Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

Gerlach sighed with relief and followed it with a deep breath. But the air in his lungs seemed inadequate. He took a second breath and found no relief. His eyes widened as he saw the others around him similarly affected. They had shut down the bell, but not the wind. With the last of the air in his lungs he shouted, “Down the hill! Run!”

One hundred sixty-five men abandoned the observation platform, pounding down the hill away from the test site. Men fell, cursed, and toppled over one another, but no one slowed. Two hundred feet below the hill’s crest, they stopped. Gerlach gasped for air, terrified for several seconds until the burning in his lungs began to ebb. The air was fresh and full of earthy scents. Birds danced in the tree branches and a few chipmunks stared at them. They were safe.

Mazuw stormed across the forest floor. His cap was missing. His uniform held sticks and patches of mud. And his eyes burned with fury. “What happened?” he demanded with a growl.

“The wind. It shifted the effects toward the platform.”

“We were a half mile away,” Debus noted.

Gerlach fought a widening smile, but could not contain it.

Mazuw took Gerlach by the coat, putting his bulldog face within inches of the scientist’s. “We were almost killed. My men, who are the very best the SS have produced and represent the future of the Reich, were almost killed.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Because, Obergruppenführer, it worked. Beyond our greatest expectations. It worked.”

Mazuw considered this for a moment before letting go of Gerlach’s shirt. His expression became one of deep thought. “Well done,” he said after nearly a minute. “You will speak of this to no one.”

“But there is much to do if we are to use this against the Allies,” Gerlach said.

“There is not enough time,” Mazuw said. “The war is all but over.”

“But—”

“Patience is as deadly a weapon as any, Gerlach. The device will be moved. Refined. And when the conditions are right…”

“Where are we going?”

“ They, ” he said, while motioning to his men, “are going with Kammler. To someplace you cannot follow. A man of your, and Debus’s, renown will be sought after by the Allies when the war ends. Your disappearance would lead to questions. Do not fear, Doctor, we will be in touch.”

“But… where will we go?” Debus asked.

“You will surrender, of course. Avoid the Russians. Find the Americans, if you can. Agree to aid them in any way, but never mention what you saw here today or any part of this project. We will rise from the ashes. Am I understood?”

Debus nodded, once again fidgeting with his fingers.

“Yes, Obergruppenführer. I have but one more question.”

Mazuw stared at him, waiting.

“What will happen to our team? Surely you can’t—”

“Take aim!” Mazuw shouted. The forest filled with the sounds of weapons being readied and people shouting in fear. “Fire!”

MIAMI, FLORIDA

WEDNESDAY—AUGUST 8, 2012

“Shit!”

The microwave door flew open and Rachel Carter reached her hand in.

The spoon, left in the bowl of oatmeal and heated along with the cardboard-flavored breakfast, had been shooting off blue sparks when she noticed it. Without thinking, she grabbed the spoon. A millisecond later, her mind registered the stupidity of her action, along with the searing heat. Her arm reacted quicker than her fingers, flailing backward. The spoon soared across the kitchen, weighted with expensive organic oats, and smacked against the stainless steel fridge, where both breakfast and spoon clung like Silly Putty.

Rachel turned on the tap and ran cold water over her pulsing index finger and thumb, her glare fixed on the spoon. It slid slowly toward the floor.

“You okay, Mom?” asked her ten-year-old daughter, Samantha.

“Fine.”

Samantha walked past the fridge, paused, stepped back and looked at the spoon. She turned to her mother with an eyebrow raised. “Fine?”

Rachel forced a smile that communicated a single message: don’t ask.

Samantha shrugged and pulled a chair up to the counter. She climbed onto the chair, then onto the counter.

“Get down from there!”

“I’m hungry.”

“I made you oatmeal.”

“You’re gonna make me puke, too, if I have to eat that sludge.”

With two granola bars in hand, she jumped down from the counter, swung the chair back to the table, and began unwrapping the first bar. Jake, the younger of the two siblings, strode into the kitchen, still in his footie pajamas, which he wore most days. “One of the advantages of being homeschooled,” he was fond of saying. Samantha tossed him the second granola bar and they sat at the table, eating in silence.

Rachel sighed. She couldn’t complain. At least they were eating granola bars and not fast-food egg and sausage sandwiches—which she suspected her husband, Walter, had been sneaking on his way to work. Again. She looked at the microwave clock.

8:30 A.M.

“Walter, you’re going to be late!” she shouted after noticing the time. He worked for a big downtown marketing firm and had a major pitch to make that afternoon.

Walter slid into the kitchen, moving fast. He opened the cabinet, reached up, and took down the granola bar box. Empty. “Ouch. Epic fail.” He looked at Rachel, who nodded toward the kids. Her grin said it all.

He took in their barely contained smiles. “Traitors!” He sighed. “I guess I’ll just get something on the way.”

“I’m sure you will,” Rachel replied, drying off her still-stinging finger.

“What?”

Rachel stared intently at him, trying to convey her annoyance over his bad eating habits, without actually having to spell it out for him in front of the children.

Seeing her expression, Walter laughed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about! Now get out of my head, woman!” He grabbed his bag and headed down the hallway for the front door.

“Love you!” Rachel shouted as the door creaked open.

There was no reply.

No customary “Love you, too.”

No closing door.

No starting car.

She was about to go check on him when Walter slowly backed into the kitchen. He had his iPhone out and was tapping the screen madly. This wasn’t an uncommon activity, but the dire look on his face was far from normal. Rachel held her breath. The kids stopped giggling and watched their father.

“What is it?” she asked. “Did the job fall through already?”

Walter shook his head and kept on tapping. Then he stopped. “This is wrong.”

“What?” she demanded, growing worried. “Is the phone broken?”

He stared blankly down at the screen. “It’s happening everywhere—all over the world. Wait— Crap, I lost our Wi-Fi connection.”

“Walter…”

“The 3G network is down, too.” He met his wife’s eyes. “It must be disrupting cell service.”

She took his face in her hands, willing his stunned eyes to meet hers. “Walter! What are you talking about? What is happening?”

He glanced toward the still-open front door. She followed his gaze and gasped.

The kids hopped out of their chairs to look.

“It’s snowing!” Jake shouted, running for the door.

“No!” Walter jumped forward and snagged his son by the sleeve. He looked at Rachel, his expression alarmed. “Close any open windows. Tape the seams. Use the duct tape.”

She nodded, feeling sick, and they both set off around the house, closing doors and windows. Samantha and Jake went into the living room, climbed onto the couch, and peered curiously out the bay window.