THE PANGEA CHRONICLES . BOOK 1.. 107.9°

103.9°

Jefferson County Coroner

245 Pm

Well that's something you can't unsee. Dr. Grayson's face was pale. He'd been in medicine for 30 years, but this was his first time attending an autopsy.

The pale, stiff form that once held the thoughts and spirit of Sammy Kehoe had been crudely disassembled like some broken toaster oven. Cuts were not made with surgical precision, but with a rough, jagged butchering, causing the stout Grayson to almost faint more than once. By the end of the autopsy, every organ - from brain to bladder, stomach to spleen - had been removed, weighed, and sampled. What layed on the table afterwards was barely recognizable as human.

Pulling the pack from his pocket, Warren lit a cigarette, closed his eyes against the headache that was forming, and inhaled the relaxing nicotine.

"It's a lot to take in, isn't it," Richard asked flatly. Warren could tell by the look on his subordinate's face, the autopsy was unsettling for him as well. It was a monumental undertaking, however, getting the brain to accept what they had just seen.

"That it is," Warren said, pushing his cigarette into the ashtray sand. "So, what's the preliminaries from the ME?"

"This isn't good, Dr. Grayson. He took tissue samples from every organ, and we have to wait on Lab results." Richard leaned in towards Warren and lowered his voice. "But Cause of Death, barring anything drastic in the lab reports, is sepsis-associated multiple organ failure, due to unidentified pathogen. That will change once the identity of the strain is determined."

"Jesus Christ," Dr. Grayson sighed, wishing he still had that cigarette lit. "This thing just took his whole body over then. Let's keep a lid on this, for now, Richard."

"Maybe it's an isolated incident, Warren, but if this pops up again..."

The buzzing of Dr. Grayson's cell cut through the thick air of tension, startling them both.

"Yes." The look on Warren's face told a damning story. Something bad was playing out on the other end of the connection. "We're on our way now."

Richard stared at Warren, a look of perplexion on his face, as his fellow Dr. and boss finished the call. "What was that all about," he asked. "Did our results come back that quick?"

Overcome with the need for more nicotine, Dr. Grayson lit another cigarette. "No." His answer was as lifeless as the remains on the table inside. "I'm afraid the man we just took apart in there, was only the beginning."

Birmingham Shuttlesworth International Airport.
315 PM

Herbert Mason didn't have time to be sick. In 35 years, he'd never missed a day, and no silly fever or stupid cough would have made him miss his first.

Still, he'd hated leaving Vera. She was just as stubborn as him, if not a little more. Being it was her 'Ladies Day', Herb knew good and well, that she'd drag that headache and fever with her as well if she had to. She was going to the salon to be with her friends. Sickness be damned.

But as much as he loved her, as much as he wished she'd just stay home, he didn't have the luxury of thinking too hard on it right now. Herbert Mason had a very important job to do. As an x-ray technician for American Airlines, it was his job to ensure no manner of prohibited item was carried on any one of his company's flights.

When he'd begun this job so many years ago, it was a cat and mouse game with drug smugglers, and though it was still a serious crime, no one was usually hurt. Times, and people had changed though with the new millennium, and weapons began to replace drugs. From box cutters to dirty bombs, he'd seen horrible things pass under that scanner. Things that were smuggled for the sole purpose of killing others. Most travellers never knew just how close to a catastrophic nightmare their flights could be, at any given time.

It was up to Herb and his crew, however, to stop that from happening. To remain a sentient few in the face of inherent danger, to protect the lives of many.

Feeling rejuvenated by his sense of duty, Herb splashed the cool water on his fevered face, and turned off the sink. The water felt like new life as it was thirstily absorbed in his pores, and he stood there a moment, letting it all sink in.

"Mason, this is Dispatch, over." The loud squelch of his radio echoed off the tiled walls of the tiny bathroom, startling him. "Are you still on 18?"

Herb dried his hands quickly, and keyed his radio. "Roger, Dispatch. Just finishing up my break, but will be returning to post..."

"Your shift is covered, Mason," the dispatcher interrupted "You have an emergency call, sir. Captain Owens requests you in his office A.S.A.P"

"En route," he shouted over the radio, already breaking into a full run. He knew in his heart it was probably Vera.

Unfortunately, TSA 18 was nearly a quarter mile from Security, and thus Captain Owens' office, and the airport was crowded. Doing his best to avoid pedestrians, he weaved his way towards security, trying to maintain at least a brisk trot. But age, and the sickness he had no time for, began burning through the air in his lungs, causing them to painfully spasm for nourishment.

Nourishment that just wouldn't come. A violent coughing erupted from his chest as his lungs rebelled against the fire of deprivation, as he grasped the wall for support. Trying everything to silence the cough so he could just take a much needed breath, he did his best to focus. To slow the rushing panic and just breathe.

Time, however, was running out. His head began to pound, as the seconds without air ran into minutes, and the last grains trickled through the glass. Falling to his knees, his lips blue, Herb's twisted hands clawed fruitlessly at his chest. His mind began to recoil in the horror that the awareness of mortality brings; when the threshold of life had finally been breached.

A crowd had formed around him, as the violence of his coughing grew fainter, and his fight came to an end. More and more people - some rendering aid, some offering prayers - had come to help, only to see him ultimately succumb. To all look in his glassy eyes as his life drifted away.

But in that fading moment, that brief snapshot in time, Herbert Mason was no longer on that dirty airport floor. As life faded from his body, his soul was alone with his Vera, kissing her softly as the world around them faded to black.