Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Bray

  June 14th

  Layfield is dead. One of the guys found him hanging from a tree just a few feet from the edge of the camp. I thought for sure that would see the end to this stupid assignment, but as is the way with the government, a dead soldier wasn’t about to get in the way of what needed to be done. If anything, activity has increased. People are in and out of the hotel like ants, bringing in lights and equipment. God knows what they’re doing, but whatever it is, we have been frozen out. Even Kimmel seems a little put out by it. He thinks this is his show, but this thing about the hotel being off-limits showed everyone that he has someone up the chain pulling his strings.

  Poor Layfield was shoved into a body bag and left in the car park ready for transportation back to the city. For him at least, this ordeal is over. It’s not the most dignified way to go out, but nobody expected people to die up here at all, so this is the best we could do under the circumstances. One of the guys said he’d left some kind of fucked up suicide note in his pocket, although, as it always is with speculation, nobody seems to know what it said.

  As I write this, I can see Layfield’s body bag by the edge of the path, and it dawns on me that although we’re trained to handle death, it’s still a shock to see it up close. Speaking of close, it’s getting dark and the tension is starting to ramp up a little. People are wondering if we will get a repeat performance from the forest tonight or not. I’m almost certain that we will. It’s funny, because the more you ty to ignore them, the more sense they start to make. My turn to go on patrol tomorrow. To say I’m not looking forward to it is an understatement. I just hope I can do what I need to.

  June 15th

  Last night was the worst yet. The noises, as I predicted, were out there again. I’m sure I’m not the only one who thought they were louder, as if each night brings them closer to the camp. What the hell is this place?

  June 16th

  Really tense in the camp today. Everyone knows what’s going on here but they’re either too proud or too afraid to say anything. I suppose I can’t complain too much, as I’m guilty of the same thing. Last night, someone took Layfield’s body from where it was waiting for pickup. We were sent out into the woods to look for it, but interestingly enough, we weren’t asked to check the clearing. The official word from Kimmel is that animals must have dragged the body into the woods, although nobody believes it. Even the General is starting to look tense and, dare I say it, a little afraid. I keep hearing my name whispered by the trees. Can’t say anything about it though. It’s tense enough already. My turn to patrol the clearing tomorrow. We’re taking a couple of the scientists up there to get more samples. The vibe in the camp is bad. Nobody wants to be here and I suspect a revolt isn’t a million miles away. It’s been dark for a couple of hours now and the voices in the woods have just started. I considered putting my iPod on so that I could get a little sleep, although if I’m honest, not being able to hear them is worse.

  June 17th

  Early morning entry today as I’m heading out to the clearing in an hour and I have new information to share. Last night was the worst since we arrived. I don’t think these things like us being here. The noise was awful, and even hunkered down in my bunk, I could hear some of the guys losing it. Some screamed. Others cried. I even heard someone praying. It’s obvious by now whatever exists here is evil. There is no use in denying that anymore. This, I suppose, is what being a soldier all is about. The TV ads and the posters asking you to sign up don’t mention we’re expendable, or that we might have to face things like this. Kimmel has set up armed command posts around the perimeter of the hotel, which is laughable, a token gesture at best. Everyone knows this thing can’t be brought down with bullets. Can’t blame Kimmel too much though, I think as a lifelong military man, guns have always been his go-to response. It’s time for my patrol and I can feel the nausea lingering in the back of my throat. With luck I’ll be back in one piece so I can pen another update. Writing this diary has helped me to handle this situation. I wonder how many of the others are doing something similar. Anyhow, enough of that shit. I’m just delaying the inevitable. It’s patrol time.

  Second entry today. Needed to write. Clearing atmosphere worst yet. I threw up twice. One of the scientists bludgeoned his colleague to death with a fancy bit of equipment they were using to take measurements. We tried to stop him but the voices were just too loud. I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve started to listen to them. What the hell is happening?

  June 18th

  All patrols to the clearing are on hold due to what happened with the scientists. I’m glad as it gives me more time to listen to the voices in the trees. Some of the things they are saying make sense. I overheard Kimmel on the radio (phones don’t seem to work here) to one of his higher-ups asking to abort the project. He said the best thing to do would be to shut down and quarantine the entire town. Can’t argue really. The fact he’s so concerned has got me thinking about what to do with this journal. One thing is for sure, I can’t let anyone see it. This stuff is top secret no doubt, and the last thing I want is to be explaining myself in a military prison. I hope I can sleep tonight without the nightmares plaguing me.

  June 19th

  Shadows on the walls of my tent shaped like tiny hands. I can’t handle this anymore. Listening to the voices helps. They make a lot of sense when you give them a chance.

  June 20th

  Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku Gogoku. I fucking hate that word. It’s all I hear. All I think about. I sometimes want to scream. Worse are the times when I want to laugh, because I know it will sound as broken and splintered as my mind feels.

  June 21st

  Kimmel thinks he’s so clever. Thinks we don’t know what he’s up to. He deserves to suffer for bringing this upon us. The voices told me. It’s all his fault. Him and his scientists, digging in the ground to get to whatever is underneath. He thinks his secrets are safe, but they hear it all and they tell me. It’s almost dark now, but I don’t fear those sounds, those disembodied wails and phantom hands. Not anymore. Now I see why they are so mad. It’s Kimmel. All because of Kimmel and his stupid idea for bringing us up here. Tomorrow will be the day it all changes. Tomorrow is the day I put things right.

  June 22nd

  My turn to guard the perimeter tonight, but I have something else in mind. The clearing is off limits, yet the voices tell me I need to go up there to learn the secret of why they are here. Screw Kimmel and his rules. I’ll do things my way from here on in. There is one small issue, and that is this journal. I don’t want anyone to find it, and at the same time I refuse to destroy it as it might prove useful for others if something should ever happen to me. I could hide it in the forest, god knows it’s dense enough, but I wonder if it would last the test of time or rot into dust. I don’t think I’d like that. It doesn’t seem right. Either way, I’m late for the briefing. I wouldn’t have bothered going but I need to make sure everything appears as normal as possible. I’ll give some thought to the dilemma about this journal and update later as to my decision.

  Just about to head out, but have decided what to do with this journal. The night is close, and already those voices hide in the wind. Strange that just a few days ago they filled me with such fear, but now they sing me the sweetest of songs. I will admit to being a little nervous about heading up to the clearing tonight. If I’m caught I’ll be court-martialed for sure, and yet I can’t quite seem to resist the lure of what the voices tell me I might find up there. I have decided, in light of my pending possible arrest, to seal this journal in plastic and bury it. If all goes well tonight, I will of course return and this will be just another entry to add to the others. If, on the other hand, this happens to be the final entry, and whoever is reading this found the journal buried in shallow earth and wrapped in plastic, you should assume that I either got caught disobeying orders, or something worse happened to me up there in the clearing. Eith
er way, I will do my best to get back and update later as to what the voices said. Until then, it’s time to put this journal in the dirt until I return.

  Petrov looked through the remaining pages, hoping to see a continuation of the journal, but was greeted with blank pages.

  “That’s all there is” Kimmel said. He had put away the lighter and reverted to hiding his eyes behind his sunglasses, leaving him as unreadable as when Petrov first arrived.

  “Where did you find this?” Petrov asked, his throat dry and itchy. He badly wanted some water, something to help rinse away the irritation.

  “At the temporary camp up there at the hotel. That’s as good an illustration as any of what that place does.”

  “What happened to him, the man who wrote this?”

  Kimmel shrugged. “We don’t know. He just… disappeared. Left all of his belongings in his tent. We found the diary by chance when we were packing his stuff away. It was barely buried under the topsoil.”

  “What do you mean he disappeared? Where the hell did he go?”

  “People disappear all the time, you of all people know that,” Kimmel said, his face impossible to read.

  “So why show me this? What were you hoping to achieve?”

  “I hoped it might make you cautious, even though I know it won’t deter you from chasing him up there.”

  “I think we’ll be fine. We have good men on this.”

  “I’m sure you do. Just do me a favor.”

  “What’s that, General?”

  “Don’t have your men waiting up there for him. That place… it’s not good for people.”

  “Even the town? I was under the impression it was just the clearing and hotel that were bad news.”

  “That whole place is bad,” Kimmel replied, almost sighing the words. “Whatever’s up there is spreading. We closed it off for a reason.”

  “You’re suggesting we just let him go?”

  “Not at all. I’m suggesting that you let him enter the town then go in after him.”

  “Impossible. There are too many places he can escape to. We couldn’t possibly cover all that woodland.”

  Kimmel removed his glasses again, and this time Petrov was sure he was looking at the Kimmel of old, the intensity in his face once more changing the detective’s impression of him. “If you send men up there to wait for him, they’ll die.”

  “Why are you trying to frighten me off?”

  “I’m trying to help you. Fisher was the same. Didn’t believe it until it was right in front of him. Please, just listen to what I have to say.”

  Petrov held the diary toward Kimmel. “Here, I have to go.”

  “Keep it. Read it again.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’m confident you’re a smart enough man to do the right thing, Detective Petrov. Keep the diary. The damn thing brings nothing but bad memories for me anyway. Read it again and ask yourself if you really want to risk the lives of your men by sending them up there.”

  “What if you’re wrong?”

  “What if I’m right?” Kimmel countered. “Are you really prepared to live with the consequences if I am?” He stood, fastened his jacket and picked up his briefcase. “Good luck, detective. I really hope you make the right decision.”

  Petrov watched the General leave, walking briskly down the path as the jogging couple came in the opposite direction. He sat there for a while, half watching the tireless Alsatian chase its ball until both owner and dog were tired of the game and made their leave. He stared at the diary, hating that Kimmel had got under his skin enough to almost convince him that there could be something to his story. “Screw this,” he muttered, then stood and walked back to his car, hoping the drive back to the station would at least allow him to clear his head and decide what he should do about the whole Henry Marshall situation.

  CHAPTER 20

  The search for the fugitive Henry Marshall was in full swing. Scores of police were scouring local woodland with dogs in search of the escapee. In addition, local and national news had been alerted, warning the public to remain vigilant and to report any sightings. As Petrov had promised Melody, roadblocks had been set up in an effort to capture Marshall before he could get too far. Embarrassed that the escape had been perpetrated so easily, the authorities had thrown a lot of resources at it in an attempt at damage-limitation.

  Thirty six year old Karl Sloane had been manning one such roadblock for the last five hours. It had been drizzling steadily, and even with his rain poncho, the officer was soaked to the bone. Traffic had been light, for which he was grateful, however, he knew that when rush hour came, it would be absolute chaos. They knew Marshall had stolen a vehicle, but hadn’t reported it to the press. The last thing they wanted was for him to know they were aware. The hope was that he would be stupid enough to try and pass the roadblock. Karl put a hand on the butt of his gun. They were authorized if need be to use lethal force to stop Marshall if they encountered him, which was a proposition Karl wasn’t looking forward to. His hope was that the threat would be enough. Two cars approached the roadblock. He waved the first one through to his position, his colleagues keeping an eye on the van behind with the tinted windows.

  The first vehicle was a grubby red Ford. Karl waved it closer and held up a hand. The vehicle stopped as instructed and Karl motioned for the driver to wind down the window. She was a lone female in her thirties. Business suit, hair pulled back and tied at the rear. She glanced at Karl, then his weapon.

  “Traveling alone, miss?” Karl said, following the script. Going through the motions.

  “Just heading home from work. What’s this all about?”

  “Have you seen the news, ma’am?” Karl said, keeping a close eye on the van behind.

  Something about it didn’t sit right with him, and it made him nervous.

  “I heard about that man escaping. Is this related to that?”

  “Just precautionary. Have you seen anyone or anything suspicious during your travels today?”

  “No, not a thing,” she said.

  “You haven’t been flagged down or noticed anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No, nothing. I came straight from work.”

  Karl glanced at the van, hating that the windows were blacked out. It would be an ideal vehicle if someone wanted to make an escape.

  “Alright,” he said, standing up straight. “Go straight home and keep your doors locked. If you see or hear anything unusual, report it straightaway to the police. There’s also a dedicated number being aired on both radio and television.”

  “I will. Thank you, officer.”

  He waved her through, turning his full attention to the van. He put his hand on his gun, and locked eyes with his colleagues, the silent message received. Be careful.

  II

  Henry lay in the pitch black, knife to his prisoner’s throat, the thrum of the engine vibrating as the car rolled forward. He recalled his former life, before the blood, before the death. Back when he was just a councilor, a man like any other, filled with pointless ambitions. He recalled a statistic from the time he tried to enforce a new traffic calming bill. It stated that approximately forty-seven percent of people would stop to offer assistance to a vehicle stranded by the roadside. Henry had needed just one. He had staged the scene perfectly. The doctor’s body had come in useful, and once Henry had sat it in the car by the side of the road, hood open, he waited in the trees, watching, waiting for someone to take the bait.

  He recalled fishing trips with his father when he was a boy, hot sticky summer days spent by the water’s edge, waiting for a bite, waiting for something to break the monotony. This was much the same. The sporadic traffic had, for the most part, passed without stopping. He was patient, careful not to be seen. Eventually, the bait was taken and someone was fool enough to stop. As always, he let them guide him, acting completely in accordance with their commands. In the end, it was easy. He waited now, his hostage weeping and terrified, Henry anticipa
ting passing the roadblocks so he could do as his new masters commanded. He pressed the knife harder into the flesh of his prisoner’s neck as he waited to be set free.

  III

  Sloane waved the van toward him, his two colleagues approaching the passenger side, surrounding the vehicle. A fourth officer waited by a patrol car beyond the roadblock on the off-chance that someone tried to crash through it, his dog leashed and tense. Karl approached the driver’s side window, motioning the driver to wind it down. The driver was somewhere in his early twenties and had a narrow face and large nose, which Karl thought gave him the appearance of a rat. His eyes shifted and darted at the police who surrounding the van, causing Karl to raise his alert level even further. He had seen nervous behavior before, and this was a classic example. Across from the driver, in the passenger seat, sat another man. They shared the same strangely proportioned facial features and shifty demeanor.

  “Where are you boys heading?” Karl asked, the smell of marijuana drifting out of the van.

  “Just on our way home,” the driver said, eyes still darting. “What’s this all about?”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “Yes, just us.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “John Smith.”

  Karl nodded. John Smith was a false name if ever he’d heard one, and certainly wasn’t given in any sort of convincing manner. For now, he let it slide. “Have you picked anyone up on the road today?”

  “No, like I said, it’s just us.”