Chapter Eighteen

Hunt

Sitting over a rather dull breakfast from the ration pack, Malcolm sighs. Despite his rather desperate wish to get out of the Compound, and - if he's truly honest with himself - the sheer relief of not having a sense that there's a target painted on his back, he is regretting his decision. While they don't spend every night together, not having Yseult beside him when he woke this morning has made him realise just how important she has become to him. She might well be trying to make herself get over the fact that she's convinced something bad will happen to him, thanks to Niall's loss, but nonetheless, the intensity with which he misses her is rather a surprise. In some ways, he wouldn't mind never leaving to visit a Science Outpost again if it meant he could spend every morning waking up with her beside him. God, he really has got it bad.

Taking a gulp of the coffee substitute, he grimaces at the taste. They've got to use up the vile stuff; but now that they've had some success with coffee plants, and a collaboration between Josh and Geoff has made roasting the beans that they're getting from the coffee cherries a viable option, no one wants it anymore. Thus it is foisted on those who leave the Compound. Another reason he should've stayed. This is ridiculous; he'll be blubbering into his cereal bars in a minute.

Rob joins him in the recreation room as he rises from the table, "Sorry I was a bit late to bed last night. I hope I didn't disturb you?"

"If you did, I don't remember it. Like I said; I was completely knackered. Those tracks were horrible to drive on, and then having to get out and clear stuff every few miles? No wonder you stayed here full time as long as you did."

"Couldn't get back, could I?" Rob grins, "Some of us don't have our own rovers."

"Good point." Malcolm points to the nearby hot-jug, "There's some of that filthy coffee substitute in there, and all the gritty muesli bars you could ever wish to choke on. The sooner we use those up, the better. They're almost as horrible as the coffee."

"Rather have a full English, then?"

"I would if I could remember what one tasted like. You Americans haven't the first idea when it comes to bacon."

"God, don't remind me." Rob sighs, beatifically, "Pancakes and maple syrup with bacon on top. Haven't had that since the day before I got to Hope Plaza. No maples here - and all pigs would do is attract slashers. When is this world going to evolve the critters naturally?"

"Oh, in about eighty million years or so. That's a hell of a wait for a decent bacon sandwich."

"Maybe we could try hibernating." Rob muses.

"Speak for yourself, Rip Van Stanley." Malcolm chuckles, "I've got work to do."

Based on the preliminary results that Rob has provided, Malcolm sits down and reads through the paperwork. The results certainly look promising, from the point of view of a chemist, at least; he is not, after all, a botanist. The samples Rob has collected for full testing are scattered about the secondary laboratory, where the analytic equipment is kept. He's managed to get himself lost again, and will need to hunt out the main laboratory in a while so that he can regain his bearings. Contrary to his earlier view that he wishes he'd stayed at in the Compound, he is now wishing he'd spent more time at the more distant outposts - his inability to find things here is rather ridiculous.

By lunchtime, he has managed to figure out, and retain, the route between the secondary labs, main lab and the rec room. Given that the rest of the outpost is still extensive, being used for a wide range of disciplines alongside Rob's experiments with fungi, he considers this to be progress - though he still hasn't quite worked out how to reach the exit.

"What have you been up to?" He asks Rob, who is working his way through a mugful of rehydrated soup mix with an expression that appears to be nothing at all like relish.

"Tending to the moulds, mostly." He advises, then indicates his mug, "This tastes like crap."

"Says a man who has never had the misfortune to experience my cooking."

"Even you couldn't make something as bad as this."

"Never mind. I'll have the first sets of results in about an hour; we can go through them."

Rob grins at him, "You have no idea how much I'm looking forward to that."

"God; you're keen, aren't you?"

"Hey - I've had to put a lot of work into what I've been doing here; why do you think I asked you to help me out? I couldn't have asked anyone else. I've got a lot riding on it."

Malcolm looks at him, bemused, "What - have you got a bet on, or something?"

"I just want to make sure that it doesn't go wrong. That's all."

Then he gets it: the results from the tests he's doing will almost certainly determine whether or not Rob can continue with the programme. Given the amount of time he's spent at this outpost, no wonder he's putting so much emphasis on the outcome.

"Fair enough. Give me another hour or so, and I'll give you a shout. I can take you through the results."

"Great. I'll see you later."

Transmitting the readings from his analytical equipment to one of the Outpost's plexes, Malcolm settles down to work through the results, a fresh cup of that vile coffee at his side. Within ten minutes, however, he frowns. This can't be right…

Bemused, he flicks back to the preliminary workups, and then returns to his results. No, it's not right - there must be something wrong with the equipment. The compounds he's identified are nothing at all like the preliminary results that Rob reported; and he knows Rob well enough to be certain that he wouldn't have misread anything. He's too good a botanist to do that.

A movement in the doorway catches his attention, and he looks up, "Hi Rob - sorry, I was going to call you; the results I'm getting don't make any sense; the compounds are completely different from the ones you identified in your preliminary reports."

"They would be." Rob advises, casually, "Given that I didn't identify them."

"Pardon?"

"You're looking at workups for Pleuromutilin derived from Clitopilus passeckerianus, Nicotinamide ribosome from Saccharomyces cerevisiae and Ciclosporin from Tolypocladium inflatum. All modern species. I just lifted them from archived papers. The whole lot of them are over a century old; just to make sure they didn't jump out at you as being too obvious."

"Are you saying you've made all this up? What about what you've grown? Haven't you run any tests at all?"

"Too busy."

"Doing what?"

"Preparing for this." Rob advises, his expression suddenly becoming unnervingly grim, "The moment I finally make you pay for my sister's death."


Malcolm stares at Rob, confused, "What are you talking about? I didn't know you had a sister - I don't know anyone with the surname Stanley except you."

"You'd recognise her married name, I think: Allison Jones?"

Malcolm goes very still. He hasn't forgotten - but the last he knew, she was still alive, "I do remember her name - I had no idea she'd died; I'm sorry, really I am, but what does that have to do with me?"

"Everything. She hanged herself."

"She hanged herself?" Malcolm is aghast, "Why?"

"Why d'you think? Thanks to you, she lost any chance of ever coming here and getting my niece out of that filthy atmosphere!"

"That was nothing to do with me. I petitioned for her to come in on the Sixth - I was overruled. If you want to blame anyone, blame Buck Sampson. He was the one who overruled me."

"Yeah, right. That's the ultimate isn't it? Pass the Buck. Literally."

"For God's sake! I still don't know what she was thinking - we'd deferred her application, not rejected it. She nearly cost me my job! My reputation! Do you really think that she would've come through on a pilgrimage after she made that accusation, even if she hadn't been found out? She had no experience - we weren't looking for people fresh out of University at that point. We wanted her to get experience before she came through. The only difference it would've made is that she would've come through with you instead of the year before!"

"That's bullshit, Wallace. You were the Chief Science Officer - if you'd wanted to, you could've swayed that damned panel! Why didn't you?"

"Because they weren't going to accept her application at all!" Malcolm shouts back, "They only agreed to defer because I recommended they do it! If she'd taken that in, then we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"

"Crap. She was desperate and you threw her under the bus to save your job!"

"Don't give me that bollocks! She cornered me, and then tried to throw me under that bus you're talking about! I had to fight like hell to keep my place on the pilgrimage - they nearly didn't rescind the suspension. She wasn't the only one who'd devoted themselves to getting here! It was the only thing I wanted, and she tried to take it from me when she didn't even have to! I even petitioned for her to be kept on the sixth pilgrimage anyway - it would've been damned awkward, but we could've worked around it! Buck overruled me!"

The silence is rather unnerving after all the shouting. For a moment, Malcolm wonders if he's persuaded Rob to accept that he's blaming the wrong person; but then the botanist's eyes narrow, and he reaches to his waist to draw his parang. The parang that he bought from Yseult…Oh God what if he kills me with that? What will she think?

And then it registers: kill.

"Oh, my God. It was you, wasn't it?" Malcolm says, softly, "You did something to bring that building down…"

Rob smiles, nastily, "Risky, but worth it. A few dabs of hydrochloric acid - ate at it like pac-man. All I had to do was make sure it clashed with you overbooking yourself."

"But Lucy was in there - and she's pregnant, for God's sake! What the hell were you thinking? That she's expendable?"

"Wasn't that what you thought about Allison?" Rob counters at once, like stuck record.

"And what if she'd been killed - what then?"

"That would've been a shame - but she wasn't, was she? Same with the acetone; it wasn't difficult to persuade you to look over my results and have someone else make that etching solution - and let's face it, that wasn't going to kill anyone. Leave some nasty burns perhaps, but that's about it. Besides, I know you can smell the stuff, so whatever happened, someone'd get suspicious. Anything to freak you out into going OTG with the only person you could trust. Apart from your new lady-friend, of course."

"You bastard…"

"I've been thinking that about you for years. Funny how these things turn around, isn't it?"

"What about the scorpion?" Malcolm demands, furious, "That nearly killed me, didn't it?"

"Nothing to do with me. I wanted you alive - why would I trap you in a room with a killer invertebrate? If they'd succeeded, that would've been a year's work down the toilet. Besides, I've had to spend seven years pretending to be your best friend, when all I wanted to do was make you drink bleach. To have someone get in first? Hell, no."

"Rob…"

"Don't call me that."

"Look - stop treating Allison like some bloody martyr! All she had to do was be patient, and she would've come through with you. She's the one who acted rashly - she's the one who threw her future away; and she nearly took mine with it! What was I supposed to do? Accept the loss of everything I'd worked for because of someone else's lies? What would you have done, damn you?"

Rob does not reply, but instead advances, the parang held aloft, "Don't think it'll be easy, Wallace. I've been waiting a long time for this, and I want it to last."

Malcolm stares at his supposed friend; he has no idea what to do - he's trapped behind the workstation, and the only way out is past the hefty botanist, who weighs more than he does, and is likely to be far stronger, too. Desperately, he looks about for something, anything, he can use as a weapon.

Nothing. Except…

With a swift movement, he snatches up the coffee mug, and hurls its contents in Rob's face. It's still quite fresh, and - consequently, good and hot. Hot enough, he hopes, to at least sting, if not scald. Howling, Rob staggers back; opening a gap between himself and the workstation. Not much - but enough…

Shouldering the staggering botanist, Malcolm forces his way past, and flees for the door. Now to get out. If he can find the way.


Pounding footsteps. Blood rushing in his ears. He has no idea where he's going; he can't even be sure if he's heading to the exit or further into the complex. Skidding to a halt, Malcolm looks about desperately for something, anything, that he can use to defend himself. His reputation for non-violence might well be thoroughly earned, but he is damned if he's going to be a sodding damsel in distress.

There

Scaffolding pipes - from when they were first constructing the tunnels. A bit unwieldy, but not impossible. Lifting the shortest he can find, he hefts it a few times. If he's cornered, he has something now to strike out with. Not brilliant, but better than nothing against that parang.

How the hell do I get out of here…

Malcolm leans against the rough hewn wall of the tunnel, and forces his breathing to slow down. Thinking, planning - that's what will get him back to the door, not panicking. Maybe that's what Rob's banking on; that he'll panic, and run into some trap or other.

Think…think…

It's not possible to lay these places out in a logical pattern - the bedrock tends to determine how the outposts spread. Why don't they have directions painted on the sodding walls? Didn't it ever occur to anyone that people might need to find their way out in a hurry?

Then he sees something at head height on the opposite wall. Someone did put directions here; but it's been scratched out to the point of being meaningless. So this is why Rob's been too busy to do the work he's claimed he's been doing…

Rather than sag, Malcolm approaches the vandalised sign. While it's been severely messed up, it's still, almost, readable - enough to make out 'M-n L-o-t-y' beneath what remains of a directional arrow.

He moves slowly, carefully. The floors here are solid, so there are no floorboards to creak - and his boots, while solid, have rubber soles, and thus make little noise as long as he sets his feet down carefully.

"Keep hiding if you want, Wallace. I've got all the time in the world. It's not like anyone knows you're in trouble."

The voice sounds quite distant; but that could mean nothing at all. Rather than give away his position, Malcolm remains silent, before crouching to the ground and peeping, at floor level, around the corner into the adjacent corridor. He sees a shadow of a man receding, and slowly rises again. Taking another look, he makes his way in the opposite direction, obeying the arrow.

It's the same at every bend, every crossing - and there are so many of them. Despite Rob's efforts, there's usually just enough of the paint left on the direction sign to keep him true, and he makes his slow, nervous way towards the main lab. Once he's there, he'll be able to orientate himself, get out, get to his rover and leave Robert Stanley alone with his hatred.

It's crazy - how the hell did he conceal that much hate? Has he gone out of his mind? His actions suggest that he hasn't - there's too much careful planning; but why take so long? Of course…he came in on the Sixth…under suspicion like everyone else who stayed when Mira departed with half the pilgrimage. It's only since the occupation that they've escaped that scrutiny.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Rob's voice taunts somewhere in the tunnels - he can't tell where, "I'm having a blast."

Shut up. Just shut the hell up…

And then he can see it ahead, the corridor beginning to open out. Finally, he emerges into the main lab.

"This is Commander Taylor calling Outpost Eight. Come in."

Malcolm almost lets out a sob of relief, and hastens forward to answer.

"Go on. I dare you."

He skids to a halt, frozen with fear. Rob is there. Waiting for him.

"Do you really think I wanted you to get lost? God - I was really worried you'd be smart enough to figure out that I'd left just enough of the direction signs for you to get back here. Why bother chasing you?"

"Outpost Eight. Come in, please. Malcolm - are you there? Please respond."

"Let me talk to the Commander, Rob. We can stop this here and now. There doesn't need to be any violence. If I don't respond, then he's going to know there's a problem."

"And have you give him some kind of signal if you do? Yeah, like I'd be that dumb. Don't worry, it's not going to take nine hours to finish this - assuming that they take that long, of course. I'll just tell them that you went out to chase some Ovosaurs off your rover and a Slasher got you."

"This is Commander Taylor calling Outpost Eight. Please respond."

"They'd never believe that."

"Doesn't matter to me. You'd still be dead, and that's what I'm interested in."

The comms panel goes silent, and Malcolm realises that Taylor has given up. Knowing the Commander, he'll already be summoning assistance - that gives him nine hours.

Nine hours to stay alive.


"You gonna fight me, then?" Rob asks, with a contemptuous sneer.

"If I have to. After what you've put me through - do you really think I'd just take it?"

"Got something to live for have you? Your new lover-girl? I'll tell her how sorry I am that you died. That's just how it is in a land full of dinosaurs."

"You bastard!" He can't help himself, "Do you even care that she lost her husband to Nykoraptors? And you want to tell her that I was taken down by an Acceraptor?"

"Tough. You started this when you left Allison with no hope of coming here. Get over it." Then he stops, and smiles, "Wow, I've touched a nerve there haven't I? My God - you're really going to take me on? That's cute. Come on - give it your best shot." He advances, waving the parang threateningly, "And if I get you with this, then she's responsible for your death, isn't she? That's a pretty cool bit of justice from my way of looking at it."

His eyes a little wide, Malcolm backs away, holding his scaffolding pipe before him as best he can. He has never fought anyone in his life - except for the inevitable childhood scraps that all boys seem to indulge in at least a few times before they grow up. If he is to get out of this still breathing, then he is going to have to strike a man down - and possibly kill him.

Can I do that?

Then he's against the wall. Opposite, he can see the way he needs to go; there is a sign there that Rob has not bothered to scratch out. Why would he? It's not as though Malcolm would need it…

"You scared, Wallace?" Rob taunts, softly, "Wondering what your girl's gonna feel when she finds out that you're dead?"

"Leave Yseult out of this. If I have to fight to get back to her, then I will."

"With that pipe shaking in your hands so much?"

And then he lunges with the parang.

Malcolm's reaction is reflex alone - driven only by self-preservation. Whether or not the weapon was intended to reach him, he has no idea, as it misses by a large margin, but his wild swing with the pole does not, bashing violently into the side of Rob's jaw, and sending him to the ground with a vicious yowl of pain.

He does not hesitate; with no idea how injured his assailant might be, waiting to find out could prove fatal. Bolting for the exit, he is soon in the corridor, and then - thank God - the exit is in sight.

Hoping desperately that Rob has not changed the access code, he jabs it in and reaches for the handle; only for something above his head to detonate with a solid boufff noise, blasting something in his face.

"Christ!" he can't stop the epithet, and his intake of breath is sharp from fright. It's only as he does so that he realises that the unexpected detonation has fired some powder or other over him, and he has just breathed in a solid lungful of the stuff. Coughing violently, he staggers against the wall, his vision starting to craze. What the hell is it? What's Rob done? God…oh God…it was a trap…

His legs buckle, and he can think of only one thing. Poison. Again. Rob was lying about that damned scorpion…he must have…

And then he drops to the ground, and passes out cold on the floor.


When his eyes open, he cannot work out where he is. He is not in bed - nor is he lying on a hard floor, so he hasn't fainted at work. Besides, why is it dark? What is the flickering light he can see? And why is he lying on vegetation?

"Finally. I thought you'd never wake up."

Slowly, awkwardly, Malcolm attempts to turn, only to find that he cannot move his arms, or his legs.

"Don't bother. You'll only hurt yourself. I've used cable ties, so there's no point in trying to free yourself."

Nonetheless, he tries. Sure enough, thin plastic bites into his wrists, which are pinioned behind his back. His legs move a little more freely, but not much: he seems to have been hobbled.

Abandoning the idea of struggling as a waste of energy, instead, he concentrates on shifting so that he can see where he is. Gradually, the source of flickering comes into focus - a large fire. Are they out in the forest? Rob must be mad - anything could get them in the dark…

"Don't worry. I've got a sonic rifle. Anything that comes near us'll get blasted."

"What the hell is happening? Why give me all that talk about killing me and then knock me out?"

"I said it wouldn't be easy, didn't I? Besides, what did you think of my little bomb? The other results might've been baloney, but I found that one of the yeasts gave off some pretty soporific spores. I've been working on that, you see. That was just the warm-up. The thing is, I'm not that interested in killing you. Not straight up."

"What? I don't understand what you're talking about."

"The thing is; if I stick the parang in you, or shoot you, then it's over, isn't it? You haven't reflected on what you did, or what it did to me. I want you to die - don't get me wrong. I just want it to take a good long time - so I knocked up something from an aluminum locker. That's the other thing I was working on instead of medicinal fungus."

Awkwardly, Malcolm shifts again, and he can see it, a short distance away; a rather battered looking storage locker that seems to have been enlarged and modified. Modified for what?

"Of course, you can't see the other side of it; the hole I've dug in the ground. Once you're in there - locked in, of course - I'll shove the locker into the hole and bury it."

His eyes widen in horror, and he squirms again, turning back, "Rob - for God's sake, don't. Please, don't. This isn't justice…"

"I don't care what you want to call it. At my best reckoning, you'll have a good half hour to an hour to think over what you did. Then you asphyxiate. Now you know why I was so pissed when someone set that scorpion on you. That's what I wanted to happen to you, yeah - but I wanted it to be under my control."

"Rob - for Christ's sake! Rob! What happened to Allison wasn't my fault! You know it wasn't! Why are you doing this? Why?"

"For Allison, you idiot. And for Sasha - she wouldn't have lived long enough to come through on the sixth; she had a lung disorder. That's why she was so desperate to get on the fifth. When you deferred her application, you condemned her daughter to death. Think on that."

"Oh God…Oh dear God, don't do it. Please Rob, Please…I tried to help her - I tried, but I was up against Buck Sampson - he was the Dean of Northeastern and he wasn't interested in recruiting a graduate. Deferring her application was all he was prepared to agree to. I was just a Research Fellow, even if it was my team we were recruiting for. Once she'd caused all that mess with her accusation, it was a foregone conclusion. I tried to keep her on the list, but he wasn't having it. What else could I have done?"

Rob stabs the parang into the ground and sets the rifle aside, "I'll tell you what you could've done." He advises, hooking his hands under Malcolm's arms and hefting him up, "You could've done more."

Despite everything, he fights. Fights with all he has - but he is bound, and he achieves nothing more than to delay the inevitable, being unceremoniously, and painfully, dumped into the cold metal box. Face down, he can't manage to gain any purchase on the smooth surface, and is unable to turn, "Rob!" why he still pleads, he has no idea - but anything; anything to stay alive…has he been unconscious long enough for Taylor to arrive? God, please say that he has, "I'll beg if I have to! Whatever you want! Just stop! Please stop!"

"I'm doing what I want." Rob advises, grimly, and kicks the door shut.

In an instant, he is in complete darkness, and cannot stop the scream that emerges.

"It took me nearly a day and a half to dig this hole." The voice is muffled, and partially obscured by the racket of Malcolm's wild breathing, "I can't wait to fill it in. Feel free to scream all you want. I'm looking forward to that."

He feels the locker shift, then slide, and he is brutally winded as it drops violently to hit the ground. By the sound of it, and the time it took, he hasn't gone far - less than half a metre, probably. Not that it matters. Even if he weren't bound, he couldn't possibly force his way through aluminium to get out.

Oh God…Oh Christ…Oh dear God…get me out…someone please get me out of this…please, please, please…

Tears begin to stream down his face and he begins to sob in fear. Unless someone comes, there's no escape from this - and he will die in the forest like Niall did. What will happen to Max? He promised her he'd come home to her… promised he wouldn't die…but he can't get out. He can't get out…

And then he hears the rumbling clatter of a spadeful of earth dropping onto the top of the locker.

"ROB!" he can't stop himself, "Stop! Please stop it! For God's sake, you've made your point! I can't bring Allison back! I couldn't stop what she did! How will this bring her back? Why punish Yseult? What's she done to you? Rob! PLEASE!"

There is no answer. Just another spadeful. And another. And another.

Taylor's coming. He's coming. He'll find me. He'll get here in time. He will, he will. He has to…oh God please let him get here…

He has no idea how long it's been going on. There is no means to know how time has passed in that horrible darkness. He can't see, and even the sound of earth falling is now a muffled clatter, not a roar. How much air is left? There were vents in the locker. Are they covered now? He can't see to be certain…

But then it stops.

Taylor…he's found us…

It's faint, but he can just hear it…the distinctive sound of a sonic rifle blast. Someone must've shot Rob down.

The air is horrible now; warm and humid. The vents must be blocked, then. If Taylor doesn't hurry up, then he's going to find a corpse down here…

After an interminable time, Malcolm can hear the sound he has most wanted to hear since his burial began: the sound of earth being scraped away from the locker, not onto it. Someone's digging down.

Someone's coming.


The first sense he gets that the locker is truly being uncovered is a brief breeze that puffs against his cheek as a vent clears. Fresh air; he can breathe again…

The scraping becomes a screech, as the spade connects with the metal of the door. Then there is a violent bang, as the tool is bashed against something. Presumably a padlock.

It takes six attempts before the lock breaks, and then a scuffle, and a thud.

Open the door, Taylor. Just open the bloody door!

As his senses start to settle again, Malcolm's thoughts become more orderly, and a realisation strikes him. If this is Taylor, or even Jim Shannon, why haven't they called out to him? They must know it's him in this locker…

Then the door is wrenched upwards, and the air - warm, but considerably less warm than that in which he lies - is suddenly almost enticingly fresh. He still can't turn over, so his rescuer bends close, and a hand grabs his shoulder to turn him.

Malcolm opens his mouth to gush desperate, anguished thanks to his saviour; but the words dry in his throat. The light, while poor, is still sufficient for him to see the man standing over him.

"Now that's what I call good timing." The voice is familiar - but it's not a voice he thought he would ever hear again. Nor is it a voice he would ever have wanted to hear again.

It's a Taylor, alright. But it's not Nathaniel. It's Lucas.