The Missionary stumbled to his feet staring at his stump as JB sat up.
"Like, what the shit is going on?" Gannon gaped at the young boy. For the first time since he watched Tokyo die, Brad Gannon wondered if he had chosen the wrong side.
"Your machine is empty!" The boy shouted. "I am filling it! It belongs to me now."
The Missionary scrambled to escape and ordered, "Purify him! Purify him with your blades!"
Both monks unsheathed their swords and descended on the young boy who greeted their approach with a devilish smile. As they raised their weapons for the kill, a pair of thin black poles, or maybe they were legs, unstuck from the top of the machine and seemingly stepped down, skewering the monks.
The Missionary placed his remaining hand against his temple and cried, "I am infected! Get out of my mind! Get your poison out of my mind!" Gannon saw a patch of the Missionary's head turn gray as he hurried toward a side hall shouting "Defenses!"
Those defenses came to life. A woeful alarm that sounded similar to a dentist's patient howling through a mouth of cotton reverberated through the base but it could not match the shaking and roaring machine in volume. High up a section of wall bulged and then stretched into the form of a barrel. JB glanced toward the weapon. A rash of gray patches grew on the barrel. JB looked to Gannon as the human turncoat staggered side to side like a mouse caught in an open field below the shadow of a hawk.
The gun barrel curled and straightened, literally spitting bullets. The rounds slammed into Gannon one after another, tearing apart his body into chunks of flesh. The one-time actor turned quisling disintegrated into a pile of steaming garbage.
More monks tried to enter the chamber from side corridors. The gun swiveled and fired, killing several and forcing others to retreat.
JB jumped from the platform and approached his father. As he did, the fibrous bands over Trevor's eyes withered and withdrew as did his bonds.
"Father! Father! Can you hear me?"
No response.
The machine grew unstable. Something popped; another something hissed. What remained of the working appendages at its top snapped apart spewing debris.
"Father! Wake up! I can't control it much longer! It's going to come apart!"
He grabbed Trevor's head with both of his tiny hands and shook. Gray splotches popped up on the machine walls as if a disease like chicken pox infected Voggoth's contraption.
Trevor's eyes opened then shut.
"It's me, Jorge! Your son! We have to go!"
The gun fired again, blasting to pieces a spider sentry as it marched into the room. Gooey alien innards mixed with the remains of Brad Gannon.
Trevor tried to open his eyes again; then again. His hands flexed then fidgeted as unused nerves and muscles struggled to reactivate.
"Please, father! Please…"
Finally his eyes stayed open, but they were not the eyes of JB's father. They were not the eyes of the Emperor. They were the eyes of a madman, driven beyond the edge of sanity by the machine that had amplified all his guilt and fear and shame and turned hours of torment into weeks; days into years.
The body of Trevor Stone rolled off the platform as some combination of mental impulses caused a physical reaction. He fell to the ground with a heavy thump. A forlorn groan-a beast's groan-slipped from his lips.
As small as he was in comparison to his dad, the determined son grabbed his father's arm with both hands and tried to drag him.
"We have to go! We have to get out of here! Please, oh please…"
The splotches covering the great machine spread as the infection multiplied and advanced. Patches of gray formed on the walls of the chamber which splintered like drying skin creating lacerations spilling vile liquids and jells.
The basic instincts that remained in Trevor Stone allowed him to blindly react to the boy’s shouts. He tried to stand but fell, and then crawled on all fours like a wild animal; then he stood again but took only two steps before stumbling once more.
Jorge pulled and tugged, willing his dad from the room in steps, crawls, and staggers. As they moved, the walls of the complex cracked and trembled as the contamination spread.
Others came to stop the father and son, but the defenses of the base belonged to the boy. Gun emplacements, binding tentacles, and all the machines inside Voggoth's lair turned against The Order, controlled by a child.
25. Lines of Battle
After several days of cloud cover, the sun finally broke through to kick off a hot and humid North Carolina Saturday. As the temperatures rose and the air turned sticky, Nina walked on wet ground through a small patch of woods to the north of Causeway Drive. There she came upon the damaged Eagle transport hidden among the overgrowth and drooping branches. Hauser-after regaining his senses-had done an excellent job in wedging the ship into cover.
They had been living at Jim Brock's since Thursday and Nina felt pinned down. She worried about moving in fear of exposing themselves, but also feared that one of Brock’s friends would eventually turn them in.
"What's our status?"
Hauser knelt just inside the open door of the transport, Nina stood on the ground below.
"We're good," the pilot with the burn mark on his forehead answered. "There are a couple of accessory systems that are still out but nothing important. The rest is just cosmetic. We can get going any time we want."
"Going? I guess," she answered. "But I think we're out of places to go."
Jim Brock caught the end of the conversation as he approached the hidden transport with a brown bag in hand and a frown on his face.
He said, "You've got to get going. And soon, too."
Nina sighed and apologized for the one-hundredth time, "Listen, I'm sorry we just dropped in on you like this."
"I know. I'll bet it was just about the last thing you wanted to do," he handed the bag to Hauser and explained, "Breakfast."
"Hey, thanks man."
While Hauser accepted the gift, Brock and Nina walked around the nose cone of the silent ship. A large frog hopped off while a song bird of some type crooned in celebration of the new day. Nina started, "Your wife probably isn't too thrilled about us being here, I'll bet." "She's not. But you've got to get moving for more than that. Your friend is in bad shape." Nina ran a hand over her forehead to wipe away moisture forming there.
As a favor to Jim, one of the local doctors made house calls to treat Gordon and actually engaged in what might qualify as low-level surgery.
She asked, "What's the doc say today?"
"He said there's nothing more he can do. The bullet is lodged in his spine. There might be some internal bleeding and there's probably an infection because he's been running a fever and drifting in and out of consciousness since he's been here. Mrs. Stone says he's barely spoken more than a few words and most of them haven't made sense. Point is he needs real medical attention. You should get him to the hospital in Raleigh or he is going to die."
Nina snapped, "And if I take him to the hospital in Raleigh Internal Security will pick him up and he'll die anyway. Damn it."
"You have to do something."
"I know. I thought maybe you could have helped me get in touch with Shep."
Jim said, "But he got arrested," referring to the headline 'TOP RANKING GENERAL ARRESTED IN COUP PLOT’ from yesterday’s paper.
"So I don't know where else to turn."
Brock leaned against a tree and said, "But you came to me. You trusted me, even though you know I’d support the new President and what he stands for. Why?"
Nina scratched the back of her neck and answered, "Listen, we don't agree on a lot of things. I know most of the people around here never liked Trevor or what he did. But I also know you people aren't traitors. I mean, I guess I just figured you wouldn't turn us in."