[Anthology] Killer Thrillers

by Nick Thacker

Carter took up a position facing the tunnel they’d entered to. Saunders was there, and had fallen asleep waiting for Carter to take first watch. He ordered the lights to be flicked off, and the eerie darkness descended around the group, seeping into every crack and space in the cavern.

  Carter watched the darkness in front of him for some time, listening intently to nothing. The deep quiet of the suboceanic cave was daunting, enveloping. The black swirls of nothingness haunted his vision, but he refused to close his eyes.

  He thought more about Bingham and tried to piece things together.

  He thought about the team; the scientists and soldiers he was tasked with protecting. He thought about Jen and Mark, the estranged couple who’d suffered unbelievable psychological pain in the past day. They’d lost a son, and he had no idea if they’d be able to find him. For them, their struggle was just beginning. They were blocking out the pain of loss, replacing it with resolve, vigor, willingness to fight, and a bluntness toward the consequences.

  He knew that their psychological torment, while generated and exacerbated by nothing more than chemical reactions in their brains, was a very real torment. Their pain was as excruciating and tortuous as its physical counterpart.

  Carter knew the pain all too well.

  19

  “Craig,” the voice on the other end of the phone said, “that can’t work.”

  “I understand where you’re getting held up.”

  “No. You don’t, Larson. It’s not feasible. What you’re implying is that we’ve—”

  “Implying?” Larson shot back. “I’m not implying anything. I’m asking you. We need this. You asked for my help first, remember?”

  There was a brief pause. Larson could hear Malcolm Vertrund’s deep breath. “I know. I did. I called you, but here’s the deal. I’m getting a lot of pressure to wrap this thing up quick—like yesterday, and you’re telling me you don’t even have a lead?”

  “I’m not telling you that at all,” Craig Larson said.

  “So you’ve got something?”

  “I’ve got a little. Probably what you already have. I’ve been doing research. You know, looking into the organization and trying to piece things together. They did a pretty good job of tying up their loose ends, covering their tracks.”

  “What did you find?” Vertrund asked.

  It was Larson’s turn to hesitate. “My assistant found something yesterday. It’s not much, but it at least gives me an idea of what they were trying to do back in the seventies.”

  “They were studying the effects of nuclear radiation on biospheres, I thought.”

  “They were. Seems like they were at ground zero during the Three Mile Island meltdown; not sure if it’s related…”

  Vertrund didn’t react, so Larson continued. “Anyway, they moved—set up shop somewhere else—and we don’t have anything on them after that.”

  It was a blatant lie, but Larson needed to hear Vertrund’s response. “Okay, well, just know that I’m trying as hard as I can to get you into the database. It’s a chain-of-command thing, and…”

  “And I’m not high enough on it.”

  “Listen, Craig, it’s not like that—”

  “It is, if that’s the answer. That’s exactly how it is. That’s fine, Vertrund. I charge by the hour, and I’m going to find what I’m looking for.”

  “Craig. Stop. Slow down. What I’m telling you—I can’t believe I have to spell this out—what I’m telling you is this: this thing is big. Bigger than both of us. It’s over your head; it’s over mine. I’m getting pressure to wrap this up and move on.”

  “You mean you’re getting pressure to wrap this up without finishing it. That’s your government at work, Malcolm.” Larson could almost see the younger man cringe at the detective’s emphasis on your government.

  “Fine. Think what you want. I’m telling you what I know. You’re hitting a brick wall here, and you need to redirect your efforts if you want in. I can’t help you anymore unless you’re going to help me.”

  Larson held the phone out away from his ear, thinking. He frowned, then placed the earpiece back on his head. “I understand. Thanks for your time.”

  The phone went silent, and Larson sighed. He turned off the phone, and placed it on the counter in front of him. Standing, he looked across the counter at Ken Dawson. “I think we’re further behind than we thought.”

  Dawson rose from the armchair and joined Larson in the kitchen. “How far behind did you think we were?” he asked, a smirk growing on his face. “Sounds like our friend isn’t going to be much help.”

  “He’s not. He wasn’t going to be. But we’ve got what we need.”

  As was often the case when Dawson and Larson worked together, the younger man was a step behind. He looked visibly confused, but Larson let the awkwardness sink in before he explained.

  “Vertrund and whoever’s giving him orders want us to slow down. You and I both know we’ve got information that can lead to our bringing anyone in who’s even remotely connected to Nouvelle Terre.”

  “Right, but—”

  “But Vertrund knows that too. That article you found isn’t written in Sanskrit, Ken. It’s pretty clear that we’re playing with something here that’s going to be a big deal if it gets out. We know, and we found it after looking for a day. You’d better believe they know about it too.”

  He paused to make sure Dawson was following. “But Vertrund didn’t say that. He didn’t even let on that he knew I was lying. He wants us to think we’re the only ones who are a little concerned about what Nouvelle Terre might really be up to.”

  20

  The darkness chilled her to her core.

  Dr. Lindsay Richards was not a fan of dark spaces, creepy halls, haunted houses—pretty much anything dark. She hated Halloween, and she had a nightlight in each of her rooms at home.

  As an adult, and as an academic, she knew this fear was nothing troublesome. It wasn’t a fear that manifested itself often. She was fine in dark theaters, walking at night, and in other normal circumstances. It was the odd time when the darkness itself played a larger role. She liked to think she was most scared when the reason for the darkness was the darkness itself.

  She’d grown up wanting to be an astronaut, but when she visited a space museum as a child, her father had taken her into a planetarium. They’d stared at the constellations and dancing stars and comets for an hour, but when the guide plunged the room into pitch black and spoke about black holes, the vastness of the universe, and the sheer nothingness of deep space, she was positively terrified. She’d clutched her father’s arm and began to cry. Logic told her it was just a dark room, but it was revolting.

  Now, Lindsay could feel that same fear creeping toward her. It had been enveloping her since they’d stepped into the cave system. She knew better than to speak up, especially now that their lives were in danger. Nonetheless, she knew she’d be getting no sleep.

  She tried to force her eyes closed and mouthed the lyrics of an old folk song that she’d been taught as a girl.

  She was through three verses, and her nerves were starting to cool down, when she heard a voice that was not inside her head.

  “Leave, left, leaving. Go, went, going. Stay, stayed, staying…”

  It was a whisper, but she jumped anyway.

  The voice was right next to her head. She thought it was directed at her. No one else seemed to hear it. She thought about saying something out loud to the group, but didn’t want to come across as crazy as—

  Bingham.

  She recognized the incoherence and could even hear the singsong lilt of the man’s voice. It was so soft—almost impossible to discern.

  “Restent, restant, resté…”

  The voice continued, right in her ear, in French this time.

  “Elliot?” she whispered, as quietly as possible. “Is that you?”

  There was a pause. “Going, leaving, staying…”

  She rolled to her side and squinted into
the darkness. It was hopeless. The darkness was all-consuming; she could see nothing. She whispered again, a bit louder this time.

  About twenty feet away, the faintest of lights emanated an orange glow along the cave wall. It was near the exit to their cavern, the side of the path they’d not yet traveled. As she watched, the light danced and flickered a bit brighter, then disappeared. It reappeared again a few yards farther down the path. It was leaving the cavern.

  Does no one else see this? she wondered. The guard must have been looking in on the sleeping group—or was also asleep.

  Lindsay considered her options. Wake everyone, admit that she was afraid of the dark, and risk pinning herself as crazy, or at least childish? Should she try to make her way to the opposite entrance, where there would be at least one soldier still awake? Carter had said there would be someone on watch throughout their few hours of rest.

  Or should she just follow Bingham a bit, to see if he was just wandering around aimlessly? He was harmless, she knew. His facial expressions and odd twitch, combined with his roundabout way of talking, made her think that he was merely an unfortunate individual who had suffered the effects of long-term isolation. She was no psychiatrist, but the symptoms were all there. Certainly this environment, being alone, and the man’s active academic mind would have been the perfect breeding ground for the claustrophobic-like psychological effects that he was experiencing.

  Plus, he’d helped them thus far. When they were standing in the middle of the main level wondering what to do next, Bingham appeared and offered—after Carter’s stringent line of questioning—at least a few answers they needed.

  Then, when they were shot at and were forced into these godawful caves, it was Bingham who showed up with a flashlight and helped them into this spacious cavern where they’d be temporarily safe.

  What do I have to lose? she thought. Jen Adams is clearly the lead scientist here, and the others look at me as if I was an afterthought. They probably despise Erik, too, and question his value on this trip.

  Lindsay sat up. It was decided. She’d follow Bingham a little farther into the cave, just to see if she could gain some insight into his behavior. At the very least, she hoped to explore ahead a few hundred yards. In her business, knowledge was power, and knowing more than the others could help put her ahead.

  She stood to her feet, surprised again at how easily she found herself breathing. She wasn’t obese, but she certainly could stand to lose a few pounds. Back home, she would have at least needed to catch her breath after standing up from lying down on the floor, but here her body seemed to perform well.

  Two hundred feet, then I stop, she thought, countering her initial decision of a few hundred yards. I walk, I focus on Bingham’s light, and I come back when and if he gets too far away. By thinking herself through the individual steps, Lindsay knew she would be able to stave off the gripping fear of the darkness around her.

  She stepped toward the fading light down the path and began reciting the words of her song in her head.

  About thirty or forty feet, the tunnel bucked and turned sharply to the right. She followed, arm outstretched against the cold stone wall, as the path began descending.

  The light ahead of her flickered and died.

  She almost panicked, feeling her heart catch in her throat. Can I get back if there’s no light? Before she needed to explore that option, the light came back on.

  It was closer to her now—or was it just an illusion?

  She stepped forward slowly, trying to steady herself and calm her nerves.

  “Bingham,” she said, her voice clear and strong. “Are you okay? Is that you?”

  The light swung around and dissipated a little. As her eyes adjusted again, she saw that it was now illuminating a shadowy silhouette. Bingham was carrying the light in front of his body.

  She followed along again, growing anxious as she closed the distance. Bingham’s going slowly, she thought.

  Lindsay saw the shape hesitate, then turn sharply left. The light ducked out of sight, and Lindsay picked up her pace again. “Bingham, wait up,” she said. She reached the intersection in the path. She’d have to remember this for when the others arrived. If Bingham went left, the path to the right must be a dead end.

  She turned left, stepped forward, and stopped.

  Where was the light?

  Was she looking at the wall? She reached out, but felt nothing. Clearly, Bingham had gone this way—she saw him turn and head this way. She waited, expecting the light to turn back on again as it had done earlier.

  Finally. She saw the orange again about a hundred yards away. He must have seriously picked up his pace after he turned in here.

  She focused on the light, unsure of whether or not she wanted to continue following.

  A second light flicked on to her left, about fifty feet away.

  What the—

  Lindsay took a step back and saw a third light spark twenty feet in front of her, slightly to her right. Her voice caught in her throat.

  More lights came on, and Lindsay could now begin to see the shadowy outlines behind them.

  She screamed.

  21

  Reese’s face haunted her sleep.

  Jen rocked silently back and forth on the cave floor, trying in vain to get some rest. She’d drifted in and out of sleep for the past forty minutes, but she could almost feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She wouldn’t be able to sleep until this was over.

  Reese was gone.

  The thought still chilled her; numbed her. Could it really be true? He had been abducted, that horrible, disgusting word that happened to other people’s children.

  It wasn’t Mark’s fault. She knew it, but wanted to believe that it was. Needed to.

  He was a wonderful parent. Better than she was. Reese liked him more, too. It was strange, really. Jen’s approach to loving their son had always been to protect, to comfort. She’d gone out of her way to defend him, trying to ensure the boy would never feel pain.

  On one hand, she knew it was frivolous—only a way of vicariously living through her own childhood to try to heal scars that her son didn’t share. On the other hand, no parent wanted their child to suffer, so she wasn’t crazy, right?

  She knew that she and Reese had really started to grow apart when she and Mark split up. It was devastating for him to not have dad there constantly. He came home to an empty house—both Jen and Mark were busy at work—but Mark always seemed to know how to connect with Reese. He always seemed to know exactly what he wanted, and he always had a better work/life switch.

  Jen, by contrast, couldn’t ever fully remove herself from work. She’d taken over much of Dr. Storm’s lecture schedule, and she was putting in overtime almost every week in the research labs. She’d always told herself that it was fine. She loved her work.

  But now he was gone.

  If she—they—couldn’t find him, what then?

  Jen’s mind raced through the terrible possibilities, not fully feeling any of them. She’d been trying desperately since they’d left her office to keep her “academia” hat on. She needed to be analytical, calculating. The others didn’t need an emotional mother. They needed a professional scientist.

  She felt a hand come to rest on top of hers. She gasped and yanked her hand back.

  “Jen. Sorry, it’s me. Mark.” Mark’s voice whispered crisply through the cool cavern air.

  “Sorry. I know, it was just—sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You okay?”

  She hated him for asking it, but loved him for it all the same. What was that supposed to mean, anyway? Of course not.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Listen, I wanted to, um, apologize…”

  “Mark, please. You don’t have to do this. God knows it was as much my fault, and Reese—” she couldn’t finish the thought.

  She didn’t reach for Mark’s hand, but she also didn’t pull hers away when he reached out again. His hands were
warm—they always were—but the warmth this time radiated an energy that she needed more than ever.

  He was a frustrating man. Unbelievably good-looking, or at least she thought so. Tall, brown-eyed, and fit, he had always been in excellent shape, and never seemed to try. He was soft-spoken, calm, and collected, to the point that a lot of people seemed to think of him as a pushover. And why wouldn’t they, Jen thought, with my personality to go with it? She was as fiery and driven as he was nonchalant.

  Before they were married, Mark had expressed his ambitions, hopes, and dreams with her one night over drinks. It was an extremely rare event for Mark—drinks and talking about his career—but it was delightful for Jen, and she knew that he would make a great father and husband.

  Those first months were an absolute thrill. Like a fairy-tale romance, Mark wooed her with surprises, dates, and trips, and within a few months they were living together. Reese was born a short while later, and they had a whirlwind first year as they moved, changed jobs, and settled in Massachusetts. She often thought of the simpler times, laughing to herself that a newborn child and young marriage could ever seem simple.

  “Jen.” The word was hushed, but louder than the rest of their whispers had been. Jen looked up to see nothing; the black of the cavern was absolute. She frowned, but knew Mark couldn’t see her either.

  “What?”

  “I know—” he paused. “We’re both in this together, okay? You know me, and I know how stubborn you can be, but we’re going to get through this, okay?”

  She nodded again.

  “We’re going to figure this out, then we’re going to get Reese. I promise.”

  Jen’s nostrils flared out, but she didn’t speak. Was it just calming to hear his voice, as frustrating as he was?

  “We’re going to get Reese, and we’re going to go home. Do you believe me?”

  She didn’t know what to believe. She wanted to believe it, but she’d always been a realist.

  “Yeah. Yes, I believe you.”

  “Good. Now do me a favor, and try to get some—”