Underworld

Shit!

One of them started to screech and then there were others nearby, overhead, hiding in the unlikely trees, who joined in the song, a deafening, horrendous cacophony of needle-sharp sound. Leon fell back, John suddenly at his side, aiming his rifle into the open space.

The first flew at the trees, twisting sideways as if to fly between them. It pulled up at the last second, so quickly that they didn't get off a shot. As it soared up,

Leon saw two on the ground, dragging their sinewy bodies eagerly forward on folded wings.

The noise! It was painful, as shrill and terrible as a thousand screaming infants, and Leon felt the nine-millimeter fire more than he heard it, the heavy metal jumping in his hands. The birds fell silent as the closer of the two took the shot in its curving throat. A ragged hole blew open just above its narrow chest, flaps of gray-brown skin blossoming out like some dark flower. Thin blood gushed from the wound, but the second was already climbing over its spasming

body, single-minded in its attack. Leon took aim and—

"Hey hey oh shit— "

Cole's hysterical cry distracted him, the shot jerking right, missing. John opened up on the second Dae, the clatter of automatic fire tearing into the animal. Leon spun and saw Cole stumbling backwards, another of the vicious birds lunging toward him.

How'd it get past us?

Leon aimed, the Dae no more than five feet away from Cole, and even as he pulled the trigger another of the creatures was swooping down from directly overhead. At such close range the nine-millimeter round punctured the bird's chest and blew a fist-sized hole out its low back, the Dae dead before it crumpled to the ground. The newcomer gave one mighty flap, the tips of its huge wings brushing the floor, and flew back up and away.

"Henry, get behind me!" Leon shouted, glancing up—and seeing yet another Dae coming down from a series of perches directly above, tucking its wings in and diving straight for him.

He needed help. "John ... !"

The diving bird spread its leathery wings only a few feet from the floor and touched down, surprisingly graceful in its landing. It turned toward Leon and lurched forward. Behind him, he heard the spatter of bullets—and heard it stop, heard John cursing, heard the M-16s aluminum alloy body clatter to the ground.

The Dae in front of Leon opened its long beak and squawked, a burst of angry,hungrysound, sidling forward on its bent wings as fast as Leon could back away. The creature was weaving back and forth and Leon didn't have enough ammo to waste, he had to get a clear shot—

—and itjumped,a strange, sudden hop that put it only a foot away. With another shrill screech, it bobbed its head forward, its open beak closing on his ankle. Even through the thick boot leather, he could feel the pegs of its teeth, feel the power in its jaws—

—and before he could fire, John was there, he was

stamping down on the Dac's snaking neck and pointing his handgun—

—andbam,the round snapped its spine, a vertebral knob on its sleek back exploding, shards of pale bone and runny blood spraying outward. It let go of his ankle, and though its neck continued to twist its body was still, bleeding and still.

How many, how many left—

"Comeon,"John called, scooping up the rifle and turning to run. "Get to the door, we have to get to the door!"

They ran. Through the clearing, Cole right behind, the beat of wings behind them, another shrill voice crying into the air. Back into the trees, the lifeless

woods, stumbling over branches and veering around the gnarled plastic trunks.

The wall, there's the wall!

And there was the door, a double-wide metal hatch, a deadbolt set low at the right side—

—and Leon heard the terrible screech in hisear, inches away, and felt the gust of air across the back of his neck—

—and he let his legs give, collapsing to the ground, and felt sudden pain as something snatched a chunk of hair and ripped it from his scalp, from the back of his head.

"Look out!" Leon screamed, looking up to see the massive bird swooping in on John, almost to the door, Cole beside him.

John turned, not a flinch, not a backward stumble.

He raised the handgun and pulled the trigger, a dead shot, and the Dae dropped as if made of lead, its tiny brain suddenly liquid, blowing up and out.

Cole was fumbling with the door, John still aiming over Leon's head, and Leon heard another one screaming as if in a fury, somewhere behind—

—and the door was open—Leon ran, John covering him as he stumbled after Cole, out of the cool, dark woods and into a blinding heat. John was right behind him, slamming the hatch closed—

—and they were in Phase Two.

Rebecca was running, out of breath and exhausted and unable to stop, to rest. David and Claire were running with her, holding her up, but she still felt that each step was an effort of pure will; her muscles didn't want to cooperate, and she was disoriented, her

equilibrium a mess, her ears ringing. She was hurt, and she didn't know how bad—only that she'd been shot, that she'd hit her head at some point, and that they couldn't stop until they were well away from the compound.

It was dark, too dark to see where the ground was, and cold; each breath was an iced dagger in her throat and lungs. Her thoughts were muddled, but she knew that she'd suffered some brain dysfunction, she wasn't sure what exactly; as she staggered along, the possibilities haunted her. The bullet was easier; she knew by the hot and throbbing pain where it had gone. It hurt terribly, but she didn't think she had a fracture and it wasn't gushing; she was much more concerned about the loss of coherency.

Shot through left gluteal, lodged in ischium, lucky lucky lucky. . . shock or concussion? Concussion or shock?

She needed to stop, take a temporal pulse, check her ears for blood ... or for CSF, which was something she didn't even want to think about. Even in her 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 decided 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."

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 forehead. 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 "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 handlers all had these nicknames—"

"Cute. Like Fluffy, or Sweet Pea," John interrupted, 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 remember 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 mandibles, clicking. . . .

"Scorps," John said softly. "Aren't scorpions supposed 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 everusedone, 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 itwasheavy— 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 achance.

"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 environment. 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 sawthem,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, themonsters, 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 opened up.

—bambambambam—

—and the first of the scorpion-things let out a strange, dry,hissingsound, 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

spewed out inglurts,like puke, but there were three more of the creatures coming down—

—and the first one, the one that John had drilled full of holes, was getting up. Getting up unsteadily, but getting up all the same. The openings were oozing with that viscous white goo—and even as it took its first step toward them, John saw that the liquid was hardening. Plugging the wounds as efficiently as plaster filled a hole in a wall.

"Go go go!"John shouted as the other two creatures, taken down by Leon and Cole, started to move, their wounds already scabbing over. The second

threesome was halfway down the dune and closing fast.

Gotta get out.

There were still two more "environments," and they'd already blown at least a third of their ammo; this ran through John's mind in the split-second it took him to spray the Scorps with a hail of bullets, as Leon and Cole ran east.

He didn't even try to take any of the six down, he knew it wouldn't make a difference. The line of explosive rounds was to hold them back until the other two men were clear, his mind grasping for a solution as the impossible animals waved their jagged claws, scrabbling against the shifting sands and spurting more of their bizarre epoxy.

—grenade but how do I get them all, how do we avoid taking shrapnel—

The closest of the Scorps was perhaps a dozen feet in front of him when he turned and ran, moving as fast as he could through the blazing heat, his adrenaline up and raging. Leon and Cole were fifty meters ahead, stumbling through the sand, Leon running sideways—watching front and back, sweeping with his semi.

John risked a glance back, saw that the scorpion creatures were still coming. Slower than before but not faltering, their waspish bodies dripping white, their bizarre elongated claws raised and snapping. They were gaining speed, too, faster with each skittering step, a pack of undead bugs looking for lunch—

—pack, in a pack—

They might not have a better chance. John dropped the rifle, the sling hanging awkwardly around his neck, and jammed one hand into his pack, still managing a decent run. He came up with one of the grenades, jerked the pin free, and turned, backing up in a shambling jog. He tried to evaluate the distance, the M68's process running through his frenzied mind, the Scorps sixty, seventy feet behind.

—impact fuse, armed two seconds after it hits, six-second backup—

"Grenade!"He screamed, and threw the round canister up, praying that he'd judged it right as he turned and lunged, the grenade still ascending as he dove into the side of the sand dune.

John swam into it, pushing with all his considerable muscle, burrowing into the hot grit blind and breathless. The sand was cooler underneath, waves of the unpacked stuff pouring across his face, trying to force its way into his nose and mouth, but he couldn't think of anything except pulling his legs in—and what the blast-projected slivers of metal could do to human flesh.

One final, desperate kick and—

—KA-WHAM—

—there was a huge shift all around him, an incredible pressure slamming into him and into the moving wall he was embedded in. He felt the weight on top of him press down, forcing the air out of him, and it took all he had to force one hand up to his face, to cup it over his mouth. Breathing shallowly, he started worming his way back out, wriggling and kicking.

Leon, did they get down in time, did it work—

He fought against the still sliding currents of polished granules, taking one more breath before using both hands to swipe at the heavy sands. In a few seconds he was out, rivulets of grit streaming off of him, his irritated eyes watering. He wiped at them one handed, raising the M-16, looking first at the threat—

—which wasn't a threat anymore. The grenade must have landed right in front of them; of the six mutant scorpions that had been pursuing them, four were in pieces. John saw a still-twitching claw lying across the sand in a puddle of white, a tail with stinger still attached sticking out of the side of the dune, a leg, another leg; the rest was unrecognizable, great hunks of wet mush splattered in a rough semi-circle.

The two Scorps at the rear of the pack were still whole, but were definitely not going to get up again; the bodies were intact, but the eyes and mouth, the strange mandibles,the faceswere gone.

Blown all to shit, in fact. No amount of white goop in the world's gonna plugthatup. . . .

"John!"

He turned, saw Leon and Cole striding back toward

him, expressions of amazement on both their faces. John allowed himself a brief moment of completely unchecked pride, watching them approach; he'd been brilliant—timing, aim, everything.

Ah, well. The true soldier takes no accolades for a job well done; it's enough that he knows it. . . .

By the time they reached him, he'd managed to get over himself; thinking about their situation was enough. They were in a psycho testing ground being put through their paces by an Umbrella madman; their team was split up, they had limited ammo, and there was no clear way out of it.

Pretty much, you're screwed. Patting yourself on the back is kinda like giving aspirin to a dead guy; pointless.

Still, seeing the faint hope on the other men's flushed and sweating faces ... hope could be misguided, but it was rarely a bad thing.

"There could still be more of them," he said, wiping sand off of the M-16. "Let's get out of here—"

—clickclickclick—

That sound. All of them froze, staring at each other.

It wasn't close, but somewhere over the dune, there was at least one more Scorp.

David had spotted a moving light, maybe a quarter mile southwest of their position, but it had come no closer; if it wasn't for the cold, Claire thought she might feel relieved. The chances of anyone finding them in the endless miles of dark were somewhere near zero; the Umbrella guys had blown it. Even with the helicopter's searchlight—which they apparently

weren't going to use—it'd be pure luck if they ran across the three of them . . .

. . .although maybe it'd be lucky for us. Maybe they'd have blankets and coffee, hot chocolate, spiced

cider

She made an effort to keep her teeth from chattering, but it failed. It had been at least an hour, probably more. "Pretty goddamn cold, David, and yourself?"

"Same. Good thing we dressed warm, eh?"

If it was a joke, she wasn't laughing. Claire snuggled closer to Rebecca, wondering when she'd lose all feeling in her limbs; as it was, her hands were numb and her face felt like it was freezing into a mask, in spite of near-constant changes of position. David was on Rebecca's other side, the three of them huddled together as tightly as was humanly possible, spoon fashion. Rebecca hadn't woke up, but her breathing was slow and even; she was resting comfortably, at least.

That's one ofus...

"Shouldn't be much longer," David said. "Twenty, perhaps twenty-five minutes. They'll post a man or two, then go."

"Yeah, so you said," Claire said. "How do you figure the time, though?" Her lips felt like popsicles.

"Perimeter search, perhaps a quarter-mile 'round—assuming they have six or less men still ablebodied, I'm estimating four—"

"Why?"

David's voice shook with the cold. "Three sent to

the back door of the building, two men down inside— and from the sounds, I'd say there were three to seven at the front. Eight or twelve men; any more, and they wouldn't have all fit in the helicopter. Any less, they wouldn't have been able to cover both entrances."

Claire was impressed. "So, why twenty to twenty-five minutes?"

"As I said, they'll cover a certain distance all the way around the compound before they give us up. The size of the compound, tack on a quarter- to a halfmile, and how long it takes an average man to walk a fourth of that distance. We saw that light perhaps an hour ago, and since they most likely would have each taken a direction and searched that single segment ... well, twenty to twenty-five minutes. That's including the time it would take to look through the van, as well. That's my guess, for what it's worth."

Claire felt her frozen lips attempting a smile.

"You're bullshitting, aren't you? Making it up."

David sounded shocked. "I amnot.I've gone over it several times and I think—"

"I'm kidding," Claire said. "Really."

A short silence, and then David chuckled, the low sound carrying easily through the cold dark. "Of course you are. Sorry. I think the temperature has affected my sense of humor."

Claire alternated her hands, slipping the right one out from beneath Rebecca's hip and sliding the left one under. "No, I'm sorry. Shouldn't have interrupted. Go on, this is really interesting."

"Not much else to say," David said, and she heard the soft, rapid chatter of his teeth. "They'll want to get medical attention for their wounded, and I doubt

Umbrella wants one of their helicopters to be seen flying around the salt flats by the light of day; they'll leave a guard behind and go."

She heard him shifting, felt Rebecca's body move as he altered his own position. "Anyway, that's when we'll move. Back to the compound first, a bit of sabotage—and then we'll just see what turns up...."

The way his voice trailed off, the forced good humor in his tone that barely covered the despera-tion—both told her exactly what he was thinking.

What we've both been thinking.

"And Rebecca?" She asked gently. They couldn't leave her, she'd freeze, and trying to infiltrate the compound again, trying to take out a couple of armed men while carrying an unconscious woman ...

"I don't know," David said. "Before she—she said that she might recover within hours, given rest."

Claire didn't respond. Stating the obvious wouldn't help anything.

They fell silent, Claire listening to Rebecca's soft breathing, thinking about Chris. David's affection for Rebecca was plain; it was like the love between a father and daughter. Or brother and sister. Thinking about him was one way to pass the time, anyway.

What are you doing right now, Chris? Trent said you were safe, but for how long? God, I wish you'd never been assigned to that Spencer place. Or Raccoon, for that matter. Fighting for truth and justice pretty much eats it, big brother. ...

"Not falling asleep, are you?" David asked. He'd asked her that every time they stopped talking for more than a minute.

"No, thinking about Chris," she said. Forming the

words was a chore, but she figured it was better than letting her mouth freeze shut. "And I bet you're starting to wish we'd gone to Europe after all."

"I do," Rebecca said weakly. "Hate this weather. . . ."

Rebecca!

Claire grinned, not really able to feel it and not 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'tcounted 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 ithadgiven 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 happening 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 notjust fail miserably, you didnotjust let three people slip past your 'crack' teams, and that you did notcall to tell me thatyou can't find them!"

There was a moment of silence at the other end, and Reston justdaredthis 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 helicopter 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 compound's east and west, the third at the escape vehicle. I'll be back within—ninety minutes, sir, and wewill 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 donesomethingto 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 survivethose. . .

... 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 beyourass, won't it?

Reston ignored the whispery little voice, concentrating 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 movingtowardthe animals, pointing their weapons—

—and shooting out the eyes. They did it quickly and efficiently, and although both Scorps were moving 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 Jacksonwillwant 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 uneasy 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 another 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, already 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, southwest. "How 'bout the door?"

"I think he meant whichway,"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 mountain.

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 grenade. 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 shoulders 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 starting 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 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, skippingdown 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 toward 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 improving, 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 satellite 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 direction. 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 unlocked, 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 concerned with the fence men, the one posted at the van could be a problem; he was far enough away that he might radio before corning 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 worrying 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 tinyclickof the unlocked door.

/fjcommunications, 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, whatisit?

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 resembled 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 s/M$"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 jumpedup 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 itknewit 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 gargling 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 wasthat?"John said, grabbing another magazine from his pack, his expression 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 handgun 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 furrowed. '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 protectingme,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 hislife,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 across, I'll give a yell. And if it's not safe, I'll—"

The rattling, peremptory calls had started up again, making Cole think of cicadas for some reason, the almost mechanicalree-ree-reesound of cicadas on a hot summer night. He swallowed hard, trying to pretend to himself that he was ready.

"Outta time," John said. "Get ready to go—"

He held up the sweatshirt, then—astoundingly— grinned at Leon. "My man, youmustinvest in a stronger deodorant; you stink like a dead dog."

Without waiting for a response, John put the shirt over his head, holding it open at the bottom so he could see the floor. He jogged out into the open, his face down, Cole and Leon both tensing—

—and there was a rapidpatpatpatpat,and the black

material over John's face was suddenly dripping with great strings of the poison red snot, and he jerked his hand at them—

—and Leon said, "Now!" and Cole ran, head down, seeing only Leon's boots sprinting in front of him, a blur of gray rock, his own thin legs as he sprinted. He heard a gurgling cry to his left and ducked down even farther, terrified—

—and there was thethumpof wood in front of him, and then he was on the bridge, flat wooden slats rippling underfoot, tied with scrawny twine. He saw the vee-shaped gorge underneath, saw that it was deep,that it had been dug into the earth beneath the Planet, forty, fifty feet—

—and then he was back on gray land, before vertigo could even occur to him. He ran, thinking of how wonderful it was that all he needed to think about was Leon's boots, his heart hammering against his breastbone.

Seconds or minutes later, he didn't know, the boots slowed, and Cole dared to look up. The wall, the wall and there was the hatch! They'd made it!

"John, go! "Leon screamed, taking a few running steps back the way they'd come, his semi up and

ready."Go!"

Cole turned, saw John rip off the black hood, saw the handful of Spitters grouped loosely in front of him, six, seven of them, calling once more. John tore through their ranks, and at least two of them spat, but John was fast, fast enough that only a tiny bit hit his shoulder, at least as far as Cole could tell. The monstrous creatures started after him in their jumping, hopping movements, not as fast but close.

Run run run!

Cole pointed the nine-millimeter in the direction of the Spitters, ready to shoot if he thought he could get a clear shot, as John hit the bridge—

—and disappeared. The bridge collapsed, and John disappeared.

SIXTEEN

JOHN FELT THE BRIDGE DROP AN INCH OR two about a half second before the ropes snapped. He instinctively put his hands out, still running, thinking he'd make it—

—and then he was falling, his knees slamming into a moving wall of wooden slats, his hands clenching the second they touched solid—

—and all he heard was awhooshsound, and then the knuckles of his right hand crashed into rock, and he was dangling over a very deep chasm, a slat of loose wood in his left hand. He'd managed to grip one of the pieces still attached to the now hanging bridge; both ties that had anchored it to the north side of the rift had snapped.

John dropped the useless slat, hearing it clatter to the bottom of the chasm along with several other pieces that had come untied. He reached up to get a better grip—

—andthwack,a gob of red mucous suddenly appeared in front of him, less than a foot to the right of his face, sliding down the chasm wall in a melting rope.

—shit on toast—

Bambambam,someone was shooting a nine-millimeter, and the rising rattle of Spitters getting ready to spit told him that he definitely needed to get out.

He reached up again, his biceps flexing, straining against the fabric of his sweatshirt as he grabbed one of the slats above and pulled himself up. Above, more shots, closer, and a shout from Leon that was cut oiF as more bullets thundered.

Kick ass, boys, I'm coming—

Hand over hand was a bitch, particularly with bleeding knuckles and an automatic rifle hanging from his neck, but he thought he was doing pretty well, reaching up for the next handhold—

—and hot wetness hit the back of his right hand, and ithurt,it was like acid, burning—

—and he let go, flinging the gelid acid away, wiping at his shirt wildly. He held on to the shuddering bridge with his left, but just barely, the pain like a fire, maddening. It was all he could do to resist his natural instinct, to clutch at the screaming wound— and with the way his fingers were starting to tingle, he thought he might not have that much longer to worry about it.

"He's right here!"

A cracked, hysterical shout from directly above.

John tilted his head back, saw Cole crouched at the lip

of the chasm, his work shirt pulled up over his nose, his gaze frantic and scared.

"John, give me your hand!" He screamed, and reached down as far as he could, flakes of concrete falling from beneath his sliding boots. If he said anything else, it was lost in another series of explosive rounds as Leon worked to hold the Spitters at bay.

It only took a split-second for John to react to Cole's command, and in that instant he understood that he was going to get out. Henry Cole stood all of five-eight and probably weighed one-fifty sopping wet. With his clothes on. What was more, he looked like some mad turtle hunkered down in the shell of his

shirt.

Too goddamn funny.Funny, and touching in an idiotic way, and although his hand still hurt like a son of a bitch, he'd actually forgotten to feel it for a second or two.

John grinned, ignoring Cole's trembling fingers, forcing himself to concentrate on pulling himself up with his injured hand. There were more rattling cries from behind him but no spit-bombs for the moment.

"Tell Leon to use the grenade," he gasped, and Cole turned, shouting over another burst from Leon's semi.

". . . says grenade! John says use a grenade!"

"Not yet!" Leon screamed back. "Get clear!"

Thwap-wap,two more globs flew across the chasm, one hitting Cole's boot, the other only inches from John's sweating face.

Put on the power, John—With a final, deeply felt grunt, John grabbed the wood at the very top and

pulled himself up, pulled and then was pushing down, bringing his knee up to climb out.

"I'm good, go!"

Cole the mad turtle needed no further incentive. He took off running as Leon continued to cover for John, as John crouch-ran toward him, jamming his injured hand into his pack and pulling out his last grenade— he'd already popped the pin when he saw that Leon had his grenade in hand.

"Do it!" John yelled, reaching Leon, Leon winding back and then lobbing the powerful explosive at the Spitters, throwing high. Then both of them were running, John shooting a look back to see that three, four of the animals had already leapt into the chasm.

No time to think. John threw low, threw as hard as he could, his grenade disappearing into the rift as Leon's landed in front of the others—

—and they were diving and rolling, the blasts almost simultaneous,KA-WHAM-WHAM,the sound of powdered rock raining down, an incredibly high-pitched squealing coming from somewhere—

"You got 'em! You got 'em!"

Cole was standing in front of them, a look of unabashed glee and not a little awe on his narrow face. John sat up, Leon next to him, both turning back to see.

They hadn't killed all of them. Two of the four still on the other side of the chasm were mostly intact, alive—but blind and broken, their legs splintered, black fluid obscuring whatever was left of their faces as they squealed in fury, the sound like a guinea pig being stepped on. The other two must have been directly in front of the blast; they were just bleeding,

shattered bags, bones sticking up from the liquid piles like—like broken bones. From the manmade gorge there were more of the screaming squeals, and nothing leapt out to attack. For all intents and purposes, it was over.

John crawled to his feet, studying the back of his hand. Contrary to how it felt, the skin hadn't melted off. There were a few small blisters forming and the flesh looked scorched, but he wasn't bleeding.

"You okay?" Leon asked, standing and brushing at his clothes, his youthful features looking a lot less youthful to John.

I'm not calling him a rookie anymore.

John shrugged. "Think I broke a nail, but I'll live."

He saw that Cole was still beaming at them, his body shaking with the adrenaline aftermath; he seemed at a loss for words, and John had a sudden clear memory of how he'd felt after his first battle, the first in which he'd acted bravely. How helplessly elated he'd been. How incrediblyalive.

"Henry, you're a funny guy," John said, clapping his hand on the smaller man's shoulder and smiling.

The electrician grinned uncertainly, and the three of them started for Four, leaving the furious squeals of the dying animals behind.

When the dust cleared and the three men were still alive, Reston slammed his fist against the console in anger and rising dread, his stomach lurching, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"No, no,no,you stupid shits, you'redead!"

His voice was a little slurred, but he was too

shocked to give it much notice, too upset. They wouldn't survive the Hunters, he knew that—

—but they weren't going to survive the Ca6s, either.

Reston couldn't believe that they'd made it this far; he couldn't believe that of the twenty-four specimens they'd encountered, all but one Dae had been left either dead or dying. Most of all, he couldn't believe that he'd let it continue, that his pride and ambition had kept him from doing what he should have done in the first place. It wasn't that he was out of hisleague, he was in the inner circle, he was past that kind of insecurity—but he should have talked to Sidney, at least, or even Duvall; not for advice, but to cover all of his bases. After all, he couldn't be held totally responsible if he'd had counsel from one of the other, older members. . . .

It wasn't too late. He'd put a call in, explain his plan, explain that he had some concerns—he could say that the intruders were only in Two, that would help, he could fix the video times later . .. and the Huntershadbeen tested before, after a fashion, not the 3Ks but the 121s. There had been some loosed at the Spencer estate; from the data recovered, he knew that the three menwouldbe killed in Four. Even if they weren't, they wouldn't be able to get out, and with the backup from the home office, he'd be mostly in the clear.

Satisfied that it was the right decision, Reston reached under the console and picked up the phone.

"Umbrella, Special Divisions and—"

—and silence. The smooth female voice at the other end was cut off in mid-sentence, without even a hiss of static.

"This is Reston," he said sharply, aware that a cold hand was settling around his heart, squeezing. "Hel-

lo? This is Reston!"

Nothing; then he suddenly realized that the quality of light in the room had changed, brightening. He turned in his chair, hoping desperately that it wasn't what it seemed to be—

—and the row of monitors that showed the surface were all spitting snow. All seven, off-line—and only seconds later, before Reston could even digest what had happened, all seven went black.

"Hello?" He whispered into the dead phone, his whiskey breath hot and bitter against the mouthpiece. Silence.

He was alone.

Andrew "Killer" Berman was goddamn cold, cold and bored and wondering why the Sarge had even bothered putting anyone on the van. The bad guys weren't coming back, they were long gone—and even if theydiddecide to come back, they sure as hell weren't going to try to get to their vehicle. It'd be suicide.

Either they had a backup car or they're frozen solid out on the plain somewheres. This is total bullshit.

Andy pulled his scarf up around his ears, then readjusted his grip on the M41. Fifteen pounds of rifle didn't sound like much, but he'd been standing for a long goddamn time. If the Sarge didn't get back soon, he was going to get into the van for a while, rest his feet, get out of the cold; they weren't paying him enough to freeze his balls off in the dark.

He leaned against the back bumper and wondered again if Rick was okay; he didn't really know the other guys who'd been cut up by the frag, but Rick Shannon was his bud, and he'd been all bloody when they'd loaded him into the 'copter.

Those assholes come back here, I'll show 'em bloody. . . .

Andy sneered a grin, thinking that they didn't call him Killer for nothing. He was an excellent goddamn shot, best on his team, the result of a lifetime of deer hunting.

And also cold, bored, tired, and irritable. Dumbass duty. If the trio of dickheads showed up, he'd eat his own hat.

He was still thinking that when he heard the soft, pleading voice come out of the dark.

"Help me, please—don't shoot, please help me,

I've been shot—"

A breathy, feminine voice. Asexyvoice, and Andy grabbed his flashlight and turned it out into the black, finding the voice's owner not thirty feet away.

A girl, dressed in tight black, stumbling toward him. She was unarmed and injured, favoring one leg, her pale face open and vulnerable beneath the bright light.

"Hey, hold it," Andy said, although not too harshly. She wasyoung,he was only twenty-three but she looked even younger, just legal maybe. And a nicely stacked legal, at that.

Andy lowered the machine gun slightly, thinking how nice it would be to help out a lady in distress. She might be with the three criminals, probably was, but

she obviously wasn't a threat tohim;he could just hold on to her until the helicopter came back. And maybe she'd be grateful for the help . . .

...and hey, playing the hero's a good way to earn points, big time. Nice guys might finish last, but they certainly get laid an awful lot along the way.

The girl limped up to him and Andy turned the flashlight away from her face, not wanting to blind her. Putting just the right note of sincerity into his voice—chicks dug that shit—he took a step toward her, holding one hand out.

"What happened? Here, let me help—"

A dark, heavy thing slammed into him from the side, hard, knocking him to the ground and knocking the wind right out of him. Before he even knew what happened, a light was shining inhisface, and the M41 was being pried out of his hands as he struggled to breathe.

"Don't move and I won't shoot," a man said, a Brit, and Andy felt the cold muzzle of a gun against the side of his neck. He froze, not daring to move a muscle.

Oh, shit!

Andy looked up, saw the girl holding the rifle,his rifle, gazing down at him. She didn't look so helpless anymore.

"Bitch," he snarled, and she smiled a little, shrugging-

"Sorry. If it's any consolation, your two friends fell for it too."

He heard another woman's voice from behind him, soft and amused. "And hey, you get to warm up. The generator room's nice and toasty."

Killer was not amused, and as they pulled him to his feet and started marching him toward the compound, he swore to himself that it was the last time he'd ever underestimate a chick—and while he didn't have plans to eat his own hat, he was certainly going to remember this the next time he thought he was bored.

SEVENTEEN

PHASE FOUR WAS INDEED A CITY, AND LEON decided that it was the weirdest thing he'd seen so far, hands down. The first three phases had been bizarre, unreal, but they'd also been obviously fake—the sterile woods, the white walls of the desert, the sculpted mountain. At no point had he forgotten that the environments were manufactured.

This, though . . . it's not some counterfeit organic habitat; this is how it'ssupposedto look.

Four was several square blocks of a city at night. A town, really, none of the buildings over three stories, but itwasa town—streetlights, curbs, stores and apartment houses, parked cars and asphalt streets. They'd stepped off of a mountain and into Hometown, U.S.A.

There were only two things wrong with it, at least at

first glance—the colors and the atmosphere. The buildings were all either brick red or a kind of dusky

tan color; they looked unfinished, and the few parked cars that Leon could see all seemed to be black; it was hard to tell in the thick shadows.

And the atmosphere. . . .

"Spooky," John said quietly, and Leon and Cole both nodded. Backs against the door, they surveyed the silent town and found it completely unnerving.

Like a bad dream, one of those where you're lost and you can't find anyone and everything feels wrong. . . .

It wasn't like a ghost town, it didn't have the air of an abandoned place, a place that had outlived its usefulness; no one had ever lived there, no one ever would. No cars had driven down its streets, no children had played on its corners, nolifehad called it home . . . and the blank, unlife feeling was—spooky.

The hatch had opened up onto a street that ran east to west, dead-ending just to their left in a wall painted midnight blue. From where they stood, they could see all the way down one wide, paved road that went south, ending in darkness some indeterminate distance ahead, a grid of intersecting streets along the way. The soft light from the streetlamps cast long shadows, just bright enough to see by and too dark to see clearly.

There was a car just in front of them, parked in front of a tan two-story structure. John walked across to it and rapped on its hood. Leon could hear the hollowlinksound beneath his hand; an empty shell.

John walked back, scanning the shadows warily.

"So ... Hunters," he said, and Leon had a sudden realization that was almost as freaky as the lifeless blocks stretched out in front of them.

"The nicknames are all descriptive," he said, ejecting the clip from his semi to count the rounds. Five left, and only one more full mag, though John still had a couple—no, he only had one, Cole had the other. And unless Leon was mistaken, John only had one full magazine left for the M-16; thirty rounds, and what-

No more grenades, almost out of ammo....

"So?" Cole asked, and John answered, his gaze narrowing as he spoke, his expression even more watchful as he searched the heavy darkness of every corner, every window.

"Think about it," John said. "Pterodactyls, scorpions, spitting animals ... Hunters."

"I—oh." Cole blinked, looking around them with new fear. "That's not good."

"You say the exit's bolted?" Leon asked.

Cole nodded, and John shook his head at the same time.

"And like an asshole, I used the last grenade," he said softly. "No chance at blowing the door."

"If you hadn't, we'd be dead," Leon said. "And it probably wouldn't have worked anyway, not if it's the same kind of setup as the entrance."

John sighed heavily, but nodded. "Guess we can burn that bridge when we come to it."

They were all quiet for a moment, a profoundly uncomfortable silence that Cole finally broke.

"So ... ears and eyes open and stick close," he said tentatively, a question more than a statement.

John raised his eyebrows, smirking. "Not bad. Hey, what are you doing with your life if we make it outta here? Want to join the cause, stick it to Umbrella?"

Cole grinned nervously. "If we make it out, ask me again."

As ready as they were going to be, they started south, walking slowly down the middle of the street, the dark buildings watching them with blank glass eyes. Although all of them tried to move quietly, the empty town seemed to echo back the soft sounds of their boots on asphalt, even their breathing. None of the buildings had signs or decorations, and there were no lights inside as far as Leon could tell. The oppressive, lifeless feeling gave him an unpleasant flash of the night he'd driven into Raccoon for his first day on the RPD, after Umbrella had spilled their virus.

Except the streets there smelled like death and cannibals roamed through the dark, crows were feeding on corpses, it was a city in its death throes... .

About midway down the block, John held up one hand, snapping Leon back to the present.

"Just a sec," he said, and jogged over to one of the "stores" on the left, a glass-fronted construct that reminded Leon of a pastry shop, the kind that always had wedding cakes in their windows. John peered in through the glass, then tried the door. To Leon's surprise, it opened; John leaned inside for a long second, then closed it and jogged back.

"No counters or anything, but it's a real room," he said, his voice low. "There's a back wall and a ceiling."

"Maybe the Hunters are hiding out in one of them," Leon said.

Yeah, more scared of us than we are of them, wouldn't that be nice. We should be so lucky—

"That's it!" Cole said too loudly, then immediately dropped his voice, flushing. "How we can get out, maybe. The, uh, animals were all kept in cages or kennels or something behind the back walls. I don't know about the other phases, but there's a hall that runs around Four, I've seen the door to this one's, it's maybe twenty feet from the southwest corner. It has to be easier than the exit; I mean, it'd be locked, but probably not reinforced."

John was nodding, and Leon thought it sounded a hell of a lot more plausible than trying to get through a hatch bolted from the outside.

"Good," John said, "good call. Let's see if we can—"

Something moved. Something in the shadows of a tan two-story building on the right, something that shut John up and had all of them aiming into the darkness, tense and alert. Ten seconds passed, then twenty—and whatever it was seemed to be holding

. . .or, we didn't see anything at all.

"Nothing there," Cole whispered, and Leon started to lower the nine-millimeter uncertainly, thinking that it hadlookedas though something was moving—

—and then the something they couldn't see screamed, a shrill and terrible shriek like some kind of terrible bird, like a feral beast in a blind rage—

—and the darkness itself moved—Leon still couldn't see it clearly, it was like a shadow, a part of a building that was in motion, but he saw the tiny, shining eyes, light-colored and at least seven feet off the ground, and the dark and ragged talons that nearly

touched the asphalt, and he realized that it was a chameleon as it sprang toward them, still screaming.

Reston hurried back toward the control room, the weight of the sidearm against his hip making him feel a little better. He'd feel better still if he made it back in time to watch the Hunters slaughter the three men, although he'd settle for just seeing the dead bodies.

That would be perfectly fine, no problem so long as they die.

Reston wanted a drink, he wanted to get back to control, lock himself in and wait for Hawkinson to come back. He'd felt a moment of near-hysteria when he'd realized that communications had gone down, but nothing had changed, not really. The elevator was still locked off and the incompetent sergeant would be back with the helicopter in no time at all; if itwasthe surface trio who'd cut the outside lines—which he had no doubts about, not really—Hawkinson would handle them. If by some small chance it was actually a technical problem, a new electrician would be brought in as soon as he missed his morning report.

Not being able to contact his colleagues had been the distressing part, but he'd decided that it could work to his advantage; who wouldn't be impressed, that in such nerve-wracking circumstances he'd still managed to handle things? All things considered, trapping the invaders in the test program was his only recourse. No one would blame him, or at least not overly much.

Retrieving the .38 revolver from his room had eased his mind even more; he'd brought it to the Planet mostly because it had been a gift from Jackson,

and though he knew very little about guns, he knew that all he had to do with the .38 was pull the trigger. The heavy handgun practically shot itself, there wasn't even a safety switch to fuss with....

Reston was halfway back to control when it occurred to him that he should have let the workmen out of the cafeteria; he'd walked right past the locked door, twice, and hadn't thought of it. Too much brandy perhaps. He considered going back for about one heartbeat, deciding that they could damn well wait; making certain that the 3Ks were acting as they should was much more important. Besides, he meant to fire the whole worthless lot as soon as he'd reestablished contact with the home office; not one of them had even tried to protect the Planet or their employer.

Control, ahead on the right. Reston broke into a jog, rounding the corner to the offshoot and hurrying through the door. There was movement on one of the screens, and he ran to the chair, both excited and anxious to see the men fall. It was nothing to be ashamed of, theywerein the wrong, after all—

—and they weren't dead, not one of them, but Reston saw that now it was only a matter of moments. All three men were shooting at one of the Hunters, and as he watched, a second loped on to the scene, still as black as the car it must have been standing by.

Red spun to his right, shooting at the new threat, but the 3K wasn't to be put off by a few puny bullets; with a single massive leap, the Hunter closed the gap between them, twenty feet with one powerful thrust. They could do almost thirty, Reston knew from the preliminary data—

—and now Cole was firing at it, too, as John

continued to blast at the first, already the deep gray of the asphalt. The first had taken a lot, fire from all three men; as Reston watched, it turned and sprang off of the screen, out of sight.

The second was still a deep shining black, perfectly defined as it raised one muscular arm to swat at the bullets hammering its body. Huge, a naked, sexless humanoid shape, the towering beast with the sloping, reptilian skull and three-inch talons threw back its head and howled. Reston knew the sound, his mind filling it in for the silently screaming creature as it started to disappear into the street, the match near perfect, as it swung its arm again and Red was knocked sprawling.

Yes!

John stepped in front of his fallen comrade and blasted at the fading monster, as Cole pulled Red to his feet, the two men backing away. There was some vocal interchange—

—and the two ran off the screen, headed south . . . had the creature been hurt? John stopped firing and there was blood pouring from somewhere, covering the 3K's face, its chest—

—eyes, must have hit its eyes. Dammit!It reeled and fell, not a fatal wound but one that would incapacitate it for a while.

John turned and ran after his companions, no other Hunters in sight—at least Reston didn't think so. Not that it mattered, they were as good as dead; there was no way they could get through the city without being attacked, nowhere they could hide—though just to be on the safe side, Reston tapped the doorlock for the connecting door back to Three.

No retreat, gentlemen. . . .

They hadn't appeared on the screen that showed the street just south of the first camera angle; frowning, Reston switched cameras, using one from a building front—

—and saw a door close, the men seeking sanctuary inside one of the stores. Reston shook his head. That would probably shield them for five minutes, certainly no longer, the 3Ks had the strength to tear down the city, if they so chose, and hunted primarily by sense of smell. They'd track the cowering men, track them and finally put an end to their trouble-making, useless lives.

There wasn't a camera in the building they'd entered; he'd have to wait for them to reappear, or for

the Hunters to drag them out. Reston grinned, his teeth grinding together, impatient, wondering why the 3Ks were taking so goddamn long. It was time for the test to end, time for the Planet to be restored.

The Hunters wouldn't fail him. He just had to wait a few more minutes.

They found the way in at the back of the middle building, past the generator room, where they'd put the three snarling guards. It was a total fluke, as they'd only been looking for the controls to unlock the service elevator back in the entry building.

There were four of them, a bank of elevators in a carpeted alcove against the far west wall. They weren't operational, but there was a two-man lift in the first shaft they opened up, David and Claire prying the doors open with no small effort. Though tired and unwell, the sight of the tiny platform hooked

to its own pulley system made Rebecca want to laugh out loud.

They'll never suspect that we're coming, we'll slip in like shadows.

"Looks as though someone forgot to lock the back door," David said, a look of triumph on his weary face.

Claire looked at the small square of metal doubtfully. "Will we all fit?"

David didn't answer right away, turning to look at Rebecca. She knew what he was going to suggest and started digging for a decent argument before he even opened his mouth.

The helicopter could come back, probably will, if they're injured you'll need me, what if the guards manage to get out—

"Rebecca—I need an honest assessment of your condition," he said, his features carefully neutral.

"I'm tired, I have a headache and a limp—and you need me down there, David, I'm not a hundred percent but I'm not on the verge of collapse, either, and you said yourself that another team is probably on the way—"

David was smiling, holding up his hands. "Allright, we all go. It will be a tight fit, but the weight shouldn't be a problem, you're both small. .. ."

He stepped inside, pulling his flashlight and shining it across the hanging cables, then on the simple control box attached to the lift's half-railing. "... I think we can manage well enough. Shall we?"

Rebecca and then Claire stepped into the elevator shaft, the makeshift service platform only filling a quarter of the dark space. Cold, open air was above

and below, and the rail was only on one side. Claire squirmed uncomfortably against the metal bar; the three of them were pressed tightly together.

"Wish I had a breath mint," Claire muttered.

"Iwish you had breath mint," Rebecca said, and Claire snickered. Rebecca could feel the movement of Claire's rib cage against her arm; they were packed in tight.

"Here we go," David said, and pushed the controls.

The lift started to descend with a huge, buzzing rumble that was so loud Rebecca began having second thoughts about their sneak attack. It was slow, too, inching down at less than half the speed of a normal elevator.

God, this could take forever. ...

Just the thought made Rebecca feel incredibly weary, the noise of the roaring motor compounding her headache. Standing still made her realize just how sick she really felt, and as the bright square of the open doors slid up, shrinking away as they descended into the dark, Rebecca was suddenly glad that they were huddled together; it gave her an excuse to lean heavily against David, her eyes closed, trying to keep herself together for just a little longer.

EIGHTEEN

THEY WERE IN TROUBLE, FALLING INTO THE building and moving to the back wall through the dark, sweating and gasping, Cole expecting the flimsy door to crash open any second.

—boom, and they come pouring in, screaming, clawing us to shreds before we evenseethem—

"Got a plan," John panted, and Cole felt a flicker of hope, a hope that lasted until John's next sentence.

"We run like hell for the back wall," he said firmly.

"Are you nuts?" Leon said. "Did you see that one jump,there's no way we can outrun them—"

John took a deep breath and started talking, low and fast. "You're right, but you and I are both good shots, we could take out some of the streetlights along the way. Even if they can see in the dark, it'll be a distraction, stir up some confusion maybe."

Leon didn't say anything, and although he couldn't see his face clearly, Cole saw him rubbing at his

shoulder where the creature had smacked him. Slowly, like he was actually considering John's idea.

They're both nuts!

Cole struggled to keep the blatant terror out of his voice. "Isn't there some other option? I mean, we could ... we could climb, go across on the rooftops."

"Buildings are all different heights," John said.

"And I don't think they're built to hold much weight."

"What if we—"

Leon interrupted softly. "We don't have the ammo, Henry."

"So we go back to Phase Three, think it over. . . ."

"We're closer to the southwest corner," John said, and Cole knew they were right, knew it and hated it, a lot. Still, he searched for some other option, trying to think of some other way. The Hunters were terrible, they were the most terrible things Cole thought he'd ever seen—

—and from somewhere outside, one of them screamed, the screeching, furious sound blasting through the thin walls, and Cole realized that they

didn't have time to come up with a better plan.

"Okay, yeah, okay," he said, thinking that the very least he could do would be to suck it up and face the inevitable like he actually had guts.

/won't drag them down,he thought, and took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders a little. If this was the way it had to be, he wasn't going to shame himself in front of them by turning into a sniveling coward—and he wasn't going to lower their chances by becoming a burden.

Cole pulled the clip that John had given him out of his pocket and fumbled through swapping it for the empty, his heart pounding—and was a little surprised to find that now that he was committed, that the decision was made, he felt stronger, braver.

I might very well die,he said to himself, and waited for the rush of horror—but it didn't come. He'd already be dead if it wasn't for John and Leon, and maybe this would be his chance to keep one or both of them from getting hurt.

Without another word, the three of them moved for the door, Cole thinking that his life had changed more in the last couple of hours than in the last ten years— and that in spite of how it had come about, he was glad for the change. He felt whole. He feltreal.

"Ready . . ." John said, and Cole took a deep breath, Leon grinning at him in the soft light from the window.

". . .now!"

John yanked the door open and they ran out into the street as all around them, the night was shattered by the savage screams of the Hunters.

Reston's eyes glittered. He leaned forward, staring at the screen intently, delighted by the suicidal decision. All three of them, storming out into the dark like lunatics. Like dead men who didn't have the sense to stop moving.

They ran south, John in the lead, Red and Cole right behind. From a sidewalk to their right, a Hunter leapt out to greet them—

—and there was a flash of light, a brilliant burst of

white-orange high above, burning glass like glitter raining down across the street. One of the street-lamps, they'd shot out one of the lamps, and the 3K seemed to go mad as the broken glass pelted down over it. The red-turning-gray Hunter whipped its body around, frenzied and screaming, searching for its attacker—

—and completely ignored the running men. All three were sprinting past, raising weapons, firing into the sky. Firing at more of the lights, and Reston saw another Hunter spring out into the street, almost lost as a shadow among shadows—

—and Cole, HenryColefeinted left then right, slamming the barrel of his gun against the crouching 3Ks head—

—and there was a burst of liquid, of brain and blood projectile gushing from its temple, the electrician firing at point blank range. The Hunter's arms and legs were spasming, flailing, but it was already dead. Cole jumped away and kept running, catching up to the others as more of the streetlights exploded, glass flying from strobing flashes of white light.

"No," Reston whispered, unaware that he'd spoken, but quite aware that things were going horribly wrong.

John ran, paused to fire, ran again. The violent shrieks chased them, the rain of glass and smell of burning metal was coming at them from everywhere—

—and he saw one of them in the street, in front of them at the intersection that would take them to the

cage, saw the strange flashing eyes and the open black hole of its screaming mouth—

—save the ammo Jesus it looks justlike the street—

—and he kept running straight at it, taking aim, the thundering rounds of the nine-millimeters behind him, the screaming monster less than ten feet away when he fired.

Now!

A short burst, measured, directly into the howling, unnatural face—

—and it didn't go down, and although he swerved to avoid it, he didn't get far enough. Its screeching face seeming inches from his, visible, thick with blood, it swung one impossibly long arm out and slammed it into John's chest.

The blow crashed into his left pectoral, and John expected to be crushed, thrown through the air, his body shattered—but the creature must have been weakened by the bullets, disoriented, blinded perhaps, because though he could feel his pec contracting in pain—the strike had been brutally solid—he'd taken harder punches. He'd staggered but didn't fall, then he was past and turning left, headed west.

He shot a look back, saw the others still with him, looked ahead—

—there it is!

The street ended at the painted wall less than a block ahead—and there was an opening set about five feet off the ground, a hole eight feet wide and at least ten feet high—

—and there was another scream to his right, he couldn't see the camouflaged Hunter butbam-bam,

Leon or Cole shot at it, the shriek going frantic with rage. John raised the M-16 and took out another streetlight,ten seconds and we're there—

—and a panel of deep blue wall started to slide down over the opening, slow but steady. In seconds, there'd be no escape.

Reston stabbed frantically at the kennel lock, the gate creeping down on its tracks like a goddamn snail, his hands clammy with sweat, his drunken mind reeling with disbelief.

No no no no—

He'd closed Two and Three but there'd been a Hunter still inside before, he'd left it open, forgot-ten—and now the animal was gone and the three men were about to get away. To get away fromhim,from

Faster!

John was shooting a look back, screaming, Red right behind, Cole almost at his side—

—and there was a Hunter less than twenty feet behind them, gaining ground, its massive body flickering between tan and asphalt, its claws scraping gouges in the street.

Kill them, do it, jump, kill!

John made it to the opening, hands hitting the bottom, vaulting him through in a graceful blur. One hand shot out and Red was there, grabbing it, being jerked inside in an instant—

—and there was Cole, and he was going to make it through, too, the gate wouldn't close in time and there were hands reaching out to him—

—and then the Hunter behind him swept its arms down, its talons ripping into Cole's back, through the shirt and skin, through muscle, perhaps through bone.

The others swept Cole inside as the gate settled closed.

Cole didn't scream as they set him down, though he must have been in agony. They placed him on his stomach as gently as they could, Leon feeling sick with sorrow when he saw the shredded mess that had been Cole's back.

Dying, he's dying.

In seconds, he lay in a pool of his own blood.

Through the tatters of his wet, crimson shirt, Leon could see the ripped flesh, the torn muscle fibers and the slick shine of bone beneath. The crushed bone.

The damage had been done in two long, ragged tears, each starting above the shoulder blades and ending at his lower back. Mortal wounds.

Cole was breathing in low, shallow gasps, his eyes closed, his hands trembling.

Unconscious. Leon looked at John, saw the stricken expression, looked away; there was nothing they could

They were in a giant mesh cage that stank of wild animal at the end of a long cement hall, one that apparently ran the length of the four testing areas. It was dark, only a few lights on, revealing the kennel in shadows; the cages were separated by partition walls with huge windows, and Leon could just see the one next to them, the Spitters' home. It was covered in thick, clear plastic, the floor littered with bones.

The Hunters' cage was empty, at least thirty feet

wide and twice as long, a couple of low troughs at the mesh walls. It was a cold and lonely place to die, but at least he was out, he wasn't feeling any—

"Turn... me, over," Cole whispered. His eyes were open, his lips quivering.

"Hey, lie easy," John said gently. "You're gonna be fine, Henry, just stay where you are, don't move, okay?"

"Bull, shit," Cole said. "Roll me over, I'm, dying..."

John locked gazes with Leon, who nodded reluctantly. He didn't want to cause Cole any more pain, but he didn't want to refuse him; he was dying, they should give him anything they could.

Carefully, slowly, John lifted Cole and turned him. Cole moaned when his back touched the floor, his eyes wide and rolling, but seemed to feel some relief after a moment. Maybe the cold ... or maybe he was past the point of pain, going numb.

"Thanks," he whispered, a blood bubble popping on his pale lips.

"Henry, try to rest now," Leon said softly, wanting to cry. The man had tried so hard to be brave, to keep up with them ...

"Fossil," Cole said, his gaze fixing on Leon's. "In, tube. Guys said—if it got, out, it'd—destroy every. Thing. In the ... lab room. West. Understand?"

Leon nodded, understanding perfectly. "An Umbrella creature in the lab room. Fossil. You want us to

Cole closed his eyes, his waxy face so still that Leon thought it might be over—but he spoke again, quietly enough that they had to lean in to hear him.

"Yeah," he breathed. "Good."

Cole took one last breath, letting it out—and his chest didn't rise again.

Within minutes of Cole's death, the two men figured out how to escape from the Hunter cage. Reston stared at the screen, feeling nothing, determined not to be surprised. They simply weren't human, that was all; once he'd accepted that, there was nothing to be surprised at any longer.

The feeding troughs had been wedged firmly into long, narrow gaps in the steel mesh so that the handlers could feed the specimens without entering the cage; enough of the trough was outside so that one could simply drop food in, the animals taking it from their side. That the 3Ks might try to pull the feeding containers inside or push them out wasn't a concern, since the gaps were much too narrow for their bodies.

But not for human bodies... or for theirs, whatever they are.

John and Red both started to kick at the trough, and as it started to edge out, Reston picked up his revolver and stood, turning away from the screens. There was no point in watching. He'd failed, the Planet's tests had proved too easy and he would be severely disciplined for what he'd done, perhaps killed. But he wasn't ready to die, not yet—and not at their hands.

But the elevator, the surface people. . . .

It wasn't safe to go up, either. The compound was probably overrun with these S.T.A.R.S. soldiers by now, they'd cut him off and now were just waiting for their two boys to drive him out. . . .

Can't go up, can't kill them, not enough time. . . the cafeteria!

His employees would help him. Once he freed them, once he explained things, they'd rally around him, protect him from harm. The specifics would

have to be edited, of course, but he could work that out on his way.

Have to go now, they'll be out soon, out and looking for me. Looking to avenge Cole, perhaps. Looking to make me sorry, when I only did my job, what any man would do.. ..

Somehow, he doubted they'd understand. Reston walked out, already working through his story, wondering how things had gone so terribly awry.

NINETEEN

FROM THE KENNEL, THEY STEPPED OUT INto a clean and sterile hallway and turned left—west— moving quickly through the deserted corridor. Neither of them spoke; there was nothing to say until they found what Cole had called Fossil, until they could decide if he'd had the right idea.

For the first time since they'd come to the Planet,

John didn't feel like making any jokes. Cole had been a good guy, he'd done his best to make up for luring them into the test program, he'd done what they told him to do—and now he was gone, brutally savaged, dying in blood and pain on the floor of a cage.

Reston. Reston would pay for it, and if the best way to get to him was to unleash some Umbrella monster, so be it. A fitting justice.

Screw the code book. If Fossil's as badass as Cole seemed to think, we release it and let the workers go

and get out. Let it tear this place apart. Let it have Reston....

The hall curved right, then straightened out, continuing west. When they turned the corner, they saw the door on the right—and somehow, John just knew that it was Cole's lab room. He felt it.

He was right, after a fashion. The metal door opened—after they'd used a nine-millimeter key— into a small laboratory with counters and computers, which then opened into a surgical theater, all gleaming steel and porcelain. The door set into the back wall of the operating room was the one Cole had meant for them to find—and when they saw the creature, John could see why he'd insisted on telling

them about it, even with his last gasping breaths. If it was even half as vicious as it looked, the Planet was history.

"Christ," Leon said, and John couldn't think of anything to add to that. They moved slowly toward the giant cylinder that sat in the corner of the large room, past the steel autopsy table and trays of shining equipment, finally stopping in front of the tube. The lights in the room were off, but there was a directional light aimed at the container from the ceiling, illuminating the thing. The Fossil.

The tube was fifteen feet high and at least ten in diameter, filled with a clear red liquid—and enveloped in the fluid, attached to tubes and wires that ran through the top, was a monster. A nightmare.

John imagined that it was called Fossil because of what it looked like, at least partly—some kind of a dinosaur, though not one that had ever walked the

Earth. The ten-foot-tall creature was some pale color, its pebbled flesh a glowing pink because of the red liquid that surrounded it. There was no tail, but it had the thick skin and powerful legs of a dino. It was obviously built to walk upright, and though it had the small eyes and heavy, rounded snout of a carnivorous dinosaur, a T. Rex or velociraptor, it also had long, thickly muscled arms and hands with slender, grasping fingers. As impossible as it was, it looked like the mutant offspring of a man and a dinosaur.

What were they thinking? Why—why make something like this?

It was asleep, or in some kind of coma, but it was definitely alive. Connected to a thin hose was a small, clear mask that covered its nostril slits, and a band of plastic was tied around its thick snout to hold the giant jaws closed. John couldn't see them, but he had no doubt that there were rows of pointed teeth in the creature's wide and curving mouth. Its beady eyes were covered by some inner eyelid, a thin layer of purpled skin, and they could actually see the slow rise of its thick chest, the gently bobbing motions of its massive body in the red goo.

There was a clipboard hanging on the wall next to the Fossil, above a small monitor screen where thin green lines blipped silently across in fading pulses.

Leon picked the clipboard up, flipping through the pages as John just stared, awed and disgusted. One of its spidery hands twitched, the eight-inch fingers curling into a loose fist.

"Says here that it's slated for autopsy in three and a half weeks," Leon said, scanning. " 'Specimen will

remain in stasis,' blah blah blah . . . 'when it will be injected with a lethal dose of Hyptheion prior to dissection.'"

John glanced back at the autopsy table, saw the folded steel leaves on either side and three bone saws tucked underneath. The table had apparently been built to accommodate larger animals.

"Why keep it alive at all?" John asked, turning back to the sleeping Fossil. It was hard not to look; the creature was compelling, horrid and marvelous, an aberration that demanded attention.

"Maybe so the organs will be fresh," Leon said, then took a deep breath. "So ... do we do it?"

That's the million dollar question, isn't it? We won't have the codes—but Umbrella will have one less playground for their twisted science. And maybe one less administrator.

"Yeah," John said. "Yeah, I think we do."

The men listened to him in silence, their faces thoughtful as they absorbed the horror that had invaded the Planet. The invasion from above, his call for help, how the gunmen had knocked him out after killing Henry Cole in cold blood. They asked no questions, just sat and drank coffee—someone had made coffee—and watched him speak. No one offered him a cup.

"... and once I recovered, I came here," Reston said, and ran a shaking hand through his hair, wincing appropriately. He didn't have to fake the tremors.

"I—they're still out there, somewhere, perhaps planting explosives, I don't know . . . but we can stop them if we work together."

He could see in their blank eyes that it wasn't working, he wasn't inspiring them to act. He wasn't the best with people, but he could read them well

enough.

They're not buying, work the Henry angle. . . .

Reston's shoulders slumped, a quiver creeping into his voice. "They just shot him," he said, staring down in stunned sorrow. "He was begging,pleadingfor them to let him live, and they—they shot him."

"Where's the body?"

Reston looked up, saw that Leo Yan had spoken, one of the 3Ks' two handlers. Yan had no expression at all, leaning against the edge of the table with his arms crossed.

"What?" Reston asked, looking confused but knowing exactly what Yan was talking about.Think, dammit, should have thought of this already—

"Henry," someone else said, and Reston saw it was Tom Something-or-other, from construction. His gruff voice was openly skeptical. "They shot him, they knocked you out—so he's still by the cell block, right?"

"I—I don't know," Reston said, feeling too hot, feeling dehydrated from so much brandy. Feeling as though he might not be able to recover from the unexpected question. "Yes, he must be, unless they moved him for some reason. I woke up confused, dizzy, I wanted to get to you immediately, to make sure none of you had been injured. I didn't see if he was still there. . . ."

They stared at him, a sea of rough faces that were no longer so neutral. Reston saw disbelief and disrespect, anger—and in the eyes of one or two, he saw what might have been hatred.

Why, what have I done to inspire such contempt? I'm their manager, their employer, I pay their goddamn wages—

One of the mechanics stood up from the table and addressed the rest of them, ignoring Reston completely. It was Nick Frewer, the one who seemed the most popular among the men.

"Who says we get outta here?" Nick said. "Tommy,

Tom nodded. "Sure, but not for the gate or the storage shed."

"I got those," said Ken Carson, the cook. He stood up, too, and then most were standing, stretching and yawning, draining their cups.

Nick nodded. "Good. Everyone go pack up, be at the elevator in five—"

"Wait!" Reston said, unable to believe what he was hearing, that they would walk away from their moral duty, from theirobligations.That they could ignore him. "There are more on the surface, they'll kill you! You have to help me!"

Nick turned and looked at him, his gaze calm and insufferably patronizing. "Mr. Reston, we don't have to do anything. I don't know what's really going on, but I believe you're a liar—and I may not speak for everyone, but I knowI'mnot getting paid enough to be your bodyguard."

He smiled suddenly, his blue eyes sparkling. "Besides which, they're not afterus."

Nick turned and walked away, and Reston briefly considered shooting him—but he only had six bullets

and no doubts that the men would turn on him if he injured one of their working-class pack. He thought about telling them that their lives were over, that he wouldn't forget their treachery, but he didn't want to waste his breath. And he didn't have time.

Hide.

It was all there was to do.

Reston turned his back on the insubordinates and hurried out, his mind grasping for places to go, rejecting them as too obvious, too exposed—

—and then he had it. The bank of elevators, around the corner from the medical facilities. It was perfect. No one would think to look in an elevator car that didn't even work, he could pry one open and be safe inside. At least for a while, until he thought of something else he could do.

Sweating in spite of the cool gray stillness that was the main corridor, Reston turned right and started to run.

After what seemed like hours of going down through the dark, of the cold and uncomfortable huddle on the deafeningly loud servicing lift, they hit bottom.

Or top, depending on how you look at it,Claire thought absently, looking down through the open panel as David's flashlight played across the plush interior, as the roaring motor wound down to silence. They'd landed on top of an elevator car, empty except for a stepladder pushed to one side.

They stepped off of the metal square, Claire relieved to be back on a reasonably solid surface. Riding down through an open elevator shaft where one false

move could send you crashing to your death wasn't her idea of a good time.

"Think anyone heard us?" Claire asked, and saw David's silhouette shrug.

"If they were within a thousand feet of this thing, yes," he said. "Wait, I'll get the stepstool. . . ."

Claire turned on her flashlight as David sat, grabbing the edges of the open panel and lowering himself down. As he moved the small ladder into place, Rebecca turned her flashlight on, and Claire caught a glimpse of her face.

"Hey, you okay?" She asked, worried. Rebecca looked sick, too pale and with dark, purplish half circles beneath her eyes.

"Yeah. I've been better, but I'll survive," she said lightly.

Claire wasn't convinced, but before she could pursue it any further, David called up to them.

"Alright—let your feet hang down, I'll guide them to the steps and then lift you down."

Claire motioned for Rebecca to go first, deciding that if she couldn't function, she'd probably say something. As David helped Rebecca down, though, it occurred to Claire thatshewouldn't say anything.

I'd want to help, and I wouldn't want to be left behind; I'd keep going if it killed me. . . .

Claire pushed the thoughts aside, lowering herself down through the elevator's roof. Rebecca wasn't as stubborn as she was, and she was a medic. She was fine.

As soon as she was down, David nodded at Claire and the two of them pulled at the cold metal doors,

Rebecca holding her semi aimed loosely at the widening gap. When they'd managed to push the heavy doors a couple of feet apart, David stepped out first, then motioned for them to follow.

Wow.

She wasn't sure what she expected, but the gray hall of subtly lit concrete wasn't it. It stretched right, ending in a door, and left, a sharp turn about twenty feet from the elevator that headed east. Claire wasn't sure about the directions, but she knew that the elevator that had trapped Leon and John was roughly southeast—assuming it had gone straight down, anyway.

It was quiet, perfectly still and quiet. David tilted his head to the left, indicating that they would head that way, and Claire and Rebecca both nodded.

Might as well start at the elevator, see if we can figure out which way they headed. . . .

Claire glanced at Rebecca again, not wanting to stare but uneasy about her health; she really didn't look so good, and as Rebecca turned toward the hall's corner, Claire hung back a little. She caught David's gaze, nodding slightly toward the young medic, frowning.

He hesitated, then nodded in turn, and she saw that he wasn't blind to her condition. At least there was that—

—and Rebecca let out a sharp cry of surprise, already at the corner— —as a man in a blue suit leapt forward and grabbed her, knocking her gun out of her hand, putting a revolver to the side of her head. He locked one arm

around her throat, tight, and turned wild, sweaty eyes in their direction, his finger on the trigger, a trembling grin on his aging face.

"I'll kill her! I'll do it! Don't make me do it!"

Rebecca clutched at his arm and he squeezed even tighter, his hands shaking, his blue eyes darting back and forth between David and Claire. Rebecca's eyes closed a little, her fingers dropping away, and Claire realized that she was too weak, that she was on the verge of collapse as it was.

"You people aren't going to kill me, just stay away!

Stay away or I'll kill her!"

The barrel of the revolver was pressed to her skull; if David or she made a move. . . .

They watched helplessly as the madman started backing around them, dragging Rebecca with him toward the door at the end of the hall.

TWENTY

IT WAS FRIGHTENINGLY EASY TO BRING FOSsil out of stasis. In a matter of moments, Leon had gotten into the monitoring program and figured out how to drain the giant cylinder. According to the digital timer that popped up on the screen, it would only take about five minutes once he entered the command.

Man, anyone working here could have done it, at any time. For such a paranoid company, Umbrella sure takes chances. . . .

"Hey, look at this," John said, and Leon turned from the small computer, glancing warily at the monster. Even after surviving the hell of Raccoon, after fighting zombies and mammoth spiders and even a giant alligator, it was probably the strangest thing he'd ever seen.

John was standing at the wall across the room, staring up at a laminated picture. As Leon got closer,

he saw that it was a map of the Planet, each area neatly labeled. The testing facility had a fairly simple layout, basically a giant corridor that surrounded the four phases, most of the rooms and offices on offshoots from the main hall.

John tapped a small square at the east, just across from where the service elevator was. "Says 'test control/monitor room,'" he said, "and it's on the way out."

"You think Reston's holed up there?" Leon asked.

John shrugged. "If he was watching us in the test program, that's where he would have been—what I'm interested in is if he happened to leave his little black book lying around."

"Wouldn't hurt to check," Leon said. "It'll take the tube about five minutes to drain, we'd have time—assuming the elevator's not a problem."

John turned around to look at Fossil, asleep in its gel womb. "You think it'll actually wake up?"

Leon nodded. The stats that had been listed in the simple monitoring program all seemed to match up, its heart rate and respiration indicating deep sleep; no reason it wouldn't wake up once the warm nutrient bath was drained.

And it'll probably wake up cold, pissed, and hungry. ...

"Yeah," he said. "And we want to be gone when it does."

John smiled a little, not his usual grin but a smile, anyway. "Then let's get gone," he said softly.

Leon walked back to the computer, bathed in pale red light from the stasis tube. Fossil floated peacefully, a sleeping giant. A monstrosity, created by

monstrous people and living a useless life in a place built for death.

Take it all down,Leon thought, and hit the "Enter" key. The timer started its count; they had five minutes.

David thought it was probably Reston, although there was no way to be sure. It didn't matter, all he cared

about was how to get Rebecca away from him, and as the crazed man in the blue suit backed to the door, David realized that there was nothing he could do.

Not yet.

"Just go away! Leave me alone!" The man—Res-ton—shouted, and then he was gone. Rebecca was gone, and the weak, listless way she'd looked at them before the door closed scared David badly.

"What do we do?"

He looked at Claire, saw the anxiety and fear on her face, and made himself take a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. They wouldn't be able to do anything if they panicked—

—and we could very well get her killed.

"Stay calm," he said, feeling anything but. "We don't know the floor plan, we can't circle around behind him . . . we'll have to follow."

"But he—"

"Yes, I know what he said," David interrupted. "There's no alternative at this point. We let them get a safe distance, then follow, look for an opening."

And hope that he's not as unstable as he looks.

"Claire—this is stealth work, we can't afford to make a sound. Perhaps it would be better if you stayed here "

Claireshookher head, a look of determination in her grayeyes."I can do it,"shesaid, firmly and clearly. She had no doubts, and though untrained, she'd proven herself to be quick and steady.

David nodded and they walked to the door to wait, two minutes unless we hear an exit, crack the door for sound—

He forced himself to take another deep breath, cursing himself for letting Rebecca come with them. She was exhausted and injured, she wouldn't be able to fight if he decided to tighten his arm a bit more about her throat....

No. Hang on, Rebecca. We're coming, and we can wait all night for him to make a slip, to find our opportunity.

They waited, David praying that Reston wouldn't hurt her, swearing that he'd cut out the man's liver and feed it to him if he did.

They looked for the elevator, not sprinting through the endless gray hall, but not taking their time about it, either. The cafeteria was empty, and a half-minute check of the bunk rooms satisfied John that the workers had gone. There were clear signs that the guys had been in a hurry to grab their shit and get out.

Hope Reston's still here, though....

As they ran north down the main corridor, John decided that if Mr. Blue was still in the control room, he'd knock him out. A good solid punch to the temple would do it, and if he didn't wake up before Fossil started to roam, too bad.

They ran past the small offshoot that connected the control room to the main hall, both of them panting,

both of them aware that they needed a working elevator a hell of a lot more than they needed to screw with Reston. As Leon had said, they didn't want to be around for the Planet's grand finale.

The open panel in the wall and the small light above the "In use" sign were enough to make John grin like a kid, the relief a cool and sweeping wave; they'd taken a big risk deciding to let Fossil out before securing their escape route.

Leon hit the recall button, looking just as relieved. "Two, two-and-a-half minutes," he said, and John nodded.

"Just a quick look," he said, and turned back toward the small passage across the hall. Leon was out of ammo, but John still had a few rounds in the M-16 in case Reston did anything stupid.

They hurried to the door at the end of the hall and found it unlocked. John went first, sweeping the large room with the rifle, then whistling in awe at the setup.

"Damn," he said softly. A line of black leather chairs

faced an entire wall of screens. Deep red plush carpet. A shining silver console, sleek and ultramodern, a table that looked like solid white marble behind it.

At least we don't have to dig through any clutter. ...

Except for a coffee mug and a silver flask on the console, there was nothing to see. No papers or office stuff, no personal items, no secret code books.

"Probably ought to get going," Leon said. "I'm estimating time here, I'd hate to be a couple minutes off."

"Yeah, okay. Let's—"

There was movement on one of the wall screens, midway through the second row from the top. John

stepped closer to the monitor, wondering who the hell it could be,the employees got out and that's two people, can't be—

"Oh, shit," John said, and felt his stomach drop, a sickening plunge that seemed to go on and on, his horrified gaze fixed to the screen.

Reston, with a gun. Dragging Rebecca through some hall, his arm around her throat. Rebecca's feet halfdragging on the floor, her head hanging, her arms slack.

"Claire!"

John glanced away, saw Leon staring at a second monitor, saw David and Claire, armed, moving quickly down another featureless corridor.

"Can we refill the tube?" John barked, his gut still lurching, feeling more terrified by the sight of their friends than he had all night,that miserable bastard's got 'becca—

"I don't know," Leon said quickly, "we can try, but we've gotta gonow— "

John stepped back from the wall, searching the pictures for one of the laboratory area, his exhaustion falling away as fresh adrenaline pounded into his system.

There, a dark room, a single light in the corner

pointed at the tube, at the moving, thrashing thing inside. In seconds, dripping hands plunged through the clear matter, tearing, shattering, a massive, pallid, reptilian leg stepping through.

Too late: Fossil was out.

TWENTY-ONE

THE CREATURE DESIGNATED TYRANT SERIES ReHla, more commonly known as Fossil, was motivated purely by instinct and it only had one: eat. All of its actions stemmed from that single, primal urge.

If there was something between it and food, Fossil destroyed it. If something attacked, tried to stop it from food, Fossil killed it. There was no reproductive impulse, because Fossil was the only member of its species.

Fossil woke hungry. It sensed food, picking up on electrical charges in the air, scents, distant heat—and destroyed the thing that held it. The environment was unfamiliar to Fossil, but not important; there was food, and it was hungry.

At ten feet tall and weighing roughly a thousand pounds, the wall that stood between Fossil and food didn't stop it for long. Past that was another wall, and then another—and the rich feels and smells of food

were very close, so close that Fossil experienced the closest thing it had to an emotion: itwanted,a state of being that went beyond hunger, a powerful extension of its instinct that encouraged it to move faster. Fossil would eat almost anything, but living food always made it want.

The wall that stopped it from food was thicker and harder than the others, but not so much that it could stop Fossil. It ripped through the layers of substance and was in a strange place, nothing organic there but the moving, screeching food.

Food ran at it, hard to see but smelling quite strongly. Food raised a claw and swiped at Fossil, crying in fury, its desire to attack and kill; Fossil knew this because of the smell. Within seconds, Fossil was surrounded by food, and again, it wanted. The animals that were food howled and screamed, dancing and leaping, and Fossil reached out and picked up the closest.

Food had sharp talons, but Fossil's hide was thick.

Fossil bit into the food, tearing a great chunk from the writhing body, and was fulfilled. Its sense of purpose was met so long as it chewed and swallowed, hot blood dripping down its throat, hot flesh ripping between its teeth.

The other food animals continued to attack, making it easy for Fossil to eat. Fossil ate all of the food animals in a short period of time, and its metabolism used the food almost as quickly, giving Fossil strength to find more food. It was an extremely simple process, one that continued as long as Fossil was awake.

Finished with the dark and cavernous room that had housed the screaming food, Fossil licked blood off its fingers and opened its senses, searching for its next meal. In seconds, it knew that there was more, living and moving close by.

Fossil wanted. Fossil was hungry.

TWENTY-TWO

THE GIRL WAS SICK, HER SKIN CLAMMY, HER attempts to get away from him pathetic and weak.

Reston wished he could get rid of her, just drop her and run, but he didn't dare. She was his ticket through the forces on the surface; surely they wouldn't kill one of their own.

Still, he wished the stupid girl wasn't so ill; she was slowing him down, hardly able to walk, and he had no choice but to continue dragging her along, north through the back corridor, then east at the far corner of the facility, heading for the connecting door to the cell block. From the cells the service elevator was a two-minute walk.

Almost there, almost done with this impossible, incredible night, not much farther. . . .

He was an extremely important man, he was a respected member of a group that had more money and power than most countries, he was Jay Wallingford Reston—and here he was being hunted in his own facility, forced to take ahostage,to hold a gun to the head of a sick girl and sneak out like some criminal; it was ludicrous, just unbelievable.

"Too tight," the girl whispered, her voice strangled and rasping.

"Too bad," he answered, continuing to drag her along by her slender throat, her head tucked through his arm; she should have thought of that before she decided to invade the Planet.

He pulled her through the door that led into the cell block, feeling better with each step he took. Each was another step closer to escape, to survival. He would notbe gunned down by some pious, self-righteous group of visionless thugs; he'd kill himself first.

Past the empty cells, almost to the door—and the girl stumbled, falling into him so hard that she almost knocked him down. She gripped him tightly, trying to regain her balance, and Reston felt a sudden insane rush of anger at her, of rage.

Stupidbitch,assassin, spy, I should shoot you right here, now, blow your slack, stupid brain across the walls—

He regained control before he could pull the trigger, but the loss of composure frightened him a little. It would have been a mistake, and a costly one.

"Do that again and I'll kill you," he said coldly, and kicked at the door that led into the main hall, pleased at the merciless quality of his voice. He sounded strong, like a man who wouldn't hesitate to kill if it served his purposes—which, he was coming to discover, was what he was.

Through the door and into the hall—

"Let her go, Reston!"

John and Red were at the corner, both of them with weapons trained onhim.Blocking the path to the elevator.

Immediately, Reston dragged the girl back, they'd just have to go back into the cell block while he decided how to handle—

"Forget it," Red growled. "They're right behind you, we saw them tailing you. You're trapped."

Reston pushed the gun barrel against the girl's head, desperate,I've got the hostage, they can't, they have to let me go—

"I'll kill her!" He backed up again, moving toward the anteroom of the test program, the girl staggering to stay on her feet.

"And then we'll kill you," John said, not a whisper of lie in his deep voice. "If you hurt her, we'll hurt you.Let her go and we leave."

Reston reached the closed metal door and reached around for the control panel, hitting the button that would unlock the gate and the hatch into One.

"You can't possibly expect me to believe that," he sneered as the sheet metal slid up; there was only one Dae left alive and he'd left their kennel open—/can climb, I can still get away from them, it's not too late!

At that second, the door to the cell block opened and the other two stepped out—stepped in between the gunmen and him, and he acted before he had time to think, taking his chance.

Reston pushed the girl away, hard, throwing her toward all four of them and he jumped left in the same motion, hitting the hatch with his shoulder. The

door into One flew open and he was through, slamming it closed. There was a bolt and he threw it, the the metal making a sound like music.

As long as he stayed away from the clearings, he was safe. They couldn't touch him.

Strong hands caught her before she could crash into the ground—and she couldbreatheagain—and John and Leon were alive ... the relief was an ocean of warmth rising up over her, making her feel even weaker than she already was. The extended chokehold had taken most of what little strength she'd had. In fact, now that she thought about it, Rebecca felt an awful lot like death on two legs; like crap on a cracker, as she used to say when she was a child. .. .

Claire held her steady—it was Claire's strong hands that she'd felt—and everyone gathered around her, John picking her up easily. Rebecca closed her eyes, relaxing into her exhaustion.

"Are you alright?" David asked, and she nodded, relieved and happy that they were together again, that no one had been hurt—

—no one but me, anyway—

—and she knew that once she had a chance to rest, she'd be fine.

"We have to get out of here,now,"Leon said, an urgency in his voice that made Rebecca open her eyes, the warm and sleepy feelings instantly gone.

"What is it?" David asked, his voice going just as sharp.

John turned and started carrying her down the hall, quickly, calling back over his shoulder. "We'll tell you on the way up, but we've gotta go ASAP, no joke."

"John?" She said, and he looked down at her, throwing her a small smile, his dark eyes telling a different story.

"We'll be fine," he said, "you just relax, start making up stories to tell us about your war wounds."

She'd never seen him look so uneasy, and she started to tell him that she was wounded, not stupid—

—when a tremendous, thundering crash came from somewhere ahead, a sound like walls being torn down, like glass exploding, like a bull in a china shop—

—and John spun around, running back the way they'd come—then she couldn'tseebut heard Claire's gasp, heard David say, "Oh, my God," in breathless disbelief, and felt her tired heart start to pound in fear.

Something very bad was coming.

TWENTY-THREE

GODDAMMIT, NOT FAST ENOUGH—

In a cloud of dust and rubble, cracked concrete and plaster, Fossil burst into the hall across from the elevator like a vision of hell. Its snout and hands were red, splashes of violent color against its sickly white skin, its giant, impossible body filling the corridor.

"Clip!" Leon screamed, not taking his gaze from the looming monster, still a hundred feet in front of them and not nearly far enough. He drew his empty H&K and ejected the clip, barely aware that it was Claire who handed him another as Fossil took a step toward them—

—and David was firing the M-16, the clatter of rounds blasting through the long hall, Fossil taking another huge step forward as Leon slapped the clip home. John was suddenly next to him, grabbing a rifle mag from David, Claire on David's other side, all of them targeting the creature.

Leon found the monster's right eye and squeezed the trigger, the roar of his nine-millimeter lost in the combined explosive firepower, all of them firing—

—bambambam,the sounds blending together, deafening, Fossil tilting its head to one side as if curious, taking another step into the wall of bullets.

"Fall back!"David shouted, and Leon backed up a step, horrified by Fossil's lack of wounds. If they were causing it any pain at all Leon couldn't see it, but it was all they had. He tried for the eye again—

—and heard Claire screaming something, glanced away long enough to see that she had a grenade out, that she was handing it to David.

"Go, go, go!" David shouted, and John grabbed Leon's arm and they turned and ran, Claire pacing them, Leon praying that they were far enough away not to be hit by the shreds of hot metal.

Claire ran, terrified, thinking that she'd never seen anything like it. A blood-painted fishbelly nightmare, a curved grin of wickedly sharp teeth and itshands, the too-long fingers stained red—

—what is it,howis it—

"Fire in the hole!" David screamed, and Claire pushed off the cement, trying to fly, seeing in that airborne second Rebecca's pale, strained face, the girl slumped against the back wall still a hundred feet

away—

—andBOOM,shewasflying, John to her right, a warm body falling against her back—and they all hit the floor, Claire trying to take it on the shoulder, landing too heavily on her arm instead.

Ow ow ow!

David had thrown himself against her, either on purpose or from the blast, and as she sat up, turning, she saw him grimace in pain. She saw two, three pieces of dark metal stuck to his back, pinning the black fleece to his skin, and reached out to help him—

—and saw the monster still standing. Brushing at its chest and belly, at the blackened patches from the frag grenade. A few shards had pierced its flesh, but she thought—it was hard to tell from its silence— from the way it took another step toward them it looked seemingly unfazed. It opened its mouth, its heavy lizard jaws—exposing strings of some unknown meat stuck between its jagged teeth. Silently, it took another step forward, grinning its carnivorous grin, and Claire imagined that she could smell the bloody meat of its breath, of whatever lay rotting in its guts—

SNAP OUT OF IT!

She crawled to her feet, ignoring the pain in her arm, reaching down to grab David's outstretched hand and pull him up. The second he was on his feet she pointed her nine-millimeter and started to fire again, knowing it wasn't enough, not knowing what else to do.

Four points of injury, all in his upper back, all burning and sharp. David hissed air between his teeth, decided the pain bearable, and put it aside until further notice. The freakish monster wasn't down, it may have slowed but it wasn't stopping, and they didn't have anything bigger to throw at it than what they'd already tried.

Run, we'll have to run—

Evenas he thought it, he was opening his mouth to shout, to be heard over John and Leon and Claire as they emptied their weapons, the rounds as useless as the grenade had been.

"John, get Rebecca! Fall back, we can't stop it!"

John was gone, Leon and Claire sidling backwards, firing just as he was — on the slim chance that it was doing some damage, that one of the rounds might hit something that could be hurt.

"David, we could go through the test, reinforced steel!" John shouted, and David wasn't sure what he was talking about but he understood "reinforced steel." It probably wouldn't stop the mutant animal, but it might slow it down enough for them to regroup, to work out some plan.

"Do it!" David shouted, and the monster took two, three strides toward them, apparently no longer interested in a hesitant approach. At that speed, it would be on them in scant seconds.

"Run,after John!" He screamed, and gave Leon and Claire a heartbeat of cover before he turned and ran after them.

Steel, reinforced steel— A mantra that looped through his racing thoughts as he sprinted, Claire and Leon turning the corner, the cement curve whipping past him as he saw Rebecca and John in the room at the end of the hall. The room where the madman had gone.

"David, hit the buttons, close the door!" John shouted, and David saw the controls, the small lights above the rounded knobs, and veered toward them, still at a dead run.

Claire and Leon were inside. David shot his arm

out and slammed his open hand into the largest button on the panel, hoping he'd chosen the right one—

—and he was through, even as a sheet of metal guillotined the air behind him, close enough for him to feel it on the back of his neck.

He spun around just in time to see the heavy white body of the hybrid creature slam into the door, its chest smashing against the thick, warped window set into the thick metal. The door shivered in its tracks, and David could see that it wouldn't stand for long.

He turned, saw Leon at the smaller hatch on the south wall, saw the horror in his eyes, the color leached from his face, his trembling hand on the door's lever.

"Locked," he said, and outside, the monster smashed into the door again.

Reston heard the noise when he was trying to figure out how to climb into the Av kennel. The pen was about twelve feet off the ground, an open hole in the wall, and there was no ladder; the closest tree was a good seven feet away, impossible—but his only other way out of the test was the way he'd come, and he didn't dare go back out into the main hall. He'd about made up his mind to attempt climbing the tree to try the jump when the rending crashes had seeped into the room from Phase Two.

Reston walked toward the connecting door, curious in spite of his fear. The phases were heavily soundproofed; a noise like that could only be from a bomb, or a wrecking crew ...

...which means bomb. They've planted explosives after all, the monsters.

Reston waited by the door for a moment, but didn't hear anything else. The lone Dae let out a cry from somewhere across the chamber, the fight apparently taken out of it with the loss of its siblings; it hadn't tried to attack.

Explosives....

Phase Two was directly behind control, a doublethick wall between them, which had to mean that the renegades had blown up the control center, the most important—and most expensive—room in the Planet. They couldn't have chosen a better target; the facility was practically worthless with control destroyed.

But perhaps they've given me another way out...

Reston wasn't going to make any bets as to whether or not the barbarous mercenaries had finally gone, leaving the broken remains of the Planet behind—

If they had, he'd be able to walk out. Maybe just walk away—and not just from the Planet, but from White Umbrella. He was reasonably certain that Jackson would kill him for what had happened ... but not if Reston disappeared.

A few hundred thousand to Hawkinson, a ride to a safe place....

It could work, if he timed it right, if he changed his name and identity and went far, far away. Itwould work.

Nodding to himself, he cracked open the door to Two, not sure what to expect—but it was still a surprise to see the massive, gaping holes in two of the

desert's walls and the cement and wood and steel blown to pieces; each ragged opening was at least ten feet across, perhaps twenty feet high. He didn't see smoke anywhere, but imagined that the saboteurs had used some high-tech compound, some material that scum like that always seemed to have access to.

The heat was still high, and the lights were blazing, but it was definitely cooler with the new ventilation— and though he stood for long seconds listening, he didn't hear a sound that might indicate their presence. Unless it was some kind of trap....

Reston shook his head, amused by his own paranoia. Now that he'd decided to be free, to leave behind the ruins of his life, he felt a kind of elation. A sense of new possibilities, even of rebirth. They were gone, their mission accomplished, the Planet wasted.

Reston walked across the hot sands, stepping over 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 surrounded by debris.

And through that hole. . ..

Reston could actuallyseethe elevator. The working, running elevator, the lights engaged, the platform recalled.

Wasit a trap? It seemed too good to be true—but then he heard a distant pounding, somewhereoffby 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 wetcrunch.

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 incredibly 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 .. . perhaps 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 extremely 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 realwork. 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 bathroom 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 themdestroyed,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 oftheirdreams, 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 financiers 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 himself. 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 whattheysaw 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 thepower.

"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 coulduse.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 assistants 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 anything 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 dismissive—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 sayobsessingover 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 essentials stayed the same. Trent knew that he would never have the opportunity to deliver it to all of them at once, but it was theideathat 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.