The still-running tap reminded Miller that he was desperately thirsty. He removed the regulator from his mouth, bent down to the tap, opened his mouth, and filled it with water. The taste hit him a moment before he swallowed. The water tasted metallic, almost like blood. He spit it into the sink, remembering the flavor of the first flake he’d placed on his tongue.
The water is contaminated with that crap, he realized.
He added water to the list of things he needed to find before leaving.
His stomach growled.
Food, too.
Miller headed back into the store and knelt by Dave’s body. “Sorry, Dave,” he said, his voice muffled by the regulator.
Despite some bloating, the boat shoes slipped off fairly easily, and fit well enough when he tried them on. He grabbed an I ♥ KEY LARGO T-shirt from a hanger. Holding his breath, he quickly pulled the shirt on and then restrapped the tank over his back. Dressed and feeling more human, Miller returned to the front desk. The tanks against the back walls would be the full ones. He checked them one by one, taking note of how much air was in them.
When he was done, he stepped back. Eighteen air tanks. Eighteen.
Thirty-six hours.
Combined with the air in the boat he could make it two days.
Feeling safe for the first time since he took that near-deadly breath of air at the life support buoy, Miller let his thoughts drift beyond his personal circumstances. He thought of his friends, the agents he worked with, and his former comrades in the SEALs. He had no idea if they were still alive. Hell, he might be the last person left alive on Earth. But he wouldn’t give up fighting for his life. Wasn’t in his nature.
He looked down at Dave, dead on the floor, and removed his regulator. “Thanks for the air, Dave.”
As he turned away from the shop owner, a small blinking blue light caught his eye.
A laptop.
9
The laptop sat on the floor, tipped on its side and opened partway. He could see the power cable plugged into the wall and a blue LAN cable that disappeared behind the shelf the machine had sat on before being knocked over. He slid on his belly toward the machine, righted it, and opened it up. He lay there on the floor, next to Dave’s feet, like a child playing video games, and hit the Power button.
A Windows Vista logo flashed on the screen and Miller prayed the machine wouldn’t be buggy. It started up quickly, though, and displayed a nice image of what Key Largo would have looked like a few days previous. A paradise.
But the image and all of Dave’s files held no interest for Miller. Two icons flashing in the bottom right had captured his full attention. The first was a low-battery indicator. He had suspected there was no power, but the plugged-in laptop running off batteries confirmed it. The second icon revealed no network connectivity.
Hoping Dave didn’t have his Internet history and cache cleared, Miller double-clicked the Firefox icon and a message appeared on the screen:
WOULD YOU LIKE TO RESTORE YOUR PREVIOUS SESSION?
Miller clicked Yes and the Web browser opened. The cache did its job, filling in content that was no longer live, but still stored on the computer. Five separate tabs opened at the top of the browser. The first one was what he’d been hoping to see. A news station. He clicked on the tab and a video screen appeared. He tapped on the Play icon. The station’s logo swirled dramatically onto the screen.
“Welcome to News Five at nine. I’m Rebecca Sanchez. We begin tonight’s…”
The woman on-screen was a vision. Her voice comforted him as she welcomed viewers to the show. She was alive.
Was alive, Miller corrected himself. Not anymore. Couldn’t be. The date on the newscast was two days ago.
He focused on her words instead, believing that this woman, like everyone else, was most likely dead.
“More disturbing news tonight, this time out of Washington. President Bensson has issued a state of emergency and imposed an eight P.M. curfew. He has asked that people in the affected areas remain calm, and in their homes. We here at News Five will stay at the station throughout the curfew and bring you updates as they come in.”
She continued speaking for several minutes, repeating the same information in different ways, urging people to stay at home. Stay hydrated. Ration food. And watch the news. Then she switched gears.
“The rash of illnesses that swept across southern Florida and Tokyo, Japan, yesterday, in conjunction with the beginning of an atmospheric event that some are calling biblical, seems to have abated. Symptoms ranging from headaches to severe stomach pain afflicted most everyone in the region. It seems today that the worst is over as people, including myself, are finally feeling better.”
The video ended.
Though he’d heard everything she said, only three small phrases really stayed with him: “affected areas,” “swept across southern Florida,” and, “afflicted most everyone in the region.” He knew a lot of people had died. Key Largo was a city of red-coated corpses. But if this really was a regional event, maybe there was some hope after all?
Two small thumbnail images appeared on top, labeled RELATED STORIES. They were dated the day after the newscast. Unlike many of the blue text links on the page, these were highlighted in purple. Dave had watched them, too.
Miller clicked the first.
The news anchor appeared on-screen again, this time without the flashy graphic. The tired look in her eyes supported her claim that she and the crew had indeed spent the night at the station. She started right in on the story. No greeting. No hello. All business.
“We have just received word, and this has been confirmed by labs all over the world, that this is a natural event. A cosmic event.”
She picked up a piece of paper.
“This statement comes from a NASA spokesman.” She started reading it. “Last week, our solar system passed through a large cloud of naturally occurring iron particles. The massive iron cloud struck Earth’s atmosphere at eight thirty, eastern standard time, on Wednesday morning.”
The reporter inhaled deeply, and then did so again. She appeared overcome with emotion, and short of breath, but pulled herself together and continued.
“The reddish flakes falling from the sky are created when the iron particles strike our atmosphere and oxidize—”
“Rust!” Miller said with his teeth clenched around the regulator mouthpiece.
“—forming flakes of rust. There are two inherent dangers to watch out for during this phenomenon. The first, iron poisoning is…” The woman sniffled hard, let out a faint sob, then wiped her nose and continued. “… is caused by ingesting or breathing large amounts of iron. The symptoms of iron poisoning are…” She sighed. “Severe stomachache, nausea, and vomiting, followed by a day of apparent health as the iron penetrates deeper into the body and destroys internal organs, specifically the brain and liver, as metabolic acidosis sets in. Shock comes next, severe vomiting, followed by death from liver failure.”
She took another deep breath, put the paper down, and continued.
“The second danger facing us is asphyxiation. That’s like drowning in the open air.”
“Becky, you better read what they sent,” came a whispered man’s voice from off-camera.
“I’ve read it. They need to hear the truth, not a bunch of technobabble!” Rebecca snapped. “When iron oxidizes, the chemical change removes oxygen from the atmosphere. We are being told that if this storm keeps up then it’s possible that the atmosphere will become…” Her lower lip trembled and she looked close to breaking into tears. “Well, we won’t be able to breathe.”
Her upper teeth clamped down on the quivering lip, and after taking another deep breath, she began again. “The president will be addressing the nation within the hour, but I suggest you get in contact with your loved ones. Spend your time with them, and if you believe in God, start praying. If you’re one of the millions who have suffered from the ailments I listed off, don’t bother trying to escape the area … you’re alread
y dead.”
An angry voice cut in, shouting, “Rebecca!”
The video stopped and once again showed two thumbnail images. Most of what the woman said seemed accurate. The effects of the storm had clearly been predicted correctly. It had taken some time, but right now there was no air in the atmosphere, though it seemed most everyone had died from iron poisoning before the oxygen ran out. There was no escape, unless you happened to be in a sealed canister with its own air supply.
Like he had been …
What didn’t make sense was that an atmospheric event of this magnitude could strike two highly populated areas on different sides of the planet and leave the rest of the world unscathed. Nature doesn’t choose targets. People do. And that chilled him more than the rest. To think that this might be a new weapon of mass destruction made his insides roil. The government had carefully worded their press release to avoid all-out chaos—which was almost certainly taking place anyway.
He turned his attention back to the computer screen. The battery indicator was flashing now. The screen showed two video thumbnails. The first video he’d watched and the second he hadn’t. The thumbnail of the second video was dated the same as NASA’s press release video, but the time was ten hours later. The still image looked poorly lit, and the reporter, Rebecca, looked like hell.
He clicked on the final video, wondering what Rebecca would have to say, knowing now that the end of the world was near.
She was in tears when the clip started. Her on-screen persona had completely vanished. She was now a terrified and angry woman, facing certain death. “You fuckers!”
Miller jerked back as though she had shouted at him.
“You won’t get away with this! You can’t!”
She wiped her nose, smearing her running mascara across her flushed cheek. The rage in her eyes faded as she addressed a different audience. “Anyone who is still alive … please listen to me. We just received an e-mail from a group claiming responsibility for everything. This didn’t have to happen! If you survive, if you somehow make it through this, know that you are not alone. You are among enemies. And they’re tagging the streets with their symbol.”
She coughed violently, struggling for breath. She reached out her hand, snapping her fingers at someone. A piece of paper came into view and she took it. “This is their symbol. If you see it, either run the other way … or kill the bastards.”
She held the image up to the screen, her hands shaking. It was eerily familiar, but he couldn’t place it. And the longer he looked at it, the more his subconscious shouted, danger! As the screen went black and the laptop shut itself down, he closed his eyes and could still see the image clearly. He couldn’t remember who it represented, but he recognized what it stood for.
Evil.
10
Miller sat back from the laptop, stunned. Someone had caused the storm. Someone announcing their presence to the world through a symbol, someone who could kill millions without firing a weapon or even revealing themselves. What pissed him off was that the group responsible hadn’t asked for or demanded anything in conjunction with the release of their symbol. In a firefight, when the enemy started by shooting two of your men, they had no intention of stopping to talk. More bullets would come until everyone was dead or you figured out a way to kill your enemy first. His instincts told him to get ready for a fight, but what could he do? He was alone in a dead zone of unknown size and had no way to get in touch with the outside world.
Or did he? He hadn’t tried a landline yet.
Miller stood and searched the room. A phone hung on the wall above Dave’s body. He picked it up and put it to his ear.
Nothing.
Anger got the best of him and he yanked the phone from the wall and flung it. Its old-fashioned bell rang out as the phone struck the front window and smashed it. The cacophony of breaking glass snapped Miller out of his anger as a cloud of red dust swirled into the shop.
Time to go, Miller thought. He needed to move—his life depended on mobility now—but he also needed supplies.
Over the next thirty minutes, Miller transported the air tanks from Dave’s shop over to the sloop, which he now saw was named Montrose. After stepping over the woman’s body three times he realized that his passengers had to go. He dragged the stiff bodies to the deck. At first he thought about burying them, but what was he going to do, bury every dead body he came across? It wasn’t remotely feasible, and certainly not rational. Until he escaped this airless hell, his every action would be dictated by the need for survival. Burying two bodies would simply use up his limited resources. All he could do was apologize to the couple before rolling their bodies overboard.
With the air safely stowed in the Montrose, he turned his attention to the next problem—food and water. He could see a CVS pharmacy sign down the road, perhaps half a mile away. They should have what he needed.
He checked his air—forty-five minutes—then started to walk. Halfway there he found an abandoned bike. He hopped on and started pedaling. His speed doubled and his exertion lessened, which was good, but the street was littered with rust-covered bodies that he had to dodge. Staying upright became even trickier when the rust grew deeper. The tires slipped several times and he almost crashed twice. He hoped his tetanus shot was up-to-date. The vaccination was required by the NCIS so he thought he should be okay.
The CVS had been fairly well picked over, but people hadn’t been thinking when they looted the store. Electronics were missing. Junk food and soda had been pillaged. But the good stuff, the food that would keep him alive, was still there. He took five boxes of energy bars, four large containers of chocolate protein drink, a bottle of vitamins, and two three-gallon containers of water. He double-bagged everything and hung the bags on the bike’s handlebars, which made pedaling so unstable he had to climb off and walk the bike back.
Moving quickly, he returned to the store again, grabbing two more water containers and as many canned goods as he could hold. This trip went faster than the first and after returning everything to the sloop, Miller decided he had time for one last run.
As he moved through the aisles this third time around, he looked for anything he thought he might need. Batteries, flashlights, clothing, a raincoat, a knife set, and medical supplies. But one object that he required eluded him—a can opener. He hurried up and down the aisles three times, moving faster with each pass, until he saw a single can opener hanging above a display of nonstick pans on the endcap of the next aisle over. In his rush to reach the can opener, his clothing snagged on the corner of a sunglasses display. There was a hard tug from the display, but he yanked away, strode to the can opener, and picked it up.
He grinned at his success.
And then he wheezed.
He breathed again, but found no air.
He looked at the pressure gauge.
The air that was left was draining quickly.
He spit the regulator from his mouth and inspected the hose. Air hissed from a torn hole. And then, it stopped. The tank ran empty.
He hadn’t snagged his clothing on the metal sunglasses display, he’d snagged the air hose. Stupid! Miller thought to himself.
There was a half mile between him and his air tanks. He cursed himself for not bringing a spare. His heart pounded with fear, realizing that death was two minutes away, three minutes at most. His last breath had not been deep and he already felt the need for another. Then he saw a sign on the back wall of the store.
PHARMACY.
He ran for it and jumped the counter. Pills littered the floor, where they had dissolved into sludge by some now-evaporated liquid. He had no interest in drugs or pills right now. Air was his drug of choice. Then he saw what he was looking for—an oxygen tank. Just one. The kind with which you see old folks shuffling around, or those attached to the electric go-carts of the morbidly obese. He picked up the white tank and set it on the counter. A plastic face mask in a sterile bag went next.
He ignored the reflection of
his beet-red face in the reading glasses display on the other side of the counter and quickly attached the face mask. He loosened the valve. When the hiss of escaping oxygen hit his ears, he placed the mask against his mouth—and breathed.
After taking a few deep breaths, he realized that the air tasted different. Unlike the compressed air in the scuba tank, this was straight oxygen, meant to be breathed along with normal air, not in place of it. The tank would keep him alive, but it wouldn’t be long before he started feeling loopy. He swiftly left the pharmacy, taking several pairs of sunglasses on the way, and transported his last shipment of goods to the Montrose. By the time he arrived and switched over to a new tank of air, he was feeling great. The weight of the air tank on his back felt heavy, but he was glad for it. The straight oxygen had worked wonders for his psyche, but too much would be deadly.
When the Montrose was loaded with enough food and water to last several weeks, and air to last for a little more than two days, Miller set sail for Miami.
11
TWO DAYS LATER
Only two hours of air remained when Miller caught his first glimpse of the Miami skyline. The doldrums had settled in over the ocean and left the Montrose’s sails limp. With no wind and no way to start the engines, the ship floated adrift for days in the now sludgy waters of the Bermuda Triangle. Surrounded by an otherworldly red ocean and pink sky, Miller had retreated to the cabin and tried not to think about his dwindling air supply. But that had been hard to do when eating meant holding your breath and sleep was interrupted every two hours by sudden asphyxiation.
When the winds returned, Miller had stumbled up on deck, unfurled the sails, and pointed the sloop west. With no idea how far out to sea he was, all he could do was pray for wind and stay the course. The wind blew gently—a breeze really—but it was enough to get him to Miami.
As the Montrose cut through the waters alongside Miami Beach’s now pink shore—white sand mixed with red flakes—he kept a constant lookout for someplace that might have scuba gear. But all he could see were nightclubs and hotels. Having never been to Miami, he wasn’t sure where to look. Rounding South Beach, he maneuvered the sloop into a channel. A buoyed sign read: MIAMI HARBOR—NO WAKE ZONE.
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