The Sowing (The Torch Keeper) (20 page)

The hangar bay is a shambles. Scorch marks line the walls like pox. Mounds of broken and shattered equipment litter the floor. But there appears to be one Vulture intact. And a few rows over, a Squawker that looks like it was abandoned during a maintenance check.

“I’m on it.” Dahlia’s already cutting through the grate with the blow torch and my eyes inadvertently flick to Cage, who’s leaning against Tristin and Corin.

The grate tumbles into the hangar.

I clap my hand to Arrah’s back. “You go down and get
that Vulture prepped for liftoff.”

Her eyes narrow. “What about
you
?”

I nudge my head toward the opposite vent. “The detention center’s just below. We can’t just leave people behind. There’s enough room in that Vulture for many others.”

“I’m coming with,” Drusilla says.

Arrah pulls her close and plants a tender kiss on her lips. “Don’t take too long.”

Drusilla smiles, gives her another quick kiss, and eases from her embrace. “I won’t.”

Dahlia tosses me the blowtorch. As the others scramble down into the hangar bay, I cut through the grate leading to the prison. Seconds later, I drop through, Drusilla right behind me with her weapon drawn.

The first thing I notice is the wave of heat. The other side of the hallway is ablaze. Clouds of smoke billow toward us, making it difficult to breathe.

“This way.” I dash over to the door of the cellblock, Drusilla at my heels. Instinctively, I try the door controls, knowing they’ll be sealed. “We have to cut through. Cover me.”

I hold the blowtorch to the panel and activate it. Embers fly as the cutter slices through the wiring.

“Spark!” Drusilla’s voice is laced with panic. “We’re running out of time!”

Through the crackling of the blowtorch, I can hear the mechanized throes of the Fleshers getting louder … louder …

“They’re right on us!” Drusilla’s eyes drop to the ground. “They’re in the subflooring!”

No sooner does she sound her warning than the floor erupts about a dozen yards away. Shards of metal fly. I catch a glimpse of those metallic-looking tentacles that seized Styles slithering through the opening, grasping for anything in their path—

The door panel shorts and the prison doors slide
open
with a gust of putrid air.

A pack of prisoners tumbles out, their faces twisted in confusion and terror.

I rip a fire hose from its wall socket and hoist Dru up the vent shaft, so she can secure it as a means for the escapees to climb out. But the sounds of the Fleshers approaching are getting too close and we decide to abandon the idea, opting instead to take the long way around, which leads to the doors of the hangar bay.

I grab hold of an emaciated youth. “This way to safety!”

Then we’re all dashing away from the Fleshers toward the hangar bay. Drusilla and I fire blast after blast behind us, trying to buy time. But those awful sounds keep getting louder, as those dark shapes flit through the smoke and flame in relentless pursuit.

We round the corner. The door leading into the hangar bay is wide open. Beyond it, I can hear the rumble of the Vulture’s engines waiting to take off. “Through there! There’s a transport!” I herd the prisoners through, and then Drusilla.

But I don’t follow.

Arrah, Corin, and Cage are standing by the boarding ramp, their faces anxious as the prisoners flee into the ship.

Drusilla whirls. “Spark! Why aren’t you—?”

I shake my head. “Someone has to seal the doors and
buy you time.”

Digging into my pack, I pull out one of two tiny transceiver units, set both channels on the same frequency, and toss one to Drusilla. “Keep in touch.”

Arrah and Cage start running toward me. “Lucian! You get aboard that ship right now!” Arrah shouts.

I smile at them. “You did good. All of you. Now get them home.”

The door to the hangar slams closed behind me when I hit the release. Then I’m welding it shut with the blowtorch.

Just as I finish, a tentacle slams into the door just an
inch from my head, denting the thick metal as if it were clay.

I whirl, just in time to see a massive shape emerging from the flame.

Clacketyclacketyclacketyclacketyclacketyclacketyclacketyclacketyclackety!

I dive and roll down the adjacent corridor, springing to my feet and running as fast as I ever have. Tentacles slam the floor behind me as I lead the Fleshers farther and farther away from the others.

From my friends.

The other side of the corridor is a dead end.

Containment Lab 5.

My heart races. This is it. The location that the computer back in Asclepius Valley mentioned. Right under the entries about Cole and Digory and the mysterious U.I.P. procedure. The place where the Establishment’s highly classified bio-weapon is being kept.

If I’m going to go out, I may as well take whatever it
is
with me rather than risk it getting into the hands—
ten
tacles
—
of the Fleshers.

Of course, the lab is locked.

Grabbing the torch, I start cutting away at the lock and almost have it open when a tentacle wraps around my leg and drags me from the door, slamming me into the ground and ripping my gun from my grasp.

The Flesher emerges from the smoke. It’s at least nine
feet tall. The face is roughly humanoid, with bleached, hairless white skin and a bald head lined with throbbing veins. Instead of eyes, a dark, reflective strip is grafted into its flesh. Sinewy membranes cover the nose and mouth area, feeding into a twisted mass of wiring that’s coiled around its skull and protruding into its throat.

Metallic armor, simulating an exposed skeleton, covers its upper torso. These bones continuously shift, exposing appendages that seem to be individual tools. An amber light engulfs me from the tip of one, while a cutting blade whirs to life on another one.

While it has two bony arms that end in claws, as if the fingers have been surgically grafted together, metallic tentacles like the one grasping me now emerge from the bones of its forearms. Its legs have been grafted, mid-thigh, to a complex set of servo-motors and gears that allow it to alternately roll or climb, depending on the terrain.

Crash!

A blur comes through the door of the lab behind me, slamming into the Flesher.

It’s a young man, naked except for the remnants of a hospital gown. His muscles gleam in the firelight as he swings around to the Flesher’s back, wrapping one of his thick biceps around the thing’s throat as his thighs lock around its waist. The Flesher releases my leg as both tentacles lash around, striking at its attacker. But the youth’s head is a blur of long, scraggly hair as he whips his head out of the way, catching one of the tentacles in his hands.

I scramble to snatch up my gun, aiming it toward them,
but it’s impossible to get a shot without risking the young
man’s life.

Whir!

The cutter comes to life, reaching toward the youth’s throat, closer, closer … only an inch away …

BAM! BAM! BAM!

My rounds glance off the Flesher’s protective armor, but it’s all the distraction the guy needs. He seizes the cutting arm and plunges it into the Flesher’s own throat. Dark fluid—
oil? blood?
—spurts from the creature’s neck.

Clacketyclackety … whir … whir … vroom …

The Flesher begins to spin, out of control. The young
man leaps from it.

I fire the remainder of my ammo, striking the most vulnerable target, its head, ripping holes through the tubules connecting from its nose to its skull.

The thing lunges for me—

Click! Click!

I’m out of ammo—

Then the thing teeters and collapses at my feet.

But its body is convulsing. As I watch, horror-struck, I can see the flesh mending. Whoever built this monstrosity employed some kind of regenerative tech.

I back away from it and turn to the young man.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. His massive chest pushes in and out with heavy breaths. Sweat trickles down it, past the sculpted ridges of his abdomen and narrow waist.

“This thing’s not dead yet, and there are more of them coming!” I shout. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here. Follow me!”

GONG!

The sound explodes right behind us. I whirl, vaguely
aware of my rescuer in my peripheral vision. Then we’re both running back down the hallway, snaking up the still-dangling fire hose leading into the vent shaft and dropping down into the hangar bay, the pursuing Fleshers threatening to overtake us at every moment.

Dashing into the lone Squawker, I hit the ignition switch as soon as we’re both aboard. My heart stammers as the engine sputters.

The door to the hangar bay bursts open. A horde of Fleshers rips through the chamber, heading right toward us.

I pound the control console as the first of the Fleshers closes in.

The engine roars to life. As I hit the throttle, my back slams against the pilot seat. In the rear monitor, I see the craft’s exhaust set Fleshers on fire. Then we’re airborne, shooting out of the hangar and into the dark skies.

Below, the Infiernos military installation is just a smoking husk of debris, completely overtaken by the swarm of Fleshers crawling all over it until it’s smothered in living darkness.

No one will ever endure that hell again.

The Establishment better beware. This is just the beginning.

I settle back into my chair, tears burning down my cheeks, as the Squawker is swallowed by the clouds.

Finally, I have a few seconds to spare for the stranger who, I’m vaguely aware, is in the copilot’s seat beside me. “Thanks for your help back there. Are you okay?”

No response.

I turn toward him. He’s slumped in his chair, his long, wild hair still obscuring his face and falling across his powerful pectorals.

I
know
that profile.

“Can’t you hear me?” I move closer and grip his rock-hard shoulder.

He flinches and pulls away, and the moment he does, the hair cloaking his face in shadow falls away from his face and I see those piercing eyes.

Those piercing
blue
eyes.

He looks away.

My hand drops. No. It
can’t
be.

A blizzard of emotions engulfs me. Shock, unfathomable joy, wholeness, deep betrayal—my brain is short circuiting. I can’t breathe as I revel in this miracle. Or is it a curse?

Maybe I’m finally losing my mind.

Reaching out a trembling hand, I push the hair from his beautiful face.

It
is
Digory.

PART III

REUNIONS

twenty-six

Dusk’s rays filter through the cockpit window, bathing the cabin in a soft purplish glow. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” I whisper. “Why? Why did you do it? Was it
all
a lie?”

Digory still won’t answer me. Won’t even look at me. He just stares out the window, his blue eyes like glassy seas reflecting the dying light until pools of liquid orange form there.

Losing him was one of the deepest pains I’ve ever felt. But finding out he betrayed me was worse than death. Now, having him so close, yet so far away at the same time, I feel an unbearable mixture of joy and agony. I just want to scoop him into my arms, hold him as tight as I can, never ever let him go again—or throttle the last breath from him.

Below us, a familiar silhouette rises from the rippling whitecaps. The statue of the Lady. Even though she’s canting deeper into the ocean than I remembered, she’s still stand
ing. The sight of her fills me with memories, longings for
home, for Cole. She’s still holding her torch high, and with the fiery red sunset burning behind her, it’s as if she’s lighting a path through the desolate seas just for Digory and me.

Digory and me.

No. There is no Digory and me. Not anymore. There can’t be.

At that instant Digory turns, almost as if he senses me staring at him. The exhilaration of gazing at his face once more sends a rush through me. I reach out my hand to him, then pull it back.

A series of angry
bleeps
pierces the quiet.

The fuel gauge is blinking red. Shit! I checked it when we first took off. One of the Fleshers must have ruptured the lines as we were taking off.

My hands grip the control yoke, fighting against the
jarring vibrations.

Digory places his hand over mine, helping me to keep the yoke steady. The Squawker’s engine sputters and it banks from side to side, jostling us back and forth in spite of the safety harnesses.

“We’re almost out of fuel,” I say. “I’m going to have to set her down.”

I bank the craft in an arc around the Lady’s face. For a moment, her large stone eyes fill the cockpit windows, calm, reassuring. Then we’re around her, pointing in the direction of her gaze.

At the dark remnants of her ruined city.

I veer the craft as best as I can as we half-glide, half-plummet
toward the skeletal structures looming before us like the corpses of long-dead behemoths. “Hang on!”

Most of the city is half-submerged in the dark waters. Massive structures whiz by us in a blur of broken concrete and twisted metal. The streets that aren’t completely submerged are cracked and broken by craters, jammed with all manner of rusting vehicles.

The tallest building I’ve ever seen is directly in our path, getting closer by the second. Our only chance is to eject. Unhooking my restraints, I lunge for the overhead compartment. There’s only one glider chute. As much as I hate what he did to me, I can’t bring myself to leave Digory to his death. Not without answers. Wasting no time, I strap on the chute and make sure the rucksack is still strapped to my body. “Digory!
Let’s go!
”

Remaining silent, he springs to my side—lithe, like a
creature acting on instinct rather than a comprehension of my words—and grabs me tight.

I jam my fist into the control panel. The escape hatch blows open and we’re sucked out, tumbling into thin air. Behind us, the Squawker slams into the building and ignites in a fireball.

I can feel the heat singeing my skin as I pull the rip cord. The glider’s wings spring forward, halting our descent with a jolt.

Just ahead, a large canopy of trees covers a vast area, a mossy shroud shielding the area from prying eyes.

We crash through the underbrush. Branches scratch my face and hands, snapping and cracking all around us. Then our bodies slam into something solid and rough. The bark of a tree.

I feel lightheaded and disoriented. My body is swaying upside down, dangling from the remnants of the glide chute. We’re lodged in the branches of a massive tree, the long, tangled limbs writhing in the gusts of chilled wind.

It takes me a few moments to get my bearings.

A low purr from below vibrates through the air. My skin erupts into gooseflesh. Two glowing yellow eyes are staring up at me, attached to a sinewy, fur-lined shape as dark as shadow. Some kind of felis, but larger than I’ve ever seen before. Sharp claws glisten in the moonlight. Its muscled legs flex, and its body coils as it prepares to spring.

It leaps for me. My body tenses as I try to curl up and away. I’m just out of its range, but the tip of its huge paw grazes my shoulder, tearing a gash through it. The pain is searing, but not as potent as the fear of what it would feel like to get eaten alive.

The branches above me snap with a loud crack and the glide chute drops another foot, putting me into the creature’s range. It lets out an ear-shattering growl, ready to spring again.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Digory spring past me to the ground. He grabs the creature in a headlock with one arm. In his other hand, he’s clutching a long stone
shard, which he drives halfway into the animal’s skull.

Rip!

When he tears it out, it’s dripping with blood, splattering darkness all over his heaving bare chest.

Digory lets out an unearthly sound—part anguish, part guttural savage—that prickles every inch of my skin. The way the moonlight catches his eyes, they seem to glow, too, just like the creature’s.

Snap!

The glider crashes through the tree and I drop—