Chimera

by Sonny Whitelaw

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, he was out of range of the fallout. He kept driving, trying to place as much distance as he could between himself and the deadly rain. No way was he going to reach the lava tunnels. So what now?

  He only realised he was driving back to the clinic when he turned the corner-and came face to face with a pillar of fire shooting directly from the ground where the clinic and cottage had once stood. Behind it was a second lava geyser. The heat blasting from them was almost as overwhelming as the deafening hissing. What was happening? Nothing that Mike Warner had told him made any sense! How could the island-the fault and the volcano-have erupted so violently without any warning?

  Nate brought his hand to his face, once again trying to wipe his eyes. Screw it! Opening the Land Rover door, he pulled off the hood, ripped open the remainder of the plasticized suit-now torn in a dozen places-and turned to stare behind him. The earth groaned and shuddered. The centre of the road seemed to fold in on itself, then another geyser of fire shot out. There was no way back or forward!

  Snatching up the cooler and backpack, Nate started running through the jungle in the only direction left to him, towards the beach. His one hope was to use the launch to get off this hellhole of an island.

  Now that the hood and suit were gone, he wanted to pull off his HEPA mask, but the fine ash in the air could be as deadly as any gas. Some of the falling cinders felt like wasps, burning tiny pinpricks in his arms and neck. Thankfully, the big lava bombs, which he could feel thumping into the ground less than a mile away, were not landing in this area. Where did the fault line begin and end? Where would the last vent open? Jeez, he wished he'd paid more attention to the geological maps.

  It wasn't until he reached the headland above the beach that it hit him. The natural U shaped harbour was an old vent, explaining why it dropped off into deep water so fast. That meant a vent would soon open… right here !

  Nate glanced fearfully over his shoulder. Another vent had already opened up behind him-almost as if they were chasing him. Up on the volcano, tracks of lava slithered like serpents down the valleys. He turned and looked over the harbour. The sun had risen far enough so that he could see the path down to the launch. An eruption of this size would bring someone, anyone to the island. The ORSTOM team at least. They would see him and… omigod !

  In the next cove beyond the harbour, an orange glow turned into an exploding ball of hissing steam. The ocean itself seemed to crackle and burn. Great gouts of white billowed up through air thick with grey ash. It sounded like a thousand boiling cauldrons. Nate wanted to scream and run-but behind him, another pillar of fire spewed out of the ground.

  Unaware of the sharp rocks slicing his bare feet open, ignoring the pain of hot sparks on his skin, he ran down through the rocks, thankful now for the HEPA mask. It protected his eyes from the ash and stinging fumes, and his lungs from microscopic particles that would have suffocated him. Yelping in pain, he looked down to see a strange glowing fibre tattooing his arm. It was a filament of volcanic glass-Pele's Hair. God help him if one landed on his head because if the hairs on his arm were anything to go by, it would set his head alight.

  The launch was anchored just out of reach. All he had to do was wade out and… Just in time, he saw dozens of white gobs washing up on the beach. Dead fish, cooked by the ocean. It was then that he finally noticed the intense heat beneath his bare, bloodied feet. Any moment now, a vent would open directly beneath him. Gingerly, he tested the water with the back of his hand, vaguely noting that his knuckles were raw and bloodied. The water was near boiling.

  Nate dropped the big cooler and looked around. He needed a branch to hook the launch and pull it close to shore. A palm frond perhaps? He started up the beach when a huge blast of heat and sand struck him in the face, and sent him staggering backwards. Behind the line of coconut trees, another lava geyser shot from the ground, tossing gigantic banyan trees aside like matchsticks. He was now surrounded by erupting vents. There was nowhere left to go.

  A black shape burst out from the underbrush. It was a large razorback pig with its mane on fire. It ran full speed into the ocean-and squealed like a banshee when it got there. The animal tried to swim back out, slipping in the sand, desperately to escape. Its screaming agony was a horrendous forewarning of his own fate unless he acted.

  The incoming tide had edged the launch closer; its stern was just a tantalizing metre beyond his reach. Nate tossed his backpack into the boat, then grabbed the cooler and gingerly pushed it out through the mass of dead fish. Normally it would bob around like a cork, but filled with samples and ice, it sat low and steady in the water. With the heat of a blast furnace and adrenaline-fed terror driving him, he took a running leap from the beach, onto the cooler and then into the launch.

  He didn't entirely escape injury; the cooler had dipped and hot water had flowed onto his bare foot, but it was only a minor scald. His shoulder, however, was worse, badly bruised from hitting the boat's gunwale.

  Oblivious to the pain, he ran forward to the mooring line and released it. The pig's all too human cries reached a fever pitch. Something-he assumed it was the animal-bumped into the side of the boat. Then he saw that it was the cooler. Hooking it with a gaff, he hauled it onboard. The fibreglass hull of the launch was hot. How did fibreglass cope with boiling water? The rain of cinders intensified. Running to the wheelhouse, he turned the key in the ignition. It spluttered.

  No, no, no, no ! It always started first go! The intake was probably clogged with one of the thousands of tiny pieces of pumice floating on the water. He snatched up a machete that they kept on board, ran aft and cut the anchor line, and batted away at the exhaust intake, hoping to dislodge whatever was blocking it. Then he stumbled back and tried the engine again. This time, it started, and his legs almost buckled with relief as the boat shot forward and out of the harbour's boiling waters.

  -Chapter 29-

  Mathew Island, December 18

  "The big magma chamber is expanding at an unprecedented rate, placing pressure on the smaller chamber and forcing it to rise. This minor eruption is the result."

  McCabe couldn't tell if the jumpy image of Mike Warner was due to the poor quality of the satellite feed, or because the vulcanologist appeared so agitated-or excited.

  "It doesn't alleviate the pressure from the big chamber, though, because as far as we can tell, the two aren't connected," Warner continued. "I'm still receiving data from the airport sensor, but I can't guarantee for how long."

  "That," said Spinner, looking in awe out through a porthole, "is a minor eruption?"

  The California was still twelve nautical miles due south of Mathew Island-and no one wanted to get any closer. The crew were dressed in fire-resistant battle dress and ordered to be on the alert for falling cinders. Given the steady fifteen-knot wind from the southeast, Captain Rolston had assumed they would miss the worst of the volcanic fallout. But according to satellite images the ejecta had already reached an altitude of sixty thousand feet. It now obliterated two thirds of the sky. Although the wind currently provided them with an unhampered view of the island, Warner had warned them to expect some ash fallout.

  It was, as one seaman put it, like a Hollywood special effects machine run amok. The volcano continued its spectacular fireworks, with discharging electricity generating a monumental display of lightning. Using a pair of binoculars, McCabe counted eight separate vents, some near the ocean, all sending fiery geysers into the air. And those, as Warner pointed out, were just the ones they could see. Over the following hours dozens more would open up on the north side of the island and across the caldera, all the way to the east coast.

  Through their satellite linkup, Warner reminded them, "When the main magma chamber blows, it'll take most of the island-and the surrounding waters-with it. You don't want to be anywhere within a hundred miles when that happens. Two hundred miles would be better, and in deep water to ride out any possible tsunami. Even from that distance you'll still get a light show th
at beats the hell out of anything you ever saw over Baghdad. Now," he added, "When are you gonna send a rescue party?"

  Captain Rolston's expression turned incredulous. "Sir?"

  More agitated now, Warner barked, "Rescue party! It might look to you like the whole island is on fire, but the villagers will avoid the fault line and lava flows. Yeah, there'll be fallout and lava bombs, but they'll have made for the lava tunnels up north. Given the lack of warning and the prevailing wind it'll be too risky to get there on foot, so they'll most likely put to sea in canoes, make their way south, then circumnavigate the island. They're not stupid; they've been living with that volcano a long time."

  Wilson apparently hadn't told Warner that the chimera had nuked the village. Still staring at the island, McCabe tried not to remember the low hum of flies lifting in black clouds from piled bodies, the taste of blood and vomit, and the sickly odour of rotting flesh.

  "You cannot stand by and do nothing!" Warner shouted. "You went there to offer aid. Now goddammit, get out there and rescue those people!"

  "It's not that simple, Dr Warner," Susan said. "The French and Vanuatu governments-"

  "Fuck them! Since when has the United States let a couple of pipsqueak bureaucrats interfere with humanitarian aid? No, don't answer that. But what are you gonna tell the world when the news gets out that you sat by and let a hundred and fifty people-okay, maybe less because of this bug-but nevertheless the entire population of the island fry because the Froggies told you to back off?" Warner's expression faltered. "Exactly how many people got sick?"

  "We're not certain," Susan replied. "We lost communications after the earthquake."

  One of the technicians had set up a camera on deck, and the images were being transmitted to Warner. The vulcanologist now glanced off-screen, presumably at the video feed.

  In an aside to Susan and Rolston, McCabe said, "Aside from recovering Sturgess, if anyone who's been infected has survived-"

  "Their blood will contain antibodies," Susan finished. "Josh, you know as well as-better than-I that antibodies may not be sufficient to form the basis of a vaccine."

  Rolston looked at them. "Vaccine?"

  Ignoring him, McCabe said, "Ninety percent of Ebola victims die without the vaccine. Fifty percent with it." He knew the figures because his own blood had been harvested to treat Ebola. "Susan, if his chimera gets off the island, we're gonna need every resource we have."

  "Major?" Rolston asked.

  Her face screwed up. "He's right. The antibodies of anyone who survived are going to be vital."

  "All right Dr Warner," Captain Rolston said, turning back to the camera. "What approach would you recommend? And how long do you estimate before the main magma chamber erupts?"

  "Forget the helicopter," the vulcanologist replied. "It won't last five seconds in the ash fall. I'd use covered launches. Fire-resistant ones, not plywood or inflatables. You'll need breathing equipment and protective eyewear, and deck pumps to wash down the ash and cinder. Send the launches to the northwest side of the island, keeping well clear of the western bay. Nate and I dived on the submarine vent last week. If it hasn't already opened, it soon will. The village is halfway between that western headland and the airport, but you'll probably see the villagers in canoes long before you get that far."

  "The clinic?" Spinner asked.

  "If it's not history by now, it will be by the time you get there." Warner's frown deepened. "It was built directly over the fault line, and Nate knew that. The village is better positioned but I don't think you'll find anyone has stayed behind. Nate knows how to operate the launch. It's been surveyed to carry sixteen passengers but in an emergency he could pack at least twenty-five, maybe thirty people on board. They'll likely be carrying a lot of pigs with them and will be loath to give them up, so be prepared for livestock. As to how long you've got…" Warner hesitated. "Anywhere from three or four days…to five minutes."

  "Educated guess?" Rolston said.

  "What's your best speed?"

  "In these conditions, thirty knots."

  "I'd wanna be leaving there in no less than five hours. But," Warner added with a crooked smile, "I was forty minutes out when we ran a betting pool on Mount Saint Helens. Make it four."

  "All right, well see what we can do."

  "If you can keep the live video feed going," Warner said, "I'll keep you updated on what I think will happen."

  "Will do." Rolston turned and led the team out of the communication's cabin. "We've got four ship's boats," he explained, walking along the companionway and out on deck. "All of them are fibreglass but only one of them, the captain's gig, is enclosed. It could carry twenty-five at a pinch but it's operated from the open deck above and between the forward and aft cabins, so somebody has to be outside to drive it. The others are open topped thirty-three foot long liberty launches. I recommend taking my gig and one of the liberty launches. We jury-rigged an aluminium shelter for the launch about a year back. I can have the men erect that in ten minutes, but that's it."

  They might reach the island and find they had to evacuate seventy bed-ridden people on boats designed to carry half that number. McCabe doubted it, but he also knew they had to try. "I want to go with the shore party," he said.

  Susan stopped and turned to him. "Why? Josh, you don't have anything to prove-"

  "I'm going too," said Spinner. "I'm a medical doctor."

  Turning her gaze to Spinner, Susan said, "You expect to find dozens of critically ill natives taking a Sunday drive in their canoes?"

  "It's Monday," McCabe retorted.

  "Sturgess is probably dead. Josh, you must know that."

  "And if he's not?"

  "If we can't locate him, we may have no choice but to leave him. Four hours there and back."

  "Less if we stand here arguing about it," Spinner said.

  Susan stared at McCabe for a few tense moments, then she said to Rolston, "Ten minutes it is, Captain. And…thank you."

  "I suspect you'll be cursing me before this is over, Major," Rolston replied, and left to organise the boats.

  Nate had no idea what direction to take. Hunter Island with its ugly black peak looked singularly uninviting, but the nearest inhabited island, Aneityum was hundreds of kilometres northwest. Even with a compass he wasn't certain he could navigate there. He had no charts; he wasn't even sure of the exact direction. Should he head for the lava tunnels? But if he headed east he'd be pelted with more that ash and Pele's Hair, and it would only take one small lava bomb to hole the launch. His immediate need was to get out of range of the fallout, and that meant heading west, then south. The southern side of the island had to be better than this!

  Driving through the miasma, he began to wonder which direction was west. The electrical storm, or maybe it was the volcano itself, was sending the compass haywire. The thick air was like a gingery London smog, although it didn't dampen the sound. Periodic explosions ripped through the sky as Mathew continued to unleash its fury. Without his mask, he would have long since succumbed, but even so, breathing was becoming progressively harder; the exceptionally fine filters were designed to keep out particles the size of viruses, not ash. How long did he have? How fast should he drive? He decided his biggest problem was lack of visibility-until the engine died.

  It wasn't a cause for panic. The engine intakes were probably blocked with pumice. He was lucky that the boat had brought him this far. But then he checked the fuel gauge-and stared at it dismay. They always kept the tanks full! Then he remembered that the last time they'd used the launch had been the trip to Hunter Island. He'd never had the chance to go back and refill the tanks.

  Cursing himself, Nate went below and opened the hatch. He had not travelled through the islands without learning how to improvise-inside and outside the operating theatre. The launch carried a small outboard motor as a backup, and he could erect a mast in minutes. He and Mike had checked everything before their trip to Hunter; he would be all right.

  Hoping it
might reduce the clogging affect of the ash in his filter mask, Nate tied a thin rag across his face, then set to work. Ten minutes later he had jury-rigged a mosquito wire mesh around the outboard motor's water inlet. Hopefully that would work to keep out the bulk of the pumice. He set the thing up on the stern transom, pumped the fuel valve and pulled the cord. The engine started on the second try, and the launch moved forward again, although at a painfully slow pace.

  It was becoming almost impossible to breathe, so he took off the rag. There were two black circles where the cloth had covered the filter intakes. They were so thick with ash that it crumbled from the rag to the deck when he touched it. He re-tied the rag in a different position. It was an improvement, but he'd have to remember to do it every few minutes.

  Now that the launch was moving and the breathing problem resolved, he turned his attention to the mast. It took a lot longer to set up, and he had the hell scared out of him half a dozen times as blobs of lava and tangles of Pele's Hair hit the launch. Two small holes in the hull he'd plugged with the stuffing from lifejackets. The bilge pumps would work without the engine-they were battery-driven-but he would wait until he really needed them. Meanwhile, his bigger concern was that the noise of the eruption seemed to be growing louder. Then the seas around him began to get choppy.

  At first he thought he had sailed past the leeward western end of the island and was now exposed to the south-easterly swell of open ocean. But a blast of hot steam and an eerie cherry glow from beneath the dark water told him he had hugged the coastline too closely. An underwater vent was erupting just a few hundred metres away!

  Abandoning the sail, Nate ran to the outboard tiller and turned the launch away from the sound, praying the bubbling outflow would help push him away rather than drag him toward the vent. If he could just get the sail up, hot air pushing against him had to help. As soon as he hoisted the jib, though, the glowing filaments that had burned through his shirt and singed his back in countless places set the nylon fabric alight.