Chapter 21.
The heat of the torch begins to burn her skin as her hand quivers. She gulps, twisting her hand on the slimy rung to keep her grip. Slowly, she lowers the flame down, accidently frying a couple of loose strands of her plaid shirt. The crimson water is pushed away by a tide – something is coming.
"Owen?" she whispers; she pushes the instant thought out of her mind as she stares at the red pool below.
"We're good," Owen calls, moving into the spotlight given off by the flames.
She breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank God," she replies, stepping down to a lower rung.
"No no, keep going up. Who knows when they'll be back."
"When what'll…?"
"Err…" He shakes his head, quickly turning away and facing back down the tunnel. The flame plays with the shadows on his face; in the fiery red light, she can see the concern pass over his face.
"No idea what the hell they were but they weren't pretty. Like…err, but…a lot worse. He shakes his head again. "Keep going up, we're right behind you."
"Is everyone alright?"
He pauses and looks over his shoulder. "Yeah…we're all good. Could you?" He motions for her to climb. His eyes are wide. Too wide.
"Owen, has some-"
"Claire, please," he interjects. "We need to move now." His voice is a little higher, she notes. He's scared.
She obeys, scrambling up the ladder. Owen takes his time; he grabs the side of the ladder, setting his feet on the edges of the one below before sliding a hand up and taking it a step at the time. At the top, he wipes the sludge on his palms onto his jeans, leaving green streaks on his thighs.
Claire holds out the torch, illuminating the narrow corridor for a moment before someone flicks a switch. Above them, several fluorescent lights turn on, sending white light further down the tunnel. They buzz and flicker for a moment, before the light grows stronger, allowing them to view the cracks in the cinderblocks and piles of disintegrating crates.
"What the hell were they?" Claire asks Owen.
One by one, Hoyte's group climbs from the hole in the floor into the narrow corridor. They move into single file along the way removing their empty or mostly empty clips and replacing them.
"Owen, what were they?" she repeats; clearing her throat as if to shrug off that slight waiver in her voice. The one that makes her want to start rebuilding the walls in her mind to keep out thoughts that would certainly not help her here.
"Crocodiles of some sort," the medic answers, "it's like Wu's resorted to making more primitive beings for security via that tunnel." She grimaces, before tending to a wound on one of her colleague's leg. He winces as she wraps the wound in gauze and thin bandages.
"I saw…the blood," she turns to the queue, mentally counting the number of heads.
"They were tough." One of them meets her eye for a moment, before shifting to something invisible on the wall behind her. "They took a few hits before going down," he trails off.
"We had no choice," another adds, removing the clip from her weapon.
Claire turns back to Owen. "You killed them all?"
He shakes his head, a numb feeling rises from his stomach. "Some were too far away; they were the lucky ones."
"Owen…I…" she pauses, unsure what to tell him.
I've done it again; I ran from him…again. It hadn't crossed her mind at all; fear took a hold of her and she panicked. In six years, she hadn't changed at all.
"Can I have a word?" he replies, gesturing down the hall.
She nods, moving down the corridor with him so close behind her that her hair shifts under his breath. The move around a corner, finding some privacy in a dark corner behind a few old crates.
"Don't do that again," he begins, shifting the strap on his makeshift sling. "Please never run away from me." He slowly leans his good shoulder against the moss coloured wall and slowly lowers himself to the floor; his legs bridging the gap between the two walls.
"I'm sorry…I don't know what happened, I just…" she pauses, lowering herself into the space beside him; she places the torch away from them and the boxes.
I just thought of myself.
"Owen, I panicked." It's not a great excuse, but the truth she owed him nonetheless.
They subside into the silence, hearing the clicking and grinding metal of the weapons around the corner. Owen's breaths become slower as he is finally able to catch his breath. For a moment, the silence allows Claire to centre herself; the rough feel of concrete beneath her fingers, the smell of rotten wood, the steadying pulse of the man beside her.
"You still have that pistol?" he asks, taking louder breaths as the pain begins to knead at his shoulder again.
"Yeah, here," she replies, leaning forward to ease it out from underneath her waistband. She holds it out to him.
"No, I can't," he says, pushing it back towards her. "From now on, keep it out. We don't know these tunnels and who knows what else we're gonna face down here…just don't run, please."
She swallows. He notices her take a few steady breaths whilst adjusting the weapon in her hand. Her forefinger lingers over the trigger for a moment, before she moves to check the safety.
"Time to go," someone calls. "Head north then next ri…left, according to these blueprints."
"We'd better…I'd better…" she excuses herself, placing the gun beside her before getting up. She picks up the torch and weapon before turning to face him.
He could swear that he could see some copper streaks in her hair reflecting the light of the flame.
"Are you coming?"
"Yeah, just give me a minute," he replies, smiling awkwardly at her.
She nods, before moving away and giving him some space to manoeuvre.
She ran.
He knows that it was a normal response in that situation, after all, who'd want to stick around with those things about? But it didn't stop his heart missing a couple of beats as she took off like an Olympic torch bearer away from him. He told her that he loved her and she just stared at him before they were interrupted and told that the group was moving.
And now things are awkward…because she said nothing...
He struggles to rise to his feet; taking a few moments at each stage to catch his breath and wait out the pain with gritted teeth.
No! That's not her fault! Why am I blaming her for that? She's not ready, that's all. She cares about me as much as I care about her. We've had setbacks. Setbacks that would've broke any other couple. But we're going to make it.
He finally manages to stand upright, lifting the makeshift sling for a final time to relieve the pressure on his injured shoulder.
We're survivors. Always have been.
Finally reunited with the group, they head around the corner into yet another narrow corridor, Owen catches sight of her amongst the Hoyte's people, the pistol clasped between her hands. Working lights become a rarity as more and more burnt out or cracked strobe lights adorn the ceilings. They move at a fair pace, avoiding scattered boxes and empty trays littered down the alley. Their thick soles crush small animal bones into small pieces; long dead rodents that never escaped the maze they find themselves in.
"Woah, hold on," Sophie's voice carries over the sound of footfalls and bounces off the cinderblock walls.
The group comes to a sudden halt. Sophie steps forward; she points to her eye, and then to the wall thirty or so feet head of them where the tunnel grows dark.
"We're being watched."
Owen follows her line of sight, catching a glimpse of a small red light blinking behind the lens of a camera.
"If InGen can afford good ones, it's likely that they've already seen us," Owen murmurs.
"But if they haven't, we need to take it out," Sophie responds.
One of Hoyte's men lifts his silenced rifle; he holds it against his shoulder, his chest barely moves.
The camera shatters into several pieces and falls to the ground. The shooter exhales quickly.
"Okay, let's go."
They shuffle in pairs down the corridor, stepping on the shards and grinding it into glitter on the concrete floor. The next corner leads to a small alcove and a dead end.
"Stairs, it is," Sophie sighs, "cover me."
The group takes a couple of steps back; two rifles are raised at the front. Sophie takes the lead, reaching for the door handle. Slowly, she pushes it down; the mechanism inside squeals as if it had never been oiled. She yanks it backwards, revealing a dimly lit stairwell.
Two by two, they make their way up one flight, and then another, and then another with still no exit in sight. Owen loses count of how many flights before they find another door with a wire frame over the large glass panel. Again, Sophie takes position to open the exit. But she's stops reaching for the handle and retreats back to the group.
"What is it?"
"Something's on the other side," she whispers, bringing up her own shotgun.
The handle is pushed down, rusted metal grinding against rusted metal. The door flies open, sending a cloud of dust into the air from the wall.
"What the-?"
"Woah! Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Lowery begs, hands up like a criminal caught in the act.
A/N: Sorry for the very, very late update. This one was a toughie. I've had writer's block, moved house twice, had the start of a new term at uni and two part-time jobs. It's been a hell of a few months but should be back to writing and (hopefully) finishing this in the next few chapters. Love to know what you all think!
Thanks,
Lukascovitz. ;)