brought up the rear, Cole walking slowly in front of
him.
The path was grooved, as if someone had run a rake
through the cement before it was dry. With the
"peak" to their right, the trail extended about seventy
feet and then turned sharply south, disappearing
behind the craggy hill.
They'd gone about fifty feet when Leon heard the
trickle of rock behind them. Loose gravel falling down
the slope.
He turned, surprised, and saw the animal near the
top of the peak, thirty feet up. Saw it and wasn't sure
what he was seeing, except that it was walking,
skipping down the hill on four sturdy legs, like a mountain goat.
Like a skinned goat. Like ... like...
Like nothing he'd ever seen, and it was almost to
the ground when they heard a wet, rattling sound
erupt from somewhere ahead of them, the sound of a
snot-clogged throat being cleared, or a dog growling
through a mouthful of blood - and they were trapped,
cut off from escape, the terrible sounds coming to-
ward them from both sides.
Getting back into the compound was remarkably
easy. Rebecca needed help getting over the fence, but
with each passing minute, she seemed to be improv-
ing, her balance and coordination sharpening. David
was more relieved than he cared to admit, and almost
as pleased with Umbrella's guard, or lack thereof.
Three men, two at the fence and another at the van; it
was pathetic.
They'd started back as soon as the helicopter had
lifted and headed south, stretching frozen muscles as
they moved silently through the dark. When they'd
come within a few hundred yards, David had left the
others for a quick recon, then come back and led
the two shivering women over the fence and into the
compound. Before they could take out the watchmen,
David knew they needed to get to a safe place out of
the cold, to go over their procedure and better assess
Rebecca's condition; he chose the most obvious of the
buildings, the middle structure. It boasted two satel-
lite dishes and a series of antennae, plus a shielded
conduit running down one side. If he was right, if it
was a communications relay, it was exactly where
they wanted to be.
And if I'm wrong, there are two others to check; one
will be a generator room, it's bound to have some sort
of climate control. I can leave them there and do the
sabotage work solo. . .
They'd scaled the fence from the south, David
amazed at how poorly Umbrella had planned for their
re-entry. The two men covering the perimeter were
stationed at the front and back, as if there was no
chance that anyone would enter from another direc-
tion. As soon as they were inside, David led them to
the far side of the last building in line, then motioned
for a huddle,
"Middle building," he whispered. "Should be un- locked, if it's what I think it is. The lights will be on,
though. I'll go inside, then signal for you to follow; if
you hear shots, get inside as quick as you can. Stay
close to the buildings and stay low when we cross.
Yes?"
Claire and Rebecca both nodded, Rebecca leaning on Claire; other than a limp, she seemed to be doing
well. She'd said she was still dizzy and that her head
hurt, but the confused and erratic thoughts that had
so frightened him earlier had apparently passed.
David turned and eased along the wall of the
structure closest to the fence, hugging the shadows,
frequently glancing back to be sure both women were
keeping up. They reached the end facing west and
slipped around, David first, checking for the west
guard's position. It was almost too dark to see, but
there was a density of shadow against the metal mesh
that marked him. David raised the M-16 and pointed
it at him, prepared to fire if they were seen.
Too bad we can't just shoot him now . . . but a shot would alert the others, and while David wasn't con-
cerned with the fence men, the one posted at the van
could be a problem; he was far enough away that he
might radio before coming in to check.
These two will be easy enough, but how to approach
him? There was no cover if the man at the mini spotted them coming. . .
That could wait; they had work to do before worry-
ing about the guards. Crouching, David waved Claire
and Rebecca across, the M-16 trained on the shadowy
figure at the fence. He held his breath as they slipped
across the open space, but they managed it with
hardly a sound.
As soon as they were across, David followed, his
years of training allowing him to move as silently as a
ghost. Once they were cloaked by the building's
shadow, David relaxed a bit, the worst of it over. They
could cross to the middle building in the thick black
of the corridor between the structures.
In less than a minute, they'd reached the crossing
point. Nodding at the women to stay back, David
went across, stopping at the closed door to their
destination. He touched the icy metal of the handle
and pushed it down, nodding to himself as he heard
the tiny click of the unlocked door.
It's communications, then; the team leader would have left it open for the men posted, access to a satellite
uplink in case we returned. A calculated guess, but a good one.
It was time to pray for a bit of luck; if the lights were
on, opening the door would be like a beacon to
anyone even glancing in their direction. The guards
had been facing away from the compound when he'd
reconned, but that didn't mean much.
A deep breath, and David pushed the door open,
registering that the light was low as he slid inside and
closed it behind him. He leaned against the door and counted ten, then relaxed, inhaling the warm air
thankfully as he studied the interior. The warehouse-
type structure had apparently been divided into
Rooms - and the one he'd stepped into was packed
with computer equipment, thick cables trailing across
the floor and up the walls, dish connectors . . .
. . . everything that links this facility to the world outside. . .
David hit the wall switch, turning off the single
ceiling light, and grinning, opened the door for
Rebecca and Claire to join him.
"Back against the wall!" Leon shouted, and Cole did it before he even knew why. The phlegmy rattling
sounds seemed to be coming from somewhere
ahead -
- and then he saw the creature coming slowly
toward them from behind, making it impossible to
retreat, and barely held back a scream. It stopped
fifteen or twenty feet away, and Cole still couldn't
seem to get a good look; it was just too bizarre.
Oh, Jesus, what is it?
It was four-legged, with split hooves, like a ram or
goat, and was about the same size - but there was no
fur, no horns, nothing else that even remotely resem-
bled a natural development. Its slender body was
coated with tiny reddish-brown scales, like a snake's
skin, but dull instead of shiny; at first glance, it looked
like it was covered in dried blood. Its head was
somehow amphibian, like a frog's - an earless flat
face, small dark eyes that bulged out at the sides, a
too-wide mouth - except there were pointed teeth
sticking up from a protruding lower jaw, a bulldog's
jaw, its head also covered in the dried-blood scales.
The thing opened its mouth, exposing only a few
sharp teeth, upper and lower, none of them in the
front - and that terrible wet rattling sound came from
the darkness of its throat, the bizarre call matched by
others, somewhere on the other side of the artificial
mountaintop.
The call built, going louder and deeper as the thing
raised its head, turning its hideous face to the
ceiling -
- and in one sudden, jerking motion, it dropped its
head and spat at them. A thick, tarry blob of reddish
semiliquid flew at them, at Leon, across the wide
open space -
- and Leon raised his arm to block it even as John
started to shoot, stepping away from the wall and
spraying the monster -
- Spitter - - with bullets. The goop hit Leon's arm, would
have hit his face if he hadn't blocked, and in response
to the hail of clattering rounds, the Spitter turned and
jumped up the sculpted mountain in long, easy
jumps that took it to the top in seconds, that didn't
denote panic or pain or any stress at all. It loped back
about twenty feet, then skipped nimbly back down to
the ground, stopping in front of the connecting hatch.
As if it knew it was blocking their escape.
And it didn't even flinch, holy shit...
The multiple cries from just out of sight didn't get
any louder, but they didn't retreat, either. The gar-
gling noises stopped, one at a time, the lack of targets
giving them no reason; suddenly, it was silent again,
as quiet as it had been when they'd entered.
"What the good goddamn was that?" John said, grabbing another magazine from his pack, his expres-
sion one of total incredulity.
"Wasn't even hurt," Cole whispered, holding the nine-millimeter so tight that his fingers started to go
numb. He barely noticed, watching as Leon touched
the thick, wet handful of maroon goop on his sleeve
and hissed in pain, drawing his hand back as if
he'd been burned.
"Stuff's toxic," he said, quickly wiping his fingers on his shirt and holding them up. The tips of the
index and middle fingers on his left hand had gone an
angry, inflamed red. He immediately stuck his hand-
gun in his belt and pulled the black shirt off, carefully
avoiding contact with the acidic ooze, dropping it to
the stone floor.
Cole felt sick. If Leon hadn't blocked...
"Okay-okay-okay," John breathed, his brow fur- rowed. 'This is bad, we want out of here as fast as possible ... you say there's a bridge?"
"Yeah, goes over the, uh, trench," Cole said
quickly. "Like twenty feet across, I didn't see how deep it was."
"Come on," John said. He started walking toward where the path turned out of sight, striding quickly.
Cole followed, Leon right behind. John stopped about
ten feet short of the turn and backed against the wall
again, glancing at Leon.
"You want to cover, or me?" Leon asked softly. "Me," John said. "I step out first, draw their fire. You run, Henry, right behind him - and head down,
got it? Get across, get to the door - if you can, help
me out -"
John's face was solemn. "- if you can't, you can't." Cole felt a by-now-too-familiar rush of shame.
They're protecting me, they don't even know me and I got them into this ... if he could do something to return the favor, he would, although he was suddenly
quite sure that he'd never be able to even things out;
he owed these guys his life, a couple times over
already.
"Ready?" John asked.
"Wait..." Leon turned and jogged back to where he'd dropped the sweatshirt. The Spitter by the hatch
stood as silent and immobile as a statue, watching
them. Leon scooped up the shirt and hurried back,
slipping a pocket knife out of his pack. He cut off the
offending sleeve, letting it fall, then handed the rest to
John.
"If you're gonna be standing still, keep your face
covered," Leon said. "Since they don't seem to notice bullets, you won't need to see, to shoot. Once we're
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