Hell Divers III_Deliverance

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “Stay put!” he yelled into the comms.

  “Tin!” Layla’s voice crackled back.

  Michael closed his eyes, focusing on the memory of her face. If he was going to die in a fetid, stinking swamp, at least his last thoughts would be of something beautiful.

  “I … love you,” Michael choked. The water bubbled over his mouth and nose as he was pulled into the darkness.

  FIFTEEN

  One year and nine months earlier

  X knew he was close to death. He had been here several times before, teetering on the edge between life and whatever came after. But of all the threats he had faced over the years—diving through electrical storms, battling stone beasts, and running from Sirens—cancer was the last thing he ever thought would finally get him.

  Miles sat by his side as X lay on the mattress in the small apartment. Dogs were magnificent creatures. Especially Miles. He could sense pain, smell adrenaline, hunt in almost total darkness, and had saved X from countless monsters over the years.

  X wished he could squeeze out a few more years with his best friend. He would even take a few extra months, or weeks, despite the pain of the cancer eating at his throat. He remembered watching a woman slowly die from the same kind of cancer. She had long red hair and was dressed all in white. For some reason, thinking about her made him angry. Had the woman betrayed him? He couldn’t recall anymore. All his memories were nothing but dust and ash.

  Ash. Was that the woman’s name? Had she been the one who left him here to die?

  X let the fragment of memory go. It didn’t matter now who had betrayed him. The only steadfastly loyal creature in his entire life was a dog.

  X looked over at Miles, sleeping with his head on his paws. An eyelid flickered open, exposing a blue eye. The dog closed it again, going back to sleep.

  He had taken every measure to see that Miles lived on after X succumbed to the cancer, but there simply wasn’t enough food and water to leave behind for the dog. Without him, Miles would die within weeks. The thought broke his heart. Miles had been created by the same shortsighted fools who blew up the planet, making it impossible for even a genetically engineered superdog to survive here. It was a cruel twist of fate.

  “I’m sorry, boy,” he whispered.

  He lifted his hand to pet Miles, even as pain wracked his body. The survival instinct that had kept him moving all these years was slowly fading away. But it was still there, like old muscle, and a part of him didn’t want to give up.

  He carefully stripped the blanket off his half-naked body and gritted his cracked teeth as he sat up. His muscles strained and clenched beneath the scarred flesh. His clothes, radiation suit, and diving armor rested on a chipped dresser across the room. The remains of a mirror were piled neatly beside the door, where Miles wouldn’t step on them. X was glad he couldn’t see his own face in the mirror.

  Miles jumped up with X and followed him over to the dresser, wagging his tail. He nudged up against X’s tattered pant leg and licked at the bottom of his hand.

  X crouched down, doing his best to hold in a cough. He stroked the husky’s thick coat, and its tail beat the air harder. Then he straightened and grabbed a long-sleeved shirt off the dresser.

  He wasn’t going to die today.

  Today, they were going outside to look at the ocean. It was the reason X had fought so hard to get here, to see a place like the one in his old picture.

  X pulled on his shirt and then helped Miles into his suit. The dog’s tail wagged again in eagerness. They had spent the past few days sitting in the cramped, cold apartment, listening to the otherworldly calls of monsters outside.

  After X finished securing Miles in his helmet, he reached for his own gear. A tickle in his throat heralded a cough. Lungs crackling, he tried to massage his burning throat, but that didn’t work and he doubled over to cough up bloody spittle.

  The violent fit left him exhausted. He grabbed a bottle off the floor and forced the cool water down, though it did little to soothe his throat. Miles gave a whine and nudged up against his leg. He knew that X was sick. If X could speak, he would reassure the dog, but a pat on the head would have to do.

  When X finally felt steady enough to move again, he wiped his bloody lips on his sleeve and finished putting on his radiation suit. Reaching for his helmet, he hesitated.

  Why put it on? Why not see the world with naked eyes? The bloody phlegm on the floor proved he was as good as dead anyway. But the mission that had brought him here was finally complete. He had reached the ocean.

  He staggered out of the bedroom and into the central room. It was furnished with four chairs, a dining table, and the boxes of supplies X had carried up to the twenty-fourth floor of the high-rise overlooking the city once known as Miami. His rifle rested against the wall. He grabbed it on his way over to the plastic sheeting that covered the broken balcony door.

  Miles whined and pawed at his leg. X tried to speak, but what came out was a raspy whisper. He reached for his throat and closed his eyes as he swallowed. The pain was intense, as if he were swallowing molten lava. Not even the painkillers helped anymore.

  He pulled the industrial tape away from the double layer of plastic sheeting and led Miles out onto the platform. Their apartment had a magnificent view of what had once been a beautiful skyline. He imagined this was where the old-world equivalent of upper-deckers had lived in wealth and privilege.

  While most of the city had been leveled by the bombs, signs of Earth’s former glory were everywhere. The condo where he had taken refuge was littered with fancy furniture and other relics of the past. In the kitchen, he had found dozens of plates and cups, all pure white and so thin he could almost see through them, and a drawer full of silverware that gleamed after he cleaned it.

  X could picture the previous occupants sitting at the table to eat dinner as a family. Compared to what little he remembered of his life aboard the airship, the people here had lived in almost unimaginable luxury.

  He approached the metal railing to look east, where the ocean lapped at the shoreline. The chilly wind rustled his thinning hair as he raised the binos. He tried to picture the bright sun the way it must have been, the golden glow warming his skin. He imagined the palm trees waving in the wind, and the teal water lapping onto the beach. He had seen a picture like that years ago, an image his mind became obsessed with during his journey, before it burned in his journal.

  But all he saw now were the poisonous weeds and carnivorous trees growing along the beach, and the cold gray water breaking on trash-littered sand. Instead of the sun, the never-ending storm brewed overhead, shitting lightning over the ruined city.

  Much of the ancient metropolis was flooded by ten to twenty feet of water, and many of the buildings were nothing more than twisted steel and chunks of concrete. He couldn’t see it from here, but twenty miles past the fence of half-destroyed scrapers was a bowl of water a hundred feet deep—the result of the bomb that had leveled Miami. The radiation in sections of the city was at red-zone levels, and he had driven the motorcycle as fast as possible over the bridge to get clear of it.

  X knew this landscape like the back of his hand. Staring out from the balcony had been his entertainment since he arrived here several months ago. His favorite sight was the fishing ship stuck horizontally between two apartment buildings. Thick purple vines with barbed suckers hung like octopus arms out of a jagged hole in the side of the hull. Despite all odds, the ship had remained here over all these years, keeping the structures from toppling. It was a miracle any of the buildings were still standing—a true testament to human engineering.

  The apartment he now stood in was missing its left wall, which had been blown away by the heat wave from the nuclear explosion. The steel struts still held the structure together, like a spine keeping a skeleton from falling to pieces.

  He looked back to the coast, where another of his
favorite landmarks stood in the field of destruction. The lighthouse with a red dome was the flame of Miami, a bright pop of color in a gray world. The bottom third of the stone structure was submerged in water, but it was still standing. He zoomed in on the windowless observation tower at the top. A red metal railing surrounded the platform that hadn’t been used in over two and a half centuries.

  The trees and bushes on the beach suddenly lit up, their limbs flashing pink. He zoomed in to see a Siren munching on the foliage. In a matter of seconds, an entire section of coastline lit up like an emergency light as more of the Sirens joined the feast, ripping and tearing the vines. The plants were no doubt fighting back with venomous barbs and suckers.

  As he watched, another cough brewed inside his chest. He forced saliva down his tight throat and fought the wave of fatigue sweeping over him. Just a few minutes of standing out here had taken so much out of his body.

  He stepped away from the railing, preparing to go inside and lie down, but halted when he saw shadowy figures flapping across the skyline.

  Miles saw them, too. The dog bared his teeth but held back a growl. He slowly retreated into the apartment with his tail between his legs, eyes on X as if to say, Let’s go, old man!

  But instead, X stayed to watch the beasts streaming out of the destroyed roof of a building on the other side of the city. From this distance, they looked like bats, fluttering into the air with their long, featherless wings. He knew that the longer he stayed out here, the more radiation he would take in, but it didn’t matter now.

  Instead, he watched an aberrant branch of human evolution flock over a city that had once been home to mankind. The Sirens were coming from the ITC facility across the city. They may have evolved to survive in these conditions, but they hadn’t the intelligence of a human being—at least, not that he could see. They didn’t build things or create anything. Their instincts were basic and predatory.

  X supposed that was the point, but he couldn’t escape the irony. The corporation that had tried to save humanity had doomed it instead. They had created the monsters that killed the survivors on the surface.

  There was one final hope for X. Inside the facility were cancer drugs that could save his life. They were rare, and X had seen them only on one dive, long ago. Journeying to one of these secured facilities was, in itself, a death sentence. And how could he ever fight dozens of the beasts in his current condition? He could hardly get out of bed without feeling dizzy. X was done fighting. He should just let the disease run its course. It wouldn’t be too much longer.

  Gripping the railing, he continued to watch the beasts circling the city, hunting for their next mutant meal. Their hellish wails grew closer, and he finally stepped back inside the apartment.

  Miles was waiting for him inside, his blue eyes filled with concern. He rushed over and pressed against X’s legs.

  You can’t give up, X thought. Miles needs you.

  He closed the sheets and sealed the tape. Winded, he took a seat in a chair facing the supply boxes. He opened the medical crate and pulled out a small box of syringes. Inside was medicine that would get him where he needed to go—or it might stop his heart for good.

  A shot would keep him moving for several hours and could provide him with enough energy to get to the ITC facility and fight the Sirens. But this trip was too dangerous to take Miles with him.

  He leaned down to take off the dog’s helmet. Then he kissed the husky’s soft fur and hugged him for several minutes, feeling Miles’ heart beating and his sides rising and falling with steady breaths.

  “I love you, boy,” X mumbled in a faint, scratchy voice.

  He stood and grabbed his helmet, put it on, and secured it with a click. Then he gathered his supplies and weapons. When he was ready, he pulled back one glove, exposing a vein in his filthy arm. He inserted the tip of the syringe into the vein and pushed the liquid into his body.

  A wave of heat washed over him. He grabbed two more of the syringes and then set off down the staircase to the garage below, where the bike waited.

  Time to live or time to die, he thought. Time to fight one more time.

  * * * * *

  Present day

  “We have a confirmed KIA, sir,” Hunt whispered to Jordan.

  The captain stood on the bridge of the Hive with his hands on the oak steering wheel. The news wasn’t surprising, but he gave a rueful nod to keep up appearances.

  “Tragic, but just the one death?” Jordan asked, playing the part. He kept his eyes on the wall-mounted monitor. Storm clouds moved across the screen, and lightning rickracked through the darkness.

  “As far as we know, sir,” Hunt replied. “I’ll go talk to Ensign Ryan to see if he has more information.”

  Jordan listened to the XO’s footsteps clanking up the rungs. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to picture Katrina in the medical ward. Deep down, beneath the anger, he still loved her. He wanted to go to her, to comfort her and mourn the loss of their child.

  No. She betrayed you.

  His job was to keep the ship running. His life was his work. He breathed a long sigh.

  “Electrical disturbances are making communication with the surface impossible right now, sir,” Hunt reported when he returned. “Tom Price’s beacon went off during the dive. We’re not sure what happened.”

  Jordan nodded and looked to the weather data screen.

  “That storm is growing stronger,” he said. “I want an estimate of when it’s going to hit us.”

  “Yes sir,” Hunt replied.

  Jordan went back to studying the storm on the monitor at the front of the room. The cameras positioned on the stern, hull, and bow of the Hive provided a glimpse of the skies from every direction. A bulging cloud flashed lightning on the horizon. If he steered too close, the strikes would tear through the synthetic hide of the airship and could even puncture a gas bladder.

  “Ascend to twenty-two thousand feet,” Jordan ordered.

  Hunt cleared his throat. “Sir, that will take us out of broadcast range. We’ll lose contact with the dive team.”

  “That won’t matter if there’s no ship for them to return to, will it, Lieutenant?”

  After a short pause, Hunt shook his head. “No, it will not, sir.”

  “Give me full power to the turbofans,” Jordan said. “I’m bringing us to safe altitude.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  A slight jolt rocked the bridge as the ship began to climb through the clouds. Pockets of turbulence rattled the bulkheads, but the massive, beetle-shaped Hive powered through, just as it always had and always would.

  Jordan slowly turned the oak wheel, watching the front monitor for any sign of a rogue storm cloud that the sensors and cameras might have failed to detect. Just when he thought things were running smoothly, a raised voice came from the top of the bridge.

  “We’ve got a problem in compartment nine!”

  Jordan’s earpiece crackled a beat later. “Captain, this is Sergeant Jenkins, do you copy?”

  “Copy,” Jordan replied. “What is it?”

  “Over two dozen lower-deckers have gathered outside the trading post,” Jenkins said. “Several of them are armed with knives.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Your head, sir,” Jenkins said. “Listen to this.”

  The radio crackled with static, followed by angry shouts. “We want a new captain! We want a new captain! We want a new captain!”

  Jordan’s face burned with anger. He gripped the wheel harder and jerked it hard to the left, jolting the ship.

  A warning sensor flicked on, spreading a swirling red light over the clean white bridge. Several officers cried out in alarm.

  “Sir!” Hunt yelled.

  “They want a new captain?” Jordan said through clenched teeth. “Tell them to get to their fucking station
s!”

  Before Jenkins could respond, Jordan heard another voice from the crowd. “Katrina DaVita for captain!” someone yelled.

  Jordan ground his teeth. Why bother trying to save these people when they were so stupid?

  “Because it’s your duty,” he said out loud. Looking over his shoulder, he found Lieutenant Hunt. “I want everyone to get to their assigned shelters, NOW!”

  “Understood, sir,” Hunt said, though his face had gone white.

  The Klaxon rang out, echoing through the entire ship. If the militia couldn’t get the crowds under control, then Jordan would force them into submission.

  “Jenkins, report to the bridge,” Jordan ordered.

  He continued to steer the ship through the clouds, climbing higher and higher, away from the storm. When they were at twenty-two thousand feet, he put the system on autopilot.

  “We’ll move back into broadcast distance once the storm passes,” he said as he walked away. “Until then, bother me only if there’s an emergency.”

  Jordan loped up the stairs, avoiding the gazes of his crew. He retreated to his office and flipped on a single light over the bulkhead. The book Hunt had given him from the raid on the library sat on his desk. He took off the sword, plopped down in his chair, and pulled the book into the light.

  At first glance, the red and black binding of the hardcover book didn’t appear to be anything special. He rotated it to read the title: ITC Protocols.

  He thumbed through the yellowed, dog-eared pages. Fifteen minutes into his search, he had found nothing of interest. What the hell was so important about this book? It read like an instruction manual on how to survive nuclear war.

  Before Jordan could read any further, a knock sounded on the hatch. Hunt entered the room looking nervous.

  “Sorry to bother you already, sir,” he stuttered. “I wanted you to know the crowds have retreated to their assigned shelters.”

  Jordan nodded, but Hunt didn’t leave. “Well, what is it, Lieutenant?”