by Alton Gansky
When he opened the door and it swung on creaking hinges, Perry felt as if he were in a haunted mansion. He swung the door wide, then backpedaled, his heart slamming like it was bouncing against the walls of his chest. “Whoa!”
He heard Janet release a little scream. The others gasped. In his shock, Perry had released the door. It started to close. He grabbed it, even though it meant moving closer to the specter in front of him.
Standing in the doorway, staring with blank eyes, was a heavyset man. He appeared to be soaked from head to foot.
“Help me,” the man begged. “Help me.”
Then he turned and walked away.
1974
Henry was standing in the jungle. Where once there had been beige sand, Joshua trees, juniper bushes, and a nighttime sky, there was now thick undergrowth and trees that rose to a blue sky with a blazing sun.
“What happened to him?” Cynthia asked. She and the others were standing on a slope that had been a set of stairs. The Victorian house was now a large military tent.
“I don’t know. He just snapped.” Henry turned to Nash. “He’s your man. Has he been unstable before?”
“If he was, he wouldn’t be on this mission,” Nash grumbled. “The guy has been rock steady.”
“Yeah? Well, his rock just crumbled,” Zeisler quipped. “I’m no psychiatrist, but I recognize crazy when I see it.”
“What should we do?” Grant asked.
“We find him,” Henry said. “He’s armed and not in his right mind. He could hurt himself.”
“Or he could kill us,” Zeisler said. “I’m not going looking for a man with an M16 in his hands and a pistol on his hip.”
“He has a point,” Grant agreed.
“He’s not a danger to us,” Nash insisted. “He’s too highly trained and has too much experience.”
“Maybe that’s true in the real world, Nash,” Zeisler said, “but in case you haven’t noticed, we’re not in the real world, or at least a world we’re familiar with. The environment seems to change at will. Maybe whatever controls what we see controls us, as well.”
“I’m getting weary of your smart mouth, Zeisler,” Nash snapped back.
“That’s enough, Mr. Nash.” Sanders was standing in the door—the tent flap—whatever the real opening was. “We need to make some decisions.”
“What would he do?” Henry asked.
“What do you mean?” Nash said.
“You’re a Nam vet, right? If it were you out there, and you believed you were back in Vietnam, what would you do?”
Nash thought for a second. “McDermott was a platoon leader. He’d be concerned about his men. He’d want to hook up with them again.”
“So he runs from the house terrified—”
“I’m telling you the man just doesn’t scare—”
“Okay, fine,” Henry said. “He leaves the house, finds himself in Vietnam again. You think his old instincts would kick in?”
“Yes.”
Henry looked at Sanders, who nodded. “I agree.”
“Did you serve with him in Nam?” Henry asked.
“Not directly. Same area.”
“Did you swap stories? Did he tell you about his last mission?”
Nash thought. “It was an advance patrol. They were pinned down by sniper fire. McDermott was wounded in the lower leg. A shot grazed his right leg just above the boot. But I have no idea if that’s what he’s thinking.”
“It’s likely,” Henry said, “that you and Sanders saw different things based on your past experiences. We saw the Mojave Desert because I had just read my son’s school report before coming down here, and I’ve been thinking of him.”
“Why is that, Sachs?” Zeisler asked. “Why did it choose you instead of Monte or Cynthia or me?”
“As I said, I was the first new person in the space. Of course, that’s just a guess. Who knows? The real question is, why did the environment change to the jungles of Vietnam?”
“Emotion,” Cynthia said. “You’ve been sad about leaving your son, and McDermott was more affected by that crawly thing than the rest of us. Maybe the control force takes its cue from our emotions.”
“That’s just a guess,” Zeisler said.
“That’s all we have right now,” Henry said. He turned to Sanders. “I think Nash and I should go looking for McDermott. You and the others can stay here and continue analyzing the house . . . tent.”
Henry didn’t wait for approval; he started in the direction he had seen McDermott run. “Come on, Nash. Let’s go get your man.”
Nash pushed his way past Henry. “I’ll take point.”
“Fine by me.” Henry hoped he knew what he was doing.
Chapter22
“That’s him,” Janet said.
“Who?” Perry asked.
“Matthew Barrett—the man we came looking for.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, we’re sure,” Carl interjected. “We had a full description from his wife and a photo from the Nevada Department of Motor Vehicles.” Carl started forward, and Perry stepped to the side. Janet was close behind. Perry and the others followed.
“Where did he go?” Janet spun around, looking. “I know I saw him. He couldn’t have gone far.”
Perry gazed around but saw no one. What he did see was an ocean of powdery sand, mottled brown and white. Overhead was a slate gray sky with a dim sun shining down.
“How did we get outside?” Jack asked. “We are outside, right?”
“I’m not so sure,” Perry said. “The sky is wrong, and the sun doesn’t look right. Too small, too dim.”
“We couldn’t be outside,” Jack reasoned. “Not the direction we were going. We should be under the lake.”
“You are,” Zeisler said. “You’re deeper than you know and can trust nothing that you see.”
“There isn’t much to see,” Perry said. “Sand, sand, and more sand.”
“That opinion will change soon enough.”
“This is what you saw thirty years ago?” Perry asked Zeisler.
“Not like this. This is different. Something is wrong.”
“What do you mean wrong?” Perry pressed. “What was—”
Carl shouted, “I found tracks. They must be Barrett’s.” Perry joined him. Carl was shaking his head. “I couldn’t have entered this place more than ten seconds after Barrett turned around, but now I can’t see him. There’s nowhere for him to hide.” He stopped and studied the surroundings. Perry guessed that he was seeing the place, really seeing it for the first time. “Wow.”
“Yeah, that pretty much says it,” Perry said. “And don’t ask—I don’t have any answers.”
Janet walked to them. “I followed the tracks, and they just stop about five yards that way.”
“That’s weird,” Carl said.
“That’s not all. I checked around and couldn’t find any tracks leading to the door. A few leading away, but none toward.”
“Hey, guys. I think I found your man.” Jack pointed. “He’s right over there.”
Perry had to strain his eyes to look through the twilight. In the distance a figure moved away from them. Perry took his small binoculars from his vest and directed them toward the moving form. It was the man Janet identified as Matthew Barrett. “How long did you say this guy was missing?” Perry handed the binoculars to Carl.
Janet answered. “We first came up here two days ago. He was due back home two days before that. He lives the better part of a day’s drive away, so we can add another day. Call it five days.”
“He’s been down here for five days?” Gleason said. “No wonder he asked for help. What’s he been eating?”
“Maybe he has supplies,” Jack said.
“I know one way to find out. Let’s ask him.” Carl gave the glasses back to Perry. “I’m going to try and catch up—”
“We should stay together,” Perry said. “Something doesn’t feel right about this place.”
“I have a job to do, Perry. I can’t let you stand in the way of that.”
Zeisler put a hand on Carl’s shoulder. “Settle down, Deputy Subick. I know where he’s going.”
“Where?”
“There is only one place to go to down here—the house.”
“There’s no house here,” Jack said.
“You didn’t look far enough, big man. Look past poor Mr. Barrett, and you’ll see a structure.”
Perry raised his glasses.
So did Jack. “Man, you got better eyes than me.”
“I didn’t say I could see it, Jack, just that it was there.”
“You called it a house,” Perry said. “It doesn’t look much like a house to me. More like a . . . big box.”
“It was shorthand. We weren’t sure what to call it. The word house stuck.”
“With all due respect,” Carl said, “Barrett isn’t getting any closer.”
“Lead on, Dr. Zeisler. This is your land.” Perry motioned for Zeisler to move forward.
“Trust me, Perry, this isn’t anyone’s land.”
1974
Henry couldn’t be certain, but he thought he had just seen
a monkey working its way through the canopy overhead. It made no noise. He was on a skinny path, beaten into existence by the passing of feet. Two yards in front of him walked Nash. He moved slowly, turning his head from side to side, scanning, listening. Henry had followed suit.
“You never served, did you, Sachs?”
“In the military? No. I never did.”
“One of the peace freaks?”
“Don’t start with me, Nash. Most of my construction work is for the military, so keep the name-calling to yourself.”
He saw Nash look down. Henry followed his gaze. They had been following tracks left in the ground covering. Henry was having trouble thinking of it as sand.
“Sorry, I’m just a little sensitive about it all. I made three tours of duty, took a round in the leg from a North Vietnamese sniper, came home and was greeted with sneers and called a baby killer. To my recollection, I didn’t kill any babies.”
It was a touchy subject, and Henry knew it. “You went where you were sent, and you did your duty. History will decide if it was a just war or not.”
“Conflict. It hasn’t been declared a war.”
“Call it what you will, but when armies shoot at each other, I call it war. Let the politicians play word games.”
Nash squatted. “The tracks are clear. Look here. Do you see how he’s walking to one side of the path, then the other?” Henry said he did. “He’s hugging the jungle line.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To save an extra step when diving for cover. One step can make the difference between being shot at and being shot.”
“So he really believes he’s in Vietnam,” Henry said.
“Did you believe you were in the desert when you first walked into this place? Yeah, he believes it all right. I still have all my faculties, and I believe I’m in Nam. I’m sweating bullets.”
“The temperature hasn’t changed,” Henry said.
“It’s not the temperature that’s making me sweat.”
Henry studied Nash. He had met many soldiers who had done tours of duty in the jungle. Most refused to talk about their experiences, especially to someone who had never been there. There were different kinds of wounds. Mortars, rifles, land mines, and booby traps inflicted one kind of injury, but the mind often suffered more harm than the body. Henry was conflicted about the war. Most people in the country were, but he never harbored animosity for those who wore the uniform and served. Maybe someday his opinion would land on one side or the other, but it wasn’t going to be today.
“Let me show you something,” Nash said. “You see this track?”
“Sure. It’s an impression from McDermott’s boot.”
“The pattern is the same as my boot. We’re wearing standard combat boots. In Vietnam we wore a jungle boot. They were lighter and breathed better.”
“I’m not following,” Henry admitted.
“The soles are different. They leave a different pattern. This—” he pointed at the impression— “is the sole-print of McDermott’s combat boot, not a jungle boot.”
Henry thought for a moment. “Meaning that this place has changed our surroundings, but . . .”
“But can’t change everything,” Nash said. “Another thing, have you seen any wildlife?”
“I saw a monkey and some birds.”
“Did you hear them?” Nash pressed.
Henry shook his head. “No. In fact, I don’t hear much of anything.”
“Exactly. I’ve spent some very long months in Vietnam, and I know its sounds and its smells. I don’t know who or what makes the changes, but there are some things missing.”
Henry turned back toward the trail they had just traveled. It was free of tracks. He then looked forward and could see McDermott’s tracks. He pointed it out to Nash.
“That is weird,” Nash said. “There should be three sets of tracks.”
“It’s more than weird, it’s significant. Guess we’re meant to follow McDermott. Our tracks disappear behind us, but his remain in place before us. That doesn’t happen by accident; it requires intelligence.” Henry paused. “We’re being guided.”
“For some reason, that gives me a chill,” Nash said.
“It terrifies me,” Henry admitted. “Let’s keep going.”
“Are you a man of prayer, Sachs?” Nash asked.
The question caught Henry off guard. “I am.”
“I thought so. In Nam I learned to find the religious people. I wanted to be close to the prayers.”
“Didn’t you offer up your own prayers?”
Nash shook his head. “Me and God aren’t talking. But if you feel like praying, you might ask that when we catch up to McDermott, we don’t look like the VC. I’d hate to be shot by my own man.”
“I’d hate to be shot by any man.”
Nash rose and continued forward. Henry followed in slow cadence, but his mind was moving fast. He took Nash’s suggestion to pray.
As the minutes passed, Zeisler grew tired of looking out the door. Sanders stood at the base of the ramp where he had watched Henry and Nash follow McDermott. He made no effort to hide his concern.
“So what are you thinking, Sanders? No, let me guess.”
Sanders gave an annoyed look. “Take your best shot, Dr. Zeisler.”
“You’re juggling several thoughts.” Zeisler shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Thought one: ‘What in the world got into my highly trained, deeply disciplined, proven Mr. McDermott?’ Right?”
“With all due respect, that’s a pretty easy guess.”
“Ah, forget respect. This is the seventies. The world thrives on mistrust and disrespect. Here’s your second thought: ‘Should I lead the others out of this place until McDermott is—’what’s the right word?—‘handled’?”
Sanders nodded. “It’s true; I’m concerned about your safety. Mr. McDermott is armed and not his usual self.”
“Your third thought: ‘I may fail in my mission.’ ”
Sanders laughed. “You should have a show in Vegas instead of hiding your talents under the bushel of engineering.”
“Yes, it’s true. I am remarkable in many areas.” Zeisler paused. “You know I’m kidding, don’t you? I only affect arrogance. When it suits my purposes.”
“I caught the sarcasm,” Sanders said. “What do you think we should do?”
Zeisler studied him. He doubted that Sanders was looking for help to make a decision. The man had the bearing of someone accustomed to giving orders. At most, he was being polite. Perhaps he was trying to probe Zeisler’s attitude. It didn’t matter. Zeisler answered anyway. “Leading us out is no guarantee of safety. If McDermott’s emotional train has rounded the bend, he could be hiding and waiting for us to backtrack to the entrance—assuming we could find th
e entrance. Everything’s changed. I bet we could get lost with no trouble at all.”
“I agree. You are safer here.”
“As far as the success or failure of this mission goes, I know this: Success comes from effort. I say we get back to work. Nash and Henry can take care of themselves.” Zeisler didn’t wait for a response. He marched up the ramp and through the tent opening. “I liked it better when it was a house,” he said over his shoulder.
Inside Zeisler found the other members of the team standing next to the far wall. Cynthia’s skin was ashen; she looked shaken. She rubbed her hands as if she were standing on snow. Grant’s arms were folded across his chest as if the events had had no impact on him. He would have pulled off the ruse if he hadn’t been biting his lip.
“Let’s get to work,” Zeisler said cheerfully.
“Who died and made you commander?” Grant snapped.
“No one. I just think that we were brought here for a reason and that we ought to get busy.” Zeisler saw their eyes shift to movement over his shoulder. He turned and saw Sanders walk in.
“This place has me so creeped out that I don’t think I can do any meaningful work,” Cynthia confessed. She rubbed her hands again.
“Fear evaporates under scrutiny,” Zeisler said.
“What half-baked philosopher said that?” Grant asked.
“Me. Feel free to quote me. Just give credit where credit is due.” Zeisler stepped to the spot where Henry had poured the sand and the “thing” had come to life. He bent and ran his fingers along the floor, then rose and examined them. “Clean as a surgical floor.” He looked at the others. “Okay, let’s start with our little multi-legged friend. What do we know?”
“It’s no friend of mine,” Grant said.
“Come on, folks. Sanders here picked you because you are some of the best in your field. You are trained people with analytical minds. Use them. What do we know?”
“Well,” Cynthia began, then stopped. As she studied the spot, the shock of what had happened was still clear in her eyes.
“Well what?” Zeisler prompted.
“It was self-assembling,” Cynthia said. “Smaller elements self-constructed into a larger entity.”
