Hope Reston's still here, though....
As they ran north down the main corridor, John decided that if Mr. Blue was still in the control room, he'd knock him out. A good solid punch to the temple would do it, and if he didn't wake up before Fossil started to roam, too bad.
They ran past the small offshoot that connected the control room to the main hall, both of them panting,
both of them aware that they needed a working elevator a hell of a lot more than they needed to screw with Reston. As Leon had said, they didn't want to be around for the Planet's grand finale.
The open panel in the wall and the small light above the "In use" sign were enough to make John grin like a kid, the relief a cool and sweeping wave; they'd taken a big risk deciding to let Fossil out before securing their escape route.
Leon hit the recall button, looking just as relieved. "Two, two-and-a-half minutes," he said, and John nodded.
"Just a quick look," he said, and turned back toward the small passage across the hall. Leon was out of ammo, but John still had a few rounds in the M-16 in case Reston did anything stupid.
They hurried to the door at the end of the hall and found it unlocked. John went first, sweeping the large room with the rifle, then whistling in awe at the setup.
"Damn," he said softly. A line of black leather chairs
faced an entire wall of screens. Deep red plush carpet. A shining silver console, sleek and ultramodern, a table that looked like solid white marble behind it.
At least we don't have to dig through any clutter. ...
Except for a coffee mug and a silver flask on the console, there was nothing to see. No papers or office stuff, no personal items, no secret code books.
"Probably ought to get going," Leon said. "I'm estimating time here, I'd hate to be a couple minutes off."
"Yeah, okay. Let's—"
There was movement on one of the wall screens, midway through the second row from the top. John
stepped closer to the monitor, wondering who the hell it could be,the employees got out and that's two people, can't be—
"Oh, shit," John said, and felt his stomach drop, a sickening plunge that seemed to go on and on, his horrified gaze fixed to the screen.
Reston, with a gun. Dragging Rebecca through some hall, his arm around her throat. Rebecca's feet halfdragging on the floor, her head hanging, her arms slack.
"Claire!"
John glanced away, saw Leon staring at a second monitor, saw David and Claire, armed, moving quickly down another featureless corridor.
"Can we refill the tube?" John barked, his gut still lurching, feeling more terrified by the sight of their friends than he had all night,that miserable bastard's got 'becca—
"I don't know," Leon said quickly, "we can try, but we've gotta gonow— "
John stepped back from the wall, searching the pictures for one of the laboratory area, his exhaustion falling away as fresh adrenaline pounded into his system.
There, a dark room, a single light in the corner
pointed at the tube, at the moving, thrashing thing inside. In seconds, dripping hands plunged through the clear matter, tearing, shattering, a massive, pallid, reptilian leg stepping through.
Too late: Fossil was out.
TWENTY-ONE
THE CREATURE DESIGNATED TYRANT SERIES ReHla, more commonly known as Fossil, was motivated purely by instinct and it only had one: eat. All of its actions stemmed from that single, primal urge.
If there was something between it and food, Fossil destroyed it. If something attacked, tried to stop it from food, Fossil killed it. There was no reproductive impulse, because Fossil was the only member of its species.
Fossil woke hungry. It sensed food, picking up on electrical charges in the air, scents, distant heat—and destroyed the thing that held it. The environment was unfamiliar to Fossil, but not important; there was food, and it was hungry.
At ten feet tall and weighing roughly a thousand pounds, the wall that stood between Fossil and food didn't stop it for long. Past that was another wall, and then another—and the rich feels and smells of food
were very close, so close that Fossil experienced the closest thing it had to an emotion: itwanted,a state of being that went beyond hunger, a powerful extension of its instinct that encouraged it to move faster. Fossil would eat almost anything, but living food always made it want.
The wall that stopped it from food was thicker and harder than the others, but not so much that it could stop Fossil. It ripped through the layers of substance and was in a strange place, nothing organic there but the moving, screeching food.
Food ran at it, hard to see but smelling quite strongly. Food raised a claw and swiped at Fossil, crying in fury, its desire to attack and kill; Fossil knew this because of the smell. Within seconds, Fossil was surrounded by food, and again, it wanted. The animals that were food howled and screamed, dancing and leaping, and Fossil reached out and picked up the closest.
Food had sharp talons, but Fossil's hide was thick.
Fossil bit into the food, tearing a great chunk from the writhing body, and was fulfilled. Its sense of purpose was met so long as it chewed and swallowed, hot blood dripping down its throat, hot flesh ripping between its teeth.
The other food animals continued to attack, making it easy for Fossil to eat. Fossil ate all of the food animals in a short period of time, and its metabolism used the food almost as quickly, giving Fossil strength to find more food. It was an extremely simple process, one that continued as long as Fossil was awake.
Finished with the dark and cavernous room that had housed the screaming food, Fossil licked blood off its fingers and opened its senses, searching for its next meal. In seconds, it knew that there was more, living and moving close by.
Fossil wanted. Fossil was hungry.
TWENTY-TWO
THE GIRL WAS SICK, HER SKIN CLAMMY, HER attempts to get away from him pathetic and weak.
Reston wished he could get rid of her, just drop her and run, but he didn't dare. She was his ticket through the forces on the surface; surely they wouldn't kill one of their own.
Still, he wished the stupid girl wasn't so ill; she was slowing him down, hardly able to walk, and he had no choice but to continue dragging her along, north through the back corridor, then east at the far corner of the facility, heading for the connecting door to the cell block. From the cells the service elevator was a two-minute walk.
Almost there, almost done with this impossible, incredible night, not much farther. . . .
He was an extremely important man, he was a respected member of a group that had more money and power than most countries, he was Jay Wallingford Reston—and here he was being hunted in his own facility, forced to take ahostage,to hold a gun to the head of a sick girl and sneak out like some criminal; it was ludicrous, just unbelievable.
"Too tight," the girl whispered, her voice strangled and rasping.
"Too bad," he answered, continuing to drag her along by her slender throat, her head tucked through his arm; she should have thought of that before she decided to invade the Planet.
He pulled her through the door that led into the cell block, feeling better with each step he took. Each was another step closer to escape, to survival. He would notbe gunned down by some pious, self-righteous group of visionless thugs; he'd kill himself first.
Past the empty cells, almost to the door—and the girl stumbled, falling into him so hard that she almost knocked him down. She gripped him tightly, trying to regain her balance, and Reston felt a sudden insane rush of anger at her, of rage.