Hallowed Be Thy Name: Hallowed Be Thy Name, #1

By Kris Hulbert

In the 21st century, world leaders launched a thin layer of pollution into the outer atmosphere to diminish the sun's intensity. It had unintended consequences. The shield magnified the intensity of a massive solar flare which flash-melted the polar ice caps. Once again, a planet-wide flood devastated all civilizations.

Two distinct groups emerged from that chaos a century later: a secretive team of scientists seeking technological salvation, and a devout Vatican sect interpreting the disaster as God's judgement.

Dr. Alisha Swetkov, a dedicated scientist with hidden faith, headed a covert department known as the Hostile Environment Assessment Team (H.E.A.T.), which addressed climate crises and simultaneously worked on developing technology for planetary evacuation.

After a super earthquake speeds up the planet's deterioration, H.E.A.T's two most respected unit leaders, lifelong friends Thomas Ratzke and Brett Bishop, face divergent choices on how to help save humanity.

With the future of life teetering on the brink, humanity must bridge its divisions to escape impending doom or face a cataclysmic end.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kris Hulbert
• Release date: Feb 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224891894

Kris Hulbert

Kris Hulbert is a multi-talented creative force, renowned for his contributions to the world of independent filmmaking and literature. Born with an innate storytelling gift, Hulbert's journey began in the heart of the United States. His passion for storytelling burgeoned during his formative years, leading him to pursue a career that intertwined the realms of writing and filmmaking. Hulbert's early ventures into the world of cinema saw him wearing multiple hats - writing, directing, and producing. His commitment to crafting compelling narratives, often within the realms of horror and suspense, earned him recognition among both audiences and industry peers. His foray into literature seamlessly complemented his cinematic endeavors. Hulbert's writing style, characterized by its vivid imagery and intricate plots, captivated readers across various genres. Whether through the medium of film or the written word, his ability to evoke emotions and provoke thought remains a hallmark of his work. Throughout his career, Hulbert's creative vision and dedication to his craft have been evident in each project he undertakes. His unique storytelling voice continues to resonate with audiences worldwide, cementing his place as a versatile and influential figure in the world of entertainment.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The cycle of life becomes evident with the passage of time. Over years, one man’s decisions become another man’s actions. When those actions repeat over decades, they form a way of life. As centuries pass, different ways of life evolve into diverse cultures. Cultures flourish until one inevitably conflicts with another. The erosion of tolerance and empathy escalates those conflicts until past, present, and future are obliterated. Thus, with the passage of enough time, the cycle will begin anew.

At the antepenultimate chapter, the last of Man struggles to survive entombed under a hellish haze of his own consequences. In a vast, ashen wasteland exposed by the rapid evaporation of the Pacific Ocean, man once again makes decisions. 

A seamless white shell covered a monstrous mobile laboratory perched on two-story tall tank treads. The mammoth machine rested amongst clusters of fossilized coral, rocky ranges, and pools of acidic water. The weight of the massive mobile facility sank the treads several centimeters into the moist ground. Two bubbled windows at the front watch a hovering drone like the piercing eyes of an angry parent. The quad propeller drone hovered a few meters above the desolate landscape while it pissed a beam of fire into the planet’s molten heart like an intracardiac injection. The ground rumbled. Pressure cracks spidered out from the borehole. Steam and debris sprayed high into the atmosphere as the apathetic machine loitered on, ignorant to the hellstorm swirling meters from its indestructible exterior. 

Inside, the laboratory was immaculate, white, and minimalistic. It resembled a sterile operation room more than a command module. Segments of the walls served the dual purpose of digital readout screens and windows. Three lab technicians in white coats poured through a tsunami of data that flooded across all their virtual screens.

At the center of the open lab, a floor-to-ceiling hologram of Earth hovered and rotated. Over two centuries, oceans evaporated so much new land emerged. The acidic Atlantic gave birth to a great mountain range, while the poisonous Pacific revealed a sprawling plateau, both of which were designated as Free Zones. In a far corner of the Pacific Plateau, the mobile laboratory drilled for core samples.

The translucent hologlobe showed the laser drill’s progress towards the planet’s core. Lab Technician Darla Gates monitored its progress. Darla was a frail, mousy woman in her early thirties. She had an uncanny ability to repel attention even in a room of three. Devoid of faith, Darla needed the world to make sense. When it did not, she burned to understand why. Her insatiable curiosity and ability to blend in with walls helped her excel in her career, and in return, she found salvation and sanity in her work. Like most able-bodied people with a role in the daily cycle, several generations of Darla’s forefathers had worked for the corporation. The Ratzke bloodline practiced nepotism on a whole new level by raising future employees as members of their extended family. When Darla reached ten, she began her apprenticeship down the only path she would ever know: geology. 

We are approaching the lower mantle, Gates updated her peers. 

The turbulent environment outside intensified. Alarms, beeps and alerts flooded the lab with chaos. At a side observation window, Tookoo Jacobs, a jittery lab tech in his mid twenties, feverishly swiped the data displayed before him. Jacobs was a rebellious young kid who grew up as a member of the first generation born in the Pacific Free Zone. A man known only as Ratzke showed up at Tookoo’s village one day and provided regular resources, medicine, and support for the Free Zoners. He saw something special in Jacobs and did not hide it. Ratzke took the boy in at fourteen after Jacobs lost his parents to Type A skin cancer. He gave Tookoo a home and a purpose. His untainted personality fascinated Ratzke. The strict prohibition on religion in the Free Zone meant he had no exposure to it. This dynamic made Tookoo and other Free Zone offspring the perfect employees for Ratzke’s agenda.

Jacobs' tribe, along with the rest of the territory, prospered in the Free Zone with the help of Ratzke's medicine, vaccines, sunsuits, and farming technology. In return, his company received produce and the loyalty of Free Zoners for generations. Tookoo was the first stray, but hardly the last Ratzke recruited to his cause. He looked through the display screen at the drill hole, but a tornado of debris obscured his line of sight.

Pressure readings just skyrocketed! Jacobs said, as he stumbled to stabilize himself from ferocious tremors. He reached through the holograph of data to activate the bubble window. Jacobs could not see, but inferred, that the surrounding ground had deteriorated. Unseen cracks creeped from the drill hole under their treads and beyond.

Jacobs and Gates braced themselves as they looked to their squatty superior for direction and reassurance. Harold Hogson was an all-too-calm bureaucrat in his 40s with a low center of gravity. He sensed their anxiety, but refused to acknowledge their need for a command. Hogson was a Ratzke confidant. He worked for Ratzke decades earlier at the Tower in Salt Lake City. Hogson was an atheist with a particular knack for managerial duties and a propensity for discretion, a trifecta every Ratzke desired. He was smart, efficient, and kept his mouth shut until the work required an audible word. In return, Hogson ate well. His eyes, swallowed by portly pillows of flesh, locked on the holo-globe. He monitored the laser as it approached a darkened layer that represented the projected threshold for the lower mantle. Below that layer, an even darker shade represented the liquid iron core. 

Stop the drill, Hogson barked before the marker crossed into the lower mantle. 

At the hologlobe, Gates made a hard downward gesture. The drone’s laser dissipated, and so did the tremors. Several color changes and updates registered on the hologlobe. At the hole outside, an invisible gas burst upwards and swirled debris into the air.

CO2 release steady at two percent, Jacobs reported from his terminal. 

It’s too soon..., Gates said in disbelief at her readings.

Temperature is well over 4000°. We shouldn’t see this kind of spike until we hit the core, Gates said in shock as she swiped and gestured like a maniacal maestro to cross reference her data.

Are we streaming? Hogson inquired from his pen at the back of the lab.

Yes. Data connection is steady, Gates responded. 

Prepare to re-engage at seventy percent, Hogson said.

Gates readied to re-engage the laser.

Engage, Hogson insisted.

Jacobs watched the drone through his display window. The red laser burst back down the hole before it disappeared into another cyclone of sediment. The marker inside the hologlobe pierced the lower mantle, then pushed on toward the core. 

A sudden calm in the storm allowed the steam and gas to dissipate from the drill hole. The laser pushed on. Jacobs could once again see the red hot laser pour its rage into the ground; his eyes focused, however, on the data that zipped by in the foreground. 

A rapid beep alerted Gates to swipe her screen to raise the drone’s height. It responded right before lava exploded into the sky, mushroomed just short of the drone, and fell back to earth like an oil well that hit pay dirt. The drill persisted even as the waves of lava rained down, startled Jacobs, then ran over the outer shell of the lab.

Three kilometers to the iron core, Gates updated as the red beam drove deeper into the hologlobe. 

Increase to ninety percent, Hogson requested. 

Jacobs regained his composure and executed a swipe for more drill power. The red glow of the laser intensified to churn through the lava fountain. 

CO2 release at six percent and climbing, Jacobs updated.

Half a kilometer to core breach, Gates updated. 

The laser was still a discernible distance from the iron core when alarms warned Jacobs of a premature core breach.

This must be a mistake. We’re still over four hundred meters away, Gates responded as she raced to compare more data to the new results.

Disengage. Full report, Hogson requested. He circled and scoured the hologlobe as if the pixels held clues to the geological discrepancy. 

Jacobs shut down the laser and deactivated the alarms, alerts, and beeps. Gates hovered near the hologlobe while she poured through the data for any hint of an explanation. Exasperated, she turned to her peers.

For this to reconcile, the core expansion rate must be more than twice our most aggressive projections, Gates surmised. 

CO2 steady at five percent, Jacobs reported.

A thin line of silver rose from the center of the hologlobe where the drill stopped. A new wail of alerts pulled Gates’s attention from the hologlobe back to her screens. 

Something solid is headed to the surface! Gates announced. Jacobs glared through the data at the hole. He nervously anticipated what was about to emerge.

CO2 release dropping rapidly. Three percent ... two percent, Jacobs updated. 

A few swipe commands later, Gates pulled up a video feed from the drone pointed down the hole. A heavy gurgle burped out of the hole and a dull gray, molten iron percolated to the brim and solidified. 

CO2 release non-existent, boasted Jacobs. 

Hogson skimmed the data. After a few ominous moments, his eyes drifted up and locked with Gates. The two shared a look so grim neither needed a word.

Bring him up, Hogson’s command pierced the tension. 

Jacobs used his window interface to queue up Steven Ratzke on a central display. Ratzke, a slender middle-aged man, had natural good looks that enabled him to pursue knowledge over trivial details like grooming. His jawline was bristly and rigid, with his skin tanned and speckled with sunspots. He had a simple appearance with wire-rimmed glasses and trimmed salt and pepper hair.

The drill test was a success, but there is a vast discrepancy between our readings and the projections, stated a concerned Hogson. He was not a natural people-pleaser, but he knew who buttered his bread.

Ratzke stared back. His eyes darted up and down as he scanned data only he could see. He maintained the demeanor of a man born in charge, but a natural assuredness that did not require others to fear his authority. 

That’s why we built the drill, to verify the projections, Ratzke responded with a distracted nonchalance. After a few moments to peruse the data, Ratzke looked square into the camera, adjusted his glasses, and inquired, Gates, what temperature did we record at the deepest point of penetration?

Final reading 4,752° Celsius. That can’t be right? Gates asked.

Jacobs, please confirm the depth, Ratzke requested. He leaned to confer with someone out of frame. Hogson was a man who sought every opportunity to ingratiate himself further with Ratzke. He used the extra time to confer with Jacobs on the numbers so he could deliver the answer when Ratzke’s attention returned.

Physical confirmation—, Hogson started.

Stop. Jacobs, please confirm, Ratzke interjected.

Jacobs froze and looked at Hogson for approval before he responded to Ratzke. Hogson used his eyes and a slight nod to defer to his superior’s wishes.

Physical confirmation of the iron core reached at a depth of 2,394.8 kilometers, Jacobs relayed.

That’s over fifty kilometers off our most aggressive projections! Hogson said, in shock.

Ratzke’s eyes skimmed the data on the screen. His demeanor did not reveal internal concern, if he had any at all. 

Grab post-drill soil samples before you return, Ratzke instructed. He then cut off the transmission. 

RATZKE SAT ALONE IN solace at his terminal inside a small operations room. A video, interrupted by the call from the mobile lab, sat paused with his wife smiling and two young boys wrestling for attention in the background.

The video resumed with the young boys frolicking in the faint moonlit sands of a barren lake bed. Behind them, oval-shaped and corroded machines, about two meters tall, scattered the landscape.

The older boy with blonde curly hair, who resembled a young Steven Ratzke, looked into the camera and said, I miss you, Daddy. When are you coming home to teach me how to fly helios?

Daddy will be home when he’s done saving the world, Ira responded as she looked back to the camera and into Ratzke’s soul. Despite a silk scarf wrapped around her bald head and her pale skin hanging from her cheekbones, she remained as beautiful as ever to him.

We miss you, darling, she spoke and blew a kiss into the camera. In the background, the younger boy with brunette hair waved while the older one tried to pull his hand down. The video reached its last frame and sat frozen.

Ratzke watched this old video often, but the frequency had increased since his last trip home. The video represented the last time he saw Ira smile and the last time his son longed for his presence.

Ratzke spent the final years of his wife’s life separated from his family in a failed effort to ensure they would have a future together. He kept them safe and in comfort at his corporate headquarters in Salt Lake City, but almost never came home. Ratzke and hundreds of personnel lived and worked endless hours in the secret underground facility he had constructed far away from the last pockets of civilization.

The awareness that only he could solve the world’s problems haunted Ratzke. A critical lack of time and resources made him an insatiable insomniac. He saw it as his personal responsibility to make the planet sustainable again. Until he did, in the rare moments he mustered the courage to look in a mirror, he saw a failure who abandoned his family. 

Over five years had passed since his beloved wife and former research partner died from Type A cancer. He was never the same. Colder and more distant, he pushed even harder, taking his pain and frustration out on himself, but never his subordinates. He had endless patience and as much time as it required to communicate what he expected from them. Only with his son could he not find his words, or his patience. Tormented by guilt, he allowed himself to be consumed by his work.

When a son already resents his father for lost time spent saving others, how does a father explain to his son the one person he could not save was his mother? The divide between the benevolent genius and the bitter, angry adolescent deepened when the latter learned the former had developed a vaccine for Type A cancer soon after Ira's passing. The cure was only possible because of the lessons learned during Steven’s feverish attempts to save his wife. Ira Ratzke was the last person to die from the disease. In his son’s eyes, it was the final betrayal of an absent father. The sin became even more unforgivable when the vaccine was distributed freely to the nomads who had occupied his father's attention while his mother suffered a painful death.

During his last trip home, Ratzke had been back for less than a day when his efforts to grieve with his son were interrupted. An explosion at the facility had led to a breakthrough that required his immediate return to the facility. How do you explain to an irate thirteen-year-old, who already felt betrayed, you must leave because of another critical advancement? Had Steven delayed his departure, humanity would never know about the expansion of the earth’s core. The importance of the discovery was irrelevant to a child who believed he had already lost his father’s attention and resented everyone and everything for it.

When Ratzke informed his son of his imminent departure, the boy refused to say goodbye and instead wished him never to return. Two years had passed. Ratzke did not avoid the journey, but he also did not make time, either.

Forced to be honest, Ratzke would acknowledge it was more likely he could repair the climate than reestablish a healthy relationship with his son. Steven reassured himself that his work was more important than sentiments he could not express. 

Freda Jenkins, his pale and neurotic assistant, knocked Ratzke out of his memories as she burst into the room. He swiped the personal video away before he spun around to see a blur of energy barreling at him. 

Jenkins was the brilliant offspring of two of Ratzke’s finest Senior Researchers. Despite not being engineered, her superior lineage could give credence to such an assertion. Conceived, born, and raised inside the facility, Freda was the pride and joy of the entire extended Ratzke family. Twenty-three years of groomed expectations had made her Ratzke’s protégé.

I ran everything four times... I’ll find the glitch, Jenkins stated.

A scientist never blames the data when they don’t like the results, Ratzke replied.

Jenkins’s boundless energy proved to be the exception to Ratzke’s innate ability to calm all forces. 

The rate of expansion is impossible! she said.

Jenkins paced the room while she swiped at holographic displays full of data projected into the air. Raw information flashed across screens in arrays of infinite dizziness. Ratzke stepped over to his own smaller holo-globe. In one quick motion, he formed a triangle with his pointer fingers and thumbs, then pulled his arms apart. The holo-globe expanded and illuminated all around him until he stood in the center of the shaded iron core. 

The impossible is only impossible until it becomes always possible, Ratzke prophesied from the center of the hologram. 

Recalculate to account for the field data, Ratzke requested.

Once recalculated, the iron core segment of the holo-globe doubled in size. 

Simulate the current rate of expansion forward ten years, Ratzke voice-commanded.

The simulation showed cracks across all seven continents because of earthquakes.

One hundred years, he then requested.

Over the hundred year simulation, the planet suffered from earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. The simulation continued to a gradual destruction of the planet soon after.

The ability to remain impartial is what separates fact from faith, Ratzke said. He organized holographic files, data, and simulations into virtual folders labeled under ‘Ratzke Research Files’. Through the hologram files, Ratzke spotted Bruce Bruce pass by his door.

BRUCE BRUCE, A SWEATY, paranoid, 44-year-old lab technician, slithered past the glass double doors of Ratzke’s office. Just as Bruce felt assured he was in the clear, the whoosh of the office doors paralyzed him.

Hey, Bruce. Come here for a minute, beckoned Ratzke from the open doors.

Bruce dropped his shoulders and turned around. His voice cracked as he responded, Mr. Ratzke. Good to see you. Anything I may assist you with, sir?

Bruce prayed for Ratzke to pass on his offer.

How are you, Bruce? I’ve been meaning to talk with you. I know we’re coming up on the two-year anniversary. I want you to know how proud I am. All we can do is go forward. If you need a few days, the time is yours, Ratzke empathized with Bruce.

Bruce reached out and gave his boss a hearty handshake.

Thank you, sir. Thank you for remembering. It means a lot. More than you’ll ever know. I’ll be fine. Like you said, we go forward. Everything happens for a reason, right? Bruce said aloud as he screamed inside.

I’ve heard that many times, but I believe each one of us holds the power to make things happen, Ratzke answered.

I like that. I’ll apply it to the time I have left. Well, I have to finish flushing the ventilation shafts. Thank you again, sir. Your words have given me some peace, Bruce cooed.

Ratzke sent Bruce on his way with a pat on the back, then tracked him down the corridor before he returned to his office. Ratzke measured his sympathy for Bruce’s pain, with his concern about the risk it presented to the entire facility.

Bruce was a conflicted man. Two years ago, his wife and daughter lived on the mainland while he was buried at the facility. They could not find shelter before a massive solar flare incinerated them. No remains to bury nor closure to be found. Bruce ached to see his wife and child again; he sought answers that logic, facts, and reason could not provide. Prior to their deaths, he was a man of reason, after he searched for meaning logic could not provide. Little by little, he learned to believe until he became a man of faith. During his last leave, with no family to return home to, he reached out to a holy man and asked how he could prove his faith before he rejoined his wife and daughter. He longed to let go and reunite with them. The holy man was eager to mold his pain.

Bruce scurried down the hallway through a glass airlock. It whooshed closed behind him when he stepped forward onto the catwalk. Out of habit, he tilted his head up at the catwalks above; he dared not peek below at the dozen lower levels or he would spiral into vertigo.

The catwalks overlooked a gargantuan underground hangar carved into the bedrock of the forgotten ocean. Enormous dual construction bays housed the skeletal frameworks of two massive space arks in the early but active stages of assembly. Once finished, each carrier could sustain twenty-five thousand passengers for a thousand years. 

Bruce trotted past several airlock doors, a few interface terminals, and the occasional fellow lab technician to whom he offered a clumsy nod. Up ahead, two technicians and a surly crew chief blocked the catwalk as they approached. Bruce tingled with paranoia and tried to avoid any eye contact to not inseminate suspicion. He dodged the eyeline of the two technicians, but caught an awkward nod and dance from the husky crew chief. The crew chief held his ground and forced Bruce to lift his head and engage in direct eye contact. Bruce gave a submissive nod and cowered aside to satisfy the crew chief’s alpha ego. Once he sidestepped past the trio, Bruce gasped for a breath of stress-free air. Before he could exhale his anxiety, a verbal kidney punch drilled him from behind.

Hey. Hey, you, hold up a second, said a deep voice from behind Bruce. 

Bruce froze. He pined for the path ahead like a cruel mirage. In an eternal moment, he considered the odds of escape if he ran... non-existent. Even if he reached the elevator, security would take him out at the top. He gripped the railing, looked down, and calculated the chance of survival if he jumped. It was too high to complete his mission, but uncertain if it was high enough to reunite with his family. Only one option allowed him to complete his agenda.

With a slow turn and an absent-minded point to his chest, Bruce faced his caller.

Yeah, you blanco. You seen Ratzke? asked the husky crew chief. 

Bruce sucked in a huge breath of relief, gathered himself with a wipe of his all too sweaty brow, and responded, I have. He’s in the operations room.

Bruce nodded in the direction they headed and from where he had come. The two lab technicians studied Bruce’s suspicious demeanor closer. 

You don’t look so good, you okay? asked the technician closest to Bruce. 

Bruce wiped his brow again, patted his cheek a few times, then tussled the collar of his lab coat. 

Little bout of claustrophobia. I’ll be alright, I have some surface time coming up, Bruce lied. The second technician, Darrel, laughed.

Shit, I haven’t seen the surface in three years. I climb the walls at least once a week. Sex-bots, buddy, they’re the key to sanity down here, Darrel assured him. The trio laughed and continued down the catwalk. 

Bruce took the close call as a hint to tighten up his physical appearance. He ducked into a nearby bathroom for a splash of gut-check and a rinse of soul-searching. In a rush to duck in a nearby bathroom, Bruce slammed into a custodial droid.

He just maintained his balance as he tumbled into the first stall. Bruce plopped down, dropped his head, and took a few deep breaths to collect himself. Outside the stall, the custodial droid wrapped up its detail, then rolled off in search of the next substandard bio-zone. 

Bruce extended his right hand out in front of him, palm up, and tapped an electronic device wrapped around his right wrist. A 3D hologram projected on his right palm of his wife kneeling beside their pigtailed, freckle-faced, eight-year-old daughter. 

Tell Daddy about your special day, coaxed his delicate wife. The little girl took delicate steps out of her mother’s arms. 

Look, Daddy, I can walk again! said the little hologram girl. Bruce burst into tears.

Now you can walk me down the aisle someday, she cheered.

The holographic sequence ended with a frozen digital image of his wife and child smiling up at Bruce. 

It is a strange existence when actions and decisions are not your own anymore. All you think about, all that consumes you, is figuring out whether free will actually exists. Were you ever in control of anything? Or was everything decided long, long ago? Are we all simply playing our part in an endless cycle?

See you soon, girls, Bruce said as he closed out the image. He wiped his tears, bowed his head, then patted his chest and stomach to make a symbolic cross. Composed, he stepped out of the stall, approached the sink, and leaned on the steel. He searched deep inside the mirror for his salvation. Would his faith carry him through the next few moments, or would it be the fatal flaw that seals his fate? With both hands, he wafted moist steam up into his face until he broke his trance. 

Bruce left the bathroom and scurried to the first interface terminal he came across. 

IN HIS PERSONAL OFFICE, connected to the main operations room, Ratzke recorded his daily command log into his own interface. He took a heavy breath. Data flashed across the log monitor as he spoke. 

As expected, today’s field tests proved the core expansion hypothesis correct. We underestimated how quickly rising temperatures would cause the Earth's crust to crack. When these chasms tear open the surface, they will release catastrophic levels of CO2 into the atmosphere. The release of CO2 serves as rocket fuel for an already self-sufficient cycle, Ratzke stated. He paused, adjusted his glasses, and took another deep breath. 

This cycle will culminate in global quakes and incomprehensible super volcanoes until the planet tears itself apart. Our next test will determine if we can tap the core to release pressure without adding more toxins to the atmosphere. Post drill samples make me optimistic. 

Ratzke paused, then looked over his shoulder toward the sealed hatch to the catwalk. He believed that the core principles religions were founded upon still had a place in society. But... he also believed man would always use religion to manipulate those principles for his own benefit. He was unsure whether it was right, wrong or even possible for society to exist without faith. But he was certain religion and the weak minds that carry it into the future had no place within his facility.

He adjusted his glasses and said, Despite my best efforts, I believe someone of faith has again infiltrated us. It appears without leave, there will be madness, but with leave, corruption is also inevitable.

Before he could speak again, alarms blared, and red lights swirled throughout the facility. Ratzke swiped an interface and pulled up an array of security feeds. Every camera showed an organized mass evacuation of the facility. 

Emergency surface evacuation. Oxygen failure in seven minutes, a computer voice wailed throughout the facility at each minute of the countdown. Ratzke left his lab to join the mass exodus.

Personnel rushed along catwalks, hallways, and stairwells to one massive central freight elevator. A terrified technician named Terry weaved through the crowd. His fear grew as he sought a voice of leadership. Terry’s mind raced with wild, panic-driven scenarios. Are we under attack? Is this a false alarm? Will I see the sky tonight? Are we gonna die down here? Maybe there is a God. If there is a God, and he guides me through this, I promise to change my ways. Wait, I know that guy. He’ll know what’s going on. 

Hey, what happened? Terry asked. He grabbed Daniel, a custodian, by the arm as they hustled down a crowded hall.

Malfunction in the air filtration. Needs to be reset from the surface, Daniel said as he yanked his arm free so he could push his way into the elevator. Terry weaseled in alongside Daniel. Relief filled Terry’s thoughts. He knew it was some false alarm bullshit. Maybe they will see open air. What time is it? Unsettled, Terry’s eyes darted from person to person until they met a