The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,20

scrabbling of sharp nails on hard clay.

Mac stopped and squinted.

What the hell . . .

Something was definitely in there. But what? How could anything still be alive after so many centuries? Had it somehow been preserved in the foul oil? He remembered the hammers falling. He pictured the flowing oil, like a pregnant woman’s water breaking. What was about to be born?

“Quit gawking,” Nelson blurted out. “I need your light over—”

“Quiet,” Mac warned.

But it was too late.

As if hearing the man, the glow flared brighter behind Nelson, and the pot shattered outward, letting loose what it held. Like some exploding nest of spiders, a riot of crablike creatures burst outward, hundreds of them. Each the size of a saucer plate—ringed by long articulated legs. They raced blindly in all directions, scrabbling up the sides of the hull, across the rafters, even diving into the oil. As they moved, their joints bled with the same green ichor coursing through the oil, as if fueled by that malignant substance.

In that ghastly glow, Mac saw that those hard carapaces weren’t made of chitin or shell—but solid bronze. He gasped at the realization. These were not living creatures, but beasts crafted and built, forged in malevolent fires and fueled by some volatile ichor.

As if to prove this, one of the things burst into flame—then another, and another. The green fluid seemed to be reacting to the damp air. Yet, it was not a perishing flame. The fiery creatures continued to race, bumping against others, setting others aflame.

One sped along the underside of a rafter and reached a thick icicle and spiraled down its length. Intense heat melted the ice, but instead of water dripping down—droplets of fire rained into the black pool below, as if the fuel inside the beasts could set even water on fire.

Impossible . . .

Mac struggled with the hellish sight, frozen by the horror of the spectacle.

Nelson’s reaction was more vigorous. He screamed and stumbled forward. Mac caught him under an arm. His cry still echoed across the hold, seemingly with enough force to shatter another two pots. They exploded forth with hundreds more of the tiny bronze monstrosities. The new batch of creatures raced crazily across walls and rafters.

Nelson writhed, pawing at his back. “Get it off . . .”

Mac turned his friend’s body and spotted a fiery bronze crab latched on to his back. Sharp legs had impaled his coat and scrabbled furiously, ripping and burning their way through Gore-Tex and goose down, seeking the flesh beneath.

Before Mac could help, another crab climbed into view on Nelson’s shoulder and leaped onto the man’s throat. Mac tried to bat it away with his flashlight, but its legs had already dug deep into the tender flesh. Skin blackened and smoked around where they were imbedded.

Nelson contorted in agony, his jaw stretched wide. An animalistic gurgle emerged from his throat. Smoke wafted from his lips. Mac thought about the bastard on the icicle, turning water to fire.

What would it do to blood?

With his heart pounding in his ears, Mac tossed his flashlight toward the cabin and grabbed the carapace of the burrowed creature on Nelson’s throat. He ripped it free and flung it away. Boiling blood and flames flew after it. Nelson sagged in his arms, groaning, only semiconscious from the pain and shock. Mac covered the wound with his palm, patted at the edges where flames still flickered from beneath blackened, cracked skin.

“Help me,” Mac croaked out.

John had kept close, warily waving his shotgun around. He splashed forward and used the butt of his weapon to knock the creature off Nelson’s back before it reached flesh.

Together they hauled Nelson toward the captain’s cabin.

But ahead, lit by the glow of his tossed flashlight, the wooden floor of the ship was crawling with a horde of the fiery bronze beasts. More sped along walls or clung to rafters. There was no way they’d get through them without being overwhelmed.

Yet, he noticed that the beasts gave the black pool a wide berth. It was likely the only reason he and John hadn’t already been attacked. Unfortunately, Nelson had been standing too close to the first clay pot when it exploded. Two of the creatures must have been thrown toward him, landing on the nearest island in the black sea.

Mac pictured the hammers smashing into the pots, the oil flowing out. Did that black oil act as some sort of insulation? Did it need to be drained out of the jars to allow these