First draft, edits to come...

40: Stage One

Pleistocene Park, Siberia-

Alan hadn't followed the park's circular main road; too far. Instead, he'd used his downloaded map and the bus's heat signature to plot a swift short cut. Not that there weren't issues. They'd lost Fermat, for one, run into a spooked mammoth herd and stopped at an accident site, for another.

Then there was the heavy stock fence, which his sled didn't have power enough to top. He wasted almost ten minutes looking for a gate, all the while having the neck-prickling, creepy feeling that he and TinTin were being watched. Lions, maybe?

But all he saw was deep snow and narrow lakes; all he heard was hissing, face-numbing wind. The hills, furred almost black with huddled larch trees, were rising in the north like storm clouds by the time he encountered the bus. Its green paint, tinted windows and stylized mammoth logo stood out like fireworks against all that trampled mud and brittle snow. With its heating unit down, Lake Svetlana had begun to freeze, its edges icing over and wisps of vapor dancing over a dark, rippled surface. The other shore was invisible, the near one scored with half-filled tire ruts and foot prints.

Alan's stiffening face managed a brief scowl. No-one was standing around trying to pull the bus free. And Dr. Aginbroad had said it was mired… not tipped into the lake with its rear canted up, sinking.

He was off the hover sled before it stopped moving. Meant for quick transport, it wasn't powerful enough to haul a loaded tour bus out of thick mud. He'd have to get everyone off… but why weren't they out, already?

Forgetting cold and exhaustion, forgetting TinTin, even, Alan lunged for the back of the bus. Trying to run, he broke through the snow's brittle crust to flounder waist deep, fighting his way clear only to crash through again.

'Should've brought the sled closer in…'

Dripping sweat and gasping for air, he reached the rear emergency exit a few minutes later. Removing his mittens, Alan seized a lever-like door handle and clambered onto the rear bumper.

(Easy; his many previous schools had practiced bus evacuation procedures until the teenager was ready to vomit. He could have done this asleep.)

The left window had a hole in it, he saw, about the size of a thrown soda can. The bus jerked forward a little, slipping further into the lake. What was wrong with those people? Were they all, like, sleeping in there? With no time for a long chat, he flattened his wrist comm's alarm button. Didn't care who responded. Every and anyone, come a-running…

He then braced himself, got a firm handhold, and jerked open the emergency door. It creaked wide, thumping against the back end and emitting a sudden mist of noxious air. Smelled weird in there.

The bus was now tilted about 20 degrees, with lots of steam and bubbling noises from up front, where icy water was drowning the engine.

"TinTin!" he shouted, before heading inside, "I don't think they can get out by themselves! We're gonna need rope!"

The girl had been picking her way toward him, using the trail he'd battered out. Slowly, she turned away, moving like a drugged zombie. Really hoping that Fermat and the zoo guy showed up soon, Alan plunged into the sinking bus.

Immediately, he started coughing. Dizzying fumes clouded the air, half-revealing the slumped forms of fifteen or twenty people.

'No wonder… not out…' Alan thought blurrily '… gas.'

Still coughing, he dropped his parka hood and reached inside the jacket, yanking his tee-shirt up to cover mouth and nose. Helped, a little.

Up front, the driver was nearly submerged in grey, freezing muck. Alan stumbled forward, tripping over camera bags and fallen kids. As he fumbled an unconscious toddler back onto her seat, some kind of can bounced away, sputtering like a cartoon bomb. Gas grenade, if his Navy Seal video games were accurate. It rolled down the aisle, doused at last by rising water. This was getting ugly.

Alan jumped when a dark silhouette blocked the light from the open emergency door, but it was only TinTin. Holding to seat backs and overhead rails, she'd begun easing her way toward him, a coil of rope over one arm. She, too, was coughing, sounding as bad as Virgil had.

They had to get these people out, but Alan was sure that they, and the other teams, had been set up. That they'd stumbled into a quickly settrap. One more time, he mashed his alarm, hoping for some kind of response.

The bus lurched forward again, creaking like a backyard swing on a windy night. Alan braced himself, boots firmly planted on the ridged floor mat. His head hurt. He could've used anyone's help just then; Gordon, Scott… heck, even John (who would've said something sarcastic and obvious like, "Why don't you… I don't know… open the windows, or something? They'll begin coming around once the air clears, Genius.")

Alan nodded. Wading forward, he reached an arm out to grab hold of the driver's sodden brown uniform. Like his passengers, the manappeared unconscious and hypothermic.

"T!" Alan croaked, "Get those windows open, Babe. We gotta… gotta let the… gas out."

"Oui," she replied, faint as a dying breeze.

Alan hooked an arm around the vertical steel pole beside the driver's seat. He got a firm grip on the guy, who looked pretty solid… fifty years old, maybe… and then started pulling him out of the frigid mud. It didn't seem to want to let go, but neither did Alan.

He'd heard something, once, in English class. Some dead writing guy had said,

'A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer.'

So, here went the five minutes. He shifted his grip and pulled even harder, getting (as Gordon would say) his back into it. Alan's legs were numb and his fingers were blue. His boots slipped a little, but he regained his footing, leaned back and tried again.

TinTin was nearly there, carrying one end of the rope. She'd lowered several windows, and a sharp wind now snarled and rattled through the bus's interior, smelling of musky animals and glottal mud.

Alan twisted himself and grunted, pulling the driver free, then swinging him around to the back side of a steel barrier separating 'cockpit' from passenger compartment.

'Yeah! Thought so!' Looking up, half leaning against the slimed barrier, Alan reached for TinTin's proffered rope. His wrist comm beeped; island base, looked like. Maybe, after all…

There was sudden, loud noise: crashing, shattering glass from the window beside him. Afist shot through, seized the neck of his parka, and jerked it back with the force of a jackhammer. His head smashed against broken glass and metal window frame, two… three times…

The first time hurt. The second was all red lights and TinTin screaming. He didn't feel the third time.

Alan's unconscious form collapsed atop the driver's. Then something ripped out half of a body panel, and leapt within, landing in a booming, cat-like crouch.

TinTin had drawn her pistol, but the muzzle wavered and jumped, unable to settle on the thing that rose to stand before her, burning with the cold blood-lust of a predator. A man in form, but in mind jagged-edged and dripping.

She tried to stop him with a thrust of thought, but he blocked her, his electronic enhancements knifing past faltering shields and numbed will.

TinTin brought the pistol up, bracing it with two hands, elbows locked, as Gordon had taught her. The killer simply placed a booted foot across Alan's throat. A moment's concentration, a bit of pressure, and he'd crush the boy's windpipe like wet cardboard.

TinTin stifled a whimper as the man… Stirling… held out his hand. The deal was obvious; hand over the weapon, or watch her friend and comrade die.

(It was not a person. Not anymore. The terrible deaths and choked pleas she tried so hard to twist away from were like being beaten and torn, herself. And they spoke of how horribly it had altered itself.)

Shaking, she gave him the gun, and he smiled. Pale, circuit-enhanced eyes and perfect ceramic teeth made the expression very muchother than human. Disdaining cold, he wore only a smart-cloth body suit. It shifted continuously as he moved, matching the seats, the mud and the spattered metal behind him.

"Scared… aren't you," he said conversationally, taking his foot off of Alan. Her pistol he unloaded, then crushed and tossed aside.

Despite herself, the girl nodded. In her mind, he glowed blackly; a gloating, cold, hungry thing… rubbing itself in her fear.

Stirling chuckled, indicating the slumped and comatose tourists.

"So were they, before the gas set in. Everyone is, at the end. But don't fret, Beautiful. It's nothing personal… and just for you, this once I'll make it quick."

TinTin forced herself to concentrate.

"Why? Wh… Who sent you?" she whispered.

But Stirling merely shook his head.

"Client confidentiality," he reproved. "Big job, nice profit, lots of scenery... as long as I keep my mouth shut… And see to it that you do the same. Nice knowing you, Beautiful."

And then he stepped forward.