by Nick Thacker
“I need some help over here!” he yelled. “I’ve got the president down here, alive,” he added.
Within seconds, three more sailors had gathered around the hatch, and Mark moved around and began to lift the president from the chair. Before he walked toward the exit, he looked down and shook him gently, waiting for the man’s eyes to open. He had been fast asleep, still affected by the drugs.
The president’s eyes met Mark’s and widened. Mark smiled, reached into his pocket, and retrieved the small device he’d pocketed earlier. He pressed the small button on the side and waved it near the president’s temple.
“This is for my family, Mr. President.” Mark waved it again, and the president’s eyes glazed over. He felt for a pulse.
Good.
The first sailor had reached them and pulled the president away from Mark.
“Rogers! Get down here and help me out!” He threw the president’s arm over his shoulder and turned to exit. “I’ve got one more civ down here, too. Give me a hand!”
The man turned and nodded. Mark smiled at the young man. “He’s hurt, I think. Obviously shaken up, but I think there’s something more to it than that. He’s been acting strange since he got hit down there. Must have hit his head pretty badly.”
The Navy soldier thanked him and lifted the president’s arms to the waiting hands of the crewman standing around the hatch. Mark followed him out and was immediately escorted to a waiting inflatable craft moored next to their sub.
He was ushered next to Jen and Reese, and he sat down in the middle of the boat, facing Saunders and Nelson.
Mark slid his arm around his wife’s shoulders, pulling her close. Reese moved to sit between Mark and Jen, and rested his head on his shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked as she turned to him.
She nodded, moved her hand to his face, and kissed him.
EPILOGUE
HAROLD MATHERS SAT MOTIONLESS, WATCHING the small television mounted on the wall.
“Reports indicate some sort of brain damage caused by anaphylactic shock…”
The newscaster was standing in front of a green-screened image of the White House front gate, reading from a prepared statement from his Chief of Staff’s office.
“…Initial estimates predict that the damage will be limited to an area no larger than five hundred square miles in the mid-Atlantic, and recovery crews from FEMA have already been dispatched…”
Mathers reached up to wipe a drop of saliva from his lip. He felt his chin. It was covered in whiskers.
When was the last time I shaved?
He felt the skin on his cheek flare up as his hand grazed a spot that he’d apparently nicked with his razor.
“President Frank McKinney, recently returned from his trip abroad, has been working with the former First Lady Mathers on a worldwide press tour to explain and apologize for the unbelievable events of the past month…”
His tongue rolled slightly out over his bottom lip. He focused his attention on pulling it back into his mouth. The drop of saliva grew, now rolling over his whiskered chin and resting on the divot on his lower lip.
“Starting with Canada and England, the duo visited thirty-five countries in two months and presented to audiences of almost one billion people across television and radio networks. The speech has been translated to almost twenty languages, and outlines the terrible computer malfunctions that led to twelve ballistic missiles being simultaneously fired…”
Mathers reached up again to wipe it away just as a woman’s voice giggled from behind him. He was immediately distracted and his tongue dropped slightly out of his mouth once more.
“The efforts of Detective Craig Larson and his late partner Ken Dawson have led to the arrest of eighteen individuals believed to be involved in the Nouvelle Terre organization. Detective Dawson sadly perished in a house fire outside Washington…”
The giggling continued, and he shifted his eyes to the left as the woman entered his field of vision.
“Mr. Pres—Mr. Mathers,” she said, correcting herself, “how silly of you!” She reached to his lip and wiped away the growing blob of saliva with her sleeve. “You must be hungry. Come here, let’s get you to the cafeteria.”
Mathers tried to look at her; tried to raise his voice to argue. His voice stuttered, a gravelly hollowed-out skeleton of his soothing baritone that had won him his presidency, and he gasped for air.
His head lolled sideways, against his own will. Dammit. Stop and think.
He drew a few short breaths, steadying his hands. They gripped the sides of his wheelchair tightly, trying to force his body to calm down.
The nurse continued patronizing him, but he was no longer listening.
Tell her you’re okay, man. He struggled to build the sentence in his mind, and even as he started to open his mouth to speak, he knew, like always, that it wouldn’t work.
“For have to— neb… I ca—hold un…” What the hell was that? He wondered as he heard the disgusting voice—his own—string together another incoherent set of syllables.
“Mr. Mathers, it’s okay. Let’s get you downstairs.” She reached down to his shoulder, her other hand finding the handle on the back of his wheelchair. She squeezed his shoulder to calm him and guided the wheelchair out of the white room.
Another drop of drool appeared at the side of his mouth.
THE
ENIGMA STRAIN
1
1704, NORTHWEST TERRITORY, CANADA
THE sound of another exploding tree caused Nikolai Alexei to jump. He could hear the men behind him snickering, but he didn’t turn to address it. It wasn’t worth his time, and it was bad leadership to acknowledge pettiness. He grumbled under his breath and marched forward through the knee-deep snow.
Nikolai was used to the sounds of the winter. This land reminded him of home; of the countless kilometers of deep black forest, filled with the same types of animals he used to hunt, the same trees he used to climb, and the same bitter cold he used to long for. He remembered the smells, too – the ripe evergreen scent, the fresh blankets of snow thick enough to halt a horse, and the sheer emptiness of the air.
He knew the sounds as well. The frozen tree sap inside the trunks of the pines would expand, causing the bark and wood to explode. His father had explained it to him on a wolf-hunting trip when he was a boy, and he had often lain awake at night, counting the rippling explosions as they worked their way through the wooded area around their cabin. He knew more about the woods than any of the men he had brought with him, with the exception of maybe Lev.
Still, the laughter of the men frustrated him. It wasn’t a sign of insubordination as much as it was a sign of their laziness. For three months they’d made their trek over mountains and across valleys so high and so deep he’d thought they wouldn’t make it to the other side with their entire crew intact. They’d crossed tundras, plateaus, and wetlands, all without losing a man. Their hunting excursions were always successful, and most nights ended around a large bonfire with a deer roasting on a spit. Breakfast was hot soup, and they snacked on smoked meats throughout the day.
Nikolai had to admit that it was, so far, one of the more successful trips he’d been on, and he knew God was smiling on them in this new land. But he knew it made them weak; it made them soft. They had grown fat and sluggish, traveling fewer kilometers every day than the day before. Their energy and excitement were replaced by restlessness, and their stories and poems told around the fire had devolved into passionless songs.
Without turning around, he called back to the twenty-seven men behind him. “Where is the doctor?”
A short, thin man rushed to his side. Nikolai did not slow down. “What is our status, doctor?”
“We are well, commander. The men are full, and morale is high.”
“We move more slowly each day,” Nikolai said. “We have caught more game than we can eat, and we build fires larger than we can burn in one night. The men are fat, and they are growing co
mplacent.”
“But they are happy, sir,” the doctor said.
“Happiness is as much a curse as a virtue,” Nikolai said, turning to the shorter man. “We will stop and make camp when we next find a clearing. The river is to the north, and we can fish there for as long as we like.”
Nikolai was a man of his word; a man of integrity. He had promised his superiors back in Russia a map of the deep terrain of North America, and he would deliver it. His expedition had grown mundane, and it was time to bring it back to life.
“Split the men into crews of two and three,” Nikolai said, “and I will send them out in the morning to chart the area. The comrades will find pleasure in a change of scenery, and I myself will enjoy an excursion of a more solitary fashion.”
“So you will wander alone through these parts?” The doctor asked.
Nikolai laughed. “I will take care to not lose myself in the fog, if that is what you are asking. Sometimes a man must wander, my friend,” he said. “But rest assured, we will gather together after three days.”
The doctor nodded and silently fell in line behind Nikolai. Nikolai was uncertain if this plan of his would do more good than endanger them all, but it was a risk he was willing to take. They had found nothing useful thus far; nothing the motherland would be inclined to return for. Cartography was their stated manifest, but he was under no false pretenses. By moving outward in smaller groups, the expedition could cover more territory and more ground than by moving in a single line.
So far, they had charted the great river to their north all the way from the sea, but they knew all rivers began somewhere. Whether it was a lake at the top of a mountain peak or from tributaries caused by glacial melt, he did not know.
And he didn’t care.
Nikolai Alexei was here for one reason, and one reason alone. His homeland sought riches, as did his men. All men sought more than what God had initially blessed them with. It was man’s duty to find what he was owed in this life, with all the more blessings to be bestowed upon him in the afterlife.
This new land was not known for its riches, as it had been settled merely years beforehand, but it was the great unknown that continued to attract new inhabitants, and it was this same force that attracted Nikolai to this opportunity.
2
1704, NORTHWEST TERRITORY, CANADA
THE first star appeared in the heavens above him, and Nikolai turned to the line behind him. “Make camp,” he ordered his men. “There is a clearing to our left; we will stay there.”
Immediately, the men filed out from their positions in the line and began to extract poles and tarps from their packs. A few broke away to hunt, while others milled about and checked canteen levels.
They were slow, Nikolai noticed. After the last few days’ effort it did not surprise him, but it did not please him much either. It took over an hour to set up the ten tents and build a fire, but no more than ten minutes for the men to begin huddling around it.
Soon the sky darkened, and the moon arose above them, nearly full. Food was prepared, a roasted deer and herb soup, and the men began singing.
Nikolai had had enough. He broke away from the camp and lifted the moose skin parka hood up and over his head. The bitter cold bit into his flesh, and the gentle wind threatened to chill his core, but he didn’t notice. He made for a smaller clearing to the south that he had seen earlier, one with a rock outcropping against a higher mountain cliff. The river they were following had likely cut down into this valley they were currently in, and if he was lucky, it had left some interesting formations for him.
He reached the clearing and scared away a small mammal that disappeared into a hole in front of a tree. He stepped into the open grassy area and looked toward the outcropping. It appeared that the boulders were precariously situated around a hole near the ground, beckoning him closer. As he approached, he could see in the failing light that the rocks were, in fact, surrounding an opening to a small cave.
As a boy, nothing had excited him more than exploring unmarked caves and caverns. His father had joined him in a spelunking expedition once, and together they discovered an underground spring that provided water to the well near their cabin.
He had no light with him, but he ducked inside anyway. Feeling around with his hands and arms, he felt the excitement within him growing.
Tomorrow, he would head here first thing, bringing a torch with him and a few extra men. It was a long shot, but this was the type of cave that would have made a perfect shelter for one of the native tribes that might call this place home. So far, they had not encountered any such people, but they had no way of knowing if indigenous tribes lived along these rivers or not.
A light appeared behind him, flickering and orange. He could almost feel the heat of the torch as it grew brighter.
“Nikolai?” A voice said, softly. “Is that you?”
It was the doctor’s voice, a little unsure.
“Yes, doctor,” Nikolai said. “Bring the light. I would like to have a look at this place.”
The doctor responded by stepping forward to Nikolai’s side, and he lifted the torch up in front of them.
Scrawled on the wall in front of them were dozens of paintings articulating dancing men and women around fires, hunting trips, and deaths.
So many deaths.
One particularly macabre painting showed a man and woman lying sideways next to one another, their arms crossed as a representation of death. Six children were drawn below them haphazardly, as if added at different times in the past.
Nikolai and the doctor gazed at the drawings for a minute, trying to decipher the storyline that had been presented to them. Sections of paintings had been scratched out and painted over, as if the original author had changed the story halfway through.
“What does it mean, sir?”
Nikolai didn’t respond. He took the torch from the other man’s hand and continued walking deeper into the cave. A few feet past this first wall, the ceiling expanded, and he rose to his full height. More paintings continued on the walls to his left and right, and arrows were drawn near the floor. Continuing on, the small cavern twisted to the left and ended in a rounded chamber.
He swung the torch around this room, at first looking for a continuation of the path he was on. Finding none, he moved the torch near the floor. Stacks of bones and skulls lay atop one another, of all shapes and sizes. Men, women, and children all lay together, separated into what he assumed must have been families.
In front of these he found baskets made from the sinewy skins of animals, with lids fashioned from skin and bones. The leatherwork was remarkable, and he reached down to grab one. He examined it closer, handing the light to the doctor. Stamped into the sides and top of the basket were designs and symbols that he couldn’t interpret. They swirled around the edges, leaving no section of leather untouched.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. He twisted the top of the basket, finding the lid secured tightly, either by design or from years of rest. He gave the lid a harder twist and felt a pop.
The top of the basket came off, sending dust shooting through the air. He waved it away and dropped the lid to the ground.
He saw what was inside, and only then realized how heavy the basket was. He turned the basket upside down, emptying its contents onto the cave floor. Hundreds of silver coins sprinkled out, bouncing off the rock and rolling around.
“For the glory of...” The doctor said, his voice hoarse.
“I imagine this is the sort of thing we have come here for,” Nikolai said. He scooped up a handful of the silver coins and held them up to the light. “Do you recognize these?”
“No. I have never seen such a design.”
Upon the surface of each coin was a remarkably intricate design; either hand carved or stamped. It featured the bust of a native man, and Nikolai could even see the outline of a frown on his face. He was surrounded by what looked like fire, each wisp carefully measured and drawn.
He flipped
it over in his hand. The back was a reflection of the front, with the same native man frowning up at them. The fire, however, was markedly absent from this side. In its place were swirls and lines, which looked to be framing the man in the center.
“Fire on one side, wind on the other,” Nikolai whispered. “A dichotomy. What could it represent?”
“What is in the other baskets?” the doctor asked. He reached for another, trying at first to lift it from the ground. The basket slid a few inches toward him but stayed on the floor. “I believe this one is considerably heavier, sir,” he said.
Nikolai reached down and twisted the lid free. He pushed the basket over with his right foot and watched as silver coins fell out. Reaching down, he could see that the same design as the other coins appeared on these as well.
“Doctor,” he said, “return and wake the men. Bring them here, and bring the satchels as well. There are at least twenty of these baskets spread throughout this room, and if each contains even a portion of what is in these first two, it should be more than enough to justify a return home.”
Nikolai wasn’t greedy, but he felt the stirrings of excitement growing in his chest. He would share this treasure with his men without question, but he needed to be sure of what he had found. He moved to the back of the cavern, now standing directly in front of the pile of skeletons. Reaching down, he lifted the lid on one of the baskets that had been placed close to the back.
More dust spread outward from the freshly opened container, and he blinked and waved it away with his free hand. He moved the torch down closer to the top of the basket and peered inside.
It was empty.
He frowned, and reached for the basket nearest it. He lifted the lid on this one as well.
