Nick Cutter - The Deep

“I lied about that.” Clayton’s shrug indicated this could have been one of many lies he’d told. “I didn’t want him knowing about the hole.”

Westlake didn’t want you knowing about his, either, thought Luke.

LB padded over to sit beside Luke. Her gaze flicked anxiously to the cooler.

“It’s not safe,” Luke said. “The hole. Rift. Whatever. For Christ’s sake, Clay—whatever’s on the other side of these holes killed Westlake. Killed him, or drove him insane and made him kill himself. And I can feel myself slipping, too. My mind coming undone little by little. Do we know what it is , Clay?” Luke stared searchingly at his brother. “Could it be some kind of… Christ, does it lead someplace else? Not into the sea on the other side of the wall, but another place entirely?”

Clayton said, “That may be the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

The rage Luke had been struggling to tamp down exploded inside his brain—as if somebody had pushed the plunger on a detonation box wired to a stick of TNT sunk into his most sensitive neuron clusters.

“You colossal fucking idiot! Clay, you’re squirreled away in a lab, thinking that hanging a fucking poster over something as powerful as that ”—jabbing his finger toward the hole—“will do a goddamn thing! And you’re calling me stupid? You may be the smartest man on earth, but you’re fucking clueless down here and you’re too mule-headed to admit it. Well, I’m here to tell you, brother of mine, you’re severely outclassed. Severely. You’re an idiot child compared to this thing. You’d need two brains, or three, to even begin to understand this. And even then you’d be too much of an obnoxious, smug, know-it-all prick to admit that you can’t comprehend it.”

Clayton withstood Luke’s tirade as he always did: silently, motionlessly, but with a supercilious smile, as if he were a shrink weathering the blatherings of a raving maniac.

“So you’re under the suspicion that it’s some kind of—what?” Clayton’s hands fluttered in front of his face: Oooh, spooky! “A hole that takes you away to the Land of Nod? Or back in time, perhaps?”

“Jesus, Clay,” Luke said. “There’s a hole in the fucking wall of this station, which happens to be at the bottom of the fucking ocean!”

“Lucas, listen to yourself. Calm down. It’s nothing to be afraid of—cautious, yes, but fear is a wasteful emotion.”

You’re insane, Clayton . You have to be, if any of this strikes you as reasonable.

The bandages had unwound around two fingers of his brother’s hand. The material was sodden with dark blood and something else, something fouler…

Luke’s breath hitched; he nearly screamed.

When Luke was a boy his neighbor Cedric Figgs had developed a goiter on his neck. The massive, throbbing lesion resembled an unpopped zit. Never look at it , his father instructed. Why make him feel bad?

But it had been almost impossible not to stare at Cedric Figgs’ goiter. The eye was drawn naturally, as a child’s eye usually is to such horrors.

Clayton’s hand was far more difficult to avoid staring at. But Luke couldn’t let Clayton know that he’d noticed—because if Clayton saw Luke’s eyes dodging to his hand, he’d know that Luke had perceived what he’d done.

And if Clayton knew, then it might know, too.

THE EXTINCTION KIT.The thought blitzed through Luke’s fevered mind. The one Clayton used to kill that guinea pig. Was it still under the lab bench?

Luke had seen its contents. There was a vial of Telazol, an animal narcotic. Back in veterinary school, a student had gotten hooked on the stuff; the guy had been discovered in the drug lockup, limp as a cooked noodle—he’d nearly choked to death on his tongue.

But how could he prep a hypo without Clay noticing?

The next heartbeat, the lights went out.

Luke was trapped in a bubble of pure animal panic.

They snapped on again—not the regular lights, though. These were small red lights strung down the ceiling.

“Emergency backup,” Clayton said.

“We lost power?”

Clayton turned to face him in the blood-red glow. “For now. It should come back. It’s happened a few times.”

“Is there a power grid?”

“A fuse box, yes.” He favored Luke with a wintry smile. “Maybe we can reset the breaker. Why don’t I go check?”

Without another word, Clayton stepped into the main lab.

This is your chance, Luke . Your only chance, maybe.

The Extinction Kit was still under the bench. A much larger medical kit sat beside it. Luke found the Telazol. His hands shook as he snapped the cap off the vial, a motion he’d done a thousand times, so often it should be automatic. But right now his thumbnail couldn’t find the stupid seam.

Goddamn it, move!

He set the vial aside. He unwrapped a syringe and affixed a needle to the tip. It was a small gauge, not much thicker than an insulin needle; if it bent while he grappled with Clayton—and he anticipated a struggle—then he might not be able to inject enough to immobilize him.

Prepare two syringes, then. Split the dose.

He unwrapped another syringe and needle. His hands shook. His brother was knocking around the main lab. Harsh rattling sounds.

Convenient, isn’t it? his mother said from the deepest pits of Luke’s subconscious. The lights going out. What perfect timing for you, hmmm? Almost as if it was predetermined. Planned, somehow.

The red lights pulsed against Luke’s eyes. He didn’t care why the power had gone out, or how; he had thirty seconds, maybe less, to make use of it. He shook the vial and tried to sink the needle into the rubber stopper—only to have it skate off the metal cap he’d forgotten was still on.

His brother was thumbing breakers now; Luke could hear the heavy thu-thuck! as he reset them in turn.

Had Clay noticed yet? The bandages unraveling off his fingers, revealing…?

Don’t think about it now, Luke. Just work.

His thumbnail found the groove; the cap popped off. He jabbed the needle in and withdrew 3 ccs, released the excess air, and set the hypo aside.

Clayton’s footsteps approached across the main lab floor.

Luke sunk the second needle through the stopper. Shit. Too much air in the hypo; if he injected it, an air bubble could travel to Clay’s heart and flatline him.

Would that kill him now, though? Would it kill what he might have become?

Clayton stepped through the hatch. Luke dropped behind the bench.

“Lucas?”

Luke drew the plunger back and this time he got the telltale suck that told him he was drawing only fluid.

Clayton rounded the bench. “Lucas, what are you up to?”

His voice had gone cold. A grating, gravelly rasp.

Luke depressed the plunger. A stream of Telazol pissed from the needle tip.

Clayton’s hand fell upon his shoulder. The ragged, gummy edge of a bandage flapped against Luke’s ear. Clay’s hand squeezed with terrific force.

“Are you being bad, my child?”

The voice didn’t belong to Clayton anymore.

In one move—remarkably smooth, considering how scared he was—Luke jerked up the hem of Clayton’s overalls and sunk the needle into his calf.

It was, Luke imagined, like being stung by a hornet: it took a second for the message to travel to Clay’s brain, then back down to the sting site. Clayton roared and lashed out. His boot struck Luke’s chest. The glancing blow was enough to send Luke across the floor. The grate shredded his overalls and sent glittering shards of cold down his thighs.