Warriors

FIFTEEN

“Layla!” Michael screamed.

His voice sounded faint. Everything did. Dense smoke filled his lungs and burned his eyes, blocking his view of the carnage. Coughing and retching, he crawled across the deck, searching frantically for his best friend and mother of his unborn child.

Hot, twisted metal stung his hand. He reached out for Layla. How could she just be gone?

His mind filled with morbid thoughts, and he pushed them away. He wiped away blood that had dripped into his eye. More seeped down the back of his head, but he ignored the injury.

All that mattered was finding Layla.

He shouted her name again, then broke into another deep, guttural cough. The strain sent spots swarming in his vision.

He moved on his knees, feeling with his hands. The robotic fingers hit something, and he reached over with his real hand to check a body wet to the touch. Warm, slick blood dripped off his fingers.

The smoke cleared enough to reveal the body of a Cazador scribe. Imulah was a few feet away, sprawled on his back but breathing. He rolled over and coughed violently, drooling blood.

As the smoke dissipated, Michael saw more bodies.

Closest were a male and female, both blown down in the blast. Somehow, they were still holding hands. The woman was facing him, sort of. He couldn’t tell who she was, because a hunk of shrapnel stuck out where her nose should be. Then he saw the clock tattoo on the arm of the man holding her dead hand.

“No,” Michael choked.

The bodies were Bernie and Cole Mintel. He was checking Cole for a pulse when movement came through the wall of swirling black.

Militia soldiers swarmed the roof to help the wounded. Sergeant Wynn helped Michael to his feet. He said something, but Michael still couldn’t hear much.

“Layla!” he shouted. “Have to find Layla! Have you seen Layla?”

Wynn shook his head, and Michael pushed away from him to search the crowd of wounded staggering away from the debris field.

“layla!” Michael yelled.

He turned in all directions, disoriented from the smoke that still swirled around the blast zone.

How could he have lost her when she had been right by his side at the elevator cage?

Medics and civilians rushed by him to render aid. His heart hammered as if it were trying to break free. He turned in a full circle, stopping at the sight of a woman with her arm around a militia soldier.

Seeing her short hair, he staggered toward the thickest part of the smoke, screaming, “Layla!”

And then he saw her, standing on the deck, a hand on her stomach, blood streaking down her chin.

Layla sobbed, her lips quivering.

He ran over and wrapped her in his arms. They embraced, both of them coughing as they tried to speak.

Still half dazed, Michael guided her away from the twisted metal and body parts. He heard faint screams and, over them, more distant gunfire and an explosion, then another noise. It sounded like the blast of thrusters.

He looked to the sky as Discovery pulled away from the capitol tower, rising into the clouds. Two missiles streaked after it, but there were no blasts to indicate it had been hit.

Michael led Layla to the gardens, not stopping until they were free of the smoke. Several injured people sat with their backs against the square-sided planters while medics worked on them.

“Here,” Michael said. He got her to sit on a bench and then bent down to look her over. Tears rolled down her ashen face, and blood trickled from a gash on her chin.

“Are you okay?” he asked her. “Does anything hurt?”

He couldn’t hear her answer, but she shook her head. To which question, though?

She arched her back, wincing.

“You fell on your back?”

A nod.

Better, maybe, than falling on her belly.

“Tin! Layla!” said a voice that Michael could actually hear.

He turned toward the scene of chaos. A phalanx of militia soldiers shielded the king.

Ton and Victor led the escort over to the gardens, holding metal shields in a defensive position.

“We have to get off the roof,” X said.

Victor pointed and led the way.

Michael took Layla’s hand and followed through the extensive gardens. There were no cages to take them down to the lower decks—just ladders. He didn’t like the idea of her climbing down, but they had no choice if they wanted to get off the rooftop.

Victor waved the group toward the two exit ladders. On the right ladder, more medics and civilians worked to lower the incapacitated, while any injured who could walk used the other. Imulah and another scribe were being helped onto the rungs.

A dull ringing lingered in Michael’s ears, but by the time Victor made it to the back of the line, he was hearing better.

“We have to get the king down!” someone yelled. “The submarine went under, and no telling when it’ll come back.”

“Get the others down first!” X shouted.

Submarine… With Layla’s hand in his, Michael cautiously approached the ladders. He stopped a few feet back to look at the water but didn’t see any enemy craft.

The small line inched forward as more people climbed down to the lower levels.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Michael asked Layla yet again.

“I… I think so,” she said. “Bernie and Cole… They took most of the blast, I think. They knocked me down during the explosion.”

Michael closed his eyes, but it didn’t block out the image.

“I’m worried they’re hurt bad,” Layla said.

Michael didn’t reply.

“We’ve got to get you out of here,” X said to Layla.

Michael took her to the ladder, and she started down, looking up at him and X. It was a long way to the platform below, and several people, including Imulah and another scribe, were below her on the ladder.

Fencing had fallen away and hung loosely over the rooftop to her left. Smoke rose from several levels below, and flames licked at the hull on her right.

A boat with a water cannon was spraying the flames.

A voice came from behind them. Sergeant Wynn, radio handset in hand, tried to catch his breath.

“The skinwalkers have at least three submarines,” he gasped. “That’s… that’s how they got past our defenses.”

“I hope to God Discovery got away,” Michael said. “It’s our only hope to take out those subs.”

“Get Captain Mitchells on the radio,” X said. “And, Michael, get your ass down there.”

With each rung, Michael tried to manage his breathing, but the attack had rattled him. Bernie was dead, and probably Cole, too. The Hive had taken severe damage, and who knew how many civilians and militia soldiers had died.

Layla was halfway down the ladder when voices rang out from the balconies rimming the hull. Militia soldiers had started an evacuation, and civilians had come out of their apartments with their belongings stuffed into bags.

One of the soldiers shouldered a rifle and aimed it at the water.

Michael looked to the surface just as a small submarine surfaced like some massive sea creature. Water dripped off the conning tower. A hatch popped open, and a man emerged wearing armor that looked like bone. He raised a long machine gun.

“Shoot him!” Michael shouted.

The militia soldier on the balcony opened fire, rounds pinging off the sub. Another hatch opened near the stern, and two skinwalkers popped up with rifles.

“Keep moving!” Michael yelled to the scribes who had stopped below Layla.

Several bullets hit the militia guard on the balcony, and he crumpled against the railing, dropping his rifle to the deck.

Layla pushed down below Michael as the skinwalker locked the large machine gun into a turret mount and fed it with a belt of ammo.

“Move it!” Michael yelled.

Layla glanced up at him, their gaze meeting. He flinched at the bark of machine-gun fire.

He looked over his shoulder again, watching in horror as the rounds picked away the people below him and Layla.

Michael unholstered the handgun X had given him. Squinting, he aimed at the shooter. Even from here, he could see the man laughing as he raked the barrel back and forth.

Bullets punched gaping holes in the airship’s hull. The scribe below Imulah jumped to avoid the gunfire. He hit the bottom deck, cartwheeling off it and splashing into the water.

Michael knew that the odds of hitting the shooter from this distance were slim, but he had to try. He locked his feet against the ladder, gripped the side with his robotic hand, and lined up the sights.

The tracers rose toward Imulah and Layla.

Over the crack of gunfire, another noise, like a loud whistle, sounded as he pulled the trigger. The submarine vanished in an explosion that sent shrapnel flying.

Michael holstered the gun as another whistle sounded. This time, he saw the missile from the clouds streak down on the far side of the airship, slamming into a target there.

Layla gripped the ladder, staring up at him with frightened eyes.

“It’s okay,” Michael mouthed. “I love you.”

Smoldering pieces of metal plate and skinwalkers rained down over the water as the submarine sank to the depths. Michael searched the water for more hostiles, but it seemed they were in the clear. Discovery had saved them for now.

Two tugboats with water cannons raced to the rig to help put out the fires. Hoses shot water across the hull of the Hive, but he wasn’t sure it would be enough to save their ancient home. Most of the blasts had come from the opposite side of the ship, which told Michael the damage would be even worse there.

Distant gunfire and another missile from the sky confirmed the battle was far from over.

But how many men did Horn have? From what Michael understood, he had slaughtered half the crew on Raven’s Claw. And where had they found submarines?

Imulah finally got down to the bottom platform, where more medics were waiting. He reached up to help Layla down, and Michael hopped down onto the deck beside them. Dr. Huff had arrived on a speedboat.

“I need tables set up there and there!” Huff yelled.

“No, not here!” a voice called out above Michael.

X jumped off the ladder.

“We need to get all nonemergency personnel and militia off this rig—especially the wounded,” he said. “Everyone not fighting the fires or holding security needs to fall back to the capitol tower.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir,” Wynn said. He got off the ladder and hurried over with his handset.

“Why?” X asked. “It’s the most defensive place we got.”

Wynn swallowed hard. “Sir, listen to this.”

He turned up the radio to white noise and the screams of terrified people.

He stepped closer, his heart climbing in his throat as he picked up something else amid the din.

“What?” X said. “What am I listening to?”

X grabbed the radio and brought it to his ear, his eyes widening as he listened for several moments.

“I don’t understand,” Layla said. “How is that possible?”

“The skinwalkers must have brought them,” Wynn said.

“Get me a boat now!” X said.

Wynn gave the orders, and X grabbed him before he could walk away. “Where the hell is Lieutenant Sloan?”

“Sir, I’m not sure,” Wynn replied.

“Find out.”

X looked up at the ladders across the hull. Michael did the same thing. A hundred people were abandoning their homes as rescue workers fought to save it.

“Deploy every able man and woman to the capitol tower,” X said. “We’re not letting it fall to the monsters.”

“Roger that, sir,” Wynn said.

“And tell Les and Timothy to keep eyes out for more subs.”

He looked to Michael and Layla. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I need Michael’s help.”

Layla nodded and squeezed Michael’s hand. “Go, Tin,” she said. “Save the capitol.”

Ada opened her eyes to a world so black, she thought she was dead until she heard the boom of thunder.

She tried to move, but something weighed her down. Mustering all her energy, she squirmed just a little in what felt like dirt.

A breath of air through her nostrils carried the scent of wet earth. She remembered the smell from the farms on the Hive, where she had helped her aunt pick produce when she was just a girl.

But this smell was different.

Ada twisted again, freeing one shoulder. She managed to get that arm out and reached up to wipe her visor. She cleared enough sand off it to see lightning flash on the horizon.

With her free hand, she pushed off the sand that half buried her body. Memories of the storm crashed over her like the last wave to hit her boat.

Sitting up, she reached to turn on her helmet lamp, but it was gone. Her wrist monitor still worked, providing a small glow. Radiation levels were low, and the air showed no signs of sulfur dioxide or other noxious gases. That also explained how she was breathing with a depleted air filter and a cracked visor. A little over a day had passed, which explained her growling stomach and parched throat.

The relief she felt over finding herself alive vanished when a skein of lightning illuminated the beach. Her boat was nowhere in sight.

She pushed herself up to start the search.

As she shambled along, her broken toe throbbed, but her eyes adjusted to the faint blue glow of the sky.

Waves crashed, churning up blocks of white foam that piled up on the sand.

A few minutes later, she stopped to get her bearings and realized she had lost more than her boat and headlamp. She had nothing to defend herself with.

The first thing she spotted was a pole sticking out of the sand. She walked over and tried to dislodge it.

Wiggling it back and forth, she finally managed to free the five-foot length of pipe. It reminded her of the spear General Rhino carried. Almost as long as her body, it was so heavy she could hardly swing it.

The farther she trekked, the more frightened she became. She had no real weapon. No flashlight, no food, no water. And no idea where her boat was.

Ada stopped and thrust the pipe into the sand.

You’re okay. There’s nothing out here with you.

She wanted to believe that, but the electrical storm illuminated a dense tropical jungle growing up through the old-world resort city. Trees had grown up through mounds of rubble, and vines curled like snakes toward the beach.

A quarter mile away, a raised concrete walkway cut the beach. At the end, metal poles stuck out of the sand and rose from the water. The pier that had connected them to the concrete walk was mostly gone.

In the harbor, bows and masts jutted out of the surf. She counted two dozen yachts and double that number in smaller craft, washed up along the shoreline and partially buried in sand.

The bigger vessels didn’t make much sense to her in a harbor so shallow that their remains poked out of the water like broken bones.

Maybe people had fled here after the bombs, she thought. Maybe they anchored here to wait out the war.

She looked back, to where hotels and resorts had once overlooked the harbor. The buildings were mostly rubble. Probably felled by a monstrous tsunami—a bomb would have caused much higher radiation readings.

She climbed up onto the concrete walkway for a look at the beach on the other side.

Lightning flashed, and in the glow, she saw there wasn’t much left of the pier on this side of the marina, either. Only a few rusting platforms—mostly just poles sticking out of the water.

She waited again for lightning and used it to scan the shore.

Her spirits lifted when she saw a boat that looked like hers. But they sank again when she saw tracks in the sand just below the edge of the concrete walkway.

She waited for another lightning bolt. It provided just enough light to make out a trail made by webbed feet about the size of a human’s.

The tracks ran between her and the capsized boat that looked like hers.

She hurried down the sand, past the remains of a metal boat whose hull was cracked in half. Something skittered out from under the stern.

Alarmed, she jabbed the metal pole into it, impaling a purple crab the size of a sea turtle. The creature squirmed, claws snapping at her, all four eyeballs looking on probably the first human it had ever seen.

Ada gave a scream, not of horror but of disgust, and flung the pole down on the sand. The crab managed to free itself and scuttled away into the crashing surf.

She stood there staring for several moments until her heart stopped pounding. Then she raced to the capsized boat, leaving the pole behind. Coming closer, she saw that it was indeed her boat, with the same oars she had spent countless hours hauling through the waves.

She pulled it from the sand, only to have it snap in two.

“Son of a…”

She found the other oar still strapped against the hull, but the top of the paddle had broken off. Gear and uncoiled rope lay scattered about the boat. The steering wheel was partially buried in the sand.

But at least the hull didn’t have any damage that she could see. If she could rig a rope, maybe she could turn it over and launch it back to sea.

Somewhere on this beach, there had to be other oars for the scavenging. She found her machete in the sand. Then she ducked under the portside gunwale.

The cabin she had called home was crushed against the beach on the starboard side. She tried to open the hatch, but it, too, seemed broken.

She kicked it with her good foot. The steel toe did the trick, and the hatch popped open. Inside, she saw that the starboard side of the cabin bulkhead had been crushed inward, knocking off all the gear and crates she had locked in place. Even worse, they had spilled into standing water.

“No luck at all,” she whispered.

She dug through the soup for whatever she could salvage. In the end, she returned to the sand with her soaking backpack, a knife, and a hand flashlight.

Slumping down onto the beach, she watched the surf and felt the anger warm her body. The Cazadores she’d killed had it coming for what they did to Katrina, but how did she deserve this punishment?

“Fuck you for sending me out here, Xavier,” she growled. “Fuck you for not believing me about the Cazadores.”

She lay back on the sand, looking up at the blue explosions of electricity in the clouds rolling overhead. The thunder made her think of bombs.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?” she muttered.

As if in answer, a croaking sounded in the distance.

Ada shot up, grabbing the machete and the flashlight. She clicked the button, but the beam didn’t come on.

She tapped the flashlight with the spine of the machete, and it flashed several times, then died again.

Dropping the flashlight, she scanned the mounds of rubble along the shoreline for movement.

The croaking came again a few minutes later, but it didn’t seem to be coming from the beach or the fallen buildings.

She turned toward the surf.

A capsized sailboat lay in the sand, its hull stripped of paint. The mainmast was broken, but a remnant of sail flapped lazily in the breeze.

It struck her then. Maybe she wasn’t stranded here after all. She didn’t need fuel and oars to get her to Florida. She just needed the wind and something to catch it.

The beach was littered with dozens of boats. At least one had to be seaworthy.

The croaking came again.

The escape strategy was great, but she must first survive whatever mutant beasts lurked out there in the ruined city.

Machete in hand, she backed up to her boat. She wanted to climb inside and hide, but she stayed on the sand, searching the water for the source of the noise.

When it came again, it was louder. Its source had moved. She scooped up the flashlight again and tried it. The beam came on, lighting up a small area of beach and surf.

She flicked it in the direction of the next croak.

Playing the light over the concrete walkway, she paused on a slimy green mass of something attached to the side wall. Horns lined the spine and head of a creature with four jointed legs spread out in L shapes. It looked a lot like a frog.

The large eyes looked back at her. A purple crab claw hung out of its mouth, wobbling as the creature chewed.

She kept the beam on the beast, but it didn’t seem to care. The claw fell from the mouth onto the sand. A long tongue shot out and whisked it back into the open mouth.

Ada took a step back toward her boat, bumping up against the portside gunwale. The light flitted downward and picked up something else on the concrete. Something even slimier than a frog.

At first glance, the three blobs looked like worms, but then she remembered seeing leeches in her biology classes on the Hive. These were orders of magnitude larger than the small creatures from that lesson.

They oozed up the wall toward the gargantuan frog.

The frog continued munching its meal, either unaware or unconcerned. She almost wanted to warn it since it hadn’t tried to harm her, but she didn’t want to risk drawing any attention.

Besides, the leeches were only a third the frog’s size, and there was no way…

Before she could finish the thought, the closest leech parted down the middle, like a sleeping bag being unzipped halfway. A red maw of gums lined with barbed teeth clamped around one of the frog’s hind legs.

The creature gave an alarmed croak and jumped. It succeeded in escaping its attackers, but at the cost of a severed limb.

The frog hit the beach, leaking blood from the stump. All three worms dropped to the sand, moving astonishingly fast toward the scent of blood.

A ball of rubbery black skin consumed the frog.

Nearly falling, Ada ducked into her boat. From beneath the overhanging hull, she watched as the leeches fed. The crunching made her queasy, and she resisted the urge to take off her helmet and place her hands over her ears.

The noises of death felt like a foreshadowing of her own fate, and for a fleeting moment, she thought of ending it her way, painlessly, instead of being eaten alive like the poor frog.

The feeding was soon over. The wormy creatures, plump and slower now, squirmed back toward the foamy surf, vanishing in the next wave that lapped the shore.

The bloodsuckers hadn’t left a drop behind. In fact, they had left nothing. No skin, flesh, or even bones remained. The only evidence of the frog were several webbed footprints.

And a moment later, the surf washed those away, too.