She glances toward the south tunnel where three armed soldiers stand guard, talking among themselves. They watch others race past in jeeps, headed for the east tunnel, close to a hundred meters off to the right. They make no motion to leave their post. Shechara nods.
Samson watches the guards. He would be able to subdue them easily. Shechara would be our eyes through the darkness beyond, and eventually we would reach the parking structure where we were separated from Daiyna and Milton hours ago.
Only hours? It seems like days have passed since we left the caves and ventured into the city ruins above.
Willard returns and dismisses the two soldiers by us. They break into a trot and join the three at the south tunnel. I glance at Samson. Our odds have changed.
"What about our friends? Have you found them?" I turn to Willard.
"Your sister, you mean?" He grins, and I remember that's how Samson referred to Daiyna. "And the tagalong? Nope. Can't say that we have. But don't you fret. They'll turn up. We'll pick up the search soon as we give these mutos some serious hell."
Perch returns, boots pounding as he jogs back with three camouflage uniforms. He tosses them at us, one at a time.
"Put 'em on," Willard says.
"Not without our weapons." Samson glares at him.
Gunshots echo in the distance. "Enemy engaged," reports the voice over the loudspeaker.
Perch curses. "We don't have time for this."
Willard nods, his features tight. "If they get in here, we're done for. We could use your help. But if you'd rather wait upstairs..." He gestures toward the apartment above us. Our comfortable prison cell.
I pull off the jeans and quickly tug on the crisp UW uniform, one leg at a time. Samson and Shechara reluctantly follow my lead. If we plan to escape anytime soon, we must stay out of that locked apartment.
"You forgot their boots." Willard glances at Shechara's bare feet and shakes his head at Perch, who curses and trots away on his second errand in as many minutes. "Doesn't always think straight, that one." Willard's eyes linger on Shechara as she struggles to fit into her uniform. "You make a mighty fine soldier, darlin'. Really fill everything out in all the right places." He winks at her.
Samson's fist blindsides him, whipping his head to the side. With a groan, Willard crumples to the ground and lies still.
"That's about all I could take." Samson pulls the gun out of his belt and holds it ready.
"You're a patient man." I stoop to grab Willard's pistol from its holster.
"Timing is everything," Shechara says, smiling up at my brother.
But time is in short supply. Already we've drawn the attention of those five men at the south tunnel—our only escape route. Two of them hold their post while three fan out with rifles at the ready, trained on us. They shout commands to lay down arms and remain where we are. Erupting with foul obscenities, Perch charges toward us, his face livid.
"Now what?" Shechara steps beside Samson, dwarfed by his frame.
"We get the hell out of here, Small Fry," he growls. He fires a warning shot over Perch's head, who throws himself prostrate to the ground.
"Stand down!" shouts one of the approaching soldiers.
Willard stirs. We have to make a run for it before he comes to and summons more of his men. Samson fires another warning shot, and the closest soldier ducks low, staring at us in disbelief. The other two flank us and close in. But they don't return fire. Have they been given orders to keep us alive?
Shooting a daemon is one thing, but these are men, like us. Do I have it in me to kill them?
Shechara snatches the gun from my grip and squeezes the trigger twice before handing it back to me, the shots exploding, echoing like bombs. The soldiers flanking us cry out, clutching their legs as they topple over. Their rifles clatter to the concrete, and Shechara scoops them up mid-stride, leveling them on the two men at the entrance to the south tunnel. Wide-eyed, they drop their weapons and step aside as she draws near.
"Let's move." Grinning with admiration, Samson chases after her, pausing only to send a couple more rounds back at anyone foolish enough to follow. I stay abreast of him. "Good work!" he shouts to Shechara.
She tosses him one of the rifles as he approaches.
"You boys might want to high-tail it." Samson swings the muzzle toward their kneecaps, and the two remaining soldiers break into a run in different directions. "Posers," he mutters. Then to Shechara, he says with a big smile, "Lead the way."
She nods, glancing at the two men she shot. Their moans and curses echo across the floor. Regret flashes through her eyes. Then she runs into the tunnel and we follow, immersing ourselves in the darkness.
I race after the sounds of Samson's heavy boots and Shechara's small feet as naked as my own. We're making a prison break—from a prison that would have provided everything we need. Regardless, we were held against our will, and now we're free to find Daiyna and Milton, to take one of the vehicles from the parking structure and return to the caves.
But we don't get far before Willard's voice echoes all around us.
"That ape's got a solid right hook." A loudspeaker crackles in the tunnel. "But you're too smart for this, Luther. I would've thought you had it all figured out. Maybe I gave you too much credit. You are just a breeder, after all. The only brains you've got dangle between your thighs."
Lights glare white hot all around us, and we squint in their sudden brilliance, stumbling to a halt. A heavy creak rumbles behind us. We turn in time to see a solid steel blast door drop from the roof of the tunnel and slide into place, groaning as the locking mechanism holds it securely, shutting us out of the dome. We stand rooted, glancing at the door, at the lights above us, at the darkness beyond their range. What's Willard doing? Why would he want to keep us from going back? Returning to Eden is the furthest thing from our minds.
Then Shechara gasps, staring into the pitch black beyond the lights.
Willard chuckles on the speaker mounted over the blast door. "I really wish this was a two-way radio. I'm sure you've got all manner of choice words for me right about now. But maybe you should just listen instead."
He pauses, and from the darkness I begin to hear the shuffle of approaching footsteps. Too many to count.
"What the...?" Samson scowls into the black and grips his rifle.
"They're coming." Shechara's voice is hoarse as she backs toward the blast door, her eyes unblinking.
Another chuckle from the speaker. "You'll probably hate me for this, but... It wasn't really the east tunnel the mutos breached."
Samson stares at me, his features slack as a multitude of guttural sounds emerge from the darkness. The footsteps increase their pace. They'll be upon us in moments. I shove the pistol into my belt and flex my fingers, breathing a quick prayer as my claws extend.
"Well, good luck to you all. I'd say God be with you, but I don't think he much favors your kind. Anyhow, these are the same bunch that ate up all your friends, so feel free to show 'em no mercy. For as long as you can, that is." The speaker clicks off, cutting his chuckle short.
"There are so many..." Shechara cringes against the steel door, unable to bear what only her eyes can see.
"Let them come," Samson rumbles, clenching his jaw.
"God be with us," I manage as a sickening chill snakes down my back.
The daemons emerge from the shadows and jerk strangely in the light, unable to blink their lidless eyes. They shield them with deformed hands and stagger toward us, grunting and shrieking in a wild rage, jaws snapping hungrily. Samson fires his rifle and the first line of creatures falls flailing to the tunnel floor. Their limbs look skeletal, rags hanging loosely on narrow shoulders, ribcages protruding through charred flesh. The stains of fresh blood are absent, as are any weapons.
Samson wastes no time and fires again, dropping another line. Shechara fires her weapon and takes down a few more. But they keep coming, and we won't be able to shoot them all. There are too many. And from the sound of it, mor
e are on the way.
I step forward as one of them launches itself into the air to avoid the barrage of weapons fire. It stares at me like a starving animal as it descends, fangs chomping in anticipation of its first course. I thrust my hand into its throat, and my claws pierce straight through. The yellow eyes remain fixed on me as its warm blood gurgles, flowing over my hand. The daemon convulses before its head drops limply to the side. I let it fall and watch it lie still, my eyes immediately drawn to the blinking light at the base of its neck. I lean forward, sure I must be seeing things. But there it is: a pulsing pinpoint of red light, almost hidden by the flap of human hide the daemon wears. The miniscule bulb blinks once more before it fades out.
Samson drops the rifle and grabs his handgun, able to dispatch two more daemons before the weapon is emptied and cast aside. Then he tightens his fists, cracking his knuckles, prepared to use all that he has left: the strength he's been given by the spirits. He will exact as much damage as he can with his bare hands.
Where are the spirits now? Will they fight with us? Or have we been abandoned here?
I toss Willard's pistol to Shechara. "Save a round."
She nods, stuffing it into her belt and quickly aiming her rifle to take down the last daemons she can before the magazine clicks empty. Then she grips the weapon like a club with both hands. I step beside her and plant my feet. We don't plan to make it easy for these creatures to feed on us.
Recognizing we're now unarmed, the daemons surge forward en masse, their bulging eyes finally accustomed to the light. Sharp fangs gnash out a syncopated rhythm as they advance. The ones foolish enough to attack Samson outright are no match for his strength. He crushes their skulls against each other and uses their limp bodies to beat back the ones following close behind. Those that manage to avoid his radius of mayhem quickly find themselves slashed and gutted by the sharp talons I've been gifted with. I show no mercy.
Blood sprays in all directions, all I can taste and smell. The thick, coppery stench sickens me, but I don't stop. I can't. We have to survive. We'll paint this tunnel in a fresh coat of crimson if we must. But my muscles begin to ache in the face of such overwhelming odds. We won't be able to hold them off indefinitely. There are far too many.
"Luther!" Samson shouts, and I notice he's stacking the bodies of the daemon corpses as they fall around him. "Send 'em this way!"
I tear through two more throats and shove the dead daemons toward his bloody pile. Undoubtedly putting into practice a lesson learned from his studies of warfare, he's creating a barrier to impede the progress of the hordes still on the way. If we can slow them down enough in their advance, we should be able to dispatch the ones who climb over without being overwhelmed by their numbers. In theory, anyway.
"How many?" I cast over my shoulder as three more daemons lunge my way.
Shechara swings her empty rifle like a baseball bat, crushing daemon skulls with a vengeance. We work together, sending the slain creatures toward Samson's macabre pile.
"I can't count them. They keep coming." She seems resigned to the fact that we're going to die in here.
"We will survive this." I make eye contact with her, but her gaze is vacant, her face spattered with blood. I wish I hadn't told her to save a round. A bullet to the brain would be better than dying at the hands of these monsters, but only as a last resort. "We will survive!"
She screams as a blow lands between my shoulder blades, driving me to the concrete. The daemon wields Samson's fallen rifle, swinging it downward like an axe, aiming to crack open my skull. I roll to the side, and the stock crashes against the floor centimeters away from its target. Two others fall upon me, biting at the air in front of my face as I hold them off. Their eyes bulge fiercely, excitedly. They know they have me. The one with the rifle uses it to pin my left forearm to the ground. I swing my right, punching and slashing at their hideous faces. One manages to grab hold of my wrist with both hands, and I'm unable to wrest it free. They grunt loudly in victory. Then they close in on my exposed torso with fangs bared for feasting.
I grit my teeth and pull my legs up, thrusting with my right heel. It makes contact, striking the pouch-like chin of the one holding my wrist. The impact stuns it for a moment, and I jerk my right hand free, using my claws to slice through its hamstring. With a garbled wail, it falls to one knee. The other one dives at my throat, but a shot rings out. The bullet punctures the back of its head with a burst of blood, sending it to the floor in a heap. The one with the rifle turns on Shechara, and she pulls the trigger again. But there is no round in the chamber this time, and it clicks empty. The daemon grunts something like a laugh and brandishes the rifle overhead, prepared to strike.
I heave myself upward and lash out with both hands, tearing open the thick flesh on the daemon's back. It drops the rifle instantly and collapses, screaming, into my open arms. I grasp its deformed head and prepare to break its neck quickly—
A light pulses near its collarbone, red, the same as before. The daemon struggles against me, but I hold it still, incapacitated, its arms dangling uselessly.
"Shechara, look." She stares at me, but I'm not certain she sees anything. She may be in shock. "Look here. What do you see?"
She doesn't approach. She doesn't need to. "A red light."
What could it be?
"While I'm honored—" Samson grunts as he beats a daemon senseless with its own severed limbs. "—that you apparently think I can take on all these freaks by myself—" He plants his fist through the gaping face of another. "It'd be awful nice if you could lend a hand or two!"
I break the daemon's neck and watch the light dim to black. Then I join my brother. The stack of bodies now extends the full width of the tunnel, over a meter high. The daemons continue to clamber over it as if driven by some unseen force, unhindered by the havoc they meet on our side.
"You'd think they would get the idea—" He rips the head off one of them and winces in the sudden spray. "—that coming this way is a really bad idea."
I slash through the next two that descend upon us. "I don't believe they're acting on their own volition." I shove the bodies away.
He scowls at me, then tears apart the next three daemons in quick succession. "What do you mean?"
"They're being controlled." Shechara stands beside us with a thin strip of metal in her hand, blood covering her fingers. "Somehow." She points at what looks like a micro-transmitter of some kind. The blinking light.
"They're all wearing those things?"
She nods. "Around their necks." She reaches toward one of the bodies stacked before us and pries away the fold of rotten hide at the base of its neck. The steel collar is clear to see.
Samson curses, staring at the device. Absently, he breaks the neck of a daemon that drops in on us. "So... Who's pulling the strings?"
"One guess," I manage, tugging my claws free of a fresh corpse.
"Captain Freakshow." He nods. "What kind of jerk-off does...this?" He gestures at the collar with both hands. "I mean, if he wanted to kill us, he had plenty of opportunity while we were in that weird-ass apartment."
"I don't believe that to be his intention here. I don't know what he wants, but his men made no attempt to shoot us down when we escaped. It was as if they wanted us to head down this tunnel." I keep my voice low. Willard said he couldn't hear us through his radio-speaker, but to say I don't trust him at this point would be a serious understatement.
"Why would he keep us alive only to trap us in here?" Shechara stares at the collar in her hand.
"He's testing us," I say aloud before I have a chance to weigh my words.
Samson takes out the next pair of daemons with a single right hook that shatters their jaws like a train crashing through glass. "Testing? For what?"
I don't know. But I have a feeling Willard somehow knows about our gifts, even though he and his men don't seem to exhibit any themselves. His talk of natural children of God could have been in contrast to the daemons, but now I wonder if he
thinks of us as mutos as well. Does he plan to collar us and use our gifts for his own purposes? Is this why the spirits led us here? To become slaves at the hands of a madman? If Daiyna were here, she would know our purpose, what the spirits would have us do. But what if Willard has her already? Would he be able to use her to hear from the spirits himself?
I'm not thinking clearly. I must have faith. The Creator hears my prayers, and if it's His will, there will be answers soon enough for the questions that plague my mind.
"So what do you think he'll do after we pass this test?" Samson mutters, keeping his wary gaze roving along the mound of deformed corpses. For the past thirty seconds, no daemons have attempted to climb over. "Assuming we do, of course."
"I can't hear them." I listen closely. All's quiet on the other side.
"Think we got 'em all?" He grins. "Must be near a hundred piled here."
I never would have thought there were so many. When they attacked us in their jeeps, they always came in small bands of three or four—a dozen at most. Yet stacked before us lie the lifeless bodies of dozens upon dozens.
They look as though they were starving. As they fought us, they didn't exhibit the same strength as others we've met in battle before. Even so, they were a formidable adversary, and without our gifts we would have been no match. But what effect do these collars have on them? Have they been controlled from the start?
"We should take a look." Samson glances at Shechara. "See what's going on, if we can make a run for it. I don't want to be here when Freakshow and company reopen that blast door."
Shechara hesitates, unable to see over the heap of bodies. She moves to the side, straining on tip-toe, and gazes into the darkness of the tunnel beyond, her eyes steady, focused. Eventually, she looks back at me.
"They're gone," she says.
"All of 'em?" Samson raises his eyebrows.
She nods.
"Not bad at all." He grins, wiping blood from his large hands onto his soaked pant legs. A futile effort. "Score one for the good guys." He gestures toward the darkness. "Shall we then?"
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 27