 
### Solo Trip

Published by Steven H. Heer at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 Steven H. Heer

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**ISBN:** 9781370273133

# Prologue

Ben Dawson never liked seeing doctors, shrinks, dentists, or anything to do with pricking, poking or probing. Who the hell does?

This time around, it was a psychiatrist. His main fear was that he would expose his most inner thoughts, emotions and layers of experience and that the doctor would extract them all—like poking a small hole in a raw egg and sucking out the embryonic liquid—leaving an empty shell, easily cracked, easily crushed and completely vulnerable. Preposterous! _Get a grip Ben_ , he told himself. All that would happen was this. He would share a few thoughts with the doctor, get a quick diagnosis, a packet of sample pills and be sent on his miserable way.

He wanted to make up an excuse, turn around, and forget the whole thing. _He didn't really need help!_ After all, he was relatively smart— _or so he thought_. He had a great job and a wonderful family, who adored him. He was physically fit. He still had some youth in him and he was handsome, _according to his wife_. It was everyone's dream life—right? _So why was he here?_ He was beginning to think this was a very bad idea.

It started a couple of months ago—or was it longer than that? Perhaps there were a few critical work deadlines and maybe a few family issues keeping his brain challenged. It was ordinary stuff that he should have been able to handle. Usually he can absorb that kind of pressure—in one ear, out the other. But this was different. Ben was going through some very odd emotions. One day everything would go his way, the next, nothing seemed to be in sync. The episodes and nightmares came and went but seemed to be less frequent now. It could have been a mid-life crisis, _although he was only 37_. He was worrying a lot too. Sometimes it felt like there was a crushing, impending doom hanging over his head—as though something vast and dreadful were going to happen. Upsetting words would pop into his head. Paranoia, schizophrenia, obsessive compulsion disorder, those were just a few of them.

Nevertheless, here he was, on his way to see a shrink, someone who might be able to tell Ben what was going on in his messed-up brain. He really wanted to turn around and go home, but his conscious was driving him, and before he realized it, he crossed the street and was already there.

The downtown Richmond office was situated on the top floor in the southwestern corner of the 19-floor marble and glass clad building. It looked fairly new. The glass panels reflected the surrounding buildings and trees like a large segmented mirror with sepia-colored images. One would like to assume a psychiatrist's office would be near the ground level, especially for those who were coming to combat something like acrophobia, the fear of heights.

Doctor Peter Ford was actually a good friend of Ben's. He was one of the _gopher brigade_ , as they called themselves. The gopher brigade was a group of four friends—all men, who got together once a week to play either golf or poker depending on the weather. At some point, he doesn't remember when, the group created the _gopher_ acronym loosely based on the words _golf_ and _poker_. The other two members were Chris Jones who owned a steel fabricating business and Kevin Manning, who was _currently_ the sports editor for the Richmond Times-Dispatch.

Kevin who was a long-time friend of Ben's all the way back from the high school days, were on the links one extremely humid afternoon trailing their soon to be friends, Peter and Chris, by one hole. Ben didn't remember who won this particular game, but he does recall the intense heat and sweat that dripped from every pore. They bumped into the duo again at the air-conditioned clubhouse after the game. Chris, who is definitely the most boisterous of the gopher brigade, made a glancing comment regarding Ben's ability to drive the ball so well despite that fact that he was a lefty. This began a lively, but friendly exchange of comments and jokes regarding the abilities and disabilities of left-handed people. Ben took no offense in the bantering. He was used to the teasing of his directionally-challenged appendage. After a couple more rounds of the liquid type, they all agreed to a foursome—same time and place next week. Thus began the formation of their friendship, albeit an odd mix of personalities.

Peter Ford, the psychiatrist who he was about to see, never discussed his professional life, not even anonymously. He strictly abided by the doctor-patient confidentiality code of conduct. He did however, have a knack of injecting humorous analytical observances smoothly into the crux of the group's conversations. He was so good at it, it would sometimes take a few minutes for someone to get the meaning of the joke. He was definitely a master at oral communications.

It was last week on the eighth hole that Ben quietly disclosed his symptoms to Peter who seemed genuinely concerned and was miraculously able to squeeze Ben into his tight schedule. When Ben told his wife Helen about his appointment, she seemed vaguely concerned. When he told her that he was seeing his friend Peter Ford, she didn't seem to be surprised, or even curious. She simply said that she'd hope it went well and quickly left for a kitchen need of some sort. Perhaps it was Ben's paranoia-infused mental state, but something seemed wrong to him about their conversation. It made him think she was being less than supportive to his needs. Or perhaps she was playing disconcerted in order to scale down the seriousness of Ben's affliction to satiate his fears. Sometimes he had a hard time reading her. Sometimes he had a hard time reading himself for that matter.

As he entered the waiting room, the Doctor's assistant was busy chatting on the phone while clicking away on her mouse. She gave him a quick raised eyebrow acknowledging his presence, which relieved Ben the task of interrupting her. Her appearance was not as one would imagine for an expensive doctor like Peter Ford. Instead of being the slim, curt and pant-suited female assistant that one would expect here, she was rather frumpy looking, a little over-weight, and wearing a clingy flower-patterned dress that clashed with the furniture. Otherwise, she had a simple and relaxed air about her with a huge Texan-like smile revealing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. _Probably a good thing for calming down the whacked-out cases that came in here_ , Ben thought— _oh, that's right—I'm one of them_. She motioned for him to have a seat while she typed an entry in her appointment calendar.

The light-subdued waiting room was appointed in warm earth tone colors with oceanic-themed paintings that adorned the mute colored walls. There were at least fifteen or so live plants in various places and a soothing fountain in the corner. He could almost hear one of those mood CD's playing the sounds of the jungle coming from somewhere nearby. Ben pulled out the ever-present tube of Carmex from his left-front pants pocket and proceeded to apply a thin layer to his dry lips. Ever since college, lip balm was his obsession. He'd tried all the other brands and types of moisturizers at one time or another, but Carmex from the tube was his favorite. He was never without it and sometimes—probably during stressful moments—he would find himself applying it at least every 10 minutes. Helen would often complain about finding the _damn_ tubes all over the house. _He wondered if he should bring this up with the doctor_.

As she finished her phone conversation, the assistant looked up at him bringing that gigantic smile to bear: "You must be Benjamin Dawson. Come on over hun' and let's get this paperwork started." _Yep—definitely Texan_.

After exchanging more pleasantries and insurance documents, she motioned for Ben to take a seat to fill out the usual lengthy health questionnaire, which he quickly finished in about ten minutes.

The warmth of the waiting room and the comfort of the leather-bound chairs caused him to close his eyes and drift into thought. His mind replayed the day's busy activities at work. Because submission deadlines were due just two days from today, most of the time was taken up by article reviews. He had to chastise a new writer who took on an article that was perhaps too challenging. The young writer was bright and energetic, and had parlayed his youthful ideals and side comments into the article, which, in turn, projected a sense of immaturity to the content. Ben actually liked his writing style, but the magazines audience, which was in the 35 to 70 year old range, wouldn't understand some of his younger generation comparisons and euphemisms. The writer had walked away crestfallen.

Ben was meticulous about details like that. As editor-in-chief, he had to be. Some say newspapers and magazines are a dying breed due to the popularity and instant availability of the World Wide Web. To address that, printed publications needed to be unique and first-rate in both style and content. This was but one of the things that tightened Ben's pressure points.

He flipped through the waiting room magazines looking for his own publication, but could not find a single issue. Just when he was about to reach for a magazine titled: Trailer Life, Doctor Ford—Peter, magically appeared in the waiting room with a toothy grin and simply said "Come on in, Ben".

_Okay then, here we go_.

After taking a seat on an over-sized, overly comfortable chair that was strategically placed angle-wise to the doctor's chair, the analysis began. Even though Ben knew Peter fairly well, he was still somewhat nervous about seeing him professionally. Maybe he should see someone he didn't know personally. Maybe he should just get up, walk out, and let whatever happens, happen.

The doctor was scanning Ben's hand-written questionnaire although he probably knew a lot more about Ben from their social encounters than from any other means. He spoke to him in his professional tone—not in the jovial way Ben was used to hearing.

"So, how are Helen and the kids?" Peter asked.

_Ah, the old redirection approach in order to get the patient to feel at ease and comfortable_ , Ben thought. He would play along even though he didn't need to be calmed.

"They're fine. Helen just snagged a contract with Pfeiffer and Smith who are setting up a few title insurance offices in the area."

"Helen's an interior designer, correct?"

"Yes, that's right." _As if Peter didn't already know that. Helen had redecorated Peter's office just last year_.

"And the girls?"

"Taylor and Morgan are just beginning their summer break, so you can imagine how excited they're feeling right now." Ben wanted to talk about how absolutely wonderful they really were. Always so bright, always so inquisitive, he longed to be sitting with them now instead of going through this dreadful inquisition. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes longer than a normal blink would take, trying to subdue his obvious impatience. However, it was too late. His expression gave him away.

Dr. Peter Ford, as keen as a red-tailed hawk searching for far-away prey, read Ben's body language and let out his own sigh.

"Ben, normally I try to avoid treating relatives and friends. Therapists need to have anonymity with their patients in order to set aside any influential knowledge. Consider this... just an information gathering session. If I find that you need some serious counseling, which I really doubt, I'll refer you to another qualified therapist—whom you do not play rounds of golf with. So let's just use this time informally. Pretend we're in the clubhouse throwing back a couple of beers—okay?

With a few simple words, Ben felt a lot more at ease. Peter was a freaking expert at this.

"So let's discuss you, Ben. I know we talked briefly on the fairway, but if you don't mind, I would like to hear it again from the beginning."

The doctor proceeded to reach for a small recorder and clicked it on. Ben was suddenly having second thoughts again. He was still trying uselessly to wriggle out of this.

"I don't think it's anything too serious. Perhaps if I wait it out..."

In a tone that seemed well rehearsed, the doctor interjected.

"Ben, mental health is just as important as physical health. It doesn't hurt to get a little checkup occasionally and make sure everything is okay up there too. Your mind controls your body—and hopefully you control your mind. So, enlighten me."

Ben took a deep breath and almost reached for his Carmex, but held back.

"It began sometime last year. One night I woke up with blocked sinuses that were keeping me awake. When I finally went back to sleep, I had dreams about being trapped somewhere and I was buried alive or under water—it was blurry. My heart was beating fast. I got up and took some antihistamine that seemed to help. About a week later, I experienced the same thing, but this time it was while I was awake. I guess I would call it a panic attack. It usually goes away in about five or ten minutes, but during the time of the _episode_ , the feeling is very dreadful."

"Have you had a recent physical?"

"Yes, right after this started happening. I had a heart check as well. Nothing unusual was found."

"Tell me about your job—chief editor of a major magazine sounds like a stressful one to me."

"True," Ben continued on. "Technology rags are challenging. As soon as something new comes out, it hits the web immediately. Magazine production lags two months behind that, so it's a challenge to make it appear fresh. It can be stressful there's no doubt about that. But that's the nature of this kind of work."

Ben unconsciously changed the subject. "By the way, I didn't see any copies of HomeTECHniques in your waiting room. Didn't I set up a complimentary subscription for your office?"

"People like to take them home—it's a pretty cool magazine. So, how do you recover from these episodes? Do you have any particular method?" Dr. Ford stayed on subject.

"Usually I just try to take deep breaths and concentrate on some inanimate object or mundane thought. That helps, but it also seems to go away on its own."

"Does it always occur at home, or does it happen in public?"

"It happens mostly when I'm alone, but there have been times when it has occurred in public, but not very often."

"Has your family noticed any changes in your behavior?"

"I suppose that I've been a bit short and grouchy. Lately, I've been asked more than once 'are you okay?'."

For a moment, Peter was silent—probably going through the standard list of questions in his head trying to pick out the right one to find the underlying cause of the ailment. Taking advantage of that, Ben casually rose from his chair to look out the window. The office had a splendid view of James River and Gimbles Hill Park. This time of year, the trees were at their peak leaf growth and flourished throughout the area. Since it was a modern building, the windows did not open—so jumping would be out of the question. _Why was this thought even entering his mind_? _Maybe he did need help after all_. He secretly took out his Carmex and applied a coating—he needed a fix.

"Let's talk about the lip balm," Dr. Ford said unexpectedly.

Ben kept forgetting about how much of a brainiac Peter was. He must have known for quite some time about Ben's habit.

"You know," said Ben, "they must put something addictive in this stuff."

"Actually, there's nothing habit forming in that, but it _is_ a sign of a compulsion."

_Ouch_ , thought Ben. Now he's starting to put names to it. But at least a name was something he could clutch, something he could follow up with on his own.

Peter went on about insecurities, child-hood traumas, hereditary gene passing, and a plethora of other conditions and causes that might have contributed to Ben's current affliction and after further questioning and probing, he was starting to feel a bit weary, but at the same time, he was happy to let it out. The hour flew by and all of Ben's conscious and sub-conscious mental juices seemed to have spilled out all over the room. His head was still filled with his own self, not the empty shell he feared, but he _was_ concerned that exposing his inner sanctum would change his personal relationship with Peter.

Eventually, by his body language, the doctor was showing signs of coming to closure on this session and after spending a moment in contemplation, asked an unusual and unexpected question: "Have you been on your own much in your life?"

The question caught Ben off guard.

"What do you mean?"

"For example, have you ever lived alone at any time in your life?"

He had to think about this, because he had never really thought about it or considered it, but the answer was surprisingly _no_. As a child, he lived with his parents. In college and when apartment dwelling, he always had one roommate or another. After that, he got married, bought a house and lived with his wife to this day—so no—he had never actually lived alone in his life. He always had other people around him as though he depended on them—needed them. But there must be millions of people who at one time or another had lived alone, on their own, without some sort of support base. But why should he? After answering the question, he inquired: "So just what are you getting at?"

At this point, the Doctor's eyes narrowed and he took an uncomfortably long time to provide his synopsis. Eventually he smiled again and said, "Ben, from what I can see so far, what you are experiencing is a mild case of depression brought on by stress. This is more than likely resulting in your anxiety and occasional hypertension. It's nothing serious yet, and in many circumstances goes away entirely on its own. When it doesn't—or returns—then a more aggressive approach can be used. Sometimes a small dosage of an anti-depressant is prescribed.

"In your case, I'm not going to go down the pharmacology road. What I'm recommending is going to seem odd—a vacation." He seemed to pause for effect, or to see Ben's initial reaction. "Not a family vacation, but a solo trip. Sometimes people need to be alone, without distractions, to reflect on their thoughts, their lives, and—to abuse the colloquial phrase, get to know themselves. This approach has been found to be very therapeutic and I have recommended it to a number of my patients, some with much more severe symptoms than yours—but all with excellent results.

Ben was relieved to hear it wasn't something too serious, but the recommended treatment seemed—odd indeed.

"Sounds interesting... but I don't think my insurance would cover this and Helen..."

"True, it probably won't, but when you weigh in the loss of your time for additional sessions with me or someone else, and the cost of pharmaceuticals..."

"Where would I go?" Ben asked, still not really buying into this.

"That's the best part. I have an associate who owns a rental retreat on an island off the Florida coast. It's only accessible by boat and it's fully equipped and self-contained. The setting is beautiful—I've been there myself. This time of year is the off-season down there, so getting reservations shouldn't be a problem and the prices are much lower. My assistant has some information on it. You can collect it on your way out.

"Think about this Ben. Go home and talk it over with your family and if they have any concerns at all, have them give me a call."

That was that—the hour was up. Coming here, Ben didn't know what to expect—nothing like this. However, this was what the doctor ordered and he had to admit, it seemed intriguing—Helen would never go for it.

The ride home was long and congested. I-95 was backed up for miles like a long mechanical multi-colored snake, emanating shimmering waves of heat. Traffic was always worse on Friday's, but it gave Ben some time to think. Between traffic spurts, he leafed through the information on the beach rental that the doctor's assistant gave him. _Secluded paradise retreat—quite solace—gourmet kitchen—all-inclusive_. It sounded like the perfect place to take Helen and the kids. The whole thing sounded a bit crazy, but at the same time, if it cured him, it seemed like a logical and simple solution to the problem. The more he thought about it, the more interested he became.

When he got home the house appeared empty at first, but he was relieved when he heard the clatter of the girls banging around upstairs and the hum of the grinder in the utility/art room. Helen's hobby was creating stained glass artwork. There were pieces all over the house taking up most of the window space. Birds, frogs, fish, flowers, landscapes, seascapes and geometric patterns, all meticulously constructed from individual pieces of colorful glass were spread around the house in every room. Some were small sun-catchers while others were full-panel framed masterpieces. There were even a couple of tiffany-style lamps that were created by using a waxen mold. In the daytime, the sunlight would filter through the various pieces causing a multitude of hues and colors that danced around inside the house. At night, when the lights were on and the blinds were open, it produced the opposite effect with the house lit up—dazzling spectators from the outside. _Sometimes he felt like he was living in a church_.

Dinner that evening consisted of homemade pizza—a favorite for everyone because they got to add the exact ingredients that they preferred—otherwise a stalemate occurred. Ben liked vegetables, with just a few bits of meat sprinkled in. For Helen, it was Canadian bacon and mushrooms. Morgan liked cheese-only and Taylor's preference was pepperoni and pineapple.

The lively conversation eventually got to Ben's day, and because he always liked to keep things open in the family, he carefully shared his experience with the Doctor. He left out some parts for brevity, but ultimately revealed the Doctor's recommendation.

Helen was being quiet, chewing on both her pizza and what he said.

Meanwhile, Morgan inquired, "Daddy, are you sick? You shouldn't be eating pizza when you are sick."

"No, daddy is not really sick—like that." Attempting to explain this on the level of a seven-year old, Ben continued, "Daddy's got something... like a headache and pizza is fine for that."

Taylor frowned and squished her hands to her head: "I'm sick too, can I go? I want to play on the beach!"

Taylor, who was 9 going on 19, always seemed desperate to get her fair share. At times, she would come up with the most intelligent reasoning and conversation, then turn around and whimper all day long when she didn't get her way.

"We'll go to the beach ourselves as soon as we can when I get back—I promise."

Helen was quiet for a longer moment than Ben felt comfortable with and had that certain look of confrontation, but instead said, "Ben, I think that sounds like a great idea. It wouldn't hurt you to get away once in a while, as long as you think it will help. But let me make one thing perfectly clear, no fooling around while you're gone, you hear?" She ended the statement with a laugh. Ben expected a little bit more resistance, but he knew her well enough to know that inside she didn't like the idea one iota.

"There's no chance of that because I'll be by myself the whole time. Plus, if this place is as wonderful as they say, we can all go some other time."

Ben was relieved that this part was over, but deep down, he felt a gnawing pang of apprehension—still wondering if this was the right thing to do.

# Part I

### Branson Island

# Chapter 1

The 30-minute boat ride from Marco Island, Florida to the island where Ben was staying was exhilarating to say the least. It was undeniably warm for June, but the wind and the occasional water-spray were a cool relief after the arduous journey from Richmond.

A call back to Doctor Ford was all that was needed to get things rolling. The doctor's assistant took it from there; booking all the various legs of the journey for Ben—talk about customer service. There was a stuffy two-hour flight from Richmond to Miami, another two-hour shuttle ride from Miami to Naples, and then a 25-minute taxi jaunt from there to Marco Island.

According to one of the pamphlets that Ben was browsing through at the marina, _Marco Island is the largest and the northernmost of the 10,000 Islands that extends nearly to the southern tip of the western Florida coast_. Ben wondered if there really were 10,000 islands and if anybody ever actually counted them. _The population of the roughly 24 square mile island is over 14,000 inhabitants. That figure doubles during the winter when vacationers and part-time residents flock to the island. Pristine beaches, scuba diving, and fishing are the main attractions. Most of the housing resides on canals that snake their way throughout the island—thus almost everyone owns a boat. Luxury hotels flank the western coastline_... Ben wondered if the island was named after the explorer _Marco_ Polo. Until today, he never knew it even existed.

The boat zipped along, slicing a v-shaped groove through the crystal-clear water. According to the boat's captain, the small private island that Ben was heading to was actually a key. A key, also spelled cay, but pronounced the same as key, are small islands usually formed above coral reefs. Keys are usually continental—that is linked directly to a continent—as opposed to oceanic. Ben's island was curiously named Branson Island, probably named after the original owner, no doubt, whoever that was.

The captain was a friendly man, short in stature, but sporting muscular arms and thighs. He was wearing a crisp blinding white shorts and shirt set. A white captain's hat with a black bill and adorned with a gold braid teetered on his tanned head. Ben knew this was for show—the rental outfit had other island retreats that they managed. He had a slight European accent—either French or maybe Greek. Ben couldn't help but think that the captain reminded him of that _Shmee_ fellow from one of the Peter Pan movies.

_Captain Shmee_ was good at pointing out various attractions along the way. He slowed down to a near stop to show Ben a pod of dolphins that were curious about their boat. Their sleek, shiny gray bodies would leap from the water along the side, riding the boat's wake, then settle under the water where they would lie on their backs and coo—or whatever the noise is they make. From other nearby islands, there were long-legged birds taking flight—mostly storks or herons. When a group of them took off from a distance, it would look like a giant white shimmering cloud rising into the air.

After about 10 minutes, the captain slowed the boat and pointed to a key dead ahead. From a distance it looked tiny—just a dot on the horizon. But as the boat got closer, Ben could make out sandy beaches, groves of palm trees and a small lagoon with a house beyond. Behind him, Marco Island had long since disappeared beyond the horizon. To his left and right, there was nothing but empty sea.

The lonely looking spec of an island before him was going to be his home for the next five days— _what the hell was he doing_?

# Chapter 2

The captain expertly maneuvered the boat through the reefs that lead into a small lagoon. He moored the craft into one of the slips of the two-boat dock and cut the engine. He handed Ben one of the tie ropes to hook on the deck cleat while he fastened the other. The Captain insisted on carrying both of Ben's bags up to the house. He handled them with ease as if they were empty.

While Ben was expecting a beach shack with a dirt floor, the two-story house was beautiful—with arched windows and a bone-white façade. The roof was covered in red curved tiles. A set of stairs lead up to the main entrance, which was also arch shaped. There was a two-car garage at the ground level below a balcony—although there were no apparent vehicles present. Above that was another story and another balcony, assumingly the master suite. It was clear to see that the living space was built-up, above the ground level in case there was a flooding event. Ben also observed a tall antenna poking out from behind the house.

He noticed that the door handle had one of those fingerprint recognition readers on it. He remembered reviewing a write-up about these in his magazine a while back. The Captain slid open the cover, then after pressing his index finger on the reader, keyed in a sequence on the number pad. Since Ben was familiar with the procedure of adding new prints to the system, he immediately pressed his finger onto the reader before the Captain had a chance to instruct him.

"I see you've used one of these before. People tend to lose their keys on the island so we had this installed. Of course, after your stay, we'll delete your access", said the Captain with a wink.

Once inside the house, Ben noticed how quiet it was. As if reading his mind, the Captain when on to explain how solidly the house was built to withstand the occasional hurricane.

"So, is there a chance of one hitting in the next week?" Ben joked.

"Not much of a chance, this time of year, but if it were September, we might be a bit cautious."

The inside of the house was as splendid as the outside. The Captain gave him the grand tour. On the main floor, there were two large bedrooms and a full bath, a large kitchen/great-room, a study and a powder room. The height of the great-room extended up to the second floor. A set of double doors led out to the balcony above the garage. Upstairs there was a huge master bedroom with a door that led out to the upper balcony. A king size bed with an ornate bamboo frame sat against the eastern wall. Several layers of pillows were stacked neatly on top. _Much more space than would be needed for one person_ , thought Ben.

In the kitchen, the Captain showed Ben the sub-zero refrigerator/freezer and pointed out the well-stocked food supplies. There were gourmet heat-and-serve meals that were previously prepared. They could either be micro-waved or boiled. There were also fresh foods such as milk, eggs, bread and other perishable goods. _They must re-stock it between every visitor_ , Ben assumed. Next to the fridge was an additional built-in chiller containing separate compartments for both red and white wines.

"You'll find a liquor cabinet up there", the Captain said as he pointed up. "But promise me, no drinking and swimming!"

"I rarely touch the hard stuff", Ben replied.

Next on the tour was the study. It was decorated with dark mahogany paneled walls and plush deep pile carpeting. On one wall, there was a floor to ceiling bookcase with a wide selection of books. Next to the other wall, there was a large desk and above it, a group of three video monitors (currently turned off) and control panels with various switches—a gadget freak's dream. _Ben was starting to feel right at home_. On the desk was what looked like a ham radio and a satellite phone on its charger base.

"This is central control," the Captain began to explain. "Although you shouldn't need to use it, this equipment controls and monitors various things about the house and island. You were probably wondering how we provide power to the house. On the other side of the island—where there's no beach—we have a unique wave generator that provides power and fresh water."

Noticing that he had Ben's undivided attention, the Captain elaborated. "The constant motion of the ocean drives a series of underwater pumps that forces seawater into pipes. The water is pushed through these pipes with a tremendous amount of force. Then it is split into two segments. One segment drives a generator that provides the power, and the other segment goes into a small desalination and filtering unit that provides fresh water. I know it sounds like overkill for one house, but the eventual plan is to create several more villas on the island someday. The entire system is monitored from here."

He then turned on the monitors, one of which displayed an array of graphs and statistics. The other two displayed closed circuit live videos of various parts of the Island. On the statistical monitor, one of the images showed a series of bars colored green—except for one that was yellow. Ben pointed that one out.

"That's just one of the pumps being a little below spec", the Captain explained. "During our maintenance window, we'll have the crew replace that one. These are redundant pumps, so even if a couple of them go completely out, we'll still be able to generate plenty of power."

Ben was astonished—this was very state-of-the-art. He was thinking he could put out an article on this place for his magazine. In fact, he could write this whole trip off as a business expense.

"One more thing", the Captain continued, motioning toward the phone on the desk. A label was affixed to the phone that said: _For Official Use Only, No Personal Calls_. "Since we don't have cell service out here, this satellite phone is your lifeline." He picked it up and turned it on.

"The number 1 speed-dial is direct to our home base on Marco Island. In case that doesn't work, number 2 goes to the fire and rescue station. Number 3 goes to the police, and so on—there's a list in the drawer. We'll expect you to check in with home base on a daily basis. Please try to check in by noon each day of your stay. We know people tend to lose track of time here, but if we don't hear from you by 3pm, we'll send a boat out. Let's make sure it works."

He pressed the number 1 speed-dial, and the speaker phone button. It rang a couple of times and a women's voice answered.

"Hello Macro base, this is George checking our guest in."

There was a slight delay and some static-laden clicking noises coming out of the phone, then with perfect clarity the voice responded. " _Hey George, hearing you loud and clear, how's it going out there_?"

"Everything is fine here, just going over the house details with Mr. Dawson. We're showing a slight compression lag on the number six pump. Please note that for the next maintenance window."

" _Will do. We'll be expecting a call from you Mr. Dawson, tomorrow around noon. Anything else we can do for you at this time_?"

"That should cover it—over and out."

" _Over and out Branson Key_."

The captain stood up, placing the phone back in its cradle.

"That's the 25 cent tour—there's also some guest information on the coffee table, any questions?"

Ben was still a bit overwhelmed, so he just shook his head. "What's the ham radio for?"

"Well, that's a backup in case the satellite service is down. It happens every now and then. Hopefully you won't need it, but should you do, you will find instructions in the desk drawer. So with that, the Island is yours for the next five days. I'll be here to take you back around noon on Friday."

Ben walked with the Captain out to the boat and tried to give the man a tip, but he refused saying it's against policy. Shaking hands, Ben said, "Thanks for the ride, by the way, what was your name again?"

"George, George Branson—glad to make your acquaintance."

Ben was just about to turn away when he stopped short and said, "Branson Island wouldn't be named after you would it?"

"My great-great-grandfather was the original owner, it's been in the family ever since."

"So—that makes you..."

"Yep, I own the whole bloody thing, lock stock and barrel."

Ben watched as the boat left the lagoon, maneuvered around the reef, then out to sea. He looked down the beach to his left and right, looked back at the house, then at the clear water in the lagoon—staring at it for a while. _He never felt more alone in his life_.

# Chapter 3

Contrary to what he said before, as soon as Ben got back to the house, he poured himself a scotch on ice. The toxic swill warmed his belly and melted away most of his anxiety. He unpacked and took a long shower to wash away the transparent film of travel. As he stood there under the cascade of steamy water, he contemplated his next activity for the day. It was a rare feeling for him not to know what was coming. It wasn't like a weekend, where there was always something to do around the house, or with the girls. _God... he missed them already_. His destiny for the next five days—was completely unwritten.

Ben had decided that the first order of business was to explore the island. Oddly enough, he had no appetite yet. According to the information in a loose-leaf notebook on the coffee table, there were numerous trails on the roughly 2-square mile island. There were also cautions in a bold typeface about staying on the trails and avoid getting too close to the edge of the cliffs.

The only real wildlife threat for visitors was the occasional raccoon, which could carry diseases. Although there was an abundance of reptiles (snakes) and insects (spiders) on the island, none was reported to be poisonous. Crocodiles had been seen in deep ocean waters on rare occasions, but none has ever been found on the island. (Of course, Ben thought, on his particular trip, there would undoubtedly be an exception to that finding.) Sea turtles had also been spotted, but visitors are cautioned not to go near them or disturb any turtle eggs found on the beaches. Regardless, it sounded safe enough for Ben to explore.

On the way out, Ben noticed a large steel door next to the kitchen that more than likely led to the garage below. The _owner_ had either forgotten to provide a tour of that area to Ben, or it was off-limits. The door had the same type of fingerprint lock on it as the front door, and when Ben put his finger to it, it unlocked. Ben deducted that each door was controlled by a central system, and if it let him in, it was okay to proceed.

Inside the finished garage was only one vehicle—an ATV four-wheeler. There was a sign on it saying it was for use by staff only. Behind it was a flatbed trailer; used for hauling items around the island, no doubt. There was also a small aluminum boat, sans motor. Along one wall was a rack of fishing poles, tackle and eight neatly stacked beach chairs. On the opposite wall, there was a washer/dryer set along with shelves containing supplies for the house such as paper products and light bulbs. On the back wall was a small workbench and above it, sorted by function and size, hung various tools on a pegboard. " _Standard beach house stuff_ ", Ben said to himself. He closed the garage door and went back to planning his events for the day.

There were multiple trails on the island. One trail covered the perimeter, and other trails snaked within the island. Since it was already late afternoon, Ben decided to take the perimeter trail and check out the other ones another day.

As the day reached its credenza, the sun was blazingly hot, so he walked slowly and took his time as he gathered in the scenery. The beaches were sparkling clean, untouched, and surprisingly void of driftwood or other debris you might see on other shores. The water looked cool and inviting, but Ben was going to save the aquatic play for the coming days. The island interior was thick and lush with leafy trees and bushes. It was also much darker than the beaches, but justifiable considering the time of day it was. He would hear an occasional rustling sound within it, but was not worried as it was most likely a bird or one of the small creatures that inhabited the island. _It would not be a very inviting place at night_ , he thought.

After what Ben calculated to be about two miles, the trail veered off from its prime beach views and led toward the interior. He was correct in assuming that this was where the beach merged into cliffs and other unavailable areas and outcroppings. Eventually, he came upon an unmarked concrete bunker that was about two stories high. He remembered what the owner had told him regarding the power generator and concluded this must be it. There was a door with another one of the fingerprint readers on it. He decided not to try it as he was fairly sure access to this area would be limited—although he would like to have seen it.

The rest of the journey was much like the beginning—gorgeous beaches, mangroves, and plenty of birds to watch. However, on this side of the island, there were clumps of driftwood and other sea debris scattered about. _It must be how the currents flow around the island_ , thought Ben. The presence of stranded seaweed on the sand produced a sour, salty smell that hung in the air.

A timely breeze kicked in evaporating the sweat on his forehead. It reminded Ben that his lips must have been getting dry so he pulled out his Carmex and applied a fresh dose. By the time he reached the house, the sun was hovering low on the western horizon causing long and lonely shadows. Ben was feeling tired. _It's been a full day_ , he thought to himself and his appetite had returned with a passion.

# Chapter 4

Ben woke up early despite a restless night. It seems like it was always that way on the first night in a strange bed with even stranger surroundings. The rain came in buckets during the night, but surrendered its moisture to a clear and sun-drenched morning. He purposely left his bedroom door ajar and the blinds open so he would be sure that the daylight would wake him.

After a quick shower, he made himself an omelet with farm fresh eggs and miatake mushrooms that were generously supplied. He took his time preparing and eating the avian treat as he had no schedule, no deadlines, and no one else to take care of. He began to wonder what Helen and the girls back home were doing at this moment and longed to call them and find out. It was only 24 hours since he last saw them, but he missed them as if it were a week. He appeased his mind by convincing himself that they were looking forward to doing the "girl thing"—without him hanging around, bugging them.

His quick trek around the island yesterday afternoon seemed like it took place in the far past as his mind was still compiling and processing the imagery. He couldn't wait to investigate the entire island. It was reminiscent of his childhood in which new and different places were an adventure, to explore, _and_ exploit the mysteries that lay within.

As beautiful as the island's perimeter was, the interior was just as wonderful in its own unique and remarkable way. While most deserted island's interiors are so dense that they are nearly impassable, this one had been carefully cleared here and there during the years. There were four separate trail systems all leading to the center of the island. He took the trail nearest to the house, for convenience. The trail was about three feet wide and covered liberally with pea gravel. This created a slight crunching sound as he walked, eliminating any thought of a stealthy approach. For that matter, it would enable him to hear anyone who might be following him.

Since it was late in the spring, there were generous amounts of flora, some of which he recognized, others unknown and foreign looking. He wanted to pick some of these spectacular specimens to take back home, but he knew that that was not the right thing to do. The mangrove was alive with the excited sounds of birds and insects all vying for the prospect of food, or mates—ah spring!

The meandering trail would narrow at some points and widen at others but remained relatively flat. There were dark dense areas along the way. Other spots were more open. At one of these open areas, Ben decided to take a slight detour. As he left the safety of the gravel trail, his footsteps and the woods grew quieter and darker, surrounding him in an envelope of quiescent solitude. He kept looking back, snapping mental pictures to make sure he wasn't too far from the established trail. His progress was eventually blocked by a wall of brush so dense it was impassible without proper brush cutting tools. As he turned to head back for the trail, something made him stop in his tracks.

He felt a presence.

It wasn't a noise or any kind of movement in the woods, but a deep dark feeling that he wasn't alone and was being watched. It was an uncomfortable feeling, much more real than the mental episodes that haunted him. He stood perfectly still, waiting for some further evidence of the presence that he just felt. He would have welcomed anything such as a snake or small rodent to reveal itself as the source, but there was nothing but the normal ambient sounds of the island. Spooked, he headed back to the trail at a much quicker pace.

Continuing his quickened tempo, he finally reached the end of this trail leg and the middle of the island, where all four trails convened. At the center was a white stone cylindrical column about four feet in height. On closer inspection, it was fabricated of marble. Atop it was a patina coated copper plaque with the curious, but humorous words: " _Welcome to the center of Branson Island. This plaque is dedicated to the hard working individuals who gave their time freely to create the beautiful environment that you are now enjoying_." Surrounding the column were four curved stone benches forming a broken circle. Upon each bench were carved words with phrases. Ben excitedly hopped from bench to bench, reading the inscriptions.

On the east bench: " _This blackness called 'the sea', with its relentless cold and depths, devours anything not born of its dark waters. Only the land, with its firmament and solidity can defeat the slippery mass by standing tall and not giving in to the sea's encroaching fingers_."

On the north bench: " _Hope sits rather contentedly; unconstrained though, it bares its everlasting essence_."

On the south bench: " _Face the truth, fear the truth, then exist in its midst_."

On the west bench: " _Destiny burrows within ones soul; the spinning of the world liberates it_."

There were no credits to the phrases, nor did Ben recognize them. He wondered who wrote them and why they were chosen to be permanently inscribed here.

Ben sat down on one of the benches for a spell, just to listen to the sounds and absorb the ambiance of this minute—but intricate environment. As he rested his body, his heart slowed to a rhythm that was in sync with the resonance of the mangrove and of the distant surf. He felt truly at peace here as if he were the emperor of his own personal oasis—ruling over the plants and animals in his minuscule kingdom. The canopy was thick here, but there were enough gaps to let in numerous streams of sunlight that glinted off the tropical dust motes and tiny flying insects. It reminded him of fairies. If fairies were real, he surmised, this would be a logical place for them to live. _Maybe that was the presence he felt earlier, he thought to himself_.

It wasn't until he imagined himself breaking out in song, birds landing upon his outstretched arms, that it was a good indication it was time to leave. He looked down at his watch and couldn't believe it was already way past twelve. A small panic ran through him as he realized it was time to check in on the satellite phone. He grudgingly got up and started walking back to the house at a swift pace.

# Chapter 5

Although it was usually the same path and took about the same amount of time, the run was never routine. Doctor Samantha (Sam) Carlson was on her standard route taking her along West Parkland Boulevard among gorgeous green lawns fronting majestic houses, many with tall porch columns adorned with elaborate and meticulously painted brackets and trim. Most of the homes in this area of Tampa were way above her means. Presently single, she was more than satisfied with her small but well-designed and well-appointed apartment.

Every run was always somewhat different. Whether it was the thoughts she was thinking about at that given time, how dry or humid it was on a particular day, or which part of her body was giving her issues due to lack of effective stretching, or some other reason.

Today's run was fraught with thoughts and concern about one of her patients in particular. Cancer was the bane of all diseases and in this case, a brain tumor was the nastiest. She wasn't the oncologist or the brain surgeon, but this was _her_ patient for primary care and she'd be damned if she lost him. Fortunately he was in remission, but he still showed signs of the damage that was already done. He was a good man with a gentle demeanor but had random bouts of anger that were hard to control given the medications prescribed.

Crossing over to Fountain Boulevard on the way back to the hospital, a group of children were launching a swarm of bubbles into the air at the neighborhood greenspace. Each soapy bubble would last only seconds, but during its short lifespan would glisten and float happily in the air reflecting the colors of the sky and grass in a distorted but beautiful display only to eventually pop and exit this world permanently. Just like life itself. _Silly_ , she thought, to compare human existence to that of a combination of water, soap and glycerin. In the grand scope of things, perhaps to other greater realms or kingdoms, the entire humankind may be just a flick of a flame... or a pop of a bubble.

These were Sam's fading thoughts as she switched her minds gears and made her way to the hospital to start her shift.

# Chapter 6

It was nearly 2:00pm by the time Ben contacted the base station on Marco Island. Instead of the woman's voice that he heard yesterday, it was the familiar voice of the owner himself, Captain George Branson. Ben relayed information about his well-being and complimented him on how exquisite the island was. For some reason, he confessed to imagining fairies that may be inhabiting the island. The Captain seemed perfectly aware of that phenomenon, but assured Ben that all the island's creatures were well intended.

The rest of Ben's day was expended by walking along the beach and collecting small items he could bring back to the girls. Since the beaches here were generally untouched by humans, there was a plethora of exotic, colorful shells and agates to be scavenged. With every tide, the ocean's bounty gingerly washed ashore. Each day would bring a new collection of oceanic artifacts only to be either buried or dragged back out to sea on the next tide. He was particularly looking for items that could be incorporated into Helen's stained glass work. One time, she created pieces using seashells that had been sliced into sections, revealing their intricate spiral patterns. These sections were then integrated within the glass design and created a special effect when backlit. Stones could also be applied to an art piece using this same technique, so Ben was trying to find agates with enough transparency to compliment the effect of the glass. It seemed ironic that he was standing in a vast expanse of sand; which happens to be the main ingredient in making glass.

With his sack full of treasures, he headed back to the house.

Ben had another lonely but delicious meal that evening, He felt hopeful about the day's events—especially after a glass of an excellent Pinot Noir courtesy of the owner and a small vineyard in Washington State. After a soothing hot shower to wash off the _fairy dust_ and an additional glass of the superb red elixir, Ben was feeling extremely relaxed and decided to forego the usual habit of, donning clothes.

_This is truly freedom_ , he thought strutting around the house in the buff. Even bolder, taking only his sandals and a towel, he decided to go for a quick swim. The water in the lagoon was not exactly _spa_ temperature this time of year, but warm enough for Ben to get used to, quickly.

As he lay there floating on his back, gazing up at the brilliant display of stars and the rising moon, his mind was flooded with intricate thoughts, each one overlapping the next. Snippets of existence from the very beginning of his life, to this very day were flashing in his head, jumping around and scattered, like a poorly edited documentary. He thought about his family and his friends... and how precious they really were to him. Being alone and away from them made him want to be with them even more.

There were a whole lot more stars to see out here, away from the city's lights and polluted air. He pondered about how minute and insignificant this planet was compared to the grand scale of the enormous universe. Each point of light that he was able to see with the naked eye was either a planet in our own solar system, a star within the Milky Way (our galaxy), or entire galaxies themselves. He wondered how the stars must have been perceived back before people knew what they actually were—when people didn't even know they were on a spherical body whipping around the sun at 67,000 miles an hour. A thousand different stories must have been told to ancient children who asked their mothers and fathers the same questions. Unless guided by religious beliefs, their parents would more than likely make things up to satisfy their children's curious minds. Eventually these stories would become common folklore and shared among the generations of families.

The best shared tale was that the stars were, _gods_ looking down upon them, to guide them, to light their way to salvation. Although he was raised somewhat Catholic, Ben didn't follow any particular religion once established in his independent life. Tainted by the uninhibited knowledge of science, he was convinced he had to learn about life through analytical means. He often wondered if there was a God, where he or she lived and where heaven actually was—for that matter. Obviously, heaven was not in the lofty clouds as popularly portrayed. More than likely, today's passing jets would plow right into heaven. Perhaps heaven is on or near one of the sparkling points of lights in the sky—or maybe—in some other dimension.

The moon, on the other hand, was no longer a mystery. The warm, comforting glow that seems to shine internally is merely the light of the ever-shinning sun reflecting its own light back down to earth. The moon's effect it has on the timing of the tidal risings and fallings and even some earthquakes is now known to be caused by the gravitational pull of its passing body. When they eventually landed on the moon, there was nothing very significant to be found there but rocks, ice and dust. This kind of knowledge stole the mystery and romanticism away from the primal and life empowering thoughts that people of past ages had of our only permanent satellite, called "the Moon".

As if by some obligatory intervention, a shooting star appeared silently in the peripheral of Ben's vision—which also helped to knock him back to reality. During his spiritual fugue, he hadn't noticed that he had floated much further away from the shore than he wanted to be, and at the same precise time of that realization, he thought he felt something nudge him—from below. _Probably a piece of seaweed or a fish_ , he hoped, _there weren't any warnings about sharks in the reading material at the house_.

Near the western horizon, just above the diminishing blue twilight, another shooting star appeared. This one though, was shaped like a spear and striped with colors of the rainbow. It lasted a good 5 seconds before it faded away. Immediately after that, another one appeared at the same exact spot. What are the odds, thought ben.

Then, came a much stronger nudge.

Suddenly, quickly, Ben was back on dry land. He could hardly remember the frantic power swim back to shore. But he _did_ remember continuing to swim in the shallow water even though he could stand up and walk the rest of the way. It would have looked pretty comical had someone been watching. He looked back to where he was floating, searching for the tale-tell signs of a fin from a shark or some other monstrous creature, but saw nothing in the silky black darkness of the water. Naked, dripping wet and breathing hard, he calmed himself down by convincing himself that it was probably just a large fish, or perhaps a curious turtle.

Shaking the sand off his towel, Ben decided this was enough fun for a day. He looked back suspiciously at the lagoon, then headed for the house.

# Chapter 7

Ben slept solidly that night. His dreams were full of images brought on by his newfound experiences. The next day's activities were very similar to the first. He walked along the beach, swam in the lagoon during the _daylight hours_ (to dispel his non-existent shark encounter), and walked two of the other island trails—which were new to him.

On the trail that pointed towards the southeast, he encountered a small offshoot path that led toward the direction of the beach. Never wanting to miss an opportunity for adventure, he exited the main trail and took the detour. The smaller path consisted of hard-packed sand with the occasional exposed roots. Low hanging branches and random spider webs presented small challenges during the hike. As Ben walked along, he could hear the surf slowly getting louder, and then the path suddenly ended. _Why would someone forge such a path only for it to end nowhere_ , he thought. _Yet another mystery to solve on this island of adventure_. As he was turning to leave, he noticed a small bushy tree that had fallen near the left side of the dead-end. He easily moved it out the way and saw something that he wasn't expecting, an entrance to a cave. Now this was getting exciting— _were there no ends to the wonders of this little island_?

Dark slippery mud from the previous night's rainstorm covered the ground between the path and the cave's entrance. The entrance itself was not very large—about three feet wide by five feet high. He wished he'd brought a flashlight along as he stooped down to enter the small opening. Of course, who would expect to find a cave on an island this small? A couple of feet beyond the entrance, the cave was a bit larger—tall enough that he didn't need to stoop. As he slowly inched forward, he felt and heard something crunch beneath his sandaled feet. Too dark to see what it was, a sudden scary thought came to him—bears.

He knew bears lived in Florida, but only in the Everglades. Surely, he would have been warned if there were any bears on the island. For some stupid reason, he said "Hello! Is anyone in here?" Hearing no response—or growling, he smiled to himself satisfied that he was alone. He was also pretty sure there were no bats either as he probably would have heard some squeals in response to his voice. To gauge how deep the cave was, he started to shout some random words and by the return echoes, he determined that it probably ended within twenty feet or so. Having no other purpose to stay, he made his way back out via the entrance.

As he started back down the path, he heard something strange—something out of place—something he hadn't heard in a few days—voices.

# Chapter 8

Concerned about the voices, Ben crept slowly past the cave towards the beach. Crawling through 50 feet of dense underbrush, he came upon the edge of the mangrove and hid himself behind the thick base of a coconut tree. The first thing he noticed was a sailboat anchored beyond the surf. It was around 35 feet long and its sails were down. On the beach was a small motorized inflatable dinghy. Walking slowly away from the dinghy were two people—a man and a woman who looked to be in their late twenties. They were cautiously looking up and down the beach as though they knew they weren't supposed to be here.

_This was supposed to be a private island_ , thought Ben. There were many signs posted at various points on the island. He felt like his privacy was being violated. _How dare they intrude upon my therapy_ , he thought. But what harm was it anyway? He _was_ going a bit stir-crazy and perhaps he could use a little company. As he continued to watch them, they started to kiss and get a bit friendlier with each other. _Oh, that's what they have in mind_. He needed to tell them to leave, but didn't want to come across as an old fuddy-duddy. He was considering leaving them alone, and when they were done doing their _thing_ , they would probably leave—or would they? As they began to lie down on the warm sand, he was beginning to feel like a voyeur and started to turn away, but hesitated. _This was his retreat, not theirs_.

Instead of charging out from the mangrove telling them to leave, he thought of another plan that made him smile. Giddy, he stealthily traced his way back to where the mud lay between the cave and the path. Striping down to his briefs, he reached into the mud and began to cover his body, including his hair, with the brown gooey silt. Satisfied that he was completely covered, he headed back toward the beach. As a bonus, he spied a large branch that vaguely resembled a spear and snatched it up.

As he neared the beach, he could hear the two strangers playfully laughing. The woman was lying on the sand with the man on top of her. As she started to remove her bikini top, Ben erupted from the thicket pumping the branch above his head and yelled "Ungi Donkay Chemaki!" over and over again (which was complete gibberish). He must have succeeded in passing himself off as an authentic island native to them because at the site of him and his war dance, they immediately jumped up, eyes as wide as the moon, and ran towards their dinghy. As they were pushing it out into the surf he could hear the man saying "Sorry, we didn't mean to intrude, we will be leaving now!"

At this, Ben spoke some more nonsense: "Oleti Cumi Jun" and nodded his head as though he were saying _okay, you may go_. As he watched, they quickly motored back to their sailboat, tied the dinghy to the back, then using the sailboat's inboard motor slinked away to sea, all the while looking back to make sure the whole tribe wasn't coming after them. On the stern of the boat were the words 'Intruder II'. _Intruder's indeed_ , thought Ben.

He looked down at himself as the mud was beginning to slough off his body and felt a little embarrassed at what he had just done.

After they were beyond visual range, he went down to the surf and washed the now caked-on mud off his body. He walked slowly back to the mangrove so his body had a chance to dry in the hot sun.

_Those poor people_ , he thought, _scared as rabbits caught in an open field_. But once they get over the shock, they'll be laughing about it and telling this tale to their friends for years to come—and so will he for that matter. Yeah, good times!

# Chapter 9

Director Stewart Jensen of NOAA's Office of the Chief Administrative Officer was awakened early by a nagging phone ring. He glanced at his clock radio which displayed 4:12—nearly two hours before it would officially alarm. _Who the hell is trying to call me at this hour_ , he thought. Groggy and bleary-eyed, he leaned over, put on his glasses and answered the phone.

"Jensen here, who's calling?"

There was a slight pause and some clicking noises. "Dr. Jensen? This is Tim Burleson, duty officer at NESDIS, the National Environmental Satellite, Data and Information Service. Sorry to bother you at this hour sir, but we have an issue here."

"You have an issue? It had better be something big to get me up at this hour, what can I do for you Tim...is it?"

"Sir, we lost GOES."

"GOES?! Which one, east or west?"

"Both, sir."

"You lost contact with both satellites at the same time?"

"Yes sir."

"What about the new one?"

"Same thing."

"Damnit! That one cost a billion!"

Stewart could feel a lump begin to form at the base of his throat and his mouth going dry. "What was the cause?"

"Total communications loss."

"How could all satellites just go out at the same time? What about POES?"

"I don't have a status report on that one yet sir, but there's another problem."

The Director's voice was rising along with his concern, "What could be worse?"

"Well, we still have radar and it's picking up a massive reflection off the western coast. I've been in contact with the Seattle Weather Forecast Office and they indicate that a huge storm is approaching. The ocean telemetry buoys show a drop in the atmospheric pressure to 830 millibars."

Stewart took a moment to think about this. "Eight-Thirty? That would be the lowest ever recorded."

"Yes sir, it would. There are also reports of water spouts from merchant shippers."

"Did you say water spouts?"

"Yes sir."

There was a long uncomfortable pause as the Director was gathering all this in. He was now fully awake at this point.

"So, to sum it up, we've got one of the worst off-season typhoons in history coming at us and we have no eye in the sky. Is that correct?"

"That would be fairly accurate, sir."

"What's the speed of this thing?"

"Unknown at this time, it appears to be stalled but without the satellites, it's much harder to tell. Do you think it could be a hypercane?"

"Let's not go there yet. Anything else you need to tell me?"

"No not at this time sir."

"Aright, thanks... Tim, be sure to keep me updated on any changes."

"Will do."

With that, he hung up. His heart rate kicked up a notch and his mind was abuzz. Stewart's wife rolled over and in-between yawns, she mumbled "What's up doc?"

"Go back to sleep honey, I'll be getting up early today—and it looks like it's going to be a very long day."

# Chapter 10

The brisk afternoon winds that buffeted the island eventually subsided, giving way to a picturesque evening. As the murky shadows stretched into the inner island, the creatures of the day scurried about in preparation for their night's slumber while the nocturnal beasts slowly emerged from their hiding places to prepare for an evening of foraging.

Ben thought back about his prank that he played on the innocent boaters while preparing his supper, _it just doesn't get any better than that_. He'd been here alone for what—three days now, but it felt more like two weeks. As he sat down to his meal of caramelized lemon chicken breast, wild rice pilaf and asparagus spears sautéed with a rosemary cream sauce, he felt completely relaxed—but at the same time full of youthful energy. A presence of sustained warmth spread throughout his body and his soul. He no longer feared his own mind and felt confident in himself, his life, and whatever the future might bring. He believed he could take on the world at this point.

Earlier, when he made his daily check-in to the base station, they allowed him to use the satellite phone so he could call home. After the phone adjusted to the buffering from the propagation delays, he finally heard Helen's voice coming through the speaker. She had just gotten back from a consult with a client while the girls were at a friend's house swimming. The conversation was short, but satisfying. Ben did most of the talking—boasting of this wonderful island and how he was going to make sure that the whole family would be coming back here. He alluded to his many mini-adventures and promised a full account when he returned home.

At the closing of the conversation, Helen asked, "So... how are you?" in which Ben surreptitiously knew translated to: _How's your mental situation_? Ben took a moment to think about his answer and finally responded: "I'm doing really, really well and I'm looking forward to coming home." Surprisingly, wetness filled his eye sockets as a single wet tear rolled down his cheek. Instead of wiping it away, he decided to let it continue its journey down to his chin and beyond in order to absorb its warmth—a warmth that made him feel more human than he's ever felt before.

Helen said, "That's absolutely wonderful Ben, I knew this trip would help. I love you and I'll see you soon."

"I love you too Helen, over and out", Ben replied as he switched off the phone.

Ben sat still in the study for a while admiring the extensive array of books and novels and at the same time admired himself for pulling through this episode of his life. He was glad to be able to talk to Helen and that helped fuel his self-elation.

But what Ben didn't know was—this was the last time he would ever talk to Helen again.

# Chapter 11

Colonel Conrad Iverson, Director of strategic operations at NORAD, was sucking up the last sweet remnants of fruit on a slippery rind of a cantaloupe section when the first of three calls came in. It was the director of NOAA who launched into an almost incoherent rambling about his weather satellites going dark and this huge storm off the west coast and what _the_ _hell_ was going on up there and what was DOD going to do about it.

The second call was from STRATCOM and was even more alarming. The US Strategic Command reported several military satellites going down. Both the preliminary and secondary launch detection satellites were out and that was bad—very bad.

From a national security standpoint, the scenario dictated raising the alert and readiness level of the armed forces. Adding to the complexity was being blind in the ability to detect an imminent or ongoing attack. If missiles were utilized to bring the satellites down, they would have at least detected the launch beforehand. If missiles were flying now, they couldn't see them. The Colonel's stomach was beginning to churn and he could feel wetness forming in his armpits—a rarity for him.

The odds for that many satellites going down at one time were... astronomical. One had to assume the worst case and that was that there was an attack. An ongoing attack warranted raising the DEFCON level to 1. Defense Condition 1 was never invoked since the system was first put into place. The closest they ever came was during the Cuban missile crisis when it was raised to DEFCON 2. Iverson knew that DEFCON 1 would cause utter chaos. On one hand, they could go to DEFCON 2 which would put the armed forces in a standby state. But if the threat were real, it could cost lives due to inaction.

Iverson looked out through his windowed office down at the enormous control center that was already abuzz with activity when the third call came in. It was the white house line. After hearing the request on the other end, he said "Yes sir, I would agree with you" and hung up the phone.

He punched in the extension to call down to the supervising officer, Captain John Sorenson. Sorenson must have been anticipating the call as he immediately turned around and looked up to the Colonel's office when his phone rang.

Still staring up at the Colonel, Sorenson picked up the phone and simply said, "Sir?"

"Captain, based on instructions just received, we have no choice but to go to DEFCON 1."

"Yes sir." He replied while lifting the clear safety cap and pressing the white button with the number "1" on it.

As predicted, all hell broke loose in the control center. Colonel Iverson took a deep breath and reached for the thick binder, also white, labeled "DEFCON 1" and put it on his desk in front of him.

It's going to be a very long day, he thought.

# Chapter 12

This was Ben's last full day on the island. He woke up at first light and couldn't get back to sleep. Casting aside the usual shower and breakfast, he gathered some provisions and was ready for the day. He was struggling to make a decision on whether to lie out on the beach all day reading a book and relaxing or—to take the fourth and last trail back to the island's center.

Why did he feel so guilty about wanting to explore more of the island, instead of doing what most people would do on vacation? Why was he so entranced by it, to the point of skipping breakfast, just to be there?

When he thought back, he hadn't actually spent much time at the house. Nor did he take full advantage of the beaches and water. It was the interior that excited him most—but why? Then again, why not. It was full of life—a densely packed eco-system. And why shouldn't life want to cozy up to other life? It was ironical that although he was alone on the island, he was actually in company with much more life than he normally encounters. Anyway, he couldn't leave here without seeing _all_ the trails.

The fourth route was accessible after a short walk southeast along the perimeter trail. The cool morning was a nice relief compared to the hot afternoons he had endured while hiking the last couple of days. The sun wasn't yet visible from the east, but the pre-dawn lit the clouds in the western sky creating a crimson and violet display.

Like the other three trails, this one too was unique with its own distinctive exhibit of colorful flowers, shrubs, palm trees and the occasional open areas. He took his time enjoying the scenery knowing that this would be the last trek of his vacation.

When he reached the center, it seemed to be much colder and darker than it was earlier. _Still_ , he concluded, _the sun was low on the horizon_. _The island's center had not yet received many of the sun's rays to its canopy to sufficiently warm and brighten it_. As he sat down on one of the benches to rest, he thought about how he was doing now compared to one week ago. He was certainly much more relaxed. He didn't have a single episode. He reached down for his Carmex and discovered it wasn't in his pocket. Surprisingly, that didn't bother him. Although he missed his family and home, he didn't dwell on it to the point of worry. All-in-all it was good therapy. Looking at his life now and what it could bring, had now become more of an exciting challenge than a bother. He hoped that this feeling of elation and bliss was going to stick around for a while as it felt pretty damn good.

Unfortunately, the challenges were always just around the corner when you least expected them. The morning grew even colder and darker than it was despite the rising sun. In the distance towards the west, there was a dull crashing sound as if the surf had somehow gotten louder. He never remembered the wave's crash being this loud at the center of the island before. And then it got even louder, revealing itself not as crashing waves, but as thunder. Bright flashes of light pierced the think forest from the west and were coming his way. He needed to find cover and find it fast.

He couldn't run back to the house, as that was the way the storm was coming from. After considering his options, he decided the cave that he discovered earlier was where he needed to go. Once again, the adrenalin switched on as he found himself jumping up and running down the trail that led to the path, which led to the cave, where safety was.

As he ran down the darkened trail, rain began to fall—lightly at first—then hard and fast. Ben began to run faster as well. The combined noise of the intense rain and the thunder was deafening to the ears. His feet felt heavier at each stride as he neared the offshoot trail. The path was muddy and slippery and he felt as though he would slip and fall at any minute. He reached the opening at the end of the path and proceeded towards the cave through the heavy muck that he had been foolish enough to coat his body with the previous day. Surely, he would be struck down by lighting as soon as he reached the entrance to the cave, _that's just the way things happen to him_. However, no lightning struck, and he finally made it to the cave's entrance.

His ears were ringing and his head felt full of pressure. It was as though his brain were growing too big for his skull and it would burst at any moment. With his breath wheezing and his heart pounding, he proceeded into the dark tunnel as far as he could go. The ringing and the pressure in his head had suddenly stopped. Rainwater was still flowing down his face. Ben didn't think he was sweating profusely, in fact, he was shivering. Oddly, the rain tasted salty—like sweat.

Like a strobe light, each flash of lightning lit up the cave, revealing a tiny portion of its interior. It all depended on where Ben happened to be looking when the flashes came. Looking at the ground—FLASH—rocks and small animal bones (the same ones he stepped on the other day), looking at the ceiling—FLASH—hanging moss and lichen, looking at the wall—FLASH—some strange pictographs, looking at the ground again in a different place—FLASH—a crude fire pit. To confirm what he thought he saw, Ben kept his vision locked on to the last place he looked at and waited for another lightning strike. FLASH—sure enough it was a fire pit—a small circle of rocks surrounding some charred driftwood.

He made a mental inventory of his daypack and remembered that it should have included some matches. Whenever he went hiking or to the coast with his family, he would always bring a small daypack. He also brought it along whenever he traveled, as he did on this trip. It usually contained a compact emergency poncho, a container of bandages and antiseptic wipes, insect sting medication, pain reliever, and a small plastic container which housed a compass, whistle, mirror and, _lord he hoped they were still there_ , strike-anywhere wooden matches. He had also thrown in a couple of energy bars, a bottle of water, and an apple in his pack before he left for the day—since he didn't eat breakfast.

Still shivering, Ben fumbled in the dark through his pack. He found the small container and shook it. To his relief, he heard the familiar jangling of matches within it. He also came across a couple of small plastic sticks he didn't recognize and pulled one out of the pack. He waited for the next lightning strike to see what it was he was holding. After a long minute—FLASH—a glow stick! How lucky, he thought. It was one of those glow-in-dark sticks that, when snapped, broke a glass vile inside the tube releasing a chemical. When combined with another chemical surrounding the vial it produced light. He remembered using glow sticks last Halloween and there must have been a couple left over—what a lucky break.

Ben snapped the small inner vial, and then shook it up. Green light emerged from the stick casting an eerie glow onto the surrounding area. With only a narrow spectrum of light, the cave was monochromatic, save for the color green. He used the stick to search for any combustible material that might be in the cave. The makeshift fire pit held some half-burnt driftwood logs that he could use. Elsewhere in the cave, he collected several small branches, and some dried moss. Using his pocketknife, he whittled a collection of wood shavings from the branches into the fire pit. He was still shaking as he struck the match.

# Chapter 13

The warmth of the fire filled Ben with hope. There was an apparent source of airflow coming from somewhere deep in the cave, which was able to draft the fire and send most of the smoke towards the entrance. Whoever built the fire pit must have carefully figured this out—or just got lucky. He put the now diminished glow stick back in his daypack. He recalled that temperature affects the amount of time that the stick would last. When placed in the refrigerator, the cold will slow down the chemical reaction making it dimmer, but longer lasting. When exposed to a heat source though, it would be brighter, but not last very long. In his haste to get a good fire going, he inadvertently put the stick too close to the flames which depleted the reacting chemicals sooner than normal.

The storm was still raging outside and Ben wondered how long it would last. He was somewhat upset with Captain Branson who assured him that there were " _virtually no hurricanes in the spring_ ". Perhaps this was just a squall and would pass soon. One thing he did notice though was that there was very little wind. It seemed to be just lightning and rain—salty rain at that. It could be that the island's mangrove was acting as a windbreak. He imagined that a strong storm could potentially pick up seawater, and then redistribute it back down to the ground along its path, which would explain the salt.

The flickering flames created dancing light shadows on the cave's walls casting eerie images that reminded Ben of past camping trips. All he needed was a long stick and a bag of marshmallows to complete the experience. That thought reminded him that he skipped his breakfast so he devoured one of the energy bars followed by sips of bottled water. His clothing was almost dry, but he was still cold so he opened the tightly folded emergency poncho and slipped it over his head.

Since his shivering had ceased, Ben decided to explore more of the cave, so he snapped the remaining glow stick—which happened to be pumpkin orange—and used it to check out the odd pictographs he spotted earlier. The images were simple drawings depicting people, animals, the sun, the wind and what appeared to be spears and hammer-like tools. There was an apparent pattern, which if examined in depth, would probably reveal a story. They looked as though they could have been drawn by Native Americans. Ben wondered if they were actually ancient or just part of the islands decorations for the enjoyment of guests. _Yet another mystery_ , he thought.

As Ben was meandering about the cave, he suddenly realized that the thunderous lightning had stopped at some point, which was replaced by the distant sound of the crashing surf. As he gazed toward the cave's entrance, he noticed that the rain too had ceased and he could see sunlight streaming through the canopy. He sighed with a huge relief that the storm was finally over. A good thing too, as the small fire was now down to just glowing embers. Using the glow stick, he glanced at his watch, which displayed 8:15—two hours since he had first entered his temporary shelter. It was not the way he was planning to spend the time, but it certainly was interesting.

He emerged from the cave to the warmth of the new day. The muddy area in front of the cave was now a small lake with rising steam of evaporating water. There was a quiet stagnation in the mangrove and the air felt heavy, smelling of salt with a tinge of either sulfur or grease.

Ben was worried about the state of the house after a storm like this, so he headed back—post haste. To avoid any downed trees that the storm may have left, he took the perimeter trail instead of the interior ones. Everything looked pretty good, all things considered. There was nothing but clear blue sky towards the west, but when he looked back towards the east, he could see the dark tail of the passing storm.

He was happy to find that electricity still flowed to the house. They sure built this system well, he thought. Even though it was early, he wanted to check in with the base station to make sure all was well. Unfortunately, he could not reach them. The satellite phone showed that it had no signal. Apparently, the storm had reached them as well and probably knocked out their power. This was not that big of a deal since he was going to be picked up tomorrow anyway. He would keep checking the phone in case it's signal returned.

Ben felt he'd had enough excitement for the day, so he planned to stay close to the house for the rest of the day. Tomorrow would entail a lot of travel, so preserving his energy was a smart thing to do. Thinking about this brought about a bit of melancholy, as he will miss this island greatly.

In a way, the island saved him—he felt cured, refreshed and ready to take on the world once again.

# Chapter 14

There was a stiff breeze on Friday causing miniature white caps to swell and dance in the lagoon. Faraway clouds from the west sat low on the horizon separating the water from the sky. It was 11:30am and Ben was packed and ready for his multi-leg journey home. Although he hadn't utilized much of the house, he did his best to prepare it for the incoming cleaning crew.

He was hoping that Captain Branson was going to be early because he was looking forward to going home. After yesterday's freakish storm, Ben had a new respect for the island and its remoteness. He was looking forward to finding out more information regarding the storm and how much damage it had caused elsewhere. The satellite phone was still apparently out of commission, so he turned on the ham radio and reviewed the instructions in the drawer.

He waited until 12:30 before his mild impatience turned into worry. There was no sign of Captain Branson, or anyone else for that matter. By 1:30, the worry turned into grave concern. There must have been much more damage from the storm at Marco Island than what had occurred here, he concluded.

By 2:30 he was back at the radio trying to get someone to answer. He tried all the emergency numbers that were listed on the cheat-sheet. Then he went channel by channel in an attempt to pick someone up. He knew the radio was operating on his end because he was able to pick up an occasional far-away echo of voices amongst the cacophony of static. At one time, he picked up a man speaking excitedly in a foreign language. Unfortunately, the voice could have come from anywhere in the world as the signals from ham radios can bounce off the ionosphere. On each channel, he would speak into the microphone saying " _Hello? Is anyone there_ , please respond, over?", then pause for a few seconds for a response. How he wished there was cellular service out here. After many futile attempts to raise someone, he decided to give it a rest.

As the afternoon turned into evening, a frustrated Ben gave up on a ride home for this day. He could have spent the day exploring if he had known his ride wasn't going to show up. Surely, someone would come tomorrow. In the back of his mind, he wondered if perhaps they had mistakenly scheduled his stay until Saturday. But Helen knew his schedule, and his itinerary was posted on the refrigerator door back home. She would certainly be trying to contact the resort at this point. The thought of his family worrying about him angered Ben to the point of repeated curses. He cursed Captain _Shmee_ , he cursed his therapist, Dr. Peter Ford, but mostly he cursed himself. Why did he have to go somewhere so remote. He could have gone to a more populace place and still had the prescribed solitude. But upon further reflection, this island _was_ the perfect medicine for his affliction. It would be great if everyone had the means to afford this kind of therapy. There was nothing else he could do and still no signal on the phone, so to pass the time, he went back to the study to work the radio.

# Chapter 15

Ben woke up in a fog to the intruding noise of the front door being banged on. The room was still dark and he was barely able to see. Trying to shake off the remnants of sleep and to abate the noise, he found himself yelling, "Why can't you just use your damn finger?" in reference to the bio-metric door lock. The banging continued with no response. He forced himself to get up and upon opening the door, he couldn't believe what he was seeing—his wife, Helen.

"Wha...how did you get here?" Ben could barely utter the words. They were more like whispers.

"Well don't just stand there Ben, give me a kiss", replied Helen.

Ben wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, but there was no feeling to it—he could have kissing the wall for all he knew. It was then that he noticed it was already daylight. Helen took his hand and led him down the stairs towards the dock. The bright sunlight was too much for his eyes making every object glow with a white aura. Still in his bleary stupor, he asked, "Where are the girls?"

"Oh yeah... they decided to go for a swim, see them?" Helen pointed toward the lagoon.

Ben looked to where she was pointing and saw Morgan and Taylor way out from shore and this concerned him greatly. _How could she let them go out there by themselves_ , he wondered.

"How did you get here?" he repeated, annoyed that she didn't answer him the first time.

"I drove silly". Helen frowned at his lack of awareness, giving him that _you idiot_ look.

That when things got a little crazy. He looked towards the lagoon and noticed that the car was tied to the dock—apparently floating in the water. Standing on the dock, beside the car was, his friend and psychiatrist, Peter Ford. _What was he doing here_ , thought Ben, _and why did he come with Helen?_ Despite that thought, there was a sense of relief to see the car, and then a sudden panic as Ben realized that if he didn't get it to shore quickly it could sink. He didn't even begin to think about how it got there in the first place.

Then he looked back toward where the girls were playing in the water and to his horror, noticed two black, shiny fins about five feet in height approaching them. The girls were unaware of their ominous presence—and that's when he started to scream.

# Chapter 16

Ben really woke up this time and his body jerked in response to the awful dream he just had. The bright sunshine was streaming through the windows, temporarily blinding him. Still clothed from yesterday, he apparently fell asleep on the couch. A glass and a nearly empty bottle of wine sat on the coffee table. Covered in sweat, he had to be sure so he jumped up and stumbled outside to the lagoon, only to find it empty—no car in the water—no Helen or the girls—no Peter Ford—no Captain Branson—nothing but a silly, stupid nightmare.

He returned to the couch and stared at the wine bottle trying to re-focus his eyes. His head felt twice as heavy as it normally did. Trying to recall what he did last night, images flashed in his mind. He remembered being quite upset, pacing about the house, going back and forth to the radio with many futile attempts to reach someone. He had cracked open the wine to calm his nerves and then fell asleep. He hadn't eaten dinner, or lunch for that matter, which would explain the enhanced effect that the wine had on him. He was surprised when he looked at his watch that it was nearly 10 am—he rarely slept in this late in the day.

He needed to eat, and as he surveyed the refrigerator he couldn't help but make a mental note of how much food was left—just in case he was actually stranded here for a while. The thought sickened him enough to skip this meal too, but common sense had overridden that thought and he needed to replenish his strength.

After the tasteless breakfast, he proceeded back to the radio once again. There seemed to be much more chatter now, but all of it still unintelligible. He switched on and scanned the close-circuit TV monitors, which showed nothing but empty beach scenery.

By the afternoon, it was apparent something was really wrong. If he were in Helens place, he'd have called the authorities by now. Loneliness and despair started to creep upon him, but he stayed it off by convincing himself that there must be a logical explanation to this. _He wasn't ready to curl up in a ball just yet_.

Waiting around, doing nothing, was no longer an option. He needed to take some action now and decided to abandon his lookout post for the ride home and walk the perimeter of the island. Maybe Captain Branson's boat was shipwrecked on another part of the island. He might even be injured and in need of help.

With his daypack replenished, he set out. The morning was already hot and humid compounding Ben's hangover, but the exercise renewed his vigor. He took the perimeter trail starting towards the north as he did on his first day on the island. This trip was different though and his mission was no longer one of a tourist admiring the sights but one, which had a serious purpose. As he walked, he looked down the beach and out to sea for any sign of human life, for it would be a hopeful connection to getting home.

Once again, he came upon the concrete bunker that housed the power and water systems, only this time he tried his fingerprint on the door lock. As expected, it did not work. He didn't know what he would do if he had gained access. There might be another radio in there he could try, or he could turn something major off which might activate an alarm, perhaps signaling a repair crew.

Nearly three quarters of the way around the island, he sat down on a huge, gnarly piece of driftwood to rest. The day was heating up rapidly, turning into a scorcher. For a while, he stared out to sea looking for any sign of a boat or a ship. Any dot on the horizon would have been a welcome site. But there was nothing, except a flat bluish-green ocean and the hypnotic rhythm of the waves. Ben closed his eyes. In this heat, he could have taken a nice long siesta about now.

With his eyes still closed, he could swear he heard something faintly in the distance. Straining to filter out the sound of the waves, he heard a slight pinging noise. That roused him out of his rest and he proceeded quickly further down the beach in search of the noise. As he traveled toward it, the noise became much more pronounced. It sounded like metal clanging against metal, perhaps aluminum. Then as Ben rounded the curve, he spotted the source of the noise—a boat.

# Chapter 17

Standing out like a beached beluga whale against the wide flat water, sat a large sailboat, listing severely. Its sails were down and it was partially submerged, stuck in the sand. As Ben got closer, it started to look vaguely familiar. Yes, it was the same boat that he encountered a couple of days ago—the one with the overly friendly couple that he scared away. Now he rather wished he hadn't done that. He started to run now while yelling "Hello?" and "Ahoy there!"

As he approached the boat he said, "Hello, is anyone in there?" There was no response, just the continued sound of the clanking metal and the waves slapping against the hull. Fortunately, the tide was low so he waded through the surf towards the stern to find a place to board. On his way, he confirmed his suspicion as he identified the name on the back: 'Intruder II'. Astonishingly, the dinghy was still tethered to the sailboat bobbing up and down in the surf with its motor in the raised position.

Ben climbed into the tilted, undulating sailboat via the stern, being careful to hold onto the railings. He called down into the companionway, but received no response. Cautiously, he made his way through the hatch. The cabin was more spacious then it appeared from the outside and was well appointed with rich wood trim and plush upholstery. Due to the sharp angle of the boat and motion of the waves, vertigo hit Ben immediately. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he took inventory of the interior. Clothing, cushions and other items were strewn about. The only room within the cabin was a closet sized head—its door swung open and thankfully—empty. Ben looked around for any clue as to where the occupants might have gone. The storm had hit early in the morning so they might have been asleep. Most likely, they were thrown from the boat during the storm. _How sad_ , he thought, _a nice young couple meeting their demise in such a violent way._ He hoped they were together when they were succumbed by the unforgiving sea.

The standard procedure during a storm would have been to lower the sails and motor toward the nearest port. Ben checked the cockpit controls and noticed that the key was on and the throttle at full. The ignition lamp was not lit. The fuel and batteries must have been depleted during its crewless, aimless meandering on the lonely waters. Once this ordeal was over, investigators themselves would be pouring over the same details in order to figure out what happened. Ben's mission right now was to get off this friggin island and get home. Although he was contaminating the scene, he had no choice but to search the cabin for anything that might help that effort.

On a high shelf, he found a marine-band radio. It was turned on, but the power light was out. On the radio was a label saying: For EMERGENCIES use channel 16—the dial was set to this channel. If only it had power, he could try to call for help.

In a cabinet below the seating, he found some life jackets, a medical pouch, a flare gun kit, a flashlight and some rope. He grabbed one of the life jackets, the flare gun kit and the rope and put them on the stairway. He searched further and found a small tool chest, which had the item he needed—a screwdriver to remove the ship's compass. Still feeling nauseous, he carefully removed the four screws that attached the compass to the wooden platform. Sweat rolled down from his forehead splattering on the glass globe that encased the compass. He felt bad ransacking someone else's property—especially since they might have perished. But unlike a grave robber or a pirate, his motive was not for profit, but for survival, and he hoped that the authorities—once contacted—would see his actions as such and be lenient.

He gathered the handful of items and put them into it a satin pillowcase that he removed from one of the pillows. Looking around once more, he could see nothing else of value that would help him. On the way out of the cabin, he noticed a man's wallet on the floor. He snatched it up and shoved it in his back pocket. Once he found help, he would need to report the wreck and the identity in the wallet would be of value.

Standing at the stern, he tossed his findings into the dinghy, which now had moved right beside the sailboat. The tide must be coming in, he thought, so he needed to hurry. He untied the small craft from the transom and, still holding the line, jumped into the water and towed it back to shore, pulling it as far as he could, up onto the beach. Using the extra rope, he extended the line further and tied the end securely around the base of a tree. Ben inspected the beached dinghy and found it to be in fairly good shape—and to his good fortune—the gas can was full. The name printed on the side was Zodiac Zoom. He surely hoped it would _zoom_ to where he needed it to go.

He knew it was risky, but he had no choice. There was only enough food left to last _maybe_ three more days.

Looking down at the small commandeered dinghy, Ben's mouth was suddenly parched and a lump was beginning to form in his throat as he thought about this tiny spec of a boat against the mighty Atlantic Ocean.

# Chapter 18

He was full of adrenaline that was inspired by desperation when he got back to the beach house. Ben was excited about the prospect of getting back home. He admired himself for taking such action into his own hands instead of waiting around for someone else. He had a plan. It wasn't much, it was risky—but still—it was a plan.

He would take the _off limits_ ATV from the garage, hook it up to its companion flatbed trailer, drive it down to where the dinghy was resting and then shuttle it back to the lagoon where with the protection of the reef, would be a much safer launch. He would bring along any survival equipment and provisions he could find and set out at to sea tomorrow morning.

Although he was pretty sure he knew the way back to Marco Island, he found some nautical charts of the area in the study. During dinner, he spent time studying them and made notations in red ink.

Ben reflected on these recent series of events and when combined, painted a picture that made him feel uneasy. The first event, the storm, was strange and unexpected. It came and went quickly without the normal before-and-after conditions one would expect. One minute it was sunny, the next a storm lasting a little more than an hour scoured the area, then it went right back to sunshine and clear skies. The second was the satellite phone losing its signal and not being able to reach anyone on the radio. The third was the fact that nobody had come to pick him up. The fourth event, finding a wrecked boat with no sign of the passengers was the most disturbing. This discovery meant that there was a good possibility of actual loss of life. What began as a pleasant therapeutic vacation was turning out to be an escalating ordeal.

Ben kept himself busy that afternoon and evening. He checked the quad in the garage and confirmed that it would start and had plenty of fuel. He gathered all his needed supplies together into a pile near the front door. He also packed what non-perishable food was left, into a box he found in the garage. Unfortunately, it would not be waterproof. Because he had run out of clean clothes, he laundered them and repacked his luggage.

One more detail needed to be taken care of. Ben needed to write a note to be left in the house in case someone makes it to the island looking for him. The note was short and to the point and included his contact information. Exhausted, Ben went to bed where intense, overlapping dreams invaded his periods of sporadic sleep.

# Chapter 19

It was five in the morning when Ben awoke. He felt tired and un-rested. Knowing this was going to be a long day, he arose immediately. Random patches of morning fog drifted carelessly across the serene lagoon. He had hoped for a good day, weather-wise. It was frustrating not having the luxury of daily weather reports and forecasts.

Once again, though pointless, he tried the radio. Obscure chatter occasionally penetrated the silence—none of it intelligible. It was either in another language or, if it was in English, there were too many gaps to make any sense of it. The length of this air-wave outage was another bad sign. The sooner he got on his way to civilization, the better.

In the garage, Ben hooked up the flatbed trailer to the quad. It was an easy attachment, just like a standard automobile cup and ball configuration. Some years ago, he used to own a small Airstream trailer that was mated with a Ford F-250 to tow it. Just about every other weekend, _before kids_ , he and Helen would take it down to various places along Virginia's coast or to the mountains to camp. The Airstream was built like a rock with an airplane-like interior. Although it was expensive at the time and really beyond their means, it was something Helen had always dreamt about owning and well worth the price.

One weekend, while camping in the Blue Ridge Mountains, they unhooked the Ford from the trailer and went to town to stock up on supplies. When they returned, the Airstream was gone—someone had stolen it in broad daylight. Helen was borderline hysterical, crying and holding on to Ben for the remainder of the day. He had no idea that it meant that much to her. The local sheriff was no help at all. Although he acted sincere and said that his deputies would do everything they could to find the stolen trailer, Ben could tell by the sheriff's attitude and body language that he didn't really care at all and wasn't going to do a damn thing about it. Ben didn't blame him though, because finding a single particular trailer when you didn't even know the make of the vehicle that was towing it, was a futile effort. Especially during camping season in these mountains.

Two months later, they got a call from the local law enforcement of a small town in Oregon. They had found their trailer down a dirt road in the middle of nowhere—burnt down to the axles. He and Helen were heartbroken. Fortunately, it was insured but since Helen was pregnant with their first child, they never got around to replacing it. Someday, they planned to get another one, albeit a little bit larger and take the family to see America. Ben made a mental note to re-visit this idea with Helen when he got back—if he ever got back.

He fired up the quad and after taking time to become familiar with the controls, eased it out of the garage and onto the driveway. He threw in a coil of rope and headed down to the beach. The quad had special tires that made it less likely to get stuck in soft sand, but he kept to the hard-pack just in case. Driving this beast along the shore was a thrill. If it weren't for the trailer in tow and the circumstances in which he was in, he could have had a lot of fun with it.

As he rounded the bend to where the Zodiac was beached, he was disturbed to see that the sailboat was on its side, its keel broken, and nearly completely submerged. It had also been drug further out by the tide. Some of the sailboat's debris was scattered along the beach.

He untied the Zodiac and drug it down to where the quad was parked. Struggling, he hoisted it onto the trailer and tied it down securely with the rope. On the way back, he had to drive slowly as the raft was causing the trailer to bounce severely. Once at the lagoon, Ben maneuvered the quad as near to the dock as he could. He unloaded the Zodiac and gently guided it into the lapping water—hoping that it was still seaworthy. He pulled the raft along the dock far enough to make sure there was enough clearance for the motor's propeller, then tied it securely to one of the cleats.

Since he had his luggage and provisions packed, and ready to go, it did not take much time to load them into the raft. Although he did not feel hungry, he ate a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs, toasted rye bread and the last of the orange juice. Then taking a final look around the house, he exited and secured the front door.

The early fog had finally evaporated, revealing a deep blue sky. There was but a slight salty breeze that enveloped the morning. It was a good day for boating. It would also be a day of change. Change that Ben hoped was for the better, not the worse. The butterflies built up to a credenza in his stomach and transcended into a severe and ominous dryness in his throat. Ben looked back at the house—the island. It was time to leave.

It was as if his trip, his adventures, and this island were already a distant recollection being pushed to back of his mind in preparation to be replaced with a fresh set of memories—and he hadn't even left the island yet.

# Chapter 20

Thankfully, the small motor started on the second pull. Ben maneuvered the craft out of the lagoon toward the open sea—tracing the route as he had remembered Captain Branson had done. _Where was that bastard and why didn't he come and to get me?_ Ben wanted to blame _someone_ for his predicament, and he didn't feel like he had much control over the situation. Whatever the delay, it must have been something pretty serious because Branson seemed like a responsible kind of guy.

The transition from the calm lagoon to the sea was choppier than Ben would have liked, but getting out and away from his _prison of paradise_ gave him a sense of hope.

With his memory of the journey here, the compass and the charts at hand, he felt confident he would be able to trace his way back the same route that got him to the island. However, piloting versus being just a passenger, made the trip much more important. He was the captain _now_.

Ben gradually increased the throttle to a speed he felt at ease with—without generating too much ocean spray. If he got soaked, it would not be very comfortable. After 10 minutes, he was almost beginning to enjoy the ride, but noticed that his hand had grown numb from gripping the steering too tightly. He switched positions giving his other hand a rest.

Flashbacks of the last few days invaded his mind. The house, the trails, the _fairies_ , the cave, the encounter with the sail boaters, the bizarre storm, the stupid phone and radio that never seemed to work and the feeling of complete abandonment. The images all ran together like the patterns in a paisley shirt. With all of that junk crowding his mind, he didn't have time to think about his own mental issues and why he was here in the first place. All of that seemed secondary to the situation at hand. He glanced behind him and saw the familiar island growing ever smaller and further away. It was rapidly becoming a significant part of his past.

The watery path before him suddenly presented some items of interest—growing specks just barely visible beneath the surface of the water. Ben eased up on the throttle, worried that the specks were dangerous shallow reefs that could rip the boat to shreds. As he got closer, he was relieved to see that they were indeed not jagged, but were a school of fish. They were down deep, dark in color and moving rapidly with the boat. It became apparent what kind of fish they were as one of them climbed instantly and leapt up out of the sea landing with a splat, spraying large water droplets across Ben's bow.

Dolphins, not really fish. Probably the same pod that the Captain and he had encountered on the way here. _This must be part of their territory_. It was also a good sign that he was likely going in the right direction. Being lower to the water than the craft that brought him here, made the dolphins look a lot larger and ominous. He could spot them darting beneath him, zigzagging back and forth as if they were excited to see his craft. They were so graceful gliding through the water—as easy as humans walk through the air. At times they would leap up parallel to the boat and tilt their heads slightly toward him—their large black lifeless eyes seeming to look at him as though they needed to take a good look at who was piloting the boat. It was a site to behold, but a bit scary and Ben imagined one of them might make a mistake and jump into the boat—causing a messy situation.

The dolphins escorted Ben for the next few minutes, and then gradually broke away as though this was the limit of their territorial area. Yet again, he was left alone on his solo journey.

# Chapter 21

The trip back was taking much longer than Ben would have liked. Although the landmarks looked familiar, he could still be far, far away from Marco Island. The boat's gas container was down to about a third full. The boat's compass was still on the correct heading according to the charts he studied.

The journey from the main island to Branson Island last Monday took about 30 minutes, but that was using a boat that could travel much faster than this dinghy. He estimated it would take about twice as long, but really had no idea how fast he was going. Being this low in the water gives the illusion that you were going much faster.

The trick was to get the best gas mileage, but he didn't know exactly how to accomplish that. By automobile, the slower you went—the better the gas mileage you got. Ben was trying to recall his physics classes long ago. It had to do with inertia and friction, or something like that. The faster one needed to push through the air to counteract the force of gravity, the more energy it required. He didn't know if that also applied to a boat on the water, and it could have been completely opposite. Now he wished he had paid more attention in those classes.

The worst-case scenario would be running out of fuel in the middle of nowhere—left to drift at the mercy of the currents. If he thought he would run out of fuel, he could always try to steer toward one of the other deserted keys and islands off in the distance. It was a risk he did not relish. Unlike Branson Island, there probably wouldn't be any shelter and the meager provisions he brought along wouldn't last but two days. Fresh water the biggest concern. He tried to put that thought out of his mind.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the temperature also elevated creating more wind, which in turn, created a choppier sea. Ben was forced to slow down as the boat was beginning to bounce in the water.

Although he tried to avoid thinking about it, his thoughts couldn't help but drift to Helen, the girls, and the concern that would surely be on their minds. He half expected—and was hoping—to spot a Coast Guard helicopter on the horizon. But at this point, there was nothing but empty sea. With a body of water this vast amid tiny dots of islands, a small miscalculation could send him way off course. _Stop worrying_.

Ten minutes, twenty, thirty and nothing yet. The constant whine of the motor was drumming as though it were a giant bee on steroids. The gas in the container was nearly empty, sloshing back and forth as the motor was sucking up its last precious drops of its petroleum-based nourishment. The hope and the promise of salvation were evaporating like the sweat on Ben's forehead.

Through the narrow field vision of his binoculars, Ben noticed a glint on the horizon—a reflection of light just to the east. As the sea swelled, the glint came and went, but remained in the same relative place. Ben steered his craft toward the glint as best he could; shifting his eyes back and forth from the gas can to the glint. And then the glint revealed itself—a boat. "Yes!" Ben elated aloud, definitely a boat, probably a fishing boat. A deluge of joyous chills flooded up and down his spine.

Now it was only a matter of getting from here to there without running out of gas.

Whenever he traveled, Ben always secretly imagined he was in a giant dot-to-dot puzzle—like the ones that he cherished when he was a child. He imagined that each dot represented a destination, such as a city or town and the lines represented the road or path to get to that destination.

To children, these puzzles represent a fun little mystery. Unfinished, it's just a series of random dots on a page, but when completed—a picture is revealed and the mystery is solved. What the child doesn't know is what he is really learning.

Not only is he learning to count and being able to draw straight lines, but there is also a lesson on following directions and seeing a task through from beginning to end. A simple puzzle like this can give a child a sense of accomplishment that they may find hard to come by at this tender age.

Ben remembered exactly where he enjoyed these puzzles so much. He remembered his occasional trips to his grandparent's house. As far as grandparents go, they were the ideal pair. Ben would always be pampered with treats of Seven-Up or Dad's Root Beer in the bottle. His grandpa was also his barber and he would always get a trim every time he visited. It seemed like his grandma was always cooking something when he was there—be it homemade noodles, sausage and sauerkraut, or those fantastic apple filled turnovers that he couldn't get enough of.

Down the hallway of his grandparent's house were three drawers built into the wall. Inside each drawer was a treasure of children's games. There were Chutes and Ladders, Piggly Wiggly, Barrel of Monkeys, Pick-Up-Stix and the ever present and somehow magically refreshed, activity books in which Ben's favorite was _dot-to-dots_. Many of Ben's life values and rational abilities are probably based on simple games like these he learned as a child. The fishing boat was just another dot on Ben's long and puzzling journey.

He made it to the boat with just a few ounces of fuel to spare. Ben approached the larger vessel from the stern and quickly tied the Zodiac to the transom. All was quiet on board. He automatically smiled while announcing his presence, but received no reply. It was curious that the occupants would be sleeping-in this late in the morning. He boarded the vessel and found that it was empty—not a soul around. He almost expected this. A sickening pattern was starting to develop. First, the sailboat void of occupants, and now the fishing boat in the same predicament. Like the sailboat, there were no signs of struggle or anything else pointing to a cause. And like the sailboat, the radio was dead, it's energy source also drained.

There was no sense in trying to figure this out now. The main thing to do now was to get to solid ground, and this fishing boat was now his only means of getting there. He hoped and prayed that what he thought was true—that the battery that powered the radio and other onboard sources was separate from the one that started the engines.

He turned the key and pressed the starter button. To his relief, the inboard motors replied with a resounding rumble and gurgling of water at the stern. He went back to the Zodiac, grabbed the nautical charts and tied it more securely to the stern—giving the rope about 10 feet of slack. He found the winch and pulled up the anchor. Ben didn't have that much experience in piloting a vessel of this size, but he didn't care at this point. He also didn't care that he was now guilty of a felony. This boat must be in the 100 thousand dollar range, which would result in grand theft, if convicted. Ben was willing to take that risk. He felt he had no choice as the calming waters ahead were inviting him in.

# Part II

_This blackness called 'the sea', with its relentless cold and depths, devours anything not born of its dark waters. Only the land, with its firmament and solidity can defeat the slippery mass by standing tall and not giving in to the sea's encroaching fingers_.

– East bench, Branson Island

# Chapter 22

The controls of the larger boat that Ben had acquired were much simpler than he thought. There was merely a single throttle for the inboard engine and a large steering wheel to the left. For now, he ignored the myriad of gauges and lights except for the fuel gage, which thankfully showed ¾ of a tank. Using the onboard compass, he pointed the craft on a northeasterly course and prayed that he was far enough east to be able to spot Marco Island.

After 10 arduous minutes, a beautiful site beheld Ben—the ragged silhouette created by the many masts of the sailboats that were moored at the marina. Macro Island lie dead ahead, gleaming and shimmering in the water's multi-faceted reflections.

Ben eased up on the throttle because something else caught his eye. In the distance, beyond the island, a large thick column of black smoke rose hundreds of feet into the air. Puffs of smoke dotted the sky as the upper wind currents sucked them into its vortices. Ben looked down and shook his head. _Now what?_ _What other surprises are to be thrown my way?_

As if his question had been heard, processed and immediately answered, he began to pass by other boats—abandoned and floating aimlessly. Some were listing and stood still, as though they were grounded on shallow bars.

Since Captain Branson's business was on the outer corner of the marina, it was easy to spot. Ben eased up on the throttle since he was not familiar with the fishing vessel's size and weight—which would be a good thing to know in order to maneuver into one of the slips. After backing up and adjusting his position a couple of times, he gently pushed it forward into one of the few empty slips on this side of the dock. He didn't have a deck hand to deploy the bumpers, so he hit the dock with a dull thud.

Ben put the throttle to neutral and turned off the ignition while wiping the sweat off his forehead. He clambered onto the dock and quickly secured the boat with its mooring ties. As he stood fully erect, a wave of nausea hit Ben forcing him to his knees. It wasn't the sea-legs-to-land-legs instability one experiences when transitioning from water to land. Nor was it the heat of the 10, or so, degree temperature difference between the water line and the raised dock—it was the nearly complete absence of ambient noises. Save for the lapping water and the occasional clanging of sailboat paraphernalia, there were virtually no other sounds. No boats were motoring about the marina, no seagulls were flapping and chattering in their constant search for a cheap meal, no cars were whizzing by on the nearby access road, no dogs were yapping at their perceived territorial threats, no music was playing on the deck of some rich guy's yacht. There were no people talking nearby, or far away. There was nobody around—there was no one.

Ben tried to get up, but he could only manage get onto his hands and knees. The first wave of nausea was substantial enough to force him to lose what contents he had in his stomach. It took many deep breaths of air to fend off the sickness, enabling him to attempt another rising. As he stood, he continued to breathe deeply, trying to calm himself. The plume of smoke silently lingered in the distance, but thankfully, no odor wafted his way. He leaned on the railing looking and listening—trying to hear or spot something that would show a sign of life.

One thing that really bothered him was something that he expected to see but didn't. There was a startling absence of any hurricane or storm related damage. He also noticed that same thing on Branson Island but was so pre-occupied with getting home, he didn't have time to ponder it over. Surely there was a storm, but it was a storm that lacked wind. _What kind of storm comes without wind?_

Ben's nausea began to return. It wasn't the seasickness anymore, but an empty void in the pit of his stomach like a black hole, spinning and devouring all hope into its ever-widening mouth.

# Chapter 23

Ben made his way to the small marina store where just six days ago he sat among other patrons studying colorful and informational brochures. Except for him, the store was empty—with no sign of struggle or strife. The power was evidently off as he futilely toggled light switches by the door. In a small back room, he spied the ham radio, which was probably the same one that his own voice might have been heard on just a few days ago. It was dead—no lights were lit. Next to it was a cell phone someone had left before his or her sudden departure. He pressed the power button and, as expected, the display showed 'no signal'. He walked around just in case there were dead spots within the store, but it made no difference.

Cell phone towers need power to operate. Several layers of telecommunications infrastructure needed to be operating in perfect harmony just to get a single bar on a cell phone's signal meter. Any missing or degraded link along this complex path would give the 'no signal' display. Wherever the power originated from to operate this communications chain through its transmission lines and distribution nodes, it was apparently turned off. It could be at the originating end where there was sufficient storm damage to render an outage here. Ben was hoping things were that way. But what he really suspected—what brought about a deep and lonely fear was that the people who run the power plants were no longer there. Without someone monitoring and feeding the generators—be them gas, oil or nuclear, they would not generate. Automated safeguards or circuit breakers would simply, hopefully, shut them down.

As he wandered around the vacant store, something crunched under his shoe. He had stepped on a pair of prescription glasses and had broken them. He went down to pick them up and saw some other items on the floor he didn't quite recognize. On further inspection, one of the items was a button from a pair of jeans. It had _Levi_ stamped on it. The other three items looked like small black rocks. He picked one of them up and held it to the light. It looked man-made as it was unnaturally shaped. With a quizzical grunt, he set the items on the counter top as he had more important things to worry about.

Ben stared out the window at the smoke plume from afar and wondered if there was even anyone there trying to put the thing out. He estimated that it could be as many as fifty miles away. He wondered how widespread this human _desertion_ was and where everyone went to. There was only one way to find out.

He needed transportation and a map, and after finding those items, he knew exactly where he was going to go—or die trying.

# Chapter 24

The journey down the highway was arduous because vehicles were scattered all along the road—sometimes blocking the way. Most cars appeared to have been pulled over to the side of the road as though the occupants had a short period of time before whatever happened to them, happened. Fortunately, there were fewer cars than might have been because the storm had occurred in the early morning, before the throngs of commuters took to the roads during rush hour. There were no people, kids, pet dogs or any form of life around, just empty vehicles.

Ben had commandeered a Marco Island police cruiser, mainly because the keys were in the ignition and it had a full tank of gas. For some reason he felt better about taking a public vehicle as opposed to someone's personal property. The cruiser had a front grill guard that came in handy for pushing cars out of the way. The radio and onboard computer were of no help, but the siren and PA system might prove useful.

He had found the police car parked at a small grocery store, which he had walked to in search of food and maps. In the darkened produce section, he scarfed down some fruits and vegetables that had not yet gone bad.

It was not a large store. The meat/deli section was directly across from the produce section. Ben was opening up a can of mixed nuts when he heard a muffled sound from behind the meat counter. He stopped what he was doing and listened. Nothing. Just as he pulled the aluminum tab on the can, the noise came again. Startled, he dropped the can with almonds, cashews, brazils, and macadamia nuts bouncing and scattering on the hard floor. The noise was coming from the butcher's room behind the counter. He headed for the counter, but stopped as he was hit by the rancid smell of decaying meat. Behind the counter, there was an entryway with a door made of long clear plastic strips. Beyond that, it was dark and Ben didn't have a flashlight with him. He said "hello?" but there was no answer. He spoke louder, but heard no response.

He picked up a can of Spanish nuts, hurled it through the doorway, and waited. Nothing. Out of fear, anger, or just plain desperation, one by one he picked up can after can and threw them wildly at the door while cursing aloud. When he was done, he listened and heard no further noises. Exhausted and feeling hopeless, he sat down with cans of nuts on his lap and began to sob.

He didn't voluntarily cry. He wasn't prone to crying and couldn't even remember the last time he did. It just came out and there was no stopping it. Rather than suck it up, he just let it flow for a while. He'd been through a lot and deserved a good one.

Out of the corner of his eye through the stinging sweat and tears, he noticed something moving. He wiped his eyes and sat perfectly still. A slow moving shadow was emerging from the butcher's room. With cans tightly gripped in his hands as the only form of defense, the object came within inches of his aisle.

A long black and scaly snout appeared. The snout opened up to reveal a long row of razor-sharp teeth followed by a wandering eye. Ben held his breath as the huge crocodile glided by within inches of him. A can of beer nuts sat on the creature's wide back wobbling along with its gait. In most circumstances that site would have been hilarious, but not today. Fortunately, the reptile didn't seem to hear or smell Ben. Obviously, it had its fill of rotted meat. He carefully watched as it continued down to the end of the store and out the open door. Ben let out a sigh of relief.

Outside, in the light, he studied the maps and decided the quickest route was north via highway 951. That would take him to the more populous city of Naples where he hoped he could find some answers and maybe even a sign of _human_ life. He considered heading toward the column of smoke, but that was east of his location and out of the way.

A couple of vehicles had crashed and gone over the embankment, yet there were no bodies and no blood either. Most of the cars were apparently left running until they ran out of gas. A few had been turned off. These clues were pointing to just how long people had before they left. There were no signs of how they disappeared or any traces of which way they went—it was frustratingly puzzling. Ben knew that the truth would eventually be known, but he was afraid to face it.

His plan was to head north towards home. Highway 951 would hook up to I75, and then he could work his way over to I95 and stay on it until he reached his house. He decided to stick to driving during the daylight hours since the roads could be cluttered with cars and it would be too dangerous to drive at night. He also needed to sleep, eat and re-fuel his vehicle. At this point, he didn't know how or where this would occur. His future, for the time being, was simply unwritten.

His main objective was to get home. It was nearly a thousand miles away, and considering everything, it could very well take a long time.

# Chapter 25

At the outskirts of Naples, Ben drove slowly through the intersection beneath the non-functioning stoplight. On a normal day, in a normal world at this time of day, there would be cars, trucks, bikes and pedestrians converging at this intersection. The computer-managed signals and the walk/don't-walk signs would precisely coordinate all these random elements; not only to keep the traffic flowing efficiently, but also to make sure there were no unfortunate accidents or personal injuries.

However, this day—this week, was far from a normal day in the city. There were no red, yellow, or green lights to govern the flow of traffic this day. There was nothing to watch over and coordinate the daily journeys of the thousands of travelers who would pass by this way. But none was needed, since Ben was the only traveler at this deserted intersection. He would have been grateful to be stuck behind a bus full of people, busy to get to their destinations. He would have been thankful to see one car, one pedestrian, or even a lost dog, at this point. But there was no movement at all—just the dead stop light swinging slightly in the breeze.

After driving a few more blocks, the neighborhood became denser so Ben stopped the car and got out. He pulsated the siren a few times, and then switched to PA mode. With the microphone extended out the window, he cleared his throat and spoke into it.

"Hello...is anyone around?"

The sound boomed from the cruiser echoing around the buildings, almost startling him.

"If anyone can hear me, please answer."

He listened carefully for any response. After repeating his announcements a couple more times, he proceeded to get back into the car. Since the population here was denser and the streets more crowded, he needed to stop many times to push abandoned vehicles to the side. Each time he had to stop, he would use the PA system to announce his presence and each time—there was absolutely no reply.

Beyond the city of Naples, was Bonita Springs, and after that, Fort Meyers. _Ben could not believe the number of golf courses he passed by. All these people do here is either fish or golf. Must be a heck of a lot of retirees living here_ , he thought.

Since the day was waning, he decided to stop in either Sarasota or Tampa for the night. In the distance, he spotted other plumes of black smoke like the one near Marco Island. The fires could have started easily. A dropped cigarette, an unattended cooking stove or a crashed vehicle. They could all start a fire. With no one there to attend to it, it would spread rapidly and grow larger until it eventually ran out of fuel. At the fire's credenza, it would appear as it would now; a thick and wretched, sulfur and chemically laden dying column of smoke.

The time was nearly 6 pm when he reached Sarasota. _It seemed like there were even more golf courses in this town_. Ben must have been getting hungry because he choose exit I75 onto Fruitville Road. It was a four-lane road with a center turn lane which made it easier to weave around obstacles. Driving west in the eastbound lanes was necessary at times, but being the only driver on the road, it didn't matter. Continuing west, Ben passed by a group of large circus tents and realized that Ringling Brothers was headquartered in Sarasota.

He realized that he'd need some supplies since he would eventually be in the dark without power and perhaps without water as well. He came upon a large sporting goods store and parked in the handicap spot. His unlawfulness was pretty much null and void at this point since what he has seen, or the lack of, has amounted to something quite catastrophic. Staring at the large blue sign with the wheelchair icon on it, he would have been grateful to be harassed by a handicap person.

Fortunately, the door to the store was unlocked and Ben took notice of the hours, which were from 5am to 8pm. He had grabbed a long black flashlight, _courtesy of the Marco Island police department_ , from the cruiser. Ben needed the extra light since the store was large and the window's sunlight didn't quite reach the back. Taking one of the shopping carts, he proceeded down each row looking for things he might need.

He began filling his cart. Extra flashlight batteries, a pocket knife, a water filter, a thick wool blanket, binoculars, a night vision scope, a green backpack, a flare gun with extra flares, one of those air canister boat horns, a small camping stove along with extra propane bottles, a hand-held radio transceiver and a couple of duffle bags to hold all these goodies were stuffed into his cart.

At the back of the store there were various firearms—both rifles and handguns. Although the police cruiser had a shotgun, it was locked in its holder with a combination lock. Ben didn't like guns, although he did own one his father handed down to him. He never thought he needed one. But today, the world was currently upside-down and he didn't know what caused it or what to expect on his journey. If he needed to use a gun, he needed it to be reliable, so he grabbed the most expensive semi-automatic, a Glock G21, from the glass case along with extra magazines.

The carbon colored weapon was surprisingly light but solid in his hands. It was scary to think that a simple squeeze of the trigger could result in the instant death of another living creature, _if he could find one_. Ben hoped he didn't need to use it on anyone or even himself, although it would make a good signaling device just the same.

The side of the weapon was stamped with . _45 Auto_ , so he searched the aisles for ammo of the same type. There were many choices of grains and types such as hollow point, full metal jacket and so forth. He grabbed one of the boxes of 50 rounds. It was heavier than he thought it would be. Pulling out one of the rounds, it seemed huge. He honestly had to consult the user guide that came with the gun to verify how to load and fire it. He loaded the magazine with 10 rounds. This task was more difficult than it seemed but perhaps the new spring in the magazine would loosen up after more use. Ben knew the basic operation of a semi-automatic pistol, but read the guide thoroughly to be sure. There actually wasn't much to it. He slid in a full magazine but didn't pull the slide to seat the first round as there was no thumb safety. He proceeded to load two additional magazines and put the whole works into a separate compartment in the backpack.

Ben came upon rows and rows of fishing gear and lures and that reminded him of his frantic boat trip back to Marco Island. He had seen dolphins and other fish in the water—and that was _after_ the storm. It that were true, then possibly only land creatures were subject to this _mass exodus—another freaking mystery_.

Unable to think of anything else he needed at the moment, Ben headed for the exit when something caught his eye—the store's security camera. He just stood there and stared at it thinking this was one of those _why didn't I think of that_ before moments. He could review the recordings from the cameras to see what happened. There must be hundreds of stores in this city using security cameras and if this one didn't provide any clues, others probably would.

Leaving the cart up front, he raced to the back of the store where he assumed there would be offices, which would likely house the recording device. _This is one time that his tech-savvy background would help_ , he thought. Feeling stupid, stumbling in the dark, he raced back to the front of the store to retrieve his flashlight, then raced down another aisle to the rear of the store and the last thing he saw were his feet coming up in front of him, then the ceiling, then pain and then—blackness.

# Chapter 26

Hours later, Ben awoke in the dark. Pain erupted from his head with every beat of his heart. He didn't know where he was or why he was laying on a hard cold floor. He began to call out Helen's name, but the surrounding silence absorbed his words without reply. He felt the back of his head and found the source of the pain—there was a large knot and what felt like dried blood crusting his hair.

He was waiting for someone to hold up their hand and ask, "How many fingers do you see?" But if someone were standing directly in front of him, he wouldn't be able to see them, for it was pitch black. It was so dark, he actually felt his eyes to make sure there wasn't a blindfold on him and that his eyelids were opening.

He felt the area around him and found something long and cylindrical. It felt like the flashlight that he had been using. He carefully rose to the sitting position, found the switch on the flashlight and clicked it on. The intense light temporarily blinded him and aggravated the pain in his head.

He was in a store, some kind of sporting goods store. He scooted around and his light located the entrance. He wanted to stand, but he knew any movement would bring pain. Some of his senses were coming back into focus as he noticed he was lying on top of something small and bead-like. Using his flashlight, he found the source. A container of bright yellow soft air gun pellets had somehow toppled and spilled its contents onto the floor.

Although he should have stayed put for a while, his mouth was extremely dry and he felt dehydrated. He needed to find some water. He slowly picked himself up and stood, leaning against the shelves in the isle. His head throbbed severely at first, but eventually subsided into a dull but constant pain. He made his way to the front of the store, but couldn't remember actually getting there or how long it took him.

In the checkout line, his roving flashlight found a small standing cooler with bottles of sport and other high-energy drinks. He grabbed a bottle of green Gatorade and drank the sweet warm liquid carefully. Each gulp exasperated the pain in his head. He found some miniature packages of aspirin and swallowed them, doubling the dose. That could have been a big mistake, he thought. Aspirin was an anti-coagulant and would thin his blood. Although that would alleviate his pain, it might also make him bleed more. Unless he really wanted to throw-up, it was too late.

His flashlight found a bench at the front of the store and he sat there for a while as his focus was getting better. He wanted to lie down and sleep some more but he knew better. He might have had a concussion, and he knew that going to sleep would be the wrong way to treat it. With this kind of injury, only time would tell. He tried to remember.

He knew his name was Benjamin Dawson and that he ran a magazine. He had a wife whose name was Helen and two children and their names were...Taylor...and...Morgan and they lived in Richmond, Virginia. His wife was an artist...her medium was glass...yes, it was starting to become clearer. But where was he and why was he here? Why was he in a store without power? Did he break in? Did he become a thief?

Ben felt a lump in his pocket, reached in and pulled out a set of keys. Using his flashlight, he looked at the key fob, which was made of clear plastic encasing a typewritten card. His eyes still could not focus that well, but he could just make out a number and above it the words "Marco Island PD".

This was not only the key to his borrowed car, but it was also the key that brought most of his memories back from the black hole that they had been stuck in. It returned in flashes and pieces that eventually put itself back together again like a giant jigsaw puzzle.

As time transpired, he remembered most everything except for the sporting goods store, but looking at the cart full of gear, he could see why he was here. What he didn't know, was why he was really here—in the city of Sarasota—in the dark—with no one around. It was complete madness. The unfortunate part was that it was real. The bump on his head was real enough. The more he traveled and the less he saw—in terms of living things—the more his hope faded. He began to cry. _Who cares, let it out_ , he thought. _There's no one around to notice_. He missed Helen, he missed his children. He wanted this disaster to go away and never have happened.

# Chapter 27

Since it was so late, and driving at night in his condition would be a bad idea, Ben decided to stay in the sporting goods store for the night. He pushed two weight benches together and threw a camping pad on it and a sleeping bag on top of that. To restore his energy, he dined on foil-packed beef jerky and a couple of peanut butter-chocolate energy bars. He promptly fell asleep after reading a couple of chapters of a survival book he discovered.

In the morning, he packed his gear in the car, ate some more jerky, used the store's restroom and proceeded on his way. He found a couple of additional items to add to his cart: the sleeping bag he was using, a tarp, a medical kit, the survival book and one important item he was going to need; some tubing and a pump to siphon gas. The pump was designed for water, but it would do until he found something that was more suited for hazardous liquids. He still had a slight headache so he loaded up on packages of aspirin.

Although it was not that far away, Ben decided to stop in Tampa, which was a larger city. Tampa would be his indicator. If a city with a population of nearly 400,000 was now void of any people or animal life; that would indicate that the world was indeed in a sad state of affairs. It might tell Ben whether he was in heaven, hell, or in-between. From what he's seen so far, it was already looking pretty grim.

On I75 he encountered an obstacle he couldn't get through. A couple of semi's had gotten tangled with some cars and were blocking the road. They were wedged together tightly. Ben had to back-track a few miles, and then find a detour around the mess. It took at least an hour to get back on his way.

As he approached Tampa, he could see the tall buildings downtown through the undulating refraction of the heat. The mirage caused them to appear to be made out of liquid steel. He needed to get on to I4 westbound, but that exit was blocked by a dump truck, so he took the eastbound exit, then did a one-eighty. The car was now heading westbound in the eastbound lanes. Somehow, he found his way to East Kennedy Boulevard where he stopped the car and got out.

It was as if it were Sunday morning and everyone in town was at church. The tall buildings ahead were like solemn monoliths each with their own unique architectural characteristics. When full of people, the buildings would have looked modern and lively. But unoccupied, as Ben assumed they were, they became lifeless empty shells.

A nice breeze emanated from the channels and bays, relieving the stifling heat. On the horizon to the south, Ben spotted the top half of a huge ocean liner parked in the channel. It too looked like a soul-less hull. Ben drove slowly down East Kennedy and went to "Code 3" (sirens and lights), to see if he could rouse anyone. He needed to weave back and forth between stalled cars, but it was passable.

As he approached a bridge across one of the channels, the back window of his car exploded in a shower of glass.

Ben stopped the car, turned off the siren and turned to look at the back window. He heard a distant pop and something hit the car with a thud. A bullet? He asked himself. Who the hell would be shooting at a cop car? The sound of the shot echoed around the tall buildings making it impossible to tell where it was coming from. Pop! The Rear passenger window disintegrated. This time he saw the flash of the muzzle from down the street.

Now that he knew where the shots were coming from, he threw the car in gear and sped down the street for another block, then turned and stopped the car so that it was sideways to the source of the gun shots. Opening the door, he got out and hunkered down with the car between him and the shooter.

Except for the binoculars, all his newly acquired gear including his handgun was locked in the trunk. He would be too exposed if he were to attempt to open the trunk to retrieve it. Staying low to the ground, his heart beating rapidly, Ben carefully opened the rear door and extracted the binoculars. He placed them on top of the trunk and tried to focus them down the block. The angle was too shallow, so he slowly stood up to get a better view.

From out of nowhere, he was blindsided. A flash of skin, red shirt, blue jeans and blond hair took him down to the ground just as another round from the shooter's gun whizzed above his head. He laid there behind the car on his stomach. An arm pressed down on his back keeping him from getting up. He slowly turned his head and was face to face with a woman.

She whispered, "Keep down, that guy is mental, he's been shooting up the whole street. Are you a cop?"

Awestruck, speechless, Ben just stared at her. Afraid to move, he finally mumbled, "Where the hell did you come from?"

The woman who just saved Ben's life, gave him a curious look. "I've been watching him for a while, trying to talk to him. He looted a pharmacy and he's completely high. Until now, he was only shooting at windows and empty cars. I was afraid he was going to kill himself." Then she added, "You're not a cop, are you?"

With her arm still compressing his back, Ben just realized that this was the first contact he's had with anyone for a week. He wasn't alone. Thank god, there were other survivors.

"I...I haven't seen anyone for days. What's happened? Where did everybody go?" His voice sounded strange to him since he hadn't talked to anyone for a while.

"We can talk later. Right now, we need to resolve the current problem at hand", she replied, still whispering.

After hearing nothing for a few minutes, Ben shifted his position in order to look under the car. He could barely make out the outstretched legs of someone sitting lazily against one of the buildings. He spotted something small and shiny on the ground next to the legs. The binoculars were still on the ground with him so he used them to get a better look. Sure enough, the object was a gun and it was unattended. The legs were not moving and all was still.

"I think he's passed out, he's not moving", Ben said.

"Okay", she replied taking deep breaths, "Let's take it slow. Keep low and we'll traverse along the buildings keeping out of his direct line of sight."

Ben nodded in reply and they both proceeded slowly in a crouched position toward the building to the north. He thought about retrieving his own gun from the trunk, but it was too risky. They slowly made their way toward the gunman pausing every so often to listen for noises. The rising heat of the day that had been absorbed into the concrete and stone facades, accelerated the sweat now pouring from Ben's forehead.

The lone gunman sat motionless as they approached. If he knew about their stealthy approach, he would have retrieved his gun and would've been ready for them. Either he hadn't sensed them, or he was truly unconscious. Either way, they had the advantage of surprise.

When they were within 10 feet of the gunman, Ben whispered to his accomplice, "I'll grab the gun". She nodded in reply.

As he approached the man, he quickly kicked the gun away from him. The gun clattered as it bounced down the sidewalk a little further than expected. Ben followed it and quickly picked it up and ran back to where the man lay. The woman had bent down to look at the gunman as Ben returned. He gripped the gun with both hands and pointed it at him.

Ben felt a little uneasy as this petite woman got even closer to the gunman. His caution was justified as the gunman's eyes suddenly popped open. As quick as a whip, the shooter extracted a shiny object from beneath him and lunged at her. She reacted quickly by falling onto her backside. Ben jumped in-between them with gun in hand yelling, "Put it down! Drop it!"

The gunman's eyes were so bloodshot, that they looked like they were bleeding. He looked at Ben wildly at first, then solemnly as though he was relieved to see him. He looked at the knife in his own hands and let it drop to the ground. He then looked back up at Ben as a sadness formed on his face. With a wheezing, raspy voice, he said, "You wonder where everybody went." It wasn't a question.

Glassy eyed, staring aimlessly, he continued talking. His voice just a faint whisper. "Nowhere. They went nowhere. We're the ones who left and I'm...I'm going back." Then his eyes rolled up and back into his sockets and his body slumped over.

The woman pushed Ben aside and immediately cradled the gunman's head in her hands. She pulled up his eyelids, looked into his eyes, and then felt his neck for a pulse. Tears welled up in her eyes as she said, "Aw...shit". Then she yelled at the lifeless figure, "You son of a bitch!"

She laid the gunman down flat on the ground and began CPR; pumping his chest. Ben just stood there, gun still in his hands, not knowing what to do.

# Chapter 28

Ben watched helplessly as the blonde figure methodically compressed the gunman's chest. She looked as though she had done this before.

"Anything I can do?" he asked, shaking his head.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were still red and wet with tears, but not yet rolling down her cheeks. She took a long deep breath, "Can you go and get your car, please"?

Ben nodded in response then took off toward the cruiser. As he raced towards the car, he thought that even though someone lay back there dying, he couldn't deny his feelings of joy that other people were around—at least two others. If there were three people in the small area he covered in his search, there must be more. And if there were others, then perhaps his own loved ones survived as well.

He was hesitant to call them or himself survivors because he did not have enough facts to determine what happened to everyone. But whatever it was, whatever happened—it was huge. To scour the land of all living creatures without leaving a trace of evidence in such a small amount of time, was beyond his comprehension. Whether the people and animals were taken, or they left on their own free will, would require an awesome amount of coordination and energy.

Ben climbed into the cruiser, spun it around and headed down towards the scene of the emergency. When he arrived, he made the assumption that they were going to be taking the patient somewhere else, so he opened the rear door. He noticed that there was shattered glass remnants on the bench seat and using his bare hand, wiped the pieces onto the floorboard.

"Help me get him in the back seat," she called out as she was propping the patient's head up.

Ben grabbed his legs and together they laid him down on the hot plastic seat. She sat in the well in front of the seat and restarted her resuscitation efforts.

As Ben got into the driver's seat with the motor still running he asked, "Where are we going".

"Memorial Hospital, I'm a resident there, do you know where that is", she replied.

"Sorry, but I'm not from around here."

She seemed a little bit impatient with Ben and instructed him to head west on Kennedy for about a mile, then take a left on Habana.

Ben wheeled the cruiser around, and then headed in the direction given to him as fast as he could. Instinctively, he was tempted to flick on the siren and lights, but nearly forgot there would be no one out there to warn.

After a couple of blocks, Ben broke the silence. "So you're a doctor", he said more as a statement than a question. "How's he doing?"

Between the chest compressions, she replied hesitantly, "Right now, he's in V-fib, obviously brought on by an overdose of cardiotoxic drugs. We need to get him on a defibrillator as soon as possible." Then more to herself then to Ben she said, "Damn it! I wish I had my scope with me."

He was not sure what that all meant, but he knew the man was dying and needed help soon. He drove the rest of the way without talking to let her do her job without interruption. He found Habana Avenue easily as it was marked with a big blue "H" hospital sign pointing south. In the rush, he didn't notice that his hand was bleeding from the glass pieces that he had wiped off the back seat. Seeing no other cloth around, he used his shirttail to wipe the blood from his hand and the now slippery steering wheel.

Ben found the emergency entrance to the Hospital and pulled up to the door. Luckily, there was a gurney near the door under the cover of a canopy. Ben and the doctor moved the patient onto the gurney and through the doors into the darkened emergency waiting room. Leaving Ben with the gunman, she disappeared into a nearby room.

The waiting room was empty and still. Normally, this room would be bustling with doctors, nurses, attendants and the sick hoping to get attention for what ailed them. Without the coolness from the air conditioner, it was warm and humid. Light filtering in from the doors and the windows diminished into darkness down the long hallway casting deep, long shadows. Wind from the outside moved up and down the unused elevator shafts producing a moaning sound to add to the eerie ambiance.

The doctor re-appeared wheeling a cart towards both of them. In a flurry of motion, she pulled out what looked like a pair of scissors only much longer and sharper, and used it to slice open the patient's shirt. She then pressed some buttons on the instrument atop the cart and extracted two paddles from it. From a drawer, she pulled out a tube and quickly applied large drops of clear gel to the paddles and to the man's unmoving chest. She looked up at Ben, then around the area of the emergency room. She pointed to the front desk and said "Over there...there should be a stethoscope on a table behind the desk."

Ben quickly darted towards the desk and found what he was sent for. As he was returning, the doctor had already jolted the patient with the defibrillator. Although he had seen this procedure acted out on TV and in movies, he had never seen it for real. He had expected the man's body to jerk violently in response to the shock, but there was only a slight movement of the man's chest. He handed her the scope, then backed away. She checked his heart, pressed a button on one of the paddles, and then delivered another jolt.

Again, feeling helpless, Ben asked, "What can I do?"

The doctor looked at Ben's hand—blood was still seeping from his wounds. She said, "You need to get that under control. There should be some antiseptic and gauze in one of those rooms over there. It's dark in there, so take one of the flashlights on the desk over there." She then proceeded to inject the patient with a large syringe that she ripped out of a plastic pouch.

Ben found a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a package of bandages in one of the examination rooms. He cleaned his wounds and instead of applying a bandage to each little puncture, he wrapped his whole hand in gauze and taped it up. Satisfied with the job, he promptly returned to the waiting room.

The doctor was leaning over the patient, arms folded across her chest. She turned to look at Ben, shaking her head as an obvious sign of failure. With all the confusion and panic subsiding, Ben was finally able to get a good look at her. She was slender, medium height with short dark blonde hair. Her eyes were a deep shade of emerald green with puffy, slightly darkened skin below them. She looked exhausted and frayed. Through the veil of her eyes, Ben could perceive a deep sense of fear and confusion.

He tried to convey his remorse. "I'm sorry...did you know him?"

After taking a couple of deep breaths, she turned away from Ben to look at the still and silent man, "Yes, I knew him. He was my patient for the last six months.

"I was treating him for a brain tumor. The shitty part was that he was in remission and his prognosis was starting to look really good. Then, when... everyone disappeared, he freaked out. I've been chasing him around this stupid town for the last three days and was getting close to talking him out of his drug-fueled shootout spree—then you showed up."

Suddenly Ben felt guilty, as though he somehow caused this man's death and prevented the doctor from treating him. Was he at the wrong place at the wrong time? On the other hand, he could have been at the right place at just the right time. The shooter was definitely going to die anyway. If he never showed up in the first place, it could have turned out much worse. The doctor herself could have been shot.

She turned back to Ben and looked at his bandaged hand. "Oh good, you found some dressing, is it bad? Did he cut you? Maybe I should take a look at it."

Ben felt a warm rush of embarrassment as he witnessed this woman—this amazingly dedicated doctor, suddenly turn all her attention and compassion from the crazy dead guy, to himself. He was relieved that he was no longer alone, but felt a little awkward and off-guard.

Looking down at his own handiwork, Ben replied "It's okay...just some small punctures from the glass."

"Are you in any pain?"

"Not my hand, but my head is throbbing again.

"Your head—what happened to it?"

I uh...had a little fall in a sporting goods store and hit my head. I was out for a few hours, I think I just need some more aspirin—that should take care of it.

She looked at him with narrow eyes of concern. "You were unconscious? Do you have any memory loss?"

"I did at first, but only the short term memory, it's mostly back."

Gesturing to one of the waiting room chairs next to the windows, she said, "I should take a look at it, let's sit over there in the light".

Ben proceeded to sit down, bending over for her to look at his scalp. She parted his hair very gently probing with her fingers, then said "Okay...stay here, I'll be right back".

Ben heard her clattering around in one of the examination rooms. He suddenly felt extremely exhausted, what a day it's been. If it wasn't for the headache, he could have laid down right here and slept.

# Chapter 29

The doctor returned with a tray full of instruments. She handed him a small paper cup with a couple of pills in it and another cup with water. Ben looked at the odd shaped pills and said, "These aren't aspirin."

"Trust me", she said. "Just take those and you'll feel much better. I'm going to need to put in a couple of stitches. I could give you a local to the scalp, but that would hurt just about as much as the stitches."

She then pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and proceeded to patch him up. The pills he took must have been effective as he was feeling very relaxed. The stitching needle was barely perceptible—just a tiny prick of pain. When she finished with his head, she unwrapped the bandages on his hand and examined them as well. She looked closer at one of the punctures, then looked up at Ben and shook her head. Using a pair of tweezers, she extracted a small sliver of glass that Ben hadn't noticed. Drops of thick crimson blood sprung from the opening.

She shook her head again and made a clicking noise with her tongue. "You macho types—you drive with a concussion, get shot at, rub your hands in glass and then say 'oh, just a couple of aspirin will fix it'". She then proceeded to take his other hand into hers and examined it thoroughly as well. Ben felt a little flustered again as the warmth of her hand—even covered with gloves—warmed his heart. He brushed it off saying to himself that this is what doctors do—repair and comfort people—it's their job.

"Head injuries are not to be taken lightly", she warned. "If you feel any light headiness, dizziness, nausea or you become disoriented or confused, let me know right away".

"I believe I've had most of those symptoms _prior_ to hitting my head", Ben joked, feeling even more relaxed now. "By the way, my name is Ben, Benjamin Dawson". He realized he just had a very personal ordeal and encounter with a stranger and hadn't even introduced himself or knew her name—as if they had time for small talk.

"I'm Dr. Carlson, Samantha Carlson. I sometimes go by 'Sam'."

Ben extended his left hand, the good one. "Pleasure to meet you, Doctor... Sam. Thanks for the repair job. I didn't realize I was so messed up. By the way, you wouldn't happen to know where the hell everybody's gone to do you?"

"I wish I knew. I was in x-ray with...him..." she gestured to the recently deceased guy laying on the gurney "...when _it_ happened. When we came out of the x-ray room, it was like a ghost town. I thought the hospital had been evacuated for some reason, but after going outside, we knew that something else—something much bigger had happened."

"Did you see the storm?"

"Storm? There was no storm that I know of. We were down in x-ray for a couple of hours. If there was a storm, it was a short one. Where were you?"

"This is going to sound kind of strange, but I was on a deserted island. There was an electrical storm and lots of rain, so I ducked in a nearby cave until it passed."

Doctor Carlson gave Ben a quizzical look like her brain was trying—but not succeeding—in processing the information that he relayed. As if Ben was mentally following along her thought path, he had an epiphany.

"Is the x-ray room shielded by chance?" he asked.

"Radiation shielding is required by law. There are lead plates in the walls and ceiling. Do you think that has something to do with why we...remained?"

Deep in thought, Ben leaned his head back. That's when he noticed the shiny black half-dome protrusions from the ceiling in the waiting room. He pointed to one of them. "Are those security cameras by chance?"

Samantha looked up, crinkled her nose. "Oh god, why didn't I think of that before?"

To Ben this whole scenario seemed familiar. "Is there an emergency generator on the premises?"

"Yes, it's in the parking garage. It kicked in when we lost power, but I shut it down to conserve fuel in case we had any causalities."

"Do you know where those cameras lead to?"

"I'm not exactly sure, but I would guess they are in the security office downstairs. We need to go there anyway to transfer my former patient over there to the morgue."

"The morgue?"

"Well unless you're up to digging a grave in this heat, it's much cooler down there and that would be the best place for him until he can be put to rest properly. We'll need to fire up the generator anyway in order to use the elevator to get him down there. Once we have him locked up, we can check the security office."

# Chapter 30

The generator operated only certain designated lights, so the morgue was dimly lit making it look a lot like...a morgue. Two stainless steel procedure tables sat empty. Next to each of them were trays full of gleaming surgical instruments including one wicked looking saw. Thank god there were no autopsies being performed here at the time of the event, thought Ben.

Together they wheeled the newly deceased into an alcove containing eight drawers that were flush to the wall. The doctor pulled open a couple of the drawers finding cadavers in each. To Ben, that settled one question he had on his mind: only the warm and living had disappeared. Finding an empty one, Ben and the doctor carefully hoisted the dead man onto the drawer. Doctor Carlson then bowed her head, made a quick sign of the cross on her chest, and then gently closed the drawer.

Ben also found himself bowing his head. He could have said a prayer, but wouldn't know what to say. What does one say when faced with...Armageddon? If what had passed was truly what is revealed in the last chapter of the New Testament, then where is the battle that is described? Maybe the recorded images would reveal something.

Ben looked up at Doctor Carlson who was still looking downward. "Are you okay? Shouldn't we head to the security office?"

The Doctor looked up while shaking her head as if trying to snap out of her deepest thoughts. "I'm alright Ben, I just...I'm just sorry I couldn't save him...such a loss."

She headed for the door with Ben in tow. The dimly lit quiet corridors with their hard concrete floor echoed every footstep and every rustle of clothes as they walked. Most of the closed doors along the way were marked "Maintenance", or "Storage", or "Supplies". After a right-turn, they came upon an office with blinded windows marked "Security Office – Restricted Access".

The door had a proximity security lock that required a special card to gain access. The handle also had a hole for a hard key. As Ben worried that finding a key that would fit would be difficult in a complex of this size, Doctor Carlson produced a key from her pocket, slipped it in and unlocked the door.

"I found a master key in the chief of staff's office. Apparently it opens any door in the Hospital," said the Doctor with a furtive look on her face.

The security office was sparsely decorated with gray metal chairs and desks. Behind the reception area was a corridor to four additional rooms. Two were obviously offices and one appeared to be a holding room because the door had only a small glass slit in which to look through. The fourth room was the largest and it contained an array of monitors, two desks, three chairs, a rack of computers, and several storage lockers, one which was labeled "Armament". On a large corkboard were blueprints of the building's floors and several mug shots of people who were more than likely restricted from entering the hospital. But, that wasn't a problem now, because they probably no longer walked the face of the earth.

Since, the emergency generator provided priority power to the security facilities the monitors were all on but nothing was being displayed. Doctor Carlson sat down at one of the consoles and shrugged. "I may know the ins and outs of the human body, but when it comes to techno crap like this, I'm totally lost."

Finally, Ben felt like he could be of some use instead of dead weight. "If you'll let me drive, Doctor Carlson, this sort of thing is right up my alley."

"Oh, thank god. I was worried we'd be here for hours trying to figure this out. Bye the way, Ben, please call me Samantha or even Sam if you like." With that, she scooted her chair aside.

Ben got in the _driver's_ seat and began his magic. It was a GE StoreSafe unit. He had worked with one of these before, only on a smaller scale. As long as they didn't change the default password—and hardly anyone does—he could run it. He began to talk to himself as he always does when he is concentrating on something technical.

"Okay, connect...password....12345...OK... Yes, I'm in. Let's see...Site Description...Memorial Hospital...double-click."

Suddenly all five monitor came alive. Each displayed a four-by-four grid of camera images. Many were dark or blank. The ones with images displayed empty hallways and vacant hospital grounds including a shot of Ben's police cruiser at the emergency entrance.

Ben gestured to all the monitors. "These are live images. Okay...view playback...building disk map...okay...right-click...search. Let's see...we'll go back to Thursday before the storm hit...let's say around 5 am."

Ben pressed the "Go To" button and all the cameras lit up. People could be seen in some of the images. Some of the outdoor images showed parts of the nearby streets where cars were seen moving along.

"Why do they look all herky-jerky?" Sam said.

"To save on disk space, they don't use full-motion video so it looks a little spastic when played back. Here we go coming up to 5 am."

0500 – People were walking, standing, talking in groups or alone.

0537 – The outdoor scenes suddenly grew dark as though a storm were approaching. People didn't seem to take too much notice.

0540 – It was hard to see, but rain started to fall and the outdoor scenes showed people ducking for cover.

0549 – For some strange reason, people both inside and out were covering their ears.

0551 – Most people were standing motionless, still covering their ears.

The next images made both Ben and Sam drop their jaws.

As people were covering their ears with their hands, their bodies started to shrink while they grew fatter around. They looked like they were anguished in pain. Then suddenly in every video, their bodies expanded completely horizontal and flat hovering in the air. In the next second after that, they were gone—completely, clothes and all. There were no traces of them left.

0553 - Every frame was now completely still—nothing was moving. In an instance, life as they had known it—had vanished.

Ben backed the videos up and played them repeatedly as though he could still not believe what he was seeing. He looked over at Sam who was now trembling—tears were streaming down her face.

Sam turned to look at Ben. Her eyes were wet and red. She started to mouth some words, but couldn't get them out. She began to sob, sucking in deep breaths of air. She then moved towards Ben, put her hands on his shoulders and buried her head in his chest. Finally, she got some words out. "My god." She took some more deep breaths. "This is the end of the world, isn't it?"

Ben didn't say anything; he just held her and stared at the empty scenes on the monitors. His body was limp, the pain in his heart grew larger, and he thought about his family and the same awful fate that might have been bestowed upon them. He had to get home. Whether they were there or not didn't matter at this point—he just had to know.

Then the lights and the monitors flickered twice and went out leaving them in complete darkness.

# Part III

Hope sits rather contentedly;

unconstrained though, it bares its everlasting essence.

North bench, Branson Island.

# Chapter 31

In the security room of Memorial hospital in Tampa, Florida, Benjamin Dawson and Dr. Samantha Carlson, two survivors of what could be called the near-extinction of life on earth, finally found a flashlight.

Together, they were able to restart the generator by siphoning fuel from a couple of diesel-powered cars in the parking garage. It was enough to allow them to eat a hot microwaved meal and for Ben to get a well-needed, but lukewarm shower. Given that there were plenty of empty beds and clean sheets, they decided to spend the night at the hospital.

The doctor checked Ben's stitches, changed his bloodstained bandages, and then dispensed to him additional pain reliever along with something else to help him sleep. Ben didn't bother to ask her what the sleep medicine was, he had complete trust in her abilities. Minimal words were spoken as they were still in too much shock to discuss what they saw on the videos. For something that bizarre and inexplicable, ones brain needed more time to absorb what it saw before attempting to figure it out.

Ben woke up the next day and was nearly pain-free. He was amazed that he was able to sleep throughout the night even though the sleep aid he was given was the tiniest of pills.

He made his way outside and noticed that a fresh rain occurred during the night leaving the streets glossy and clean. The rain also brought humidity to the area so dense that you could almost push it aside as you walked. Doctor Sam soon joined him and sat down on the hard concrete ledge that divided the driveway from the grass.

To Ben's astonishment, she pulled out a cigarette, lit it and took a long drag.

"Don't you know that those things are bad for your health? Or did you skip that class in medical school?"

Sam continued to stare ahead and replied flatly. "Sorry, but it's my only vice. I only smoke one in the morning to get me going. So, what do you think?"

"I guess one a day isn't too bad."

"No, I mean what do you think about what we saw... about what happened?"

Ben took a deep pondering breath. "Well, we can rule out people leaving on their own free will." It's beyond anything that I can imagine, but one thing's for sure—whatever took them had to have an awful lot of power behind it."

"Then why were _we_ saved?"

"I'm pretty sure that we were protected. I was deep in a cave and you were surrounded by lead shielding. Whatever force... whatever technology was used it could not successfully penetrate those protected environments."

"Then there may be other people who were also protected and survived."

"That's what I'm hoping for." Then Ben changed the subject. "Do you have family here... loved ones?"

Sam replied, still talking in the present tense. "Both my parents live here in Tampa. Of course that was the first place I went, but no one was home. I also have a brother who lives in Phoenix. He's a top rated automobile mechanic. My parents always joke that they have it made because they can actually trust both their Doctor _and_ their mechanic."

Sam looked over at Ben. "What about you?"

Ben spoke, his voice cracking a bit. "I have a wife and two daughters back home in Virginia. That's where I'm headed."

Sam put her hand on his shoulder. "Mind if I tag along?" She then gestured around the area. "It's not like I have patients beating down the door."

"I was hoping you would," replied Ben. "I could use the company because you never know when I might bang my head against something again."

"I'll be sure and bring my bag."

Ben looked over at the Marco police cruiser with its windows shot out. "I think we'll need another car."

# Chapter 32

The drive north was time consuming and difficult. If it were not for the four-wheel drive rig they acquired, courtesy of Tampa Fire & Rescue, it would have taken much longer. When faced with an obstacle, they were able to drive around it using the shoulders of the road, or cross the median to the opposing lanes. Having another person was also helpful so that one could steer a derelict car while the other pushed it out of the way from behind using the other vehicle.

Sam packed extra medical supplies in addition to the loot that Ben had gotten from the sporting goods store. Their plan was to drive to Jacksonville where they would stop, look around and then have some lunch. They would continue as far as they could until dusk. Ben wished they could just drive straight on to Richmond without stopping, but with the obstacles and all, they wouldn't make it before dark.

Samantha stared out the window as they passed by groves of Sand Pine and Cyprus trees ebbing and receding along the highway. Whenever she had a school or work break, she loved to go hiking and backpacking in and around the Ocala National Forest. She would spend hours alone or with friends hiking the lush tree-lined trails. The part she liked best was the peaceful solitude and escape from the clatter and din of the busy city. Now it seems that solitude would be easy to come by.

She admired her traveling companion, who had the strength and fortitude to press on and to attempt to find his family despite the odds against it. Ben seemed like a gentle and kind man with a deep love for his wife and family. He was quite attractive with thick dark brown tresses and deep blue eyes, yet he had a boyish almost innocent look about him. She was grateful that he happened along, proving that there were more survivors than her disabled patient, who now lay at rest in the hospital morgue.

Sam had a few relationships in her past, but nothing permanent. Because of her work, she had an urgent personality that no one was able to put up with for any length of time. In one respect, she was relieved that she hadn't had much of a family during this catastrophe. She would be worried sick, like Ben, about what happened to them.

She woke up on a king size bed atop a lavish white comforter. As she put her bare feet onto the floor, she noticed that it was damp—not just in places, but covering the whole floor. She got up and sloshed to the door. When she opened it, there was more water in the hallway running across a black and white tiled floor. She proceeded down the hallway, which had many twists and turns until she got to a set of narrow and very tall stairs also covered in the black and white tile. The water was cascading down the stairs like a waterfall, but she climbed them anyway. There were no handrails, so she had to press her hands against the walls to keep from slipping back down.

When she reached the top, she found the source of the water. A large stainless steel bathtub—like the ones used for physical therapy—was overflowing. She nearly got to the point where she could see into the tub when the car came to an abrupt halt and shook her out of her slumber. Ben was cursing about something and opened his door to get out.

Still trying to pull her mind out of the strange dream, Sam thought that they had encountered another road blockage, but the path ahead was clear. When she looked out the side window, she saw why they had stopped. The dream she was having became a nightmare in a split second as she looked up upon something she had never seen before in person.

The blackened remains of a large passenger jet lie off to the side of the highway. It had blazed a trail through the woods severing and burning several trees along the way. Some of the scattered debris was still smoldering. It was a horrible site to behold. Sam climbed out of the car and stood beside Ben at the edge of the highway. Her first instinct was to scan the area for survivors, if any, that might need medical attention.

They proceeded to shimmy down from the highway embankment towards the wreckage. A foul smell of diesel fuel and burnt rubber permeated the humid air enough that it left a bad taste in their mouths. They carefully picked their way through torn jagged metal, insulation and scads of luggage towards a section of the fuselage. Sam was grateful she was wearing shoes instead of being barefoot—as she was in her dream.

Ben looked up into the fuselage and said "Just what I expected."

Sam followed his line of sight and saw the same thing. There were no bodies in the seats, yet the seatbelts were still connected.

Ben shook his head. "Man...This is nuts. They were snatched from the plane mid-flight—including the pilots. The plane must have continued on, possibly with the auto-pilot engaged, until it ran out of fuel and crashed. There are probably crashed planes all over the place."

Chills were dancing up and down Sam's back despite the warm day. "That would explain some of the fires seen in the distance." In a failed attempt to break some of the tension facing this god-awful truth, she looked around at the bloodless carnage and added, "This kind of thing is going to put me out of a job."

# Chapter 33

After three more hours of painstaking driving, playing dodge ball with every manner of wheeled vehicles, Sam and Ben finally reached the barren outskirts of Jacksonville. Sam had surprisingly slept soundly most of the way after encountering the plane crash. Ben wouldn't have been able to sleep well after seeing that kind of destruction. A rest area was at the next exit and Ben decided it would be a good place to have lunch. The slowing of the car and the change of course stirred Sam.

"Where are we?" she asked groggily.

"Rest stop just outside of Jacksonville." Ben replied. "Sleep well?"

Sam straightened up from her slouched position. "Sorry about that. I haven't gotten much sleep lately, but the snooze helped a lot. You know what, I'm starved _and_ I've got to pee like a racehorse."

Ben chuckled at her bar stool analogy. He noted that he hadn't smiled—let alone laughed—about anything for a long while. Their current situation was really no laughing matter, but it was needed in order to feel somewhat human. Samantha seemed more like a real person now then the serious doctor that he first met. If the time came to play doctor again, he knew she would snap right into the role.

They found a clean table under the comforting shade of a grove of Cyprus trees. The air was still and quiet—probably more quiet then it had been in a long time since there was no longer the constant drone of vehicles on the highway.

They dined on a simple meal of canned albacore tuna, crackers, cheddar cheese and mushy red apples. Without the wonderful support of the agriculture and commodity services, fresh food would be hard to come by. If all the animals, both wild and domesticated, were also gone—fresh meat could be a thing of the past. They were destined to become vegetarians.

After taking a huge gulp from her water bottle, Sam suddenly looked up at Ben and said, "You know, I don't think I ever asked what you do for a living."

Ben hadn't even thought about his job for days. Right now, if things were normal, he'd be at work reviewing an article or attending one of numerous meetings he had during the day. "I'm... or, I was, the chief editor of a magazine called HomeTECHniques, have you heard of it?"

A spark of recognition lit up her pretty blues. "You're kidding! I love that magazine. We have some issues in the hospital waiting areas that I sometimes read on break. I love looking at the gadgets and home improvement sections. Too bad your circulation's down to nil."

The thought was alarming to Ben. "I guess we both might be unemployed. So, what made you want to become a Doctor?"

Sam had been asked this question many times, and she would usually provide a standard answer; something about duty and working with people. But this time she actually gave it some serious thought. "Instinct, I would say. Most people have a natural instinct to want to help someone who is hurt and in need of help. I guess my instinct was strong enough to pursue it as my career. Speaking of which how're your wounds doing?"

He hadn't even thought about it. "I'm good, no pain whatsoever. Your skills are first class."

"Thank you. You're a good patient too," she replied.

They both stared at each other for an awkward moment, neither knowing what to say next. Ben did not feel uncomfortable at all around Sam. He felt a strong connection to her despite the short time that they knew each other. Together, they had been through a lot in a small amount of time. A wave of guilt hit him hard as he realized he should be thinking about Helen, his wife, instead of Sam.

"We better get going," said Ben as he stood up. He gathered up the discarded tuna can, napkins, and plastic-ware and put them in the trash. He knew he could have just left them there as there may not be anybody stopping here for quite a while. But it would just feel wrong to do that. It was still _their_ earth and right now _they_ were in charge of it and if this were some sort of bizarre test, at least they would pass the do-not-litter portion of the exam. He really wished this _was_ a test or that he was somehow in an old Twilight Zone episode and eventually the show would end and he would return to his normal life. He had given up long ago that he was having a really long, really bad dream, and that he was still huddled in the cave back on the island—that would be too easy.

# Chapter 34

Sam took on the driving after they left the rest stop. High clouds had moved in causing the day to be humid and clammy. The air-conditioning in the car was a welcome relief.

Ben tried to get some shut-eye but was too uptight about what he would find—or not find—at home. He was also occupied with looking out the windows and trying to see some form of life. Occasionally he would spot something moving, but upon further inspection, it would turn out to be the wind blowing some odd debris around. The rig's two-way radio also kept him busy by going through the channels hoping to find someone out there to talk to—or at least listen to.

Sam was very quiet at first, concentrating on the obstacle course that she had to drive through. But as she got more comfortable, she broke her silence. "So, do you have any theories?"

Ben knew exactly what she was referring to but was still caught unprepared for an answer. "I'm not sure. I'm still trying to get over the shock of it. It seems so... unreal, beyond... comprehension. It certainly goes against any known science. I believe that it has to be connected to the storm and that they were transported somewhere as opposed to just... disappearing out of thin air. I'm no physicist, my degree is in mechanical engineering, but matter is still matter and you cannot turn solids into nothing."

"I see what you mean, but if you think about the periodic table you know that solids can become liquids and liquids can become gasses and vice-versa under the right circumstances. If you continue to boil a pot of water, for example, the water will eventually evaporate...into thin air."

"True, but it would require a great amount of heat and time. There was no evidence of that kind of heat generation, and the surrounding area would have also been affected."

Sam was pondering that for a moment while navigating around a large dump truck in the center lane. "Okay, think about a microwave oven. Food can get pretty hot, right? But there is no visible heat source and the plate itself is not affected by the heating action. If you could go back in time say... a hundred years and demonstrate that to someone, they would think it was magic."

"True, but if that were the case, I still think there should have been something left of their bodies." Ben's mind strayed and imagined being in a huge microwave oven and getting zapped...what a horrible way to die.

A large semi appeared ahead and to the left of the dump truck. Sam needed to use the shoulder to get around it. After the maneuver, she continued, "I can see that point, but wherever they went, why were they taken? I mean is this the apocalypse? Is this judgment day?"

Ben didn't have an answer for that, so he just shook his head. When he was much younger, he had read the book of revelations from the new testament of the bible. He remembered that it had frightened him and so he never read it again. He recalled something about the second coming and a door opening in the sky and something about four horses with riders. Later, he learned what metaphors were and that you didn't necessarily need to take the written words in the bible as literal scenarios.

Sam was still buried in the subject, "I once read somewhere that they took a poll and most people truly believe that a doomsday event would eventually take place—I guess they were right."

Few words were spoken for the next many miles. Both Sam and Ben were deep in thought. Rain began to fall, sparsely at first, then steady, turning the dusty road into a shiny black snake meandering through the countryside. The scenery kept repeating itself in an endless loop of farmland, trees, rivers, small roadside towns, then farmland again. All empty, lonely and void of its symbiotic hosts whose mission is to maintain its beauty and character.

As dusk approached, they stopped in the small town of Benson, North Carolina. There, they found a small motel just off the highway to stay for the night. They decided that smaller motels still had old fashioned key locks instead of the more popular electronic locks used by higher class hotels. It was much easier to grab a key behind the front desk then to figure out how to open one of the electronic ones, especially without electricity. With their luck, the motel also used propane to heat the water.

After a modest dinner in the motel's small lobby, Sam and Ben went to their individual rooms using battery powered camp lanterns. There were two _previously unoccupied_ rooms right next to each other available. Ben took a long hot shower and then lied down atop the bed dressed only in a white, _scratchy_ motel towel. He knew sleep would not come easy so he thought through different scenarios that might answer the "why" question. When he recalled their earlier conversation, he opened the nightstand drawer and brought out a copy of the motel's bible placed there of course, by the Gideons. He flipped to the back and started to read Revelations but something he heard made him close it.

He sat up listening closely to a faint, but familiar sound coming from the rear of the motel. He threw on his pants and shirt and stealthily emerged from his room. He headed around the office to the back of the motel where it was abutted by a stand of dark woods. As he turned the corner, he was surprised to see Samantha standing motionless in front of him. She put her finger to her mouth and whispered "Shhhh."

They waited for no longer than a minute when the sound resumed. They looked at each other and smiled. Sam put up her hand to receive his in a quiet "high-five" slap. The sound was unmistakable. A frog was somewhere out in the dark thicket, chirping. Somehow, this little fellow survived the life-scouring event of the past days. Perhaps he was under a protective rock or under water when it hit. Whatever the case, it was a good sign.

Ben went back to bed on a high note. He knew that his chances of finding his family were not very good considering the stark evidence to the contrary. Life on earth was a hard thing to shutdown. It would always find a way to go on—and that thought—that hope—was what he needed right now.

As he turned out the light, he could no longer hear the sound of the frog. He heard another sound instead. As he listened intently, he could hear the rhythmic sounds of Samantha sobbing through the thin walls of the motel room.

# Chapter 35

The final leg of the journey home was roughly 200 miles. Considering the obstacles, Ben estimated it would take around four hours, give or take. There were no major cities between Benson and Richmond, so the drive was thankfully, yet sadly, uneventful.

Ben's emotions were all over the place in anticipation of getting there. Samantha was being very quiet and looked as though she didn't get much sleep. Together they were a haggard pair as they disembarked from the quaint motel.

Ben never got a chance to read Revelations, so he borrowed the bible from his room to read later. He still felt guilty taking it even though the _Gideon's_ probably wouldn't mind.

Driving through the empty city of Richmond was heart wrenching. To see his hometown like this was extremely disturbing. Seeing familiar landmarks after being away would normally give him a warm and welcome feeling, but there was nothing warm about this homecoming.

They drove in silence through the city and down his empty street. For some odd reason, he took notice that his neighbor's lawns were in need of a good mowing—a mowing that may never occur. As he pulled into his own driveway, he no longer wanted to be here. He no longer wanted to face the sad reality that he knew was true. He sat there staring at the darkened house, not wanting to move.

Sam reached over and grasped his arm. She offered to go in by herself to check things out, but he refused. He knew he had to face this moment on his own terms and slowly got out of the car with Sam trailing behind him.

The front door was locked. Remarkably, yet premeditated, he still had his house keys in his pants pocket. Beyond the door was an empty, hollow house. He called out, but there was no response. Samantha joined him in yelling hello, but Ben knew she was doing that sympathetically and not really expecting a response.

As he walked through the house, his legs felt weak and wobbly and his senses began to close down. Breaking through the fog, he could hear Sam commenting on the intricate stained glass art and she marveled at how wonderfully they parlayed the sunlight into colorful patterns on the walls. Helen would spend hours rearranging each piece in order to create the precise color scheme she desired for each room in the house. As the volume of Sam's voice became lower, he listened for the reply he needed to hear. Sadly, none came.

It didn't hit him until he was in the kitchen. Each of the visual clues stabbed him like a blunt knife. There was the calendar on the fridge with last Fridays' date marked up with smiley faces and balloons around the words: "Daddy's Home!" There was the unopened box of yellow cake mix—his favorite—sitting on the counter. And finally there was the long paper banner laid out on the table with the words "Welcome Home, Daddy" written in extra large letters. Below that in smaller, but curvier letters were the words "We Love You". Colorful hearts, more smiley faces and stick figures of his family surrounded the words.

It was too much for Ben to handle as his knees gave out and he crumpled to the floor. Moaning sobs came between gut-wrenching gasps of air. Samantha sat down with him on the floor, silently cradling him. Every time he tried to compose himself, his mind drifted to thoughts of the possible horrors his family had, _or still were_ , enduring. He thought about his sweet innocent, beautiful daughters. Were they scared? Were they with their mom? Were they even still alive?

It seemed like days had passed but it was only an hour or so before he had the strength to sit up. He forced his mind to think of empty space in order to block out and numb the pain. He stared at the kitchen clock, its battery driven hand ticking away the seconds. Time keeps going forward, he thought. It can't stand still, nor can it be reversed. How he wanted to go back. How he wished that he could go back in time and forget about his stupid self-absorbing solo trip to that island. How he wished he could have been there with his family when that fateful moment struck. Whether they had been killed or not, at least he would be with them when it happened.

Samantha coaxed him to the living room where she laid him down on the sofa. Despite the heat of the afternoon, he was shivering, so she covered him with the blanket that was draped over the back. Mentally and physically exhausted, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

In the middle of the night he found himself awake. Samantha was sleeping soundly on the recliner. She must have found some candles because there was one on the coffee table and one in the kitchen, both still glowing.

From somewhere in the kitchen he thought he heard a quiet beep. He lay there, eyes open, staring into the darkness, listening. After a couple of minutes, the beep returned. It sounded like a cell phone complaining about its battery being low. Quietly, he rose and headed into the kitchen. The candle put there by Samantha was flickering, casting dancing shadows on the walls. It reminded him of his cave experience.

The phone beeped again and Ben headed in its direction. Under a folded newspaper, he found the dying phone—it was Helen's. He cradled it in his hand. The soft glow of its display showed a picture of a battery with only 2% left. He was about to put it down but noticed two recent calls.

Ben pressed the view button and the missed calls were revealed. They were both from his friend and psychiatrist Peter Ford. It struck him with curiosity as to why Peter would be calling Helen. He didn't even know that Peter had her cell number. Ben navigated through the phone's menu and found what he wanted, the record of incoming and outgoing calls. Astonishingly, Peter had called Helen a total of 12 times in the four days during Ben's stay at the island. The outgoing calls showed that Helen had called Peter a total of six times. Hoping that the battery would last a little bit longer, he accessed the text messages. The history of text messages were stored in a cache so the user could read them even without service.

There was a message from Peter dated last Monday after Ben had left for the island. It was a reply from a message that Helen must have sent. After selecting it, he pressed the view button and the damned truth revealed itself.

Helen wrote: "He's gone, miss you, where can we meet?"

Peter wrote: "Cats away mice will play how about Ernesto's at 6ish?

Then the phone gave out two more beeps and the battery died.

It was all so very clear now. Helen and Peter were having an affair. How completely stupid he felt not to have figured this out. How very devious _they_ were. Rapidly firing scattered memories invaded his thoughts.

That's why she was so accepting of this oddball therapy.

That's why Peter Ford sent him to that island—so they could be together.

They must have started this relationship when Helen took on his office redecoration project.

Did he really have mental issues?

Perhaps Helen was slipping him something provided by Peter to make him feel like he was going crazy.

This whole damn thing was a setup.

While he was on a deserted island 'finding himself', they were cavorting and dining and screwing behind his back.

What a fool he was, what fool...

Tears began to sting his eyes as he picked up one of the candles and found himself heading towards his bedroom. He hoped that in his exhaustion, he might still be sleeping and this was a dream, but as he sloshed the candle, hot wax dripped onto his hand. The burning sensation made him realize he was not sleeping and not dreaming.

The next moment, he found himself in the bedroom closet reaching up towards a shoebox on a high shelf. In the box was a small .38 caliber revolver he kept on hand in case of an intruder. Because he had children, the cartridges were kept in a separate location in his sock drawer at the back. He sat on the bed and proceeded to load the gun. It was an antique, but still deadly, 5-shot Harrington and Richardson revolver with a breakaway barrel. He had inherited it from his father long ago.

It would be easy, he thought. Just hold the gun to my head and squeeze the trigger. There might be a moment of pain, but after that, there would be peace.

Slowly, he put the gun to his head. The barrel felt cold to his skin. Yes, he thought, this is the only escape from this waking nightmare and in a moment, it would all be over.

# Chapter 36

Samantha thought she was awakened by a noise but it was quiet now. She listened for a bit longer and heard nothing. The noise might have been part of a dream, she thought. Every once in a while, she would have these dreams that would wake her up because of a loud noise. After fully waking up, the noise would no longer repeat itself so she didn't really know if the noise was in her dream, or in reality. Because she lived alone, she would stay awake for a while trying to listen for the same noise. On occasion, she even got up and searched the house, thankfully finding no intrusion.

She was about ready to close her eyes when she noticed that the candle on the coffee table was no longer there. Ben was no longer on the sofa either. She thought that he might have had to go to the bathroom and she listened for noises associated with that kind of activity.

It was too quiet, she thought and so she got up and started to look around. A flickering of light was coming from the master bedroom down the hall. She crept towards the room and could see that the candle was in there through the partially closed door. She didn't want to invade Ben's privacy, but needed to make sure he was all right, and slowly pushed the door open.

All she could see was the silhouette of Ben sitting on the bed, but something wasn't right. He was holding something up to his head. She didn't realize what it was until she could see the glint of the object reflected from the candle light. Like a deer staring at the headlights of an oncoming car, she froze. Her mind didn't totally comprehend what she was seeing—until he pulled the hammer of the pistol back.

Instantly she jumped towards his arm, swinging it forward away from his head. The gun went off with an ear piercing report, shattering the silence. It must have missed Ben, because he was still struggling with her. She lay on top of him using both of her hands to keep his arm and the weapon down and away from them both.

"Stop it!" Ben yelled, "Let me go! I need to do this! It's the only way out!"

Samantha was angrier than she could ever remember. "No freaking way am I going to let you do this!" She yelled back.

She pried his fingers apart just enough so that the gun dropped to the floor.

"Let me go," Ben sobbed. "Let me do what I need to do."

Samantha wouldn't budge an inch. Tears were now rolling down her cheeks. "You selfish son of a bitch! You drag me all the way here, through hell and high water, just to end your own pain. You can't do that! And you can't leave me alone either! I need you! I need you, do you hear? I need you..." Samantha paused, "...and you need me."

Ben's body relaxed at hearing this and Samantha slightly loosened her grip. Both of them were out of breath and panting. After five minutes, Samantha finally spoke, her voice calmer. "I lost friends and family too, but you don't see me jumping off a cliff. I know you've been through a hell of a lot but you need to think clearly and use your head. Our loved ones could still be out there and someday they might return. How would _they_ feel to come home and find your dead body lying here? Did you think about that?"

Ben hadn't thought about that. He had lost hope when hope's reserves had not yet been depleted. He was too quick to run away from the truth and not strong enough to face reality. The weight of Samantha's petite frame on top of him felt like a protective shell saving him from his self-absorbed act of stupidity. Sam was a truly caring person whose noble instinct to help people just saved his life—again.

Ben's breathing had calmed as he quietly spoke. "You're right. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry to put you through this. I was trying to take the coward's way out.

"I think I'll be okay. You can get off of me now."

Samantha realized she was still straddling Ben. "I'm going to let you up, okay?"

"Okay," Ben replied feeling a bit embarrassed.

Samantha got up and told Ben to stay there so she could get him some water. As she left, she took the gun with her.

# Chapter 37

Ben awoke up to the smell of coffee and food cooking. Too groggy to be able to trace its source, he gave in to the simplest of human senses, which made him thank God he didn't do what he was going to do last night. He appreciated the pangs of hunger, which was a primal reminder of the instinct to survive and stay alive.

He had slept the remainder of the night on the sofa, because there was no way he could sleep in his own bed. Stumbling off the sofa, he went to investigate. The tantalizing aromas were wafting from outside, beyond the French doors of the kitchen. Samantha was out on the patio cooking what looked like steaks, on the barbeque. A pot of coffee was on the side burner. Upon hearing the door open, she turned around and said "Good morning, Ben. How are you feeling?"

It was a simple and basic question. Normally, anyone would ignore its validity and reply with a standardized answer. There was no procedural way to say: " _Right now, due to my blatant stupidity, I could be dead and stiff by now, but thanks to your common sense and unmitigated instinct, I'm currently alive and... damn, that smells good_."

Instead all he could work out was, "Thanks, I'm fine. Where did you get those?" He was pointing to the steaks sizzling on the grill.

"I hope you don't mind. I found them in the freezer still partially frozen. How do you like yours cooked?"

Again, Ben was caught off guard trying to adjust from the dramatic scene that was played out last night to the nearly normal conversation going on now. "Uh...medium-well works for me... thanks."

"I have some taters too." She said as she lifted the lid of the skillet next to the steaks revealing diced and browned spuds."

They both sat down and ate. It was somewhat crazy when you thought about it. A few days ago, the world came to an end, and now here they were having a barbeque. As strange as it was, life goes on.

Ben was surprised at his appetite. It was a long time since he had a full meal, especially a home-cooked one. The steak was delicious and the coffee was piping hot. He looked at Samantha—at his savior and said, "Thanks."

Sam knew what he really meant, but played the card. "It's nothing at all, I love to cook."

"Actually I mean thanks for saving my life last night."

"Oh that. Just another day in the life of Doctor Sam." She got a little more serious. "Ben, are you going to be okay? Or do I need to hide the kitchen knives too?"

"I'm okay now, really, besides..."

Ben heard a sound in the distance. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"That noise?"

It was barely audible at first, but gradually became louder. Fear struck them both as they were thinking that the force that took the rest of the people had returned. But this was a familiar sound, not strange, not foreign, a noise that they'd heard before.

They both stood up looking towards the direction of the increasing noise. Sam spotted it first on the horizon. It was a small silver object streaking towards them with a white contrail behind it. Ben recalled that he kept a pair of binoculars in the hutch in the dining room and ran to get them.

Dashing back outside, quickly pulling off the protective rubber caps, he focused the binoculars on the tiny object, which was increasing in size, as it got closer. He smiled as he handed the binoculars to Sam. "Looks like an F-15, maybe 10,000 feet up, heading north."

Sam looked through the binoculars tracing the path of the jet. "Oh my god! The air force, they survived!"

They traded the binoculars back and forth until the jet passed overhead and was gone.

"Where do you think its going?" Sam asked.

Ben was still smiling, still looking to the north. "I'm not exactly sure, but I know where we need to go next."

# Chapter 38

Before leaving, Ben took a last look around his house collecting items he wanted or thought he needed to have with him. He knew it could be a while before he returned—if ever. He also stopped by and looked in his daughter's bedrooms. The rooms coveted each of the girl's guiltless secrets and personalities by way of their clothes, kid's perfume, bedding and decorations they cherished. The only thing missing was them. The bedding was disturbed, but not unmade making Ben believe that they were taken while they were still sleeping. Wherever they were, alive or dead, he wished he could be with them—even if he had to face Helen and her lover/ex-friend. That was something he would just have to handle at the expense of seeing everyone alive. But what really boiled his blood was the fact that because of their affair, he was left here—without any of them. On the other hand, they also may have saved his life. He wondered if he would ever know which hand was dealt.

Ben stopped by Helen's art room trying to capture what she was working on that might give him a clue as to what was going through her mind. The room was tidy and clean. There were no unfinished glass pieces set out nor were there any new patterns that would indicate a new project in the works. Her neatly organized drafting table was also void of any work, but that was no surprise. Lately, her interior design consulting projects were far and few between. What, with a full-time family and an affair with your husband's friend going on at the same time, who had time for work?

While Ben was packing the rig, he noticed that the Glock was still there safely tucked away in its custom molded case. Obviously, Samantha trusted that he wouldn't attempt another suicide. He still couldn't believe that he even tried it in the first place. If he didn't have her with him, who knows what would have happened. He was still pretty shaken up and like any other survivors, he carried with him a pain deep within his soul. Seeing the jet was a joyous site. If the military was still functional, they probably had intimate knowledge about what happened and where everyone was.

The Pentagon was another hundred miles or so from Richmond. Some years earlier, Ben had been to DC for sightseeing but never to the Pentagon. He was weary of the travel, but if it provided some answers, it would be worth it.

# Part IV

Face the truth, fear the truth, then exist in its midst.

– South bench, Branson Island

# Chapter 39

Samantha took the driver's position on the journey to D.C. Although she was still fatigued, the jet that they saw gave her dismal outlook a boost of enthusiasm. Despite her exhaustion, she insisted on driving the whole way. She was still worried about him and didn't want to take any chances. He's been through one of the toughest times of his life and although his reaction was severe, it was understandable given the situation. She was praying that she didn't have her own breakdown.

Her elevated mood must have been showing because Ben kept reminding her to slow down. Ben was showing his eagerness as well. He earnestly tried to tune in the rig's radio in hope of sheer luck that the military was broadcasting information over the airwaves. If they were using the emergency broadcasting system and assuming the participating relay stations were manned and/or had power, they should have picked something up. But unless the stations were on backup power, no transmissions would be going out. And you never know with the military, they might be under a radio blackout.

During a national emergency, the President would be the one making the announcement. Samantha was wondering if the President was still in charge—or if he was among the missing. She was trying to guess where he might have been during the attack. She was about to ask Ben if he had any ideas when he suddenly motioned just ahead and to the left.

It was another plane wreck. It wasn't a large jetliner this time. It appeared to be a smaller commuter plane. Nonetheless, Samantha's instinct kicked in and she slowed the vehicle down to cross the grass median and get closer to the wreck. It was time for a stretch anyway.

The plane looked like a 30 or 40-passenger model. The tail section was separate from the main fuselage and the wings were sheared off. The surreal scene clearly looked deserted, but they got out of the car to have a closer look anyway. Samantha took her time meandering amongst the wreckage with Ben trailing behind. It looked very much like the jet debris from before, only on a smaller scale.

The air was fresh and clean smelling despite the leftover fuel and hydraulic fluid saturating the mossy ground. In fact, the air had been fresher ever since... _D Day_. Samantha decided to call it that for Disappearance Day, which eventually might become known as Death Day—but hopefully not. If everyone returned, she would call that day R Day. She realized lately that her mind began wandering and thinking about inane things like this since D Day. Without the daily 12-hour shifts inwhich she would be constantly thinking about triage coordination, patient vitals, symptoms, and medicine doses among other things, her mind was starting to drift into places she hasn't been to in a while.

Even with the long hours, she missed her work—it had kept her involved and busy. She liked to be busy because it gave her satisfaction. She didn't like to sit idly waiting for something to happen. Maybe that was another reason she choose this particular career.

Ben looked impatient so she asked him if he was ready to go. He nodded but first she had to relieve her bladder so she instructed him to head back to the car while she found a more private place to pee. She noticed a large piece of the plane that was imbedded partially into the ground and headed that way.

Ben walked slowly up the slope to the car. He opened the back doors to the rig for some bottled water. As he did that, he snuck a peek back to the wreckage. He didn't see Samantha; she must have been well hidden. However, what he _did_ see startled him. There was a cloud of dust about a quarter mile beyond the plane that was moving erratically, but quickly toward them. Thoughts sifted through his mind as to what it might be. It didn't look like a vehicle because it jumped around too much. He reached into the back and grabbed the binoculars. He couldn't find the object right away and had to look with his bare eyes to locate it. Once he finally focused on it, his blood ran icy cold. He could not believe what he was seeing. It was then, he saw Samantha pop up from behind some wreckage. She gave him a frown and waved her index finger at him obviously scolding him for peeking. That was the least of his worries as he saw the dust cloud heading directly towards her.

Quickly, he threw down the binoculars and reached for the Glock. He began to run down the slope towards Samantha while pulling the slide back on the gun. She froze in place, her eyes and mouth opened wide. He pointed behind her and yelled for her to run, but it was too late. As soon as she turned around, the monkeys were on her.

There were six or seven brown and hairy monkeys on her. They appeared to be chimpanzees. She immediately dropped to the ground and curled up in a ball while Ben fired off a couple of rounds into the air. It didn't seem to faze the creatures and they momentarily looked up, then went back to pummeling poor Samantha. As he neared the bizarre scene, one of the chimps started for him. Having no choice, he fired point-blank into it. It screamed once and then flopped to the ground. This violent act caught the attention of the other monkeys who stopped what they were doing and looked up at Ben with fierce and wild eyes. Ben yelled and fired another shot into the air. They must have got the idea because they suddenly took off again in a cloud of swirling dust. Ben watched to make sure they didn't change their minds then scrambled down to Samantha who was still hunkered on the ground.

When he got there, she was moaning, blood was seeping from her back, but she was alive and breathing. Ben crouched down to her and she looked up and said "What the hell! Monkeys? You gotta be shittin' me!"

Ben looked toward where the monkeys were heading, and thankfully, they were long gone.

Samantha groaned, "Get my bag from the car; we need to stop the bleeding."

"I'll be right back."

Ben ran back to the car and grabbed the medical bag and a blanket. Samantha was sitting up when he returned with her head in her hands. The back of her shirt was soaked in blood.

Samantha spoke softly, instructing Ben on what to do. "There should be some scissors in the bag. Use them to cut through the back of my shirt to expose the wounds. After that, use some of the large gauze pads to apply pressure to the cuts.

Ben did as he was told, being careful not to make contact with her wounds while cutting. There were gashes and bite marks peppering her back. You could see the shape of one of the monkey's jaw by the sharp teeth marks that had pierced her shoulder. Ben followed the rest of Samantha's instructions to clean and dress the wounds. A couple of the gashes looked like they could use stitches, but that would have to wait until they got to a more appropriate facility.

"Is there a primate center or a zoo near here?" She asked.

"Not that I know of. They must have been in a lower level of whatever facility they came from and somehow got loose. You need to realize that the closer you get to the Pentagon and the D.C. area, the more strange research facilities there are. Those were some angry monkeys though—probably hungry too. Are you okay to move—are you in much pain."

Samantha slowly stood up and took off her shredded and blood stained shirt while Ben carefully wrapped the blanket around her. Together they limped up the incline to the safety of the car. Once inside, she traded the blanket for a sweater.

Turning to him, she said "Ben, if you don't mind, can you get the dead one."

"The monkey?" Ben replied.

"Yes, please. If we can find a medical office, it needs to be tested for rabies, and other infectious diseases."

Samantha grabbed Ben's arm as he was getting ready to leave and said, "Ben, thank you. I think we can call it even on the life saving competition."

# Chapter 40

As they approached the D.C. area, the sky was solid white with cloud cover. There was a fine, humidity-laden mist steaming up the windshield. The Pentagon building loomed large and stately as they took the exit to its massive parking lot. On the left was the Arlington National Cemetery. Ben could never get over the size of the government buildings in D.C., and the Pentagon by far was the largest. One could not truly grasp the building's immensity unless they were flying over it in a plane or walking its circumference.

Ben was anxious as they took the exit and approached the parking lot, hoping that they wouldn't find an empty shell, dark and void of life. If a place such as this, holding the most advanced technological warfare knowledge and as the most defensible place on earth had but not one soul to bear the pleasure of greeting these new guests, then this truly was the end of all ends—the last days of the planet.

His worries were relieved when he spotted a white sedan speeding towards them. He stopped and rolled down his window as the car approached. A young soldier in army fatigues was the driver and only occupant. Rolling down his own window, he said straightforwardly, "Follow me, sir."

Ben nodded and followed the sedan that appeared to have needed a good car wash. As they neared the entrance, the sedan's driver motioned for Ben to park up front in one of the handicapped parking spots. Ben parked the car but did not get out. The soldier approached them, quickly looked into and around the vehicle, then looked Ben and Sam over carefully. He asked to see their ID's. Ben pulled the driver's license out of his wallet and handed it over to him, while Samantha retrieved hers from her purse. The soldier glanced at the ID's and put them both in his shirt pocket. Ben explained to the soldier that his passenger was injured and needed medical assistance.

The soldier nodded his head, then went back to his vehicle and reached in to extract a coiled microphone. He began to talk into it, but they could not make out what he was saying. Samantha and Ben looked at each other and shrugged.

"How're you doing?" Ben asked, concerned about her injuries.

"It's much better now that the pain meds have kicked in."

The soldier returned shortly, looked carefully at Samantha, and said, "Can she walk?"

Samantha spoke for herself saying, "I can manage."

"Okay, please follow me," replied the soldier.

He led them down a walkway where another uniformed man was waiting. He was a tall man, lean and naturally tan in his fifties or sixties with a white-grey beard. He was wearing military blues sans the jacket with his shirt collar open and at ease. He smiled as they made their way toward him, but his smile looked forced and he appeared worn and tired as though sleep had not been one of his primary activities lately. Extending his hand, he introduced himself as Colonel Conrad Iverson of the United States Department of the Air Force. Ben introduced himself and so did Samantha, but she did not use her Doctor title.

Losing the smile and smoothly turning to Samantha, the colonel said, "I heard you are injured. We have an in-house physician but he is currently out in the field. He should be back in a couple of hours. Do you need immediate attention?"

"It's not that bad, but I might need some sutures at some point," she replied.

"Can I ask what happened?"

"This is going to sound strange, but she was attacked by a band of renegade monkeys." Ben replied.

Colonel Iverson did not seem surprised at all by that statement. "Compared to what's happened to the world... that doesn't sound strange at all," he said.

"So, just what _has_ happened?" Samantha asked pointedly.

The Colonel took a deep breath, looked down at his shoes and back up at Samantha again. "If you will follow me, I'll explain what I can. Oh... you're not carrying any weapons are you? Our metal detectors are temporarily out of service."

"No, we're not, but there is a pistol back in the car." Ben did not need to hide that fact because he knew they would soon be searching their car anyway. It was better to be up front with them. He rather wished he were there to see the expressions on their faces when they found the dead monkey wrapped in a tarp.

Colonel Iverson led them inside the Pentagon. The lobby was dim, because only certain overhead lights were on. But you couldn't help but notice how open cavernous it was by the sheer echo of their footsteps. They walked for what seemed like a mile down several corridors. Along the way, the Colonel explained the layout of the Pentagon and the concentric rings that made up its design.

"There are five rings", he explained, "labeled A through E with the A ring in the center. Additionally there are rings F and G in the basement."

Ben had heard rumors that there used to be even more sub levels in the Pentagon, but had long ago been abandon and filled in to defend against the many tunnels that led to them. Others said that they were never actually filled in and were still in use today.

The halls were nearly deserted. They passed by only a few people, some in uniform, some not. They looked as weary as their guide did and stared at them as they went by, not even bothering to salute the Colonel.

Colonel Iverson continued his tour dialog. "By area, the Pentagon is the largest office building in the world. On a normal 24-hour shift, there would be upwards of 25,000 military and civilian personnel working here. Now... it's like a ghost town."

After climbing a few flights of stairs, they reached a conference room on the A ring. A bank of windows looked out on a huge inner courtyard. It was park-like with trees and five paved paths leading to the center where a pentagon shaped building sat.

"Ground Zero." The Colonel said referring to the courtyard. "That's its _unofficial_ name. If anyone were to lob a missile at D.C, the most logical choice would be the Pentagon as the primary target. Have a seat, please." He gestured to the conference table where a laptop sat connected to a projector. A white carafe containing hot coffee and a large pitcher of ice water were also sitting on the table. It almost felt normal.

"Ms. Carlson, Mr. Dawson, I suppose you have a lot of questions." The colonel looked at both of them deeply when he said their names as though he were trying to take a mental picture with his soul.

The Colonel continued. "Well, we have some answers, but I'm afraid they are going to generate even more questions. The first question, I'll assume you want answered is: 'where did everyone go?'"

"It would easier to explain if I show you some footage of one of the events that was captured."

The Colonel proceeded to log onto the laptop and began clicking away. The same young soldier that greeted them in the parking lot entered through the open doorway. He returned their drivers licenses and an additional ID labeled "Visitor Pass". The new ID's had their pictures on them and were attached to a neck lanyard. The soldier said, "You're to wear those at all times while in the building," then quietly left.

Sam and Ben studied their new ID cards, then hesitantly slipped the fabric lanyard around their necks.

# Chapter 41

Samantha was feeling a little groggy from the pain medicine she took for her monkey bites. Although the pain was increasing, she decided to endure it and refrain from taking more. She wanted to be clear-headed for the presentation.

Colonel Iverson had the laptop set up and ready. He switched on the attached projector and began. Before he started, Samantha had to know something.

"Colonel," she asked. "Isn't this classified material? I mean—you don't even know us."

The Colonel looked a little uncomfortable with that question and took some time to compose his answer. "Um...yes, normally it would be, but... to be honest, due to the circumstances, the mission of the US military and government has changed. True, we still need to protect our assets, but there is no longer a _human_ threat that would compromise that protection. What I'm about to show you will probably change your perception enough to understand what I mean. Shall we begin?"

Both Samantha and Ben nodded quickly as the anticipation grew. The Colonel clicked play. A video began, showing a wide-angle view of a desert-like landscape. You could see rolling hills and scattered shrubs in the distance and the sky was clear and blue. Various numbers including the time of day danced around at the bottom of the screen within a black border.

The Colonel began to narrate. "This is from one of our stationary security cameras outside of a secluded military base in Nevada. I think you know which one I'm talking about."

Samantha's guess was Area 51.

The Colonel clicked the mouse and the video sped up. In the images, the sky suddenly grew dark and clouds began to roll in. In the distance, multiple flashes of lightning could be seen randomly hitting the ground. Then rain began to fall in sheets. This went on for a few minutes. Then the Colonel clicked the mouse and the video started over again, only this time the images were grainy and tinted with a green hue.

The Colonel said, "This is the same viewpoint, with what we call a T-ray camera, which picks up electromagnetic signals. The technology helps see objects at night and through cloud cover."

It was the same view of the landscape. The clouds were barely visible and the lightning flashes were dimmer. Then a dark object appeared where the clouds would have been. It was rectangular and flat at the bottom. The height of the object went far above the camera's view. The Colonel sped up the video slowly at first, then faster. The same flat dark mass continued to roll by. After a few minutes of this, the tail end of the object could finally be seen passing by. The digital clock at the bottom of the screen had elapsed nearly an hour.

Samantha cleared her throat and asked, "So what did we just see?"

Colonel Iverson's facial expressions became somber and serious as he spoke. "What you just saw was an unknown object approximately 200 miles long and 100 miles wide. Its height is calculated to be around 500 feet, the equivalent of a 50-story building. A week ago, a swarm of these objects covered the earth and sucked up just about every living land-based creature on the face of the goddamned planet! That's what you saw!" The Colonel paused giving potency to the enormity of that statement but also to calm himself down. Samantha and Ben sat there, stone-faced.

The Colonel emitted a deep sigh as though he was relieved that he got that one over with, and then he continued. "After that, they simply left. We lost track of them once they left Earth's atmosphere. Anyone who was at least two levels underground or otherwise well protected, was spared. Most of the people who are here now at the Pentagon either were in the sub-basement or came from another underground facility. I was stationed at NORAD at the time, nine levels below the surface. The first report I got was from NOAA saying that their GOES satellites had gone down."

Ben recalled the unusual shooting star that he had seen while floating in the lagoon on Branson Island. It seemed like eons ago.

The colonel continued. "For some reason, all sea life was also spared including a few nuclear submarines."

Samantha realized that Ben had never mentioned that the sea life was spared, considering he traveled from an island. Although, they _had_ been busy the last couple of days. She looked curiously over at Ben who was listening intently to the Colonel.

"So, what about the salt-water rain and the lightning strikes?" Ben asked.

"The lighting was static discharges caused by the proximity of the objects to the ground. It had nothing to do with the extractions. The rain though is a still a mystery. Before the attack, we detected the objects vacuuming massive amounts of water from the oceans and then releasing it over land. We think either it had to do with their flight dynamics, or that it provided some sort of electrolytic power generation necessary for the extraction process. It's one theory, at least."

The term "extraction process" sounded militarily cold-hearted to Samantha. She asked, "Are you sure that they were taken, as opposed to... being killed?"

The Colonel took some more deep breaths before answering. He looked exhausted. "We have several recordings of the actual abduction process. They are quite disturbing to look at, but by all indications, there is no other data to assume otherwise."

"What _indications_ are you talking about?" She asked.

"It's the fact that there are no remains, other than any metallic objects on or in the body. No organic remnants of any kind were found. It is physically impossible for the kind of mass we're talking about to just...disappear. I have been involved with all kinds of methods of destruction and I can assure you there are always remains of some sort. Even at the center of a nuclear blast—there are remains."

The colonel turned back to his laptop and brought up another video.

"This clip is quite amazing to look at. It was recovered from a camera that was recording an early morning council meeting at a nearby school gymnasium."

The video began. It showed about 50 people sitting in folding chairs in a semi-circular pattern around a group of other people who were obviously the council leaders. One of the leaders was standing and talking about the proceedings. After a minute, there was a sudden commotion and the gym darkened. People started to look around and above their heads. Then came the hands to their ears trying to block out the noise as Sam and Ben saw on the Hospital video. You could hear the high-pitched whine in the video and some of the people screaming.

Suddenly, the gymnasium's lights went out and the picture was black. The next images were both beautiful and frightening. A faint glow appeared where each of the attendees was sitting. The individual glows brightened, then suddenly shot upward out of view of the camera. Then all was eerily quiet.

Colonel Iverson's closed the lid of the laptop. His tone became quieter and remorseful. "We all lost family and friends—myself included—and we are all hoping our loved ones are safe and will be returned someday." The Colonel gazed solemnly to the windows. "So, how did you two survive, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I happened to be in a cave... on a deserted island." Ben replied thinking how absurd that sounded.

"And I was shielded by lead in an X-ray room. I guess the extraction process couldn't penetrate that." Samantha added, visualizing that horrible day in the hospital.

The Colonel gave this some thought before continuing. "We also found other survivors who were in the deeper parts of the Metro," he pointed out, referring to the D.C. subway system. "With those counts and other people who happened to be at the right place at the right time—mainly deep underground or under water, our best estimate is roughly ten to twenty thousand survivors nation-wide. Worldwide, we're talking about a hundred thousand, give or take.

"Are there any theories as to _why_ and...will they return?" Ben asked thinking about the theological conversations he had with Samantha.

"That's the million dollar question, Ben, and it's what has been keeping me up most nights. We have several theories..."

Just then, the phone in the conference room jangled and snapped them back to reality. The Colonel snatched up the phone and had a quick conversation with the calling party. At one point, he raised an eyebrow and looked at Ben. They must have found the monkey, Sam thought.

After he hung up, he looked at Sam and said, "Our physician has returned and he would like to take a look at you, Samantha. Ben, why don't you accompany me to the cafeteria where we can talk further and get some lunch. If you will follow me..."

Silently, heads deep in thought, Samantha and Ben rose and followed the Colonel.

# Chapter 42

The echoing halls of the Pentagon became less hot and humid as they made their way toward the small cafeteria. Colonel Iverson explained that the wing in which they were walking was where the sleeping quarters were, so the A/C at this location was hooked into the generator. It also helped to preserve the food stores. They dropped a grudging Samantha off at the medical center that was also cool and dry. The Colonel apologized for his earlier gruffness, explaining that he had very little sleep in the last week. The feeling was mutual.

The cafeteria smelled of sweet cinnamon and stronger-than-strong coffee. A group of loosely uniformed men and women were clustered around one of the long tables and engaged in a heated conversation. They hardly acknowledged the superior brass that had joined them. A small man wearing an apron came out from what was obviously the kitchen and approached them with a notepad. He made an offer of tuna salad sandwiches on freshly baked ciabatta accompanied with a cup of navy bean soup. Ben gladly accepted. He was famished but the colonel waved the man off asking only for a cup of his bulletproof coffee.

"We were lucky that Alberto survived," the Colonel said referring to the man who took their order. "He was in charge of food services aboard the Missouri, an Arizona class sub. Currently, he's rated the best chef in the world."

His attempt at humor was delivered dryly and without even a smirk. Ben was caught off-guard, and by the time he thought of feigning laughter, it was too late.

"Did all of the people on the Missouri end up here?" He asked.

"Many of the surviving military personnel went to seek out their families. Some came back to their duties, but not everyone."

Ben could feel that this was an uncomfortable subject for Colonel Iverson, so he didn't press on.

They sat by themselves at an empty table but within earshot of the group of people. As soon as they were they seated, Alberto had come to deliver their meals. Ben could see why they thought highly of their chef. The sandwich was delicious. The ciabatta bread was warm and soft with a slightly crusty exterior. The tuna salad was mixed with chopped celery and walnuts. The navy bean soup included lean chunks of ham and bacon with just the right proportion of broth and beans.

"I told you he was good," the Colonel commented watching Ben inhale the culinary snack. The Colonel leaned closer. "Do you believe in God, Ben?"

The question took Ben by surprise. His spoon hung in mid-air, still steaming with soup.

"After what I've seen, I'll believe in just about anything. But if you mean the God you go to church to pray to every Sunday... I'm not so sure anymore."

"So you've lost your faith then," the colonel asked, sounding more like a statement than a question.

"It's just that it's hard to believe the God we all know and love would do something like this."

"That's what we thought too. And because of that, we've eliminated the Revelations theory."

Ben recalled his minor foray with the book of Revelations, when he took the motel's copy. It was still in the car. He thought it was interesting that the military would seek answers in that particular area so soon.

The Colonel continued. "Even taken in the most liberal context, we found major discrepancies between what is written in Revelations and what actually happened."

"So you've studied it then?"

"I've read it backwards and forwards."

Since Ben had not had time to review it himself, he preferred not to get into the finite details of that theory just yet. "Any other theories then?" he asked sinking his teeth into the soft artisan bread.

"We have a couple of solid ones."

Ben stopped chewing to hear the colonel better.

"As you know, there are many works of fiction depicting alien invasions. The standard plots for much of this fiction involve the aliens taking over earth and using it for their own needs. Sometimes the invasion is subtle, where they impersonate humans and infiltrate the population methodically. Other invasions involve mass destruction or terraforming of the planet to suit their needs. Neither of these scenarios makes any sense given the logic of this attack. We do not think they intend to habitat the earth. There are no signs that any of the aliens stayed behind, nor did they alter anything. They simply snatched up all the surface life and left. This leads us to two other strong possibilities."

Ben was transfixed on the Colonel as he spoke. Whatever scenario Colonel Iverson presented, he couldn't help but think about how it may have affected his family.

The Colonel went on. "We're calling these theories the Transplant Theory and the Harvester Theory. Let me start with the first one. This one is good news for the taken, but not so good news for the ones left behind. The Transplant Theory assumes good intentions on the alien's part. The theory is that they share empirical knowledge about a future event transpiring on earth that will cause major loss of life."

"What kind of events are we talking about?" Ben asked, afraid to hear the answer.

"People don't want to believe it, but the Earth can be very fragile upon the right circumstances. The most widely feared apocalyptic disaster would be an asteroid or other large astronomical satellite pummeling the earth. This may have already occurred in earth's history many times over causing past global extinctions.

Right now, sitting under Yellowstone Park sits a super volcano. The last time it erupted was 640,000 years ago and it's on a 600,000-year eruption cycle, so it's overdue. If _it_ blows, the ash would cover the earth creating darkness and cold that could wipe out all agriculture and crops.

We're also overdue for a Geomagnetic Reversal, which would flip the earth's magnetic poles. Your compass would point south instead of north. It is not known what effect this has on the inhabitants of the planet, but some suggest that it would temporarily turn off earth's magnetic shield that protects us from dangerous solar radiation.

There are a slew of extra-terrestrial phenomena that theorists have suggested including a vacuum metastability event in which a bubble of lower energy is nucleated, sending an energy pulse at the speed of light. If it were pointed our way, it would disintegrate the earth instantly. A hypernova could cause a huge burst in cosmic radiation. The solar system could pass through a cosmic dust cloud. The list goes on.

Then there's the man-made influences including nuclear annihilation, biological warfare, global warming, or pandemic.

What I'm getting to is that an alien race might know about a future cataclysmic event occurring on the earth and they came to save us. If it's a global destruction kind of event, then they might be transplanting everyone to another planet or keeping them in stasis until the danger passes. If it happens to be an event that will ultimately return the earth to its normal state, our people will hopefully be returned. That's the best case scenario, at least for them, but...I'm afraid...not so much for us."

"Migrating over 6 billion people and billions of other animal life to another planet," Ben said flatly, "you know how insane that sounds?"

"It sounds quite mad, I know, but look what's already happened."

"It's all mind boggling. Okay, what about Harvester Theory."

"This is the bad one, Ben. Unfortunately, it's the one that is also more plausible.

# Chapter 43

Ben braced himself for the bad news as Colonel Iverson relayed his theories, most likely discussed in numerous brainstorming meetings.

The Colonel continued. "Imagine a race of beings that have no home planet, whose existence is entirely space-based. They travel through space as easily as we walk down the street. They fly from planet to planet taking whatever resources they need. To put that in perspective, think about a caravan of motor homes traveling across the U.S. Every so often, they will stop at the local grocery store and pick up some supplies, and then they're off again on their journey."

"Food?" Ben gasped.

"Or fuel—or both."

"Wouldn't you think that a species so advanced that they have mastered that kind of space travel, would realize that we have a thriving—mostly peaceful culture—and respect that? I can see scooping up a bunch of mindless dinosaurs for the annual barbeque, but to wipe out a thriving technologically adept race borders on—pure cruelty."

"Did you note the size of their vessels? The creatures that pilot those ships could be gigantic. We might look like insects to them. Who knows how their brains work? Maybe they never developed emotions, compassion, or the respect for other life.

"For example, I have a pet cat—or I did—who routinely caught and ate rodents and rabbits found around my house. After his fresh meal, he'd come in the house, head to his cozy nook and have a nice nap. Does he care that the mouse might have a family who would miss him? Does he even ponder about the fact that he took a life?

We live a linear existence, Ben. We wake up in the morning and go to bed at night. We are born and then we eventually die. In our perspective, there's always a beginning and an end. What if they view life as non-linear? The end of one thing may be the beginning of another to them. Compared to other species, humans are an oddity on this world and our linear thinking and self-consciousness is most likely the cause of our undoing. The mere basis of human evolution lends itself to this theory. There have been theories about how humans may have originally been brought here or genetically engineered by a visiting alien species."

"Yes, I've heard of them," said Ben.

"The human seeds were planted. We have evolved and grown and now we've been harvested. Amongst the universe's crop's, Earth's was ripe for the picking. Although that's a terrible scenario for our loved ones, it bodes well for us. If this theory holds true, we don't think they're coming back."

"What makes you think that?"

The Colonel took another slurp of his coffee, then stared off in the distance, thinking.

"When we harvest a strawberry field, there's always bound to be a few berries that were missed. Time and resources do not make if feasible to go back and get the rest. They are simply left there hanging. In another few thousand millennia after we reassemble, regroup and become a thriving species again, they might likely return for another picking. Who knows—perhaps that's our purpose in life.

# Chapter 44

Ben sat there, absorbing what the Colonel said. His appetite, now diminished, his soup, cold and lumpy, his delicious sandwich, or what was left of it, stale and dry just as his throat was. He reached for his glass of water and paused before taking a drink. Looking at the water in the glass reminded him of something. He had a thought and didn't want to lose it, so he began to blurt it out.

"Have you thought about the sea life? The fact that they spared all the non land-based creatures makes you wonder."

Ben was reaching here, but he felt promise in his thinking.

Maintaining this line of thought, he continued. "The limits of their _transporters_ may have been on purpose. Suppose the aliens are aquatic based. Suppose they perceived land-based animals—that is, humans—as a threat to the earth's oceans and the sea life it harbors. It's true that we have polluted and disturbed the oceans to the point of mass extinctions. If global warming were indeed human caused and its effect eventually changed the oceans delicate climate, it could destroy much of its ability to feed and nurture aquatic based life. Remember that three quarters of the earth is covered in water and under that water, lies billions upon billions of forms of life, both microscopic and gigantic. In reality, we are not the most prevalent species on this planet. With the aliens removing the main threat—which would be us—it would quickly solve that problem."

Ben couldn't believe his own philosophical ranting. _Where did this come from_ , he thought. He suddenly realized the crowd at the other table was silent and all who were present in the room were staring at him.

"Intriguing, we hadn't thought about that one yet," the colonel said as he looked towards the eavesdropping group. They returned his look with sheepish grins. "That might, in part, explain the water spouts over the oceans."

If brains were made of wood, you'd probably smell smoke as everyone in the room became silent, minds contemplating and crunching on this new information.

A man in a white smock entered the cafeteria and motioned for Colonel Iverson. The colonel and the man spoke in low voices as Ben craned his ear to listen amongst the din of the other people shuffling their trays still discussing Ben's theory. He became concerned as the two began stealing glances at him. Finally, the Colonel motioned for Ben to join them. He had a bad feeling about this.

# Chapter 45

Ben got up from the long table and approached the colonel and the other man. He presumed the man in the smock to be the local doctor. The stethoscope hanging around his neck was a giveaway. The other group of people were filing out, bringing their trays of empty dishes up front to the dish return window.

The doctor was tall and of African descent. The colonel introduced him as Brock Nelson, also from the USS Missouri. Ben reached out to shake his hand, but the doctor motioned it away. Ben was a little mystified.

The Doctor spoke. "With all due respect, Mr. Dawson, we have a situation here that requires modest contact."

"What's going on?" Ben asked.

"It's that primate you and Dr. Carlson encountered. Apparently, it was carrying an unknown virus and it would be best to take precautions. I need to take some blood from you."

Now what, thought Ben? "Samantha, uh... Dr. Carlson, how is she doing?"

"I'm afraid she's not doing very well at the moment. Her puncture wounds are already showing signs of infection and she's exhibiting an low-grade fever. I've got her on fluids and have administered a potent cocktail of antibiotics. If you will accompany me please, we need to get you checked in."

Colonel Iverson excused himself due to some pressing matters he needed to attend to. _Probably to begin a lock-down and quarantine of the Pentagon_. Alberto, the chef, emerged from the kitchen, looked at Ben's half-eaten meal and sighed. He turned to Ben and said, "Was everything okay?"

"It was delicious," Ben replied. "I sort of lost my appetite."

"Yes, that seems to happen a lot around here." Alberto said sadly.

Ben walked with the doctor down empty halls to the infirmary. His head was whirling in response to these events that kept occurring. He felt like a human tornado that touched down over a week ago and hasn't stopped spinning its damaging tendrils. He wished he could be thrown free of this spiraling disaster.

The infirmary was setup like a small clinic with a main reception area and small examination rooms. There were a couple of larger rooms in the back. One contained X-ray and scanning machines and the other looked like it was set up as a laboratory. Samantha was in this room along with the dead chimp—his lifeless head peering out from a body bag. Ben felt a pang of remorse for having to kill the poor fellow.

Samantha was laying on her back on one of the beds with an IV in her arm. Her eyes were closed and she looked asleep. Ben went up to her and took her hand. Surprisingly, she squeezed his hand and she smiled as her pretty blues opened wide.

"Ben, buddy!" she said. She sounded drunk. "Doctor Brock...this is my traveling companion...Benjamin. He saved me from the killer monkeys. Isn't he brave?"

Ben looked at the Doctor who looked at Ben and said, "I needed to perform a lumbar puncture and she started to get wound up, so I threw in a little Versed to help with the anxiety. She'll be back to normal in about a half an hour and probably won't even remember this conversation."

"Lumber puncture?" Ben inquired.

"Spinal tap," Samantha replied groggily. "Want to see?" She started to roll to one side, but the doctor stopped her.

"Stay flat on your back, Samantha," he warned, then turned to Ben and said, "It's true what they say, Doctors suck at being patients."

Alarmed at the prospect, Ben said, "Will I need a spinal tap too?"

"I don't think so. A blood test should suffice for now. As long as you aren't having any acute symptoms, you probably don't have anything to worry about."

Ben felt slightly relieved, but was still worried about Samantha. "Do we know what we're dealing with here," he said to the doctor.

"We've got a plan to identify this virus. The monkey was tagged and we've got people tracing it down to locate the laboratory where it came from. As soon as we find it, we'll send a team out there to identify what pathogens were introduced to this particular monkey. I hope that it's nothing too exotic. In the meantime, we'll be running cultures on Samantha's and your samples. So, if you'll have a seat over there, I'll need to get some blood."

Samantha chortled, "Brock the Doc. I bet you've never heard that one before. Give Ben some Versed too, he could use some. In fact, give everyone a round on me."

Ben and Doctor Nelson both ignored her as he prepped his arm for the needle. The doctor extracted four full vials of Ben's dark-red life fluid. When he was finished, Samantha began to wave him over. He felt light-headed when he got up.

"They had their clothes on," she said, still sloppy from the meds.

"Huh?" Ben replied, perplexed.

"The people, they were taken with their clothes on. You see, if they were bad aliens they would have zapped them up naked. They left with dignity. Only good aliens would care about something like that."

With that, she closed her eyes and began to snore.

# Chapter 46

Samantha woke up to the familiar whirring sound of a centrifuge. A quick glance around assured her that she had still not waken up from this extended nightmare. Her IV had been removed, replaced with a white cotton ball and tape. Doctor Nelson was sitting at his cluttered desk writing notes. The faint ruffling of her sheets stirred him and he got up and walked over to her bed.

"Hey, sleepy head, how are you feeling today?"

Samantha was still coming out of her slumber. "Okay... I think. What time is it?"

"A little after 1300," he replied.

Sam needed to take a moment with the simple calculation. "It's tomorrow? Shit, what the hell did you give me?"

Being in the navy for the last twenty or so years, Dr. Brock Nelson was used to liberal slangs, but coming from someone as wholesomely beautiful as Dr. Samantha Carlson was almost poetic injustice.

"Just the Versed along with the antibiotics. Besides, you needed a good sleep," He said.

"That's the truth... I'm starved... can I eat yet... what's my status... did you identify the virus?"

"Whoa, Dr. Carlson, one question at a time. Yes, we've identified the bacteria. It's a variant of Cellulitis. The lab that the chimps came from was studying necrotizing fasciitis, so it's a damn good thing we got you pumped full of antibiotics at the onset."

Samantha was lucky indeed. She had never seen a case of flesh-eating bacteria in person, but in photos, it looked horribly painful.

"Thanks doc, I owe you one."

"My pleasure. If you don't mind, I'll need to check and redress your wounds. After that, you can suit-up and get something to eat."

"What about Ben?"

"Oh... he's good to go, I've given him a clean bill. He's just out in the reception room. He was somewhat concerned about you. Now, if you will sit up, I'd like to take a look at those wounds."

Samantha sat up and swiveled around, so the Doctor could do his work. She thought about Ben out there and wondered how long he had been waiting. Maybe it was the medication but she couldn't wait to get out of here, to go see him, to talk to him. She suddenly felt a pang in her stomach that was not related to her hunger. It was more of a flutter. Crap. She was definitely _not_ falling for him. It was not something she needed to have happen right now.

She took a couple of deep breaths and thought, _be strong_. It was like a fish swimming against the current. It would be easy to relax and just let the flow pick her up and take her with it. For now she decided, they would just be friends.

Doctor Nelson finished his handiwork and advised Samantha. "I'll need to check your wounds daily for about a week—if you plan on staying here that long, that is."

Samantha didn't know how long her stay would be. She wasn't even expecting to stay the night. The only reason why they came here was for answers of which she still didn't have any. She was not only hungry for food, but hungry for knowledge as well. She dressed behind the privacy panel and on her way out, Doctor Nelson tossed her a small, unlabeled bottle of pills.

"Amoxicillin," he stated. "One a day, until they're gone—you know the drill."

# Chapter 47

Samantha and Ben decided to stay on at the Pentagon in order to learn anything they could, as long as they were still welcome. This was after all, the central core of knowledge on anything that had to do with what was going on. Ben updated Samantha on all the scenarios and theories that were out on the table. She too was intrigued by Ben's _save the whales theory_. They both were allowed—and eager to do so—to sit in on the discussions, held informally, in the cafeteria along with Alberto's epicurean care. The debates would sometimes go on into the wee hours of the night. Ben felt privileged that they let them—outsiders—into what would normally be closed-door sessions.

Every few days, they would conduct emergency drills, which for Ben, consisted of jaunting downstairs to the lower levels of the Pentagon and gathering in a musty-smelling records room. There were no further signs of alien ships or any weird storms. Ben occupied his time by volunteering for just about anything that he was qualified to do.

Colonel Iverson apparently took a liking to Ben. Even though the colonel was extremely busy, he would go out of his way to visit Ben and talk about the progress that was being made and the ongoing planning efforts. Because of his leadership and management background, Ben was able to help with the overall organization efforts.

Samantha's bites were healing well and she had no after effects. She showed an interest in working with Dr. Nelson and spent much of her time at the medical center. Occasionally she and Ben would dine together, but always with others around.

On the one-month anniversary of the catastrophe, the entire group held a memorial service for the missing and presumed... dead. It seemed like it was too soon to do this, but Colonel Iverson with his diplomatic charisma convinced everyone that if they waited too long, the memories of the lost would be too diluted to pay the proper respect to them.

Despite the hot afternoon that reached into the mid 90's, the militaries were in full dress. An assortment of pressed and polished Navy, Army and Air Force uniforms were scattered throughout the crowd. The civilians also wore proper attire including Samantha and Ben who escaped to the city for a brief shopping trip. All 63 of the Pentagon's current residents were present.

There was a slight, but welcome breeze that came up as Colonel Iverson stepped up to the podium and spoke to the silent and somber group.

"It has been one month to the day since a disastrous and unimaginable event occurred on our planet. Each and every one of us has incurred a devastating loss of family and friends. Notwithstanding the pain for these losses, everyone present has risen beyond their grief to work, as a team, in the assessment and recovery of our nation and our planet to enable the future survival of our species.

"We do not yet know for certain what forces were involved in this tragedy of events or why it was done. If this were an act God, then we should feel a sense of comfort that our loved ones have arrived in a place of eternal salvation and happiness. If it was another external force, then we pray that our loved ones, wherever they are, are safe and will someday return. Regardless of this unknown question, on this day, we will honor them with our greatest respect.

As we mourn our losses, and to show respect to those that are gone, we should also look to the future."

The Colonel's voice gradually became louder.

"We should honor what every one of them would want us to do—and that is to survive. There's no question that the human race has had its faults. It's true that we have damaged this planet in one way or another and this may have been our ultimate punishment. But it's also true that we can learn from our mistakes.

"We will survive. We will endure. We will overcome this disaster with an even stronger ability to adapt and flourish. And if we need to fight—by God... we will fight!

"Let us honor the lost and the loved. Please bow your heads for a moment of silence."

After an eternal minute, a bugler began to play an unwavering rendition of taps. When that was finished, nearby soldiers began a 21-gun salute. Ben looked around the audience and didn't see a dry eye among the group, including himself.

After the salute, the Colonel continued.

"Together, we've accomplished a great deal in the past month. We've launched efforts to insure that our nuclear power plants are safe, that our dams will not burst and that our offshore oil platforms will not destroy the seas. We've been able to reach out to the survivors of other countries and provide them with our knowledge and instructions to do the same. We've re-designed and have begun implementing new disaster recovery plans. And most importantly, we've created safety zones to insure our survivability in case of a future attack. You should all be very proud of these accomplishments in the short time that it took to achieve them.

Some of you may choose to continue this great and important work. Some of you may choose to venture out on your own. Whatever you choose, wherever you go, remember this: You are now the forefathers and mothers of this planet. The things you do from here on may someday be written into future history books. We are the new leaders of this world, so if you leave, go forth and do what is necessary to make this world a peaceful and harmonious place. Go forth and do the things that will make your children proud—proud to be part of this new world."

For a moment, not a soul budged. Everyone sat still as though they wanted to hear more—as though they wanted to be inspired until exhausted. Finally, a lone Navel officer stood up and began applauding. One-by-one, in the heat of the day, everyone in the group followed the lead until it sounded like a thundering rainstorm.

# Chapter 48

That evening, there was a dinner party at ground zero. It was part wake, part social, but mostly a way to reduce stress and relax for a change. It was Hawaiian themed, complete with flowery lei's and tiki torches. Speakers blared music from the 60's and 70's. With help, Alberto put together a feast so impressive that you wouldn't believe it came primarily from canned goods. Scattered ice-filled barrels contained cold beer, wine and soft drinks—the best that money could no longer buy. A couple of prankster army boys were sporting t-shirts that they had printed with the words "I Survived The End Of The World" on the front and on the back was an arrow pointed downward and the words "This Is The End" above it. Everything was in place, except for one thing: Samantha.

It took him a while, but Ben finally spotted her alone on the dark side of one of the linen-covered tables looking down at her limp slice of ham.

"A worthless penny for your priceless thoughts." Ben said, trying unsuccessfully to be funny as he sat down across from her, face to face.

"Hey, Ben," she said looking up with a closed-mouth smile.

"Not into the social thing? I hear they'll be bringing in lamp shades later on."

"I'm just not in the partying mood. It's still hard for me to accept things the way they are and let my hair down. You know what I mean?"

Ben pleading. "This is only a venting. As a professional, you should know that humans need to vent. Their minds need to take a timeout. Just pretend for one evening that everything is okay, that everything is back to normal, just for now. Tomorrow you can glum around all you want. Besides, I feel like dancing.

"I thought you said you couldn't dance?"

"It's true I can trip over a toothpick, but I'm not going to pass on the chance to be seen dancing with the most stunningly beautiful woman in this gin-joint." Ben attempted his best Bogey impression, but failed miserably.

Samantha cupped her hands around his and smiled baring perfectly aligned bone-white teeth. "You're special," she said to him. "Okay, one evening of _wickedness_ , but no promises after that."

"And no going Cinderella on me _either_ ," Ben replied, again with the accent and a _wink_ to boot. Bad, bad, bad...

The party went on into the "oh-hundred" hours until everyone had their fill of stale food and beer. By 3am, people had either crashed out on the grass, or stumbled their way back to their rooms. The next day was to be a do-absolutely-nothing day so proclaimed by the scotch toting Colonel who ordered everyone to do anything but work. Ben took that seriously and he slept through most of the day.

During the party, there were drunken references by people calling Colonel Iverson, _President Iverson_. And by all rights that was true considering he was the highest ranking official around, at least in an acting capacity. In the days to come, it would be official. If all this seemed rushed, that was by design as no one could predict if the aliens would return or if some natural disaster would befall the earth.

# Chapter 49

Senior Airman Dwight Lewis sat idly on his bunk staring at virtual nothingness, toying with his KA-BAR, the historically beloved knife of the U.S. Marines. The precise balance of the knife allowed him to maneuver and flip it around, then catch it properly with ease. The Cro-van steel blade was matte black instead of polished in order to avoid detection during combat. The stacked-leather discs on the handle had deep channels between them in order to maintain a good grip under wet conditions, especially when covered with slippery blood. How many enemies were actually killed with this type of knife was anybody's guess. As a lethal weapon, it was likely more often used during World War II, when it was introduced as opposed to conflicts of today, where hand-to-hand combat is rare. Today's wars are fought with stealthy drones and long range computer guided ordinance. To duly appreciate the grisly reality of war, one needs to be up close with the enemy, not a thousand miles away sitting at a computer terminal. The KA-BAR was probably used _these_ days to carve up an apple as opposed to an _Adams_ apple.

Dwight couldn't help but pour over the words of Colonel Iverson's speech yesterday and his blind contention that there was still some kind of hope for the continuance of life on this desolate planet. What a fool, soaking up all the glory as though he himself had saved everyone who were present at the Pentagon.

Iverson was Dwight's ultimate CO at NORAD, but he wasn't always the unflappable, composed leader as these misguided people see him now. The Colonel was completely ignorant of the great work that Dwight did for the security of our nation. While he was busy fawning over the idiots who were tracking a bogus Santa Claus, he snubbed those workers who spent 12-hour shifts, bleary-eyed, tracking every single blip to make sure an errant missile from some fanatical country didn't make its way here. It became a dreary and monotonous job bemoaning the slight chance that someone would have the audacity to try to attack and then pay the penalties the US military would wrath upon them.

Inevitably, Iverson discovered Dwight asleep at the helm one evening and blasted his ass with lecture upon lecture. Whenever a Colonel has to address a significantly lower ranked soldier, it stands to make an impression. One he never forgot.

He double-flipped the KA-BAR but instead of catching it by the handle, the razor-sharp tip landed with a prick to his palm directly on the fate line. Secretions of bright red blood oozed out along the lines of his palm, spreading from the fate line, along the head line to the life and health lines. He stared at it for a moment transfixed, before he lapped up the warm blood with his tongue.

His fate—his destiny, had to be more than sitting here waiting to be hunted down like a scampering mouse hiding from the sharp claws of a cat. He had to do something to stop this madness of blind faith coming from a handful of desperate souls who would endeavor to even attempt to rebuild a world that is preordained to be decimated.

The blood in his palm started to flow again and he smiled to himself as he used the index finger of his other hand dipping it into the blood and using it as a brush to paint a horizontal zig-zag crimson line across his forehead.

# Chapter 50

After meticulously searching four liquor stores and three upscale bars, Ben finally found what he was looking for; a fifty year old Highland Park single malt. A snort of this would have set you back a week's wages. The bottle was clad with an ornate silver adornment making it a hefty package. He blew off the dust, stowed it away in his backpack and headed back to the rig to go out and forage for some additional supplies.

Ben hated to go into the city. It was a clear reminder of what had been and what it was desperately missing. The D.C. mall was even more depressing. The sheer emptiness of those gigantic buildings was too much to absorb. The Smithsonian's were like dark empty caverns, dank and smelling of moldy oldness. He remembers past visits here when it was nearly impossible to see a particular exhibit without threading yourself through voluminous throngs of people. For now, those days were gone.

On his way, he passed by a small toy store where children's books and stuffed animals sat in the display windows coated with a thin film of dust. Another dreadful reminder of his girls. He dare not enter the store for fear of even more emotional reminiscences. _Compose yourself, Ben_. He tried to recall some motivating words that Colonel Iverson once spoke. It was something like: "Our losses will be the catalyst of our power and strength to rebuild." True it was a lot of puff, but you've got to follow something.

The evening was nearing and beginning to diminish the daylight so Ben had better high-tail it back. On the beltway of D.C., it was more treacherous to drive in the dark under these circumstances that is was to drive in the light, back when people thrived.

Returning to the Pentagon, he stashed his treasures in his room save but the bottle and headed over to see Iverson.

# Chapter 51

Wearing rumpled fatigues, Dwight Lewis strolled casually into Colonel Iverson's office taking note of the absence of anyone else nearby. He approached the distracted colonel and spoke with a smart-ass slang. "Conrad, my man! What-say you and I have a little chit-chat, you know _Mano-a-mano?_ "

Colonel Iverson was intently studying an action plan to partially restore cellular phone service to the community. Although stringent formalities had been relaxed for the rank and file, Iverson was not used to insolence and most of the non-coms were still respectful. Lewis was an exception though. He had always been just on the brink of insubordination.

Not looking up, the Colonel raised his eyebrows and said, "You mean _de hombre a hombre_ ", assuming Dwight's meaning was _man-to-man_ instead of _hand-to-hand_. "What can I do for you Lewis?"

Even this simple nonchalant, highbrow response from Iverson is what made Dwight's skin crawl with waves of hatred and frustration. He stood there silently waiting for the Colonel to look up at him, which he finally did with a cold-steel stare.

"I'm not here to start anything, but I just wanted to say that this whole idea of rebuilding is a whole lot of bullshit. If you really think this handful of rag-tag peons can bring back this country to what is was, then that is pure... insanity."

Iverson studied Lewis for a moment. He kind of expected him or someone else to challenge his position. It goes with the territory. In any given hierarchy, you will always find someone who will want to topple the chain. He decided to initially engage him using the soft approach.

Iverson stood up. "Lewis, I know things are far from normal. In fact, this scenario is about as far from normal as it can be. But for now, what's left of us... are safe at this time." He inched a bit closer to Lewis. "My job is not particularly easy and I would gladly let someone else do it. You need to understand that in situations like this, people need to have hope. They need direction and most importantly, involvement. I've noted that you haven't really been involved much around here and... you know that you are always free to leave."

This lame rhetoric from Iverson infuriated Dwight even more. Iverson approached him with his hand out as a futile gesture. Dwight took his hand and pulled it along with his arm forcefully toward him until they were in an embrace. Reaching behind his back, in a flash, he quickly slid out the KA-BAR and back-stabbed Iverson between the Trapezius and Deltoid muscles, directly into the Infraspinatus fascia. Dwight pulled the knife out and the surprised Colonel let out a gasp and fell backwards leaning against a metal filing cabinet. He was about to go in for another strike when Benjamin Dawson swung the door open.

Luckily he caught Lewis off-guard and before he was able to swing the knife around to Ben, Ben cracked the bottle of scotch he brought with him with a thud against Lewis' head sending him sprawling to the floor.

# Part V

_Destiny burrows within ones soul; the spinning of the world liberates it_.

– West bench, Branson Island

# Chapter 52

"I'm leaving". The words escaped Ben's mouth impulsively before he had a chance to reel them back in. He clearly heard himself say the two ominous words, but it didn't feel like it was coming from his own mouth. Nevertheless, there they were, out on the table, too late to retrieve them back.

They were sitting on a park bench at ground-zero. It was a glorious September day nearing sunset. The putrid heat and sticky days of the summer had thankfully given way to cooler and drier weather. The surrounding trees were already starting to brazenly display their chameleon colors. Soon they would be but bare branches and twigs pending the imminent darkness of fall and winter.

In order to help and to stave off the boredom, Ben would often go along on sorties with the other specialists lending his knowledge of mechanical engineering to help repair the nation's vital infrastructure. Every mission was both fascinating and challenging. Whenever he could, he would also attend the strategy meetings to discuss those repairs and plans for future events.

Colonel Iverson, that is, _President_ Iverson's healing was going well but it would still take a while for him to regain full use of his shoulder and arm. Airman Lewis was convicted of attempted murder in a tribunal and placed into a cell at the Pentagon.

Samantha kept herself busy playing "Dr. Sam" alongside the Doctor Nelson, attending to any injuries or maladies that would come up. However, they were far and few between. During the slack times, Samantha would keep to herself. On many occasions, Ben would find her reading popular fiction novels about times when cities flourished with life and many people. Ben tried to avoid these escapes into the past because, to him, it brought about a melancholy and sadness he still had trouble facing.

Days would go by where he wouldn't even see Samantha, let alone talk to her. He was afraid that their friendship was beginning to dwindle and that was bad, because he had grown very fond of her. So he decided to invite her out to ground-zero to let her in on his plans. This, he felt would either make or break their friendship.

"When?" Samantha replied flatly. There was no exclamation of surprise, no pleading in her voice. Her eyebrows remained fixed with no expression, as though his statement was expected. Ben hoped for a bit more of a response. Either Samantha was being nonchalant, or she really... didn't care.

"Tomorrow." Ben also maintained his expressionless and detached demeanor. He didn't want to expose what was really in his heart if there were no signs of reciprocity.

"Where?" Another one-word response.

Ben's heart began to sink. He purposely delayed his return response. _Two can play this game_.

"I was thinking of heading west. I've always wanted to experience that side of the country. The San Francisco bay area seems intriguing. The climate is mild and there would be plenty of fish to eat."

Again, she paused for an eternal, excruciating minute. Ben was ready to jump out of his skin. He formed a mental picture in his mind of getting up and running across the grass, falling down and flailing around spasmodically like a wounded animal.

"As I recall", she said, capable once again of forming full sentences, "San Francisco has a subway system. What is it called...BART, that's it, Bay Area Rapid Transport. There might be survivors who were there at the time."

Ben nodded, curling his mouth downward and raising his eyebrows, not knowing what to say next.

Samantha continued with her silent preface, only this time she appeared to be actually thinking.

She said, "That's sounds like a good plan. I can be ready first thing in the morning. That is...if you don't mind me tagging along."

Ben's mood transformed immediately, as if he'd been shot up with a dose of happy serum. He could feel pools of warm liquid build up in his eyes. He blinked rapidly to dry them out for fear of being caught.

"That would be wonderful—if you don't mind leaving all... this." Ben replied with both palms up indicating the surrounding area.

Samantha chuckled. "Well, to be honest, I'm not much into the military life. And the people here are so... stiff."

"Then it's settled. We'll leave tomorrow. Unless you need more time to get ready."

"Tomorrow is plenty of time. I'll get some medical supplies together and start packing."

"And I'll see what food supplies I can scavenge."

"Okay then." Samantha said taking in a deep breath. "I better get started. I'll check in with you later tonight."

She got up slowly and headed back towards the building. About half-way, she turned around and headed back towards Ben. Sitting back down, close to him, she gave him a long and deep hug. Ben hugged back, smiling to himself.

After the embrace, she looked thoughtfully at Ben and said, "Thank you.", then scampered quickly back to the building. As she walked away, Ben could see her hands go up to her eyes as though she were wiping tears away.

# Chapter 53

President Iverson didn't take the news so lightly. He attempted unsuccessfully to convince Ben to stay. They were sitting in Iverson's office. Charts, statistics, reports and unfinished plans were and strewn around the room covering every conceivable flat surfaces and walls.

"Why the hell do you want to go cross-country on us? There's safety and security here. And, we've got electricity and running water too." He paused for a moment to think or other reasons. "I know the Pentagon is not the Waldorf... you could take up a residence nearby in an abandon house, there's many to choose from. And you would still have our protection close by."

"I can appreciate that, and I'm grateful for all your help, True, it might be nuts to leave this... sanctuary, but deep down, I feel the need to move on, to fulfill another purpose. Besides, if things don't work out, we can always come back, if you'll take us, that is."

"We?"

Ben had inadvertently left Samantha out of the equation.

"Oh... Samantha's going with me."

The President didn't look surprised at this knowing the two were close. He sighed and looked out the window as though he were struggling to find further reasons why they should stay, but obviously, he could not.

"Okay then, it looks like I'm not going to talk you out of it. When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow, first thing."

A surprised expression appeared on Iverson's face. "That soon? Okay, let me know if you need anything—food, supplies whatever you want."

"I've already raided the kitchen, but I believe we have everything we need," Ben replied.

"Can I ask your destination?"

"West—we're heading west. Much of that area... I haven't seen. We might even stop over at the Grand Canyon—it's supposed to be beautiful this time of year and from what I hear—not very crowded."

Iverson displayed a rare smile at the sad-but-true humor. He reached behind his desk into a lower cabinet and produced the still unopened and clearly dented bottle of Highland Park scotch that Ben had used to take out Lewis. He opened the seal, gently pulled out the aged cork and poured three fingers worth in each glass, handing one to Ben. He downed his in one swallow with a delighted exhalation and proceeded to pour another for himself.

He gestured to the bottle. "You sure know how to pick a good one. Ben it's been a pleasure having you here. I've enjoyed our talks immensely and I consider you a friend." He glanced again at the bottle of scotch. "Also, you are really handy with makeshift weapons."

Ben was feeling a bit sheepish at that statement. He hadn't thought about it that much, but it was true that he and Iverson had developed an almost kindred relationship over the past few months. Who would have known that Ben would be a personal friend of the President of the United States, let alone thwart his assassination attempt. He started to sip his scotch, but decided to down the whole thing as Iverson had and handed him the glass for a refill.

He could have to stayed and talked some more, but Ben had things to pack and he wanted a good night's sleep, so he excused himself and sadly left a despondent man sitting among his paper-laden kingdom.

# Chapter 54

It was a little past midnight, as Ben lay awake in bed in his darkened room. A dull sliver of light penetrated beneath the door to his small quarters. It was just enough to allow him to make out the dials on his watch. His sleep switch was still in the off position as his mind ran in hyper-mode like one of those old silent movies. Thoughts spun round-robin style in his head.

He couldn't help but wonder if leaving was the right thing to do. Why he needed to travel all the way across the US amid the ruins of a scavenged land, was still a mystery to him. Some deep-down instinct told him it was his destiny. He was anxious about what he would find out there. He knew there were other survivors and if he came across them, what would he find? Would they be distraught and homicidal? Would they join him on his voyage? Even worse, would he even see a soul at all? He was relieved that Samantha was accompanying him. Going it alone was not as appealing.

Thoughts cycled in and out of his brain for the next half hour or so when he noticed a shadow cutting through the light at the bottom of the door. He never locked it because with this group of people, trust was never an issue. After a minute, the shadow went away only to appear again shortly thereafter as though the visitor hesitated, then returned. Then there was a quiet knock on the door.

Ben partially propped himself up and said, "Come on in, it's unlocked."

The door opened slowly and the dim light beyond it revealed the shadowed figure of Samantha. The subdued lighting highlighted her short blond hair like the color of the moon and silhouetted her flawlessly curved body. Although it was dark, Ben could see that she was wearing only a tank top and panties. She closed the door quietly and sat down on his bed. He didn't bother to turn on the lamp, as it would have blinded them both.

"Couldn't sleep either, I suppose?" Ben asked.

"Yep. Would you mind if I slept here tonight?"

The weight of a thousand camels left Ben's shoulders. This is probably why he was having trouble sleeping. It wasn't just the trip—it was his feelings for Samantha. He thought she might have the same feelings, but wasn't sure. Now he was.

Ben didn't bother to answer. Words were not needed at this point. He simply pulled back the covers as a silent invitation. She nestled in beside him, facing him. Ben slipped his arm around her back and kissed her moist lips. For the next hour, they made slow and passionate love. Then Ben fell into a deep and satisfying sleep.

# Chapter 55

Samantha woke up a bit after 7am and was feeling incredible. The invisible wall of tension between her and Ben had finally been broken through. Everything from here on out was going to be easier. She'd hope she wasn't being too aggressive and taking advantage of Ben, but she simply couldn't have waited any longer. She couldn't hold back her feelings for him. She didn't know what she would have done if he shunned her away last night. It may have been the deciding factor to go with him. That quandary was now resolved and she was looking forward to their trip and the adventures that awaited them.

Ben was still sleeping soundly and she didn't want to wake him. She decided to slip out, take a quick shower and bring him something to eat. Before she left, she jotted a note on a post-it and stuck it on the door, and then she kissed him gently on his forehead and said in a whisper so quiet that a distant hoot owl would drown it out, "I love you, Ben."

Ben awoke to the movement of Samantha who was getting out of bed, but he kept his eyes closed to savoir the last few moments of sleep. It sounded like Samantha was trying to be quiet so she wouldn't wake him up. He heard her walk across the room and quietly back again. He was about ready to open up his eyes and reach over to grab her, but something made him freeze in place. He could barely hear it, but it was unmistakable. He heard her say, " _I love you, Ben_." He continued to feign sleep because he didn't know what to do or say in response to this wonderful and yet startling confession. It was better that she thought he was still sleeping.

He heard her doing something else he couldn't quite recognize, and then heard her quietly open and close the door. Ben opened his eyes slowly to confirm that she was indeed gone. He stretched out and smiled to himself. What a wonderful thing to hear from someone. What a wonderful thing to know—to know that someone loves you. The feeling was warm and almost intoxicating. A pang of guilt infiltrated these blissful thoughts, so he threw up a barricade hoping it would temporarily keep at bay the reality of the situation.

He felt guilty because he knew something that she didn't. Samantha thought that he was asleep and so she doesn't know that that he knows what she said. He had a bit of an advantage now. Not that he wished for it. He could tell her that he heard her and someday he would, but he wasn't quite ready to discuss it.

There was no doubt that he had strong feelings for her and it would be easy to admit that he loved her in return. But if he made that commitment, it would mean he was admitting that Helen, his wife, was gone. It was true that he had committed adultery in the physical sense, but he was willing to pardon himself for that weakness. After all, it has been over four months. To commit himself to Samantha wholly, was to admit there was no hope that Helen would ever return nor was alive. For Ben, it would take more time to concede from that hope. Given the fact that Helen was cheating on him, it made his sins a bit more justified. If the alien abduction never occurred and he had found out about her affair, he would have probably asked for a divorce.

Nevertheless, knowing what Samantha told him, for the time being, would remain his secret. When he saw her again—which would be in a few minutes—he would look upon her differently than before with this empirical knowledge. He hoped he could keep a straight face less she become suspicious.

# Chapter 56

Samantha and Ben wanted to slip away without fanfare. They had already said their goodbyes to the small list of people who they made friends with over the past few months. But Colonel Iverson, The President, commander-in-chief and an especially caring person, made sure a discrete departure wouldn't happen.

As they slipped out the front door, everyone was waiting for them in full dress, at attention, some even donning white gloves. They were all lined up along the walkway leading to their vehicle. President Iverson must have worked quickly to get them all notified and assembled by daybreak. It was a sign of a true leader. As they walked the aisle, the soldiers and officers saluted to them while the civilians offered their hands and hugs. It was an emotional farewell. Samantha made it about halfway before she had to quicken her pace to escape the throng and the tears that were streaming down her face. President Iverson was at the end of the line. He offered his sincere thanks and let them know that they were welcome back at any time.

Ben joined Samantha who was already seated in the car. Although they could get supplies along the way as they needed, the car was fully provisioned with enough food and water to get them all the way to the west coast. Ben got the car onto the freeway and headed west, the looming Pentagon receded behind them.

Together they were like pioneers heading into the new frontier full of the unknown. Geographically, the land was the same, but without the population and the people that made it a nation, it was a completely different and foreign place.

As Ben got into the rhythm of driving, Samantha was busy writing. She decided to start a journal to document this new journey. It would help her, she said, to keep her mind relaxed and in perspective.

She looked up from her journal to the road ahead, then looked and Ben and took his hand and said in a monotone, but hopeful voice, "This is the beginning."

# Epilogue

A collection of entries from the journal of Samantha Carlson-Dawson.

Day 7 – After driving through torrential downpours, we finally made it to the Grand Canyon. The sun broke out just as we arrived. No pictures or written words can describe the beauty and awe of this place. The history shown through the layers on the canyon walls was a strong reminder that the earth can and will survive as it has done for eons.

Day 10 – Las Vegas is a ghost town. There are actually tumbleweeds on the main drag. We arrived here yesterday, just before sunset. There were no neon lights to greet us. Oddly, there were no stranded cars on most of the strip. We stayed the night at Caesar's Palace. It was a remarkable and odd sight. It was bizarre to see all the coins, dollars and chips spread out on tables and in slot machine trays and yet not even think about grabbing a handful. There wasn't anything that money could buy anymore. Although there is plenty of canned and packaged food, tons of bottled water and acres of land to do whatever you wanted with, the only thing left of value anymore is human companionship. All that opulence and luxury aimed at pleasing the masses now seemed pointless and meaningless without the masses there to please.

However, the huge statue of Michelangelo's David inside the hotel was worth the trip.

Day 11 – Something fantastic happened today. As we were leaving, a man came running out from one of the hotels and flagged us down. At first, we were a bit weary because we didn't know his intentions. As we got out of the car to greet him, he looked us over, then he signaled back to the hotel's entrance and a group of men and women emerged excitedly. They swarmed around us. Some were crying and others were giddy. It turns out they were local survivors—people who had worked and lived here. Many of the large hotels have underground levels and they fortunately happened to be there when doomsday struck.

We spent the rest of the day with them swapping stories and information. We told them about how there was a small, new government in place and that amidst the disaster; they were working to rebuild the nation. Their news was just as interesting. They told us of a large obelisk that was discovered about 100 miles to the north. They showed us pictures of it. It was oval at the base and tapered as it reached to a height of 150 feet. Its surface was completely covered from bottom to top in symbols or letters of an unknown language. It was obviously put there by the aliens. They gave us a copy of the symbols that someone had painstakingly recorded. After hearing about the people at the Pentagon, they were already making plans to send a contingency out there to deliver the written symbols in person.

We told them of our own plans and where we were headed. A few of them showed an interest in relocating there as well. When we left, there were hugs all around. _Considering that there aren't that many people left in the world, the standard wave, or handshake just doesn't do it anymore_.

Day 39 – We settled on a town in California called Carmel-by-the-Sea. The climate is temperate here. It's not too cold, not too hot, and just right if you don't need to depend on furnaces and air conditioners. It is close to Monterey Bay where there is access to fishing. We found a nice, modest house on the ocean. It was set up for propane, making it ideal for cooking and bathing. Ben is looking at setting up a generator for power too.

Day 58 – Nothing happened today. Nothing happened yesterday and I'm pretty sure nothing is going to happen tomorrow. Is this the way it's going to be?

Day 59 – Actually, something happened today. I broke down. It started after breakfast and lasted all day. I couldn't stop crying. I'm a doctor and I know about depression, but that doesn't make it go away or feel any better. I took a long walk along the beach with no particular place to go. I was gone for hours and I knew that Ben was worried, but I didn't care. In fact, I didn't care about anything—just walking. Finally, I came to the end of the sand where it met a rock outcropping. There was nowhere else to go but back the way I came, or out to sea. Halfway back, Ben met me on his four-wheeler, worried sick. He had that angry but happy look on his face. It's weird how he can pull that off. We stood there on the beach, hugged, and cried together until dark.

Day 75 – Ben came home from a long scavenging trip. With him, he had a portable windmill for generating electricity. It looks to be a big project, but time is something we have.

Day 99 – Ben found a gourmet food shop in town and brought back several cans of exotic food. He prepared a feast of the tin-based delights with long stick candles, fine china, cloth napkins all laid out on a beach blanket in the middle of the living room floor. Afterwards, still on the floor, we made love for a long time.

Day 119 – I knew it all along, but Ben told me he loved me today. Why it took him so long, I don't know. He is such a good man. Of course, I cried a lot.

Day 139 – We arrived in San Francisco. It was extremely foggy and cold today. We plan to stay up to a week searching for any survivors.

Day 141 – It is a good day today. We came across a group of eight people. They are living near Fisherman's Warf. Among them were two children. It's been so long since I've seen a child I nearly broke down. I gave them all a cursory checkup. They seemed interested in joining us up north, especially since they found out that I was an MD. They also talked of other people that they'd come across in the area.

Day 177 – The folks we met in San Francisco and a couple more showed up at our doorsteps today. We're now a community, although a small one. We made plans so that they could be housed in dwellings adjacent to ours. That way, it would be easier to distribute power and other resources. Ben was right on top of it. He's such a good man. It seems like I've said that before.

Day 210 – I think I'm pregnant. It's been over two months since my last period and I've been nauseated most mornings. I wonder what Ben will think?

Day 211 – The results were positive. As soon as I told Ben I might be pregnant, he high-tailed it to the nearest drug store and brought home every assorted brand of pregnancy tests he could find. He insisted I try them all to be sure. What a joyous day. It was his turn to cry—I was too sick.

Day 298 – They found another obelisk today. There may be a lot of these. It has the same dimensions as the one found in Nevada. It also has the same exact writing on it. No one has yet figured out what it means. Here are some of the theories being tossed around:

1. It's an explanation of why they took our people and animals for anyone who got left behind.

2. It's a claim that this world is now theirs and for any other aliens to stay away.

3. It's a warning sign for visitors to be careful because of some future cataclysmic event that is going to happen. Nothing has happened yet, thank god.

Day 470 – It's a girl. We named her Evelyn. Ben is so happy. I'm in shock.

Day 501 – We had a death today. Kendall Yasumiishi was a dear man. He was 78 and cancer had spread throughout his body. My diagnostic tools are not state-of-the-art, but I could tell. Any aggressive treatment options were long gone months ago as those particular types of medicine have a short shelf life. Ben spoke at the funeral. It was a good speech.

Day 805 – I have that feeling again. This time I know what it is—no tests are necessary. Nine months from now, we'll know if it is a boy or a girl.

Day 922 – A contingency of eastern travelers returned today bringing news of the situation in D.C. It took them nearly two months due to landslides and overgrowth on the roads and highways. A couple of new people came back with them too. President Iverson is still the President. He wrote a long letter for Ben. Progress is being made, but it is slow. They've still seen no signs of the aliens and are working on the obelisk symbols.

Day 1930 – Evelyn turns four today. Happy birthday baby! She's a beautiful kid. We're at the beach with Adama. He'll be turning three next month. They're both scooping generous amounts of sand in an attempt to build the tallest sand castle ever. We've been out here for a couple of hours and it's time to get back to the ranch for school. Off in the distance, at the point where the sea meets the sky, there are dark clouds gathering. I tell my kids to get packed up. There's a storm coming.

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