The Atlantis Plague (The Origin Mystery 2)

“Boys, we have to go.”

Both ignored her.

She walked to Adi and picked him up. He was thin, but still weighed probably forty-five pounds. Kate strained to hold him up, and he struggled in her arms, reaching desperately for his writing pad. She set him down, handed him the pad, and he settled down considerably. Across the room, she saw Martin following suit with Surya.

They practically dragged the boys out of the building, and this time Martin led Kate across the camp, into the swarming mass of people. Up ahead, a gun battle erupted, scattering the crowd. Through the fleeing people, Kate could see the Spanish troops fighting the group of survivors—a mix of the faces she had seen in the prison cell and the new people that had been brought in. The light blue Orchid flag curled and blew in the wind as it burned above them.

Martin reached into the backpack and handed Kate a green egg with a handle. “Your arm is better than mine,” he said. “If the Spanish lose, we won’t get out.” He pulled the pin, and when Kate realized what it was, she almost dropped it. Martin cupped her hand. “Throw it.”

The stampede around her grew more intense as people slammed into her, tearing Adi’s hand from hers and forcing the small boy to the ground. They would trample him. Kate launched the grenade toward the gate and the sound of the gunfire, then waded into the mob. She pulled Adi into her arms as the heat and sound of the explosion tore through the crowd.

As the smoke went up, the mass of people reversed course, flowing toward the gate. Kate, Martin and the boys fell in and managed to clear the gate just as the sound of gunfire resumed again—this time behind them.

The back of the resort opened onto a small road that joined the main highway. Kate stopped at the sight—it was amazing. Abandoned cars filled the freeway as far as she could see. On both lanes, the cars abruptly stopped near the entrance to the Orchid District. Doors stood open and the streets were strewn with garments, rotten food, and objects Kate couldn’t make out. People had driven here for safety, for the life-saving drug. If Kate, Martin, and the boys could get in one of the first cars, they could get away quickly.

Martin seemed to read her mind. He shook his head. “They siphoned all the gas weeks ago. We need to get to the Old Town. It’s our only chance.”

They continued moving with the crowd, but with each step the concentrated mass got thinner as families and loners broke off, taking their own course away from the coast and the death in the Orchid District. Martin continued to lead as he and Kate tugged the boys along by their hands.

Beyond the freeway, the streets were lined with the hallmarks of any Spanish resort town: beach shops, chain retailers, and hotels. All were empty, and most of the windows had been shattered. The sun had almost set now and the gunfire in the distance still raged, but it had slowed.

As Kate walked, a new sensation gripped her: a smell, slightly sweet yet putrid. Dead bodies. How many would there be out here? Martin’s earlier words echoed through her head: ninety percent die within seventy-two hours. How many had died before the Orchid District had been established here? And what would they find beyond its fence?

They walked a few more blocks in silence, and the streets changed. Asphalt gave way to cobblestones, and the buildings were different too. The shops were smaller and quaint. Art houses, cafes, and gift shops that had sold handmade trinkets dotted the streets. They had fared better than the stores along the main thoroughfare, but there were still signs of the mayhem here: burned-out buildings, abandoned cars, and trash.

Martin stopped to catch his breath at a white plaster wall that held an iron gate—presumably the gate to the Old Town. The rush of adrenaline that had propelled him in the camp seemed to have left him, and Kate thought he looked more haggard than ever—like a drunk the morning after a bender. He put his hands on his knees and drew long breaths.

Kate turned and surveyed the coastline behind them. Marbella’s Old Town sat on a hill, and the vantage point was incredible. Without the columns of smoke, the view of the sun setting over the Mediterranean and the white sand coast would have been breathtaking. Through the smoke, a dozen black objects emerged: a fleet of helicopters. Kate saw them a few seconds before she heard the thump-thump-thump.

She grabbed Adi’s and Surya’s hands and turned to run, but Martin stopped her with an outstretched arm, practically clotheslining her. He wrapped his fingers around her shoulder and corralled her and the boys behind him, putting his body between them and something. Kate peered over his shoulder and saw what it was.

At the cross street ahead, two wolves wandered into the intersection. The animals stood still for a moment, listening, then slowly turned their heads toward Kate, Martin, and the boys. A still, quiet moment seemed to stretch on forever. Then Kate heard the soft sound of paws padding across the stone street. Two more wolves joined the first two, then another joined them, and then three more, making eight in total, all standing in the street, staring.

The largest wolf broke from the pack and strode toward them, never taking his eyes off Martin. A second mangy animal followed close on his heels.

They stopped a few feet from Martin, studying him. Kate’s hands started to shake, and she knew the boys could feel it. Moisture filled the space where their hands met.

Behind them, the thump-thump-thump of the helicopters grew louder.

CHAPTER 11

Two Miles Below Immari Operations Base Prism

Antarctica

Dorian held his arms up, letting the case crash into the hard snow below. What did he expect his Immari comrades to do? He had just walked out wearing an Atlantean suit, holding a mysterious case. He would have already thrown the switch on the nukes.

The visor in the helmet was mirrored—they couldn’t see Dorian’s face inside. He needed some way to communicate with them, some method of sending a message. He scanned the ice room for something he could use. He couldn’t scratch a message in the ice—it was frozen solid. With his hand, he began motioning in the air, writing the letters: D - O - R - I - A - N. A second set of lights on the nukes came on. He traced the letters again. It wasn’t working. He cast a glance around the room, desperately trying to find anything that could—

A body, almost buried in ice, lay against the wall. Dorian rushed to it and punched the ice around it, trying to dig it out. Maybe he could activate the suit’s radio. He wiped the ice from the helmet and instantly reeled back in shock. His father. Rivers of frozen blood framed the face. The cold had preserved him perfectly. They had killed him—left him here to the Bell. Why? Who? Dorian sat there, staring at his father’s dead body. He didn’t care about the bombs anymore.