James Axler – Bitter Fruit

Inside, though, the plas ex was unwired. A single detonator was in the side pocket.

“You can’t give the bastard that stuff,” one of Conte’s men said.

“Shut up, Whittaker,” Conte ordered. “There’s no reason for that man to be out there unless what he says is true.”

“No fucking plague is going to kill us. Not after what Calypso did to us. It might kill everybody else, but not us. We could start the world over. The major would take that tack. If there is a disease, it would wipe out any opposition we’d face.”

Ryan didn’t wait to hear any more. Whatever internal problems the White Sands team was having were theirs. He raised his voice, ducking back into the protected area. “One other thing I’d like to ask, Conte.”

“What’s that?”

“I need to get by this bastard thing.” Ryan settled the backpack over his shoulder, clutching the detonator in his fist.

“You said bullets don’t hurt it.”

“No, but I noticed earlier you people have got grenade launchers on those rifles of yours. Figure if you hit it with a round of white heat, it might at least be distracted.”

“You’re standing damn close to the impact area, Cawdor.”

“That’s my problem.” Ryan readied himself, watching the curling and snapping tendrils. “And there isn’t much choice.”

“I’ve got phosphorus rounds.”

“Tell me when you’re ready.” Ryan inhaled deeply, pulling as much oxygen into his system as he could, preparing for the increased demands he was going to put on his body.

The plant-thing was lunging at him, and thorn-tipped tendrils whipped through the air.

“Ready,” Conte called.

“Do it,” Ryan told him. He heard the basso whump of the M-203, then the 40 mm warhead detonated against the plant-thing. White fire wrapped around it, casting off enough heat that it came close to baking Ryan with it.

The plant-thing shrilled in hurt and terror, collapsing in on itself and curling into the water.

Ryan knew it wasn’t going to be enough to kill the mass, but the white heat would hopefully leave it disoriented long enough for him to get by. He pushed himself out of concealment, running for all he was worth, the Steyr and the backpack thumping against his back and sides.

His senses, honed in the Deathlands, warned him of the approaching carnage from behind. He leaped, throwing himself into a dive, arching his body to take him under the brackish, nutrient-laden water.

No sooner did the liquid close over him than a second explosion hit the surface just to his left. If he hadn’t veered his course, it would have caught him dead center.

The phosphorus round sent an angry cloud of heat and light coiling through the liquid, hot enough to scald Ryan and bright enough to blind him had he kept his eye open. He swam deep, clawing his way along the stainless-steel floor, letting his memory be his guide.

He found the corner marking the entrance into the cryo chambers. He shrugged off the backpack, gathering the straps in his hand. He didn’t know if Conte had betrayed him at the end, or if it had been a subordinate breaking command. It didn’t matter.

He glanced back at the LED readout, visible through the entrance to the chamber011.

The plant-thing recovered, coming out of the boiling and steaming water. The screams sounded alien, threatening to burst Ryan’s eardrums.

The detonator was in his hand as he shoved the backpack at the edge of the liquid-nitrogen tanks. The LED read 008. He tried to set the detonator for three seconds, ended up with five, and knew there wasn’t a chance of resetting it. He keyed it to live.

By the time he got into motion again, the plant-thing was almost on top of him. The tendrils whipsawed around his head. One of the razor-barbed thorns ripped through his jacket.

The LED readout was counting down 006,005

Ryan ran, streaking for the trapdoor leading to the mat-trans unit above. He closed his hand around the Steyr. He slipped on the water, ramming his knees through it, forcing himself on.

At the ladder to the trapdoor, three of the tendrils snaked through the water and wrapped around his leg. Ryan turned and used the Steyr to block the first of the speeding thorns, figuring he’d just bought himself a ticket on the last train west.