Cray stopped at a door that was plastered with signs. There were hazardous materials diamonds and cartoon lightning bolts accompanying a warning of high voltage electrical hazards, the familiar black-on-yellow radiation trefoil and strangest of alclass="underline" a notice reading ‘Liquefied gas coolants in use.’ Cray turned the knob and shoved the door, but entered cautiously, sweeping the room beyond with his gun barrel. After a moment, he waved for them to follow.
The noise emanating from the room was deafening, drowning out even the sporadic report of gunfire. Jenna scanned the room for the hazards indicated in the signs. Everything she saw was unfamiliar and full of dangerous potential. There were large cylinders marked with more hazmat diamonds, and a machine that looked like it belonged on the weapon’s deck of a star cruiser from a science fiction film. One corner was dominated by an enormous cube-shaped machine that seemed to be the source of the noise. The dull gray metal sheathing the device was adorned with still more warnings of radiation danger. Next to it was yet another door, this one marked with a sign that said ‘Danger: High Voltage.’ Jenna peered through the wire-lined glass window and saw another enormous room and at its center, a strange yellow pillar wrapped in wires, sprouting from a metal donut-shaped base. It looked like a scaled-up version of the Van Der Graaf static electricity generator in Jenna’s science classroom.
“Please tell me we’re not going through there.”
Cray shook his head and moved toward the opposite wall. A large metal roll-up door was set in the concrete, big enough to accommodate a truck. He reached for the pull-chain that would open it, when a loud concussion tore through the room like a thunderclap.
Cray staggered, falling against the door. A bloody Rorschach pattern was left on the metal where he’d hit. But he wasn’t dead. Cray pushed away, turning with his gun raised, and he fired several shots toward the door through which they had entered.
Jenna pulled Mercy down, seeking refuge behind one of the work benches, as bullets creased the air, filling the room with the stench of burned gunpowder. The walls exploded with chips of concrete dust and sparks, as rounds ricocheted off metal surfaces. The gunman pushed into the room, firing as he moved, trying to get a clear shot at his real target. Another man stood at the entrance, firing at Cray to keep him pinned down.
The significance of this was not lost on Jenna. Soter’s security force had almost certainly been defeated by the overwhelming numbers of the assault team. There was no one left to defend her now.
Another round caught Cray, spattering the wall behind him with blood, but he kept firing, chasing the first shooter in a desperate bid to stop him from reaching Jenna.
There was a sound like a bell being rung, followed by a hiss of escaping gas. A bullet had penetrated one of the pressurized gas cylinders. White vapor spewed into the air.
Jenna drew in a breath and held it, knowing it would not be enough. The gas was probably a coolant — liquid nitrogen or maybe helium — more likely to flash freeze than suffocate them. Yet, despite this new peril, the shooting continued without cease. Still gripping Mercy’s hand, Jenna searched the room for a better hiding place, somewhere further from the gas. Before she could find anything, the gunman appeared, right above them, so close that Jenna could see wisps of smoke curling from the muzzle of his pistol. With a grim but satisfied smile, his finger tightened on the trigger.
Jenna attempted to move away, knowing it was too late, but Mercy remained rooted, anchor-like.
Then the world exploded.
49
This is the way the world ends…
The line from an old poem sprang into her thoughts, which was strange, because even though she recognized it, she also knew that she had never heard or read those words before, had no idea what the poem was called or who the poet was.
This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.
She vividly recalled her teacher, standing at the lectern, summarizing the long litany of evils plaguing the globe. “The world is infected, and the disease is called ‘humanity.’ We are a cancer, devouring the healthy organism of the world, consuming its resources, propagating our own numbers beyond carrying capacity. And when we are warned of the danger, when we are shown that to kill the world is to kill ourselves, we refuse to listen. We will be the death of our world, and we will meet our end with a whimper.”
The prospect filled her with anger. Humanity, so arrogant, so greedy… What better way to describe the species than as a cancer? The Earth, once so full of beauty and wonder, was now choking in filth, its horizons marred by towers of concrete and steel like a malevolent grin full of broken teeth. The night sky was curtained with ugly artificial light, blotting out the stars.
Strange that she couldn’t quite remember when she had heard this lecture. The memory was so vivid, but like the details of the poem, she could not put it in the appropriate context.
No matter. The diagnosis was beyond question. That was the important thing. Humans were incapable of solving the problem because they were the problem. If there was to be a treatment for the cancer of humanity — a radical treatment — it would have to come from somewhere else.
And it had.
It all made sense now. The message Dr. Soter had received was a sort of viral therapy, and it had worked. Without even knowing why, Soter had created the antibodies that would purge the world of this plague by accelerating humanity’s own self-destructive impulses. It would take only a nudge or two: a false-flag bioterrorism incident or a subversive cyber-attack, and the superpowers of the world might unleash a cleansing nuclear fire.
Wipe the slate clean.
But first, the message. Everything was ready. The dominoes were poised to fall. But before the last phase of the treatment was to be initiated, one task remained. She remembered the time, which had very nearly arrived, and the place, which was thousands of miles away. If she was not able to get there in time, one of the others would.
She felt a sublime satisfaction in the knowledge that the cancer of humanity would be purged soon, and her own purpose in life would be fulfilled.
Too bad that Mercy and Noah would be swept away, but radical treatments often damaged healthy cells. It was for the greater good.
No, she thought suddenly. There has to be another way. I don’t want to lose them again.
Don’t be foolish, argued another voice, her teacher’s voice, but also weirdly enough, her own. You know it’s for the best. It’s what has to happen.
I know? How do I know? How do I know any of this?
And then the answer came like a flash of light.
50
Light, brilliant beyond description, painful in its intensity. Then, darkness.
The memory of the teacher’s words slipped away like the last echoes of a dream, as Jenna embraced the physical sensations that were her lifeline out of the void.
Her ears rang, overloaded by the cacophonous detonation. The harsh smell of ozone stung her nostrils, and smoke burned her unseeing eyes. She felt the pain of a concussion — not a bullet slamming into her, but something much bigger, like what she had experienced when the Kilimanjaro had exploded. There was also the memory of something else, a tingling sensation that had caressed her exposed skin in the instant before the blast. A crazy thought burbled to the top of her rattled awareness: I’ve been struck by lightning.