Screams.
Loud. Repeated. Echoing.
They bounced off the slime-slick stone like panic made audible.
Agent Defoe currently ran at the rear of the group, sidearm drawn, boots splashing through a floor already slick with something that shouldn't have been liquid.
Ahead of her, the scientists were in full retreat. Not that they were built for it. Pale. Wheezing. Clumsy in their sealed suits, they staggered more than sprinted.
The gear strapped to their bodies didn't help—sample cases clattering, tools flapping at their belts.
Defoe could hear the creatures closing.
Fast.
Faster than anything their physiology should allow.
**RrrrrrrAAAAGHHHHRRR—**
Behind her, something snarled. Not close yet, but close enough.
She didn't slow down. Couldn't. But she did the math—these people wouldn't make it at this pace.
Not all of them.
They needed seconds.
She skidded to a halt near a narrow gap in the tunnel, aimed up—BOOM—and fired directly into the ceiling.
**CRRACK—THUD—SPLAT**
