SIXTEEN
JOHN FELT THE BRIDGE DROP AN INCH OR
two about a half second before the ropes snapped. He
instinctively put his hands out, still running, thinking
he'd make it -
- and then he was falling, his knees slamming into
a moving wall of wooden slats, his hands clenching
the second they touched solid -
- and all he heard was a whoosh sound, and then
the knuckles of his right hand crashed into rock, and
he was dangling over a very deep chasm, a slat of
loose wood in his left hand. He'd managed to grip one
of the pieces still attached to the now hanging bridge;
both ties that had anchored it to the north side of the
rift had snapped.
John dropped the useless slat, hearing it clatter to
the bottom of the chasm along with several other
pieces that had come untied. He reached up to get a
better grip...
... and thwack, a gob of red mucous suddenly
appeared in front of him, less than a foot to the right
of his face, sliding down the chasm wall in a melting
rope.
- shit on toast -
Bambambam, someone was shooting a ninemillimeter,
and the rising rattle of Spitters getting
ready to spit told him that he definitely needed to get
out.
He reached up again, his biceps flexing, straining
against the fabric of his sweatshirt as he grabbed one
of the slats above and pulled himself up. Above, more
shots, closer, and a shout from Leon that was cut off
as more bullets thundered.
Kick ass, boys, I'm coming...
Hand over hand was a bitch, particularly with
bleeding knuckles and an automatic rifle hanging
from his neck, but he thought he was doing pretty
well, reaching up for the next handhold -
- and hot wetness hit the back of his right hand,
and it hurt, it was like acid, burning -
- and he let go, flinging the gelid acid away,
wiping at his shirt wildly. He held on to the shuddering
bridge with his left, but just barely, the pain like a
fire, maddening. It was all he could do to resist his
natural instinct, to clutch at the screaming wound
and with the way his fingers were starting to tingle,
he thought he might not have that much longer to
worry about it.
"He's right here!"
A cracked, hysterical shout from directly above.
John tilted his head back, saw Cole crouched at the lip
of the chasm, his work shirt pulled up over his nose,
his gaze frantic and scared.
"John, give me your hand!" He screamed, and
reached down as far as he could, flakes of concrete
falling from beneath his sliding boots. If he said
anything else, it was lost in another series of explosive
rounds as Leon worked to hold the Spitters at
bay.
It only took a split-second for John to react to
Cole's command, and in that instant he understood
that he was going to get out. Henry Cole stood all of
five-eight and probably weighed one-fifty sopping wet.
With his clothes on. What was more, he looked like
some mad turtle hunkered down in the shell of his
shirt.
Too goddamn funny. Funny, and touching in an
idiotic way, and although his hand still hurt like a son
of a bitch, he'd actually forgotten to feel it for a
second or two.
John grinned, ignoring Cole's trembling fingers,
forcing himself to concentrate on pulling himself up
with his injured hand. There were more rattling cries
from behind him but no spit-bombs for the moment.
"Tell Leon to use the grenade," he gasped, and Cole
turned, shouting over another burst from Leon's
semi.
". . . says grenade! John says use a grenade!"
"Not yet!" Leon screamed back. "Get clear!"
Thwap-wap, two more globs flew across the chasm,
one hitting Cole's boot, the other only inches from
John's sweating face.
Put on the power, John. With a final, deeply felt
grunt, John grabbed the wood at the very top and
pulled himself up, pulled and then was pushing down,
bringing his knee up to climb out.
"I'm good, go!"
Cole the mad turtle needed no further incentive. He
took off running as Leon continued to cover for John,
as John crouch-ran toward him, jamming his injured
hand into his pack and pulling out his last grenade
he'd already popped the pin when he saw that Leon
had his grenade in hand.
"Do it!" John yelled, reaching Leon, Leon winding
back and then lobbing the powerful explosive at the
Spitters, throwing high. Then both of them were
running, John shooting a look back to see that three,
four of the animals had already leapt into the chasm.
No time to think. John threw low, threw as hard as
he could, his grenade disappearing into the rift as
Leon's landed in front of the others -
- and they were diving and rolling, the blasts
almost simultaneous, KA-WHAM-WHAM, the sound
of powdered rock raining down, an incredibly highpitched
squealing coming from somewhere.
"You got 'em! You got 'em!"
Cole was standing in front of them, a look of
unabashed glee and not a little awe on his narrow
face. John sat up, Leon next to him, both turning back
to see.
They hadn't killed all of them. Two of the four still
on the other side of the chasm were mostly intact,
alive, but blind and broken, their legs splintered,
black fluid obscuring whatever was left of their faces
as they squealed in fury, the sound like a guinea pig
being stepped on. The other two must have been
directly in front of the blast; they were just bleeding,
shattered bags, bones sticking up from the liquid piles
like - like broken bones. From the manmade gorge
there were more of the screaming squeals, and nothing
leapt out to attack. For all intents and purposes, it
was over.
John crawled to his feet, studying the back of his
hand. Contrary to how it felt, the skin hadn't melted
off. There were a few small blisters forming and the
flesh looked scorched, but he wasn't bleeding.
"You okay?" Leon asked, standing and brushing at
his clothes, his youthful features looking a lot less
youthful to John.
I'm not calling him a rookie anymore.
John shrugged. "Think I broke a nail, but I'll live."
He saw that Cole was still beaming at them, his
body shaking with the adrenaline aftermath; he
seemed at a loss for words, and John had a sudden
clear memory of how he'd felt after his first battle, the
first in which he'd acted bravely. How helplessly
elated he'd been. How incredibly alive.
"Henry, you're a funny guy," John said, clapping
his hand on the smaller man's shoulder and
smiling.
The electrician grinned uncertainly, and the three
of them started for Four, leaving the furious squeals
of the dying animals behind.
When the dust cleared and the three men were still
alive, Reston slammed his fist against the console in
anger and rising dread, his stomach lurching, his eyes
wide with disbelief.
"No, no, no, you stupid shits, you're dead!"
His voice was a little slurred, but he was too
shocked to give it much notice, too upset. They
wouldn't survive the Hunters, he knew that -
- but they weren't going to survive the Ca6s, either.
Reston couldn't believe that they'd made it this far;
he couldn't believe that of the twenty-four specimens
they'd encountered, all but one Dac had been left
either dead or dying. Most of all, he couldn't believe
that he'd let it continue, that his pride and ambition
had kept him from doing what he should have done in
the first place. It wasn't that he was out of his league,
he was in the inner circle, he was past that kind of
insecurity, but he should have talked to Sidney, at
least, or even Duvall; not for advice, but to cover all
of his bases. After all, he couldn't be held totally
responsible if he'd had counsel from one of the other,
older members. . .
It wasn't too late. He'd put a call in, explain his
plan, explain that he had some concerns - he could
say that the intruders were only in Two, that would
help, he could fix the video times later ... and the
Hunters had been tested before, after a fashion, not
the 3Ks but the 121s. There had been some loosed at
the Spencer estate; from the data recovered, he knew
that the three men would be killed in Four. Even if
they weren't, they wouldn't be able to get out, and
with the backup from the home office, he'd be mostly
in the clear.
Satisfied that it was the right decision, Reston
reached under the console and picked up the phone.
"Umbrella, Special Divisions and..."
... and silence. The smooth female voice at the
other end was cut off in mid-sentence, without even a
hiss of static.
"This is Reston," he said sharply, aware that a cold
hand was settling around his heart, squeezing. "Hello?
This is Reston!"
Nothing; then he suddenly realized that the quality
of light in the room had changed, brightening. He
turned in his chair, hoping desperately that it wasn't
what it seemed to be...
... and the row of monitors that showed the surface
were all spitting snow. All seven, off-line - and only
seconds later, before Reston could even digest what
had happened, all seven went black.
"Hello?" He whispered into the dead phone, his
whiskey breath hot and bitter against the mouthpiece.
Silence.
He was alone.
Andrew "Killer" Berman was goddamn cold, cold
and bored and wondering why the Sarge had even
bothered putting anyone on the van. The bad guys
weren't coming back, they were long gone - and even
if they did decide to come back, they sure as hell
weren't going to try to get to their vehicle. It'd be
suicide.
Either they had a backup car or they're frozen solid
out on the plain somewheres. This is total bullshit.
Andy pulled his scarf up around his ears, then
readjusted his grip on the M41. Fifteen pounds of rifle
didn't sound like much, but he'd been standing for a
long goddamn time. If the Sarge didn't get back soon,
he was going to get into the van for a while, rest his
feet, get out of the cold; they weren't paying him
enough to freeze his balls off in the dark.
He leaned against the back bumper and wondered
again if Rick was okay; he didn't really know the
other guys who'd been cut up by the frag, but Rick
Shannon was his bud, and he'd been all bloody when
they'd loaded him into the 'copter.
Those assholes come back here, I'll show 'em
bloody. . .
Andy sneered a grin, thinking that they didn't call
him Killer for nothing. He was an excellent goddamn
shot, best on his team, the result of a lifetime of deer
hunting.
And also cold, bored, tired, and irritable. Dumbass
duty. If the trio of dickheads showed up, he'd eat his
own hat.
He was still thinking that when he heard the soft,
pleading voice come out of the dark.
"Help me, please - don't shoot, please help me,
I've been shot..."
A breathy, feminine voice. A sexy voice, and Andy
grabbed his flashlight and turned it out into the black,
finding the voice's owner not thirty feet away.
A girl, dressed in tight black, stumbling toward
him. She was unarmed and injured, favoring one leg,
her pale face open and vulnerable beneath the bright
light.
"Hey, hold it," Andy said, although not too
harshly. She was young, he was only twenty-three but
she looked even younger, just legal maybe. And a
nicely stacked legal, at that.
Andy lowered the machine gun slightly, thinking
how nice it would be to help out a lady in distress. She
might be with the three criminals, probably was, but
she obviously wasn't a threat to him; he could just
hold on to her until the helicopter came back. And
maybe she'd be grateful for the help...
... and hey, playing the hero's a good way to earn
points, big time. Nice guys might finish last, but they
certainly get laid an awful lot along the way.
The girl limped up to him and Andy turned the
flashlight away from her face, not wanting to blind
her. Putting just the right note of sincerity into his
voice - chicks dug that shit - he took a step toward
her, holding one hand out.
"What happened? Here, let me help..."
A dark, heavy thing slammed into him from the
side, hard, knocking him to the ground and knocking
the wind right out of him. Before he even knew what
happened, a light was shining in his face, and the M41
was being pried out of his hands as he struggled to
breathe.
"Don't move and I won't shoot," a man said, a Brit,
and Andy felt the cold muzzle of a gun against the
side of his neck. He froze, not daring to move a
muscle.
Oh, shit!
Andy looked up, saw the girl holding the rifle, his
rifle, gazing down at him. She didn't look so helpless
anymore.
"Bitch," he snarled, and she smiled a little, shrugging.
"Sorry. If it's any consolation, your two friends fell
for it too."
He heard another woman's voice from behind him,
soft and amused. "And hey, you get to warm up. The
generator room's nice and toasty."
Killer was not amused, and as they pulled him to
his feet and started marching him toward the compound,
he swore to himself that it was the last time
he'd ever underestimate a chick - and while he didn't
have plans to eat his own hat, he was certainly going
to remember this the next time he thought he was bored.
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