Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  “I’m so sorry, I should’ve recognized you.”

  The judge smiled warmly. “Not a problem. I’ve lost a lot of weight since then. I must say, swearing in a junior congressman was honor enough, but this…”

  Webster nodded, looking around. “It’s the same for all of us, your honor. I only wish it could’ve been under better circumstances.”

  The oath of office was administered in short order, and Webster officially took the reigns. Then he took to the airwaves, assuring his people, and the world, of his intentions. That despite the circumstances, he was taking the job with full vigor and a clear sense of duty, whether it be a short tenure or otherwise. That with the help of God and the American people, he would see the nation through.

  After the address, he met with his cabinet, promising to keep the membership intact for the near and intermediate future. Then he spoke with the leadership of both parties, all fifty governors in six conferenced batches, and elected officials from some twenty major nations. When the day was over, his entourage suggested they remain in place for the night, which was fine by Webster. He was exhausted.

  12.

  The magical qualities of being under the sea tended to wane after a few hours. After more than a day, they were null and void. Such pink-cloud sensations were replaced by a panic-inducing sense of impending, crushing breathlessness, coupled with the dreary sense of a work-a-day base. One with none of the frills other bases might enjoy, such as sports facilities, sunlight, or fresh air.

  In the interior, it was even worse. There were no windows upon which to peer out and enjoy the marine life. Only stuffy briefing rooms and cramped conference spaces, and far too many people in such close confines. Olfactory inevitabilities, too, came forth with unpleasant regularity. Not that any of them were unclean, per se, but simply less fresh, and in need of something Dean caught wind of called a ‘Hollywood Shower’, which sounded just about perfect right now.

  To this point, he’d been allowing himself to sit back and take things in, never attempting to get a word in edgewise when so many boisterous personalities were ready to beat him to it. For the most part, he agreed with what his colleagues were saying. In principle. He was, however, aware of the fact that they didn’t have all the facts. Dean did have those facts, but had been advised to keep them to himself for now. Jo felt it prudent to keep their best ammunition in reserve, for a time when the final decisions were being made. Dean wasn’t sure this was wise, but she’d been adamant, and she still held his data in her hands. He couldn’t very well get to them, not until she was comfortable in handing them off.

  “An all-out counterattack has been rejected, for now, but we’re still examining options. It’s difficult to determine the proper course of action when we don’t have all the facts. What the president needs from you, then, is an explanation of why this is accelerating now, and what we can do about it. Dr. Eckert?”

  Dean must have looked flummoxed, because Shane cleared his throat and said, “He just needs to know about your research, Dean. That’s the key.”

  “Supposedly, anyway,” Jo said, sounding unconvinced.

  “It is,” the commandant said in Jo’s direction, “so if you don’t mind, Dr. Eckert?”

  Dean felt like an idiot. He couldn’t help but wonder if his words would be taken seriously even if he did have the answers. Several in the room looked disgusted, as if they’d like nothing better than to toss him out. Casting about for a lifeline, he found only cold stares, with the exception of Jo, who was staring at the floor and looking bored. As if to reinforce his discomfort, though, she chose that moment to look up and offer him a cold stare of her own. He settled on Shane as a focal point to ease his nerves. Shane looked all-business, but not quite so cold.

  “Well,” Dean began, trying to think it through and give them what they needed, “long story short, all the scientists in the world are wrong, and I had proof of that before I was sabotaged.” He looked over at Jo and gave her his own version of a withering stare, but she’d returned her attention to the floor. “Twice, in fact.”

  At that, Jo looked back up. She didn’t take kindly to the implication, but remained mute.

  “The threat is real,” he continued, “it’s coming, and we’re all looking in the wrong direction.” He looked around again, expecting impressed expressions, but the vibe was just as stoic as before. “Long story short, anyway,” he finished meekly.

  “Let’s have the long story, then,” the commandant ordered.

  Dean nodded, delving into a detailed explanation of his work. This had the effect of morphing the hateful glares into glassy stares, non-comprehension setting in fast. Again, Jo was the exception, looking for all the world as if she’d heard it all before. Shane appeared intrigued, so Dean focused his attention on him again, imagining it to be a one-to-one discussion.

  * * *

  It was difficult to summarize things in layman’s terms, while at the same time making headway with his colleagues, but Dean managed to get most of the main points across. The mathematics were beyond some in room, and the theoretical concepts would prove difficult for most, as he was well aware. So he worked to find analogies that could serve.

  “Imagine a baking pan, okay? With an inch of water covering the top. So if it’s sitting somewhere the water is still, covers the whole surface, and there’s no problem. Right?”

  Nods and murmurs told him they were with him so far.

  “And if we tip it slightly, the water will run downhill, leaving the bottom waterlogged and the rest relatively dry. But, and here’s the thing, integrate a temperature difference, at the surface or on top of the water, say, and that’s where things get interesting.”

  “Freeze the surface,” he continued, “and you’ve got some water that turns solid and stays put, even if you tilt the thing at an extreme angle. But at the same time, if you do that you’ll lose some of the excess water. Call it spillage.”

  He looked around the room, ready to stop if anyone should want him to reel it back. So far, nobody did.

  “Adjust the temperature the other way, and you’re boiling some of it off, while agitating the hell out of the rest of it, and whatever happens to be immersed in it, too. Okay?”

  Fewer murmurs this time, but no objections.

  “So what happens if we freeze the bottom and boil the top at the same time. What then?”

  “Depends which is colder,” said one of the officers, “or stronger.” It was a black woman, on the young side, but her rank insignia and bearing were impressive, indicating that she held some sway.

  “Thank you!” Dean yelled, pointing a finger at her without realizing at first the fairly deep breach of decorum. But he couldn’t contain his excitement. “Yes. Yes! That’s what needs to be determined. Two opposing forces in a medium, occurring simultaneously. Which one will win out? The stronger, the more agitated. The one with more energetic force behind it. Once we figure that out, then we find out how the spillage will occur, in which direction, in which state. All of that. But if we don’t know the relative strength of the forces, we’re stuck at square one. And our boys out there don’t know jack about the relative strength. They just think they do. I do know it, but the important thing is whether or not I can prove it. And that element remains in the hands of others for now.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake here,” Jo said, handing the data pad off to Dean as a teacher might hand a toy back to an errant child. “It’s the only copy, so be careful.”

  13.

  Blanketed in a shimmering haze, the yard looked as if a heat wave had settled upon it. But the crisp early morning chill betrayed this illusion, playing havoc with the senses and making the child shiver. It seemed like there was a breeze, but the tree line betrayed no motion. The normal sounds of the season were hushed, making the daylight hour seem like dead night. Only her rambunctiously good natured puppy was making noise, albeit far from the norm. The animal’s high-pitched, fearful cry echoed across the yard, lending a worrisome urgenc
y to the scene.

  The child, shivering slightly in her thin indoor clothes, stepped a few paces off the porch, feeling her way forward. Her customarily carefree expression was a careful neutral, her eyes darted about for signs of danger. Beyond the tree line, another bark rang out, rebounding off the remnants of the first. It was deeper, with the hint of a growl behind it, but equally as terrified as that of her own pet.

  She called out, “Mom! Come help me find Skipper! He’s not on his run!”

  Her mother answered immediately, but through the kitchen window. She wasn’t coming, she was busy with dinner. The child could just do it herself, or she could wait. So the girl, alone, set off to see what was so upsetting the animals.

  She braved the chill almost to the edge of the yard before she turned fence-ward, and let out an ear-piercing scream. The dog was no longer whole, though apparently in no pain as it whined at the girl and attempted to reach her. It was stuck somehow, half its body missing, front paws clawing at the ground and rear ones twisted into impossible angles. Half-a-tail wagged at the sight of her, the other half stood straight up.

  The child’s distress brought her mother immediately to the scene, where she first grabbed the child, then stopped dead in her tracks and screamed as well.

  * * *

  One of the supposed perks of being regional supervisor was the corner office—a pair of floor to ceiling windows offered sweeping views of the town, such as it was. The once bustling main street was a shell of its former self, and the central park had long since become overrun with weeds and trash. Not much to look at, but it was still thought of as a beneficial working space, even if most occupants rarely bothered to take in the view.

  Today, though, a haze had drifted over the community, carrying with it a certain hypnotic quality, and she couldn’t stop staring. Judging from her ninth floor vantage point in the only high-rise in town, the eerie fog had come out of nowhere. Above, the skies were clear, and there was no weather to speak of . She could see the surrounding hills most days, but the fog had socked them in cold, leaving only the tops poking here and there out of the soup.

  Wondering if it was simple pollution, the woman had a sudden impulse to call home, warn her husband to avoid the roads. He picked up on the sixth ring, giving an indication of the harried state he was in, likely on his way out the door. She warned herself inwardly to make it brief. She’d barely gotten out ‘Hi hon, I just…’ when a frantic choking sound cut her off.

  The line went dead. The distressed woman called 911 and gave her home address, but she had to repeat herself several times in the haze of crisis. No, she didn’t know what the emergency was. Yes, it was urgent. Please just get there fast!

  * * *

  The patrol, sent out to evaluate and assess 911 hang up calls, got word of three more upon arrival at the first single-family dwelling in question. Aside from the fog blanketing the yard, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. There was no indication of a criminal situation from dispatch, so the cops stepped out and made straight for the front door, walking casually. They knocked twice, then with no response one of them stepped off the porch and walked around the side.

  “Nothing here,” he called out to his partner, who’d grunted an acknowledgement and moved around to the other side. “You got something?”

  “Nope,” the first officer called back. He tried peering in a window, but the blinds were shut tight. He rejoined his partner and they made for the backyard. Dispatch had been unsure on the specifics; apparently it was called in by a third party, though there was no one on the street to speak of. As they walked along the side of the house, the fog seemed to thicken and swirl around them, making them squint as they attempted to assess the backyard situation.

  Past the rear of the house, they found an empty yard, no sign of trouble. Turning around, the fog had swept upward, curling its way up the faux-brick and stucco exterior. The pair waved away the substance, fanning it to the sides to reveal an opened back door. So thick they hadn’t seen it at first, it was the first sign of real trouble to raise their hackles.

  “Police,” said the first, “anyone in there?”

  “You called 911?” called out the other.

  No answer came. They looked at each other, unsure about whether to go in. A crashing noise, inside but somewhere out by the street, made the both of them jump. Throwing caution to the wind, they drew their weapons and entered.

  “Police! Show yourself!” warned the cop in front.

  Silence for several seconds, followed by a steady, sloughing sound. It wasn’t threatening, exactly, but eerie. And loud. Like a hand squeezing slimy hamburger next to an amplifier.

  They moved forward, weapons trained, and made their way into the next room. There they saw what was making the disgusting sound, though the sight was so surreal, so nightmarish it barely registered as real to the horrified men.

  Some kind of webbing strung across the center of the room, shimmering in the light, slicing straight through the walls on either side. Caught up in the middle of it was a woman, grotesquely distorted, looking like half of her was entangled in the web. The sloughing noise came from her center, where her midsection bobbed and ebbed around the middle of the shimmer, where human ended and alien began. Her face contorted into a pained grimace, her eyes stared vacant. There was no question that she was dead—and yet the undulations and the sounds continued, her corpse hovering there in the center of the room like a freakshow prop.

  One of the cops dropped his gun. The other managed to call for backup, then turned and puked violently against the far wall, adding an unpleasantly familiar splashing sound to the grinding-meat cacophony. The noise grew louder as the woman was slowly consumed.

  14.

  The motorcade sped down the center of the city, bold as brass and twice as noisy. The new president was making a statement—he would not be cowed. Supporters lined the route, flags waving. It was as close to a festive atmosphere as the people could manage. Webster was tempted to hop out and shake some hands, but he held off. That discussion had already taken place, and as much as the secret service had reluctantly agreed if necessary, he had to be careful about the optics of showboating in a time of crisis.

  Glancing upward, Webster was pleased to see the fleet of military choppers flanking them. Some theatrics were fine. The aerial escort was all the more impressive given the fact that all air traffic nationwide was still halted, so his birds were the only ones anyone would see. As if on cue, a pair of fighter jets screamed by on a parallel course, separating just at the cusp of the White House with typical military precision. The crowd cheered, and Webster resisted a second impulse to tell his driver to stop. Stay put, keep cool.

  They arrived to a fresh flurry of activity. The staff was out and about, supervisors seeing to every detail. Transition was something they excelled at, even under these circumstances. The workers assembled to greet the president and his family the moment they walked in the door, smiles and congratulations all around. If any were in mourning—and undoubtedly many of them were—it didn’t show. They welcomed their new captain as though he’d just won in a landslide, and he was beginning to feel as though he had. The weight of the office had sunk in earlier, but he hadn’t given a thought to the perks until now.

  But there was no time for enjoyment yet. The president was hustled through the residence and into the west wing, down into the bunker where his military staff was waiting. To business.

  He allowed himself to take it in for a minute or two, standing to one side and motioning for the assembled staffers and military brass to keep doing what they were doing. When he was ready, he made his way to the head of the long table, and everyone reacted as one, joining him there and falling quiet.

  “Okay, folks,” Webster began, “I’m a little behind the curve, all your updates notwithstanding. So get me caught up, please.” He turned to his immediate left, where his chief of staff should’ve been. The chair was empty, so he looked to his right. The chairman of the joint chi
efs nodded and launched into S&R, the requisite status and readiness report that always kicked off such meetings. On this, too, the new president had been thoroughly briefed.