Adam Christopher - The Age Atomic

The shadows did not hide them completely. Of the round dozen, half were military, their buttons and badges gleaming despite the gloom, a variety of peaked caps arranged on the wood before them. The others were in suits, their faces flaring in the light as they leaned forwards or backwards to whisper to their neighbors. Nimrod recognized some, guessed others. Senators Mackenzie and MacNamara; some officious oaf he’d dealt with at the DoD once or twice too often; Wagner from the FBI; Grimwood from the CIA; two others he thought he knew. The rest were doing a better job of staying in the dark. Nimrod closed his eyes and barked a laugh, and when he opened his eyes again some of the people had shifted and the whispering had stopped.

“Do you find this amusing, Captain Nimrod?”

Nimrod focused on the man directly in front of him. He recognized the voice instantly: his old foe, the Secretary of Defense. Beside him was another military man, a general by the name of Hall, Nimrod thought. The General was rotating a pen between his fingers and the half of his face that was in the light looked nervous and twitchy.

“My dear Secretary,” said Nimrod, “there is much I find amusing in this world, but let me assure you that this situation has gone beyond the comedic and into the farcical. Now, if you would be so kind as to release me, I shall go directly to the White House and have a little chat with that President of yours.”

The Secretary seemed to tick something off a piece of paper in front of him. “You’re a funny man, Nimrod.”

Nimrod smiled tightly. “I think you’ll find I have the authority to do precisely as I please, which includes dissolving this committee and, I might add, expelling each of you from your posts.”

“That authority has been rescinded,” said the Secretary, “as has your rank.”

Nimrod kept his smile tight. Atoms for Peace had done a good job. They’d even got to the President, it seemed. Nimrod wondered if their Director was watching now.

The Secretary turned a page over in the dark. General Hall twitched again. Then the Secretary spoke.

“You are a Communist spy placed here by Soviet Russia in order to subvert departmental operations and gain control of the Fissure.”

Nimrod sniffed. “Is that really the best you can do? Even McCarthy was better than that.”

“You will be taken from this committee and held until a military tribunal is convened to pass sentence. That is all.”

“I want to speak to the President.”

The Secretary made another tick. “You have no such right.”

“I want to speak to Evelyn McHale.”

At this the chairman paused and the committee began to murmur, the sound like bees trapped in a jar. It was only General Hall and the Secretary who did not join the gossip. As Nimrod watched, Hall raised a hand to rub his forehead. Even in the bad light, from his position below the committee, Nimrod could see Hall’s hand shake.

The Secretary’s silhouette nodded.

“Take him away.”

The military police on either side of Nimrod snapped to attention, and a second later Nimrod’s world went black as the bag was replaced.

The eyes under the bed, the something evil in the closet, the creaking floor downstairs. The darkness moved, becoming thick, alive, intelligent, something from somewhere else. And then the pressure on the chest, someone holding him down, someone pulling the covers off and

“No!”

The woman lying next to Fulton Hall shrieked as the general sat bolt upright in bed, his skin shining with a cold sweat, his fingers clutching the sheet to his chest. He ignored her, unaware even of her presence, as he breathed and breathed and breathed, his eyes searching the corners of the bedroom, his nostrils flaring like he’d just run the New York marathon.

The woman slid her bottom up against the headboard and reached out to grab her lover’s shoulders, but he flinched at the touch and she quickly drew her hands back, using them instead to pull the yanked sheet tight to her neck.

“What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

Hall heard her voice, somewhere in the back of his mind, but his attention was drawn to the closet, to the gap between the bottom of the door and the thick carpet. The gap was a black strip of nothing in the dark room, but when Hall blinked it flashed blue, light, the color of the sky on a hot summer’s day. The light at the end of things. The light that burned in her eyes.

Hall flinched again as Mary flicked on her bedside light, and he turned in the bed, face red, vein in his forehead pounding, ready to unleash his rage on his mistress. But as she shrank back the feeling evaporated, replaced by a creeping cold somewhere in Hall’s chest. The whole bedroom felt like an icebox.

“Fulton?” Mary’s voice was small, timid.

He let out a breath. “I’m fine. It was a bad dream, that’s all.”

He turned away, drawn once more to the gap under the closet door. Mary said something but he didn’t hear it, but her light went out and she turned over, leaving Hall to contemplate the darkness. He listened to her breathing a while, listened to her as she lay perfectly awake, terrified in the middle of the night.

Terrified? Hall sniffed and lay back down. What did she have to fear? She’d been there, at the test. She’s seen her . She knew too, she had to.

Hall lay still, as still as he could, as he watched the closet. War, she’d said. War was coming. Well, that was his job. He was a soldier. War was his business.

But… but there was no pleasure to be had in war. Satisfaction, yes. Perhaps even ambition. But war was not a thing to be enjoyed, or savored. And the way she had said it, like she was appreciating a fine vintage wine. She was looking forward to it, the woman who didn’t even exist in the same world as the rest of them.

Hall blinked, his eyes dry. The gap under the closet door remained black this time.

She was going to destroy the world. He knew that now. Mankind didn’t matter to her. The test, out there in the harbor, it wasn’t for him, it was for her . She had to be sure the device would work, not for anyone’s benefit except her own.

What did she fear, if not the end of the world? Hall gulped a lungful of air that was too cold and Mary moved beside him, clearly listening, waiting for him to fall asleep.

Nimrod. She feared Nimrod, so much so that she’d had him removed, using her puppet, the Secretary of Defense. Nimrod was the final obstacle, that had to be it.

He knew what he had to do now. She’d said he would have a part to play, and play it he would. Only there was a chance, he knew, to defy her, to control his own destiny. She could be stopped. He couldn’t do it, but Nimrod could. He held the key.

She would be angry, of course. The wrath of a goddess. Hall pulled the sheets to his chin, his body folding into a fetal position beneath the covers as he watched the closet. If he could save the world, it wouldn’t matter. He could stop her. He could also… escape from her.

Hall swept the covers off and stood. Mary turned in the bed and watched him, but she remained silent.

He felt relief and he felt a calmness, like he was floating in a warm bath. He moved to the closet, and with a final look at the gap beneath the door, opened it and took his uniform from where it hung on the back.

“You’re leaving? I thought you said you would stay the night.”

Hall paused only a moment, then slipped the jacket off the hanger.

“Sorry,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t press any further. He heard her move on the bed, but he didn’t turn around. He thought he should perhaps say goodbye, say it properly, explain everything, but knew that she could be watching, listening. He had to act now, quickly.