El Pulpo moved inside the room, scraping a Siren-skull shoulder pad on the frame of the hatch. Apparently unconcerned, he strode right over to Rodger’s bedside, where his eye peered at the open wound.
Then he turned to the man with the mask, giving him orders in Spanish.
The man clicked on his headlamp, put on surgical gloves, and leaned over Rodger.
He remained there for several seconds, tilting his head slightly to play the light over the wound. Rodger had never felt so violated in his life.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please, don’t…”
El Pulpo sniffed the air and then wiped his bulbous nose. The man in the brown robe moved to the other side of his bed, hands still clasped behind his back.
“Do not fear, my friend,” he said in a quiet, reassuring voice. “We have brought you back from the dead.”
“Who are you?” Rodger croaked, blinking away the stars before his vision. The gray-bearded face had the wrinkled brow and kind eyes of a wise old man. This guy sure didn’t look like one of the rough Cazador soldiers.
“My name is Imulah,” he said with a warm smile that seemed a little forced. “I serve el Pulpo as a scribe.”
Rodger was good at reading people, and something was off about this “scribe.”
“Now that you’re awake, why don’t you tell me more about yourself,” Imulah said. “El Pulpo has been waiting several days for the opportunity to speak to you.”
Rodger’s eyes flitted from the scribe to the Cazador warrior king. He didn’t wear a patch to cover up the inflamed socket of the eye that X had destroyed.
“Don’t be afraid,” Imulah said. He brought his hands out from behind his back and stepped closer to the bed. “Dr. Javan is taking very good care of you.”
The man with the headlamp nodded at Rodger but still would not meet his gaze. The doctor and the scribe were both clearly tense, and Rodger suspected the presence of their king had something to do with it.
He couldn’t help but wonder if these people followed him freely, or if they were enslaved, and what the barbaric leader had in mind for him.
Javan spoke in Spanish to Imulah, who translated.
“Do you feel any pain?” Imulah asked.
I have a freaking hole in me you could poke a rake handle through, so yeah, Rodger wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. His parents had always told him, “Least said, easiest mended,” especially in situations like this.
“We do not want you to suffer, and we will provide more medicine to relieve your pain upon request.” When Rodger still didn’t answer, Imulah let out a short sigh.
El Pulpo didn’t seem too pleased, either. He wiped away the sweat dripping off the octopus tattoo on his forehead and grunted through sharpened teeth.
“Let’s start with something simple,” Imulah said. “How about your name?”
After a moment of hesitation, Rodger decided there was no harm in telling him. “I’m Rodgeman.”
“And you are from the sky, like your friends? We saw your aircraft, so please do not lie. Lying is very bad and will only result in more pain. You don’t want that now, do you?” Imulah arched a brow.
Rodger caught himself before revealing anything about his friends in the sky. Not even to the nice one.
“Well?” Imulah said.
“I’m Rodgeman,” he replied.
The kind smile on Imulah’s face folded into a frown. “Do I need to remind you that we saved your life, and that we can—”
Rodger cut the man off. “Yeah, after this guy stabbed me in the back.” An errant twinge of pain made him grit his teeth.
Imulah stiffened, correcting his slouched posture.
Sweat dripped down Rodger’s face, and he closed his eyes to fight off the encroaching pain. Whatever they were pumping into his veins was starting to wear off.
Sensing his discomfort, Javan walked away from Rodger’s bedside to check the fluids and medical machines. After a few seconds of monitoring the readings, he reported his findings to el Pulpo, and Imulah then translated for Rodger.
“Javan says you are healing nicely and there are no signs of infection. He’s the one you can thank for saving your life.”
Rodger looked at the doctor, who had stepped over to a sink to wash his hands with some sort of foam. Javan glanced over his shoulder and nodded at Rodger. But it wasn’t a friendly gesture, just a blank robotic nod that told Rodger this man was just following orders.
“Why did you save me?” Rodger asked, his gaze returning to Imulah and finally to el Pulpo. “So you could eat me?” Rodger winced at a flash of pain. “That’s what you people do, right?”
Javan walked back over and checked the line of fluids in his left arm. He said something to el Pulpo, who seemed to ponder this and then nodded.
The doctor returned to the wall of cabinets and pulled open a drawer.
“Why?” Rodger asked.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. The questions made him anxious, and one of the machines beeped in response.
Javan gave Imulah a worried glance, and the scribe moved over to the bedside.
“Calm down, my friend,” Imulah said. “Your questions will be answered soon.”
Javan pulled out a syringe and squirted out a bit of liquid through the needle.
“What… what is that?” Rodger asked, trying to move.
His heart pounded harder, and the machine beeped faster.
Javan gave an order in Spanish to the two Cazador soldiers, who moved over to help hold Rodger down as he squirmed beneath the straps.
“Lemme go!” he growled. “Let me go!”
He watched Javan insert the needle into a port in one of the tubes. A warm sensation of relief instantly washed through Rodger.
“Go to sleep, my friend,” Imulah said.
Rodger fought against the drowsy euphoria.
“You will see your new home very soon,” Imulah said as darkness took over.
New home?
He thought of the only home he had ever known, and his parents, Magnolia, and his other friends.
A final image appeared as his mind slipped away.
The flashback to the ship was the most vivid memory yet. They both had been by his side, talking to him and holding him after el Pulpo skewered him through the back and dropped him to the wet deck.
But then they had left him to die.
The memory made him heartsick. His friends had abandoned him to a life in captivity with these monsters.
ONE
Xavier Rodriguez dunked the rag in the bucket of water, then placed it on his forehead. When he pulled it away, the cloth was stained red.
He was still bleeding.
Because you need stitches.
He needed more than stitches, though. He needed what humans had once called a vacation.
The worst part wasn’t the open wounds; it was breathing. He knew what bruised ribs felt like, and this was worse. There wasn’t much he could do if one of his ribs was cracked.
Looking down, he checked the nasty gash on the outer edge of his foot, where a bullet had dug a path. It still hurt like hell, and as if that weren’t bad enough, he was still pissing needles.
But he had to admit, this wasn’t the worst shape he had ever been in during his career as a Hell Diver. There were countless times on the surface when he had suffered far worse and would gladly have traded for his present condition.
He would heal. His body would regain strength.