Hell Divers

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “Run!” he shouted. But looking up, he saw there was nowhere to go. The metal roof was rattling so hard, it was only a matter of time before the storm peeled it back and sucked them right out the top.

  Jones hesitated on the broken stairs, huddling against a wall and covering his head with his arms. With nowhere to hide, there was only one option.

  Weaver pressed his left palm against the wall for balance. With his right hand, he fished in the cargo pocket on his left leg and pulled a coil of 550-pound test paracord. Uncoiling it, he handed one end to Jones.

  “Tie it on your belt!” Weaver yelled.

  “No,” Jones said, waving it away. “We can’t go out there!”

  “We take our chances out there or we get crushed in here! Pick your poison!”

  Above them, a section of roof peeled back like the skin of an orange. They were out of time.

  “That’s an order!” Weaver shouted.

  Jones took the end of rope from his hand and tied it in a figure eight to his belt. Grabbing the door handle, Weaver yelled for Jones to follow. He put his shoulder against it, using all his strength to push it open. The concrete walls of the staircase broke off behind them, the fragments tumbling down the stairs and narrowly missing Jones. The building swayed, throwing them against each other in the concrete stairwell as the structural metal gave out a loud groan.

  Weaver gritted his teeth, wishing he could remember the prayer Jones had whispered a few minutes earlier. He tried to plant his boots as he stepped outside, but the wind took him the moment his feet were out the door. The rope on his belt tightened and yanked Jones from the doorway. The next instant, both divers were sucked into the white void, their screams swallowed up by the howling wind.

  * * * * *

  X gave up waiting for Tin to come out of his room.

  “I’ll be back later,” he said on his way out. He locked the door behind him and headed down the corridor. His destination wasn’t far. The scruffy bar called the Wingman was only a few passages away.

  He walked with his hands in his pockets, eyes downcast. The white flicker of a single light told him he was close. It was like the beacon of a lighthouse, warning ships away from the shore. X ignored the warning every time.

  The familiar scratchy mechanical sound of an ancient CD player greeted him at the entrance. Hearing the thumping guitar strains of “All Along the Watchtower,” he grinned. The centuries-old Jimi Hendrix tune reflected his mood perfectly.

  He nodded at Marv, a middle-aged former Militia soldier who had bought the shit hole of a bar when his term was up.

  “Evenin’, X. What can I do you out of?” The burly barkeep finished wiping a glass with a rag of dubious cleanliness.

  “Usual.” X scanned the faces of the other three patrons, recognizing none of them. Fine with him—he wasn’t here to talk.

  Marv muttered something to a woman at the end of the bar—she was in X’s seat. She grabbed her glass, gave X a scowl, and squeezed past him. He took her place and reached for the mug of ’shine that Marv had already set out. Two gulps, and it was gone. He welcomed the burn—welcomed feeling of any kind after the week he’d had.

  X hit his chest with a fist and signaled for another. He didn’t care that Captain Ash had ordered him to stay away from the ’shine tonight. With the liquid warming his gut, he felt happier than he had in a while. And that, he knew, was a bad sign.

  “Not taking it slow tonight?” Marv asked.

  “Got things to forget.”

  He filled the glass to the rim this time. “Don’t we all, brother!”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said the man sitting to his right.

  X didn’t reply. He stared at the only decoration in the bar—a painting of some ancient battle. Men wearing plate armor swung swords at one another, spilling blood on the grassy fields of a place forgotten to time.

  “You’re a Hell Diver, aren’t ya’?” the man asked.

  Slamming down the liquid, X tilted his head ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of the talkative patron. He was middle-aged, with a rough face and black dreadlocks down past his shoulders. He looked familiar, but X wasn’t here to think about the past. He wasn’t here to think at all.

  “The red jumpsuit give it away?” X said reluctantly. He tapped his empty glass on the table and anticipated the man’s next question.

  “I knew some Hell Divers once. They said you guys don’t talk about what you see, but come on, man.” He nudged X in the side. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

  X didn’t like that. His body was the only real estate he truly owned on the cramped airship. Invade, and there were apt to be problems.

  “They were right,” X said.

  The man squinted. “Hey, I’ve seen you before. You’ve been around a while. I know you’ve, you know, seen things.”

  Marv froze, his hand stuck inside another glass with the same dingy rag. He kept an eye on X but didn’t say a word.

  “Come on, just one story,” the drunk wheedled. “I heard you guys found life down there recently.” He wiggled a finger again, back and forth. “But not human life.”

  X didn’t like that, either. Rumors annoyed him. His vision began to fade as the ’shine took hold of his senses. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he considered telling the man about the beasts down on the surface, just to see his reaction.

  Marv cut in. “Why don’t you get going, pal. You’ve had enough ’shine tonight.”

  “Wasn’t talking to you,” the man replied. Shifting his glazed eyes back to X, he reached out as if to touch the scar above his eye. “I know you got some stories in you.”

  X grabbed his hand, stood, and whipped the arm back around into a hammer lock. Now he remembered where he had seen him. It was the same guy from the hallway earlier, who had mouthed off to the Militia soldiers.

  The man resisted, jerking his arm, but X was quick, pushing the trapped hand farther up between the shoulder blades as his other hand bounced the man’s head off the table. The smack of bone on wood resounded in the small space.

  The man struggled to get free. “Lay off, man! You think you’re so goddamn special, don’t you? You got any idea how the rest of us live? I think …”

  X hiked the arm up a little higher, and the words trailed off into a whimper. The other customers scattered from the bar.

  “You weren’t thinking all that much,” X said. As suddenly as he had grabbed the man, he loosened his grip and let him go.

  “Shit,” Marv said. Putting the “clean” mug down on the bar, he readied the rag for messier duty.

  A beat later, the drunk slid his face off the bar. He staggered backward, murmuring a string of profanities.

  Marv mopped up the streak of blood with a quick sweep. “Now, hike your ass out of here!”

  The man stumbled away, cupping his mouth with his right hand and flashing the middle finger of his left. He mumbled something, X heard only the tail end of it.

  “My dad was never like you.”

  X shook his head and plopped back down on the stool. “Sorry, Marv,” he said, watching the man limp into the hallway.

  “Guy had it coming,” Marv said, running the rag over the counter one more time. “But you’re picking up his tab since you’re the reason he didn’t pay.”

  “Yeah. No problem,” X replied, downing a final drink. He tossed his credit voucher onto the table and waited for Marv to run it. “Don’t happen to know who that guy was, do you?”

  “Only been here a few times.” Marv slid the voucher back to X, then looked at the ceiling, deep in thought. “Trey? No, Travis. I think his name’s Travis. Yeah, that’s it.”

  X had known a Travis once, the son of a former diver on Team Angel. Had that kid really grown up to be such a waste of space? X had never bothered to look in on him after his father died. Was that what he was mumbling about?
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  His mind was pleasantly clouded from the ’shine. It was time for him to go home. In a few short hours, he would meet his new team—more divers that he would likely be leading to their death.

  * * * * *

  Travis Eddie stumbled down the rungs to the lower decks, putting a hand to the goose egg on his forehead. He was drunk and angry—an unstable combination. He felt at the threshold of his self-control, but he couldn’t let the gasket blow. He had to stay in control. With two strikes on his record, he was one away from the brig. And if he ended up there, he could never help the lower-deckers or his brother. Rotting away down here was unendurable, but the thought of the dark gallows—now, that made him shudder.

  No. He was not going out like that. Not before he saw some changes on the ship.

  He stopped at the bottom of the stairwell and flicked a dreadlock over his shoulder. The moment he opened the hatch to the first compartment, he heard the sporadic coughing of sick passengers.

  Hundreds of bunks lined each wall as far as he could see. Some were surrounded by metal partitions; others were blocked off by nothing more substantial than blankets thrown over makeshift clothing racks. For most, a thin piece of muslin cloth was the only privacy they had from the other bunks.

  This was the first of two compartments housing the four hundred lower-deckers. He was lucky to live in the first. The second contained those afflicted with radiation poisoning. He made his way over there only if he had to. The suffering was almost too much to bear. Because of leaking radiation, more and more children were born with deformities. Those who survived early childhood rarely left the second compartment, where they lived like caged animals, confined to their filthy mattresses and forced to rely on their parents.

  Captain Ash and her staff rarely ventured down here. Maybe it was easier to live up there and forget about those below. Travis couldn’t deny that Ash had made some changes as captain: increased rations, a doctor who made rounds every other day, a crew of engineers who worked to seal off the radiation. But they were hardly enough, and there was more food to go around, but it never seemed to make it down here.

  Travis felt a silent scream of rage well up inside him. It wasn’t right. No one should have to live like this, and yet, this was how it had been his entire life.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he fought the spins from the ’shine. He shouldn’t have mouthed off to the Hell Diver. That was a mistake. Next time, he would be smarter.

  After the nausea passed, he used the nighttime glow from weak LEDs overhead to navigate his way to his bed. There was just enough light to show him the gaunt faces of those already asleep. Most, like him, were between the ages of twenty and thirty, though they looked twice that. Anyone much older didn’t live long—not down here. Flu and cancer were rampant. The average life expectancy was right around thirty-seven years, so he had maybe a decade of this to look forward to.

  Travis passed a small candlelight vigil where a dozen monks meditated. He stumbled past them. He had lost his faith a long time ago.

  Ahead, Travis saw a line snaking toward the centrally located shit cans. He joined the end of the line. The single metal hatch squeaked open, then shut, as each passenger did what they could to keep the putrid smells mostly isolated by shutting the hatch when done. The trick was to take a deep breath just before entering and hold it as long as you could. Then you could postpone the real suffering until hypoxia forced you to let it out and inhale the stink.

  When it was finally his turn, drunk enough to forget this dictum, he staggered inside and almost vomited. With no air circulation, the stench of ammonia and excrement made his eyes water. He squeezed between two men and pissed into one of a dozen wide holes cut into the floor. From there, tubes sucked the waste through the bowels of the ship, to the digester, where it became methane gas for cooking, and compost for the farm. It was best not to think too hard about how they managed the biomass on the Hive.

  No one inside spoke; they were too busy holding their breath. Travis bore down, voiding his bladder as fast as he could, then zipped up and staggered back out into the relatively clear air of the corridor. He hurried back to his bed and plopped onto his back. He didn’t bother pulling the curtain across the railing he had fashioned from salvaged wire.

  “That you, Trav?” said a rough voice.

  He glanced over to the next bed. Alex was sitting up in his bunk, with his legs thrown over the side. The scarf he normally wore over his face hung loosely over his chest. In the weak light, Travis could see the tight skin on his friend’s right cheek and chin, where doctors had removed the melanomal cancer. Ten years ago, Alex had been one of the best-looking kids on the ship, but the cancer had taken part of his face—and, Travis sometimes thought, part of his mind.

  “What happened to your head?” Alex asked.

  “Ran into a Hell Diver.”

  “You kiddin’ me, man? One that knew your dad?”

  Travis shook his head. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  Alex snorted. “Whatever. They’re all the same. And they’re all going to pay.”

  Travis closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about his dad right now, or what he must do to help the lower-deckers. Nor did he want to talk to his crazy-ass friend. He just wanted to sleep off the ’shine so he could visit his brother in the morning.

  SEVEN

  Tin glanced at X as they walked down the corridor to the school. He wanted to tell him he didn’t need an escort, that he could get there just fine on his own, but it didn’t matter. The diver wasn’t much different from his dad: bullheaded. But at least, his dad had listened to him. X wouldn’t listen even if Tin had something to say. He was too selfish for that. X hadn’t always been this way. He had changed. Now he was nothing but a barely functioning drunk.

  So Tin kept his mouth shut and his head down, especially at school. The other kids teased him and made fun of his hat. But they didn’t know his secret. His hat wasn’t just a hat. It had a force field that protected him from their comments. They bounced right off. He knew because his dad had told him so when he made it.

  “Come on,” X said, reaching out for the boy’s hand when they came to the next intersection. Dozens of residents were trying to squeeze through the clogged hallway at once.

  Tin hesitated, suddenly terrified. Everything seemed bleaker, darker. Had engineering turned off more lights? Even in the dimness, he caught a glimpse of the purple bags rimming X’s eyes. He looked exhausted. Tin had heard him stumble in around nine, but that ruckus hadn’t kept him awake—it was the sound of X puking. The sound made him shiver. It reminded him that he was an orphan stuck with a boozer.

  “Tin, let’s go,” X insisted, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him through the crowd.

  They kept to the right, hugging the wall. The school was past the medical bay. He hated walking by the glass doors. Each time, it seemed as if more people were there, waiting for a doctor—more people sick with cancer or the cough.

  Tin sneaked a look as they passed the clinic. The lobby was already full: young and old, men and women. Cancer didn’t discriminate. Neither did the cough.

  He looked away and continued toward the sagging yellow sign that read “School.” Parents lingered outside the entrance, hugging their children before rushing off to their jobs. Tin looked up at X. The guy would never be a parent to him. He couldn’t even take care of himself.

  And he hadn’t been able to save Tin’s dad, either.

  “Have a good day, kid,” X said.

  Tin hiked the backpack farther up on his shoulders and walked past him. He felt in the tool pouch on his belt and pulled out the old coin his father had given him. One side had a bird, the other a man’s face. Both were almost worn away. Tin didn’t know who it was supposed to be or how much the coin had once been worth, but rubbing its smooth surface always made him feel better.

  There’s a difference between fighti
ng for what you believe in and killing for what you believe in. Violence is never the answer.

  He had never found the right moment to ask his father what he had meant when he spoke those words two years ago, after the riots. But he would never forget the line.

  “See ya later, X. Have a great day,” X said to his back.

  The boy shrugged it off. X meant well, but in a few years Tin would apply for a job in engineering and have his own room assigned to him. He was only ten, but he was good at building things out of spare parts: robots, grow lights, toys, and computers. And they were accepting recruits younger and younger. The ship needed him, just as it had needed his dad.

  Tin slipped the coin back in the pouch and zipped it shut. He hustled through the open door, leaving X in the hallway.

  The compartment was separated into four classrooms. His was at the end of the passage on the right. A group of kids were gathered outside the door, blocking the entrance. He avoided eye contact and tried to slip between them.

  A tall, slender frame stepped in his way. “Hey, Tin!” Andrew said. “Where ya headed?”

  Tin wanted to say, Where do you think I’m going, idiot? But he just pointed over Andrew’s shoulder.

  He knew what came next, and didn’t even bother trying to stop Andrew’s hand. The tinfoil hat fell to the floor. The other kids chuckled. Tin took a step backward and stooped to pick up the hat, but a pair of hands beat him to it.

  He glanced up and saw Layla Brower. A curtain of shoulder-length brown hair fell across her face, but it didn’t hide her perfect smile.

  She straightened and handed Tin his hat.

  “Why don’t you troglodytes find something else to do?” Layla said. “Maybe make yourselves useful. You know, if you put your heads together, you might be able to fix a broken shit can or something.”

  “Oh, did your dad teach you how to do that?” Andrew shot back. “He works in the sewers, right?”

  Layla’s face turned pink, and Tin wondered whether she was going to slug the boy. Her hands shook at her sides, but before she could react, the door swung open.