The Nightworld - Jack Blaine [11]
The basement lab looks about the same as the one in the city. Dad heads straight for a stainless steel cabinet that’s padlocked shut. He fishes a key hanging on a nylon cord out from under his shirt. “This is the key to that lock,” he says, pointing to the cabinet.
There’s a label on the corner of the right cabinet door. The words OPTIMUS PRIME are printed out on it.
“Transformers?” When Mom was still alive, one of the things she used to laugh about was how Dad and I loved to play Transformers. I always liked Optimus Prime the best—if there’s one thing more awesome than a giant robot who can turn into a car or whatever, it’s a giant robot who can turn into a sixteen-wheeler, right?
“Hopefully.” Dad gives a weird laugh. “What’s in that cabinet is important. Remember that, Nick, if anything . . . happens.” He heads toward the basement closet. We used to keep board games and old sports equipment in it. When he opens the door, I can see it’s now filled with what look like survival supplies, top to bottom: dried fruit, foil packs of dehydrated meat, bottles and bottles and bottles of water. There’s some gear stuffed in there too, sleeping bags and what looks like a tent. “I’m going to go out tomorrow and get some more things we may need. While I’m gone, I want you in the house with the doors locked. I don’t want you to answer the door or the telephone. And I want you to keep one of the guns with you. I’ll show you the basics about how to shoot it before we go to bed.”
“Dad, what’s going on?” This is starting to get weird. Why would everyone be freaking out like this over the weather? Is that what it’s even about?
“Listen, Nick.” He leans against one of the work counters. “During the last couple of years, I’ve been working with government agencies more than I usually do in my line of research. And not the usual agencies either. These are the big boys: the Department of Defense. DARPA—the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. I was collaborating with some researchers that work on large hadron colliders. No big deal at first. But soon control of the project was transferred out of my hands to someone within DARPA who I wasn’t even allowed to meet. I kept requesting clearance to be allowed to discuss outcomes, but they kept dismissing me, telling me that if I didn’t fulfill my research contribution on the project I’d have my grant money revoked.”
“Dad, I don’t—”
“I think they were trying to make a weapon. I think they released Higgs particles.” Dad’s told me about Higgs particles before. They’re sometimes called “the God particle” because if a Higgs particle was made, it could do the one thing that’s supposed to be impossible. It could create matter.
Dad looks around at the lab like it’s a place he’s never really seen. “Nick, I think I helped them. I’ve tried to do what I can to fix it, but I haven’t had enough time—I haven’t been able to test anything.” He looks at me for a long few seconds. “Do you remember what a photon is?”
I rack my brain. “Light? A particle of light.”
“Yes. Okay. Now, usually light is pure energy. But a Higgs particle could interact with photons—particles of light—and it could change light, change the way light interacts with matter.”
“Dad, what the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s going to get dark, Nick. Soon.”
“It probably already is by now.” There are no windows in the basement, but it’s late enough that I bet it’s dark outside. “It’s gotta be past ten, and that weird cloud was making—”
“It’s not a cloud.”
Chapter 7
This morning, I wake to a note on my nightstand, anchored in place by the gun from the china cabinet.
I’m going for supplies.
Don’t leave the house. Be safe.
Love you,
Dad
Dad tells me to “be safe” all the time, but the instruction has never been accompanied by a gun before. I rub my eyes and head for the bathroom, but I back right up and grab the gun. I’m spooked.
I lock the door and take the fastest shower ever. I take the stairs three at a time to the kitchen. Dad’s left a box of cereal out