Artifact

by Vaughn Heppner

  Artifact

  by Vaughn Heppner

  and Logan White

  Copyright © 2015 by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

  -Prologue-

  “Do you hear that?” Claire whispered.

  Andy, her assistant, shook his head.

  Claire heard it, all right. It was a persistent hum, a maddening background noise. She was among the two percent of humanity that could hear a low frequency humming, rumbling or droning when everything else was quiet. No one knew the reason why a few could hear and most could not. Hums had bothered Claire ever since she could remember as a child growing up in Houston.

  She heard a hum now on the grounds of Angkor Wat, the ancient Buddhist temple in Cambodia. The orange-robed monks observed their customary moment of silence, having bid everyone else to do likewise. Out of respect for this ritual, nearly every human-generated noise had stopped. Along with the other tourists in the courtyard, Claire stood quietly. Many of the tourists held up their cellphones, recording the ancient ceremony.

  I must be the only one hearing this, Claire thought, watching the others.

  She’d come to Angkor Wat because of persistent reports of some tourists complaining about a hum. Claire belonged to the University of Hawaii’s Geology Department. She had one of the two experimental TR-1010 devices specially made to locate the epicenter of the event causing the hum. Well, theoretically anyway.

  The so-called “mad scientist” Nikola Tesla had inspired Claire’s friend to invent the TR-1010. Tesla had known about the Earth’s vibrations long before anyone else had. Now it was true that some natural phenomena caused some hums: mating fish near coastal cities or hidden mining equipment for example. After eliminating those possibilities, there were still unexplained hums, such as the one here at Angkor Wat. Two of the most famous were the Bristol Hum in England and the Taos Hum in New Mexico.

  As unobtrusively as possible, Claire turned on her TR-1010, a twenty-pound piece of equipment hanging from her neck by a strap. She slowly extended a long antenna, getting a dirty look from a large German woman in front of her.

  The TR-1010 recorded and calibrated many separate phenomena. One of these was ELF waves, Extremely Low Frequency radio waves. Lightning and natural disturbances in the Earth’s magnetic field often generated those. Interestingly, ELF waves could penetrate seawater, making them useful for communicating with submarines. The TR-1010 was also an EMF meter, reading electromagnetic fields. It could also detect an ambient wavefield known as seismic noise, the generic name for a relatively persistent vibration of the ground.

  As quietly as possible, Claire clicked on the device, adjusting it with several taps to the control screen. The TR-1010 vibrated with power. She rotated the device, keeping the antenna up so it wouldn’t bump against anyone else.

  Andy gave her an anxious glance. He’d been against doing this during the grand silence ceremony because it might upset the monks.

  Claire’s heart began to pound with excitement as she saw a pulse on the screen. This was amazing. She hadn’t even been able to get a blip in Taos, New Mexico. She made a few quick manipulations, trying to fix the source.

  At that moment, the hum intensified in Claire’s ears. She winced, never having heard it this loudly before. In the past, it had always been a background noise, stealing her peaceful moments, often waking her at night, making it impossible to get back to sleep.

  She glanced around. No tourist showed the slightest sign of annoyance of hearing anything disturbing. None of the shaved-headed monks changed their serene expressions.

  Claire studied the TR-1010, and she almost cursed aloud. The signal had spiked while she’d looked away. She tapped the screen too forcefully and elicited another ugly stare from the German woman.

  Frowning, Claire shoved the device toward Andy. He glanced at her with confusion.

  “Do you see it?” she whispered.

  Andy got a frightened look. The head monk had explained in patient detail the importance of the five-minute silence, that no one make a sound during the ceremony.

  Claire pointed at the indicator screen.

  Andy shrugged, acting as if he didn’t understand.

  Claire understood the significance, however. An extremely low frequency radio wave was riding a magnetic crest, coming from underground directly beneath Angkor Wat. What would cause—?

  The German woman dropped her cellphone. The courtyard began to fill with clicking sounds as the other tourists began releasing their phones and other devices, letting them hit the ancient bricks.

  A few of the monks must have heard that. Two of them lost their peaceful gazes, turning toward the tourists.

  Claire no longer touched the TR-1010, but it still hung from her neck. She began to feel heat from it through her blouse. She noticed the German woman blowing on her hand as if it was hot. What could have caused all this?

  “Do you see that, love?” a tourist asked in a low voice.

  Claire looked over at an English tourist, a tall man in his fifties. He spoke to a small woman, his wife, no doubt. She was shaking her head.

  “There’s another,” the Englishman said, pointing.

  Claire followed the gesture in time to see a sparrow slam against the nearest wall of Angkor Wat. That was weird. Another sparrow did the same thing a moment later, crashing against the wall full tilt. The little creatures tumbled to the ground, not moving. Claire wasn’t sure if they were dead or had simply knocked themselves out.

  “What’s going on?” Andy asked her.

  Other tourists began to speak, a few shouting. Several pointed at the sky, the rule of keeping quiet during the ceremony apparently forgotten.

  Claire noticed the head monk opening his mouth. She wondered what he was going to say, but instead of waiting for it, she tore her gaze from him to see what everyone was shouting about.

  She sucked in her breath. Birds swirled in the sky, not just a few birds either but lots of them. Even freakier, more birds flew in clumps, flocks, to join the circling ones.

  “Why are they doing that?” Andy asked.

  Claire shook her head. She had no idea.

  “Have you ever heard of such a thing?” he asked.

  Claire frowned, realizing she had. There was a place in India…a town in Assam Province by the name of Jatinga. There, birds sometimes committed mass suicide for reasons no one had been able to figure out.

  Could the reason have anything to do with hums? Claire wondered. Some birds use magnetic fields to help them know where to fly.

  “This is extraordinary,” the Englishman said. “First our cellphones became hot and now those birds act preposterously.”

  Claire tore the strap from her neck, lowering the TR-1010 onto the courtyard bricks. She wondered if magnetics could have made their various devices hot.

  The large German woman screamed.

  Claire glanced at the lady and then up at the darkening sky where the German stared.

  Other tourists began to scream. A few ran for cover.

  Claire watched, horrified and fascinated. She was horrified because the birds flew down, with one part of the horde coming straight for them. Yet, as a scientist, she was fascinated to witness this exotic event and wished to understand what caused the phenomenon.

  “Run!” Andy shouted at her. “Get inside!”

  Claire tore her arm free from his grip. Andy could be such a puss a
t times.

  The birds—sparrows, herons, black bittern—began to smash against Angkor Wat. Other birds crashed against the courtyard bricks, the monks and the running tourists.

  “No!” Claire shouted. “Help me stop them!” She waved her arms at the descending birds, wanting to save the poor creatures from suicide.

  A few of the monks followed Claire’s example, waving and shouting, trying to frighten the birds so they would fly away and save themselves.

  The rest of the crowd ran, covering their heads as best they could.

  A bird struck Claire against the chest. It flopped onto the bricks, opening its beak, chirping. It tried to fly, but must have been too dazed. Claire bent lower to look at it.

  Another bird, a bigger one, hit her in the back of the head. That startled her. She staggered. Then two birds at once slammed against Claire. After being struck several more times, it proved too much. She stumbled, tripped over crawling birds and fell onto her hands and knees.

  It was dark now, and the sky was getting blacker as if a storm brewed. Claire looked around, seeing the last of the monks and tourists dash into Angkor Wat. The last one slammed the door behind him.

  Like rain, birds continued to strike the huge temple and tumble to the ground. There must have been tens of thousands of them. They kept raining, killing themselves.

  Fear finally squeezed Claire’s heart. She shot to her feet, and twenty birds slammed against her. One smashed against her face with its beak thrusting like a knife, slashing into her left eye.

  Claire screamed and clutched her face. Blood dripped. Had the bird blinded her? Beginning to sob, Claire staggered in the direction she hoped Angkor Wat stood. She had to get inside.

  Birds kept crashing against Claire, disorienting her. Finally, she stumbled and fell down. As she lay on the bricks, birds continued to thud against her body and head, hitting harder than she believed small creatures like this should be able to manage.

  Is this what it felt like being stoned to death in the old days?

  It was Claire’s last conscious thought.

  ***

  Several minutes after the mass of birds had stopped killing themselves—only a few here and there kept suiciding—a man opened a hidden cellar door by the foot of Angkor Wat. Thirty dead birds slid off the metal. Two flopped onto the stone steps where the man stood. He reached down, grabbing the dead creatures by their legs and flinging them outside.

  For just a moment, an intense blue light glowed from deep in the cellar. The man hurried up, closing and locking the metal door.

  He did not wear the orange robe of the monks, nor was he Cambodian. He looked Russian, being extremely white as only Canadians and Russians seemed able to achieve. He was medium-sized and unusually compact and strong. He wore coveralls like those worn by mechanics.

  Taking a small, flat device from a pocket, he checked it. Then, he hurried across the field of dead birds. He crunched across some with his work boots, breaking bones and feathers. Some people might have tripped making such a walk, but the man seemed to have extraordinary balance. As he neared Claire, a syringe with a yellow solution appeared in his right hand.

  The woman moaned painfully, stirring underneath a blanket of birds.

  First brushing aside the feathered creatures, the man put a knee on her back to pin her in place. His free hand held down Claire’s head.

  “What’s going on?” she slurred.

  He inserted the needle into her neck, causing her to lurch and cry out. His short but thick thumb pushed the stopper, injecting the yellow solution into her.

  Removing the needle, putting it in a pocket, the man stood and glanced around. He was aware that Claire sat up, rubbing her neck, staring at him in a bewildered fashion. He seemed unconcerned with her, emotionless. Spying the TR-1010, the man went to it, grabbing the strap, lifting it from the carpet of dead birds.

  Claire had already slumped onto the bricks, beginning to shiver uncontrollably.

  The man sensed that he had little time left for his foray topside. He strode fast, reaching the cellar door as one in the temple cracked open. A moment later, a monk flung the door all the way open and stepped outside. Behind him stumbled the woman’s assistant.

  The man in the coveralls removed his thumb from the thumbprint scanner on the cellar entrance, yanking the trap door open. He descended the first few steps. Andy had not spotted him. That was good. The man closed the metal door, clicking the lock behind him.

  As the man descended the stone steps, he knew it was time to call Mother. He had one of the TR-1010s and had eliminated the university troublemaker. Claire would be dead in another minute. He would also tell Mother that Angkor Wat Station had become operational. He did not believe anyone suspected them, certainly not the monks or any of the tourists.

  The compact man rubbed his hands together. What Mother had always referred to as The Day was almost upon them.

  PART ONE:

  A TEAR IN THE VEIL

  -1-

  ARDENNES FOREST

  FRANCE

  Two men crept through the Ardennes Forest. This particular area of the woods was where General Heinz Guderian had broken through in 1940. It had given the Germans a fantastic blitzkrieg victory against the Allied British and French at the beginning of World War II.

  Each of the present intruders wore black garments and hoods with night vision goggles. The leader was medium-sized and moved with economical stealth. His name was Jack Elliot, a veteran D17 case officer with grizzled blond hair and an inability to smile. His facial muscles had frozen in youth when a raving speed freak had broken into their house.

  The freak had been like a comic book character, his clothes in tattered shreds as if he grew to vast size when he became angry. The stick-man striding through the broken front door hanging from its hinges—he’d just smashed through—had been in his shrunken state, but he hadn’t lost any of his terrible strength. The freak had foamed at the mouth, his eyes glazed like some savage beast.

  Jack remembered that terrible night with extreme clarity. The TV had been on. They’d been watching an old movie about gladiators. The young Jack Elliot had turned in his Lazy-Boy chair, gazing into the freak’s eyes. The orbs had been devoid of anything human. Instead, it had been like a window into Hell, a terrifying and body-freezing experience.

  The speed freak had roared insane words after that with spittle flying from his mouth.

  Jack hadn’t been able to tear his gaze free from those eyes. He did remember his dad getting up with a shout and his mother pleading with her husband to be careful.

  What a joke.

  The speed freak had acted exactly like what one would have expected from an escaped convict from Hell. He pounced on Jack’s father, bearing him onto the rug. The freak roared, leaning down like a dog, biting his dad in the face.

  Jack’s mother had screamed crazily then, bounding up from her chair.

  Jack remembered the moments like jerkily thumbed-through picture frames. He still dreamed about it some nights.

  Sitting on his father’s chest, the freak grabbed his dad’s head with those skeletal hands and twisted as a hero did in the movies when he easily snapped a sentry’s head. The muscles had stood up like steel cables on the maniac’s arms and neck. An awful snapping sound and a gurgle from his father started the sickening drumming of his dad’s heels against the carpet.

  Seeing the freak kill his dad flipped a switch inside Jack’s fifteen-year-old heart that had never been reset.

  His mother seemed unable to stop screaming.

  Jack never knew how he knew, but his mother was as good as dead then. The ache was so terrible his heart seemed to burst into fire. Jack wanted to howl with her, but he buried the feeling. Someone had to save his little sister. That’s all he could do, but he had to act at once if he hoped to succeed and he’d have to do it with a minimum of fuss.

  As the foaming madman rushed his mother, Jack slid off the Lazy-Boy.

  “No!” mother shout
ed. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

  Jack didn’t look to see what was happening. He couldn’t risk the freak spying him and killing him too. I have to do this slowly or Penny dies.

  As his mother thudded onto the carpet, Jack walked out of the living room and into the hall. Now, he moved. He ran pell-mell for his parents’ bedroom. The sounds from the living room—

  Jack blotted those out from his conscious mind. They seeped into his subconscious and lodged there deeper than he knew. He couldn’t help it, though. He was just a fifteen-year-old kid catapulted into a horror show with his family murdered and his life changed forever in one grim moment of drugged insanity.

  Jack burst into his parents’ bedroom, diving onto the wooden floor. He reached under the king-sized bed, his left hand falling onto the pump shotgun his dad kept there.

  Jack slid it to him. A shell was already in the chamber with four more in the tube—it was a home defense shotgun. Fortunately, there was no trigger lock to slow him down. His dad had always said that was a stupid law. When a man needed his shotgun to defend his family, he didn’t have time to fool with a lock and key.

  Turning back to the hall, Jack gripped the shotgun. He didn’t know that his eyes had become slits and his mouth a fierce line of determination.

  His mother had stopped screaming. His little sister cried out from her bedroom, asking what was happening.

  Just then, the demon bounded into the hallway. Jack stood on one side of the evil creature, his sister’s bedroom door on the other. The door opened, and a sleepy-eyed seven-year-old girl stood there rubbing her nose.

  “Hey,” Jack said, the only word he could get past his constricted throat.

  That didn’t do the trick. The freak roared and Penny burst into tears.

  “You,” Jack said, and there was something menacing in his voice now.

  The speed freak whirled around with tiger-like speed. Blood stained his mouth, and those eyes—