“What in the hell…?” he mumbled. His pounding heart skipped as three more arms curled out of the water and rose above the railings. These weren’t the snakelike creatures from the swamps. These were all arms of the same beast.
“X, something’s attached to the boat!” Magnolia shouted. “Something—”
“Big? Yeah, I see it!”
X finally ducked into the hatch and had started to close it when one of the arms grabbed the handle, forcing it open. A third arm curled around the mast, twisting and curling its way to the top, where it bent the pole just below the crow’s nest.
Using all his strength, X tried to force the hatch shut. But the Sea Wolf crested another wave and came slamming back down, dislodging X from the hatch and lofting him into the air.
He flailed for something to hold on to. With the rope gone, he had nothing to hold him steady. He crashed onto the deck, sliding as soon as he hit. The port rail stopped him with the clunk of his rifle on metal. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and red encroached on the edges of his vision. When it cleared, he had no more than an eyeblink to avoid another arm darting over the deck.
Kicking it away, he pushed himself up and fought his way back to the hatch leading inside the boat. Lurching past one of the spearguns, he grabbed it, his boot sliding on the slick deck. He swiveled the weapon toward the nearest arm and harpooned the meaty flesh.
A howl rose above the cacophony of the storm—the voice of a monster. The dark, dead seas weren’t so dead after all. It was why he had brought such weapons with him.
He grabbed the hatch to the cabin, opened it, and slammed it shut. An arm crashed into the metal a moment later. Backing away, X unslung his rifle, and flinched as an arm hit the hatch again.
“X, get down here!” Magnolia shouted from the command room.
Keeping the barrel aimed at the hatch, he backpedaled over to the ladder. Then he climbed down to the lower deck and bolted for the command center. A wave smacked the starboard hull, and he thumped into a bulkhead. Stars broke before his vision, but he kept going to the next hatch.
Inside the control room, Magnolia gripped the wheel and stared at the glass. She had flipped the beams back on, and the bright glow captured the side view of a meaty orange body covered in flaps and bumps.
“X…” she stammered, “what the hell is that?”
Miles was up and growling at the glass.
Part of the sea creature had surfaced, giving them a view of glistening flesh crisscrossed in deep scars. Longitudinal wrinkles and flaps covered its mantle and narrower head.
“Pepper can probably answer better than I,” X said.
“I believe it’s an Enteroctopus, or a giant octopus,” the AI replied.
The massive cephalopod tightened its grip around the Sea Wolf’s twin hulls. It reminded him of another monster—not as big and with fewer arms, but a monster all the same. El Pulpo, king of the Cazadores.
Something in his gut told him they were getting closer to the Metal Islands.
“This creature does not register in my database,” Timothy replied after a few seconds’ pause.
Thick arms covered in scars pulled the boat closer to a gaping hooked beak. The monstrous beast brought a tire-size eyeball to the windshield. Magnolia turned the wheel to the right, but the rudders didn’t respond. The engines whined.
“Stop,” X said, holding out a hand. “You’re going to burn them out.”
“I’m detecting a problem with engine two,” Timothy said. “I recommend shutting it off.”
Magnolia looked over to X.
“Do it and get back,” he said.
Ever so slowly, Magnolia unbuckled her harness. The enormous eye with the strange elongated pupil followed her actions, and before she or X could react, an arm slapped against the windshield. Spiderwebs spread across the reinforced glass, which cracked audibly from the impact.
Magnolia moved out of the seat, and X shouldered his rifle, training the muzzle on the bulbous lump-covered head of the giant octopus.
“Take Miles into your quarters,” X said. “Timothy, you take control of the boat as soon as I get done with this fucker.”
“What do you mean, when you ‘get done with it’?” Magnolia asked, not moving.
“Sir, I don’t think your weapons will have much…” Timothy started to say.
Water trickled through the cracked glass as a long arm smacked the window again. This time, its suction cups pulled away a triangular chunk of glass, letting in the howling wind and salt spray.
“Go, Mags!” X shouted.
He moved his finger to the trigger, held in his breath, and fired at the huge elliptical eye.
Michael Everhart stabbed the rotted melon with his garden fork and blinked away the sweat in his eyes. The diseased fruit splattered the dirt with green and red mush.
A bright glow from the ceiling-mounted grow lights captured the depressing scene. Other workers were carting off their first crop. The hybrid seeds had resulted in large melons, but a disease had putrefied the fruit.
“What the hell happened?” asked Cole Mintel.
The burly middle-aged man had joined the new team of farmers on Deliverance to help get the produce growing. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing strong forearms shaped by a lifetime working with wood.
Michael shook his head as he examined the three rows of melons. “Some sort of blight, I guess.”
Cole looked over the open space at the other crops. Twelve rows of corn were already maturing, and plump, healthy red tomatoes hung from dark-green vines. A large patch of potatoes had already begun to break through the rust-hued dirt.
“We’ll be fine,” Michael said. “We’ll try the melons again, or maybe we’ll try something else.”
He scooped the mess into a bag and handed it to Cole, who was collecting the ruined fruit. The older man hadn’t said much since losing his son two months ago, and Michael could tell he had lost his passion for woodworking. Lately, he spent more time at the farm than in his shop.
“How’s your wife?” Michael asked.
“She… we miss Rodger.”
“I miss him, too. He was like an older brother to me.” Michael put a hand on Cole’s shoulder. He seemed to sulk under the touch.
“His sacrifice saved a lot of lives,” Michael said.
Cole nodded again. “I better get these to the composters.”
“Right.” Michael watched the man leave and let out a sigh. They had lost too many friends over the past few months. Commander Rick Weaver, Andrew Bolden, Rodger Mintel, Ty Parker—the list went on and on.
But a ghost from the past had returned. As if in partial compensation for all the heartbreak and sacrifices, Xavier Rodriguez had come back from the dead. Humanity now had a future—an uncertain one, to be sure, but there was hope.
The most dangerous of emotions. Michael pulled the shirt from around his waist and used the bunched material to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
“Commander Everhart.”
He followed the voice to the clean-room entrance, where Lieutenant Les Mitchells had ducked under the flap. “Sir, you’re needed on the bridge.”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” Michael replied.
Les remained where he was, and even at this distance, Michael could see the worry in his eyes.
“Give me a few minutes,” Michael said.
That seemed to satisfy Les, who slipped back into the clean room.
Throwing on his shirt, Michael picked his way through the rows of crops, careful not to step on a stem or tendril. He felt eyes following him across the dirt.
Most of the crew didn’t understand why he spent his time off from diving and engineering to work in this place. But for Michael, farming had become therapeutic. Every tomato he held in his hand, every stem of potatoes he pulled from the ground, and every apple he plucked from their tree was a tangible success—something you could smell and taste. Something that sustained the human race.