The tranquil blue skies are busy. Kites fly, and doves and seagulls coo and squawk as they glide through the air. I hold my arms out, the rare hot air heavenly. My skin tingles.
What must it have been like to have different seasons and weather in the world? To have varying temperatures, sights, and smells. To feel the wind on your face, a raindrop on your head, hold out your hand to catch a snowflake and watch it melt in your palm. What had it felt like?
Music and singing carry over from a brightly lit bandstand as I walk past. Huge, twisting slides are in full use, and in the far distance, holiday goers climb the gray rock faces. The merry-go-round flickers bright orange, red, and yellow as both adults and children ride the donkeys around and around.
I face the vivid aqua waters. If only the real thing were as translucent. Imagine being able to do it all: explore the depths of the water, swim on its surface, and then when you were done, move onto the land and look up at the sky. Old Worlders had been able to do all that. So many worlds in one. Is that why people will do anything to return to the surface? I guess Deathstar’s right; the Explorers are amazing, risking their lives to find ways for us to have that again. I really shouldn’t complain so much about the hefty monthly installments.
Right, time to get going, but first I dig my feet deeper into the warm white sand, stretching and curling my toes. I bend down, scooping some up and letting it run through my fingers. The ground quivers faintly beneath me.
I peer closer. Grains of sand jump up before my eyes as I feel another tremor. Is that normal? I straighten, glancing around. Nobody else seems concerned. Maybe it’s a new addition. Perhaps they’ve installed—
The sky flickers, and then the birds begin to disappear.
A seagull flying low over the distant horizon vanishes, only to reappear frozen in flight. I take a step back. If it’s only a technical failure, why does the ground feel funny?
At once, the whole sky—along with every cotton cloud, kite, bird, and the shining sun—turns to rigid lines of vivid color. I shiver. Others notice the changes, looking and pointing above them. It’s very wrong. In the absence of the blue skies, the entire arena has taken on a whole different aura, an uncomfortable and surreal tone. My stomach rolls.
Alarms ring out. The lighting dims inside. I glance upward and freeze.
The colorful stripes are gone. In their place is the see-through roof of the resort. All around us the vast, dome-shaped cover, never before seen from the inside by holiday goers, is now fully visible. With no holograms or projections to disguise it, the real thing is terrifyingly jarring against the safe and staged interior. The dark evening waters sway as they beat against the structure. Somebody cries out, and chaos ensues.
People abandon deck chairs, and those gathered around the Punch and Judy show and the candyfloss and ice cream stands disperse in seconds.
An animal, the biggest I’ve ever seen, swims over the roof of the resort and down to one side. A giant moving shadow. I stand rooted to the spot, a cold stinging in my chest. It’s some kind of whale, gliding to and fro. Every time its dark form comes closer, the bigger it appears, its empty eyes staring. Ominous red lights flash all around me, and then an announcement:
“Brighton Pier is under Anthropoid attack.”
Oh my God.
“Please evacuate the building in an orderly fashion,” the voice continues. “Do not stay. Please remain calm but exit immediately.”
The place fills with terrified screams. The warning keeps repeating itself. The resort’s staff call out loud instructions as they try to organize an instant evacuation.
Another tremor now, this time stronger. Figures fall off the donkeys in panic, unwilling to wait for the merry-go-round to stop. Cries for help carry from the distant rocks where the climbers now dangle helplessly on ropes.
I shake. I stamp my feet to regain the strength in my legs. It makes no difference. I take deep breaths: Think. It’s impossible. How will they attack? Weapons fired from a distance? An explosion? An attack in person? My mind races from one terrifying possibility to another. Nausea rises, threatening to choke me. It hurts to swallow. Anthropoids.
We are the tiny decorative fish in a sad Old World fishbowl. Trapped.
The shadowy creature rams the roof again. Focus. Jojo . . . Will she be all right? Will the vessel survive the attack? A cry nearby. The little boy who was building a sandcastle earlier sits bawling in the chaos of screams and sirens. Way above him, a winding slide rocks.
I finally stir and hurry toward him, grabbing him and running away. The slide comes crashing down and panic only increases. The boy’s shrieking mother spies her son. She snatches the toddler off me, and they speed away. Another tremor.
I jolt. What am I doing? I need to leave. Now. I join the throng running along the beach, headed for the hatches. I try ducking through the crowd. No luck. It’s too large for the narrow stretch, and I can’t move fast enough.
I head for the swaying trees. There are far fewer people there, moving much faster. I drag my feet, forcing one in front of the other. Jojo and Sam . . . What if the submarine—
A tremendous rumble lifts me off the ground. I soar through the air.
Vivid colors pulse around me, and an onslaught of noises all merge into one: Alarms, shouting, crying, and from somewhere so very far away, something that sounds like Jojo barking. I hit the floor. My whole being screams silently.
The huge palm tree above me cracks and swerves down in my direction, just as a dark void washes over me.
The boy is around the same age as me, not more than four or five years old. We happily gaze at each other. When he places his hand on the window, I giggle and mimic the gesture. As I watch, he jerks his head back, his concentration elsewhere. An expression of absolute horror breaks through the previous joy. I cry. I can’t stop the tears as I look on his terror-stricken face. Everything darkens. Somewhere, a soft, deep voice speaks urgently. Papa’s skeletal figure appears, shackled by heavy chains. He moves forward, reaching out to me, but the clanging metal stops him. His emaciated form is too much, the hollowed eyes defeated, the soul crushed. I scream and scream, but no sound escapes. And the redness . . . the redness is everywhere, beckoning me to focus.
I force my eyes open, blinking. Muffled sirens and other sounds, a deep, husky voice among them, resonate from every direction. The world around me pulses vivid red. For a second I’m back in Tabby’s sub in the marathon, hovering until the effects of the flare wear off. Above me, copper tracks dotted with light bulbs run the length of the space—the ceiling of the submarine. I’m on the sofa in the saloon.
Jojo whines. I turn toward the sound and pain stabs at me. Ari sits a few feet away, Jojo cradled in his arm, her paw bandaged. In his hands he holds the first aid kit.
I inhale sharply as I suddenly remember. The attack! What happened? Did everyone get out? How did I get here?
Ari glances up. “You’re awake, good. How do you feel? You need to get us out of here.” His face is rigid, his voice wrought with tension. “I can’t command the sub.” His eyes shine in the throbbing redness of the room.
A resounding boom rocks the vessel.
“Now,” he urges again.
I manage to raise my voice above a whisper and instruct Oscar to make an immediate departure. The submarine hums into action.
I swallow. “Jojo.”