by B. C. CHASE
“If we accept that the mastodons and mammoths lived with the dinosaurs, then this brings into question the existence of the 'ice ages;' the times in which the world was supposedly much colder and dominated by them and wooly mammoths. In fact, it would indicate that there has only been one ice age and we are living in it now. If mammoths were indeed contemporary with dinosaurs, could there be somewhere in the world where dinos have been quick-frozen in time, just as the notorious iced mammoths have been—the ones with fresh grass still in their mouths?”
“And you think Antarctica could be the place?” Zhang eyed Doctor Ming-Zhen skeptically, “Zhou, this seems somewhat fanciful.”
Doctor Ming-Zhen nodded, “I grant you, it's not a place famous for paleontology, but it has provided a wealth of fossils for those who have the resources to look. They have discovered ancient vegetation so fresh that petrification has not even begun. This vegetation was quick-frozen, just the same way that the frozen mammoths in the north were. They have also found plenty of dinosaur fossils, but only bones so far. So there is proof that dinosaurs lived in Antarctica before it froze.”
“So, you really think there could be dinosaurs stopped dead in their tracks with their mouths full of food?”
“Well, no. I'm not thinking of anything remotely so dramatic.” Doctor Ming-Zhen explained that, contrary to popular opinion, most of the frozen mammoths or mastodons had not been entombed in ice, but, rather, within the icy soil, with most of them standing upright, as if they had just been pressed down into the earth where they stood. He asked “Now how could that possibly have happened?”
“Am I the paleontologist?”
Doctor Ming-Zhen grinned enthusiastically, “Actually, the answer came from a seismologist.”
Unamused, Zhang asked, “And what was the answer?”
Doctor Ming-Zhen explained, “During severe earthquakes, entire cars and even buildings sometimes sink directly into the ground, as if they had been built on quicksand. Why? In areas where the water table is near the surface or where the soil is very porous, severe earthquakes can cause the water to rise and the soil to become so saturated that it becomes a soup, a process known as liquefaction. It was recognized that the mammoths must have been trapped by this process—thus they were standing upright with food in their mouths when they sunk into the soil and were frozen.”
Doctor Ming-Zhen placed his hands together, toying with his thumbs, “There were thousands upon thousands of these mammoths; entire herds of them. They were so numerous and so fresh, it was said that wild wolves regularly fed on their carcasses in Siberia.”
“And you expect to find herds of dinosaurs in Antarctica?”
“Certainly not. I only need one.”
“One?” Zhang questioned, surprised. “How would one help?”
“Well, besides the obvious wealth of answers it would provide to the unending questions we still have about dinosaur physiology, a frozen dinosaur would provide DNA—fragments potentially complete enough to compare with other animals, such as mammals. DNA,” Doctor Ming-Zhen said, “would kill the evolutionary tree of life once and for all and show that our discovery of a deinocheirus feeding on Homo sapiens was perfectly plausible.”
His superior slouched, “You had me interested with the frozen dinosaurs, but now I'm at a loss again. How in the world could DNA possibly help?”
“Have you heard of the duck-billed platypus?” Doctor Ming-Zhen asked him.
He replied impatiently, “Of course I have. But I don't see what relevance—“
Doctor Ming-Zhen pressed his palms on the desk and stood, “When you have it figured out, give me a call.”
And, turning on his heels, he walked out the door.
Babraham Road
Cambridge, England
Doctor Matthew Martin easily followed the familiar countryside road outside Cambridge. He had just passed the roundabout and was well on his way towards the city. It was a cool, black night and his windshield wipers easily kept his view clear in the light drizzle.
Despite being home to the park and ride, the road rarely had traffic; especially after dark. But Doctor Martin slowed as he saw brake lights ahead. Coming to a stop behind the line of cars, he squinted, peering into the darkness to try to see what caused the standstill. He could see a hunk of metal off the side of the road not too far ahead. Must have been an accident. The whole road must be blocked, he decided, noticing that the opposite lane was vacant.
After a few moments of impatience, he got out to go see if it would be necessary to turn around. The rain seemed to get heavier just as he stepped out of the car.
Nearing the mass of metal in the grass, he could see that it was a mutilated car. The roof had been peeled up off the top like the lid of a can. Blood was flowing over the matted hair and down the body of a figure that leaned forward against the seat belt. The head hung limp on the steering wheel.
He breathed, "Oh God" to the dark sky as he quickened his pace. Blood had spattered the dash, the steering wheel, the ventilators . . . . The victim was a middle aged woman. She did not move. He grasped her right shoulder and pulled her back. When her head moved away from the steering wheel, a section of her skull flipped down over her forehead and bloodied, globular tissue swelled up from the skull. Reflexively, he jerked his hand away and he stumbled back, an agonized moan escaping his lips.
He knew this woman.
United Nations Security Council
Doctor Martin blinked away the memory, returning to the present. He stared up at the faces of eager listeners in the circle above him. “I was driving on countryside roads on the way back from a visiting lecture. At a certain point in the route there was a roundabout, with two roads to take, both of which would eventually lead me to Cambridge. One was shorter than the other. I naturally always took the shortest road. But on this night, as I came to the roundabout, I had this sudden, foreboding feeling. I had the sense that I should take the long road, that I must take the long road instead of the short one.
“Now, I am not a person prone to superstitions or premonitions or any of these sorts of things. I like to think of myself as quite rational. So, of course, I ignored this sense and took the short road. Just a brief drive down the road I saw brake lights ahead. Stopped traffic, of course.
“I waited there for only a brief moment or two while cars lined up behind me. I could see something on the side of the roadway in the distance. I thought of my premonition, and something in my rational side made me determined to prove it wrong. So I left my car and marched over to see just what was going on and see if, perhaps, I could get things moving again.
“There had been a horrific accident, a fatal accident. An entire family had lost their lives; mummy, daddy, and three little ones. I saw their bodies strewn all over the place. Totally, dreadfully mutilated. The driver of the truck that hit them was also in a bad way, but he, at least, was still living.
“Worst of all was that I knew these people. Intimately, I knew them. It was—” he swallowed a sudden frog in his throat. With white-knuckled fists he gripped the edge of the desk. His voice faltering, he said, “It was my very dear sister and her family.” He paused, closing his eyes and swallowing, regaining control.
“So when I did get back to Cambridge, I mulled the incident over in my mind, as I have a tendency of doing. Why and how had something told me not to take the short road?
“There were two very disconcerting things about this question. The first was that the premonition did not seem to come from events which had already occurred or which were occurring at that moment. No, this was a premonition about a future event.” He allowed the audience to digest that for a moment.
“The second was the fact that I felt the premonition in response to a human fatality, indeed, the fatality of someone who was very close to me.
“You often hear about 'life-force' or some interconnectedness between us. Of course it all sounds like so much rubbish until something like that happens. Then you begin to wonder.
“Well, eventually I had more or less concluded that there was nothing to it but a simple and conceivable coincidence and that, whatever the case, there was nothing I could do about it even if there was something to it.
“I went on with my life as if nothing had happened. And then, I was slapped in the face with something. And I was no longer able to rationalize my way out of it. No, rather, it became my life's work and a complete and total obsession. A miserable obsession,” he giggled oddly “you might say.”
The White House
Doctor Karen Harigold, Secretary of the United States Department of Health and Human Services, was furious.
“Why can't I see him?” she shouted down at a man in a motorized wheelchair.
The man, Abael Fiedler, Chief of Staff, had a horrible knotted scar on his face from his forehead across his eye to his cheek. And although he was seated, he was hunched over. There was a grotesque, boney hump in his back, and even his arms were gnarly with bulges and juts like the roots of a tree.
Karen knew why he looked this way: he suffered from fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva, an extremely rare genetic disorder in which bone grew anywhere there had been even a slight injury, and sometimes just appeared randomly. It was a long, tragic disease that started in early childhood and grew progressively worse until mobility was increasingly impaired. Anyone who had it wasn't expected to live past forty. Most died much earlier than that.
And yet Abael Fielder was forty-one. Karen knew that virtually every minute of those forty-one years had been painful, cruel and horrific. She wondered if that's what had turned him into such a power-seizing, conniving devil. He had survived, but it was clear: time was running out for him. For Karen, it couldn't come soon enough.
For now, though, he was here, and he didn't flinch under her rage. He spoke steadily, “The President is with his family.”
“Like hell he is! You know as well as I do he hates his family. We're facing what could be the worst health crisis since 1918 and I can't even see the President?” She knew she might be exaggerating, but it was worth it to try to get this guy's attention.
“Karen, he'll be back in an hour or two. I'll have him sign it then. I'll even have him call you.”
“Right, as if that will happen. Just like he was going to show up at the last six cabinet meetings, you—” she swore at him.
“Cabinet meetings have no real value. A simple publicity stunt is all.”
“They're as good as gold if I'm stonewalled by his Chief of Staff and he doesn't return calls, doesn't respond to emails, and doesn't even bother to see me when I come all the way down here to talk to him!”
“Karen, the truth is I will decide when and if he sees your request, so you really should treat me better.”
“Who are you to wield that kind of authority?”
He cocked his head in an eerily reptilian way. “I was chosen,” he said, his voice hollow. The corner of his mouth turned up slightly in a disdainful smile. With his black eyes leering up at her and his body as still as a snake, Karen half expected a forked tongue to project from his thin lips.
Of course that didn't happen; he just stared at her with his usual condescension. She swore a final time and spun around to stomp back down the marbled hall.
When she was gone, Abael Fiedler lifted the paper from his lap. It was an executive order for the quarantine of anyone potentially exposed to a virus of some sort. As he did with any new piece of information he received, he studied it carefully. Then he wheeled himself into the empty Oval Office, placed the paper on the President's desk, took one of his pens, and signed the document in the President's hand:
Robert Surrey
Abael then wheeled himself out of the Oval office and into a corridor to a door on the left. He knocked.
A reply came from within. He opened the door to reveal a small office. The President, wearing a jacket and slacks, reclined in an armchair with his legs propped up on an ottoman. He looked up from the screen he was reading.
“How may I help you?” the President said.
“Karen just came. She had an executive order she wanted you to sign. Another health scare. I signed it for you so we can give it back to her tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Abael. You know how busy I am.”
“Yes, I know, sir. The world will look to you, you know.”
The President sighed and shook his head, looking distant, “And they don't even know what's coming.”
EPU-1350
Aubrey heard the mechanical clunks as the landing gear descended. She was in her seat beside Lorraine, gazing out the window, and in spite of Henry, she felt a flutter of excitement in her chest at what she saw outside.
Bright blue sky was punctuated with small fluffy clouds, and in the distance far below, the sparkling ocean was interrupted by a round white beach of cresting waves. A vast expanse of flat land blanketed with grass, shrubs and the occasional palm tree spread out from the beach. Then a cascade of tropically canopied green ridges rose up to a grand vista of lush mountains. Far in the distance were two peaks towering magnificently above it all, wisps of fog billowing near their crowns.
Lorraine was clearly as moved by the sight as Aubrey, and breathed, “My word. It's beautiful.”
“But where are we?”
“Paradeisia,” a voice behind them said. It was Lady Shrewsbury. She pronounced the word pair-ah-DAY-sya, and her face bore a pleasant, though mysterious, expression. “137 square miles of tropical paradise.”
Aubrey posited, “So it's an island.”
“Yes, part of the Lesser Antilles to be exact.” Receiving a blank stare from both Aubrey and Lorraine, she clarified, “You know, Guadeloupe, Dominica, Martinique, St. Lucia. Several years ago, we purchased this island for an outrageous sum of money from France. Of course, back then it was a secret. They called it 'EPU-1350.' Now, it's the largest private construction project ever undertaken. And, so far, still a secret.”
Lorraine inquired, “What did they build?”
Lady Shrewsbury raised an eyebrow, “It's not so much what was built as how deep.”
“How deep?” Aubrey asked.
“Yes, many of the islands here produce oil. The government intended to extract it from this one by excavating via the empty magma chamber of the volcano. Only they didn't find what they were hoping for. No, they found something quite unexpected.”
“What was that?” Lorraine asked.
Lady Shrewsbury drew a quick breath, a hint of a smile gracing her lips, “Well, I'm here for the adventure as much as you. We shall soon see the place together, shall we not?”
The pilot's voice came over the intercom, requesting everyone to be seated. He intoned, “And, please, buckle up. This is going to be a rough landing.”
Lady Shrewsbury departed, saying, “I'll see you on the other side, ladies.”
As Aubrey turned back to the window, she was surprised to see how close they had come. A myriad of details had now become visible. There was a port with two long piers stretching out from the coastline. A monstrous cargo ship with the words IntraWorld Logistics printed on the bow was docked at one of them. Containers with large white print that read “WARNING: LIVE CARGO” were being swung by a crane from the vessel toward a dock where rows of semi-trucks waited and tiny workers milled about.
Situated on the plain that stretched out from the coast toward the mountainous ridges was what Aubrey recognized as their target: the airport. There were several runways with a maze of asphalt between them. These were edged by a shiny glass terminal.
As the plane circled over the mountainous ridges to align with the runway, it began to shudder, first one wing raising up and then the other. The bumps and jolts of descent became so bad that a knot formed in Aubrey's stomach.
She was thrilled.
The airport was obscured by a ridge ahead. They passed over so closely that the sound of the jet engines reverberated off the rocks and it looked like the tree branches would strike the bottom of t
he plane.
Finally, the wheels bounced on the runway and Aubrey loosened what she realized was a white-knuckled grip she'd had on her armrests. The plane pulled toward the terminal and then stopped about three plane lengths away, the scream of the engines slowly winding down.
When the door opened, a blast of warm, salty, tropical air blew into the cabin. Before long everyone had exited the plane down a flight of steps to sit on a waiting open-air shuttle. Aubrey breathed in the scent of the sea in the wind that whipped her face as the shuttle sped them toward the terminal.
The shuttle rolled through a large opening in a glass wall. Soaring 100 feet above was a glass roof supported by a network of triangular trusses. Reaching up towards the ceiling was a row of thin-trunked, erect palm trees that lined a platform where the shuttle came to a squeaky stop.
Music with an African chorus, brilliant trumpets, and a strong jungle beat echoed from hidden speakers. A sonorous voice spoke over the music, "Welcome to Paradeisia:" the voice paused for emphasis, "Eden on Earth."
Suddenly, the same sonorous Anglican voice, but very close, very cheerful and no longer echoing, said, “At long last you've finally arrived! I thought you'd never get here, and by 'never,' I do mean not ever.”
CDC
Doctor Compton sat at a large conference table in a room that was packed full of people, some seated, but most standing. The person at the head of the table was Karen Harigold.
Karen spoke, “So explain what's going on, Phil.”
Doctor Compton began, “Well, I don't know how much everyone here knows about viruses, I'm assuming you're all fairly well-versed. But just in case, let me explain. A virus is a core of DNA or RNA that's usually coated in protein. Very simple. So simple, it's not even classified as life.
