The Atlantis Plague (27 page)

Kate peeled the backpack off as the African lifted Chang up by one arm and deposited him beside her.

David began climbing up the ladder. “Are we the first?”

The African nodded.

David stopped, grabbed the face mask from Kate, and was halfway back down the ladder when a head popped out of the water.

The European scientist.

“Did you see the other two?” David called to him.

“No.” He wiped the water from his face. “My eyes were closed. There is gas in the water.”

Kate thought he was barely winded. She desperately wanted to talk to David, but he was gone, back into the black water.

Seconds passed that felt like hours.

“I’m Kamau.”

Kate turned to him. “Kate Warner.”

His eyebrows rose quickly.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” She turned back to the water.

Another head surfaced. Shaw. Martin wasn’t with him. Kate walked to the rail. “Where’s Martin?”

“He’s not here?” Shaw spun himself in the water. “He freaked out, thought he was drowning. I thought he swam ahead of me. I couldn’t see a bloody thing.” He dove back below the surface.

Kate stared at the wall of flames. If Martin had come up in the middle…

She waited. She felt a blanket being wrapped around her shoulders. She murmured her thanks without turning to see who had placed it.

Two heads broke the water, and one man pulled the other to the boat: David—leading Martin.

Martin’s head was badly burned and he was almost unconscious.

David carried Martin aboard and laid him on a white leather couch in the saloon. Chang raced over to Martin and began assessing his wounds. Kamau set a first-aid kit down, and Kate began rifling through it.

The water parted again. “Do you have him?” Shaw called.

“Yes!” Kate shouted.

The second Shaw reached the ladder, David shouted to Kamau, “Get us out of here.”

He took Kate by the arm, pulling her away from Chang and Martin, leading her belowdecks. “Martin’s burns are minor. Chang can handle it,” David said. His hand was tight around her bicep. She was soaked and utterly exhausted, but seeing him, knowing he was alive, somehow exhilarated her, gave her an indescribable rush. She felt… safe and free and… something she couldn’t even place—

He slammed the door and latched it.

Kate pulled her wet shirt off and let it fall to the floor.

“We need to
talk
,” David said, still facing the door. As he spun around, his hard, angry face slowly turned to…

“Talk about what?”

He took her in. He unzipped his wetsuit, revealing his naked body beneath. “Let’s wait on that talk.”

CHAPTER 56

You’re listening to the BBC, the voice of human triumph on this, the eightieth day of the Atlantis Plague.

The BBC has learned that a group of Berber freedom fighters has taken control of the Immari base in the city of Ceuta.

Eyewitness reports describe a battle of staggering proportions on land, sea, and air. Casualty figures are not known at this time.

The loss of the base at Ceuta couldn’t have come at a worse time for the Immari, who just days ago deployed their ground forces from Ceuta in southern Spain. With Ceuta under enemy control, those troops now have no retreat, save for an evacuation by an Immari fleet. That possibility, however, may also be off the table.

The BBC has obtained classified RAF documents that indicate that they have mined the straits of Gibraltar, closing the Mediterranean.

The news of the Immari defeat is welcome news within the Orchid Alliance. With rumors of mounting death rates at Orchid Districts worldwide, many of our listeners have begun to wonder when the next shoe will drop, and for some, whether the Immari solution is the only one that makes sense. It seems there are still some who endeavor to fight for a world where everyone can be saved, and the BBC will continue to bring you reports of their heroism, so long as it exists.

CHAPTER 57

Northern Morocco

Dorian awoke to a searing pain in his side.

He rolled over and screamed in agony. The motion only intensified the pain. Whatever had hit him was still in him, digging, moving around his insides like a hot knife.

He ripped his helmet off, then bent over to see what had him.

The tree limb had speared him all the way through just above his pelvis, where his upper body armor ended. He gently unstrapped his body armor. The motion sent a second wave of pain through him, and he had to pause. He tossed the armor aside and pulled his undershirt back.

The limb was just a few inches from his side. Had it been farther in, it might have gotten his liver.

He gritted his teeth and methodically drew the wooden shard out, as if he were a medieval knight pulling an arrow from his side.

He inspected the wound. He was bleeding, but he would be all right. Right now he had bigger problems to deal with.

Even in the night sky, he could see three columns of smoke rising above the trees, the remains of the helicopter fleet burning.

Ceuta had no air support—it had all been deployed to southern Spain, but whoever had taken the base obviously had plenty of ground troops. Would they send them?

He got to his feet.

Screams—from the crash site. His instincts took over. He grabbed his helmet and body armor and ran toward the burning wreckage.

The helicopter had set fire to the forest and it burned violently, a wall of flame Dorian couldn’t see through. The screams grew louder, but Dorian couldn’t make out the words.

He donned the body armor, then the helmet, and ran around the perimeter of the fire, looking for a way through. On the other side, the fire wasn’t as thick, but he still had no clear line of sight to the helicopter. He thought he could make it through.

He drew his sidearm and tossed it on the ground, along with the spare magazines. He also placed his satellite phone on the ground. He tucked his hands in the armor and stepped to the edge of the blaze. The boots, suit, and helmet were fire-resistant, but there were limits to how much heat they could take, and then there were the parts of his body that the armor didn’t cover.

He drew a deep breath and raced into the fire. His feet pounded the ground. The burn was overwhelming. He held his breath, and… broke through the fire, into a small clearing. Dorian saw it now: three of the helicopters had gone down close to each other and their fires had joined, creating the ring. Each of the helicopters was in full blaze. Dorian wouldn’t get anything from them, and the screams hadn’t come from anyone inside.

Another wave of screams erupted. Dorian spun and found their source. The pilot’s black Immari armor made him almost impossible to see against the dark earth and pitch-black night, even through the light of the fires.

Dorian ran to him. The man’s leg lay at an unnatural angle and there was a deep cut up the side. The man had already tied it off at his thigh, and that had saved his life, but Dorian wasn’t sure that was good news. The man had been able to crawl from the burning helicopter, but he couldn’t run, or so much as stand.

“Help!” he screamed.

“Shut up,” Dorian said mechanically from behind his dark helmet. What to do? The man had lost too much blood already, and there were no medical supplies. Dorian automatically reached for his sidearm, then remembered he had left it beyond the fire.
Put him out of his misery and move on. The enemy will be here soon, searching the area. He’ll get you killed.
But Dorian couldn’t do it, couldn’t bring himself to leave the man, to leave one of his own soldiers to the fire. He bent and took the man’s arm.

“Thank you, sir,” the pilot said, panting.

Dorian paused for a moment, then stood from the man, walked over to his helmet and returned with it. “Keep this on. We’re going through the fire.”

Dorian braced himself for the pain as he hoisted the man onto his shoulder. The wound in his side raged, cutting him, jabbing him. It felt like he was ripping apart.

He ran to the edge of the flames, drew a breath, then moved into them. He charged on more slowly this time, but with every ounce of energy he had.

When he cleared the fire, he threw the man to the ground and collapsed himself. The blaze was moving the other way, with the wind. They were safe for now.

Dorian was breathless, and he wanted to puke from the pain. The agony was total. He couldn’t even identify where it hurt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the gun, magazines, and phone lying there. He could end this man’s misery if he could reach it… Dorian tried to push up, but the pain and exhaustion met him, holding him against the ground, forcing him to lie still.

The pilot crawled over to Dorian and began doing something. Dorian tried to shove him off, but the pilot fought him back. Another jolt of pain surged up his legs. The man was torturing him. Dorian tried to kick his legs, but the man threw his body across them. The pain swelled, moving up Dorian like a wave. It would drown him, was drowning him. The woods faded.

When Dorian awoke, it was still dark, but there was no fire at the helicopter crash site, only smoke. And pain. But he could move again. Beside him, the pilot lay asleep.

Dorian sat up, grimacing with every move. His feet. They were a burned, mottled mess. The unlaced, melted boots lay close by. The bottoms were smooth where the rubber had turned to liquid, flowing onto and over his feet. The pilot had removed them, likely saving Dorian’s feet. How long would it have taken the melting rubber to cool? If the boots had stayed on, Dorian may have never walked again.

An untouched pair of boots lay just beyond Dorian’s charred set.

Dorian glanced over at the snoring pilot again. He was barefooted. Dorian held the boots up to his feet. A little small, but they would do, depending on how far he had to go. And he needed to find that out.

He crawled over to his sidearm and sat phone. He glanced again at the pilot, and considered his next move. The area around the gash in the pilot’s leg already showed signs of infection.

Dorian punched the phone.

“Fleet Ops.”

“It’s Sloane—”

“Sir, we’ve—”

“Shut up. Put Captain Williams on.”

“General—”

“Captain, why the fuck am I stranded in the woods inside enemy lines?”

“Sir, we’ve sent two rescue missions. They’ve shot them both down. You’re deep in their firing range.”

“I do not want to hear how many times you’ve
failed
, Captain. Send a topographic map to my phone with an overlay of their firing radius.”

“Yes, sir. We think Ceuta may be sending ground troops to your location—”

Dorian held the phone out and studied the map, ignoring the captain. From his location, Dorian thought he could reach the nearest rendezvous point outside Ceuta’s firing range in about three hours. He glanced at his burned feet. Four hours was more realistic. It wouldn’t be an easy trek, but he could make it.

The pilot let out a snore that caught Dorian’s attention. He looked over, annoyed. What to do? The gun and magazines loomed just beside him, silently presenting the solution.

His eyes drifted away as his mind explored alternatives. Every other option he considered was met with a single thought, cold and final:
Don’t be a fool. You know what must be done.
For the first time in Dorian’s life, he had a face to put with that voice: Ares. He knew it now. For the first time, he could feel his own thoughts, his true thoughts, the person he was before the first outbreak, when his father placed him in the tube. This moment was a microcosm of every difficult decision he had ever made: a struggle between what his emotional, his
human
self wanted to do, and that cruel, cold voice. Ares. Ares was the drive that had lingered in the background, unseen, prodding Dorian, shaping his thoughts. Dorian had never been fully aware of the struggle within him until this moment. Ares cried out again:
Don’t be weak. You are special. You must survive. Your species is depending on you. He is another soldier lost to our cause. Don’t let his sacrifice cloud your judgment.

Dorian raised the phone to his face. “Captain, I just sent you some coordinates.”

He looked at the pilot, then at his burned feet—feet he could still walk on.

“Sir?”

Dorian’s mind rocked back and forth like a tiny ship on rough seas. The voice was firm now.
This world wasn’t built for the weak. Dorian, you are playing the greatest chess game in history. Don’t risk a king to save a pawn.

“I’m here,” Dorian said. “I will be at the extraction point in…”

Don’t—

“…eight hours. Be advised, I have another survivor. If we’re not at those coordinates, the rescue team’s orders are to move into the woods and search for us on a heading bearing four-seven degrees.”

And like that, the voice was gone, silenced. Dorian’s thoughts were his own. He was free. He was… different, or was he the person he was always meant to be? The voice in his ear interrupted his reflection.