by S. D. Perry
There was a beating sound, too, so huge that for a moment, Cole couldn’t place it—and when he did, he felt a little like screaming.
Wings. The sound of gigantic wings beating the air.
* * *
They were fifteen feet off the ground, atop a double row of wooden crates in one corner of the warehouse. Even the slightest movement made them sway a little, which made Claire deeply uneasy.
Not enough that John and Leon are gone, or that we’re hiding from a bunch of Umbrella goons. No, we have to be stuck on Mount Precarious in a pitch-black icebox. One of us sneezes too hard and we all go down.
“This sucks,” she whispered, as much to break the tense silence as to vent. The helicopter noise had stopped, but they hadn’t heard anyone outside yet either.
She was surprised to feel Rebecca’s body quaking next to hers, and to hear a muffled giggle; the young biochemist was trying to suppress it, and wasn’t having an easy time. Claire grinned, absurdly pleased.
A few seconds passed, and Rebecca managed to say, “Yes. You’re so right,” and then they were both choking back laughter. The boxes teetered gently.
“Please,” David said, sounding edgy. He was on top of the second stack of crates, on Rebecca’s other side.
Claire and Rebecca quieted down, and again a waiting silence fell over them. They were in the northeast corner, both on their stomachs, handguns pointed toward the wall across from them in the general direction of the other door. David said there were two; he was facing south, covering the one they’d entered by.
The tension-breaking giggle fit had relaxed Claire a little. She was still cold, still afraid for Leon and John, but their situation didn’t seem so terrible. Bad, definitely, but she’d been in much worse circumstances.
In Raccoon, I was on my own. There was Sherry to watch out for, we had Mr. X on our trail, we had a shitload of zombies to wade through and were totally lost. At least now I have some idea of what we’re up against; even an army of gun-toting creeps isn’t as bad as not knowing what’s what—
Outside of the warehouse, a noise. Someone was pulling at the door that she and Rebecca were covering; a quick, rattling shake and then silence again—except Claire thought she heard footsteps now, padding against the ground outside.
Checking doors. And if David’s lock-rigging isn’t convincing, or they happen to look closely…
At least it was David covering them; he was amazing, cool and efficient, and with as quick a mind as she’d ever encountered. It was like he knew just what to do—instantly, no matter what happened. Even now—David had said that they’d probably be doing a straight-across sweep, starting at one end or the other and checking each building in teams.
Military strategist, no kidding. Claire ran over what he’d told them again, not so much a plan as a what-if list. But still, just having something to concentrate on was a relief.
If only one team comes in, three or less, we stay quiet, don’t move until they leave, head to the door across from where they entered and wait. When we hear them on the other side, we head out and run for the fence. If they come in and spot us, we shoot; we pick off the others one at a time as they come through the door, then climb down, then run.
If there are two or more teams, wait ’til David throws the grenade and then shoot; same if they’ve got night-vision, the grenade’ll blind ’em. If they manage to return fire, we climb down the back, use the crates as cover—
The other variables disappeared as she heard the other door being shaken. Shaken—and then kicked.
Thunk!
The door blew open, a square of pale light appearing in the blackness. The bright beam of a flashlight pierced the dark, flitting across a wall of boxes, then turning back toward the door.
A soft click—and then a whispered curse.
“What?” A different voice, also whispering.
“Lights are out.” A pause, and then, “Well, come on. They’re probably in the other one anyway, they didn’t get all the way through the lock on this one.”
Thank God. Way to go, David. The two were going to search, but they didn’t suspect their presence.
A second beam appeared, and Claire could see the vaguest human shapes silhouetted behind the two powerful lights, both of them men by the voices. They started to move forward, the beams dancing over the stacks of boxes and crates.
Stay quiet, don’t move, wait. Claire closed her eyes, not wanting for either of the men to feel watched; she’d heard once that that was the trick to hiding. Not to look.
“I’ll take south,” one of the voices whispered, and Claire wondered if they had any idea how well sound carried in the open space.
We can hear you, numbnuts. A funny thought, but she was scared. At least the zombies hadn’t had guns…
The lights split, one heading away from them, the other turning in their direction. It stayed low, at least; whoever was holding the flashlight apparently didn’t realize that people could climb boxes.
Fine by me, just hurry up and get out of here, let us sneak out of this without having to fight! David said that they’d come back for John and Leon when Umbrella had cleared out; he said they’d probably post a guard, maybe two, but that taking out a guard would be a lot easier than taking out an entire squad—
—and a light was shining in Claire’s face, the blinding beam hitting her eyes.
“Hey!” A surprised shout from below, and then—
—bam, a shot fired, and she felt as much as heard something beneath her give, as Rebecca gasped, as the tower of boxes tipped backwards.
Claire’s back hit the wall and she grabbed at the shifting crate they’d been lying on, a chorus of shouts coming from outside, the orange burst of thundering muzzle fire coming from David’s weapon—
—and with a shuddering crash, all the crates went tumbling down, and Claire plummeted into the dark.
* * *
When he heard the mighty flap of wings and the shrieking cries, John felt his skin go cold. He didn’t like birds, never had, and to run into a flock of Umbrella birds, in a sterile, surreal forest—
“Balls,” he said, and raised the M-16, pressing the plastic stock tight against his shoulder. Leon’s was also pointed up, the ceiling at least fifteen feet above where the tallest trees stopped and painted a deep twilight blue. The trees ranged in height from ten to maybe twenty-five, thirty feet—and at the very top, John saw that there were perching “branches” grafted on, each as big around as a basketball.
Bird’s gotta have some pretty big goddamn feet to need that to land on…
The piping screams had stopped, and John didn’t hear the beat of wings anymore—but he wondered how long it would be before the birds decided to look for prey.
“Pterodactyls, gotta be,” Cole whispered, his voice cracking. “Dacs.”
“You’re kidding,” John breathed, and could see the skinny Umbrella worker shake his head in his peripheral vision.
“Maybe not real ones, it’s just a nickname I heard.” Cole sounded distinctly terrified.
“Let’s head for that door,” Leon said, already edging into the false, shadowy woods.
Amen to that.
John started after him, ten, fifteen feet, trying to look up and watch his step at the same time. He tripped almost immediately, one boot kicking against a molded plastic rock, and barely caught himself from going into a full sprawl.
“This ain’t gonna work,” he said. “Cole—Henry?”
He glanced back and saw that Cole was still huddled against the hatch, his pale, weasely face turned up to the sky.
—ceiling, dammit—
Leon had stopped and was waiting, peering up into the spaced branches. “Gotcha covered,” he said.
John walked back, angry and frustrated and seriously uncomfortable; they were in a tight spot, David and the girls could very well be fighting for their lives on the surface, and he wasn’t going to waste time coddling some freaked-out Umbrella hump. Still, they couldn
’t just leave him behind, at least not without making an effort.
“Henry. Hey, Cole.” John reached out and tapped his arm, and Cole finally looked at him. His mild brown eyes were positively glassy with fear.
John sighed, feeling a little pity for the guy. He was an electrician, for hell’s sake, and it seemed that ignorance had been his only real crime.
“Look. I understand you’re scared, but if you stay here, you’re going to get killed. Leon and I have both had run-ins with Umbrella pets; your best chance is to come with us—and besides, we could use your help, you know more about this place than we do. Okay?”
Cole nodded shakily. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. I just— I’m scared.”
“Join the club. Birds give me the creeps. The flying part’s cool, but they’re so weird, got those beady eyes and scaly feet—and have you ever seen a buzzard? They got scrotum heads.” John mock-shivered, and saw Cole relax a little bit, even trying on a quivery smile.
“Okay,” Cole said again, more firmly. They walked back to where Leon was standing, still watching the air above.
“Henry, since we got the guns, how ’bout you lead?” John asked. “Leon and I will keep watch, and we’ll need a clear route so we won’t have to worry about tripping over stuff. Think you can handle it?”
Cole nodded, and though he still looked too pale, John could see that he would hold together. For a while, anyway.
Their guide stepped in front of Leon and headed roughly southwest, weaving a crooked path through the strange forest. Leon and John followed, John realizing pretty quick that having Cole lead didn’t make much of a difference.
If you don’t look where you’re going, you’re going to trip, John thought wearily, after the sixth time he ran into a fallen “log.” No way around it.
The Dacs, as Cole called them, hadn’t put in an appearance or made any other sound. Just as well; John thought walking through a plastic forest was enough for them to handle. It was a bizarre sensation, seeing the realistic-looking trees and undergrowth, feeling the moisture in the air—but also being aware that there were no smells of earth or growing things, no wind or tiny sounds of movement, no bugs. It was a dream-like experience, and an unnerving one.
John was still edging forward, his gaze fixed on the crisscross of branches overhead, when Cole stopped.
“We’re—there’s kind of a clearing here,” he said.
Leon turned, frowning at John. “Should we skirt it?”
John stepped forward, peering through the seemingly random scatter of trees to the opening ahead. It was at least fifty feet across, but John would rather they go out of their way; being dive-bombed by a pterodactyl didn’t sound like fun at all.
“Yeah. Henry, veer right. We’re going to—”
The rest of his words were lost as that high, warbling screech blasted through the unnatural forest, and a brown-gray shape dove into the clearing and flew at them, extending talons a foot across.
John saw a wingspan of eight or ten feet, the leathery wings tipped with curved hooks. He saw a screaming, toothed beak and a slender elongated skull, flat black eyes the size of saucers, glittering—
—and he and Leon both opened fire as the creature hit the line of artificial trees in front of them, its huge claws gouging into the solid plastic. It held on, spreading its vast membranous wings in a struggle to balance—
—and bambambam, holes punched through the thin flesh, streamers of watery blood trickling down from the openings. The animal screamed, so close that John couldn’t hear the bullets, couldn’t hear anything but that quavering, high-pitched shriek— and then it dropped, landing on the dark floor, pulling its wings in—
—and walking toward them on its elbows, like a bat, moving jerkily through the shredded trees, shrieking in short, sharp barks of sound. Behind it, another dropped into the clearing, gusting odorless wind across them as its wide wings folded closed, its long, pointed beak opening and revealing nubs of grinding teeth.
This is bad, bad, bad—
The lurching animal was less than five feet away when John drew a bead on the bobbing head, on the shiny round eye, and pulled the trigger.
TWELVE
The taller one, John, pointed his automatic rifle at the Avl and let loose a hail of bullets. Like a stream of destruction, they hit the Dac’s aquiline skull and blew out the other side, dark fluids spattering across the freshly painted trees. Both eyes popped like water balloons.
Damn. Low threshold; it’s those hollow bones…
Reston watched as the other gunman pointed his weapon at a second Dac that had landed in the clearing. Even without sound, Reston could see the handgun kick three, four times, hitting the specimen in its narrow chest. The Dac’s slender neck curved wildly back and forth, a squiggling dance of death before it sprawled, bleeding, against the ground.
He didn’t see any more of the animals touch down, but the three men were retreating, stumbling back into the woods. Poor Cole seemed quite undone, his mouth open in a silent howl, his lank brown hair practically plastered to his head with sweat, his limbs quaking.
Serves him right for not getting to the audio. The lack of sound was annoying, although he supposed the footage wouldn’t suffer for it. People knew what bullets and screams sounded like already.
The three were moving out of range, heading west now. Reston switched cameras from the one in the tree to a long shot from the north wall. It was clear that Cole was trying to lead them to the connecting door—although he obviously didn’t remember that a second, larger clearing was now in their path. For the moment, though, the Dacs had also pulled back; they generally gravitated toward open spaces. The gunmen had only killed two, which meant that there would be six healthy specimens to greet them in the “meadow.”
Reston had released all of the creatures into their habitats just after the call had come on the cell line from a Sergeant Steve Hawkinson, the man who was leading the surface effort. He had informed Reston only that two Umbrella teams—nine men, including himself—were starting a sweep of the compound, and that the fugitives’ transport had been spotted; the three were still in the area unless they had a second vehicle, a highly unlikely possibility. Reston told him that the entry’s camera had been covered by one of them and asked for an update as soon as anything turned up, then settled in to watch the show.
He poured himself another brandy as he watched the three weave slowly through the trees, John with his weapon pointed above, the other scanning the shadows around them…
He needs a name, too. We have Henry, John, and— Red? His hair is sort of reddish.
Not really, but it would do, just as “Dac” worked for the Av1s. There was no relation to pterodactyls, of course, and the “Av” was for “Aves,” birds—and in fact, the Dacs were closer to bats than anything. There were just too many in the mammal series already. At the request of Jackson himself, the specimen growers had added some new classifications for clarity’s sake, using some of the secondary contributors to that series’s gene pool. Like the Spitters, who were closer to snakes than to goats, but’d been labeled Ca6s, for Capra, because of the cloven hooves…
…and the Dacs do look like pterodactyls, or at least our modern concept of them, Reston thought, looking at the screen that showed the cage entrance. Two of the animals were still inside. The streamlined, muscular body and the narrow beak, the bone “comb” on the top of the head, the fibrous wings… they were really quite elegant in a brutal sort of way. The two in the massive behind-the-scenes “cave” were clearly agitated by all of the excitement, crawling back and forth on their folded wings and swinging their heads from side to side. Reston didn’t know much from the biological end, but he knew that they hunted by motion and scent, and that just two of them could take down a horse in under five minutes.
Not so efficient being shot at, however.
It didn’t make a difference, really. The Av1s had been created for third-world situations, where machetes still outnumbered rifles. It was
too bad that they died so quickly, the handlers would be disappointed by the loss—but they would have been tested against firepower eventually anyway.
And speaking of…
The three men were getting close to the clearing, moving out of the north camera’s view. That would be where the Dacs would make their play. Reston leaned in to watch, realizing that the scenes he was recording would make his career—and that regardless of that fact, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
* * *
David opened fire as soon as the thug’s light found them, hearing the single shot of a weapon down below—
—and felt the splintering of wood to his left, a flurry of splinters spraying his arm. He was too intent on taking out the shooter to stop firing, but he knew with a burst of dread that they were about to fall, that both young women would smash into the concrete if he didn’t do something—
—and then he was falling, too, the wooden slats beneath him disappearing suddenly, plunging him through the icy dark. David held on to his weapon, pushing his arms out and bending his knees in the half second of blind free fall—
—and then his knees connected with cardboard, with an unseen box that collapsed beneath his weight, sparing him the worst of it. Instantly he was on his feet, turning toward the other flashlight, which was still shining out from halfway across the warehouse, the first man already down. No time to check on Rebecca, on Claire—the raised shouts from outside were almost upon them.
The torch-bearer went down in the short line of bullets David sent from the M-16, a guided four-foot arc across the darkness behind the light. The flat echoes of the rounds blasted through the alleys between boxes, and as the flashlight dropped, a single grunt of pain and surprise going down with it, David turned the gun toward the open door.
Come on, then—
Rattatattatt—
Submachine gun fire from outside, a sweep across the door… but no one stepped inside. David moved left and sent a burst from his weapon in response, not expecting to hit anyone, the bullets crashing uselessly into the door’s frame. He needed to buy them time, even if only a few seconds.
