The Void (14 page)

Embry picked up Morgan and his backpack and made his way to the emergency exit in the back of the gymnasium. It was adjoined to the locker area. He tore one backward glance over his shoulder and saw the two double steel front doors blast inward, ripping from their hinges, as the thirty people who had crowded around to escape, blew up with it. The third shell landed on target, wiping human flesh into buckets of blood, tissue, and bone fragments in an abstract splatter.

The entire gym started to reek of burnt flesh and was deluged with blood. Hands and missing feet, limbs and torsos appeared all over the court like small islands. Heads still attached to their neuron motors, opened and closed their mouths like stranded fish.

The tank burst through the wall. It twirled its turret, demolishing the basketball hoop like a twig, and aimed straight ahead for the locker doors. Dust particles billowed outward as if in a sandstorm.

“Watch out!” Morgan said, ducking his head.

“Holy shit,” Embry shouted, as he dived behind the benches. Behind him, another explosion blew the doorway, twisting it apart as fiery flames belched out smoke and gathered plumes of grit and dust. They were almost annihilated, holy God, cooked to ashes.

They heard a little girl cackle from the hull’s inside. And then, a discordant voice surfaced, moaning the name:
Isisss… Isssissssss…

She pushed the fire button, but there were no ammunitions left.

Lucky liars… pants on fire…
Tina Singh sang over a whisper. She smiled a shark’s grin. She opened the hatch and placed an arachnid leg outside.

“It’s here!” Morgan yelled. “Remember, don’t be afraid.”

Tina levitated, using her massive chelicerae legs as crutches, propping herself up.

She towered over Embry and Morgan and sidled down from her queenly precipice.

VIII

The bullets flew past Tina. They didn’t penetrate her body. They went past her, like shooting through a mist of fog, feeding her dark mass—feeding her energy.

It was done already. She didn’t need any more of this army scum shooting at her with brass pellets. She got what she was looking for.

Morgan Brewster.

News reporters scrambled to be the first on scene. The following chain of events occurred in minutes. First, a mob had been quelled at the site of the first sinkhole. Precise causalities were not known, but many had been killed.

Second, the hospital, where the wounded were taken, was long gone. It had been swallowed up by a second sinkhole. Geologists couldn’t understand where and how these anomalies were forming.

Third, the President of the United States had canceled a meeting with Chinese leaders over the recent attack on Maple Street and would convene a photo op near the sinkhole site, expressing his condolences.

Fourth, a group of conjurers and sorcerers began to call for apocalyptic sacrifice to appease the gods since the hole signified something spiritual and or religious offering. Satanists and Pagans all came out of the woodwork. Protestants and Catholics all portended the hole was the coming Judgment, the end of the world as we know it.

It was quite close. Fear jumped lines and raced through electric cables and lines, promoting fear into the lives of the households watching television near the concentric area of Maple Street. Fear was an entity in itself, creating a soupy dark blankness for the beasts and horrible monsters to etch their faces in the white slate. The fears propelled them to grow stronger, wiser, and even harder so that they traversed the eons through the vacuum to cross the other side—our side—the physical realm.

II

The President ordered the bodies to be tossed down the sinkhole. The National Guard and the federal agents scooped up dead students and soldiers and poured them into the dark. The idea was to pretend something other than the government had caused the carnage on Maple Street.

He would blame the Middle Eastern country or China for creating the hole. It was a good idea. And he would slowly put it into action.

As the soldiers swept the blood-soaked street and hosed down the butchery, something fell from the sky. It was the deceased head of the soldier’s partner. More heads began to fall. It was raining decapitated heads of those killed during the mob melee.

The heads of men, women, and children fell from the sky.

III

“It’s time to go, Morgan,” the thing that used to be Tina said, its voice distorted and deep. It smiled a horrific rictus which, despite the intense heat, made goose bumps prickle up on Embry’s arms.

“Morgan, run. Get out of here,” Embry screamed, staring wild-eyed at the spider-legged Tina.

“No,” Morgan countered, standing up straight and showing no fear. “It can’t hurt us if we’re not afraid.”

The Tina thing laughed, a wet, rasping sound which made Embry grit his teeth and cover his ears.

“I don’t need your fear, Morgan, there’s more than enough here to go around.”

Embry watched where he cowered, quite unable to believe what he was seeing. Morgan stepped over debris. Wood, pulverized concrete and even sloppy, charred fleshy chunks of what used to be people, and stood tall in front of the towering Tina.

“Don’t hurt anyone else,” Morgan said, barely audible above the crackle of fire and the moans of the dead and dying.

“You know what I came here for,” Tina said, holding out a gnarled hand. “It’s time to go.”

“Morgan, no!” Embry snapped, lurching to his feet and charging towards Tina.

It took only a flick of her head in Embry’s direction to throw him through the air, sending him crashing into a mangled mass of smoldering debris.

“Please, don’t hurt him!” Morgan shrieked.

Tina smiled, her jagged teeth slick with saliva.

“Then you know what you have to do,” she said, flicking her eyes to her extended hand.

Morgan looked around at the destruction. Fire. Smoke. The dead and dying. Embry semi-conscious in the rubble. Fear tried to grasp him, but he forced it aside and looked Tina in the eye.

“I’m ready,” he said, reaching out to take her hand.

“Wait,” she hissed, turning her head to look over her shoulder. “Get down.”

Morgan did as he was told. Seconds later, the sound of army boots on rubble echoed through the building. Weapons were loaded, instructions given.

She could smell the fear on them.

Twenty of them came out of the smoke, weapons trained on her. She turned towards them, ignoring their instructions to give herself up. Extending on her thick spider legs to full height, she offered a wet, cracked smile which stretched much further across her face than should be humanly possible. Horrified fingers poised over triggers, and for a moment there was silence, then the thing that used to be Tina skittered forwards, and the air was filled with the deafening sounds of gunfire and screaming.

IV

As per protocol in a national security threat, President Evans had been moved to the underground bunker deep beneath the white house. The situation room was a hive of activity and noise as his staff processed reports coming in from the situation on Maple Street and tried to figure out what to do.

“Why isn’t this situation contained?” Evans asked, locking eyes with his chief of staff.

“Sir, it’s not that simple. Something is going on out there, and to be honest, some of the reports are quite hard to take seriously.”

“I take everything seriously when it comes to our country being under attack.”

“I appreciate that, sir, but people are saying it’s been raining human heads out there.”

That particular comment was enough to bring the meeting table to silence as all eyes fell on the president. Evans paced and rubbed his temples, hoping to delay the migraine which was lingering behind his eyes.

“Everybody out,” he said, running a hand through his wispy white hair.

The staff around the situation room table stared at him.

“I said everybody out!” he bellowed, slamming his fist on the elongated oak desk.

His staff obeyed, abandoning the reams of documents and maps that littered the giant desk.

“Not you, Jim,” the president said, placing a hand on his chief of staff’s shoulder as he also stood to leave.

Everyone else filed out of the meeting room and closed the door, leaving the two men alone. The president sat down hard, rubbing his temples with his fingertips.

“What do I do, Jim?” he sighed.

“Well, Mr. President, I—”

“Cut the Mr. President crap. I’m asking you as a friend. What the hell am I supposed to do here? What do we know?”

“I wish I could tell you, but the fact is whatever is happening on Maple Street is dark. All we know for sure is that there are a lot of fatalities and whatever it is, it’s spreading.”

“Why can’t we get eyes down there? What about a drone?”

“We tried, but that damn hole is giving out some kind of interference. We’re completely dark down there.”

“Then send more men in, Jesus Christ. It can’t be that hard to get eyes on the situation.”

“We tried that. We can send them in fine, but then we don’t hear from them again. There are a lot of people hurt and confused down there. Not just our guys, but civilians.”

“What happened to our intelligence networks? Why weren’t we prepared for this attack?”

“I’m not convinced that this is a terrorist attack anymore.”

“Bullshit it isn’t. We had confirmed reports that Singh was there right around the time this thing went off. Whatever is going on down there you can bet he and his people had something to do with it.”

“Francis, please…”

“No, Jim. I won’t let this situation get out of control. Not with the elections just around the corner.”

“Elections? We’re dealing with a national crisis here, elections shouldn’t matter,” Roberts spat, glaring at the frail and tired looking president.

“Then give me something, anything. A course of action. A plan.”

“We’re recalling troops to their respective bases in the area, and drafting in everyone we can. All major cities have been put on high alert, but frankly we’re understaffed.”

“Then recall everyone,” the president said.

“We already have, everyone who was on leave has been recalled–”

“No, I mean everyone. Start pulling troops out of Afghanistan if you have to. We can’t be seen to be weak and have these people attacking us on our own soil.”

“Until we know what we’re dealing with, we could be sending them to their slaughter.”

“We are dealing with men. People. Terrorists. Nothing more, nothing less. Don’t give them the satisfaction of making them out to be more than they are.”

“Francis, please, listen to me. This is a mistake. Look at how many we’ve already sent in? Look how many we’ve already lost.”

“We need to keep a lid on this. If the voters-”

“Damn it, Francis, forget the vote!” Jim said, slamming his fist on the desk. “This thing is out there, it can’t be contained. The world knows about it and people are asking questions. Any hope of sweeping this under the carpet is long gone. We need to act, but sending more men blindly into the fray won’t help anyone...sir.”

The president leaned on the table on his elbows and put his head in his hands. For a while, neither of them spoke. Then President Evans stood and strode to the door and beckoned the secretary of defense into the meeting room and closed the door.

Jim felt an uneasy stirring in his gut. At sixty-two years old, secretary of defense, Phil Bradshaw was cut from the same cloth as the president, and like the commander in chief was old and trying to cling on to his position way past his better days.

“Come in and sit down Phil,” the president said, pointing to a vacant seat. The wispy-haired old man obliged.

“As you know, things are escalating here. If we don’t find a way to contain this situation, who knows what the consequences could be. I want to know what other options we have here.”

“We could mobilize a ground-based assault. Get some armor down there,” Bradshaw said.

“No, no good. We already sent in some ground units and we lost contact,” Evans said, flicking his eyes to Jim and then back to the secretary of defense. “Give me some other options.”

“Frankly, Mr. President, that’s all we have right now. Until we can gather more intel, we’re flying blind here.”

Jim just about managed to suppress his smile. The barrage that he had been waiting for hadn’t come, and it seemed the secretary of defense, as old and past it as he was at least had enough sense to not want to have men killed needlessly.

“Okay,” the president said, pursing his lips as he looked at the two men in turn. “What about nuclear options?”

“Sir, I would advise any talk of nuclear action to be an absolute last resort. Until we know that we cannot contain this, then I would be hesitant to suggest it.”

For the second time in quick succession, Jim was surprised by the rational thinking of the secretary of defense. He decided he ought to weigh in and help if he wanted to avoid a potential disaster.

“Frankly, sir, I agree,” Jim said. “Nuclear action seems to be overkill. Like trying to kill a mouse with a bazooka.”

“I don’t need to remind you both that we’re under attack here,” the president said, his mouth narrowing into a thin pencil line sneer. “They’ve attacked us on our own soil.”

“They?” Jim cut it, his anger taking over his mouth. “We don’t know if there even is a ‘they’. We don’t know anything, and that’s the point.”

“The point is that we are under attack on our own soil, and be it from terrorists or whatever the hell else is out there, that sinkhole is the epicenter. My job is to protect this country, no matter the cost.”

“I understand that,” Jim countered, “but dropping a nuclear bomb on our own soil isn’t the answer no matter how you try to swing it.”

“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under. Do you have any idea how it will look if I do nothing and another hole opens? What if one opens outside your house, Jim? Would you be so keen for me to do nothing then?”

“Sir,” the secretary of defense cut in, “Nuclear action would result in a death toll in the thousands. Not to mention the fallout which would make for an uninhabitable zone for at least the next twenty years. We would have another Chernobyl on our hands.”

“I understand that people might die,” Evans shot back, “but people are already dead. And even though it might mean causing more collateral damage to fix this, sometimes tough decisions have to be made.”

“Are you saying that you want me to put a nuclear scenario into action, sir?” Bradshaw said, his eyes calm despite the fear that raged in his gut.

Evans didn’t answer. His migraine throbbed, his heart pounded and his throat was dry. It dawned on him that whatever he chose, the answer would be wrong. He looked at the secretary of defense, a man who he had regarded as a friend and a man who, now that there was a tough decision to be made was waiting and watching, knowing that whatever decision was to come wouldn’t reflect on him and that he would simply be following orders.

“Sir?” Bradshaw repeated.

“Give me options. Nothing else at this stage. I want scenarios. I also want realistic evacuation protocols put forward. Time is critical here, Phil.”