by S. D. Perry
Like a skinned goat. Like… like…
Like nothing he'd ever seen, and it was almost to the ground when they heard a wet, rattling sound erupt from somewhere ahead of them, the sound of a snot-clogged throat being cleared, or a dog growling through a mouthful of blood – and they were trapped, cut off from escape, the terrible sounds coming to– ward them from both sides.
Getting back into the compound was remarkably easy. Rebecca needed help getting over the fence, but with each passing minute, she seemed to be improv– ing, her balance and coordination sharpening. David was more relieved than he cared to admit, and almost as pleased with Umbrella's guard, or lack thereof. Three men, two at the fence and another at the van; it was pathetic. They'd started back as soon as the helicopter had lifted and headed south, stretching frozen muscles as they moved silently through the dark. When they'd come within a few hundred yards, David had left the others for a quick recon, then come back and led the two shivering women over the fence and into the compound. Before they could take out the watchmen, David knew they needed to get to a safe place out of the cold, to go over their procedure and better assess Rebecca's condition; he chose the most obvious of the buildings, the middle structure. It boasted two satel– lite dishes and a series of antennae, plus a shielded conduit running down one side. If he was right, if it was a communications relay, it was exactly where they wanted to be.
And if I'm wrong, there are two others to check; one will be a generator room, it's bound to have some sort of climate control. I can leave them there and do the sabotage work solo…
They'd scaled the fence from the south, David amazed at how poorly Umbrella had planned for their re-entry. The two men covering the perimeter were stationed at the front and back, as if there was no chance that anyone would enter from another direc– tion. As soon as they were inside, David led them to the far side of the last building in line, then motioned for a huddle, "Middle building," he whispered. "Should be un-locked, if it's what I think it is. The lights will be on, though. I'll go inside, then signal for you to follow; if you hear shots, get inside as quick as you can. Stay close to the buildings and stay low when we cross. Yes?"
Claire and Rebecca both nodded, Rebecca leaning on Claire; other than a limp, she seemed to be doing well. She'd said she was still dizzy and that her head hurt, but the confused and erratic thoughts that had so frightened him earlier had apparently passed. David turned and eased along the wall of the structure closest to the fence, hugging the shadows, frequently glancing back to be sure both women were keeping up. They reached the end facing west and slipped around, David first, checking for the west guard's position. It was almost too dark to see, but there was a density of shadow against the metal mesh that marked him. David raised the M-16 and pointed it at him, prepared to fire if they were seen. Too bad we can't just shoot him now… but a shot would alert the others, and while David wasn't con– cerned with the fence men, the one posted at the van could be a problem; he was far enough away that he might radio before coming in to check.
These two will be easy enough, but how to approach him? There was no cover if the man at the mini spotted them coming… That could wait; they had work to do before worry– ing about the guards. Crouching, David waved Claire and Rebecca across, the M-16 trained on the shadowy figure at the fence. He held his breath as they slipped across the open space, but they managed it with hardly a sound. As soon as they were across, David followed, his years of training allowing him to move as silently as a ghost. Once they were cloaked by the building's shadow, David relaxed a bit, the worst of it over. They could cross to the middle building in the thick black of the corridor between the structures. In less than a minute, they'd reached the crossing point. Nodding at the women to stay back, David went across, stopping at the closed door to their destination. He touched the icy metal of the handle and pushed it down, nodding to himself as he heard the tiny click of the unlocked door.
It's communications, then; the team leader would have left it open for the men posted, access to a satellite uplink in case we returned. A calculated guess, but a good one. It was time to pray for a bit of luck; if the lights were on, opening the door would be like a beacon to anyone even glancing in their direction. The guards had been facing away from the compound when he'd reconned, but that didn't mean much. A deep breath, and David pushed the door open, registering that the light was low as he slid inside and closed it behind him. He leaned against the door and counted ten, then relaxed, inhaling the warm air thankfully as he studied the interior. The warehouse– type structure had apparently been divided into Rooms – and the one he'd stepped into was packed with computer equipment, thick cables trailing across the floor and up the walls, dish connectors… everything that links this facility to the world outside…
David hit the wall switch, turning off the single ceiling light, and grinning, opened the door for Rebecca and Claire to join him.
"Back against the wall!" Leon shouted, and Cole did it before he even knew why. The phlegmy rattling sounds seemed to be coming from somewhere ahead -
– and then he saw the creature coming slowly toward them from behind, making it impossible to retreat, and barely held back a scream. It stopped fifteen or twenty feet away, and Cole still couldn't seem to get a good look; it was just too bizarre. Oh, Jesus, what is it? It was four-legged, with split hooves, like a ram or goat, and was about the same size – but there was no fur, no horns, nothing else that even remotely resem– bled a natural development. Its slender body was coated with tiny reddish-brown scales, like a snake's skin, but dull instead of shiny; at first glance, it looked like it was covered in dried blood. Its head was somehow amphibian, like a frog's – an earless flat face, small dark eyes that bulged out at the sides, a too-wide mouth – except there were pointed teeth sticking up from a protruding lower jaw, a bulldog's jaw, its head also covered in the dried-blood scales. The thing opened its mouth, exposing only a few sharp teeth, upper and lower, none of them in the front – and that terrible wet rattling sound came from the darkness of its throat, the bizarre call matched by others, somewhere on the other side of the artificial mountaintop. The call built, going louder and deeper as the thing raised its head, turning its hideous face to the ceiling -
– and in one sudden, jerking motion, it dropped its head and spat at them. A thick, tarry blob of reddish semiliquid flew at them, at Leon, across the wide open space -
– and Leon raised his arm to block it even as John started to shoot, stepping away from the wall and spraying the monster – – Spitter -
– with bullets. The goop hit Leon's arm, would have hit his face if he hadn't blocked, and in response to the hail of clattering rounds, the Spitter turned and jumped up the sculpted mountain in long, easy jumps that took it to the top in seconds, that didn't denote panic or pain or any stress at all. It loped back about twenty feet, then skipped nimbly back down to the ground, stopping in front of the connecting hatch. As if it knew it was blocking their escape. And it didn't even flinch, holy shit… The multiple cries from just out of sight didn't get any louder, but they didn't retreat, either. The gar– gling noises stopped, one at a time, the lack of targets giving them no reason; suddenly, it was silent again, as quiet as it had been when they'd entered. "What the good goddamn was that?" John said, grabbing another magazine from his pack, his expres– sion one of total incredulity. "Wasn't even hurt," Cole whispered, holding the nine-millimeter so tight that his fingers started to go numb. He barely noticed, watching as Leon touched the thick, wet handful of maroon goop on his sleeve and hissed in pain, drawing his hand back as if he'd been burned. "Stuff's toxic," he said, quickly wiping his fingers on his shirt and holding them up. The tips of the index and middle fingers on his left hand had gone an angry, inflamed red. He immediately stuck his hand– gun in his belt and pulled the black shirt off, carefully avoiding contact with the acidic ooze, dropping it to the stone floor. Cole felt sick. If Leon hadn't blocked… "Okay-okay-okay," John breathed, his brow fur
-rowed. 'This is bad, we want out of here as fast as possible… you say there's a bridge?" "Yeah, goes over the, uh, trench," Cole said quickly. "Like twenty feet across, I didn't see how deep it was." "Come on," John said. He started walking toward where the path turned out of sight, striding quickly. Cole followed, Leon right behind. John stopped about ten feet short of the turn and backed against the wall again, glancing at Leon. "You want to cover, or me?" Leon asked softly. "Me," John said. "I step out first, draw their fire. You run, Henry, right behind him – and head down, got it? Get across, get to the door – if you can, help me out -" John's face was solemn. "– if you can't, you can't." Cole felt a by-now-too-familiar rush of shame. They're protecting me, they don't even know me and I
got them into this… if he could do something to return the favor, he would, although he was suddenly quite sure that he'd never be able to even things out; he owed these guys his life, a couple times over already. "Ready?" John asked. "Wait…" Leon turned and jogged back to where he'd dropped the sweatshirt. The Spitter by the hatch stood as silent and immobile as a statue, watching them. Leon scooped up the shirt and hurried back, slipping a pocket knife out of his pack. He cut off the offending sleeve, letting it fall, then handed the rest to John.
"If you're gonna be standing still, keep your face covered," Leon said. "Since they don't seem to notice bullets, you won't need to see, to shoot. Once we're across, I'll give a yell. And if it's not safe, I'll…"
The rattling, peremptory calls had started up again, making Cole think of cicadas for some reason, the almost mechanical ree-ree-ree sound of cicadas on a hot summer night. He swallowed hard, trying to pretend to himself that he was ready. "Outta time," John said. "Get ready to go…" He held up the sweatshirt, then – astoundingly grinned at Leon. "My man, you must invest in a stronger deodorant; you stink like a dead dog."
Without waiting for a response, John put the shirt over his head, holding it open at the bottom so he could see the floor. He jogged out into the open, his face down, Cole and Leon both tensing…… and there was a rapid patpatpatpat, and the black material over John's face was suddenly dripping with great strings of the poison red snot, and he jerked his hand at them…… and Leon said, "Now!" and Cole ran, head down, seeing only Leon's boots sprinting in front of him, a blur of gray rock, his own thin legs as he sprinted. He heard a gurgling cry to his left and ducked down even farther, terrified -
– and there was the thump of wood in front of him, and then he was on the bridge, flat wooden slats rippling underfoot, tied with scrawny twine. He saw the vee-shaped gorge underneath, saw that it was deep, that it had been dug into the earth beneath the Planet, forty, fifty feet…… and then he was back on gray land, before vertigo could even occur to him. He ran, thinking of how wonderful it was that all he needed to think about was Leon's boots, his heart hammering against his breastbone. Seconds or minutes later, he didn't know, the boots slowed, and Cole dared to look up. The wall, the wall and there was the hatch! They'd made it! "John, go!" Leon screamed, taking a few running steps back the way they'd come, his semi up and ready. "Go!" Cole turned, saw John rip off the black hood, saw the handful of Spitters grouped loosely in front of him, six, seven of them, calling once more. John tore through their ranks, and at least two of them spat, but John was fast, fast enough that only a tiny bit hit his shoulder, at least as far as Cole could tell. The monstrous creatures started after him in their jump– ing, hopping movements, not as fast but close.
Run run run!
Cole pointed the nine-millimeter in the direction of the Spitters, ready to shoot if he thought he could get a clear shot, as John hit the bridge…… and disappeared. The bridge collapsed, and John disappeared.
SIXTEEN
JOHN FELT THE BRIDGE DROP AN INCH OR two about a half second before the ropes snapped. He instinctively put his hands out, still running, thinking he'd make it -
– and then he was falling, his knees slamming into a moving wall of wooden slats, his hands clenching the second they touched solid -
–and all he heard was a whoosh sound, and then the knuckles of his right hand crashed into rock, and he was dangling over a very deep chasm, a slat of loose wood in his left hand. He'd managed to grip one of the pieces still attached to the now hanging bridge; both ties that had anchored it to the north side of the rift had snapped. John dropped the useless slat, hearing it clatter to the bottom of the chasm along with several other pieces that had come untied. He reached up to get a better grip…… and thwack, a gob of red mucous suddenly appeared in front of him, less than a foot to the right of his face, sliding down the chasm wall in a melting rope.
– shit on toast -
Bambambam, someone was shooting a nine– millimeter, and the rising rattle of Spitters getting ready to spit told him that he definitely needed to get out. He reached up again, his biceps flexing, straining against the fabric of his sweatshirt as he grabbed one of the slats above and pulled himself up. Above, more shots, closer, and a shout from Leon that was cut off as more bullets thundered. Kick ass, boys, I'm coming… Hand over hand was a bitch, particularly with bleeding knuckles and an automatic rifle hanging from his neck, but he thought he was doing pretty well, reaching up for the next handhold -
–and hot wetness hit the back of his right hand, and it hurt, it was like acid, burning -
– and he let go, flinging the gelid acid away, wiping at his shirt wildly. He held on to the shudder– ing bridge with his left, but just barely, the pain like a fire, maddening. It was all he could do to resist his natural instinct, to clutch at the screaming wound and with the way his fingers were starting to tingle, he thought he might not have that much longer to worry about it.
"He's right here!"
A cracked, hysterical shout from directly above. John tilted his head back, saw Cole crouched at the lip of the chasm, his work shirt pulled up over his nose, his gaze frantic and scared. "John, give me your hand!" He screamed, and reached down as far as he could, flakes of concrete falling from beneath his sliding boots. If he said anything else, it was lost in another series of explo– sive rounds as Leon worked to hold the Spitters at bay. It only took a split-second for John to react to Cole's command, and in that instant he understood that he was going to get out. Henry Cole stood all of five-eight and probably weighed one-fifty sopping wet. With his clothes on. What was more, he looked like some mad turtle hunkered down in the shell of his shirt. Too goddamn funny. Funny, and touching in an idiotic way, and although his hand still hurt like a son of a bitch, he'd actually forgotten to feel it for a second or two. John grinned, ignoring Cole's trembling fingers, forcing himself to concentrate on pulling himself up with his injured hand. There were more rattling cries from behind him but no spit-bombs for the moment. "Tell Leon to use the grenade," he gasped, and Cole turned, shouting over another burst from Leon's semi.
"… says grenade! John says use a grenade!" "Not yet!" Leon screamed back. "Get clear!" Thwap-wap, two more globs flew across the chasm, one hitting Cole's boot, the other only inches from
John's sweating face. Put on the power, John. With a final, deeply felt grunt, John grabbed the wood at the very top and pulled himself up, pulled and then was pushing down, bringing his knee up to climb out.
"I'm good, go!"
Cole the mad turtle needed no further incentive. He took off running as Leon continued to cover for John, as John crouch-ran toward him, jamming his injured hand into his pack and pulling out his last grenade he'd already popped the pin when he saw that Leon had his grenade in hand. "Do it!" John yelled, reaching Leon, Leon winding back and then lobbing the powerful explosive at the Spitters, throwing high. Then both of them were running, John shooting a look back to see that three, four of the animals had already leapt into the chasm. No time to think. John threw low, threw as hard as he could, his grenade disappearing into the rift as Leon's landed in front of the others -
– and they were diving and rolling, the blasts almost simultaneous, KA-WHAM-WHAM, the sound of pow
dered rock raining down, an incredibly high– pitched squealing coming from somewhere.
"You got 'em! You got 'em!"
Cole was standing in front of them, a look of unabashed glee and not a little awe on his narrow face. John sat up, Leon next to him, both turning back to see. They hadn't killed all of them. Two of the four still on the other side of the chasm were mostly intact, alive, but blind and broken, their legs splintered, black fluid obscuring whatever was left of their faces as they squealed in fury, the sound like a guinea pig being stepped on. The other two must have been directly in front of the blast; they were just bleeding, shattered bags, bones sticking up from the liquid piles like – like broken bones. From the manmade gorge there were more of the screaming squeals, and noth– ing leapt out to attack. For all intents and purposes, it was over. John crawled to his feet, studying the back of his hand. Contrary to how it felt, the skin hadn't melted off. There were a few small blisters forming and the flesh looked scorched, but he wasn't bleeding. "You okay?" Leon asked, standing and brushing at his clothes, his youthful features looking a lot less youthful to John.
I'm not calling him a rookie anymore.John shrugged. "Think I broke a nail, but I'll live."He saw that Cole was still beaming at them, his
body shaking with the adrenaline aftermath; he seemed at a loss for words, and John had a sudden clear memory of how he'd felt after his first battle, the first in which he'd acted bravely. How helplessly elated he'd been. How incredibly alive. "Henry, you're a funny guy," John said, clap-ping his hand on the smaller man's shoulder and smiling. The electrician grinned uncertainly, and the three of them started for Four, leaving the furious squeals of the dying animals behind. When the dust cleared and the three men were still alive, Reston slammed his fist against the console in anger and rising dread, his stomach lurching, his eyes wide with disbelief.
