by Glenn Cooper
When night fell, Murphy had been true to his word. Tony, fearful, had asked Martin not to leave but the doctor had been determined to get to the bottom of their predicament. The two men had crept past the shuttered cottages lining the muddy road and approached a low wooden building. Martin had recognized the sickly smell of decay well before they made it to the latched door and he had to place his hand over his mouth and nose to prevent gagging. Murphy had warned him to steel himself before unlatching the door and lifting his flaming torch over his head.
Martin had by necessity pressed his hand hard against his face, almost cutting off all the air but it wasn’t enough. He had to hold his breath to prevent passing out. His sense of smell had been dulled, but the sights and sounds assaulted him and had left him reeling. The rotting room was filled with decomposing bodies that were very much alive. Pitiful cries and moans filled the morbid chamber. The liquefied mass of flesh covering the floor was in motion. Hundreds of arms and legs slowly churned the putrid sewer of humanity, distorted, melting faces contorted in agony.
“Enough?” Murphy had said.
Martin had nodded, fled, and vomited outside.
Murphy had latched the door and had managed to find enough compassion to pat the doctor’s back.
“Now do you believe you’re in Hell?”
Now on the morning of their seventh day in Hell, Rix ladled the porridge into shallow wooden bowls. He and Murphy wolfed down their breakfast while the others ate slowly in dull silence.
“Right, we’re off then,” Rix said, shouldering his musket. “Remember, if anyone comes to the door, stay quiet. If anyone tries to get in, fight them and fight them hard. We’re growing fond of you lot.”
“Speak for yourself,” Murphy groused, pushing the door open and scowling at a scrawny man who was leading an emaciated horse down the road.
“Don’t you look at me, mate,” Murphy shouted at the man who picked up his pace at the threat. “I will fucking crush you if you so much as look at me again.”
The forest was damp and humid. The rain had stopped but water dripped steadily from leaves and branches. Rix led the way. They looked for fresh footprints but found none. At times he called out for Molly. Murphy was in a foul mood and couldn’t muster the lungpower to call for Cristine. Eventually they passed by the bodies. Even more of their flesh had been eaten, not by returning rovers but by foraging animals. Emerging from the woods into the large meadowland, Rix paused.
“I say we go south toward the river,” he said.
“We went there two days ago,” Murphy said.
“Any better idea?”
Murphy grunted.
“Well?” Rix asked.
“No. Fuck, Jason, I don’t know. Maybe what that fruit said is true. Maybe they’ve gone back to Earth.”
“Better than having them carried off by rovers.”
“Yeah but …”
Murphy didn't have to say it. Rix finished the thought. “I know, I know, but how the fuck are we supposed to carry on without our girls?”
Rix set off across the vast meadow and Murphy followed along, his eyes drifting to a circling hawk that suddenly fell from the sky and sank its talons into a startled vole.
The recreation center was almost unrecognizable. The polished wooden floor was protectively covered in cheap carpet with cutouts for the cabling to connect the workstations and monitors to the server room in the main lab building. Technicians manned rows of long tables running pre-startup diagnostic protocols on the hardware and software systems. A false wall had been built in the middle of the hall to hold an array of large screens to track the operational status of the synchrotron and the twenty-five thousand magnets ringing greater London inside the MAAC underground tunnels.
A staging area for the traveling party had been established in one corner and there, Ben Wellington was waiting with Trevor when John and Emily arrived.
They exchanged grim smiles and got down to business with an absence of small talk.
“Missing one,” John said.
“He’s in reception,” Trevor said. “They’ll be bringing him over.”
They had all settled on more or less similar uniforms—khaki or camo trousers, heavy-duty cotton shirts, cotton underwear, boots and leather jackets swapped-out with wooden buttons for zippers. They were checking each other’s backpacks when Brian was escorted in.
He had adhered to the dress code and looked chipper and excited, sporting the enthusiasm of a boy itching to go on a camping trip.
“’Allo!” he said, reaching for and pumping everyone’s hands. “All systems go?”
John stopped himself looking for a watch on his bare wrist. A digital countdown clock on the wall had to do. “We’ll go down below in sixty mikes.”
“Sixty mikes,” Brian repeated, delighted. “I do love the military jargon. Now, I’ve heeded your brief and I’ve left all manner of gear in my car boot, including my favorite broadsword. You sure it won’t pass muster?”
“As I’ve said, metal won’t pass,” Emily said.
Brian had only met her the day before and he’d been charmed out of his mind. He had told her, “I love beautiful women, I love the Scots, so I’m already madly in love with you.” When it became clear she was spoken for he had pouted for the rest of their planning session.
“Have fun at the dentist?” Trevor asked.
Brian smiled to show off the new gaps in his mouth.
Now that everyone was here, Ben felt a need to deliver a small speech. “It goes without saying that this is a volunteer mission. It’s clearly not too late to back out. There’s no shame in it. So, I’m obliged to canvas your responses.”
“I’m going,” John said.
“Me too,” Emily replied.
Trevor chimed in next. “I’m in.”
And Brian said emphatically, “Wouldn’t trade it for all the tea in China or all the Oscars in Hollywood.”
“Right,” Ben said, struggling to keep his composure. “God speed. I’ll be off now for the final security checks for Dartford and South Ockendon. I’ll be waiting for you right here in one month’s time. Please don’t be late.”
“Good luck rounding up all the villains,” Trevor said.
Ben shook his hand. “I’ll do my best, my friend.”
They resumed their equipment checks then passed around the books for everyone to inspect.
“Interesting selection,” Brian said.
“The pen is mightier than the sword,” John said.
“So I’m told, but I’m a damn sight better with one than the other,” Brian said.
When all the bags were re-packed they sat on folding chairs, watching the technicians prepare. Emily wandered over to Matthew Coppens and David Laurent who were deeply into their countdown prep. Matthew looked up from his workstation.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” He still looked plenty guilty over his role in the mess.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Everything’s online. No problems we can see. I was worried about having to move the control room but no glitches so far.”
“It’s strange to be on the outside looking in,” she said.
“I was so happy when you came back. I wish you weren’t going again.”
“If it weren’t for my family, I’d be sitting beside you, Matthew. I’ve got complete confidence in your ability to bring us home.”
John turned to Brian, “So is Trev ready to slay dragons?”
“He’s a very quick study, young Trevor is. More than ready, I’d say.”
“I’d be happier with my old SA80 assault rifle than a bow and arrow,” Trevor said.
“It’s an ugly-ass weapon system,” John said, “but I’d prefer it too. What did you tell your family?”
“I took my mum and dad for a curry last night and told them I’d been picked for some special assignment overseas. Slung some bullshit—covert this-and-that, need to know, etcetera. They couldn’t understand it. Took them by
surprise. They thought the days of worrying about me had long passed. Still, they’re cool. I gave them Ben’s number in case of …” His voice trailed off.
“That’s funny,” Brian said, jumping in. “I gave my ex-wives your number, Trev. Just in case.”
With thirty minutes to go, the VIPs came in led by Anthony Trotter, overdressed for the occasion in a snug three-piece suit. Leroy Bitterman and Karen Smithwick followed, along with Campbell Bates from the FBI and George Lawrence from MI5. Bitterman made a beeline for the travellers.
“Well, it’s almost time,” Bitterman said.
“We’re ready as we can be, sir,” Emily said.
“I’m sure you are.” He greeted everyone and said, “You must be the famous Brian Kilmeade. I’m Leroy Bitterman, the US energy secretary.”
“I could use some of that,” Brian said.
“Some of what?”
“Energy.”
Bitterman laughed heartily. “Armed with a sense of humor, you can defeat almost any enemy. I believe your prime minister is watching from Number Ten. He tells me he’s a fan of yours. Wave at the camera.”
Brian obliged and blew a kiss. “If we were taking a camera crew with us I might finally get what I’ve always wanted—a US network reality show.”
“Well, I know a few people in the business,” Bitterman said, smiling. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“I’ll hold you to that and if we get a deal I’ll give you my good-for-nothing agent’s ten percent.”
Turning to Trevor, Bitterman said, “I hear you exceled in training, Mr. Jones.”
“I had a good teacher.”
“Well, let's hope you don’t need too much of it. And how are you doing, John? All healed up?”
“I’m good to go, sir.”
“Glad to hear it. We’ll be having sleepless nights until all of you return.”
Trotter interrupted and told Bitterman he was wanted. The secure coms link with London, Washington, and the South Ockendon estate had been established. He acted as if the others weren’t even there.
“Aren’t you going to wish our colleagues good luck?” Bitterman clucked.
“Best of luck, chaps,” Trotter said mechanically, walking away.
“Well, he’s not what we’d call a warm and fuzzy type,” Bitterman said, giving them a last wave.
From across the hall, Emily strained to listen to the department heads reporting out the status of the power-up. The super-cooled helium had been pumped into the array of twenty-five thousand magnets and the magnets’ director had declared them to be at 1.7K, the temperature at which they became super-conducting and capable of bending beams of protons around the one-hundred-eighty kilometers of tunnels ringing London. The countdown toward full synchrotron power was progressing smoothly and at the fifteen-minute point, a security detail of MI5 men appeared to escort them down to the old control room. The control room and indeed the entire underground complex had been deemed too unstable for anyone but the departing souls for fear of sending anyone else through a widening dimensional portal.
After the familiar elevator ride down to the control-room level, they entered the strangely barren space that had been stripped of virtually all its electronics and now resembled a dismantled movie set. The only display was a red-numbered digital clock counting down to MAAC start-up. Multiple high-definition videocams studded the walls and speakers hung on the walls.
They walked down the tiered levels and eyed the large X taped onto the well of the theater floor, three meters directly over the muon spectrometer detector, a seven-story tall behemoth which was the collision point where opposing beams of proton particles would meet in an enormously high-energy state.
“So this is where the magic happens,” Brian said.
The clock ran down to ten minutes.
The security team departed.
They heard the exit doors being locked and bolted.
Matthew Coppens’ disembodied voice sounded from the speakers. “All right, we’ve got good visuals and audio on all of you. We’ll ask you to take to the mark at the one-minute point. You’re free to relax until that time.”
“Can you believe he said relax?” John whispered to Emily.
Matthew came back apologetically. “Sorry, poor choice of words.”
“The microphones seem to be working well, Matthew,” Emily said, trying to smile at the cameras.
John leaned over and whispered directly into Emily’s ear. “When we get back I’m going to keep you in bed for a solid month.”
She grinned and said, “Matthew, I sincerely hope no one heard that.”
“That’s a negative, Emily.”
“Thank God.”
At T-minus-five minutes they heard a technician announce, “We have full power. Two hundred GeV acceleration.”
At time zero, lead ion gas would be injected into the synchrotron where it would be accelerated and transferred into the MAAC. Two beams of proton particles, one traveling clockwise, the other counterclockwise, would be further accelerated to their collision speed of 30 TeV, circuiting greater London at near light speed, or eleven thousand times per second.
They heard David Laurence declare the muon detector online and fully operational.
At T-minus-one minute Matthew asked them to take to the mark and the four of them bunched together in a tight circle, their backpacks touching in the middle. Matthew initiated the injection and filling of the particle guns with the lead gas, and at thirty seconds he sought authorization from Leroy Bitterman to launch the beams.
Bitterman simply said, “Yes.”
Matthew’s tense voice boomed through the speakers, “…four-three-two-one. Initiate firing.”
John reached for Emily’s hand.
They heard Matthew calling out the rising energy read-outs.
“Four TeV, five, six, seven …”
“Nothing’s happening,” Brian said.
Emily said, “Too soon.”
“Sixteen, eighteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four …”
“Getting there,” she whispered.
“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty TeV. Full power!”
Emily squeezed down on John’s hand so hard her knuckles ached.
12
The first one inside the makeshift control room to speak was Anthony Trotter. Although he had been briefed on what was likely to happen, the sight of it playing out on huge monitors seemed to unnerve him. He swore loudly then must have remembered that the remote audience included the prime minister and the president of the United States. A weak “Sorry,” followed.
Ben Wellington urgently scanned the other camera feeds. The employee canteen from where Arabel Loughty, her children, and Delia May had disappeared was empty. Up and down the underground control room level, the halls and utility rooms were empty.
He returned to the control room displays.
John, Emily, Trevor, and Brian were gone and no one had taken their places.
“Automatic power-down has been initiated,” Matthew called out, his voice now urgent and high-pitched. “They’re gone.”
Leroy Bitterman had quietly assumed Henry Quint’s role as scientific head of MAAC and he calmly thanked Matthew and asked him to inform him when they were at zero TeV. Quint sat alone against the back wall, impotently clicking his ballpoint pen.
“All security teams,” Ben radioed to the MI5 agents dispersed throughout the MAAC campus, “please report any unusual activity of any sort, any intruders.”
Negative reports flooded in.
“Can we have all the feeds from South Ockendon on the main screens?” Ben asked.
The estate had been evacuated and cordoned off. Videocameras had been installed covering all streets and gardens. Motion-capture cameras had been placed inside all the empty houses.
There was no unusual activity.
“We’re at zero power,” Matthew announced. “Full shut-down achieved.”
A dis
embodied American voice came through the control-room speakers. “This is President Jackson. Could someone please tell me what’s happening?”
“Mr. President, this is Leroy Bitterman. As you can see, the traveling party has disappeared, presumably to the other dimensional space. That was expected. What seems unexpected is the absence of exchange activity. We had been anticipating a one-for-one swap as before. Four souls for four souls.”
“And if that doesn’t occur?” the president asked.
“I’m unsure of the implications at this time,” Bitterman said.
Suddenly one of the motion-capture cameras at South Ockendon came to life and a sunlit lounge appeared on one of the screens.
“Which house is that?” Ben asked.
“It’s number fourteen, the Hardcastle/Krause dwelling,” one of Ben’s agents reported.
“Put it on the main screen,” Ben said. “Just there! Did you see that, by the china cabinet?”
“What the fuck, Jason? What the fucking fuck?”
Murphy was hyperventilating.
In one moment they were in the middle of an empty field of undulating grasses, in the next they were in a suburban lounge.
Rix shielded his eyes from the glare. He hadn’t seen the sunshine in thirty years and it mesmerized him. As it flooded through the open curtains it cast his own shadow, something he’d forgotten existed. His elongated stilt legs almost made him laugh out loud.
He noticed that his hands were empty. His musket was gone and his shoulder pouch was too light. He squeezed at it. The musket balls were gone.
His eyes darted around the room. There was too much to absorb. Hundreds of objects, most of them familiar enough to trigger rushes of emotion, some wholly unfamiliar like the iPhone and digital car-key fob on the side table. He settled on a wall display of framed photographs.
“Colin, look at these,” he said.
Murphy crept across the thick carpet as if it were a body-sucking swamp. He studied the photos and exclaimed, “It’s the blokes. Martin and Tony.”
“We’re on Earth,” Rix said, dropping to his knees, his eyes welling up. “We’re back on bloody Earth.”
Murphy stumbled around the lounge and wandered into the kitchen and when Rix joined him his head was already inside the refrigerator.