After securing her mask and hoses, Cyan once more dragged her equipment along as she pulled forward, propelling through the small tube. Much easier floating with almost weightless gear behind her.
The visor light was bright in the smaller space. In the middle of her mask, swirling salt and fresh water made visibility zero. Just above and beneath the halocline, the separate waters were clear. Fresh water, down here? This had to be an ancient tube. It’s no wonder John had gone to such lengths. But what led him to it?
She hadn’t seen a single rori since the dome pool.
The lava tube narrowed, and the tanks clinked against stone. Exertion quickened her breaths as she pulled her body ahead. Neoprene caught at her chest and scuffed along the bottom. If the space got any tighter, she’d get stuck and have to back out.
Another pull moved her forward and then her upper torso floated in a larger area, possibly a dead volcano vent. Across the way, she saw John staring at her with wide eyes through his mask.
“John!”
Cyan twisted and writhed to be free of the lava tube. She put the BC on, then swam to her husband. His arms floated in front of him. A bare white hand with a missing glove glowed underwater. She pulled hers off and fumbled for his carotid, unable to find a pulse.
“No!” Tears came, then crying, followed by sobbing and choking. “Why, John? Why? We should have left them alone.”
She lowered her head then took his hands, pressed her booties against the wall and pulled. His body budged a little. After a few attempts, she stopped. “Damn you, John! I’m not leaving you here. Help me!”
Cyan braced hard, then yanked, freeing John from the lava tube. His mask bumped into hers and his mouth opened. His jaw moved, and she waited for him to speak.
Black rori young crawled out.
Her mask puffed out with a scream, and she pushed him away.
A cloud of black sea cucumbers encroached John. Cyan took off her vest and kicked until she’d re-entered the tube, pulling her gear along as it tugged the seal around her mask. Cold saltwater rushed in just up to her nostrils and sloshed up with her movements. Hustling, she focused, breathing only through her mouth. Searing pain shot through her skull as she snorted seawater through her nose and bumped her head across craggy rocks. Her chin slammed against the bottom, filling her vision with stars, but she kept going and grabbed whatever felt solid, launching forward, using the tips of her toes to propel.
The tube opened up, but it grew difficult to draw in a breath. Tanks and gages behind, as well as a rori horde, she couldn’t stop to check them but knew the supply had dwindled.
Nitrox from the tanks sweetened and grew colder as it thinned. Her next breath stopped short. Cyan reached out, clutched a rock and pulled, shooting ahead and kicking hard. Fog coated the interior mask. The seal squeezed, and her head pounded. Air!
She reached the dome, nothing coming through the regulator as she kicked upward, the tanks a dead weight behind her. Hitting the surface, she took in a deep wheeze of air that burned her throat and lungs. Without looking back, she climbed the rock face up into the cave.
Pain bit her knees, elbows, and hands, crawling then walking crouched in shredded neoprene over sharp rocks and jagged stones. The cavern’s diameter increased, and Cyan stood and ran. Sea cucumbers massaged her calves as they clung and squirmed over the drysuit. She lost her footing on goo and slid out the tunnel entrance into a wall of rori.
Richards and Simms wrestled, rolling and squashing sea cucumbers as they fought. The exosuit pieces lay near the edge of the water. Cukes mashed as she rolled then crept toward Simms’s gun.
A shot fired, and she froze. Richards kicked Simms’s body into a mountain of cukes, then he spun with his gun aimed. Rori enveloped him from head to toe. Half of one wriggled from his neck, streaming trails of blood down his chest.
“You did this!” Crimson gurgled from his mouth and down his chin. “You and your husband deserve—”
Cyan squeezed the trigger. Saving him from misery.
She pulled herself up and trudged on, ignoring the ocean’s salty sting. Its coolness soothed her sore legs. Exosuit parts scraped rock and squished more cukes as she dragged them out. Cyan shed what remained of her dry-suit laden with carcasses. Leaving her diveskin on, she slipped into the torso housing.
The leg component landed on a wrestle of cukes after she’d thrown it, unable to connect the pieces. “Dammit!” She stomped over, then crouched to pick it up. Rori reached out and grabbed her wrist, human flesh visible beneath the slimy black.
Her screams reverberated as Simms pulled closer. Holes and gouges marred his face. Several rori remained latched there, sucking. Cyan gripped and yanked, lugging him from the pile. His other hand held onto the laptop.
“Put it on.” Simms moaned and swiped cukes off the keyboard with raw skeletal fingers.
Cyan ran and grabbed the other parts, then suited up.
He sealed the ADS then waved her off.
“Thank you,” she said.
Simms typed, and the exosuit came to life and squeaked, pumped air bursts, then moved into the water. Sea cucumbers ebbed and flowed as she swam out of the underwater cave.
Ascending the vent, Cyan exhaled, looked up through cracked class and saw no light.
The devil’s mouth had closed.
A PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS
Michael McBride
A COUNTRY AT war! The Army Chemical Corps is in double-step to provide the armaments of war an embattled world must have if democracy’s to survive. America’s vast resources are being harnessed to produce chemical and incendiary munitions for our boys overseas. With construction completed on the Rocky Mountain Arsenal in Denver, chemistry genius joins with the muscle of thousands of patriotic men and women to win for the ways of freedom. Its present-day production of chlorine and mustard gas, lewisite and white phosphorous is but a mere fraction of the job that lies ahead. As cluster bombs and loaded shells roll off the assembly line and begin their journey around the globe, the forces of liberty can rest assured that the Chemical Corps will meet the demands of the war efforts and bring victory to the side of the right. Take that, Hitler!
1966
“How did it happen?” Major Jack Randall asked.
“We’re still trying to figure that out,” Dr. James Thompson said.
The two men were diametric opposites. Where Randall was broad and muscular, Thompson was narrow and soft. They made for an unusual pairing as they strode down the corridor toward the laboratory known as The Warren. The soldiers guarding the door saluted and parted to make way for their commanding officer and chief civilian scientist.
“You’d better figure it out in a hurry.”
Chemsuits and gas masks hung from hooks on the wall beside the chemical showers. Randall watched the men inside the sealed lab through the reinforced glass while he donned his protective gear. He entered the outer chamber of the airlock and waited for Thompson to close the door behind them before opening the inner seal.
The entire wall to his right was covered with racks of wire cages. The rabbits housed here were designated for the nerve gas program, which had been established in response to the Army arriving in Germany with its mustard gas and lewisite only to find itself confronted with an arsenal of chemical weapons that made theirs look like novelty itching powders by comparison. The Nazi G-agents were lethal in minuscule concentrations and had the potential to wipe out armies with a single warhead and, worse, entire cities with a barrage of intercontinental ballistic missiles.