SUB-ZERO, page 13
The next thing that ensued caught Donovan off guard. He’d been communicating mentally for a few hours now and had forgotten that it wasn’t the only way to reach him.
“Call from: Sebastian House,” announced the device’s automated receptionist.
The captain was calling him through the Endeavor’s comms system.
Can we trace the call?
A technician silently shook her head, no. Growling, Donovan tapped his wrist unit, opening the line, but he didn’t verbally say a word.
“Hello, Seth.”
Donovan frowned. House already knew what was going on, to a point. Why waste time with pleasantries?
“Sebastian,” he said, unable to hide his disappointment, “you’re sounding well.”
“Unlike your people, you sick bastard,” House replied, likewise getting down to it. “I know what you’re doing to them. I’ve seen the things you put inside them, and it’s disgusting.”
Donovan still felt the lingering gut punch that was Grigson’s “signal” dropping. It saddened him, but she did her job. She aided in supplying Donovan with an army.
His mind wandered.
Was Jennifer Grigson really gone, though? Hmmm. Was there a way to bring them back with another dose of his lifeblood? Morals and ethics were out the window anyway. Plus, the Seth Donovan of the past didn’t have any of those ideals entrenched inside of him to begin with, so why start now?
“So,” Donovan said, standing tall, “you’re the one who killed Jennifer?”
House burst out in laughter. “Still putting the blame on someone else…just like the Seth I knew. You never could take responsibility for your own actions.” His tone got serious. “Sorry, but you’re the one who ended her life. What I put down wasn’t Jennifer Grigson anymore. That was an abomination from Hell created by a despicable creature from the same zip code.”
Fuming in anger, Donovan squeezed the guardrail harder and crushed it with a screech of crying metal.
“So,” House said, “besides being a genetically modified freak, what exactly are you now?”
What are we? Donovan thought.
His collective mind gave him an answer, digging through decades of learning—school and life knowledge combined. One of the men in Navigation, his father was an English teacher somewhere in South Florida. The sailor had, apparently, picked up on his father’s love for the subject, supplying Donovan and the others with their new name—their new identity.
They all said it aloud together. “We are Coalesce.”
“Hmmm,” House replied, “fitting, I suppose. So, what, you control these things with your thoughts, like some ridiculous SyFy Channel movie?”
Donovan shrugged. “In a way, yes. I’m their antenna, if you will. They are willingly following me—”
“Cut the bullshit, Seth!” House roared. “You murdered them and raped them of their free will.” He sighed. “You realize you’re a monster, right?”
Find him! Seth ordered.
Six members of the newly dubbed Coalesce rushed off, including the one that could take down House without breaking a sweat—not that the deceased could perspire. The beast of the ship was Donovan’s consolation prize.
House and Becker, Donovan thought, sending out another set of orders, I need those two alive. The rest… He smiled, knowing it would go against his goal. But there were so many others out there. The handful of humans still left aboard the Endeavor didn’t much matter without the two he sought now.
“Either join with them…” he said aloud, feeling better as he verbally voiced the words, “or kill them. I don’t care which.”
18
Before he became the Endeavor’s line of communication to both the US Navy and DARPA, Damon Becker had been a very successful attorney on the outskirts of Washington DC. He lived a lavish lifestyle with friends in even higher places than him. Some of those friends were in the government—a retired admiral.
After one of Becker’s partners stole millions from him and the others in the firm, Becker got out before it was too late, retiring from the “strenuous” profession. Six months later, the firm collapsed because of the incident, and since Becker was truly innocent of any wrongdoing, he was free to take on another job and decided on one far away from the courts.
With the retired admiral’s blessing, Becker was brought in as a third-party to help oversee a project centering on a state-of-the-art research vessel, a boat he had no intention of ever stepping foot on. It was a section of the fine print he, unfortunately, neglected to look over. His inner lawyer was embarrassed. His weak stomach was furious.
Damon Becker hated the water—all of it. He excelled in mental warfare. Put it simply, he wasn’t a physical pugilist and definitely wasn’t one while out at sea where he was regularly nauseous. The strong gusts kept his comb-over standing at attention too.
Now, Becker staggered through the bowels of the Endeavor, bleeding heavily from a laceration to his left arm and side. A cook had attacked him, successfully opening his skin with a knife.
“House…” he rasped, his vision dancing. “Where are you?”
* * *
Sitting in the back corner of the room, Becker liked to keep everything in front of him so he could see anyone—and everyone. He’d personally known police officers who did the same, ever watchful of the front door to anywhere they entered.
Becker’s reasoning wasn’t the same, though.
He was a nervous person when he wasn’t in control, uncomfortable with his surroundings aboard the Endeavor, and even more uncomfortable with the people he’d been sharing a home with for the last three months. No one here was wealthy, well, not like him. He wanted to gush about the vacations he’d taken—Nepal, Australia, Peru, Norway—and the handful of classic cars he owned but was smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut. He had nothing in common with anyone and was mostly hated by the whole of the Endeavor except for Captain House.
Becker knew House didn’t like him, but the man was respectful of the office he reported to, including Becker himself. In turn, he didn’t hound House for results. He let the capable sailor do his job without breathing down his neck or continually looking over his shoulder.
Something inside of Becker wanted House to like him. The man’s demeanor was intoxicating—always in control and always, always esteemed and reverent. Plus, the captain of the ship wasn’t under the same type of scrutiny as Seth Donovan’s science team. They were the real reason any of them were there. House’s job was to keep them afloat—literally. But Donovan…he was under immense pressure to deliver promised, world-altering results.
Hence the brash attitude, Becker had thought after his first meeting with the young man.
Halfway done with his meatloaf and mashed potatoes, something he ate separately much to the dismay of most onboard, Becker was startled when one of the crewmen came barging in through the mess hall’s double doors. With six tables between him and the man, Becker initially thought nothing of it and returned to his meal. The “Home Cooking” themed dinner wasn’t half-bad either. Maybe it was just the tilting floor that had stumbled the sailor into, and through, the now swinging doors, making it look and sound worse than it really was?
Regrettably, that wasn’t the case.
The crewmember leaped atop the nearest table and charged straight for the government liaison, his electric blue eyes flashing wildly. What the hell? Becker froze, fork in his mouth. He had no idea what to do. Luckily, he wasn’t the only person enjoying a meal right then. A sailor jumped up from his seat and confronted the attacker, but was quickly thrown aside, tossed headfirst into a nearby wall. Another man swiftly burst through the door leading back into the kitchen, knife in hand and joined the fray, taking the downed man’s position between Becker and—
“Taylor!” The cook shouted, identifying the aggressor.
Taylor didn’t respond.
“Dammit, Taylor, what’s gotten into—”
Taylor bowled into the chef, spilling them both to the floor. They fought and clawed at one another, rolling beneath the table just in front of the still seated Becker. He heard his rescuer scream and then gag on something. To Becker, it sounded like he was being choked.
Being the noncombatant that he was, Becker slid off the bench and cautiously stepped toward the double doors. Unfortunately, someone else pushed through them before he could make it another foot. Like the first man, Taylor, this one had the same killer look in his eyes.
Eyes, Becker thought, once more seeing the otherworldly blue pulse. Taylor’s were the same. What’s wrong with their eyes?
Instead of confronting the second man, Becker took off for the kitchen door, quickly shouldering through it and locking it behind him. Not a second later, it was rammed into from the other side. He jumped back and grabbed the first thing he could find to use as a weapon. The heavily serrated bread knife looked ultra-sharp and would have to do. Becker had once cut his thumb with a similar blade years ago, remembering how much it bled.
Holding it out in front of him like a sword, Becker knew he looked ridiculous, but how else was he supposed to look? He wasn’t one of King Arthur’s famous knights. They didn’t even have circular dinner tables aboard the Endeavor. Theirs were rectangles and the metal, floor-bolted benches incredibly uncomfortable.
The kitchen door was struck again, but it held firm. Becker’s bladder, however, was about to burst.
The door took another blow, softer this time, allowing Becker to catch his breath. His face was flushed, and he was sweating like crazy. Believing the barrier would hold, Becker laughed a sigh of relief just as the door was blown off its hinges and thrown right into him.
He tried to hit the deck before it hit him but failed and was taken off his feet by the impact. There, shaking beneath the mangled door, Becker silently waited, hoping he could do what he’d seen in the movies, and play dead. Still, he prepared for anything, gripping the handle of his knife harder. He was lucky to not drop it, or worse, impale himself.
One of the men stepped inside, and just the one man. In the stillness of the kitchen, the person’s footfalls sounded like cracks of lightning. Becker didn’t know which man it was either. It seemed that his rescuer, the cook, was dead, or at the very least, incapacitated and unable to aid him a second time. If it was the chef, Becker figured he wouldn’t be moving so slowly.
Damon Becker was on his own, which scared him to death.
Becker took his attention off his pursuer just long enough to not notice him step up behind him. The twisted door was flung away, and Becker responded by blindly swinging his blade around, thrilled to feel the knife connect with his attacker. But when the person didn’t react to the injury, Becker looked up, staggering to his feet in abject fear.
He wounded his defender, the cook, except this wasn’t the same person as before. Now, there was something wrong with his eyes too.
They’re the same as Taylor’s!
“What…?” Becker said, stumbling back into the stove, unsure if he was being exposed to some fast-moving contagion or a bioweapon of some kind. Did one of the crewmen sneak a deadly prototype aboard and set it off?
Hitting the stove hard, he felt a drop of boiling water spit onto his exposed skin. It was a small amount, but he reacted as if it was the whole pot.
His overreaction saved his life.
The cook hacked at him with his own blade, and Becker stupidly lifted his arms in fright. The butcher’s knife cleaved into the meat of his forearm, opening a cut that bled like a stuck pig. Then, he sustained an equally deep wound to the gut. In terrible pain, but aware enough to defend himself, Becker returned the favor and landed a solid blow into the meat of the sailor’s shoulder.
Neither it nor the cut on his leg bled.
He asked the same question again. “What…?”
The cook leaped at him, but Becker ducked beneath his outstretched arms and dodged the attempt. As he did, the cook stepped on Becker’s foot and rolled his ankle, sending him face first into the boiling pot of water. The sailor shrieked loudly and grabbed at his eyes. It was then that Becker had seen something wriggling inside the man’s mouth. It too was thrashing, having been similarly scalded.
Holding back his bile and holding his wounded arm to his equally injured side, Becker ran for the ruined kitchen entrance, grateful to find the mess hall void of life.
* * *
Since his life-threatening ordeal, Becker ducked into whatever room he could find and waited out the unidentifiable, nearby sounds. Then, he’d move again. The worse part about it all was that he’d lost his earpiece somewhere back in the kitchen. There was no way for him to contact anyone. The only thing he knew was that they were definitely under some kind of attack. It appeared that a group of crazed—possibly drugged—crewmen staged a mutiny, and Becker couldn’t warn anyone.
His head was swimming from a loss of blood. If he became too weak to move, his knowledge of what was happening would die along with him.
But why? he thought, sliding around a corner.
Becker wasn’t a fool. His connections to the American government, along with that of New Zealand via McMurdo Station’s partnership was vital to everything they did here. He was an essential person, one a gang of “Antarctic pirates” could use as a bargaining chip.
If he couldn’t find House, the only other person to look for was Donovan. Even though he was a petulant man, Becker doubted he had the balls to pull off such a deadly stunt as this. If he weren’t in such agony, Becker would’ve laughed at the thought of Donovan sporting an eyepatch and a hook for a hand.
“Yeah, right…”
* * *
A moan forced Trip and Sam down the hall. They tried every door they could before finally finding one that was unlocked. Both were shaking with fright. Neither really hurt the other when they collided, not counting the blow Trip had delivered to his superior officer. Both were still terrified, however, well aware that it could’ve been much worse than two friendlies running into one another.
Trip eased the door shut and checked on his XO. He wasn’t all that buddy-buddy with Sam, didn’t even try to call him “Sam” to his face. Like House, Sam was easy to get along with if you gave him the respect his station deserved.
The XO blinked away the tears in his right eye and shook his head. “That was a nice one,” he said, laughing it off. “Like Bones Jones himself.”
“Yeah, sure…” Trip replied, having no idea who Bones Jones was. “Sorry about that, sir.”
Sam shrugged. “It’s fine, Triplett, I’d have done the same, considering.”
Trip stuck out his hand. “Call me Trip—everyone else does. I don’t think we have to be so professional at a time like this.”
Sam smiled. “I was thinking the same thing.” He shook Trip’s extended hand. “Call me Sam.”
“Right, Sam…” he said, leaning up against the room’s owner’s desk. “So, what’s happening out there?”
Sam gave Trip the rundown, and he was happy to hear that it fit with what Gianna told him. It wasn’t that Trip didn’t trust his XO, it’s that he didn’t have confidence in the man’s mind if he’d been infected like the others. Trip shook his head, floored that he missed all the action while he had been bedridden.
As a sci-fi geek, everything going on was awesome!
But as a real-life human who was currently in a murderous creature’s sights, it wasn’t the greatest of news. People were dying for real, unlike in the comics or movies. He knew no one would be dramatically charging through a portal like at the end of Marvel’s Endgame. If someone thought you were dead, there was a good chance you were.
Gianna described Abbott’s fate to him before hanging up, and it was horrifying for Trip to even imagine. He couldn’t fathom what Gianna felt upon seeing it with her own eyes.
And in her current condition.
“What do we do?” Trip asked, looking to the person in charge for advice.
Sam scratched his head. “Do what we can from here.”
“What?” Trip asked, appalled that Sam didn’t want to go out and find House and Gianna. Trip needed to get her, regardless of knowing whether her father was with her, or not. It wasn’t right that Trip was safely hiding out while his eight-week pregnant girlfriend was risking hers and the baby’s lives.
Sam raised a hand, cutting off Trip. “And, yes, we’re going to help. But we need to help in a different kind of way.” He smiled. “Two smaller teams can get around the ship easier than a single, larger one.”
That made sense to Trip…sort of. Sam was the strategist, not him. He’d have to trust the XO on this one.
I mean, he thought, if I trust House, then I can trust Sam, right?
Trip nodded. “What do you have in mind?”
Sam’s eyes snapped to the door. “Donovan’s room… We’ll start there. It’s back down the hall a bit.” He looked at Trip. “Shouldn’t be a problem getting there.”
“Shouldn’t be?” Trip asked,
Sam looked as unsure as Trip felt.
Trip had yet to see any of the creatures, but Sam had. He was going to have to follow the guy’s lead for now. This wasn’t a movie. If Trip fouled up too badly, he’d die.
“Let’s go,” Sam said, slowly opening the door.
They stepped out as one and glanced down the hall in both directions. From where they stood, they couldn’t see anyone. Donovan’s room was near Trip’s, some thirty feet back toward the front of the ship. It didn’t feel like an insurmountable distance to traverse, but with everything going on, it might be closer to crossing the Antarctic mainland.
Sam turned right and stopped when something creaked behind them. Trip, who hadn’t followed just yet, saw a strange blue strobe light down the hall. It was far away, and even with his protective sunglasses on, his eyes were still in too bad a shape to make anything of it.
