Apocalypse Machine Read Online Free Page B
just a quarter mile from the steam vent, they pause for a breather, hands on knees, lungs wheezing.
“Can’t...breathe,” Phillip says, gulping air like he’s just surfaced from the ocean after nearly drowning. I know how he feels. My heart is pounding. I feel lightheaded, and I’m seeing spots dance on the fringes of my vision.
“You can breathe when we are off the glacier,” Kiljan says, slowing to a walk, but not stopping.
It takes us four hours to trek five miles, slowed by frequent stops and scientific arguments. Someone in good shape, and who’s accustomed to the cold, might be able to cover the remaining distance in an hour. We’ll be lucky to cover it in two, which is around the same time the sun will set. If that happens before we reach the superjeep, we’re going to be in trouble. Of course, there’s also the chance that molten lava could consume us all at any second.
When Holly and I pass Diego, he forces himself to follow.
“Move it, you old codger,” I say to Phillip, but he just waves me off.
“Need another—”
The ice beneath us quakes. Some unseen and distant part of the glacier cracks open, the sound like a gunshot, rolling over the icy plane.
Phillip groans and brings up the rear.
We move like this for more than an hour, stopping just twice to drink, breathe and stretch. Both times, we’re propelled back into action by the rumbling volcano. It’s no longer beneath us, but it’s still capable of killing us instantaneously, with poison gas, glacial flooding or good old fashioned pyroclastic flow—a mix of 1000-degree gas and powdered stone that rushes away from a volcano at 450 mph, enveloping everything in its path. It’s a horrible, yet very fast way to die, as the residents of Pompeii discovered when Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD.
The sun is low in the sky ahead, forcing our eyes to the ground as we trudge along, our energy nearly sapped. My legs ache, but not nearly as badly as my lungs, which feel blistered and torn. With every step, I feel lower to the ground. I fight off thoughts of stopping and laying down to sleep by picturing Ike, Ishah, Mira and Bell. They become my world. My goal.
Stay alive.
Get home.
“Stop,” Phillip says. “I can’t go on.”
I turn my eyes forward without lifting my head. Phillip stands a few feet away, his legs teetering like pine trees in a storm. He’s pitched forward, hands on knees, head dipped toward the earth, which I notice is dark gray now, not glacial white.
Where are we? I think, and I look beyond Phillip. I see Holly ten feet ahead, smiling back at us, and Diego further on, leaning against something solid, black and cast in silhouette, thanks to the setting sun. Diego tilts his head back, draining a water bottle.
“Phil,” Holly says. “We’re here.”
“Here, where?” Phillip says, standing and staggering until I reach up and catch him. We stumble a bit before balancing and lifting our hands to block the sun. With the sun blocked, the superjeep is easy to see. Its bulky frame fills me with relief.
“Thank God.” Phillip staggers past Holly and collides with the vehicle’s side, arms outstretched to embrace the vehicle. He flinches back when the engine roars to life. Kiljan is already behind the wheel, waving us on. Despite the long, exhausting trek, the man hasn’t lost his sense of urgency. And with good cause.
It feels like we’re half a world away from the melting ice and churning subglacial caldera, but in geological terms, we’re still at ground zero. Pompeii was a little more than six miles from Vesuvius, and it would have taken the pyroclastic cloud just forty-eight seconds to envelope the city. At five miles from the caldera, we’d have even less time, assuming the eruption jettisons material in our direction. Most models predict Bardarbunga’s ash and gasses will travel east to west, descending on the UK and Europe. But that doesn’t mean we’re safe. Not remotely. Even if six miles is considered the
“Can’t...breathe,” Phillip says, gulping air like he’s just surfaced from the ocean after nearly drowning. I know how he feels. My heart is pounding. I feel lightheaded, and I’m seeing spots dance on the fringes of my vision.
“You can breathe when we are off the glacier,” Kiljan says, slowing to a walk, but not stopping.
It takes us four hours to trek five miles, slowed by frequent stops and scientific arguments. Someone in good shape, and who’s accustomed to the cold, might be able to cover the remaining distance in an hour. We’ll be lucky to cover it in two, which is around the same time the sun will set. If that happens before we reach the superjeep, we’re going to be in trouble. Of course, there’s also the chance that molten lava could consume us all at any second.
When Holly and I pass Diego, he forces himself to follow.
“Move it, you old codger,” I say to Phillip, but he just waves me off.
“Need another—”
The ice beneath us quakes. Some unseen and distant part of the glacier cracks open, the sound like a gunshot, rolling over the icy plane.
Phillip groans and brings up the rear.
We move like this for more than an hour, stopping just twice to drink, breathe and stretch. Both times, we’re propelled back into action by the rumbling volcano. It’s no longer beneath us, but it’s still capable of killing us instantaneously, with poison gas, glacial flooding or good old fashioned pyroclastic flow—a mix of 1000-degree gas and powdered stone that rushes away from a volcano at 450 mph, enveloping everything in its path. It’s a horrible, yet very fast way to die, as the residents of Pompeii discovered when Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD.
The sun is low in the sky ahead, forcing our eyes to the ground as we trudge along, our energy nearly sapped. My legs ache, but not nearly as badly as my lungs, which feel blistered and torn. With every step, I feel lower to the ground. I fight off thoughts of stopping and laying down to sleep by picturing Ike, Ishah, Mira and Bell. They become my world. My goal.
Stay alive.
Get home.
“Stop,” Phillip says. “I can’t go on.”
I turn my eyes forward without lifting my head. Phillip stands a few feet away, his legs teetering like pine trees in a storm. He’s pitched forward, hands on knees, head dipped toward the earth, which I notice is dark gray now, not glacial white.
Where are we? I think, and I look beyond Phillip. I see Holly ten feet ahead, smiling back at us, and Diego further on, leaning against something solid, black and cast in silhouette, thanks to the setting sun. Diego tilts his head back, draining a water bottle.
“Phil,” Holly says. “We’re here.”
“Here, where?” Phillip says, standing and staggering until I reach up and catch him. We stumble a bit before balancing and lifting our hands to block the sun. With the sun blocked, the superjeep is easy to see. Its bulky frame fills me with relief.
“Thank God.” Phillip staggers past Holly and collides with the vehicle’s side, arms outstretched to embrace the vehicle. He flinches back when the engine roars to life. Kiljan is already behind the wheel, waving us on. Despite the long, exhausting trek, the man hasn’t lost his sense of urgency. And with good cause.
It feels like we’re half a world away from the melting ice and churning subglacial caldera, but in geological terms, we’re still at ground zero. Pompeii was a little more than six miles from Vesuvius, and it would have taken the pyroclastic cloud just forty-eight seconds to envelope the city. At five miles from the caldera, we’d have even less time, assuming the eruption jettisons material in our direction. Most models predict Bardarbunga’s ash and gasses will travel east to west, descending on the UK and Europe. But that doesn’t mean we’re safe. Not remotely. Even if six miles is considered the
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