“Well, no, but how hard could it be?”
“Dude. People Juicer. Look, we have time to think about this. If we’re this fucked down here, it stands to reason that Drews and his goons are equally distracted. Hey, get close to the wall for a second, let me check.”
He obeys, letting me place his left hand against a bit of wall where one of my thread-thin black tendrils still runs. I make contact with the fiber of neurons within and let go of my main body’s senses.
Blurs. Nothing but claustrophobic blurs. I’m back in the tank, squeezed in on every side by pounds and pounds of contaminated water—
Lucas presses one of his armored hands to his heart, over which my own hand is stretched protectively. “Hey. You okay?”
I’m free. I just have to stay free. Just a little longer. And then this will all have been a bad dream. This containment, this infection, this life.
I suck in a deep breath and focus on the blurs, shifting consciousness from one to the next. Every corridor in the facility teems with monsters. Upstairs, Drews battles for his life, fighting off a motherfucking needle dragon so huge, it keeps slamming into the walls. For some reason, the asshole isn’t using his hammer; it hangs from his belt, still closed. Trapped soldiers barricade themselves behind overturned beds and pump round after round into the shrieking beasts of Hell.
I check the surveillance room, and—
“Oh,” I mumble, and break the connection. “Oh, no.”
“What? Are you alright?”
“There was a, um.” My voice is cracking. I hate it. I hate it all. “There was this sweet old man. He knew about me, and . . . He wanted to break me out. He, um.”
“Mr. Condy,” Lucas whispers.
“The, the monsters,” I manage, and break down sobbing.
Lucas can’t grip my hand, but he presses it, his skin cool against mine. He’s stunned.
I can’t help my distress. It attacks me, shivering my body and paralyzing my mind. I pictured my escape so vividly, in so much variation — and though my own disintegration was wonderfully likely, I didn’t see much danger for the old man. There was no way Drews would just kill him, and the facility was relatively safe from needle monsters.
Was.
It hits me, then: “FOB Abbott is down. Someone will send out a distress call. Reinforcements will arrive. We have less time than I thought.”
Lucas shakes off his stun. “I’ve failed half of my mission. I’m not failing your half. We need to keep moving forward.”
Yet the ex feeding frenzy continues — and when it abates, the insatiable swarm will turn on us. His ceiling-crawler idea has gotten me thinking, and now I eye the cinder block wall to our right. “You ever play Tomb Raider?”
“Whatever it is, please tell me you’re good at it.”
“Oh, I suck, but I watched Vee play it one time, and there was this move— What are the hook things called? The climb-y hook things? With a rope? And you throw it?”
“A grappling hook? There’s nothing in here to grapple.”
“Ah, yes, but my body works based on video game physics that don’t make fucking sense. So I’m going to make an extremely sharp stake, and you’re going to throw it at the wall up there—” I point his arm, then hand, at a spot on the right-hand wall, above the writhing mass of black needles.
“And it can penetrate rock?”
“Your mother asked me the same thing last night. Yes, it can, and then I’ll drill in deeper for extra security. Whole thing connected to your forearm armor by a long tendril. Then you can run across the wall while gripping it, and I’ll make it automatically contract and release for maximum arc.”
He looks slightly ill. “That sounds complicated.”
“No, no, it’ll be great. You’ll love it.” I ready the grappling hook. “Story for the grandkids.”
The lattice gives up its drained and bleeding operator, but only slowly. The man struggles weakly at first, then more ferociously as his arms come free. With Io’s help, he steps out of it and onto the edge of the high platform.
“Veronica.”
Io steadies him, staring up into his face in open-mouthed shock. “Oh, God.”
As he gasps for breath, he runs a hand through his long hair and realizes that it has turned black. His face— His eyes feel different. “Am—” He coughs as his vocal cords adjust. “Am I Japanese?”
“Oh, God.”
So he’s finally subsumed poor Zechariah. The thought brings him guilt, but also profound relief. At some point, he’ll just have to get used to fucking up people’s lives. (The trickles of blood from his eyes and nose are finally tapering off.)
He meets Io’s tearful stare, touches her cheek. “I see you. No one else recognized you. But I would always know you.”
“Kazuma,” she moans, reaching up and weaving her fingertips into his hair. “We thought you were dead. We didn’t even t-tell the soldiers you existed!”
He pulls her close, so desperate to hold her that he nearly throws them off the edge. She presses against his chest, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. They sit like this for a moment, their hearts of needle beating the same deep, grateful rhythm.
“How much do you know?” she whispers at last.
He’s already sorting back through memories of the past few days. “Your ‘sister’.”
“Yes.”
He laughs despite himself. “She tried to destroy all three of us and failed three out of three.”
Io sits up, staring at him. “I know I’ve said this before, but if you only listen to me once in our entire lives, let it be now: I need you and Eden to not kill each other today.”
He bares his teeth. “She shot me. She blew my brains out — and if they hadn’t fallen into this poor fucker’s open head wound, I would have been destroyed—”
“And when all of this is over, I invite the two of you to settle the score however you deem fit, bearing in mind that you’re both literally immortal — but right now, it’s more important to get her out of there.” Io gets up and moves to the lattice, reluctantly lets it start to engulf her body. “I’m counting on you.”
He stands, staring down at her as the lattice covers her face. “All I ever wanted was to protect my girls.”
“And I still want the three of us to escape somewhere, together. Show her she can trust us. Show her she needs us.” Then her mouth is closed, her forehead disappearing, her body engulfed from foot to crown.
Kazuma turns and, ignoring the halfhearted vines of the guardian, leaps ten yards across bottomless darkness and lands on the edge of the pit. Then he continues forward, slowing only long enough to snatch up the backpack. It’ll be something to fling at the first monster he sees, creating a crucial distraction.
His needle instinct — the being he calls Tedrin — is awake now, stretching and looking about after its months of hibernation. It guides him away from the pit, toward a particular rip in space. It smells like Earth.
“So there I was! Landing on my ass two inches from a fucking blender made of alien monsters, breaking my tailbone—”
“You didn’t break shit,” I mutter, helping him stand up. “I cushioned most of the blow.”
“I’m still not going to be able to walk straight for days. Ah!” He grimaces over his shoulder at me. “No more ‘your mother’ jokes, please.”
We limp down the corridor, though I still think he’s being melodramatic. We’re nearly to the corner, beyond which is the stair leading up. As we dodge around monsters that have settled in to feed on their fallen prey, Lucas explains that he, Io (Vee), and their friend Zechariah found the spire I’ve dreamed about. With it, they can supposedly control the portals.
I want to jump for joy, but considering my physical circumstances, I have to settle for putting a little extra spring in Lucas’ step. “Let’s get back across so we can close the damn things, then. People can start moving back into Gothic tomorrow, and I’ll be long-gone.”
By the time the stair is in sight, a
n unspoken plan has formed between us: Keep going until we find a portal. If we meet an obstacle we can’t pass, we hole up until a portal appears. It’s really our only option. We have no reason to remain here now that Mr. Condy is dead — after all, Lucas also mentioned that he left one of the hammers on the other side. (It’s probably Mjolnir. How fitting.)
Gosh, I sure would like to see one of ‘dose portals right now. I’m not saying Vee is a flake, buuuut there is a distinct lack of portals, and Vee has a worrying history of flakiness. Now would not be a good time for her to—
Lucas stops to catch his breath. “You said something about stopping bullets earlier. How’s that work?”
“Uh— Um, like neurons, sort of. Brain cells. They process huge volumes of data at incredible speed. So imagine a pea-sized chunk of brain containing millions of neurons — programmed for a few very specific scenarios, given some basic sensory organs, and moved to the center of your chest, directly over your heart. A bullet is fired at it, but it detects the bullet with microseconds to spare, and shoots out a high-speed tendril of needles to strike the bullet off its trajectory.”
“You can do that? You can make something that advanced?”
If I had any spare blood flow, I’d be blushing. “I wouldn’t call them ‘advanced’. But yeah. I’ve got two made so far, and—”
“Okay, so you can block bullets.” He blows out a breath and fights for a second wind, then pulls a handgun from under his belt and checks it. “How good are you with guns?”
“With shotguns, I can usually avoid blowing my brains out — and there my experience ends. I’ll let you lead.”
He grips the gun with both hands, pointed at the floor. “Let’s dance.”
Oh, that was so lame, but so cool. I gradually sync myself with his steps, reshaping and rethinking with every microscopic movement, allowing his instincts to take control. We enter a state of flow together, in which he glances, I turn — he aims, I steady — he realizes danger even as I protect him from it.
Monsters lurk in the shadows where ceiling lights were smashed during the initial rampage. We stand on the edge of a circle of light, not wanting to reveal ourselves fully to the awaiting.
Two exes roll up out of the near-darkness at dizzying speed. One buzzes loudly as it bears down on us. Lucas’ gun is already up, but he’s aiming at a creature less than an inch wide—
I steady his shoulder and elbow.
BLAM
The ex breaks apart and collapses past our feet. He’s already adjusting his aim to the second monster. BLAM, and it joins its swarm-mate in a tailspin across the smooth floor.
More coming. Many other kinds of more. Yet I feel Lucas come to intoxicating realization: He has been soft and weak and vulnerable all his life, and now he is not. I crow softly, weak and short on breath, while his body and mine slam forward into the flood. I fear losing myself in bloodlust — and yet when we do, I love every second of it.
There’s a momentary break in the action, though dark things lurk ahead. Lucas leans against the wall, breathing hard. “You’re pretty good at this,” he mutters, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Yeah, you too. This is almost kind of fun. Am I overheating you?”
He shakes his head. “Let’s keep m—”
The ground moves subtly under our feet. Without really thinking about it, I shoot a spike of solid needles out of Lucas’ left-hand wrist cover. “Coming in from below!”
He rams the spear into the floor as hard as we can, burying half its length. The moment its tip tastes dirt, I split it into a cage of spines. The branching spines encounter rising flesh and rip it to shreds.
The rumbling stops.
“What was that?” Lucas demands, staring down at the hair-thin crack that has appeared in the concrete running from one end of the corridor to the next. But I’m already pushing us up — breaking off the spear at its base — and moving forward, always forward.
Our arms become bladed from wrist to elbow, the edges sharpened to a nano-point. Lucas slices through exes, dodging and jabbing and narrowly avoiding the buzzing, thorny limbs. One slams into him bodily, but I stretch bands of needles between him and it, just barely protecting his skin from their vibrating micro-hooks.
Nearly to the stair. Nearly there. Just a little farther.
Lucas slashes an arm across the mouth of a lamprey, then spears it and twists the spearhead to the ground. His heart slams in his chest, and his breathing is labored. I’m overheating him.
Sweat pours down his face and back, and I fight not to absorb its moisture — not because it’s gross or anything, hahahaha, I did far worse in that tank — but because I would leave behind enough salt to tear up his skin.
At last, the monsters begin to dwindle. We haven’t seen any portals in a while. Vee or Lucas’ other friend has regained control of them, and our ride will probably appear any second.
We’ve reached the stairs. After a moment of silent debate, Lucas makes to climb up, and I let him. We reach the metal gate and see that the corridor beyond is in much the same state as the one behind us — smashed lights, scattered monster bodies, 90s college architecture.
“I’m getting down,” I tell Lucas, already gathering my flesh back into my arms, legs, and torso. “Don’t want to give you heatstroke.”
He nods, gasping, and leans against the bars. I carefully slide down his back and land on quivering legs. His jacket is still intact; I try to subtly pull it downward to protect my modesty. I think I’m covered, and in any case, he’s probably not looking.
“Can you get this open?” he asks, looking up and around at the gate.
“Lemme see.” I put my shoulder between two bars and slide sideways, compressing my skull a little. In seconds, I’ve stepped through and am standing on the other side.
Lucas’ eyes are painfully wide. “Damn.”
“Sorry. Hold on, let me check the keypad.” I bend down to examine it, trying to see if the buttons’ wear patterns indicate which digits are in the code. Of course, it could be fifteen digits, in which case wear would be pretty evenly distr—
“Eden!” he snaps, gripping the bars with both hands. I see him staring down the corridor behind me, and I whip around to see—
Drews stomps our way, boots loud on the needle-scattered tiles. He’s trying desperately to open his hammer. The radio at his belt screeches and screams.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper, getting to my feet. “Oh, it’s all so quick. I . . . Thank you.” I turn to Lucas. “Thank you for saving me. I want you to have a blessed life, okay?”
He reaches through and grips my shoulder. “Come back down with me!”
“If he pulses that thing, I’m dead no matter where I am in this building. The best I can do now is talk to him.” I reluctantly pull loose from his grip. “I won’t let him take me alive again. But maybe I’ll get a chance to escape.”
“Come with me and we can find a portal—”
“Go, before he shoots you. I’ll buy you time to get back to the other side.”
He bares his teeth. “I can’t let you walk to your death like this! I’m here to save you!”
My heart clenches, and I can no longer meet his eye. “You did. Thank you.” I swallow, fighting back tears — of all the ends I pictured, none hurt this much. “Go.”
Desperately, “What about my jacket?” He jabs a finger in my face. “Are you going to return my jacket?”
I clutch the leather a little closer around myself, more conscious than ever of my nakedness now that I know how I’m going to die. There’s a long, crackling sound in my head, like a great tree falling. I babble something about making sure he gets it, then hurriedly turn my back on him.
Drews stands a few yards away, watching me. The hammer hangs from his good hand, still closed. He’s turned off his radio; we stand in echoing silence.
I hear Lucas’ steps recede downstairs. My heart hurts. My body quakes. I notice the way the dim light throws deep shadows under Drews’ brow, the
way splashed ichor drips slowly down the cinder block wall. I am vivid with the experience of being alive.
“Let him go,” I whisper, meeting the tall man’s eyes with a force of will alien even to myself. “He’s a good man. Reminds me of you, the day we first met.”
“The day you should have died.”
I flinch despite myself; the calm hatred in his voice is a tuning fork that sends harsh vibrations across my chest. I decide to ignore his interjection. “We’ve both seen some shit since that day.” I take a step forward, my bare foot still a little unsure. “You’ve received a battlefield promotion, and . . . I’m trying to be charitable here, but even you have to admit, you’ve handled things poorly.”
“My first mistake was keeping you alive.”
My eyes are drawn to his hammer once more. "What's wrong?” I ask as I approach. “With the hammer, I mean, not all of the, uh . . ." I look around at the cracked walls and dead needle monsters. ". . . karma."
He stares down at me. It is the ugliest look I have ever seen a human being give. I once thought Drews an unemotional man, but I was wrong: He is now kindled.
"You like puzzles," he grits. "Solve this one for me. Every time I try to open this," and he brandishes the closed hammer, maybe expecting me to flinch, "nothing happens. And each time, I hear a voice in my head whisper— Over and over again, it says, ‘You and yours are unworthy to wield the hammers of the gods’.”
I blink up at him, frowning. “What? Whose voice? That’s absurd. You’re lying or you’re hallucinating. You’re probably lying.”
He brandishes the hammer again. “If I could wipe you off the face of my planet right now, I would. But your reaction tells me that you don’t know the cause.”
I hesitate. Now that we’re here, face-to-face, these words are more difficult to speak than I expected. “Why . . . Why would I want to prevent you from using the hammer? I mean, you’re obviously unworthy, and part of me is glad someone finally made it official, but . . . I . . .”
His stare gains an element of suspicion. “What?”
New Night (Gothic Book 2) Page 19