"Fuck!" Thom yelled.
The career soldier quickly changed tactics, thrusting the butt of the AKM into the throat of the approaching threat. The creature that once was a teenager staggered, clearly injured by the blow.
Thom followed up on the attack, smashing the rifle into the bulge in the kid's throat once again, and this time he felt something squish; pop, even. The teenage boy with the beer shirt who had been transformed into a member of the living dead fell over, bounced off the hard floor, and lay still.
Before engaging the last remaining creature, Thom turned his eyes to Dr. Waters, who watched from the observation room, flanked by two guards. He saw disappointment in the man's expression.
I plan to disappoint you a little more today, Doctor.
The bald man wearing the faded orange jumpsuit attacked Gant without consideration for the fact that his five companions had already been dispatched. There was no fear, no hesitation.
Thom knew that to defeat this zombie when no central core was easily discernible would require that same type of focus and decisiveness; he would do what needed to be done, no matter how grisly.
In that moment he realized why Monroe and Waters had found this organism such a fascinating and potentially effective weapon. No would hesitate to eradicate a virus, a germ, or an anthrax spore. But destroying creatures that had once been a mother, a child, or a friendly old man would take a level of savagery beyond the reach of most people. The fungal infection would spread because people would lack the will to fight it.
Thom felled the creature with a leg sweep. He then wielded the AKM like a club, swinging once … twice … again … and again, battering at the skull until it cracked. He then fell upon it, pining the beast to the ground under his knee and ramming the butt into the jaw, bashing the teeth, caving in the face, until everything above the shoulders had become a bloody pulp.
His arms grew tired, his breath heavy, exhaustion tried to grab hold. At the same time, bits of flesh and tar-like blood sprayed out from the struggling corpse, splashing off of — and just as much sticking to — Major Thom Gant, while the balance fell on the floor and walls of the chamber.
The bald man tried to get up, tried to move, tried to counterattack, but the rifle butt and kicks came at a relentless place. Thom had become a wild killer, smashing over and over, breaking the brittle bones of the rotting creature, collapsing its tender flesh, beating the body until it felt like a soggy bag of mess.
Still unable to find that final weak spot, Thom stepped away. What had once been a body and then had become a zombie was now a two-legged abomination, beaten and squashed and gored.
Yet it still tried to move. There was still a milky white film in the sockets where the eyes had popped and collapsed. It still tried to take to its feet … and Thom let it move until it stood, at which point he kicked out its leg again but added a push so that it would fall face down.
Once again he pinned it under his knee, and this time he ran his hand over the creature's pummeled carcass as it struggled to free itself. He found a cyst-like bulge on the thing's right thigh.
Gant targeted this area with the rifle butt, which felt on the verge of bending and breaking from its work as a blunt weapon.
A moment later the creature went still, its core finally dispatched. Thom stood over top, sucking in big deep breaths, sweating profusely, and resembling a walking corpse himself, particularly with so much gore splashed on his person.
"Major Gant, I am very impressed," Waters said over the microphone, but his sunken eyes and the frown he wore implied disappointment. "Six units, taken out by one man, even after he ran out of ammunition. I must admit, I did not anticipate this outcome."
Thom took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a second, and when he reopened them he baited, "That is because you did not count on me in your little test."
"Is there something you wish to share, Major? Are you Delta Force, perhaps? Or have you seen this type of infection before?"
"Sorry, Doctor, but that is something I do not care to discuss."
Waters rubbed his chin and considered. No doubt the fact that he had beat the test had piqued Waters's curiosity to the breaking point. Who was this Major Gant? How did his skill set and experience compare to the typical soldier's?
For a man seemingly obsessed with quantifying his biological weapon and its effectiveness, the unknown variable of Thom Gant must be maddeningly frustrating. Exactly as Gant hoped.
"And if I offered a bargain? A full confession on your part with access to supporting materials in exchange for, well, what now? The life of Dr. Stacy? Your own life?"
"That would be a starting point, yes."
Waters rubbed his chin again and then answered, "No deal, Major. However, I will forgo the standard tests for the remainder of today. Instead, we're going to transfer you to one of our interrogation rooms." On the other side of the observation window, Waters nodded to his guards, one of whom drew his truncheon, the other the Makarov pistol. "I'll catch up with you in a little while, after you've been softened up a bit."
The doctor moved away from the window. Gant guessed he needed to consult with others before undertaking an interrogation. Nonetheless, things were moving in the direction he had hoped they would.
A clang announced the release of a bolt and then the interior door opened. The guard with the truncheon approached, producing a pair of handcuffs. The second stood back with his pistol leveled in Gant's direction.
"Table," the pistol-wielding guard said and motioned at the bloody AKM, which Gant held by the barrel after having wielded it as a club.
He followed the instructions and moved toward the table.
"I don't know who you two work for," he said to the guards, "but you are on the wrong side of this."
The closest soldier raised his truncheon and curled his lips, making him resemble a dog ready to bite.
"Easy," Gant held his free hand up. "I didn't mean anything by it."
The rifle touched the table top … and Gant slid his hand down to the trigger and pulled. A rough pull — not even close to squeezing — but the bullet in the chamber fired and hit the guard with the pistol square in the chest.
Gant then used both hands to aim the gun at the second soldier.
"Fooled you," he said, and the man froze with his hand hovering above his holster. "You guys really should learn how to count. Two shots left."
With the gun still aimed at the man, Gant walked over to the one he had shot. While not yet dead, shock as well as trauma to his lungs robbed the wounded guard of any voice.
Gant stooped, grabbed the Makarov, and waited to see if reinforcements burst in through the door.
No one came. He guessed the rooms to be soundproofed.
After all, how would anyone sleep around here if they could hear the screams of Dr. Waters's test subjects all night long?
Satisfied there would be no immediate interruption, Thom approached the second guard, who stood still with his hands in the air. Thom raised the AKM again and pulled the rifle's trigger.
Click.
"Fooled you again," he said and then pistol whipped the second guard, who buckled and fell.
Thom dropped on top of him, and as had been the case with the animated corpses, he did what needed to be done to survive. He wrapped his hands around the sentry's throat and choked, avoiding his clawing fingers and ignoring the plea for mercy apparent in his dying eyes.
When finished with that one, he stood and turned to see the shot guard crawling toward the door, a trail of blood behind and his voice emitting pathetic, weak cries that were attempts at shouts for help.
Gant grabbed his legs, dragged him back into the test chamber, kicked him over, and reached for his throat, too. Any pangs of remorse … any thoughts of leniency … were drowned out by the image of agent Costa dying like a lab rat; by the knowledge that Annabelle Stacy was somewhere in this house of horrors facing one nightmare or another.