Hell Divers II: Ghosts

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  He leaped over a tube crossing the stairs and ducked under another hanging from the ceiling as he approached the next landing. All the while, he heard a low, insistent hissing sound, like air escaping from a ruptured pressure suit.

  Weaver kept running, but the sound seemed to surround him from all sides. Motion flickered from an opening in a tube above him, and the spiky eyelashes fluttered. All at once, eyeballs on stems popped out like periscopes to peer at him. A vulture pulled itself out of the tube overhead and plopped onto the landing.

  Weaver swung the femur. The bone connected, and splattered the eye with a loud pop. Milky fluid peppered his armor as he ran past the beast. It crashed into the wall, clawing at its ruined eye.

  He rounded the corner and halted before running up the steps. The rubbery surfaces of the burrows bulged as vultures crawled through them. Spiky lashes opened like the mouths of Venus flytraps, disgorging a dozen of the feathery beasts into the passage. And those were just the ones he could see with his lamp. Others, fully camouflaged, skittered across the walls.

  This must be why the Sirens didn’t venture up here, he thought grimly.

  The gray creatures snapped their hooked beaks at him as he ran. Those that ventured too close on the right, he batted away with the femur; those to his left, he smacked with the barrel of the blaster.

  He fought for every step, swinging, stabbing, and bulldozing his way through the small army of mutant creatures. But it wasn’t the beasts he could see that were the problem. How many more were hiding in the shadows?

  The tubes around him continued to bulge with reinforcements. He considered firing his blaster, but the two shots were too valuable to squander on beasts the size of a dog. Their curved beaks and claws were sharp, but they weren’t as strong or as fast as the alpha-predator Sirens.

  He batted three of them out of the way and rounded another corner, followed by the squawking din. Creatures he couldn’t see grabbed at him with their single arms and pecked at his armor with their beaks. A sharp pain stabbed his right shoulder. Claws slashed his ankle, drawing a cry of pain as he dropped to one knee. He swung both weapons in a wide arc, sending several of the creatures crashing into the wall.

  Something moved above him, and only then did he realize how badly he had underestimated the little monsters. If there were enough of them, they didn’t need to be strong or fast to take him down and pick his bones clean.

  By the time he looked up, the beast was already on him. It landed on his booster with such force that he hit the stairs with a grunt. The hiss that followed wasn’t from the vultures; it was from the escaping helium. Worse, a crack now rickracked across his broken visor, letting in the toxic air.

  Through the cracked visor, he could just make out a door at the top of the stairs. He was almost to the operations room. The rusted door was at the landing not ten steps above him, but with his suit and visor compromised, he wouldn’t survive long even if he made it there.

  In a fit of rage, Weaver bucked the vulture off him. He stabbed another beast through the chest with the ragged end of the thighbone and swung the barrel of his blaster into a pair on his left. Then, lowering his helmet, he bolted up the last stairs, spearing through the remaining vultures as they snapped and pecked at him with their beaks.

  Summoning what strength remained in him, he pushed away the pain and fear. He barreled through a vulture that came darting down the stairs, swatting it with the thighbone. Claws slashed at his legs, and a beak sank through his boot as he crushed the thing. Gritting his teeth in pain, he shrugged off another creature that had landed on his back.

  Weaver could smell them now: a mixture of gamy meat, body odor, and filthy feathers. His battery unit continued to drop, and each breath filled his lungs with toxic air, but through it all, he held on to hope that he could still escape.

  He kept his gaze on the door ahead and smacked another vulture to the floor below with his blaster. The tubular burrows ended at the upper landing, but they continued to bulge with more of the creatures. Weaver stabbed the jagged end of the femur through the rubbery skin on the final step, impaling a vulture he couldn’t see. He pulled the bone free and stabbed another before it could emerge. Then he squeezed the trigger of his blaster. Fire flashed from the muzzle, and buckshot punched through the control panel beside the door.

  Past the ringing in his ears came the shrieks of the frightened vultures. He jumped onto the landing and turned to see the beasts flocking down the stairs, squawking in their ghastly language. Hell, if he had known it would scare them off so easily, he would have fired earlier.

  Injured and exhausted, Weaver stumbled over to the door. He shined his light through the crack and listened for hostiles, but all he heard were the squawks of those still retreating down the stairs. Placing both palms against the door, he pushed it open, fully expecting to find it overrun with monsters.

  The station was deserted. Desks covered in dusty computer equipment furnished the small room. He took a step inside and dragged the nearest desk over to block the door. Metal screeched across the floor as he added two more tables to the barricade.

  He scanned the room, playing the light across the steel shutters on the far wall. He found the radio station on a desk in the center, then looked for the backup power. A control panel was mounted on the wall to his right.

  Weaver flipped the breakers, and the overhead lights blazed to life. His eyes closed at the sudden brilliance, but opened again at the sound of a voice.

  “Hello and welcome.”

  Blinking in the brightness to locate the source of the voice, he banged into a desk.

  “Do not be alarmed,” the voice said. “I am Timothy Pepper, the manager of ITC Communal Thirteen. How may I assist you?”

  Weaver eyed the hologram skeptically. He had heard of AIs, but this was the first he had ever met. According to the archives, the cost of the technology had made them unaffordable over 260 years ago. Others, like the one on the Hive, had malfunctioned not long into service. Captain Ash had told stories of those days, but Weaver didn’t know the details. He wasn’t even sure his old airship, Ares, ever had an AI.

  All Weaver knew was that he didn’t trust the image standing in front of him. Hell, he barely trusted humans.

  “Sir, you are injured,” Timothy said. “May I provide medical assistance?”

  “I don’t have time for that. I need to use your radio.”

  Timothy clasped his hands behind his back. “Certainly. I can assist you with that.”

  Weaver limped over, leaving a streak of blood on the tile floor. His leg and foot were in bad shape, and his visor was useless. Although he knew it was only his imagination, he swore he could already feel the radiation eating away at him.

  “I need you to transmit an SOS over this channel,” Weaver said. The piece of paper he pulled from his vest was wet, the numbers streaky. “Think you can read these?”

  Timothy checked the paper and then gestured for him to take a seat at the radio desk. The speakers crackled and coughed after years of sitting idle as Timothy scanned through the channels. As he worked, Weaver tried to reach Magnolia and Rodger on the channel.

  “Do you copy, over?” he said.

  Static crackled over the channel. They were still radio silent.

  “The other divers are on their way to this facility,” Timothy said, without taking his focus off the radio.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I provided them a map to get here,” Timothy replied.

  Weaver relaxed a bit. If Magnolia and Rodger trusted Timothy, maybe he could, too. He held up his hand at the sound of another voice. This one was coming from the speakers on the radio.

  “Wait, go back,” Weaver said. “What is that?”

  “One moment,” Timothy said.

  Static filled the room. Then a voice. Not Rodger or Magnolia, but an oddly familiar v
oice that Weaver hadn’t heard in years.

  “If anyone’s out there, this is Commander Xavier Rodriguez. I’m leaving Hades and heading east toward the coast.”

  * * * * *

  Jordan strolled into the launch bay for the first time in months. He usually sent Katrina to supervise these things, but this was one launch he didn’t want to miss. He nodded at Sergeant Jenkins, and the militia guards closed the double doors. One of the windows was missing, the glass shattered by a militia soldier trying to stop Michael and Layla. The valuable glass wouldn’t be replaced anytime soon.

  Outside, people jostled for a look through the small windows.

  That was fine. Jordan wouldn’t stop them from watching; it would be good for them. An execution from time to time reminded the citizens of the Hive just who was in charge.

  He crossed the room with his hands folded as if in prayer. It seemed fitting, really, since he was about to cleanse the ship of a false prophet.

  Janga stood inside drop tube 13, with only her head visible beneath the domed lid. A single tear rolled down her bruised face. She wiped it away with bloodied fingers when Jordan began walking toward her.

  He stopped at the red line surrounding her tube and let his hands drop to his side. He tried to appear nonthreatening, as if he were about to have a conversation with an old friend. Ty stood a few feet away, arms folded across his chest, jaw clenched. Jordan could see he wasn’t happy about his new position as a Hell Diver, but so far, his only protest was the frown on his face.

  “Leave us,” Jordan said to the former engineer.

  Ty glanced at Janga once more and walked over to the operations room. The hatch shut with a loud click that echoed through the vaulted space.

  Jordan stepped over the red line and smiled at the old woman. “Part of me was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” he said. “Part of me was hoping you would keep your mouth shut belowdecks and stay out of the archives. But you gave me no choice.”

  A snort of disgust came from inside the tube. Janga looked up at him with a stubborn gaze that reminded him of Captain Ash. Both women had believed they were doing what was best for humanity.

  Both had been wrong.

  Janga knitted her brow, squinting. “You know what’s down there, Jordan. You know why Maria’s dream of finding a home on the surface can never be in our lifetime. But you also know you can’t keep the Hive flying forever.”

  Jordan looked over his shoulder to make sure the guards weren’t paying attention. Both men were facing the doors, backs turned. He took another step toward the launch tube and leaned down toward the plastic surface so his face was just above Janga’s.

  “Before Captain Ash died, she told me in detail what happened to those facilities, and I put the other pieces together by reading the restricted archives. Why do you think I’ve stayed clear of those red zones for so long?”

  “Because you’re a coward.”

  “I’m a realist,” Jordan said.

  She met his eyes again. “Your lack of imagination prevents you from seeing past your fear. We all will die up here unless you follow the path Maria laid out.”

  “You’re the only one dying today.”

  Jordan retreated outside the red barrier and shouted for Ty to prep the launch tube. He kept his eyes on Janga. There was sadness there, and pain, but he saw no sign of fear. That didn’t sit right with him. He had beaten her, so why was the old woman looking at him as though she had just won?

  She pulled a chain from her robe and kissed the smooth surface of a black stone pendant. “Your time will come, Leon Jordan,” she said. “The man from the surface will lead these people home—but you won’t be among them.”

  A voice crackled in his earpiece as he prepared to launch her into hell.

  “Captain, do you copy? Over.”

  Jordan pulled his hand away from the green button and flipped the minicomm to his lips. “This better be important, Hunt.”

  “Yes, sir. I just received an SOS from Weaver. He’s requesting that we move back into position to evacuate the divers.”

  “Have they found any power cells?”

  “Negative, sir, but they did rescue Magnolia.”

  Jordan ran a finger under the collar of his uniform. Magnolia was a tough woman to kill. Good thing he had a contingency plan.

  “Weaver said he and the other divers will be ready for evac in less than an hour.”

  “Who knows about this?”

  Hunt hesitated for a moment. “Just me, sir.”

  “Let’s keep it that way,” Jordan replied. “I’ll be on the bridge in a few minutes.”

  Jordan glanced down at Janga once more and shook his head. He would have liked to stay, but he had more pressing issues to deal with.

  He pressed the launch button and strode away without a backward glance.

  NINETEEN

  Michael frowned. He had heard something on the wind. It must have been a Siren, though it did sound a bit strange for one of the beasts. In a way, almost human …

  The noise unsettled him, and he squeezed Layla’s hand as they hunkered down in the shell of a bus near the Hilltop Bastion. The distracting beep of an incoming message jolted his attention to his HUD. Finally, the channel was back online. They weren’t alone after all.

  Weaver’s voice came over the line. He sounded shaky and short of breath.

  “Michael? Magnolia? Does anyone copy? Over.”

  Michael kept his voice low on the reply. “Copy that, Weaver. This is Michael. Layla and I are a quarter mile due east of the target. Where’s Magnolia and Rodger?”

  “I don’t know. They’re still off comms.” Weaver coughed, the sound rattling deep in his chest.

  “You hurt?” Michael asked. “You sound awful.”

  There was a short pause. “Do you see the beacon for the supply crate?”

  “Yeah, we passed it on the trek in.”

  “Good. I lost my rifle and pistol. I’m also going to need a new helmet, a suit repair kit, and a booster. Grab that shit and then get your asses up here. I’ll try to get the windows open.”

  Michael peeked around the corner of the bus where he and Layla were sheltering, to look up at the Hilltop Bastion. The concrete bunker rose toward a sky glimmering with lightning.

  They were so close, but there was no telling how badly Weaver was hurt. Michael reminded himself that the reason they came down here in the first place was to save the other divers. If that meant backtracking into hostile territory to find the crate, then so be it.

  “Michael, do you copy?” Weaver said.

  “Copy that. We have hostiles out here. Have to sneak past them to get to the crate.”

  “Before you go, there’s something you need to hear.” White noise surged over the channel, and then he heard Weaver addressing someone. “Timothy, can you turn that up?”

  Before Michael could ask who the hell Timothy was, a message began playing in the background. Michael recognized the rough voice instantly.

  “If anyone’s out there”—crackle—“this is Commander Xavier Rodriguez.” Crackle. “I’m leaving Hades and heading east toward the coast.”

  Michael felt his heart catch. “No,” he whispered. “No, it can’t be.”

  “Was that X?” Layla asked quietly. “How is that possible?”

  “Weaver, I … I don’t understand,” Michael said.

  “Sorry, kid, but I thought you should hear it just in case something happens to me before you get here. I don’t know if he’s still alive, but X survived that dive ten years ago.”

  “We’re coming, Weaver. Just hang on.”

  Michael considered telling Layla to wait here, but she would never follow that order—and to tell the truth, he didn’t want to go out there without her for backup.

  “Stay low and hold your fire until I tell you,” he s
aid, pushing away thoughts of X. There would be time for questions later. Right now, he had a mission to complete.

  Michael bolted away from the bus and ran for the wall of debris across the road. Bringing the scope to his visor, he glassed the area for contacts. The shadows he had seen earlier were gone.

  At his nod, they moved out, hugging the piles of broken asphalt and concrete. Fallen girders covered the path ahead. Farther down the road, one of their chutes flapped over the concrete, the motion attracting a flurry of shadows. A single Siren skittered into view, tilting its head and swiping at the billowing canopy.

  Michael made a hand signal, and they recrossed the road to a mound of rubble. A building, toppled from a long-ago blast, was just a pile of rusting metal, shattered glass, broken mortar, and rotted wood. He couldn’t see the supply crate yet, but according to his minimap, it had landed just above them.

  Lightning bloomed across the sky, revealing the treacherous path to the top. Shards of glass and ragged ends of metal jutted out between upended foundation slabs and clumps of brick. It was a minefield of hazards.

  “Slow and steady,” Michael said quietly.

  After a final scan of the road, he led the way across in a low crouch, stepping over the smaller debris skirting the bottom of the toppled building. He slung his rifle over his back and grabbed a flange of channel iron to pull himself up onto a masonry ledge. Layla swung up behind him. From the ledge, they clambered up the incline, boots finding purchase in the shifting scree.

  To his left, a gray steel door jutted out of the pile like the fin of a shark. They crouched beside it to listen. Gusting wind stirred up grit on the street below. The cries of hunting Sirens rang down the corridors of the demolished city.

  “I hear them out there,” Layla whispered.

  “Me, too. Let’s hold here for a few minutes.”

  As they waited, Michael’s cluttered mind shifted back to the message from X. He didn’t understand how it was possible. While Captain Ash was alive, Michael had pestered her to send a rescue mission for X just in case he had somehow survived. She had assured him that she was monitoring all transmissions from the surface. Michael had trusted Maria, but now he couldn’t help but wonder whether she, too, had lied.