The Sowing (The Torch Keeper)

  But there’s nothing. Except for …

  My slick fingers brush against the cold metal of the blow torch.

  A low hum fills the cramped space. The tip of the torch glows, bathing our exposed skin in purplish orange. It’ll cut and cauterize simultaneously. Destruction and healing all in one slice.

  Cage’s firm hand locks around my forearm. He nods. “Do it, Lucian.”

  Dahlia rips off one of the rucksack’s leather straps and places it next to Cage’s lips. “Bite down on this.”

  He does.

  I plunge the laser tip down onto Cage’s wrist. His body convulses. An agonized moan squeezes past the leather in his teeth. He whips his head back and forth. Arrah and Drusilla struggle to keep him steady. The last of the bone gives way and I nearly stumble backwards.

  I barely catch a glimpse of the still-smoking stump of Cage’s arm before Tristin is wrapping a piece of torn fabric around it.

  BLAM! Something crashes through the wall behind us.

  “We gotta move!” Arrah shouts.

  Without sacrificing a precious moment to look back, I help her haul the pale and shivering Cage to his feet.

  The next few seconds are a blur of strobing lights and discordant sounds. We run, climbing up a mound of rubble to the torn entrance of a vent shaft.

  “Arrah!” I shout. “You take point. I’ll take backup and keep you covered!”

  Arrah squirms through the opening, helping hoist Corin behind her. Tristin climbs through next, turning to help Drusilla wedge Cage through. Clutching his wounded arm to his chest, he grunts as he squeezes his bulk into the narrow passage and disappears with them inside it, leaving just Dahlia and me.

  “After you!” Before she can protest, I push her through the opening.

  Slinging my weapon over my shoulder, I grip the edges of the shaft to heave myself inside—

  Something clamps my shoulder.

  My blood clots. Then my body’s spun around and a massive weight settles on top of me, knocking my breath out. A shadow looms above, eyeing me with burning hatred.

  Styles.

  He shoves the cold barrel of his weapon against my temple, his face trembling with rage and fear. Streaks of blood line his features and stain his torn uniform.

  “You killed Renquist,” he croaks. “And you’re responsible for everything that’s happened here.” His eyes leave me and dart around the room. He cocks the gun; the click rips through my ears.

  CLACKETYCLACKETYCLACKETYCLACKETYCLACKETYCLACKETY!

  Darkness smothers us. Styles whips his head around to look. And in that instant, I jam my knee into his groin as hard as I can.

  He recoils. Seizing the advantage, I tear the gun from his hand. My fist right-hooks into his jaw, and I feel it crunch beneath my knuckles. Then I’m rolling out from underneath him and crawling into the vent. Unslinging my gun, I aim it toward the shaft entrance in case he decides to follow.

  My breath catches.

  I see metallic tentacles ensnare Styles, lifting him off the ground. His eyes saucer as they take in a nightmare beyond my field of vision. He looks up at me, fear flooding his eyes. “Spark! Please … help … me!”

  His screams almost drown out the mechanical sounds …

  that terrible slurping and squishing …

  No one deserves that. Not even Styles.

  Aiming the gun at him, I let loose several rounds into his chest until all that’s left is the ghost of his last horrific scream, echoing behind me as I scramble down the shaft to catch up with the others.

  Breathless, I nearly collide into Dahlia, who’s waiting just around a bend in the duct.

  “Spark! I was just about to go back for—”

  “Keep moving! They’re right behind me!”

  My words are like vocal adrenaline. Everyone picks up speed as we scurry through the tunnels. In the flashes of weapon blasts that penetrate the slats in the grates we rush by, I glimpse Imposers scuttling every which way, all semblance of order gone as they retreat from the Flesher forces. Human screams mingle with that horrific biomechanical cacophony in a symphony of fear and destruction. Blast after blast rock the complex, vibrating through the shafts, rocking them so thoroughly I’m convinced the entire tunnel will collapse, trapping us under layers of twisted metal.

  C’mon. C’mon. Not much farther.

  “I can see the grate to the transport platform up ahead!” Arrah’s shout echoes over the din. “We’re almost home free!”

  If there are still any ships left …

  “Arrah, wait!” I shout.

  Everyone halts in front of the grate. Behind us is a loud thumping, followed by screeching and grinding.

  They’re coming.

  I let loose a volley of gunfire into the darkness. We can’t stop them, but maybe that’ll slow them down. Then I squeeze past the others until I’m pressed against the grate beside Arrah.

  “No activity,” she whispers.

  The hangar bay is a shambles. Scorch marks line the walls like pox. Mounds of broken and shattered equipment litter the floor. But there appears to be one Vulture intact. And a few rows over, a Squawker that looks like it was abandoned during a maintenance check.

  “I’m on it.” Dahlia’s already cutting through the grate with the blow torch and my eyes inadvertently flick to Cage, who’s leaning against Tristin and Corin.

  The grate tumbles into the hangar.

  I clap my hand to Arrah’s back. “You go down and get that Vulture prepped for liftoff.”

  Her eyes narrow. “What about you?”

  I nudge my head toward the opposite vent. “The detention center’s just below. We can’t just leave people behind. There’s enough room in that Vulture for many others.”

  “I’m coming with,” Drusilla says.

  Arrah pulls her close and plants a tender kiss on her lips. “Don’t take too long.”

  Drusilla smiles, gives her another quick kiss, and eases from her embrace. “I won’t.”

  Dahlia tosses me the blowtorch. As the others scramble down into the hangar bay, I cut through the grate leading to the prison. Seconds later, I drop through, Drusilla right behind me with her weapon drawn.

  The first thing I notice is the wave of heat. The other side of the hallway is ablaze. Clouds of smoke billow toward us, making it difficult to breathe.

  “This way.” I dash over to the door of the cellblock, Drusilla at my heels. Instinctively, I try the door controls, knowing they’ll be sealed. “We have to cut through. Cover me.”

  I hold the blowtorch to the panel and activate it. Embers fly as the cutter slices through the wiring.

  “Spark!” Drusilla’s voice is laced with panic. “We’re running out of time!”

  Through the crackling of the blowtorch, I can hear the mechanized throes of the Fleshers getting louder … louder …

  “They’re right on us!” Drusilla’s eyes drop to the ground. “They’re in the subflooring!”

  No sooner does she sound her warning than the floor erupts about a dozen yards away. Shards of metal fly. I catch a glimpse of those metallic-looking tentacles that seized Styles slithering through the opening, grasping for anything in their path—

  The door panel shorts and the prison doors slide open with a gust of putrid air.

  A pack of prisoners tumbles out, their faces twisted in confusion and terror.

  I rip a fire hose from its wall socket and hoist Dru up the vent shaft, so she can secure it as a means for the escapees to climb out. But the sounds of the Fleshers approaching are getting too close and we decide to abandon the idea, opting instead to take the long way around, which leads to the doors of the hangar bay.

  I grab hold of an emaciated youth. “This way to safety!”

  Then we’re all dashing away from the Fleshers toward the hangar bay. Drusilla
and I fire blast after blast behind us, trying to buy time. But those awful sounds keep getting louder, as those dark shapes flit through the smoke and flame in relentless pursuit.

  We round the corner. The door leading into the hangar bay is wide open. Beyond it, I can hear the rumble of the Vulture’s engines waiting to take off. “Through there! There’s a transport!” I herd the prisoners through, and then Drusilla.

  But I don’t follow.

  Arrah, Corin, and Cage are standing by the boarding ramp, their faces anxious as the prisoners flee into the ship.

  Drusilla whirls. “Spark! Why aren’t you—?”

  I shake my head. “Someone has to seal the doors and buy you time.”

  Digging into my pack, I pull out one of two tiny transceiver units, set both channels on the same frequency, and toss one to Drusilla. “Keep in touch.”

  Arrah and Cage start running toward me. “Lucian! You get aboard that ship right now!” Arrah shouts.

  I smile at them. “You did good. All of you. Now get them home.”

  The door to the hangar slams closed behind me when I hit the release. Then I’m welding it shut with the blowtorch.

  Just as I finish, a tentacle slams into the door just an inch from my head, denting the thick metal as if it were clay.

  I whirl, just in time to see a massive shape emerging from the flame.

  Clacketyclacketyclacketyclacketyclacketyclacketyclacketyclacketyclackety!

  I dive and roll down the adjacent corridor, springing to my feet and running as fast as I ever have. Tentacles slam the floor behind me as I lead the Fleshers farther and farther away from the others.

  From my friends.

  The other side of the corridor is a dead end.

  Containment Lab 5.

  My heart races. This is it. The location that the computer back in Asclepius Valley mentioned. Right under the entries about Cole and Digory and the mysterious U.I.P. procedure. The place where the Establishment’s highly classified bio-weapon is being kept.

  If I’m going to go out, I may as well take whatever it is with me rather than risk it getting into the hands—tentacles—

  of the Fleshers.

  Of course, the lab is locked.

  Grabbing the torch, I start cutting away at the lock and almost have it open when a tentacle wraps around my leg and drags me from the door, slamming me into the ground and ripping my gun from my grasp.

  The Flesher emerges from the smoke. It’s at least nine feet tall. The face is roughly humanoid, with bleached, hairless white skin and a bald head lined with throbbing veins. Instead of eyes, a dark, reflective strip is grafted into its flesh. Sinewy membranes cover the nose and mouth area, feeding into a twisted mass of wiring that’s coiled around its skull and protruding into its throat.

  Metallic armor, simulating an exposed skeleton, covers its upper torso. These bones continuously shift, exposing appendages that seem to be individual tools. An amber light engulfs me from the tip of one, while a cutting blade whirs to life on another one.

  While it has two bony arms that end in claws, as if the fingers have been surgically grafted together, metallic tentacles like the one grasping me now emerge from the bones of its forearms. Its legs have been grafted, mid-thigh, to a complex set of servo-motors and gears that allow it to alternately roll or climb, depending on the terrain.

  Crash!

  A blur comes through the door of the lab behind me, slamming into the Flesher.

  It’s a young man, naked except for the remnants of a hospital gown. His muscles gleam in the firelight as he swings around to the Flesher’s back, wrapping one of his thick biceps around the thing’s throat as his thighs lock around its waist. The Flesher releases my leg as both tentacles lash around, striking at its attacker. But the youth’s head is a blur of long, scraggly hair as he whips his head out of the way, catching one of the tentacles in his hands.

  I scramble to snatch up my gun, aiming it toward them, but it’s impossible to get a shot without risking the young man’s life.

  Whir!

  The cutter comes to life, reaching toward the youth’s throat, closer, closer … only an inch away …

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  My rounds glance off the Flesher’s protective armor, but it’s all the distraction the guy needs. He seizes the cutting arm and plunges it into the Flesher’s own throat. Dark fluid—oil? blood?—spurts from the creature’s neck.

  Clacketyclackety … whir … whir … vroom …

  The Flesher begins to spin, out of control. The young man leaps from it.

  I fire the remainder of my ammo, striking the most vulnerable target, its head, ripping holes through the tubules connecting from its nose to its skull.

  The thing lunges for me—

  Click! Click!

  I’m out of ammo—

  Then the thing teeters and collapses at my feet.

  But its body is convulsing. As I watch, horror-struck, I can see the flesh mending. Whoever built this monstrosity employed some kind of regenerative tech.

  I back away from it and turn to the young man.

  But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. His massive chest pushes in and out with heavy breaths. Sweat trickles down it, past the sculpted ridges of his abdomen and narrow waist.

  “This thing’s not dead yet, and there are more of them coming!” I shout. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here. Follow me!”

  GONG!

  The sound explodes right behind us. I whirl, vaguely aware of my rescuer in my peripheral vision. Then we’re both running back down the hallway, snaking up the still-dangling fire hose leading into the vent shaft and dropping down into the hangar bay, the pursuing Fleshers threatening to overtake us at every moment.

  Dashing into the lone Squawker, I hit the ignition switch as soon as we’re both aboard. My heart stammers as the engine sputters.

  The door to the hangar bay bursts open. A horde of Fleshers rips through the chamber, heading right toward us.

  I pound the control console as the first of the Fleshers closes in.

  The engine roars to life. As I hit the throttle, my back slams against the pilot seat. In the rear monitor, I see the craft’s exhaust set Fleshers on fire. Then we’re airborne, shooting out of the hangar and into the dark skies.

  Below, the Infiernos military installation is just a smoking husk of debris, completely overtaken by the swarm of Fleshers crawling all over it until it’s smothered in living darkness.

  No one will ever endure that hell again.

  The Establishment better beware. This is just the beginning.

  I settle back into my chair, tears burning down my cheeks, as the Squawker is swallowed by the clouds.

  Finally, I have a few seconds to spare for the stranger who, I’m vaguely aware, is in the copilot’s seat beside me. “Thanks for your help back there. Are you okay?”

  No response.

  I turn toward him. He’s slumped in his chair, his long, wild hair still obscuring his face and falling across his powerful pectorals.

  I know that profile.

  “Can’t you hear me?” I move closer and grip his rock-hard shoulder.

  He flinches and pulls away, and the moment he does, the hair cloaking his face in shadow falls away from his face and I see those piercing eyes.

  Those piercing blue eyes.

  He looks away.

  My hand drops. No. It can’t be.

  A blizzard of emotions engulfs me. Shock, unfathomable joy, wholeness, deep betrayal—my brain is short circuiting. I can’t breathe as I revel in this miracle. Or is it a curse?

  Maybe I’m finally losing my mind.

  Reaching out a trembling hand, I push the hair from his beautiful face.

  It is Digory.

  PART III

  REUNIONS

&
nbsp; twenty-six

  Dusk’s rays filter through the cockpit window, bathing the cabin in a soft purplish glow. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” I whisper. “Why? Why did you do it? Was it all a lie?”

  Digory still won’t answer me. Won’t even look at me. He just stares out the window, his blue eyes like glassy seas reflecting the dying light until pools of liquid orange form there.

  Losing him was one of the deepest pains I’ve ever felt. But finding out he betrayed me was worse than death. Now, having him so close, yet so far away at the same time, I feel an unbearable mixture of joy and agony. I just want to scoop him into my arms, hold him as tight as I can, never ever let him go again—or throttle the last breath from him.

  Below us, a familiar silhouette rises from the rippling whitecaps. The statue of the Lady. Even though she’s canting deeper into the ocean than I remembered, she’s still standing. The sight of her fills me with memories, longings for home, for Cole. She’s still holding her torch high, and with the fiery red sunset burning behind her, it’s as if she’s lighting a path through the desolate seas just for Digory and me.

  Digory and me.

  No. There is no Digory and me. Not anymore. There can’t be.

  At that instant Digory turns, almost as if he senses me staring at him. The exhilaration of gazing at his face once more sends a rush through me. I reach out my hand to him, then pull it back.

  A series of angry bleeps pierces the quiet.

  The fuel gauge is blinking red. Shit! I checked it when we first took off. One of the Fleshers must have ruptured the lines as we were taking off.

  My hands grip the control yoke, fighting against the jarring vibrations.

  Digory places his hand over mine, helping me to keep the yoke steady. The Squawker’s engine sputters and it banks from side to side, jostling us back and forth in spite of the safety harnesses.

  “We’re almost out of fuel,” I say. “I’m going to have to set her down.”

  I bank the craft in an arc around the Lady’s face. For a moment, her large stone eyes fill the cockpit windows, calm, reassuring. Then we’re around her, pointing in the direction of her gaze.