“We can’t leave him,” Michael kept saying. “He’s not dead.”
Rodger’s distant shouts confirmed it. Magnolia flinched at each one, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“If we go after him, we all die,” Layla said. “I’m sorry, Tin.”
“We can’t do anything for him up here,” Weaver said. He checked the slack on the rope and pulled it taut. “I’ll go first.”
“No,” Magnolia said. “I got this.”
She grabbed the rope and wriggled through the opening, scanning the cavernous hangar for hostiles. The glow from the flares revealed nothing but the beetle back of their ride out of here. After running the rope under her left thigh, across her body, and over the right shoulder, she jumped out and slid down the thirty feet to the bottom.
As soon as her feet hit the deck, she was sweeping the area with her rifle. She had landed along the western wall, and the airship was in the center of the room.
Weaver came down next, then Layla, and finally Michael. They fanned out, weapons covering every fire zone.
“Looks clear,” Weaver said quietly.
“I don’t see anything,” Layla said.
The divers all turned to the airship, their headlamps sweeping over the hull. Michael flashed an advance signal toward the ship.
“I’ll go turn on the backup power,” Weaver said. “You get to the ship.” He turned to run but hesitated. “Can I borrow someone’s rifle?”
Michael handed Weaver his carbine and two extra magazines.
“Thanks,” Weaver said. “See you in a few.”
Magnolia ran after Layla and Michael toward the ship. Before they reached it, the lights came on. Several of the LEDs flickered, and a few panels remained dark, but there was ample light to cover the room.
Magnolia got her first good look at their new ride, resting on platforms ten feet high. The turbofans and rudders were still covered in plastic. The thing had never seen the sky.
Timothy flickered into existence, nearly scaring the crap out of her. “Welcome to the latest, lightest, fastest member of ITC’s lighter-than-air flee—”
“Save it,” Magnolia said.
“Where’s the door?” Michael asked.
Timothy pointed at the underbelly of the ship. The gray skin cracked open, and a metal gangplank extended.
“You kids fire that thing up,” Weaver said over the comms. “I’ll be right back.”
Magnolia whirled about to see Weaver opening a door on the far side of the room.
“Where are you going?” Michael shouted after him.
“To get Rodger. Everyone else stay here. That’s an order!”
TWENTY-ONE
Weaver bumped off his comm channel as he half-limped, half-ran down the passage. His body was running on fumes. He had lost a fair amount of blood and breathed in more toxic shit than he wanted to think about. Michael had come through with the new helmet, but Weaver had to wonder whether it was already too late. His lungs burned as he held back a cough.
Loping toward the water treatment plant, he found his thoughts turning to his wife and daughters. Something about the darkness brought the painful memories to the front of his thoughts, but he quickly shook them away.
Right now his mission was to do what he hadn’t been able to do for X and Pipe. He was going to save Rodger. But first, he had to find that scrawny engineer. Timothy had given him directions to the treatment plant where the Sirens nested two floors below.
If he could beat them there, he might have a chance.
He moved as fast as his wounded legs would carry him. The sight of a door at the end of the concrete tunnel pushed him even harder.
Ten feet away, he slowed and raised his carbine. No movement, but he had learned to scope the shadows for those tricky little vultures. He cautiously reached out and opened the door. This was a different route from the one he had taken earlier. According to Timothy, it was the back door to the treatment plant.
Weaver loped up the stairs beyond the door, leaning on the rail for support. At the next landing, he shouldered his rifle. Seeing no sign of tubes or openings in the walls, he continued up the next flight. At the top, he stopped to catch his breath outside a door marked, sure enough, WATER TREATMENT PLANT.
He pulled the coin from his pocket, but instead of flipping it, he just rubbed the surface for good luck and tucked it away. He was as ready as he would ever be. Clicking off his night-vision optics, he turned the door handle and stepped inside.
The sound of monsters hit his ears: crunching and squawking and the flapping of those hideous wings. Crouching low, he moved toward the first of the pools.
Rodger’s anguished shout stopped him in mid stride.
“Please, please, I’ll do anything! I’ll build you better nests!”
Weaver almost laughed at that. He couldn’t see how badly Rodger was hurt, but somehow, his sense of humor was still intact.
Pressing the scope to his visor, Weaver spotted two of the beasts, dragging Rodger toward a gaggle of their young. The little ghouls darted back and forth, some of them circling and jumping excitedly at the prospect of a fresh meal.
Weaver swallowed hard and counted the targets. On his first sweep, he saw fifteen adult hostiles, plus the adolescents. He didn’t know whether a distraction would work again, but it was his only gambit.
This time, he didn’t wait for the “right” moment. The only moment he had was now. He grabbed a flare, struck the end, and tossed it as far as he could. It plopped into a pool, and the light flickered out.
Cursing, he grabbed another, this time tossing it at a wall. All but three of the beasts guarding Rodger darted away toward the heat and noise.
Weaver was already moving. He ducked under a bridge bisecting two of the pools and peered at the flurry of motion under the wall.
Rodger was flailing, trying to take on the remaining Sirens with his bare hands.
Keep still, you idiot.
Weaver stopped at a hundred yards out and picked his targets. The screeching across the room broke his concentration, and the first shot pinged off a wall. This, however, provided another distraction. The sentries around Rodger fanned out. Weaver’s next shot was true, dropping one of them with a round through the throat. He swung the rifle to a second target and shot it through the chest.
Rodger kicked the other beast away.
“I told you ugly fucks my friends would come for me!” he shouted.
“Run, Rodge!” Weaver shouted. “This way!”
The shrieks of the monsters answered, but Weaver kept his gun on Rodger’s position. He squeezed off a shot as an adolescent Siren sprang at Rodger. The round ricocheted off the floor, scaring the beast off, and Rodger limped away, gripping his side.
“Weaver, izzat you?” Rodger shouted. “Where are you?”
“Over here,” Weaver shouted. He turned on his headlamp and laid down more suppressing fire.
Rodger stumbled and fell, groaning. Weaver lowered his rifle and hurried over, squeezing off shots every few steps. The beasts were already closing in again as the flare petered out. When he got to Rodger, he bent down and grabbed him under the arm.