Jeremy Robinson - Island 731

Hawkins backed away and shouted in surprise when Bray took his shoulder.

“We can’t get out that way,” Bray said. “But maybe up there!” He pointed to the ceiling above the third-floor walkway, where a ladder led to a hatch in the ceiling. “I saw a ladder running down the outside.”

Hawkins didn’t wait. By his count, they had just thirty seconds to escape the “burn,” and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what that meant. The path to the elevator at the back of the room had been blocked by a spreading layer of gel and waking creatures that either flopped on the floor or gathered their wits. “The stairs!” he shouted, charging up the metal steps.

As they rounded the top of the stairs, a resounding crash split the air over their heads. Clear gel rained down from the floor above, coating the men. Hawkins winced as the scent of noxious chemicals and excrement covered his body. But still, he ran. The countdown would not wait for him to clean himself off.

At the top of the third floor, the creature that had escaped its containment vessel and covered Hawkins and Bray with fluid got to its feet. It had the body of a lynx and the head of a lop-eared bunny. At first glance, the thing appeared pitiful and harmless, with its water-logged, long ears. But it had the cat’s aggression, and dove for Hawkins’s leg, retractable claws extended, sharp incisors ready to puncture flesh.

Bray swung down hard with a shout, separating rabbit from cat. As the body convulsed, the pair ran to the ladder.

Glass shattered all around them. The cries and shrieks of the escaped chimeras began to sound like a zoo full of agitated animals—which wasn’t far from the truth.

“Ten seconds,” came the feminine voice. “Nine.”

“Go!” Hawkins shouted.

Bray started up the ladder rungs. Hawkins followed close behind. Bray paused at the hatch. He fought with the lever for a moment, but then tugged it ninety degrees counterclockwise, unlocking the hatch.

“Five.”

Bray pushed up the hatch with a grunt and climbed quickly up.

“Three.”

A loud hiss below Hawkins turned his eyes down as he climbed. A mist of liquid shot from nozzles all around the large chamber.

“Two.”

Hawkins emerged into the light of day, yanked his feet out of the hole, and rolled to the side.

“One.”

Bray slammed the hatch shut, but didn’t lock it. Instead, he dove away from the hatch and covered his head.

A muffled whump rippled through the concrete. The roof shook beneath Hawkins.

The unsecured hatch rocketed open and then, torn from its hinges, launched into the air, chased by a forty-foot-tall column of fire. Heat washed over Hawkins. He covered his face and rolled away from the flames.

Then, as quickly as it began, the flames shrank away. Whatever fuel had been sprayed into the building’s interior had been burned away. And since the majority of the building’s contents—concrete, metal, and glass—didn’t burn, the building structure remained intact. Black smoke—all that remained of the twisted menagerie—billowed from the open hatch.

“If they didn’t know where we were before,” Bray said, climbing to his feet, “they know now.”

Hawkins stood. “They knew before.”

“You think the pressure we felt was some kind of signal?”

With a nod, Hawkins said, “I felt the same thing before Jim attacked. He had some kind of implant where his ears should have been.”

Bray winced.

“I think that pressure we’re feeling is actually a sound. A tone maybe. Just out of the range of human hearing. I think most of the chimeras here, with the exception of the crocs, have been trained to obey audio commands. The tones. The bells. The—”

“—horn,” Bray finished. “We heard it just before DeWinter was taken.”

“And before Joliet was taken.”

As though on cue, the horn ripped through the air. The deep bass tremble of the horn sounded louder than ever. Both men covered their ears until the five-second-long blast finished.

Hawkins raised the rifle. He’d lost count of the number of rounds he had left, but thought there were at least three or four. But there was nothing to shoot. They stood alone atop the massive, slightly domed roof. Most of the 360-degree view was jungle, but Hawkins could see the orchard, garden, and farm beyond. On the other side of the building was a dirt road that wrapped around a bend. Hawkins drew an imaginary line where he thought the road would lead and found a bit of light gray concrete that signified the presence of another, newer building. He pointed to it. “Let’s go that way.”

Bray headed to the building’s side. “The ladder is over here.”

Just a few steps into his dash for the ladder, Bray flinched and grabbed his shoulder. “Ow!”

Hawkins rushed to his side. “What happened?”

“Felt like something stung me,” Bray said.

Hawkins knew that bullet wounds could sometimes feel like insect bites when the victim had no context for the pain. It would hurt like hell a few seconds later, but the initial pinch of bullet piercing skin could be deceptively minor. He pulled Bray’s hand away from his shoulder and was happy to see no blood. What he did find was a small, oily stain and the remains of a small plastic capsule.

“Smells like flowers,” Bray observed.

Hawkins nodded. It was the same smell Joliet had pointed out before she’d been taken. He didn’t think it was a coincidence.

The horn.

The scent.

Bray was about to be taken.

Hawkins slapped his hand on his back. “Ouch!” His hand came away wet with oil.

He spun, looking for whoever was shooting at them. The small, plastic balls couldn’t travel far. He found his answer at the ladder.

Kam climbed into view. He was dressed, as usual, in blue pants and a red polo shirt. Only his Red Sox cap was missing. There were two additions to the outfit, though. He had one handgun tucked into his waist, and another in his hand, aimed at Hawkins.

“Kam?” Bray said. “What the hell?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bray,” Kam said. His voice held no amount of malice. The apology sounded genuine.

Bray took a menacing step toward Kam, but Hawkins grabbed his arm, stopping him cold. “Hold on.”

Kam walked toward them, stopping halfway between them and the roof.

“Are you okay, Kam?” Hawkins asked, thinking about how Jim had been altered. As much as it seemed Kam was complicit, it was possible he simply had no choice. “Are you hurt? Did they do anything to you?”

Kam flinched with surprise. “You’re concerned for me?”

“You’re my friend,” Hawkins said.

A frown appeared on Kam’s face. “I am sorry.” He pulled the trigger twice.

Hawkins looked down and found a dart buried in his chest. He yanked it out, but knew he was too late. His legs already felt weak.

Bray fell to his knees. He tugged a dart from his shoulder. Then he slumped forward onto the roof, unconscious.

Hawkins fought to stay upright. He knew what was coming, even before he felt its hot breath on his neck, before its shadow fell over him. The horn somehow activated the creature. The scent, maybe some kind of pheromone or powerful extract, provided a target.

With a shout, Hawkins raised the rifle and turned.

The weapon was pulled easily from his grasp and smashed on the concrete roof.

His vision blacked out for a moment, but a tight, painful compress around his already bruised ribs ripped him back to consciousness long enough for him to look the thing in the face. It stared at him through the horizontal, rectangular pupils of a goat. The skin above its heavy brows was tinged green and looked crocodilian. It’s open mouth held the teeth of a big cat and its ears, which stuck out like two orchid petals, belonged to some form of bat. But the facial structure—the shape of the eyes, the nose, the brows, the soft-looking skin—they were all human.