Tyler looked along both sides of the lengthy coastline, which consisted of small beaches and large rocks. The view was spectacular, though a fisherman was more likely to find the area appealing than a typical beach-goer. A loner could also appreciate the surroundings; not a single person could be seen up and down the coast. The only suggestion of prior human settlement was the rickety wooden docks that Tyler and Marc stood on and the three-story hotel a hundred yards behind them.

Tyler fought the urge to chastise Marc for interrupting his thoughts. Tyler actually needed his assistant for once but certainly not for his opinion about the structural integrity of the docks. Marc had extensive research into this area and the hotel behind them, which was the information Tyler wanted to hear.

"Tell me what you learned," Tyler said.

Marc opened the folder and scanned a few pages, stopping when he found what he needed.

"The hotel is only a few years old," he reported, glancing back at the building, the exterior of which appeared dilapidated. "From the looks of it, I would have guessed closer to fifty. Don't you think?"

"I'm not interested in your guesses," Tyler said, growing frustrated with him. "I'm interested in facts."

"Yes, sir," Marc said, looking back down at the folder. "The one and only owner of the place is a James Reid, businessman, deals in importing foreign antiquities from the Far East. He's also an avid fisherman. From what I hear, he could join the ranks of the professional fishing tour if he wanted. I didn't even know they had a pro fishing tour, did you?"

When Marc saw the annoyed expression on his boss's face, he glanced back down at the folder.

"Not important, I know," Marc said apologetically. "Reid knows that this is a great fishing area and learned that a world class golf course was supposed to be built less than a mile from here. Land in this area was still cheap at the time but many real estate people didn't think it would stay cheap for long if the area became built up. Reid thought he could open up this place as a sort of haven for fishermen and golfers, a real manly kind of retreat. Reid planned on retiring here, buy himself a boat and act as a fishing guide to..."

Tyler began to regret asking Marc for a detailed history of this place. He should have known his long-winded assistant would go into greater detail than necessary. Once Marc began to explain what kind of fish Reid hoped to catch, Tyler interrupted him.

"The structural work on the hotel," Tyler said. "Is there any kind of damage or repairs needed?"

Marc looked at the hotel again, not requiring his extensive notes to answer that question.

"It might look old and worn-down but I've been assured it is structurally sound," Marc said. "Reid kept the hotel up and running for two years before finally giving up and shutting the place down about a year ago. The hotel doesn't look nearly as bad from the inside."

Marc flipped through his notes and began to recite the exact kinds of building materials used for the hotel, the rug colors, the bed brands...

"What about the geological statistics I requested?" Tyler interrupted again.

Marc looked disappointed that his boss did not want to hear more details of his extensive research. Nevertheless, he skipped to the back of the thick folder and retrieved the land and ocean surveys. Marc provided a detailed explanation of the rock and soil but it wasn't until he turned to the ocean survey that Tyler suddenly appeared interested.

"One of the reasons Reid liked this area so much is due to the uncommonly steep drop-off of the water shelf not far from shore," Marc said. "This drop-off is only a few hundred feet into the ocean, which would've allowed Reid to take his fishing tour a short distance but still give his customers a real deep-sea fishing experience."

"This shelf drop-off, would there be enough room for the seacraft to anchor without danger of striking bottom?" Tyler asked.

Marc smiled, finally understanding why his boss asked him to search for oceanside housing near the seacraft construction site. Tyler was always secretive with his assistant, even more in recent months. But now everything began to make sense.

This is where he wants to house tourists once the underwater cruise ship is complete, Marc figured.

"Yes, sir. I believe it would be plenty deep," Marc said proudly, finally delivering the news his boss wanted to hear. "You could buy a few smaller boats, keep them here on the docks and have the capability of ferrying cruisers to the ship in a matter of minutes."

"Good," Tyler said. "This place will be perfect for our...cruisers. I want you to look into renting it from this Reid guy. Pay him what he wants but let him retain ownership."

In reality, Tyler knew there'd never be any underwater cruisers. While the seacraft would have passengers, those people would be on board to avoid annihilation caused by the comet. That particular information was on a need-to-know basis, though, and Marc certainly did not need to know.

The hotel would serve a greater purpose than Marc could realize. Tyler still wasn't certain about how he'd determine who would have spots aboard his seacraft but he did know they would need a place to stay long-term before the comet impact. President Marshall informed Tyler that he would be holding off on making the comet public knowledge until a few months prior to impact, which he hoped would avoid mass chaos.

Once the announcement was made and the public realized there was little chance of survival, there was no telling how chaotic the world could become. Tyler fully expected to have a top-class clientele by that time, a clientele that would require protection and a place to stay during Earth's final days of mass hysterics. Tyler could bring his people to this hotel, which should stay mostly secluded and out of harm's way. That way, Tyler and his people could wait until the last possible moment to board the craft and escape safely.

"How far is this location from the construction site?" Tyler asked.

"About fifty miles, give or take a few," Marc answered.

"How long will it take our seacraft to travel from the construction site to here once completed?" Tyler asked, not really expecting Marc to know the answer.

"I suppose that will depend upon the engines," Marc answered. "We can't make determinations of speed or time until we know how fast the seacraft will be able to travel."

"I've already spoken with engine designers at HQE to begin early stages of development for engines as large and powerful as we'll need," Tyler said, informing his assistant of the progress he'd made on the seacraft in the time Marc researched real estate.

"What did you tell them the engines were for?"

"Don't worry, I didn't let them know about our secret cruise line," Tyler said. "Even though they will have to find out eventually when they install the engines. My father always trusted HQE when he was in the submarine business, so for all they know, we're just building a huge sub."

"How much will it cost?" Marc asked.

Although Ainsworth Industries had recently banked a quarter of a billion dollars, Marc still worried about money. He had good reason. The $250 million had already significantly melted away and Tyler knew more money would be required to finish the craft.

"We still have more than a year before construction will be completed," Tyler said. "We have enough money to finish paying for this construction and paying HQE for the design stages of the engines. We'll need up to $200 million more to pay for construction and installation of the engines. We have to rethink of ways to raise the money we'll need."

Marc glanced around and took a last long look toward the hotel. When he was sure they were alone, he made his suggestion.

"Sir, why don't we ask Huffington for money?" Marc asked.

"We've discussed that, Marc," Tyler said threateningly. "Please don't make me repeat myself."

"Sir, I've been loyal to you, I've done everything you've asked of me," Marc said. "I would at least like to know about Huffington's involvement if it has nothing to do with finances."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Marc? Nigel Huffington has been invaluable to me, as have you," Tyler said, giving his assistant a rare compliment. "And just like you, he is invaluable not for monetary reasons, but because of the insight he provides. I find it hard to believe that your curiosity alone drives you to obsess about Nigel's role in my life. You must have another reason for continuing to beat this dead horse."

"I consider myself important in the construction of his seacraft as well, but the two of you stop speaking whenever I approach, stop talking about anything important in my presence."

"And your point? You and I stop talking when he approaches as well," Tyler countered.

"Yeah, but you treat him as though he was your personal savior," Marc said. "And it was completely out of the blue the way he showed up."

"Don't be ridiculous. Nigel has never just shown up out of nowhere."

The two men turned toward the hotel when they saw a person quickly approaching them. It was Nigel Huffington, who called for them to check out the inside of the hotel.

Marc looked at his boss and simply nodded.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

AUGUST 22, 2015.

FIVE YEARS BEFORE IMPACT...

The sun set in the evening sky when a lone woman walked among rows of headstones, careful to avoid stepping directly on any grave. Heavy rains fell just hours earlier, leaving the ground muddy. An eerie mist hung over the cemetery. While the scene might have appeared straight out of a story by Edgar Allan Poe, the woman felt no fear. In fact, she was too sad to consider being frightened by the lonely surroundings.

She had not been to the cemetery for about a year but easily found the row she needed. Many new graves had been dug since her last visit. She slowly approached one headstone in particular, keeping her head and eyes down the entire time. The woman refused to even glance in the vicinity of four rows over; she knew she would lose any emotional control she struggled to keep in check.

The woman finally stopped when she reached the headstone at the end of the row. It was a small stone, as simple and plain as any tombstone in the entire cemetery.

It simply read:

NICHOLAS ROSE.

DIED NOVEMBER 2, 2003.

From the large bouquet she carried, Sarah Rose placed a handful of flowers in front of her brother's tombstone, neatly arranging them after pulling a few stray weeds. At the age of 30, Sarah could hardly believe twelve years past since her brother died of cancer. Twelve years was nearly half her life, but Nick's death still felt like it happened yesterday. She wondered if Nick would even recognize her if he saw her today, saw her as anything but the pretty young woman she was when he died.

"Hey Nicky," Sarah said out loud. "I know I'm a few months early for your anniversary, but it's only fair I choose a time that's somewhere in the middle of both of you. Making the trip here is hard...it's hard for me, you know? I wish I could come more often but you know how they say these kinds of things get easier as time passes?"

Tears welled in Sarah's eyes but she kept her voice at a steady, calm level.

"It's not true, big brother. But I guess you have more to complain about than me," she said, a chuckle somehow escaping her lips, even if laughter was the last thing she expected tonight. Although Nick turned into a very serious person after their parents died, Sarah would always remember their youth, how funny her older brother had been. So if anyone could appreciate humor, she was sure Nick would.

"I can't really complain about life. I've been hanging in there, still trying to take everything one day at a time. I don't have much social life, not too many men interested in a career waitress with all the baggage I'm lugging around. Not that I would ever give anyone a chance."

For the past twelve years, Sarah Rose became an expert at two things: serving bored teenagers and truck-drivers greasy food, and pushing away any person who attempted a personal relationship with her. Sarah matured from a pretty teenager into an even prettier woman and constantly dealt with advances from male customers. But every man she'd ever loved-her father, her brother, her boyfriend-died. She doubted she would ever form a normal relationship.

"Waitressing isn't really so bad anymore. At least I don't hate it as much as I once did. It pays the bills, which I'm just about done paying off. But don't worry, I don't blame you for leaving me broke and in so much debt. Well, sometimes I don't blame you," Sarah said, again chuckling, hoping that Nick was somewhere doing the same.

The amount of debt Sarah had after Nick's death was the last thing she ever thought she'd laugh at. Following their parents' deaths, Nick and Sarah found themselves with nearly half a million dollars in life insurance payoffs. Unfortunately, Nick never received health insurance while working at the community college.

When he found out he had cancer, there wasn't a health insurance company in the country that would give him a policy. Medical bills quickly piled up. It wasn't long before all of the money Nick and Sarah's parents left them disappeared. During Nick's last few weeks of life, when he did not know where he was or could not remember his own name, the cost each day to keep him alive was thousands of dollars.

Nick was not buried more than a month when the bank repossessed Sarah's house where she grew up, the house her parents left her when they died. Having few possessions, little money, nothing beyond a high school education and no prior experience in the food-service industry, Sarah was lucky to get the job as a waitress. Thus she began the unenviable task of trying to survive alone in the world, of trying to pay back bills whose numbers a math genius would have trouble calculating.

"Well Nicky, I don't know what else I can tell you that I don't say every other day," Sarah said. "I miss you but I know you're watching over me. Just make sure you're watching over my son too, wherever he might be."

At the time of her brother's death, Sarah was very pregnant. Knowing the financial and emotional situation she'd be in, Sarah made arrangements to put her child up for adoption. While it was a decision she regretted from a personal standpoint, Sarah always knew the decision was best for her child. Since the adoption, Sarah anguished over the decision, even making numerous rash decisions in an attempt to locate him. But she never interfered in her son's life, never wanted to add unnecessary emotional strain to the happy life she hoped he had with his adopted family.

"That's it. I'll see you next time."

The easier part of Sarah's night was over. A part of her wanted to leave the cemetery now to avoid the self-imposed pain she was soon to inflict. While she wanted to run away every time, Sarah never did and knew she never would. Therefore, she stopped delaying the inevitable and walked the short distance to a gravestone four rows over.

Although Sarah kept her eyes down and tried to be strong, the dam holding back her tears finally broke. By the time she reached her destination, Sarah completely abandoned any faade of poise or calmness. Not only did her eyes now stream with tears, she could feel her rock-steady tone of voice crack before she spoke.

The headstone in front of Sarah was as simple as Nick's. Again, this plain stone needed few words, reading:

JOSHUA CLEMENT.

DIED APRIL 16, 2003.

Sarah's plan to stay strong, the same plan she made every visit, failed miserably. She dropped the remaining flowers on Josh's grave and fell to her knees, wondering what could've been if Josh were still alive and they raised their child. Sarah put her head in her hands and cried until the tears would come no more.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Colin was confused when he first heard the crash. His tired eyes snapped open and met the darkness of night. He lay in bed and tried to figure out if he dreamt the noise or if something really caused it.

The digital clock next to his bed showed it was a few minutes before midnight. Colin was drenched in sweat, as always during the summer months. His house did not have central air conditioning like school. The only AC they owned was a small window unit in his father's bedroom but that barely blew air considered cool. The one time his father caught him using it when he wasn't home, Colin paid the price for 'wasting money on electricity.' Needless to say, the bruises taught him never to use the air conditioning again.

All was quiet for nearly a minute and Colin decided the noise must have been in his mind. He closed his eyes but found it impossible to ignore the sweltering heat. Dealing with gnats and mosquitoes would be as bad as the heat but Colin could no longer stand being stuck in what felt like a pizza oven. He got out of bed and cracked his bedroom window, immediately feeling a cool rush of eighty-degree air.

Before Colin climbed back into bed, he heard the crashing sound again. This time he was sure it came from inside his house. Most children his age would've been frightened by the noise, especially since Colin had been home alone when he went to bed a few hours earlier. He was not like most children, though. Without having to check, he was certain he knew what caused it. He glanced out his bedroom window and saw his father's old pickup truck parked half on the driveway and half on the front lawn.

At least he parked half good tonight, Colin thought, remembering plenty of times when the truck was completely on the grass. Too bad the noise isn't an intruder. At least a burglar would realize we have nothing to steal and go away.

Colin's father must've been very drunk to make so much noise. The best Colin could hope was that he'd stumble to bed and pass out right away.

He crawled back into bed and began to wonder if he'd left anything lying around the house that would give his father a reason to get angry.

Did I leave my baseball and glove outside my bedroom door? Colin wondered. He looked around his dark room and didn't see his things, which he usually dropped when he came home from the park. I probably put them away, he hoped.