by Eric Burney
“So, if we work together, I think we can both get what we want.”
“I’m going to need my gun back first,” Agent Simmons said, mildly embarrassed to even say the words.
“But you already have your gun, Agent Frank Simmons,” Standeval said with a wry smirk.
Agent Simmons looked down and noticed his gun was back in its holster.
“Let’s make a deal: you promise never to do that again, and I’ll promise not to beat you senseless with my firearm, flashlight, or whatever I can get my hands on at the time. Fair enough?”
“Works for me. Care to shake on it?”
“No need.”
“OK, so what’s our plan?”
Agent Simmons had already been contemplating how he’d be able to delay turning in his credentials to snoop around the heavily guarded ship and see what he could find. There was one possibility that had just presented itself.
“You might not like it.”
“Try me. Shoot.”
“You’re going to have to be my prisoner.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Standeval wasn’t exactly open to that plan.
“It’s the only way to get you in without arousing too much suspicion. I have to get the guards to believe everything is perfectly normal. My credentials have been revoked. I can only get us through Level 1, and even that’s a gamble.”
Standeval rubbed his chin, considering the risk.
“Hmmm. And what we seek is on Level 3.”
“Yes.”
“Then we will get to Level 3. Leave that part to me.”
Agent Simmons wasn’t exactly keen on the plan, but it was the only play they had.
“Let’s go,” he said finally. “I hope you have more tricks up your sleeve because we’re going to need them.”
Chapter 46
Cain stared out the window into the darkness below. Not at anything in particular, just the unknown nothingness of the dark. The black shadows and the secrets they held were calming to him. This was his home and his life now. Not the meaningless existence of before. Back then, he was nothing—a nobody. But that was all a thing of the past.
A windmill turned slowly in the distance. He knew this because he could hear the creaking and groaning of the huge blades as they moved in an endless circular rotation.
A heavy hand pounded against the door to his chambers and he turned toward the ruckus, annoyed. Taking time to drape a thick robe over his bare shoulders, he walked to the door. Cain opened it to see Thomas, a new recruit barely over eighteen standing there, all nerves from the look of him. He was part of a wave of new blood; recruits who hadn't been exposed. But that would all change soon. If things went according to plan, every human on Earth would evolve into something much greater. Man in his current manifestation would become a thing of the past. Faster, stronger, smarter...in every way better than the pathetic excuse that walked the Earth at the moment.
“What is it?” he asked the youth who stood in front of him, obviously intimidated by the imposing leader. He talked fast and refused to look Cain in the eye.
“I—I was asked to summon you to the lab, sir.”
“For what?” Cain was annoyed. He’d given specific instructions not to be interrupted for anything less than an emergency. The sky had better be falling.
“I don’t know the specifics, sir. The Chemist urged me to summon you right away.”
That would certainly qualify. The task The Chemist was working on held the key to everything.
“I’ll be there in a moment.”
Cain moved to the bed and grabbed a shirt from the footboard, pulling the cotton tee over his head. As he left his quarters and walked through the dimly lit corridors, he could hear the swell of raucous laughter and conversation coming from the assembly room. The men enjoyed themselves, engaging in drink and food provided by some of their more prominent brethren. That was good; Cain wanted them in good spirits for the mission ahead.
The hulking Lucian met him in the corridor leading to the lab and fell in step beside him. Cain could think of no one better to watch his back than the menacing brute. He’d proven his worth many times over.
They arrived at the lab and Lucian opened the large grey metal doors for his leader, stepping aside to let him enter. The Chemist was busy fussing about at his workbench, measuring liquids and stirring the mixture into beakers like a crazed man. What little hair remained on his otherwise bald pate was totally unkempt. He looked as though he’d jammed a finger into a light socket. Cain wondered if the man might blow them all to smithereens before long.
He was once a promising lab student for a renowned biochemist before being expelled for testing an experimental drug on a fellow student without his knowledge. After suffering grotesque mutations, the student eventually died from renal failure and other complications. The Chemist, or Daniel Lee Banter as he was more commonly known, stood trial for murder, but disappeared before the verdict. His own exposure to the original Orion Device enhanced his already brilliant scientific mind, but it had also caused him to become highly unstable at times.
“What was so important that you needed to interrupt my personal time?” Cain asked, showing very little patience.
“I can’t reproduce the combustible effect needed to maximize the release of the device.” The Chemist sounded exasperated and beyond wits’ end.
“Calm down and explain it to me in normal people terms, please.”
Cain knew next to nothing about science and even less about its application.
“I am unable to recreate the anomaly without a knowledgeable source to confer with.”
“So what does that mean?” Cain asked, his voice bellowing with animalistic rage. “You assured me you could do this. I have gotten all the resources you requested.”
His eyes began to burn bright green. So bright, it was difficult for the Chemist to gaze upon him.
“I have done what you asked of me and returned the device to operational. But what I need is someone versed in the inner workings of the device. Without that, dispersion will be no greater than the tri-city area.”
“What about the new recruits who came over to us from the Chirac?” Lucian asked with his normal quality of gruffness that caused most to tremble before him.
“I have already questioned each of them in depth, but to no avail. None of them possess the expertise I require.”
Cain slowly paced the room, thinking to himself. Then he came up with the solution.
“If we can’t get the device to work properly, then we find someone who can. And what better place to start than its own creator? Lucian, prepare the boys for a little road trip. I’ll get the information we need from the Vice President.”
Lucian smiled and nodded before leaving. There was still work to be done before Evolution’s dream could become a reality.
Chapter 47
The sound of the heavy deadbolt scraping against the rusted metal frame filled the tiny, dank room where Vice President Palmer was being held and startled him awake. The room was hot and humid, making the filthy business suit he wore cling to his body like a bloodthirsty leech. His present circumstances reminded him of Hoa Lo, or Camp Hilton as the men had come to call it, the Vietnamese prison camp where he was held for six years. His captors were gracious with offering plenty food and water, though he’d accepted none.
Cain entered and stood in front of him.
“You have information I need.”
Vice President Palmer looked up with staunch eyes and his trademark stern disposition, unwilling to give his captor any power over him. He was steadfast in his conviction. He had to be. Who knew what these madmen were capable of? The secrets locked away in his brain needed to be protected. The government couldn’t afford to let what he knew be exploited by a foreign power, otherworldly or not. That’s why he knew he had to stay the course. To falter now was not an option.
Vice President Palmer didn’t answer. He gathered what little strength remained in defiance.
Stinging sweat ran into his eyes and blurred his vision.
Cain leaned in closer until he was mere inches away.
“Tell me where the one known as Viktor is being held and I will make sure you live to see your family when this is all over.”
Again, the Vice President said nothing, a true patriot in every sense of the word. The ropes that burned into his wrists served as a painful reminder of how far his career and life itself had come—full circle, it seemed.
Cain leered over the old man triumphantly, as though he somehow knew Vice President Palmer would never accept his offer.
“Fine,” he said in an ominous tone. “It’s more fun this way.”
His eyes narrowed as their essence grew brighter and brighter.
“No…”
Vice-President Palmer groaned and tried to resist, but it was futile. He shook his head violently from side to side, slowly losing control as he could feel his thoughts and memories being ripped from him.
“No... NO... NO!”
Chapter 48
“We’re almost there,” Agent Simmons said quietly. Standeval glanced past him one hundred yards to where the USS Alamo, the massive decommissioned naval ship was docked at the marina. From where they were hidden, he could make out at least ten armed guards routinely patrolling the ship’s deck. Three more equipped with sniper rifles maintained an overwatch position. More were sure to be on hand throughout the ship.
The lights were turned to face outward instead of illuminating the deck. This was strategically done to highlight avenues of approach. The fleet of Apache gunships was on standby near the aft of the USS Alamo.
Two rusted cargo vessels flanked the Alamo on either side, but were gutted long ago of anything of value.
“This is a pretty impressive setup,” Standeval marveled. “Are you certain this plan of yours is going to work?”
“It’ll work.”
It has to, Agent Simmons thought to himself.
“I’m going to have to handcuff you now.”
He produced a pair of cuffs from his belt. Standeval didn’t argue, placing his arms behind his back.
“I’m going to need to take this, too.”
Agent Simmons removed the cane from Standeval’s hand after placing the cuffs on him. He almost had to pry it loose and noticed how attached his new ally was to the walking stick. The cane seemed ordinary enough, aside from the odd markings on the side and the crystal ball on the tip that looked particularly expensive. Actually, Agent Simmons had never seen a stone with such quality before.
“You take good care of that, mate,” Standeval said, eyeing the cane in Agent Simmons’ possession, as if it were the most important thing to him. “I’m going to need that back once we get inside.”
“I’ll take care of it; don’t worry. Now you need to be quiet.”
Agent Simmons peered through the tightly-grown shrubbery near the path to the ship and cast an upward glance to the night sky, wondering if they had already been made. A Reaper drone would be ideal for overhead surveillance at a place as valuable as this particular black site. It was now or never.
Agent Simmons stepped out onto the path with Standeval in tow and headed for the Alamo. Other than the damp sand that crunched under their feet, the area was a ghost town.
“HALT! THIS IS A GOVERNMENT RESTRICTED AREA!”
A four-man fire team cutoff their approach to the naval ship and surrounded them. Their uniforms and tactical gear were olive drab, and so were the assault rifle casings, making them nearly undetectable.
“Please provide identification immediately, or you will be forcibly removed from the premises.”
“Special Agent Frank Simmons, SAIC, FBI field office, New York. I’m here on special order Eight-Two-Six-Kilo-Three-Seven-Five. Acting SAIC by order of the SECDEF.”
Agent Simmons passed the fire team leader his credentials and badge while Standeval surveyed the situation. Each of the men seemed to have hair triggers, quite possibly kill on sight orders for any trespassers at their own discretion. Luckily, they hadn’t taken that option. The eyes behind their camo paint were soulless. These men were trained killers for sure.
The fire team leader studied the badge and input the order number into the digital pad strapped to his wrist. Automated beeps sounded every few seconds, which felt like an eternity to Agent Simmons. The fire team leader glanced from the pad and back to him periodically while he waited. It was like being in the electric chair and waiting for the phone to ring—a stay of execution that was about as probable as finding a mermaid in the frigid water around them.
“You’re all clear, sir.”
Agent Simmons retrieved his badge from the fire team leader and proceeded onto the ramp of the USS Alamo.
“Well, that was exhilarating,” Standeval said with his usual air of indifference as they walked up the ramp and onto the flight deck.
“Quiet,” Agent Simmons warned, whispering over Standeval’s shoulder. “We’re not out of the woods yet.” He was actually surprised the ruse even worked. Had it not, they would’ve most likely bled out in the sand on the beach.
A guard on patrol approached and stared hard at them but kept moving past. Agent Simmons escorted Standeval to the main entrance to the facility, an ultra-secure triple-reinforced steel door, complete with both an alphanumeric touch screen and biometric retinal scanner. A camera mounted above the door repositioned and zoomed in on them.
Agent Simmons looked up into the camera before turning his attention back to the touch screen. He punched in the access code and watched the screen decipher the data. Then he placed his left eye to the retinal scanner until he heard an audible tone.
A loud hiss of air released, like a locomotive letting off steam, and the heavy steel door slowly opened.
“Let’s go,” Agent Simmons ordered and nudged Standeval sharply, forcing him into the entryway. Standeval was surprised initially as they entered the interior of the warship until he noticed a guard seated at the desk a few feet away. He was a short, middle-aged man with a thick neck and pudgy arms. He appeared to have spent way too much time behind that desk and it showed in his disinterest of Agent Simmons and his prisoner. At least, that was the case initially.
He flipped through the worn pages of a tabloid magazine without reading for the umpteenth time. No need to read such garbage when far more interesting discoveries were being kept beneath his feet in the bowels of the ship—not that he had ever had the opportunity to see any of them. Only heard rumors from the other guards of what was down there. He was the gatekeeper. He guarded the entrance to the black site vault, but he was never allowed to venture inside. The post was another redundancy failsafe in place to guard against unauthorized entry.
“I’m taking this prisoner down to Level 1 for questioning,” Agent Simmons said.
The guard looked up from his magazine and eyeballed Standeval like a prize-winning heifer at the county fair. The intent was misread by Standeval, who began to grow irritated.
“Sign here,” he instructed, pointing to a log on his desk. His eyes never left Standeval.
“See anything you like?” he finally felt the need to ask. He didn’t like the extra attention one bit.
“Easy,” Agent Simmons mouthed quietly with his lips pursed.
“I beg your pardon?” the pudgy guard asked. He got up slowly from his chair and was shockingly even shorter than he first appeared as he stepped from behind the desk. His right hand fingered the night stick in his belt.
Standeval lowered his gaze and shot the edgy guard a sardonic toothy smile, daring him to make a move.
“Easy,” Agent Simmons said, louder this time so that both could hear. He realized the situation was quickly getting out of hand.
“Look at yourself,” Standeval chided, gesturing with a shrug of his shoulders. “You can barely waddle across the room.”
The guard became incensed and drew the electrically-charged night stick from his belt before rushing toward Standeval.
“Wait!” Agent Simmons shouted. But it was too late.
The guard shoved the cattle prod-like stick at Standeval who darted to the side just in time. With his hands somehow uncuffed, he took the stick from the guard’s grasp and shoved it directly in his eye. The man screamed in pain and convulsed uncontrollably before collapsing to the floor.
Standeval dropped the night stick and removed a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, gently wiping his brow.
“Why did you do that?” Agent Simmons asked, shocked and disgusted by the charred body lying at his feet.
“He insulted me,” was Standeval’s only response. His face was like stone now, void of any and all emotion. He folded then tucked the handkerchief neatly back in his pocket.
Agent Simmons suddenly understood what he was dealing with. He was in the company of a monster, because only a monster could perform such a heinous act. Regret began to set in upon this realization. Agent Simmons had made a pact with the devil incarnate.
Chapter 49
When I woke up, my head was pounding something fierce and my mouth was dry as a bone. I was also strapped to a large metal chair with an IV line in one arm and EKG lines hooked to my bare chest. The fluid in the IV bag appeared to be the same serum I’d observed in the dart I removed from my neck just before passing out.
I tried using my abilities to break free of the shackles, but it was no use. I couldn’t seem to budge. The serum must have been blocking my abilities somehow.
I blinked as my vision slowly came into focus. I wasn’t alone. Three men in white lab coats studied readouts on an array of monitors. Two guards with big guns and mirrored visor helmets stood post at the door. It was safe to assume whoever had brought me here didn’t want me going anywhere.
The room was small and smelled wet. The walls were cold steel, painted an awful brown color that was peeling in several places. Piping ran horizontally along the top and bottom of the walls. This led me to believe I was being held on a ship, the same as Viktor. This was where he was tortured in my vision.