Earth Thirst Read Online Free

triremes. I fight my flight impulse, and throw my weight against the hatch, fighting the sluggish hydraulics.
    Nigel is screaming behind me, a sound no one should make, much less hear.
    Phoebe slams into the hatch beside me, combining my weight with hers, and we force the hatch back until it is wide enough for her to slip through. She moves like a shadow, and the metal hatch groans as she levers it from the other side. As soon as it is wide enough for me, I go through and then take over for her.
    Nigel staggers through. His face is a wreck. The poison has melted his skin down to the bone in several places and his eyes are gone, weeping holes in his face.
    The remaining hatch isn't as hermetically sealed as the others, and I hear it crash open as Phoebe clears our path. As I try to help Nigel without actually touching him, I hear shouts from the deck, followed by the faint rattle of Phoebe's silenced pistols. Clearing a path for us.
    Nigel can't see, and he bangs his skull against the frame before I can shove his head down enough for him to clear the last portal. My skin crawls at the touch, even though I'm wearing gloves. Tendrils of acrid smoke are spiraling off Nigel's melted skin.
    Phoebe is waiting for us by the railing, covering our retreat. There are six bodies on the deck, and the reek of their blood makes my throat constrict. The hoses have been unrolled from the mounted tanks, and they lie on the deck like dead serpents. The nozzle of one is open, and it is spewing a frothing fluid on the deck. My skin crawls at the sight of the pale, bubbling liquid and my eyes water as we skirt the flood that is threatening to cover the deck.
    Our rope is still in place. Nigel is coherent enough to know what to do when I shove the rope into his hands. I mean to go first, but he leaps off, nearly in free-fall in his frantic need to get off the boat. I go after him, the water-slick rope twisting in my hands as I slide down the side of the boat. The fabric of my gloves burns away as I squeeze the rope and slow myself down. Nigel hadn't even bothered trying to stop. He is lying in the briny bilge in the bottom of the boat, whimpering and moaning. Phoebe lands lightly, the rope cascading down beside her.
    Phoebe shoves us away from the hull of the processing ship as I start the engine of the Zodiac. I don't worry about making a silent retreat; I open the throttle all the way, and we flee as fast as the tiny rotor will go.
    Nigel lies in the bottom of the Zodiac the whole way back, half-covered in a netting of loosely coiled rope. He makes a whistling noise through the ruin of his mouth. Phoebe and I don't talk, not for a lack of things to say, but because we are both gripped by the same fear.
    They were waiting for us.

FOUR
    I know the cream is working, because my skin is twitching and the urge to scratch is unbearable. I sit on my hands to keep from tearing at my flesh. Phoebe must be feeling the same thing, though I can only tell by the way her eyes are moving—back and forth, like she is watching a tennis match. My lungs still hurt, and when I take a deep breath, the webbing of new tissue threatens to tear. My throat is raw, and I sound like a three-pack-a-day cigarette junkie when I speak.
    When he is finished with Nigel, Talus strips off the rubber gloves, turning them inside out, and discards them in the nearby waste bin. His skin is shiny with sweat, and when he raises his hand to wipe his forehead, he pauses. Even though he has been wearing the heavy rubber gloves, he's still not sure he wants to touch his face with his hand. He realizes I'm watching him and he finishes the motion, though he uses his sleeve to wipe his forehead. I don't blame him; Phoebe and I both know the same apprehension. We've just had more time with it, more time to bury the fear deep in our hearts.
    “They were waiting for us,” Phoebe says.
    “Give me your report,” Talus says. He hunches forward slightly, turning his back to the bed where Nigel is