Zoo 2 (2 page)

“Yuck! Daddy, this is gross!”

Eli has just taken his first bite of my latest culinary creation: oatmeal mixed with chunks of braised polar bear. He spits it back out into his bowl.

Chloe folds her arms. “Eli, where are your manners?”

How adorably French of her,
I think. The world is falling apart and my wife is still concerned about etiquette.

“Oh, go easy on him,” I say. “I know it's not exactly the breakfast of champions. But you do have to eat it, buddy. Sorry. We all do. Need the protein.”

“No way,” Eli says, shaking his head. He proceeds to shovel only the mushy oatmeal into his mouth, avoiding the meat. He uses his fingers, not his spoon.

I don't have the energy to put up a fight, and neither does Chloe. We consume the rest of our meal in silence. All we can hear is the eerie, howling wind outside, whipping against our weather station's aluminum walls. It sounds like something right out of a horror movie.

At least it's not an animal, trying to claw its way inside. It might be soon.

Chloe and I had come to the same chilling conclusion the night before. Because I lost so much blood out there on the ice, leaving a trail leading right to our front door, it's only a matter of time before
other
creatures pick up the scent and come after us. Like a charging herd of enraged musk oxen. Or a throng of feral foxes. Another polar bear, or an entire pack of them.

“All right, who's ready for story time?” Chloe asks, starting to clear our plates.

“Me, me!” Eli shouts, his face lighting up bright.

“Okay, then. Go wash your hands and get ready. I'll be in in a minute.”

With a grin practically half the size of his face, Eli disappears into the other room.

When we first moved into the weather station, it was all so rushed and chaotic. Our main focus was making sure we had enough canned food and warm clothing. Toys, games, and books for Eli were the last things on our mind. Thankfully, we discovered the previous inhabitants were voracious readers. They'd left behind a giant library—everything from Charles Dickens to Philip K. Dick, though not exactly young children's literature. Still, Chloe and I have been reading selections to Eli every single day since. Most of the stuff is way over his head, but he loves it.

“Anything new in the world we left behind?” Chloe asks me, rinsing our plates.

She sees I've started skimming the
New York Times
homepage on my laptop. More than half the lead headlines are about the ongoing animal crisis, which shows no signs of slowing down. In fact, it's only getting worse.

I summarize some stories.

“Let's see. Researchers in Cameroon were testing a promising animal pheromone repellent spray when they were mauled by a horde of rhinos. President Hardinson just signed a controversial executive order to set controlled fires in federal parks to destroy thousands of acres of breeding grounds. And the Kremlin's denying it, but apparently a school of blue whales just sunk a Russian nuclear submarine in—”

“Enough!” Chloe snaps. She sighs deeply. She runs her hands through her auburn hair. I feel bad for adding to her stress, but she asked.

My laptop
pings
with a notification—a new email. But not just any message—this has been sent via a classified U.S. government server.

Its subject line reads: “
Urgent Request
.”

I immediately slam my laptop shut.

“Now don't be ridiculous,” Chloe says. She'd read the screen over my shoulder. “Open it, Oz. It must be important!”

“As far as I'm concerned,” I say, “there are only two things in this crazy world that are important—and they're both inside this weather station with me. I'm done helping the feds, thank you very much. Remember what happened last time? How royally they screwed everything up with their so-called solutions? The idiotic bombing raids? The bungled electricity ban?”

Chloe puts her hands on her hips. Of course she remembers. We lived through every minute of that nightmare together.

But then she snatches my computer away.

“Fine. If you're not going to read it, I will.”

She opens the laptop and clicks on the message. She begins to skim it, and I can see her eyes grow wide. Whatever she's reading is big. Very big.

“Let me guess. The Pentagon wants me to come back and try to help solve this thing again. But what's the point? They're not going to listen to me.”

Chloe spins the screen around and shows me the email. I read it myself.

It was sent by a Dr. Evan Freitas, undersecretary for science and energy at the DOE. He explains that the powers that be in Washington have finally acknowledged that the animal crisis must be dealt with scientifically,
not
militarily. The Department of Energy is now overseeing America's response, not the Department of Defense. Dr. Freitas is spearheading the new response team personally, and he desperately wants me, Jackson Oz, renowned human-animal conflict expert, to return to the United States and join it.

“This is our chance,” Chloe says, grabbing my shoulders, “to get out of this icy hell. To actually stop this thing this time. It's what we've been waiting for!”

I can see tears forming in the corners of my wife's big brown eyes. It's obvious how much this means to her. I'm still skeptical, but I know I can't refuse.

“You're right,” I finally reply. “It is what we've been waiting for. It's hope.”

The metal walls of
our little weather station are rattling like a tin can. Outside, something's rumbling, something big. And it's getting louder. Closer.

“Daddy, look!” Eli exclaims. He's standing in front of a triple-paned glass window that looks out across the icy tundra, jabbing his finger at the sky. “It's here!”

The rumbling grows to a crescendo as a gunmetal military transport plane roars overhead, flying dangerously low to the ground.

Which is a very beautiful sight. It means it's about to land. Right on time.

As it touches down—on the snow-covered airstrip about a quarter-mile from our hut—Chloe and I quickly gather up the few small duffel bags we'll be bringing with us. Mostly clothes, toiletries, and a dog-eared copy of
A Tale of Two Cities
we're halfway through reading to Eli.

Other than the hooded jumpsuits we're already wearing, we're leaving the rest of our extreme cold-weather gear behind. I'd started packing our thermal underwear last night, until Chloe saw me and practically slapped the long johns out of my hand.

“I hope you're joking,” she said, crossing her arms. “We're done living in this damned Arctic wasteland. Forever. We're returning to civilization, remember? And we're
saving
it. For real this time.”

“Right,” I said. “Of course.” Then, under my breath: “No pressure or anything.”

But my wife had a point. We'd decided to leave our safe little hideout at the edge of the world. We both knew there would be no coming back.

“Okay, bud, time to go,” I call to Eli, who eagerly jumps into Chloe's arms.

We assemble by the front door, which we haven't opened in nearly a week—not since I tangled with that polar bear and left a trail of her blood and mine right to our doorstep. Chloe and I were afraid more wild animals would pick up the scent and come calling.

By the evening of the next day, they had.

First was a herd of rabid reindeer. They rammed their hoofs and antlers against the metal siding for hours until finally giving up from exhaustion. Next came a pack of wolverines. Not the scary Hugh Jackman mutant kind but weasel-like critters the size of small dogs. Still, their teeth and claws are as sharp as razors. If they'd found a way in, they'd have had no trouble turning three helpless humans into mincemeat.

I peer through the door's porthole. The coast looks clear—but anything could be out there. Lurking. Waiting. The quarter-mile hike to the airstrip might as well be a marathon.

Which is why I'm holding that trusty Glock—the one that saved my life once before—just in case. I check the clip: seventeen shiny gold bullets. Locked and loaded.

I push open the door and the three of us step outside. With my very first breath, the frigid air stabs the back of my throat like a knife.

“Come on,” I manage to croak. “Let's hurry.”

We traipse as fast as we can across the fresh snow; it's up to our knees. Over the crunching of our footsteps and the whistling of the wind, I hear Chloe speaking some comforting words to our son to help keep him calm.

Meanwhile, I'm scanning the icy vista all around us like a hawk. Which is harder than you might think. The endless snow and ice reflect the midday sun brighter than a million mirrors. If a feral animal or two—or ten—came charging toward us, sure, I'd probably spot them in time. But would I be able to see well enough in the glare to aim and fire?

I pray I don't have to find out.

Before long I do spot something looming. It's bluish-gray. And enormous.

It's the C-12 Huron transport plane—its dual propellers still spinning—sent by the Air Force to take us home.

We finally reach it as its rear stairs are hydraulically lowered. I gesture for Chloe and Eli to board first. I take one final glance around, say a silent good-bye to this icy hell, then climb in after them.

“IDs and boarding passes, please?”

One of the two pilots, a surprisingly youngish woman with a megawatt grin, is turned around in her seat to face us. Chloe and I smile back, filled with relief and glad to discover our saviors have a sense of humor.

“Shoot,” I say, patting my pockets. “I think I left my wallet in my other subzero bodysuit.”

“I'm Major Schiff,” the captain says, grinning. “This is First Lieutenant Kimmel. Sit down, strap in, and let's get you guys out of here.”

There are only about a dozen plush leather seats in the plane, which we have all to ourselves. Eli picks one by the window. Chloe sits next to him, and I beside her.

Within seconds, the plane's engines come alive and we're speeding down the bumpy, potholed runway. As we lift off into the sky, I close my eyes for just a moment…

When I hear Eli shriek at the top of his lungs.

“Look, look!” He's pointing out the window. A flock of birds—looks like a mix of gulls and ducks and even owls—has suddenly appeared on the horizon, flying right at us. They can't touch a speeding jet, and we leave the squawking mass of feathers in our atmospheric dust.

I reach over and take Chloe's hand. It's clammy. And trembling.

I realize mine is, too.

The plane's cabin is
pitch-black. We've been flying for hours. Eli and Chloe are snoring softly, both sleeping like babies.

Me? Not even close.

I'm exhausted but haven't caught a wink. My first stop, before returning to the United States, is London. There I'll attend an international summit to discuss new global responses to the animal attacks with representatives from around the world.

My mind's been on overdrive pretty much since wheels-up. That world we're returning to after all this time—what does it look like? The government's promise to treat HAC as a scientific crisis, not a military one—how will that actually play out? And what is my role in it all?

The lights inside the cabin come on. Major Schiff turns to face me.

“Time to stow those tray tables. We're about to land.”

Now my heart rate really starts to rise. Not because of the summit in London.

No, I'm getting nervous because we're
not
landing in London right now.

And my wife has no idea yet.

Chloe rubs her eyes and sits up in her seat. She gives me a groggy smile and glances out the window—when her expression instantly turns to shock. Then anger.

“Oz…? Where are we?”

She asks rhetorically, of course. We've just flown past the Eiffel Tower.

“Chloe, look, I'm sorry. If I'd told you the truth—”

“I never would have agreed to it, you're absolutely right!”

“Listen, I can explain—”

“No, let
me,
” she fires back. “While you jet off to London for the conference, then to God-knows-where-else around the world, Eli and I will be staying here. In Paris. With my parents. Because in your head you've convinced yourself that's safer!”

Chloe knows me too well. That was my plan to a T. I'd arranged it secretly with Dr. Freitas of the Department of Energy. And it did sound good in my head. But hearing my wife repeat it back to me, I can't help but wonder if I've done the right thing.

“If there was any way we could stay together,” I say, “any way at all, you know I'd choose that in a heartbeat. But be real, Chloe. Let's say they send me to the Amazon. Or Mount Kilimanjaro. Or the
Ant
arctic. Are those any places to take a four-year-old?”

Chloe just rolls her beautiful eyes.

I want to tell her we'll talk every day, no matter where in the world I am. I want her to know that every second I'm not working on solving the animal crisis, I'll be thinking about her and Eli. I want her to believe me when I promise I'll be coming back to get them as soon as I possibly can.

But I don't get a chance to say any of that. Our plane touches down on a private runway at Le Bourget, and before I know it, Chloe and I are walking down the retractable steps, Eli in my arms. A shiny black Citroën sedan and a handful of people are already waiting for us on the tarmac.

“Chloe,
ma petite chérie!
”

Marielle Tousignant, my wife's bubbly seventy-year-old stepmother, wraps her in an emotional hug. Marielle married her widowed father when Chloe was still fairly young. She never adopted Chloe officially, but it didn't matter. Marielle couldn't have children of her own, and before long, the two became extremely close, as if biological relatives.

I stand in silence as they speak to each other in rapid-fire French. I can't understand a word, but the gist of their conversation is pretty obvious.

“
Salut,
Oz,” Marielle says to me, kissing both my cheeks and blotting her eyes. “Thank you for returning to me my daughter.”

“Of course, Marielle,” I say. “Thanks for taking care of her while I'm gone.”

“And who is this handsome
garçon?
” she asks, gently stroking sleeping Eli's hair.

Chloe furrows her brow. Is her stepmother making a joke? Or is it something else?

“Very funny,
Maman,
” she says. “That's your grandson.”

After the slightest pause, an embarrassed smile blooms across Marielle's face. “
Oui,
bien sûr!
My, how big Eli is getting!”

A suited man standing by the car interrupts us: “Ma'am?”

He has an American accent, and I presume he's one of the U.S. Embassy security escorts Dr. Freitas promised would pick Chloe and Eli up from the airport. “We should get going.”

Everyone agrees. Eli is still sleeping, and as Chloe takes him gently from me, I can tell from her expression she's still upset. Is it because I didn't tell her the plan? Because we're going to be apart again? Or because the world has come to this?

Probably all three.

“Where's Papa?” I hear her ask Marielle as we approach the sedan.

“Right here, my dear,” comes a scratchy old voice from inside the vehicle.

Jean-Luc Tousignant, my wife's seventy-six-year-old father, is sitting in the backseat. A wooden cane is draped across his knees. As he reaches up to embrace his daughter, his hands tremble terribly.

“Forgive me for not getting out. I do not have the strength.”

Chloe can barely hide her shock. Neither can I. The last time we saw him, just a year ago, when he and Marielle visited us in New York, Jean-Luc, a former French Foreign Legion officer, was hale and hearty for his age. Tonight he looks frail and sick.

Wonderful,
I think. I figured my wife and son would be safe in Paris with my in-laws. I had no idea that one of them had developed early-stage dementia and the other, Parkinson's.

But at least this is safer than bringing Chloe and Eli with me to dangerous, far-flung lands…right?

I suddenly feel my wife pressing up against me, her arms around my neck, her lips on mine.

“I hate you so much, Oz,” she whispers between kisses. “But I love you more.”

I tell her I love her, too. I tell her to be safe. To watch over Eli. That I'll be back for them.

“Just as soon as I save the world.
I promise
.”

With that, Chloe gets into the sedan and it speeds away into the night.

As I climb back up the steps of the plane, I swallow the growing lump in my throat. I knew saying good-bye to my family wasn't going to be easy.

Now comes the even harder part.