Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle (25 page)

His luck held on both counts. The bolt gave way easily and the door opened without complaint, revealing more blackness than the hallway they escaped, but in this case, the dark might be their ally.

Gant forced Twiste inside and then softly shut the heavy door. Sharp flashes from the flickering fluorescents followed them in through the small square window.

He helped Twiste to the floor, propping him against a metal shelf, then he knelt next to the closed door, his finger floating on the trigger guard of his HK.

Gant heard footsteps, shuffling, and as they neared his ear sifted through the sounds and he realized that he heard more than one entity. He heard a group, although he could not be sure how many.

Shadows blocked the flicker of the fluorescents. He felt them just outside the door, inches away on the far side of the aging steel. A sound like a snort or grunt, a squeal from another source, a stranger noise—a chuckle?—from another still. Three distinct creatures.

He dared a sideways glance out the window and was rewarded with a quick glimpse of the enemy.

His eyes picked them up just as they moved from the light of the strobe-like fluorescents into the darkness further down the corridor. At the lead was what appeared to be a man, sort of stumbling along as if sleepwalking. He wore what might be army BDUs but they appeared tattered, grimy, and bloody to the point that Gant wondered if he saw a zombie soldier who had dug himself out of a grave. Caucasian skin, possibly, but cracked and covered with wounds and blemishes. The zombie analogy stuck.

Two smaller entities followed the first, and what he saw of their appearance made him nearly vomit in disgust. They were horror incarnate, one about four feet 000tall, the other perhaps over five, but exact dimensions were hard to estimate because both walked with wild gaits, like rabid animals, shuffling back and forth between the walls, bumping into one another, snarling and snapping.

Their pale skin was covered with all manner of sores, warts, and rashes stretched tightly over spindly arms and legs. He might have seen a scrap of clothing on one, but all three quickly faded into the black further down the passage.

Thom slowly slid to a seated position. He worried the creatures might return to investigate the side rooms, but that assumed they were actually searching for them. Given their primitive, barbaric appearance, he realized they might merely live in this dungeon and not even be aware of the intruders.

Are these levels some kind of new ecosystem? Did those things cross over from some other world, thanks to the Briggs experiment?

"What did you see?"

Thom saw Brandon watching him with wide eyes and mouth slightly ajar, probably a reflection of his own expression.

"I …" Thom stopped, considered. "I'm not sure what I saw. What might have been a man, but something was wrong with him. Two other … two other things that resembled, well, I am not sure what they resembled. They were, they were …"

"I can see by the look in your eyes. That alien in the swamp didn't throw you this much. Are we out of danger?"

"No, not by a long shot. But I think they passed us by this time. If they are searching for us, they are not operating with any intelligent pattern, otherwise they would go door to door."

Twiste said, "This level may be big, but eventually they’ll get around again and by then they might start opening doors. I suppose sitting tight and hoping for a rescue team isn't a great plan?"

Gant answered, "I wonder how many of those first-entry teams barricaded themselves in rooms like this, hoping Borman would send in the cavalry. Speaking of which, I wonder what we have here."

He scanned the large room with the light attached to his MP5's barrel and found row upon row of Metro shelves stacked with boxes and barrels and cans.

Twiste followed the beam of light, saying, "Looks like a storage area."

"Most of sublevel seven was devoted to long-term survival," Gant explained. "That and facilities management. This place was originally built for government bigwigs to ride out a nuclear winter."

"Then it was turned into a research facility?"

"As far as I know, yes," Thom answered as he stood and examined the boxes on the nearest shelves. Many of the containers sported older Civil Defense logos, but many more wore the mark of FEMA. "They installed Red Labs on the level below us. It looks like they kept the survival gear intact—these are long-term provisions."

Thom walked deeper into the chamber. After a few steps he saw that most of the containers in the warehouse had been pulled down, torn open, and devoured.

"These things—or at least someone—has been living off the stuff down here. That means they either have to eat, or something else down here does."

Twiste took hold of the shelving above his head and used it as leverage to stand.

Gant asked, "You getting better?"

"Yeah, yeah. But the ankle still hurts, the inside of my mouth is still bleeding, and I feel like I just fell down an elevator shaft. Oh wait, I was
pushed
down an elevator shaft."

Gant ignored the humor although he appreciated the attempt.

"There cannot be enough stuff down here to keep people fed for over twenty years," Thom said and, with Twiste a step behind, they surveyed the rows of mostly consumed provisions.

Wrappers, empty cans, torn bags, and busted boxes littered the space between the aisles. The two were very careful not to accidentally send a parcel flying with an inadvertent step; they did not want to make any noise.

Thom’s light fell upon a jumbled pile of something that looked out of place. His light illuminated a mass of fabric … and boots … and helmets … and body armor … and gas masks—all in bad condition, all stained with dried blood; the leftovers from previous battles in the bowels of Red Rock.

"Oh Jeez," Twiste grimaced.

Thom shook his head and felt a surge of pity as well as camaraderie with whoever had worn that gear into this place. He wondered if his black BDUs would be added to the pile before the day was done.

"So what is it you think you saw, Thom?"

Gant knew what he meant and struggled to find the words. Then his training kicked in: boil everything down to facts.

"Four to five feet tall, bipedal, pale skin over a humanoid skeleton. They walked with an ape-like gait, they seemed more like animals of some kind, despite their appearance."

His training switched off with the definition complete and he told Twiste, "If we get close enough to one, perhaps you can tell me. You are, after all, the science officer."

Twiste leaned against a gigantic barrel of salt or, rather, a gigantic barrel that once held salt.

"I'll pass on a closer inspection until you get one back to the containment cells at Darwin."

"Where is that curiosity now, Doctor?" Gant managed a smile.

"I, um, have decided to follow your example, Major. No questions asked, just a job to do, and my job is to activate the V.A.A.D. in the primary lab. Well, now that I think about it that's FUBAR, too."

Gant corrected, "Not at all. We still have a mission to accomplish. I think finishing our job is the only chance we have of getting out of here alive."

"I think you’ve probably noticed that I don’t have the V.A.A.D. Captain Campion has that. I just have the batteries."

"We do not know what happened to Campion. If he is dead, we might be able to backtrack and find it. If he is alive, he is right now seeking out an alternative route to the Red Lab to accomplish all goals."

Twiste said, "You’re an optimist," and both of them heard the heavy dose of sarcasm in his voice. Gant knew he was no such thing, and he knew that his friend Brandon Twiste knew it, too.

Gant reached the back wall of the room and found the same things over and over again: the remnants of a large stockpile of supplies and scattered piles of gear that belonged to the soldiers and hazmat teams who had come this way before.

Twiste caught up to him, followed the glow of his flashlight as it cast over a ripped backpack, and asked, "Could those things be people? Jesus, Thom, the personnel who were trapped in here when containment was initiated?"

He considered and answered, "I saw three of them. One might once have been a soldier based on what he was wearing, but he did not walk like a normal man. He was not in good condition. As for the other two, no, I cannot see how. I do not even believe they were human."

"But they could have survived down here. Someone was eating these supplies."

"That's twenty years. And these supplies have been pretty well picked through."

"But there's power down here and obviously water recycling. The basics are here."

"Yes," Gant agreed, "but all of that machinery would require maintenance, spare parts—expertise from outside the quarantine zone. This is a contained environment, Doctor, not a natural environment. The materials in this room would provide some sustainability, but I cannot believe those supplies could last for decades."

Twiste, however, did not appear to hear the last part of Gant's sentence. Even in the near-darkness Thom saw Brandon's eyes grow wide and his head cock to the side. He recognized the expression. Brandon might well have shouted “eureka” at that moment except, well, whatever epiphany hit home, the look in his friend's eyes suggested the revelation would not be pleasant.

"What is it?"

"You are absolutely right, Thom. Nothing could survive down here that long, not entirely on its own. Forget the food. Forget water. Maybe, if you stretched your imagination, you could believe there was enough in the stores to keep a small number alive for a long while. But none of that matters."

"What is it you are trying to say?"

"Take a deep breath."

Thom did. He smelled an odor probably attributable to the scattered bits of foodstuffs that rotted and decayed over the years. But nothing—

He stopped, and it hit him like sledgehammer.

"Yes, that's right, you understand, don't you?" Twiste limped closer to Gant. "And right now, you're starting to feel like a real idiot. Looks like the machine does smash a cog or two now and then."

Gant's lips clamped shut tight.

Twiste went on, "It's the air."

"There are most likely oxygen scrubbers down here. Submarines produce their own oxygen; no doubt a facility such as this would—"

"Submarines pull air out of the saltwater around them. There’s none of that here, and unless we find a storage room the size of the Superdome filled with oxygen canisters, then the only way air gets down here is because General Borman lets it get down here. Nothing can live in a vacuum, Thom. Why didn't the General cut off the oxygen supply?"

"How, exactly, am I supposed to know that?"

"Because you should have asked the question! You don't just line up, take your orders, and march off."

Major Gant returned to the door at the front of the room. Twiste followed as fast as he could on his bum ankle.

"Don't walk away from me. I'm talking to you."

"Captain, I am not sure what it is you are hoping to accomplish, but this is counterproductive."

"You know what I'm getting at. You know Borman dropped us down here like we were just another smart bomb sent to hit the target. Yeah, sure, usually it's Friez giving us our marching orders, but if it wasn't Friez or Borman it'd be someone else."

"That is the way the army works, or have you not been in the military for even longer than I? Exactly why should I take issue with that?"

"Because you know better!" Twiste's voice grew a little too loud. The men glanced at the door and paused. When they did not hear any reaction from outside, Brandon Twiste lowered his voice and went on, "You know better. I see it in you, Thomas Gant. You know the games they play, the dark secrets, the cover-ups, and the way they throw men into the meat grinder with no consideration. This was a suicide run, but you didn't even raise your hand to ask a question."

"I believe in the system," Gant said. He remembered what Doreen McCaul had noted of his nature during his visit to The Tall Company with Liz Thunder. "I have faith in the chain of command."

"You don't trust that chain of command, not one bit. You've seen it all; the double crosses, the backstabbing, the political games. You can't possibly have faith in that, you're too smart. So why are you kidding yourself?"

Thom felt his mouth open but he could not find—or dared not give—the answer his friend sought. Instead, he asked, "Why is this so important to you? You are a soldier, too, Doctor. Orders are part of the business."

"Yes, but it's the job of soldiers like us to make it a better business. We've been in this a long time, you and I. One dirty job after another. No breaks. No time off. Hell, I've seen my grandchild once since she was born last year because I spend all my time walking around in the dark for Uncle Sam. We've earned the right to ask the questions and even to refuse orders if we must."

"I cannot do that."

"And that's what I don't understand."

Again, Thom stumbled with his answer, reworked it, and responded with the best defense mechanism he could muster.

"It is not our job to understand; it is our job to complete the mission, Captain. And that is what I intend to do and it is what I expect of you."