The Sowing

I whip around a corner as fast as I can. The duct leading into the locker room is just ahead. I pause to get my bearings and study the images projected on my palm.

“What’s going on now?” Drusilla screeches, echoing my own thoughts. She and Boaz are barely hanging on, alongside Cage, but now have their eyes pried open.

Boaz nudges his chin toward the side of her pillar. “Your pedestal’s opening!”

“So’s yours!” She whips her head around to Cage. “That goes for you too, Cage.”

I reach the duct and fumble with my utility belt, whipping out the compact blow torch and aiming it at the slats in the grate. There isn’t time to twist open screws. But even as I turn it on and the wavering tongue of blue fire casts flickering shadows down the shaft, I can’t help but glance at my hand-held.

Things are crawling out of the openings on the pedestals.

Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Twisting, wormlike insects, like rotting grains of rice, wriggling and headless, engulfing the three Recruits. Some form of mutated maggots.

“What the hell?” Boaz tries to flick them away, but he almost loses his balance and manages to steady himself at the last moment. “Get them off of me!” His shriek pierces my eardrum.

“Stop it!” Drusilla cries. “Just hold still. They only eat dead tissue!”

I cut through the slats as quickly as I can, hoping no one below can hear them as they clatter onto the floor. Then I kick in the last of the slats and drop down.

Getting my bearings, I check my gear and look around, making sure no one’s seen me. But the chamber is clear and I spring to my feet, straightening out my uniform, my belt, my helmet, and trying to look as presentable as I can. Once I’m done, I kick the melted pieces of the grate into a corner and hope no one will discover them.

I have no choice but to deactivate the com unit.

Then I make my way to the door, take a deep breath, and open it, emerging into the corridor. The control center should be to the right. No sooner do I start out in that direction than two Imps round the corner and head my way.

“It’s only a matter of time before one of those things gets through the perimeter and into central control,” the taller of the two is saying to his shorter, thicker companion.

“All the more reason we should take out the lot of ’em before they get the chance,” the other responds.

Who are they talking about? The Fleshers? The Imps are just a couple of feet away.

With the brim of my helmet low, I keep my stride measured as I march past them, offering a salute, which they return absently.

Dead ahead is the entrance to the control room. I dig into my pocket for Renquist’s access card. Whipping it out, I slide it into the slot by the side of the door.

Ping!

The light blinks green. Authorization accepted.

Then I slip inside. The good thing is that the control room is dimly lit, thanks to the Trial in progress. There are maybe half a dozen Imps there. I brace myself for an onslaught of questions, anticipating the lies I’ll have to weave, working up my conviction.

But all their eyes are riveted to the main screen. I take a sharp breath.

The three Recruits are completely covered in maggots.

“Hang on, Boaz!” Cage spits the words and I can see flecks of the wriggling larvae spray out. Boaz teeters on his pedestal. The maggots are covering his lips, squirming their way into his nostrils…

“Help!” Boaz cries through a mouthful of slimy invaders. His hands fly to his face, tearing at it, scraping as many of the insects off as he can—

And he loses his balance, plunging off the pedestal to join Crowley at the bottom.

Recruit Boaz has been eliminated from the competition.

“Son of a bitch!” One of the Imps shoves the other.

“Pay up! I want my cash now, Bartesque!” The other Imp shoves him back.

Bartesque plunges his hand into his uniform and whips out a wad of bills. “Double or nothing the girl takes it!” He slams the money down on the console.

“You’re on!” his companion snorts.

While they’re all preoccupied, I march straight toward the supply cabinets and begin loading my satchel with all the weapons that I can.

On the screen, an onslaught of arachnids has joined the horde of maggots engulfing Cage and Drusilla, their hairy, spindly legs creeping over them as they skitter out of the gashes in the pillars.

“I can’t take much more of this!” Drusilla cries. “Please! You gotta let me have this, Cage!”

Cage shakes his head. “I can’t! Tristin needs me… and… I’m sorry, I can’t!”

I continue stuffing my satchel. A few more guns, some thermal charges, flame thrower.

A big hand clamps around my shoulder and I nearly piss myself. “You’re sure packing some firepower, aren’t you there, sonny?”

It’s Styles.

All my muscles stiffen. I keep my back to him. “Heading out to Quadrant seven,” I grunt, lowering my voice.