Stalking The Daylight

By C. P. Clarke

Eminent scientist, Dr Gerard Gill, is on the verge of a discovery that could change the realms of physics, and ultimately the world. He finds himself recruited by a dark and powerful organisation who wish to control his research for themselves. Agreeing to fund his project, they fly him from London to Illinois to a secret research facility, where they can manipulate and suppress the results.
Gill has no idea that Jack, his new-found friend in Illinois, is a killer employed by the organisation to tie up loose ends. Nor does he know that the man who recruited him to the project is secretly planning on betraying their employer.
Back in London, Gill's childhood friend, Kevin Crist, a likeminded intellectual, is digging into the mysterious disappearance of a woman decades earlier and a deadly disease that has left a trail of destruction across the globe.
Only the organisation knows the connection of their projects and how Gill's invention has already altered the course of history.
To fulfil his life's dream, Dr Gill could be opening a doorway through space and time that he may never be able to close.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. P. Clarke
• Release date: Nov 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223328667

Book preview

I'm sorry.  If you're reading this, then I'm sorry you've stumbled upon (hopefully not sought out) what remains of me.  It's a long story, one too horrifying and unbelievable to write down  too dangerous to write down.  The truth must never be known.

If you have found me, then you no doubt have found it.  Keep it buried!  Turn away now.  Do it now!  And don't look back.

Even as I write this I know you're still there.  Why do we have to be so damn curious?  It's human curiosity that got us here in the first place.  It's curiosity that got me here.  Please don't make the same mistake.

These are my dying thoughts.  It's all I can communicate; all I can write.  Please heed my warning.  Don't open the box!

Please don't open the box!

PROLOGUE

He stroked the shiny surface of the smooth stone as his frozen fingers rested over it, searching for grip. It was too wet, too smooth, a thin trickle of water seeping along gravity’s line into areas he couldn't access. He allowed his palm to glide over, feeling the cold dampness across his bitterly chilled hands as they reached for something more suitable in the dim light of the lamp. A rogue drip struck his forehead causing him to crane his neck and try to peer around the crag upwards and underneath at the line of running water above travelling his same descending course. He shook his head in disappointment. He thought he had got ahead of the water and climbed above. Maybe he had. Maybe this was a different flow, he couldn't be sure. Everything was pitched in the dank darkness of the enclosed space that barely reflected any glistening light back from his dying lamp.  He was losing track of time and direction the longer he stayed below ground. He needed to get above the flow, rise above the water, finish what he came here to do and escape this underground labyrinth.

Finding a short column joining the narrow crawl space between what he now perceived as the roof and the cave floor in the tight space he encompassed, he gripped it and pulled himself forward. His belly slid over the uneven surface of rock carved by water over the years. He wormed his way horizontally through puddles already soaking through his clothes, sullying them beyond recognition, his torn dog collar abandoned long ago. The knapsack clung to the edge of his jacket and bulged awkwardly as he twisted his body to fit through the tight space. His legs still hurt as they followed through, but he resisted the urge to cry out in pain. Oxygen was at a premium down here, or at least appeared to be as he held his breath to avoid another panic attack.

It was at least half an hour, he guessed, since his last crushing, choking seizure where he’d been caught in a cramped bend, hyperventilating and thinking he'd never get loose. It had taken an age to pluck up the courage to contort his body through a space he was convinced would pinch him in place as his tomb. Scraping his abdomen in the process, he had sucked himself in and slowly twisted himself free, squeezing painfully passed a jagged rock. He’d pushed so hard into the shallow crevice below he scraped his legs on the way down. The sharp blade of naturally cut stone had been whetted down by the incessant drips falling either side, creating its serrated edge that stuck out like the stump of a long-buried tool waiting to be discovered.

He’d known his legs were cut along the shins when he felt the warm blood ooze and mix with the freezing water flowing around him. What he didn't know was whether he'd be able to walk properly on them. Not that he could walk in the cave; there wasn't enough room to sit, let alone stand. He would look at his legs as soon as space allowed him to pull them closer, but in his slow progress the opportunity had yet to present itself. Certainly, the pain made climbing, both ascending and descending, difficult.

At the memory, he mentally ran a finger across his cold, numb shins, and pain filtered through as he pictured the torn weeping flesh.

He pressed on, the lamp growing dim as it ran out of fuel. It had lasted longer than anticipated, but he had expected a speedy climb deep into the cave to deposit the bag and leave. The change in weather topside had brought a fresh flow of rainwater to cut off his route forcing him to move in deeper to find an alternative exit out of the cave. He should have known better, but in his haste he hadn't come prepared. He had no food, no drinking water, his clothes were inadequate for prolonged climbing in the depths of the cave, and most worryingly, no one knew he was here, but then that was half the point.

He was an experienced climber and potholer, having taken it up as a keen hobby all those years ago when he moved from the big city to take up his posting here in the village as a respected and esteemed pillar of the community – oh, how he'd fallen from grace.

His experience as a climber counted for nothing as his mind clouded over with hurried purpose and an agenda that thrust him forward with total disregard, or even a common sense, for his own safety.

His hands shook, had been for a while, along with his lips, the cold damp clothes blanketing his skin as his very bones rattled as they held him together. His desperate heartbeat was drowned out by the sound of a thousand different channels of rainwater making their way from the surface to a hidden pool somewhere deep beneath him. He listened carefully to the flow, hoping on the one hand to come out into the open expanse of a rock pool, but on the other hand fearing the claustrophobic drowning of rising water that fought the rock for space. Shaking his head, he made a decision: he wanted the high ground, to be above the water. In his mind, death had met him a thousand times since he'd entered the cave. Clinging to his cursed prize hidden in the knapsack strapped tightly to his side, he was determined now not to make the sacrifice he'd earlier foolishly, yet bravely, resolved to make.

As he pulled himself over the edge of the rock jutting out above him, icy cold water splashed in his face as a steady trickle met his ascent in the dark. He clung to a sturdy stalactite with his right hand as he swung his left up with the lamp glowing its dying embers, giving him a final view of what was above. Then darkness.

He gasped, his breath going out with the light. His right hand began to slip from the stalactite as a slow trickle of water got between his skin and the icy rock. He instinctively reached out with his left to steady himself and clumsily bashed the lamp into the side of the cave dropping it, its glass panelling clinking down as it bounced into the cavern below. Still, he wasn't steady as his left hand felt for anything to cling to. His hand swept the rock surface, splashing through the smooth edges the water had curved. Frightfully his fingers searched their numbed senses, the only eyes he had. He found a small hole. A squishy substance met his fingers, mud or one of the slug-like creatures he'd seen clinging to the various formations he'd crawled through. It wasn't pleasant to hold but the momentary discomfort was worth it to be able to pull his legs out of the crawl space and use the ledge as a platform to stand on, one heel tucked snuggly to the outcrop as the toe of the other foot found some leverage on a chipped stone splinter.

He stood still for what seemed an eternity, the clogs of thought slowly turning as he considered his options. The outcome wasn't looking good no matter what he decided to do. His legs were hurt and bleeding. He could barely feel his hands anymore. He had no food. No light. No warmth. No map. No way out. What he didn't know was whether the hypothermia would kill him or a fall. Then it occurred to him.

This was the ideal place to leave it. He'd carried it all this way and had put himself through all this hell, almost climbing down to hand it to Satan himself, yet it was the one thing he could barter with to save his life.

Steadying himself, balanced between rocks with water splashing onto him from different directions, he felt for the knapsack and pulled at the leather wrapping hung around his green corduroy jacket. He fixed his high packed brown boots firmly onto the ledge, positioning his knees to take his weight before letting go of the stalactite. He tried to pull open the bag and feel inside but the space was too tight. He shuffled to manoeuvre his body to access it.

This was his way out.

He abandoned all his former foolishness and hope, which was now long lost in the hidden labyrinth of the caves. His earlier determination, his resolve in the dark dampness of solitude that all sacrifice was worthy in order to ensure it never saw the light of day, fleeing as he gave way to the more natural human desire to survive. The realities of imminent death resounded around him echoing fear and pain. The surety of it grew with each passing second, the compulsion to be free of his current burden and survive long enough to bury the evidence of his crimes and of what he'd unleashed. He was now so positive of his survival, he had resolved to take all the necessary steps to be free, to live. There was hope, not much, but enough.

He felt for his breast pocket and the handwritten note he’d placed there on the off chance he never made it out. He dropped his hand, his mind made up despite all he’d gone through to get here, the fear of death making him fickle.

He freed himself of the sack and held it out to his side, praying as he opened it in the dark. He knew its secrets. He knew its key. He had figured out how to use it, and its power scared him. He angled his elbow against the rock for leverage as his frozen fingers struggled with the leather buckle, and then the unthinkable happened. Chilled fingers failed to respond to the mental instructions as his numb extremities rebuked his command. Unwittingly they unclenched their grip, his mind flitting focus to the unsteady weight of his feet and of keeping balance, not giving in to gravity's pull. No sooner had he mentally glanced down to his toes than he felt the strapping too swiftly slip through his palm.

He heard the slow-motion thudding clump as it lazily dropped down into the depths.

He lent down in the darkness but saw all he expected: emptiness and death. Despair claimed him as he stood, propped for what seemed an age, unsure whether to climb down after it. Eventually he concluded against it. Without the cumbersome bag he might climb quicker and unrestricted back up through tighter spaces anyway. He reached up for a better hold, the sound of cluttering as the bag bounced against the rock still echoing timelessly in his ears. His hand found a hold and he took it as a sign, automatically lifting his toe to find a new foothold to propel him upwards, he found it, but the boot was too big and slipped off too soon as his hands were already on the move. In his eagerness he had forgotten the mantra of having three points on the rock.

The water flowed against him and then with him. He desperately scrambled his limbs for another foot hold as they beat at the thin space his legs could barely flex within, breaking as they smashed painfully in their descent, instinctively still fighting, yet knowing in truth all hope was lost as he prayed for his soul not to fall into the same depths as his body.

PART ONE

Gathering Momentum

1

It was cold, bitterly cold. That was new. It hadn’t been last time.

She sat on one of the green wooden benches overlooking the reservoir in Central Park. The lake was frozen, the geese stood still upon the ice, their heads buried in their breasts. Joggers paced at intervals past her, an array of running attire in struggling wobbling flesh. The traffic of Fifth Avenue pounded along the tarmac behind on its way downtown. The city was buzzing with brashness. All were absorbed in their own story, their own lives. No one knew what she knew. No one else knew what was about to happen.

She could hear the planes flying overhead, the engines burning through the sky with violent force. She didn't look up. She'd seen it before and on more than one occasion. As if in slow motion, life stalled. She listened and waited. Soon the world around her would erupt in desperation and anguish, but by then she would be gone.

The first explosion downtown rocked the park as it rippled across the high rises of midtown. Tourists stepping out of Penn at Madison Square Garden got a rude welcome to the city. Early morning shoppers at Macy's dropped their bags and stepped out onto 34th. Even the neon flicker of Times Square seemed to pause as the sound echoed across Broadway, shaking the stability of the city.

In Central Park, joggers stopped while geese jolted and slipped on the ice as the empty space above them filled with startled flapping wings. Moments passed. Questions were being asked as heads turned towards the plume of smoke rising high above downtown Manhattan.

Traffic seemed to have stopped. Sirens and horns of emergency vehicles screamed urgently in the distance, heading into the carnage beneath the fireball and broken glass of the damaged North Tower.

Fifteen minutes passed and stunned onlookers jammed the mobile phone network trying to access information or find out the whereabouts of loved ones. Still, she sat motionless, observing those around her, conspicuous in her stance, the demolition behind her. No one noticed her disinterest, or that she hadn’t turned around to look. Their eyes, their focus, were elsewhere.

The sound of another plane filled the sky and finally she looked up. Just a glance as she stood, a tilt of her head as, unnoticed by those around her, she stepped forward and vanished into thin air.

2

The television in the background was reporting two explosions in Manhattan. New Yorkers were panicking. The country was on high alert at the news two passenger airplanes had just smashed into the twin towers of The World Trade Center. It was an anniversary replay of events that changed the world and its view on terror, birthing a new era of war against an unseen assassin.

The small, square, portable screen was an almost defunct historical antique commonly found in an old person’s home or care lodgings for the elderly. It sat on the unused dining table in the backroom, draped on top with lace and adorned by the small aging faces of a couple at various stages of life. The central picture held pride of place, a silver framed portrait of a smiling old woman. The smell of beans heating on the stove in the kitchen filled the house, wafting over the single bed that lined the living room wall. A cold, half-drained cup of tea rested on the coffee table that had once sat in the middle of the room but now served as a bedside table. The heavy curtains were closed in their normal position, hiding unwanted eyes from the unkempt carpet strewn with grime and litter of an uncaring tenant.

David Morse was in none of these rooms. He stood bent over his cane, his protruding girth swelling over the undone fastenings of his brown trousers, his white vest, stained with food, untucked and baring his long greying shoulder hairs. His head was turned, silver speckled stubble piercing the blackened yellow stains of tobacco around his mouth, as he peered into the upstairs darkness he rarely ventured to since Gerty had died. His ears were pricked, listening intently. His sparkle and will for life may have lost their edge as they crumbled with his joints, but his senses were still intact.

The doorbell rang again, followed by the thud, thud, thud, shaking the doorframe as he listened for the impatient visitor. He turned his head away from the stairs to see the dust settle at the floor by the disused welcome mat. No movement. They were still there, standing in the dark, waiting for him to open up. He shook his head and let out a wheezy sigh as he craned forward on his walking stick to reach the door catch. He pulled the catch down and back towards him, manoeuvring backwards as he did so to allow room for the door to open, keeping his eyes on the floor as he carefully placed his unsteady feet. He looked up and out into the dark night, reluctantly greeting the blackened helmet blocking the doorway, the shotgun pointing at his head.

His eyes widened to take in the sight. His highly tuned senses registered a white flash and thunder crack as his face greeted the single shot that rang out across the street beyond.

David Morse fell to the ground, his head already decorating the mottled stairwell behind him, the door hanging open to let in the cold air and the sound of a motorcycle driving off at speed.

3

Kevin, she yelled from one of the children's upstairs bedrooms, I'm just going to bath the kids and put them to bed!

He took off his dark rimmed glasses and rubbed his temples, his head pounded as his eyes strained against the blue blur of the screen before him. Ok, he replied, putting his glasses back on to resume typing away on his report. He leaned back in the chair to give his arm’s length as his fingers stretched to the keyboard. His back arched slightly, and momentarily, from under the alcove beneath the stairs where he sat. His workshop space was now the small section of hallway he’d been squeezed into after the birth of their second daughter, having been evicted from his upstairs office to make way for a child's bedroom.

He missed his office space, his privacy, the door he could shut behind him to block out the world while his mind ticked, and his fingers played, and his eyes were mesmerized by what they saw before them on the flashing screen linked to a million other worlds as far removed from his own as he could imagine. Now all he received were interruptions from pestering females passing in the hallway as they traipsed up and down the stairs on their way to the kitchen or the living room. Occasionally, one of his wife's few friends, or more annoyingly one of her troublesome family members, would knock at the front door, rattling him. Now his computer was in the hallway, he couldn't disguise the blue flicker of his twin screens, or ignore their presence.

Yes, Kevin Crist had come a long way from his central London bachelor pad, where he used to hide himself away in his dark fantasy world of gaming, striking his sword of evil into the heart of any and every good soul that entered his playing field. That had been his life, and he missed it. It was in that past life he had met her, his soul mate, or so he had naively thought back then.

He wasn't much for people, avoiding them wherever possible. He was a social outcast, and happily so. She had seemed every inch his evil match as they waged war together, logging in at all hours to join forces, emailing and messaging each other so they could strategically plan their battles. A tenuous and distant relationship formed, and Crist had fallen in love with the girl of his dreams before he ever met her. The realities of what he'd signed up for didn't hit him until after they'd rashly tied the knot. By then it was too late. The reality of their romance did not live up to either of their expectations or desires. Neither of them had been prepared to voice their true hearts’ doubting thoughts. Instead, they both chose to roll the wheel of practicality and move the van of hope, trading one false life for another, both victim and antagonist, the ball hitting the glove slow but hard, caught but not yet out, just waiting to fall and lie in the dust.

But for Crist it was not too late to fall back into his own little world.

She turned out not to be the committed gamer he had been led to believe, but instead an enthusiastic homemaker and brooding mother keen to prove her independence by fleeing her forceful father and submissive mother. Little did she recognise that she was the mirror image of her mother who, had she a voice, would have boldly screamed and run the other way, away from the mistakes she herself had made. But the men in her family set the rules and slapped the cane, and the cheek, and the raw behind, and no matter how hard she tried to run from it and deny it, she was every part her mother at heart, and that was why she put up with Kevin, and that was why Kevin Crist carried on the way he did.

Kevin though, through his own eyes, did no wrong. Before he knew it, he'd traded his hermetical drab bachelor pad for a brighter three bed semi in the suburbs, was supporting a family he wasn't sure he wanted, and had somehow agreed to quit gaming to spend more time with the kids. He found himself often confused and frustrated. Highly intellectual, he liked being a friendless computer geek. Now he was a friendless computer geek pretending to play happy families, whilst secretly longing for another life in a far-off fantasy land inside his computer. He'd been tricked somehow into this life. She'd tricked him, and he resented her for it. He'd never dreamed of this life. He never wanted the family thing, the wife, the kids. Aspects of it maybe yes, but the whole package, the whole shebang? No! It scared the hell out of him. The proximity of it all freaked him out. It was dangerous. It infringed on the boundaries of the imaginary, crossing the boarders of what was permissible in the splintered factions of his mind.

She had recanted reluctantly on the gaming, but on condition that he showed more than lip service attention to his offspring. She allowed him still his childish pleasures and access to his immature fantasy world, permitted only under protest that there was a long-term goal of financial reward at the end of it. He had a unique concept, a visionary experience, that he was working on based on what they both once sought out as a hobby. Combining his computer knowledge (or rather his uniquely undiscovered genius) and his reclusive creative mind, he could possibly create something worthwhile. It made him happy, and she wanted him to be happy,  so desperately wanted him to be happy with her.

It had become a routine of absence. After years of toying with his gaming, there was still no great financial reward and the girls had missed out on having a father present and interested in their lives. Not that he acknowledged or even noticed. And she in her timid and fearful voice said nothing.

I'll be up in a bit to say goodnight, I just have to finish this report! he stolidly yelled up the stairs, hitting save, then send, on the document he'd been typing. Before opening up his profile on World of Warcraft, his status flashing as he logged into the game, he minimized the report page ready to be opened speedily in case he needed it. He checked his watch as he stretched back on the chair to peer up the stairs. All clear. Satisfied, he clicked to maximize the tempting, secretive, hidden tab loitering at the bottom of the screen.

4

He watched the sun rise and fall each day from behind the bars of the fly screen. The mesh net held back the desert of golden rays that cast shadows in the rustic dust. Sparse, thin stakes of trees gently danced in the breeze, their leaves taunting unforgivably, yet unknowingly, as he stood imprisoned day by day, afraid to step beyond the door, such was his conditioning. His mind created his own cell, his own hell of agoraphobia. He pushed his nose up against the black mesh and breathed in cool, fresh air. It was heaven, but he knew too well the dangers that lay beyond.

The dingoes and snakes ruthlessly seeking prey had much to fear. Even the flies bouncing off the screen were far from safe. If their puny minds could comprehend what faced them, they would drop like a swarm of black rain to the red earth below.

He watched them from the safety of the room. Wildlife's seasons passed by. The sun and moon danced their tune of chase above the ever-changing streaks and colour tones of the sky. Occasionally a person wandered by, curiously investigating the rear wasteland of the complex, mindlessly unaware of its dangers as they craned their necks over dry earthen red rock to get an alternative view of Uluru way off in the distance.

A two-tone, high-pitched sound came from behind him far back in the shadows of the room where only the blue glow and electric hum bore life. He cocked his head: an email alert. Finally, the email he'd been waiting for was here.

He took one final look out into the wasteland beyond. Darkness would be here soon.

5

12th September 1976

She unhooked the karabiner from his rope and hooked it back onto her harness, wiping musty sweat and murky water from her forehead as it dripped under the rim of her yellow climbing helmet. She was soaked, they both were. It had been a hard climb back up, dipping under the freezing pool and scrambling up the smooth icy rock that threatened to wash them back down again. She felt like a salmon swimming upstream trying to jump the hurdles of the riverbed to reach the next level above the falls. Fortunately, there were strong handholds, some naturally formed, others screwed into the rock by previous cavers when the water had been at a lower level, small metal rings jutting out to clip the karabiner onto. She'd been thankful for these, especially when they'd first entered the mostly unexplored labyrinth. The overhang they had to manoeuvre had caught her off guard and she lost her footing leaving her arms desperate for grip. Her muscles weakened so quickly, her first instincts were to abandon the cave altogether and go home. Fortunately, she'd found the metal hoop of the ice screw and quickly hooked herself on and hung there while the blood flowed back from her pumped arms. She was glad she'd persisted. It was an amazing cave, weaving through limestone caverns well hidden beneath the ground.

Nigel knew the route he wanted to take through the porous mountainside. He'd climbed and squeezed his slim frame through this maze of caves a few times in the past trying to map them out. He knew the safe routes, which reassured her, but he was also keen to push her to take a few risks by leading her along pitches he'd never tried before. This made her nervous, but she trusted him enough to ensure she was safe, at least that's what she told herself. In reality, she had run emergency procedures through the back of her mind at almost every turn, countering all possible incidents, be they slips, trips or falls, with the preparedness of one who is truly expecting to die in the breathlessly, claustrophobic, damp spaces between the rocks.

She was pleased to see it wasn't raining, as she emerged into daylight for the first time in hours. The sky was light grey with thin, fast-moving clouds that allowed brief glimpses of pale blue high above. Hopefully they would get a chance to dry out in the early afternoon sun, if it dared to show. If not, the wind would surely blow dry some of their gear as they hiked back down to Nigel's Ford Capri parked at the bottom of the hill near the abandoned mine entrance.  She felt the wetness clinging to her skin as her trousers pasted themselves to her thighs. Her t-shirt was cemented beneath layers that puffed her up into the Michelin Man. Her black and red jacket and yellow lid had finally given way to icy water that seeped through to her lower back and run down her panty line. She was keen to get it all off. She'd already glanced around. No one was about.

She wanted it off for two reasons: the main one was she was wet and uncomfortable, the second, she was horny. She felt exhilarated at the adventure of climbing through the tight spaces, squeezing her body through places she wasn't sure she'd be able to escape from, knowing she could only move forward and not back. The mostly uncharted cavern drew them into its belly as its acid waters salivated around them, daring to clamp its tight flesh shut around their succulent bodies to digest slowly as they slid into its bowels. She loved the danger, the excitement, the thrill of adventure. It made her hot. Warmth was growing beneath her wet pants, and not all the moisture was coming from outside. She looked to Nigel with a twinkle in her eye which he read with all the eagerness of a young man besotted by the young beauty who shared his passions and his heart.

It wouldn't be the first time they'd made love outdoors. In fact, it was becoming quite a habit, almost as adventurous as the activities they set out to achieve in the cool light of day. She blamed the adrenalin rush of the outdoor pursuits for constantly making her randy. He blamed nothing in particular, but was always eager to oblige in the extra-curricular activity of the day’s scheduled events. They had been spotted on a couple of occasions but had continued anyway. Somehow, knowing they were being watched drove her crazy for it even more, the risk exciting her as the chill wind slapped against her