Hell Divers V: Captives Read online

  Books by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  The Hell Divers Series (Blackstone Publishing)

  Hell Divers

  Hell Divers II: Ghosts

  Hell Divers III: Deliverance

  Hell Divers IV: Wolves

  Hell Divers V: Captives

  Hell Divers VI (Coming November 2019)

  The Extinction Cycle Series (Orbit)

  Extinction Horizon

  Extinction Edge

  Extinction Age

  Extinction Evolution

  Extinction End

  Extinction Aftermath

  Extinction Lost (A Team Ghost short story)

  Extinction War

  The Trackers Series

  Trackers

  Trackers 2: The Hunted

  Trackers 3: The Storm

  Trackers 4: The Damned

  The Orbs Series

  Solar Storms (An Orbs Prequel)

  White Sands (An Orbs Prequel)

  Red Sands (An Orbs Prequel)

  Orbs

  Orbs II: Stranded

  Orbs III: Redemption

  Orbs IV: Exodus

  NICHOLAS SANSBURY SMITH

  Copyright © 2019 by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  E-book published in 2019 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover illustration by K. Jones

  Series design by Kathryn Galloway English

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  and not intended by the author.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-9825-6125-3

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-9825-6124-6

  Fiction / Science Fiction / Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  To Robert Bray. Thank you for lending your legendary voice to the Hell Divers series and becoming the voice behind X. The series would not be what it is without you.

  “Accept your past without regret, handle your present with confidence, and face your future without fear.”

  —UNKNOWN

  PROLOGUE

  Three months ago

  Rodger Mintel awoke to the worst pain of his life. His whole body burned as if a swarm of mutant ants was eating him inch by inch.

  He tried to scream but couldn’t hear his voice, only the dull ringing. His eyes didn’t seem to be working, either.

  Maybe he wasn’t awake, after all. He couldn’t move his legs or arms, or his hands. All that seemed to be working were his nerves, and every fiber of his body was screaming at top volume.

  He endured the torture for what felt like hours, but it could have been only minutes, or even seconds.

  A few fragmented thoughts somehow got through the gauntlet of fire consuming his body. One of them was the memory of a rusted ship moored to a pier under a dark sky. Lightning forked through the flashing red vines that branched and twisted along the shore.

  The pain again took hold, the images fading into bright flashes of red. He tried again to open his eyelids, but they wouldn’t respond. He couldn’t even grit his teeth.

  Another memory surfaced in his mind’s eye. He saw the ship’s deck where he lay tethered. Someone lay next to him, unmoving.

  A woman …

  Mags!

  The realization momentarily overshadowed the agony of his broken body. He couldn’t remember anything beyond being strapped beside her to the deck, but he did remember getting ambushed by men in heavy armor back in the city.

  He tried again to remember, but no matter how much he willed his brain to work, he couldn’t focus. It was like being dog tired and drunk at the same time.

  A new wave of hellfire took him, and this time he couldn’t handle the torture. His mind gave up and shut off like a lightbulb.

  When he woke again, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he did remember the pain. It had ceased, and he felt nothing but numbness.

  “Am I dead?” he said aloud.

  He could hear that, so maybe not.

  Summoning what little strength he had, he managed to crack his eyelids open. A spot of dazzling brilliance made him squint, reminding him of the LEDs the Hell Divers had once salvaged from the surface and given his dad to use in the clock-and-wood workshop.

  Hell Divers … Dad …

  A flurry of memories tumbled through his brain. Thoughts of his family and working on the clocks and wood treasures brought him a fleeting moment of joy. So did the images of brightly painted passageways inside the Hive, the only home he had ever known.

  He closed his eyes again, letting the memories come. They weren’t all pictures of life in the sky. The next image transported him back to the rusting ship, where he was held with Magnolia. In his mind’s eye, he saw Xavier Rodriguez carrying his dog, Miles. He climbed over the ship’s rail, set the dog down, and cut Rodger and Magnolia free.

  A sense of relief washed over him, only to shatter in the violent gun battle that followed in the recollection. Cazadores surrounded the three Hell Divers, but X stood his ground, slaying the barbarians.

  Rodger remembered searching for a weapon to defend Magnolia and help X fight. Then he remembered the hulking shadow. A beast of a man towered over him. The thick, bony crests of Siren skulls rested on his armored shoulders.

  El Pulpo, king of the Cazadores.

  In the memory, Rodger recalled something hot ripping through his back, seizing his breath, both in the memory and now. Then came a blood-chilling scream that broke his heart and made him want to scream in reply.

  The image of Magnolia, frozen on the deck and holding up her hands in shock, finally jerked Rodger into the present moment. His eyelids snapped open to a bright glow.

  He was alive, after all.

  His eyes slowly adjusted to the light and took in the narrow, blurred view of the room. It was a medical bay, its bulkheads fitted with machines and racks of supplies.

  Across the space, two hazy figures stood next to a hatch, but he couldn’t make out their features.

  Was he back on the Hive? Had Magnolia and X managed to rescue him from the ship?

  He struggled to move, but his body still wouldn’t respond. Every inch of his skin felt numb, like the sensation of a foot falling asleep.

  “Mags?” he stuttered. “Mom? Pops?”

  If he was on the Hive, then surely his parents were here.

  He blinked several times until the two figures came into focus.

  “No,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”

  This wasn’t the Hive. Militia soldiers didn’t wear armor.

  Through the numbness, a sensation emerged—a cold lump of fear in his gut. He also felt a slight swaying movement beneath him.

  Realization sank in. He wasn’t back in the sky. He was on the water.

  The weight holding his eyelids down lifted, and he looked down at his half-naked body. Leather straps restrained his legs and arms. Another, over his neck, held his head down, limiting his field of vision. Liquid trickled through clear tubes, into the veins in his arms.

  Was this why he felt numb?

  The two armored sentries at the door s
poke to each other, and metal shrieked as one of them opened the hatch. The larger man left the room, but the other guard stepped forward and spoke to Rodger in Spanish, in a voice muffled by his breathing apparatus.

  Rodger fought the strap across his neck and lifted his head enough to glimpse the crudely sutured red gash in his lower chest.

  For a moment, he just stared at the ugly wound. A horrible thought crossed his mind: maybe they had taken a piece of him and eaten it. But then, they wouldn’t have bothered hooking him up to the tubes.

  Someone was trying to save him, at least for now. The wound was fresh, which meant that only a few days had passed since his capture.

  As he squirmed on the table, the burning came back.

  Did it ever. He felt immersed in a universe of bright, searing pain.

  His head fell back to the table, and he blinked over and over as the memories came crashing back over him. The fight on the deck of the ship between X and the Cazador soldiers. Miles barking, Magnolia screaming.

  And then el Pulpo, grabbing him from behind.

  He never saw what had impaled him through the back, but it had torn through his flesh and out his chest, which meant the red gash below his sternum wasn’t the only wound.

  Rodger looked away and tried to remember what had happened between then and now. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recall a thing. He didn’t know where Magnolia and X were, or the other divers, or what had happened to the Hive.

  “Please,” Rodger choked. “Please let me go.”

  The guard walked back to the hatch and opened it for the other soldier. This time, he had company.

  Two men walked in. One was short and bald, with pale complexion, a brown robe, and a prodigious beard. He held his hands clasped behind his back. The other man had olive skin and glasses. A headlamp was pushed up over his untamed silver hair, and a white mask hung loosely around his neck.

  Neither man looked like a soldier. If Rodger had to guess, the guy with the mask was some sort of physician.

  Apparently, they weren’t alone.

  The clank of heavy boots came from the passage. In the dim light outside the room, Rodger glimpsed a hulking figure approaching the open hatch. He didn’t need to see clearly to know that this was the Cazador king himself.

  El Pulpo moved inside the room, scraping a Siren-skull shoulder pad on the frame of the hatch. Apparently unconcerned, he strode right over to Rodger’s bedside, where his eye peered at the open wound.

  Then he turned to the man with the mask, giving him orders in Spanish.

  The man clicked on his headlamp, put on surgical gloves, and leaned over Rodger.

  He remained there for several seconds, tilting his head slightly to play the light over the wound. Rodger had never felt so violated in his life.

  “Please,” he whispered. “Please, don’t …”

  El Pulpo sniffed the air and then wiped his bulbous nose. The man in the brown robe moved to the other side of his bed, hands still clasped behind his back.

  “Do not fear, my friend,” he said in a quiet, reassuring voice. “We have brought you back from the dead.”

  “Who are you?” Rodger croaked, blinking away the stars before his vision. The gray-bearded face had the wrinkled brow and kind eyes of a wise old man. This guy sure didn’t look like one of the rough Cazador soldiers.

  “My name is Imulah,” he said with a warm smile that seemed a little forced. “I serve el Pulpo as a scribe.”

  Rodger was good at reading people, and something was off about this “scribe.”

  “Now that you’re awake, why don’t you tell me more about yourself,” Imulah said. “El Pulpo has been waiting several days for the opportunity to speak to you.”

  Rodger’s eyes flitted from the scribe to the Cazador warrior king. He didn’t wear a patch to cover up the inflamed socket of the eye that X had destroyed.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Imulah said. He brought his hands out from behind his back and stepped closer to the bed. “Dr. Javan is taking very good care of you.”

  The man with the headlamp nodded at Rodger but still would not meet his gaze. The doctor and the scribe were both clearly tense, and Rodger suspected the presence of their king had something to do with it.

  He couldn’t help but wonder if these people followed him freely, or if they were enslaved, and what the barbaric leader had in mind for him.

  Javan spoke in Spanish to Imulah, who translated.

  “Do you feel any pain?” Imulah asked.

  I have a freaking hole in me you could poke a rake handle through, so yeah, Rodger wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. His parents had always told him, “Least said, easiest mended,” especially in situations like this.

  “We do not want you to suffer, and we will provide more medicine to relieve your pain upon request.” When Rodger still didn’t answer, Imulah let out a short sigh.

  El Pulpo didn’t seem too pleased, either. He wiped away the sweat dripping off the octopus tattoo on his forehead and grunted through sharpened teeth.

  “Let’s start with something simple,” Imulah said. “How about your name?”

  After a moment of hesitation, Rodger decided there was no harm in telling him. “I’m Rodgeman.”

  “And you are from the sky, like your friends? We saw your aircraft, so please do not lie. Lying is very bad and will only result in more pain. You don’t want that now, do you?” Imulah arched a brow.

  Rodger caught himself before revealing anything about his friends in the sky. Not even to the nice one.

  “Well?” Imulah said.

  “I’m Rodgeman,” he replied.

  The kind smile on Imulah’s face folded into a frown. “Do I need to remind you that we saved your life, and that we can—”

  Rodger cut the man off. “Yeah, after this guy stabbed me in the back.” An errant twinge of pain made him grit his teeth.

  Imulah stiffened, correcting his slouched posture.

  Sweat dripped down Rodger’s face, and he closed his eyes to fight off the encroaching pain. Whatever they were pumping into his veins was starting to wear off.

  Sensing his discomfort, Javan walked away from Rodger’s bedside to check the fluids and medical machines. After a few seconds of monitoring the readings, he reported his findings to el Pulpo, and Imulah then translated for Rodger.

  “Javan says you are healing nicely and there are no signs of infection. He’s the one you can thank for saving your life.”

  Rodger looked at the doctor, who had stepped over to a sink to wash his hands with some sort of foam. Javan glanced over his shoulder and nodded at Rodger. But it wasn’t a friendly gesture, just a blank robotic nod that told Rodger this man was just following orders.

  “Why did you save me?” Rodger asked, his gaze returning to Imulah and finally to el Pulpo. “So you could eat me?” Rodger winced at a flash of pain. “That’s what you people do, right?”

  Javan walked back over and checked the line of fluids in his left arm. He said something to el Pulpo, who seemed to ponder this and then nodded.

  The doctor returned to the wall of cabinets and pulled open a drawer.

  “Why?” Rodger asked.

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. The questions made him anxious, and one of the machines beeped in response.

  Javan gave Imulah a worried glance, and the scribe moved over to the bedside.

  “Calm down, my friend,” Imulah said. “Your questions will be answered soon.”

  Javan pulled out a syringe and squirted out a bit of liquid through the needle.

  “What … what is that?” Rodger asked, trying to move.

  His heart pounded harder, and the machine beeped faster.

  Javan gave an order in Spanish to the two Cazador soldiers, who moved over to help hold Rodger down as he squirmed
beneath the straps.

  “Lemme go!” he growled. “Let me go!”

  He watched Javan insert the needle into a port in one of the tubes. A warm sensation of relief instantly washed through Rodger.

  “Go to sleep, my friend,” Imulah said.

  Rodger fought against the drowsy euphoria.

  “You will see your new home very soon,” Imulah said as darkness took over.

  New home?

  He thought of the only home he had ever known, and his parents, Magnolia, and his other friends.

  A final image appeared as his mind slipped away.

  The flashback to the ship was the most vivid memory yet. They both had been by his side, talking to him and holding him after el Pulpo skewered him through the back and dropped him to the wet deck.

  But then they had left him to die.

  The memory made him heartsick. His friends had abandoned him to a life in captivity with these monsters.

  ONE

  Present day

  Xavier Rodriguez dunked the rag in the bucket of water, then placed it on his forehead. When he pulled it away, the cloth was stained red.

  He was still bleeding.

  Because you need stitches.

  He needed more than stitches, though. He needed what humans had once called a vacation.

  The worst part wasn’t the open wounds; it was breathing. He knew what bruised ribs felt like, and this was worse. There wasn’t much he could do if one of his ribs was cracked.

  Looking down, he checked the nasty gash on the outer edge of his foot, where a bullet had dug a path. It still hurt like hell, and as if that weren’t bad enough, he was still pissing needles.

  But he had to admit, this wasn’t the worst shape he had ever been in during his career as a Hell Diver. There were countless times on the surface when he had suffered far worse and would gladly have traded for his present condition.

  He would heal. His body would regain strength.

  And he would fight.

  X spat a gob of phlegm on the floor of his prison cell and winced at the pain that shot up his sternum and across his ribs. When it passed, he moved over to the bars of his cell.