Ixeos: Book One of the Ixeos Trilogy (37 page)

Forty-five minutes later they heard another motorcycle slowly making its way down the narrow street. The engine died and they could barely make out the sound of soft footfalls on the grass. Neither moved, waiting to see who had come. Dim light shone on a black helmet, then the helmet was pulled off and they recognized Riley and a thirty year old outsider named Michael.

“You okay?” Clay asked, too tired to stand.

“Yeah, you?” Clay nodded. Riley sat down next to Neahle and patted her upraised knee. “Just us?”

“So far,” she said. “Darian?”

Riley shook his head. “I don’t know. I think he got away with Monkey. We’ll have to wait and see.”

Michael stretched out on the ground near the wall and rested his head on his wadded up jacket. He was asleep in short order. Riley shook his head.

“He’s usually in Chicago. Lots of violence there among the gangs and junkies. He can sleep anywhere.”

Twenty minutes later they heard the sound of two engines. Again they waited, not moving from their place in the dark shadow of the building. The sun was beginning to light the sky in the east. They knew that the longer they took to regroup, the greater their chances of being caught. 8:00 had been the drop-dead time: whoever hadn’t arrived would have to find a rebel cell to crash with until it was safe to regain the Catacombs and portal. Neahle glanced at her watch. It was 7:45.

Three people came around the corner, their helmets under their arms. Monkey, Darian, and Lindsey, a thirty-five year old woman originally from Boston who still spent most of her time in her home city. As the other began to rise, Darian motioned for them to stay put.

“Stick to the plan,” he said quietly. “We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other later.”

The newcomers lined up along the wall, resting their heads against the stone, watching the ever-lightening sky and checking their watches. At 8:00, Riley stood up and brushed off the seat of his pants.

“That’s it, let’s go. They’ll catch up later,” he said.

All of the motorcycles were being left behind. Beppe and several of the Roman rebels were tasked with retrieving them when things settled down. For now, they were parked up against the building under the shadow of a stand of tall pines. They put all the helmets in a large black duffel bag and tucked that under a shrub. As they started around the corner they heard the whine of an engine. They froze. Pushing Darian back around the corner, Monkey ducked down and crept along the side of the church to the front corner.

The street was lit by the soft morning sun and Monkey could see a lone motorcycle carrying two people, driving erratically down the pavement towards the church. As he watched, he recognized Hannah’s helmet and saw her long dark hair streaming down her back. Something was definitely wrong.

Monkey ran back and grabbed Riley and Clay, telling the others to keep to the shadows. His serious expression brooked no argument; Darian took Neahle’s hand and pulled her down beside him next to the building.

“What’s wrong?” Neahle asked.

“The bike sounds wrong,” Darian said. “I don’t know why. Just wait.” He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Neahle didn’t know if he was praying or trying to be patient. Nevertheless, she followed his lead and said a small prayer of her own.

The stuttering engine noise quit and they could make out the very soft murmurings of talking. Riley came racing around the corner and pulled up short in front of them.

“Abacus has been shot.”

They broke into the church through a back door, Riley and Monkey carrying Abacus while Hannah held her wadded up shirt against his stomach. To Clay, this looked all too familiar; he prayed that the outcome would be different than it was with Samson.

Laying him on a long wooden pew, Monkey pulled up Abacus’ shirt. The exit wound was on his lower right side, and although it was oozing blood, the wound wasn’t large. Clay was relieved—he could have put his fist through the hole in Samson.

“He’s lost a lot of blood and I don’t know if it’s hit any vital organs. What’s over here? Appendix?” Hannah said, desperately pressing the shirt down on the wound.

“It went through the back… Kidneys maybe? Intestines, I guess. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.” Monkey ran his hands through his hair. “We need to get him back to the tunnels to Landon and Angie.”

“It’s broad daylight now,” Neahle pointed out. “And we’d have to carry him. There’s no way we’re going to get across that park and down the Appian Way to the entrance of the Catacombs without being seen. Not now.”

Clay glanced at Darian, who was standing back and watching.

“Sir?” he said. “What do you think we should do?”

Startled, Darian turned to him and gave a small smile. “I’m not a doctor, unfortunately. I agree he needs medical help and that there doesn’t seem to be any way to get it for him. Unless…” He paused, thinking. All eyes turned to him. “Unless we bring the help to him.”

Riley nodded. “One person could make it to the tunnels without being seen. The park’s all grown up and there are still a lot of shadows. I’ll go and bring Angie back.”

“Let me go with you,” Darian said. “Things will go better for you if you’re caught if I’m not here. I think I might need to lay low for awhile.” His green eyes creased at the corners with a small smile.

Abacus opened his eyes and looked around. “Go. Darian needs to get out of Rome—that’s a lot more important than this.” He fluttered his hand weakly over his abdomen. He focused on Darian. “I’m Abacus—Aaron Turner, actually.” He tried a weak smile. “And you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

A
ngie had stayed in the
tunnels to man the sick bay and another dorm room that had been set up to receive casualties. When Riley ran in with a tall, blonde stranger on his heels but no injured person, she was confused.

“You’ve got to come with me,” Riley said, breathing hard. He pointed to Darian. “This is him. Darian. He’s staying here. You, come. Abacus was shot.”

Fighting shock, Angie grabbed a medical kit from behind the door. Looking at Darian, she said, “I’m Angie, medic, needed. Talk to you later—glad to meet you!” The two ran off through the maze of tunnels, back towards Rome.

Darian, lost in the warren that was the living quarters, wandered around following the light of torches in sconces until he reached the living room. Smiling at the bright colored cushions and pillows, he sank gratefully onto a couch with a red/orange/pink motif and closed his eyes. He was almost asleep when he heard soft footsteps, and then a familiar voice.

“Darian?”

Opening his eyes, he grinned, then stood and held out his arms. “Dad. I knew they’d do it.”

Over the course of the day, the tunnel dwellers began to trickle in, mostly in small groups. Many had been wounded in small skirmishes with the Firsts, but, as they’d hoped, the aliens hadn’t been able to cobble together an effective response yet. While the years since the war had been long and frustrating for the humans, they had served one important purpose: the Firsts were complacent and unused to any real challenge. With Angie gone, those who knew any first aid helped to the injured as best they could.

Landon and Darian walked around the increasingly crowded tunnels meeting people and helping with the wounded. Will had stayed behind to make sure there was plenty of food for the fighters, and the kitchen and dining room stayed open with a buffet style hot meal. Vasco came in just before dinner and grinned at Darian.

“I am sincerely glad to meet you, my man!” he said, giving Darian a big hug. Clapping him on the back, Darian grinned back.

“And you. You must be Vasco—you look like your brother.”

“It’s Bobby, really. And yes, I look like my brother, minus the pirate effect. Where is he? Office?”

Landon looked at him with concern. “He was shot, Bobby. He’s still topside, in Rome.”

The color drained from Vasco’s face as he looked from Landon to Darian. “Is he…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Landon shook his head. “No. He’s not dead, but he is badly wounded. Angie’s up there now; they’ll bring him down tonight, after dark. I can help him then.”

“Will he make it back? Can’t you go up?” Vasco sat down heavily on a chair.

“I believe he will make it back. And no, I can’t go up. He’s in good hands.” Landon put a comforting hand on Vasco’s shoulder. “He’s in good hands,” he repeated.

Vasco slumped in the chair, looking off into a dark tunnel at the end of the room. Then he shook his head, wiped his face with his hand, and stood.

“Okay, what about everyone else. Casualties?”

Darian gave a report. “So far, forty-four injured, but only three badly, not including your brother. From what I can piece together, there’s another two hundred staying topside; we don’t have counts on them. Anecdotal evidence is that there were a good number of rebel injuries, but only seven deaths that we know of. That’s in Rome. We don’t know about the other assaults yet, of course. We’ll have to gather that intel over the next couple of weeks, once things die down.”

“Do we know anything about the comm center? Did anyone make contact with Marty?”

Darian shook his head. “Nobody seemed to know where the phone is or if it will even work now that the comm center has gone up in smoke, although they knew that 4:00 was the usual time. Monkey will be back tonight. He can make the second scheduled call. For now… We wait.”

It was after midnight when the infiltration team made it back to the tunnels. Abacus was stable, although the loss of blood kept him drifting in and out of consciousness and his face was very pale. A new crew took over from Monkey, Riley, Clay and Michael, who had carried their leader almost two miles to the Catacombs and then through the tunnels. They were exhausted. Abacus was hustled to the sick bay where he was met by Landon.

“Lay him there,” he said, pointing to the bed Riley had been in after his fight. “Then you can go. Everyone can get some sleep. We’ll be fine.”

Darian came in and leaned against the door. “Will he? Be fine, I mean?”

Landon studied Abacus for a long while, pulling up the bandage on the front to examine the stitches, then rolling him slightly to examine the back.

“The bullet missed his kidneys, spleen, liver, everything. Somewhat of a miracle,” he said, smiling at Darian. “But he lost a lot of blood and went untended for a long time, so there’s a risk of infection. I think, though, that he’s strong enough. He’ll make it.”

Darian gave one nod then left the room, making his way to the newly renovated cave that had been given to him. He entered, thinking it looked remarkably like his prison cell except for one key difference—there was no lock on this door.

The infiltration team sat together at one of the long dining tables, sipping tea and picking at oatmeal. They had all slept—they were too tired to fight it—but they were worried about Abacus. Word had spread to the whole underground, and there was an eerie silence as they waited. Darian had gone with Vasco into the office two hours before and not come out. Landon was still in the sick bay.