Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle (35 page)

"Come to think of it, maybe you put the idea in their head. You order your three lackeys here through some sort of mind control. I was impressed how you pulled sharp shooting out of the head of Roberts and put it into Ruthie’s head over there; pretty good. You’ve even managed to make me see some things that aren’t there, like that whole big band shit when we walked in."

Gant realized his friend had become courageous because he had decided to die, right there and right then. He was agitating the entity into dispatching him in something like suicide-by-cop, except in this case the reason was to avoid assisting this evil being.

"But you know what," Twiste said, not asked. "For some reason you just can’t get me or the major here to do anything. Oh, you can throw up an illusion or two, but you can't get in and force us. Something in our heads is keeping you out."

Briggs turned scarlet red.

Ruthie marched over like a marionette on strings. The gun she held she pointed at Major Gant.

"I will kill him right now," the entity said with its human face. "And his blood will be on your hands."

Twiste did not hesitate, as if he had foreseen this move: "Go ahead. You already said you’re going to kill Thom anyway after you're done with whatever it is you need from him. What is that, by the way?"

Again, the entity said nothing, and Gant was impressed. He had seen Brandon Twiste outtalk and outwit a number of adversaries, officers, and politicians over the years, but now he parried with God.

"Besides, Thom would agree that saving the world from whatever you’ve got planned is worth his life."

Despite the gun pointed in his direction, Gant managed to smile. He was proud of his friend, and if they were to die in the next few moments, at least it would be for a good reason.

And Jean will be free to go and live.

"There are ways to die, horrible ways to die," the thing threatened.

Again a countermove: "There
are
horrible ways to die. You’ve inflicted them on people already. And you’d inflict all types of horrors on people like my family, my children, my grandchild. To spare them, I’ll suffer whatever you have in store for me." Twiste turned to Gant, "Sorry, Thom, but I think it’s for the best."

"Yes, yes it is," Thom agreed.

The figure of Ronald Briggs turned away with clenched fists. Gant knew what was coming next: pain.

"You sound brave," the entity said. "But down here, this is reality. No mind games. Major Gant could survive a dozen wounds. Then I will call in my children to eat him alive. And you will be responsible for how he dies because you refuse your God."

"Wait a second—that’s' it, isn't it? That's what they are." Twiste turned to Gant. "He keeps calling them his children. Those things, in the hall. I just sort of thought that you were playing the God game and calling all creatures your children. But that's not the case, is it? You mean that very literally, don't you?"

"They are my children."

"His children, Thom. Feral children. Born in this place. Pale skin because they don't see the sun. Savage children, raised like animals, used like guard dogs, who the hell knows what they've been eating. Probably … Jesus, probably cannibals to boot."

Twiste faced Ruth.

"You're the mother, aren't you? They're your children. Twenty years of bearing this thing's offspring."

Her expression—that vacant expression—turned sad. Gant saw decades of torment there. Not neglect, but a form of torture perhaps no man could ever really know.

Twiste flashed Gant a glance and Thom saw what his friend had done. With the exception of Jolly, Twiste had thrown their captors off balance. The entity looked elsewhere, grappling with some emotion, almost certainly anger and frustration. Andrew trembled and his dead eyes alternated between Gant and Briggs and Twiste, unsettled to the point that Thom worried a nervous spasm might let a bullet fly. Ruth faded off into some horrible memory. Of all the souls tortured in the Hell Hole, none could know her misery.

Point was, Twiste had given them a chance … and they proceeded to take it.

Brandon lunged for the M9 Beretta Ruth held and easily pried it from her hands.

At the same time, Thom jumped for Andrew's weapon, but he did not make it far. Two big hands—Jolly's hands—clamped down on his shoulders and literally threw him across the room. He smashed into a gurney and dropped to the floor.

A solitary gunshot rang out.

The entity—Briggs—stood perfectly still with an expression of very human horror fixed on his face. In that instant, Gant took note of the thing's fear and realized that, no, it was not all-powerful. It was petty, mean … and weak.

The gunshot came from Andrew. Twiste's attack had been enough to jerk that trigger finger, shooting a bullet into Brandon's gut at nearly point-blank range.

The puppet-body of Ronald Briggs put both of its hands to its head, as if suffering an intense migraine. As his hands moved, so did the hands of Ruthie and Jolly, mimicking their master.

Andrew, however, looked very much alone and lost. He dropped the gun like it glowed red-hot.

Briggs’s mouth formed a word that started quiet and grew louder: "No … no … no ... NO … NO!! NONONONONONONO!"

Ruthie and Jolly echoed his words over and over again until their chorus filled the lab. Just when Gant thought his eardrums would bust, the screams stopped, though they were followed by a howl of anger.

Andrew was no longer the instrument of the entity's emotion but, rather, the target. The frail old man with the zombie eyes retreated a step but could not escape Jolly, who bore down on him like a tsunami of rage.

No gun this time. Apparently a bullet would be too quick, too merciful. No, nothing expressed rage and frustration like a blunt instrument. In this case, Jolly attacked with Gant's collapsible baton, raising it high and then slamming it into Andrew's skull. Gant heard a sick crack, like a coconut being smashed. Andrew crumpled without a word of protest, dead already.

But the blows continued, one after another, pummeling the carcass into a bloody bag. While the giant soldier did the work, Ruthie stood to the side, swinging her arm in perfect unison with the executioner, striking air with an empty hand.

Briggs's face wore an expression of hatred, anger, and frustration, akin to a disturbed child whose frustration had boiled over into violence.

Blow after blow continued to fall. Andrew's head smashed into pulp, every bone in his body pulverized until snaps and cracks gave way to soft thumps. Finally, Jolly stopped.

Then it happened. Gant was lucky to be looking directly at Dr. Briggs when it occurred, or he might have missed it.

Briggs's face changed. In one second it was the snarling, occupied expression of the one who claimed to be God … then that expression became almost ghost-white and blank. The eyes grew wide; childlike.

He spoke so soft that even in the silence of the lab Thom nearly missed it.

"Help me."

Gant stumbled to his feet. He reached out.

"Dr. Briggs? Ronald, are you in there? Can you hear me? Fight it, Briggs—fight
IT!"

It faded, replaced by a snarl again, but a clearly exhausted snarl. Nonetheless, Thom saw Jolly rush toward him, wielding the baton. Bits of gore dripped from the weapon as it swung toward his head, but it missed and struck his shoulder instead, sending him to the floor. After this no further blows came.

The body of Dr. Briggs retreated to the sanctuary in the room full of mist. Jolly stood still, gasping out exhausted breaths.

Doing his best to ignore the new pain in his shoulder, Thom crawled over to Brandon. The man lay on the floor, a few last gasps of air exhaling from his lungs. Thom grabbed his hand and looked into his eyes.

"Captain ... Brandon, can you hear me?"

He blinked; his eyes moved, but just a little as his life poured out onto the floor.

"Damn it, damn it Brandon," he said. He considered, closed his eyes for a second, and then said, "You are right. I have … I have questions."

Maybe that was a smile tugging at Twiste's lips. Maybe Gant had just imagined it.

"I do not trust any of them, not one damn bit. I have questions, but that just makes things harder. I guess, I guess," he looked away, around the room, and when he returned his eyes to his dying friend he told him, "I guess they programmed me too well. I don't know how to do things any other way."

Gant felt Brandon squeeze his hand—just a little—and then his eyes glazed over and his fingers went limp.
 

General Harold Borman stood in his quarters in front of the mirror in his dress uniform, carefully positioning each of his hard-earned medals on his breast.

After all, he knew he must prepare. For what? Well, that was the question, but his sixth sense had never failed him before, so he would not ignore the feeling of needing to prepare this time.

From Vietnam to Panama to the Gulf and all the shadowy places in between, he had always been aided by his gut as much as his brain.

His analytical mind, his cold sense of brutal strategy, the ease with which he could make those hard decisions—that certainly contributed to his success and promotion. But over the decades a sort of sixth sense had helped keep him alive and had aided him in his quest for increased authority. Indeed, ever since coming to Red Rock, his power had grown exponentially, and he always seemed ready for whatever might come.

Now he sensed something important on the horizon. He felt the overwhelming desire to neatly press his dress uniform and shine his shoes.

Maybe an unexpected dignitary would soon arrive. Whatever the case, General Borman prepared so as to look like the proud officer he was.

With the last of those hard-earned medals in place, Borman moved out of the bathroom and into the living room of his underground VIP quarters. There waited his dress shoes. He was certain—absolutely positive—that there was a dirty scuff on one side. If the light hit it just right he could see it.

There would be no scuffs on his shoes today. No, sir.

The general retrieved his polishing kit, sat on the sofa, and got to work on ridding his shoes of all blemishes. As he worked his lips perked and he whistled the
Battle Hymn of the Republic.

A loud knock on the door interrupted his whistling and polishing.

Borman sighed, set his shoes aside, and marched to the door. On the other side stood Lieutenant Colonel Elizabeth Thunder with Corporal Sanchez on her flank. Her very appearance filled him with a sense of frustration. He had already decided to get her out of Red Rock as soon as possible; she was a tremendous disappointment.

"Yes, Colonel?" He purposely made his voice sound preoccupied.

She ignored his tone with the same ease, he thought, as she tended to ignore his orders.

"General, may we have a word with you?"

Borman's gaze alternated between Thunder and Sanchez.

That corporal, he was a good man. Despite having known Colonel Haas for a year, Sanchez had still made the hard decision to shoot the colonel when that officer lost control.

Lost discipline.

Shooting a superior officer in the back to protect the greater mission—that was an act for which General Harold Borman held great respect. Still, Sanchez now seemed in cahoots with Thunder. This could spell trouble. This could spell a breakdown in discipline.

"I am quite busy. Can this wait?"

"No, it can’t, sir."

Sanchez echoed Thunder, "Sir, the colonel has found some important information, sir."

Borman sighed.

"Very well, come in." He turned his back to them and walked into his quarters, leaving the door open. The two soldiers followed. Sanchez took the time to close the door.

Colonel Thunder spoke to the general’s back: "General, permission to—"

"Yes, yes." Borman waved his hand in the air then turned to face her. "At ease, Colonel. You’re going to speak freely no matter what I say."

"I don’t know where to begin, really," she said, stumbling for the best approach.

"That usually isn’t your problem, Colonel," Borman said, without an ounce of levity in his words.

"General, how many missions have been sent into the quarantine zone since the containment doors shut?"

Borman grimaced. "That’s not information you should—"

"A dozen? Two dozen?" Liz pounced.

"Sir," Sanchez chimed in. "We found files for nearly sixty entry missions."

"Wait a moment," Borman interrupted. "You two went scouring through the records room? I don’t remember giving you permission to look through the archives."

Thunder pressed on, "And you should see what those missions were all about, sir. We were sending in the best military minds with the best equipment the Defense Department could muster."

At this point Borman saw that Sanchez held a thick old file folder. Thunder turned to the Corporal and nodded. Sanchez consulted papers in that file folder.

He spoke: "In October of 1993, ‘Badger’ force entered the quarantine zone. Their primary goal was listed as reconnaissance. Their equipment list included four new pairs of sneakers, laundry detergent, and several bottles of red wine."