Submerged

by Alton Gansky

  “And what can we infer from that?” Zeisler’s question was met with silence. “Come on, come on, you’re letting your emotions cloud your thinking. Monte, you’re the civil engineer. If you drive down the freeway and see a bridge, do you assume that it came to be by some form of self-assembly?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. A great deal of work goes into designing and building a bridge. The math alone is . . .”

  Zeisler grinned at Sanders. “I think the light just went on.”

  Grant continued. “The creature assembled itself into a form that allowed it to escape. Its design followed its function.”

  “So what we have is a creature that assembles itself in order to move from one environment to another. Cynthia, name a simple organism. Keep it simple for us engineers.”

  She thought for a second. “The best-known is the one we learn about in grade school—the paramecium.”

  “Good,” Zeisler said. “Describe it.”

  “Not much to describe. It’s a microscopic organism, genus protozoa, phylum Ciliophora. Under the microscope, it looks a little like a slipper. It’s found in freshwater.”

  “How big is it?” Zeisler asked.

  “Like I said, it’s microscopic, .25 mm in length. It moves through the water by moving hundreds of microscopic hairlike cilia. Let’s see . . . it’s asexual and multiplies by transverse binary fission. It has a macronucleus and a micronucleus—”

  “Would you call it a simple organism?” Zeisler asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Could you make one in your kitchen?”

  Cynthia frowned. “Biologists have been trying to create life in a test tube for a very long time. It hasn’t been done yet.”

  Zeisler smiled. “So why is it called a simple life form?”

  “Where is this going, Victor?” Grant asked.

  “Hold on to your slide rule, Monte.”

  Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “They’re called simple because they’re single-cell organisms.”

  “But there’s nothing simple about them, is there?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Okay, so what we saw was a pile of sand become a walking, six-legged creature,” Zeisler said. “Now think with me. The grains of sand—maybe I should call it ‘powder’ since Henry demonstrated that the grains break down to smaller components. The powder organizes into a shape that fits its purpose. Each grain, or flake, or whatever it is, organizes. Some become legs, some a body, and some into sensory devices that allow it to move forward without bumping into walls. All of that requires design, intent, and implementation.”

  “We knew there was design the moment we stepped foot in this place,” Grant said. “This is redundant.”

  Zeisler walked to the only structure inside the room: the four-foot-high, twelve-foot-diameter ring with its pile of sand. He studied the odd arrangement. “If a couple of handfuls of sand can self-assemble into a walking creature, then I wonder what this pit can produce.”

  The others joined him. “The question alone frightens me,” Cynthia said.

  Zeisler looked at her, then Grant, then Sanders. He placed both hands on the ring, then jumped in.

  There was a flash, a droning noise, then motion.

  Cynthia screamed.

  Chapter23

  “He’s gone again,” Carl said. “How does he do that?”

  Perry had been watching the mysterious Barrett as he plodded along ahead of them. Carl was pushing for a faster pace, but Zeisler was reluctant to spend the energy. Even so, they should have been closing the gap. Yet Barrett remained twenty yards ahead of them.

  “Because he is not the man you’re looking for,” Zeisler said.

  “I think he is,” Janet said. “I know he is. I’ve seen his picture. He had gone fishing on the lake. He’s wet. Maybe he fell out of his boat.”

  “Think that through, Deputy,” Zeisler snapped. “Do you see any water around here? Did you see any water around the tracks we saw? If he disappeared a few days ago, then why is he still wet? Why do his tracks appear, then disappear? How is it that he’s walking in front of us one moment and is gone the next? Think, Deputy. Use your brain.”

  “I for one would like to hear you offer some answers instead of raising questions, Dr. Zeisler.” Jack’s tone was as cool as steel. Perry expected it. Jack tolerated many things, but he couldn’t endure rudeness for very long.

  “Amen to that,” Gleason said.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Zeisler claimed. “You’re going to have to see it for yourself.”

  “I’ve already seen a man disappear before my eyes,” Perry said, “and I’m walking in an underground cavern that appears to have a sky above it. I’m having trouble believing my eyes. I think it’s time you open up.”

  “I’ll open up when I’m good and ready.”

  Perry stopped mid-step and spun.

  “Uh-oh.” Jack took a step back. So did Gleason.

  Bridging the distance between them in two steps, Perry placed his face next to Zeisler’s. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m here to try and save my father’s life. If I can’t do that, then I at least want to find a reason for his death. You agreed to help. Are you a man of your word or not?”

  “Of course not,” Zeisler snapped back. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy about this place. I signed documents pledging to forever hold my silence, yet I’ve brought you here. Does that sound like a man of his word?”

  Perry’s frustration grew. Age had taken nothing of Zeisler’s mind. He was sharp, determined, and cranky. Perry turned and started forward again, his eyes set on the blocky structure in the distance. He picked up the pace.

  “All right, all right,” Zeisler said. “Just slow down. I’m not crippled, but I’m not twenty-five anymore.”

  “Talk or walk alone,” Perry replied.

  “Okay. Maybe it’s time for Uncle Zeisler to tell you boys and girls a little story.”

  “It had better be about this place,” Perry remarked.

  “First, let me answer Deputy Subick’s question. As I’ve said, the thing—the man you call Barrett—isn’t who you think he is. He’s a fabrication.”

  “He looked real enough to me,” Carl said.

  “Do you want to hear this or not? I didn’t say he was a fabrication of imagination. He’s real enough. You could arm wrestle with the guy if you wanted. I mean that he is a construct, a product, something built. He is not a man. He is a thing.”

  Janet shook her head. “You’re talking crazy.”

  “You have to be crazy to understand this place. Let me show you something.”

  Perry took a few more steps.

  “You wanted answers, Sachs. Now stop and listen.”

  “We’ll fall farther behind,” Carl objected.

  “You can’t get any farther behind,” Zeisler said. “It will only let you get as close as it wants you to.”

  “It?” Gleason asked.

  “First things first.” Zeisler bent and scoped up a handful of sand. “What am I holding?”

  “Sand,” Perry said.

  “You sure?”

  “Cut the games, Zeisler. I’ve been patient with you long enough.”

  Zeisler frowned. “Most people your age have shed their youthful impatience. Don’t say it. I know. You’re worried about your father.” He studied the pile of light brown grains in his hand. “What do you know about sand?”

  “Most sand is made of silica,” Perry said. “It’s the result of erosion or chemical agents that break down large masses into smaller ones.”

  “Would you say sand is basically tiny bits of stone?”

  “You could put it that way,” Perry admitted.

  “Sand is an incoherent mass of mineral material, usually quartz. In short, tiny rocks.” Zeisler slapped his hands together and rubbed. He opened his hands. Perry saw powder where once there had been a tiny pile of sand. Zeisler then clapped his hands, and a cloud of dust filled the air around his hands. He opened his
palms, revealing a thin layer of dust as fine as talcum powder.

  “How did you do that?” Janet asked. “You crushed the sand with your bare hands.”

  “We don’t have time for childish magic tricks,” Carl said.

  “It’s not a magic trick.” Perry picked up a pinch of sand and rubbed it between his fingers. He could feel it break down, changing from granules to powder. He continued to rub until the powder felt like oil between his fingers. “What am I looking at here?”

  “Ah, now there’s a valid question.” Zeisler smiled. “My answer is simple. I don’t know for sure, but I have an idea.”

  Perry picked up more of the material and mimicked Zeisler. He rubbed it in his palms until it degraded into a powder. He let the powder slip through his fingers until just a thin film of brown remained on his hands. He studied it. It felt like greasy baby powder.

  Then it moved.

  It took every fiber of Perry’s will not to brush the material off his hands. Instead, despite his instinct, he watched it move on his palms. Jack and Gleason gathered around.

  “You okay, pal?” Jack asked.

  “Look,” Perry said. The powder continued to morph, becoming more dense in some areas of Perry’s hand and leaving bare others.

  “It’s spelling something,” Gleason said. “How . . .”

  Zeisler stepped forward. “Now that looks familiar.”

  It should, Perry thought as he gazed down at the letters “A.S.—H/S” formed in his hand.

  Only Zeisler seemed unimpressed. “This Mr. Barrett we’ve been following isn’t a man. He’s an image of a man, just like those letters in Mr. Sachs’s hands.”

  “But he walked, he talked,” Carl said.

  “And he disappeared, only to reappear later. I don’t know where the real Barrett is, but I know where his doppelgänger is headed.” Zeisler pointed. “Just like I said before. He’s leading us there. To the house.”

  “I don’t understand,” Perry said.

  “Let’s walk. I’ll fill you in.” Zeisler started forward. “I’ll start at the beginning.”

  1974

  Henry had stayed two steps behind Nash as they followed McDermott’s trail. If his mind were an engine, it would be in danger of overheating. He had seen enough to know he hadn’t seen enough to know. He was questioning everything he saw. If he went by appearances, he was walking a jungle trail, a trail that had been a desert floor several minutes earlier. How such a thing could be was beyond him. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand: finding McDermott.

  “This is a strange land you’ve brought me to, Nash.”

  “I can’t argue that. Just remember you volunteered—” Nash dropped to a knee and held up his right hand, clenched in a fist. Henry dropped to a knee. He strained to hear what Nash heard but came up empty. Then he heard a gentle crunching sound . . . the sound of a boot step.

  A shot was fired, then a stream of automatic fire. Nash sprinted off the path and into the jungle with Henry close behind. The gunfire sounded like firecrackers going off in an endless stream.

  “Keep your head down,” Nash ordered.

  Henry did, but he couldn’t evict the knowledge that he was hiding behind trees and shrubs that weren’t really trees and shrubs. Maybe they would provide protection. Then again . . .

  “It sounds like more than one gun,” Henry said.

  “That can’t be,” Nash whispered. “McDermott was the only one of our crew carrying weapons. All he has is the M16 and his Colt sidearm.”

  “Oh, well, as long as that’s all he has.”

  “I mean, he’s the only one who can fire a weapon, so where’s the other gunfire coming from?”

  “Beats me. Maybe—”

  Another burst of gunfire interrupted Henry.

  “Gomez, have you got a bead on the hostiles?” It was McDermott.

  “Gomez?” Henry asked.

  McDermott fired another stream of rounds, and from the distance came a responding burst. “Henderson, spread out. I want to lay down cross fire.”

  “He thinks he has his team with him,” Nash said. “Not good.”

  “What are the odds that he’ll run out of ammo?” Henry asked.

  “It’s possible. His clip holds thirty rounds, and he’s carrying one more. His Colt carries seven rounds. I doubt he packed an extra clip for it. At least I didn’t order him to.”

  Another round of fire, then the sound of return fire. Then a scream that chilled Henry’s blood. “I’m hit. Medic! I’m . . . I’m . . .”

  “How could he be hit?” Henry asked. “Who could be shooting back?”

  The jungle disappeared in a rain of sand. A second later, sand shot skyward. Once again it was the Mojave Desert. A moment earlier, Henry had hunkered down behind trees and bushes. Now he hunkered down in the wide open sand plateau. A short distance away, McDermott lay on his back. He wasn’t moving.

  Nash glanced around, then dashed to McDermott’s side. Henry sprinted along with him, waiting for the sound of gunfire and the impact of a small bullet traveling at great speed. But there was no gunfire, and Henry felt no burning bullet wounds.

  Nash slid to his knees. “McDermott. Stay with me, man. Stay with me.”

  From the minute Henry had met him, Nash had been re-served and unemotional as a stone, but now he showed his humanity. McDermott wasn’t breathing. A red hole rested on his combat vest directly over his sternum.

  Henry pressed two fingers to the soldier’s throat. “No pulse.”

  Nash worked his mouth as if he were about to say something, but nothing emanated.

  Then Nash began to swear in whispered tones. “Right through the heart.” He shook his head. Grabbing the M16 lying by McDermott’s side, he stood and spun around. “Where are you?” he shouted into the dark desert. “Show yourself, you cowards . . . .”

  “Nash,” Henry said.

  “I’m gonna finish what McDermott started.”

  “Nash,” Henry said, “he wasn’t shot.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Sachs. Look at the oozing hole in his chest.”

  “You need to see this, Nash. Look.”

  The man turned, and Henry saw unbridled hatred in his eyes. “What?”

  Henry pointed to the wound. “He’s not bleeding.” Then Henry reached forward and ran his fingers along the wound. The hole disappeared into dust. There was no wound, no hole, and no blood. “It’s the same kind of powder we found on the Joshua tree and on the house. It’s the same stuff the sand turns into when you rub it in your hands. The wound’s not real.”

  “You’re saying he’s not dead?”

  Henry checked for a pulse again, then placed his ear near McDermott’s mouth. He detected no breath. Henry un-strapped the vest, then unbuttoned the man’s shirt. “No entrance wound; no sign of trauma at all.” Just to be sure, he placed his ear on McDermott’s chest, hoping for the rhythmic thumping of a beating heart. He was disappointed.

  “If he wasn’t shot, then what killed him?” Nash asked.

  “I can’t be sure. Maybe an autopsy could tell us. My guess is, his mind killed him.”

  “What?”

  “He thought he was in Vietnam. He believed it enough to imagine he had men in his squad. If he believed that he was shot, his body might respond as if it had been.”

  “You saying he was scared to death?”

  “Not exactly. Look, this isn’t my field. I’m guessing here. All I know is that McDermott is dead, but there is no wound. We heard him yell he was hit and cry out for a medic.” As Henry stared at McDermott, the image of the red hole reappeared in his mind. “You know more about death by gunfire than I do. Do you think a man who has taken a round dead center in the chest could yell anything?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Nash.” Henry stood.

  Nash stepped to the fallen man and studied him, then handed the M16 to Henry. “Here. You carry this.”

  “What are you going to do?” Henry took the weapon.
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  “I’m not leaving him here.” Nash looked in the direction they had come when they first entered the chamber. Then he bent, took hold of McDermott’s vest, and pulled him into a seated position. After that he stooped, reached around the lifeless body, and took hold of McDermott’s belt. In a fluid motion and with more strength than Henry thought Nash capable of, he pulled and lifted until McDermott hung over his shoulder. Henry had seen pictures of soldiers carrying the wounded this way.

  “I’m taking him out of here,” Nash said. Henry could see the strain on his face. “Tell Sanders what happened.”

  “You can’t carry him all the way out,” Henry argued. “Even if you make it to the entrance point, you have two miles of awkward stairs to climb. Note the word climb. It’s all uphill.”

  “I can’t leave him here.”

  “The house is closer. We’ll take him there. Maybe we can rig a better way of moving him. At least you’ll have others to help you.”

  “I guess that makes more sense.”

  “Come on. It’s still a bit of a walk.” Henry moved toward the house. He could see it in the distance. He had no idea how far away it was. The place seemed to defy scale.

  “Hey, Sachs,” Nash said. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For coming out with me. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I wish it had turned out better.”

  “So do I. I wonder what’s going to happen next. It’s a dangerous place where your thoughts can kill you.”

  Chapter24

  Matthew Barrett was standing on the front porch of a Victorian-style home staring at Perry and the others as they approached. He still looked drenched. “The house,” as Zeisler called it, was incomplete. The front of the structure showed white posts, a railing, a pitched roof, and a turret with its pointed, dunce cap-like roof poking skyward. But that was only the front of the structure, and Perry could see it for the facade that it was. The back of the building was nothing more than a gray square box. It was as if someone was dressing the cube as a house and quit when halfway done.