The blast, abrupt and clear, reverberated through the forest. Caplan’s skin crawled. Then more blasts rang out in quick succession.
He stopped and Morgan stopped alongside him. The gunshot had come from the Rexto 419R3’s general direction, making Corbotch or maybe Perkins the likely shooter. But why? Were they trying to fend off 1-Gens? Didn’t they realize they might be attracting more of them? There’s your dinner bell, 1-Gens, he thought. It’s feeding time!
“Damn it,” Morgan whispered in frustration. “Every 1-Gen for miles is going to be making a beeline in this direction.”
“The more the merrier.”
“You can’t be serious.”
As the reverberations died away, crackles — ferocious and lasting — stretched across the land. They built to a deep crescendo, faded back into the Vallerio, and then began building again.
Caplan’s eyes returned to the fire that had captivated him the last few minutes. Flames blazed in the distance, throbbing and trembling with incredible energy. Gray smoke trailed upward, whirling and churning. The whole thing gave off strange energy, as if the fire itself was alive.
As the sounds of splintering wood filled his eardrums, Caplan thought about the earlier fire, the one triggered by the crash. But the Blaze’s wreckage was in the opposite direction. So, what had started this new fire?
Switching gears, he thought through their options and discarded them each in turn. They could try to outrun the flames. But where would they go? They were many miles from the outer fence line. And returning to Hatcher was like voluntarily returning to death row. No, there was just one option available to them and they needed to grab it before they ran out of time. “How are your legs feeling?” he asked.
“Like rubber.”
“That’ll have to do.” His instincts reared up as he stared into the forest. He wasn’t close enough to actually see the clearing. But he could feel it. Like the good old days. Before all the madness. When he could close his eyes and still sense the trees, the leaves, the rocks, the hills, everything. “Come on.”
Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Caplan broke out into a mad dash. His shoes flew over the pine needles, expertly avoiding roots, branches, and mud holes. Slowly, shiny black metal, tucked carefully between rings of conifers, came into view.
Turning his head, he looked for Morgan. She trailed him by a considerable margin. She ran with a limp and without style, awkwardly tripping over obstacles and kicking up mud with every step.
He zeroed in on her for a moment of time. Her skin was purplish-red. Her cheeks puffed in and out like a blowfish. Her blonde hair was a disaster area of floppy curls and frizz. And her clothes were a mud-soaked mess. But none of that altered the way he felt.
To him, she’d never looked more beautiful.
His head swiveled back to the front and he saw four shadows rushing northwest. Three of the shadows were new to him. But the fourth one sent his brain zooming back to where it had all started, that dark alleyway in Manhattan.
He knew he needed to keep going, to get to that helicopter. But instead, he veered off-course. Calculating the angles in his head, he ran full tilt through the forest. Derek Perkins, seemingly oblivious to his presence, did the same.
Caplan felt an inkling of doubt as they converged upon one another. But he quickly stuffed it away and leapt at Perkins, smashing the man with a vicious shoulder block. Caught off guard, Perkins went down like a glass-jawed boxer. They rolled, exchanging sharp elbows and punches, before Caplan gained the top position. Pinning Perkins, he raised his left fist and prepared to rain hellfire down on the man.
A body, small and petite, crashed into his back. The blow jostled Caplan and he tipped off balance. Swiftly, Perkins slid out from under him.
Fueled by rising insanity, Caplan whirled around to face this newest aggressor. He blinked, did a double-take.
A woman in her early-thirties stood before him. She was three or four inches shy of six feet and couldn’t have weighed much more than 120 pounds. Despite the mud caking her tanned body, he could see she was a cookie-cutter knockout. One of those blonde, blue-eyed supermodel types that the media and masses loved to despise, yet still fawned over at every opportunity.
Farther back, he saw two other people. A bearded, bookish guy and a hapless mud-covered woman. They sure as hell didn’t look like any of Corbotch’s big shots. But what else could they be?
His gaze shifted to the knockout. To the logbook under her left arm and to the large branch clutched in her right hand. She wielded it like a little kid wielding a too-heavy tennis racket. Harmless for the most part, but you still wouldn’t want the kid taking a swing at you. Rising to his feet, he yanked the branch out of her hand. Then he spun around to face Perkins.
“Wait.” Perkins, on all fours, gasped for air. Blood streamed from his right side, just below his armpit. Slowly, painfully, he lifted his eyes to meet Caplan’s. “I’m… I’m trying to help.”
Caplan lunged forward, grabbed the man’s shirt. “You work for Corbotch,” he growled.
“See that?” The knockout strode forward on bare feet, leaving tiny blood streaks on the pine needles. With her free hand, she pointed at Perkins’ right side. “That’s a bullet hole.”
Caplan cocked his fist. “And?”
“And he got it saving us from Corbotch’s man.” She gave Caplan a defiant look. “Maybe he used to work for James. But I think it’s safe to say he’s officially tendered his resignation.”
Chapter 55
He gave you the tablets… he saved Amanda’s life, Caplan thought. Then again, he didn’t say a word when Pearson infected you.
His fist hung steady in the air, poised to slam into the bridge of Perkins’ nose. He became increasingly aware of the others. The bookish guy and the mud-covered woman. Morgan too, freshly arrived from lurching through the forest.
“Punch me if you want. Hell, pummel the shit out of me. Lord knows I deserve it.” Perkins’ eyes, small and bloodshot, flicked from Caplan to the trio of maybe-big shots. “Just give them tablets and get them the hell out of here.”
Caplan’s fist wavered. In the distance, he heard the crackling flames. The ground trembled slightly and pine needles fluttered to the ground.
The knockout looked over her shoulder. “Whatever you do, make it fast.”
“Why?” Morgan said between gasps. “You planning on outrunning that fire?”
“Something like that.”
Reluctantly, Caplan lowered his fist. Then he gave Perkins a shove, sending the man to the ground. “You brought me here,” he said. “You let Julius inject me with that… that…”
“With HA-78.” Perkins swallowed. “Yeah, I know.”
“People died. Lots of people.”
His face twitched, but he stayed silent.
“Why shouldn’t I kill you right now?” Caplan asked, his voice full of venom.
The bookish guy cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt this fun little reunion of yours—”
“Then don’t,” Morgan said.
He stared down the barrel of her pistol without blinking. “Yes, you’ve got a gun. We’re all very impressed.”
Morgan frowned.
The bookish guy didn’t miss a beat. “But we’re not just running from the fire. There’s a giant on our trail.”
Caplan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Giant?”
“He means Julius.” Perkins rose to a knee and clutched his side. “Julius is the one who shot me.”