Winston Chase- The Complete Trilogy
Page 70
Winston considered drawing the last blue energy marble from his pocket. He sensed that the device was at least half empty, and he worried about it not having enough power when he needed it. Perhaps if he fed the marble into Little e’s small wrist guard bulge, he could siphon off some of that power to recharge himself, as well. But no. The artifact still had enough energy for now. Best to save that last marble for when it was essential.
With a deep breath, he brought Little e’s tube tips to the lock’s keyhole and set to work. As soon as he heard the clatter of small pieces within the lock, Winston stopped and gave the door a pull. The bar holding the door to the gate frame came loose and fell to the bottom of the lock.
Winston slipped inside the gate and closed it behind himself just as he heard heavy footsteps clomping up the hill. Thankfully, the door didn’t squeak on its hinges, and, in the dark, it would be hard to tell that anything had been damaged without close examination.
On his tiptoes, heart in his throat, Winston turned into the darkness and slowly edged his way down the tunnel slope and into the belly of Area X.
11
Deep Breath for Bledsoe
Falling sunlight set the scattered clouds aflame, and the mounting buzz of cicadas pressed against Bledsoe from every direction. He sat on the floating river dock, pant legs rolled up, bare feet dangling in the cool water. The scene was much how he remembered it from his boyhood. The dock had a few more rotten boards, and his palms had a couple of splinters that would need attention later. The tackle box and poles that he and his brother used to leave scattered about here were long gone, of course, and his home, set a hundred yards up the path from the water’s edge, now hunched dark, empty, and broken on the hillside, crowded by waist-high scrub grass and slowly strangling in the grip of trumpet creeper vines. He could see how the place used to be, though. He recalled Davey trotting down the path, a cup of worms in hand, as his mother watched them from the kitchen window. He recalled how the Emmerts’ spaniels had used to run free up and down the riverbank and how one had bit him on the thigh when she had endured enough of Bledsoe poking her with a stick.
Bledsoe smiled grimly at the memory as he watched the clouds reflected in the river’s surface. They wavered and danced to the pulsing rhythm of the cicadas’ sunset song. He wanted to tell his brother about what had happened in Portland, how Winston had taken Amanda away. If Bledsoe had been able to seize all of the Alpha Machine pieces, he could have been talking to his brother face-to-face right now.
“I don’t know why he keeps slipping away,” Bledsoe muttered to one particularly bright cloud just beyond the reach of his feet. “I suppose if changing the world was easy, everyone would do it.”
The cloud slowly slipped past his knees, and Bledsoe realized the clouds didn’t care one bit about his problems. Whether he succeeded or failed, no matter how many people he killed or how much pain he endured, those clouds would keep drifting on, always out of reach, always changing.
His inability to influence a thing right before him only reminded him of Winston again, and Bledsoe kicked water at the reflection. The clouds shredded into dizzying oblivion around his ankles, but their fleeting destruction offered him little solace.
Bledsoe took a deep breath of the heavy, humid air and looked around. Oak, cedar, and mesquite trees littered the riverbanks and crowded the low horizon. That much hadn’t changed. Some things remained constant and predictable. That was good.
The small plop of a fish swallowing a bug from the water’s surface drew Bledsoe’s attention. The fish vanished, leaving only small ripples to mark its attack.
“I hope you got what you’re after,” he said. “One of us should.”
Bledsoe remembered his grandfather sitting beside him on this dock, catching one fish after another, while young Bledsoe could only shake his head in frustration at his own meager haul. Maybe it’s the bent of yer cap, his grandfather would rumble around a cigar while giving a twist on the brim of his own battered bucket hat. Might be how yer holdin’ yer mouth. Or his favorite: They’re like women. They can smell when yer desperate.
Bledsoe gave a single chuckle and a rueful shake of his head.
“Do I smell desperate, gramps?”
Just stop caring so much, he would say. They’ll come.
And more often than not, the old man was right.
Not that being right had gotten him far in the end. He’d keeled over at sixty-eight from a bad heart and left nothing behind because Bledsoe and his brother had soaked up what little cash he’d had. Ever since the Civil War, the family had sunk every cent it could spare into educating its young men and making sure they became disciplined, successful officers. They had their plot of riverside land. They had the clothes on their backs. And they had their honor. That hadn’t counted for much with his dad when Bledsoe turned his back on the Army and stayed in the university to pursue a research degree.
The sun dipped into the branches of a scraggly mesquite tree on the far bank, at last removing the river’s harsh glare. Another fish broke the surface, and this time Bledsoe spotted the telltale barbels around its gaping mouth that indicated a catfish. Of course. This river was full of them.
Bledsoe recalled the open-mouthed expression on Amanda’s face as he threw the grenade. She could have been surprised. She should have been terrified. But no. Her expression had only shown worry — for her son. That damned boy who, against all odds, had made it back to Area X.
Bledsoe wondered how he might possibly make it through all of the place’s security. The front guard. The hidden machine gun emplacements overlooking the parking garage. Two more armed checkpoints. Then the lobby with its locked elevators and ability to flood with knockout gas at the touch of a button under the front desk. It was impossible. He could jump back in time to before the lab existed, but he’d only find countless miles of dust and rock. By the time the government had dynamited a hole big enough to stand in, the site had been under armed surveillance. Winston was walking into a trap no amount of time hopping would allow him to penetrate. Bledsoe’s deepest regret was that he wouldn’t be there to see the kid thrown into a cell or, with just a bit more luck, shot on sight.
With a start, Bledsoe realized that he might have entirely bungled his situation. If the Chase boy jumped back to the Area X of the past and found himself unable to penetrate it, what would be his next move? He would return to the present, of course. Perhaps he would try to disappear into some remote location and never be found. Perhaps he would try to pull off some juvenile revenge plot against Bledsoe. Either way, he was a bleeding heart type. Think of the poor Tagaloas! How could he just strand them, knowing that Bledsoe would slander their boy’s name as the primary accomplice of a nuclear terrorist?
No, if Winston survived his hop into old Area X, one way or another, his most likely next move would be to return to the present, and if he had to leave Area X in a hurry, then he would return to—
A grin tugged at the corners of Bledsoe’s mouth just as a flash of yellow broke the river’s surface five or six feet to his right — a yellow bass, which was rare in these waters. Bledsoe didn’t believe in signs and omens, but it did reinforce that the unexpected could be practically under one’s nose.
He picked up the two Alpha Machine pieces, set the torus within the slender ring, and watched them lift and slowly spin above his hands. The passing thought intruded that if he’d grabbed the other two pieces, he might have been able to see back in time and view this place as it existed in his childhood. He would give anything to see his mother again.
Grimacing, Bledsoe pushed the thought aside and focused on what needed to come next. The navigation controls appeared in the lower left of his field of view and, activating them, he watched that second, somewhat muted view of reality materialize behind the world around him. Even after all these years, he remembered Area X almost as well as his childhood home. He concentrated on its site and landmarks, and in seconds the Alpha Machine whisked his v
iewpoint to the crescent-shaped cliffs and brown, rubble-strewn plain that marked what had once been the government’s most secret lab.
Bledsoe zoomed in until his second self stood almost directly under the rock overhang, just before the shadows that so deftly concealed what had once been a parking garage. The gun emplacements were long gone, but even now, the towering bowl of rock conveyed a sense of ominous, impending weight, as if it might suddenly come toppling down on anyone who tried to break through its impassable facade. Bledsoe couldn’t hear the environment and didn’t bother activating sound, as there was nothing to hear. There were no signs of wind. The sense he had of dust and arid grit in his nostrils and the back of his mouth could only have been conjured from memory. Still, he could almost feel the low sun’s heat bouncing off the cliff tops high above him.
Could Winston be here? He had nearly shot the kid about five miles from this point. As he surveyed the desert around him, Bledsoe wondered if he should raise his perspective to a higher elevation and search more broadly for movement. Alternatively, he tried to push his perspective deeper into rock, into the old parking area and the lobby beyond the inner security gates, but something kept him from pressing inward. Radiation, perhaps? If there were some sort of wireless connection between his physical self and his other-self located at Area X, then it might make sense that residual radiation from the 1948 blast could interfere with the underlying communication method. Unlike in aboveground areas such as Hiroshima and Chernobyl, there was no rain or manual removal of radioactive debris to help decontaminate Area X. The place would still be a dangerous hot zone, even sixty-five years later.
That thought led to another: Assuming that some levels of Area X might still be accessible, would it be possible that people in radiation-resistant hazmat suits could be inside? If so, what would they find? Could any of the old research and artifacts have survived the blast? If he were there in person, Bledsoe could go inside. He knew from his animal testing that the QVs would protect him. Of course, if they could protect him, then could protect anyone with QVs, if such people existed.
He felt a sudden chill run down his back.
Something moved directly before him. A figure emerged from the old parking area overhang, and Bledsoe was so stunned that he nearly recoiled and might have dropped the Alpha Machine pieces into the river.
The man was bald, and his dark skin gleamed where visible above the collar of his white shirt and emerald green silk tie. His impeccably tailored black suit and leather Oxford shoes left no doubt that the man was an agent. Bledsoe guessed him to be fifty years old and of medium height and slender build. Even in the few steps the Agent took in approaching Bledsoe’s position, fine beads of sweat formed and sparkled atop his bare head. It took a moment for the memory to click into place, then Bledsoe knew he had met the man once before.
He stopped directly before Bledsoe’s other-self and cocked his head slightly, as if listening. Then the Agent straightened, reached into his suit jacket’s outer pocket, and withdrew a white business card. He held it up between the tips of his thumb and index finger. Bledsoe had to lean forward slightly to read it, then recoiled when he saw the three words: MANAGEMENT, Command One.
The man paused for a moment, seemingly in wait for some cue, then his fingers pinched so that the card snapped flat between the fingertips. He turned the back of the card to face Bledsoe. In a bold, imperative font, it read: COME HERE.
12
Subterranean Syndrome
After several minutes and many more bumps and scrapes in the near-darkness, Winston was fairly sure the guard was not pursuing him. He could no longer see any trace of the cave’s mouth, but Winston still kept the light from Little e as low as he dared. Rubble and boulders lay everywhere in the downward-sloping cave, and every so often a half-buried pickax, shattered lantern, or some similar artifact would try to catch his toe or turn his ankle. He wanted more light to help his footing, but he wanted to conserve energy more. Every time a rock slipped, the sound echoed off into the void. He soon lost track of distances beyond his small, blue bubble of illumination.
The air lay still and heavy in the mine. It smelled of dry earth with a faint undertone that reminded Winston of soured milk. The tunnel width seemed to have been cut at least four feet wide, which Winston guessed had been wide enough for carts, but sometimes rockfalls forced him to turn sideways or clamber over obstructions. The jagged ceiling was low enough that Winston often had to duck, and thick beams, now desiccated and cracking, braced the tunnel every so often. Several times, Winston noticed sparkling patches in the jagged walls or ceiling. He wondered how long, even in 1948, this mine had sat silent and abandoned.
Bernie’s voice appeared in his head almost instantly.
Winston’s musings came to an abrupt halt when he made out jagged shadows on the wall directly before him. The tunnel ended without so much as a warning sign.
“What the—?”
Winston did and raised Little e for a better view. The shadow cast by a slight rise in the floor had hidden a rough hole in the tunnel floor that punched down into deeper darkness. The top two rungs of a rusty iron ladder clung to the hole’s side.
“Oh, good,” said Winston. “More tunnel.”
He leaned over the opening and held Little e before him, risking a bit more illumination to see that the ladder was about twenty feet long. Most of that distance cut through layers of rock, then opened into a short gap above a dusty, bumpy stone floor.
Glad to have the distraction of Bernie’s conversation, Winston carefully positioned his feet on the top rung and began to descend. The push of air from the lower level up through this bottleneck ruffled Winston’s hair and cooled the nervous sweat he hadn’t realized was on his neck and forehead. With only one free hand, he found it doubly difficult to keep his backpack from snagging on the sharp edges of rock behind him. The ladder left long brown smudges on his shirt when he had to press against it.
Winston stepped off the ladder onto the tunnel floor. His initial impression had been wrong. There was just enough space here for him to stand up straight without bumping his head, and he set off into the new passageway. Then Bernie’s phrasing returned to him and made him freeze.
Bernie did not answer.
Bernie answered with patience and a hint of sympathy.
“Like a Terminator,” whispered Winston.
Winston stifled a laugh as he worked his way over a large pile of boulders and rubble. In Little e’s glow, he noticed that the rocks all around him were crusted with pale splatters. He glanced at the ceiling, wondering what sort of mineral would leave such deposits. Calcium?
A low ache began to pulse across the top of Winston’s head. When was the last time he had eaten or really slept? He couldn’t have had more than three or four hours of sleep on the plane after Council Crest, and before that…?
The order of events darted through Winston’s mind in a jumble, resisting his efforts to fit them together in a linear flow. Cartlandia. The forest. Bledsoe’s face before him in the river. A cargo freighter. The Shanghai tunnels. Scenes danced in his imagination, taunting him, then scurried away. His stomach rumbled and the throbbing in his head felt more insistent.
Winston’s ankle turned on a rock, and he went down on his free hand. Little e’s light dimmed almost into darkness as pain shot up Winston’s leg and he cried out. Nothing snapped, though. Winston rose unsteadily and tested his weight on the ankle. It ached and protested, but he didn’t think it was too bad.
Then a head rush came on, and the cave tilted around him.