caring. She hugged the girl as David sat up, digging
for the flashlight - and though she was freezing,
though they were cut off from their friends, cut off
from escape and facing uncertain odds, Claire felt like
things were definitely starting to look up.
The call came just after John blew up six of the
Arl2s.
Reston had been wishing for popcorn up until then;
the Scorps' defense systems were working just as the
projected numbers had suggested, the exo damage
repairing even faster than they'd hoped. What they
hadn't counted on was how very fragile the connective tissue between the arachnid segments actually was.
One grenade. One goddamn grenade.
The desire for popcorn was as dead as the Arl2s.
There were still two left, scuttling around in the
southwest corner, but Reston no longer had much
faith in the 12s - and although that was important
information, he wasn't so certain that Jackson would
be pleased with him for obtaining it.
He'll want to know why I didn't take away their
explosives first. Why I released all of the specimens.
Why I didn't call Sidney, at least, for counsel. And no
answer I give will be sufficient...
When the cell phone rang, Reston jumped in his
chair, suddenly certain that it was Jackson. That
ridiculous notion was gone by the time he picked up
the phone, but it had given him pause - and made
him quite glad that his test subjects wouldn't survive
Three.
"Reston."
"Mr. Reston - this is Sergeant Hawkinson, White
Ground Team One-Seven-Oh."
"Yes, yes," Reston sighed, watching Cole and the two S.T.A.R.S. people regrouping. "What's happen- ing up there?"
"We..." Hawkinson took a deep breath. "Sir, I'm sorry to report that there was an altercation with the
intruders and they've escaped the premises." He said it all in a rush, obviously uncomfortable.
"What?" Reston stood up, nearly tipping his chair over. "How? How did this happen?"
"Sir, we had them trapped in the storage building,
but there was an explosion, two of my men were shot and three more were critically..."
"I don't want to hear it!" Reston was furious,
unable to believe that he had such incompetents
working for him. "What I want to hear is that you did not just fail miserably, you did not just let three
people slip past your 'crack' teams, and that you did
not call to tell me that you can't find them!"
There was a moment of silence at the other end,
and Reston just dared this screwup to mouth off, to
give him any more reason to make his life a living hell.
Instead, Hawkinson sounded properly contrite. "Of course, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I'm going to fly the helicop-
ter back to SLC and bring back some of our new
recruits to extend our search parameters. I'm leaving
my last three men to stand watch, two at the com-
pound's east and west, the third at the escape vehicle.
I'll be back within - ninety minutes, sir, and we will
find them. Sir."
Reston's lips curled. "See that you do, Sergeant. If you don't, it's your worthless ass."
He flipped the talk switch and tossed the phone
back on the console, at least feeling as though he'd
done something to facilitate the process. A good ball-
squeeze worked wonders; Hawkinson would crawl
over broken glass to get results, which was exactly
how it should be.
Reston sat down again, looking at the test subjects
as they slogged their way over the sand dune. Cole
had a gun now, and was leading them toward the
connecting door. Reston wondered if John or Red had
any idea how useless Cole was. Probably not, if they'd
given him a weapon...
When they hit the top of the dune and started down
the other side, the two Scorps finally moved in. In
spite of his earlier resolve, Reston watched closely,
holding on to a shred of hope - that it would end
there, that the men would be stopped. It wasn't that
he had any doubt about the Ca6s in Three, they
certainly wouldn't survive those...
... but what if they do, hmm? What if they do, and
they make it to Four, and they find a way out? What
will you tell Jackson, what will you tell your guided
tour when there aren't any specimens left to observe?
Then it will be your ass, won't it?
Reston ignored the whispery little voice, concen-
trating on the screen instead. Both Scorps were going
in fast, claws and stingers up, their lithe, insectile
bodies set to attack -
- and all three men were firing, a silent battle, the
12s dodging and feinting, then falling beneath the
stream of bullets. Reston's hands were in fists, though he didn't notice; his attention was entirely on the two
downed Scorps, waiting to see if they'd be ready to
attack again before the men reached the door -
- except John and Red were moving toward the
animals, pointing their weapons -
- and shooting out the eyes. They did it quickly
and efficiently, and although both Scorps were mov-
ing again as they headed for the door, the blind
creatures could only flail about in the sand. One of
them managed to find a target; with a limber curl, it
drove its extraordinarily toxic sting into the others
back. The poisoned 12 whipped around and stabbed
the first through the abdomen with one jagged claw,
impaling it; it writhed weakly, alive but unable to
move or see - bound, dying, to its dead brother.
Reston shook his head slowly, disgusted at the
wasted time and money, at the millions of dollars and
the man-hours that had gone into developing the
inhabitants of phases One and Two.
And Jackson will want that information. Once the
test subjects are dead and their friends caught, I'll be
able to put the right spin on things; with some of our
backers coming in, such a poor performance from our
"prize" specimens could be costly. Better to know
now. . .
Yes, he'd be able to pull it off. Now Red was
unlocking the connecting door that would lead them
into Three; unless they had a case of grenades, they
would be dead in minutes.
Reston took a deep breath, remembering who was
in control, who was calling the shots here. Hawkinson
would handle the surface situation, Jackson would
be pleased, the three musketeers were about to be
blinded, trampled, and eaten. There was nothing to
worry about.
Reston exhaled heavily, managing a somewhat un-
easy grin and forcing himself to relax into his chair,
dialing up the screens that would show him the Ca6
habitat.
"Say good-bye," he said, and poured himself an-
other brandy.
FIFTEEN
FROM THE TERRIBLE, BAKING HEAT OF THE
blinding scorpion desert, they stepped into the cold
shade of a mountain peak. They stayed by the door,
surveying their newest crucible, Leon wondering if
they'd be facing Hunters or Spitters in this very gray
room.
Gray the rock-studded, sharply angled mountain of stone that loomed in front of them. Gray also the
walls and ceiling, and the winding path that snaked
west, bordering the "mountaintop." Even the scrubby
grasses in and around the misshapen boulders were
gray. The mountain looked real enough, rough-hewn
chunks of granite mixed into cement, dyed to match
and sculpted into crags. The overall effect was of a
lonely, windswept ridge high on a barren mountain.
Except there's no wind and no smell. Just like the
other two, no smell at all.
"Might want to put your shirt back on," John said, but Leon was already untying it from his waist. The
temperature had dropped at least sixty degrees, al-
ready freezing the sweat he'd worked up from Phase
Two.
"So where do we go?" Cole asked, his eyes wide and nervous.
John pointed diagonally across the room, south-
west. "How 'bout the door?"
"I think he meant which way," Leon said. He kept his voice pitched low, just as the others did. No point
in alerting the inhabitants to their position; they'd
probably be interacting soon enough.
The three of them examined their options, all two
of them: take the gray path or climb the gray moun-
tain.
Hunters or Spitters . . . Leon sighed inwardly, his stomach knotted, already dreading whatever came
next. If they made it out, if they found Reston, he was
going to give old Mr. Blue a solid ass-kicking. It went
against the belief system that had led him to be a cop,
but then, so did White Umbrella's very existence.
"From a defensive standpoint, I'd say trail," John said, looking up at the rough surface of the slope. "We could get trapped if we head up."
"There's a bridge, I think," Cole said. "I only did one of the cameras in here, that one..."
He pointed up and right, into the corner. Leon
couldn't even see it - the walls were fifty feet high,
and their monotone color blended into the ceiling. It
created a kind of optical illusion, making the room
seem endlessly vast.
"... and I was on a ladder, I could see over, kind
of," Cole continued. "There's a gorge on the other side, and one of those rope bridges going across."
Leon opened his pack while Cole was talking,
assessing his ammo situation. "How's the M-16?"
"Maybe fifteen left in this one," John answered, patting the curved mag. "Two more full, thirty each . . . two clips for the H&K, and one more gre-
nade. You?"
"Seven rounds left, three clips, one grenade. Henry,
have you been counting?"
The Umbrella worker nodded. "I think five shots, I fired five times."
He looked as though he wanted to say something
else, glancing back and forth between Leon and John,
finally staring down at his dirty workboots. John
looked at Leon, who shrugged; they didn't really
know anything about Henry Cole, except that he
didn't belong there any more than they did.
"Listen ... I know this isn't really the time or
place, but I just want to tell you guys that I'm sorry. I
mean, I knew something was weird about all this.
About Umbrella. And I knew Reston was a serious
asshole, and if I hadn't been so greedy or so stupid, I
never would have got you into this."
"Henry," Leon said. "You didn't know, okay? And believe me, you're not the first to be duped..."
"No doubt," John interrupted. "Seriously. The
suits are the problem here, not guys like you."
Cole didn't look up, but he nodded, his thin shoul-
ders slumping as if in relief. John handed him another
clip, nodding toward the path as Cole tucked it into
his back pocket.
"Let's hit it," John said, talking to both of them but addressing Cole. Leon could hear it in his deep voice,
a note of encouragement that suggested he was start-
ing to like the Umbrella worker. "Worse comes to worst, we can retreat to Two. Stick close, keep quiet,
and try to shoot for the head or eyes - assuming they
have eyes."
Cole smiled faintly.
"I'll bring it up," Leon said, and John nodded
before stepping away from the hatch and turning left.
The chilled air was as quiet as it had been since they'd
come into the room, no sounds but their own. Leon
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