Ice Station - Matthew Reilly [90]
Gant shook the thought off and, with the initial spell of the spacecraft broken, her eyes began to take in the rest of the gigantic cavern.
It took all of ten seconds for her to see them.
Gant froze instantly.
‘Oh, God . . .’ she said, her voice low. ‘Oh, God . . .’
There were nine of them.
Bodies.
Human bodies, although at first it was hard to tell.
They were laid out on the floor on the far side of the pool – some lay flat on their backs, others lay draped over large rocks by the edge of the pool. Blood was everywhere. Puddled on the floor, splashed against the walls, lathered all over the bodies themselves.
It was carnage.
Limbs had been torn from their sockets. Heads had been wrenched from shoulders. Circular chunks of flesh had been ripped from the chests of some of the bodies. Exposed bones lay all over the floor, some of them splintered, others with ragged pieces of flesh still clinging to them.
Gant swallowed hard, tried desperately to keep herself from throwing up.
The divers from the station, she thought.
Santa Cruz stepped up alongside Gant and stared at the mutilated bodies on the far side of the pool.
‘What the hell happened down here?’ he said.
Schofield dreamed.
At first there was nothing. Nothing but black. It was like floating in outer space.
And then all of a sudden – whack – a glaring white light shattered Schofield’s very existence, jarred him like an electric shock, and Schofield felt searing pain like he had never felt before. And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the shock vanished and Schofield found himself lying on a floor somewhere – cold and alone, asleep but awake.
It was dark. There were no walls.
Schofield felt a wetness against his cheek.
It was a dog. A large dog. Schofield couldn’t tell what type. He could only tell that it was big. Very, very big.
The dog nuzzled against his cheek, sniffed inquisitively. Its cold wet nose brushed against the side of his face. Its whiskers tickled his nose.
It seemed curious, not at all threatening –
And then suddenly, the dog barked. Loud as hell.
Schofield jumped. The dog was barking madly now at some unseen foe. It seemed impossibly angry – frenzied, furious – baring its teeth at this new enemy.
Schofield continued to lie on the cold floor of the wall-less room unable – or just unwilling – to move. And then, gradually, the walls around him began to take shape, and soon Schofield realised that he was lying on the metal decking of E-deck.
The big dog was still standing over him, barking ferociously, snarling. The dog, it seemed, was defending him.
But from what? What could it see that he could not?
And then suddenly the dog turned and ran away and Schofield lay alone on the cold steel deck.
Asleep but awake, unable to move, Schofield suddenly felt vulnerable. Exposed.
Something was approaching him.
It came from the direction of his feet. He couldn’t see it, but he could hear its footsteps as they clanged – slowly, one after the other – on the cold steel deck.
And then suddenly it was over him and Schofield saw an evil, smiling face appear above his head.
It was Jacques Latissier.
His face was covered in blood, contorted in an obscene sneer. Ragged pieces of flesh hung loosely from an open wound in his forehead. His eyes were alive, burning with hate. The French commando raised his glistening knife so that it was right in front of Schofield’s eyes.
And then he brought the knife down in a violent slashing –
‘Hey,’ someone said gently.
Schofield’s eyes darted open and he awoke from his dream.
He was lying on his back. In a bed of some sort. In a room with dazzling white fluorescent lights. The walls were white, too, made of ice.
A man stood over him.
He was a small man, about five-foot-three. Schofield had never seen him before.
The man was short and wiry, and he had two enormous blue eyes that seemed way too big for his small head. Large black bags hung beneath both of his eyes. He had messy brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been brushed