“We’re doing everything we can.”
“Is he getting better?”
“He’s stabilized.”
“Is he getting better?” Benny asked again, more slowly, over-enunciating each word.
“We . . . are not sure we can expect an improvement at this time.”
“Then let me out of here.”
“What?”
“Let me out. We’re done.”
“Mr. Imura,” said the voice, “you are being immature about this.”
“Immature?” Benny laughed. “I went out to that plane yesterday to look for those stupid research notes. I didn’t see you out there.”
“We have to stay inside the quarantine of the lab.”
“I didn’t see your soldiers out there either. In fact, you know who I did see out there? A freaking reaper. And you know what I did? I freaking killed him. That’s what I did. You want to hide behind your stupid wall inside this freaking bunker and call me immature?” Benny kicked the speaker as hard as he could. The little grille buckled. “You’re not doing anything for me or Chong or anyone else, so tell me why I should help you? Tell me what we’re accomplishing with these little chats of ours. All you’re doing is wasting my time and pissing me off.”
He gave the speaker another kick.
Almost three full minutes passed before the door opened. In that time the voice did not return, did not ask another question.
Benny got up and stepped out into the hot sunlight. A monk was there to guide him across the bridge.
No way I’m going back in there, he told himself. I’d rather be stuck in a zombie pit at Gameland with my hands tied behind my back.
Suddenly that fragment of broken memory from yesterday skittered across his mind again.
He froze.
“Brother—?” inquired the monk, but Benny held up his hand.
“Gimme a sec . . .”
He closed his eyes and repeated what he’d just thought. There was something there.
Zombie pit.
Yes.
Sergeant Ortega. A big soldier.
In a zombie pit?
Yes.
No. Not exactly. Not a zombie pit.
Not at Gameland. Benny was sure of that much. Sergeant Ortega.
He could see the face.
Not a living face. Dead.