American Nocturne Page 31

  “Try me.”

  She raised her eyes and tilted her face. “No, I mean that is the other reason. You would not be likely to believe me if I told you.”

  “Believe what?”

  “Who I am.”

  “Okay, so your name isn’t Eden.”

  “No, that is my name. But who I am is more complicated than what I am called.”

  “Fortunately for us, we happen to have the rest of the day free. Take all the time explaining that you need.”

  Her eyes held his for several long beats, then managed to find Tyler again. She seemed to have a thing for the boy.

  “I am Eden of Tartarus. Daughter of Elena. Four bloods removed from the Queen.”

  “Forgive me, your Highness, but I have no idea what any of that means. The Queen of what? Tartar-whatever? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It is an island, far from what you would consider the known world, a place not appearing on any map. And I do not speak of the Queen of a place, but of a people.”

  “And what people would that be?”

  She leveled her gaze and spoke in a calm, clear voice. “My people. The Amazons.”

  One of the men let out a snort, and even Riley made a subdued noise through his nose.

  “Amazons? You mean, like, that myth about warrior women?”

  “We are no myth.”

  “So, that’s it? That’s what you thought we wouldn’t believe?” Mitchell glanced around at the others. “Well, you’re right.”

  “That is not all I thought you would not believe.”

  “All right, I’ll play along. What else? Other than you being an Amazon princess?”

  “There are twelve of us, others like me. We are all immune.”

  Her eyes wandered to Tyler again, who smiled once more in a way that made Mitchell take note. He was going to have to have a talk with him, let him know this was no time to start entertaining any ideas. He would just have to keep jacking off like the rest of them.

  “Immune? You mean, to ZV?”

  “If that is what you call the affliction that causes the dead to walk and feed, yes.”

  Riley spoke up, moving forward. “Are you saying you can have viral contact and not become infected?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I cannot explain it. The... men who brought us to the complex gave us a series of inoculations. From what I understand, it was important that we had never been exposed to any type of virus prior to the treatment.”

  “How important?” Riley asked.

  “Essential.”

  Mitchell noticed Riley’s shoulders sag a bit, as if he’d sprung a leak and was losing air.

  “What am I missing here?” Mitchell said. Riley said nothing. Neither did Eden. “What?”

  “Unless I’m mistaken,” Riley said, looking at Eden but speaking to Mitchell, “I’m going to guess development of a vaccine would require the use of genetically pure blood. Blood that had not been altered by the kinds of viruses we’re exposed to everyday. Blood with antibodies produced by a more advanced immune system than most people have.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe this woman is telling the truth. About who she is.”

  “Wait second, let’s slow down. In fact, throw it into reverse for a second. Are you saying you believe her? You think she’s immune?”

  “It makes sense. If this woman is from a remote location, a place untouched by the virus, she and the others could have provided those researchers a perfect set of hosts for an experimental vaccine. Ideal test subjects.”

  Mitchell noticed Tyler and Younger mulling the information, exchanging who-knows? shrugs.

  “Am I the only one not losing his mind here? She’s claiming she’s an Amazon, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Who’s to say there isn’t some matriarchal society out there on which the stories were based? A remote tribe, hidden from the world. Maybe that’s why they hadn’t been exposed to any of the pestilence the rest of us have been. I’m simply telling you it’s plausible.”

  “Plausible.” Mitchell turned to face Tyler and Younger. “Are you guys buying any of this?”

  Tyler shrugged. “I don’t know what to make of it, Lieutenant. But if she’s telling the truth and all her friends are as fine as she is, I sure’d like to find out.”

  I bet you would, Mitchell thought.

  Younger offered a toothy grin, but didn’t comment.

  “Well, this is just great,” Mitchell said, tossing his hands in the air.

  “You see? I was correct. You do not believe me.”

  Mitchell eyed her, scrutinizing every detail. Her hair was dry now, a fountain of fiery red the likes of which he couldn’t remember seeing before, ever. And the rest of her was like something out of a dirty cartoon, exaggerated curves and long lashes. She countered all that with a glare that was more or less a shot of ice water to the testicles.

  “Some of us obviously do, or would like to. But it’s a crazy story, too crazy for me to accept without some proof.”

  “What sort of proof?”

  The question caused Mitchell to pause. He hadn’t had a chance to consider what kind of proof would suffice. Or that there might be a way to prove it at all. He scratched his crown and thought for a moment, speaking idly. “I don’t know... the Amazons were supposed to be fierce combatants, right? Maybe if you could pin Younger here, I might be persuaded.”

  “Pin? Do you mean, best him in a death match?”

  A couple of snorts sounded out, and Mitchell smiled wryly. “No, not a death match, just a fight. And I was kidding. He’s more than twice your size and three times your weight.”

  Eden stood. She shed the borrowed shirt and let it fall in loose folds to the floor. She wore nothing but a small patch of leather over each breast, laced with single strands of cloth connecting them, joined behind her back and around her neck. A rough image of a green serpent composed of thousands of individual spots on her flesh twined around her left arm from her shoulder to her wrist.

  “If that is the proof you demand, then that is the proof I will provide.”

  Tyler chortled while Younger grinned and shook his head. Even Riley made a noise that sounded like a chuckle. Mitchell furrowed his brow and rolled his eyes. He half wondered if he was still back in westquad, having fallen asleep watching the floaters.

  “Whoa, now, Joan of Arc. Just calm down. Nobody’s fighting anybody.”

  “I am Eden of Tartarus, not this other person you seem to think. You do not believe me. How else shall I prove what I say? We haven’t much time.”

  “It’s not like—wait... what do you mean, we haven’t much time?”

  “According to the information on the tapes.”

  Mitchell glanced over at Riley, who shrugged his eyebrows. “What information?”

  “The pressure readings. They indicate this structure you inhabit will soon succumb to the weight of ocean mass surrounding it.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why the heck should I believe there would be pressure readings included on a recording in our Reconnaissance-bot?”

  Eden did not answer. Mitchell started to speak again, then noticed Riley staring down at the tabletop, eyes reading some unseen text.

  “What?”

  Riley took a breath, but said nothing.

  “You’d better say what’s on your mind.”

  “I had used those modules to dictate... notes. Back when I was doing atmospheric sampling with the barometer and manometer, calculating differential pressure.”

  “And you didn’t erase those, either?”

  “I recorded over it, I’m sure.”

  “Dr Dayton retrieved the information using the equipment available at the facility,” Eden said.

  Mitchell scowled at Riley for a moment before turning his attention back to the woman. He got the sense there was a lot more to the story, but this wasn’t the time to pursue it.

/>   “And how long did this Dr Dayton say we had left?”

  “Less than three months. After that, the structure would be unstable and subject to imminent collapse, without warning.”

  “So, we have another ninety days? That doesn’t seem like a reason to cut short this little conversation.”

  “No, not three months from now. Three months from when the readings were taken.”

  Mitchell looked over to Riley again, realized the color had drained from the man’s face.

  “According to the date on the recording,” Eden continued. “That was over a year ago.”

  * * *

  There were four functional marine pods. The structure contained bays equipped to hold several dozen, but they were already missing when Mitchell and his men had shown up. It had always been assumed AB-IV had been abandoned by most occupants desperate to find their families, that news of the crisis on land caused the crew to panic about the fate of wives and girlfriends and children, that this was in the early days of the virus, before anyone knew the surface was going to be overrun the way it was.

  But now Mitchell realized it was starting to look like maybe they fled for other reasons. Like a desire to not have millions of tons of ocean water come crashing down on them in the middle of the night.

  He didn’t want to think about the ones who stayed. He’d expended a lot of energy trying to forget. Did they know, and just not tell him? No, it didn’t make sense. The idiots kept wanting to signal their location, let people know where they were. Find survivors, find help. They just didn’t get it.

  There was no help. Whatever elements of the government were left out there – if there even were any – were either rogue, or serving a different agenda, and one that help had nothing to with. And besides, there wasn’t enough food or water to take on others. It was like they’d wanted everyone to be part of a suicide pact. He tried to tell them, but they wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t listen to reason. He had to make a decision. What else could he do?

  Each pod held two persons comfortably. Mitchell decided Eden would ride with Riley.

  The bots were capable of reaching shore on their own, but Cypher didn’t like the idea.

  “Lieutenant, sir, this is most irregular! My circuitry is quite delicate! Any intrusion of salt water would certainly cause a major malfunction! Corrosion would be highly likely!”

  “If the drones can handle it, you can too.”

  “Sir! I must protest! The drones do not have my advanced processing arrays, nor do they have the temperature-sensitive wiring that allows—”

  “We need the space for weapons and ammo, Cypher.”

  “But sir—!”

  “Ride with Tyler if it will shut you up. But you’re carrying rifles and ammo cans on your lap.”

  The bot’s eyes flashed, something Mitchell could have sworn was a blink, and it scooted away quickly, apparently worried the Lieutenant would change his mind.

  “I think I should swim.”

  It was Eden, standing next to one of the pods, looking at it like she’d just watched it feed on a child.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m a strong swimmer. You need the transport capacity.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. The shore is over half a mile east. We’re over twenty fathoms below the surface. Do you have any idea how far a swim that is?”

  She looked at him, and Mitchell suddenly remembered how she got there. “Okay, it’s still silly. Just ride with Riley. We can’t afford to get separated. Without you, we’d never find your encampment.”

  Eden nodded once but was otherwise quiet.

  “Okay, everyone... listen up. The heading is due east. When you hit the beach, engage the track wheels until you’re clear of the water. Keep your weapons unloaded until you break the surface, but make sure you’re locked and loaded before you pop the canopy. There will be Zs on the beach, bank on it. You know the drill. Assume all animate objects are hostile unless you’re certain, and even then safe beats sorry every time.”

  Tyler gave a war-whoop and everyone started loading into the pods. As each canopy closed, a chain rail system pulled each pod into a launch tube. The hydraulic hatches closed behind them with a hiss.

  Mitchell stood over his pod and looked back through the access way. The dome groaned a good-bye. He wondered if it was the hue and cry of its ghosts.

  * * *

  Younger’s pod fired first. The tubes relied on compressed air to catapult the pod out into the sea. Two small but powerful electric propellers provided thrust. Steering was accomplished through foot pedals; speed was controlled through a manual throttle, though the pods really had only two: slow and less slow.

  The ride to the shore took about five to seven minutes, depending on the current and tide. Visibility was uneven. The pods tended to kick up a lot of sediment and air bubbles flowed over the canopies like sleet. Mitchell could make out one pod just ahead of him and another off to his left. There was no communication between them.

  About halfway to shore, Mitchell felt his pod suddenly pitch, buffeted by a current. He steadied the craft, could make out only a forest of bubbles. The pod rocked and yawed for a few more seconds, veering with the current. He alternated pedals, keeping the throttle full. A few minutes more, and he felt the ebb and flow of the tide get stronger, then the whump and scrape of the sandy ocean floor beneath him as the canopy splashed through the surface. He manually engaged the track wheels and felt the pod sluggishly make its way up to the shore. He started to pop the canopy as soon as the waves stopped breaking over him, realized he was violating his own orders. He hastily slapped a magazine into one of the M-1s and racked the bolt.

  One pod was already pulling itself out of the surf, ahead to his left, breaking free of the tide, and another was emerging to his right. He got to his knees on his seat and scanned the cresting waves for the third pod. Nothing. Beyond the curling foam was open ocean, bodies littering the surface in the distance. Floating cannibals, scouring for brains.

  Opening the canopy had stopped the track motor, so the pod remained in the water, being pushed and dragged by the tide despite its weight. It slid and rocked with the ebb and flow as he stood on the seat facing the horizon, and it took a moment for him to steady himself. There. A hundred yards back or so and off to the right was a frothy circle of white, still bubbling. A figure broke the surface, head and shoulders ballistic for a brief moment before it dropped back down and bobbed in the water.

  It was Eden.

  Before Mitchell could shout out, he felt the pod shift and the water surrounding him suck back toward the sea. A wall of water rose high ahead of him, curling into a half-pipe and blocking his view. Just as he started to brace himself for the crash, two shadows appeared in the curve of rushing water, riding the flow, gliding up toward the crest. He leaned forward, peering into the swell, almost forgetting that the wave was heading right at him.

  The wave lurched toward him and they popped into view. Two of them, men, or formerly men, arms emerging from the water first, then faces. Hurtling toward him with their arms outstretched, hands clutching, lips peeled back in a permanent grimace, revealing jagged teeth. Their flesh was bloated and sagging, gray-blue skin beginning to slough in places, eyes milky. The roll of surf crested high and they bore down on him, a pair of torpedoes as it started to break.

  It had only been a mere second before his brain allowed him to react, but Mitchell realized it had been too long. One of them smashed directly into him as the wall of water swept over the pod and it was only the fact Mitchell had been jerking the barrel of his rifle up that saved him. The muzzle caught the zombie right in the mouth, the force of wave hammering its skull into it.

  The pod lurched forward and Mitchell fell. The zombie was clawing at his sleeves, the barrel wedged deep into the back of its throat. As Mitchell tumbled back, the other one descended in a crash of white foam on top of both of them. Mitchell saw the sky for an instant, felt the water claim his body and felt himself pull the trigger.
The report exploded in his ears the moment the surf took him under and drowned out all but the ringing in his ears.

  The water was abrasive. Sand and shards of shell scraped at his face and filled his mouth. Mitchell bounced off the bottom, the pod vaulting over him, punching him down into the rough floor. The tide pulled back with an almost equal amount of fury, cramming fistfuls of jagged debris into his mouth as it tried to drag him out to sea. But his boots and legs dug in and the water rushed over him until he could feel air blowing his wet, sandy hair. He shook his head and spit, gasping in breaths. Another wave, not quite as powerful, flowed over him a moment later, giving him enough of a push to crawl to the edge of the surf and flop onto his back in the thin reach of foam.