She called them influences. He now stood at the core of their source and wondered if he could distinguish between his own deliberate actions and the persuasions of their captor. Of course his captor had demanded that he kneel and Gant had easily pushed aside that impulse.
Thom surveyed his surroundings. The two dancers stood on the far side of the room behind the radio, holding perfectly still with their eyes glued on the interlopers. Jolly hovered behind in the shadows, his breath occasionally whistling through his exposed teeth.
It seemed to Thom that the man and woman—the dancers—were likely a part of the original research team. As for Jolly, despite his horrid appearance he looked younger, probably one of the entry teams or a member of the base's garrison who fell under “God's” spell, serving as something akin to an attack dog.
As for the other, shorter creatures roaming the halls, he had no clue.
Brandon broke the silence, asking his friend, "How long do you think we're going to have to stand here?"
"That is a question I cannot answer. Why, do you have somewhere to go?"
"Yeah," Brandon swallowed hard and forced a brave front. "I want to go see a recruiter about re-enlisting."
Thom noticed a grimace run across Twiste's face and heard the slightest grunt.
"What is it? Your ankle, still?"
"All this standing isn't helping."
Gant spied a 1970s vintage molded plastic chair against one wall next to a line of cabinets and sinks. The major put an arm on Brandon's shoulder, led him over, and eased him into that molded chair.
Twiste showed his thanks with a nod and then removed his boot to examine his foot.
"Swollen like a son of a bitch," the doctor reported.
"I am sorry to hear that."
"Still better than third-degree burns, I suppose."
Gant looked around, half-expecting to see the big thing—Jolly—moving to disrupt Brandon's rest. But no, the giant stood in the shadows.
Of even greater importance, the radio remained silent despite a soft emerald glow coming from the tuner, and the mist in the observation window swirled unperturbed.
Thom decided to push his luck and spoke to the two dancers.
"So who are you two? Is one of you Dr. Briggs’?"
Despite asking the question, he expected the answer to be no. The man did not fit the description. But in fairness, twenty years underground with a psychopathic entity might deform the exterior as much as the mind.
Neither of the two moved, although he saw that the handguns they had taken from he and Twiste remained in their possession.
"I just want to talk," he said and stepped closer with his palms open in a nonthreatening manner.
They did not react, but he heard Jolly's breath grow more rapid, and that man—that thing—still carried Gant's HK MP5 as well as a pistol of his own. Of course, Jolly could probably rip Gant apart without the aid of any gun.
It made no difference, however, because before Gant could say any more the double doors opened and in staggered two of the pale creatures. As he watched them shuffle across the lab, Thom tried to understand what they were.
In many ways, they resembled human beings. Arms, legs, feet, and a torso. Two eyes, a pair of ears, a nose, a mouth, and all the right parts. The tallest was still a foot shorter than the average man, and their bodies seemed diseased and broken. Yet still, they were human in more ways than he would have originally imagined.
Whatever they were, they walked over to the radio and dropped armfuls of bounty in front of their idol.
Thom retreated to Twiste, who remained seated but alert.
The creatures brought backpacks, an assault vest, bags, knives, belts, and even boots. All possessions formerly belonging to members of the Archangel entry team.
After delivering their cargo, the things shuffled out of the lab, nipping and snarling at each other like a couple of nasty siblings.
Gant took notice that the man and the woman stayed at the back of the room. It seemed as if they, too, felt a healthy fear of the hall monitors.
Yet once the pathetic, deformed creatures left, the male disciple moved to inspect the gifts. Acting on impulse—the urge to do something to change the status quo—Gant stepped in front of the scarred bag of bones.
"Wait," Gant said as he looked at the sunken eyes of what had surely been a brilliant scientist or technician but was now little more than a walking corpse.
"Are you Ronald Briggs?"
Gant's boldness surprised the man to the point that he stumbled and nearly fell.
"Please. Listen. I mean you no harm. I can help."
The man shook his head and grunted. No, not a grunt. He tried to speak, finally moving his parched lips enough to say, "No help, I must do this now. Move."
Gant did not move.
"Please move."
"I will, if you tell me your name."
The man looked around in a near panic, first back across the room at Jolly and then to his companion. The poor fellow seemed overtaken with fear; Gant worried he might have a heart attack and drop dead.
"His name is Andrew," the woman spoke for her dance partner. "My name is Ruth. Now stand aside or you will anger Him. You do not want to do that."
To make her point, Ruth raised the pistol she had taken from Twiste.
Gant willingly stepped out of Andrew’s path, and the man then hurried to the salvaged goods and frantically rummaged through the contents.
Certainly the packs, bags, and belts came from his detachment, but the items Andrew pulled from those backpacks and pockets were surprising and out of place for a combat unit: a charcoal gray sport jacket and slacks with a matching black tie; a pair of leather dress shoes; a small plastic case; and several packages of Twinkies.
In addition to these oddities, Andrew found other, more typical items but seemed to discard these without much consideration: a pen light, knives, a box of flares, spare ammunition, a black cap, knee pads, a couple of MREs, and more of the equipment Gant had issued to his men for the entry mission.
Andrew gathered the important items from the first pile and walked to the door next to the observation window. That door eased open with a groan and Andrew disappeared inside for a moment, but his entry into that smaller chamber did not disturb the swirling mist.
When he returned, he gathered the rest of the items and moved them to the corner of the room where he and Ruth had set up camp. The two stowed most of the items but ripped open the MREs (Meals Ready to Eat).
Gant stole a look at Twiste, who was hunched over in his chair still dealing with his sore ankle. When he met Gant's eyes he shook his head, sharing the major’s lack of understanding.
The radio glowed more intently.
"Major Thomas Gant, Doctor Brandon Twiste," the voice of God spoke. "Allow me to introduce myself …"
The heavy metal door creaked open. A very bright light poured from the isolation chamber into the main lab. It seemed as bright as the sun to Major Gant, but then again his eyes had been in this dark dungeon for several hours.
Was this a divine light or another illusion?
As he watched, Thom saw the glowing radiance shrink and mold itself into a figure, then fade and dull until all the light had gone, replaced by a man.
"You recognize this form from your photo files?"
"No," Twiste replied, still sitting on the chair.
Gant, however, did. "Ronald Briggs?"
A short body with a balding scalp flanked by tufts of black-turning-gray hair. His small eyes lacked the oversized glasses Gant knew from old photographs and the physique was in better shape; no pot belly. Nonetheless, it was Ronald Briggs, dressed in a perfectly clean white laboratory coat worn over dull slacks and a faded blue dress shirt.
The entity that mimicked a human scientist casually strolled forward until he stood next to the classic radio. The soft light on the dial went completely dark.
Briggs reached behind the set and produced a white cloth, which he draped o
ver the image of the RCA contraption, hiding it completely.
"Yes," the being said with his lips moving but his face stoic and empty. "There is some of Briggs here, just the tiniest amount, as if he were a grain of sand on a beach. But here, nonetheless."
"And who are you?" Twiste asked as he slowly stood—wobbled—from his chair.
"I have told you. I am God."
Gant tried to think of something witty to say, but the right response eluded him. Was that because he was tired and wary or because he could not entirely dismiss the idea?
"God?" came Twiste. "The God—our one God? You are God?"
"Yes," came the reply.
"And how did you come to be … here?" Twiste asked.
It was Gant who tried to answer: "Dr. Briggs was searching for the God particle. Are you saying he found you?"
"Yes."
"What happened to Dr. Briggs?"
"I have absorbed him into my essence."
"I don’t understand," Twiste said.
Gant asked, "Why don't you tell us what Dr. Briggs was up to down here?"
"His work is beyond your comprehension."
"Let me try." Gant tried desperately to remember what he had learned from Doreen McCaul at The Tall Company. "Briggs dug into the subatomic world, hoping that one of those really small parts would be the Higgs boson. Something some other guy eventually called the God particle. So tell us what happened down here."
"I have already told you. He succeeded and found me—God." The voice did not sound so monotone this time, so emotionless. This time Gant detected a strong dose of aggravation. Apparently it did not appreciate questioning. "There is a part of my essence in every atom of this world, of this existence. He touched my being and I came here."
"So he brought you to our world?" Gant spoke in a tone that clearly conveyed disrespect. "That must’ve really sucked. Briggs pulled you to this place and left you sealed below ground, alone and stuck in this Hell hole."
The entity's eyes narrowed and it asked the major, "Who is the most skilled with pistols in your unit, Major? No, not Salvatore Galati, he is a sharpshooter. Who consistently scores the best on the handgun range?"
A smile that had been forming on Gant's lips faded with the question. He had no intention of answering, of course, but the entity already knew.
"It is Roberts, is it not? He is the best shooter in your unit with a pistol."
The entity turned again and this time looked across the room at Ruthie. She stood a good distance away in the minimal light of the old laboratory.
"I think Ruthie can shoot as well as Roberts."
Ruthie raised the pistol …
… "So, then I said to her—what’s wrong, man?"
Van Buren’s tale of his hottest date since high school was interrupted as the only one listening to him—Roberts—got up from his seat in the rec room. But it was not his standing that interrupted Van Buren. It was the way Roberts's little-boy face went completely blank.
"Hey, man, you listening?"
Roberts did not answer. He looked across the otherwise empty break room at nothing.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
The best pistol shooter in the Archangel team slowly, mechanically, raised his right hand and, like a little kid playing cowboys and Indians, mimicked a gun with his thumb and forefinger …
… and fired without seeming to aim or think about her actions. The bullet flew true and perfect; the thunderclap of the discharge filled the room.
Major Thom Gant crumpled from the impact, leaning to his left then falling to the floor. He grabbed at his knee even before the electric pain reached his brain.
The entity that looked like Dr. Ronald Briggs stood still and remained indifferent, but almost immediately after the bullet fired, the ugly and feeble Andrew hovered over Gant and screamed like anger incarnate.
"YOU FUCKING COLORED JUNGLE BUNNY, HOW FUCKING DARE YOU SPEAK TO YOUR GOD LIKE THAT? I’LL RIP YOUR NIGGER TONGUE OUT, YOU CHRIST-FORSAKEN SONOFAWHORE!"
Gant rolled into a fetus-like defensive position with both hands grasping his left knee. Andrew—seemingly filled with rage—kicked Gant in the stomach and head.
Twiste limped forward as if to intervene, but God waved one of Briggs’s fingers with the not-so-subtle suggestion that Twiste keep to himself. Brandon became keenly aware that Ruthie still held a loaded pistol aimed in his direction and that Jolly had taken several steps closer to the action. He stood in arm's reach, watching and breathing out what sounded like a chuckle.
Andrew’s rage faded fast. One instant he kicked Gant’s curled body, the next he stood calm and emotionless above the prone soldier before retreating to Ruth's side.
God said, "I told you, you would kneel before me."
Fortunately for Thom, as fierce as Andrew's rage was, the man's emaciated form could not deliver severe blows, causing nothing more than bruises and a few contusions. However, his knee ached badly and blood oozed from the wound.
The thing resembling Ronald Briggs turned away and walked across the room as if granting permission for Twiste to help the major, which he did.
"How bad?"
Gant concentrated and controlled his breathing as best he could. His first words were little more than sobs, but they slowly took form as he repeated them.
"B-bad … need dressing now."
Twiste looked about and found the first aid kit attached to the utility belt Gant still wore. He opened it and found wrapping for the wound.
Gant removed his hands long enough for Twiste to begin bandaging the injury, which was really a blob of blood pouring from a hole above Gant's kneecap. Still, he just wrapped and wrapped, hoping pressure might ease the flow.
"There's not much I can do," Doctor Twiste explained. "I don't see an exit wound, so it's probably lodged in there. A lot of blood, but I think we can at least slow it down with what we've got. Still, you're going to need a surgeon."
Twiste stood and looked at the entity calling itself God and pleaded, "Can you heal him? If you are God, can you not heal him?"
The entity seemed surprised by the request. It paused, considered, then answered, "I shall not."
"Why? God is supposed to be merciful."
"I showed mercy. Had I so chosen, that bullet would have pierced his skull. He will have this wound to remind him to speak to me with more respect."
Gant grabbed at Twiste’s arm. There was an anger on the major’s face; a determined anger feeding off pain.
"I … can … still … stand …"
Gant stood as straight as he dared, yet still needed an arm slung around Twiste’s waist to maintain his balance, a tough act considering that man's own bad ankle.
"I can still stand and you are still stuck down here. You can shoot a bullet through my head, but it does not change the fact that you are a caged rat."
Briggs answered, "You believe a tiny little door can keep Me in here?" He waved his human arms to indicate the laboratory around him and all the halls and corridors comprising the Hell Hole. "The locked vault door, the sentries and cameras and barbed wire—they do not exist to keep me in; they are here to keep the outside out. You think that everything is as it seems, but none of it is true."
"I don't believe you. You have nothing to offer but mind games."
"You hate your own life, Major Gant, so much that you would try to coerce me into killing you quickly. No, you will live long enough to see the extent of my power when I emerge into this world in full. I will have use for you at that moment. You will live until I am finished with you."
Briggs took a step closer to Gant and narrowed his human-looking eyes at the soldier.
"When I am done with you, I will make you fall to your knees and put a bullet in your brain from a gun in your own hand."
The entity turned his back on the two and looked at Jolly. The former-soldier-turned-attack-dog moved, and while he held the HK MP5 aggressively, the muscular monster did not require a firearm to control the two weakened prisoners.
/> Jolly grunted something like a chuckle and pointed to an open door along one of the inside walls. Twiste supported much of Gant’s weight, despite his ankle, as they followed the giant's direction to a room that had once been an office but was occupied now by only a small battery-powered lamp atop a desk.
Gant and Twiste collapsed inside and the door shut behind them, followed by the unmistakable sound of a bolt catching.
"So now we know who the man behind the curtain is," Twiste said as he examined Gant's bandages. "And Briggs went looking for God."
"He was trying to find the God particle. He tore the fabric of space, whatever that means. I guess—oh shit, this hurts."
"Yeah, right, with that laser array. But he ended up finding some sort of creature. A creature that seems to be able to get in and out of people’s minds."
Gant grimaced as he moved to lean against one of the cold walls of the small office. The glow from the lamp offered a circle of light in the center, only shadows around the edges.
"There have been stories—reports—of crazy shit going on upstairs ever since this all started. People at the base doing some insane stuff, like shooting each other and trying to break containment and just generally going haywire. The shrinks who checked it out came back saying there were ‘influences’ in this place. That’s why all the guards and techs who work here go through some big-time mental training from PsyOps."
"Shrinks?" Twiste asked. "You mean like Lieutenant Colonel Thunder?"
"She is new to this place, but I did sense a tone in your voice. You said not to trust her. Why is that? Have you worked with her before?"
"No, not directly. I can't be 100 percent sure, but I recall her being mixed up in some nasty experiments a few years ago. I had to review some medical files as part of an investigation into a project that went wrong. Like everything else we deal with, I was shown only small pieces of the bigger picture."
"And?"
"It all revolved around psychopharmacology."
Grant grunted from the pain, struggled to control it. After a moment he said, "If you could translate that into English, Doctor."
"Drugs that target the thinking process, mental states, moods, and sensations. Very much like recreational drugs. All I know is that she was knee-deep in some project that went FUBAR, the shit hit the fan, and she ended up on the hot seat. And now here she is, back in action on the most screwed-up base in all the military. Not sure that’s a coincidence."
Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle Page 23
