SecondWorld

by Jeremy Robinson

Not so good.

  Toward the end of the list, most of the names were in red. “Look,” she said. “Rolf Bergmann.”

  The name from the cryogenic chamber. It seemed Adler’s assumption was correct. She scanned through the red names slowly. A face appeared that they both recognized.

  “The asshole from Huber’s,” Miller said. “Who wanted to marry you.”

  Not wanting to look at his face any longer, Adler tapped the Down arrow and immediately felt far more violated by what she saw than when the large Nazi manhandled her at Huber’s cabin.

  Miller let out a drawn-out, whispered “Fuuuck.”

  While he and Adler once again both recognized the face, the name—Lance Eichmann—didn’t make sense. They knew him by a different name.

  “I don’t look bad for ninety years old,” Brodeur said from behind them. The Southern accent was gone, replaced by a thick German zing. He punctuated the statement by chambering the first round of his assault rifle. The message was clear: if they moved, they were dead.

  Miller turned around slowly, fire burning him from the inside out.

  Roger Brodeur was Lance Eichmann.

  A Nazi.

  46

  “You didn’t bypass the outer door,” Miller said. “You knew the code.”

  Brodeur grinned and shrugged. “I may have exaggerated my skills.”

  Miller fought back visions of tearing Brodeur’s head from his body. Losing his cool now would be a mistake and would likely result in him and Adler lying in a pool of their own blood. Of course, that seemed the most likely scenario, anyway, but no need to rush things. He really only had one hope left. The Cowboy. “Where is Vesely? Did you kill him?”

  “The clown is alive. Wandering the hallways in search of little green men. Bringing him was a mistake, Miller. The man’s not a soldier. Doesn’t follow orders. Of course, if he’d listened to you and followed me, he would be dead. Darwin was wrong, sometimes the stupidest of us survives.” Brodeur grinned like a demon. “Though not for much longer.”

  “Is that what you’re doing now?” Miller asked. “Following orders?”

  “Right now, I’m improvising.” Brodeur adjusted his aim from Miller to Adler and then back to Miller. “I was tasked with following you and reporting everything you discovered.”

  “To monitor what the president knew,” Miller guessed.

  He nodded. “I’ve become quite good at intelligence gathering.”

  “How is this possible?” Adler asked. “You’re an FBI agent.”

  Miller realized Adler could easily put the pieces together herself. She was stalling for time as the data transfer progress bar scrolled across the bottom of the computer screen behind them. But then what? Did she think he had a plan? Because aside from being Superman or the Flash, there was no way he could cover the distance between himself and Brodeur without being cut down.

  “I was brought back in 2000. My first year included painful physical therapy. But I regained my former strength, and then surpassed it. For a year I studied modern American culture—learning about all of the silly ways you waste your lives. I perfected my Southern accent and then, in the wake of nine-eleven, when the military and law enforcement agencies began recruiting for the War on Terror, I was inserted into the United States with a complete history—passport, driver’s license, medical history, diplomas, everything I needed to join the FBI. I have enjoyed rapid promotion since.” He smiled. “I will be an Obergruppenführer in the SecondWorld.”

  “But you almost died,” Adler said. “Several times.”

  “A cause not worth dying for is a cause not worth following,” Brodeur said. “While I am thankful I will survive to witness the new world’s arrival, I would have gladly given my life, along with yours, to stop your progress.”

  “Why not kill us yourself?” Miller asked.

  “I considered it,” Brodeur replied. “On many occasions. But I could not risk exposing myself, and my superiors, if you survived the attempt. Better to die with you.”

  Miller could feel the muscles of his back knotting. He understood how the president must have felt when he learned about the vice president’s involvement. “My apartment. Huber’s lake house. The attack on Air Force One. The police in Poland. Those were all you?”

  “I cannot take credit for the lake house, but the rest…” The man just couldn’t keep himself from grinning. He took a small phone from his pocket. “You have your phone. I have mine.”

  All of this was disturbing news, but a realization began forming in Miller’s mind. “Huber was already on the hit list?” Miller asked.

  “He was.”

  “But you wouldn’t send six men to kill an old man. The Germans. The men like you—”

  Brodeur’s smile faded slightly. He gripped the MP5 tighter. “Were friends of mine.”

  “They were there for Huber. But the other four. They were there for us.”

  Brodeur said nothing, waiting for Miller to figure it out.

  “And you didn’t know where we were.”

  “Not at all,” Brodeur confirmed.

  “No…” Miller’s thoughts came clear. “Fred Murdock.” His friend. His boss. Who he’d worked with and fought alongside for years.

  Brodeur laughed. “He detests you. Has spoken of you on several occasions. The half-Jew mongrel. Firewood for the oven.”

  Miller took half a step forward wondering how many rounds he could take and still break Brodeur’s neck. Adler’s hand on his wrist stopped him from moving.

  “You shame Germany,” Adler said, her voice seething spite.

  Brodeur’s eyes zeroed in on Adler’s hand gripping Miller’s. His nose twitched with disgust. “It is not I who have betrayed his heritage. Yours surrounds you even now. All of this was made possible by your grandparents. How proud they would have been to see this. How pleased they would be to know you lived to see SecondWorld.”

  “I would rather die here,” Adler said.

  “I’m afraid I cannot allow that. You will be coming with me.”

  What is it with these guys and Adler? Miller wondered. But quickly realized the truth. The Nazis were all about purity—good breeding. Genetics. Adler’s grandparents were Elizabeth Adler and Walther Gerlach. Genius-level genetics. And given Adler’s pure white skin and bright blue eyes it seemed clear that her mother’s last name wasn’t Hernandez. She was a prize to these men in a world where many once “pure” bloodlines had been mixed as skin tone became less of a problem and more of an attraction. And he knew from his time with the NCIS that the majority of white supremacists in the United States were undereducated, and mostly men. The willing and available women in SecondWorld might not meet the stringent standards of the thawed-out Nazis, but Adler … she was—Miller looked at her—stunning, intelligent, and pure-blood German. A wife like that didn’t have to be willing.

  Miller pulled Adler behind him. It was a useless gesture. Brodeur could shoot him where he stood. But if he was about to die, and she could make it out alive, then there was still hope—as long as she thought to take the thumb drive from the computer while Brodeur couldn’t see her.

  “Please,” Brodeur said, looking at Miller. “Stand to the side. You don’t want her harmed as much as I.”

  The man was right. Miller steeled himself for pain and death and—

  “Hey, Survivor!” Vesely’s voice was distant, and excited. He had no idea what was happening in the control center, and the surrounding equipment would keep him from seeing Brodeur’s MP5 leveled at Miller's chest. But his appearance unnerved Brodeur and kept him from pulling the trigger. At least for the moment.

  “I found a UFO, Survivor. You need to see for yourself!”

  Miller looked over his shoulder. Vesely stood one hundred feet away between two of the cryogenic chambers. If Brodeur took a shot and missed, Vesely would have plenty of cover and an MP5 to defend himself with, not to mention the two .38 Supers still strapped to his hips. Brodeur had seen the man’s speed and aim. His first sh
ot had to be a kill.

  “Tell him to come closer,” Brodeur said.

  “I can’t hear you, Cowboy,” Miller said. “Come closer.”

  “Have you found something interesting?” Vesely asked, stepping toward them.

  “Come take a gander for yourself,” Brodeur said, his German accent replaced by the Texas drawl.

  “A gander,” Vesely repeated with a smile as he walked toward them. “This Texas accent never gets old. Like old Westerns, you know, Survivor?”

  Was Vesely trying to tell him something?

  “No offense, Survivor, but I think sometimes you would be better off if you were more like John Wayne.”

  He was definitely trying to tell him something. John Wayne. How could being more like John Wayne help him? The man played gunslingers, but was actually a slow draw. What else was there? The only other thing he knew about Wayne was that the doors on his movie sets were made in miniature to make him look bigger. Because he was short!

  Miller ducked.

  Brodeur adjusted his aim toward Vesely.

  Three shots rang out.

  A shout of pain followed.

  Miller recognized the voice as his own.

  47

  Lancing pain came next.

  Miller recognized the burn in his left arm. Brodeur had pulled the trigger a moment before clearing Miller’s body. Two shots left the barrel of the assault rifle. The first struck Miller. The second headed toward Vesely.

  But the third round Miller heard fired still echoed in the massive chamber. Cowboy’s .38 Super. He had gotten off a shot.

  Miller rolled over and pushed himself up. He saw his MP5 lying a few feet away and reached for it.

  “Don’t move!” Brodeur shouted.

  Miller stopped mid-reach and looked up.

  Brodeur stood near the exit of the octagonal control center. He held Adler by the hair and had his assault rifle pressed against her back. With most of his body concealed behind Adler, not even Vesely could get a clean shot.

  “If you come after me, I’ll kill her,” Brodeur said.

  Miller wasn’t sure exactly how valuable Adler was to him, but didn’t want to put it to the test. He could do nothing but let her go. He stood and saw Vesely, unharmed and .38 raised toward Brodeur.

  “I can hit him,” Vesely said quietly.

  “Hold your fire,” Miller commanded.

  “But—”

  “Cowboy. Do not take the shot.”

  His eyes were locked on Adler’s. He saw sadness for a moment, but it was replaced quickly by determination. She opened her hand and let the flash drive slide out. She struggled for a moment, concealing the noise the small device made when it hit the floor.

  Then he watched them go. But not toward the exit. Brodeur dragged her in the direction Vesely had come from.

  “He’s taking her to the flying craft,” Vesely said. “To the UFO.”

  Miller stood still, waiting for Brodeur to lose sight of him before picking up the flash drive. If the man suspected Adler’s defiance he might kill her out of spite. Adler remained silent, keeping her eyes locked on Miller until she was dragged around a corner.

  Miller dove to the floor and scooped up the flash drive.

  When he stood back up, pain radiated from his arm and through his body. A droning buzz filled his ears. He thought for a moment that he might pass out, but the pain became manageable. The buzzing, however, grew louder.

  He ignored it and headed after Brodeur.

  “Survivor!” Vesely called.

  Miller ignored him.

  Vesely took Miller’s arm—his injured left arm—and turned him around. Miller shouted in pain and yanked away. “I’m not letting him leave with her.”

  “You must,” Vesely said, his eyes pinched with fear.

  The well-trained soldier in Miller knew he was right. They had the flash drive. The answers to questions that might save the world were literally in the palm of his hand. But another part of him, the same part that charged into a missile strike to save a girl he did not know, the same part of him that dragged a little girl out of Miami, couldn’t stand for it. “I can’t.”

  This time when he pulled away, Vesely gripped his wound, sapping his strength, and pulled him back. Before Miller could protest, Vesely shouted, “There is no time! Listen!”

  As soon as Vesely’s words sank in, Miller heard the buzzing again. “It sounds like a beehive.”

  “The Beehive! It was code name for Bell!” Vesely pointed up. A dull white glow pulsed at the base of the bell device attached to the ceiling. “The Bell sounded like angry bees when it was powered up! When it was charging field. Field that melted people!”

  Miller’s mind focused upon hearing the word “melted.” He dashed to the computer and hit the three keys Adler had used to open the text window. It popped open just like before. He began typing the fork bomb code, but the loud buzzing sound distracted him. He couldn’t remember the order of the symbols. He gave up and shouted, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  They left the control center and ran for the exit. They’d only gone a few steps when the buzzing suddenly intensified. A wave of nausea sent both men to the floor, but it passed quickly.

  “The cryogenic chambers!” Vesely shouted. “They must be shielded from the Bell’s effects.”

  They ran to the cryogenic chambers and yanked two of them open. Miller felt sure he was looking at the plush red interior of what would be his coffin, but then his skin began to burn and he didn’t hesitate. He climbed into the cryogenic chamber, pressed himself into the man-shaped indentation. He reached out, took the door, and pulled it shut with a clang.

  Darkness consumed him.

  The buzzing disappeared.

  He took a deep breath.

  Relaxed.

  And then screamed in agony.

  A wave of energy passed through him.

  It felt like his body was being torn apart.

  He saw stars.

  Tasted blood.

  And then, nothing.

  * * *

  Hell feels cold.

  It was Miller’s first thought upon waking.

  The last thing he remembered was Adler being taken away. And then what? Something had happened. Something bad.

  He remembered … heat. And feeling sick. And buzzing.

  Like bees.

  Like a beehive.

  The Bell.

  His memory returned painfully. Adler was gone and he was stuck inside the Nazi base, trapped in a cryogenic tube.

  But he hadn’t melted.

  And while that was the world’s shittiest “bright side” ever, he was still alive.

  He could move, though his muscles ached and his injured arm throbbed. He’d probably lost a good amount of blood already, which didn’t help his spinning head. He couldn’t hear the buzzing sound, but he remembered not being able to hear it after closing the hatch.

  The only way to find out if he’d be melted upon opening the door was to open the door. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. Could have been thirty seconds. Could have been ten minutes.

  Or longer.

  The cold struck him again. He shivered.

  That’s when he remembered that he was in a functional cryogenic chamber.

  Miller felt stiff as he reached out and pushed on the door. The metal stung his flesh. He pushed harder, waiting for the suction to give way. But the door held strong.

  It can only be opened from the outside, he realized.

  When Miller was ten, he was short and scrawny. While visiting his Italian cousins one Sunday, after they’d been to Mass and were feeling fully absolved of their sins, the two older boys took him into the garage. They’d found a row of lockers at the dump and brought it home. The lockers held bats, balls, hockey sticks, and, later that day, Miller. They locked him in and left him there, kicking and screaming, for thirty minutes. Ten years later Miller could look at the cousins and send them running, but that memory always stuck
with him. It replayed in his mind now as he kicked and punched at the door.

  “Hey!” Miller shouted, his voice echoing loud and close. “Vesely!”

  He shouted until his voice grew hoarse.

  He stopped pounding when his knuckles bled.

  But he kept kicking. Hoping that Vesely would somehow get free.

  Miller realized there might be a handle on the inside. He searched for it with his hands, but found nothing, and couldn’t bend over to check below his waist.

  He shouted in frustration and kicked the door again.

  The door burst open.

  Miller fell forward.

  And was caught.

  “Sir!” Hammaker shouted. “I have you.”

  Hammaker laid Miller on the hard stone floor. “Sir, what hap—”

  “Vesely,” Miller said through chattering teeth.

  “Vesely did this?”

  “N-no.” Miller pointed to the cryogenic chamber Vesely had hidden in. “In-in there. Vesely.”

  Hammaker understood. He jumped up and yanked open the door. Vesely fell out, eyes closed. But was he unconscious, or dead? The kid laid him down next to Miller and checked for a pulse.

  “He’s alive,” Hammaker said. “But his pulse is weak. We need to warm him up. Warm both of you up.”

  “The river,” Miller said. “Take him-m to the-the river.”

  Hammaker nodded, shoved his hands under Vesely’s arms, and lifted him up. “I’ll come back for you.”

  As the kid dragged Vesely toward the large exit, Miller noticed he could barely see them. It’s dark, he realized. The lights were all out. He could only see because Hammaker had left a large blue glow stick on the floor next to him. He looked back up at the kid and saw that he had a small flashlight clutched between his teeth.

  Though his body revolted, Miller forced himself up. Holding on to the cryogenic chamber, Miller lifted the glow stick and looked at the control center. In the faint blue glow he could see that every portion of the control center that had been made of plastic had melted. A surge of panic gripped him. He dug into his pocket, found the small device, and pulled it out.

  The flash drive appeared fine. But while Miller hadn’t been melted, some of the Bell’s effects had pierced the cryogenic chamber. There was no way to know if the data recovered from the computers remained intact.