Hellhole

by Jonathan Maberry

  “A little over two miles, ma’am.”

  Rana walks as close to the ragged hole as she dares. It’s nearly ten feet wide at the surface, but narrows to thirty inches somewhere below her in the darkness, provided they’re right in their assumption that the passage remains open. She kicks a rock over the nothingness and watches it plummet out of sight. It clatters from the walls several times before passing beyond the range of hearing. She stares into the ground for several more seconds before returning to the others.

  “It just hit the ground,” Sydney says.

  “You’re certain?”

  The seismologist leans back and gestures toward her monitor, where the seismogram reveals a distinct, if small, uptick.

  “I’ll be right back,” Rana says.

  “Where are you going?” Tim asks.

  “Back to the van. Turns out we’re going to need that drone after all.”

  RANA WATCHES THE live feed from the drone as she pilots it downward into the earth. Its range is more than four miles, but it only operates for thirty minutes at a charge, which means she’s going to have to throw caution to the wind if she hopes to reach the bottom and have time to explore before starting the return trip to the surface. There are broken sections where the chute narrows to such an extent that she fears she’ll clip the rotors, and yet somehow she manages to guide it ever deeper.

  The light mounted to the bottom barely limns rounded concrete walls in varying stages of decay. Most segments are cracked and severely eroded, while others are absent and offer glimpses of the underlying strata. All things considered, the well has held up miraculously considering its age and the nature of the chemicals consuming it, like stomach acid eating its way up an esophagus. The fumes make the darkness appear to shimmer at the most distant reaches of the beam’s range.

  “How much farther?” she asks.

  “You’re passing negative eleven thousand feet now,” Tim says. “You’ll reach the end of the reinforced sleeves in about eighty vertical feet.”

  “Most of the concrete’s already gone. It’s amazing the entire well didn’t collapse years ago.”

  “The sound of the drone’s rotors is affecting the seismic readings,” Sydney says. “I’ve lost our anomaly. Wait...there it is again.”

  Rana watches the depths of the tunnel, where the downward-facing beam diffuses into the darkness. The residual concrete abruptly gives way to metamorphic rock so heavily eroded that there are shadows too deep for the light to penetrate.

  “The drone’s too loud,” Tim says. “I’m no longer picking up any readings in the infrasound range.”

  “There’s nothing natural about these vibrations,” Sydney says. “I can’t detect any rhythm or pattern. There has to be something down there causing them.”

  “You mean like an animal?”

  “Nothing could have survived falling two miles,” Rana says.

  “A burrowing animal could have tunneled—”

  “I hate to burst your bubble,” Stephens says, “but with the levels of contamination we’re detecting up here, I guarantee you there isn’t a living being on this planet that could survive down there for very long.”

  The walls fall away to either side, revealing a massive cavern so large that the drone’s light shines upon nothing beyond open air. The original engineers had expected the chemicals to disperse into the porous rock, not completely degrade its physical structure and carve right through it.

  “I’m telling you,” Sydney says, “there’s something down there.”

  The bottom comes into view. It’s pitted like the surface of the moon and riddled with deep fissures caused by the recent quakes. Crystalline formations unlike any Rana’s seen before sparkle from their depths, a consequence of the reaction between chemicals used to make weapons of mass destruction and deep strata that had never been exposed to their like before. The results were positively breathtaking.

  “They’re beautiful,” she whispers.

  The drone’s light abruptly swings, blurring the image of the cavern floor and projecting a shadow reminiscent of a grove of skeletal trees onto the wall. The light abruptly darkens and the drone becomes unresponsive.

  “What happened?” Tim asks.

  “I don’t know,” Rana says. “I must have hit something.”

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Neither did I, but I’ve totally lost communication with the drone.”

  “The vibrations are growing stronger by the second,” Sydney says. “And I’m detecting a pattern, almost like a drumroll.”

  “Someone fire up the ground-penetrating radar,” Rana says. “We need to make sure we didn’t compromise the structural integrity of the well. If what we’re picking up is the sound of falling rock, this whole area could be about to collapse.”

  “It’s not falling rock.” Sydney’s voice rises an octave and takes on a note of panic. “I’m telling you, there’s something down there.”

  She turns her monitor so Rana can see it and heads toward the mouth of the well.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Watch the seismogram and you’ll see the difference.”

  She crouches and shoves a large piece of concrete over the edge. It strikes the wall and rebounds into the chute.

  “Give it about forty seconds to hit the ground and—”

  The chunk of concrete fires upward from the hole and clatters onto the rubble.

  Sydney doesn’t even have time to turn around before the shadows scurrying from the earth swarm over her.

  1966

  Rocky Mountain Arsenal, Commerce City, Colorado

  “WHAT IN THE name of God happened here?” Randall asked. “I saw them with my own eyes. Hell, I even held one. There’s no doubt in my mind they were dead.”

  The rabbits had all moved to the front of their cages and pressed their foreheads against the mesh, their fur sticking out at odd angles. Fungal growths protruded from the bases of their skulls and the lengths of their spines. A fuzz of hyphae covered their eyes, completely obscuring their vision, and yet Randall could feel the weight of their stares upon him.

  “We theorize the fungi never actually killed the rabbits,” Thompson said, “but rather suppressed their vital functions to such an extent that they were able to override the immune response. They essentially created a state of deep hibernation, the physical characteristics of which match those of a moderate dose of deoxynivalenol.”

  “You’re suggesting they can produce the toxin at will.”

  “Fungi don’t have a ‘will’ any more than they have a brain to exert it, but it wouldn’t be untrue to imply that the two species—graministritici and unilateralis—have formed something of a mutualistic relationship by which the former produces the toxin in response to a threat to the latter, in this case the white blood cells of the host life form.”

  “Surely there’s a way to manipulate that to work in our favor.”

  “You mean as an incapacitant?”

  “We could win a war without excessive loss of life.”

  “Hoping for the fungi to pass from the locusts to the enemy is adding the very element of unpredictability we were seeking to avoid. Not to mention the fact that we know nothing about the physiological interactions of the fungal species inside the rabbit, let alone an infinitely more complex organism like man. This could be more than a mere fungal infection that their bodies can ultimately fight off; it could be actively killing them from the inside out. Or maybe any attempt to remove it will cause it to release a lethal dose of toxin.”

  Thompson plucked one of the growths from the head of the nearest rabbit, which thrashed and hurled itself repeatedly against the wire mesh until its white fur darkened with blood.

  “Their rate of growth is beyond anything we’ve ever seen,” he said, and turned it over and over in his gloved hand. “An hour ago those protuberances were barely longer than the fur. Now they’re close to three inches. Their life cycle hasn’t merely been accelerated; it’s
been altered beyond our ability to form a predictive model. If it continues to metabolize the blood—”

  “The rabbit will just make more.”

  “That’s not the point. Fungi don’t grow indefinitely. Like I said, their sole purpose is to reproduce. Once they do, the host no longer serves a purpose. Biologically speaking, it will have outlived its usefulness. Like the ant that bites onto the leaf, the fungus will eventually consume it.”

  “Which would effectively make it the most lethal weapon in our arsenal,” Randall said.

  “But one outside of our control. You’ve seen what happened to these two simple species of fungus during the act of transmission from the locusts to the rabbits. There’s no way to predict how they will respond to the human body. We have much more complicated immune and nervous systems, but we’re no less susceptible to the effects of deoxynivalenol. I find it hard to believe the fungi could exert any influence over our actions like they do insects, but in sufficient quantity they could produce deadly levels of toxins.”

  “Don’t you think that’s something we should look into?”

  “Human testing? That’s not a road I’m prepared to go down.”

  “What do you think it is we do here, Doctor? We’re don’t cure diseases. We dream up ways of killing as many people as possible and hope to God we don’t have to use them. But if—heaven forbid—we’re forced to do so, we need to know exactly what to expect, both for our men and our adversaries.”

  “You see this tiny bulb here?” Thompson said, and held up the fungus for Randall to see. “This fruiting body holds thousands of microscopic spores that it will disperse in an explosive cloud. If they’re able to enter the body through superficial capillaries protected by several layers of skin, they’ll make short work of the bronchi in our lungs and the mucous membranes in our noses and mouths. We can’t control their dispersion like we can chemical weapons. They don’t have half-lives like radiological weapons. They can remain dormant for years. They can cross special barriers. We could inadvertently eradicate all life forms on the planet.”

  The doctor was being melodramatic. Any one of the weapons at their disposal had the potential to wipe out all life on Earth. If they could eliminate the Communist threat without risking a single American life, then they at least needed to explore the possibility. Chances were this idea wouldn’t work, anyway. But if it did...

  Randall imagined an invisible cloud of spores settling over Moscow.

  “We need to try, Doctor.”

  “No,” Thompson said. “What we need to do is proceed with the utmost caution. We could very well have created the means of our own extinction.”

  THE SETTING SUN cast Randall’s shadow across the wavering grasses, through which a cool breeze rippled. It was strange not to see the massive derrick lording over the dark horizon, but, truth be told, he was happy to be rid of it. The earthquakes had been getting stronger with each passing year and it was only a matter of time before they ended up doing some serious damage. Granted, Denver wasn’t especially close to any major fault lines, but the fact that they’d been able to create seismic activity as though it were was more than a little troubling.

  He’d ultimately relented and taken the engineer’s concerns to his commanding officer, who’d seen the benefits of maintaining the integrity of the well, if not the means of actively forcing pressurized fluid into it. None of them wanted the public relations nightmare of having thousands of gallons of chemicals erupt from the earth or the entire base collapsing into a toxic pit. The resolution had been to strip everything aboveground, from the generators and electric control house to the manifold and mast, and leave only a simple surface casing and blowout preventer, through which they could bleed the pressure. Eventually, they’d have to make a more permanent decision, but for now it bought them time to determine the best course of action.

  Benjamin and his team were still out there, although they were about to lose the last of their light. Randall was just going to have to trust the Engineer Corps to work its magic because he already had more than he could handle on his own plate. With such a promising development in their biowarfare program, the brass cared about little else and expected another update once Thompson had a working theory regarding the fungal organism’s life cycle and the exact means by which it triggered what they were calling the “resurrection response,” a reaction they believed could be utilized on its own under the right circumstances to penetrate enemy lines inside corpses felled in battle.

  Randall should have been more excited, he knew. Such unprecedented success would lead to rapid promotion and commendations galore, but the doctor’s trepidation had become contagious. His gut was a seething ball of nerves that he couldn’t calm, no matter how hard he tried.

  He headed back inside. The fresh air hadn’t helped as much as he’d hoped it would. Thompson was still in his lab, trying to keep up with the rapidly proliferating fungi. The growths on the rabbits now looked more like the branches of trees than antlers and covered the entirety of their backs. The fruiting bodies were definitely more pronounced, too. If the chief scientist was right about their biological impetus, then it appeared as though it wouldn’t be long before they achieved it.

  Thompson glanced up from his microscope and their eyes met through the glass. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

  Randall pressed the button to activate the speaker so the scientist would be able to hear him.

  “How are you holding up in there, Doc?”

  Thompson shrugged as though the question were of no consequence.

  “The fungi appear to have been made for each other,” he said. “It’s almost as though they fit together like pieces of a puzzle. I’ve only just discovered that their spores adhere to form an aggregate. The graministritici are a fraction of the size of the unilateralis, and cluster around it in much the same way metal filings cling to a magnet. Their bond is easily enough broken by adding water but doing so produces a trace amount of an acid I have yet to qualify, one I speculate functions to wipe out white blood cells. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s almost as though they’re metamorphosing into a single organism before my very eyes.”

  “All the brass cares about is whether or not we can control it.”

  Randall couldn’t shake the feeling that the rabbits were watching him. They were still pressed against the wire walls of their cages, their fungal protrusions poking out like porcupine quills.

  “It’s too soon to tell,” Thompson said. “At this point I can’t even be sure what the final product of their union will be.”

  “I need to throw them a bone. Give me something to work with.”

  “Tell them—”

  The rabbits screamed in unison, a shrill sound that caused the speaker to crackle. Thompson whirled to face the cages. The fruiting bodies exploded as one, releasing a mist of spores that expanded outward like glittering drapes blowing on the wind. They washed over the chief scientist and accumulated against the inside of the window like a dusting of pollen.

  Randall cautiously approached and touched the glass. It was warm against his fingertips.

  “You okay in there?”

  The chief scientist turned around.

  Randall staggered backward at the sight of him.

  The lenses of Thompson’s mask had melted in amoeboid shapes and blood flowed freely from the skin around his eyes. He cried out and dropped to his knees.

  A sharp crack preceded the formation of fissures that spider-webbed through the window.

  Randall sprinted toward the emergency shutdown button. Slapped it. A klaxon blared. The overhead fixtures snapped off and the reserve lighting kicked on, casting a red glare over the entire facility. Airflow through the ductwork ceased. Electromagnetic doors closed and locked with thudding sounds he could hear echoing from the hallways as he donned his protective suit.

  A fine mist of spores shivered from the ceiling vents.

  He ducked under the chemical shower. Tugged the cord. Frig
id water rained down upon him, drenching him inside his suit. He pulled on his mask and watched helplessly as the spores settled to the ground.

  The window shattered and glass shards spread across the floor. The same combination of enzymes and mechanical force that had allowed the spores to penetrate the exoskeletons of the insects must have worked every bit as well on the glass and Thompson’s gas mask.

  There was no sign of movement through the empty frame. Only rows of dead rabbits that stared back at him through hollow, skeletal sockets.

  THE CHEMICAL SHOWER might have saved Randall’s life, but by the time he set off the fire alarm and triggered the building-wide sprinkler system, it was too late for the other scientists still in their labs. Spores had circulated through the air ducts and felled them in the midst of their work. Like Thompson, they demonstrated superficial lesions where the spores had worked through the skin and into the circulatory system. While he couldn’t detect any appreciable signs of life, he knew better than to take their deaths for granted. If they exhibited the same resurrection response as the rabbits and the fungi subsumed their physical forms, then he was dealing with more than mere infestation. As the chief scientist said, they were potentially dealing with the means of the extinction of their very species.

  He knew exactly what his commanding officer would say when he called in what had happened, which was why he wasn’t about to do so. At least not yet. This was far beyond their ability to contain, let alone control. If a handful of locusts was enough to begin a cycle deadly enough to kill everyone inside the building, then he could only imagine what could be accomplished with four human beings whose bodies were currently in the early stages of fungal subsummation.

  There was only one thing he could think to do, and it would likely derail his career. Maybe even more than that if anyone figured out he’d done so deliberately. As it was, he was taking a sizable risk removing the bodies from the facility, but he couldn’t allow the Army to get ahold of them.