“That’s not Stricken. He set us up—” The monster dove and crashed into Heather, driving her back against the wall. Needles and spines sank into her arms. She screamed.

“Son of a bitch!” Renfroe shoved the fake Stricken out of the way and put his hand on the keypad. His flesh began to glow. The red warning light turned green.

Heather slipped and fell. The thrashing monster was on top of her, snapping at her face with multiple mouths. Desperate, Heather got hold of the thing’s arms and tried to keep the viciously piercing tentacles away from her body. She squeezed so hard that the monster’s skin ruptured and blood poured out around her hands. “Get us out of here!”

“On it,” Renfroe answered, distracted and concentrating.

The Nemesis soldier had grown a horn from the center of her face. The head lifted, rising on extra vertebrae, until the point was aimed right between Heather’s eyes. You’ve got to be kidding . . . The horn fell.

Heather jerked her head to the side. The horn sliced her cheek wide open and embedded itself in the concrete. “Cheating bitch!” Heather let go of one of the monster’s arms, swung her elbow and broke the horn clean off. The monster shrieked, and the hot mass rolled off of her. Heather grabbed the horn, ripped it out of the floor, and stabbed the monster through the head. While the thing lurched back, Heather used the opportunity to get up.

Stricken’s secretary—Heather had never gotten her name—had a very hopeful look on her face as she crawled through the hatch. That look vanished as soon as a hand shot out of the hole and grabbed onto her ankle. She screamed as the Nemesis soldier dragged her back into the dark. So much for the other survivors. Heather looked at the screaming, angry monster, trying to pull its own horn out of its eye socket, and then back to the hatch.

With nothing to lose, Heather got a running start and kicked the monster in the back. It stumbled toward the hole . . . only to catch itself on the edge of the hatch.

“Oh, come on!” She kept stomping the monster, but it wouldn’t do her the favor of falling three stories and taking its friend with it. Fake Stricken was still standing there, useless. “A little help?” she gasped, but whatever was wearing the Stricken mask didn’t budge.

“Got it,” Renfroe shouted. There was a loud metallic clang as the bunker door unlocked. “There’s an MCB agent on the other side.”