Will Myers inched his pickup past the downed trees and powerlines scattered along U.S. 1 in the Florida Keys. The drive home had already taken four hours, but he was used to it. The price of living in paradiseâalbeit a dying paradiseâwas the yearly onslaught of tropical storms and hurricanes.
Will had left his friendâs place in Fort Lauderdale, just north of Miami, as soon as the road re-opened. He hoped his house was okay. It had survived prior hurricanes, though, and this one had unexpectedly veered further west, sparing the Keys a direct hit. Besides, when the mandatory evacuation was announced, heâd packed his most important possessionsâhis fishing and diving gearâin the 29-foot boat safely hitched to the back of the truck.
He drove onto the low concrete bridge heading into Long Key, where heâd lived since his PhD daysâover seven years now. Still roiled by the stormâs aftermath, the choppy water was strewn with seaweed, palm fronds, and fragments of wood. The sky was milky gray, the color of rotting fish.
The old-fashioned ringing of a rotary phone sounded over his car speakers. The number on the display wasnât in his contacts, but had a local area code. Will tapped the phone button on the steering wheel. âHello?â
âWill?â asked a faintly Bahamian-accented voice. âItâs Eloise.â
Eloise Clark was a friend from the dive clubâand the Medical Examiner for Monroe County. Willâs fingers tightened on the steering wheel. The aftermath of a hurricane wasnât a time to discuss diving. In her official capacity, sheâd only call if she had terrible news. His mind raced through a list of relatives and friends who might have ignored the order to evacuate.
âAre you there?â came her voice.
He swallowed. âUm, yeah, whatâs up?â
âYouâre okay?â
âYeah.â He kept his eyes on the road.
âAre you back in the Keys?â
âAlmost home.â Traffic was speeding up. âIs something wrong?â
âNo, no, nothing like that. I need your opinion on something.â
Will exhaled and his fingers relaxed. âCan I call you back when I get to the house?â
âSure.â
The bridge turned into a causeway, which widened into the beginnings of Long Key. After another minute or so, he reached the âCity of Laytonâ sign and turned left. Layton was tinyâabout 200 residents. But he could walk to work, there was no crime to speak of, and best of all, he could keep his boat in the water next to the house.Â
Will pulled into his lot, which was littered with debris. Fronds from the palm trees lay across the gravel, and part of the balcony railing had been ripped away. But the sand-colored house itselfâa two-bedroom living section atop an open carport and enclosed utility roomâlooked okay. The solar panels on the roof were intact and the steel accordion shutters still snugly fastened over the windows. Will exhaled in relief.
He hopped out of the truck and walked around the house. The air was fetid and muggy. His first impression was correctâno major damageâand he started clearing a path between the road and the garage.
It was getting harder and harder to live here. By mid-century, the sea would be two feet higher, most of the island submerged, and hurricanes more intense. The coral reefs, the focus of his studies and his playground since childhood, would die completely, and the economy of the Keys would follow. And thereâs nothing I can do to change it.
Will trudged up the external stairs with his phone. With the windows shuttered, it was dark and stuffy inside. He switched on the lightsâhis solar kit included a rack of batteriesâand was greeted by memorabilia of happier times. His eyes lingered on the wedding photo on the wall. Yoselin, the love of his life since college, holding his arm and smiling. Him, a head taller than her, sweltering in his tuxedo, his brown hair slicked back by the stylist, completely at odds with his normal look.
Yoselin had been gone two years now, victim of a Covid variant and a chain of complications. Every reminder hollowed out his chest and filled it with hopelessness.
I need a drink. But first, he had to call Eloise back.
âHi, itâs Will again.â
âAny damage?â she asked.
âThe house is fine, more or less. Havenât been to the lab yet.â The Keys Marine Laboratory, where Will conducted his research, was a five-minute walk from the house. âWe moved everything we could to the top floor,â he added, âso hopefully, itâs just a matter of cleaning up and putting things back.â
âThatâs good. Listen, can you come over to my office? Thereâs something Iâd like you to take a look at.â
It took a second for the strange request to register. âSomething? Not someone?â
She paused before answering. âItâs a someoneâa male teenager. No ID.â
Not someone he knew. At least, not someone she knew he knew.
âPolice found him washed up near mile marker 75,â Eloise continued.
Islamorada, Will translated subconsciously. An overdeveloped island heâd passed through on his way home.
âWhy me?â
âThere are⌠oddities you might be able to shed some light on. Since you study marine animals and, uh, perform a lot of necropsies.â
Will studied sea turtles, five species of which were endangered. Once grown to adult size, they were mostly immune to predation. Their usual cause of death, when someone brought in a corpse, was ingestion of plastic trashâhumanityâs #1 contribution to the ocean.
He asked, âWhat do marine animals have to do with⌠Was he bitten by a shark?â
âNo shark damage. Anyway, youâre nearby, and I could use your expertise.â
âWhat do you want me to look at, then?â
âEasier if you come and see for yourself. That way Iâll get an objective opinion.â
Willâs coursework at the University of Miami had included comparative anatomy and physiology. But heâd never examined a human corpse. An unappealing prospect. He wasnât the sort to make excuses, though. âGive me a few minutes to unload and Iâll head over.â
* * *
The Monroe County Medical Examinerâs Office was on Grassy Key. With the slow traffic, it took Will nearly half an hour to get there.
Heâd never been to Eloiseâs office before. Two single-story, green-roofed buildings sat connected by a breezeway and surrounded by battered scrub. The hurricane had toppled the electric and floodlight poles, which had been bulldozed out of the way, along with piles of plant debris. The rumbling of a diesel generator sounded from the far side of the buildings.
Will met Eloise in the lobby. She was older than himâabout fortyâwith dark brown skin and close-cropped curly hair, and wore a white lab coat with huge pockets.
âThanks for coming,â she said.
She led him down a hallway and opened a door with a keycard. They entered a tiled room with stainless-steel cabinets, sinks, and equipment trays. Frigid air blew from ceiling ducts, raising goosebumps on Willâs forearms. The room reeked of formaldehyde and alcohol.
On the metal autopsy table in the center lay the body of a teenage boy, clad only in swimming trunks. Will recoiled at the sight. He forced himself into scientist mode, and noted no visible damageâat least at first glance.
âI took photos and fluid samples,â Eloise said, âbut I havenât opened him up. Weâre hoping to find next of kin, but he didnât have an ID.â
The boy had an oval face, large almond-shaped eyes, a slightly broad nose, shoulder-length dark hair, and smooth, golden-bronze skin. He had a thick chest and muscular legs, like an athlete. But his most distinguishing features were large feet, elongated toes, and thin webbing between the fingers and toes.
Real or fake? Will stepped closer to look.
âGloves on.â Eloise passed him a pair of latex gloves. âYou might want to take the ring off.â
Will twisted off his wedding band, feeling naked and alone without it. He secured it in his pocket, then slipped on the gloves and approached the body.
The feet were wide, especially in front. The toes were at least twice as long as normalâalmost like fingers. Bad for endurance running, but advantageous for swimming. The webbing looked and felt like real skin, like that between his own fingers, only reaching all the way to the top joints.
âTake a look at this.â Eloise shone a penlight into the boyâs nostrils.
Inside the hairless interior, the flesh bulged noticeably. Will poked it. It was pretty solid. âStrong-looking nasal musculature. I bet he canâcouldâclose his nostrils easily.â
Eloise handed him an otoscope. âCheck out the ear.â
The lobe was a little smaller than normal, with an enlarged tragusâthe flap people pressed to block loud noises. The ear canal was short and wide. Through the magnifying lens of the otoscope, the tympanic membraneâthe eardrumâwas also big. It was undamagedâno signs of rapid pressure change.
âHave you ever seen ears like this?â Will asked.
âNever.â
The eyes were closed, but seemed a little on the large side. âDo you mind if I lift the eyelids?â he asked Eloise.
She pushed them up herself. The pupils were fully dilated, pools of black staring unseeingly at the ceiling. And there was something strange about the iris.
âDo you have a magnifying glass?â he asked.
She pushed over a hefty magnifying glass mounted on a swing arm, and flipped on its ring light, illuminating the boyâs face. Seen close-up, the iris muscles bulged upward, forming a raised berm around the wide pupils.
âIt looks like his iris muscles are thicker,â he said.
She peered through the magnifying glass. âAgree. Why would that be?â
Will wasnât exactly sure. âMaybe some adaptation to see underwater? Iâd have to look into it.â He pulled out his cell phone. âMind if I take some pictures?â
âGo ahead, but you canât share them anywhere.â
âI know.â
As Will took photos, Eloise asked, âSo what do you think?â
He stared at the oversized webbed feet again, one of the most bizarre things heâd ever seen. âHeâs evolved flippers, either by chance or genetic tinkering.â
âAt least he doesnât have gills.â
âGills canât provide enough oxygen for warm-blooded animals. Youâd need 50 gallons of sea water per minute passing through the gills to keep a human alive.â Heâd calculated this while an undergrad. âThe gills would have to be bigger than the body. Thatâs why dolphins and whales breathe air.â
Eloise picked up a data pad and started typing, her fingers a blur.
âWhatâs the cause of death?â Will asked.
âDonât know yet. Drowning, perhaps. No froth around the mouth or nose, but Iâm going to check for water in the lungs. Only marks I found on the outside were postmortem, probably from when he washed ashore.â
âDid you estimate a time of death?â
âAround the time of the hurricane. The bodyâs past the rigor mortis stage, so itâs been more than 24 hours. Sheriffâs deputy found him against a house on Sunset Drive. He hadnât been exposed to air long, but the decay rate in salt water is considerably slower. Itâs hard to tell how long he was in the water until I run some tests. But decompositionâs minimal, and nothingâs fed on the body, so he died either during the hurricane or shortly before. My guess is, heâs a hurricane victim.â
âCould have come from Cuba,â Will mused. Although thatâs 90 miles away. âOr a boat.â
âThatâs what I was thinking too. The hurricane passed between Florida and Cuba.â
âDoes Cuba have genetic engineering labs?â
Eloise shrugged. âNot my area of expertise. Iâm going to open him up now.â She looked at Will. âYou donât have to stay, but it might be helpful.â
Seeing the dead body hadnât been as bad as heâd feared. It was almost like examining a dead marine animal, which heâd done a thousand times. âIâm fine,â he said. So far.
Eloise donned a surgical mask and hair net, and instructed Will to do the same. She switched on an overhead video camera and narrated, âResuming examination of unknown male teenager,â and added the current date, time, and other official details.
With a long-handled scalpel, she cut a deep âYâ incision from the front of each shoulder down to the pelvis. Eloise peeled back the skin, pulling the top flap over the face.
Will felt stirrings of revulsion. He told himself, itâs no different from dissecting a sea turtle. He noted the subcutaneous fat layer was thick for someone in such good shape.
Eloise switched instruments and snipped the ribs in half. She set aside the severed sternal plate, revealing the internal organs. With scissors, she cut out the body organs individually and placed them in enamel kidney-shaped pans by the sink at the foot of the long table, narrating her findings as she went.
Next, she sawed open the skull and removed the brain. Will had never seen a human brain before, only props. The bulging folds were yellowish and coated with thick, congealed blood. His stomach turned queasy and he found himself backing away.
Eloise glanced at him. âThereâs some Vicks over on my desk. It can help mask the odor.â
Will flushed with embarrassment. âThatâs okay.â He forced himself to approach the table again.
Eloise proceeded to weigh the organs and narrate the readings. âTheyâre all within the normal range for someone his height and weight,â she told Will afterward, âexcept the lungs, which are slightly larger, and the spleen, which is twice the normal size.â She looked at him as if waiting for feedback.
âThe lungs are obvious,â he said, âto store more air.â He tried to remember what heâd been taught in biology classes about spleens. It filters blood⌠Holds white blood cells for fighting infections⌠âIâll have to get back to you about the spleen,â he said.
Eloise resumed her examination, removing and fixing small fragments of each organ for later testing. âThereâs water in the stomach, but no food material,â she spoke to the camera. âIntestines empty.â
âSo he hadnât eaten for more than a day before he died?â
âCorrect. Bodies typically release stool from the rectum after death, but without muscles pushing it along, whateverâs in the intestines remains.â
She dissected the lungs next. âThereâs water in the lungs. Quite a bit.â
âSo he drowned?â Will asked.
âApparently.â
âIsnât that strange for someone with so many⌠um, swimming adaptations?â
She met his eyes. âIf he was caught in the hurricane, it wouldnât matter.â
Plausible explanation, but⌠âWhy would he swim in hurricane conditions? It couldnât have been by choice. Even dolphins and sharks leave the area when hurricanes approach.â
Eloise shrugged. âThatâs a question that canât be answered in the lab.â
âSo what happens next?â
âI write a report and send a copy to the sheriffâs office. The remains stay here until claimed by next of kin. If no one claims it, itâs delivered to the anatomical board, and I predict a big fight over who gets to use it for research.â
* * *
After leaving the Medical Examiner facility, Will drove to the Keys Marine Laboratory, crossing his fingers that the damage wouldnât be too bad. It had survived Irma, after all.
The pastel green, two-story administrative building was still intact. The power lines were down, though. And debris lay everywhere, deposited by the waves. It smelled like dead fish and seaweed.
He parked in front of the building. The only other vehicle was a red pickup with a covered bed and mirrors secured with duct tape. It belonged to David McGee, the facility manager.
Will hopped out and noticed the whine of an engine and intermittent scraping noises. He went around back and saw David driving a Bobcat, pushing debris into a pile by the seawall. Seagulls circled, landed, and gorged on dead fish. Will waved, but McGee didnât notice, too focused on his work.
Will unlocked the labâs back door. The air inside smelled musty and briny, and the industrial carpeting was damp. At least the building itself looked fine, and all the computers, books, and files had been moved upstairs.
He flicked on the lightsâthe lab had installed solar panels and a sizable array of batteries to keep the refrigerators and aquariums running at all timesâthen opened all the windows and internal doors to air out the building. His office was upstairs. It looked as heâd left it, every available space packed with chairs and boxes from the ground floor.
He returned downstairs. The lab had a cleaning service, but keeping busy was his key to staving off gloom about Yoselin and the sorry state of the world. It might take weeks to purchase and install new carpeting, and nothing could be moved back downstairs until it was dry. He hunted through closets until he found a shop vac, and started sucking water out of the carpet.
David burst in with the satisfied look of a man who had just cleaned out his garage. He had dark skin and a short, graying beard, and was dressed in a T-shirt, shorts, and a Miami Dolphins cap. He stopped and stared. âWhat the hell are you doing?â
âDrying the carpet,â Will said. âWhat does it look like?â
âI called the cleaning service. Theyâll be here tomorrow.â
âMildew sets in quick.â
âYou are a man for whom every silver cloud has a black lining, Will. Donât worry about it, my man! Taking care of this place is my job.â
Will shrugged. âI like to keep busy, you know that. Howâs everything look?â
David recited a litany of minor damage and tasks to complete. âMade a lot of progress today.â
âLooks like the Tequila Sunrise is open. The signâs on.â The Tequila Sunrise Bar & Grill was the only bar in Layton, and was conveniently located next to the lab. Will was a regular there.
âIf it werenât for the mandatory evacuation,â David said, âI bet they would have stayed open during the storm.â
Will chuckled. âGrab a beer?â It was just after four, the beginning of the three-hour Happy Hour.
âNaw, wanna finish as much as I can here, then heading back to Marathon. Told the wife and kids Iâd be there for dinner.â
âNext time, then.â They bumped fists.
âNext time.â
Will headed to the bar. The Tequila Sunrise was a small aquamarine wood structure in front of the identically-painted Key Lime Hotel. Like the morgue, it was running off a noisy diesel generator. Will entered the covered patio bar, which hosted local talent on weekends but was nearly empty today. He greeted the other customersâall localsâand sat at the blue-tiled bar.
The bartender, a tanned 34-year-old blonde named Cookie, hailed him with her usual uplifting greeting. âWell, if it isnât the good-looking guy next door!â She was attractive, Will admitted, but marriedânot that he was interested, anyway.
âChannel Marker?â she offered.
âYou know it. Got anything to eat?â His refrigerator was mostly emptyâheâd consumed the perishables before evacuating.
âOut of almost everything. Fish sandwich and fries okay?â
âWhat kind of fish?â
âWhateverâs leftâI donât know.â
He shrugged. âSold.â
Cookie poured him a pint of Channel Marker IPA, a beer brewed in nearby Islamorada, and passed the check through the hatch to the short-order cook in back. Johnny B, the deep-brown, heavyset Bahamian owner and occasional chef, strode out of the kitchen. âWill Myers!â
âJohnny B Good! Iâm guessing you stayed again, sitting out front with your shotgun and a bottle of booze?â
âHad to keep an eye on things. Sheriffâs department gave me a pass, being an essential pillar of the community and all. Hell, where do you think they eat when everywhere elseâs closed down?â He grinned.
The owner went to greet other customers, and Willâs attention drifted to the TV screen above the bar. A meteorologist was discussing the hurricaneâs impending landfall in Louisiana. Driven by warm water in the Gulf of Mexico, it had increased to Category 4, with 150 mph winds. Someoneâs gonna get it bad, Will thought, feeling both sympathy for Louisiana and relief that the Keys had escaped the worst of it.
The channel cut away to a blonde anchor in the studio. âThis breaking news,â the anchor declared in a no-nonsense voice. âExplosions have been reported throughout Saudi Arabia tonight. We have exclusive video.â
On the screen, a massive orange fireball lit the night sky across an expanse of calm sea, followed by a low boom. It was followed by another fireball, then another, then another. Willâs stomach sank the way it always did when he was confronted with bad news.
The screen split into two windows, blazing fires on one side and the blonde anchor on the other. âThatâs footage from just minutes ago,â the anchor said. âI want to go to our correspondent in Riyadh, Badawi Wazir. Badawi, what have you heard?â
The right window switched to a dark-haired man standing on a balcony overlooking a brightly-lit city. âJudy,â the man said, âsocial media is literally ablaze.â
Will grimaced at the cheap pun.
âThere have been explosions all along the Ras Tanura waterfront,â the correspondent continued, âwhich handles 75 percent of Saudi Arabiaâs oil exports.â
Judy the anchor returned. âWeâve got more live video from the scene.â
A low-resolution camera panned from left to right, showing massive fires burning everywhere. It wobbled as it switched to selfie mode, showing a young, nervous-looking Arabic man. âI am Uzair. I study here in Al Jubail.â He cut back to the front camera and zoomed in on one of the distant blazes. âThatâs King Fahd Industrial Port, where the first explosions happened.â
The anchor and correspondent reappeared on the left side of the screen while Uzair the student occupied the right, fires burning in the background.
âThatâs one of the busiest oil loading facilities in the world,â the correspondent said.
âWhat time did the explosions start?â the anchor asked.
Uzairâs face returned. âAbout eleven. Maybe fifteen minutes ago.â
âAny word on casualties?â
Uzair scratched his dark hair. âNot that Iâve heard.â He spoke to other people off-screen in Arabic.
The anchorâs eyes shifted, then she faced the camera again. âWeâve just received word that the Port of Yanbu on the Red Sea Coast has also caught fire. Badawi, what can you tell us about that?â
The correspondent bit his lip, then shook off whatever he was feeling. âI⌠Well, this could be some sort of attack. Yanbu and Ras Tanura account for almost the entirety of Saudi export capacity. It canât be an accident, not on the Persian Gulf and Red Sea at the same time.â
âAttack by who?â
âI couldnât tell you at this point. But everything looks normal here in Riyadh.â
âHow many people would be working at the docks at night?â
The correspondent blinked. âIâll have to get back to you on that.â
Will noticed Cookie was also glued to the TV. âIsrael?â he asked her. âIran?â
She shrugged. âIt wouldnât be us, thatâs for sure.â
As if on cue, the network put one of its retired generals on camera. The chisel-faced man had traded his Army uniform for a dark suit and plaid tie. âWith us now,â the anchorwoman said, âis Lt. General Tom Hatch. General, do you think this is an attack, and if so, whoâs behind it?â
âWell, Judy,â the former general replied, âso far, no one has taken credit for the explosions, and the Pentagon is still assessing the situation. The scale of the destruction appears to be massive, though, and if indeed it was deliberate, those responsible will be held to account.â
Judy the anchor asked the ex-general to speculate who might have carried out the attack, and how, but to his credit, he continued to state there wasnât enough information yet.
The retired general was replaced by a gray-haired man with glasses. âWe now turn to economist Ben Stuhl,â the anchor said. âLet me ask you whatâs on everyoneâs mind. How will this affect gas prices?â
Will groaned, his dislike of corporate news amplified yet again.
âPetroleum futures are certain to spikeâŚâ
On the right-hand screen, behind the Saudi student, a giant fireballâdwarfing the othersâexploded into the sky with a loud boom. It was eclipsed by a massive dome of seawater and debris that blew high into the air and expanded rapidly toward the camera. The student screamed something in Arabic. The picture jolted and went black.
