For a moment, nobody answered. Then Logan spoke again. “There’s the science wing.”
“What about it?” Sully asked.
“I know from that old journal its original use was something to do with sonar technology. I don’t know what, and Usuguk here couldn’t provide anything beyond a confirmation. Maybe it was some new submarine equipment, and they needed a remote place to research it undisturbed. Maybe it was meant to somehow supplement the phased radar arrays of the base. But remember: this research was abandoned when the creature was found, and the north wing re-tasked.”
“But for all we know the original equipment was already in place before the creature was discovered.” Marshall turned to Usuguk. “Do you remember seeing instruments, tools, in the north wing?”
The Tunit nodded. “Much was covered with sheets or tarps. Others were still in crates. And there was a room, large, round, with padding on the walls like caribou fur.”
“Perhaps an echo chamber of some sort,” said Faraday.
“But even if there are instruments stored there,” asked Logan, “who has the acoustic experience to put them to use?”
“That’s not the problem,” said Sully. “All of us took the requisite electrical engineering courses in graduate school.”
“You’ve seen my keyboard,” said Marshall. “I built an analog synthesizer in college.”
“I was a ham radio operator,” added Faraday. “Still have my license.”
Logan turned toward Gonzalez. “So how about it? Now will you let us in?”
“Nobody has been inside the north wing in fifty years,” the sergeant replied.
“That’s not an answer,” said Logan.
For a moment, Gonzalez said nothing. Then he gave a curt nod.
“What about Kari Ekberg and the others?” Marshall asked.
Gonzalez pulled out his radio. “Gonzalez to Conti. Repeat, Gonzalez to Conti. Come in.”
No response but static.
“Hold on a minute,” said Sully. “We don’t know for certain whether there’s truth to any of this. It’s just a theory.”
“Would you rather wait here for that thing to kill us all?” Marshall said. “We’re fresh out of options.” He stood up. “Let’s go. Time’s running out.”
46
They stood in the dim hallway outside radar support. Ekberg kept her head averted, hands clenched and fingers interlaced, shivering despite the warm air. Wolff glanced at her, then looked away again. Conti stood apart, reviewing the footage he’d recently shot on the camera’s small viewscreen.
“Why didn’t you let me respond to Gonzalez’s call?” she asked.
“He probably just wants to smoke out our location,” the director murmured. “He clearly retreated following the attack, and now he wants to pull us back as well.”
“He probably fell back to the life-sciences lab,” replied Wolff. “Rejoined the others. If he was smart, that’s what he did.”
“I doubt it. Gonzalez is a soldier; he wouldn’t have let a setback like this stop him.”
“Is that what you call it?” Wolff retorted. “A setback? That creature just killed another of his men.”
Conti flicked a switch on the camera and the viewscreen went dark. “Gonzalez wouldn’t take it lying down. He probably got jumped. Now he’s learned from his mistake—trying to take the fight to the beast was a bad move. Better to choose your place of engagement. Let the enemy come to you.”
Wolff looked at him in disbelief. “Emilio, what do you think this is? Some film you can script to your satisfaction?”
But Conti didn’t seem to hear. “Let’s check out that stairwell we passed. He might have taken his team down there, set up a killing field.” Hoisting the camera back onto his shoulder, he began to walk down the corridor. Wolff stepped in behind him, still protesting.
Ekberg watched them walk away. The corridor was wreathed in interlacing shadows that seemed to grow more oppressive by the minute. She could not get the image of Creel out of her mind: the torn and staring head, the spreading blood, the dismembered corpse. Woodenly, she moved to follow them.
“Either we radio Gonzalez or we head back to the science lab,” Wolff was saying. “Wandering out here, with that killing machine on the loose, is madness.”
“You won’t say that when we’re accepting a Best Documentary Oscar. Besides, you’ve got a weapon.”
“Creel had a weapon, too. A nice, big weapon. And look what happened.”
“We don’t know what happened. It could have been anything. Perhaps he got separated from the others. Perhaps he lost his nerve and ran off—straight into the jaws of the beast.”
They were approaching the stairwell. The metal-walled shaft was a maw of blackness, only a small glimmer of light from below illuminating the treads and risers. Ahead, the corridor ran back to the intersection leading to the infirmary. Conti stopped at the top of the stairs to adjust the camera lens and switch on its supplementary light.
“I won’t let you go down there,” Wolff said.
Conti continued to fiddle with the camera. “Didn’t anything I said earlier sink in? This is simply too important. If they’re down there, I have to film it.”
“We should never have left the officers’ mess.” Wolff looked back at Ekberg as if to demand her agreement.
She said nothing. She was too full of grief and horror. The memory of being back in the mess, agreeing to run sound for Conti, already seemed a lifetime away. The notion that the good of the documentary outweighed all other considerations now filled her with revulsion.
“It won’t take me long to check,” said Conti. He lifted the camera back onto his shoulder. “Wait here if you want. Kari, I’ll need your help.”
Ekberg shook her head. “Sorry, Emilio. I’m not going.”
Wolff put his hand on the camera. “You’re coming back with us. Now.”
“You can’t order me around,” Conti said, wheeling away, his voice abruptly spiking. “This is my shoot.”
“I’m the Blackpool representative—”
Suddenly, Wolff fell silent. He gave a low grunt of pain and covered his hands with his ears. A moment later, Ekberg felt it too: a painful pressure that seemed to radiate from the center of her skull.
“I don’t like this,” she said.
“We need to get out of here,” Wolff replied. “Get out of here fast, before—”
Once again he stopped speaking. His jaw went slack and his frame seemed to sag. He was staring past Conti, down the corridor. Ekberg turned to follow his gaze with huge reluctance, fear buckling her knees, afraid to look but even more afraid not to.
Ahead, at the corridor intersection, the webbed darkness had begun to shift.
47
They made their way down through the levels in almost complete silence. Gonzalez led the way, M16 slung over his back and powerful flashlight illuminating a path through the clutter. A heavy monkey wrench hung from a cloth ring stitched to his fatigues. Logan and the scientists came next: Sully with a weapon in each hand, Marshall and Faraday carrying khaki duffels of hastily gathered tools and equipment that might or might not come in handy. Next came Usuguk, his tattooed face expressionless. Phillips brought up the rear, darting frequent looks over his shoulder.
They moved past the storage spaces of D Level, racks of ancient instruments and redundant sensor arrays like watchful sentinels in the faint light. As Gonzalez’s torch swung in an arc, catching new objects in its beam, sudden shadows darted at them from open doorways and storage niches.
The gloom and silence began to wear on Marshall’s nerves. He hadn’t really wanted to leave Ekberg, Conti, and Wolff behind, but the possibility of fashioning a weapon that might harm the creature made it a chance worth taking. He slowed his pace, falling back slightly until he was beside the Tunit. “Usuguk,” he said, eager to turn his mind elsewhere. “Why do you call this mountain a place of evil?”
It took the Tunit a moment to answer. “The story is very old. I
t has been handed down from father to son, generation to generation, for longer than living memory can tell.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
Usuguk paused again before continuing. “My people believe in two sets of gods, the gods of light and the gods of darkness. Just as everything has an opposite—for happiness there is sorrow, for day there is night—it took both sets of gods to fashion our world. The gods of light are supreme. They are the ancient ones: the gods of goodness and wisdom. They bless the hunt, fill the sea with fish. They watch over the natural order. The gods of darkness are different. They control sickness and death, the human passions. They dwell in dreams and nightmare. Over time, their own veil of darkness began to poison them. They grew envious of the gods of light. The evil that was their instrument, their source of power, seduced them. And they themselves became evil.”
They turned a corner, continued past a series of repair bays.
“The gods of darkness tried to undermine the gods of light, twist their deeds into evil, pollute the land, turn the healing sun dark. When this failed they tried to use their evil to corrupt the gods of light, turn them against themselves. Although the gods of light were benevolent, this worried and angered them. And that was when Anataq spoke up.”
“Anataq?”
“The trickster-god. He is neither light nor darkness, but acts as a balance between them. He had seen the acts of the dark gods and knew them to be disruptive, dangerous to the order of nature. So he offered to help. He went to the gods of darkness and told them of a secret Tunit cave; a place, he said, where the fifty most beautiful and unspoiled women of the tribe were kept. Their beauty, he said, was of such rare quality that they were not to be had by men, but to be admired and revered. Their cave was deep within a mountain. This story aroused the lustful interest of the dark gods, and their blood burned hot.”
Following Gonzalez, they descended a stairway to E Level, lowest in the central wing, their feet ringing softly against the metal steps. “The gods of darkness asked Anataq where this mountain was. But the trickster-god would not tell them. He said only that he visited the mountain once a year, each midsummer eve, when the guardians of the women were away at the purification ceremony. That year, on midsummer eve, he went to the hollow mountain. The gods of darkness followed him, as he knew they would. And once they were within its deepest chamber, Anataq poured liquid fire down upon them, sealing them inside.”
“Lava,” murmured Marshall.
“The anger of the dark gods was terrible. They bellowed and shrieked, and again and again the mountain spit fire. Their violence was such that the sky was rent from horizon to horizon and the heavens bled. For thousands of years they raged. But Anataq had sealed them in too well, and at long last they grew weary. The mountain no longer belched red fire. The heavens no longer bled.”
Until now, Marshall thought. With such a legend as part of his belief system, it was no wonder Usuguk had grown agitated at the return of the strange, crimson-colored northern lights. It was remarkable to think that the man had been able to work at this base at all—in particular, to work with such a terrifying and dangerous creature. But then, he reflected, Usuguk had been young and full of doubts about his people’s traditions. Too bad it had taken such a shocking episode to transform him.
“And the kurrshuq?” he asked. “You called it the guardian of the forbidden mountain.”
“Once the gods of darkness were imprisoned in the mountain, Anataq called on the kurrshuq to guard it, to make sure there was no escape. The kurrshuq are creatures of the spirit world, not gods but powerful beings who do not deign to involve themselves in the ways and lives of the People. For many years, a group of them guarded the mountain. But slowly, very slowly, the darkness of the imprisoned gods corrupted them as well. And they became evil things.”
“Eaters of souls,” Marshall said.
The Tunit’s eyes darted toward him momentarily, then looked away again.
E Level was even more crowded with cast-off detritus than the higher floors had been, and completely dark, and their progress slowed considerably. Gonzalez led them past mechanical spaces and an auxiliary control room, then stopped at an electrical chamber just beyond. Motioning the others to wait, he stepped inside. Marshall watched as he opened an electrical panel, twisted a series of heavy fuses into place, then closed it and threw a fail-safe switch. He grunted his satisfaction, stepped back out into the corridor.
“The north wing should have juice now,” he said.
They passed a series of smaller rooms, then turned right at an intersection. Ahead the passageway ended, barred by a heavy hatch, dogged and padlocked. Marshall glanced a little uneasily at the unlit red bulb above it, at the warning sign that barred all save those with the proper clearance.
Gonzalez glanced back at Phillips. “You guard our six while I try to get this open.”
As Marshall watched, the sergeant opened the heavy dogs with the monkey wrench, one at a time, the cleats squealing in protest after half a century of disuse. After freeing the last cleat, Gonzalez pulled a huge key ring from one pocket. It took half a dozen attempts to find the correct key. Lock open, Gonzalez grasped the circular hasp and pulled the hatch toward him. It opened with a low pop. Powdered rubber rained down from the nearly mummified gasket, and stale air eddied outward, freighted with a desiccated mustiness.
Beyond lay utter blackness. “It’s like looking into King Tut’s tomb,” Logan muttered. Marshall knew what he meant: nobody had so much as looked through this hatch in fifty years.
Gonzalez felt around the inside wall and snapped on a switch. There was another series of pops as some of the overhead bulbs failed. But enough lights still worked to illuminate a narrow metal hallway, receding back into dim space. They all stepped through and Gonzalez shut and dogged the hatch behind them.
“Looks like a pretty secure redoubt to me,” Sully said, nodding at the heavy hatch with approval.
Gonzalez shook his head. “That thing got past us once before—I still don’t know how. And this wing has ventilation ducts and service ports, just like the others.”
They moved slowly down the corridor toward the first set of open doors. To Marshall, the air tasted of dust, overlaid with a coppery, metallic tang.
Gonzalez stopped at the nearest doorway, flashed his light inside. The beam revealed two wooden desks with old-fashioned manual typewriters: a forward office of some kind. A half-written memo was still visible in one of the typewriters, the yellowed paper curled around the platen. Gonzalez withdrew the light and they moved along to the next doorway. He glanced inside and Marshall heard him catch his breath sharply.
Marshall stepped up for a look. A vast storm of some dried dark liquid covered the floor and arced over banks of what appeared to be electrical equipment in wild trajectories. In one corner stood a coupling apparatus, burned and half fused.
“The electrical room,” said Usuguk in a monotone.
“They didn’t even bother to clean up the bloodstains,” said Sully.
The sergeant snapped off his light. “Can you blame them?”
They continued down the narrow corridor, turning on lights as they went. There were labs full of oscilloscopes and black, boxlike devices, some on tables and in racks, others still in their wooden crates.
“This must be the sound equipment,” murmured Faraday.
They stopped at a control room of some sort, with a mixing console and a variety of amplifiers. Gonzalez’s flashlight revealed that the far wall was of glass, overlooking a small soundproofed studio.
Beyond, corridors led off to the left and right, and past this intersection the central hallway ended in another heavy hatch. Gonzalez opened it, shone his flashlight within, and snorted in surprise. He snapped on the light. Marshall followed the others in—then immediately stopped.
They were standing on a narrow walkway—a catwalk, really—that spanned the center of a large, circular room. At the far end of the span was a landing, perhaps ten feet
by ten, enclosed by glass walls. The entire inner surface of the sphere was covered in a dark-colored knobby padding. Here and there, small spikes projected in from the walls.
“My goodness,” breathed Faraday. “It is an echo chamber. No doubt to be used for testing the sonar device.”
“If they’d gotten that far,” replied Sully.
“True. I suppose the experiments were conducted elsewhere once this place was sealed up.”
Logan leaned in toward Marshall. “Only one exit.”
Marshall glanced around. “That’s right.”
“Echo chamber. Is that what it looks like to you?”
“Yes.” Marshall turned to look at the historian. “Why. You don’t think so?”
Logan paused. “Actually, no. It looks more like Custer’s Last Stand to me.”
48
Very slowly, the thing resolved out of the blackness. Striped shadows flexed to the motion of muscled flanks. Ekberg stared in horror as—creeping inch by inch into the half-light, like a swimmer emerging from a dark pool—outrageous and terrible details gained form. The huge, shovel-shaped head, covered with short black hair, coarse and glistening. The overhung upper jaw, fronted by an array of huge fangs and flanked by two tusks, behind which—horribly—hung hundreds of narrow, razor-sharp tendrils, like the vibrissae of a walrus. The wide mandible, small and set back by comparison yet anchored to the skull by a massive hinge of bone. And—most shocking because she had seen them before, at least a lifetime before, encased in ice—the unblinking eyes that stared back at them with a mixture of lust and malice.
“Christ,” Conti murmured beside her. “Christ. It’s magnificent.” Slowly—very slowly—he aimed the camera, armed the Record button, and began to film.
Wolff was standing right behind him. He began to raise his gun, but he was shaking so badly Ekberg could hear his teeth rattling. “Emilio,” he said in a strangled voice. “For the love of God—”