MudMan (The Golem Chronicles Book 1) (24 page)

Someone placed a hand on his arm. Levi glanced down with blurry eyes.

Chuck.

“Thing just owned your ass. What’d we do now?!” He yelled his questions over the grinding rumble of the floor. “How we gonna get Ryder out?”

Levi thought about it, but only for the briefest instant. Ryder had been right before: he wasn’t good with words or talking, but he was good at breaking things. And this situation was right up his alley. He grimaced and pointed at the circle. “I’m going to smash that thing into little pieces, then I’m going to buy you some time. Get Ryder, and get away from here, away from that orb. Don’t wait for me. Don’t come back for me. Make for the emergency exit if you can. I’ll find you.”

Without waiting for a reply, Levi hurled himself into the air, an inbound artillery shell ready to explode.

EIGHTEEN:

Break for It

Levi flew forward, this time aiming
not
for the impenetrable energy shield, but rather the ground just outside the golden circle. The front door, so to speak, was locked up nice and tight, but with most summoning and binding circles—like the one holding Ryder—there was usually a backdoor: the circle itself, which generated and maintained the energy field, might be vulnerable. If he did enough structural damage to the binding ring, it
might
break the construct holding her in place. Had he been inside the circle, such a task would border on the impossible, but from outside his chances of success were … well, not good, but better.

His hands shifted as he came down, massive pickaxe blades forming in their place. He
thudded
onto the deck, using his considerable mass to drive both picks into the rough stone below. Jagged chucks of rock spun through the air, accompanied by a hail of gravel as his hands beat out a steady rhythm, pounding away like the pumping gears of a truck engine. The orb zipped over to his side, circling about, surveying the damage.

“Please cease your activity immediately,” the orb said. “You are diminishing the structural integrity of the containment circle. Status report: Integrity compromised by thirty-four percent.”

Levi ignored the chirping machine, his mind bent to his task. Each blow fractured the stone further, irregular cracks radiating toward the circle, snaking underneath the ring—the ring held, but wouldn’t for much longer. Each blow delivered up more rock chips and, in turn, widened the fissure in the floor.

Something wrapped around Levi’s leg, entwining his calf like a python, constricting as it worked its way up his leg, trying to crush the limb like an empty soda can. He stole a peek even as his arms flew back and forth, hammering away: the vines were everywhere now—no longer confined to the walls and overgrown chairs—crawling across the floor with life and purpose. A thick cable of greenery had already wound itself around his left leg, all the way from foot to knee, and every second it inched higher. The flowers clamped down, driving their circular mouths in and shaking their heads like a dog working at a chew toy.

“Status report: Structural integrity compromised by seventy-two percent,” the orb said. “Please cease your activity, now, or you will be redesignated as
threat, extreme.
This will result in the immediate activation of termination protocol F13-5: you will be summarily executed. Please comply now.”

Another choking vine twisted its way up his right leg, digging fleshy, probing tendrils beneath his skin, their barbed hooks tearing directly into the muscle below. The memory came in a flash, an instant that lived inside of an eyeblink:

I whimper, though it hurts. My throat is coarse and raspy from screaming, but I can’t keep it in. I strain against the leather bonds securing my hands and feet to the table, checking them for the hundredth time, hoping this time they’ll be loose. They aren’t. Every movement sends a renewed wave of red-hot agony—like glowing fire irons embedded in my bones—but I can’t stop fighting. Not now. I look over at the table opposite my own: my brother’s there, strapped down just like me. He’s not moving right now, though. Unconscious from the last round of “experiments.”

Experiments, what a joke. Blackest joke I ever heard. Torture is what it is, just gussied up and made to sound better.

I watch my brother, the rise and fall of his chest. He looks terrible, like a train wreck. He looks like what’s left of a cow, too stupid to move off the tracks when a freight line rolls through. He was a handsome devil, once upon a time. Now? Now he’s thin like you wouldn’t believe, his ribs pressing up against parchment-thin skin. His hair, all gone, buzzed off. His face swollen, bruised, battered. Ross looks twenty years older than when we got here, easy. I can hardly recognize him anymore, and that’s sayin’ something since we’ve got the same mug. Twins, me and him.

Of all the terrible things they’ve done to us, I know my brother misses his looks the most. Stupid, maybe, but no one could accuse Ross of being smart. Handsome, sure, but not too bright. He was one hell of an actor, though, and I’ve never met an actor alive who wasn’t a little vain. It’s in their blood. Looking at him now, passed out, he
almost
looks handsome again. The worry and fear momentarily disappearing, taking away the creases and the hard lines.

I hear a noise, the creak of a door. Could be the doctor coming back. He’s out now. Lunchtime, I’m thinking. Though it could just as easy be dinner. Or breakfast. I don’t know anymore, though I’m sure it must be one of those. The doctor rarely leaves for anything else … not even sleep, it seems like. But the fat bastard never misses a meal. I can always tell because the smell of food, sometimes salty, other times tangy and sweet, clings to him like cologne. It sticks to his white coat and soft hands. I can smell the food even over the constant, coppery scent of blood, which is like background noise for my nose.

Still, I can’t be certain of the time. Seconds, hours, days: they all blur on the edges. No clock here. No natural light. My hours are marked only by fitful rest, the comings and goings of the doctor, and pain.

God, so much pain. Truth be told, I wish I were dead. I’m lookin’ forward to it.

I steal a look down at my belly, as if I need a reminder: the skin on my abdomen is peeled back and pinned in place with stainless-steel surgical pins. Most of the skin on my chest is gone too. Flayed. I whimper again. I catch sight of my right leg and want to hurl—at least I can’t feel it anymore, which is a blessing, believe you me. The doctor stole it, chopped it off and replaced it with my brother’s right leg. That fat sack of shit in the lab coat wanted to see if whole limb transplant between twins was possible.

I push the visions of my own mutilated body away, force them from my mind. No point thinkin’ on it. I fight against my restraints, flexing arms and legs, going through the same motions I’ve gone through a million times since they strapped me down. Me and my brother, we’re gonna die here, no doubt about it. I hope Ross goes in his sleep so he can die looking his sharpest. Vain as hell, I know, but it’d make him happy. Me though? I’m gonna fight until they cut the beatin’ heart outta my chest. Ross has his vanity and I’ve got my pride. And that dirty Kraut-eater can’t take my pride. Can’t make me stop fighting.

He can take my arms and legs, cut me open like a side of beef, but he can’t take my pride from me—that’s something I have to give away, and I refuse.

The vision went as quickly as it came, flashing and retreating with the speed of a synapse firing, and in its wake Levi’s brand flared to new life, burning with the pain of that poor man’s wounds. The vines, with their deadly flowers and digging tentacles, wouldn’t stop him. He channeled rage, tapping into it like a drug and riding it like a wave. He brought his hands up above his head, letting his dual pickaxes blur and melt together, leaving one massive pick in their wake. A roar ripped its way free from Levi’s throat as he brought the tool whipping through the air, crashing into the floor with a
BOOM
that rattled the walls.

Slabs of stone bucked and cracked, a personal earthquake rippling through the room, though partially masked by the already heaving floor.

The effect, however, was unmistakable: A fissure, thick and jagged as a lightning bolt, shot forward, shattering a portion of the golden arc. The energy emanating from the ring guttered and died in a heartbeat, here one second, gone the next. Ryder was doubled over in the center of the circle, gun clutched in one hand, while her other hand groped at her center, as if she were trying to hold her insides, inside. Levi didn’t know what the power field had done to her, but she didn’t look good. Her skin was too pale and sweat matted her hair and rolled down her face. She looked like a terminal cancer patient on their last leg.

The computer’s words replayed in Levi’s mind:
“A viable homunculus has been detected … A viable homunculus has been detected.”
Something was wrong with her.

Homunculus
.

Things were starting to coalesce in Levi’s mind, a rough picture taking shape. Ryder’s inhuman hunger. The reason why Ryder had been left alive, when all the other captives had perished. The way she clutched her stomach, like a pregnant mother subconsciously cradling her unborn child. Even the words from the note made a certain sense:
She is the first viable subject in thirty years.

The Kobocks hadn’t taken something
out
of Ryder, they’d put something
into
her. A homunculus. Though Levi wasn’t as well-versed in the mystic or occult as many who ran in the preternatural circles, he knew
exactly
what a homunculus was—he’d read about such creatures many, many times. First described in
De Natura Rerum
by a fifteenth century mage and alchemist, homunculi were artificially created vessels, humanoid in appearance but lacking the divine spark of God. Levi knew the term because golems were considered to be such creatures, too.

Ryder was playing host to something, a manufactured monster using her body as a hatchery. Levi didn’t know how this thing was connected to him, but he was certain there were no coincidences. Far too many similarities for that.

Chuck darted into view, sweeping into the circle, hooking hands beneath Ryder and hoisting her up to her feet. He paused just long enough to look at Levi over one shoulder, eyes wide as he watched more vines winding their way over the Mudman, pulling him to the floor.

“Run! I’ll find you!” Levi shouted. Chuck nodded, bent low, and scooped Ryder up, flinging her over one shoulder as he broke for the hallway at the far side of the room. With the pair of them gone, hopefully safe, Levi turned his attention fully to his own predicament. Pickaxes were great for stone, but lousy against weeds, so it was time for a change. His right hand—fully operational—reverted to normal, while the left hand—still lacking fingers—morphed into a wicked, curved-edged scythe.

Then he went to work.

His right hand pulled vines taut, his left hand flashed in a blur, carving away great swathes of tangled greenery. Splashes of golden ichor flew free with every vine, but Levi paid them no mind. Pain was irrelevant, only escape mattered. Slowly he fought his way back—first for inches, then for feet—his progress a seemingly Sisyphean task.

Grab, pull, slash, hack, repeat
.

Chunks of vegetation rained down in sprays of sludgy green.

Vines shrieked and slithered, a writhing ball of snakes enraged at his defiance, lashing out to ensnare him further. Levi kept his mind to the work.

He would fight.

Grab, pull, slash, hack, repeat
.

They could take his arms and legs, but they couldn’t make him stop fighting.

Grab, pull, slash, hack, repeat
.

He tore creeping barbs from his arms and legs. They lost their tenuous hold, and he yanked free the roots wriggling beneath his skin like IV-tubing.

Greenery flailed in response, tentacle-vines whipping through the air as black flowers toppled to the ground, rudely shorn off by Levi’s impromptu gardening shear.

The Mudman backpedaled as he worked, ponderously making his way for the connecting hallway Chuck and Ryder had taken, the one which descended deeper into the bowels of this prison. It took another handful of minutes to break into the clear, but as soon as he managed the deed, he turned and hurled himself toward the exit.

“Alert! Alert! Alert!” he heard from behind—Siphonei calling to no one. “Hostile threats have infiltrated the facility, all hands alert. Facility lockdown protocol LG19-B3, activated. Termination protocol F13-5, activated. All hands be advised, lesser guardians have been activated. Report to your workstations and stand by with your credentials for verification.”

The ground rumbled beneath Levi as if the whole building were protesting his intrusion—he spun just in time to find a spongy metal door sliding free from the ancient stone wall, cutting him off from the entry room with its deadly vegetation. Sealing him in. He reached back and ran a hand over the surface of the door. It gave slightly beneath the pressure of his palm—tender like a raw cut of beef—but there was also something rigid and unyielding buried within. He didn’t
want
to go back that way, but now he didn’t even have the option. Deeper into the prison was the only way now, and if he couldn’t find that emergency exit, this place might well be his prison, too.

A very disconcerting thought.

Still, Levi was not one to dwell too long or hard on such things.

If a door closed well and good—in this case both literally and metaphorically—there was rarely any point in trying to pry it open. Just put your nose to the grindstone and press on.

He wheeled about, eyes scanning the passageway. The hallway he found himself in was lit with murky purple light, leaking from circular light fixtures affixed to the walls at ten-foot intervals. The light was weak, sporadic, but would manage fine, though he hoped Chuck and Ryder had managed to hang on to their flashlights. He could navigate with his stone sense, but they would have a mite more trouble.