The Atlantis Gene (The Origin Mystery 1)

I’m up and out the door before he finishes. I drive myself to the warehouse and hop in the electric car alongside my former assistant. We drive as recklessly as Rutger did the first day he showed me the tunnel. The fool has done it — he pressed on and caused a cave-in. I dread seeing it, but urge my assistant to drive faster anyway.

As the tunnel opens on the massive stone room I’ve worked in for the last four months, I notice that the electric lights are off, but the room isn’t dark — a dozen beams of light crisscross the room, the headlamps of the miners’ helmets. A man, the foreman, grabs me by the arm. “Rutger is on the telly for you, Mr. Pierce.”

“On the phone,” I say as I traipse across the dark space. I stop. There’s water on my forehead. Was it sweat? No, there’s another one, a drop of water, from the ceiling — it’s sweating.

I grab the phone. “Rutger, they said there’s been an accident, where are you?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Don’t play games. Where’s the accident?”

“Oh, you’re in the right place.” Rutger’s tone is playful and confident. Satisfied.

I glance around the room. The miners are milling about, confused. Why aren’t the lights on? I set the phone down and walk over to the electric line. It’s connected to something, a new cable. I shine my light on it, following it around the room. It runs up the wall… to the ceiling and then over to the stairs, to… “Get out!” I yell. I struggle over the uneven ground to the back of the room and try to corral the workers, but they simply stumble over each other in the choppy sea of light and shadows.

Overhead, a blast rings out in the space and rock falls. Dust envelopes the room and it’s just like the tunnels at the Western Front. I can’t save them. I can’t even see them. I stagger back, into the tunnel— the corridor to the lab. The dust follows me and I hear rock close the entrance off. The screams fade away, just like that, like a door closing, and I’m in total darkness except for the soft glow of the white light and fog in the tubes.

I don’t know how much time has passed, but I’m hungry. Very hungry. My headlamp has long since burned out, and I sit in the still darkness, leaning against the wall, thinking. Helena has to be mad with worry. Will she finally find out my secret? Will she forgive me? It all presupposes I’ll get out of here.

On the other side of the rock, I hear footsteps. And voices. Both are muffled, but there’s just enough space between the rocks to hear them.

“HEEEYYYY!”

I have to choose my words carefully. “Get on the telly and ring Lord Barton. Tell him Patrick Pierce is trapped in the tunnels.”

I hear laughter. Rutger. “You’re a survivor, Pierce, I’ll give you that. And you’re a brilliant miner, but when it comes to people, you’re about as thick as the walls to the structure.”

“Barton will have your head for killing me.”

“Barton? Who do you think gave the order? You think I could just knock you off? If so, I would have gotten rid of you a long time ago. No. Barton and Father planned for Helena and I to marry before we were even born. But she wasn’t keen on the idea; may have been why she hopped the first train to Gibraltar when the war broke out. But we can’t escape fate. The dig brought me here too, and life was about to get back on track until your gimp ass came along and the methane leaks killed my crews. Barton made a deal, but he promised Papa it could be undone. The pregnancy was about the last straw, but don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. So many children die right after birth, from all sorts of mysterious diseases. Don’t worry, I’ll be there to comfort her. We’ve known each other for ages.”

“I’m going to get out of here, Rutger. And when I do, I’m going to kill you. You understand me?”

“Keep quiet Patty-boy; men are working here.” He moves away from the rock-covered entrance to the corridor. He shouts in German, and I hear footfalls all around the room.

For the next few hours, I don’t know how long, I ransack the mysterious lab. There’s nothing I can use. And all the doors are sealed. This will be my tomb. There has to be some way out. Finally, I sit and stare at the walls, waiting, watching them shimmer like glass, almost reflecting the light from the tubes, but not quite. It’s a dull recreation, the kind of reflection iron makes.

Above me, I occasionally hear drilling and pick axes striking rocks. They’re trying to finish the job. They must be close to the top of the stairs. Suddenly, the noise stops, and I hear yelling, “Wasser! Wasser!” Water — they must have hit— then loud booms. The unmistakable sound of falling rock.

I run to the entrance and listen. Screams, rushing water. And there’s something else. A drumbeat. Or a pulsing vibration. Getting louder every second. More screams and men running. The car cranks, and it roars away.

I strain, but I can’t hear anything else. In the absence of sound, I realize I’m standing in two feet of water. It’s seeping in through the loosely stacked rock, and quickly.

I slosh back into the corridor. There must be a door to the lab. I bang around on the walls, but nothing works. The water is in the lab now; it will overtake me in minutes.

The tube — it’s open, one of the four. What choice do I have? I wade through the water and collapse into it. The fog surrounds me, and the door closes.

CHAPTER 92

Snow Camp Alpha

Drill Site #6

East Antarctica

Robert Hunt sat in his housing pod, warming his hands around a fresh cup of burned coffee. After the near-disaster at drill site five, he was glad they had reached 7,000 feet without so much as a hiccup. No pockets of air, water, or sediment. Maybe it would be like the first four sites — nothing but ice. He sipped the coffee and considered what might account for the drilling difference at the last site.

Beyond the pod’s door, a high-pitched sound erupted — the unmistakable whirl of a drill under low-to-no tension.

He ran out of the pod, made eye contact with the operator, and jerked his hand across his neck. The man lunged and hit the kill switch. The man was learning, thank God.

Robert jogged to the platform. The technician turned to him and said, “Should we reverse out?”

“No.” Robert checked the depth. 7,309 feet. “Lower the drill. Let’s see how deep the pocket is.”

The man lowered the drill, and Robert watched the depth reading climb: 7,400, 7,450, 7,500, 7,550, 7,600. It stopped at 7,624.