“Can't he just eat something?” Cole asked. It seemed an obvious answer to the energy problem.
“That's your answer to everything,” Simon remarked.
“He doesn't seem to be able to ingest solids,” Rutgers told them. “Of course, that could change, but he hasn't eaten since he arrived.”
Jason gave a low whistle.
“We have to find him,” Cole said. “Are you with me, Jace?”
“Ready. What about you, Sterner?” Jason asked.
“I'll come along for the ride,” Eric said. “What are you going to do when you find him?”
“Remind him that we went to a lot of trouble to save his ass, and that he damn well better stay alive. Or else this gene business will be minor compared to what I'll do to him.” Cole stomped off down the hall.
Sterner just shook his head in resignation, and followed in Cole's wake.
Jace turned back, briefly, to Simon. “Will you be okay?”
Rutgers reassured him. “I'll take care of him.”
Jace looked doubtful.
“I'm a virologist,” the other man explained.
“And I'll handle anything he can't,” Simon said. He pulled a gun out of his pocket, and gripped it in his hand. “Ready, able, and more than willing,” he said.
Chapter Seventeen
Caroline Denaro hovered next to her mortal remnants and wailed, seeking to disperse the last spurts of virus-driven conquest from her mind. She moaned and cried as loudly as any mourner who'd ever visited a wailing wall, or any widow who'd ever thrown herself upon her husband's grave. Unlike the widow, though, she didn't mourn the loss of another's spirit; she mourned the displacement of her mortality. Her body was dying, and there was nothing she could do about it.
She'd tried to return to her bloated remains, but it was as if the massive virus titres in her system had finally, and fully, ejected her from her own soon-to-be corpse. All Denaro could do was cry helplessly, and try to face eternity in this terrible, lonely, half-state.
This final rejection—by the body that was her inheritance—that had been gifted her in her mother's womb—took with it the last relics of her humanity. She hated them all in that moment. Vizar, Sacchara, Tom Denning, Genetechnic—even Richard Lockmann. Richard Lockmann was intact; still housed in the form that was his by rights. His body had been altered, but it remained his to command. There'd been no separation problem, no out-of-body, no living death for him.
All her life, the vestiges of her Protestant upbringing had kept her treading a somewhat subjective, slightly skewed, but nevertheless workable, balance between right and wrong. But now, for her, there was no longer a heaven or a hell; no longer a balance to be wrought out of good and evil. Nothing except what remained of her in the here and forever.
It was enough to topple the hierarchy that had dominated her life. The hierarchy of justice and morality that the virus had forced her to defy. The hierarchy that kept her sane. Possessing neither dreams nor hope, she vowed to make the best of what remained to her: the little bit of energy she had left. Once dissipated—without a body for renewal—she didn't know if she'd have the strength to once again summon her demons.
I'm going to kill them all, she vowed, smiling for the first time. For whatever justice their deaths will create. For whatever pleasure the finality of it will yield. If she was doomed to a restless infinity, then at least it would give her some satisfaction to terminate the finite part of these others’ existences.
Richard Lockmann had meant her no harm, but he was alive, while she might as well be dead. When the time came, she fully intended to linger and watch his dissection. A bit here, a bit there. Pieces distributed around the world. Yes, she thought. I'll be there when dear Richard goes to pieces. I'll be there to watch—and laugh.
* * * *
Daniel Vizar smelled her before he saw her. It was the scent of the sickroom; the odour of long hours in the Genetechnic isolation chamber; the odd mixture of sweat, and ferile humanity mingled with a strange, earthy, and totally unpleasant tang. He didn't realise that he'd recognise it—that the hours spent observing her rats, and lingering at the glass to watch her as she mutated, and the unpleasant moments of her phantom visits, and his consultations in the isolation chamber with Aaron Solomon—would leave him with this innate knowledge in his smell-brain. But, he couldn't deny his instincts: Caroline Denaro was here. He shone the light in that direction. They were practically right on top of her.
Literally. Her body was an ugly swollen mass that glistened at their feet. Revolted, Daniel tried to back away, but there were others behind him curious to see what was holding him up.
* * * *
Steven Hylton just stared. He'd seen a lot of things: bomb victims, virus victims, drownings, gunshot wounds—but none of them held the impact of this one. "Jesus!" he exclaimed. “How can she still be alive?!”
The figure twitched and shifted. How could a human form be so distorted—and still live?
Suddenly, he knew what was coming. Unlike the others, when he'd stared at the recording of Caroline Denaro in action, he'd watched her methods—the way she'd managed to trap hardened, knowledgeable people like those Raeiti employed. Now, he knew without a doubt what was about to happen. "It's a trap!" he yelled.
At that moment, Denaro's phantom burst from the wall, showering them all with fragments of matter. So intent was she on maintaining a physical presence, that she exploded into them, sending them tumbling on to the ground. Then, as they crawled, scrambled and dove to escape, she skimmed the saliva from her own recumbent figure—from the swollen near-corpse that lay upon the ground. Using her nearly non-existent hand, she slathered the liquid through suits and skin—and into the bodies beyond.
"Run!" Steven Hylton screamed. Some of those around him were already writhing in agony. In the dim light of a spinning flashlight, Steven yanked Geraldo and Jamaal to their feet, then tore off down the hall.
* * * *
Running flat out, they rounded the corner and barrelled into Tazo Raeiti, sending him tumbling head over heels. Flashlights flipped into the air and rolled, creating confused, swirling and shadowy patterns on the walls. Shaine and Sheilson opened fire in a panic, shooting at anything that moved, which included walls, ceilings, shadows, and each other. Bodies tripped, flopped and fell all over the hall.
Steven Hylton squirmed along the floor, away from the action. He knew there were others at his back, but at this point it didn't matter whether he'd normally judge them friend or foe—in this situation, a shared humanity seemed far more important than political or moral judgements. No one wanted to face Denaro's horror any more than he did.
* * * *
Richard Lockmann found Gabriel Finlay crawling down the hall, and helped him to his feet. At the touch of his hand, Finlay recoiled and tried to squirm away. “It's me—Rick,” he reassured him. “You're going in the right direction. You'll find some people at the end of the hall.” He remembered the gun he'd felt in Simon's pocket. “Just don't forget to warn them it's you.”
He pushed past him and rounded a corner, where he came upon Daniel Vizar and Justin Sacchara. Vizar was still alive, but Sacchara was already unconscious. Rick bent down, and stripped the hood from Daniel's face.
Daniel reached up and gripped Rick's arm. “Never happened—” Rick didn't know whether he meant “it should never have happened", or denying that the incidents had taken place. Whatever it was, it was too late.
“Help—” Vizar managed to get out. “Hurts—”
Rick knew how much it hurt, and he felt a sympathetic twinge in his throat and chest. No one deserved to die like this.
“I'll do what I can, Daniel,” he said, intentionally using the other man's first name. “But I'll have to leave you for a minute. Hold on.” He squeezed the man's hand to reassure him, then dashed off down the corridor to find Rodrigal. Rodrigal had the tubing and needles he needed. He just hoped he could remember Rutgers’ lessons on the subject.
* * *
*
Rodrigal was gone. Rick hoped he'd escaped, and hadn't just been herded somewhere by Denaro. Denaro was on a rampage, and he'd come on a second scene of carnage. Whatever she'd set off, Raeiti's people had almost finished. They'd gone crazy, shooting each other, in their attempts to get at Denaro.
Rodrigal had left the tubing and other paraphernalia dangling from the banister. Rick heaved a sigh of relief. Gathering it against him, he raced back down the hall. I need Rutgers—or Jace. Someone to make sure he was doing it right.
But when he came to the last intersection, he saw Denaro's shade streaking toward Cole, Jace, and Sterner. Whatever need he had of them—right now they had far more need of him.
* * * *
“Caroline!” he yelled, hoping that the familiar name would get through to her. She was so enraged that she almost didn't hear it.
“Caroline Denaro!”
She spun, with that same viscosity of movement Rick had noticed earlier in the day. Almost like slow, out-of-sync motion.
Eric Sterner had rammed the other two men against the wall. He was the only one who'd even thought to react. The entire thing was happening so incredibly fast.
Rick had slowed her down—enough, anyway, to give him a chance to catch up with her. Rick's eyes met hers, and he knew that she could see him as clearly as he could see her. Rick stepped around her, all the while holding her eyes with his own. He placed himself between her and his friends. “Get out of here—” he told them.
“Rick—”
It was Cole, but Rick didn't dare spare him a glance. “Go!” he ordered. “Get Simon and leave the building.”
“We can't—”
“I'm not—”
Jason and Cole spoke together, the words becoming confused, but the message clear. They had no intention of leaving him.
“Take them out of here, Sterner,” Rick said, “even if you have to shoot them to do it. If they stay, they're going to die anyway—”
“Die!” Caroline rasped out. She rammed into Rick, ripping into him with her would-be hands.
* * * *
In the glow of the flashlight, Jason saw her hands enter Rick's body, and his gorge rose. He took a step forward, but Sterner held him back.
* * * *
It was agonising, but Rick stood his ground. As she solidified further, in an attempt to rip his organs from his body, he found enough substance to her to knock her aside with his fist.
"Run, damn it!" he told the others. “I need the time—” He put a hand on the wall to hold himself up. It was too much to explain. He needed the time to transfuse Denaro—without having to protect them.
“Rick!” Cole yelled, but Sterner had him in tow, and was practically dragging him down the hall.
“Stratton!” Eric yelled. “Move it!”
Jason was shaking, but he stood where he was. “Rick, tell me what to do.”
Rick turned toward him, and Jace saw he had tears of pain running down his face. “I need to transfuse her. With my blood.” Jace timidly flashed the light at the fading phantom. Rick saw his confused frown. “The other part.” Rick shook his head. “I don't want you to risk it.” Rick turned away, bent over and vomited. Bright flecks of blood scattered over the floor.
Jason put an arm around him and held him up. He didn't say anything, but Rick could feel the tension in his frame.
Rick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gave Jason a pale grin. “Don't look so concerned, Jace,” he said. “I heal fast.”
“You're not going to have enough blood left to transfuse anybody,” Jason told him grimly. He flicked the light to where Denaro had been, but she'd faded out. “Where's this ‘other part’?” he asked, with a quaver in his voice.
“Down this hall, then make a left. Promise me you'll do it, Jace.”
“I'm not—”
“It's the only way I can think of to stop her. I don't know if it'll work but it's all we've got.” He stumbled, and Jason flicked the light on him. His skin was becoming sallow, and his eyes looked glassy. "Just do it—" Rick didn't say any more. He just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Jason had to steer him in the direction he'd indicated.
“There—” The word was almost like a sigh. Jace would have recognised Denaro, even if Rick hadn't pointed her out. His legs were shaking as he hauled Rick over to the body.
“Alive?” Rick asked. His teeth were chattering, and Jason could feel him shiver. Shock. Now all I need is to bleed him out, Jace thought unhappily.
Jace shone the light on the bloated thing at his feet. The vital signs were faint, but there. “Yes,” he replied.
“I'll do her,” Rick said, reluctant to have Jason touch Denaro's skin. “You do me.” It seemed to take a lifetime to Rick. He was following Jason's instructions, but finding a vein was difficult with all the tumours distorting her skin. Besides the fact that his hand was shaking so hard that he had trouble lining up the needle once he'd located a vein.
Once he'd done it, he relaxed, and the pain in his abdomen crunched down on him. He knew he was going to lose consciousness. “When it's done—get a light.” The world was spinning, but Jason gripped his hand. “Promised Vizar,” Rick whispered, with a jerky nod toward a man on the floor. “More blood upstairs. Ask Rutgers—” Rick's head dropped back onto the lino, with an audible thump.
Jason was left alone there, in the near-dark, surrounded by the dead and the dying. He had a fading flashlight, and a transfusion to do. He was tempted to yank the needle out of Denaro's arm, and haul Rick out of here, but he knew he couldn't do it. Not when Rick felt this was so important. Not when Rick had been right about so much of this horror story. Not when Rick had risked so much to see this through.
To his right, he heard Daniel Vizar heave a long sigh, then go silent. Jason guessed it was too late to put things right for Vizar. He just hoped it wasn't too late for Rick.
* * * *
Denis Rodrigal felt glass crunch under his feet. A lot of glass. Whatever this place was, it had been the scene of some action. He remembered the video of a man being thrust through a glass window, and gave an involuntary shudder. This must the viewing room. He was just above where they'd kept Denaro—during the weeks of her mutation.
Rick had told him about it. About his fears that—although they'd both mutated over time—his strain of virus might be different from hers. About his fear that his antibodies wouldn't have any effect. Rodrigal knew that what he really should have worried about was whether he'd ever get to use them.
He made his way along the wall, down another set of steps and to a door locked with a key code. “Damn it!” he swore. All electrical, all locked securely. How the hell was he going to get in?
He remembered feeling a fire extinguisher as he'd made his way along the corridor upstairs. He retraced his steps, and finally had his hands on it again. It took him a minute to figure out how to remove it—it had a clip securing it to the wall—but he finally had it in hand. He hurried back to the locked door.
“It—works—in—the—mo—vies,” he muttered, interjecting each syllable with a powerful blow on the door, near the lock. The last blow knocked the valve off the top of the extinguisher, and foam flew all over him and the door. But the latch loosened. Rodrigal could feel the crack with his fingers. He'd either bent or torn the screws out of the latch.
Without the weight of its chemical contents, the fire extinguisher was useless. Instead, Denis drew back several paces, and came toward the door at a run, to pound his shoulder against the weakened barrier.
It gave, nearly as soon as he hit it. Denis Rodrigal slid on a slather of foamy residue through the door and partially across the room, where he ended up lodged against a desk. Slightly stunned by his success, he sat there for a minute—and grinned. “I'm in,” he said aloud.
* * * *
Even in the limited light, it wasn't difficult for Jason to figure out the tubing and bag system that Rutgers had devised. It wasn't a direct transfusion at
all. There was an intermediate step, to protect the donor. Jason was glad to see he wasn't going to have to take a chance on mingling Denaro's blood with Rick's.
He didn't let himself think about what he was doing. About sitting there in the near dark between a monster and one of his best friends. About the fact that Rick was bleeding internally and that taking this much of his blood might well finish him. About all the reasons this probably wouldn't work.
They were beyond that. This was a war zone, and he was one of the few living among the dead. That gave him—and Rick—certain responsibilities. If this didn't work, they'd try the next thing, and the next, and the next, because if they didn't, Denaro might somehow get away, and the rest of the world might end up like this small piece of distorted ground.
Jason undid the clip on the tubing and let Rick's blood flow into the bag in his hand.
* * * *
Cole shook off Eric Sterner's supporting hand. “Let go—" He despised the weakness that had allowed Sterner to drag him this far—away from people who needed his help.
“We're getting out of here!” Eric was intent on getting them back to Kerrington and the others as soon as possible. Then they'd find a way to get downstairs, even if they had to bash out a few doors and windows to do it.
He'd never seen anything like the Thing that had come at them out of the dark. It might be a product of modern genetics, but it was reminiscent of the worst spectres and goblins in Dark Age lore; black magic and devil worship; evil incarnate and living nightmares. Eric had seen what it had done, too. Had seen the Thing reach into Richard Lockmann's body cavity, and try to rip him apart. He gave an involuntary shudder.
Stratton had seen it, too, but Eric knew Cole had not. If he had, he would have kicked and punched at the idea of being dragged out of harm's way. Eric rubbed the back of his arm, and felt a bruise that was forming on the back of his leg. Calloway had done a pretty good job of resisting, anyway. He was just too weak to do much damage. Besides the fact that Stratton had bound his dominant arm tightly to his chest.
Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy Page 33
