The Last Sanctuary Omnibus

by Kyla Stone

  “I don't understand what—”

  “Enough!” barked one of the terrorists in combat gear. He didn’t wear a ski mask. He was east Asian, with malevolent, raven-dark eyes and a scar striping one side of his face. He stood with his feet spread, shoulders taut, pulse gun at the ready.

  Simeon removed the gun from her side and placed it against her temple, the metal cold against her skin.

  “We've gone through this whole rigmarole so many times already.” Simeon sighed. “Cheng's tired of this. I'm tired of this. Are you tired of this, Kane?”

  Kane grunted. “How about we gut her and see how she squeals?”

  “Too messy.” Simeon nodded at Kane.

  In one smooth movement, Kane pointed his pulse gun at the group of hostages against the wall and fired twice.

  She couldn't tell at first who Kane shot. Someone wept. A woman. Her mother lifted her head, awake now.

  The man next to her slumped against the wall, a hole in his chest, the shirt around the wound disintegrated. The laser pulse vaporized his flesh. A foul, charred stench filled the air.

  Relief mingled with guilt flooded her. Her mother was still alive, but Omar Ferguson wasn't. Not anymore.

  A second man groaned. Beside Ferguson, Tyler Horne’s stylishly blonde hair was matted against his skull. He clutched his tattered right arm, smoke wisping from a scalded wound in his forearm.

  “You monster!” her mother cried.

  “I was aiming for you.” Kane spoke to her mother, but he looked at Amelia, his lips peeled back like a dog baring its teeth.

  “I also have poor aim.” Simeon could’ve been discussing tomorrow's tee time. The cold barrel of the gun pressed harder against her temple. “Unless, of course, I'm close enough to the target.”

  Her mother shrank back against the wall. “Don't hurt her, please! Take me instead. I'm begging you!”

  “Sorry, lady,” Simeon said. “We tried that. And if you don't shut up, I'm going to have to let Kane shoot you, too.”

  “Hostiles on Deck Four.” The terrorist next to the security monitors pointed at one of the screens. “They're wearing our gear. And they just took out two of our guys.”

  Cheng's walkie-talkie hissed static. A deep male voice sputtered something. Cheng's face darkened. “They're headed for the lifeboats. Go.”

  Two of his men sprinted to the starboard bridge wing. Muzzles flashed in the darkness.

  Cheng's scowl deepened. His scar bulged like an angry worm. “Enough with this foolishness.”

  “We're almost finished.” Simeon grabbed her shoulder and shoved her into a kneeling position. “Now, where were we? Gabriel?”

  “The cure.” The sound of Gabriel's voice twisted like a knife in her gut.

  “Ah, yes. We need the cure now or everyone dies, starting with your daughter.”

  “What cure?” she asked hoarsely.

  “And I keep hearing how clever you are,” Simeon said. “What do you think happened?”

  Something sprouted to life, some small niggling thought in the back of her pulsing, aching brain. It was hard to focus, to clear her jumbled thoughts. “There was a mistake, an error. The vaccine doesn't work like it's supposed to.”

  Simeon grabbed her hair with his free hand and wound it into his fist, his mouth an inch from her ear. “Wrong answer.”

  39

  Willow

  Willow crossed the last wall between the verandas, pushed off the glass railing, and threw herself to the deck of the Kid Zone. She was drenched and trembling, her heart slamming in her chest.

  But she made it. She was alive.

  The exterior wall of the Kid Zone wasn’t all glass like some areas of the ship, but there were several windows and two sliding glass doors. She crawled along the slick deck on her hands and knees, crouching beneath the windows until she reached the first set of glass doors.

  She peeked inside, glimpsing tables full of tablets, a robot-building center, a small VR gaming station, and bins of luminescent building blocks.

  Several staff members slumped against a wall swirling with garishly bright colors. Their hands were tied behind their backs.

  Only one terrorist guarded the room. He lounged on a pumpkin-orange floating chair, his rifle resting harmlessly across his knees. Most importantly, he faced the only entrance, his back to the deck.

  Out here, the storm raged black and fierce. But inside it was still. Quiet. The lights were dimmed, the children scattered around the room, curled up on circular cushions on the floor.

  Dead? Her heart constricted.

  But no. A curly-haired boy stretched and pulled his blanket over his head. They weren't dead. They were sleeping.

  There couldn't be more than ten of them. When the terrorists boarded the ship, most of the parents had already signed their kids out for dinner.

  There was no blood. And no bodies.

  Whatever had happened on the lido deck, in the Galaxy Lounge, the Royal Promenade, and everywhere else hadn't happened here. Not yet. She scanned the room, searching for her brother.

  There he was. Benjie had fallen asleep on his stomach on the mat next to the building blocks, surrounded by the hovercars and spaceships he loved to build. He still wore his raggedy Star Wars backpack.

  She let out a trembling breath. Something inside her released like an unclenched fist. Her brother was alive. Now she just had to save him.

  She pushed herself into a crouch and tried to open the door. It didn’t budge. The deck doors were locked for safety reasons, to make sure the kids didn’t wander in and out unsupervised.

  She tugged the knife from her bra and gripped the handle, her heartbeat throbbing against her palm. She waited for the crash of thunder to hide the beep, then she swiped her mom’s wristband over the door sensor.

  Everything seemed to fall away. The blood rushed in her ears. Her vision focused.

  She slid the door open just enough and slipped inside. She crept through the Kid Zone, silent as a ghost on her bare feet.

  Five steps. Ten. Fifteen. She was almost on him.

  He wore a wrinkled waiter's uniform, the collar folded awkwardly. He had reddish-blonde hair, unkempt and a little too long in the back. A constellation of freckles dotted the back of his neck.

  The terrorist slouched in his chair, probably dozing. He was strong, but not like this. Not when she stood behind him. She had the power, the momentum, and the element of surprise.

  Willow tensed as the floor bucked beneath her. In one swift movement, she reached around and pressed the knife to his throat. “Don't move, asshole.”

  He jolted awake and stiffened as she pressed the blade against his skin.

  “Put the gun down and kick it away.”

  He obeyed. The gun slid across the floor, bumping against the feet of the childcare workers. All three of the women stared at her, fear etched in their faces.

  She kept the knife pressed to his throat and moved until she faced him. She adjusted the blade so the point pricked against his Adam's apple.

  “My sister is—she's dead,” she choked out. “You people killed her.” Rage welled and for a moment she couldn't speak. It filled her whole body until she was shaking, her eyes glazed and burning with grief.

  Her fingers tightened around the handle of the knife.

  He started to shake his head, then froze as the blade scraped his skin. A trickle of blood dripped on his shirt collar. He swallowed. “I didn't. I've never killed anybody.”

  His voice was clear and smooth. He might have been a singer in another life. He was younger than she'd thought. Acne sprinkled his oily forehead. He had shaggy hair, chapped lips, crooked teeth.

  He looked like an average kid fresh out of high school. He didn't look evil.

  Her heart constricted. Evil didn't look any special way. It could be beautiful. It could come at you with a smile, a dagger in its teeth. “Shut up.”

  “I swear.” He raised his hands slowly, his gaze darting around the room. “I haven't hurt a
single hair on their heads! I fed them, let them play. I'm keeping them safe until we leave.”

  “He speaks the truth,” one of the hostages said, a Middle-Eastern girl in her early twenties, wearing a hijab. “He hasn’t harmed us.”

  “You can just leave—” he started.

  “There is no 'leaving.' Your friends brought explosives along with their weapons. They're gonna blow the whole ship and watch it sink in flames.”

  He paused for a moment as that fact sank in. “Take the kids to the lifeboats. I won't stop you. You don't believe me? I have zip-ties in my pocket. You can tie me up and leave me here.”

  She licked her dry lips. It was as good a plan as any. “Okay, asshole. Take out those zip-ties, nice and slow, and hand them to me.”

  She bound his hands behind his back and freed the hostages.

  “If we leave him tied up, we're condemning him to die,” the Middle-Eastern girl said gently. She was pretty, with a strong nose, thick eyebrows, and a soft, oval-shaped face. “I’m Nadira.”

  “Nice to meet you, Nadira,” she said. “Maybe he should die. He made his bed.”

  “This is not our choice to make.”

  Willow glanced at her. “I think it is.”

  “If the ship is burning, then we should untie him—or at least make it possible for him to escape. Otherwise, we become murderers.”

  She looked back at her prisoner. It wasn't how she thought it'd be. The monster was just a boy, with a face like hers. He wasn't the one who killed her sister.

  This wouldn't be vengeance. It would be murder. She was many things, but a cold-blooded killer wasn't one of them.

  Her anger leaked out of her, leaving an ache like a hot stone in the pit of her stomach.

  “Oh, hell.” She placed the cake knife on the floor behind his bound hands. “If you touch this knife before we leave, I’ll gouge your eyes out.”

  He met her gaze, grateful relief written all over his face. “Thank you.”

  “Keep an eye on him,” she said to Nadira. She picked up the terrorist’s rifle to use as protection. She had no clue how to shoot it, but she could use it as club if worse came to worse.

  “Ate!” Benjie sat up and rubbed his eyes. His hair stuck up all over his head. She knelt beside him, plastic blocks digging into her knees, and gathered him into her arms.

  The cuts on her palms throbbed, still seeping blood, but she didn’t care. Benjie's warm body sank against her. His heartbeat thumped against her own chest. His hair smelled like green apple shampoo. He smelled like home.

  She groaned and hugged him tighter. Alive. He was alive. Her mom would be proud of them, wherever she was.

  “Where's Mom?” Benjie asked as if reading her thoughts. He sniffled and rubbed his nose with his arm. “Where's Zia?”

  Darkness flashed behind her eyes. Her demons, whispering deep in her soul. Your fault. Your fault.

  The words clotted in her throat, but she forced them out. “We'll meet them at the lifeboats. We're going on an adventure. But we've got to be brave, okay? And we need to hurry. Let's wake up your friends.”

  She hoped Benjie would forgive her someday. The lie was the least of her sins.

  40

  Amelia

  The ship rolled. Simeon stumbled, tightening his grip on Amelia’s hair.

  “Please stop!” She hated the whimper in her voice. “You're hurting me!”

  “Simeon—” Gabriel said from behind her, his voice strained.

  “You going to tell her or should I?” Simeon asked her father.

  Declan Black's swollen lip curled. “I'll burn in hell before I give a thing to scum like you.”

  “I guess I'll just have to do it.” Simeon jerked her head back, exposing her neck. Her scalp blazed with pain. Several strands of white-blond hair drifted to the carpet. “Declan Black, CEO of BioGen Technologies, has conspired to commit a heinous act of biological warfare upon his own people.”

  “You're not my people,” Declan spat.

  “Most people received a harmless, inactive placebo within the BioGen vaccine,” Simeon said. “But a carefully selected population received something very different. Their BioGen vaccination contained the DNA of several virus strains recombined into a single, highly virulent genetically-engineered pathogen.”

  Amelia heard the words but couldn’t understand them. They didn’t make sense.

  Behind her, Simeon shifted. “Certain members of the CDC and the Department of Health and Human Services were paid not to look too closely, under the auspices that the vaccine be rushed to the people who needed it most in a highly-publicized display of good-will, which would bode well for the reputations and vlogger coverage of all involved. In reality, National Health Day was a cover, an effective means to disperse the bioweapon quickly and efficiently to the target demographic.”

  Cold went through her all the way to her bones. The room pulsed, the oxygen sucked out of the air, out of her lungs. The storm roared outside the bridge windows. Rain hammered the glass in gray, slashing sheets. Lightning split the sky into jagged pieces. “That can’t be true.”

  “The bioweapon was administered to a rigorously pre-selected population. Every single one of them a burden to the government, all refugees or illegals or poverty-stricken families out of work for years due to the above-mentioned government giving all the jobs to the metalheads.”

  She looked at her father. “Is—is it true? What they're saying?”

  His eyes flashed with derision. “Of course not.”

  She'd spent too much time and energy studying his facial expressions and anticipating his moods to not be able to read him now. The tick beneath his left eye. That extra hitch to the swallow in his throat. “You're lying.”

  Simeon laughed. “She is her father's daughter, isn't she?”

  “How many?” she forced out. “How many died?”

  “Well, that’s an inexact science, now isn’t it? It’s an impossible number to pinpoint. However, the most recent models from our sources inside the White House have informed me the engineered virus was deliberately injected into somewhere around one hundred thousand men, women, and children.”

  Amelia sucked in her breath.

  “Now, back to business,” Simeon said coolly. “We need the cure, and we need it now.”

  Her father said nothing, his face carved from stone.

  “Remember, you're the one making me do this.” Simeon yanked her hair, knocking her off balance. She toppled to the floor. He aimed a savage kick at her stomach.

  Sharp pain shot through her ribs. She curled into a fetal position, gasping for air. Tears stung her eyes. Don't let them see you cry. She blinked them back fiercely

  “Stop!” Gabriel said.

  “Hollis, put your gun on him,” Simeon ordered.

  “Happy to.” Hollis moved from the other side of her father and stopped a few feet from Gabriel, her weapon trained on his chest.

  “Leave my daughter alone!” Declan said.

  “You wish for me to stop? Start telling the truth. Now.”

  Declan only glared at him.

  “Are you just going to sit there and let us hurt your own? First your wife, now your daughter. What kind of man are you?”

  “You're the one beating a child,” Declan spat, his tone venomous. “I should ask you the same question. But I know what kind of man you are.”

  Simeon's mouth pressed into a bloodless line. “I'll gladly spare her. That choice is up to you.” He bent down, yanked her head up by her hair, and struck her in the face with the butt of his gun. Agony exploded behind her eyes with a flurry of stars.

  Kane slid a knife out of a scabbard at his belt. “Maybe we take a finger or two. To start with.”

  “Don’t you dare touch her!” Declan roared.

  Dimly, she heard her mother weeping. “Declan, please! Just tell them! Give them whatever they want!”

  “If you're going to cry,” Simeon said, “cry for the innocent dead and dying souls back home. I
t's too late for them.”

  Declan squared his shoulders, his eyes flashing. “They will find peace. Which is more than they had in life. It is a mercy.”

  Simeon scowled. “A mercy?”

  White noise filled Amelia’s head. “You did this on purpose?”

  “Not alone, I assure you.” Her father raised his chin defiantly. “It has been done before and it will be done again. In an age of dwindling agricultural yields and scarcity of resources, with virulent diseases spreading like wildfire and dangerous ideals spreading faster, it is incumbent upon a government to restore order and protect the security of its people. If they refuse to recognize the necessary means, then someone must step in and do what must be done.”

  “And that way is to murder a hundred thousand innocent people?” Gabriel asked, horror in his voice.

  Declan shot him a baleful look. “America thrives on strength. To be weak is to invite the jackals to tear us apart, limb by limb. To protect the chosen, to ensure our national interests and survival—yes, a few were sacrificed to save the many. It was a moral imperative.”

  Amelia couldn't comprehend his words. All her conflicted emotions knotted up inside her. He was her father and he was a mass murderer. She loved him and hated him like she'd loved and hated him her entire life.

  “Moral?” Simeon spat. “You're justifying your actions as moral?”

  “Aren't you?” Declan's face turned a fierce, ugly red. “The Coalition acted to save millions more. It was a matter of national security. We cannot—will not—let fear control us. If that means tracking citizens to separate the sheep from the wolves and successfully destroy the wolves—then we will do so.

  “You people would vote against your own self-interests, letting the world burn around you while you wave your pitiful flag of freedom. If we must sacrifice the chaff to save the wheat—the best and the brightest, those who will work to restore our country and ensure America remains the shining beacon of the world—then that is a choice I readily make.”

  Hollis grimaced. “You're insane.”

  “Not insane. Pragmatic.” Her father leaned forward, his eyes bright. He spoke with magnetic intensity, like he was convincing his board to take on a promising new acquisition. “The Coalition has the strength and courage to do what the current, ineffective leadership does not.”