Стефани Перри - Caliban Cove

My pets. My children.

Besides the research laboratory, the cove facility was designed to train bio-weapons like the Trisquads or Ma7s—but also to measure use of logic in the humanoid subjects. In the bunkers there were a num-ber of items he could use, from the simplest of peg tests to complex puzzles for those subjects capable of higher functioning. He doubted his doctors would be able to manage even the red series, but watching their reactions would provide valuable insight, particularly the tests where there was a pressure factor. They think, but can’t make decisions. They function, but not without input. How will they fare, without my guiding hand?

As he approached the table, Dr. Athens opened his eyes, perhaps to see if there was a threat coming.

Of the three, Tom Athens was the strongest, the most likely to survive on his own; he’d been one of the be-havior specialists. In fact, he’d come up with the three-unit team idea, the Trisquad, insisting that the infected units would work more efficiently in small groups. He’d been right.

Doctors Thurman and Kinneson remained still—and Griffith noticed a foul smell coming from one of them. Scowling, he looked down, his suspicion con-firmed by the wetness on Dr. Thurman’s pants. He shit himself. Again.

Griffith felt a sudden, almost overwhelming pity for Thurman, but it was quickly replaced by irritated disgust. Thurman had been an idiot before, a decent enough biologist but as ridiculously narrow-minded as the rest of them. He’d grown most of the Ma7s himself, and when they turned out to be uncontrolla-ble, he laid blame on everyone but himself. If anyone deserved to wallow in his own filth, it was Louis Thurman. It was just too bad that the good doctor wasn’t capable of understanding how repulsively pa-thetic he’d become.

Without me, he wouldn’t have lasted a day.

Griffith sighed, stepping back from the table.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.

In unison, the three men turned their heads to look at him, their eyes as blank as their faces. As different as they were physically, the slackness of their features and slow, vapid gazes made them look like brothers. “It seems that Dr. Thurman has evacuated his bowels,” Griffith said. “He’s sitting in feces.

That’s funny.”

All three of them grinned widely. Dr. Kinneson actually chuckled. He’d been the last to be infected, so had suffered the least tissue deterioration. Given the proper instructions, Alan could probably still pass for human.

Griffith pulled the police whistle out of his pocket and put it on the table in front of Athens. “Dr. Athens, recall the Trisquads from duty. Tend to their physical needs and send them to the cold room. When you’ve finished, go to the cafeteria and wait.” Athens picked up the whistle as he stood, then walked out of the room, down the hall toward the dormitory’s other entrance. The whistle would deacti-vate the teams and call them in. There were four Trisquads, twelve soldiers in all. They’d be roaming the woods along the fence, or moving stealthily around the bunkers, having been trained to stay away from the northeast area of the compound, the light-house, and dorm. Griffith had to admit, they were quite effective at their purpose. Umbrella had wanted soldiers that would kill without mercy, and fight until they were literally blown to pieces. The T-Virus had been good for that much, and since they’d sped up the amplification time, they’d been able to turn out subjects in hours, rather than days. Once trained with weapons, the Trisquads had become killing ma-chines—although with the recent heat wave, he didn’t know how much longer they’d be viable.... Griffith turned his attention to Dr. Thurman, still grinning and stinking like some bloated infant. He even looked like a baby, pudgy and bald, his smile as innocent and guileless as a child’s.

“Dr. Thurman, go to your room and remove your clothes. Shower and dress in clean clothes, then go to the caves and feed the Ma7s. When you’ve finished, go to the cafeteria and wait.”

Thurman stood up, and Griffith saw that the pad-ded chair was wet and stained.

Christ.

“Take the chair with you,” Griffith said, sighing.

“Leave it in your room.”

After he’d gone, Griffith sat down across from Alan, suddenly feeling tired. The anticipatory pride he’d felt only moments before was gone, leaving a cold emptiness in its place.

My children. My creation. . . .

The virus was so beautiful, so perfectly engineered that the first time he’d seen it, he’d wept. Months of private research, of picking apart the T-Virus and isolating effect, culminating in that first micro-graph .. . while the others had been gloating over their war toys, he’d found the true path to a new beginning.

And do they appreciate what I’ve done? Do any of them know how crucial this is? Crapping himself like a disgusting child, like a monkey, disgracing my work, my life. . . .

Griffith looked at Alan Kinneson, studying his handsome features, his expressionless eyes. Dr.

Kin-neson stared back, waiting to be told what to do. He’d been a neurologist once. There were pictures in his room of his wife and baby, a little boy with a bright, beautiful smile. . . .

Griffith’s sanity shuddered suddenly, a terrible, rending twist that made him dizzy, a thousand voices screaming unintelligibly through the cracks of reality. For just a second, he felt as if he was losing his mind. How many will just starve to death, sitting in puddles of filth, waiting? Millions? Billions? “What if I’m wrong?” Griffith whispered. “Alan, tell me I’m not wrong, that I’m doing this for the right reasons. ..

“You’re not wrong,” Dr. Kinneson said calmly.

“You’re doing this for the right reasons.” Griffith stared at him. “Tell me your wife’s a whore.”

“My wife’s a whore,” Dr. Kinneson said. No pause.

No doubt.

Griffith smiled, and the fear melted away. Look what I’ve accomplished. It’s a gift, my cre-ation, a gift to the world. A chance for man to become strong again, a peaceful death for all the Louis Thur-mans in existence, better than they deserve. . . . He’d been working too hard, tiring himself, and the strain was getting to him. He was only human, after all... but he couldn’t afford to let the stress of his body affect his mind again. There would be no more tests. He’d spend the day getting ready instead, pre-paring himself for the cleansing.

Tomorrow at sunrise Dr. Griffith would give his gift to the wind.

Six

KAREN DRIVER WAS A TALL, LANKY WOMAN

in her early thirties, with short blond hair and a serious, businesslike demeanor. Her small home was spotlessly kept and almost antiseptically clean. The clothes she’d picked out for Rebecca were utilitarian and perfectly folded: a dark green T-shirt and crisp matching pants, black cotton socks and underwear. Even her bathroom seemed to reflect her personality; the white walls were lined with shelves, each neatly organized according to purpose.

Scratch a forensics scientist, find an obsessive-compulsive. ...

Rebecca immediately felt guilty for thinking it. Karen had been welcoming enough, even friendly in a brusque way. Maybe she just hated clutter. Rebecca sat on the edge of the toilet and cuffed the overlong pants around her ankles, relieved to be out of her old clothes and feeling surprisingly clear-headed after a night of broken sleep. David had rented a car at the airport, and in the early hours of the morning, they’d found a cheap motel and stag-gered into their separate rooms, Rebecca too ex-hausted to do more than take off her shoes before crawling into bed. She woke just before ten, took a shower and had been waiting nervously when David knocked at her door.