“She’s telling the truth,” insisted Rhiannon.
Jacob nodded his agreement as he sipped from his glass.
“I believe you, Emily. At least, I believe that you believe what you saw was real. And, given the lack of evidence to the contrary, I think it would be foolish of me not to assume that you know what you’re talking about. But surely there could be other reasons. I mean, aliens?”
“Of course there could be other explanations,” said Jacob, finally coming to Emily’s defense. “It’s possible that the creatures Emily encountered were the result of some genetic experiment gone awry. It’s possible that the red rain and the storm are both just some natural beat within the ecosystem or some geological event. But Occam’s razor favors Emily’s account; the simplest answer is probably the correct one. Factor in that she is the only person we are aware of to have come into direct contact with the red rain and lived to talk about it, then logic seems, at least to me, to dictate that she is telling the truth. In short, listen to what she’s telling you, Captain.”
Constantine now regarded all three individuals sitting in front of him with a laser-sharp focus, his eyes moving from person to person, lingering momentarily as he considered them with an air of quiet intensity.
Eventually, he simply nodded. “If you will excuse me,” he said, standing and offering Jacob his hand again, “I have dead I need to bury.”
Given their circumstances and the storm that now lurked menacingly on the horizon, Captain Constantine eschewed the traditional burial at sea for his men. Instead, they chose a spot at the easternmost tip of the island. Four graves, shallow given the toughness of the frozen ground, lay in a row before the gathered mourners, each marked with a rough headstone denoting the name, rank, and date of death of the grave’s new occupant. Even though the wind had quieted somewhat, the temperature was still fifteen below, cold enough to freeze the tears in the mourners’ eyes. The group of crew members and Emily and Rhiannon stood quietly, shuffling from foot to foot to keep warm as Captain Constantine read a brief eulogy for each of the dead men; then, in his deep baritone, he read from a small, well-thumbed book of poetry clasped awkwardly in his gloved hands.
When he was finished he closed the book and slipped it back into his winter coat. Without another word, chilled and with a tangible sense of depression clinging to the air, the group left the dead to their new home and crunched their way back to the station.
“Knock, knock.”
Captain Constantine and Jimmy MacAlister glanced up from their conversation to see Emily and Rhiannon standing in the doorway of the makeshift office he had chosen, hidden away at the back of the hospital building. The desk had a collection of maps, a laptop computer, and notebooks brought from the Vengeance strewn across it. The captain and MacAlister had been poring over the maps when Emily interrupted them.
She felt her cheeks flush as Jimmy’s face broke into a wide smile when he saw her. “Sorry to disturb you, but do you have a moment, Captain?” she asked.
“Of course, come on in. Excuse the mess.”
“No, thank you,” Emily said to the offer of a chair from MacAlister. “We’re beginning to feel like the proverbial fifth-wheel around here,” she began. “Your crew have been working around the clock over the past forty-eight hours, they look exhausted. There must be something that I can do to help?”
“Me too,” chirped Rhiannon. “I want to help too.”
The captain chuckled. “That’s what I like to see, enthusiasm in the youth of today. Let’s see: Sergeant MacAlister, is there anything that Emily and her young assistant can help with around here?”
“Aye, skipper. I think we have a few job opportunities available,” the soldier said with an even broader smile than usual. “Emily. Rhiannon. If you would like to follow me?” MacAlister escorted Emily and Rhia back up the corridor to the main hospital area.
“This fine gentleman is Amar. He’s in charge of making sure our injured are given the attention they deserve. Amar, meet Emily and Rhiannon. They’ve been kind enough to volunteer their time; do you think you can put them to good use?”
“Hello,” said Amar with a tired smile. He was a tall, good-looking man, no older than Emily and with distinct West Indian features. The medic sounded as exhausted as he looked but he managed to add a smile and a nod.
“I’ll leave you in his capable hands, then,” said MacAlister. He looked as though he was about to add something else, but instead turned and headed back toward the captain’s office.
“Okay ladies, here’s how you can help…”
Over the next few days, Amar taught Emily how to monitor and change the dressings on some of the less severely injured.
The crew was desperately short of medical personnel and Amar quickly began to refer to Emily and Rhiannon as his “Angels.” The sub’s surgeon had been ashore when the rain fell, along with most of the trained nursing staff, so the job of surgeon/chief nurse had fallen to Amar. Until the rain had arrived, he had been a nurse but now found himself the only qualified member of the crew with anything more than general first-aid training. Since the fire he had spent his time supervising the injured while trying to impart as much of his medical ability to the other surviving crew. Now he could at least grab a few hours of welcome sleep while Emily and Rhiannon watched over his patients.
The extra pairs of hands allowed him to direct more time to the three more severely injured members of the crew. Their injuries ranged from second-degree burns to the most severe, a crewman who had fractured his skull during the fire. He’d been in a coma since then.
“All I can do is make him as comfortable as possible,” he told Emily as they stood over the injured man. “If I had access to a hospital or a qualified doctor, he might stand a chance. Here…” his gaze swept around the small room, “there’s little hope he’ll make it.” The frustration Amar felt at not being able to help his colleague was palpable. “Thank God we at least have more morphine available than we need.”
Rhiannon on the other hand quickly became the crew’s surrogate mascot. She spent her time flitting from patient to patient, fetching water and meals for them, and listening intently and with wide eyes to the crew as they spun tails of the exotic-sounding ports of calls they had stopped at during their tour of duty aboard the Vengeance. She seemed particularly taken with one of the more badly injured patients named Parsons and would spend hours reading a dog-eared copy of Alice in Wonderland aloud, his burned hands unable to turn the pages.
Thor seemed especially happy with all the extra attention he was receiving too. To the extent that Emily had to speak quietly to the captain; his crew was surreptitiously feeding the dog treats and leftovers when she wasn’t looking, and he was starting to put on some extra pounds. The captain would make sure that stopped, he promised her, much to Thor’s chagrin, he was sure.
The only person who didn’t seem happy was Jacob. He was as good as trapped in the other building, the snow too deep for him to make it through in his wheelchair, but Emily got the impression that even if the path had been clear between the two buildings, he would have found some other excuse to stay where he was. The arrival of the crew of the Vengeance was a fly in the ointment for whatever plan he had had, she supposed. Her feelings toward him were still a confusion to her, his motivation for bringing her here to this desolate island duplicitous at best, but still, if he hadn’t done what he had done…she didn’t even want to think about what would have happened to her and Rhiannon. Maybe one day, she would be able to forgive him. For now, she kept her distance from him.
The young sailor in the coma died in the middle of the night two days later. Amar discovered him the following morning and they buried him in the cold ground next to his comrades that same day.
His death seemed to hit the crew especially hard, as if their defenses had been down, and Emily felt a distinct numbness begin to settle over them.
A
nd, as she walked with them back to the tiny cluster of buildings, Emily realized she didn’t even know the kid’s name.
“Gregory,” MacAlister had told her bitterly when she asked. “His name was Gregory.”
Emily had to lean hard on the second door leading outside before it would open. The temperature had dropped even further and bands of ice and snow had formed around the rim of the doorway, freezing it shut; she heard it crack as she leaned her shoulder into the door.
Stepping out into the glacial air, she felt her breath freeze instantly, stinging her nostrils and lips.
At least the wind had finally relaxed its hold on the island, leaving the air feeling thick and heavy in Emily’s lungs. But when she looked to the south she sucked in a painfully deep gulp of the freezing air; the skirt of cloud hemming the horizon was so much darker now, like thick pools of congealing blood. The intertwining seams of purple stitched through the storm’s body twisted and tumbled to form cauldrons of spirals that coiled and melted their way into each other like the beads and colored glass of a child’s kaleidoscope.
What little light that made it through the clouds covered the island in a pall of perpetual twilight. It created a dull dissimilarity with the pristine white of the snow. Emily’s eyes tried but failed to compensate for the painful contrast, and she quickly felt a dull throbbing headache form in her forehead as she squinted from beneath the shade of her outstretched hand.
She hoped it was just her imagination, but the cloud to the west seemed closer. It was hard to tell from ground level as the buildings obscured her view.
She stepped down off the ice-covered steps and crunched through the knee-deep snow, walking awkwardly around the side of the building while using the exterior wall to steady her balance as she high-stepped through the snow to the opposite end.
Fifty feet beyond the cabin a hillock rose sharply up to a blunt plateau high enough to give a clear view over the roofs of the camp’s buildings. Emily’s breathing came in short, rapid pants as she climbed to its top, the air collecting like rubble in the bottom of her lungs. At the hill’s summit she had an unobstructed 360-degree view of the island.
It stilled her heart, petrifying it in her chest.
The ring of clouds circling the horizon on every side had crept closer, constricting the hole of hazy sky above the survivors’ sanctuary.
Emily’s gaze skittered across the curve of the island, and out to sea where a shining mist descended from the cloud base and melted into the sluggish sea: rain! Sheets of it were pummeling the waves out there. She could see a slick of red forming on the ocean’s surface, slowly spreading with the swell. It was the same in every direction she looked, a slowly tightening noose around their necks.
A gust of wind thumped against her, pushing her back a step. A second gust buffeted her sideways. She tottered for a second, almost losing her balance as her legs tangled at the knees. She had a sudden disquieting notion that the storm knew she was observing it, and it was letting her know it saw her, watching her right back, this insignificant bug crawling on the surface of the world it had conquered.
From the west, another strong gust rocked her then rose to a constant blast that threatened to push her off the summit. Steadying herself, she sidestepped down the hill toward the camp just as the snow began to fall again, but this time the crystal-pure white of each perfect flake was stained with red.
The survivors gathered in the large room, sitting on the floor in small groups, talking quietly amongst themselves. Occasionally, one of them would stand and walk to a window and look outside.
Emily had observed that whoever was doing the looking inevitably fell into one of two groups: The first would quickly glance through the frosty window, not taking more than a second to assess the situation and wander back to their seat, as dark of mood as when they’d first stood. The second group would linger for well over five minutes or more, staring out that window as if they were willing the bloodstained clouds poised just a few miles off every corner of the coast of their island sanctuary to dissipate.
Both groups left the window disappointed every time.
There was a third group too. The one Emily fell into: those who watched the watchers. That had always been her way, that deep drive to observe and understand had had a large part to play in her becoming a journalist. But she wondered now, as she sat, her butt on the floor, her back against the wall, whether she should attribute that calling to nature or nurture.
Emily shifted her legs, disturbing Rhiannon who, head in Emily’s lap, moaned softly in her sleep. “Shhhh,” Emily cooed, stroking the girl’s hair until she sensed the child was asleep again. Thor lay nearby, stretched out, his head resting on his front paws, eyes wide open, watching Emily and Rhiannon with an unblinking gaze that seemed accepting of everything that was happening around him.
Emily had brought the news of the red-tinged snowfall and the tightening of the storm’s stranglehold on the island to MacAlister. He in turn had relayed it to the captain. Both men had gone outside to check her story for themselves, and both had returned grim-faced.
“Emily, I think it’s probably best if you and Rhiannon stay here with us for the duration, don’t you think?” MacAlister had suggested and Emily had readily agreed. She did not want to be alone through whatever might be coming. Once had been enough. But the excited chatter of the sailors as they had learned of the encroaching storm and seen the red-tinged snowfall had quickly devolved into worried murmurs, and finally, as the hours wore on, almost absolute silence.
Emily had begun to wish she had done as Jacob had and requested a room to herself. She had not seen him but once since Constantine and his crew had arrived. But Emily thought that Jacob’s hermit-like attitude was more from the habit of loneliness (or possibly the stash of whisky she knew he’d smuggled across with him) than from a shirking of any need for social interaction.
Occasionally, MacAlister or the captain would wander between the groups, chatting with the sailors. They were the epitome of stoic, she thought as she eyed MacAlister. He took a knee next to a lone sailor who had isolated himself off hours earlier, his hands clasped around his drawn-up knees as he silently stared at the opposite wall, his head bobbing slowly back and forth as if he listened to some inner song. Within minutes of MacAlister talking with him, the kid was back with his shipmates.
He was a good man, MacAlister.
The hours wore on, darkness came, and with it a howling wind that tore at the roof and walls of their shelter, rattling the windows and denying everyone sleep. The wind-driven snow had long blocked any view through the windows, tinting the glass with its pink stain, but that did not seem to deter the “window checkers,” who would still occasionally stand and wander over to look, even though they could see nothing now.
By the time the second morning crept almost unnoticed over the camp, the mood had dropped as low as the temperature outside, and Emily began to feel a new nervousness settle over the group.
“Cabin fever” was not a phrase you heard very often in these modern times, but Emily thought she could detect a sense of paranoia attaching itself to the men. It was a knifepoint of anxiety pushing through the thin skin of civility still left; the thick blade, the part that would do all the damage, barely concealed beneath the surface.
Later that day MacAlister insisted that the two girls take over his room, which they did with a sense of relief. Earlier, a fistfight had exploded seemingly from nowhere, and Emily felt a skinny rat of worry begin to gnaw at her insides. As it was, it was all she could do to stop Thor from attacking. His barking and the men’s yells had alerted MacAlister, and he had quickly stepped in and banged some heads, stopping the fight before it got past a black eye and a few raw knuckles. But Emily doubted that even MacAlister’s imposing reputation and martial ability would be able to brace the emotional wall holding back the swelling fear that threatened to wash over the men for long.
For the second time in the last twenty minutes Emily checked the Glock on her hip, relishing the sense of security as her fingers played over the weapon’s butt in the holster. The move to MacAlister’s quarters would be a good idea, she decided.
You’re a regular Calamity Jane, Emily Baxter, she thought with a hint of disdain as she followed MacAlister down the corridor past Jacob’s temporary quarters to the tiny room Mac had claimed as his own.
“Here you go, ladies,” he said, holding the door open for them.
“Where will you sleep?” Rhiannon asked, her face still flushed from witnessing the earlier fight but, and Emily could not help but feel a surge of pride over the growing toughness of the kid, no tears had been shed.
“Oh, I think it best that I stay out there where I can keep my eye on the rabble for the foreseeable future,” he said. “You ladies relax, and make yourself at home. I’ll check in with you later.”
As he closed the door behind him, Emily reached out a hand and placed it on top of his.
“Thank you,” she said, fixing his eyes with her own.
MacAlister smiled and nodded, and then was gone.
Emily was teaching Rhiannon how to play poker with a deck of cards donated by Parsons—and was already down three straight hands to the damn kid—when Jimmy MacAlister knocked loudly on his door, pushing it ajar before she could tell him to come in.
“Are you decent?” he blurted out through the gap, but didn’t wait for an answer before he stepped inside. “Sorry, ladies, but you need to come see this. Come on.” He grabbed Emily’s hand then Rhiannon’s and pulled them to their feet. Thor jumped up and leaped along beside them, barking excitedly, eager to join in whatever new game his humans were playing.
“What’s going on?” Emily said, half-protesting, half-laughing as she and Rhiannon were led down the corridor toward the exit.
Revelations (Extinction Point, Book 3) Page 3
