Chapter 55
"You're mine now, Professor!" The voice echoed round the iron monstrosity.
Derek struggled to raise his head, but the weight was overwhelming. He felt West's hot, fetid breath tickle his chest, smelt the reek of it through the small grille that was his only link to breath and nourishment. He felt himself stroked... caressed... felt his body played like a harp... each string quivering with its own joyous melody.... He felt his master's pleasure and with it an obscene ecstacy rose within his own body and soul. Derek felt himself harden with lust and ravenous hunger.
"Ahhh... you feel it, Professor, don't you?" the creature laughed. "Isn't it all the more sublime... the body reveling in its paradise, while the poor, blind, deaf-mute 'self' endures its own special, kettle-headed hell?
"Now... feel the pain!" West whispered.
The precept screamed in agony as his body was penetrated. "No! You're dead!" he gasped.
"Hhheee...," the voice smirked. "When has that ever stopped me?... Which is worse, Professor... the pain or the pleasure?... The pain is all your own.... Your purity, your obstinance.... The ecstacy is mine... the gift that I give you.... Which will you choose, Mr. MIM?... Which will be your heaven and which your hell?" Again, he laughed. "I think it will be both... forever.... Heaven will become hell and hell will become heaven, until you no longer know the difference."
"He's not real... not real!" Derek's mind cried out. "Not real! Wake up, Rayne!... He's a dream.... Wake up! It's over.... I am not Mr. MIM."
"I am with you always," the voice murmured from within the mask, "for I am become you... and you are me... for all eternity."
Derek fought to open his eyes. God... he was so hot.... The metal encasing his head was molten.... Belching magma bubbled and dripped down his body. The stench of burning flesh, burning hair suffocated him. Gagging, acrid bile rose in this throat. His scream died in the heat of a supernova. Jesus!... He was burning, engulfed by a fiery, spinning vortex. Lumps of flesh dropped away... melted... charred .. blackened.... His blood boiled, even as ecstacy filled his loins and his seed spewed forth as incandescent flame.
"Trapped, Professor.... in my warm caresses until the end of time."
the Labs...
OK.... So is this it?" Nick asked. "Have we found our 'nasties'?" He glanced around. There were five metal cubes, each containing three or four flasks... and some vials with an odd Petrie dish or two. It didn't seem like much, but then it certainly hadn't taken much anthrax to contaminate the US Mail.
"Bugger if I know," the Brit mumbled. Ginge was searching drawers and cabinets for documentation... anything that might explain what they had found. "Somehow... it's... I don't know... not enough.... Know what I mean?"
Nick nodded. "It doesn't take much. A drop of sarin or VX to kill a person.... How much ricin or smallpox?... This is probably just what they kept on hand for their tests.... They're samples."
Ginge abandoned his fruitless search, pulled out his map, licked his pencil tip, and began adding yet more detail. "We've hit a dead-end here.... There's this stuff, but God knows what it is or if there's more stashed somewhere else. I'm not gonna touch it." He traced an area on the paper with his finger. "We've not checked this tunnel.... We could see what direction it goes... if it looks interesting." The soldier stretched, massaged the small of his back. "I'm about buggered," he admitted. "How long've we been at this?"
Nick looked down at Derek's watch, its worn, leather strap too loose for his wrist. "Over ten hours.... Enough's enough.... Let's head back to that storage room, pick up the cart, then pick up your VCR and monitor. Then we can get some rest.... some hot food. We can start again tomorrow."
"We could rest up in one of those offices... maybe go deeper tomorrow," the SAS man suggested. Then he read Nick's face. "OK... we'll head back.... See how Dutch is doin'."
With relief, they left the small, sinister room. Outside, they heard the noise of the machinery as it resealed the environment behind them. Nick paused to look over at the young corporal, who like Derek, stood nearly a head taller than himself. Finally, in a quiet voice, the SEAL said, "His name's Derek... not 'Dutch'.... Dr. Derek Rayne."
"Yeah?... Well, he's one of the team, ain't he?" the Brit replied, confused. "Unless your SEAL lot prefers to use real names to get themselves ID'd by the enemy.... I'd've christened the kid too.... He's earned it... but he wouldn't understand. It'd be an insult. 'Cause of clan and tribal honor, anonymity is the last thing they want."
Why had it irritated him to hear Derek called 'Dutch'?... He couldn't say.... Was it that something visceral... deep down... felt that a nickname slighted his friend?... Nick conceded the point with a nod. To have a moniker bestowed was an honor.... It meant acceptance... and for a civilian, like Derek, to be christened... was a sign of respect. Mentally, he kicked himself for the blunder.... He'd been a civie for so long that he that he was thinking like one.
The two soldiers returned to the store room, where they had found the animal feed. Together, they slung several large sacks of sheep pellets onto a hand truck, then laid their packs atop the pile. "This'll please Yusuf," said the Brit, breaking the long silence. "He can try it on his horses."
Nick smiled; the tension broke. "He might try it on us first... to make sure it's safe. You're forgetting his priorities."
Ginge laughed. "You're right... Derek first... horses second... us somewhere lower down the food chain."
They pushed the heavily loaded cart with its creaking wheel towards the "top brass" offices and the Comms Room, where they loaded the VCR and monitor precariously on top.
"You know," Nick commented. "These places are so damned far apart, they must have had wheels of some kind... like golf carts or scooters. I can't see one of those desk jockeys humping it back and forth to the labs five times a day... or everybody going from the living quarters way down there.... The day would be half gone before they got to work."
"Prob'ly did," the younger man agreed. "Maybe bicycles... unless there's quarters we haven't found. Maybe they went down to those labs for shifts that lasted a week or more... sort of like a quarantine.... Maybe everybody had their own spheres that they sort of stuck to."
As they pushed the heavily loaded cart back out into the main tunnel, a double explosion rolled along the corridor. It echoed hollowly around them, reverberated, bounced from the stone walls, floor, and ceiling.
"Jesus!" Ginge gasped, snatching up his rifle, which lay beside the VCR. "What the fuck?"
"Gunshots!" Nick's instincts told him more than any rational thought. He pulled his handgun from the small of his back, cocked it, and crouched down beside the cart. He glanced around, trying to get a fix on the source.
Ginge joined him behind the sacks of sheep feed and pulled out his map. "It's a bloody maze. Could have come from anywhere... any distance."
"Nothing more... two shots.... It must be Yusuf," Nick decided. He tucked his gun back into his waistband and pushed himself to his feet. "Come on, Ginge.... He's trying to get our attention.... We can come back for this."
"Damned well succeeded," the redhead agreed, grabbing his cane and slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "It's either that or we've got company.... Two shots?... One for Derek... one for the kid?"
The soldiers set off at a hobbled jog, all their healing feet would bear.
Nick and Ginge heard the noise... a bellowing... a howling... like a beast released from hell... long before they reached the residential quarters. They ran on, exhausted, in pain, short of breath.
At last, as they reached their goal, both could smell smoke. Though Nick could guess what they'd find, his military training screamed for caution.... "Do it right," he murmured to himself, "just in case." Pulling his sidearm, Nick gestured for Ginge to go high, while he'd go low. The Brit unslung his rifle and reached for the doorknob as Nick slid down the wall on the opposite side, ready to give cross cover.
He slammed open the door. "What the hell are you playing at!" Ginge shouted in Pashtun.
"Yankee!" Yusuf screamed. "Da'reek!... Help!" The young man was in the middle of the room, using a blanket to beat frantically at deep, purple flames that rose from Nick's bed.
The SEAL looked for Derek... saw him slumped on the floor by his bed, bound in white sheets. The flames weren't threatening him. For the moment, he was safe where he was. Yusuf's battle had to be the priority.
Nick tossed his weapon aside, snatched up another blanket, and hurried to the Afghan's side. As they beat at the fire, the flames billowed in molten, angry clouds. As if in defense, lightning cracked and streaked towards the two young men.
"Jesus!" Nick cried out in pain as the heat scorched his arm.
"Devils!" Yusuf shouted.
The Brit grabbed the water bucket and hurled its contents at the base of the fire, which emitted a long, enraged hiss. Roiling clouds of steam enveloped the men. When it cleared, the flames had gone, leaving only a darkened area in the middle of the bed. Nick pulled the wet, smoldering blankets off the mattress, and dragged them into the corridor.
"Da'reek!" Yusuf cried and threw himself to his knees beside the precept.
Nick and Ginge joined him on the floor. The SEAL laid a palm on his friend's forehead. "God.... He's burning up!" He looked around the room for the first aid kit... the thermometer. Yusuf seemed to read his mind. He pushed himself to his feet and lunged for the small bathroom. A second later he returned, unzipping the green bag, which he thrust into the SEAL's hands.
Ginge, too, read their minds. "Never mind the thermometer," he said urgently. "We can't risk it in his mouth.... We'd have to unwrap him to get it under his arm.... The showers... the big ones in the barracks.... Let's get him under cold water."
Later...
Nick sat in the shabby arm chair. He shivered slightly in the draft as the door opened, then remembered he was still wearing wet clothes.
"Drink this." Ginge handed him a steaming cup, then laid a neatly folded set of Soviet camouflaged fatigues on Nick's bed. "Looks like the Spetsnaz was here," he commented, pointing to the sleeve patch. "Makes sense to guard the place with the Special Ops guys sent to knock off the Mujahideen."
Nick barely heard. He was too intoxicated by the fragrance wafting from the mug. "Coffee?" He blew on the liquid, then downed it quickly.
"Yeah, found some.... It tastes OK... not Starbuck's... but it'll do." The SAS man brushed Derek's brow with the back of his hand. "He's cooler."
"Being held under cold water for twenty minutes is gonna do that," Nick agreed. A forlorn smile sprang from a wispy, singed beard and a face stained by soot, then striped by water drops.
"I'll watch him for a while," Ginge offered. "Take a break... check out your leg... grab a warm shower.... You look like an Indian in war paint.... Get some dry clothes on."
"Where's the kid?"
"Guess."
"The horses?"
"He said they spooked at his gunshots, so he wanted to make sure they were 'OK'. Then he's gonna check the weather and go fetch the cart." Ginge grew thoughtful; the silence lengthened. At last, he looked Nick squarely in the eyes and asked, "That fire?... It wasn't the kid being careless, was it?"
"No." Nick met the SAS man's frank eyes and realized that he was only just beginning to accept everything he'd been told about Derek's "gifts".
"Poor bastard."
"Derek wasn't in control of it.... No way he'd hurt that kid."
"I know.... I meant Dutch... Derek... poor bastard... not my idea of fuckin' gifts! The corporal sat down on the end of Derek's bed. "Yusuf told me he saw monsters... devils... not sure about the exact translation... in the fire."
"Umm...," Nick grunted. He pushed himself up from his chair and stepped into the bathroom. "Monsters... in the fire," he silently repeated to himself, as he shed his clothes, turned on the hot water, and slid beneath the steaming flow. All along he'd been worried about the sudden, dramatic nature of Derek's fever. It wasn't that he shouldn't have a fever. He should.... He had an infected wound... badly infected.... Reddish streaks had begun to radiate from it. Pus drained freely. His lymph nodes in his neck and armpits had begun to swell. His body's defenses were being overwhelmed... but that fever had risen too high, too fast... just like before.... It had jumped up even before the outward signs of infection had appeared.
At first, he'd been afraid that Derek might have somehow been infected by a new type of 'nasty', concocted here, but he'd quickly discounted that.... Why Derek... and not the rest of them? He had considered Derek's "Sight".... Perhaps, it was picking up on the purposes of this damned place.... Picking up on what had been created here... what had died here... all those years ago... just as he had picked up on the horror of September the Eleventh.
He now remembered West's torture chamber. Why had he not considered it? Had he subconsciously blocked the memory? In his mind, he saw the knife with the cobra handle protruding from Derek's ribs.... All along he had been sure his precept had been afraid that he'd been permanently damaged by psychic contact with West... with the IDs.... Maybe there had been a transference of "something". Not their essences... but some evil... an older, more ancient evil... borne like an infection in the blade. Could these fevers... the fires... be part of the knife's evil? "Could that be what Derek's been fighting?" he asked himself. Perhaps, the sudden drop in Derek's fever when the World Trade Center had fallen had merely been a coincidence after all.
Later...
Nick's eyelids drooped; his head nodded. He was slipping into a warm, safe place... sleep. God that was good.... Sleep. He vaguely heard the door open and struggled to bring his mind into focus.
"Indy!... It's working!"
"What?" Rubbing at his face, Nick moaned, "What?... What's working?"
"Come on, SEAL!" Ginge said. Excitement rang through his voice as he shook Nick's shoulder. "Up and at 'em!... The fuckin' video!... It's working! Come see!"
"I can't leave Derek," Nick protested.
"Where's the kid?"
"Guess."
"OK.... I'll bring the stuff in here," Ginge decided. "Dutch... won't mind.... He's well out of it."
Nick began to protest, then changed his mind. "What the hell?" He doubted they'd find anything on the tape, but it was worth a shot... since the Brit had gone to so much trouble.
* * *
Ginge was back in a moment, wheeling in the makeshift "entertainment center" on the flat-bed cart. He lifted the monitor, set it on the desk, and plugged both devices into the wall sockets. As the two men settled down to watch, a grainy picture appeared and rolled a couple of times; static lines shot back and forth. Finally, it calmed to show a man sitting at a desk... writing. The angle was from almost directly above the desk.
"Not fuckin' Spielberg, is it?" Ginge groaned with disappointment.
The picture flickered. Another room appeared on the screen. Two men, an older man and a young "stud", were in bed together, having frantic and noisy sex. "Whoa! Ginge grinned, "Ain't love grand."
Nick laughed and reddened. "You called it a 'fuckin'' video. Guess you were right."
Another scene followed... a woman showering. In a moment, she was joined by the older man from the previous shot. "Shit!" Ginge swore, ready to dismiss it. "It's a fuckin' Peeping Tom video!"
Nick laid a quieting hand on his arm. "Wait," he said. "This is interesting.... Those rooms had spy-cams.... I wonder why?... How did they keep the lens in the head free of steam?"
"Something to hide?" Ginge suggested, with a crinkle of the brow. "Not Party liners?... Or they're all bugged and this tape just happens to concentrate on Lover Boy.... Maybe they're all his favorite pit stops." He chuckled. "You know... she's no spring chicken, but she's got a hellava pair of tits."
"Umm... ummm...," Nick slowly agreed. Ignoring Ginge's comment, he turned to scan the room for a good, cinematic POV.
"Wait a minute.... This is more interesting." Ginge hunkered down by the screen and tried to improve the picture. "Well... more along the lines of the kind of 'interesting' we need."
"It's the woman again," said Nick.
"Looks like she's a Medico," Ginge commented.
The slim woman, now wearing a white lab coat and heavy, protective gloves that extended nearly to her shoulders, slipped on a clear visor that covered her face. She then turned to pick up a syringe that lay on the table beside a vial. After double checking the name and dosage, she stepped across the room to a cage that contained an apparently sleeping or unconscious monkey. They could see a yellow froth at its mouth. Its chest heaved for breath. "He looks buggered," said the Brit. "Wonder what the fuck they done to the poor guy?"
Nick nodded. "I don't recognize this room.... It's almost like a holding area... or a recovery room. Some of those caged animals look pretty sick."
"Hey... come on, little guy," Ginge cheered as the animal seemed to rally. It raised its black and tan head, and, after a few moments, a long, thin arm reached for the treat the woman offered. "She cured him!"
"Maybe...," the SEAL cautiously agreed. "Ginge... we gotta find this place.... Look at those medicine cabinets.... They're refrigerated.... Look at the way everything's stored. We might find something... an antibiotic... we can give Derek."
"Shit... Indy!... He ain't a monkey.... Just because that little guy perked up... and that was fifteen years ago. The place'll be empty... or everything gone off."
"I know... but I've got a feeling." He smiled at the panicked look that crossed the redhead's face. "Relax... I don't read minds or set buildings on fire.... This is a soldier's plain, old 'gut' feeling.... I don't want to leave Derek.... Can you take Yusuf... an' see what you can find?"
Ginge rewound that section of the tape and studied it again. "OK... we'll go as soon as we skim through the rest of this."
The two soldiers settled back to fast-forward through the remaining tape, but saw nothing more of interest. Other than a few sections showing dead or distressed mice, monkeys, and rabbits, most of it was of the two men and the woman... working in the labs, now empty, which Nick and Ginge recognized as those they had already visited... doing paperwork... in various states of dress and undress.
"Don't get your hopes up," Ginge cautioned, as he rewound the tape. "Dammit!
I was hoping for more."
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