“Clear!” Bunny said.
“Clear,” said Top.
“Jesus Christ!” said Goldman.
Halverson was saying something to himself. Maybe a prayer, but we couldn’t hear it beneath the noise of the klaxons.
Then the alarms died. Just like that.
So did the lights.
The silence was immediate and dreadful.
The darkness was absolute.
But it was not an empty darkness. There were sounds in it, and I knew that we were far from alone down there.
“Night vision,” I barked.
“On it,” Bunny said. He was the closest to the golf cart and I heard him rummaging in the bags. A moment later he said, “Green and go. Coming to you on your six.”
He moved through the darkness behind me and touched my shoulder, then pressed a helmet into my hands. I put on the tin pot, flipped down the night vision and flicked it on. The world went from absolute darkness to a surreal landscape of green, white and black.
“Top,” Bunny said, “coming to you.”
I held my ground and studied the hall. Nothing moved. Goldman cowered beside me. He folded himself into the smallest possible package and was tucked against the right front fender of the cart. Halverson was still behind the wheel. He had a Glock in his hand and the barrel was pointed at Top.
“Halverson,” I said evenly, not wanting to startle him. “Raise your barrel. Do it now.”
He did it, but there was a long moment of nervous indecision before he complied, so I swarmed up and took the gun away from him.
“Hey!” he complained. “Don’t—I need that!”
"You don't have night vision. Just sit tight and let us handle it."
“I have a flashlight.” He began fumbling at his belt, but I batted his hand aside. “No. Stay here and be still. I’m going to place your weapon on the seat next to you. Do not pick it up until the lights come on.”
“But—”
“You’re a danger to me and mine,” I said, bending close. “Point a gun in the dark around me again and I’ll put a bullet in you. Do you believe me?”
“Y-yes.”
I patted his shoulder—to which he flinched—and moved away.
“What are you seeing, Top?”
He knelt by the wall, his pistol aimed wherever he looked. “Nothing seeing nothing, Cap’n.”
“Bunny?”
He was guarding our backs. “Dead people and shadows, boss. Look at the walls. Someone busted out the emergency lights.”
“Captain Ledger,” began Goldman, “what—?”
“Be quiet and be still,” I said.
We squatted in the dark and listened.
A sound.
Thin and scratchy, like fingernails on cardboard. Then a grunt of effort.
Top and I looked up at the same time, putting the red dots of our laser sights on the same part of the upper wall. There was a metal grille over an access port. The grille hung by a single screw and one corner of it was twisted and bent out of shape, the spikes of two screws hanging from the edges. The grille hadn’t been opened with a screwdriver, it had been torn out.
No. Pushed.
The scratching sound was coming from there, but as we listened it faded and was gone.
“It’s gone,” whispered Goldman.
I noticed that he said “it,” not “him” or “them.” I could tell from the way he stiffened that Top caught it, too.
But Bunny asked, “What’s gone? I mean…what the hell was that?”
The scientist turned toward Bunny’s voice. His green-hued face was a study in inner conflict. His eyes were wide and blind, but they were windows into his soul. I doubt I’ve ever seen anyone as genuinely or deeply terrified.
“They…they’re soldiers,” he said.
“Whose soldiers? We were told this was a potential terrorist infiltration.”
“God,” he said hollowly. “There are a dozen of them.”
I moved up to him and grabbed a fistful of his shirt.
“Stop screwing around, Doc, or so help me God—”
“Please,” he begged. “Please… We were trying to help. We were doing good work, important work. We were just trying to help the men in the field. But…but…”
And he began to cry.
We were screwed. Deeply, comprehensively and perhaps terminally screwed.
Something moved in the green gloom down the hall. It was big and it kept to the shadows behind a stack of packing crates. It made a weird chittering sound.
“Is that a radio?” Bunny whispered.
I shook my head, but I really didn’t know what it was.
“It’s them!” Goldman said and he loaded those two words with so much dread that I felt my flesh crawl.
“I got nothing down here,” said Bunny, who was still guarding behind us. “What are you seeing, boss?”
“Unknown. Top, watch the ceilings. I don’t like this worth a damn.”
The chittering sound came again, but this time it was behind us.
“What’ve you got, Bunny?” I called.
“I don’t know, boss, but it’s weird and it’s big. Staying out of range, just around the bend.”
I turned.
“This is the U.S. Army. Lay down your weapons and step out into the hall with your hands raised.”
My voice echoed back to me through the darkness, but whoever was around the bend did not step out.
The chittering sound was constant.
I repeated the challenge.
The sound changed, fading as the figure retreated. It was gone in seconds. I turned again, and the one ahead of us was gone as well.
“Cover me,” I said and Top shifted to keep his laser sight next to me as I crept over to the wall below the grille. I stood on tiptoes and strained to hear.
The chittering sound was there, but it was very faint and as I listened it faded to silence. Whatever was making that sound was too far away to be heard, but I knew that didn’t mean it was gone.
I turned to the others. Doctor Goldman sat with his face in his hands, weeping.
“We’re all going to hell for this,” he sobbed. “Oh, God…I’m going to hell.”
(3)
The Vault
Forty-six Minutes Ago
When I finally got Goldman to stop blubbering and tell me what the hell was happening I was almost sorry he did.
Halverson was able to lead us to the breakers and we got the main lights back on. The rest of the research team huddled in the staff lounge, a few of them with improvised weapons —a fire axe, hammers, that sort of thing. The lounge had a single door and the filtration system vent in that room was the size of a baseball. We locked ourselves in and had a powwow.
Goldman said: “This facility was originally built as a secure bunker to house the Governor and other officials during a nuclear war. After the Cold War it was repurposed for genetics and biological research.”
“What kind of research?” I asked.
“That’s classified.”
I put my pistol barrel against his forehead. “Declassify it,” I suggested.
“Listen to the man,” murmured Top in a fatherly voice—if your father was Hannibal Lecter.
Everyone gasped and Halverson’s hand almost strayed toward his sidearm. Goldman licked his lips. “We…we’ve been tasked with exploring the feasibility of using gene therapy for military asset enhancement.”
“What kind of gene therapy?”
“Various.”
I tapped him with the barrel. “You’re stalling and I’m disliking you more and more each second, Doc.”
He winced. “Please…I can’t think with that—” He gestured vaguely toward the gun, and I moved it six inches away.