Caplan scanned the area again, paying close attention to the cameras and sensors. On a typical day, they were used to keep an eye out for too-clever-for-their-own-good animals. The ones that somehow eluded Hatcher’s security only to find themselves trapped behind the electric fences with nothing to eat or drink.
He was pleased to see the little red lights mounted on each device had gone dark. Whatever had shut down the electric fences had apparently shut down the cameras and sensors as well.
Caplan shrugged off his backpack. Reaching inside, he extracted the small cooler he’d procured from the helicopter bin. He cracked it open and checked the syringes and vials. Satisfied they were in good order, he resealed the cooler and stuck it back into his bag. Then he hoisted the pack onto his shoulders. “Let’s go,” he said.
“You go. I’ll keep a lookout.”
Caplan shot him a look. “We don’t have time to mess around.”
“And we don’t have time to depend on luck either. Now, go.” Pearson brandished his pistol. “I’ll make sure no one gets in your way.”
Exhaling softly, Caplan stared at Hatcher. Once upon a time, he’d looked upon the building and the Vallerio with childlike wonder. But now, he saw things differently. He saw the forest for what it really was, namely a bastion of ancient evil. A cursed city out of myth and legend, one of gnarled, twisting towers, torn-up streets, the blackest of corridors, and otherworldly inhabitants. And he saw Hatcher for what it was, too. A foolish outpost of civilization smack dab in the midst of depravity. A place no man, no woman should’ve ever set foot into, let alone call home.
Sweeping his gaze from left to right, he searched for terrorists. Seeing none, he made a beeline for the fence. As he drew near, his senses perked. The air was free of electric charge. The fence was quiet, still.
Bracing himself, he closed his fingers around a length of wire. His teeth gritted in anticipation of a gigantic shock.
But it didn’t happen.
Emboldened, he climbed the first fence. The second fence. But as he darted to the third fence, a change came over the area. Gone was the silence, the stillness. In its place, he heard shouting, felt frenzied energy. It reminded him of helpless prey fleeing from much larger predators.
He climbed the third fence and stepped quietly onto a patch of damp grass. The shouting — although reduced to half the decibels — continued unabated. He smelled coppery blood in the air, enough of it to make his insides queasy. Sweat beaded up on his shoulders and trickled down his arms, a product of the strange heat emanating from the open door.
Caplan shot a quick glance at the forest. Saw Pearson and gave the man a nod.
Pearson flashed a thumbs-up in response.
Senses still perked, Caplan crept toward Hatcher. He could feel a great and mysterious struggle taking place within it. One of those struggles that was somehow about more than life and death. A struggle of ideals, of competing dreams. But the building’s exterior reflected none of that. Its concrete walls remained dull and lifeless. Completely unchanged from when he’d last seen them all those months ago.
He studied the nearest wall, taking note of its cracks and indentations. He needed to climb it, to break into the vent system. Then he could focus on delivering the antibiotics. But as he started forward, he heard more shouts, more screams.
What the hell is going on in there? he wondered.
He ran to the doorway. The temperature grew to sauna-levels and his pores worked even faster to distribute sweat to his body.
Carefully, he peeked through the open door. The overhead light fixtures were dark. However, a few rays of sunlight managed to penetrate the storm clouds, shedding a bit of light on the adjoining corridor. To his surprise, it was completely empty.
Rotating his neck, Caplan saw familiar maintenance equipment — lawn mowers, rakes, clippers, shovels, sturdy gloves, and safety glasses — lined up along the right side wall. On the opposite wall, he saw posters and signs, laying out Hatcher’s rules for landscape work.
The shouts and screams grew louder, more terrified. The temperature warmed a few more degrees and he sensed feverish, almost frantic activity.
The vent forgotten, he stepped into the corridor. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the change in light. Then he pulled out his twin axes. Said a silent prayer.
And headed into the darkness.
Chapter 32
GRRAWRRR!
The massive roar, softened by distance, forced Caplan to a halt. Weird and conflicting emotions — perplexity, revulsion, and intense curiosity, among others — weaved through his heart. That came from inside, he thought. Inside!
Somehow a large animal had gotten into Hatcher Station. But how? Until just a few minutes ago, the fences had been fully electrified and guarded. Plus, he’d seen no signs of breakage or forced entry. Nothing about this made sense.
GRRAWWRRR!
The floor trembled ever so slightly under Caplan’s feet. He sensed the beast’s confusion, its rage. It was angry. Angry and hell-bent on destruction.
He thought about Morgan, about her propensity to put other people first. If this beast was on the rampage, he had little doubt she was in the thick of things, trying to slow it down or even stop it.
Throwing caution to the wind, he sprinted down the corridor. The mighty roars grew louder, angrier with every step. But they also remained strangely muted.
He slowed his pace as he entered the Heptagon, the informal name for Hatcher’s central core. Although the overheard fixtures were dark, a few flashlights provided some light to the area. Skirting clear of the beams, he snuck along the walls.
A small group of people, tightly bound, sat in the middle of the room. They faced outward and Caplan recognized a few faces. They belonged to long-time Hatcher guards. He didn’t know them all that well — the guards tended to stick to themselves — but he figured they’d make valuable allies in the very near future.
Six people, dressed in jeans and t-shirts, surrounded the prisoners. The closest ones had their backs to Caplan, so he was unable to see their faces. But the rifles clutched in their hands spoke volumes about their identities.
They were terrorists.
At least two-dozen other gun-toting people were scattered about the Heptagon. Some wore lab coats, which he didn’t quite understand. Was that how the terrorists had entered Hatcher? By impersonating scientists? How would that even work?
Distraught whispers and frazzled murmurs filled Caplan’s ears. The words mixed together, forming a tangled web of indiscernible din.
He felt energy surging, flowing all around him. But it didn’t come from the room itself. Indeed, the people inside the Heptagon barely moved. Watching their eyes, he saw they all stared at the closed Research door and its, Stop: Restricted Access, Research Only sign.
He studied the door, studied the area around it. Yes, that was it. That was the source of the frenzied energy.
GRRAWWRRR!
He flinched at the sudden roar. It had definitely come from Research, but not on this level. Corbotch’s remarks about how the terrorists had broken into the secured Lab came to mind. He’d caught a few glimpses of Research before. He’d seen people working. He’s seen the bright lights, the computers, the lab stations. But he’d never seen even a hint of the lower level.
Did that explain the roars? Did Research keep some kind of wild beast in the Lab? If so, why? Were they experimenting on it?
No. No way in hell. Morgan would never participate in such a monstrous thing. And yet, he couldn’t escape the facts. A wild beast roamed the lower level. And there were no signs it had forced its way in there. So, either the terrorists brought it with them.