Chapter 52
A muscle spasm jolted Nick awake. Turning his head, he glanced apprehensively around the small, bare room. It took him a second to realize where he was. Save for the constant hum of machinery and the rush of water through the pipes high above, the silence of the place was absolute. No hint of the outside world existed.
Tired as he was, he had been sleeping lightly, attuned to the man in the opposite bed. He looked over at Derek, who slept fitfully. Uttering a soft groan, the precept twisted back and forth, unable to find relief. The SEAL pushed himself up and cricked his neck. With a sigh, he climbed from his bed and crouched down beside his friend. He brushed the precept's brow. "Still too hot," he muttered. He felt for a pulse and was reassured by the firm, regular beat.
As if he sensed another presence, Derek muttered something unintelligible, then rolled onto his back. The pain from his bandaged shoulder sent a message to his unconscious mind and he turned back again.
"Shhh... steady," Nick murmured. "Sleep.... I'm here.... Everything's OK." He smiled, mocking his own assessment.... OK?... They were up "Shit Crick" without a paddle... or a canoe.
"Noooo...," Derek moaned. "Please... help."
"I'm here," Nick repeated, as he placed a comforting hand on his friend's arm. The restlessness eased; the precept lay still. Nick sat on the edge of the bed, watching the other man sleep.
"How long have we slept?" he pondered. No way to tell day or night... summer or winter. He reached over to pick up Derek's watch, which lay on the bedside table.
"Eight... P.M.!... Christ!... We've been out damned near twenty hours," he said in shock. "Shit!... No wonder I'm hungry." He checked Derek, who now seemed to be in a sound sleep. "I'm gonna find some breakfast... or dinner... or whatever the hell it is," he told the sleeper. "Back in a sec."
Once more Derek Rayne floated in a netherworld of criss-crossing spiderwebs... blue, violet, crimson, the brightest gold and silver... all passed through his body... all a part of his body. He'd been here before. Only the pain in his shoulder and the incessant throb in his head and neck reminded him that he was still tethered to the earthly world. "Alstublieft, Gott... let me stay here. I'm so tired." Suddenly, he felt a tug on one of the silken threads. The web began to resonate. Each movement brought agony to his shoulder, a shaft of white hot pain between his eyes. "No," he pleaded. "Help me."
Within a nanosecond, Derek's mind saw... experienced... his life. Small events, and large, tied one to another... to another and to another... all interlinked, interlocked, like this web... all resonating... like this web... stretching in all directions to infinity... like this web... through the lives of all the Derek Raynes in all the other universes.
He saw death after death... his father's, the Major's, Julia's, Kristin's, Willem's. He smelled the cold, dank, stale, underground air, then the stench of decay... the absolute terror of that living hell he had endured. He felt the weight of the mask... the starvation and thirst... the rats... and West. Again he drowned in the utter helplessness and hopelessness, only to have it all swept away by the flames... of what... Hell?
He saw his House destroyed again and again... by the secret that lay hidden beneath.... He saw his own death... and Nick's... Ingrid's... Megan's... and William's... and the wives and children that he'd never had in this life... again and again... in a myriad of ways... all different, all linked, all the same. Once more the demon that was, or was not, his father taunted him, enticed him. Once more he waited and waited and waited... until the sepulchres had done their work... had opened a gate for the Anti-Christ.... Once more he pressed the button, blasting open the portal. Once more the thing that had called itself Winston Rayne was sucked down the drain with Hell's fiery waters... into an eternal, unbroken loop.
Like the St. Catherine's Wheel that had welcomed the new millennium on the lawns of Angel Island, the circle transformed, blurred. Its roar became a murmur, like the sound of the sea. A distant voice grew audible... distinct:
... unum ex quattuor animalibus dedit septem angelis
septem fialas aureas plenas iracundiae Dei viventis
in saecula saeculorum et impletum est templum fumo
a maiestate Dei et de virtute eius et nemo
poterat introire in templum donec consummarentur
septem plagae septem angelorum...
"No..." Derek muttered. "Please," he begged, "I don't understand. Not Latin... I'm too tired...." Again the images whirled... A beast spun from the fiery wheel. With slow grace he presented seven golden bowls to seven golden beings. The bowls bubbled and frothed. Smoke rose to fill the golden, pillared temple... pillars that stood pair by pair touching the heavens... gleaming, crystal squares... bright, orange pylons.... The voice once more sang, low and rumbling: Behold the wrath of God.... Behold God's magnificence and might.... Behold the seven plagues of the seven angels!
The golden creatures opened wide their wings and stepped forward until the quivering, iridescent tips met. One by one, they offered up the contents of their bowls... as they did so, the gold moireed into the multi-hued crystals of a kaleidoscope.... Again the wheel spun... from the seven, three beings sprang, holding three cauldrons, bearing three great flames. Once more, the vision spun and the circle again became whole.
From the dark recesses of his mind, Derek Rayne heard a single phrase, sung by a single, glorious, golden voice: All is One, One is All. Behold Faith and Truth. Behold the Light of Providence!
Later...
Derek sat up in bed, his right arm in a sling and his face pale and drawn. His pain was obvious. Nick remembered the agony of his own wounds during that cross-country trek... and afterwards... the burn. It would be a long time before the pain ceased. He cursed their lack of medicines... cursed the fact that Derek had given so much to him and Ginge. He prayed that rest could work the cure instead.
"We can make a start with the maps," said Derek. His voice was tight.
"We?..." Nick shook his head. "No way... Derek.... You're not up to it.... You rest up.... We'll check out the place.... Besides, I thought you wanted to rest up for three days.... Why the change?"
"No reason," the precept stonewalled. His dreams had made him anxious... uneasy. There was now a sense of urgency that had not existed when they had entered the caverns... at least, it had not existed in the same way. He snorted inelegantly and shifted the conversation. "I'm not up to it?... Might I remind you, Mr. Boyle... you're in no better shape than I am. At least I can walk."
Nick was about to argue when Ginge interrupted. "He's right Indy... my feet... your feet and the burn on your leg... Derek's arm and shoulder.... The three of us just about add up to one whole combatant."
The SEAL glared at both men. He knew he'd get nowhere. Derek would keep going till he dropped. He'd just have to make sure he was around to pick up the pieces.
"Where's my pack?" the precept asked, then pointed to the shabby backpack, which lay in the corner. "Yusuf... please...."
The boy laid it on the bed beside him. With his left hand, Derek began to search through the pockets. First, he pulled out the folded charts. Then, his hand felt cellophane in the bottom of the bag. "I forgot...," he said, as he extracted a small, crushed packet. "These are for you." He tossed a package of Twinkies to the SEAL. "Get your blood sugar up... improve your temper."
"I knew something was missing from my diet." Nick's grin hid the lump in his throat. Derek had carried those silly, squished cakes half-way around the world for him... across the Hindu Kush... through a war zone.
"Nick," said the precept, "I need the blueprint."
The SEAL nodded in resignation and retrieved it from his coat pocket. He unfolded the stiff paper and handed it to his friend.
Derek placed the paper on his knee, smoothed it, and pointed to a spot. "We're here...," he said. "The corridor splits two ways.... What's this mean, Ginge?"
The SAS man stared at the Cyrillic printing and chewed his lower lip. "I think it means machinery... equipment.... Maybe it's the business end of this joint... what keeps the water moving and the power flowing.... This corridor... the one that leads deeper into the caves.... I'll lay odds that's where the scientific shit is."
Nick bit into one of his cakes, and with his tongue dug out the white, creamy center. He offered the other brown cake to his companions, and shrugged at their appalled expressions. "So... let's do it," he said.
Hours later...
Derek was now regretting his bravado. Why had he insisted on accompanying the others? They had been wandering through the complex for hours. The charts had not been as helpful as he had hoped. The blueprint had shown only the complex's main living quarters and outer offices. The other maps were of the caverns in their original state, prior to Soviet development of the site. Ginge was updating the sketch on the back of the topographical map as they went along. Even so, they had managed to get themselves completely lost twice, and had to retrace their steps.
They had eventually found the control room that monitored water flow and temperature through the pipes, as well as the turbines, which provided the energy that kept the site operating. It was a testament to the skills of the engineers who build it. It relied solely on mechanics... not on computers... and it seemed to have been running without a problem or human intervention for the past dozen years.
Now they were heading along another seemingly endless corridor... towards God alone knew what. Derek paused and rested his good hand on the cool rock wall. Trying to control his breathing, he drew slow, deep breaths.
The air tasted artificial, stale. It reminded him of the cell... of West. He shuddered. "Don't go there, Rayne," he cautioned himself. He pulled his arm from the sling, flexed his fingers, then gently moved his throbbing shoulder and arm. It hurt like hell... sent pain shooting across his back. His head ached and stomach lurched in a whirlpool of vertigo. Waves of heat and cold raced each other through his body.
The precept turned his bowed head to see Nick and Ginge limping down the dimly lit passage, following a chain of pale yellow bulbs into infinity. Despite their own injuries... Nick with his crutch... Ginge with a makeshift cane... and both with their rifles... the soldiers were getting ahead of him. Yusuf, as ever, lingered close by, watching.
The young Afghan dropped his pack. He crouched down in front of Derek, met his eye, and offered him a canteen. "Drink... Da'reek Raheen."
Derek sensed the young man's discomfort... his dislike of their surroundings... and tried to present him with a reassuring smile. It was a smile that he himself didn't feel. He accepted the water bottle and took a deep drink, then handed it back. "Come on," he urged himself. "Keep moving... or you might stop for good."
Almost as if he was the psychic, Nick stopped and turned around. He waited for the precept to catch up. "You OK?" he asked. "Rest here for a while.... Ginge and I can keep going.... Yusuf can stay with you."
"I'm fine," Derek replied shortly. "I was checking the blueprint."
"Mmmm...," Nick responded, reading the truth in bluish circles beneath his friend's eyes. They had traveled well beyond the edges of that blueprint.
"Come on... you lot," Ginge called eagerly. "I think we've found something."
* * *
They hurried down the corridor to join the Brit outside a door marked with a biohazard sign. Ginge peered through a small window, criss-crossed with chicken wire embedded in thick glass. As they pushed, the door opened with a soft squeal; the lights went on automatically. "Fuck it!... It's too easy," said the Brit.
Nick crinkled his brow; anxiety tinged his voice. "You'd think they'd lock up the real nasty stuff," he whispered. "Should we be in here without protection?"
"Not much we can do about it, if something's leaked," said the Brit, "...'cept drop dead. Let's take a look.... We're on the right track, at least." He stepped into a large room, where a row of grey, metal lockers stood tall against one wall. He pulled open one door, then the next. All were empty, save for a photo or two, or a news clipping taped to the inside of the door. Those yellowed mementos were the only items they'd seen to remind them that living, human beings had been here. On the floor, shoved into a corner, the Brit spotted something that seemed to be made of gray vinyl or rubber. He picked it up and examined it. "Look at this!" he exclaimed. "A bio-suit!" He spotted a small tear. "It's damaged, so they just left it."
"Showers are over here," Nick called out, "and a door leading to another room.... No, dammit!... It's an air lock." He pushed at the door; it refused to budge.
"Here!" Ginge spotted a large, red button, and eagerly jabbed at it. With a hiss of escaping air, the door swung open. The SAS man stepped into the small chamber, then, cupping his hands against the glass of a porthole-like window, looked through into the adjoining room. "Christ a'mighty!...Vats... great, huge things... and they aren't for brewing vodka... and look... hundreds of bloody pipes. We should follow some of those buggers.... See where they go."
He found another button, pressed, and the door behind the two men closed, then the door in front of them opened. Ginge carefully stepped through. He whistled softly. "Jesus.... It's colder in here," he commented. "Temperature control?... Refrigeration?"
Nick hurried after him. They gazed around at the stainless steel tables, containment chambers, the empty areas, where equipment had obviously once stood.... The SEAL stepped over to a glass-fronted cupboard, full of boxes and specimen bottles, identified only by symbols. What nameless things did they contain, he wondered. Most chilling of all... in the center of the room, stood a row of dissecting tables, stained from use....
"It looks like film we saw of Stepnogorsk," said the SAS man.
"Stepnogorsk?..." Nick asked.
"Oh, right," Ginge said. "You hadn't joined us yet when we got our orientation into the world of Biopreparat, the Soviet Biological Weapons Program.... It had over fifty-five thousand employees spread across the Soviet Union in a bunch of different complexes. In 1972, after they signed the treaty banning chemical and biological weapons, they really turned into busy little, socialist utopia, worker bees.
"There's an island in the middle of the Aral Sea that's totally contaminated with anthrax and everything else unimaginable. Once upon a time, it seemed like the perfect place, but now the Aral Sea is drying up and soon the island will be on very dry land. Stepnogorsk was the last facility built. It's in Kazakstan and was the largest bio-warfare complex in the world. Your lot's still helping them clean up the place. It was built in 1982... after an accident with anthrax that killed a bunch of people around their old plant in Sverdlovsk. The crap they were up to is enough to make you shit your pants... combining traits of different diseases to create what's called a 'chimeric organism'... like inserting ebola into influenza... or the DNA from a disease like MS into Legionnaires' Disease. A person could be cured of the Legionaries's pneumonia with a few weeks of antibiotics.... Then... poof... a few months later the poor bloke comes down with Multiple Sclerosis."
"Derek!" Nick called, looking over his shoulder when he heard the airlock open. "You OK?... You gotta see this!" It was unlike the precept not to be right there behind his Security Officer... or ahead of him.
* * *
Derek, with Yusuf following, slowly stepped through the door. The young tribesman watched him closely.... The ruhani seemed reluctant to enter. What did he sense about this wicked, unnatural place, the boy wondered.
Suddenly, the precept gasped and leaned heavily against one of the tables. He jerked his hands away as if they'd been burned. Yusuf quickly grasped his elbow to steady him. Closing his eyes, Derek struggled to breathe, to quell the overwhelming sense of panic that swept over him. A pervading evil pounded at him from every corner of this room.
Nick turned around, saw the color drain from his friend's anguished face, and hurried over to help Yusuf. "Boss?..." He felt Derek's body tremble and rested the back of his hand on his brow. "You're burning up.... Ginge!"
The SAS man had been checking a bank of gutted computers.... Well beyond anything the Soviets were known to have had in the late 1980s.... Ginge once more whistled his amazement. "They had better electronics here than their own space program had," he said, as he hurried to join the others.
"Boss?..." Nick asked. "Can you walk?" He received a single nod. "We're heading back.... No arguments," the SEAL instructed, although he doubted Derek had the strength to contradict him.
"Come on.... We got aways to go." He pulled Derek's left arm over his shoulder to steer him back towards the exit.
"We all need a break," Ginge agreed, feeling his own exhaustion. He took Nick's weapon and handed it, along with his own, to Yusuf, then
positioned himself at Derek's other side and slipped an arm around his waist. "Bugger,"
he muttered under his breath, when he felt the heat radiating from the other man's body.
He cast a worried glance back into the room as they stepped into the airlock. "We don't
wanna make any mistakes round this shit."
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