The Serophim Breach (The Serophim Breach Series) (11 page)

“Kai.” He heard her voice, barely a whisper. The fear in her tone was unmistakable.

“Sarah?” His head cleared instantly. “What’s wrong?”

“Kai, I need you . . . to come home.” As quiet as she was, he could still hear the tears in her voice.

“What’s wrong?” he asked again. His hand was on the shifter before he thought to move it, and he yanked the truck into reverse.

“Come home, please. Someone broke into the house. He’s downstairs, with—with Lani,” Sarah whimpered.

“Sarah, call nine-one-one,” he said, his throat tight.

“I did. They’re sending someone, but please come home.”

“Where are you?” Kai said. His voice was low as he swung out of the parking spot and headed for the street.

“I’m in my closet. I can’t hear him, but I don’t think he’s gone. Please, I think he’s—he’s crazy. I think he killed her, Kai.”

A cold knot settled in his stomach as her words registered in his brain.

“Don’t move. Sarah, don’t move. I’m coming, right now. I’m coming. Just be quiet; cover yourself with something if you can. I’m coming.” He heard a click on the other line. “What was that?”

“I’ve been calling you, and I think my battery—” She stopped.

“Sarah?” He realized he was almost whispering.

“I need to be quiet, Kai,” she whispered back. Then the phone beeped in his ear. He pulled it away from his face and read “Call Ended” on the screen. A horn sounded, and he looked up just in time to swerve away from an oncoming ambulance. An angry face flashed by behind the windshield of the other vehicle, but Kai had no thought in his head except the seventeen miles he had to drive to get home.

~

The clouds over the ocean and those moving down from the mountain left only a small strip of darkening blue sky over Paul’s head. The sun, mostly obscured now, would silhouette him if he sat up, but he had to see the beach. He lifted his head gingerly, his neck stiff and his shoulders protesting against the chill that had settled into his body. The shoreline was a vivid orange, the white sand refracting the setting sunlight into sparks of red and gold. Along the water’s edge, a horde of people had gathered. Paul thought there were at least ten, and probably a few more he couldn’t see. They milled around, huddled in a mass. On their outskirts, one gory sunbather lay jerking on the sand as if random electric currents were passing through his body; another wandered higher up the beach, curled over at the waist, retching. A few at the front paced like Greg, at the water’s edge, staring out at the waves. Paul’s phone had blessedly stopped ringing a while before; he shuddered, thinking of the cacophony of shrieks and howls that rose from the pack when his jingle rang out, only slightly muffled by his knapsack.

He focused on Greg’s truck in the parking lot. They had found a spot close to the beach, and he knew that Greg would have left the keys in the glove box as he always did. He also knew he couldn’t float out on the water all night; he was doing his best to keep his arms and legs out of the water, but he felt unusually exposed on his surfboard at dusk. Finally, he committed to a decision. As the next swell rolled beneath his board, he dropped behind the wave and slid off into the water, his skin prickling with cold and fear. Reaching down, he loosed his ankle strap and shoved his surfboard away from him. Then he swam, only his nose and eyes above the water, diagonally toward shore.

A wave pushed the board toward the beach, and one of the pacers caught sight of it almost immediately. He was a tourist in Hawaiian-print board shorts and a white T-shirt, now missing most of its material. Smears of dried blood covered his chest and face; Paul couldn’t tell if they were from his own wounds or not. The pacer’s mouth hung open, his jaw jutting left and right like a strung-out druggie as he hunkered down to watch the board. Paul kept swimming, breathing slowly in and out through his nose, his eyes stinging with the spray whipped up by the evening wind.

It was a relief to feel the sand rise up to meet his feet, and he crept forward through the water now, keeping his mouth below the surface. Soon he was lying on his stomach, breathing hard through his nose as he dug his hands into the silt beneath him and pulled forward. His face was occasionally submerged by the choppy surf, but he did his best to keep his eyes open and on the beach. The sounds of the horde were carried to him on the wind—whimpers and groans mingled with shrieks and the choking sounds of convulsions.

Paul had moved farther away from the main group, but he was also farther away from Greg’s truck. He stopped and lay still, letting the surge push him gently forward, then tug him back as he looked for an open route to the lot. A patch of foliage, almost directly up the beach from where he lay, offered him what he thought might be enough cover. If he could get there without being seen, he could definitely get past the pack and into the truck. Still breathing through his nose, he kept an eye on the group as he tried to figure out a way to make it up the beach.

He was sizing up the height of the bushes when he saw a small light flash briefly from the darkness behind them. It was hard to suppress the urge to lift his head up for a better look; he waited, and saw a second tiny flash of light. He was watching for a third glimpse when a loud splash halfway down the beach startled him, making him suck in a huge mouthful of seawater. Lurching forward onto his knees, he retched against the burning water in his lungs. Most of the horde had advanced almost instantly toward the splash, but now Paul saw them turn and look wildly for the source of his coughing. He shoved himself to his feet and ran, lungs spasming against the last of the brine.

The screams and shouts rose again from the horde, a horrific chorus of high-pitched shrieks, bellowing, snarls, and cries of pain. They were charging him as he splashed out of the shallow water, sprinting desperately for the truck.

“Hey!
Hey
!” he yelled, coughing again. “Stop!”

They gained on him steadily as he stumbled in the soft sand, still gasping for air. Suddenly, Greg’s engine roared to life, and the glare of the headlights slammed into his tired, stinging eyes. He glanced behind him and saw the frenetic shadows of the horde streaking wildly over the beach. Another scream came from the truck, and for a split second Paul’s heart dropped. Then he realized it sounded different; it didn’t have the rage or the pain behind it. It was a scream of fear and determination. A kamikaze scream. The truck jumped the curb and roared toward him down the beach. As he ran, the horn sounded repeatedly, and a figure leaned over from the driver’s seat to yell out the passenger window.

“Go left, Paul, go left! Toward the lot!”

He cut hard into the sand as Greg’s truck circled around behind him, swinging between him and the horde. The fire in his lungs spread into his stomach and his legs as they propelled him forward.

“Get in!” the driver shouted, throwing open the passenger door. Paul slipped in the sand and clambered back toward the vehicle. “
Get in!
”

The truck started moving before he had pulled himself entirely inside. His feet dragged in the sand as he scrambled desperately to hoist himself up into the seat. Bodies slammed into the driver’s side of the truck with horrifying, furious shouts as others tried to hang on or climb into the truck bed. Briefly he imagined losing his grip, falling under the tires, and then under the horde. The image sent a final surge of energy into his limbs, and he hoisted his legs inside and shut the door just before Jones pulled off the sand and back into the lot, squealing away at full speed.

“Oh my God, dude, I thought you were dead!” was the only thing he could think to say when he saw his friend in the driver’s seat. Jones was bleeding from a cut above his eye, and his hair was caked with sand; his lower lip was swollen and purple, and the collar of his rash guard was ripped down the back. He bounced in the driver’s seat with a strange combination of panic and relief.

“Why the hell did you sit out there so long? Geez—” Jones shouted over at him.

Paul was confused by his friend’s angry outburst, and his relief quickly turned to frustration. “What do you mean? How the hell was I supposed to know you were there?” he snapped back.

“If you were paying attention, I was flashing a light.”

Paul scowled. He realized he was freezing cold, his teeth chattering as he turned the heater on high. “You didn’t have to wait around for me,” he finally replied curtly.

“Oh yeah? Where else am I supposed to go? Walk back to campus,
alone
? Forget that! Did you see those people?” Jones’s eyes were already huge, but they bulged out as he considered the prospect. “Besides, I wasn’t just going to bail on you,” he said more quietly.

Paul looked at his friend for a long moment. The hot air blew hard onto his chest and face, relaxing his freezing muscles. His eyes stung with the grit and exhaustion of the past few hours. As the adrenaline waned in his system, he felt the sharpness of his fear and anger recede, leaving a dull sense of horror behind.

Jones cleared his throat. “Sorry about the splash. I thought it would be a diversion.” He fell silent again. Paul realized for the first time what his friend must have been through.

“Shit, Jones.” He put his head in his hands. “Thanks, man. Thank you,” he mumbled.

Driving quietly, Jones wrung his hands on the steering wheel and shrugged stiffly.

“Did you see Boomer?” Paul asked.

Jones opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again and shook his head. Sitting back in his seat, Paul closed his eyes. A jumbled mass of questions and images rolled over each other, fighting for precedence in his brain.

“Oh man, I’m going eighty,” Jones said. He eased off the pedal as they approached the highway. “Where should we go, man? I mean, this is like . . . what’s going on?”

Paul shook his head slowly. He couldn’t think. His eyes hurt, his body ached, Boomer was gone, Greg and Derrick too . . . he sat up suddenly.

“Did you see if my bag was still in the back?” he asked.

Jones shrugged again, so Paul opened the window into the truck bed and stuck his head out. He found his bag underneath Boomer’s board, and yanked it back into the truck with him. Unzipping it, he fished around his sunscreen and wax for his cell phone. He had eight missed calls, all from Sarah.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“I’m pretty sure some people on the beach called the cops. I never saw anyone show up, though,” Jones said.

Paul glanced over and held up a finger as he dialed his voice mail. The messages were all whispered, begging for him to come home. She sounded terrified.

“Who is it?” Jones asked.

“It’s Sarah,” Paul answered in a tight voice. “We need to get to my house.”

~

The early afternoon had held the promise of a relatively easy day, but the steady stream of traffic that started around four o’clock had banished any hope Karen Lau had of a catnap before the rest of her shift took her through the night. A young woman had been brought in by an ambulance at four fifteen, the apparent victim of a violent robbery. She was still unconscious, although the ugly wound on her neck had been cleaned and sutured. More than likely she would need skin grafts to fully repair the damage; a huge chunk of flesh had been ripped away just under her chin. They were still trying to figure out what kind of weapon had been used in the attack. Then Brandon Kavida had been brought in, bitten by some lunatic and in severe shock. Perhaps she was just wired, but it seemed to her that every case since then was fairly severe.

She chuckled at herself derisively as she walked toward the nurse’s station. It was, after all, the emergency room. Things here were supposed to be severe.
Too much time at the clinic,
she thought. After checking with the nurse about the robbery victim’s status, she headed down the hall toward Brandon. As she was passing the waiting room, she glanced out and saw that the boy with the broken arm was no longer in his chair; she couldn’t see his mother either. They had been forced to wait longer than usual for treatment, and the kid’s brave face had been pretty impressive. She had tried to get them finished up quickly so they could get home before dark. Satisfied, she hurried on down the corridor toward the room where Brandon’s wounds were being cleaned in preparation for stitching.

When he had arrived, she initially and confidently diagnosed shock. The mottling on his hands and feet, characteristic of hypoperfusion, suggested that his blood wasn’t reaching the tissue with enough oxygen. Brandon’s mouth had been almost completely dry, and in his only lucid moment, he had begged for water. Cold, clammy skin; shallow breathing, almost like panting; she was sure.

His wounds had been significant, but with prompt and competent treatment, not bad enough to be called life-threatening. She had immediately set her resident to the task of treating Brandon for shock and cleaning his injuries, which would lessen the chances of any complications; she was expecting to find him stabilized, on oxygen and an IV drip.
Even a resident could handle that
, she thought.

His whimpering echoed down the hallway, reaching her long before she entered his room. She found him writhing on the sheet, still panting despite the oxygen mask. Dr. Lau frowned at the resident who stood nearby, frantically checking the instruments.

“How long has he been on oxygen?” she asked.

“I put it on him almost immediately after you left, Doctor,” the resident replied. He was a good kid, but terrified of her, she knew. She usually did her best not to be too intimidating, but her irritation got the better of her.

“Can you hold him, please?” she snapped.

The resident held Brandon’s arms down as she leaned forward and pulled his left eye open to check for dilation. The glassy black of his pupils did not retract at all against the beam of her flashlight. His iris was almost completely obscured by the pupil, which was blown wide open, unflinching.

“That’s strange,” she murmured.

“The IV was started twelve minutes ago,” said the resident. Brandon squirmed under his grip, letting out a low wail.

Dr. Lau looked down to check the site, and gasped. The skin around the needle was turning blue, and blisters had formed along the tracks of his veins. She removed the IV immediately, ignoring the rising feeling of incompetence. Grabbing a nearby hypodermic needle, she ordered the resident to keep his hold on Brandon as she drew blood. Tonight would be one of the many nights she was grateful that the hospital had such an excellent lab.