"SHIT," JOHN BREATHED, NOT EVEN AWARE that he'd spoken as he raised the M-16 and opened up.
—bambambambam—
—and the first of the scorpion-things let out a strange, dry,hissingsound, like air being let out of a giant tire, as the bullets hammered into its curled body. A thick white fluid burst from the wounds that had opened in its insectile face, a face of drooling tusks and spider's eyes, a face with a black shapeless hole for a mouth. Writhing, claws raised, it fell on its side and twisted wildly, digging its own shallow grave in the hot sand.
Leon and Cole were both shooting, the thunder of the nine-millimeter drowning out any more hissing, producing even more of the pus-like blood in the second and third of the Scorps. The white liquid
spewed out inglurts,like puke, but there were three more of the creatures coming down—
—and the first one, the one that John had drilled full of holes, was getting up. Getting up unsteadily, but getting up all the same. The openings were oozing with that viscous white goo—and even as it took its first step toward them, John saw that the liquid was hardening. Plugging the wounds as efficiently as plaster filled a hole in a wall.
"Go go go!"John shouted as the other two creatures, taken down by Leon and Cole, started to move, their wounds already scabbing over. The second
threesome was halfway down the dune and closing fast.
Gotta get out.
There were still two more "environments," and they'd already blown at least a third of their ammo; this ran through John's mind in the split-second it took him to spray the Scorps with a hail of bullets, as Leon and Cole ran east.
He didn't even try to take any of the six down, he knew it wouldn't make a difference. The line of explosive rounds was to hold them back until the other two men were clear, his mind grasping for a solution as the impossible animals waved their jagged claws, scrabbling against the shifting sands and spurting more of their bizarre epoxy.
—grenade but how do I get them all, how do we avoid taking shrapnel—
The closest of the Scorps was perhaps a dozen feet in front of him when he turned and ran, moving as fast as he could through the blazing heat, his adrenaline up and raging. Leon and Cole were fifty meters ahead, stumbling through the sand, Leon running sideways—watching front and back, sweeping with his semi.
John risked a glance back, saw that the scorpion creatures were still coming. Slower than before but not faltering, their waspish bodies dripping white, their bizarre elongated claws raised and snapping. They were gaining speed, too, faster with each skittering step, a pack of undead bugs looking for lunch—
—pack, in a pack—
They might not have a better chance. John dropped the rifle, the sling hanging awkwardly around his neck, and jammed one hand into his pack, still managing a decent run. He came up with one of the grenades, jerked the pin free, and turned, backing up in a shambling jog. He tried to evaluate the distance, the M68's process running through his frenzied mind, the Scorps sixty, seventy feet behind.
—impact fuse, armed two seconds after it hits, six-second backup—
"Grenade!"He screamed, and threw the round canister up, praying that he'd judged it right as he turned and lunged, the grenade still ascending as he dove into the side of the sand dune.
John swam into it, pushing with all his considerable muscle, burrowing into the hot grit blind and breathless. The sand was cooler underneath, waves of the unpacked stuff pouring across his face, trying to force its way into his nose and mouth, but he couldn't think of anything except pulling his legs in—and what the blast-projected slivers of metal could do to human flesh.
One final, desperate kick and—
—KA-WHAM—
—there was a huge shift all around him, an incredible pressure slamming into him and into the moving wall he was embedded in. He felt the weight on top of him press down, forcing the air out of him, and it took all he had to force one hand up to his face, to cup it over his mouth. Breathing shallowly, he started worming his way back out, wriggling and kicking.
Leon, did they get down in time, did it work—
He fought against the still sliding currents of polished granules, taking one more breath before using both hands to swipe at the heavy sands. In a few seconds he was out, rivulets of grit streaming off of him, his irritated eyes watering. He wiped at them one handed, raising the M-16, looking first at the threat—
—which wasn't a threat anymore. The grenade must have landed right in front of them; of the six mutant scorpions that had been pursuing them, four were in pieces. John saw a still-twitching claw lying across the sand in a puddle of white, a tail with stinger still attached sticking out of the side of the dune, a leg, another leg; the rest was unrecognizable, great hunks of wet mush splattered in a rough semi-circle.
The two Scorps at the rear of the pack were still whole, but were definitely not going to get up again; the bodies were intact, but the eyes and mouth, the strange mandibles,the faceswere gone.
Blown all to shit, in fact. No amount of white goop in the world's gonna plugthatup. . . .
"John!"
He turned, saw Leon and Cole striding back toward
him, expressions of amazement on both their faces. John allowed himself a brief moment of completely unchecked pride, watching them approach; he'd been brilliant—timing, aim, everything.
Ah, well. The true soldier takes no accolades for a job well done; it's enough that he knows it. . . .
By the time they reached him, he'd managed to get over himself; thinking about their situation was enough. They were in a psycho testing ground being put through their paces by an Umbrella madman; their team was split up, they had limited ammo, and there was no clear way out of it.
Pretty much, you're screwed. Patting yourself on the back is kinda like giving aspirin to a dead guy; pointless.
Still, seeing the faint hope on the other men's flushed and sweating faces ... hope could be misguided, but it was rarely a bad thing.
"There could still be more of them," he said, wiping sand off of the M-16. "Let's get out of here—"
—clickclickclick—
That sound. All of them froze, staring at each other.
It wasn't close, but somewhere over the dune, there was at least one more Scorp.
David had spotted a moving light, maybe a quarter mile southwest of their position, but it had come no closer; if it wasn't for the cold, Claire thought she might feel relieved. The chances of anyone finding them in the endless miles of dark were somewhere near zero; the Umbrella guys had blown it. Even with the helicopter's searchlight—which they apparently
weren't going to use—it'd be pure luck if they ran across the three of them . . .
. . .although maybe it'd be lucky for us. Maybe they'd have blankets and coffee, hot chocolate, spiced
cider
She made an effort to keep her teeth from chattering, but it failed. It had been at least an hour, probably more. "Pretty goddamn cold, David, and yourself?"
"Same. Good thing we dressed warm, eh?"
If it was a joke, she wasn't laughing. Claire snuggled closer to Rebecca, wondering when she'd lose all feeling in her limbs; as it was, her hands were numb and her face felt like it was freezing into a mask, in spite of near-constant changes of position. David was on Rebecca's other side, the three of them huddled together as tightly as was humanly possible, spoon fashion. Rebecca hadn't woke up, but her breathing was slow and even; she was resting comfortably, at least.
That's one ofus...
"Shouldn't be much longer," David said. "Twenty, perhaps twenty-five minutes. They'll post a man or two, then go."
"Yeah, so you said," Claire said. "How do you figure the time, though?" Her lips felt like popsicles.
"Perimeter search, perhaps a quarter-mile 'round—assuming they have six or less men still ablebodied, I'm estimating four—"