Submerged (21 page)

Henry was kneeling by McDermott’s side. He
pressed two fingers to the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse. It
was strong and regular. Next he touched McDermott’s forehead but
felt no fever. “His pulse and respirations are normal.”

“See, he fainted,” Zeisler said again.

“I have been with this man in Nam and seen
him do things and endure situations that would give you nightmares
for the rest of your life. I’m telling you, the man just doesn’t
frighten.”

McDermott moaned. Henry patted him on the
cheek. “Hey, McDermott, you in there?”

The man rolled his head from side to side,
and then his eyes snapped open. He looked up at Henry. He blinked,
then his eyes widened. “What the—” He sat up, shook his head, then
rose to his feet. “What—what happened?”

“You fainted,” Zeisler said. Henry saw Nash
shoot a searing glance at the electrical engineer.

“We don’t know,” Henry said. “One minute you
were your usual quiet, intimidating self; the next you were flat on
your back.”

“That . . . thing . . .” McDermott shivered.
“Where is it?”

“It scooted outside, then burrowed into the
sand,” Nash said.

“It didn’t burrow,” Zeisler said. “It
dissolved.”

“Let me see the back of your head.” Henry
took McDermott’s arm and turned him. McDermott slapped Henry’s hand
away. Hard. Pain ran up Henry’s arm.

“I’m fine. Don’t touch me.”

“Ease up, pal,” Henry snapped. “I was just
going to check for a goose egg.”

McDermott’s eyes moved around the room, as if
he were uncertain where he was. “Where’s my . . . ?” He looked down
at the floor. Bending quickly, he snapped his M16 up, then
straightened. A second later, he raised his free hand to his head.
He grimaced.

“Headache?” Henry asked.

“Yeah, big-time.” McDermott blinked a few
more times, then turned to Nash. “I’m okay, sir. I’m fit for
duty.”

Henry watched Nash study his subordinate and
ad-mired him for it. Military men like McDermott often down-played
their injuries. The man could be half blind with pain, and he would
say he was ready to go. Henry had met many men like him.

“Is that the straight truth?” Nash asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“What happened?” Nash pressed.

“I don’t know, sir. That thing came from
nowhere. I admit, it startled me good. I raised my weapon, and then
my head began to pound. It felt like all the blood left my head.
Next thing I know, I’m looking up at you.”

“Anyone else have headaches?” Sanders asked.
He was taking charge again. No one said they did. “As you can tell,
we’re not in a normal situation here. We’re dealing with things no
one has ever seen, so this is not the time to play hero. If anyone
feels amiss, I want to know it.” He glared at Henry. “And for now,
Mr. Sachs, let’s just leave the sand outside.”

Grant spoke up. “I don’t know what that stuff
is, but I’m real sure it ain’t sand.”

“Do you have a better name for it?” Sanders
asked.

Grant shook his head. “Then we call it sand
for now. Dr. Wagner, you’re the best one here to talk about
biology. What do you make of that . . . thing?”

“I’m not sure I’m the one you should be
asking,” Cynthia replied. Her voice was soft but steady. “There’s
more mechanics than biology. I mean, one moment it looks like a
pile of sand, then the next moment it’s scampering across the
floor.”

“But there’s precedent in the animal kingdom,
isn’t there?” Nash asked.

“There are animals that work together to
achieve a goal,” Cynthia said. “There’s a species of South American
ant that links bodies together to form a chain bridge over which
others of their colony can cross. Hiving insects like bees work
cooperatively toward a goal. Coral reefs are the results of tiny
animals bonding together. But I can guarantee that there is nothing
in nature like what we just saw.”

“It looked like a bug,” Grant said.

“True,” Cynthia replied, “but that may be a
function of, well function. It wanted out of the house, so it
formed itself into something that could do that.”

Zeisler shook his head. “Walking is a complex
activity. That thing had six legs. Moving six legs the right
distance, in the proper order, and in the right direction is
difficult to design. That’s one reason cars have wheels
and
drivers. It has taken nature billions
of years to evolve creatures that can move, respond to stimuli, and
determine a desired action.”

“Not evolution,” Henry said. “Design.”

“What?” Zeisler asked.

“Design,” Henry repeated. “Take your car
example. It takes an intelligent, purposeful designer to conceive
of, plan, and make a car. Then it takes an intelligence to guide it
down the road. That creature wasn’t the end of some chain of
coincidence; it was the product of a creative mind, the same mind
that built this house, this environment—this place.”

“What kind of creative mind?” Grant
asked.

“That is the million-dollar question,” Henry
said, “and probably the reason we are here.”

“How do we know we didn’t imagine it all,”
Zeisler said. “According to Sanders, this place keeps changing.
Maybe it’s all a hallucination. Maybe there’s something in the air
that is making us see things.”

“That would prove the point,” Henry replied.
“If we were all seeing different things, then I might buy your
hallucination theory. But we’re all seeing the same thing.”

“Sanders and Nash saw different terrain,”
Grant offered.

“Not at the same time. Sanders saw green
hills that reminded him of Tennessee in Spring. Nash saw a snowy
landscape like . . .”

“Montana,” Nash said.

“Montana. Now we are all seeing desert, the
Mojave Dessert.” Henry fell silent, then asked Sanders, “Have you
ever been to Tennessee?”

“Sure. My grandparents lived there. They
boarded horses. I used to spend my spring break there.”

“What about you, Nash? Have you ever been to
Montana?”

“I was born there. We moved to the East Coast
when I was thirteen.”

“I see where you’re going, Mr. Sachs,”
Sanders said. “The next logical question is, Who has been to the
Mojave? How about a show of hands.”

Henry raised his hand. He was the only
one.

“Well, isn’t that interesting?” Zeisler said.
“If I catch your drift, Sachs, you’re suggesting that Sanders saw
Tennessee because he holds memories of it; the same for Nash and
Montana. Why do we get Mojave if you’re the only one who’s ever
been there?”

“I wish I knew.” Henry grew even more
thoughtful. “I was the first one in from the corridor.”

“No you weren’t. Sanders was,” Zeisler
said.

“Let me rephrase: I was the first new person
to step through the wall.” Henry looked to Sanders for
confirmation.

“I know what you’re going to ask. I saw the
desert when I preceded you.”

“So much for that theory,” Grant said.

“Not really,” Cynthia said. “Who’s to say
that the scene wasn’t plucked from Henry’s mind while we were in
the corridor?”

Zeisler shook his head. “Even if that’s the
case, we’re still left with the ‘Why Henry?’ question.”

“Stop.” It was McDermott. He had shouldered
his weapon and was rubbing his forehead. “It won’t stop.”

“What won’t stop?” Nash asked.

McDermott didn’t answer. He just rubbed his
head, pushing his fingers deeper and deeper into the skin until
Henry was certain the man would peel his face from his own
skull.

Nash changed his tone. “Report, soldier.”

“The pain. The voices. They won’t stop
talking. I can’t make them shut up.”

“Take it easy.” Henry approached. “Maybe you
should lie down and rest. You bounced your head pretty hard.” Henry
slipped his hand between the M16 strap and McDermott’s
shoulder.

McDermott slapped the hand away and grabbed
his weapon. Moving faster than Henry thought possible, he swung the
automatic rifle around and smashed the butt of it into Henry’s
belly, forcing the air from his lungs. Henry dropped to his knees.
He glanced up in time to see McDermott raising the weapon again,
this time aiming for Henry’s head. Henry tried to move, but the
shocking blow had left him stunned, unable to breathe.

Henry closed his eyes. The impact never
arrived. He opened his eyes in time to see Nash struggling with
McDermott. McDermott began to swear in a ceaseless stream of
obscenities. Nash had both hands on the M16. So did McDermott.
Neither was willing to let go. Sanders started toward the two but
was too late. McDermott was larger, younger, and out of his mind.
He snapped the gun left, then right, with such speed and strength
that he wrenched it from Nash’s grasp. McDermott brought the stock
up in a sweeping arch, catching Nash on the chin. He stumbled back.
McDermott leveled the barrel at Nash’s chest.

“Stand down, mister!” Sanders ordered. His
words echoed in the curved room. “You will stand down, now.”

McDermott lowered the barrel an inch. He
looked confused, as if a far greater battle was raging in his head.
“Get them out of my head.”

“Give me the gun, son,” Sanders said softly.
“Give me the weapon, and we will help you.”

McDermott screamed. The shriek emanated from
deep within, carrying fury as well as pain. He spun and aimed the
M16 at Sanders.

“Have you gone nuts, man?” Zeisler
shouted.

McDermott turned the weapon on Zeisler.

Zeisler raised his hands. “Of course, I could
be wrong.” He took two steps to the side. McDermott turned to keep
the gun pointed at Zeisler.

Air began to fill Henry’s lungs again. He
took a breath, then another. Then he rose and sprinted forward. He
hit McDermott a second before Nash did. Their combined weight, and
the force of two men hurling their bodies at another, should have
driven McDermott to the ground. But it didn’t. He stumbled forward
but kept his footing. He swung an elbow that caught Nash in the
nose. He hit him three times before Nash lost his grip. Free of
Nash, McDermott was able to seize Henry by the hair, yanking his
head back. Pain exploded through Henry’s body. Henry’s grip
weakened, and McDermott pulled free.

The butt of the weapon caught Henry again,
this time on the right cheek. There was no pain, but it felt to
Henry as if his brain had just splattered on the inside of his
skull. Lights flashed in his eyes, and his peripheral vision
darkened. Henry struggled to stay conscious. He had to stay
conscious.

He looked up and saw Sanders throw a right
cross that landed on McDermott’s chin. He rocked back on his heels
but again refused to go down. Sanders threw another punch, but it
missed. McDermott repaid him with a barrel to the belly. Sanders
dropped in a heap.

Henry rose on unsteady feet. The others in
the room had backed away from McDermott. Again the tormented man
screamed. Then he ran for the door. Henry started after him, but
his legs were sluggish. He stumbled forward, making two steps
before McDermott opened the door and plunged through it.

“McDermott, wait,” Henry called.

“Wait?” Zeisler said. “Let the man go. We’re
better off.”

Henry forced one step to follow the other.
Someone grabbed his right arm, then his left. Cynthia and Grant
stood on either side of him.

“Easy, Henry,” Grant said. “You’ve taken a
beating.”

Henry, bolstered by the two, pressed forward
to the door and then outside.

One foot beyond the threshold, Henry
stopped.

The desert was gone, replaced by thick green
trees and vines. The desert night had been replaced by a daytime
jungle. A white sun beamed down from a sky that couldn’t be
there.

“Where is McDermott?” Henry asked. He heard
footfalls behind him.

“Forget McDermott,” Grant said. “Where are
we
?”

“I know,” a voice said. It was Nash. Blood
ran from a deep cut in his chin. McDermott had left his mark. “I
know all too well. Welcome to Vietnam.”

To his right, in the distance, Henry heard
the sound of automatic gunfire.

Chapter21

“How ya’ doing,
sir?”
Ryan Dean asked as he led the three-man parade down
the stone corridor. Finn MacCumhail brought up the rear.

“I’m fine.” Finn’s breathing was labored but
not as much as a typical man his age. “I don’t know who designed
these stairs, but they should be drawn and quartered.”

“I volunteer to help,” Tuttle said.

Lieutenant Wallace Tuttle was a stocky man
with a barrel chest, thick neck, and unsettling gray blue eyes.
Finn had read his “jacket”—the file of his background and military
experience, as he had done for everyone in the operation. Tuttle
was an Army Ranger before being invited to join the ZEDS and had
seen combat in Iraq and Afghanistan where he earned several
citations, some for actions that would never see the light of day
again. Although soft-spoken, he was a tough customer. Dean had made
a wise choice bringing him along.

“What I can’t figure out is this light that
follows us,” Finn said. “You gentlemen ever see anything like
it?”

Dean shook his head. “No, sir. You’d think
whoever designed it would have spent a few more pennies to make it
brighter. The bulb in my refrigerator does a better job.”

“It’s better than making this descent by
flashlight,” Finn said.

“Yes, sir,” Dean replied. “Better to light
one candle and all that.”

“I estimate we’ve walked about two miles.”
Finn took the next awkward step. “What do you make it,
Colonel?”

“I concur. Maybe a little less. It’s hard to
tell. Did those files say how long this passageway is—” He stopped
mid-sentence. “Never mind.”

“What?” Finn moved past Tuttle to join
Dean.