NINE
AS STEVE READ ALOUD, REBECCA SAW DAVID
glance between his watch and the door several times.
She didn't think it had been ten minutes, but it had to
be close. John and Karen weren't back yet.
'". . . where each is designed to measure application
of logic, as combined index projective techniques
with interval precision . . .'"
It was rather dry reading, apparently a facility
report on the analysis of some kind of I.Q. test. It had
obviously been written by a scientist, was, in fact,
the kind of boring double talk that a lot of researchers
tended to fall into when trying to explain anything
more complicated than a chair. Still, it was what had
come up when Steve had asked for information on
"blue series." Since the room had yielded little else,
Rebecca forced herself to pay attention, fighting off
- nine -
the nagging, quiet fear that had settled over her
during the fruitless search.
Somebody had cleaned out the room, and done a
very thorough job of it. She'd found books, staplers,
pens and pencils, a ton of rubber bands and paper
clips, but not a single piece of paper with writing on
it, not a scrap of information to work with. Steve's
computer search wasn't much better; no map and
nothing at all on the T-Virus. Whoever had taken over
the facility had apparently wiped out everything they
might've been able to use.
Except for a shitload of dull psycho-babble, which so
far hasn't even mentioned the word blue. How are we
supposed to accomplish anything here?
Steve touched a key, then brightened considerably.
"Here we go ..."
" 'The red series, when looked at on a standardized
scale, is the most basic and simple, applicable up to
an intelligence quotient of 80. The green series ...'"
He broke off, frowning. "The screen just went
blank."
Rebecca looked up from the mostly empty desk
she'd been going through as David walked over to join
Steve.
"System crash?" he asked worriedly.
Steve was still frowning, tapping at keys. "More like
a program freeze. I don't think - hello, what's this?"
"Rebecca," David said quietly, motioning for her
to come look.
She closed a drawer full of blank, unlabeled file
folders and moved over to stand behind Steve, bending
down to read what was on the monitor.
The man who makes it doesn't need it. The man who buys
it doesn't want it. The man who uses it doesn't know it.
"It's a riddle," David said. "Either of you know the
answer?"
Before either of them could respond, Karen and
John walked back into the room, both of them bolstering
their weapons. Karen held a sheet of torn
paper in one hand.
"Locked up tight," John said. "Halfa dozen offices,
no windows at all and only one other external door,
north end."
Karen nodded. "There were file cabinets in most of
the rooms, but they were empty, except I found this
in one of the drawers, stuck in a crack. It must have
ripped off when the place was being cleaned out."
She handed the piece of paper to David. He
scanned a few lines, his dark gaze taking on a sudden
intensity.
He turned back to Karen. "This is all there was?"
Karen nodded. "Yeah. But it's enough, don't you
think?"
David held up the torn sheet and started to read it
out loud.
" 'The teams continue to work independently, but have
shown a marked improvement since the modification of
aural synapses."
" 'In Scenario Two, when more than one Trisquad is
present, the second team (B) will no longer engage when the
first (A) concludes (when target ceases to move or make
sound)."
" 'If the target continues to provide stimuli and A has
discontinued the attack (lack of ammunition/disabling
injury to all units), B will engage. If within range, additional
patrols will be drawn to the attack and will engage in
succession."
" 'At this time, we have not successfully managed to
expand sensory ability to trigger desired behavior; the visual
stimuli of Scenarios Four and Seven continue to be unproductive,
although we'll be infecting a new group of units
tomorrow and expect correlating results by the end of the
week. It is our recommendation that we continue to further
develop aural capabilities before considering heat-detection
implantation ...'"
"That's where it's torn off," David said, looking up.
Karen nodded. "It explains a lot, though. Why the
team at the back door of the boathouse didn't do
anything; the team out front was still firing. It wasn't
until you and Steve took them out that the second
group moved in."
Rebecca frowned, not liking the implications of the
report for more than just the obvious; Umbrella's
continued experimentation on humans. From what
she'd seen in Raccoon, the T-Virus took seven or
eight days to fully amplify in a host, the host then
falling to pieces within a month.
So what's this about infecting a new group and
getting data in a week? Or for that matter, implantation
and sensory modification with the hosts they
already have? There shouldn't be time for all that, the
"units" should be disintegrating, way beyond learning
new behavior. . .
She bit her lip nervously, suddenly wondering what
the researchers at Caliban Cove might have done with
the virus. If they'd found a way to speed up the
infective, perhaps tampered with the virion's fusion
membrane, made it more cohesive ...
... or somehow multiplied the indusionary, allowing
it to replicate exponentially... we could be looking
at a strain that works in hours, not days.
It was a nasty thought, and one that she didn't want
to consider until she had more information to go on.
Besides, it wouldn't make a difference in their current
situation; the Trisquads were just as deadly either
way.
"The sign on the north door says we're in block C,
whatever that means," John said, moving to the
computer. "Did you find a map?"
Steve sighed. "No, but take a look. I asked for
information on the blue series, and it started to give
us a report on these I.Q. tests, coded by color, then
this. I can't get anything else."
John peered at the screen, mumbling, ". . . man
who makes it doesn't need it, buys it, doesn't want it,
uses it, doesn't know it . . ."
Karen, who had been rereading the Trisquad material,
looked up with sudden sharp interest. "Wait, I
know that one. It's a casket."
Somehow, Rebecca wasn't surprised that Karen
knew the riddle; the woman struck her as someone
who thrived on puzzles. They all gathered around as
Steve quickly typed in "casket." The screen remained
unchanged.
"Try 'coffin,'" Rebecca suggested.
Steve's fingers flew across the keys. As soon as he hit
"enter," the riddle disappeared, replaced by:
BIDE SERIES ACTIVATED.
Then followed:
TESTS FOUR (BLOCK A), SEVEN (BLOCK D), AND NINE
(BLOCK B)/ BLUE TO ACCESS DATA (BLOCK E).
"Blue to ... Ammon's message," Karen said quickly.
"That's it - the message received related to the blue
series, then said, 'enter answer for key.' The answer
was 'coffin'..."
"... and the test numbers are the key," David said.
"There are three more lines in the message, then 'blue
to access.' The lines must be the answers to the
tests, the letters and numbers reverse, time rainbow,
and don't count. Jill was right, it's all about something
we're supposed to find."
Rebecca felt a rush of excitement as David grabbed
a pen off the desk and turned over the scrap of the
Trisquad report. The information they had finally
made sense - Dr. Ammon's message actually meant
something.
We can do this, we've got something solid now . . .
David drew five boxes in two lines, the same as on
Trent's map, marking the southernmost box with the
letter C. After a pause, he tentatively labeled the
others, starting at the top left with A and going right
to left, marking the test numbers next to each letter.
"Assuming that this is right side up," he said, "and
that we need to complete the tests in order, we'll be
moving in a stagger, a zig-zag between the buildings."
"And assuming the Trisquads don't have a problem
with that," John said softly.
Rebecca felt her excitement dwindle, could see the
same mixed emotions in the suddenly somber expressions
they all wore, staring down at the boxes. She'd
known that they were going to have to leave eventually,
but had somehow managed to avoid thinking
about it, putting it off until it was in front of them.
It was in front of them now. And the Trisquads
would be waiting.
They stood at the north door in a dark and stuffy
hallway, tightening bootlaces, adjusting belts, putting
fresh clips into their Berettas. When David was ready,
he turned to John and nodded.
"Give it back to me."
"You, Steve, and Rebecca will take the one on the
left, northwest from here. Once we hear you get clear,
Karen and I go straight across. If your guess is right,
we'll be in block D; if you're upside down, block B.
Either way, we secure the building, find the test
number, and then wait for you to show up and give us
the go-ahead."
"And if I don't..."
Karen took up the recital. "If we don't hear from
you in half an hour, we come back here and wait for
Steve and Rebecca. We complete the tests if it's
feasible..."
John grinned, a white flash in the gloom. "... and
then get our asses over the fence."
"Right," David said. "Good."
They were ready. There were infinite variables in
the equation, any number of things that could go
wrong with the simple plan, but that was always the
case. There was no way to prepare for everything that
could happen, not at this point, and the decision to
split up was their best chance to avoid detection by
the Trisquads. "Any questions before we go?"
Rebecca spoke up, her youthful voice tight with
concern. "I'd like to remind everybody again to be
extremely careful about what you touch, or what
touches you. The Trisquads are carriers, so try to
avoid getting close to them, particularly if they're
wounded."
David shuddered internally, remembering what
she'd told them before - that one drop of infected
blood could hold millions, hundreds of millions of
virus particles. Not a pleasant thought, considering.
A nine-millimeter round could inflict a lot of
damage. . .
. . . and they don't lie down when they're hit. The
three by the boathouse just kept coming, walking and
firing and bleeding. . .
They were waiting for his signal. David shook the
thoughts off and thumbed the safety on his weapon,
putting his other hand on the door latch.
"Ready? Quietly, now, on three - one . . . two . . .
three."
He pushed the door open and slipped outside into
the cool night air and the whisper of ocean waves. It
was much brighter than before, the almost-full moon
having risen high, bathing the compound in silvery
blue light. Nothing moved.
Straight in front of him about twenty meters away
was John and Karen's destination, and he was relieved
to see a door set into the concrete wall facing
block C; they wouldn't have to go around to get
inside.
David edged away from the door to his left, hugging
the narrow shadow of the wall. He could just make
out the front of the building he hoped was A, tall,
wind-bent pines to the left and behind it. There was a
darker shadow midway along its length, a door, and
no cover in the thirty-plus meters that spanned the
distance. Once they stepped away from C, they'd be
totally vulnerable.
If there's a team between the two lines of buildings
. . .
He shot a glance back, saw Rebecca and Steve
tensed and waiting behind him. If they were going to
walk into a corridor of fire, at least he'd be in front;
Steve and Rebecca should have time to get back to
cover.
He took a deep breath, held it...
...and broke away from the wall, running in a low
crouch for the dark square of the block's entry.
Shapes of pallid light and shadow blurred past. His
entire being was waiting for the flash of an automatic,
the crack of fire, the sharp and piercing pain that
would take him down, but it was silent and still, the
only sound the violent stammer of his heart, the rush
of blood through his veins. Seconds stretched an
eternity as the door loomed closer, larger . . .
Then the latch was under his fingers and he was
pushing, bursting into a stifling blackness, spinning
around to see Rebecca and then Steve come lunging in
after him.
David closed the door quickly but quietly, sensing
the emptiness of the dark room, the lack of life and
then the smell hit him. Either Steve or Rebecca
gagged, a dry bark of involuntary revulsion as David
snatched for the torch, already dreading what he
knew they would see.
It was the same terrible stink that they'd come
across in the boathouse but a hundred times more
powerful. Even without the recent reference, David
knew the odor. He'd experienced it in a jungle of
South America and in a cultist's camp in Idaho, and
once, in the basement of a serial killer's house. The
smell of rotting, multiple death was unforgettable, a
rancid bile like sour milk and flyblown meat.
How many, how many will there be?
The beam snapped on and as it found the tottering,
reeking pile that took up one corner of the large
storage room, David saw that there was no way to be
certain; the bodies had started to melt into one
another, the blackened, shriveling flesh of the stacked
corpses blending and pooling from the humid heat.
Maybe fifteen, maybe twenty. . .
Retching, Steve stumbled away and threw up, a
harsh and helpless sound in the otherwise quiet room.
David quickly took in the rest of the chamber, finding
a door against the back wall, the letter A blocked
across it in black.
Without another look at the terrible mound, he
hustled Rebecca toward the far door, grabbing Steve
as they passed. Once they were through, the smell
faded to barely tolerable.
They were in a windowless corridor, and though
there was a light switch next to the door, David
ignored it for the moment, catching his breath, letting
the two young team members collect themselves.
Apparently, they'd found the Umbrella workers of
Caliban Cove; all but at least one of them, anyway
and David decided that if they ran across him, he'd
shoot first and not bother with any questions at all.
Karen and John stood at the door for a full minute
after the others had gone, cracked open just wide
enough for them to listen. Cool air filtered through
the opening, the far away hiss of waves, but no shots,
no screams.
Karen let the door close and looked at John, her
pale features masked in the dim light. Her voice was
low, even, and terribly serious. "They're in by now.
You want to take lead, or would you prefer if I went
first?"
John couldn't help himself. "My women always go
first," he whispered. "Though I prefer it when we go
together, if you know what I mean."
Karen sighed heavily, a sound of pure exasperation.
John grinned, thinking about how easy she was. He
knew he shouldn't devil her, but it was hard to resist.
Karen Driver kicked ass with a weapon and she was
sharp as a tack in the brains department, but she was
also one of the most humorless people he'd ever
known.
It's my duty to help her lighten up. If we're gonna
die, might as well be laughing as crying ... A simple
philosophy, but one he held dear; it had gotten him
through many an unpleasant situation in the past.
"John, just answer the goddamn question ..."
"I'll go," he said mildly. "Wait till I get through,
then follow."
She nodded briskly, stepping back to let him by. He
briefly considered telling her that he'd greet her at the
door wearing nothing but a smile, but decided against
it. They'd worked together for almost five years, and
he knew from experience that he could only go so far
before she got pissy. Besides, it was a good line, and
he didn't want to waste it.
As soon as his hand closed over the latch, he took a
deep breath, letting his sparkling wit take a back seat
to what he thought of as his "soldier mind." There
was humor, and then there was conquering the
enemy - and while he enjoyed both immensely, he'd
learned long ago to keep them separate.
Gonna be a ghost now, gonna slide through the dark
like a shadow ...
He gently pushed the door open. No sound, no
movement. Holding his Beretta loosely, he stepped
away from the building and moved quickly through
the silvery dark, fixing on the door that was scarcely
twenty steps away. His soldier mind fed him the facts,
the cool wind, the soft tread of boots against dirt, the
smell and taste of the ocean, but his heart told him
that he was a ghost, floating like an invisible shadow
through the night.
He reached the door, touching the clammy metal
bar with steady fingers and it wouldn't move. The
entrance was locked.
No panic, no worry, he was a shade that no one
could see; he'd find another way in. John held up a
hand, telling Karen to wait, and edged smoothly to his
right.
Silent and easy, shadow without form ...
He reached the corner and slid around, letting his
heightened senses continue to feed him information.
No movement in the whispering night, the rough feel
of concrete against his left shoulder and hip, the steady
pump of exhilaration and fluidity in his muscles. There
was another door, facing the broad, glimmering openness
of the sea, cool light matte against metal.
Rat-atat-atat-atat!
Bullets hit the dirt at his feet. John spun and leaped
backward, flattening himself against the wall as he
grabbed for the latch. Walking from the direction of
the boathouse, a line of three . . .
. . . and John tore the door open and jumped behind
it, heard the clatter of .22 rounds smash into the
metal, stopped inches from his body by the explosive
ping-ping-ping that rattled the door.
He held the door open with his foot, took a splitsecond
look around the edge and targeted the flash of
light, squeezing the trigger as chips of concrete and
dust flew from the wall. The nine-millimeter jumped,
a part of his hand, and he was an animal now, at one
with the thundering rounds, the pull of his breath, the
awareness of himself both as a man and a bringer of
death.
Another look and the line was closer now, the three
dark figures taking shape. John got off another shot,
ducked behind the open door ... and when he looked
again, there were only two standing.
Snap.
Behind him.
John whirled around and saw them, two of them,
ten feet away at the northeast corner of the building.
Both held automatic rifles.
But made no move to fire.
He felt panic then, a screaming, whining beast in
his gut that threatened to devour him from the inside
out -
- holy shit.
The fusillade of the M-16s was still approaching,
but he could see only the creatures that stood there,
watching him with blank and rubbery eyes, wobbling
on unsteady legs. The one on the left had only half a
face; from the nose down was a liquid, pulpy mass of
tissue, chunks of dark wetness hanging from strings of
elastic flesh. The one on the right looked intact at first,
if deathly white and dirty ... until he saw the exploded
mass of its belly, the limp, dripping snake of
intestine flopped out against his bloody shirt.
- won't engage until team A finishes -
John stepped backward into the warm dark of the
building, using one distant arm to hold the door open
against the pair that still fired. He leaned out and
aimed as carefully as he could manage, squashing the
panic as best he could. Neither of the creatures moved
to defend themselves, only stood there, teetering on
rotting legs, watching him.
Bam! Bam!
Two clean head shots, explosively loud over the
continuing rattle of the M-16s. Before they'd even hit
the ground, John heard another nine-millimeter thundering
through the darkness, drowning the automatic
fire.
Karen...
He shot another glance around the door and saw
the crumpling figures of the engaged team a hundred
feet away, one of them still firing as it fell, its rattling
rifle aimed uselessly at the sky. Karen crouched out
from between the buildings, handgun still pointed at
the spasming shooter, her back to John.
- teams won't engage -
"Don't shoot him! Over here, leave him!"
She turned, a lithe and graceful spin, sprinting to
meet him. As soon as she was through, he pulled the
door closed, the crack of the automatic muted to a
dull popping sound.
John sagged against the door as Karen fumbled for
the lock, his brain still screaming at him that he'd
seen the impossible, that he'd just killed two dead
men, that there was nowhere he could put that
information that wouldn't drive him insane -
- can't be, didn't believe, didn't believe it before,
didn 't know and they were DEAD they were ROTTING
and they were -
Karen's ragged whisper broke the warm dark, broke
through the cycling chain of his spinning, dizzying
thoughts.
"Hey, John, was it good for you?"
He blinked, the words registering slowly.
"Going first, I mean," she added. "Was it everything
you hoped it would be?"
He felt a creeping amazement take the place of the
whirling, terrible thoughts, the confusion ebbing, the
waters of his mind becoming clear again.
"That's not funny," he said.
After a beat, they both started to laugh.
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