Singularity

by Joe Hart

  “His work for the government? No secret is worth forsaking your own son for,” Sullivan said.

  Andrews studied him for a moment, then said, “Not the work he did for the government, the work that came after. The work for her.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sullivan asked.

  Andrews smiled again. “Oliver Godring was a brilliant nuclear physicist commissioned for a project after World War II. It was top-secret, and only his staff and handful of people in Washington knew about it. They wanted him to build a weapon based on the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but those who had hired him were dissatisfied with the aftermath of the atomic holocaust. It was too messy, with too many casualties. Oliver birthed an idea that pleased them to no end: the beam.”

  Sullivan blinked. Jason had mentioned the same name. “What was it?”

  “More or less, it was a focused beam of atomic energy, able to pinpoint a certain target and evaporate it to an atomic level. Oliver’s initial tests had the panel in Washington salivating. They poured millions of dollars into his research. They wanted something they could attach to a satellite and, say, have it orbit over mother Russia, since at the time the Cold War was in full swing. Being able to obliterate a building in the capital or a single home was too attractive an idea to ignore. In late August 1958, Oliver ran his first full-strength test. His testing station was buried five hundred feet underground in a natural cave system. When he triggered the device, it killed every member of his team except him, and instead of destroying the target he’d focused the beam on, it did something entirely unexpected. It opened a doorway.”

  “A doorway? A doorway to where?” Sullivan asked.

  “Oh, you’ve seen it yourself, in your dreams, no doubt,” Andrews said, tilting his head to one side.

  Sullivan’s mouth instantly dried out.

  “I fed you water from our well here, in the coffee you and Agent Stevens drank the first time you sat in this room. That water comes from beneath the prison, over five hundred feet down, where she lives. Her waste mingles with the water table, and when we drink it, we can see, we can feel, and we become more.”

  Images of the burnt landscape shrouded in smoke ran through Sullivan’s mind. The dream had seemed so real, and now he knew why.

  “You’ve even met her, Sullivan. Out in the woods yesterday. She was kind enough to herd you back to us at my request.”

  Sullivan’s hand moved to the wound on his shoulder. “Am I infected now? Are those snake things inside of me too?”

  Andrews laughed congenially and shook his head. “No, son. It takes weeks before the water has the full effect on people, before you begin to receive her gift. After you’ve drank enough, then you start to … alter.”

  Sullivan felt his stomach flip at the thought of what he would do if he felt a crawling sensation at the back of his throat. “What gift? What do you mean ‘alter’?”

  “Ah, so many questions. You remind me of me six years ago, when I first came here. I’ll answer you this way. You saw her home. It’s dying. Her kind is gradually becoming extinct. When Oliver opened the doorway, she slipped through and showed him. She showed him that she needed help in continuing her species. After the failure of the beam project, he built this prison directly on top of the test site, along with New Haven. People were necessary for the plan that he devised, and prisoners were the best candidates. What you saw inside of the people here is a blessed conversion. Anyone who drinks enough of the water gradually becomes a version of her kind, her children.”

  Sullivan felt like vomiting, and the anger that felt so strong when he’d first sat down evaporated, replaced with overwhelming revulsion. Now, he knew why the prison was so quiet, the inmates restrained. They were connected in a way so gruesome, it defied rational thought. “It’s trying to further its species through some kind of fucking human aberration?” he finally managed.

  Andrew’s smile vanished at Sullivan’s words. “The side effects of drinking her waste was a most unexpected turn of events. The people here will be her first spawn, but the doorway must be opened for more of her kind to come through. A male must be brought here to fertilize the eggs she’s been carrying for over fifty years. It’s imperative for the continuation of her species.”

  Sullivan sat back in the chair, swallowing his gorge. “Jesus Christ, you’re insane.”

  “On the contrary, son. I’m the first of the many that will welcome her and her kind into the world. I’m the emissary of goodwill. She’s allowed me sanctity for my service. I’ve continued Oliver’s work and allocated the necessary ingredients for the greatest revolution the world has ever known. You don’t know what she’s capable of, Sullivan. The world we live in is war torn, grief stricken, and cruel. When her race is reborn here, they will spread control and peace, since they do not know the meaning of murdering and killing their own kind. They have power beyond human knowledge, the power to heal, to rebirth, even to bring back life.”

  Sullivan gaped at him. “That’s what this is about, then? You think that this thing is going to heal you and bring back your dead wife?”

  Andrews bolted up from the chair, surprising Sullivan with an agility he didn’t think the older man possessed. “Yes!” Andrews bellowed. “Life is a fucking joke, boy! A sick joke played on everyone who walks the earth. There’s no salvation except the kind you make for yourself! I’m a good man. I treated others with kindness. I loved my wife. And look where it got me. She’s been gone for years, stripped from me like a leaf in a hurricane, and now I’m dying! This is the thanks I get for being righteous, a good man!” Andrews shook with a rage barely contained. The warden’s throat bobbed with emotion, and then he sank back into his chair behind the desk. He bit his lower lip, and Sullivan saw that whoever the warden had been years ago was gone, replaced by something broken and desperate within a battered shell. “She’s shown me her capabilities and promised me,” Andrews continued in a lower voice. “After the doorway is opened, she will cure my cancer and resurrect my Maddy.”

  The newspaper in Everett’s hiding space suddenly appeared in Sullivan’s mind, and he felt as if he’d been struck. “That’s why you kidnapped the nuclear physicist, to try to repeat what Godring did all those years ago.”

  Andrews nodded. “Oliver was a scientist, I’m not. He died unexpectedly, in a plane crash. He was in the process of gathering supplies for rebuilding the beam. I have no doubt she would have brought him back, but Oliver was obliterated in the crash. She went into a deep hibernation following his death, and only awoke when one of my men—Officer Bundy, in fact—discovered the passageway leading down to her lair from the solitary level. When I first saw her, I was terrified, but after she showed me what was possible, I knew what I had to do. It took the better part of five years to acquire everything that was needed—plutonium is especially hard to come by these days. The nuclear council being held in the southern part of the state was just plain fate. Dr. Bolt has corrected the malfunction that killed Godring’s team. The storm and flooding is giving us our opportunity for the rebirth to begin, another fateful turn in our favor, as was your arrival here, Sullivan.”

  Sullivan’s mind reeled against everything the other man said. It revolted at what Andrews’s words implicated, yet he had no other explanation for the events and things he’d seen. But the last statement the warden made was what finally turned Sullivan’s blood cold. He squinted at Andrews, as fat drops of rain fell outside the windows and thunder cleared its throat somewhere off to the west.

  “What does this have to do with me?” Sullivan asked, his voice sounding surprisingly steady in his own ears.

  “The night Mr. Alvarez was killed, most of our staff was busy sandbagging the perimeter, as I told you. We normally have an offering for her once a month. It was my fault that her meal was neglected, and she was forced to search for food. With the rain and flooding, game has become scarce outside our borders, so she found the only food available through the drain in Alvarez’s cell.
You would never have been called had we known that our young Hunt over there would notify Sheriff Jaan. You see, Nathan was in the process of becoming. Unfortunately, the sheriff had to be disposed of, along with your crime-scene team, I regret to say.”

  Sullivan had to dig his fingers into the chair’s arms to keep himself from bolting over the desk and beating the warden’s face into the back of his skull. Don was dead, along with his assistants. Now, he knew why Barry hadn’t been able to raise the sheriff on the phone after he’d left. No doubt, the elderly law man was either at the bottom of the flood outside or somewhere much, much worse.

  “Very unfortunate,” Andrews continued. “But what I’m offering you is something no other person could ever offer before.” The older man leaned forward with fiery intensity burning in his eyes, which Sullivan recognized now as madness. “I can give you your wife back, Sullivan. I can give you immortality. She’s granted me a lieutenant in the new world, and I want it to be you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re cunning, you have drive, and you’re definitely a scrapper. You handled three of my best employees with ease, not to mention our friend Mr. Fairbend. I wanted to thank you for that too, Henry was becoming a problem. First he antagonized Alvarez in the cell, which began all of this, and then when your partner was acquired, he couldn’t even get away quietly. Luckily, Officer Bundy was nearby yesterday morning and heard the shots. He managed to dispose of Fairbend’s body before you were able to inspect it further. In all actuality, my preference before you was Everett. Since he had such an extreme allergic reaction to the water, he was a natural choice for a human lieutenant. He’s a lot like you in many ways—smart, strong, good moral fiber. Although, I’m disappointed that he thought I didn’t know who his brother was—I knew the moment he applied for the transfer here.”

  Sullivan shook his head. “What did you do with Barry?”

  “He’s in her service now. He’s doing his part in assuring the doorway opens as planned.”

  “You’re lying. He’d never agree to this,” Sullivan said, his voice rising a notch.

  Andrews only smiled. “You’d be surprised, Sullivan. Like I said, you don’t understand her power. Just think of it, Sullivan, you would be one of the first to embrace the revolution, you’d have your heart’s desire in the new world. People would worship you as a god, you’d never have to fear death, and you’d have your wife back.”

  Sullivan lowered his head so that his chin nearly touched his chest. He stayed that way for a moment, but when he raised his eyes level with the older man across the desk, there was no fear in them. His breathing was deep and even, and his heart beat slowly, in time with his words when he spoke.

  “My wife was mentally ill. When I met her, she was medicated for manic-depressive tendencies. I fell in love with her knowing that it might be a hard life, a life full of pain, and I never looked back. I didn’t look back when she drank so much that she did this to me with a broken wineglass,” he said, motioning to the old scar above his eye. “I didn’t look back when she tried to slit her wrists and, when I intervened, she spilled part of my intestine into open air. I didn’t look back when she finally jumped from our twentieth-floor-apartment balcony and landed headfirst on the street below.” Sullivan gritted his teeth as tears shimmered at the corners of his vision. “My wife is finally at peace in a place where her mind cannot hurt her anymore. So forgive me for not being tempted by your offers. You have nothing that I want, and I’m not afraid of you or whatever you have hiding down in the dark.”

  The warden’s eyebrows creased together and he grimaced as if in pain. Sullivan readied himself. This was the end, he could feel it. He’d been given his shot at riding along, and he’d missed the train, on purpose. He listened for the sound of movement behind him, in case the killing shot would come from one of the guards, and watched Andrews intently, to see what the man’s next move would be.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Sullivan,” Andrews said. “Truly, I am. I had high hopes for you, but as they say, the show must go on.” Andrews pulled open a drawer and drew out Barry’s handgun, cocked it. Lightning arced from west to east in the sky and strobed in the office with vibrant pulsations. Everything slowed, jumping a few seconds in time with each beat of Sullivan’s heart. The eye of the barrel stared at him as it rose to meet his gaze. Andrews squinted down the sights at Sullivan and applied pressure to the trigger. Sullivan’s muscles tensed as he breathed in, held it.

  Sullivan dropped sideways to the floor and heard the gun go off. The roar of the gunshot faded and Andrews howled in anger. At the same time, the door to the office exploded inward, and Sullivan twisted on the floor to see who had entered.

  Everett stood in the doorway, his hands clutching a riot shotgun. The guard next to the door spun as Everett leveled the shotgun and fired a load of buckshot into the man’s chest. Blood and matter flew across the room, as if sprayed from a hose. The sound was muffled, the blast deadened by the body before it. Sullivan heard Andrews fire again, and watched Everett twitch as if energized by electric current. Sullivan crawled backward toward the wall, and caught sight of Hunt retreating as he drew his pistol even with Everett’s head. Sullivan kicked the chair beside him in Hunt’s direction, and the young guard flinched. His shot strayed and tore a runner of cloth from Everett’s shoulder, along with a spray of blood. Everett staggered in the doorway but managed to bring the shotgun up and blast one of Hunt’s legs. Sullivan saw muscle and bone rip free of the guard’s pants leg as the joint in his knee folded the wrong way, sending him to the floor with a cry.

  Movement caught Sullivan’s eye as Andrews rounded the desk, pointing the handgun down at the floor like an exterminator hunting for a pest. Sullivan rolled behind the small table that sat between the chairs, as the warden fired. A line of acid traced a path across his forearm, and he looked down to see blood seeping from a shallow trench in his flesh. He heard a grunt of pain from the doorway, and listened as Everett collapsed while racking a fresh shell into the chamber.

  Andrews loped for the door, and Hunt sat up, numbly staring at his ruined leg and the spreading lake of blood on the floor around him. Everett fired again, and Sullivan saw Hunt’s face obliterate and his body go languid, the last twitches of life escaping in shivers through his frame. Another gunshot resounded in the room, and Sullivan propped himself up just in time to see Andrews disappear through the doorway, his tall frame hunched as he ran.

  Sullivan bolted to his feet and nearly slipped in Hunt’s blood. He sidled into view of the lobby and snatched Everett’s shotgun from the floor. He scanned what he could see of the lobby and his stomach lurched as a clicking sound met his ears. Andrews is going into the holding area, he thought, but kept the gun trained on the door, just in case, as he knelt beside Everett.

  The guard’s face was ashen. His lips were becoming blue where they weren’t covered in blood from the inside of his mouth. His eyes were open and focused on Sullivan as he came near. Sullivan searched the guard’s body for a wound, and finally spotted an entry hole a few inches right of his breastbone. Blood bubbled from the spot with each of Everett’s forced breaths. He was also holding the right side of his abdomen, which shone with wet intestine when Sullivan pulled his hand aside to examine it.

  Sullivan grimaced and looked into Everett’s eyes.

  “It’s okay,” Everett said, all power behind the words lost in the wheezing of his filling lungs. “It’s okay. Just get him.”

  “We’re gonna get you help,” Sullivan said, cradling the guard’s head with his hand. He knew the words were in vain. There was no help here, or on the way, for all he knew. The words were automatic, a thin comfort to an already dying man.

  “Alex,” Everett said, his eyes beginning to look beyond Sullivan. “Alex.”

  “He’s all right,” Sullivan said, not knowing if Everett was seeing something that lay outside of the walls of the prison or merely asking for his brother. “He’s just fine, Everett. You did go
od. Thank you.”

  Everett nodded and a thick gurgle came from his mouth as he tried to draw in another breath. His spine arched as the oxygen refused to come, and then his muscles were like water. His body relaxed and blood ran over the rim of his lips. His eyes closed halfway and stopped.

  Sullivan swallowed and glanced up at the silent lobby as he wiped blood off Everett’s chin. He stood and pulled a cushion from the nearby overturned chair, and propped Everett’s head off the floor. He looked at the dead man, a gambit of emotions careening through him, most of all guilt. He had convinced Everett to come back inside. Sullivan squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. There was no time for this; he’d suffer for it later, but now he had to move.

  He found a dozen shotgun shells in Everett’s pants pocket and transferred them to his own. Without another look back at the ruined office, with its quiet occupants, he stepped out of the door and into the lobby.

  Water splashed around his feet as he moved. Looking to his left, he saw its source. The flood was at the door and flowed beneath it with ease. Nearly an inch of water coated the floor of the lobby, and it spread like mercury in all directions. Sullivan sloshed through it, his feet going from damp to completely soaked in an instant.

  The security door opened smoothly, and Sullivan stayed behind the safety of the doorjamb, waiting for a shot to rip through the open space. None came. Tentatively he poked the barrel of the shotgun into the next room, and then followed it in a low crouch. He swung the weapon toward the open hallway on his right, then scooted around the guard desk, ensuring that no one hid behind its bulk. He listened to the silence of the holding area; the only other sounds were his quiet breathing and the renewed vigor of the storm outside.

  In short bursts of movement, he crossed the holding area, pausing within the entry of a vacant cell every few yards. He expected gunfire at any moment, and when none came each time he moved, it only heightened his sense of unease. A dark shape in the middle of the floor stopped his progress. Barry’s gun lay abandoned, its barrel pointing back the way he’d come. Without hesitation, he scooped the 1911 off the floor and tucked it in the waistband at his back. At last he came to the end of the cellblock, where the building expanded into a T-shape. He risked a glance around the corner, and saw the guard at the bottom of the stairway below him taking aim.