by Darcy Fray
“I phoned an associate of mine in Moscow to discuss a Russian physicist named Dr. Dmitry Zolkin. A brilliant man, but his research is -- let’s just say, interesting.”
“And?”
“And apparently Zolkin went missing seven months ago.”
“Missing?” Wilkinson’s curiosity was piqued.
“He stopped showing up to his lectures at Saint Petersburg State University and no one has seen him since.”
“Why is he of interest?”
“Early in his career he did some highly theoretical and experimental work related to the human soul, commonly referred to as the Dusha Theory.”
“I thought you science types don’t believe in souls.”
“Well, Zolkin does. He believes that the energy of the human soul, Dusha, is immeasurably powerful. According to his theory, the only way to capture that energy is upon its departure from a dying body, making the research itself morally questionable.”
“I’ll say. And how does this relate to the Crimms?”
“If you look at the list, every one of those theories -- wormholes, particle beam weapons, anything -- would involve a source of power far beyond anything within our current inventory. Anti-matter could be the only other feasible possibility, if it didn’t cost over twenty-five billion dollars a gram to make. Beyond that, it’s almost impossible to store since it reacts with any matter it comes into contact with, annihilating both itself and the container. We’re years if not decades away from fully understanding it.”
“What makes you think this Dusha energy is any different?”
“There were rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“Well, Zolkin left academia for a number of years. Some believe he was conducting his Dusha experiments on prisoners in remote Siberian jails...at the request of the Russian government.”
“Christ, if the Russians have this in their hands, we’re all screwed. In your opinion, is this Dusha stuff even possible?”
“Zolkin is a brilliant physicist.”
“Then we’ll have to find him, won’t we?”
•••
Crum, WV - Dewdrop Inn
Fletcher Crisp was fast asleep in room number thirteen at the Dewdrop Inn. The motel hadn’t seen a decor change since the late seventies, and was awash in mustards, dull greens and cheap wood paneling. The owl patterned bedspread, matched cream colored sheets and pillows were all laid in a heap at the foot of the bed. After all, an Englishman need look no further than Lord Jeffrey Amherst and the smallpox blankets to learn of the dangers of communal bedding. Fletcher slumbered atop the bare queen-sized mattress cocooned in a high-altitude mummy sleeping bag.
Five hours earlier, he had returned from his expedition damp, tired and chilled to the bone. He hurriedly shed his wet clothing before examining the wound on the palm of his right hand, a two-inch clean, straight laceration. The blood had clotted, but it would require stitches.
He rustled through a bathroom vanity drawer, unearthing a complimentary sewing kit, which he set down on the nightstand next to an empty glass. He poured and downed three fingers of vodka from his silver hip flask that was proudly engraved with the SAS emblem of a downward-pointing Excalibur wreathed by flames and bearing the motto “Who Dares, Wins.” He poured another and immersed both the needle and thread in the glass of vodka, allowing them to disinfect while he scrubbed his wound clean in the bathroom. After thoroughly drying his hands, he removed the needle and thread from the glass and casually closed the laceration with ten easy stitches. Didn’t flinch once.
Fletcher reached for his backpack and removed the enigmatic pyramid from the lead-lined storage bag. It was far heavier than it appeared. He ran his handheld radiation detector over it. Nothing out of the norm. He slowly rotated the pyramid on the palm of his good hand, examining it from all angles. The unusual matte finish absorbed light like a deep-space black hole. He set it down on the nightstand, fired up his laptop and proceeded to upload the photos from his camera to a private Veritas Bellum server. Not one to watch progress bars, he jumped in the shower. Unfortunately, the Dewdrop Inn’s lone water heater had already exhausted itself for the day, so he resigned himself to the lukewarm shower, toweled off, crawled into his mummy bag and fell into a deep sleep.
The phone rang. And rang again. “Hello,” Fletcher said, fighting off a yawn.
“Mornin’, Mr. Crisp, this is yer wake-up call,” Cooter Boone said in his thick Appalachian drawl. He had one hand on the red rotary phone handset and one on the remote for the nineteen-inch TV mounted in the corner of the reception area. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to watch a rerun of Kate Plus 8 or The Real Housewives of Miami.
“Morning,” Fletcher replied.
“You have a good one now.”
“You too, Cooter.”
“Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise.”
“I can assure you the creek levels are just fine, a little cold, but fine,” Fletcher remarked as he hung up the phone, amusing only himself. He deftly maneuvered out of the sleeping bag and walked over to his laptop. The email he was anticipating was sitting in his inbox.
From: veritas 213
Subject: Dust Photos
Date: November 2, 2015 4:22:13 AM EST
To: [email protected]
Photos are amazing. Too explosive and incriminating for both you and Veritas to leak on our site first. Have already distributed via the alternate channel. Over 50,000 hits on WorldOrderUnderground.com in 4 hrs. This is big. Great work, see you this evening. Your flight details are as follows:
Charleston (CRW) to Denver (DEN), Friday, November 2, 2015 - Flight F9 371
Departs Arrives Check-in
06:15 PM 07:50PM FRONTIER (F9), Terminal Unknown
Denver (DEN) to Burbank (BUR), Friday, November 2, 2015 - Flight F9 417
Departs Arrives Check-in
08:40 PM 10:03 PM FRONTIER (F9), Terminal Unknown
Fletcher powered up his laptop, directing the browser to WorldOrderUnderground.com, one of the most popular conspiracy-oriented sites on the net. He had visited the site on dozens of occasions, but each time he opened the homepage, it never failed to crash his eyeballs. No wonder people don’t take this stuff seriously, he thought as he attempted to navigate through the impossibly meandering, cheap, garish website. It took him a minute, but he finally found his story. It looked like the view count had already bettered one hundred thousand.
Update On Dust, WV “Anthrax” Story
By Jerry Goodspeed
11-2-15
You’ve all seen the video out of Dust, WV of the crazy pulsing blue light by now. And you’ve all heard the story the Army’s putting out that it has something to do with the Anthrax-making Crimm family and a blown power transformer. But what you haven’t heard is that it’s all a ruse...and we have the proof. One of our sources has just sent us the following images of the Anthrax trailer which is where the entire Crimm family were allegedly infected with their own bio-weapon, before succumbing last week. As you can see, those are U.S. Army soldiers walking in and out of the trailer and not a single one of them is wearing a biochem suit or gas mask, while at the South entrance to Dust (where the mainstream media are still camped out), the troops are running around in hazmat suits getting showered off in Decon Tents. Something doesn’t add up.
Our insider also reports that not only is the Anthrax story a cover, but the real story is that the entire population of Dust disappeared into thin air on the night of October 30, 2015. Can anyone say Qinling Mountains? More to come...
It will do. He’d rather that CNN were running the story, or even his friend Suzy from the bar, but you take what you can get. He wanted the truth out there, whatever it might be.
•••
Dust, WV - Crimm Trailer
Gordon stood alone in the middle of the Crimm trailer, arms hanging at his sides, like a young schoolboy awaiting either direction or discipline.
Wilkinson had dismissed all of the military personnel in the area so Gordon could proceed unhindered, but the silence itself was proving to be the distraction. Everything was just a little too still.
The trailer was scheduled for demolition later that day, unless Gordon found a reason to delay that schedule. The media was to be informed that an explosive device had been discovered in the trailer and EOD would be brought in to safely handle the detonation. The last thing the Army wanted was for the Crimm trailer to become some sort of mecca for conspiracy theorists after the inevitable pullout.
Gordon had already studied the scientific data pulled from the trailer and the surrounding area and felt confident that his untrained investigative eye would be of little help. He felt ill-equipped for the task at hand. Top physicist, yes, but he was no Sherlock. Was he really their best option? Gordon knew such questions led one down treacherous unlit paths, and quickly turned his thoughts back to the trailer.
The living conditions were eye-opening.
By Dust standards, Gordon had been raised in opulence in Fort Huachuca, Arizona, home of the U.S. Army and NSA intelligence complex. His mother, Margaret, had created a handsome home out of the less than inspiring on-base military housing. She was there to greet him every day after school and he never wanted for a home-cooked meal or freshly baked treat.
This was different, so different that it was difficult for Gordon to process. He had seen low-income housing before, but this was different – this was truly no-income housing.
The filth was what really shocked him. Soiled clothing, tattered furniture, grease-smeared walls...garbage everywhere. It looked as though someone had recently thrown a plate of spaghetti against the paneled trailer wall and decided to let it dry there. In certain circles it may have passed as a modern art piece, but in Dust, it was a way of life.
Gordon rummaged through some of the Crimms’ remaining belongings, but it was clear to Gordon that whatever happened to the Crimms had come as a complete surprise to them.
As Gordon exited the trailer, he noticed something strange. The area was heavily forested, yet there was no sign of a single bird, squirrel or living creature to be seen or heard, anywhere.
•••
Dust, WV - CSH
Gordon and Wilkinson entered the elaborate combat support hospital that had been established on the outer perimeter of Base Camp. The interior’s white arched mylar walls, stainless steel medical equipment and tubular fluorescent lighting, brought to mind the set of a futuristic sci-fi film.
With the initial confusion and complexity surrounding the case, the Army opted for subscribing to the “more is more” principle; the CSH could easily accommodate upwards of fifty patients at any given time. The overkill looked better for the press and helped to support the “official” story, that all twenty-three residents of Dust had succumbed to anthrax. At this point, as far as the media was concerned, the hospital was functioning as a morgue, and young Caden Crimm’s body was among those corpses.
In reality, Caden sat in an armchair adjacent to his regulation hospital bed. He was engrossed in a braille version of the The Hunger Games, having all but devoured the book in two days. He imagined himself hunting and foraging in District 12. He too, knew what it was like to go hungry.
“Good afternoon, Caden. My name is John and this is my friend Dr. Gray.” Wilkinson gently laid his hand atop the boy’s shoulder.
“Hi.” Caden looked up from his book in their general direction. The only clue to his blindness was his sincere gaze that never quite seemed to hit its target.
“Would it be alright if we ask you some questions?”
Caden shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I reckon. I might not know too many answers, cause I ain’t done no schoolin’ in a spell.”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine. Dr. Bennett says you’ve picked up braille very well.” Wilkinson’s spirited tone sounded about as natural as a tuba in a string quartet.
“Yes sir. Y’all read thisn’?” Caden proudly held up his copy of The Hunger Games.
“I’m afraid I haven’t.”
“It’s a goodin’. I clean forgot summa tha words, but I love it anyways,” Caden said, with a big smile on his face.
Gordon cleared his throat. Enough with the chit-chat. “Caden, can you tell me if you felt anything strange in the air on the night your family disappeared?”
“If you mean did it feel like a bug zapper, yes, it did.”
“Can you explain that to me a little more?”
“Like ‘bzzzt’ -- dead bug.” Caden made a hand gesture of a bug flying into a bug zapper and dropping dead.
“The air felt electric?”
“Dunno, cause we ain’t got nary none.”
“Bug zappers?”
“No ‘lectricity.”
“Okay, well do you remember anyone saying anything when you heard the loud sound?”
“I could only hear Grandma Boo sayin’, ‘the light, the light, the light’ and then just nothin’.”
“One last thing, Caden. Are there normally a lot of birds and animals in the trees around your house, or is it generally pretty quiet?”
“No sir, it’s real loud. All kinds of birds and critters, and I can always hear them ‘coons chuckin’ in the stump behind the trailer.”
Was his hunch correct? The weapon had dematerialized everything with a pulse within a given radius...except for the kid. The thought brought to mind the old English proverb, “The eyes are the windows to the soul.” Perhaps the weapon was able to detect optic nerve transmission? It seemed an odd parameter to target, but “odd” seemed to be the norm in Dust.
CHAPTER SIX
Zolkin
7 Months Earlier - Undisclosed Location
DUST PARTICLES DANCED in the shaft of light streaming through a slit in the solid steel door. The ambient pocket provided just enough illumination to reveal a man curled up in his own filth at the back corner of the 4’x4’ cell. He mumbled to himself incoherently as he picked imaginary nits from his bedraggled beard.
Suddenly, the cell door swung open. A high-intensity work light flooded the room, blinding the prisoner and revealing the cell’s grimy, inhuman conditions. A cockroach scurried up the mildewed cement wall. The prisoner nervously twitched.
Silhouetted by the light, an imposing figure stepped into the doorway, dragging a high-volume fire hose behind him.
“Such filth. Look at you. You filthy pig,” the thick-chested man spat out in a heavy foreign accent. “Time for a bath.” The man turned on the hose and pointed it directly at the prisoner who assumed a defensive posture, bowing his head and lifting his arms to protect his face. The contortions did little to mitigate the onslaught. Within seconds, the water was forcefully entering both his mouth and nasal cavity. He gasped for air, inhaling large quantities of water in the process. He was drowning.
The silhouetted man paused momentarily. “Are you ready to cooperate? Or do you want more?” The brief respite allowed the prisoner to cough up a lungful of water. Even if he had wanted to, he was physically incapable of responding.
The man entered the cell and drop-kicked the prisoner in the jaw, violently snapping his head back against the wall. The prisoner fell to the ground, lifeless. The heavy door slammed shut, returning the cell to darkness.
•••
Dust, WV - Base Camp
Gordon sat at his desk, deep in thought, reflexively spinning a pencil on the palm of his hand. Immediately following his discussion with Wilkinson, Gordon’s assigned team had compiled and acquired an exhaustive collection of anything and everything pertaining to Dusha and Zolkin. The entire set of books, journals and printed web matter rested before him, including one of the impossibly rare original copies of Zolkin’s Oxford graduate thesis, which was where the theory had first appeared. Gordon picked up the document and perused the cover.
High Energy Physics and the Human Soul
The Dusha Theory
A thesis presented by
Dmitry A. Zolkin
To The Department of Physics in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the subject of Physics
Oxford University
Oxford, England
May 1978
The thesis was legendary in the physics world. The title alone set it apart, sounding more like a bestselling crossover science/self-help book than a serious scientific paper. It certainly hinted at the complexity of its author’s psyche. Interestingly, Zolkin possessed not only a brilliant physics mind, but also an expertise in the the Age of Romanticism in Russian literature. He had written two highly regarded books on the work and life of Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin, and was fond of peppering his scientific papers and books with his poetic phrases. It was Pushkin’s seminal poem “I Loved You Once...” that first inspired him to pursue the soul as an energy source.
I Loved You Once...
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.
I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.
I loved you with such tenderness and candor
And pray God grants you to be loved that way again.
Zolkin first read the poem as a doctoral candidate in Oxford’s prestigious physics program. As a young man he had never paid much attention to literature or poetry. His aptitude in science had been discovered at an early age, and from that point on he was groomed for a life in physics. Art, music and literature fell by the wayside...until he met Sarah Appleton, a classic English rose, with a creamy white complexion, wavy chestnut brown hair, moon-sized hazel eyes and a disarming smile. She was an undergraduate student in the English department at Oxford when their destinies first entwined.
