... getting sick. Getting sicker, fast. It scared her, but somehow it wasn’t as bad as it had been. In fact, it wasn’t really that scary at all. The initial terror had gone, leaving her with only a memo-ry of the adrenaline rush, like a whiff of a bad dream. The itch was distracting, but not exactly an itch anymore. What had felt like a million bug bites on her skin, each separate and distinct and screaming for relief, had—connected. It was the only way she could think to describe the sensation. They had connected, had become a thick blanket over her body that crawled and squirmed, as if her skin had come to life and was scratching itself. It was weird, but not exactly unpleasant—
“Now!”
At the sound of David’s voice, Karen focused on the sudden action in front of her, the buzzing hum in her head making it all seem strange, speeded up somehow. The door to the lighthouse crashing open, David and John leaping into the blackness, bullets flashing and booming. The high, whining rattle of an M-16 inside. Steve and Rebecca, ducking and firing, out and in and out again, their bodies blurred by speed, their Berettas dancing like black metal birds. It was happening so fast that it seemed to take a long, long time for it to stop. Karen frowned, wonder-ing how that could be—
• and then saw David and John step back out into the blue light of the moon, and realized that she was happy to see them. Even with their strange and distorted faces, their long bodies that moved too quickly. . .
what’s happening to me.
Karen shook her head but the buzzing only seemed to get louder—and she was afraid again, afraid that David and John and Steve and Rebecca would leave her behind. They’d leave her behind and she wouldn’t have anyone to, to—ease her mind. That was bad. David was in front of her, staring at her with eyes like wet, dark cherries. “Karen, are you okay?” At the look on his round and pointed face and the sound of softness in his voice, Karen felt happy again, and knew that she had to tell him the truth. With a tremendous effort, she found the strength to say what had to be said, her voice coming out of the crawling body and the buzzing, sounding as strange to her as the wind.
“It’s getting worse now,” she said. “I don’t think right, David. Don’t leave me.”
John and Rebecca, their hot, hot hands touching her, leading her away and to the darkness of the open door. Her body worked, but her mind was clouded by the trembling buzzing hum. There were things she wanted to tell them, things that drifted through the cloud like flashes of pretty pictures—but the building they moved her to was dark and hot, and there was a body on the floor holding a rifle. His face, she could see. His face wasn’t strange; it was white, white and curling, textured like the buzzing and the crawling. It was a face that made sense.
“I got the door,” Steve said, looking up and grin-ning, white, white teeth. “One-three-five.” There was a keypad next to an open hole, stairs leading down, and Steve’s teeth disappeared, his flat face wrinkling.
“Karen—“
“We have to hurry.”
“Hang on baby, hang on, we’ll be there soon—“ Karen let them help her, wondering why their faces looked so strange, wondering why they smelled so hot and good.
FOVRJEEH
ATHENS HAD FAILED.
Dr. Griffith stared at the blinking white light by the door, cursing Athens, cursing Lyle Ammon, cursing his luck. He hadn’t told Athens how to get back inside, which could only mean that the intruders had made it past him. Ammon had left them a message or sent them one, it didn’t matter—all that mattered was that they were coming and he had to assume that they had the key. He’d torn down the markers weeks ago, but perhaps they had directions, perhaps they’d find him and—
Don’t panic, no need for panic. You prepared for this, simply move on, next plan. Division first, twofold effect—less firepower, bait for later. . . and a chance to see how well Alan can perform.
Griffith turned to Dr. Kinneson and spoke quickly, keeping the instructions clear and simple, the route as easy as possible. Griffith had already worked out the questions they’d probably ask, though he knew there was a chance they’d try for more information. He gave Alan several random phrases to respond with, then gave him the small semi-automatic pistol from Dr. Chin’s desk drawer, watching as Alan tucked it beneath his lab coat to make sure it was hidden. The bullet carrier was empty, but he didn’t think it was possible to tell, not if the hammer was pulled back. He also gave Alan his key; a risk, but then the entire scenario was a risk. With the fate of the world resting in his hands, he’d take any chance necessary. After Alan had gone, Griffith sat down in a chair to wait for a reasonable amount of time, his gaze wan-dering to the six stainless canisters in restless antici-pation. His plans wouldn’t fail; the righteousness of his work would see him through this invasion. If Alan was caught out, there were still the
Ma7s, there was still Louis, there were still the syringes and his hiding place, the airlock controls in easy reach. Past all of that, there was still the sunrise, waiting.
Dr. Griffith smiled dreamily.
Karen could still walk, still seemed to understand at least part of what they were saying to her, but the few words she could manage didn’t seem to relate to anything. As they’d gone down the stairs from the lighthouse, she’d said “hot” twice. As they’d walked into the wide, dank tunnel at the base of the steps, she’d said, “I don’t want,” an expression of fear on her deathly pale, searching face. Rebecca was terrified that even if they found a way to reverse the viral load, it would be too late.
It had all happened so suddenly, so fast that she could still hardly comprehend it. There’d been a man waiting for them in the darkness of the lighthouse, a trap just as David had intuited. As soon as they’d gone in, he’d opened fire with an automatic rifle, strafing the door from the shadows beneath the wind-ing metal stairs. Thanks to David’s plan, it had been over in seconds—and as Steve had discovered the access door and punched in the code, Rebecca and John had looked over their waiting attacker, had seen in the narrow beam of John’s flashlight that the man had been infected—his paper-white skin was flaking and creased with strange, peeling etched lines. He’d looked somehow different than the Trisquad victims she’d seen, less decayed, his open, staring eyes some-how more human . . . but then David had gone to get Karen and Rebecca’s interest had been suddenly and cruelly diverted.
It had been the walk up the hill, she’d decided. Even though it shouldn’t have made a difference, she couldn’t imagine what else might have brought on the amplification so quickly. Somehow, the T-Virus must have responded to the physiological changes of Ka-ren’s increased heart rate and circulation—but as they’d led the confused and stumbling woman into the lighthouse, Rebecca had found that she’d stopped caring about how; all she wanted was to get to the lab, to try and salvage what was left of Karen Driver’s sanity.
The tunnel beneath the lighthouse seemed to lead back toward the compound in a curving, twisting trail, and was carved from the heavy limestone of the cliff. Mining lights were strung along the walls, casting strange shadows as they moved forward, silent and grimly afraid, John and Steve half-pulling Karen between them. Rebecca was last, again feeling a horrible sense of deja vu as they stumbled along, remembering the tunnels beneath the Spencer estate. The same cold damp emanated from the stone, and she felt the same terrible feelings of moving toward unknown danger, exhausted and afraid of screwing up—of not being able to prevent a disaster. The disaster has already happened, she thought helplessly, watching Karen struggle to keep walking. We’re losing her. In another hour, probably less, she’ll be too far gone to ever come back.
As it was, John and Steve shouldn’t be touching her. In a single, easy movement she could get at either one of them, biting before they had a chance to let go. Even that concept made her sick with sorrow and an aching, heavy feeling of loss.