Existential

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  Several charred bodies greeted the team in the roofless, burned-out remains of what appeared to be the Greytech security barracks. Like most of the corpses they’d found in camp, the bodies were all mutilated in some fashion. Melted metal blobs that had once been shell casings littered the ashes around the bodies. They had been armed with HK G36 assault rifles and had gone down shooting from the look of things.

  Christ, how many bullets does it take to kill this—? Max almost thought the word thing as some of the men were already calling the persons responsible for these atrocities. You don’t know shit, so just keep moving.

  At first, it appeared that the fire had spread into the street from the barracks, but the exact opposite was true. Sugar found a man lying on his side in the mud, charred black and clutching the remains of a weapon. “I’ll be damned, old boy got a flamethrower!”

  “Didn’t do him or anyone else much good,” Irish observed.

  From the look of things, the man had been trying to roast someone in the street and wound up setting fire to the barracks. The surrounding area reeked of napalm and burnt flesh.

  Max bent down and flipped the body, exposing the tanks for the flamethrower—a small nitrogen pressure tank mounted horizontally up top with the larger fuel tank underneath. The fuel tank bent askew with one triangular puncture mark about an inch wide visible.

  “Never seen a flamethrower like this,” Gable commented.

  Max studied the tanks. “It’s based on an old German design, the flammenwerfer 41. But this is brand new, perhaps an experimental design by Greytech for the DOD.”

  The team nodded in agreement. The DOD officially denied keeping flamethrowers in their arsenal, but they were known to deny a lot of things. Veterans knew better than to believe any of the bullshit blathered from the mouths of high brass to placate civilian activists. Granted, Max had never seen a flamethrower on the battlefield, never even seen one in use, but he’d never doubted their place in the arsenal, stockpiled in case of a dire threat to the homeland right alongside the mustard gas and nerve agents.

  “Looks like there’s a computer built into the trigger mechanism,” Red observed. “Pity this thing’s no longer serviceable. We could use something like this.”

  “Better than he did, I hope.” Gable pointed to the charred operator with his gun barrel.

  “Got to be an armory around here somewhere,” LT stated. “Maybe we’ll find another one.”

  Finding the armory proved easy; it was two buildings down on the other side of the street, a small, hardened Quonset hut constructed of thick steel. The steel door, over an inch thick, had been cast into the middle of the street. LT’s team entered the armory and reported it clear moments later.

  Max entered and illuminated the room with a red lens flashlight.

  A counter fenced off with reinforced wire mesh ran the width of the front room, behind which were racks for storage of rifles and pistols. Mostly empty, a few HK G36s were still in evidence, along with a selection of Glock and Sig-Sauer pistols, mostly in 9mm and all equipped with laser sights. Several Mossberg 590 tactical shotguns perched up in one corner. Three 7.62mm miniguns and an Mk 19 40mm grenade launcher sat on a steel table next to a door in the back wall.

  The access door through the front counter stood wide open.

  “What the fuck?” Coach asked. “These guys have better toys than we do.”

  Max was thinking the same thing as he examined the miniguns and grenade launcher, heavy weapons normally meant to be mounted on vehicles. Mining operation, my ass. Why would they need this kind of firepower?

  “You got your wish, Red.” LT stood at the entrance to a back room and motioned the team forward.

  Ammo had once been stockpiled here, but only a few metal boxes of 12-gauge, 5.56, 7.62, and 9mm Parabellum remained, as well as one box containing a belt of 40mm grenades for the Mk 19. Optics—the latest in NVGs and range-finding binoculars—were stored here, alongside combat knives and highly advanced comm gear for both portable and base operations. Two wooden crates on the floor contained Claymore mines and white phosphorus grenades, respectively.

  The object of Red’s desire—a second flamethrower in pristine condition—hung like a trophy on the back wall. Max and Red pulled it down for an examination. The flamethrower tanks were mounted on a frame to be worn on the user’s back. Red found a booklet in a pouch behind the tanks on the inside of the apparatus. The word “SECRET” was stamped in red ink diagonally across the cover over the words: “MANUAL: COMBAT ASSAULT FLAMETHROWER MARK 12 (Mk 12) Department of the Army”. At the bottom edge of the cover, beneath a line drawing of the Mk 12, were the words: “Manufactured by Greytech Industries, Pat Pending”.

  Max ran a hand along the smaller tank. “They definitely borrowed from the German design.”

  “Better materials, though,” Red said as he hefted the tanks. “This puppy looks all titanium. I doubt it weighs more than forty pounds full.”

  Coach chuckled. “Santa brings little Red his first flamethrower.”

  Red absolutely beamed. “And I’m digging this neato computer by the trigger. Hey, LT, think it’s got temperature control like that vape thingy you carry around?”

  LT even cracked a smile at that. “Could be. Scroll past Raghead and Russian until you find the setting for Unknown.”

  “Charge that sumbitch up,” Gable urged. “There’s a nitrogen tank right there.”

  Sugar glanced around. “Don’t see any fuel, though.”

  “They wouldn’t keep flammables in here,” Max said. “Let’s finish our sweep, gentlemen. We can play with toys while we’re waiting for our ride back home.”

  The sweep continued, the team gradually working east into the research sector of the camp. As they progressed, the weather continued to deteriorate, the rain and wind increasing in intensity as the temperate dropped. Rounding the corner of the muddy road, they came upon the second largest building at camp the main research lab. Max knew from the satellite photos that an explosion had destroyed much of the lab. It seemed the best place to begin their sweep of the final few buildings in Base Camp.

  The front door, though still intact, was partially blown off its hinges. LT’s team entered while Max and the rest kept watch in the street. “—ear,” Max heard through his headset a couple of minutes later. He led his men inside.

  As in so many other buildings, the first thing to catch Max’s attention was a corpse. The woman lay crumpled in a corner; her once-pristine white lab coat now mottled in a pattern of red and black stains. Her limbs jutted unnaturally. Blood and brain pooled by her smashed skull. An indentation in the wall, deep and human-sized, hinted at her demise: she’d been propelled into it with astonishing velocity, enough to break damn near every bone in her body.

  Max moved into the next room, where the explosion and subsequent fire appeared to have started. Computers, monitors, and unidentifiable lab equipment—all melted or smashed to bits—choked the room. “See if the hard drives on any of those computers are still intact,” he instructed Red, who nodded.

  “Chief, you’ll want to see this,” LT called through the open door to the next room. “Bring Red with you.”

  Max called out, “Change in plan, Red; you’re coming with me.”

  Red turned around. “Doesn’t look like anything is salvageable here anyway.”

  Max almost tripped on what, upon closer examination, proved to be an airlock wheel in a steel door lying on the floor amidst the high-tech rubble.

  “That’s interesting,” Diaz stated in a flat, dry tone.

  “You read too much into shit,” Coach told him.

  Diaz didn’t respond.

  Max joined LT’s team in a windowless central room about twenty feet wide that ran the length of the building. Portions of the ceiling had collapsed during the fire. A platform, roughly ten feet square and elevated about four feet above the floor, dominated the space. Titanium support posts at each corner of the platform had connected it to the ceiling. A gray su
bstance had flowed down the sides of the platform like magma to pool in solid puddles on the floor—the glass that had once enclosed the platform. A hardened steel console of four computers lined one side of the platform with the screens and keyboards encased in melted gray glass.

  “What do you make of it, Chief?” LT asked.

  Diaz answered in a condescending tone worthy of LT himself: “It’s an observation chamber. They were conducting medical experiments.”

  “What the hell?” Irish asked, pulling his hand back.

  “Yeah. Exactamundo,” Diaz said. “Don’t touch anything.”

  Max ignored Diaz’s sardonic demeanor yet heeded his warning to touch nothing. However, he noticed something as he circled the platform. “Take a look at this.” He pointed toward the floor. “Most of the melted glass over here didn’t run down the side of the platform. It’s in spatters all over the floor for a good ten feet that way.”

  Gable spit tobacco juice on the floor. “That’s prob’ly the side it broke outta.”

  “All right, we don’t know that, okay?” LT cautioned. “Keep your speculations to yourself, Gable.”

  “We’ll keep it in mind,” Max noted. Though he’d seen more weird shit today than on any other mission—a lot more weird shit—he couldn’t bring himself to believe that some sort of creature caused all this destruction. But the mounting evidence turned in his mind and began to overwhelm his logic.

  Max focused his attention to the computer console. “Red, pry open that console and see if you can pull the hard drives.”

  “On it.” A couple of minutes later, Red stood and dusted his hands off. “They’re already gone. From the look of the smudges and finger marks around the housing, they were removed after the fire.”

  “Huh...” LT mused.

  Max paused to contemplate that. “Interesting. Doesn’t seem like the style of our perps, does it? All they’ve done is destroy equipment, far as I’ve seen. Preserving information isn’t high on their agenda.”

  “There could be survivors here after all,” LT realized.

  Max nodded. “We need to be cautious, particularly the breaching team. I know there’s nothing you guys would rather do than shoot first after all we’ve witnessed here, but just watch it. Dead survivors aren’t about to tell us anything. And I want to know everything.”

  No one spoke. Gable released a huff of breath. As the point man on the breaching team, he would likely make the first contact with any survivors. Or any hostiles.

  The team explored the rest of the research lab and found nothing more of interest, just the same melted equipment and a few more people who had suffered agonizing deaths at the hands of the unknown enemy.

  A gust of wind-driven rain lashed Max in the face as he led the team from the research lab. Next door to the lab awaited the largest building in camp, a mess hall conveniently located along the border of the research and living quarters. It appeared untouched by the aggressors.

  “Front—vice entrance?” LT asked over the radio.

  Max could barely see Gable through the pounding sheets of rain. He jogged over to him and whispered, “Front doors. Keep it quiet.”

  Crouched low, Gable moved along the edge of the building, his size-thirteen boots sinking into the mud. He halted beside the double doors, metal with large glass windows comprising their upper halves. Gable tried pulling them open. Locked. He broke the glass with the butt of his shotgun, then cleared away the larger shards and reached inside to unlock the doors, which he slowly pulled open. The breaching team moved inside, Max and his men a few steps behind. Something was up; these were the first locked doors they’d encountered so far.

  The cafeteria reminded Max of a prison chow hall with the tables and chairs built as single units of furniture bolted to the floor. A few trays piled with decaying breakfast food occupied some of the tables, producing a rotten stench, but otherwise, the hall appeared unremarkable. The reek grew stronger as they approached the serving area, where large pans of food had been abandoned in the dead steam tables. The putrid food lay undisturbed; no signs of rats or even roaches in the mess hall.

  In the kitchen, the only signs of disorder were some cooking utensils lying on the floor and more pans of moldering food.

  Two wide, heavy doors, each secured with a pull latch, stood side by side in one of the walls. Max figured they were freezers and braced himself to inhale another noisome wave of putrefaction. Gable and LT moved forward to the right-hand door. LT pulled the latch; Gable stood ready with his shotgun to confront whatever might be inside.

  Two quick shots rang out in the darkness, the bullets ricocheting off the freezer door.

  “Don’t shoot, we’re friendly!” LT shouted, putting his shoulder into the door to push it shut.

  His entreaty was answered by a third gunshot and the babble of terrified voices talking over one another.

  Gable shouted, “Guns down! We’re from Greytech!”

  The anxiety in his voice as he struggled to control his hair-trigger temper jerked Max to action. “Cease fire!” he roared as he ran to the door. “Cease fire; we’re here to help!”

  No more shots came. A woman, perhaps more than one, sobbed.

  Max traded places with Gable at the door, which was still open a crack. “We’re Greytech security contractors here to secure this camp. How many are you?”

  A sob and then, “Three.”

  “I’m going to open the door now. Do not shoot! Is that understood?”

  More sobbing before another voice—weak, rasping, and definitely male—responded, “We understand.”

  Max pulled the door open. The room served as a pantry as opposed to a freezer, roughly twelve feet wide and twenty feet long. Canned goods and other non-perishable supplies filled shelves running the length of each wall. An institutional-sized can of sliced peaches sat open upon the floor.

  He observed the three survivors; two women and one man. The shooter—blonde female, early thirties, dressed in a dingy lab coat—held a smoking Beretta 9mm pistol, empty, the slide in the loading position. Tears streaked her dirty face, and she broke down crying at the sight of her rescuers. The other woman, swarthy and older with a curvy matron’s figure, likewise cried as she looked to the sky and chanted her gratitude in Spanish. Max recognized the word “Dios” but nothing else. Both ladies appeared to be uninjured.

  Max turned his attention to the man. He sat closest to the entrance, propped up on a makeshift throne of cardboard boxes full of fair-trade coffee. Shaggy and disheveled, he had a wild salt-and-pepper beard and a long, bony frame, with a dark tan complexion. His drawn and creased face reminded Max of Abraham Lincoln near the end of the Civil War. He likewise wore what had once been a white lab coat, now torn to shreds and soaked crimson with blood from chest to hips.

  “Injured man here, Diaz,” Max announced as he moved into the room.

  “I’m fine,” the man rasped, though he was anything but.

  Max wondered how best to console the survivors. He needed to put them at ease before he could extract any information from them. He was about to speak, was going to tell them that everything would be okay, that they would be fine. No, he realized, I’m not about to make that claim.

  Finally, he reached for the Beretta. “Let me help you up, ma’am. You won’t be needing that for now.” The woman allowed him to take the empty pistol. Max helped her stagger over to where she’d apparently been sitting atop some boxes of condiments.

  “Thank...thank you,” she stammered.

  Behind him, Abe Lincoln shouted, “No, I’m telling you I’m fine!”

  “My pleasure,” Max said to the woman. He stepped back to the center of the pantry and addressed the survivors, first introducing himself and the team. “We’ve been contracted by Elizabeth Grey to secure this camp and rescue all survivors. You’re the first we’ve located so far.”

  “We’re the last.” The Hispanic woman remained borderline hysterical.

  The blonde said, “We don’t know—
”

  “Shut up!” Lincoln snapped. No rasp this time—steel in his voice.

  Max needed info from all three survivors, but Abe obviously outranked the other two and would be privy to more secrets. And he hadn’t been very cooperative thus far.

  Max introduced himself and asked them their names. The Hispanic woman was Amelia Quinones, a food service employee. She was fluent in English though she spoke in a rapid-fire manner that made her difficult to understand.

  The blonde introduced herself as Danielle Harlow, a research assistant from Stanford University contracted to the Greytech expedition.

  “And you, sir?” Max asked.

  “Doctor Darsh Kumar, University of Chicago.” The man said haughtily as Max detected an Indian accent.

  Jackpot.

  “Dr. Kumar, why don’t you let my man examine your wounds.”

  “I’m fine, damn it—”

  “You’re bleeding to death, Dr. Kumar.” Harlow stated.

  The team had shut the pantry door behind them. The chamber was airtight, but there was a pushrod mechanism that allowed the door to be opened from the inside. Several chem lights now illuminated the room where before the survivors had been hiding in pitch darkness.

  “It’s not that bad,” Kumar insisted. “I’m a doctor of biomechanics; I think I’m qualified to judge.”

  Diaz knelt on the floor before Kumar with his medical kit open. “I need to look you over, sir.”

  Kumar glared at Diaz. “And what is your medical credential, sir?”

  “I’m a medic, a former Navy corpsman.”

  “So, none.” Kumar rolled his eyes.

  Sugar drew his large fix-bladed knife and stepped towards Kumar before anyone could blink. “If you prefer, Professor, allow me to expedite the examination process because you’re annoying the shit out of me right about now.”

  The two women gasped.

  Kumar quickly deduced that he longer carried any authority in the room, though he’d likely been a key player during much of the Greytech expedition. He moaned once, somewhat effeminately.