The Sacrifice Area

by Peter Idone

  Logan followed, not sure if he was going to venture out with her or yank her back forcefully under some cover. Two unknown, unidentified dark figures traipsing across this open field was sure to attract attention. And very soon. “Natalie, get out of there!”

  “You can do as you like. I’m getting in closer.” She was already in the field, working her way to the nearest open trench to snap pictures of a yellow barrel with a radiation symbol plainly marked on its ribbed surface. What’s the point? he wondered. The woman’s reckless and fucking insane.

  Within the space of a few seconds, it didn’t really matter if Natalie Schneider was reckless or not. Something darted swiftly over the mounds of earth and headed straight for her. It wasn’t human, but four-legged with a large body. Its rate of speed was alarming. Natalie wasn’t even aware it was headed her way as she looked at the images she was taking on the camera screen.

  “Run, Natalie. Get out of there!”

  She looked up and saw it, turned and ran for the elusive safety of the forest. Dog, chimera, or entity, none of it mattered, because whatever it was it would shortly have her in its maw.

  “Over here, bitch,” Logan yelled, waving his arms wildly. He remained out in the open, unable to tell if Natalie had reached the tree line. The animal picked up on Logan’s voice and movement, altered its direction and headed straight for him. He took hold of his gun.

  A klaxon wailed and a searchlight was ignited from somewhere near or on the gantry as a powerful beam swept over the landscape, the crystalline snow reflecting the sharp cold arc of light. Still a hulking dark form, the dog was approaching nearer. Logan could see it clearly now, its fur standing on end from excitement and the anticipation of a kill. Some type of harness was strapped around its neck and back. This was the payoff, he thought. This made it all worth coming to this godforsaken, polluted hole in the ground.

  He knelt down and aimed carefully, deliberately. This was payback for Tara. Seemingly aware of this gesture, the stance Logan now assumed and what it signified, the dog cut sharply to its left and darted to the side, making for the cover of one of the mounds of earth. As it leapt over an open trench, its flank plainly exposed, Logan fired. The thirty-eight round knocked the animal off its paws and spun it around as a length of gut came spiraling out of the fist-sized hole like a jack-in-the-box. It landed and slid across the wet earth. The thing lay motionless, a dark heap in the blood-streaked snow without a yelp or whimper.

  It was over for the dog and for Logan, as well. Headlights from two vehicles were approaching fast, skirting the trenches and mounds, but definitely in his direction. A loud speaker squawked out commands. There was no use in running. One of the vehicles was open-topped, and he could see a Tactical standing behind the trigger of a heavy automatic weapon. Logan dropped the Ruger and placed his hands on his head. He felt good. He got the thing, the genetic construct of part canine and human material. He didn’t think about what would happen next, only that he wished he could gloat over the dead carcass for a while longer.

  He quickly found out how he was not going to be obliged this indulgence. The spotlights adorning the roll bar of the open-topped vehicle bore into his retinas. Tacticals clamored out of the vehicles, accompanied by the unmistakable clicks of weapon safeties being switched off. He was bellowed at to drop to his knees and keep his hands on his head. He dutifully complied. He wasn’t about to give these guys a reason to score a goal at his expense. A Tactical, a meaty, sizable man swathed in the typical leather coat and a fur hat, walked over to the dead animal and stood for a moment, contemplating its significance. He then turned his attention to Logan and approached him. He held something in his hand, long and cylindrical, like a baton or nightstick. At any moment now, Logan expected the Tactical to take a swing at him. He stood there and looked at his prisoner.

  “You just destroyed an expensive piece of equipment, not to mention a valuable member of our security team,” the Tactical said. “His name was Havoc. He was a good dog.”

  “I didn’t think he’d make the time to see what a dog lover I am.”

  “Havoc wouldn’t care, because you have no right to be here.” Without another word the Tactical raised the object in his hand and pointed. A narrow, rippling beam of white light projected from its end struck Logan in the torso. It felt cold, a deep, marrow-hurting cold. Losing all motor control, Logan keeled over. The last thing he could remember was the sensation of wet snow on his palms and face and wondering what sort of weapon he’d been struck by.

  19

  An incredibly long corridor. Logan could not fathom that a corridor of this length could exist outside of a dream, so he tried to convince himself he was still dreaming. Either dreaming or drugged. He had a feeling drugs were involved. It was a utility corridor. Am I still in the pump house? No, that wasn’t possible. The details were sketchy but he remembered being taken away. Pipes of varying diameters ran along the side of the cinderblock wall to his left. Some of the pipes were smooth-textured and others ribbed. More piping or ductwork ran along the ceiling. Except for the yellow-and-black striped pattern on the steel doorway at the far end of the corridor, indicating the limits of the bulk head, and the brown-gray concrete floor, everything was painted the same color. Walls, ducts, piping were all a dingy white, like the color of bed sheets that hadn’t been laundered for an awfully long time. There was something unsavory about the color and some of the stains on the surfaces that almost caused him to become sick, so he closed his eyes.

  He remembered traveling, not for very long, but he sensed it was far. Maybe a helicopter was involved. Masked men with goggles and weapons, like a SWAT team. Tacticals. He was dumped on a hard surface, the siding covered with some dark, quilted material that reminded him of the kind of blankets used when moving furniture. Moving blankets? Is that what they’re called? The interior was bathed in red and amber light. He remembered asking where they were taking him, and someone said he was going to have his tonsils removed and there was laughter. Then he remembered straps being cinched to his wrists and ankles. His head was restrained by a device with wires trailing everywhere, and lenses were pulled in front of his eyes. Images or configurations of intense coloration and patterned complexity shifted focus and depth of field. His blood pressure was taken repeatedly, and there were definitely needles. He must have been jabbed at least half a dozen times. He remembered being bombarded with rays or beams of light. Lasers colored ruby and emerald. The deepest portion of his brain had felt numb with cold. What was that called again? The hippocampus? A campus of hippos…lame, but the thought amused him. He was asked any number of banal questions by a disembodied voice that seemed to go on for an eternity, and he answered them all. There were many questions he knew he should not have answered, but he did so, effortlessly, despite his underlying desire to remain reticent. What did it all mean?

  He became more focused, attempting to process as much information as possible about his immediate condition. He was still confined by a wide strap fitted snugly around his waist. He lay on a gurney that was raised almost completely upright, yet his feet rested on a metal foot plate. Arms, hands, and legs were not bound. He could unbuckle the cinch at his waist if he wanted to, but so far he hadn’t worked up the motivation to do so. He still wore his long johns, and a digital blood-pressure monitor was affixed to his left wrist. He heard movement, subtle shifting behind him. He was not alone, but he could not turn his head far enough to see; the surface of the gurney got in the way of his peripheral vision. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to know who was in the room with him and what they wanted. Maybe I shouldn’t be awake, he thought and decided not to say anything. Someone walked very close to the edge of the gurney. He couldn’t see a face but could make out a blue-and-red plaid shirt. He might have been wearing a white lab coat that was unbuttoned.

  “How are you feeling?” a man’s voice asked. He sounded young, assured, promising.

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re safe. Do you feel any discomfort at
all?”

  “A little warm. And hungry. What is this place?”

  “It’s like a sick bay. It won’t be long now.”

  “What have you done to me?”

  “You’re fine. In a little while, you can get dressed, and someone will take you home. Just remain patient and rest for the time being. You’re perfectly fine. Really.”

  Logan knew he wasn’t about to get any more information out of this individual, who preferred to remain anonymous. The steel door at the end of the corridor opened, and a tall, thin figure stepped in. He wore a bright-white shirt, open at the neck, and black trousers. He approached the gurney and stood regarding Logan up close. At first glance the man appeared young, but he was definitely in his late forties or early fifties. The smooth face could be described as boyish, but the skin was lined, sallow, and set in a hard expression. The nose was small but all nostrils: enormous dark orifices the size of nickels. The dark-red hair had been cropped very short but was full and dense, as though it were a skullcap made of velour. Logan had the impression this guy could definitely pass for some kind of alien trying to disguise himself as human and doing a terrible job at it. He carried a large sidearm, the pistol grip protruding from a holster clipped to the waistband. As the man leaned in to get a closer look at Logan, the weapon creaked and stirred, like some unruly appendage. “Is everything turned off, Frank?”

  “Yes, Colonel. I think we have everything we need.”

  “You only get everything if the right questions are asked. Give me a few minutes alone, will you, Frank?” said the man with the white shirt and big gun.

  “Sure thing. I’m about due for a break.”

  “Yes. You do that. Have yourself a break. And when you’re finished, have the yonder crew pull the van around topside, will you?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Logan could hear the one called Frank, obviously the man who appeared when he’d become cognizant, leave by some other exit at the rear. The man who looked like a poor imitation of a man stepped away from the gurney and then returned holding a file stuffed with papers and documents. He started to read, “Joseph Logan…seventy-nine Hamilton Road, Essex Station. You managed to penetrate a secure area, an allegedly secure area, I should add, in the company of one Natalie Schneider. It was a Chris Glass production all the way. Only he had his own agenda. I should have known he would pull a stunt like this. For all the good it’s done any of us. What did you, personally, hope to achieve, Joe, other than destroy a very valuable, expensively trained member of my security team. Havoc was brilliant, as far as Rottweilers go. Although he had been modified.”

  “I thought it was the thing that killed my dog.”

  “Apparently. I read your file. Your revenge play doesn’t interest me.”

  “It would have mauled Natalie, maybe even killed her and me if I hadn’t shot it.”

  “That would have been too bad for the two of you, but I really don’t sympathize. You managed to penetrate over three kilometers into a guarded exclusion zone, but you wouldn’t have gotten three yards past the wire if you hadn’t had inside help. What concerns me is the whereabouts of Tom Creech.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And Natalie Schneider? Any ideas?”

  “Back at Chris Glass’s house, I reckon.”

  “We’ve been to see Glass, and he’s distraught over her absence. Didn’t seem too worried about you, though. He said the Schneider woman brought you into the mix.”

  “I know who you are. You’re Turner. The colonel. Glass warned me about you.”

  Turner scoffed. “Glass warned you about me?” he asked with feigned surprise. “Too bad you weren’t warned about Glass.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Logan asked, but Turner ignored the question. “What do you plan to do with me?”

  “We’ve already done it to you, Joe.”

  “Am I under arrest? Will I be sent to a detention center? Lose my house?” The ramifications were beginning to sink in. The terrible dilemma he had gotten himself into was making him sick with fear. Turner sensed this and appeared to be enjoying it.

  “You’re a security threat. You and your associate, Ms. Schneider, managed to penetrate a highly sensitive area with the help of a technician in the employ of Response Team Management and Control. That much has been revealed. You managed to get pretty far and probably would have gotten away with it if it hadn’t been for that UFO the patrol had encountered.”

  “The green light? That was a UFO?”

  “Yes, the green light. It put everybody on edge, and your plan deteriorated. Things like that can happen over there. Strange goings-on. Anomalies to be sure. I will say this, though. Your little exercise roused us out of a complacency I didn’t know we were indulging in.”

  Logan was surprised at the colonel’s admission. Maybe fatigue and the stress of the situation contributed to the former Air Force officer’s loquaciousness.

  “What do you intend to do with Glass? Is he under arrest?”

  “That’s none of your concern. I don’t have to discuss the conduct of my investigation with someone as worthless and inconsequential as you. Concern yourself only with your situation, Joe, and nobody else. Your movements will be monitored. How we proceed from this moment forward depends entirely on you.”

  Logan yearned for some sort of assurance. “If I’m arrested, I’ll lose my house for certain.”

  “That’s a real possibility, so keep it uppermost in your mind. What happens to you depends on what value you are to me and the organization I represent. For the present, you are of very little value.”

  “I think I get the picture. As for Creech, he’s probably with Natalie. Find her and you’ll probably find him.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “He seemed awfully sweet on her.”

  Turner rolled his gray eyes. “You mean romantically?” The pitch of his voice revealed incredulity.

  “Either that or sexual. I got the distinct impression he didn’t want me around. Natalie hadn’t told him I was coming along until I showed up. He almost called it off. I think both Natalie and Glass didn’t feel completely trusting of what Creech’s intentions might be. Probably Natalie more so. She took me along as backup. I don’t know.”

  “Unbelievable. Creech in love. You know she had been sleeping around with members of my team over at that shabby little nightclub? In an attempt to get information about Pine Haven. The woman is craven. Berserk.”

  “I’ve told you everything, haven’t I? What did you do to me? Some kind of new interrogation tequila? I mean technique. How come I’m so willing to open up when normally I wouldn’t give a guy like you the time of day?”

  “It’s called truth therapy, Joe. It’s an experimental form of deep interrogation without the mess. A combination of the wonders of pharmaceuticals, fMRI, and directed energy wave patterns to the brain. Not tequila, I can assure you. No one can lie or hold back anymore, except maybe some sociopaths and halfwits. You should be happy you fall into that broad spectrum that constitutes normal. I myself prefer the old methods of truth therapy.”

  “Which is?”

  “Fists and spit, Joe. Fists and spit. I’ll let you get dressed, and then you can have a bite to eat. Some of the boys are headed over to the Pine Haven facility and will drop you off.”

  “Where am I now?”

  “Triumph nuclear power station. We’re somewhere in the bowels of Reactor One. Don’t worry, it’s safe. My main headquarters are here on-site. I’m surprised Glass hadn’t mentioned it. But then Glass didn’t relay much of anything to you, did he?”

  Logan unbuckled the strap that held him to the gurney as Turner watched and made sure he didn’t fall. His legs were a little weak. He now was able to look around the room, but it did not contain much: a table with several computers and display screens, a couple of faux leather upholstered office chairs, and some type of medical console. His clothing and footwear were stored in a narrow compartment that Turner opened. Logan
dressed and then followed him deeper into the back of the room, down a short hallway, and into a small break room containing another long, Formica-topped table and dingy, molded-plastic chairs. There were several vending machines, which Turner swiped a card through and pressed several buttons. He placed a tightly wrapped sandwich and a can of soda on the table. “Sit down, Joe, and eat. You may experience a little instability for a while. Maybe a headache, but it will pass. Something to anchor your stomach will help.”

  Joe sat down and removed the wrapping from the sandwich. It was cold, the bread white, and the filling a sweetened mash of either tuna or chicken. He hadn’t realized how ravenous he was until he began eating. The soda foamed down his dry throat. Turner stood at the end of the table, a foot resting on the seat of a chair. He seemed to take an almost blank interest in him, as if he were some harmless animal, like a squirrel, going about its normal business. After several bites, Logan said, “What really happened at Pine Haven? I mean, what caused the accident?”

  “That’s classified,” Turner said, exhaling wearily. “I was briefed, although only partially. Only enough so that I could do my job and deploy the right people. What little they told me makes it difficult to sleep at night. When the property was turned over to Response Team Management, some strange things started to occur. It got even stranger when the acreage was being processed as a burial site and the trucks started to roll in. Six months ago the phenomena was really bad, but it has since tapered off. What occurred the other night was like the bad old days, only then it was all the time during daylight and at night. My staff and I had to know what we were up against. Hell, I don’t want to know the whole story, and neither does Glass. He can play the role of valiant paranormal investigator and Internet journalist with all his connections and sources in politics, the military, and the intelligence community. Whatever spheres of influence he’s managed to garner. If he ever got hold of the real truth, he would collapse. The walls of his psyche would crumble, if they hadn’t already, as they would for most of the population at large.”