Chromatophobia Read online

  “BSL-4, a hundred feet above us, studies the deadliest pathogens in the world,” Hauser said. “Anthrax, Ebola, and so on. This level hasn’t been used until now. It was built to study the unexpected. Chem- and bioweapons so new and devastating that safety protocols don’t yet exist.” He described several modifications that had been made to accommodate the study of the patient and his condition. As for the team members who would perform that study, Hauser would only say that the NSA and the FBI were haggling over the security clearances. Only three people were confirmed so far: Gordon Maxwell, a medical doctor named Harrison, and me. Gordon would arrive later once everyone was vetted.

  We went first to the security office, located adjacent to the elevator. Hauser showed me a fingerprint scanner and numeric keypad mounted next to the door. “We have different lock types for different functional areas. This one requires a thumb or index print plus an access code. Your print’s been authorized. Your code is 2775.”

  I pressed my thumb to the scanner and punched in the numbers. The door clicked and I pushed it open. Hauser eased past me and went directly to the center of the hexagonal-shaped room, where a glass-topped table displayed a schematic of this level. The overall image reminded me of a center-fire rifle cartridge: the elevator at this end formed the primer; the labs, offices, mess hall, and living quarters made up the shell casing; and a flattened circular room on the far side represented the bullet.

  “Sergeant.” Hauser pointed at the wall to the right of the entrance, where sixteen video monitors were arranged in a four-by-four grid. “Live feeds from all the work areas on this level.”

  The adjacent wall consisted of a large window overlooking the elevator lobby. “One-way glass. Bulletproof. From here you can lower a barrier to seal off the lobby and if necessary, you can unleash a hail of bullets from automatic weapons embedded in the lobby wall.”

  He turned again to the schematic. “The safe study of pathogens requires containment, and this level provides multiple layers. The first line of containment is the vault.” He pointed to a cylindrical image in the middle of the bullet end of the facility. “It’s airtight, with a keypad combination lock on each side of both airlock doors. Personnel must wear protective clothing whenever they enter the vault. No exceptions. You can flood the vault with cyanide if necessary. Or inject vaporized jet fuel and ignite it. The vault will survive the blast. Nothing inside it will.

  “Second line of containment is the observation room that surrounds the vault. Blast doors can seal it off from the rest of the base if necessary. The same, ah, sanitation measures can be applied to the observation room if the pathogen should escape the vault.”

  The security office held two metal desks. Hauser moved to the larger one, although a more precise description would be command console because numerous controls studded the surface of the right side. Hauser pointed out two sets of two buttons, each under hinged glass covers. The first set was labeled Vault-Gas and Vault-Fire. The second pair read Obs Rm-Gas and Obs Rm-Fire. I nodded.

  A large, blank-screened monitor took up most of the left side of the desk. “You can pull up any one of the live monitors on that. Gives you a bigger image. More importantly, it synchronizes these controls to affect only that section of the facility.” He walked me through the controls for monitoring camera feeds, sealing off corridors, controlling lights and ventilation, and other aspects of the base.

  In the center of the desk sat a single, glass-covered button marked “Failsafe.” Its lid wasn’t hinged. Instead, a short chain connected it to a small hammer.

  “What’s that?”

  “Later,” Hauser said. “Everything here is designed to help you ensure compliance with standing order number one: do not let the phenomenon absorb more color. Deviation from that standing order requires direct authorization from me or the team leader.”

  He moved to a steel door set into the wall opposite the entrance. “Here you have a small armory.”

  “Sir, are you expecting an invading army?” I was half joking.

  “This is to keep people in. We don’t know what this color phenomenon is or how it might affect the team. Most likely it’s a type of weapon. One theory is that it exerts some kind of hypnotic control. If you see one or more team members who suddenly exhibit odd behavior, especially of a threatening nature, you need to take appropriate action.”

  I nodded. Code words for neutralize the threat, which might be anything from handcuffs to Taser to a bullet through the brain. Hauser must figure if colored lights could hypnotize, they’d bypass me. I didn’t argue, though being color-blind had fucked me over more than once. I hoped this assignment didn’t turn out to be another of those times.

  The colonel continued, “Normally there’s a trace gas inside the vault that will set off alarms if detected inside the observation room. If the gas is detected anywhere else, it means a breach has occurred and the failsafe protocol will be triggered.” He paused. “Due to the, ah, unique aspects of the patient’s infection, each of the gas detectors has been replaced with red, green, and blue sensors that alarm if any of the colors fade more than ten percent.”

  “What exactly does failsafe do?”

  Hauser’s face grew grim. “The entire level will seal off, flood with knockout gas, then flammable gas. Ten minutes later it will ignite and sterilize every living thing.”

  “The button on the panel triggers failsafe manually?”

  He nodded. “But you’re here to prevent that. We want to study this thing, not destroy it. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He handed me a cell phone. “This will let you talk to the other team members once they arrive. It also lets you reach me in case of emergency. The security office also has a secure land line should the cell phones fail.”

  By emergency I supposed he meant a situation where the color monster got loose, but how the hell would I be able to see that? That seemed my best argument for getting out of this dumbass assignment, but the recent embarrassment at Hobart held my tongue.

  “Reardon, I want you to see the patient in person today, after you meet with Dr. Harrison. He’ll fill you in on the necessary safety protocols. You don’t want to end up like him.”

  Like him? I pressed for an explanation but the colonel merely chuckled. We walked back to the elevator. It opened at the colonel’s request, and he left without further words.

  Might as well bite the bullet. My new phone displayed only contacts, no numeric keypad. The current choices were Dr. Harrison or Colonel Hauser. I tapped Doc.

  A man answered. “You must be the security guy. Hauser told me to expect you.”

  “Can you meet me in the round room?”

  “Observations room. Sure. Two minutes.”

  I fished my colorimeter from my pocket and scanned as I walked. My footsteps echoed hollowly off the white concrete walls and floor of the east side corridor. I swiped my keycard at the heavy door to the observation room and pushed it open.

  The enormity of the room surprised me. The high, roughly circular walls of concrete curved inward to form a dome thirty feet high. Unlike the hallway, the walls here were gray. It felt both spacious and claustrophobic, a man-made cavern holding up a million tons of earth and rock. Inward-facing lights, cameras, computer consoles, supply cabinets, and racks of protective clothing formed a perimeter around the center of the room.

  The doctor was there, completely covered in white protective clothes, black sunglasses, and black boots. He stood in front of the vault, a wide, horizontal, tubelike structure with a single airlocked entrance accessible by a short set of metal stairs. The twenty-foot-long cylinder of bulletproof glass had been spray-painted black. Drips and splatters covered the cement floor. Numerous color-coded pipes and conduits penetrated the base of the cylinder, each clearly labeled for recycled air, water, electrical power, poison, and flammable gas.

  I stuck the colorimeter back in my pocket and strolled up to Doc. He removed his sunglasses, hood, and gloves and then extend
ed his hand. We shook, although he seemed to expect some sort of reaction from me. I pegged him to be in his late fifties, five-eleven, about one hundred ninety pounds. He had a short, trimmed beard and wore dark-rimmed glasses. Nothing seemed wrong or unusual with his appearance. His voice sounded normal. He moved without a limp. So why the questioning look? What did Hauser mean by not ending up like him?

  “I’d like to see the patient.”

  “Anything you want to ask me first?”

  “Sure. The colonel said I’d need to wear safety gear. I guess like yours. Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  I took a step into his personal space and fixed him with my most intimidating glare. “I don’t like my questions being answered with your questions.”

  Doc smiled and shook his head. “I didn’t think Colonel Hauser was serious about bringing in a man who can’t see color.”

  My irritation rose another notch. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

  “Everything!” He studied my face. “You have a colorimeter?”

  More puzzled than irritated, I pulled it out again.

  “Scan me, Sergeant.”

  I stared at the readings. What the hell?

  Doc’s smile held more resignation than mirth. “That’s right, my face and hands are gray, completely without color. Whatever contagion infected the patient has the ability to leach color from its immediate surroundings. The only way to prevent the bleaching effect is to wear white coveralls and dark gray glasses. I found that out the hard way.”

  He pointed out the bins for the clothing, booties, hoods, and glasses—although he said my shades would work fine. He watched as I suited up and nodded at the finished result. When I strapped my gun belt around the outside of the coveralls, he objected, and we argued briefly. He relented, mumbling that the drab, dark-green belt would turn gray with minimal impact on the patient. Minimal or maximal, I wasn’t taking any chances.

  ***

  The inner door of the airlock swung open and I entered the vault. The patient, a slim man in his late twenties, sat on a hospital bed. Dark stubble dotted his face and bald head. He wore a loose hospital gown tied in the back. He seemed innocuous, but danger comes in all shapes and sizes. I took a step toward him, holding the colorimeter ahead of me like a flashlight. The patient’s attention dropped to my belt; more precisely, to the gun in my holster.

  “Are you here to kill me?”

  “Not necessarily.” The cotton face mask muffled my voice but not enough to matter. I took another step before pausing to look around. The sparse interior of the vault reminded me of a hospital operating room: banks of equipment monitoring vital signs, the narrow, mechanized bed on which the patient sat, and oversized lamps suspended from the ceiling, bathing the patient in bright light. A small flat-screen monitor mounted near the patient showed Doc sitting at the command console outside.

  “Do you think I’m dangerous, that aliens did this to me? It wasn’t aliens. It was God.”

  The colorimeter showed the chamber and equipment to be shades of gray, which meant I could trust my eyes—until a scan of the patient’s face showed a rash of shifting, simmering colors. My grip tightened on the meter.

  “Have the scientists been found? Frank, Auri, and Murry?”

  I thought at first he referred to the team being assembled to study him, but he couldn’t know who they were because they hadn’t arrived yet. Now I realized he meant the Europeans who got zapped by the hypercube. I remained silent.

  “I think it was a prelude to the rapture. They’re in heaven now.”

  Cameras on the walls and ceiling allowed visual surveillance of the patient from several directions. Some of the cameras were probably installed to compensate for the loss of direct visibility from the observation room. It finally sunk in that the opaque walls were to stop the rash from feeding on outside color. Only it wasn’t a rash, it was a monster. Feeding. I repressed a shiver. If not for the protective clothing, the color monster would be eating the color out of me right now.

  “Why won’t you talk to me? At least tell me your name. Please.”

  I tapped the butt of my sidearm to calm him down. Or maybe to calm me. His sigh filled the hollow chamber, and his gaze rose from the gun to my dark glasses.

  “Do you believe in God?” he asked.

  I give potential targets a designation. Patient didn’t seem adequate, but Choirboy fit perfectly. The meter showed that the coloration also covered Choirboy’s right hand and wrist. The boundary of the affected area didn’t move, but the colors within the area changed and flowed too quickly for the meter to accurately measure. The rash seemed to possess a life of its own. Like maggots squirming on a carcass.

  Choirboy stared at the colorimeter, then my face—or more precisely, the protective hood, mask, and glasses covering my face. “You’re sweating,” he said. “The cotton darkens as it gets damp. Becomes less opaque. It might let some of your skin color drain away.”

  Fuck. I backed toward the airlock, not taking my eyes off Choirboy. “You don’t scare me,” I lied and began to pull the door closed.

  “I just want someone to talk to. This solitary confinement is driving me cra—”

  The clang of the inner door cut off his final word. The lock engaged and I punched in the code for the outer door. My breath came too hard, too fast, leaving me dizzy. When the door finally opened, I bolted through, ripped off the hood and gloves with one hand, and gripped the meter in the other.

  Doc rushed over. “You’re hyperventilating.”

  Inhale. “I’m fine.” Exhale. Inhale again. I waved him off.

  The meter showed my skin tone to be normal. With feigned nonchalance, I picked up the hood and gloves, walked to the undressing area, and tossed them inside the designated bins. The coveralls came off next, but got tangled when I forgot to remove my gun belt first. Calm down, Miles. I buried my fear in a hole so deep it couldn’t crawl out. With methodical precision, I removed and disposed of the booties. By then my breathing had slowed and I could examine the situation objectively. I had met the enemy and survived. This time. Choirboy didn’t look formidable, but looks could be deceiving, especially where color was involved. I had to convince Hauser to get me out of this insane assignment.

  Chapter 4

  After two days of begging Hauser for a transfer, I knew I was stuck in the basement of Deep Shit City for the duration. An appeal to the team leader, Gordon Maxwell, fared no better. The NSA guy seemed to have a deep and abiding dislike of the military. Or maybe just me.

  This level of the facility had been built to accommodate up to forty workers. It now held only me and three other people: Choirboy, Doc, and the boss. Gordon showed potential to become a pompous asshole, but at least he kept me in the loop by sharing the dossiers on the selected team members. I silently named him Kingpin.

  Actually, aside from falling under temporary civilian control and being unable to see the threat I’d been ordered to contain, the assignment wasn’t too bad. We had decent food, private rooms, even a small gym with weights and machines. Afghanistan had been a lot worse, but at least there you could see the sky, and I had things to shoot.

  The customized smartphone beeped and displayed a text message from Hauser saying the rest of the team had arrived. I hustled to the elevator and gave the surveillance camera a thumbs-up. The door opened to reveal four mission specialists—one man and three women—in various states of irritation. The first to come out was a short Asian guy in a dark designer suit. He hid behind a polished smile and confident stride as if playing to the cameras mounted on the wall. I decided to call him Slick. He asked, “When are we getting our phones back?”

  I shrugged. The security personnel on the upper levels would have given minimal explanations, which left me as the current focus of their attention, but I wasn’t talking either. That was the boss’s job.

  Next came a cute, curly-haired chick whose breasts seemed poised to pop out of a leather-and-lace corset. A pair of
aviator goggles rested on her forehead. A short, lacy dress revealed pale skin from mid-thigh to knee, where leather boots took over. A series of wristwatches formed the buckles. I tagged her Steampunk.

  She gazed warily at me and the weapons on my belt. “I don’t appreciate being kidnapped under the banner of ‘national security’ even if it’s true, which it probably isn’t since it’s a term used to justify keeping secrets that ought to be exposed because secrets erode a person’s sense of morality.”

  I didn’t know how to answer, or even if she expected an answer, and I was spared coming up with one as a dark-skinned, dark-haired woman with a briefcase strode out of the elevator. The case looked suspiciously like the one carried by the woman in Australia, though I supposed there were about a million identical cases in the world.

  “Where’s Colonel Hauser?” she said in a demanding tone.

  “He isn’t in the facility, ma’am.” I knew from her dossier that she was a scientist who had worked with the colonel before. In my book that didn’t give her any higher status, nor did her 180 IQ. I motioned for Brainiac to step aside. She complied with a frown.

  The last person to emerge was a mousy woman in her sixties with a slack expression, tired hair, and slumped shoulders. She shuffled out of the elevator and joined the semicircle in front of me. She looked so bummed out that I decided to call her Mopes.

  Descriptions are better than names. Names can make a soldier hesitate by personalizing potential targets.

  Steampunk resumed her tirade. “Guns, Taser, uniforms. Elevators without buttons.” She glanced at Brainiac. “Colonels that don’t show up.” She faced me again. “I told the suits who came knocking on my door that I wanted no part of their code-making, code-breaking activities. I thought NSA, or maybe CIA, but if you’re DoD it makes no difference. Call a cab and send me back because the world needs more openness, not more secrecy.”

  “No can do,” I said. “Strictly speaking, this isn’t a military operation.”