confused state, she knew that bleeding cerebrospinal

fluid was about the worst outcome for a blow to the

head.

After what seemed like a very long time, and more

twists and changes in direction than she could count,

David slowed, telling Claire to slow down, and that

they were going to sit Rebecca on the ground.

"On my side," Rebecca panted, "bullet's on the left."

Carefully, David and Claire lowered her down to

the cold flat earth, gasping, catching their breath, and Rebecca thought she'd never been more glad to lie

down. She caught just a glimpse of the black sky as

David rolled her over: the stars were amazing, clear

and ice against the deep black sea ...

"Flashlight," she said, realizing again how strange her thoughts had become. "Gotta check."

"Are we far enough?" Claire asked, and it took Rebecca a moment to understand that she was talking

to David.

Oh, crap this is not good. . .

"Should be. And we'll see them coming." David said shortly, and he turned on his flashlight, the beam

hitting the ground a few inches in front of Rebecca's

face.

"Rebecca, what can we do?" He asked, and she heard the worry in his voice and loved him for it.

They were like family, had been ever since the cove,

he was a good friend and a good man...

"Rebecca?" This time, he sounded afraid.

"Yeah, sorry," she said, wondering how to explain what she was feeling, what was happening. She de-

cided it would be best to just start talking and let

them figure it out.

"Look at my ear," she said. "Look for blood or clear fluid, I think I've had a concussion. I can't seem

to gather my thoughts. Other ear, too. I was shot and I

think the bullet lodged in my ischium. Pelvis. Lucky,

lucky. Shouldn't be bleeding much, I can disinfect it,

wrap it if you'll hand me my pack. There's gauze and

that's good, though, the bullet could've snapped my

spine or gone low, chewed through my femoral artery.

Lot of blood, that's bad, and me the only medic being

hurt..."

As she spoke, David shone the light across her face,

then gently lifted and checked the other side before

resting her head in his lap. His legs were warm, the

muscles twitching from exertion.

"A little blood in your left ear," he said. "Claire, take off Rebecca's pack, if you would. Rebecca, you

don't have to speak anymore, we'll fix you right up;

try to rest, if you can."

No CSF, thank God. . .

She wanted to close her eyes, to sleep, but she

needed to finish telling them everything. "Concussion sounds minor, explains displacement, tinnitus, lack

of equilibrium - may only be a couple hours, maybe

weeks. Shouldn't be too bad, shouldn't move though.

Bed rest. Find my temporal pulse, side of my fore-

head. If you can't, I could be in shock - warmth,

elevation..."

She took a breath, and realized that the darkness wasn't just outside anymore. She was tired, very, very

tired, and a kind of hazy blackness was encroaching

on her vision.

That's everything, told them everything...

John. Leon.

"John and Leon," she said, horrified that she'd forgotten for even a moment, struggling to sit up. The

realization was like a slap in the face. "I can walk, I'm okay, we have to go back..."

David barely touched her and somehow, her head

was in his lap again. Then Claire was lifting the back

of her shirt, dabbing at her hip, sending fresh waves of

pain coursing through her. She squeezed her eyes

closed, trying to breathe deeply, trying to breathe at

all.

"We will go back," David said, and his voice

seemed to be coming from far away, from the top of a

well that she was falling down. "But we have to wait for the helicopter to leave, assuming that it will - and

you'll need time to recover..."

If he said anything else, Rebecca didn't hear it.

Instead, she slept, and dreamed that she was a child,

playing in the cold, cold snow.

Desert!

There weren't any animals in sight, they had to be

on the other side of the dune, but Cole thought he

knew which ones belonged to Phase Two. Before John

or Leon could get even a step away, before Cole's ears

had stopped ringing from the Dacs' terrible cries, he

started babbling at them.

"Desert, Phase Two is a desert so it must be the

Scorps, scorpions, see?"

John was pulling a curved magazine from his hip

pack, scowling into the artificial sunlight that beat

down from above. It had to be at least a hundred

degrees in the room, and between the white walls and

glaring light it felt a lot hotter. Leon scanned the

shining sands in front of them, then turned to Cole,

looking as though he'd just eaten something sour.

"Wonderful, that's just great. 'Scorps'? Scorps and

Dacs ... what are the other ones, Henry, do you

remember?"

For a single second, Cole's mind went blank. He

nodded, wracking his brain, all of the sweat on his

body already evaporated in the bone dry heat.

"Uh - they're, they're nicknames, Dacs,

Scorps ... Hunters! Hunters and Spitters, the han-

dlers all had these nicknames..."

"Cute. Like Fluffy, or Sweet Pea," John inter-

rupted, wiping his brow with the back of one hand.

"So where are they?"

All three of them looked across Phase Two, at the

massive sand dune that towered in the middle of the

room, glittering beneath the giant grid of sunlamps

overhead. Twenty-five, thirty feet high, it blocked

their view of the southern wall, including the door in

the far right corner. There was nothing else to see.

Cole shook his head, but he wasn't telling them

anything; the Scorps were elsewhere, and they'd have

to cross the bright and burning sand dune to get to the

exit.

"What were the other phases, mountain and city?

Have you seen them?" Leon asked.

"Three is like a, whadayacallit, a chasm, on a peak.

Like a mountain gorge, kind of, real rocky. And Four

is a city - a few square blocks of one, anyway. I had to

check the video feeds in all of the phases when I first

got here."

John looked up and around, squinting against the

harsh light. "That's right, video ... do you remem- ber where they are? The cameras?"

Why would he want to know that? Cole pointed left, at the small glass eye embedded in the white wall

some ten feet up. "There are five in here; that's the closest..."

With a huge grin, John held up both hands and

extended his middle fingers to the lens. "Bite it, Reston," he said loudly, and Cole decided that he liked John, a lot. Leon too, for that matter, and not

just because they were the only ticket out. Whatever

their motivations, they were obviously on the right

side of things; and the fact that they could still joke at

a time like this...

"So, we got a plan?" Leon asked, still looking at the wall of yellow-white sand looming in front of them.

"Head that way," John said, pointing right, "and then climb. If we see something, shoot it."

"Brilliant, John. You should write these down. You

know, I..."

Leon broke off suddenly, and then Cole heard it. A

chattering sound. A sound like nails being tapped on

hollow wood, the sound he'd heard when he was

fixing one of the cameras only last week.

A sound like claws, opening and closing. Like man-

dibles, clicking...

"Scorps," John said softly. "Aren't scorpions sup- posed to be nocturnal?"

"This is Umbrella, remember?" Leon said. "You have two grenades, I've got one..."

John nodded, then said, "You know how to work a semiautomatic?"

The big soldier was watching the dune, so it took

Cole a second to realize he was talking to him.

"Oh. Yeah. I haven't ever used one, but I went

target shooting a couple of times with my brother, six

or seven years ago..." He kept his voice low as they did, listening for that strange sound.

John looked directly at him, as if sizing him up -

- then nodded, and pulled a heavy-looking handgun out

of his hip holster. He handed it to Cole, butt first.

"It's a nine-millimeter, holds eighteen. I got more

clips if you run out. You know all the gun safety rules?

Don't point it at anyone unless you mean to kill, don't

shoot me or Leon, all that stuff?"

Cole nodded, taking the gun, and it was heavy

and although he was still more scared than he'd ever

been in all his thirty-four years, the solid weight of it

in his hand was an incredible relief. Remembering

what his little brother had told him about safety, he

fumbled through checking to see if it was loaded

before looking at John again.

"Thank you," he said, and meant it. He'd lured these two guys into a trap, and they were giving him a

gun; giving him a chance.

"Forget it. Means we won't have to worry about

covering your ass on top of ours," John said, but he wore a slight smile. "Come on, let's move out." John in the lead and Leon behind him, they started

east, walking slowly through the changeless environ-

ment. The sand was really sand; it shifted underfoot,

and with the blasting heat, it made for a real workout.

They'd only gone a short distance when Leon called

for a halt.

"Thermal underwear," he muttered, bolstering his handgun before pulling off his black sweatshirt and

tying it around his waist. He wore a thick, textured

white shirt underneath. "I didn't realize we'd be hitting the Sahara..."

They all heard it, only a second before they saw it -

- before they saw them, three of them, lining up at the top of the dune. Tiny rivers of sand trickled down

from beneath their multiple legs, each as thick and

stocky as a sawed-off baseball bat. They had claws,

giant pincing claws that were narrow and black,

serrated on the inside, and long, segmented bodies

that dwindled to tails, curling up and over their

Backs - and tipped with stingers. Wicked, dripping

stingers at least a foot long.

The trio of sand-colored creatures, each five or six

feet long, maybe three feet high, started to chatter -

- the slender, pointed, tusk-like projections beneath the

rounded arachnid eyes tapped against one another, beating out the strange tattoo of clicks that they'd

heard before...

... and then all three of the creatures, the monsters,

were sliding down toward them, perfectly balanced,

scuttling through the moving sands with ease.

And at the top of the dune, another three appeared.

 

FOURTEEN

"SHIT," JOHN BREATHED, NOT EVEN AWARE

that he'd spoken as he raised the M-16 and open-

ed up.

- bambambambam -

- and the first of the scorpion-things let out a

strange, dry, hissing sound, like air being let out of a

giant tire, as the bullets hammered into its curled

body. A thick white fluid burst from the wounds that

had opened in its insectile face, a face of drooling

tusks and spider's eyes, a face with a black shapeless

hole for a mouth. Writhing, claws raised, it fell on its

side and twisted wildly, digging its own shallow grave

in the hot sand.

Leon and Cole were both shooting, the thunder of

the nine-millimeter drowning out any more hissing,

producing even more of the pus-like blood in the

second and third of the Scorps. The white liquid