The Atlantis Plague: The Origin Mystery (Book 2) by A.G. Riddle

Author:A.G. Riddle [Riddle, A.G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ePub Bud (www.epubbud.com)
Published: 2013-12-13T16:00:00+00:00

When Dorian awoke, it was still dark, but there was no fire at the helicopter crash site, only smoke. And pain. But he could move again. Beside him, the pilot lay asleep.

Dorian sat up, grimacing with every move. His feet. They were a burned, mottled mess. The unlaced, melted boots lay close by. The bottoms were smooth where the rubber had turned to liquid, flowing onto and over his feet. The pilot had removed them, likely saving Dorian’s feet. How long would it have taken the melting rubber to cool? If the boots had stayed on, Dorian may have never walked again.

An untouched pair of boots lay just beyond Dorian’s charred set.

Dorian glanced over at the snoring pilot again. He was barefooted. Dorian held the boots up to his feet. A little small, but they would do, depending on how far he had to go. And he needed to find that out.

He crawled over to his sidearm and sat phone. He glanced again at the pilot, and considered his next move. The area around the gash in the pilot’s leg already showed signs of infection.

Dorian punched the phone.

“Fleet Ops.”

“It’s Sloane—”

“Sir, we’ve—”

“Shut up. Put Captain Williams on.”

“General—”

“Captain, why the fuck am I stranded in the woods inside enemy lines?”

“Sir, we’ve sent two rescue missions. They’ve shot them both down. You’re deep in their firing range.”

“I do not want to hear how many times you’ve failed, Captain. Send a topographic map to my phone with an overlay of their firing radius.”

“Yes, sir. We think Ceuta may be sending ground troops to your location—”

Dorian held the phone out and studied the map, ignoring the captain. From his location, Dorian thought he could reach the nearest rendezvous point outside Ceuta’s firing range in about three hours. He glanced at his burned feet. Four hours was more realistic. It wouldn’t be an easy trek, but he could make it.

The pilot let out a snore that caught Dorian’s attention. He looked over, annoyed. What to do? The gun and magazines loomed just beside him, silently presenting the solution.

His eyes drifted away as his mind explored alternatives. Every other option he considered was met with a single thought, cold and final: Don’t be a fool. You know what must be done. For the first time in Dorian’s life, he had a face to put with that voice: Ares. He knew it now. For the first time, he could feel his own thoughts, his true thoughts, the person he was before the first outbreak, when his father placed him in the tube. This moment was a microcosm of every difficult decision he had ever made: a struggle between what his emotional, his human self wanted to do, and that cruel, cold voice. Ares. Ares was the drive that had lingered in the background, unseen, prodding Dorian, shaping his thoughts. Dorian had never been fully aware of the struggle within him until this moment. Ares cried out again: Don’t be weak. You are special. You must survive. Your species is depending on you.

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