Weaver closed his eyes and prepared to fight for his life. His heart was thumping like an air hammer. Could the monsters hear that?
He backed away, clicking on his headlamp in the process. Stealth didn’t matter now. They knew where he was. The beam crossed over the cracked gray ceiling. A second pass didn’t reveal any living thing.
Was he having auditory hallucinations?
Weaver was taking another step backward when the cracks in the ceiling suddenly shifted. His light captured a sinewy creature with gray skin skittering away. Falling onto his butt, he swung the rifle up by reflex. The thing, whatever it was, vanished around the corner.
For several moments, Weaver stayed on his backside, rifle shouldered and finger on the trigger. He had never encountered a creature with a camouflage response on any of his dives, but he had learned something about the monsters on the surface: where there was one, there were probably more.
He drew no comfort from having been right all along. Something had been watching him, and it was still here. He could feel it by the prickling hairs on the back of his neck.
He pushed himself up with one hand and held the rifle in the other. In quick movements, he scanned the walls, stairs, and ceiling.
Every crack in the concrete became a clawed limb in his mind, every broken hunk a mouth. He resisted the urge to unload his magazine in a wide arc.
His options were limited. He could run back up the stairs and abandon Andrew, or he could fight his way down to the water treatment plant.
In the end, there was only one choice.
X wasn’t the only man Weaver had left behind during his long career as a Hell Diver. Over a decade ago, on a dive to Hades, he had abandoned one of his teammates. Jones had been dead, or at least close to it, from what Weaver had seen, but the decision had haunted him ever since. Andrew was probably past saving, but Weaver couldn’t leave him down here if there was even a chance he still breathed.
Running back to the surface would make Weaver worse than a coward. He would betray the oath he had taken as a Hell Diver.
He made his way across the landing, stopping at the corner. Putting his back to the stair wall, he peeked around the side. The beam from his headlamp captured a skeletal gray figure the size of a six-year-old child, standing at the bottom of the stairs.
He ducked back around the stair wall and pressed his shoulders against the concrete, taking in a long breath. Risking another look, he shined his light on the floor beside the monster. The thing still didn’t move. It stood on two peg legs, its webbed feet splayed for balance. Its bony back was turned to him.
Did it think it was hidden?
The beast was one of the most bizarre things he had ever seen, and he had seen his share of strange sights. It had three legs—two in back and one in front—and a torso that tapered to a narrow midsection, like an hourglass. Feathers sprouted from its round head, turning to shaggy fur on the rest of its body, but the oddest part of all was the stemlike growth on its forehead, which supported a single eyeball the size of an apple. The eye turned toward him, blinking in the light, then quickly swiveled away.
His first instinct was to shoot, but this thing didn’t seem to be violent like the Sirens. A hard moment passed before he finally got up the nerve to step around the corner.
The creature remained frozen, almost blending in with the shadows. Past the beast, Weaver could see inside the water treatment plant. He tilted his headlamp for a better view, revealing a network of platforms and bridges over dozens of pools filled to the brim with liquid. The plant was many times larger than the one on the Hive.
As he played the light back and forth, something let out a scream. It was an unusual noise for a Siren, and Weaver wondered if there might be something even worse living in the plant. He cupped his hand over the light when he heard footsteps slapping toward him.
Weaver raised the rifle and pulled his hand away from the light just as the odd creature jumped to the ceiling above him. There it hung, tilting its feathery face at him. Beaklike jaws slowly opened and closed as if tasting the air.
The creature’s eye focused on him for a fleeting moment before the stem curved back over its head to look at the treatment plant, and the same odd scream echoed through the room.
In a flash of gray, the beast darted up the stairwell.
The high-pitched shriek of a Siren rang out. It was then Weaver realized that the first scream hadn’t been from a monster at all. It had been Andrew.
FOURTEEN
Michael stood in the shadows of the hallway as a crowd filed toward the trading post. At the head, Sergeant Jenkins led Janga toward the stockade. There was no telling what Captain Jordan had planned for her, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.
Michael looked at the piece of paper Janga had given him. He hoped the log-in and passcode would answer all his questions.
“We need to find a terminal that can’t easily be traced,” he said.
Layla grabbed his arm. “I know just the place.”
A frantic shout echoed down the hallway. “They’ve got Janga!”
The throng of passengers shifted away from the trading post and trailed after Jenkins and Janga.
“There’s going to be trouble,” Michael said. He jogged with Layla toward the corner and watched as Norma, grubby hands pressed against her bent back, shuffled after Janga.
“Where are you taking my friend?” she yelled.
Jenkins turned and swatted at Norma. “Get back to work.”
“Commander Everhart, is that you?” a voice called. “What’s going on?”
Michael looked back toward the trading post and saw Rodger’s father. Cole Mintel had a clock in one hand and a rag in the other.
“The militia just arrested Janga,” Michael said.
Cole wiped off the clock and shrugged. “Been a long time comin’, if you ask me.” His expression turned grim. “Have you heard anything about my boy? The divers have been down there for a couple hours now.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Layla and I haven’t heard anything yet.”
Cole nodded solemnly and walked backed to the trading post. By the time Michael looked back down the passage, Jenkins and Janga were gone. Norma hobbled toward them, tears running down her wrinkled face.
“They’re going to kill her,” Norma muttered as she passed Michael.
Layla frowned and turned to him. “You don’t think they’d actually hurt her, do you?”
Michael shook his head. “The captain isn’t a barbarian. Besides, too many people saw her being arrested. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
Layla didn’t seem convinced, but she led the way into the trading post and down a passage, past the entrance to the farm and the water treatment plant. Michael’s heart was beating fast, and not from childhood memories of this place. He and Layla were close to finding out the truth at last.
They continued through the living quarters for upper-deckers and past several small shops, including the Wingman. Back in the day, if X went missing, the bar was where Michael would look first. Layla turned into the hallway where she had grown up. Michael could see the drawing of the sun on the hatch. At first, he thought she was heading there, but she stopped two hatches down and knocked.
“Don’t worry,” she said while they waited for a response. “Deborah’s working right now, but she was a friend of my mom’s. I’m sure she won’t mind if we use her old terminal.”
When no one answered, Layla opened the hatch and stepped inside.
“Over here,” she said, crossing the cramped living space to a monitor on a small desk against a bulkhead.
Michael shut the hatch behind them with a click. “I don’t like this. I know Jordan has someone monitoring log-ins. If this one’s flagged, it won’t take long for the militia to show up, which puts Deborah at risk.”