Johnny Cobain’s one love and his only true aspiration in life was the scoop, the story. Johnny was a news hound, pure and simple.
When he wasn’t on his own beat he was searching for a scoop on somebody else’s. When it came to the story he had never been the kind of man to let grass grow under his feet. He had an eye and a nose for news that was the envy of every newsperson in the greater New York area.
Johnny Cobain was a lucky man indeed. When it came to his chosen profession, he had achieved a respectful measure of notoriety.
He wasn’t convinced that his success was anything other than chance, however. Johnny believed that chance ruled the universe, regardless of talent, regardless of intuition, regardless of ambition. He believed the universe was a giant crapshoot where some rolled sevens and elevens and others rolled snake eyes. And in his career Johnny had rolled his share of both.
But why was he thinking about all this now? And why were these thoughts so jumbled and wrought with so much pain and confusion?
He was thinking about home, New York, a place that suddenly seemed surreal to him. Shattered images of that city whirled through his mind like a nightmarish dreamscape envisioned by a demented nineteenth century science fiction imagination.
What’s going on here?
Though Johnny Cobain had been born in New York and had gone to school there, and now worked mostly in that city, it was suddenly very difficult for him to imagine his place there. Actually it was difficult to imagine—although he had only been out of that city—how long had it been now? One? Two? Three days? More?—that New York existed at all.
But why?
Panic swelled inside him. This must be a dream of some kind. But what had brought the dream on? And if he was dreaming then where was he dreaming from? His bed? Had he fallen asleep on the couch in front of some futuristic movie about Armageddon? Had he fallen down somewhere and bumped his head? Is that why it hurt so badly?
Then a strange memory swam up from the depths of his subconscious mind. That old scientist in Merton, California must have put some strange thoughts in my head. But what did he tell me? Did I actually go and see him? Did he actually die in my arms, or was that, too, just a dream?
Cobain tried to put it all together but it didn’t work. His head ached too severely, and each time he replayed the scene it came out the same. Okay, so my mind must be playing some kind of funky crap with me. What happened couldn’t have happened. Simple as that. The old man didn’t tell me a bunch of crazy shit about aliens in Roswell. He didn’t give me a strange alien artifact before someone murdered him.
Peculiar, but he now remembered his old college physics professor talking about Einstein’s universe. As Einstein had so aptly theorized, reality, like everything else in the cosmos, whether physical or spiritual, was a purely relative thing.
But why am I thinking about Einstein’s universe? What the hell does that have to do with my present situation? Why is my mind filled with images that so expertly mix beauty with tragedy? In one image Planet Earth is consumed by a terrible plague, in the next the sky is filled with floating apple blossoms against a breathtaking backdrop of craggy snowcapped mountain peaks. What’s happening to me? Why am I thinking such thoughts?
But try as he might, he couldn’t stop his mind. The images whirled through him in an unstoppable procession, and as they whirled, another part of his mind, the analytical part, seemed to be strangely detached from the whirling images, and his thoughts, although bizarre, were as clear and sharp as they had ever been. He was back in that college classroom and the professor was taking Einstein’s premise a step further. He was posing to the students the theory of a singular reality. “What if your own personal existence is the sum of all that is real?” The professor had asked. Absolute and unchangeable. What if the only genuine reality is the one in which you, as an individual, is experiencing at this very moment?
Strange, but that’s exactly the way Cobain felt right now. Like he was the only person left in the entire universe. Like he was the only person capable of such a bizarre experience. Like a drug trip that added clarity instead of taking it away. But why was he thinking about college? It had been years since he’d thought about those times, and never once since graduating had he thought about singular and alternate realities. What’s going on here? The sensations caused him to shiver. Or was it the cold?
Wait a minute. It shouldn’t be cold. The last time I looked, the entire northern hemisphere was embroiled in a summer heat wave.
Involuntarily and inexplicably his mind went back to his physics professor. It was as if he was seeing the whole scene on a giant movie screen, clear and bright and ever so real. He tried to concentrate on his breathing, and rode with the images.
‘Wouldn’t the idea of a singular reality be a little egocentric?’ Cobain remembered a student asking the professor. It was a girl and she was quite pretty.
The professor had replied with, ‘Probably. But how do we really know that it’s not true when the only reality we’re allowed to experience is our own personal one? The only consciousness you’re allowed to perceive is personal. Everything else we just take on faith. People every day refuse to accept the premise of intelligent life elsewhere in the universe, simply because other realities are not part of their own, and therefore very difficult to imagine. And how about primitive isolated tribes who believe the world and everything in it revolves around them? Would that be considered narcissistic? Remember, how do you actually know that anything exists beyond your limited perception of reality?’
Interesting premise. One that Johnny Cobain had never really understood, nor thought much about, for that matter. So, why was he thinking about these things now? Jesus, why can’t I pull my mind away from these crazy thoughts? But he couldn’t seem to, so he rode with them. And it reminded him of the old tree falling in the forest meme. If there is nobody around to hear it, does it make a noise? Of course you could go one further and ask if the tree or the forest actually existed at all without an external perception of that existence? Carl Sagan once posed the question: would the universe exist if there was no intelligence to perceive its existence? Sagan believed that life was indeed the universe coming to consciousness, and without an awareness of its own existence, what would be the point?
But weren’t such notions the exclusive province of poets and mad men? Why should Johnny Cobain, certified pragmatist, star political reporter for Rolling Stone Magazine concern himself with such unsolvable conundrums? Especially now?
Cold . . . so cold . . .
The idea that each individual could be the center of the universe was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. But the more Cobain thought about it the more the idea made some sort of perverse sense. He knew it was crazy, but just the same, the world—at least the people who populated his world—seemed to have all gone crazy with narcissism. It was a world in which each individual perceived himself, or herself, the center of all that is meaningful. One only had to open a Facebook or Twitter page and read the posts, or walk along the streets of Manhattan and observe troops of zombie-like people staring at cell phone monitors to understand this.
So cold . . .
But he was getting off track here. Go back, Cobain. Think. Take it one step at a time. He remembered Shutzenberger and the things he’d told him. He was pretty sure that was real. He remembered going to Los Angeles and trying to get at the stuff the old scientist had told him about in the bank’s safe deposit box. He remembered running away from a beautiful woman with freaky eyes and a troop of steroidal meatheads. Then he was on a flight to New York. And now here he was lying in this cold place with all of these bizarre thoughts whirling through his mind like some futuristic film festival?
Cobain tried to heave himself up out of the cold place in which he’d become prisoner, but his body ached and he couldn’t make himself move very far. So he settled gently back down, his head swimming crazily. Dark motes spun inside his mind. He forced himself to stay calm and tried to ma
ke sense of the time between then and now.
It was more than what Shutzenberger had told him and the other things that happened to him in California that got him thinking in terms of singular and alternate realities. For one thing it was his friend and ex-lover Dale Stromberg, a reporter for the New York Times whom he’d so foolishly contacted on his return to New York. He should have followed his better instincts and just kept going all the way to . . . where? He didn’t actually know where, but to a place the object wanted him to go.
Yes! That’s it. The object. Must be the object inspiring all these crazy images.
Jesus, Dale? I’m so sorry. I should never have contacted you. Such a stupid thing to do! He was aching to tell his story to someone else, someone he trusted. Someone who might reaffirm his sanity or tell him he was crazy. He didn’t care which. He needed to know if any of this was real. He had called Dale from Kennedy, told him he had something important to talk to him about and asked him to meet him at his apartment. Dale still had a key and although their relationship had gone south years ago, there was still a small place in his heart for the kind yet complex young man who had once been his lover. But when Cobain had gotten there he’d found a ransacked apartment and Dale lying on the kitchen floor. The dead eyes staring up at him accusingly, the feel of his ex-lover’s sticky blood on his hands, the sickening coppery smell of it in the air. And the frustration he’d felt when he finally realized that he was the one responsible. That he was the one who should be dead. Not Dale. If only he hadn’t called him.
He remembered leaving his ransacked apartment, running in a blind panic, his mind crazed with the realization that someone had mistaken Dale for him.
He remembered a little more of it now. It was night and someone had been chasing him through a series of dark alleys. But who? The same people that had tried to get to him in Los Angeles? The same ones who had killed Shutzenberger and now Dale? But if they were chasing him they must have realized their mistake in killing Dale. Who were they? If Shutzenberger had been straight with him then maybe they were members of some secret shadow government. He knew suddenly what they wanted.
The object.
The thought struck him like a bucket of ice water.
The object.
Yes, they’re after the object.
He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. A small blur of panic began to engulf him. Maybe it isn’t night after all. Maybe . . . I’m blind. Oh God. He slowly moved his hand from beneath him, waves of pain crashing through him and causing his head to spin dangerously. He finally managed to get the hand up near his face. It felt all prickly, like a million tiny needles were jabbing into it, and his arm was numb all the way back to the shoulder. He waved his fingers back and forth in front of his eyes. Relief washed through him. He could see his fingers, but barely.
Somewhere in Maine.
That phrase surfaced in his mind and he saw the child again, young, so very young, and beautiful, angelic, her expression much too complex for a child her age.
There’s someone else inside her, guiding her, someone—maybe something—ancient and kind and wise beyond comprehension.
Where the hell did that come from?
Didn’t matter. He knew it was true. She’d spoken to him through the object and somehow she had guided him to safety as he’d been pursued by evil people who were bent on destroying the civilization humans had worked so hard to build.
He knew he had to find her before it was too late. He knew what she needed, and he had to take it to her. Johnny tried to heave himself up out of the cold place again, but sharp bolts of pain forced him to stay down. Now he could hear the massive city coming to life around him, groaning like an angry beast, and the sound of it somehow comforted him.
He sat for a moment longer before finally finding the strength to stand. He needed to find a way out of the city, and fast. Something was about to happen. Some catastrophic event, and if he didn’t move now he would never make it out.
He cupped the object in his hand and saw the child’s face. Then the child spoke to him and he knew what he had to do.
Trust the object. It will show you the way.
CHAPTER 18
Ice Caves. Northern Maine Wilderness, July 6th.
Doug woke before dawn and quietly dressed, trying not to disturb Annie. Before slipping out of the bedroom he scrawled a short note and left it on Annie’s nightstand. In the kitchen, Rick was waiting with coffee. Two Maglites sat on the table along with extra batteries.
“I wondered if you’d picked up on that last night,” Doug said as he took his first sip.
“You mean about the interface? I don’t know about that, but I saw the look on your face when they mentioned it. Figured you’d want to check it out.”
“What do you think?” Doug said.
Jennings sighed. “I gave up trying to rationalize any of this years ago. Now I just go with the flow. Maybe it is something beyond this world. I don’t know. We’ve both talked at length about the possibility, and my father suspected it long before we ever set eyes on it. He wasn’t a very scientific man, but you don’t have to be a scientist to know that whatever that is down there didn’t originate on any Earth we’re familiar with.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
Jennings smiled. “Why, because I’m such a practical cat?”
“I guess that’s it. That and your damned stubbornness.”
“It’s just who I am. There may not be any real proof down there, none that we can understand anyway, but there’s definitely something very strange down there. Something no one can deny.”
“But if that’s where the interface is, then why here?” Doug asked. “I mean, why this particular place?”
“Why not? Good a place as any. Besides, now we know they’re everywhere.”
“We know the Blue Light shafts are everywhere,” Doug said. “And if Nadia and Dr. Randal can be believed we now know a little bit more about what they are and what purpose they might serve. But we still don’t know anything about the rest of what’s down there.”
Jennings heaved a deep sigh. “We may never know the truth, Doug. Whoever or whatever built all that disappeared a long time ago.” Jennings took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “Now that I look back over my life—over our lives—it doesn’t surprise me. Everything just kind of fell in place.”
“You mean like it’s all connected somehow? Like we’re all connected? Like it was supposed to be this way?”
“Why the hell not,” Jennings said. “Listen, you’re Ariel’s father. Need I say more?”
Doug did not reply. He knew what Rick was trying to say. He also knew that Rick could never come right out and nail anything straight on the head. He wasn’t built that way. He was a good detective—no, he was a great detective—one who demanded solid evidence before he would come to a conclusion. This was about as metaphysical as Rick Jennings ever got. Doug had tried a thousand times to make sense of their lives. To make sense of why Rick Jennings was in his life, to make sense of why Annie was in his life and why they had been chosen to be the parents of a miracle child. The thought of letting Ariel go sent arrows of hurt into his heart.
“We better get moving before they wake up,” Jennings said, breaking Doug’s reverie. He picked up one of the Maglites and pocketed the spare batteries.
“I left Annie a note,” Doug said. “Didn’t want to worry her. I suspect we’ll be gone most of the day.”
Doug saw the look on Jennings’ face. “You know Annie. She won’t say a word. Even if she did they’d never find their way down there. You remember what it was like mapping those caves.”
“Bet your ass I do. But I don’t totally trust those other two.”
Doug began to worry about what Rick had said as they moved quietly toward the back of the cavern to where it narrowed into a smaller opening, past Wolf, Laura, Eli, Nadia and Dr. Randal. No one stirred. Doug wasn’t sure how he felt about Nadia. He had been so blown away at seeing h
er after she’d disappeared so abruptly from his life more than four years ago that he hadn’t had time to rationalize his thoughts.
At the back they ducked through the opening they called the bottleneck knowing that further down, the shaft split into a confusing maze of tunnels. Some were big enough for a man to stand upright in, some were so small you had to crawl on hands and knees. Some were dead ends, others opened into vast echoing chambers, and still more were totally unexplored. There were sections filled with ice all the way to the roof, and some with floors so slick you could slide all the way to hell. Doug and Jennings were perhaps the only two people on Earth who knew these caverns well enough not to get lost or killed.
“I trust Nadia,” Doug said finally.
“I know you do. I just hope your instincts are correct.”
Doug did not reply.
They’d gone perhaps thirty yards into the first antechamber when they heard a soft pattering sound behind them. Both men whirled and saw Eli’s small, bent frame limping through their flashlight beams, hurrying to catch up.
“What are you doing, Eli?” Jennings said.
“What’s it look like?” The little man said as he caught up, halting to catch his breath. “I’m going with you guys.”
Song of Ariel: A Blue Light Thriller (Book 2) (Blue Light Series) Page 22
