Suddenly, monstrosities were all around them. They did not charge this time, perhaps having learned wariness, but they circled like a pack of wolves. King slapped a fresh magazine into his MP5 and started firing. A few went down, but the 9-millimeter rounds seemed to be more of an irritant than anything else; the pack pulled back and began to move faster, orbiting the Delta shooters like a cyclone.
Try as they might, King and Tremblay could not watch every approach, and before long, the things attempted to attack from their blind spot. King spied movement and whirled to find one of the things dead on the ground just a few feet away; the snipers were still watching out for them. Another of the monsters went down in a spray of red as a high-velocity rifle round tore the top off its head, but for every one that fell, two more crept out of the shadows to join the circle.
Then, without any warning and for no discernible reason, the circle began to close. It was if some kind of critical mass had been achieved. King fired out a magazine, and two of the monsters stumbled forward and died at his feet, but the rest engulfed him. He swung the MP5 wildly like a club, but a dozen grasping hands wrapped around his arm, arresting any further movement. They grabbed his other arm, and then his legs. Then they began to pull in opposite directions.
King howled, more in frustration than in pain, though there was plenty of the latter. He felt his joints grinding in their sockets, his tendons stretching like rubber-bands pulled to the breaking point… They were going to pull him apart like a wishbone from a Thanksgiving turkey.
And then, just as quickly as they had seized him, the fury of the attack began to wane. King twisted free of his assailants’ hands, and scrambled away, flailing his arms in an attempt to drive back any other would-be attackers.
There weren’t any. The only people still standing were himself, Tremblay and the hulking form of Erik Somers.
In the stillness that followed, he became aware of the van, idling about a hundred feet away, Zelda Baker behind the wheel. The front end of the vehicle showed scratches and dents, presumably from having plowed through the gate leading into the compound, but King also noted streaks of red on the fenders and bits of fabric caught in radiator grill.
Somers’s face was uncharacteristically animated, and it took King a moment to realize that the big man was shouting at him.
If we make it out of this alive, everyone is learning sign language, King decided. Executive decision, number one.
He pointed to his ear and shook his head. Somers shouted even louder and began gesturing wildly toward the van. King could just make out a few words this time; it was faint, as if Somers was shouting into a pillow. “We need to get the hell out of here!”
Oh. Well, obviously.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Can this night get any worse? Zelda Baker thought to herself as King, Tremblay and Somers climbed into the van. King shouted for her to drive, a bit louder than necessary, she thought, but she chalked it up to adrenaline. Things clearly had not gone well inside Building Two, and it did not escape her notice that they were short one man. She didn’t ask. If Silent Bob wasn’t with King, it meant he wasn’t coming back. Period. Full stop. End of story.
Zelda stomped the accelerator and cranked the steering wheel around. The van’s tires threw gravel as it carved out a wide U-turn and headed back toward the gates — or more precisely, the gateposts, since she’d flattened the actual moving parts of the perimeter defense a few moments earlier.
She spied movement in the rearview mirror. The things Somers had taken to calling ‘frankensteins’ were regrouping and giving chase, but even at a full run, they couldn’t hope to keep up with the van. By the time the vehicle crested the hilltop, the frankensteins had vanished into the night.
She was just about to allow herself to breathe a little easier when the radio came alive. “King, this is Roadrunner.”
‘Roadrunner’ was the callsign for Bellows, the man that had been left back at the gate. If he was calling in, it couldn’t be good news.
King didn’t reply, and after another half a minute, the voice repeated, but again the only answer was silence. Zelda glanced sidelong at the man in the passenger’s seat. “You gonna take that call?”
He was staring straight ahead, but after a moment seemed to realize that she was addressing him. He turned and shook his head. “I can’t hear you!”
His shout was loud enough to make her wince, and she could tell from his excessive volume that he wasn’t kidding. She craned her head around and saw Tremblay and Somers both scanning the darkness, oblivious to the radio message or anything that had been said.
She keyed her transmitter. “Roadrunner, this is Legend. Send your traffic for King.”
“Legend, be advised that two five-ton trucks just rolled past me, headed your way. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re military.”
Before Zelda could respond, the distorted voice of the mysterious Deep Blue broke in. “That’s affirmative. I’m now monitoring their army radio net. Rainer must have tipped them off. They’ve dispatched a company of infantry soldiers to investigate.”
Christ. It never rains… In her mind’s eye, she saw the trucks with their big wheels rolling effortlessly over obstacles that had slowed the van to a near crawl. There were no other roads, no places to turn off and let them pass. If they stayed on the road, they would run headlong into the army trucks. She’d dealt with the Burmese military a few times in the course of her posting here, and she knew that if they were caught, the best they could hope for would be a swift death. The alternative was an indefinite stay in Myanmar’s infamous Insein prison — the name said it all — where they would be subjected to brutal tortures, or worse, turned into propaganda puppets.
She turned to King. “More trouble! The Burmese army is headed our way!”
He shook his head and spread his hands helplessly.
Wonderful. For a moment, she wondered how she was going to make him understand the situation; should she try writing it down for him? Did she even have paper to write on?
“Oh, screw this.” She stomped on the brake and threw the van into a three-point turn.
She heard the immediate protests from the others, but since there was no way to explain herself to them, she ignored their shouts. There were more important things to do.
“Nighteyes, this is Legend, do you read me?”
Shin’s voice came back, sounding both concerned and relieved. “Loud and clear, Legend. Are you turning back?”
“You know it. There’s no way out of here except on foot. If we ditch the van in the compound, the army might not even know we were here.”
A new voice cut in. “Negative, Legend. The place is crawling with hostiles.” It was Irish — the guy leading the sniper teams and King’s acting First Sergeant.
Zelda felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristling. Was he actually trying to give her orders? She swallowed down her rising anger and with all the coolness she could muster, replied: “I guess it’s a good thing you guys are looking out for us, because unless someone can find me an exit, we’re doing this my way.”
To her surprise, Deep Blue cut in. “Irish, Nighteyes… The road is closed. You need to provide cover for the rest of the team. Rendezvous in the woods and proceed to the second vehicle as Legend recommends.”