The Waterhole

by Warren Chazan

  Gerald, Kyle and Bjorn awoke chattering away in their bitterly cold tents. They were unprepared for the unseasonable blizzard that had taken hold of the north of Norway, and therefore weren’t dressed for such. All three had been looking forward to a few days of camping in the mild fall wilderness when the weather had turned unusually foul. They were in their late thirties, had been best friends since school days, and had finally managed a reunion trip away, leaving behind their wives and families in Oslo, so that they could catch up and enjoy some long-awaited hunting and fishing.

  September was usually a lovely time of the year up north, the long days and white nights a thing of the past, the cold chill of winter still a month away.

  “Kyle, what the hell is this all about? Winter’s not due here for another month. Snow this early is highly unusual. I thought you checked the weather forecast last week.”

  “I know,” replied Kyle. “I did check, and I could’ve sworn they said rain today. Mind you, it doesn’t feel altogether that cold.” Kyle was an African-American, whose parents had migrated to Norway when he was a small child.

  Bjorn took out his watch, which had an entire weather station integrated into it.

  “Mmm, only forty-four degrees Fahrenheit. It’s the wind chill that’s killing us. Unusual to be snowing at this temperature.”

  “Not if the upper atmosphere is extremely cold, which it must be,” responded Gerald.

  “Even so, it’s damn strange. I’m freezing and didn’t bring the right clothing for this,” said Kyle, shivering.

  “Tell me about it,” said Gerald. “Why don’t you help me light a fire outside and we can warm up?”

  “Good idea,” Kyle said, as he struggled to his feet, his jaw quivering. He left the tent and started his walk toward Bjorn when he frowned, stopped, grabbed his chest and screamed in agony.

  “What is it, Kyle, what’s wrong?” asked Bjorn.

  There was no reply. Kyle’s lips were turning purple. Then he dropped to the ground, lifeless.

  “Kyle!” cried Bjorn frantically. “Gerald, come quick, something has happened to Kyle!”

  Both men raced over to their unconscious friend, whose eyes were now wide open, staring blankly upward. Gerald felt for a pulse but couldn’t find one. Both men desperately began administering CPR. After about ten minutes of chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, Gerald again felt for a pulse. Still none. He decided it was time to stop.

  Snowflakes drifted down and began to cover Kyle’s face in a white blanket. The wind howled and whipped up the snow, decreasing the visibility. Both men stared at their dead friend, their faces pale and drawn, tears rolling down their cheeks.

  “Must’ve been a massive heart attack,” said Gerald solemnly, wiping the tears from his eyes.

  “I don’t understand. He was as fit as a fiddle, never a day at the doctor and only thirty-six years old,” said Bjorn.

  “Not quite true. He told me once he suffered from sickle-cell disease. Even so, it was under control, and as far as I know he was never hospitalized for it.” Gerald rose to his feet and took in a deep breath. The cold moist air burned his lungs. “This is unbelievable, we better get some help and get him back home.”

  “It could take a while. The National Guard and military have their hands full trying to keep the peace at home. Remember, we almost canceled our trip because of it.”

  Gerald removed his gloves and gently, almost tenderly, wiped the snowflakes from his friend’s face. Then he stopped, looked at the snow in his hand and quickly scooped a handful of it from the ground. He rubbed the white flakes between his fingers.

  “What is it?” asked Bjorn.

  It was something subtle, he wasn’t altogether sure, but years of living in one of the coldest climates on Earth, and spending many winters playing or skiing in the white stuff, had made him inquisitive.

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing, but …”

  “But what?”

  “Feel the snow, Bjorn.”

  Bjorn was about to scoop some into his gloved hand, when Gerald stopped him, and yanked his friend’s glove off. “Now feel the snow,” he said.

  Bjorn obeyed, and his eyes widened, his eyebrows then coming together.

  “It’s not as cold as it should be, am I right?” asked Gerald.

  “Exactly, it’s subtle, but this snow has got to be at least thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit.”

  “But that’s impossible, water freezes at thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit or zero Celsius. It shouldn’t be snow, it should be water.”

  Both men stared at each other in disbelief.

  * * * *

  After downing another whiskey, Alastair sat himself down in front of his console and rubbed his temples. Drew sat next to him. “So, Professor, where to from here?” he asked.

  “What do you think, Dundee?”

  Steve entered the room, and marched over to them. “Guys, we need to find out more about this civilization. I’m starting to agree with the professor. I think it’s got to be relevant to what’s happening here on Earth. We’re running out of time, and we need some answers fast.”

  “Okay,” said Alastair. “I think I get your point. You want to ascertain if this civilization is having similar issues to us on their planet.”

  “Or had similar issues,” said Steve.

  “You’re learning quickly, lad.” Alastair smiled. The effects of the alcohol were just beginning to kick in.

  “Do you mean, this civilization may no longer exist, or may exist in a parallel universe or another dimension?” Drew asked.

  Alastair lowered his head in thought. Then his face lit up. “That’s it. We’ve been thinking along the wrong lines all this time. Yes, certainly there is time or the fourth dimension, which complicates things, but what about other dimensions—fifth, sixth maybe even a seventh dimension?”

  “That’s all hype and talk, Professor,” said Steve. “You know there isn’t any scientific evidence for that stuff. It was just conjecture by early twenty-first-century scientists around string theory.”

  “What if they were right?” said Alastair. “What if the strings of the universe vibrate in a specific way so as to give order to the universe, to an atom, a nucleus, a magnetic force, and what if by something we’ve done, we’ve changed that vibration?”

  “That would imply we have sneaked a peek into another dimension, perhaps another hidden universe, where the strings vibrate differently there and give a different order to physical laws,” said Drew.

  “And what if we’ve somehow opened the door to that dimension,” said Steve. “To those strings, which are now telling our universe as we know it how to vibrate.”

  “That could be it, my dear boy. That could precisely be it!” The ache in Alastair’s knee was just starting to return. The drugs he had taken earlier were wearing off. His thoughts turned to his wife, Geraldine, and his grandson, Ed. He missed them, and he owed them a call.

  “So how can we know that or be certain of that?” asked Drew. He had sweat running down his forehead again. His hands seemed to be trembling slightly and he looked more excited than a Jack Russell about to be taken out for a surprise walk.

  “Easy,” said Alastair.

  “Easy?” asked Steve.

  “Of course it is. We know what the values of the various forces of nature in our universe are. What we need to do is to ascertain whether our alien friends live by the same values in their neck of the woods. If they do, we’re wrong and it’s back to the drawing board, and if they don’t, well then …”

  “Then we’re screwed!” concluded Steve.

  All three men stared at each other. They knew the cost it could mean for humanity, should they be proven correct.

  “Well, Professor, don’t just sit there!” said Steve.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  September 18, 08:04, Mt Sinai Medical Center, 11 hours until EMB shutdown Department of Hematology, New York City

  “Send in the first patient, Rhonda,” s
aid Dr. Fred McNeil politely over his vidlink to reception.

  There was a pause on the other end.

  “Rhonda, I said bring in the first patient,” he repeated more sternly.

  The tempered glass door slid open and the receptionist timidly walked in. She was a plump woman in her mid-forties, dressed in a white floral dress that almost came down to her ankles, and a light gray cardigan which looked somewhat too tight for her around the shoulders. Her mousy-brown hair was messy, clumps of it hanging over her face, and her eyeliner had run down her cheeks, staining them.

  “What is it, Rhonda? What’s wrong?” asked Fred, now aware there was obviously a problem. He rose from his chair and began a tentative walk over to her, hands buried inside his lab-coat pockets.

  “You’d better sit down for this, Doctor,” she said, wiping her bloodshot eyes.

  “You’re scaring me, Rhonda. What’s going on? Where’s my eight-o’clock? Did something happen to him?” He donned his reading glasses and checked his clinic list. “Mr. Jeffries. Did something happen to him?”

  “I’m afraid so. He had a massive heart attack in the middle of the night. He died on the way to the hospital.”

  “Oh, Rhonda, that’s terrible.” The room somehow felt smaller, more claustrophobic, and Rhonda’s strong perfume brought on a wave of nausea. “How’s his family coping? How is the …” He stopped in mid-sentence. “Hang on. Mr. Jeffries didn’t have any cardiac issues, as far as I can remember. Apart from his macroglobulinemia, he was super fit. How could he—”

  “It gets worse, Doctor,” Rhonda interrupted.

  “What? What could be worse?” he asked, removing his spectacles, not really wanting to know the answer. Rhonda’s eyes had become leaking taps, a steady trickle now flowing down over each reddened cheek.

  “It seems that your other appointments today won’t be coming either.”

  “Won’t be coming? Can they not get into the city? You know, with all the chaos?” he asked, gesturing with his hands but sensing there was a more sinister reason for their non-attendance.

  “No, I’m afraid all your patients had heart attacks during the night,” said Rhonda. “The entire lot.” She blotted a tissue to her eyes. “They won’t be coming back, not ever.”

  Fred pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to Rhonda. He checked his list again. Most of the patients scheduled were all healthy, apart from their hematological disorders.

  “I don’t understand. Most of these patients were young, healthy people with a blood dyscrasia that doesn’t kill you suddenly from a heart attack.”

  “I have a number for you to call. A pathologist by the name of Jeff Simmons just rang. He said he urgently needed to speak with you.”

  Rhonda handed him a phone. She pushed a button and a middle-aged man with graying temples appeared on the video link.

  “Ah, Fred, thanks for ringing me back so quickly.”

  “Jeff? I just heard that all my patients died in their sleep last night of MIs. How’s that even possible?”

  “Reports to the coroner have flooded in overnight from across the country, actually across the globe of young people with various hematological conditions dying suddenly.”

  “I don’t understand. How’s that possible?”

  “I’ve been up all night doing three autopsies, trying to work that out.”

  “And?”

  “And all three did in fact die of myocardial infarctions, but not because they had coronary artery disease but because of …”

  “What? From what?” he yelled, the sadness in him morphing into anger.

  “Okay, this is going to sound rather crazy. We’re both scientific men, but I think the blood just stopped … flowing.”

  “Impossible. That’s lunacy. Can’t happen.”

  Rhonda was staring at him, her smudged makeup making her appear almost zombie like.

  “I’m telling you, Fred, it did.”

  “But even if that’s true, why them? Why not everyone?”

  “All these patients had only one thing in common. They all had increased viscosity of their blood, which for some reason became even more viscous yesterday, until it just stopped flowing. It appears to have been triggered by the patient’s body temperature cooling by a degree or so overnight, which happens normally as part of one’s normal circadian rhythm. They all seemed to die as their body temp hit around 95.9 degrees Fahrenheit in the early hours of the morning.”

  “Have you checked your own blood as a control?”

  “Yes, I took some blood from myself and tested the viscosity and even that has increased. I did some calculations, and came to the conclusion that if my blood cooled to 89.6 degrees, it, too, would cease to flow and start to clot.”

  “That would imply that the viscosity of water has changed, and that’s impossible.”

  “I thought as much, so I spoke with a colleague of mine, Matt Collins, who works at MIT in the physics department. He did some quick calculations overnight and indeed the physical value for the viscosity of water has actually changed. It’s increased by five percent.”

  “Oh my god, do you realize the implications of that medically?” Fred ran his hand through his coarse red hair.

  “Medically? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. Do you know what that means for everything on this planet? There’s more, too.”

  “More? I’m afraid to ask.” Fred’s heart was hammering away in his chest at warp speed, and he had to wipe the sweat from his hands onto his lab coat.

  “You should be. My colleague there also did some further calculations on water. It seems that it’s not only the viscosity of water that has changed, but that the freezing and boiling points have changed, too. You’d better adjust your refrigerator settings. That is, once they’re functioning normally again.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Fred.

  “Because, my friend, water no longer freezes at thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit or zero Celsius. The freezing point is now 38.4 degrees Fahrenheit or 3.6 C, and if you want to boil water for a cup of coffee, you now have to heat it until it’s 221 degrees or 105 C.”

  The doctor imagined for a moment that he was caught up in a bizarre dream. Perhaps he had nodded off to sleep watching some sci-fi film and he’d wake up soon and be lying next to Linda, his wife, in their bed. The phone dropped from his nerveless fingers.

  “Fred, Fred … are you there?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  “Mr. President, wake up, sir. We have another crisis.”

  Dressed in a white bathrobe, Teddy O’Brien was asleep, his reading glasses clutched in his left hand. Next to him on the bed lay a scattered bunch of forms and papers.

  “Mr. President, there’s a medical crisis. Get up, sir!”

  The aide, Lionel, who looked more like a nightclub bouncer than a secret service agent, gently shook the President’s arm.

  “Sir, you must wake up!”

  There was no response. Lionel didn’t feel comfortable in touching the most powerful man on the planet. He felt a wave of panic begin to take hold.

  “Mr. President, please wake up!” he shouted, finally shaking the man. The President was limp, like the rag doll his daughter often dragged around the house.

  The aide put his ear to the President’s face, listening for breathing and then quickly felt for a pulse. His anxiety quelled just a smidgeon as he detected a weak pulsation under his fingertips. Sweet Jesus. Thank god for small miracles. How do you explain the President of the United States of America dying under your watch?

  He reached for his phone and pushed a single alert button. Within seconds alarms and sirens were activated. Three paramedics raced into the bedroom.

  “How long has he been out?” asked one of them, with the name badge “Mike” sewn onto his pale-blue uniform shirt.

  “I found him unresponsive no longer than a minute ago. I’ve no idea how long he’s been like this.”

  The three paramedics quickly measured the President’s vitals. Satisfied ther
e was no immediate threat to his life, they lifted him onto the gurney in preparation for the short journey to George Washington University Hospital, where by now a team of physicians and surgeons were being summoned for his arrival.

  Just as they were about to leave the room, Lionel, upset by the sudden turn of events, grabbed one of the paramedics by his arm. “Mike, what do you think it is?” he asked.

  The paramedic yanked his arm away. The force of the movement caught Lionel by surprise. Perhaps everyone was a bit twitchy under the circumstances.

  “Could be anything from a stroke to a heart attack, it’s too soon to tell. Don’t worry, we’ll keep you in the picture as soon as we know more.”

  Lionel looked the paramedic over. He was an odd-looking fellow, with spectacles that were about three sizes too large for his blob of a nose and beady black eyes that lacked any warmth. He didn’t recognize the man, which was strange, because he knew almost everyone on staff. Mind you, there was so much firing and hiring going on these days it wasn’t altogether surprising.

  “Sure, sure,” said Lionel, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. Anxiety had melted away to be replaced by a dull ache of sadness and concern for his famous boss, who over the years he had come to know well and had grown immensely fond of.

  “Got to go. Time is critical,” said the paramedic.

  “Of course. Yes, get going.” The men quickly wheeled the gurney out of the bedroom and disappeared down the corridor.

  At least the man was alive. Lionel’s relief, however, was short-lived. The first lady came to mind. Oh, god, someone had to break the news to her. He looked out the window toward the flashing lights of the ambulance. The gurney was being wheeled into a pre-2030 ambulance. Then, sirens blaring, it took off, sped around the corner and vanished into the turmoil of a world falling apart.

  * * * *

  Inside the ambulance, Mike relayed directions and short cuts to his driving colleague, before venturing into the back of the ambulance, where the President lay hooked up to monitors and machines.