by Glen Krisch
ECHOES OF VIOLENCE © 2019 by Glen Krisch
Cover design by Kealan Patrick Burke
Interior design by Michael Bailey
No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, scanning, recording, broadcast or live performance, or duplication by any information storage or retrieval system without permission, except for the inclusion of brief quotations with attribution in a review or report.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, products, corporations, institutions, and/or entities of any kind in this book are either products of the author’s twisted imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without intent to describe actual characteristics.
Independently Published
eBook Edition
Fragments from Dr. William Hellickson’s 1983 MIT commencement address:
“Since the advent of time, the natural condition of the universe has been one of decay. Life, on the other hand, has its own dissimilar motives in that it seeks order, self-sustenance, growth. My work is to try to understand and define the line of demarcation between the two …”
“When chaos becomes the dictator of all things, when disorder takes preeminence over order, it will unstitch the very fabric of existence. Through violence and dysfunction, the steady state will be amended, upended, cast asunder, until nothing else remains …”
“If you are not wondering about the tenuous nature of our finite existence, if you are not worried about how easily it could all come to a head, then you are not wondering at all, are you? I challenge you newly minted graduates, as you venture out into the world beyond these hallowed halls of learning, to think about the fragility of that balance, and to not allow yourselves to be corrupted by the fleeting charms of money, fame, even tenure—” cut off by raucous laughter. “Those constructs might bring material comfort, but in the end, they are nothing more than inertia built into our system of inevitable decay.”
CHAPTER 1
The Institute of Applied Temporal Mechanics, Autumn 1989
Dr. Soto: Blood Along the Blade
All was darkness. All was still; he was insensate, drifting, intangible, matterless.
A voice greeted him, shrill and echoing off cavernous walls made of stone: “You fucking coward, Soto!”
Jarred by the sudden sound, Dr. Elliot Soto pulled away from the darkness, allowing the familiar voice to draw him to waking. Even though the deep baritone was full of rage, he knew he once held its owner in high regard.
When he opened his eyes, he was already in motion, finding himself once again sprinting at full-speed down Hallway F near the lab’s cafeteria. His thoughts came slow and jumbled, flitting away before he could make sense of them. He only knew he needed to get away …
From what, he wasn’t sure.
Sweat gathered at his temples, his breathing ragged. He’d evidently been running for some time, yet he’d only now just opened his eyes. None of this made any sense.
“Soto, you son of a bitch! You ruined everything!”
The hallway—from the atoms of filtered air to the very walls themselves—shimmered before Dr. Soto like water rippled by a stout wind. The affect awakened a powerful flash of déjà vu. He knew exactly what would come next: the security alarm. He picked up his pace at the sound of the intermittent blare, knowing vaguely, at an almost primal level, what would happen next. Like clockwork, the fluorescents shut off, and emergency lighting strobed at measured intervals down the sterile gray walls.
Only now did Dr. Soto realize he carried something heavy and unwieldy. In his sweaty hands was a fire axe, its heavy blade painted in gore that looked black in the uncertain light.
He stopped in his tracks, his brown leather loafers sliding. He squeezed the axe handle, felt its familiar weight, the violence inherent in its very existence—and nearly dropped it.
A gunshot snapped his attention back in the direction from which he was running, and then the heavy thudding of someone crashing shoulder-first into a door. And again, several more times. Kicking at it, perhaps, until the door crumpled. Somewhere behind him. Getting closer.
This was so unmistakably familiar, every present moment like a memory.
He again squeezed the handle, deciding he would part with the axe only when he figured out what the hell was going on; he didn’t know if he’d need it, to break through a door or to defend himself, but there was already blood along the blade to indicate he’d used it for the latter.
Or maybe it was already like that when I found it …
An unwavering feeling in his gut told him that wasn’t true. The blood on the blade had come from his use of it. Realizing this truth made him nauseous, on the verge of vomiting.
Dr. Soto turned a corner and found a familiar T-junction. One way led deeper into the lab and the central hub for the massive particle accelerator. The other way led toward the front of the building, through a maze of hallways angling up from deep underground, to a bright vestibule, security gates, and to the outside beyond the glass entrance doors.
A secret lab in the middle of the rural woodlands in southern Illinois.
One way led to the source of this chaos: the control room.
The other led to his wife: Keely.
Footsteps approached from behind him at a sprint.
It was no contest; Soto ran toward the vestibule. He knew he’d find Keely puttering away in the garden. She would have no foreknowledge of how he’d destroyed his career, his company, perhaps even the world, and he didn’t know how she would react when he explained it to her, but he was certain there was no future without her. Nothing else mattered.
A side-stitch formed under his ribs as he met the rising angle of the hallway with renewed determination. His lungs burned, but light shone through the glass window of the door just ahead, and he pushed it open, sending bright sunlight streaming down the corridor. It hurt his eyes, left him disoriented.
Someone shoved inside the hallway. Another two men barreled through as well, stumbling and staggering before the declination in the floor. When they noticed his close proximity, they seemed energized, their grunts unintelligible. They didn’t exactly run, but with the downslope of the hallway, they closed in on him fairly quickly.
Something wasn’t right about them. He didn’t recognize the men, but from their ties and collared shirts they would have easily fit in among the lab’s administrators on the third floor with their professional attire … before. Blood now stained two of their shirts, from Adam’s apple to belly button, and the third had tacky rivulets streaming down one torn pant leg. Cuffs frayed, buttons torn. And the blood. They would’ve fit in before Soto had decided the experiments should end, when he had forced their end, but now …
Then the smell hit him, sewage and rotten meat stewing in a hot summer garbage can—the stench passing over him in waves, nearly overwhelming—and that’s when he realized he was still moving in their general direction. Of course, he would be subconsciously moving toward them. Keely was in that direction: outside, away from the lab and the greatest fuck-up of his life.
I can’t live without her.
He turned and ran away from the undead shambling toward him, his thoughts a jumble as he returned to the T-junction.
How am I going to get out of here? How am I going to save Keely?
When he rounded the corner, Dr. Hellickson, his mentor—a man with countless scientific accolades to his credit—stood with a shotgun raised and pointed at him.
“Good bye, Soto. I pray this is finally the end.”
The explosion lit the end of the barrel with an ear-rattling concussive b
last, then the shot thudded into his chest and sent him sprawling backward.
His head collided with the far wall, and as he tried to sit up, to raise his head … anything, hot streams poured out from both his chest and back, his blood draining out with his spirit.
The hallway darkened with each beat of his heart, each slower than the previous. He smiled as he pictured Keely watering her radishes and lettuces, picking ripe tomatoes; he could taste them each on his tongue, then nothing more.
CHAPTER 2
The Cherryhill Campground, later that day
Before Billy and his older brother Charlie could escape the business of packing for one last summertime bike ride, their mother stopped them. She didn’t say a word, at least not right away, but the sadness that filled her eyes stopped them both dead still.
She stood leaning against the doorway, wordlessly watching them as they set their breakfast dishes in the sink. She looked washed out, tired beyond belief. Only her bloodshot eyes had any discernible color.
Billy didn’t know how long she’d been like that, but it was unnerving.
“Keep an eye out for your sister,” she said, her voice a frail wisp. “She still has to pack.”
“How about we don’t keep an eye out for her, and we just leave her behind for the winter?” Charlie said. He laughed, trying to make her smile.
She would normally give in to his snarky comments, but no longer seemed capable. “That’s not funny, Charlie,” she said. “We’re running out of time.”
“Fine, Mom. But you know where Kendra’s at just as much as I do. She can’t go all the way down to Florida without giving Blake Tanner a kiss goodbye.”
She rolled her eyes, but no concessionary smile followed. She really wasn’t her normal self. “Just keep an eye out for her, okay? And make sure you and Billy are safe. Don’t leave the grounds. Got it?”
“Got it,” Charlie said, giving up on trying to spark some life into her.
As they headed for the door, Charlie in the lead as usual, Billy looked over his shoulder. Mom hadn’t moved, and her expression hadn’t changed. He wished Dad was at home to keep an eye on her, but he was already out touring the campground, making sure everything was battened down for the winter.
The screen door snapped shut behind them as they left the ranch house and headed for their bikes, which leaned on their kickstands in the gravel driveway.
“You ready, numb nuts?” Charlie said.
“Just try to keep up,” Billy said with a wan smile.
“Whatever, dude. Just don’t choke too hard on my dust.”
Billy climbed onto his bike and toed the kickstand.
The gentle breeze carried the scent of burning leaves, probably from old man Jefferson. He was their nearest neighbor a half mile away. The pungent smell made Billy sad.
Things were ending, changing forever.
“This is serious—the last ride of summer,” Charlie said. “Better make it a good one.”
“Let’s go already, geez!” Billy said.
He started pedaling his bike around the gravel circle, but Charlie cut him off, leaving a fine spray of dust and derisive laughter. Understanding his role as little brother, Billy followed Charlie’s lead.
The summer season traditionally ended on the first of October, which was only a week away, but the Cherryhill Campground had all but emptied. And his parents had been acting weird lately, always whispering out of earshot, which was entirely unlike either of their outgoing personalities. Whatever had them worried had something to do with the nasty flu that had spread like wildfire during the height of the summer season. That darned flu seemed to skip right over their family—like a flat rock bouncing off the dark blue of Milner’s Pond—and had ruined any chance of them having fun down in Florida, where they overwintered with their mom’s parents.
They were nice enough grandparents, but always greeted their dad with cold resignation. Even now, Billy could imagine his grandpa commenting about his freeloading son-in-law. Halloween this year would be a spare echo of the glories of years’ past, and Christmas a holiday only strangers would celebrate. It wasn’t Dad who kept most of the campsites unrented during the summer. It wasn’t Dad’s fault in any way, but his grandpa would certainly hold the meager summer over his head like a blunt instrument.
Yeah, the flu sucked big time.
As their parents worked to put the campground to bed for the winter, Billy and Charlie had free rein over the ground’s fifty wooded acres. Even with the brilliant autumn sun warming his face, the occasional gusts of biting wind were a cruel reminder to the time of year.
Billy pumped his legs harder, his dirt bike churning burnt orange leaves and trail dust, as he tried keeping up with Charlie, who, at fifteen, was three years older than him. They rode on trails they’d spent the summer blazing through with nothing more than their dirt bikes’ knobby tires and their own sweat.
When things were in full swing around the grounds, their parents wouldn’t let Billy ride alone for fear of “creepers.” Charlie had once explained about the creepers (mostly nasty old men) and what they did that made them creepy (gross stuff that Billy didn’t even want to think about). When he’d asked Charlie why their parents rented to creepers, Charlie had told him how anyone could be a creeper, that you couldn’t tell just by looking at a person if he wanted to do those gross things to you. So, the boys rode together, as they always had, even though the grounds were pretty much deserted.
Billy followed as Charlie detoured around a fallen tree and onto one of the many crushed limestone trails that snaked across the campground. Most of the campsites were ‘primitives’—without power or even a water spigot—but on this far northeastern corner of the fifty acres, their dad had built a dozen rough-hewn cabins (still powerless) with water pumps and outhouses.
Charlie pointed to a pickup parked next to one of the cabins and said, “Told you she was at Tanner’s.”
Blake Tanner’s truck was more rust than not. He’d paid up front for a cabin for the whole summer, with plans to finish his first crime novel before his rent ran out. He wore faded blue jeans that hung low on his hips and he went about most days shirtless, his wild mess of hair falling to his gaunt shoulders. To Billy, he looked more like a homeless guy than a writer, but Kendra gazed at Tanner like he walked on water.
Their sister had been homeschooled, just like he and Charlie, until she passed her GED exam the previous fall. Even though she was an adult now, she was still daddy’s little girl and got away with murder. She’d spent most of the summer inside Tanner’s cabin, but that was just fine with Billy. A Kendra-free summer meant a drama-free summer.
“Should we stop,” Billy said, “let her know Mom’s looking for her?”
“I don’t really want to see how they’re saying goodbye, if you catch my drift.”
Billy didn’t catch his brother’s drift and said, “But Mom said—”
“Did you hear what Mom said at all? She said, ‘Keep an eye out for your sister.’”
“Right.”
“Do you see Kendra?” He looked around, gave an exaggerated shrug.
“Well, no,” Billy said.
“Me neither. Let’s not waste all that time knocking on Tanner’s door, waiting ten minutes for him to answer, waiting another ten minutes for her to come to the door with her clothes all thrown on ass backward.”
“But Mom—”
“But Mom, what?” Charlie said, his anger cracking a voice that hadn’t quite reached its full timbre.
“She’s … she’s just so sad.”
“It’s been a hard summer, little brother. I know better than you …” Charlie trailed off as if he didn’t know if he should continue. He kept quiet and started back on his bike, putting Tanner’s cabin behind him.
“Wait, Charlie, hold on a minute,” Billy called out.
To his surprise
, Charlie let him catch up. They rode in silence for a short while, side by side for once. Not just brothers, but somehow equals.
“It’s not the flu, you know,” Charlie said, barely a whisper.
“What do you mean?”
“It starts out like the normal flu, you know, with all the snot and coughing and whatnot. But whatever it is, it’s killed a lot of people.”
“I know. I heard Mom and Dad talking.”
“It’s not just people it’s killed, Billy. Just last night, well, it’s Grandma and Grandpa …”
“What is it? Tell me, Charlie.”
“They’re gone,” he said simply.
Billy stomped on his brake pedal, skidding to a halt; he felt gut-punched. It couldn’t be true. Grandma and Grandpa were alive and well in Florida. They were looking forward to their arrival (well, everyone except their freeloading son-in-law). Grandma would be in her kitchen this very moment baking her famous meringue cookies. Had to be.
“No. That’s not true,” Billy said when his brother circled back. “I don’t believe you. You’re pranking me like you always do.”
“I’m not,” Charlie said. He took Billy’s handlebars and gave them a rough shake until Billy looked him in the eye. “I promise, Billy, it’s the truth. Why else would Mom be so upset?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe Kendra decided to stay with Tanner this winter.”
“Well, you might be right about that one. But I’m not lying about the flu. I might pull your leg once in a while, but I never lie to you. You believe me, right?”
Charlie was telling the truth. Not only that, but his older brother was on the verge of tears. Seeing him so upset, and after hearing such horrible news, Billy’s throat started closing like a fist. He nodded, and Charlie released his handlebars.
