Clinics throughout US and Western Europe report new flu outbreak

New York City (AP) // Emergency rooms and urgent care clinics across the US and Western Europe have reported a flood of new flu cases, sparking fears that it might be the beginning of an outbreak of a previously unidentified flu strain.

Kate leaned her head against the wooden wall of the alcove and stared at the sun, wishing she could stop it right where it was. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw David open his eyes and look up at her. She opened the journal and continued reading before he could say anything.

The Moroccan workers cower as the rock comes down around them. The space fills with smoke and we retreat back into the shaft. And then we wait and listen, ready to pile into the car that straddles the rails, ready to zoom out of the shaft at the first sign of trouble — fire or water in this case.

The first cry of a canary breaks the silence and one by one we all exhale and move back into the massive room to see how far the latest roll of the dice has gotten us.

I don’t remember him saying anything. In fact, I’m pretty sure he sat indolently, not even inspecting the hole before we packed it with the chemical explosive. He walks to the excavation site for a better look, raking his hand on one of the canary cages as he passes by, sending the bird into a panic.

“You’d let them choke to death on methane gas to give yourself a few minutes head start, but I can’t even rattle them?”

“Those birds could save every one of our lives. I won’t have you torture them for your own enjoyment.”

Rutger unloads the rage meant for me on the Moroccan foreman. He shouts at the poor man in French, and the dozen workers begin clearing the rubble from the blast.

It’s been almost four months since I first toured the site, since I first set foot in this strange room. In the first few months of digging, it became clear that the part of the structure they had found was an access tunnel at the bottom of the structure. It led to a door that was sealed — with some sort of technology beyond anything we could ever hope to break through. And we tried everything — fire, ice, explosives, chemicals. The Berbers on the work crew even performed some strange tribal ritual, possibly for their own sake. But it soon became clear that we weren’t getting through the door. Our theory is that it’s some sort of drainage tunnel or emergency evacuation route, sealed for who-knows-how-many thousands of years.

After some debate, the Immari Council — that’s Kane, Craig, and Lord Barton, my now father-in-law, decided we should move up the structure, into the area that contains the methane pockets. That’s slowed us down, but in the last several weeks we’ve uncovered signs that we’re reaching some sort of entrance. The smooth surface of the structure, some metal that’s harder than steel and makes almost no noise when you strike it, has begun to slope. A week ago we found steps.

The dust is clearing, and I see more steps. Rutger shouts for the men to work faster, as if this thing is going anywhere.

Beyond the dust behind me, I hear footfalls and see my assistant running. “Mr. Pierce. Your wife is at the office. She’s looking for you.”

“Rutger!” I yell. He turns. “I’m taking the truck. Don’t blast anything until I get back.”

I grab the pack of blast caps and run to the car. “Drive me to the surface,” I say to my assistant.

At the surface, I change quickly and scrub my hands. Before I can leave for the office, the telephone at the warehouse rings and the manager walks out. “Sorry, Mr. Pierce, she’s done and left.”

I’m out the door and in the car before he can finish. I rush to the hospital, but she’s not there, and they haven’t seen her. From the hospital, the switchboard operator connects me to the newly installed phone at our residence. It rings ten times. The operator breaks on. “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no answer—”

I wait. “Well, put her on then,” I say, trying but failing to hide my nervousness.

“Of course, sir!” he says, embarrassed. He’s not used to the phone. It’s probably why it took him so long to answer.

Three minutes pass, and Desmond comes back on the line. “She’s in her room, sir. Shall I have Myrtle go in and see about her—”

“No. I’ll be there directly.” I hang up, run out of the hospital, and hop back in the car.

I order my assistant to drive faster and faster. We zoom recklessly through the streets of Gibraltar, forcing several carriages off the street and scattering shoppers and tourists at each turn.

When we arrive at home, I jump out, race up the stairs, throw open the doors, and storm through the foyer. Pain punches at my leg with every step, and I’m sweating profusely, but I plow on, driven by fear. I climb the grand staircase to the second floor, make a bee line for our bedroom, and enter without knocking.

Helena turns over, clearly surprised to see me. And surprised at the sight of me — sweat dripping from my forehead, the panting, the painful grimace. “Patrick?”

“Are you alright?” I say as I sit on the bed with her and brush the thick blankets back. I run my hand over her swollen stomach.

She sits up in the bed. “I could ask you the same thing. Of course I’m alright; why wouldn’t I be?”

“I thought you might have come because you, or there was a problem…” I exhale and the worry flows from my body. I scold her with my eyes. “The doctor said you should stay in bed.”

She slumps back into the pillows. “You try staying in bed for months on end—”

“Oh, yes. I wanted to see if you could slip out for lunch, but they told me you were already out.”

“Yes. A… problem down at the docks.” It’s the 100th time I’ve lied to Helena. It hasn’t gotten any easier, but the alternative is a lot worse.

“The perils of being a shipping magnate.” She smiles. “Well, maybe another day.”

Our revelry is interrupted by the sound of knocking in the next room. I turn my head.

We’ve already renovated for a nursery and enlarged three bedrooms for the children. I bought us a massive row house with a separate cottage for the house staff, and I can’t imagine what else we might need now.

“I thought we could build a dancing room, with a parquet floor, like the one in my parent’s house.”

Every man has limits. Helena can do whatever she wants to the house; that’s not the issue. “If we have a son?” I ask.

“Don’t worry.” She pats my hand. “I won’t subject your strong American son to the dull intricacies of English society dance. But we’re having a girl.”

“Speaking of dancing, an invitation came by messenger today. The Immari Annual Meeting and Christmas Ball, they’re having it in Gibraltar this year. There’s to be quite a celebration. I rang Mother. She and Father will be there. I’d like to go. I’ll take it easy, I assure you.”

Kate squinted, trying to read the journal. The sun was setting over the mountains and dread was building in her stomach. She glanced over at David. His expression was almost blank, unreadable. Maybe somber.

As if reading her mind, Milo entered the large wood-floored room with a gas-burning lantern. Kate liked the smell; it somehow put her at ease.

Milo set the lantern on a table by the bed, where the light would reach the journal and said, “Good evening, Dr. Kate—” Upon seeing that David was awake, he brightened. “And hello again, Mr. Ree—”

“It’s David Vale now. It’s nice to see you again, Milo. You’ve gotten a lot taller.”

“And that’s not all, Mr. David. Milo has learned the ancient art of communication you know as… English.”

David laughed. “And learned it well. I wondered at the time if they would toss it out or actually give it to you — the Rosetta Stone.”

“Ah, my mysterious benefactor finally reveals himself!” Milo bowed again. “I thank you for the gift of your language. And now, may I repay the gift, at least partially,” he raised his eyebrows mysteriously, “with the evening meal?”

David gazed out the window. The last sliver of the sun slipped behind the mountain like a pendulum disappearing in the side of a clock. “You should get your rest, Kate. It’s a very long walk.”

“I’ll rest when we finish. I find reading relaxing.” She opened the book again.

I strain to see as the dust clears. Then I squint, not believing me eyes. We’ve uncovered more stairs, but there’s something else, expanding to the right of the stairs — an opening, like a gash in the metal.

“We’re in!” Rutger screams and rushes forward into the darkness and floating dust.

I grab for him, but he breaks my grasp. My leg has gotten some better, to the point where I only take one pain pill, sometimes two, each day, but I’ll never catch him.

“No,” I say. I wouldn’t sacrifice one of them to save Rutger. “Hand me one of the birds.” I take the Canary cage, switch my headlamp on and wade into the dark opening.

The jagged portal is clearly the result of a blast or a rip. But we didn’t make it. We merely found it — the metal walls are almost five feet thick. As I cross into this structure the Immari have been digging and diving for going on almost 60 years, I’m finally overcome by awe. The first area is a corridor, ten feet wide by thirty feet long. It opens to a circular room with wonders I can’t begin to describe. The first thing that catches my eye is an indention in the wall with four tubes, like massive oblong capsules or elongated mason jars, standing on their ends, running from the floor to the ceiling. They’re empty except for a faint white light and fog that floats at the bottom. Farther over, there are two more tubes. One is damaged, I think. The glass is cracked and there’s no fog. But the tube beside it… there’s something in it. Rutger sees it just as I do and he’s at the tube, which seems to sense our presence. The fog clears as we approach, like a curtain rolling back to reveal its secret.

Rutger looks back at me, for the first time with an expression other than arrogance or contempt. He’s confused. Maybe scared. I certainly am.

I put my hand on his shoulder and resume scanning the room. “Don’t touch anything, Rutger.”

Helena glows in the dress. The tailor spent a week taking it out and took me for a small fortune, but it was worth the wait and every last shilling I paid him. She’s radiant. We dance, both ignoring her promise to take it easy. I can’t say no to her. Mostly I stand stationary, but the pain is manageable, and for perhaps once in our lives, we are well-matched on the dance floor. The music slows, she rests her head on my shoulder, and I forget about the ape-man in the tube. The world feels normal again, for the first time since that tunnel exploded on the Western Front.

Then, like the fog in the tube, it all goes away. The music stops and Lord Barton is speaking, raising a glass. He’s toasting me — Immari’s new head of shipping, his daughter’s husband, and a war hero. Heads nod around the room. There’s some joke about a modern day Lazarus man, back from the dead. Laughter. I smile. Helena hugs me closer. Barton’s finally finished, and around the room, revelers are downing champagne and nodding at me. I make a silly little bow and escort Helena back to our table.

At that moment, for some reason I can’t understand, all I can think about is the last time I saw my father — the day before I shipped off to the war. He got drunk as a sailor that night and lost control — the first, last, and only time I ever saw him lose control. He told me about his childhood that night, and I understood him, or so I thought. How much can you ever really understand any man?

We lived in a modest home in downtown Charleston, West Virginia, alongside the homes of people who worked for my father. His peers, the other business owners, merchants, and bankers, lived across town, and my father liked it that way.

He paced in the living room, spitting as he spoke. I sat there in my pristine tan US Army uniform, the single brass bar of a second Lieutenant’s rank hanging on my collar.

“You look as foolish as another man I knew who joined an American army. He was almost giddy as he ran back to the cabin. He waved the letter in the air like the King himself had written it. He read it to us, but I didn’t understand it all then. We were moving down to America — a place called Virginia. The war between the states had broken out about two years earlier. I can’t remember exactly when, but it was getting pretty bloody by this point. And both sides needed more men, fresh bodies for the grinder. But if you were rich enough, you didn’t have to go. You just had to send a substitute. Some rich southern planter had hired your grandfather as his substitute. A substitute. The idea of hiring another man to die in the war in your place, just because you have the money. When they start the conscriptions this go round, I’ll see to it in the Senate that no man can send a replacement.”

He laughed and poured another drink. “ Brave men by the thousands. Fools by the train car load — joining because they think there’s glory in it, maybe fame and adventure. They don’t know the cost of war. The price you pay.” He shook his head and took another long pull, almost emptying the glass. “Word will get around soon, and then they’ll have to draft, just like the states did during the Civil War. They didn’t at first, this was years after the war started, when people got a taste of it, that’s when they began the conscriptions and rich men started writing to poor men like my father. But the post runs slow in the Canadian frontier, especially if you’re a logger living way out of town. By the time we got down to Virginia, this planter had already hired another substitute, said he hadn’t heard from your grandfather, was scared he’d have to show up himself, heaven forbid. But we were in Virginia, and he was hell bent on fighting for a fortune — up to $1,000 — that’s what the substitutes were paid, and it was a fortune, if you could collect it. Well he didn’t. He found another planter who was up against it, and he wore that wretched gray uniform and died in it. When the South lost, society crumbled, and the huge track of land promised to your grandfather as payment was bought by some northern carpet bagger on the steps of the county courthouse for pennies on the dollar.” He finally sat down, his glass empty.

“But that was the least of the horror of Reconstruction. I watched my only brother die of typhoid while the occupying Union soldiers ate us out of house and home, what home there was — a small run-down shack on the plantation. The new owner kicked us out, but my mother made a deal: she’d work the fields if we could stay. And she did. Worked those fields to death. I was twelve when I walked off the plantation and hitched my way to West Virginia. Work in the mines was hard to get, but they needed boys, the smaller the better — to crawl through the narrow spaces. So that’s the cost of war. Now you know. At least you don’t have a family. But that’s what you have to look forward to: death and misery. If you’ve ever wondered why I was so hard on you, so frugal, so demanding — there it is. Life is hard — for everyone — but it’s hell on earth if you’re foolish or weak.

“It’s always the same war. Only the names of the dead change. It’s always about one thing: which group of rich men get to divvy up the spoils. They call it ‘The Great War’ — clever marketing. It’s a European Civil War, the only question is which kings and queens will divvy up the continent when it’s all over. America’s got no business over there, that’s why I voted against it. The Europeans had the good sense to stay the hell out of our civil war, you’d think we might do the same. Whole affair is practically a family feud between the royal families, they’re all cousins.”

“And they’re our cousins. Our mother country’s back is against the wall. They would come to our aide if we were facing annihilation.”

“We don’t owe them a thing. America is ours. We’ve paid for this land with our blood, sweat, and tears — the only currency that has ever mattered.”

“They need miners desperately. Tunnel warfare could end the war early. You’d have me stay home? I can save lives.”

“You can’t save lives.” He looked disgusted. “You haven’t understood a word I’ve said, have you? Get out of here. And even if you do make it back from the war, don’t come back here. But do me one favor, for all I’ve given you. When you figure out that you’re fighting some other man’s war, walk away. And don’t start a family until you take that uniform off. Don’t be as cruel and greedy as he was. We walked through the devastation of the North to reach that plantation in Virginia. He knew what he was getting into, and he charged on. When you see war, you’ll know. Make better choices than the one you made today.” He walked out of the room, and I never saw him again.

I’m so lost in the memory I barely notice the throngs of people that file past us, introducing themselves and touching Helena’s stomach. We sit there like a royal couple at some state function. There are dozens of scientists, in town no doubt to study the room we recently uncovered. I meet the heads of Immari divisions overseas. The organization is massive. Konrad Kane marches over. His legs and arms are rigid, his back is straight and unbending, as if he were being probed with some unseen instrument. He introduces the woman at his side — his wife. Her smile is warm and she speaks kindly, which catches me off guard. I’m a little embarrassed at my harsh demeanor. A young boy runs from behind her (she must have been holding him), and jumps into Helena’s lap, crushing her stomach. I grab him by the arm, jerking him off of her and back onto the ground. My face is filled with rage, and the boy looks as though he will cry. Konrad locks eyes with me, but the boy’s mother has her arms around him, admonishing, “Be careful, Dieter. Helena is pregnant.”

Helena straightens in the chair and reaches for the boy. “It’s ok, give me your hand, Dieter.” She takes the boy’s arm and pulls him to her, placing the hand on her stomach. “You feel that?” The boy looks up at Helena and nods. Helena smiles at him. “I remember when you were inside your mama’s stomach. I remember the day you were born.”

Lord Barton steps between Konrad and me. “It’s time.” He looks at the woman and the child palming Helena’s swollen belly. “Excuse us, ladies.” Barton leads us through the hall, to a large conference room.

The introductions are hasty. These men are clearly less star-struck with me. There’s another quick round of congratulations and hyperbole like we’ve cured the plague; then they get down to business.

I know what I want to say, but the curiosity gets the better of me. “What are the devices in the chamber we found?”

One of the scientists speaks. “We’re still studying them. Some sort of suspension chamber.”

I had assumed as much, but it sounds less crazy when a scientist says it. “The room is some sort of laboratory?”

The scientists nod. “Yes. We believe the building is a science building, possibly one giant lab.”

Barton lets out a laugh and speaks jovially. “That’s rich, Patty. Why don’t you focus on the digging and leave the science to these men?” He nods appreciatively at the scientists. “I assure you they’re better at it than you are. Now Rutger has told us you’re worried about water and gas above the stairs. What’s your plan?”

I press on. “The walls, inside the structure. They look like bulkheads in a ship.”

The lead scientist hesitates, then says, “Yes, they do. But they’re too thick, almost five feet. No ship would need walls that thick, and it wouldn’t float. It’s also too large to be a ship. It’s a city; we’re fairly certain of that. And there are the stairs. Stairs on a ship would be very curious.”

Barton holds up his hand. “We’ll sort out all these mysteries when we’re inside. Can you give us an estimate, Pierce?”

My mind drifts back to that night in West Virginia for a brief moment, then I’m back in the room, staring at the Immari Council and the scientists. “Because I’m done digging. Find someone else,” I say.

“Now look here, my boy, this isn’t some social club, some frivolous thing you join and then quit when the dues become too burdensome. You’ll finish the job and make good on your promise,” Lord Barton says.

“I said I’d get you through, and I have. This isn’t my war to fight. I have a family now.”

Barton rises to shout, but Kane catches his arm and speaks for the first time. “War. An interesting choice of words. Tell me, Mr. Pierce, what do you think is in that last tube?”

“You should,” Kane says. “It’s not human, and it doesn’t match any bones we’ve ever found.” He waits for my reaction. “Let me connect the dots for you, as you seem either unable or remiss to do so. Someone built this structure — the most advanced piece of technology on the planet. And they built it thousands of years ago, maybe hundreds of thousands of years ago. And that frozen ape-man has been in there for who-knows-how-many thousands of years. Waiting.”

“We don’t know, but I can assure you that when he and the rest of the people who built that structure wake up, the human race is finished on this planet. So you say this isn’t your war, but it is. You can’t outrun this war, can’t simply abstain or move away, because this enemy will chase us to the far corners of the world and exterminate us.”

“You assume they’re hostile. Because you’re hostile, extermination and war and power dominate your thoughts, and you assume the same for them.”

“The only thing we know for sure is this: that thing is some form of man. My assumptions are valid. And practical. Killing them ensures our survival. Making friends does not.”

Kane seems to sense my wavering. “You know it’s true, Pierce. They’re smarter than we are, infinitely smarter. If they do let us live, even some of us, we’ll be nothing more than pets to them. Maybe they’ll breed us to be docile and friendly, feeding us like curious wolves by their proverbial campfire, weeding out the aggressive ones, the same way we made dogs so many thousands of years ago. They’ll make us so civilized we can’t imagine fighting back, can’t hunt, and can’t feed ourselves. Maybe it’s already happening and we don’t even know it. Or maybe they won’t find us that cute at all. We could become their slaves. You’re familiar with this concept, I believe. A group of brutal yet intelligent humans with advanced technology subjugating a less advanced group. But this time it will be for the rest of eternity; we would never advance or evolve further. Think of it. But we can prevent that fate. It seems harsh, to go in and murder them in their sleep, but think of the alternative. We will be celebrated as heroes when history learns the truth. We are the liberators of the human race, the emancipators—”

“No. Whatever happens from here, happens without me.” I can’t get the image of Helena’s face out of my mind, the thought of holding our child, of growing old by some lake, of teaching our grandchildren to fish when they’re on break from school. I can’t make a difference in the Immari plan. They’ll find another miner. Maybe it will set them back a few months, but whatever is down there will wait.

I stand and stare at Kane and Barton for a long moment. “Gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me. My wife is pregnant, and I should be getting her home.” I focus on Barton. “We’re expecting our first child. I wish you the best on the project. As you know, I was a soldier. And soldiers can keep secrets. Almost as well as they can fight. But I hope my fighting days are behind me.”

“The Immari. It makes sense now. That’s their end game, I know it. They think humanity is facing an advanced enemy. Toba Protocol, reducing the total population, causing a genetic bottleneck and a second great leap forward — they’re doing it to create a race of super soldiers, advanced humans who can battle whoever built that thing in Gibraltar.”

“Maybe. There’s something else. In China, there was a device. I think it has something to do with this,” Kate said.

She told David about her experience in China, about the bell-shaped object that massacred the subjects in the room before melting and then exploding.

When the butler bursts through the doors to my study, my first thought is Helena: her water’s broken… or she’s fallen, or—

“Mr. Pierce, your office is on the line. They say it’s important, urgent. Regarding the docks, inside the warehouse.”

I walk down to the butler’s office and pick up the phone. Mallory Craig begins speaking before I say a word. “Patrick. There’s been an accident. Rutger wouldn’t let them call you, but I thought you should know. He pressed too hard. Went too far too fast. Some of the Moroccan workers are trapped, they say—”

I’m up and out the door before he finishes. I drive myself to the warehouse and hop in the electric car alongside my former assistant. We drive as recklessly as Rutger did the first day he showed me the tunnel. The fool has done it — he pressed on and caused a cave-in. I dread seeing it, but urge my assistant to drive faster anyway.

As the tunnel opens on the massive stone room I’ve worked in for the last four months, I notice that the electric lights are off, but the room isn’t dark — a dozen beams of light crisscross the room, the headlamps of the miners’ helmets. A man, the foreman, grabs me by the arm. “Rutger is on the telly for you, Mr. Pierce.”

“On the phone,” I say as I traipse across the dark space. I stop. There’s water on my forehead. Was it sweat? No, there’s another one, a drop of water, from the ceiling — it’s sweating.

I grab the phone. “Rutger, they said there’s been an accident, where are you?”

“Oh, you’re in the right place.” Rutger’s tone is playful and confident. Satisfied.

I glance around the room. The miners are milling about, confused. Why aren’t the lights on? I set the phone down and walk over to the electric line. It’s connected to something, a new cable. I shine my light on it, following it around the room. It runs up the wall… to the ceiling and then over to the stairs, to… “Get out!” I yell. I struggle over the uneven ground to the back of the room and try to corral the workers, but they simply stumble over each other in the choppy sea of light and shadows.

Overhead, a blast rings out in the space and rock falls. Dust envelopes the room and it’s just like the tunnels at the Western Front. I can’t save them. I can’t even see them. I stagger back, into the tunnel— the corridor to the lab. The dust follows me and I hear rock close the entrance off. The screams fade away, just like that, like a door closing, and I’m in total darkness except for the soft glow of the white light and fog in the tubes.

I don’t know how much time has passed, but I’m hungry. Very hungry. My headlamp has long since burned out, and I sit in the still darkness, leaning against the wall, thinking. Helena has to be mad with worry. Will she finally find out my secret? Will she forgive me? It all presupposes I’ll get out of here.

On the other side of the rock, I hear footsteps. And voices. Both are muffled, but there’s just enough space between the rocks to hear them.

I have to choose my words carefully. “Get on the telly and ring Lord Barton. Tell him Patrick Pierce is trapped in the tunnels.”

I hear laughter. Rutger. “You’re a survivor, Pierce, I’ll give you that. And you’re a brilliant miner, but when it comes to people, you’re about as thick as the walls to the structure.”

“Barton? Who do you think gave the order? You think I could just knock you off? If so, I would have gotten rid of you a long time ago. No. Barton and Father planned for Helena and I to marry before we were even born. But she wasn’t keen on the idea; may have been why she hopped the first train to Gibraltar when the war broke out. But we can’t escape fate. The dig brought me here too, and life was about to get back on track until your gimp ass came along and the methane leaks killed my crews. Barton made a deal, but he promised Papa it could be undone. The pregnancy was about the last straw, but don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. So many children die right after birth, from all sorts of mysterious diseases. Don’t worry, I’ll be there to comfort her. We’ve known each other for ages.”

“I’m going to get out of here, Rutger. And when I do, I’m going to kill you. You understand me?”

“Keep quiet Patty-boy; men are working here.” He moves away from the rock-covered entrance to the corridor. He shouts in German, and I hear footfalls all around the room.

For the next few hours, I don’t know how long, I ransack the mysterious lab. There’s nothing I can use. And all the doors are sealed. This will be my tomb. There has to be some way out. Finally, I sit and stare at the walls, waiting, watching them shimmer like glass, almost reflecting the light from the tubes, but not quite. It’s a dull recreation, the kind of reflection iron makes.

Above me, I occasionally hear drilling and pick axes striking rocks. They’re trying to finish the job. They must be close to the top of the stairs. Suddenly, the noise stops, and I hear yelling, “Wasser! Wasser!” Water — they must have hit— then loud booms. The unmistakable sound of falling rock.

I run to the entrance and listen. Screams, rushing water. And there’s something else. A drumbeat. Or a pulsing vibration. Getting louder every second. More screams and men running. The car cranks, and it roars away.

I strain, but I can’t hear anything else. In the absence of sound, I realize I’m standing in two feet of water. It’s seeping in through the loosely stacked rock, and quickly.

I slosh back into the corridor. There must be a door to the lab. I bang around on the walls, but nothing works. The water is in the lab now; it will overtake me in minutes.

The tube — it’s open, one of the four. What choice do I have? I wade through the water and collapse into it. The fog surrounds me, and the door closes.

Robert Hunt sat in his housing pod, warming his hands around a fresh cup of burned coffee. After the near-disaster at drill site five, he was glad they had reached 7,000 feet without so much as a hiccup. No pockets of air, water, or sediment. Maybe it would be like the first four sites — nothing but ice. He sipped the coffee and considered what might account for the drilling difference at the last site.

Beyond the pod’s door, a high-pitched sound erupted — the unmistakable whirl of a drill under low-to-no tension.

He ran out of the pod, made eye contact with the operator, and jerked his hand across his neck. The man lunged and hit the kill switch. The man was learning, thank God.

Robert jogged to the platform. The technician turned to him and said, “Should we reverse out?”

“No.” Robert checked the depth. 7,309 feet. “Lower the drill. Let’s see how deep the pocket is.”

Robert’s mind raced with possibilities. A cavern a mile and a half below the ice. It could be something on the surface of the ground. But what? The cavern or pocket, whatever it was, was 300 feet deep. Its ceiling was almost a football field above its floor. The laws of gravity just didn’t work that way. What had the strength to hold up one and a half miles of ice?

Robert, still deep in thought, waved a hand over the controls and mumbled, “No. Uh, no, don’t do anything. I need to call this in.”

Back at his pod, he activated the radio, “Bounty, this is Snow King. I have a status update.”

A few seconds passed before the radio crackled and the reply came, “Go ahead, Snow King.”

“We hit a pocket at depth seven-three-zero-nine, repeat seven-threezero-nine feet. Pocket ends at seven-six-two-four, repeat, seven-six-twofour feet. Request instruction. Over.”

Robert began preparing another pot of coffee. His team would probably need some.

“Understood, Snow King. Instructions are as follows: extract drill, lock down site, and proceed to location seven. Stand by for GPS coordinates.”

As before, he wrote down the coordinates and endured the redundant warning about local contact. He folded the paper with the GPS coordinates and placed it in his pocket, then stood, grabbed the two cups of fresh coffee and headed out of the pod.

They reversed the drill out and prepared the site with ease. The three men worked efficiently, almost mechanically, and silently. From the air, they might have looked like three Eskimo versions of tin soldiers racing around on a track, performing some sort of ballet in the snow as they danced around each other, lifting and stacking crates, opening large white umbrellas to cover small items, and anchoring white metal poles for the massive canopy that covered the drill site. When they finished, the two techs mounted their snowmobiles and waited for Robert to lead them.

He rested his arm on the plastic chest that contained the cameras and looked up at the site. Two million dollars was a lot of money.

The two men glanced back at him. They had started their snowmobiles, but one tech turned his off.

Robert brushed some snow off the chest and opened one latch. The sound of the radio startled him. “Snow King, Bounty. SITREP.”

Robert clicked the button on the radio and hesitated for a second. “Bounty, this is Snow King.” He glanced at the men. “We’re evacuating the site now.”

He snapped the latch shut and stood for a moment. The whole thing felt wrong. The radio silence, all the secrecy. But what did he know? He was paid to drill. Maybe they weren’t doing anything wrong, maybe they just didn’t want the press broadcasting their business to the world. Nothing wrong with that. Getting fired for being curious would be a hell of thing, and he wasn’t quite that stupid. He imagined himself telling his son, “I’m sorry, college will have to wait. I just can’t afford it right now; yes, I could have, but I couldn’t stand the mystery.”

“Son, you can’t go to college because your dad is an international criminal, and ps: he was too dumb to even know it.” Robert wasn’t that stupid either.

Robert walked over to the excess cover supplies. He picked up a closed 8’ white umbrella and tied it to his snowmobile. He cranked the machine and drove toward the next location. The two men followed close behind.

Thirty minutes into their trek, Robert spotted a large rock overhang rising out of the snow. It wasn’t deep enough to be a cave, but the indentation cut 20 or 30 feet into the mountain and cast a long shadow. He adjusted their vector to pass close by the overhang, and at the last second, he veered off into the darkness of the shadow. Despite riding close behind him, the two men matched his course quickly and parked their snowmobiles beside his. Robert was still seated. Neither man dismounted.

“I forgot something at the site. I’ll be back. Shouldn’t take long. Wait here and don’t, uh, don’t leave the ravine.” Neither man said anything. Robert could feel his nervousness growing. He was a terrible liar. He continued, hoping to legitimize his orders, “They’ve asked us to minimize our visibility from the air.” He opened the white umbrella and planted it beside him, anchoring it against the snowmobile, as if he were a medieval knight locking a lance next to him and readying his horse for a charge.

He backed his snowmobile out and resumed the way they had come, back to the site.

Kate yawned and turned the page. The room was cold, and she and David were wrapped in a thick blanket now.

“Finish it on the walk out,” David said through sleepy eyes. “You’ll need to stop a lot.”

Kate flipped through the journal. “Not many actually. Just a few more. I can stay awake if you can.”

I awake to the soft hiss of air flowing into the tube. At first, the air feels heavy, like water in my lungs, but after a few deep gulps of the damp cold air, my breathing normalizes, and I take stock of my situation. The room is still dark, but there’s a faint shaft of light drifting into the lab from the corridor.

I rise from the tube and walk toward the corridor, surveying the room as I go. None of the other tubes are occupied, save for the ape-man, who apparently slept through the flood without incident. I wonder how many he’s slept through.

There’s still about a foot of water in the corridor. Enough to notice but not enough to slow me down. I slosh toward the jagged opening. The rocks that locked me inside are almost completely gone, washed away no doubt. A soft amber glow from above drapes the remaining rocks, which I push aside as I step out into the room.

The source of the strange light hangs thirty feet above me, at the top of the stairs. It looks like a bell, or a large pawn, with windows in the top. I eye it, trying to figure out what it is. It seems to stare back at me, the lights pulsing slowly, like a lion’s heart beating after it’s devoured a victim on the Serengeti.

I stand still, wondering if it will attack me, but nothing happens. My eyes are adjusting, and with every passing second, more of the room comes into focus. The floor is a nightmarish soup of water, ashes, dirt, and blood. At the very bottom, I see the bodies of the Moroccan miners, crushed under the rubble. Above them, Europeans lie prostrate, ripped to shreds, some burned, all mutilated by a weapon I can’t imagine. It’s not an explosion, or a gun, or a knife. And they didn’t die recently. The wounds look old. How long have I been down here?

I search the bodies, hoping to see one in particular. But Rutger isn’t here. I rub my face. I’ve got to focus. Got to get home. Helena.

The electric car is gone. I’m weak, tired, and hungry, and at that moment, I’m not sure I will ever see daylight again, but I put one foot in front of the other and start the arduous trek out of the mine. I pump my legs as hard as they’ll go and brace for the pain, but it never touches me. I’m driven to get out of this place by a strength and fire I didn’t know I possessed.

The mine flies by in a flash, and I see the light as I hike out of the last turn of the spiral. They’ve covered the entrance to the tunnel with a white tent, or a plastic sheet of some type.

I brush the flap aside, and I’m surrounded by soldiers in gas masks and strange plastic suits. I wrestle free, but they tackle me and hold me to the floor. From the ground, I see a tall soldier stride over. Even through the bulky suit, I know who it is. Konrad Kane.

One of my captors looks up at him and speaks through the mask in a muffled voice. “He just walked out, sir.”

The men drag me deeper into the warehouse, to a series of six white tents that remind me of a field hospital. The first tent has row after row of cots, all covered in white sheets. I hear screams in the next tent. Helena.

I struggle at the men at my sides, but I’m too weak, from lack of food, from the walk out, and from whatever the tube did to me. They hold me tight, but I continue to fight.

I can hear her clearly now, at the end of the tent, behind a white curtain. I lunge for her, but the soldiers jerk me back, walking me down the row so I get a good look at the people lying dead on the skinny cots. Horror spreads over me. Lord Barton and my mother-in-law are here. Rutger. Kane’s wife. All dead. And there are others, people I don’t recognize. Scientists. Soldiers. Nurses. We pass a bed with a boy, Kane’s son. Dietrich? Dieter?

I can hear the doctors talking to Helena, and, as we move past the edge of the curtain, I see them swarming around her, injecting her with something, and holding her down.

The men hold me as I struggle. Kane turns to me. “I want you to see this, Pierce. You can watch her die like I watched Rutger and Marie die.” They drag me closer. “What happened?” I say.

“You unleashed hell, Pierce. You could have helped us. Whatever is down there killed Rutger and half his men. The ones who managed to make it back to the surface were diseased. A plague beyond anything we could imagine. It’s devastated Gibraltar and is moving through Spain.” He pulls the white curtain back farther, revealing the entire scene: Helena tossing in a bed surrounded by three men and two women working feverishly.

I push the guards off me, and Kane holds a hand up to stop them from chasing me. I run to her, brush her hair back, and kiss her cheek, then her mouth. She’s burning up. Feeling her boiling skin terrifies me, and she must see it. She reaches out and caresses my face. “It’s ok, Patrick. It’s only the flu. Spanish Flu. It will pass.”

A tear wells in my eye and rolls slowly onto my cheek. Helena brushes it away. “I’m so glad you’re safe. They told me you were killed in a mining accident, trying to save the Moroccans who worked for you.” She holds my face in her hand. “So brave.”

She jerks a hand to her mouth, trying to suppress the cough that shakes her whole body and the rolling hospital bed. She holds her swollen belly with the other hand, trying to keep herself from hitting the rails at the side of the bed. The cough continues for what feels like eternity. It sounds like her lungs are tearing apart.

Another round of coughing racks her and the doctors push me out of the way. They give her oxygen, but it doesn’t seem to help.

I watch. And I cry. And Kane watches me. She kicks and fights and when her body goes limp, I turn to Kane and my voice is flat, lifeless, almost like his voice that comes from the mask. Then and there, in that makeshift Immari hospital, I make a deal with the devil.

The tears rolled down Kate’s face. She closed her eyes, and she wasn’t in the bed with David in Tibet. She was back in San Francisco, on a cold night five years ago, in a hospital bed. A gurney. They were rushing her out of the ambulance and through the hospital. Doctors and nurses shouted around her, and she was yelling at them, but they wouldn’t listen to her. She grabbed the doctor’s arm. “Save the baby, if it’s between me and the baby, save—”

The doctor pulled away from her and shouted at the burly man pushing the gurney. “OR two. Stat!”

They wheeled her faster, and the mask was over her mouth, and she fought to stay awake.

She awoke to a large, empty hospital room. She hurt all over. There were several tubes running from her arm. She reached quickly for her stomach, but she knew before her hands made contact. She pulled the gown back to reveal the long ugly scar. She buried her head in her hands and cried, for how long she didn’t know.

Kate looked up, startled. Hopeful. A shy nurse stood before her. “My baby?” Kate said, her voice cracking.

“Ma’am, we weren’t sure, there’s no in-case-of-emergency on file, should, is there anyone we should call? A… father.”

A flash of rage stemmed the tide of tears. The seven-month romance, the dinners, the charm. The internet entrepreneur who seemed to have it all, almost too good to be true. Not almost. The accident, the apparently faulty birth control. His disappearing act. Her decision. “No, there’s no one to call.”

“I’m not usually emotional,” Kate said, through the sobs. “It’s just, I… when I was in…”

“I know.” He wiped a new wave of tears from her cheek. “The scar. It’s ok.” He took the journal from her hand. “That’s enough reading for tonight. Let’s get some rest.” He pulled her down beside him, and they drifted off to sleep.

“The two-man team on the ground, some locals told them a train came through this region.” The tech used a laser pointer to circle an area of mountains and forests on the giant screen. “The tracks are supposed to be abandoned, so it couldn’t have been cargo. And the drones spotted a monastery not far from there.”

“I’m sorry, sir, they had to refuel. They can be in the air again within the hour. But— it’s dark now. The sat image is from earlier. It will be—”

“Stand by.” Images from the computer reflected in the technician’s glasses. “Yes, a little farther out, but they can reach the target.”

Another tech ran into the command center. “We just got an eyes-only from the Antarctica operation. They’ve found an entrance.”

“They’re confirming now, but the depth and dimensions are right.” “Are the portable nukes ready?” Dorian asked.

“Yes. Dr. Chase reports they have been retrofitted to slide inside a backpack.” The skinny man held up a sheaf of printed pages too thick to be stapled. “Chase actually sent a rather detailed report—”

The man tucked the report back under his arm. “And Dr. Grey called; he wants to talk with you about precautions at the site.”

“I’m sure. Tell him we’ll talk when I get there. I’m leaving now.” Dorian rose to leave the room.

Kate opened her sleepy eyes and studied the alcove. It wasn’t night, but it wasn’t quite morning. The first rays of sunrise peaked through the large window in the alcove, and she turned away from them, putting them off, ignoring the coming of morning. She nestled her head closer to David’s and closed her eyes.

David sat up in the small bed. He looked at her for a long moment, then brushed the hair out of her face. She opened her eyes and looked into his eyes. She hoped he would lean closer and—

She dreaded the argument, but she wouldn’t compromise. She wouldn’t leave him. But before she could object, Milo appeared, as if out of thin air. He wore his usual cheerful expression, but below it, on his face and in his posture, were the unmistakable signs of exhaustion.

“Time to go. Time for,” Milo raised his eyebrows, “escape plan. Milo’s project.”

It was an alternative, or at the very least, a delay of Kate’s ongoing argument with David, and she took the opening. She ran to the cupboard and gathered up bottles of antibiotics and pain pills. Milo held a small cloth sack at her side, and she dumped the bottles in it as well as the small journal. She stepped from the cupboard, but returned and grabbed some gauze, bandages, and tape, just in case. “Thank you, Milo.”

Behind her, Kate heard David plant his feet on the ground and almost instantly collapse. Kate reached him just in time to break his fall. She dipped her hand in the bag, fished out a pain pill and an antibiotic, and stuffed them in his mouth before he could object. He dry swallowed the pills as Kate practically dragged him out of the room and into the open-air wooden corridor.

The sun was coming up quickly now, and just beyond the boardwalk floor of the corridor, Kate saw parachutes looming over the mountain. No, they weren’t parachutes, they were hot air balloons. There were three of them. She cocked her head and examined the first balloon. Its top was green and brown. A sort of camouflage scene. It was… trees, a forest. So curious.

The sound. The buzzing. It was close. David turned to her. “The drones.” He pushed her out from under his arm where she had supported him. “Get to the balloon.” “David,” Kate started.

“NO. Do it.” He took Milo by the arm. “My gun. The one I came here with, the first time. Do you have it?”

“Bring it, and hurry. I have to get to high ground. Meet me on the observation deck.”

Kate thought he might turn to her one last time and… but he was gone, hobbling through the monastery, then struggling up a stone staircase set in the mountainside.

Kate glanced between the balloons and David, but he was already gone. The staircase was empty.

She hurried down the boardwalk which ended at a spiral staircase made of wood. At the bottom of the stairs, the giant balloons came into view. There were five monks there on the lower platform, waiting for her, waving to her. At the sight of her, two of the monks jumped into the first balloon, released a rope, and pushed away from the platform. The balloon floated away from the mountain as the monks motioned to get her attention. They worked the cords and flame that controlled the balloon, showing her how to operate it. One of the men nodded to her, then pulled a rope that released one of the sacks at the side of the basket, and they rose quickly into the sky, drifting farther away from the mountain. It was beautiful, the serenity of the flight, the colors — reds and yellow with patches of blue and green. It sailed out over the plateau, like a giant butterfly taking flight.

The other two monks were in the second butterfly balloon, ready to go, but they didn’t cast off. They seemed to be waiting for her. The fifth monk motioned for her to get in the third balloon, the one with the forest scene on top. Kate realized that the bottom side was a cloud scene — blue and white. From below, at the right distance, a drone would see only sky above. If the drone was flying above the balloon, it would only see forest. It was very clever.

She climbed in the cloud and forest balloon. The second butterfly balloon cast off ahead of her and the last monk left standing on the platform pulled two ropes on her basket, releasing the bags and sending her balloon into the air. The balloon ascended silently, like a surreal dream. Kate turned and across the plateau, she saw dozens, no hundreds of balloons, in a panorama of color and beauty, all rising into the sky, the sunrise bathing them in light. Every monastery must have released balloons.

Kate’s balloon was rising faster now, leaving the wooden launching platform and the monastery behind.

Kate grabbed the cords that controlled the balloon just as an explosion rocked the balloon. The side of the mountain seemed to disappear in the blink of an eye. The balloon shuddered. Wood and stone flew through the air. Smoke, fire, and ashes floated, filling the space between Kate’s balloon and the monastery.

She couldn’t see anything. But the balloon seemed ok; the drone’s missile had hit the mountain below her and on the opposite side of the monastery. She fought at the controls. She was rising fast now. Too fast.

The shot missed. The drone had fired the first of its two missiles a second before David had pulled the trigger. That instant loss of weight had propelled the drone through the air slightly faster, past the bullet from David’s sniper rifle.

He chambered another round and tried to find the drone again. Where was it? The smoke rose in thick plumes now. The monastery was almost consumed with flames, and the trees below it had caught fire as well. The green branches burned black, blocking David’s entire view. He stood with a grimace, but his legs responded. The pain pill was working. He had to get to a better vantage point. He turned and was shocked to see Milo sitting in the corner of the wooden observation deck, his legs crossed, his eyes closed. His breathing was shallow and rhythmic.

David grabbed the young man by the shoulder. “Milo, what the hell are you doing?”

David pulled him up with his good arm and practically threw him against the mountain. “Seek it at the top of the mountain.” David pointed, and when Milo turned back, David spun the youth around and pushed him toward the mountain again. “You climb and keep climbing, Milo, no matter what happens. Go. I mean it.”

Milo reluctantly dug a hand into a jagged opening in the mountain, and David watched for a second as he moved up the wall of rock.

David returned his focus to the observation deck. He walked to the edge of the deck and waited. Then it came — a break in the smoke. He knelt and peered through the scope and without a single adjustment, he saw the drone. No, it was a different drone; this one still had its full complement of two rockets. How many were there? David didn’t hesitate this time. He sucked a breath in, held it, and squeezed the trigger slowly. The drone exploded and a tiny stream of smoke streaked the sky as the drone fell to the ground.

David searched the sky for the other drone, but he couldn’t see it. It must be on the other side. He rose to his feet and hobbled across the wooden platform. Through the smoke, a colorful form rose, a scene of sky and trees, parting the black clouds. The balloon. Kate. His eyes met hers just as the mountain exploded below him. Half the platform disappeared in an instant, throwing him off balance. The gun fell from David’s hands and clanged loudly on the rocks as it fell toward the burning monastery. He crawled to the other side of the platform as the boards crumbled and broke free one-byone. The entire monastery was coming down. The other drone had fired its last missile, and it was a death blow.

The balloon had been rocked, but it was still there, 15 or 20 feet away, swaying wildly. The last of the platform was collapsing quickly now.

David got to his feet and jumped for it. As he cleared the monastery, his forward motion stopped, and he seemed to hang in the air, and just as quickly, he was falling. Kate reached for him, and he could almost touch her hand, but he missed it, and he plunged to the ground. He almost hit the bottom of the basket, but he twisted at the last minute, catching something — a rope — with his good arm. He had stopped falling, but he swung listlessly from side to side. He tried to grab the rope with his legs, but the pain from the wound was too much. He dangled there, hanging by one hand, his legs kicking back and forth as if he were running in the sky.

Fire — below him. He felt the heat creeping up his legs and now his body, getting closer every second. He was dragging the balloon down into the carnage. Kate was above him, trying to pull the rope up, but she couldn’t — his weight plus the sandbag was too much. He had to let go. From this height, it would be a quick death.

Kate disappeared from the edge of the basket, and David heard a whoosh as a sand bag fell to the ground. Their descent stabilized, but they were still drifting lower, into the flames. He was sweating now. The balloon’s material wouldn’t last long in this heat.

“Kate, I can’t climb!” Even through the pain pill, the agony of the chest and shoulder wound were overtaking him. He closed his eyes. Let go, his mind said, and as soon as words formed in his mind, something smacked him in the face — literally. He snapped his eyes open to find a rope — without a sandbag — dangling in his face.

He quickly moved his single-hand grip from the rope holding the sandbag to the new rope. He lost three or four feet in the exchange, but Kate quickly made it up as she began pulling him up toward the basket. David was 6’1”, around 180 pounds. He couldn’t understand how she was doing it, where the strength had come from, but Kate kept put

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