The Plague Forge (Dire Earth Cycle #3)

The Plague Forge (Dire Earth Cycle #3) Page 33

The oxygen meter read 3 percent. As he digested this the closet shook.

Russell felt more than heard what sounded like an explosion, though it came from far off. The uncomfortable floor beneath him trembled. His eyes never wavered from the tiny display projected onto his helmet.

OXYGEN LEVEL CRITICAL

Still he waited. They’d probably just tossed a grenade to clear out some lingering subs and would be back any minute with one of those aura-generating towers in tow. He’d be able to open his mask, breathe air that didn’t carry eau de flattus, melt Skyler’s smug face with the thruster attached to his suit’s arm, then … then he could focus on that little nimble-bodied mouse, Ana. Make up some stories about how Skyler had been bullshitting her from the start, how he—Russell—was the real hero.

More time passed. He tried to slow his breathing, and it might have helped a bit, but the air level still dropped. Two percent now. He figured he had ten minutes.

He felt a drop of sweat trickle down his spine as the possibility that they wouldn’t come back at all started to feel more and more likely. How much time would he need to get to these aura towers, assuming they were even still around? Even if they were still here, they could be kilometers away. He might have already screwed himself by waiting this long.

The ground shook again. This time it felt different. No explosion, more like an earthquake. When it ended he heard a series of strange popping sounds at the edge of his perception, as if a hundred doors had slammed shut.

What could make such a sound he had no idea, but it couldn’t be good. Then what could only have been a shock wave of air rattled the entire shack around him.

It was time to fucking go.

Russell navigated away from the oxygen readout and found the menu again that would allow him to override the thruster’s “vacuum only” default. He had no idea how long he could run the thing for, or how much heat it would generate, but one of the things he’d spent the last hour mulling was his target. He figured he only had enough fuel for one shot at this, and so he’d spent considerable time weighing his options.

The thick chain they’d secured him with looked new. The bar they’d hung it on, however, did not. He’d seen Skyler test it with his own weight and a few tugs, but compared to the chain it looked thin and showed signs of rust through the sloppy coat of paint. He guessed it would be iron underneath.

The warning beep from his suit, which he’d hastily shut off earlier, came on again. This time the pitch, volume, and pace were all increased. One fucking percent.

“Right, then.” Russell aimed his wrist at the bar above his head and fired the thruster. He felt his arm pushed by the little motor and saw a tiny yellow glow light up the spot on the bar he’d chosen.

Then the smoke started. No wonder the bloody thing should only be used in a vacuum. Whatever the fuel was, it apparently reacted with atmosphere like a trash fire. A gray-black cloud enveloped him in seconds, making it impossible to see anything behind the glass of his face mask. Russell swore, tried to hold his arm still. He thought he’d kept it pretty steady, but after a short thirty seconds the hiss of the thruster dwindled and died with no satisfying snap of the bar.

He reached up and gave it a tug. Solid as the moment he’d started.

He stood at a crouch and pulled, straining until he thought his eyes would pop out of his skull. Nothing. He was breathing hard now, a luxury he didn’t have. The air in his suit started to taste thin. The warning beeps continued.

“Skyler!” he shouted, like a feeble idiot.

They weren’t coming back. He had to act. Better to risk going subby than to sit here and suffocate. He had to at least try to make the aura. And besides, even a subhuman Russell Blackfield could still have a chance at hunting down and killing Skyler Luiken, even if only as payback for leaving him chained up like this.

He saw no other option, and so he turned as best he could and threw his face into the wall.

Again. Again. Again. On the fifth try a tiny crack appeared before his eyes. Russell felt faint, couldn’t get a breath. He reared back and thrust his head forward with all the strength he could muster and …

The glass cracked. A long, jagged white line all the way across his field of view. He tried to laugh but no air came and his vision started to blur. Fuck, too late, he managed to think as he felt his body falter beneath him.

He fell, face-first, and that did the trick.

A chunk of his mask fell away and clattered inside his helmet. He drew a breath and almost gagged on the smoky air, which only made him involuntarily suck in more of it. A coughing fit followed and didn’t end until his eyes were watering and his lungs felt coated in chalk.

The smoke had finally dissipated when Russell got his breathing under control. His head pounded, and he supposed—hoped—that was from the lack of oxygen and not a SUBS infection. He knew that took a few minutes on average to kick in, and so Russell set to work on the bar. He moved the chain so that it was right against the wall where the bar had been bolted in place, and then he started to jump. He kicked his legs out and let his chained wrist break the fall.

On his seventh such jump, his wrist numb and raw, the bolts pried away from the wall. Just a millimeter, but it was better than nothing. Skull throbbing, Russell jumped four more times before the bar tore away from the wall and sent him tumbling to the floor.

He welcomed the pain. Pain meant he still lived. He rolled, pulling his still-chained arms free of the broken iron bar, stood, and ran from the room.

Outside he pulled the shattered helmet from his head. It left a curved line in the sand as it rolled away. Seeing clearly, breathing evenly again, he studied the chain between his hands. Russell glanced around and saw a small rusted signpost jutting from the ground near the building, maybe a meter tall. The sign itself had fallen off, but it didn’t matter. He lumbered over to it and put the chain over it, pulling it tight against one of the squared edges. Leaning back, one foot pushing against the old metal rod, Russell pulled his arms back, grunting with effort.

Nothing. But in his thrashing he’d exposed a concrete base the signpost jutted from. Kneeling, he set to work clearing the sand around it. The weathered bulb of gray stone came free easily, smaller than he’d hoped. He’d wanted to use it as a crucible. Now he realized it could be a sledgehammer.

Russell took the improvised tool back inside and knelt on the hard, flat floor of the building. Sand brushed aside, he gripped the concrete ball with both hands, with the chain of the handcuffs wrapped underneath the ball. Careful to keep his elbows still, Russell thrust downward with both hands. The chain hit the floor, then the ball of concrete on top of it. Sparks flew. Chips of concrete danced away.

He grinned against his headache and brought the hammer down again. And again. A dozen times, maybe more, before finally the link snapped.

The chains dangled from his wrists as he emerged from the building. Russell shrugged out of the rest of the now-useless suit as well. Then he took stock of the situation.

Russell stood in the middle of a desert mining town, somewhere in Africa, with nothing but his underwear, a raging headache, and a full bladder.

Bladder, yes. He’d been holding it so long he’d almost forgot. Russell stood over the suit that, without a helmet that worked, was never going to be used again. Skyler could scavenge another one.

Business concluded, Russell studied his surroundings. There were several low buildings around him arranged in a rough square, with a rotted-out old vehicle in the center. The air tasted horrid, like a … he struggled to think of anything similar and gave up. A chemistry lab, he guessed, though he’d never been in one.

Russell ignored all of it and studied the landscape beyond. To the south he saw the receding cloud of sand as the storm continued its trek. West, the sun hung in the sky and stabbed at his eyes with brilliant daggers. Fuck that. He had started to turn north when something caught his eye. A pulsing glow near the horizon illuminated a plume of smoke that rose above the strange roof that had been constructed over most of the landscape.

“And you will know us by our path of destruction,” he said with a dry chuckle. The voice barely sounded like his own. Where he’d heard that line he couldn’t quite recall, the storm inside his head had apparently shook it loose. A song, or some schlocky old sensory adventure. Trying to pinpoint it sent little jabbing pains through his mind. He gave up.

His feet took him west before he’d even thought to go, a trail of shallow footprints in the freshly deposited sand. Shoes might be a good idea, he realized, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from walking west.

“Feet,” he said, looking down. “Stop, you twats. We need boots.”

Thinking felt like trying to decipher a dream while still dreaming, all while someone ground away at his skull with a jackhammer. He kept walking west with no apparent control over his own limbs, as if some distant gravity source had grabbed hold of him. That’s not good.

Only one explanation made sense. Admitting it felt like opening a door he’d never be able to close.

SUBS, he thought, and snorted. Fucking perfect.

He wondered what emotion the plague would bring out in him, assuming he survived at all. Most didn’t.

For his legacy’s sake he hoped for fight over flight. It wouldn’t do to run like a frightened schoolgirl when he finally found Skyler. Worse, maybe he’d be nice to the guy. Fawn over him like Ana, even. That would be the way to go, he thought. “For my legacy’s sake!” he shouted, laughing. What goddamn legacy? He racked his mind for a single accomplishment anyone would remember him for with respect, much less fondness. Nothing came to mind. He couldn’t even think of a single person who would remember him, the person, well.

I haven’t a friend in the world—

Movement to his left. Russell glanced that way and saw …

“Holy shit,” he gasped. There were dozens of them. Scrawny, savage things. They worked their way along what appeared to be man-made crater rims to either side, moving in the same direction he did. Some ran, most lumbered. A few even dragged themselves along by their hands like some old shitty horror sensory.

Goddamn, he thought. Do I look like that? Am I one of these pathetic animals? Are they my goddamn friends?

He glanced down at himself. His body was clean. Muscled and well fed, a few scars here and there. He didn’t look anything like the filthy, shaggy monsters that now flanked him on both sides. He wore only the pair of underwear he’d had on under the environment suit. On a whim he yanked them off and threw them aside. The sight of his own manhood swinging lazily from side to side as he marched gave him a surprising respite from the fog that had settled over his mind. The headache didn’t go away—in fact it felt worse—but somehow now he seemed able to think around it.

One of them caught Russell’s eye and snarled at him. He glanced away, back down at himself. His legs still moved as if on autopilot, forcing him along in the same direction the creatures moved. They were the same, he and them. He’d joined their pack, which in a way he thought was good because it lowered the chances that one of them would bite his face off. But then again, it meant he’d dropped down a few rungs on the food chain. Russell Blackfield, primal edition. Perhaps the disease had actually improved him. The idea produced a rolling chuckle from his belly, along with a blinding sting of pain in his skull.

When that agony faded he found something odd in its place. Disappointment. Regret.

With an effort of will he forced one foot to remain on the ground. It did, but only for a fleeting instant. Whatever fate awaited him, he apparently had no choice but to meet it head-on. All he could think was, This is it, mate. Last chance to leave a mark.

Ahead the ground sloped away sharply on two sides of an earthen bridge barely two meters wide. The pit walls that joined to form the narrow passage descended down into identical holes a hundred meters deep or more. Open mines, he realized.

He passed a corpse. A scientist or doctor from the tattered clothing. He walked on, not that he had any say in the matter. Even if he could stop the body, it didn’t look like it held anything useful. A few paces later he came across another dead form, this one wearing remnants of camouflage—green, for jungle use. Wouldn’t desert gear have been a better choice, fool? This corpse he did search, fighting his body’s desire to keep marching the whole time. He found no gun, but there was a single hand grenade on the dead man’s belt. He snatched it, enjoying the weight of the explosive in his fist.

Emboldened, Russell focused ahead of himself and … where were they? He’d seen these aura towers before, in Belem and even in the secret video feed from that ill-fated rescue aircraft Tania had sent in. They were tall, and should have been visible by now, but he saw nothing.

Maybe they’d descended into one of these pits. Yes, that would hide them well.

A subhuman crawled on the ground in front of him. Gray hair hung in strands across the animal’s haggard face. Russell couldn’t control his own feet, not really, but he could move his hands. On a whim he reached down and pushed the creature as he passed, rolling it into the steeply walled pit mine. The thing went over the edge without a sound, rolling in a cloud of sand and dust.

There’d been no malice in it, no ill-will meant. He simply wanted to prove to himself that he wasn’t one of them. Not yet. Not entirely.

He half-expected the other subs around him to fly into some kind of rage at this assault, but they didn’t react at all. They viewed him as one of their own, even if the feeling wasn’t entirely mutual.

“Goddamn that hurts!” he shouted, fists pressed against his temples. His head felt like a bucket full of thumbtacks, shaken vigorously. The coherent thoughts, those that seemed to slide around the jagged edges of pain, were infrequent but not totally gone. In fact the headache seemed to have stabilized. There was time yet. He could still leave a mark. Something none of them would expect.