Lincoln Child - The Forgotten Room

Logan knew that, when he and Kim had briefly tested the Machine, it had been in beam mode, set to emit an ultrasonic pulse at a specific, discrete target. Even so, he’d felt its effect. Now, with the Machine set in field mode — directed at the entire space ahead of him — he could only imagine what his pursuers were beginning to experience.

It was time.

He took a deep breath. “I’m in control of the Machine,” he called out through the sound hole in the faceplate. “I’m directing it at you right now.”

There was an expostulation of surprise, followed by a metallic racking of weapons. “For fuck’s sake,” one of them murmured. “Be careful what you shoot in this place.”

“You know what it’s capable of,” Logan said. “I’ll use it on you if I have to.”

More muttering. He heard stealthy footsteps coming toward him.

In response, he turned the switch to the 3 setting. The Machine began to sing — a basso profundo sound from deep within its workings — and one of the men gasped.

“Stay back,” Logan said. “I won’t warn you again.”

A shot exploded from among the flashlight beams in front of him, and a bullet ricocheted past his ear. In response, he dialed the machine up to 4, then 5.

There was a cry from the group of men — a howl of pain.

Now, Logan dared to peer over the faceplate of the Machine. One of the men — the one in the waxed jacket — was bending forward, hands to his ears, mouth open in a rictus of pain. Next to him, the one in glasses was fumbling with his weapon, as if trying to unjam it. And beside him, the hawk-faced man in the tweed jacket was aiming — directly at Logan.

He dropped back behind the Machine as another bullet whined past just above his head. Craning his neck awkwardly in the bulky suit, he reached up with a gloved hand... then spun the knob over to the 7 position.

The howl of pain returned; only worse now — a shriek of agony. As Logan leaned against the Machine, it seemed to vibrate like a living thing, shaking and bucking, filling the room with its presence.

He ventured another look forward. The man with the waxed coat was still in the same position, bent over, apparently incapacitated. But the man in the glasses had cleared his weapon and was raising it toward him, steadying it. Blood was dripping from his nose and ears but he was ignoring it, wiping at his eyes with the back of one hand. And the man in the tweeds not only had his weapon leveled, but was advancing...

Logan ducked back, breathing fast. He knew he had only a second or two if he was going to act; otherwise, he’d be dead.

He glanced back up at the controls. The rotary dial was set in the 7 position, the VU meter jerking and bounding along its semicircular course like a mad thing. He thought back to his conversation with Sorrel: We never redlined it...

With a brief, muttered curse, Logan reached up and cranked the dial all the way to 10.

Immediately, several things happened. The deep-throated song of the Machine became a sudden roar as it threatened to tear itself from its moorings. The VU meter abruptly pinned itself all the way to the right. The sounds of pain he’d heard from the direction of the spiral elevator became first shrieks, then yelps, then strange, guttural, animalistic sounds. There was a tremendous bang, followed by the crash of something heavy collapsing to the floor.

Once again, Logan dared to rise up, take a glance over the top edge of the Machine.

The man who’d been bent forward, hands to his ears, was now on his knees, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. The man with the glasses was spinning around, keening dreadfully, as if in time to the song of the Machine. Droplets of blood flew out from all the orifices of his head as he twirled — nostrils, ears, mouth — forming a horrible corona of matter, coruscating in crimson circles as if spun by centrifugal force, flying out in all directions. The man in the tweed jacket had knocked over a lab table and was now walking in strange, jerky motions, like an automaton. As Logan watched, he crashed into one wall as if blind, turned with a laborious gesture, began walking in another direction.

All three had forgotten their guns, which lay on the floor of the lab.

Very carefully, keeping his eyes on the three men, Logan crept slowly around the front of the Machine. He gathered up the guns, then retreated back to the bank of controls. Only then did he slowly dial the setting back, first to 5, then to 2, and finally to 0.

The hum of the Machine, the terrible animal trembling, slowly subsided. But the strange, guttural noises of the man in the waxed jacket did not go away.

After several moments, Logan stood up. Carefully, he unscrewed the faceplate, then undid the fastenings of the suit and climbed awkwardly out of it. And then — one gun in his hand, the other two snugged into his waistband — he reached over to snap on the lights, then stepped forward.

He looked at the three incapacitated figures for a moment. Then, turning away, he ducked beneath the tarp and walked a few yards down the rubble-strewn corridor until he found what he was looking for: a recessed wall panel containing an extinguisher and a fire ax. Shoving the third firearm into his waistband as well, he reached out for the ax; hefted it once, twice. Then he ducked back under the tarp.

Two of the men remained where they had been when he left them. The one with the glasses had stopped his ghastly top-like spinning and collapsed to the floor. The leader — the one in tweeds — was still shuffling robotically, bumping into things, turning away again, staggering off in another direction. All three had blood running from their noses and ears — and now, most horribly, leaking from their eyes as well.

Logan regarded them for just a moment. And then he turned toward the Machine. Bending down, he snapped off the switches that disengaged the electric current. He rose again, fingers tightening on the ax. There was a moment of stasis. And then — with a grunt of effort — he swung the ax down onto the Machine. There was a shriek of something like pain as the blade buried itself in the metal. He freed the blade, raised it, and swung the ax down again, taking out the front panels and the control mechanisms. Another several swings destroyed the strange, futuristic devices that sprouted from the lateral cowlings, the field generator and the rotatable pickup coil. He hacked at the device again and again, as if all the uncertainty and fear and pain of the past two weeks was now compressed into this single convulsive act, burying the quickly dulling blade into the metal flanks of the terrible device as large and small pieces — metal, glass, Bakelite — went flying in all directions. Finally, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, he lowered the ax and looked toward his attackers.

The man in the waxed jacket was now stretched out on the floor, immobile save for occasional involuntary spasms, a pool of blood spreading away from his head. The man with the glasses was crouching in a corner, his own face a mask of blood. He was batting his hands in front of his face, as if to ward off some unseen attackers, and he was making strange gurgling noises — as if trying to scream from a throat whose voice box had closed in on itself. And the ringleader — the hawk-faced man — was now seated awkwardly on the floor, as if he’d dropped there, slowly and methodically tearing the hair from his head in ragged patches. As Logan watched, the man stared at one of the clumps, bloody scalp still affixed to the roots — turned it over curiously — and then stuffed it into his mouth.

Now, moving gingerly forward, Logan stepped beneath the spot where the elevator had come to rest. Its contents unloaded, it had already spiraled silently back into the ceiling, waiting in the abandoned third-floor closet for such time as it would be needed again.