Caplan’s eyes took a trip around the room, making short stops at the shadowy faces. He saw scientists, technicians, trussed-up guards, as well as rangers. He knew some better than others, but he’d spent time with each and every one of them. There was Dr. Joy Hopkins, his long-time chess nemesis. Verna Mullins, the beer-guzzling guard who once stripped naked and ran around the Heptagon on a bet. And of course, Andres Sandoval, the cricket-loving ranger who liked nothing better than to fill Caplan’s ears with endless stats and factoids during late nights in the Eye.
I failed them, Caplan thought bitterly. Just like I failed Tony.
Morgan’s legs gave out a second time. Caplan had to act fast to keep her from sagging to the floor. As he propped her back up again, he took a look at her pale face, her bluish lips. Quickly, his eyes shifted between her and the corpses. Damn it, he thought. Same symptoms.
“Put me down,” Morgan whispered.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You… you need to look for survivors.”
“But—”
“Please… but be careful… whoever did this…”
She trailed off, but Caplan understood what she was trying to say. One of Corbotch’s people — probably Pearson — had somehow poisoned everyone in the Heptagon. That person had most likely moved on to the individual wings in search of others to kill.
But wait. That didn’t make sense. Caplan had been with Morgan the whole time. How had she gotten sick?
Gently, he lowered Morgan to the ground, away from the corpses. Then he scanned the floor and caught sight of his backpack. He unzipped it, took his twin axes out.
He’d failed the others and he had serious doubts about finding any survivors. But he saw a small light in the darkness. He could still save Morgan, could still earn a measure of forgiveness for her brother’s untimely death. To do that, he needed to know what had happened to her.
He donned the pack and, axes poised for battle, checked the doors. Last he knew, the others were holed up in Research, keeping an eye out for the massive short-faced bear and trying to create enough power to close the hatch. Moving silently, he crossed the Heptagon.
He thought back to his time in the Galley. At one point, Morgan had opened the door to get a report on the so-called antibiotics. Was that when she was poisoned? If so, why hadn’t he been poisoned at the same time?
He positioned himself next to Research’s doorframe. Taking a deep breath, he twisted the knob and opened the door. His heart fell as he snuck a quick peek.
More corpses.
He slid into Research. Flashlights littered the floor, their beams striking the bodies and casting weird shadows upon the walls. As far as he could tell, the corpses showed the same moist, glassy eyes, the same purplish lips, and the same foam-filled mouths as the bodies in the Heptagon.
He glanced at the hatch. It was propped all the way open. Axes at the ready, he made his way forward, stopping briefly to examine two more corpses, Dr. Amy Carson and the technician Gino Suarez.
Just the way I like my holes, Caplan thought as he peered through the open hatch. Scary as hell. Indeed, the bottom of the shaft was blacker than night. He couldn’t hear or see anything and he didn’t dare shine a light down there lest he attract the bear’s attention.
His fingers curled around the edges of the hatch. With a little bit of pushing, he closed it over until it was almost even with the floor. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t go any farther. And without power, there was no way to lock it. He looked around for a way to remedy the situation, even though he knew it was hopeless. If a brilliant technician like Suarez couldn’t close the hatch, how was Caplan supposed to do it?
Giving up, he left the room as quietly as he’d entered it. Then he returned to the Heptagon and checked on Morgan. Her breathing was more labored; her eyes were full of tears. She tried to speak, but could only make little noises.
Moving faster now, he swiftly checked the Barracks, Operations, and the Warehouse. He found nothing helpful, just a few dead bodies along with fallen guns and flashlights.
Panic gripped his throat as he raced back into the Heptagon. Morgan’s eyes were full-on glassy and she was choking as if she couldn’t breathe. He tried to help her, but she waved him away.
Feeling helpless, he scanned the remaining doors. One led outside. The other two led to the Galley and the Eye, respectively. He decided not to bother with the Galley. After all, he and Morgan had been the only ones in there. And that isolation, from all appearances, was the only reason they were still alive.
Then again, isolation couldn’t be the sole reason for her delayed symptoms. Otherwise, he’d be just as sick as her.
He sprinted to the Eye and cracked the door. His gaze cinched tight. Only two flashlight beams rested on the floor, their beams crisscrossing the wide room. Even so, he could see that the Eye looked more like a fancy ballroom than a wildlife surveillance center. The workstations and desks he remembered so well had been pushed to the walls. In their place, he saw circular tables, covered with white cloth and surrounded by chairs. Gourmet dishes — roast chicken with fennel panzanella, orecchiette bolognese with chestnuts, salt-baked leg of lamb strewn with sea grapes, and others — rested upon the tables, their stunning colors and freshness gone limp with time. Expensive bottles of wine, only partly consumed, were situated between the dishes.
He opened the door a little farther and stepped into the room. Charlie Lodge, a geneticist and five-year resident at Hatcher, lay against the wall to his left. His eyes looked red, but glassy. Foam bubbled in his still mouth.
Caplan’s heart grew heavy as he spotted a second body a couple of feet away. It belonged to Fei Nai-Yuan, an expert in Earth’s physical processes and properties and one of Caplan’s closest friends at Hatcher.
Sighing heavily, he shifted his gaze back to the tables. Clearly, the dignitaries had been having dinner when Morgan staged her rebellion. But where were they now? The only two corpses in the room, as far as he could tell, belonged to Lodge and Nai-Yuan.
“Hello?” A familiar voice rang out like an off-key instrument. “Is someone there?”
A survivor! Caplan thought. Heart thumping against his chest, he glanced to his left. To his amazement, he didn’t see just one survivor. Instead, he saw nearly two-dozen people huddled near a bank of dark monitors. He scanned the faces, looking for familiar ones. And oddly enough, many of the faces were familiar. Not familiar like he’d actually met them. But familiar like he’d seen them before, perhaps on television or in Hatcher’s collection of old newspapers and magazines.
His gaze settled on a woman and he barely hid a grimace. It was Deborah Keifer, president of the Vallerio Foundation. He’d only spoken to her on a few occasions, including his exit interview. But she gave off nasty vibes, like a raptor toying with its prey.
For a long moment, he stared at Deborah’s cohorts, pegging them as bankers, politicians, and CEOs. They exuded wealth and power. But they also seemed rough around the edges. Not so much dignitaries as a collection of blue collar big shots.
“Hey Deborah,” Caplan called out. “It’s me. Zach Caplan. How are your symptoms? Because—”
“Will someone please take care of him?”
Keifer’s question, spoken with casual disdain, chilled Caplan to the bone. As he tried to understand what was happening, an older man stepped forward. Lifting a rifle, he took aim at Caplan’s head. His finger squeezed the trigger.
And the Eye exploded with gunfire.