They did not react, but he heard Jolly's breath grow more rapid, and that man — that thing — still carried Gant's HK MP5 as well as a pistol of his own. Of course, Jolly could probably rip Gant apart without the aid of any gun.
It made no difference, however, because before Gant could say any more the double doors opened and in staggered two of the pale creatures. As he watched them shuffle across the lab, Thom tried to understand what they were.
In many ways, they resembled human beings. Arms, legs, feet, and a torso. Two eyes, a pair of ears, a nose, a mouth, and all the right parts. The tallest was still a foot shorter than the average man, and their bodies seemed diseased and broken. Yet still, they were human in more ways than he would have originally imagined.
Whatever they were, they walked over to the radio and dropped armfuls of bounty in front of their idol.
Thom retreated to Twiste, who remained seated but alert.
The creatures brought backpacks, an assault vest, bags, knives, belts, and even boots. All possessions formerly belonging to members of the Archangel entry team.
After delivering their cargo, the things shuffled out of the lab, nipping and snarling at each other like a couple of nasty siblings.
Gant took notice that the man and the woman stayed at the back of the room. It seemed as if they, too, felt a healthy fear of the hall monitors.
Yet once the pathetic, deformed creatures left, the male disciple moved to inspect the gifts. Acting on impulse — the urge to do something to change the status quo — Gant stepped in front of the scarred bag of bones.
"Wait," Gant said as he looked at the sunken eyes of what had surely been a brilliant scientist or technician but was now little more than a walking corpse.
"Are you Ronald Briggs?"
Gant's boldness surprised the man to the point that he stumbled and nearly fell.
"Please. Listen. I mean you no harm. I can help."
The man shook his head and grunted. No, not a grunt. He tried to speak, finally moving his parched lips enough to say, "No help, I must do this now. Move."
Gant did not move.
"Please move."
"I will, if you tell me your name."
The man looked around in a near panic, first back across the room at Jolly and then to his companion. The poor fellow seemed overtaken with fear; Gant worried he might have a heart attack and drop dead.
"His name is Andrew," the woman spoke for her dance partner. "My name is Ruth. Now stand aside or you will anger Him. You do not want to do that."
To make her point, Ruth raised the pistol she had taken from Twiste.
Gant willingly stepped out of Andrew’s path, and the man then hurried to the salvaged goods and frantically rummaged through the contents.
Certainly the packs, bags, and belts came from his detachment, but the items Andrew pulled from those backpacks and pockets were surprising and out of place for a combat unit: a charcoal gray sport jacket and slacks with a matching black tie; a pair of leather dress shoes; a small plastic case; and several packages of Twinkies.
In addition to these oddities, Andrew found other, more typical items but seemed to discard these without much consideration: a pen light, knives, a box of flares, spare ammunition, a black cap, knee pads, a couple of MREs, and more of the equipment Gant had issued to his men for the entry mission.
Andrew gathered the important items from the first pile and walked to the door next to the observation window. That door eased open with a groan and Andrew disappeared inside for a moment, but his entry into that smaller chamber did not disturb the swirling mist.
When he returned, he gathered the rest of the items and moved them to the corner of the room where he and Ruth had set up camp. The two stowed most of the items but ripped open the MREs (Meals Ready to Eat).
Gant stole a look at Twiste, who was hunched over in his chair still dealing with his sore ankle. When he met Gant's eyes he shook his head, sharing the major’s lack of understanding.
The radio glowed more intently.
"Major Thomas Gant, Doctor Brandon Twiste," the voice of God spoke. "Allow me to introduce myself …"
The heavy metal door creaked open. A very bright light poured from the isolation chamber into the main lab. It seemed as bright as the sun to Major Gant, but then again his eyes had been in this dark dungeon for several hours.
Was this a divine light or another illusion?
As he watched, Thom saw the glowing radiance shrink and mold itself into a figure, then fade and dull until all the light had gone, replaced by a man.
"You recognize this form from your photo files?"
"No," Twiste replied, still sitting on the chair.
Gant, however, did. "Ronald Briggs?"
A short body with a balding scalp flanked by tufts of black-turning-gray hair. His small eyes lacked the oversized glasses Gant knew from old photographs and the physique was in better shape; no pot belly. Nonetheless, it was Ronald Briggs, dressed in a perfectly clean white laboratory coat worn over dull slacks and a faded blue dress shirt.
The entity that mimicked a human scientist casually strolled forward until he stood next to the classic radio. The soft light on the dial went completely dark.
Briggs reached behind the set and produced a white cloth, which he draped over the image of the RCA contraption, hiding it completely.
"Yes," the being said with his lips moving but his face stoic and empty. "There is some of Briggs here, just the tiniest amount, as if he were a grain of sand on a beach. But here, nonetheless."
"And who are you?" Twiste asked as he slowly stood — wobbled — from his chair.
"I have told you. I am God."
Gant tried to think of something witty to say, but the right response eluded him. Was that because he was tired and wary or because he could not entirely dismiss the idea?
"God?" came Twiste. "The God — our one God? You are God?"
"Yes," came the reply.
"And how did you come to be … here?" Twiste asked.
It was Gant who tried to answer: "Dr. Briggs was searching for the God particle. Are you saying he found you?"
"Yes."
"What happened to Dr. Briggs?"
"I have absorbed him into my essence."
"I don’t understand," Twiste said.
Gant asked, "Why don't you tell us what Dr. Briggs was up to down here?"
"His work is beyond your comprehension."
"Let me try." Gant tried desperately to remember what he had learned from Doreen McCaul at The Tall Company. "Briggs dug into the subatomic world, hoping that one of those really small parts would be the Higgs boson. Something some other guy eventually called the God particle. So tell us what happened down here."
"I have already told you. He succeeded and found me — God." The voice did not sound so monotone this time, so emotionless. This time Gant detected a strong dose of aggravation. Apparently it did not appreciate questioning. "There is a part of my essence in every atom of this world, of this existence. He touched my being and I came here."
"So he brought you to our world?" Gant spoke in a tone that clearly conveyed disrespect. "That must’ve really sucked. Briggs pulled you to this place and left you sealed below ground, alone and stuck in this Hell hole."
The entity's eyes narrowed and it asked the major, "Who is the most skilled with pistols in your unit, Major? No, not Salvatore Galati, he is a sharpshooter. Who consistently scores the best on the handgun range?"
A smile that had been forming on Gant's lips faded with the question. He had no intention of answering, of course, but the entity already knew.
"It is Roberts, is it not? He is the best shooter in your unit with a pistol."
The entity turned again and this time looked across the room at Ruthie. She stood a good distance away in the minimal light of the old laboratory.