02, p.2
02, page 2
“Where on earth do they come from?”
She gazed through the faceted glass at the desert—at the towering saguaro cactuses, reaching not for the sun but that strange borealis; at the mesquite shrubs and brittlebush and desert marigolds.
“Maastrichtian Age of the Late Cretaceous, about 65 million years ago,” said Donovan. He forked some steaming yucca blossoms onto his plate. “As for how they came to be here, in the Current Era, or where they’ve migrated from ... who knows.”
“I think they came from that big crater in Flagstaff,” said Amelia. “I think that’s what killed the dinosaurs. But that these survived by eating Gila monsters and javelinas and wild rabbits.”
“But how did they get in? There must be ten, fifteen, twenty of them in there.” Zola reached for her wineglass and took too big of a drink. “I guess what I don’t understand is: why don’t you just shoot them? I mean, if you don’t have a gun you could always go into Tucson and get one—do you have a vehicle? I saw several in the lot when I flew over. Do you know how to hotwire a car? Hell, if you want to go in the morning we could just take the heli—”
“They’ll be no guns here,” pronounced Donovan. “Not so long as I’m the caretaker.” He poked at his dish sullenly. “It would be pure hubris to think the beasts don’t have as much right to exist as we do.”
Nobody said anything as the moths fluttered against the glass and an old movie from the habitat’s Blu-ray collection—Roger Corman’s The Masque of the Red Death—played on the television, in particular the scene in which the enigmatic cloaked figure—the plague personified—arrives at the hall.
At last Zola said, “I guess I had the impression that their presence—like mine—compromised your biosphere. Did I read you wrong? If so, well, I’m sorry.” She took a bite of her prickly pear. “The food is delicious, by the way. Thank you so much. Both of you.”
Donovan grew pensive.
“They arrived with the Flashback, about four, maybe five of them, and we modified the north doors so they could get out of the facility—which, of course, after having had a good, hard look around, and at us, they eventually did. Every single one of them.”
“But then they came back,” said Amelia.
“Yes, then they came back. Tore through the barricade we’d erected and that was that. But my point is that they lost interest for a while and will do so ag—”
“And there were more of them this time, like, twice as many.”
“Yes, but they were never a danger to the rest of the biosphere and never will be.” He laughed as though exasperated by the whole topic. “The threat wasn’t going to boil over because by widening the door we’d taken the lid off the pot. They were no longer trapped where the Flashback had deposited them.”
Zola eyed the television as Amelia got up to check the stove. “But don’t you see, Donovan, this, this Flashback can’t be kept out indefinitely. It needs to be faced—faced dead on and clear-eyed, and dealt with. And you’re gonna need other people, like those in Yuma.” She shook her head slowly. “You can’t do this one alone.”
“I’m not alone.” He tugged at Amelia’s shirt and winked at her when she turned. “I’ve got Kemosabe.” Water boiled as she beamed.
Now it was Zola’s turn to be exasperated. “What about when the gas generators fail—what then? Or when Amelia gets strep throat and a simple bacterial infection becomes rheumatic fever?”
Amelia rejoined the conversation, still holding the lid of the pot. “But I’m not going to get rheumatic fever, Zola. Besides, my mom was a nurse, so we know all about that kind of stuff ...”
“Or when one of those things figures out how to open that door—”
“Then we’ll weld it shut,” said Donovan. “This isn’t Jurassic Park.”
“With what? Your barbeque lighter?”
“Life finds a way!”
And then both he and his daughter were laughing as Zola sat back and pouted—the wine had gone straight to her head—until she too finally gave it up and cracked a knowing smile.
“You shitheads,” she let out sheepishly, and pushed her glass away—only to have Donovan slide it back and promptly fill it to the brim.
“You’ve had two. Have another and I’ll show you something cool.”
“What? Your glass etchings?”
“Better. Agriculture.”
And then they had a moment, just the two of them, just two pairs of brown eyes—one pair of which was reddish-brown—playing and intermingling and sampling the other. Pre-funking; as Zola’s girlfriend liked to say—like when you drank before going out. Brazenly adulting even as Amelia looked on and the borealis shimmered and the water on the stove boiled over in a plume of vapor and steam.
Sometimes things just happened. Like the television being turned off and Amelia put to bed; and Zola picking Van Morrison’s Moondance from the community room’s collection of vinyl and dropping the needle. Like the Flashback Borealis shining down through the facets of glass in the ceiling to paint watery reflections on the crops of bananas and papayas, sweet potatoes and beats; on jalapenos and chiltepin peppers, as Zola kissed him long and deep and ran her hands through his hair and tried not to step on his feet.
As his hands slid to her buttocks and one of hers to his crotch and the sprinkler systems activated and drenched them where they stood; so much so that the spiral staircase was littered with garments as they moved to the upper habitat (which was shaped like a giant penis, she drunkenly observed) and his disheveled bed. Where they started with her on top before rolling over to missionary and making love as though what they’d been through with the Flashback somehow demanded it; demanded an offering.
Nor was she particularly surprised to find herself looking beyond him at the skylight and the borealis, which had subdued to a reddish-brown, same as his eyes, same as the Nano-Ts’, so that she felt as though she made love to the Flashback itself. Indeed, it was in that very moment that she realized two things: that the Flashback and its borealis were somehow alive and had agency—the weapon of some vast and inscrutable intelligence, perhaps—and just how wrong Donovan was about the so-called nanotyrannuses not being able to get in, because, in a sense, they already were—they were in him. He’d caught them, like a cold. Why else would he be so obsessed with them, so protective, to the point that he’d put his own child in jeopardy rather than harm them? They were becoming his White Whale.
And that meant she was in danger so long as she remained, and so was the girl. That meant he was in danger, of losing himself, losing everything he cared for. Because it wasn’t just Life that found a way; it was Death. And if she was sure of anything it was that the Flashback would find a way: a way through, a way in, just like sand in your shoe or the mysterious, cloaked intruder in The Masque of the Red Death.
And it was up to her to stop it—or, if not to stop it, then at least get them all the hell out.
At which she heard the record start over downstairs as night became day and day became night and several weeks passed before she was able to convince Donovan to at least come with her to Yuma once (whereupon he could decide for himself if it was worth relocating to, or, if he—they?—would be better off staying in the biosphere). Several weeks passed as they secured the door to the rain forest and the borealis went from red to blue to emerald-green (and back to red) and the eyes of the nanotyrannuses multiplied. As Donovan became increasingly combative about them (the predators) and Zola and Amelia decided it was past time to fire up the helicopter and get to Yuma. As they decided, as a team, as a kind of family, not to simply ignore it (or pass it off on the wine) when Donovan said over dinner one night: “They are contained. Nothing gets in or out of here unless I allow it.”
To which he might have added, should have added, as Zola had fully expected him to: “Present company excluded, of course.”
—but didn’t. To which he didn’t add anything but only retreated to his quarters to study his sketches and photos and notes (of the predators); his own On the Origin of Species, his Encyclopaedias Flashback.
She buckled her harness and started pressing switches: the running lights and hydraulics; the avionics; the starter/idle—then cracked the throttle, winding up the blades. It was good to be back in the saddle, she thought—even as she looked toward the still-closed door of the facility and tried to quell what had become a growing unease.
Chill out, sister. They’ll be out.
She monitored her instruments as the whirring of the blades grew louder: turbine outlet temperature was good, N-1 was good. The generator began its Bataan Death March to 100% ... 24 ... 58 ...
She glanced at the door again. Still no Donovan or Amelia. Jesus. They’d been right behind her.
She searched around under her seat for the flare gun but couldn’t find it, then felt its smooth plastic barrel against her fingertips and slowly drew it out, shocked by how light it was, how plastic, how orange. And yet it was oddly reassuring at the same time, especially since she was becoming increasingly convinced that something was wrong.
Seriously wrong.
And then she was powering everything down even as the first light of day crept over the horizon and her heart began to pound and the entry remained just as still as a tombstone, inert. Then she was opening her door and double-timing it across the lot—who knew if one of those things wasn’t wandering around out here—scurrying like a soldier until she reached the entrance and burst into the fog desert—where she fell against the door, heaving.
And yet still they were nowhere to be seen.
She pushed the flare gun’s barrel away from the hammer and loaded a flare; then flipped the cylinder back into place and stuffed the remaining charges into her pockets. Then she set out on the task at hand, which would be to search the facility from top to bottom and from the South Lung to the West Lung. Until she found her friends.
As it turned out, everything looked normal: the savannah grassland, the mangrove wetlands, the so-called ocean—at least, until she came to the rainforest biome and saw that its door was lying on the floor and its frame shattered, which to Zola could only mean one thing: that it had been propped open long enough for the animals to have gotten a foothold and tore the frame open wider. And that, of course, meant that they were inside now—inside the ocean biome, at least. Somewhere.
She gripped the flare gun in both hands and blew the hair out of her eyes, scanned the area—but there was nothing, no animals at all, just the observation deck for the ocean and a wall obscured by trees and vegetation, a wall that ... Her attention snapped back to where she’d been looking.
A wall that held a door.
Or had, before something, some things, had torn it to pieces. More, she now recognized the door as being the only entry to the West Lung’s access tunnel; nor, as if that wasn’t fantastic enough, was that all she noticed. For lying amidst the doorway’s wreckage was a scattering of cooked yucca flowers—precisely what Amelia had been preparing when Zola had gone out to start the helicopter.
And Zola knew, even before she’d followed their trail—for there were yet more of the petals in the tunnel—just what she would find when she got out to the lung; knew it just as sure as she knew Donovan had succumbed to the Flashback and was now insane—just another tool of them, whatever they were, like the predators. Knew it as she entered that great, round chamber and saw about twenty of the animals being held at bay by a ring of sputtering road flares—which had undoubtedly come from her own chopper—while Amelia lay unconscious (next to what looked like a bottle of chloroform and a rag) and Donovan stood holding yet another flare. Stood with his face lit white by the sizzling stick and his eyes gleaming a bloody, tarry red, a red as dark as the now alien sky.
“Careful with this Flashback,” he wheezed with his chin up, his head at angle, as though he were blind, and maybe he was. “We all agree—all of us who have been lost to the storm—it eats your eyes.”
But Zola didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate, didn’t even pretend to understand as she darted between two of the snarling, snapping animals and snatched up a flare, then slowly backed away. And then she addressed the Enemy directly, bluntly, without hesitation.
“I’m taking the girl,” she said, and feinted at a beast with the stick. “Donovan is lost; I know that. The whole fucking world is lost. You’ve killed us because you hate us and have replaced us with something—something more like yourselves, your true selves, not that cloud. I get it. Something cold, inhuman. Something from our past. Perhaps something you want to evolve into you. I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m not a vast, cool intelligence. All I want is the girl.”
Donovan appeared almost hurt as he sat down hard next to Amelia, just right there on the floor. “Lost? Lost? On the contrary, I’ve never been more found. You have found me, have you not?” He picked up a nearby paper bag and shook out the remaining flowers. “I suppose you thought it was our dear girl leaving you breadcrumbs.” He lay on his back next to Amelia. “But really I just wanted you here. Here to see us make the journey; to go into them. Not figuratively, mind you, not metaphorically, but literally, by being ingested by their avatars. And for this, well, a sacred space was needed.”
Zola sneered. “So that’s it—just lay down with your daughter until the flares burn out and then both of you go meet your maker.” She grunted as she swung the flare at an approaching Nano-T, forcing it back. “There’s only one problem with that,” She stabbed at another with the flare (not wanting to fire the gun and have to reload). “It’s not your decision to make. Just like it wasn’t their decision to initiate the Flashback.” She indicated the sky with a jerk of her head. “Or mine to, to—Amelia! You’ve got to wake up, hon. You’ve got to wake up right now. Come on, sweetie. You can do it, I know you can.”
And then she did something impulsive and without thinking, something which could have gone, should have gone, sideways fast, but somehow didn’t. She threw the road flare at the floor directly next to Amelia’s head; jumping as the burning stick ricocheted off the concrete and literally crying out when the girl opened her eyes and began to stir.
“Zola?” Amelia practically whispered. “Dad?”
Zola gripped the flare gun and focused. “No, honey. You’ve just got to run over here as fast as you can, okay? Nevermind Daddy, he’s going to be fine, just get over—”
The girl jolted as Donovan grabbed her by the arm and Zola instantly targeted the man’s head—but hesitated when she saw him sit up on an elbow and whisper something in Amelia’s ear. Something encouraging, perhaps, something sane, because the next thing she knew the girl had leapt to her feet and ran between two animals to reach her—at which her father, his eyes briefly clear again, pointed at the ceiling (itself a great, mock bellows) and, in the instant before his eyes turned back—and one of the animals pounced—indicated she should fire—fire into the lowered ceiling, that papery, flammable contrivance, which she did.
At which the bellows immediately burst into flames and began raining down all around, scattering the nanotyrannuses—save the one gnawing on Donovan’s throat; poor Donovan who was smiling like a lunatic—and forcing the women to run for the door, where Amelia paused to look back with her eyes full of tears before being yanked forcibly through the exit by Zola.
And then they ran.
Ran to the chopper and quickly climbed in even as something exploded in the lung and sent a mini mushroom cloud curling into the salmon sky.
“Hang on, because we’re going up fast,” said Zola as she pressed the starter and cracked the throttle; nor was their time to do anything else as the embers fell like a fiery snow and the Nano-Ts began gathering on the lot, frightened by the helicopter but only, Zola was sure, for the moment.
And then they were climbing as Zola drew on the collective and the rotors chopped and whirred and the animals fell back briefly before charging forward suddenly and snapping at the helicopter. Then they were on their way, two more sallow-eyed eyed refugees of the Flashback, as a warning indicator beeped and Zola ignored it and the borealis seemed to subside slightly and the night gave birth to day. As she tried not to think about Donovan’s rakish smile—nor his bloody one—or his strong, wise voice and electrifying touch, or how they’d just left him there to be consumed—to be ingested—into them, their invisible enemy, the architects of the Flashback.
Then Zola set the autopilot and collapsed back against her seat, knowing the girl would probably hate her for having lied about her father’s chances but knowing also that she was almost certainly alive because of it. And knowing, too, that it wouldn’t be long—02:28 hours, to be exact—before hope appeared on the horizon and they just might begin the process of healing ... which was a thought Zola decided she liked very much.
02:28 hours to hope.
02:28 hours to Yuma.
The Story Previous ...
72 HOURS TO ANIMAL
Jesus, here we go again, thought Zola, as Handsome Dan fiddled with the in-council player and the rotors went whump-whump-whump and Gloria Gaynor started singing “I Will Survive”—for the twentieth time, at least—until, unable to take it any longer, she reached over and switched off the stereo.
“Enough,” she said.
He shot her a cold glance and she looked away—down through the glass inset at her feet—at the ice-crusted skids and the snow clinging to them like puffs of lint; at the formerly beautiful city of Phoenix, Arizona—whole sections of which were now burning.
Whump-whump-whump. Nobody said anything; not even when he switched the stereo back on and Gaynor picked up exactly where she’d left off, singing about lonely nights and being wronged, learning to get along, until Pappy leaned forward from the backseat and said, “We should fill that extra gas can before leaving Phoenix. No point in playing with the Sonoran. Redhorn says there’s a heliport at Papago Military Park; just east of us. They’ll have the right fuel.”
