Rise of the Beast (10 page)

C
HAPTER
4

A chilly wind was gusting out of the southwest, bringing with it the musty odor of dust. Forty-two-year-old Will Reinhart was only too familiar with the odor, though at this point he wished he wasn’t. Another one of those damnable dust storms was brewing. He gazed out into the darkness, beyond the glare of the floodlights. He didn’t have to see it to know that a billowing cloud of dust was sweeping in. The visibility would be plummeting within the half hour. They would probably have to suspend operations even sooner.

“Great. All we need is another delay,” he mumbled under his breath, even as another section of pipe joined the growing stack building up at well number 14. There were just a few more sections to go. Maybe they would get the old bit out before the weather closed in on them.

They had reached a depth of just over 10,600 feet before the bit had crapped out on them. Five hours; that was how long this bit had lasted, five hours. The last one had only lasted four. They should have lasted twice that long.

Will was a veteran of 24 years at this profession. Bringing in oil wells was his life, and he loved it. He’d started as a roughneck in the oil fields of Oklahoma when he was only 18. He’d brought a lot of oil wells in over the years—in Oklahoma, in the deep waters of the Gulf of Mexico, in the arctic wilderness of northern Alaska, and now here, in what used to be northern Iraq, now the Autonomous Kurdish Republic of Kurdistan. The job had taken him all over the world. Oil was becoming more difficult to find; he realized it
only too well. They were drilling deeper and coming up with more dry wells than they used to.

His mind wandered back to his suburban home just east of Vancouver, British Columbia. He was tired of traveling, of being away from home for six months at a time, of being a long-distance husband to Mary, and a long-distance father for his two boys. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t have dreamed of bringing them to this place, even with the company’s supposedly safe gated compound.

Kurdistan was, by far, the most politically stable of the two nations that had arisen from the ashes of war torn Iraq. Its government hadn’t been engulfed by the fundamentalist Islamic fever that had swept like a wildfire through most of the Middle East. There were still a few moderate nations, like Egypt, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia, but the rest of the region was a real powder keg.

In truth, the Kurdish Republic had tried to distance itself from the chaos to the south, even going as far as petitioning for membership in the European Union. It would never happen, of course. Turkey had tried for 30 years without success. The European Union was a pretty exclusive club, and they planned to keep it that way.

Still, the locals sort of liked having the Canadians here. They brought in shiploads of money to the economy of the Kurdish Republic, decent jobs, and the best that Western culture had to offer. Nevertheless, the oil field was only 20 miles from the border of Iraq, and that border was far from secure. To Islamic terrorists, the hundreds of miles of remote border territory, with its poorly guarded fences, were no obstacle. They resented the oil wealth of the north, and they made their displeasure felt quite frequently. Yes, the pay here was outstanding, but it was hazard pay to be sure.

Last September, a suicide bomber with a truckload of explosives had driven his way onto the site of well number 11, something that shouldn’t have been possible. It was, by all accounts, the work of a husband and wife team. They’d gotten past security and driven to within a couple hundred yards of the well before the guards nailed them. Fortunately, the only fatalities were the bombers themselves. If they hadn’t left a suicide video, there would have been no way to have identified them.

The attitudes of these radicals were positively creepy, and recent incidents around this well hadn’t helped matters, either. There was the five-year drought, the freak windstorms, and now, by some accounts, a haunted oil well. That’s right, a haunted oil well. In all of his years in the business, Will had never heard
of such a thing, but here it was.

This project had started ordinarily enough. They were even ahead of schedule for a time. The trouble began when they hit 8,500 feet. It was there that they first encountered the strange rock strata. It defied classification. It was an incredibly resilient metamorphic rock, one altered by heat and pressure. But its crystal structure and elemental makeup were like nothing their chemist had ever seen. It was incredibly rich in sulfur and in no less than four rare earth elements. These elements were so rare that, at first, he hadn’t even recognized them. It took researchers back at the University of Washington to finally identify them: promethium, lanthanum, osmium, and iridium. They’d drilled all over this valley and brought in seven good wells brimming with light crude, but they’d never encountered anything like this. This strata ate up their expensive drill bits for lunch, and it just went on and on.

Then at 9,100 feet they hit the first of many pockets of that damnable liquid. Bill and his crew thought they’d finally broken through the cap rock and into the oil.

At first, just traces of it came up with the mud, then, the better part of a 1.000 gallons of the black viscous liquid erupted from the well casing and unto the platform before they were able to cap it. A cheer arose from the roughnecks; the work had all been worth it. Troublesome number 14 had finally paid off in a big way. But their jubilation had been short lived for this was like no oil they’d ever seen. It was black, but it lacked the smell of normal crude, and it was incredibly high in sulfur. You could actually smell the stuff. Within two minutes of reaching the surface, the still hot substance had burst into flames, sending everyone scattering. The flames danced across the liquid, sometimes swirling and then suddenly erupting dozens of feet into the sky. After a couple minutes, the fires went out by themselves, only to erupt again several minutes later. The liquid burned with the odor of sulfur, but with virtually no smoke. What the hell was this stuff? After half an hour, the liquid had cooled and become inert, but it had left a lasting impression. Bill had never seen the likes of it before, though it reminded him of something that he’d read about a few years back. No, that was absurd, he’d quickly dismissed it.

Analysis in the lab revealed the presence of heavy organic compounds within that mysterious liquid that looked like bits and pieces of amino acids, even proteins. Nevertheless, its combustive properties mystified their chemist. A sample of the liquid had been sent back to Vancouver for more detailed analysis.

More recently, they’d pulled the bit out to find that not only had it been
dulled by the hard rock, but twisted and distorted by forces unknown. It was like it had been partially melted. But how could that be? The temperature at the bottom of the well was scarcely 250 degrees: hot, but not that hot. They’d called in the company’s best metallurgist to examine the bits, but he couldn’t explain what was happening either.

If Will had his way, they’d have capped this well for good two weeks ago, but the company said to keep drilling. Whether it was a matter of economics or just scientific curiosity on their part, he couldn’t say.

Then two mornings ago, one of the roughnecks came into his office as white as a sheet. He was scared, really scared. They’d just pulled in the line and were preparing to replace the bit. It was quiet, on the normally loud and busy platform. He’d taken a break right beside the casing. It was then that he heard it; cries coming from the depths of the well: the cries of people in pain. Had it not been for the multitude of bizarre incidents over the last month, Will might have dismissed the story. He had gone out to hear for himself, but he heard only silence. Since then there had been two more reports of the same thing from experienced, no-nonsense roughnecks. People were getting scared, people who usually didn’t spook easily.

The last of the drill collars had hit the stack, and the crew was working on changing out the bit, when the storm hit with 40-mile-an-hour winds. They finished securing the well and ran for cover.

Will couldn’t explain why, but he didn’t join them. He put on his goggles and made his way over to the well for an inspection. He looked about; his crew had done a good job of securing the site. The crew had stacked the drill string perfectly according to company standards; they always did. He was turning to leave when he heard the sound coming from the well, a sound that could be heard even over the howling wind. He knelt by the 20-inch-diameter casing and listened.

The winds were beginning to die down. This was incredible; he could actually hear it. It was like the distant moaning of a person from somewhere below. Not a multitude, just one person. No, there had to be another explanation—venting of gas, something. A deep melancholia swept over him, though he knew not its source.

“Help me,” cried the distinctly human voice from far below.

Will lurched back. No, this couldn’t be. There was someone down there.
But how could that be possible so far below ground in all of that heat? Will approached the well once more. “Hello, can you hear me?” he yelled, into the casing.

Only silence answered his cry. It was then that the lighting on the rigging went black. It sent a chill of fear up his spine. He quickly recovered. The wind had knocked down a power cable; that was all. But what about the voice he’d heard? He had heard it. There was no doubt in his mind. Again, he gazed into the casing.

Somewhere, far below, he could see light, a faint blue light. He removed his goggles and put on his glasses to get a better look. It was getting brighter, no, not brighter, closer. Something was coming up the casing toward the surface. He stifled the urge to run. He pulled the flashlight from his belt and directed its beam down the casing. It didn’t help. Then a terrible realization dawned upon him. He reeled back, barely in time, as a tower of glowing blue gas erupted from the casing amidst a terrible roar.

Will was on his back gazing up as it dispersed into the air. Yet, it wasn’t a single cloud, but a multitude of smaller ones. They took a common form—ethereal beings with glowing wings, yet they were as inconsequential as vapor. Will gazed at them, hundreds of them, in wide-eyed terror.

Then one erupted from the well, only to swing back toward him. It hovered before him, towering above him, a cloud of vapor in the shape of a winged demon, and that shape was becoming ever more distinct. He could sense the darkness, a darkness beyond the blackness around him, as it reached for him. It drew ever closer.

In his terror, only one heartfelt response erupted from his lips. “In the name of Jesus Christ, my Savior, leave, you have to leave!”

The being seemed to dissolve back into a nearly formless cloud and raced away from him. Half a minute later, the terrible phenomena ended.

Will quivered in fear from head to toe. Then he just broke down and cried. That was how his crew found him a minute later. They’d seen the pyrotechnical display, but not in the detail Will had.

They helped him through the darkness back to his office. They stood about him, flashlights in hand. It was over a minute before he came to himself. “Oh my heavens,” he gasped.

“What did you see, Will?” asked a concerned roughneck.

“I don’t know,” said Will, further composing himself. “I’m sorry guys; I guess I wasn’t prepared for that.”

“For what?” asked the roughneck. “I didn’t think anything could faze you.”

It was then that the lights came on once more. It gave everyone a start.

“Yeah,” said Will, rising to his feet on trembling legs. “Saint Elmo’s fire, that must have been what it was, had to have been.” Then he was fully composed once more. “Sorry guys, sorry to turn weird on you. Well, let’s check for any damage and get the new bit on and back down the casing. We have a well to bring in.”

After a few seconds, the crowd dispersed, noticeably shaken, all save that one roughneck. He closed the office door.

“Saint Elmo’s fire?” he repeated. “Come on Will, it would take more than Saint Elmo’s fire to put that kind of fear into the likes of you. What did you see out there?”

“I don’t know, Sam,” admitted Will. “I think I just saw the gates of Hell swing open and release a legion of demons.”

There was a long silence. Sam looked into Will’s eyes; he was serious. “Yeah, OK, Will. Look, you’ve had a busy night. Why don’t you take it easy for a while, OK? The well is in good hands.”

Sam headed out of the trailer and closed the door behind him, leaving Will alone with his thoughts.

“Sweet Jesus, what did I just see?” asked Will, sitting down once more. He turned to his computer and went onto the Internet. He had someone he had to contact, and they weren’t at the central office. Right now, he didn’t know who else to turn to.