by Warren Fahy
The vegetation along the walls arched and wove together to form a cornucopia-like tunnel that stretched up into the twilit distance, speared with beams from the setting sun.
“Nell, you hit the mother lode!” Glyn muttered.
Some of the tall, glistening plants resembled cacti; others, coral. The canopy trembled with fluttering, brightly colored foliage above them. The air smelled sweet and pungent—like flowers and mildew, with a sulfurous hint of cesspool.
Glyn squinted skeptically at the canopy. Sweat trickled into his eyes and the salt burned as he rubbed them. He was still breathing hard from the climb. What should have been leaves, the biologist thought, looked more like ears of multicolored fungus sprouting from the branches overhead. “Wait a minute,” he cautioned, winking his left eye repeatedly to clear it.
“Yeah, hold on,” Zero said.
The “plants” and “trees” grew in radial shapes like century plants, yuccas, and palms, but with multiple branches. They swayed as if there were a breeze. But the thick air was utterly still.
A buzzing, chittering sound rose like a chorus of baritones humming through police whistles. The green tunnel turned slightly purple. It rippled as if a strong wind was passing over it.
“Hey!” Jesse yelled, making everyone jump. “This plant’s MOVING, man!”
Jesse’s shout echoed through the stony heights, and the insect noise stopped abruptly. Except for the distant hiss of the surf below, the canyon was silent.
Zero’s camera barely caught a blurry shape streaking through the branches overhead.
The insect noise resumed, louder now.
Dawn screamed. Dartlike thorns, attached to a tree by thin cables, had impaled her bare midriff. As the party watched, the tree fired two more thorns like blow darts into her neck.
The translucent cables turned red, drawing in Dawn’s blood. With a desperate lunge she broke the cables and shrieked, bleeding from the siphoning tubes as she ran frantically toward the others.
Glyn noticed the branches above reaching down—then something caught the corner of his eye: a wave of dark shapes rushing toward them down the tunnel.
He felt a sharp bite on his calf and yelped. “Crikey!” Glyn looked down at his bone-white legs, exposed for the first time on this trip by the damned L.L. Bean chino shorts he agreed to wear for the landing. He almost couldn’t spot the offender against his pale skin. Then he located it by a second sharp pain: a white disk-shaped spider clung to his left calf.
He raised his hand to swat it and hundreds of miniatures rolled off the spider’s back. A red gash melted open on his calf as, in the space of two seconds, the yellow edge of his tibia was exposed and more white disks fired into the gaping gash.
Before Glyn could scream, a whistling shriek flew straight at him.
He looked up as an animal the size of a water buffalo hurtled through the opening of the tunnel.
Zero turned the camera as Glyn yelled, and caught the beast closing its hippo-sized vertical jaws over the biologist’s head and chest. With a sharp crunch, the attacker sank translucent teeth into Glyn’s ribs and bit off the top of the Englishman’s body at the solar plexus. Bright arterial blood from Glyn’s beating heart shot thirty feet between the beast’s teeth, dousing Zero’s shirt and camera lens.
Zero lowered the camera and saw a cyclone of animals shrieking and clicking as they swirled around the rest of Glyn’s body.
The others screamed as they were bombarded by flying bugs and more shadows pouring out of the tunnel.
Zero threw the camera toward the onslaught, and a few animals streaking toward him pivoted and chased it instead.
As fast as he could, he slipped from the ledge and zigzagged down the rocks in the crevasse.
5:58 P.M.
Cynthea, Peach, and the world watched in astonishment as all three camera shots panned wildly.
“Crikey!” someone shouted—and there was an awful cracking sound.
A chaos of shrieks overloaded the microphones, and the cameras jerked and spun.
One camera tumbled onto its side. Red and blue liquid spattered its lens.
Another camera fell, and blood-drenched clothing blocked its view.
The audience across the nation heard screams from their suddenly blackened TV screens.
Cynthea cut to the remaining camera just in time to see something fly toward the lens. Then the camera fell and was instantly blackened by swarming silhouettes.
“We just lost the uplink, boss,” Peach reported.
One hundred and ten million people across the world had tuned in before the live feed had died.
Cynthea stared at the screens. “Oh. My. God!”
8:59 P.M. Eastern Daylight Time
“We’re fucked,” Jack Nevins said.
“It’s been nice, buddy,” Fred Huxley said, stamping out his Cohiba.
6:01 P.M.
Nell leaped over the rocks toward the crevasse as Zero came running out. His gray T-shirt was drenched with bright red and blue liquid. He didn’t have his camera or his transmission backpack.
Nell called to him but he sprinted past her, lunging down the boulders with a ten-mile stare, heading straight for the water. She followed him instinctively, but halfway down the rocks she swung around and looked back into the mouth of the twilit crack.
What looked like a dog emerged from the shadow of the fissure.
The creature seemed to be sniffing along Zero’s trail. When it leaped onto a rock in the sun she saw that its fur was bright red. It was not a dog. It was at least twice the size of a Bengal tiger.
Its head swung toward her.
Nell backed away, turned, stumbled over the rocks around the derelict sailboat.
She spotted the small Zodiac on the beach and raced for it over the rocks.
She saw Zero dive into the sea and start swimming for the Trident.
Finally, she hit the hard, wet sand and ran. Without looking back, she reached the Zodiac. She shoved it into the water and flopped in backwards, planting her feet on the transom.
She yanked the pull-start and shot a look up the beach.
Three of the creatures lunged from the rocks to the sand.
Apart from their striped fur, they were nothing like mammals— more like six-legged tigers crossed with jumping spiders. With each kick off their back legs, they leaped fifteen yards over the sand.
Nell yanked the pull-start again, and the motor turned over and coughed to life.
The Zodiac pushed over a breaker, and the three animals recoiled before a crashing wave. Driving spiked arms deep into the wet sand, they pushed themselves backwards in thrusts ten yards long to avoid the hissing water.
Then they reared up and opened their vertical jaws wide, letting out piercing howls like car alarms that bounced and shattered in echoes over the cliffs around them.
Nell stared as the beasts leaped back up the beach and over the rocks toward the crack in the wall.
She stared at the twisted cliff leaning over her in the sky, and froze, breathless. She felt as if she were a child again, paralyzed as her nemesis burst into the light of the day. The face of her monster appeared in the rock, as though it had been waiting in the middle of nowhere for her.
Her head spun and her stomach convulsed. She bent abruptly and vomited overboard, clinging to the tiller with one hand.
Gasping, she splashed her face and rinsed her mouth with saltwater. There was no making peace with it—no way to replace it with a pretty face or flower, she knew. She had to fight it. She had to fight. Angry tears streaked her face as she steered the Zodiac toward Zero.
She called to him. The cameraman reached out and she hooked his arm, pulling him into the safety of the boat.
AUGUST 24
12:43 P.M.
The surgical mask muffled Geoffrey Binswanger’s amazed laughter. His eyes twinkled with childlike delight.
A lab technician bent the tail of a large horseshoe crab and stuck a needle through an exposed fold dir
ectly into the cardiac chamber of the living fossil. The clear liquid that squirted through the needle blushed pale blue as it filled a beaker. The color reminded Geoffrey of “Frost”-flavored Gatorade.
The director of the Associates of Cape Cod Laboratory at Woods Hole, Massachusetts, had invited Geoffrey to see how horseshoe crab blood was extracted each spring and summer. Since the blood was copper-based instead of iron-based, it turned blue instead of red when exposed to oxygen.
Geoffrey had spent several summers as a visiting researcher at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, or the “WHOI” (pronounced “hooey” by the locals), but he had never visited the Cape Cod Associates facility. So today he had taken his metallic-lime Q-Pro road bike up Route 28 a couple miles to the lab, which lay tucked inside a forest of white pine, white oak, and beech, to take a look.
Geoffrey wore maroon surgical scrubs over his biking clothes, a sterile hair cap over his dreadlocks, plastic booties over his shoes, and latex gloves. Similarly clad lab technicians removed the writhing arthropods from blue plastic drums, folded their tails forward, and placed them upright in crab-holders on four double-sided lab counters.
“This procedure doesn’t hurt, I hope?” Geoffrey said.
“No,” said the technician who had been assigned to show him around. “We only draw one-third of their blood, then we drop them back in the ocean. They regenerate it in a few days. Some are destined to be fish bait on the trawlers, though, so it only makes sense that they be routed through us for extraction first. We can tell from scars that a lot of the crabs have donated blood once or twice before.”
Geoffrey knew these primitive creatures were not, technically, crabs. They resembled giant Cambrian trilobites lined up in rows over the stainless steel shelves, a bizarre marriage of the primordial and the high tech. But, Geoffrey mused, which was which? This lowly life form was still more sophisticated than the most advanced technology known to man. Indeed, all the equipment and expertise gathered here was devoted to unlocking the secrets and utilizing the capabilities of this one seemingly primitive organism.
“What’s the scientific name of this thing?” he asked.
“Limulus polyphemus. Which means ‘slanting one-eyed giant,’ I think.”
“Sure, Polyphemus, the monster Odysseus fought on the island of Cyclopes.”
“Oh, cool!”
“What’s their life span?”
“About twenty years.”
“Really? When do they reach sexual maturity?”
“At about age eight or nine, we think.”
Geoffrey nodded, making a mental note.
“This whole lab,” the technician continued, “was built to extract crab blood and refine it into Limulus amebocyte lysate, or LAL—a specialized protein that clots on contact with dangerous endotoxins, like E. coli.”
Geoffrey looked in a barrel where the crabs were clambering methodically over one another. He already knew most of what he was hearing, but he wanted to give the young lab tech an audience. “Endotoxins are common in the environment, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” answered the youngster. “They mostly consist of the fragments of certain bacteria floating in the air, and they’re only harmful if they enter animal bloodstreams. Tap water, for instance, while safe to drink, would kill most people if they injected it. Even distilled water left in a glass overnight would already be too lethal to inject.”
“How do you extract the LAL?”
“We centrifuge the blood to separate out the cells. We burst them open osmotically. Then we extract the protein that contains the clotting agent. It takes about four hundred pounds of cells to get a half ounce of the protein.”
“So why do these guys have such a sophisticated defense against bacteria, I wonder?”
“Well, they swim in muck,” the technician said.
Geoffrey nodded. “Good point.”
“Yeah, they never evolved an immune system, so if they get injured, they’d die pretty fast from infection without a pretty badass chemical defense of some sort.” The technician removed the needle from one specimen and lifted it from its cradle, straightening its tail. He placed the living Roomba in a barrel. “Before we had horseshoe crabs we had to use the ‘rabbit test’ to see if drugs and vaccines contained bacterial impurities.” The technician grabbed a fresh donor and handed it to a colleague. “If the rabbit got a fever or died, we knew there were endotoxins present in the sample being tested. But since 1977, LAL from these guys has been used to test medical equipment, syringes, IV solutions, anything that comes in contact with human or animal bloodstreams. If the protein clots, we know there’s a problem. This stuff has saved millions of lives.”
“Especially rabbits, I guess.”
The technician laughed. “Yeah. Especially rabbits.”
Geoffrey touched the hard reddish-green carapace of a crab. The shell had the smoothness and density of Tupperware. He laughed nervously as the technician handed him an upside-down crab.
Gingerly, he took the large specimen. Five pincered legs made piano-scale motions on each side of a central mouth on the creature’s underside. Geoffrey cupped its back carefully so as not to get nipped.
“Don’t worry, these guys are actually pretty harmless. And they’re hardy as hell, too. I know a scientist here who says that back in the day he stored some in his refrigerator and forgot about them for two weeks. They were still kicking when he finally remembered to get them out.”
Geoffrey watched with childlike delight as the arthropod bent its spiked tail up and revealed the “book” gills layered in sheaves near its tail spine. “Gads, what a beast!”
“When I started working here I thought only aliens from space movies had ten eyes and blue blood.” The technician laughed. “This guy’s even got a light-sensing eye on his tail.”
“Nature’s produced a lot of different blood pigments.” Geoffrey peered at the maw at the center of the crab, which reminded him of the mouth of an ancient Anomalocaris, the arthropod that ruled the seas during the first “Cambrian” explosion of complex life half a billion years ago. He was struck by the color of this creature, which closely resembled the color of the reddish-green trilobite fossils he had collected at Marble Mountain in California as a boy: this crab was a living fossil—literally. “I’ve seen violet blood and green blood in polychaete worms,” he said. “I’ve even seen yellow-green blood in sea cucumbers. Crabs, lobsters, octopus, squid, even pill-bugs, a relative of these guys here, all have blue copper-based pigment that serves the same function as the red iron-based pigment in our blood.”
The technician arched his eyebrows. “You’ve been humoring me a bit by letting me make my spiel, haven’t you, Dr. Bins-wanger?”
“Oh, call me Geoffrey No, I’ve learned a lot I didn’t know, actually,” Geoffrey assured him. “I’ve never seen anything like this beastie. Thanks for letting me check it out.”
The technician gave him a thumbs-up. “No problem. Did you see SeaLife last night?”
Geoffrey squirmed. This was the fourth time someone had asked him this today. First, his attractive neighbor, as he left his cottage. Then Sy Greenberg, an Oxford buddy researching the giant axons of squids at the Marine Biological Laboratory, had asked the same thing as they passed on the bike path near the Steamboat Authority. Then the dock manager at WHOI, while he was locking his bike outside the Water Street building where his office was located.
“Um, no,” Geoffrey answered. “Why?”
The technician shook his head. “Just wondering if you thought it was for real.”
That’s what the other three had said. Exactly.
Someone rapped on the window in the hall outside the clean room. On the other side of the glass stood Dr. Lastikka, the lab director who had arranged his tour. Dr. Lastikka made a telephone gesture with his hand to his ear.
“Jeez, it’s my lunch hour. Oh well, OK, I’m done.” Geoffrey handed the horseshoe crab carefully back to the technician and pantomimed to Dr. Lastikka, Tell them
to hold!
Dr. Lastikka signaled OK.
“Thanks, that was really cool,” Geoffrey told the technician.
“Doing your lecture tonight, Dr. Binswanger? Er—Geoffrey?”
“Oh yes.”
“I’ll be there!”
“I won’t be able to recognize you.”
“I’ll wear the mask.”
Geoffrey nodded. “OK!”
This was why Geoffrey loved Woods Hole: everyone was fascinated by science, everyone was smart—and not just his fellow researchers. The general public, in fact, was usually smarter. Woods Hole, he confidently believed, was the most scientifically curious and informed population of any town on Earth. And it was one of the rare places, outside a few college campuses, where scientists were considered cool. Everyone showed up for the nighttime lectures. And then everyone adjourned to various taverns to talk about them.
Geoffrey exited the clean room through two sealed doors. As he tugged off his cap and mask, a lab assistant pointed him to a phone. The front desk patched him through. “This is Geoffrey.”
“There you are, El Geoffe!”
It was Angel Echevarria, his office mate at WHOI. Angel was studying stomatopods, following in the footsteps of his hero, Ray Manning, the pioneering stomatopod expert. Angel had been out of the office that morning and had left a message saying he was going to be late. Now the researcher was practically jumping out of the phone.
“Geoffrey! Geoffrey! Did you see it?”
“See what? Take it easy, Angel.”
“You saw SeaLife, right?”
Geoffrey groaned. “I don’t watch reality TV shows.”
“Yeah, but they’re scientists.”
“Who go to all the tourist spots, like Easter Island and the Galapagos? Come on, it’s lame.”
“Oh my God! But you heard about it, right?”
“Yeah…”
“So you know half of them got slaughtered?”
“What? It’s a TV show, Angel. I wouldn’t be too sure about that if I were you.” Geoffrey stepped out of the cleansuit as he spoke. He nodded as a technician took it from him.
