The Ares Decision

81

The arm appeared again, flicking around the crack in the door and grasping desperately at darkness. Sarie jerked back, tangling herself in the coats hanging in the crowded closet but keeping a death grip on the leather belt looped over the knob.

She stabbed at the arm with the sharp end of a broken broom handle, connecting with the blood-soaked biceps on her fifth try. The man gave no indication that he even noticed, adjusting his strategy from groping blindly for her to trying to pry open the door.

All she wanted to do was cover her ears to block out his enraged screams. And maybe she should. There was no way out of the facility, and she would eventually get tired, while he would just keep coming until his heart failed. If she let him in, it would be over in a minute. Maybe less.

He managed to get a shoulder through, and she could see his face in the dim light — the saliva hanging in long, pink strands across his beard, the wide eyes trying to catch a glimpse of his prey.

She swung the broom handle at his face, and it tore a deep gash beneath his eye. Other than making him even more grotesque, though, it accomplished nothing. Dropping her useless weapon, she put a foot against the wall and gripped the belt with both hands, trying to use her superior leverage to trap him between the door and the jamb.

Her forearms felt like they were on fire and her palms were slick with sweat, causing the leather to slip slowly but irretrievably through her fingers. The door opened another few centimeters, and the man’s head intruded a little farther, the gash in his face flowing with parasite-​infested blood. She felt the heat of it splash across her hands, but it didn’t matter. In a few seconds she wouldn’t be able to fight anymore — she’d lose her grip, the door would fly open…

And then he was gone.

The extended deadbolt clanged loudly as she pulled it into the metal jamb, her mind unable to process the meaning of the muffled shouts and gunfire outside.

A few moments later, fingers curled around the edge of the door and began trying to pry it open again.

“Get away from me!” she screamed, grabbing the broom handle and narrowly missing the hand when it was jerked away at the last moment.

“Sarie! Is that you?”

The hand reappeared and she slashed at it again.

“Let go of the door, Sarie! And for God’s sake, stop trying to stab me!”

The accent wasn’t Iranian. It was American. And there was something familiar about it.

“Sarie. Listen to me. Open the door, okay?”

The belt fell from her hands and she squinted into the light as Jon Smith lifted her from the closet.

“Are you all right?” he said, looking her over for cuts that the parasite could have invaded, finally settling on her leg. “What happened? Is it from an attack? Did it—”

She shook her head and threw her arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably. The man who had been trying to get to her was lying on the floor fifteen meters away with most of the top of his head missing. Peter Howell was standing next to the body, keeping watch over the empty hallway with three armed Iranians.

“I’m sorry, but there’s not much time,” Smith said, gently pushing her away.

“Less than you think,” Sarie said, wiping at her eyes. “Omidi’s people made the parasite transportable. I tried to stop him, but he’s gone. And he took it with him.”

Smith looked up the hallway as the howls of monkeys started echoing along it. Luck had played a significant role in their surviving their last encounter — the fact that none of the animals had been small enough to get through the crack in the door or large enough to push it open, combined with a one-in-a-thousand shot that he still couldn’t believe he’d made. The gods wouldn’t be as kind the next time around.

“What do you mean gone, Sarie?”

“I mean he got in a truck and drove away.”