by David Meyer
“Do you see that thing?” Codd nodded at the hatch. “It’s two-feet thick, made of the latest torch and drill resistant metals. Thermal lances couldn’t touch it. I don’t think even an atomic bomb could crack it.”
“I know. But—”
“The only way into the Lab is to penetrate a whole bunch of mechanical and electronic locking mechanisms. And that’s a lot easier than it sounds.”
“I need you to go faster. It’s only a matter of time before the Foundation figures out something’s wrong here.”
Zlata Issova, who served as Codd’s right-hand woman at Hatcher Station, arched an eyebrow. “Do you think they’ll attack us?”
“Not right away,” Morgan said, trying to hide the doubt in her voice. “Not while we’ve got hostages.”
The two computer experts stared at her with hooded eyes.
“Let me worry about the Foundation.” Morgan nodded at the hatch. “Just get us down there so we can access the communications network.”
Codd and Issova exchanged looks. Then they returned to their keyboards.
As they worked, Morgan gently touched her waist. Pain shot up and down her right side, but she didn’t feel sorry for herself. She deserved the pain. After all, she and the other researchers weren’t entirely blameless in all this. They’d challenged God, challenged His grip on time itself.
And some sins, unfortunately, could never be forgiven.
*****
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CHAOS Excerpt
Prologue
Date: March 6, 1976
The long, twisting tunnel should’ve been empty.
Fred Jenson’s heart skipped a beat as he examined the gigantic black shadow that rose menacingly out of the darkness. Why was a subway car still in the tunnel? Had it been damaged by the fire?
Sweat poured from his forehead, soaking his grimy face. His hands shook as he lifted the plastic bottle of bourbon and tipped a few ounces down his throat. It didn’t burn. It never burned.
Not anymore.
He stared at the car through bleary eyes. Must be fire damaged. That was the only explanation that made sense. But if that was the case, why did it look so normal?
Jenson inched forward. He didn’t want trouble. He merely wanted to see the destruction. The old-timer who slept in the maintenance shack said it was the worst disaster he’d ever seen. Maybe even the worst disaster in the history of New York’s subway system.
Earlier that evening, a mysterious fire had ravaged the Times Square station, destroying a five-car length strip of the terminal. The 42nd Street Shuttle had quickly ceased operations. The Metropolitan Transportation Authority, or MTA, had shut down the route. Maintenance workers had converged on the station, eager to complete repairs before the morning rush.
Three R36 ML subway cars had supposedly been crippled by the blaze. Scores of people had suffered burns, with at least four confirmed fatalities. While the cause remained unknown, the old-timer swore he overheard police officers chatting about it.
And they thought it was arson.
Jenson clenched his teeth as a thousand invisible knives pierced his skull. He dropped to a knee. His vision crumpled from the corners and blackness enveloped him. A roar of pain screeched out of his belly. Slamming his mouth shut, he cut it off, just like he’d done thousands of times before.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Jenson began to count, slowly and methodically.
One. Two. Three …
Ignoring his throbbing head, he continued his count.
Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six …
His pulse slowed. His nerves relaxed. Finally, the knives vanished and he exhaled with relief.
His vision firmed up. Lines and shapes began to poke out of the darkness. Just ahead, he saw the concrete trough. The dull running rails. The rotten wood ties.
He still clutched the plastic bottle in one hand. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he lifted it to his lips and poured more bourbon into his stomach. Cheapest medical treatment he’d ever known. And far safer than those horrid Veterans Affairs hospitals. He had that thing that was all the rage these days … what did the papers call it? Post-traumatic stress disorder?
He took a few more swigs from the bottle. Sixty seconds. That’s all it had taken. Sixty seconds to normalcy. Sixty seconds for his body to forget those other sixty seconds, the ones that had shattered his soul into billions of pieces.
The moment the boat had hit Iwo Jima, Jenson and his four closest friends had stormed the beach. Unfortunately, it was no ordinary beach. As they ran forward, they quickly found themselves sinking into volcanic ash. Before long, they were waist-deep in the stuff.
And then the shooting began.
Jenson didn’t know how he’d survived the battle. The last thing he remembered was seeing his friends bent over at the waist, their arms splayed to the side, their bodies riddled with holes.
After the war ended, he’d returned to his family. He’d gone back to work at Brooklyn Gas & Electric. And for weeks on end, he’d sat in a chair, hunched over a desk, checking transactions for eight hours a day. He’d tried to live a normal life. And it had worked.
At least for a little while.
Admittedly, he hadn’t tried that hard. What was the point? He wasn’t the same person, not anymore. So, how could he be expected to return to the same life? Sure, living with the other tunnel bums wasn’t exactly paradise. But at least they didn’t expect anything from him. At least they didn’t turn their noses up at him.
What was that?
Jenson cocked his head and listened for a second. He heard noises coming from the general direction of the subway car. An uneasy feeling arose inside him and he felt a small pinprick at the base of his skull.
Taking a deep breath, he clamped down on his emotions. Most likely, the subway car was one of the R36 MLs that had been caught in the inferno. That meant the noises probably came from subway workers. They were preparing to tow the car back to one of the yards for repairs. Yes, that explained everything.
Squinting, he saw two shadowy figures. They climbed through a gaping hole in the south wall and made their way to the subway car. They carried a massive bell-shaped object between them. It looked like it weighed a thousand pounds. And yet, they held it aloft with ease.
The two men reached the subway car. They disappeared into it and then reappeared a few seconds later, sans object.
As they walked back to the hole, Jenson felt a twinge of curiosity. Crouching down, he moved toward the center of the tracks.
But before he could get another look at the strange object, the men returned. This time, they carried a large burlap bag between them. Jenson stared at it for a moment.
Then the bag moved.
Panic filled Jenson’s chest. He didn’t understand the situation. But he’d seen enough. Too much, in fact. If the men spotted him, his life wouldn’t be worth a rusty rail spike.
Spinning around, he darted through the tunnel. Twin lights surged behind him, casting a bright glow on the walls. Cursing, he slipped to the side of the track, opposite the third rail, and put on a burst of speed.
The non-pedestrian track under his feet connected the 42nd Street Shuttle Line to the Lexington Avenue Line. Ordinarily, it allowed shuttles to be taken in and out of service. But now, it served another purpose.
It was his way out.
The ground trembled. Digging deep, he picked up the pace.
The lights grew brighter and brighter. Lurching forward, he ducked into the cross-tunnel. He plastered his back against a wall. His heart slammed against his chest.
The subway car slowed as it passed by him. Jenson couldn’t help but stare at it. Like its cargo, it was highly unusual. A rich coat of silver paint covered it, making a sharp contrast to the faded gray paintjobs that adorned most subway cars. And instead of graffiti scrawls, black lettering adorned the low alloy high tensile steel siding. Jenson
mouthed the word in his head.
Omega.
The Omega slowed a bit more. Jenson pressed his back as hard as he could against the concrete. Someone had seen him. He was sure of it.
But with a mechanical groan, the car turned away from him. It passed into the opposite cross tunnel and pressed forward, heading south.
Relief swept over Jenson. He slid downward, his back scraping against the wall. His haunches came to a rest just above his worn shoes.
A high-pitched shriek reverberated through the tunnel, ping-ponging from wall to wall. Jenson glanced to the south and watched as the Omega slid to a stop. For a moment, it stood quietly in the semi-darkness. Then metal scraped against metal. Three shadows hopped out of the subway car’s side and ventured to the front.
“Running rails,” one of the figures announced. “How the hell …?”
Jenson squinted. Long metal slabs lay perpendicular across the tracks. He didn’t remember seeing them earlier.
Gunfire erupted. One of the shadows jerked backward. The other two retreated to the Omega.
Invisible knives sliced back into Jenson’s skull, sending waves of debilitating pain down his spine. He sank to the ground.
More shadows appeared out of the darkness. Swiftly, they swarmed the subway car, peppering it with gunfire.
The barrage ended almost as quickly as it started. And as the tunnel fell quiet, Jenson felt more screams barreling their way toward his throat. He shut his mouth and fought them back with all his strength.
Blackness reappeared at the corners of his vision, eating its way toward the center. Straining his eyes, he looked toward the Omega. Its rear door had come open during the gunfight and he could see the bell-shaped object looming before him. At last, he understood its secret.
And it scared the hell out of him.
Darkness swept across his eyes, consuming his sight. He felt himself falling into a deep abyss. And then he felt nothing.
Nothing but blackness.
Chapter 1
Date: August 21, Present Day
Javier Kolen held his breath as he descended into the ground. It was a useless gesture, yet he found it comforting. The longer he kept the odors below from penetrating his nostrils, the better.
His hiking boots scraped against the rungs. His palms, encased in cheap leather gloves, held an iron grip on the rust-ridden bars.
He could’ve let go like the Braggart. He could’ve just dropped the remaining few feet into the maintenance tunnel. But that wasn’t his style. Safety remained his top priority, no matter how much the Braggart needled him for it.
Kolen clambered down the rest of the ladder and stepped off into the stone-block tunnel. His boots sank into grime and he finally allowed himself to breathe. The odor, an unsettling combination of stale air and decaying trash, sickened him.
He looked up. The lamp strapped to his protective headgear illuminated the closed manhole far above him. The sight made him dizzy.
Two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars.
Kolen repeated the mantra a few more times until his head began to clear. He didn’t like the job. It didn’t feel right. But he needed the money.
Reaching to his belt, he unclipped a transceiver and raised it to his mouth. “We’re here. See you on the other side.”
The radio vibrated in his hand. “Roger that.”
As Kolen returned the transceiver to his belt, he sensed movement. Twisting around, he saw the Braggart. The man was clawing frantically at the back of his neck.
Kolen tilted his head, confused. Then something skittered across his shoulder. Glancing to the side, he saw a cockroach. Disgust etched its way across his face.
He lifted his gaze and saw the tunnel was crawling with cockroaches. The nasty little bugs covered practically every inch of the walls and ceiling. They shifted constantly, always in motion, a never-ending vision of creepiness.
“Hey man,” the Braggart said. “Stop standing there like an idiot and give me a hand.”
The Braggart’s real name was Dan Adcock. He was just a kid, albeit one who considered himself an expert in just about everything. Adcock’s appearance was decidedly awkward. His long black hair was tied into a misshapen ponytail. His frame was soft and hefty. And his gait was far too short for his lanky body.
Kolen didn’t really know him. But the Braggart liked to talk about himself. A lot.
Familiar doubts cropped up inside of Kolen. Why had he agreed to take the job? What was he doing in the middle of New York’s subway system with a joker like Adcock? He was a respected urban archaeologist for God’s sake.
Two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars.
Kolen cleared his throat. “You should’ve worn a turtleneck.”
“How was I supposed to know this was cockroach central?”
Kolen peeled back Adcock’s shirt and flicked away a couple of large cockroaches. “Next time come prepared.”
“What’s your problem?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re full of it. You’ve been on my case ever since we met.”
Kolen didn’t reply.
“You think you’re better than me don’t you?”
“Of course not.”
“Let me tell you something,” Adcock said. “You might have a fancy degree. You probably get quoted in obscure magazines, too. But since you’re here, I’m guessing your profession doesn’t pay crap. You’re just another overeducated, dirt-poor blowhard.”
“There’s more to life than money, you little twit.”
Adcock laughed.
Kolen took a deep breath. “You’re a treasure hunter, right?”
Adcock nodded.
“Ever find anything?”
“All the time.”
“Do you conduct proper excavations?”
“Well …”
“Do you remove every artifact, along with the surrounding context, without causing damage? Do you keep every single thing you find, no matter how small, for future analysis?”
Adcock narrowed his gaze.
“Of course not. Because you don’t care that you’re destroying history. In fact, I bet you don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
“You talk a good game,” Adcock said. “But it’s just talk. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“This is different.”
“How so?”
Kolen fell quiet.
Two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars.
Kolen felt queasy. He was violating his principles, selling his soul for two thousand measly dollars. But he didn’t have a choice. He needed money to pay off his debts. Either he did the job or he’d have to declare bankruptcy. It was that simple.
That complicated.
Adopting a quick pace, he strode through the tunnel. Adcock fell in behind him and they walked through a couple of maintenance tunnels before arriving at the IRT Lexington Avenue Line.
The four-track line stretched from 125th Street in Harlem to downtown Brooklyn. It served more passengers than any other subway line in the United States. In fact, it served more passengers on a daily basis than both Boston’s and San Francisco’s rapid transit systems put together.
Adcock removed a map from his pocket and plastered it against the closest wall. “We’re here.” He jabbed a finger at the paper. “And we’re going here.”
Kolen watched Adcock’s finger trace a winding path through Grand Central Terminal, Union Square, and Penn Station. “How many miles is that?”
Adcock folded up the map and returned it to his pocket. “We’re covering a couple of lines here so maybe ten to fifteen miles. Of course, that doesn’t include non-revenue tracks.”
“That’s a lot of walking.”
He smirked. “Are you giving up already?”
“No. But it’s still a lot of ground to cover.”
“It could be worse. There’s about six hundred and sixty miles of passenger tracks under New York. Adding in non-revenue tracks, that number rises to eight hundred
and forty.”
“Any safety concerns we should consider?”
“Don’t touch the third rail,” Adcock replied. “Other than that, we should be fine. Whoever’s pulling the strings on this little operation managed to temporarily shut down service in this area. So, we won’t have to worry about running into any trains.”
Kolen followed Adcock into the tunnel. They walked south for a short while and eventually reached the 42nd Street station. Two girls, young and drunk, milled about the area in skimpy clothes, waiting for the next train. When they saw Kolen and Adcock, their jaws dropped. Kolen felt like telling them service had been shut down. But he kept his mouth shut.
As he entered the next section of tunnel, Kolen felt a pebble work its way into his boot. “Hold up. I need a second.”
Adcock sighed loudly but pulled to a stop. Twisting his flashlight, he studied the walls.
Kneeling down, Kolen untied his laces. “You know, this job would be a lot easier if there were video cameras down here.”
“There are cameras down here. They just don’t work.”
“Sounds useful.”
Adcock shrugged. “Your taxpayer dollars at work.”
“I’m surprised Jack Chase hasn’t tried to modernize it. He’s got the dough.”
“He’s not going to spend his own money fixing up a public system. And besides, he’s just the acting MTA Chairman. He won’t be around forever.”
“How does one become an acting Chairman anyway?”
“In his case, someone had to die.”
“Forget I asked.”
Adcock clucked impatiently. “Are you almost done?”
“Just a second.”
“We’re on a pretty tight schedule. If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to walk ahead a bit.”
“Sounds good.”
The light from Adcock’s headlamp dimmed as he walked south. Soon he was nothing more than a speck in the darkness.
Kolen took off his boot and removed the pebble. He donned the boot again, retied it, and stood up. In the distance, he saw the dim light cast by Adcock’s headlamp and set off after it.
He walked a block and then another one. Gradually, his mind shifted to other things. The leftovers waiting for him back in his apartment. His little niece’s dance recital. Next week’s poker game. It promised to be a good week, maybe even a great one. That is, assuming he paid off his debts before it was over.
