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Authors: Yvonne Navarro
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anyway?
Moving cautiously, Orinsky followed the blood trail left by the now-placid puddle over by the doorway. A thin track, really not much more than a smear . . . nothing notable. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, if he wasn’t looking at this puddle right now that was ten feet away from where it had dripped off the side of the lab table, he wouldn’t have believed it. Heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and fear, Orinsky stood over the stain and peered down, then bent lower when nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. What on earth—
There was a tremendous CRACK! then something fast, large and dark went with blurring speed by and buried itself into his stomach. All the air went out of his lungs, and everything below his rib cage went strangely cold and numb, as though someone had sprayed him with liquid nitrogen. Dr. Orinsky looked down and saw with a vague sense of surprise that something ugly—like a shiny, brown hand but with barbs across its oversized back—was pulling . . . out of his stomach, and taking away with it a good portion of the internal organs that he needed to stay alive.
“Oh—not good,” he croaked. “Not . . . good.” He forgot about the traveling blood as his hands slammed over the hole in his abdomen in a belated attempt to hold in the parts of his body that he now realized were being pulled away through an opening smashed through the door that separated his lab from the medical supply room. He tried to straighten up and step toward it but staggered backward instead, unable to do anything but watch in stupefied horror at the bloody gray lengths of intestine that were trailing over the ragged edges of the opening at knee-height—
Mine!
—and the mottled, talon-tipped fingers that were clenched around them.
The breath he tried to take for a scream choked off as blood welled in his throat from injuries he hadn’t known about. He gasped and collapsed, still thankfully numb and growing more so by the moment. Perhaps the lack of pain was a blessing, but he knew he was surely bleeding to death. He didn’t have long.
Strength fading and on a fast track to death, Orinsky rolled on his stomach and dragged himself toward the far wall.
Behind him, unnoticed in his final moments, the surface of the ruby-colored blotch shifted, then shifted again. And finally crept up the door and disappeared through the fracture made by the alien hand.
5
M orning sunlight streamed over the eastern roof-line of the Pentagon, spreading across the roof and chasing away the night’s humid haze. No one, however, in this particular unlabeled conference room saw the bright, cheerful light, because there were no windows. Underground, secure in every respect, only those with the highest levels of clearance even knew of its existence.
Contrary to the images displayed in all the popular movies, the room was decorated in light colors. The Tempest-shielded walls were covered in polished ash paneling behind which was wired a sophisticated sound and video system, as well as the expected setups necessary to insure the room was free from unwanted monitoring. Telephone, video, fax and data lines were unquestionably safe, and all transmissions in and out were newly upgraded DES encrypted; as part of the nerve center of America’s defense, no one in the world who shouldn’t hear what went on in this room would ever have a chance to do so. The conference room table dated back to World War II and was original to this room. The table’s wood was the same light ash as the walls, and although it was a little worn around the edges—a lot of decisions had been made here over the decades—the piece was still sturdy and serviceable. The chairs had been reupholstered a few times, but they, too, were still functional.
Much like the four men seated in the room.
Colonel Carter Burgess turned toward the multi-sided speakerphone in the center of the table, flipping through the sheaf of papers in his hands as the
Moving cautiously, Orinsky followed the blood trail left by the now-placid puddle over by the doorway. A thin track, really not much more than a smear . . . nothing notable. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, if he wasn’t looking at this puddle right now that was ten feet away from where it had dripped off the side of the lab table, he wouldn’t have believed it. Heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and fear, Orinsky stood over the stain and peered down, then bent lower when nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. What on earth—
There was a tremendous CRACK! then something fast, large and dark went with blurring speed by and buried itself into his stomach. All the air went out of his lungs, and everything below his rib cage went strangely cold and numb, as though someone had sprayed him with liquid nitrogen. Dr. Orinsky looked down and saw with a vague sense of surprise that something ugly—like a shiny, brown hand but with barbs across its oversized back—was pulling . . . out of his stomach, and taking away with it a good portion of the internal organs that he needed to stay alive.
“Oh—not good,” he croaked. “Not . . . good.” He forgot about the traveling blood as his hands slammed over the hole in his abdomen in a belated attempt to hold in the parts of his body that he now realized were being pulled away through an opening smashed through the door that separated his lab from the medical supply room. He tried to straighten up and step toward it but staggered backward instead, unable to do anything but watch in stupefied horror at the bloody gray lengths of intestine that were trailing over the ragged edges of the opening at knee-height—
Mine!
—and the mottled, talon-tipped fingers that were clenched around them.
The breath he tried to take for a scream choked off as blood welled in his throat from injuries he hadn’t known about. He gasped and collapsed, still thankfully numb and growing more so by the moment. Perhaps the lack of pain was a blessing, but he knew he was surely bleeding to death. He didn’t have long.
Strength fading and on a fast track to death, Orinsky rolled on his stomach and dragged himself toward the far wall.
Behind him, unnoticed in his final moments, the surface of the ruby-colored blotch shifted, then shifted again. And finally crept up the door and disappeared through the fracture made by the alien hand.
5
M orning sunlight streamed over the eastern roof-line of the Pentagon, spreading across the roof and chasing away the night’s humid haze. No one, however, in this particular unlabeled conference room saw the bright, cheerful light, because there were no windows. Underground, secure in every respect, only those with the highest levels of clearance even knew of its existence.
Contrary to the images displayed in all the popular movies, the room was decorated in light colors. The Tempest-shielded walls were covered in polished ash paneling behind which was wired a sophisticated sound and video system, as well as the expected setups necessary to insure the room was free from unwanted monitoring. Telephone, video, fax and data lines were unquestionably safe, and all transmissions in and out were newly upgraded DES encrypted; as part of the nerve center of America’s defense, no one in the world who shouldn’t hear what went on in this room would ever have a chance to do so. The conference room table dated back to World War II and was original to this room. The table’s wood was the same light ash as the walls, and although it was a little worn around the edges—a lot of decisions had been made here over the decades—the piece was still sturdy and serviceable. The chairs had been reupholstered a few times, but they, too, were still functional.
Much like the four men seated in the room.
Colonel Carter Burgess turned toward the multi-sided speakerphone in the center of the table, flipping through the sheaf of papers in his hands as the
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