The Genesis Plague

78

‘Don’t worry, Hazo,’ Shuster yelled over the squealing rats. ‘Ramirez made it. He’ll get help. Just stay where you are.’

But Hazo didn’t respond because he was still watching the light intensifying inside the entrance tunnel. He estimated that Ramirez had only gone into the tunnel less than a minute ago. Definitely not enough time to have assembled a rescue team. So why would he be coming back inside now?

The light flashed inside the cave and caught Shuster’s attention. He turned, scowled at the light, shouted, ‘Ramirez! Get out of here!’ He motioned for him to retreat. ‘Go and get the others!’

Hazo watched the sharp luminescent beam sweep side to side. Against Shuster’s order, Ramirez advanced closer. If Ramirez didn’t hear Shuster, he should certainly have understood the overt hand signals. Certain that the light would attract the rats, Hazo was confused when the writhing brood cowered back and curled into itself like ebbing surf. It looked as if an invisible wall were pushing out in front of the light to press them back, like some kind of fantastical force field.

‘Ramirez!’ Shuster shouted in an angry voice that echoed through the cave. ‘Go back!’

But the corporal’s plea quickly went silent as the swell of rats continued to retreat from the light. Like Hazo, he was trying to figure out how this was happening.

Advancing to within fifteen metres of the containers, the light stopped and swung up to spotlight Shuster. The corporal shielded his eyes from the glare while trying to discern the identity of the man holding the light. It was impossible. His frustration grew. ‘Ramirez, what are you doing? Get that fucking light out of my face!’

No reply. The light remained fixed on Shuster.

‘Ramirez?’

The rats’ squealing cries were suddenly drowned out by the clamour of automatic gunfire, and beneath the light, Hazo saw tiny white flashes spit in rapid succession.

In the same instant, Shuster’s face ripped open and the back of his head exploded in a spew of blood and brain matter. The force from the impact threw him backwards and he tumbled off the container.

Dropping to his knees, Hazo flashed his light down at the body. The rats responded instantly, swarming over it.

Then the light shifted to Hazo.

There was nowhere for Hazo to go. He was penned in by the platform’s railings. He scrambled for the handgun that Shuster had given him and sprang to his feet. Squinting in the light, he failed to make visual confirmation of a target, but blindly fired three shots. The light didn’t budge.

‘Drop the gun, Hazo!’ the gunman yelled up at him.

Hazo wasn’t surprised that it was Crawford’s voice. ‘No!’ he replied.

‘I’ll shoot you dead right now if you don’t drop the gun,’ Crawford threatened in a menacing tone.

‘Fine! You do what you must,’ Hazo screamed. ‘I’m already dead. Don’t you see?’

A pause.

‘Get off that platform,’ Crawford yelled.

Get off the platform? Hazo repeated to himself. Why would Crawford want him to come down? If he had no problem shooting Shuster off the container …

‘Get off … now!’

Having witnessed Holt’s horrible demise, there was no way Hazo was willing to sacrifice himself to the rats. Best to take a few bullets and avoid the suffering, albeit the rats or the plague. Hazo turned his back to Crawford, raised his arms and shut his eyes tight. ‘Shoot me!’ he yelled out. ‘Shoot me in the back like the coward you are!’ He gritted his teeth and waited for the end — waited for Crawford’s bullets to finish the job his microscopic assassins had already started.

No shots came.

Confused, Hazo eased his eyes open. ‘What are you waiting for!’ But directly in front of his face, he saw the answer to his own question. There, in plain view, a peculiar sticker was plastered on to the sheet metal housing covering a huge, tubular machine. The ominous symbol — a circle cut like a pie into six alternating yellow and black slices — carried a universal warning.

Radiation.

‘This is your last chance!’ Crawford screamed.

Hazo ignored him, as he tried to process this new information. He quickly assessed the huge machine. Why would there be radioactive material down here? Unless …

Could this be a nuclear reactor? Normally a nuclear reactor was a huge thing that powered cities. And they were always shielded with thick concrete to protect against radiation leaks. But Hazo quickly determined that a radiation leak so deep inside a mountain probably made such safety precautions a moot point. Clearly, if Crawford wanted him to back away from the reactor, it could only mean that he feared a stray bullet might pierce its volatile core.

‘Fine,’ Crawford yelled. ‘I’ll come and pull you down.’

Hazo turned and pointed the gun directly at the reactor, the way an executioner might — the way a Saddam loyalist might threaten a Kurdish carpet retailer from Mosul. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘You move, I shoot.’

For ten seconds there was no response.

Then the light beam shifted.

Hazo hesitated.

Still no reply from Crawford.

Hazo called down to him: ‘This is a nuclear reactor, is it not?’

Again, Crawford didn’t answer.

Without warning, something hurled out from the light — glinting in fast bursts as it pinwheeled directly towards Hazo. Before he could react, it struck him in the chest like a fist, pushed him back against the reactor. He crumpled down on to the platform. All feeling to his right hand instantly turned to pins and needles. Involuntarily, his fingers went limp. The gun slipped out from his ruined grip and skittered to a stop, close to the edge of the platform.

This time, Hazo found it impossible to catch his breath. He looked down and saw a black handgrip, buried to the hilt, sticking out beneath his right clavicle, close to the shoulder. When he tried to move towards the gun, bolts of pain shot down his arm and over his chest, making him see pure white. He screamed out in agony.

Then he could hear Crawford’s boots clanging up the ladder rungs.