SNAFU: Heroes: An Anthology of Military Horror

I followed the flashlight beam down the crooked hallway until it ended at a set of double-doors that were made out of heavy-grade plastic. The kind meant to swing back when you pushed a cart through them, like they have in meat-packing plants.

A charming thought.

I pushed one flap open and peered into the gloom. The beam of the flashlight swept across a storage room that was still stacked high with boxes of equipment and office supplies. There were bare patches on the floor where I assumed boxed files once stood, but they’d been confiscated by the task force. Motes of dust swirled in the glow, spinning like planets in some dwarf galaxy. They looked cold and sad.

As I began to let the flap fall back into place something caught my attention.

Nothing I saw or heard.

It was a smell.

A mingled combination of scents, pleasant and unpleasant.

A hint of perfume, the sulfur stink of a burned match, old sweat and spoiled meat.

The movement of the swinging door somehow wafted that olio of scents to me, but it didn’t last. It was there and gone.

It was such an odd combination of smells. They didn’t seem to fit this place. And they were transient smells that should long ago have faded into the general background stink of dust and disuses. Except for the rotten meat smell. That, I knew all too well, could linger. But this was a research facility not a meat packing plant. There shouldn’t be a smell like that in here.

My brain immediately started cooking up rationalizations for it.

An animal came in here and died.

The staff left food in the fridge when the place was raided.

And…

And.

And what?

I tapped the earbud.

“Bug, what’s the status on those damn lights?”

There was a short burst of static, then Bug said, “—er company.”

“You’re breaking up. Repeat message.”

“The power is on according to a representative of the power company.”

I moved through the swinging doors and found a whole row of light switches. Threw them.

Stood in the dark.

“Negative on the power, Bug. Call someone who doesn’t have his dick in his hand and get me some lights.”

He paused, then said, “On it, Cowboy.”

The storage room had two interior doors, one of which opened into a bathroom that was so sparkling clean it looked like it had never been used. The only mark was a smudged handprint on the wall above the toilet. The smell hadn’t come from here.

The other door opened onto another jagged hallway that snaked through the building. The walls were lined with closed doors on either side. A lot of doors. This was going to take a while.

Dark and spooky as the place was, it seemed pretty clear that nobody was home but me. I snugged the Beretta into the padded holster, but left my Orioles shirt open in case I needed to get to it in a hurry.

For the next half hour I poked into a variety of rooms that included storage closets of various sizes, a copy center, a staff lunchroom, offices for executives of various wattage, and labs. Lots and lots of labs.

I entered one at random and stood in the doorway, doing what cops do, letting the room speak to me. There were rows of black file cabinets sealed with yellow tape that had an ominous-looking federal seal from the Department of Justice. A dozen tables were crowded with computers and a variety of scientific instrumentation so sophisticated and arcane that I had almost no idea what I was looking at. The floor was littered with papers, and here and there were fragments of footprints on the debris.

Watching the room told me nothing.

I backed into the hall and did a quick recount of the laboratories just in this wing of the building. Nine.

“Bug,” I said, tapping the earbud.

“Cowboy, the power company insists that there is no interruption to the Koenig Group facility. They are showing active meters.”

I grunted and filed that away. Maybe it was something simpler, like breakers. To Bug I said, “How many labs are there in this place?”

“Twenty-two separate rooms designated on the blueprints as laboratory workspaces.”

“Jeez…”

“And one designated as a proving station.”

“Proving what?”

“Unknown. None of the employees interviewed by the task force had ever been in there, and the three executives under indictment aren’t talking.”

“So we have no real idea what they were doing there?”

“Not really,” he said, and he sounded wistful about it. “I wish we could have gotten those computer records. I’ll bet there was some cool stuff there.”

Cool.