Neil stared at the page on his computer screen. A knot formed in his stomach as he read the Los Angeles Times article once more. He rubbed his eyes and tried to come up with a different interpretation, to deny what the words meant. He failed and became physically ill.
According to scientists, the bacteria which cause the petroplague “eat” oil by breaking down the hydrocarbon molecules in it. As a result, they produce chemicals that are now recognized as hallmarks of contaminated fuel: acetic acid, which smells like vinegar; hydrogen, which is flammable; and carbon dioxide, which is an odorless and invisible gas. Under certain conditions, especially in underground oil fields, the acetic acid product is further broken down into methane, or natural gas. City officials speculate that the accumulation of these various gases in the Salt Lake Oil Field may be triggering the recent earthquakes, and the violent eruptions at La Brea.
In addition, climate scientists are now voicing concern about another effect of these petroplague-produced gases: they may accelerate global warming. Carbon dioxide is the most common greenhouse gas, but methane is twenty times more potent. Thus the consumption of petroleum by plague bacteria, especially underground, may be significantly worse for the environment than burning gasoline in internal combustion engines. This runs contrary to common sense, which wrongly suggests that the petroplague should reduce greenhouse gas emissions by ending oil consumption.
“I didn’t know,” Neil wept. “I didn’t know.”
His grandiose scheme to end global warming by spreading the petroplague was suddenly turned on its head. It wasn’t salvation, it was suicide. What if the plague infected oil fields in other parts of the world? Could the bacteria survive in the Gulf of Mexico? What if Saudi Arabia caught the plague? How many billions or trillions of barrels’ worth of carbon—or worse, methane—would spew into the atmosphere?
Instead of enviro-triumph, the success of Neil’s plan now meant enviro-disaster bigger than Deepwater Horizon, Bhopal, and Chernobyl combined. He imagined he might be the architect of a calamity on par with the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.
In a daze, he visited the chat room where he’d met Tequila Jack. The room was empty. Too late he realized his co-conspirators were anonymous free agents, flickers of cyberlife that he could neither identify nor contact in the real world. Desperately he called Preston Cobb.
“We have to stop the operation,” Neil pleaded. “Can you find Tequila Jack?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cobb replied.
“Don’t give me that shit,” Neil said. “I made a big mistake. It’ll be the end of the world. You have to contact your people and order them to call it off.”
“I don’t have people I can order around. The men and women who follow my blogs are independent, responsible individuals who want to prepare themselves and their loved ones for the collapse. Are you saying you’ve finally come around to believing that collapse is inevitable?”
“Listen, you bastard, I’m not talking about Peak Oil or Peak Dogshit or whatever else you’ve got. The petroplague is gonna cause global warming all at once. All of it, not over decades, but right now.”
“You know I’m a climate change skeptic, Neil. I’m afraid I can’t help you on that. If you think the end is near, why don’t you visit my website and read about ways to prepare—“
Neil broke off the call. He raced to the bathroom and vomited, then kneeled sobbing over the toilet, resting his head against the hard, filthy porcelain.
What have I done, he wondered. Dad was right about me. I’m the biggest fuck-up that ever lived.
For an hour he wallowed helplessly in self-pity. The events that led him to this terrible predicament played over and over in his mind. Then he had an idea.
It all began with a scientist, some girl that guy Mickey knew. Neil couldn’t stop the petroplague. But maybe she could.