bait

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(sound of movement)

Jesse: "What is that?"

Shannon: "Hammering or gunfire. I can't tell which."

Clair: "Could be both."

(distant pounding, growing louder)

Jesse: "Maybe if we knock back, they'll hear us."

(sound of banging against the wall-a ceramic cup against metal)

Clair: "Wait. Stop."

Shannon: "What does it matter if we chip a little paint?"

Clair: "Not the paint. What's under it."

Jesse: "It's shiny. So what?"

Clair: "It's not just shiny. It's a mirror. But why paint over a mirror?"

(pounding growing nearer)

Clair: "What if it's not just the door?

(sound of coffee mug shattering on the ceiling)

Clair: "Oh, no."

Jesse: "What the hell?"

Shannon: "They're right outside. I can hear them!"

Clair: "Don't let them in. They can't come in here!"

But the door was opening, as it had to. Clair had guessed Wallace's plan, but I hadn't. I had been fighting my way to her with every iota of my being. I hadn't stopped to think. I didn't know what the room's true purpose was, or why Clair and the others had been kept alive when Wallace could have killed them hours ago.

They were bait. The room was a trap. Wallace didn't want Clair or WHOLE or the farmers or anything simple like that. He wanted Turner Goldsmith. Specifically, he wanted Turner Goldsmith's genes.

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