For another second, a weighted silence held. Then one of the chimps uttered a short, deep-throated sound, like a dog’s bark, and all the cages erupted with screaming.

Sam swept his gaze around once, taking it in—the chimps were slamming their bodies back and forth in the cages, grabbing the doors and shaking them, jumping up and down and shrieking with their teeth bared—huge fangs half as long as human fingers.

Sam noted the difference between this behavior and the mindless, destructive rage of the baboon in Station 9.

This is what ordinary pissed-off looks like, he thought. Then: Still pretty goddamned scary.

He saw all that in a second, then locked his eyes on the door again, the gun raised and ready to fire.

That notion stopped him where he stood:

Was it really ready to fire?

Was he absolutely sure?

He tried to focus on what little he knew about guns like this. He was almost certain that once you fired the first shot, you could just keep pulling the trigger and shooting. But before that first shot, like when you reloaded it, there were steps you had to take, to get it ready.

When he had pulled the slide back, a few seconds ago, had that been the same thing as reloading?

As in, was there still something he needed to do, right now, before this thing would actually fire?

He didn’t know. Just simply didn’t.

“Shit…” he whispered, the sound lost under the cacophony of animal screams.

He turned the gun in his hands just enough to look closely at its details.

There was no hammer to pull back, but there was a little inset button on the grip, right behind the trigger.

Was that a safety? It wasn’t labeled safety, but maybe not all guns had a label for that.

Then he saw a metal tab on the left side of the barrel, just where the slide met the gun’s frame. It was right above the trigger, and it looked like something you could push down with your thumb.

What the hell was that for?

None of the writing engraved into the weapon was any help. He saw the word GLOCK on the side, up near the end of the barrel, along with the number 17. There were other words and numbers here and there, but nothing like safe or fire. None of it told him what to do. You were supposed to already know what to do, if you were holding a gun.

He stood there, all at once feeling like nothing more than a kid. An overwhelmed kid who just didn’t know the things he needed to know.

Maybe the gun would fire, and maybe it wouldn’t.

If Pierce came through that door in the next second, his gun would be ready, no question about it.