by S. D. Perry
Chapter Nineteen
FROM THE KENNEL, THEY STEPPED OUT IN-to a clean and sterile hallway and turned left - west -
- moving quickly through the deserted corridor. Neither of them spoke; there was nothing to say until they found what Cole had called Fossil, until they could decide if he'd had the right idea. For the first time since they'd come to the Planet, John didn't feel like making any jokes. Cole had been a good guy, he'd done his best to make up for luring them into the test program, he'd done what they told him to do - and now he was gone, brutally savaged, dying in blood and pain on the floor of a cage. Reston. Reston would pay for it, and if the best way to get to him was to unleash some Umbrella monster, so be it. A fitting justice.
Screw the code book. If Fossil's as badass as Cole seemed to think, we release it and let the workers go and get out. Let it tear this place apart. Let it have Reston. . .
The hall curved right, then straightened out, con-tinuing west. When they turned the corner, they saw the door on the right - and somehow, John just knew that it was Cole's lab room. He felt it. He was right, after a fashion. The metal door opened - after they'd used a nine-millimeter key -
- into a small laboratory with counters and computers, which then opened into a surgical theater, all gleam- ing steel and porcelain. The door set into the back wall of the operating room was the one Cole had meant for them to find - and when they saw the creature, John could see why he'd insisted on telling them about it, even with his last gasping breaths. If it was even half as vicious as it looked, the Planet was history.
"Christ," Leon said, and John couldn't think of anything to add to that. They moved slowly toward the giant cylinder that sat in the corner of the large room, past the steel autopsy table and trays of shining equipment, finally stopping in front of the tube. The lights in the room were off, but there was a directional light aimed at the container from the ceiling, illumi- nating the thing. The Fossil. The tube was fifteen feet high and at least ten in diameter, filled with a clear red liquid - and envel- oped in the fluid, attached to tubes and wires that ran through the top, was a monster. A nightmare. John imagined that it was called Fossil because of what it looked like, at least partly some kind of a dinosaur, though not one that had ever walked the Earth. The ten-foot-tall creature was some pale color, its pebbled flesh a glowing pink because of the red liquid that surrounded it. There was no tail, but it had the thick skin and powerful legs of a dino. It was obviously built to walk upright, and though it had the small eyes and heavy, rounded snout of a carnivorous dinosaur, a T-Rex or velociraptor, it also had long, thickly muscled arms and hands with slender, grasp- ing fingers. As impossible as it was, it looked like the mutant offspring of a man and a dinosaur.
What were they thinking? Why - why make some-thing like this?
It was asleep, or in some kind of coma, but it was definitely alive. Connected to a thin hose was a small, clear mask that covered its nostril slits, and a band of plastic was tied around its thick snout to hold the giant jaws closed. John couldn't see them, but he had no doubt that there were rows of pointed teeth in the creature's wide and curving mouth. Its beady eyes were covered by some inner eyelid, a thin layer of purpled skin, and they could actually see the slow rise of its thick chest, the gently bobbing motions of its massive body in the red goo. There was a clipboard hanging on the wall next to the Fossil, above a small monitor screen where thin green lines blipped silently across in fading pulses. Leon picked the clipboard up, flipping through the pages as John just stared, awed and disgusted. One of its spidery hands twitched, the eight-inch fingers curling into a loose fist.
"Says here that it's slated for autopsy in three and a half weeks," Leon said, scanning. " 'Specimen will remain in stasis,' blah blah blah. . . 'when it will be injected with a lethal dose of Hyptheion prior to dissection. '"
John glanced back at the autopsy table, saw the folded steel leaves on either side and three bone saws tucked underneath. The table had apparently been built to accommodate larger animals. "Why keep it alive at all?" John asked, turning back to the sleeping Fossil. It was hard not to look; the creature was compelling, horrid and marvelous, an aberration that demanded attention. "Maybe so the organs will be fresh," Leon said, then took a deep breath. "So. . . do we do it?" That's the million dollar question, isn't it? We won't have the codes - but Umbrella will have one less play-ground for their twisted science. And maybe one less administrator. "Yeah," John said. "Yeah, I think we do. " The men listened to him in silence, their faces thoughtful as they absorbed the horror that had invaded the Planet. The invasion from above, his call for help, how the gunmen had knocked him out after killing Henry Cole in cold blood. They asked no questions, just sat and drank coffee - someone had made coffee - and watched him speak. No one of- fered him a cup. ". . . and once I recovered, I came here," Reston said, and ran a shaking hand through his hair, wincing appropriately. He didn't have to fake the tremors.
"I. . . they're still out there, somewhere, perhaps plant-ing explosives, I don't know. . . but we can stop them if we work together. "
He could see in their blank eyes that it wasn't working, he wasn't inspiring them to act. He wasn't the best with people, but he could read them well enough.
They're not buying, work the Henry angle. . .
Reston's shoulders slumped, a quiver creeping into his voice. "They just shot him," he said, staring down in stunned sorrow. "He was begging, pleading for them to let him live, and they - they shot him. " "Where's the body?"
Reston looked up, saw that Leo Yan had spoken, one of the 3Ks' two handlers. Yan had no expression at all, leaning against the edge of the table with his arms crossed. "What?" Reston asked, looking confused but know-ing exactly what Yan was talking about. Think, dam-mit, should have thought of this already. . . "Henry," someone else said, and Reston saw it was Tom Something-or-other, from construction. His gruff voice was openly skeptical. "They shot him, they knocked you out - so he's still by the cell block, right?" "I. . . I don't know," Reston said, feeling too hot,
feeling dehydrated from so much brandy. Feeling as though he might not be able to recover from the unexpected question. "Yes, he must be, unless they moved him for some reason. I woke up confused, dizzy, I wanted to get to you immediately, to make sure none of you had been injured. I didn't see if he was still there. . . "
They stared at him, a sea of rough faces that were no longer so neutral. Reston saw disbelief and disre-spect, anger and in the eyes of one or two, he saw what might have been hatred.
Why, what have I done to inspire such contempt? I'm their manager, their employer, I pay their goddamn wages. . .
One of the mechanics stood up from the table and addressed the rest of them, ignoring Reston com-pletely. It was Nick Frewer, the one who seemed the most popular among the men. "Who says we get outta here?" Nick said. "Tommy, you got the keys for the truck?" Tom nodded. "Sure, but not for the gate or the storage shed. " "I got those," said Ken Carson, the cook. He stood up, too, and then most were standing, stretching and yawning, draining their cups. Nick nodded. "Good. Everyone go pack up, be at the elevator in five. . . " "Wait!" Reston said, unable to believe what he was hearing, that they would walk away from their moral duty, from their obligations. That they could ignore him. "There are more on the surface, they'll kill you! You have to help me!"
Nick turned and looked at him, his gaze calm and insufferably patronizing. "Mr. Reston, we don't have to do anything. I don't know what's really going on, but I believe you're a liar - and I may not speak for everyone, but I know I'm not getting paid enough to be your bodyguard. " He smiled suddenly, his blue eyes sparkling. "Be-sides which, they're not after us. "
Nick turned and walked away, and Reston briefly considered shooting him - but he only had six bullets and no doubts that the men would turn on him if he injured one of their working-class pack. He thought about telling them that their lives were over, that he wouldn't forget their treachery, but he didn't
want to waste his breath. And he didn't have time.
Hide.
It was all there was to do.
Reston turned his back on the insubordinates and hurried out, his mind grasping for places to go, rejecting them as too obvious, too exposed. . . . . . and then he had it. The bank of elevators, around the corner from the medical facilities. It was perfect. No one would think to look in an elevator car that didn't even work, he could pry one open and be safe inside. At least for a while, until he thought of something else he could do. Sweating in spite of the cool gray stillness that was the main corridor, Reston turned right and started to run.
After what seemed like hours of going down through the dark, of the cold and uncomfortable huddle on the deafeningly loud servicing lift, they hit bottom. Or top, depending on how you look at it, Claire thought absently, looking down through the open panel as David's flashlight played across the plush interior, as the roaring motor wound down to silence. They'd landed on top of an elevator car, empty except for a stepladder pushed to one side. They stepped off of the metal square, Claire re- lieved to be back on a reasonably solid surface. Riding down through an open elevator shaft where one false move could send you crashing to your death wasn't her idea of a good time. "Think anyone heard us?" Claire asked, and saw David's silhouette shrug.
"If they were within a thousand feet of this thing, yes," he said. "Wait, I'll get the stepstool. . . "Claire turned on her flashlight as David sat, grab-bing the edges of the open panel and lowering himself down. As he moved the small ladder into place, Rebecca turned her flashlight on, and Claire caught a glimpse of her face. "Hey, you okay?" She asked, worried. Rebecca looked sick, too pale and with dark, purplish half circles beneath her eyes. "Yeah. I've been better, but I'll survive," she said lightly. Claire wasn't convinced, but before she could pur- sue it any further, David called up to them. "Alright let your feet hang down, I'll guide themto the steps and then lift you down. " Claire motioned for Rebecca to go first, deciding that if she couldn't function, she'd probably saysomething. As David helped Rebecca down, though, it occurred to Claire that she wouldn't say anything.
I'd want to help, and I wouldn't want to be left behind; I'd keep going if it killed me. . .
Claire pushed the thoughts aside, lowering herself down through the elevator's roof. Rebecca wasn't as stubborn as she was, and she was a medic. She was fine. As soon as she was down, David nodded at Claire and the two of them pulled at the cold metal doors, Rebecca holding her semi aimed loosely at the widen- ing gap. When they'd managed to push the heavy doors a couple of feet apart, David stepped out first, then motioned for them to follow.
Wow.
She wasn't sure what she expected, but the gray hall of subtly lit concrete wasn't it. It stretched right, ending in a door, and left, a sharp turn about twenty feet from the elevator that headed east. Claire wasn't sure about the directions, but she knew that the elevator that had trapped Leon and John was roughly southeast - assuming it had gone straight down, anyway. It was quiet, perfectly still and quiet. David tilted his head to the left, indicating that they would head that way, and Claire and Rebecca both nodded.
Might as well start at the elevator, see if we can figure out which way they headed. . .
Claire glanced at Rebecca again, not wanting to stare but uneasy about her health; she really didn't look so good, and as Rebecca turned toward the hall's corner, Claire hung back a little. She caught David's gaze, nodding slightly toward the young medic, frowning. He hesitated, then nodded in turn, and she saw that he wasn't blind to her condition. At least there was that and Rebecca let out a sharp cry of surprise, already at the corner as a man in a blue suit leapt forward and grabbed her, knocking her gun out of her hand, putting a revolver to the side of her head. He locked one arm around her throat, tight, and turned wild, sweaty eyes in their direction, his finger on the trigger, a trembling grin on his aging face.
"I'll kill her! I'll do it! Don't make me do it!"
Rebecca clutched at his arm and he squeezed even tighter, his hands shaking, his blue eyes darting back and forth between David and Claire. Rebecca's eyes closed a little, her fingers dropping away, and Claire realized that she was too weak, that she was on the verge of collapse as it was.
"You people aren't going to kill me, just stay away! Stay away or I'll kill her!"
The barrel of the revolver was pressed to her skull; if David or she made a move. . . They watched helplessly as the madman started backing around them, dragging Rebecca with him toward the door at the end of the hall.