Steven dos Santos - The Sowing

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.

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.