The Tide: Breakwater (Tide Series Book 2) (15 page)

The man’s face was ashen. He wasn’t sweating either.

“Skulls...my skull hurts.” He put a veiny hand up to his head and pulled at a wisp of white hair. “My head is pounding.”

The potbellied, balding man watching stepped back, and his eyes went wide. He was no longer desperate to be near Lauren and her medical team. “He’s one of them! He’s one of them! He’s got a headache! That’s a symptom, isn’t it, Doc?”

More voices rose up among the passengers. A scream rang out.

“Stop!” Lauren yelled. “Stop, goddamnit!”

The people surged forward then backward, shoving each other, frantic to get away from the old man they suspected might’ve contracted the Oni Agent. Holtz waved his hands. He cried out into the crowd, saying something to get them to stop, but his words were drowned out.

Lauren willed all the professional calm she could muster while her nerves ran cold and adrenaline pumped through her vessels. She wouldn’t let the crowd drive her wild, and she continued to examine the man’s skin. “So, no scratches or scrapes?” she asked again, finding none herself.

“I’m getting—” The man’s eyes started to roll back, and he slumped into Lauren’s arms.

The crowd roiled in response. More voices. More limbs in the air, people shoving, people rushing back and forth with nowhere to go.

“Peter, help me!” Lauren said, trying as best she could to gently lay the man down. Her heart thrashed against her ribcage while she waited for him to complete the psychological changes of becoming a Skull, and she anticipated an upcoming violent outburst. But as she sat him down with Peter cradling the man’s neck and head, she saw the old man’s eyes remained closed.
Was he dead?

She felt for a pulse, relieved to feel the weak throb. She pushed aside the primal fear coursing through her, the innate evolutionary response to potential danger that had kept humans alive for eons. Fear would do nothing but distract her now. She pressed the back of her hand against his head. “He’s suffering from heat stroke! Get him water!”

Sean bounded toward a cooler and took out a bottle of water. He tossed it her way, and Lauren caught it with one hand. She pressed the cool bottle against the man’s head. After unscrewing the cap, she did her best to coax him to take a sip.

“He needs to be out of the sun,” Lauren said. “All the children, all the elderly need to be out of the sun.” Her throat scratching, she yelled above the passengers’ din at Holtz. “Otherwise we’re going to be dealing with more of these cases!”

“I know, I know,” Holtz said, his skin flushed red from heat and his failed attempts to quell the crowd’s panic. “But we don’t have anywhere to go until your crew gives us the all-clear.”

Lauren doused a cloth in cold water and pressed it against the elderly man’s head.

Peter stood and yelled into the crowd. “He’s not one of them. It’s heat stroke. Heat stroke!”

The passengers were too bitten by paranoia. They carried on, raucous and wild, nearing complete anarchy. Lauren hoped Dom would clear out the rest of the ship soon. They needed somewhere to house these people. She stole a glance at the waters around them, dotted with other ships. All these people with nowhere to go, their situations growing more desperate each day. They needed to establish a shelter, somewhere with food, water. Somewhere more amenable for their long-term survival.

The potbellied man shoved a woman with a baby in her arms. She almost lost the infant and screamed. Another man, appearing to be her partner or husband, swung a fist at Potbelly. The crowd erupted into more yells and shoving while Lauren focused on the old man before her.

She fought the anxiety welling up in her, the worry that these crazed people might riot, might send themselves into the ocean, might trample her. She wondered if they would kill themselves, kill her, before the Skulls did.

Gunfire resounded from within the ship. The Skull’s wails, though muffled by the bulkhead, pierced the din of the passengers. A few people screamed; others went quiet, frozen by fear. The old man opened his eyes slightly, actively drinking from the bottle of water now. Lauren might’ve saved his life for the time being, but it was up to Dom and the Hunters to save the rest of the ship.

***

D
om unleashed round after round on the Goliath running at Hector. Its massive frame rocked side to side as it raced, unperturbed by the lead that crumpled against its skeletal armor. The
thing
didn’t even bother leaping at Hector. It simply bowled into him like a steamroller. Hector flew when the beast hit him and landed on his back, crushing a dining chair and scattering strewn silverware. Forks and knives clinked against the floor. Hector’s rifle fell from his grip and hit a busser’s discarded plastic bin.

The Goliath shuddered to a stop and punched a massive fist at Hector. Its fingers looked like fossilized daggers slicing through the air. The Navy SEAL rolled to his left, and the claws plunged into the floor. The monster slammed its other fist down. Hector barely dodged it. As the Goliath lifted its hand for another blow, Dom could see the crater the beast left.

More gunfire chattered around Dom; more Skulls screamed. But Dom focused on Hector. He could already see the hot blood coursing from Hector’s scalp. Dom took aim at the Goliath’s head, which appeared small atop its colossal body. He squeezed the trigger until his slide clicked back.
Empty.
The Goliath brought up both fists, ready for another attack.

A second, smaller Skull came at Dom. Hair tangled between the horns crowning its head. Long shreds of fabric billowed from its body—the remains of a cocktail dress. It snarled and swung its arms wildly. Dom deflected its blows with his rifle, and its claws scratched against the gun. He parried attack after attack until he smashed the stock of his rifle into the bridge of its nose. The Skull stumbled backward, and he bashed the weapon into the creature’s face again. The crunch of cartilage and bone rang out, and it crumpled.

Dom turned to help Hector fight the Goliath, but another Skull pounced and knocked the rifle from his hands. This one wore a flowery Hawaiian shirt. Dom might’ve thought the creature’s appearance was comical if he wasn’t holding the creature’s wrists as it bore down on him. It shrieked a high-pitched, angry wail—a far cry from a friendly “aloha.” Dom twisted the Skull’s arm back until he heard a snap and then pulled a knife from his thigh-sheath. He plunged the blade into the creature’s open mouth, driving the weapon into its brain until it stopped trying to chew the knife. He planted a boot on the creature’s chest, kicked it, and pulled out his knife.

He continued on to Hector. The Navy SEAL was crawling away from the Goliath. Each downward strike from the creature sent shudders through the deck. Hector scrambled to regain his footing, but the beast landed a blow on Hector’s leg. He let out a yell filled with agony, rising above the cries and screams of the bloodthirsty Skulls.

“No!” Dom sprinted and leapt onto the Goliath’s back. The creature hardly seemed to notice him. Its talons tore into Hector’s legs while Dom wrapped an arm around the creature’s neck, careful to avoid puncturing his own skin on the razor-sharp shoulder blades. The Goliath lunged, snapping at Hector, its teeth gnashing. Hector tried to stand on his good leg, but the beast lashed out and knocked him off his feet.

“We need some help over here!” Dom yelled, his throat mic picking his voice up.

“Pinned down!”

“I’m fucking trying!”

The Hunters’ voices came back in a flurry of curses and yells. Meredith was fighting off a trio of Skulls while Miguel thrashed out at another pair, the concealed blade flashing out from his prosthetic arm and impaling one. Jenna, Andris, and Renee were backed into a corner, firing at a wave of Skulls.

Dom and Hector were on their own.

“Motherfucker!” Dom swung his knife around, connecting with the side of the Goliath’s face. But the blade glanced off the monster’s bony forehead. The monster bucked, whirling its arms around wildly, blindly reaching for Dom. Hector retreated, dragging his injured leg.

Dom clung to the brute. He had at least distracted it, even if his attempt to bring it down had done little more than enrage it. He tried to strike with the blade again, but the beast kept thrashing its head about, and he almost lost his grip around its neck. His knife scraped against the bony collar lining the creature’s neck while he probed for a weak spot.

He felt it.
Soft flesh.
He pulled with all his might to slice at the chink in the Skull’s armor. Warm blood gushed over Dom’s hand and saturated his gloves. But he didn’t relent, driving the blade into the flesh. The creature fought back, shaking violently and twisting. Its claws tore into itself as it tried to impale Dom.

Dom dodged the clumsy blows. Gradually, as the blood drained, the giant’s movements slowed. Its impassioned fury trickled away and it lolled, letting out a grunt before it fell.

A feeling of victory flooded through Dom, and he leapt off the fallen creature. He turned, preparing to run toward Hector and help the poor Hunter off the battlefield, but another Skull, no more than five feet high, was prowling across the grisly dance floor toward Hector.

“Hector, look out!” Dom called.

The Navy SEAL was losing blood fast from his shredded leg, and a trail of crimson liquid followed him as he crab-crawled away. His mind, too, must’ve been fading. Dom glanced at the smaller Skull, then at his own empty rifle. No more mags. He wouldn’t make it to Hector in time.

A thought struck him.
Hector’s rifle.

Dom scooped up the SCAR-H, pressed the stock against his shoulder, and squeezed off a burst of fire, praying that the bullets would find their target. But his prayers went unanswered. The creature pounced, and its claws stabbed Hector’s shoulders. The SEAL tried to push the Skull off, but he was too weak to put up a decent fight.

“No, no, no!” Dom bellowed. He charged, firing more rounds into the creature. But even this small Skull’s organic armor was enough to thwart the bullets. The rifle was empty before Dom reached the monster, and he tossed the weapon aside. He ripped the Skull off Hector with one gloved hand and plunged his knife into the vulnerable flesh with his other hand. The Skull didn’t even let out so much as a shriek as its life flowed out with its blood. Its body went limp, and Dom dropped the fresh corpse.

His eyes caught the gaping wound in Hector’s neck and traced down the SEAL’s mangled legs. Everything seemed to go on in slow motion. The crack of gunfire. The Skulls’ bellows. The scratch and scrape of their claws and skeletal appendages. He dove next to Hector, glancing around to see if any other Skulls were preparing to attack. The remnants of the creatures seemed to be focused on the other Hunters, attracted by the flashes from the gun muzzles and constant chatter of the weapons.

Dom pressed his hand against Hector’s neck to stem his bleeding. But he felt the warm liquid ooze through his fingers. Hector’s mouth opened, his tongue pushed against the roof of his mouth. He appeared to be trying to say something.

“Stay with me, buddy. You’re going to make it.” Dom didn’t believe it, though. And he knew Hector didn’t. But he said it anyway, because, fuck, what else do you say to a man bleeding out in your arms? A man who’d been a friend, a brother? A man who’d sacrificed himself like this? “We’re going to get you out of here, Hector. I promise.”

And that
was
true. Dead or alive, Dom wouldn’t leave the Hunter behind.

Hector’s head turned to the side. His mouth hung open. Dom could almost feel the man’s spirit leave his body. Hector was gone—but the fight wasn’t over. He took a couple of fresh mags from Hector’s tac vest and then retrieved the rifle he’d dropped. He stood and twisted toward the nearest Skull, a six-foot-tall, lanky beast reaching for Meredith with outstretched arms.

“Son of a bitch!” Dom clicked the selector toward Automatic, jammed one of the mags into Hector’s rifle, and sent a volley into the creature’s side. The Skull turned and ran at Dom.

But Dom never let his finger off the trigger, plugging rounds into the creature until it crashed forward, dead. Unadulterated rage coursed through him, battling with the calculated coldness and discipline ingrained through his years as a covert operative and combat specialist. He knew he shouldn’t be acting like a cowboy, but his crew was faltering, backed into corners, clinging to what little ground they had left. He wouldn’t stop until every last one of the fucking Skulls was dead.

––––––––

K
ara held her hand out and stretched her fingers. She clenched them into a fist before waving each one individually. She could feel the strength returning to her muscles, slowly replacing the fatigue that had overwhelmed her since waking up.

Her sister was sleeping in a neighboring hospital bed with Maggie curled around her. The faint beep of the EKG and, if she listened closely, the waves slapping against the side of the ship’s hull filled the otherwise silent room.

And she hated it. She hated sitting here in silence while everyone else made themselves useful. She hated being stuck in bed while the rest of the world burned. She hated knowing she couldn’t help anyone outside this little medical bay on a ship stuck in the Chesapeake. She couldn’t help her dad, her mom.

She glanced at Sadie’s sleeping form. The girl’s chest rose in slow breaths. At least she was safe. At least she wasn’t going anywhere.

And beside the thoughts nagging at Kara as she sat in silence, as she sat listless from the drugs and useless from her injuries, the healing skin under her bandages itched with an intensity as hot as the summer sun. She desperately wanted to scratch at the gauze, but Divya had told her not to mess with it lest she disturb the stitches.

She couldn’t help anyone. She couldn’t even relieve her own itching.

The door to the infirmary opened, and an older man peered in. Deep lines etched his face. His gray eyes met Kara’s, and he smiled. Each one of his long wrinkles seemed to grin, too.

“Kara! You’re awake.” He hustled into the room and offered her his hand when he reached her bed. “I’m”—he paused when he saw Sadie sleeping and lowered his voice—“I’m Thomas Hampton, your dad’s second-in-command. How are you feeling?”