Claws and jagged little fangs.
That’s all I saw.
They zoomed in at me.
My baling hooks were twisted behind me, held to my wrists only by the nylon loops. There’d be no time to grab for the handles. My hand groped the floor around me.
It seized on a spinning canister. The latch had been knocked open. I shot my hand inside. My fingers closed around the syringe filled with cloudy white fluid.
I could feel the Hatchling’s breath now. A drop of saliva fell, striking my neck and sizzling.
Grabbing the syringe, I jammed it through the top of the Hatchling’s foot and depressed the plunger.
The effect of the viral vector was instantaneous.
She reared back, her mouth gaping. She didn’t even have time to screech before she disintegrated, her jaws opening ever wider as her skin and muscle melted from her head on down, a sheet of orange slop puddling to the floor. I rolled free before the spill hit me.
More Hatchlings poured into the main lab; I could see them through the shattered window. I ran to the rear door, used Laura’s key card to get through. As the Hatchlings barreled at me, I closed the door. One hand curled around the edge at the last second but lost its purchase as the glass whipped shut.
The hall behind me ended with another steel door. I ran to it, my breath and footsteps echoing like crazy. I could hear the Hatchlings approaching, but I didn’t look back.
I reached the steel cylindrical handle and yanked to turn it. It didn’t give. I put more strength into it, and at last it spun. I whipped it around and around, banging it with my palm, ignoring the sound and the stench, closer every second.
As last the lugs released, and I ripped the door open. It wasn’t until I slipped through and turned to tug it shut behind me that I dared to lift my eyes.
Hatchlings filled the corridor—not just wall to wall but leapfrogging over one another, crowding the space from floor to ceiling in their eagerness to get at me. One was near enough to reach through the gap and swipe at my face, his claw opening a thin seam on my cheek. Roaring, I slammed the door against the weight of them. As it banged shut, it lopped off the Hatchling’s finger. The crooked digit lay at my feet, twitching.
I gulped in a breath and stepped back.
Something rustled behind me.
I yelled and spun around, but it was Patrick.
The others were there, too. We were in a tiny metal room protected by steel doors on either side. A rear staircase rose to a third door that led outside. Apart from a small tank of saline solution feeding the mister pipes through the walls, the room was bare.
I was panting. “I got two syringes.”
“You’re an idiot,” Alex said. “A brave idiot.”
Hatchlings pounded at the steel doors.
Laura fumbled her glasses into place. “You have to go,” she said.
“The spores,” Alex said. “If we open that door, you’ll die.”
A dent appeared in the metal, but it looked like it would hold.
Laura raised her slender arms to gesture to the four walls. “This is the last safe place on Earth for me,” she said. “I’m dead already.” She pointed up the brief run of stairs. “Open it,” she said. “Go.”
None of us moved.
“I won’t have you die for nothing,” Laura said.
More banging. Another dent. Now the drywall at the edge of the frame started to crumble. Rocky yelped, and JoJo pressed Bunny’s head over her eyes.
Laura climbed the steps. Put her hand on the doorknob. She smiled back at us. “‘The future rests in your hands,’” she said.
Then she opened the door.
Fresh air rushed in. She stiffened on her heels. Shuddered. Behind her horn-rimmed glasses, her eyes turned to tunnels. Then she tumbled down the stairs.
Her head smacked against the floor, and she was still. Her glasses spun away. Her necklace was pulled to one side, her locket cracked open.
It held a tiny photograph.
Of Zach.
That tiny locket tore a hole right through my chest. But I had no time to dwell on it. Alex and Patrick were already at the top of the stairs, peering through the outside door.
“Get up here,” my brother said.
I jogged up and peeked through.
The parking lot was overrun with Hatchlings. I looked past the groundskeeper shack and onto the quad, but that, too, was covered with bodies swarming toward the building. More and more clawed up the cliff edge, pouring over the stalled gondola.
We had nowhere to go.
I scrunched my eyes shut. Opened them.
“Guys?” I said. “I have a plan.”
* * *
In tight formation we burst from the doorway, Patrick and I holding the tank of saline solution on either end, with Rocky and JoJo flanking us. Alex took the lead with the shotgun. The tank—no bigger than a giant picnic cooler—was heavier than you could believe. It was slippery, hard to grip. The water slopped up our arms as we ran. My baling hooks twisted from their loops, clattering against the side of the tank. We ran-hobbled toward the groundskeeper shack twenty or so yards away.
The element of surprise let us get about halfway there before the Hatchlings took note. A single head swiveled to note us, and the rest followed in a wave, like cornstalks rippled by the wind. Hatchlings charged us from all sides.
Alex fired, pivoted, fired, pivoted, sending out wide sprays in every direction. Ducking beneath the raised shotgun, Patrick and I did our best to keep making progress. When Alex twisted to get off another shot, a surge of Hatchlings threatened our exposed flank. Rocky swiped at them with Alex’s hockey stick, but it had little effect. JoJo dipped her hands in the tank and flung salt water at them. Scalded, they stumbled back, knocking into the others behind them.
Still holding one side of the tank, Patrick smashed into the shack, knocking the rickety door off its top hinge. We tumbled inside, losing our grip on the tank. Somehow it kept from shattering when it landed. Salt water sloshed over the sides, but most of it held.
Alex filled the doorway, facing out, firing, jacking the shotgun, and firing again.
“I don’t mean to sound pushy, Chance,” she called over her shoulder. “But if you could do whatever you’re doing in fast-friggin’-forward, that’d be swell.”
As Rocky redipped our weapons in the salt water, I tore through the cabinets. Watering cans, hoes, shovels. For a terrified moment, I thought I’d misstepped—that there wouldn’t be one here.
But there it was, collecting cobwebs in the corner.
A weed sprayer.
I thumped the plastic four-gallon sprayer on the floor and spun off the cap.
Alex held down the doorway, keeping Hatchlings—barely—at bay. They thumped the walls. Wood splintered. Shadows flickered between planks. The shack wouldn’t last long.
JoJo grabbed a watering can, dipped it in the salt water, and flung it out from between Alex’s legs. The Hatchlings leapt away, their bodies sizzling as the saline ate through their flesh. The others kept a few feet back from the wet grass, afraid to step forward.
Patrick and I picked up the saline tank and tipped it. The first pour knocked over the empty weed sprayer. Rocky set it upright and held it, and we managed to direct the stream from one corner of the tank through the small opening.
In the back a few planks splintered inward behind the wall-mounted shelves. Sinewy arms twisted into sight, knocking stuff over, clawing the air. Just out of reach.
At last the sprayer tank reached full and started overflowing.
I screwed the cap on. Ripping off my backpack, I tossed it to Rocky, who put it on. Then I picked up the weed sprayer by its straps and slung it over my shoulders. I wielded the fiberglass wand and pulled the trigger.
A spray shot out.
Perfect.
“Ready?” Alex shouted.
JoJo handed her watering can to Rocky and filled another with what was left in the tank.
“Ready,” I said.
From there it went like clockwork. Alex turned and tossed Patrick his shotgun. Rocky tossed Alex her stick.
Patrick stepped through the doorway and fired twice. Rocky and JoJo darted out beside him and flung salt water from the watering cans in wide, arcing sprays.
As Rocky and JoJo parted, I shot between them, filling the air around us with saline mist.
The Hatchlings screeched and bucked, in total disarray. You’d have thought I was wielding a flamethrower.
We forged forward into the sea of Hatchlings. They folded into place behind us. I waved the wand in a 360, keeping a constant sphere of mist around us.
We made slow but steady progress toward the edge of the cliff. I’d thought I’d be able to ration the saline solution, but the Hatchlings were too dense. I had to keep the trigger depressed. The tank was already half empty.
We made it to the cliff, several Hatchlings waving their hands frantically against the mist before tumbling off the brink. As they plummeted, they took out several Hatchlings scaling the walls. At last we reached the edge. I sent a cloud of salt mist down over the cliff face to protect our rear guard. More Hatchlings peeled off and fell away. Now we only had to fight facing in one direction. We moved sideways along the brink, the ground crumbling behind our heels. When I glanced back, the drop seemed bottomless. The tank on my back—now three-fourths empty.
We made for the aerial tram.
Fighting our way along the cliff, our backs to thin air. The sprayer started to sputter, running out of juice.
At last we banged into the tram. It floated a few feet off the ground, ready to descend.
I wafted the last of the mist through the cabin. Two Hatchlings pawed at their melting faces and pitched through the doors on the far side.
As Patrick, Alex, Rocky, and JoJo piled in, I turned to face the driving throng and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
I ripped the weed sprayer off my back and threw it at them. It bonked off a Hatchling’s head. He was undeterred.
From behind, Patrick and Alex each grabbed one of my shoulders and meat-hooked me into the cabin. Rocky slammed the door shut after me.
I pounced up onto the operator’s seat. The bubble front window showed nothing but open skies and Stark Peak way down below.
Home-free sailing.
I yanked the lever to release the brake.
Nothing happened.