Читать книгу Book II: The Revelations (The Fallen Race Trilogy) - Colin Patrick Garvey - Страница 6

Tamawaca, Michigan

Private Anderson leans against the railing of the balcony on the third story of the Easy Does It and sharply inhales from a Parliament cigarette. He slowly exhales and leans his head back so he is staring into the heavens, thinking about Rushmore and whether the poor bastard is still alive.

He and Rushmore became quite close after both of them started working together at Evans at virtually the same time. They had worked many of the same shifts, and afterwards one of them could usually talk the other into blowing off some steam or unwinding at a local watering hole. Inevitably, after both of them were severely over-served, their life stories were exchanged, along with the many political arguments, philosophical discussions, and other frank talk enlisted men tend to share with someone of the same rank. Anderson and Rushmore became fast friends, had met each other’s girlfriends, and generally hung out during their down time when they were not on duty at Evans.

The image of his friend being carried out of the bar in Chicago like a stumbling drunk is frozen in his mind, to be replayed over and over again, as if someone is constantly hitting the “rewind” button in his brain. Rushmore must have known he was being watched and decided that the best course of action to protect the evidence was to pass it off. Anderson admires how incredibly courageous his friend acted and now, he wonders whether Rushmore sacrificed his life in order to keep the disc’s contents from falling into the wrong hands.

This last thought lingers in his mind as he closes his eyes, allowing a slight breeze from the lake to wash over him, taking a momentary pleasure in its coolness. Anderson leans his head back when suddenly, he hears a faint sound coming from the balcony of the cottage next to him. In Tamawaca, the cottages were built practically on top of each other, and the local joke is that if you need to borrow anything from your neighbor, just reach in through the window.

Anderson hears the sound again, like a burst of air escaping a tire. He stares across at the neighboring balcony, his eyes trying to penetrate the gloom of the cottage. He leans slightly over the railing, intent on determining the origins of the sound.

As he peers over, suddenly a face comes into view and whispers, “Over here.”

Anderson is so startled by the sudden appearance of the face that he nearly topples over the railing. The man was cloaked in the shadows before deciding to reveal himself, scaring the bejesus out of Anderson. The man, startled himself by Anderson’s reaction, returns to the shadows, with only a sliver of his face visible.

Anderson notes that the man’s face is rather plain, and he is practically bald except for small patches of hair on either side of his head. He possesses a look of a man tense with anxiety, paranoia even, as his head darts around, looking for other signs of life.

“Who the hell are you?” Anderson calls out.

The man motions with a finger to his mouth and whispers, probably louder than he wants to, “Shhhhhh.”

Anderson continues staring at the man, thinking what an unusual situation this seems to be. They appear to be the only two people around and yet the man is looking around as if there are demons huddled in the shadows around them, listening and watching.

Not wanting to spook the man any further, Anderson says very softly, “What are you doing up here?”

The man’s eyes finally come to rest on Anderson. He motions for Anderson to come over to the balcony he is standing on.

Anderson looks at the roof as it slopes down from the balcony about six to seven feet, whereupon the adjoining cottage’s balcony is a short jump across a void between the two houses. Although the gap is minimal, Anderson does not like entertaining the idea of leaping across no man’s land and coming up short. He looks at the man, intending to express his displeasure with the situation when the man, sensing his reluctance, pleads with him.

“Please . . . there is no other way,” the man says.

The man’s statement is odd, but Anderson senses an urgency to his voice, a tone of desperation even. He looks at the man and nods his head, catching a glimmer of relief in the man’s eyes.

He hoists a leg over the railing, gripping it with both hands, and pulls the other leg over. He maintains a hold of the railing as he looks over and measures the distance from where he is to the railing on the other balcony. He does a quick calculation in his head where his “launching point” will be, and briefly wonders why in the world he is doing this.

Anderson lets go of the railing and scampers down the roof. He jumps as far as he can, easily clearing the gap between the cottages. Unfortunately though, he lands with his midsection squarely on the railing of the neighboring balcony, his legs dangling over the sides. The blow nearly takes the wind out of him, and he loses his grip for a moment. Then, from out of the shadows, Anderson’s new friend grips his arms and pulls him up. Anderson is surprised at how strong the man is despite such a slight frame. The man seems to lift Anderson like he is nothing more than a paperweight.

Anderson drags himself over the railing and onto the balcony. He brushes himself off and finally, he looks at the mystery man who has beckoned him over.

“My name is Nitchie, Dr. Warren Nitchie,” extending his hand towards Anderson.

“Private James Anderson,” Anderson replies, tentatively shaking the other man’s hand.

Anderson continues to stare at Dr. Nitchie, waiting for an explanation. “Okay, Dr. Nitchie, what’s with the cloak-and-dagger stuff?” he asks.

“Private Anderson-”

“You can call me Jimmy,” Anderson interrupts.

As if he did not even hear him, Nitchie continues, “Private Anderson, there is something very bad going on here.”

The statement is delivered with the gravest of tones, and it chills Anderson’s blood to hear it.

“What do you mean?” Anderson asks.

“Well,” Nitchie starts, “I do not know if you are aware, but I am a new member of the team in charge of the evidence-gathering at the scene and the investigation into what occurred here.”

Dr. Nitchie stops and waits for Anderson to acknowledge this in some way, but the latter simply shakes his head no.

The doctor continues, “Well, so far, I have been assigned a number of what I would deem ‘tedious’ responsibilities to conduct. Mostly trivial tasks . . tasks that seemed to me, well, somewhat . . superfluous.”

“Superfluous?”

“Yes, superfluous,” Nitchie explains. “You know . . like unnecessary, redundant.”

“Gotcha,” Anderson nods.

Nitchie looks hesitant for a moment before continuing, “I suppose that might be expected given the fact I replaced a member who had fallen ill and was unable to join her other team members in the investigation. So I guess you could call me the new guy on the team, but, well . . um, I feel-”

“What is it, Doctor?” Anderson prods.

Anderson detects a note of embarrassment in the man’s voice as he explains, “I feel I’m being underutilized. I mean, I have a PhD in forensic pathology, in addition to a PhD in-”

Anderson cannot restrain himself, “You’re a modest fellow, huh?”

Dr. Nitchie sighs, not one to boast of his academic accolades, but he certainly can recognize sarcasm when he hears it.

“I’m sorry, Private Anderson, I don’t mean to sound so conceited, but-”

“That’s okay, Doc,” Anderson interrupts, knowing the doctor was not trying to be boastful or arrogant. “I was just needling you a bit.”

Nitchie emits a brief chortle, but it sounds more like a pig snort. “Yes, I know, Private Anderson, I’m just trying to explain myself.”

Anderson continues to eye the doctor, but he says nothing. His suspicion of the doctor has lessened since being spooked by him in the shadows, but Anderson still does not know what to make of him.

Likewise, the doctor gazes at Anderson expectantly.

“May I ask who is in charge of the investigation at the site?” Nitchie inquires.

“Well, as far as I know,” Anderson responds, “that would be General Cozey, on orders from the President himself.”

The air seems to go out of Dr. Nitchie and once again, the paranoia begins to dance wildly in the doctor’s eyes.

“That is what I thought,” the doctor says in a rather resigned voice. “But . . you arrived here with General Parker, right? He is one of the highest-ranking military officers in the country, is he not?” he asks hopefully.

“He is,” Anderson confirms, “and he is overseeing the investigation of the entire attack. General Cozey is in charge of the on-site investigation, and of course he answers to General Parker, but it is still General Cozey’s show around here.”

Again, the doctor’s shoulders seem to slump forward and he appears extremely disheartened. Anderson finally grows tired of beating around the bushes.

“Dr. Nitchie,” he says sternly, “I don’t have a lot of time to keep playing twenty questions. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

The doctor’s voice lowers to a whisper, but the urgency in his tone cannot be mistaken. “General Cozey’s assistants, I overheard them talking. It seems that Waterston, the head of our team, was supposed to debrief General Parker some time ago, but he’s been . . indisposed. They mentioned delaying him from speaking with Parker as long as possible. Well, I think I might know why.”

“And why’s that, Doc?” Anderson plays along.

The doctor hesitates, and then continues, “Because nothing is what it appears to be here, Private Anderson.”

Frustrated by the cryptic conversation and roundabout question-and-answer with the doctor, Anderson loudly blurts out, “Give me something to work with here, Doc.”

The doctor shushes him again, looks around warily, and then turns back towards Anderson.

“Since I arrived here,” he explains, “I have been virtually ignored by the rest of the team, been told nothing, have not even spoken to Dr. Waterston, and been given responsibilities an intern could do.

“I have seen other members of the team working, but not really working. They analyze something, then they fail to record what they have observed. Pieces of evidence are scattered around, nothing seems to be labeled or catalogued properly, and I even witnessed one colleague drop an item from the site on the floor of the lab and leave it there. There is something very wrong here, Private Anderson, and I am not entirely sure what.”

“Well,” Anderson suggests, “maybe these guys are getting tired, even a little sloppy. Maybe they feel a little under the gun, like we all do, and are just trying to do their jobs as fast as they can. It does not mean there is anything wrong, Doc.”

Nitchie looks at him skeptically and firmly states, “Every member of a CST or SRU team knows proper protocol and procedures when it comes to evidence-gathering and processing. What I witnessed was bungling and carelessness of the highest order.

“Now, I do not know for certain what is going on here, but I do know that General Cozey’s aides-”

“Bason and Stringer,” Anderson offers.

“Right, Bason and Stringer,” Nitchie confirms. “They appear to be thick as thieves, and they are not allowing information to reach General Parker or anyone else for that matter. Not that the information would be all that accurate.”

“What do you mean?” Anderson asks, his curiosity piqued.

Nitchie looks at Anderson before asking his own question, “Did you hear that an unusual type of radiation was found at the site?”

Anderson nods, “Yeah, I heard Augie, um, Lieutenant Colonel Hermann, talking to General Parker about it on the plane ride over here. Something about a form of unknown radiation not found on Earth.”

Nitchie nods as the conversation veers into more familiar territory for him. “Something like that, Private Anderson. And they’re even lucky they received that piece of information. I overheard Bason and Stringer saying that an administrative assistant inadvertently scanned this information to someone at the Pentagon, who passed it on to the President and some of his closest advisers, as well as General Parker and Lieutenant Colonel Hermann. Apparently, the admin acted on her own, without direct orders from her superior. In any case, I heard the phrase, ‘damage control,’ and how they could allow nothing else to get through.”

“But the radiation thing is true?” Anderson asks.

“Yes and no. How familiar are you with extraterrestrial solar radiation?”

Anderson shoots the doctor a wry grin, “Doctor, my education stopped at the twelfth grade.”

“Well,” the doctor continues without missing a beat, “don’t think about little green men or anything like that quite yet. Extraterrestrial solar radiation is simply the solar radiation outside of Earth’s atmosphere.”

“So this radiation never comes through our atmosphere?” Anderson asks.

Nitchie shakes his head, “No, it does. There are many different factors that affect the intensity of this radiation on a given day, particularly as it relates to the distance our planet is from the sun. This radiation is scattered throughout the atmosphere, but as I said, it depends on a variety of factors, including absorption by water vapor, ozone and carbon dioxide, as well as cloudiness, longitude and latitude, altitude, and-”

“Make a long story short, Doc,” Anderson says impatiently.

“Right. Well, the amount that reaches the earth’s surface tends to be very minimal, nothing that should cause severe harm to humans, and certainly not enough to cause radiation burns on a home.”

“This extraterrestrial radiation was found on a cottage here?” Anderson asks, disbelief creeping into his voice.

“Well, first, Private Anderson,” Nitchie clarifies, “this radiation has not been confirmed to be extraterrestrial, but it definitely possesses some of the same characteristics, and it does not appear to be from any type of man-made object. And second, cottages, Private Anderson. This radiation was discovered on several homes that sit on the beachfront.”

“So what could have caused these burns?” Anderson inquires.

“I don’t know the answer to that, but the intensity of the radiation burns lead me to believe it is something rarely found on this planet, if ever.”

There are a few moments of silence as the two men contemplate the significance of Nitchie’s statement.

Anderson breaks the silence with a question, “So this kind of radiation couldn’t have been from the bombs that were detonated here?”

Without answering, Nitchie reaches down towards his feet, and Anderson notices a small pouch the doctor is carrying with him. The doctor puts on a pair of plastic, disposable gloves, and then reaches in the pouch and pulls out a shiny, silver object that seems to reflect the moonlight.

Anderson moves in closer for a better look at the object when Nitchie raises his hand and, for the first time, speaks above a whisper, “That’s far enough, Private Anderson. I don’t know what effect this may have on humans.”

Doubly curious now, Anderson stays where he is but leans his head in as close to Nitchie as possible in order to study the object. There, cupped in the doctor’s hands, is a small fish, a trout, approximately eight inches long and three inches wide. The eyes are milky and lifeless, showing Anderson what he already knows simply by looking at it: the fish is dead. Anderson also notices running along the top of the fish’s body is a patchy, reddish mark. Once again, his curiosity gets the better of him and he reaches his hand out to feel the unusual mark.

“Please do not touch it, Private, I am not entirely sure what it is,” Nitchie warns.

Anderson quickly pulls his hand back as if he has touched a hot stove.

“This little guy,” Nitchie explains, “has the same radiation burns as the marks found on the cottages. But I don’t think it was what killed him.”

Anderson looks at the doctor, who seems to be enjoying the suspense of the moment.

Nitchie continues, “I did a rather cursory autopsy on it and found that it actually drowned. There appeared to be significant damage to the fish’s gills and it appeared unable to take in oxygen through the water.”

“So,” Anderson wonders, “what happened?”

Nitchie ponders the question for a moment before responding, “Perhaps the radiation was responsible for damaging the gills. Or maybe the radiation caused a momentary paralyzing effect, rendering the fish unable to swim. It’s possible the radiation caused a temporary blindness, or somehow the fish’s equilibrium was disturbed when it came in contact with this radiation. Perhaps the radiation itself somehow depleted oxygen from the water-”

“Alright, Doc, my head’s starting to spin,” Anderson interrupts. “How did you get a hold of this thing?”

“I swiped it from the lab when no one was looking,” Nitchie sheepishly admits.

Anderson gives the doctor a surprised look.

“I know I probably shouldn’t have,” Nitchie explains, “but, well, there was a whole bin full of them, and no one appeared really interested in analyzing them.”

“A whole bin of them?” Anderson asks.

“Yes,” Nitchie confirms, “apparently a large number of them were found washed up on shore. But again, no one appeared too interested in looking at them, so I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“I don’t get it, Doc,” Anderson admits. “If there was a whole bunch of these dead fish, and they all contained the same radiation burns, the blast radius must have been huge to affect all these fish-”

Anderson notices Nitchie staring at him with an ace-up-his-sleeve look and he stops in mid-sentence. “What is it?” he asks the doctor.

“You’re on the right track, Private Anderson,” Nitchie indicates. “I’ve got something else I need to show you.”

Nitchie leans down again and rummages inside the pouch for a moment before finding what he is looking for, bringing the object up for inspection under the moonlight. Anderson leans in closer, attempting to discern what Nitchie is holding, which appears to be wrapped in a solid, plastic container. Suddenly, Anderson realizes he is staring at a human arm, separated from the torso directly below the shoulder.

“Jesus Christ,” Anderson breathes.

He instinctively steps back in disgust, while at the same time he cannot look away from it. He brings his hand up to the container and instantly feels a ripple of cold radiate from it. He glances at Nitchie, who explains, “I put it on ice, to preserve it.”

“For what? You running away with it?” Anderson asks jokingly.

“I may have to,” Nitchie deadpans.

“Why?”

Without missing a beat, Nitchie earnestly says, “This is evidence, Private Anderson. Evidence that whatever these people,” he motions towards the lab constructed below, “have told General Parker or General Cozey or the press simply is not the truth. In fact, it’s pure and utter bullshit.”

It sounds funny to hear the straight-laced doctor cuss, but Anderson refrains from laughing.

“No radiation marks anywhere,” Nitchie explains as he turns the container over and over. “You see? No burns similar to our fish. That’s one thing. Second, look at the edges of the wound where supposedly the arm was ripped from the torso.”

Anderson leans in for a closer look, “Yeah, so?”

“If this arm was part of a body that was involved in an explosion from several bombs that were detonated here, as they claim, then the edges would be much more ragged, much more uneven. Look at the edges here,” the doctor notes, pointing with his index finger along the edges of the wound, “it’s practically even all around, almost like a perfect separation, a perfect slice if you will.”

“What are you getting at, Doc?” Anderson asks, the paranoia starting to take root in him, too.

“And third,” the doctor continues, “the heat and pressure from a bomb instantly cauterizes the flesh, creating a solid-like coat across the surface of the wound.”

Again, Nitchie points to the edges of the wound. “I see no evidence of cauterization here, and in fact, no marks whatsoever that would indicate this arm, and the body that was attached to it, met with a violent end, let alone that it came from a victim at this site.”

“So where did it come from?” Anderson wonders.

Nitchie sighs, a hint of despair in his voice, “I don’t know, Private Anderson, but if I had to guess, it looks like it came from a medical school cadaver.”

At first, Anderson thinks Nitchie is trying his hand at some morbid humor, but when he looks at the man’s face, he realizes he is serious as a heart attack.

“I stole a quick look in a few of the other bodybags they had stored in the morgue, and all the . . . ‘parts’ I saw were similar to this extremity: no radiation marks, no rough edges, no cauterization. They looked like they were all parts from bodies donated to . . science.”

Nitchie says this last word with a touch of regret, like he is ashamed to be associated with the scientific community at a time like this. Or maybe he finally realizes the magnitude and scope of what he is saying.

Anderson motions to the arm, “So if this isn’t from a victim of the attack, what happened to the real victims? Where are they?”

“Private Anderson, I don’t know where they are,” Nitchie acknowledges, “but I think the people I’m working with know something everybody else doesn’t. What I do know is you need to question everything you’ve been told with respect to what occurred here. Everything is suspect, and the first question you should ask is whether there was even an attack here last night.”

“Doc,” Anderson asks incredulously, “are you telling me that this is some kind of a hoax? Why go to the trouble of using bogus body parts if no one is going to see them?”

“The bodybags, Private Anderson,” Nitchie counters. “I’m sure ‘they’ did not plan on someone who is not even supposed to be here, someone like me, to start sifting through the bodybags looking for confirmation of what happened here. Those bodybags, though, regardless of what they contain, leave a powerful and lasting impression when those images are beamed around the world. Nobody questions what they contain because everybody knows what a bodybag is for. The nation only questions what is being done to find the people responsible.”

While Anderson remains hesitant to believe Nitchie, he has to admit the man does not fail to examine all the angles. Nevertheless, Anderson may be skeptical of the doctor because of the startling implications he, along with the rest of the world, would be forced to face if the doctor is telling the truth. Indeed, it is the doctor’s inferences that frighten Anderson the most. He shudders to think that the alleged attack was not an attack at all, but something else entirely, and he wonders what other things are not what they seem here.

Finally, Nitchie seems to realize he has been missing for too long and he urgently says, “Alright, Private, I need to get back before someone misses me, which is unlikely considering how much mind they’ve paid me so far, but no sense in setting off any alarms. I need you to explain to General Parker as soon as you can everything that I have told you. Tell him about the lackadaisical procedures, tell him about Bason and Stringer pulling the strings, tell him about the radiation, and for God’s sake, have him examine the bodybags before they ship them out of here for good. And tell him that nothing-”

“-is what it seems,” Anderson finishes. “Yeah, I know, I’ll tell him.”

The doctor appears to flash Anderson what would probably be called a smile, if it did not look so awkward on his face.

“Right,” Nitchie confirms.

He replaces the extremity in the pouch and slings the pouch over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Private Anderson,” Nitchie says, extending his hand.

Anderson hesitates for a moment, still wary of the doctor and looking rather shell-shocked.

“Thank you, Doc,” Anderson replies, grasping his hand, “I think.”

Nitchie turns and walks away when Anderson calls to him in a hushed whisper, “Hey, good luck, Doc. Come get me if you get caught in a jam.”

The doctor turns around and looks at him with an appreciative eye. Anderson adds, “You know where to find me.”

Nitchie nods and then disappears into the darkness of the cottage.

Sergeant Jon Kaley feels his body jostled around, but it seems to be a controlled jostle, like he is strapped in tightly to a moving car, with frequent and gradual turns. Still, he does not particularly enjoy the disconcerting and nausea-inducing feeling, and he attempts to open his eyes in order to rectify the situation.

He sees a flash of bright lights, but his eyes are too sensitive and they involuntarily close. The brief glance allowed him to see he is lying prone in what appears to be a hospital gurney, his arms and legs seemingly immobile. He feels a pair of warm tears escape his eyes and roll down the side of his face until they disappear into his hair. He tries to open his eyes once more, but again, they reflexively shut before he can focus on where he is and assess his surroundings.

Suddenly, he feels like he is on an angle, and indeed, he seems to be traveling up an incline. He hears an engine rumble to life and what he thinks is the sound of propeller blades batting at the air.

Am I being loaded onto a plane? A helicopter?

Then he hears a voice, one that sounds familiar to him. The voice is gruff, terse, someone he knows from the military. It is a voice that does not conjure pleasant memories. After this voice, he hears another distinct voice, one he definitely recognizes. Kaley is unable to comprehend what the voice is saying at first, but suddenly the man is right in his ear.

With a sinking feeling, he hears the voice of his commanding officer, Colonel Malcolm Fizer, whispering, “You should have listened to me in the beginning, Sergeant Kaley. Now you’ll see.”

A few moments later, Kaley hears several clicking noises, and his arms and legs suddenly do not feel restrained. It is only temporary, however, as his hands are clasped together in front of him and a set of handcuffs are placed on them. He is roughly tossed into a seat and feels a slight prick in his shoulder. Next, he hears the whine of the engines, and the plane suddenly accelerates and lifts into the air in a matter of seconds.

As the plane ascends, he begins to drift back into unconsciousness, but before he is fully immersed in it, his final thought is a melancholic one, full of despair and hopelessness: he feels like the loneliest person in the world, with no one who knows where he is and no one coming to help him. Little does he know there is someone on his side, and she remains determined, albeit slightly cramped, only a few feet below him.