FOURTEEN
"SHIT," JOHN BREATHED, NOT EVEN AWARE
that he'd spoken as he raised the M-16 and opened
up.
- bambambambam -
- and the first of the scorpion-things let out a
strange, dry, hissing sound, like air being let out of a
giant tire, as the bullets hammered into its curled
body. A thick white fluid burst from the wounds that
had opened in its insectile face, a face of drooling
tusks and spider's eyes, a face with a black shapeless
hole for a mouth. Writhing, claws raised, it fell on its
side and twisted wildly, digging its own shallow grave
in the hot sand.
Leon and Cole were both shooting, the thunder of
the nine-millimeter drowning out any more hissing,
producing even more of the pus-like blood in the
second and third of the Scorps. The white liquid
spewed out in glurts, like puke, but there were three
more of the creatures coming down...
... and the first one, the one that John had drilled
full of holes, was getting up. Getting up unsteadily,
but getting up all the same. The openings were oozing
with that viscous white goo - and even as it took its
first step toward them, John saw that the liquid was
hardening. Plugging the wounds as efficiently as plaster
filled a hole in a wall.
"Go go go!" John shouted as the other two creatures,
taken down by Leon and Cole, started to move,
their wounds already scabbing over. The second
threesome was halfway down the dune and closing
fast.
Gotta get out.
There were still two more "environments," and
they'd already blown at least a third of their ammo;
this ran through John's mind in the split-second it
took him to spray the Scorps with a hail of bullets, as
Leon and Cole ran east.
He didn't even try to take any of the six down, he
knew it wouldn't make a difference. The line of
explosive rounds was to hold them back until the
other two men were clear, his mind grasping for a
solution as the impossible animals waved their jagged
claws, scrabbling against the shifting sands and spurting
more of their bizarre epoxy.
- grenade but how do I get them all, how do we
avoid taking shrapnel -
The closest of the Scorps was perhaps a dozen feet
in front of him when he turned and ran, moving as
fast as he could through the blazing heat, his adrenaline
up and raging. Leon and Cole were fifty meters
ahead, stumbling through the sand, Leon running
sideways, watching front and back, sweeping with
his semi.
John risked a glance back, saw that the scorpion
creatures were still coming. Slower than before but
not faltering, their waspish bodies dripping white,
their bizarre elongated claws raised and snapping.
They were gaining speed, too, faster with each skittering
step, a pack of undead bugs looking for lunch -
- pack, in a pack -
They might not have a better chance. John dropped
the rifle, the sling hanging awkwardly around his
neck, and jammed one hand into his pack, still
managing a decent run. He came up with one of the
grenades, jerked the pin free, and turned, backing up
in a shambling jog. He tried to evaluate the distance,
the M68's process running through his frenzied mind,
the Scorps sixty, seventy feet behind.
- impact fuse, armed two seconds after it hits, sixsecond
backup -
"Grenade!" He screamed, and threw the round
canister up, praying that he'd judged it right as he
turned and lunged, the grenade still ascending as he
dove into the side of the sand dune.
John swam into it, pushing with all his considerable
muscle, burrowing into the hot grit blind and breathless.
The sand was cooler underneath, waves of the
unpacked stuff pouring across his face, trying to force
its way into his nose and mouth, but he couldn't think
of anything except pulling his legs in - and what the
blast-projected slivers of metal could do to human
flesh.
One final, desperate kick and -
- KA-WHAM -
- there was a huge shift all around him, an incredible
pressure slamming into him and into the moving
wall he was embedded in. He felt the weight on top of
him press down, forcing the air out of him, and it took
all he had to force one hand up to his face, to cup it
over his mouth. Breathing shallowly, he started
worming his way back out, wriggling and kicking.
Leon, did they get down in time, did it work?
He fought against the still sliding currents of polished
granules, taking one more breath before using
both hands to swipe at the heavy sands. 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 misguided,
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 apparently
weren'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 chattering,
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 ablebodied,
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 twentyfive
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 halfmile,
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 segment
... 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 interrupted.
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 desperation
- 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 happening
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 helicopter
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 compound'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 ballsqueeze
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, concentrating
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 moving
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 uneasy
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 another
brandy.
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