you might ask? Well, it is hard to imagine any threat more alien than the one we now face.”

  Emily cringed at the bizarre attempt at humor. Trotter took the stony silence around the table with the sour expression of a comedian whose joke had just laid an egg.

  “In all seriousness,” he recovered, “the SIS is particularly well-suited to the task at hand given our analytics, information-processing, and communications capabilities. The PM has confidence in our leadership and we shall not disappoint. As I see it, the highest priority is dealing with the aliens who are at large.”

  A deep, gravelly voice interrupted Trotter. “We’re not talking about Romanians or Chinese, you know. These are people from Hell, for Christ’s sake.”

  With all eyes on Trotter, no one had noticed John Camp limping into the back of the room.

  Emily and Trevor jumped up and went to him.

  “What are you doing here?” Emily scolded.

  “I got tired lying on my duff so I signed myself out.”

  “You should go back to hospital, guv,” Trevor said, supporting him around the waist and helping him over to the only free chair. It was next to Henry Quint who flinched at John’s presence. His jaw still ached from their last encounter.

  “Not a chance,” John said. “There’s too much work to do. They shot me up with antibiotics and whatnot. I’ll be fine.”

  Emily couldn’t conceal her look of concern and was about to argue with him when Trotter spoke up. “This must be John Camp,” he said.

  “I am. And you are?”

  “Anthony Trotter, SIS. I’ve been made acting director of this facility.”

  “You mean Quint’s not in charge any more?” John said with a grin.

  “That is correct,” Trotter said.

  “Well, that’s a bit of good news.”

  The comment spawned muffled titters around the table. Quint looked ahead stoically.

  Trotter finally addressed John’s comment. “We’re all aware where these people hail from. What is it they call themselves? Hellers?”

  “Some do,” John said.

  “MI5 has been tasked with leading the charge of rounding up these Hellers. Ben Wellington is the liaison with this committee. Mr. Wellington, could you give us a report?”

  Ben had prepared some notes but decided to wing it and closed his leather portfolio. “Let me begin with the easier of the two groups, the men who appeared on site here, within the employee canteen. As you are aware, there are four of them, ranging in biological age from the thirties to the fifties, all of them hailing from the London and Kent areas, with stated dates of death ranging from the fifteenth to the nineteenth centuries. The dominant figure of the grou
p is named Alfred Carpenter who claims he was hanged for various offenses in the early sixteen hundreds. I’d describe him as a thuggish sort with low intellect. He continues to believe, despite our explanations and demonstrations, that he’s the subject of some kind of black magic. His companions, particularly the more modern of the group, take their lead from him but once separated, seemed to accept the reality of their situation.”

  “Are they still in this facility?” the FBI Director asked.

  “They are,” Ben replied. “Our view is that this is as good a place as any to hold them and offers the best overall security parameters given the alternatives. Previously, we kept the young man, Duck, in the security dormitory …”

  “And he escaped,” Trotter interrupted.

  “While on an authorized outdoors walk in the compound,” Ben said. “A regrettable mistake. These men will not have the same opportunity. We are in the process of constructing proper jail cells on the dormitory level that will be ready for occupancy tomorrow. When members of the second group are captured, they will be housed here as well.”

  “Guantanamo comes to Dartford,” Trotter said.

  Trevor spoke up. “Is there anything John or Emily can tell us about these four men which might be helpful to their guards?”

  “I didn’t have much to do with them,” John said.

  Emily said that she hadn’t either.

  “When we were waiting on our mark for the MAAC restart, Alfred was something of an alpha dog,” John said. “I’d describe him as menacing but he’s not the worst of the worst. He wasn’t a rover.”

  “A rover?” Trotter asked. “What is that?”

  “They roam the countryside looking for people to take down. They live rough, generally sleep during the day, and get vicious at night. They rob and maim. And if they’re hungry, they eat.”

  “You mean they’re cannibals?” Bitterman asked in alarm and befuddlement.

  “Yes, sir, that’s correct,” John said. “They’re universally feared, a special breed of evil.”

  Bitterman muttered something under his breath.

  Ben piped up. “This could explain something we discovered this morning on the estate in South Ockendon. It hasn’t been circulated yet to the working group because it’s too fresh. As you know, we evacuated the estate under the pretext of a terrorist threat with biohazardous material discovered in a house. In methodically working through a house-to-house search we found a murdered couple, an elderly man and woman. They’d been stabbed and hacked to death with kitchen knives and cleavers. And this is the particularly troubling part: there were bite marks on their arms and legs with flesh torn away.”