The stairs ended at a hallway, and three more bodies.
“Three more down, at the top of the stairs.”
“What do you see?”
“The nearest, vomit in the gas mask. The other two…”
It looked like their masks were filled with blood and bits of tissue. I remembered the wet coughing I’d heard earlier over the comlink. What kind of poison makes you cough up your own lungs?
“… dead. They’re all dead.”
“Who are they?”
I didn’t recognize the voice on the radio, and assumed it to be one of the remaining SRT members I’d made stay outside.
“Name tags are Winston, Banks, and Kordova.”
“Look for what killed them.”
I took a cautious step forward. The hallway was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves on either side, filled with an extensive collection of NASCAR plates, framed pictures, and assorted knickknacks. A few of the plates had shattered and fallen to the floor.
“Two of the bodies, I see wounds on their calves. Might be buckshot.”
“A hand-loaded shotgun shell packed with a fast-acting poison. Do you see any evidence of trip wires or pressure plates, or a gun or pipe sticking out of the walls?”
“No. Wait… there are some rattraps.”
I was reaching for one, when Rick yelled, “Don’t move!”
I froze in a crouching position.
“The traps fired the buckshot. It’s easy to rig a trap to fire a shotgun cartridge. There’s got to be tripwires in the hallway, stretching between the walls.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“They might not be stretched tight. Might be hanging loose. Monofilament fishing line is very thin, and it’s clear. How’s the lighting?”
“Not very good.” I saw a light switch on the wall. “There’s a switch, I’ll just-”
“Don’t flip the switch!”
“Jesus Christ! I’m going to die of a heart attack before any of these traps kill me!”
“The switch may be rigged. Take a Maglite from one of the SRTs’ utility belts.”
I altered my course to reach down for one of the flashlights. I tugged it out of its little holster and felt like a ghoul, robbing the dead.
“Got the light?”
“Yeah.”
“What color is the ceiling?”
“White.”
“Hold the Maglite down low and point it at a forty-five-degree angle upward. You won’t see the lines, but you might be able to see the shadows of the lines on the ceiling.”
Smart. I was becoming very grateful Rick had come along.
I twisted on the Mag and kept it at waist level, sweeping it back and forth.
The ceiling became a spiderweb of crisscrossing gray shadows.
“There’s a bunch. Maybe six to ten.”
“He’s probably not that way-he wouldn’t have made it. What’s behind you?”
I turned.
“A door. Closed.”
Herb said, “There’s a thermal reading, three yards east of you. It’s probably behind that door.”
The Remington was becoming heavy in my one-handed grip, and I was sweating so badly I felt like I’d just stepped out of the shower. I swept the Maglite around my immediate area, gently set the shotgun down against the hallway wall, and very slowly turned the doorknob.
I only got the door open an inch before feeling a small resistance.
“I think there’s something-”
Then came the explosion.
CHAPTER 9
I FELL ONTO MY ASS, sitting atop one of the dead cops, and the gas came billowing into the hall.
“Jack! Jack are you there!”
“The door was rigged. Gas is everywhere.”
Thick, gray gas, surrounding me completely.
“Is your suit breached?”
“I don’t know.”
The explosion hadn’t been that powerful. I hadn’t been knocked backward-I fell over from the surprise. Had it been enough to pierce my suit?
“Don’t panic. You have to stay calm.”
Easy for him to say. My ears were ringing, and my eyes stung like crazy.
Jesus, why were my eyes stinging?
The sweat, I realized. Dripping from my forehead. It must have gotten into my eyes.
At least, that’s what I hoped it was.
“Get out of there.”
That seemed like a good idea. I rolled onto all fours, but the gas had gotten so thick I couldn’t see anything.
“Can’t see. Too much gas.”
My throat became very dry, and I couldn’t swallow. Symptoms of panic, or something worse?
I reached out blindly before me, trying to find the stairs.
“Stay calm. Take it slow.”
My breath came in ragged gasps. Death. I was surrounded on all sides by death. I began to crawl, unable to fight the terror. I had to get out of there. I had to get out of there now. If there was even the tiniest hole in my suit-
The shotgun blast was so close to my head I saw stars. At the same instant I felt a tug along my back, as if my suit had caught on a nail.
I’d tripped one of the rattraps.
As my hearing returned, I could hear three different people screaming in my headset, and I reached around to feel my shoulders, to feel if I’d been hit.
I couldn’t tell. My back felt wet, but was that blood or sweat? This suit was bulky. The pellets might have passed right through.
But if I had holes in my suit the gas would get in.
I crawled faster, full-blown terror taking root in me like I’d never experienced before. I tripped another wire, and a gunshot peppered the shelving unit to my right, but I didn’t stop, I picked up speed, climbing over a body, pushing away dead limbs, biting the inside of my cheek, eyes blurry with tears, had-to-get-out-had-to-get-out-had-to-get-out-
I reached the end of the hall and pulled myself through a doorway, entering a small room. The gas was dissipating, and I could finally see again. My stomach felt like a giant knot, and I teetered on the verge of throwing up. I was also holding my breath, freaked out that gas had gotten inside my suit.
Calm down, Jack, I said to myself. Calm it down. You’re still alive.
I opened my mouth, trying to taste the air without breathing it.
Not surprisingly, it tasted like bile.
Squeezing my eyes shut, shaking from the lack of oxygen, I took a shallow breath even though my body craved more air.
No reaction.
I took a bigger breath, and began to laugh and cry at the same time.
“Jack! Are you there! Jack, please answer!”
“I’m still here,” I said, my voice sounding very far away.
I looked around me, saw I was in a bedroom. There was a bed, a closet, a dresser, and a full-length mirror.
I stood up on wobbly legs and walked over to the mirror, getting a profile view.
There were a dozen tiny holes in my suit where the buckshot had ripped through.
“My suit has holes in it.”
“Stay calm. As long as there’s positive air pressure, nothing can get in.”
“You son of a bitch-”
“McGlade, you little-”
“Give me the headset, lardass-”
“I’m gonna kick your-”
An oomph sound, coming from Herb.
“Jack! It’s Harry! You need to get your ass out of there! That tank is almost empty!”
Once again, panic wrapped around me like a blanket.
“Your fat sidekick punched me in the nards before I could tell you. I figure there was maybe four, five minutes of O2 left in that tank. How long have you been in there?”
About four or five minutes, I figured. I looked back down the booby-trapped hallway, gas still lingering in the air, and made my decision.