Anomaly (25 page)

“I told you, stupid,” yelled the man. “What are you? Fucking thick? I want the truth. I want the truth about Roswell. The truth about the cover-ups. The truth about this fucking monstrosity.”

Mason spoke softly to Teller. “Listen to how he's talking about himself and not his team.”

“What does that mean?” asked Teller.

“Classic ego-maniac. Everything and everyone is subordinate to him. This is not going to end well.”

“How do you mean?” asked Teller.

Mason handed him a color print out. On it, Teller could see a picture of the terrorist leader standing in front of a police mug-shot station, holding a clipboard with a processing number on it. James Johnson Phelps the third; born and raised in Alabama; member of Purity, an outlawed right-wing white supremacist group.

“I want the truth about these fucking aliens,” yelled Phelps. Spittle sat on his beard. His teeth were bared as he spoke, the veins on his neck were pumped. “You've been talking to them for decades. Selling us out. Apollo, the shuttle, the space station, they were all a cover; this is nothing new, this is old. They are the same lies you've been shoving down our throats for decades. But this time you fucked up. They weren't supposed to come here, were they? They weren't supposed to be seen in public, they were supposed to appear as they always have, out in the desert, down in 51. But you fucked up. I think they got too pushy. They wanted more. They wanted it too soon, before you could enslave us, before you could take our guns, before you could take away our rights and control us. They want to invade us right now, and you can't stop them.”

The negotiator tried to say something, but Phelps pointed his gun at him, thrusting it forward repeatedly, almost willing it to fire as he yelled at him.

“We will not be slaves. Today is the day we fight back. My brothers have fallen, their blood has been spilt, but the truth is out now, you can't put the genie back in the bottle.”

Mason whispered in Teller's ear. “We make six of them in and around the research trailer, four of them are wounded. There were originally close to thirty. We've traced most of them to the extremist group Purity, and an outlaw motorcycle gang that goes by the name of Hell's Own.”

“What happens from here?” asked Teller, noticing the police were setting up blast screens behind the squad cars that formed the outer perimeter. The screens were transparent panels of bullet-proof Plexiglas, rimmed with steel. Built in sets of three, they were free-standing.

“I don't know for sure,” said Mason. “Control has been handed over to the Delta anti-terrorist squad, but they're still coming on-site. Over the next couple of hours, they'll replace the police and soldiers here.”

“But how can they deal with a dead-man's switch?” asked Teller. “It seems to me that's an impossible scenario.”

“The problem is time,” said Mason. “And it's a problem for Phelps as much as it is for us. He has to keep his fist clenched, even if the pressure setting is minimal, that constant need for load is going to cramp his muscles within a few hours. There has to be a safety catch, he couldn't have got here without one. My guess is the team will be watching his left-hand like a hawk, waiting for him to tire and engage the safety. That's when they'll move. And when they move, it will be quick. It will be like a dozen lightning strikes happening all at once, and the counter-strike will be over before you know it's started.”

Teller appreciated Mason's confidence. He wasn't so sure. It seemed risky, but the alternative was unbearable. If they did nothing, Cathy would die. What would become of the anomaly, he wondered. Could it absorb such a blast? Probably. But the ramifications beyond the blast were unknown. How would it interpret such violence? Would it react? Would it suffer damage? Would it depart?

There was some commotion over by the research trailer, but Teller couldn't make out what was going on. Mason had a small portable TV screen and so could see from the other angle. Cathy was making her way out of the trailer. Anderson was with her, hanging from her shoulder, clutching a dark patch at his stomach. Dark streaks ran down his trousers. His footsteps were marked with bloody outlines. Someone was shouting at Cathy, screaming at her, telling her to stop, but she staggered forward, out into view, staggering out onto the road in front of the anomaly. Anderson's head hung low, his feet barely moved as she pulled him on.

“Get the fuck down,” yelled Phelps, marching over toward her. “Get the fuck on the ground.”

Cathy was defiant. Blood stained her clothes. Black streaks marred her face. “I can't. He'll die.”

Phelps raised his gun toward her, pointing it at her head, “I said get down, bitch.”

“No,” replied Cathy as she staggered on in somewhat of a daze.

“Not good, not good,” said Mason, turning to one of the soldiers beside him. “Defiance is never a good thing.”

Cathy waded forward, pulling Anderson slowly on with her. Phelps was enraged, his face was visibly reddened. He stepped forward and struck her with the back of his hand, his pistol raking across her face.

“He'll die,” cried Cathy. “Don't you get that?”

“I decide who lives and who dies,” yelled Phelps. “Me. I decide that, not you.”

“And you let us live,” pleaded Cathy. “You didn't kill us. You kept us alive. But he's sustained life-threatening wounds. If he doesn't get medical treatment he'll die. Is that what you want? Is that really what you want?”

Phelps was unusually quiet. He raised his gun swiftly. The look on his face was cold, his eyes never blinked as he pulled the trigger. The shot was quick, startling Cathy. From the look of horror on her face, she had expected him to pause, to threaten them further, to continue with his bluster, but he killed Anderson without a second-thought. The bullet struck Anderson in the center of his chest. Cathy felt the jolt, she felt the final spasm of Anderson's body as he fell away from her, crumpling lifeless to the ground. She stood there shaking as Phelps held the barrel of the gun just inches from her face. The burnt smell of gunfire hung in the air. Cathy quivered, closing her eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

Teller wasn't sure how the next few seconds unfolded. Somehow he found himself halfway across the concrete road before he knew what was happening. He was running toward Cathy, yelling at Phelps. The road seemed so wide, so long. Teller felt like he was running through mud, as though each step held him back, slowing him down, making it harder and harder to push through to the next step. Although he was running hard, his body felt like it was moving slowly. His heart pounded in his chest, his mouth ran dry, and the world fell silent around him.

Searing jolts of pain tore through his body, first through his right shoulder, then a sharp, stabbing action tore at his left arm and finally something invisible cut along the side of his right thigh, tearing the muscle open. It was only then he realized he was being shot. He looked up. Spent shell casings flew from the gun being fired by Phelps, and then his gun ran dry and the slide on top of the gun remained open.

Teller staggered forward the final few yards.

With white knuckles, Phelps held the dead-man's trigger in his left hand, squeezing it with vengeance. He tossed the pistol in his right hand to one of the other terrorists who dropped the empty magazine out of the butt of the gun and slammed another magazine in place. In those few seconds, Teller had reached Cathy. They embraced, holding each other as Phelps got his gun back.

“It's OK,” said Teller. “It's going to be all right.” He ran his hands through her hair, and felt her trembling beneath his fingers.

Teller felt the barrel of the gun pushing hard into the back of his head.

“What have we here?” came the voice from behind him. He could feel the barrel as it was pushed around the side of his head and then across the top of his head, pointing down into his skull. “What have we here?” repeated the voice.

Teller turned slowly, getting his first good look at Phelps. His eyes weren't quite blue, more of a light gray. The goatee beard had been dyed black to make him look younger than he was, and the regrowth on the sides and below his nose showed softer tinges, including specks of gray that matched his eyes. His nostrils were flared, his teeth were bared, his lips pulled back tight as he spoke.

“Do we have ourselves an all-American hero? A lover or a fool?”

Phelps was strangely quiet, almost subdued as he spoke. He brought the barrel of the gun down, running it around the side of Teller's face, pushing it hard up against Teller's cheekbone and then down under his chin, lifting Teller's head slightly as he raised the gun upwards.

“A fool,” said Teller, and he meant it, knowing just how stupid he had been.

Phelps placed his gun between Teller and Cathy, gesturing for them to step apart. They both complied meekly. Phelps backed Teller over toward where the lounge suite sat, barely twenty yards from the anomaly. His eyes glanced up. Although Teller's back was to the anomaly, he knew Phelps was staring up at it in awe. It had that kind of hypnotic effect up close. The slowly swirling blue environment was semi-transparent, allowing Phelps to see the outline of the vast empty sac within.

“What is it?” Phelps asked. “What does it do?”

Teller didn't know quite how to respond. “I don't know. I don't think anyone knows. I thought I knew, but, honestly, I was guessing. The truth is, no one knows.”

Strangely, that seemed to satisfy Phelps. His lips showed a hint of admiration for Teller's response. For all his talk of conspiracies and alien invasions, it seemed reality had a numbing effect.

Teller staggered a little, the tear to his thigh felt strained. He clutched at it and the blood seeping down his leg.

“Do you have nine lives?” Phelps asked.

Teller didn't answer. He kept his gaze down, away from the terrorist's eyes.

“Three shots, and not one direct hit. I'm normally not so sloppy.”

Teller leaned against the back of the lounge, allowing it to support his weight. Cathy circled out wide, not wanting to come too close to Phelps, but wanting to stay close to Teller.

“What is all this?” asked Phelps, kicking the bags of shopping that had been left by the lounge. Toys and books, music discs and a packet of colored felt-tip pens scattered on the ground. Teller felt himself slipping down the couch. He felt weak. The adrenaline of the moment wore off and the blood loss sapped his strength. His shoulder ached, and his arm felt like it had been slashed with a red-hot iron.

Phelps kicked one of the books over to him as he slumped on the ground, his back up against the couch.

“Math,” said the terrorist. “I hate math.”

“Me too,” said Teller, half laughing. “I was never any good at it.”

Teller picked up the thin, paper-back textbook and thumbed through the pages, looking at the equations and diagrams awaiting an answer, the blank lines awaiting some intelligence to complete them. Answers, thought Teller, that was all anyone ever wanted in life. As sick and distorted as Phelps was, he was predictable, he wanted answers. That was what they all wanted. But what had the anomaly given them? Nothing but questions.

Cathy moved in from the side, her hands out touching at Teller's shoulder, trying to stem the flow of blood. Teller dropped the math book, the pages flayed open before him as it lay on the ground.

Phelps kicked the dictionary to one side. The cover opened and the pages fluttered in the breeze. He looked at the music discs, kicking them around.

“What was all this for?” he asked.

“They were a fool's errand,” said Teller, not expecting him to understand. Teller watched as Phelps flexed the fingers of his left hand, rolling them slightly, relieving the pressure slightly. Phelps followed his gaze, seeing Teller's eyes settling on the bars of explosive strapped to the jacket. Thin wires ran between the bars.

“You have to be prepared to die for what you believe in,” said Phelps. “Or you don't really believe in anything. But you understand that, don't you? You ran in here. You were prepared to die for what you believe in.”

Teller was silent.

“I respect that,” said Phelps, his fingers flexing on the dead-man's switch. He wasn't going to apply any safety catch, Teller knew that, Mason must know that too. There was only one way this was going to end. There was only one way it could end. They were going to die. Phelps turned to walk away.

“Why?” asked Teller. Cathy squeezed his arm, alarmed he'd called Phelps back when he was ready to leave them alone.

“Why am I here?” asked Phelps, turning back to him, his arms by his side.

“No,” replied Teller. “Why are we still alive. You're going to kill us. Why haven't you killed us yet? Why wait? Why haven't you blown us up?”

Phelps laughed. His head rocked back, his eyes looking up above the anomaly, at the sky growing dark with the coming of twilight.

“I am mad,” he said, pointing at his own heart with the gun, as though he would shoot himself. “Do you not know that? Does a mad man need a reason? And yet you ask for a reason as though I were sane. Ah, but perhaps it is you that is mad and I am sane.”

Teller didn't say anything.

“Madness is a matter of perspective, my friend. Hitler was mad. Truman was sane. Or was he? Hitler never unleashed the horrors of nuclear weapons on unsuspecting women and children. Hah, no. That took a sane man. You see, madness is a matter of perspective. We are all mad. And madness only needs impetus, not reason.”

Phelps held the dead-man's switch above his head so Teller could see the wires spiraling down to the explosive vest.

“This is not madness,” said Phelps. “This is power. This is control. You see, they have controlled us, they have held all the power. All power is based on fear, and now they fear me, now I have the power.”

Phelps stepped forward, pointing the gun at Teller as he spoke. It was more as a gesture than a threat, but Cathy grimaced.

“You see this?” Phelps continued. “You see this monstrosity? This anomaly? They would have you think this is the first, but it's not. They would have you think this is unknown, but it's not. They've been working with these aliens for decades. Think about it. The Wright brothers could barely fly a couple of feet above a beach in North Carolina, and yet in less than a hundred years we were flying to the moon. The Wright brothers flew for twelve seconds, just twelve seconds, and we called it powered flight. Hell, I can hold my breath longer than that. You want me to believe we went from twelve seconds to putting men on the moon, sending probes to Mars, flying by Jupiter, Saturn and out of the solar system, all within a century, all by ourselves? Somebody's lying. I defy you to show me how that is logical. I defy you to show me how that is realistic.”