by Rajan Khanna
“Thank God,” I say.
“I shot at it so many times,” she says, her face full of panic. “The two of us barely brought it down.”
“I don’t think they feel pain,” I say. I grab her and meet her eyes. “Hey, I need you to do something for me.”
“What?”
“I need you to find a rickshaw, and I need you to get back to the Council headquarters. See who you can find. We need more Keepers here.”
“All of the Keepers were called to report to the eastern side, to help with the anti-aircraft efforts.”
“That’s because they don’t know what’s happening here. They need to know. Need to know these things are attacking. Can you do that?”
She looks blank for a moment. Then nods. “Yes.”
“Good. Now go find a rickshaw. And keep alert. There are more of these things.”
“How many?” she asks.
“Too many,” I say. “Now go quickly. Bring whatever help you can.”
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“Whatever I can,” I say.
I loop back around to where Miranda is because I just want to content myself that the house is okay. Which it is. As strong as these Ferals are, I don’t think they can get inside. But I’m not completely sure, so at least checking gives me a small bit of peace of mind.
I hope Miranda’s awake and still has that automatic.
Then I hear more gunfire and I head toward it. What are you doing, Ben? My hidden voice says. You’re running toward danger.
But what else can I do?
Three people surround one of the mutants. Two have rifles and one a pistol, and they’re unloading into it. The Feral is covering itself with its massive arms as shot after shot tears into it. And as I move closer, reloading, they move in on the Feral.
It slumps forward.
Then erupts into a chaotic flailing, arms swinging, legs kicking. One of the people goes flying into a nearby house, colliding with a sickening crunch. With the other hand, the Feral grabs another of the people, drawing it close, sinking teeth into the person’s face. All I can see are the eyes around the scarf and hat, then everything is red.
I move forward, firing with the shotgun, aiming for the creature’s head. Once. Twice. Shot explodes into the thing’s skull. At least that seems the same as a human’s. Not as protected by thick muscle. It falls to the ground, missing the top part of its head.
The person without a face is dead, and the one that hit the wall isn’t moving. But the third person is writhing on the ground, a deep wound in her side. She looks up at me, as if to plead. And here it is, one of those moments. Because I can’t do anything to save her, and she may just be infected by the Bug. These Ferals may be mutated, but they’re still Ferals. I think about shooting her, but she may survive. “Hold tight,” I say. “Help is coming.”
It might be a lie. I hope it’s not a lie.
I turn around, fish out a knife from my pocket, lay it on the ground within her reach. “If things get bad,” I say.
Then I keep on moving.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
More screams. More gunfire.
To the east I see a smoke trail climb into the sky, see an airship take fire on its nose. Score at least one for Tamoanchan.
When I round the corner, I see a mutant bent over a body. It’s pulling out entrails, stuffing them into its mouth. It looks up at me. I level the shotgun at it, aiming for the head. I’m pulling the trigger when I hear the growl behind me.
Instinctively, I move to the side and my shot goes wide just as the Feral behind me tries to swing at me.
Fuck me. Two of them.
I unload the shotgun on the one closest to me, then, when that goes dry, I drop it and pull out my pistols. The revolver is in my right hand, the automatic in my left, and I aim one at each of them, firing one at a time. Left. Right. Left. Right.
Until I realize I’m wasting ammunition on poor aiming.
I back away.
The one that I shot with the shotgun moves to his friend and, feeling outnumbered, I run.
I barrel down the street, my breath loud and fast, and I’m sure both of them are behind me. I need to figure out a way to get the advantage. Especially since their legs are stronger than mine.
I weave in and out of streets, cutting around houses, hoping that the quick movements will increase my lead. I’m afraid to look behind me.
Don’t look behind yourself, you idiot.
I hear a growl behind me, and I dive to the side just as the Feral pounces on where I used be. Ignoring my aching body, I pull my pistols and fire at the thing, unloading on its head with both pistols.
It goes down as the pistols both click on empty.
And I look up into the other one’s face. This one is male. Dark-skinned. Muscles bulge everywhere I can see. It moves toward me, spit dripping from its face.
And I got rid of my knife.
Then I hear someone say, “Eat this!” and I look up to see Rosie on the other side of the street, a weapon in her hands. Next to her is Diego in a rickshaw. Then a vapor trail shoots from the weapon and suddenly the Feral is exploding and I feel heat and smoke lick over me.
I cover my face, and when I look again, the Feral’s a burning mess of meat. Diego and Rosie come over to me and help me to my feet.
“I am so happy to see you.” I look at Rosie. “Both of you. How did you find me?”
“Someone came looking for help. Said the crazy ship captain sent her.”
“And you thought of me?”
Diego shrugs. “Who else?”
“Nice weapon you have there,” I say.
“We brought one for you,” Diego says. He hands me the long cylinder. “They’ve been using them against the ships, but we thought they might be of use here. I can’t use it with my arm.”
“I’ll be glad to,” I say.
“Ben . . .” Diego says, shaking his head.
“I know,” I say. “We just have to try.”
He nods.
“I have an idea,” I say. “If your arm isn’t working too well, how are your legs?”
“Great,” he says.
“Good, then what say you give me a ride?”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.
“Can you find another rickshaw?” I ask Rosie.
“Probably.”
“Good. Then try to get one and meet us at the little park on the east side.”
“Okay,” she says.
“And be careful.”
She looks at me, then at Diego. “You too.”
I nod to her.
Then I climb into the back of the rickshaw. “Let’s go,” I say.
Diego pedals off.
Rosie arrives at the park a short while after us, rickshaw and all.
“You’re going to have to draw them out,” I say. “But you should be okay on the rickshaw. That way you can outpace them. But you have to be careful. Stick to the streets. Otherwise they’ll have you.”
“I know this place, Ben,” she says.
“I know. That’s why you have to go first.”
She frowns. “What are you going to do?”
“Follow you.” I heft the anti-aircraft launcher to make my point.
Her eyes widen. Something crosses over her face. Some expression I can’t identify. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Don’t forget to ring your bell,” I say.
“What?”
“It will attract their attention.”
Rosie nods, then she takes off, pedaling up and down the streets. Diego stays close behind, but not too close.
Then the first Feral sees or hears her and starts bounding after her. We catch sight of it and stay right behind. Watching the thing run behind her, I can see it’s all muscle. An engineered killing machine. We barrel toward an intersection, and I yell out, “Left!”
Rosie banks to the left and I fire the launcher, which bucks against my chest. The explosive rips throu
gh the air and into the Feral, exploding it into pieces.
“Nice one,” Diego says.
“Only two more shots left,” I say. “Let’s make them count.”
We take off again, and Diego holds the rickshaw steady as Rosie takes the lead. This time she rings her bell more furiously, trying to attract whatever Ferals she can. Another takes the bait, and again I have her turn off as I fire at the thing. The shot is low, instead hitting the ground, but it throws the Feral up into the air and onto a nearby house. Rosie returns with her pistol to finish it off.
One last shot to go. “Let’s head back east a bit, see if we can’t draw any out.” So Rosie heads that way and Diego pedals behind her and I load the last shell into my launcher. We could actually win this, I start to think. We just need to coordinate. But I see that the ships above us are larger now, closer to us. At the moment, I can’t tell if they’re theirs or ours.
Then Diego starts pumping his legs as another Feral tears out after Rosie. I’m becoming aware of a dark shape moving above us, but I can’t really take my eyes off of Rosie and the Feral. Trying to hold steady, I raise the launcher to my shoulder.
And as I’m lining up the shot, the world breaks apart around me.
For a moment, I’m not sure what happened. But I’m thrown from the rickshaw and the sky tumbles above me. I lose sight of Diego and God knows where Rosie is. A moment later, I smell the fire, and the stink of some kind of explosive.
Did I accidentally misfire the launcher? I think.
My ears are filled with a high-pitched buzz, and that’s all I can hear. I call out for Diego and Rosie, but I can’t even hear my own voice.
I manage to push myself up and finally catch sight of Diego. He’s lying on the ground nearby, the rickshaw is turned over next to him.
And the Feral appears, moving toward him. I try to call out, but how would he hear me?
I’m trying to get to my feet, trying to find one of my pistols, when Rosie runs into view. She doesn’t appear to be armed, but she kicks the Feral in the head, a flying kick with all of her weight behind it. The thing has a heavily muscled neck, but it snaps back from the force all the same.
The Feral is stunned, but it throws both arms around Rosie, pinning her arms to her sides and restraining her.
He’s going to bite her, I think, and then I’m running toward them, and I remember that my reloaded revolver is in the thigh holster and I pull it out and start firing into the Feral’s back.
It turns to this new assault, letting Rosie slip away, and as it starts moving toward me, she sweeps its leg and aims an elbow, with all her weight behind it, into the thing’s back. It goes down, and without stopping I walk toward it, firing at its head and shoulders. Once, twice, three times until it stops moving.
Rosie immediately moves to Diego, who is now stirring. I kneel beside them and reload to help cover them. “What the hell was that explosion?” I ask. I can barely hear my own voice. But the answer comes a moment later as I scan the town to the east. A large area, a block or two at least, is now a burning, smoking mess. A moment later, I realize what direction that is. And even though Diego and Rosie are here, I start running.
Because the fire is coming from the direction of Miranda’s house.
I don’t know what I’m seeing. The place where the house is, that whole part of the street, is burning. I see the wreckage of several buildings. But I can’t get close to it with the smoke and the heat of the fire. Even with my scarf, I’m coughing from all the smoke.
Miranda.
I push my way through the fire where I can, covering my face. My skin. I get farther up the street. Just ahead is the house. Just ahead is . . .
What used to be the house is just a mess of kindling. The ceiling is gone, the walls little more than broken sticks. Fire rages in its center, sending thick gouts of smoke into the air.
“Miranda!” I call. Maybe she got out. Maybe she’s somewhere nearby.
Except you barricaded her in.
“Miranda!”
I double over, coughing, dizzy from the heat, and sink to my knees. This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.
A moment later, I feel hands on me, pulling me back, out of the smoke, out of the fire.
I’m lowered to the ground. Diego coughs above me. Rosie is next to him. “What are you trying to do?” he asks.
“Miranda,” I say. “Miranda was . . .”
“Oh, God,” Rosie says. She looks at Diego and then back at me. There’s sympathy there, but I want to tell her that it’s okay. This isn’t happening. Miranda can’t have been in there. She can’t have been.
“Miranda!”
“She’s gone, Ben,” Diego says. He puts an arm around me. “I’m sorry, Ben. She’s gone.”
“No!” I say. “She’s not gone. She’s just . . . she’s just . . .”
She’s gone. Oh my God. She’s gone. What am I going to do? What do I do?
I climb to my feet. She’s gone. And I can’t be here anymore. I was here because of Miranda, and she’s not here. I have to go.
“Where are you going?” Diego asks.
“I have to get out of here,” I say. “I’m sorry. I have to get back up in the air.”
I run for the western airfield. The Dumah is there, I know. She will get me back into the air. She will take me away from . . .
Miranda.
I push thoughts of her aside. There will be time for that later. Time and alcohol and the comfort of the air. It’s all I can think of right now. Getting back. Going back.
There is no back.
It doesn’t matter. I run. I’m aware that any second a Feral might find me. Might jump out of the shadows and bite my face off. Somehow that doesn’t scare me as much as it used to.
My body hurts and my lungs hurt as I suck in air and my eyes are blurry with tears, but I keep running. Up the hill to the airfield. Any second now, I’ll see the ocean off the western side of the island. And soon I’ll be flying over it, away from Ferals and raiders, and I’ll be back in the air where I belong.
As I crest the hill, I look down on the ocean. And my steps falter. A large shape sits on the water. A ship. A military ship. The Phoenix.
Already as I look, the Dumah is in the sky, moving toward the ship.
Mal is here. On Tamoanchan. He found us.
Miranda.
There is no back.
The fight leaves me then. My battered and abused body sinks down to the ground, on my knees, and I stay that way for a while. Not praying, but almost prone. Just trying not to think anymore. Not to feel. If I could spread wings and fly away, I would. But gravity has me in its grip and I can’t seem to get free.
People move toward me. I ignore them. Then I hear a voice.
“Benjamin.”
I look up into Mal’s face.
“We have some unfinished business.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Rising Tide was conceived at the wedding of my friends, Matthew Kressel and Christine Tokash, in Woodstock, New York. Mazel Tov!
The idea, of course, built on Falling Sky, which owes a lot to my Clarion West classmates and instructors, so thanks again to everyone.
Extra-special thanks are due to everyone who gave me feedback in the late stages of the book—Matthew Kressel, David Rivera, Eugene Myers, Devin Poore, Tracy Harford, Pamela Rentz, and Pritpaul Bains—your feedback was invaluable. Thank you for doing so much in such a short time.
Super-extra-special thanks (like with a cape and everything) to Jim Stewart, who gifted me with a handful of brilliant, inspired ideas that took the book to the next level.
Thanks to the people at Pyr, who had to make due with difficult circumstances and who were understanding when the road became a little rocky.
Thanks, also, to Barry Goldblatt and Patricia Ready, my not-so-secret agenting team, for doing what you do so well.
I have always wanted a writing cabin, and while I still don’t have one, Bobby Pilles and Jonathon Hays gave
me the next best thing, a haven in which to wrap up the novel. Thank you both for being such great hosts. If Woodstock was where the idea for this book was born, Saratoga was where it became an adult.
Thank you, also, to beer, my ever-stalwart companion. Thanks to Barcade in Jersey City, to Strong Place and Bar Great Harry in Brooklyn, and to various Starbucks cafés across New Jersey.
But most importantly, this novel would not have taken shape—would not have even existed—without the love and support (and somewhat-infuriating almost-always-rightness) of Elisabeth Jamison. Darling, you gardened the hell out of this one—from the first seed of the idea to its final, blooming stage. You asked the right questions and gave the right answers. I’m sorry for making the process so difficult, but I am indebted to you for your input. You are my love, and you are my light. Thank you for everything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rajan Khanna is a writer, narrator, and blogger who fell in love with airships at an early age. His short stories, narrations, and articles have appeared in various markets, both in print and online. He currently lives in New York City. Falling Sky was his first novel. Visit him at his website, www.rajankhanna.com; find him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/rajankhanna; or follow him on Twitter @rajanyk.
Photo by Ellen B. Wright