Rising Storm: The Last Sanctuary: Book One

by Kyla Stone

  There was one moment when his guard had dropped. When she fell. When her vision wavered, another vicious seizure thundering down on her. She'd been weak—a weakness she loathed, but it reached him. She'd seen real concern in his eyes. Compassion. And when he'd kissed her—that was real. She knew it.

  She still felt it. In spite of herself, in spite of everything. That dizzy rush when he looked at her, that fluttering in her gut. Part of her cursed her own traitorous heart. She shouldn't feel a thing for him but hate and fear and disgust. But she did. She did and she couldn't stop it.

  He was so different from everything she'd known her whole life, the endemic indifference, everything so shiny and fake and false. He was full of passion and intensity and desperate desire. Being near him made her heart beat wild inside her own chest, made her want to be different, too. Made her want to be more. To be someone he could respect.

  It was her weakness—one of many—but she was sure that it was also his. She had to find it again, find it within him and push on it, wedge her fingers in the tiny gap and force her way in. “Your life sounds difficult.”

  “Everyone's life is difficult.” His face filled with more than anger. Pain shadowed his eyes. “It's not a secret. It's all over the vlogs and newsfeeds—well, their own twisted version, anyway. But you don't care. None of you care.”

  “That's not true.” But it was, and she knew it.

  “Do you read the newsfeeds and pings on your SmartFlex? Or do you flick it off because it depresses you? Because you can't deal with all the negativity?”

  Amelia opened her mouth but found she couldn't speak. She thought of the day a few years before when she'd come home from orchestra practice to find her mother crumpled in front of the holoscreen, sobbing. Amelia dropped her bag on the kitchen counter and rushed into the living room. “What's wrong?” Someone important must have died, maybe Mema or—

  Her mother had looked up, tears staining her face, though her makeup was still perfectly applied. “No more elephants.”

  “What?” Amelia stood there, staring.

  Her mother gestured at the holoscreen. “The last elephant just died at the Namibia Wildlife Sanctuary in Africa. Elephants are officially extinct.”

  “But we just saw one at the zoo.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Those aren’t—they’re not real elephants. They’re modded. Genetically engineered.”

  “But why are you crying?” Amelia was perplexed, but also anxious and slightly alarmed, like she was missing some important puzzle piece. But she didn't know which piece it was or even what shape.

  Her mother always got upset at stuff like this, as if the three-toed sloths, black rhinos, and polar bears were these precious family pets she knew and loved, not pictures on a holoscreen or shambling creatures they visited on school trips to the zoo once a year. The elephants and rhinos and other animals at the zoo seemed real enough. You could even ride them for a fee.

  Amelia had that same anxious, disconcerted feeling now. Only she was starting to see a fuzzy outline of the missing piece. It always seemed so far away—extinct animals on other continents, the children starving in Arizona, the rioting in Tampa and Chicago, the drowning cities in New Orleans.

  Only here was Gabriel right in front of her, pain etched across his face. “I'm sorry,” she said.

  “If I didn't have the right connection, a loyal friend to help me out, I would have nothing. No security, no job with benefits, no way to put a roof over me and my brother's head.” He paused in his pacing, leaned against the ladder, and swallowed a swig of water. “Some American dream.”

  “What about your parents?”

  His expression softened. “They tried their best. My dad worked in construction before most things got automated. Even after working all day, he'd come home and cook dinner for us. Ma hated cooking, but Dad enjoyed it. He made arroz con habichuelas, simple rice and beans, but he could make them taste amazing. One time it was Micah's birthday. He was ten, I think. And Ma decided to make his favorite tostones, fried plantains, but she got distracted reading one of her books. Next thing, the fire alarm was blaring, the plantains were blackened, and she was beating at the billowing smoke with her paperback.”

  “That’s a wonderful memory.”

  “I’m telling you this because she was real—a real person with real feelings, not a statistic, not a number, not a cost-benefit analysis sheet. Ma got sick when I was fourteen. She'd be asleep when we got home from school. Then her hair started falling out. Insurance wouldn't touch any of the drugs that might have fixed her—like your dad's cure. Too damn expensive. Do you have any idea what it's like to know there's a cure out there, but no one will give it to you?”

  His voice snagged. He took another swig of water and capped the bottle, his hands trembling. “My dad, he just . . . he lost it. He gave up. We used to work on this train set down in the basement. He'd whittle the houses and these little wooden trains for Micah and me to play with. But after . . . He started taking Silk to cope, to get through the day. He stopped doing things little by little. Cooking, cleaning, whittling, working. Even eating, at the end. You ever watch a man starve himself to death? That's what Silk does. Micah and I watched them both die.”

  Every word was a hot poker piercing her gut. Her worries over her violinist career and pleasing her implacable father were so inconsequential, they seemed obscene. “Gabriel, I'm sorry.”

  He stared at her, shadows haunting his face, so many dark emotions swirling in his gaze. “What would you know? You don’t know anything.”

  It was true. She didn’t know. Whatever problems she had, her privilege and her wealth spared her from the worst of it. She’d been selfish, consumed with her own world. “I really am sorry.”

  Anything else she'd thought she was going to say—to appear pathetic, to garner his sympathies, to manipulate him—turned to ash on her tongue.

  30

  Willow

  A low moan escaped Willow's lips.

  Zia stared off at nothing, her eyes glassy and unseeing.

  She tried to reach beneath the shattered coffee table to administer CPR on her sister's body, even as her brain told her, she's dead, and her heart screamed, I’m sorry! Don't leave me!

  She inched forward, her hands and bare knees scraping against needles of broken glass buried in the carpet. She didn't care. She didn't feel any pain. Her pulse throbbed in her fingertips, her belly, her throat.

  She held her sister's arm and pulled herself closer, until they were face to face. Zia’s skin was cool to the touch, clammy and rubbery like some unreal thing, like the stupid robot skin that gave her a shivery rush of revulsion if she looked too closely. Humanlike, a proximity, an imitation—but not human. Not alive. Not anymore.

  I don’t want you around. The last words she ever spoke to her sister, so angry and ugly. Words she didn’t even mean. Zia didn’t know how sorry she was. Would never know. She would give everything she had to take it back, to get Zia back.

  Great shudders ripped through her body, wave after wave of grief rolling over her. Zia with her weird donkey laugh and obsession with turquoise, her loud, exuberant voice filling up every room. Optimistic, sweet, and silly Zia. Zia who only wanted Willow to pay attention to her.

  She rested her forehead against her sister's, the way they used to when they were kids, when Zia had a nightmare and crawled into Willow’s bed, nestling her tiny body against Willow’s. When all she had to do was say, “It’ll be okay,” and it was.

  She lay like that, gripping her sister's cold hand, staring into eyes that weren't Zia's eyes anymore and never would be again.

  The silent scream inside her would not stop. Would never stop. Would go on forever, and ever, and ever.

  31

  Micah

  “We're ghosts here,” Patel said. They crouched behind a line of six slot machines at the back of the casino. “No security cameras can catch this angle, only the internal casino surveillance cameras. We don't need t
o worry about those.”

  “Where are we going?” Micah asked.

  Jericho grabbed the fallen men's radios and clipped them to his own belt. “First, the CSO’s office to get a few more weapons from the safe.”

  “How are you going to get access?” Micah asked.

  Patel grimaced. “The CSO and several other officers are hiding there. I couldn’t bear to cower and do nothing, so I left to look for help.”

  “And you found it,” Jericho growled. “As soon as we get more weapons and more men, we take the bridge. I need to secure Declan Black.”

  “What about the rest of the passengers and crew?” Micah still couldn't breathe properly, couldn't suck in enough oxygen to ease the tight, drowning feeling in his chest. He kept seeing that shadow falling over him, kept reliving the gut-wrenching rush of fear as his own death closed in.

  “We're outnumbered.” Jericho ran a hand across his close-cropped fade. “We'll be slaughtered if we try to retake one of the muster stations. My primary objective is to get Declan Black and his family off this ship. You just got damned lucky.”

  “But all those people—”

  “Are likely already dead.”

  Micah shook his head. “We have to at least try.”

  Jericho rose to his feet. “No, we don't. Every minute we delay increases the probability of detection.”

  “He's right,” Silas said. “A small group has a better chance of survival. This is no time to play the hero.”

  Anger zapped through Micah like an electrical current. “This is exactly the time to be a hero!” But no one listened to him.

  Jericho pointed at the bodies of the terrorists. “Put on their clothes. You can move through the ship without worrying about the cameras.”

  Silas's face twisted. “There's blood.”

  “Not much. Do it quickly. I'll cover you.”

  Silas and Micah stripped the combat gear and dark clothing off the bodies. Micah fought waves of nausea as he moved dead limbs still soft and pliable. It was like changing a giant doll. Except the doll had been alive five minutes ago. This man had his own dreams, disappointments, regrets. His own family. People he loved.

  Micah peeled off the ski mask and sucked in his breath. The man was young, pimples still dotting his forehead. He was Gabriel’s age.

  “You aren’t going soft, are you?” Silas smirked as he strapped on a bullet-proof vest.

  Micah ignored him, concentrating on removing his own clothes and redressing. The terrorist’s shirt had two small holes in the shoulder, the spatters of blood still wet. He gagged again, turning away to keep Silas from noticing.

  But his stomach roiled from more than the blood. He thought of Su Su, Chef Jokumsen, and all the other innocent people trapped in the muster stations by those monsters with guns. And Amelia, held against her will in the Oceanarium.

  He should tell Jericho about Amelia. Where she was, who was holding her captive. But the words jammed in his throat. To Jericho, Gabriel was nothing but a terrorist. Jericho would shoot him without a second thought. Micah couldn’t risk his brother’s death, not when he knew Gabriel would never hurt Amelia. He was mixed up in something awful, but he wasn’t a killer. She was probably safer down there with him than up here, anyway.

  “What about a distress signal?” Micah asked instead. “The lifeboats each have one. We can activate the emergency beacon so the Coast Guard can rescue us.”

  “No time. Our priority is the bridge.”

  “We have to at least do something!”

  “Keep your voice down.” Jericho cracked his knuckles. “We move out in one minute.”

  Chef Jokumsen had risked his own life so Micah could do something. He had to act. He couldn't stand by and do nothing. “Then I'll go myself.”

  Silas snorted. “You'll get yourself killed.”

  The ship pitched. Micah stumbled, then straightened. He shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “That's a risk I'll have to take.”

  “Suit yourself,” Silas said.

  Patel scratched his beard. “It would help to see how well-guarded the lifeboats are. And we don't know how long it'll take to regain the bridge. Successfully deploying an emergency call seems worth the time—and the risk.”

  Jericho narrowed his eyes, studying the map. He sighed. “We'll head to the CSO’s office and the bridge after the lifeboats. But it will be dangerous. I can't promise we won't walk into a death trap.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Micah said, sagging with relief. “You won't regret this.”

  “We'll see.” Jericho handed him a wicked-looking rifle. “Don't use this unless you absolutely have to. You respect it. And whatever you do, don’t panic and shoot your own team in the back. You understand?”

  He nodded. Jericho rechecked the ship map on his wristband, then gave him quick, rapid fire instructions on how to use his new weapon and what to do if—when—they came under enemy fire. Run in a zigzag pattern. Find cover, but don't stay there too long. Be aware of tunnel vision. Don't spray and pray. Accurate fire wins the fight. The first shot will usually miss; it's the second and third shot that kills as the shooter adjusts his aim. “This is a baptism by fire. You ready for it?”

  Micah tightened his grip on the gun, trying to keep his hands from shaking. The cuts

  on his fingers reopened, leaving fresh red smears on the black metal. He could barely hear Jericho over the roaring in his ears.

  Finally, Jericho seemed satisfied. He motioned for them to move. Micah followed him, a little behind and to the left. Silas flanked him on the right, and Patel brought up the rear.

  The rifle was bulky and unwieldy and heavier than he'd thought. He held it with the butt pressed against his armpit, the muzzle pointed off to the right of his right foot, the way Jericho showed him. This way he could lift, aim, and shoot in one fluid movement. His stomach churned at the thought of shooting someone. A terrorist was still a human being, no matter how wicked.

  They went up a flight of stairs to Deck Five and crept warily along the edges of the royal promenade, working their way toward the starboard side. They passed the Pink Reef Café, the brick patio scattered with overturned tables and chairs. The glass windows of every designer shop were broken, the display cases smashed, the jewelry, purses, and designer SmartFlexes gone. The racks of jewel-toned smartwear dresses were upturned, merchandise strewn across the floor.

  His feet crunched shards of shattered glass, china, and crystal from the shot-up

  chandeliers. Jagged pieces of ornate bronze panels had fallen from the ceiling high above them. But the worst thing was the dead. So many bodies. The terrorists hadn't given them a chance to make it to the muster stations. Hundreds of passengers were mowed down where they cowered.

  Micah forced himself to look at the dead, whispering a prayer for each one. Some were dressed in beautiful gowns and tuxedos, others in shorts and flip flops. Every face was frozen in a rictus of terror. None of them believed they were going to die today. He passed by a boy with curly blonde hair, no older than ten.

  Micah’s finger trembled next to the trigger. How could God allow this?

  No, not God. How did the Yeats poem go? Man has created death. Men did this. Gabriel did this. Gabriel and his radicalized New Patriots. Gabriel hadn't planned this violence, but it had fallen upon them anyway.

  Violence begot violence. Death begot death. And this was where it ended. Not with one side winning, but with grief and suffering on both sides. With dead children.

  How many more would die before this was all over?

  32

  Willow

  The world was ending all around her, but for Willow, the world had already ended right here.

  The world was over for Zia. It should be over for Willow. Death would be a release, a relief, a just punishment for letting her own sister die—

  Benjie.

  The thought drilled through the shock and the heart-wrenching grief cascading over her. She groaned, closing her eyes. But her mind woul
dn't let her. Move! It shrieked at her.

  Move!

  Half of her wanted to give up, to curl next to Zia and let the wave of blood and violence take her like it was taking everything else. But the other half of her was awake, grief-stricken but still alive. She couldn’t die now. She still had Benjie. He needed her.

  Slowly, her brain registered the sound of bullets and the shouting, lessened now. The battle was waning. If she was going to move, it had to be now.

  She longed to wrap her arms around her sister and never let go. Leaving her here like this, her body just lying there, like trash—it felt like a betrayal. A desecration.

  “I'm sorry.” Her voice was clogged with sorrow and regret and grief. “I'm so sorry.”

  Every muscle in her body ached as she pulled herself to her hands and knees. Her palms burned from a dozen tiny cuts. Her knees left a swath of blood across the carpet.

  She had to focus on escape now. She had to save Benjie.

  She glanced toward the stage. Four men knelt in the carnage. One terrorist guarded either side, two others faced the hostages, screaming at them, the end of their rifles thrust in the hostages' faces. Most of the passengers were still seated, too terrified to flee, shocked rigid at the scene unfolding in front of them.

  She glanced back toward the right front exit. The doorway was only a half-dozen yards away. The exit sign blinked red above the door, one of the letters shorted out.

  A gunshot blasted. The first hostage went down, falling over backward like a sack of flour.

  Willow crouched, legs like coiled springs. She ignored the screaming in her brain, the agony of the glass still stuck in her palms and kneecaps, the roar of her pulse so loud it drowned out the rest of the world—

  She leapt to her feet and ran.