Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

Jenna drew in a breath and held it, knowing it would not be enough. The gas was probably a coolant—liquid nitrogen or maybe helium—more likely to flash freeze than suffocate them. Yet, despite this new peril, the shooting continued without cease. Still gripping Mercy’s hand, Jenna searched the room for a better hiding place, somewhere further from the gas. Before she could find anything, the gunman appeared, right above them, so close that Jenna could see wisps of smoke curling from the muzzle of his pistol. With a grim but satisfied smile, his finger tightened on the trigger.

Jenna attempted to move away, knowing it was too late, but Mercy remained rooted, anchor-like.

Then the world exploded.





49



10:33 a.m.



This is the way the world ends…

The line from an old poem sprang into her thoughts, which was strange, because even though she recognized it, she also knew that she had never heard or read those words before, had no idea what the poem was called or who the poet was.

This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.

She vividly recalled her teacher, standing at the lectern, summarizing the long litany of evils plaguing the globe. “The world is infected, and the disease is called ‘humanity.’ We are a cancer, devouring the healthy organism of the world, consuming its resources, propagating our own numbers beyond carrying capacity. And when we are warned of the danger, when we are shown that to kill the world is to kill ourselves, we refuse to listen. We will be the death of our world, and we will meet our end with a whimper.”

The prospect filled her with anger. Humanity, so arrogant, so greedy… What better way to describe the species than as a cancer? The Earth, once so full of beauty and wonder, was now choking in filth, its horizons marred by towers of concrete and steel like a malevolent grin full of broken teeth. The night sky was curtained with ugly artificial light, blotting out the stars.

Strange that she couldn’t quite remember when she had heard this lecture. The memory was so vivid, but like the details of the poem, she could not put it in the appropriate context.

No matter. The diagnosis was beyond question. That was the important thing. Humans were incapable of solving the problem because they were the problem. If there was to be a treatment for the cancer of humanity—a radical treatment—it would have to come from somewhere else.

And it had.

It all made sense now. The message Dr. Soter had received was a sort of viral therapy, and it had worked. Without even knowing why, Soter had created the antibodies that would purge the world of this plague by accelerating humanity’s own self-destructive impulses. It would take only a nudge or two: a false-flag bioterrorism incident or a subversive cyber-attack, and the superpowers of the world might unleash a cleansing nuclear fire.

Wipe the slate clean.

But first, the message. Everything was ready. The dominoes were poised to fall. But before the last phase of the treatment was to be initiated, one task remained. She remembered the time, which had very nearly arrived, and the place, which was thousands of miles away. If she was not able to get there in time, one of the others would.

She felt a sublime satisfaction in the knowledge that the cancer of humanity would be purged soon, and her own purpose in life would be fulfilled.

Too bad that Mercy and Noah would be swept away, but radical treatments often damaged healthy cells. It was for the greater good.

No, she thought suddenly. There has to be another way. I don’t want to lose them again.

Don’t be foolish, argued another voice, her teacher’s voice, but also weirdly enough, her own. You know it’s for the best. It’s what has to happen.

I know? How do I know? How do I know any of this?

And then the answer came like a flash of light.





50



10:34 a.m.



Light, brilliant beyond description, painful in its intensity. Then, darkness.

The memory of the teacher’s words slipped away like the last echoes of a dream, as Jenna embraced the physical sensations that were her lifeline out of the void.

Her ears rang, overloaded by the cacophonous detonation. The harsh smell of ozone stung her nostrils, and smoke burned her unseeing eyes. She felt the pain of a concussion—not a bullet slamming into her, but something much bigger, like what she had experienced when the Kilimanjaro had exploded. There was also the memory of something else, a tingling sensation that had caressed her exposed skin in the instant before the blast. A crazy thought burbled to the top of her rattled awareness: I’ve been struck by lightning.

Crazy, only because she knew that she had not been struck. That she retained the wherewithal to sort that out was proof enough. Nevertheless, the flash and thunderclap could have come only from a catastrophic electrical discharge.