by Alten-Steve
The group-therapy rooms at the South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center are located on the third floor, situated opposite the gymnasium, between the movie hall and computer room.
Dominique is seated in the back of room 3-B, half-listening to Dr Blackwell’s afternoon group-therapy session when she notices an orderly wheel a semiconscious Michael Gabriel into the movie hall. She waits until the orderly leaves, then slips out of the classroom.
The movie area is dark, the only light coming from the large-screen television. Eight residents, spread out over the three dozen folding chairs, are watching the latest Star Trek movie.
The wheelchair is in the last row. Dominique takes a seat, sliding her chair close to Mick. He is leaning to one side, slumped forward. A single belt strapped across his chest is all that prevents him from falling on his face. The dark eyes, once intense beacons, are now lifeless black pools reflecting the television screen, Mick’s long brown hair is pulled back. Dominique catches a whiff of scalp oil, then a vulgar scent coming from his rancid clothes. A heavy five o’clock shadow is thickening to a beard, covering all but the jagged scar along his jawline.
Damn you, Foletta. She removes a Kleenex from her coat and dabs at the spittle drooling from his lower lip. “Mick, I don’t know if you can understand me, but I miss you, I really do. I hate what Foletta’s done to you. You were absolutely right about him, and I feel terrible for not believing you.” She places her hand over his. “I wish you could understand me.”
To her surprise, Mick’s left hand turns over, his fingers entwining in hers.
“Oh my God,” she whispers.
Mick winks.
She can barely contain her excitement. “Mick, there’s so much I have to tell you—”
“Shhh.” The eyes remain vacant.
She leans forward casually, feigning interest in the video. “Raymond, the guard who attacked you, tried to rape me. He’s been suspended, but I hear he may be back to work as early as next week. Be careful, he’s threatened to hurt you to get back at me.” She returns his squeeze. “You remember me telling you about SOSUS? I convinced Iz to use the system to check out the Gulf coordinates you gave me. Mick, you were right. It turns out something is definitely down there, buried about a mile beneath the seafloor. Iz promises he’ll investigate.”
Mick squeezes her hand tighter. Without moving his lips, he whispers, “Too dangerous.”
“Too dangerous? Why? What do you think is down there?” She releases his hand as Dr Blackwell’s therapy session ends. “Mick, Foletta lied about everything. I found out he’s going to Tampa to be the director of a new maximum-security facility. You‘re being transferred next week.”
“Help me escape.”
“I can’t—”
She stands as Dr Blackwell approaches. “Intern, I didn’t realize you were such a Star Trek fan. I take it this movie is more important than my therapy session?”
“No, sir. I was just—I was just checking on this patient. He nearly fell out of his wheelchair.”
“That’s why we have orderlies. Here, take these.” He hands her a thick stack of patient files, then leads her away from Mick. “I want every chart updated and sent to billing within the hour. Be sure to note today’s therapy session. When you’re finished, you can join our team meeting in the conference room on the second floor.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“And Intern, stay away from Dr Foletta’s resident.”
Gulf of Mexico
The 48-foot fishing craft Manatee plows its way southwest through two-to-three-foot seas, its bow bathed in golden light as the setting sun kisses the horizon.
Below deck, Iz Axler pours himself a mug of coffee while his best friend, Carl Reuben, cooks dinner in the small galley.
The retired dentist rubs a hand towel over his balding scalp, then wipes the steam from his thick bifocals. “God, it’s hot down here. How close are we to this mysterious location of yours?”
“Three more miles. What’s for dinner?”
“I already told you, grilled dolphin.”
“We had that for lunch.”
“Catch lobster, and you’ll eat lobster. Tell me about this spot. You say it has no fish?”
“That’s right. We call it a dead zone.”
“Why’s it dead?”
“Don’t know. That’s why I want to take a look.”
“And how long are you planning to keep us in this dead zone?”
“How long until dinner?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Well, if there’s an oil rig sitting over the area like I suspect there is, we’ll be in and out of there by dessert.”
Iz leaves the galley and heads up on deck, savoring the smell of the salt air seasoned by the scent of grilled fish. For him, Carl, and Rex Simpson, the annual five-day fishing trip is the highlight of their year. After a long hurricane season, the Gulf waters have calmed and the weather cooled, offering ideal conditions for boating. Two days have yielded a dozen dolphin fish, eight yellowtail, and one grouper. Facing the fading sun, Iz closes his eyes and inhales, allowing the warm gusts of wind to soothe his sunburned face.
A dull thud causes him to turn. Rex repositions the air tank, then finishes strapping it to the back of a buoyancy-control vest.
“You planning on doing some diving, Rex?”
The 52-year-old owner of the Sanibel Treasure Hunters’ Club glances back over his shoulder. “Why not? Since we can’t do any fishing in this secret spot of yours, I thought I’d get in some night diving.”
“I’m not sure there’ll be much to see.” Iz resumes his place at the captain’s chair. He grabs the binoculars and scans the empty horizon, then verifies their location on the Global Positioning System. “That’s strange.”
“What’s strange?”
Iz deactivates the autopilot and cuts the Manatee’s engines. “We’re here. This is it, the location I was telling you about.”
“Nothing here but water.” Rex twists his long gray hair into a ponytail. “I thought you said there’d be an oil rig.”
“I guess I was wrong.” Iz activates the ship-to-shore radio. “Manatee calling Alpha-Zulu-three-nine-six. Alpha-Zulu, come in. Ead, you there?”
“Go ahead, Manatee. How’s the fishing?”
“Not bad. Mostly yellowtail and dolphin. Rex caught a grouper this morning. Ead, we just arrived at the site above the Chicxulub crater. There’s nothing here.”
“No oil rig?”
“Nothing. But the weather’s perfect, and the seas are calm. I think we’ll stay here for the night while I complete some tests.”
“Just be careful.”
“I will. Call you later.”
The sun is now a molten ball of crimson setting spectacularly off the port-side bow. Iz drains the mug of coffee, then activates the boat’s sonar to check the depth of the seafloor.
Just over two thousand feet.
Rex watches Isadore root through a dry-storage compartment. “Hey, Iz, check out your compass, it’s doing the mambo.”
“I know. There’s a massive crater buried beneath the seafloor, about a hundred kilometers across. We’re close to the center point, which possesses a very strong magnetic field.”
“What are you doing?”
Iz finishes attaching an underwater microphone to a large spool of fiber-optic cable. “I want to listen in on what’s happening below. Here, take this microphone and lower it over the starboard bow. Feed the line slowly.”
Iz takes the free end of the cable and connects it to an amplitude modulator. He boots the computer, then plugs in a set of headphones to the acoustics system and listens.
Jesus Christ …
Rex returns. “Microphone’s lowered. What are you listening to? Sinatra?” Iz passes him the headset.
Metallic churning sounds resembling high-pitched hydraulic pistons and gears cackle into Rex’s ears. “What in the fuck is that?”
“I don’t know. SOSUS detected the sounds a few weeks ago. They�
�re originating about a mile below the seafloor. I just assumed it was an oil rig.”
“Pretty bizarre. Have you told anyone about this?”
“I filed a report with the navy and NOAA, but no one has gotten back to me yet.”
“Too bad we didn’t bring the Barnacle.”
“I didn’t know your sub could dive this deep?”
“Hell, yes. I’ve taken her to down to six thousand feet in the Bahamas.” Carl climbs topside, his face beet-red. “Hey, are you guys eating, or what?”
9:22 p.m.
A tapestry of stars covers the cloudless night sky.
Carl is leaning on the transom, organizing his tackle box for the third time that day. Rex is below, cleaning up dinner, while Iz listens to the undersea acoustics from the pilothouse.
“Manatee, come in.”
“Go ahead, Ead.”
“I’ve been listening on SOSUS. The noises are getting louder and faster.”
“I know. Almost sounds like a runaway locomotive.”
“Iz, I think you ought to leave the area. Iz?”
The sonic screeech torches his ear canal like a white-hot poker. Iz flings the headphones from his head in agony and drops to one knee, feeling disoriented, the ringing in his ears unbearable.
“Rex! Carl!” He hears only a muffled echo.
An unearthly green light causes him to look up. The interior of the pilothouse is aglow with an iridescent emerald shimmer radiating from the water.
Rex pulls Iz to his feet. “You okay?”
Iz nods, his ears still ringing slightly. The two men stumble over the scuba gear and join Carl in the stern, too focused on the brilliant light to notice the smoke coming from the amplitude modulator’s sizzling electronics board.
God Almighty! Iz and his two friends stare dumbfounded at the sea, their faces glowing a ghostly green from the ethereal light.
The Manatee is bobbing along the surface of a circular swatch of luminescent sea, at least a mile in diameter. Iz leans overboard, stupefied by the surreal visibility created by the incandescent beacon originating somewhere along the seafloor, some two thousand feet beneath the boat.
“Iz, Rex, your hair!”
Carl points to their hair, which is standing on end. Rex fingers his ponytail, sticking up like an Indian feather. Iz rubs a palm across his hairy forearm, registering sparks of static electricity.
“What the hell’s happening?” Carl whispers.
“I don’t know, but we’re moving out of here.” Iz hurries back to the pilothouse and pushes the engine’s POWER button.
Nothing.
He pushes three more times. He checks the radio, then the GPS navigational system.
“What’s wrong?” Carl asks nervously.
“Everything’s dead. Whatever’s glowing down there has short-circuited all of our electronics.” Iz turns to see Rex pulling on his wetsuit. “What are you doing?”
“I want to see what’s down there.”
“It’s too dangerous. There could be radiation.”
“Then I’ll probably be safer in my wetsuit than you guys will on board.” He fastens the straps of the vest holding his air tank, checks his regulator, then slips on his fins. “Carl, my underwater camera’s by your feet.”
Carl tosses it to him.
“Rex—”
“Iz, thrill-seeking’s my hobby. I’ll snap a few quick shots and be back on board in five minutes.”
Iz and Carl watch helplessly as Rex slips over the side.
“Carl, grab an oar. We’re moving the boat.”
The sea is so visible that Rex feels like he is swimming toward the underwater lights of a deep swimming pool. He hovers six feet below the hull, feeling totally at peace, his body and escaping air bubbles immersed in the soft, emerald-green glow.
Movement above his head causes him to look up. My God …
Rex blinks twice, staring incredulously at the grotesque creature that has attached itself lengthwise along the center of the Manatee’s keel. Thirty-five feet of willowy tentacles flow from a caterpillar-like girth of gelatinous goo. No less than one hundred bell-shaped stomachs traverse the creature’s cream-colored, ropelike body, each digestive aperture containing its own hideous mouth and poisonous, fingerlike projections.
Incredible. Rex has never seen a live specimen before, but he knows the creature is an Apolemia, a species of siphonophore. These bizarre life forms, which can grow upwards of eighty to one hundred feet in length, inhabit only the deepest waters and, as a result, are rarely seen by man.
The light must have chased it to the surface.
He snaps several pictures, remaining at what he hopes is a safe distance from the creature’s poisonous stingers, then releases air from his BCD vest and descends.
The surreal lighting gives him the strangest sensation of falling in slow motion. Rex scissor-kicks at 60 feet to slow his descent, the pressure building within his ears. He pinches his nose and equalizes, surprised to find the pain getting worse. Then, looking down, he notices something rising at him from the luminescent void.
Rex smiles and extends his arms as thousands of Volkswagen-size air bubbles ascend all around him.
Incredible.
The sinus-cavity pain forces him to refocus. A dull baritone roar fills his ears, causing his face mask to reverberate and tickle his nose.
Rex Simpson stops smiling as he registers a gut-wrenching feeling in the pit of his stomach, a feeling similar to being suspended at the summit of a towering roller coaster just as it begins its downward plunge. The roar gets louder.
It’s an underwater earthquake!
Two thousand feet below, an enormous section of the limestone seafloor collapses in upon itself, revealing a gaping tunnel-like aperture. The sea begins swirling as it is sucked into the growing hole, the torrent drawing everything into its plunging vortex.
The emerald-green light intensifies, nearly blinding him.
Iz and Carl have managed to paddle the Manatee to the perimeter of the brilliant patch of sea when an unseen force seems to grip the stern, dragging the fishing boat backward. The two men turn, horrified, the sea now churning in a great counterclockwise vortex.
“It’s a whirlpool! Paddle faster!”
Within seconds, the Manatee is caught, moving backward along the outer edge of the maelstrom.
The powerful suction has clamped onto Rex’s body with frightening strength, dragging him into deeper waters. He kicks harder, the pressure building in his ears as he struggles to release his weight belt with one hand and grab on to the flailing rubber hose behind his head with the other.
The belt slips off his waist, disappearing in the intense light. Rex fingers the buoyancy-control device and squeezes the handle, inflating his vest.
His descent slows but does not stop.
An unfathomably strong current suddenly wrenches him sideways as if he is being sucked out of a plane. He lurches sideways, the current threatening to rip the regulator and mask from his face. He bites down hard and grabs his precious mask, twisting futilely against the un-relenting turbulence.
The sea drops open beneath him. He stares one hundred stories below into the blazing green eye of the vortex, a hole in the sea whose centrifugal force now pins him against the inner wall of its widening, churning funnel.
Rex’s heart pounds wildly in fear. The grip on his torso increases, tearing at the Velcro straps, all that prevents the air tank from being torn from his vest. He closes his eyes, sickened, as the whirlpool whips him along its interior wall at a dizzying velocity, all the while sucking him deeper into its mouth.
I’m going to die, oh, God, please help me—
His face mask cracks. A viselike pressure squeezes his face. Blood pours from his nostrils. He gags, then squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can, screaming into his regulator as his eyeballs are pulled away from their optic nerves, bulging out of their sockets.
A final scream is obliterated as Rex Simpson’s brain implodes.
>
The monstrous G forces created by the funnel of water have impaled the Manatee’s hull against the steep, swirling walls, tearing sections of the boat away with each revolution. Centrifugal force has pinned Carl Reuben’s unconscious body against the back of Iz’s legs, crushing the terrified biologist against the fiberglass transom.
Iz grips the guardrail in front of him with two hands. The whirlpool is roaring in his ears, its dizzying speed pushing him toward unconsciousness.
He wills his eyes open, focusing them on the source of the green light. Death is minutes away, the thought somehow both frightening and comforting.
The brilliant beacon suddenly dulls. Iz cranes his neck forward, leaning precariously over the transom. He sees a gurgling, tarlike ooze spew forth from an enormous hole within the seafloor. The black substance belches—Iz can smell its sulfurous, rotting stench—then finishes blanketing the emerald glow as it continues to rise within the funnel of water, darkening the still-churning sea.
Iz closes his eyes, forcing himself to think of Edie and Dominique as the maddening torrent pushes the Manatee down into its spiraling vortex.
God, let it be quick.
Carl reaches up. He squeezes Iz’s hand as the black ooze rises to greet them.
The boat strikes the thick, tarlike substance and flips, bow over stern, tossing Iz and Carl headfirst into the mouth of the inky maelstrom.
12
NOVEMBER 23, 2012: PROGRESO BEACH, YUCATÁN PENINSULA
6:45 a.m.
Bill Godwin kisses his sleeping wife on the cheek, grabs his microdisc player, and slips out of the second-floor hotel room of the Holiday Inn.
Another perfect morning.
He descends the aluminum-and-concrete staircase to the pool deck, then exits the fenced-in area and crosses Route 27 to the beach, the morning light forcing him to squint. Stretched out before him are miles of unblemished, pristine white sands and crystal-clear azure coastal waters.
Beautiful …
Brilliant specks of gold are just peeking over a line of clouds on the eastern horizon by the time he reaches the water’s edge. A Mexican girl in her teens zigzags along the serene Gulf waters on a purple-and-white wave-runner. Bill admires her figure as he finishes stretching, then adjusts his headphones and sets out at a leisurely pace.