Walton Thomas observes in mild irritation as his three-man team hoists Raymond into the battlesuit. The process is slow and painful, requiring harnesses, counterweights and a small crane, all of which is too demanding for Walton’s frail, aging body to handle. Once upon a time he used to suit-up Raymond himself, needing only a single assistant to help mount the heavy guns. These days there is technology in the suit Walton himself doesn’t understand; two of his young crew are specialists in things Walton can’t even pronounce, the third a glorified gunsmith. All of them are lacking in Walton’s broad mechanical genius. They are reliable men, competent in their own ways, but uninspired, and uncommitted to the honorable mission. Employees, nothing more. Walton curses himself— after all this time he has failed to developed a genuine protégé, someone worthy to take over in the coming days when he can no longer make the descent into the Tomb. It is a pitiable situation, a failure of his mission and manhood. Looking at Raymond now, blooming in his eternal youth, unchanged for decades, amplifies Walton’s shame almost beyond bearing.
“Stop twitching so much, nimrod,” shouts Walton, the keenness of his anger startling everyone.
“Sorry, Walton,” says Raymond, guiltily.
Walton nods and grunts. He knows he shouldn’t have yelled at Raymond. The poor man has been suspended in the harness for thirty minutes, dangling helplessly as three hundred pounds of gear is strapped to his body: asbestos jumpsuit, chainmail armor, titanium body-frame, spring boots, hand controls, coolant rods, battery belts, resistance coils, auto-release coagulant/anti-venom packets, 12 gauge automatic shotgun, .50 caliber cannon, ammunition stores for both, oxygen tanks, numbing gas, adrenaline pumps and stim injectors, all covered in a thick layer of reinforced canvas exo-skin. It’s excruciating to watch.
“So this is a weapons testing facility,” asks Dr. Temple from behind Walton. “I don’t know why I couldn’t be told that.”
Good God, this girl doesn’t even know where she is, Walton thinks. He suppresses the urge to turn around and laugh in her face. He isn’t sure how this negress scientist got here -- another sign of the times probably -- but it hardly mattered; in the end the eggheads all turn out the same. None of them understood the miracle they witnessed, the gift providence had sent down as protection against the horrors of perdition. Instead, they poked and sliced at the miracle, out of fear, out of ambition, out of ignorance, always in vain. They were selfish, short-sighted, without faith or conviction, and never lasted in the face of the honorable mission. Walton doesn’t understand why Raymond is being so friendly with this one, who seems more clueless than most, if such a thing were possible.
“We don’t experiment here,” he says to Dr. Temple without looking at her.
“This isn’t a damn game.”
“Walton,” Raymond says sternly, “I’d like you to accompany Dr. Temple to the observation lounge when we’re finished here.”
“What? No, I’ve got to be stay here in case there’s a—“
“--Walton.”
Walton glances over his shoulder at Dr. Temple, who has been drilling a glare into the back of his head for some time, “Hope you aren’t afraid of heights, Miss.”
“It’s Doctor Temple. And no, I’m not afraid of heights.” She walks closer to Raymond as the crew prepares to anchor the massive three-windowed helmet over his head. “What will I be observing, exactly?”
No one answers her.
The observation room sits at the top of a dizzying flight of metal stairs, spiraling thirty stories above the room where Raymond was strapped into his battlesuit. Eudora had told the truth about being unafraid of heights, but the steep, narrow staircase twisting upwards through the concrete silo is enough to induce vertigo in the boldest daredevil. She had feared for Walton’s health several times along the way, and by the time they reached the final step the old man is in a foul mood.
“Hate being up here…” he says between gasps of air. “Should’ve put in a lift years ago, cheap bastards.”
The stairs halt abruptly at a blank metal door and for an instant Eudora ponders if she should open it.
“Go…” urges Walton.
Eudora pushes the door and walks through to the observation room.
Part 1:https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song
Part 2: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-2
Part 3: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-3
Part 4: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-4
Part 5: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-5
Part 6: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-6
Part 7: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-7
Part 8: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-8
Part 9: https://steemit.com/writing/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-10
Part 10: https://steemit.com/writing/@senderos/3fmcns-the-nightmare-song-part-10
Photo by Amanda CharchianStory by Daniel Capuzzi, 2016. All copyrights apply.