Tales of Terror

THE SIREN





October 14th, 2009



West Virginia has to be, beyond doubt, the most ubiquitous state in the union. It’s a living, breathing organism, I realize this now. It’s a monster bent on humbling any person foolish enough to negotiate its austere wasteland. And should this monster single a man out for punishment, there’s little to be done in the way of self-preservation past hoping that the mountains are merciful that day.

I’ve been walking these lands for going on three weeks now and have yet to encounter a flat piece of real estate. The terrain is contentious, at best. The slopes are so steep that I feel like Jack clambering up the beanstalk. And coming down the other side I spend more time on my ass than my feet. Everywhere irregular shaped rocks covered in slippery moss jut from the ground, just waiting to topple an unsuspecting candidate, even breaking his leg if they’re lucky. And the vegetation? It creeps in at you when you aren’t paying attention, enclosing you within a wall of thorns and limbs, forcing you to fight and claw your way out until you’re a bloody mess.

It boggles my mind how this place was ever settled. The amount of effort required just to get a caravan through these mountains must’ve been monumental. I imagine horses dropping dead of exhaustion leaving their masters alone to continue the struggle until they too dropped dead or admitted defeat.



Three trucks materialized out of the black night, their small oval headlights like cat’s eyes in the darkness. Sergeant First Class Benjamin North checked his watch. One minute until midnight. Right on time, to the second, as always.

Man, these guys are wired tight, he thought. And that’s why he was submitting himself to this torment with hopes of becoming one of them.

The trucks stopped on the trail in front of him and the fifteen other men shivering in the frigid night air, waiting to get their day begun. Ben put his journal away and took out a small notebook. The trucks’ engines were shut off simultaneously. Then doors were opened and men got out. They went to the back of their trucks, opening the canopy flap and letting the tailgates down. The drivers of the second and third trucks waited there while the driver of the first truck centered himself on the small group of men.

He turned on his headlamp. The candidates did the same. He flipped through a few pages on the clipboard he carried and then began a process each of them was thoroughly familiar with by that point.

Each candidate was assigned a color and number for identification during the day’s training events. Somehow, Ben always ended up being a color he considered less than manly.

“Mancuso, Blue 14.”

“Leonard, White 33.”

“Estivedez, Topaz 71.”

“North, Pink 44.”

Damn it all, he brooded as he jotted down his information.

Once every color and number had been assigned, the candidates hoisted their rucksacks onto their shoulders and hustled to the truck assigned to them. Ben was in the third truck.

He and the other four candidates squeezed themselves and their bulbous rucksacks into the back of the small, green army truck. Once they were seated, the cadre member put up the tailgate and secured the canopy’s flap to it so that the candidates couldn’t see where they were going.

The trucks came to life and crept forward along the rocky, uneven forest trail. Ben situated his rucksack between his legs and got as comfy as possible. The rides tended to be very long. Letting his head droop naturally until his chin rested on his chest, Ben reflected on the path that led him there, trying out for the world’s most elite and secretive military fighting force.

He’d enlisted eight years before, straight out of high school. Where he was from, men were either farmers or bums. Neither profession appealed to him. As an infantryman, he’d served with the 101st Airborne Division, deploying multiple times to Iraq and Afghanistan. He loved the job. He loved his comrades. He loved serving his country. But in his heart, Ben North believed that he had more to offer. He’d nearly signed up to attend selection for the Green Berets when a friend mentioned in passing that he should cut to the chase and try out for THE unit - the one that nobody was supposed to know about. Delta Force.

Surprised he hadn’t thought of it himself, Ben - after weeks of cryptic emails, stilted phone conversations and numerous confidentiality agreements – officially volunteered to attend selection.

He became an instant celebrity in his unit even though he’d only signed a slew of papers and had absolutely no idea what the selection process involved.

He would soon learn. On the very first day he was dropped off in the woods with a map, a compass, some water and a sixty-pound rucksack. The cadre member, a hulking tattooed man who spoke only as many words as necessary, gave him the grid coordinates to his current and next locations.

“Show me where you’re at and where you’re going,” the cadre said after Ben had plotted the points onto his map. Ben did so. The cadre nodded.

“Move out.”

Ben did move out and hadn’t stopped moving out for the next three weeks. Each day the distances became longer, the terrain steeper and the rucksack heavier. Riding in the back of the truck, he felt every bump in the road deep inside his feet, knees and back. Yet he was a contented man. His body remained fairly healthy, all things considered, and the muscles in his legs had responded well to the workload.

They were getting near the end of the selection process now. They had to be. Out of the one-hundred or so men who started the course, only twenty-seven remained.

An hour after the candidates were picked up, the truck finally stopped. All the candidates picked their heads up, startled from their catnaps. They heard the cadre’s footsteps as he got out of the truck and approached the rear. He undid the canopy flap and let the tailgate down.

“Pink 44, secure your gear and report to the front of the vehicle.”

“Moving, Sergeant!”

What luck! This was the first time he’d been called out first. The worst part of the day was sitting in the cramped truck waiting for everyone else to go.

Plus he really had to piss.

The other candidates shifted themselves so he could squeeze through. He hopped off the tailgate and slung his rucksack over one shoulder. The chilly night breeze was a welcome comfort compared to the stuffy, musty truck.

He went to the driver’s window.

“Pink 44, Sergeant.”

“Your coordinates are on the hood of the truck. Plot them and report back to me.”

“Roger.”

Ben turned his headlamp on and did as instructed. The movement didn’t seem too bad; only a few clicks and no major elevation changes. But then again, it was only the first of who-knew-how-many movements for the day.

He reported to the cadre who double-checked Ben’s work.

“Move out.”

Ben put his rucksack on, taking his time to adjust the straps properly, allowing it to settle on his back. When it felt as comfortable as a seventy-pound hunk of s*** was going to feel, he checked his compass to ensure he was heading in the right direction and took off.

When he had gotten far enough into the woods, he stopped to piss, exhaling noisily. Relieved, and at least a pound lighter, he began the night’s long journey.

Ben hated navigating at night, even with a headlamp. Outside of his small radius of light, darkness consumed all. Matching up the terrain indicated on the map to what existed in reality was virtually impossible. He’d have to rely solely on his compass and wits, a dangerous prospect, but one that excited him nonetheless.

The movement to his first point proved fast and uneventful…except for the siren. It erupted out of the silent night like a shriek of horror and carried on for so long that Ben considered turning back the way he’d come in case something was wrong. He’d heard the siren a few times before, but only briefly, as if it were being tested. And it never sounded so close.

Ben thought that the residents of Chernobyl probably heard a siren just like that before they absorbed enough radiation to melt a steel girder. The funny thing was, according to his map, there should’ve been no evidence of mankind anywhere in the area. Not a one single building or road.

After five minutes exactly, the siren went silent.

In the siren’s absence, the night possessed an element of isolation superior than mere silence, as if the vibrancy of the world had been depleted. The blighted darkness encroached on Ben’s meager sphere of light, seeming to force the little headlamp into submission.

He checked his compass again and continued on. Half a mile later he crossed paths with another candidate, a man he didn’t recognize in the night.

“You hear that, man?” Ben asked.

“f***in’ weird,” the fellow replied. “I didn’t think anything was out here in the boonies.”

Convinced that neither knew the source of the siren, or even had a plausible conjecture, they parted ways. Ben calculated that he had a click left to go before he reached his point, roughly half an hour given the terrain. The distance wasn’t severe, but wandering alone across the countryside in the wake of the siren filled him with a peculiar dread.

Ashamed of his apprehension, Ben took a sip from his canteen while reminding himself that he was being evaluated for admittance into the ranks of America’s finest warriors. He doubted a case of the heebie-jeebies would shine too brightly on his assessment.

Even after reproving himself, Ben struggled to maintain his composure for the remainder of the movement. Night seemed to close in about him like the noose of the abyss aiming to snuff him out. The siren didn’t sound again, but the damage was already done. Gone was the peaceful sedation Ben usually felt when the sky was so clear and occupied by dazzling stars. This night felt like an adversary to be conquered and humbled.

Finally he spied a pair of dim headlights ahead of him. He broke into a trot, mindful of anything lurking on the ground that could trip him up and send his rucksack crashing into the back of his head.

When he appeared in the glow of the headlights, the cadre rolled down the window and stuck his head out.

“Color and number?”

“Pink 44, Sergeant.”

“Show me your route, Pink 44.”

Ben explained to the cadre where he started, where he presently was and how he’d gotten there.”

“Roger,” said the cadre, “the coordinates to your next point are on the hood,”

Ben hesitated.

“Sergeant?”

“Yes, Pink 44.”

“That siren a little while ago….what was it?”

The cadre didn’t say anything. Now that Ben’s headlamp illuminated his face, he saw that the cadre’s usual mask of indifference was gone. He appeared quite distressed; his wild eyes searched the darkness.

Eventually he said, “Focus on your training, Pink 44.”

“Roger.”

Ben plotted his coordinates and brought his map back to the cadre. He barely spared Ben a glance.

“Move out,” he ordered.

“Roger that.” Ben took the time to refill his canteen before departing. The cadre’s obvious alarm disturbed him immensely. What could possibly frighten a guy like that? After a moment’s consideration, Ben concluded that the cadre had recognized the siren, only it didn’t seem he’d ever expected to hear it for real. Whatever it portended, it wasn’t good.

His next movement would be longer than the first. Hills and ravines dotted the area he had to negotiate. Reluctant to burn valuable time in languor, he adjusted his rucksack and smartly moved out.

Though trying mightily to focus on his task, Ben’s mind wandered, pondering the siren’s possible meanings. In the movies, such sirens warned citizens to evacuate their towns immediately or risk being immolated by an experimental chemical agent that had somehow slipped out its canister. Or it meant that a secret government project had turned against its creators, mutilating everyone it encountered before escaping the facility.

But this wasn’t the movies and there were no citizens within fifty miles to warn of anything – unless counting the wildlife, who possessed a natural disdain for the happenings of men.

Ben never saw the fallen tree – or the steep slope beyond it. He struck it at a good clip, which sent him careening through the air since he was so top-heavy. By the time he finished tumbling down the slope, a good fifty feet, if not more, he was convinced that every bone in his body had been destroyed.

With the rucksack grinding him into the dirt, the effort it took for him to roll over was tremendous. He pulled up his pant legs and shined the light on his shins. They were battered but not broken. The rest of him seemed alright too. The next day’s movements were going to be painful affairs but he’d worry about that after he survived his current adventure.

He involuntarily uttered a cry as a horrifying roar shredded the night. Ben froze, unable to fathom what he’d heard. Then it came again, an inhuman articulation of rage and hate. It was followed by a distinctly human scream, which was abruptly cut off at its highest timbre.

Another scream soon rang out. This one lasted longer; long enough to call for help – and God. No one answered. The man’s dying wails galvanized Ben into action.

He dropped his rucksack, amazed at how much lighter he felt, as if he were gliding along a current of air. He checked his map and estimated that he had little more than a click to go.

He ran the entire way. Without his rucksack it was effortless. He fell only once, on an object lying on the ground that he didn’t see until it was too late. He slid across the ground as though he were stealing home. Something sticky coated his hands. He paid it no mind being instantly back on his feet and running.

He arrived at his point panting and radiating steam as his sweat coalesced with the cool air. So overjoyed was he to reach the point that he actually started to laugh.

Until he saw that no one was there. He looked inside the cab of the truck. No cadre. He looked in the back of the truck. No candidates. He carefully checked the area, calling out as loudly as he dared.

“Anyone here? This is Pink 44. This is Benjamin North. Please come out if anyone’s here.”

Nobody answered or appeared out of the woods.

“f*** me…..”

He went inside the truck and grabbed the radio that cadre were supposed to carry with them at all times. The volume was turned all the way down. He turned it up. A jumble of frantic voices tripped over each another in a chaotic struggle to push their message out.

“-an’t see it! Somewhere northeast of this sector! Candidates are all over! No way to get them back-“

“-ighting! Sighting! I f***ing see it! Coordinates seven-two-four-niner-…wait…it’s turning – oh god! Get the f*** out –“

“-two bodies floating in the creek, torn to pieces-“

“’Thorne! Thorne! Do you copy-“

“-their f***ing dead-“

Ben tried to call for help but his transmission was squashed by half a dozen identical transmissions. He threw the radio down and locked himself in the truck – and immediately felt absurd for doing so. Then he had an idea. He tried to start the truck. Nothing happened.

“s***!”

Besides driving the hell out of there, only three options were available – wait for help, go back to his previous point or continue to his next point and hope someone was still there.

Help wasn’t coming, he concluded, basing his judgment on the pandemonium he heard over the radio. He decided to plot his next coordinate and base his decision on whether to go forward and backward on which route was the shortest.

Only when he reached for the door did Ben notice that his hands were covered in blood. He looked down at himself in horror. Blood also covered his chest and thighs. Realizing that the thing he’d fallen over must’ve been a body, he jumped out of the truck, hysterically wiping his hands on its side in slanted smears.

He then saw why the truck wouldn’t start. The entire front end had been sliced open, as if by a giant talon. The engine fumed sadly, completely cleaved in two.

f*** going back.

Ben plotted the next coordinates on his map, a tricky task for his trembling hands. Seconds later he was sprinting through the forest with reckless abandon, oblivious to the thorns and branches scraping his face and hands.

A humpbacked form suddenly appeared ahead of him, just out of the headlamp’s reach. The distance between he and it was too close to stop. He collided with it at full speed. They tumbled to the ground tangled together; it grunting and growling, him positive that he was about to be devoured.

A light flickered on and hovered over him, brilliant and blinding. Was he dead already?

The light spoke.

“Holy s***, man! He’s one of us!”

A pair of strong arms lifted Ben from the ground. Instinctively, he reared his fists back and mumbled some gibberish that was supposed to be, ‘get away!’.

“Whoa man, take it easy. We’re all friends here.”

The candidate Ben had bowled over was just getting up. Ben saw why he’d mistaken the man for a humpbacked monster. He still had his rucksack on. Apparently he’d lost his headlamp along the way. Blood poured down the side of his face.

“I’m sorry,” Ben said, “I thought you were….I don’t know what I thought you were..”

“Forget it,” the man grunted, “we’ve got bigger problems. Something’s out here. Saw it awhile back. f***ing big. Killing guys left and right. Where you coming from?”

“Back there,” Ben pointed. “Everybody’s gone. Truck’s destroyed. What did you see? What is it?”

“Don’t know. Not human. Something else. Thing’s taller than Shaq. Taller than two Shaqs. Everyone’s dead where we came from. Barely got out of there.”

“Where are you going?” the other candidate broke in.

Ben showed them on his map.

“Looks good to me,” said the bleeding candidate. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“What about that?” Ben nodded at the man’s rucksack.

He looked around at it with total surprise. “Huh! Ain’t adrenalin a motherf***er? Forgot it was even there-“

“Shhhhh!”

They turned to the third man who had his finger on his lips as a signal to stay quiet. All three looked around wildly, painfully aware of their conspicuously loud heartbeats. Every ordinary noise was amplified a thousand times and took on a sinister quality. Rustling bushes. Chirping crickets. The breeze whistling through mazes of branches. Just when Ben thought he couldn’t endure the tension any longer, the candidate exhaled in relief.

“I thought I heard something-“

An enormous shadow burst through the brush and snatched the candidate off his feet as if he were weightless. The man screamed for the other two to help him.

Though brave men, they were capable of no action beyond stupefied astonishment.

“Gawd! That’s it!” screamed the bleeding candidate. He stumbled backwards and took off running, his rucksack still on his back, once again forgotten. In his panic, he’d taken off in the same direction Ben had come from.

“Don’t go! Help meeeeee!” the doomed man pleaded.

There was a sickening crunch. The candidate went silent. His broken form was tossed to the ground like so much trash. Ben’s light fell upon the body. It was barely recognizable as a man.

His killer threw its head back and roared. The gesticulation of dominance was following by a sound so surreal and out of place that Ben was certain he’s imagined it.

The cries of a newborn baby.

Coupled with the creature’s labored breathing, which sounded like two burlap sacks being rubbed together, the effect was terrifying. Seeming to sense Ben’s revulsion, the baby’s cries intensified – though it couldn’t possibly be an actual baby. Not way out there. Not with that thing.

Shoving aside sturdy trees like stalks of corn, the beast advanced on Ben, who’s only defense was to gape in horror, mystified that he could die in such a way.

Bushes on the other side of the creature shook and the bleeding candidate fell out of them. His expression of disbelief at seeing both Ben and the beast again would undoubtedly have elicited laughter under different circumstances. Without a headlamp, and appropriately traumatized, he’d fled in a circle, ending up face to face with the very creature he’d sought to escape.

It roared again, deftly scooping him up, rucksack and all. For the first time, Ben saw a portion of the creature in the light – a long arm, pinkish in color, coated by glittering scales that sparkled like tiny diamonds. Instead of a hand, it wielded a massive pincer claw.

Ben ran for his life, trying to ignore the dying agony of the other man. There was nothing he could’ve done for him. He pushed aside the fatigue in his legs and the pain in his lungs that was like fire searing his alveoli. His heart beat like a drum pounded by an ogre. There wasn’t anything he could do about that either.

Occasionally he checked his compass to make sure he didn’t make the same mistake as the other man. Finally, when he could go no further, Ben collapsed against a tree, ropes of saliva – the precursor to vomit – dripping from his mouth.

No time for weakness, he told himself, no time for self-pity. Push it damn you, push it! And then he was back on his feet and running as fast as humanly possible. Sometime later- he’d no idea exactly long - he again collapsed from exhaustion. This time he did puke. When he was done – and confident that he wasn’t being pursued - he put his back against a tree and closed his eyes like a frightened boy hoping against all odds to awaken someplace very far away.

His eyes shot open, boyish fantasies instantly forgotten. He heard voices. They were close. At first he dismissed them as a hallucination, like the crying baby. But he heard them again, urgent voices of men issuing and obeying orders. Ben ran again.

He burst into a clearing. There were two trucks parked one behind the other. Men, cadre and candidates alike piled into the back of them. The drivers appeared ready to peel out at the slightest hint of trouble.

“Wait..” Ben wheezed.

The cadre herding everyone into the first truck turned and saw Ben.

“Christ! You just made it! Get in! Get in!”

Without slowing down, Ben jumped onto the tailgate and launched himself into the jumble of men, landing awkwardly upon a chain of knees.

The cadre didn’t bother closing the tailgate before jumping in too.

The truck fishtailed badly as the driver attempted to depart with all possible swiftness. Almost immediately they screeched to a halt. Bodies were thrown violently forward. A barrage of feet, knees, hands and heads pummeled Ben. Then the driver suddenly reversed his course, speeding backwards.

The driver of the second truck could not react quickly enough. The collision was epic. The cadre who’d made sure no one was left behind before he boarded was hurled out of the truck, crashing into the windshield of the other truck.

Several men tried to get up and help him but the entanglement of bodies made the effort futile.

The second truck disappeared before their eyes. In the darkness, they could see its crumpled form flipping through the air, then crashing to the ground; the screams of those inside truncated by the jarring impact.

“Drive! Drive!” they yelled.

A deafening roar silenced their pleas, a savage sound that Ben well recognized, enough to paralyze even the most courageous of men. The sort of greeting one might expect in the afterlife had he eked out a miserable and wicked existence.

The truck, their sole means of preservation, died as front end was smashed with the force of a wrecking ball.

“Run!”

“Get out of here!”

“Get off me-“

“aaah, my hand-“

Men climbed over one another in confused flight. The first to get out was instantly snatched up and dangled in the air like a minnow between a fisherman’s fingers.

Then they saw it. Then beast leaned down and peered into the back of the truck. Trembling headlamps illuminated a crustacean face with five olive eyes, all of varying sizes, set in a semi-circle above a cavernous mouth full of bloody fangs. Two long antennas protruding from its forehead waggled excitedly. Worse yet, on the side of its hideous face, a conjoined human infant squirmed and flailed, screaming at the top of its lungs. The baby’s skin was bright red, as if badly burnt; its eyes wide and full of terror.

All the lights frightened the baby. It tried to shut its eyes but couldn’t, so it screamed louder and louder, until it’s little voice began to crack. The beast screamed too. The baby’s pain was its pain.

It tore the canopy off the truck, completely exposing the helpless men inside. A boot stamped Ben’s face as a man attempted to climb out and run for his life. The beast casually tore him in half with its pincers.

Then it went to work on those that remained. With great swings of its long arms, it tore through flesh and bone alike. In only seconds, not a man was left alive in the truck.

Except for one.

By miracle alone, Benjamin North had survived. He was hurt badly; his right side was covered in blood – and not someone else’s this time. But he was alive. The corpses of his comrades had fallen onto him in just the right way to prevent the killing blow from striking him down.

Thirteen dead so that one could live.

Other men’s blood poured onto his face, trying even to seep into his mouth, but Ben restrained himself from moving the slightest bit. He heard the beast’s breathing and the baby’s whimpering. It seemed to be surveying the carnage. Looking for survivors perhaps.

After an eternity compressed into the space of thirty seconds, he heard it ramble away. A few muffled screams arose from the other truck but they didn’t last long. The baby screamed one last time then fell back into whimpering. That sad sound gradually faded as the beast moved into the forest and resumed the hunt.

Ben waited a long time before becoming convinced that the terrible thing was really gone. If he waited any longer, he’d probably bleed out and die. He struggled to push the bodies off him, but his strength had deserted him along with his blood. It didn’t take long for him to lose consciousness. Believing himself dying, he muttered a quick prayer before the world went totally blank.







Helicopters touched down exactly twenty minutes later. Most of the men who jumped out wore black military uniforms and carried scoped rifles.

Except for two. They wore plain black suits and carried only side arms.

The older one pointed to the army trucks and said, “Check for survivors.”

“Yes sir,” the younger one replied.

The capsized truck was easy. Most of the men had been tossed out, shattering assorted necks and spines. Those who survived that had been mopped up by Project X. That’s what the cheeky bastards from the lab were calling it, Project X. He had to smile.

The other truck posed more of a problem. It hadn’t been knocked around so all the passengers were still in the back, arranged in mutilated piles. The man in black was about to presume everyone dead when se saw something move inside the heap of bodies.

He crawled into the truck, picking his way through the broken forms, thankful that his organization provided him with an abundance of spare suits.

When he reached the back, he began moving bodies aside. It was strenuous work. Only slabs of granite were heavier than dead men.

“Is anyone alive back here?” he grunted. “Give me a sign.”

He heard a muffled voice not too much further down the pile. It took all of his might to move the next body; a muscular bastard at least six and a half feet tall. He heaved several times. Finally it came free and both of them tumbled backwards.

The survivor gasped for air. The man in black crawled over to him and turned on his flashlight.

“You alive,” he stated matter-of-factly.

The soldier looked up at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. The expression of a man who’d believe he’d already walked the halls of death.

“You’ve been through quite an ordeal, more than any man should have to bear,” said the man in black. “What is your name, soldier?”

The soldier spit out some blood, and then muttered, “Sergeant First Class Benjamin North, Sir.”

The man in black tenderly squeezed Benjamin North’s shoulder. “My friend,” he said, “I want to thank you for your service to this nation, and I really mean that. Thank you.”

With his left hand, the man in black held Benjamin North’s hand warmly; with his right, he buried a knife into his chest. It did not take long for Benjamin North to die. The man in black saw rage and fear on the soldier’s face as he faded, but mostly disbelief that his end should be so undramatic and at the hands of a nameless man who was supposed to be his friend.

The nasty job complete, the man in black reported back to his boss.

“All hands are dead, sir,” he said.

“That’s a relief,” the older man in black replied. “How fortunate we are that only these soldiers were in the area and no civilians. A soldier’s death is so much easier to ‘explain’.”

The younger man in black glanced at the truck where Benjamin North’s body was already beginning the first stages of rigamortis, then back at his boss.

“No one would believe where it came from anyways,” he said.

“You’re right, the masses would assume we created it, which would be even worse.”

The younger man in black considered his boss’ opinion and quietly decided that he didn’t agree.

“What are we going to do now, sir?” he asked. Even in the dark he could tell his boss was smiling.

“Despite this little…hitch, Project X is a rousing success. Drop a handful of those things into Tehran or Pyongyong and within twenty-four hours we can stroll right in there and install whatever western-groomed, ideologically flexible, America-loving stooge we want. Think about it. Finally a world unified under our benign banner.

“It may not seem like it now, but we’ve won wars tonight, my friend. These men here are a worthy and honorable sacrifice.”

“And those at the facility?”

“Them too.”

They remained silent, watching their men separate and bag all the bodies. One of the men ran over and reported that Project X had been eliminated about a mile to the east. Direct hit by a Stinger missile from one of the Kiowa attack helicopters roaming all over the mountains. The older man in black nodded satisfactorily. The man jogged away.

“There’s only one thing that worries me,” the older man in black said after a moment.

The younger man started in surprise. He’d never heard his superior confess uncertainty or anxiety about anything.

“Getting the portal back open?” he ventured.

“Oh, no, no, no,” the older man in black replied. “We’ve got all the algorithms and calculations solved. The scientific minds are in place. Should be as simple as opening your front door.”

“Then what, sir?”

“My concern is controlling what comes out of the portal.”