A knock sounded, and Jordan turned to see Jenkins open the hatch.
“Sir, the launch bay has been activated. Two tubes.”
Jordan stood. “What? Under whose orders?”
“No one’s orders, sir. It looks like Michael Everhart and Layla Brower are doing this on their own.”
When Jordan whirled back to Janga, she was smiling. Her grin set him over the edge. He was done wasting time on her.
“You think it’s funny, eh? We’ll see how funny it is when I put you in a tube and shoot you back to the surface that you hold so dear.”
Weaver made his way through the water treatment plant, searching for the missing diver. He kept one hand on his rifle and the other on his battery unit, prepared to pull it if the Sirens surrounded him.
Andrew’s howls of pain had lapsed into silence, and the screeches of the monsters were sporadic now. They were inside the plant somewhere, but Weaver still couldn’t see the creatures in the cavernous space.
He had never been in such a large room in his entire life. The beam from his light didn’t even penetrate far enough through the inky darkness to reach the far wall.
He raked the light across the wide pools of water lining his path. A red sludge floated near the edges of the pool to his right. As he bent down to examine it, he heard the skittering of claws across the walls.
Standing up, he dug his fingers under the battery unit, ready to pry it free. The sound faded away. He walked a few more steps, stopped, and aimed his headlamp at the walls. As he took another step, the beam flickered, so he reached up to tap it gently. That did the trick, and a solid beam split the darkness all the way to the other side of the room.
Weaver halted at the sight of the first Siren. It emerged from the center of a bulb-like cocoon and tilted its conical, eyeless head. With two bony arms, it pulled itself past the thick bristles lining the lip of the nest, like some grotesque insect hunting for prey. The cocoon was one of dozens hanging from the ceiling.
Shadows fanned out across the wall below, and a long wail echoed through the space. Then, before Weaver could pull his battery unit, he glimpsed something else suspended among the nests.
He had found Andrew.
The diver’s helmet had fallen onto his chest, and as Weaver examined the body with his light, his breath caught. The muscular arms and legs that had earned Andrew the nickname “Pipe” looked like strands of rawhide. The beasts were plucking his bones raw. A waterfall of congealed blood streaked down the wall, and smaller Sirens were lapping it up from the floor.
Several of the creatures tilted their heads in Weaver’s direction, and a high screech echoed off the walls as the monsters homed in on him. He stumbled backward, eyes locked on what remained of Andrew.
“Pipe, I’m so sorry,” he said softly.
A beast poked its head out of a nest above and squawked at the smaller Sirens. They chirped back and climbed up into the nest.
The sudden realization staggered him: those things were children.
With their offspring now protected, the rest of the pack skittered down the wall, led by the same hulking abomination Weaver had seen outside. If these things had a leader, this was surely it. A pair of wings unfolded from the giant’s back, and it took to the air just as its minions dropped to all fours and charged.
If Weaver didn’t get moving, he was going to be their next meal. But first he had unfinished business with the huge beast that had taken Andrew.
Raising his rifle, Weaver took a shot that punched through a leathery wing. Concrete chips and dust rained down from the ceiling to the pool of water below.
The creature swooped away, and Weaver trained the muzzle on the small pack clambering across the platforms toward him. A three-round burst to the midsection sent one spinning into the water. It thrashed to stay afloat, but apparently, these skeletal beasts with no body fat didn’t swim very well.
Weaver took down another as it climbed to the top of a walkway over the pools. The rounds took off one of its arms, and it plummeted screeching into the pool with the other monster. Both slipped beneath the surface, unable to stay afloat.
After firing off two quick bursts at a pair of Sirens galloping toward him, he swung the muzzle upward, looking for the winged devil. Blood painted the floor, and the other beasts slid in it, crashing into one another in a tangle of limbs and claws and leathery flesh.
Heavy wingbeats came from somewhere to the left, though his light revealed nothing but the derelict platforms and walls covered in nests. He checked the pack struggling over the wet floor—eight of them, and they were almost on him. He didn’t have enough ammunition or time to kill them all, leaving him with two options: take his battery pack out and jump into one of the pools, or run for the exit and hope he got there first.
It was a tough call. He wasn’t as fast as he used to be, and he couldn’t swim. Drowning in ten feet of water wasn’t the best way to die, but it beat getting torn to shreds.
Weaver raked the oncoming pack with a sweep of automatic fire. Some of the rounds went wide, but many found targets. The mortally wounded beasts flopped on the concrete by the pools, while the rest kept coming. When the magazine in his rifle was spent, he pulled his sidearm. The pop of small-arms fire did little to deter the others. Gunfire wasn’t going to save him.
He squeezed off several more shots at the closest Sirens, thinning the pack further, then turned and sprinted for the exit doors. As he crossed the space, a guttural cry rose over the screeches of the pursuing monsters.
No, it couldn’t be.
The sound came again, and this time he had no doubt. This was not the mindless wail of a Siren, but a human voice, crying out a single word that sounded like hell.
Weaver glanced over his shoulder and directed his headlamp at the wall, where Andrew was lifting what remained of his right arm. The jagged stump pointed toward Weaver, stopping him midstride.
Despite all odds, Pipe was still alive.
“Shoot me!” he screamed.
Weaver raised his rifle to do what he should have done outside, when he had the chance to end Andrew’s suffering before it began. He lined up the crosshairs on his comrade’s chest and pulled the trigger. The round punched through Andrew’s armor, and his helmet slumped onto his chest.
Weaver didn’t have time to mourn. He barely had time to brace himself as the flying behemoth slammed into him from the side. The impact lifted him off the ground. Arms windmilling, he flew backward, losing both guns.
In what seemed like slow motion, the Siren flapped up toward the ceiling, revealing a hideously muscular torso. Weaver fell backward, clenching his jaw in anticipation, but instead of hitting hard concrete, his back found a mattress of water.
He hit the pool with a splash. Bubbles rose overhead as he thrashed and kicked, the beam from his helmet cutting through the murky water as he sank. Above the surface, the winged beast flapped down and landed on the edge of the pool. Furling its wings, it perched and waited. Several smaller dark shapes joined it.
Weaver rolled to his side, kicking and pulling at the water, but this was literally the first time he had ever tried to swim. It didn’t help that he was weighed down by the dense plates of armor. He took in a long, slow breath, knowing that his helmet had only a half hour of filtered air. His life support system had shut off the air filter the moment it submerged.
His frantic efforts to swim to the other side of the pool got him nowhere. Then his boots hit the bottom. He righted himself and directed his helmet light toward the surface. The beasts prowled above, waiting for him to surface.
If he wanted to live, he would have to find a way to climb out the far side of the pool and dash for the exit. But without his rifle and pistol, he wasn’t going to last long out there. The blaster at his hip was waterlogged, and he doubted the homemade shells would fire. Unless he could find his other guns, he would have to fend the beasts off with his blade.