EIGHT
KAREN JUMPED BACK AS BULLETS CRACKED
into the door. Chunks of rotten flesh spattered up from
Ammon's body; the corpse danced and waved in a
shuddering, jerking rhythm of macabre motion.
David snatched at the coat of the dead man and
yanked, but the door was pinned open by the clattering
fire and whoever was shooting was coming
closer, the explosive shots louder, the splinters of flesh
and wood pelting them with greater force. They were
trapped, both exits blocked.
Rebecca clutched her Beretta in one shaking hand,
watching for a signal from David. He pointed roughly
northwest, into the compound, shouting to be heard
over the whining, spitting clatter of the automatic fire.
"Rebecca, other door! John, Karen, next building,
secure! Steve, we cover! Go!"
As one, Steve and David leaped out and started to
fire, the booming rounds punctuating the lighter hail
of deadly ammo.
John and Karen charged out at a full run, were
instantly swallowed up by the shadows. Rebecca spun
and trained her weapon on the back door, her heart
pounding in her throat. The walls trembled and
shook.
"Die, Jesus, why won't they die?" Steve screamed
behind her, a strain of disbelief and terror in his voice
that made her blood run cold.
. . . zombies?
Without looking away from the rectangle of dark
wood, Rebecca shouted as loud as she could, her voice
cracking over the relentless spray of the automatics.
"Head shots! Aim for the head!"
There was no way to know if they'd heard her, the
rifle or rifles kept pounding, approaching. Her
thoughts raced to understand, images of the T-Virus
victims flitting through her mind. They'd been mindless,
slow, inhuman and accidental, not on purpose -not with
purpose.
"Rebecca, let's go!"
There was still the sound of an automatic rifle
firing, but the boathouse no longer shook from the
impact of its force. She shot a glance back, saw Steve
still shooting at something, saw David motioning at
her to move.
She sidled for the open door, catching a sickening,
up-close look at the bullet-riddled corpse still hanging
there. The head had caved in like a rotting pumpkin,
teeth shattered, gummy flecks of tissue radiating out
from behind the skull. The waving hand was no longer
connected to the rotting arm, the radius and ulna
blown away. It dangled there like some obscene
decoration, beckoning...
Steve fired once more and the auto's clatter ceased.
He raised the weapon, his eyes wide and shocked as
he opened his mouth to say something ...
... and the back door crashed open, bullets flying
through the dark in a blaze of orange fire. David
pushed her roughly through the front and she ran, the
responding crack of nine-millimeter rounds resonating
behind her.
- get to the building, get to cover -
She sprinted through the shadows, her wet shoes
thumping across packed, rocky dirt, her searching
gaze finding the outline of a massive, concrete block
and the spindly trees that surrounded it in the darkness
ahead.
"Here."
She veered toward the call, saw John's muscular
form silhouetted by pale starlight at the corner of the
building. As she neared him, she saw the open door,
Karen standing in the entry with her weapon trained
back toward the boathouse. Bullets still sang through
the shadows.
"Get in!" Karen shouted, stepping out of the way,
and Rebecca ran past her, not slowing until she was
inside. She fell into a table in the pitch black, cracking
one hip painfully against the edge.
Turning, she saw Karen firing, heard John yelling,
"Come on, come on..."
... and Steve pounded through the door, gasping.
He pulled to a stop before crashing into her, one hand
clutching his chest.
Rebecca moved to the door and grasped the cool
thickness, her mind absently registering that the material
was steel as David hurtled through, shouting.
"Karen, John!"
Karen backed into the darkness, weapon still
raised. There were three more sharp reports from a
Beretta and then John slipped inside, his jaw
clenched, his nostrils flaring.
Rebecca slammed the door, her fingers finding a
deadbolt switch. The soft snick of the lock was barely
audible against the ringing in her ears. Outside, the
bullets stopped. There were no shouts between the
attackers, no alarms, no barking of dogs or screaming
of wounded. The sudden silence was total, broken
only by the deep, shuddering breathing in the warm
and muggy darkness.
A halogen beam flickered on, revealing the shocked
faces of the team as David shone it around their
retreat. A midsize room, crowded with desks and
computer equipment. There were no windows.
"Did you see that?" Steve gasped, addressing no
one in particular. "God, they wouldn't go down, did
you see that?"
Nobody answered, and though they were out of
immediate danger, Rebecca didn't feel her adrenaline
slowing, didn't feel her heart settling back to anything
approaching normal; it seemed that Umbrella had
found a new application for the T-Virus. And like it or
not, we're going to have to deal with the consequences.
They were trapped in Caliban Cove. And in this
facility, the creatures had guns.
David took a final deep breath and exhaled it
heavily, flashing the torch's light toward the door.
"I'd say we've been spotted," he said, hoping that
he didn't sound as despairing as he felt. "Might as
well see what we've gotten into. Rebecca, would you
turn on the lights?"
She flipped the wall switch and the room snapped
into blinding brilliance, overhead fluorescents pulsing
to life. Blinking against the sudden glare, David
surveyed the team, saw that Steve had one hand
pressed to his chest.
"Are you hit?"
"Vest stopped it," he said, but he seemed more out
of breath than the others, his face paler than it should
have been.
Rebecca glanced at David with a questioning gaze.
He nodded at her.
Doesn 't appear that we have anywhere else to go...
"Check him out. Anyone else?"
Nobody answered as Rebecca stepped up to Steve,
motioning for him to take off the vest. David turned
and looked around the room, measuring it against the
memory of Trent's map and what little he'd seen from
outside. There were a half dozen cheap metal desks,
each with a computer and bits of clutter on top. The
cement walls were undecorated and plain. There was
another door on the west wall that had to lead deeper
into the building.
"Karen, secure that," he said. They could check out
the rest of the site once they'd decided what to do.
Once you've decided, Captain; perhaps you'd like to
send them out for a swim? It can't be any worse than
what you've already managed. . .
David ignored the inner voice, perfectly aware of
how badly he'd underestimated the situation. The
team didn't need to see him wallow in self-doubt, it
wouldn't help anything. The question was, what now?
"Let's talk," he said. "It doesn't look like we're
facing an accident after all. What did the note say?
The food was drugged, and something about a 'he'
killing the others ... is it possible that we're not
looking at a T-Virus spill?"
Rebecca looked up from her examination of Steve's
chest, the computer expert sitting on one of the desks
in front of her. Steve winced as Rebecca's fingers
circled the darkening bruise on his right pectoral. She
smiled guiltily at him, shaking her head.
"You're okay. Nothing's broken."
She turned back to David, the smile falling away.
"Yeah. If there'd been a release, that guy on the door,
Ammon, would've been affected. But the Trisquads -
- if they're the result of experiments with the T-Virus,
they'd have rotted away by now. It's been over three
weeks since he wrote that note, we should be looking
at piles of mush. Either it's a different virus, or
someone's been taking care of them. Enzyme upkeep,
maybe some kind of refrigeration..."
David nodded slowly, following her reasoning.
"And if that 'someone' had gone mad and killed
everyone, why bother?"
"That corpse, waving at us," Karen said thoughtfully.
"And the creature or creatures in the cove. It's
like he expected people to come..."
"...but didn't mean for us to get very far," John
finished.
The line from the note ran through David's mind,
the words following the plea to stop "him."
'God knows what he means to do.'...
Steve had slipped his shirt back on, shivering from
the damp cloth. "So what do we do now?"
David didn't answer him, not sure what to say. He
felt so drained, so exhausted and uncertain...
"I ... our options are to get out or go deeper," he
said softly. "Considering what's happened so far, I
don't feel comfortable making that call. What do you
want to do?"
David looked warily from face to face, expecting to
see anger and disdain; he'd let them down, led them
into a perilous situation without a contingency plan,
all because he couldn't stand to see the S.T.A.R.S.
tarnished. And now that they were trapped, he didn't
know what to do.
The expressions they wore, as a group, were thoughtful
and intent. He was surprised to see Karen actually
smile, and when she spoke, her tone was brightly
eager.
"Since you're asking, I want to figure this out. I
want to know what happened here."
Rebecca was nodding. "Yeah, me, too. And I still
want to get a look at the T-Virus."
"I wanna pick off a few more of those Tri-boys,"
John said, grinning. "Man, zombies with M-16s,
night of the living death squad."
Steve sighed, pushing his wet bangs off his forehead.
"Might as well keep looking; going back out
isn't exactly safe. It's not the way I would've liked, but
getting dirt on Umbrella was the original plan . . .
yeah, I want to nail these bastards."
David smiled, feeling properly embarrassed at himself.
He hadn't just underestimated the situation, he'd
sorely underestimated his team.
"What do you want?" Rebecca asked suddenly.
"Really?"
The question surprised him anew - not because
she'd asked, but because suddenly, he didn't have an
answer. He thought about the S.T.A.R.S., about his
obsession with his career and what it had already cost
them. All he'd wanted for days was to feel as though
his life's work had been meaningful, that it hadn't
been wasted and he'd convinced himself that uncovering
the treachery within the job would lay his
mind at rest, as if rooting out the corruption would
somehow prove that he wasn't worthless.
I've worshipped at the altar of the organization for so
long ... but isn't this the reason why, the real purpose?
Here, in this room, on these faces?
He studied her curious, sharp gaze, felt the rest of
them watching him, waiting.
"I want for us to survive," he said finally, truthfully.
"I want for us to make it out of here."
"Amen to that," John muttered.
David remembered what he'd told the Raccoon
team, about each of them doing what they did best if
they meant to succeed against Umbrella. He'd said it
to get Chris's approval of his operation, but it was a
truth that applied to all of them.
Get to it, Captain...
"John, you and Karen take a look around the
building, check the doors, be back in ten. Steve, boot
up one of those computers, see if you can find a
detailed layout of the grounds. Rebecca, we'll go
through the desks. We want maps, data on Trisquads,
T-Virus, anything personal about the researchers that
might tell us who's behind all this."
David nodded at them, realizing that he felt clearer
and more balanced than he had in a long, long time.
"Let's do it," he said. To hell with the S.T.A.R.S.
They were going to take Umbrella down.
Dr. Griffith might not have even noticed the security
breach if it hadn't been for the Ma7s; it seemed that
they were useful after all, though not in the way they'd
been intended.
He'd spent most of the day in the lab, dreamily
pondering the pressurized canisters standing by the
entrance, the shining steel glittering seductively in the
soft light. Once he'd made the decision to let the virus
go, he'd realized that there was really nothing else he
needed to do. The hours had flown by; each glance at
the clock had been a surprise, though not an unpleasant
one. He'd be the first, after all, the first convert to
the new way of the world. With that in front of him,
the only task with which he needed to concern himself
was getting the canisters up to the lighthouse and
with the doctors waiting silently, patiently by, even
that was taken care of. Just before dawn, he'd give
them their final instructions and then proudly lead
the human species into the light, into the miracle of
peace.
It had been the thought of the Ma7s that had finally
drawn him out into the caves, the only concern he
hadn't already dismissed as trivial. He'd already
made a mistake with the Leviathans; once he'd taken
over the facility, he'd lowered the cove gates on
impulse, wanting them to be as free as he'd felt. It
wasn't until the next day that he'd realized Umbrella
might find out and come looking, effectively putting
an end to his plans. He'd continued to send in weekly
reports to keep up appearances, but there was no good
explanation for the "escape" of the four creatures. It
had been sheer luck that the Leviathans had returned
on their own.
The Ma7s were a different matter entirely, of
course. They were too violent, too unpredictable to be
let out. But letting them starve to death in their cage
didn't seem right, particularly not when they, too,
would enjoy the effects of his gift; it wasn't their
choice to exist as creatures of destruction, even to
exist at all. And since he'd played a small role in their
creation, he felt a responsibility to do something for
them...
He'd stood in front of the outer gate for quite some
time, considering the problem as all five of the animals
hurled themselves repeatedly at the heavy steel
mesh, their strange, mournful howls echoing through
the damp and winding caves. There was a manual
lock release near the enclosure, another in the lab,
but there was no way to loose them from the lighthouse,
and he certainly couldn't let them out before
he got to safety. He could send one of the doctors to
do it, but the 7s had a much slower metabolism than a
human's, and there was a risk that they would get to
him before they made the change. A month before his
takeover of the compound, Dr. Chin and two of her
vet techs had made the mistake of trying to tend to
one of the sick ones; it was a bad way to die, and
although he'd be oblivious to the pain once he'd made
the transition, he meant to stay with the new world for
as long as possible.
Griffith had finally decided that euthanasia was the
only reasonable choice. It was a reluctant decision,
but he could see no alternative. Although the lab was
well stocked, poisons weren't his forte, so he'd decided
to look up the information on the mainframe
and there, in the cold comfort of the sealed laboratory,
he'd discovered that his sanctuary had been invaded.
He sat in front of the computer in a kind of shock,
staring at the blinking cursor that indicated system
use in one of the bunkers. There was no chance that it
was a mistake. Except for the lab terminals, the rest of
the compound had been powered down weeks ago.
Umbrella had come.
The first emotion to break through his stunned
astonishment was rage, a sweeping, red-hot fury that
tore away all reason, descending over him like a
blinding fire. For a few moments, he was lost, his body
taken over by the primal force, grasping and rending,
tearing at the useless, meaningless things that fell
beneath his burning fingers.
—they will NOT will NOT stop me will NOT—
When his hands touched the cool metal of the
canisters, the fire turned to ash. The smooth, silver
tanks were like a splash of reason, bringing him back
to himself. His control returned as abruptly as it had
gone, leaving him breathless and sweating.
My creation. My work.
Blinking, gasping, he found himself standing in a
sea of ripped papers, broken glass, and torn circuitry.
He'd managed to destroy the computer, the bearer of
bad news, in pieces on the cold floor. On another day,
he might have been ashamed at the hysterical tantrum,
but on this, his eve of greatness, he allowed that
the rage had been justified.
Justified, perhaps, but pointless. How will you keep
them from stopping you? You can't release the strain
here, and you can't risk taking it outside, not now...
what are their plans? How much do they know?
He could find out easily enough. There were still
two other terminals in the lab and he walked quickly
to one of them, glancing at the mute doctors, sitting
quietly by the airlock. If they'd even noticed his
rampage, they gave no sign. He felt a small rush of
hatred for them, for creating the useless Trisquads;
the "unstoppable" guards had failed him now that he
needed them most.
He sat down and turned on the monitor, impatiently
waiting for the spinning umbrella of the company
logo to disappear. The security network for the
compound's system was based in the lab; he'd be able
to see what the intruders were seeking without alerting
them to his presence, if he could remember how to
access the information....
He tapped several keys, waited, then typed in his
clearance number. After the briefest of pauses, lines
of glowing green data spilled across the screen. He'd
done it.
Seek, find, locate. . .
He frowned at the information, wondering why the
hell anyone from Umbrella would be searching for the
laboratory and for that matter, why they'd try looking
for that information in the mainframe at all. The
system designers weren't idiots, there was nothing
about the layout of the facility in the files. . .
. . . and Umbrella would know it. Which means . . .
Relief coursed through him, cool and pure relief so
great that he laughed out loud. He suddenly felt quite
silly at his childish reaction to the breach. The searcher
wasn't from Umbrella, and that changed everything.
Even if they managed to find the lab, an
unlikely proposition at best, considering its location
they wouldn't be able to gain entry without a key card.
And Griffith had destroyed all of them ...
... except for Amman's. His was never found.
Griffith froze, then shook his head, a nervous smile
on his face. No, he'd searched practically everywhere
for the missing card, what were the chances that the
interloper would stumble across it?
And what were the chances that they'd make it past
the Trisquads, hmm? And what was Lyle up to during
those hours when you couldn't find him? What if he did
get a message out? You only checked for transmissions
to Umbrella, but what if he contacted someone else?
Even as the dreadful, impossible thought occurred
to him, the computer began to spit out information
on the logic skills tests. The socio-psychological series
tests that Ammon had designed.
Griffith felt his control slipping again. He clenched
his hands into fists, refusing to give in; there was too
much at stake, he couldn't afford to let his emotions
take over, not now, he had to think.
I'm a scientist, not a soldier, I don't even know how
to shoot, to fight! I'd be useless in combat, totally...
Unpredictable. Uncontrollable.
A slow grin spread across his features.
Blood was seeping from his fists, from where his
ragged fingernails had dug into the heels of his hands,
but he felt no pain. His gaze wandered around the
open, silent laboratory, resting briefly on the airlock.
Then to the blank, stupid faces of his doctors. To the
cylinders of compressed air and virus, his miracle.
And finally, to the controls for the mesh gate that led
to the animal enclosure.
Dr. Griffith's smile widened. Blood pattered to the
floor.
Let them come.
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