Dead Space: Martyr (15 page)

He was startled awake by the telephone ringing. He groped it off the nightstand and looked at the display.

The name that came up was Dantec.

His heart leapt into his throat and he was suddenly wide awake. Dantec was dead; he couldn’t be the one calling. He stared at the display: it still read Dantec.

He sat up in bed, put his feet on the floor. “Hello?” he said, facing the wall. “Who is this?”

But there was only static on the other end of the line.

He waited, feeling like he might pass out. “Dantec,” he said tentatively. “Are you alive?”

He stayed with the receiver pressed to his ear, listening. At some point he realized there wasn’t even static. The phone wasn’t even turned on.

He put the phone back on the nightstand. Immediately, even though it wasn’t on, it rang again. Dantec’s name came up on the display.

“Hello?” Tanner said.

There was only silence.

He put the phone back down again. When it rang this time, he just stayed there, watching it ring.
It’s off,
he tried to tell himself.
It can’t be ringing.
But the damned thing kept ringing.

Aren’t you going to answer it?
said a voice from behind him, a voice he recognized.

He felt the hairs bristle on the back of his neck. Very slowly, he turned. There was a vague shape in the bed with him that, as he looked at it, slowly became human. Crude and awkward features became more and more refined until it was, at last, Dantec. His skin was very white, almost bloodless. His lips had turned blue.

“You’re not real,” said Tanner.

Aren’t I?
said Dantec.
Then why are you seeing me?

“But you died, in the bathyscaphe.”

Are you sure it was me?
asked Dantec.
Are you sure I was even in the bathyscaphe?

Tanner hesitated. “Are you still alive?” he asked.

I’m here, aren’t I?

Tanner just shook his head.

Go ahead and touch me,
said Dantec.
If I’m not real, you wouldn’t be able to touch me.

Tanner closed his eyes and reached out. At first he felt only the bed, the blanket. Then he reached a little farther and felt something different, something that moved, something alive. “It
is
you,” said Tanner, smiling. “I can’t believe it. How did you survive? What are you doing here?”

I’ve come to see you,
said Dantec.
Can’t a guy stop by to see an old friend?

“Sure,” said Tanner.

Also.
. . .

“What is it, Dantec? You can tell me.”

I hate to ask, Tanner, but I need your help. I need something from you.

“Anything,” said Tanner. “What’s mine is yours.”

I’m having a hard time breathing,
said Dantec.
I need you to share your oxygen tank with me.

“How can I do that?”

Just make a slit in the breathing tube,
said Dantec.
I’ll cut mine off a few feet down and then we’ll splice them together. Then we can both breathe.

“I don’t—”
I don’t have a breathing tube,
he had started to say. But then he reached up and felt it; there it was.

I don’t have much longer,
said Dantec. Indeed his lips looked even bluer than they had looked just a few moments before.

“I need something sharp,” Tanner said. “Where can I find something sharp?”

There’s a pocketknife in the drawer of the nightstand,
said Dantec.

“How do you know what’s in my nightstand?”

I’m full of surprises,
said Dantec, and smiled, his blue lips stretching and turning white.

Tanner got the pocketknife out and unfolded the biggest blade. “Where should I cut it?” he asked.

Anywhere,
said Dantec,
as long as the cut’s long enough. Remember, make it long.

Tanner nodded. “Ready?” he asked.

Ready,
said Dantec.

He made a long horizontal cut, almost cutting the tube right in half. “All right,” Tanner said, “quickly, hand it to me.”

His voice sounded strange, something wrong with his vocal cords. He coughed, spat blood. The blanket in front of him seemed covered in a pink mist. He looked down, saw that his chest was coursing with rivulets of blood.

You should have left it down there where it was safe,
he heard Dantec say, his voice distant now.
You shouldn’t have tried to understand it.

“Quickly,” he said, holding out his hand. “Dantec? Understand what?”

But Dantec was nowhere to be seen.

The air kept hissing out of the breathing tube and out into space. He tried to close the gap with his hand, but it was too deep—air kept leaking out. His hands were sticky, his chest, too, the hair on it all matted with blood.

He tried to call out for Dantec again, but something was wrong with his throat. He could make only a gurgling sound. He tried to get out of the bed, but everything seemed to be moving too slowly, as if he were underwater.

Very slowly, he moved one foot and slid it to the edge and over, letting it fall to the ground. There was only the other foot to worry about now. And then he would stand up and go to the mirror and take a good hard look at himself and try to figure out where he had gone wrong.

29

The boy led the way confidently, despite the darkness. He had to stop several times, waiting impatiently for Altman and Ada to catch up.

As they got closer, Chava began chattering away, saying things difficult for Altman to interpret.

“The
bruja,
he said, “she was dead but she helped us anyway. I went to find her and she came with me and spoke to me, and told me what to do. If she did not come, how was I to know what to do?”

He looked at Altman, apparently expecting a response.

“I don’t know,” said Altman, slightly out of breath from tramping through the sand in his shoes.

This seemed to satisfy the boy. “But she did come. And she showed us what to do. A circle,” he said, and nodded at Altman.

“What do you mean, ‘a circle’?” asked Altman.

The boy looked at him; then he stopped and traced something in the sand. Altman shone the flashlight on it, saw a circle.

“This is what I mean,” the boy said, and then started walking again.

Altman shook his head. The boy’s way of thinking was so
different that it was like communicating with someone from another world.

Suddenly the boy stopped. He made the sign of the devil’s tail with his intertwined fingers and pointed.

Altman raised the flashlight. There had been a fire there, its remains half-buried in the sand. He waited for the boy to move forward, but the boy just stayed where he was. So Altman stepped around him to take a closer look.

Carefully he pushed the sand aside with his foot. There were lots of half-burnt pieces of driftwood and char and ash. Then he realized that some of what he thought had been driftwood were in fact bones. They were human, or at least human-sized, but there was something wrong with them. They were oddly twisted and deformed. There were, too, leathery bits of something—skin or seaweed, he first thought, but as he looked closer, he was less sure. The texture was wrong.

“Do you think fire could have done that to those bones?” he asked Ada.

“I don’t know,” she said.

He shook his head. Why was it that he kept on running up against things he didn’t understand? Was it a problem with him or a problem with the world?

He dug through ash and driftwood and bone until his foot unearthed the skull. It was blackened throughout, missing the jawbone. All the teeth were missing, though it seemed less like they’d fallen out than as if they’d never been there: the bottom edge of the maxilla was smooth, socketless.

“It looked like a cross between a balloon and a man?” asked Ada.

Chava nodded.

“How was it sitting?”

Chava thought for a moment and then kneeled in the sand,
hunched over, hands near his sides. “Its arms were becoming its legs,” he said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“The skin was the same skin, the flesh the same flesh.”

Maybe some sort of hideously deformed man,
thought Altman. There was probably a logical explanation. But if it was a hideously deformed man, how had he managed to live for this long?

He suddenly thought of something.

“Where was the balloon?” he asked.

Chava, still hunched, put his hands up by his neck and waved his fingers.

“How big was it?” asked Ada.

“Very big.”

“Bigger than my arm?” asked Altman. Chava nodded. “Bigger than my body?” He nodded again. “As big as a house?” Chava hesitated, then nodded.

“Sometimes it was smaller,” he said, “but in the end, yes, I believe it was as big as a house.”

“Can you make any sense of this?” Altman asked Ada after they had walked with the boy back to the edge of the shantytown and left him there.

“Not any more than you can,” she said.

“You think it really happened?”

“I think something happened,” said Ada. “Whether it was exactly as Chava says is anybody’s guess. It sounds impossible. But, then again, a lot of weird things have been happening lately. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“What about the others?” asked Altman. “Have they been telling you the same story?”

“They still won’t talk about it with me,” said Ada. “I don’t know why.”

“I was really worried about you,” Altman confessed.

“Once the boy started talking, I had to keep going,” she said. “Any interruption might have spooked him.”

Altman nodded. They walked a little farther, their footsteps soft in the dust of the road. “You know that guy I talked to? At the bar?”

“Yes,” she said. “What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

She stopped. “Dead?” she said. “What happened?”

“His throat was slit.”

She grabbed his arm, jerked it until he looked at her. “You see,” she said, “I told you it was dangerous! And now somebody’s dead.”

“It’s probably nothing,” he said. “Probably just a mugging.”

He saw a flicker of hope pass through her eyes, and quickly fade. “But what if it’s not? You should give this up. You should stop your game of spying and do the job you were sent down here to do.”

He didn’t say anything, just tried to tug his arm away.

“Promise me, Michael,” she said. “Promise me.”

“I can’t,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Look,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. “You were the one who brought Chava to me. I didn’t ask you to do that. But every new thing I hear makes it seem stranger and stranger. I need to figure out what’s going on.”

At first she was very angry. She started walking, fast, staying out in front of him and wouldn’t look back. He followed her, calling her name. Gradually she slowed down a little, finally let
him take her hand, but still wouldn’t look at him. He pulled her close and held her while she tried to push him away, very gradually giving in.

“You don’t love me enough to do this for me,” she tried.

“I do love you,” he said. “That’s not what this is about.”

She pouted. Finally she put her arms around his neck. “I don’t want to lose you, Michael,” she said.

“You won’t lose me,” he said. “I promise.”

They walked slowly down the street. They passed an open door, a makeshift wooden sign hanging over it reading
BAR DE PRIMERA CATEGORÍA
, another sign beside it, this one cardboard, reading
BEBIDAS, MUY BARATAS
.

They were already twenty feet past when Altman stopped and doubled back.

“Where are you going now?” asked Ada.

“I need a drink,” he said. “I need to raise a glass to Hammond.”

He pushed open the door. The patrons, all locals, looked up, fell immediately silent. He went up to the counter, which consisted of a stack of old crates, and ordered a beer for himself, one for Ada.

When the beers came, he looked around for a place to sit. There was nowhere. All the tables were full and people were leaning against the wall. He paid the bartender and then carried their drinks outside.

They sat on the edge of the dusty street before the makeshift bar, in the light coming through the half-open door, backs against the rickety wall, and drank their beers.

“It worries me,” he said, putting his beer down.

“What?”

“This,” he said. “All of it. The things going on in Chicxulub, the pulse, the submarine, the stories you’re hearing, the dreams everyone has been having, the thing we just saw on the beach. I think we’re in trouble.”

“You and I?”

“Everybody,” he said. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

“All the more reason to leave it alone,” she mumbled.

He ignored her. He groped for his beer but suddenly couldn’t find it. He turned and looked for it, but it was gone.

He turned on the flashlight and shone it into the shadows on the edge of the building, a little farther away from the door. There was a man there, his shirt and clothes filthy. He was obviously very drunk. He was holding Altman’s bottle to his lips, rapidly emptying it.

“That drunk just took my beer,” he said to Ada, a little astonished.

The man finished the beer, smacked his lips, and tossed the bottle off into the darkness. Then he looked at them, squinting into the beam of the flashlight.

Altman lowered it a little bit. The man held out his hand, snapped his fingers.

Altman grinned. “I think he wants your beer, too,” he said.

Ada spoke to him softly in Spanish and the man nodded. She held out her beer and the man took it eagerly and upended it, quickly downed it. He tossed the bottle away then leaned back against the wall.

“Hello,” said Altman.

The man carefully smoothed his filthy shirt.
“Mucho gusto,”
he said. His accent and cadence were surprisingly formal. He redirected his gaze toward Ada, inclined his head slightly.
“Encantado,”
he said.