Mabe (Earth Resistance Book 5)

by Theresa Beachman

  “It’s waking up!” Foster yelled.

  Screams sounded far away. It was no longer a pliant victim being dragged to the edge. It was shifting under the rope, and testing the knots that bound it, tracking the dirty humans as they hauled it the last few feet to the elevator shaft.

  Three feet. “Come on.” Mabe’s breathing was ragged, harsh in his ears.

  Cool air from below, scented with moss and metallic water, whispered in his face. He fell to his knees, pressing his fingertips between cracked floor tiles.

  Nearly there.

  He was level with the head and its gaze burned his skin, sizing him up. As he gripped the edge of the elevator shaft, sheared metal cut through his gloves. He gasped, his chest locked tight as he threw the rope to Artem and Jacob waiting below. “Fucking pull!”

  The ropes snapped taut and dragged the head of the Chittrix over the lip. The head balanced on the edge, its gaze malevolent, and the urge to hack the damned thing off splashed through him in a wave of hot nausea. He fought the impulse and stepped back, wedging his hands under the forelegs and pushed with everything he had. “Over the edge.”

  He roared and with a scouring rasp of hard chitin on metal, the Chittrix slithered out of sight.

  22

  Sarah climbed down the elevator shaft after Mabe and Foster, hand over clumsy foot. Sawyer and Zoe remained above, sealing off the access once more and darkness closed over her head leaving only sickly light from below to guide her down.

  The shaft walls were lined with a metal framework and narrow struts functioned as handholds, but they were thin and bent precariously under her weight. Hurry. Hurry. Fear whispered in her ear, growing more insistent with every second as panicked shouts echoed up into the restricted space. When her feet hit the bottom of the shaft, she bobbed down and out, hot relief washing through her.

  Artem, Diana and Jacob were dragging the Chittrix along the corridor to the viral vault. Jacob was sheathed in sweat, a dark blaze tracking down his back, while across from him, Artem’s face crunched into a pretzel of concentration, his temples bulbous with veins, a stark contrast to Diana’s stony expression. Yellow bodily fluids smeared the floor, marking its journey. Hope budded in Sarah’s gut. This might work.

  Mabe and Foster swung into position with Sawyer.

  “Fucker’s still awake,” Foster shouted, grunting as he took up the slack.

  The airlock for the viral vault was dead ahead. Sarah sidled past the heaving team, her back pressed to the wall. As she passed the head, the eye blinked again, the thick shutter of eyelid sliding left to right. Fuck. Hair lifted on the back of her neck and time stopped. It was tracking her. No iris. No pupil. No indication, just her pale face reflected in multiplicity. But she knew.

  She fumbled past Artem, tripping over the ropes and grabbing at his waist in her eagerness to get to the vault access pad.

  Don’t look over your shoulder.

  Her hand shook as she typed in the access code. The keypad flashed red. What? She must’ve entered the wrong sequence. She blew out a breath, wiped her hand on her thigh and rested her forehead on the cool metal before typing again.

  The pad flashed green and a small cry of relief escaped her as she stumbled into the airlock, bending to wedge the outer door open with a screwdriver. She pushed her security card into the lock and hit the override on the inner door, recoiling as dry air hit her in the face.

  “Open,” she hollered, circling the room. They’d already emptied it of anything that wasn’t screwed to the floor. But even so, she gave the space a final sweep. There could be nothing left here that the Chittrix might use against them. Nothing.

  “Fuck, this thing is heavy.” Mabe was first through the narrow vault door, his muscles bulging as he guided the others into the room.

  “Here.” From the doorway, Zoe tossed a silver gun. Sarah caught the stubby weapon. Diana’s gene gun, modified by Foster to deliver the virus and a heavy shot of tranquilizer.

  “Closing the door.” Jacob retreated into the airlock and the inner door hissed shut in front of him. He stared wide-eyed through the glass, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands rammed under his arms.

  “Sarah.” A hand closed on her shoulder. Mabe. Foster and Artem waited on the far side of the Chittrix. “Okay?”

  She raised the gun. “Let’s finish this.”

  The Chittrix rested on its side. She whispered silent thanks that its head was now facing away from her as she tracked along the length of the abdomen, searching for the vulnerable spot where it met the thorax.

  She allowed herself a slow exhale and rested one hand on the curve of the arched exoskeleton. The skin on her hand chilled, but something else pulsed through her. What she was touching was alien. Carried here from another planet. Despite the suffocating fear and hatred that the Chittrix represented, awe suffused her body. This was momentous. How many people had touched one of these creatures and lived to tell the tale?

  She kneeled to examine its anatomy more closely. The angle was awkward. “No, good, I need to be nearer.”

  Mabe’s voice was gruff. “I don’t think—”

  There wasn’t time to be picky. She slid under the Chittrix. Smooth clinical tiles held her back as Chittrix filled every degree of her vision. Her heart hammered at her ribs, her lungs flexing like a faulty balloon. With her free hand, she felt along the edges of the chitin plates. They were smooth, almost oiled, and faintly greasy to touch. Bile rose in the back of her throat, but she swallowed hard. This was not the time to lose her shit.

  “Sarah, get the fuck out of there.” Mabe hissed. He sounded low, but she didn’t look to check.

  She ignored him, closing her eyes, her fingertips feeling along the plates.

  Here.

  Instead of skittering hardness, her thumb depressed into pliant tissue. She held her thumb in place, using it to guide the gene gun. It took both hands and all her strength to wedge it in the correct location. This is for everyone who died.

  She hit the trigger, and the gun thrummed in her hand as it deployed the virus load. The gun’s digital meter ticked downward, infecting the alien with enough virus and sedative to infect six elephants.

  The gun clicked on empty. “Done.”

  She released the trigger, her hand trembling so hard the gun hit her in the chest. Her legs were boneless. She craned left. Mabe was on his knees, peering at her from what seemed like the other side of the ocean.

  “Give me your hand.” He reached under and grabbed her, clasping his powerful grip around her forearm. Heat and safety hit her bloodstream like a drug as he drew her toward him.

  The Chittrix spasmed and above her its torso lifted, a leg jack-knifing across her vision, claws extending and shattering their cloudy crust. Mabe yanked her free, grunting as three jerking talons slashed his bicep. Blood bloomed in crimson ribbons and his face scrunched in agony.

  He lunged to his feet, wrenching her away from the stirring Chittrix. She slammed into him, colliding with rock-hard masculine muscle. He enveloped her in a protective embrace and spun her away from the thrashing monster.

  Foster’s shout was pressured. “Move.”

  She ran with Mabe, not looking back until they collided with the walls of the inner airlock and the doors shushed behind them. They burst back into the corridor with Foster and Artem, deadlocks engaging with a thunk at their heels.

  In the corridor, Diana’s blank mask had dissipated and questions were written all over her face. “And now?”

  Questions Sarah had no answer for.

  She peered through the small viewing port. “Now, we wait.”

  23

  In the main lab, Artem had cracked open some dubious looking bottles of home brew. He grinned when he spotted Mabe and handed him one, clinking the bottles together. “To victory.”

  Mabe returned the chink with a smile, but his mind was racing. “Let’s not count our chickens.”

  Artem curled his lip, and his gaze narrowed. “We just caught
one of those things and injected it with a virus that will liquefy its insides, and you’re telling me not to count my chickens?”

  “I just—”

  Foster swung between Mabe and Artem. “Just borrowing him.” He grabbed Mabe by the shoulders and steered him out of the surly Russian’s conversational reach. “That’s enough chit-chat with the locals, my friend. Where’s the pretty doctor?” Foster swigged from the bottle and bared his teeth with a gasp. “Definitely some hints of dandelion going on here.”

  Mabe scanned the room. She still hadn’t returned. “She went to get changed. Maybe I should check on her?”

  “She’ll be fine.” Foster eyed him as if he could read his mind as he swallowed another mouthful and swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You should get her to look at that arm of yours.”

  Mabe glanced down at the rough dressing on his bicep. The bleeding had stopped, but it hurt like hell. More likely he needed more of the shitty beer. He took another hair-curling gulp.

  Foster tapped the glass with his nail as if making notes on a fine vintage. “After the first taste, your mouth goes numb and then you can’t even taste the shit.”

  Mabe took another bitter swallow. “Maybe I should pour it on my arm.”

  They’d moved out of Artem’s earshot to the far side of the room. Foster glanced over Mabe’s shoulder. “He’s got the look of a weasel, that one. Rip your throat out before you know what’s hit you.” He grinned. “Unless I get to him first.”

  Mabe dragged his gaze away from Artem’s scowling face. Only a few feet away, Diana watched them, her arm wrapped around Riley. Mabe raised the bottle in her direction, but she didn’t return the gesture. Her eyes remained glacial, and the truce remained uneasy.

  Foster tipped his head in Diana’s direction as Riley moved away from her mother. “Excuse me.”

  Mabe watched him head over, a wave of sadness crashing through him. Foster’s daughter should be alive too. He exhaled, his grasp on the bottle too tight, threatening to shatter the glass, working to subdue the raw emotion surging through him.

  Jacob laughed nearby at something Zoe said, but his eyes glittered, his moon-like face shiny even in the dim light. A man on the edge, Mabe had seen the signs often enough.

  He left his alleged beer on the shelf and headed for the door. There was only one thing that would make him feel better right now, and it wasn’t shitty beer. Sarah’s lab was at the far end of the corridor, past the viral vault. He could kill two birds with one stone. Check up on Sawyer and find Sarah. He was pretty certain she’d gone to her lab.

  Sawyer was perched on a small stool with a card table set up in front of him. His SIG was in pieces as he worked methodically, oil smearing his forearms, a ratty rag between his fingers. He straightened when he saw Mabe approach, leaning back to rest against the wall. “My time over?”

  Mabe shook his head and grinned. “No, I’ll be back in an hour. Just making sure you’re not keeling over in boredom.”

  “No chance of that.” Sawyer inclined his head at the toughened glass of the airlock door. “Damn thing keeps twitching. Sets my teeth right on edge. Jacob redirected all the power from any non-essential kit to keep the security super tight, but still…”

  “Sarah said the vault is secure.”

  Sawyer tilted his head. “Never trust one of these damn things. Every time we think we’ve got them figured, they pull another mutation or some trick.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face as if he’d seen too much in the last year. “I hope to hell this works, but I’ll also be glad to get back to Brackla. And Julia.”

  Mabe took a quick look through the glass. The lighting was dim, the Chittrix an indefinable shadow on the other side. “Let’s hope it works then.”

  He left Sawyer to finish his cleaning and headed up to the labs, his heart rate climbing as he neared the door. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing here other than when he was in her presence the constant constriction in his heart eased a little.

  The door was ajar. When he pushed through, there she was, just as he’d predicted. Three computer screens surrounded her, scrolling computations faster than he could track. Thin wires looped from her ears and the tinny shuh-shuh of music met him as he crossed the room. He approached from the side so she’d see him out of the corner of her eye and not be startled. She blinked and turned to smile at him as he reached her range of sight.

  A huge smile lit her face, and something new and precious raised its head deep within him. Something he’d thought he’d never experience again.

  She pulled one of the ear buds from her ear and a piano intro filled the room. Something bluesy?

  “Hey.”

  Need pricked through him, the need to be close to her. “Hey, yourself.” He swallowed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

  A grin crooked her mouth as she tilted her head to one side. “You’re not interrupting.” She shrugged, her slender shoulders rising and falling under the worn cotton of her shirt. It pained him to see her in faded clothing, her collarbone visible. But despite her thinness, her pulse beat strong in the crook of her throat, calling for him to kiss it—

  “It’s always good to see you.” She instantly pinked as she processed her words. “I mean, I need the interruption sometimes. I get lost in this stuff and forget to eat.”

  “How’s it going?”

  Her head bobbed. “Good. Better than I hoped.”

  Mabe glanced at one screen. The computations meant little to him. He’d always been top of his class in high school, at university. He could neuter a cat blindfolded, but he was no virologist. On the other screen the Chittrix was still sleeping. Damn if it didn’t give him the creeps.

  “The virus needs at least twenty-four hours to establish and take effect.” She chewed on her lip. “Although this is guesswork. Maybe faster, everything about the Chittrix is stronger, better.” Her voice dropped as reality took the shine off her words. “Once the infection is established and we know it works, we can release it and hopefully it will take it back to the hive.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we cross our fingers that the scorpion virus can take out an entire colony. How many do you think are in an average hive?”

  God, he’d tried not to think about that. Especially when they were close to one out of necessity, like when he’d escaped the bunker in Salisbury and passed the Bristol hive. His skin contracted at the memory of the droning, clicking hum that burrowed under his skin and lodged there long after he’d traveled far enough away to be out of earshot. “Thousands?”

  Her expression contracted. “That’s what I thought.” She lapsed into silence for a moment. “This really is a long shot.”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Long shots are all we have left.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip as if about to say something, but then thought better of it. She grasped his wrist and shivers raced up his arm.

  “Let me see.” She turned his arm and cool fingers traced up his forearm, lifting his makeshift dressing. It was all he could do not to groan out load. “They’re not deep. You were lucky.”

  He snorted. “Lucky.”

  “Chittrix wounds get infected easily.”

  Sarah turned away from him and reached up to the cabinet above her desk. She pushed boxes aside, pulling out a green first aid kit in a clatter of empty phials and cardboard boxes. Then she laid the kit on her desk and hooking a stool with her foot, pressed him onto it and moved between his legs. Her waist bumped against his inner thighs, making his muscles tense. Sitting down, his face was level with hers, eye to eye.

  Her breath was a warm tease on his skin as she popped the lid on a canister of antiseptic spray. “Lift your sleeve up,” she ordered as she peeled back the tape on his dressing.

  He did as he was told, holding his breath as she checked the torn edges of his wound. “Hurts?”

  “Like a brass band marching in my arm.”

  She sprayed his arm with antiseptic.

&n
bsp; “Jesus.” He flinched but remained in place.

  “You should have been wearing protection on your arms.”

  “Remind me to prep more the next time we go alien bug hunting.”

  She looked up. Brilliant hazel eyes steadily regarded him. “Are you winding me up?”

  He shrugged, tilting his head. “Nope.”

  She grinned and ripped open a fresh dressing. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to give you a hard time.” She pressed the pad against his wound, securing it in place with a crepe bandage. “You must keep it clean. Chittrix are host to a whole range of micro-organisms that are lethal once they enter your bloodstream.”

  “Lovely.” He gritted his teeth as she secured the dressing with a tiny silver pin. “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Be cheery while the world is being taken over by microscopic organisms.”

  She rocked back, her hands on her hips, but a smile graced her lips. “I only manage on Tuesdays.”

  “Is it Tuesday?”

  She stuffed the remains of her first aid kit back into the box and latched it shut. When she looked up, there was a gleam in her eyes that had been absent before now. She shook her head. “Who the hell knows?”

  God, he remembered teasing, remembered fun, from before. “Well…”

  She flushed as if suddenly aware she was standing between his legs. She backed off and allowed him to stand.

  He ran a hand over the neat dressing. “Thank you.”

  She blushed even harder, her gaze landing on his mouth and all the blood in his body derailed south in a split second.

  Fuck.

  Her music was still playing.

  “What are you listening to?”

  “This?” She lifted the cable as she thought for a moment, her two front teeth denting her lower lip. When she released her lip, he swallowed a hissing breath. Fuck. He stepped closer, a rising heat drawing up within him.