1750hrs 17 December 1995
'The Americans did not arrive. Nor has the patrol boat come to arrest me. I haven't seen anyone alive in the village all day. The only living things were pigs and packs of dogs, which have become increasingly aggressive, snarling as I walk by. There was little rain today. Tomorrow morning I intend to take every gallon of flammable fuel I can find and burn every structure to the ground. I'll set up a tent to live in; at least I can keep it relatively dry, and the constant earthquakes won't trouble me.'
He dismally contemplated the page. Force of habit had made him open the journal. Force of habit was all the structure that remained in the insanity of his world. He picked up his pen and began a new entry.
0300hrs Monday 18 December 1995
'I'd forgotten that yesterday was Sunday. Christian religion played little if any part in the weekly gathering of the villagers; it was just an excuse to dress up and go singing.
'The village is quiet. Not a peaceful quiet, but one of infinite loneliness, infinite…emptiness. Taedium vitae , it is the hour of the wolf, come to take away the souls of the dead-and the damned-for am I not damned?
'A perpetual sickly, orange haze shrouds everything; the light from Hell's gateway is just a short distance away. Here at its portals, rivers of blood filled with a billion silent demons lie in wait for me. I need only remove my mask to let them in.'
Nate turned to consider the obscene patterns of bloody rainwater and mud that covered the clinic's floor. In the dim light, the liquid pulsated and glowed with an oily, even attractive luminescence.
'See how they beckon, as the cleansing, cold fire beckons?' he wrote. 'Inviting me, insisting I join the others in a macabre dance of death. Let us in, they call, as the warm blood runs along the floor and pools at my feet.
'I am not a religious man and therefore I cannot take solace in a Greater Purpose. Nor can I blame an Old Testament God, or cry out, demanding why He spared me alone to bear witness to His judgment. How can I not believe in God when I have come face to face with Evil? Because this disease was spawned not from any fallen angel, any God of the underworld, but mortal man. We do not need to create metaphysical evils when greater ones are born of flesh and blood.
'Ninety nine point eight percent of all mammals that walked this planet are now extinct. In our hubris, humanity views itself the penultimate exception, yet our monoculture, so ecologists say, virtually assures a fate preordained by evolution. We build ships hoping to reach other worlds, other life-forms, while secretly gorging on the darker fruits of knowledge, birthing Promethean monsters destined to destroy us long before our star consumes us in its inevitable conflagration.
'I have reached for my mask a dozen times since my last patient died, knowing that the disease, having passed through human hosts, has only grown stronger. It may even have fed on the genes of other viruses, building itself into something so virulent that death might accept me in hours, not days. But to my shame I cling to life.
'In my cowardice, I fear learning that this grotesque insanity has reached beyond my singular hell. Why did the helicopters and patrol boat not come? Is it because this outbreak, this...attack was not an isolated event? Have nations retaliated and unleashed the final act of suicide; a nuclear war? I'm not sorry the earthquake severed my contact with the outside world. While I remain isolated, uncommunicative, I can cling to the delusion that the world I left just days ago remains intact, blissfully unaware that sentience is an evolutionary failure.'
-Chapter 27-
Mathew Island, 0410hrs December 18
A bone-jangling earthquake shook Nate from the chair and knocked him onto the clinic floor. He cried out in revulsion at the feel of something warm and gooey enveloping him. With the windows broken, fresh rainfall had turned the floor into a thick bouillon of mud and blood, human waste and sloughed skin.
Nate retained the presence of mind to stand slowly, trying to find his balance while the clinic swayed like a ship at sea. Then the Coleman light rolled off the edge of the table and smashed to the ground. The quake ended and darkness fell.
Absolute darkness. Desperate, Nate looked around. The glow from the volcano normally allowed him to see something-a window frame, anything as a point of reference. But it had vanished. He'd never experienced such a complete absence of light. The only sound he could hear was his pounding heart and rapid breathing through the HEPA mask. His mouth went dry, and adrenaline pumped through his arteries.
He had to calm down! Carefully reaching out to his desk, Nate eased his hand across the drawers, dreading the electrical sensation of glass slivers slicing through his glove. In the second drawer he found his camera. Fingers trembling, he pulled it from its leather case and depressed the shutter. Nothing! Swallowing back nausea, he felt for the switch, turned the camera on, then depressed the shutter button again. The flash fired at around one ten thousandth of a second but it was enough to give him an idea where things were. He depressed it again and again, lighting his way across the floor until he reached the cabinet that stocked spare flashlights.
A grinding tremor rocked the clinic. He couldn't rid himself of the feeling that the quakes weren't normal. What was it about that valley in Crete? Harmonic resonance?
Nate had no way of knowing that the quakes were indeed harmonic tremors; continuous releases of seismic energy as magma in the larger of the two chambers moved about with increasing momentum.
Turning on a large, powerful flashlight, he looked around. The clinic's internal walls had collapsed in the first quake. The cracks in the external walls had now become wide gaps, and the ceiling sagged. The next decent shake would bring the whole thing down. It was time to leave, for good.
Earlier that evening, he'd packed the Land Rover with cases of tinned food and bottled water. All of his notes and journals now went into a double-sealed plastic bag inside his backpack. He tossed in an extra bottle of water along with another flashlight, some batteries, a First Aid kit, and a packet of wax matches. Last, he transferred the precious blood and tissue samples from the battery-driven fridge to a cooler box. Slinging the straps of the backpack over his shoulder, he held the torch in one hand and the cooler in the other, and carefully made his way across the broken glass to the back door. Outside, he looked in the direction of the volcano.
Even surrounded by death, the volcano had given the island a semblance of life. Now it, too, was lifeless; a black void, impossible to distinguish against an equally black night sky. Had the vent collapsed during the earthquake, or was the earthquake the result of the collapse? Either way, how long did he have until the pressure from the magma chamber forced a new vent open? Weeks? Months? And how violent would it be? He knew enough to know that an eruption was not imminent. It would take time for the pressure to build, but harmonic goddamned resonance or not, his instincts were screaming at him to flee.
Another long, shallow quake rumbled through the ground. When it had passed he looked down at the mud. Although the rain had stopped, the ground seemed to dance upwards, not boiling, but it moved as if something were shaking it from beneath. He stepped down onto the ground, and was surprised by how hot it was.
"Oh God!" Nate's skin crawled when he realised what had been bothering him. In his state of mind, he had thought the floor of the clinic was warm because of the blood, but of course that was impossible. Shining the torch in a wide arc across the compound, he now saw that the remains of the cottage had crumpled into a massive pool of bubbling sludge. Terrified, his breath coming in gasps, he nearly swooned when he remembered that Warner had always joked about the idiot who'd built the clinic directly over the fault line. That was why the springs had become unbearably hot these past days. The volcano wasn't going to erupt, the fault line was splitting open-and he was standing directly on top of it!
With gut-wrenching clarity, he recalled how the lava lake had lashed out at the walls of the volcano's throat. There was nothing slow and ponderous about it, like all those National Geographic programmes on Hawaii
led you to believe.
Panting now, his breathing amplified through the filter of the mask, Nate ran, slip sliding across the hot wet ground, to the Land Rover. He risked a glance at the tires and thanked God that they seemed unaffected by the heat. "Fucking volcanoes," he muttered to himself over and over. "I hate fucking volcanoes !" He was shaking and his legs felt rubbery as he climbed in. It was the sheer, unadulterated primal terror at the thought of being cooked alive.
The damned protective suit was getting in his way and he couldn't breathe through the fucking HEPA mask. "Jesus, God, what did I do to deserve this? Sacrificial lamb to Vulcan or a hideous death by viral nightmare. Take your pick!"
The lava tunnels that the villagers had historically used to escape eruptions were on the far side of the island. The road, now a river of jiggling gunk, only went half way. After that it was a good seven hours' walk. Despite his terror, intellectually Nate knew that he probably had plenty of time to make the trek. He'd drive down to the village first. If there was anyone left alive, they might have a better idea what to expect.
The sound of gasping served to remind him that he was losing it. He had to do this carefully, methodically. The last thing he could afford was to let the Land Rover get bogged.
During the drive, Nate kept glancing up at the volcano. Its charcoal silhouette was just visible in the pre-dawn light. He turned the corner-and swung the Land Rover into a squelching skid, barely colliding with a huge banyan tree that came crashing down across the road.
The mask stopped him from rubbing the sweat off his face. Another quake hit, the largest so far. He instinctively ducked, but there were no more large trees around. When the juddering had passed, he looked up. Purple lightning crackled around the volcano. The clouds had taken on an eerie greenish hue, and he could have sworn he saw something like a shadowy phantasm move around the peak. Then an unearthly sound filled the cabin of the Land Rover. It was as if the entire planet had turned into a huge, ringing bell. The sound grew louder and Nate covered his ears. The earth gave one final jerk and then the world shattered.
McCabe stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans and stared over the portside gunwale of the California to Mathew Island. Or at least, where the radar said the island was. The night was so black that he couldn't see a thing.
Something-a long shudder followed by what sounded like a change in pitch in the California 's engines-had woken him minutes earlier, and he'd gone to the designated situation room to find out the latest.
The warship had been running at flank speed with the south-easterly swell on their aft starboard. It had made for a relatively comfortable trip-in contrast to the storm over DC. The turf war to end them all had broken out in Washington.
The Attorney General, who had been close to decapitating Reynold and Brant, now insisted that the FBI had to remain in control of the investigation. This was based on the fact that only a military aircraft would have had the ability to deliver a BW to such a remote location. That implied military involvement with the Consortium. The Pentagon was adamant that such an accusation, which amounted to treason, was utterly baseless, and that the military was to be in charge of all bioterrorist cleanup operations. Clearly, Mathew Island was USAMRIID's responsibility. Any FBI investigation would have to wait until the decontamination was complete. The State Department had started talking again, and issued their advisory that, since the New Caledonian and Vanuatu governments had refused permission for the California to enter their joint territorial waters, the most prudent course of action was to abandon the island to the impending eruption, neatly resolving the entire mess. After all, it was unlikely anyone was still alive.
Besieged with objections from the DIA, who wanted samples of the virus, the Attorney General's Department declared that they wanted the scene investigated by their people. The CIA had belatedly joined the fray on the basis that the bioweapon had likely been developed and distributed by foreign agents working in collaboration with American citizens, including defence personnel. Finally, the White House had stepped into the argument.
As Mathew Island was on the highest alert, declared the President, the population should be evacuated post-haste. The nearest vessel capable of undertaking this was the USS California . Pre-empting objections from the New Caledonian and Vanuatu governments, the White House Press Secretary released a statement in conjunction with the University of Seattle, warning of the imminent eruption. The press release went on to state that the California could evacuate the entire island by midday.
The French, via the New Caledonian government, promptly refuted the warning, and declared that the Americans were engaging in some as yet to be understood plan to destabilize the entire region, first by this ludicrous claim of an Ebola outbreak, and now bizarre predictions about the volcano. If Mathew Islanders were in danger, they would be evacuated via ships sent from New Caledonia, merci beaucoup .
Unfortunately for the French government, ORSTOM, the French geophysical research organization, had simultaneously released their own warning regarding the status of Mathew volcano. Further, ORSTOM issued dire predictions that tsunamis potentially generated by such an eruption could impact multiple Pacific Island states, including New Zealand and Australia. The earthquake had severed communications with Mathew Island. It was therefore imperative that an operation to evacuate islanders be implemented immediately. At dawn a reconnaissance aircraft carrying vulcanologists would leave Port Vila and fly over the island. Meanwhile, the California should make every effort to assist.
The implications were clear. If even one villager died because the French New Caledonian government rejected the humanitarian aid that was waiting on Mathew Island's proverbial doorstep, the world would demand to know why. Paris had replied that it would confer with the Vanuatu government and make a decision following the reconnaissance flight.
"We'll be leaving in fifteen minutes."
McCabe flexed his shoulder muscles and turned around. Susan was standing behind him with two steaming mugs and a cautious smile. Nodding his thanks, he accepted the coffee. He was under no illusions about what they were likely to find on Mathew. Nate Sturgess probably was dead, along with everyone else. And yet there existed a remote chance that the epidemiologist was still alive. Either way, the California's helicopter could take in a team to recover whatever biological samples they needed, and evacuate Sturgess before the French and Vanuatu governments were any the wiser.
Taking a sip, he asked, "Any chance of the French detecting us?"
"They don't have access to satellite imagery capable of making out camouflaged helicopters, and the radar operators will maintain a constant watch for the inbound ORSTOM flight. We don't expect their aircraft to leave Vila until after dawn, which means we have at least two and a half hours to collect Sturgess and the necessary samples. Not ideal, I know, but we're lucky the President intervened. Captain Rolston said he'd maintain the ship's position in international waters, which gives us the tactical and moral high ground."
Susan shot him a hesitant look, no doubt waiting for a snide remark about tactics and morals. When he said nothing she added, "Did you feel that earthquake, earlier?"
"I thought we'd just changed course."
"I've just gotten off the satellite phone to Warner. Seems that was the biggest quake yet." She turned around when Captain Rolston joined them.
"Morning, Major, Agent McCabe."
Overhead a large flock of terns squawked a greeting and continued heading south. McCabe raised his cup in the direction of the dark blob that was now becoming discernible on the horizon. The sky was beginning to lighten, but the clouds over the island had an oddly verdant hue. "Shouldn't the sky over the volcano be glowing or something?" He noticed two more people coming out on deck. One of them, Spinner, was rubbing her arms in the chill morning air.
"It was glowing," Rolston replied, squinting over McCabe's shoulder. "Lit up the sky and our radar like a damned lighthouse until that quake a few minutes ago."
"Neve
r knew you could feel a quake through a ship," McCabe said, leaning with his back against the gunwale.
Rolston nodded a greeting to the new arrivals. "Generally, you can't. I'd like to have a little more distance between us before it blows, so once you leave with the helo, I'll be repositioning the ship twenty-five nautical miles due south. The chopper can fly faster than we can sail-"
A brilliant orange glow suddenly illuminated the deck and superstructure. McCabe spun around to look.
Rolston swore, "Jesus, too late. There she blows!"
-Chapter 28-
Mathew Island, December 18
Nate sat transfixed by the awful, magnificent sight. A thick column of incandescent lava ripped out of the volcano's throat, tore through the low clouds and pushed high into the atmosphere. He craned his neck to follow the rising column of molten earth until he could no longer see its top through the windscreen of the Land Rover. Opening the door to get a better view, he could actually make out tens of thousands of individual globs of lava shooting into the sky, while bolts of lightning slashed at the peak.
If Nate had been a superstitious man, he would have sworn that some ancient, evil god had unleashed its almighty wrath upon the world. Mere forces of nature could not possibly have fermented such a tempest. But for the moment, at least, he didn't feel particularly threatened. The eruption was from the mountain in the centre of the island, not from the fault line. That meant he'd be okay.
Grains of dust began peppering him. Glancing into the deathly still village, Nate climbed back inside the Land Rover and turned the vehicle around. The crackling sounds on the roof of the Land Rover's cabin grew louder. Hot, marble-sized tephra was raining down on him-okay, that wasn't something that he'd considered might happen. Here and there he could see tiny gobs of fire hitting the ground, but he dared drive no faster. Then the fireballs turned into large glowing blobs that struck the earth with audible thunks . It was just a question of time before a piece of lava hit the Land Rover. So much for not feeling threatened.
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