Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

She took another deep breath, put the paper down, and continued.

“The second danger facing us is asphyxiation. That’s like drowning in the open air.”

“Becky, you better read what they sent,” came a whispered man’s voice from off-camera.

“I’ve read it. They need to hear the truth, not a bunch of technobabble!” Rebecca snapped. “When iron oxidizes, the chemical change removes oxygen from the atmosphere. We are being told that if this storm keeps up then it’s possible that the atmosphere will become…” Her lower lip trembled and she looked close to breaking into tears. “Well, we won’t be able to breathe.”

Her upper teeth clamped down on the quivering lip, and after taking another deep breath, she began again. “The president will be addressing the nation within the hour, but I suggest you get in contact with your loved ones. Spend your time with them, and if you believe in God, start praying. If you’re one of the millions who have suffered from the ailments I listed off, don’t bother trying to escape the area… you’re already dead.”

An angry voice cut in, shouting, “Rebecca!”

The video stopped and once again showed two thumbnail images. Most of what the woman said seemed accurate. The effects of the storm had clearly been predicted correctly. It had taken some time, but right now there was no air in the atmosphere, though it seemed most everyone had died from iron poisoning before the oxygen ran out. There was no escape, unless you happened to be in a sealed canister with its own air supply.

Like he had been…

What didn’t make sense was that an atmospheric event of this magnitude could strike two highly populated areas on different sides of the planet and leave the rest of the world unscathed. Nature doesn’t choose targets. People do. And that chilled him more than the rest. To think that this might be a new weapon of mass destruction made his insides roil. The government had carefully worded their press release to avoid all-out chaos—which was almost certainly taking place anyway.

He turned his attention back to the computer screen. The battery indicator was flashing now. The screen showed two video thumbnails. The first video he’d watched and the second he hadn’t. The thumbnail of the second video was dated the same as NASA’s press release video, but the time was ten hours later. The still image looked poorly lit, and the reporter, Rebecca, looked like hell.

He clicked on the final video, wondering what Rebecca would have to say, knowing now that the end of the world was near.

She was in tears when the clip started. Her on-screen persona had completely vanished. She was now a terrified and angry woman, facing certain death. “You fuckers!”

Miller jerked back as though she had shouted at him.

“You won’t get away with this! You can’t!”

She wiped her nose, smearing her running mascara across her flushed cheek. The rage in her eyes faded as she addressed a different audience. “Anyone who is still alive… please listen to me. We just received an e-mail from a group claiming responsibility for everything. This didn’t have to happen! If you survive, if you somehow make it through this, know that you are not alone. You are among enemies. And they’re tagging the streets with their symbol.”

She coughed violently, struggling for breath. She reached out her hand, snapping her fingers at someone. A piece of paper came into view and she took it. “This is their symbol. If you see it, either run the other way… or kill the bastards.”

She held the image up to the screen, her hands shaking. It was eerily familiar, but he couldn’t place it. And the longer he looked at it, the more his subconscious shouted, danger! As the screen went black and the laptop shut itself down, he closed his eyes and could still see the image clearly. He couldn’t remember who it represented, but he recognized what it stood for.

Evil.

Miller sat back from the laptop, stunned. Someone had caused the storm. Someone announcing their presence to the world through a symbol, someone who could kill millions without firing a weapon or even revealing themselves. What pissed him off was that the group responsible hadn’t asked for or demanded anything in conjunction with the release of their symbol. In a firefight, when the enemy started by shooting two of your men, they had no intention of stopping to talk. More bullets would come until everyone was dead or you figured out a way to kill your enemy first. His instincts told him to get ready for a fight, but what could he do? He was alone in a dead zone of unknown size and had no way to get in touch with the outside world.

Or did he? He hadn’t tried a landline yet.

Miller stood and searched the room. A phone hung on the wall above Dave’s body. He picked it up and put it to his ear.

Nothing.

Anger got the best of him and he yanked the phone from the wall and flung it. Its old-fashioned bell rang out as the phone struck the front window and smashed it. The cacophony of breaking glass snapped Miller out of his anger as a cloud of red dust swirled into the shop.

Time to go, Miller thought. He needed to move—his life depended on mobility now—but he also needed supplies.

Over the next thirty minutes, Miller transported the air tanks from Dave’s shop over to the sloop, which he now saw was named Montrose . After stepping over the woman’s body three times he realized that his passengers had to go. He dragged the stiff bodies to the deck. At first he thought about burying them, but what was he going to do, bury every dead body he came across? It wasn’t remotely feasible, and certainly not rational. Until he escaped this airless hell, his every action would be dictated by the need for survival. Burying two bodies would simply use up his limited resources. All he could do was apologize to the couple before rolling their bodies overboard.

With the air safely stowed in the Montrose, he turned his attention to the next problem—food and water. He could see a CVS pharmacy sign down the road, perhaps half a mile away. They should have what he needed.

He checked his air—forty-five minutes—then started to walk. Halfway there he found an abandoned bike. He hopped on and started pedaling. His speed doubled and his exertion lessened, which was good, but the street was littered with rust-covered bodies that he had to dodge. Staying upright became even trickier when the rust grew deeper. The tires slipped several times and he almost crashed twice. He hoped his tetanus shot was up-to-date. The vaccination was required by the NCIS so he thought he should be okay.

The CVS had been fairly well picked over, but people hadn’t been thinking when they looted the store. Electronics were missing. Junk food and soda had been pillaged. But the good stuff, the food that would keep him alive, was still there. He took five boxes of energy bars, four large containers of chocolate protein drink, a bottle of vitamins, and two three-gallon containers of water. He double-bagged everything and hung the bags on the bike’s handlebars, which made pedaling so unstable he had to climb off and walk the bike back.

Moving quickly, he returned to the store again, grabbing two more water containers and as many canned goods as he could hold. This trip went faster than the first and after returning everything to the sloop, Miller decided he had time for one last run.

As he moved through the aisles this third time around, he looked for anything he thought he might need. Batteries, flashlights, clothing, a raincoat, a knife set, and medical supplies. But one object that he required eluded him—a can opener. He hurried up and down the aisles three times, moving faster with each pass, until he saw a single can opener hanging above a display of nonstick pans on the endcap of the next aisle over. In his rush to reach the can opener, his clothing snagged on the corner of a sunglasses display. There was a hard tug from the display, but he yanked away, strode to the can opener, and picked it up.