NINETEEN
FROM THE KENNEL, THEY STEPPED OUT INTO
a clean and sterile hallway and turned left - west -
- moving quickly through the deserted corridor. Neither
of them spoke; there was nothing to say until they
found what Cole had called Fossil, until they could
decide if he'd had the right idea.
For the first time since they'd come to the Planet,
John didn't feel like making any jokes. Cole had been
a good guy, he'd done his best to make up for luring
them into the test program, he'd done what they told
him to do - and now he was gone, brutally savaged,
dying in blood and pain on the floor of a cage.
Reston. Reston would pay for it, and if the best way
to get to him was to unleash some Umbrella monster,
so be it. A fitting justice.
Screw the code book. If Fossil's as badass as Cole
seemed to think, we release it and let the workers go
and get out. Let it tear this place apart. Let it have
Reston...
The hall curved right, then straightened out, continuing
west. When they turned the corner, they saw
the door on the right - and somehow, John just knew
that it was Cole's lab room. He felt it.
He was right, after a fashion. The metal door
opened - after they'd used a nine-millimeter key -
- into a small laboratory with counters and computers,
which then opened into a surgical theater, all gleaming
steel and porcelain. The door set into the back
wall of the operating room was the one Cole had
meant for them to find - and when they saw the
creature, John could see why he'd insisted on telling
them about it, even with his last gasping breaths. If it
was even half as vicious as it looked, the Planet was
history.
"Christ," Leon said, and John couldn't think of
anything to add to that. They moved slowly toward
the giant cylinder that sat in the corner of the large
room, past the steel autopsy table and trays of shining
equipment, finally stopping in front of the tube. The
lights in the room were off, but there was a directional
light aimed at the container from the ceiling, illuminating
the thing. The Fossil.
The tube was fifteen feet high and at least ten in
diameter, filled with a clear red liquid - and enveloped
in the fluid, attached to tubes and wires that ran
through the top, was a monster. A nightmare.
John imagined that it was called Fossil because of
what it looked like, at least partly some kind of a
dinosaur, though not one that had ever walked the
Earth. The ten-foot-tall creature was some pale color,
its pebbled flesh a glowing pink because of the red
liquid that surrounded it. There was no tail, but it had
the thick skin and powerful legs of a dino. It was
obviously built to walk upright, and though it had the
small eyes and heavy, rounded snout of a carnivorous
dinosaur, a T-Rex or velociraptor, it also had long,
thickly muscled arms and hands with slender, grasping
fingers. As impossible as it was, it looked like the
mutant offspring of a man and a dinosaur.
What were they thinking? Why - why make something
like this?
It was asleep, or in some kind of coma, but it was
definitely alive. Connected to a thin hose was a small,
clear mask that covered its nostril slits, and a band of
plastic was tied around its thick snout to hold the
giant jaws closed. John couldn't see them, but he had
no doubt that there were rows of pointed teeth in the
creature's wide and curving mouth. Its beady eyes
were covered by some inner eyelid, a thin layer of
purpled skin, and they could actually see the slow rise
of its thick chest, the gently bobbing motions of its
massive body in the red goo.
There was a clipboard hanging on the wall next to
the Fossil, above a small monitor screen where thin
green lines blipped silently across in fading pulses.
Leon picked the clipboard up, flipping through the
pages as John just stared, awed and disgusted. One of
its spidery hands twitched, the eight-inch fingers
curling into a loose fist.
"Says here that it's slated for autopsy in three and a
half weeks," Leon said, scanning. " 'Specimen will
remain in stasis,' blah blah blah . . . 'when it will be
injected with a lethal dose of Hyptheion prior to
dissection.'"
John glanced back at the autopsy table, saw the
folded steel leaves on either side and three bone saws
tucked underneath. The table had apparently been
built to accommodate larger animals.
"Why keep it alive at all?" John asked, turning back
to the sleeping Fossil. It was hard not to look; the
creature was compelling, horrid and marvelous, an
aberration that demanded attention.
"Maybe so the organs will be fresh," Leon said,
then took a deep breath. "So ... do we do it?"
That's the million dollar question, isn't it? We won't
have the codes - but Umbrella will have one less playground
for their twisted science. And maybe one less
administrator.
"Yeah," John said. "Yeah, I think we do."
The men listened to him in silence, their faces
thoughtful as they absorbed the horror that had
invaded the Planet. The invasion from above, his call
for help, how the gunmen had knocked him out after
killing Henry Cole in cold blood. They asked no
questions, just sat and drank coffee - someone had
made coffee - and watched him speak. No one offered
him a cup.
"... and once I recovered, I came here," Reston
said, and ran a shaking hand through his hair, wincing
appropriately. He didn't have to fake the tremors.
"I . . . they're still out there, somewhere, perhaps planting
explosives, I don't know . . . but we can stop them
if we work together."
He could see in their blank eyes that it wasn't
working, he wasn't inspiring them to act. He wasn't
the best with people, but he could read them well
enough.
They're not buying, work the Henry angle. . .
Reston's shoulders slumped, a quiver creeping into
his voice. "They just shot him," he said, staring down
in stunned sorrow. "He was begging, pleading for
them to let him live, and they - they shot him."
"Where's the body?"
Reston looked up, saw that Leo Yan had spoken,
one of the 3Ks' two handlers. Yan had no expression
at all, leaning against the edge of the table with his
arms crossed.
"What?" Reston asked, looking confused but knowing
exactly what Yan was talking about. Think, dammit,
should have thought of this already...
"Henry," someone else said, and Reston saw it was
Tom Something-or-other, from construction. His
gruff voice was openly skeptical. "They shot him, they
knocked you out - so he's still by the cell block,
right?"
"I . . . I don't know," Reston said, feeling too hot,
feeling dehydrated from so much brandy. Feeling as
though he might not be able to recover from the
unexpected question. "Yes, he must be, unless they
moved him for some reason. I woke up confused,
dizzy, I wanted to get to you immediately, to make
sure none of you had been injured. I didn't see if he
was still there. . ."
They stared at him, a sea of rough faces that were
no longer so neutral. Reston saw disbelief and disrespect,
anger and in the eyes of one or two, he saw
what might have been hatred.
Why, what have I done to inspire such contempt? I'm
their manager, their employer, I pay their goddamn
wages...
One of the mechanics stood up from the table and
addressed the rest of them, ignoring Reston completely.
It was Nick Frewer, the one who seemed the
most popular among the men.
"Who says we get outta here?" Nick said. "Tommy,
you got the keys for the truck?"
Tom nodded. "Sure, but not for the gate or the
storage shed."
"I got those," said Ken Carson, the cook. He stood
up, too, and then most were standing, stretching and
yawning, draining their cups.
Nick nodded. "Good. Everyone go pack up, be at
the elevator in five..."
"Wait!" Reston said, unable to believe what he was
hearing, that they would walk away from their moral
duty, from their obligations. That they could ignore
him. "There are more on the surface, they'll kill you!
You have to help me!"
Nick turned and looked at him, his gaze calm and
insufferably patronizing. "Mr. Reston, we don't have
to do anything. I don't know what's really going on,
but I believe you're a liar - and I may not speak for
everyone, but I know I'm not getting paid enough to
be your bodyguard."
He smiled suddenly, his blue eyes sparkling. "Besides
which, they're not after us."
Nick turned and walked away, and Reston briefly
considered shooting him - but he only had six bullets
and no doubts that the men would turn on him if he
injured one of their working-class pack. He thought
about telling them that their lives were over, that he
wouldn't forget their treachery, but he didn't want to
waste his breath. And he didn't have time.
Hide.
It was all there was to do.
Reston turned his back on the insubordinates and
hurried out, his mind grasping for places to go,
rejecting them as too obvious, too exposed...
... and then he had it. The bank of elevators,
around the corner from the medical facilities. It was
perfect. No one would think to look in an elevator car
that didn't even work, he could pry one open and be
safe inside. At least for a while, until he thought of
something else he could do.
Sweating in spite of the cool gray stillness that was
the main corridor, Reston turned right and started to
run.
After what seemed like hours of going down
through the dark, of the cold and uncomfortable
huddle on the deafeningly loud servicing lift, they hit
bottom.
Or top, depending on how you look at it, Claire
thought absently, looking down through the open
panel as David's flashlight played across the plush
interior, as the roaring motor wound down to silence.
They'd landed on top of an elevator car, empty except
for a stepladder pushed to one side.
They stepped off of the metal square, Claire relieved
to be back on a reasonably solid surface. Riding
down through an open elevator shaft where one false
move could send you crashing to your death wasn't
her idea of a good time.
"Think anyone heard us?" Claire asked, and saw
David's silhouette shrug.
"If they were within a thousand feet of this thing,
yes," he said. "Wait, I'll get the stepstool. . ."
Claire turned on her flashlight as David sat, grabbing
the edges of the open panel and lowering himself
down. As he moved the small ladder into place,
Rebecca turned her flashlight on, and Claire caught a
glimpse of her face.
"Hey, you okay?" She asked, worried. Rebecca
looked sick, too pale and with dark, purplish half
circles beneath her eyes.
"Yeah. I've been better, but I'll survive," she said
lightly.
Claire wasn't convinced, but before she could pursue
it any further, David called up to them.
"Alright let your feet hang down, I'll guide them
to the steps and then lift you down."
Claire motioned for Rebecca to go first, deciding
that if she couldn't function, she'd probably say
something. As David helped Rebecca down, though,
it occurred to Claire that she wouldn't say anything.
I'd want to help, and I wouldn't want to be left
behind; I'd keep going if it killed me. . .
Claire pushed the thoughts aside, lowering herself
down through the elevator's roof. Rebecca wasn't as
stubborn as she was, and she was a medic. She was
fine.
As soon as she was down, David nodded at Claire
and the two of them pulled at the cold metal doors,
Rebecca holding her semi aimed loosely at the widening
gap. When they'd managed to push the heavy
doors a couple of feet apart, David stepped out first,
then motioned for them to follow.
Wow.
She wasn't sure what she expected, but the gray hall
of subtly lit concrete wasn't it. It stretched right,
ending in a door, and left, a sharp turn about twenty
feet from the elevator that headed east. Claire wasn't
sure about the directions, but she knew that the
elevator that had trapped Leon and John was roughly
southeast - assuming it had gone straight down,
anyway.
It was quiet, perfectly still and quiet. David tilted
his head to the left, indicating that they would head
that way, and Claire and Rebecca both nodded.
Might as well start at the elevator, see if we can
figure out which way they headed. . .
Claire glanced at Rebecca again, not wanting to
stare but uneasy about her health; she really didn't
look so good, and as Rebecca turned toward the hall's
corner, Claire hung back a little. She caught David's
gaze, nodding slightly toward the young medic,
frowning.
He hesitated, then nodded in turn, and she saw that
he wasn't blind to her condition. At least there was
that
and Rebecca let out a sharp cry of surprise,
already at the corner as a man in a blue suit leapt forward
and grabbed her, knocking her gun out of her hand, putting a
revolver to the side of her head. He locked one arm
around her throat, tight, and turned wild, sweaty eyes
in their direction, his finger on the trigger, a trembling
grin on his aging face.
"I'll kill her! I'll do it! Don't make me do it!"
Rebecca clutched at his arm and he squeezed even
tighter, his hands shaking, his blue eyes darting back
and forth between David and Claire. Rebecca's eyes
closed a little, her fingers dropping away, and Claire
realized that she was too weak, that she was on the
verge of collapse as it was.
"You people aren't going to kill me, just stay away!
Stay away or I'll kill her!"
The barrel of the revolver was pressed to her skull;
if David or she made a move. . .
They watched helplessly as the madman started
backing around them, dragging Rebecca with him
toward the door at the end of the hall.
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