by Debbie Kump
But as he passed the family room, Erik noticed the old plasma screen lit up. A bright blue rectangle displayed the message NO SIGNAL AVAILABLE. He walked toward the T.V. to shut it off when his stomach somersaulted.
He found her.
With blond curls spilling across her face, Kristen’s head drooped to one side. Erik fell to his knees, brushing the hair away to gaze into his sister’s unresponsive, bloody eyes. How much more of this could he take? He barely had the chance to grieve for Rachael…and now Kristen, too? Tears splashed down his cheeks, falling onto his sister’s corpse.
Through his blurry vision, Erik noticed something peculiar about Kristen’s position. He blinked, clearing his eyes to gaze upon her form once more.
A red handprint across her abdomen trailed off in long streaks where her fingers dropped to the floor. Almost protective in her attempt to cradle…
To cradle?
Reality hit Erik square in the face. Why didn’t he see it before? The plans for a semester off from her beloved graduate program. The distancing from Dane. The repeated bouts of illness. Not the flu at all, was it? More like…
Morning sickness.
Erik was an idiot. He hadn’t been there when she’d needed him the most. Too wrapped up in his web of fabricated lies. Obsessed with a cheating girlfriend that never even existed.
Erik planted a gentle kiss upon his sister’s forehead, then exited the apartment. He would come back for her later. For all of them. But right now he must find his parents to inform them about Kristen and her unborn child.
Scratch that. His parents were a little old-fashioned. He might have to keep that news a secret until his dying days.
Erik grabbed Kristen’s car keys hanging by the front door and stepped out into the bright morning light. Unlocking her rusty Toyota Camry, he settled into the driver’s seat and left campus.
Though his parents didn’t live far away, Erik rarely visited. The Southern Florida State University was a far cry from a suitcase school, so why leave Rachael or the eclectic activities available on campus to spend a dull weekend at home?
Yet as Erik drove down the backstreets leading out of campus, he couldn’t stop a chill from seeping down his spine. An unsettling silence pervaded in the absence of street noise and movement. It was creepy being the only moving car on the road. He turned on the old car radio to fill the silence, scanning station after station, but picked up only static.
And things didn’t improve when he left campus. Heading south from the university campus in Miami Springs toward his parents’ townhouse in Fountainbleau, Erik felt fortunate his parents lived in the suburbs so he could skirt most of Miami’s notorious traffic issues. Still, the expressway was clogged with stalled cars and motorists stranded on their evening commutes. Which made Erik question–just how widespread were the upgrade’s effects?
Was the devastation more profound than he originally suspected? Had 7G decimated the whole city? The state? The nation?
A single thought pressed him to continue weaving through the maze of stationary cars choking the expressway: it can’t be everywhere. It had to have its limits. There must be some survivors. Perhaps his parents were among those spared.
Tired of inching his way through the congestion, Erik got off a few exits early and took the back roads the rest of the way home. Inside his chest, his heart sank as he passed one silent strip mall after another, the familiar sights of home transformed into an eerie ghost town. Even this close to his parents’ home, not a single car crept along the road. Still, Erik kept driving, ignoring the red lights, and hoping he was wrong. That somewhere he’d find a survivor.
Suddenly, the engine chugged. Erik stepped harder on the gas pedal, but the Camry refused to accelerate. The car rolled to a slow stop in the middle of the intersection.
“I don’t believe this!” Erik cursed under his breath as he pounded his fist on the center console. Then he remembered something. He glanced at the dashboard, already certain of the reason.
Sure enough, the fuel gauge’s red needle cocked strongly to the left, deep below the E.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What a cheapskate!” Erik grumbled as he shifted the Camry into park and tripped out the driver’s side.
It shouldn’t surprise you. The voice of Erik’s conscience filled his head. Why did it have to be so annoyingly right? How many times had he borrowed Kristen’s car, only to have to fill up her tank as well?
Still, you can’t be too mad at your sister, his conscience continued. She’s dead.
Erik frowned. “Thanks for reminding me.”
Sullenly, he peered down the street in each direction, wondering which way to head. He remembered passing a gas station about a mile back. But his parents’ place wasn’t much farther up the road. Might as well go the rest of the way on foot, he decided.
And what about her car? You’re not gonna leave it here in the middle of the road?
“Why not?” Erik shrugged. His parents had purposefully bought her a beater for grad school. Even though they could’ve afforded one a little less used, they reasoned she shouldn’t park something nice on the street. Shutting the door, Erik took one last look at the rusty old Camry and trudged onward, his heart filled with guilt and regret.
At least he should have plenty of time to think about how to tell his parents about Kristen, Rachael, and Lucas on the way to their townhouse. If they were even there.
If they were still alive.
There was nothing he could do about that now–not until he knew for sure.
Erik tramped down the sidewalk, his eyes trained on his feet. He passed housing developments, shopping centers, and community parks–all unnervingly quiet. He continued past the long canals running alongside the streets, constructed to improve drainage in this swampy area of South Florida near the Everglades. Suddenly Erik stopped, detecting a hint of movement in the still, brown water.
Holding his breath with heightened anticipation, Erik blinked again, anxious to find someone else alive in the midst of this apocalypse. A round, golden eye with a black, slit-like pupil protruded above the water. It studied him cautiously, perhaps hungrily for a moment, before sinking below the murky surface.
Erik exhaled deeply. It was only a gator.
And there were lots of those around here. In fact, all the townhouse complexes were gated communities now–not as added security from burglars, but from the gators themselves. Over the years, there had been too many reports of alligators swimming in pools and of residents losing small pets. The neighborhoods took action and decided to seal themselves off from uninvited guests.
An uneventful quarter mile later, Erik spotted the sign reading FOUNTAIN VIEW. With its sparklingly clear pool and Jacuzzi located on the 9th green of the Fountainbleau Municipal Golf Course, Erik admitted the Fountain View was a pretty nice place…if you liked that retirement-community-sort-of-feel.
Only today, it was dreadfully silent.
He looked through the gate, scanning the complex for signs of life. Except for the occasional bird flying overhead, he found none. Cars stood parked in several stalls, many with bodies inside.
A lump formed in Erik’s throat as he keyed in the code by the front gate, hoping it hadn’t changed since the summer. Luckily, the front gate swung open on creaking hinges, wide enough for a car to pass through. His stomach felt like a rock as he walked down the paved path to his parents’ unit, number 203.
Erik crept up the two steps to their concrete porch and stood in front of the door, staring blankly at the brass doorknocker engraved with the name WEBER. They weren’t expecting him. It wasn’t like he could’ve called since he left his DOTS and MUDE in the dorm. Not that it mattered. Either they were here or they weren’t. Erik almost hoped for the latter.
He knocked on the door, mostly because this place still didn’t feel like home. Not to him, at least. After he graduated high school, his parents chose to downsize, moving into the Fountain View’s townhouse community a few str
eets away from their old rambler. Sure, Erik had a room to himself, but it wasn’t the same.
After waiting half a minute, he banged on the door again. As he suspected, there was no answer.
Just go in already.
Erik blew the hair from his eyes and cracked the door, peeking inside. “Mom? Dad?” he called, his voice cracking on each word. With bated breath, he stepped over the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the relative darkness inside as the smell of taco meat filled his nostrils. Erik’s stomach immediately flipped upside down as he tiptoed past the matching recliners sitting empty in the family room. When he entered the kitchen, he discovered the source of the smell. His mom’s soft-shelled tacos piled with toppings sat half-eaten on their plates. And his parents’ bodies lay face down on the floor in pools of blood that stained the Spanish tiles.
Clamping his hand over his mouth, Erik raced out of the room. Grabbing his parents’ Cadillac keys off the granite countertop, he tottered outside, gasping for a decent breath. The bright sun beat upon his face, causing his head to pound unbearably, his heart stricken with grief.
So what should he do now? Where should he go when everyone he knew was dead?
He leaned his head against his parents’ Cadillac, letting the hot metal scorch his forehead. Maybe the physical pain would snap him back to his senses. Though after a few seconds, Erik lifted his head again. It hadn’t helped–but man, it was hot. Wincing, he put his palm to his forehead, dulling the pain, when he spotted his neighbor’s ruby red Porsche parked in the adjacent spot.
Erik eyed the Porsche, his parents’ keys growing heavy between his fingers.
Don’t do it, his conscience warned.
Ignoring the remark, Erik dropped the Cadillac keys in his pocket and stepped toward the sports car. He ran his fingers along its smooth, shiny surface–freshly waxed, no doubt, knowing the guy’s penchant for car maintenance. He glanced in the driver’s side window. The keys sat on the dash, calling to him.
But there was one problem: his neighbor, Ed Watson, was still in the car, too.
How can you be so cold and heartless? Erik’s conscience whined. Have you become immune to death?
Erik opened the car door and knelt down to examine Ed. Sure enough, his eyes and ears looked like the others he’d encountered.
I can’t believe you’re gonna steal his car.
“It’s not like he needs it anymore.” Not like he ever needed it in the first place. It was one of those impulsive, mid-life crisis purchases he made after his wife left him for some guy at her office.
Erik snatched the keychain off the dash and stuck a key in the ignition. Turning it one click, a broad smile spread across his face. The gas tank was full.
It’s still stealing.
“I’m just borrowing it,” Erik snapped as he slid Ed’s body out the driver’s side door. Grunting, he dragged the corpse up the curb and set it down beneath the blooming birds of paradise. Then he slipped back into the car, glad his conscience had shut up for a while. Maybe it was too appalled to think of another rebuttal.
Erik started the car, the engine roaring to life. Eager to escape this scene of death, he shifted into reverse and sped out of the stall. “I can always bring it back,” Erik muttered unconvincingly as he exited the complex and took off down the road, leaving Fountainbleau. Though where he was headed, he had no idea.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Command and Control Room, U.S.S. Siren
Even if she could make it to the top egress chamber to escape in time, Alyssa knew this was not going to be easy.
Without another moment to second-guess her action, Alyssa bolted from the Command and Control Room, back through the sloping main corridor to midship. En route, she encountered a leak in one of the pipes. Ice-cold seawater rushed in, like a firefighter’s hose aimed at a raging inferno. Had they already sank to crush depth? she wondered.
Normally the crew tended leaks immediately, preventing damage to the structural stability of the submarine. However, stability was the least of her concerns now.
Blocking her face with her arms, she bulldozed her way through the torrent of incoming water. Freezing jets forcefully knocked her off her feet, blasting her face and drenching her clothes and hair. Shivering, Alyssa squeezed her eyes shut and crawled across the floor. Groping for supports, she fought against the icy surge.
Bruised and utterly soaked, she struggled past the leak toward the metal grated stairs leading to the escape hatch. Mopping the wet strands of hair that clung to her face in disheveled clumps, she glanced at the signage to confirm the location of the egress chamber. Any incorrect detours would only waste precious time.
Time in which the submarine could descend too deep for her to escape alive.
She ran up the ladder, her legs burning with the speed of her climb. Her thoughts raced, reliving the escape training at the Naval Submarine School New London in Groton, Connecticut. Terms and procedures flooded her mind. Months ago, she’d learned the history of escape procedures and been trained in the use of the equipment, but the facts quickly grew garbled in her perilous state.
The Sub School’s training tower simulated the extreme pressures one would encounter when escaping a disabled submarine in the dark, deep ocean. The submariner volunteers each donned a revised model of the British Royal Navy’s MK-10 Submarine Escape Immersion Equipment (What had they called it? she wondered. Oh, yeah–an SEIE): a thermally protected outfit resembling the spacesuits NASA’s Apollo 11 astronauts wore on the moon–only in neon orange for enhanced visibility at sea.
Theoretically, the U.S. Navy’s new MK-12 suits should enable her to escape the Siren, providing adequate protection as she ascended to the surface to wait for rescue. Yet two problems would undoubtedly impede the success of her plan…
The first: these suits worked successfully only at depths of less than 600 feet. She would have to get one on quickly before the sub sank too deep.
And the second: Alyssa had never put one on by herself before.
Sure, in Sub School it made sense that the fellow recruits assisted each other in donning these enormous SEIE suits. Her instructors reasoned there would be several submariners attempting to escape together.
Never a single survivor.
Wrenching open the dry storage door, Alyssa tugged on the bright orange, protective garment, cursing as it got stuck on the lip of the compartment. Every passing second was a wasted one. She imagined a giant second hand ticking loudly inside her brain, like the antique grandfather clock in her hallway back home, alerting her to the dangerous passage of time. Biting her lip, Alyssa tugged again until it gave free.
Her clothes still dripping wet, she assembled the suit on the grated floor, stepping her running shoes through the leg holes and into the attached boots. Then she pulled the bulky ensemble upward, forcing her arms into the appropriate spots and her fingers into the built-in gloves. Her cold, wet clothes clung to her appendages, hindering every movement. Bending over, she reached for the zipper head and yanked on it, sealing her inside up to her chin. Already she felt encased in a form-fitting, day-glow orange sleeping bag from neck to toe. As protected as one could get for the upcoming transit to the surface.
If she weren’t already chilled to the core from traversing the leak.
Finally, Alyssa pulled the wet suit fabric down over her face, covering her last remaining exposed flesh with the breathing apparatus and face shield. She felt suddenly nauseous from inhaling canister air mixed with the characteristic reek of neoprene.
Hopefully this inner thermal liner would combat the impending cold as she rose to the surface, as her instructors had assured her.
Hopefully the sub hadn’t gone too deep.
Alyssa’s teeth began to chatter–more from fear than cold, perhaps–as she squeezed through the watertight hatch and entered the rescue chamber. The metal cylinder enclosure was large enough to hold three escaping submariners simultaneously when cramped together. Alone, Alyssa fit easily inside. Sh
e glanced around the room, turning her entire body to search for the triggering mechanism to activate the top egress hatch. After spinning almost 180 degrees on her booted feet, Alyssa located the ball-peen hammer. Wrapping her gloved hand around its shaft, she tapped on the inside, initiating the flow of water, then waited.
She wasn’t sure how long this process should take.
She wasn’t sure of the Siren’s current depth,
But she was certain of one thing…this was her only hope of reaching the surface.
Alive.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A cascade of ice-cold water–frigid like glacial meltwater feeding an alpine stream–blasted in through the top of the chamber, spraying her entire body as if she bravely stood at the base of a thundering waterfall. Bracing her arms against the walls, the water continued to pound against her as it filled the floor of the chamber, squeezing her within its icy grasp. Alyssa felt her boots pinch against her calves with incredible strength and chill despite the thermal protection of the MK-12 suit.
She couldn’t imagine how trapped submariners escaped from wrecks in the past, using merely an older rescue model called the Steinke Hood. It provided only head and neck protection. No thermal layer. No one-man life raft. Nothing.
Of course, they wouldn’t have been able to attempt an escape from this depth, either. Silently, she thanked technological advancements, without which she would certainly have died today. Then Alyssa shuddered, her skin turning clammy–partly from the cold and partly from realizing her destiny was not guaranteed. Why jinx her escape now?
Think, Alyssa, think. What was it her instructors had mentioned so many months ago? Something about taking 90 seconds for the chamber to fill at a depth of 600 feet below the surface. Why hadn’t she remembered that earlier? She chastised herself for not counting, “One-Mississippi, Two-Mississippi,” from the start as an estimate of her current depth. Now it was too late.
