“Not before I go down,” Richards said. He glanced at his shoulder, no longer bleeding, then eyed Cyan. “Polyurethane. I don’t think it’ll help your friend, though. Sorry. Involuntary finger twitch to being shot with a speargun.” Richards dragged Taylor’s body to the water’s edge and rolled it in with his foot. Hundreds of rori on the cave floor twisted and flopped in after it.
How were these sea cucumbers surviving on land? They also seemed attracted to blood. They’d covered every inch of Mack while Simms worked on Richards. Cukes slithered over one another on top of his corpse, excreting slick, milky froth, a spawning and fertilization practice that occurs underwater. The DNA manipulations she and John had made shouldn’t have caused these runaway evolutionary developments, and so fast. Her mind raced, but she remained kneeling, unable to move.
Richards put on the upper half of the exosuit. Sea cucumbers climbed his leg, sucking at the blood that had run down his wetsuit. With a few keystrokes, Simms sealed the helmet on. Richards shook his foot. All the rori on him went guts out, shooting white strings like fireworks across his lower extremities. “Get them off!”
Simms yanked them free, chucking their carcasses at the water. He brought over the bottom half of the suit and secured Richards into it.
“You ready, Captain?”
Richards nodded.
Simms went back to work on his laptop. The suit arm pushed Taylor’s bobbing remains aside then descended.
She had a mission to complete too. Cyan scoured the cave entrance, stopping at the nitrox. Her Predator mask and vest sat on the ground nearby.
Simms watched her switch tanks and gear up.
“Where are you going?” he said.
Richards’ voice came through the laptop’s speakers. “Better be Shelf 9.”
“I wasn’t talking...never mind,” Simms said. “I see you’ve made it to the opening. What’s your status?”
“I can’t see anything down here but shit. Like swimming through a long drop with the sea slugs everywhere. Tell Dr. Blake I’ll be reporting her for shooting me with a speargun, and for creating these bloody monsters.”
“Um, yes, sir.”
“Lead the way in, Simms. And make sure she’s not watching the footage!”
Cyan stepped over to the rori cocoon that encased Mack and picked up one of his spearguns. “I don’t think John set off an alarm on 9. The cukes probably did. I’m heading further in to find him.” She pointed at the dark end of the cave with the spear tip. “Try not to bleed while I’m gone. Seems they’re drawn to it.”
“Thanks.” Simms eyed her weapon then glanced down at his guns. “You’d get there faster without all that equipment.”
“I’m taking it with, in case you two decide to head out on your own and take everything with you. But, eh, you wouldn’t want to give me one of those now, would ya?”
“Don’t think so. Besides, I’ve seen your handiwork, and you’re better off with that.”
“Can you tell me now, then,” she said, “what’s down there on Shelf 9?”
“It’s classified. But don’t worry. There’s no chance it’s anything to do with your science project run amok, I promise.”
“That’s bloody reassuring.”
Screams blared through Simms’s laptop. Richards came on, yelling blather about the rori cracking his helmet glass.
Cyan clicked the torch around her wrist and headed in, carrying her mask in one hand, speargun in the other. She didn’t want to be around for the captain’s return.
WHO KNEW SHELF 5 went back so far? Fewer sea cucumbers traveled to and fro along the tunnel the further in she went. After about an hour, her body ached, and she sweated buckets in the neoprene, which sloshed in her boots as she hiked deeper still. Something glinted near a rori. A bolt snap from John’s buoyancy compensator with a miniature US flag attached. She knew he’d gone into Shelf 5. Cyan put the clip in her pocket and carried on.
The cave narrowed, and the hefty tanks bore down her shoulders. Their steel scraped against the rock walls, shoving her off balance from one side to the other. Cyan unfastened the vest and let everything slide to the ground. Then she dragged the gear, hoping the nylon BC wouldn’t snag and tear, harming the inner air bladders.
Gunfire, then shrill screams, bounced off the rock surrounding her. Richards and Simms, she thought. They’d have to wait. Cyan trudged on, and hunched then crawled as the cave walls closed in. When she had to lie prone and pull herself forward, rori inching alongside her, she debated leaving the gear. The torch went out, and Cyan whimpered then cursed. Cold stone met her punching fists, but she avoided striking sea cucumbers on the ground, getting her sad out.
A distinctive blue glow rippled several meters ahead—an easy distance. The tunnel ended in a short drop to a brilliant pool at the bottom of a dome covered with bioluminescent algae. It would be the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen under any other circumstance.
John’s glove floated in the water below.
He’d come this far, and she would too. Cyan stretched and wiggled forward with a firm grip on the gear. Her neck strained to keep her chin and the top of her head from hitting solid rock underneath and above. She inhaled, held her breath, and squeezed out as if the stone bore her.
Icy water stung as she plunged in, gasping for air after bobbing to the surface. The speargun slipped away and sank while she geared up with shaking hands. She turned on the visor light and released air from her BC in bursts, descending into the unknown.
Cyan trembled at the abyss beneath her. No light could penetrate that darkness. Its depth, she hoped, would remain a mystery. Her heart clenched and she forced herself to look away. Light beamed up the wall, revealing a lava tube opening. She spun around and lit up what she could, not finding anything else. The entrance appeared to get smaller as she approached.
Damn. The tanks won’t fit.
After securing her mask and hoses, Cyan once more dragged her equipment along as she pulled forward, propelling through the small tube. Much easier floating with almost weightless gear behind her.
The visor light was bright in the smaller space. In the middle of her mask, swirling salt and fresh water made visibility zero. Just above and beneath the halocline, the separate waters were clear. Fresh water, down here? This had to be an ancient tube. It’s no wonder John had gone to such lengths. But what led him to it?
She hadn’t seen a single rori since the dome pool.
The lava tube narrowed, and the tanks clinked against stone. Exertion quickened her breaths as she pulled her body ahead. Neoprene caught at her chest and scuffed along the bottom. If the space got any tighter, she’d get stuck and have to back out.
Another pull moved her forward and then her upper torso floated in a larger area, possibly a dead volcano vent. Across the way, she saw John staring at her with wide eyes through his mask.
“John!”
Cyan twisted and writhed to be free of the lava tube. She put the BC on, then swam to her husband. His arms floated in front of him. A bare white hand with a missing glove glowed underwater. She pulled hers off and fumbled for his carotid, unable to find a pulse.
“No!” Tears came, then crying, followed by sobbing and choking. “Why, John? Why? We should have left them alone.”
She lowered her head then took his hands, pressed her booties against the wall and pulled. His body budged a little. After a few attempts, she stopped. “Damn you, John! I’m not leaving you here. Help me!”
Cyan braced hard, then yanked, freeing John from the lava tube. His mask bumped into hers and his mouth opened. His jaw moved, and she waited for him to speak.
Black rori young crawled out.
Her mask puffed out with a scream, and she pushed him away.
A cloud of black sea cucumbers encroached John. Cyan took off her vest and kicked until she’d re-entered the tube, pulling her gear along as it tugged the seal around her mask. Cold saltwater rushed in just up to her nostrils and sloshed up with her movement
s. Hustling, she focused, breathing only through her mouth. Searing pain shot through her skull as she snorted seawater through her nose and bumped her head across craggy rocks. Her chin slammed against the bottom, filling her vision with stars, but she kept going and grabbed whatever felt solid, launching forward, using the tips of her toes to propel.
The tube opened up, but it grew difficult to draw in a breath. Tanks and gages behind, as well as a rori horde, she couldn’t stop to check them but knew the supply had dwindled.
Nitrox from the tanks sweetened and grew colder as it thinned. Her next breath stopped short. Cyan reached out, clutched a rock and pulled, shooting ahead and kicking hard. Fog coated the interior mask. The seal squeezed, and her head pounded. Air!
She reached the dome, nothing coming through the regulator as she kicked upward, the tanks a dead weight behind her. Hitting the surface, she took in a deep wheeze of air that burned her throat and lungs. Without looking back, she climbed the rock face up into the cave.
Pain bit her knees, elbows, and hands, crawling then walking crouched in shredded neoprene over sharp rocks and jagged stones. The cavern’s diameter increased, and Cyan stood and ran. Sea cucumbers massaged her calves as they clung and squirmed over the drysuit. She lost her footing on goo and slid out the tunnel entrance into a wall of rori.
Richards and Simms wrestled, rolling and squashing sea cucumbers as they fought. The exosuit pieces lay near the edge of the water. Cukes mashed as she rolled then crept toward Simms’s gun.
A shot fired, and she froze. Richards kicked Simms’s body into a mountain of cukes, then he spun with his gun aimed. Rori enveloped him from head to toe. Half of one wriggled from his neck, streaming trails of blood down his chest.
“You did this!” Crimson gurgled from his mouth and down his chin. “You and your husband deserve—”
Cyan squeezed the trigger. Saving him from misery.
She pulled herself up and trudged on, ignoring the ocean’s salty sting. Its coolness soothed her sore legs. Exosuit parts scraped rock and squished more cukes as she dragged them out. Cyan shed what remained of her dry-suit laden with carcasses. Leaving her diveskin on, she slipped into the torso housing.
The leg component landed on a wrestle of cukes after she’d thrown it, unable to connect the pieces. “Dammit!” She stomped over, then crouched to pick it up. Rori reached out and grabbed her wrist, human flesh visible beneath the slimy black.
Her screams reverberated as Simms pulled closer. Holes and gouges marred his face. Several rori remained latched there, sucking. Cyan gripped and yanked, lugging him from the pile. His other hand held onto the laptop.
“Put it on.” Simms moaned and swiped cukes off the keyboard with raw skeletal fingers.
Cyan ran and grabbed the other parts, then suited up.
He sealed the ADS then waved her off.
“Thank you,” she said.
Simms typed, and the exosuit came to life and squeaked, pumped air bursts, then moved into the water. Sea cucumbers ebbed and flowed as she swam out of the underwater cave.
Ascending the vent, Cyan exhaled, looked up through cracked class and saw no light.
The devil’s mouth had closed.
A PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS
Michael McBride
US Army Air Forces NewsReels, Reel 2, 1942
A COUNTRY AT war! The Army Chemical Corps is in double-step to provide the armaments of war an embattled world must have if democracy’s to survive. America’s vast resources are being harnessed to produce chemical and incendiary munitions for our boys overseas. With construction completed on the Rocky Mountain Arsenal in Denver, chemistry genius joins with the muscle of thousands of patriotic men and women to win for the ways of freedom. Its present-day production of chlorine and mustard gas, lewisite and white phosphorous is but a mere fraction of the job that lies ahead. As cluster bombs and loaded shells roll off the assembly line and begin their journey around the globe, the forces of liberty can rest assured that the Chemical Corps will meet the demands of the war efforts and bring victory to the side of the right. Take that, Hitler!
1966
ROCKY MOUNTAIN ARSENAL, Commerce City, Colorado
“How did it happen?” Major Jack Randall asked.
“We’re still trying to figure that out,” Dr. James Thompson said.
The two men were diametric opposites. Where Randall was broad and muscular, Thompson was narrow and soft. They made for an unusual pairing as they strode down the corridor toward the laboratory known as The Warren. The soldiers guarding the door saluted and parted to make way for their commanding officer and chief civilian scientist.
“You’d better figure it out in a hurry.”
Chemsuits and gas masks hung from hooks on the wall beside the chemical showers. Randall watched the men inside the sealed lab through the reinforced glass while he donned his protective gear. He entered the outer chamber of the airlock and waited for Thompson to close the door behind them before opening the inner seal.
The entire wall to his right was covered with racks of wire cages. The rabbits housed here were designated for the nerve gas program, which had been established in response to the Army arriving in Germany with its mustard gas and lewisite only to find itself confronted with an arsenal of chemical weapons that made theirs look like novelty itching powders by comparison. The Nazi G-agents were lethal in minuscule concentrations and had the potential to wipe out armies with a single warhead and, worse, entire cities with a barrage of intercontinental ballistic missiles.
Thus, the plants at the RMA had been transitioned to the production of sarin—the deadliest of the G-agents—and the race had commenced to stockpile as much as humanly possible in the shortest amount of time, which necessitated the installation of early detection mechanisms in case of accidental release, a job perfect for these rabbits.
Had any of them still been alive.
Randall opened one of the cage doors, grabbed the lifeless ball of fur, and lifted it from the litter. Its tongue protruded from between its long, hooked teeth. The glimmer of life had faded from its waxen eyes, but its body remained limp.
“This couldn’t have happened more than a few hours ago,” he said.
“3:56 AM, to be precise,” Thompson said. “The men were alerted by the screaming.”
“Screaming?”
“That’s how they described it. They were at the end of the hall. By the time they arrived, all of the rabbits were dead.”
Randall set the animal on the stainless steel examination tray behind him, then reached into the cage. The rubber gloves minimized the sensitivity of his fingers, forcing him to grab handfuls of the litter and sift it through his fingers until he found what he was told would be there. Even then he was surprised to find the locust carcasses.
“How did they get in here?” he asked.
“We believe through the ventilation ducts.”
“How in God’s name did they get out of their cage in the first place?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. It’s one of those things you’re just going to have to see for yourself.”
“Wasn’t someone supposed to be monitoring them?”
“According to the logs, he rounded right on schedule.”
Randall manipulated one of the dead insects into the palm of his glove. The African desert locust. Schistocerca gregaria. It looked like the grasshoppers in the surrounding plains, only larger and rust-colored, with a black face and red eyes. Its entire body was riddled with holes, as though someone had repeatedly punctured its carapace and abdomen with a pin.
He turned around to qualify his discovery with the doctor, only to find him studying the rabbit on the examination tray so closely that his face shield was within inches of it. Thompson sorted through the animal’s fur, revealing fresh pinprick lesions inflicted so close to its time of death that neither bleeding nor attempted healing had occurred.
“The locusts attacked them?” Randall said.
“That�
��s how it appears, although these look more like puncture wounds than bites.”
“But that shouldn’t have killed them.”
“You’re right, but, for the life of me, I can’t tell you what did.”
WHILE UNCLE SAM considered the chemical warfare program his priority, he invested heavily in the burgeoning field of biological weaponry. Four square miles of the arsenal had been devoted to growing grain infected with a plant pathogen called wheat stem rust. Puccinia graministritici, known as Agent TX, was more than a mere nuisance species. An infection not only decreased the yield of a crop by twenty percent, it increased the risk of contracting mycotoxicosis from ingestion, effectively wiping out entire harvests. This one anticrop agent had the potential to cripple even the mighty Soviet Union and starve its people, ending a theoretical third world war before the first shots were even fired.
Of course, this particular fungus had an added benefit with extraordinary military applications. It could be used to harvest deoxynivalenol, a toxin that could be used to both incapacitate and kill, depending upon the concentration.
Randall supervised both the plant responsible for its purification, storage, and shipment to Beale Air Force Base in California and the laboratory where they tested experimental methods of dispersal. TX couldn’t simply be loaded into a bomb and dropped into a field without serving as a declaration of war. There was an entire team devoted to stealthier means of release, chief among them the use of insects as vectors to spread the infection.
The Japanese had successfully tested the use of fleas to spread the plague, but their plan to disperse them by balloon was impractical. Even if the fleas managed to survive the plummet from high altitude, once they were free to roam the streets, the efficacy of the plan was under the direct control of so many mindless creatures. There was no doubt the plague would eventually take root, but as a weapon it lacked the immediacy necessary during times of war, which were won in the here and now, not some number of months into the unknown future. Plus, there was no means of containing the bacterium. Had the Japanese not surrendered when they did and Operation Cherry Blossoms at Night been set into motion, those infected during the planned assault on San Diego could have easily carried the disease right back across the Pacific with them on any of the Naval vessels stationed there. What they needed was both immediacy and containment, which was where Randall’s hand-selected team of scientists came in.
Hellhole Page 9
