by A. G. Riddle
When I arrived at Edgefield, I devised six ways of escape. Further investigation revealed that only three were viable. Two had an extremely high rate of success. The problem became: then what? My assets were seized after the trial. Contacting my friends and family would put them in jeopardy. And the world would hunt me, probably kill me if they caught me.
So I stayed. And did the laundry. And I’ve tried to make a difference here. It’s in my nature, and I’ve learned the hard way: human nature is perhaps the only thing we can’t escape.
Every day, fewer guards show up for work.
That worries me.
I know why: the staff and guards are moving south, to the habitable zones. I don’t know if the federal government is moving them, or if they’re going on their own initiative.
A war is coming—a war for the last habitable zones on Earth. People with military and police backgrounds will be in high demand. So will correctional officers. The camps will likely resemble prisons. The government will need men and women trained in keeping order in large, confined populations. The population’s survival depends on it.
And therein lies my problem. Edgefield, South Carolina, is about halfway between Atlanta and Charleston. It’s snowing here (in August), but the glaciers haven’t reached us. The ice will be here soon, and they’ll evacuate the area. The evacuations won’t include prisoners. The truth is, the government will be hard pressed to save all the children in this country, much less the adults, and they certainly won’t be dragging prisoners with them (and definitely not across the Atlantic to the habitable zones in northern Africa). Their priority will be making sure prisoners don’t escape to follow them south and make even more trouble for an already strained government. They’ll lock us up tight in here. Or worse.
Accordingly, I’ve revived my escape plans. It seems all of my fellow inmates have too. The feeling here is like sitting down for a July Fourth fireworks show. We’re all waiting for the first explosion to go up. It’ll likely be fast and furious after that, and I doubt any of us will survive.
I need to hurry.
The door to the laundry room swings open, and a correctional officer strides in.
“Morning, Doc.”
I don’t look up from the sheets. “Morning.”
Pedro Alvarez is one of the best correctional officers in this place, in my opinion. He’s young, honest, and doesn’t play games.
In one sense, prison has been good for me. It has been a uniquely valuable place to study human nature—which, again, was my blind spot, and the real reason I wound up in here.
I have come to believe that most correctional officers go into this line of work for one reason: power. They want to have power over others. I believe the common cause is that someone, at some point, had power over them. Therein lies a seminal truth about human nature: we desire in adulthood what we were deprived in childhood.
Pedro is an anomaly in the pattern. That drew me to him. I pursued a friendship and have extracted data points that revealed a different motivation. I know the following about him. His family—parents, brothers, and sisters—are still in Mexico. He has a wife, also aged approximately twenty-seven, and two children, both sons, five and three. And finally, I know that his wife is the sole reason he’s working here.
Pedro grew up in Michoacán, a mountainous, lawless state in Mexico where the drug cartels are judge and jury and murders are more common than traffic accidents. Pedro moved here when his wife was pregnant, because he didn’t want his children to grow up the way he had.
He began working for a landscaping crew during the day, and at night and on the weekends he studied criminal justice at Spartanburg Community College. On graduation day, he told his wife that he was joining the Spartanburg County Sheriff’s Department—because he didn’t want to see this place become what Michoacán had. There is law and order here, and he wanted to keep it that way, for his children’s sake.
Another truth: parents desire for their children the things they never had.
After Pedro’s announcement, his wife got on the internet, looked up the fatality rates for police officers, and issued an ultimatum: find another profession or find another wife.
They compromised. Pedro became a corrections officer, which carried fatality stats and working hours that were acceptable to Maria Alvarez. Plus better benefits, overtime pay, pay plus twenty-five percent on Sunday, and access to the government’s hazardous duty law enforcement provision that would allow him to retire with full benefits after twenty-five years of service—right before his forty-ninth birthday. It was a good choice. At least, before the Long Winter started.
I had expected Pedro to be one of the first officers to leave this place. I figured he would head back to Mexico, where his family is, and where the habitable zones are being set up. That’s where the Canadian and American hordes will be going soon.
But instead, he’s one of the last ones here. The scientist in me wants to know why. The survivor in me needs to know why.
“You draw the short straw, Pedro?”
He cocks an eyebrow at me.
Pedro is about the closest thing I have to a friend in here, and I can’t help but say these next words.
“You shouldn’t be here. You, and Maria, and the kids should be heading south right now.”
He studies his boots. “I know, Doc.”
“So why are you still here?”
“Not enough seniority. Or maybe not enough friends. Or maybe both.”
He’s right: it is both. And probably because his supervisors know that he will actually fight when the riots start. In the world we live in, the best people carry the weight for others—and they get crushed first.
Pedro shrugs. “It’s above my pay grade.”
An inmate appears in the doorway and scans the room, his eyes wide, unblinking. Drugged. There’s something in his hand. His name is Marcel, and he’s generally bad news.
Pedro turns.
Marcel leaps for him, wraps a meaty arm around the guard’s midsection, traps his arms, and raises a homemade knife to Pedro’s neck.
Time seems to stand still. I’m vaguely aware of the hum of the washers and dryers, of the news blaring on. A new sensation begins, a rumbling in the distance, like thunder moving closer. Footsteps. A mob flowing through the prison’s corridors. Shouting overpowers the footsteps, but I can’t make out the words.
Pedro is struggling against Marcel’s hold.
Another inmate appears in the doorway. He’s barrel-chested, keyed up. I don’t know his name. He shouts to Marcel. “You got ’im, Cel?”
“I got him.”
The other inmate darts away, and Marcel looks at me. “They gonna let us freeze to death in here, Doc. You know it.”
He waits.
I say nothing.
Pedro grits his teeth as he tries to pull his right hand free.
“You with us, Doc?”
Pedro’s hand breaks from Marcel’s hold and flies to his side, into his pocket. I’ve never seen him use a weapon. I’m not sure he has one.
Marcel doesn’t wait to find out. He moves the knife closer to Pedro’s neck.
And I make my choice.
3
Emma
Floating in the cupola attached to the Tranquility node, I watch the International Space Station twist and buckle like a Midwestern farmhouse in a tornado.
The solar array disintegrates, the cells flying away, shingles from a roof. It’s only a matter of time before the station is opened to the vacuum of space.
In the sea of destruction, I see hope: the Soyuz capsules docked to the station. I’ll never make it there. Neither will Sergei or Stephen. Besides, each Soyuz holds only three people.
“Pearson, Bergin, Perez—get to the Soyuz docked to Rassvet. Right now. That’s an order.”
We’ve trained for this. The Soyuz can be separated from the ISS within three minutes, and on the ground in Kazakhstan within four hours.
My earpiece crackles with a
voice I can’t make out. Internal comms are fried. Did they hear me? I hope so.
I have to tell the ground.
“Goddard, we are evacuating—”
The wall crashes into me and bounces me against the opposite wall. Darkness tries to swallow me.
I push off and glide through Tranquility. Unconsciousness pulls at me, but I push past it, a swimmer in an undertow fighting not to drown.
I’m trapped on the station, and it’s probably only a matter of seconds before it blows open and everything is sucked out. I have one chance at survival: an EVA suit.
I grab the closest suit, slip inside, and tether it. That will give me oxygen, electricity, comms—if they even still work.
“Goddard, do you read?”
“We read you, Commander Matthews. State your status.”
Before I can respond, the module around me explodes. Darkness finally drags me under.
Consciousness comes in waves. Sensations come with it, like an onion peeling, nothing at first, then intensity: pain, nausea, and utter silence.
I’m still tethered to the station. The module below me is split open. I see the Earth below. A block of ice covers Siberia, bearing down on China, the contrast of white and the green forests beautiful, if not for the destruction and death it represents.
Segments of the station float free like Legos tossed into space.
I don’t see either of the Soyuz capsules.
On the comm, I call out for the rest of my crew.
No response.
Then the ground stations.
No response.
I try to estimate whether the Earth is getting larger or smaller.
If larger, I’m in a decaying orbit. I’ll burn up.
If smaller, I’ve broken free of Earth’s gravity. I’ll float into space. Suffocate when my oxygen runs out. Or, if the station provides oxygen long enough, starve.
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Author’s Note
Thank you for reading this box set of The Origin Mystery.
The first book, The Atlantis Gene is my first novel, and I hope you’ve enjoyed it. I spent two years researching and writing The Atlantis Gene. It was largely a labor of love, and it’s been humbling and thrilling to see so many readers find and enjoy the work.
I’ve learned a lot about writing (and publishing) since I released The Atlantis Gene, and I’ve benefited immensely from the feedback so many readers before you have given me. I encourage you to write to me directly with any thoughts you have: [email protected]. The wisdom, generosity, and kind words I’ve received from so many of you have absolutely changed the course of my writing career.
If you have time to write a review, please know that I will read it and take the feedback seriously—whether it’s positive or negative. Every review is important. Every review increases the chances that other readers will discover this novel and influences what I write in the future.
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Thanks again for reading,
~ Gerry
PS: My web site has a “Fact vs. Fiction” section that explores the science and history in each of the novels. Learn more at: agriddle.com/goodies
About the Author
A.G. Riddle spent ten years starting internet companies before retiring to pursue his true passion: writing fiction.
His debut novel, The Atlantis Gene, is the first book in a trilogy (The Origin Mystery) that has sold over three million copies worldwide, has been translated into 20 languages, and is in development to be a major motion picture.
His fourth novel, Departure, follows the survivors of a flight that takes off in 2015 and crash-lands in a changed world. HarperCollins published the novel in hardcover in the fall of 2015, and 20th Century Fox is developing it for a feature film.
Released in 2017, his fifth novel, Pandemic, focuses on a team of researchers investigating an outbreak that could alter the human race. The sequel, Genome, concludes the two-book series.
His most recent novel, Winter World, depicts a group of scientists racing to stop a global ice age.
Riddle grew up in Boiling Springs, North Carolina and graduated from UNC-Chapel Hill. During his sophomore year in college, he started his first company with a childhood friend. He currently lives in Raleigh, North Carolina with his wife, who endures his various idiosyncrasies in return for being the first to read his new novels.
No matter where he is, or what’s going on, he tries his best to set aside time every day to answer emails and messages from readers. You can reach him at: [email protected]
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