Doyle was stashed over in civilian housing; the room had belonged to one of the dead sweeps. The sentry at the door was dozing in his chair.

"Get up," Richards said.

The soldier jerked awake. His eyes floated with incomprehension; he didn't look like he knew where he was. When he saw Richards standing above him, he rose quickly to attention. "Sorry, sir."

"Open the door."

The soldier keyed in the code and stepped away.

"You can go," Richards said.

"Sir?"

"If you're going to sleep, do it in the barracks."

A look of relief. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

The soldier jogged down the catwalk, away. Richards pushed the door open. Doyle was sitting on the end of the bed, his hands folded in his lap, looking at the empty square on the wall where the TV had once been. An untouched tray of food rested on the floor, exuding a faint smell of rotting fish. As Doyle lifted his face, a thin smile creased his lips.

"Richards. You fuck."

"Let's go."

Doyle sighed and slapped his knees. "You know, he was right about you. Wolgast, I mean. I was just sitting here thinking, When is my old friend Richards going to pay me a visit?"

"If it was up to me, I would have come sooner."

Doyle looked like he was about to laugh. Richards had never seen such a good mood in a man who had to know what was about to happen to him. Doyle shook his head ruefully, still smiling. "I should have gone for those shotguns."

Richards withdrew his weapon and thumbed the safety. "It would have saved some time, yes."

He led Doyle across the compound, toward the lights of the Chalet. It was possible Doyle would take off running, but how far would he get? And, Richards wondered, why hadn't he asked about Wolgast or the girl?

"Tell me one thing," Doyle said, as they reached the parking area. A handful of cars were still there, belonging to the lab's night shift. "Is she here yet?"

"Is who here?"

"Lacey."

Richards stopped.

"So she is," Doyle said, and chuckled to himself. "Richards, you should see your face."

"What do you know about it?"

It was strange. A cool, blue light seemed to be shining from Doyle's eyes. Even in the ambient glow of the parking lot, Richards could see it. Like looking into a camera at the moment the shutter opened.

"Funny thing, but you know?" Doyle said, and lifted his gaze toward the dark shapes of the trees. "I could hear her coming."

Grey.

He was on L4. On the monitor, the glowing shape of Zero.

Grey. It's time.

He remembered then, remembered all of it at last: his dreams and all those nights he'd spent in Containment, watching Zero, listening to his voice, hearing the stories he told. He remembered New York City and the girl and all the others, every night a new one, and the feel of the darkness moving through him and the soft joy in his jaw as he flew down upon them. He was Grey and not Grey, he was Zero and not Zero, he was everywhere and nowhere. He rose and faced the glass.

It's time.

It was funny, Grey thought. Not funny ha-ha but funny strange, the whole idea of time. He'd thought it was one thing but it was actually another. It wasn't a line but a circle, and even more; it was a circle made of circles made of circles, each lying on top of the other, so that every moment was next to every other moment, all at once. And once you knew this you couldn't unknow it. Such as now, the way he could see events as they were about to unfold, as if they'd already happened, because in a way they had.

He opened the air lock. His suit hung limply on the wall. He had to close the first door to open the second, the second to open the third, but there was nothing that said he had to put the suit on, or that he had to be alone.

The second door, Grey.

He stepped into the inner chamber. Above his head, the showerhead hung like the face of some monstrous flower. The camera was watching him, but no one was on the other side; he knew that. And he was hearing other voices now, not just Zero's, and he knew who these were, too.

The third door, Grey.

Oh, it was such happiness, he thought. Such relief. This letting go. This putting down and away. Day by day he'd felt it happening, the good Grey and the bad Grey coming together, forming something new, something inevitable. The next new Grey, the one who could forgive.

I forgive you, Grey.

He turned the wide handle. The gate was open. Zero uncurled before him in the dark. Grey felt his breath on his face, on his eyes and mouth and chin; he felt his hammering heart. Grey thought of his father, on the snow. He was weeping, weeping with happiness, weeping with terror, weeping weeping weeping, and as Zero's bite found the soft place on his neck where the blood moved, he knew at last what the tenth rabbit was.

The tenth rabbit was him.

FOURTEEN.

It happened fast. Thirty-two minutes for one world to die, another to be born.

"What did you say?" Richards said, and then he heard-both of them heard-the sound of the alarm. The one that was never, ever supposed to ring, a great, atonal buzzing that ricocheted across the open compound so that it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Security breach. Subject Containment, Level 4.

Richards turned quickly to look toward the Chalet. A quick decision: he swung around to point his gun at the spot where Doyle had stood.

Doyle was gone.

Goddamn, he thought, and then he said it: "Goddamn!" Now there were two of them on the loose. He quickly scanned the parking lot, hoping for a shot. Lights came on everywhere, bathing the compound in a harsh, artificial daylight; he heard shouts from the barracks, soldiers running.

No time to deal with Doyle now.

He raced up the steps of the Chalet, past the sentry who was yelling at him, something about the elevator, and took the stairs to L2, his feet barely touching the steps. The door to his office was open. He quickly scanned the monitors.

Zero's chamber was empty.

Babcock's chamber was empty.

All of the chambers were empty.

He hit the audio feed. "Sentries, Level Four, this is Richards. Report."

Nothing, not a word in reply.

"Main Lab, report. Somebody tell me what the fuck is going on down there."

A terrified voice came through: Fortes? "They let them out!"

"Who? Who let them out?"

A blast of static, and Richards heard the first screams coming over the audio, and gunshots, and more screams-the screams men made when they died.

"Holy fuck!" Another blast of static. "They're all loose down here! The fucking sweeps let them all go!"

Quickly Richards called up the monitor for the sentry post on L3. A broad mural of blood was on the wall; the sentry, Davis, was slumped on the floor below it, his face pressed to the tiles, as if he were probing the ground for a lost contact. A second soldier stepped into view and Richards saw that it was Paulson, holding a .45. Behind him, the doors to the elevator stood open. Paulson looked straight into the camera as he holstered the gun and removed the grenade from his pocket, then two more. He pulled the pins, using his teeth, and rolled them into the elevator. Then he took one more look at Richards, who saw his empty eyes, drew the .45, raised it to the side of his head, and pulled the trigger.

Richards reached for the switch to seal the level, but it was too late. He heard the explosion, ripping through the elevator shaft, and then a second blast of sound as what was left of the car went sailing to the bottom, and all the lights went out.

At first Wolgast didn't know what he was hearing; the sound of the alarm was so sudden, so completely alien, that for a moment it obliterated all thought. He rose from his chair beside Amy's bed and tried the door, but of course it wouldn't open; they were sealed inside. The alarm rang and rang. A fire? No, he reasoned, over the din in his ears, it was something else, something worse. He looked up at the camera where it hung in the corner.

"Fortes! Sykes, goddamnit! Open this door!"

He heard the pop of automatic-weapon fire, muffled by its passage through the thick walls. For an instant he thought hopefully of rescue. But of course that was out of the question; who would rescue them?

And then, before he could generate another thought, there was a great concussive bang, and a terrible roar that ended in a second bang, louder than the first, bringing with it a deep, sonorous trembling, like an earthquake, and the room plunged into darkness.

Wolgast froze. The blackness was total, an overwhelming absence of light, completely disorienting. The alarms had stopped. He felt a blind urge to run, but there was nowhere to go. The room seemed to expand and to be closing in upon him, all at once.

"Amy, where are you? Help me find you!"

Silence. Wolgast drew a deep breath and held it. "Amy, say something. Say anything."

He heard, behind him, a soft moan.

"That's it." He turned, listening hard, trying to calibrate the distance and direction. "Do it again. I'll find you."

His mind began to focus, his initial panic giving way to a sense of purpose, the task at hand. Cautiously Wolgast took a step forward toward her voice, then another. A second moan, barely audible. The room was small, not twenty feet square, so how could it be that Amy should seem so far away from him in the dark? He heard no more gunfire, no sounds at all from outside. Only the soft notes of Amy's breathing, summoning him.

Wolgast had reached the foot of her bed and was feeling his way along its metal rails when the emergency lights came on, two beams that shot from the corners of the ceiling over the door. Barely enough to see by, but enough. The room was the same; whatever was happening outside, it had yet to reach them. He sat by Amy's bed and felt her forehead. Still warm, but her fever was down, her skin a little damp. With the power out, her IV pump had stopped. He wondered what to do, and decided to disconnect her. Perhaps this was wrong, but he didn't think so. He had watched Fortes and the others change the drip enough times to know the ritual. He adjusted the clamp, sealing off the flow of liquid, and withdrew the long needle from the rubber stopper at the top of the tube buried in the skin of her hand. With the IV disconnected there was no reason to leave the port in place; he removed this also, pulling it gently away. The wound didn't bleed, but to be sure, he covered it with gauze and tape from the supply cart. Then he waited.

The minutes passed. Amy shifted restlessly on the bed, as if she were dreaming. Wolgast had the curious intuition that somehow, if he could see her dreams, he'd know what was happening outside. But part of him wondered if any of it mattered now. They were well belowground, sealed away. They might as well have been locked in a tomb.

Wolgast had all but resigned himslf to their abandonment when he heard, behind him, a hiss of equalizing pressure. His hopes soared; someone had come after all. The door swung open to reveal a solitary figure, backlit, his face draped in shadow, wearing only street clothes. As the man stepped under the beams of the emergency lights, Wolgast saw somebody entirely new to him. The stranger had long hair, wild and unkempt, shot with streaks of gray, and a coarse beard that climbed halfway up his cheeks; his lab coat was rumpled and stained. He approached Amy's bedside with the preoccupied air of an accident victim, or the bystander to some terrible calamity. He'd done nothing so far even to acknowledge Wolgast's presence.

"She knows," he mumured, gazing at Amy. "How does she know?"

"Who the hell are you? What's going on out there?"

Still the man ignored him. An otherworldly feeling seemed to radiate off his entire person, an almost fatalistic calm. "It's strange," he said after a moment. He sighed deeply and touched his beard, sweeping his eyes over the barren room. "All of this. Is this ... what I wanted? I wanted there to be one, you see. Once I saw, once I knew what they were planning, how it would all end, I wanted there to be at least one."

"What are you talking about? Where's Sykes?"

At last the stranger seemed to take notice of him. He regarded Wolgast closely, his face tightening with a sudden frown. "Sykes? Oh, he's dead. I rather think they're all dead, don't you?"

"What do you mean dead?"

"Dead, gone, in pieces probably. The lucky ones, anyway." He gave his head a slow shake of wonder. "You should have seen it, the way they swooped down from the trees. Like the bats. We really should have seen that coming."

Wolfgast felt completely lost. "Please. I don't know ... what you're talking about."

The stranger shrugged. "Well, you will. Soon enough, I'm sorry to say." He looked at Wolgast again. "My manners. You'll have to excuse me, Agent Wolgast. It's been a while for me. I'm Jonas Lear." He gave a rueful smile. "You could say I'm the person in charge around here. Or not. Under the circumstances, I rather think nobody's in charge anymore."

Lear. Wolgast searched his memory, but the name meant nothing. "I heard an explosion-"

"Quite right," Lear interrupted. "That would have been the elevator. Now, my guess would be it was one of the soldiers. But I was locked in the freezer, so I didn't see that part." He sighed heavily and cast his eyes around the room once more. "Not a moment of great heroism, was it, Agent Wolgast, locking myself in the freezer? You know, I really wish there was another chair in here. I'd like to sit down. I can't tell you how long it's been since I sat down."

Wolgast shot to his feet. "Jesus. Take mine. Just please, tell me what's going on."

But Lear shook his head, his greasy hair swaying. "There's no time, I'm afraid. We have to be going. It's all over, isn't it, Amy?" He looked down at the girl's sleeping form and gently touched her hand. "Over at last."

Wolgast could stand it no more. "What's over?"

Lear lifted his face; his eyes were full of tears.

"Everything."

Lear led them down the corridor, Wolgast carrying Amy in his arms. The air smelled burnt, like molten plastic. As they turned the corner toward the elevator, Wolgast saw the first body.

It was Fortes. There wasn't much left. His body looked smeared, like it had been hit and dragged by something huge. Pooling blood glistened under the throb of the emergency lights. Beyond Fortes was another one, or so Wolgast thought. It took him a moment to understand he was looking at more of Fortes, just a different part of him.

Amy's eyes were closed, but Wolgast did his best to cover them anyway, pressing her face to his chest. Beyond Fortes lay two more bodies, or three, he couldn't tell. The floor was slick with blood, so much blood that he felt his feet sliding on it, the grease of human remains.

The elevator was blown away, nothing more than a hole, its darkened interior lit by the dancing sparks of broken wiring. Its heavy metal doors had shot across the hallway, caving in the opposite wall. Under the angular light of the emergency beams, Wolgast could see two more dead men, soldiers, crushed by pieces of the door. A third was propped against the wall, seated like a man taking a siesta, except he was resting in a pool of his own blood. His face was drawn and dessicated; his uniform hung limply on his frame, as if it were a size too large.

Wolgast tore his gaze away. "How do we get out of here?"

"This way," Lear said. The fog had lifted from him; he was pure urgency and purpose now. "Quickly."

Down another corridor. Doors stood open all up and down its length-heavy metal doors, identical to the one that led to Amy's chamber. And on the floor of the hallway, more bodies, but Wolgast didn't-couldn't-count. The walls were riddled with bullet holes, cartridges lay all over the floor, their brass casings gleaming.