The Officially Unofficial Files of Dr. Gordon B. Gray

by Darcy Fray

  He pushed himself upright from the tree trunk and took a moment to steady himself. His equilibrium slowly returned. He took one tentative step away from the tree and then another. His eyes narrowed in an attempt to bring the large black object into focus.

  His heart sank.

  It was a body. Fletcher’s navy parka. He ran toward the lifeless form, almost choking on the growing lump in his throat. Tears welled in his wind-burned eyes. No, no, no.

  He stumbled and fell to his knees, as his strength evaporated like a mist in the Sahara. Every emotion he had failed to acknowledge over the last eleven days poured forth. He wept freely.

  “Get it...together...Gordon,” he stammered through flowing tears, which had already begun to freeze on his cheeks. He wiped them away on his sleeve, and pushed himself upright. He walked the remaining five yards with leaden feet.

  Gordon stood above the body, lying prone and half buried in the freshly fallen snow, contorted at an unnatural angle. He knelt down and gently tugged on the shoulder. The body had already begun to stiffen. He closed his eyes for a moment in anticipation of the dreaded unveiling.

  “C’mon, Gordon.”

  He lowered his shoulder and threw his full weight into the motion. The body awkwardly dislodged from its snowy grave. The vacant eyes of Ollie Kerr, tour guide, stared back. A huge smile blossomed on Gordon’s face as he broke out in nervous laughter. Was it wrong to find joy in a moment like this? Perhaps, but it did nothing to eclipse his complete elation.

  He gently lay the tour guide’s body down, careful to place the parka’s hood beneath his head. Blood and brain matter colored the snow behind him, damage only a high-powered rifle could inflict. The scene was all too familiar. One bullet, straight through the temple. The similarity between Ollie’s and his father’s death were obvious. A chill ran up his spine.

  Based on the contorted angle of the body and the blood splatter, Gordon deduced the shooter had been situated on a wooded crest about two hundred yards north of where he had left Fletcher.

  He jumped to his feet. The adrenaline surge had all but wiped out the effects of his probable concussion. With a bent steering column and a green viscous fluid leak, he quickly determined the snowmobile would be of no further use. Wasting no time, he ran toward the location on the crest.

  No plan. No fear.

  •••

  Rysevo, Russia - Farmhouse

  Harper had a plan. It was not her finest, and it involved far more unknowns than she would have liked, but given her current predicament, it would have to do.

  As the last remnants of daylight lingered above the distant horizon, her room slowly slipped into darkness. It was time to act.

  She turned toward the surveillance camera, waving to gain the attention of her watchers. With a pained expression, she clutched her stomach, doubling over in imaginary pain. No response. She repeated the motion. Still nothing. She walked across the room and stood directly beneath the camera. Impossible. The camera remained fixed upon the center of the room. In disbelief, she walked to the opposite corner. Same result. Seriously? No night vision? Her father had always said the Russians couldn’t organize a one-car funeral and the proof lay before her.

  She approached the door.

  “I’m sick. Need the restroom,” she barked as she pounded her clenched fist on the old oak door.

  The familiar sound of Nika’s heavy footsteps answered.

  Harper’s adrenaline surged, as her racing heart pounded in her ears.

  The sound of the skeleton key clattering around in the keyhole seemed ten times louder than before. Her heightened senses tingled as time slowed.

  After an agonizing pause, Nika stomped into the room, immediately reaching to the right of the door to flick the light switch on. The room remained in darkness. Harper laughed. Apparently her captors hadn’t bothered to check the only light bulb in the room either. One-car funeral.

  “Chush’ sobach’ya,” Nika cursed under her breath, flicking the switch on and off in vain.

  “I’m sick,” Harper whimpered as she bent over, clutching her stomach.

  As Nika’s feet entered her line of vision, Harper shoved her middle finger down her throat, forcing herself to vomit. Her bodily fluids splattered all over Nika’s pants and shoes.

  “Bitch!” Nika exclaimed in her heavy Russian accent as she looked down at the mess in disgust.

  Harper stomped down on Nika’s left foot with her full weight. In her heightened state, she swore she could hear the tiny bones crack beneath her heel.

  Nika reflexively bent down to grab her foot. Harper seized the moment, placing her hands atop Nika’s head as she yanked it down to meet her rapidly approaching knee. Nika tumbled to the ground clutching both her broken foot and bloodied nose. Harper drew her leg back as far as she could and issued the coup de grâce, a knockout kick to the head. Nika’s neck snapped back unnaturally as it slammed into the unforgiving floor.

  “And don’t call me bitch.”

  The room fell into silence, splintered only by the whistling wind from the storm brewing outside her window.

  Harper froze. Had anyone else heard their scuffle? She held her breath in anticipation of discovery, but no one came. She glanced down at Nika, who was clearly out cold. Harper patted her down hastily, finding only empty pockets.

  She walked over to the door and peeked out into the dimly lit corridor. A sudden burst of boisterous laughter drifted up the stairs, freezing her in her tracks. Judging by the sound, there were at least five or six men, clearly far too consumed by their own enjoyment to notice the disturbance above their heads.

  The bathroom light at the end of the hallway beckoned. Harper exited the room, silently skating down the hall as if she were crossing a lake topped by paper-thin ice.

  The laughter and merrymaking continued as she entered the bathroom and hurriedly rummaged through the medicine cabinet above the sink. She found two syringes of the scopolamine she had been dosed with earlier. They were both destined for Nika’s thick neck.

  The cabinet beneath the sink harbored an ancient hair dryer, a few rolls of toilet paper, a filthy plunger, and a screwdriver. She instinctively reached for the screwdriver. She momentarily considered what it might feel like to plunge it into Nika’s neck.

  She pushed the macabre thought from the forefront of her mind as she retraced her steps down the hallway to her room. She was no murderer.

  Nika lay motionless on the floor, with the vulnerability of a sleeping giant. Harper administered both syringes of scopolamine, taking particular pleasure in jabbing Nika’s pulsing jugular.

  She glanced over at the bed. It would require almost Herculean strength to lift Nika’s dead weight up onto the bed frame. First, she yanked the thin mattress from her bed and dragged it over to the window. Anything to cushion the fall.

  A burst of wind rattled the pane. She gazed out at the dark stormy skies. Staying alive would require far more clothing than the cotton tee, hoodie, jeans and Chuck Taylors she was wearing. After some struggle, she managed to remove Nika’s wool sweater, trousers and boots. Everything was four sizes too big, perfect for layering.

  She placed her hands under Nika’s sweaty armpits and dragged her bulging half-naked body to the bed.

  Here we go. Harper stepped on top of the bare bedsprings, balancing deftly, as she threw her entire strength into lifting Nika. She managed to get Nika’s shoulders atop the frame, but quickly ran out of leverage room. Rather than allowing Nika to slide back down to the floor, Harper sat squarely on Nika’s face, leaning forward to grab her right leg. It was awkward, but Harper managed to lift the entire right side of Nika’s body up onto the bed. She hopped down, squatted at the bed’s side and pushed the remainder up onto the frame. She turned Nika’s body to face away from the camera and covered her in the thin quilt. Hardly a perfect body double.

  Nika’s clothing easily slid on over her own. She even managed to wedge her shoes inside Nika’s gargantuan boots.

  She
withdrew the screwdriver from her pocket, walked over to the window and went to work on the welded lock, her last remaining obstacle. Her palm blistered after just a few forceful jabs. The weld was going nowhere. However, she noticed the base of the lock had begun to loosen from the frame itself. She chipped away at the wood and eventually made a gap large enough to wedge the screwdriver into. She forced it in as far as it would go and torqued down on the makeshift lever with all her might. The lock splintered away from the old frame.

  Do or die.

  Harper slid open the window frame, allowing an arctic blast of air to rush past her as she popped her head out for one last look.

  Snow. It was everywhere...on the ground, swirling through the air and covering the treetops for as far as she could see. Even with the added clothing, she could feel the cold’s tireless pursuit, like a bloodhound on a rabbit trail. It wasn’t a question of “how,” but “when.”

  She lifted the thin cot mattress from the floor, folded it in two and slid it out the window. It would serve as both a cushion and a target.

  Harper straddled the window frame and looked down. The mattress seemed so far away. She held onto the frame with a vise-like grip and swung her other leg out. As her anxiety peaked, the metallic taste of fear filled her mouth. Her hips easily slid off the frame, jarring her shoulder as she caught herself and dangled from the ledge by her fingertips. Now or never.

  She plummeted to the ground below and instead of slowing, time seemed to accelerate. With her legs fully extended beneath her, she landed feet first. The pain was sharp and the accompanying sound unwelcome...a distinct crack.

  Overwhelmed, her mind fell into a dizzy stupor. As she looked skyward, she thought she could make out what appeared to be a digital clock on the surface of the moon. It read 01:43:22 and was counting down with each second. Crazy. The world seemed to melt around her as her eyes closed.

  •••

  Tunguska, Russia - The Facility

  Fletcher plummeted sixty feet down the exhaust ductwork, attempting to slow himself by leveraging his weight against the walls of the ducting as he fell. The impact acceleration was still enough to partially tear the peroneal tendon in his right ankle.

  “Sodding hell,” Fletcher murmured to himself as he crouched down in the cramped space to massage his already throbbing injury. Between the ankle, the dislocated shoulder and the bullet wound, he was in sad shape for a battle.

  That’s when he heard the gunshot. He gazed skyward. The tiny window of light above his head looked a universe away. He was well past the point of no return.

  From his cramped crouch, he considered his limited options. The ductwork split off in three different directions from his location. An old children’s counting rhyme his grandmother had taught him, randomly popped into his head. Hickery pickery, pease scon. Where will this young man gang? He’ll go east, he’ll go west, he’ll go to the crow’s nest. Hickery pickery, hickery pickery.

  “West, to the crow’s nest,” he thought aloud, glancing down at the digital compass on his watch. The display on his Timex Expedition rapidly shifted through a multitude of readings. He tapped the face a few times before pressing the reset button on the side of the watch. No change.

  “Bloody Bermuda Triangle down here,” Fletcher mumbled as he committed to a direction. “Left it is.”

  The ductwork offered just enough space to allow Fletcher to crawl on all fours. Thankfully, he had never been one to fear tight spaces. As he left behind his point of entry, the light dipped down dramatically. He pulled a small tactical flashlight from his parka pocket, illuminating his destined path.

  Fletcher’s thoughts jumped wildly back and forth between his current predicament, and thoughts of Harper and Gordon. The odds were certainly against them all. He was not a religious man, but moments like this created believers. He prayed to a God he wasn’t sure existed.

  With each movement, his ankle throbbed and his shoulder ached. “Way too old for this,” Fletcher grumbled as he crawled along. Finally, as he rounded a bend in the seemingly never-ending ductwork, a sliver of light beckoned.

  Far too exhausted to feel anything but relief at the thought of exiting the human hamster tunnel, he eagerly approached the small exhaust fan. A familiar sound welcomed him. Running water. He beamed at the thought of finding himself directly above the women’s locker room showers. A teenage fantasy, about to come true. His catlike crawl quickened at the mere thought.

  “You in here, Williams?” an American voice barked, shattering Fletcher’s fantasy.

  “Showers,” Williams responded, in a heavy British accent.

  Fletcher looked directly down through the whirring exhaust fan, which fragmented the scene below into discrete frames, like watching an old super 8mm film.

  “Fifty says it’s D.C.”

  “My very hefty paycheck is on New York. Shame they can’t target gents only,” Williams responded. “Consoling lonely women is one of my specialities.”

  “I prefer to make them cry,” the American retorted.

  “I miss women. Real women, not the beakers down here. And sunlight. And Theakston’s Old Peculier. Kill for a pint right now.”

  “Twenty-eight days and counting until we surface. Just in time for the Superbowl,” the American replied.

  “My, my. You Americans truly are a naive lot. You really think when you get back up there everything will be just as you left it? Sports, recliners, super-sized soft drinks, cheerleaders? After today, the world’s going to be a different place, mate. Governments in chaos, anarchy, fear...war.”

  “Maybe, but if things get too bad, I can always commit suicide by jumping off my wallet,” the American said, laughing as he rinsed his hair.

  “This disappearing act does pay well,” Williams chuckled. “As long as we don’t end up on the Tetris wall of death, I’ll be a happy man.”

  The American took pause, “You don’t think...nah...they wouldn’t.”

  “We don’t even know who ‘they’ are and clearly ethics don’t factor into their thinking. Haven’t you noticed you can’t get any higher than level three with your access card?”

  The two men exited the showers and migrated to the dressing area, escaping Fletcher’s field of vision. He pulled his trusty multi-tool from his pocket and began to loosen the exhaust fan, listening as he worked.

  “Well, Dmitry seems nice enough,” the American said as he pulled on his crisp white lab uniform.

  “He’s a shadow of his former self. I saw him speak at Oxford years ago. A vibrant, passionate man...nothing like the soulless automaton he’s become.”

  “You’re making me a little nervous, Williams.”

  “You should be. I am.” Williams glanced up at the large digital clock that rested above the locker room entrance. “Time to punch in.”

  The two men departed the locker room.

  Fletcher removed the final screw from the exhaust fan and glanced down at the floor below, weighing his options. The narrow opening would barely accommodate his shoulders and then he’d be left with a twelve-foot drop to the ground. Pain was inevitable. He took a deep breath, dropped his legs down through the opening, hanging onto the edge as he forced his shoulders through. He dangled for a moment, dreading the landing. One, two, three.

  An intense bolt of pain shot up from his already bruised and swelling ankle. Fletcher grimaced. “Stupid git.” He hobbled out of the shower area into the main dressing room. A quick glance revealed nothing out of the norm -- a few rows of lockers, benches, a stack of clean towels and an overflowing laundry cart.

  Fletcher grabbed his multi-tool and jimmied open the fixed combo lock on the locker directly in front of him. Empty. He tried another five lockers from different rows, to no avail.

  He eyed the laundry cart. It will have to do. He rummaged through it in search of a pair of white pants, a shirt and a lab coat in his size. He disrobed and changed, throwing his things in an empty locker, taking only the necessities with him. Gun. Sunflower seeds. H
e had hoped to acquire the access card the two men had spoken of, but would just have to make do.

  The clock was ticking.

  •••

  Tunguska, Russia - The Facility

  A spent shell, footprints and a fresh snowmobile track confirmed Gordon’s instinct. The sniper had stood in this exact position.

  Following the snowmobile track was easy; the difficult part was not knowing where or to whom it would lead. As he walked forward briskly, he re-played his call with Wilkinson over and over in his head, analyzing each nuance of their brief conversation. Had he taken the bait? Panic fluttered through him as he considered the weight of his decision. He would not be able to live with himself if something happened to Harper. And Fletcher...it would kill him.

  A blast of icy air assaulted the bare wound on his face, jarring him back to the present. He paused for a moment to gather his bearings. As he watched the last glimmer of sunlight disappear behind the distant mountains, the temperature plummeted. Without shelter, he’d be dead by morning.

  The oversized moon cast a breathtaking blue glow on the snow-blanketed world before him. The clock ticked.

  The assassin’s trail continued on toward the base of the imposing mountain that rose up before Gordon. Recognizing the time for caution had long since passed, he quickened his pace. The icy touch of the steel pistol against his taut stomach was a constant reminder of what was to come. He thought of his father lying dead in the snow with the back of his head blown off. It was the only fuel he needed.

  Gordon neared the base of the mountain. The path didn’t end at the mountain...it appeared to go right through it.

  The door’s facade was seamless. Even under Gordon’s intense scrutiny, the only clue to its existence was the terminated set of snowmobile tracks. He scanned the immediate area, desperate to find a way in.