by S. D. Perry
David shuddered internally, remembering what she'd told them before – that one drop of infected blood could hold millions, hundreds of millions of virus particles. Not a pleasant thought, consider-ing. A nine-millimeter round could inflict a lot of damage…
… and they don't lie down when they're hit. The three by the boathouse just kept coming, walking and firing and bleeding…
They were waiting for his signal. David shook the thoughts off and thumbed the safety on his weapon, putting his other hand on the door latch.
"Ready? Quietly, now, on three – one… two… three."
He pushed the door open and slipped outside into the cool night air and the whisper of ocean waves. It was much brighter than before, the almost-full moon having risen high, bathing the compound in silvery blue light. Nothing moved. Straight in front of him about twenty meters away was John and Karen's destination, and he was re– lieved to see a door set into the concrete wall facing block C; they wouldn't have to go around to get inside. David edged away from the door to his left, hugging the narrow shadow of the wall. He could just make out the front of the building he hoped was A, tall, wind-bent pines to the left and behind it. There was a darker shadow midway along its length, a door, and no cover in the thirty-plus meters that spanned the distance. Once they stepped away from C, they'd be totally vulnerable.
If there's a team between the two lines of build– ings…
He shot a glance back, saw Rebecca and Steve tensed and waiting behind him. If they were going to walk into a corridor of fire, at least he'd be in front; Steve and Rebecca should have time to get back to cover. He took a deep breath, held it……and broke away from the wall, running in a low crouch for the dark square of the block's entry. Shapes of pallid light and shadow blurred past. His entire being was waiting for the flash of an automatic, the crack of fire, the sharp and piercing pain that would take him down, but it was silent and still, the only sound the violent stammer of his heart, the rush of blood through his veins. Seconds stretched an eternity as the door loomed closer, larger… Then the latch was under his fingers and he was pushing, bursting into a stifling blackness, spinning around to see Rebecca and then Steve come lunging in after him.
David closed the door quickly but quietly, sensing the emptiness of the dark room, the lack of life and then the smell hit him. Either Steve or Rebecca gagged, a dry bark of involuntary revulsion as David snatched for the torch, already dreading what he knew they would see. It was the same terrible stink that they'd come across in the boathouse but a hundred times more powerful. Even without the recent reference, David knew the odor. He'd experienced it in a jungle of South America and in a cultist's camp in Idaho, and once, in the basement of a serial killer's house. The smell of rotting, multiple death was unforgettable, a rancid bile like sour milk and flyblown meat.
How many, how many will there be?
The beam snapped on and as it found the tottering, reeking pile that took up one corner of the large storage room, David saw that there was no way to be certain; the bodies had started to melt into one another, the blackened, shriveling flesh of the stacked corpses blending and pooling from the humid heat.
Maybe fifteen, maybe twenty…
Retching, Steve stumbled away and threw up, a harsh and helpless sound in the otherwise quiet room. David quickly took in the rest of the chamber, finding a door against the back wall, the letter A blocked across it in black. Without another look at the terrible mound, he hustled Rebecca toward the far door, grabbing Steve as they passed. Once they were through, the smell faded to barely tolerable. They were in a windowless corridor, and though there was a light switch next to the door, David ignored it for the moment, catching his breath, letting the two young team members collect themselves. Apparently, they'd found the Umbrella workers of Caliban Cove; all but at least one of them, anyway and David decided that if they ran across him, he'd shoot first and not bother with any questions at all.
Karen and John stood at the door for a full minute after the others had gone, cracked open just wide enough for them to listen. Cool air filtered through the opening, the far away hiss of waves, but no shots, no screams. Karen let the door close and looked at John, her pale features masked in the dim light. Her voice was low, even, and terribly serious. "They're in by now. You want to take lead, or would you prefer if I went first?" John couldn't help himself. "My women always go
first," he whispered. "Though I prefer it when we go together, if you know what I mean."
Karen sighed heavily, a sound of pure exasperation. John grinned, thinking about how easy she was. He knew he shouldn't devil her, but it was hard to resist. Karen Driver kicked ass with a weapon and she was sharp as a tack in the brains department, but she was also one of the most humorless people he'd ever known.
It's my duty to help her lighten up. If we're gonna die, might as well be laughing as crying… A simple philosophy, but one he held dear; it had gotten him through many an unpleasant situation in the past.
"John, just answer the goddamn question…" "I'll go," he said mildly. "Wait till I get through, then follow."
She nodded briskly, stepping back to let him by. He briefly considered telling her that he'd greet her at the door wearing nothing but a smile, but decided against it. They'd worked together for almost five years, and he knew from experience that he could only go so far before she got pissy. Besides, it was a good line, and he didn't want to waste it. As soon as his hand closed over the latch, he took a deep breath, letting his sparkling wit take a back seat to what he thought of as his "soldier mind." There was humor, and then there was conquering the enemy – and while he enjoyed both immensely, he'd learned long ago to keep them separate.
Gonna be a ghost now, gonna slide through the dark like a shadow…
He gently pushed the door open. No sound, no movement. Holding his Beretta loosely, he stepped away from the building and moved quickly through the silvery dark, fixing on the door that was scarcely twenty steps away. His soldier mind fed him the facts, the cool wind, the soft tread of boots against dirt, the smell and taste of the ocean, but his heart told him that he was a ghost, floating like an invisible shadow through the night. He reached the door, touching the clammy metal bar with steady fingers and it wouldn't move. The entrance was locked. No panic, no worry, he was a shade that no one could see; he'd find another way in. John held up a hand, telling Karen to wait, and edged smoothly to his right.
Silent and easy, shadow without form…
He reached the corner and slid around, letting his heightened senses continue to feed him information. No movement in the whispering night, the rough feel of concrete against his left shoulder and hip, the steady pump of exhilaration and fluidity in his muscles. There was another door, facing the broad, glimmering open– ness of the sea, cool light matte against metal. Rat-atat-atat-atat! Bullets hit the dirt at his feet. John spun and leaped backward, flattening himself against the wall as he grabbed for the latch. Walking from the direction of the boathouse, a line of three… and John tore the door open and jumped behind it, heard the clatter of.22 rounds smash into the metal, stopped inches from his body by the explosive ping-ping-ping that rattled the door. He held the door open with his foot, took a split-second look around the edge and targeted the flash of light, squeezing the trigger as chips of concrete and dust flew from the wall. The nine-millimeter jumped, a part of his hand, and he was an animal now, at one with the thundering rounds, the pull of his breath, the awareness of himself both as a man and a bringer of death. Another look and the line was closer now, the three dark figures taking shape. John got off another shot, ducked behind the open door… and when he looked again, there were only two standing. Snap. Behind him. John whirled around and saw them, two of them, ten feet away at the northeast corner of the building. Both held automatic rifles. But made no move to fire. He felt panic then, a screaming, whining beast in his gut that threatened to devour him from the inside out -
–holy shit.
The fus
illade of the M-16s was still approaching, but he could see only the creatures that stood there, watching him with blank and rubbery eyes, wobbling on unsteady legs. The one on the left had only half a face; from the nose down was a liquid, pulpy mass of tissue, chunks of dark wetness hanging from strings of elastic flesh. The one on the right looked intact at first, if deathly white and dirty… until he saw the ex– ploded mass of its belly, the limp, dripping snake of intestine flopped out against his bloody shirt.
– won't engage until team A finishes -
John stepped backward into the warm dark of the building, using one distant arm to hold the door open against the pair that still fired. He leaned out and aimed as carefully as he could manage, squashing the panic as best he could. Neither of the creatures moved to defend themselves, only stood there, teetering on rotting legs, watching him. Bam! Bam! Two clean head shots, explosively loud over the continuing rattle of the M-16s. Before they'd even hit the ground, John heard another nine-millimeter thun– dering through the darkness, drowning the automatic fire.
Karen…
He shot another glance around the door and saw the crumpling figures of the engaged team a hundred feet away, one of them still firing as it fell, its rattling rifle aimed uselessly at the sky. Karen crouched out from between the buildings, handgun still pointed at the spasming shooter, her back to John.
– teams won't engage -
"Don't shoot him! Over here, leave him!"
She turned, a lithe and graceful spin, sprinting to meet him. As soon as she was through, he pulled the door closed, the crack of the automatic muted to a dull popping sound. John sagged against the door as Karen fumbled for the lock, his brain still screaming at him that he'd seen the impossible, that he'd just killed two dead men, that there was nowhere he could put that information that wouldn't drive him insane -
– can't be, didn't believe, didn't believe it before, didn 't know and they were DEAD they were ROTTING and they were -
Karen's ragged whisper broke the warm dark, broke through the cycling chain of his spinning, dizzying thoughts.
"Hey, John, was it good for you?"
He blinked, the words registering slowly. "Going first, I mean," she added. "Was it every-thing you hoped it would be?"
He felt a creeping amazement take the place of the whirling, terrible thoughts, the confusion ebbing, the waters of his mind becoming clear again. "That's not funny," he said. After a beat, they both started to laugh.
TEN
The farther away they got from the front of the concrete block, the less noxious the air, for which Rebecca was deeply grateful. She'd been seconds away from vomiting herself, the smell was that bad – a greasy, oily stench that seemed almost tangible, an entity in itself. As they moved quietly through the well-lit hall, she found herself thinking again about Nicolas Griffith, about the story of the Marburg victims and al– though there was no proof that he was behind the mass slaughter of the Umbrella people, she couldn't shake the feeling that he was responsible. The corridor led them past several open rooms, each as barren and sterile as the building they'd come from. They passed an exit at the far side of the block, and after another turn in the hall, finally came to a door marked again with the letter A, and below it, 1-4. There were three triangles beneath the numbers, each a different color – red, green, and blue. David opened the door, revealing a much shorter hall, stark fluorescent light spilling into the stale dark-ness; there were two doors, one on either side. Steve found the lights and turned them on, and Rebecca saw that there were more of the colored triangles on the door to their right. The other was blank. "I'll take the test," David said. "Steve, you and Rebecca check out the other room, we'll meet back here."
Rebecca nodded, saw Steve do the same. He looked a little pale, but seemed steady enough, though he dropped his gaze when he noticed her looking. She felt a pang of sympathy for him, realizing that he was probably embarrassed for losing his lunch. They opened the unlabeled door and stepped into yet another windowless room, as stuffy and warm as the rest of the building. Rebecca turned on the lights and a rather large office lined with bookshelves flick-ered into view. A steel desk sat in one corner next to a filing cabinet, the empty drawers standing open. Steve sighed. "Looks like another bust," he said. "You want the desk or shelves?" Rebecca shrugged. "Shelves, I guess." He grinned almost shyly. "Just as well. Maybe I can find some breath mints or something in one of the drawers."
Rebecca smiled, glad that he'd made the joke.
"Save me one. I swallowed it down back there, but it was a close call."
They locked gazes, still smiling and Rebecca felt a tiny shiver of excitement run through her as the second stretched, lingering a few beats longer than a more casual exchange. Steve looked away first, but his color had returned, his cheeks slightly pinker than before. He moved to the desk and Rebecca turned to face a row of books, feeling a little flushed herself. There was a definite attraction there, and it seemed to be mutual -
–and it's only about the worst time and place to
consider it, her mind snapped. Secure that shit, pronto. The books were about what she might've expected, considering what they knew about the Trisquads and Umbrella. Chemistry, biology, a whole set of leather– bound texts on behavior modification, several medi– cal journals. As Steve rummaged through the desk behind her, she ran her hand along the row, pushing the books toward the back of the shelf as she glanced over the titles. Maybe there was something hidden behind one of them.
… sociology, Pavlov, psych, psych, pathology…
She stopped, frowning at a slender black volume tucked between two larger books. No title. She pulled it out and felt her heart speed up as she opened the small book, seeing the spidery handwriting on the lined pages. She flipped to the front, saw "Tom Athens" written in neat letters on the inside cover. One of the guys on the list, one of the researchers! "Hey, I found a diary," she said. "It belongs to one of the people from Trent's list, Tom Athens."
Steve looked up from the desk, his dark eyes flash– ing. "No shit? Go to the back, what's the last date?" Rebecca ruffled through the pages to the end, scan-ning as she went. "Says July 18, but it doesn't look like he kept it regular. The one before that is July 9…" "Just read the last entry," Steve said. "Maybe it'll tell us what was going on."
She walked to the desk and leaned against it, clearing her throat.
" 'Juty 18, Saturday. It's been a long and ridiculous day, the end of a long and ridiculous week. I swear to God, I'm going to beat the crap out of Louis if he calls one more stupid meeting. Today it was whether or not we should add a new scenario into the Trisquad program, as if we need another one. All he really wanted was to get it on paper, and the rest of it was his usual bullshit – the importance of teamwork, the need to share information so we can all "stay on the right track." I mean, Jesus, it's like he can't live with the concept that a weekly might go out without his name on it. And he hasn't done dick since the Ma7 disaster, except to try and convince everyone that it was Chin's fault; so much for not speaking ill of the dead. Sanctimonious prick." " 'Alan and I talked over the implants yesterday, that's going well. He's going to write up the proposal this week, and we're NOT going to let Louis touch it. With any luck, we'll get a green light by the end of the month. Alan figures the White boys are going to want to run it past Birkin, though God only knows why; B. doesn't give a shit what we're doing out here, he's off being brilliant again. I have to admit, I'm looking forward to his next synthesis; maybe we can work out some of the bugs in the Trisquads."
" 'There was a minor scare in D on Wednesday, in 101. Somebody left the refrigerator open, and Kim swears that there are some chemicals missing, though I'm starting to think she miscounted again. Hard to believe she's in charge of the infection process, the woman's a dite and she's sloppy as hell when it comes to maintaining the equipment. I'm surprised she hasn't managed to infect the entire com– pound. God knows there's enough in there to do it." " 'I should probably get over to D my
self, make sure everything's ready for tomorrow. Got a new batch shipping in, and Griffith actually asked to watch the process; first time he's come out of the lab in weeks, first time he's ever taken an interest in what the rest of us are doing. I know it's stupid, but I still want him to be impressed; he's as brilliant as Birkin, in his own creepy way. I think he even intimidates Louis, and Louis is generally too stupid to scare." " 'More later.'"
The rest of the pages were blank. Rebecca looked up at Steve, not sure what to say, her mind working to glean the relevant bits of information from the ram-bling tirade. There was something in there that both– ered her, something that she couldn't quite place. Missing chemicals. Infection process. The brilliant, creepy Dr. Griffith… She no longer had any doubt that Griffith had killed the others, but that wasn't what sent her internal alarms jangling. It was… "Block D," Steve said, a look of anxious fear playing across his face. "If we're in A, Karen and John are in D."
Where there's enough of the T-Virus to infect the entire compound. Where the infection process took place. "We should tell David," Rebecca said, and Steve nodded, both of them moving quickly for the door, Rebecca hoping desperately that John and Karen wouldn't find room 101 and that if they did, they wouldn't touch anything that could hurt them.
The test room was big, three of the walls lined with open-ended cubicles. Once he'd turned on the lights, he saw that the tests were clearly numbered and color– coded, the symbols painted on the cement floor in front of each one. All of the red series was on his left, closest to the door. He saw brightly colored blocks and simple shapes on the tables in each cubicle as he walked past, heading for the back of the room. The green series lined the wall opposite, though he ignored it entirely. The back wall was marked with blue triangles, the number four test in the far right corner. As he neared the back of the room, he heard a faint hum of power coming from the blue test area. There was a small computer on the table in number two, a keyboard and headset in three. As promised, the series was activated – though what they were con– nected to, he couldn't imagine.
