But when he looked at the screen again, the hand was gone. And the chat had changed. Now, three million people were typing his home address.

"This doesn't happen," he whispered into his crackling headset. The crew called the borehole "The Hell Hole." Not because of superstition, but because the drill bits kept melting. The permafrost down there wasn't ice. It was a briny, sulfurous sludge that smelled of burnt hair.

It was in their devices. It was in their eyes. And it had learned how to use Wi-Fi.

Aris looked at the final feed from the borehole camera. The black vapor had coalesced into a shape. A hand. With fingers too long, each joint bending backward, reaching for the surface.

He grabbed the emergency satellite phone. He had one call. Not for rescue. For a warning.

"Pull the camera," Aris ordered.