At least he won’t be coming back, I think.

  The Golyats, lost in hunger, don’t really try to reproduce. They’re just drawn to bite and attack. Some of their victims get consumed to the point of no return. Others are just bitten once by the creatures, before they move on to the next screaming, scrambling person that gets their attention.

  Not far away, a man with three missing fingers writhes on the floor, part of his hand—and weapon—consumed by a Golyat, now shaking his friend’s arm like a latched-on police dog.

  It’s spreading fast.

  My legs are already bitching about the burn, but I tell them to shut the fuck up and keep hauling ass.

  As I reach the top, both Blackwater and Munk reach their hands out toward me.

  “Give him to us,” Blackwater says.

  I start to balk at the idea of handing over the heavy load, but quickly realize that’s sexist and destined to get me kicked in the nuts at a later date. Munk takes his feet. Blackwater takes his hands. She holds him for just a moment before dropping him onto the hard floor and offering a very insincere, “Oops,” before picking him back up.

  They shuffle out of the exit together and I turn to pull Maigo in behind me. That’s when I see the Golyats streaming in through the tunnel.

  How many people were down there?

  One of the creatures lunges out of a dark side tunnel, leapfrogs off another, and leaps toward a fleeing woman. On its way through the air, the creature reaches down, catches a man by its talons, flips head over heels, and tosses the man. He sails fifty feet straight up, flailing and screaming the entire way.

  The Golyat then plows into its target, breaking her back, taking a bite, and then diving onto its next victim just as the man it threw begins to fall—and is tackled out of the air by yet another Golyat.

  They’re fighting with a new kind of savagery.

  Like they know how to fight.

  Shit…

  They’re fighting like they’re hardened criminals accustomed to violence, rather than some Martha’s Vineyard fancy-pants folks, or deluded Divine Retribution cult members.

  “They were part of the plan all along,” Maigo says, understanding what I’ve just come to realize. The rising monster is just the start. The army that will soon be flowing from these twisting tunnels…unless we can do something about it.

  I nod, and we bolt down the tunnel, following the flow into a twisting maze of humanity. Though Blackwater and Munk have a good lead on us, they’re easy to follow, in part because of the lights mounted on their shoulders, but also because Munk is unleashing a litany of curses every time she’s jostled, shoved, or tripped up.

  The farther we go, the more the tunnel opens up, not because it’s getting wider, but because the denizens of this realm have their own escape routes. But to where? They can’t go to the surface. Nemesis would find them. They’re just delaying the inevitable. Death by Golyat. Divine Retribution knew about the underworld, judged the lot of them, and found them wanting, deserving of an unholy rehabilitation. From criminals to world executioners.

  What a bunch of little fuckers.

  When the tunnel all but empties out, I wonder if Blackwater’s got the right idea. We’re pursued by screams, shrieks, the wet paper tear of rending flesh, and the crack of breaking bones. The Golyats are gaining, and with the tunnel emptied out, there’s nothing between us and them to slow them down.

  When we exit the winding tunnel and emerge back in the subterranean parking garage, I realize why we’re alone. Everyone else is trying to hide. We’re trying to escape.

  Hair on the back of my neck stands up just as I exit the tunnel. I’m struck on the right side and knocked to the left. I hit the ground and roll back up in time to see Maigo take a power stance and hold her sword horizontally.

  The already airborne Golyat gets the razor-sharp blade in the gut. The sword sinks through its torso. When the creature’s spine reaches the blade, the impact nearly knocks Maigo down. But she holds her ground and shoves the blade through, severing the Golyat in half.

  The legs fall to the ground, quivering. The top half pushes itself up on its hands, looks back at Maigo, and hisses. The sound stops a moment later when she puts the blade through its gnarled forehead.

  “There’re more coming,” Blackwater says, looking into the dark tunnel. The scratching of claws sifts out of the darkness, growing louder. “Get to the bikes. I’ll slow them down.”

  I’m about to throw the mother of all hissy fits when she puts a hand on my shoulder, looks me dead in the eyes with her commanding gaze, and says, “I don’t have a death wish. I got this.”

  Maigo gives her a nod on my behalf, sheathes her sword, and takes Brewer’s hands. When they make the transition, Brewer wakes and thrashes. Maigo drops him again. His head bounces off the stone floor, knocking him out cold once more. Guy’s going to have brain damage by the time we get him to the altar.

  Blackwater unslings her weapon from behind her back, and I get my first look at her pick from the armory. Like Munk, she chose a shotgun, but not the pump variety. She’s carrying an AA-12 automatic assault shotgun with a 32-round drum.

  No wonder she’s confident. She can turn that tunnel into a blender. With its smooth concrete walls, not a single pellet will go to waste.

  Doesn’t feel right, but I leave her behind and follow after Munk and Maigo, who already have a good lead. The momentary pause gave me time to catch my breath, and I’m able to catch up by the time we reach the bikes. Munk and Maigo lay Brewer down on the floor.

  “How we going to do this?” Maigo asks.

  “I’ll get on my bike. Lay him across my lap like he’s been a bad boy. If he wakes up while I’m driving, the barrel of my gun against his asshole should take the fight out of him long enough for my elbow to knock him senseless again.”

  As we all shift around to carry out my plan, a rough voice says, “You leave him right where he is and turn around.”

  When I follow the voice’s command, I find Munk with her hands raised. A man with god-damned dirty mutton chops stands behind her. Must be one of Brewer’s people.

  “Case you’re wondering,” the man says, “yes, I am armed.” He leans behind Munk to protect himself and lifts his handgun high enough for me to see.

  Pistol returned to its position against Munk’s back, he leans out and asks me, “You’re the big boss, right?”

  “I’m probably the one you want that gun trained on,” I say, “yeah.”

  “I seen your face on the TV,” he says. “Used to think you were all that an’ a box of Magnums. Then I got into some trouble and started seeing your face in my nightmares. Everyone down here does. And now, here you are…”

  “You do know that your people are being slaughtered,” Maigo asks, “Right?”

  The man glances toward Maigo for a moment.

  He has no idea what’s happening.

  And I realize it will be impossible to explain the truth, so I just say, “The NSO has infiltrated the underground. Rounding everyone up.”

  Blackwater helps the ruse by unleashing five rapid-fire shotgun rounds. They’re followed by Golyat shrieks. More than one.

  He hears them. “The hell…”

  “Let us go,” I say, “and you can walk. Far as I’m concerned, we never crossed paths.”

  “Bullshit!” the man says, pushing his pistol harder into Munk’s back. “I ain’t going nowhere until you’re sucking wind through a hole in your damn chest.”

  He slides Munk’s shotgun from her shoulder and places it in her hands. “But you’re going to do the shootin’, honey.”

  50

  “Go ahead,” I tell Munk. She doesn’t have much choice in the matter, and if she doesn’t, the man is going to put a hole in her back. And I couldn’t live with that, someone like Munk dying on my behalf. I don’t mind sacrificing myself for the greater good, but no one in their right mind should sacrifice themselves for me.

  I’m just not worth it.

  To my relief, Munk takes the shotgun and lifts it up, almost like she’s eager.

  Has this gleam in her eye, too, like she’s going to enjoy what comes next…or knows something I don’t.

  That look in her eye… I recognize it now. It’s mischief. She’s up to something, which is a little disconcerting considering the stakes.

  Maigo hasn’t caught on.

  “What are you doing?” she asks Munk.

  “What I’m told,” Munk says. “Case you haven’t noticed, this guy has a gun to my back.”

  “She pulls that trigger...” Maigo says to the man.

  He grunts. “You gonna shoot your chubby friend to get at me, NSO bitch? I don’t think so.”

  “C’mon, man,” Munk says. “That’s just rude. We all know who you’re talking about without mentioning my weight.” She raises the shotgun how I showed her and flicks the safety off. “Just so you know, I’ve never fired one of these before, so you’ll have to forgive my bad form.”

  Maigo is making the man nervous. The look in her eyes might be enough to kill the man on its own. She’s waiting for him to make a mistake. To turn just so. It will happen in a blink. Her pistol will come up and the back of the man’s head will disappear.

  Most people think that shooting someone with a hostage is inherently dangerous because they’ll pull their trigger, killing the hostage, at the moment of impact. And that is a possibility if the first shot leaves the target upright. But you put a bullet in their head? Odds are, it’s lights out. Power’s cut. That trigger finger won’t budge, except for maybe when it hits the ground.

  But the man is being careful. I don’t think Maigo will find the right angle without moving, and that could get Munk shot.

  “Just point it at his chest and pull the trigger,” the man says. “Full spread will get the job done.”

  “Right,” she says. “Full spread. Straight at the chest.”

  She looks me straight in the eyes—and winks.

  The hell is she doing?

  Full spread. The words come in a flash. Her shotgun is loaded with slugs, not shells.

  I drop to my knees, then reach up and tap my chest. “Put it here, kid. Don’t risk your life for me.” I glance over at Maigo, and add, as sternly as I can so she understands the message. “Same goes for you. I had a good run.”

  “I’m countin’ down,” the man says. “He better be pulp by the time I hit zero. Three…”

  “Three?!” Munk says, aiming down the sight. “Give me time to aim, man!”

  “Two…”

  Munk zeros the barrel in on my chest, aiming at a downward angle, sliding the buttstock too high. It’s bad form, but also intentional.

  The man peeks up over her right shoulder to watch me get evaporated. What he doesn’t see is the buttstock slide clear of Munk’s shoulder.

  I close my eyes and brace for ‘One.’

  “One.”

  The shotgun booms.

  Superman punches my chest, sending me sprawling back. I don’t lose consciousness, but I can’t move either. Might be dying. Hard to tell. But I can hear, and it doesn’t take much of an imagination to see the buttstock of Munk’s gun, propelled by the massive force of the slug being fired, ram up past her shoulder and into the man’s face.

  As he sprawls back, in time with me, Maigo moves in, drawing her sword, I think, because I hear a shing of metal twice. Once when it’s drawn, a second when it cuts through the man’s wrist, severing hand and gun.

  Wish I could have seen it all, but I really need to focus on breathing.

  Takes a moment to remember how. Then I suck in a ragged breath that sounds like a vacuum cleaner having a fight with a rabid racoon.

  Hands grip my arm. “Are you okay?” Munk asks. “Are you alive?”

  I suck in another breath and manage to squeak out, “Alive…”

  “Oh, thank god, it worked. I can’t believe it worked!”

  “That was…some slick thinking…” I say. Munk pulls me into a sitting position, and I find the asshole missing a hand sprawled a few feet away, staring up at Maigo, who has the tip of her blade resting against his chest. I can tell she’s enraged. She’d love to poke him right through the heart. Might even be a righteous kill as far as Nemesis is concerned. But it would eat her up.

  “Maigo,” I grunt, as Munk helps me to my feet. “Let him go.”

  She glances at me but doesn’t move the blade.

  “I’m alive,” I say. “And they’ll smell his blood soon enough. Asshole will get what’s coming to him.”

  “W-who will smell my blood?”

  Maigo smiles down at the man and withdraws her blade. “Probably a good idea to start running.”

  The man looks over to me, as if I might help him. Then he scrabbles back, clutching his handless arm, rolls to his feet, and runs.

  A series of booms reminds me that we’re not out of the danger zone yet, and that Blackwater is fighting for all of us.

  “We need to move,” I say, but I only make it a few steps before clutching my chest.

  Munk catches me, worried about my condition.

  “Body armor stopped the slug from punching a hole straight through me,” I tell her, “but the kinetic energy still hit me full on. Couple bruised ribs. Nothing I haven’t survived before. Just makes moving a bitch.” I tilt my head toward Brewer, who seems to be staying unconscious this time. “Someone else is going to have to carry him.”

  “I’ll take him,” Blackwater says, jogging over to us, slinging her shotgun over her shoulder.

  “The Golyats?” I ask.

  “They’re still coming.” She mounts her motorcycle. Munk and Maigo waste no time hauling Brewer up and over her lap. “Just having trouble getting past the meaty barricade made out of their dead friends.” She starts the bike. “Betty, you’re driving.”

  I climb on my bike, grunting all the way, while Munk and Maigo do the same. Moments later, Betty guides us out of the garage, headlights cutting through the darkness. As we exit, the tunnel, through which we entered, blossoms to life with dozens of Golyats, shrieking and gnashing their teeth, stomachs glowing hot orange.

  They see us a moment later and lunge.

  “Betty,” I say. “Don’t hold back, and don’t worry about my grunts of pain.”

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t be able to hear them over the howling wind. Also, I’m incapable of worry.”

  We launch forward, quickly outpacing the Golyats, racing through the auxiliary tunnel leading back to the main Sumner Tunnel. After a lot of uncomfortable growling from the acceleration, I manage to find my voice again. “Betty, the moment we’re able to get an audio signal out, transmit this message to the NSO and all available first responders that carry weapons.”

  “Go ahead,” she says.

  “This is NSO Director of Operations, Spider Graham.” What follows should be a list of protocols and recognizable orders, but I’m too frazzled to remember, so I speak from the god damned heart and trust that Collins and Owens will coordinate after the message gets out. “Everyone with a gun and a badge, listen the hell up. We’ve got an army of Golyats—the things that took out Martha’s Vineyard—rising up from the underground beneath the city. There is also a Nemesis-sized asshole that’s been shaking the shit out of everything, and it’s going to breach the surface in…well, who the hell knows how long. Hours at best. Point is, we need to contain this shit. Boston needs to be locked down. Hardcore.

  “Every bridge and tunnel to the north along the Charles River, from the harbor to the B.U. Bridge, needs to be destroyed, ASAP. Same goes for any underground passage from Beacon Hill to Chinatown. Every subway line. Every sewer. Every nook and fucking cranny. Destroy it all. And give me a fire line stretching the same distance. Full SWAT. Snipers. Drones. Everything. If it tries to head south of Beacon Hill, Bay Village, or Chinatown, and it’s not human, shoot the shit out of it and do not, I repeat, do not get bit. If someone gets bitten, put them down on the spot.

  “Good news is we can kill these assholes. Bad news is, we don’t stand a chance against the big one. For that…I’ll be calling in help. The big girl’s been kicking our asses for thirteen years. Now it’s time for her to save them. Our asses. You get it. What I’m trying to say is…stay out of downtown, kill anything not human, and make your peace with Boston going bye-bye…again. I’m putting my faith in all of you. Don’t make me fucking regret it.”

  We exit the auxiliary tunnel into the dull yellow light of the Sumner Tunnel, and Betty says, “Message successfully sent.”

  Blackwater whistles to the waiting ‘Sisters and makes a hand gesture. They seal the tunnel behind us, hop on their bikes, and roar in the opposite direction—out of Neo-Boston—while we… We drive straight into the city I just declared a warzone.

  51

  Two kamikaze drones buzz past, just overhead, disappearing into the Sumner Tunnel, as we emerge into the languishing day’s light. The sun is setting, casting the ocean in deep purple. Two muffled whumps draw my attention back to the tunnel and the Charles River behind us.

  The whole river bows up, hangs there for a moment, and then crashes back down. A whirlpool forms as the water races down into the Sumner Tunnel, filling it with water and debris. The tunnel survived the first encounter with Nemesis. It’s a shame to destroy it now, but necessary to keep the Golyats from spreading north.

  Two A-10 Warthogs shriek past high overhead, unleashing a fusillade of missiles. I can’t see their targets, but the resounding explosions a moment later confirm that the destruction of Boston’s bridges is underway.

  “Betty, ETA to the altar?”

  “Three minutes,” she says.

  The evacuated streets make for smooth sailing. I doubt anyone has raced through the streets of Boston this quickly since Paul Revere’s fateful ride, warning that the Red Coats were coming.

  “Owens,” I say.

  “Here,” he comes back. “Got your message. Everything is in play. Things on the ground as bad as you made it sound?”