Kronos (33 page)

Atticus picked himself up off the dead guard, readied the UMP, and charged into the bridge. There were no other guards and the five-man bridge crew, including the captain appeared genuinely surprised by his sudden entrance. The virtually soundproof bridge had blocked his advance through the ship, and while they’d probably heard the gunfire above, they had no idea their personal guard had been dispatched by an avalanche of glass. Trevor, who was sitting in the captain’s chair, nonchalantly turned toward Atticus. He was armed with nothing but an odd grin. His eyes glowed with excitement behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

“Took you long enough, old chap.” Trevor said. “You look like hell, by the way.”

Atticus ignored Trevor, confident that the unarmed bridge crew wouldn’t dare move a muscle. He quickly scanned the instrument panels and sonar display. They pursuit of Kronos had commenced, but they had yet to engage. Atticus relaxed, knowing he’d arrived in time. The sound of helicopter blades caught his attention. The large chopper, outfitted with four torpedoes, headed away from the
Titan.
His eyes moved lower and found the
Titan
’s main gun at the ready. His gaze drifted lower still, and he saw a hedgehog depth-charge launcher shooting bright yellow canisters over the sides of the
Titan.

He was
not
in time. He was too late.

The depth charges couldn’t be stopped, but they would simply drive Kronos to the surface, not kill him. The main assault could still be stopped. “Tell your men to stand down.”

“I’m afraid not,” Trevor said, with a twitch of his nose.

Atticus took aim at Trevor’s head.

Trevor laughed. “Oh ho! I’m afraid I know you too well to be intimidated. While you may indeed pummel me, you’re not a murderer, and whatever physical damage you may cause is a minor price to pay for a prize such as Kronos.”

Atticus sneered. “I killed at least nine men on my way here, what makes you think I won’t kill you too? You do know me. And you know I’ll take down this entire ship and everyone on it before I let you kill my daughter.”

A trace of fear flashed behind Trevor’s eyes, but then he relaxed and began cleaning his glasses on his black turtleneck. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? I’m afraid I’d make a dreadful father.” Trevor put the glasses back on and looked at Atticus. A second later, a popping sound burst from his glasses. Propelled by compressed nitrogen, two barbed darts, trailing thin wires bit into Atticus’s chest.

Before Atticus registered the small pain where the barbs latched on to the skin of his chest beneath his shirt, he was writhing on the floor in agony. His muscles, beyond his control, contracted tightly until he twisted into a fetal position.

“You’re tough until someone pumps fifty-thousand volts into your nervous system,” Trevor said as he stood. He took the glasses off and placed them on the chair as they continued to dole out the electric abuse. Trevor took the CB in his hand, looked at Atticus’s twisted form, and spoke into the mike. “Now hear this. As soon as the beast has cleared the surface, I want all weapons fired. Hold nothing back. I want this creature, even if I have to put it back together. I repeat, as soon as—”

A grip on Trevor’s foot made him pause and look down. Though still trembling, Atticus managed to reach out and grab hold of him. Trevor’s brow furrowed as Atticus struggled to his hands and knees. Trevor had used the taser on several men in the past, and most hadn’t regained control of their bodies for minutes, even after the charge had dissipated. But there was Atticus, a charge still assaulting his body, and he fought to stand. Trevor gave him a solid kick to the face. While not an athletic man, the steel toe in Trevor’s shoe provided plenty of punch.

Atticus sprawled back, his vision narrowing, but not diminishing completely. When he fell back on the floor, the strangest sensation came over him. Having just been kicked in the face, he expected to feel more pain, but in fact felt less, far less. He realized that the taser barbs had been torn from his chest when he fell back. The wound in his shoulder throbbed. The glass shards in his arm, leg, and side had seared his flesh as they became heated by the electricity coursing through his body. But the physical pain felt like an itch compared to the anguish he experienced over failing Giona. Though he wasn’t sure how, he knew he had to stop Trevor. The alternative was unthinkable.

With a guttural growl, Atticus launched to his feet, oblivious to the pain wracking and slowing his body. He charged Trevor, wrapping his hand around the little man’s throat. But a blow to the side of his head ended the attack almost as soon as it began. Trevor fell to the floor gasping and feeling his neck for injury.

The captain, who’d come to Trevor’s rescue, swung at Atticus a second time, but found the swing deflected. Atticus threw his elbow into the captain’s throat, connecting solidly with the man’s Adam’s apple. The captain fell to the floor, his breathing hoarse and panicked. The four remaining bridge crew charged as one, fists clenched. But they had no real training or experience, and had not been informed by their fallen comrades that, when the circumstances called for it, Atticus Young fought dirty.

The first was blinded as Atticus jabbed a thumb into his eye, which the man clutched in pain and ran into the wall, knocking himself unconscious. The second man tackled Atticus at the waist, but upon hitting the floor, Atticus drove his knee into his attacker’s groin. The man hollered in pain and rolled away. Still on the floor, Atticus delivered a devastating kick to the third man, inverting his kneecap and sending him to the floor next to the first man. The fourth stopped short, unsure of how to approach. Atticus stood and faced him, fists clenched.

Atticus knew he looked absolutely horrible. His face was bloodied and bruised. Blood dripped from his left shoulder and right side. The man took note of Atticus’s condition, his wobbly fighting stance and labored breathing, growing more confident as Atticus’s energy waned.

The man lunged forward, throwing three rapid punches. Atticus dodged the first two and blocked the third with his right arm. The punch, while deflected from his face, caused a shard of glass to slide deeper into Atticus’s forearm. He roared, reached out with his left arm, grasped the man’s shirt and yanked him forward. The man’s face met Atticus’s forehead with a crunch, crushing the man’s cheek and nose. He fell out of Atticus’s grip, joining his fellows on the floor.

Atticus spun around toward Trevor again and quickly leapt to the side. Trevor had picked up Atticus’s UMP and fired it without taking care to aim, expending the few rounds remaining in the magazine before lining up Atticus’s body.

Trevor hadn’t finished shouting, “Bloody hell!” when Atticus shot back to his feet Trevor squealed in fear as Atticus found his throat, this time lifting him into the air and slamming him against the front window of the bridge. “Tell your men to stand down.”

Trevor’s eyes widened as his airway squeezed shut. As his face turned blue, he nodded frantically.

“Put him down,” came a voice from the bridge door.

Remus.

Atticus had no intention of letting Trevor live. But Remus’s next statement caused him to look back and, in consequence, spare Trevor’s life.

“Put him down, or they’re both dead.”

At the door, Remus held Atticus’s MP5 aimed down at the unconscious and bloodied bodies of Andrea and O’Shea.

50

Kronos

Jonah.

The name repeated mercilessly in her mind. Not so much because of the similarities between their names, but because of the similarities of their predicaments. Giona was far from a biblical scholar, having read only portions of the scriptures while doing a history report on the religious beliefs that fueled the Crusades. But she knew the basics about some stories from the Bible: Noah, Jonah, Moses, Jesus. Who didn’t?

She wished she could recall more from the story of Jonah. All she could remember was that he was swallowed up by a whale or a fish, or something else entirely, and was spit out onto a beach after three days.

Still, she didn’t buy it. First, she still didn’t believe in God. Second, the Almighty certainly hadn’t asked her to do anything. That kind of thing was hard to miss, right? She punched her leg, growing angry in the consuming darkness of the creature’s gut. It was impossible to think with the constant heavy heartbeat, rank fish odor, and roller-coaster floor, still undulating as though in a sprint.

“So what’s the deal then?” Giona said. “I don’t believe in you! You haven’t told me to do anything at all!”

Kronos’s steadily beating heart was the only reply.

Giona decided to play devil’s advocate with herself. She had no ideas of her own, so considering the unbelievable might be the only way to figure things out. And since she wasn’t going anywhere and had nothing better to do than stay close to the life-giving giant artery, she thought it would at least keep her mind occupied and off the subject of her impending death.

“Let’s suppose you exist,” Giona said, speaking into the darkness. “How would you communicate to people? A burning bush? An angel? That’s how you’ve done it in the past, right? So why not now?”

A thought coursed into Giona’s dialogue.
A monster.
“Okay, right. A monster. Let’s assume you’ve done this before, like with Jonah. You’ve got my attention. So now do something with it.”

Giona sighed. Even though she was totally isolated from anyone who might see her carrying on a mock conversation with God, she felt embarrassed for even pretending. Still, it helped her rule out the idea that some supreme being had set this nightmare in motion.

“So what’s next? A vision? I could write that off as a hallucination due to extreme conditions. A voice too. Anything odd at this point is subject to consideration by the very fact that I’ve been inside this disgusting fish for almost five days! And what’s the deal with that? I’ve been here longer than Jonah? How does he get off with only three days?”

You’re stubborn.
The thought came and went, but Giona’s eyes squinted in defiance. She’d carried on mental conversations like this for the last few months. It’d become a regular practice when debating big decisions. She knew it was strange, but for her it seemed a natural thought process. Of course, she made no mention of her internal arguing to anyone for fear of being labeled schizophrenic—Giona the schizoid activist. That’d go over well next time she petitioned the New Hampshire Senate about drug use. They’d think she was more far gone than the users she wanted to help!

“How can I be stubborn if you haven’t told me to do anything? Send an angel or a burning bush or something, and I might come around.”

Or a monster?

“Whatever. The fact remains that I haven’t been told a damn thing to do by God or anyone else, so being swallowed by a sea monster and sitting it out until I come to some kind of revelation is retarded.”

Maybe you’re just not listening?

Giona grew angry with herself. The portion of her mind playing the devil’s advocate side could get really annoying.

Giona cleared her mind, focusing on the steady rise and fall of the oxygen-providing artery her head leaned against. She began putting together conclusions based on what she’d discussed with herself.

“One, God still doesn’t exist. Two, this is just some rare sea creature that could be the basis of the Jonah myth. Three, God, who doesn’t exist, hasn’t told me to do diddlysquat.”

Yes, I have.

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

She sometimes had trouble quieting her inner voice once it was unleashed into her consciousness, and just like always, it still fought to be heard.

Giona held her breath. She was really losing it, wasn’t she? While she’d had many internal arguments with herself over the past months, the voice had never referred to itself as “I.”

Maybe she really was schizophrenic? She decided to test the inner voice—find out if she was just freaking out or if she really had some kind of multiple personality disorder. “Who are you?” she asked.

Light.

“That makes no sense.” But then it did. Giona had read, just a week ago, that beyond the microscopic, beyond cells and atoms and electrons, there was light. Everything in the end was light. Energy. Power.

Giona knew she was going insane. Her inner voice now believed it was a cosmic being—believed it was God. She was certifiable. Her only hope was that the delusion would fade if she ever escaped.

But Giona’s stomach turned over as she realized the truth. With a violent heave, she leaned over and vomited, filling her mouth with the acrid flavor of fish guts and bile. She sobbed between heaves. The memories of each and every argument she’d held with herself, with her inner voice, over the past few months returned with a fury. It
had
asked her to do something. Over and over, but she’d resisted, fought it, denied it every time. It was just her inner monologue, her devil’s advocate, right?

No.

Giona’s thoughts came clear and quick. She’d either gone totally insane or had been receiving direction from God for the past few months and doing her best to ignore it. Though it seemed likely, Giona didn’t want to think she was insane. So she decided to believe, at least for the moment, that the voice inside her head was God.

“So, I’m supposed to trust you— that you know the future. You know the outcome, and for some reason you want me, or my father, to do what you’ve been telling me. Is that it?”

There was no reply. She already knew the answer. The voice had been fighting with her about one single subject since she’d first heard it.

“Fine. Okay? Are you happy? I’ll tell my dad I don’t want to move, but that’s not going to change anything. Especially when I’m stuck in here! The house was sold, remember? We have to move anyway. So all this,” she waved her hands around at the large body in which she was trapped, “is a little too much, a little too late.”