Apocalypse Machine (8 page)

Amos glanced at the speedometer. He was going twice the speed limit. There was no one in front of him. He was leading the pack. Hoping those behind him would follow suit, Amos pushed the gas pedal harder.

The ground shook beneath them. Amos let up on the gas while he fought the wheel for control. Bitta screamed.

“Is the water returning?” Amos asked, eyeing the first bridge ahead of them.

“I cannot see it,” Ralf said from the back, looking out the passenger’s side window to an empty fjord.

Slowing to turn onto the bridge, Amos glanced left. Homes and farmland stretched out and ended at the base of a rocky hill ascending more than two hundred feet at the island’s core. But where there should have been blue sky at the crest, there was, instead, a wave.

The ocean rose up, swallowing the island whole.

As warm piss coated the seat beneath him, Amos pushed the gas pedal to the floor and raced across the bridge.

“Oh, god,” Ralf said. “Oh, god!”

To their right, the ocean returned to the strait, hundreds of feet deeper, surging toward them and consuming everything in its path. Amos willed the car to move faster, but the vehicle’s 100 mph top speed was 400mph too slow to outrun the rushing waters. One instant the water was rising up behind them and beside them, and the next, it erased them.

The Johansens died instantly, their vehicle and bodies torn into unrecognizable bits strewn over Norway, 100 miles inland. The 500-foot-tall wall of water struck Norway moving at 600 mph. Minutes later, it struck Scotland, scouring hundreds of thousands of poisoned bodies from the landscape and increasing the death toll. Ireland followed with similar results. The island nations stole much of the wave’s energy, but a swath of Europe, from Norway to Spain was struck by the wave. Half a day later, the west coast of Africa was hit. And a full day later, South America was slapped, from Venezuela to the most eastern edge of Brazil. With some warning, South American nations were able to partly evacuate affected areas, but across the world, millions of lives were lost.

8

Abraham

Upon stepping into JFK International Airport, I’m greeted by a loud, “Daddy.” Then I’m tackled by two small bodies, squeezed and loved by sons who both somehow resemble me without looking at all alike. Mina and Bell follow, hugging more gently, shedding tears of relief that our strange family is whole once more. No one stares. No one judges. The world just lets us be.

That’s my fantasy.

And the first part that’s wrong is that I’m not stepping anywhere. Not yet. I’m confined to a wheelchair, because my legs are fairly useless. It’s been less than a day since fleeing Bardarbunga’s eruption, first on foot, then in the superjeep and finally in the Cessna, which carried us to Keflavík International Airport. Thanks to its location on the far west coast of Iceland and the ash cloud’s eastern trajectory, the airport remained open, and still does. While floods have consumed much of the island nation’s east, the west has suffered only minor damage from a series of earthquakes that rumbled through the land, the previous night. They resulted in a tsunami that killed untold millions throughout Europe.

I close my eyes, confused by a strange cauldron of emotions. I was at ground zero for the world’s worst volcanic eruption in modern history and survived. But all those people in Europe, choked by gas and water... It doesn’t seem fair that they should perish, while I live.

I’m not ungrateful. My sons still have a father. My wife a husband. And my mistress her love. But I feel guilty for surviving while so many others died. Normal survivor’s guilt is triggered when something like a car crash claims some lives while sparing others. The odds of survival are equal and left to chance, or to fate, or Bell would say, to God. But that’s not what happened to me. I stood at the point of impact, between metaphorical crashing cars, all odds against survival. And not only did I survive, but the crash extended to the far side of the road, resulting in a pile up claiming the lives of everyone for miles.

I should have died. That I didn’t, feels like the very laws of nature have been broken on my behalf. Surviving while so many others perished is an unexpected burden, shouting at me, ‘What will you do with your life now?’

My heart replies, ‘Go home. Love my family. Live a quiet life.’

But my mind finds this offensive. How can I live such a small, simple life, when it feels like I was spared for a reason, for a purpose beyond my understanding?

As I’m wheeled down the 747’s aisle, I decide not to mention these thoughts to Sabella. Mina’s logical mind will break it down for me. Help me make sense of these emotions. Bell, for all her abounding love, will add the weight of eternity to my already heavy load.

The eyes of my fellow passengers—Americans escaping Iceland—follow my progress through the plane, as I’m wheeled by a flight attendant. They all heard the story of our escape from the frozen caldera, a yarn spun by Phillip upon our arrival at Keflavík, where I landed—nearly crashed—the Cessna, without permission. We were arrested, but freed upon Phillip’s dramatic retelling, in which he was elevated to heroic status, and upon our very dire predictions for the volcanic fallout. We were, after all, the only experts in the area to witness and survive the eruption. And they had much bigger problems on their hands—the kind that determine the very lives and deaths of nations, never mind individuals.

I get a few nods from men I don’t know. Smiles from the women. Wide eyes from the kids.

“Are you a hero?” a little boy asks me.

“Surviving doesn’t make you a hero,” I tell him as I pass.

Then I hear Holly, who’s being wheeled out behind me, tell him, “He saved us all.”

“Really?” the kid asks, as if by ‘all’ she meant the human race.

“Really,” Holly says, and I suppose she’s right. Deigo, Phillip and Holly are alive because of me. Kiljan, who knows, but I wish him well.

The journey through the jet bridge is silent. The flight attendants just smile and push Holly and me, side-by-side. Holly smiles at me, takes my hand in hers, and squeezes. As we approach the doorway ahead, I hear a sound like angry bees coming from the far side.

Holly squeezes again. “For real. Thank you.”

I squeeze back and offer a smile. It’s the most she’s going to get, though I can see she’d appreciate more. “Maybe we’ll work together again.”

“Count on it,” she says, and frees my hand from her tightening grasp.

The doors open.

Light explodes in our faces.

Voices assault us from every direction, the cacophony sounding like an alien language, roaring. A waterfall, resounding. I flinch at the memory of the black figure, placing its staff into my hand. Its voice. Then my hands are raised, blocking the light strobe.

“Look,” someone says. “He
is
hurt.”

Lights flash faster. Photographers are taking pictures of my gauze-wrapped hand like it’s Taylor Swift’s panties. The waterfall takes on a new tone. Questioning me. About Iceland. Bardarbunga. Europe. Holly.
What?
I managed to leave a frozen-turned-fiery hell behind, only to enter a new kind of modern hell, where the people I love are held at bay by a throng of hungry reporters. They’re jostling over sound bites like hyenas over a kill, yapping and pushing, ready to pounce at the first sign of life.

I’m thankful when a man in a black suit steps between me and the reporters. “Back. Give them space. Everyone back.”

But then a particularly resilient reporter breaks the line, thrusts a microphone in my face and asks, “Mr. Wright, how do you think you survived, while so many others in the region—”

The man in the black suit descends on the reporter, yanking him back by his shirt collar and shoving him back in line. Then he lifts a badge and says, “Secret Service. The next of you to interfere will—”

“Freedom of the Press!” the reporter shouts, stepping up to the tall, black secret service man, but not making physical contact. “What gives you the right to...”

I miss the rest when a second suited man, who looks like a Tom Cruise clone, wrests control of my wheelchair and whisks me away.

“What’s going on?” I stretch my neck up, looking through a glass wall for Mina or Bell. They were supposed to be here. “Where’s my family?”

“They’ll join you later,” the man says.

“Join me? Where?” I twist back and forth, searching. The reporters, still held at bay by the large secret service agent, have quieted down. Holly is being wheeled behind me by a third agent. A woman.

Then I see them, waving and frantic, on the far side of the glass partition. My family. Ike leaps onto a bench, looking worried, while Ishah clings to Bell’s neck, supported by her hip. He looks like he’s been crying. I reach a hand out to them, but it’s slapped down.

“Watch it,” the agent says. I’m about to complain when we pass through a doorway and I lose sight of my family.

“Where the hell are we going?” I ask, gripping the wheels with both hands, but forced to let go when the friction burns one hand and the gauze covered hand just slips. Then I see where we’re going—not the ultimate destination, but a mode of transportation. We’re on a jet bridge, approaching the open door of a plane. The two men waiting for me are dressed in U.S. Air Force uniforms. Their steady gazes and shaved heads intimidate me, but I’m still too angry to care. I find the wheelchair’s brake and push it hard against the wheel. Forward momentum tips the chair forward. As I lean toward the floor, I plant my feet, push hard and rise—a few inches. I stumble to the side and crash into the jet bridge wall.

Thick hands catch me, while rough hands grab me from behind.

“I’ve got him,” says a new voice. One of the Air Force men. He’s older than most active duty military men, his salt and pepper hair hidden by the short haircut, but visible in his mustache.

“Your problem now,” the short secret service agent says, before doing an about-face and motioning to the woman pushing an equally stunned, but less indignant Holly. “We’re done here.”

Without a word, Holly is abandoned and has to slow the wheelchair on her own.

“Sorry about them, Mr. Wright,” the Air Force man says, then he nods to Holly. “Ms. Interlandi. I am Major David Gibbs.” He looks me in the eyes. “You’re not a light man, Mr. Wright, mind if I sit you back down?”

Working together, we get me back into the chair. I’m able to walk some, but not without help. Another day and I should be fully mobile again, though it’s going to hurt, maybe even worse than today, but I plan on being medicated by then. I lean back in the wheelchair seat with a groan. “Where are you taking us?”

“I’m going to tell you everything I know,” Gibbs says. “Everything. With the hopes that we can avoid further incident.”

I can’t promise I’ll play nice without hearing what he has to say, so I just wait in silence for him to speak.

“Deal,” Holly says for me.

“Our destination is Washington, D.C. My mission is to fly you both there, where a second Secret Service team will pick you up.”

When he falls silent, I ask, “That’s it?”

“That’s it. That’s all I know, but given your recent experiences in Iceland, and the Secret Service treatment, my guess is that you’re both headed for the White House. The world is in a tizzy, and you both were firsthand witnesses.”

While it makes some kind of sense, I don’t appreciate the surprise, or being torn away from my family. “My kids are out there. My family. They took me away before I could even speak to them.”

Gibbs steps behind my chair and starts pushing, while the second, silent U.S. Airman pushes Holly. “Understand your frustration, sir. And I will look into it for you. But the situation is fluid. The death toll is climbing. And while the fallout is primarily affecting Europe, the whole world is going to feel it. I’ve been in the military for a long time, sir. Where you and I might see tragedy, others will see opportunity. If there was anything I could do to help avert further loss of life, I would do it.” He pauses to look down at me, his mustached grin upside down. “Wouldn’t you?”

“They told me my family would join me later,” I say.

“Like I said, I’ll look into it.” He wheels me into the plane, and we turn through a door just wide enough for the wheelchair. Two U.S. Marines salute the Major as we enter and step aside to reveal what looks like a plush corporate jet outfitted for Marines on the go. While the seats at the front of the plane are intact, the rear has been converted into a mobile weapons locker. A special forces unit could probably climb aboard and be ready for just about any mission upon landing.

Then I realize where we are. A friend of mine wrote a piece about it years ago. But it had just been speculation based on rumor and legend. The story told of how the U.S. Marines adopted the luxurious Gulfstream IV, after it was damaged by a tornado. During its repair, some of the accoutrements were kept, but much of it was gutted and converted to a mission-ready plane that moved Marines, weapons and cargo during 476 sorties, without being identified as a military asset. Legend no more. This is the real thing. “The Gray Ghost.”

“You know your planes,” Gibbs says, impressed.

“I know a little about a lot,” I say.

Holly stands from her wheelchair, takes a shaky step and slides into the nearest seat. “He knows
a lot
about a lot.”

“I have a feeling that quality is going to be in high demand,” Gibbs says. “Now find a seat. We’re going to be in the air and back on the ground inside an hour.”

“That fast?” I ask.

“Let’s hope it’s fast enough,” Gibbs says with a deep frown, and I realize I’ve been lied to. He knows more than he’s said, and whatever it is he’s not telling me, it’s not good.