the pieces of Scorp scattered about, finally climbing
the shifting dune to peer into the hole.
My God, they managed to get everything, didn't
they?
The destruction was nearly total, the gaping hole
almost exactly where the monitor wall had been.
Thick shards of glass, bits of wire and circuitry, a
faint scent of ozone - that was all that was left of the
brilliantly designed video-retrieval system. Four of
the leather chairs had been knocked off their welded
mounts, the one-of-a-kind marble table had actually
cracked in two - and in the northeast corner of the
room there was another giant, ragged hole sur-
rounded by debris.
And through that hole. . .
Reston could actually see the elevator. The work-
ing, running elevator, the lights engaged, the platform
recalled.
Was it a trap? It seemed too good to be true, but
then he heard a distant pounding, somewhere off by
the cell block, and thought that luck was finally with
him; the employees had left, the sound could only be
the blasted ex-S.T.A.R.S. team. Far enough away that
he'd be halfway to the surface before they could make
it back.
Reston grinned, amazed that it would end like this;
it seemed so anticlimactic somehow, so mundane . . .
. . . and am I complaining? No, no complaints. Not from me.
Reston stepped through the hole, moving carefully
to avoid the sharp glass.
The battle with the food animals had made it
hungry, had made it crave; that there was a strong
wall in Fossil's way made it only more eager to eat, to
fulfill its purpose. It pounded at the strong obstacle,
feeling the matter shift, becoming less rigid,
and although it wouldn't take much more to get
at the animals, Fossil suddenly smelled new food.
Back the way it had come, food, open and exposed, nothing between it and Fossil.
It would come back after it had eaten. Fossil turned
away and ran, hungry and wanting, determined to eat
before the food could move away.
As soon as Fossil turned and ran, John started to
kick at the steel door, realizing that it was their only
chance. The incredible beating that the monster had
given it made it easy, the thick metal half off its tracks
already.
Claire and Leon started kicking. In seconds, they'd
knocked it far enough from the metal indentation that
it fell off, clattering to the floor - and seconds after
that, they were running, running for the elevator,
David carrying Rebecca and all of them silent. Fossil
would be back, they all knew it, and they didn't stand
a chance against it.
"NO! NO! NO!"
A man, screaming, and as John rounded the corner,
he saw that it was Reston, saw him sprinting down the
long corridor, Fossil closing fast.
They ran, John wondering how long it would take
the monster to eat an entire human. And as they
reached the elevator, leapt through the doors, Leon
pulling the gate down...
... they all heard the wailing scream rise to an
inhuman pitch - and then cut off sharply, stopped by
a heavy wet crunch.
The elevator started to rise.
TWENTY-FOUR
REBECCA WAS FALLING ASLEEP, THE LULL OF
the elevator as soothing as the sound of David's
heartbeat. As tired as she was, she lifted one incredi-
bly heavy hand to the flat black book tucked into the
waistband of her pants. Reston hadn't even noticed,
apparently hadn't suspected that she could fake a fall
with the best of them.
She thought about telling the others, breaking the
tired silence in the rising elevator to give them the
news, then decided it could wait; they deserved a
pleasant surprise.
Rebecca closed her eyes, resting. They still had a
long way to go, but the tide was turning; Umbrella
would pay for its crimes. They would see to it.
EPILOGUE
WITH DAVID AND JOHN SUPPORTING YOUNG
Rebecca, and Leon and Claire smiling at one another
like lovers, the five weary soldiers trudged off the screen
and out into the gently blossoming Utah morning.
Sighing, Trent leaned back in his chair, idly twisting
his onyx ring. He hoped they'd take a day or two to
rest before heading to their next great battle . . . per-
haps the last great battle; they deserved a bit of rest
after all they'd suffered. Really, if any one of them
survived what was surely ahead, he'd have to see that
they were amply rewarded.
Assuming I'm still in a position to bequeathe gifts...
He would be, of course. If and when Jackson and
the others finally figured out what part he was playing,
he'd have to disappear - but there were half a dozen
completely untraceable identities for him to choose
from seeded around the world, each of them ex-
tremely wealthy. And White Umbrella didn't have the
resources to track him down. They had money and
power, true, but they simply weren't smart enough.
I've managed to get this far, haven't I?
Trent sighed again, reminding himself not to gloat,
at least not yet. It wouldn't pay to be overconfident,
he knew; better men than he had died at the hands of
Umbrella. In any case, either he'd be dead or they
would. End of problem, one way or the other.
He stood up, stretching his arms over his head and
shrugging the tension from his shoulders; the satellite
"pirate" had allowed him to see and hear almost all of
it, and it had been a long and eventful night. A few
hours sleep, that was what he needed. He'd arranged
to be out of touch until about noon, but then he'd
have to put a call in to Sidney and the old tea-
drinker would be nearly frantic by then, along with
the rest of them. The mysterious Mr. Trent's services
would be desperately sought after, and he'd have to
catch the next plane out; as much as he wanted to
watch Hawkinson return and fumble through putting
Fossil down, he needed the sleep more.
Trent turned off the screens and walked from his
operations room - a living room with a few rather
expensive adjustments - into the kitchen, which was
just a kitchen. The small house in upstate New York
was his sanctuary if not his home; it was from here that
he conducted most of his work. Not the grandiose
scheming he did on White Umbrella's behalf, but his
real work. Were anyone to check, they'd find the three-
room Victorian to be owned by a little old lady named
Mrs. Helen Black. A private joke, one all his own.
Trent opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle
of mineral water, thinking of how Reston had looked
in his last moment, staring into the face of his own
demise. Lovely work, that, using Fossil against him; it
was really too bad about Cole. The man could have
been an asset to the small but growing resistance. Carrying the water upstairs, Trent used the bath-
room and then walked down a short hall, wondering
how much longer he had. In the first few weeks of his
contact with White Umbrella, he'd half-expected to
be called into Jackson's office and summarily shot at
any given moment. But the weeks had stretched into
months, and he hadn't caught even a whisper of
doubt from any of them.
In the bedroom, he laid out his clothes for the flight
and then undressed, deciding that he would pack while
he had his coffee, after calling Sidney. Turning off the
light, Trent slipped into bed and sat for a moment,
sipping at his bottled water, going over his meticulous
plans for the next few weeks. He was tired, but his life's
goal was finally within reach; it wasn't so easy to fall
asleep when one was about to realize the culmination
of three decades of planning and dreaming, of a wish
so long-held that it had become who he was. . .
The final strokes, though. There were still several
things that had to happen before he could finish, and
most of those had to do with how well his rebels fared.
He had faith in them, but there was always a chance
that they might fail - in which case, he'd have to start
over again. Not from scratch, but it would be a serious
setback.
Eventually, though. . .
Trent smiled, setting his water on the nightstand and
sliding beneath the thick down comforter. Eventually,
the evil of White Umbrella would be exposed to the
light of day. Killing the players would be easier, but he
wouldn't be satisfied with their deaths; he wanted to
see them destroyed, financially and emotionally, their
lives taken from them in every practical sense. And
when that day came, when the leaders had finished
watching their precious handiwork crumble to ash, he
would be there. He'd be there to dance in the cemetery
of their dreams, and it would be a fine day indeed.
As he so often did, Trent went over the speech in his
mind, the speech that he'd spent a lifetime practicing
for that day. Jackson and Sidney would have to be
there, as well as the European "boys" and the finan-
ciers from Japan, Mikami and Kamiya. They all knew
the truth, they had been coconspirators in the
treachery...
I stand in front of them, smiling, and I say, "A little
background, in case any of you have forgotten.
"Early in Umbrella's history - before there was such
a thing as White Umbrella - there was a scientist
working in their research and development sector
named James Darius. Dr. Darius was an ethical and
committed microbiologist, who, along with his lovely wife, Helen - a doctor of pharmacology, in fact -
- spent untold hours developing a tissue-repair synthesis for their employers, one that James had created him-
self. This synthesis that took up so much of the
Dariuses' time was a brilliantly designed viral complex
that - if properly developed - had the potential to
greatly reduce human suffering, even one day to wipe
out death by traumatic injury.
Both James and Helen had the highest of hopes for
their work - and they were so responsible, so loyal and
trusting, that they went to Umbrella immediately, once
they realized the potential of what they were designing.
And Umbrella, Inc. also realized the potential. Except
what they saw was a financial nosedive if such a miracle
were to be released. Imagine all the money that a
pharmaceutical company would lose if millions of people
stopped dying each year; but then, imagine what money
could be made if this viral complex could be designed to
fit a military application. Imagine the power.
With incentives like that, Umbrella really had no
choice. They took the synthesis from Darius, they took
the notes and research, and they turned it all over to a
brilliant young scientist by the name of William
Birkin, barely out of his teens and already the head of
his own lab. Birkin was one of them, you see. A man
with the same vision, the same lack of morals, a man
they could use. And with their own puppet in place,
they realized that having the good Doctors Darius
around could prove to be inconvenient.
So, there was a fire. An accident, it was said, a
terrible tragedy - two scientists and three loyal assis-
tants all burned up. Too bad, so sad, case closed - and
so began the division of Umbrella known as White
Umbrella. Bioweapons research. A playground for the
filthy rich and their toadies, for men who'd lost any-
thing resembling a conscience a long, long time ago." I
smile again. "For men like you."
"White Umbrella had thought of everything, or so
they believed. What they hadn't considered - either
because they were too shortsighted or ignorantly dis-
missive - was the young son of James and Helen, their
only child, away at boarding school when his parents
were burned alive. Perhaps they simply forgot about
him. But Victor Darius didn't forget. In fact, Victor
grew up thinking about what Umbrella had done, dare
I say obsessing over it. There came a time when Victor
could think of nothing else, and that was when he
decided to do something about it.
To avenge his mother and father, Victor Darius
knew he would have to be extremely clever and very,
very careful. So he spent years just planning. And more years learning what he needed to know, and even more
making the right contacts, moving in the right circles,
being as devious and underhanded as his foe. And one
day, he murdered Umbrella, just as they murdered his
parents. It wasn't easy, but he was determined, and
he'd devoted his entire life to the project."
I grin. I say, "Oh, and did I mention that Victor
Darius changed his name? It was a bit of a risk, but he
decided to go with his father's middle name, or at least
part of it. James Trenton Darius wasn't using it
anymore, after all."
The speech always changed a little, but the essen-
tials stayed the same. Trent knew that he would never
have the opportunity to deliver it to all of them at
once, but it was the idea that had kept him going, all
these many years. On nights when he'd been so
enraged that he couldn't sleep, the retelling of the
story had come to be a kind of bitter lullaby; he
imagined the looks on their tired old faces, the horror
in their faded eyes, their trembling indignation at his
betrayal. Somehow, the vision always soothed his fury
and gave him some small peace.
Soon. After Europe, my friends. . .
The thought followed him down into the dark, to
the sweet, dreamless sleep of the righteous.
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