TWELVE
THE TALLER ONE, JOHN, POINTED HIS AUTOMATIC
rifle at the Avi and let loose a hail of bullets.
Like a stream of destruction, they hit the Dac's
aquiline skull and blew out the other side, dark fluids
spattering across the freshly painted trees. Both eyes
popped like water balloons.
Damn. Low threshold; it's those hollow bones...
Reston watched as the other gunman pointed his
weapon at a second Dac that had landed in the
clearing. Even without sound, Reston could see the
handgun kick three, four times, hitting the specimen
in its narrow chest. The Dac's slender neck curved
wildly back and forth, a squiggling dance of death
before it sprawled, bleeding, against the ground.
He didn't see any more of the animals touch down,
but the three men were retreating, stumbling back
into the woods. Poor Cole seemed quite undone, his
mouth open in a silent howl, his lank brown hair
practically plastered to his head with sweat, his limbs
quaking.
Serves him right for not getting to the audio. The
lack of sound was annoying, although he supposed the
footage wouldn't suffer for it. People knew what
bullets and screams sounded like already.
The three were moving out of range, heading west
now. Reston switched cameras from the one in the
tree to a long shot from the north wall. It was clear
that Cole was trying to lead them to the connecting
door - although he obviously didn't remember that a
second, larger clearing was now in their path. For the
moment, though, the Dacs had also pulled back; they
generally gravitated toward open spaces. The gunmen
had only killed two, which meant that there would be
six healthy specimens to greet them in the "meadow."
Reston had released all of the creatures into their
habitats just after the call had come on the cell line
from a Sergeant Steve Hawkinson, the man who was
leading the surface effort. He had informed Reston
only that two Umbrella teams - nine men, including
himself - were starting a sweep of the compound, and
that the fugitives' transport had been spotted; the
three were still in the area unless they had a second
vehicle, a highly unlikely possibility. Reston told him
that the entry's camera had been covered by one of
them and asked for an update as soon as anything
turned up, then settled in to watch the show.
He poured himself another brandy as he watched
the three weave slowly through the trees, John with
his weapon pointed above, the other scanning the
shadows around them...
He needs a name, too. We have Henry, John, and
Red? His hair is son of reddish.
Not really, but it would do, just as "Dac" worked
for the Avis. There was no relation to pterodactyls, of
course, and the "Av" was for "Aves," birds - and in
fact, the Dacs were closer to bats than anything. There
were just too many in the mammal series already. At
the request of Jackson himself, the specimen growers
had added some new classifications for clarity's sake,
using some of the secondary contributors to that
series's gene pool. Like the Spitters, who were closer
to snakes than to goats, but'd been labeled Ca6s, for
Capra, because of the cloven hooves...
... and the Dacs do look like pterodactyls, or at
least our modern concept of them, Reston thought,
looking at the screen that showed the cage entrance.
Two of the animals were still inside. The streamlined,
muscular body and the narrow beak, the bone
"comb" on the top of the head, the fibrous wings...
they were really quite elegant in a brutal sort of way.
The two in the massive behind-the-scenes "cave"
were clearly agitated by all of the excitement, crawling
back and forth on their folded wings and swinging
their heads from side to side. Reston didn't know
much from the biological end, but he knew that they
hunted by motion and scent, and that just two of
them could take down a horse in under five minutes.
Not so efficient being shot at, however.
It didn't make a difference, really. The Avis had
been created for third-world situations, where machetes
still outnumbered rifles. It was too bad that
they died so quickly, the handlers would be disappointed
by the loss - but they would have been tested
against firepower eventually anyway.
And speaking of...
The three men were getting close to the clearing,
moving out of the north camera's view. That would
be where the Dacs would make their play. Reston
leaned in to watch, realizing that the scenes he was
recording would make his career - and that regardless
of that fact, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
David opened fire as soon as the thug's light found
them, hearing the single shot of a weapon down
below -
- and felt the splintering of wood to his left, a
flurry of splinters spraying his arm. He was too intent
on taking out the shooter to stop firing, but he knew
with a burst of dread that they were about to fall, that
both young women would smash into the concrete if
he didn't do something...
... and then he was falling, too, the wooden slats
beneath him disappearing suddenly, plunging him
through the icy dark. David held on to his weapon,
pushing his arms out and bending his knees in the half
second of blind free fall...
... and then his knees connected with cardboard,
with an unseen box that collapsed beneath his weight,
sparing him the worst of it. Instantly he was on his
feet, turning toward the other flashlight, which was
still shining out from halfway across the warehouse,
the first man already down. No time to check on
Rebecca, or Claire - the raised shouts from outside
were almost upon them.
The torch-bearer went down in the short line of
bullets David sent from the M-16, a guided four-foot
arc across the darkness behind the light. The flat
echoes of the rounds blasted through the alleys between
boxes, and as the flashlight dropped, a single
grunt of pain and surprise going down with it, David
turned the gun toward the open door.
Come on, then...
Rattatattatt...
Submachine gun fire from outside, a sweep across
the door ... but no one stepped inside. David moved
left and sent a burst from his weapon in response, not
expecting to hit anyone, the bullets crashing uselessly
into the door's frame. He needed to buy them time,
even if only a few seconds.
"Uunh," a soft, feminine groan from behind him.
"Rebecca! Claire! Sound off!" He whispered
harshly, still watching the pale, empty square of open
door.
"Here. Claire, I mean, I'm okay but I think she's
hurt..."
Dammit!
David felt his heart skip a beat and he backed up a
step, his thoughts racing, a knot of dread in his belly.
It had been less than a half-minute since the first shot,
but the Umbrella team would have already surrounded
the building, if they were any good at all.
They needed to get out before the attackers were
firmly organized.
"Claire, come to me, follow my voice - I need you
covering the door. You see anyone, even a shadow,
shoot to kill. Understood?"
He heard her shuffling movements as he spoke and
reached out for her as she came close, grabbing hold
of her arm.
"Wait," he said, and let another burst from the gun
fly, hammering into the wall near the door. He
immediately unslung the M-16 and handed it to
Claire as the submachine gun returned fire, a rattle of
bullets spraying directionless into the dark.
"You can use this?"
"Yeah." She sounded anxious but steady enough.
"Good. As soon as I say, we're going to start
moving for the west door; you'll be covering us."
He was already turning toward the corner, where
Rebecca would be. He heard another muffled murmur
of pain and fixed on it, moving quickly, dropping to
his knees and feeling for the injured girl. He felt
silkiness beneath one hand, Rebecca's hair, and ran
both hands over her head, feeling for the sticky
warmth of blood.
"Rebecca, can you speak? Do you know where
you're hurt?"
A cough - and then he felt her fingers touch his
arm, and knew she was all right even before she spoke.
"Back of my head," she said, softly but clearly.
"Possible concussion, cracked hell on my tailbone,
limbs seem okay . . ."
"I'm going to help you up. If you can't walk, I'll
carry you, but we have to go now..."
As if to prove his words, there was another rattle
from the gunman outside -
- and a shout that had him moving even before it
was finished.
"Fire in the hole!"
David spun, leapt up from his crouch and tackled
Claire from behind, calling out, "Close your eyes..."
as he closed his own in case of incendiary, praying it
wasn't a shrapnel...
... and the vhump of a grenade launcher, followed
by a loud pop and hiss told him it was gas. He moved
off of Claire, felt her sit up beside him, heard her
ragged, frightened breathing.
God, not sarin, soman, let them want us alive...
Within seconds, David's nose and eyes started to
water viciously and he felt a wave of relief. Not nerve
gas; they'd used a CN or CS tear gas. The Umbrella
team was going to smoke them out.
"West door," David said, and Claire choked out an
affirmative, the chemical compound disseminating
quickly into the frigid air, an effective but thankfully
nonlethal weapon.
He turned back and felt a hand brush across his
chest.
"I can walk," Rebecca said, coughing, and David
threw her arm across his shoulders anyway and
started for the door, moving as fast as he could
through the black. He heard Claire gasping but holding
her own, keeping up with them.
David hurried forward, planning as he went, trying
not to breathe too deeply. There'd be people at both
doors, waiting -
- but how close? They'll want to be right there,
waiting to subdue their choking victims...
He had it. As they came to the wall, David fished
into his hip bag, pulling out the smooth, round antipersonnel
grenade and pulling the pin.
"Claire, Rebecca, behind me!"
Already blind in the dark, the tears only hurt; they
didn't interfere with his aim as he pulled his ninemillimeter
and swept it in front of him, finding the
door.
BAM!
He blew a hole in the door's edge, unlocking it,
hearing the surprised cries of the men outside. With
hardly a pause, David jerked the door open, how far to
the fence, fifty, sixty meters -
- and lobbed the grenade, a gentle toss out the
door, closing it just as fast as he could, throwing his
weight against it and thanking God that it was so very
durable -
- and KA-WHAM, the door fought with him as the
impact fuse went, dirt and shrapnel slamming against
it like a wild beast clawing for entrance. David held
on, only a second's war but a fierce one nonetheless.
The thundering boom of the M68 gave way to moans
and howls of pain, barely audible over the ringing in
his ears and the screaming of his breathless lungs.
"Cover to the right and head left!" He shouted, and
yanked the door open, whipping the H&K from side
to side. The pallid moonlight showed him only three
men, all down, all hurt and screaming and still alive
beyond the veil of his tears.
Kevlar, full-body maybe...
They'd expect a run to the front, to their escape
vehicle, so David turned left. He fixed his wet gaze on
the dark fence as Claire and then Rebecca tumbled
out behind him, coughing and crying.
"Fence," he said, as loud as he dared, and reached
back for Rebecca, sliding his arm around her waist.
They stumbled over one of the fallen men, clutching
at his bleeding face, and managed a shagging run
toward escape, Claire right behind. She sidled quickly
after them, the M-16 aimed back toward the front of
the compound.
Good girl, we might make this, over the fence and
circle away from the van, out into the desert...
They ran, closing the distance much faster than
David could have hoped, the fence only ten yards
behind the rear of the building they'd been in, the
building he'd chosen because of it; the others angled
toward the front, too much distance, and the first
would have been too obvious -
- then they were almost to the fence when someone
fired the machine gun from the darkness behind
them, from the cover of the building's other side. At
least one of the Umbrella team had fought logic and
come around by the unexpected route.
Claire was on it, returning fire, the rapid chatter of
the two automatics merging into an explosive duo.
The invisible shooter was either hit or ducking as the
thundering song went solo, Claire peppering the darkness
with the .223s.
Rebecca will need help.
"Claire! Up and over!" David shouted, reaching
out for the M-16. She let it go and turned, scaling the
fence easily.
"Rebecca, go!" David pulled the trigger and held it,
spraying bullets across the cold night, hearing return
fire from seemingly everywhere at once, three, maybe
four shooters...
... and there was a cry from behind him, from
Rebecca, only halfway up the metal grid. A few drops
of warmth spattered across David's face and he
stopped firing, jumping to catch her before she could
let go.
"Got it!" Claire shouted from the other side, and
she fired through the mesh, the nine-millimeter
rounds pounding and loud, David's pulse even louder.
Rebecca was pale, panting harshly, obviously in
pain - but she managed to hang on to the fence, even
to climb a little as David straddled the fence and
lifted her up.
He half-carried her over the top, and as soon as
Claire reached up to help, David turned and fired
again at the oncoming attackers, still hidden in the
shadows, his fury drying the last of the chemical tears.
Bloody bastards, she's still just a girl...
The M-16 went dry and he jumped, then Rebecca
was between them, leaning heavily on David's shoulder,
and they were staggering out into the freezing
desert night.
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