Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

Kammler squinted at Miller, disturbed by his sudden confidence. “And how do you suppose you will do that?”

“Well, for starters, I’m going to kill these two,” Miller said, nodding to Murdock and Brodeur, who was back on his feet. “Then I’m going to beat the shit out of you, bare-handed, and then I’m going to walk in there—” Miller pointed to the open hallway that led to the cryogenic room. He could see several of the gleaming metal chambers from where he stood. “—thaw out your goofy-looking boss, rip that mustache off his face, say hello from you, and then shoot him in the forehead.”

Miller took several more deep breaths as Kammler walked around him.

Kammler stopped by Brodeur and held out his hand. Brodeur handed him his gun.

“No!” Adler shouted. She realized what was about to happen at the same moment Miller did.

But he didn’t shout out.

Didn’t beg for mercy.

He looked down the barrel of the gun and took a deep breath.

Kammler fired.

Miller fell on his side, clutching his leg and shouting through gritted teeth. Kammler had shot his left thigh, the bullet coming to a stop halfway through the meat. To make things worse, Miller had fallen on his injured arm, sending a cyclone of pain through his body. The bullet wound wouldn’t kill him, but it wasn’t meant to. He was a dog and Kammler had just swatted his nose.

As the initial pain subsided, Miller heard the men laughing. He was a Jew surrounded by thirty SS Nazi killers. He had three bullet wounds, blinding pain, and felt a level of exhaustion beyond anything experienced during the SEALs’ Hell Week.

But he knew something that Kammler didn’t.

Something that, in his weakened state, he found very funny.

When he joined in the laughter, the Nazis fell silent.

They stared at him, no doubt wondering if he had lost his mind.

Miller’s lungs began to burn as he laughed.

He looked at the guards surrounding them, their faces etched with confusion, and knew they felt it, too. He laughed harder.

One of the larger men stumbled, holding his head. His muscular body required more oxygen to function and he felt the effects first. The other men watched the big man fall to one knee, and then crumple to the floor, wheezing for air.

The sound of the man’s wheezing sparked realization.

Kammler quickly ordered fifteen of the men to follow him. They ran for the doors to Security. Brodeur ordered Murdock to stay, and followed after the others.

Murdock’s face slowly turned a deeper shade of red, but his weapon stayed trained on Adler’s head and his hate-filled eyes remained on Miller. One of the other four remaining men collapsed. Murdock glanced at him, a momentary fear springing into his eyes.

Miller’s chest felt like it would explode, but he held his breath without fear. He’d faced, and beaten, this fate several times already and he’d be damned if it would claim him now, especially when it was Vesely’s doing.

“Give the bastards a taste of their own medicine,” he’d said. He’d concluded the facility would be airtight, with its own air supply. The Cowboy did it, Miller thought. He’d not only found a way to shut the air off, but was quickly siphoning the air from the entire facility. Everyone inside would die.

Miller had enjoyed the irony of the plan. Not so much now that he was experiencing it firsthand, but that would change in a moment.

He looked at Adler. She’d known to hold her breath, but even though she looked better off than Murdock, her body would eventually take a breath on reflex and when no oxygen reached her lungs, she would drown in the open air.

Just like the rest of the world if you don’t move! Miller’s subconscious shouted at him. According to Kammler, he had just twenty-five minutes before the air outside became so thick with iron that the world’s population would be poisoned and die gruelingly three days from now when the heavy metal settled deeper into their organs. If that happened, a quick death by suffocation would be a mercy.

Murdock blinked, fighting unconsciousness.

Two more of the soldiers fell. The fourth went to his hands and knees.

Miller mimicked the man’s position, but instead of falling down, he was getting up. A jolt of pain ran up the left side of his body, immobilizing him. With his right hand, he reached back to his belt, opened a pocket, and pulled out a small vacuum-sealed pack. He lowered himself down, giving the impression that he was succumbing to the lack of air—which he would soon do if Murdock managed to stay upright and conscious much longer. With one hand he tore open the wrapper, plucked off the small rubber stopper on the end, and stuck himself in the leg.

A wave of morphine warmth spread from his leg up into his torso and out through his limbs, washing the pain away. Even the burning in his lungs faded. He felt weightless. Time slowed. And once again, he laughed.

This time when he looked back up at Murdock, the man looked terrified by Miller’s laughter. He looked ready to burst and his weapon was no longer aimed directly at Adler’s head.

Miller shifted his gaze to Adler. Her face was bright red. Her eyes wide with fear.

It was time to act.

Miller dove forward, snatched up his silenced Sig Sauer, rolled to his feet, and aimed the weapon at Murdock’s head. The man looked stunned. He tried to move his weapon toward Miller, but his hand and arm shook violently. Anger filled his face a moment before Miller’s bullet froze the expression.

Adler fell forward, catching herself on her hands. Her chest heaved, as she took in breaths of oxygenless air. Miller knew unconsciousness would claim her soon. He knelt down next to her, removed the small pony bottle from his supply belt, unfolded the collapsible mask, opened the air valve, and placed it over her nose and mouth.

She breathed deep, gasping each breath. Miller felt relieved when he realized she’d make it.

But then a pain gripped him so intensely that he felt it through the morphine. Air! The morphine had made him forget he couldn’t breathe, either. As blackness crept into the periphery of his vision and little specks of color danced before him, he lunged to Pale Horse’s body, found his pony bottle, fumbled to open it—and then dropped it.

His chest ached. His hands shook as he searched for the bottle, his eyes no longer functioning.

As the last bit of consciousness faded, he felt something press against his face. Adler’s voice followed. “Breathe!”

He did.

The first breath felt something like the way he imagined the experience of childbirth—agony mixed with elation.

Ten breaths later, his senses returned. After another ten, the morphine began to work again. He stood and pulled the pony bottle’s elastic band over his head, holding it in place. “We’ve got about fourteen minutes left in these things, and just a few minutes more to stop that,” he said to Adler, pointing at the video screens. “Let’s get this done.”

She nodded, still breathing too heavy to reply, and headed for the large octagonal control center. A sea of white-clad bodies littered the floor, but Miller hardly noticed them. Instead, he looked up at a huge array of displays the size of a movie screen. Each one showed a city. He recognized several of the skylines. London. Paris. Moscow. Los Angeles. New York. Sydney. Washington, D.C. Red flakes fell from the sky in each image. In some, smoke rose to greet it as a panicked world lashed out. The screen at the bottom right caught his attention last. Vatican City. But it wasn’t the gleaming domes, now hued pink, that held his attention. It was the crowd filling St. Peter’s Square. Thousands had gathered. On their hands and knees. Praying.