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The building was ahead on their right, silent and dark, a closed door facing the wooden dock. There was no way to know if it was empty, and though barely ten meters away, the distance was open and flat, weathered planking, not even a pebble to block them from view.
No choice. "Stay low," he whispered, and then they were crouching their way to the structure, Karen reaching the door first, pushing it open. No light spilled out, no alarm sounded. Steve and Rebecca piled in behind her, then John, then David, stumbling into the dark, closing the wooden door after him with a wet, cold shoulder. "Stop where you are," he said softly, fumbling for the halogen torch on his belt. Besides the gulping breaths of his team, the room was still, but there was a horrid smell in the close air, a fading stench of something long dead… The thin beam of light cut through the black, revealing a large and mostly empty windowless room. Ropes and life preservers hung from wooden pegs, a workbench ran the length of one wall, a few saw horses, cluttered shelves.
–my God–
The light froze on the room's other door, directly across from the one they'd entered. The narrow beam played across the source of the smell, highlighting bare bone and a tattered, oily-stained lab coat. Dried strings of muscle dripped in streamers from a grin– ning face. A corpse had been nailed to the door, one hand fixed in a welcoming wave. From the look, it had been dead for weeks. Steve felt his gorge rise into his throat. He swal-lowed it down, looking away, but the grotesque image was already fixed in his mind – the eyeless face and peeling tissue, the carefully splayed fingers pinned into place… Jesus, is that some kind of a joke? Steve felt dizzy, still out of breath from the nightmarish swim, the sloshing climb over the rocks, the horror of the Umbrella sea monster. The dried, sour smell of rot wasn't helping. For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Then David cupped one hand over the light and started talking, his voice low but amazingly even.
"Check your belts and drop your clips. I want status, now, injuries then equipment. Take a deep breath, everyone. John?"
John's solemn voice rumbled through the shadows to Steve's left, accompanied by sounds of wet, fum-bling movement. Karen and Rebecca were to his right, David still by the door.
"I got fish slime on me, but I'm okay. I've got my weapon but my light's gone. So are the radios." "Rebecca?" Her voice was wavering but quick. "I'm fine – uh, my weapon's here, and the flashlight, the med kit… oh, and I've got the ammo."
Steve checked himself out as she spoke, unholster– ing his Beretta and ejecting the wet mag, slipping it into a pocket. There was an empty spot on his belt where his light should have been.
"Steve?"
"Yeah, no injuries. Weapon but no light."
"Karen?"
"Same."
David's fingers shifted over the muted beam, allow– ing a shallow glow to spill into the room. "No one's hurt and we're still armed; things could be a lot worse. Rebecca, pass out the clips, please. The fence can't be more than fifty meters south from here, and there are enough trees for cover, provided no one has seen us yet. This operation is called, we're getting out of here."
Steve accepted three loaded magazines from Rebecca, nodding his thanks. He slapped one into the semi, chambering a round automatically.
Great, fine, let's blow. That insane creature nearly eating us, now Mr. Death dropping a casual wave, like he was put there to say hello…
Steve wasn't easily frightened, but he knew a bad situation when he saw it. He admired the S.T.A.R.S. deeply, had wanted to go in on the operation to help make things right, but with their boat gone and the initial plan shot to shit, nailing Umbrella could wait. David stepped closer to the decomposed figure, a look of disgust curling his features in the shadowy orange glow of the light. "Karen, Rebecca, come take a look at this. John, take Rebecca's torch, you and Steve see if you can find anything useful."
Rebecca handed her flashlight to John, who nodded at Steve. The two men walked to one end of the long workbench, the soft voices of the others carrying across the still air. "The T-Virus didn't do this," Rebecca said. "Pat-tern of decay's all wrong…" Silence, then Karen spoke. "See that? David, give me the light for a sec…"
John hooded their flashlight with one large hand, playing the beam across the dirty planks of the counter. A broken coffee mug. A pile of greasy nuts and bolts on top of a laminated tide chart. An electric screwdriver, dusty and dented, a couple of bits on a stained rag.
Nothing, there's nothing here. We should get out before someone comes looking…
John opened a drawer and rummaged through it while Steve tried to make out what was on an over– head shelf. Behind them, Karen spoke again.
"He wasn't dead when they nailed him up, though I'd say he was close. Definitely unconscious. There's no smearing, suggesting he didn't struggle… and there are slide marks, here and here; I'd say he was shot by the back door and dragged over."
John had finished digging through the drawer and they moved on, boots squelching against the wood floor. A set of socket wrenches. A cheap radio. A crumpled paper bag next to a pencil nub. Something snagged at Steve's thoughts and he stopped, looking at the paper bag. The pencil… He picked up the crunched ball, smoothing out the wrinkles and turning it over. There were several lines written near the bottom, scrawled and jerky. "Hey, we found something," John called quietly, shining the light on the writing as the others hurried over. Steve read it aloud, squinting at the faintly penciled words under the wobbling beam. There was no punctuation; he did his best to work out the pauses as he went.
"… 'July 20. Food was drugged, I'm sick, I hid the material for you, sent data. Boats are sunk and he let the…"
Steve frowned, unable to make out the word.
Tris… tri-squads? " 'Boats are sunk and he let the Trisquads out – dark now, they'll come, I think he killed the rest -stop him -God knows what he means to do. Destroy the lab – find Krista, tell her I'm sorry, Lyle is sorry. I wish…'"
There was nothing more. "Ammon's message," Karen said softly. "Lyle Ammon."
It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who was hanging on the door. The sagging, seeping Mr. Death had an identity now, for what it was worth. And the message that Trent had given David was so weird because the poor guy had apparently been doped up when he sent it. "Nice to put a face to the name, huh?" John cracked, but not even he smiled. The desperate little note had an ominous ring to it, with or without the brutal murder to back it up.
What's a Trisquad? Who's "he"?
"Maybe we should look around a little more."
Rebecca began hesitantly, but David was shaking his head.
"I think it's best if we leave this for now. We'll…"
He broke off as heavy, plodding footsteps sounded across the wood deck, just outside the door they'd come through. Everyone froze, listening. More than one set, and whoever they were, they were making no effort to hide their approach. They stopped at the door and stayed there, no rattling knob, no crashing kick, no other sound. Waiting. David circled one finger in the air, pointed to Karen and then to the other door, hung with the grisly remains of Lyle Ammon. The signal to move out, Karen first. They edged toward the grinning corpse, Steve winc– ing at every shifting creak they created, breathing through his mouth to avoid inhaling the stench and as Karen pushed the door open, the silence was shattered by the rattle of automatic fire, coming from in front of them, to the left, coming from the direction of their escape.
EIGHT
NINE
No choice. "Stay low," he whispered, and then they were crouching their way to the structure, Karen reaching the door first, pushing it open. No light spilled out, no alarm sounded. Steve and Rebecca piled in behind her, then John, then David, stumbling into the dark, closing the wooden door after him with a wet, cold shoulder. "Stop where you are," he said softly, fumbling for the halogen torch on his belt. Besides the gulping breaths of his team, the room was still, but there was a horrid smell in the close air, a fading stench of something long dead… The thin beam of light cut through the black, revealing a large and mostly empty windowless room. Ropes and life preservers hung from wooden pegs, a workbench ran the length of one wall, a few saw horses, cluttered shelves.
–my God–
The light froze on the room's other door, directly across from the one they'd entered. The narrow beam played across the source of the smell, highlighting bare bone and a tattered, oily-stained lab coat. Dried strings of muscle dripped in streamers from a grin– ning face. A corpse had been nailed to the door, one hand fixed in a welcoming wave. From the look, it had been dead for weeks. Steve felt his gorge rise into his throat. He swal-lowed it down, looking away, but the grotesque image was already fixed in his mind – the eyeless face and peeling tissue, the carefully splayed fingers pinned into place… Jesus, is that some kind of a joke? Steve felt dizzy, still out of breath from the nightmarish swim, the sloshing climb over the rocks, the horror of the Umbrella sea monster. The dried, sour smell of rot wasn't helping. For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Then David cupped one hand over the light and started talking, his voice low but amazingly even.
"Check your belts and drop your clips. I want status, now, injuries then equipment. Take a deep breath, everyone. John?"
John's solemn voice rumbled through the shadows to Steve's left, accompanied by sounds of wet, fum-bling movement. Karen and Rebecca were to his right, David still by the door.
"I got fish slime on me, but I'm okay. I've got my weapon but my light's gone. So are the radios." "Rebecca?" Her voice was wavering but quick. "I'm fine – uh, my weapon's here, and the flashlight, the med kit… oh, and I've got the ammo."
Steve checked himself out as she spoke, unholster– ing his Beretta and ejecting the wet mag, slipping it into a pocket. There was an empty spot on his belt where his light should have been.
"Steve?"
"Yeah, no injuries. Weapon but no light."
"Karen?"
"Same."
David's fingers shifted over the muted beam, allow– ing a shallow glow to spill into the room. "No one's hurt and we're still armed; things could be a lot worse. Rebecca, pass out the clips, please. The fence can't be more than fifty meters south from here, and there are enough trees for cover, provided no one has seen us yet. This operation is called, we're getting out of here."
Steve accepted three loaded magazines from Rebecca, nodding his thanks. He slapped one into the semi, chambering a round automatically.
Great, fine, let's blow. That insane creature nearly eating us, now Mr. Death dropping a casual wave, like he was put there to say hello…
Steve wasn't easily frightened, but he knew a bad situation when he saw it. He admired the S.T.A.R.S. deeply, had wanted to go in on the operation to help make things right, but with their boat gone and the initial plan shot to shit, nailing Umbrella could wait. David stepped closer to the decomposed figure, a look of disgust curling his features in the shadowy orange glow of the light. "Karen, Rebecca, come take a look at this. John, take Rebecca's torch, you and Steve see if you can find anything useful."
Rebecca handed her flashlight to John, who nodded at Steve. The two men walked to one end of the long workbench, the soft voices of the others carrying across the still air. "The T-Virus didn't do this," Rebecca said. "Pat-tern of decay's all wrong…" Silence, then Karen spoke. "See that? David, give me the light for a sec…"
John hooded their flashlight with one large hand, playing the beam across the dirty planks of the counter. A broken coffee mug. A pile of greasy nuts and bolts on top of a laminated tide chart. An electric screwdriver, dusty and dented, a couple of bits on a stained rag.
Nothing, there's nothing here. We should get out before someone comes looking…
John opened a drawer and rummaged through it while Steve tried to make out what was on an over– head shelf. Behind them, Karen spoke again.
"He wasn't dead when they nailed him up, though I'd say he was close. Definitely unconscious. There's no smearing, suggesting he didn't struggle… and there are slide marks, here and here; I'd say he was shot by the back door and dragged over."
John had finished digging through the drawer and they moved on, boots squelching against the wood floor. A set of socket wrenches. A cheap radio. A crumpled paper bag next to a pencil nub. Something snagged at Steve's thoughts and he stopped, looking at the paper bag. The pencil… He picked up the crunched ball, smoothing out the wrinkles and turning it over. There were several lines written near the bottom, scrawled and jerky. "Hey, we found something," John called quietly, shining the light on the writing as the others hurried over. Steve read it aloud, squinting at the faintly penciled words under the wobbling beam. There was no punctuation; he did his best to work out the pauses as he went.
"… 'July 20. Food was drugged, I'm sick, I hid the material for you, sent data. Boats are sunk and he let the…"
Steve frowned, unable to make out the word.
Tris… tri-squads? " 'Boats are sunk and he let the Trisquads out – dark now, they'll come, I think he killed the rest -stop him -God knows what he means to do. Destroy the lab – find Krista, tell her I'm sorry, Lyle is sorry. I wish…'"
There was nothing more. "Ammon's message," Karen said softly. "Lyle Ammon."
It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who was hanging on the door. The sagging, seeping Mr. Death had an identity now, for what it was worth. And the message that Trent had given David was so weird because the poor guy had apparently been doped up when he sent it. "Nice to put a face to the name, huh?" John cracked, but not even he smiled. The desperate little note had an ominous ring to it, with or without the brutal murder to back it up.
What's a Trisquad? Who's "he"?
"Maybe we should look around a little more."
Rebecca began hesitantly, but David was shaking his head.
"I think it's best if we leave this for now. We'll…"
He broke off as heavy, plodding footsteps sounded across the wood deck, just outside the door they'd come through. Everyone froze, listening. More than one set, and whoever they were, they were making no effort to hide their approach. They stopped at the door and stayed there, no rattling knob, no crashing kick, no other sound. Waiting. David circled one finger in the air, pointed to Karen and then to the other door, hung with the grisly remains of Lyle Ammon. The signal to move out, Karen first. They edged toward the grinning corpse, Steve winc– ing at every shifting creak they created, breathing through his mouth to avoid inhaling the stench and as Karen pushed the door open, the silence was shattered by the rattle of automatic fire, coming from in front of them, to the left, coming from the direction of their escape.
EIGHT
Karen jumped back as bullets cracked into the door. Chunks of rotten flesh spattered up from Ammon's body; the corpse danced and waved in a shuddering, jerking rhythm of macabre motion. David snatched at the coat of the dead man and yanked, but the door was pinned open by the clatter– ing fire and whoever was shooting was coming closer, the explosive shots louder, the splinters of flesh and wood pelting them with greater force. They were trapped, both exits blocked. Rebecca clutched her Beretta in one shaking hand, watching for a signal from David. He pointed roughly northwest, into the compound, shouting to be heard over the whining, spitting clatter of the automatic fire.
"Rebecca, other door! John, Karen, next building, secure! Steve, we cover! Go!"
As one, Steve and David leaped out and started to fire, the booming rounds punctuating the lighter hail of deadly ammo. John and Karen charged out at a full run, were instantly swallowed up by the shadows. Rebecca spun and trained her weapon on the back door, her heart pounding in her throat. The walls trembled and shook. "Die, Jesus, why won't they die?" Steve screamed behind her, a strain of disbelief and terror in his voice that made her blood run cold.
… zombies?
Without looking away from the rectangle of dark wood, Rebecca shouted as loud as she could, her voice cracking over the relentless spray of the automatics.
"Head shots! Aim for the head!"
There was no way to know if they'd heard her, the rifle or rifles kept pounding, approaching. Her thoughts raced to understand, images of the T-Virus victims flitting through her mind. They'd been mind– less, slow, inhuman and accidental, not on purpose -not with purpose.
"Rebecca, let's go!"
There was still the sound of an automatic rifle firing, but the boathouse no longer shook from the impact of its force. She shot a glance back, saw Steve still shooting at something, saw David motioning at her to move. She sidled for the open door, catching a sickening, up-close look at the bullet-riddled corpse still hanging there. The head had caved in like a rotting pumpkin, teeth shattered, gummy flecks of tissue radiating out from behind the skull. The waving hand was no longer connected to the rotting arm, the radius and ulna blown away. It dangled there like some obscene decoration, beckoning… Steve fired once more and the auto's clatter ceased. He raised the weapon, his eyes wide and shocked as he opened his mouth to say something…… and the back door crashed open, bullets flying through the dark in a blaze of orange fire. David pushed her roughly through the front and she ran, the responding crack of nine-millimeter rounds resonat– ing behind her.
– get to the building, get to cover -
She sprinted through the shadows, her wet shoes thumping across packed, rocky dirt, her searching gaze finding the outline of a massive, concrete block and the spindly trees that surrounded it in the dark– ness ahead.
"Here."
She veered toward the call, saw John's muscular form silhouetted by pale starlight at the corner of the building. As she neared him, she saw the open door, Karen standing in the entry with her weapon trained back toward the boathouse. Bullets still sang through the shadows. "Get in!" Karen shouted, stepping out of the way, and Rebecca ran past her, not slowing until she was inside. She fell into a table in the pitch black, cracking one hip painfully against the edge. Turning, she saw Karen firing, heard John yelling,
"Come on, come on…"
… and Steve pounded through the door, gasping. He pulled to a stop before crashing into her, one hand clutching his chest. Rebecca moved to the door and grasped the cool thickness, her mind absently registering that the ma– terial was steel as David hurtled through, shouting.
"Karen, John!"
Karen backed into the darkness, weapon still raised. There were three more sharp reports from a Beretta and then John slipped inside, his jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring. Rebecca slammed the door, her fingers finding a deadbolt switch. The soft snick of the lock was barelyaudible against the ringing in her ears. Outside, the bullets stopped. There were no shouts between the attackers, no alarms, no barking of dogs or screaming of wounded. The sudden silence was total, broken only by the deep, shuddering breathing in the warmand muggy darkness. A halogen beam flickered on, revealing the shocked faces of the team as David shone it around their retreat. A midsize room, crowded with desks and computer equipment. There were no windows. "Did you see that?" Steve gasped, addressing no one in particular. "God, they wouldn't go down, did you see that?"
Nobody answered, and though they were out of immediate danger, Rebecca didn't feel her adrenaline slowing, didn't feel her heart settling back to anything approaching normal; it seemed that Umbrella had found a new application for the T-Virus. And like it or not, we're going to have to deal with the consequences. They were trapped in Caliban Cove. And in this facility, the creatures had guns. David took a final deep breath and exhaled it heavily, flashing the torch's light toward the door. "I'd say we've been spotted," he said, hoping that he didn't sound as despairing as he felt. "Might as well see what we've gotten into. Rebecca, would you turn on the lights?"
She flipped the wall switch and the room snapped into blinding brilliance, overhead fluorescents pulsing to life. Blinking against the sudden glare, David surveyed the team, saw that Steve had one hand pressed to his chest.
"Are you hit?" "Vest stopped it," he said, but he seemed more out of breath than the others, his face paler than it should have been. Rebecca glanced at David with a questioning gaze. He nodded at her.
Doesn 't appear that we have anywhere else to go… "Check him out. Anyone else?"
Nobody answered as Rebecca stepped up to Steve, motioning for him to take off the vest. David turned and looked around the room, measuring it against the memory of Trent's map and what little he'd seen from outside. There were a half dozen cheap metal desks, each with a computer and bits of clutter on top. The cement walls were undecorated and plain. There was another door on the west wall that had to lead deeper into the building. "Karen, secure that," he said. They could check out the rest of the site once they'd decided what to do.
Once you've decided, Captain; perhaps you'd like to send them out for a swim? It can't be any worse than what you've already managed…
David ignored the inner voice, perfectly aware of how badly he'd underestimated the situation. The team didn't need to see him wallow in self-doubt, it wouldn't help anything. The question was, what now? "Let's talk," he said. "It doesn't look like we're facing an accident after all. What did the note say? The food was drugged, and something about a 'he' killing the others… is it possible that we're not looking at a T-Virus spill?"
Rebecca looked up from her examination of Steve's chest, the computer expert sitting on one of the desks in front of her. Steve winced as Rebecca's fingers circled the darkening bruise on his right pectoral. She smiled guiltily at him, shaking her head.
"You're okay. Nothing's broken."
She turned back to David, the smile falling away.
"Yeah. If there'd been a release, that guy on the door, Ammon, would've been affected. But the Trisquads -
– if they're the result of experiments with the T-Virus, they'd have rotted away by now. It's been over three weeks since he wrote that note, we should be looking at piles of mush. Either it's a different virus, or someone's been taking care of them. Enzyme upkeep, maybe some kind of refrigeration…"
David nodded slowly, following her reasoning.
"And if that 'someone' had gone mad and killed everyone, why bother?" "That corpse, waving at us," Karen said thought-fully. "And the creature or creatures in the cove. It'slike he expected people to come…"…but didn't mean for us to get very far," John finished. The line from the note ran through David's mind, the words following the plea to stop "him."
'God knows what he means to do.'…
Steve had slipped his shirt back on, shivering from the damp cloth. "So what do we do now?" David didn't answer him, not sure what to say. He felt so drained, so exhausted and uncertain… "I… our options are to get out or go deeper," he said softly. "Considering what's happened so far, I don't feel comfortable making that call. What do you want to do?"
David looked warily from face to face, expecting to see anger and disdain; he'd let them down, led them into a perilous situation without a contingency plan, all because he couldn't stand to see the S.T.A.R.S. tarnished. And now that they were trapped, he didn't know what to do. The expressions they wore, as a group, were thought– ful and intent. He was surprised to see Karen actually smile, and when she spoke, her tone was brightly eager.
"Since you're asking, I want to figure this out. I want to know what happened here." Rebecca was nodding. "Yeah, me, too. And I still want to get a look at the T-Virus."I wanna pick off a few more of those Tri-boys," John said, grinning. "Man, zombies with M-16s, night of the living death squad."
Steve sighed, pushing his wet bangs off his fore-head. "Might as well keep looking; going back out isn't exactly safe. It's not the way I would've liked, but getting dirt on Umbrella was the original plan… yeah, I want to nail these bastards."
David smiled, feeling properly embarrassed at him– self. He hadn't just underestimated the situation, he'dsorely underestimated his team. "What do you want?" Rebecca asked suddenly."Really?"
The question surprised him anew – not because she'd asked, but because suddenly, he didn't have an answer. He thought about the S.T.A.R.S., about his obsession with his career and what it had already cost them. All he'd wanted for days was to feel as though his life's work had been meaningful, that it hadn't been wasted and he'd convinced himself that un– covering the treachery within the job would lay his mind at rest, as if rooting out the corruption would somehow prove that he wasn't worthless.
I've worshipped at the altar of the organization for so long… but isn't this the reason why, the real purpose? Here, in this room, on these faces?
He studied her curious, sharp gaze, felt the rest of them watching him, waiting. "I want for us to survive," he said finally, truth– fully. "I want for us to make it out of here." "Amen to that," John muttered. David remembered what he'd told the Raccoon team, about each of them doing what they did best if they meant to succeed against Umbrella. He'd said it to get Chris's approval of his operation, but it was a truth that applied to all of them.
Get to it, Captain… "John, you and Karen take a look around the building, check the doors, be back in ten. Steve, boot up one of those computers, see if you can find a detailed layout of the grounds. Rebecca, we'll go through the desks. We want maps, data on Trisquads, T-Virus, anything personal about the researchers that might tell us who's behind all this."
David nodded at them, realizing that he felt clearer and more balanced than he had in a long, long time. "Let's do it," he said. To hell with the S.T.A.R.S. They were going to take Umbrella down.
Dr. Griffith might not have even noticed the securi– ty breach if it hadn't been for the Ma7s; it seemed that they were useful after all, though not in the way they'd been intended. He'd spent most of the day in the lab, dreamily pondering the pressurized canisters standing by the entrance, the shining steel glittering seductively in the soft light. Once he'd made the decision to let the virus go, he'd realized that there was really nothing else he needed to do. The hours had flown by; each glance at the clock had been a surprise, though not an unpleas-ant one. He'd be the first, after all, the first convert to the new way of the world. With that in front of him, the only task with which he needed to concern himself was getting the canisters up to the lighthouse and with the doctors waiting silently, patiently by, even that was taken care of. Just before dawn, he'd give them their final instructions and then proudly lead the human species into the light, into the miracle of peace. It had been the thought of the Ma7s that had finally drawn him out into the caves, the only concern he hadn't already dismissed as trivial. He'd already made a mistake with the Leviathans; once he'd taken over the facility, he'd lowered the cove gates on impulse, wanting them to be as free as he'd felt. It wasn't until the next day that he'd realized Umbrella might find out and come looking, effectively putting an end to his plans. He'd continued to send in weekly reports to keep up appearances, but there was no good explanation for the "escape" of the four creatures. It had been sheer luck that the Leviathans had returned on their own. The Ma7s were a different matter entirely, of course. They were too violent, too unpredictable to be let out. But letting them starve to death in their cage didn't seem right, particularly not when they, too, would enjoy the effects of his gift; it wasn't their choice to exist as creatures of destruction, even to exist at all. And since he'd played a small role in their creation, he felt a responsibility to do something for them… He'd stood in front of the outer gate for quite some time, considering the problem as all five of the ani– mals hurled themselves repeatedly at the heavy steel mesh, their strange, mournful howls echoing through the damp and winding caves. There was a manual lock release near the enclosure, another in the lab, but there was no way to loose them from the light– house, and he certainly couldn't let them out before he got to safety. He could send one of the doctors to do it, but the 7s had a much slower metabolism than a human's, and there was a risk that they would get to him before they made the change. A month before his takeover of the compound, Dr. Chin and two of her vet techs had made the mistake of trying to tend to one of the sick ones; it was a bad way to die, and although he'd be oblivious to the pain once he'd made the transition, he meant to stay with the new world for as long as possible. Griffith had finally decided that euthanasia was the only reasonable choice. It was a reluctant decision, but he could see no alternative. Although the lab was well stocked, poisons weren't his forte, so he'd de– cided to look up the information on the mainframe and there, in the cold comfort of the sealed laborato– ry, he'd discovered that his sanctuary had been in– vaded. He sat in front of the computer in a kind of shock, staring at the blinking cursor that indicated system use in one of the bunkers. There was no chance that it was a mistake. Except for the lab terminals, the rest of the compound had been powered down weeks ago.
Umbrella had come.
The first emotion to break through his stunned astonishment was rage, a sweeping, red-hot fury that tore away all reason, descending over him like a blinding fire. For a few moments, he was lost, his body taken over by the primal force, grasping and rending, tearing at the useless, meaningless things that fell beneath his burning fingers.
–they will NOT will NOT stop me will NOT–
When his hands touched the cool metal of the canisters, the fire turned to ash. The smooth, silver tanks were like a splash of reason, bringing him back to himself. His control returned as abruptly as it had gone, leaving him breathless and sweating.
My creation. My work.
Blinking, gasping, he found himself standing in a sea of ripped papers, broken glass, and torn circuitry. He'd managed to destroy the computer, the bearer of bad news, in pieces on the cold floor. On another day, he might have been ashamed at the hysterical tan– trum, but on this, his eve of greatness, he allowed that the rage had been justified.
Justified, perhaps, but pointless. How will you keep them from stopping you? You can't release the strain here, and you can't risk taking it outside, not now… what are their plans? How much do they know?
He could find out easily enough. There were still two other terminals in the lab and he walked quickly to one of them, glancing at the mute doctors, sitting quietly by the airlock. If they'd even noticed his rampage, they gave no sign. He felt a small rush of hatred for them, for creating the useless Trisquads; the "unstoppable" guards had failed him now that he needed them most. He sat down and turned on the monitor, impa– tiently waiting for the spinning umbrella of the com-pany logo to disappear. The security network for the compound's system was based in the lab; he'd be able to see what the intruders were seeking without alert-ing them to his presence, if he could remember how to access the information… He tapped several keys, waited, then typed in his clearance number. After the briefest of pauses, lines of glowing green data spilled across the screen. He'd done it.
Seek, find, locate…
He frowned at the information, wondering why the hell anyone from Umbrella would be searching for the laboratory and for that matter, why they'd try look– ing for that information in the mainframe at all. The system designers weren't idiots, there was nothing about the layout of the facility in the files…
… and Umbrella would know it. Which means…
Relief coursed through him, cool and pure relief so great that he laughed out loud. He suddenly felt quite silly at his childish reaction to the breach. The search– er wasn't from Umbrella, and that changed every– thing. Even if they managed to find the lab, an unlikely proposition at best, considering its location they wouldn't be able to gain entry without a key card.
And Griffith had destroyed all of them…… except for Amman's. His was never found. Griffith froze, then shook his head, a nervous smile on his face. No, he'd searched practically everywhere for the missing card, what were the chances that the interloper would stumble across it?
And what were the chances that they'd make it past the Trisquads, hmm? And what was Lyle up to during those hours when you couldn't find him? What if he did get a message out? You only checked for transmissions to Umbrella, but what if he contacted someone else?
Even as the dreadful, impossible thought occurred to him, the computer began to spit out information on the logic skills tests. The socio-psychological series tests that Ammon had designed. Griffith felt his control slipping again. He clenched his hands into fists, refusing to give in; there was too much at stake, he couldn't afford to let his emotions take over, not now, he had to think.
I'm a scientist, not a soldier, I don't even know how to shoot, to fight! I'd be useless in combat, totally… Unpredictable. Uncontrollable.
A slow grin spread across his features. Blood was seeping from his fists, from where his ragged fingernails had dug into the heels of his hands, but he felt no pain. His gaze wandered around the open, silent laboratory, resting briefly on the airlock. Then to the blank, stupid faces of his doctors. To the cylinders of compressed air and virus, his miracle. And finally, to the controls for the mesh gate that led to the animal enclosure. Dr. Griffith's smile widened. Blood pattered to the floor.
Let them come.
"Rebecca, other door! John, Karen, next building, secure! Steve, we cover! Go!"
As one, Steve and David leaped out and started to fire, the booming rounds punctuating the lighter hail of deadly ammo. John and Karen charged out at a full run, were instantly swallowed up by the shadows. Rebecca spun and trained her weapon on the back door, her heart pounding in her throat. The walls trembled and shook. "Die, Jesus, why won't they die?" Steve screamed behind her, a strain of disbelief and terror in his voice that made her blood run cold.
… zombies?
Without looking away from the rectangle of dark wood, Rebecca shouted as loud as she could, her voice cracking over the relentless spray of the automatics.
"Head shots! Aim for the head!"
There was no way to know if they'd heard her, the rifle or rifles kept pounding, approaching. Her thoughts raced to understand, images of the T-Virus victims flitting through her mind. They'd been mind– less, slow, inhuman and accidental, not on purpose -not with purpose.
"Rebecca, let's go!"
There was still the sound of an automatic rifle firing, but the boathouse no longer shook from the impact of its force. She shot a glance back, saw Steve still shooting at something, saw David motioning at her to move. She sidled for the open door, catching a sickening, up-close look at the bullet-riddled corpse still hanging there. The head had caved in like a rotting pumpkin, teeth shattered, gummy flecks of tissue radiating out from behind the skull. The waving hand was no longer connected to the rotting arm, the radius and ulna blown away. It dangled there like some obscene decoration, beckoning… Steve fired once more and the auto's clatter ceased. He raised the weapon, his eyes wide and shocked as he opened his mouth to say something…… and the back door crashed open, bullets flying through the dark in a blaze of orange fire. David pushed her roughly through the front and she ran, the responding crack of nine-millimeter rounds resonat– ing behind her.
– get to the building, get to cover -
She sprinted through the shadows, her wet shoes thumping across packed, rocky dirt, her searching gaze finding the outline of a massive, concrete block and the spindly trees that surrounded it in the dark– ness ahead.
"Here."
She veered toward the call, saw John's muscular form silhouetted by pale starlight at the corner of the building. As she neared him, she saw the open door, Karen standing in the entry with her weapon trained back toward the boathouse. Bullets still sang through the shadows. "Get in!" Karen shouted, stepping out of the way, and Rebecca ran past her, not slowing until she was inside. She fell into a table in the pitch black, cracking one hip painfully against the edge. Turning, she saw Karen firing, heard John yelling,
"Come on, come on…"
… and Steve pounded through the door, gasping. He pulled to a stop before crashing into her, one hand clutching his chest. Rebecca moved to the door and grasped the cool thickness, her mind absently registering that the ma– terial was steel as David hurtled through, shouting.
"Karen, John!"
Karen backed into the darkness, weapon still raised. There were three more sharp reports from a Beretta and then John slipped inside, his jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring. Rebecca slammed the door, her fingers finding a deadbolt switch. The soft snick of the lock was barelyaudible against the ringing in her ears. Outside, the bullets stopped. There were no shouts between the attackers, no alarms, no barking of dogs or screaming of wounded. The sudden silence was total, broken only by the deep, shuddering breathing in the warmand muggy darkness. A halogen beam flickered on, revealing the shocked faces of the team as David shone it around their retreat. A midsize room, crowded with desks and computer equipment. There were no windows. "Did you see that?" Steve gasped, addressing no one in particular. "God, they wouldn't go down, did you see that?"
Nobody answered, and though they were out of immediate danger, Rebecca didn't feel her adrenaline slowing, didn't feel her heart settling back to anything approaching normal; it seemed that Umbrella had found a new application for the T-Virus. And like it or not, we're going to have to deal with the consequences. They were trapped in Caliban Cove. And in this facility, the creatures had guns. David took a final deep breath and exhaled it heavily, flashing the torch's light toward the door. "I'd say we've been spotted," he said, hoping that he didn't sound as despairing as he felt. "Might as well see what we've gotten into. Rebecca, would you turn on the lights?"
She flipped the wall switch and the room snapped into blinding brilliance, overhead fluorescents pulsing to life. Blinking against the sudden glare, David surveyed the team, saw that Steve had one hand pressed to his chest.
"Are you hit?" "Vest stopped it," he said, but he seemed more out of breath than the others, his face paler than it should have been. Rebecca glanced at David with a questioning gaze. He nodded at her.
Doesn 't appear that we have anywhere else to go… "Check him out. Anyone else?"
Nobody answered as Rebecca stepped up to Steve, motioning for him to take off the vest. David turned and looked around the room, measuring it against the memory of Trent's map and what little he'd seen from outside. There were a half dozen cheap metal desks, each with a computer and bits of clutter on top. The cement walls were undecorated and plain. There was another door on the west wall that had to lead deeper into the building. "Karen, secure that," he said. They could check out the rest of the site once they'd decided what to do.
Once you've decided, Captain; perhaps you'd like to send them out for a swim? It can't be any worse than what you've already managed…
David ignored the inner voice, perfectly aware of how badly he'd underestimated the situation. The team didn't need to see him wallow in self-doubt, it wouldn't help anything. The question was, what now? "Let's talk," he said. "It doesn't look like we're facing an accident after all. What did the note say? The food was drugged, and something about a 'he' killing the others… is it possible that we're not looking at a T-Virus spill?"
Rebecca looked up from her examination of Steve's chest, the computer expert sitting on one of the desks in front of her. Steve winced as Rebecca's fingers circled the darkening bruise on his right pectoral. She smiled guiltily at him, shaking her head.
"You're okay. Nothing's broken."
She turned back to David, the smile falling away.
"Yeah. If there'd been a release, that guy on the door, Ammon, would've been affected. But the Trisquads -
– if they're the result of experiments with the T-Virus, they'd have rotted away by now. It's been over three weeks since he wrote that note, we should be looking at piles of mush. Either it's a different virus, or someone's been taking care of them. Enzyme upkeep, maybe some kind of refrigeration…"
David nodded slowly, following her reasoning.
"And if that 'someone' had gone mad and killed everyone, why bother?" "That corpse, waving at us," Karen said thought-fully. "And the creature or creatures in the cove. It'slike he expected people to come…"…but didn't mean for us to get very far," John finished. The line from the note ran through David's mind, the words following the plea to stop "him."
'God knows what he means to do.'…
Steve had slipped his shirt back on, shivering from the damp cloth. "So what do we do now?" David didn't answer him, not sure what to say. He felt so drained, so exhausted and uncertain… "I… our options are to get out or go deeper," he said softly. "Considering what's happened so far, I don't feel comfortable making that call. What do you want to do?"
David looked warily from face to face, expecting to see anger and disdain; he'd let them down, led them into a perilous situation without a contingency plan, all because he couldn't stand to see the S.T.A.R.S. tarnished. And now that they were trapped, he didn't know what to do. The expressions they wore, as a group, were thought– ful and intent. He was surprised to see Karen actually smile, and when she spoke, her tone was brightly eager.
"Since you're asking, I want to figure this out. I want to know what happened here." Rebecca was nodding. "Yeah, me, too. And I still want to get a look at the T-Virus."I wanna pick off a few more of those Tri-boys," John said, grinning. "Man, zombies with M-16s, night of the living death squad."
Steve sighed, pushing his wet bangs off his fore-head. "Might as well keep looking; going back out isn't exactly safe. It's not the way I would've liked, but getting dirt on Umbrella was the original plan… yeah, I want to nail these bastards."
David smiled, feeling properly embarrassed at him– self. He hadn't just underestimated the situation, he'dsorely underestimated his team. "What do you want?" Rebecca asked suddenly."Really?"
The question surprised him anew – not because she'd asked, but because suddenly, he didn't have an answer. He thought about the S.T.A.R.S., about his obsession with his career and what it had already cost them. All he'd wanted for days was to feel as though his life's work had been meaningful, that it hadn't been wasted and he'd convinced himself that un– covering the treachery within the job would lay his mind at rest, as if rooting out the corruption would somehow prove that he wasn't worthless.
I've worshipped at the altar of the organization for so long… but isn't this the reason why, the real purpose? Here, in this room, on these faces?
He studied her curious, sharp gaze, felt the rest of them watching him, waiting. "I want for us to survive," he said finally, truth– fully. "I want for us to make it out of here." "Amen to that," John muttered. David remembered what he'd told the Raccoon team, about each of them doing what they did best if they meant to succeed against Umbrella. He'd said it to get Chris's approval of his operation, but it was a truth that applied to all of them.
Get to it, Captain… "John, you and Karen take a look around the building, check the doors, be back in ten. Steve, boot up one of those computers, see if you can find a detailed layout of the grounds. Rebecca, we'll go through the desks. We want maps, data on Trisquads, T-Virus, anything personal about the researchers that might tell us who's behind all this."
David nodded at them, realizing that he felt clearer and more balanced than he had in a long, long time. "Let's do it," he said. To hell with the S.T.A.R.S. They were going to take Umbrella down.
Dr. Griffith might not have even noticed the securi– ty breach if it hadn't been for the Ma7s; it seemed that they were useful after all, though not in the way they'd been intended. He'd spent most of the day in the lab, dreamily pondering the pressurized canisters standing by the entrance, the shining steel glittering seductively in the soft light. Once he'd made the decision to let the virus go, he'd realized that there was really nothing else he needed to do. The hours had flown by; each glance at the clock had been a surprise, though not an unpleas-ant one. He'd be the first, after all, the first convert to the new way of the world. With that in front of him, the only task with which he needed to concern himself was getting the canisters up to the lighthouse and with the doctors waiting silently, patiently by, even that was taken care of. Just before dawn, he'd give them their final instructions and then proudly lead the human species into the light, into the miracle of peace. It had been the thought of the Ma7s that had finally drawn him out into the caves, the only concern he hadn't already dismissed as trivial. He'd already made a mistake with the Leviathans; once he'd taken over the facility, he'd lowered the cove gates on impulse, wanting them to be as free as he'd felt. It wasn't until the next day that he'd realized Umbrella might find out and come looking, effectively putting an end to his plans. He'd continued to send in weekly reports to keep up appearances, but there was no good explanation for the "escape" of the four creatures. It had been sheer luck that the Leviathans had returned on their own. The Ma7s were a different matter entirely, of course. They were too violent, too unpredictable to be let out. But letting them starve to death in their cage didn't seem right, particularly not when they, too, would enjoy the effects of his gift; it wasn't their choice to exist as creatures of destruction, even to exist at all. And since he'd played a small role in their creation, he felt a responsibility to do something for them… He'd stood in front of the outer gate for quite some time, considering the problem as all five of the ani– mals hurled themselves repeatedly at the heavy steel mesh, their strange, mournful howls echoing through the damp and winding caves. There was a manual lock release near the enclosure, another in the lab, but there was no way to loose them from the light– house, and he certainly couldn't let them out before he got to safety. He could send one of the doctors to do it, but the 7s had a much slower metabolism than a human's, and there was a risk that they would get to him before they made the change. A month before his takeover of the compound, Dr. Chin and two of her vet techs had made the mistake of trying to tend to one of the sick ones; it was a bad way to die, and although he'd be oblivious to the pain once he'd made the transition, he meant to stay with the new world for as long as possible. Griffith had finally decided that euthanasia was the only reasonable choice. It was a reluctant decision, but he could see no alternative. Although the lab was well stocked, poisons weren't his forte, so he'd de– cided to look up the information on the mainframe and there, in the cold comfort of the sealed laborato– ry, he'd discovered that his sanctuary had been in– vaded. He sat in front of the computer in a kind of shock, staring at the blinking cursor that indicated system use in one of the bunkers. There was no chance that it was a mistake. Except for the lab terminals, the rest of the compound had been powered down weeks ago.
Umbrella had come.
The first emotion to break through his stunned astonishment was rage, a sweeping, red-hot fury that tore away all reason, descending over him like a blinding fire. For a few moments, he was lost, his body taken over by the primal force, grasping and rending, tearing at the useless, meaningless things that fell beneath his burning fingers.
–they will NOT will NOT stop me will NOT–
When his hands touched the cool metal of the canisters, the fire turned to ash. The smooth, silver tanks were like a splash of reason, bringing him back to himself. His control returned as abruptly as it had gone, leaving him breathless and sweating.
My creation. My work.
Blinking, gasping, he found himself standing in a sea of ripped papers, broken glass, and torn circuitry. He'd managed to destroy the computer, the bearer of bad news, in pieces on the cold floor. On another day, he might have been ashamed at the hysterical tan– trum, but on this, his eve of greatness, he allowed that the rage had been justified.
Justified, perhaps, but pointless. How will you keep them from stopping you? You can't release the strain here, and you can't risk taking it outside, not now… what are their plans? How much do they know?
He could find out easily enough. There were still two other terminals in the lab and he walked quickly to one of them, glancing at the mute doctors, sitting quietly by the airlock. If they'd even noticed his rampage, they gave no sign. He felt a small rush of hatred for them, for creating the useless Trisquads; the "unstoppable" guards had failed him now that he needed them most. He sat down and turned on the monitor, impa– tiently waiting for the spinning umbrella of the com-pany logo to disappear. The security network for the compound's system was based in the lab; he'd be able to see what the intruders were seeking without alert-ing them to his presence, if he could remember how to access the information… He tapped several keys, waited, then typed in his clearance number. After the briefest of pauses, lines of glowing green data spilled across the screen. He'd done it.
Seek, find, locate…
He frowned at the information, wondering why the hell anyone from Umbrella would be searching for the laboratory and for that matter, why they'd try look– ing for that information in the mainframe at all. The system designers weren't idiots, there was nothing about the layout of the facility in the files…
… and Umbrella would know it. Which means…
Relief coursed through him, cool and pure relief so great that he laughed out loud. He suddenly felt quite silly at his childish reaction to the breach. The search– er wasn't from Umbrella, and that changed every– thing. Even if they managed to find the lab, an unlikely proposition at best, considering its location they wouldn't be able to gain entry without a key card.
And Griffith had destroyed all of them…… except for Amman's. His was never found. Griffith froze, then shook his head, a nervous smile on his face. No, he'd searched practically everywhere for the missing card, what were the chances that the interloper would stumble across it?
And what were the chances that they'd make it past the Trisquads, hmm? And what was Lyle up to during those hours when you couldn't find him? What if he did get a message out? You only checked for transmissions to Umbrella, but what if he contacted someone else?
Even as the dreadful, impossible thought occurred to him, the computer began to spit out information on the logic skills tests. The socio-psychological series tests that Ammon had designed. Griffith felt his control slipping again. He clenched his hands into fists, refusing to give in; there was too much at stake, he couldn't afford to let his emotions take over, not now, he had to think.
I'm a scientist, not a soldier, I don't even know how to shoot, to fight! I'd be useless in combat, totally… Unpredictable. Uncontrollable.
A slow grin spread across his features. Blood was seeping from his fists, from where his ragged fingernails had dug into the heels of his hands, but he felt no pain. His gaze wandered around the open, silent laboratory, resting briefly on the airlock. Then to the blank, stupid faces of his doctors. To the cylinders of compressed air and virus, his miracle. And finally, to the controls for the mesh gate that led to the animal enclosure. Dr. Griffith's smile widened. Blood pattered to the floor.
Let them come.
NINE
As steve read aloud, rebecca saw david glance between his watch and the door several times. She didn't think it had been ten minutes, but it had to be close. John and Karen weren't back yet.
'"… where each is designed to measure applica-tion of logic, as combined index projective techniques with interval precision…'"
It was rather dry reading, apparently a facility report on the analysis of some kind of I.Q. test. It had obviously been written by a scientist, was, in fact, the kind of boring double talk that a lot of researchers tended to fall into when trying to explain anything more complicated than a chair. Still, it was what had come up when Steve had asked for information on "blue series." Since the room had yielded little else, Rebecca forced herself to pay attention, fighting off
– nine -
the nagging, quiet fear that had settled over her during the fruitless search. Somebody had cleaned out the room, and done a very thorough job of it. She'd found books, staplers, pens and pencils, a ton of rubber bands and paper clips, but not a single piece of paper with writing on it, not a scrap of information to work with. Steve's computer search wasn't much better; no map and nothing at all on the T-Virus. Whoever had taken over the facility had apparently wiped out everything they might've been able to use.
Except for a shitload of dull psycho-babble, which so far hasn't even mentioned the word blue. How are we supposed to accomplish anything here?
Steve touched a key, then brightened considerably.
"Here we go…" " 'The red series, when looked at on a standardized scale, is the most basic and simple, applicable up to an intelligence quotient of 80. The green series…'" He broke off, frowning. "The screen just went blank."
Rebecca looked up from the mostly empty desk she'd been going through as David walked over to join Steve. "System crash?" he asked worriedly. Steve was still frowning, tapping at keys. "More like a program freeze. I don't think – hello, what's this?" "Rebecca," David said quietly, motioning for her to come look. She closed a drawer full of blank, unlabeled file folders and moved over to stand behind Steve, bend– ing down to read what was on the monitor. The man who makes it doesn't need it. The man who buys it doesn't want it. The man who uses it doesn't know it. "It's a riddle," David said. "Either of you know the answer?"
Before either of them could respond, Karen and John walked back into the room, both of them bol– stering their weapons. Karen held a sheet of torn paper in one hand. "Locked up tight," John said. "Halfa dozen offices, no windows at all and only one other external door, north end." Karen nodded. "There were file cabinets in most of the rooms, but they were empty, except I found this in one of the drawers, stuck in a crack. It must have ripped off when the place was being cleaned out."
She handed the piece of paper to David. He
scanned a few lines, his dark gaze taking on a sudden intensity. He turned back to Karen. "This is all there was?"Karen nodded. "Yeah. But it's enough, don't you think?"
David held up the torn sheet and started to read it
out loud.
" 'The teams continue to work independently, but have shown a marked improvement since the modification of aural synapses." " 'In Scenario Two, when more than one Trisquad is present, the second team (B) will no longer engage when the first (A) concludes (when target ceases to move or make sound)." " 'If the target continues to provide stimuli and A has discontinued the attack (lack of ammunition/disabling injury to all units), B will engage. If within range, additional patrols will be drawn to the attack and will engage in succession." " 'At this time, we have not successfully managed to expand sensory ability to trigger desired behavior; the visual stimuli of Scenarios Four and Seven continue to be unpro– ductive, although we'll be infecting a new group of units tomorrow and expect correlating results by the end of the week. It is our recommendation that we continue to further develop aural capabilities before considering heat-detection implantation…'" "That's where it's torn off," David said, looking up. Karen nodded. "It explains a lot, though. Why the team at the back door of the boathouse didn't do anything; the team out front was still firing. It wasn't until you and Steve took them out that the second group moved in."
Rebecca frowned, not liking the implications of the report for more than just the obvious; Umbrella's continued experimentation on humans. From what she'd seen in Raccoon, the T-Virus took seven or eight days to fully amplify in a host, the host then falling to pieces within a month.
So what's this about infecting a new group and getting data in a week? Or for that matter, implanta-tion and sensory modification with the hosts they already have? There shouldn't be time for all that, the "units" should be disintegrating, way beyond learning new behavior…
She bit her lip nervously, suddenly wondering what the researchers at Caliban Cove might have done with the virus. If they'd found a way to speed up the infective, perhaps tampered with the virion's fusion membrane, made it more cohesive…
… or somehow multiplied the indusionary, allow-ing it to replicate exponentially… we could be look-ing at a strain that works in hours, not days.
It was a nasty thought, and one that she didn't want to consider until she had more information to go on. Besides, it wouldn't make a difference in their current situation; the Trisquads were just as deadly either way.
"The sign on the north door says we're in block C, whatever that means," John said, moving to the computer. "Did you find a map?" Steve sighed. "No, but take a look. I asked for information on the blue series, and it started to give us a report on these I.Q. tests, coded by color, then this. I can't get anything else." John peered at the screen, mumbling, "… man who makes it doesn't need it, buys it, doesn't want it, uses it, doesn't know it…"
Karen, who had been rereading the Trisquad mate– rial, looked up with sudden sharp interest. "Wait, I know that one. It's a casket."
Somehow, Rebecca wasn't surprised that Karen knew the riddle; the woman struck her as someone who thrived on puzzles. They all gathered around as Steve quickly typed in "casket." The screen remained unchanged. "Try 'coffin,'" Rebecca suggested. Steve's fingers flew across the keys. As soon as he hit "enter," the riddle disappeared, replaced by: BIDE SERIES ACTIVATED.
Then followed:
TESTS FOUR (BLOCK A), SEVEN (BLOCK D), AND NINE (BLOCK B)/ BLUE TO ACCESS DATA (BLOCK E).
"Blue to… Ammon's message," Karen said quickly. "That's it – the message received related to the blue series, then said, 'enter answer for key.' The answer was 'coffin'…" "… and the test numbers are the key," David said. "There are three more lines in the message, then 'blue to access.' The lines must be the answers to the tests, the letters and numbers reverse, time rainbow, and don't count. Jill was right, it's all about some-thing we're supposed to find."
Rebecca felt a rush of excitement as David grabbed a pen off the desk and turned over the scrap of the Trisquad report. The information they had finally made sense – Dr. Ammon's message actually meant something.
We can do this, we've got something solid now…
David drew five boxes in two lines, the same as on Trent's map, marking the southernmost box with the letter C. After a pause, he tentatively labeled the others, starting at the top left with A and going right to left, marking the test numbers next to each letter. "Assuming that this is right side up," he said, "and that we need to complete the tests in order, we'll be moving in a stagger, a zig-zag between the buildings." "And assuming the Trisquads don't have a problem with that," John said softly. Rebecca felt her excitement dwindle, could see the same mixed emotions in the suddenly somber expres– sions they all wore, staring down at the boxes. She'd known that they were going to have to leave eventu– ally, but had somehow managed to avoid thinking about it, putting it off until it was in front of them. It was in front of them now. And the Trisquads would be waiting.
They stood at the north door in a dark and stuffy hallway, tightening bootlaces, adjusting belts, putting fresh clips into their Berettas. When David was ready, he turned to John and nodded.
"Give it back to me." "You, Steve, and Rebecca will take the one on the left, northwest from here. Once we hear you get clear, Karen and I go straight across. If your guess is right, we'll be in block D; if you're upside down, block B. Either way, we secure the building, find the test number, and then wait for you to show up and give us the go-ahead." "And if I don't…" Karen took up the recital. "If we don't hear from you in half an hour, we come back here and wait for Steve and Rebecca. We complete the tests if it's feasible…" John grinned, a white flash in the gloom. "… and then get our asses over the fence." "Right," David said. "Good." They were ready. There were infinite variables in the equation, any number of things that could go wrong with the simple plan, but that was always the case. There was no way to prepare for everything that could happen, not at this point, and the decision to split up was their best chance to avoid detection by the Trisquads. "Any questions before we go?" Rebecca spoke up, her youthful voice tight with concern. "I'd like to remind everybody again to be extremely careful about what you touch, or what touches you. The Trisquads are carriers, so try to avoid getting close to them, particularly if they're wounded."
David shuddered internally, remembering what she'd told them before – that one drop of infected blood could hold millions, hundreds of millions of virus particles. Not a pleasant thought, consider-ing. A nine-millimeter round could inflict a lot of damage…
… and they don't lie down when they're hit. The three by the boathouse just kept coming, walking and firing and bleeding…
They were waiting for his signal. David shook the thoughts off and thumbed the safety on his weapon, putting his other hand on the door latch.
"Ready? Quietly, now, on three – one… two… three."
He pushed the door open and slipped outside into the cool night air and the whisper of ocean waves. It was much brighter than before, the almost-full moon having risen high, bathing the compound in silvery blue light. Nothing moved. Straight in front of him about twenty meters away was John and Karen's destination, and he was re– lieved to see a door set into the concrete wall facing block C; they wouldn't have to go around to get inside. David edged away from the door to his left, hugging the narrow shadow of the wall. He could just make out the front of the building he hoped was A, tall, wind-bent pines to the left and behind it. There was a darker shadow midway along its length, a door, and no cover in the thirty-plus meters that spanned the distance. Once they stepped away from C, they'd be totally vulnerable.
If there's a team between the two lines of build– ings…
He shot a glance back, saw Rebecca and Steve tensed and waiting behind him. If they were going to walk into a corridor of fire, at least he'd be in front; Steve and Rebecca should have time to get back to cover. He took a deep breath, held it……and broke away from the wall, running in a low crouch for the dark square of the block's entry. Shapes of pallid light and shadow blurred past. His entire being was waiting for the flash of an automatic, the crack of fire, the sharp and piercing pain that would take him down, but it was silent and still, the only sound the violent stammer of his heart, the rush of blood through his veins. Seconds stretched an eternity as the door loomed closer, larger… Then the latch was under his fingers and he was pushing, bursting into a stifling blackness, spinning around to see Rebecca and then Steve come lunging in after him.
David closed the door quickly but quietly, sensing the emptiness of the dark room, the lack of life and then the smell hit him. Either Steve or Rebecca gagged, a dry bark of involuntary revulsion as David snatched for the torch, already dreading what he knew they would see. It was the same terrible stink that they'd come across in the boathouse but a hundred times more powerful. Even without the recent reference, David knew the odor. He'd experienced it in a jungle of South America and in a cultist's camp in Idaho, and once, in the basement of a serial killer's house. The smell of rotting, multiple death was unforgettable, a rancid bile like sour milk and flyblown meat.
How many, how many will there be?
The beam snapped on and as it found the tottering, reeking pile that took up one corner of the large storage room, David saw that there was no way to be certain; the bodies had started to melt into one another, the blackened, shriveling flesh of the stacked corpses blending and pooling from the humid heat.
Maybe fifteen, maybe twenty…
Retching, Steve stumbled away and threw up, a harsh and helpless sound in the otherwise quiet room. David quickly took in the rest of the chamber, finding a door against the back wall, the letter A blocked across it in black. Without another look at the terrible mound, he hustled Rebecca toward the far door, grabbing Steve as they passed. Once they were through, the smell faded to barely tolerable. They were in a windowless corridor, and though there was a light switch next to the door, David ignored it for the moment, catching his breath, letting the two young team members collect themselves. Apparently, they'd found the Umbrella workers of Caliban Cove; all but at least one of them, anyway and David decided that if they ran across him, he'd shoot first and not bother with any questions at all.
Karen and John stood at the door for a full minute after the others had gone, cracked open just wide enough for them to listen. Cool air filtered through the opening, the far away hiss of waves, but no shots, no screams. Karen let the door close and looked at John, her pale features masked in the dim light. Her voice was low, even, and terribly serious. "They're in by now. You want to take lead, or would you prefer if I went first?" John couldn't help himself. "My women always go
first," he whispered. "Though I prefer it when we go together, if you know what I mean."
Karen sighed heavily, a sound of pure exasperation. John grinned, thinking about how easy she was. He knew he shouldn't devil her, but it was hard to resist. Karen Driver kicked ass with a weapon and she was sharp as a tack in the brains department, but she was also one of the most humorless people he'd ever known.
It's my duty to help her lighten up. If we're gonna die, might as well be laughing as crying… A simple philosophy, but one he held dear; it had gotten him through many an unpleasant situation in the past.
"John, just answer the goddamn question…" "I'll go," he said mildly. "Wait till I get through, then follow."
She nodded briskly, stepping back to let him by. He briefly considered telling her that he'd greet her at the door wearing nothing but a smile, but decided against it. They'd worked together for almost five years, and he knew from experience that he could only go so far before she got pissy. Besides, it was a good line, and he didn't want to waste it. As soon as his hand closed over the latch, he took a deep breath, letting his sparkling wit take a back seat to what he thought of as his "soldier mind." There was humor, and then there was conquering the enemy – and while he enjoyed both immensely, he'd learned long ago to keep them separate.
Gonna be a ghost now, gonna slide through the dark like a shadow…
He gently pushed the door open. No sound, no movement. Holding his Beretta loosely, he stepped away from the building and moved quickly through the silvery dark, fixing on the door that was scarcely twenty steps away. His soldier mind fed him the facts, the cool wind, the soft tread of boots against dirt, the smell and taste of the ocean, but his heart told him that he was a ghost, floating like an invisible shadow through the night. He reached the door, touching the clammy metal bar with steady fingers and it wouldn't move. The entrance was locked. No panic, no worry, he was a shade that no one could see; he'd find another way in. John held up a hand, telling Karen to wait, and edged smoothly to his right.
Silent and easy, shadow without form…
He reached the corner and slid around, letting his heightened senses continue to feed him information. No movement in the whispering night, the rough feel of concrete against his left shoulder and hip, the steady pump of exhilaration and fluidity in his muscles. There was another door, facing the broad, glimmering open– ness of the sea, cool light matte against metal. Rat-atat-atat-atat! Bullets hit the dirt at his feet. John spun and leaped backward, flattening himself against the wall as he grabbed for the latch. Walking from the direction of the boathouse, a line of three… and John tore the door open and jumped behind it, heard the clatter of.22 rounds smash into the metal, stopped inches from his body by the explosive ping-ping-ping that rattled the door. He held the door open with his foot, took a split-second look around the edge and targeted the flash of light, squeezing the trigger as chips of concrete and dust flew from the wall. The nine-millimeter jumped, a part of his hand, and he was an animal now, at one with the thundering rounds, the pull of his breath, the awareness of himself both as a man and a bringer of death. Another look and the line was closer now, the three dark figures taking shape. John got off another shot, ducked behind the open door… and when he looked again, there were only two standing. Snap. Behind him. John whirled around and saw them, two of them, ten feet away at the northeast corner of the building. Both held automatic rifles. But made no move to fire. He felt panic then, a screaming, whining beast in his gut that threatened to devour him from the inside out -
'"… where each is designed to measure applica-tion of logic, as combined index projective techniques with interval precision…'"
It was rather dry reading, apparently a facility report on the analysis of some kind of I.Q. test. It had obviously been written by a scientist, was, in fact, the kind of boring double talk that a lot of researchers tended to fall into when trying to explain anything more complicated than a chair. Still, it was what had come up when Steve had asked for information on "blue series." Since the room had yielded little else, Rebecca forced herself to pay attention, fighting off
– nine -
the nagging, quiet fear that had settled over her during the fruitless search. Somebody had cleaned out the room, and done a very thorough job of it. She'd found books, staplers, pens and pencils, a ton of rubber bands and paper clips, but not a single piece of paper with writing on it, not a scrap of information to work with. Steve's computer search wasn't much better; no map and nothing at all on the T-Virus. Whoever had taken over the facility had apparently wiped out everything they might've been able to use.
Except for a shitload of dull psycho-babble, which so far hasn't even mentioned the word blue. How are we supposed to accomplish anything here?
Steve touched a key, then brightened considerably.
"Here we go…" " 'The red series, when looked at on a standardized scale, is the most basic and simple, applicable up to an intelligence quotient of 80. The green series…'" He broke off, frowning. "The screen just went blank."
Rebecca looked up from the mostly empty desk she'd been going through as David walked over to join Steve. "System crash?" he asked worriedly. Steve was still frowning, tapping at keys. "More like a program freeze. I don't think – hello, what's this?" "Rebecca," David said quietly, motioning for her to come look. She closed a drawer full of blank, unlabeled file folders and moved over to stand behind Steve, bend– ing down to read what was on the monitor. The man who makes it doesn't need it. The man who buys it doesn't want it. The man who uses it doesn't know it. "It's a riddle," David said. "Either of you know the answer?"
Before either of them could respond, Karen and John walked back into the room, both of them bol– stering their weapons. Karen held a sheet of torn paper in one hand. "Locked up tight," John said. "Halfa dozen offices, no windows at all and only one other external door, north end." Karen nodded. "There were file cabinets in most of the rooms, but they were empty, except I found this in one of the drawers, stuck in a crack. It must have ripped off when the place was being cleaned out."
She handed the piece of paper to David. He
scanned a few lines, his dark gaze taking on a sudden intensity. He turned back to Karen. "This is all there was?"Karen nodded. "Yeah. But it's enough, don't you think?"
David held up the torn sheet and started to read it
out loud.
" 'The teams continue to work independently, but have shown a marked improvement since the modification of aural synapses." " 'In Scenario Two, when more than one Trisquad is present, the second team (B) will no longer engage when the first (A) concludes (when target ceases to move or make sound)." " 'If the target continues to provide stimuli and A has discontinued the attack (lack of ammunition/disabling injury to all units), B will engage. If within range, additional patrols will be drawn to the attack and will engage in succession." " 'At this time, we have not successfully managed to expand sensory ability to trigger desired behavior; the visual stimuli of Scenarios Four and Seven continue to be unpro– ductive, although we'll be infecting a new group of units tomorrow and expect correlating results by the end of the week. It is our recommendation that we continue to further develop aural capabilities before considering heat-detection implantation…'" "That's where it's torn off," David said, looking up. Karen nodded. "It explains a lot, though. Why the team at the back door of the boathouse didn't do anything; the team out front was still firing. It wasn't until you and Steve took them out that the second group moved in."
Rebecca frowned, not liking the implications of the report for more than just the obvious; Umbrella's continued experimentation on humans. From what she'd seen in Raccoon, the T-Virus took seven or eight days to fully amplify in a host, the host then falling to pieces within a month.
So what's this about infecting a new group and getting data in a week? Or for that matter, implanta-tion and sensory modification with the hosts they already have? There shouldn't be time for all that, the "units" should be disintegrating, way beyond learning new behavior…
She bit her lip nervously, suddenly wondering what the researchers at Caliban Cove might have done with the virus. If they'd found a way to speed up the infective, perhaps tampered with the virion's fusion membrane, made it more cohesive…
… or somehow multiplied the indusionary, allow-ing it to replicate exponentially… we could be look-ing at a strain that works in hours, not days.
It was a nasty thought, and one that she didn't want to consider until she had more information to go on. Besides, it wouldn't make a difference in their current situation; the Trisquads were just as deadly either way.
"The sign on the north door says we're in block C, whatever that means," John said, moving to the computer. "Did you find a map?" Steve sighed. "No, but take a look. I asked for information on the blue series, and it started to give us a report on these I.Q. tests, coded by color, then this. I can't get anything else." John peered at the screen, mumbling, "… man who makes it doesn't need it, buys it, doesn't want it, uses it, doesn't know it…"
Karen, who had been rereading the Trisquad mate– rial, looked up with sudden sharp interest. "Wait, I know that one. It's a casket."
Somehow, Rebecca wasn't surprised that Karen knew the riddle; the woman struck her as someone who thrived on puzzles. They all gathered around as Steve quickly typed in "casket." The screen remained unchanged. "Try 'coffin,'" Rebecca suggested. Steve's fingers flew across the keys. As soon as he hit "enter," the riddle disappeared, replaced by: BIDE SERIES ACTIVATED.
Then followed:
TESTS FOUR (BLOCK A), SEVEN (BLOCK D), AND NINE (BLOCK B)/ BLUE TO ACCESS DATA (BLOCK E).
"Blue to… Ammon's message," Karen said quickly. "That's it – the message received related to the blue series, then said, 'enter answer for key.' The answer was 'coffin'…" "… and the test numbers are the key," David said. "There are three more lines in the message, then 'blue to access.' The lines must be the answers to the tests, the letters and numbers reverse, time rainbow, and don't count. Jill was right, it's all about some-thing we're supposed to find."
Rebecca felt a rush of excitement as David grabbed a pen off the desk and turned over the scrap of the Trisquad report. The information they had finally made sense – Dr. Ammon's message actually meant something.
We can do this, we've got something solid now…
David drew five boxes in two lines, the same as on Trent's map, marking the southernmost box with the letter C. After a pause, he tentatively labeled the others, starting at the top left with A and going right to left, marking the test numbers next to each letter. "Assuming that this is right side up," he said, "and that we need to complete the tests in order, we'll be moving in a stagger, a zig-zag between the buildings." "And assuming the Trisquads don't have a problem with that," John said softly. Rebecca felt her excitement dwindle, could see the same mixed emotions in the suddenly somber expres– sions they all wore, staring down at the boxes. She'd known that they were going to have to leave eventu– ally, but had somehow managed to avoid thinking about it, putting it off until it was in front of them. It was in front of them now. And the Trisquads would be waiting.
They stood at the north door in a dark and stuffy hallway, tightening bootlaces, adjusting belts, putting fresh clips into their Berettas. When David was ready, he turned to John and nodded.
"Give it back to me." "You, Steve, and Rebecca will take the one on the left, northwest from here. Once we hear you get clear, Karen and I go straight across. If your guess is right, we'll be in block D; if you're upside down, block B. Either way, we secure the building, find the test number, and then wait for you to show up and give us the go-ahead." "And if I don't…" Karen took up the recital. "If we don't hear from you in half an hour, we come back here and wait for Steve and Rebecca. We complete the tests if it's feasible…" John grinned, a white flash in the gloom. "… and then get our asses over the fence." "Right," David said. "Good." They were ready. There were infinite variables in the equation, any number of things that could go wrong with the simple plan, but that was always the case. There was no way to prepare for everything that could happen, not at this point, and the decision to split up was their best chance to avoid detection by the Trisquads. "Any questions before we go?" Rebecca spoke up, her youthful voice tight with concern. "I'd like to remind everybody again to be extremely careful about what you touch, or what touches you. The Trisquads are carriers, so try to avoid getting close to them, particularly if they're wounded."
David shuddered internally, remembering what she'd told them before – that one drop of infected blood could hold millions, hundreds of millions of virus particles. Not a pleasant thought, consider-ing. A nine-millimeter round could inflict a lot of damage…
… and they don't lie down when they're hit. The three by the boathouse just kept coming, walking and firing and bleeding…
They were waiting for his signal. David shook the thoughts off and thumbed the safety on his weapon, putting his other hand on the door latch.
"Ready? Quietly, now, on three – one… two… three."
He pushed the door open and slipped outside into the cool night air and the whisper of ocean waves. It was much brighter than before, the almost-full moon having risen high, bathing the compound in silvery blue light. Nothing moved. Straight in front of him about twenty meters away was John and Karen's destination, and he was re– lieved to see a door set into the concrete wall facing block C; they wouldn't have to go around to get inside. David edged away from the door to his left, hugging the narrow shadow of the wall. He could just make out the front of the building he hoped was A, tall, wind-bent pines to the left and behind it. There was a darker shadow midway along its length, a door, and no cover in the thirty-plus meters that spanned the distance. Once they stepped away from C, they'd be totally vulnerable.
If there's a team between the two lines of build– ings…
He shot a glance back, saw Rebecca and Steve tensed and waiting behind him. If they were going to walk into a corridor of fire, at least he'd be in front; Steve and Rebecca should have time to get back to cover. He took a deep breath, held it……and broke away from the wall, running in a low crouch for the dark square of the block's entry. Shapes of pallid light and shadow blurred past. His entire being was waiting for the flash of an automatic, the crack of fire, the sharp and piercing pain that would take him down, but it was silent and still, the only sound the violent stammer of his heart, the rush of blood through his veins. Seconds stretched an eternity as the door loomed closer, larger… Then the latch was under his fingers and he was pushing, bursting into a stifling blackness, spinning around to see Rebecca and then Steve come lunging in after him.
David closed the door quickly but quietly, sensing the emptiness of the dark room, the lack of life and then the smell hit him. Either Steve or Rebecca gagged, a dry bark of involuntary revulsion as David snatched for the torch, already dreading what he knew they would see. It was the same terrible stink that they'd come across in the boathouse but a hundred times more powerful. Even without the recent reference, David knew the odor. He'd experienced it in a jungle of South America and in a cultist's camp in Idaho, and once, in the basement of a serial killer's house. The smell of rotting, multiple death was unforgettable, a rancid bile like sour milk and flyblown meat.
How many, how many will there be?
The beam snapped on and as it found the tottering, reeking pile that took up one corner of the large storage room, David saw that there was no way to be certain; the bodies had started to melt into one another, the blackened, shriveling flesh of the stacked corpses blending and pooling from the humid heat.
Maybe fifteen, maybe twenty…
Retching, Steve stumbled away and threw up, a harsh and helpless sound in the otherwise quiet room. David quickly took in the rest of the chamber, finding a door against the back wall, the letter A blocked across it in black. Without another look at the terrible mound, he hustled Rebecca toward the far door, grabbing Steve as they passed. Once they were through, the smell faded to barely tolerable. They were in a windowless corridor, and though there was a light switch next to the door, David ignored it for the moment, catching his breath, letting the two young team members collect themselves. Apparently, they'd found the Umbrella workers of Caliban Cove; all but at least one of them, anyway and David decided that if they ran across him, he'd shoot first and not bother with any questions at all.
Karen and John stood at the door for a full minute after the others had gone, cracked open just wide enough for them to listen. Cool air filtered through the opening, the far away hiss of waves, but no shots, no screams. Karen let the door close and looked at John, her pale features masked in the dim light. Her voice was low, even, and terribly serious. "They're in by now. You want to take lead, or would you prefer if I went first?" John couldn't help himself. "My women always go
first," he whispered. "Though I prefer it when we go together, if you know what I mean."
Karen sighed heavily, a sound of pure exasperation. John grinned, thinking about how easy she was. He knew he shouldn't devil her, but it was hard to resist. Karen Driver kicked ass with a weapon and she was sharp as a tack in the brains department, but she was also one of the most humorless people he'd ever known.
It's my duty to help her lighten up. If we're gonna die, might as well be laughing as crying… A simple philosophy, but one he held dear; it had gotten him through many an unpleasant situation in the past.
"John, just answer the goddamn question…" "I'll go," he said mildly. "Wait till I get through, then follow."
She nodded briskly, stepping back to let him by. He briefly considered telling her that he'd greet her at the door wearing nothing but a smile, but decided against it. They'd worked together for almost five years, and he knew from experience that he could only go so far before she got pissy. Besides, it was a good line, and he didn't want to waste it. As soon as his hand closed over the latch, he took a deep breath, letting his sparkling wit take a back seat to what he thought of as his "soldier mind." There was humor, and then there was conquering the enemy – and while he enjoyed both immensely, he'd learned long ago to keep them separate.
Gonna be a ghost now, gonna slide through the dark like a shadow…
He gently pushed the door open. No sound, no movement. Holding his Beretta loosely, he stepped away from the building and moved quickly through the silvery dark, fixing on the door that was scarcely twenty steps away. His soldier mind fed him the facts, the cool wind, the soft tread of boots against dirt, the smell and taste of the ocean, but his heart told him that he was a ghost, floating like an invisible shadow through the night. He reached the door, touching the clammy metal bar with steady fingers and it wouldn't move. The entrance was locked. No panic, no worry, he was a shade that no one could see; he'd find another way in. John held up a hand, telling Karen to wait, and edged smoothly to his right.
Silent and easy, shadow without form…
He reached the corner and slid around, letting his heightened senses continue to feed him information. No movement in the whispering night, the rough feel of concrete against his left shoulder and hip, the steady pump of exhilaration and fluidity in his muscles. There was another door, facing the broad, glimmering open– ness of the sea, cool light matte against metal. Rat-atat-atat-atat! Bullets hit the dirt at his feet. John spun and leaped backward, flattening himself against the wall as he grabbed for the latch. Walking from the direction of the boathouse, a line of three… and John tore the door open and jumped behind it, heard the clatter of.22 rounds smash into the metal, stopped inches from his body by the explosive ping-ping-ping that rattled the door. He held the door open with his foot, took a split-second look around the edge and targeted the flash of light, squeezing the trigger as chips of concrete and dust flew from the wall. The nine-millimeter jumped, a part of his hand, and he was an animal now, at one with the thundering rounds, the pull of his breath, the awareness of himself both as a man and a bringer of death. Another look and the line was closer now, the three dark figures taking shape. John got off another shot, ducked behind the open door… and when he looked again, there were only two standing. Snap. Behind him. John whirled around and saw them, two of them, ten feet away at the northeast corner of the building. Both held automatic rifles. But made no move to fire. He felt panic then, a screaming, whining beast in his gut that threatened to devour him from the inside out -