Sharkey just sat there for a time, not looking at Hayes, but the papers on her desk, a few framed snapshots of friends from other Antarctic camps. “You know what pisses me off, Jimmy?”
“No, but I have a feeling you’ll tell me.”
“You do.”
“Me?”
“Yes. And you piss me off because I think you’re right. Maybe not completely, but I think you’re pretty close. What I saw at Vradaz pretty much confirms that. But where does any of it get us? Nowhere. Even if it’s true, so what? It’s out of our hands. LaHune will do what he’s told to do and maybe some of us will walk out of this come spring. And I’m willing to bet if we do, we’re never invited back.”
“I agree,” he said. “But I think it’s beyond just that now. Regardless of what LaHune’s puppet masters decide or don’t decide, these things, these Old Ones, are the immediate threat. They’re the ones in power now. If we want to get out of here alive, we better start thinking of how we’re going to cut their balls off . . . if they have any.”
Sharkey got out of her chair and walked around behind Hayes. She stroked his hair and then kissed him on the cheek. “Why don’t you go accidentally knock Hut Six down . . . that’s a start. That might shut them down or at least set them back.”
Hayes stood up and took her into his arms. And maybe he didn’t really take her, because she seemed to fall right in place like a cog. He kissed her and she kissed him back and that kiss was in no hurry, it held on, pressed them together and only ended when it was on the verge of bigger things.
“I think I’ll go do just that. Have a little accident with the ‘dozer. A big fucking oops,” he said, his insides filled with a warmth that quickly sought lower regions. “And then we’ll see. We’ll just see. You know, lady, I got me this crazy idea of us walking out of here together.”
“Me, too,” she said.
Hayes turned away and started down the corridor.
“Be careful, Jimmy,” she said, not sure if he heard her or not.
PART FIVE
THE SWARM
“Nor is it to be thought...that man is either the oldest or the last of earth’s masters, or that the common bulk of life and substances walks alone. The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them, They walk serene and primal, undimensioned and to us unseen.”
— H.P. Lovecraft
32
A few hours after Hayes went out on his mission, Cutchen appeared at the door to the infirmary. “Knock, knock,” he said.
“It’s open,” Sharkey said. She was staring into the screen of her laptop, glasses balanced on the end of her nose. “If you want drugs, the answer is no.”
But Cutchen didn’t want that.
He had an almost rakish smile on his face. And his eyes had that typical I-know-something-you-don’t-know gleam in them. “How’s things? Anything going on I should know about?”
Sharkey still hadn’t looked up from her laptop. “Go ahead, Cutchy. I know you want to. You look like a little boy trying to sneak a snake into the schoolhouse. Spill it.”
“It concerns our Mr. Hayes.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, about an hour ago I was coming back from the dome and I saw the craziest damn thing. I saw the camp bulldozer suddenly roar into life, come plowing through the compound and smash through the wall of Hut Six. Now isn’t that astounding?”
Sharkey was still reading off her screen. “Yup. Crazy things happen. Hard to see out there.”
“You know what I saw then? Oh, this is even better. I saw Hayes hop out of the ‘dozer and elbow his way through a group of people at Targa House, ignoring their questions as to what the hell he thought he was doing. Those people kept asking and he kept ignoring them and they were all smiling, some were even clapping.”
“Really?” Sharkey was looking up now, smiling herself. “Sounds like Hayes did a pretty careless thing . . . but it certainly perked up morale, didn’t it?”
“I would say so. Jesus, everyone’s been wandering around here like a bunch of goddamn zombies. All of them afraid of their own shadows . . . and now this. Yeah, they needed it. It was a real big boost, kicked them out of their shells. Maybe even gave them the sort of hope they’ve been lacking.” Cutchen laughed. “It certainly gave me a charge. Hayes is like our very own rebel leader now, our own Pancho Villa, our Robin Hood. But you already knew about this, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And did you put him up to it?”
Sharkey shrugged. “I suggested it. Our Mr. Hayes is a very impulsive fellow, you know.”
“Oh, I know. Everyone seems to look to him now, like he’s in charge and not LaHune. I would tend to agree. Hayes is now our spiritual leader.” Cutchen sat down across from her. “LaHune didn’t care for any of it, of course.”
Cutchen explained that LaHune came storming into the community room, demanding to know what Hayes thought he was doing and Hayes told him that he was preserving Gates’ specimens before they rotted away completely. That he’d taken down that wall purely out of scientific concern for the mummies.
“LaHune, of course, started threatening Hayes with all sorts of repercussions.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Hayes then told him to go promptly fuck himself.” Cutchen laughed about this. “As you might expect there was more applause.”
“I imagine so.”
Cutchen sat there for a time watching Sharkey who seemed to be pretty enrapt with what was on her laptop. “Tell you the truth, Elaine, I didn’t just come here to tell you about that, though.”
“No?”
“Nope. For some time now, both you and Hayes have been pulling me into this scenario of yours and I’ll be the first to admit, I’m not seeing the big picture in this conspiracy. I know what I’ve been dreaming about and what I’ve been feeling and the things I’ve seen here . . . and at Vradaz. But you two have yet to feed me more than scraps. So let’s have it. Tell me everything.”
“Funny you should be asking these things, because I think I’m in a position, finally, where I can tell you. What I’ve been studying here on my laptop are Dr. Gates’ files. I hacked into his system because I had a pretty good feeling that everything he hadn’t told us that day in the community room was locked up on his computer and I was right.” Using her mouse, she scrolled through a few pages. “You see, not only was all of it there, but more. Gates has been sending written reports from his laptop up at the excavation to his desktop here. The last one was dated two days ago . . . “
“You’re a sneaky devil, Madam.”
“Yes, I am.”
“And? What did you find?”
“Where do I begin?” She sat back in her chair. “What we saw at that Russian camp, Cutchy . . . how would you classify that business?”
He shrugged. “Ghosts, I guess. Memories locked up in those dead husks like Hayes said. Sensitive minds come into contact with them . . . or maybe any minds at all . . . and out pop these memories: noises and apparitions and that sort of business. I never believed in any of that bull before, but I don’t have much of a choice now.”
“You’d call them ghosts?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward. “Unless you have a better term . . . maybe one that would help me sleep better at night.”
Sharkey shook her head. “I don’t. ‘Ghosts’ will have to do. Because, essentially, that’s what they are. Gates wrote in some detail about psychic manifestations occurring in proximity to the Old Ones. People have been seeing spooks down here a long time, having bad dreams and weird experiences . . . and I guess you can figure out why. Reflections, are what Gates calls these phenomena, projections from those dead husks, from minds that never truly died in the way we understand death . . . just waited. Maybe not conscious really or sentient, but dreaming. And what we’re picking up are the ethereal projections of those dead minds . . . intellects, a mass-consciousness that was so very powerful in life that even death couldn’t crush it. Not completely. Gates isn’t certain about a lot of that . . . just that those minds are active in a way, not really alive but functioning pretty much on auto like a radio station, broadcasting and broadcasting. Our minds come into contact with them and we pick up those signals, then the trouble starts.”