X's for Eyes

by Laird Barron

  “There you are, lazybones,” Nestor said. The older man wore a wolverine fur hat, fur-lined aviator jacket, wool pants, a .45 revolver, a Bowie Knife, and mukluks. He tossed Mac a greasy parcel of butcher paper. “Figured you’d need a sandwich. That camp cook of yours, Elkhart—?”

  It took Mac a moment to collect his wits and put on a genial expression. “Eklund. Rockford Eklund. Everybody calls him Swedey. He comes from Anchorage.”

  “Whomever. He’s a dish. Although, I can’t vouch for his culinary skills. Needed a hacksaw to cut the Salisbury steak.”

  “Gee, thanks, Uncle. Don’t get your heart broken. The way he cooks, Swedey is probably a Zircon mole.”

  “Let me worry about my heart and various parts. By the way, I need to get your opinion on a small matter.” Nestor led him behind the generator shack. He lifted a frost-rimed burlap bag from atop a diesel drum. Frozen blood patched the fabric. “Three guesses what’s inside.”

  “A bowling ball or a severed head.” Mac opened the bag and confirmed the latter. The contorted, half-frozen face belonged to a stranger. Unremarkable, except upon pulling back the eyelids, he noted pupils and irises were discolored and deformed into star patterns. Certain birth defects and diseases acted upon the body similarly. He’d seen the same, if only for an instant, in Arthur Navarro’s eyes moments before his friend died.

  “Caught him slinking around your tent last night,” Nestor said.

  “He meant to tuck us in, I bet.” Mac chuckled nervously.

  “That would explain the jar of ether I found in his pocket.”

  “I don’t recognize him.”

  “Everybody is a stranger when you behead them.” He patted the engraved hilt of his knife. “Cadmus Lark. He belonged to the laborers faction. I checked with Kowalski.”

  “Doesn’t make sense. Dr. Slocum’s team used the Sword screening process. Awfully thorough. This man must have been deep cover . . . ”

  “You said a mouthful. Red spies. Zircon operatives. Damned cultists. It’s a plague.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind. Shall we get moving? Wouldn’t do for your baby brother to steal all the glory.”

  Nestor commandeered a snowmobile with a sidecar from Alpha Camp’s modest version of a motor pool. Uncle and nephew jumped onboard and went zinging across the glacier.

  STARRY-EYED WONDER

  Strings of halogen bulbs lighted the way into darkness.

  “This is a dangerous place for children,” Dr. Slocum said for the fourth or fifth time. He, Dr. Bravery, Nestor, Mr. Kowalski, and the Tooms brothers occupied the bench seats of a military sledge descending a smooth bore tunnel into the heart of the glacier. A winch and cable system prevented the sledge from taking off like a rocket; nonetheless, it zipped right along.

  “We’re precocious!” Dred waved his mittens in the air until Mac cuffed his ear.

  “Arms and legs inside the car, boys,” Nestor said. He mimed pulling his hand into his sleeve and nodded meaningfully toward an oblivious Dr. Slocum. “Whatever could be so dangerous here in God’s country, Doc?”

  “Besides bobsledding down a tunnel inside a nominally stable mass of ice?” Dr. Slocum said. “And that we’ve uncovered a relic, undoubtedly of alien origin, which, historically, only ever indicates hostile intentions toward humanity?”

  “Sure, besides that.”

  “Nothing. Safe as houses.”

  Dr. Bravery smiled over her shoulder. “Fret not. I’ll protect you.” Her hair was auburn, her eyes blue, and Mac thought he might be having a heart attack due to all the blood diverting to his erection.

  A squad of gray, dented Spetsnaz mercenaries (led by the scarred, yet debonair Captain Ustinov) stood guard at the terminus where the drill carriage parked. This killed Mac’s amorous mood in a hurry. Granddad Danzig adored Spetsnaz brutality and ruthlessness and hired them for special duties at every opportunity. The men hefted boar spears. No one carried a firearm this deep into the treacherous ice, except for Nestor, and he lived to defy common sense and authority. Amethyst clearance tended to inflate a man’s ego. Captain Ustinov winked at Dr. Bravery. The gesture put Mac in mind of a crocodile unshuttering the membrane over its eye to size up dinner.

  ”Truth of the matter, gentlemen, and lady, five days ago we accessed the natural cavern where our anomaly resides.” Dr. Slocum waited for a challenge or recrimination. None were forthcoming. He harrumphed and said, “Security precaution. Strange goings-on around camp lately. I needn’t explain the highly sensitive nature of this operation. Zircon or Vermeer, or any of those devils, would risk much to get their filthy claws on extraterrestrial technology.”

  “Nope,” Nestor said. “I think we’re on board.”

  Dr. Slocum proceeded through a narrow side passage into the aforementioned cavern and to the rim of an abyss. Cargo netting festooned the blue-green walls. More cold-burning lights dotted the netting. Icicle stalactites the circumference of trees descended from the cavern roof. Technicians bundled like Eskimos monitored a suite of laboratory equipment stationed in the lee of a canvas pavilion. The pavilion rested perilously near the ledge. Seventy or so feet farther on, a dark ziggurat rose from a cauldron of fog. An object made of dark metal, possibly a gyroscope, was mounted at the flattened pinnacle of the structure. Daredevil Telemachus Crabbe had strung a rope bridge across the chasm and affixed it to crenellations running along the penultimate tier. More silver-clad techs crept across the surface of the ziggurat itself, taking samples and measurements.

  Mr. Kowalski said, “Fifteen stories. Forged of a metal alloy of unknown origin. The base is embedded in a plinth of solid rock. There is an opening directly across from this spot on the north face. No personnel have breached the structure.” He inclined his head toward Nestor with vague deference. “We delayed in honor of your presence.”

  “I assume you’ve a timeline for the initial breach,” Nestor said. “The sooner the better from where I’m standing.”

  “The survey team will be assembled and dispatched tomorrow morning, pending your approval,” Dr. Slocum said.

  “I advise another sweep of the surface before ingress,” Mr. Kowalski said.

  “What is it that you do here, Mr. Kowalski?” Dr. Bravery regarded the ziggurat and toyed with her black and white checkered scarf.

  Mac, normally an astute observer of his surroundings, realized that over the past two weeks he hadn’t paid a lick of attention to Mr. Kowalski besides briefly acknowledging his existence. The man was about as exciting as tapioca—thin, slick hair, a round, inoffensive face, average build and weight. Middle management to the hilt.

  “Mr. Kowalski is a consultant,” Dr. Slocum said. “May I direct your attention to data we’ve acquired from our initial external mapping forays?”

  “Data-schmata. Is it active?” Dr. Bravery said.

  “Quite astute, Dr. Bravery. Readings suggest the device is dormant. You will note I refer to it as a device. Our spectrometers detected fluctuating background radiation. My best guess is we are looking at a machine and it houses a reactor core or its approximation.”

  “What sort of machine?” Nestor said. He sounded uninterested, which Mac knew meant the opposite.

  “I’d hazard it’s a weapon. Possibly also a communication array. Further analysis is required. The initial information argues heavily against this device’s existence. Carbon-dating the ice and the bedrock indicate it arrived or was constructed eons prior to the formation of this glacier. I’ll warrant that if it’s an alien artifact, it may be composed of material sufficiently durable to resist natural forces. The rock it’s embedded in should be abraded, perhaps scraped away entirely . . . ”

  “The ziggurat periodically emits a pulse,” Dr. Bravery said. “A force shield, or bubble. Thus the background radiation.”

  “Precisely,” Dr. Slocum said.

  “Hmm, perhaps a gander at this data of yours is in order,” Nestor said.

  As the adults clustered around the laboratory s
tation, Dred pulled Mac aside. “This is our chance.”

  “Our chance? Dred, why are you smiling?”

  “I’m not. This is my expression of fear.” Dred gripped his brother’s arm and met his gaze. He lowered his voice. “Slocum is wrong. It ain’t a radio tower, and it ain’t a weapon. It’s something else.”

  “Agreed. However, that may be a distinction lacking a difference. Did you dream of Arthur too?”

  “I also dreamed about Dad.” Dred nodded toward the ziggurat. “He says we gotta go in or we’re worm food.”

  “So does Arthur.”

  “It’s the only way to fix this mess.”

  “Which mess? Arthur’s dad exacting righteous vengeance upon us? The cultists after our blood? Corporate skinning us alive when they figure out what happened with Nancy? Or whatever horrible unforeseeable planet-destroying outcome will result from launching her in the first place?”

  “Take your pick. Our presence here isn’t happenstance. More like destiny. Mom would say the same.”

  Mac weighed the possibilities. “Can’t say I subscribe to destiny. Even so, neither can I deny a strong hunch that you’re right. Dr. Bole theorizes the Dreamtime program is a conduit. This . . . device may have tapped in somehow.”

  “Dreamtime empowers the subconscious. The subconscious is a doorway to the infinite.”

  The boys stood close together and smiled innocuous, lying smiles. The adults paid them not a shred of attention.

  “Tonight, then” Mac said.

  “Tonight,” Dred said. “I’ll rustle supplies. Beans, bullets, band aids.”

  “Booze, bullets, and band aids.”

  “By the way, and I’m just asking—but when we first came through the entrance, did ya happen to notice anything peculiar about the mercs?”

  “Hmm. The captain has a lazy eye?” Had Ustinov’s pupils been too large, the irises distorted when the man flirted with Dr. Bravery? It seemed eminently possible.

  “The entire squad does.”

  A dozen Russian commandos charged onto the landing and proceeded to gut the nearest technicians. Several soldiers advanced upon the lab station. The Tooms boys acted without conscious thought—they turned tail and raced across the wildly swaying rope bridge. Sifu Kung Fan had taught them, if feasible, to always run away when confronted with overwhelming force, especially if their retreat could be screened by disposable peons. Meanwhile, Nestor drew and fired and one of the Spetsnaz pitched over in his tracks. Captain Ustinov hurled his spear. The tip missed its mark by a hair, however the haft caught Nestor’s arm and knocked his pistol aside. Bullets zinged harmlessly.

  The advancing soldiers skewered Dr. Slocum and Mr. Kowalski. Dr. Bravery flung a portable lamp at the attackers. Nestor grabbed her around the waist and leaped backward over the edge. The pair plummeted into the mist. Dislodged by the gunplay, random ice stalactites sheared free of the cavern roof and exploded in the depths.

  Upon gaining the far side of the bridge, the boys hacked through the rope. Telemachus Crabbe evidently understood the dire nature of the situation; he’d skidded down the treacherous steps and gotten a head start with his own hatchet. Two Spetsnaz who’d made it halfway across in pursuit clung desperately as the bridge swung free and collided with the far ice wall. The soldiers tumbled to their deaths. The boys exulted in the fading shrieks with celebratory backslaps.

  The Spetsnaz dispatched the remaining technicians with the callous vigor of hunters butchering a passel of baby seals. Captain Ustinov approached the cliff-edge. His white anorak and pants dripped red. His men assembled and gazed wordlessly across the gulf. Some blew kisses.

  Behind the soldiers, a prone figure stirred. Mr. Kowalski gained his feet, swaying and bloodied. His winter clothes were tattered. Blood leaked from multiple slashes and punctures. The man saluted the boys. He gathered himself and kicked two commandos over the edge before the rest twigged to the threat. He scuttled backward at alternating angles to avoid the retaliatory spear thrusts of his foes, who had recovered from his assault with mechanical discipline. Mr. Kowalski’s grievous wounds had no apparent effect as he ran three full steps up the ice wall and somersaulted over the onrushing squad and landed near their left flank. A blade flashed in his hand and drove into the spine of the nearest Spetsnaz. The rest pounced and buried Mr. Kowalski under a threshing pile of stabbing arms and stomping jackboots.

  The boys didn’t linger to observe the gruesome outcome. They fled to the opposite side of the structure.

  THE GATE

  Telemachus Crabbe organized the ragtag group of laborers who were also trapped on the ziggurat. He said to Mac and Dred, “Those Red bastards can’t get to us for a while. What’s our plan?”

  Dred appreciated that Crabbe didn’t waste vital seconds demanding to know why the Russians had turned coat. First came escape and evasion; later, explanations, accusations, and payback. He pointed to the archway on the upper tier. “Mac and I are going to breach. Danged pyramid has to be chock full of alien artifacts. Nobel, here I come.”

  “There’ll be no prizes,” Mac said. “Think clearly. Think as a Tooms above the age of nine.”

  Stung, Dred crossed his arms. “Sheesh, why do ya have to crack smart?”

  “Granddad will drop a hundred million tons of ice onto this thing before he permits our rivals to learn of its existence, much less get their mitts on it.” Mac winced and brushed away blood trickling from his nostrils. He paled.

  “Oh, like that, eh?” Crabbe said. “Didn’t Slocum tell you? An energy curtain blocks the entrance. Repels everything—you won’t make it five feet. Doc Slocum planned to bring a sonic emitter and disperse the field.”

  “Slocum is history,” Mac said. “We don’t have the luxury of a sonic emitter, or dynamite—”

  “Say, ya don’t have any dynamite handy?” Dred interrupted.

  “Are you insane?” Crabbe gave him a look.

  Mac climbed the steps and stood before the metal arch. Its sole adornment was an indentation at the apex of the arc suggestive of an O-mouth. A veil of scintillating darkness barred the way. He chucked several shards of ice into the barrier and watched them shatter. “There must be a way to open . . . to open the way . . . ” He groaned and fell to his knees and clutched his skull.

  “Macbeth!” Dred knelt, unsure how to comfort his brother.

  “I remember, Dred. I remember what the man told me...He’s no man.”

  “The man? Talk sense!”

  “The man in the suit.” Mac’s gazed into the distance. He struggled to form each word. “Tom Mandibole flew to the Mountain Leopard Temple and whispered the Way into my ear.” His eyes focused again and he grated, “A dark seed has nested in my mind and now it blooms with terrible purpose.”

  Dred appealed to Crabbe. “Telly, my brother has cracked or he’s havin’ an aneurysm.”

  The tendons of Mac’s neck rippled. He shrugged off Dred’s hand and stood. Fear and pain were replaced by stony coldness. “Cover your ears. I will utter the profane syllables.”

  “Uh-oh,” Crabbe said.

  Dred obeyed an overwhelming compulsion to stick his fingers into his ears as Mac shouted a guttural oath at the arch. Crabbe did likewise. The workers weren’t quite as savvy. The poor sods went stiff, as if shot through the brain, then toppled one after another like a chain of dominos and slid down the icy slope of the ziggurat.

  “Poor devils,” Crabbe said with real lament.

  The barrier vanished. Faint yellow light flickered somewhere far ahead in the throat of the revealed stone passage. Mac gestured for the others to follow, which Dred did with great reluctance. He reflected that the second-born truly got a raw deal. He was doomed to traipse after Mac like a puppy. “Hypnosis,” he muttered to himself. Whomever this “man in the suit” had been, he’d implanted a suggestion in Mac’s subconscious with a specific trigger. This raised a number of unpleasant questions that would have to keep for the moment.

  “It won’t stay open long,” Mac calle
d over his shoulder as he staggered for the arch. At least color filled his cheeks again and his eyes were human, although a trifle crazed. Dred caught him and took some of his weight onto his own shoulder. “Jeezum crow, I’m not a wilting violet,” Mac said. He smiled, though. The brothers crossed over without hesitation. Dad often said, once committed, damn half measures and strike straight for the jugular.

  Crabbe hesitated at the threshold. “I’m not keen on this, fellows. When that curtain reactivates, we’re trapped. No food, no water . . . ”

  “Your choice, pal,” Dred said. “Welcome to the horns of a dilemma. Unknown dangers versus known devils. Who knows what awaits us inside? Ustinov’s pack will tear ya apart.”

  “Aye. The hell we waitin’ for?”

  The trio moved into the low-ceilinged passage that stretched before them, all gentle angles and worn surfaces scored by cuneiform characters. Yellow light seeped from everywhere, although it coalesced always before them, just beyond reach. Traces of sand gritted underfoot. The air tasted of a dead volcano. Shirtsleeve warm as well, and so the boys removed their outer garments.

  “There goes the seal.” Dred glanced back every few seconds and he saw the veil drop like the curtain at the AMC. Pure darkness penned the boys in.

  “The dimensions are wrong.” Dred traced a wall as he walked. The cuneiform seemed ominous in its repetition of monstrous figures and jagged symbols. “Should be stairs or a ramp down.”

  “You’re right,” Mac said.

  They reached an intersection. The north tunnel continued in an unbroken line while the others appeared to dead-end within a few yards. Several paces down the east and west passages lay articles of clothing that Mac and Dred recognized. The discarded items perfectly matched their own.

  “Those are my britches. My hat . . . ” Crabbe started to the left.

  Mac caught his arm. “Hold on a second. This has occurred before.” He muttered to himself, “Causality . . . Paradox?”

  “Fellas, we’re in Dutch.” Dred pointed back toward the distant entrance. The curtain silently advanced upon them like water filling a pipe.