The Tower

His finger was starting to hurt. Blood leaked through the gauze and tape, but he ignored it-he was almost done now. He turned back to the controls, finding the section labeled VENTS. As the pounding waves rose against the Tower's side, he pulled the levers, one by one. Twelve… Eleven… Ten… Nine. Level Nine was the lowest floor to have vents, but it was almost always underwater, so its vents had never been used. They jammed halfway open.

A torrent of water blasted down the Hole, dousing the inmates through their cages. It struck the bottom and roared upward, snarling and swirling about the prisoners. They screamed in terror, many of them running in circles, regarding their walls and ceilings with wild eyes.

Safran was knocked across his unit with the first blast of water. His head was smashed against the bed, caving in at the temple like a deflated basketball.

Tommy froze as the water rose under his feet, driving him up. His mouth opened in a silent scream as he rode the massive swell, his face striking the steel bars of his ceiling.

Allander rushed to the gaping mouth of the Hole and cried down: "WELCOME HOME, MY LITTLE ONES! WELCOME HOME!" What he said, however, was lost to the inmates, drowned out by the roar of the water and their own screams. Allander scampered away from the edge of the Hole.

On Level Three, Mills roared in terror as he watched the river of water flow past his unit. He looked down at his feet and saw the seething mass of liquid rising toward him through the bars of the floor. It deluged Level Two now, and it would be only another few seconds before it reached him.

He seized the unit wall fiercely with both hands, his hairy fingers squeezing the bars. The water flew up, striking his bottom and groin, and he bellowed in pain. He did not release his grip, even as the water yanked his body from the ground. The void over his head filled, and he slowly pulled himself back down to a standing position beneath the ocean's roar. He finally opened his mouth, forced to inhale, and a peace spread through his body as his lungs drew the water inward.

Cyprus moaned and paced madly about his unit, feeling the walls and jumping to grab the ceiling bars and hold his body up off the ground.

Above him, Spade laughed and stepped on his hands. "He got us, Aryan boy. He got us good," he called down tauntingly.

Cyprus squealed in pain and fear and collapsed to the floor. The water appeared to be moving more slowly now. It rose from Level Eight and when Cyprus's feet got wet, he screamed as if they'd been touched by acid. He jumped onto his bed.

"Any chance?" he cried, his breath catching in his chest. "Any chance it'll stop, that it'll level off? Come on, Spade, tell me. Tell me now. Oh, Jesus God."

The water reached his bed and continued to rise, claiming his calves, then his thighs. Again he leapt up and grabbed the ceiling bars. And again, Spade placed one of his size-fourteen feet over both hands. Cyprus whimpered like a puppy.

"None at all, white boy. None at all. Maybe by the time it hits Level Ten, or maybe not. But you got no hope. No hope at all for Level Nine." He smiled. "And I'll be right here watching you go."

He lifted his foot from Cyprus's hand, but this time Cyprus did not fall away. The water buoyed him until he was pressed against the ceiling. Spade sat clumsily on the floor, his legs spread so he could see Cyprus's face between them, and he watched as the water slowly covered Cyprus's frantic eyes. His blond hair flowed gracefully in the water, making him look like a distorted mermaid. He struggled against the bars, and as Spade's pants began to soak up water, Cyprus's breath left him in a bubbled cough. Sucking in painfully, he jerked about before drifting away from the ceiling.

Spade stood up and pulled off his shirt, throwing it into the corner. He sloshed over to his bed and sat, resting his chin on his fist, his black body sculpted and organic against the sterile steel bars. The water had slowed, but each wave pushed another gasp through the tenth-level vents into the Tower.

He looked at his hands. Opening and closing them, he flexed them before his face, his massive fists like sledgehammers. He watched until liquid flowed over them and then he stood to face the water. It rose over his bulging pectorals, then over his deltoids and trapezoids. Little bubbles clung to him as he felt his feet leave the ground. He welcomed the cold water flowing over his body. It had been a long drought.

He rose, treading water though barely moving, until his head struck the ceiling and stopped his ascent. "Allander, my child," he whispered, his voice a deep rumble. "Allander, my child." Water rushed over the smile that had formed on his lips, and a small funnel of air pushed into the water as he breathed from his nose. His glassy eyes did not blink as they went under.