And Darkness Fell (17 page)

Just then, the door at the far end of the corridor banged open. The sound of heavy
footsteps bounced off the concrete walls. My pulse started racing. I wondered if
Death Row inmates experienced similar sensations of panic, isolation, and fear. I
wasn’t going to be taken to the gallows or the injection table, but I was certain the
lab held similar horrors. Also, being cloned then brought back here to die later on
would be just as terrifying.

The shadow in the hall became broader and more distinct as the footsteps
grew louder. My heart thundered and my limbs grew cold. I felt as if I’d just been
lowered into a vat of chilled mud. One of the TABs had come for me. His
expression would be stone-faced as he opened the cell door. He’d order me to
come with him. I’d have no choice.

So many military men had faced this horror while serving their country. They
had been captured by the enemy, taken to his camp, and tossed into his prison.
Occasionally, they were given meager scraps of food. They’d been taken from
their cell at various times of the day and night. The sessions sometimes lasted a
few minutes; other times hours on end. They’d been subjected to torture,
excruciating pain, and mind manipulation. When it finally ended, they were taken
back to their cells and strung up with hemp, fishing line, or barbed wire. They
were bruised, bleeding, and numb with pain and fear. Some bore it silently; others
whimpered like idiots. Our enemies knew how to play these games, and
thoroughly enjoyed them.

Of course, in this case, the enemy was a product of my own country. I wasn’t
trespassing on foreign soil, I was home. In America. The Land of the Free. Except
that America wasn’t America anymore, and those of us not yet dead were no
longer free.

The TAB stopped in front of my cell. Since they all looked the same, I
couldn’t tell if this was one of the two that had brought me here. It didn’t matter. I
cared only about the gun in his hand. It was the same automatic my ribs and gut
had grown to know so well during my recent tour of the facility.

The TAB reached out and applied his palm to the scanner. A loud click echoed
through my cell. He pulled the door open with his free hand and gestured with the
gun.

Play ball with them
.
The colonel’s warning registered strongly, but the soldier in me wanted to test
them to see how valuable I was to them. If they really needed me, they wouldn’t
kill me. Otherwise, I could die right here and save myself a lot of unnecessary
physical and emotional torment.
I remained on the cot.
The gun gestured.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Without a word, the TAB marched briskly into the cell and stopped about a
foot from my bed. Bending slightly at the waist, he grabbed my left arm just
above the elbow. It felt like my arm was trapped in a vise, but I didn’t have the
time to grit my teeth or grimace. In one smooth motion, I was yanked completely
off the cot.
The pressure on my arm increased dramatically. It was what you’d expect if a
horse suddenly bolted with your arm trapped in the stirrup. The force was
horrendous. Although I weighed nearly two hundred pounds, I was easily tossed
three feet in the air, before gravity slammed me to the concrete floor. I landed on
my side, the breath knocked out of me. I lay there, dazed, a cluster of bright stars
swimming past my vision. Unconsciousness beckoned, but I wasn’t allowed the
luxury of closing my eyes and surrendering to the darkness. I was grabbed by the
belt and lifted as if I were a light suitcase.
My right side tingled from my shoulder down to my toes. My neck hummed.
My hip buzzed hotly. The hard surface of the floor slapped the bottoms of my
shoes when the TAB set me back down, pressing the gun barrel into the small of
my back, urging me forward.
So much for testing them.
I now had a much clearer picture of what lay ahead. This country had fallen
into the hands of these vicious, superhuman freaks. It wouldn’t be long before
their growing army ventured out in their vans and calmly did away with what was
left of the population.
I had to find some way of defeating them.
My gut churned hotly as I staggered out of the cell.

Halfway down the hall, we stopped in front of CONFERENCE ROOM 1-A.
Like the other doors, this one had a scanner. The TAB waved his hand over the
blinking red dot, opened the door, and pushed me forward.

The room was small, smelling of coffee and a strange and unpleasant mix of
perfumes and colognes. Eight people sat at a long table, one at each end and three
on each side. Four males and four females, with everyone dressed in business
attire and seeming to be between forty and fifty years old. Colonel Forbes’s clone
was not in the room. He was probably in the lab, supervising experiments or
watching his toy soldiers capture victims on the streets.

Eight Styrofoam cups sat on the shiny table surface. Those not staring at me
were studying file folders. They occasionally sipped coffee. All of the males and
three of the females appeared normal, their eyes clear. The fourth woman sat
perfectly still, her eyelids half-closed and heavy. She was either falling asleep or
in the process of zoning out.

The TAB nudged me closer to them. Ignoring the stinging pain, I forced
myself to stand as smartly as possible. I didn’t want them to know I was hurting
or what had happened in my cell. If the TAB’s internal program was hooked up to
their databanks, they’d find out anyway. They might be tempted to clone me
immediately, rather than waste time studying me.

The man sitting at the head of the table was unmistakably career military. His
close-cropped silver hair ended at the base of his neck, in line with his earlobes.
His sideburns stopped at the tops of his ears. His clean-shaven cheeks revealed
smooth, pink flesh. His piercing blue eyes exuded authority.

He sat at attention, his palms down flat on the table, equidistant from the
opened folder in front of him. He was dressed impeccably in a light-blue
pinstripe suit. The Windsor knot of his maroon tie was perfect, as was his
starched collar. The white handkerchief poking out of his breast pocket formed a
sharp peak. I imagined his black dress shoes gleaming beneath the table.

Observations from my old Army days kicked in. In boot camp, I’d learned
how important it was for the right people to know your strengths. My perfect
scores on the rifle range had earned the respect of my DI’s. They had treated me
like royalty when I won a special shooting award for my unit. I garnered the
respect of my peers, as well as the Cadre commanding my survival training unit,
on my safe return one week after being dropped off in the middle of the Mojave
Desert, armed only with a hunting knife and one day’s ration of water in my
canteen. Likewise, I’d earned the respect of my company, as well as the entire
Brooklyn Police Force, during the Brighton Beach riots, when I’d saved the lives
of undercover narcotics officers and several hundred civilians by finding pipe
bombs and disarming clusters of C-4 explosives.

This would be no different from my military days. I was older, but the
situation had not changed. Once again, lives depended on me.
The silver-haired man sized me up. Those icy-blue eyes probed me, starting at
the tips of my shoes and stopping at my face.
The colonel’s halting words filled my head.
Play ball with them
.
Playing ball, to me, translated into something else, something I was much
more comfortable with, something I could do in my sleep.
Tell them what they want to hear
.
“Sergeant Alan P. Moss?”
His voice was forceful, sharp.
“Yes, sir?” Ignoring the pain in my side, I straightened to my full height.
Everyone glanced up from their folders. The man at the opposite end of the table
raised his head sharply. The silver-haired man blinked. He hadn’t expected
cooperation. He’d certainly read my file and seen that in spite of my fine record,
I’d received two formal reprimands, one of them issued by a field-grade officer.
I’d also received dozens of oral reprimands, several formal warnings, and I was
put on report half a dozen times. I knew better than to act too cooperative. It
would cause suspicion. But showing them reasonable respect was the intelligent
way to go. Second-level officers relished discipline. It made them feel superior.
They despised troublemakers but admired a turnaround, and they always took
credit whenever a hard case chose the right path.
“I am Brigadier General James Eldon,” the silver-haired man announced,
straightening even more in his seat and increasing his height by at least two
inches. He gave me another quick once-over and nodded. The rest of the table
watched passively.
“You look fairly fit, Moss.”
“I like to stay active, sir.”
“Most let themselves go very quickly. I am glad to see you are not one of
them.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He went back to my file. “This says you were a troublemaker, Moss.
Discipline problems?”
“I was young, sir. Immature. Stupid sometimes. I also drank a lot.”
He nodded. In his language, I’d just apologized for past sins. Officers loved
that, particularly generals. It made them feel more godlike. “This also says you
were an excellent soldier. You did well at Brighton and equally well in Arizona,
during our border-patrol campaign.”
“I did my best, sir.”
“You saved lives. Located and disarmed bombs. Risked your life every day.”
“It was my job, sir.”
“In my experience, Bomb Squad personnel are required to have nerves as
thick and as tough as steel cables. You look like you still have good nerves, Moss.
Am I correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
Just then, the heavy-lidded female knocked over her Styrofoam cup with her
elbow. Coffee spilled down the side of the table, splashing her slacks. She didn’t
notice as she slumped forward, her face slamming onto the tabletop.
No one else reacted except to glance for a moment then returning to watch
me.
The general reached for a communications unit in front of him and pressed a
button. A crackle came through the box immediately. “Sir?”
“Johnson just dropped. Bring someone up here at once to collect her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be prepared for a cleanup. She spilled coffee.”
“Yes, sir.”
I recognized the voice’s flatness. It was a TAB.
The general returned to my file. “You were a top-notch sniper, as well.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, as flatly as I could.
“You know how to kill people as well as save lives.”
“Just another job, sir.”
“You were our best sniper, this says.”
Now seemed the perfect time to see if I could ruffle anyone’s feathers. “I
killed men, women, and children. I did it well and didn’t hesitate. I obeyed
orders. I would’ve kept doing it if the Army hadn’t changed my MOS for the final
six months of my tour.”
Silence. Nothing.
Are these people alive?
The general glanced at my folder again. “You served only three years, Moss.
It has been nearly two decades since you were discharged, yet you still sound
proud.”
“I am proud, sir.”
“Even now?”
“I’m proud that I served my country.”
“And if you are ordered to kill again?”
The door clicked open. A TAB entered, carrying a towel. He walked over to
the conference table, bent over and wiped up the spill then picked up the woman
easily, slipped her over his left shoulder, and left the room. Again, no one reacted.
The whole incident took only a few moments. I was impressed—and appalled.
“Moss?”
“Sir?”
“I asked you a question.”
“I was granted an honorable discharge nearly twenty years ago, sir.”
“Are you aware that your discharge papers require you to automatically revert
back to government property in the event of a national emergency?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We are definitely in the grips of a national emergency.”
“I’m aware of that as well, sir.”
“What else are you aware of, Moss?”
“I assume, sir, you’re telling me I’ve just been recalled.”
“You assume correctly, Moss.”
A pause. The icy blues probed me. The man’s features tightened.
“Anything you wish to say that might cause a problem for us?”
This was no time to offer resistance. I’d learned long ago that you choose
your own battlefield. You never fight the enemy on his own turf—especially
when he expects it.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Good, Moss. Something in your file is missing, however. I want it filled in
immediately.”
“What is it, sir?”
“Why did you decline to reenlist when you were given the chance?”
“I didn’t like what was happening, sir.”
“Explain.”
“Things were going on that didn’t make sense. It seemed like we no longer
cared about anyone sneaking across the border. Then the Army took my rifle and
transferred me to a Quonset hut to keep tallies on spent ammo. No explanations.”
“None were necessary. You were an E-5. A noncom; still an enlisted man. You
were given orders to obey, not question.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Then what was your problem?”
“I was a field man, sir. A grunt. I liked action. I had problems when they stuck
me in that Quonset hut.”
“What sort of problems?”
“I get bored easily. When I’m bored, I get drunk and look for trouble. Like I
said, I was young and full of myself.”
His eyes stayed on me. I could sense him sniffing for signs of dishonesty or
betrayal. I kept cool and stared straight ahead. Then he suddenly pushed back his
chair and stood smartly. He was about two inches taller than me and obviously
very fit. He was at least fifty years old, but I could tell there wasn’t an ounce of
fat on him.
He approached me and stopped about a foot away, as officers do when they
want to intimidate you. I was overwhelmed by his aftershave as well as the rancid
coffee stench coming from his parted lips.
“How is your eyesight, Moss?”
“Pretty good, sir.”
“Not good enough, Moss. We want great. Are you up to the challenge?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Without even asking what the challenge is?”
“I’m willing to accept it, sir, whatever it is.”
“Good.” He spun around, returned to the table and sat back down. “My
colleagues will be conducting a series of experiments.” He gestured toward those
empty stares. “We are going through the worst catastrophe in our nation’s history,
and those of us still able to function need to band together to get things running
again. This is still America, and we are ready to bounce right back and show the
rest of the world—whatever is left of it—just what we are made of. Understand?”
“Fully, sir.”
“My colleague, Senator Cameron, will fill you in on the details. Senator, tell
this man what we want.”
Senator?
The man at the other end of the table stood. He was about my height, broad at
the waist, thinning on top, and around the general’s age. His features were heavy
and bloated, clear evidence of heavy drinking. He spoke in a voice that was
uncharacteristically flat for a politician. “We will be conducting an intensive
study to see if a man your age—a former soldier—can still function in the field.
Since you have obviously not been affected by the disease, we will study that as
well. You will be required to spend some time in our lab to undergo a series of
tests.”
“Any objections, Moss?” the general interjected.
“No, sir.” I knew better.
“Once these tests are conducted, we will do a lengthy examination to
determine if you can return to active duty. If you pass our requirements, you will
be dispatched with a small platoon on a necessary mission. As you must know,
many of the affected are still wandering around out there, causing havoc. They
are looting, pillaging, and murdering anyone who gets in their path. Our soldiers
are programmed to round up these troublemakers and truck them back here for
immediate dispersal to their various destinations.”
“Destinations?”
“We are setting up several studies at the moment, Moss,” General Eldon said.
“The more we progress, the more studies we will conduct. We need to get this
country back on its feet as soon as possible. We cannot tolerate delays.”
“We have a full battalion at the ready,” Senator Cameron said. “They are
stationed in various police barracks around the National Capital area.”
“How many?” I asked.
“That number is not important for you to know,” the general said.
Probably because they’ve only got a few dozen TABs in working order
.
“There will be more as our operation gets under way,” the senator added. “We
are evading the Chinese. We know they are operating in our area but at a limited
capacity. Our present concern is to marshal as many of our present resources as
possible…”
“That means you, Moss,” the general interjected.
“Those still functioning are of use to us and need to be brought in,” said the
senator. “Former military, such as you, are of great value to us for obvious
reasons. We cannot have the affected killing off our remaining resources.”
“The troublemakers need to be spotted immediately and eliminated,” General
Eldon said. “Your field experience will help us immeasurably. Our soldiers have
been programmed in many different methods of combat and tactical maneuvers,
but they have not accumulated enough experience to act correctly in every given
situation. They tend to … overreact when faced with confusion or resistance.”
Overreact? Like running down innocent people, pulling them out of their
vehicles and breaking their necks? These idiots are as crazy as bedbugs.
“A seasoned soldier with your experience will be invaluable to all of us,” he
said.
“Do you want these troublemakers shot on sight?” I asked.
“Only if they resist. We would like to study them first, but with some it will
not be possible and prove a waste of time. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” I now understood it very well.
“Your escort will take you to the lab for two days of testing,” the senator said.
“If you meet our requirements, you will be taken immediately to the armory,
where they will outfit you with full gear and any weapon you consider necessary
for your tour.”
They wanted me to kill for them again. They actually wanted me to lead their
TAB army. If I didn’t pass their tests, or showed weakness or hesitation, they’d
clone me, put my replicants into the field, and stick me back in my cell to die, as
Colonel Forbes had said.
The lab was across the hall from the computer room. I had to somehow find
some way into it, where I could disable the TAB program. Then I could move
about freely and look for Reed and Fields. It sounded impossible and probably
was, but it was my only shot.
“Any other questions, Moss?” the general said.
“None, sir.”
“Good.” He turned to the TAB guarding the door. “Take Sergeant Moss to the
lab.”