The Serophim Breach (The Serophim Breach Series) (31 page)

“Stay where you are!” Heather said, her voice like granite.

He answered with a snarl and stumbled forward, the motion much less powerful than it might have been had he not lost so much blood. Sarah was rooted to the spot, both terrified and hypnotized by the sight of the ruined man coming to kill them. Heather raised her weapon; an earsplitting explosion rocked Sarah’s reverie, and the left side of the man’s face exploded. His body crumpled to the ground like a rag doll with a sickening thud.

As his figure dropped, another silhouette became visible in the dark house behind him. It was a smaller person, too small to be Mike, and pacing with a restless fury that was almost more terrifying than the ruined man who lay dead on the doorstep. In the darkness it was too difficult to make out anything other than a vague shape, jerking as it moved, as if it were warring with itself. Heather lifted the gun again, her breath shaking as she tried to steady her arms; the person inside grunted and jabbered nonsense, stepping forward toward the open door, then retreating a few steps.

“What’s it doing?” Sarah whispered, wishing she still had a weapon.

Heather simply shook her head slowly. Inside, the figure retreated another few steps with a loud screech of gibberish, then with a startling swiftness, it turned and ran away, rounding a corner and disappearing back into the house.

Straightening like a shock of electricity had passed through her, Heather screamed for her father. They listened to the driving rain as it hammered the car roof, the pavement, the house . . . and heard a deep voice answer from inside, too faint to understand. Heather reached back and grabbed Sarah’s shirt, her eyes still on the house.

“Sarah, get in the car,” she commanded.

Fear and a stubborn kind of pride bucked in her stomach. She was afraid to be alone, and tired of being afraid.

“No. I’m going with you,” she said, setting her jaw the way she would when Kai told her she couldn’t drive the tractor.

Heather tore her eyes away from the house and looked down at her; her gaze was cold and fevered at the same time, determination evident in the set of her brows and the hard line of her mouth.

“You don’t know what’s in there. I think it would be better if you waited here. You’ll be okay in the car,” she said quickly, but her tone was uncertain.

Sarah shook her head and pulled her shirtsleeve from Heather’s grasp.

“I’m going with you,” she said again, trying to mimic the granite in the older girl’s voice.

Heather didn’t take much time to deliberate. She just shoved Sarah behind her and said forcefully, “Stay behind me. You see something move, you shout. But do not get in front of me.”

Sarah stepped gingerly around the dead body on the porch and followed Heather, who treaded forward carefully, gun aimed, scanning the room. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that what had been a family room had been ransacked, the chairs overturned, lamps and pictures broken on the floor. The curtains fluttered behind her, driven inward by a gust of wind through the broken front window. Heather whipped around to confront the motion, then back when she realized what had happened.

She motioned for Sarah to wait.

“Dad?” she called out cautiously.

His deep voice came rolling down the stairs.

“Don’t come in here. I think there’s still someone in the house.”

“A man came out front. You shot him, and so did I,” she responded, watching the dark hallway and stairs for an attacker.

“There’s one more. I shot her too, but she ran off.”

“I saw her. She went back into the kitchen.”

Mike’s voice hardened and lifted with stress.

“Get out of the house, Heather. Now,” he growled.

“It’s no better out there.” She refused, and motioned for Sarah to follow quietly. “I’m passing the stairs now with Sarah.”

“Heather! Get out of the house now!” Mike bellowed.

“If she’s in the kitchen, I’m going to shoot her,” Heather shouted back. Sarah thought it sounded like she was trying to frighten an intruder, not issue a real threat. Nevertheless, they crept forward past the staircase, both holding their breath. Sarah cringed as they moved past the dark hallway, cold air from upstairs reminding her how exposed she was.

She moved closer to Heather’s back, following on her heels until they were at the corner of the wall that led into the kitchen. The older girl let out a slow exhale, and with her gun aimed, turned the corner. Sarah watched her move slowly and scan the room, then relax her stance.

“She went out the back, Dad,” Heather called over her shoulder. For a short moment, there was no answer from upstairs.

“Good. Now go back out to the car and wait for me,” he answered, his voice cold.

“We’re coming up,” Heather answered. Sarah knew from her tone what she expected to find, but she followed her up the stairs anyway.

They were nearly up the stairs when they heard his voice again.

“Heather . . .” It was a voice like marble: frozen, emotionless. “Do not come up here. Go back down the stairs and wait for me in the car.”

She took one step forward, and suddenly Mike was in the hallway, filling up the darkness with his huge frame, his face hard and drawn, highlighted by the fires that burned outside. They faced each other, eyes locked, completely still in the tiny, airless hallway.

“Go downstairs,” he rumbled, jabbing his finger at them.

Sarah tugged at the older girl’s shirt and whispered, “Come on, Heather. We’ll wait outside.”

But Heather suddenly leaped forward, streaking up the rest of the stairs and leaving Sarah behind. Mike lunged for her, but she spun away, ducking into a doorway on the right.

“Heather!” Mike cried out, following her in.

Alone on the stairs, Sarah felt a rush of panic slam into her, and she sprinted up to the doorway where they had disappeared.

A woman lay on the floor, a quilted blanket rolled and propping up her head. The fires outside lit the room with a ghastly glow, enough for Sarah to see the dark bruises on the woman’s face, the blood that trickled from her nose, and the places where skin had been pulled away from her body, exposing raw muscle and even bone. She was shaking, and tears ran down her face, mingling with blood and streaking her face with pink.

It was clear she could not speak. Her breathing sounded wet, as if her throat was filled with water; she was almost gasping as she held Heather’s eyes. With what was clearly a tremendous effort, she shook her head and gestured with her hand for the girl to turn around.

“Oh God,” Heather choked, falling to her knees on the carpeted floor.

“Please, Heather,” Mike whispered, his voice broken and heavy. “She wants you to go. Can you imagine . . . she would never have wanted you to see something like this.”

But the older girl was already sobbing, clutching at the woman’s hand, moving closer to her on the floor. It was a horrible kind of orchestra: Heather’s sobs, the woman’s choking breath, the crackling fires, and the sound of crumbling structures outside, all underscored by the pounding rain on the roof. The room smelled of filth, urine, and blood.

The woman convulsed, and Heather choked back a cry. As if he had been suddenly broken from a stupor, Mike picked his daughter up and held her to him, walking her to the doorway. Without thinking, Sarah stepped back into the hallway and reached a hand out for Heather, who moved to her numbly, tears streaming down her now impassive face.

“Wait for me in the car,” Mike said quietly.

Heather’s hand still gripped the pistol, but it hung limply at her side as they trudged back down the stairs and into the rain. She no longer watched for movement; instead, Sarah scanned the room and the yard as they moved toward the car, until they were sitting in the front seat, the doors locked, Sarah shivering with cold and shock as Heather cried softly next to her.

She had no idea how much time had passed when Mike finally emerged into the lighter darkness of the front yard. He held the rifle by the butt, the barrel hovering inches above the ground. A dark bloodstain colored his jeans above his right knee and his shirt near his heart.

“Oh God,” Heather choked. A sob broke in her throat as Mike looked briefly toward the car and gestured for them to wait. He pulled a spray can from his pocket and shook it, turning toward the garage. The car shook with Heather’s sobs as he spelled out, “kai don’t stop—honolulu airport.”

The attack happened so quickly, she still hadn’t registered the pain. Standing in the crowded emergency room check-in, directing patients to triage in the parking lot or the ER waiting room down the hall, Karen had been doing her best to exude calm and confidence. Everyone around her had the look of frightened, confused children—even the nurses that jogged back and forth, helping patients to the station to sign in or taking vital signs at waiting room chairs in an attempt to speed the process. But with every injured, sick, or just scared person in a fifty-mile radius heading to her hospital, Karen wasn’t sure how much longer they could keep control of the ER.

She had been racking her brain for solutions and had just decided to go find the person in charge of the military triage center when a young man with a broken arm began convulsing violently in his seat. His hands seized at the armrests, and he let out a terrible choking sound that sent his neighbors scurrying in different directions.

“Here!” Karen had shouted, motioning for the nearest nurse as she ran forward to help. But the seizure had stopped with the same suddenness as it began, and he locked his eyes on her when she knelt before him, her stethoscope out and pressed to his chest. She might not have heard the low growl that rumbled in his chest cavity without the tool, and it was the only thing that saved her from taking a brutal blow to the face. He swung his broken arm down at her with such ferocity that she gasped and fell backward onto the floor; the people around him moved farther away, clambering over each other, and there was no one to hold him back.

He rose to his feet in a smooth, deliberate motion, and Karen felt the adrenaline push into her bloodstream. His expression told her with certainty that he would kill her if he was given the chance. As he lunged for her, she kicked with her heel and grimaced as she felt the pointed tip sink into his gut. His howl was one of frustration and not of pain, answered by a chorus of terrified screams from the waiting room, and instantly they were in the midst of a riot. No one could hear her calls for help over the din, and the man scrabbled at her ankle, clawing her leg brutally, his blood seeping out around her heel and running down her foot. He jerked ferociously and wrenched her foot to the side, sending a stabbing pain shooting up her leg. The clinical voice in her head debated if the bone was broken or if it was a simple sprain.

In her peripheral vision, she saw one of the larger female nurses and a male nurse fighting through the crowd toward her.
Keep him off you for a few more seconds,
she commanded herself, shoving away the panic. He lunged again, his full weight slamming against her heel, which was still embedded in the flesh of his stomach, and her knee caved. He was nearly on her, with just her bent leg between his body and hers; he slavered at her face and clawed at her hair, and another boost of adrenaline hit her system, giving her one last bit of strength. She shoved against him, and his feet slipped from under him, sending him face-first into the floor. She heard the sound of his teeth hitting the linoleum-covered cement, and cringed.

Finally the nurses were there, pulling away the crazed man as he snapped and screamed at them. Karen thought he might have been trying to speak, but the sounds he made didn’t form any words; still, she was sure that there was some kind of indecipherable intention behind his ranting. Another nurse she didn’t know was helping her to a chair and asking if she was all right. She found she was unable to speak.

“Dr. Lau, you’re bleeding.” The nurse pointed to her leg.

She looked down, following the nurse’s hand, and found the wound. Her attacker had managed to pull a hunk of skin away from her calf, exposing one of the deeper layers of skin. In a haze, she traced the path of red that oozed from her skin down her calf a few short inches before she realized it mingled with the smaller rivulets of the man’s blood near her ankle.

“Get me antiseptic and gauze. Now.”

She was surprised by the calm tone of her voice; it belied the edge of panic she felt creeping into her brain. The adrenaline was beginning to wane, the cold of the room beginning to fill its void. The nurse hurried away, and Karen ripped her nylons open to expose the wound more completely. She peeled the fabric away down her leg, hoping to pull away most of the foreign blood with it, but she knew it was likely too late. Her attacker’s blood had run much farther down her calf, well past the open wound in her flesh; in all probability, some had already entered her system.

The nurse returned seconds later and immediately began cleaning the blood away from the gash.

“We’ll get the vaccinations in you right away,” she said, referring to the many shots she would have to take to ward off infection and hopefully keep her from contracting any blood-borne illness. But she knew they would not have a vaccination against what was likely already coursing through her veins.

Think, Karen
, she said to herself.
Anything they inject in you now is going to feed it. We know that from the lab. What else do we know? Nanotechnology
. . .
it’s too small to see, and we don’t know what it’s programmed to do. We don’t know how long it takes to control the system. But we do know it will eventually cause cardiac arrest, and then continue to animate the blood and body.
She thought about the girl strapped to her bed and the impossibility of that reality. Her thoughts turned to Brandon, and a sudden hope made her lift her head abruptly.

“Sorry, I know that stings,” the nurse said, still dabbing at her leg. “You’re probably going to need sutures.”

Karen swatted the nurse’s hand away impatiently and stood, testing her weight on her injured leg gingerly. Her ankle was definitely painful; she’d have to tend to that later. Looking down at the nurse, she said in a low voice, “Anyone who comes in reporting they’ve been attacked or come in contact with anyone behaving strangely, I want them taken to the psych ward and strapped to a bed. Pass the word to triage outside. That makes three cases in the last six hours of patients exhibiting violent tendencies—I want it under control.”