Vsalov stumbled, but did not fall.
"Full fucking auto," Liz commanded.
The soldier complied and thumbed the selector switch on his rifle. This time one continuous stream of fire flowed from the rifle. It shook in the MP's arms and many rounds went wild but many more hit the target. Wounds erupted all over the former man's body, causing him to jerk and jump as if a thousand volts of electricity had zapped his flesh. For a moment it looked as if the living corpse of Dr. Vsalov did some hellish dance, then it dropped as the last round left the soldier’s magazine.
Liz turned and went into the hall. She knelt next to the freckle-faced kid. He tried to speak but the only thing that came out was more blood.
Then he stopped.
She held a hand to his wrist, searching for a pulse, and found none. With a sigh, Liz, gently shut the boy’s eyelids to give the illusion of peace. But there was no peace here. Liz remembered evaluating this soldier. His name was Henson — or Hanson — something like that.
"Colonel, look at this," Sanchez called.
Thunder returned to inside the living quarters. Vsalov’s body lay still. The MP was not convinced; he had reloaded and kept his rifle aimed squarely at the motionless thing. All thoughts of making an arrest appeared to have left his mind.
"What have you got?"
Sanchez held up a scrap of paper, one of dozens of scraps of paper littering the room.
"Instructions," he told her in a very shaky voice. "Looks like instructions to operate something called a V.A.A.D. — whatever that is. Tough to read, though."
"What is that thing?" The soldier asked, but he did not take his eyes off of it. "I mean, what the freak is that thing?"
"It’s Dr. Vsalov," she told him.
"That’s not human," the soldier said. "That’s no person at all."
"It was," she answered, then looked at the scraps of paper again and when she saw what was on those scraps of paper she added, "It was a person, until something fried his brain dragging all of this out."
"What does it mean, Colonel?" Sanchez asked.
"It’s the thought that counts," she mused aloud a moment before realization hit hard. "Oh God, it means we’re running out of time."
33
"Hold at this intersection," Campion ordered in a soft whisper as the crunching, gurgling, groaning, and slurping sounds emanated from behind the biohazard door. "If whatever is in there comes out, retreat back the way we came and draw it off so I can work in the lab."
"So, we should be bait?" Wells asked.
"Yes, sorry, that's the idea."
"Well," Galati said, "I sure hope whatever it is prefers dark meat."
Jupiter Wells turned and faced his friend with wide, pissed off eyes, but when he saw the smirk he nearly burst out laughing.
"You're an asshole, Sal. A real friggin' asshole."
"I know."
"And you didn't call that pool shot you lying bastard."
"I know," Sal surprisingly admitted. "But you're not getting that ten spot back."
"Hold here," Campion repeated and took the duffel bag in one hand while balancing his laser-equipped HK MP5 in the other. "I'll be back when the job is done."
Before he took a step, however, the environment underwent a significant change. First came what sounded like a series of heavy bolts slamming open or shut; then the lights flickered; then the hallway went from a dirty dark to a brilliant white light.
All three were forced to shield their eyes from this eruption of illumination. It had been nearly an entire day since they had been subjected to normal lighting; so long that now "normal" light levels felt like blinding lasers.
"Jesus … friggin’ … damn …" Wells muttered.
"Full power? How the hell are the lights still working down here?" Galati struggled to avoid shouting.
Wells added, "and who’s the fucking brain surgeon who turned them on?"
Campion’s eyesight slowly adjusted and he answered, "It doesn’t change anything. Nothing has changed."
The Captain, in his mind, knew otherwise — things had just become much more urgent. He could feel the energy in the air. Not the energy that powered the lights but the energy of the entire situation.
It was time to finish the mission. It was time to bring it to a conclusion.
What came after that conclusion was foggy and uncertain to Captain Campion and felt wholly unimportant.
Finish the mission.
Liz led Sanchez through the maze, past her office, and along the corridor on their way to the large secure elevator. She vaguely remembered the security tapes of Colonel Haas — her predecessor — and his deliberate and focused gait as he moved under the influences of some unseen force.
She wondered if it might be her, not Borman, who was being controlled. Could something be forcing her mind to make connections and draw conclusions that were not so?
Haas had apparently heard his daughter calling to him from the quarantine zone. Now what did she hear? Her own suspicions? A magnification of the distrust she felt for the shadowy elements of the U.S. military establishment and the people — like Borman — who served it?
People like me.
She realized that Sanchez had slowed, not from fatigue but as something caught his attention. He tilted his head and cocked an ear to the air.
"What is it? We have to keep moving," Liz asked and commanded in the same breath, but Sanchez did not listen.
Now what voices is he hearing?
After a moment of listening, he explained, "I’ve worked here for a long time now. This whole complex has a smell to it, a feel, and a sound."
"Yes? What?"
"Something just … changed. It’s a vibration … a noise … I’m not sure—"
"Sanchez, we don’t have time for this."
"Oh, Jeez. I think someone just turned on full power to the lower levels. It feels like either new generators kicked on or the regular ones just doubled output."
Liz soaked that in for a moment, then told him, "If that's true, then we really — I mean we really—have to get moving."
The doors to the elevator car opened and the well-dressed figure of what had once been Dr. Ronald Briggs exited first. Major Gant came next, with Jolly’s gun motivating him from behind.
Thom moved but he did not exactly walk; he shuffled along, hunched over like one of Dr. Frankenstein's assistants. He realized that if any of his men still lived and saw him, they might mistake him for one of the entity's mindless minions.
Who are you kidding, Thom? You've been a mindless minion for other entities. Dr. Frankensteins by other names. Friez and Borman, for example.
No, not mindless. It would be easier to be mindless. Better. No — you still have enough of a brain to think, so why have you refused to use it all these years?
"I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Major Gant," Briggs interrupted his thoughts. "I realize that you must be in horrible pain and, quite frankly, you’re slowing us down. But don’t blame me. I’m not the one who designed this complex without an express elevator. Quite an inconvenience."
"I appreciate your concern." Gant tried to sound smart but the grunts of pain between the words took away any of the stubborn tone of disobedience he was trying to project.
The small group continued along the now well-lit corridor of sublevel 7.
"There’s one thing I do not understand."
"Please, Major Gant, ask away. It will help pass the time."
"Why are you bothering to bring me along? I mean, could you not have left me all locked up, then — once you become omnipotent — have me blow my brains out from a distance?"