Repairman Jack 03 - Conspiracies

by F. Paul Wilson

  —and screams as the light pierces him. It is a physical thing, lancing through skin, fat, bone and organ, spearing every cell of every tissue. He feels the birdshot sting of each photon as it shoots through him.

  And once he is firmly and irretrievably spitted, the light lifts him like a speared fish and hauls him toward the window. He cringes in fear as he sees the glass rushing toward him. He raises his arms across his face and howls as he hits the glass ... but his wail fades as he passes through it, leaving both window and flesh unscathed.

  He's afraid—shit, he's one absofuckinglutely terrified little boy who wants to go home to Mama—but he's filled with awe and wonder as well. He's not trapped in the light, he's part of it, one with it. And as he looks up he sees its intolerably bright source, a circular doorway into the blazing heart of the Cosmic Egg at zero-point-one nanoseconds before the Big Bang.

  He's not drifting toward it, he's careening upward at near light speed, far beyond escape velocity. He leaves behind the moldy apple of Earth, flashes past the moon, and hurtles through interplanetary space, past Mars, straight through the tumbling asteroid obstacle course, and on toward the red-eyed beach ball of Jupiter.

  But Jim doesn't reach Jupiter. He's drawn into a huge saucer-shaped mothership hovering off Io. He flashes through the searingly bright portal. His universe dissolves into blinding liquid brilliance ...

  When he can see again, he finds himself naked, strapped facedown upon a gleaming block of polished steel in an oblong room with mirror walls. The surface of the block is cold and hard against his bare flesh.

  He is not alone in the room.

  The grays are here, perhaps a dozen of them, but it's hard to tell with all the reflections off the walls. They're not quite like the drawings he's seen, but close enough. They're big-headed, small-bodied, and three to four feet tall; their hairless gray skin is wrinkled, as if they've been left in the water too long. They float through the air, whether by levitation or zero gravity, Jim can't say. Probably levitation, because those puny legs don't look strong enough to support an infant. And nothing between those legs to give any hint whether they're male or female. Long skinny fingers at the end of long skinny arms, big, lidless slanty black eyes over a rudimentary nose and a slit mouth.

  The wonder is gone, leaving only the terror. Jim feels something warm and wet pooling around his pelvis as his bladder cuts loose.

  His voice echoes off the shiny walls as he cries out—inanely—in dread. "Who are you? What do you want?"

  He knows damn well who they are. And he's afraid he'll have the answer to the second question long before he wants it.

  None of the aliens pauses or even looks his way. They float on, going about their business as if he were a fixture.

  Suddenly something cold is thrust between his buttocks, and a whirling searing pain shoots into his rectum. As Jim screams, a gray floats into view and hovers near his head. Nothing in those black eyes as they stare down at him. The gray lifts something in its hand: a slender instrument with a thin, needle-like probe attached to its tip. The alien extends it toward Jim's face, taking dead aim at one of his nostrils.

  Jim screams again, writhing and twisting frantically within his restraints.

  No! Please! Not a mind-control probe! Anything but that!

  But he's utterly helpless, a test animal in a vivisection clinic. He can't even turn his head. All he can do is watch in crosseyed horror as the probe enters his left nostril. But instead of a stab of pain in his nose, Jim feels a sharp blow to the side of his head—

  "What the fuck?"

  He was on the floor of his hotel room, mummied in his sheets, his left temple throbbing with pain.

  Damn, that hurts.

  He wriggled an arm free and rubbed the spot, then reached out and felt the corner of the night table, inches away.

  Must have fallen out of bed.

  He unwound himself from the sheets and crawled back up on the mattress.

  Kee-rist, another wild-ass dream.

  He glanced at the clock: 4:32. Same time as last night. What was going on here?

  He lay back, sweaty and trembling. Awfully fucking real, that dream. How could he be sure it was a dream? He felt his nose—no tenderness there.

  And yet ...

  James Zaleski lay in the dark, trembling, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, afraid to go back to sleep.

  Miles ...

  ... awakens with a start to the sound of gunfire.

  A dream, or real? And where did it come from?

  Another burst of automatic fire—from the hall.

  Miles leaps out of bed, pulls open the night table drawer, and reaches inside for his .45.

  Gone! Panic nibbles at his entrails as he runs frantic fingers over the entire interior of the drawer—except for the Gideon Bible, it's empty.

  Leaving the lights off he feels his way to his suitcase where he always carries a spare. But that's gone too. Miles jumps at the sound of an accented voice behind him.

  "Don't waste your time, Kenway."

  The lights go on and he sees a man in full military battle gear, all in black except for his pale blue helmet. He looks Japanese or Chinese, or maybe even Vietnamese.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  Miles knows full well who he is—not his name, but who sent him. He recognizes the uniform, and cold dread seeps through his soul. It's finally happened—the New World Order has begun its takeover.

  "Your new master," the trooper says. He's pointing an AK-47 at Miles's gut. "Out into the hall."

  Miles looks down at his undershirt and boxer shorts. "At least let me get—"

  Without warning, the automatic rifle bursts to life. Miles cringes as it stitches a row of holes across the wall of the room.

  "Move!"

  Miles moves. Barefooted, he raises his hands above his head and pads toward the door. His heart thuds against his chest wall like a mailed fist. Where are they taking him? To a mass execution area? Or to a detention camp? Better a quick death here than a slow death in a camp.

  With that thought powering him, he lowers his hands and grabs the doorknob. He pretends it won't turn.

  "Something's wrong," he says. "It's locked."

  The NWO trooper shoves the stock of his rife against Miles's back and barks: "Open it!"

  "It won't turn, I tell you."

  The trooper shoves him again and reaches past him ... and that leaves only one hand on the rifle.

  Do I have the guts to do this? Miles wonders. His bladder feels ready to explode and he's got so much adrenaline flowing through him now he feels like he's floating. Do I?

  Guts or not, this may be his only chance, so that leaves him no choice.

  Miles twists and drives his right elbow into the trooper's throat as he grabs the AK-47. The trooper lets out a strangled cough and staggers back, clutching at his throat. Miles knees him in the balls as he gets a two-handed grip on the rifle and rips it free. Without hesitation he aims and fires a short burst. The rifle kicks and bucks and blows the bastard through the window onto the street below.

  Miles stares at the ragged hole in the glass. Jesus, he did it! All that training paid off! He blew the son of a bitch away!

  Suddenly the remaining glass is shattered by a barrage from below. Miles turns, ducks, and dives for the door. They'll be after him now. No time to get dressed. He runs out into the hall and automatically turns toward the elevators. He stops. No. Too easy to trap him there. He whirls and runs for the stairs.

  As he reaches the door he hears a commotion behind him. He looks back and sees a squad of NWO troopers rush out of the elevator foyer.

  "Damn!" he whispers and pushes through into the stairwell.

  He starts down but hears the sound of running feet echoing from below. He's got only one option now, and since there's only one floor above him, that doesn't leave him far to go.

  He bounds up four flights to a red door. The sign says:

  FOR EMERGENCY ONLY ALARM WILL SOUND />
  He pushes through and, just as promised, the alarm starts ringing. And now he's on the roof and he knows it's Alamo time. He won't get out of this alive, but he'll take as many of the bastards as he can with him before he dies.

  The oblivious city is lit up around him. In how many other buildings is this same scene being played out?

  He finds an air conditioning vent and crouches behind it, points the AK-47 at the door, and waits.

  Suddenly a nylon rope whips around his upper body and tightens like a noose, pinning his arms at his sides. He drops the rifle as he is yanked off his feet and into the air.

  He looks above and sees a giant black helicopter reeling him in like a cheap toy in an arcade game. Why can't he hear it? Why doesn't he feel the wash from its rotating blades?

  Rough hands haul him into the black maw in the side of the craft. As the rope is loosened and pulled over his head, an accented voice, much like that of the trooper he killed, whispers in his ear.

  "We've been looking for you. You're too valuable to kill, so we've got a special spot reserved in one of the re-education camps. You'll make a fine addition to one of our units."

  No! He won't be brainwashed!

  Miles kicks out and leaps from the helicopter. Death first!

  But a hand grabs the back of his shirt, and a different voice, a very American voice, starts shouting ...

  "Easy, now. Easy. You don't want to hurt yourself." Miles looked down and saw the street eight stories below. With a cry of alarm, he turned and lurched away——into the arms of a large black man in some sort of uniform.

  "Hey, now, that's better!"

  It took Miles a second to recognize him as a hotel security guard.

  "Where am I? He said, shakily pulling free of the guard's grasp.

  "Up on the roof."

  "How—how'd I get here?"

  "Sleepwalking, I think. You sure didn't look completely awake when you passed me in the hall a few minutes ago. And since it's my job to be on the lookout for things like people wandering around dressed in their skivvies at four-thirty in the morning, I decided to follow you. Good thing I did or you'd be splattered on the sidewalk by now."

  Miles shuddered. "But I never sleepwalk."

  "Well, you did tonight. Come on," he said, gesturing toward the door to the stairs. "Let's get you back to your room."

  Shakily, Miles led the way.

  "We don't have to tell anyone about this do we?"

  "I'll have to put it in my report," the guard said, "but it won't go beyond that."

  "Good," Miles said, relieved. "Thank you. I have a reputation to uphold in this organization."

  "I hear you. It's just a good thing I was upholding your ass a few moments ago or you wouldn't be worrying about your reputation or anything else."

  The guard laughed good-naturedly. Miles saw nothing funny about it.

  Jack ...

  ... feels his bed move and opens his eyes.

  His eyes search for the clock's red numerals and can't find them. The room is dark ... too dark. Light from the street lamps below usually leaks around the edges of the drapes, but not now. A sound leaks through instead ... a deep basso rumble shuddering through the floor and walls.

  His bed trembles as the rumble grows, mixing with frightened cries and wails from outside.

  Jack rises and pads across the vibrating floor to the window where he pulls back the drapes. The moon is high and full in a pristine sky, bathing the world outside with glacial light. The street is clogged with crawling cars and frantic people screaming, running, clawing over each other in a scene out of every giant monster film ever made. It's The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms times ten, but this is no movie; this is real. Even up here on the fifth floor he can smell the raw-edged panic as the mob struggles downhill, west, toward the river. He scans his limited view to the east to see what's driving them. All he can tell is that the rest of the city is dark.

  Power failure, he thinks, and then blinks. An icy phantom breeze ripples his nape hairs as he cups his hands around his eyes and squints through the glass ... it's too dark. Even with the power gone and the lights out, the moonlight should pick up something.

  Jack slides the window back and pokes his head through the opening for a better look. If nothing else, the metallic top of the Empire State Building should be visible. But the sky is empty there, stars twinkle where buildings stood.

  And that rumble, growing ever louder, deafening now, jittering the entire building on its foundation.

  And then, still staring east, Jack sees an office building tilt, then fall away, disappearing behind the structure before it. And now that building is collapsing, and then the one in front of it follows, a wave of destruction coming his way.

  Jack is about to pull his head inside and run downstairs to join the crowd below when he sees it, moving inexorably along the street at the speed of a brisk walk, devouring everything in its path. Not a ravaging behemoth from another age, something much simpler and much, much worse.

  A hole ... so wide the moonlight can't find its far edge, so deep Jack can't hear the buildings hit bottom when they tumble into its ever-expanding maw. If the world were flat, a dirt pancake floating in space, and its edge began to crumble and fall away, this is what it would be like on that edge.

  Part of Jack is saying this is a dream, it has to be, but another part is saying you wish it was a dream: this is too real to be a dream. Either way, he knows he can't escape, knows the hole will swallow the hotel well before he reaches the lobby. So he watches in fascinated dread as Hell's Kitchen crumbles and disappears into the approaching edge of infinity. Panic reigns supreme below as the marching rim undermines the pavement, sending cars and screaming bodies tumbling into the void, but Jack feels an unnatural calm. Gia and Vicky are already gone, swallowed with the rest of the East Side; soon he will be following them and there is nothing he can do about it, nothing he cares to do about it.

  The rim is almost to the hotel now. Jack grabs a chair and uses it to smash the window. Then he climbs out onto the ledge and strains to see into the depths, but the bottom is lost in midnight shadow. He feels the building shudder and tilt to a crazy angle. As the hotel leans, poised on the rim, Jack leaps from the ledge. If he's going to fall, he'll fall his way.

  He swan-dives into the abyss ...

  And hears a loud crash! It's not the hotel ... it's something else ... something smaller ... closer ...

  Jack blinked in the darkness. Not complete darkness. The glowing red numerals on the clock read 4:33; light from the street filtered around the drapes. No cosmic rumble or sound of mass panic in the street outside.

  He let out a deep breath. Another nightmare. But what was that noise? Sounded like it had come from—

  "Aw, no."

  Grabbing his pistol from under the pillow, he jumped out of bed and crept toward the bathroom. The only light at this end of the room was a narrow strip from the hallway leaking past the bottom edge of the door. The bathroom was dark ... and the cold air flowing from it chilled his feet.

  "Not again."

  He reached in and turned on the light. Squinting in the glare, he saw the first crate under the sink where he'd left it. But now a new box of the same dark green material, smoking like dry ice, sat in the middle of the floor.

  Jack checked the room door. This time he'd leaned the desk chair under the doorknob before hitting the sack. The chair was still in the wedged position.

  Back to the bathroom: the second box had obviously arrived by the same route as the first. Which was ... how?

  He stepped back to the desk and retrieved a hotel pen from beside the phone, then used that to flip off this crate's lid.

  No mini girders this time. The new crate was filled with curved metal plates and copper spheres, all collecting a rime of frost as moisture from the air condensed and froze on their surfaces. He checked out the underside of the lid and saw more construction plans—an exploded diagram of whatever it was, plus an illustration of the c
ompleted structure: Looked like an oil rig with a warty dome on top. As before, the directions appeared to have been seared into the material of the lid. He even thought he saw something that looked like lettering in one corner, but couldn't decipher it through the thickening layer of frost. He could check that out later. Right now ...

  Jack shivered—with cold as well as uneasiness. It was damn near freezing in here. He turned off the light and closed the bathroom door behind him.

  He checked the clock again: 4:35 A.M. This second crate had arrived about the same time as the first. What was all this? Some weird equivalent of the "interociter" from This Island Earth? Was that it? Was he supposed to assemble the damn thing?

  "Don't hold your breath, whoever you are," he muttered as he sat on the bed.

  Jack had a bad feeling about that gizmo in there, a sense that putting it together might not be such a good idea. But even if he were gung-ho to do the Erector Set thing with it, he didn't have any tools with him.

  He wondered if Lew had come back to the hotel. Wouldn't hurt to get his input. Maybe he'd seen something like this before.

  An ungodly hour to get a call, but so what? Lew had got him into this. He rang Lew's room but no answer.

  Still out in Shoreham, he guessed. It could wait till morning.

  Jack got back under the covers but knew he wouldn't sleep. He tried not to think of those crates or the dream ... a giant hole again, sucking him down. Why did it feel more like a premonition than a dream?

  His thoughts drifted to Ceil Castleman and the lost, utterly crushed look in her eyes as he'd led her to the closet. And that called up another vision—Lewis Ehler, who seemed rudderless without his missing Melanie.

  He lay still, thinking about lost souls as daylight grew beyond the pulled curtains.

  Roma ...

  "Once again we come up empty-handed," Mauricio said from his place on the basement shelf.

  Roma saw no need to acknowledge the obvious. He had a sinking feeling as to where the second delivery had come to rest.