The Third Wave: Eidolon

by John O'Brien

  “You all wait here and cover me. I’m moving up,” Grieves said. “And, don’t shoot me in the back.”

  “Are you sure about that, sir?”

  “Am I sure about not wanting to be shot in the back? Yeah, I’m pretty firm on that one,” Grieves answered.

  “I mean about going up, sir.”

  “No, but I’m doing it anyway.”

  With a deep breath, Grieves rose from the trunk of the car and walked into the open, his head swiveling in every direction. His first step felt as if he were in a battle for willpower, his body reluctant to venture forward. He could almost hear the dice as they rattled down the craps table.

  With his weapon alternating between the men walking into the walls, Grieves felt very un-SEAL-like. He didn’t know whether to keep his weapon trained on one or both of them, whether he should race up or move slowly, go back and move up with the others, or just stand in the lot and pee himself.

  He circled around the man near the main entrance, his weapon now fully trained on the man. A few feet away and to the side, Grieves made a clucking sound to garner the man’s attention. The man stopped in mid-step and slowly turned his head to look.

  Grieves noted that the man didn’t look directly at him, but more in his general direction. The man’s eyes swept over him without a hint of recognition, his gaze blank. He’d heard of the thousand-yard stare before, and how those experiencing PTSD and trauma were barely aware of their surroundings.

  Or not caring about them would be closer to the truth.

  But, this went much deeper than that. It was as if there wasn’t a spark behind the lens, no expression or sign of life. They were just orbs staring at something Grieves couldn’t see or comprehend. A shiver ran up his spine as the man turned back around, reached out with his hand, and walked into the wall.

  What in the serious fuck is going on here? What happened? he thought, standing mesmerized.

  He looked toward the other guy further down the side of the building, noting a face similarly devoid of expression. He thought of the saying, “The lights are on, but no one’s home,” but wasn’t sure that even applied here. To him, there didn’t appear to be any lights on.

  They’re obviously not a danger, but fuck, what happened here?

  Grieves checked the main entrance door and found that it opened easily. Waving for the others to approach, he kept his weapon and eyes trained on the erratic ones nearby. As each of the crew looked closely at the soldiers, their eyes widened in amazement.

  “Jesus! They have no soul,” one exclaimed. “They’re just dead. I mean, their bodies are working, but look in those eyes. There’s no one inside.”

  “Quit making it creepier than it already is,” another said.

  “Okay. We don’t have time to loiter around and play fuck-off games. We need to get inside, find the kitchen area, gather food, and get the hell out of here,” Grieves stated. “Two of you stay outside and keep watch.”

  “Near this one? No thanks, sir.”

  “Then remain in the doorway where you can keep an eye on the parking lot and entrance road. We need to keep our backside clear. We’ve had enough surprises over the past couple of days to last us an eternity. I don’t want any more,” Grieves responded.

  “Aye, sir. Should we have a signal or call out if we spot something?”

  “I think the sound of gunfire should suffice,” Grieves stated.

  Seeing the expression on the sailor’s face, he added, “I’m kidding. If you see anything approaching, get out of sight and come find us.”

  With two left at the door, the rest crept down the corridor, rooms opening off to both sides. The hallways were very dimly lit with only radiant light spilling into their lengths from office windows. The building had a feeling of abandonment. The group stalked down the corridors, their nerves quivering from stress.

  Grieves was startled out of his skin when passing one office where a uniformed woman wearing a major’s rank was sitting at a desk, her hand going through the motions of writing or signing something in front of her without a pen in hand. The woman looked up with the same blank expression before returning to her imaginary paperwork.

  “Should we be doing something for them, sir?”

  “I don’t know what that would be,” Grieves answered. “There aren’t any apparent injuries, although those guys outside will eventually break something.”

  With a final look at the creepy woman at her desk, they continued, each on edge and jumping at the slightest hint of noise. The lack of the normal hum of building systems bothered them even more. It was the sort of thing you wouldn’t notice until it was missing, and the complete stillness of the interior was unsettling. The polished linoleum floors caused the light to scatter, giving a touch more visibility. They passed a few offices, some with bodies slumped over the desks, others with still forms on the floor. In one office, there was only a head visible poking out from behind a desk, the sightless cloudy eyes staring into one corner. Grieves wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

  They made their way to a small chow hall and into the kitchen. Liquid leaked from the refrigerators and formed puddles on the tile. They found several boxes of canned foods and loaves of bread in a pantry. The men began stuffing their duffels full, making sure to split the load of canned goods between them. They threw in unopened coffee tins, boxes of cream and sugar, and other non-perishable items. Looking in the fridge, Grieves grimaced at the mess, but selected several sealed packages of lunch meats and bacon that still looked edible. He paused for a moment, contemplating the cartons of eggs, but decided to leave those. The last thing they needed was for the entire crew to get sick.

  Finished, they dragged the extra duffels from the two keeping watch down the hall. Grieves would have liked to search the rest of the base for additional weapons and ammunition, but didn’t want to risk entering more buildings. After all, there had been screams earlier, and who knew how long the Washington would be able to keep those drawn away. He felt that they’d been pretty lucky so far and didn’t want to push it.

  At the entrance, they shouldered their duffels, the straps digging into their shoulders. Grieves turned the man at the door to the side so that he wouldn’t continually walk into the wall. The man turned right back around and resumed. Faint screams emanating from a distance reached the group.

  “I think that’s our signal. Time to go.”

  * * * * * *

  Lawrence watched the raft push off and be carried downstream. The sailors in it crouched near the sides and paddled cross-current like they were trying to escape from a rip tide. As the sub moved upstream to set up the diversion, he judged their progress and compared it with the pull of the river. It looked like it would be close, but they should be able to make it.

  Parking in midstream off the docks servicing Fort Eustis, he ordered the foghorn to be sounded. The low bleat rang out. Being so close, the sound was nearly deafening as it vibrated through the rubberized coating of the hull. The men and women lining the deck, armed with handguns in case anyone should get too close and try to board, held their ears. The morning sun caused the low silhouette of the Washington and those on it to cast long shadows across the rippling surface of the river.

  Turning his gaze toward the more populated side of the river, he watched to see if there was any effect on those crowding the streets just beyond the swampy areas. The emphasis of his search centered around the wide concrete pier jutting out into the water next to a marshy inlet. Light gray landing craft utility vessels lay quietly berthed, the only movement the ripples around their sides from the river flowing past.

  The faint screams began rising in volume and it wasn’t long before the first ones showed up. The apparitions at their sides glowed almost like fire in the rays of the early morning sun. Several raced down the length of the pier. Most held up short of the edge, but a few continued their run and plunged into the water. There, they splashed and flailed as they attempted to swim into the channel and were carried d
ownstream. Lawrence watched their frantic splashes until they succumbed, their still bodies bobbing in the current. The same small wisps materialized atop the water and quickly vanished.

  More joined their brethren on the docks while others attempted to navigate the swampy areas to the side. They became stuck in the deep mud, many slowly sinking until their heads went under, their shrieks dying. Wraiths floated above the bodies for a second before evaporating, making the marshlands look like they were a steaming hot cup of coffee.

  The shadow of the sub grew smaller as the sun rose. The docks had become so crowded that the weight of those behind was pushing the vanguard into the water. Every few minutes, the foghorn sent out its call, drawing others into the area. Focusing downstream, Lawrence saw the raft pulled up on the beach, nestled near a line of trees. Seeing the numbers gathered at the docks, he was concerned about those he had sent ashore. Without radio communications, there was no way to know how they were faring. The diversion was obviously drawing those things away from the airfield, and he hoped that it was enough.

  The hours passed, the screams from the dock nearly overshadowing the call from the foghorn. The eager ones periodically attempted to swim to the sub, but they inevitably joined the others floating downstream. Others attempted to lunge and blur their way across the expanse, only to reappear over the water and fall into its depths with a splash. The apparitions clouded the faces of those toward the rear, but the agonized expressions of those in front were readily apparent. All across the gathered horde, the wraiths writhed and wavered, disappearing and reappearing at times to the obvious pain of those they were attached to. Lawrence studied those onshore in an attempt to understand what was going on.

  What he was witnessing defied any rational explanation, so he gave up trying. He couldn’t think of a single event that could cause what he was seeing. So, he just decided to chalk it up to some government experiment that went awry, much like the supposed Philadelphia Experiment conducted in 1943 where sailors ended up embedded within steel walls. He pondered further along this line of thinking. Without knowing whether the facts around that supposed experiment were true or not, what he was seeing kind of fit with it.

  However, that didn’t explain what he was looking at. Under careful observation, he saw that the hovering ghost-like images were exactly the same as the individual they were attached to, like they were molded in the same cast; one real, the other opaque. And the way the apparition mimicked the expressions and screams a split-second later showed that the two were connected more than just physically. It was like a mirror showing a reflection a moment later…like time had been altered somehow. Possession, a ripped soul, a tear in the fabric of time? All circled through his mind as he continued trying to rationalize what he was observing. The part of the video where the seemingly normal man had been overtaken and consumed by an apparition played inside his head. Although all of the signs that seemed to verify his strange thoughts were there, his mind just wouldn’t close the gap.

  “Sir, the shore crew is signaling,” a lookout said.

  Lawrence looked downstream as a bright spot of light panned over the bridge. Grieves and those ashore were flashing a signal mirror, indicating that they were ready for a pickup. The flashes ceased and he saw the yellow raft slide down the slender beach and into the water.

  “Cease the foghorn and ease us downstream for a pickup,” Lawrence ordered.

  With the supplies brought on board and the raft stowed, the Washington retraced its path past the cities and back out to the river’s mouth. With enough food stores to last a few days, Lawrence ordered a course set to the south. The plan was to patrol the eastern seaboard to see the extent of the event, checking the coastal cities and ports to see how widespread it was. He harbored no illusion that it was confined to a region, as they’d have picked up something by now. Even if the ships, aircraft, or vehicles weren’t operational, there would have been something.

  With the sun reaching its zenith, Lawrence kept the Washington on the surface. He was still uncomfortable remaining so vulnerable, but he wanted to be visible to anyone who might signal from ashore. They slid along the long spit of land that ran offshore. The housing developments along its length held the same thing they’d already witnessed: erratic, repetitious movements and ghostly images. Through the raised periscope, the highly-magnified view showed several dead bodies lying in streets and in yards.

  Nowhere was there a single vehicle moving ashore. Lawrence felt hope surge at the sight of several sailboats in the sound between the strips of land, but each sighting ended in disappointment as they were found to be just drifting, some with one or both types of the people they’d seen.

  The Washington plowed through the waters at twenty knots, the bow surging through the sideways rolling swells. Plumes were sent outward with hisses of spray as the bow crashed back down on the far side. Rounding Cape Hatteras, they encountered several ships drifting at the mercy of the ocean currents. As with the sailboats, the decks had a few of those affected. Several of those that passed nearby had sailors with the apparitions that carried them overboard. Lawrence watched morbidly as the sailors hove into sight atop each swell, until finally going under. The fact that they were running into drifting ships further south wasn’t heartening, and was indicative of the event being widespread. It was as if the entire world had become derelict.

  Because of the skeleton crew and because he wanted to recon in the daylight so they could be seen by any shore side survivors, Lawrence opted to spend the night off the coast of Myrtle Beach, with lookouts posted topside and a minimal crew manning the controls. As with Norfolk, not a single light could be seen along the shoreline. Not even the single wavering light of a candle.

  The next five days were spent running down the length of the seaboard and along the northern coast of Cuba. Up and down the coast, a few ships lay stranded on beaches. Lawrence contemplated rounding Florida and reconning the shores along the Gulf of Mexico or perhaps down to South America, but their food supplies wouldn’t last long enough. Plus, with what they’d observed to date, it was apparent that whatever happened had occurred over a large area, perhaps worldwide. With resignation, Lawrence ordered the sub back to Norfolk. The familiarity of the home port and the fact that it was a major naval port made it an obvious choice.

  Pushing hard for the entrance, they arrived a week after leaving. Lawrence felt at a loss. They couldn’t go ashore for any extended period of time, although some of the Caribbean islands had looked promising, with their low population bases and the ability to sustain themselves. He just wasn’t ready to give up hope.

  “Sir, screw noises bearing zero-seven-eight degrees and closing on a steady bearing. Range, one thousand six hundred yards. Identified as an LA class sub. Turns indicate speed at twenty-six knots,” the sonar reported.

  Fast attack boats were quiet, but at speed underwater, they could easily be heard, unless there was a saline density called a halocline they could hide under.

  “Very well, move us out of the way and go active on the sonar. Let them know we’re here,” Lawrence ordered, hope rising that they’d soon have company.

  The ping of the sonar rolled through the depths, returning echoes from the anchored ships and the fast-approaching attack submarine.

  Sonar reported the bearing for the contact, denoted as Alpha One, was slowly changing and would pass in front of the Washington if it kept to its current course.

  “Any reaction to the ping?” Lawrence asked.

  “No, sir. Course and speed are remaining constant,” sonar answered.

  “I’ll be topside. Keep me informed,” Lawrence ordered.

  Atop the bridge, adjusting for the rolling swells, Lawrence looked in the direction of the contact. There was nothing to be seen, only the endless expanse of the Atlantic. Under the rolling waves, an LA-class attack submarine was closing in on their position at high speed. He followed the progress of the contact as reported by sonar, his gaze tracking it as it passed across thei
r nose and continued on toward the shoreline. Continued pings from their active sonar yielded no response.

  “Five hundred yards from the shoreline. They’re going to miss the entrance,” sonar called.

  Lawrence watched, the hope he’d had transitioning to a deepening anxiety. The sub was behaving as if no one was at the controls.

  “They’ve hit.”

  Close to the entrance and near the shore, Lawrence observed a disturbance in the water, followed by the dark shape of a conning tower protruding above the surface. The screw continued to drive the boat, the bow emerging from the shallow waters. The attack sub lurched farther forward, becoming embedded and stranded in the sandy sea floor. Toward the rear of the submarine, the water churned and turned a dirty color as the sand was stirred up by the unceasing propeller. The sub lurched one more time and then tilted slightly to the side, the waters still agitated.

  Lawrence panned the binoculars over the darkened hull lying partially out of the water. Below, crew members waited with the life raft, ready to render assistance if needed. However, none of the hatches popped open and no one appeared atop the sail. The sub continued its attempt to drive forward, and would probably keep on until the propulsion system failed. Over time, the nuclear propulsion would begin leaking radiation, making the area uninhabitable.

  Given the number of days since the world changed, the stranded sub must have traveled some distance, driven home by the navigation system using stored GPS data. Who knew the exact whys or hows, but it did suggest that whatever happened was worldwide. The sub tilted to the side without anyone exiting, mimicking the feelings of the crew, their last vestiges of hope stranded.

  “Are we looking at the end…I mean, like the end of humanity?” one officer asked once they were all seated in the mess.

  “As much as I hate to hear it voiced, I think that may be a safe assumption,” Grieves answered. “At least, for me, I think we need to operate under that notion.”