Minutes to Burn

The splintering wood of the ladder hurt her sore hands, but she pulled her body up, paying no attention to the larva as it dragged along beside her, shaking and squealing. The shed was a dark, gaping hole atop the watchtower, a screaming mouth. She swung the hook up into the shed first, using it to pull the rest of her body up. Impaled on the hook, the larva crashed against the floor, leaving a wet stain. The squealing grew even louder.

As Cameron pulled herself onto her feet, the wind resonated within the shed, and she felt the sounds as vibrations in her bones.

A ruler-thick strip of wood had come free from the plywood of the roof, and Cameron threaded it through the eyelet at the top of the hook.

It wedged deep and firm, the larva swinging from the ceiling like a tor-tured chandelier when she let go.

She yanked the flares from her back pocket, holding one in her mouth as she ripped the strikers from the other two. They fizzled with a bright-red glow. Cracking the top of the third flare, she lit it also, the red lights dancing in the walls of the shed.

Her front pocket held the last inches of tape from the demo box, and she looped it around the flares as the larva dangled and squirmed behind her, trying to free itself from the hook. The hook had torn through the cuticle of its chin, stopping at the firm line of its jaw.

Cameron tossed the flares to the floor beneath the larva and walked past it without so much as a look. She had to return to base, rinse her hands with canteen water, and see if she could squeeze a bit more anti-bacterial gel from the bottle. The sun had dipped to the horizon, casting an orange glow through the tops of the trees and turning the forest to a sea of waving flames.

It was dusk, she noticed, as she started the climb down. The creature would soon appear.

Chapter 73

Fourteen of the water samples were clean. Only the three that had been taken from directly over the deep-sea core holes remained. They'd saved them for last, since they were the most likely to show traces of the virus. Polaroids of the DNA bands in the agar lay on the counter-top, including a control shot from the wild type sample that they knew to be normal.

"All right," Diego said. "We'll each check one result."

Ramoncito looked first, comparing the sample Polaroid to that of the control and checking for differences. There were none. "Clean," he said. Diego glanced over his shoulder, double-checking that the banding pat-terns of the sample and the control matched.

Steeling himself, Rex took the control Polaroid from Ramoncito and raised the second sample photograph up beside it. He exhaled deeply. "Clean," he said.

The final Polaroid sat in the middle of the counter, holding the key to Sangre de Dios's fate. Diego gazed longingly at the joint, snubbed out in a beaker. He picked up the photo and held it before his face, his eyes closed. He opened his eyes. Looked from one photo to the other. Slowly, he set them down, his cheeks trembling.

"What?" Rex asked, trying to contain his panic.

"Clean," Diego whispered. "Clean, clean, clean."

He lowered his head to the countertop and they all stayed quiet for a few moments. "Well," Rex said. "That's step one. We still need to check in with Everett to see if the squad has taken care of the accountable virus reservoir."

He pulled the transmitter from his pocket and placed it on his open palm, leaning toward it as he asked to be put through to Slammer Two at Detrick.

Samantha's voice came through clearly. "Yes?"

"It's clean," Rex said. "The water system is clean. Every last sample."

There was a silence.

"That's good news," Samantha said slowly. "But we've been unable to contact Cameron. Either her transmitter is down or she's… " She declined to finish the sentence.

Rex noticed that she'd only mentioned Cameron. He closed his eyes, pushing away his concern, fighting to stay focused.

"What does that mean?" Diego asked. "About the bombing?"

"Without confirmation that the virus reservoir is exterminated, there's not much we can do," Samantha said. "Unfortunately. They're going to send a medevac at 2200 to look for survivors."

"And the B1 departure is 2300?" Rex asked.

"Yes."

"You keep trying to contact them via transmitter," Rex said, "and we'll haul our asses to the airport for when the medic unit returns. With the soldiers, let's hope."

By the time Rex had shoved the transmitter into his pocket, Diego was already out the door. Rex and Ramoncito ran after him through the Darwin Station and down the winding dirt road that led to Avenida Charles Darwin, having a difficult time keeping up. Rex was surprised to realize that it was already nightfall.

When they reached the street, Diego was sitting in the driver's seat of a huge blue truck that was parked near the path to Hotel Galapagos, his hands working beneath the steering column. A pair of handcuffs dan-gled over the rearview mirror.

"You run fast for a stoner," Rex said, panting.