Vanished (11 page)

APPAS." Logan motioned him close so he could speak
low. "Is there some Homeland Security protocol that
could account for the delayed response?"

"Maybe they're running some aerosol test, making sure this
mist isn't bioreactive."

"Not good enough. These people need help, and they need
it now."

Pappas shrugged his good shoulder. "You pulled rank, Logan.
So you get to decide what we're going to do."

"If emergency services won't come here, then I'll go drag
them out of their safe little station house."

"What makes you think you'll have more luck than your
friend Monroe?"

"Nothing," Logan said. "But I have to try. Do what you can
to help Jamie and Hal until I get back."

"No flippin' way. You got your job, I got mine. Give me
those keys."

"Sorry, Agent Pappas. But we need as many trained
personnel on the street as we can get." Maybe Logan was being
hardheaded, but the thought of Pappas alone in the sub didn't
sit well. Not that there was much there. The radio, some files,
a first-aid kit, keys to the cruisers. And the gun safe.

"I got a long memory, Logan. And I sure as blazes won't be
afraid to use it when your superiors arrive."

Pappas stomped back to work, doling the ice packs Hal had
pilfered from the Kiddie Academy. Retired or not, Hal had
slipped right back into his tough cop persona.

Logan hopped onto Jamie's bike and rode it onto the path.
He preferred its relative solitude to the Boulevard where people
milled about, cursing their stalled cars or shaking their cell
phones. Yet for every whiner, there were two people wanting to
know what they could do to help.

He glanced over his shoulder, hoping to make out Walden
Estates up on the hill. But the mist hung heavy over the blast
site, obscuring everything north of the Circle. He couldn't see
to the east or west either, as if the mist blossomed out around
the bike path. In one sense, it put him eerily in mind of the
doughnut-shaped cloud generated by nuclear bombs, except for
the opening where the bike path intersected the rotary.

He cycled south, ignoring his back spasms and flaming
sciatic nerve.

Looking down the boulevard, he could see mist obscuring
the top stories of the Werner Insurance building. The fire station
was a block past Werner. The air vibrated, reminding Logan of
his junior high science class when Mr. Lester explained about
the movement of electrons. The whole universe was in motion,
if one were to believe the physicists and the Discovery Channel.
That the earth under their feet felt solid was an illusion.

Logan rode on, trying to pray for Kimmie and little Natasha
and the lady in the sundress and the girl who had run into the
bomb instead of away from it. One block, four blocks, six blocks,
praying for Jamie and Hal to do good duty and for Pappas to be
friend and not mortal enemy.

Was God even listening?

When he was within three blocks of the Spire firehouse, he
rode down the grassy border until he was back on the Boulevard. Even here, nearly a mile south of the Circle, cars and trucks had stalled, though the fronts of buildings were intact.
No windows were broken, nor was anything charred.

Another phenomenon was in play here, Logan thought,
something that must have driven people to move north toward
the Circle. As Hal had described, the mist curved down to the
ground, a barrier to emergency responders who were either too
frightened to pass into the mist-or had been ordered not to.

Was the mist a by-product of the bomb or its real intent?
Was everyone in the Flats already the walking dead?

Logan's anger hardened, a rock-solid resolve to steal an
ambulance or rescue truck and drive it back himself. People
needed help, and they needed it now.

The mist hung before him, a veil draped from the sky, close
enough so he could stretch out his arm and see his hand disappear into it. It was translucent, like one of his mother's sheer
curtains, but it refracted light in some odd way. If he stared
hard enough at it, he could see an endless stretch of trees and
sky. The green and blue vibrated as before, but now that he was
up close, Logan saw the movement in lines, like a clear tinsel
hung from above.

Just a mirage, some trick of light. Nothing to fear here-he
knew exactly what lay on the other side, and it sure as spit wasn't
a forest. Hadn't he walked or biked these streets his whole life?

What was that old line from World War II that Grampie
Logan used to quote? Nothing to fear but fear itself.

Logan straightened his shoulders and walked into the mist.

H, NO," CHLOE SAID. "There's the train."
t

The Quanta car sat about a quarter mile down
the guideway, wrapped in a dark haze. She broke
into a run. Jon caught up, stopped her. "Slow down. The air
is thin."

She yanked away. "Don't treat me like a child."

"I'm treating you like the mother of a child. Our child.
Slow down."

"We've got to do something."

"I'll run up there, check things out. You meet me there in a
couple of minutes. Swear you'll walk at a nice, easy pace. OK?"

"I hate playing the little woman."

"Play the big mommy then," Jon said.

"Yeah, yeah. OK. But you wait until I get there to perform
your manly heroics. You'll want an audience."

"You bet." Jon kissed her forehead, then took off at a jog.

Wider than a conventional rail car, the Quanta train was
streamlined for speed but spacious for comfort. When the
magnets were powered up, the cars hovered between the
guideways, propelled forward by the alternating states of
electromagnetic attraction and repulsion.

Though the lights still shone overhead, there was no glow to
the guideway. The circuits to the trains had been broken, which
meant computer control had somehow been disrupted. Without
the magnetic force to elevate it, the train had sunk between the guideways. Jon could only see half of a single car buried in
mud. Indeed, the entire tunnel was blocked by mud.

What if their little hack job had caused this catastrophe?
What if they had killed someone?

Out of breath, he had to stop and squat down. No time for
what-ifs now, even though unraveling such what-ifs had driven
Jon's whole life.

"You all right?" Chloe's voice echoed from down the tunnel.

"Totally out of shape." As if he had ever been in shape. "Take
it slow, babe."

Obviously the tunnel had been breached, but where did the
water come from to turn earth into mud? Barcester was chosen
for the train crossing because of its granite-based topography.
Geological surveys had shown no water tables or faults.

Someone called out from inside the train.

Jon jumped down onto the platform and pushed through the
door. The car seemed empty. "Is someone in here?"

"Here! I'm up front."

Jon moved quickly, barely taking in the fine leather seats
and mahogany panels. The car was dim, emergency beacons
supplying the only light.

Mud had seeped into the front half of the car.

A man was wedged under a seat. His gray sport coat, black
silk shirt, and sleek hair marked him as a corporate wonk.

"Are you hurt?" Jon asked.

"I can't tell. My legs are trapped under the seat. They're
numb. Who're you?"

"I'm one of the inspectors. Jon Percy."

"Thomas Hansen, VP marketing. Tom."

"What happened?"

"The car slammed to a stop. I got thrown forward and then
jerked back onto the floor. My legs caught under the seat, and
this blasted mud avalanched in around me before I could even try to get unstuck. Why the blazes are you just looking
at me? Do something!"

"Of course. Let me see if I can move that seat." Jon pressed
his shoulder against the side. As he pushed, Chloe came up
behind him, with a quiet touch to his back.

"You're moving it the wrong way," Hansen said. "It's
crushing me."

"I'm not moving it at all. I can't."

"The mud," Chloe said. "It's rising."

"Call for help. Hurry up, before this muck swallows me."

"We can't," Chloe said. "We lost communications, and the
closest access stairway is blocked."

"Who're you?" Hansen said.

"Chloe Walter. Jon's wife."

"How many were on the train with you?" Jon asked.

"Four others."

"Four others? Were they...?" Jon was absolutely sick at the
thought of them buried under the mud-and the possibility
that he and Chloe had caused this.

"Everybody else was in the front car. Could you two get this
seat off me, please?"

"Yes, of course," Jon said. "But Chloe can't push. She's
pregnant."

"Brute force shouldn't be our first consideration anyway,"
Chloe said. "We need a lever."

Jon took a long look around. They could try to rip apart the
luggage compartments, but even if they could break off the
chrome flashing, it would snap under the weight of the mud.
Nothing else was sturdy enough or long enough to break off.
Given the data, there was only one possible solution.

"I'll be the lever," Jon said.

"What?" Chloe gaped at him.

"I'll jam my shoulder under that rack of seats. Once I lift
it-just an inch-Chloe, you pull him out. But be careful. Use your legs, not your stomach. Tom, push hard with your arms.
Do most of the work."

Hansen squirmed, trying to get his arms up on the seat
behind him.

Chloe dragged Jon down the aisle. "I don't want you in that
mud. Try jamming the top of the seat with your shoulder,
pushing with your legs."

"I already tried that. That mud is acting like a seal. We need
to break it."

"I don't like the look of that stuff. There's something not right
about it. It's kind of..."

"Glowing?"

"That's a little twilight zonish for me, but yes ... it's got some
sort of luminescence. An unknown phenomenon-we need to
step back, consider what it might mean."

"I don't think we've got the time."

"But what if more mud comes through while we're trying
to get him out? He would still be stuck, and you would, too."

"Hey, you two! I'm not deaf," Hansen yelled.

"We're going to get you out of this." Jon knelt next to the seat
and wiggled his hand into the mud. His fingers numbed. The
weight of the mud, cutting off his circulation already?

"What's wrong?" Hansen asked.

"Nothing. I just can't find the bottom of the seat."

"It's right here, man. It's got to be."

Hansen was correct, of course. Even so, an irrational notion
seized Jon-that the mud had somehow displaced the bottom
of the seat, along with Hansen's legs and any hope of ever
seeing daylight again. Like that episode of Twilight Zone where
a child rolls out of bed and falls into another dimension.

No, he couldn't think like that. Jonathan Percy was a scientist, trained in rational investigation. He accepted only what he
could measure, see, quantify, define. He could speculate on the possible forever, but dwelling on the impossible was a waste of
time.

And he had little time to waste. The mud had seeped to
Thomas Hansen's ribs.

Just do it, Jon thought, amused that a commercial slogan
would provide the impetus his own conscience couldn't seem
to muster.

He jammed his arm into the mud up to his shoulder. He felt
the seat-maybe-but couldn't seem to get hold of it. He pulled
his arm out, looked up at Chloe. "I have to get down under it.
It's the only way it will move."

"No," she said. "I won't let you."

Hansen's eyes said it all. Please.

Jon took a deep breath and pushed headfirst into the mud.
It flowed around him as smoothly as if it were a resting place
prepared just for him.

Was this what a hibernating frog felt like? Embracing
mother earth like a womb and having the faith that, when
the air warmed once again and the sun rose higher in the sky,
it would find its way out?