Pulse Page 16

  She had hoped the volcano side of the facility wouldn’t be walled—who would be foolish enough to enter or exit over such a steep grade—but then she realized that these walls were probably created just as much for keeping mindless monsters in as infiltrators out. The twenty-foot wall continued right up and across the incline. For a moment, short of a Trojan horse, she couldn’t picture a way inside the technological fortress.

  Then she saw it.

  A sheer cliff rising fifty feet above the wall that ended at a ledge just large enough for her to stand on. From the ledge, she could descend into the compound without tripping any ground sensors and still be low enough not to appear as a blip on their radar.

  After shedding and hiding thirty pounds of equipment that would have come in handy in a variety of other scenarios, but now served no purpose, she stretched and took inventory of her remaining equipment. A Heckler & Koch MK23 handgun with twelve hollow-point .45 ACP rounds, a LAM (laser aiming module), and a sound suppressor was strapped to her hip. She had two spare magazines for the weapon. Over her shoulder she held an UMP submachine gun, a light close-combat weapon that held the same hollow-point rounds as her handgun. But without a sound suppressor, the weapon would be reserved for when the gloves came off. Before then she’d use her most deadly weapons: her hands. She slung the heaviest piece of equipment, a T-PLS pneumatic grappling gun, over her other shoulder and started up the volcano’s incline.

  She climbed three hundred feet, making sure to avoid any sensors hidden within the crags of the volcanic stone, then cut across the mountainside perpendicular to the wall. She reached the cliff base a few minutes later. She stood two hundred feet away from the wall, but only five vertical feet taller. She looked up at the cliff, searching for handholds and found very few in the moonlight.

  As a child, Queen would never have pictured herself looking at a wall like this with the intention of climbing it and throwing herself into an enemy compound. Before her mother died and her father hit the bottle, and her, she’d been a bookworm, and despite her good looks had been teased for her mind. As a result, she’d become timid and fearful, even more so when the beatings began. Over time, one fear after another began to manifest. At first it was obvious things like spiders and mice. But then a fear of heights took root. Elevators, enclosed spaces, lightning, and an array of wild animals joined the list. By the time she lost her son, with her fears exaggerated by LSD, she was more timid than a snowshoe hare. Her boot camp psychologist diagnosed her with an anxiety disorder brought on by mass phobias and past trauma. The psychologist suggested she tackle her fears head on, and quickly, or she’d be sent home. The idea was to hold a spider until she no longer feared spiders. But she discovered, after some experimentation, that she no longer feared spiders after she reached out and crushed one.

  In this way she didn’t simply conquer her fears, she destroyed them. After completing boot camp successfully, she took up hunting, base jumping, and freehand cliff climbing whenever she had enough leave time. It turned out that the wide range of experience garnered from her extracurricular activities and the outright aggression toward fear-inducing situations helped her excel beyond the standards of her male counterparts. She joined the Army Rangers three years after enlisting. Delta recruited her, the first woman in special ops, one year later when her reputation grew to legendary status among the Rangers. She held her own with the men and used her feminine wiles to disarm them and her fists to pound them into submission. The first man to resist the urge of underestimating her because of her blond locks and perky breasts sparred with her for ten brutal, bloody rounds until Keasling called a stop to the fight. King, still bleeding from his right eye and nose, invited her to join his new team on the spot. Having earned her respect, she agreed.

  That had been three years ago, the official banishment of the last vestments of her fears. She was Delta now. Fearless. After chalking her hands she launched onto the wall. She felt for handholds, some barely big enough for her to claw onto with her fingernails, and hauled herself up. Halfway up, she discovered a vertical crack, which she jammed her fingers into with each upward lurch. She covered the fifty vertical feet to the small ledge in fifteen silent minutes without even a grunt of exertion to give away her position.

  She squatted on the ledge, looking into the compound from above. A long, four-story building stood at the back of the facility, its roof ten feet below her current elevation. On both sides of the main building were what looked like four water tanks. Beyond lay an open courtyard, an air-control tower, and the outer wall and guard towers. It was all very plain, but one thing did catch her eye that had been obscured by shadow in the satellite photos. A tunnel ran from the back of the main building, through the outer wall, and into the side of the volcano.

  Though interesting, the tunnel didn’t concern her. It was the facility she was absolutely positive existed beneath the surface of the compound that she needed access to. She unslung the grappling gun and replaced the metal hook with a titanium arrowhead. She took aim at the rooftop of the main building, looking for a suitable target and found it in the tar rooftop itself. She pulled the trigger. The grappling gun coughed as 400psi of compressed air launched the arrowhead towing a black 7mm Kevlar line behind it. The arrow struck the tar roof, burying deep with nothing more than a dull thud. The butt of the gun held a spring-loaded cam, which she jammed into the crack she’d climbed and triggered the locking mechanism. Two serrated “axes” sprang out and bit stone. Designed to stop a free fall, the cam could hold her weight, plus the rest of the team’s if need be. She wound in the line until it was tight, clipped on a small, high-velocity trolley, grabbed on tight, and flung herself out over the cliff without a moment’s hesitation.

  She glided silently over the wall and sailed toward the main building’s roof. She let go as she cleared the roof, absorbing the impact first with her ankles, then knees, and ended in the roll. She made no more noise than a squirrel might. She lay on her stomach, searching for signs of alarm, but her approach had gone unnoticed. She crawled to the vent and began unscrewing the four screws that held it in place.

  A scuff of shoe on tar caught her attention, but she didn’t pause. Whoever it was hadn’t sounded an alarm yet, and time was of the essence. She wasn’t concerned. Whoever the unlucky person was, they were about to discover that God sometimes does throw lightning bolts from Heaven.

  As the fourth screw came up, she heard the wet pop and felt the sprinkle of liquid on her back she’d been expecting. Not God. Knight. And the lightning bolt was actually a 25 x 59mm armor-piercing round that turned the man’s head into mist.

  She spun around and caught the now headless Gen-Y security guard’s body before it could hit the roof with its full force. It wouldn’t be loud, but if there was someone in the room below, they’d surely hear it. Blood oozed from the body as Queen returned her attention to the vent. She pulled the covering off and peered inside.

  The smooth corrugated metal of the vent’s interior looked solid enough for her to move through with a good degree of silence, but the barely two-foot-square space would make for a tight fit. Still, there was no other choice. Queen gave a thumbs-up toward the volcano, knowing Knight and Rook would see, and slid into the bowels of Manifold Beta.

  29

  Tristan da Cunha

  “You son of a bitch! Don’t...don’t!” The scream that followed was the loudest scream Pierce had let loose since Halloween of 1985 when King scared him by jumping out from behind a tree dressed as Frankenstein’s Monster. But this one lasted longer and carried the distinct tone of being pain induced, rather than fear. Though fear was certainly part of it. He could feel the scalpel parting the flesh on his side. He saw the bloody blade as Reinhart brought it away from his body. The pain burned at first, then came in throbbing pulses as his blood seeped from his body. After that, it itched, then ceased. And that terrified him.

  “What...what did you do to me?” He’d asked the question several times already. They’d been
at it for nearly an hour—cutting his body, breaking his bones, pulling out his fingernails. They tortured him, again and again, but there would be no information that could stop the torture, because the results of the cutting and breaking was what they hoped to understand.

  “We perfected you,” Ridley said from his stool across the room. He sat in his tailored suit, well out of range of the spraying blood, watching like Caesar at the coliseum, entertained by the bloodletting, but separated from the visceral experience. He even wore a surgical mask that kept him from smelling the coppery blood.

  Then came the questions from Maddox, who, true to his nature, observed and took notes, but wore a mask of horror and refused to actually take part in the “operations.” His previous patients remained unconscious during the regenerative testing. But Pierce was different. They wanted him awake and answering psychological questions after each injury. And since this operation required only the skill to inflict injuries, Reinhart was perfectly suited to the job.

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  No answer.

  “What was the subject of your doctoral dissertation?” Pierce’s jaw muscles bulged as he clenched his mouth shut. “How do you feel?”

  Pierce nearly exploded. “How the hell do you think I’m feeling, asshole!”

  Maddox jotted down some notes.

  Am I losing my mind!?” Pierce shouted. “Am I going nuts!?”

  “Actually, given the circumstances, you’re reacting quite normally.”

  Pierce fought against his bonds, but couldn’t move. They’d stripped him down to his boxers and strapped him to an operating table. His ankles, thighs, waist, wrists, and forehead were all strapped tight. “Then it worked. You can stop.”

  Maddox opened his mouth to respond, but Reinhart stepped forward. He held a long knife in his hand. “I’m afraid we’re not quite finished.”

  Eyeing the knife, tears filled Pierce’s eyes. In the past hour he’d taken more abuse and suffered more pain than he had throughout his entire life. When other people would have mentally checked out, passed out from blood loss, or simply died, his new body kept him awake, alert, and alive. And though he now hoped for death, he couldn’t help but beg for mercy. “No... You don’t need to... Please.”

  “I’m afraid it’s quite necessary,” Ridley said. “You see, some of our previous subjects did well handling small injuries, much less severe than what you’ve already endured, mind you. Paper cuts, pinpricks, and the like. But when the injuries became more severe—broken fingers, lacerations, puncture wounds—they descended further into a savage mania with each subsequent injury. You have excelled in the first two categories, but I’m afraid we must also run two more. You see, all of our previous subjects, without exception, became raging lunatics after receiving what should have been a fatal injury. Whether it was their first injury or twentieth, the reaction was the same and instantaneous. Normally, Dr. Maddox here would perform the procedure himself, but as you’ve seen he doesn’t have the stomach for operating on subjects while they’re awake.”

  “And against their will,” Maddox added, glaring at Ridley.

  “He will thank us when we are done,” Ridley said, stepping down from the stool. He walked around the operating table, stepping over pools of blood. “He is the first of his kind.”

  Pierce knew what was coming next. They were going to kill him. But Ridley said there were two tests remaining. “What’s the second test? After you kill me?”

  Ridley stopped by the door. He propped it open, ready to exit quickly in case things went wrong. “Decapitation.” He nodded to Reinhart.

  Before Pierce had a chance to look up or scream, the large knife slid between two ribs and skewered his heart. The ruined organ spasmed. Blood filled the chest cavity. But death did not come. Not instantly.

  Pierce could see the knife handle sticking out of his chest, though his mind, overwhelmed by the intensity of the injury, had not yet registered the pain. And as the oxygen in his mind dwindled and his vision faded, it seemed the pain would never strike.

  But then it did.

  A pain deeper than anything he’d ever imagined gripped his body. He could feel his toes throbbing. His guts ached. His fingers burned. Then he realized, this wasn’t pain from the knife wound. This was bigger. More profound.

  Death.

  Though his vision faded, his consciousness remained intact. For a moment he longed to see the comforting white-lit tunnel so many near-death survivors reported. He would be greeted by a loved one—Julie—and escorted to...where? But before any of that could happen, a pain, like an electric jolt, shook his body. He opened his eyes and saw Reinhart pulling the knife up and out of his chest.

  Now he screamed.

  His body, inside and out, itched severely. And though he could not see it, he could feel it healing. Thirty seconds later, he was hale and pain-free. Alive.

  “Hallelujah!” Reinhart said in a mock, TV evangelist voice. “He’s been born again!”

  “It worked?” Ridley asked, stepping back into the room.

  Even Maddox had lost his resistance to the procedure. A smile stretched across his face. “How are you feeling?” he asked, skipping the previous questions.

  Though he raged at the obscenities done to him, Pierce couldn’t help but be thankful he was still alive. Perhaps there was hope? “I feel fi—”

  A new pain gripped him. His muscles tensed as an intense itch tore through his body, as though emanating from the bones out. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Something is happening.”

  He clenched his eyes as the itch entered and filled his head. When it struck deep in his bowels, he opened his eyes again and looked at Maddox. The man jumped back, slamming into a metal cabinet, his face twisted in fear. He looked up at Reinhart. Then Ridley. “Lock the room down!”

  Then he was gone. The sound of a metal door slamming shut and locking followed. But it wasn’t the locked door, or Maddox’s sudden exit that captured his attention. It was the reflection in the metal cabinet Maddox had fallen into. Something...inhuman stared back at him. Though distorted by the dent created by Maddox’s fall, he could still make out the green-tinged skin and bright yellow eyes. As the face in the reflection mirrored the expression of abject horror on his own face, he realized the awful truth.

  He was the monster.

  30

  Tristan da Cunha

  The shriek sounded like a combination of a hyena’s laugh and fingernails on a chalkboard. Clearly not human. But that’s what Bishop found most disturbing; the sound had come from a man. Watching from his position behind the tree, Bishop saw three men spaced out around the screaming man at their center. Each man held a six-foot metal pole. Attached to the top of each pole was a loop of metal wire. And the loops were tight around the neck of the man. Tight enough to draw blood.

  The man struggled but winced in pain as the wire cut his flesh, drawing fresh blood. Despite the man’s savagery, the three uniformed Gen-Y security men handled him with practiced ease.

  They’d done this before.

  The man was led to the side of the grave. Upon seeing the bodies, his eyes went wide. “Don’t!” he shouted. “No, no, no, no.”

  “They must be making progress,” one of the guards said. “They couldn’t talk before.”

  “Sorry, buddy,” another said. “You’re dead.”

  The man snarled and slashed at the guard, then paused as he saw all three guards tense. “Please, wait! I—”

  A slick slurping sound spilled from the man’s neck as all three guards pulled back as one. The three wires, pulled in opposite directions, cut quickly and cleanly through the man’s neck. Blood sprayed from the severed neck as the body fell, but the guards, already moving back, avoided the crimson geyser.

  “Check for regen,” the senior guard ordered.

  The other two checked the body and head. “Nothing.”

  “Same here. This dog is down.”

  Bishop had seen enough. Even though he wa
nted to barrel from behind the bushes and put rounds in all three men, that was not his mission. He moved slowly back into the darkness without a sound.

  A loud beep sounded from the guards on the other side of the pit, followed quickly by a loud voice. “I’ve got movement.”

  “Where?”

  “Over there. Locked in and sent to your units. Could be a local. Non-lethals.” The man ordered a maneuver next, like a basketball coach calling a play. “Op. Tri. Go.”

  Bishop quickly realized what the conversation meant. The three guards had portable motion sensors. When he moved, it triggered the device and they locked on to him. Now all three were converging on his position, and if he moved, they’d know it. Damn their technology, he thought. He scanned the area with his night vision goggles, looking for movement. With his 9mm up and ready, Bishop stood and pounded for the coast. They would be able to track him, but he wasn’t about to be a sitting duck.

  “I’ve got him,” a voice shouted.

  Bishop took aim in the direction of the voice and squeezed off three silenced rounds. The first two struck wood. The third was rewarded with a shout of pain. But the shot was far from lethal. The fallen man shouted, “He’s armed!”

  A moment later, the trees around him shattered as an amazing number of bullets burst into the air. His ears had registered six separate gun reports, but the explosion of leaves, bark, and branches revealed many more bullets being fired. Metal Storm, he thought.

  Leaves crunched and twigs snapped behind him. He could hear metal striking metal, too. The guard behind him was reloading the Metal Storm weapon, changing out barrels instead of switching clips.

  When he was done a second barrage of bullets would tear through the forest, and if the guard’s aim improved, Bishop didn’t stand a chance. He looked over his shoulder and saw the dark shape of a guard running behind him, taking aim with a three-barreled handgun.