Having finally finished the blood work on the Leviathan series, he was ready to work more extensively with the doctors. All three had responded well to the change, and the rate of cellular deterioration had fallen considerably since he'd started with the enzyme injections. It was time to concentrate on their situational behavior, the final stage of the experiment. Within the week, he'd be ready to expand beyond the confines of the facility. Expansion. A cleansing. A crisp, saline wind ruffled his gray hair, the hungry cries of coasting gulls finally spurring him to action. The Trisquads had to be brought in before the scav-enging birds moved inland. Several of the units had already been horribly scarred, and he didn't want to risk any more of them until he was finished. Once they lost their eyes, they were useless on patrol.
Still, it's been so long… no one's coming. If Dr. Ammon had succeeded, they'd have sent someone by now. Too bad, really; he's probably still waiting…
The thought was an uncomfortable one, conjuring hazy images of redness and heat, of prone bodies in the manic summer sun and later, the thunder of waves in the dark. He promptly buried the visions, remind– ing himself that it was in the past. Besides, he'd only done what was necessary. Griffith walked back inside, smoothing his wind– blown hair as he moved down the spiral staircase. His shoes clattered against the metal steps, creating a pleasant echo effect in the tall chamber. Having the facility to himself made everything pleasant, and he'd come to enjoy the little things-eating what he wanted, when he wanted, working his own hours, his mornings atop the lighthouse. Before, he'd been crowded, forced to adhere to schedules that seemed designed to undercut creativity. Meal times, work times, sleep times… how could a man breathe, think, flourish in such conditions? He'd suffered for so long, sat through endless meetings listening to the small-minded drivel of his "colleagues" as they'd raved over Birkin's T-Virus. They'd slaved to come up with the Trisquads for Umbrella and had been deliriously happy with the results, apparently forget– ting their failure with the Ma7s. They were unable to see past their own arrogance to a bigger picture. As if the Trisquads are anything more than bodies with guns. Useful as guards, but hardly brilliant. Hardly important. Although he'd worked not to let it go to his head, Griffith allowed himself a single moment of pride as he reached the bottom of the stairs and started for the exit. He'd seen the T-Virus for what it really was-a crude but effective platform for something far greater. He'd isolated the proteins, reorganized the nucleocap– sid's envelope to allow for variables in infective capacity, and created an answer, the answer to the blight that the human race had become. A solution without violence or suffering. Smiling, he stepped through the door into the cool shadow of the lighthouse, the crash of breaking waves at his back as he walked toward the dormitory build– ing. He'd already synthesized an airborne, and had enough of it to infect most of North America. As the virus spread, evolution would take its rightful place, the weak of spirit falling beneath those of truer instincts. And when it was over, the sun would rise over a very different world, inhabited by peaceful people of character and will.
Take away a man's ability to choose, his mind becomes free, a blank, clean slate. With training, he becomes a pet; without, he becomes an animal, as harmless and serenely simple as a mouse. Cover the world with such animals, and only the strong sur-vive…
He stepped into the dorm's rec room and turned on the lights, still smiling. His doctors were right where he'd left them, sitting at the meeting table, eyes closed. Ideally, he'd run through the tests with un– trained subjects, but the three men would have to suffice. They'd been infected with the strain he would release, and were closest to what the world would become in a few days.
My pets. My children.
Besides the research laboratory, the cove facility was designed to train bio-weapons like the Trisquads or Ma7s-but also to measure use of logic in the humanoid subjects. In the bunkers there were a num– ber of items he could use, from the simplest of peg tests to complex puzzles for those subjects capable of higher functioning. He doubted his doctors would be able to manage even the red series, but watching their reactions would provide valuable insight, particularly the tests where there was a pressure factor.
They think, but can't make decisions. They function, but not without input. How will they fare, without my guiding hand?
As he approached the table, Dr. Athens opened his eyes, perhaps to see if there was a threat coming. Of the three, Tom Athens was the strongest, the most likely to survive on his own; he'd been one of the be– havior specialists. In fact, he'd come up with the three-unit team idea, the Trisquad, insisting that the infected units would work more efficiently in small groups. He'd been right. Doctors Thurman and Kinneson remained still and Griffith noticed a foul smell coming from one of them. Scowling, he looked down, his suspicion con– firmed by the wetness on Dr. Thurman's pants.
He shit himself. Again.
Griffith felt a sudden, almost overwhelming pity for Thurman, but it was quickly replaced by irritated disgust. Thurman had been an idiot before, a decent enough biologist but as ridiculously narrow-minded as the rest of them. He'd grown most of the Ma7s himself, and when they turned out to be uncontrolla– ble, he laid blame on everyone but himself. If anyone deserved to wallow in his own filth, it was Louis Thurman. It was just too bad that the good doctor wasn't capable of understanding how repulsively pa– thetic he'd become. Without me, he wouldn't have lasted a day. Griffith sighed, stepping back from the table. "Good morning, gentlemen," he said. In unison, the three men turned their heads to look at him, their eyes as blank as their faces. As different as they were physically, the slackness of their features and slow, vapid gazes made them look like brothers.
"It seems that Dr. Thurman has evacuated his bowels," Griffith said. "He's sitting in feces. That's funny."
All three of them grinned widely. Dr. Kinneson actually chuckled. He'd been the last to be infected, so had suffered the least tissue deterioration. Given the proper instructions, Alan could probably still pass for human. Griffith pulled the police whistle out of his pocket and put it on the table in front of Athens.
"Dr. Athens, recall the Trisquads from duty. Tend to their physical needs and send them to the cold room. When you've finished, go to the cafeteria and wait."
Athens picked up the whistle as he stood, then walked out of the room, down the hall toward the dormitory's other entrance. The whistle would deacti– vate the teams and call them in. There were four Trisquads, twelve soldiers in all. They'd be roaming the woods along the fence, or moving stealthily around the bunkers, having been trained to stay away from the northeast area of the compound, the light– house, and dorm. Griffith had to admit, they were quite effective at their purpose. Umbrella had wanted soldiers that would kill without mercy, and fight until they were literally blown to pieces. The T-Virus had been good for that much, and since they'd sped up the amplification time, they'd been able to turn out subjects in hours, rather than days. Once trained with weapons, the Trisquads had become killing ma– chines, although with the recent heat wave, he didn't know how much longer they'd be viable… Griffith turned his attention to Dr. Thurman, still grinning and stinking like some bloated infant. He even looked like a baby, pudgy and bald, his smile as innocent and guileless as a child's.
"Dr. Thurman, go to your room and remove your clothes. Shower and dress in clean clothes, then go to the caves and feed the Ma7s. When you've finished, go to the cafeteria and wait."
Thurman stood up, and Griffith saw that the pad– ded chair was wet and stained. Christ. "Take the chair with you," Griffith said, sighing. "Leave it in your room."
After he'd gone, Griffith sat down across from Alan, suddenly feeling tired. The anticipatory pride he'dfelt only moments before was gone, leaving a cold emptiness in its place.
My children. My creation…
The virus was so beautiful, so perfectly engineered that the first time he'd seen it, he'd wept. Months of private research, of picking apart the T-Virus and isolating effect, culminating in that first micro– graph… while the others had been gloating over their war toys, he'd found the true path to a new beginning.
And do they appreciate what I've done? Do any of them know how crucial this is? Crapping himself like a disgusting child, like a monkey, disgracing my work, my life…
Griffith looked at Alan Kinneson, studying his handsome features, his expressionless eyes. Dr. Kin– neson stared back, waiting to be told what to do. He'd been a neurologist once. There were pictures in his
room of his wife and baby, a little boy with a bright, beautiful smile… Griffith's sanity shuddered suddenly, a terrible, rending twist that made him dizzy, a thousand voices screaming unintelligibly through the cracks of reality. For just a second, he felt as if he was losing his mind.
How many will just starve to death, sitting in puddles of filth, waiting? Millions? Billions? "What if I'm wrong?" Griffith whispered. "Alan, tell me I'm not wrong, that I'm doing this for the right reasons…" "You're not wrong," Dr. Kinneson said calmly."You're doing this for the right reasons." Griffith stared at him. "Tell me your wife's a whore." "My wife's a whore," Dr. Kinneson said. No pause. No doubt. Griffith smiled, and the fear melted away.
Look what I've accomplished. It's a gift, my cre-
ation, a gift to the world. A chance for man to become
strong again, a peaceful death for all the Louis Thur-
mans in existence, better than they deserve…
He'd been working too hard, tiring himself, and the strain was getting to him. He was only human, after all… but he couldn't afford to let the stress of his body affect his mind again. There would be no more tests. He'd spend the day getting ready instead, pre– paring himself for the cleansing. Tomorrow at sunrise Dr. Griffith would give his gift to the wind.
SIX
Karen driver was a tall, lanky woman in her early thirties, with short blond hair and a serious, businesslike demeanor. Her small home was spotlessly kept and almost antiseptically clean. The clothes she'd picked out for Rebecca were utilitarian and perfectly folded: a dark green T-shirt and crisp matching pants, black cotton socks and underwear. Even her bathroom seemed to reflect her personality; the white walls were lined with shelves, each neatly organized according to purpose.
Scratch a forensics scientist, find an obsessive-compulsive…
Rebecca immediately felt guilty for thinking it. Karen had been welcoming enough, even friendly in a brusque way. Maybe she just hated clutter. Rebecca sat on the edge of the toilet and cuffed the overlong pants around her ankles, relieved to be out of her old clothes and feeling surprisingly clear– headed after a night of broken sleep. David had rented a car at the airport, and in the early hours of the morning, they'd found a cheap motel and stag– gered into their separate rooms, Rebecca too ex– hausted to do more than take off her shoes before crawling into bed. She woke just before ten, took a shower and had been waiting nervously when David knocked at her door. Rebecca heard the front door open and close, new voices floating through the living room. She slipped on her high tops and laced them quickly, feeling her anxiety level jump a notch. The team was assembled. They were that much closer to going in, and though she'd thought of little else since waking up, the realization continued to come as a kind of shock. Umbrella's surprise attack on Barry's house already seemed like it had happened in another lifetime, though it had been only hours ago…
… and hours from now, this will all be over. It's what's gonna happen in between that worries me. David and his team weren't there, they didn't see the dogs, the snakes, those unnatural creatures in the tunnels… or Tyrant.
Rebecca shook the images away as she stood up, scooping her dirty clothes off the floor and stufling them into the empty bag that she'd carried on the plane. There was no reason to assume that the Cali– ban Cove facility would be the same, and worrying about it wouldn't change anything. She paused in front of the mirror, studying the tense features of the young woman she saw there, and then walked to the door. She headed for the living room, past the sparkling kitchen and around a corner in the hall. She heard David's lilting voice, apparently summing up the events of the night before.
"… said he'd ring some of the others first thing this morning. Another of the team has a contact in the FBI to use as a go-between and to initiate an investi-gation when we have proof. They'll be waiting to hear from us when we've completed today's operation…"
He broke off as Rebecca walked into the room, and all eyes turned to her. Karen had pulled a few extra chairs into the room and sat in one of them next to a low, glass topped coffee table. There were two men sitting on the couch, across from where David stood. David smiled at her as both men got up, stepping forward to be introduced.
"Rebecca, this is Steve Lopez. Steve is our resident computer genius and our best marksman…"
Steve grinned, an aw-shucks smile that suited his boyish features perfectly as he shook her hand, his teeth white against his natural deep-tan coloring. He had dark, quick eyes and black hair, and was only a few inches taller than her.
Not much older, either…
His gaze was friendly and direct, and in spite of the circumstances, Rebecca found herself wishing that she'd at least run a brush through her hair before coming out of the bathroom. Simply put, he was hot.
"… and this is John Andrews, our communications specialist and field scout."
John's skin was a deep mahogany brown and he didn't have a beard, but he reminded her of Barry nonetheless. He was massively built, his six-foot frame bulging with tightly packed muscle. He grinned brightly at her, his smile dazzling white.
"This is Rebecca Chambers, biochemist and field medic for the Raccoon City S.T.A.R.S.," David said. John let go of her hand, still smiling. "Biochemist? Damn, how old are you?"
Rebecca smiled back, catching the glint of humor in his eyes. "Eighteen. And three-quarters."John laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle as he sat back down. He glanced at Steve, then back at her. "You better watch out for Lopez, then," he said, then dropped his voice to a mock whisper. "He just turned twenty-two. And he's single." "Knock it off," Steve growled, his cheeks flushing. He looked at her, shaking his head.
"You'll have to excuse John. He thinks he's got a sense of humor and nobody can talk him out of it." "Your mother thinks I'm funny," John shot back, and before Steve could respond, David held up a hand. "That's enough," he said mildly. "We only have a few hours to organize if we mean to do this today. Let's get started, shall we?"
Steve and John's banter had been a welcome break from her tension, making her feel like one of the team almost instantly, but she was also glad to see the serious, intent looks on all of their faces as they turned their attention to David, watching him pull out Trent's information and lay it on the table. It was good to know that they were pros… … but will it matter? her mind whispered softly. The S.T.A.R.S. in Raccoon were professionals, too. And even knowing the kind of research Umbrella's been doing, will it make any difference at all? What if the virus mutated and is still infectious? What if the place is crawling with Tyrants… or something worse?
Rebecca had no answer for the insistent little whis-per. She focused on David instead, silently telling herself that her anxieties wouldn't get in the way of her doing her job. And that her second mission wouldn't be her last. For Rebecca's sake, David started the briefing as he would have with an entirely new team. As bright as she was, and with her previous experience at an Umbrella facility, he didn't want her to hold back for fear of speaking out of turn.
"Our objective is to get into the compound, collect evidence on Umbrella and their research, and get out again with as little trouble as possible. I'll go over every step thoroughly, and if any of you have ques-tions or ideas about how to proceed, no matter how trifling, I want to hear them. Understood?"
There were nods all around. David continued, comfortable that his point was made.
"We've already discussed a few of the possibilities as to what may have happened, and you've all read the articles. I submit that we're dealing once again with some kind of accident. Umbrella's put a lot of effort into covering up the problem in Raccoon City, and while we could assume that they've been abduct-ing or killing fishermen who've wandered across their territory, it seems unlikely that they'd want to draw that kind of attention to themselves." "Why hasn't Umbrella sent anyone in to clean it up?" John asked. David shook his head. "Who's to say they haven't? We may find that they've already cleared the site of evidence – in which case, we group together with the Raccoon people and our own contacts and start over."
Again, everyone nodded. He didn't bother stating the obvious, that the virus could still be contagious. They all knew that it was a possibility, though he planned to have Rebecca address the matter before the briefing was through. David looked down at the map and sighed inwardly before moving on to the next point. "Point of entry," he said. "If this were an open assault, we could go in by helicopter or just hop the fence. But if there are still people there and we trigger an alarm, it's over before we even start. Since we don't want to risk discovery, our best option is to go in by boat. We can use one of the rafts from the tanker operation last year."
Karen piped up, frowning slightly.
"Wouldn't they have an alarm for the pier?"
David touched the map, putting his finger just below the notched line of the fence, south of the
compound. "Actually, I don't recommend using the pier at all. If we go in here, go past the pier…" He traced upward, running the length of the cove. "… we can get a look at the layout of the entire compound, and hide the raft in one of the caves beneath the lighthouse. According to what I read, there's a natural path from the base of the cliff to the lighthouse itself. If the path has been blocked, we'll backtrack and come up with an alternative route." "Won't the raft attract attention if anyone's outside watching?" Rebecca asked. David shook his head. The Exeter S.T.A.R.S. had used the rafts the previous summer to approach an oil tanker that had been hijacked by terrorists who had threatened to spill the cargo unless their demands were met. It had been a night operation.
"It's black, and has an underwater motor. If we go in just past dusk, we should be invisible. The other benefit to this approach is that if the facility looks unhealthy, we can abort until a later time."
He waited as they thought it over, not wanting to rush them. They were good soldiers, his team, but this was a volunteer assignment. If any one of them had serious doubts, it was better to address them now. Besides which, he was open to other suggestions. His gaze fell across Rebecca's youthful face, taking in the steady willingness of a good S.T.A.R.S. opera– tive in the quick brown eyes, the thoughtful consider– ation of his plan. He was beginning to like her, for more than just her usefulness to the mission. There was a kind of matter-of-fact openness about her that appealed to him, particularly with all of his recent turmoil over emotional awkwardness. She seemed quite comfortable with herself… David pushed the thoughts aside, suddenly realiz– ing how much stress he'd been under, how tired he continued to be; his focus was suffering for it. Keep it together, man. This isn't the time to wander. "On to specifics," he said. "Once we get inside, we move in a staggered line through the compound, sticking to shadows. John will take point with Karen at his back, scouting the area for the lab and looking for some idea as to what's happened. Steve and Rebecca will follow, and I'll bring up the rear. When we find the lab, we go in together. Rebecca will know what to look for in terms of materials, and if they have a computer system still running, Steve can get into the files. The rest of us will provide cover. Once we retrieve the information, we get back out the way we came."
He picked up the poem that Trent had given him,
tapping it with his other hand. "One of Rebecca's teammates has already had dealings with Mr. Trent. She thinks that this might be relevant to what we need to find, so I want all of you to take another look before we go in. It may be important." "So we can trust him?" Karen asked. "This Trent's okay?" David frowned, not sure how to answer. "It seems that for whatever reason, he's on our side in all of this, yes," he said slowly. "And Rebecca recognized one of the names on the list as a man who has worked with viruses before. The information looks solid." It wasn't a straight answer, but it would have to do.
"Any idea on what the chances are that we'll contract the virus?" Steve asked quietly. David tilted his head toward Rebecca. "If you could give us some insight about what we may see, perhaps a bit of background…"
She nodded, turning toward the rest of the team.
"I can't tell you exactly what we're dealing with. When our team got kicked off the case, I lost access to the tissue and saliva samples, so I didn't get to run any tests. But from looking at the effects, it's pretty obvious that the T-Virus is a mutagen, altering the host's chromosome structure on a cellular level. It's an interspecies infective, capable of amplifying in plants, mammals, birds, reptiles, you name it. In some creatures, it promotes incredible growth; in all of them, violent behavior. From some of the reports we came across at the estate, I can tell you that it affects brain chemistry, at least in humans-inducing something like a schizophrenic psychosis through extremely high levels of D2 receptors. It also inhibits pain. The human victims we came across hardly reacted to gunshot wounds, and though they were decaying physically, they didn't seem to feel it…"
The young chemist paused, perhaps remembering. She suddenly looked much older than her years. "The spill at the estate looked like an airborne, but I don't think that's its designed or preferred form. The scien– tists were almost certainly injecting it in conjunction with genetic experimentation. And since none of us contracted it and it didn't spread, I don't think we have to worry about breathing it in. " "What we do have to watch for is contact with a host, and I mean any contact, I can't stress that enough, this thing is incredibly virulent once it enters the bloodstream, and even a single drop of blood from a host could hold hundreds of millions of virus particles. We'd need a fully equipped hot suite and a trained biohazard virologist to pin down its replication strategy for certain, but direct contact of any kind should be avoided at all costs. With any luck, they'll have died by now… or at least deterio-rated past mobility. The humans, anyway."
There was a moment of strained silence as they all considered the implications of what she'd told them. David could see that they were shaken, and felt a bit shaken himself. Knowing that the virus was toxic wasn't the same thing as actually hearing the specifics.
My God, what were those people thinking? How could they live with themselves, deliberately infecting anything with something like that?
On the tail of that thought, another occurred to him: how would he live with himself if one of his team contracted the virus? He'd led missions before in which people under his command had been hurt and twice, before he made captain, he'd been on operations in which S.T.A.R.S. had been killed. But taking a team into an area on his own initiative, where a silent, terrible disease could infect them, where they could die at the claws of some inhuman monster…
… it would be on my head. This isn't an authorized mission, the responsibility stops with me. Can I truly ask them to do this? "Well, it pretty much sounds like a shit job," John said finally. "And if we wanna get there on time, we better head out soon." He smiled at David, an un– characteristically subdued one but a smile all the same. "You know me, I love a good fight. And somebody's gotta stop these assholes from spreading this stuff around, right?"
Steve and Karen were both nodding, their faces as set and determined as John's, and even knowing what they would encounter, Rebecca had made her deci– sion back in Raccoon. David felt a sudden rush of emotion for all of them, a strange, uncomfortable mix of pride and fear and warmth that he wasn't sure what to do with. After a few seconds of uncertain silence, he nodded briskly, glancing at his watch. It would take them a few hours to get to the launch site. "Right," he said. "We'd best get to storage and load up. We can go through the rest of it on our way."
As they stood to leave, David reminded himself that they were doing this because it was necessary, that each of them had made up their own mind to participate in the dangerous operation. They knew the risks. And he also knew that if anything went wrong, that knowledge would be cold comfort indeed. Karen sat in the back of the van and loaded clips, the words of the mysterious message repeating through her thoughts as she thumbed the nine– millimeter rounds into each magazine.
… Ammon's message received/blue series/enter answer for key/letters and numbers reverse/time rainbow/don't count/blue to access.
She finished another clip and set it aside with the others, absently wiping her oily fingers on the leg of her pants before picking up the next. A welcome breeze whispered through the muggy van, smelling of salt and summer-warmed sea. They'd pulled off the road south of the cove, finding a clear patch to set up not a quarter mile from the water's edge. Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the dusty ground. The not-so-distant sound of soft waves against the shore was soothing, a white noise back-ground to the low voices of the others as they worked. Steve and David were propping the raft, while John checked out the motor. Rebecca was assembling a medical kit from the supplies they'd "borrowed" out of the S.T.A.R.S. equipment warehouse.
… the letters and numbers… a code? Does it relate to time? Does counting relate to the sum of the lines, or to something else?
Her mind worked the riddle relentlessly, gnawing at the words the way a dog worries a bone. What did it mean? Were the lines connected to a single concept, or did each represent a separate aspect of a bigger puzzle? Had Ammon sent the message, and if he worked for Umbrella, why?
She finished the last clip and reached for a water-proof carryall, refocusing herself to the task at hand. She knew that her thoughts would return to the strange little poem as soon as she'd completed her assigned detail. It was the way her mind worked; she just couldn't relax when presented with an ambiguity. There was always an answer, always, and finding it was just a matter of concentration, of taking the right steps in the right order. The semi-automatics were cleaned and ready, lay– ing in a neat line next to the checked radio gear on the floor of the van. They weren't taking any weapons besides the S.T.A.R.S.-issued Berettas, David insist– ing that they needed to travel light. Although Karen agreed, she was sorry they wouldn't be bringing in the assault rifles, which were equipped with night scopes. After hearing more of the details about the zombie– like creatures on their ride, she didn't know how comfortable she felt with just a handgun and a halogen flashlight.
Admit it. You're worried about this one, and have been since David broke the news. The facts are all out of order, the pieces don't fit the way they're supposed to.
It was ironic that the reasons compelling her to crack this mystery were the same ones that made her so uneasy: Trent, the S.T.A.R.S.'s apparent collusion with Umbrella, the possibility of a biohazardous incident in her home state. Who had been bribed? What had happened at Caliban Cove? What would they uncover? What did the poem mean? Not enough data. Not yet.
She'd always prided herself on her lack of imagina– tion, on her ability to find the truth based on empiri– cal evidence rather than wild, unsubstantiated intu-ition. It was the key to success in her field, and though she was aware that she sometimes came across as overly clinica – even cold – she accepted who she was, embracing the kind of peace that was found in knowing all of the facts. Whether it was examining blood spray patterns or measuring angles on an entry wound, there was a deep satisfaction for her in solving puzzles, in finding out not only why, but how. The unanswered questions about Caliban Cove were an affront to her careful thought processes. They went against her grain, smudging her very ordered sense of reality – and she knew that she wouldn't find relief until those questions were put to rest. She was finished with the weapons. She should check the utility belts again, make sure everything was locked down and ready, and then see if David had anything else for her to do… Karen hesitated, feeling a trickle of warm sweat slide down her back. No one was within sight of the open back door, and she'd already double-checked every flap and pocket on every belt. With a sudden rush of something like guilt, she reached into her vest pocket and pulled out her secret, comforted by the familiar weight of it in her hand.
