John imagined that it was called Fossil because of what it looked like, at least partly—some kind of a dinosaur, though not one that had ever walked the
Earth. The ten-foot-tall creature was some pale color, its pebbled flesh a glowing pink because of the red liquid that surrounded it. There was no tail, but it had the thick skin and powerful legs of a dino. It was obviously built to walk upright, and though it had the small eyes and heavy, rounded snout of a carnivorous dinosaur, a T. Rex or velociraptor, it also had long, thickly muscled arms and hands with slender, grasping fingers. As impossible as it was, it looked like the mutant offspring of a man and a dinosaur.
What were they thinking? Why—why make something like this?
It was asleep, or in some kind of coma, but it was definitely alive. Connected to a thin hose was a small, clear mask that covered its nostril slits, and a band of plastic was tied around its thick snout to hold the giant jaws closed. John couldn't see them, but he had no doubt that there were rows of pointed teeth in the creature's wide and curving mouth. Its beady eyes were covered by some inner eyelid, a thin layer of purpled skin, and they could actually see the slow rise of its thick chest, the gently bobbing motions of its massive body in the red goo.
There was a clipboard hanging on the wall next to the Fossil, above a small monitor screen where thin green lines blipped silently across in fading pulses.
Leon picked the clipboard up, flipping through the pages as John just stared, awed and disgusted. One of its spidery hands twitched, the eight-inch fingers curling into a loose fist.
"Says here that it's slated for autopsy in three and a half weeks," Leon said, scanning. " 'Specimen will
remain in stasis,' blah blah blah . . . 'when it will be injected with a lethal dose of Hyptheion prior to dissection.'"
John glanced back at the autopsy table, saw the folded steel leaves on either side and three bone saws tucked underneath. The table had apparently been built to accommodate larger animals.
"Why keep it alive at all?" John asked, turning back to the sleeping Fossil. It was hard not to look; the creature was compelling, horrid and marvelous, an aberration that demanded attention.
"Maybe so the organs will be fresh," Leon said, then took a deep breath. "So ... do we do it?"
That's the million dollar question, isn't it? We won't have the codes—but Umbrella will have one less playground for their twisted science. And maybe one less administrator.
"Yeah," John said. "Yeah, I think we do."
The men listened to him in silence, their faces thoughtful as they absorbed the horror that had invaded the Planet. The invasion from above, his call for help, how the gunmen had knocked him out after killing Henry Cole in cold blood. They asked no questions, just sat and drank coffee—someone had made coffee—and watched him speak. No one offered him a cup.
"... and once I recovered, I came here," Reston said, and ran a shaking hand through his hair, wincing appropriately. He didn't have to fake the tremors.
"I—they're still out there, somewhere, perhaps planting explosives, I don't know . . . but we can stop them if we work together."
He could see in their blank eyes that it wasn't working, he wasn't inspiring them to act. He wasn't the best with people, but he could read them well
enough.
They're not buying, work the Henry angle. . . .
Reston's shoulders slumped, a quiver creeping into his voice. "They just shot him," he said, staring down in stunned sorrow. "He was begging,pleadingfor them to let him live, and they—they shot him."
"Where's the body?"
Reston looked up, saw that Leo Yan had spoken, one of the 3Ks' two handlers. Yan had no expression at all, leaning against the edge of the table with his arms crossed.
"What?" Reston asked, looking confused but knowing exactly what Yan was talking about.Think, dammit, should have thought of this already—
"Henry," someone else said, and Reston saw it was Tom Something-or-other, from construction. His gruff voice was openly skeptical. "They shot him, they knocked you out—so he's still by the cell block, right?"
"I—I don't know," Reston said, feeling too hot, feeling dehydrated from so much brandy. Feeling as though he might not be able to recover from the unexpected question. "Yes, he must be, unless they moved him for some reason. I woke up confused, dizzy, I wanted to get to you immediately, to make sure none of you had been injured. I didn't see if he was still there. . . ."
They stared at him, a sea of rough faces that were no longer so neutral. Reston saw disbelief and disrespect, anger—and in the eyes of one or two, he saw what might have been hatred.
Why, what have I done to inspire such contempt? I'm their manager, their employer, I pay their goddamn wages—
One of the mechanics stood up from the table and addressed the rest of them, ignoring Reston completely. It was Nick Frewer, the one who seemed the most popular among the men.
"Who says we get outta here?" Nick said. "Tommy,
Tom nodded. "Sure, but not for the gate or the storage shed."
"I got those," said Ken Carson, the cook. He stood up, too, and then most were standing, stretching and yawning, draining their cups.
Nick nodded. "Good. Everyone go pack up, be at the elevator in five—"
"Wait!" Reston said, unable to believe what he was hearing, that they would walk away from their moral duty, from theirobligations.That they could ignore him. "There are more on the surface, they'll kill you! You have to help me!"
Nick turned and looked at him, his gaze calm and insufferably patronizing. "Mr. Reston, we don't have to do anything. I don't know what's really going on, but I believe you're a liar—and I may not speak for everyone, but I knowI'mnot getting paid enough to be your bodyguard."
He smiled suddenly, his blue eyes sparkling. "Besides which, they're not afterus."
Nick turned and walked away, and Reston briefly considered shooting him—but he only had six bullets
and no doubts that the men would turn on him if he injured one of their working-class pack. He thought about telling them that their lives were over, that he wouldn't forget their treachery, but he didn't want to waste his breath. And he didn't have time.
Hide.
It was all there was to do.
Reston turned his back on the insubordinates and hurried out, his mind grasping for places to go, rejecting them as too obvious, too exposed—
—and then he had it. The bank of elevators, around the corner from the medical facilities. It was perfect. No one would think to look in an elevator car that didn't even work, he could pry one open and be safe inside. At least for a while, until he thought of something else he could do.
Sweating in spite of the cool gray stillness that was the main corridor, Reston turned right and started to run.
After what seemed like hours of going down through the dark, of the cold and uncomfortable huddle on the deafeningly loud servicing lift, they hit bottom.
Or top, depending on how you look at it,Claire thought absently, looking down through the open panel as David's flashlight played across the plush interior, as the roaring motor wound down to silence. They'd landed on top of an elevator car, empty except for a stepladder pushed to one side.
They stepped off of the metal square, Claire relieved to be back on a reasonably solid surface. Riding down through an open elevator shaft where one false
move could send you crashing to your death wasn't her idea of a good time.
"Think anyone heard us?" Claire asked, and saw David's silhouette shrug.
"If they were within a thousand feet of this thing, yes," he said. "Wait, I'll get the stepstool. . . ."