The Tesla Gate (31 page)

CHAPTER 33

The Shredder

“Genocide is an attempt to exterminate a people,
not to alter their behavior.”

—Jack Schwartz

I didn't see how Hell could be any worse than what I had endured. I had been shut away in a hole that seemed every bit as dark and joyless as the void in my heart, a void that refused me sleep, refused me an appetite, and refused me happiness. How could I be happy when Seth was gone and I had no idea where he was or what they were doing to him? My head had healed rather quickly after my incarceration, but my soul was damaged beyond repair. After all, this was my fault. I could have kept him safe, kept him hidden, but as Lincoln said,
“What kind of life would that be?”
I didn't know the answer to that, but I did know that we would probably still be together, and to me that seems like a pretty damn good life.

My first inclination was to blame Patrick, but really how could I? I mean he was just a kid, a kid with no parents and a desperate desire to have that connection again. I could tell by the brief look I had at his face shortly after the iron collar had been slapped on that he realized he had made a mistake, but it was too late.

I did some really stupid things as a kid, like trying to get Cindy Carmichael to like me. We were both five-years-old at the time, and for some reason I got the idea that the best way to get her attention was to dump a bucket of minnows over her head. That didn't have the desired effect, and I probably had an expression on my face similar to Patrick's after Cindy brained me with the aluminum minnow pail before marching home to tell her folks. No, I couldn't exactly blame Patrick, but having no one to blame for the situation did not make me feel better, so I blamed myself.

I have had a long time to think about what happened that day in the museum. I haven't seen the sun since then and my watch was confiscated, but, judging by the frequency of my room service, I would guess that it has been at least a month. Room service in this case is a tray filled with what seemed to be grisly leftovers shoved through an opening in the bottom of the iron door separating me from freedom. There were no windows in the room except for one small one near the top of the door which looked out into a placid white hallway. The only items in the room were a worn out old cot, a toilet, a sink, and a tiny table with two small chairs. The table was so small that two grown men could not have sat across from each other with their elbows on the edge of the table and not touched. I could be anywhere, but no one was talking, not even my usual cordial visitor.

I had received just two visitors since I had been imprisoned, not counting the faceless person or persons that shove my food through the door. The first was General Ott Garrison himself. He came under the guise of collecting information, but I think it was more of an attempt to gloat since we had eluded him so embarrassingly when we escaped through the tunnel. He acted as if he did not recognize me, but I could see the look in his eye, a look of hateful recognition. He didn't divulge any information, and I did not give any since he would not answer my one simple question as to what they had done with Seth. That's all I said to the man, and I don't care to say any more.

My usual cordial visitor did not start coming until a few days after General Garrison's first visit, but he has been coming about every couple of days since then. He would never give me his name, requesting that I refer to him simply as Sarge. He was a middle-aged man, maybe late thirties or early forties. His normally brown hair was cut in a typical military buzz, and his pale blue eyes exuded trust. He always wore standard Army camo with no name and no rank insignia. He was a very nice man, and always listened with polite interest to my stories about Seth and our trip to Washington.

We had visited about four times in the past month and on his last visit he had promised to check on Seth. He showed up a day earlier than expected with urgent news. He didn't relay the same calm and collection as he had on his visits before; he seemed very troubled.

“What is it?” I asked him as he sat down at my tiny table with his hands folded before him as if in prayer.

“It's ready,” he said so distantly, as if his voice were coming from a faraway crypt.

“What's ready?” I asked. I didn't like the tone of the conversation, and it began to feel like icy fingers were massaging my spine.

He blinked as if he had just awakened from a trance. He looked at me for several long moments before he spoke.

“The—the Tesla gate,” he said with the same haunted voice.

“Tesla gate? What is that?” I asked, starting to worry.

He blinked at me then took a deep breath, sidestepping my question, at least for the moment.

“Mr. Pendleton, I have two kids, two girls. They are the whole world to me. I'm sure you understand.”

I nodded. That was the one thing he had said so far that I did understand. I understood it very painfully.

“I would do anything to protect them …
anything
,” he said.

He stood up and walked to the door, staring blankly through the small porthole. He rubbed his nose and I could have sworn I heard a faint sob from the man.

“My grandfather is in one of these detention centers in Arizona. He passed away when I was just nine-years-old. I never got to see him after this phenomenon started, not till he was rounded up and chained in a room like a criminal.”

He let out a small bark of a laugh that sounded more like a wounded animal than anything remotely humorous.

“He told me he loved me, can you believe that? He told me he loved me even though I was a part of the people that had done this to him. Can you believe that?”

“Yes, I can,” I said. “He's your granddad.”

“Do you think your son would still tell you that, Mr. Pendleton?”

I looked him square in his eyes, which I could now see were swollen with tears, and answered without hesitation.

“Absolutely.”

He looked at me searchingly then slowly started to nod his head.

“I hope you get that chance, Mr. Pendleton, because I know where Seth is.”

“Where?” I asked with every muscle in my body, including my heart, taut with anticipation.

“You are in a military detention center in Quantico, Virginia,” he said, then pointed at the wall by my cot. “Seth is about 150 yards that way.”

I turned stupidly as if I expected to see him standing there smiling his goofy kid smile, but all I saw was the dull gray wall of my cell.

“Chained?” I asked as my stomach knotted.

Sarge nodded and swallowed hard.

“Yes, but not for long.”

When I first heard this statement, my first thought was he would be released soon, or at least unchained. The optimist in me jumped for joy, but Sarge's tone didn't suggest a celebration was in order, actually quite the opposite.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He sat on my cot and put his chin on his knuckles.

“Rounding up Impals and locking them up was only going to work for so long, they knew that. That's why they have been testing this—this Tesla gate. Some of the less sensitive among us have nicknamed it ‘The Shredder.'” It sounded like the last word caused Sarge a lot of pain to utter.

I wasn't 100-percent sure why, but the name seemed to cause sharp ice to slide down my throat and into my belly. I could feel fear and worry starting to gnaw at me like a nest of hungry rats.

“What is the Tesla gate?” I asked.

He looked at me stony-faced for several moments before he answered.

“It's supposed to get rid of Impals, puts them back where they belong.”

“How does it do that?” I asked.

Sarge shrugged.

“I'm not a scientist, but as near as I can figure, it switches their energy signature back to the way it was before the phenomenon started. Puts them back in the dimension or realm or other level, whatever the hell you wanna call it … it puts them back where they were, or should be.”

“Have you seen them test it?” I asked, the fear and worry taking bigger bites of my soul with each passing second.

He nodded.

“I have.”

“Did it work?” I prodded.

Sarge shrugged and then stared at the floor for several long moments. I think he started to cry again, but that was the least of my concerns. I only wanted one thing—Seth.

“I don't know for sure, they disappeared and didn't come back. We couldn't detect any sign of them afterwards.”

“How do you know it didn't kill them?”

He blinked at me and started to state the obvious, that they were already dead, when the meaning sunk in; he stared at his hands. Could a soul be destroyed? I didn't think so, but before this phenomenon started I didn't think ghosts existed.

“I-I don't, I guess it's possible,” he said rubbing a fist under his nose. “Oh, Jesus, we have to move and move today. Oh God, oh Jesus …” he repeated over and over again.

I agreed, we needed to move today because if they were about to start feeding Impals into the Tesla gate, or the shredder, Seth didn't have much time. Even if this damned machine did exactly what they claim it does, the best case scenario is that Seth would be back where he was, alone in a world that is invisible to me. If there was any chance at all, I had to act and act fast. I tried to push my fear and worry firmly down and concentrate on what Sarge and I could do. As it turned out, it was quite a bit considering his clearance and access. It was hard for me to trust anyone in the military, but I realized I had little choice if I wanted to save Seth. Besides, after a month of consideration I already had my own plan in mind—a plan that would require Sarge's help, but not his knowledge or consent. There was only one thing I could do to help Seth and Sarge was providing me with the means to do it.

In less than 30 minutes, I had a camo uniform that fit fairly well considering my slight paunch. He also showed up with some items that were necessary but made me very uncomfortable: a couple of handguns and half-dozen grenades. I had done target practice with my dad when I was a kid, but it had been years since I had handled a gun. I don't even hunt. The grenades made me the most uncomfortable, and he handed the lot of them to me.

“You are going to need these for your part of the plan. Put them in your pockets and keep them there until you are ready to use them,” he said like I was a new recruit, which in a sense I was.

I complied and put one in each of my utility pockets, handling them like an egg that could shatter from the slightest pressure.

Sarge explained the plan in detail, showing me a map of where the shredder was located in a nearby hangar and where the Impal detention area was in relation to it. I paid attention somewhat; I had other plans in mind, but I did not tell him. I had other plans in mind because his was just too risky and had too limited options. I had been thinking about this since I woke up in this God-forsaken place. I was convinced that my approach would be the appropriate one; I just needed the opportunity. Thankfully, Sarge was giving me that opportunity.

I was supposed to approach the building containing the shredder through a back door that was unguarded. When I got inside, I was to release the deadly contents in my pockets at the damned machine, thus accomplishing two objectives – to destroy it and to create a distraction so Sarge could free Seth.

He turned to me once he had looked out the door to make sure the coast was clear.

I grabbed him on the upper arm. This was all happening so fast and I had too many questions.

“Why are you helping me?” I asked.

“We don't have time,” he protested.

I didn't back down. I looked at him sternly, demanding an answer.

“Because I'm a parent and I would do anything for my kids.”

I nodded my head in agreement but refused to break eye contact; I knew there was something he wasn't telling me.

He sighed and shook his head slowly. “I have a lot to amend for,” he said.

I stared at him, waiting for an answer.

“My name is not Sarge, and I am not a sergeant. You should know that before we go through with this. My name is Cecil. Major Cecil Garrison.”

When I heard the last name I looked at him with narrowed eyes. He saw my expression and turned three shades of red before he replied.

“Yes, General Ott Garrison is my father, but please don't hold that against me. We haven't seen eye to eye on several things for a number of years.”

The shock of discovering who I had been talking to all these weeks left me speechless for several moments, but like a slowly erupting volcano, I felt the anger well up in me and then explode into a fiery accusation.

“You've been pumping me for information to take back to him, haven't you?”

He looked at me with sincere hurt etched in his face, enough so that I immediately felt guilty for hurling the allegation. He shook his head and turned back to the door.

“I understand why you would think that, but trust me, it is not true. All I want to do is help Seth and you and all Impals.”

As angry as I was, I realized that I had two choices. I could trust him and seize this opportunity, or I could continue to sit in my cell and do nothing. When I looked at it that way, there was really only one choice.

“Okay,” I said.

Without another word, we walked out the door and turned to the right down the hall. I don't know if it was always like this or Major Garrison had cleared the floor, but there was no one in sight.

The revelation of the identity of my cordial visitor did not change what I had resolved in my mind after weeks of pondering. If anything, it strengthened my resolve. I had to deviate from Garrison's plan; I really must. I had no choice. I had to do what was best for Seth. I had convinced myself it was the right thing to do.

I found my way outside and it didn't take long to locate the building. It was a huge hangar about 100 yards away. Major Garrison wished me luck and headed down a path through a grove of oak trees to our left. I watched him disappear around a brick building in the distance.