Стефани Перри - Caliban Cove

She wondered if she’d be haunted by the image of the man she’d shot, the shadowy figure that had crumpled to the ground next to Barry’s house. She was still waiting for the guilt to hit her—and thinking about it, she was surprised to find that her mind wasn’t racing to rationalize the matter. She’d shot somebody, he could very well be dead—and all she felt was relief that she’d stopped him from killing her or anyone else on the team.

Rebecca closed her eyes, taking a deep breath of the cool, pressurized air hissing through the cabin. She could smell the musky odor of dried sweat on her skin, and decided that taking a shower was first priority when they hit the hotel. David didn’t want to risk going back to his house on the off chance that someone on the strike force had recognized him, so they were going to grab a couple of rooms near the airport somewhere after they changed planes. The operation briefing was set for noon at the home of one of the other three team members, an Alpha forensics expert named Karen Driver. David had mentioned that Karen could probably lend her some clean clothes, though he’d actually blushed while saying it. He was a quirky one, all right. . . .

. . . and after the briefing, we get our equipment and go in, just like that.

The thought knotted her stomach and sent a chill through her, telling her the real reason she wasn’t able to sleep. Only two weeks after the Umbrella night-mare in Raccoon City, she was facing the same nightmare again. At least this time, she had some idea of what they’d be getting themselves into, and the plan was to get out of the facility without ever facing the T-Virus creatures—but the memory of Umbrel-la’s Tyrant monster was still fresh in her mind, the massive, patchwork body and killing claw of the thing they’d seen on the estate. And the thought of what someone like Nicolas Griffith might have come up with using the virus ...

Rebecca decided that she’d thought enough, she had to get some sleep. She cleared her mind as best she could and focused on her breathing, slowing it down, counting backward in her mind from one hundred. The meditation technique had never failed her before, though she didn’t think it would work this time. ...

. .. ninety-nine, ninety-eight, Dr. Griffith, David, S.T.A.R.S., Caliban ...

Before she reached ninety, she was deeply asleep, dreaming of moving shadows that no light had cast.

FIVE

AS HE DID MOST MORNINGS SINCE BEGIN-ning the experiment, Nicolas Griffith sat on the open platform at the top of the lighthouse and watched the sun rise over the sea. It was an awesome spectacle, from beginning to end. First the black waves shading to gray as the sky lightened, the craggy rocks that lined his cove slowly taking form in the misty winds that swept off the water. As the radiant star peered over the side of the world, its first hesitant rays stained the ocean a deep azure blue, painting the pastel horizon with promises of renewal and a gentle, nurturing acceptance of all that it touched. It was a lie, of course. Within hours, the molten giant would beat mercilessly against the shore, against this half of the planet. Its early mildness was a deception, a pretended ignorance of the seeping radi-ation and

withering heat that would follow.......but no less spectacular for the lying. It can’t be blamed for a lack

of self-awareness, after all; it is what it is.

Griffith always watched until the sun cleared the curving horizon before getting on with his day.

Al-though he appreciated the beauty of each glimmering dawn, it was the routine that appealed to him—not his, but that of the cosmos. Each sunrise was a statement of fact, speaking to an inevitable progres-sion of time ... and a reminder that the world spun eternally through its galactic paces, oblivious to the dreams of the self-important beings that scurried across its surface.

Beings such as myself, but for one very crucial difference: I know just how much my dreams are worth...

As the swollen orb lifted itself from the sea, Griffith stood up and leaned against the platform railing, his thoughts turning to the day ahead. Having finally finished the blood work on the Leviathan series, he was ready to work more extensively with the doctors. All three had responded well to the change, and the rate of cellular deterioration had fallen considerably since he’d started with the enzyme injections. It was time to concentrate on their situational behavior, the final stage of the experiment. Within the week, he’d be ready to expand beyond the confines of the facility. Expansion. A cleansing.

A crisp, saline wind ruffled his gray hair, the hungry cries of coasting gulls finally spurring him to action. The Trisquads had to be brought in before the scav-enging birds moved inland. Several of the units had already been horribly scarred, and he didn’t want to risk any more of them until he was finished. Once they lost their eyes, they were useless on patrol. Still, it’s been so long... no one’s coming. If Dr. Ammon had succeeded, they’d have sent someone by now. Too bad, really; he’s probably still waiting.... The thought was an uncomfortable one, conjuring hazy images of redness and heat, of prone bodies in the manic summer sun and later, the thunder of waves in the dark. He promptly buried the visions, remind-ing himself that it was in the past. Besides, he’d only done what was necessary.

Griffith walked back inside, smoothing his wind-blown hair as he moved down the spiral staircase. His shoes clattered against the metal steps, creating a pleasant echo effect in the tall chamber. Having the facility to himself made everything pleasant, and he’d come to enjoy the little things—eating what he wanted when he wanted, working his own hours, his mornings atop the lighthouse. Before, he’d been crowded, forced to adhere to schedules that seemed designed to undercut creativity. Meal times, work times, sleep times ... how could a man breathe, think, flourish in such conditions? He’d suffered for so long, sat through endless meetings listening to the small-minded drivel of his “colleagues” as they’d raved over Birkin’s T-Virus. They’d slaved to come up with the Trisquads for Umbrella and had been deliriously happy with the results, apparently forget-ting their failure with the Ma7s. They were unable to see past their own arrogance to a bigger picture.... As if the Trisquads are anything more than bodies with guns. Useful as guards, but hardly brilliant. Hardly important.

Although he’d worked not to let it go to his head, Griffith allowed himself a single moment of pride as he

reached the bottom of the stairs and started for the exit. He’d seen the T-Virus for what it really was—a crude but effective platform for something far greater. He’d isolated the proteins, reorganized the nucleocap-sid’s envelope to allow for variables in infective capacity, and created an answer, the answer to the blight that the human race had become. A solution without violence or suffering.

Smiling, he stepped through the door into the cool shadow of the lighthouse, the crash of breaking waves at his back as he walked toward the dormitory build-ing. He’d already synthesized an airborne, and had enough of it to infect most of North America. As the virus spread, evolution would take its rightful place, the weak of spirit falling beneath those of truer instincts. And when it was over, the sun would rise over a very different world, inhabited by peaceful people of character and will.

Take away a man’s ability to choose, his mind becomes free, a blank, clean slate. With training, he becomes a pet; without, he becomes an animal, as harmless and serenely simple as a mouse. Cover the world with such animals, and only the strong sur-vive. . . .

He stepped into the dorm’s rec room and turned on the lights, still smiling. His doctors were right where he’d left them, sitting at the meeting table, eyes closed. Ideally, he’d run through the tests with un-trained subjects, but the three men would have to suffice. They’d been infected with the strain he would release, and were closest to what the world would become in a few days.