Spawn of Hell (43 page)

“They can’t be.”

“You’re lying,” David countered. “Something destroyed them in Milbourne.”

Anton’s eyes shot over to Bartley, who was still holding the gun on him. “My, you do have a wagging little tongue, don’t you? You’ve told him everything.”

Bartley ignored him. Not daring to turn his gaze from Anton, he told David: “You must get out of here now. They saw you enter with me. As long as I prevent Anton from calling security, you can get out without any problem. Take my car. Smash through the gate if you have to, but get out! Go directly to Felicity Village and warm the people there. You must convince them to leave the area immediately. Tell them anything, make up any story. Just as long as you get them to leave!”

“What about you?”

“I have work to do. Trust me!”

David hesitated, wondering if he was taking the best course of action, but unsure of what alternative he had. He said goodbye, wished Bartley good luck, and stepped out into the lab.

“They’ll never listen to him,” Anton said, that disgusting chesire cat grin still plastered on his face. “He’s going to die. They’re all going to die!”

Bartley said nothing, his hatred of the man before him sustaining him as nothing in his life had ever sustained him, his need for revenge preventing him from falling to the floor with fear and fatigue. He knew that Anton was probably right. He could only hope he had enough inner fortitude to put his own plan into action.

Or else it would be too late for all of them.

Chapter Fifteen

It had all happened so quickly.

One moment the gun had been leveled at Frederick Anton’s head, while Ted used his free hand to shovel papers into the briefcase—incriminating, damaging papers that would give the authorities all the proof they needed to blow the whole nasty business wide open.

But first he wanted to kill Frederick Anton. For murdering his son and turning him into a monster. For helping to create the chimeras, even now slaughtering helpless innocents. For driving his wife beyond sanity. Yes, for all that Frederick Anton must die.

Anton had kept telling him that he was a fool, that he’d never leave the plant alive. He said Nurse Hamilton would mutilate his wife while she slept. Ted told him about the nurse’s death. “I was . . . very fond . . . of Nurse Hamilton,” Frederick said. “That’s something else I’ll get you for, Bartley.”

Bartley had only smiled, glad that he had hurt the man in some small way.

He had been planning to order Anton into the closet, hoping that if he placed the gun close to the man’s forehead, the sound would be muffled enough not to carry out into the lab. But he never got the chance. Two assistants suddenly walked into the office, and Anton—taking advantage of the diversion—jumped for the weapon, nearly wresting it out of Bartley’s hand. A shot rang out. The two assistants dove for cover, while Bartley and Anton grappled for the gun.

Possessed of a demoniacal courage, Bartley held onto the weapon, backed Anton into a corner, and shot him. It was only a glancing blow, but the sight of blood seeping out from his shoulder was enough to incapacitate Anton temporarily. Grabbing the briefcase, Bartley had left the office and the lab. He now knew what he had to do.

While the other two in the office rushed to Anton’s assistance, Bartley went out into the corridor and headed for the tunnel that led to the caverns beneath the quarry. He was too desperate now to stop for anyone. He saw the security guard standing in front of the steel door marked
no admittance.
He shot the man in the leg before he could reach for his gun. He had no wish to kill anyone if he could help it. No one except Anton. He prayed for a chance at a second shot.

Bartley opened the door while the guard writhed on the floor, blood pouring out of his wound and wetting the floor. Once inside, he slammed the door and locked it from within. As there was no other entrance, this would slow his pursuers down most effectively.

Inside, a circular tube had been carved out of the earth, receding far back into the distance. Small light-bulbs hung bare every few feet from a metal rod along the rocky surface of the left wall. Bartley ran down the tunnel; the sound of the alarms ringing in the distance drove him on relentlessly. His feet padded over the earth, barely touching the ground.

Within minutes he had reached the end of the tunnel and another steel door. There was no guard here. He twisted the circular hatch and pushed it open, putting all of his back behind it, wishing he were younger and stronger. But he had had to send David to the village. David would not have known what to do down here.

David could not have killed Anton for him, either. That was a privilege Bartley wanted all for himself.

He was inside the cavern now, a huge hollow underground area similar to the one Harry London had discovered back in Milbourne. Bartley had been here only once before, when they had been doing some blasting to make the cavern wider than it had been naturally. There was a wooden shack a few feet away, nestled on the edge of the cliff. That was where they kept the dynamite that had been used in the blasting.

He looked over at the pool, a few yards away and several feet below the ledge he was on. There was a stone incline with a metal guardrail leading down to the pool. The beasts had gravitated here of their own accord, resting during the day—which is why no one swimming in the quarry had ever been attacked. They did not move, he had been told, during the daylight hours, except when they were extremely hungry. The bright lights which had been installed in the cavern helped to keep them docile. Although they were air-breathers, they could stay under water for long periods of time. The scientists had tried to keep everything as “natural” as possible. They had blasted away part of the wall only so that they would have more room to set up equipment. As the population of the hybrid inhabitants increased, they intended to blast even more.

The shack was locked with a heavy chain. Bartley blew it off with one well-aimed bullet. He swung open the door and peered inside. There was enough dynamite in there to blow the whole place sky high. He would wait, hold them all off with the gun if he had to, until the chimeras came back from the woods, until they dove down into the depths of the quarry, entered the underground streams far below, and emerged back in the cavern’s pool. He would not have long to wait. They would come back long before dawn arrived.

He grabbed the dynamite and set about placing the sticks in strategic places. That locked steel door at the other end of the tunnel might keep the opposition out for hours. In any case, they would never suspect him of going this far, not even Anton. They would think he was simply trying to find another way out, trying to make it to the surface so that he could go to the authorities and blow the whistle on them. Well, they were wrong. He was far more dangerous than that.

But he had to accept the fact that he and his precious evidence would probably not survive, no matter what precautions he would take. No matter—David would tell them. The explosion would be investigated, their operations crippled. Maybe this time not even they could cover up what they’d been doing.

He sat and waited. Soon, very soon, it would end.

Anna woke up and was surprised to see how dark it was. What was it that had disturbed her? The phone, that was it. She could hear it downstairs, its persistent ringing calling to her, nagging. David. David will answer it.

But then she remembered that David had left. She had just been barely aware that someone—she had heard David call him “Mr. Bartley,” that
George’s
father probably—had come to the house during dinner. Part of her had wondered what was happening. Another part— the part controlled by the debilitating chemicals in her antihistamines—only wanted to go straight back to bed. The antihistamine won.

She had heard a car drive away, heard the silence of the house afterwards, telling her that David had gone off somewhere with the visitor.

So David was not there to answer the phone. It might even have been David himself who was calling. She pulled herself out of bed and walked down the stairs, clinging to the banister. Still the phone rang, over and over, crying to her to answer. She shivered without knowing why; she felt warm enough now.

She managed to get to the phone before the caller could hang up. It was a man’s voice on the other end. It kind of gave her the creeps. Perhaps that was because she was still sleepy and all alone in a strange house. Deep in the country woods. Alone.

“Miss Anna Braddon?”

“Yes?”

“I have a message for you from David Hammond.”

“David? Where is he?”

‘ “He’s been in an accident. A car accident. Him and Ted Bartley. I’m sorry to have to tell you this.”

“My God—is he all right?”

“I can’t lie and say it isn’t serious. But it’s not exactly hopeless either. He was able to ask me to call you. The accident occurred right near my home, so they were brought into the house while we waited for help to arrive. The doctor’s with them now. They can’t be moved just yet. Please try and get here as quickly as possible, Miss Braddon. He keeps asking for you.”

“Why haven’t they taken him to a hospital?”

“They will later. They can’t be moved just yet. If they do move them before you arrive, I’ll tell you where to go. Please hurry.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Where are you? What’s your name?”

“Ernest Dunsinger.” He gave her directions to his house. “We’re in a small settlement off the main highway. Perhaps you know of it?

“It’s called Felicity Village.”

Frederick Anton hung up the phone and smiled.

Damn Bartley. Damn them both. Well, he would have the last word. His shoulder, which had been washed and wrapped with bandages, hurt like hell, and his men were having difficulty getting through the door that led to the tunnel—but he’d get one small revenge at least.

He’d called Bartley’s wife first. The maid had said she was “indisposed.” Well, he could still get even with the other one, that Hammond fellow.

He had realized who David was before Ted had finally told him, sometime before the battle which had ended with him getting shot. Bartley had, after all, told him weeks ago about Hammond’s phone call, about his son’s visit to the young man’s apartment. Anton had sent men down to search the place, to find George. They had found him eventually, lying,
festering,
in an alley. So it wasn’t hard to figure out who Bartley had enlisted in his war against the Corporation; one of George’s friends. And Bartley had confirmed this for him.

Anton also knew that die fair and lovely Anna Braddon was visiting the fair and lovely town of Hillsboro; he knew where she was staying and
who
she was staying with. Little that went on in this town went unobserved by his multitude of spies. He had got Hammond’s number from information, and placed the call, his hands thumbing through a file that listed the names of the various residents of Felicity Village. Ah, yes. “Ernest Dunsinger” would do quite well.

So now Miss Anna Braddon was heading out towards the village, to arrive just in time for the chimeras’ attack. Hammond had helped Bartley; they had taken the life of Nurse Hamilton. It would be a fitting revenge to arrange the death of Hammond’s woman. And she would die. There was no way Hammond could stop the attack of the hybrids; no way either of them could survive. He closed the book.

And smiled.

Everything was very still and strikingly quiet in the parking lot of Porter Pharmaceuticals, like the tranquility of the sea before a gale. David had made it out of the building without incident but now came the hard part. How would he explain why he was taking Mr. Bartley’s—or more accurately
Mrs.
Bartley’s—automobile from the parking lot
without
Mr. Bartley? He crossed his fingers mentally, thinking up all kinds of plausible explanations. He
could
have the security guard at the gate ring Anton’s office, but what if Bartley didn’t answer, or what if he had left by that time? Even worse, what if he had been disarmed and apprehended? It was too risky.

Luckily Bartley had remembered to leave the car unlocked, keys in the ignition, or it would have all been over already. David had just started to climb behind the wheel when he saw a shadow looming over him, felt a presence staring downwards.

It was another security guard, one he hadn’t seen before. A younger fellow with short-cropped hair evident under the sides of his cap, and a trim, muscular body that looked more than capable of subduing unwanted visitors. “All right. Just hold it,” he barked. “Can I ask what your business is here?”

David prepared himself for trouble. “Mr. Ted Bartley was showing me around the facilities this evening,” he explained, “and had to stay late for a conference with—uh—Frederick Anton. As it was getting quite late, he gave me permission to drive back to town in his wife’s car. I believe
Mrs.
Bartley will call for him later on this evening.”

David had thought quickly. The guard seemed convinced that he was not a simple car thief; the name-dropping had seen to that. But what about the rest?

“I’ll have to check with Mr. Bartley if you don’t mind. Why don’t you come with me?”

A shiver shot up and down David’s spine. If he went along with him, he thought, he’d never walk out of there alive. Somehow he knew that as well as he knew his own name and birthdate. He looked to the right through the windshield and got an idea. That path was there, the one through the woods, the one that led right to the village, and then on to the quarry. Yes, that was it. He got out of the car slowly, acting friendly and submissive to keep the watchman off his guard. He closed the door, wondering if the man would take a shot at him if he ran. He would have to take that chance. Then he got another brainstorm.

As they started back to the lobby, David looked up and over towards the woods. He raised his arm, shouted “Hey you! Stop that!” and ran off towards the path— pretending to be in pursuit of someone else! He knew what he was doing had to be the dumbest ploy this side of the Keystone Kops—if that guard wanted to kill him, no games would prevent it—but it startled the man just enough so that David was in the woods before a shot could ring out. As he dodged through the brush and onto the path, he realized that there had been no shots at all, as if the man didn’t care where he went and knew better than to follow him at that time of night. And he was not following him, or David would have heard him. He was glad for that, at least. Perhaps the watchman didn’t know about this path, and figured David would wind up hopelessly lost. And if he knew about the chimeras— which was unlikely, but not impossible—he wouldn’t follow David even if he
did
know where he was going. More likely, the watchman wasn’t allowed to wander far from his post”; it was too easy to be suckered by decoy action that way.