First in his family to attend university, he had been grateful to his parents, but particularly to his mum. As flinty as his father most days, she had nevertheless fought the battle for her son’s future, arguing that the sorts of jobs earlier generations of Carrs had held were fading and that he had the smarts to blaze a different trail. She had succeeded in persuading his father, who had died while Alton was in his second year at Exeter. His mum had never been especially warm, and she had kept her grief well hidden, but she had comforted him as best she knew how.
Alton needed her now.
He lay on his cot, drifting in a fever-induced fog. His eyes fluttered open every few minutes, and he winced in pain. Every rattling cough seized his heart in a painful fist, chest muscles contracting. His throat ached and burned so badly that it hurt even to breathe. Inhaling through his nose would have made it better, but his sinuses were blocked, nostrils running with mucus.
How had this happened so fast? Just two hours ago, he had felt fine.
Two hours.
In one of his more lucid moments, he wondered how contagious this virus might be and what would happen if it spread beyond these tunnels. Part of him didn’t care at all—that part of him only wanted to be healed and didn’t care who suffered for it. The urge to rise from his cot, to stagger out into the corridor and get past the sentry guarding them, even if he had to hurt the man, spread through him even faster than the sickness had. If he got outside, he told himself, he could get help. Who the fuck was Dr. Tang, anyway? She might not be able to help him, but surely the military topside could. Surely they would.
Had the fighting aboveground ended yet? Had the jihadis been driven back? Had reinforcements arrived?
The thoughts carried him down into darkness.
He blinked, rasped an agonizing breath, and realized he’d been unconscious again. Alton felt certain that for a few moments he had stopped breathing—that if he hadn’t opened his eyes just then he would have died. How many times had he drifted off? How long had he been lying there? Alton had no idea. With no windows, and too weak to reach for his phone, he could not even check the time, had no idea if the sun had risen.
Mum, he thought. Despising himself for needing her. The kind of man she had raised would not be so pitiful, so yearning. The Carrs of the Northumberland Coalfield were not the sort of men who needed their mothers.
Images of her, and of his father, flickered through Alton’s mind. Fading in and out, he spotted his phone on a little table just out of his reach, knew that if he could move himself, he could pick up the phone and call her. If he had a Wi-Fi signal, he could phone her through the app they all used down here. The call would wake her, but she would want to be woken. Solemn and proper as she was, Lydia Carr would want to know that her son might be near death, would want to hear his voice one last time.
His thoughts were shifting like sand underfoot. He coughed again, and the bright flare of pain gave him clarity for a moment. No, he would not call his mum. How cruel it would be, he thought, to put her through the panic of helplessness she would feel.
No.
Mum.
His thoughts drifted. His breath rattled. His vision blurred, and he heard something moving. A dim light glowed in the darkness of his room, a soft blue halo at the edge of his vision that eased his fear and pain ever so slightly. It seemed angelic, soothing and unearthly, but then the noises began—the hard slap of meat on stone—and the sounds so unnerved him with their wrongness that despite his weakness and pain, Alton managed to shift on the thin mattress and crane his neck to look down toward the foot of the cot.
Near the curtain that led into the corridor, one man straddled the chest of another, gripped him by the throat and slammed the back of his skull against the floor over and over. They were barely there, these men. Alton thought it must be him, that his blurring vision and drifting thoughts made them transparent, like afterimages left on the retina after his eyes were closed. That blue glow surrounded the men, but as he blinked his eyes, they were less and less substantial, both there and not there.
The man on top smashed the other’s skull to the floor with one final, wet, bone-cracking impact, and then he stood abruptly and went to the wall, where he began to smash his own forehead against the stone. The blue glow dimmed, but somehow the sound seemed to grow louder. Another crack of bone and the murderer staggered, putting his hands against the wall as if waiting to die. Resting there, the see-through man threw back his head and howled. For the first time, Alton saw the tears sliding down his face, silver traces on thin air.
The ghost smashed his head again.
“Stop,” Alton rasped, the pain in his throat causing his own tears to fall.
He’d spoken so quietly, and yet the silhouette of a man heard him. Stopped banging his head and turned to look directly at Alton with eyes that trailed a blue mist, eyes that were the only thing about the specter that seemed solid. The rest drifted, formless, barely visible.
Alton felt its attention on him like a fresh wave of fever, the flush of heat and panic and revulsion. Its eyes were wide as it flew at him, rushing with arms outstretched. He lifted his arms to ward it off, but when it touched him, the fever broke. A chill sank to his bones and raced along them, and Alton tried to scream. A hacking cough seized him. He lay on his side on the bed and choked up a little river of blood and viscous black bile.
The urge to scream built up, lodged in his chest. The pain abated, but a compulsion set its hook inside him, and he pushed himself up with trembling arms and rose from the bed with strength he hadn’t possessed only moments before.
“No,” he whispered.
Whimpered.
And oh, how ashamed his father and mother would have been at the pitiful, mewling sound that issued from his lips. His grandfather would have scowled and turned away. This wasn’t how a Carr ought to behave.
Alton leaned against the stone wall near the door, in the spot where the ghost had stood. It felt comfortable, as if he’d been in the middle of a vital task and been interrupted, and now he could continue in peace.
No, a small voice said inside him. And the voice was his own. His true voice, lost now inside something else. Someone else.
Alton tensed, and he felt it coming, understood that his body would betray him.
He screamed so loudly it tore things inside him. His throat began to bleed, and he coughed loudly, chest seizing, racked with pain. He leaned against the wall, whipped his head back, and slammed his forehead against the stone.
Dazed, he stood for a moment with his head lolling to one side. His mouth opened, and again he screamed, that little voice inside him finding its way out, pleading for help.
Help arrived.
“Alton, what are you doing? We heard you—”
Though he tried to push away from the wall, to stop himself, Alton only managed to glance toward the doorway, where Dmitri stood holding back the curtain. Rachel pushed in behind him. The rash had spread, and sores had formed and split on their necks and arms and one whole side of Rachel’s face.
“Get out,” Alton managed.
The urge came over him. The dreadful urge.
Dmitri held up both hands. “I know, my friend. We look awful. But surely we are all sick now, and we heard you scream. What have you done to your head?”
The urge stifled what remained of Alton.
It lunged at Dmitri, grabbed him by the throat, twisted and tripped and forced him down on the ground and then began to smack his head into the stone floor again and again, just as the see-through man had done to his victim. Surrendering to the urge, Alton smashed Dmitri’s head against the floor while Rachel screamed, and then Dmitri’s skull gave way with a wet crack. Dmitri’s legs jerked and danced and then went still.
Alton stood. He turned toward Rachel, but she had stopped screaming. The whites of her eyes were a dark, bloody red, and she stared at him.
“Do it,” she said.
She might have been asking him to kill her, just
like he had killed Dmitri. But the urge understood her words differently.
Alton turned back to the wall and resumed smacking his head against the stone. Rachel watched and did not interfere. Out in the hall, he heard others crying out, heard the voice of the sentry shouting into the corridor, demanding to know what had transpired. Rachel kept mostly silent, but in the moment when Alton struck his forehead against the wall hard enough for his skull to cave in, he heard her make a single sound.
She laughed.
After that, he heard nothing at all.
* * *
At first, Walker thought the screams were just the wind whispering through the ventilation shafts. He had slept for a short time, then snapped awake as if his body knew that this night was not going to allow for rest. When he’d opened his eyes, his breath warm inside his filtration mask, he had seen Kim looking back at him. She had tried to sleep, even drifted off for a few minutes, but had been lying there beside him the whole time. Waiting for morning, she’d said.
After that, they had waited for morning together.
Now the screaming had started, and morning had yet to arrive.
Walker grabbed his gun from the side table.
“Where’s it coming from?” Kim asked.
“Let’s find out.” Walker tugged back the curtain and stepped into the hall. He glanced in both directions, but nobody else was stirring in the west wing.
Kim followed him into the corridor. “You go first. You’re the one with the gun.”
“You’re the boss.”
They moved swiftly and quietly, falling back on the trust they had established and their shared memory of survival. When they reached the short steps that led into a wider hallway, and toward the atrium beyond that, Walker hesitated.
“What is it?” Kim whispered.
The screaming had stopped. He heard muffled shouts, but they were only quiet echoes of something happening elsewhere.
“I promised Charlie,” he said.
He didn’t have to explain further. Kim knew his son, knew Walker had not always been a good father, that he had been trying to grow into the role. He did not have to explain what his promise had been.
“You’re going to get home to him,” she said, giving him a gentle shove. “Come on. I’m counting on you to keep us both alive. Charlie likes me, too. Don’t disappoint him.”
Walker gave a quiet laugh. “He likes you more than he likes me.”
“Most people do.”
They raced down the steps, Walker leading with the gun, passed through the hall, and then hurried out to the balcony overlooking the atrium. The shouting had died down, but the sounds still seemed to slither along the walls and ceiling. There in that vast space, the sounds of gunfire aboveground were clearer, more insistent, almost as if the shooters were inside with them instead of topside.
He took a few steps toward the exit, wondering about Cobb and the other coalition soldiers. How long until sunrise? How many of them were dead by now?
“South wing,” Kim said, breaking his train of thought as she started in that direction.
“You sure?” Walker asked.
She glanced back at him. “Where else?”
As the shouts rose to a new crescendo, they broke into a run. Walker passed Kim again just as they came around a turn in the hall and nearly collided with an armed man in a filtration mask. Walker dropped into a firing stance and took aim, even as the other man lifted his gun.
“Hold your fire,” Walker snapped. “Is that you, Ruiz?”
The sentry hesitated. In the ugly yellow industrial light in the corridor, Walker got a glimpse of his fear and desperation. It was Ruiz.
“Walker?” the soldier said. “I almost killed you guys.”
“I haven’t heard any gunshots yet. Which means whatever you’re running away from, you haven’t killed anyone.”
Ruiz glanced over his shoulder. “They’re all infected, man. Some turned violent. Others are just sitting in the corridor, crying. One woman started ripping open those blisters on her face with her fingernails, and I figured that’s it. They’re all losing their minds, which means if I stick around, I’m gonna have to shoot some people. I need to talk to Dunlap.”
“Where’s Sophie?” Kim asked. “Have you seen her?”
Ruiz gestured past them. “Dunlap came to get her a little while ago, right before all this shit started up here. He swung by to check on me, said there was some trouble down in the Pandora Room, but didn’t explain.”
Walker didn’t like the sound of that. “And Sophie went with him?”
“I assume so.”
A long, keening wail of despair came from down the corridor—from the south wing. Walker stared down the hallway, feeling the lure of that despair, knowing those people needed help. But what help they needed, he could not provide.
“Come on,” he said, turning back the way he and Kim had come.
“What about them?” Kim asked.
Walker glanced at her but didn’t slow down. “Charlie wants to see you again, remember?”
Ruiz followed, and in moments, the three of them were running along the ramp that led into the atrium, from which they could reach the stairs to the lower level and the worship chamber and beyond.
Ruiz had just started to ask a question when he was interrupted by a thunderous boom. The whole cavern shook, and dust rained down from the ceiling of the atrium. Distant gunfire still popped and echoed, but it was that explosion that pushed Walker into motion again. Whatever they were going to do to defend themselves in the worst-case scenario couldn’t wait.
Shrieks carried through the tunnel, back the way they had come. The infected had felt that explosion, much more powerful than those that had shaken them earlier. Closer, almost on top of them. Whatever fear and madness had embraced the staff, they would be in a frenzy now. Ruiz whipped around, aiming his gun in that direction, ready to kill those who had succumbed to the sickness leaking out of the jar.
Walker grabbed his arm. “Save your ammo. We may need it.”
Ruiz nodded, and then the three of them were running for the stairs that led down into the dark heart of Derveyî. Whatever happened now, the jihadis could not be allowed to get their hands on the jar, but Walker didn’t have the first clue how to prevent it. The only thing he knew for certain was that a lot of people were going to die before the sunrise.
* * *
Sophie swayed on her feet. She had to lean against one of the columns and catch her breath. Suffocating, aching, she wanted to tear off the filtration mask just so she could scream and hear it echo off the walls.
You should be crying, she thought. Why aren’t you crying?
Yet there were no tears now. No more recriminations about having left New York or worries about Alex Jarota or yearning to be with her parents. She loved both her mother and father, but they were far from here and safe from the horror unfolding in Derveyî, so although her father’s condition deteriorated every day and would continue to do so until Alzheimer’s took his life, at least her mother understood the darkness they faced. As terrified as her dad must have been, the course of his destruction could be predicted.
Sophie’s hand rose to cover her masked mouth. Jesus, she thought. When you start thinking Alzheimer’s is the bright side, you’ve gone pretty dark.
Mentally, she took it back. Of course she wouldn’t want to trade places with him. Her father lived in a nightmare of constant unknowing, and she could not think of anything worse. Even dying from whatever contagion had escaped the jar would be better. Had to be better.
But she wouldn’t want him to trade places with her, either, because the people splayed on the floor in the column chamber were dead because of her. Not directly, of course. She had not killed them, but the Beneath Project had been her baby. Some of the dead, their blood spattered and puddled all around her, had joined the dig because they wanted to work with her, and others had come specifically at her request. Lou Redfearn, for instance. Sophie had actively
recruited Lou, and now he had weeping black sores all over his body and a bullet hole in the side of his skull.
Why can’t I cry?
She told herself she must be in shock, that she would grieve later when the rest of them had survived this. Her throat felt raw and ragged, but she fought the urge to cough.
Sophie blinked as if coming awake. Someone had been talking to her, and she glanced around the column chamber. Dr. Tang sat against the far wall, reading Lamar’s journal, which she had taken from Sophie at some point while they were following Sergeant Dunlap down here. Beyza and Martin—They found him, where had he gone?—stood together at the top of the thirteen steps, talking quietly.
But it had been Corporal Taejon speaking to her.
“—understand, right?” Taejon said. “Tell me you understand, Dr. Durand.”
Sophie stared at him. “Understand what?”
“We didn’t have a choice,” the soldier said. “They came at us, would’ve killed us.”
A burst of laughter came from the shadows between two columns off to her left. Sophie turned to stare at Private Carson. He wore a T-shirt and army-issue trousers and boots, but the filtration mask Dr. Tang had given him had been torn apart, and there were no more.
“What’s funny?” Dunlap said, cradling his weapon, steel in his spine, a calm presence in the midst of disaster.
Carson looked up. “Taejon says they would’ve killed us. But come on, Sarge. They did kill me. My clock’s ticking down to zero.”
“You don’t know that,” Sophie said.
Dr. Tang shot her a hard look, and she realized how foolish the statement had been, given the dead people on the floor. This infection happened fast. The team from the World Health Organization might be able to help, but would they get there in time to help Private Carson?
The Pandora Room: A Novel Page 22