Chapter 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 powdered 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.
"No, no, no, you stupid shits, you're dead!"
His voice was a little slurred, but he was too shocked to give it much notice, too upset. They wouldn't survive the Hunters, he knew that -
- but they weren't going to survive the Ca6s, either.
Reston couldn't believe that they'd made it this far; he couldn't believe that of the twenty-four specimens they'd encountered, all but one Dac had been left either dead or dying. Most of all, he couldn't believe that he'd let it continue, that his pride and ambition had kept him from doing what he should have done in the first place. It wasn't that he was out of his league, he was in the inner circle, he was past that kind of insecurity, but he should have talked to Sidney, at least, or even Duvall; not for advice, but to cover all of his bases. After all, he couldn't be held totally responsible if he'd had counsel from one of the other, older members. . . It wasn't too late. He'd put a call in, explain his plan, explain that he had some concerns - he could say that the intruders were only in Two, that would help, he could fix the video times later. . . and the Hunters had been tested before, after a fashion, not the 3Ks but the 121s. There had been some loosed at the Spencer estate; from the data recovered, he knew that the three men would be killed in Four. Even if they weren't, they wouldn't be able to get out, and with the backup from the home office, he'd be mostly in the clear. Satisfied that it was the right decision, Reston reached under the console and picked up the phone. "Umbrella, Special Divisions and. . . ". . . and silence. The smooth female voice at the other end was cut off in mid-sentence, without even a hiss of static. "This is Reston," he said sharply, aware that a cold hand was settling around his heart, squeezing. "Hel-lo? This is Reston!"
Nothing; then he suddenly realized that the quality of light in the room had changed, brightening. He turned in his chair, hoping desp
erately that it wasn't what it seemed to be. . . . . . and the row of monitors that showed the surface were all spitting snow. All seven, off-line - and only seconds later, before Reston could even digest what had happened, all seven went black. "Hello?" He whispered into the dead phone, his whiskey breath hot and bitter against the mouthpiece. Silence. He was alone.
Andrew "Killer" Berman was goddamn cold, cold and bored and wondering why the Sarge had even bothered putting anyone on the van. The bad guys weren't coming back, they were long gone - and even if they did decide to come back, they sure as hell weren't going to try to get to their vehicle. It'd be suicide.
Either they had a backup car or they're frozen solid out on the plain somewheres. This is total bullshit.
Andy pulled his scarf up around his ears, then readjusted his grip on the M41. Fifteen pounds of rifle didn't sound like much, but he'd been standing for a long goddamn time. If the Sarge didn't get back soon, he was going to get into the van for a while, rest his feet, get out of the cold; they weren't paying him enough to freeze his balls off in the dark. He leaned against the back bumper and wondered again if Rick was okay; he didn't really know the other guys who'd been cut up by the frag, but Rick Shannon was his bud, and he'd been all bloody when they'd loaded him into the 'copter.
Those assholes come back here, I'll show 'em bloody. . .
Andy sneered a grin, thinking that they didn't call him Killer for nothing. He was an excellent goddamnshot, best on his team, the result of a lifetime of deer hunting. And also cold, bored, tired, and irritable. Dumbass duty. If the trio of dickheads showed up, he'd eat his own hat. He was still thinking that when he heard the soft, pleading voice come out of the dark. "Help me, please - don't shoot, please help me, I've been shot. . . " A breathy, feminine voice. A sexy voice, and Andygrabbed his flashlight and turned it out into the black,
finding the voice's owner not thirty feet away. A girl, dressed in tight black, stumbling toward him. She was unarmed and injured, favoring one leg, her pale face open and vulnerable beneath the bright light. "Hey, hold it," Andy said, although not too harshly. She was young, he was only twenty-three but she looked even younger, just legal maybe. And a nicely stacked legal, at that. Andy lowered the machine gun slightly, thinking how nice it would be to help out a lady in distress. She might be with the three criminals, probably was, but she obviously wasn't a threat to him; he could just hold on to her until the helicopter came back. And maybe she'd be grateful for the help. . . . . . and hey, playing the hero's a good way to earn points, big time. Nice guys might finish last, but they certainly get laid an awful lot along the way.
The girl limped up to him and Andy turned the flashlight away from her face, not wanting to blind her. Putting just the right note of sincerity into his voice - chicks dug that shit - he took a step toward her, holding one hand out.
"What happened? Here, let me help. . . "
A dark, heavy thing slammed into him from the side, hard, knocking him to the ground and knocking the wind right out of him. Before he even knew what happened, a light was shining in his face, and the M41 was being pried out of his hands as he struggled to breathe. "Don't move and I won't shoot," a man said, a Brit, and Andy felt the cold muzzle of a gun against the side of his neck. He froze, not daring to move a muscle.
Oh, shit!
Andy looked up, saw the girl holding the rifle, his rifle, gazing down at him. She didn't look so helpless anymore. "Bitch," he snarled, and she smiled a little, shrug- ging.
"Sorry. If it's any consolation, your two friends fell for it too. "
He heard another woman's voice from behind him, soft and amused. "And hey, you get to warm up. The generator room's nice and toasty. "
Killer was not amused, and as they pulled him to his feet and started marching him toward the com-pound, he swore to himself that it was the last time he'd ever underestimate a chick - and while he didn't have plans to eat his own hat, he was certainly going to remember this the next time he thought he was bored.