The Sacrifice Area

by Peter Idone

  “There was this video monitor in the pump house. There was an image of a man talking. It was Siebert, or so Natalie thought.”

  “I know. While you were under, you told us all about it. I don’t know what you saw or heard down there. No one has been in that building for years. The pump house or the main house. Certain areas are…troubled, shall we say? The entire piece of real estate is eerily disturbed, as far as I can tell. Maybe it all has to do with some toxic residue left over from the Pine Haven Project. Who knows? But it’s over now. Kaput. The experiments, the accident, it’s all finished. The Air Force and the intelligence agencies involved have mined the place for all the data it was worth. Researchers, scientists, forensic technicians, all the spectrographs and monitoring equipment set up to study the place; it went on for over five years, and no one is any closer to an answer as to why the situation went critical and how seventeen people evaporated in a blast that should have left a crater the size of Diablo Canyon, but didn’t. It will have to remain a mystery for the likes of us, Joe. Now Pine Haven is officially a temporary repository for radioactive junk. Maybe forever. It’s a headache. I mean like a big railroad-spike-driven-into-the-back-of-the-skull kind of headache, because my job is to keep out the curious and assholes like you and the Schneider woman.”

  “You’re not the only one that’s got a headache over the place, Colonel Turner. It’s spilling over into Essex. The Tactical presence, no say about the burial site, or any clear information about the levels of radiation. How do you explain a phony hoof-and-mouth epidemic with no protocols in place or no knowledge of it by the Department of Health or Agriculture, but maybe some kind of cyst with a strange animal growing on the inside. And what about my dog being killed by some creature, possibly a genetic chimera or some cryptozoological entity? How do you explain her remains being stolen in the middle of the night out of a locked tool shed in my backyard? Other people have seen it as well. It’s been described as a dog-man or werewolf. You know what I’m talking about. The Tacticals mounted a search-and-sweep operation in Essex Station looking for it. The area was sewn up for hours. They’re not just your headaches, Turner.” Logan could only shake his head. It was useless trying to get a reasonable answer out of someone like the colonel and his ilk. They were some other species of human that operated with different principles, revolved in a completely different orbit. “And now I’m probably going to lose my house and go to jail. I have only myself to blame for the decisions I made. No one twisted my arm.”

  “Possibly, but in this situation there is plenty of blame to go around for everyone. I’m partly responsible for not keeping closer supervision on Glass. It was his idea from the beginning, and I gave the go-ahead.”

  Logan was confused. “What are you talking about? What idea?”

  “Attempting a controlled break-in of the exclusion zone to see how vulnerable the security systems are at present, while the technical difficulties are being overhauled. Let’s just say Glass knew we had him under some mild observation when we got to town and knew he was researching Pine Haven. He went to the estate and spoke with the on-site security supervisor, Ortmann. You know Ortmann. He zapped you with his directed energy baton. Never felt the likes of that, did you? Any-who, I was briefed on the concept and would consider it if presented with a detailed plan. Chris followed up, and it was approved not only by me, but my employers, as well, the directorship of Response Team Management and Control. It would be a good exercise for the staff. Of course we are always having drills, but this would be an outside, near-to-real, actual incursion by person or persons unknown. But as you so eloquently laid out in truth therapy, unbeknown to us, Glass had his own agenda. The Viv woman and the hard drive at the pump house. Also he, or rather Ms. Schneider, cultivated inside help. The free radical was Creech. Without him you would never have made it past the fence. From an intelligence standpoint, we should have been aware of Creech and his clandestine comings and goings. At least the depth and breadth of his wayward movements. He had been disciplined for leaving the site once without permission, that we knew of, but apparently a reprimand wasn’t enough. So, Joe, in a way thanks to you and Ms. Schneider, we have uncovered the holes in the perimeter surrounding the exclusion zone, like Swiss cheese, no thanks to Creech. He was responsible for creating some of those breaches.”

  “So then Glass wasn’t under surveillance like he claimed.”

  “Only enough that would warrant an occasional interest generated by someone whose curiosity involved the paranormal and ufology. He hadn’t committed any crimes or caused trouble; in fact he rarely, if ever, left the house. A paranoid intellect. Nonetheless, he does have some connections to people in the intelligence community. He was in Army intel when he was a lad. Ms. Schneider was kept under surveillance, but that was easy. She was fed scraps every time she went to bed with one of my men at the Hotel X. Once again an oversight on our part because we believed she was gathering information for a book or an article penned by her boss and not an attempt to gain entry into Pine Haven. I don’t know how good she is as a research assistant, but as a seductress she is outstanding. She managed to wring more information out of some of my guys than they were supposed to share.”

  “I guess your intelligence tentacles will have to extend further into the town of Essex and its surroundings.”

  “It already has. The question being, are the right people doing the job required?”

  This sinister remark could invoke paranoia by the truckload, but Logan wasn’t about to be manipulated and fall for it. “So, will you be letting me go in return for…?”

  “There are several serious strikes against you, Joe, that you will have to answer for. The severity could be lessened to quite tolerable limits. There is the issue of possessing an unlicensed and unregistered firearm, illegal discharge of said firearm, destruction of private property—Havoc was owned and operated by RTMC—not to mention breaking and entering into a secure government-licensed facility and corrupting the integrity of a contracted employee.”

  “That last one is because of Creech? I hadn’t even met the guy.”

  “But you knew of him and what he was about to do for Natalie Schneider. Creech has strayed way off the reservation, to our chagrin, and you had the opportunity to inform the authorities and tell them of what you heard. There might have been a reward in it. Besides, warrants are always filed with a plethora of felonies and misdemeanors. Let your lawyer throw out the ones unable to stand up in court. I’m not saying this will ever get to court, but you may be fined for killing Havoc.”

  “So you’re letting me go.”

  “For the moment, but with the proviso that any information on the whereabouts of Tom Creech comes your way, you inform my office. Natalie Schneider as well. I would like to debrief her at some length. Anything that might help will only be in your favor. Do I make myself clear, Joe?”

  “Ultra-clear, Colonel Turner. Creech is worth something. Another piece of expensive equipment, I reckon. Like Havoc.”

  “Expensive, yes, but Havoc was so more adept at carrying out commands.” Turner looked at his wristwatch. “Let’s get a move on. The van will take you back to Essex.”

  Washing down the last mouthful of the sandwich with the soda, Logan stood up. “What about the rest of my gear?”

  “We will be holding on to that for the time being. I don’t want you to have the ability to see in the dark. Expensive night-vision gear. Good stuff. Perhaps when you see Ms. Schneider, she can pick them up for herself, eventually, after we have our little talk.” Two armed Tacticals hovered outside the doorway of the break room and led Logan to a steeply angled metal stairway with tubular handrails. It appeared to end at a hatch-like opening in the ceiling eighteen feet up. Before he started to climb, Turner gave him a card with a phone number printed on it. There was no business name or logo, just an unadorned business card with the name J. Turner and a telephone number and an extension. “Don’t lose it. In case you hear something.”

  “If it
will keep me out of jail…” He started to climb the stairs. After reaching a quarter of the way, one Tactical in front and the other close behind, Turner called out his name. Logan stopped, as did his two sentinels, and turned around.

  “The bio techs were concerned if your dog had contracted a cyst. That’s why it was taken.”

  “And did it?”

  “It wasn’t considered essential that I be informed one way or the other. My own guess is that it was not.”

  “Monsters. Monsters growing inside cysts. That’s what Henry Bock told me.”

  “Yes, of course, the harmless wizened investigator from state Enviro, and the rest of the story embellished by Glass, most likely. I honestly don’t know what killed your dog, Logan, and I can’t say with any degree of accuracy that it won’t bother you or anyone else again. My advice is to keep clear and let the professionals handle it. Do yourself a favor and call that number when you have to. Understand?”

  Logan nodded. He understood only too well. At the top of the stairway, the lead Tactical opened the ceiling hatch and climbed out. Clumps of snow fell downward. Logan and the second Tactical followed. They stood within a low circular concrete structure like a bunker or pillbox. There were openings on all sides, and the low ceiling was thick, reinforced concrete. Logan had no idea what the structure could have been used for—a guard house or some protective covering for the ceiling escape hatch in the time of some emergency or other. All three filed out, and Logan saw he was near the base of the twin hyperboloid cooling towers. The reactor building was a massive dome sprouting from an equally large rectangular structure. Not a window, door, or any opening in sight. The size was monstrous, overwhelming, and gave every indication of how truly insignificant the individual was in the presence of such technology.

  A van was waiting for them. Its size and shape reminded Logan of the type that sat in his driveway when Tara’s remains went missing; there were three techs wearing the familiar rubber-like green overalls and hoods. How long ago had all that taken place? How long had he been kept under and subjected to truth therapy? It was dark out and the snow was falling. Half a foot had accumulated since he had last been outside. The main asphalt road that skirted the perimeter of the power-station complex showed patches of ice and imprints of heavy treaded tires. The penetrating glare of the security lights cast an amber pall over the mammoth gray buildings and the fallen snow.

  Urged into the side door of the van, Logan took a seat in the rear. The interior was roomy and seated all six men easily, including the two techs occupying the driver’s and front passenger’s seats. Behind where he sat, there was space for what appeared to be a small lab with counters, closets and cabinets, and compact electronic equipment that was fastened securely. No one uttered a word of small talk, and neither did Logan. The driver took off slowly, not going above fifteen miles an hour. The road, beginning to get frosted over by the falling snow, wove through Triumph power station property, six hundred acres’ worth, past piles of junked building materials, frameworks, large-diameter pipe sections, enormous valve junctions, and an assortment of hardware Logan would be hard-pressed to name. In the distance were piles of scrap metal that smoked, tongues of blue flame peeking from the jumble of blackened metal.

  Then something came into view, a sight that riveted his attention and sank its hooks deeply, profoundly, into his brain. As they drove past several small rectangular outbuildings, a concrete field, like an enormous parking lot, came into view. It was covered by capsule-shaped concrete casks, wide at the bottom, six feet in diameter, and rising to a height of twelve feet with a conical top. Numbers and letters in black and yellow adorned each cask, and a grilled metal vent, two feet square, was positioned on the upper half of each capsule. Evenly spaced in rows, the capsules could have numbered sixty to a hundred. Logan couldn’t estimate. The capsules, or casks as they were commonly referred to in the industry, still expelled heat. A tropical zone of nuclear waste, spent fuel rods idling away the centuries, expelling the heat from their now-corrupted fission. As the warmth rose, it formed a dense canopy of mist due to the radical change in temperature, a slowly undulating blanket of vapor. It did not snow on this manufactured plain of concrete sentinels; instead rain fell, the temperature so radically, unnaturally altered.

  The Tactical seated beside Logan pointed out the window. “Few civilians ever get to see that. Amazing, huh?”

  Most people wouldn’t want to, Logan thought, and if they did see it, wouldn’t know what to make of it.

  20

  It was getting light when the van pulled over to the side of the road. They had stopped at the farm where Logan had parked the truck. Obviously while he was under truth therapy, he had given Turner and the interrogation techs a very detailed account of his movements. He looked at his watch; the time still remained stuck at ten thirty-one. He had questions, but refused to voice them to the Tacticals in his company. What time was it, for instance, and had the anomalies at Pine Haven permanently fucked up his watch? What day was it? He felt as though he had been away for weeks, months, but figured he hadn’t been in Turner’s custody for more than a couple of days. He was allowed to get out of the vehicle, and nothing was said. The enormous van made an elaborate U-turn and drove away in the direction it had just come from, heading for the nearest entrance gate to the exclusion zone.

  The morning had all the signs that the sun would finally be visible after so many weeks of endless gray skies. A dark, purple-gray cloud bank could be seen in the east, but for the most part, the sky had a dark midnight-blue color that was rapidly beginning to lighten. The snow, about three inches thick, was mixed with the clumpy, fallow fields. Logan walked up the muddy road, which had hardened into ruts and kept the white crushed tire imprints in the snow.

  As he was closing in on the shed where he had left his truck, the farmer came out of the small house. A woman, obviously the man’s wife, waited at the front door, eyeing Logan guardedly. The man was in his late forties, medium height and build, but he looked solid, determined. Logan really hoped there wouldn’t be any trouble. He nodded his head at Logan, almost politely, but the small gesture seemed laden with concern. “The security forces were here the other day checking over your truck. They asked us all kinds of questions about Miss Schneider and you. You’re Joe, right?”

  “Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry for any trouble. This wasn’t my idea. About leaving my pickup here, I mean. This was all Natalie’s doing. I hope the Tacticals didn’t give you too much of a hard time.”

  “Living this close to Pine Haven has been difficult for years now. I can’t say I’ve gotten used to it.” He followed Logan into the shed. The keys were still hanging from the nail where Natalie had hung them the other night, which reminded him: “What is today?”

  “Sunday,” the farmer replied. “The Tacticals were out here yesterday afternoon asking a lot of questions. Mostly they wanted to know about Natalie and what she was up to and how many times she’d come around and what sort of information she was after.”

  “I hope you told them everything you knew.”

  “I didn’t know much, but I told them. They made threats. I believed them. I think they did something to your vehicle.”

  “Like what?”

  “I couldn’t see that well, as we were told to stay in the house, but they had the hood up. They were in it and under it.”

  Logan climbed in and with the door still open, turned over the engine. It still worked, but he had a pretty good idea what the guys from RTMC had done, even if the farmer didn’t. “I suppose you haven’t seen Natalie or talked to her.”

  The farmer shook his head. “Not a word. The Tacticals were asking about her and some other guy and they didn’t mean you. Are you a friend of Miss Schneider?”

  “Not really. I was helping her with the research she was doing on Pine Haven. There was a lot she didn’t confide in me, so I’m not a friend or a colleague. Whatever you do from here on in, just make sure you look out for your own interests. For
get Natalie. If the Tacticals come around asking about her again, tell them everything you know. Don’t hold back. It’s not worth it. You have your wife and property to think about. Nothing is worth getting into trouble if your livelihood is threatened.”

  “Me and the wife really don’t know much. We told Natalie about the pressure we are under from the government agencies and living on the border of the exclusion zone. Natalie said she might be able to help us.”

  “Well she can’t, and don’t put any stock in anything she has told you. The only person that can help you is you. Once again, I’m sorry for any trouble we caused you. Take care of yourself.” Logan closed the cab door, backed out of the shed, and maneuvered the pickup around. The farmer just stood there and looked after him numbly, hands in the pockets of his insulated overalls. As Logan turned onto Maplewood Road, he watched from the rearview mirror as the farmer returned to his meager house.

  He wanted to go home, take a long, hot shower, and sleep for as long as his body and mind needed, but there was one more stop he had to make first. He was going to see Glass. There were a lot of questions he had, and it was about time the author of this little fiasco pony up with some truth.

  21

  Upon arriving at the art-deco bunker, Logan was awake and barely clearheaded, if nothing else. He pressed the buzzer repeatedly until a fuzzy image congealed on the small monitor, which conjured a flashback of the pump house. “Open up, Glass, it’s me, Logan.”

  The heavy bronze door whooshed open so narrowly, Logan had to squeeze through. Barefoot, wearing the same tawdry paisley robe, Glass was bounding down the stairs as Logan stood in the foyer. He brandished the nine-millimeter Sig Sauer.

  “It’s only me, Glass, so put up the sidearm. It’s not necessary.”