The Genesis Conspiracy by Richard Hatcher

Author:Richard Hatcher [Hatcher, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781581694505
Publisher: Evergreen Press
Published: 2012-09-29T04:00:00+00:00

Finding the central stairwell, they quickly climbed to the third floor and stepped out into the darkened hallway, lit only by emergency lights on either end. Dawkins pointed to an office door displaying the number 304 and then proceeded to the next door which read 302.

“Other direction,” he motioned.

They moved past several offices before reading the numbers again: 320, 322, and finally 324.

“This must be it,” Dawkins whispered.

“Looks like no one’s home,” Hoffmeyer said hopefully.

“What’s that awful smell?”

“Eggs,” Hoffmeyer wrinkled his nose. “Rotten eggs.”

“Is it coming from his office?” Dawkins asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said, stepping closer to the door. He pressed his ear against it.

“Smells like the rest of this filthy country,” Dawkins mumbled in disgust.

“Ah!” Hoffmeyer suddenly yelled.

“What is it?” Dawkins asked excitedly.

“My God!” he shouted in obvious pain. Hoffmeyer frantically slung off his right loafer, dropped to the floor, and pulled off his sock. “It feels like my foot’s on fire.”

Dawkins bent down to take a closer look at the floor and saw that his boss had been standing in a dark, gelatinous puddle. It was also the source of the rotten egg smell.

“What is it?” Hoffmeyer asked as he examined the tender area on the outside of this big toe. Thankfully it appeared to be the only affected spot.

“Acid?” Dawkins replied, pointing to the shoe that had landed beneath one of the emergency lights. Vapors were rising from the nearly eroded sole.

“Dear God,” Hoffmeyer groaned. “What on earth is going on here?”

“Are you able to walk?”

Hoffmeyer pulled his injured foot across his left knee and examined the spongy area where a callous had once been. “I don’t think it’s that bad. I got the shoe off before it could do too much damage.” He glanced at the sock where a small hole had been burned around the toe.

Dawkins helped him to his feet. “You should at least go wash it. There’s a restroom down there next to the water fountain.”

“We’ve got to leave after that,” Hoffmeyer said sternly. “This is not worth us risking our lives. In time, you’ll learn as I have that Holtz is a psychopath who’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants. Our lives mean absolutely nothing to him. So we’re leaving. Understood?”

“Of course,” Dawkins nodded as Hoffmeyer stepped into the restroom.

Alone, the young PhD contemplated the possible scenarios. He looked back down the hall toward Baranov’s office. The puddle of acid was flowing out from beneath the door. That meant that someone had either accidentally or intentionally spilled it from inside. Why acid? What could they have been using it for?

A long forgotten piece of information suddenly came into his mind. Acids were used in developing film. In the modern age, digital photography had practically removed the need for a darkroom, but he’d worked in one once when he was a photographer for his grammar school yearbook. The ancient teacher who had supervised the yearbook staff had insisted on them doing it the old fashioned way. Acid baths were used in the final process to stop the printed image from getting too dark.

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