go in, just like that.
The thought knotted her stomach and sent a chill
through her, telling her the real reason she wasn't able
to sleep. Only two weeks after the Umbrella night-
mare in Raccoon City, she was facing the same
nightmare again. At least this time, she had some idea
of what they'd be getting themselves into, and the
plan was to get out of the facility without ever facing
the T-Virus creatures, but the memory of Umbrel-
la's Tyrant monster was still fresh in her mind, the
massive, patchwork body and killing claw of the thing
they'd seen on the estate. And the thought of what
someone like Nicolas Griffith might have come up
with using the virus ...
Rebecca decided that she'd thought enough, she
had to get some sleep. She cleared her mind as best
she could and focused on her breathing, slowing it
down, counting backward in her mind from one
hundred. The meditation technique had never failed
her before, though she didn't think it would work this
time...
... ninety-nine, ninety-eight, Dr. Griffith, David,
S.T.A.R.S., Caliban ...
Before she reached ninety, she was deeply asleep,
dreaming of moving shadows that no light had cast.
FIVE
AS HE DID MOST MORNINGS SINCE BEGIN-
ning the experiment, Nicolas Griffith sat on the open
platform at the top of the lighthouse and watched the
sun rise over the sea. It was an awesome spectacle,
from beginning to end. First the black waves shading
to gray as the sky lightened, the craggy rocks that
lined his cove slowly taking form in the misty winds
that swept off the water. As the radiant star peered
over the side of the world, its first hesitant rays
stained the ocean a deep azure blue, painting the
pastel horizon with promises of renewal and a gentle,
nurturing acceptance of all that it touched.
It was a lie, of course. Within hours, the molten
giant would beat mercilessly against the shore, against
this half of the planet. Its early mildness was a
deception, a pretended ignorance of the seeping radi-
ation and withering heat that would follow...
... but no less spectacular for the lying. It can't be
blamed for a lack of self-awareness, after all; it is what
it is.
Griffith always watched until the sun cleared the
curving horizon before getting on with his day. Al- though he appreciated the beauty of each glimmering
dawn, it was the routine that appealed to him, not
his, but that of the cosmos. Each sunrise was a
statement of fact, speaking to an inevitable progres-
sion of time ... and a reminder that the world spun
eternally through its galactic paces, oblivious to the
dreams of the self-important beings that scurried
across its surface.
Beings such as myself, but for one very crucial
difference: I know just how much my dreams are
worth...
As the swollen orb lifted itself from the sea, Griffith
stood up and leaned against the platform railing, his
thoughts turning to the day ahead. Having finally
finished the blood work on the Leviathan series, he
was ready to work more extensively with the doctors.
All three had responded well to the change, and the
rate of cellular deterioration had fallen considerably
since he'd started with the enzyme injections. It was
time to concentrate on their situational behavior, the
final stage of the experiment. Within the week, he'd
be ready to expand beyond the confines of the facility.
Expansion. A cleansing.
A crisp, saline wind ruffled his gray hair, the hungry
cries of coasting gulls finally spurring him to action.
The Trisquads had to be brought in before the scav-
enging birds moved inland. Several of the units had
already been horribly scarred, and he didn't want to
risk any more of them until he was finished. Once
they lost their eyes, they were useless on patrol.
Still, it's been so long... no one's coming. If Dr. Ammon
had succeeded, they'd have sent someone by
now. Too bad, really; he's probably still waiting...
The thought was an uncomfortable one, conjuring
hazy images of redness and heat, of prone bodies in
the manic summer sun and later, the thunder of waves
in the dark. He promptly buried the visions, remind-
ing himself that it was in the past. Besides, he'd only
done what was necessary.
Griffith walked back inside, smoothing his wind-
blown hair as he moved down the spiral staircase. His
shoes clattered against the metal steps, creating a
pleasant echo effect in the tall chamber. Having the
facility to himself made everything pleasant, and he'd
come to enjoy the little things—eating what he
wanted, when he wanted, working his own hours, his
mornings atop the lighthouse. Before, he'd been
crowded, forced to adhere to schedules that seemed
designed to undercut creativity. Meal times, work
times, sleep times ... how could a man breathe,
think, flourish in such conditions? He'd suffered for so long, sat through endless meetings listening to the
small-minded drivel of his "colleagues" as they'd
raved over Birkin's T-Virus. They'd slaved to come
up with the Trisquads for Umbrella and had been
deliriously happy with the results, apparently forget-
ting their failure with the Ma7s. They were unable to
see past their own arrogance to a bigger picture.
As if the Trisquads are anything more than bodies
with guns. Useful as guards, but hardly brilliant.
Hardly important.
Although he'd worked not to let it go to his head,
Griffith allowed himself a single moment of pride as
he reached the bottom of the stairs and started for the
exit. He'd seen the T-Virus for what it really was—a
crude but effective platform for something far greater.
He'd isolated the proteins, reorganized the nucleocap-
sid's envelope to allow for variables in infective
capacity, and created an answer, the answer to the
blight that the human race had become. A solution
without violence or suffering.
Smiling, he stepped through the door into the cool
shadow of the lighthouse, the crash of breaking waves
at his back as he walked toward the dormitory build-
ing. He'd already synthesized an airborne, and had
enough of it to infect most of North America. As the
virus spread, evolution would take its rightful place,
the weak of spirit falling beneath those of truer
instincts. And when it was over, the sun would rise
over a very different world, inhabited by peaceful
people of character and will.
Take away a man's ability to choose, his mind
becomes free, a blank, clean slate. With training, he
becomes a pet; without, he becomes an animal, as
harmless and serenely simple as a mouse. Cover the
world with such animals, and only the strong sur-
vive. . .
He stepped into the dorm's rec room and turned on
the lights, still smiling. His doctors were right where
he'd left them, sitting at the meeting table, eyes
closed. Ideally, he'd run through the tests with un-
trained subjects, but the three men would have to
suffice. They'd been infected with the strain he would
release, and were closest to what the world would
become in a few days.
My pets. My children.
Besides the research laboratory, the cove facility
was designed to train bio-weapons like the Trisquads
or Ma7s—but also to measure use of logic in the
humanoid subjects. In the bunkers there were a num-
ber of items he could use, from the simplest of peg
tests to complex puzzles for those subjects capable of higher functioning. He doubted his doctors would be
able to manage even the red series, but watching their
reactions would provide valuable insight, particularly
the tests where there was a pressure factor.
They think, but can't make decisions. They function,
but not without input. How will they fare, without my
guiding hand?
As he approached the table, Dr. Athens opened his
eyes, perhaps to see if there was a threat coming. Of
the three, Tom Athens was the strongest, the most
likely to survive on his own; he'd been one of the be-
havior specialists. In fact, he'd come up with the
three-unit team idea, the Trisquad, insisting that the
infected units would work more efficiently in small
groups. He'd been right.
Doctors Thurman and Kinneson remained still
and Griffith noticed a foul smell coming from one of
them. Scowling, he looked down, his suspicion con-
firmed by the wetness on Dr. Thurman's pants.
He shit himself. Again.
Griffith felt a sudden, almost overwhelming pity for
Thurman, but it was quickly replaced by irritated
disgust. Thurman had been an idiot before, a decent
enough biologist but as ridiculously narrow-minded
as the rest of them. He'd grown most of the Ma7s
himself, and when they turned out to be uncontrolla-
ble, he laid blame on everyone but himself. If anyone
deserved to wallow in his own filth, it was Louis
Thurman. It was just too bad that the good doctor
wasn't capable of understanding how repulsively pa-
thetic he'd become.
Without me, he wouldn't have lasted a day.
Griffith sighed, stepping back from the table.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said.
In unison, the three men turned their heads to look
at him, their eyes as blank as their faces. As different
as they were physically, the slackness of their features
and slow, vapid gazes made them look like brothers.
"It seems that Dr. Thurman has evacuated his
bowels," Griffith said. "He's sitting in feces. That's funny."
All three of them grinned widely. Dr. Kinneson
actually chuckled. He'd been the last to be infected, so
had suffered the least tissue deterioration. Given the
proper instructions, Alan could probably still pass for
human.
Griffith pulled the police whistle out of his pocket
and put it on the table in front of Athens.
"Dr. Athens, recall the Trisquads from duty. Tend to their
physical needs and send them to the cold room. When
you've finished, go to the cafeteria and wait."
Athens picked up the whistle as he stood, then
walked out of the room, down the hall toward the
dormitory's other entrance. The whistle would deacti-
vate the teams and call them in. There were four
Trisquads, twelve soldiers in all. They'd be roaming
the woods along the fence, or moving stealthily
around the bunkers, having been trained to stay away
from the northeast area of the compound, the light-
house, and dorm. Griffith had to admit, they were
quite effective at their purpose. Umbrella had wanted
soldiers that would kill without mercy, and fight until
