1 Second After Novels & Stories

"How fast can your international partners move?" A pause of exactly one second. "Faster than Hale can run," Morrison said. And for the first time in weeks, I believed completely that this was almost over.

“Hmm.” My fingers slowed. Now I was interested. I watched the timer. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Still there. “No bounce.” Forty-five. Still nothing. “No relay.” A full minute. The signal held. Every other connection they ever used had shifted within seconds. This one… Didn’t.

My confusion and anger comes to the surface again right after I finish one more cupcake and my caramel macchiato. Don’t laugh. It’s like my body knows what I need so it urged me to feed on some energy before prosecuting what my heart want. Probably twenty minutes behind Adrian’s departure, I put the remaining cupcakes in the fridge and head straight to shower. I have one mission and I want to get my hand on it as fast as I can. I cannot wait to tell Lincoln what’s on my mind.

Then I turned. And walked out. First. Of course. I didn’t stop walking until I got to the elevator. Pressed the button. Waited. Stepped in. Doors closed. And then— I leaned back against the wall. Closed my eyes. One. Two. Three. Ten seconds. Exactly. That’s all I allowed myself. Ten seconds to feel… whatever that was. Shock. Annoyance. Something else I refused to name. Then the doors opened. And I stepped out like nothing happened.

One line stands out. PHASE TWO — EXECUTE TONIGHT Adrian’s gaze sharpens. “Timestamp.” Marcus answers instantly. “Twenty-two minutes ago.” My pulse spikes. “Then why say we only have ten minutes?” Marcus’s eyes meet mine. “Because the timer started twelve minutes before that.” The realization crashes over me. The bomb is already counting down. Margaret laughs suddenly. But the sound is strained now. “You’re all panicking over nothing.” Adrian turns toward her slowly. “You’re very calm for someone inside a building that might explode.”

Minus Waking up next to Cricket this morning was at the top of my list of life’s great moments. Unfortunately, the feeling was short lived as a sense of dread crept over me. We hadn’t exactly finished our conversation last night. Far from it. I still had one key detail to fill her in on, and I knew she wasn’t going to be happy about it.

And 11 seconds. Stayed dead. And Reese. Stayed nothing. And the _AFTER_ box. Stayed closed. And us. Stayed 7.

They had all of it — every piece, finally, in the right place at the right time. The clock read six fifty-nine. "Thirty seconds," Dr. Walsh said. Nobody moved. "Ten seconds." Nyla watched the screen. "Submit." Three keystrokes. Three different machines. Three different IP addresses. The submission interface registered the first key. The second. The third. The twenty-second window had fourteen seconds remaining when the third key landed. A pause that lasted exactly three seconds. Then the confirmation screen. *Access granted. D******d initiating.* --- The d******d took eleven minutes.

The man typed quickly on the computer, and the images appeared on the monitors. Alexei crossed his arms, his eyes fixed on the screens. The first few minutes showed only snow falling in front of the gates. Then a staff member doing the shift change, the steam of his breath visible in the cold air. A few more minutes. Still nothing. Then the image froze. For exactly one second, the screen flickered, an almost imperceptible glitch. When it returned, the clock in the upper right corner had jumped forward almost four minutes. Alexei remained completely still.

I couldn't— not when my life hung in the balance. Besides, I was close— too close to back off. Once I heard “1 second." I threw myself inside the dimly lit room. Slamming the door violently. The door clicked shut, locking itself almost immediately. “0 seconds. Time elapsed," the system announced, as the timer hit zero. Silence crashed down. I let out a deep breathe. My eardrums threatening to burst open from the intense pounding of my heart. I sagged against the door, chest heaving, legs trembling with relief.