Resident Evil: Underworld (15 page)

Rebecca was running, out of breath and exhausted and unable to stop, to rest. David and Claire were running with her, holding her up, but she still felt that each step was an effort of pure will; her muscles didn’t want to cooperate, and she was disoriented, her equilibrium a mess, her ears ringing. She was hurt, and she didn’t know how bad—only that she’d been shot, that she’d hit her head at some point, and that they couldn’t stop until they were well away from the compound.

It was dark, too dark to see where the ground was, and cold; each breath was an iced dagger in her throat and lungs. Her thoughts were muddled, but she knew that she’d suffered some brain dysfunction, she wasn’t sure what exactly; as she staggered along, the possibilities haunted her. The bullet was easier, she knew by the hot and throbbing pain where it had gone. It hurt terribly, but she didn’t think she had a fracture and it wasn’t gushing; she was much more concerned about the loss of coherency.

Shot through left gluteal, lodged in ischium, lucky lucky lucky… shock or concussion? Concussion or shock?

She needed to stop, take a temporal pulse, check her ears for blood… or for CSF, which was something she didn’t even want to think about. Even in her confused state, she knew that bleeding cerebrospinal fluid was about the worst outcome for a blow to the head.

After what seemed like a very long time, and more twists and changes in direction than she could count, David slowed, telling Claire to slow down, and that they were going to sit Rebecca on the ground.

“On my side,” Rebecca panted, “bullet’s on the left.”

Carefully, David and Claire lowered her down to the cold flat earth, gasping, catching their breath, and Rebecca thought she’d never been more glad to lie down. She caught just a glimpse of the black sky as David rolled her over: the stars were amazing, clear and ice against the deep black sea…

“Flashlight,” she said, realizing again how strange her thoughts had become. “Gotta check.”

“Are we far enough?” Claire asked, and it took Rebecca a moment to understand that she was talking to David.

Oh, crap this is not good…

“Should be. And we’ll see them coming.” David said shortly, and he turned on his flashlight, the beam hitting the ground a few inches in front of Rebecca’s face.

“Rebecca, what can we do?” he asked, and she heard the worry in his voice and loved him for it. They were like family, had been ever since the cove, he was a good friend and a good man…

“Rebecca?” This time, he sounded afraid.

“Yeah, sorry,” she said, wondering how to explain what she was feeling, what was happening. She decided it would be best to just start talking and let them figure it out.

“Look at my ear,” she said. “Look for blood or clear fluid, I think I’ve had a concussion. I can’t seem to gather my thoughts. Other ear, too. I was shot and I think the bullet lodged in my ischium. Pelvis. Lucky, lucky. Shouldn’t be bleeding much, I can disinfect it, wrap it if you’ll hand me my pack. There’s gauze and that’s good, though, the bullet could’ve snapped my spine or gone low, chewed through my femoral artery. Lot of blood, that’s bad, and me the only medic being hurt—”

As she spoke, David shone the light across her face, then gently lifted and checked the other side before resting her head in his lap. His legs were warm, the muscles twitching from exertion.

“A little blood in your left ear,” he said. “Claire, take off Rebecca’s pack, if you would. Rebecca, you don’t have to speak anymore, we’ll fix you right up; try to rest, if you can.”

No CSF, thank God…

She wanted to close her eyes, to sleep, but she needed to finish telling them everything. “Concussion sounds minor, explains displacement, tinnitus, lack of equilibrium—may only be a couple hours, maybe weeks. Shouldn’t be too bad, shouldn’t move though. Bed rest. Find my temporal pulse, side of my forehead. If you can’t, I could be in shock—warmth, elevation…”

She took a breath, and realized that the darkness wasn’t just outside anymore. She was tired, very, very tired, and a kind of hazy blackness was encroaching on her vision.

That’s everything, told them everything
—

John. Leon.

“John and Leon,” she said, horrified that she’d forgotten for even a moment, struggling to sit up. The realization was like a slap in the face. “I can walk, I’m okay, we have to go back—”

David barely touched her and somehow, her head was in his lap again. Then Claire was lifting the back of her shirt, dabbing at her hip, sending fresh waves of pain coursing through her. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to breathe deeply, trying to breathe at all.

“We will go back,” David said, and his voice seemed to be coming from far away, from the top of a well that she was falling down. “But we have to wait for the helicopter to leave, assuming that it will—and you’ll need time to recover…”

If he said anything else, Rebecca didn’t hear it. Instead, she slept, and dreamed that she was a child, playing in the cold, cold snow.

* * *

Desert!

There weren’t any animals in sight, they had to be on the other side of the dune, but Cole thought he knew which ones belonged to Phase Two. Before John or Leon could get even a step away, before Cole’s ears had stopped ringing from the Dacs’ terrible cries, he started babbling at them.

“Desert, Phase Two is a desert so it must be the Scorps, scorpions, see?”

John was pulling a curved magazine from his hip pack, scowling into the artificial sunlight that beat down from above. It had to be at least a hundred degrees in the room, and between the white walls and glaring light it felt a lot hotter. Leon scanned the shining sands in front of them, then turned to Cole, looking as though he’d just eaten something sour.

“Wonderful, that’s just great. ‘Scorps’? Scorps and Dacs… what are the other ones, Henry, do you remember?”

For a single second, Cole’s mind went blank. He nodded, wracking his brain, all of the sweat on his body already evaporated in the bone dry heat.

“Uh—they’re, they’re nicknames, Dacs, Scorps… Hunters! Hunters and Spitters, the handlers all had these nicknames—’’

“Cute. Like Fluffy, or Sweet Pea,” John interrupted, wiping his brow with the back of one hand. “So where are they?”

All three of them looked across Phase Two, at the massive sand dune that towered in the middle of the room, glittering beneath the giant grid of sunlamps overhead. Twenty-five, thirty feet high, it blocked their view of the southern wall, including the door in the far right corner. There was nothing else to see.

Cole shook his head, but he wasn’t telling them anything; the Scorps were elsewhere, and they’d have to cross the bright and burning sand dune to get to the exit.

“What were the other phases, mountain and city? Have you seen them?” Leon asked.

“Three is like a, whadayacallit, a chasm, on a peak. Like a mountain gorge, kind of, real rocky. And Four is a city—a few square blocks of one, anyway. I had to check the video feeds in all of the phases when I first got here.”

John looked up and around, squinting against the harsh light. “That’s right, video… do you remember where they are? The cameras?”

Why would he want to know that?
Cole pointed left, at the small glass eye embedded in the white wall some ten feet up. “There are five in here; that’s the closest…”

With a huge grin, John held up both hands and extended his middle fingers to the lens. “Bite it, Reston,” he said loudly, and Cole decided that he liked John, a lot. Leon too, for that matter, and not just because they were the only ticket out. Whatever their motivations, they were obviously on the right side of things; and the fact that they could still joke at a time like this…

“So, we got a plan?” Leon asked, still looking at the wall of yellow-white sand looming in front of them.

“Head that way,” John said, pointing right, “and then climb. If we see something, shoot it.”

“Brilliant, John. You should write these down. You know, I—”

Leon broke off suddenly, and then Cole heard it. A chattering sound. A sound like nails being tapped on hollow wood, the sound he’d heard when he was fixing one of the cameras only last week.

A sound like claws, opening and closing. Like mandibles, clicking…

“Scorps,” John said softly. “Aren’t scorpions supposed to be nocturnal?”

“This is Umbrella, remember?” Leon said. “You have two grenades, I’ve got one…”

John nodded, then said, “You know how to work a semiautomatic?”

The big soldier was watching the dune, so it took Cole a second to realize he was talking to him.

“Oh. Yeah. I haven’t ever
used
one, but I went target shooting a couple of times with my brother, six or seven years ago…” He kept his voice low as they did, listening for that strange sound.

John looked directly at him, as if sizing him up— then nodded, and pulled a heavy-looking handgun out of his hip holster. He handed it to Cole, butt first.

“It’s a nine-millimeter, holds eighteen. I got more clips if you run out. You know all the gun safety rules? Don’t point it at anyone unless you mean to kill, don’t shoot me or Leon, all that stuff?”

Cole nodded, taking the gun, and it
was
heavy— and although he was still more scared than he’d ever been in all his thirty-four years, the solid weight of it in his hand was an incredible relief. Remembering what his little brother had told him about safety, he fumbled through checking to see if it was loaded before looking at John again.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it. He’d lured these two guys into a trap, and they were giving him a gun; giving him a
chance.

“Forget it. Means we won’t have to worry about covering your ass on top of ours,” John said, but he wore a slight smile. “Come on, let’s move out.”

John in the lead and Leon behind him, they started east, walking slowly through the changeless environment. The sand was really sand; it shifted underfoot, and with the blasting heat, it made for a real workout.

They’d only gone a short distance when Leon called for a halt.

“Thermal underwear,” he muttered, holstering his handgun before pulling off his black sweatshirt and tying it around his waist. He wore a thick, textured white shirt underneath. “I didn’t realize we’d be hitting the Sahara—”

They all heard it, only a second before they saw it—before they saw
them,
three of them, lining up at the top of the dune. Tiny rivers of sand trickled down from beneath their multiple legs, each as thick and stocky as a sawed-off baseball bat. They had claws, giant pincing claws that were narrow and black, serrated on the inside, and long, segmented bodies that dwindled to tails, curling up and over their backs—and tipped with stingers. Wicked, dripping stingers at least a foot long.

The trio of sand-colored creatures, each five or six feet long, maybe three feet high, started to chatter— the slender, pointed, tusk-like projections beneath the rounded arachnid eyes tapped against one another, beating out the strange tattoo of clicks that they’d heard before—

—and then all three of the creatures, the
monsters,
were sliding down toward them, perfectly balanced, scuttling through the moving sands with ease.

And at the top of the dune, another three appeared.

“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,
hissing
sound, 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 in
glurts
, 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.