Burn (15 page)

I read the page over his shoulder, realizing I shouldn't have discarded Josephus as an avenue for further investigation simply because it had already given me access to the plans. “He was part of an army defeated in battle by a guy named Vespasian who later became a Roman emperor.” I return to my own computer and try
Vespasian
as a password, but it's a no-go, just like every other freaking option I've tried.

“The battle was at a place called Jotapata,” Leo adds, still reading. “Try that?”

I do. Nope. Once again, the terrible odds, the ticking clock, the failure, my own stupidity, all of it starts to weigh heavy again. “Any other options there?”

He squints at the screen. “Well, he was a historian . . . He wrote two books: one called
The Jewish War,
and one called
Antiquities of the Jews.
I don't suppose you've read them?”

I let out a dry chuckle. “No, not yet. Have you?”

He rolls his eyes. “It's probably on my reading list.” He clicks on the hyperlink and scans. “Oh, this is interesting. The Antiquities book contains passages about Jesus. Like, outside the Bible, Josephus's book is considered possible evidence of his historical existence.”

It's interesting, but I'm not sure it's useful. Still . . . “I don't suppose those books are available online?”

“You mean, like on Amazon or something?” He's already typing. “Huh. It's right here.”

Forget Amazon—there's a website with the whole damn thing. “How long is it?” If the answer's there, maybe I can get a team together and scour the pages to find it.

He groans. “Did I say it was one book? According to this, it's twenty. Twenty. Books. This guy really needed an editor.”

My heart kicks. “Twenty?”

He nods, already starting to read the first. I shove his shoulder. “Leo. Think about what you said to me a second ago. My dad had scribbled two-oh-two-oh-four on that notebook page. I thought it was one number. But that's not how you said it a second ago.”

He looks over at me. “That's because there was a little space between the first zero and the second two.”

He must have a nearly photographic memory. “Exactly,” I say, waiting for him to make the connection and then getting too impatient and blurting, “Go to book twenty?”

“Oh!” he says loudly. As he scrolls down, I notice the little notations before the sentences, kind of like Bible chapters and verses, and my heart starts to pound. “Is there a verse or line two hundred four?” I whisper, my mouth dry.

“Yeah, there is.” His voice trembles as he reads it. “Tate, look.”

. . . as soon as Albinus was come to the city of Jerusalem, he used all his endeavors and care that the country might be kept in peace, and this by destroying many of the Sicarii . . .

I turn back to my own terminal. Carefully, letter by letter, I enter the name
Albinus.

And the reaction is instant. The password screen disappears, and words begin to scroll down the screen.

RAMSES: Active

AMENHOTEP: Activating

THUTMOSE: Activating

HATSHEPSUT: Activating

ARTAXERXES: Activating

DARIUS: Activating

HAKOR: Activating

And on and on, all twenty of them. I'm standing up before I know what I'm doing, and I lunge for the hallway just as Race walks in. He blinks as he sees me pull up short. “What's wrong?” he barks.

“I've activated the satellite network!”

His mouth drops open. “You did?”

“Yeah. It was Leo's idea,” I pant, elbowing the kid as his cheeks darken. “How to find the password, I mean. The system's ramping up right now.”

Race stares at me for a moment more, then a smile breaks across his face. “It's possible you kids just saved the world.”

I laugh out of sheer relief. We did it.
We did it.

Race opens his mouth to say something else, but he's drowned out by the shriek of an alarm. My heart is in my throat as we emerge into the hallway. Panicked shouts and thumping footsteps from the atrium fill in the gaps between the screams of the alarms. We barrel into the atrium and turn in the direction of the commotion, gazing through the stories-high wall of glass at the back of the main building, behind which is the Black Box factory.

Thick smoke billows into the air. The factory is on fire.

“CHRISTINA,” I CROAK AS I SHOVE OFF AND SPRINT FOR
the rear exit of the cavernous atrium with Leo right behind me. There are no windows in the factory building, so there's no efficient way to vent whatever poisonous fumes are carried in that black smoke, which chases the factory workers as they tumble from the exits. Their faces are black and red, and their eyes are wide with horror.

We bust through the exit of the atrium and into the wide courtyard between the two buildings, covering our mouths and noses with our sleeves. My eyes sting as I hit the smoky air, and I squint, searching every face and figure for the one I most need to see. Distantly, I hear people shouting for the hoses, for the two emergency trucks located somewhere on this compound, for Dr. Ackerman . . . for mercy, for their mothers, for the pain to stop. Some are dragging limp, burned bodies from the building while others are frantically gesturing, trying to let us know exactly how bad it is inside.

Which is where Christina is. We weren't ready for this. I can tell by the panicked strain in all the voices I hear. Rufus and Brayton both come barreling out of the atrium and end up next to me and Leo, huffing and gaping at the disaster unfolding in front of us.

Rufus glares at the sky as he jogs forward. “Was it those alien bastards? Why didn't the perimeter defenses go off?”

“It couldn't have been,” says Leo, pushing at my back. “The fire looks like it started inside the factory, not as a result of a shot from the outside.” He points at the roof. It appears to be intact.

“Oh, God,” Brayton says between heavy, harsh breaths, looking at the carnage around us. “This shouldn't have happened.”

“Maybe it wouldn't have if you'd listened to me when I told you to overhaul the vent system ten years ago,” Rufus shouts, lumbering for the building. “There are still people in there!”

I follow him, but we're swimming against the current as worker after worker staggers from the building. One of them is on fire. She falls forward and is immediately smothered by others who leap to help her with no regard for their own safety.

All I can think is
that could have been Christina.

If she's not already dead, that is. My chest is tight and my limbs are buzzing as I let Rufus part the crowd, his massive frame allowing me to stumble along in his wake. Leo's behind me, and right before we reach the door, I spin around. “You need to stay out here.”

He shoves against me, his eyes on the black smoke billowing from the door. “Get out of the way.”

I grab his bony shoulders. “Leo. Look at me! I have to go in there and get Christina, and I can't focus if I'm worrying about you,” I shout.

“I can help.” He bucks, trying to throw me off. “She's in there!”

“I
know.
Please. Stay out here, and help in any way you can.” Seeing Angus appear behind us, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hair wild, I shove Leo into his arms. The big man wraps himself around Leo and drags him back, and I whirl around to find Rufus gone. Brayton disappears into the factory a moment later, and I'm on his heels. As soon as I make it through the door and into the blazing-hot interior, he shoves a gas mask toward my face. He's pulled it from some emergency stash near the entrance.

“Get that on, if you have to be in here,” he says, and then he runs off, probably looking for Ellie or one of his family members, plowing down a relatively clear aisle toward the back.

I wrestle the gas mask over my face and take a moment to look around the unfamiliar building. I'm thinking there has to be a sprinkler system, but it's almost impossible to see the ceiling of this four-story factory because the smoke is so thick. It roils like poisonous thunderclouds with nowhere to go, but staring at it makes one thing clear—if there
is
a sprinkler system, it's not working.

The workspace is dense with mechanical bays, each of which contains a combat vehicle in various stages of assembly. There must be at least twenty rows of ten vehicles, lined up nose to tail with aisles along the walls and between each row. The apparent epicenter of this disaster is near the middle of the factory floor, which must be pushing a million square feet—a cluster of combat vehicles is on fire. Workers are fleeing from the burning vehicles as the flames creep up supply lines toward the ceiling and along the row in either direction, effectively cutting off the escape route of anyone who's on the other side of the conflagration.

I grab one guy as he runs past, practically clotheslining him. “Is there live ammunition or fuel in these vehicles?” I shout, my voice distorted by the filter on the mask.

He shakes his head. “Just the dummy shells in the combat vehicles that Manuel was testing at the back.” He gestures wildly toward a space on the other side of the flaming vehicles. “But the rest of these are empty.”

The combat vehicles that Manuel was testing.
And Christina was with him. “Have you seen him or the girl he was working with?”

“No,” he says, coughing. “Not since before the shelving started to collapse on us.” He wrenches his arm from my grasp and lunges for the door. I try to catch him to ask exactly where, but an explosion on the far side of the flaming vehicles has me whipping around again, sprinting through waves of heat and vapor. There could be people—including Christina and Manuel—trapped on the other side of that inferno. My shirt is soaked with sweat as I climb atop one vehicle and begin leaping along hoods and roofs, careful to avoid the hole that's been cut in each of them to accommodate the lenses in my dad's design.

I crane my neck, trying to peer between dancing spirals of flame, trying to identify anything human and breathing in the chaos on the other side of the fire. Just beyond the flames, instead of mechanical bays, there are massive three-story-high shelving units, which hold metal panels, boxes of parts and tubing, and equipment. One of them has buckled and collapsed onto its neighbor, which is leaning precariously. It looks like all of them are going to go down like building-sized dominoes. Meanwhile, the smoke is now so thick that it's drifting down from the ceiling toward the floor—where survivors would be, if there are any.

I'm within three rows of the fire and looking for my opening when I catch movement on the other side. A long, lanky silhouette staggering between aisles of shelving. “Manuel!” I shout.

The silhouette pauses. That has to be him. I make it close enough to the fire that it feels like the hairs on my arms and legs are getting singed. All that stands between me and the rear of the factory is one long, burning row of combat vehicles. I'm so close, but I can't go any farther. But hanging around me are tools, suspended from scaffolding two stories above me, their thick power cables like vines in a mechanical jungle. I leap onto one and begin to heave myself upward, praying it holds. My palms are slick with sweat, causing me to slip every time I grab the cable and pull, but I make steady progress.

Without my gas mask, I'd be falling to earth, suffocated and still, but it filters the air and keeps me breathing as I begin to swing on the cable, reaching for another that's hanging about twenty feet over the flames. I want to stop and look for Manuel again, to make sure I'm heading in the right direction, but right now I have to focus on not tumbling into the fire below me. I pick up momentum, pumping my legs and swinging closer. My vision narrows to the orange cable in front of me; all I hear is a roar of white noise. Just as I arc forward, I let go and throw myself at that orange cable, my fingers closing over it . . . and sliding.

I clutch at the sweat-slick cable as every muscle in my body tenses, like the rest of me knows what my mind hasn't accepted yet—the inferno below me is awaiting my arrival, ready to reduce me to ash. My fingers are white-knuckled over the cable, stopping my downward progression. With my legs kicking less than five yards above the flames, I cling desperately to it, afraid to move lest I start to slide again. It feels like my legs are starting to cook in the raging heat that rolls off the fire below me. I heave myself up with one arm and slowly climb, twisting the cable around my hand to keep from slipping down, until most of my body is tangled with the long orange cord.

Then I begin to swing again. Two rows of combat vehicles—two sets of cables—away, Manuel is waving his arms in quick, uncoordinated motions as he leans heavily on the massive scaffolding of the shelving. He doesn't seem to notice it leaning dangerously over him, and he startles when a box falls from three stories above and slams to the ground nearby, hurling bolts and screws against his back as he hunches over more debris at his feet. He's barely visible through the fog, but I can tell from the dark blob of his face that he's got his shirt pulled up, desperately trying to block the fumes. His movements are sluggish and weak as he tugs at the pile of rags on the ground between his legs, trying to pick it up.

My heart clutches as the pile shudders and shifts, revealing dark blond hair and pale skin. Christina is lying at Manuel's feet. There's a swath of smudged cloth tied around her face. Her name is the pulse in my head as I kick and swing, and when I grab for the next cable, I'm ready for the sweaty slide and tangle the cable around me before I can lose momentum and altitude. I force my eyes away from Christina's body and concentrate on making it to her, moving like a clumsy Tarzan as I lunge for the next cable, which hangs close to the huge, leaning shelving that Manuel is huddled under. I hope it's strong enough to hold my weight without collapsing.

I swing just far enough to grab onto the shelving two stories above the floor. It creaks and wobbles, but it's enormous—like one of those three-story-high shelves at Home Depot—so it tolerates my weight. It takes me only a few seconds to climb low enough to drop to the ground, landing next to Manuel.

“The back entrance is blocked,” he wheezes into my ear. His black hair is plastered to his face, and his eyes are red and swollen. “I was trying to get her out the front, but the smoke—” He doubles over, coughing.

But he's said enough. If the back exit is inaccessible, we're trapped, because although there's a slim possibility that Manuel could climb the shelving and swing himself to safety, as I kneel and pull Christina into my arms, I know there's not a chance in hell that she could follow.

I have to find another way. Huddled over her, I stroke her hair away from her face. I can't see any obvious injuries, but the smoke has done its work. She's barely conscious. Sooty tears streak out of the corners of her eyes. I start to rip the mask off my face to put it on her, but Manuel grabs my hand.

“Keep it on,” he says hoarsely, still bent over and bracing his hands on his thighs. “You're our only chance to get out.”

And if I don't move quickly, if I don't think smart and fast, we're all going down. Still holding Christina against my chest, I look around. Beyond the shelving are more combat vehicles, but none of them are fueled—which is lucky, since they'd be exploding if they were. And none of them have live ammunition, but . . .

“Are any of these vehicles armed?” I say loudly, just as an explosion shakes the factory floor and causes boxes of equipment to land heavily around us. If we don't move, the shelves are going to collapse and bury us here.

“Only with dummy rounds,” says Manuel between coughs. “You can fire the cannons on the roof from a console in the back or the hood-mounted cannon from the driver's seat.”

“That's our way out.” I tug his arm. “Which one can I use?”

He peers at me, looking confused, and I realize his brain is probably a tainted stew of delirium-inducing chemicals that he's inhaled from the smoke. He's not exactly at his best.

“Manuel, which one is armed?” I shout.

He blinks and squints at the combat vehicles around us, then shoves off the scaffolding and staggers down the aisle, which is now completely closed in by the leaning shelving above it. It's a miracle we're not crushed as I scoop Christina into my arms and carry her, following Manuel along the aisle littered with debris.

We emerge on the other side to see more collapsed shelving against the back wall, but one small area is reasonably open, a set of combat vehicles sitting peacefully while the smoke swirls in lazy tendrils above them. “There.” Manuel points to the three vehicles in a row near the wall to our left. “We were testing the cannons on the roofs of the vehicles. Christina's really good at . . .” The rest of his sentence is in Spanish. He closes his eyes and takes his head in his hands.

I heave Christina over my shoulder, curling one hand around her thigh as her arms hang down my back. With my other hand, I grab at Manuel's sleeve to lurch him into motion. We make our way over to the first vehicle, a looming SUV with the gaping hole in the top. All these eight-wheeled fighting vehicles have two cannons on either side of the hole in the roof, but they're not the usual stationary turret you'd see on an armored personnel carrier. These are each on rails that enable them to slide and rotate three hundred sixty degrees, allowing the gunners to operate both cannons at once. It must take mad skills, and I'm hoping I've got them. I gently lay Christina on the ground, and Manuel sinks to his knees next to her, coughing and heaving. I climb onto the combat vehicle and drop through the hole in the roof, landing awkwardly in a chair surrounded by a circular console.

In the tiny metal-encased world of the combat vehicle, I peer through the hazy air at the targeting system, which is giving off a dim green glow that tells me it's connected to a stable power source, probably a battery. I've never seen anything like this, the three-hundred-sixty-degree video display, the odd things that look like blood pressure cuffs on either side of the seat, the two metal sticks jutting up from the floor like double helicopter controls. Wishing I'd studied my father's blueprints a little more closely, I flip the safety off one of the control sticks and flinch as the thing kicks in my hand. Above me, one of the roof cannons slides along its rails, whizzing past the circular hole above my head, a dark shadow in the fog.