The canted floors sent him teetering against the walls. Up ahead, thick crossbeams sagged precariously from the low ceiling, forcing him to stoop to get past. He remembered this part. A map was drawing itself in his head. Down another set of steps and he’d almost be there.
On the lower deck, he felt along the wall in near darkness. There. The door. He fumbled with the keys. It took him three tries to make the match. He flung the door open and rushed inside. With a surge of relief, he made out Monica’s shape against the wall.
“Sam’s letting us go,” he whispered, touching her skin.
It felt hard, icy cold. Bone, plastic tubing. The insect hum welled up around him, deafening.
“I thought you’d come back for her,” said David Sturm.
The stench of rot wafted over him. Smell of death, he thought in terror. Sturm was dying, like Sam said. Dying from the inside out. Before Paul had time to move, bone-thin hands latched onto his shoulders, and he was lifted to his feet. Sturm’s eyes, Paul noticed, were shut tight, but he must have been able to see him in his head, hear the frenzied pumping of his heart, smell the sweat seeping from his skin. He cast a frantic look around the cell.
“Where’s Monica?” he demanded in a choked voice.
“Waiting at the furnace. We haven’t hurt her.”
Not yet.
“I’ve got a thirst, Paul. And you have to take the first few sips for me. My ancestors watched the lake grow increasingly more foul from the City’s contamination. Now I’m going to give the City its dead water back. I’m going to make them beg for the dead water in their veins.”
There was a chair, and beside it, a small table.
Paul’s eyes picked out a package of sterile swabs, loops of surgical tubing and a neat row of syringes. His stomach lurched, and he thought he was going to be sick.
He saw Monica, chained against a wall to the right of the furnace. Sked hovered nearby, hungrily watching the flames through the window in the iron door—a dog hoping for scraps. The two Cityweb men were studying some equipment, the one with the white sneakers rubbing sleep from his eyes, like a reluctant office worker on a Monday morning.
“We’re almost ready.”
Sturm forced Paul into the chair, and the Cityweb men locked him in tight, one belt across the legs, another across the chest. He could feel droplets of sweat gathering on his forehead.
“We’ll be injecting the water directly into your bloodstream,” White Sneakers explained. “Normally the user would drink it, but we think the results will be a little faster this way. Comfortable?”
He spoke like a dentist making small talk before drilling. For a moment it threw Paul off—he made it all sound so reasonable, so ordinary. But then he glanced at Monica, and their eyes met. He didn’t want to be seen like this, strapped to a chair, needles pricking his skin. And where was Sam now? Paul imagined him watching from the shadows with cold detachment.
Sturm lurched to the blast furnace and pulled on a pair of thick gloves. He pushed up a long lever to the left of the furnace door. Paul could see the flames subside behind the window and instantly felt the heat in the room abate. Sturm opened the thick iron door, seized a pair of tongs, and brought out a canister, glowing orange hot. He set it in a bucket on one of the long tables with a loud sigh of steam.
“Thirty seconds to cool,” said White Sneakers, looking at his watch.
“Flat out, please,” said Beer Belly, easing Paul’s arm down against the chair’s armrest. Just like taking blood.
“Time,” announced White Sneakers.
Sturm lifted the canister out of the bucket and twisted off the lid. There was a sharp hiss of inrushing air. White Sneakers poked a syringe inside and eased up the plunger to draw in the dead water.
Paul flinched as Beer Belly slapped at the inside of his elbow with two fingers. “Good muscle definition,” he said. “I used to do weight training. There we are; that’s the vein.” He wiped a cool, wet cotton pad over the skin. Paul snapped up his arm. It was completely automatic. He knew they would wrestle him down in the end.
“I need some help here,” said Beer Belly placidly. He and White Sneakers grabbed Paul’s forearm and started to force it down. It gave him satisfaction to resist—you flabby wimps—but he could feel his strength giving out, his muscles pulpy with fear.
“Let’s not waste time,” said Sturm. He darted to Monica. One clawlike hand flashed out and closed around Monica’s neck. Fury exploded through Paul, and he thrashed around in the chair, smacking Beer Belly in the face with his fist. He wanted to tear at Sturm’s insect limbs, gouge thumbs into the milky whites of his eyes.
“She can’t breathe!” called out Sturm.
With a groan of despair, Paul stopped struggling, lowered his arm, shut his eyes, tight.
“All right,” he whispered. All right, all right. Waiting for the pinprick, waiting for the dead water.
“David!”
Paul opened his eyes and wrenched his head around. Decks stood in the doorway, hands steadying a pistol aimed at Sturm.
Behind him, Armitage hefted a shotgun. “Tim, Bob! Hi, you guys!” he said cheerfully. “Good to know you’ve been keeping busy since trashing my house. Why don’t you just put that needle down and move back against the wall. Do it now! You, too, Sked.” He waved the shotgun convincingly. “That’s it. Very nice.”
“Stand away from the girl, David.” Decks slowly walked forward, keeping his aim steady.
“Decks,” said Sturm, opening out his arms in a grotesque parody of welcome.
“It’s an abomination what you’ve done here.”
“You never understood,” said Sturm. “You let yourself become hysterical. It was just jealousy, Decks; we both know that. The water wasn’t for you. But that’s past now. Look.” He pointed to the canister on the table. “We’ve refined it. Anyone can drink it. You can.”
“No, David.”
“The family, Decks, you haven’t forgotten. We’ll make our comeback after all, you and I!”
Paul could see Decks adjusting his grip on the pistol, blinking sweat away from his eyes.
“Don’t move.”
“Let me embrace you, brother.”
David Sturm shambled slowly forward, then all at once broke into a run, his insect drone building in intensity. A pistol shot tore through the air and he was wrenched around, barely an arm’s length from Decks. He collapsed to the floor, a small pool of greenish water forming around his shoulder. The hum stopped.
Paul sank back in his chair, limp, and watched as Decks lowered the pistol and stepped cautiously toward his fallen brother.
“There was no other way,” he muttered. He looked across at Paul. “We’ll have you both out in a second.”
The insect hum sounded again, and before Paul could shout a warning, Sturm had snapped upright and latched a quick hand around Decks’s forearm. The gun dropped from numb fingers and Decks sank to his knees, his face blank with pain. Sturm rose to his feet, blocking Paul’s view, but when he heard the horrible crunch, he was glad he couldn’t see what was happening.
He heard Armitage shout in alarm and turned to see him swinging the shotgun around on Sturm. His shot was panicked, and his aim was off, tearing a jagged hole in the chamber’s curving wall. The two Cityweb men lunged and toppled Armitage from behind.
It was Sked who snatched up the gun. With a yelp of triumph, he rushed toward Paul. But it was the syringe Sked wanted. He snatched it up in one hand, the shotgun in the crook of his other arm. Backing against the forge, his eyes danced wildly around the chamber.
“Good work, Sked,” said White Sneakers, pinning Armitage to the ground. “Bring it over.”
“Been a long time coming,” said Sked, looking at the syringe. “This one’s for me!”
The spider boy plunged the needle into his arm. Paul stared in horror—everyone, he realized, was waiting to see what would happen. Sked flung the needle aside, chest heaving. His body drooped forward for an instant, then arched
back violently.
“Yes!” he roared. “Yes, yes, yes, yes!”
Paul’s eyes fixed on the barrel of the shotgun as it swung erratically around the chamber.
“I’m fast!” Sked ranted. “I can feel it! Look at me!” He pummeled the air with his free fist, dodging blows from invisible opponents.
“The gun, Sked!” said Beer Belly. There was, at last, a trace of emotion in his voice—worry this time. “Bring it here.”
“‘Bring it here, bring it here,’ “Sked mimicked in a thick voice. “Who are you guys—ordering me around like—”
“Sked!” White Sneakers was advancing on him like an angry parent. Paul could see that the spider boy had broken into a heavy sweat and his pale face had assumed a demented squint. “You’ve screwed up enough!”
“Stay away!” Sked bellowed. “Everyone stay away! I’m fast!”
“Give me the gun, Sked!”
The shotgun jumped in Sked’s trembling hands. White Sneakers hit the floor, staring at the ceiling, lifeless.
“See, I’m fast!” Sked shrieked his hyena laughter. He skipped across the room and leveled the shotgun at Beer Belly. Armitage disappeared under a table. Another blast, and Beer Belly was driven back against the wall with an annoyed grunt, a red stain spreading across his shirt.
Sturm was across the room in an instant, one hand clasped under Sked’s jaw, the other behind his neck. There was a sharp snap and the boy’s limp body slid to the boards. Without a pause, Sturm was rushing toward Paul, bony feet scarcely touching the ground. Paul yelled, as if the force of his lungs could repel the skeletal monster. Sturm snatched up a second syringe, filled it, and leaned over him. “Now! Straighten your arm!”
“Don’t touch him!”
Paul saw the blur of Sam’s body, plummeting from the rafters and catching David Sturm around the shoulders. The two crashed to the floor, a few feet from Paul’s chair. Sam clutched a bundle of tubing around Sturm’s neck and tore it loose. A fine drizzle tickled Paul’s face—hot, oily—and he spat it away.
Armitage appeared beside him, a ring of keys in his hand, hurriedly unlocking the straps. Paul leaped from the chair.
“Do Monica!” he told Armitage.
Sam and Sturm were locked tight, skeletal limbs smashing out, whirling them closer to the blast furnace. Paul could see his brother’s hands wrenching at Sturm’s tubes, and a strong jet of water arched across the chamber. Paul flung himself onto Sturm’s back, but he was thrown off effortlessly with a jab from a poker-sharp elbow. He slammed against the scalding door of the furnace, winded.
He saw Armitage pulling the shotgun from Sked’s limp hands, leveling it.
“No!” Paul shouted hoarsely. “No! They’re too close!”
Armitage hesitated. Sturm gripped Sam’s head between his hands, viselike. And for a moment, they were motionless, gazing at each other as if hypnotized. Sturm’s insect drone faltered for a moment, and one hand came away to pat uselessly at the ruptured tubing around his neck. Green water flooded over his fingers. Sam wrenched himself free.
Sturm’s hum deepened and he swayed on his feet. Paul’s heart quickened. He struggled upright, his hands feeling behind him, burning against the iron door of the blast furnace. Sturm limped after Sam, arms outstretched. Paul’s hands closed around the handle of the door, teeth grinding against the pain. Just a few more steps. All he needed was a few more steps. Now.
He flung open the door and gasped from the heat.
“Sam, get out of the way!”
He pulled the lever hard.
Sturm whirled. For a split second, his skeletal face was bathed in a violent orange glow, and then he was engulfed in a roaring column of flame.
Paul flung his arms over his face, heat scalding his exposed skin. A second blast shot out. He clawed for the lever and managed to push it up into place. But the chamber was already alive with flames, licking against the parched walls, crackling in the high rafters. Water streamed from Paul’s eyes as he staggered through the billowing smoke. He nearly tripped over Sturm’s blackened skeleton, clenched tight like a fist, hissing steam.
He could hear Monica and Armitage calling out for him, but he lurched across the chamber, his hands stretched in front of him, pelted by a hail of sparks. Through the smoke he could see Sam. Paul called out to him, filled with relief. Sam was holding something in his hands. Paul squinted. It was the canister of refined water. He met his brother’s eyes for only a few seconds before losing him in a thick swirl of smoke. When it cleared, Sam was gone.
15
THE HULK WAS burning and sinking.
He staggered to the pier beside Monica and Armitage, watching the flames spread through the ancient ship. He was still coughing smoke from his lungs, spitting soot. His hair and clothing were singed.
Flames twisted up through the deck like some magical plant, sending orange shoots along the planking, buckling timbers, twisting up the broken masts. Tendrils of fire pierced the hull near the waterline, and smoke billowed out. With a mighty groan, the hulk listed sluggishly.
Paul watched, feeling nothing. Burning and sinking at the same time.
From the stilt-house roof, he could still see the orange glow shimmering above the center of Watertown, black smudges drifting out across the night sky. Monica sat down beside him.
“Can’t sleep?” she asked.
“No.”
“How are your burns?”
He glanced down at his bandaged hands. “They’re fine. You did a good job. Thank you.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
“I saw Armitage a few hours ago,” Paul said, “with a bunch of other guys.”
“They went back to Rat Castle to sink the helicopter. Armitage doesn’t want any traces.”
Paul’s eyes scanned the dark outlines of the shantytown. “I wonder where Sam is.”
Monica shook her head, smiling sadly.
“He got out all right,” Paul said, almost to himself. “We just missed him in all the smoke.” He felt only a weary resignation.
“He could be anywhere now,” she said.
“Do you think he’ll drink it?”
“He might.”
“He wanted us to be equals so badly. I wonder if he thinks I betrayed him, because I wouldn’t drink the water.”
“You were right not to.”
“But what about him? Maybe I was asking too much. Was it wrong for him to want to heal himself?”
“He didn’t even know if it would work, Paul. It was a guess, a crazy guess.”
“He could still do it, though.” He tilted his head back to the night sky, shutting his eyes, wishing he could clear away all his thoughts and sleep. “Maybe that’s right for him. Maybe—who knows, he might make some kind of medical breakthrough.”
But Monica was shaking her head. “It only ever killed people, Paul. In the end.”
He nodded slowly, looking at her. Five years, Sam had said. He twined his burned fingers through hers and gazed back over Watertown.
He found the note at the foot of his bed when he woke late the next morning. It was written on a ripped-out page from a magazine, the cramped words twisting through the white space between advertisements.
I’m not coming back. But you already knew that, I think. I haven’t taken the water yet. But I will, and I hope you understand. I was wrong to ask you to drink it with me; you don’t owe me anything. What I said about Monica was a lie. I found nothing to prove that the water in her veins would cut short her life. And now I’m going on an adventure, Paul. I hope you wish me well.
Sam
Paul walked to the window, his body stiff and aching. The sun had almost burned through the morning mist. He suddenly felt filled with light.
Monica bumped the boat against the docklands jetty and idled the motor. She sat looking straight ahead, her hands lightly tapping the wheel.
“Lots of room in our house,” she said.
Paul shook his head with a laugh. “I can’
t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not from there.” And because I’m a coward, he thought.
He looked across the harbor to Watertown, hazy in the distance. He’d considered staying—forget about Governor’s Hill, his parents, school. But he knew he couldn’t do it, not yet.
“So when’ll you come back down?”
“As soon as I can.”
She exhaled noisily, dissatisfied.
“So when will you come up?”
“Never,” she said. “Can you see me hanging out at the mall?”
“See, it works both ways.”
She nodded reluctantly. “Got everything?”
“Yeah,” he said awkwardly. “Thanks.” He hefted his knapsack onto his lap.
“You and your stupid knapsack,” she said, and suddenly looked away from him.
He leaned across and pressed his face into her hair. As he held her, he knew suddenly that he was falling in love with her, and he drew back, afraid.
“It’s not stupid to need people, is it?” he asked her, wanting to be reassured.
“No. It’s just that you can get let down.”
“How do you know I won’t let you down?” he asked.
“I don’t,” she said simply. “And maybe it doesn’t matter.”
“No.” He knew she was right. All you could do was keep trying.
“Don’t wait too long,” she said.
“I won’t.”
He stepped out of the boat and onto the jetty. He felt tentative, a little shaky, as if he’d just recovered from a bad case of flu. But he knew he was very happy. He loved her; he needed her.
He wondered if the whole thing was an impossibility, like some magical gas dissolving in empty air. But he pushed his thoughts ahead to his return. He would stand at the tall gate at the end of the pier, his hands curved around the iron bars, waiting, seeing her walk slowly toward him, to let him in.
Dead Water Zone Page 12
