Steven dos Santos - The Sowing

“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.”