The Annihilation Protocol

by Laurence, Michael

  “Just when I was starting to feel better, you had to go and ruin it.”

  Locker’s transceiver crackled from the holster on his hip. He excused himself, answered the call, and lowered his voice so as not to be overheard.

  Mason walked around the cage, surveying the collection inside. He recognized the crumpled remains of the mini refrigerator he’d seen in the room with the mattress and the table saws that had been mounted to the counters in the packing room. What he didn’t see, though, were any containers that could be used for the storage of toxic chemicals. Granted, the larger plastic variety would have melted, but the corrosion-resistant kind necessary for the precursor chemicals would have survived the blaze. Maybe they’d actually caught a break and derailed the plot before it was set into motion.

  Locker tugged on the sleeve of his jacket.

  “You’d better come with me,” he said. “We found something behind the false wall.”

  Mason knew exactly which wall he was talking about. He remembered seeing it at the end of the underground tunnel when he’d first arrived at the slaughterhouse weeks ago. It was maybe a little too close to the door leading into the building and a slightly different shade of gray than the surrounding concrete. Nothing incredibly overt, just enough to have given him pause. It was about time the forensics team finally reached it.

  Locker struck off into the ruins, his stride so long that Mason practically had to jog to keep pace. They navigated the wending path through the rubble, skirted the surviving framework of the structure, and headed straight for the concrete pad that marked where a massive commercial garage had once stood. The loading dock was now little more than an uneven slope of gravel and fractured concrete. The iron staircase that had once reached the elevated office had melted into a hellish snarl. Not so long ago, Mason had stood in this precise spot with liquid fire raining all around him, seconds before the entire building had collapsed.

  A portable bank of metal-halide lights shone down into a square shaft in the ground. The iron hatch that had saved him from the fire stood wide open. He hopped down and descended the stairs to the terminus of the twenty-two-mile tunnel, where he’d first encountered the tram that serviced the hidden line.

  The men waiting at the bottom turned to face him with matching expressions of anticipation and excitement. He recognized forensics specialists Dave Andrews and Josh Wilkinson from various crime scenes he’d worked. They stood beside a tripod that supported a device reminiscent of an old-time camera, only with a digital readout and an LED display. A series of cords connected it to a laptop computer on a folding table beside a red first-aid kit. Another bank of lights had been positioned to shine at the southernmost wall.

  “This marvel of technology here is what we call a through-wall radar,” Locker said, and gestured toward the camera. “It utilizes continuous-wave, ultra-wideband random-noise waveforms to see through walls. Sound waves of such low frequency that they can’t be detected from the other side.”

  “What does it show?” Mason asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “But you said there was something back there.”

  “Right. And that something is nothing.”

  Talking to Locker when he was in full-on forensics mode was often a maddening experience. He seemed to start at random points in a conversation, like a star in the night sky, and expect everyone around him to envision the same constellation he did.

  “You’re telling me you can see through that wall and there’s nothing there,” Mason said.

  “We are speaking the same language, aren’t we?”

  The others chuckled. Mason shot them a glare that caused them to disperse.

  “This radar generates sound waves and fires them through the wall. When they encounter something on the other side, they bounce back. This detector receives those returning sound waves, converts them into a digital signal, and sends it to this laptop, which runs a program that filters the incoming data, interprets it, and forms a three-dimensional representation of what’s on the other side. As you can see, right now it’s showing us approximately eighteen inches of nothing.”

  “So why are we still talking about it when we could be tearing down that wall?”

  “Because it’s not entirely empty.”

  Mason squeezed his temples in an effort to stave off a burgeoning headache.

  “Look at the monitor.” Locker turned the laptop so he could see it. Mason could somewhat discern the representation of depth behind the wall. Red pinpricks materialized within that space, only to vanish again, like fireflies floating in the foot-and-a-half space between the false wall and the true end of the tunnel. “You have to understand that the concrete wall attenuates ninety-nine percent of the sound waves on their way through, and another ninety-nine percent on the return trip, leaving a fraction of a percent of the original sound waves to form an image. Not nearly enough to create a comprehensive, detailed model of anything on the other side, which is why this unit features continuous-wave radar architecture that emits a ceaseless barrage of sound waves. It can easily distinguish a hollow space from open air or packed earth, but it requires a large number of data points to identify specific objects in between. It’s like trying to draw a picture using just dots from the tip of a sharpened pencil, with someone erasing them as quickly as they appear. There’s no way of plotting these data points in three dimensions unless—”

  “You collect enough of them over an extended period of time,” Mason said.

  He looked at the smile on Locker’s face, then at the screen again.

  “You’re saying these little flickering dots prove there’s something behind the wall,” he said.

  “Let me see if I can figure out how to use the time-lag feature.”

  Mason stepped back and gave Locker room to work. He clicked through a series of prompts that caused more and more dots to appear on the monitor. It was like witnessing the birth of a galaxy, as thousands of stars coalesced into cloudlike masses that slowly defined two unmistakable shapes.

  “Jesus,” Mason whispered.

  He again looked at Locker, who was no longer smiling.

  9

  Locker’s mobile crime lab was an ambulance that had been painted black, gutted, and retrofitted to his precise specifications. While it might have been a Playskool version of his main lab, it featured a digital command center on one side and a scientific suite on the other. Two RV-style seats were bolted to the floor in the middle of the aisle. He and Mason each commandeered one and watched the twin LCD flat-screen monitors mounted to the wall. Six digital audio receivers, attuned to as many frequencies, were fitted into slots below them and above the corresponding two-way communication devices. Locker wore a wireless headset that allowed him to switch between the frequencies, connecting him to all of the various members of his on-site team with the tap of a button.

  “Can you get me any more light?” he asked. “I want a clear look at everything back there. We don’t want any surprises.”

  The image on the right monitor subtly brightened as the camera passed through the six-millimeter-wide hole they’d drilled into the base of the wall and emerged into darkness marred by motes of dust. The articulating video borescope’s depth of field was limited and the spherical shape of the lens caused a walleyed distortion that took some getting used to, but the resolution was phenomenal and it was able to capture still images even while it was transmitting in real time.

  A camera mounted to the lighting array behind and above Andrews transmitted to the left monitor. It offered a decent view over the advanced-level evidence specialist’s shoulder as he hand-fed the snake camera through the hole, using the six-inch LCD monitor attached to it to control its movements. Wilkinson flirted in and out of the right side of the picture, where he monitored the thermal-imaging camera and the spatial relationship between Andrews’s probe and the objects on the other side. Both of the evidence-collection specialists wore white TECP—totally encapsulating chemical protective—suits and CBR
N—chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear—hoods with face shields and respirators, both for their protection and to prevent the transfer of so much as a single fiber or strand of DNA that might contaminate the evidence.

  Three other teams were positioned at strategic locations around the site. The first was in the van parked beside the lab and served as operational support, while the second and third manned blockades at either end of the only road into or out of the property.

  “Advance the probe three inches higher and turn the camera slowly from zero to ninety degrees,” Locker said.

  The borescope moved in somewhat disorienting lurches. The view rotated toward the center of the enclosed space. A blurry line of light cut diagonally across the screen before resolving into what looked like a thin wire.

  “Spiderweb,” Locker said. “Anything on thermal imaging?”

  “Might as well be packed earth back there, for all I can see,” Wilkinson said. “The infrared sensors haven’t detected a single radiant heat source to suggest anything actively drawing power on the other side. Of course, it’s also a million degrees down here with all of these lights, so I question their sensitivity.”

  The probe resumed its advance and a dark shape appeared on the right monitor. It was purplish black and shriveled like a prune.

  “Continue upward. And turn maybe ten degrees counterclockwise.”

  Mason leaned closer to Locker and spoke into his microphone.

  “Can you widen the field of view?”

  The prune shape drew contrast as the camera neared. It was more black than purple and featured a whorl pattern he recognized even before the crescent of the toenail appeared, which confirmed that the vague shapes they’d seen on the through-wall camera were indeed the bodies of two distinct individuals, suspended above the ground, with their arms over their heads.

  “Lord have mercy,” Andrews said.

  “Can you move the camera farther away from the body so we can get more anatomy in the frame?” Locker asked. “That’s it. Keep going. Just try not to touch anything.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  The majority of the foot came into view. The skin was desiccated and clung to the bony framework like plastic wrap. It took all of about a second to figure out why.

  Spiderwebs stretched away from it in every direction. Long, taut strands, white with dust, sparkled in the light. There were no readily apparent patterns, just seemingly random crisscrossing webs that radiated outward from a dense funnel near the ankle, from which long, spindly legs slowly emerged. One at a time. Front appendages held high. A tiny head preceded a disproportionately large body that tapered to a point at the rear end.

  Mason’s flesh crawled.

  “Latrodectus hesperus,” Locker said. “The western black widow.”

  It dropped from the funnel, dangled in front of the lens, and spun to showcase the trademark red hourglass on its abdomen.

  “Jesus,” Andrews said. He scooted away from the wall on the left screen. The image on the right screen swung wildly. “Did you see that thing?”

  The camera struck the victim’s foot and went momentarily out of focus. The widow dropped from its web. Andrews gasped and swatted at his isolation suit.

  “Get it together in there,” Locker said. “Their fangs are barely long enough to penetrate the epidermis. They can not—I repeat, can not—bite you through your suits.”

  “Is that true?” Mason asked.

  Locker covered the microphone.

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  Andrews returned to his post, however hesitantly, and again crouched with his back to the camera. The borescope continued its ascent considerably faster than before. Not haphazardly so, but it was obvious that neither of the men wanted to be down there any longer than absolutely necessary.

  Mason didn’t blame them. He was aboveground and a hundred feet away, and still it felt like he had spiders all over him.

  The image on the screen rose up the length of the shin, extending to the knee. The patella tented the skin, which was so tight, it appeared mummified. The camera passed the thigh, the groin, the belly. Thick webs parted before it, momentarily blinding the lens. More spiders scurried away. Smaller. Brown, with white-striped abdomens. Juveniles. They dropped out of sight, crawled into fortresslike webs, and squirmed into lesions in the parchment flesh.

  Only occasionally was the second victim visible as an indistinct shape through the webbing, hanging to the right of the first.

  The camera continued its jerky ascent. Past the chest and shoulders. The victim’s arms were stretched straight up to the ceiling, pinning his head in place. The tendons of his neck stood out like cords beside the bulge of his trachea. There was nothing left of his lips. Something moved through the gap between his parted teeth. His nose had collapsed and there were webs in his nostrils. His eyelids were sunken into the sockets. What little was left of his hair looked like steel wool.

  “Stop right there,” Locker said. “Turn forty-five degrees to the right. Toward the rear wall.”

  “What did you see?” Mason asked, but the words had barely passed his lips when he saw it, too. “A video camera.”

  “Directed right at the victim’s face.”

  “Why would anyone want to watch these guys get bitten to death by spiders?”

  “The widows didn’t kill these men,” Locker said. “They’re solitary creatures by nature. My guess is either several egg sacs were already inside when the victims were entombed or this is the result of several hatches, although based on the fact that this species ordinarily lays its egg sacs in the summer and these bodies appear closer to six months old than eighteen, I’m leaning toward the former. This level of insect activity is fairly unprecedented, though. Spiders don’t generally consume human remains, so there’s no way to estimate how much they accelerated the rate of desiccation.”

  “Can you tell what did kill them?” Mason asked.

  “Any speculation at this point would be premature. I won’t even consider waging a guess until after we get the bodies out of there and— Hold on. Stop. Right there. Back up a hair. Angle the probe about fifteen degrees higher.”

  The camera followed the skeletal arms upward toward the shackled wrists. The chain between the cuffs had been run through an eye ring screwed into the ceiling.

  “Higher still,” Locker said. “And turn maybe ten degrees to the left.”

  The man’s hands came into focus. They’d curled in upon themselves like the feet of a dead bird.

  Locker turned from the monitor with an expression of triumph on his face. Mason leaned past him to get a better look. He could clearly see the right hand and, above it, a section of the concrete ceiling smeared with dried blood. The index finger was blurred by proximity to the lens, but the bone protruding from the lacerated fingertip and ruined fingernail was unmistakable.

  “He left us a message,” Locker said.

  The victim had scratched the ceiling until his finger bled and painted a series of eleven numbers, practically right on top of one another.

  16207524874.

  “Yeah,” Mason said. “But what does it mean?”

  10

  “It’s too long to be a phone number or a Social Security number,” Mason said.

  “Maybe a bank account,” Locker said. “A wireless routing number. An IP address. A code of some kind. It could mean absolutely anything. Or it could mean nothing. We’re talking about a man hung up by his wrists and sealed behind a wall with another man, who might not have been alive at the time. He had to understand on a primal level that he was about to die. For all we know, he could have just been writing random numbers to keep from giving in to panic, which would have caused him to deplete his finite amount of oxygen even faster.”

  “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

  “We have to consider every possibility. If we only look for what we expect to see, invariably we’ll find it.”

  The Hoyl had employed a s
pecific MO at each of the sites Mason had used to track him. He’d recruited test subjects desperate to cross the border, injected them with a cocktail of viruses and bacteria, and then hung them from hooks so he could study them as they decomposed. When he moved to a different location, he incinerated every trace that he’d been there, leaving behind so little physical evidence that no one would ever know the horrors that had transpired there. And while his victims had endured unimaginable suffering, he hadn’t exposed them to an unnecessary element of sadism. As vile as his actions had been, they’d been clinical in their execution.

  This crime scene didn’t fit his mold.

  These men had been cuffed and forced to watch helplessly as they were entombed behind a solid foot of concrete. An unconscionable amount of evil had been invested in their torture, much like the death traps he was now certain had been rigged by someone other than the Hoyl, a second monster, someone who either had no fear that his work would be discovered or simply didn’t care, but what were the odds of two unique mass murderers using the same base of operations? And what did the numbers mean?

  They needed to get behind that wall.

  The other victim drifted in and out of focus at the edge of the camera’s range. Another man. Same physical condition. No immediately identifiable characteristics.

  The probe advanced toward him—

  “Wait.” Locker leaned forward so quickly that he had to grab his headset to keep it from falling off. “Back up. Back up. Retract two inches and turn ten—no … fifteen degrees. There. Right there.” He sat back again. “Well, what do you know?”

  A white box protruded from the rear wall. It had a black half sphere on its face. A lens of some kind.

  “Can you get a little closer to it?” Mason asked.

  “Move in,” Locker said. “Carefully.”

  The borescope lurched closer and closer to the black dome. The thin cords extending from the housing were nearly concealed by spiderwebs. The one on the left was connected to the camera facing the first victim. Mason could only assume the one on the right similarly led to the camera focused on the second.