Hell Divers (22 page)

“Commander Rick Weaver, from
Ares.
If you want to survive down here, you'll keep quiet and follow me.” He could see the man's eyes narrow behind the visor.

“I'm X, and this is Murph, Magnolia, Katrina, and Tony. Let's get going, then.”

Weaver nodded to the other divers who had crouched against the wall. He knew their names now, but part of him still wasn't convinced they were real and not just figments of his imagination. After days of trekking on the surface, he was running on vapors and instinct. His bones, eyelids, even his lips felt heavy. And it wasn't from a lack of nutrition. He'd found plenty, first on Sarah and then in the supply crate. His body was suffering from exhaustion. Sleeping for only a few minutes at a time had taken a toll. If the other divers suddenly turned into snow flurries in the wind, he wouldn't be surprised.

Besides, what kind of a name was “X”? It sounded like something a disordered mind would dream up.

“Stay close to me and keep one eye on the sky,” Weaver said as the noises waned and faded to nothing.

“Where the hell are you taking us?” X said.

“Somewhere safe. Just remember, if those things find us, we power down.” He checked to see that the others heard him. They weren't on the same frequency, and he almost had to yell to be heard over the wind. It was dangerous, but he had no choice.

“Let's go,” X said. He waved his team forward.

Weaver slowly guided them through the dead city. He looked to the skyline as they crossed an intersection. Floor after floor of steel frameworks towered above, with here and there a section of granite-clad wall. Hundreds of years ago, any one of them had housed many times the planet's current population. Now they were home to the Sirens.

Beyond the next high-rise, he saw the gap that his falling home had punched in the skyline. They were close now. In a few minutes, he would explain everything and try to make a plan to get off this cursed hell world. The idea of leaving Hades hadn't entirely sunk in till now. Brushing with death for days had taught him to suppress any glimmer of hope.

That glow faded as one of the divers yelled, “Contact!”

One minute, the snow-covered street was lifeless and dead; the next, it was crawling with the creatures. Weaver didn't even have a chance to tell the others to power down. In an eyeblink, Tony had swung up his assault rifle and fired a burst.

“No!” Weaver screamed. But his words were drowned out by the crack of gunfire. Shots pinged off the buildings, and bullet casings rained down with the snowflakes.

Weaver contemplated taking out his battery unit and hiding. He had survived too long by himself to let some rookies get him killed.

He turned to run, then stopped. Something in him, even more powerful than the adrenaline, stopped him. If he left these people here, he would be alone because they would surely die. He couldn't bear the thought of being down here by himself for another second. It would be even worse than dying.

Weaver twisted, aimed, and fired his rifle. The burst found a Siren, spattering gore across the concrete wall behind it. He swung to his right, taking out two more. Then a third.

More Sirens streamed out of the empty windows and slid down to the street, screeching as they came.

Weaver finished off his magazine and yelled, “We have to get out of here. We're attracting every one of these things in Hades!”

But again gunfire drowned his words. Taking another magazine from a cargo pocket, he caught a glimpse of motion on their right. Two Sirens had crept up behind Tony, who was busy firing in the opposite direction.

“Watch out! They're flanking us!” Weaver shouted.

Everyone seemed too busy dealing with immediate threats to hear him. The other divers were firing on their own targets. Weaver aimed and squeezed off a shot. The bullet hit the skull of the first creature, and brains exploded into the air.

He tracked the second with his sights and pulled the trigger. The Siren shuddered from the impacts as a jagged chunk of its spinal column blew out behind it. Somehow, it kept moving, pulling itself along by its hands at alarming speed. A moment later, it was lunging at Tony.

Weaver centered the sights on the abomination's skull and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

“Shit!” he shouted. He slapped the bottom of the magazine, then worked the bolt to free the jammed round. But he wasn't fast enough. The thing grabbed Tony, spun him around, and ripped at his suit. A scream of agony rang out as talons found human flesh.

Weaver continued working the bolt on his weapon, knowing that every second was time Tony didn't have to spare. The jammed round finally popped out, and Weaver unloaded a three-round burst into the creature.

Tony had dropped to his knees, catching something that fell from his suit. Weaver laid down covering fire and backed over to where Tony knelt. Only then did he see the rising steam and realize that the ropy cords in Tony's hands were his intestines.

“What the fuck happened!” X yelled.

“Oh, my God, oh, my God!” Magnolia cried out.

“I have the medical kit,” Murph said. He lowered his weapon and pulled the small box out of a cargo pocket.

Weaver grabbed it, knowing that nothing inside the box would patch up these wounds. Tony stared up at them from behind a cracked visor.

The other divers formed a perimeter around the fallen man and kept firing. Weaver wanted to cover his ears against the ghastly screams of the dying Sirens and the crack of gunfire, amplified and echoed by the buildings' walls. But instead, he held Tony in his arms, helpless to do any more than keep his guts from spilling onto the snow. He lost track of time as the battle raged around him.

At some point, the guns went silent, and he looked up at the retreating Sirens. Their intermittent squawks faded as they shambled away, trailing blood into the darkness.

“We need to get out of here,” Weaver said. “They'll be back.”

X bent down and grabbed Tony under his armpit. He screamed in agony and pulled away.

“I'm hurt, X,” he said. “Hurt bad.” He tilted his visor toward his stomach and let out another strangled cry. “I'm done. Ya gotta leave me.”

“No,” X said, shaking his head.

Weaver saw a flash of movement behind them. “We have to go. NOW!” He pointed to a dozen Sirens, perched like gargoyles, on a ruined parapet.

“It's okay,” Tony said, wincing. “I'll hold 'em off. Help me sit up.” He grabbed Katrina's hands, and she hoisted him to a sitting position. Tony looked over at X and said, “Please …” He coughed, spraying blood inside his visor. “X, you gotta save the
Hive
.”

“I will,” X said. He placed a hand on Tony's shoulder.

Weaver knew what they were thinking, because he was thinking it, too. Life was precious, and it could end quickly and violently. X lingered there for a moment—perhaps to console Tony, or maybe just from the shock of seeing another friend mortally wounded. Weaver wasn't sure, but they had run out of time.

“We have to go,” Weaver urged.

X stood up, looking unsure what to do. “Come on,” he finally said.

Magnolia, whimpering, staggered after the others, her eyes still on Tony as they left him to die.

Weaver felt a strange mix of emotions: sadness at the death of a fellow diver, and elation that he wasn't the one dying. “I'm sorry,” he muttered, repeating it like a mantra as he began to run, unsure whether he was apologizing for his thoughts or for leaving Tony behind. Maybe it was a little of both.

Eventually, the burning in his muscles made him forget his mantra. They rounded the next block and made it to the end of the street before the report of Tony's rifle echoed behind them.

Weaver didn't slow until he cleared the next corner. He skidded on his knees across an icy stretch of concrete. When he came to a stop, he was staring at the sagging remains of
Ares.
Panting, he cocked his chin toward the ship and said, “We're here. That's … that's my home.”

The
Hive
rocked gently. Tin could barely feel the sporadic shudders, but he knew what they meant: the ship was struggling to stay in the air. That realization made up his mind for him. He was going to patch the gas bladder. All he had to do was wait for the right opportunity to escape.

He looked for the armed men. Travis waited at the comm link with Ren. Alex patrolled on a catwalk above, but Brad was out of sight. He had gone inside the stairwell minutes earlier and hadn't come back. Silver and Lilly were quiet now. They lay in the dirt, only their eyes active, roving and watching.

“Don't get any ideas,” Angelo whispered.

“What's your name, kid?” Travis said.

Tin glanced up. “Me?”

“No, the other kid,” Alex sneered.

“My name's Tin.”

Travis walked over to the wall and punched the comm button. “Captain Ash, have you had time to reconsider my offer?”

A youthful male voice answered him. “This is Lieutenant Jordan, interim captain. Captain Ash is currently in engineering with Chief Engineer Samson, trying to keep us in the air.”

Travis glanced over at Ren, who stabbed the dirt with his rusty blade. “Told you, Trav. The bitch didn't take us seriously.”

Travis punched the comm button a second time. “I'd like to make a new offer. A trade: Tin for my brother, Raphael.”

White noise crackled from the speakers for several seconds.

Tin's heart was pounding now. He couldn't let them trade him. He had to stay here, had to fix the gas bladder.

Jordan's reply came a few seconds later. “I'll need to speak with Capt—”

The transmission was interrupted by a violent tremor that vibrated through the room. The walls groaned, and the chickens behind Tin squawked and scurried.

Travis looked at the ceiling. “What the hell was that?”

Ren pulled his blade from the dirt and sheathed it. “I don't know. Haven't felt one of those in a long time. Maybe something really is wrong.”

Tin wanted to scream, to tell Ren that yes, he was right, and that he needed to let an engineer inside. But his throbbing head reminded him what had happened the last time he tried that.

“No!” Alex shouted over the roar of the ship. “Captain Ash and her henchman Jordan are lying. She's probably planning to break down that door and kill all of us.”

“Will you shut your yap for once, Alex,” Travis snapped. “You've done enough harm. She's not lying. The
Hive
's in deep shit.”

Brad emerged from the clean room, his face a shade paler than before. “Travis, that team outside is moving.”

“Shit!” Alex said. “I told you!” He climbed down a ladder and dropped to the dirt. He unsheathed his blade and rushed over to Brad.

Travis punched the comm again and got only static. The connection had been severed.

Tin worked his hands back and forth, trying not to make a sound as the plastic dug into his wrists. It hurt, but at last he felt the left thumb knuckle slip through. With that hand free, he soon had both restraints off and tucked in his hip pocket. He kept his eyes on the men.

“Don't, kid,” Angelo whispered.

“I have to do this,” Tin replied. With his hands still behind his back, he squirmed away from the farmers. X and the other divers were on the surface of Hades, risking their lives to save the ship. But if someone didn't fix the gas bladder, the ship was going to crash. He couldn't let that happen. He wasn't just going to sit by when he knew he could fix it.

“Ren, follow me,” Travis said. “And, Alex, don't touch the hostages.” He grabbed Alex's vest. “You do hear me, right?”

Alex nodded, smirking.

“Let's go!” Ren said.

Travis loosened his grip but held Alex's gaze for a tense moment. The ship groaned again, and an emergency siren blared in the corner of the room. Travis shoved Alex aside and followed Ren into the clean room.

Now was Tin's chance. He took off running toward the cornfield, ignoring Angelo's pleas.

By the time his captors realized he had slipped away, he was already batting his way through cornstalks that rose above his head. Silver and Lilly went wild, their guttural barks echoing through the vaulted room.

Tin spotted the ladder on the starboard wall. That was his target—how he would get to the gas bladder. He took a look back over his shoulder, tripped, and tumbled.

“Hey, where'd the kid go?” Alex shouted.

Tin jumped to his feet and raced through the field to the ladder, hoping the corn would conceal him.

“Get back here, you little shit!” Alex yelled.

Tin leaped onto the bottom rung of the ladder. Hearing noise at the other end of the catwalk, he looked across. Alex was climbing, too, trying to cut him off before he got to the hatch.

Tin climbed faster and pulled himself onto the mezzanine. He searched the hatches. There, halfway between him and Alex, he found the one marked “Gas Bladder twenty-one.”

Sprinting to the hatch, he grabbed the wheel handle, twisted it, and pulled. The cover groaned open, revealing a dark tunnel.

“Don't go in there!” Alex yelled.

The clank of footsteps grew closer, and Tin climbed inside. An emergency supply cabinet was mounted on the bulkhead, and next to it a speaker system. For a fleeting moment, he thought about calling for help over the intercom. But no, there wasn't enough time. He had to do this himself.

When he turned to close the hatch, Alex was almost there. The scarf had fallen away from his mouth, and blood trickled from the bandage on his chin where Travis had smacked him. His eyes were wild and determined—the look of a killer.

Tin slammed the hatch shut in the scarred, enraged face. The world went dark, and he threw the lock bar down just as he heard Alex grab the wheel on the other side. He paused to catch his breath and get his bearings. Each gasp burned his lungs. It had to be over a hundred degrees in here. He fumbled for the supply cabinet as Alex pounded on the hatch.

“Open up, kid! Open the damn hatch!

Tin's fingertips slid across the warm metal and the speakers as he searched for the box. He punched the comm link first but heard only the crackle of static. The radio probably hadn't been serviced in years. He was on his own.

He found the cabinet on his second pass and popped the lid while, outside, Alex pounded on the hatch. The man couldn't hurt him anymore. Tin sucked in a warm breath of relief and rummaged through the supplies.

His fingers brushed a long metal cylinder, which proved to be a flashlight. He felt for the off-on switch, not wanting to rejoice until he was sure the thing worked.

Please work,
Tin thought. He pushed the soft rubber button with his thumb, and a white beam shot out of the flashlight—weak, but a beam nonetheless.

“Yes!” he said, though he knew that his luck could be short-lived. Even if the light worked now, it wouldn't likely last very long.

He shined the ray at the box and pulled out two patch kits, sealed in envelopes. Then he grabbed a breathing mask with a tiny oxygen tube and slipped it on. That left the tube of sealant.
There.
He grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket.

Tin shined the light over the tunnel. A second hatch separated him from the gas bladder. He crawled toward it, away from the sound of Alex's pounding.

He spun the wheel left, and the hatch creaked open. He played the beam over the curved bulkheads and then climbed inside, astonished at the bladder's sheer size.

His heart fluttered as he stood in the dark, hot emptiness. He had escaped from Alex, found a flashlight, and made his way into the gas bladder. But the space didn't look much like they had in the books, and Tin suddenly wasn't so sure he could find the leak, let alone patch it.

* * * * *

The wind whistled through the remains of
Ares
. Somewhere above, a lone Siren soared through the clouds, its alien cries drawing X's attention upward.

Weaver had stopped at the edge of the debris field and knelt beside a row of sooty aluminum ribs protruding from the snow.

“We need to keep …” X stopped talking when he saw that the metal wasn't just random debris. It was too neat for that, too organized. Weaver must have placed them there.

Grave markers,
X thought. It was an Old World tradition that he had read about in history books. Modern humans, living on airships, didn't have the luxury of burying their dead, but Weaver had clearly been busy over the past few days, using his time to bury them down here. Snow gusted across the graves, covering them with fresh powder.

“Let's go,” Weaver said, motioning them toward the skeleton of
Ares.
X and the other divers followed him under the aluminum struts. There wasn't much left in the hulking wreckage.

Rumbling thunder echoed overhead, and X looked up, half expecting to see the
Hive
come crashing down through the clouds. They were running out of time to save her.

“Help me,” Weaver said. He stopped at a warped hatch and grabbed the side.

X resisted the urge to ask questions. The guy obviously had some screws loose, but they had to trust that he was taking them somewhere safer than out here in the open. And after Tony's death, the divers needed a chance to regroup and make a plan to get to the industrial zone. X could only hope that Weaver wasn't too crazy to help.

Weaver gripped the edge of the hatch, and X helped him pull it away.

The makeshift hideout wasn't much—just a burned-out hull of what had been an apartment. A few boxes of salvaged supplies sat in one corner.

“Hurry up,” Weaver said. He crawled inside and crouched beside the boxes.

X exchanged a look with Katrina. “What do you think?” he asked over the private comm channel.

“I think the guy's wacked,” she replied. “What about you?”

“We have no choice but to trust him,” X replied.

Magnolia shrugged. “Not like we got a lot of options here, right?”

“Right,” Murph said.

X motioned them inside, hoping he hadn't made a terrible decision. They all had been rattled by the dive, the Sirens, and Tony's death, but they had only a few minutes to get it together.

Magnolia and Katrina crowded around the supply boxes with Weaver while X and Murph sealed the door.

Weaver took a seat on the cracked rim of a shit can. “Sorry about your friend,” he said, “but I told you to power down. I told you to run.”

X rested his assault rifle against a wall and sat on the ground, facing the others. He sucked down some water from his straw. There was nothing to say that would bring Tony back.

Weaver flipped his visor, and X saw his face clearly for the first time. Thinning, sweaty fair hair clung to his forehead; dark circles lined wild green eyes that darted back and forth on hypervigilant high alert.

“Radiation's minimal here,” Weaver said. “You should all take in some extra nutrition and refill your water bottles. I'd add some chems to it if I were you. Never know when you're going to need the extra kick.” He lit an emergency candle, dripped some wax, and stuck it on the floor. “The shield protecting the reactors is still intact. I haven't detected any major leaks.”

X checked his minicomputer. The reading wasn't exactly minimal, but it was lower than he had seen in this godforsaken place. It wouldn't hurt to have their visors popped for a few minutes. He nodded at his team.

“You sure?” Murph asked.

“Your call,” X said, flipping up his visor and sucking in his first unfiltered breath of Hades. The sharp, cold air burned inside his nostrils. He picked up a variety of smells—the vapors of spilled chemicals and the strong scent of smoke. There was another smell, too, vague but unmistakable: the stink of charred flesh.

“Here,” Weaver said, holding out a handful of chem pills.

X took the chems, twisted the cap off his water bottle, and dropped two of the pills into the water. Then he shook the bottle and took a big gulp. He closed his eyes and waited for the stimulants to work into his system. He opened his eyes with a sudden burst of energy, scanning the room as his pupils dilated.

Weaver pointed at the boxes in the corner. “I recovered some food from your supply crate. Help yourself.” He brought a shaking hand to his mouth and bit the end off a stick of jerky.

Maybe it was partly from the chemicals, but somehow, Weaver offering them their own food rankled X. “We don't have time to eat,” he snapped, his breath fogging as he spoke. “The
Hive
is up there, and they're counting on us to come back with cells and pressure valves.”

Weaver glanced up sheepishly, like a child being scolded, then looked at the floor. X couldn't begin to understand the horror Weaver had been through, but they didn't have time for niceties. He had questions that needed answering. He went over and crouched in front of Weaver, snapping his fingers to get his attention.

“Weaver,” X said. “You with me?”

The shortest of nods told X he was listening. “Don't get me wrong,” he said. “I appreciate you saving our bacon back there, and I'm sorry about your ship—I really am. But our mission clock is ticking. We have less than nineteen hours to get back to the
Hive
.”

“I understand,” Weaver murmured. “I'll help you if I can.”

X pulled the map from his vest and held it in front of Weaver. “We need to get to this location … right here.”

Weaver swallowed a chunk of jerky and squinted. The low glow from the candlelight lit up his pale face, but he didn't say anything.

“Have you been there?” X asked.

Weaver muttered as if he didn't know what X was talking about. He took a sip from a straw in his helmet, then nodded. “Jones and I raided one of those buildings, but he didn't make it back outside. They ate him.”

“I need you to show us the safest path there.”