She swung her shotgun around, struggled with her aim, and fired.
The slug tore through the closest plant, shredding leaves, decapitating those fleshy flowerheads. Panicked, she fired again. But there was no lasting damage. A plant on her left crawled onto the stony bank, casting out roots, gripping the rock with thorns. It pulled itself closer, following the blood trail toward its source.
Its movements were slow, relentless, determined.
She twisted and fired, shattering through the plant’s anchor of roots. It rolled back into the hot mud. As she lowered her gun, a sharp sting bit her wrist, near where theathaméblade had impaled her forearm. She jerked her limb away, breaking free of the vine that had stabbed her.
Still, the damage was done.
Acid burned through her veins, up her arms. The fire reached her heart and exploded, pumping everywhere with each panicked beat. She fled away, dragging the shotgun.
More of the plants clustered along the shore.
Roots snagged and pulled.
She tried to reverse the shotgun, to bring the muzzle to her chin, but her hands, then her limbs, refused. The weapon fumbled free and clattered on the stone.
No...
She let her body fall toward it, to retrieve its promise of release.Only she ended up slumped across the rock, unable to move—yet, still burning inside.
She blinked away tears—even this control was stolen from her.
As she stared, unable to look away, the plants continued their slow, inexorable march through her blood, coming for her.
The first one scrabbled close enough to bow its many heads. A frill of dancing cilia probed the air, leading those malignant flowers to kiss her bare wrist. At first, it felt like the whiskers of a cat, tickling her hot skin—then those hairlike tendrils burned with acid into her, drawing the head closer. Petals opened, curling back, revealing a tangle of waving tendrils, far larger than the cilia.
With their touch, acid melted flesh, leaving only raw nerves that screamed.
Then the others joined the feast.
56
May 14, 7:45P.M. ANAT
East Siberian Sea
From the bridge of thePolar King, Gray watched as Captain Kelly transformed his massive nuclear-powered icebreaker into a thirty-thousand-ton bulldozer—only one running in reverse.
“Ten minutes!” Byron Murphy shouted from his nav-station, counting down the time left to them. “We’re crossing the five-mile mark.”
Halfway to safety.
Gray stared past the bow, toward the spires of rock that marked Hyperborea. As the icebreaker reversed down the channel, the legend receded into the mists. He pictured the massive Poseidon torpedo and its warhead speeding toward there.
He was not the only one.
Tension was evident across the bridge. Sweat pebbled brows, small crucifixes were kissed, lips whispered in silent prayers. Onlyoneof them seemed unperturbed, as if he had done this countless times.
“Hold steady,” Kelly called out calmly, guiding his ship via exterior cameras.
Gray kept vigil on the starboard bridge wing. Its windows, front and back, allowed him to view the ship’s bow and stern. He shared this spot with Kowalski and Seichan. Across the bridge, Tucker and Monk manned the portside wing, along with Marco and Kane, who had earned their place.
Everyone else was below deck, at the orders of the captain. Though, many of them were in the small med ward, where Harper was playing triage with the wounded.
Maybe I should be there, too.
He gripped a hanging strap to keep himself upright, his ankle throbbing and swollen in his boot. But he did not want to miss this.
