Apocalypse Machine (16 page)

Screaming in horror, Emil leapt into the car and fumbled with the keys, desperate to start the car.

The engine hummed to life and then screeched as he held the turned key too long. He slammed the car into gear and screamed again as he crushed his glass-pierced foot against the pedal. Tires screeched, replacing the foul stench in the air with burning rubber. Then he was on the road and moving, racing an unseen enemy.

When he reached the middle of the now powerless town, his headlights revealed bleary-eyed residents, many of whom worked for the plant. They gathered on the sidewalks, no doubt trying to understand the strange sequence of events that had roused them from bed. He honked his horn and screamed at them to flee, but he didn’t look back to see if they listened. Tires shrieked as he wove through the town’s center, heading east, charting a mental course to where he could turn south.

The wheel became slick in his hands.

He was sweating.

Drops rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes.

No,
he thought.
God, no!

His body quivered.

It’s anxiety,
he told himself.

But he didn’t believe it.

And a moment later, his body confirmed it. His head swirled. The road ahead blurred. Vomit burst from his mouth, coating the front window and the steering wheel. The severity and rapid onset of ARS—Acute Radiation Syndrome—symptoms told him that he had already been exposed to a lethal dose. Even if he cleared the area and reached a hospital, there was nothing anyone could do for him. He pulled to the side of the road as the skin on his forearms turned bright red, blistered and popped, covering his skin in hot liquid.

He felt his pants pocket for his phone, hoping to send one last message to his family, but it was missing.

But a moment later, it didn’t matter. His vision went black.

He vomited again.

He didn’t notice that the car was still moving, speeding up as it rolled down a slight incline. He didn’t feel his bowels vacate. He felt burning. Confusion. And then he understood nothing. Forgot who he was.

Suffering from the final stages of rapid onset ARS, the mega dose of radiation affected his neurology, erasing the mind so he was incapable of sensing or processing his own death.

The radioactive cloud climbed into the atmosphere, mixing with volcanic ash and adding its unleashed energy to the dozens of other reactors melting down across the continent, flowing steadily east in the wake of something monstrous.

16

Abraham

“Check your line!” the soldier at the back of the plane shouts. I’m not sure about his name or rank, but he’s dressed for war, even though he’s not one of the men about to jump. He’s not wearing the air filtration mask, goggles or radiation detectors, but the black BDUs, body armor, helmet and sunglasses make him look just as deadly.

“Line secure!” The men around me shout. Each and every one of them is part of the 75
^th
Army Ranger Regiment. Not only are they the best of the best, but they’re the most rapidly deployable unit in the Army. When the United States declares war, the Rangers aren’t just the first soldiers on the ground, they’re already there. They’re a no-brainer for a last minute mission on the far side of the world.

I, on the other hand, am not a no-brainer choice. I’m a science writer. Sure, I
do
know a lot about a lot. I’ve been on rigorous expeditions before, saved the team in Iceland and proved myself to the President, but I am in way over my head. I’m like a Chihuahua running with a pack of wolves.

The man behind me, Master Sergeant David Graham, tugs on the line dangling above my head. The carabiner connecting me to a metal cord running down the length of the ceiling jangles and remains secure. “Science Guy, secure!”

The Rangers gave me the callsign: Science Guy, after Bill Nye, who represents the highest level of science education these guys received. Graham is called Supernatural, on account of his skill level. I think five syllables is a bit of a mouthful, but these things have meaning to the Rangers, and I’m not about to point out nickname flaws to the men assigned to keep me alive.

“Check your equipment!” the soldier at the back shouts, motioning to his chest with the flats of his hands. The men around me check straps, gear and weapons with well-rehearsed efficiency. One by one they sound off, shouting, “Good to go.”

Graham takes me by the shoulders and spins me around. He shakes my helmet and goggles. Both are tight. He looks over the facemask covering my nose and mouth. It will filter the air I’m breathing, so I won’t have to worry about ash. And if things get bad, I have an hour’s worth of air in a small bottle strapped to my hip. He checks the zippers, buttons and clips of my clothing and body armor, which is lined with a thin weave of lead. It adds a lot of weight to the uniform, but it’s better than having your insides melted. It’s not perfect protection, but it can reduce the effect of what would normally be a mortal dose of radiation and give the wearer—me—more time to get to a safe distance.

If there is such a thing
, I think.

The ‘aberration’ seems determined to melt down every reactor between Hamburg and Russia. Following the seismic trail, it seems to be headed toward Rivne, Ukraine, where the Rivne Nuclear Power Plant’s four reactors pump out 2800 megawatts of energy. And we’re on course to intercept it, sometime before it reaches the plant during the late morning hours. We have no specific times or locations to go by, because the seismic data is vague—and moving. The GPS trackers we have will let us track it precisely, but until then, it’s whereabouts are all guesstimation.

And since we’re getting ready to hurl ourselves out of the back of a C-130 Hercules cargo plane, someone is guesstimating that we’re closing in on our very large target. I’ve leaped out of planes before, for work and for fun—before I was married—but I’ve never done a Low Altitude Low Opening (LALO) jump. While being closer to the ground sounds like a good thing, LALO jumps are often more dangerous. By the time you figure out that something has gone wrong, you’re already a pancake.

Graham taps my radiation detector with a single knuckle, like he’s a shy, door-to-door, insurance salesman. The green power light remains lit and steady. I’m not sure what that was supposed to check—loose battery maybe—but he seems satisfied. If we come across radiation, which seems likely, the devices will sound alarms via the earbuds we’re all wearing. They’ll then identify the radioisotope, its source and level. And if that weren’t enough, if the level requires action, the devices will identify local shelters using GPS and will supply us Google maps-style directions on the go. Sounds like super science fiction, but I already use the same technology to arrive at every meeting on time.

I’m spun back around toward the rear of the plane and given two firm pats on the shoulder. I would never admit it in current company, but the pats hurt. A lot.

“Science guy is good to go!” Graham shouts.

And I’m not sure why they’re all shouting. The comm system we’re all wearing lets us hear each other clearly over the C-130’s buzzing engines and the rush of wind through the plane’s open rear hatch.

When nothing happens, I look back at Graham and start to speak, but I manage only a single syllable before he thrusts two fingers at the open hatch. “Eyes forward, Science Guy!”

I turn forward again and say, “Graham, how—”

“Callsigns,” Graham says. “We’re crashing the party.”

I glance at the soldier standing in the back of the plane. Not only is he concealed in armor, but there is no sign of a name, rank or even country on his uniform.
We don’t exist,
I think.
That’s why they had me turn in my IDs.

“Supernatural,” I say. “How do we know when to jump?”

“When the light turns green,” he says. “And when I shove your ass out the door.”

I hear light chuckles from the men around us. So far, they’ve all been professional and polite, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t getting a kick out of me.

“Question for you,” Graham says. “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“You know…”

I
do
know, but if he’s going to make me talk about this over an open comm with the nine members of the Reapers, made up of Graham, the squad leader, and two four-man fire teams, not to mention whoever is listening in from the situation room, I’m going to make him say the words.

“Having two wives.”

I’ve never backed down from the conversation, and if I’m honest, I’d rather focus on my family than jumping out of this plane, so I answer honestly. “I’m only married to one of them.”

“So the other one is what, like a concubine?”

“That’s awesome,” I hear one of the other men say.

“No way, man,” someone else says. “One woman telling me what to do is enough.”

Chuckles fill the comms. And it’s a good point. My strange relationship is only possible because we’re oddly compatible.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“I bet. You—” Graham pauses as a loud
shhh
fills the cabin. Through the open rear hatch, I see a cloud of ash fill the sky around us, blotting out the Ukrainian landscape below. When nothing horrible happens and the plane remains on course, he continues. “You ever get tired of the questions? I imagine you all get strange looks when you’re out and about.”

It’s a fairly sensitive question for a soldier, but then, maybe I’m judging these guys as quickly as people judge my family.

“Only when people bring the kids into it, and really, they’re what we’re all about. I didn’t intend to have two kids at the same time by two different women, but I wasn’t about to choose one over the other. It was an easy call for me. Harder for my wife, for obvious reasons, and for my partner, for religious reasons, but it was still the right call.”

“Hardcore dedication, man,” someone says. “Right on.”

I smile and am about to offer my thanks, when someone manages to verbally sucker punch me. “If it’s so great, how come you’re out here with us?”

“Uh. I was ordered to—”

“You’re a civvy,” the unseen soldier says. “You could have said ‘no.’ You could have stayed home with your family. Your two women. But instead you’re flying half way around the world into a war zone. Now, the rest of us, we’re single and have no children. This is what we do. You? You’re a writer. I read your file. And from what I can see, you travel the world far more than you’re at home.”

“You have a point, Wheeler?” Graham asks.

“I’m just saying, he might be overestimating how much he enjoys having a weird family. Seems like he spends most of his time running from them.”

The men fall silent, perhaps waiting for me to reply, or knowing that Wheeler has shifted the conversation from friendly ribbing to uncomfortable truth. And I kind of hate him for it. Not for being rude or an asshole, but because he might be right. And I don’t think I would have come to the realization on my own. When I’m away from home, I tell myself there is no place I’d rather be than with my family, and there is some truth to that. I do love them. More than anything else. But I’m also uncomfortable. And afraid. So I keep on taking assignments that require travel, and a lot of it.

Wheeler isn’t the asshole. I am.

“Listen,” Graham says, his tone sympathetic to my plight. “Let’s focus on—”

The plane angles upward so sharply that I’m pushed to the floor. I’m caught under one arm and hauled to the side of the plane, where I grasp hold of a metal handhold.

Engines scream.

The angle increases. I reach for the soldier at the back of the plane—the one not jumping. He leans forward, taking one step at a time, fingers stretching for mine. He's wearing a parachute, and is clipped into a nylon strap attached to the floor, but falling would still hurt. Or worse. The strap is attached at his waist, designed to keep from stumbling out of the plane, but I don't think the designers planned for a near vertical plummet.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, over the roar and chaos, I hear someone, probably one of the pilots, shouting, “Pull up! Pull up!”

The plane's nose tilts up at a ridiculous angle, the engines straining against the vehicle's incredible weight. The soldier’s hand, just inches from mine, falls back with the rest of him as gravity tugs him down. He's in a free fall. I don't see any way out of a broken back for the soldier. He'll either be dead or paralyzed the moment that line snaps taut. Concealed in armor and sunglasses, he looks fearless as he falls. Maybe he is.
Men like these, who face life and death situations for a job, must make peace with their possible demise, early on.

When a blade flashes, and the nylon cord is severed, I know he's come to the same conclusion as me. Better to fall out and parachute down. But that's not what happens. He flips, head over heels, falling back. Before tumbling from the plane, his head strikes the hard metal ceiling. The blow saps the life from him. The blade falls from his hand. He spirals from the back of the plane, body lax like he's sinking in a pool of water. If he's not dead already, he will be when he hits the ground.

I scream, first for the man falling out of the plane. And then for myself. My feet leave the floor, and I nearly lose my grip, as my wrist twists around. I reach up and grasp the handhold with all ten fingers. Looking up, I see the other nine members of our squad doing the same.

Some of the men are screaming like me, which is good for my ego, but not very reassuring. Others are shouting commands and questions. There’s too much at once to make any sense of it.

The plane shakes violently in time with an explosion.

We start spinning.

A long, massive spear of darkness sweeps past the open hatch.

My hanging body turns sideways as the plane continues to twist, the centrifugal force overpowering gravity.

“Reapers!” Graham shouts over the noise. “We are hit! Deploy in three…”

The plane shudders. I feel a sudden drop in speed.
We’ve lost an engine
, I think. That’s why we’re spinning. That’s why we’re slowing down. In seconds, we’re going to fall back down, and then exiting this plane through the open hatch might be impossible.