The Menagerie 2 (Eden) (22 page)

He was immediately cut off when Pretty-Boy directed his weapon to Savage’s head, to a point between his eyes. “Shut up,” he told him harshly. And then he brought the weapon up to his eye where he saw the world through the ruby-lens scope, took a stance by spreading his legs to shoulder width, and set his line of fire to the door. “Come on, baby,” he whispered. “Come to papa.”

Savage began to fall back along with Alyssa, taking small and simple steps, quiet steps, all leading to the sub bay. They looked over their shoulders, saw the sub. The hatch was open.

The sizzling grew louder. The smell of melting metal strongly permeated the air.

And then it broke through, the Mist and its array of lights pouring through the hole like a swarm of insects.

#

Pretty-Boy didn’t
know what to make of it. But in involuntary reaction he pulled the trigger, the bullets dissolving into nothingness upon impact, the Mist absorbing every blow with no damage as it hovered above the floor as a mass of boiling eddies.

 When he was out of ammo he quickly ejected the cartridge and reseated another, the Mist once again taking shots to no effect.

When John and Alyssa saw the engagement, they climbed to the top of the sub, got in, and closed the hatch, locking it.

Pretty-Boy then redirected his gunfire to the sub, the bullets pinging off the metal surface and caroming off.

The Mist hovered a moment longer before closing in.

Pretty-Boy backed to where the bodies of the engineers lie, away from the sub bay, and took refuge behind one of the tables, watching.

The Mist moved towards the sub, the creature incapable of understanding that the heartbeats it sensed inside was not the sustaining life force of the submarine itself. But considered the sub to be the life entity.

It floated over the sub, as if trying to determine its best advantage.

The lights popped off in an array of colors to lure the creature close by using the angler method, to entice it. But the sub did not react.

The Mist then sent out smoky vines to test the sub’s shell and found it to be metal, an easy composite to break down and penetrate.

And then in a quick and savage move, the Mist encompassed the vessel.

#

John and Alyssa
sat in the sub’s cockpit. Through the porthole windows they could see the Mist moving their way, a soft and smooth undulation of rolling vapor.

“John!”

“I know!” He hit the switches. Most of them wrong. And then he hit the correctly marked toggles, the engines and ballast tanks then coming to life.

“You know how to drive one of these things?”

“Um, yeah, sure.”
There was a first time for everything, right?
He pulled back on the throttle, the sub crashing hard to the side of the bay.

“John!”

He overcorrected by pulling the throttle forward and to the left, crashing hard against the opposite bay wall.

“John, we need to go down!”

I’m trying!
And then:
the ballast tanks!
He looked to the overhead panel at the toggle switch that read BALLAST/OUT. He flipped it. The sub began to react when air from the tanks began to bleed off and fill with water, the sub descending.

But as the sub lowered they could hear the sound of its exterior melt to the Mist’s embrace, the stench overpowering, even inside the sub’s cab.

Alyssa lay back so her eyes could see the Mist through the circular window. All she saw were the lights, the quick flashes of beautiful lights, and fell victim to its power.

As she sat there her eyes focused to the Mist, unaware that the skin of the sub was being eaten away to paper thinness.

Nor did she hear the voice of John Savage cry out her name.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

470 miles northwest of the Chicxulub Crater, magma beneath two tectonic plates flowed, causing the plates along fault lines to shift and alter. The seismic activity that quickly followed registered 4.9 on the Richter scale. And with the shocks traveling at more than 15,000 miles per hour, the ripple effects would reach the marine terrace in less than two minutes. 

Two . . . minutes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“Alyssa!” Savage reached out and grabbed her shoulder, jarring her.

Alyssa snapped her gaze from the starburst lights of the Mist.

The edges surrounding the porthole window began to show signs of stress, with micro fissures beginning to appear and growing larger with every passing moment.

“John, the glass! It’s breaking!”

The smell inside the cab became overpowering. The metal around them melting at record pace.

The sub began to lower.

The cracks in the glass continued to stretch across the pane in lightning bolt designs.

And then the first wave hit the platform, the power of the ripple effect widening the cracks along the marine terrace, the small shelf tipping away from the wall. The platform began to tilt, the Umbilical tube stretching to its breaking point before disconnecting from the ship, the platform now slanting towards a 90 degree angle, the beginning of its descent into the abyss.

Pretty-Boy cried out as he slid along the bottom of platform’s base, his hands reaching out for purchase, the bodies of the engineers following, and then he landed hard against the wall, which had now become the floor, the platform continuing to roll in a slow revolution.

The Mist sensed an immediate change in its surroundings and released the sub, the vehicle caroming wildly off the sides of the bay walls, and then slipping through the opening before the platform completely rolled.

The embers within the Mist flared, the entire mass becoming a ball of iridescent lighting with opal hues.

And water poured into the platform as it tipped further to its 90 degree slant. The opening of the sub bay had become an open mouth that allowed water to rush in uncontested, its crushing weight killing Pretty-Boy instantly as the platform took on water, which pulled it further down into the crater. The Umbilical tube floundered behind it like a tail.

The Mist found itself running out of space as water filled the area, the vapor looking for salvation, a way out.

The platform bounced off the curve of the crater’s wall, rolling downward. And then the husk of the platform imploded beneath the pressure, the water diluting the Mist until it could not coalesce into a whole, the mass eventually breaking down to nano particles, and then it was gone, the perfect living organism dissipated by spreading currents.

The sub spun uncontrollably against the ripple effect, the vehicle circling, descending, and then bouncing off the crater’s walls, the cracks in the window growing longer, wider. And then a pinhole rupture appeared from the top of the sub’s cab, allowing a pressure stream of water to rush in. 

Alyssa barked a cry, the steady stream cutting a minimal slice along her forearm with surgical precision. “John!”

The sub continued to spiral out of control as the outside pressure grew, the pane giving way with the sound of ice cracking.

Savage managed the toggles and hit the propeller switches. He then pulled the yolk back and nosed the sub upward.

Above them the wall around the remnant had loosened until the point of the ship was tilting downward like one end of a seesaw, until it completely pulled free from the wall, the ship now in freefall with the sub in its direct path.

John forced the yolk hard to the left, the sub maneuvering. But the remnant was coming closer; the massive ship a spearhead during its descent.

The sub, a speck by comparison, was still in its path.

The remnant started to descend with momentum and velocity.

The sub, however, remained at minimal speed.

In the water the remnant looked black, a mere shape, whereas the sub could be seen by the cone of its light, a barely perceptible dot.

Savage pushed the throttle forward, the propellers working at full speed, the driving engines humming louder than necessary.

Water continued to fill the cab at a steady stream.

And Alyssa closed her eyes, calling to her God with prayer.

The tapered point of the remnant continued to come at them like the point of a missile, hard and fast. So Savage maintained a horizontal plane hoping to pilot straight out of its path.

. . . 100 feet . . .

John could see the shadow of the ship closing down on them through a small window in the overhead hatch.

. . . 50 feet . . .

The black mass was edging closer, blotting out the surface light.

. . .
20 feet
. . .

Savage closed his eyes.

And then impact.

#

McCord stood on
the ship’s deck riding out the horrendous waves that were caused by the recent ripple effect, wondering if Whitaker and his team made it.

But the truth was he could care less about Whitaker. All he wanted were the flash drives and the information they possessed. And then he wondered if Alyssa Moore had the ability or time as a cryptanalyst to decipher the unfamiliar texts.

So much was running through his head.

He then began to pound the railing with the heel of his hand, a nervous gesture he never could control.

#

There was a
solid jolt as the sub tilted upward and bounced along the side of the remnant as it descended, the sub skimming off the ship’s side wall until the larger vessel passed it by. The sub spun in crazy revolutions. Its hull damaged and dented, but manageable.

The sub nosed upward, the engines whining, and the cab continued to take on water. As the depth lessened so did the pressure. Therefore the steady stream of water became a trickle. But the window continued to threaten as water began to spill through the multiple fissures.

Alyssa quickly placed her palms against the glass to apply pressure to neutralize the outside pressure pushing in, an equal and opposite reaction to level the playing field. “I don’t know how much longer the glass will hold!” she said, pressing.

Savage looked up through the glass in the overhead hatch. The surface was close, the shafts of light diffused in the blue water. “We’re almost home,” he told her.

We’re almost home.

#

McCord continued to
pound the railing—not hard, just enough to alleviate stress.

And then: “Danny.”

McCord turned to see a man in his forties with a conservative haircut and angular features. He was wearing a polo shirt and Dockers. “Yeah.”

“It’s gone,” the man told him. “The remnant fell to the bottom and was covered over by tons of rock and debris. There’s no satellite imagery at all.”

“Any signals sent to any of the Russian and Chinese subs since we went dark? Anything sent or intercepted?”

“No. Nothing. The Tally-Whackers did their job.

“What about Whitaker? Anything from him?”

“No. But there’s something down there,” he returned. “Radar picked up the DSRV. It’s coming to the surface as we speak.”

McCord suddenly stopped striking the rail with his hand. “Thank you,” he said.

As soon as the man walked away McCord found it difficult to hold back the smile on his face. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The yellow sub breached the surface and bobbed on the waves like a cork. The hull was badly damaged, the skin dented and worn. The arm of the boom lift swung out over the vessel where a sea operator clamped the connecting lines to the rings. Once secured, the operator waved his arms, the boom then lifting the sub out of the water and to the ship’s platform. 

After the skids touched down, the operator removed the clamps and jumped from the craft.

When the hatch lifted and Alyssa Moore climbed out, McCord’s smile vanished as quickly as it appeared.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Savage followed behind Alyssa, closing the hatch behind him. The action telling McCord that no one else was on board.

The DOD official hastened to the metal stairway and made his way to the sub’s landing pad.

When John and Alyssa saw him approach, they stopped. Both looked worn and beaten. Especially Savage, whose face held the partial contusive imprint of Goliath’s foot and the knot where he took the blow from Quasimodo’s gun. 

“The others?” was all McCord asked.

“You mean Whitaker? The Tally-Whackers? Is that who you’re talking about?”

McCord took a step closer, but not in a threatening manner. “What happened?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

McCord looked over the side, down at the water. He then turned back to Savage a moment before setting his eyes on Alyssa. “Did you do it?’ he asked her. “Were you able to decipher enough of the text?”

“Enough,” was all she said.

“And the data?”

Savage removed the flash drives from his pocket, the two unique in their designs, which McCord immediately recognized. McCord held his hand out with his palm open, expecting Savage to pass them over accordingly.  “Before the Mexican authorities see you,” he whispered harshly. He flexed his hand with impatience. “Quickly.”

Instead, Savage handed the flash drives to Alyssa.

“What are you doing?”

Alyssa fisted the drives in her right hand. “Do you have any idea what I hold in my hand?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Tell me.”

“Give.” He flexed his hand once again.

“Tell . . . me.”

McCord was turning a shade of crimson. “We need that data for military applications,” he told her. “If we can learn how to harness and manipulate pure energy, then the United States would once again be at the top of the food chain. We would once again hold the scepter of rule without fear that Russia, China, or any other country riding the wave at the moment, will surpass us—politically, economically or militarily.”