A man complaining about the heat. An argument about a sports team.
When Sam was halfway down the hall, he saw one of the door handles turn then watched as the door cracked open. He strode even faster, but he was too late. An Agent had already emerged from the other side.
The man was dressed in a white suit jacket much like his own. His face was lined and weathered, as if he had spent too much time in the sun, and he patted his pockets as if he was looking for something. When he spotted Sam, he stopped to stare.
Sam nodded at the man as he walked past. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck, and he wondered for a split second if the Agent could see it, too. He waited for the man to shout at him, to question who he was and what he was doing there, or at the very least pull out a gun and demand that he stop.
Instead, the corridor remained silent.
He kept on, waiting to hear the sound of footsteps behind him, but none came. At the end of the corridor, he took another right per Hopper’s instructions.
He could now see an elevator at the end of the hall. Right before it was a door with a glass window, through which he could see a flight of stairs. Hopper hadn’t mentioned them as an option, so Sam continued.
At the elevator car, he jabbed the button and waited. A whirring noise resounded from somewhere above him. Footsteps echoed from an adjacent hallway, and he tensed up, fearing discovery.
As the elevator got closer, he heard the sound of several people talking. Apparently it was occupied. The voices increased in volume as the car descended, and the boots clapped louder behind him.
If for some reason he had been made, he would be surrounded.
In a panic, Sam backtracked several steps to the door with the stairs and opened it. He had just slipped through when he heard the ding of the elevator. He paused, peering out through the small glass window. Three Agents walked out of the elevator car. None appeared to be in a state of alarm.
A few seconds later, he saw another Agent round the corner on foot. The man made his way to the elevator, walking past the door with the stairs that Sam now occupied, and stepped inside.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Sam waited for a few seconds and then reentered the hallway. He pressed the button for the elevator once again, listening to it whir above him. When the doors opened again, the car was empty.
He stepped inside, staring at a row of buttons, and hit the one for the third floor. As he ascended, Sam said a silent prayer, hoping he wasn’t too late to rescue the people that were being held captive. He pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket on which he had scrawled some directions from Hopper, and did his best to memorize them.
When the elevator doors opened, he poked his gun into the hallway first, aiming in both directions. The floor was quiet.
He made his way down several corridors, doing his best to muffle his footsteps as he walked. Finally, he arrived at a door on the right, lowered his gun, and placed his fingers on the keypad.
Though Hopper had provided his code, he had warned Sam that it might not work.
Sam pushed the sequence of numbers, hoping for the best. The door buzzed, but remained shut. The light on the keypad flashed red.
Dammit. What now?
He inspected the door. It was several inches thick, and appeared to be made of painted metal. There would be no way to shoot through it. He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.
He aimed his gun at the keypad, wondering if he could shoot it to disable the locking mechanism. Before he could decide, the door swung open.
Startled, Sam jumped back, finding himself face to face with one of the Agents.
20
Delta nudged the pistol into Hopper’s side, and he groaned in pain.
“Why aren’t they coming over to our van?” she asked him, pointing at the mechanics.
A few had taken notice of the vehicle, but instead of approaching, they lingered by their workbenches.
“I don’t know,” Hopper said.
Although Delta was crouched in the rear of the van, she had been peering over the seats into the garage, ensuring she had a bead on the situation outside. A few seconds ago, Sam had disappeared inside the building. Since then, no one had moved.
“Did you trigger an alarm?” she asked. “If you did, I swear I will shoot you right now.”
The Agent chuckled. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m almost dead already.”
“What the hell did you do? Why are those guys just standing there?”
“I didn’t do anything. If they know something, it has nothing to do with me.”
As if on cue, the mechanics filtered away from the workbenches. There were four in total. Two of them headed for a storage area on the side of the garage, and the other two walked toward the van.
Hopper sat up in his seat, grunting in pain.
“Are you OK?” one of them called out.
“I’m fine.”
Delta watched the mechanic’s face. He was wearing a blue button-up shirt and jeans, and his head was shaved. He stared into the van for several seconds, as if deciding what to do next, and then he stepped back.
Without warning, he reached into the top of his pants and withdrew a pistol.
Dammit. They must have spotted me.
Shots rang out across the garage, and Delta flung herself to the floor of the van, covering her head with her hands. The windshield shattered. She heard Hopper cry out in pain from the passenger’s seat.
Apparently they had no issues sacrificing their own to get to her.
She waited for several seconds, listening to bullets pummel the exterior of the van, and then pulled herself into a crouch, clutching her pistol. She looked out into the garage.
The first two mechanics had guns trained on the van. She aimed and fired, striking one of them in the chest. The other one ran for cover.
Meanwhile, two others emerged from the storeroom. Unlike their counterparts, these men were armed with rifles. They fired on the van again, and Delta hit the deck. She heard the sound of the tires popping and bullets thudding into the front seats.
She glanced around the floor and grabbed a rifle. At the next break in the gunfire, she burst up from the floor and aimed it out the shattered front window.
She squeezed the trigger and let off a volley of shots. The mechanics had taken cover behind two pickup trucks in front of her, and she peppered the vehicles with bullets.
When she had finished unloading, she grabbed another rifle and moved for the rear of the van.
If I stay here much longer, they’ll kill me for sure.
She grabbed the door handle, opened the doors, and jumped out into the garage. As she did, a spray of gunfire hit the other side of the van.
In front of her, she saw that the cargo bay doors were closed. She was effectively trapped in the garage.
She ducked behind the vehicle next to her—a pickup truck—and hoped she could buy enough time until Sam returned.
Before Sam had time to think, he had already fired a bullet into the Agent in front of him, striking the man in the leg. The man screamed out in pain.
The noise echoed into the corridor, and Sam dove forward through the door, taking the Agent to the floor with him. The door clicked shut behind them.
He was now in a hallway filled with jail cells, and he heard the occupants screaming for help. Underneath him, the Agent writhed and yelled, and he did his best to pin him down.
“Be quiet or I’ll shoot you again!” Sam warned, raising his rifle and pointing it at the man’s face.
The man reached for his pants, but Sam knocked his hands away with the muzzle of his rifle. When the man had stopped struggling, he patted him down and removed a pistol, then tucked it into his own waistband.
Sam stood, still aiming the
weapon at the Agent on the ground. The man’s face was contorted in agony, and his leg was spilling blood onto the floor.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man spat.
“Never mind. I need you to open these jail cells.”
“Why in the world would I do that?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll put a hole in your other leg.”
The Agent tried to stand, but collapsed in pain. He reached for his belt, and Sam noticed a ring of keys.
“Give me those,” he said.
The Agent tossed them across the floor, and Sam bent down to pick them up. When he had them in hand, he surveyed the room he was in.
Along the thin walkway were about ten jail cells, each containing several prisoners. Among them were men, women, and children; their faces were stained with dirt, their clothes ripped and disheveled. As he rifled through the keys, keeping an eye on the downed Agent, the captives shouted at him through the bars of their cells.
Sam felt a swell of anger. What had been done to these people, and what horrors had they seen since getting here?
“Which key unlocks them?” he barked at the Agent.
He held up each of the keys until the man nodded. After finding the correct one, Sam unlocked the doors one at a time, working his way down the room.
“You’ll never get out of here alive!” the Agent shouted at him.
Sam ignored him, instead ushering the prisoners out of their former cells. As they emerged, they ran toward the exit, tripping over each other as they tried to reach it.
“We don’t have much time!” he said to them. “Everybody line up by the door so we can get out of here.”
When Sam reached the last cell, he noticed a young girl inside. She looked to be about eleven years old. Her long, shoulder-length hair was matted and tangled, and her blue eyes were wet with tears.
“What’s your name?” Sam asked her.
“M-Margaret. Margaret Brown.”
“Come with me, Margaret. Everything’s going to be OK.”
He gave her a hug, and then watched her scramble toward the others.
When he was done gathering the prisoners—about twenty in total—Sam ordered the wounded Agent into one of the cells and locked the door behind him.
“You can’t leave me here!” the man yelled, grasping his leg.
Sam stared at the prisoners, who were watching him intently. Then he turned back to the Agent.
“Watch me,” he said.
Sam opened the door just enough to admit the tip of his gun. As he did, he heard shouts erupting from down the corridor. Several Agents were running in the direction of the jail cells. When they saw Sam, they began to shoot.
He opened fire with his rifle, sending the Agents tumbling to the floor, pistols skittering in front of them. When the corridor was clear, he motioned for the prisoners to follow him.
“Stay behind me, single file!” he shouted.
He made his way down the hall in a half-crouch, holding his rifle at the ready and keeping a sharp eye on the closed doors around them. The prisoners followed behind him, quiet except for their nervous breathing and the shuffle of feet.
Gunfire sounded from somewhere below them, and he worried about Delta. Had she been discovered, as well? A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed it, then continued.
A few doors down from the jail cells, he halted. He signaled for the people behind him to stay put, and then he hit the keypad. The door buzzed, and he whipped it open. Inside was a small lab with beakers, Bunsen burners, and test tubes lining the counters. A few men in lab coats jumped as he entered, one of them dropping a vial onto the floor. The glass shattered. He fired before they could react, spraying the room and equipment, and then ducked out of the doorway and back out into the hall.
He turned a corner, the prisoners back in tow, and made his way down the hallway with the elevator. As he did, he heard the familiar whir of the motor, and then someone barking orders from inside. He ran past the elevators and continued to the door with the stairs.
“Come on! Follow me!” he hissed at the people behind him.
The prisoners kept the pace, though a few had started to cry. Sam poked his head through the door, verifying that no one was on their way up the stairs, and then let his companions go ahead of him. Once the last one had made her way through, he heard the ding of the elevator, and he slipped into the stairwell and gently closed the door behind him.
Through the glass, he saw four Agents running in the opposite direction.
Heart thundering, he motioned for the prisoners to start making their way down, running past them so that he could take the lead once again.
One of them—a young boy in his teens—stopped next to Sam.
“Can’t we have any weapons? We’re defenseless,” the boy said.
“Do you know how to shoot?”
The boy nodded.
Sam reached into his pants, handing him one of the pistols he had tucked there.
“Follow me to the front,” he said.
The boy took the gun and then clambered down the stairs behind him.
When they reached the ground level, Sam peered through the glass window looking out onto the first floor. Before he could assess the situation, he saw that an Agent’s face was pressed against the other side of the glass. Sam cried out in surprise, jumping back several feet.
Without hesitating, he flung the door open, preparing for a fight, and was surprised to hear a gunshot from behind him. The Agent doubled over and collapsed onto the floor. Sam swiveled and saw the boy lowering his pistol. The boy gave him a nervous smile.
Sam nodded, and then waved the prisoners out of the stairwell.
Once in the hall, he recognized the same doors he had passed on the way up. He ran to the head of the group, leading the way, and then stopped at a door about halfway down the corridor.
“Stay put,” he said.
Like the others, this door had a keypad, and Sam punched in the same series of numbers Hopper had given him previously. He kicked open the door and aimed his rifle inside. The room was empty, save for several rows of monitors and screens.
On them, Sam saw images flashing from various locations—the infected wandering empty streets, buildings that were dilapidated and destroyed, and feeds from outside the desert compound.
Sam opened fire, spraying the room with bullets. Computers exploded, sending fragments of glass and debris throughout the room, and smoke billowed from the equipment. When he was satisfied, he slammed the door shut and beckoned for the prisoners to follow.
Down the next hallway, Sam recognized the door leading to the cargo area. From the other side, he could hear the unmistakable sound of gunfire. He reached into his pants, retrieved the other pistol he had stored there, and then whipped open the door.
The garage smelled like fire. Thick, black smoke hovered in the air, filling the cargo bay with the smell, and Sam noticed that one of the vehicles was aflame. After a frantic scan of the area, he located Delta behind a pickup truck. It appeared she was trading gunfire with one of the mechanics across the room.
Sam followed her gaze, finding the man behind a cargo van several cars ahead of the one she was hiding behind. He raised his rifle and fired off several shots in the man’s direction, then watched the man duck out of sight.
“Let’s go!” he shouted to the prisoners behind him.
All twenty of them poured into the garage, their footsteps echoing against the floor. In front of them, Delta had her pistol trained on the remaining mechanic’s location, and when he appeared several seconds later, she squeezed off a shot, sending him sprawling to the floor.
“We’ll need another ride!” she yelled to Sam.
He nodded. Aside from the van they had driven earlier, there we
re several other cargo vans parked next to the garage door. He ran to the first and whipped open the door. The key was still in the ignition. Encouraged, he checked the one next to it, and was surprised to find the same thing.
“In here!” he shouted, waving to the prisoners.
They piled into the two vehicles, with Sam and Delta coordinating the effort. Once they were inside, Sam heard a bang from across the garage.
The building’s entrance had burst open, revealing about ten of the Agent soldiers.
“Let’s go!” he shouted to Delta.
The two jumped into the vehicles—Delta in one van and Sam in the other—and then started the engines and reversed toward the door. When they were a few feet away from the garage, it opened, gliding up the track to reveal the desert beyond.
In the meantime, the Agents had opened fire, bullets slamming into the side of the vans.
“Come on!” Sam shouted at the doors behind them.
He ducked low in the seat just as the windshield shattered, raining shards of glass and debris onto his lap. He transitioned his foot from the brake to the gas.
“Here!” someone yelled from behind him.
He turned in his seat. One of the female prisoners was holding something up for him. Apparently she had found it the back of the vehicle. He reached back to grab hold of the object, and then looked down to inspect it.
In his hands was a grenade.
Outside, the shooting continued. He waited for a lull in the gunfire, and when he heard one, he stuck his head out the window.
Sam pushed down the striker cap, pulled the pin, and lobbed the grenade across the garage. He then slammed his foot on the gas pedal, peeled out of the cargo bay, and careened out into the desert.
The explosion was deafening.
Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7] Page 40
