Nightmare Revelation Page 9

  Oh God, Sallie.

  Jackie ran to the back door, found it ajar, and went inside. Something sticky underfoot made her look down. The floor was black with a sea of congealing blood. The next coherent thought she had was when she had locked herself in her car and called 999.

  ***

  “I would like to begin with classification,” Zoffany said. “More specifically, the need for redefining what we've been calling ‘modified’ or ‘enduring Interlopers.’ The ones that seem to have indefinite lifespans in our dimension.”

  Denny glanced around the meeting room as Zoffany introduced the term ‘Class Three’ entities. Apart from Denny and Frankie, Gould and Benson were present. Forster was absent, however, and in opening the meeting, Benson had said nothing about this.

  Probably some bureaucratic bullshit, she thought. But maybe not.

  Zoffany was saying, “…those Interlopers modified at the microbiological level to exist indefinitely in our world. Class Twos invariably died if they did not retreat to the Phantom Dimension.”

  “What do you mean by microbiological?” put in Denny. She sensed that Zoffany was skating quickly over some detailed stuff.

  Zoffany looked at Gould, then said, “I mean Interlopers who have effectively been hybridized with human DNA.”

  “Holy crap!” breathed Frankie.

  Denny was looking at Gould, who was flipping through a set of written notes. The Englishman was trying to look casual, unaffected by Zoffany's contribution. But Denny could see he was upset, hands quivering, face almost bloodless.

  “Do we know what else, if anything, distinguishes the two types of enemy?” asked Benson.

  Denny glanced up sharply from her phone. It was the first time she had heard the chairman use the word. It gave a military feel to the situation. The Interlopers did act as enemies of the humans they encountered, she knew. But the foundation was technically about research, not conflict.

  Things are shifting, she thought. Like layers of an onion being peeled away. How soon before we see what the foundation's really about?

  Zoffany shook her head.

  “So far as I can tell they have the same capabilities, it's just the Type Threes are – for lack of a better term – armored against the corrosive effects of our reality.”

  “What's doing all this?”

  Benson's pitch-black eyes focused on her.

  “Please expand upon your interjection, Miss Purcell.”

  “We've seen Interlopers, old and new style,” Denny went on. “They're not scientists, they're killing machines. But what's conducting experiments on people, conjuring up all these hybrid cells and symbionts and stuff?”

  “That is a good question,” Zoffany said. “It's related to another good question. The matter of Interloper reproduction.”

  “Where do little monsters come from?” said Frankie. “I did notice that those things, in their natural form, ain't got no junk on show.”

  “Junk?” said Benson in his sepulchral voice.

  Despite the tension in the room, or perhaps because of it, Denny laughed.

  “Sorry,” she said. “My friend means they have no visible sex organs except when they, you know, create them for their fake human bodies. And when we were in the Soul Eater we got no sense that there are Interloper children, just different sizes. They grow, but they never mature.”

  “Quite.” Zoffany said. “The lack of any obvious genitalia has been occupying my team for some time. A significant clue as to why they are apparently sexless is in the fact that they all seem virtually identical at the genetic level.”

  “You are saying that they are clones, Doctor?” asked Benson, his voice betraying genuine interest for the first time.

  “So far as we can tell,” the scientist replied. “While they imitate people, their basic biology is very different. They could be said to have a kind of telepathic hive mind, though normally I would shun such terms.”

  “So they're like worker ants!” exclaimed Frankie. “Which implies there must be some kind of queen who is reproducing–”

  “Queen!” shouted Denny, reaching into her jeans pocket and pulling out the notepaper. “That's what it says!”

  Four pairs of eyes watched as she tried to decipher her hasty night-time jottings.

  “That's what I dreamed of, or part of it,” she babbled, “I wrote 'queen', and 'chamber', and it's 'cocoon', not 'cocoa'. I can remember some of it now, in flashes. There's a queen, in some kind of egg chamber that produces both types.”

  Benson nodded, the only person showing no sign of surprise. Then he turned to Frankie.

  “You have not experienced similar dreams, I take it, Miss Dupont?”

  Frankie looked guiltily over at Denny, then shook her head.

  “No, I took some stuff to help me sleep. After the first few times I just couldn't face the nightmares.”

  “Can't blame you,” Denny said reassuringly. “I nearly went there.”

  Everyone but Benson started talking at once until the chairman held up a languid hand.

  “Thank you, everyone, for your contributions,” he said. “The location of a queen, or similar entity, will be added to our list of priorities. With luck, our field operatives will be able to obtain some solid data in the immediate future.”

  Denny had a sudden epiphany and leaned forward over the conference table.

  “Where's Forster?” she asked.

  “Mister Forster,” replied Benson carefully, “is leading a major tactical operation. In Herefordshire.”

  “You mean he's going to lead a team through the Machen gateway?” Denny stated bluntly. “Which is insane. There are Soul Eaters near that gateway, not to mention Black Stars and the Interlopers themselves!”

  Again, Benson waved a hand dismissively.

  “Mister Forster is perfectly able to lead an effective combat force in hostile terrain,” he said. “Before he entered our employ he had a remarkable career in the private security industry.”

  It took Denny a moment to realize what he meant.

  “He was a friggin' mercenary,” Frankie grated. “I knew it. He has that vibe.”

  “We are fighting a kind of war,” Benson went on, at the same time staring Frankie down. “An enemy whose numbers we do not know and whose capabilities are rapidly evolving is attacking our country. Our world, in fact.”

  “And you think shooting 'em up a little will make things better?” demanded Denny. “Why didn't you allocate people like me and Frankie to this mission? Forster's never even been into the PD.”

  “The advice that you gave his personnel will be invaluable,” Benson said.

  “How come we're not involved in this?” Frankie asked. “You had us giving some half-assed TED talks about the Phantom Dimension, but you don't trust us to go back? Is that it?”

  Benson's expression did not change, but Denny was convinced that Frankie was right.

  “You think we can't be trusted,” she insisted. “Because we're linked to the PD in some way. Our jobs here are a way of keeping us close, under observation.”

  “It was felt,” Benson said, “that if you were apprised of any details concerning major operations, you might unwittingly alert the enemy.”

  Gould laughed, a mirthless sound. Everyone turned to look at him.

  “I take it you have a different perspective on this?” Benson asked.

  “A living Interloper is in this building,” said Gould. “Or at least under it. And that Interloper has had regular contact with someone who has the highest security clearance. Isn't that so, Harriet?”

  Denny saw that Zoffany, who was sitting next to Gould, looked more than surprised. She was horrified.

  ***

  Doctor Russell Wakefield broke for an early lunch. He left his consulting room and walked through into the main body of his combined home and clinic. He made himself some coffee and put a ready meal in the microwave, gazing out over the valley while waiting for the oven. Another wave of bad weather had swept in over t
he Welsh border, and now a fresh snow was being added to last night's layer.

  The kitchen window overlooked the town of Machen. Things had been quiet since the chaotic, bloody events of last autumn. Wakefield had almost started to think of it as the quaint, quiet town of the tourist brochures. But he knew that if he walked into the next room and looked out a different window, he would see Branksholme Woods. As far as he knew, the clump of trees still concealed a gateway to a close approximation of Hell.

  The microwave pinged and he took out a piping hot mess of pasta, meat, and sauce. He kept resolving to learn how to cook something more complex than an egg, but somehow never got around to it. He was emptying the plastic tray onto a plate when the first of the vehicles appeared, crossing the bridge over the Wye. At first, he thought it was a small convoy of winter hill-walkers, who sometimes braved the valley in February. But as the three SUVs grew closer, he became suspicious.

  The vehicles passed close enough for him to make out that they were full of young men and women in dark clothing. There were no markings on the SUVS, but the way they plowed up the snowy lane toward the hilltop was businesslike. Wakefield saw one of the passengers looking back at him. The face looked vaguely familiar, but that was not an unusual sensation for a country doctor.

  Shrugging off his doubts, Wakefield sat down to eat his lunch and tried to focus on the long list of patients he would be with that afternoon. But before he went back to his clinic, he went upstairs and took a look at the ridge above his home. The SUVs were parked close by the woods and tents were being set up near the treeline. About a dozen people were being given instructions by a man who was presumably in charge.

  No way they're tourists, he thought. Probably Romola Foundation. They could have let me know. Don't trust me, perhaps.

  Wakefield thought back to the way an Interloper had seduced and manipulated him for months. He had worked out that he was being used by the creature that impersonated his dead wife, yet he had not had the backbone to break free until the very last moment.

  So maybe they've got a point.

  Wakefield checked his watch. He had a couple of minutes before the next patient. He glanced out of the window and saw what might have been two lean dogs, roughly the size of greyhounds but with far paler coats, moving swiftly across the skyline. Before he could focus on them, they had vanished into a dip in the earth.

  People should keep their dogs under control, he thought. There are plenty of farmers who shoot first and ask questions later. And then some poor kid has lost their pet.

  Chapter 6: Closer Encounters

  Fiona Lansing, Her Majesty's Secretary of State for Home Affairs, took a deep breath, turned to face the door, and tried to remember how to smile. She had had a few stressful days and the last thing she needed was to meet a grabby, old lush like Sir Lionel Bartram.

  The man's a bloody dinosaur, she thought. And God, if he brings that tarty little girlfriend of his I may hurl.

  A gofer opened the door and Sir Lionel walked in. He responded to the Home Secretary's smile with one of his own, and held out a hand. When she took it, he gave a firm, if slightly perfunctory shake. She also noticed that he did not look her up and down, as he had on every previous meeting. What's more, his eyes seemed clear and focused.

  Is he on an AA course or something?

  “Good to see you again, Fiona,” he said, looking at her face rather than her chest. “Shall we get started?”

  “Your assistant is not with you?” Lansing asked, looking past him.

  “Oh, no, Timandra's got a spot of 'flu, I'm afraid,” said Bartram, airily. “But I think I can manage without her.”

  The Home Secretary exchanged a glance with a senior adviser, who had been waiting discreetly by her desk. Normally she wanted an ally in the room when she was with Bartram. He sometimes said bizarre, offensive things that were worth noting for future use. But today she felt a witness might not be needed.

  “I think we can make this an informal chat,” she said.

  “Quite so!” Bartram said as the adviser left, closing the door silently behind him.

  They sat down on opposite sides of the ornate Regency fireplace and Lansing tried to make some small talk. As usual, jockeying for position within the government concerned her more than running the country. Lansing and Bartram were in rival camps within the party, but today he seemed willing to agree with her on every issue. He seemed to have also his old condescending manner, and if anything, seemed keen on becoming her ally.

  “You must be reading my mind, Lionel!” she exclaimed at one point.

  “Great minds think alike, Fiona,” he responded.

  If this is a personality transplant, she thought, maybe we can get the rest of the cabinet done.

  “All right,” Lansing said. “Let's get this over with. I have to make a statement on this terrible business in the West Country.”

  Bartram raised an eyebrow, expressing polite curiosity.

  “A couple have been killed by some sort of maniac,” she went on. “Their kids are missing. Nightmare for us, of course. I'll have to say something vaguely reassuring, but of course it’s the local plods who are trying to deal with it. Surely you've seen the news?”

  “Ah yes,” Bartram said, nodding. “Terrible business. But I'm sure you'll manage to combine efficiency with compassion.”

  The comment was so close to what she wanted to hear that Lansing looked sharply at her subordinate. His expression was bland, innocent. She decided to move on to informal briefing.

  “About the Romola Foundation,” she said. “I understand you've actually looked it over?”

  Bartram nodded, gave a self-deprecating laugh.

  “Yes, indeed, and quite an experience it was. I don't claim to be an expert on the paranormal of course …”

  He gave another laugh, and she smiled politely.

  “But I can't help thinking we have granted a little too much latitude to what is essentially a crackpot outfit.”

  “Crackpot?” she said, alarmed. “The prime minister was quite explicit about our support for Romola. She seems to think that these hostile beings – what do you call them?”

  “Interlopers,” said Bartram. “That's what they call these hypothetical creatures. Not very imaginative, in my opinion. But it speaks volumes about the amateurishness of the entire set-up.”

  Lansing frowned, glanced up at the row of paintings above the fire. Every single one showed a long-dead, male politician gazing down on her with what seemed like thin-lipped disapproval. She looked back to Bartram, who was sitting with folded hands, looking every inch the reasonable man.

  Has he lost weight? Lansing thought.

  “I was saying,” Bartram went on, “they claim that these creatures from another dimension – preposterous idea in itself – are killing people right and left. But if you look at the evidence, it's pretty flimsy. There's good reason to believe that the Malpas affair was in fact a serial killing by these two rather shady Americans. They were present at Machen too.”

  “But …” Lansing tried to challenge him, but Bartram had a slick answer to every point she raised. Brick by brick he demolished her belief in the Interloper threat, pointing out that state funding for the Romola Foundation had produced zero material in return.

  “All we have, really,” he concluded, “is a heap of corpses, some fishy found footage, and a lot of tall tales. All wrapped up in pseudo-scientific jargon, of course. But still. You see my viewpoint, Home Secretary?”

  “I can,” she replied. “And I can also see the basis for a nice spending cut in this whole area. But how can we persuade the prime minister?”

  “Well,” said Bartram, interlacing his long, pale fingers. “According to my information they are planning a major operation that is supposed to recover crucial data – solid evidence of this alien incursion.”

  “Aha,” the Home Secretary said, feeling herself on safer ground. “And if this very costly operation fails …”

  “My though
ts exactly, Fiona.”

  Lansing smiled, satisfied that a real solution to an annoying situation was on the horizon.

  “You know, I never feel comfortable with all this stuff,” she said. “It's like old Nigel at defense with UFOs. Not the way to conduct grown-up politics. Now …”

  She stood up and went over to her desk, pressed the intercom.

  “I think we're ready for some tea, Jeremy. And could you rustle up some fruitcake?”

  ***

  “I think you're reading far too much into this unfortunate situation,” said Benson. “It was logical to keep our only enemy operative alive, and the sub-basement is our one secure location.”

  Denny was still trying to process the revelation that the Lucy-creature was technically, alive. Frankie was looking similarly stunned. Zoffany, meanwhile, was engaged in damage control.

  “We don't know that Lucy is able to pick up anything,” she insisted, “still less that it's able to transmit data to its kind.”

  “You can't prove a negative,” Gould said bleakly. “No way to determine it's not sending details of all our activities back to … whatever is in charge. The Interloper Queen, perhaps.”

  “Well, this big incursion will be a pretty definitive experiment,” Denny pointed out, loudly. She jabbed a finger at Benson. “You must have known there was a risk. What the hell is this? Why do you keep putting people in harm's way?”

  There was a shocked silence. Zoffany stared open-mouthed at Denny. The others looked away from both Denny and the chairman. Gould broke the silence.

  “I don't think it's reasonable to accuse Mister Benson of deliberately–”

  Denny exploded with anger at that.

  “Come on Ted, you must have suspected it!” she said, slamming a palm down onto the table. “We were sent to make a dumb TV show about a haunted house. We barely escaped being massacred. Do you think Benson was hoping we'd just come out with some spooky footage?”