Minutes to Burn

Rex nodded. "Beautiful, yes. And fearful."

A whistle from the darkness indicated Szabla and Justin's return. A few seconds later, Justin stepped into the light, carrying a shovel. A length of rope looped over one shoulder, Szabla appeared next. A ham-mer protruded from her back pocket.

"That's it?" Tank asked.

"The farmers took most of their shit with them when they left, espe-cially their tools," Szabla said. "There's no gasoline anywhere, or oil, and the machines seem to be on empty."

"The supply ship," Diego said. "It stopped coming months ago."

"Well, what do we have?" Cameron asked.

Justin cleared his throat ceremoniously. "Four chainsaws, one with a snapped guide bar, a tiller with a burned-out motor, what looks like a broken-down ribbing plow from 1902-"

"Equipment the Norwegians left years ago," Diego said. "Useless."

"-six empty gasoline cans, plenty of rope, one enormous purse seine with a three-foot tear, loose concrete blocks from the houses, four wheelbarrows, a hammer, two Phillips-head screwdrivers, a burnt frying pan, a case of fishing hooks, a flat-edged hoe snapped in half, a length of hose, a trowel, and Ramon has an ax that he wisely elected to keep." He shook his head. "The generator is out-appears to be totally useless."

"Is there gas in the tiller we could siphon for the chainsaws?" Cameron asked.

"Not a drop."

"Insecticides?" Tank asked.

Szabla snickered. "Yeah, there was an eight-foot bottle of Raid, but we left that behind." She looked down at the jars, still arrayed in a line. "What's up with that?"

"Rex thinks there's some kind of virus on the island," Cameron said. "Maybe affected the animal life."

"Well, I'd say we're not in great shape," Szabla said. "Mostly useless shit left behind. Right now, the GPS spikes are our best bet for weapons. Can't see troweling one of these motherfuckers to death." She tilted her head, cracking her neck. "I say we take cautionary steps."

They all slowly turned their eyes to the larva. Its abdominal segments contracted, pushing it upward in the middle. It squirmed forward, fleshy prolegs pulsing, true legs rasping against the grass. It stopped when it touched Derek, wedging itself against his leg and the ground, and stilling.

Szabla stood up and walked over, twirling the spike around her hand. She threw it at the soft ground a few feet from the larva and it stuck like a javelin. She looked from the larva to Derek, her implication clear.

Derek's face was wan in the firelight. "You heard our orders."

"We're gonna take those orders to the grave," Szabla said.

"That's one of the responsibilities of being a soldier, Szabla," Cameron said. "If you don't like it, you can go home and bake cookies."

"Soldiers have no obligation to die pointlessly. They have an obligation to follow mission-relevant orders."

"You have an obligation to follow all orders," Derek said.

Szabla tilted her head back, her nostrils flaring as she tried to calm herself.

Rex stood up, the usual expression of arrogance missing from his face. "I just wish we could get into Frank's specimen freezer. It might give us some answers."

Savage stood from his seat on the log and stepped over the edge of the fire toward the scientists, the flames licking at the back of his pants. He rocked the Death Wind back and forth along his palm with his thumb. Rex rose defensively.

Savage reached into one of his pockets and pulled out Tucker's ther-mite grenade, the one the mantid had regurgitated.

"Well, gents," he said, "today might be your lucky day."

Chapter 46

They were at the aluminum specimen freezer in minutes. The breeze was moist against their faces, mixing with their sweat. The freezer stood before them, unchanged and unyielding against the wind-fanned grass.

They circled it as if it were a shrine, Derek pressing the larva to his side.

Savage tossed the thermite grenade to Cameron, who pulled the pin and rested it atop the thick shoe box-sized lock that protruded just beneath the handle. She was angry with herself for not remembering Tucker's grenade earlier-he always brought it with him on missions, nestled in the cargo pocket of his pants. His good-luck charm.

It took a while for the chemicals to mix, then the grenade emitted an intense white flame, like a welder's arc. They looked away as it melted down into the lock. There was no need to guide it through the metal, and the entire lock fell to the ground with the still-burning thermite.

The heavy door creaked open a crack, then sucked shut again.

The grenade kept melting right through the grass, and Derek kicked aside what was left of the lock and covered the grenade with dirt. Diego shook his head but said nothing. Derek reached for the thin metal han-dle and the door swung open to meet his hand. He turned and looked at the others for a moment before pulling it open.

"Lantern," he said.

Szabla stepped forward, the hurricane lamp dangling from her hand. As it swayed, it threw Derek's shadow across the door, oversize and dis-torted against the silver surface.