Evans felt his side, his hand coming away sticky with blood. It wasn’t a fatal wound and would heal quickly in Pot of Gold. He worked quickly now, extracting the bomb and pulling the three red safety rings which extracted three long red plastic strips. The detonators could now strike their targets. Evans peeled the protective plastic sheet from the bottom of the bomb, put one foot on the base of the generator, and stood, placing the bomb on the top. He pulled two more rings, releasing the catalyst that would mix with the liquid and cement the bomb to the generator.
Movement in the pipes across from him caught his eye, and Evans ducked. A sniper was taking position high on a rack of pipes across from the generators. Now Evans would be exposed when he finished triggering the bomb. It couldn’t be helped. He stood, pulled out a metal rod from the side of the bomb, gave it a half twist, and then rammed it in, hearing the satisfying sound of glass breaking. He pulled the second rod and repeated the procedure. There was only one step left.
An explosive device could not detonate within Pot of Gold, so Dr. Lee had created acid bombs which two of the team members carried. The bombs were glued to the casing of the generators; when the glass vials inside were crushed, the liquid contents would mix to create an acid which would eat through the metal casing of the generator, destroying the coils inside. Since it was the resonance created by two generators that sustained the time-and-space distortion, only one had to be destroyed to collapse the field. Now Evans reached up to the bomb one more time to remove the coated plate that kept the acid from the generator. Once pulled, nothing could stop the acid.
As Evans stood, the sniper fired. The bolt from the crossbow glanced off the top of the generator and caromed into the air. Evans fired three rounds to pin the sniper down; then he heard noises. Crazies were coming, and they were coming in force.
CONFRONTATION
“Roast him slowly” a woman shouted from the crowd.
“Very slowly, Mr. Rust, very slowly,” Prophet said.
Dawson’s body, with Elizabeth’s consciousness, was tied to a stake on a platform. A crowd of Crazies was gathered in a semicircle in front of the platform to watch the execution. Wes and the other captives were on their knees, waiting their turn. Elizabeth struggled at her bonds with Dawson’s strength, but couldn’t free her hands. The pyrokinetic, Rust, dressed in his leisure suit, approached slowly, head down, concentrating on Dawson’s feet.
The crowd murmured in anticipation. Under Rust’s pyrokinetic influence, heat waves formed around Dawson’s feet. Rust brought the temperature up slowly, hoping to maximize Dawson’s pain. Wes doubted that Elizabeth and Anita, weakened by the lack of normal dreaming, could survive that level of agony. Even if they did, the psychological trauma of being burned alive could do irreparable harm.
Dawson was panting now, ready to scream as his trouser legs heated toward combustion point, the skin underneath already searing. Helpless and desperate, Wes pleaded for mercy, but his voice was lost in the cheering of the crowd.
Suddenly there was a commotion in the back. The crowd noise changed from joy to worried babbling. Prophet held up a hand, stopping Rust. Dawson’s breaths were rapid and deep, as if he were hyperventilating. Dawson stared at his legs, holding perfectly still, as if to keep the superheated cloth from touching his skin.
There was shouting from down the flight deck. Prophet held out his arms, quieting the crowd.
“They’re after the generators!”
The news spread quickly through the crowd. The edge of the mob was already flowing toward the Norfolk when the word reached the platform. There was panic in the air. Prophet started from the stage, pushing Rust in front of him.
“Cobb, guard the heretics!” Prophet ordered.
Then Prophet pointed at men close to Cobb, ordering them to stay behind, too. Reluctantly, four sailors remained, eyes on the retreating mob. Unhappy about being left behind, Cobb stared after Prophet like a faithful dog ordered to stay by its master. The bridge was a bottleneck; but those Crazies who were crowded at Nimitz’s stern parted for Prophet.
Once Prophet was out of sight, Cobb checked the captives’ bonds, then joined the other guards who were standing down the deck where they could see more of the Norfolk.
Wes tried twisting his wrists, testing the cords. There was very little wiggle room, let alone enough to slip his hands out. Wes saw Jett watching him.
“Let’s sit back to back,” Wes suggested. “Maybe I can untie your ropes.”
“It won’t work,” Jett said. “They’ll notice.”
“Maybe we can find something to rub the ropes against and cut them.”
“Not enough time,” Jett said.
“We’ve got to try something,” Wes said, looking at Dawson hanging limp, still tied to the post.
Wes had never met anyone harder to read than Jett. He showed no fear, not even concern. Jett turned toward the stage and said in a soft voice, “Now’s the time and the place, Elizabeth.” Then he turned to Ralph, who was staring at the deck, his face blank.
“Hey, Ralph,” Jett said.
Ralph looked up, his generous lips folding into a smile.
“Got any gum?” Jett said.
Now Ralph’s smile widened, and he said, “Nope, not even that pink stuff.”
“Not that gum that stinks!”
“Pee-yew,” Ralph and Jett said together.
“We’ve got to get loose,” Wes said, frustrated.
“Want to have a contest, Ralph?” Jett asked.
“Sure.”
“First one to break the ropes tying their hands wins a pack of gum,” Jett said.
“Do they gots to share?” Ralph asked, looking serious.
“Nope,” Jett said. “But if I win I’ll share with you.”
“And if I win I’ll share with you,” Ralph said, smiling. “Who gets to say go?”
“Let’s have Doctor Martin say it,” Jett said.
“Sure. Wes is fair, aren’t you, Wes?”
“Shut up over there!” one of the guards shouted, pointing a spear in their direction.
When the guard turned back to the Norfolk, Wes whispered, “Go, now.”
“You gots to say ready-set first, Wes. That’s how it’s done.”
“I said shut up!” the guard ordered.
Wes froze when Cobb glanced at them, but then relaxed when he looked away again. One of the other guards looked their way, then started toward them.
“We should wait,” Wes said.
“Do it now,” Jett said firmly.
With another glance at the approaching guard, Wes said “Ready, set, go!”
“What’s going on?” the guard said.
The guard was now halfway to the captives.
Ralph’s shoulders tightened and shook, and his face reddened. Jett’s arms and shoulders were quivering, too. Suddenly there was a “snap,” and Ralph pulled his hands free.
“I win,” Ralph said at a near shout, waving his arms in the air, ropes still around his wrists.
“Untie me,” the other captives said at once.
“One of them is loose,” the guard shouted, rushing at Ralph with his spear.
Still tied, Wes could only shout a warning to Ralph, who stared dumbly at the approaching weapon. What happened next came in a rapid-fire blur.
The other guards came rushing down the deck, leaving Cobb, who followed slowly, confident in his special power. Just before the guard with the spear reached Ralph, Jett jumped to his feet, his hands already free. Intercepting the guard’s lunge, he grabbed the spear, head-butting the guard at the same time, breaking his nose and weakening his grip. Jett wrested the spear from the guard’s hands and jammed the blunt end into his solar plexus; the guard crumpled, his nose bleeding.
“Hold him, Ralph!” Jett ordered. “So he won’t hurt anyone.”
“Okee-dokee, Nate,” Ralph said, wrapping his arms around the guard. “Got a nosebleed? Try putting your head back,” Ralph said as he held the sailor firmly.
&
nbsp; “Roberto, turn around,” Jett shouted.
Jett was swinging the spear by the shaft before the Hispanic man was fully turned, his roped wrists extended. The spear struck and was pulled away in a flash; then Jett spun to face the onrushing guards, tossing the spear up and back and catching it midshaft with his arm cocked. The motion was fluid and precise. Without hesitation, Jett threw the spear at a guard who was aiming a crossbow at him. Both men launched at the same time, but only Jett had the reflexes to throw and then dodge. The spear buried itself low in the guard’s abdomen while his bolt passed over Jett’s shoulder, flying past Dawson’s limp body. Eyes wide, the guard dropped his crossbow and stared in shock at the protruding shaft. A small red stain surrounded the entry point, but then, under the weight of the sagging spear’s shaft, the tip of the spear was forced upward, slicing toward his sternum. With a gasp the guard grabbed the shaft, but it was too late. The blood flowed freely now from the fatal wound, and he collapsed to his knees, then fell onto his side with a sob.
Ignoring Cobb’s approach, Jett charged the two other guards who wielded knives. Still tied, Wes was helpless and could only watch as Jett took on the guards. Then Roberto broke free, scrambling to his feet and running to the speared guard. He picked up the crossbow. Stepping into the stirrup, he drew the bow, cocked it, then nocked another bolt.
Having seen Jett in action, the other guards hesitated, wielding their knives defensively, jockeying for position. One guard saw Roberto with the crossbow; he broke and ran toward the bridge. Roberto tracked the running man with his weapon, loosing the bolt before he was more than a few yards down the deck. The shaft struck just under the guard’s right shoulder blade, nearly disappearing into the body cavity. The guard took one last step and collapsed. Unnerved now, the last guard turned to flee, but Jett spun, sweeping his leg into the guard, knocking his feet into a tangle. Then Jett was on him and with two quick blows to the neck, came up with the guard’s knife and tossed it to Roberto.
“Free the others,” Jett ordered.
“Cobb?” Roberto protested, cocking the crossbow again.
“You’ll never get a shot off,” Jett shouted. “Get the others out.”
Cobb’s arm was extended toward Roberto; his long black hair was splayed out around his head, and his fingertips were sparking. Roberto flattened behind a row of chairs just as a ragged spark shot from Cobb’s fingers as if he were a human electric eel. Wes saw that Cobb’s hair fell to his shoulders after the discharge. In his black boots and denims, he looked like a Hell’s Angel. Then his hair began to rise from his shoulders, his electric power building.
Wes heard Roberto slithering along the deck, using the rows of chairs for cover. He came up behind Wes, slitting the ropes in one smooth motion. Wes wanted to run to Elizabeth, but climbing up on the stage would make him an easy target. He saw Jett maneuvering himself between Cobb and the stage, deliberately stepping into harm’s way. Wes knew that Jett had no chance on his own against Cobb, and moved to help.
“Give me the crossbow,” Wes ordered.
Roberto hesitated, looking at Jett and then at Dawson.
“I’ll help delay Cobb while you cut him free,” Wes said.
“I only need a few seconds—then get away from him. He can knock you on your ass with a flick of his finger.”
Nodding, Wes took the bow, feeling awkward as he fit his hand to the trigger and brought the bow up level. Made entirely of steel, the bow was heavy and powerful looking. Wes realized that he didn’t have the quiver so he wouldn’t be reloading, but from the look of the crosspiece, he doubted that he could draw the bow anyway.
With the unfamiliar weapon in hand, Wes turned to the confrontation taking place a few yards away. Locked eye to eye, Cobb advanced slowly on Jett, his arms spread wide, his fingertips crackling and sparking like fourth of July sparklers. Jett stood perfectly still, letting Cobb get closer, showing no fear. He wasn’t going to run; he was going to take the monster’s attack, sacrificing himself to save the others.
With Cobb and Jett intent on each other, Wes felt invisible, and decided to move to a better position. He couldn’t risk hitting Jett with the unfamiliar crossbow. Wes took only a few steps before Cobb’s arm swung toward him and five jagged streaks of light shot from his finger tips. The high voltage fired every nerve ending in Wes’s body and he convulsed, muscles taut. He fell to the deck, his body trembling.
Raising his head, Wes saw Jett holding his ground, letting Cobb come within a few feet of him. While Cobb was engaged with Jett, Roberto sprinted across the stage to Dawson, cut him down, and threw him over his shoulder.
“Do you need help?”
It was Monica, crawling toward Wes from behind.
“I’m okay. Help Roberto get Elizabeth-Dawson out of here.”
Wes turned back just as Cobb struck. Arms spread wide as if ready to hug Jett, Cobb threw sparks which arced from every fingertip into Jett, spreading along his arms and shoulders. Flashes of electric light cracked and hissed—the peculiar thunder of miniature lightning bolts. Wes hurt for the man who sagged under the assault but had the strength to keep standing.
“Let’s go,” Roberto shouted as he and Monica dragged Dawson past Wes, down the deck, and toward the island. To Wes’s relief, Dawson was awake. Wes rolled over and got up on his knees. He could follow the others, but he wouldn’t leave Jett.
Wes lifted the crossbow again, his arms still weak, the bow swaying so badly that Jett was as much at risk as Cobb. Fearing that Jett couldn’t take much more, he steadied the bow and pulled the trigger. The bolt buried in Cobb’s thigh. The big man had been mute before, but now he roared like a wounded animal. Cobb grabbed his injured leg, interrupting his electrocution of Jett. Jett was free. Wes struggled to his feet and toward him. To his surprise, Jett was coming to him, reaching out, offering Wes support.
“How could you take that?” Wes asked.
“I wouldn’t have lasted much longer,” Jett said. “I’m not ready for him yet.”
Closing his eyes and concentrating, Jett held out his hand, spreading his fingers wide. Tiny sparks crackled in the spaces.
“Whatever he is, I’m becoming,” Jett said.
“Can I let him go now, Nate?” Ralph said, arms still wrapped around the guard.
Jett turned to answer, but then Cobb stood again, arms held straight in front of him, pointing at Roberto and Monica, who were hurrying down the deck with Dawson. An electric bolt enveloped the group, and they collapsed in a heap. Then Cobb turned with a limp, striking Wes and Jett. Wes fell, but Jett stood his ground, taking the charge. When Cobb finished his discharge, he turned back to Roberto and the others, preparing another charge. Jett dropped down next to Wes.
“I’m not ready,” Jett said. “He’s got ten times the power I have.”
Now Wes heard the electric crackle as Cobb attacked the others—Elizabeth, he remembered, he’s attacking Elizabeth and Anita.
“The best we can do is spread out,” Jett said. “I’ll last the longest, so I’ll rush him. Keep on the opposite side of him from the others. You’ll never get across to the Norfolk, so head for the island and find another way off the ship.”
The electric crackle stopped. Cobb was turning his attention back to Wes and Jett.
“Get away from me,” Jett commanded, pushing Wes.
“Take your shoes off,” Wes said suddenly.
“What?” Jett said.
“Ground yourself,” Wes said.
Understanding instantly, Jett sat, fumbling with the laces on his silver boots. Wes could see Cobb’s arms pointing in their direction now. To give Jett more time, Wes stood and ran. Cobb followed him with his arms, the lightning flowing from his fingertips, dancing toward Wes. Wes went down hard, laying flat, face and hands pressed against the deck, current flowing through him. Then he saw Jett spring up and sprint toward Cobb, bare feet pounding across the flight deck.
MELT DOWN
Evans could tell from the vibrations of the deck that
a large number of reinforcements were coming. For now, he was safe behind one of the shell-shaped generators, but he couldn’t finish triggering the acid bomb without standing and exposing himself to the snipers. It was a risk he had to take.
He stood, reaching for the last plate. He heard the whoosh of the crossbow bolt a second before it pierced his hand. The pain paralyzed him for a few seconds, giving the archer a chance to reload. Before Evans could recover from the shock, another bolt came from behind, creasing his shoulder and glancing off his collar bone.
Evans collapsed, turning as he did, firing blindly, searching for the archer. He spotted him cocking his weapon. Evans fired, his bullets stitching a line across the archer’s body from knee to shoulder.
Sitting again, his back to the generator, Evans dropped his gun and reached for the bloody tip of the bolt protruding from his hand. It was a piece of steel tubing sharpened at one end. Grasping the shaft, Evans pulled the bolt from his hand. The pain was excruciating, but it reduced to a throb when the steel was out.
Steadying himself against the generator, gun in his good hand, Evans bobbed up and then ducked down. It worked. The sniper’s shot passed over his head, clattering onto the deck behind. Reaching over the generator, Evans fired six rounds in random directions. Suddenly there was the sputter of another of Dr. Lee’s special weapons, and Teflon bullets ricocheted off the top of the generator.
“You don’t want to destroy the generator,” a woman shouted.
Evans recognized Compton’s voice.
“Dr. Lee lied to us, Evans,” Compton shouted. “The hip units don’t work. There’s no way out, not unless we follow Prophet.”
Evans looked down at his unit; the green ready light still glowed.
“Why should I believe you?” Evans asked.
“Jett tried it. He couldn’t get through the field.”
Compton’s voice was closer now.
“I don’t believe you,” Evans said. “Prophet got to you.”
“It’s the truth,” Compton said, closer again.
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