The Sowing

The next few seconds are a blur. Flashes of steel strike my body. I roll, kick, punch as these horrors lash out with their hideous tentacles and sharpened pincers, steel teeth chattering like the whirring blades of meat grinders. At one point, Digory somehow manages to twist the instruments of two Fleshers together, forcing them to engage in a screeching bout of tug-of-war to free themselves.

I’m hurled hard onto my back, which sends a flash of pain through my spine. A blade pistons out from the Flesher’s throat. I manage to shove my head aside and, a split second later, the blade smashes into the floor beside me, spraying my face with chunks of cold tile. Before I can roll out of the way, the pincers crash down on either side of my neck, pinning me into position. The cold, slimy metal instrument presses against my throat, making it hard to breathe as it cuts into my skin.

My eyes begin to water. I manage to twist my head to the side, ignoring the pain of the pincers cutting the sides of my neck. It’s taken the three other Fleshers to finally overpower Digory and pin him to the ground. Through the blur I can see the fresh cuts and welts on his heaving torso where his jumpsuit has been torn away, leaving only the gleaming silver of my ID tag over his heart, rising and falling with each breath. He goes out of focus for a moment. Then our eyes meet, and I see the mixture of fury and tenderness there.

Whir.

I shift my gaze to the Flesher holding me down. It’s face is expressionless as the pincers begin to contract, cutting deeper, squeezing out all my air.

Digory unleashes an agonized cry that wrenches what’s left of my soul from me.

I close my eyes, hoping it’ll be over soon, waiting for the death grip to cleave my neck in two—

It doesn’t happen.

I open my eyes. The Flesher is still staring at me with those soulless eyes. But the pressure around my neck decreases. One if its long silver probes moves toward my chest, a gruesome steel finger. I brace myself as the icy talon grazes my skin, expecting it to tear into my rib cage and pluck out my heart.

Instead, the probe traces a path to my throat. There’s a low clink as it grips the chain around my neck—Digory’s ID tag—and holds it up. Infrared beams spill from the creature’s ocular sensor, bathing the tag in hues of greenish blue.

What the hell’s going on here?

I glance in Digory’s direction and see the Flesher holding him perform the same scan on the tag around his neck.

The Flesher scanning my chain emits some kind of low rumble.

The four Fleshers’ lights blink erratically for a moment before they all sync in a steady pulse.

It’s like they’re communicating and have reached an agreement of some kind.

The pincers retract.

Digory and I exchange looks of puzzled relief.

A socket in the abdominal cavity of the Flesher above me springs open. The creature pulls something from it, something dripping with dark goo, and dangles it in front of me.

Swallowing hard, I reach up a tentative hand and touch the warm links. Four chains.

Four Recruit ID tags, just like ours.

My heart races as I wipe away the slimy matter to make out the names, already knowing what I’ll see written there.

The names of the four remaining Recruits of the Fallen Five.

The holograms of those four people with Straton when we first arrived were illusions. Just like the doctored holograms of the surviving Incentives. Nothing but decoys to distract us and throw us off the scent.

This is what really happened to the Fallen Five. This is the grisly fate that Orestes Goslin escaped almost eleven years ago, that drove him mad and turned him into a crazed cannibal.

The missing Recruits were mutated into Fleshers—by Straton and the denizens of Sanctum.

Taking a deep breath, I release the ID tags and squirm out from under my captor, as does Digory. Inch by inch, we crawl our way toward each other, my senses on alert, expecting the Fleshers to attack at any second.

But they remain still.

We help each other to our feet and begin to back away from the foursome. There must be a part of the Fallen Five, still beating within their organic husks, that remembers what they once were—before they became the very first of Sanctum’s drones.

As we reach the edge of the lab I take one last look at the Fleshers, still immobile behind us.

A thin, dark trail, starting in its optical sensor, drips a pathway down the face of the Flesher that pinned me.

Oil or blood—or something else. I can’t tell.

Then we’re running from that terrible place as fast as we can.

THIRTY-FOUR