Department 19: Zero Hour

by Will Hill

  “Grass snakes,” said Engel, her voice low. “Small vipers. They’re all that should be here.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Van Orel. “I’ve seen boomslangs and Cape cobras. I even saw a green mamba once. But I’ve never seen anything like that. Never.”

  “Me neither,” said Albertsson, quietly. “We had rattlers where I grew up, but they stayed out of your way. That thing went straight for you.”

  “I know,” said Jamie, feeling his heart slowly begin to decelerate. “I saw.”

  In the centre of the circle, the snake had ceased to thrash. It had stopped hissing, but its head was low to the ground and darting in every direction, as though searching for new prey. After a minute or so, it began to slide back into the hole it had emerged from, its body gliding across the ground with an eerie lack of sound.

  Jamie watched it disappear, then turned to Larissa, who was staring at the circle of newly churned-up earth with a look of profound unease on her face.

  “Thank you,” he said, and kissed her delicately on the cheek.

  Larissa smiled. “For what?”

  “For saving me,” said Jamie.

  Larissa’s smile widened. “It’s what I do,” she said.

  Petrov took point as the squad moved out again, heading further into the forest. Jamie watched Larissa rise back into the air, trying not to think about what would have happened to him if she had not been there to lift him from harm’s way; it was too chilling a prospect to allow himself to dwell upon.

  And at the northern edge of the circle they left behind, long covered by dirt and moss, long stripped of the power it had possessed, lay a stone which had once existed in both this place and another, a cruel garden of statues and stars and evil that spanned dimensions.

  It was the stone altar upon which the long, bloody chain of events that had eventually led the six Operators into the darkness of the forest had been set into motion, but it was now old, and forgotten.

  Major Simmons moved, looping an arm round Matt’s neck from behind and pressing the Glock hard against his temple. Instantly, acting on pure instinct, the rest of the Operators drew their pistols and pointed them at their commanding officer.

  “Everybody back away,” said Simmons. “Slowly. Browning, put your gun on the desk.”

  “Sir?” said Andrews, her voice full of incredulity as she sighted down the barrel of her Glock. “What the hell are—”

  “Shut up,” said Simmons. “You just shut the hell up.” He jabbed the gun against Matt’s head. “Don’t make me ask you again, Browning.”

  Matt was frozen stiff by shock and fear. The Major’s arm was pressed tight against his throat, constricting it, preventing him from breathing, from forcing his body to move, to do as he was told before his head was blown off.

  “Now!” bellowed Simmons, his breath hot in Matt’s ear. Matt took a shallow, rattling breath, swallowed hard, and drew the pistol from where it still hung beneath his armpit. He lowered it to the desk with a shaking hand.

  “Major,” said Danny, his voice low, his pistol steady. “Put the gun down. Put it down now.”

  Simmons grunted with what might have been laughter. “I don’t think so, Lieutenant. You think you can take me out without hitting the lab rat, then by all means take your shot.”

  Danny took a step forward, but didn’t fire. Matt looked frantically round the laboratory and saw the silent Glocks of Andrews and Landsman gleaming dully beneath the fluorescent lights. His mind was racing, thundering with panicked questions, full of the terrible spectre of Professor Richard Talbot, whose gun-filled embrace had felt identical to the one he now found himself in.

  What the hell is this? What the hell is going on? How can this be happening again?

  “All right,” said Simmons. “Browning, you and I are going to walk out of here, nice and slowly, and get in the car. I see any of the rest of you, I see so much as a shadow in the rear-view mirror, and I’ll blow his head off. I assume that’s clear?”

  “It’s not going to happen, sir,” said Danny, shaking his head and taking another step forward.

  “Yes it is,” said Simmons. “Unless you want his death on your conscience. Browning, pick up your bag.”

  “Don’t do it, Matt,” said Danny. “Don’t you move, OK?”

  Simmons rammed the barrel of the Glock against the side of Matt’s head again. He cried out, in pain and fear, but tried to focus on Danny, who Larissa had always said was a good man, a decent man, someone you could trust.

  “Last chance, Browning,” growled Simmons.

  “Put the gun down, sir,” said Andrews, her voice high and unsteady. “This isn’t you. Whatever’s going on, we can fix it. Just put the gun down.”

  “You don’t know anything,” said Simmons. “Not a damn thing. Browning, I’m going to give you to the count of three to pick that bag up, and then I’m going to shoot you in the head. One.”

  Matt looked pleadingly at Danny, desperate for the Operator to tell him what to do. He had no doubt that Major Simmons meant what he said; at the count of three, he would kill him, and to hell with the consequences.

  “Two.”

  “Damn it, sir!” shouted Danny, his eyes narrowing with fury. “Stop this!”

  The arm round Matt’s throat tightened, telling him everything he needed to know. He felt Simmons take a breath, preparing to speak the final number of his countdown, and his nerve failed him; he reached out and picked up the bag that contained the reason they had come to San Francisco, the samples that in all likelihood represented their only real chance of survival.

  “Good boy,” said Simmons. “Keep doing exactly what I tell you and you might just get out of this in one piece. The rest of you, stay right where you are. Browning and I are leaving now, and whether you believe it or not, I really would prefer not to kill any of you.”

  The Major pushed him towards the laboratory’s main doors, keeping Matt between himself and the rest of the squad and their pistols. Matt went without resistance, his mind attempting to process what was happening, searching desperately for a way to stop it, trying to will himself to think like Jamie or Larissa.

  If he gets us out of the lab, then I’m on my own, he thought. Danny and the others would have taken their shot by now if they were going to. But if Simmons is telling the truth, and we’re going to the car, then at some point he’s going to have to move the gun. Maybe there’ll be a chance to do something.

  Simmons backed up against the laboratory door and kicked it open. Matt locked eyes with Danny as he was dragged backwards through them. Then the door swung shut, and he was on his own.

  Matt was hauled roughly along corridor after corridor, Major Simmons’ pistol removed from his temple and now pressed hard between his shoulder blades. He stumbled and staggered, his limbs threatening to tangle with sheer panic, but managed to stay upright until they reached the door he and Danny Lawrence had walked through seven hours earlier, when his head and heart had been full of optimism.

  “Keep moving,” hissed Simmons. “Through the door.”

  Matt pushed it open and felt cold night air whistle across his face, sending a shiver through him. Beyond the door was the Biology Department parking lot; the black SUV that had ferried them back and forth across the city was the only vehicle in sight. Simmons manhandled him towards it, then released his grip.

  “Passenger seat,” he said. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  Matt shook his head, and walked unsteadily round the back of the car. Simmons kept his pistol trained on him every step of the way, then drew a fob from his pocket and unlocked the car. Matt pulled the passenger handle and felt his heart sink as the door opened with a heavy thunk. Simmons opened the door on the other side of the car, and pointed the pistol at him as he clambered up into his seat and fastened his safety belt, the bag of samples on his lap, his legs shaking beneath it. Simmons climbed into the car, settled behind the steering wheel, and started the engine.

  “Where are we going?” asked Matt
, his voice low and shaky.

  “Shut up,” said Simmons, as he put the car into gear. “You don’t need to know.”

  Matt looked desperately up into the rear-view mirror, hoping to see Danny and the rest of the squad burst out of the building, guns blazing.

  Nothing.

  Simmons revved the SUV’s powerful engine, then swung it across the parking lot. Its headlights picked out the low walls and green lawns of the university campus, and a single lane of road. It wound down to the main gate and out on to the streets of San Francisco.

  This is madness, thought Matt. We’re both chipped. They can track us wherever we go.

  A simple way for Simmons to get round that particular problem formed in his mind, unbidden, and he felt his gorge rise. His stomach was a tight knot of fear, but his brain was still screaming for him to do something, anything, to not just let himself be a victim yet again.

  The SUV accelerated down the road, the wind howling as it gathered speed. Simmons’ face was expressionless, his attention fixed on the road ahead. A long shallow bend was all that stood between them and the open gate, which was flanked by high brick walls and a small security post. Matt stared, feeling his hope dwindle as they headed towards it.

  Then an idea struck him.

  He looked into the mirror and saw the empty parking lot disappearing behind them.

  He looked over at Simmons, who was gripping the steering wheel with both hands, including the one holding the Glock.

  He looked at the Major’s unfastened seat belt.

  Then he moved.

  Matt swung the bag as hard as he could, slamming it into the Major’s face and pressing it against him. Simmons bellowed with fury and grabbed at the bag, trying to push it away. The Glock fired involuntarily with a bang that was deafening agony in the confined space, punching a neat hole in the car roof. Matt felt gloved fingers take hold of his and bend them back, but he continued to push against the bag with all his strength. The gun fired again, and again, the muzzle flashes blinding, the noise unbearable as the windscreen glass broke. Matt screamed in pain and fury, swung his left leg over the SUV’s central console, and stamped his boot down on Simmons’ foot, pressing the accelerator to the floor.

  The engine screamed and the big car leapt forward, its wheels thumping over the high kerb at the edge of the road and churning grass beneath them. Simmons pounded at Matt’s hands; he heard one of his fingers break, and a millisecond later felt the pain gallop up his arm as Simmons finally dragged the bag clear of his face. He swung the pistol towards Matt as he grabbed hold of the steering wheel with his free hand, a look of indescribable rage on his crimson face. Then he looked through the windscreen, and his eyes widened as the headlights illuminated a wide expanse of dark red bricks.

  Simmons slammed his free foot on the brake, but Matt bore down on the accelerator with all his strength, a scream of fury emanating from his mouth as he grabbed the Major’s Glock and pushed it upwards. The SUV thundered across the grass, throwing up a great cloud of dirt and dust, and smashed into the wall head-on.

  There was an explosion of noise as the front of the car disintegrated with a grinding scream, the remains of the windscreen exploded, and the air bags deployed with a cacophony of deafening bangs. Matt was hurled forward against his seat belt with an impact that would have made him scream if all the air hadn’t rushed out of him with a sound like a bursting balloon. His head whipped forward, sending electric fire up the back of his skull and across his shoulders, and thumped against the air bag. He tried to lift it, but the pain was sickening: a deep, squirming agony that felt like it was radiating from his very bones. He gritted his teeth, pushed his howling muscles into action, and screamed against the air bag as his head finally came up, as slowly as a breaching submarine.

  The driver’s seat beside him was empty.

  His bag was lying in the driver’s footwell, beneath the steadily deflating air bag, with the Glock beside it. But there was no sign of Major Simmons.

  Matt raised his head, trying to move his whole upper body rather than just his damaged, protesting neck, and looked through the windscreen. All that remained was a jagged ring of safety glass clinging to the frame; the rest had been blown out into the night. He reached down to release his seat belt and cried out in pain again as the bones of his broken finger ground together. He lifted it up before his face and felt his stomach revolve; the finger was snapped at its midpoint at a forty-five-degree angle, pointing crazily away in a wholly different direction to the other three.

  He took a deep breath, released his seat belt with his good hand, and turned ever so slowly towards the door. He pulled the handle, his dazed brain wondering almost absently whether crashed cars really blew up like they did in the films his dad had loved to watch, and felt relief flood through him when the door opened with a high-pitched screech of metal.

  Matt climbed slowly down on to the grass and carefully ran his functioning hand over the back of his neck. He could feel nothing out of place, no protrusions or hollows that shouldn’t have been there; the knowledge did nothing to lessen the pain, but it provided some small comfort. He leant carefully back into the car, picked up the Glock with a trembling hand, and staggered round the rear of the SUV. From behind, the car looked undamaged: its lights shone red in the darkness; its rear window was intact; its metallic black paint shimmered in the glow of a street light.

  On the other side of the car, he found Major Simmons.

  He was lying on the grass beside what was left of the front of the vehicle, staring up at the night sky with empty eyes. His head was flattened on one side, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, his face covered in a thick layer of dark red blood. Matt approached slowly, unwilling to take anything for granted, despite the clearly catastrophic nature of the Major’s injuries, and prodded the man’s ribs with the toe of his boot. The body rocked to one side, then settled back on to the grass.

  Matt let out a loud, involuntary sob, a sound that was part relief and part vicious triumph. Then, immediately, came guilt, sharp and hot.

  I killed him, he thought. Oh Jesus. I actually killed him.

  A cold voice spoke inside him, one he hadn’t heard before, and which sounded an awful lot like Jamie’s.

  You did what you had to do, it said. What you needed to do.

  Then to Matt’s utter horror, Major Simmons blinked, and made a rattling, gurgling sound that would haunt his nightmares.

  He dropped to his knees beside the stricken man. “Don’t move,” he said. “Stay still. I’ll get help.”

  Simmons took a wet, rasping breath. “Too late,” he said, the words little more than slurred grunts. “Too … late.”

  “Just hold on,” said Matt. “I’ll fetch the others.”

  A pool of blood was spreading rapidly out from beneath the Major’s head. His eyes rolled, then fixed momentarily in place. “Safeguard,” he wheezed.

  Then he died.

  Matt stood up on unsteady legs, his mind close to being overwhelmed by horror, and looked at the ruined bonnet of the car. It had concertinaed as it ploughed into the wall, folding up and in on itself so that its front wheels, buckled and shredded, had come to rest above the ground. The wall had bulged outwards, showering the devastated car with red dust, but had stayed standing. A patch of dripping crimson marked the spot where Simmons had collided with it after he had been thrown through the windscreen.

  Matt crouched carefully, put the Glock on the ground, and pulled Major Simmons’ radio from its loop on his belt. He keyed open the line and raised the handset slowly to the side of his head.

  “Danny?” he said, his voice trembling. “Are you there? Over.”

  “Matt?” said Danny, instantly. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

  “Simmons is dead,” said Matt, sounding on the verge of tears. “I’m by the main gate. Can you come? Please?”

  “There in thirty seconds,” said Danny.

  Matt dropped the radio and leant back against the sid
e of the car. He closed his eyes, feeling the adrenaline that had galvanised him into action ebb away; as it did so, the true scale of the agony in his neck presented itself and gleefully joined forces with the pain blooming from his broken finger. Matt lowered his head, his eyes still closed, his knees weak, and breathed slowly in and out until he heard the distant drumbeat of running footsteps. He opened his eyes, and forced a smile as Danny Lawrence sprinted across the grass towards him.

  “Jesus Christ, Matt,” said Danny, skidding to a halt and surveying the remains of the SUV with wide eyes. “Are you OK? What the hell happened?”

  “We crashed,” said Matt. “Simmons wasn’t wearing his seat belt, so I stood on his foot.”

  “You did what?”

  Matt took a deep breath. “On the accelerator …”

  “You crashed on purpose?” asked Danny.

  Matt tried to nod, but the motion sent a wave of nausea through him. “That’s right,” he managed.

  Andrews and Landsman appeared, their pistols in their hands.

  “Jesus,” said Andrews, frowning at the ruined vehicle. “Are you all right, Matt?”

  “No,” grunted Matt, forcing a tiny, watery smile. “My finger is broken, and my neck is messed up.” He pointed at Simmons’ body. “What was this, Danny? What happened to him?”

  The Operator shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I called it in as soon as the two of you left the lab. We were waiting for instructions when you radioed. Did he say anything?”

  “One word,” said Matt. “Safeguard.”

  “Safeguard?” asked Danny. “What the hell is Safeguard?”

  Cal Holmwood turned into the short corridor that led to his quarters, anxious to read the message that had arrived on his console at the end of his conversation with Frankenstein, and found himself confronted with the familiar sight of the Security Officer waiting outside his door.