The House of Grey- Volume 3

by Earl, Collin

  “This last May was supposed to be an epic time in the history of North America and the world. It was the time, the quickening hour, when the Artificial Island Project was to go live, changing the world for the better. The Artificial Island Project was a newly created landmass stabilized off the coast of the northwestern United States. Using classified technology, the Island chain, consisting of ten islands, was literally raised from the depths of the ocean, giving the people of the world a new outlet for life and discovery. These islands and the technology that created them were the result of billions of dollars of investment by the American and Canadian governments and private industry. It was to be the new center for the Canadian/American coastal power station, providing a home for the first and only cold fusion plant on the planet. Disney Universe-the proposed one-hundred-billion-dollar amusement park that would house the biggest shopping area in the world, twenty-seven new full-size attractions, nearly one thousand restaurants, several hundred hotels, and seven PGA-designed golf courses-was going to be built on one of the islands. Housing, from the humble to the extravagant, was planned to accommodate a wide span of socioeconomic groups, thus creating new and exciting opportunities for the ambitious. Fueled by the cold fusion plant, the construction of the Trans-Pacific Bullet Train was to connect Asia and America like never before, allowing Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Filipino and other Asian populations access to the growing artificial inland community. This vision of tomorrow, this hope for the future, this radical departure from accepted norms, was from its conceptualization to ratification, the brainchild of a single individual: Christopher Barotoy.”

  Derek’s voice drifted out of the speakers, permeating Monson’s mind. Each word found its mark in his head. It was as if each of them formed a key to a dormant and forgotten door. With these doors unlocked, a flood of images and emotions were gripping his very core, his very self.

  “The bridge highway, that would connect the Artificial Island Project to the mainland was a gift from the state governments of Washington, Oregon and California as a gesture of appreciation towards Baroty and his conglomerate. The bridge, consisting of three parts adjoining Highway 101 as it ran along the coastlines of California, Oregon, and Washington, was a ten-year multi-billion-dollar project. Its design would allow interstate commuters the benefits of expedited travel and the opportunity to use the most advanced electromagnetic train in the world. A day of celebration, a celebration to enjoy in the ingenuity of man--the day started as a celebration to start only to be extinguished in tragedy.”

  Derek shifted in his seat, cocking his head to the left as if he were referring to the graphic on the right side of the screen. The image grew quickly, taking over the entire screen. It depicted the aerial view of a massive eight-lane juncture glistening in the glare of water-reflected light. The word “Before” sat superimposed at the bottom left of the image, which faded out, as a second image captioned “After” seemed to force its way on-screen. This shot was the same as the previous one, with one striking difference: The eight-lane roundabout was gone. The only remnants were charred and jagged chunks of jutting concrete and steel. Derek’s narration continued.

  “The U.S. and Canadian government response was swift, as detachments from the U.S. Navy, Army and Air Force, in addition to the Canadian Coast Guard, responded to the distress call of Colonel Marshon Vanderbilt, who was already on the scene. Here is footage from his initial contact with the media.”

  The player changed once again, this time showing a haggard man in Army fatigues attempting to move past reporters, whom he obviously found distasteful.

  “Colonel. What can you tell us? What caused this? Is the country under attack?”

  “I’m sorry, I have no comment.” The Colonel attempted to part the gathering mob.

  “Is it true that the North Koreans are involved? What about the Chinese? How will this affect the Artificial Island Project? Are other countries trying to steal the cold fusion technology?”

  The Colonel stopped mid-stride, his back to the reporters. He visibly tensed. Abruptly, he spun on his heel, surprising the reporters as he did so.

  Monson reached down to pause the player.

  “Why would he answer them?”

  The others seemed puzzled by his question. Brian recovered first.

  “China.”

  “What about China?”

  “That is probably why he chose to answer. He did not want the media to instigate a call for war with China.”

  “But why would people-”Brian put up a hand. “Tensions in that particular area of foreign policy have been strained for a while now. The relationship between the two countries is just now returning to normal, semi-cordial terms.”

  He pointed at the screen. “If I were to venture a guess, the Colonel probably thought it would be expedient to dissolve any misconception of Chinese involvement to prevent any further rescission of diplomacy.”

  “I guess that makes sense.” Monson scratched at his head. “Kind of.”

  Casey restarted the player and it flared back to life as the Colonel responded to the reporters.

  “Look, evidence is scarce, but thus far there isn’t any indication that the North Koreans or Chinese could have had anything to do with this.”

  The reporters started to clamor over each other.

  “Then who could it be? Iran? How can you rule out China and North Korea so quickly?”

  The Colonel put up a hand. “The technology involved is far beyond anything we’ve encountered, literally years ahead of even the theoretical platform. China and North Korea don’t have this type of capability.”

  An attractive woman with short blonde hair elbowed her way to the front of the pack of reporters. “Then what are we dealing with? Who’s responsible for this devastating attack?”

  The Colonel shook his head. “We’re looking into all possible explanations. But whoever it is, they are not people that we are currently equipped to deal with.” At this, the Colonel’s face changed dramatically and he raised his hand again to indicate he was accepting no further questions.

  Monson stared at the Colonel’s expression. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he voiced his thought.

  “He really didn’t intend to mention that last part, did he?”

  Casey nodded. “A slip of the tongue if I’ve ever seen one. It’s a good thing he’s such a high-ranking officer, or he might have lacked the wisdom to stop there.”

  The others nodded their agreement.

  The Colonel’s voice reflected his anger with himself as he parted the crowd. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can say right now. Excuse me.”

  The video cut back to Derek.

  “The aftermath of the Colonel’s remarks was a level of panic and fear that hasn’t been seen for some time, as information was released stating that hundreds of people had been killed.” A new video flared showing rescuers pulling dozens of mangled bodies out of the water and even more lying side-by-side amid large puddles of dark red.

  Derek spoke very quietly. “Now, almost five months later, the same questions are plaguing the American people. What happened that afternoon in May? Who is responsible? And why did they do it?”

  Derek turned to face a different camera. “The American people and the world are searching for answers to these difficult questions. They have been since that dreadful day. Another, and perhaps the most important question that remains, however, is: Will they get them? That is where the special Senate subcommittee report attempted to fill in the gaps.”

  The screen again changed, transitioning into another clip, this one of a man at a podium. “Members of the press, while it’s an honor to stand before you today, I’m disheartened that it has to be under such circumstances. My name is Special Agent Devin Maverick of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Baroty Bridge Special Investigation Squad.”

  The man’s demeanor adjusted ever so slightly, becoming more businesslike.

  “As directed by the Senate, sub-com
mittee for Internal Diseaster I am here to present the findings of the final report on the Baroty Bridge disaster. To date, you have heard the preliminary reports regarding the latter three hours, Hour Three, Hour Four, and Hour Five. In the next half-hour, I will attempt to relay what little we know of Hour One and Hour Two...”

  The special agent’s voice faded and Derek began again.

  “The final report that Special Agent Maverick referred to is a two-thousand-page document that details all available information on the first and most critical hours experienced on Baroty Bridge.”

  Pages of a typed document with some of the sections highlighted appeared on-screen.

  “In it,”-new pages of the document appeared-“the investigation unit details the most plausible course of events from the start of the disaster until the complete sweep of the area finished five hours later….”

  Monson started to get angry.

  Get on with it Derek, he thought. What is this huge piece of information you have?

  Monson did his best to stay focused, to concentrate on Derek’s voice, but was finding it difficult as random thoughts started punching through.

  He leaned against a cement wall as salty wind nipped at him, sharpening his sense of touch and smell. The squawk of odd white birds in the distance grated on his nerves as irritation and fear burrowed its way down into his nethermost regions. A reassuring hand gently squeezed his shoulder….

  A dual sense of awareness allowed Monson to hear and see his waking dreams but also allowed Derek’s words to waft through his mind.

  “Coren All Access also has a special release for you that may shed some light on those ever-elusive hours.”

  Another video jumped to life, depicting the large highway juncture of Baroty’s Bridge. There was no sound, only the rough images of a black-and-white security camera feed. People mulled around rows of folding chairs talking in small groups. Many were posturing wildly, laughing in a throaty yet refined manner. It was obvious that everyone was having a very good time.

  Young women in stylish dresses smiled seductively, looking him up and down as he maneuvered among them. He cleared their attempts easily but cursed his luck when a gruff man with over-large hands stopped him in order to bellow some sort of admonishment and approval. The man’s face was familiar but unimportant. He had to move on. He had to continue searching.

  “As you can see,” said Derek, narrating the footage. “This is a piece of security footage recorded on the day of the attack and found in the bridge wreckage.”

  The video’s scene changed dramatically as streaks of light hit a group of people congregating closest to the camera. When the light cleared, they had vanished, though thick black puddles pooled ominously where they had been standing. After a moment of calm, panic ensued as black-suited commandos invaded the scene with massive futuristic-looking weapons. The commandos herded the crowd towards the very center of the rows of chairs, killing any that resisted. The chairs scattered as the commandos neared, as if they found the inanimate objects somehow offensive. People cowered beneath the violence. Once situated, the lines of commandos retreated a few steps, weapons pointing at the rows of shocked and fearful captives. They gestured aggressively and though no sound could be heard, their intention was clear.

  Move and we’ll kill you….

  Suddenly, a -man stood up from among the group of captives and stared at the soldiers, his full-length cloak billowing in the wind.

  Falling gobs of fire-blades of compacted wind-shafts of molten metal-spears of crystallized water rained down…all stopped, swept away.

  The man removed his cloak, rotating casually in front of the commandos. His intention was clear: “I have no weapons. I am unarmed. May I speak?”

  The commandos relaxed at this action, their weapons pointed lazily at the man, displaying their haughtiness and disrespect. These acts were ill-received, however, by one of the soldiers who shouted angrily at his comrades while gesturing wildly at the man standing calmly in front of them.

  The soldier spoke for a moment more. The commandos’ posture altered sharply in response. They became more alert and focused, but also nervous. Very nervous. So nervous, their weapons were noticeably shaking in their trembling arms. A commotion at the rear of their formation caused them to slowly part. A second individual, also wearing a cloak, stepped forward to face the first man and the crowd of upper-class citizens.

  The acrid smell overwhelmed him. Burnt flesh. The metallic tinge of blood. Bodies. He wanted to stop, to fall; he was so tired and weak. But he wanted to stop him more. He wanted to fight. He could not stop him; he was not strong enough. The foe was too strong…too cruel.

  The two men spoke at length, gesturing at the people and commandos. The first man folded his hands serenely, apparently trying to pacify the second cloaked man. Without warning, the second man stepped forward, placing a hand on the first. He appeared to whisper in his ear, pointed towards the crowd, and gestured to the surroundings. They continued to converse with one another, their movements reflecting the seriousness of their conversation. Finally, the first man nodded his head reluctantly. The second, still-cloaked man about-faced and resolutely stepped forward while the first man followed, moving slowly through the still-parted lines of commandos. The commandos shrank back as he neared, still pointing shaking weapons at him. The cloaked man pointed within the midst of the cowering crowd. Except for the twisting of heads, no one moved. The man continued to speak.

  For some reason, the picture blurred. Before anyone could protest, it slowly returned to focus, and the boys and Brian could see the cloaked man point an indistinguishable object towards the crowd of people. He swung the shimmering object downward and to the front of his hostages. He reached towards the crowd.

  Derek’s voice cut in as the video image froze. “Ladies and gentleman, this is not for the faint of heart. If there are children in the room, please have them leave.”

  Casey rolled his eyes. “Moron.”

  The video sprang back to life. Monson, Casey, Artorius, Brian and anyone else watching gasped in horror as the cloaked man grabbed a girl in her early teens from the crowd. A women, presumably her mother, fastened herself to the child, and though her protest was silent in the video feed, it clearly communicated her pleading to all those who watched. The cloaked man struck the woman with the hand holding his shimmering object. Visible liquid sprayed from the woman’s face as she tumbled to the ground. She did not get up. The cloaked man brought the young woman into his arms, holding the object to her throat. His arm started to move-

  Several things happened in quick succession. First, at the corner of the screen, a person jumped from the middle of the hostages. He moved with blinding speed towards the cloaked man holding the girl. The people in his way did not faze him;. They glanced off his stride like an invisible bulldozer had thrust them aside. From among the confused commandos, a literal whirlwind appeared, tossing people, chairs and weapons in every direction away from the cloaked man. The first man stood, sharply distinguished in the churning air. He stepped forward towards the cloaked man. The last scene played in slow motion before the video went black: The three boys and Brian stared on as the cloaked man brought his arm sharply across the young girl’s throat.

  The first man ran headlong into the second just as the second dropped the girl. The impact was accompanied by more bright light and then blackness. Just before the blackness Monson caught the profile of the first man…it was Marques Grey.

  Casey hit the mute button before Derek could start talking again. Words did not come easily. What could be said? Those events were out of a dream. No, dream was too kind a word. It was a nightmare. That scene was a living nightmare.

  Casey spoke first, finally ending the silence. “How’s it possible that this is just now coming up?”

  Brian replied softly. “I may be mistaken, but I believe that this is the area of the bridge that was almost completely destroyed. The roundabout,” he gestured with his hands forming a circ
le, “is where this ceremony was taking place and I daresay it was obliterated and sank into the ocean within minutes of this very recording. That fact may have delayed the release of the recording.”

  Artorius asked the question that came to everyone’s mind. “If that’s true, Brian, and this is a legit recording and not some outrageous fake, then how did a d-bag like Derek get ahold of it? Shouldn’t this be on the bottom of the ocean with everything else?”

  “That’s not a question we can answer, Arthur.” Casey spoke quietly, shaking his head. “I suppose we could try to beat it out of Derek-”

  Casey threw his arms up around his head. He continued his thought.

  “I mean, Derek is due for a good beating. Two birds, one stone?”

  Casey’s rueful smile told Monson that he was only half-serious.

  “Grey,” Artorius’ sounded concerned. “Are you OK?”

  Monson answered in the affirmative. “Yeah, I think I’m alright. That was just unexpected.” He wanted now more than ever to tell Artorius, Brian and Casey his own confusing and conflicted history; but likewise, now more than ever, he knew he could not. Monson pushed those thoughts away. He changed his focus. He closed his eyes, starting to dive deeper into his feelings, and shuddered as he did so. He still felt shocked by the video. During those horrific events, apprehension, fear even, had encircled his entire being. What was of such concern? Had he known? Did he know what was about to transpire? Had he been involved?

  Monson shook his head at the thought. That was outrageous. How arrogant could he be? He was fourteen years old. There was no reason for him to be involved. None whatsoever.

  “Unexpected?” Casey’s words reflected Monson’s own weariness. “That’s another one of those understatements of the year. I think you’re up to two now, Grey. You’d better slow down.”

  “Can’t be helped,” said Monson, answering Casey’s banter. “My implacable wit constrains me.”