Thom raised his weapon to fire but feared hitting her, so he turned it around and drove the stock into the man's cheek. The man's head whiplashed but his grip did not release.
For her part, Stacy kicked at the creature's knees. She might have done damage to a normal man, but this was many steps removed from a normal man.
"Get it off me!" she shouted, and he admired that her shout was, in fact, a shout and not a scream.
Gant came at it again, attempting to smash it loose with repeated jabs from the stock of his carbine. However the creature switched targets, grabbing the rifle with two bloody paws and wrestling with the major for control of the weapon.
Stacy returned the favor, coming to Thom's rescue by grabbing at the tennis player's collar and attempting to throw it off balance. This only partially worked, as the thing maintained its grip on Gant's gun and refused to let go.
Thom used this against his attacker, however, surrendering his weapon in exchange for fighting space. He pushed off and then kicked it in the chest, intent on grappling away his gun after regaining his balance. Based on what he had seen thus far, he did not believe these reanimated corpses could or would use a weapon.
The tennis player fell into a magazine rack. Six-month-old issues of Sports Illustrated and The Dupont Registry flew off along with an ancient copy of The Sharper Image catalog.
Thom stepped forward, ready to continue the fight, but hesitated as he realized they were not alone.
A trio of the hazmat-wearing newcomers approached. Two held their AKMs in a threatening manner, while the last carried a silver contraption that might have been a fire extinguisher.
The zombie paid them no notice and lunged at Gant. Before it could engage, however, the new arrival activated his silver contraption and hit the creature with a cloud of what appeared to be white dust. It carried a very pungent odor that made Thom think of talcum powder or maybe even baking soda.
The tennis player stopped, shimmied, and fell over.
Gant did not hesitate. He moved for his rifle, but a single gunshot — one that hit the floor between the toppled magazine rack and the M4 carbine — stopped him even faster than the spray had halted the walking corpse.
He turned to Dr. Stacy, who looked frightened again, and he nodded, encouraging her to do exactly as he did: raise his hands and surrender.
Past their captors and beyond the lobby out into the gravel parking lot, Gant saw powerful lights and the movement of machinery. He had no doubt that the same equipment that had arrived at the clinic had now arrived at the health club as well.
The four white-clad men with guns parted, allowing another of their number to approach. This one used a metal cane for support as he walked with a heavy limp. Unlike the others, he unzipped the big hood of his suit, allowing the upper part, including the face plate, to fall away, revealing a man beyond middle age with very black skin and big, watery eyes.
"Hello there," he said. "And who have we here?"
Gant spoke before Stacy could. "We are guests of the island. Thank god you found us before those things did."
One of the man's underlings held up the major's discarded carbine.
"A guest? I see, I suppose you came down to the health club for a little target practice," he said and smiled, but not in a particularly friendly way. "Very well. I assume you will refuse to tell me your real names, so I won't bother asking."
Stacy could not hold her tongue.
"And who are you?"
"Me? My name is Dr. Waters and let me welcome you to the experiment."
10
Captain Campion glanced out the window, where a new day's sun rose over the eastern horizon. The coming of that new day filled him with unease. There had been no contact from Major Gant since they had jumped from Franco's plane. Something was wrong.
The sight of a CH-53 Sea Stallion waiting on the tarmac was about the only thing positive he saw out there. That helicopter would ferry Campion and the balance of the Archangel team from Wake to an ad-hoc task force pulled together by PACOM over the past few hours.
Just when he thought his morning was bad enough, in came Sergeant Franco like a bull forcing his way into the proverbial china shop.
"What's the story? We going in or what?"
"Friez says no."
"He says no? What do you mean he says no? We could refuel that C-17 and drop the rest of the team in right now. Hell, we could be on the ground by this afternoon."
"I'm aware of that, Sergeant. General Friez doesn't want anyone else parachuting in there. There will be recon planes in range of Tioga soon. He ordered us to stand by until we have some treetop flybys. He wants a real good eyeball on the situation before we make our next move."
Franco paced and to Campion's amazement, the man seemed infuriated at the idea of sitting around and waiting.
"This is bullshit," Biggy muttered. "We're going to sit on our hands and do nothing."
The captain found Franco's concern astonishing. The sergeant's track record in such situations was less than stellar, particularly when it came to Major Gant. Franco's disdain for their commanding officer was rather apparent, and the fact that that disdain was rooted in racism had also been apparent for a long time.
Franco's odd behavior was just another reason for Campion to grow agitated with the entire situation. That agitation came across clearly as he said, "We move in when Friez gives us the okay. You know that, Biggy."
"Hey, Wells and the Major are out there."
Campion shot, "Since when does that matter to you?"
Franco lunged at the captain with such intensity that Campion uncharacteristically retreated a step, bumping into the desk and knocking over an empty coffee cup that belonged to the base's commanding officer.
"What the fuck does that mean? What do you mean by that?"
Campion said nothing.
"It matters to me, man. Of course it does. Why wouldn't it?"
Again, the captain remained stoic in the face of Franco's defensiveness.
"Those guys are part of the team. We need to roll in there and, you know, go in and get them. That's what we need to do."
Campion remembered now why Franco might be acting this way. The sergeant had, after all, shot dead two members of his own unit during the Red Rock mission. The circumstances were such that Benjamin Franco could not be held responsible for that action. Like so many of them — like Campion himself — he had been tricked by the mind-bending powers of the entity that had dwelled in that dungeon. Indeed, it had been Campion who had stopped Franco's rampage, putting a bullet in the sergeant and leaving him for dead.
But Richard Campion understood that his actions had not been entirely his own. The entity had managed to get inside his head and direct him to do its bidding. As he was apt to do, Campion eliminated the emotional end of it. A professional soldier could not afford regrets or sentiment, or even second thoughts. He had accepted what had happened and moved on. Perhaps Franco had not.
"We got to go in, man."
Campion did not like Sergeant Franco, and the fact that the man had allowed an issue from the last mission to affect his judgment now made him like him even less.
He stood straight and told Franco, "We do as we are ordered to do, Sergeant. A couple of fast movers are going to buzz the target zone later. What they see will tell us what the next move is going to be. Understood?"
Franco did not respond, so Campion took his understanding on faith.
"In the meantime we have to chopper out to the Peleliu so that if Friez gives us the go ahead, we can get to Tioga as fast as possible and in strength. If that's not good enough for you, then you're welcome to stay here on Wake and work on your tan."