Стефани Перри - Caliban Cove

Shit!

David and Jill fired back as they ran for the trees, Chris leading the way. The shooter either ducked or was shot; the dull clatter of the rifle fell silent. As they reached the first of the wooded shadows, Rebecca heard the wail of approaching sirens—followed closely by shouts and running steps across Barry’s front porch. Seconds later, there was a squeal of tires. Rebecca stumbled through the brushy copse, dodg-ing between narrow, gnarled trunks, trying to keep the others in sight. The revolver felt too heavy in her slick grasp and her entire body seemed to be pounding, her legs shaking, her breathing sharp and shallow. Every-thing had happened so fast. She’d known they were in danger, that Umbrella wanted them out of the way—but knowing something wasn’t the same as really believing it, as believing that violent strangers would break into Barry’s home and try to take their lives. . . .

. . . and I may have taken one of theirs instead. The thought that she might have killed some-one . . . she forced it away before it could take hold, concentrating on the pale shape of Chris’s T-shirt ahead. Her conscience would have to wait until she had time to think it through.

Ahead of them, the thick woods opened into d clearing, playground equipment gleaming dully in the pallid light. Chris slowed to a jog and then stopped where the line of trees ended, turning back to search the shadows for the rest of them.

Rebecca caught up to him, Barry and Jill just behind her, all of them breathing heavily and looking as stunned and sober as Rebecca felt.

“David, where’s David?” Chris gasped, and as they all turned, straining to see past the dark, reaching branches, Rebecca saw one of the shadows to their left move. A stealthy, sliding movement.

“Look out!”

She dropped to the ground even as she yelled, fresh terror surging through her system—

• and the shadow fired at them, twice, the shots muted compared to the explosive thunder at the house. There was a third shot, louder, closer, and the shadow stumbled and fell, crashing against a tree before collapsing silently to the dirt. Except for the rising moan of sirens, the park was again still.

Rebecca slowly raised her head, craning to look over her shoulder and saw David, standing, still pointing his Beretta at the fallen shooter. Jill and Chris were crouched next to her, both of them holding their weapons out, staring around them with wide, searching gazes—

• and on her other side, Barry was sprawled on the ground, his face pressed to the blanket of dried pine needles and long dead leaves.

He wasn’t moving.

THERE WAS DARKNESS FOR AN INDETERMInate time, silent and complete—and then there were voices, drawing him up through the black depths of his limbo, voices that his floating mind couldn’t identify at first. From somewhere far away, he heard

sirens.

he’s been hit oh my God see if it’s clear

wait I can ‘tfind the wound help me—Barry? Barry, can “Barry, can you hear me?”

Rebecca. Barry opened his eyes and then closed them immediately, wincing as the throbbing pain wrapped around his skull. There was another pain in his left arm, sharp and insistent but not as complete FOVR Aas the ache in his head. He’d had acquaintance with both kinds of pain before.

Got shot, met up with a tree... or some asshole with a baseball bat.

He tried opening his eyes again as small hands moved across his chest, lightly searching. It took him a second to focus on the worried faces looming over him, Jill and Chris and a frightened-looking Rebecca, her fingers probing his shirt for the wound. The sirens had fallen mercifully silent, though he could hear the cop cars pulling up his street, their powerfully revving engines echoing through the wooded park. “Left bicep,” he mumbled, and started to sit up. The dark woods wavered unsteadily, and then Rebecca was gently pushing him back down. “Don’t move,” she said firmly. “Just lay there a second, okay? Chris, give me your shirt.” “But Umbrella—“ Barry started.

“It’s clear,” David said, kneeling next to the others.

“Be still.”

Rebecca lifted his arm carefully, looking at both sides. Barry flexed his arm slightly and scowled at the burst of pain, but could tell it wasn’t bad; the bone was still intact.

“Right out the deltoid,” Rebecca said. “Looks like you’re gonna have to lay off the weights for awhile.” Her tone was light, but he could see the concern in her gaze as she studied his face. She started wrapping Chris’s T-shirt tightly around his arm, watching him intently.

“You’ve got a nasty bump on your temple,” she said. “How do you feel?”

Though his head was still pounding, the pain had subsided to ache status. He felt light-headed and a little nauseous, but he still knew his own name and what day of the week it was; if it was a concussion, he wasn’t impressed.

I’ve had worse hangovers....

“Pretty much like shit,” he said, “but I’m okay. I must’ve hit a tree on the way down.”

As she finished the makeshift bandage, he sat up again, this time with better results. They had to get moving before the cops decided to search the woods—but where could they go? It seemed unlikely that Umbrella would attack twice in one night, but it wasn’t a theory worth testing. None of their homes would be safe. At least his family was out of harm’s way visiting Kathy’s parents in Florida. The thought that they could have just as easily been at home, his girls playing in their rooms when the shooting had started—

He staggered unsteadily to his feet, finding strength in the rage that he’d lived with since that night at the estate. Wesker had threatened Kathy and the girls to force Barry’s cooperation in Umbrella’s coverup, using him to get to the underground laboratories. Barry’s guilt had blossomed into fury in the days since, an anger that transcended any he’d ever known. “Bastards,” Barry snarled. “Goddamn Umbrella bastards.”

The others stood up with him, Chris’s bare chest pale in the faint light, all of them seeming relieved that he wasn’t badly hurt—except for David, who looked as unhappy as Barry had ever seen him. His shoulders sagged from some unknown burden and when he spoke, he wouldn’t meet Barry’s gaze. “The man who shot you,” David said. He held up a nine-millimeter with a suppressor attached, blood spattered across the barrel. “I killed him. I—Barry, it’s Jay Shannon.”

Barry stared at him. He heard the words, but was unable to accept them. It wasn’t possible. “No. You didn’t get a good look, it’s too dark ...” David turned and walked through the trees, leading them to the body of the shooter. Barry stumbled after him, his head suddenly aching from more than just smacking it on a tree trunk.

It can’t be Shannon, there’s no way—David’s rattled from the attack, that’s all, he made a mistake. . ..

... except David didn’t rattle under fire, he never had, and he didn’t make mistakes that easily. Barry grit his teeth against the pain and followed, for once hoping that his friend was wrong.

The man had collapsed on his back or David had rolled him over. Either way, he stared up at them with lifeless eyes, a random pine needle stuck to one of the glazed orbs. The semi-jacketed round from David’s Beretta had punched a hole directly over his heart; it had been a lucky shot. Looking down at the shooter’s ashen face, Barry felt his own heart turn to stone. Jesus, Shannon, why? Why this?

“Who is he?” Jill asked softly.

Barry stared down at the dead man, Unable to answer. David’s reply seemed hollow, toneless. “Captain Jay Shannon of the Oklahoma City S.T.A.R.S. Barry and I trained with him.” Barry found his voice, still looking at Jay’s still face. “I called him last week, when I called David. He was worried about us, said he’d keep an eye out for Umbrella...”