The Depths

by Nick Thacker

  Does no one else see this? she wondered. The guard must have been looking in on the sleeping group—or was also asleep.

  Lindsay considered her options. Wake everyone, admit that she was afraid of the dark, and risk pinning herself as crazy, or at least childish? Should she try to make her way to the opposite entrance, where there would be at least one soldier still awake? Carter had said there would be someone on watch throughout their fewhours of rest.

  Or should she just follow Bingham a bit, to see if he was just wandering around aimlessly? He was harmless, she knew. His facial expressions and odd twitch, combined with his roundabout way of talking, made her think that he was merely an unfortunate individual who had suffered the effects of long-term isolation. She was no psychiatrist, but the symptoms were all there. Certainly this environment, being alone, and the man’s active academic mind would have been the perfect breeding ground for the claustrophobic-like psychological effects that he was experiencing.

  Plus, he’d helped them thus far. When they were standing in the middle of the main level wondering what to do next, Bingham appeared and offered—after Carter’s stringent line of questioning—at least a few answers they needed.

  Then, when they were shot at and were forced into these godawful caves, it was Bingham who showed up with a flashlight and helped them into this spacious cavern where they’d be temporarily safe.

  What do I have to lose? she thought. Jen Adams is clearly the lead scientist here, and the others look at me as if I was an afterthought. They probably despise Erik, too, and question his value on this trip.

  Lindsay sat up. It was decided. She’d follow Bingham a little farther into the cave, just to see if she could gain some insight into his behavior. At the very least, she hoped to explore ahead a few hundred yards. In her business, knowledge was power, and knowing more than the others could help put her ahead.

  She stood to her feet, surprised again at how easily she found herself breathing. She wasn’t obese, but she certainly could stand to lose a few pounds. Back home, she would have at least needed to catch her breath after standing up from lying down on the floor, but here her body seemed to perform well.

  Two hundred feet, then I stop, she thought, countering her initial decision of a few hundred yards. I walk, I focus on Bingham’s light, and I come back when and if he gets too far away. By thinking herself through the individual steps, Lindsay knew she would be able to stave off the gripping fear of the darkness around her.

  She stepped toward the fading light down the path and began reciting the words of her song in her head.

  About thirty or forty feet, the tunnel bucked and turned sharply to the right. She followed, arm outstretched against the cold stone wall, as the path began descending.

  The light ahead of her flickered and died.

  She almost panicked, feeling her heart catch in her throat. Can I get back if there’s no light? Before she needed to explore that option, the light came back on.

  It was closer to her now—or was it just an illusion?

  She stepped forward slowly, trying to steady herself and calm her nerves.

  “Bingham,” she said, her voice clear and strong. “Are you okay? Is that you?”

  The light swung around and dissipated a little. As her eyes adjusted again, she saw that it was now illuminating a shadowy silhouette. Bingham was carrying the light in front of his body.

  She followed along again, growing anxious as she closed the distance. Bingham’s going slowly, she thought.

  Lindsay saw the shape hesitate, then turn sharply left. The light ducked out of sight, and Lindsay picked up her pace again. “Bingham, wait up,” she said. She reached the intersection in the path. She’d have to remember this for when the others arrived. If Bingham went left, the path to the right must be a dead end.

  She turned left, stepped forward, and stopped.

  Where was the light?

  Was she looking at the wall? She reached out, but felt nothing. Clearly, Bingham had gone this way—she saw him turn and head this way. She waited, expecting the light to turn back on again as it had done earlier.

  Finally. She saw the orange again about a hundred yards away. He must have seriously picked up his pace after he turned in here.

  She focused on the light, unsure of whether or not she wanted to continue following.

  A second light flicked on to her left, about fifty feet away.

  What the—

  Lindsay took a step back and saw a third light spark twenty feet in front of her, slightly to her right. Her voice caught in her throat.

  More lights came on, and Lindsay could now begin to see the shadowy outlines behind them.

  She screamed.

  Chapter 21

  REESE’S FACE HAUNTED HER SLEEP.

  Jen rocked silently back and forth on the cave floor, trying in vain to get some rest. She’d drifted in and out of sleep for the past forty minutes, but she could almost feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She wouldn’t be able to sleep until this was over.

  Reese was gone.

  The thought still chilled her; numbed her. Could it really be true? He had been abducted, that horrible, disgusting word that happened to other people’s children.

  It wasn’t Mark’s fault. She knew it, but wanted to believe that it was. Needed to.

  He was a wonderful parent. Better than she was. Reese liked him more, too. It was strange, really. Jen’s approach to loving their son had always been to protect, to comfort. She’d gone out of her way to defend him, trying to ensure the boy would never feel pain.

  On one hand, she knew it was frivolous—only a way of vicariously living through her own childhood to try to heal scars that her son didn’t share. On the other hand, no parent wanted their child to suffer, so she wasn’t crazy, right?

  She knew that she and Reese had really started to grow apart when she and Mark split up. It was devastating for him to not have dad there constantly. He came home to an empty house—both Jen and Mark were busy at work—but Mark always seemed to know how to connect with Reese. He always seemed to know exactly what he wanted, and he always had a better work/life switch.

  Jen, by contrast, couldn’t ever fully remove herself from work. She’d taken over much of Dr. Storm’s lecture schedule, and she was putting in overtime almost every week in the research labs. She’d always told herself that it was fine. She loved her work.

  But now he was gone.

  If she—they—couldn’t find him, what then?

  Jen’s mind raced through the terrible possibilities, not fully feeling any of them. She’d been trying desperately since they’d left her office to keep her “academia” hat on. She needed to be analytical, calculating. The others didn’t need an emotional mother. They needed a professional scientist.

  She felt a hand come to rest on top of hers. She gasped and yanked her hand back.

  “Jen. Sorry, it’s me. Mark.” Mark’s voice whispered crisply through the cool cavern air.

  “Sorry. I know, it was just—sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You okay?”

  She hated him for asking it, but loved him for it all the same. What was that supposed to mean, anyway? Of course not.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Listen, I wanted to, um, apologize…”

  “Mark, please. You don’t have to do this. God knows it was as much my fault, and Reese—” she couldn’t finish the thought.

  She didn’t reach for Mark’s hand, but she also didn’t pull hers away when he reached out again. His hands were warm—they always were—but the warmth this time radiated an energy that she needed more than ever.

  He was a frustrating man. Unbelievably good-looking, or at least she thought so. Tall, brown-eyed, and fit, he had always been in excellent shape, and never seemed to try. He was soft-spoken, calm, and collected, to the point that a lot of people seemed to think of him as a pushover. And why wouldn’t they, Jen thought, with my personality to go with it? She
was as fiery and driven as he was nonchalant.

  Before they were married, Mark had expressed his ambitions, hopes, and dreams with her one night over drinks. It was an extremely rare event for Mark—drinks and talking about his career—but it was delightful for Jen, and she knew that he would make a great father and husband.

  Those first months were an absolute thrill. Like a fairy-tale romance, Mark wooed her with surprises, dates, and trips, and within a few months they were living together. Reese was born a short while later, and they had a whirlwind first year as they moved, changed jobs, and settled in Massachusetts. She often thought of the simpler times, laughing to herself that a newborn child and young marriage could ever seem simple.

  “Jen.” The word was hushed, but louder than the rest of their whispers had been. Jen looked up to see nothing; the black of the cavern was absolute. She frowned, but knew Mark couldn’t see her either.

  “What?”

  “I know—” he paused. “We’re both in this together, okay? You know me, and I know how stubborn you can be, but we’re going to get through this, okay?”

  She nodded again.

  “We’re going to figure this out, then we’re going to get Reese. I promise.”

  Jen’s nostrils flared out, but she didn’t speak. Was it just calming to hear his voice, as frustrating as he was?

  “We’re going to get Reese, and we’re going to go home. Do you believe me?”

  She didn’t know what to believe. She wanted to believe it, but she’d always been a realist.

  “Yeah. Yes, I believe you.”

  “Good. Now do me a favor, and try to get some—”

  Mark’s voice was cut short by a piercing scream. The sound reverberated through the cave, echoing around each corner.

  Jen shot up into a sitting position. She heard stirring next to her; a sleeping body was jostled by the noise. From somewhere in front of her, she heard a whisper, and then a sharp yell.

  “What was that?”

  The sound of Carter’s voice. Before she could react, she felt a hand—Mark’s—reach out to hers and pull her up.

  “Come on, that was one of us!”

  A light exploded on; one of the gun-mounted flashlights the soldiers were carrying. Jen’s eyes screamed in pain, and she squeezed them open and shut to adjust her vision.

  Another light came on, and the cavern was bathed in an orange glow. Jen looked up to see the soldiers scrambling toward the path, following in the direction of the scream. Dr. Pavan and Erik looked like they’d been woken up from a hangover; their eyes bloodshot and sleep-deprived.

  “Come on, Jen. Follow Carter down there.” She felt a slight nudge on her lower back, firm but gentle. “We’re sticking together, and they’ve got the firepower.”

  She recognized Mark’s voice, but his attitude was different. It was controlling, confident.

  As she stumbled forward to follow Dr. Pavan, she caught a glance at her husband. Mark’s eyes were set straight forward, focused on the path. His expression revealed nothing, no emotion whatsoever.

  She’d never seen him like this.

  What had changed? Was it because of Reese?

  Jen didn’t have time to wonder. Suddenly Mark was in front of her, pulling her behind him. She shook off her delirium and followed the man into the darkness of the tunnel ahead. Orange light from the soldiers in front of them guided their way, but it was all she could do to keep pace.

  Carter stopped abruptly.

  Jen and the others nearly bumped into the soldier as they all spilled into a large, looming cavern.

  The room they were in dwarfed the cave they’d slept in earlier. It was easily twice the size, both walls recessed about thirty feet from the opening they were standing in. The ceiling reached twenty feet over their heads, creating the feeling that they were in a large cellar. Jen approached the backs of the other team members, trying to squeeze her way into a better view.

  She was immediately sorry that she did.

  In front of them, sprawled out on the cavern floor, was Dr. Richard’s body. It was stretched and splayed out on the stone like it had fallen from the ceiling, and her arms and legs were twisted into an awkward pose.

  Jen gasped, and Mark cursed behind her.

  “W—what happened here?” she heard herself ask.

  No one responded.

  Carter stepped forward farther into the room, trying to get a better view. Jen watched him scrutinize the scene, examining every detail. She couldn’t see Lindsay’s face—it was turned the other direction—but she could tell she was dead.

  “Come here. Check this out,” Carter said.

  The others gathered around Lindsay’s body, and Jen could soon see why they were summoned. Lindsay’s clothes were torn in places, the shreds of garment pulled in different directions.

  “There are scratches on her skin,” Carter said, “four parallel lines.”

  Jen saw what he was talking about. In the places where Lindsay’s clothes had been shredded—her stomach, right shoulder, and left leg, mostly—Jen could see rows of lines running the length of her body. They didn’t seem deep, but there were a lot of them, and there was blood pooling in each track.. The scratches were layered on top of one another, as if she’d been scratched from many different directions at once from many different sources.

  “Ugh. Look at her neck,” Nelson said. They all looked toward Lindsay’s head. It was broken, a telltale bump protruding from just below her skull on the left side of the woman’s neck.

  “Hmm. Looks like that’s how she died. These scratches are pretty bad, but she shouldn’t have succumbed to them alone.” It was Carter’s voice again, but this time it was softer. It was still intense, but it seemed somewhat clinical, as if the man was simply theorizing about an excavated corpse, not examining a deceased member of their team.

  Jen couldn’t speak. The numbness that had consumed her earlier was back again, and this time it seized her vocal cords as well. She stared at the lifeless body, not feeling anything. She was scared, but her mind wouldn’t let her feel the fear. She wanted answers.

  Mark’s hand covered his mouth, but he was also silent. Carter and the other soldiers inspected the body for clues, but came up short. “Looks like she was attacked. More than one, I’d suspect, but who knows by what. She must have struggled—that’s probably when she screamed—and then they broke her neck.”

  “Or she fell,” Saunders added.

  “From what though?” Carter asked.

  “No idea. Maybe she tripped?”

  They looked again at the body, trying to make sense of things. After a minute, Carter looked up at the team. “You all okay?”

  Nods all around. Dr. Pavan, Jen saw, was pale—noticeably so even in the orange light. She turned to Erik, Lindsay’s assistant, and saw that the young man was in shock.

  She nodded for Carter’s satisfaction, but made her way to Erik’s side. The man stared down at his boss’ body with an empty, limp gaze. “She was tough, but nice,” he said. “Took care of us—the research assistants—but I didn’t know her very well.”

  Jen realized it was the first time she’d heard the guy speak. His voice was heavily accented with an Eastern-European lilt. His eyes suddenly looked younger, as if he was Lindsay’s son.

  “We need to move. Guns up, quick. No idea what happened here, but we can’t stay.” Carter’s tone was back; strong and in charge. Saunders, Nelson, and Mason each snapped to attention, their guns drawn and ready.

  Jen shuddered again as they left the scene. She thought back to the ransom note left in her apartment.

  Four days.

  It had already been two.

  Chapter 22

  “OKAY, HERE’S WHAT WE’VE GOT.” Ken Dawson spread out the papers, stacks of them, on the large table in Larson’s study.

  Dawson was continually amazed at the living situation of his older counterpart. He’d known the older detective long enough—and was close enough to him—to have visited t
he apartment in Washington, D.C. numerous times. The place was almost bare: necessary furniture and appliances were found in their proper corners, but the decorations were stark. No pictures hung from the walls, and no curtains covered his windows. What surprised Dawson, however, was what Larson spent on the things he did want in his apartment.

  The man’s two prized pieces, a leather armchair and an oversized mahogany table, were the only two things of value in the whole place. They both sat in the man’s study, constantly collecting dust. Their luxurious look and expensive, handcrafted feel was even more out of place due to the lack of care Larson seemed to take in everything else. His carpet, old and worn, ran throughout the entire apartment—even the kitchen and bathroom—and it jutted up against brownish walls that perfectly matched the carpet.

  The apartment was a disgusting blob of brown that seemed to consume whoever walked in, though Dawson did like the effect after hours of late-night research. It became almost comforting, floating through the large, empty rooms, whose floors, walls, and ceilings were indiscernible from one another.

  “Give me the breakdown. Anything new?” Larson asked. He shuffled through a stack of papers that had slipped out of a manila folder on the edge of the broad table.

  “Nope, not yet. I’m still looking over the Three Mile Island meltdown, just in case. I think we’re pretty much at an impasse with this stuff.”

  “Okay, fine. Let’s dig through it again. Start at the beginning.”

  “Right.” Dawson took a deep breath, reached for one of the stacks of papers and folders, and opened the first. “Nouvelle Terre’s initial project records began with ‘biosphere projections’—general overviews of predictions regarding microcosmic biospheres. They expanded to include sociological programs—” he passed his hand over another stack of folders, “and even dipped into the humanities.”

  “They were studying nuclear waste at Three Mile Island?” Larson asked.