by David Meyer
Scientists, technicians, and rangers exchanged frightened looks. Then they hurried through the entranceway, with Bernier hot on their heels. Seconds later, rubber thudded against metal as they raced up the waiting ladder.
“No, no, no, no, no!” Issova slammed her fists against the table, sending her monitor into a brief wobbling spell.
What now? Morgan thought as she twisted toward the woman.
“The deployment sequence won’t activate,” Issova said.
Morgan winced. “Then try another one.”
“You don’t understand. I tried the Arctodus simus, the Panthera onca augusta, the Mammut americanum … none of them work.”
“Can you fix them?”
“Not easily. Someone, I’m guessing whoever initiated the full expulsion sequence, disabled access to the chambers.”
Terrific, Morgan thought. Just terrific.
“I’ve got the same problem,” Codd called out. “I can’t access the incubators. The connection’s been completely sheared.”
Morgan felt the weight of all her plans crashing down upon her. The Lab was lost and with it, her ability to communicate with the outside world. Everything—the long hours of preparation, the incredible stress, the battles, the deaths—had all been for naught.
Part of her wanted to fight the truth, to keep working on a solution. But deep down, she knew it was hopeless. Nothing could stop the hell that was about to be unleashed.
Nothing.
“That’s it then.” Morgan cast a wary eye at the silken ectogenetic incubators. The Arctodus simus appeared particularly close to expulsion. “Time to go.”
Codd and Issova didn’t argue. Rising up, they gathered their laptops and everything else they’d brought into the Lab. Then they booked it down the staircase at top speed.
Morgan stood atop the platform a little longer, the vanquished queen of a kingdom she’d just conquered. For the first time in ages, she had no plan, no way forward. She couldn’t access the communications equipment. And she couldn’t exactly flee Hatcher Station. There was nowhere to go, nowhere except into the Vallerio’s clutches. And that was a non-starter, especially if the 1-Gen incubators in Sector 48A were indeed undergoing expulsion processes.
Morgan darted down the stairs, two at a time. As she leapt to the floor, a distinct tearing noise rang out. Like the ripping of a silk cloth. Recognizing it immediately, she twisted her head and laid eyes upon the torn and tattered remains of an incubator. Its occupant, however, was nowhere to be seen.
A brutal roar rang out. Morgan, still running, glanced back at the entranceway just as a massive ball of black wiry fur smashed into Issova. The impact sent the woman reeling into the wall. Her skull cracked against concrete. Blood spurted everywhere and her dead body sank to the floor.
The creature—a living, breathing Arctodus simus—raced toward her on all fours. Even like that, it was easily the height of a person.
It paused above Issova. Lifted its jaw and issued a defiant roar.
Codd tried to circle the creature, to escape through the entranceway. The creature anticipated her move and made to block her. But it overshot its mark and slid into one of the generators. Loud pops rang out. The overhead lights started to fizzle.
Codd gasped. Whirled around and looked at Morgan with wild, frightened eyes. But Morgan couldn’t return the stare. She was too busy watching the creature rise up on its hind legs. Watching it rise up to its full height. Ten feet, eleven feet, no … twelve feet tall.
The lights fizzled again, dimming to a few notches above blackness. The creature’s gaze shifted to Morgan. It stared directly into her eyes. Its lips curled back into a snarl. It roared again as it started forward.
And then the lights went out.
Chapter 31
Date: June 19, 2016, 3:42 p.m.; Location: Hatcher Station, Vallerio Forest, NH
Hatcher Station, from a distance, looked an awful lot like an abandoned pillbox from the Second World War. Soil, mixed with a sprinkling of dead grass, topped its concrete roof. Long, twisting vines clung to its wet walls. The surrounding area was cleared of foliage and surrounded by several layers of fencing.
As Caplan drew closer, he saw light sparks spurting out of the first fence. Dull buzzing noises filled his ears. His brow furrowed into a hard ridge. The fence, grounded in concrete, was as sturdy as the one dividing Sector 48 from 48A. The only difference was that this fence was still electrified. It would fry him to a crisp and unlike his days as Chief Ranger, he didn’t possess the means to bypass it.
He glanced at the building. It morphed before his eyes, seemingly expanding in size. He could see how much ground it covered. And he noticed distinct areas. Areas that made up the entranceway, the Eye, and the Warehouse.
For a long moment, he studied the seven-tentacled structure. Morgan existed somewhere within its sprawling concrete walls. She was so close; he could almost hear the steady rhythmic beating of her heart. All that had happened, all that he’d lost, came back to him in a flood of unwelcome emotions.
Keep your cool, Caplan thought. You’ve only got seventy-eight minutes before everyone’s dead.
“I assume that’s Roadster,” Pearson whispered.
Following the man’s gaze, Caplan saw the familiar vehicle, stowed under a thin sheet of metal propped up by wooden beams. Old and rusty and held together by years of faded duct tape, he doubted Roadster could ever pass inspection out in the civilized world. “Sure is.”
“So, the others know we’re here.”
Caplan scanned the grounds and spotted four—no, five—separate people. They carried rifles and wore dark clothing, blending in well with the soil and grass. He squinted, but was unable to make out their faces in the relative darkness. “I’d say that’s a safe bet.”
Pearson grunted. “Even if they didn’t, this would be a tough nut to crack. No windows. Three fences, each taller than the last. Plenty of cameras and sensors, too. And is that the only entrance?”
Caplan turned his attention from the makeshift garage to three of the tentacles. Two of them led to circular areas. The third one shot straight out, tunnel fashion, and ended in a giant metal door. “That’s the only ground entrance,” he clarified. “But there’s a locked vent system accessible from the roof. The Operations team used to clean it once a week.”
“So, we have to breach three layers of electric fencing, sneak past those guards, scale a fifteen-foot wall, and penetrate a locked vent?” Pearson frowned. “All without triggering an alarm?”
“When you put it that way, it sounds easy.”
Pearson gave Caplan a disdainful look. “You should—”
Puuucc, puuucc, puuucc!
The sounds, like grenades exploding in rapid succession, took Caplan by surprise. Dodging back into the forest, he took cover behind a tree trunk.
Puuucc, puuucc, puuucc!
The explosions, strangely enough, didn’t sound close and concentrated. Instead, they came from all over the clearing.
Puuucc, puuucc, puuucc!
The explosions died away. Taking a deep breath, Caplan chanced a look at the guards. They stood in a small half-circle. They shifted their rifles back and forth, seemingly searching for an invisible assailant.
“What was that?” Pearson whispered.
Caplan focused his attention on his ears. Something had changed. He was sure of it. But what? “The buzzing,” he realized at last. “It’s gone.”
“What buzzing? What the hell are you talking about?”
“The fences were buzzing like bees when we got here. Sparking, too. But no more.”
“The fences shorted out?” Pearson’s face twisted with disbelief. “But how?”
Caplan grinned. “Maybe our luck is starting to change.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
The front door swung open. A couple of people, some clad in white lab coats, ran outside. They conferred with the gun-wielding guards. Within moments, all of them were on their feet, running toward the open d
oor and disappearing into Hatcher Station. The last person to enter left the door wide open, swinging gently on its hinges.
Pearson arched an eyebrow. “Was it something I said?”
Caplan scanned the area again, paying close attention to the cameras and sensors. On a typical day, they were used to keep an eye out for too-clever-for-their-own-good animals. The ones that somehow eluded Hatcher’s security only to find themselves trapped behind the electric fences with nothing to eat or drink.
He was pleased to see the little red lights mounted on each device had gone dark. Whatever had shut down the electric fences had apparently shut down the cameras and sensors as well.
Caplan shrugged off his backpack. Reaching inside, he extracted the small cooler he’d procured from the helicopter bin. He cracked it open and checked the syringes and vials. Satisfied they were in good order, he resealed the cooler and stuck it back into his bag. Then he hoisted the pack onto his shoulders. “Let’s go,” he said.
“You go. I’ll keep a lookout.”
Caplan shot him a look. “We don’t have time to mess around.”
“And we don’t have time to depend on luck either. Now, go.” Pearson brandished his pistol. “I’ll make sure no one gets in your way.”
Exhaling softly, Caplan stared at Hatcher. Once upon a time, he’d looked upon the building and the Vallerio with childlike wonder. But now, he saw things differently. He saw the forest for what it really was, namely a bastion of ancient evil. A cursed city out of myth and legend, one of gnarled, twisting towers, torn-up streets, the blackest of corridors, and otherworldly inhabitants. And he saw Hatcher for what it was, too. A foolish outpost of civilization smack dab in the midst of depravity. A place no man, no woman should’ve ever set foot into, let alone call home.
Sweeping his gaze from left to right, he searched for terrorists. Seeing none, he made a beeline for the fence. As he drew near, his senses perked. The air was free of electric charge. The fence was quiet, still.
Bracing himself, he closed his fingers around a length of wire. His teeth gritted in anticipation of a gigantic shock.
But it didn’t happen.
Emboldened, he climbed the first fence. The second fence. But as he darted to the third fence, a change came over the area. Gone was the silence, the stillness. In its place, he heard shouting, felt frenzied energy. It reminded him of helpless prey fleeing from much larger predators.
He climbed the third fence and stepped quietly onto a patch of damp grass. The shouting—although reduced to half the decibels—continued unabated. He smelled coppery blood in the air, enough of it to make his insides queasy. Sweat beaded up on his shoulders and trickled down his arms, a product of the strange heat emanating from the open door.
Caplan shot a quick glance at the forest. Saw Pearson and gave the man a nod.
Pearson flashed a thumbs-up in response.
Senses still perked, Caplan crept toward Hatcher. He could feel a great and mysterious struggle taking place within it. One of those struggles that was somehow about more than life and death. A struggle of ideals, of competing dreams. But the building’s exterior reflected none of that. Its concrete walls remained dull and lifeless. Completely unchanged from when he’d last seen them all those months ago.
He studied the nearest wall, taking note of its cracks and indentations. He needed to climb it, to break into the vent system. Then he could focus on delivering the antibiotics. But as he started forward, he heard more shouts, more screams.
What the hell is going on in there? he wondered.
He ran to the doorway. The temperature grew to sauna-levels and his pores worked even faster to distribute sweat to his body.
Carefully, he peeked through the open door. The overhead light fixtures were dark. However, a few rays of sunlight managed to penetrate the storm clouds, shedding a bit of light on the adjoining corridor. To his surprise, it was completely empty.
Rotating his neck, Caplan saw familiar maintenance equipment—lawn mowers, rakes, clippers, shovels, sturdy gloves, and safety glasses—lined up along the right side wall. On the opposite wall, he saw posters and signs, laying out Hatcher’s rules for landscape work.
The shouts and screams grew louder, more terrified. The temperature warmed a few more degrees and he sensed feverish, almost frantic activity.
The vent forgotten, he stepped into the corridor. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the change in light. Then he pulled out his twin axes. Said a silent prayer.
And headed into the darkness.
Chapter 32
Date: June 19, 2016, 3:49 p.m.; Location: Hatcher Station, Vallerio Forest, NH
GRRAWRRR!
The massive roar, softened by distance, forced Caplan to a halt. Weird and conflicting emotions—perplexity, revulsion, and intense curiosity, among others—weaved through his heart. That came from inside, he thought. Inside!
Somehow a large animal had gotten into Hatcher Station. But how? Until just a few minutes ago, the fences had been fully electrified and guarded. Plus, he’d seen no signs of breakage or forced entry. Nothing about this made sense.
GRRAWWRRR!
The floor trembled ever so slightly under Caplan’s feet. He sensed the beast’s confusion, its rage. It was angry. Angry and hell-bent on destruction.
He thought about Morgan, about her propensity to put other people first. If this beast was on the rampage, he had little doubt she was in the thick of things, trying to slow it down or even stop it.
Throwing caution to the wind, he sprinted down the corridor. The mighty roars grew louder, angrier with every step. But they also remained strangely muted.
He slowed his pace as he entered the Heptagon, the informal name for Hatcher’s central core. Although the overheard fixtures were dark, a few flashlights provided some light to the area. Skirting clear of the beams, he snuck along the walls.
A small group of people, tightly bound, sat in the middle of the room. They faced outward and Caplan recognized a few faces. They belonged to long-time Hatcher guards. He didn’t know them all that well—the guards tended to stick to themselves—but he figured they’d make valuable allies in the very near future.
Six people, dressed in jeans and t-shirts, surrounded the prisoners. The closest ones had their backs to Caplan, so he was unable to see their faces. But the rifles clutched in their hands spoke volumes about their identities.
They were terrorists.
At least two-dozen other gun-toting people were scattered about the Heptagon. Some wore lab coats, which he didn’t quite understand. Was that how the terrorists had entered Hatcher? By impersonating scientists? How would that even work?
Distraught whispers and frazzled murmurs filled Caplan’s ears. The words mixed together, forming a tangled web of indiscernible din.
He felt energy surging, flowing all around him. But it didn’t come from the room itself. Indeed, the people inside the Heptagon barely moved. Watching their eyes, he saw they all stared at the closed Research door and its, Stop: Restricted Access, Research Only sign.
He studied the door, studied the area around it. Yes, that was it. That was the source of the frenzied energy.
GRRAWWRRR!
He flinched at the sudden roar. It had definitely come from Research, but not on this level. Corbotch’s remarks about how the terrorists had broken into the secured Lab came to mind. He’d caught a few glimpses of Research before. He’d seen people working. He’s seen the bright lights, the computers, the lab stations. But he’d never seen even a hint of the lower level.
Did that explain the roars? Did Research keep some kind of wild beast in the Lab? If so, why? Were they experimenting on it?
No. No way in hell. Morgan would never participate in such a monstrous thing. And yet, he couldn’t escape the facts. A wild beast roamed the lower level. And there were no signs it had forced its way in there. So, either the terrorists brought it with them.
Or it had been there all along.
As th
e roar died away, the whispers started up again. Rotating his head, Caplan glanced at the entrance corridor. Where, he wondered, was Pearson? Still at the edge of the clearing, watching over the area? Or had he moved closer in order to keep an eye on things?
Caplan replaced the axe covers and stowed the tools in his belt. Then he rescanned the room, counting the terrorists and noting their positions. A large part of him desired a direct fight. But ultimately, he ruled that out. The smart move was to take advantage of the situation. With the terrorists focused on Research, he could sneak into Hatcher’s other wings. He could look for prisoners, distribute the antibiotics, and secure weapons.
Then he’d make his move.
A thick-bearded man with bronzed complexion crossed the Heptagon. He knelt close to Caplan and began sorting through a small duffel bag.
Caplan squinted. Was that …? Yes. Yes, it was Dr. Adnan. Quickly, he considered his options. He could keep a low profile and sneak into the other wings as planned. Or he could reach out to the good doctor, but possibly risk discovery in the process.
It only took him a second to make up his mind. With soft, fluid movements he slid along the wall until he reached the man. “Dr. Adnan?”
Dr. Ankur Adnan, Hatcher’s primary physician, didn’t look up. “What do you need?”
“It’s me, doc. Zach Caplan.”
“Zach?” Glancing up, Dr. Adnan studied Caplan’s features with a pair of sharp, hazel eyes. “But … but you left.”
“Yeah. And now, I’m back. Listen—”
“Traitor!” Dr. Adnan reeled backward, lost his balance, and fell. His body splayed out across the floor. “Here! Over here!”
Caplan didn’t have time to move or even think. In a fraction of a second, over a dozen flashlights lit him up like a prisoner caught in a late night jailbreak. He saw confused expressions. Shocked ones, too.
His cheeks scrunched. His eyes narrowed. Wait. He knew these faces. Knew them well. For the most part, they belonged to Hatcher’s brainiac scientists. But that didn’t make sense. Unless …
His jaw hardened into rock.
