Earth Thirst

by Mark Teppo

  The road from the hotel spills out into a wide boulevard that combines with several other roads into a promenade that flows around a quartered field of overly green grass. The tower rises from the center of the field, and it is several stories tall. Tiny windows along the surface suggest that it is hollow—a tourist destination, wherein they can climb up to the same height as the towering figure and get a view of the city from his perspective.

  Traffic has come to a standstill, a confusion of wrecked and stopped vehicles. I can see the burning car now and it's a sedan of some kind; it's not one of the remaining Mercedes. Gunfire and screams and the occasional bleat of a horn are the cacophony that my damaged hearing is starting to parse again. Along with the whup-whup sound of the helicopter. It's on the far side of the tower, hovering over the boulevard.

  I make my way through the traffic jam, dodging angry and shocked people who are milling about. Most of the sensible ones have already fled; those remaining are still trying to figure out what happened or are too incensed by the stupidity of their minor fender bender to take stock of the bigger picture. I feel like a steel ball in a Japanese parlor game, bouncing from pin to pin as I try to make my way to the bottom of the pachinko board.

  I spot one of the Mercedes. The doors are open, and there's blood along the passenger side door, but no sign of the mercenaries.

  Another explosion rocks the street, and for a few moments, there is consensus among the crowds: move away from the fire and smoke. I fight my way through the crowd, like a salmon struggling to leap upstream. Gunfire rattles in the aftermath of the blast, and I reorient myself toward the fighting.

  Another Mercedes is off to my left, stuck in a morass of smaller vehicles; The mercenaries are dug in around it, sniping at the Arcadians who are circling at a safe distance. The lead Mercedes has been driven into the grass near the tower, and all of its doors are hanging open. There's a cluster of people jockeying around the base of the tower, trying to funnel through the single door.

  I glance at the hovering helicopter.

  Are they going to try for a pick-up from the top of the tower?

  One of the Arcadians gets a little too bold, and a pair of mercenaries catch him in a crossfire. He does an ugly dance, his body jerking from the rounds, and almost immediately, he starts shrieking and clawing at his own flesh.

  Weed killer rounds.

  Escobar hasn't figured out a counteragent yet. This fight isn't as one-sided as it looks.

  A pair of Arcadians spot me as I weave through the traffic jam, and I gauge whether I have the time to deal with them. One opens fire with his assault rifle, and the windows of a nearby sedan star up as the bullets sing around me. I duck behind the next car and return fire, aiming more for likely gas tanks in the nearby cars than either of the two Arcadians. A black Lexus goes up, spewing smoke and fire in a screen between the Arcadians and me, making it easy for me to drop all pretense and sprint for the tower.

  The helicopter is rising, getting into position for its approach.

  I stop at the first Mercedes. Secutores mercenaries are sprawled on the ground near the front of the vehicle, dead from blunt force trauma and broken necks. I'm carrying one of the Arcadian assault rifles—a commando version of the SIG SG 550—and I trade it for a Secutores MP7. I grab extra magazines from the dead mercs, noting the green stripe along the side of the magazine. Specialized rounds. Just what I need for Arcadian hunting.

  I hear one of them coming across the grass, and before I can get my newly acquired gun lined up, the Arcadian slams into me. We collide with the Mercedes, and after avoiding his headbutt, I drop the stubby stock of my weapon down on his forearm as he tries to stab me with a long knife. I'm only partially successful in blocking his attack as I feel the knife slide off a rib. It's a flesh wound. It'll bleed a lot but it won't slow me down too much.

  He whips his arm out from beneath the butt of my rifle and drives the knife at my throat. He's inside my reach and I've still got one hand on the MP7. I grab with my left hand, trying to get my arm up, but his knife catches me at the base of my neck, just inside my collarbone. I get a grip on his jacket and yank him forward, my teeth sinking into his throat. He twists the knife, trying to open me up all the way to the base of my skull.

  I bite down, and his blood fills my mouth.

  Most Arcadians have never been bitten. They don't understand what it feels like. There's more to drinking blood than the simple physiological and nutritional effects; there's an undeniable psychological response as well—both from the drinker and the one being drunk from. The shock is a moment of primal dominance. Your life could end in the next few moments or it could go on forever, but that decision is no longer yours. For most humans, the shock is fleeting. For all their bluster and efforts to forestall decay, there will come a moment when they are no longer in control. Some are fierce and fight it strenuously, but most—after a second of surprise—sink into a fugue of resigned acceptance.

  The Arcadian keeps sawing at my neck, thinking he has time. Not aware that I own him.

  His blood is thick, like fresh sap from a maple tree, and it has a surprisingly acrid chemical taste, but it flows just as readily as human blood. And its effect on me is the same. I let go of his jacket and grab his right wrist, grinding the bones as I squeeze. He finally realizes something is wrong and lets go of his knife, but I'm already bending him back. I twist, throwing him against the side of the car. He tries to beat at my head with his left arm, but I shake my head furiously, letting my teeth savage his throat. There's blood everywhere and my face is hot and sticky with it as I gnaw deeper. He gurgles, spitting blood, and his efforts to push me away are feeble, like the flapping hand of a newborn child.

  I drain him until his heartbeat starts to flutter. Pulling away from his ravaged throat, I yank the knife out of my neck. The pain makes me howl, and I'm shaking with adrenaline as I plunge the knife into his chest. He stares at me glassy-eyed, his last breath bubbling out through the ruin of his throat.

  I stagger away from the car, pressing my hand over the wound in my neck. Close, I will my flesh. It would be ironic to pass out from blood loss now, wouldn't it? I press harder, my fingers slick. I don't need Mother or the warm darkness of the humus. I can do this myself. I can protect myself.

  The flow tapers off, and when I move my hand away, there's no sudden spurt of fresh blood. The skin around my collarbone itches fiercely, and I channel a burning desire to scratch into running instead.

  The helicopter is moving toward the tower. Trailing beneath it is a long cable with a heavy hook assembly.

  I still have to get that door open at the base of the tower, and then climb the stairs inside. I have no idea how many Arcadians are waiting for me. It'll take too long.

  The tower is made from rough bricks. Not rough enough that a sane climber would attempt to ascend the face of the tower. But there are enough windows that someone who was more physically capable than the average rock climber might be able to make the climb.

  I sling the MP7 around to my back, getting it out of the way. As the helicopter moves into position over the tower, I make a running leap. My hands frantically grab at the bricks, trying to find enough purchase to keep me from tumbling back to the ground.

  The first window is only a few meters higher. If I can get a good grip, I can launch myself to the sill. My left hand catches on a nub of rock; my feet scrabble against the brick.

  I'm not falling. Not yet.

  FORTY

  The helicopter hovers above the statue of Pachacutec, a steel cable dangling from its winch assembly. The noise and downdraft from its rotors turn the top of the tower into the yowling center of a localized storm. The statue stands on a raised platform, and it's high enough to obscure me as I lever myself onto the roof. The noise covers any clumsy noises I make.

  There is a viewing area on the roof, but most of the space is dominated by the statue which fills up most of the back portion of the roof. On the other side of Pachacutec are three Ar
cadians: two are busy with the cable and a bound prisoner; the third is paying more attention to the stairs that descend from the roof. The cable is attached to a harness one of the two is wearing, and as I watch, he wraps his arms around the bound prisoner as both of them are lifted off the roof. He kicks off from the chest of the statue to make sure he doesn't get tangled in Pachacutec's outstretched hand.

  His cargo is wrapped in an industrious web of restraints and her head is covered with a black hood. I can see enough of her clothing to recognize that it is Phoebe.

  I hesitate. Where's Mere? As the pair go up, my stomach sinks.

  The other car.

  Things have been moving so quickly the last few minutes, I haven't had a chance to think about what's been going on, but it all starts to sink in. They aren't after Mere. They're snatching Phoebe.

  She told me and I hadn't been listening. It's not about you.

  Escobar wants Phoebe, for some of the same reasons he must have kept tissue samples from Nigel. But she's pure, a first generation child of Arcadia, untainted by reburial. They want her flesh to feed their chimera.

  Talus wanted Nigel and me off the boat so he could take Phoebe. But that failed when Phoebe went overboard as well. Both sides floundered until Phoebe checked in with Callis. But he couldn't convince her to come in. She prefers the high ground, the sniper's position. She prefers to know a situation is safe before acting. She wouldn't expose herself, not after being betrayed on the boat by other Arcadians. She might trust Callis enough to call him, but not enough to reveal herself until after she had a chance to perform her own recognizance. By that time, I had made contact with Callis too. Knowing that she would watch me. Knowing that he could push me in the direction he wanted. Knowing that Phoebe would follow…

  The second Arcadian shouts at the one watching the stairs, who turns his head. Unfortunately, as he does, his field of vision encompasses me. He brings his rifle up, and I dart to my left, putting as much of Pachacutec's legs as possible between him and me. Bullets ricochet off the bronze statue, and as I come around the statue's left side, I return fire, sending the Arcadian ducking down the recessed stairs.

  The other Arcadian has nowhere to hide and so he charges me. I pull the trigger on the MP7 and nothing happens. The magazine is empty. I forgot to check how full it was before I started climbing. He's on me before I can eject the magazine and put in another. He shoves my gun aside with one hand, grabbing me with the other. As if we were going to grapple, Greco-Roman style.

  With very little effort, I throw him. He bounces once, slides a meter or so, and then discovers he's out of roof. He has a surprised—and somewhat hurt—look in his eyes as he scrabbles at the edge of the roof, as if I have somehow cheated. And then he is gone.

  I've just been wrestling longer than he has. Quite a bit longer.

  The third guy is still hiding in the stairwell, and there's no easy way to approach him without giving him a clear shot, and so I dig in my pocket for my last grenade. Pull the pin, toss it over like I'm throwing a bean bag at a lawn party, and shake my head at the foolishness of hiding in a hole.

  I drop the empty magazine from my MP7, and slap another one in.

  The grenade goes off, and I'm sure the noise and flame are signal to the helicopter crew that something is amiss on the rooftop. There's no sign of Phoebe and the Arcadian who went up with her—they must be on board already—and the cable is still hanging down beneath the helicopter. On its way for the other two, who are no longer in need of it. For a second, we're caught in that moment of transition: Brains processing signals. Decisions being made.

  I leap for the statue, scrabbling like a monkey up its bronze chest. I hoist myself up onto its outstretched arm, and as the sound of the helicopter's engine changes and its nose starts to dip, I leap off the statue. The helicopter pulls away from the tower, but it takes a second for that change to travel all the way down the cable. The clasp at the end of the line hangs in the air over Pachacutec. I stretch out my arm, not unlike the statue beneath me, my fingers straining for the clasp.

  As I wrap my hand around the metal loop, it is yanked forward, pulling hard against my fingers. My arm follows, my shoulder complaining from the sudden tug. I fumble with the strap of my rifle, trying to get the weapon under control as I sail through the air beneath the helicopter. It's only going to be a few seconds before someone notices me, dangling down below. We streak across the promenade, roaring over the traffic jam, and I hear the distant noise of gunfire below. Something bites my right leg, down on the calf, and blood begins to flow.

  Twisting on the end of the cable, I point the rifle up at the helicopter fantail and try to wreck the assembly with several bursts from the MP7. The cable bounces, dropping me a meter or so, and I shift my aim toward the main portion of the helicopter. Several more bursts from the gun and I'm out of ammo again, but at least the cable has stopped dropping. For the moment.

  I hit the button that drops out the empty magazine and try to figure how I'm going to get the last magazine out of my back right pocket and into the gun without letting go of the cable, and I decide that isn't going to happen.

  The helicopter turns to the north, climbing to a height that will allow it to clear the hills that ring Cusco. Discarding the empty gun, I start climbing the cable. It's slick, meant to be wound quickly and efficiently around a drum, but I've climbed worse. It's precarious work, but there's also no reason to dwell on what I'm doing. Hand over hand, as quickly as I can.

  As I get close to the helicopter's landing struts, the cable starts unspooling again. It starts slow, but picks up speed. In another second or two, it'll be unspooling faster than I can climb. My muscles aching, I move faster, my hands burning as they grip and release the cable. My first attempt at grabbing the long strut misses, my bloody hand slipping from the rounded strut. Another meter of cable plays out and I have to make up lost ground before I can try again. I climb higher, and on my second try, I get my arm wrapped around the strut. I disengage myself from the cable and get my other arm around the landing gear too.

  Still not out of the woods yet.

  I get my legs around the strut, and hanging upside down, I wrestle with the pistol still in my pocket. One of the spare magazines goes tumbling away as I pull the gun out. A masked face peers out of the helicopter to check on the cable, and I pull the trigger twice. The face disappears, replaced by a foot jutting out from the cabin of the helicopter. The foot doesn't move, suggesting that I hit my target. As long as it stays there, I have a chance.

  I put the gun in my mouth, biting down on the back of the slide. I need both hands to pull myself onto the strut. I swing up as the helicopter pitches to the right, and I clutch at the strut, fighting to stay on. When it pitches in the other direction—a clumsy attempt to shake me off—I use that change in aspect to my advantage. Both hands on the bar, shoving my butt up, and arcing my back. I pitch forward, sliding across the strut, and I push off, throwing my hands up now, reaching for the second strut—the one that runs along the underside of the helicopter's cabin.

  I haul myself up, getting one arm on the inside of the helicopter cabin. The rest is easy, even with the back and forth motion of the helicopter. I get my knees up and, caught in an awkward leaning forward position, I freeze.

  Sitting in one of the seats, as calmly as if this ride is nothing more than a tourist trip around the Sacred Valley, is Alberto Montoya.

  But I killed him.

  He's holding a bulky gun that has two holes in the front of its barrel. It's a Taser, and he smiles briefly at my confusion as he fires both darts.

  The current lights up my nervous system, and I collapse on the floor of the cabin. Phoebe is lying nearby, the sack still over her head. She's oblivious to what's going on, and a second later, I am too.

  BOOK SIX

  PHAËTON

  FORTY-ONE

  “They're pretty, aren't they?” Alberto's voice penetrates my stupor.

  A Taser is just as effective against a
n Arcadian as it is a human, but since it isn't deadly, it gets overlooked. Though, as a temporary restraining measure, nothing works quite like a massive jolt of electrical current through a nervous system. My vision is still fucked up—I'm only seeing shades of gray with the barest hint of any color at all—and my legs continue to twitch beyond my control. But I can hear again, and I have control of my motion functions. Unfortunately, while I was insensate, Alberto bound my hands behind my back.

  He's talking about something outside the helicopter. We've left Cusco behind, and spread out below us is a panorama of brown hills with scattered stands of trees and rocks. Incan ruins, presumably, judging from the regularity of some of the rock formations. What Alberto is wanting me to see is a cascade of white rectangles on a hillside, like a frozen waterfall. The rectangles are reflecting the sunlight, which only washes out my field of vision more when I look at them.

  “Salt farms,” he shouts at me, making himself heard over the noise of the helicopter's rotors. “They've been tending them for generations.” He leans toward the cockpit of the helicopter, shouting instructions to the pilot, who nods and brings the helicopter down.

  I'm trying to find scars or patches of new skin on him—any indicator that he's been healed—but he looks just like he did the first time I saw him at the penthouse. It's as if the parking lot beheading never happened.

  Alberto grabs me and drags me toward the open door, giving me an opportunity to look more closely at the salt farms. Each plot is a rectangular area that is allowed to fill with water. The layout of the farms suggests that the whole network is a trickle-down system. A stream at the top of the hill supplies the fresh water which spills down and fills each basin. Through a network of gates and channels, the farmers direct the water. Once a basin is filled, the water is directed elsewhere so that the trapped water can evaporate, leaving behind harvestable salt.