Beyond Armageddon IV: Schism

by DeCosmo, Anthony

  She nodded as if accepting his advice but Jon assumed she would likely end up on the shooting range on Deck 7. Whatever the case, Jon turned his attention to the VIP stateroom, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  Ashley and JB sat on either side of the bed hovering over Trevor who lay with the blankets pulled to his chin. His eyes remained closed, either asleep or comatose.

  Jorge had changed into a sweat shirt and jeans borrowed from Jon's daughter's wardrobe. An empty dinner plate and a half-glass of milk sat on the nightstand. Trails of tears shone on his cheeks, matching similar streaks on his mother's face.

  Jon walked in on the middle of a conversation. No, a berating. JB demanded his mother, "Do something! You're his wife! You have to pull him out of this!"

  In all the years Jon Brewer had known Trevor's son, he had never seen the boy so upset. To Jon, JB usually exhibited an almost unnatural control over his emotions. Now he appeared angry, frustrated, sad, and confused all at once.

  "Jorgie, I don't know… I don't know what's wrong."

  "They made him remember bad things, mommy. They made him so…they made him sad. You're his wife. You have to do something! You're the only one who can!"

  Jon felt awkward but he asked what he came to ask. "Jorge, excuse me. You were down inside that thing. What was down there?"

  The child wiped the back of his hand over his eyes, huffed, and answered, "It smelled down there. It was scary. Lots of things that looked like people but weren't. They call themselves The Order."

  "I know who they are. You say there were lots of them down there?"

  Jorge nodded.

  Jon asked, "We haven't seen any activity from up here. Where are they, Jorgie?"

  JB regained his typical composure for a moment, stared Jon Brewer directly in the eye, and told him, "I killed them. I killed them all."

  Jon shivered and glanced to Ashley. Her mouth hung open.

  She questioned her son in a cautious tone, like a member of the bomb squad trying to diffuse a dangerous package: "What do you mean, Jorge?"

  "They had a bad machine," the boy tried to explain but his voice suffered from coughs and a touch of hysteria as his composure slipped again. "But it was empty. I filled it. I used it. It was the same machine they had father inside and you have to do something to help father! You're his wife!"

  Jon asked, "I don't know what you mean. What did they do to him? What machine?"

  JB clenched his fists and raged, "They kept showing him over and over all the things that made him feel bad. They put bad dreams in his mind, mommy. Make them stop! You always made my bad dreams go away!"

  "Jorgie! Stop speaking to me like that!"

  Jorge—frustrated and angry—jumped up from the bed, stormed from the room, and—after a struggle—opened the bulkhead door.

  Jon said to Ashley, "He's been through a lot. I can't figure out what he means when he says he killed them, but somehow he got away and got Trevor to the surface. From what he says, they were on their own for nearly two days. Pretty remarkable boy you have there."

  "I know," Ashley wavered, moving her hands to Trevor’s forehead, then covering her red eyes, then fidgeting on her lap. "I thought I lost him. It’s been Hell since they took him. To see him back, I still can’t believe it. I’m worried I’m going to wake up and find that this is a dream; that my boy is still gone."

  Jon said wryly, "It may feel like a nightmare, but it’s real. Too real."

  "As for what happened down there, I don’t know what Jorgie did, but he did something. He found his father like this."

  Jon recalled Trevor’s first imprisonment at the hands of The Order: "They tried to torture Trevor once before. What your son said, I mean it sounds like they got inside Trevor's mind. We know…I mean you and I both know…he's had it pretty hard. He's done a lot of things he feels bad about. Guilty about. And he's lost a lot of things in his life."

  Ashley whimpered, "And a lot of…people he loved."

  Her reference to Nina came across clear to Jon. It made him stumble. He felt uncomfortable. Yet he pushed forward.

  "Yes. I suppose so. From what your son said it sounds to me like they got inside his head and made him experience that stuff all over again. I dunno, maybe dreams or something. Maybe enough to, well, to drive him over the edge."

  Jon thought of how he had run from the field of battle when Armageddon first came. Or, more recently, how he had run from responsibility.

  He said, "A leader like Trevor needs to be able to put that aside; to forget about it or he wouldn't be able to get anything done. Maybe they pulled it out of his mind and made him re-live all those bad things over and over. I've got to believe that that'd be enough to drive him insane; make him shut down."

  Ashley stood and cast her eyes toward the door. After having lost her son for several days she did not feel comfortable letting him out of her sight for long. Nonetheless, she took a second to ask, "But why? Why wouldn't they just kill him?"

  Jon shook his head.

  "I don't know. One thing we've learned about The Order is that, well, they're evil. No other way to put it. The monsters and things that come from Voggoth's world are the most vicious of the invaders. They kill in horrible ways, they take pleasure in torture. Maybe because they aren't really alive they're jealous of the rest of us. Or maybe they think beating down someone like Trevor Stone is an achievement. I'm guessing Trevor would know more about this than we would, if only we could talk to him."

  Ashley stood and moved toward the door in search of her son, stopping to tell him, "You have to finish all this, Jon. Godfrey cannot stand. Whether Trevor comes back to us or not, you have to finish it."

  He locked eyes on her and felt a harpoon of guilt pierce his heart.

  "I know."

  Ashley left the bedroom and, a moment later, exited the stateroom in pursuit of her son.

  Jon watched her go until the door closed with a clang. He turned his attention to his friend asleep on the bed.

  "Oh man, I really let you down."

  He felt a burning sensation in the corner of his eyes, pulled his hand away, and stared toward the ceiling, afraid to make eye contact even though his friend's eyes remained closed.

  "When you left last time, we thought you might be dead. I tried to just keep doing the things you did, but they wouldn't let me. That time, well, there were protests and people started choosing sides. It got ugly. I was determined not to let that happen again. At least that's what I told myself."

  A deep breath. A long exhale.

  "So I handed it over to Godfrey. He made sense, I thought. But I guess I was just looking to run away again. Truth is, I was afraid. Wow, yeah, big time. I just wanted to keep on being a soldier and let someone else make the decisions. I never would have guessed that Evan would be behind this. I suppose I just wasn't thinking clear. None of us were. I dunno. I guess what I'm trying to say…I'm trying to say I'm sorry, Trevor. I failed you."

  ---

  When Farway had captained the Newport News on its expedition to the Arctic Circle, the bulk of his hair had been colored brown with a few streaks of dignified gray. In the five years since, the gray had consumed more of his scalp. Worse, that hair started to thin.

  Thankfully, the evidence of gray and thinning hair remained somewhat concealed under his Captain's hat, which he insisted on wearing inside the tube-like cramped quarters of the Barracuda-class sub he temporarily commanded.

  In front of his Captain's chair sat a helmsman and a navigator across from eye-like windows and surrounded by high tech consoles controlling the fast moving attack sub. To either side stood additional sailors at weapons, propulsion, sensor, and communications stations, all dressed in skin tight uniforms that doubled as diving suits if the need arose.

  The air tasted heavy and humid, much different from the well-scrubbed atmosphere inside his boomer sub, the Newport News. Barracudas were streamlined and basic; lots of teeth and speed but little comfort. That's why they were not meant to
travel far from port. Of course, Farway knew that intelligence used Barracudas to insert agents onto foreign shores and deliver supplies to resistance fighters in far off lands. The idea of spending weeks inside one of these floating cigar tubes gave the experienced boomer Captain shudder.

  In any case, he had signed on to lead a group of three Barracudas manned by fresh meat from the naval academy, a bogus assignment that smelled of the civilian brass trying to find something for war dogs such as Farway to do now that the fighting had blissfully ended.

  In truth, the Captain had spent little time training on these boats so he saw this as opportunity to learn more about The Empire’s newest naval toy. He quickly realized that he did not like it much, but he respected the amount of fire power stuffed inside the boat.

  The training mission had begun simple enough until the Secretary of Defense personally ordered them to track the Excalibur and its renegade commander. Apparently Dante Jones did not realize that Farway shared a brief but important history with Brewer.

  With the aim of keeping this young crew away from the brewing shit storm, Farway originally decided to stay out of the mess by following his orders to the letter, and nothing more. But in the course of following those orders they came upon this…this island that was not, in fact, an island at all.

  Then things had taken a turn into The Twilight Zone.

  Brewer radioed that an Eagle transport had pulled Trevor Stone and his missing son from the top of this…this…island. Of course, Farway needed to confirm such a crazy claim. So an Eagle picked him up off the deck and carried him aboard the dreadnought where he stood alongside Trevor’s bed and listened to stories from Jon, a certain Captain Forest, and Trevor’s wife, Ashley.

  It did not take the entire story to convince the old sea dog that the time had come to choose sides, and he chose the side of the warriors not the back stabbing two-faced politicians. The presence of an alien base so close to territorial waters impacted that decision greatly. Nonetheless, Brewer felt the Captain could best serve the cause in two ways.

  First, continue to radio hourly reports to the mainland. The last transmission informed the Secretary of Defense that the Excalibur stumbled along in the middle of nowhere still smoking from wounds received during an attack of Stingrays. A reply to this transmission suggested that Farway should report the 'enemy's' position directly to the Philipan, that ship now being in place to intercept Brewer should he re-enter Imperial waters.

  As for the second way in which the General felt Farway could be of help…

  "Engage the mag-drive, ahead one-half. Point our nose down, twenty degrees. Comm, alert all commands to follow."

  "Aye, aye! Dive planes twenty degrees."

  "Blue leader to Blue two and Blue three, message follows: Dive! Dive! Twenty degrees all ahead one-half. Maintain formation."

  Two brief bursts from a horn warned the crew of the dive.

  The lead Barracuda slipped beneath the waves followed by the other two subs on her flanks. They approached the phony island.

  "Fifty feet."

  "Steady, helm. Give me depth. Sonar, what do you hear?"

  A sailor standing at a station along the starboard wall reported, "Looks like it hangs down to about five hundred feet, sir. I've got sea bottom at eight hundred feet, sir."

  "Bottom? A little shallow, isn't it?"

  "I'm reading this right, sir."

  "Helm, drop us to five hundred, let's see what's under her skirt. Comm, signal all commands."

  "Five hundred feet, aye, aye!"

  "Blue two and Blue Three this is Blue leader message follows: dive to five hundred feet and maintain formation."

  The trio of subs dove deeper into the chilly but clear waters of the North Atlantic. As they descended they also neared the underwater portion of The Order's facility. It began to take form as a murky shadow in the distance, visible through the small eyes at either end of the hammerhead bow.

  "Sir! Sonar, getting some strange readings here."

  "Talk to me, Ensign."

  "Contacts…kind of faint, sir. I don't know. Something between the target and the ocean floor. Maybe some kind of net. It's hard to read, sir."

  Farway could not be sure if the difficulty in the sonar readings came from the sailor's lack of experience or had something to do with The Order's strange ways.

  "Helm, turn on the lights. Let's see what's out here."

  Forward spotlights engaged illuminating the waters in front of the boat. The blob-like shadow of The Order's complex floated ahead, still too far away to see clearly. The submarines continued to descend, trying to slip beneath the monstrosity.

  "Sir! Sonar! Definitely contacts on the ocean floor. Holy—I mean, sir…a lot of them!"

  The Captain stood and hurried to the sonar station. The naval veteran analyzed the data marching across a monitor in front of the young seaman. Farway mumbled, "All along the bottom…what the Hell?"

  "Looks like a little movement, too," the Ensign reported.

  "Sir! Helm! We have visual, sir!"

  Farway marched away from sonar to the front of the ship and peered out one of the forward windows. Spotlights helped explain the strange sonar readings.

  The Order's facility ended in a rough round base, probably the same spongy rock material as on the surface. But that was not all. A tangled web of white, flaky lines or ropes drooped from the floating base.

  The helmsman muttered, "What the Jesus Christ is that?"

  "Easy son. Keep it professional."

  Still, Farway shared the sailor's sentiments. It looked to be a mass of lines connecting the base to something deeper.

  "Helm, drop our nose ten more degrees. Let's get a look at what's down here. Comm, alert all commands!"

  "Aye aye, sir!"

  "Blue Leader to Blue One and Blue Two message follows: angle of dive increase another ten percent. Maintain formation."

  Farway reached for the low ceiling and grabbed one of the metal bars running the length of the ship on either side. Most of his bridge crew did the same as the front of the submarine tipped to a steeper dive angle.

  "Okay, easy helm. Slow us down to one quarter. We don’t' want to get tangled up in any of this. Comm, radio our sisters and tell them to hang back."

  Helm: "Aye, sir! One quarter!"

  Communications officer: "Blue Leader to Blue Two and Blue Three message follows: all stop, hold position until further orders."

  Farway's lead sub continued forward and down, moving closer to both the net of lines and the ocean floor. As they closed, the water grew murkier; white flakes floated about and puffs of greenish ink or mist seemed to drift in patches through the sea.

  "Depth, seven hundred feet!"

  "Sonar contacts all along the bottom, sir!"

  Farway ordered, "Steady, helm. Steady…"

  He stared out one of the front-facing portals hoping the powerful underwater spotlights might reveal what secret hid beneath The Order's warped base.

  The atmosphere inside the sub felt overly warm although the heat may have come more from the tension then the temperature. The crew grew silent with only the repeating 'ping' from the active sonar sounding.

  Deeper…deeper…

  "Seven Hundred fifty feet!"

  "Helm, trim out the boat. Bring our nose up to ten degrees; I don't want to go in too fast."

  "Ten degrees, aye, aye, Captain!"

  The steep dive eased. Farway released his grip on the overhead bar and came to realize how sweaty his palms were.

  The navigator muttered, "What is that…that noise?"

  A sound came at the sub from the waters beyond. A soft sound that made Farway think of a breath. An exhale. The sound of someone breathing in and out while sleeping, but on a much larger scale. The noise grew until it caused a slight tremble in the hull.

  The spotlights illuminated the murky water and the devil's garden came in to view.

  Those were not ropes and wires hanging from the underside of The Order's flo
ating base but, rather, umbilical cords. Each descended to the sea bed and attached to a house-sized white growth resembling an upside-down mushroom with luminescent skin. Around each of the fungi-things grew a patch of white bulbs arranged in rings. Inside those bulbs…things moved. Black balls, squirming masses, and worse. The sound of breathing came from whatever mechanism fed the garden.

  A hush fell over the crew. Even curses could not capture the grotesque horror hidden at the bottom of the sea.

  Captain Farway regained his composure—some of it—and ordered, "Helm! All stop!"

  Nothing.

  Farway barked in the crewman's ear, "Helm! I said all stop!"

  The shout shook the boat's driver from the horror ahead.

  "A-all stop, aye, s-sir."

  The jet-like drive at the bottom of the Barracuda ceased. The sub drifted ahead for several yards on inertia, then hovered in the water, a speck in the face of the hundreds upon hundreds of gigantic white sacs spread out like a farmer's field.

  The young Ensign at the Helm could not resist, "What is that, sir? Have you ever—"

  "No, never saw anything like it, son. But I know what it is. It's an army. An invasion army. Our President didn't buy peace with our enemies; he bought time for them. For this."

  One of the beastly growths caught the Captain's eye above all else. It had to be nearly as large as The Order's entire base. He could see a face—he thought it to be something like a frog's face—pressed against the interior of its protective sack. It moved, maybe even blinked. The creature inside that embryo had to be gigantic.