Montellini leapt up and darted out of the room. Salzman winced, smashed the cigarette butt into the desk, and grabbed a walkie-talkie from his belt.

  “Inny! Over!”

  “Uncle Albert, over,” the radio responded after a few seconds. “What’s going on up there? Where are the ‘Hawks’ from?”

  “Inny, listen carefully! Don’t approach the main entrance! Go straight to the auxiliary tunnel, the driver will be waiting there! I’m coming soon. It’s gonna be hot in here. Just hide yourselves, and don’t show up until you’re sure the path is clear! Is Adrian there?”

  “I’m here,” the boy’s voice replied.

  “Good. Stay together, you too. Inny, where’s the artifact?”

  “I have it. Don’t worry, everything is under control.”

  “Good. Keep it safe. And be ready! It’s not Burakovsky here; there is a very dangerous man instead! Don’t engage in a fight with him unless you’re exposed! But keep your guns loaded. Don’t let the Treaty take you. They want you both alive, so you can as well try to protect yourselves.”

  “Roger.”

  “Albert.” Montellini appeared at the door again, now with a rifle hanging on his chest. Meeting his eyes, Salzman shut down the walkie-talkie and slowly put it on the desk in front of him.

  “The center does not reply,” the director said dryly. “Looks like we’re on our own.”

  “Then, the best we can do is try to fend them off and kill the Colonel.”

  “Alright,” Montellini nodded after a pause. “You go, find Thorne and Inny. I’ll stay a bit, see how Edward is handling it.”

  After a second of hesitation, Salzman nodded.

  “Thanks, Silvester. But only if you promise to catch up with us, if things get messy.”

  “I will. Good luck.”

  The scientists embraced cautiously; Montellini nodded, gripped the rifle tighter, and rushed upstairs.

  He had barely climbed the stairs when he heard the sound of an assault nearby. Glass shattered, soldiers shouted, warheads whistled as helicopters fired. The Institute building shook, breaches appeared in the walls, the lobby was ablaze, hot water hissed from broken boilers. Montellini turned, fell face-first onto the dirty tiled floor—a burst struck above his head. He rolled away into cover and crawled to the wall next to the window. He was short of breath, began to wheeze and, with difficulty, half rose and rested the barrel on the windowsill. The building shook again, and a crash came from above: the artillery pieces on the roof had opened fire.

  “Here you go… you sons of bitches,” Motellini groaned, then roared furiously as he squeezed the trigger.

  The courtyard filled with clouds of gunpowder smoke. An APC that had smashed through the barrier and driven through the gap between the gates shuddered and stopped. A few soldiers fell screaming and convulsed on the wet asphalt; the others hid behind the vehicle and opened fire from there. Montellini crouched and reloaded his rifle. The shots toward him suddenly ceased, then something flew in through the broken window and fell near him. He only had time to glance in that direction and recognize a smoke grenade.

  Then everything sank into black, choking clouds. Coughing and sneezing, he jumped up and ran upstairs. Bullets struck walls and windows, shattering glass. Montellini managed to run a few flights up to the third floor. Gasping, he crawled to the accountant’s office door. Papers were burning; everything around was on fire, the flames slowly spreading wherever they could.

  “Silvester!”

  Dr. Crates helped him to his feet.

  “Who’s on the roof?”

  “The guys are firing back while they still have strength… and shells. Here, it’s safe here,” and they tumbled into a small closet with a single window. On the floor lay a body still clutching a sniper rifle. Montellini recognized the young man, a recruit who only recently signed a contract. The director’s breath caught from anger.

  “They’ve surrounded us from every side,” muttered Crates. “They struck from the woods, put dynamite under the fence, and the helicopters helped… They blew up all the cars in the garage; the special forces already have the building cordoned off, our men are fighting almost hand-to-hand.”

  Montellini nodded, swallowed with difficulty, and peered onto the landing. Footsteps could be heard both below and above. The anti-aircraft guns thundered again, answered by the whine of bullets… and a deafening roar of an engine, mixed with the dry clatter of spinning rotors. The sound of an impact, a crack, an explosion. Montellini’s ears popped. Crates shouted excitedly, leaned out the window, aimed, pulled the trigger, and accurately cut down one stormtrooper after another who were running toward the Institute through the fire. Then he screamed and hid behind the sill.

  “What?” Montellini forced out, struggling to get up. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “A bullet… right through my arm, the bastard…” Lead slammed through the little vent window and pounded the white ceiling.

  “Lie down, I’ll try to find a bandage,” Montellini said sharply. He shifted the rifle to a comfortable grip, checked the grenades on his belt, dashed to the stairwell and ran down.

  He ran into the first soldier almost immediately. His reaction was instant; Montellini fired point-blank. The rifle trembled in his hands; the man in the black mask gave a muffled cry and toppled, knocking down a second stormtrooper. Blood spurted onto the green walls. The third fired wildly but frenetically, missing the target completely. Montellini ducked, scooped up the still-warm corpse, hurled it down, followed after it, charged at a stormtrooper, and struck him with all his might. There was a crash, the floor shook, plaster rained from the ceiling, and Montellini clearly heard the wall between landings collapse down to the first floor.

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  Someone emerged from the gray smoke. One of the Institute guards, splattered with blood.

  “Where are Edward and Abdellah?” Montellini shouted.

  “Abdellah went into the woods to prepare the truck,” the guard panted heavily, rushed at Montellini, shoved him, crouched and fired a short burst from his rifle. “Ed’s in the courtyard… He and the others are trying to fight back; the anti-aircraft guys have already shot down two helicopters…”

  “All right… where to now?”

  “Down!”

  A grenade shrilled again and flew straight through the broken window. A soldier screamed and somersaulted down the stairs; Montellini didn’t hesitate and followed. He cleared the last few steps in midair—on the second floor, there was such a blast that a partition and part of the staircase collapsed, and the explosion hurled the director into the opposite wall. He cursed, struggled to his feet spitting dirt, whitewash and plaster, touched his busted cheek with his hand. A thin red stream ran from his fingers. Montellini turned. On the next flight a guard, hiding behind the stairs, was already fiercely firing at two soldiers in masks. A muffled scream came from below, then an automatic burst. The guard fell silently, dropping his rifle.

  Montellini jumped up. He ran onto the stairs and began to fire furiously, not sparing ammunition. A stormtrooper was hurled against the wall; his neck had been pierced straight through. Montellini reloaded with shaking hands and dashed for the back entrance.

  The rain had stopped. The asphalt was covered with puddles, and the sky was still gray and heavy. Smoke tore at the lungs; Montellini wheezed and sat down, trying to catch his breath. He saw Edward and several others hunched over the charred, burning husk of a helicopter. Rifles rattled on the roof, anti-aircraft guns roared and hammered four helicopters streaking through the air. The garages were burning, and thick black plumes rose from them toward the fiery sky. Breaches had been cut into the concrete fence in places; through them, APCs and light jeeps were slowly driving in. Another grenade went off, one of the jeeps slid into the bushes and smoked, and soldiers on another returned a fierce burst of fire. Edward, peeking from behind the cab of a helicopter lying on its side, screamed and crouched; the others surrounded him, trying to help. A gun on the roof fired again; one of the APCs shuddered and stalled with its gas tank burning.

  Montellini looked around. The courtyard was gradually being occupied; on the roof, a fierce shootout was already underway between artillerymen and soldiers. Someone had managed to reach the overturned “Hawk” behind which the Institute guards were hiding. Montellini saw soldiers drawing knives—and in an instant, everything was engulfed in a bloody melee.

  He ran closer, smashed a masked stormtrooper over the head with the rifle butt so hard it cracked. Edward lay on the ground motionless; his contractors left him, pounding at approaching Treaty fighters with fists and knives. Montellini turned the chief guard over and saw only a pale face and glassy eyes. A brown stain spread across the asphalt. Motellini shuddered and froze, looking at his friend with horror and disbelief—the same friend who had spoken with him and joked just half an hour earlier…

  It took him a while to come back to his senses. Then he peered from behind the helicopter. He rested the barrel against the metal that covered the broken tail and took aim. A squad was entering through the main gates following one of the jeeps. About ten people, but not special forces and not even soldiers. Montellini, not a coward by nature, still felt a chill run down his spine at the sight of tall figures swaying as they walked, wrapped in black cloaks, some armed with monstrous guns, some merely carrying sawn-offs, their heads hooded and shiny beast masks covering their faces.

  The cultists.

  “Worms”.

  Montellini aimed very carefully and squeezed the trigger, almost feeling the bullets crunch into the chest of the first Worm, getting from it some painful satisfaction. He saw the man dying. But it was odd. Bullets entered him one after another; one burst through his forehead, leaving a terrible hole in the mask from which blood gushed like a fountain, yet he kept walking though more and more unsteady. Only after taking a few more steps did he fall to his knees, and the others didn’t even glance in his direction. And the cultist, to Montellini’s horror, with his head turned into a mangled pulp, somehow managed to raise his gun. He might have fired, despite bleeding out, if one of the snipers hadn’t finished him off, forcing him to topple into the nearest puddle.

  Montellini wiped sweat from his brow. His ammo was running out; he loaded the last magazine. The Worms moved slowly, ignoring the fight, and soon disappeared into the burning Institute lobby. The yard slowly filled with soldiers, who followed the guests from the Zone with astonished and frightened looks. Montellini turned. Four guys next to him had just finished off the last stormtrooper, but nearby on the asphalt lay several dead defenders. Shots on the roof were gradually dying down. A rocket flashed and exploded, knocking down a huge radar dish. Another with a deafening crash blew up an anti-aircraft mount, which toppled onto its side and fell from the fourth floor, smashing into the ground and fragmenting the asphalt into tiny shards.

  “Time to scram,” Montellini rasped. “I hope our men pull Crates out…”

  And the five of them ran toward the Institute’s black entrance in short bursts. The soldiers didn’t pursue. Fire crackled around them, engines of the vehicles filling the small courtyard wheezed, and helicopters chattered as they descended.

  Aquilles entered the courtyard among the last, only to admire the burning ruins of what had shortly before been the Institute. He nodded to two Worms following at his heels. He scanned the Institute with his eyes. He had no doubt that a search would yield nothing.

  One of the men lying on the ground suddenly rose, went to one knee, howled furiously, and raised a rifle to his shoulder. Aquilles looked at him entirely calmly. A very young lad. What was he doing in the Zone?

  The youngster fired. He aimed true and hit. Bullets tore through the man wearing the colonel’s epaulettes and silver hair. He saw lead enter under the ribs, into the chest near the heart and lungs, into the stomach area, then the neck, then the face… Then the rounds ran out. The guard lowered his weapon, trembling with fear and incomprehension.

  Aquilles slowly wiped blood from his face. With a hand in a leather glove, he flicked the drops from his work clothing. He looked at the youth and raised his pistol. He fired from the hip; a single bullet to the bridge of the nose was enough. The guard’s head burst like a ripe pumpkin, blood sprinkling the wet asphalt. The Colonel grimaced.

  “And now,” he turned to the Worms, “it’s time for you to scavenge.”

  The soldiers sat down, took off masks, wiped their sweaty faces, ignoring the moans of the wounded. Someone lit a cigarette. The cultists in black cloaks appeared at the gates. The man who had been walking in front spread his arms.

  “Just as I thought,” muttered the Colonel. “Get in the car. We’ll look for a place where they might have an escape path. I bet it’s on the slope leading to the Perimeter… Anyone left? No scientist, no Thorne, no girl?”

  “No one,” croaked the squad commander quietly and slowly as if with effort. “You have one last chance, Aquilles. We need Inanna.”

  “I’ll get her for you,” the Colonel swore. “I will get her. Let’s go right now.”

  He was already starting to get into the car and turning the ignition when the Colonel thought: there is something wrong. Something will happen.

  He was right, but he only learned how right much later. The soldiers left on the ruins of the Institute realized it sooner, barely after the car disappeared into the bushes. The sky turned redder, the air filled with the smell of ozone and grew unusually hot and stifling. The horizon split with jagged streaks of lightning. Thunder rolled very close; the sky shimmered, turning red and then a deep green. The soldiers jumped to their feet; someone dropped an unfinished cigarette. It was not clear who shouted first, but he was undoubtedly right:

  “The Quake! This is the Quake!.. All hide, all away from the surface!”

  The Quake was near.