Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

“If you come after me, I’ll kill her,” Brodeur said.

Miller wasn’t sure exactly how valuable Adler was to him, but didn’t want to put it to the test. He could do nothing but let her go. He stood and saw Vesely, unharmed and .38 raised toward Brodeur.

“I can hit him,” Vesely said quietly.

“Hold your fire,” Miller commanded.

“But—”

“Cowboy. Do not take the shot.”

His eyes were locked on Adler’s. He saw sadness for a moment, but it was replaced quickly by determination. She opened her hand and let the flash drive slide out. She struggled for a moment, concealing the noise the small device made when it hit the floor.

Then he watched them go. But not toward the exit. Brodeur dragged her in the direction Vesely had come from.

“He’s taking her to the flying craft,” Vesely said. “To the UFO.”

Miller stood still, waiting for Brodeur to lose sight of him before picking up the flash drive. If the man suspected Adler’s defiance he might kill her out of spite. Adler remained silent, keeping her eyes locked on Miller until she was dragged around a corner.

Miller dove to the floor and scooped up the flash drive.

When he stood back up, pain radiated from his arm and through his body. A droning buzz filled his ears. He thought for a moment that he might pass out, but the pain became manageable. The buzzing, however, grew louder.

He ignored it and headed after Brodeur.

“Survivor!” Vesely called.

Miller ignored him.

Vesely took Miller’s arm—his injured left arm—and turned him around. Miller shouted in pain and yanked away. “I’m not letting him leave with her.”

“You must,” Vesely said, his eyes pinched with fear.

The well-trained soldier in Miller knew he was right. They had the flash drive. The answers to questions that might save the world were literally in the palm of his hand. But another part of him, the same part that charged into a missile strike to save a girl he did not know, the same part of him that dragged a little girl out of Miami, couldn’t stand for it. “I can’t.”

This time when he pulled away, Vesely gripped his wound, sapping his strength, and pulled him back. Before Miller could protest, Vesely shouted, “There is no time! Listen!”

As soon as Vesely’s words sank in, Miller heard the buzzing again. “It sounds like a beehive.”

“The Beehive! It was code name for Bell!” Vesely pointed up. A dull white glow pulsed at the base of the bell device attached to the ceiling. “The Bell sounded like angry bees when it was powered up! When it was charging field. Field that melted people!”

Miller’s mind focused upon hearing the word “melted.” He dashed to the computer and hit the three keys Adler had used to open the text window. It popped open just like before. He began typing the fork bomb code, but the loud buzzing sound distracted him. He couldn’t remember the order of the symbols. He gave up and shouted, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

They left the control center and ran for the exit. They’d only gone a few steps when the buzzing suddenly intensified. A wave of nausea sent both men to the floor, but it passed quickly.

“The cryogenic chambers!” Vesely shouted. “They must be shielded from the Bell’s effects.”

They ran to the cryogenic chambers and yanked two of them open. Miller felt sure he was looking at the plush red interior of what would be his coffin, but then his skin began to burn and he didn’t hesitate. He climbed into the cryogenic chamber, pressed himself into the man-shaped indentation. He reached out, took the door, and pulled it shut with a clang.

Darkness consumed him.

The buzzing disappeared.

He took a deep breath.

Relaxed.

And then screamed in agony.

A wave of energy passed through him.

It felt like his body was being torn apart.

He saw stars.

Tasted blood.

And then, nothing.

Hell feels cold .

It was Miller’s first thought upon waking.

The last thing he remembered was Adler being taken away. And then what? Something had happened. Something bad.

He remembered… heat. And feeling sick. And buzzing.

Like bees.

Like a beehive.

The Bell.

His memory returned painfully. Adler was gone and he was stuck inside the Nazi base, trapped in a cryogenic tube.

But he hadn’t melted.

And while that was the world’s shittiest “bright side” ever, he was still alive.

He could move, though his muscles ached and his injured arm throbbed. He’d probably lost a good amount of blood already, which didn’t help his spinning head. He couldn’t hear the buzzing sound, but he remembered not being able to hear it after closing the hatch.

The only way to find out if he’d be melted upon opening the door was to open the door. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. Could have been thirty seconds. Could have been ten minutes.

Or longer.

The cold struck him again. He shivered.

That’s when he remembered that he was in a functional cryogenic chamber.

Miller felt stiff as he reached out and pushed on the door. The metal stung his flesh. He pushed harder, waiting for the suction to give way. But the door held strong.

It can only be opened from the outside, he realized.

When Miller was ten, he was short and scrawny. While visiting his Italian cousins one Sunday, after they’d been to Mass and were feeling fully absolved of their sins, the two older boys took him into the garage. They’d found a row of lockers at the dump and brought it home. The lockers held bats, balls, hockey sticks, and, later that day, Miller. They locked him in and left him there, kicking and screaming, for thirty minutes. Ten years later Miller could look at the cousins and send them running, but that memory always stuck with him. It replayed in his mind now as he kicked and punched at the door.

“Hey!” Miller shouted, his voice echoing loud and close. “Vesely!”

He shouted until his voice grew hoarse.

He stopped pounding when his knuckles bled.

But he kept kicking. Hoping that Vesely would somehow get free.

Miller realized there might be a handle on the inside. He searched for it with his hands, but found nothing, and couldn’t bend over to check below his waist.

He shouted in frustration and kicked the door again.

The door burst open.

Miller fell forward.

And was caught.

“Sir!” Hammaker shouted. “I have you.”

Hammaker laid Miller on the hard stone floor. “Sir, what hap—”

“Vesely,” Miller said through chattering teeth.

“Vesely did this?”

“N-no.” Miller pointed to the cryogenic chamber Vesely had hidden in. “In-in there. Vesely.”

Hammaker understood. He jumped up and yanked open the door. Vesely fell out, eyes closed. But was he unconscious, or dead? The kid laid him down next to Miller and checked for a pulse.

“He’s alive,” Hammaker said. “But his pulse is weak. We need to warm him up. Warm both of you up.”

“The river,” Miller said. “Take him-m to the-the river.”

Hammaker nodded, shoved his hands under Vesely’s arms, and lifted him up. “I’ll come back for you.”

As the kid dragged Vesely toward the large exit, Miller noticed he could barely see them. It’s dark, he realized. The lights were all out. He could only see because Hammaker had left a large blue glow stick on the floor next to him. He looked back up at the kid and saw that he had a small flashlight clutched between his teeth.

Though his body revolted, Miller forced himself up. Holding on to the cryogenic chamber, Miller lifted the glow stick and looked at the control center. In the faint blue glow he could see that every portion of the control center that had been made of plastic had melted. A surge of panic gripped him. He dug into his pocket, found the small device, and pulled it out.