01-11-2024, 01:22 AM
Ch. 3
Ten and Two
Panhandle, Texas - May 10, 1980.
Cassius can see the rendezvous up ahead on the right - an old derelict stone building. He eases
on the brake, turns into what is little more than a dirt field and pulls behind the ramshackle structure.
There, he finds the man from the park who was playing with the German Shepherd - sitting in the
navy blue, wood-paneled station wagon - sans dog.
He parks his truck in a way that conceals it from the road and climbs from the cab. The other
man walks over and circles the pickup while waving a radio frequency scanner.
Without saying a word, the man completes his inspection - then looks to Cassius.
“Your turn.”
“I’ll save you the trouble.” he replies, holding both hands up, then slowly lifting his jacket
open to reveal a .45 in his shoulder holster.
“Lift your arms, spread your feet.”
He’s clean. The man motions with his head towards the station wagon. They walk to the
vehicle - Cassius spots an M-16 and .357 on the front passenger seat.
The man places the scanner onto the floorboard and picks up two cloth items.
“Turn around.” he says, fitting Cassius with a blindfold.
“Is this really necessary?”
He slides a black hood over his head and opens the back door.
“Lay down.”
Cassius climbs into the back seat and gets flat. The man shuts the door, gets behind the
wheel and starts the engine.
While still nervous, he takes comfort in the fact that he wasn’t tied up or disarmed. This was
still more than he had anticipated.
The ride was bumpy but short - roughly thirty minutes.
“You can get up.”
Cassius raises himself to a sitting position.
“How ‘bout all this?” he asks in reference to his headgear.
“Take it off.”
He removes the hood and blindfold. After blinking several times, he notices the surroundings
are far different. They creep up a narrow dirt path - not unlike a long, winding driveway.
There were trees all around, most of which were the smaller mesquite scrub. Then it came
into view - an old country house. Half sun-baked adobe, half weathered cabin boards. It wasn’t
what he expected but neither was anything else. This was all new and unfamiliar territory for him.
The man parks the station wagon about fifty feet from the house, facing the exit. He and Cassius
are met out front by the woman.
“Hello Mr. Wheeler. Welcome to the middle of nowhere!”
On his approach she extends her right hand and smiles warmly.
“Nice little hideaway.” he says, gripping her hand.
“Please, come inside. After you’ve eaten we can get down to business.” she says, gently
slapping him on the back.
They enter the house, leaving the driver posted outside.
An hour later, after a hearty meal, Cassius sits at the large, rustic table finishing his beer - the
woman sits across from him sipping coffee.
She rises from the table and disappears down the hall, returning with a hefty stack of
cream-colored folders. On top lays a small zippered satchel.
“My name is Catherine Elizabeth Thomas. I’ve been a research scientist in the field of genetics
for twenty years. My ID and credentials are inside the bag.”
She drops the weight of information onto the table in front of him.
“Have at it.”
Cassius unzips the bag first - removing a driver’s license, social security card and a Level 4
security clearance badge. There are other folded articles of paperwork that he leaves inside.
He’s already decided to award her his trust - she never struck him as the fraudulent type.
“May I ask how you came to be in possession of all this?” he queries, returning her various
forms of identification to the bag.
“Two former colleagues.” she answers.
“They have names?”
“They did, but they’re dead now.”
Cassius turns his eyes from her to the mound of folders before him.
“Good men that paid for this information with their lives.” she says, a hint of sadness in her voice.
He picks up the folder on top and begins the lengthy task of poring over its contents.
Several moments pass.
“This is all pretty over my head. Half this shit, I don’t even know what the hell I’m reading.”
“I’m happy to answer any questions, explain or elaborate.” she offers.
Cassius goes back to perusing the material from one of the many folders for a solid fifteen
minutes. Not one question or remark.
“…three other secret underground facilities - one containing the dreaded ‘God door’.” he finally reads aloud.
“It’s not currently operational but my guess is within three years it will be.” she says.
His eyes refer back to the page.
“What the hell are black angels?”
“Are you familiar with the CERN facility in Switzerland?” she asks.
“No.”
“It’s a nuclear research complex, or so we’ve been told. The study of particle physics - atomic
and subatomic levels. What they don’t tell us is what that work is really for.”
“And what’s that?” he asks.
“Opening portals.” she answers.
“You lost me.”
“Gateways. If wormholes provide transport to other places in our known time/space
continuum, then portals are gateways to other dimensions.”
Cassius squints and stares.
“Dimensions unknown to us that may not operate within any understandable framework of
time or space as we know it.”
“This sounds like a bad sci-fi movie.”
“They’re working on a very dangerous form of artificial intelligence, to pair with this new
technology to open other-dimensional portals, in order to not only have ready-access to this
‘God door’ but to have the ability to keep it open indefinitely.”
“What does that mean?” he questions.
“That Earth will be an open gateway to the infinite unknown.”
He stands and paces.
“And these black angels?” he asks.
“Alien/AI hybrids to be the gatekeepers, two posted at every portal - but not to safeguard
the entryway - their job will be to act as beacons.”
“Beacons?”
“Think lighthouse, but instead of guiding ships they will attract endless streams of unknown entities.”
“How many of these damn portals will there be?”
“Eventually? Thousands, worldwide. Which is why this cannot be allowed to happen.”
Cassius returns to his seat and continues reading. The deeper he got the more insidious it became.
Fantastical accounts of a magnitude unimaginable - all accompanied by photographic evidence,
partially redacted official government letterhead documents and a sick gnawing in the pit of his
stomach that whispered its reluctant authenticity.
Catherine watches on as the absolute horror of it all sinks in for him. His expression an
amalgamation of anger, despair, rejection - all tied together with a rope of conquest.
It was completely overwhelming - aliens, animal-human hybrids, ruthless experiments attempting
to merge man with machine, the hundreds of thousands of missing persons each year - thought to
be lost and gone forever - only to end up in cages within the dark halls of these underground facilities.
Their fate - to be pin cushions for the savage violence being practiced under the diabolically false
heading of medical science. Some to be the food for blasphemous creatures - eaten alive, as a delicacy.
Hell was real.
“What kind of God?” Cassius expresses quietly.
“Maybe God isn’t the benevolent being we’ve been told He is.” Catherine opines.
“I always felt the Universe was hostile. There’s no longer any room for doubt.” he says.
“Some truths weren’t meant for us.” she offers in consolation.
Cassius goes out front for some air - the driver is dead on the ground - single gunshot to
the head.
He rushes inside where two men have Catherine pinned under the barrel of a machine gun -
she’s gagged and restrained at wrist and ankle. A third man sits at the table with Cassius’ holster
and weapon in front of him.
They are mercenaries in all black, wearing balaclavas.
“Howdy Mr. Wheeler. How’s Texas treatin’ ya?” the seated man asks.
He’s dumbstruck.
“That’s alright, you can just listen.” he says, then stands and slowly circles the table.
“Now I don’t know what this woman has told you, or shown you.” he begins, then violently
pushes the folders and papers off the table, they scatter wildly on the floor.
“But she is a liar, a traitor and completely out of her fucking mind.” he continues, stopping in
front of Catherine, hitting her with a vicious backhand.
Cassius jolts forward with a single step. The leader spins around with a large handgun pointed.
One of the men flanking Catherine moves to Cassius and sits him in a chair, zip-tying his
wrists. The lead man’s weapon still aimed.
“So you’ve got a choice to make. Right here right now.”
Cassius looks over at Catherine, her face stoically blank, tears trickling.
The man sits on the table in front of Cassius, laying his gun down where the folders were
stacked only moments before.
“Retirement with a pension, fishing trips, hell - sleeping late every damn day if you so
choose - you want all that, don’t ya?” he asks.
Cassius refuses to give him the satisfaction.
“Or you could end up like her.”
Still nothing.
“You really gonna give me the silent treatment?” the man goads.
Cassius stares him down, unblinking.
“Get the vans.” the man says to his subordinates.
The two men move quickly to and out the front door.
Several minutes tick slowly by, the room is mute - then the sound of two vehicles reversing
at the rear of the house.
“Either of you have any last words?” the man asks.
“Fuck you.” Cassius flings with venom.
The two men enter from the back door.
“She goes with you.” he says to the first man.
“He’ll come with us.” he informs the second.
The two flunkies grab Catherine by the arms and lead her out the back door.
“Let’s go.” the man orders Cassius.
He stands and moves to the exit, feeling the gun pressing into his back every step of the way.
They get outside just as Catherine is being loaded into the first van. Her second man and dog
both lay dead near the back of the house. One man gets behind the wheel, the other walks over
to Cassius and zip-ties his ankles.
“What’s gonna happen to her?”
The subordinate opens the van’s back doors and pushes Cassius inside. He lands on his
chest and face.
“That’s beyond your concern.” the lead man replies.
“Tell me!” he screams, rolling onto his side to face him.
“She’s going to spend the rest of her life in a cell - for defiling the honor, integrity and security
of this great nation.”
“How’s that? I thought you said she was a liar - and crazy?”
“Don’t get lost in the fine print.” he says, then slams the van doors shut.
Cassius was sick. The grim reality setting in - the uphill struggle to process - the good guys
were actually the bad guys.
The rough, jostling ride ended after about thirty minutes. The van reverses into place and is
put in park - motor running.
The back doors swing open - it’s the lead man. He glares down at Cassius.
“None of this ever happened. We clear?”
Cassius gives him daggers, not a single word.
The man pulls his gun and presses it against the side of his face.
“Say it!” the man seethes through gritted teeth.
Cassius is breathing harder.
“Clear.”
He grabs Cassius by the right arm, lifts him up and throws him from the back of the van
onto the ground. He shuts the doors then kneels beside him, cutting his restraints.
“Go live your life, Mr. Wheeler.” he offers, then climbs back into the passenger side of the
vehicle. The van speeds away, lifting a cloud of reddish-brown dust. Cassius gets to his feet,
rubs his wrists and walks to his truck.
He sits behind the wheel for a few minutes. Finally, it all spills out, he bursts into tears.
Punching the dash, stomping the floor. Overcome with things he’ll never be able to discuss with
another living soul.
And then there were his concerns for Catherine.
The red and white Dodge pulls from behind the crumbled building, its tail-lights growing
smaller down the long country road as the sky turns from dusk to dark.
Tucumcari, New Mexico - May 14, 1980.
Catherine’s Bronco was found on a side road just off of NM-104. She was dead in the driver’s
seat. Her hands were duct taped to the steering wheel at the ten and two o’clock positions.
She had been beaten to the point of disfigurement.
Her eyes were removed and hung from the rearview mirror. Acid burns covered seventy percent
of her body - the majority of damage being on the face, arms and torso. Her feet were cut off
at the ankle and sat upright on the back seat. The windshield was spider-webbed but intact.
There were no personal effects or any forms of identification. The gas tank was three-quarters full.
Her death was ruled as suicide.
Ten and Two
Panhandle, Texas - May 10, 1980.
Cassius can see the rendezvous up ahead on the right - an old derelict stone building. He eases
on the brake, turns into what is little more than a dirt field and pulls behind the ramshackle structure.
There, he finds the man from the park who was playing with the German Shepherd - sitting in the
navy blue, wood-paneled station wagon - sans dog.
He parks his truck in a way that conceals it from the road and climbs from the cab. The other
man walks over and circles the pickup while waving a radio frequency scanner.
Without saying a word, the man completes his inspection - then looks to Cassius.
“Your turn.”
“I’ll save you the trouble.” he replies, holding both hands up, then slowly lifting his jacket
open to reveal a .45 in his shoulder holster.
“Lift your arms, spread your feet.”
He’s clean. The man motions with his head towards the station wagon. They walk to the
vehicle - Cassius spots an M-16 and .357 on the front passenger seat.
The man places the scanner onto the floorboard and picks up two cloth items.
“Turn around.” he says, fitting Cassius with a blindfold.
“Is this really necessary?”
He slides a black hood over his head and opens the back door.
“Lay down.”
Cassius climbs into the back seat and gets flat. The man shuts the door, gets behind the
wheel and starts the engine.
While still nervous, he takes comfort in the fact that he wasn’t tied up or disarmed. This was
still more than he had anticipated.
The ride was bumpy but short - roughly thirty minutes.
“You can get up.”
Cassius raises himself to a sitting position.
“How ‘bout all this?” he asks in reference to his headgear.
“Take it off.”
He removes the hood and blindfold. After blinking several times, he notices the surroundings
are far different. They creep up a narrow dirt path - not unlike a long, winding driveway.
There were trees all around, most of which were the smaller mesquite scrub. Then it came
into view - an old country house. Half sun-baked adobe, half weathered cabin boards. It wasn’t
what he expected but neither was anything else. This was all new and unfamiliar territory for him.
The man parks the station wagon about fifty feet from the house, facing the exit. He and Cassius
are met out front by the woman.
“Hello Mr. Wheeler. Welcome to the middle of nowhere!”
On his approach she extends her right hand and smiles warmly.
“Nice little hideaway.” he says, gripping her hand.
“Please, come inside. After you’ve eaten we can get down to business.” she says, gently
slapping him on the back.
They enter the house, leaving the driver posted outside.
An hour later, after a hearty meal, Cassius sits at the large, rustic table finishing his beer - the
woman sits across from him sipping coffee.
She rises from the table and disappears down the hall, returning with a hefty stack of
cream-colored folders. On top lays a small zippered satchel.
“My name is Catherine Elizabeth Thomas. I’ve been a research scientist in the field of genetics
for twenty years. My ID and credentials are inside the bag.”
She drops the weight of information onto the table in front of him.
“Have at it.”
Cassius unzips the bag first - removing a driver’s license, social security card and a Level 4
security clearance badge. There are other folded articles of paperwork that he leaves inside.
He’s already decided to award her his trust - she never struck him as the fraudulent type.
“May I ask how you came to be in possession of all this?” he queries, returning her various
forms of identification to the bag.
“Two former colleagues.” she answers.
“They have names?”
“They did, but they’re dead now.”
Cassius turns his eyes from her to the mound of folders before him.
“Good men that paid for this information with their lives.” she says, a hint of sadness in her voice.
He picks up the folder on top and begins the lengthy task of poring over its contents.
Several moments pass.
“This is all pretty over my head. Half this shit, I don’t even know what the hell I’m reading.”
“I’m happy to answer any questions, explain or elaborate.” she offers.
Cassius goes back to perusing the material from one of the many folders for a solid fifteen
minutes. Not one question or remark.
“…three other secret underground facilities - one containing the dreaded ‘God door’.” he finally reads aloud.
“It’s not currently operational but my guess is within three years it will be.” she says.
His eyes refer back to the page.
“What the hell are black angels?”
“Are you familiar with the CERN facility in Switzerland?” she asks.
“No.”
“It’s a nuclear research complex, or so we’ve been told. The study of particle physics - atomic
and subatomic levels. What they don’t tell us is what that work is really for.”
“And what’s that?” he asks.
“Opening portals.” she answers.
“You lost me.”
“Gateways. If wormholes provide transport to other places in our known time/space
continuum, then portals are gateways to other dimensions.”
Cassius squints and stares.
“Dimensions unknown to us that may not operate within any understandable framework of
time or space as we know it.”
“This sounds like a bad sci-fi movie.”
“They’re working on a very dangerous form of artificial intelligence, to pair with this new
technology to open other-dimensional portals, in order to not only have ready-access to this
‘God door’ but to have the ability to keep it open indefinitely.”
“What does that mean?” he questions.
“That Earth will be an open gateway to the infinite unknown.”
He stands and paces.
“And these black angels?” he asks.
“Alien/AI hybrids to be the gatekeepers, two posted at every portal - but not to safeguard
the entryway - their job will be to act as beacons.”
“Beacons?”
“Think lighthouse, but instead of guiding ships they will attract endless streams of unknown entities.”
“How many of these damn portals will there be?”
“Eventually? Thousands, worldwide. Which is why this cannot be allowed to happen.”
Cassius returns to his seat and continues reading. The deeper he got the more insidious it became.
Fantastical accounts of a magnitude unimaginable - all accompanied by photographic evidence,
partially redacted official government letterhead documents and a sick gnawing in the pit of his
stomach that whispered its reluctant authenticity.
Catherine watches on as the absolute horror of it all sinks in for him. His expression an
amalgamation of anger, despair, rejection - all tied together with a rope of conquest.
It was completely overwhelming - aliens, animal-human hybrids, ruthless experiments attempting
to merge man with machine, the hundreds of thousands of missing persons each year - thought to
be lost and gone forever - only to end up in cages within the dark halls of these underground facilities.
Their fate - to be pin cushions for the savage violence being practiced under the diabolically false
heading of medical science. Some to be the food for blasphemous creatures - eaten alive, as a delicacy.
Hell was real.
“What kind of God?” Cassius expresses quietly.
“Maybe God isn’t the benevolent being we’ve been told He is.” Catherine opines.
“I always felt the Universe was hostile. There’s no longer any room for doubt.” he says.
“Some truths weren’t meant for us.” she offers in consolation.
Cassius goes out front for some air - the driver is dead on the ground - single gunshot to
the head.
He rushes inside where two men have Catherine pinned under the barrel of a machine gun -
she’s gagged and restrained at wrist and ankle. A third man sits at the table with Cassius’ holster
and weapon in front of him.
They are mercenaries in all black, wearing balaclavas.
“Howdy Mr. Wheeler. How’s Texas treatin’ ya?” the seated man asks.
He’s dumbstruck.
“That’s alright, you can just listen.” he says, then stands and slowly circles the table.
“Now I don’t know what this woman has told you, or shown you.” he begins, then violently
pushes the folders and papers off the table, they scatter wildly on the floor.
“But she is a liar, a traitor and completely out of her fucking mind.” he continues, stopping in
front of Catherine, hitting her with a vicious backhand.
Cassius jolts forward with a single step. The leader spins around with a large handgun pointed.
One of the men flanking Catherine moves to Cassius and sits him in a chair, zip-tying his
wrists. The lead man’s weapon still aimed.
“So you’ve got a choice to make. Right here right now.”
Cassius looks over at Catherine, her face stoically blank, tears trickling.
The man sits on the table in front of Cassius, laying his gun down where the folders were
stacked only moments before.
“Retirement with a pension, fishing trips, hell - sleeping late every damn day if you so
choose - you want all that, don’t ya?” he asks.
Cassius refuses to give him the satisfaction.
“Or you could end up like her.”
Still nothing.
“You really gonna give me the silent treatment?” the man goads.
Cassius stares him down, unblinking.
“Get the vans.” the man says to his subordinates.
The two men move quickly to and out the front door.
Several minutes tick slowly by, the room is mute - then the sound of two vehicles reversing
at the rear of the house.
“Either of you have any last words?” the man asks.
“Fuck you.” Cassius flings with venom.
The two men enter from the back door.
“She goes with you.” he says to the first man.
“He’ll come with us.” he informs the second.
The two flunkies grab Catherine by the arms and lead her out the back door.
“Let’s go.” the man orders Cassius.
He stands and moves to the exit, feeling the gun pressing into his back every step of the way.
They get outside just as Catherine is being loaded into the first van. Her second man and dog
both lay dead near the back of the house. One man gets behind the wheel, the other walks over
to Cassius and zip-ties his ankles.
“What’s gonna happen to her?”
The subordinate opens the van’s back doors and pushes Cassius inside. He lands on his
chest and face.
“That’s beyond your concern.” the lead man replies.
“Tell me!” he screams, rolling onto his side to face him.
“She’s going to spend the rest of her life in a cell - for defiling the honor, integrity and security
of this great nation.”
“How’s that? I thought you said she was a liar - and crazy?”
“Don’t get lost in the fine print.” he says, then slams the van doors shut.
Cassius was sick. The grim reality setting in - the uphill struggle to process - the good guys
were actually the bad guys.
The rough, jostling ride ended after about thirty minutes. The van reverses into place and is
put in park - motor running.
The back doors swing open - it’s the lead man. He glares down at Cassius.
“None of this ever happened. We clear?”
Cassius gives him daggers, not a single word.
The man pulls his gun and presses it against the side of his face.
“Say it!” the man seethes through gritted teeth.
Cassius is breathing harder.
“Clear.”
He grabs Cassius by the right arm, lifts him up and throws him from the back of the van
onto the ground. He shuts the doors then kneels beside him, cutting his restraints.
“Go live your life, Mr. Wheeler.” he offers, then climbs back into the passenger side of the
vehicle. The van speeds away, lifting a cloud of reddish-brown dust. Cassius gets to his feet,
rubs his wrists and walks to his truck.
He sits behind the wheel for a few minutes. Finally, it all spills out, he bursts into tears.
Punching the dash, stomping the floor. Overcome with things he’ll never be able to discuss with
another living soul.
And then there were his concerns for Catherine.
The red and white Dodge pulls from behind the crumbled building, its tail-lights growing
smaller down the long country road as the sky turns from dusk to dark.
Tucumcari, New Mexico - May 14, 1980.
Catherine’s Bronco was found on a side road just off of NM-104. She was dead in the driver’s
seat. Her hands were duct taped to the steering wheel at the ten and two o’clock positions.
She had been beaten to the point of disfigurement.
Her eyes were removed and hung from the rearview mirror. Acid burns covered seventy percent
of her body - the majority of damage being on the face, arms and torso. Her feet were cut off
at the ankle and sat upright on the back seat. The windshield was spider-webbed but intact.
There were no personal effects or any forms of identification. The gas tank was three-quarters full.
Her death was ruled as suicide.
