When Drake came out of it, he found himself struggling to get through a crowd in a narrow hallway, faces screaming all around him, alarms howling, lights flashing through a haze of white smoke. Hundreds of lunatics jammed together in the tight passage, moving in opposite directions, pushing and squirming, arms writhing in the air like tentacles. The walls were lined with windows and he could see fires burning in offices on both sides of the tunnel, civilians running through the rooms, fighting, dancing on tables, overturning desks and file cabinets, throwing papers in the air. They were in the administrative section of the lab. He couldn't remember anything since the checkpoint, but this must have been the only way through.
Someone ran into him. Knocked him into a shrieking woman. He shoved her away, caught an elbow to the face, then someone knocked him around again, punching at his head. Small furry things scuttled around his feet. Lab rats. White rabbits. Gun shots went off in a side tunnel—a shotgun blast, bursts of rapid fire—voices shouting gibberish over the PA system—then a man in a suit crashed through a window, tumbling head over heels through a cloud of flying glass. Prying his way through the crowd, Drake saw Gena and MacMillan in front of him, surrounded by screaming civilians, Gena using her gun as a club, the doctor thrashing next to her, hands grabbing at them, tearing at their clothes and hair. Drake was trying to get to them when he saw the President—crushed against the wall, shirt ripped apart, tie hanging around his neck, staring vaguely at the lights.
Pushing his way over to Buzard, Drake grabbed his arm and dragged him along beside him, shoving people out of the way with his other hand, the alarms ringing in his head. Battered on all sides, hitting out blindly, he forced his way through the mob and managed to catch up with Gena and MacMillan. Gena looked over, her eyes wild, shouting something he couldn't hear, then the doctor tripped as the crowd shifted, pulling him down. Drake punched someone in the face, grabbed MacMillan's collar and yanked him to his feet, catching hold of the President again and gripping him by the back of the neck, pushing him along in front of him.
A luminous fog was drifting along the ceiling, swirling around the lights, multiplying, alive. The mob surged through a junction and started to disperse, people running through side tunnels in both directions, fighting, breaking into offices, smashing monitors and computers. Hundreds of civilians crowded against the windows in a conference room, packed in tight, hands pressed against the glass, struggling like flies in a bottle. Hanging onto Buzard, Drake looked back and saw a line of figures in HAZMAT suits moving through a cloud of white smoke about a hundred yards behind them. Tanks strapped to their backs, they were laying down a screen of gas, trying to clear the mob. The crowd charged them blindly, dragging them down.
Gena latched onto his arm, shouting in his face, then pulled him into a cross-tunnel, MacMillan just ahead, pointing at something in front of them. Dragging Buzard along behind him, Drake followed as they ran through a cylindrical passage, shoving people out of the way, a ring of blue light flashing in the distance—another junction. The luminous fog drifted around them, flowing through vents in the walls, glittering on pipes and windows, forming rainbows in the air. They made the junction, turned left and ran through a short, dark tunnel that led through an open airlock into a maze of chambers and passages.
Suddenly, they were alone again.
MacMillan stopped inside, leaning over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath while they stood around him. They were inside the laboratory complex, a dark warren of offices, work spaces and cross-tunnels lined with stainless-steel hatches—airlocks leading to the hot zones. A warning light flashed across a biohazard symbol on the wall. Monitors flickered behind glass partitions, streams of green text reflecting on flasks and beakers, emergency lights glowing in back rooms and hallways. The floor was littered with broken glass and sheets of greenbar printouts, chemical spills glistening in a long corridor that led to another portal about a hundred yards away. The complex looked deserted. They could hear gunshots and screaming in the distance as the mob roared aimlessly through the base.