Nemesis: Box Set: Books 1 - 3

by David Beers

  Veral kept moving, back and forth across the room, his thoughts trying to crystallize around a plan.

  He needed to find the other five Assistants—indeed, he should have simply moved with Hilton when he was told about what happened. If he found the other five, they could figure out what to do together. Now, on his own, Veral wasn't a match for even one of the Var's guards, let alone a host of them. But if the five of them could get together, then perhaps they could mount something. Perhaps they could keep their vows.

  Veral had no doubt that he would die for the Hindran. He accepted this onus when he was much younger, but it had only grown stronger over the centuries that passed. Chilras was a great Bynum. She had ushered in change after change, doing her best to create a Utopia. Veral wasn't anything when compared with that, his life little more than a grain of salt in the ocean. His only purpose was to serve Chilras, to protect her.

  He stopped pacing and looked down at his feet.

  That's where this went. He had to find the other five Assistants. They knew their duty, the same as he knew his. If they shirked it, then they deserved to die, and he hoped the Var found them and tossed them into the Ether. They wouldn't though. He knew them, all of them, and they would want the same, protection for their Hindran and revenge on the Var's insanity. When he found them, they would figure out what to do. Or not what to do, but how to do it.

  The what was simple, both for Bynimian and for Chilras.

  Either the Var had to die, or all of the Assistants would die along with their Hindrans.

  51

  Present Day

  The car moved slowly over the pavement, and Rigley watched as Will barely paid attention to where he was driving. He was in no hurry to return to the motel. If Will was right, there might not be any reason to go back ever. If that thing had actually been in the woods watching them.

  And if it had been, if it was trying to make its way back to where it landed, perhaps it was trying to leave. Perhaps it wanted to leave this planet as bad as they wanted it to go. And if so, Jesus, that changed everything. All the worry, all the fear building up inside Rigley could dissipate.

  "You're sure?" she asked, not caring what Will was doing in his silence.

  "Huh?"

  "You're sure it was out there? How can you be sure?"

  "I don't know, Rigley. I don't know how I know, but it was there, and it was watching us. I've felt things like that before and I trust my instinct." He was looking at her, but she didn't bother to look back. This was good. This was the best news she had heard since this God-awful thing started.

  "Do you think it's still out there?" she said.

  "I would imagine so. I don't know why it would leave if it needs to be there. We're going to put a twenty-four hour watch over that place, starting ten minutes ago."

  Rigley nodded. "And what if it sees them like it saw us?"

  "We were out in the open, Rigley. We were stupid. These men won't be; they'll blend in like sand in the desert."

  "And then what?"

  "Then they’ll kill it when they see it."

  Kill it or let it escape, she didn't care one way or the other. She needed this to end, and soon. As of right now, they were still heading toward one ending, one that Rigley wanted no part of.

  "How many men are being sent out there?"

  "Half of what we have, I think. A hundred of them."

  "Won't it see them coming, like it saw us?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. But it didn't move on us when we were out there, so it might not move on them, especially with that large of a group."

  "Alright, send them," Rigley said.

  * * *

  Rigley stood in the hallway that her mind had created , having ventured further than she ever thought she could. Part of her knew what waited up here, the part that had built it, the part that had hidden it from her view. She could see the words now, the red one's that stood alight over the doors. The only lights in this place, casting their red glow across the darkened hall like Satan himself had decorated.

  Not Satan, Rigley. You.

  One read, 'Bolivia.'

  The other, 'Her.'

  And another, 'Grayson.'

  Three rooms, that's all that was up here on this level. She could see that the stairs went higher though, that there was at least one more floor to find. She didn't think she could go to those levels, though, until she finished here. Those three doors at the end, they needed to be dealt with. She needed to enter them.

  Her feet began moving again, leaving the staircase behind and walking deeper into the cold. Despite the chill, sweat coated her body, her forehead, her hair, her arms, even between her breasts. Sweat that was the product of fear. Sweat brought on by those red lights.

  Rigley knew where she was going first. The door that said 'Her.' Because all the rest of this, the other two rooms, were based on whatever was kept inside that one. 'Her' was built before the rest of the rooms on the floor, the first.

  She watched the lighting grow larger as she continued her trudge through the hallway.

  How long had she tried to stay away from this place? How long had she tried to block all of this out? Only now she realized she couldn't, not forever. The moment this layer was built in her mind, it was set that she would have to face it. That's why the layer was built instead of simply discarding these memories outside of the house.

  Rigley's hands trembled as she made her way to the door, the one built by her daughter's death.

  The door that read 'Her.'

  * * *

  "I need to piss," Michael said.

  Lane looked up from the paperback novel he held. The other guy, Andrew, had brought it in a few hours ago. Lane looked to be a quarter of the way through, though Michael couldn't see the name of it.

  Michael didn't remember the last time he'd used the restroom, but he legitimately had to go right now. Lane was looking at him with eyes that didn't exactly look trusting. Michael didn't lower his own eyes, because what the hell did this guy think? That just because he was being held as a prisoner all his body processes stopped? He was shocked that Julie hadn't woken up yet, if for nothing else than to relieve herself. More than shocked, really—he was beginning to wonder if she hadn't been seriously injured when that asshole slammed her into the wall. Her face looked swollen and blue, but she was still breathing, which was all Michael could hope for right now.

  Lane stood up without talking and walked into the small bathroom, moving out of Michael's line of sight. That was both good and bad, because it meant that Lane would allow him to use the restroom, but also meant that Michael might not get the chance to look around the bathroom—his second reason for asking to go. Which was simple. He wanted to find something in that bathroom to brain Lane with so he and Julie could get the hell out of here. He needed Lane to go sit the hell back down and let him urinate in peace, to keep reading that damn paperback, so when Michael came back out he could use the business end of whatever he found.

  "Alright," Lane said as he walked back out of the bathroom. "Go ahead."

  He moved back across the room and sat down in his chair, picking up his book from the floor.

  Michael looked at him for a single second, perhaps a second too long, but he couldn't help it. The man was going to do exactly what Michael needed him to. It seemed too good, too miraculous, to even be possible. Nothing was going right, nothing had gone right for a long fucking time, and now all of a sudden there was this ray of light descending from the heavens.

  Michael stood up from the bed, breaking his glance with Lane. The man hadn't noticed and thank God for that. Had he, everything might have been ruined. Michael made his way to the bathroom, turning the small corner and shutting the door behind him.

  He unzipped his fly and did his business, understanding that if he didn't do it now, he might actually piss himself when things went down in just a few minutes. The last thing he wanted was to piss his pants while he died—and death was a real possibility.

  When
he was halfway done, he started looking around, realizing how big of an error he'd just made. What if Lane could hear him? What if Lane realized Michael was done in here, but hadn't come out.

  Jesus Christ. Hurry.

  His eyes flashed around the small bathroom, looking at everything. There was nothing here. Fucking nothing. He couldn't even pull off the damn toilet seat to use against Lane, let alone something that might do some damage. Oh, what a fool's errand. There wasn't anything in here to use. Michael could walk back out and try to beat Lane to death with his own dick, but that was it.

  Tears flooded his eyes. He had wanted this, had thought that it might be possible, that he might be able to save the two of them, to keep them both from dying. Impossible. The two would end up shot, probably in the head, without ever seeing…

  Julie would never see her parents again.

  And who wouldn't Michael see? His father? But that wasn't the real thought that came to him. He wouldn't see Thera again.

  Michael turned his head slightly to the right and looked up into the air, hoping that the tears wouldn't fall.

  He saw the shower curtain.

  He saw the shower curtain rod.

  He followed it all the way to the end, to where it met the tub's structure. It wasn't locked down; it was one of those old ones that he could pick up and move.

  That was it. The only thing in this whole place that he could possibly use. A hollow metal stick that was probably too long. But what other choice was there? He could walk back out and sit on that bed, next to Julie, and within a few hours Lane would pick up his pistol and shoot the two of them. He would die either way; no one was coming to save them.

  Michael zipped his pants up and moved over to the shower curtain.

  Carefully, he reached up and grabbed hold of the pole.

  * * *

  Lane heard the door open but didn't look up. He was tired and his eyes were beginning to shut even as he read the book. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and the book between both hands, hoping sitting like that would keep him awake. It wasn't, though. This was a losing battle and if Will didn't realize it soon, he was going to find Lane asleep on this chair while the two kids escaped.

  How the hell isn't this kid falling asleep? He wondered. He knew the answer though. Survival had a way of keeping one awake, and Lane might understand that in a much more personal way soon. He was beginning to wonder about that, about what he would do when the end of this mission arrived. He hadn't talked to Andrew about it yet, but what if Will decided that everyone brought down here had to be more than 'quarantined'. If, in fact, quarantining might not adequately keep this infection at bay.

  What if Will decided he and Andrew needed to die?

  Would Lane fight, or would he die like these two kids, awake but cooperative? That wasn't an easy choice to make, really. If he did fight back, and somehow managed to get out of here alive, he would be hunted for the rest of his life. Hunted by the most powerful forces in this world–no matter where he went or how often he moved.

  Would he run forever?

  Did he owe these people anything? Did he owe this organization his life?

  Christ, it was too much to think about, especially right now.

  There's not much time left; you realize that right?

  Lane was having a tough time focusing, a tough time thinking about the guy in the bathroom, let alone his own survival.

  He needed another cigarette. If he walked outside and stood while he smoked it, that might wake him up some. Maybe.

  When Will came back, he'd ask for some of those pills. Eat twenty of them if need be.

  Lane could barely read the words on the page. They kept trying to spin and he kept having to double down, reading the same sentences over and over, moving through the novel at a child's pace.

  He heard footsteps and looked up out of habit, to see where the kid was going. He saw the kid rearing back, swinging something, though his brain couldn't understand what he held. Something long, something with a dull shine to it. He didn’t see anything else before it slammed across the side of his head, connecting with his ear and face. A loud pop and then he couldn't hear; one sense down, unable to help him understand what else the kid was doing.

  Lane knew he had to get up, knew that if he stayed down on one knee, everything was over. He put his hand on the floor and started pushing himself up, only to be met by another crack across his skull. He fell to both knees and looked up at the boy. Warm liquid poured down his face and Lane wasn't tired anymore, instead he was having a tough time seeing out of his left eye. Things were blurry and red.

  Get up. Get up. Get up.

  The only thought that his mind could create. The training was taking over, but not all of the neurons in his brain fired effectively. They were slowed, and so was his muscle coordination.

  Get up. Get up. Get up.

  The kid just kept hitting, swinging down and down and down, as if he was slamming ties on a railroad. Lane felt the impacts, each one, some of them missing their target, but the majority landing squarely on the back of his skull.

  Red and dark, that's what Lane saw.

  Up, up, up, his brain told him.

  And he tried, Lord, did he. Every muscle in his body wanting to put him on his feet, wanting to keep him alive. If he couldn't answer the question earlier about what he would do when Will decided his time on this Earth was over, he certainly could now.

  The kid though, the goddamn kid, he didn't stop swinging. As intent as Lane was to rise, the kid had the intention of laying him low. Lane saw his arms giving out, saw himself collapsing onto the floor.

  No. Up. No. Up, Lane thought.

  Another blow connected with the back of his skull and Lane ceased to think anything.

  * * *

  Michael sat down on the foot of the bed.

  His lungs heaved inside his chest, air coming and going in huge breaths. He dropped the pole to the floor, staring at it with wide eyes. It was bent—destroyed—and covered in blood. Michael looked to the man lying on the floor, blood pooling around his ear from the first blow he'd landed. The back of his head was leaking too; Michael couldn't tell if he was breathing, but he thought not.

  He leaned over to his right and dry heaved, loud retching noises escaping his throat as he puked up snot and stomach acid.

  Michael stayed bent over on the bed, and spit the last of the fluid from his mouth.

  He sat up and looked back to the man. It was done and Michael was still alive. Oh, Jesus, what did he do now? He hadn't considered what came next, hadn't thought he'd be sitting here conscious at the end of this. He looked over his shoulder at Julie, still not moving, but breathing at least.

  What he just did fully dawned on him at that moment. He could see Julie breathing but the man on the floor wasn't. The man was dead. Lane was dead (!don’t say his name!). People would come to this room, a lot of them. They would come and see the dead man and then see Michael sitting here in front of a bloodied bent pipe. They would see he was a murderer; they would see that he had murdered the man on the floor, that he had used the broken pipe, that he was a goddamn killer.

  Get ahold of yourself, he thought. Right now or all of this was for nothing.

  Except it wasn't as easy as scolding himself. The man there on the floor, that was because of Michael. Lying in his own blood, his chest not moving up and down like Julie's; Michael did that. Maybe the thought of people showing up was his mind starting to panic, but it didn't change the reason for the panic. He was a murderer. This wasn't some fist fight with Wren. He had ended a life. Taken it the same as these men had taken so many others.

  He would have taken yours just as easy, and he wouldn't be sitting here looking at your body, trying to puke his stomach up.

  Michael needed to get control of himself, because if he sat here staring like this for too long, those men would come, but they wouldn't care that he was a murderer (despite his earlier admonitions), they would only care about killing hi
m.

  His hands shook but that didn't mean his mind needed to. He had to focus on getting out of here, on getting to safety. On getting Julie to safety.

  Michael stood, his legs shaking as badly as his hands. He looked down at Julie's bruised body and realized that he would need to carry her. Somehow. He couldn't leave her, that wasn't even a possibility. If he got shot trying to lug her down the stairs outside, then so be it, but he wouldn't walk away from this room without her.

  "Julie," he said from the end of the bed.

  Nothing.

  He moved closer and lightly slapped the unbruised part of her face. She didn't stir.

  Michael looked on for another second and then decided it didn't matter if she was awake or not. They had to go. He put his arms underneath her, picking her up like a groom would a bride, except this bride couldn't hold onto him. He lifted and her arm splayed out into the air while her head fell back, her spine having no control.

  He went to the door and fumbled for a minute, then opened it, peering out into the parking lot. Most of the cars were gone, but what the hell did it matter now? Staying in this room wasn't an option.

  Legs shaking, arms feeling like they might drop Julie at any moment, Michael walked out of their prison.

  52

  Five Years After Linda Hem’s Death

  Michael put his box down on the bed.

  It was his box, but it wasn't his bed. His bed had been sold a week ago, and this bed here, well his mother wouldn't have bought it under any circumstances. He didn't even want to sit on it, didn't want to feel it against his skin at all. It was as if he could just keep from touching anything in this place, then it wouldn't be real.