Chapter Nine
As steve read aloud, rebecca saw david glance between his watch and the door several times. She didn't think it had been ten minutes, but it had to be close. John and Karen weren't back yet.
'". . . where each is designed to measure applica-tion of logic, as combined index projective techniques with interval precision. . . '"
It was rather dry reading, apparently a facility report on the analysis of some kind of I. Q. test. It had obviously been written by a scientist, was, in fact, the kind of boring double talk that a lot of researchers tended to fall into when trying to explain anything more complicated than a chair. Still, it was what had come up when Steve had asked for information on "blue series. " Since the room had yielded little else, Rebecca forced herself to pay attention, fighting off - nine - the nagging, quiet fear that had settled over her during the fruitless search. Somebody had cleaned out the room, and done a very thorough job of it. She'd found books, staplers, pens and pencils, a ton of rubber bands and paper clips, but not a single piece of paper with writing on it, not a scrap of information to work with. Steve's computer search wasn't much better; no map and nothing at all on the T-Virus. Whoever had taken over the facility had apparently wiped out everything they might've been able to use.
Except for a shitload of dull psycho-babble, which so far hasn't even mentioned the word blue. How are we supposed to accomplish anything here?
Steve touched a key, then brightened considerably.
"Here we go. . . " " 'The red series, when looked at on a standardized scale, is the most basic and simple, applicable up to an intelligence quotient of 80. The green series. . . '" He broke off, frowning. "The screen just went blank. "
Rebecca looked up from the mostly empty desk she'd been going through as David walked over to join Steve. "System crash?" he asked worriedly. Steve was still frowning, tapping at keys. "More like a program freeze. I don't think - hello, what's this?" "Rebecca," David said quietly, motioning for her to come look. She closed a drawer full of blank, unlabeled file folders and moved over to stand behind Steve, bend- ing down to read what was on the monitor. The man who makes it doesn't need it. The man who buys it doesn't want it. The man who uses it doesn't know it. "It's a riddle," David said. "Either of you know the answer?"
Before either of them could respond, Karen and John walked back into the room, both of them bol- stering their weapons. Karen held a sheet of torn paper in one hand. "Locked up tight," John said. "Halfa dozen offices, no windows at all and only one other external door, north end. " Karen nodded. "There were file cabinets in most of the rooms, but they were empty, except I found this in one of the drawers, stuck in a crack. It must have ripped off when the place was being cleaned out. "
She handed the piece of paper to David. He
scanned a few lines, his dark gaze taking on a sudden intensity. He turned back to Karen. "This is all there was?"Karen nodded. "Yeah. But it's enough, don't you think?"
David held up the torn sheet and started to read it out loud.
" 'The teams continue to work independently, but have shown a marked improvement since the modification of aural synapses. " " 'In Scenario Two, when more than one Trisquad is present, the second team (B) will no longer engage when the first (A) concludes (when target ceases to move or make sound). " " 'If the target continues to provide stimuli and A has discontinued the attack (lack of ammunition/disabling injury to all units), B will engage. If within range, additional patrols will be drawn to the attack and will engage in succession. " " 'At this time, we have not successfully managed to expand sensory ability to trigger desired behavior; the visual stimuli of Scenarios Four and Seven continue to be unpro- ductive, although we'll be infecting a new group of units tomorrow and expect correlating results by the end of the week. It is our recommendation that we continue to further develop aural capabilities before considering heat-detection implantation. . . '" "That's where it's torn off," David said, looking up. Karen nodded. "It explains a lot, though. Why the team at the back door of the boathouse didn't do anything; the team out front was still firing. It wasn't until you and Steve took them out that the second group moved in. "
Rebecca frowned, not liking the implications of the report for more than just the obvious; Umbrella's continued experimentation on humans. From what she'd seen in Raccoon, the T-Virus took seven or eight days to fully amplify in a host, the host then falling to pieces within a month.
So what's this about infecting a new group and getting data in a week? Or for that matter, implanta-tion and sensory modification with the hosts they already have? There shouldn't be time for all that, the "units" should be disintegrating, way beyond learning new behavior. . .
She bit her lip nervously, suddenly wondering what the researchers at Caliban Cove might have done with the virus. If they'd found a way to speed up the infective, perhaps tampered with the virion's fusion membrane, made it more cohesive. . .
. . . or somehow multiplied the indusionary, allow-ing it to replicate exponentially. . . we could be look-ing at a strain that works in hours, not days.
It was a nasty thought, and one that she didn't want to consider until she had more information to go on. Besides, it wouldn't make a difference in their current situation; the Trisquads were just as deadly either way.
"The sign on the north door says we're in block C, whatever that means," John said, moving to the computer. "Did you find a map?" Steve sighed. "No, but take a look. I asked for information on the blue series, and it started to give us a report on these I. Q. tests, coded by color, then this. I can't get anything else. " John peered at the screen, mumbling, ". . . man who makes it doesn't need it, buys it, doesn't want it, uses it, doesn't know it. . . "
Karen, who had been rereading the Trisquad mate- rial, looked up with sudden sharp interest. "Wait, I know that one. It's a casket. "
Somehow, Rebecca wasn't surprised that Karen knew the riddle; the woman struck her as someone who thrived on puzzles. They all gathered around as Steve quickly typed in "casket. " The screen remained unchanged. "Try 'coffin,'" Rebecca suggested. Steve's fingers flew across the keys. As soon as he hit "enter," the riddle disappeared, replaced by: BIDE SERIES ACTIVATED.
Then followed:
TESTS FOUR (BLOCK A), SEVEN (BLOCK D), AND NINE (BLOCK B)/ BLUE TO ACCESS DATA (BLOCK E).
"Blue to. . . Ammon's message," Karen said quickly. "That's it - the message received related to the blue series, then said, 'enter answer for key. ' The answer was 'coffin'. . . " ". . . and the test numbers are the key," David said. "There are three more lines in the message, then 'blue to access. ' The lines must be the answers to the tests, the letters and numbers reverse, time rainbow, and don't count. Jill was right, it's all about some-thing we're supposed to find. "
Rebecca felt a rush of excitement as David grabbed a pen off the desk and turned over the scrap of the Trisquad report. The information they had finally made sense - Dr. Ammon's message actually meant something.
We can do this, we've got something solid now. . .
David drew five boxes in two lines, the same as on Trent's map, marking the southernmost box with the letter C. After a pause, he tentatively labeled the others, starting at the top left with A and going right to left, marking the test numbers next to each letter. "Assuming that this is right side up," he said, "and that we need to complete the tests in order, we'll be moving in a stagger, a zig-zag between the buildings. " "And assuming the Trisquads don't have a problem with that," John said softly. Rebecca felt her excitement dwindle, could see the same mixed emotions in the suddenly somber expres- sions they all wore, staring down at the boxes. She'd known that they were going to have to leave eventu- ally, but had somehow managed to avoid thinking about it, putting it off until it was in front of them. It was in front of them now. And the Trisquads would be waiting.
They stood at the north door in a dark and stuffy hallway, tightening bootlaces, adjusting belts, putting fresh cl
ips into their Berettas. When David was ready, he turned to John and nodded.
"Give it back to me. " "You, Steve, and Rebecca will take the one on the left, northwest from here. Once we hear you get clear, Karen and I go straight across. If your guess is right, we'll be in block D; if you're upside down, block B. Either way, we secure the building, find the test number, and then wait for you to show up and give us the go-ahead. " "And if I don't. . . " Karen took up the recital. "If we don't hear from you in half an hour, we come back here and wait for Steve and Rebecca. We complete the tests if it's feasible. . . " John grinned, a white flash in the gloom. ". . . and then get our asses over the fence. " "Right," David said. "Good. " They were ready. There were infinite variables in the equation, any number of things that could go wrong with the simple plan, but that was always the case. There was no way to prepare for everything that could happen, not at this point, and the decision to split up was their best chance to avoid detection by the Trisquads. "Any questions before we go?" Rebecca spoke up, her youthful voice tight with concern. "I'd like to remind everybody again to be extremely careful about what you touch, or what touches you. The Trisquads are carriers, so try to avoid getting close to them, particularly if they're wounded. "
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, facin
g 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 fusillade 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.