situations for something like nine years; he won.
"Get down," John said, crouching himself, then lying down on his stomach and wrapping the M-16
strap tightly around his muscular arm. "If it's an ambush, they'll be aiming high when the door opens;
we take out their knees. Works like a charm."
Leon lay down next to him, propping his right arm
up with his left hand, his nine-millimeter pointed
loosely at the gate. Outside, the darkness slid past,
nothing to see but metal-lined shaft. "And if it's not?"
"Stand up, you take the right, I'll take left, stay in
the car if you can. If you find yourself aiming at a
wall, turn around and shoot low."
John glanced over at him - incredibly, a wide grin
was spreading across his face. "Think of all the fun they're going to miss. We get to blow some Umbrella
guys all to shit, and they're stuck in the cold dark with
nothing to do."
Leon was a little too tense to smile back, although
he made an effort. "Yeah, some guys get all the luck," he said.
John shook his head, his grin fading. "Nothing we can do but go for the ride," he said, and Leon nodded, swallowing. John might be crazy, but he was right
about that much. They were where they were, wishing
otherwise wouldn't make it so.
Doesn't hurt to try, though. Christ, I wish we hadn't stepped on this thing. . .
The elevator kept going down, and they both fell
silent, waiting. Leon was glad that John wasn't the
chatty type; he liked to crack jokes, but it was obvious
that he didn't take a dangerous situation lightly. Leon
saw that he was breathing deeply, sighting the M-16,
preparing for whatever was going to happen.
Leon took a few deep breaths himself, trying to
relax into the prone position -
- and the elevator stopped. There was a soft ping sound, a chime, and the mesh gate was moving,
disappearing into its designated hole in the wall. A
windowless outer door rose at the same time, mellow
light spilled across them -
- and there was nobody. A polished concrete wall
twenty feet away, a polished concrete floor. Gray
emptiness.
Get up, go!
Leon scrambled to his feet, heart beating too fast,
John silent and even faster to his left. An exchanged
glance and they both took one step out of the elevator,
Leon whipping his VP70 around right, ready to fire
and there was nothing. Again. A wide corridor
that seemed a mile long, the faint, mingled scents of
dust and some industrial disinfectant in the cool air.
Cool, but not at all cold; compared to the surface,
it was summer. The hall was a hundred and fifty
yards easy, maybe more; there were a few offshoots,
rounded lights spaced at regular intervals along the
ceiling, no signs posted and no sign of life either.
So who brought us down? And why, if they weren't
planning on meeting us with a few bullets?
"Maybe they're all playing bingo," John said softly, and Leon looked back, saw that except for the place-
ment of a few side halls, John's side was identical to
his. And just as empty.
They both stepped back into the elevator. John
reached for the controls, tapped the "Up" button, and
nothing happened.
"What now?" Leon asked.
"Don't ask me, David's the brains behind our
outfit," John said. "Though I got the looks."
"Jesus, John," Leon said, frustrated. "You've got seniority here; give me a break, will ya?"
John shrugged. "Okay. Here's what I'm thinking. Maybe it wasn't a trap. Maybe ... if it was a trap,
they would've tried to get all of us. And we'd be in the
middle of a firefight right now."
And the timing. The elevator was only there for a few
seconds - as if someone realized we'd called it up. . .
"Someone was trying to keep us from getting on, weren't they?" Leon said, not really asking. "To keep us from coming down."
John nodded. "Give that man a cigar. And if that's right, it means they're scared of us. I mean, there's no
security, right? Whoever brought us down probably
hightailed it to a room with a lock."
"As to what we do now," he continued, "I'm open to suggestions. It'd be nice to rejoin our group, but if
we can't figure out how to get the elevator going..."
Leon frowned, thinking, remembering that before
Raccoon had pretty much blown his career choice, he
had been trained as a cop.
Use the tools you've got...
"Secure the area," he said slowly. "Same plan as before, at least the first part. Get the employees
secured, then worry about the elevator. Dealing with
Reston will just have to wait."
John held up his hand suddenly, cutting him off, his
head cocked to one side. Leon listened, but didn't
hear anything. A few seconds passed and then John
lowered his hand. He shrugged dismissively, but his
dark eyes were wary and he held the automatic rifle
close.
"Good call," he said finally. "If we can find the damn employees. You wanna go left or right?"
Leon smiled faintly, suddenly remembering the last
time he'd had to pick a direction. He'd taken a left in
the subbasement of Umbrella's Raccoon lab and run
into a dead end; having to backtrack had almost cost
him his life.
"Right," he said. "Left has some bad associations for me."
John cocked an eyebrow, but didn't say anything;
oddly enough, he seemed satisfied with Leon's rea-
soning.
Maybe because he's crazy. Crazy enough to make
bad jokes in the midst of situations like this, anyway.
Together, they stepped out into the long, empty
corridor and turned right, moving slowly, John watch-
ing their back and Leon scanning every offshoot's
opening for a sign of movement. The first side hall was
to their left, not fifteen feet from the elevator.
"Hang on," John said, and ducked into the short hall, walking quickly to a single door at the back. He
rattled the handle, then hurried back out, shaking his
head.
"Thought I heard something before," he said, and Leon nodded, thinking about how easy it would be for
someone to kill them.
Hide in a locked room, wait 'til we're past, step out
and pow...
Bad thinking. Leon let it go and they continued their
slow trek down the passage, sweeping every inch with
their weapons, Leon realizing that the thermal under-
wear'd been a bad idea, as sweat started to trickle
down his body - and wondering, quite abruptly, how
things had gone so wrong so fast.
Reston had an idea.
He'd almost panicked after he'd heard them saying
things that they shouldn't have known, hiding in
control with the door cracked open. When he'd heard
one of them say his name, he'd felt the panic rise into
his throat like bile, coloring his mind with visions of
his own horrible death. He'd closed the door then,
locking it, sagging against it as he tried to think, to
sort through his options.
When one of them had rattled the door, he'd very
nearly screamed, but had managed to hold still, to
make no sound at all until the interloper had moved
on. It took him a few moments to collect himself after
that, to remember that this was something he could
handle; strangely enough, it was the thought of Trent
that did it for him. Trent wouldn't panic. Trent would
know exactly what to do - and he most certainly
wouldn't run crying to Jackson for help.
In spite of that, he'd almost picked up the phone
several times as he watched the monitors, watched the
two men terrorizing his employees. They were effi-
cient, unlike their rumbling counterparts still working
to figure out the elevator on the surface. It had taken
the two men all of five minutes once they'd reached
the living area to get the workers together; it helped
that five of them were still awake and playing cards in
the cafeteria, three of the construction crew and both
mechanics. The young white man watched them as
the other one went to the dorm and roused the rest,
marching them back to the cafeteria, crowding them
with his automatic weapon.
Reston was disappointed with the lackluster perfor-
mance of his people, not one fighter among them, and
was still very afraid. Once the teams from the city
came in he'd have something to work with, but until
then, all sorts of bad things might happen.
"Dealing with Reston will just have to wait..."
What happens when they realize I'm not in their
hostage group? What do they want? What could they want, except to hold me for ransom or kill me?
He'd been on the verge of calling Sidney, in spite of
the fact that Jackson would certainly find out about
it - but he'd risk his colleague's disapproval, he'd risk
losing his place in the inner circle if it meant he could survive this invasion.
He was actually reaching for the phone when he
realized that someone was missing. Reston leaned
closer to the cafeteria monitor, frowning, forgetting
the phone. There were fourteen people grouped to-
gether in the middle of the room, the two gunmen
standing some distance away.
Where's the other one? Who's the other one?
Reston reached out and touched the screen, mark-
ing off the faces of the bleary-eyed hostages. The five
construction workers. Two mechanics. The cook, the
specimen handlers, all six of them. . .
"Cole," he muttered, pursing his lips. The electri- cian, Henry Cole. He wasn't there.
An idea began to form, but it depended on where
Cole actually was. Reston tapped at the buttons that
worked the screens, beginning to hope, to see a way
not only to survive, but to - to win. To come out on top.
There were twenty-two screens in the control room,
but almost fifty cameras set up throughout the Planet
and in the surface "weather" station. The Planet had
been built with video in mind, the layout fairly
simple; from control, one could see almost every part
of every hall, room, and environment, the cameras
placed at key points. Finding someone was just a
matter of pushing the right button to switch between
views.
Reston checked the test rooms first, each set of
cameras in phases One through Four. No luck. He
tried the science area next, the surgical rooms, the
chem lab, even the stasis room; again, he didn't see
anyone.
He wouldn't be in quarters, they've certainly cleared
everyone else out ... and there's no reason for him to
be on the surface...
Reston grinned suddenly, punching up the cameras
in and around the holding cells. Cole and both of the
mechanics had been using the cells to lay out equip-
ment, wires and tools and various bits of machinery.
There!
Cole was sitting on the floor in between cells one
and nine, sorting through a box of little metal pieces,
his skinny legs splayed out in front of him.
Reston looked back at the cafeteria, saw that the
two armed men seemed to be conferring, watching the
useless, huddled group of workers. On the surface,
the other three were still hammering at the keypad
and searching for something or other...
The idea took shape, the possibilities coming to
him one at a time, each more interesting and exciting than the last. The data he could collect, the respect
that he would earn, getting rid of his problem and
promoting himself at the same time.
0 Comments