Inferno 2033 Book Two: Perdition Read online

  He grimaced, and Lani saw the sinews of one great arm contract as he balled his fist for a blow. But before she could shout a warning, Victoria had jammed a knife into his throat. A geyser of blood shot out from his severed jugular and sprayed the bulkhead. Victoria backed off of him, coolly wiping the blood from her blade. The hulk clutched at his throat and kicked his legs, but his movements were feeble and sloth-like. With a final pulse of gore into the growing pool around his body, he went still.

  “Victoria.” Lani’s voice was raspy and small. “You killed him.”

  Victoria sheathed her knife. “Believe me, that’s the least of what he had planned for us.”

  -21-

  I like a good hater.

  —Samuel Johnson

  Oleg didn’t bother to avoid surveillance as he raced to the Warden’s quarters. He hoped Bao and Desmond would be too preoccupied to notice as he ran by one camera after another, but even if they did see him, what could they do about it? They wouldn’t leave the Vestibule unmanned, and everyone else was below decks. If what Einstein had told him about the Warden’s escape contingencies was true, he would be in the Engine Room and on his way to freedom before they knew what was happening.

  He burst into the Warden’s quarters, heart and mind racing, but with no idea where to begin his search. The quarters weren’t large—two rooms, the size of a small hotel suite—but they were cluttered, and like all ship’s quarters, chock full of drawers, cupboards, and storage bins. He ignored the dinette, going straight to the main living area. He spent a full minute rifling drawers—small spaces where a small thing might be stashed—but he realized he was on the wrong track. In an emergency, one wants everything one needs in a single, easily accessible place. And it should be an obvious place. The Warden didn’t strike Oleg as the kind of person who would bet his life on remembering exactly in which drawer he had stowed which thing way back when.

  By the Warden’s bunk—really an ample bed, Oleg noticed, with a luxurious overstuffed mattress—were two closets. He opened the first. In it was a clear acrylic capsule, just large enough for one person—even a plus-sized person like the Warden. So this was the escape chute. He saw the red button marked “Launch,” next to warnings that read “Fasten Harness” and “Keep Hands Clear,” but there was nothing else. He tried the next closet. It was full of what one would expect—shirts and pants on hangers, belts and ties on hooks—but at the bottom was a go-pack. And next to that was something that made Oleg’s heart sink—a safe.

  It was a standard hotel model—a twelve-key touchpad next to a four-digit readout. In normal circumstances, such low-grade security would have made Oleg laugh, but he had run out of the Vestibule without his tablet—and even if he’d had it, he didn’t have the five minutes it would take to crack the thing.

  What he needed was the combination. He keyed in on the go-pack. The zippered pockets seemed likely, but he found them all empty except for useless junk like ball-point pens and toenail clippers. He ripped open the main compartment and dumped out the contents—candy bars, two pints of booze, a wad of cash, and a handgun. Those few items seemed to sum up everything Oleg knew about the Warden. He stuffed the cash in his shirt and the weapon in his belt. There was comfort in having them, but they would be useless unless he could open that safe. He glanced at his watch—then looked again in disbelief. Could he have possibly used up that much time?

  He fell to his knees before the safe. It was a gesture that mimicked his despair. Nothing left to do now but try hacking it the old-fashioned way. He stared at the touchpad, trying to put himself in the mind of the Warden. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then, like an impulse from the reptile brain, hacker reflex kicked in. He keyed in 1-2-3-4.

  The lock clicked.

  “You gotta be—” A stream of hacker scorn piled up like boxcars at the back of his tongue, but he had no time for that. He opened the lid. There was the module. As he cradled it in his hands he was surprised to be looking at it through welling eyes. He felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time—long before that terrible day his parents had signed away his freedom for the empty promises of Inferno. For the first time since he had been a little boy in Slovenia—back when old Mother Albina had awarded him a medal of St. Methodius for his recitation of the Nicene Creed—he felt the joy of one delivered by the grace of God.

  He climbed into the capsule and strapped on the harness. It needed considerable tightening to fit him. He began tugging on the straps, when a sound like thunder shuddered through the ship. Oleg froze, fearing for a moment that he was too late, that the bomb had gone off. He checked his watch. It wasn’t time. Eight minutes until detonation. Had something gone wrong? Had Einstein miscalculated? The explosion had been loud, but had it really come from within the ship? Had it sounded distant because it occurred somewhere off-ship, or had it merely been muffled because it occurred so far below decks? He stared at the red launch button. If he took the chute down to the Engine Room, would it mean escape, or would he be plunging into a flooded compartment with no way out? Oleg crossed himself, but if he had faith in anything, it was in technology and mathematical certainty. Cradling the module over his heart, he hit the launch button.

  ***

  Lani and Victoria were top deck when the blast struck. A sound as sharp as a rifle shot sent them to their knees, followed by a deep rumble they felt in their guts. They clung to each other, their eyes wide, fearing to see or speak. But the ship did not pitch beneath them, and the rumble they heard seemed to come from far away. There was no fire or smoke, no warning from the ship’s sirens.

  “That wasn’t the ship, was it?” Victoria’s voice sounded like a frightened girl’s in her ears. “I mean the bomb. That couldn’t have been it.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  They stood and scanned the ship. All seemed as before. But over the foredeck they spotted a massive plume of black smoke thrusting up into the early morning sky. They ran to the rail to have a look.

  Lani clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God!”

  Stretching off toward the horizon were five more black rafts, churning northward in perfect formation. The nearest was in flames, spilling angry clouds into the sky and burning oil into the sea.

  They ran to the Vestibule to find Bao, Desmond, and Rashid standing dumbstruck before the monitors. No one spoke. They all knew what it meant.

  Sands’ voice came crackling over the comm. “Bao, what was that?”

  “The black rafts,” Bao replied. “They’re all converging. One of them just exploded.”

  As he spoke, the monitors crackled with the force of another explosion as the burning black raft broke in two.

  “It’s going down,” Bao said. The two halves of the gigantic ship slipped beneath the waves with shocking speed, leaving nothing but a roiling, burning oil slick. Bao and the others stared at the image on the screens as if at a premonition of their own deaths.

  “Where’s Catfish?” Sands demanded.

  Desmond nudged Bao and pointed to one of the other monitors. Catfish and his men were having a hot time with a crush of rampaging inmates on Deck Nine. Some of the inmates had guns.

  “Deck Nine,” Bao said. “It looks like he’s having trouble.

  Sands cursed, and he cut the conversation without signing off. There was nothing else to be said.

  ***

  In the bilge, Ahmer slipped his thin fingers through the grate in the Engine Room floor above him. Standing on one of the steel buttresses that formed the skeleton of the hull, he could get just enough leverage to push against the grate, but the footing was treacherous. He had fallen twice already into the slick muck trying to get into position.

  Doubt seized him as he felt the weight of the heavy iron against his palms. Was it bolted down? But no, it couldn’t be, he told himself. Why would it be different from the other grate? He shoved again, as hard as he could, and the grate shifted. So it wasn’t bolted. But it was so heavy, how would he ever be able to lift it?

&nb
sp; He had an idea. Instead of using his arms, he would use his legs. He bent his knees, crouching until his arms were straight, his elbows locked. His feet trembled on their narrow hold on the buttress, but somehow he was able to thrust himself upward. The grate lifted, and drawing on a strength he didn’t know he possessed, he edged the heavy iron disk out of its seat. Once he had accomplished that, it was just a matter of patience and a few well timed shoves to get the thing clear of the opening.

  Ahmer’s arms and legs were wobbly from the effort he had expended, his hands slick with bilge water and sweat, but he would not be denied now. He pulled himself up and gained the deck, gulping down the diesel-scented air of the Engine Room as if it were sweet perfume. He hurried to the hatch, spun the wheel-lock, and pulled it wide.

  Sands looked so happy to see Ahmer at the hatch he thought for a moment the big man would embrace him, but the look of joy on Sands’ face quickly turned to disgust. Sands threw a hand over his nose and backed away, keeping his distance as he edged sidewise into the Engine Room. Ahmer looked at himself. He was covered from shoulders to shoes in greasy black muck.

  “The bilge is a filthy place,” he said.

  Sands suppressed a gag and held out Ahmer’s tablet. “Which way?”

  It grieved Ahmer to touch an electronic device when he was so dirty, but he took it, trying not to be distracted by the black smudges that multiplied across the interface as he worked it. After a moment, he pointed. “That way.”

  At the far end of the compartment they came to another hatch. Sands opened it, but it resisted when he tried to push it open. Motioning Ahmer back, he readied his gun and shoved the hatch open with his foot. He stepped through, checked his perimeter, and gave Ahmer the all clear.

  Ahmer stepped through the hatch. Nothing was amiss, as far as he could tell, but he was curious why the hatch had resisted opening. He pushed it back shut.

  Ahmer’s gasp spun Sands around. Strung up to the back of the hatch was Oleg, a wire around his neck, his eyes and tongue bulging. At his feet were his handgun and a smattering of loose cash. Ahmer stood transfixed at the sight of his murdered compatriot, but Sands only became more alert. Hunched over his bullpup, he swept and re-swept his eyes over the compartment, searching out any threat.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” he growled over his shoulder.

  Ahmer pointed out the pallet of C-4, just a few steps away.

  “He must have come to try to defuse the bomb.”

  Sands spotted an open portal in the bulkhead. “Not likely,” he said. He poked his head in the portal to have a look. It was the Warden’s escape pod, outfitted and ready to launch. “Very nice. Our friend Oleg must have come across this when he was going through the ship’s schematics.” He motioned Ahmer over to have a look.

  “What is it?”

  “A way out.” He gave Ahmer a significant look. “Room enough for two.”

  Now it was Ahmer’s turn to back away from Sands. “We still have time to disarm the bomb.”

  Sands smiled crookedly. He had half a mind to grab the kid by the ears, toss him in the pod, and pile in after him. It was the smart play. He could save two lives, at least.

  But Ahmer moved quickly away and turned to the pallets of C-4. “Seven minutes,” he said, pointing out the readout on the timer.

  Sands sighed and joined him. The timer looked simple enough, but the wiring seemed more complicated than necessary. Maybe it was a bluff to discourage meddlers, but maybe not. He tried tracing the wires, but quickly realized it was going to come down to an educated guess which one to cut.

  “You have experience with such devices?”

  “Not enough. I don’t know if I can disarm it, but Angel was right.” Sands tapped a module with a small antenna. “That’s a radio receiver. A fail-safe. If we can find the transmitter, we can shut this thing off.”

  “Einstein?”

  Sands nodded at Oleg’s lifeless body. “I’d say he’s nearby. You stay here. Get Catfish on the line. I’ll—”

  Sands was warned by the sudden look of terror in Ahmer’s eyes, but it was too late.

  Lunging out of the darkness with a multi-throated roar, Cerberus bowled them over, one mastiff head clamping its teeth on Ahmer’s thigh and dragging him across the deck. Ahmer screamed as Sands leapt at the beast. Sands got a grip on the other mastiff head’s throat as the Chihuahua bit viciously at his arm and hands. Teeth like needles sank into one hand, causing Sand’s to lose his grip. The mastiff bit down on his forearm with the force of a machine press. Sands gouged an eye with his free hand, but the beast held on. He ripped his other arm away from the gnawing Chihuahua, losing a wedge of flesh as he reached for his handgun. He shoved it under the mastiff’s jaw and blew off the top of its head. It was a close call—he’d fired so close to his own arm he felt the burn of the muzzle blast. Batting the wildly snapping Chihuahua away, he emptied the clip into the beast’s torso, and it went limp.

  Sands pulled Ahmer away and inspected his wounds. The leg was badly mangled, but Sands thought it could be saved if they got help. He pulled off his shirt and ripped several strips from it to bind the wound.

  Ahmer hadn’t made a sound, but his labored breathing rasped in Sands’ ears. His eyes were threatening to roll up into his head, but Sands shook him until he came back.

  “Ahmer! Ahmer, stay with me, buddy!”

  Ahmer’s head lolled forward, but he was conscious. “The blood,” he gasped. “It’s bad.”

  “It didn’t get the artery. You aren’t going to bleed to death, okay? Help’s on the way. I’m going after Einstein.”

  “Don’t leave me here—with that.” He eyed Cerberus’ lifeless form.

  “It’s okay, Ahmer. It’s dead.”

  As if to make Sands a liar, one mastiff head emitted a liquid growl. Sands slammed another clip in his pistol and shot it between the eyes.

  “Okay, now it’s dead.”

  The Chihuahua yapped.

  Gritting his teeth, Sands fired again. There was a yip, and then nothing. He shoved the gun into Ahmer’s hand. “If that thing sprouts another head, you empty the clip, okay?”

  Ahmer smiled and passed out. Sands tapped his communicator. “Catfish! Catfish, come in!”

  His receiver crackled. “Catfish here!”

  In the background, Sands could hear gunshots. “Catfish, where are you? We got about five minutes to find Einstein if we’re going to kill that bomb.”

  “I’m comin’, Brother, but we’re gettin’ heavy resistance…”

  There was more, but it was lost in the growl of static and gunfire.

  “Catfish! Catfish!”

  A heavy blow fell across Sands’ back, crushing him to the deck. He went numb all over, as if his spine were broken. He kicked his legs weakly and rolled over onto his back. Standing over him was Einstein, one end of a splintered wooden spar in his hand.

  “You shot my dog.”

  Sands stared up at him. Standing seven feet tall, lanky but hard-muscled, his hair standing up like it was permanently electrified, Einstein cut as frightening a figure as any Psych Sands had ever battled in the Arena. But the look in his eyes set him apart—somehow completely insane, but with an intelligence that was fully in control.

  Einstein lunged without warning, driving the broken spar like a spear toward Sands’ chest. Sands managed to roll out of the way, kicking Einstein’s legs from under him.

  Sands pushed himself to one knee, knife at the ready, but Einstein had already regained his feet. Swinging the spar like a club, he smashed Sands’ hand, sending the knife to the deck. He swung again—wildly—and again, but Sands avoided each blow. Timing the swings, he lunged underneath, tackling Einstein around the ankles and sending the spar sailing against the bulkhead. They grappled on the deck, kicking, punching, and gouging, but Sands realized that if it came to a wrestling match, he might lose. Einstein wasn’t quick, but he was incredibly strong.

  Sands managed to push himself free and regain his feet
. Still on one knee, Einstein struck an anvil-like blow to Sands’ gut. They exchanged blows, but for every haymaker Einstein landed, Sands landed three. Sidestepping a roundhouse swing that could have decapitated him, Sands slipped behind and put Einstein in a chokehold. If he could just hold on it would be over, but Einstein was so tall it was hard to get leverage.

  Einstein flailed his arms, throwing Sands around like a cowboy riding a bull. But the flailing suddenly stopped, and Sands felt himself lifted off his feet as Einstein bent forward. Sands thought he was trying to throw him. He locked his legs around Einstein’s torso, but a piercing pain turned his muscles to jelly. Einstein hadn’t been trying to throw him. He had bent to pick up the spar and driven it through Sands’ thigh.

  Sands screamed, but somehow he held on, riding Einstein down to the deck. With a will to survive honed by three years in the Arena, he smashed Einstein’s face into the deck. A lightning bolt of pain shot through Sands’ body as the spar was jarred by the impact of their fall. A black pit seemed to open up before him. His arms and legs were four dead weights. But just as he was about to plunge into the void of unconsciousness something pulled him back. He heard a voice. “Go, Sands,” it whispered in his ear. He saw a swirl of lights and faces. He saw Big Money. They all took up the chant: “Go, Sands, go!” He wondered how he had gotten back into the Arena, but the chant buoyed him up, sent the strength coursing back into his limbs. Einstein twisted beneath him, growling like an animal, but Sands held on. He crushed the madman’s head into the riveted steel, again and again, until his face was a bloody mess.

  Sands rolled off of Einstein onto his side. Almost blind with agony, he pounded the deck with his fist. No time to pass out, no time to die. The timer on the bomb read thirty-five seconds.

  He dragged himself across the deck to the pallet of C-4. He got his good leg underneath and pulled himself up with his hands. Twenty-three seconds. He ripped open a pocket and pulled out his wire-cutters. Blinking sweat and blood from his eyes, he tried to trace the crucial wire.