He looked to the dancers. They felt more real, yet there was something ethereal about them, too. No matter where they moved they kept to the dark spots between the gyrating spotlights.
Were they people, or marionettes?
Unsure if he could trust his eyes, Thom turned to his other senses. His nose offered a blend of smells that told of age and neglect: dust and odors of decay. Despite its visual appearance, this place remained old, musty, and isolated.
His ears heard the music, but there was something not right. As the banners and dancers did to his eyes, the music felt out of focus to his ears.
The big radio dominated the room like the altar at the heart of a church, on full display with a spotlight of its own, boldly broadcasting the big band sound. Yet it, too, posed questions for the eye. Was it really there?
Glenn Miller's signature song came to a close. The dancers stopped fast, frozen in a pose like toys with drained batteries. The lights ceased their spinning and flashing and then dimmed, taking the party streamers and balloons with them into darkness.
Only the radio remained, illuminated in a beam of light.
The tuner glowed green and a voice announced, "That one went out to our brave fighting GI’s who have finally made it. Let’s hear it for our boys!"
Both dancers — barely visible — put their hands together in applause.
The radio dial glowed green again and the announcer continued, "Major Thom Gant and Captain Brandon Twiste, come on in and join the party!"
Thom glanced at his friend and saw in Brandon's eyes exactly what he felt in his own heart: fear. When faced with a threat, Thom's training kicked in. Guns and fists, defensive moves and tactical planning. But this was something different. A threat to be sure, but seemingly to his sanity, although he had no illusions: death felt close.
Both men let go of their doors, allowing the entranceway to ease shut and close with a clang.
At that moment, one red spotlight returned to life, drifted across the floor, and settled on Thom Gant. The beam started wide but then shrank down to the width of a laser, focusing on his HK MP5.
"The war is over, boys," the radio told them. "Turn your swords into plowshares."
Gant raised his machine gun and pointed it in no particular direction. The two dancers moved toward him, but without any of the grace they had displayed — he had thought he saw — when they swayed to music.
They came close enough to see.
No more illusions of party garb. Tattered clothes on the man and woman. Aged faces that looked only one step more human than the things that had pursued Gant and Twiste throughout the complex.
The man was balding with wiry gray hair, cheeks covered in stubble, eyes vacant and wide. He wore pants that might have been white once, a long time ago, but were stained with a palette of colors ranging from mud and dirt to rust and blood. He might be wearing an ancient dress shirt, but it too was dirty beyond recognition, to the point that it seemed more like skin than a garment.
How could Gant have possibly mistaken this figure for a suave dancer?
The woman seemed a little cleaner, her blond hair ragged and dirty but relatively healthy. She wore a khaki dress of sorts mended from a potpourri of materials, and a black turtleneck that appeared two sizes too large. Yet her eyes were even further gone than the man’s, almost glasslike; a doll.
Neither the man nor the woman held a weapon or moved in a threatening manner. It became apparent that they had stepped forward expecting the newcomers to hand over their weapons without complain.
Gant maintained his posture, ready to fire.
"We are here to help; we are friends," Twiste said, but his words were delivered with too much shake to sound convincing.
"Yo, bro, hand over the hardware," the radio broadcast.
Gant stepped off and drew a bead on the man.
"Come on, doctor," the Major said. "We have a mission to finish."
A hand clamped down on him from behind and in that moment Thom realized that the radio, the streamers, and the dancers had conspired to keep his attention focused forward instead of scanning for threats. One such threat had apparently moved in behind, undetected either because of the shadows or because of their host's ability to conjure illusion.
Whatever the case, the hand was real enough, and very strong, coming from a person at least a foot taller than the major.
He tried to turn and face the threat, but a gun barrel pressed into the back of his skull. He heard something like a chuckle in his ear.
"Thom …" Twiste said as his eyes focused on what gripped Gant's shoulder.
If Twiste considered taking action, he stopped when the double doors swung open again and in the glow of light from the outside hall he saw a mass of the smaller creatures: pale white skin, big black pupils, with skin pulled taut over emaciated skeletons.
They seemed ready to rush in, but something held them at bay. The inference, however, was clear. Despite their guns, Gant and Twiste were in no position to resist.
Again the tuner glowed green and a voice spoke to the things at the door, "Easy children, no reason to get excited. Major Gant and Captain Twiste are going to cooperate. They are here to help."
Another hand came in and pulled away his gun. At that point, the grip released and Thom turned to face his attacker and realized he had seen him before: through the window in the storage room.
He did wear green army BDUs; a little of the camouflage pattern could be seen through layers of grime and dirt. It was hard to tell whether it was the man's skin that hung in tatters or the fabric of his clothes, because, like the rest of the denizens trapped down there, the difference between skin and clothes had blurred over the years.
Blemishes — cracks, cuts, bruises, and abrasions, many of which seemed old but not fully healed, covered the man’s neck. His head and face were covered in that same mixture of gore and dirt that coated everything in this world, but it was his mouth that garnered the most attention; all the skin around his lower jaw had been removed, possibly burned away, leaving white teeth and pink gums visible to the world and giving the creature the illusion of a permanent smile.
The sight stunned Gant into inaction, particularly with the added vision of a trio of pale-skinned devils hovering a few feet away at the entrance. Their black eyes stared at him, their teeth gnashed, and he knew they saw him as a feast waiting to be consumed.
Gant felt his hand reaching for his sidearm, but Brandon stopped him.
"Thom, as long as we’re alive, we have a chance."
While Gant’s eyes alternated between the seven-foot creature hovering over him and the group at the door, the female dancer moved in and relieved Thom of the rest of his weapons, including his pistol, knife, and collapsible baton. The male did the same to Twiste, finding only his handgun, which he took and then pointed at the soldiers.
Through the green glow on the tuner the voice spoke, "It's okay, children, go along and play." The creatures at the entrance retreated; the heavy lab doors shut. "Jolly, bring them closer so they can see."
The man in the tattered BDU's—“Jolly”— pushed Thom and Brandon toward the radio. At the same time, a few small lights came back on, without the color, however. Just normal lights — two panels in the ceiling, leaving plenty of shadows — but enough to see their surroundings for what they really were.
A laboratory with white walls and silver trim, with neglected equipment ranging from computers to microscopes. Gant saw a dirty old mattress in one corner that must be living quarters for one of the occupants. He smelled pungent odors ranging from what might be urine to a moldy, moist odor.
Out of place odds and ends, including a stack of tissues, a frying pan, and a coat rack, lay around the area, contrasting with the scientific gear. Stains on the walls, broken light fixtures, and a puddle of something smelly in a corner illustrated the decay of the place from cutting-edge research center to some kind of high-tech rat hole.