Yelping, Pablo dropped the lantern and scurried crab-like back toward the far wall. Retrieving the lantern quickly, François held it up, then screamed.
At the edge of the light two amber orbs glared back at him. At other points around the chamber similar lights flickered on—the creatures were awakening.
Summoning the courage to look away, François shouted to his friend. “Pablo! Help me!”
Pablo was still against the wall, hugging himself and hastily mumbling prayers. François screamed his name.
Pablo came out of his fugue and scampered over to his friend, grabbing him under his arms. “Pull!” François pleaded, watching in horror as the score of luminous eyes began to converge on him.
Bending his back, his muscles cording, the veins in his neck bulging with the effort, Pablo pulled with all his strength. Francois didn’t budge. Stooping to get a better grip, Pablo gave one last gigantic tug, sending both men tumbling into the main tunnel.
From the chamber came a mournful howl, a bizarre, ululating wail of bleak despair.
The two men were back up in an instant, running hard, neither bothering to look back. They had taken several steps when the chamber ceiling collapsed behind them, sealing it forever. A billowy cloud of dust blew past them, seizing their lungs and blurring their vision. They increased their speed.
Another quake rocked the tunnel. At points along the wall, huge chunks of rock blasted outward, accompanied with powerful jets of water—the river could not be denied—the tunnel was flooding.
Running hard, legs aching, lungs burning from the inhalation of dust, the two virtually threw themselves out the tunnel mouth.
Exhausted, the two men fell to the ground. After a moment, Pablo glared at Francois. “The demons awoke. You saw them.”
“Y-yes.”
Francois looked down at his shaking hands. In them was the book. Until that moment he had not realized that he held it. Through the entire ordeal, in the face of certain death, he had not relinquished his hold on the ancient tome.
Pablo noticed the book and his look turned sour—he did not approve.
Francois did not notice; he was too busy regarding his prize.
CHAPTER ONE
June 1993: Somewhere amid the Colorado Rockies
It vaulted the fallen tree with inhuman grace, landing nimbly to the ground and racing through the forest like a blustery black wind. Though no path was evident, it negotiated the immense trees and scrub brush with great ease using only its heightened senses to guide it in the gloom. It glanced to the sky as it ran and found the silvery sphere that brought thunder to its chest. The moon.
The pain in its leg has lessened; the blood caked and dried. It could feel the muscle and tissue knitting itself together even as it moved. Within the hour, the bullet would be expelled through its skin and left behind. Vaguely, it remembered someone saying its metabolism was twenty times superior to that of normal humans. Its body expelled or altered anything it did not need.
The dense thicket abruptly ended and it burst into a clearing, the sudden openness causing it to pull up and stop. Forty yards away, the forest renewed itself. Its senses detected the faint smell of ash and soot. Glancing to its sides, it could see blackened trees and brush. There had been a fire here sometime ago.
As it stepped deeper into the clearing, it became aware of a preternatural stillness. Not the slightest night sounds were present. There should have been harping crickets, an owl asking its eternal question—something filling the void of night. The quietude that permeated the clearing was unnatural.
Before, its journey through the forest had been slapdash, reckless, its need to escape taking priority over caution, but its instincts told it something was wrong here.
It reached out with its senses again, this time focusing them on the far side of the clearing. With sight, it found nothing discernable in the curtain of foliage. With sound, it detected nothing—nothing at all. With smell, it drew in the fresh mountain air, the fragrant pine scent, deer droppings somewhere nearby, a metallic…metallic? The hackles on its neck drew into a bunch.
Across the clearing, twin disks of light ignited—three pair of them. Something roared to life, a deep throaty growl that seemed familiar. Then the things broke through the trees and bore down on it. Squat, hulking beasts that seemed to blend with the forest.
“There he is!” it heard.
It spun on its heels and started for the forest, but more of the things were racing up behind it. Surrounded, it searched for a means of escape, but the things were circling on all sides.
Suddenly something struck it in the shoulder. It glanced over and found a dart lodged there.
“Got him!” it heard.
Rage, cold and furious, arose in it. Its senses locked onto those last spoken words, its legs coiling like a pit viper as the natural radar inside it found the target. Just before it leapt, it was struck two more times, but its primal instincts had taken over and would not be denied the bloodlust that raged within it.
It bounded thirty feet, its senses guiding it like a missile in flight, homing in on the target. At the last moment, its arms shot forward, claws extended.
It heard, “Oh Jesus...” Then felt the spray of hot blood on its body. The deluge of plasma lasted only a moment and seemed to energize it, but as it struck the ground its limbs grew heavy.
It fell over with a dull thud, its vision blurred and hazy. It tried to roll over and stand, but its extremities would not respond. It could feel its body transforming, weakening. It saw its weapons, the talons at the end of its hands, retract and disappear entirely, the thick growths of hair on its forearms recede and become bare. It tried to call up the rage from earlier, but it no longer answered. As it slipped into unconsciousness, it heard, “Dr. Thorpe? Dr. Thorpe, are you all right?”
“Dr. Voss isn’t going to like this.”
“Never mind that. Get him into the hummer.”
“Jesus! He killed Philips! He killed...”
Alex stared at the blanket of stars. The serenity of the moment helped to lighten his mood, though only to a certain degree. Try as he might he could not shake the problems from his mind. The project was muddied in an abysmal quagmire with no visible sign of relief. Alex had already reached the edge of the abyss and fallen in. No, strike that, he had not fallen, but leapt into the insurmountable darkness, eyes wide open, landing inside his own personal purgatory.
He reflected on the different theories he had applied, trying to find some thread in the design that would lead him to a solution, and ultimately absolution. Over the past few months, countless experiments had failed to find the common denominator in the test subjects. Where did I go wrong? Was there something I missed? These and other questions plagued him daily, although the answers always seemed to elude him.
He glanced skyward again. Roiling black clouds were moving in from the east, blotting out the winks of light and Alex’s only chance at equanimity. Sighing, he adjusted his sitting position again; the hard, foam cushions in the vehicle providing little comfort.
In the front seat, Private First Class Michael Thompson lightly drummed his fingers on the steering column. For the fourth time in five minutes he checked his watch: 8:05. Four more hours to freedom, he thought. Rivers of beer and scantily clad bathing beauties swam in Thompson’s mind. A dream that he hoped would be realized at midnight when his four-day pass began. Thompson continued his offbeat tune on the column, the goofy grin on his face widening with each passing minute.
Major Sam Johnson sat stone-faced in the passenger seat, regarding Thompson with visible disdain. Gees, this kid is really getting on my nerves. Probably smoked too much weed in high school, he thought.
Discipline was Johnson’s religion, anyone displaying less than himself would usually receive a healthy dose from the Major. Years of just such discipline were all that kept him from giving the kid a good slap. Johnson almost smiled at the prospect of Thompson holding his reddened cheek after a vicious backhand, bu
t held the sign of emotion at bay. To show such a visible loss of control as smiling was, well…unforgivable. Even the thought was enough to make Johnson sentence himself to ten lashes with his riding crop when they returned to the base. That should work off his temporary lapse. Tuning out the monotonous sound that Thompson made, Johnson thought about his penance and the ferocity at which he would exact it.
From his seat in the back of the Hummer, Alex listened to the sounds of the forest. A hundred yards south of their position a young doe nibbled on a patch of lichen, her heartbeat a pulsating beacon calling to him with its vibration. Suddenly the beat quickened as the deer sensed danger nearby.
Crouched in an outcropping of scrub brush, a half-starved coyote waited patiently for the right moment to rush its intended victim.
As the deer’s pulse continued to race, fear radiated from the animal. Alex could almost taste the mellifluous aroma and unconsciously licked his lips, a burning need to kill rising in him. His pulsed raced and his heart thundered as the adrenaline sped through his veins like quicksilver. He clinched his fists so hard they ached in a desperate attempt to calm his primal urges.
Suddenly the doe bolted, with the coyote in hot pursuit, however, in its weakened state the canine could not match the deer’s speed; the predator would have to look elsewhere for its dinner.
Go! We can still catch the bitch, a voice inside Alex’s head ordered. He knew the voice all too well, his other, exercising its control on him. At times the thing inside him would mount a full scale assault for dominance, a red haze of cold fury that began on the outer edges of his vision and closed in to block out all conscious thought—except that of murder. In those moments of blind rage, Alex felt as though he were outside his own body, a detached entity in perpetual limbo. Only through extreme effort was he able to find his way back and rejoin the battle for his body. This time, however, the feeling was only fleeting.
Lightning scarred the sky, drawing Alex’s attention to the heavens again, his acute senses registering the thick ozone smell that accompanied the electrical discharge. The storm was very close now. Alex hoped his guest would arrive before the downpour started.
Nestled between thick underbrush and pine trees, the Hummer was virtually invisible. A squatting hulk that was indiscernible from the surrounding landscape. With its infrared deterrent paint, even satellite enhanced photo imagery would be hard pressed to pick out the vehicle in the terrain. It was the perfect conveyance for clandestine operations.
Off to the left, a grassy clearing marked the end of the tree line. Although man-made, the bare patch of land had a natural quality, cultivated that way to avoid resembling a landing sight. After each drop, the sight was specially reconditioned by an army landscape team, all traces of their passing erased.
In the vehicle, the SINGARRS, a French designed radio used by the U.S. Army, buzzed with reports from teams patrolling the facility’s perimeter. The red Liquid Crystal Display marked the frequency as it switched from a higher and lower rate every few seconds, discouraging anyone from listening in on the transmissions.
A blustery wind rocked the closely cropped foliage, bringing the scent of freshly fallen pine needles in the open windows of the vehicle. However, the summer heat intensified the smell, giving it a stifling ambience. Beads of sweat formed on Alex’s brow as he continued his internal battle with his body’s other resident. He forced himself to concentrate on the past, before he consented to undergo the change.
The son of industrialist Wilton Thorpe, Alex had been a child prodigy. Bereft of his mother, Marilyn Thorpe had died while giving birth to him, and growing up in his father’s cold shadow, Alex was motivated to his greatest potential. He required only six years to earn a high school diploma, another two to complete college, receiving a doctorate at the tender age of sixteen from The Massachusetts Institute of Technology in the recombinant DNA field. His thesis entitled ‘Harnessing Man’s Internal Animal to Heal’ won him praise from The Journal of the American Medical Association.
Wilton never praised him for any of his achievements, regarding him as nothing more than a nuisance that had taken his beloved wife away. Turning all his attention to work, Wilton left Alex in the care of the servants. What little time Wilton allotted to his son was spent chastising and belittling him for his paltry successes.
The walls of the Thorpe estate were adorned with countless portraits and photographs of Alex’s mother and in the main hall a life-sized bust of her greeted all who entered. The house was more akin to an eerie museum dedicated to one person, a ghoulish tribute to the woman Alex had never known. What was even more strange about this bizarre Louvre was that none depicted Alex—not one. Another of Wilton’s cruel revenge tactics. Alex despised his mother for dying on that operating table.
Upon graduation every major corporation in the country, and a few abroad, had romanced Alex with huge monetary offers. To end the frenzy, Wilton publicly announced that Alex would be heading the family’s own research department at Thorpe Laboratories. This piece of media maneuvering was the proverbial straw, alienating Alex to such a degree that he signed a three-year contract with a government-funded research team. Livid from his ungrateful offspring’s apparent lack of respect, Wilton waged a court battle to force Alex into servitude, citing that he was still a minor. After little deliberation, the judge found in favor of Alex, stating that a doctor, no matter what his age, was in charge of his own facilities. Bitter and dejected, Wilton never spoke to his son again. The next time Alex saw his father he was in a casket. Alex was only twenty-five.
To Alex’s surprise, Wilton had left him everything. As the only heir to the Thorpe fortune, Alex entertained thoughts of running the huge conglomerate his father had created. Then, the National Security Agency offered him the position of project head for Defense Facility Forty-five. Alex quickly accepted. He sold off the company and its holdings.
From the beginning, the project was plagued with problems; equipment failure, staffing, cost overruns were among the more mundane annoyances. After the initial wrinkles were smoothed the real concerns began. Unexplained accidents, strange power drains from somewhere inside the facility, and lately a few deaths. With the problems mounting and not one single breakthrough, the government had attempted to shut them down. Alex convinced them to allow the project to continue by donating fifty million dollars of his own money. Still they were unable to find their way to a solution. Fearing another attempt at a shut down, Alex underwent the experiment himself, to his relief it was a success.
The first six months following the experiment there were no side effects. However, soon after Alex became aware of the other’s consciousness, a new awareness that needled and prodded him at every turn. Alex knew that all men were, on their most basic level, savages, but this was something altogether different: a gnawing hunger.
The episodes began at first in his dreams, then, more recently, during his waking hours. He found himself in a constant struggle for dominion. Alex hoped that Professor Silverman could find something in the text that would allow him absolute control over the other’s will.
A sudden thumping shook Alex from his reverie. He peered out of the window and looked to the horizon. The cloud-covered sky was all that was visible.
“They’re here,” he said.
Johnson leaned forward in his seat and glanced through the windshield. “I don’t see anything,” he stated flatly.
Alex realized his escort would be unable to hear the approaching helicopter yet. They were still normal. The red fog rolled in. A toothy grin split his face. He suddenly had the urge to tear out the Major’s throat and gorge himself on his blood, then turn to Thompson and bite off his tapping fingers. Alex shook his head to clear it, trying desperately to quell the terrible need. No! I’m in control, me, Alex Thorpe, he thought. The beastly yearning receded and he relaxed.
A moment later the distant whirring of the helicopter was audible to everyone in the vehicle.
“That’s some excellent hearin
g you’ve got there, Doctor,” said Thompson.
Alex didn’t respond, or rather couldn’t, to normal humans the sound of the turning rotors was tremendously loud, to Alex it was deafening. The hair on his neck stood on end as he struggled to remain in his seat. Thoughts of escaping to the safety of the woods ran rampant in his mind. He audibly grunted with the effort.
A low approach brought the helicopter into view just above the treetops. As it hovered at the east side of the clearing, Thompson jumped out of the vehicle, ran a few steps, then threw a flare to mark the landing sight.
The helicopter, a Sikorsky UH-60A Black Hawk, looked like a gigantic locust come to wreak havoc on the poor farmer’s crops. The twin General Electric turbo shafts thundered in the night, blowing thick clouds of dust through the truck’s windows. Normally the chopper was used by the facility's military detail to patrol the twenty thousand acres it lay within. Tonight it carried only one passenger. Seeing the flare, the pilot began a slow descent.
Alex reluctantly exited the vehicle. Standing beside the truck, he drew shallow, halting breaths, in the grip of a wave of nausea. The urge to run was more intense now that he was outside, the forest mere feet away, with the hideous machine bearing down on him.
Strong air currents buffeted him, nearly bowling his already swaying body over. He leaned into the wind trying to hold himself upright. With each rotation of the rotors, he found it increasingly harder to remain standing, placing a hand on the HMMWV for support.
Finally the helicopter landed and the pilot cut the shrill engine, for which Alex was eternally grateful. He straightened his suit, which was stuck to him from perspiration, and started toward the landing zone.
The door on the side slid open and a slightly overweight man in a wrinkled suit stumbled out. Alex knew him immediately—Thomas Silverman. The scent of stale perspiration assailed Alex’s senses, apparently the flight had had its own effect on the Professor.
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