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…
Yes, he'd be able to pull it off. Now Red was unlocking the connecting door that would lead them into Three; unless they had a case of grenades, they would be dead in minutes. Reston took a deep breath, remembering who was in control, who was calling the shots here. Hawkinson would handle the surface situation, Jackson would be pleased, the three musketeers were about to be blinded, trampled, and eaten. There was nothing to worry about. Reston exhaled heavily, managing a somewhat un– easy grin and forcing himself to relax into his chair, dialing up the screens that would show him the Ca6 habitat. "Say good-bye," he said, and poured himself an– other brandy.
FIFTEEN
FROM THE TERRIBLE, BAKING HEAT OF THE blinding scorpion desert, they stepped into the cold shade of a mountain peak. They stayed by the door, surveying their newest crucible, Leon wondering if they'd be facing Hunters or Spitters in this very gray room. Gray the rock-studded, sharply angled mountain of stone that loomed in front of them. Gray also the walls and ceiling, and the winding path that snaked west, bordering the "mountaintop." Even the scrubby grasses in and around the misshapen boulders were gray. The mountain looked real enough, rough-hewn chunks of granite mixed into cement, dyed to match and sculpted into crags. The overall effect was of a lonely, windswept ridge high on a barren mountain.
Except there's no wind and no smell. Just like the other two, no smell at all. "Might want to put your shirt back on," John said, but Leon was already untying it from his waist. The temperature had dropped at least sixty degrees, al– ready freezing the sweat he'd worked up from Phase Two. "So where do we go?" Cole asked, his eyes wide and nervous. John pointed diagonally across the room, south– west. "How 'bout the door?" "I think he meant which way," Leon said. He kept his voice pitched low, just as the others did. No point in alerting the inhabitants to their position; they'd probably be interacting soon enough. The three of them examined their options, all two of them: take the gray path or climb the gray moun– tain. Hunters or Spitters… Leon sighed inwardly, his stomach knotted, already dreading whatever came next. If they made it out, if they found Reston, he was going to give old Mr. Blue a solid ass-kicking. It went against the belief system that had led him to be a cop, but then, so did White Umbrella's very existence. "From a defensive standpoint, I'd say trail," John said, looking up at the rough surface of the slope. "We could get trapped if we head up." "There's a bridge, I think," Cole said. "I only did one of the cameras in here, that one…"
He pointed up and right, into the corner. Leon couldn't even see it – the walls were fifty feet high, and their monotone color blended into the ceiling. It created a kind of optical illusion, making the room seem endlessly vast. "… and I was on a ladder, I could see over, kind of," Cole continued. "There's a gorge on the other side, and one of those rope bridges going across."
Leon opened his pack while Cole was talking, assessing his ammo situation. "How's the M-16?" "Maybe fifteen left in this one," John answered, patting the curved mag. "Two more full, thirty each… two clips for the H amp;K, and one more gre– nade. You?"
"Seven rounds left, three clips, one grenade. Henry, have you been counting?" The Umbrella worker nodded. "I think five shots, I fired five times."
He looked as though he wanted to say something else, glancing back and forth between Leon and John, finally staring down at his dirty workboots. John looked at Leon, who shrugged; they didn't really know anything about Henry Cole, except that he didn't belong there any more than they did.
"Listen… I know this isn't really the time or place, but I just want to tell you guys that I'm sorry. I mean, I knew something was weird about all this. About Umbrella. And I knew Reston was a serious asshole, and if I hadn't been so greedy or so stupid, I never would have got you into this." "Henry," Leon said. "You didn't know, okay? And believe me, you're not the first to be duped…" "No doubt," John interrupted. "Seriously. The suits are the problem here, not guys like you."
Cole didn't look up, but he nodded, his thin shoul– ders slumping as if in relief. John handed him another clip, nodding toward the path as Cole tucked it into his back pocket. "Let's hit it," John said, talking to both of them but addressing Cole. Leon could hear it in his deep voice, a note of encouragement that suggested he was start– ing to like the Umbrella worker. "Worse comes to worst, we can retreat to Two. Stick close, keep quiet, and try to shoot for the head or eyes – assuming they have eyes."
Cole smiled faintly. "I'll bring it up," Leon said, and John nodded before stepping away from the hatch and turning left. The chilled air was as quiet as it had been since they'd come into the room, no sounds but their own. Leon brought up the rear, Cole walking slowly in front of him. The path was grooved, as if someone had run a rake through the cement before it was dry. With the "peak" to their right, the trail extended about seventy feet and then turned sharply south, disappearing behind the craggy hill. They'd gone about fifty feet when Leon heard the trickle of rock behind them. Loose gravel falling down the slope. He turned, surprised, and saw the animal near the top of the peak, thirty feet up. Saw it and wasn't sure what he was seeing, except that it was walking, skipping down the hill on four sturdy legs, like a mountain goat.
Like a skinned goat. Like… like…
Like nothing he'd ever seen, and it was almost to the ground when they heard a wet, rattling sound erupt from somewhere ahead of them, the sound of a snot-clogged throat being cleared, or a dog growling through a mouthful of blood – and they were trapped, cut off from escape, the terrible sounds coming to– ward them from both sides.
Getting back into the compound was remarkably easy. Rebecca needed help getting over the fence, but with each passing minute, she seemed to be improv– ing, her balance and coordination sharpening. David was more relieved than he cared to admit, and almost as pleased with Umbrella's guard, or lack thereof. Three men, two at the fence and another at the van; it was pathetic. They'd started back as soon as the helicopter had lifted and headed south, stretching frozen muscles as they moved silently through the dark. When they'd come within a few hundred yards, David had left the others for a quick recon, then come back and led the two shivering women over the fence and into the compound. Before they could take out the watchmen, David knew they needed to get to a safe place out of the cold, to go over their procedure and better assess Rebecca's condition; he chose the most obvious of the buildings, the middle structure. It boasted two satel– lite dishes and a series of antennae, plus a shielded conduit running down one side. If he was right, if it was a communications relay, it was exactly where they wanted to be.
And if I'm wrong, there are two others to check; one will be a generator room, it's bound to have some sort of climate control. I can leave them there and do the sabotage work solo…
They'd scaled the fence from the south, David amazed at how poorly Umbrella had planned for their re-entry. The two men covering the perimeter were stationed at the front and back, as if there was no chance that anyone would enter from another direc– tion. As soon as they were inside, David led them to the far side of the last building in line, then motioned for a huddle, "Middle building," he whispered. "Should be un-locked, if it's what I think it is. The lights will be on, though. I'll go inside, then signal for you to follow; if you hear shots, get inside as quick as you can. Stay close to the buildings and stay low when we cross. Yes?"
Claire and Rebecca both nodded, Rebecca leaning on Claire; other than a limp, she seemed to be doing well. She'd said she was still dizzy and that her head hurt, but the confused and erratic thoughts that had so frightened him earlier had apparently passed. David turned and eased along the wall of the structure closest to the fence, hugging the shadows, frequently glancing back to be sure both women were keeping up. They reached the end facing west and slipped around, David first, checking for the west guard's position. It was almost too dark to see, but there was a density of shadow against the metal mesh that marked him. David raised the M-16 and pointed it at him, prepared to fire if they were seen. Too bad we can't just shoot him now… but a shot would alert the others, and while David wasn't con– cerned with the fence men, the one posted at the van could be a problem; he was far enough away that he might radio before coming in to check.
These two will be easy enough, but how to approach him? There was no cover if the man at the mini spotted them coming… That could wait; they had work to do before worry– ing about the guards. Crouching, David waved Claire and Rebecca across, the M-16 trained on the shadowy figure at the fence. He held his breath as they slipped across the open space, but they managed it with hardly a sound. As soon as they were across, David followed, his years of training allowing him to move as silently as a ghost. Once they were cloaked by the building's shadow, David relaxed a bit, the worst of it over. They could cross to the middle building in the thick black of the corridor between the structures. In less than a minute, they'd reached the crossing point. Nodding at the women to stay back, David went across, stopping at the closed door to their destination. He touched the icy metal of the handle and pushed it down, nodding to himself as he heard the tiny click of the unlocked door.
It's communications, then; the team leader would have left it open for the men posted, access to a satellite uplink in case we returned. A calculated guess, but a good one. It was time to pray for a bit of luck; if the lights were on, opening the door would be like a beacon to anyone even glancing in their direction. The guards had been facing away from the compound when he'd reconned, but that didn't mean much. A deep breath, and David pushed the door open, registering that the light was low as he slid inside and closed it behind him. He leaned against the door and counted ten, then relaxed, inhaling the warm air thankfully as he studied the interior. The warehouse– type structure had apparently been divided into Rooms – and the one he'd stepped into was packed with computer equipment, thick cables trailing across the floor and up the walls, dish connectors… everything that links this facility to the world outside…
David hit the wall switch, turning off the single ceiling light, and grinning, opened the door for Rebecca and Claire to join him.
"Back against the wall!" Leon shouted, and Cole did it before he even knew why. The phlegmy rattling sounds seemed to be coming from somewhere ahead -
– and then he saw the creature coming slowly toward them from behind, making it impossible to retreat, and barely held back a scream. It stopped fifteen or twenty feet away, and Cole still couldn't seem to get a good look; it was just too bizarre. Oh, Jesus, what is it? It was four-legged, with split hooves, like a ram or goat, and was about the same size – but there was no fur, no horns, nothing else that even remotely resem– bled a natural development. Its slender body was coated with tiny reddish-brown scales, like a snake's skin, but dull instead of shiny; at first glance, it looked like it was covered in dried blood. Its head was somehow amphibian, like a frog's – an earless flat face, small dark eyes that bulged out at the sides, a too-wide mouth – except there were pointed teeth sticking up from a protruding lower jaw, a bulldog's jaw, its head also covered in the dried-blood scales. The thing opened its mouth, exposing only a few sharp teeth, upper and lower, none of them in the front – and that terrible wet rattling sound came from the darkness of its throat, the bizarre call matched by others, somewhere on the other side of the artificial mountaintop. The call built, going louder and deeper as the thing raised its head, turning its hideous face to the ceiling -
– and in one sudden, jerking motion, it dropped its head and spat at them. A thick, tarry blob of reddish semiliquid flew at them, at Leon, across the wide open space -
– and Leon raised his arm to block it even as John started to shoot, stepping away from the wall and spraying the monster – – Spitter -
– with bullets. The goop hit Leon's arm, would have hit his face if he hadn't blocked, and in response to the hail of clattering rounds, the Spitter turned and jumped up the sculpted mountain in long, easy jumps that took it to the top in seconds, that didn't denote panic or pain or any stress at all. It loped back about twenty feet, then skipped nimbly back down to the ground, stopping in front of the connecting hatch. As if it knew it was blocking their escape. And it didn't even flinch, holy shit… The multiple cries from just out of sight didn't get any louder, but they didn't retreat, either. The gar– gling noises stopped, one at a time, the lack of targets giving them no reason; suddenly, it was silent again, as quiet as it had been when they'd entered. "What the good goddamn was that?" John said, grabbing another magazine from his pack, his expres– sion one of total incredulity. "Wasn't even hurt," Cole whispered, holding the nine-millimeter so tight that his fingers started to go numb. He barely noticed, watching as Leon touched the thick, wet handful of maroon goop on his sleeve and hissed in pain, drawing his hand back as if he'd been burned. "Stuff's toxic," he said, quickly wiping his fingers on his shirt and holding them up. The tips of the index and middle fingers on his left hand had gone an angry, inflamed red. He immediately stuck his hand– gun in his belt and pulled the black shirt off, carefully avoiding contact with the acidic ooze, dropping it to the stone floor. Cole felt sick. If Leon hadn't blocked… "Okay-okay-okay," John breathed, his brow fur-rowed. 'This is bad, we want out of here as fast as possible… you say there's a bridge?" "Yeah, goes over the, uh, trench," Cole said quickly. "Like twenty feet across, I didn't see how deep it was." "Come on," John said. He started walking toward where the path turned out of sight, striding quickly. Cole followed, Leon right behind. John stopped about ten feet short of the turn and backed against the wall again, glancing at Leon. "You want to cover, or me?" Leon asked softly. "Me," John said. "I step out first, draw their fire. You run, Henry, right behind him – and head down, got it? Get across, get to the door – if you can, help me out -" John's face was solemn. "– if you can't, you can't." Cole felt a by-now-too-familiar rush of shame. They're protecting me, they don't even know me and I
got them into this… if he could do something to return the favor, he would, although he was suddenly quite sure that he'd never be able to even things out; he owed these guys his life, a couple times over already. "Ready?" John asked. "Wait…" Leon turned and jogged back to where he'd dropped the sweatshirt. The Spitter by the hatch stood as silent and immobile as a statue, watching them. Leon scooped up the shirt and hurried back, slipping a pocket knife out of his pack. He cut off the offending sleeve, letting it fall, then handed the rest to John.
"If you're gonna be standing still, keep your face covered," Leon said. "Since they don't seem to notice bullets, you won't need to see, to shoot. Once we're across, I'll give a yell. And if it's not safe, I'll…"
The rattling, peremptory calls had started up again, making Cole think of cicadas for some reason, the almost mechanical ree-ree-ree sound of cicadas on a hot summer night. He swallowed hard, trying to pretend to himself that he was ready. "Outta time," John said. "Get ready to go…" He held up the sweatshirt, then – astoundingly grinned at Leon. "My man, you must invest in a stronger deodorant; you stink like a dead dog."
Without waiting for a response, John put the shirt over his head, holding it open at the bottom so he could see the floor. He jogged out into the open, his face down, Cole and Leon both tensing…… and there was a rapid patpatpatpat, and the black material over John's face was suddenly dripping with great strings of the poison red snot, and he jerked his hand at them…… and Leon said, "Now!" and Cole ran, head down, seeing only Leon's boots sprinting in front of him, a blur of gray rock, his own thin legs as he sprinted. He heard a gurgling cry to his left and ducked down even farther, terrified -
– and there was the thump of wood in front of him, and then he was on the bridge, flat wooden slats rippling underfoot, tied with scrawny twine. He saw the vee-shaped gorge underneath, saw that it was deep, that it had been dug into the earth beneath the Planet, forty, fifty feet…… and then he was back on gray land, before vertigo could even occur to him. He ran, thinking of how wonderful it was that all he needed to think about was Leon's boots, his heart hammering against his breastbone.
