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‘Joshua A. Jameson,
We’ve located Dr. Carter. Would you like to help us retrieve him?
With regards,
Dr. Grant Hargrove.
Director of Subproject 23’
That’s all the email said. That’s all it needed to say.
I retired from the Armed Services in 1998. But not a day has gone by that my mind hasn’t returned to the concrete crypt of Camp Hero.
And not a day has gone by where I haven’t tried to scrub the innocent blood off of my hands.
But the truth is that all the water in the world couldn’t wash them clean. I scrub and scrub, but the blue water turns red under my touch. Red like that terrible place. Red like the sands of that furthest hell.
Yet when I read that letter, I felt something. For the first time in over 40 years I felt myself become present.
‘When and where?’ I replied.
And then I waited.
For the last 40 years I had lived immobile. My injuries had rendered my legs useless. I was confined to the steel charity of my wheelchair. A charity that allowed me to move about my accursed life with restricted freedom.
They say God blesses the worst of us so that we may return to his light.
And He might have forgiven me.
But I haven’t forgiven myself.
I don’t know if that makes me ungrateful, or just a sinner. I just knew that the gift of salvation wasn’t for me. Not yet.
Some time after our initial emails, a meeting had been scheduled. I would be meeting Dr. Hargrove right back at Camp Hero. Right back where it all started.
On the government’s dime I had flown back up to New York. I met with my escorts at the Airport. They were some hefty men in suits. They told me they’d take me the rest of the way to the facility and warned me that things aren’t what they used to be.
They were right.
When we pulled up to the old entry site we were greeted with a festering corpse of a facility that I used to know.
‘Do Not Enter. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.’ signs littered the rusted fence of the old base. Yet clear evidence of graffiti overlaid the formally white concrete walls inside.
The facility reflected its age. It’s corruption. I saw myself reflected in every decaying inch of it.
We were brought through the security checkpoint with little opposition. Some men dressed as Park Rangers provided us with an escort. I say ‘dressed as’ because I couldn’t tell you the last time I had seen Park Rangers outfitted with M4’s. Doubly so while supposedly out on a standard patrol.
I knew that these men were the new Security Police. They wore different uniforms but had the same miserable job. Unlike us though, they had taken pride in trying to hide themselves from the public.
When we arrived at the entrance of the subterranean tunnels beneath our feet, I had let out a sigh as heavy as a gravestone. Whether it be from regret or apprehension, I couldn’t tell you. The building itself had a way of stealing your breath away. One way or another.
And once more those vampiric concrete doors had beckoned me to enter.
My escorts parted the doors open for our descent. Their nice black suits had begun to conjure up images within my mind of dutiful undertakers. Carrying their willing carcass into the deep bowels of a forgotten mausoleum.
Our mock procession continued our descent downwards. Far into the depths of crumbling concrete. Our path was guided by flickering yellow iridescent lights that buzzed overhead. Their sad songs were joined by the squealing melody of my old wheelchair.
Every inch we progressed had conjured up vivid ghosts within my mind. I envisioned the empty halls filled with the staff from yesteryear. Invisible forms of scientists and technicians hustling about with their 80’s hairstyles and tightly rolled up sleeves.
They appeared so very real to me in that moment. I had to wonder if my escorts could see them too.
After an eternity of empty hallways and blank corridors we had finally hit our final resting place. A room that had been stolen from my deepest memories and my most terrible nightmares.
In front of me was a large metal door that I had first seen 40 years prior. The crumbling black paint had still read ‘Subproject 23’.
One of my escorts had typed in several numbers into a keypad nearest the door. Seven loud clicks filled the vacant concrete hallway as the magnetic seals disengaged.
I expected to see a catacomb of death laid out before me. A final vault containing humanities blunder. A lasting testament warning those not to look at our own world and think, ‘not good enough’.
But instead I was blinded by an intense white light that had poured out from the doorway. Inside were dozens of researchers hastily running back and forth. These would be the new men of our hereditary mistake. What we had birthed decades ago had given these men purpose.
In front of the far wall of this warehouse stood the same metallic pillars that I had endless nightmares about.
They were both the keys and the lock that separated our world from the next one over. With a single click of a button the concrete wall that separated our reality from Hell would fall away. Joining the two realities in an unholy marriage.
I glanced over further down the back wall and observed a massive pile of boxes. Several lab techs were jotting down an inventory of whatever equipment was stored inside. Their faces seemed grim and uncertain. Even through the artificially bright lights of Project Entryway, you could smell the air of inescapable rot around every corner.
Even though they had done their best to keep this room clean from physical damnation, the effects on all the human souls were present.
Nevertheless I still felt like I knew these men.
I know it sounds mad but they carried with them the same type of energy and aura that the men from yesteryear did. For just a moment I thought I would be able to turn my head and be a witness to the second coming my old comrades. As though I would be able to see Georgy, Bobby and Yoshi prepped for my command.
I could still hear their laughs somewhere deep within my mind. Right underneath the sounds of their screaming.
However, the resurrection I witnessed was not that of my comrades. But a resurrection of something far worse.
I turned my gaze towards my left. My eyes focused on the same battered metallic steps that I had remembered so long ago. I trailed my eyes up them to the same observation post that had controlled the gateway to Hell itself. The very pulpit of scientific preaching and overreach.
And with the pulpit, comes the Priest.
At the top of the steps prevailed someone that had been plucked straight from my memory. A scraggly looking scientist. A tall frail man that looked like he hadn’t aged more than 10 years.
A man that had unintentionally spurred my ire. Dr. Grant Hargrove.
He was giving orders to several other researchers from his little clerical rostrum from up high. His expression was as dour and damning as ever. That was until his eyes matched mine.
Only then did his thin lips upturned into a tight, awful smile.
“Joshua A. Jameson, once more in the flesh.” His voice had feigned the appearance of being pleasant. “I trust retirement has treated you well?”
I turned my wheelchair to face the man that had not harmed me in the past. But the man who reminded me of the harm that I had done to others.
“Dr. Hargrove. It’s been a while.”
“Indeed it has.” The Director then turned to one of his assistants and handed him over a thick binder full of papers. “Get it done. Now.” His eyes pierced through the man with little regard to the soul that lay underneath the lab coat. “And don’t forget the necessity of rationing out the equipment. We have to keep this within our budget.”
I felt my jaw clench down in disgust. I hated this man. I couldn’t explain why but I still blamed him for what I did.
Worse yet, the lives that I had watched flicker out in my very own hands had meant nothing to him. Nothing to the greater Project. The Project itself had appeared to be dying of its own accord.
No final act of vengeance to be had. Just financial ruin. No advancements, no memorials, just death.
“So, Joshua, welcome back to Subproject 23. A lot has changed. A lot hasn’t. I’ve been off site for some time dealing with other projects of mine. But we’ve finally had a breakthrough and I thought I’d return.”
I let out an exasperated sigh before I responded to the Doctor. “And why am I here?”
“Because, we’re in the midst of a new exploratory phase. We need a new Security Team Leader and we’re running low on funds.” I felt my skin crawl at those words. ‘New’.
“What happened to the previous Team Lead you had?” I asked. I felt the venom rise up in my throat.
“He found Dr. Carter’s old video recordings. Then something found him. He didn’t make it back with the tapes. And since we needed a new Team Lead I thought back to you.”
My head began to swirl in dismissive anger. “What? What found him?” I shook my head in absolute disgust. “Actually, no. You told me that you found Dr. Carter’s body. I’m not here for any tapes.”
“Wrong Mr. Jameson.” Dr. Hargrove had droned out emotionlessly. “ I told you that we found Dr. Carter. I didn’t say anything about a body. The last Team Lead’s footage revealed what appears to be Dr. Carter. Alive.”
I felt a lump in my throat. I swallowed hard. “Excuse me?”
“I know you’re not daft Mr. Jameson. You’re looking upon the face of a man much younger than yourself. Why is that? Because we’ve begun to find some uses for the red mineral sands. In proper doses it can slow aging to a reasonable level with minimal side effects.” He paused for just a second. “In major doses it stops aging completely. It can even prevent the effects of major trauma from realizing itself. But the side effects are… not pleasant in large doses.”
There was an immediate silence between us. The sounds of busy technicians faded away to the blaring waves of my own thoughts.
If Dr. Carter was still alive, he would have been in that hellscape for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.
“You know I’m disabled right? Not to mention I’m in my 60’s. How can I lead a team?”
“Simple. One of our changes involves setting up a forward outpost on the other side of the entryway. It’ll allow instant transmissions of video and audio. You will lead a team of three men via audio and visual recording while stationed at the outpost.”
I stayed silent. The idea of sending men deeper into that world tugged at my heartstrings. I thought back to the recordings that Dr. Hargrove had forced me to relive. Could I put myself through something similar again?
“Well Joshua?” Dr. Hargrove interrupted. He was quickly becoming bored of our conversation.
My brain rationalized itself to me. This time would be different. I would be able to speak to the recordings. To change the outcome. This time I would be able to lead my team back to safety.
“I’ll do it.” I mumbled. My back leaning deeper into my chair. “Who will I lead?”
Dr. Hargrove’s features changed into that of a proud fathers. A genuine smile crossed his lips but the aura of death had still lingered in his eyes.
“Your old squadron. Squadron 08-23. They consist of the three surviving members from our most recent expedition. They’re expecting you in your old common room. I suspect you still remember where that is?”
I nodded in response.
“Good.” called out the Director. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Without a second glance, Dr. Hargrove turned his back towards me.
I took a deep breath and contemplated everything that had just happened. My head was spinning. I had felt like I had fallen off of the edge into insanity.
My escort eventually grabbed onto the back of my wheelchair and broke me from my trance. He began to push me back out of the lab. I stopped him and took in a deep breath.
“Thanks, for everything, but let me do this. If you could just get the door for me.” The tall man nodded and entered in the exit code. The heavy magnetized door swung back open. I wheeled myself out into the concrete maze of decaying hallways and empty rooms.
I followed the specter of my memories towards the old common room. I couldn’t help but reminisce over the fact that the last time I had ventured into those depths I had stood tall and confident.
Now I felt frail and weak.
The ceilings had towered over my body like a hellish giant, they loomed over me with no regard over who I was. They judged me over every rotation of my wheels and over every labored breath I took.
It was in that moment that I felt the same energy that I had always felt down there. The feeling of absolute isolation.
It wasn’t until I heard the solemn sounds of voices echoing through the empty corridors that I was able to remind myself that I wasn’t alone. I could feel the muscles in my heart tense up from my nerves.
I kept asking myself if I was ready for this. I kept telling myself ‘you have to be’.
It wasn’t until I approached the only illuminated room in the otherwise desolate passageway that I was able to understand the voices in the air. The first voice that I had heard displayed a distinguishable Irish accent. His voice had fluttered its way out of the room further than the other ones could.
“I don’t know.” He groaned, “I don’t think I’m ready to go back.”
A deeper, fuller voice replied back to the young Irishman, “We owe it to Stevens. Swallow that fear for now.”
“And what about-” I wheeled myself into the room, interrupting the young man. Three faces turned to face me at that moment. Not a single one felt blessed to see me.
“Oh feck.” The Irishman mumbled. I could feel the air of total disappointment take charge over the room. “They gave us an old man in a wheelchair.”
I took a deep breath before introducing myself.
“Yeah, they did. And also assigned me as the Team Leader. So we can work together or die together, your choice.”
The Irishman shrugged and took a sip of his drink. “‘Suppose we’ll work together then.”
I wheeled myself up to their table and extended my hand to the three of them. Each one shook it.
Each one of them had a strong, dependable, grip.
“Good to meet you all. My name’s Joshua A. Jameson, former Air Force Pararescue. Retired as a Chief Master Sergeant after 20 years. More importantly, I’ve been to the same Hell as all of you.”
“Hargrove said you’d have some experience out there.” The man of considerable size remarked. His skin was dark and scarred but there was warmth in his eyes. “My name’s Henry Adams. Former Army Ranger. Spent 20 years in, got out and started contract work.”
I looked over to the Irishman who was continuously adjusting himself in his seat. He appeared to have a hard time just sitting still. I noted that his red hair was neatly trimmed along the sides and swept over on the top. His eyes were a crystal clear shade of blue.
“I’m Timothy Doyle, but call me Tim. It’s good to meet you. I’m also a Former Ranger, but with the Irish Defense Force. Born and raised in Galway.” Tim flashed a smile showcasing his pearly white teeth.
That’s when I turned my view over to our last team member. A man with short black hair and a hardened gaze.
“Clark Miller. Former Marine Recon. Current Contractor.”
I kept my eyes on him. I could tell he wasn’t telling me the whole truth. He was too young to have retired from the Marine Corps and too orderly to have resigned without a plan.
“Did you do anything after the Marines?” I probed. He was quiet for a moment then finally showed a small smirk.
“Yeah. CIA.” Clark seemed to relax his shoulders for just a moment. At least until he heard Tim’s voice directed towards his person.
“No shit, you were with the CIA? I’ve known you almost a full year now and you didn’t mention that.” Tim laughed at himself before leaning over towards Clark.
Clark just grunted in response. He had closed his eyes like a vice grip and stayed still. The only sign of life within him being that of a throbbing vein irritatedly pumping blood in his neck.
I cleared my throat to reel the men back in. “Listen, I’m not up to date on anything so fill me in. Does the Entryway still take you to the middle of nowhere with a big unfinished city on the horizon?”
Henry spoke up, “Unfinished? That city is all there is. It’s like an endless maze of streets and alleyways.”
“Yeah, we go through it, set up a forward outpost, then conduct our missions.” Clark explained, “Us four…” Clark paused for just a moment. “Us three have done it about twelve times together. We replaced the last group that got cycled out.”
Tim air quoted Clark’s words. “Cycled out. Yeah right. There was an issue with their life support equipment. They all went nuts.” He let out a sarcastic sigh. “We’ve been lucky this far. If it wasn’t for the pay it wouldn’t be worth the hassle.”
Henry interrupted Tim’s disillusioned rant. “Hey Chief, how are you going to lead us with you’re…”
“Disability?” I replied. “Apparently I’m going to stay at the base camp and guide you all from some console.”
A silence fell on the group.
“Being down a man is going to be a liability.” Clark flatly stated to the table of men. He opened his eyes back up and stared at me like a hawk with its talons fully extended.
“I agree. But I’ll do what I can for you. I’ve got experience that the other eggheads don’t have. I also happen to value life more than some old recordings.”
Tim laughed and clapped his hands together. “Hell yeah. That’ll be a breath of fresh air. Hargrove’s always on us about ending missions early. Even when things get weird.”
I squinted my eyes towards the red headed Irishman. “Weird? Like what kind of weird?”
“What’s not weird about that place.” Henry muttered, taking a sip of his water. “The voices, the screams. The Shadows.” He paused and the hair on his forearm crept up. “I really hate that place.”
There was a silence.
I nodded. “Me too.” I whispered.
The next few hours we spent getting to know one another.
Henry had grown up in Arizona. He had always wanted to be a Ranger and made sure that dream came true. Afterwards he tried to be a family man but could never find the one that’d force him to settle down. So he returned back to the world of conflict and contracting. He nearly died overseas a few times but always managed to pull himself through.
Tim on the other hand had never had any idea what he wanted to do. He thought having a uniform would be fun and figured having the chance to travel outside of Ireland would be a blast. Instead he got stationed in his own country. He made it his mission to collect enough negative paperwork that no one wanted him reenlisting. Afterwards he gave being a Paramedic a shot. But he ended up getting bored again. His latest change in life led him to being involved with contract work.
And finally there was Clark. He didn’t have much to tell us. He had some distinguished awards from the Marine Corps. Then he felt a calling for governmental work but couldn’t give up his gun. So he thought the CIA would fit him nicely. Unfortunately for him, not everyone’s an Agent. He got stuck pushing paperwork so he left. He found the same contract group as the others and signed his name on the dotted line.
That night we had all sauntered out of the meeting feeling a little bit more refreshed. When we all left for our separate rooms, I finally felt an ounce of peace and clarity. For the first time in decades I closed my eyes and prayed
“God in Heaven, hear my prayer. Help me so that I might help others. Let not my hand cause harm to my allies but deal death to the wicked. Guide me through your spirit as I venture into the depths of Hell. Amen” I took a deep breath and wheeled myself over to my cot. The blankets and pillows were clearly dusty and old.
I let out a small chuckle. I realized that Dr. Hargrove had never thought of the amenities that someone would need to have in order to be content in a workplace. Pillows and blankets were beyond him.
I lurched myself up and swung my body over the edge of the bed.
I rested my head down on the firm pillow beneath me. ‘Sleep.’ I prayed. And for the first time in decades, I slept.