He paid that blood no attention. But he did pay attention to something else. Not far from Moss’s body lay that soldier’s M4 carbine with its infrared scope.
Franco looked at the weapon, then looked at the stairs ascending to sublevel 5.
Those fuckers left me here to die.
Franco tried to stand again but he managed it for only a long second; the pain was too much. He could do no better than hunch over and limp as he made his way to the carbine.
Biggy grabbed it. The grip and trigger were painted in Moss's blood but Franco barely noticed the mess, just as he failed to recognize that it had been his shotgun that had blown away half that man's body. No, Franco was more interested in the magazine, which he ejected and examined, finding it full.
Idiot didn't even fire a shot. Died without a shot. Fuck that. I'm going down with both barrels blazing.
Franco slung the M4 over his shoulder, wobbled to the stairwell, and grabbed the rail for balance.
They owed him a debt and he planned to collect.
20
Captain Campion stood in one corner of a big room full of bookshelves, tables, microfilm readers, and mammoth monitors hooked to equally large computer towers complete with floppy drives. He realized the place was, in fact, a library, but it could also pass as a museum.
Jupiter Wells and Sal Galati stood to either side, trying to catch their breath after a double-time evacuation from the combat zone.
Still, they had escaped the initial danger, giving Campion an opportunity to get his bearings and plan their next move. To that end, he examined the display on his wrist computer yet again. He knew better than to completely trust that map. After all, the facility's layout had changed during its construction in the early 70s, not to mention some levels undergoing remodeling and retasking in the years before the incident. Add in the fact that the images on his screen were actually poor-quality scans from forty-year-old blueprints and the result was more of a general overview than an accurate representation of sublevel 6.
Wells tapped Campion's shoulder.
"Hey, Cap, just so you know, you almost forgot this."
Wells held the duffel bag containing the V.A.A.D. unit. Somehow, for some reason, Campion had completely forgotten about his half of the equipment. In fact, right before the battle broke out he had focused entirely on keeping Twiste and the bag that man carried safe, yet that bag contained only batteries.
For the first time in his career, Campion worried he might be losing focus. How could he possibly have concentrated so much on Twiste and disregarded the fact that Twiste was useless without the main unit? Worse, how could he leave the battle scene and not even remember the one piece of gear that was critical to completing the mission?
As he recounted the confrontation outside the elevator, Campion came to realize that his mind had not seemed quite right during that entire episode. While forcing Twiste to go first turned out—ironically—to be the best move, it made no sense and did go against Major Gant's wishes.
Galati's voice speaking into his tactical headset interrupted Campion's thoughts.
"Do you copy? Major Gant, do you copy? What is your position?"
"Give it a rest, Sal," Wells told his friend. "You won’t get anything but static unless you’re in line of sight."
"Pipe down, you two," Campion ordered. "Speak only when necessary. We don’t want to draw any attention if we don’t have to."
Wells moved away from Campion and removed his helmet to run a hand through his sweat-soaked hair.
The blast and fire had bought them cover for their retreat, which started out as a run down the hall followed by a shortcut through a large computer room housing an ancient HP mainframe that had not been in use for years before the initiation of quarantine. From there they stumbled about in the dark for a few minutes before finding the library.
A line of big, rectangular windows separated the room from one of the main corridors from which several battery-powered spotlights shined in, providing better light than in most sections of the underground facility. Never mind the question as to how battery-powered lights still worked after twenty years of total isolation.
The three soldiers stood behind a row of reference books. Wells glanced at some of the titles—all scientific journals and reference volumes—while Galati gave up on the radio and turned his attention to his weapons. He had expended quite a bit of ammunition and was running low.
Wells asked, "Hey, Cap, why aren’t we bugging out?"
Campion did not turn away from his study of the map as he answered, "I said stow it, soldier. I’ve got work to do."
"With all due respect, sir," Wells kept on, "we somehow managed to survive Little Big Horn out there yet we’re not heading back up. Why not?"
"We have a mission to complete."
"Mission? We just got overrun and routed by some of the nastiest shit I've ever seen. Isn't it time to get back to the exit? You know, live to fight another day."
Campion snapped the cover of his wrist computer shut and looked Wells directly in the eye.
"Listen to me, both of you. We have a mission to complete. That's why we were sent down here. You knew coming in that this was going to get crazy, so don’t start acting like a couple of school kids. Focus and let your training do the job."
"Hey," Galati strolled over to him. "I've been, you know, on missions more fucked up than this one but I got to admit, maybe we should—"
"Bullshit, Sal," Wells spat. "You have never been on anything as fucked up as this, just like you never banged a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model and you didn't call that pool shot in the rec room the other night. Now isn't the time for one of your stupid stories."
Galati coked his head at his friend's shot across the bow and opened his mouth to launch a rebuttal, but Captain Campion interceded.
"Shut the fuck up, both of you."
His use of such strong language knocked them off balance, just as planned. Campion was not opposed to four-letter words, but he knew such words had their place. Dropping f-bombs in every sentence sort of reduced the effect, but when Richard Campion let one fly it grabbed attention.
"I am not routed. I plan to take back the initiative and I plan to complete the mission. This is who we are; this is what we do. We stick together, we work as a team, and we get the job done. I'll cover your backs, you cover mine and we'll make it through this."
Both men stared at him, either thinking him crazy and plotting a mutiny or buying in to his words. Campion did not know which way they would go. He was never good at reading personalities or emotions. He dealt with facts and he lived by a code he expected others to follow, no matter how often they disappointed him.
Of course, retreat always remained an option; a tool for use in war like any other weapon or tactic. But one did not retreat when the objective was only two floors below.
Sal sort of smirked and said, sheepishly, "I've heard better inspirational speeches, Cap," and he glanced at Wells.
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Wells gave in, too. "Whatever you say, I'm in," he said, then he punched Galati lightly in the shoulder. "But only because someone has to look after his sorry ass."
Sal puckered his lips and blew him a kiss. "You can kiss this sorry ass, sweetheart."
Campion popped open the computer again, now that things seemed under control.
He told the men, "We're going to find another way down. If we have to cut through the bioweapons sector, so be it, but I'd like to find a route around or an alternative means of descent."
"Bioweapons?" Wells asked. "Say, Cap, you think that's where those things came from? You know those things that hit us. They seemed like some kind of nasty bioweapons project gone bad."
"What?" Campion said, because he thought Wells's suggestion sounded absurd. "What would that have to do with anything? If it was an experiment that went bad, then maybe it had something to do with time travel. Those uniforms were from the 1940s."
"Uniforms? What uniforms?" Wells tilted his head
and squinted his eyes in a manner that suggested he questioned the Captain's sanity. "How the hell would something like that wear a uniform?"
Campion shut his computer lid again and looked at Wells. "Those were German soldiers who attacked us, or people dressed up like World War Two Germans. You know I'm an expert on that kind of thing."
"Germans?" Wells gasped. "Those weren't Germans who attacked us. Those were spiders, Cap. Spiders the size of cats and dogs. How the hell could you mistake something like that for soldiers? You hit your head or something?"
Campion's mind raced. What had he seen during the battle? He clearly remembered the sound of the approaching soldiers, their gear, the way they lunged forward brandishing bayonets. That is what he had seen but … he had noticed Wells shooting at the floor, exactly where a big spider would be. And Franco, he had gone crazy.
"Wait a second," Campion said to Wells and then glanced at Galati, who, for his part, was surprisingly silent and stood with his head bowed. "You saw spiders? I saw German soldiers."
"How is that possible?"
"I'm guessing you don't like spiders?"
Wells broke eye contact, shuffled his feet, and admitted, "Nah, man, I hate the little bastards. They give me the creeps."
"And I've always got World War Two on my mind. I've always sort of, I guess, sort of thought of the Germans as an impressive military machine from back then."
Wells scratched the side of his head just under his tactical helmet and said, "So, I saw spiders and you saw Germans? We imagined it all?"
"I don’t know," Campion said. He tried to recall the sequence of events. "Did any of them touch you? Did you shoot any of the spiders you saw? I kept hitting Germans but not killing them, just sort of knocking them down and buying time."
Wells snapped his fingers. "Me too. They'd get up close and I'd shoot them. Sometimes they ran off, sometimes they just sort of disappeared. Never got me, though. Say, you saying they weren't really there? Just all in our heads?"
"I think so." Campion wondered if the Defense Department had worked on some kind of mind control weapon in this place. "Something sure as hell got in Biggy's head. He shot Moss and Pearson. Maybe he didn't mean to. Maybe he saw something else. I had to … well I told you, I had to put him down."
Why don't I feel bad about that?
Wells shook his head.
"I don't know about that, Cap. I don't think it's a coincidence that Franco shot two black guys. If you hadn't shot him, I bet he would have taken me out next. I hate spiders, so I saw spiders. Franco has his own list of things he hates, if you know what I mean. Christ, man, what if this thing can make us see whatever? We could end up shooting each other."
Campion noticed Sal's silence.
"I saw you shooting, Sal. You were right by me. What did you see?"
Sal raised his head but looked anywhere but at his two comrades.
"C'mon, Sal, don't get shy," Wells jumped in. "What did you see, man?"
"I saw, um, I saw spiders. Biggest fucks I've ever seen, six legs and—"
"Bullshit, Sal. Spiders have eight legs. What did you see?"
Galati kicked dust under his boot, shifted his gaze to the ceiling, and let out a deep sigh before answering.
"Clowns, man. I saw fucking clowns."
—
Another grunt of pain. To Sergeant Franco each of those grunts sent loud echoes through the entire complex; echoes that would give away his position and call more of the creatures to come raining down on him.
He welcomed it. He hoped they would come with their greedy little mouths gaping and groping for another meal.
Fucking eating me. Eating ME.
Bring it on, you fucks.
Anger and hate were more familiar emotions than fear. He preferred those feelings to being afraid. With the right amount of internal pep talk to crank out adrenaline, he could turn fear into anger and hate. This was a type of alchemy he had known since his youngest days.
Go and buy me a pack of smokes. And I swear if you waste any of my hard-earned money on a soda or some candy shit I will kick you right in your fat ass.
"Okay, Dad, I'll go.”
His hand reached further along the stair railing. Franco used his upper body strength to pull the rest of his body along. His right leg—the one that had been chewed on—throbbed. Despite the bandage and despite the tourniquet, he knew it still bled.
He channeled the pain in the same direction as the fear. As the blood drained, his consciousness faded in and out, but each time he snapped back, angrier still.
His left hand—gripping the M4—slung forward and clanged against the floor of sublevel 5. His right hand reached higher on the railing, gripped, and his body followed his weapon as he returned to the level where it had all started.
Franco needed to rest. He had pushed his endurance and pulled his weight all the way up the long flight of stairs from the battlefield below. It had taken him only a few minutes to descend those stairs when he led the team down. Climbing on an injured leg, with his strength draining, an infection spreading through his body, and his sanity stretched and pulled like a rubber band about to snap, took far longer.
Biggy! If you expect special treatment at practice because I'm your father you are sorely mistaken.
"I got it, Coach. Loud and clear, sir."
Franco rolled over and gazed at the ceiling. He gasped as he exhaled into the cold air. He felt dust swirling all around him. The dust they had left him behind to die in..
And where were those guys now? Probably down in one of the lower levels, finishing the precious mission. Doing it by the book. Following those orders with a jump in their step and a quick salute.
You put some effort into this, Biggy, or you'll never get a scholarship to play for the Blue Hens.
"Maybe I don't want to go to school and play football at Delaware. Maybe I'll join the army."
He closed his eyes—squeezed them shut as hard as he could—tried desperately to clear his mind of ghosts. But the more the infection spread, the more of his blood dripped out, the more his exhaustion and pain nibbled at his sanity, the same way that thing had taken bites from his leg.
"Shut up, Dad, I don't want to talk to you right now. I'm busy."
Franco turned over on his belly and gripped the floor with his palm. The pain was not as bad when he lay on his belly. So Franco crawled, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
21
Gant peered around the corner.
More darkness, broken only by the crimson glow of a red warning light that illuminated more featureless, dusty walls. No sign of opposition, however, so he felt safe to wave Twiste and his bag of V.A.A.D. batteries forward and out of the stairwell.
"Welcome to sublevel 8," Gant said.
"Let me guess," Brandon quipped as he produced and cracked on a green glow stick. "Ladies’ undergarments, furniture, and housewares."
"More like hazardous materials disposal, specialized containment vaults, and my personal favorite—Red Labs."
Three different corridors split in three different directions.
"Which way?"
Major Gant answered by swinging his tactical light to the wall. The beam illuminated the only bit of color on what was otherwise dull gray: a thick, red line.
"Not exactly a yellow brick road," Twiste said.
"But we will follow it just the same," Gant replied and they did, keeping the red line to their right as they walked through a particularly dark stretch of corridor with Gant's flashlight and Twiste's glow stick showing the way until they spotted a light at the end of the tunnel.
The red stripe led them to a rectangular junction. Several other passageways also converged at this spot, each leading their own version of a red stripe to this place.
An imposing counter built into one wall dominated the area. Behind that counter stood an array of monitors and electronic equipment, all dormant and covered with ancient dust. A big sign proclaimed in stenciled letters SECURITY.
The area felt like an antechamber due to the seats, tables, and plastic plants lined up along the walls. Gant and Twiste could see these details because this was the best-lit area of the quarantine zone thus far. That added illumination came from a light box with a red frame emblazoned with the word CONTAINMENT fixed above the wide entrance to the Red Lab section.
Every time Major Gant encountered a Red Lab entrance it made him shudder. As often as he saw them he still could not get used to the fact that they even existed: research facilities deigned to handle the most dangerous experiments any scientist—any madman—could conceive of. So dangerous, so lethal, so secret that any mistake, any miscalculation, could turn the lab into a tomb.
In this case, the Red Lab entrance was a bulkhead; a thick door serving as the only entry and exit point for the laboratories beyond. As expected, that bulkhead stood open. After all, history recorded that Briggs had called for expanded quarantine, suggesting that this particular choke point had already been compromised. That resulted in the big vault door up on sublevel five.
That's not exactly right, though, is it, Thom? What did you find when you came in? That's right, the original vault door. One that had been overrun at some point in the past. Funny how Borman had failed to mention that little fact.
"Christ, these things just shouldn’t be," Twiste mumbled as he read a large sign posted alongside the entrance:
WARNING.
RED LAB SECTION: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Smaller print informed: In case of emergency, Red Lab section may be sealed off for containment purposes. Do not attempt to open these doors if the CONTAINMENT alarm is activated. Any attempt to do so will be met with lethal force. All personnel entering this area are required to receive Red Lab Containment Protocols Training. Passing through this entrance means you willfully accept the risks and hazards of working in this area.
Gant knew what Red Lab Containment Protocols Training referred to: legal agreements allowing the government to lie about when, where, and how you died. Agreements that signed over your remains to the facility and whatever authority operated that facility. The training essentially brainwashed participants into thinking the containment protocols existed for their protection.
Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle Page 20
