Departure (10 page)

I'm with Mike now: this stuff is making my brain hurt. “You said there were two possibilities?”

“The other, which I actually find more likely, is that this
wasn't
a natural occurrence. Someone brought us here, with a technology beyond our comprehension—possibly with the help of someone on the plane.”

“Very interesting.” I don't know why, but my mind flashes to Yul Tan, the quiet man in business class, obsessed with his laptop. There's something there, I think. I'll have a long talk with him when we get back.

We sit in silence for a while, Bob coughing, the rain coming harder and faster, the clouds overhead a dark slate gray, far-off thunder rumbling. Mike stretches out on the grass like a college kid on a lazy day.

“What sort of work do you do, Nick?” Bob asks me between coughs.

I tell him, and he seems impressed, asking a lot of questions. He asks Mike the same thing. Mike races sailboats and isn't all that interested in talking about it. He was on his way to his sister's wedding outside London, at the family home of his future brother-in-law, who's “in banking or something.” He expresses no remorse at having missed the wedding.

After a few moments, Bob's tone turns grandfatherly. “You should never retire,” he advises us. “Retiring ruined me. Worst decision I ever made. Should have kept something to do.”

His second wife recently left him, he says, and he was on his way to London for a job interview, though he quickly adds that he's under an airtight NDA and can't talk about it at all. Neither Mike nor I press for details, which seems to mildly disappoint him.

I feel a little sorry for Bob Ward. I understand him now, somewhat, in the way I began to understand my father during our visit to Stonehenge so long ago. Bob still has a lot of fight in him, a lot of life left to live, and he never knew it until he retired. The crash of Flight 305 might be the best thing that's happened to him for a while. It's given him a purpose, a way to apply himself. And if I'm to be completely honest with myself, it's done the same for me. I was in my own rut when Flight 305 took off from JFK, and though I would rather our
flight had landed at Heathrow, every single one of those passengers alive, the crash has revealed a side of me that I never knew existed. It's shown me what I'm made of in a way the world never did until now.

Bob coughs again, violently, and stops, staring at his fist. He quickly wipes it on the inside of his shirt, but I glimpse the blood. Our eyes meet. He looks so much older, and for the first time I realize something: he
is
older. His face is lined, his eyes are slightly jaundiced, and even his movements are less coordinated. What's happening to him?

For a moment the only sound is the relentless tapping of rain on the glass dome above us, the din like static on an untuned TV, filling the cavernous space. It's dark out now, either from the storm or nightfall.

Through the frosted glass wall, I think I see lightning, but the flash doesn't subside. It grows, getting wider, raking over the ground. A searchlight, from above, moving toward us.

THE SEARCHLIGHT SWEEPS OVER THE TALL GRASS AROUND
us, barely missing the structure that surrounds Stonehenge. I jump up, Mike at my heels.

Bob tries to push up, but collapses back to the manicured grass.

“Stay here, Bob!” I yell.

Mike and I rush to the glass wall, to the partition that opened, allowing us in. We stand impatiently as the glass slowly rises from the bottom, the computer voice barely audible above the rain and the engine in the distance. “Thank you for visiting the Stonehenge interactive exhibit . . .”

Outside I spot the searchlight's source: an airship, or that's what I would call it. It's shaped roughly like a helicopter but much larger, and it has no rotors on top or on the tail. Yet it hovers somehow, moving slowly forward. I'm not even sure how it hangs in the air.

I step forward, shouting and waving my arms, but it's already moving past us, back toward the crash site.

I start through the field, still waving. “Stay here,” I call over my shoulder to Mike. “They could circle back.”

Behind me, he begins shouting and waving his arms, too.

I run flat-out through the damp green grass, wind-driven rain pelting me. At the top of the ridge, I stop. The airship is almost out of sight, and it's making good speed. I scan in every direction with the binoculars, but I can't see another searchlight. The sun has set, and it's getting darker by the minute.

I jog back to the structure, where Mike's standing, his short hair and Celtics T-shirt drenched.

We walk back into the glass octagon in silence. Inside, Bob is hunched over, coughing. He looks up at us eagerly, but I shake my head as I try to squeeze some of the water out of my clothes.

“Looked like it was headed for the crash site,” he says.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“You have to leave me,” Bob says. “You promised you would, Nick.”

He's probably right. If the wind and rain have extinguished the fire by the lake, those airships could miss the crash site. On the other hand, if another ship is close behind that one, we won't make it to camp to restart the fire in time. Staying here is our best shot at being seen and maybe Bob's only chance of survival.

“You promised, Nick,” Bob says, his voice growing weaker by the second.

“Another ship could be searching the area. This landmark and field are our best chance of getting spotted. What if they miss the crash site? Besides, marching back in this storm would be foolish—it would slow us down and we might be covered by the tree canopy when the next ship passes. We'll wait here for a break in the storm or another ship, whichever comes first.”

“You need to get back, Nick. If it's scenario two—if somebody brought us here—that may not be the rescue we're hoping for. They may be hostile.” Bob coughs again, wiping the blood away quickly.

“We don't know that.”

“We have to assume it. Those people will be taken by surprise. You and Mike have the upper hand. You have to move now.”

“We wait. That's the decision.”

BOB IS DEAD. MIKE AND
I were napping in short shifts, trying to conserve energy for the hike ahead. I awoke to coughs, and looked over at Bob
in the dim light. His breathing was shallow, his face even more wrinkled, eyes sunken and yellow. His hands trembled slightly as he drew one last breath, shuddered, and went still.

It's the strangest thing I've ever seen, the way he deteriorated over only a few hours. He'd been fit enough for a twenty-mile hike twelve hours before. Something is very wrong here. What could have killed him that quickly? A contagion? A bug he caught here at Stonehenge when the glass parted? Could the structure have sealed a virus or bacteria inside for all these years? I glance at the bones in the short, manicured grass. Is that what killed these people? Whatever it is, it doesn't seem to have affected either Mike or me—at least, not yet.

Looking down at Bob's still body, I can't help but think he would have liked passing away here, in a place devoted to science, technology, and history, a monument that has represented those things for thousands of years.

We feel we should do something with Bob's body, give him some kind of ceremony, but the reality is, we don't have the time or the tools for a proper burial. In the end we lay him close to the other bodies and fold his arms over his chest.

At the edge of the structure, I pause. “We'll have to move fast, for our sake and the camp's. We only stop to rest when absolutely necessary.” Mike nods, and we step under the glass door into the field.

WE'VE MARCHED ALL NIGHT THROUGH
the wind, rain, and cold, but we have to stop, try to warm up and rest, to prepare ourselves for whatever awaits at camp. We're exhausted, hungry, and freezing, but we're almost there.

We've seen no sign of the airship, but we'll know soon whether it found the crash site. And whether it's a friend or foe.

AS THE FIRST FAINT RAYS
of sunrise paint the treetops, I climb a ridge a mile from the crash site, draw the binoculars from my jacket, and scan the distance until I find the camp by the lake. The fire's long extinguished; I can't see the faintest trace of smoke. Blue blankets dot the muddy bank, all empty, not a soul in sight. That's either very good or very bad.

I pan left, searching for the nose section of the plane through the dense forest, but something else swims into view through the lenses first: three long tents, plastic stretched over arched metal supports, like round greenhouses. What is it? Shelter for the survivors? A field hospital? Beside the tents, white body bags are stacked in neat pyramids like firewood. There must be fifty of them. My mouth goes dry, and I scan more quickly, searching for a clue about what's going on.

The door to the nose section is open, and there's no movement inside.

I pan out farther, searching. The airship I saw at Stonehenge—no, two of them—sit in a clearing. They're huge, three times the size of the plane's nose section. The ships' outer doors are closed, and there's no sign of movement around either vessel.

I run the binoculars over every inch of the forest, but I can't see any movement. Whatever's happening is hidden by the trees or the long plastic tents. We'll have to get closer.

ABOUT A HUNDRED YARDS OUT FROM THE THREE
clear plastic tents, I draw the binoculars again and focus them, trying to make out the blurry objects inside. They're narrow beds, evenly spaced, some empty, some occupied by bodies. Beyond the tents the forest suddenly erupts in a burst of heavy footsteps and cracking branches.

I scan with the binoculars, quickly spotting the source: figures in what look like bulky space suits, barreling through the dense brush. The suits' large helmets indicate that they're built for total containment. Strange. From here the suits' inhabitants appear taller than normal humans. Or are they human at all? They could be machines, or . . . who knows. It's obvious why I didn't spot the figures before: as they move through the woods, their suits briefly take on the browns and greens of the trees and fallen leaves. Adaptive camouflage. They flicker as they move, the suits struggling to keep up with the colors and patterns around them. No rescue team needs suits like that. It's equipment for the military, or for those who need to
operate in secret. If they're here to help us, why would they need to hide from us?

What happens next confirms my worst fear. The figure leading the charge raises an arm, there's a popping sound, and I hear a crash, something large falling to the ground somewhere in the forest. I scan feverishly through the binoculars, trying to identify who or what they're shooting at. Finally I see a man, middle-aged, slightly overweight, writhing on the ground as if he's being shocked with a Taser. The last time I saw his face was yesterday morning—when I sent his team northwest to search for help. That team must have been returning this morning as well. One by one the suited figures hunt down the three of them, shooting each with some weapon I can't make out. The invaders hoist the limp bodies on their shoulders and turn, making their way to the domed plastic tents—and directly toward us.

In unison, Mike and I sink to the ground behind a rocky outcrop. A few minutes later, I risk a glance.

The figures carry the three search-team members into the nearest tent and emerge a minute later, carrying a stretcher with an unconscious passenger: Sabrina. They take her to the middle tent, then bring out another passenger: Yul Tan. And a third: Harper. A white cylinder encloses Harper's right leg from her knee to her ankle, and a bag hangs above the stretcher. She's the last one.

I take the handgun from my jacket, prepared for anything.

Mike's eyes lock on the gun, then drift up to me. “What's the plan?” he whispers.

I'm about to tell him that I don't know when I hear a rapid pop behind us, like an air gun.

Mike's eyes go wide as he seizes, and I dive for him. The rock where I was just crouched echoes as the shot meant for me slams into it.

I hold the gun out and fire blind, in the direction I think the shot came from. Then I scurry around to the other side of the rock, scanning the woods all the way to the plastic tents. Yes, the figure's on the other side of the rocks. I peek above the rock and spot it, staggering through the woods toward me. It's hit.

I raise my gun to fire again, but I never get a chance. The ground behind the figure explodes, and the blast sends it flying through the
air and knocks me to the ground. I roll through the woods, finally slamming into a large oak tree. My ears ring and nausea sweeps over me. Pain starts in my ribs and surges through my body, causing me to convulse. For a moment, I think I'll throw up, but it passes as pieces of dirt and splinters shower me.

When my head finally clears, I hear more blasts in the distance, a relentless barrage. Through the canopy I see an airship hovering over the crash site, firing into the woods surrounding it, in the direction of the clearing and the two other ships.

I spot their targets a second later: four suited figures running toward their ships, zigzagging wildly as they try to dodge the fire from the airship above.

I make my way back to the other side of the rocks and roll Mike's limp body over. He's alive, his breathing shallow but steady. A spidery metallic burr is dug into his back. I try to pry it off, but I can't get a grip on it.

In the distance the cadence of the firefight changes. Earlier the firing was targeted, like laser blasts, but now it rolls over the treetops like thunder. The explosions shake my chest and deafen me. The sensory overload is disorienting, and I fight to focus.

The fire from the incoming airship is now being returned. Two ships hover in the air for a long moment, neither budging, drilling each other with shot after shot. A column of smoke rises from the field, almost hiding the far ship. I bet one of the ships on the ground was destroyed.

Focus.

I attempt to rise, but collapse again. The ground shakes. Around me the forest rains limbs, twigs, and shattered trunks.

I finally stand, staggering on wobbling limbs, my equilibrium gone.

The camp. The tents. They're open. The arched metal frame has retracted into a series of small boxes on the ground. The plastic sheets that were stretched over the frame blow through the disintegrating forest, bunching, turning cartwheels like milky plastic tumbleweeds. They collect bits of falling wood and leaves as they go, taking on the colors of the forest, slowly camouflaging themselves, making their escape.

Escape.

Rows of hospital beds lie open to the elements and falling debris. The passengers are waking up.

The retreating invaders . . . they set the passengers free. Why? I bet it's so that we wouldn't fall into enemy hands. It has to be. We're the prize here. Bob was right. The . . .
things
in the bulky suits brought us here, and they seem to be at war with someone.

In the air the tide is turning. The incoming aircraft is beating the defender back, out of the black cloud of smoke, but it keeps firing. How long do we have?

How long does Harper have?

Through the trees and slowly falling debris, I see her sit up in her bed and look around, confused. I race to the tent, falling three times as I go, but I feel no pain. Adrenaline carries me on.

When I reach Harper, her eyes go wide. I can't imagine what I must look like. I grab her by the shoulders. “We have to go!” I shout, but I can't hear my own voice. I can't even hear the exchange of fire above anymore, only feel the rumble. My hearing might be permanently damaged.

Harper shakes her head and mouths, “My leg,” but then suddenly looks down at it, shocked. She whispers a phrase I can't make out, then swings her legs over the side, planting her feet on the ground, smiling.

I start toward the woods, but she catches my arm, her grip strong. It's a good sign.

She points to Sabrina and Yul, who are just getting up. Slowly, so I can read her lips, she forms words: “They. Know. Something.”

We rush toward them, waving at them to come with us. When I turn around, about half the survivors are converging on us, shouting, staring.

“Run!” I yell, flinging my arms out. “Spread out. Go, you hear me? Go!” I grab Harper's hand and sprint through the woods. She's right behind me. In fact, I think I'm slowing her down. Incredible. They healed her. Or maybe Sabrina did—but that's not possible; she's in better shape than when we crashed. Even her skin glows.

I glance back. Yul's gone.

I stop and grab Sabrina's arm. “Where's Yul?”

Thankfully my hearing's returning some, but I still have to strain to hear Sabrina say, “He had to go back for his computer.”

“Why?” I ask.

“He needs it,” Sabrina says.

“
He
needs it, or
they
need it?” Harper's voice is hard, surprising both Sabrina and me.

Sabrina looks down. “I don't know. . . . I think . . . I think they both need it.”

I take the gun out, slip my watch off, and hand it to Harper. A smile curls at the corners of her mouth, and I can tell she's trying with everything she has to suppress it. She turns the watch over, reading the inscription:
For a lifetime of service. —United States Department of State.

Her eyebrows lift. “You . . . worked for the State Department?”

“My dad did. Listen to me, Harper. If I'm not back in ten minutes, keep going. Promise me.”

Harper keeps staring at the watch.

“Promise me, Harper.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

I take off, pushing my still shaky legs as hard as I can toward the nose section. The rows of beds that the tents rested on lie empty now, and so does the camp. The trees are still shedding debris. It drifts down like falling snow, covering the stacks of white body bags with a fine coat of green and brown. It's quiet, creepy. I can only hear the airships in the distance, their firing now intermittent.

I don't see Yul as I approach the camp, but I don't stop. I bound up the staircase of luggage and plane parts into the nose section and barge through the first-class cabin. He's pulling bags out of the overhead, ransacking them, searching—

Behind me I hear footsteps. I turn to see a suited figure, camouflaged even here, bearing down on the two of us. I raise my gun, but I'm too late. His arm is outstretched. I expect to hear the soft pop of air next, but a gunshot rings out, a piercing noise in the small space. The figure topples forward, colliding with a first-class seat and landing hard, his suit shimmering and flashing, crackling with electrical sounds.

Grayson stands in the first-class galley, a handgun held out.

I turn to Yul. “You have it?”

“Yes.”

“Let's go,” I say, my eyes locking on both of them.

They follow me out of the plane, and we take off into the woods.

The suited figures will hunt us down now. They brought us here for a reason, and we have what they need.