by Mira Grant
But there was blood on the deck and the doors had been smashed by hands that weren’t human, had never been human, could never have been human, and nothing was all right. Nothing was ever going to be all right again.
Luis reached the stairwell first. His legs were the longest, his arms had the most reach; it was inevitable that he be in the lead. Tory had enough time to think about how well suited he was for this headlong flight before the reality of the situation sank in, the fact that these sirens were ambush predators as much as anything else, taking their prey through subterfuge and guile.
She wanted to shout at him, to order him to stop, but the words stuck in her throat. He grabbed the door handle. He wrenched it open.
The siren hanging off the back of the door hissed, already launching itself at him.
Holly stepped forward and screamed again. It was an ear-piercing, horrifying sound, the primal shriek of someone who’d never heard another human being scream, had never learned how to scream the “right” way. She screamed in odd harmonics, in keys that should never have been combined. The siren froze, just like the one in the elevator.
Luis set its face on fire.
The blowtorch he’d grabbed before leaving the lab was small, but it burned hot. The siren screamed, the sound beginning as a pallid echo of Holly’s shriek and morphing into something thinner and shriller and altogether alien. They were hearing what the sirens really sounded like, or at least what they sounded like while they were on fire. It was a terrible, earsplitting sound, and it rendered Holly’s scream comprehensible by comparison.
The siren let go of the door to slap at the flames consuming its face, and fell, landing on the deck, where it writhed. Its “hair” was blazing now, a terrible torch that burned with a smoky, oily light.
“Up the stairs!” shouted Luis, continuing to aim his torch at the siren. “Go!”
Tory and Olivia ran, waving for Holly to follow them, which she did, and gladly. They all jumped over the writhing siren, careful to avoid its thrashing limbs and tail, scanning the stairwell as they moved. Nothing lurked there; the siren had been alone, for whatever reason. They seemed to be scattering around the ship. That was a good thing. That might keep them alive.
Luis turned to follow the women, and stopped as something locked around his ankle, claws piercing his flesh. He stopped and looked back. The siren had latched on, driving its talons through the fabric of his jeans. It was still writhing, still burning, but it had enough instinct remaining to hold him there.
He turned the torch on the soft flesh of its arm. It wailed, letting him go, falling back. He turned then, and ran, as fast as he could, toward the hope of safety. The stairwell door slammed behind him, leaving the burning siren alone on the deck.
CHAPTER 31
Western Pacific Ocean, above the Mariana Trench: September 3, 2022
Michi Abney died one hour and seven minutes after she’d been shot. It would have happened faster, if not for the medical team doing everything in their power to keep her alive. Her last breath was accompanied by a froth of bloody foam. Dr. Toth took a step backward. The other attending doctors did the same. All three of them stared at the body of the woman who had seemed so vital, so untouchable, verging on immortal.
“Call it,” said Dr. Vail.
“Eleven twenty-two p.m.,” said Dr. Odom. For the first time since the crisis had begun, he turned and looked at the medical bay. Drs. Vail and Toth did the same.
They weren’t alone. Passengers had been arriving in a steady trickle for the last hour, coming in by ones and twos, some holding each other up, almost all of them pale and in shock. They sat on the folding chairs near the walls, on open cots, on the floor itself, anywhere that they would be safely out of the way and not need to fear being asked to leave. That seemed to be the greatest worry of everyone in the room: that they’d be asked to leave, to go out onto the ship and find some other safe haven, some other place to be.
There were four guards outside the door and two more inside, and Dr. Toth wasn’t sure anything would have been enough to make these people feel safe. Maybe not ever again. If they made it back to shore alive, all of these witnesses to Michi’s death were going to have nightmares for the rest of their days.
Good, she thought fiercely. Things like this, moments like this, were meant to be remembered. They were meant to be felt. Let these people feel what it was to truly sail to the ends of the earth. No one who went this far from shore came back unscathed. No one ever could.
Jillian walked to the sink and peeled off her gloves, red with Michi’s blood, viscous with the yellowish fluid that had been pouring from the hunter’s wounds. She dropped them into the basin with a soft thud. They didn’t matter anymore. She was done with medicine on this ship.
Dr. Vail and Dr. Odom were trauma surgeons. They understood what it was to put a body back together. The only reason she had her EMT certification was her time on the old Greenpeace boats, when it had sometimes been necessary for her to perform emergency surgery on someone who’d gotten too close to a harpoon. She’d held men together with her bare hands and baling wire, and she wasn’t sorry. But this …
This was not what she’d signed on for.
Returning to the table where Michi’s body cooled, she picked up the samples taken over the course of the other woman’s treatment, checking the seals on the test tubes and dishes before setting them systematically into her carryall. When she was done, she turned to Dr. Vail.
“I have everything I need,” she said. “I’m going to return to my lab, and see if I can get a better idea of the structure of these toxins. If someone sees Dr. Wilson, please send her to me. She might be able to unlock the protein chains. Holly, please, not Hallie.”
“You can’t be thinking of going out there,” said Dr. Odom. “Those things will eat you alive.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Based on the reports we’re getting from the refugees”—she waved a hand to indicate the scientists—“they’re coming in waves. Haven’t you noticed? They come wave after wave, and each one is larger than the one before. We’re in the lull between right now. There may be a few stragglers on the ship, but for the most part, they’re taking their catch to the bottom of the sea.”
A gasp from somewhere behind her, a muffled sob. Dr. Odom glared. Jillian didn’t care. Glaring wasn’t going to change anything.
“I’ll lock the door once I reach my lab,” she said. “I’ll notify Mr. Blackwell of my position. He won’t blame you if I’m devoured. Any of you. He knows better than to expect anyone to keep me somewhere when I want to be somewhere else. Keep the doors closed. Keep the lights on. And pray. At this point that’s the best you can do.”
She turned and walked out before he could muster a response. That was good; that was what she’d been hoping for. It was always better if she could leave without a big argument, and sometimes saying the unthinkable would shut people down long enough for her to do that. The guards at the door looked at her with dismay but let her pass, presumably because they thought the guards outside would keep her from going any farther. The guards outside looked surprised by her appearance but let her keep going; after all, the guards inside had clearly known what she was going to do.
“No one wants to be the bad guy,” she said, and walked on.
Trails of slime covered everything. Jillian looked up, noting the places where claws had dug divots into the corners. The sirens understood gravity well enough to use it as a weapon, then. That wasn’t something they could practice often, living as deep as they did. Either they’d managed to sink more ships than anyone knew, or they had an excellent method of passing knowledge down through the generations.
“We forgot about you, but you never forgot about us,” she said. “I suppose that gives you the advantage.”
There was blood on the rails, great smears of it every few feet, marking the places where people had been dragged to their deaths. She looked at it impassively, noting how the slime varied in thickne
ss and consistency, trying to find some rhyme or reason in the chaos. Hagfish didn’t control the mucus their bodies created; it was an involuntary reaction to fear, to light, to existence in a cruel, uncaring ocean. Looking at the mess the sirens had made, she didn’t think they had control over their slime either. They were intelligent creatures—there was no question of that—but that didn’t make them monsters out of myth. They were flesh. They had limitations. They could be killed.
The trouble was, humans had been domesticated by their own hand. Humans had given up violence as a way of life, and that was a good thing; that was the reason they had civilization and universities and scientific missions, rather than living in a great chasm in the earth, mirroring their aquatic cousins. But the sirens had never domesticated themselves. The sirens were still nature, red in tooth and claw, and while they might die, humans died so much more easily that it was almost comic.
Jillian kept walking.
For all her bravado in the medical bay, there was a difference between offering a theory and walking bodily into it. She hadn’t felt like this since the first time she’d gone swimming in a sea rife with sharks, feeling their fins brush against her arms as they circled, knowing that at any moment she could be at the mercy of their gloriously efficient teeth. She thought the sirens had moved on. She thought she could make the short trip in safety. Thinking never changed the world. Research did, yes, and study, but that was action. Science was philosophy plus movement. Thought alone couldn’t make the grade.
If she got eaten here, who was going to tell her daughter, and what would they say? Theo would candy-coat it, would say she’d been where she was supposed to be, doing what she was supposed to do, and had died a hero. If he didn’t make it—if both of them died here—maybe no one would think to tell Lani at all. She’d read about it on the news sites. World-renowned, frequently mocked sirenologist dead at sea, along with her estranged corporate husband. Sorry, kiddo, you’re an orphan now.
The thought quickened her pace, not quite goading her into a run. Running would attract the attention of anything that might still be on this side of the ship. Stay calm, keep her steps measured and easy, and she could—
The stairwell door opened. Jillian stumbled back, getting ready to run after all.
Victoria Stewart emerged, one arm around the waist of a weeping but uninjured Olivia Sanderson. Dr. Holly Wilson was behind them, her right hand moving in a constant litany of silent swear words. Luis Martines brought up the rear. Blood was spreading up the left leg of his jeans, and he was holding a small blowtorch.
Tory stopped when she saw Jillian, her eyes going wide. “Dr. Toth!” she said. “What are you doing out here? It’s not safe!”
“No, it’s not. I’m on my way to my lab. I have some blood samples for analysis.” She turned her attention to Holly, raising her hands and signing clumsily, ‘Come with me, you? I need help.’
‘Of course,’ signed Holly. Then: ‘None of these people sign. They’re assholes.’
‘Assholes who are keeping you alive,’ signed Jillian.
Holly laughed, a sound almost as unnerving as her screams. Olivia turned to stare at her.
“We need to get to cover,” said Luis. He took a step, wincing as the loss of momentum translated into pain. “They’re fucking everywhere. And why aren’t the shields down?”
“Maybe because once the sirens reached the ship, lowering the shields would have trapped them inside with us, and we don’t have that many guns,” said Jillian. “Or maybe they ate the captain before he could hit the button. Or maybe because the fucking shutters have never actually worked worth a damn. I don’t know. What I do know is that we shouldn’t be standing around out here. I’m heading for my lab. Come on.”
“Luis is hurt,” said Tory. “He needs medical attention.”
The images of Jason Rothman and Michi Abney flashed through Jillian’s mind. She forced them down and said, “Trust me. You’d rather come to my lab. I can do first aid.” And if those novel toxins had already entered his bloodstream, analyzing the samples she’d taken from Michi and contrasting them to the samples she had from the first siren might be their only chance at coming up with a functional treatment.
The group still looked unsure—all save Holly, who had pushed her way past the others to reach Jillian’s side. It was a choice born of pure, ruthless practicality: Jillian spoke enough sign to let Holly make herself understood. Tory and the others were nice, but they couldn’t understand her. Going with the person who knew her language was the only real choice she could make.
Olivia, who spent her life paying attention to what people weren’t saying as much as to what they were, spoke first. “There’s something you’re not telling us,” she said.
“The list of things I’m not telling you is longer than my arm,” said Jillian. “Come with me now.”
“All right,” said Luis, and crossed the line to join Holly by her side. Olivia and Tory trailed after him, and the group started down the deck.
It was harder to move quietly in a group of this size. Every pair of feet increased the chances of attracting attention. Holly didn’t know how to walk quietly; she didn’t stomp, but she didn’t set her feet down lightly either. That was a skill that required some awareness of what walking sounded like, and she didn’t have it. Jillian ground her teeth and kept going, urging the others along with her, swallowing the desire to leave them. Holly was an organic chemist. The rest might have skills that were less immediately applicable, but there was strength in numbers, and under the circumstances, Jillian wanted any sliver of strength that she could get.
When they reached her lab, the light next to the door was on. Jillian stopped, motioning for the others to do the same.
“Someone’s in there,” she said, and signed ‘Wait’ with her free hand for Holly’s benefit. She might not be able to give the woman full context, but she could at least keep her partially informed. She could at least try.
“Is there somewhere else we could go?” asked Tory, voice low.
Jillian shook her head.
“I was afraid you’d say that,” said Luis, and strode forward, turning the handle before kicking the door open, bringing his blowtorch up and aiming it directly in front of him.
Theodore Blackwell, sitting in Jillian’s desk chair, lifted his head and looked quizzically at Luis. “What are you planning to do with that?” he asked. “I am neither a marshmallow to roast nor a seam to solder. You might be better off with a brick, assuming you can find one. Blunt trauma is traditional for a reason.”
“Theo,” said Jillian, pushing past Luis. She made for the desk, leaving the others to follow or not, as they chose. They filed in behind her, Olivia pausing to close and lock the door behind them. “What are you doing here? My agreement with Imagine includes a private lab, which means you shouldn’t be entering it willy-nilly.”
“The ship is under attack; people are dying; the shutters are not ready for deployment; you are my wife,” he said mildly. “I don’t believe this can be considered ‘willy-nilly.’”
“I’m not sure my contract includes exemptions for sea monster attack.” She began emptying her carryall, putting her samples on the desk. One attempted to roll off; she caught it and placed it back with the others. “Don’t you have work to do? Shouldn’t you, at the very least, be with the captain, trying to figure out why he can’t close the damn shields already? People are dying, as you so charmingly say, and I can’t see where closing the doors and giving ourselves a shooting gallery could possibly make that any worse. Who knows? It might make a few things better. I think we’re well overdue for something that gets better.”
“The captain stopped responding to com calls an hour ago,” said Theo. He didn’t move from the chair where he had settled. “Two guard teams were sent to find out what was happening. Neither of them came back.”
“That’s encouraging,” muttered Jillian. She began sorting her samples. “Where’s the other Dr. Wilson, and your little pr
otégé? Have they been eaten yet?”
“They were in my private lab, attempting to communicate with the creature, last I saw,” said Theo wearily. He closed his eyes. “It’s been some time. I haven’t called down. I don’t want to disrupt them.”
“You mean you don’t want to know if they’re dead.”
“Yes. That, too.”
Tory frowned. “Hold on. What do you mean, ‘communicate with the creature’? Do you still have the siren?”
“Of course he does,” said Jillian, continuing to sort her samples. “He’s planning to take the thing back to shore with us, see what he can find out when he has more time to work. See what Imagine can learn. They’re not a scientific company, but I’m sure they can come up with something about a real, live siren that will benefit them. Barnum did pretty well for himself, after all.”
“Did you stop to consider that maybe that’s why they’re attacking?!” Olivia’s voice rose to a shrill squeak.
“Scientific advancement has always been a dangerous beast, needing to be grabbed and grappled before it could be fully understood,” said Theo. “My superiors said, ‘Get a mermaid,’ and I’ve done my best to oblige. It’s going to be a bit awkward if I don’t survive the retrieval, but I suppose that’s going to be someone else’s problem.”
Jillian’s hands slowed, finally stopping as she turned to look at Theo for the first time since entering the room. He was reclining in the chair, legs extended. His uninjured leg was crossed over the other one; he often sat that way when he felt unwell, preventing any twitches or spasms from attracting unwanted attention.
He was pale. His skin looked clammy, and beads of sweat stood out on his temples, as if he had just been running. He couldn’t possibly have been running. Even if he’d wanted to, his leg wouldn’t have allowed it.