Frozen Fire

by Evans, Bill; Jameson, Marianna

  “Realistically, there can’t be more than a few people in there. Everyone in the Atlantis habitat was presumed dead within minutes of the first detonation. Based on the earlier footage you showed me, a dozen or so bodies were scattered near the beachside compound. Captain Broadhurst was directing the sea-based recovery operation. Once he learned about the clipper and deaths on the beach, he ordered all land-based security personnel offshore,” Victoria explained.

  “Why?” Lucy demanded, interrupting.

  “If the people outside the bungalows were dead, the people inside them would be, too,” Victoria said simply. “They weren’t airtight. None of the windows even had screens, just shutters. So anyone who is still alive on the island is in that bunker. There can’t be many. There weren’t many people on the island to begin with, and all the security personnel have been accounted for. So I can only surmise that President Cavendish and Deputy-Secretary Crenshaw and perhaps a very few others made it to the bunker.”

  “Do you think it’s likely that President Cavendish survived?”

  “If Micki Crenshaw is Garner Blaylock’s mole, then I think it’s likely both Micki and Dennis survived,” Victoria said flatly. “Micki doesn’t have all of the information needed to make things run. Dennis liked to keep some things secret.”

  “Well, Ms. Clark, if President Cavendish and Micki Crenshaw are still alive, why haven’t they tried to contact anyone? The only communications coming off that island in the last twenty-four hours are the ones I just described.”

  “Micki would be trying to evade detection, Ms. Denton. As for Dennis, I think he would want to be found. So I would imagine that he is her hostage, if he’s still alive.”

  “Thank you, Secretary Clark.” Lucy gave everyone in the room a tight smile. “You’ll all be leaving for Andrews Air Force Base shortly. You should be aboard the Eutaw Springs by eight. Good luck.”

  She left the room, leaving an uncomfortable silence in her wake.

  5:45 A.M., Monday, October 27, Taino

  Just before dawn, as the horizon was finally turning the palest shade of pink, Dennis emerged from the bunker. He had his plan; now there was enough light to begin executing it.

  With a grimace of distaste, he began to wrestle the set of air tanks from the stiff body of one of the three security officers Micki had killed. Although rigor mortis rendered it unable to flex the way he needed it to, the soft tissue had already begun to decompose in the tropical heat and humidity. The too-soft flesh was clammy and disgusting and the stench kept bile surging high in his throat. Fighting nausea, he wrenched the tanks from all three bodies. He stacked two sets of tanks near the bunker door, and donned the other, although he didn’t need the air supply right away.

  Dennis began making his way down the familiar, well-marked path that led from the bunker to the dock at the southern tip of the island. He walked slowly, careful to watch and listen to the wildlife. After he’d been walking for about twenty minutes, he noticed that both the noise and movement around him had diminished. A few paces later it seemed to stop. He put the regulator in his mouth, opened the valve on one of the tanks, and continued his cautious descent. Seconds later, he rounded a curve. A burst of color on the path ten yards ahead of him brought him to an abrupt halt.

  The brilliantly colored body of a Cuban parrot looked as if it had been thrown to the ground. One wing rested awkwardly, twisted upward against the lower branches of a shrub; the other lay crumpled beneath the corpse. A quick look into the scrub revealed more dead birds splayed on and under shrubbery. Looking higher into the canopy, he saw some leaning drunkenly against whatever supported them and others still clinging to branches.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. He gritted his teeth, grinding them against the hard plastic of the regulator. I don’t have to fear it. It’s been here and gone.

  The thought occurred to him that he might need to kill Micki all over again, just because she deserved it.

  Between his exhaustion, the rising heat, and the dead weight of the air tanks, Dennis’s progress was slow and he was sweating heavily, tripping frequently. Once he lost his balance completely. He kept walking through the now eerily silent tropical forest, trying to avoid stepping on the carcasses of birds, lizards, rodents, and insects that littered the path ahead of him.

  Eventually, he reached the treacherous, unmarked side path that led to a hidden vantage point overlooking the island’s western shore. The small path hadn’t been used in months, which, in the tropics, meant the jungle had reclaimed it. Pushing aside the vines that begged to trip him, the leaves that yearned to cut him, Dennis finally stepped into the small clear area that had been his target. He stood atop a jagged, table-topped rock that jutted baldly from the wall of vegetation into the air and hung over the beach like a bad omen.

  He lowered himself heavily onto a rotting stump that had rolled to the edge of the outcropping and, breathing hard, took the opportunity to look at the sea. The sun, behind him, was just beginning to edge above the horizon, but the shadow of the volcano refused to let any of that early light illuminate the water below him. That water had cradled his dreams four thousand feet beneath its dark, ruffled surface—dreams now smashed beyond utility or repair.

  Turning on the low-light binoculars he’d brought with him, Dennis scanned the terrain around and below him. Unrecognizable shapes glowed faintly green against the shadowy darker green backdrop.

  Carcasses.

  Alive, they would have been brighter, the brightest objects in his field of vision, but the luminescence of life had drained from them, leaving only whatever bacteria could thrive in this dead and airless place.

  This was Micki’s doing. Traitorous bitch.

  Justified rage gathered, and Dennis released its primal scream within the confines of his mind, slamming his fist into the log beside him again and again until the urge subsided.

  He turned his focus to the sea, speckled with infinite small biolumines-cent life-forms that sparkled almost painfully bright, like the stars against the night sky. Scanning far to the left, his vision was arrested by the huge, pale, foaming patch of ocean that marked the rupture. Shifting to its own rhythm as it rose slightly above the sea around it, the water surged and bubbled madly, like a witch’s cauldron left too long on the boil.

  The sight of it shook him and, suddenly trembling, he leaned clumsily forward to rest his head in his hands, the specialized binocs dangling from their strap.

  His paradise had gone silent; indeed, it had gone mad.

  He sat up then, and spent several moments watching the high, dark clouds lighten to become a pale shade of purple against a pinkening sky.

  I allowed this madness to happen.

  I made it happen.

  With death and an alien, overwhelming sense of helplessness pressing upon him, Dennis pulled himself to his feet, feeling ancient. Then he turned and fought his way back to the path he’d just descended, and began to retrace his steps.

  Whatever else the new day had in store for the planet, Dennis was going to try to bring his world salvation.

  CHAPTER

  35

  1:05 P.M., Monday, October 27, Annaba, Algeria

  Garner Blaylock was pacing in the large, airy room he used as his brain center, infuriated that somehow, something had gone disastrously wrong with his plan to attack the world through cyber channels. As daylight had moved west across the world, stock exchanges and other financial markets had been opening late and the bloggers and talking heads were all blathering about the problems with their usual tone of high-pitched hysteria.

  But in the streets, in the banks, and on “the wire” there was no panic, no chatter about paralyzed trading floors, no talk of shutdowns and crashes. In soothing tones, industry spokesmen were using terms like “mischief” and making allusions to “a few hackers” when they should have been half-crazed at the incursion of the self-replicating, self-mutating virus that he’d unleashed. He’d me
ant to bring the world’s financial markets to their knees, and all he’d given them was a case of mild indigestion.

  The more he thought about it, the more his fury increased, and the more he wished he hadn’t been so hasty to disavail himself of the dubious charms of Bridget Malloy.

  That bitch had to be behind it. And whatever she’d done, even that idiot Cyril hadn’t been able to fix.

  She’d been too clever and too attractive by half, that one. Those desert buffoons he’d given her to might have had their fun but, at this point, Garner wasn’t so sure she’d gotten what she deserved. If he’d kept her around a bit longer, he could have made sure she paid in full for her treachery.

  He walked to the door that led to the corridor and flung it open, about to roar for somebody to bring that bloody idiot Cyril to him. He stopped short, however, at the sight of the startled and bowing figure of one of the household’s servants, who was making murmured apologies for the interruption caused by the arrival of Garner’s midday meal.

  Disconcerted, he stood aside to let the short parade of silent servants into the room. Then he called to one of the bodyguards lolling against the far wall of the wide, shadowy corridor.

  “Bring Cyril to me,” he barked in French. “Immediately.”

  The servants bowed their way out of the room and Garner resumed pacing as the lush, spicy aroma of a vegetable tagine filled the air. Several long minutes passed before Cyril, out of breath and more disheveled than usual, burst into the room.

  “About bloody time, you fucking wanker,” Garner snarled. “Where were you?”

  Cyril took a startled step backward. “What? Right. Sorry. There were some problems with—”

  “I’m not interested in anyone else’s fucking problems,” Garner snapped. “I’m only concerned with mine. And I’ve got a bloody big one, thanks to you and your former colleague. Where the fuck are all the system crashes? Where’s the panic? Why haven’t all the networks gone dark?”

  Cyril just blinked at him. “I’ve been trying to—”

  “Well, quit fucking trying and just fucking do something,” Garner ordered. He closed his eyes and took two deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Then he moved to the low table holding the food and sat down in front of it carefully, so as not to disturb the several flies that had landed on his meal.

  Cyril stood there awkwardly until Garner glanced up at him, the first scoop of his lunch dripping through his fingers as he paused with it halfway to his mouth. “Do you want some?”

  “Er, no, no, thanks. Thank you, no,” Cyril stammered. “Had a bit of loo trouble this morning. North Africa’s version of Delhi belly or some such. I’ll stick to tea, thanks.”

  Garner rolled his eyes at the man’s vulgarity and shoved the food into his mouth. The tagine was rich and well spiced but, after he’d swallowed it, a strangely harsh taste filled his mouth.

  God-damned peasants. Can’t cook worth a fuck.

  He dipped into a different part of the dish, avoiding the bitter eggplant. But the second bite was no better, and he pushed aside the low bowl of roasted vegetables in favor of the carrot salad ubiquitous to North Africa. He usually despised its honeyed sweetness, but right now anything would be better than the tagine’s aftertaste.

  The salad was as bad and he reached for the glass of beer to wash the flavor out of his mouth. It wasn’t until he’d swallowed nearly half the beer in a large gulp that he noticed a few grains of white powder swirling in the bottom of the glass.

  With a shout, Garner flung the glass against the wall and rose to his feet, rage pumping through him. “I’ve been poisoned. Get the guards. Get those fucking servants back in here,” he screamed.

  Cyril seemed frozen in place. “Good Lord. What did you say? I’m sorry, Garner, I don’t seem to—”

  “Get the fuck out of the way, you bloody fucking moron. I’ve been poisoned. There was something in the food,” Garner roared as he lunged for the door.

  Suddenly, oddly agile, Cyril stepped into his path, effectively blocking him from the exit. “Garner, you must calm down. There couldn’t possibly be anything in the food. I think the heat is making you mad. Sit down there for a minute and I’ll call for the guards.”

  “I don’t need to fucking sit down. I need a doctor. I need to have my stomach pumped,” Garner said, trying to shove the taller, skinnier man out of his way.

  “I said I’d take care of it,” Cyril snapped, and it took Garner a few seconds for him to realize that his body, his muscles weren’t responding as they should. He didn’t—couldn’t—resist as Cyril settled him firmly onto one of the low divans that were scattered about the room.

  Cyril took several steps toward the door of the room, then stopped and turned around. Garner stared at him, knowing something wasn’t right. He didn’t look the same. Cyril looked . . . sure of himself.

  I’m going mad.

  “I have to get out of here,” Garner muttered, his voice sounding oddly thick as he tried to push himself off the cushions. His legs were heavy, as unwieldy as if they were made of wood. “Cyril, help me up. Cyril.”

  The man just stood there, watching him. Smirking.

  The first spasm wracked his body, sending his legs straight out from under him in an excruciating snap. His scream came out muffled and he saw a smile cross Cyril’s face. Garner watched in terror as, with a decided lack of concern for the situation, Cyril reached up and took off his glasses, folded them, and hung them over the neck of his faded, sweat-stained T-shirt.

  “How are you feeling, Garner?” he asked quietly, his thick English Midlands accent gone, replaced by one that was unmistakably American. “It’s amazing, isn’t it, what a very small amount of strychnine can do to a human body. It’s going to get better, don’t worry. You’ll enjoy every bit of it as much as Bridget enjoyed what your boys did to her. It won’t last as long, unfortunately, but I’m going to sit here and watch just to make sure you die the way you deserve to.”

  The second muscle spasm sent Garner’s back into a whiplashed arch. The pain was severe, and seemed to pierce his very brain. Every muscle in his body was straining past its limit. He was on fire inside.

  “You’re a man who likes symbolism, aren’t you, Garner?” the American asked, settling himself comfortably on one of the other couches. “You ought to get a kick out of this, then. I mean, here you are, the guy who hates people, who wants to make the world a better place for all the rats and cockroaches and flies, and you’re dying of an overdose of something most people use to kill those very rats. Clever, isn’t it?”

  The third seizure sent his body over the edge of the sofa and onto the unforgiving hardness of the polished tile floor. He cracked his head along the brass edge of a table as he fell. A follow-up tremor edged him backward and, as his vision cleared, Garner could see a smear of blood on the table. His blood.

  His torturer got up and helpfully moved the table out of the way, then resumed his seat, his view now unencumbered.

  “It’s a bitch that, with strychnine, the voice is the first thing to go and the brain is the last, isn’t it? Aw, look at that, Garner, you’ve wet yourself,” the American said with a grin. “Too bad all your devoted lady friends can’t see you now. Where’s that damned iPhone when I need it?”

  Horrified, humiliated, Garner tried to scream, to curse. He felt his mouth opening, his vocal cords straining, but he made no sound. He watched in spastic, involuntary silence as the smirking American folded his arms across his chest and continued to observe his descent into Hell.

  The spasms became more frequent, more violent, and more painful until Garner would have been screaming for mercy if he’d had a voice. And though every single muscle in his body was convulsing madly and continuously, he remained conscious, aware of every unbearably horrific motion, every agonizing twitch.

  Slightly less than an hour after he’d taken that fatal mouthful of food, Garner’s body arced in one last, massive, shaking paroxysm and then went completely still, locked int
o instant, convoluted rigor mortis.

  The American case officer waited for a minute or two to see if there would be any more movement, then went over and poked the tip of his shoe into Garner’s groin with no small force. The body moved the way a fallen log would—stiffly and as a whole. Satisfied, the agent put on his fake glasses, resumed the slouched, tentative posture of his geeky British alter ego, Cyril Ponsonby, and slunk out of the room.

  Closing the door carefully behind him, he gave the incurious guards an exasperated look, complete with a roll of his eyes, and walked down the corridor. He had forty minutes to meet his contact and get the hell out of Dodge.

  8:10 A.M., Monday, October 27, the White House, Washington, D.C.

  The man needs to take a course in how to make friends and influence people.

  Lucy blinked at Ken Proust, the president’s campaign manager and unchallenged political power house. His face was dark red and entirely too close to her own as he loomed over her as she sat in a chair in his West Wing office. His ranting at Lucy was accompanied by a jabbing index finger and stagnant, coffee-laced breath.

  She’d stopped listening to him several minutes ago, and was thinking that if he fell over from a heart attack right now, she might have to forget she’d ever learned CPR.

  “Did you hear me?” he bellowed.

  She looked up and calmly met his eyes. “Yes, I heard you, Ken. Now would you please step back and get your finger out of my face before I rip it off and hand it back to you?”

  Startled, he followed her advice immediately and, from the look of it, instinctively.

  Before he could resume his place inside her personal space, Lucy rose to her feet, moved away from the chair, and assessed him coolly. “Thank you. Now, Ken, yes, I did hear everything you said. I’m wondering, however, if you’ve heard anything I’ve been saying. Let me recap: There are bodies being discovered all along the Upper Keys—in homes, on the beaches, in boats out on the water. Dead marine life is washing up on the beaches, and dead wildlife is being found everywhere else. First responders are in full hazmat gear, moving slowly through affected areas on foot and in golf carts. It’s the scenario I described to you last night.”