And it scared him, too, down to the bones—and that was only a dream. This darkness now was no dream.
Panicked, he strained to escape it, but it was everywhere. He sought light where there was none. Even that path terrified him, but it was better than the smothering inkiness.
Out of the darkness, pinpricks of light appeared like fiery needles punched through black cloth, willed into being by his terror. Just a few, then more and more. He stared upward as the starry landscape spread and pushed back the darkness.
But he knew the truth. These were no stars.
As Pyotr strained, his heart fluttered like a trapped bird. He stared upward as the stars grew brighter, swelling larger as they fell closer. He knew he should turn away. But his eyes opened wider…as did the darkness inside him. It also sought the light, howling out of the dark pit, needing to be fed.
Stars began to fall faster and faster, a few at first, then others followed. From all directions, they swept down upon him, crashing toward him.
He heard the cries and felt the hammering hearts. They filled him with their light. He fell backward as the night sky collapsed upon him and lit his core on fire.
Distantly, he heard a simian howl of warning.
Because Marta knew his secret.
In those waking moments after his nightmares, when he woke screaming, it wasn’t just fear—it was also exhilaration.
Something was dreadfully wrong with the children.
After cutting the power, Savina had continued to study the camera feed from M.C. 337. Though she had no audio, it was plain the children remained agitated, milling in confusion, some crying, most walking or standing shell-shocked. The only one who appeared in control was Konstantin. He moved among them, appearing into view, then disappearing again.
Savina kept a watch to see if Pyotr was among them.
Though she had ten Omega subjects, if the boy was there—
Then one of the children in view dropped to the floor. A neighboring child turned to the slumped child, then she also fell, as if clubbed. More and more children collapsed. Panicked, one boy ran past—then he, too, succumbed.
The technical engineer also noted the same. “Is it the neurotoxin?”
Savina stared, unsure. The radiosensitive compound was inert unless exposed to high doses of radiation. The readings at M.C. 337 had never been that high. A moment later, Konstantin reappeared. He carried a limp girl in his arms. It was his sister Kiska. He turned straight at the camera. His eyes full of terror.
Then Savina saw it—like a light snapped off in his eyes. The fear vanished to a dullness and down he went.
It wasn’t the neurotoxin.
Konstantin and Kiska hadn’t consumed the medication.
A thump sounded from overhead. Then another and another.
Savina stared up.
Oh, no…
Turning, she ran for the stairs. She flew up them two at a time. Her back cramped, and her heart pounded with a lance of pain. She burst into the room where the ten children had been waiting for her.
They had all collapsed, in chairs, on the floor, heads lolling, limbs slack. She rushed to Boris, knelt beside him, and checked the pulse at his throat. She felt a weak beat under her fingertips.
Still alive.
She rolled him over and lifted his eyelids, which hung at half-mast. The boy’s pupils were dilated wide and nonresponsive to light.
She climbed back to her feet and stared around the room.
What was happening?
20
September 7, 2:17 A.M.
Washington, D.C.
Painter hurried down the hall. He didn’t need any more trouble, but he got it.
The entire command bunker was in lockdown mode after the attack. As he had suspected, after the fiery death of Mapplethorpe, the few remaining combatants ghosted away into the night. Painter was determined to find each and every one of them, along with every root and branch that supplied Mapplethorpe with the resources and intelligence to pull off this attack.
In the meantime, Painter had to regain order here.
He had a skeleton team pulled back inside. The injured had been transported to local hospitals. The dead remained where they were. He didn’t want anything disturbed until he could bring in his own forensic team. It was a grim tour of duty here this evening. Though Painter had employed the air scrubbers and ventilation to clear the accelerant, it did nothing to erase the odor of charred flesh.
And on top of resecuring the facility here, he was fielding nonstop calls from every branch of the intelligence agency: both about what had happened here and about the aborted terrorist act at Chernobyl. Painter stonewalled about most of it. He didn’t have time for debriefings or to play the political game of who had the bigger dick. The only brief call he took was from a grateful president. Painter used that gratitude to buy him the latitude to put off everyone else.
Another attack threatened.
That was the top priority.
And as the latest problem was tied to that matter, he gave it his full and immediate attention. Reaching the medical level, he crossed to one of the private rooms. He entered and found Kat and Lisa flanking a bed.
Sasha lay atop it as Lisa repositioned an EEG lead to the child’s temple.
“She’s sick again?” Painter asked.
“Something new,” Lisa answered. “She’s not febrile like before.”
Kat stood with her arms crossed. Lines of worry etched her forehead. “I was reading to her, trying to get her to sleep after everything that had happened. She was listening. Then suddenly she sat up, turned to an empty corner of the room, called out the name Pyotr, then went limp and collapsed.”
“Pyotr? Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Yuri mentioned Sasha had a twin brother named Pyotr. It must have been a hallucination.”
While they talked, Lisa had retreated to a bank of equipment and began powering them up. Sasha was wired to both an EKG and EEG, monitoring cardiac and neurological activity.
“Is her device active?” Painter asked, nodding to Sasha’s TMS unit.
“No,” Lisa answered. “Malcolm checked. He’s already come and gone. Off to make some calls. But something’s sure active. Her EEG readings are showing massive spiking over the lateral convexity of the temporal lobe. Specifically on the right side, where her implant is located. It’s almost as if she’s having a temporal lobe seizure. Contrarily her heart rate is low and her blood pressure dropped to her extremities. It’s as if all her body’s resources are servicing the one organ.”
“Her brain,” Painter said.
“Exactly. Everything else is in shutdown mode.”
“But to what end?”