Kronos (38 page)

Atticus pulled the fire-engine red Ford Explorer to the side of the road. He resisted buying a new car, though he gave the old Ford a much-needed tune-up and installed a new sound system. It was important to him, that after such a life-changing ordeal, they retain as much of who they used to be as possible.

Atticus opened the door and took in the neighborhood. It was a pleasant New Hampshire suburb—a mix of old Colonials and modern ranches. Giona exited the passenger side and took a deep breath.

“I like it here,” she said.

Atticus looked at her and smiled. Her hair was still as jet-black as her mother’s. She dressed in black still, but much more stylishly, and her clothes looked far less depressing. Whether that was because they had more money to spend on clothing or an outward expression of her internal changes, he wasn’t sure, but he liked it.

Atticus’s eyes rose from Giona to the house. It was a tall red Colonial with white shutters that the previous owner had refurbished and modernized. It was the perfect blend of past and present, or so the real estate agent claimed.

As he rounded the hood of the Explorer he saw a Coast Guard bumper sticker on a blue Volvo parked in front of the next house over. His mind instantly and painfully recalled memories of Andrea. After Giona had returned, Atticus’s life became a whirlwind. Between mending his relationship with Giona, the media attention, the legal work of the myriad contracts he’d signed and the innumerable briefings he’d given the Navy, contact with Andrea had drifted from phone calls to e-mails, and for the past two weeks, nothing.

But Atticus wasn’t entirely to blame. After Andrea had healed from her wounds, she was ordered to assist in the
Titan
’s recovery effort. The
Titan
’s captain had explained that the ship’s inner hulls would have sealed as it took on water. He believed that the majority of the
Titan
’s treasures would still be salvageable. The
Titan
was eventually raised with the help of the
Rough Rider
battle group and Captain Vilk, who supplied protection. The contents of the
Titan
comprised the most valuable treasure trove the world had ever seen, and it would take years to categorize the contents and return them to their proper owners. It was a noble effort, one that Andrea wholeheartedly believed in, yet it served to widen the growing gulf between Atticus and her.

Atticus missed her, to be sure, but the distraction of finding a new home and a fresh feeling of doubt kept him from trying to contact her. She didn’t reply to his last e-mail, and he took that as a sign that she had moved on. Giona hadn’t met Andrea, but she knew about her. While Atticus, at the request of the Coast Guard, had left Andrea out of his story, Giona knew most of the details and suspected the rest. She tried explaining to him that e-mails sometimes went missing. A glitch in several systems it had to pass through on its way to her in-box, a crashed hard drive, or an overzealous spam filter could have blocked it. But, he didn’t buy it. She would have at least called by then if she’d wanted to contact him.

“You okay, Dad?” Giona asked, her voice pulling his eyes away from the bumper sticker.

“Huh? Yeah.” Atticus said, attempting to sound chipper. “I’m fine.”

Giona looped her arm through his and pulled him close. He felt his sour mood melt away under her affection. “I really like this house,” she said. “I think this might be it.”

“You haven’t even seen the inside yet,” Atticus said.

“Actually, I think I have.”

“You’ve been here before?”

Giona answered with a big smile. She’d yet to reveal everything she’d experienced while inside Kronos, which included several visions she’d had just before being expelled onto the beach. Without saying the words, she let him know that she’d seen the house in one of those “visions” but didn’t feel comfortable enough to talk about it yet.

While he still wasn’t keen on her new belief debate—God or insanity—he knew that he’d give his baby whatever she wanted…within reason, and if she wanted to live in this house, so be it.

As they walked up the steps of the Colonial’s front porch, Atticus noticed a plaque on the door. It read, 1641—original foundation laid by John Wheelwright, founding father of the town of Exeter. Atticus froze.
Wheelwright.
Memories of O’Shea’s lecture on the actions of Kronos over the centuries came back fresh in his mind. Wheelwright had been one of Kronos’s guests. Atticus shook his head and wrote it off as extreme coincidence. Wheelwright probably had plaques all over this town.

He was about to knock on the door when it opened suddenly and his real estate agent stepped out. He could tell by her beet red face and tousled hair, normally held in place by a rock-solid sheet of hairspray that she’d been arguing. “Look,” she said, “the owner has decided not to sell.”

“What? Why?”

“Some ridiculous thing about finishing something she’d started. She was being ridiculously cryptic and totally unprofessional.” Cindy straightened her vest and flicked her fingers through her hair, putting it back in place. She cleared her throat, and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Young. Is there anywhere else you wanted to see today?”

He looked down at Giona, whose eyes were wet and wide with confusion.

“No,” he said. “I’d like to see this house.”

“But I just said—”

“I’ll make an offer they can’t refuse.”

Cindy knew he had the money, but the owner must have been convincing. “That lady isn’t budging.”

“She will for me,” he said with a smile. “We’re famous, remember?”

Cindy offered a lopsided grin and shrugged. She stepped aside, and said, “Have at it.”

Atticus rang the doorbell. When no one came to the door, he rang it three times in rapid succession. This time he was greeted by heavy thuds as the home’s owner came toward the door. The heavy wooden door was flung open.

“Listen, lady. I already told you I’m not—Atti?”

Atticus stood dumbfounded. The sound of his name from the intimately familiar voice stopped his heart and locked his feet in place. “Andrea…”

Giona’s eyes squinted. “Daddy?”

After a few seconds of quiet stillness, which must have seemed like a lifetime to the nervously fidgeting real estate agent, she broke the silence. “Mr. Young?”

She jumped back as Atticus yanked the screen door open, and Andrea leapt into his arms. Their embrace was savage and tight.

Atticus loosened his hold when he felt a second set of arms embrace them. In that moment, he opened his eyes, and through blurred vision saw Andrea kissing Giona’s forehead. They gained in that instant—a family.

Andrea turned to the real estate agent; her eyes wet, and said, “I’m still not selling the house.” She turned back to Atticus, and continued, “But you’re more than welcome to move in.”

Atticus looked from Andrea to Giona and found a teary, yet hopeful, smile. She nodded. Atticus shivered, as he couldn’t help but see some master design weaving in and out of their lives, moving them in one direction, then another, making no sense at all until arriving at this final destination. He knew their lives were far from over, but he couldn’t deny that the events of the past months—perhaps years—had brought them to this doorstep. He now began to understand the kind of change Giona had gone through and, for the first time, considered, “What if?”

58

Somewhere . . .

The sandy white beach was the kind seen in Hollywood movies. Sweeping palms leaned out over an azure sea. The wind, just strong enough to sway the trees into groaning, carried a hint of salt and flowers. But unlike the beaches in the movies, there were no bikini-clad shipwreck survivors—no tall, dark, and handsome men escaping the pressures of the real world.

There were simply two bodies, both clad in black.

As the yacht crew who spotted the men while sport fishing would later describe him, the first man had a pale, wrinkled body and a head of stark white hair that ran to his shoulders. He was last seen running into the forest, eyes wild and shouting something about the end of the world.

The second man, a priest, was unconscious by the time the crew dropped anchor and rowed to shore. The priest was taken on board and tended to. Three days later they found his bunk empty, the dinghy missing, and a quickly scrawled note on a piece of paper: Job 3:8.

One of the men, who had a Bible, opened it and read a verse that led them to believe both men they’d seen on the beach were lunatics:

“May those who curse days curse that day, those who are ready to rouse Leviathan.”

###

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JEREMY ROBINSON is the author of eleven novels including
Pulse,
Instinct
and
Threshold
, the first three books in his exciting Jack Sigler thriller series. His novels have been translated into nine languages. He is the director of New Hampshire AuthorFest, a non-profit organization promoting literacy in New Hampshire, where he lives with his wife and three children.

Connect with Robinson online:

Twitter:
www.twitter.com/jrobinsonauthor

Myspace:
www.myspace.com/sciencethriller

Facebook:
www.facebook.com/sciencethriller

Website:
www.jeremyrobinsononline.com

Don’t miss the following samples of Jeremy Robinson’s THE LAST HUNTER and ANTARKTOS RISING

—SAMPLE—

THE LAST HUNTER by JEREMY ROBINSON

Available for $2.99 on Kindle at:
http://www.amazon.com/Last-Hunter-Descent-Antarktos-ebook/dp/B004D4YNUW 

DESCRIPTION:

I've been told that the entire continent of Antarctica groaned at the moment of my birth. The howl tore across glaciers, over mountains and deep into the ice. Everyone says so. Except for my father; all he heard was Mother’s sobs. Not of pain, but of joy, so he says. Other than that, the only verifiable fact about the day I was born is that an iceberg the size of Los Angeles broke free from the ice shelf a few miles off the coast. Again, some would have me believe the fracture took place as I entered the world. But all that really matters, according to my parents, is that I, Solomon Ull Vincent, the first child born on Antarctica—the first and only Antarctican—was born on September 2nd, 1974.

If only someone could have warned me that, upon my return to the continent of my birth thirteen years later, I would be kidnapped, subjected to tortures beyond comprehension and forced to fight...and kill. If only someone had hinted that I'd wind up struggling to survive in a subterranean world full of ancient warriors, strange creatures and supernatural powers.

Had I been warned I might have lived a normal life. The human race might have remained safe. And the fate of the world might not rest on my shoulders. Had I been warned....

This is my story—the tale of Solomon Ull Vincent—The Last Hunter.

EXCERPT:

12

My foot rolls on a bone as I kick away from the bodies. There’s so many of them, I can’t make out what I’m seeing. It’s like someone decided to play a game of pick-up sticks with discarded bones. I fall backwards, landing on a lumpy mass. My hands are out, bracing against injury. Rubbery flesh breaks my fall, its coarse hair tickling between my fingers. I haven’t seen the body beneath me, but I know—somehow—that it’s dead.

Long dead.

This is little comfort, however. After finding my footing, I stand bolt upright. My chest heaves with each breath. Each draw of air is deep, but the oxygen isn’t getting to my head. I try breathing through my nose, and the rotten stench of old meat and something worse twists my stomach with the violence of a tornado. I drop to one knee, fighting a dry heave.

“Slow down,” I tell myself. “Breathe.”

I breathe through my mouth. I can
taste
the foul air, but I force each breath into my lungs, hold it and then let it out slowly. Just like I learned at soccer practice. I only lasted a few practices before giving up, but at least I came away with something. Calm down. Focus. Breathe.

My body settles. I’m no longer shaking. But when I look up I wonder if I’ve done something wrong. Stars blink in the darkness, like when you stand up too fast. But they’re not floating around. They’re just tiny points of light, like actual stars, but I get the feeling they’re a lot closer. The brightest of the light points are directly behind me, and to test my theory I reach out for them. My hand strikes a solid wall.

Stone.

The points of light are small glowing stones, crystals maybe. I’d be fascinated if I weren’t absolutely terrified.

My hand yanks away from the cool surface as though repulsed by a magnetic force. For the first time since waking, a rational thought enters my mind.

Where am I
?

It’s a simple question. Finding the answer will give me focus. I turn my mind to the task while my body works the adrenaline out of its system.

The dull yellow stars behind me are large, perhaps the size of quarters. They wrap around in both directions, almost vanishing as they shrink with the distance. But I can see them surrounding me with a flow of tiny lights. There is no door. No escape.

I’m in a pit.

Full of bodies.

Long dead bodies
, I remind myself as my breathing quickens. It’s like looking at the mummies in The Museum of Fine Arts.
They can’t hurt you
.

With my eyes better adjusted to the dim light, I crouch down to look at the bone I stepped on. What I see causes me to hold my breath, but I find myself calming down for two reasons. First, my mind is engaged, and like Spock, my emotions, which can overwhelm me, are being choked out. Second, the bones are not human.