by Jake Bible
Kaiju Inferno
Kaiju Winter: Book Three
Jake Bible
Copyright 2015 by Jake Bible
One
She sits, her hands on her pregnant belly, and waits. Her long legs crossed and her blonde hair hanging against her shoulders, framing her wide face and rugged looks. The question she just asked should have elicited at least a couple squeaks of curiosity, but still she waits, sitting, pregnant, in the silence.
Adrianna VanderVoort quickly realizes that the morons in the presidential situation bunker several, several meters below the surface and directly under the White House, thought her question was rhetorical. They don’t understand that Adrianna VanderVoort doesn’t ask rhetorical questions. She also does not repeat herself.
“Fine,” she says, retuning her attention to the banks of monitors filled with faces of scientists from around the world; scientists that answer only to her. “Stay in your ignorant bubbles if you don’t want to know.”
“I’d like to know the real story of how life on Earth began,” Dr. Blane Hall says from the corridor that leads to the sleeping quarters for the staff and personnel, as well as the Cabinet and other government officials housed in the bunker. He raises his hand and gives VanderVoort a shy grin. “Please?”
“Good boy,” she grins back. “I knew I could count on you, Dr. Hall.”
She winks and his face turns pink. VanderVoort is flattered that even six months pregnant she can still get a nerd to blush. The feeling makes up for the severe disappointment in the bureaucratic idiots that have gone from staring at her to staring at Dr. Hall.
“Dr. Hall, you were about to go rest, were you not?” President Nance says, breaking the silence.
“I can wait,” Dr. Hall says. “This sounds kind of important, sir.”
“A little more than kind of, sport,” VanderVoort says. “It is the most important thing ever.”
“VanderVoort?” a voice asks from one of the monitors. “Are we ready to proceed?”
“Hold on a sec, Dr. Burkhorst,” VanderVoort replies without looking at the screen.
She knows her people in and out, she knows their voices, she knows their mannerisms. Hell, she’d probably know them by the smells of their farts. She doesn’t leave much to chance when it comes to people. That’s how accidents happen. Leaving things to chance.
VanderVoort is the person that avoids accidents, not the one that causes them.
She pushes up from her chair and faces the men, and too few women, that are staring at her once again. The President’s Cabinet, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, heads of various national security departments, staff, assistants, techs, secret service men and women. They all look at her like she is the second coming of Moses and holds two brand spanking new tablets in her arms.
VanderVoort likes that. She likes that very much.
“Before I begin, I need to make something very clear,” she says. “If you are one of the goddamn creationists that think the Earth is only three thousand years old then I want you to get the fuck out or shut the fuck up right now. You are wrong. You are so wrong you might as well be considered an overgrown preschooler that has just learned not to shit in his or her pants. I kid you not, people. I have zero tolerance for mumbo jumbo and will kick you the hell out of this bunker if you so much as make a peep about the Holy Bible. You hear me? Are we clear?”
“Adrianna? That may be a little harsh,” National Intelligence Director Gordon Miles says, not without a sly smirk on his face. “President Nance did campaign on a platform of good ol’ Christian values, don’t forget.”
“Don’t care,” VanderVoort shrugs. “Don’t have to. But let me clarify. You are all welcome to your personal beliefs, this is still America in some abstract way, but do not ever let those personal beliefs get in the way of reality and the truth. Understood?” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder at the monitors filled with waiting, sciencey-looking faces. “These are your new priests. What they say is sacred now. If we want to survive this nightmare.”
The silence still lingers except for a couple of throat clearings and a sad sniffle or two.
“Good,” VanderVoort says. “Let’s start at the beginning.”
***
The scientists quickly move from the central table over to workstations against the walls as the banks of monitors come fully to life, the central one dominated by the impressive image of Adrianna VanderVoort.
Unsure of exactly what her position is in everything, Dr. Cheryl Probst keeps her mouth closed and ears open as she stares at the large monitor where VanderVoort’s image is about to explain the impossible truth of how life began on Earth.
“We should have popcorn for this,” Dr. Edward Scofield chuckles as he leans close to Dr. Probst. He begins to stand up from his station. “I’ve heard all of this before, so—”
“Sit down, Edward,” Dr. Glenda Burkhorst, the woman in charge of the Yellowstone Substance facility, barks. “You may have heard this, but I highly doubt you were paying attention. You might just learn something.”
“And we are out of popcorn,” Dr. Clark Mannering adds.
“No, we’re not, Clark,” Dr. Valerie McDaniels says. “There’s plenty in the third cupboard from the left in Pantry Four.”
“No, there isn’t, Valerie,” Dr. Mannering responds. “We finished that off last Wednesday.”
“That was Pantry Three,” Dr. McDaniels snaps. “Can’t you count, Clark? Six pantries. Six.”
“Shut it, both of you,” Dr. Burkhorst says.
“So, no popcorn?” Dr. Scofield smirks, giving Dr. Probst a wink.
He receives a patented Burkhorst glare in response.
Dr. Probst tries to tune it all out as VanderVoort begins speaking.
“Listen to her,” Dr. Burkhorst says, startling Dr. Probst as the woman leans in over her shoulder. “This is important to the work. You have a lot of catching up to do.” She stands straight and turns to the control room. “The rest of you get to work. I want details on what exactly is coming out of the Substance. Facts! Not guesses!”
“The first bunker discovered was in Montana, miles from the Yellowstone caldera, but connected to the Substance by underground tunnels,” VanderVoort states on the monitor. “The rest were discovered later over the next few decades.”
A question is asked off screen and VanderVoort smiles.
“1911,” VanderVoort says. “During what began as a fossil expedition. It changed quite rapidly. The first scientists to explore the bunker were changed in ways that suggested the Substance was perhaps not to be underestimated. Hallucinations, delusions of grandeur, psychotic breaks, pure madness. Some became violent, homicidal in the most brutal of ways. Each facility, no matter what country of origin it resides in, has many layers and protocols of safety in place to make sure that the current scientists are not affected the way the first, poor men were. I’ve seen the photographs, ladies and gentlemen. Not pretty.”
Dr. Probst glances over at Dr. Scofield. “You spend a lot of time around the Substance, right?”
“Don’t worry,” Dr. Scofield says. “Bennet checks me out twice a week. Lots of ink blots and word associations. I haven’t had a psychotic break in a long time. Not since I voted Republican back in the nineties.”
“Edward,” Dr. Burkhorst growls. “Keep your eyes on the energy levels. I want to know when they hit their peak. That’s when it’ll push through.”
“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Dr. Scofield says.
Dr. Probst goes back to listening to VanderVoort and the rest of the room dissolves away, her attention so focused on the impossible story being told.
“It took a long time for anyone to figure out what the Substance
was, not that we have even come close to a true answer,” VanderVoort says. “But my guess? And it is just a guess, people, so don’t get your holier than thou panties in a wad. My guess, is it is God. Or a god, at least. That makes more sense since there are multiple facilities. Multiple facilities equals multiple gods. Maybe the Hindus have it right, yeah?”
Another off screen question.
“Yes, I know I just gave you all shit if you were a creationist,” VanderVoort snaps. “One does not exclude the other. I need you to broaden your tiny, government minds here, people. Wake up and pay attention.”
Yet another question. VanderVoort looks bored, but answers readily.
“Ten in total,” VanderVoort answers. “That we know of. We hope there are only ten. An unattended facility could prove a problem. We barely know what’s coming from the ones we have accounted for. A rogue Substance scares the piss right out of my already battered bladder.”
Someone tries to ask another question, but VanderVoort cuts them off.
“Just shut up and listen,” VanderVoort says. “I’ll make this simple. There are signs that all life on Earth came from the Substance. DNA coding similarities. Basic building blocks of carbon based lifeforms. Too many coincidences. And here’s the rub, people. This shit is billions upon billions of years old. Billions. Old as the Earth. It may have been here from the beginning, it may have arrived later, or it could be what created this planet in the first place. It found a nice little corner of the Universe to settle down in, grabbed up some floating rocks and space debris, and built a cocoon. Wouldn’t that be something? That we are nothing but bacteria on the outside of a cocoon, insignificant and unimportant, all the while thinking we are the hottest shit ever.”
Dr. Probst can hear the others talking, wants to focus on what they are saying, but can’t turn her attention from the dynamic woman holding not just her attention, but the attention of world leaders across the globe. For someone else it would all be too much, but for her it’s an orgasm wrapped like a Christmas present and handed to her by Einstein on her birthday.
“Well, I say gods because we believe the Substances at each bunker are slightly different,” VanderVoort says. “They have almost identical properties, but with enough singularities to lead folks way smarter than me to hypothesize that each Substance is unique. If that is the case then whatever comes crawling out of the other volcanoes could be vastly different than what we have already seen in ours. Hell, for all we know, the things that are about to come out of Ball’s Pyramid will look like giant kangaroos. Wouldn’t that be something?”
A claxon rings out and Dr. Probst jumps. Dr. Burkhorst grabs up her laptop, moves it to her workstation against the wall, and starts typing furiously. She gasps then leans across the computer to a mic on a workstation in front of her.
“VanderVoort?” she says as she depresses a switch on the mic.
Dr. Probst can’t help but think she’s in some updated, yet considerably smaller, throwback to a mini version of NASA’s mission control room in the sixties.
“VanderVoort? It’s starting to breach,” Dr. Burkhorst says. “It’s breaking through.”
VanderVoort turns and looks right out at them from the monitor. She smiles sadly.
“Thanks, Dr. Burkhorst,” VanderVoort says. “We are relying on your observations to tell us what the hell ‘It’ is. Patch all data through here and be sure to share with the other bunkers.”
“All lines of communication are wide open,” Dr. Mannering says. “The other bunkers are the same. Firewalls and partitions are gone. We are sharing in real time.”
“Good,” VanderVoort. “Keep it that way, people. I’m talking to everyone. If any of you decide to get territorial then you’ll deal with me personally. We all know how dealing with the Spook can be. It’ll be the last thing you do in your short, painful life.”
The temperature in the room drops a few degrees at that statement. Dr. Probst even notices Dr. Scofield’s playful irreverence disappears quickly. She stares at the monitor where VanderVoort holds court. Until she notices someone is calling her name.
“What? Yes, sorry,” Dr. Probst says, turning to Dr. Burkhorst. “What was the question?”
“I need seismic readings at ground zero,” Dr. Burkhorst snaps. “Pay attention, Dr. Probst. This isn’t the USGS anymore. Answers are needed when questions are asked. What are the readings at ground zero? The Yellowstone caldera? I need those now!”
“Yes, of course,” Dr. Probst says as she looks down at the readings on the laptop in front of her. She’s barely paid the thing any attention since coming into the control room. “I, uh, well…”
“Doctor?” Dr. Burkhorst asks, her impatience far from hidden.
“This can’t be right, can it?” Dr. Probst asks. “Even this far away we’d feel this.”
Dr. Scofield rolls his chair over to Dr. Probst and looks at the readings.
“Shit,” he says. “You’re right.”
“What are the readings?” Dr. Burkhorst asks.
“Magnitude of twenty-three,” Dr. Probst says. “The readings show magnitude of twenty-three. The earth should be completely splitting apart.”
“It is. Look,” Dr. McDaniels says, pointing at a bank of monitors to the side. “The thing is tearing the planet open.”
Dr. Probst doesn’t even have time to register the fact they have a live feed of the Yellowstone caldera, or that the feed is crystal clear, all she notices is that something beyond imagination is trying to pull itself up out of the Earth’s crust and is tearing open the planet in the process.
***
“I’ll rip this damn place apart when I get out of here,” Sergeant Connor Bolton says as he paces back and forth in the large isolation cell. “They had better have a damn good explanation for keeping us in here this long.”
“Why?” Anson Lowell asks as he lounges on one of the bare bunks. “Something I learned as a guest of both the state and federal prison machine is that no one has to have a reason to do a goddamn thing to anyone else when it comes to incarceration. And you won’t care either. You’ll just be so glad to get out that you’ll forget all about your little threats and angry promises.”
“No, I won’t,” Bolton says. “I am very good at keeping my promises.”
Lowell snorts.
“What? You have something to say?” Bolton asks, turning away from the thick wall of clear plastic that makes up the front of the cell. “Say it if you do.”
“I already said it, Sergeant Slaughter,” Lowell replies. “You just didn’t listen.”
“Shut up, both of you,” US Marshal Lucinda “Lu” Morgan says from one of the other bunks. “All of your words mean zero right now. They let us out when they let us out. Get some rest while you can. We have no idea what is in store for us if or when we are set free.”
She glances over at the sleeping form of her son, Kyle, and sighs.
“I wish I could have the napping ability of a teenager again,” Lu says.
“I’m not napping,” Kyle replies without opening his eyes. “Just bored as shit.”
“One thing you learn as a SEAL, kid,” Sergeant Gary Holt says from a third bunk, his hands laced behind his head. “You sleep every chance you get because you don’t ever know when the next opportunity to close your eyes will come.”
“My eyes are closed,” Kyle responds. “Just kind of hard to sleep after all the shit that has gone down.”
“Where do you think they have Probst?” Lowell asks. “A different cell? Some dark, single-bulbed interrogation room? Or is she part of all of this? Doctors do like to stick together.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Bolton asks.
“It means that no matter what psychologist, psychiatrist, expert therapist, or whatever the fuck they were that came and talked to me every few months in the pen, they all walked out and wrote the same report,” Lowell says. “None for them wanted to be the one to rock the boat and give me a new story.”
“Or it
could be you’re just that crazy,” Kyle snorts. “You think of that?”
Lowell smiles. “Of course I have. But I doubt that’s the truth. Maybe a half truth, but not the whole truth.”
“This is not prison,” Lu snaps. “This is something apart from the federal government.”
“What makes you think that?” Lowell asks, swinging his legs over his bunk. “What indication have you been given that we haven’t to think this isn’t the good ol’ US of A? Feels like prison to me. Looks like prison to me. Fuck, it even smells like prison to me. Government cleansers all smell the same. This room has been sanitized and approved for human incarceration by Uncle Sam himself.”
“Just because a donut shop uses the same cleanser as a salon doesn’t mean you’re getting your haircut while you wait for your cruller,” Kyle says. “There’s a military bunker above. They probably have crates and crates of the shit up there. Use your brain, Lowell.”
“Damn. Getting a mental smack down from the kid,” Lowell chuckles. “Nice.”
“This is technically a government facility, but it is also not a government facility,” Dr. Ryan Bennet says as he walks up to the cell. He holds two pizza boxes stacked in one hand and a jug of water in the other. “For those of you used to dealing with clear lines of governmental distinctions, that may be hard to understand.”
They all stare at him, their eyes narrowed, adversarial, dangerous. Except Kyle who is still lying on his bunk, eyes closed, body language showing complete disinterest in what the adults are dealing with. A classic teenage pose.
“I have pizza,” Dr. Bennet says.
Kyle quickly rolls over and stands up.
“Pizza?” he asks. “Seriously? Aren’t we like ten miles under ground or something? How did you get pizza?”
“We have more than a few of the topside creature comforts down here,” Dr. Bennet says, grinning as he approaches the side of the clear wall. He tries to juggle the pizza boxes and water then shakes his head and sets the water down. “I am not a jailer. This is ridiculous.”
