Subterranean (20 page)

Michaelson, limping with a pained expression, hobbled up to them.

Ashley kept staring over his shoulder. “Where's Ben?”

“He was behind me, covering the rear.” Michaelson turned a worried eye to the black cavern. “But I haven't seen him or heard any rifle fire in a while. Just that loud explosion.”

“So you just left him there? On his own?”

“He insisted that—”

She stopped him with a raised palm. “Later. Right now I want you two in the wormhole. We're too exposed sitting out here.”

Michaelson shook his head. “I'll stay and cover the entrance until Ben gets here.”

“No,” Ashley said, eyeing his ankle. “With your injury—I'll stand guard.”

Frowning, he obeyed her orders.

Soon Ashley stood alone with a pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other, her heartbeat so loud she was sure it could be heard across the cavern. C'mon, Ben. Don't stand me up.

From a distance down the wormhole, Michaelson called, “Any sign of Ben?”

Ashley stood at the entrance. “No. Just keep moving. I'll tell you when I see something.” By now her palms were sweaty, her pistol slick in her grip. Ten minutes had already elapsed since Michaelson had arrived. Surely Ben should have been back by now. Her mind conjured up all kinds of horrors befalling Ben. Just get back here, she willed to him.

Then, from across the open space, another lantern appeared, bouncing wildly. Thank god, she thought, raising her own light. Ben was running at a full gallop toward her. He threw his rifle over his shoulder and waved her away.

“Run!” he yelled.

From behind him, two huge bulks stalked into the open area, necks twisting back and forth as they spied their escaping prey.

“Get inside!” he hollered to her.

Panicked, she turned to obey, then stopped. How would Ben . . .? Whipping back around, she shoved her pistol into her belt, picked up his sled and yelled to him, “Catch!”

She flung his board toward him and watched him snag the board in midair. Then she did the hardest thing in her life. She turned her back on Ben and dove headfirst into the wormhole.

Holding her breath, she scooted down the shaft. Once she was a safe distance away, she braked to a stop and looked over her shoulder. From this angle, she could see Ben racing toward the entrance, a reptilian snout just over his shoulder. Hurry!

He sprang for the hole, sled clutched to his chest. She cringed. He was going to miss the entrance and hit the wall.

But instead he landed with a loud “Ooof” and dove smoothly into the tunnel.

He made it! Unclenching her fists, she let out a long sigh.

Bumping into her, Ben smiled, his expression both strained and relieved. “Now, isn't this cozy.”

His rough hands held her legs. She wished those hands would wrap her up, hold her. Reaching back to him, she squeezed his hand.

Suddenly the shaft was drowned in a scream of anger. One of the pursuers plunged its head down the hole toward them, its jaws open wide.

Ben shoved her forward. “Time to go!”

She started to sweep her hands forward, pulling farther away, when she heard a yelp from Ben. She twisted around.

He was sliding away from her, back toward the entrance. The creature had snagged his boot and was hauling him back out. Ben kept kicking at its snout with his other heel.

She flipped onto her back, sacrificing her sled, hearing it skitter down the shaft away from her, then snatched her pistol. “Lay flat, Ben! Down!”

Eyeing the muzzle, Ben slammed flat, covering his head.

Her hands clutched her gun, stone-steady. Over the hump of Ben's back, she spotted the eye within her sights, then pulled the trigger, the blast deafening within the tunnel.

An echoing screech of pain instantly followed. Within a moment, Ben was rolling toward her again. Before she could react, his mouth was against hers. Their lips crushed together. He suddenly withdrew as if shocked himself. She blinked at him, her mouth still slightly parted.

“Damn,” he said.

“Ouch!” Ben shifted his hips beneath her. “You're crushing me.”

Riding on Ben's back, she felt his muscles flexing beneath her as he drove their sled forward. Emotions warred within her: giddy relief at their close escape, trepidation for what lay ahead, and a rising lust for the man beneath her. “Sorry,” she said, scooting farther back, resting her head on his left shoulder, her hands at his waist. The heat from his body was like that of a furnace, steady and hot. She closed her eyes, allowing her cheek to brush against the nape of his neck.

Ben said, “I see lights up ahead.”

She raised her chin to look forward. “It's the others. I told them to stay in the tunnel.”

They slid forward. Michaelson was last in line. He contorted his large bulk in the shaft as he turned toward them. He had a look of genuine relief on his face that was oddly touching.

“Jesus Christ,” Michaelson said. “You had us worried. First that scream and gunfire, then your empty sled slides down.”

“We decided to carpool.” Ben smiled. “Saves gas and is good for the environment.”

Ashley pinched his waist, eliciting a pained expression from him. She craned her neck to look over Michaelson's head. “How's Villanueva?”

“Groggy still, but stable. Breathing evenly now. Strong pulse.”

“Good. Then let's pause here. Try to contact Alpha Base. Can you reach the radio?”

Michaelson nodded. “I already tried.”

“And?”

“Only static.”

She wrinkled her brow. If they couldn't contact someone, get some help . . . “Maybe we're too confined here. All this rock.”

“No, it shouldn't make any difference. Down here, we're always surrounded by rock.”

“Then what's the matter? Is the radio damaged?”

“No, it checked out fine, and the communications center at the base is staffed around the clock. For them not to have responded . . .” His words stumbled to a stop.

“What?”

“Something damned serious must be going down.”

“R
UN
,” B
LAKELY SAID, PUSHING
J
ASON FROM BEHIND
. “To my office.”

“But—”

“Hurry!”

Blakely raced for his office, passing the boy and dragging him by the arm. Thankfully, Jason, still shocked by the commotion, allowed himself to be towed.

Sirens wailed in Blakely's ears, making it difficult to think. Men and women raced about them. A thousand floodlights swung in wild arcs across the rooftop. From the sounds of gunfire, the assault was striking the base periphery from all sides.

Blakely pounded up the steps of the administration building. Jason stumbled after him, his gym bag strap tangling around his feet. Once through the door and down the hall, they burst into Blakely's private office.

Roland was stuffing papers into a briefcase by the handful. He didn't look up as he spoke. “I heard. Almost ready.”

“Good. Make sure you get the research documents in my desk drawer too. Those military assholes might take my base, but I'll be damned if they're going to get my work.”

“Why the alarms?” Roland asked. “What's going on?”

He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “It's a full base alert. I have a feeling—”

A huge explosion rocked the building. Jason hugged his gym bag tighter to his chest. Tears started to well.

Roland began shoving papers faster. “That sounded like the munitions dump on the south side.”

Blakely nodded. “Leave the rest. We evacuate now.”

He opened a drawer and pulled out a .45 Colt automatic. He checked to make sure it was loaded and handed it to Roland along with a spare clip. “Take it.”

Roland looked as if he had just been offered a venomous snake. He shook his head.

Another explosion caused the building to shake and ceiling dust to sift downward.

Roland snatched the pistol.

With a tiny key, Blakely opened a locked drawer and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun. He cracked it open; two red shells sat in the firing chamber. He snapped it closed.

Turning, he stumbled into Jason. Their collision loosened the boy's quaking control. “My . . . mom . . . ,” he sobbed between tearful breaths.

Blakely knelt and held the boy's shoulders. “Jason, I need you to be strong right now. We're going to make a run for the elevator. Try to get you topside.”

Machine gun fire rattled from only a handful of yards away.

“Time to go,” Roland said, holding the briefcase in one hand and the Colt in his other. “Out the back way. It's a shorter route to the elevator.”

“Good,” Blakely said, standing and keeping one hand on the boy's shoulder. “Lead the way. I'll cover the back.”

Roland swung around and headed out the door. They followed on his heels, Blakely clutching the shotgun with both hands.

Outside, the sirens had cut off, but islands of gunfire flared around them. Armed men ran in every direction. Two men running with a stretcher darted past them toward the small hospital, a draped figure writhing on the canvas. A bloody arm slipped free of the sheet, and fingers dragged on the ground.

Blakely searched around the milling men. He needed information. A wild-eyed private backed around a corner into their group. His helmet was gone, and his gun shook in his hand. Blakely recognized the red hair, the freckles.

“Private Johnson,” Blakely said, pushing as much authority into his voice as possible. “Give me a report.”

Johnson swung around, a look of panic frozen on his face. Blood dribbled from a wound on his forehead. He stumbled back to some semblance of military decorum, coming to shaky attention. “Sir, the base has been breached. They came from everywhere. Popping out of holes, pouring out of tunnels. My . . . my platoon was overrun. Wiped out.” As he reported, his eyes became wider and more glazed, and his shivering worsened.

“Who, Private? Who's attacking?”

With a wildness in his eyes, Johnson blurted, “They . . . they're coming this way. We have to get out of here.”

“Who?” Blakely tried to grip the man's shoulder, but the private whirled from reach, afraid to be touched, then darted away.

Roland stepped next to Blakely. “The elevator's south of us. If it's been lost, then . . .”

“It's the only way out of here,” Blakely mumbled. “We'll have to try and avoid the worst of the fighting.”

Roland nodded. Jason stuck close to the aide's side.

They proceeded cautiously, zigzagging away from areas of gunfire. Slipping around a darkened Quonset, Blakely bumped into Roland, who had suddenly stopped. Blakely followed Roland's gestures and carefully peeked around the corner.

The space between the next two buildings was crowded with four torn bodies, limbs shredded from torsos, intestines strewn like party streamers. Suddenly one of the torsos jerked into the darkened alley beyond, dragged by something hidden in shadow.

Blakely suppressed a scream as he too was jerked backward. But it was only his assistant's hand, pulling him out of sight. A howl erupted from only yards away, something wild, inhuman. An answering scream bellowed from behind them. Close.

Roland tested the door to the Quonset hut; the hinges squealed with rust as he swung the door open. They hurried inside, fearful of what the noise might attract. Blakely coaxed the door closed as silently as the hinges would allow, then flipped the deadbolt. Darkness swallowed the group.

Blakely snapped on a small penlight attached to a key chain; it cast no more than a weak glow. In the dimness, rows of stacked boxes stretched the length of the long building. The tight columns went from floor to ceiling. No clutter, no cover to hide behind. But there should be an exit on the far side of the Quonset.

Blakely pointed with his light. “Down the rows! To the other door—”

A large crash boomed as something heavy hit the door. A bellow of protest followed. Again something crashed into the door. This time the frame buckled, metal groaned, but the deadbolt held.

“It won't take another hit!” Blakely yelled above the din. “Run!”

Roland sprinted forward. Blakely grabbed Jason's hand and hauled the boy with him, racing between the walls of boxes.

A third crash echoed through the supply hut. A screech of metal, then light flooded the room. Blakely's breath caught in his chest as something large pushed into the building, blocking the outside lamplight for a moment, plunging the room in darkness.

The smell hit Blakely first. The rot of a charnel house. Then the sound. Scraping and scrabbling. It certainly didn't sound like any footsteps he'd ever heard. In a heartbeat, it crashed into the neighboring row, hissing as it paralleled their course down the building.

In near panic, he jerked Jason forward, causing the boy to yelp and stumble. Before Jason hit the floor, Blakely grabbed a fistful of shirt and pulled the child back up. But it was too late . . .

The pile of boxes just behind his heels tumbled down as a scream of anger erupted. The boxes were being tossed aside like toy blocks. In moments it would be on them. Searching in front of him, he could see Roland nearing the door. Scooping up Jason, Blakely tried to race forward, but his old knees couldn't manage with the boy's weight. His breath burned in his chest.

Jason seemed to sense this and squirmed. “Put me down. I can run.”

Not having the breath to argue, he dropped the boy and willed him speed. The boy was a rabbit, off and running as soon as his sneakers touched the ground.

Blakely took a step in pursuit when a tumbling crate knocked him forward, pinning his legs. He let out a loud cry as he slammed into the floor. Struggling with his arms, he pulled frantically at his legs. Jason had stopped several yards ahead and turned. The boy took a step toward him.

“No!” he yelled. “Run! I'll catch up!”