James Axler – The Mars Arena

Farther down the hallway, he found a door that had a short flight of stairs behind it. The brass plate on the door announced Hotel Staff Only. The lock had been shot through.

With the Steyr in his hands, his back and side pressing against the side of the stairwells for cover, he went up. His ears monitored all sounds. A slight whisper of movement came from the top of the stairs.

At the landing, he paused, looking back the way he’d come and wanting to make sure retreat was still open to him. Satisfied no one was closing the gap behind him, he put his hand on the doorknob and turned. It wasn’t locked, and the door opened easily.

Inside the room, slashes of neon lights danced around carelessly. The wall to his left held only glass from top to bottom. A bed occupied a space to his right, tucked in beside a desk that held a comp. The broken mirror covering a big section of the wall on the other side reflected the furniture, making it look as if another room were just next door.

He looked for the source of the noise, his senses at full peak. He stepped into the room, then ducked under the attack of the winged monkey that had been clinging to the space between the door and the ceiling. Unable to get off a shot, he swung the Steyr and felt the meaty impact as he struck the monkey with the rifle’s butt.

Shrilling in pain, the monkey scuttled under the bed.

Drawing the SIG-Sauer, Ryan touched off three rounds across the bed, trying to find the mutie creature.

With a scream of pain and rage, the monkey came out from under the bed in a rush. Its mouth was open, showing its deadly fangs, the black talons reaching for Ryan’s throat.

“Fireblast!” Ryan shoved the blaster into the monkey’s face and pulled the trigger. The 9 mm round punched a hole through the beast’s mouth and exited through the back of its head. Some of the flying matter stuck to his armored vest, while the majority of the creature landed in a disjointed confusion of limbs and wings at his feet.

“Ryan.”

He was moving, turning, lifting the blaster as he recognized the voice. His finger already rested on the trigger when he said her name. “Krysty.” His voice came out hard, disbelieving. “I thought they chilled you.” He reached a hand out to the one she had extended. Instead of flesh, he felt a chill similar to the one that had passed through him in the corridor down below.

“I’m not really here, lover,” she said.

Ryan’s mind whirled with the multiple meanings of that simple declaration. His heart suddenly felt like a stone, cold and as distant as her voice.

“Dean’s here with you. Find him.”

“Dean?” He shook his head, struggling with everything being dealt to him.

She started to fade, winking out of existence like a dying star.

Ryan reached for her again, called out her name, but felt even the chill of their contact melt away from him as she disappeared.

The only thing that remained was the pull he was suddenly aware of inside his head. “Dean,” he breathed, walking over to the wall of glass.

He peered through it with difficulty. Soot grimed it over, layers deep from the fires burning below. At one time, judging from the way the room was laid out, it had been a sec office looking down over the casino below.

The main door held tropical plants Ryan recognized from the jump to Amazonia. They had overgrown boundaries previously established by the building’s architects, and had even thrust branches and new growth through the wall.

Once, it looked like a ville had been built inside the gaming room. Tables, chairs and slot machines were toppled over, chaotic. Dead people littered the floor. Some of them were dressed in old-style clothing, while many of the others wore much cruder dress.

Sec guards moved below, as well, searching through the debris, shooting at the monkeys still living.

The pull didn’t come from that direction, Ryan knew. He turned and went back down the stairs, getting more sure as he followed the sensation.