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Come on, then…
Rattatattatt… Submachine gun fire from outside, a sweep across the door… but no one stepped inside. David moved left and sent a burst from his weapon in response, not expecting to hit anyone, the bullets crashing uselessly into the door's frame. He needed to buy them time, even if only a few seconds. "Uunh," a soft, feminine groan from behind him. "Rebecca! Claire! Sound off!" He whispered harshly, still watching the pale, empty square of open door.
"Here. Claire, I mean, I'm okay but I think she's
hurt…"
Dammit!
David felt his heart skip a beat and he backed up a step, his thoughts racing, a knot of dread in his belly. It had been less than a half-minute since the first shot, but the Umbrella team would have already sur– rounded the building, if they were any good at all. They needed to get out before the attackers were firmly organized.
"Claire, come to me, follow my voice – I need you covering the door. You see anyone, even a shadow, shoot to kill. Understood?"
He heard her shuffling movements as he spoke and reached out for her as she came close, grabbing hold of her arm. "Wait," he said, and let another burst from the gun fly, hammering into the wall near the door. He immediately unslung the M-16 and handed it to Claire as the submachine gun returned fire, a rattle of bullets spraying directionless into the dark.
"You can use this?"
"Yeah." She sounded anxious but steady enough. "Good. As soon as I say, we're going to start moving for the west door; you'll be covering us."
He was already turning toward the corner, where Rebecca would be. He heard another muffled murmur of pain and fixed on it, moving quickly, dropping to his knees and feeling for the injured girl. He felt silkiness beneath one hand, Rebecca's hair, and ran both hands over her head, feeling for the sticky warmth of blood.
"Rebecca, can you speak? Do you know where
you're hurt?"
A cough – and then he felt her fingers touch his arm, and knew she was all right even before she spoke. "Back of my head," she said, softly but clearly. "Possible concussion, cracked hell on my tailbone, limbs seem okay…" "I'm going to help you up. If you can't walk, I'll carry you, but we have to go now…"
As if to prove his words, there was another rattle from the gunman outside -
– and a shout that had him moving even before it was finished.
"Fire in the hole!"
David spun, leapt up from his crouch and tackled Claire from behind, calling out, "Close your eyes…" as he closed his own in case of incendiary, praying it wasn't a shrapnel…… and the vhump of a grenade launcher, followed by a loud pop and hiss told him it was gas. He moved off of Claire, felt her sit up beside him, heard her ragged, frightened breathing.
God, not sarin, soman, let them want us alive…
Within seconds, David's nose and eyes started to water viciously and he felt a wave of relief. Not nerve gas; they'd used a CN or CS tear gas. The Umbrella team was going to smoke them out. "West door," David said, and Claire choked out an affirmative, the chemical compound disseminating quickly into the frigid air, an effective but thankfully nonlethal weapon. He turned back and felt a hand brush across his chest. "I can walk," Rebecca said, coughing, and David threw her arm across his shoulders anyway and started for the door, moving as fast as he could through the black. He heard Claire gasping but hold-ing her own, keeping up with them. David hurried forward, planning as he went, trying not to breathe too deeply. There'd be people at both doors, waiting -
– but how close? They'll want to be right there, waiting to subdue their choking victims…
He had it. As they came to the wall, David fished into his hip bag, pulling out the smooth, round anti– personnel grenade and pulling the pin.
"Claire, Rebecca, behind me!"
Already blind in the dark, the tears only hurt; they didn't interfere with his aim as he pulled his nine– millimeter and swept it in front of him, finding the door. BAM! He blew a hole in the door's edge, unlocking it, hearing the surprised cries of the men outside. With hardly a pause, David jerked the door open, how far to the fence, fifty, sixty meters -
–and lobbed the grenade, a gentle toss out the door, closing it just as fast as he could, throwing his weight against it and thanking God that it was so very durable -
– and KA-WHAM, the door fought with him as the impact fuse went, dirt and shrapnel slamming against it like a wild beast clawing for entrance. David held on, only a second's war but a fierce one nonetheless. The thundering boom of the M68 gave way to moans and howls of pain, barely audible over the ringing in his ears and the screaming of his breathless lungs. "Cover to the right and head left!" He shouted, and yanked the door open, whipping the H amp;K from side to side. The pallid moonlight showed him only three men, all down, all hurt and screaming and still alive beyond the veil of his tears.
Kevlar, full-body maybe…
They'd expect a run to the front, to their escape vehicle, so David turned left. He fixed his wet gaze on the dark fence as Claire and then Rebecca tumbled out behind him, coughing and crying. "Fence," he said, as loud as he dared, and reached back for Rebecca, sliding his arm around her waist. They stumbled over one of the fallen men, clutching at his bleeding face, and managed a shagging run toward escape, Claire right behind. She sidled quickly after them, the M-16 aimed back toward the front of the compound.
Good girl, we might make this, over the fence and circle away from the van, out into the desert… They ran, closing the distance much faster than David could have hoped, the fence only ten yards behind the rear of the building they'd been in, the building he'd chosen because of it; the others angled toward the front, too much distance, and the first would have been too obvious – then they were almost to the fence when some– one fired the machine gun from the darkness behind them, from the cover of the building's other side. At least one of the Umbrella team had fought logic and come around by the unexpected route. Claire was on it, returning fire, the rapid chatter of the two automatics merging into an explosive duo. The invisible shooter was either hit or ducking as the thundering song went solo, Claire peppering the dark-ness with the.223s.
Rebecca will need help. "Claire! Up and over!" David shouted, reaching out for the M-16. She let it go and turned, scaling the fence easily. "Rebecca, go!" David pulled the trigger and held it, spraying bullets across the cold night, hearing return fire from seemingly everywhere at once, three, maybe four shooters…… and there was a cry from behind him, from Rebecca, only halfway up the metal grid. A few drops of warmth spattered across David's face and he stopped firing, jumping to catch her before she could let go. "Got it!" Claire shouted from the other side, and she fired through the mesh, the nine-millimeter rounds pounding and loud, David's pulse even loud– er. Rebecca was pale, panting harshly, obviously in pain – but she managed to hang on to the fence, even to climb a little as David straddled the fence and lifted her up. He half-carried her over the top, and as soon as Claire reached up to help, David turned and fired again at the oncoming attackers, still hidden in the shadows, his fury drying the last of the chemical tears. Bloody bastards, she's still just a girl… The M-16 went dry and he jumped, then Rebecca was between them, leaning heavily on David's shoul– der, and they were staggering out into the freezing desert night.
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
Rattatattatt… Submachine gun fire from outside, a sweep across the door… but no one stepped inside. David moved left and sent a burst from his weapon in response, not expecting to hit anyone, the bullets crashing uselessly into the door's frame. He needed to buy them time, even if only a few seconds. "Uunh," a soft, feminine groan from behind him. "Rebecca! Claire! Sound off!" He whispered harshly, still watching the pale, empty square of open door.
"Here. Claire, I mean, I'm okay but I think she's
hurt…"
Dammit!
David felt his heart skip a beat and he backed up a step, his thoughts racing, a knot of dread in his belly. It had been less than a half-minute since the first shot, but the Umbrella team would have already sur– rounded the building, if they were any good at all. They needed to get out before the attackers were firmly organized.
"Claire, come to me, follow my voice – I need you covering the door. You see anyone, even a shadow, shoot to kill. Understood?"
He heard her shuffling movements as he spoke and reached out for her as she came close, grabbing hold of her arm. "Wait," he said, and let another burst from the gun fly, hammering into the wall near the door. He immediately unslung the M-16 and handed it to Claire as the submachine gun returned fire, a rattle of bullets spraying directionless into the dark.
"You can use this?"
"Yeah." She sounded anxious but steady enough. "Good. As soon as I say, we're going to start moving for the west door; you'll be covering us."
He was already turning toward the corner, where Rebecca would be. He heard another muffled murmur of pain and fixed on it, moving quickly, dropping to his knees and feeling for the injured girl. He felt silkiness beneath one hand, Rebecca's hair, and ran both hands over her head, feeling for the sticky warmth of blood.
"Rebecca, can you speak? Do you know where
you're hurt?"
A cough – and then he felt her fingers touch his arm, and knew she was all right even before she spoke. "Back of my head," she said, softly but clearly. "Possible concussion, cracked hell on my tailbone, limbs seem okay…" "I'm going to help you up. If you can't walk, I'll carry you, but we have to go now…"
As if to prove his words, there was another rattle from the gunman outside -
– and a shout that had him moving even before it was finished.
"Fire in the hole!"
David spun, leapt up from his crouch and tackled Claire from behind, calling out, "Close your eyes…" as he closed his own in case of incendiary, praying it wasn't a shrapnel…… and the vhump of a grenade launcher, followed by a loud pop and hiss told him it was gas. He moved off of Claire, felt her sit up beside him, heard her ragged, frightened breathing.
God, not sarin, soman, let them want us alive…
Within seconds, David's nose and eyes started to water viciously and he felt a wave of relief. Not nerve gas; they'd used a CN or CS tear gas. The Umbrella team was going to smoke them out. "West door," David said, and Claire choked out an affirmative, the chemical compound disseminating quickly into the frigid air, an effective but thankfully nonlethal weapon. He turned back and felt a hand brush across his chest. "I can walk," Rebecca said, coughing, and David threw her arm across his shoulders anyway and started for the door, moving as fast as he could through the black. He heard Claire gasping but hold-ing her own, keeping up with them. David hurried forward, planning as he went, trying not to breathe too deeply. There'd be people at both doors, waiting -
– but how close? They'll want to be right there, waiting to subdue their choking victims…
He had it. As they came to the wall, David fished into his hip bag, pulling out the smooth, round anti– personnel grenade and pulling the pin.
"Claire, Rebecca, behind me!"
Already blind in the dark, the tears only hurt; they didn't interfere with his aim as he pulled his nine– millimeter and swept it in front of him, finding the door. BAM! He blew a hole in the door's edge, unlocking it, hearing the surprised cries of the men outside. With hardly a pause, David jerked the door open, how far to the fence, fifty, sixty meters -
–and lobbed the grenade, a gentle toss out the door, closing it just as fast as he could, throwing his weight against it and thanking God that it was so very durable -
– and KA-WHAM, the door fought with him as the impact fuse went, dirt and shrapnel slamming against it like a wild beast clawing for entrance. David held on, only a second's war but a fierce one nonetheless. The thundering boom of the M68 gave way to moans and howls of pain, barely audible over the ringing in his ears and the screaming of his breathless lungs. "Cover to the right and head left!" He shouted, and yanked the door open, whipping the H amp;K from side to side. The pallid moonlight showed him only three men, all down, all hurt and screaming and still alive beyond the veil of his tears.
Kevlar, full-body maybe…
They'd expect a run to the front, to their escape vehicle, so David turned left. He fixed his wet gaze on the dark fence as Claire and then Rebecca tumbled out behind him, coughing and crying. "Fence," he said, as loud as he dared, and reached back for Rebecca, sliding his arm around her waist. They stumbled over one of the fallen men, clutching at his bleeding face, and managed a shagging run toward escape, Claire right behind. She sidled quickly after them, the M-16 aimed back toward the front of the compound.
Good girl, we might make this, over the fence and circle away from the van, out into the desert… They ran, closing the distance much faster than David could have hoped, the fence only ten yards behind the rear of the building they'd been in, the building he'd chosen because of it; the others angled toward the front, too much distance, and the first would have been too obvious – then they were almost to the fence when some– one fired the machine gun from the darkness behind them, from the cover of the building's other side. At least one of the Umbrella team had fought logic and come around by the unexpected route. Claire was on it, returning fire, the rapid chatter of the two automatics merging into an explosive duo. The invisible shooter was either hit or ducking as the thundering song went solo, Claire peppering the dark-ness with the.223s.
Rebecca will need help. "Claire! Up and over!" David shouted, reaching out for the M-16. She let it go and turned, scaling the fence easily. "Rebecca, go!" David pulled the trigger and held it, spraying bullets across the cold night, hearing return fire from seemingly everywhere at once, three, maybe four shooters…… and there was a cry from behind him, from Rebecca, only halfway up the metal grid. A few drops of warmth spattered across David's face and he stopped firing, jumping to catch her before she could let go. "Got it!" Claire shouted from the other side, and she fired through the mesh, the nine-millimeter rounds pounding and loud, David's pulse even loud– er. Rebecca was pale, panting harshly, obviously in pain – but she managed to hang on to the fence, even to climb a little as David straddled the fence and lifted her up. He half-carried her over the top, and as soon as Claire reached up to help, David turned and fired again at the oncoming attackers, still hidden in the shadows, his fury drying the last of the chemical tears. Bloody bastards, she's still just a girl… The M-16 went dry and he jumped, then Rebecca was between them, leaning heavily on David's shoul– der, and they were staggering out into the freezing desert night.
THIRTEEN
WITHIN MINUTES OF THE ATTACK, LEON could see that Cole was in no shape to lead. The Umbrella worker was stumbling blind, headed only vaguely in the direction they needed to go and more from happenstance than by design.
And now that we know they can attack from the ground… he and John didn't both need to be watch– ing the skies, so to speak.
"Henry – why don't you let me take over as guide
for a few minutes?" Leon asked, glancing back at John. John nodded, not looking all that hot himself; he seemed extremely tight, his gaze darting rapidly back and forth, his hands tight on the M-16.
Maybe he's thinking about the others. About them being "taken." "Yeah, okay, that'd be okay," Cole nodded, his relief all too apparent. He wiped at his sweaty brown hair and hurried to get behind Leon, John still in back. Leon was nervous, but not nearly as frightened as he had been, at least not for the three of them. The birds, Dacs, were unpleasant and dangerous, but it was a relief to have seen them; they weren't as terrible as his imagination had led him to believe upon hearing those first savage cries. Monsters from the mind were always worse than the real thing, and the Dacs weren't even all that durable. As long he and John were on their guard, they should make it okay. They were headed due south, so Leon angled them again, realizing that he was starting to catch glimpses of what might be the far wall. The setup was disori– enting; the trees were not all that close together, but were scattered so that the woods seemed dense when you looked across it; the thick ground cover, some kind of molded plastic, didn't move underfoot, but there were slopes and rises in the material that made it even harder to get a feel for the size of the chamber.
This is so weird, so over the top – so utterly like Umbrella.
It was like the vast laboratory facility beneath Raccoon, complete with its own foundry and private subway – unbelievable, except he'd seen it himself. And he knew from the ex-S.T.A.R.S. that there'd also been an isolated cove on the Maine coast guarded by teams of viral zombies, and a "deserted" mansion in the woods, the Spencer place – that one had been rigged with secrets, keys, codes, and passages, like the setting for a spy movie that no one would ever buy. Now this – simulated environments beneath the barren Utah salt flats. What had Reston called it? The Planet. It was an extravagant, decadent, immoral waste; ridiculous, except -
–except we're stuck in it, and God only knows what we'll be up against next.
Leon kept moving, trying not to think about what Claire and the others might be going through. Reston had obviously assumed that the rest of the team had been nabbed, but he didn't know. He also didn't know how resourceful Claire and Rebecca were, or how brilliant David was as a strategist. They'd all slipped
away from Umbrella before, and there was no reason to think that they wouldn't do it again. Leon was so intent on the private pep-talk that he didn't see the clearing until they were practically on top of it, less than twenty feet away. He stopped, remembering the last attack and chided himself for not paying attention. "Let's back up and go around," he said and then he heard the beat of wings, and knew it was alreadytoo late. In the wilted shadows above the open space, one, two, three of them were diving off perches, soaring down into the rounded clearing.
Shit!
One of them started to screech and then there were others nearby, overhead, hiding in the unlikely trees, who joined in the song, a deafening, horrendous cacophony of needle-sharp sound. Leon fell back, John suddenly at his side, aiming his rifle into the open space. The first flew at the trees, twisting sideways as if to fly between them. It pulled up at the last second, so quickly that they didn't get off a shot. As it soared up, Leon saw two on the ground, dragging their sinewy bodies eagerly forward on folded wings. The noise! It was painful, as shrill and terrible as a thousand screaming infants, and Leon felt the nine– millimeter fire more than he heard it, the heavy metal jumping in his hands. The birds fell silent as the closer of the two took the shot in its curving throat. A ragged hole blew open just above its narrow chest, flaps of gray-brown skin blossoming out like some dark flower. Thin blood gushed from the wound, but the second was already climbing over its spasming body, single-minded in its attack. Leon took aim and… "Hey hey oh shit… " Cole's hysterical cry distracted him, the shot jerk– ing right, missing. John opened up on the second Dac, the clatter of automatic fire tearing into the animal. Leon spun and saw Cole stumbling backwards, anoth– er of the vicious birds lunging toward him.
How'd it get past us?
Leon aimed, the Dac no more than five feet away from Cole, and even as he pulled the trigger another of the creatures was swooping down from directly overhead. At such close range the nine-millimeter round punctured the bird's chest and blew a fist-sized hole out its low back, the Dac dead before it crumpled to the ground. The newcomer gave one mighty flap, the tips of its huge wings brushing the floor, and flew back up and away.
"Henry, get behind me!" Leon shouted, glancing up and seeing yet another Dac coming down from a series of perches directly above, tucking its wings in and diving straight for him. He needed help. "John…!" The diving bird spread its leathery wings only a few feet from the floor and touched down, surprisingly graceful in its landing. It turned toward Leon and lurched forward. Behind him, he heard the spatter of bullets – and heard it stop, heard John cursing, heard the M-16s aluminum alloy body clatter to the ground. The Dac in front of Leon opened its long beak and squawked, a burst of angry, hungry sound, sidling forward on its bent wings as fast as Leon could back away. The creature was weaving back and forth and Leon didn't have enough ammo to waste, he had to get a clear shot -
– and it jumped, a strange, sudden hop that put it only a foot away. With another shrill screech, it bobbed its head forward, its open beak closing on his ankle. Even through the thick boot leather, he could feel the pegs of its teeth, feel the power in its jaws -
–and before he could fire, John was there, he was stamping down on the Dac's snaking neck and point– ing his handgun -
– and bam, the round snapped its spine, a verte– bral knob on its sleek back exploding, shards of pale bone and runny blood spraying outward. It let go of his ankle, and though its neck continued to twist its body was still, bleeding and still.
How many, how many left…"Come on," John called, scooping up the rifle and turning to run. "Get to the door, we have to get to the door!"
They ran. Through the clearing, Cole right behind, the beat of wings behind them, another shrill voice crying into the air. Back into the trees, the lifeless woods, stumbling over branches and veering around the gnarled plastic trunks.
The wall, there's the wall!
And there was the door, a double-wide metal hatch, a deadbolt set low at the right side -
–and Leon heard the terrible screech in his ear, inches away, and felt the gust of air across the back of his neck -
–and he let his legs give, collapsing to the ground, and felt sudden pain as something snatched a chunk of hair and ripped it from his scalp, from the back of his head. "Look out!" Leon screamed, looking up to see the massive bird swooping in on John, almost to the door,
Cole beside him. John turned, not a flinch, not a backward stumble. He raised the handgun and pulled the trigger, a dead shot, and the Dac dropped as if made of lead, its tiny brain suddenly liquid, blowing up and out. Cole was fumbling with the door, John still aiming over Leon's head, and Leon heard another one screaming as if in a fury, somewhere behind -
–and the door was open – Leon ran, John cover-ing him as he stumbled after Cole, out of the cool, dark woods and into a blinding heat. John was right behind him, slamming the hatch closed…… and they were in Phase Two.
Rebecca was running, out of breath and exhausted and unable to stop, to rest. David and Claire were running with her, holding her up, but she still felt that each step was an effort of pure will; her muscles didn't want to cooperate, and she was disoriented, her equilibrium a mess, her ears ringing. She was hurt, and she didn't know how bad – only that she'd been shot, that she'd hit her head at some point, and that they couldn't stop until they were well away from the compound. It was dark, too dark to see where the ground was, and cold; each breath was an iced dagger in her throat and lungs. Her thoughts were muddled, but she knew that she'd suffered some brain dysfunction, she wasn't sure what exactly; as she staggered along, the possibil– ities haunted her. The bullet was easier; she knew by the hot and throbbing pain where it had gone. It hurt terribly, but she didn't think she had a fracture and it wasn't gushing; she was much more concerned about the loss of coherency.
Shot through left gluteal, lodged in ischium, lucky lucky lucky… shock or concussion? Concussion or shock?
She needed to stop, take a temporal pulse, check her ears for blood… or for CSF, which was some– thing she didn't even want to think about. Even in her confused state, she knew that bleeding cerebrospinal fluid was about the worst outcome for a blow to the head. After what seemed like a very long time, and more twists and changes in direction than she could count, David slowed, telling Claire to slow down, and that they were going to sit Rebecca on the ground. "On my side," Rebecca panted, "bullet's on the left."
Carefully, David and Claire lowered her down to the cold flat earth, gasping, catching their breath, and Rebecca thought she'd never been more glad to lie down. She caught just a glimpse of the black sky as David rolled her over: the stars were amazing, clear and ice against the deep black sea… "Flashlight," she said, realizing again how strange her thoughts had become. "Gotta check." "Are we far enough?" Claire asked, and it took Rebecca a moment to understand that she was talking to David.
Oh, crap this is not good… "Should be. And we'll see them coming." David said shortly, and he turned on his flashlight, the beam hitting the ground a few inches in front of Rebecca's face. "Rebecca, what can we do?" He asked, and she heard the worry in his voice and loved him for it. They were like family, had been ever since the cove, he was a good friend and a good man… "Rebecca?" This time, he sounded afraid. "Yeah, sorry," she said, wondering how to explain what she was feeling, what was happening. She de-cided it would be best to just start talking and let them figure it out. "Look at my ear," she said. "Look for blood or clear fluid, I think I've had a concussion. I can't seem to gather my thoughts. Other ear, too. I was shot and I think the bullet lodged in my ischium. Pelvis. Lucky, lucky. Shouldn't be bleeding much, I can disinfect it, wrap it if you'll hand me my pack. There's gauze and that's good, though, the bullet could've snapped my spine or gone low, chewed through my femoral artery. Lot of blood, that's bad, and me the only medic being hurt…"
As she spoke, David shone the light across her face, then gently lifted and checked the other side before resting her head in his lap. His legs were warm, the muscles twitching from exertion. "A little blood in your left ear," he said. "Claire, take off Rebecca's pack, if you would. Rebecca, you don't have to speak anymore, we'll fix you right up; try to rest, if you can." No CSF, thank God…
She wanted to close her eyes, to sleep, but she needed to finish telling them everything. "Concussion sounds minor, explains displacement, tinnitus, lack of equilibrium – may only be a couple hours, maybe weeks. Shouldn't be too bad, shouldn't move though. Bed rest. Find my temporal pulse, side of my fore-head. If you can't, I could be in shock – warmth, elevation…"
She took a breath, and realized that the darkness wasn't just outside anymore. She was tired, very, very tired, and a kind of hazy blackness was encroaching on her vision. That's everything, told them everything… John. Leon. "John and Leon," she said, horrified that she'd forgotten for even a moment, struggling to sit up. The realization was like a slap in the face. "I can walk, I'm okay, we have to go back…"
David barely touched her and somehow, her head was in his lap again. Then Claire was lifting the back of her shirt, dabbing at her hip, sending fresh waves of pain coursing through her. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to breathe deeply, trying to breathe at all. "We will go back," David said, and his voice seemed to be coming from far away, from the top of a well that she was falling down. "But we have to wait for the helicopter to leave, assuming that it will – and you'll need time to recover…"
If he said anything else, Rebecca didn't hear it. Instead, she slept, and dreamed that she was a child, playing in the cold, cold snow.
Desert!
There weren't any animals in sight, they had to be on the other side of the dune, but Cole thought he knew which ones belonged to Phase Two. Before John or Leon could get even a step away, before Cole's ears had stopped ringing from the Dacs' terrible cries, he started babbling at them.
"Desert, Phase Two is a desert so it must be the Scorps, scorpions, see?"
John was pulling a curved magazine from his hip pack, scowling into the artificial sunlight that beat down from above. It had to be at least a hundred degrees in the room, and between the white walls and glaring light it felt a lot hotter. Leon scanned the shining sands in front of them, then turned to Cole, looking as though he'd just eaten something sour.
"Wonderful, that's just great. 'Scorps'? Scorps and Dacs… what are the other ones, Henry, do you remember?"
For a single second, Cole's mind went blank. He nodded, wracking his brain, all of the sweat on his body already evaporated in the bone dry heat.
"Uh – they're, they're nicknames, Dacs, Scorps… Hunters! Hunters and Spitters, the han– dlers all had these nicknames…" "Cute. Like Fluffy, or Sweet Pea," John inter-rupted, wiping his brow with the back of one hand.
"So where are they?"
All three of them looked across Phase Two, at the massive sand dune that towered in the middle of the room, glittering beneath the giant grid of sunlamps overhead. Twenty-five, thirty feet high, it blocked their view of the southern wall, including the door in the far right corner. There was nothing else to see. Cole shook his head, but he wasn't telling them anything; the Scorps were elsewhere, and they'd have to cross the bright and burning sand dune to get to the exit.
"What were the other phases, mountain and city? Have you seen them?" Leon asked. "Three is like a, whadayacallit, a chasm, on a peak. Like a mountain gorge, kind of, real rocky. And Four is a city – a few square blocks of one, anyway. I had to check the video feeds in all of the phases when I first got here."
John looked up and around, squinting against the harsh light. "That's right, video… do you remem-ber where they are? The cameras?"Why would he want to know that? Cole pointed left, at the small glass eye embedded in the white wall some ten feet up. "There are five in here; that's the closest…"
With a huge grin, John held up both hands and extended his middle fingers to the lens. "Bite it, Reston," he said loudly, and Cole decided that he liked John, a lot. Leon too, for that matter, and not just because they were the only ticket out. Whatever their motivations, they were obviously on the right side of things; and the fact that they could still joke at a time like this… "So, we got a plan?" Leon asked, still looking at the wall of yellow-white sand looming in front of them. "Head that way," John said, pointing right, "and then climb. If we see something, shoot it." "Brilliant, John. You should write these down. You know, I…"
Leon broke off suddenly, and then Cole heard it. A chattering sound. A sound like nails being tapped on hollow wood, the sound he'd heard when he was fixing one of the cameras only last week.
A sound like claws, opening and closing. Like man-dibles, clicking…"Scorps," John said softly. "Aren't scorpions sup– posed to be nocturnal?" "This is Umbrella, remember?" Leon said. "You have two grenades, I've got one…"John nodded, then said, "You know how to work a semiautomatic?"
The big soldier was watching the dune, so it took Cole a second to realize he was talking to him.
"Oh. Yeah. I haven't ever used one, but I went target shooting a couple of times with my brother, six or seven years ago…" He kept his voice low as they did, listening for that strange sound. John looked directly at him, as if sizing him up -
– then nodded, and pulled a heavy-looking handgun out of his hip holster. He handed it to Cole, butt first.
"It's a nine-millimeter, holds eighteen. I got more clips if you run out. You know all the gun safety rules? Don't point it at anyone unless you mean to kill, don't shoot me or Leon, all that stuff?"
Cole nodded, taking the gun, and it was heavy and although he was still more scared than he'd ever been in all his thirty-four years, the solid weight of it in his hand was an incredible relief. Remembering what his little brother had told him about safety, he fumbled through checking to see if it was loaded before looking at John again. "Thank you," he said, and meant it. He'd lured these two guys into a trap, and they were giving him a gun; giving him a chance.
"Forget it. Means we won't have to worry about covering your ass on top of ours," John said, but he wore a slight smile. "Come on, let's move out." John in the lead and Leon behind him, they started east, walking slowly through the changeless environ– ment. The sand was really sand; it shifted underfoot, and with the blasting heat, it made for a real workout. They'd only gone a short distance when Leon called for a halt. "Thermal underwear," he muttered, bolstering his handgun before pulling off his black sweatshirt and tying it around his waist. He wore a thick, textured white shirt underneath. "I didn't realize we'd be hitting the Sahara…"
They all heard it, only a second before they saw it -
– before they saw them, three of them, lining up at the top of the dune. Tiny rivers of sand trickled down from beneath their multiple legs, each as thick and stocky as a sawed-off baseball bat. They had claws, giant pincing claws that were narrow and black, serrated on the inside, and long, segmented bodies that dwindled to tails, curling up and over their Backs – and tipped with stingers. Wicked, dripping stingers at least a foot long. The trio of sand-colored creatures, each five or six feet long, maybe three feet high, started to chatter -
–the slender, pointed, tusk-like projections beneath the rounded arachnid eyes tapped against one another,
beating out the strange tattoo of clicks that they'dheard before…… and then all three of the creatures, the monsters, were sliding down toward them, perfectly balanced, scuttling through the moving sands with ease. And at the top of the dune, another three appeared.
And now that we know they can attack from the ground… he and John didn't both need to be watch– ing the skies, so to speak.
"Henry – why don't you let me take over as guide
for a few minutes?" Leon asked, glancing back at John. John nodded, not looking all that hot himself; he seemed extremely tight, his gaze darting rapidly back and forth, his hands tight on the M-16.
Maybe he's thinking about the others. About them being "taken." "Yeah, okay, that'd be okay," Cole nodded, his relief all too apparent. He wiped at his sweaty brown hair and hurried to get behind Leon, John still in back. Leon was nervous, but not nearly as frightened as he had been, at least not for the three of them. The birds, Dacs, were unpleasant and dangerous, but it was a relief to have seen them; they weren't as terrible as his imagination had led him to believe upon hearing those first savage cries. Monsters from the mind were always worse than the real thing, and the Dacs weren't even all that durable. As long he and John were on their guard, they should make it okay. They were headed due south, so Leon angled them again, realizing that he was starting to catch glimpses of what might be the far wall. The setup was disori– enting; the trees were not all that close together, but were scattered so that the woods seemed dense when you looked across it; the thick ground cover, some kind of molded plastic, didn't move underfoot, but there were slopes and rises in the material that made it even harder to get a feel for the size of the chamber.
This is so weird, so over the top – so utterly like Umbrella.
It was like the vast laboratory facility beneath Raccoon, complete with its own foundry and private subway – unbelievable, except he'd seen it himself. And he knew from the ex-S.T.A.R.S. that there'd also been an isolated cove on the Maine coast guarded by teams of viral zombies, and a "deserted" mansion in the woods, the Spencer place – that one had been rigged with secrets, keys, codes, and passages, like the setting for a spy movie that no one would ever buy. Now this – simulated environments beneath the barren Utah salt flats. What had Reston called it? The Planet. It was an extravagant, decadent, immoral waste; ridiculous, except -
–except we're stuck in it, and God only knows what we'll be up against next.
Leon kept moving, trying not to think about what Claire and the others might be going through. Reston had obviously assumed that the rest of the team had been nabbed, but he didn't know. He also didn't know how resourceful Claire and Rebecca were, or how brilliant David was as a strategist. They'd all slipped
away from Umbrella before, and there was no reason to think that they wouldn't do it again. Leon was so intent on the private pep-talk that he didn't see the clearing until they were practically on top of it, less than twenty feet away. He stopped, remembering the last attack and chided himself for not paying attention. "Let's back up and go around," he said and then he heard the beat of wings, and knew it was alreadytoo late. In the wilted shadows above the open space, one, two, three of them were diving off perches, soaring down into the rounded clearing.
Shit!
One of them started to screech and then there were others nearby, overhead, hiding in the unlikely trees, who joined in the song, a deafening, horrendous cacophony of needle-sharp sound. Leon fell back, John suddenly at his side, aiming his rifle into the open space. The first flew at the trees, twisting sideways as if to fly between them. It pulled up at the last second, so quickly that they didn't get off a shot. As it soared up, Leon saw two on the ground, dragging their sinewy bodies eagerly forward on folded wings. The noise! It was painful, as shrill and terrible as a thousand screaming infants, and Leon felt the nine– millimeter fire more than he heard it, the heavy metal jumping in his hands. The birds fell silent as the closer of the two took the shot in its curving throat. A ragged hole blew open just above its narrow chest, flaps of gray-brown skin blossoming out like some dark flower. Thin blood gushed from the wound, but the second was already climbing over its spasming body, single-minded in its attack. Leon took aim and… "Hey hey oh shit… " Cole's hysterical cry distracted him, the shot jerk– ing right, missing. John opened up on the second Dac, the clatter of automatic fire tearing into the animal. Leon spun and saw Cole stumbling backwards, anoth– er of the vicious birds lunging toward him.
How'd it get past us?
Leon aimed, the Dac no more than five feet away from Cole, and even as he pulled the trigger another of the creatures was swooping down from directly overhead. At such close range the nine-millimeter round punctured the bird's chest and blew a fist-sized hole out its low back, the Dac dead before it crumpled to the ground. The newcomer gave one mighty flap, the tips of its huge wings brushing the floor, and flew back up and away.
"Henry, get behind me!" Leon shouted, glancing up and seeing yet another Dac coming down from a series of perches directly above, tucking its wings in and diving straight for him. He needed help. "John…!" The diving bird spread its leathery wings only a few feet from the floor and touched down, surprisingly graceful in its landing. It turned toward Leon and lurched forward. Behind him, he heard the spatter of bullets – and heard it stop, heard John cursing, heard the M-16s aluminum alloy body clatter to the ground. The Dac in front of Leon opened its long beak and squawked, a burst of angry, hungry sound, sidling forward on its bent wings as fast as Leon could back away. The creature was weaving back and forth and Leon didn't have enough ammo to waste, he had to get a clear shot -
– and it jumped, a strange, sudden hop that put it only a foot away. With another shrill screech, it bobbed its head forward, its open beak closing on his ankle. Even through the thick boot leather, he could feel the pegs of its teeth, feel the power in its jaws -
–and before he could fire, John was there, he was stamping down on the Dac's snaking neck and point– ing his handgun -
– and bam, the round snapped its spine, a verte– bral knob on its sleek back exploding, shards of pale bone and runny blood spraying outward. It let go of his ankle, and though its neck continued to twist its body was still, bleeding and still.
How many, how many left…"Come on," John called, scooping up the rifle and turning to run. "Get to the door, we have to get to the door!"
They ran. Through the clearing, Cole right behind, the beat of wings behind them, another shrill voice crying into the air. Back into the trees, the lifeless woods, stumbling over branches and veering around the gnarled plastic trunks.
The wall, there's the wall!
And there was the door, a double-wide metal hatch, a deadbolt set low at the right side -
–and Leon heard the terrible screech in his ear, inches away, and felt the gust of air across the back of his neck -
–and he let his legs give, collapsing to the ground, and felt sudden pain as something snatched a chunk of hair and ripped it from his scalp, from the back of his head. "Look out!" Leon screamed, looking up to see the massive bird swooping in on John, almost to the door,
Cole beside him. John turned, not a flinch, not a backward stumble. He raised the handgun and pulled the trigger, a dead shot, and the Dac dropped as if made of lead, its tiny brain suddenly liquid, blowing up and out. Cole was fumbling with the door, John still aiming over Leon's head, and Leon heard another one screaming as if in a fury, somewhere behind -
–and the door was open – Leon ran, John cover-ing him as he stumbled after Cole, out of the cool, dark woods and into a blinding heat. John was right behind him, slamming the hatch closed…… and they were in Phase Two.
Rebecca was running, out of breath and exhausted and unable to stop, to rest. David and Claire were running with her, holding her up, but she still felt that each step was an effort of pure will; her muscles didn't want to cooperate, and she was disoriented, her equilibrium a mess, her ears ringing. She was hurt, and she didn't know how bad – only that she'd been shot, that she'd hit her head at some point, and that they couldn't stop until they were well away from the compound. It was dark, too dark to see where the ground was, and cold; each breath was an iced dagger in her throat and lungs. Her thoughts were muddled, but she knew that she'd suffered some brain dysfunction, she wasn't sure what exactly; as she staggered along, the possibil– ities haunted her. The bullet was easier; she knew by the hot and throbbing pain where it had gone. It hurt terribly, but she didn't think she had a fracture and it wasn't gushing; she was much more concerned about the loss of coherency.
Shot through left gluteal, lodged in ischium, lucky lucky lucky… shock or concussion? Concussion or shock?
She needed to stop, take a temporal pulse, check her ears for blood… or for CSF, which was some– thing she didn't even want to think about. Even in her confused state, she knew that bleeding cerebrospinal fluid was about the worst outcome for a blow to the head. After what seemed like a very long time, and more twists and changes in direction than she could count, David slowed, telling Claire to slow down, and that they were going to sit Rebecca on the ground. "On my side," Rebecca panted, "bullet's on the left."
Carefully, David and Claire lowered her down to the cold flat earth, gasping, catching their breath, and Rebecca thought she'd never been more glad to lie down. She caught just a glimpse of the black sky as David rolled her over: the stars were amazing, clear and ice against the deep black sea… "Flashlight," she said, realizing again how strange her thoughts had become. "Gotta check." "Are we far enough?" Claire asked, and it took Rebecca a moment to understand that she was talking to David.
Oh, crap this is not good… "Should be. And we'll see them coming." David said shortly, and he turned on his flashlight, the beam hitting the ground a few inches in front of Rebecca's face. "Rebecca, what can we do?" He asked, and she heard the worry in his voice and loved him for it. They were like family, had been ever since the cove, he was a good friend and a good man… "Rebecca?" This time, he sounded afraid. "Yeah, sorry," she said, wondering how to explain what she was feeling, what was happening. She de-cided it would be best to just start talking and let them figure it out. "Look at my ear," she said. "Look for blood or clear fluid, I think I've had a concussion. I can't seem to gather my thoughts. Other ear, too. I was shot and I think the bullet lodged in my ischium. Pelvis. Lucky, lucky. Shouldn't be bleeding much, I can disinfect it, wrap it if you'll hand me my pack. There's gauze and that's good, though, the bullet could've snapped my spine or gone low, chewed through my femoral artery. Lot of blood, that's bad, and me the only medic being hurt…"
As she spoke, David shone the light across her face, then gently lifted and checked the other side before resting her head in his lap. His legs were warm, the muscles twitching from exertion. "A little blood in your left ear," he said. "Claire, take off Rebecca's pack, if you would. Rebecca, you don't have to speak anymore, we'll fix you right up; try to rest, if you can." No CSF, thank God…
She wanted to close her eyes, to sleep, but she needed to finish telling them everything. "Concussion sounds minor, explains displacement, tinnitus, lack of equilibrium – may only be a couple hours, maybe weeks. Shouldn't be too bad, shouldn't move though. Bed rest. Find my temporal pulse, side of my fore-head. If you can't, I could be in shock – warmth, elevation…"
She took a breath, and realized that the darkness wasn't just outside anymore. She was tired, very, very tired, and a kind of hazy blackness was encroaching on her vision. That's everything, told them everything… John. Leon. "John and Leon," she said, horrified that she'd forgotten for even a moment, struggling to sit up. The realization was like a slap in the face. "I can walk, I'm okay, we have to go back…"
David barely touched her and somehow, her head was in his lap again. Then Claire was lifting the back of her shirt, dabbing at her hip, sending fresh waves of pain coursing through her. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to breathe deeply, trying to breathe at all. "We will go back," David said, and his voice seemed to be coming from far away, from the top of a well that she was falling down. "But we have to wait for the helicopter to leave, assuming that it will – and you'll need time to recover…"
If he said anything else, Rebecca didn't hear it. Instead, she slept, and dreamed that she was a child, playing in the cold, cold snow.
Desert!
There weren't any animals in sight, they had to be on the other side of the dune, but Cole thought he knew which ones belonged to Phase Two. Before John or Leon could get even a step away, before Cole's ears had stopped ringing from the Dacs' terrible cries, he started babbling at them.
"Desert, Phase Two is a desert so it must be the Scorps, scorpions, see?"
John was pulling a curved magazine from his hip pack, scowling into the artificial sunlight that beat down from above. It had to be at least a hundred degrees in the room, and between the white walls and glaring light it felt a lot hotter. Leon scanned the shining sands in front of them, then turned to Cole, looking as though he'd just eaten something sour.
"Wonderful, that's just great. 'Scorps'? Scorps and Dacs… what are the other ones, Henry, do you remember?"
For a single second, Cole's mind went blank. He nodded, wracking his brain, all of the sweat on his body already evaporated in the bone dry heat.
"Uh – they're, they're nicknames, Dacs, Scorps… Hunters! Hunters and Spitters, the han– dlers all had these nicknames…" "Cute. Like Fluffy, or Sweet Pea," John inter-rupted, wiping his brow with the back of one hand.
"So where are they?"
All three of them looked across Phase Two, at the massive sand dune that towered in the middle of the room, glittering beneath the giant grid of sunlamps overhead. Twenty-five, thirty feet high, it blocked their view of the southern wall, including the door in the far right corner. There was nothing else to see. Cole shook his head, but he wasn't telling them anything; the Scorps were elsewhere, and they'd have to cross the bright and burning sand dune to get to the exit.
"What were the other phases, mountain and city? Have you seen them?" Leon asked. "Three is like a, whadayacallit, a chasm, on a peak. Like a mountain gorge, kind of, real rocky. And Four is a city – a few square blocks of one, anyway. I had to check the video feeds in all of the phases when I first got here."
John looked up and around, squinting against the harsh light. "That's right, video… do you remem-ber where they are? The cameras?"Why would he want to know that? Cole pointed left, at the small glass eye embedded in the white wall some ten feet up. "There are five in here; that's the closest…"
With a huge grin, John held up both hands and extended his middle fingers to the lens. "Bite it, Reston," he said loudly, and Cole decided that he liked John, a lot. Leon too, for that matter, and not just because they were the only ticket out. Whatever their motivations, they were obviously on the right side of things; and the fact that they could still joke at a time like this… "So, we got a plan?" Leon asked, still looking at the wall of yellow-white sand looming in front of them. "Head that way," John said, pointing right, "and then climb. If we see something, shoot it." "Brilliant, John. You should write these down. You know, I…"
Leon broke off suddenly, and then Cole heard it. A chattering sound. A sound like nails being tapped on hollow wood, the sound he'd heard when he was fixing one of the cameras only last week.
A sound like claws, opening and closing. Like man-dibles, clicking…"Scorps," John said softly. "Aren't scorpions sup– posed to be nocturnal?" "This is Umbrella, remember?" Leon said. "You have two grenades, I've got one…"John nodded, then said, "You know how to work a semiautomatic?"
The big soldier was watching the dune, so it took Cole a second to realize he was talking to him.
"Oh. Yeah. I haven't ever used one, but I went target shooting a couple of times with my brother, six or seven years ago…" He kept his voice low as they did, listening for that strange sound. John looked directly at him, as if sizing him up -
– then nodded, and pulled a heavy-looking handgun out of his hip holster. He handed it to Cole, butt first.
"It's a nine-millimeter, holds eighteen. I got more clips if you run out. You know all the gun safety rules? Don't point it at anyone unless you mean to kill, don't shoot me or Leon, all that stuff?"
Cole nodded, taking the gun, and it was heavy and although he was still more scared than he'd ever been in all his thirty-four years, the solid weight of it in his hand was an incredible relief. Remembering what his little brother had told him about safety, he fumbled through checking to see if it was loaded before looking at John again. "Thank you," he said, and meant it. He'd lured these two guys into a trap, and they were giving him a gun; giving him a chance.
"Forget it. Means we won't have to worry about covering your ass on top of ours," John said, but he wore a slight smile. "Come on, let's move out." John in the lead and Leon behind him, they started east, walking slowly through the changeless environ– ment. The sand was really sand; it shifted underfoot, and with the blasting heat, it made for a real workout. They'd only gone a short distance when Leon called for a halt. "Thermal underwear," he muttered, bolstering his handgun before pulling off his black sweatshirt and tying it around his waist. He wore a thick, textured white shirt underneath. "I didn't realize we'd be hitting the Sahara…"
They all heard it, only a second before they saw it -
– before they saw them, three of them, lining up at the top of the dune. Tiny rivers of sand trickled down from beneath their multiple legs, each as thick and stocky as a sawed-off baseball bat. They had claws, giant pincing claws that were narrow and black, serrated on the inside, and long, segmented bodies that dwindled to tails, curling up and over their Backs – and tipped with stingers. Wicked, dripping stingers at least a foot long. The trio of sand-colored creatures, each five or six feet long, maybe three feet high, started to chatter -
–the slender, pointed, tusk-like projections beneath the rounded arachnid eyes tapped against one another,
beating out the strange tattoo of clicks that they'dheard before…… and then all three of the creatures, the monsters, were sliding down toward them, perfectly balanced, scuttling through the moving sands with ease. And at the top of the dune, another three appeared.
FOURTEEN
"SHIT," JOHN BREATHED, NOT EVEN AWARE that he'd spoken as he raised the M-16 and open– ed up. – bambambambam -
–and the first of the scorpion-things let out a strange, dry, hissing sound, like air being let out of a giant tire, as the bullets hammered into its curled body. A thick white fluid burst from the wounds that had opened in its insectile face, a face of drooling tusks and spider's eyes, a face with a black shapeless hole for a mouth. Writhing, claws raised, it fell on its side and twisted wildly, digging its own shallow grave in the hot sand. Leon and Cole were both shooting, the thunder of the nine-millimeter drowning out any more hissing, producing even more of the pus-like blood in the second and third of the Scorps. The white liquid spewed out in glurts, like puke, but there were three more of the creatures coming down…… and the first one, the one that John had drilled full of holes, was getting up. Getting up unsteadily, but getting up all the same. The openings were oozing with that viscous white goo – and even as it took its first step toward them, John saw that the liquid was hardening. Plugging the wounds as efficiently as plas– ter filled a hole in a wall. "Go go go!" John shouted as the other two crea-tures, taken down by Leon and Cole, started to move, their wounds already scabbing over. The second threesome was halfway down the dune and closing fast.
Gotta get out.
There were still two more "environments," and they'd already blown at least a third of their ammo; this ran through John's mind in the split-second it took him to spray the Scorps with a hail of bullets, as Leon and Cole ran east. He didn't even try to take any of the six down, he knew it wouldn't make a difference. The line of explosive rounds was to hold them back until the other two men were clear, his mind grasping for a solution as the impossible animals waved their jagged claws, scrabbling against the shifting sands and spurt-ing more of their bizarre epoxy.
–grenade but how do I get them all, how do we avoid taking shrapnel -The closest of the Scorps was perhaps a dozen feet in front of him when he turned and ran, moving as fast as he could through the blazing heat, his adrena-line up and raging. Leon and Cole were fifty meters ahead, stumbling through the sand, Leon running sideways, watching front and back, sweeping with his semi. John risked a glance back, saw that the scorpion creatures were still coming. Slower than before but not faltering, their waspish bodies dripping white, their bizarre elongated claws raised and snapping. They were gaining speed, too, faster with each skitter– ing step, a pack of undead bugs looking for lunch -
– pack, in a pack
They might not have a better chance. John dropped the rifle, the sling hanging awkwardly around his neck, and jammed one hand into his pack, still managing a decent run. He came up with one of the grenades, jerked the pin free, and turned, backing up in a shambling jog. He tried to evaluate the distance, the M68's process running through his frenzied mind, the Scorps sixty, seventy feet behind.
–impact fuse, armed two seconds after it hits, six-second backup -"Grenade!" He screamed, and threw the round canister up, praying that he'd judged it right as he turned and lunged, the grenade still ascending as he dove into the side of the sand dune. John swam into it, pushing with all his considerable muscle, burrowing into the hot grit blind and breath– less. The sand was cooler underneath, waves of the unpacked stuff pouring across his face, trying to force its way into his nose and mouth, but he couldn't think of anything except pulling his legs in – and what the blast-projected slivers of metal could do to human flesh. One final, desperate kick and – KA-WHAM -
– there was a huge shift all around him, an incredi– ble pressure slamming into him and into the moving wall he was embedded in. He felt the weight on top of him press down, forcing the air out of him, and it took all he had to force one hand up to his face, to cup it over his mouth. Breathing shallowly, he started worming his way back out, wriggling and kicking.
Leon, did they get down in time, did it work?
He fought against the still sliding currents of pol-ished granules, taking one more breath before using both hands to swipe at the heavy sands. In a few seconds he was out, rivulets of grit streaming off of him, his irritated eyes watering. He wiped at them one handed, raising the M-16, looking first at the threat…… which wasn't a threat anymore. The grenade must have landed right in front of them; of the six mutant scorpions that had been pursuing them, four were in pieces. John saw a still-twitching claw lying across the sand in a puddle of white, a tail with stinger still attached sticking out of the side of the dune, a leg, another leg; the rest was unrecognizable, great hunks of wet mush splattered in a rough semi-circle. The two Scorps at the rear of the pack were still whole, but were definitely not going to get up again; the bodies were intact, but the eyes and mouth, the strange mandibles, the faces were gone.
Blown all to shit, in fact. No amount of white goop in
the world's gonna plug that up…
"John!"
He turned, saw Leon and Cole striding back toward him, expressions of amazement on both their faces. John allowed himself a brief moment of completely unchecked pride, watching them approach; he'd been brilliant – timing, aim, everything.
Ah, well. The true soldier takes no accolades for a job well done; it's enough that he knows it…
By the time they reached him, he'd managed to get over himself; thinking about their situation was enough. They were in a psycho testing ground being put through their paces by an Umbrella madman; their team was split up, they had limited ammo, and there was no clear way out of it.
Pretty much, you're screwed. Patting yourself on the back is kinda like giving aspirin to a dead guy; pointless.
Still, seeing the faint hope on the other men's flushed and sweating faces… hope could be mis– guided, but it was rarely a bad thing. "There could still be more of them," he said, wiping sand off of the M-16. "Let's get out of here…"
–clickclickclick-That sound. All of them froze, staring at each other. It wasn't close, but somewhere over the dune, there was at least one more Scorp.
David had spotted a moving light, maybe a quarter mile southwest of their position, but it had come no closer; if it wasn't for the cold, Claire thought she might feel relieved. The chances of anyone finding
them in the endless miles of dark were somewhere near zero; the Umbrella guys had blown it. Even with the helicopter's searchlight – which they apparentlyweren't going to use – it'd be pure luck if they ran across the three of them… although maybe it'd be lucky for us. Maybe they'd have blankets and coffee, hot chocolate, spiced cider…"How are you, Claire?"
She made an effort to keep her teeth from chatter– ing, but it failed. It had been at least an hour, probably more. "Pretty goddamn cold, David, and yourself?" "Same. Good thing we dressed warm, eh?"
If it was a joke, she wasn't laughing. Claire snuggled closer to Rebecca, wondering when she'd lose all feeling in her limbs; as it was, her hands were numb and her face felt like it was freezing into a mask, in spite of near-constant changes of position. David was on Rebecca's other side, the three of them huddled together as tightly as was humanly possible, spoon fashion. Rebecca hadn't woke up, but her breathing was slow and even; she was resting comfortably, at least.
That's one ofus… "Shouldn't be much longer," David said. "Twenty, perhaps twenty-five minutes. They'll post a man or two, then go." "Yeah, so you said," Claire said. "How do you figure the time, though?" Her lips felt like popsicles. "Perimeter search, perhaps a quarter-mile 'round – assuming they have six or less men still able-bodied, I'm estimating four." "Why?" David's voice shook with the cold. "Three sent to the back door of the building, two men down inside and from the sounds, I'd say there were three to seven at the front. Eight or twelve men; any more, and they wouldn't have all fit in the helicopter. Any less, they wouldn't have been able to cover both entrances." Claire was impressed. "So, why twenty to twenty-five minutes?" "As I said, they'll cover a certain distance all the way around the compound before they give us up. The size of the compound, tack on a quarter– to a half-mile, and how long it takes an average man to walk a fourth of that distance. We saw that light perhaps an hour ago, and since they most likely would have each taken a direction and searched that single seg-ment… well, twenty to twenty-five minutes. That's including the time it would take to look through the van, as well. That's my guess, for what it's worth."
Claire felt her frozen lips attempting a smile.
"You're bullshitting, aren't you? Making it up." David sounded shocked. "I am not. I've gone over it several times and I think…"I'm kidding," Claire said. "Really."A short silence, and then David chuckled, the low sound carrying easily through the cold dark. "Of course you are. Sorry. I think the temperature has affected my sense of humor."
Claire alternated her hands, slipping the right one out from beneath Rebecca's hip and sliding the left one under. "No, I'm sorry. Shouldn't have inter-rupted. Go on, this is really interesting."Not much else to say," David said, and she heard the soft, rapid chatter of his teeth. "They'll want to get medical attention for their wounded, and I doubt Umbrella wants one of their helicopters to be seen flying around the salt flats by the light of day; they'll leave a guard behind and go."
She heard him shifting, felt Rebecca's body move as he altered his own position. "Anyway, that's when we'll move. Back to the compound first, a bit of sabotage – and then we'll just see what turns up…"
The way his voice trailed off, the forced good humor in his tone that barely covered the despera– tion – both told her exactly what he was thinking.
What we've both been thinking. "And Rebecca?" She asked gently. They couldn't leave her, she'd freeze, and trying to infiltrate the compound again, trying to take out a couple of armed men while carrying an unconscious woman… "I don't know," David said. "Before she… she said that she might recover within hours, given rest."
Claire didn't respond. Stating the obvious wouldn't help anything. They fell silent, Claire listening to Rebecca's soft breathing, thinking about Chris. David's affection for Rebecca was plain; it was like the love between a father and daughter. Or brother and sister. Thinking about him was one way to pass the time, anyway.
What are you doing right now, Chris? Trent said you were safe, but for how long? God, I wish you'd never been assigned to that Spencer place. Or Raccoon, for that matter. Fighting for truth and justice pretty much eats it, big brother… "Not falling asleep, are you?" David asked. He'd asked her that every time they stopped talking for more than a minute. "No, thinking about Chris," she said. Forming the words was a chore, but she figured it was better than
letting her mouth freeze shut. "And I bet you're starting to wish we'd gone to Europe after all."I do," Rebecca said weakly. "Hate this weather…" Rebecca!
Claire grinned, not really able to feel it and not caring. She hugged the girl as David sat up, digging for the flashlight – and though she was freezing, though they were cut off from their friends, cut off from escape and facing uncertain odds, Claire felt like things were definitely starting to look up.
The call came just after John blew up six of the Arl2s. Reston had been wishing for popcorn up until then; the Scorps' defense systems were working just as the projected numbers had suggested, the exo damage repairing even faster than they'd hoped. What they hadn't counted on was how very fragile the connective tissue between the arachnid segments actually was.
One grenade. One goddamn grenade.
The desire for popcorn was as dead as the Arl2s. There were still two left, scuttling around in the southwest corner, but Reston no longer had much faith in the 12s – and although that was important information, he wasn't so certain that Jackson would be pleased with him for obtaining it.
He'll want to know why I didn't take away their explosives first. Why I released all of the specimens. Why I didn't call Sidney, at least, for counsel. And no answer I give will be sufficient…
When the cell phone rang, Reston jumped in his chair, suddenly certain that it was Jackson. That ridiculous notion was gone by the time he picked up the phone, but it had given him pause – and made him quite glad that his test subjects wouldn't survive Three.
"Reston." "Mr. Reston – this is Sergeant Hawkinson, White Ground Team One-Seven-Oh." "Yes, yes," Reston sighed, watching Cole and the two S.T.A.R.S. people regrouping. "What's happen– ing up there?" "We…" Hawkinson took a deep breath. "Sir, I'm sorry to report that there was an altercation with the intruders and they've escaped the premises." He said it all in a rush, obviously uncomfortable. "What?" Reston stood up, nearly tipping his chair over. "How? How did this happen?" "Sir, we had them trapped in the storage building, but there was an explosion, two of my men were shot and three more were critically…" "I don't want to hear it!" Reston was furious, unable to believe that he had such incompetents working for him. "What I want to hear is that you did not just fail miserably, you did not just let three people slip past your 'crack' teams, and that you did not call to tell me that you can't find them!"
There was a moment of silence at the other end, and Reston just dared this screwup to mouth off, to give him any more reason to make his life a living hell. Instead, Hawkinson sounded properly contrite. "Of course, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I'm going to fly the helicop– ter back to SLC and bring back some of our new recruits to extend our search parameters. I'm leaving my last three men to stand watch, two at the com-pound's east and west, the third at the escape vehicle. I'll be back within – ninety minutes, sir, and we will find them. Sir." Reston's lips curled. "See that you do, Sergeant. If you don't, it's your worthless ass."
He flipped the talk switch and tossed the phone back on the console, at least feeling as though he'd done something to facilitate the process. A good ball– squeeze worked wonders; Hawkinson would crawl over broken glass to get results, which was exactly how it should be. Reston sat down again, looking at the test subjects as they slogged their way over the sand dune. Cole had a gun now, and was leading them toward the connecting door. Reston wondered if John or Red had any idea how useless Cole was. Probably not, if they'd given him a weapon… When they hit the top of the dune and started down the other side, the two Scorps finally moved in. In spite of his earlier resolve, Reston watched closely, holding on to a shred of hope – that it would end there, that the men would be stopped. It wasn't that he had any doubt about the Ca6s in Three, they certainly wouldn't survive those…… but what if they do, hmm? What if they do, and they make it to Four, and they find a way out? What will you tell Jackson, what will you tell your guided tour when there aren't any specimens left to observe? Then it will be your ass, won't it?
Reston ignored the whispery little voice, concen– trating on the screen instead. Both Scorps were going in fast, claws and stingers up, their lithe, insectile bodies set to attack -
– and all three men were firing, a silent battle, the 12s dodging and feinting, then falling beneath the stream of bullets. Reston's hands were in fists, though he didn't notice; his attention was entirely on the two downed Scorps, waiting to see if they'd be ready to attack again before the men reached the door -
– except John and Red were moving toward the animals, pointing their weapons -
– and shooting out the eyes. They did it quickly and efficiently, and although both Scorps were mov– ing again as they headed for the door, the blind creatures could only flail about in the sand. One of them managed to find a target; with a limber curl, it drove its extraordinarily toxic sting into the others back. The poisoned 12 whipped around and stabbed the first through the abdomen with one jagged claw, impaling it; it writhed weakly, alive but unable to move or see – bound, dying, to its dead brother. Reston shook his head slowly, disgusted at the wasted time and money, at the millions of dollars and the man-hours that had gone into developing the inhabitants of phases One and Two.
And Jackson will want that information. Once the test subjects are dead and their friends caught, I'll be able to put the right spin on things; with some of our backers coming in, such a poor performance from our "prize" specimens could be costly. Better to know now…
–and the first of the scorpion-things let out a strange, dry, hissing sound, like air being let out of a giant tire, as the bullets hammered into its curled body. A thick white fluid burst from the wounds that had opened in its insectile face, a face of drooling tusks and spider's eyes, a face with a black shapeless hole for a mouth. Writhing, claws raised, it fell on its side and twisted wildly, digging its own shallow grave in the hot sand. Leon and Cole were both shooting, the thunder of the nine-millimeter drowning out any more hissing, producing even more of the pus-like blood in the second and third of the Scorps. The white liquid spewed out in glurts, like puke, but there were three more of the creatures coming down…… and the first one, the one that John had drilled full of holes, was getting up. Getting up unsteadily, but getting up all the same. The openings were oozing with that viscous white goo – and even as it took its first step toward them, John saw that the liquid was hardening. Plugging the wounds as efficiently as plas– ter filled a hole in a wall. "Go go go!" John shouted as the other two crea-tures, taken down by Leon and Cole, started to move, their wounds already scabbing over. The second threesome was halfway down the dune and closing fast.
Gotta get out.
There were still two more "environments," and they'd already blown at least a third of their ammo; this ran through John's mind in the split-second it took him to spray the Scorps with a hail of bullets, as Leon and Cole ran east. He didn't even try to take any of the six down, he knew it wouldn't make a difference. The line of explosive rounds was to hold them back until the other two men were clear, his mind grasping for a solution as the impossible animals waved their jagged claws, scrabbling against the shifting sands and spurt-ing more of their bizarre epoxy.
–grenade but how do I get them all, how do we avoid taking shrapnel -The closest of the Scorps was perhaps a dozen feet in front of him when he turned and ran, moving as fast as he could through the blazing heat, his adrena-line up and raging. Leon and Cole were fifty meters ahead, stumbling through the sand, Leon running sideways, watching front and back, sweeping with his semi. John risked a glance back, saw that the scorpion creatures were still coming. Slower than before but not faltering, their waspish bodies dripping white, their bizarre elongated claws raised and snapping. They were gaining speed, too, faster with each skitter– ing step, a pack of undead bugs looking for lunch -
– pack, in a pack
They might not have a better chance. John dropped the rifle, the sling hanging awkwardly around his neck, and jammed one hand into his pack, still managing a decent run. He came up with one of the grenades, jerked the pin free, and turned, backing up in a shambling jog. He tried to evaluate the distance, the M68's process running through his frenzied mind, the Scorps sixty, seventy feet behind.
–impact fuse, armed two seconds after it hits, six-second backup -"Grenade!" He screamed, and threw the round canister up, praying that he'd judged it right as he turned and lunged, the grenade still ascending as he dove into the side of the sand dune. John swam into it, pushing with all his considerable muscle, burrowing into the hot grit blind and breath– less. The sand was cooler underneath, waves of the unpacked stuff pouring across his face, trying to force its way into his nose and mouth, but he couldn't think of anything except pulling his legs in – and what the blast-projected slivers of metal could do to human flesh. One final, desperate kick and – KA-WHAM -
– there was a huge shift all around him, an incredi– ble pressure slamming into him and into the moving wall he was embedded in. He felt the weight on top of him press down, forcing the air out of him, and it took all he had to force one hand up to his face, to cup it over his mouth. Breathing shallowly, he started worming his way back out, wriggling and kicking.
Leon, did they get down in time, did it work?
He fought against the still sliding currents of pol-ished granules, taking one more breath before using both hands to swipe at the heavy sands. In a few seconds he was out, rivulets of grit streaming off of him, his irritated eyes watering. He wiped at them one handed, raising the M-16, looking first at the threat…… which wasn't a threat anymore. The grenade must have landed right in front of them; of the six mutant scorpions that had been pursuing them, four were in pieces. John saw a still-twitching claw lying across the sand in a puddle of white, a tail with stinger still attached sticking out of the side of the dune, a leg, another leg; the rest was unrecognizable, great hunks of wet mush splattered in a rough semi-circle. The two Scorps at the rear of the pack were still whole, but were definitely not going to get up again; the bodies were intact, but the eyes and mouth, the strange mandibles, the faces were gone.
Blown all to shit, in fact. No amount of white goop in
the world's gonna plug that up…
"John!"
He turned, saw Leon and Cole striding back toward him, expressions of amazement on both their faces. John allowed himself a brief moment of completely unchecked pride, watching them approach; he'd been brilliant – timing, aim, everything.
Ah, well. The true soldier takes no accolades for a job well done; it's enough that he knows it…
By the time they reached him, he'd managed to get over himself; thinking about their situation was enough. They were in a psycho testing ground being put through their paces by an Umbrella madman; their team was split up, they had limited ammo, and there was no clear way out of it.
Pretty much, you're screwed. Patting yourself on the back is kinda like giving aspirin to a dead guy; pointless.
Still, seeing the faint hope on the other men's flushed and sweating faces… hope could be mis– guided, but it was rarely a bad thing. "There could still be more of them," he said, wiping sand off of the M-16. "Let's get out of here…"
–clickclickclick-That sound. All of them froze, staring at each other. It wasn't close, but somewhere over the dune, there was at least one more Scorp.
David had spotted a moving light, maybe a quarter mile southwest of their position, but it had come no closer; if it wasn't for the cold, Claire thought she might feel relieved. The chances of anyone finding
them in the endless miles of dark were somewhere near zero; the Umbrella guys had blown it. Even with the helicopter's searchlight – which they apparentlyweren't going to use – it'd be pure luck if they ran across the three of them… although maybe it'd be lucky for us. Maybe they'd have blankets and coffee, hot chocolate, spiced cider…"How are you, Claire?"
She made an effort to keep her teeth from chatter– ing, but it failed. It had been at least an hour, probably more. "Pretty goddamn cold, David, and yourself?" "Same. Good thing we dressed warm, eh?"
If it was a joke, she wasn't laughing. Claire snuggled closer to Rebecca, wondering when she'd lose all feeling in her limbs; as it was, her hands were numb and her face felt like it was freezing into a mask, in spite of near-constant changes of position. David was on Rebecca's other side, the three of them huddled together as tightly as was humanly possible, spoon fashion. Rebecca hadn't woke up, but her breathing was slow and even; she was resting comfortably, at least.
That's one ofus… "Shouldn't be much longer," David said. "Twenty, perhaps twenty-five minutes. They'll post a man or two, then go." "Yeah, so you said," Claire said. "How do you figure the time, though?" Her lips felt like popsicles. "Perimeter search, perhaps a quarter-mile 'round – assuming they have six or less men still able-bodied, I'm estimating four." "Why?" David's voice shook with the cold. "Three sent to the back door of the building, two men down inside and from the sounds, I'd say there were three to seven at the front. Eight or twelve men; any more, and they wouldn't have all fit in the helicopter. Any less, they wouldn't have been able to cover both entrances." Claire was impressed. "So, why twenty to twenty-five minutes?" "As I said, they'll cover a certain distance all the way around the compound before they give us up. The size of the compound, tack on a quarter– to a half-mile, and how long it takes an average man to walk a fourth of that distance. We saw that light perhaps an hour ago, and since they most likely would have each taken a direction and searched that single seg-ment… well, twenty to twenty-five minutes. That's including the time it would take to look through the van, as well. That's my guess, for what it's worth."
Claire felt her frozen lips attempting a smile.
"You're bullshitting, aren't you? Making it up." David sounded shocked. "I am not. I've gone over it several times and I think…"I'm kidding," Claire said. "Really."A short silence, and then David chuckled, the low sound carrying easily through the cold dark. "Of course you are. Sorry. I think the temperature has affected my sense of humor."
Claire alternated her hands, slipping the right one out from beneath Rebecca's hip and sliding the left one under. "No, I'm sorry. Shouldn't have inter-rupted. Go on, this is really interesting."Not much else to say," David said, and she heard the soft, rapid chatter of his teeth. "They'll want to get medical attention for their wounded, and I doubt Umbrella wants one of their helicopters to be seen flying around the salt flats by the light of day; they'll leave a guard behind and go."
She heard him shifting, felt Rebecca's body move as he altered his own position. "Anyway, that's when we'll move. Back to the compound first, a bit of sabotage – and then we'll just see what turns up…"
The way his voice trailed off, the forced good humor in his tone that barely covered the despera– tion – both told her exactly what he was thinking.
What we've both been thinking. "And Rebecca?" She asked gently. They couldn't leave her, she'd freeze, and trying to infiltrate the compound again, trying to take out a couple of armed men while carrying an unconscious woman… "I don't know," David said. "Before she… she said that she might recover within hours, given rest."
Claire didn't respond. Stating the obvious wouldn't help anything. They fell silent, Claire listening to Rebecca's soft breathing, thinking about Chris. David's affection for Rebecca was plain; it was like the love between a father and daughter. Or brother and sister. Thinking about him was one way to pass the time, anyway.
What are you doing right now, Chris? Trent said you were safe, but for how long? God, I wish you'd never been assigned to that Spencer place. Or Raccoon, for that matter. Fighting for truth and justice pretty much eats it, big brother… "Not falling asleep, are you?" David asked. He'd asked her that every time they stopped talking for more than a minute. "No, thinking about Chris," she said. Forming the words was a chore, but she figured it was better than
letting her mouth freeze shut. "And I bet you're starting to wish we'd gone to Europe after all."I do," Rebecca said weakly. "Hate this weather…" Rebecca!
Claire grinned, not really able to feel it and not caring. She hugged the girl as David sat up, digging for the flashlight – and though she was freezing, though they were cut off from their friends, cut off from escape and facing uncertain odds, Claire felt like things were definitely starting to look up.
The call came just after John blew up six of the Arl2s. Reston had been wishing for popcorn up until then; the Scorps' defense systems were working just as the projected numbers had suggested, the exo damage repairing even faster than they'd hoped. What they hadn't counted on was how very fragile the connective tissue between the arachnid segments actually was.
One grenade. One goddamn grenade.
The desire for popcorn was as dead as the Arl2s. There were still two left, scuttling around in the southwest corner, but Reston no longer had much faith in the 12s – and although that was important information, he wasn't so certain that Jackson would be pleased with him for obtaining it.
He'll want to know why I didn't take away their explosives first. Why I released all of the specimens. Why I didn't call Sidney, at least, for counsel. And no answer I give will be sufficient…
When the cell phone rang, Reston jumped in his chair, suddenly certain that it was Jackson. That ridiculous notion was gone by the time he picked up the phone, but it had given him pause – and made him quite glad that his test subjects wouldn't survive Three.
"Reston." "Mr. Reston – this is Sergeant Hawkinson, White Ground Team One-Seven-Oh." "Yes, yes," Reston sighed, watching Cole and the two S.T.A.R.S. people regrouping. "What's happen– ing up there?" "We…" Hawkinson took a deep breath. "Sir, I'm sorry to report that there was an altercation with the intruders and they've escaped the premises." He said it all in a rush, obviously uncomfortable. "What?" Reston stood up, nearly tipping his chair over. "How? How did this happen?" "Sir, we had them trapped in the storage building, but there was an explosion, two of my men were shot and three more were critically…" "I don't want to hear it!" Reston was furious, unable to believe that he had such incompetents working for him. "What I want to hear is that you did not just fail miserably, you did not just let three people slip past your 'crack' teams, and that you did not call to tell me that you can't find them!"
There was a moment of silence at the other end, and Reston just dared this screwup to mouth off, to give him any more reason to make his life a living hell. Instead, Hawkinson sounded properly contrite. "Of course, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I'm going to fly the helicop– ter back to SLC and bring back some of our new recruits to extend our search parameters. I'm leaving my last three men to stand watch, two at the com-pound's east and west, the third at the escape vehicle. I'll be back within – ninety minutes, sir, and we will find them. Sir." Reston's lips curled. "See that you do, Sergeant. If you don't, it's your worthless ass."
He flipped the talk switch and tossed the phone back on the console, at least feeling as though he'd done something to facilitate the process. A good ball– squeeze worked wonders; Hawkinson would crawl over broken glass to get results, which was exactly how it should be. Reston sat down again, looking at the test subjects as they slogged their way over the sand dune. Cole had a gun now, and was leading them toward the connecting door. Reston wondered if John or Red had any idea how useless Cole was. Probably not, if they'd given him a weapon… When they hit the top of the dune and started down the other side, the two Scorps finally moved in. In spite of his earlier resolve, Reston watched closely, holding on to a shred of hope – that it would end there, that the men would be stopped. It wasn't that he had any doubt about the Ca6s in Three, they certainly wouldn't survive those…… but what if they do, hmm? What if they do, and they make it to Four, and they find a way out? What will you tell Jackson, what will you tell your guided tour when there aren't any specimens left to observe? Then it will be your ass, won't it?
Reston ignored the whispery little voice, concen– trating on the screen instead. Both Scorps were going in fast, claws and stingers up, their lithe, insectile bodies set to attack -
– and all three men were firing, a silent battle, the 12s dodging and feinting, then falling beneath the stream of bullets. Reston's hands were in fists, though he didn't notice; his attention was entirely on the two downed Scorps, waiting to see if they'd be ready to attack again before the men reached the door -
– except John and Red were moving toward the animals, pointing their weapons -
– and shooting out the eyes. They did it quickly and efficiently, and although both Scorps were mov– ing again as they headed for the door, the blind creatures could only flail about in the sand. One of them managed to find a target; with a limber curl, it drove its extraordinarily toxic sting into the others back. The poisoned 12 whipped around and stabbed the first through the abdomen with one jagged claw, impaling it; it writhed weakly, alive but unable to move or see – bound, dying, to its dead brother. Reston shook his head slowly, disgusted at the wasted time and money, at the millions of dollars and the man-hours that had gone into developing the inhabitants of phases One and Two.
And Jackson will want that information. Once the test subjects are dead and their friends caught, I'll be able to put the right spin on things; with some of our backers coming in, such a poor performance from our "prize" specimens could be costly. Better to know now…