‘Sure is,’ she said.
‘Think it was poisonous?’ he asked, fixated on the fangs.
‘Sure looks like it,’ Brooke said, slowly circling the case to see the snake from all angles.
‘Why the hell would she be carrying this thing around?’
‘I don’t know. But think about it, Tommy … a snake is one of the central figures in Creation mythology, just like in the story of Adam, Eve and Lilith.’ Then halfway around the case, she froze. ‘Wow, look here,’ she said, waving him over.
Tommy stepped around to have a look. She was tapping on the glass to indicate a huge bulge in the snake’s wide midsection; something caught inside and ballooning the body outward.
‘Looks like the snake’s last meal wasn’t fully digested,’ Brooke said.
‘Not to change the subject of this fascinating discussion, but speaking of meal … I’m starving,’ Flaherty said. He checked his watch. ‘Seeing as we’re going to be here awhile, I’m thinking we should raid that vending machine out in the hall. You like chips? Pretzels? Candy bars? The sky’s the limit.’
‘I could eat.’
‘You, uh, like the Celtics?’ Flaherty said with a polite cough.
‘Huh? What? Yeah, I love the Celtics,’ she said.
You’re the woman of my dreams, he thought.
‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked.
‘Stokes has a big-screen TV in his office, rigged for satellite. Supposed to be a great game tonight — playing the Lakers. Starts in about ten minutes. You, ah, interested?’
‘Are you asking me out on a date, Agent Flaherty? I thought you were abstaining from gambling in Vegas.’
He blushed. ‘Not sure if taking you into a room contaminated by anthrax, with a shot preacher lying on the floor, would qualify as romance. But I’m looking for a safe bet. So yeah, let’s call it a date.’
75
Ramirez blazed like a thunderbolt through the cave, determined to return to the outside world in record time. Doing his best to keep the light directed towards the dodgy ground, he pumped his arms and legs like pistons, remembering how it felt to sprint the fifty at high school track meets. Normally he’d be looking over his shoulder for anyone sneaking up in his wake. For this race, however, he wasn’t looking back.
He could barely stomach the idea of his niece’s caged gerbil, Felix. The hell with Felix. Felix was nothing but a pimped-out mouse.
But rats? A cave full of huge, filthy rats? Repulsive. Made his nuts pull up into his stomach. And these rats seemed to be out for blood. The way they came at him like that? Pursued him? That couldn’t be normal. Rats didn’t eat live meat, did they? he wondered. But they sure liked the taste of Holt. The poor bastard was covered in the things. And there was nothing Ramirez could’ve done about it. It’s not like he could’ve swatted them away or shot them off Holt’s chest. There were so many of them.
There was only one option: run … hard.
Back in the cave, when he’d discarded his M-16, he’d barely glimpsed Hazo marooned on top of one those sadistic breeding kennels where some twisted psycho nurtured those flesh-eating-rodents-from-Hell. He’d be sure to send some guys with flamethrowers and grenades back inside to fry the critters and pull Hazo out — assuming he didn’t die from demon pestilence first.
As Ramirez tore through the tunnel, the squealing din faded and he became confident he’d make it out from the mountain unscathed. In fact, it sounded as if the rats had stayed inside the cave.
Ramirez’s relief, however, instantly withered when up ahead in the tunnel’s dark throat, a series of bright flashes coincided perfectly with the metallic hammering of automatic gunfire delivered at point-blank range.
The bullets struck him low — one shattering his left kneecap, six more to the groin and thighs. His legs instantly went out and his face slammed into the ground like a pile driver. It was so fast, so shocking, that he didn’t even scream. With all the adrenaline pumping through his system, even the pain was slow coming.
But when the gunman emerged into the glowing cone of his fumbled flashlight, the sting of treachery came instantaneously.
‘Crawford?’ he groaned, blood streaming into his right eye from a ragged gash that split his forehead. ‘Wh — why?’
There was no answer. The colonel simply pressed the M-16’s muzzle against Ramirez’s head and delivered the kill shot.
76
The huge rodents — bodies as large as eggplants — were teeming over Holt, clawing their way up his legs, chest and back. Hazo watched in horror as the marine flailed his arms violently, flinging rats in every direction. Blood covered dozens of tattered holes in his sleeves where he’d been bitten (though his flak jacket had protected his torso). A sickly-looking thing squirmed up on to his shoulder and sank its teeth into his ear. Holt screamed in rage, tore it free, hurled it into the darkness like a football. By then, another horde of rats was grappling up his pant legs. Trudging through the knee-deep brood, it looked as if Holt were slogging through wet cement.
‘Up here!’ Hazo screamed again. ‘Up—’
The coughing seized his voice again. Spitting up more blood and bile, Hazo watched helplessly as Holt tried to quicken his pace. Then desperation and frustration got the better of Holt and he raised his knees to try to run. It was a costly mistake.
Trampling the spongy rats underfoot caused Holt to lose his footing. He faltered, caught himself, faltered again. The rats piled on to him. He got back up again and shook some of them free, before slipping and going down a final time.
Hazo shined his light on the spot, praying that Holt would get up.
He didn’t.
The rats swarmed over their prey.
Holt’s arms thrashed a few more times, as if he were drowning. Then he disappeared beneath the roiling current.
‘Hazo!’ a voice called out over the maddening squeals.
Hazo turned and saw Shuster pulling himself up over the edge of the neighbouring container. He’d lost his helmet and his pant legs were torn up and bloody. Otherwise, he seemed unharmed. ‘Are you all right?’ Hazo called back.
Breathless, Shuster rolled on to his back. ‘I’m okay,’ he said, panting.
Hazo looked towards the entry tunnel and saw that the glow of Ramirez’s light seemed to be growing stronger again — coming back towards the cave.
77
Years had passed since Bryce Crawford last walked these tunnels, yet he still recognized every oddity and anomaly inside the mountain as if they were the birthmarks of a former lover. Even the familiar loamy smell invoked fond memories of the extensive time he’d been stationed here — like grandma’s turkey roasting in the oven on Thanksgiving Day.
Once Frank Roselli had declared the installation ‘complete’ the previous spring, the single entrance to Operation Genesis’s self-sustaining breeding facility had been sealed. Every mechanical part of the gnotobiotic isolator cells that housed the rats had been designed for remote operation, thanks to technology borrowed heavily from NASA’s unmanned space stations. Similarly, the facility generated its own power from a state-of-the-art compact nuclear reactor capable of continuously churning out electricity for ten years before needing refuelling.
Even replenishment of the feeding tanks was handled by a cleverly concealed pipeline to a dairy farm situated a kilometre to the west. The milky nutrient solution manufactured there was a potent brew infused with plague virions and gonadotropin hormone that stimulated the brood’s pituitary development (to promote aggressive behaviour).