Page 89 of I Dream of Danger
Just before the door swooshed open, Nick tapped Jon’s shoulder and crouched. Jon followed his lead and dropped. “Two. All eyes,” he whispered, and then the doors were open and they both moved forward, Nick right Jon left and oh God.
It was a massacre.
Dead bodies everywhere in the corridor, everyone in white lab coats stained with blood. Rivers of it. Some had been torn apart, not by knives but by what looked like bare hands.
The coppery smell of blood mixed with the tang of urine and the unmistakable stench of feces—the smells of violent death.
The linoleum floor was slick with blood, the white walls were stained with it, there was even spatter on the ceiling.
Nick!
Two…things came barreling around the corner, blood-spattered, mouths open, hands up into claws. They came as fast and as aggressively as any soldier, only these weren’t soldiers. Nick and Jon hesitated because these were clearly civilians. Or had been civilians.
A man and a woman, in once-white lab coats, now stiff with blood. The woman was young, Asian, pretty. Or had been pretty. Now her face was contorted with inchoate rage as she sprinted screaming down the corridor, leaving the man behind. The man was pudgy, his lab coat straining at the buttons, just as blood-stained, just as altered. He was balding with a comb-over hanging down over his eyes which bounced as he lurched down the corridor.
“Jesus,” Jon whispered. The man was running—trying to run—on a broken ankle. It was as if he didn’t feel it, didn’t even perceive it. All he felt was raw rage as he dragged himself as fast as he could toward Nick and Jon.
There was nothing human in their eyes, pupils expanded almost to the edge of the irises so that their eyes were black. The woman gave a banshee shriek and leaped, claws out…
Nick…
Jon took out the woman and Nick the man, red mists a halo around their heads, two perfect head shots so close together they sounded like one.
Down the corridor, to the right.
“Down there, to the right,” Nick said, and it took effort to keep his voice steady.
Nick and Jon shared a quick glance, then made their way forward, stepping over the woman whose brains were scattered over the floor and the wall. Her hands were still arched in claws. The man had fallen backward, blood seeping from the back of his head. The broken ankle was a compound fracture. White bone stuck out from the gray sock, and the foot, connected only by skin, lay flat on the ground.
Pick up his pass.
Nick bent to unclip the pass from the pocket of the white lab coat. For a second, Nick studied the small sharp hologram of a successful middle-aged researcher with a kind smile. His eyes flicked to the still-grimacing face of the dead man. If he hadn’t been looking at the dead man and the hologram at the same time, he’d never have believed they were the same person.
Hurry.
Nick had to tuck away the utter dread he felt and concentrate on the mission. Of all the horrors of war he’d seen, this was undoubtedly the worst. Perfectly normal lab drones who’d suddenly turned ferociously feral.
He waved his hand forward and then right, and he and Jon started forward at a trot, both of them sniffing the air. Something was burning. They started running. Being trapped underground in a fire was a nightmare. It had already happened to Nick in Cambridge, and he wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.
They turned the corner to the right and saw a long corridor with a wall at the end. No doors. No elevator. Thank God at least it was free of bodies. They picked up their pace, and just as Nick was thinking of slowing down to see if the badge would open something?—
Hold the pass up?—
The door at the back of the corridor opened up with the sucking sound of a seal being broken. A wind at his back cooled the sweat from his body. This part of the building had negative pressure. A lab dealing with hazardous material.
This is it. I’m going ahead…
Nick felt Elle’s presence as a faint glow in his head, growing fainter. He didn’t have time to worry about that though, because he was looking at a series of transparent boxes. No, he thought, the hairs on the back of his head rising. Cages. Transparent cages.
For humans.
Ten of them, seven empty.
All around, monitors and holograms and equipment he had no name for. The room had the ozone smell of electricity, and there was a faint hum of working equipment.
Suddenly, Jon took off, walking fast down an aisle, looking sharply into each cage.
The first cage had a tall, dark-haired man in it who studied them, then opened his mouth. He was shouting, banging his fist against the cage, but there was no noise. He pointed desperately at a console in the middle of the room and Nick went over to stand in front of it. The man made an O with his fingers.
