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A police scanner and some kind of handheld radio sat on a countertop across the room, but suddenly all he could think of was Randy, downstairs and getting sicker, waiting for Carlos to come back. He'd held up pretty well so far, managing to crawl through two of the blockades with only a little help, but by the time they'd reached the Raccoon Press building, he'd hardly been able to stand up on his own. Carlos had left him propped up beneath a dead pay phone on the first floor, not wanting to drag him up the stairs; a few small fires were smoldering on the lower landing, and Carlos had been afraid that Randy might trip and get burned…… which might be the least of his worries right now. Puta, what a balls-up. Why didn't they tell us what we were getting into?
Carlos choked down the despair that question raised; it was something he could take up with the proper au-thorities once they got out of here. He'd probably end up being deported, since he was only in the country through Umbrella, but so what? At the moment, going back to his old life sounded like a picnic. He hurried to the radio equipment and switched the scanner on, not sure what to do next; he'd never used one, and his only experience with two-way radios was a set of walkie-talkies he'd once played with as a kid. 200 CHANNEL MULTI-BAND was written on top of the scanner, and there was actually a scan button. He pushed it and watched a small digital readout flash meaningless numbers at him. Except for a few static bursts and clicks, nothing happened.
Great. That's real helpful.
The radio was what he wanted, anyway, and it at least looked like a walkie-talkie, though it said, AM/SSB TRANSCEIVER on the side. He picked it up, wondering if there were channels, or if there was some memory con-trol button and heard footsteps out in the hall. Slow, dragging footsteps. He dropped the radio on the counter and hefted his assault rifle, turning toward the door that opened into the hallway, already recognizing the shuffling, aimless steps of a zombie. The large newspaper office was the only room on the second floor; unless he wanted to jump out a window, the hall and stairs were the only way out. He'd have to kill it to get back to…
Oh, shit, it had to go past Randy, what if it got to him? What if… What if it was Randy? "Please, no," he whispered, but once the possibility occurred to him, he couldn't not think about it. He backed across the room, feeling sweat slide down the back of his neck. The footsteps continued, getting closer – and was that a limp he heard, the sound of one foot dragging?
Please, don't be, I don't want to have to kill him!
The footsteps paused just outside the door – and then Randy Thomas stepped, lurched into view, his expres-sion blank and free of pain, strings of drool hanging from his lower lip. "Randy? Stop there, 'mano, okay?" Carlos heard his voice break with dismal fear. "Say something, okay? Randy?"
A kind of dread acceptance filled Carlos as Randy tilted his head toward him and continued forward, rais-ing his arms. A low, gurgling moan erupted from his throat, and it was the loneliest sound Carlos thought he'd ever heard. Randy didn't really see him, didn't un-
derstand what he was saying; Carlos had become food,nothing more."Lo siento mucho," he said, and again in English, incase there was any part of Randy left, "I'm sorry. Sleepnow, Randy."
Carlos aimed carefully and fired, looking away assoon as he saw the grouping of holes appear just aboveRandy's right eyebrow, hearing but not seeing his com-rade's body hit the floor. For a long time he simplystood, shoulders slumped as he gazed at his own boots,wondering how he'd gotten so tired so fast… andtelling himself there was nothing else he could havedone.At last, he walked over and picked up the radio, hittingthe switch and thumbing the send control. "This is CarlosOliveira, member of Umbrella's U.B.C.S. team, squadAlpha, Platoon Delta. I'm at the Raccoon City newspaperoffice. Can anyone hear me? We were cut off from the restof the platoon, and now we – I need help. Request imme-diate assistance. If you can hear this, please respond."
Nothing but static; maybe he needed to try specificchannels; he could go through them one by one andjust keep repeating the message. He turned the radioover, looking at all of the buttons, and saw, stampedinto the backing, RANGE FIVE MILES.
Which means I can call anybody in town, how use-ful – except nobody's gonna answer, because they're dead. Like Randy. Like me.
Carlos closed his eyes, trying to think, trying to feel anything like hope. And he remembered Trent. He checked his watch, realizing how crazy this was, think-ing that it was the only thing that made sense anymore; Trent had known, he'd known what was going on and he'd told Carlos where to go when the shit came down. Without Randy to think about and with no clear path out of town… Grill 13. Carlos had just over an hour to find it.
Jill had just reached the S.T.A.R.S. office when the communication console at the back of the room crack-led to life. She slammed the door behind her and ran to it, words spitting out through a haze of static.
"… is Carlos… Raccoon… were cut off… pla-toon… help… assistance… if you can hear… re-spond…"
Jill snatched up the headset and hit the transmit switch. "This is Jill Valentine, Special Tactics and Res-cue Squad! You're not coming in very clear, please re-peat – what's your location? Do you read me? Over!"
She strained to hear something, anything and then saw that the light over the transmit relay switch wasn't on. She tapped several buttons and jiggled the switch, but the little green light refused to show itself. "Damn it!" She knew dick about communications, too. Whatever was broken, she wasn't going to be the one to fix it.
Well, at least I'm not the only one up Shit Creek without a paddle…
Sighing, Jill dropped the headset and turned to look at the rest of the office. Other than a few loose papers scattered on the floor, it looked the same as always. A few desks cluttered with files, PCs, and personal items, some overloaded shelves, a fax machine – and behind the door, the tall, reinforced steel gun safe that she hoped to God wasn't empty.
That thing out there isn't going to die easy. That
S.T.A.R.S. killer.
She shivered, feeling the knot of fear in her lower belly clench and grow heavier. Why it hadn't broken down the doors and killed her, she didn't know; it was easily strong enough. Just thinking about it made her want to crawl into a dark place somewhere and hide. It made the few zombies she'd passed on her way through the building seem as dangerous as infants. Not true, of course, but after seeing what the Tyrant-thing did to Brad… Jill swallowed, hard, and pushed it out of her mind. Dwelling on it wasn't going to help. Time to get to business. She stepped to her desk, ran-domly thinking that when she'd last sat there, she'd been a totally different person; it seemed like a lifetime had gone by since then. She opened the top drawer and started to dig – and there, behind a box of paper clips, was the set of tools she'd always kept at the office. Yes! She lifted the small cloth bundle and unrolled it, looking over the picks and torsion bars with a practiced eye. Sometimes having grown up as the daughter of a professional thief paid off big. She'd been having to shoot at locks for the last few days, which wasn't nearly as easy or safe as people seemed to think; hav-ing a decent lockpick set along would be an enormous help.
Besides which, I don't have the key for the gun safe – but then, that never stopped me before. She'd practiced when no one was around just to see if she could do it and had experienced very little trouble; the safe was ancient. Jill crouched in front of the door, inserted the bar and pick, and gently felt for the tumblers. In less than a minute, she was rewarded for her efforts; the heavy door swung open, and there, in plain sight, was the stainless steel answer to at least one of her recent prayers.
"Bless you, Barry Burton," she breathed, lifting the heavy revolver off the otherwise empty lower shelf. A Colt Python.357 Magnum, six-shot with a swing-out cylinder. Barry had been the weapons specialist for the Alpha team and was a total gun nut besides. He'd taken her shooting several times, always insisting that she try out one of his Colts; he had three that she knew of, all different calibers – but the.357 packed the biggest wallop. That he'd left it behind, either by mis-take or on purpose, seemed like a miracle… as did the twenty-plus rounds in a box on the floor of the safe. There weren't any shotgun shells, but there was one magazine's worth of 9mm rounds loose in one of the drawers.
Worth the trip, at least – and with the picks I can go through the downstairs evidence room now, check for confiscated materials…
Things were looking up. Now all she had to do was sneak out of the city in the dark, avoiding zombies, vio-lent, genetically altered animals, and a Tyrant-creature that had proclaimed itself nemesis to the S.T.A.R.S. A Nemesis made for her. Amazingly, the thought made her smile. Add an im-pending explosion and some bad weather to the mix, she'd have herself a party. "Whee," she said softly and started to load the Mag-num with hands that weren't quite steady, and hadn't been for a long time.
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
Carlos choked down the despair that question raised; it was something he could take up with the proper au-thorities once they got out of here. He'd probably end up being deported, since he was only in the country through Umbrella, but so what? At the moment, going back to his old life sounded like a picnic. He hurried to the radio equipment and switched the scanner on, not sure what to do next; he'd never used one, and his only experience with two-way radios was a set of walkie-talkies he'd once played with as a kid. 200 CHANNEL MULTI-BAND was written on top of the scanner, and there was actually a scan button. He pushed it and watched a small digital readout flash meaningless numbers at him. Except for a few static bursts and clicks, nothing happened.
Great. That's real helpful.
The radio was what he wanted, anyway, and it at least looked like a walkie-talkie, though it said, AM/SSB TRANSCEIVER on the side. He picked it up, wondering if there were channels, or if there was some memory con-trol button and heard footsteps out in the hall. Slow, dragging footsteps. He dropped the radio on the counter and hefted his assault rifle, turning toward the door that opened into the hallway, already recognizing the shuffling, aimless steps of a zombie. The large newspaper office was the only room on the second floor; unless he wanted to jump out a window, the hall and stairs were the only way out. He'd have to kill it to get back to…
Oh, shit, it had to go past Randy, what if it got to him? What if… What if it was Randy? "Please, no," he whispered, but once the possibility occurred to him, he couldn't not think about it. He backed across the room, feeling sweat slide down the back of his neck. The footsteps continued, getting closer – and was that a limp he heard, the sound of one foot dragging?
Please, don't be, I don't want to have to kill him!
The footsteps paused just outside the door – and then Randy Thomas stepped, lurched into view, his expres-sion blank and free of pain, strings of drool hanging from his lower lip. "Randy? Stop there, 'mano, okay?" Carlos heard his voice break with dismal fear. "Say something, okay? Randy?"
A kind of dread acceptance filled Carlos as Randy tilted his head toward him and continued forward, rais-ing his arms. A low, gurgling moan erupted from his throat, and it was the loneliest sound Carlos thought he'd ever heard. Randy didn't really see him, didn't un-
derstand what he was saying; Carlos had become food,nothing more."Lo siento mucho," he said, and again in English, incase there was any part of Randy left, "I'm sorry. Sleepnow, Randy."
Carlos aimed carefully and fired, looking away assoon as he saw the grouping of holes appear just aboveRandy's right eyebrow, hearing but not seeing his com-rade's body hit the floor. For a long time he simplystood, shoulders slumped as he gazed at his own boots,wondering how he'd gotten so tired so fast… andtelling himself there was nothing else he could havedone.At last, he walked over and picked up the radio, hittingthe switch and thumbing the send control. "This is CarlosOliveira, member of Umbrella's U.B.C.S. team, squadAlpha, Platoon Delta. I'm at the Raccoon City newspaperoffice. Can anyone hear me? We were cut off from the restof the platoon, and now we – I need help. Request imme-diate assistance. If you can hear this, please respond."
Nothing but static; maybe he needed to try specificchannels; he could go through them one by one andjust keep repeating the message. He turned the radioover, looking at all of the buttons, and saw, stampedinto the backing, RANGE FIVE MILES.
Which means I can call anybody in town, how use-ful – except nobody's gonna answer, because they're dead. Like Randy. Like me.
Carlos closed his eyes, trying to think, trying to feel anything like hope. And he remembered Trent. He checked his watch, realizing how crazy this was, think-ing that it was the only thing that made sense anymore; Trent had known, he'd known what was going on and he'd told Carlos where to go when the shit came down. Without Randy to think about and with no clear path out of town… Grill 13. Carlos had just over an hour to find it.
Jill had just reached the S.T.A.R.S. office when the communication console at the back of the room crack-led to life. She slammed the door behind her and ran to it, words spitting out through a haze of static.
"… is Carlos… Raccoon… were cut off… pla-toon… help… assistance… if you can hear… re-spond…"
Jill snatched up the headset and hit the transmit switch. "This is Jill Valentine, Special Tactics and Res-cue Squad! You're not coming in very clear, please re-peat – what's your location? Do you read me? Over!"
She strained to hear something, anything and then saw that the light over the transmit relay switch wasn't on. She tapped several buttons and jiggled the switch, but the little green light refused to show itself. "Damn it!" She knew dick about communications, too. Whatever was broken, she wasn't going to be the one to fix it.
Well, at least I'm not the only one up Shit Creek without a paddle…
Sighing, Jill dropped the headset and turned to look at the rest of the office. Other than a few loose papers scattered on the floor, it looked the same as always. A few desks cluttered with files, PCs, and personal items, some overloaded shelves, a fax machine – and behind the door, the tall, reinforced steel gun safe that she hoped to God wasn't empty.
That thing out there isn't going to die easy. That
S.T.A.R.S. killer.
She shivered, feeling the knot of fear in her lower belly clench and grow heavier. Why it hadn't broken down the doors and killed her, she didn't know; it was easily strong enough. Just thinking about it made her want to crawl into a dark place somewhere and hide. It made the few zombies she'd passed on her way through the building seem as dangerous as infants. Not true, of course, but after seeing what the Tyrant-thing did to Brad… Jill swallowed, hard, and pushed it out of her mind. Dwelling on it wasn't going to help. Time to get to business. She stepped to her desk, ran-domly thinking that when she'd last sat there, she'd been a totally different person; it seemed like a lifetime had gone by since then. She opened the top drawer and started to dig – and there, behind a box of paper clips, was the set of tools she'd always kept at the office. Yes! She lifted the small cloth bundle and unrolled it, looking over the picks and torsion bars with a practiced eye. Sometimes having grown up as the daughter of a professional thief paid off big. She'd been having to shoot at locks for the last few days, which wasn't nearly as easy or safe as people seemed to think; hav-ing a decent lockpick set along would be an enormous help.
Besides which, I don't have the key for the gun safe – but then, that never stopped me before. She'd practiced when no one was around just to see if she could do it and had experienced very little trouble; the safe was ancient. Jill crouched in front of the door, inserted the bar and pick, and gently felt for the tumblers. In less than a minute, she was rewarded for her efforts; the heavy door swung open, and there, in plain sight, was the stainless steel answer to at least one of her recent prayers.
"Bless you, Barry Burton," she breathed, lifting the heavy revolver off the otherwise empty lower shelf. A Colt Python.357 Magnum, six-shot with a swing-out cylinder. Barry had been the weapons specialist for the Alpha team and was a total gun nut besides. He'd taken her shooting several times, always insisting that she try out one of his Colts; he had three that she knew of, all different calibers – but the.357 packed the biggest wallop. That he'd left it behind, either by mis-take or on purpose, seemed like a miracle… as did the twenty-plus rounds in a box on the floor of the safe. There weren't any shotgun shells, but there was one magazine's worth of 9mm rounds loose in one of the drawers.
Worth the trip, at least – and with the picks I can go through the downstairs evidence room now, check for confiscated materials…
Things were looking up. Now all she had to do was sneak out of the city in the dark, avoiding zombies, vio-lent, genetically altered animals, and a Tyrant-creature that had proclaimed itself nemesis to the S.T.A.R.S. A Nemesis made for her. Amazingly, the thought made her smile. Add an im-pending explosion and some bad weather to the mix, she'd have herself a party. "Whee," she said softly and started to load the Mag-num with hands that weren't quite steady, and hadn't been for a long time.
EIGHT
AS HE SLOGGED HIS WAY THROUGH THE sewer system underneath the city streets, Nicholai found himself fascinated by the careful planning that had gone into Raccoon's design. He'd studied the maps, of course, but it was another thing entirely to ac-tually wander through it, to experience the arrangement firsthand. Umbrella had built a perfect playground; how unfortunate that they'd ruined it for themselves. There were several underground passages that con-nected key Umbrella-owned facilities to one another, some more obvious than others. From the basement of the RPD building, he'd entered the sewers that would lead him all the way to the multilevel underground lab-oratory where Umbrella had done its most serious re-search. Research had also been conducted at the Arklay/Spencer mansion lab in Raccoon Forest, and there were three "abandoned" factory or warehouse test sites on the outskirts of town, but the best scientists had worked in and under the city. It would certainly make his job much easier; moving from one area to another would be much less hazardous underground.
Not for much longer, though. In another ten or twelve hours, nowhere will be safe. The bio-organics that Umbrella worked with were kept sedated, grown in Raccoon but usually shipped elsewhere for field trials. With the operation in virtual ruin, they'd break out in order to find food; some had surely escaped already, and the majority would undoubtedly make an appear-ance once they'd missed a few injections.
And won't that be fun? A little target practice to clear my palate in between searches, and with the fire-power to enjoy it.
Holding the assault rifle in the crook of his right arm, he reached down and patted the extra mags he'd taken from Wersbowski; he hadn't thought to check them before, but the quick look before he'd descended into the sewers had left him quite pleased. U.B.C.S. soldiers were issued magazines of fully jacketed.223s, designed to shoot cleanly through a target; Wersbowski had loaded up with hollow points, rounds that ex-panded and flattened on contact for maximum damage. Nicholai had already planned to raid the lab's small ar-senal; with an additional sixty rounds of HP, he'd be walking easy…… unlike now… The cold, murky water that ran through the poorly lit tunnels came almost to his knees and smelled terrible, like urine and mold. He'd already come across several undead, most wearing Umbrella lab coats, though there were a few civilians – maintenance people, or perhaps just unlucky souls who'd ventured into the sewers thinking to escape the city. He dodged them, mostly, not wanting to waste bullets or alert anyone to his whereabouts. He came to a T junction and hung a right after check-ing for movement in either direction. As with much of his journey so far, there was nothing but the soft lap of pol-luted water against gray stones, the ripple of sullen yellow light against the oily surface. It was a dank and miserable environment, and Nicholai couldn't help but think of the A334s, the sliding worms. At the Watchdog briefing, they'd been listed as something like giant leeches that traveled by water in groups, one of Umbrella's newest creations. He wasn't afraid so much as disgusted by the thought of running into them, and he hated surprises, hated the idea that even now a school of them could be slipping through the dark waters, jaws stretching wide, seeking warmth and sustenance from human blood. When he saw the raised ledge at the end of the tun-nel, he was ashamed at the relief he felt. He quickly blocked the feeling, preparing himself for his meeting; a look at his watch as he stepped out of the water told him he was right on time. Dr. Thomlinson would be fil-ing her next report within ten, minutes. Nicholai hurried down the short corridor in front of him, annoyed by the faint squelching of his boots as he reached the door to the warehouse anteroom. He lis-tened for a moment and heard nothing; he gave a soft push at the door and it opened, revealing an empty break room for city workers – table, a few chairs, lock-ers – and, bolted to the far wall, a descending ladder. He crept in, gently closing the door behind him. The ladder went down into the small warehouse from which Dr. Thomlinson would report; a computer terminal was hidden behind some cleaning equipment on one of the shelves. Assuming Thomlinson would be coming from the lab, she'd enter via the small elevator platform in the comer of the room, if he'd read the map correctly. Nicholai sat down to wait, unhooking his shoulder bag and removing the laptop; he wanted to recheck his maps after the appointment with the good doctor. Thomlinson was punctual, arriving a full four min-utes before she was supposed to file. At the sound of the grinding lift motor, Nicholai trained the rifle's muz-zle into the corner, resting his finger on the trigger. A tall, disheveled woman rose into view, a distracted look on her smudged face. She wore a stained lab coat and carried a handgun she kept pointed at the floor; obvi-ously, she expected her checkpoint to be safe. Nicholai didn't give her a chance to react to his pres-ence. "Drop your weapon and step away from the lift. Now." She was a cool one, he had to give her that. Except for a slight widening of her eyes, there was no visible sign of alarm across her even features. She did as he asked, the clatter of the semiautomatic loud as she war-ily moved a few paces into the still room.
"Anything new to report, Janice?"
She studied him, her light brown gaze searching his as she crossed her arms. "You're one of the Watch-dogs," she said. It wasn't a question. Nicholai nodded. "Empty your pockets onto the table, Doctor. Slowly." Thomlinson smiled. "And if I won't?" Her voice was throaty, deep and alluring. "Will you… take it from me?"
Nicholai thought for a few seconds about what she was suggesting then pulled the trigger, obliterating her lovely smile in a sudden cough of fire. Really, he didn't have time to play that particular game; he should have shot her on sight, so as not to be tempted.
Besides, his feet were cold and wet, which he de-tested; nothing like wet boots to make a man miser-able. Still, it was a shame; she was his type, tall and curved, obviously intelligent. He walked to her slumped body and fished a disk out of her breast pocket without looking at the blood and bone confusion that had been her face, reminding himself that this was business. Only four to go. Nicholai slipped the disk into a plastic pouch, sealed it, and placed it in his bag. There'd be time to pore over its contents, later, once he'd collected everything. He turned on the portable and called up the sewer system map, frowning as he traced his next path. At least another half mile of wading through the dark be-fore making it topside. He glanced at Dr. Thomlinson again and sighed; perhaps he'd made a mistake. A quick tussle would have warmed him up… though he disliked having to kill women after enjoying them, on any level; the last time, he'd experienced feelings of true regret. No matter. She was dead, he had the information, and it was time to move on. Four left, and he could for-get about business for the rest of his extremely wealthy life, concentrating instead on the kinds of pleasure that poor men could only dream about.
Carlos knew he was close. From the area near the newspaper building, where the street signs had all begun with north, he'd ended up lost in a series of al-leys to the east – what had to be Trent's shopping dis-trict.
He said shopping district, northeast… so where's the theater? And he said something about a fountain, didn't he?
Carlos stood in front of a boarded-up barbershop at the intersection of two alleys, no longer sure which way to go. There weren't any street signs, and twilight had given its last gasp; it was full-on dark and he only had ten minutes left before the 1900 deadline, thanks to an initial blunder that had led him back toward the industrial part of town -not really what could be con-sidered the city proper, as Trent put it. Ten min-utes… and then what? Once he found the infamous Grill 13, what was supposed to happen? Trent had said something about helping… so if he blew the ap-pointed time, would Trent be able to do anything for him?
Taking a left would lead him back to the newspaper office, he thought – or was that behind him? Straight ahead was a dead end and a door that he hadn't tried yet, might as well give that a shot… He didn't see it coming, but he heard it. He'd taken a single step when a door crashed open behind him – and the thing was so fast that he was still turning, raising the assault rifle in reaction to the sound of the door when it reached him.
What…
A wave of malodorous darkness, an impression of shining black claws and hard, ribbed body like the exoskeleton of some giant insect…… and something ripped the air inches from his face, would have hit him if not for his stumbling step back-wards. He tripped over his own feet and fell, watching in horrified amazement as some thing flew over his upturned face, leaping nimbly to the wall on his right, and contin-ued to run, sideways, clinging to the brick in a skittering gallop. Awestruck, Carlos tracked it as far as he could turn his head, flat on his back, watching as it agilely pivoted on at least three of its legs and dropped to the ground. He might have simply waited for it to come for him, unable to believe his eyes even as it slashed one of its six, long-bladed legs across his throat, except that it screamed – and the trumpeting, triumphant whine that erupted from its inhumanly curved and bloated face was enough to get him moving. In a flash, Carlos rolled into a crouch and opened fire on the screeching, running thing, unaware that he was screaming, too, a low, raspy cry of terror and dis-belief. The creature faltered as the rounds tore into its brittle flesh, its limbs flailing wildly, the quality of its shriek changing to a howl of furious pain. Carlos kept firing, spraying the creature with deadly hot metal, con-tinuing even after it collapsed and was only moving be-cause of him, the rounds jerking at its limp form. He knew it was dead but couldn't let himself stop, couldn't until the M16 ran dry and the alley was silent except for the sound of his own tortured breathing. He backed against a wall, slammed a fresh mag into the rifle, and desperately tried to understand what the hell had just happened. At last he recovered enough of himself to ap-proach the dead thing – it was dead; even a six-legged, wall-climbing bug the size of a man was dead when its brains were drooling out of its skull. It was one truth he could hold on to in the face of this madness. "Deader than shit," he said, staring down at the twisted, bloody creature, and for just a second, he could feel part of his mind attempting to turn in on itself, to lock him away from what he was seeing. Zombies were bad enough, and he'd finally refused to accept the fact that Raccoon was overrun by the walking dead; they were just sick, that cannibal disease he'd read about, because there was no such thing as zombies except in the movies. Just like there were no real monsters, ei-ther, no giant killing bugs with claws that could walk on walls and scream like it had screamed… "Wo hay piri," he whispered, his one-time motto, this time spoken as a plea, his thoughts following in a kind of desperate litany, Don't sweat it, hang loose, be cool. And after a while, it took hold; his heart slowed to almost normal, and he started to feel like a person again, not some mindless, panicking animal. So, there were monsters in Raccoon City. It shouldn't be a surprise, not after the day he'd had; besides, they died like anything else, didn't they? He wasn't going to survive if he lost it, and he'd already been through way too much to give up now. With that, Carlos turned his back on the monster and headed down the alley, forcing himself not to look back. It was dead, and he was alive, and chances were good that there were more of them out there.
Trent might be my only way out, and now I've got… shit! Three minutes, he had three goddamn min-utes. Carlos broke into a run, up a few steps to the single door at the end of the alley and through – and found himself standing in a spacious, well-lit kitchen. A restaurant's kitchen. A quick look around; no one, and quiet except for a soft hiss from a large gas canister standing against the back wall. He took a deep breath but couldn't smell anything; maybe it was something else -
– and I wouldn't leave if it was toxic nerve gas. This has to be it, this is where he told me to go.
He walked through the kitchen, past shining metal counters and stoves, heading toward the dining area. There was a menu on one of the counters, GRILL 13 written across the front in gold script. It was unnerving, how relieved he felt; within a few hours, Trent had gone from being some creepy stranger to his best friend in the world.
I made it, and he said he could help – maybe a res-cue team is already on its way, or he arranged for me to be picked up here… or maybe there are weapons stored in the front, not as good as an evac but I'll take what I can get.
There was an opening in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, a counter where the chefs put the orders up. Carlos could see that the small, slightly darker restaurant was empty, although he took a moment to be certain; dancing light from a still-burn-ing oil lamp wavered over the leatherette booths that lined the walls, casting jittery shadows. He stepped around the serving counter and walked into the room, absently noting a faint scent of fried food lingering in the cool air as he stared around, searching. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he def-initely didn't see it – no unmarked envelope propped up on a table, no mysterious packages, no trench-coated man waiting. There was a pay phone by the front door; Carlos walked over and picked up the re-ceiver but got nothing, just like every other phone in town. He checked his watch for what felt like the thou-sandth time in the past hour and saw that it was 1901, one minute after seven o'clock and he felt a rush of anger, of frustration that only served to increase his un-acknowledged fear. I'm alone, no one knows I'm here and no one can help me. "I'm here," he said, turning to face the empty room, his voice rising. "I made it, I'm here on time and god-damnit, where the hell are you?"
As if on cue, the telephone rang, the shrill sound making him jump, Carlos fumbled for it, his heart thumping dully in his chest, his knees suddenly weak with hope.
"Trent? Is that you?"
A brief pause, and Trent's smooth, musical voice spilled into his ear. "Hola, Mr. Oliveira! I'm so pleased to hear your voice!" "Man, not half as glad as I am to hear yours." Carlos sagged against the wall, gripping the receiver tightly.
"This is some bad shit, amigo, everyone's dead and there are things out there, like – there are monsters, Trent. Can you get me out of here? Tell me you can get me out of here!"
There was another pause, and Trent sighed, a heavy sound. Carlos closed his eyes, already knowing what he would say.
"I'm very sorry, but that's simply out of the question. What I can do is give you information… but surviv-ing, that's your job. And I'm afraid that things are going to get worse, much worse before they get any better."
Carlos took a deep breath and nodded to himself,knowing that this was what he'd been expecting allalong. He was on his own."Okay," he said and opened his eyes, straighteninghis shoulders as he nodded again. "Tell me."
Not for much longer, though. In another ten or twelve hours, nowhere will be safe. The bio-organics that Umbrella worked with were kept sedated, grown in Raccoon but usually shipped elsewhere for field trials. With the operation in virtual ruin, they'd break out in order to find food; some had surely escaped already, and the majority would undoubtedly make an appear-ance once they'd missed a few injections.
And won't that be fun? A little target practice to clear my palate in between searches, and with the fire-power to enjoy it.
Holding the assault rifle in the crook of his right arm, he reached down and patted the extra mags he'd taken from Wersbowski; he hadn't thought to check them before, but the quick look before he'd descended into the sewers had left him quite pleased. U.B.C.S. soldiers were issued magazines of fully jacketed.223s, designed to shoot cleanly through a target; Wersbowski had loaded up with hollow points, rounds that ex-panded and flattened on contact for maximum damage. Nicholai had already planned to raid the lab's small ar-senal; with an additional sixty rounds of HP, he'd be walking easy…… unlike now… The cold, murky water that ran through the poorly lit tunnels came almost to his knees and smelled terrible, like urine and mold. He'd already come across several undead, most wearing Umbrella lab coats, though there were a few civilians – maintenance people, or perhaps just unlucky souls who'd ventured into the sewers thinking to escape the city. He dodged them, mostly, not wanting to waste bullets or alert anyone to his whereabouts. He came to a T junction and hung a right after check-ing for movement in either direction. As with much of his journey so far, there was nothing but the soft lap of pol-luted water against gray stones, the ripple of sullen yellow light against the oily surface. It was a dank and miserable environment, and Nicholai couldn't help but think of the A334s, the sliding worms. At the Watchdog briefing, they'd been listed as something like giant leeches that traveled by water in groups, one of Umbrella's newest creations. He wasn't afraid so much as disgusted by the thought of running into them, and he hated surprises, hated the idea that even now a school of them could be slipping through the dark waters, jaws stretching wide, seeking warmth and sustenance from human blood. When he saw the raised ledge at the end of the tun-nel, he was ashamed at the relief he felt. He quickly blocked the feeling, preparing himself for his meeting; a look at his watch as he stepped out of the water told him he was right on time. Dr. Thomlinson would be fil-ing her next report within ten, minutes. Nicholai hurried down the short corridor in front of him, annoyed by the faint squelching of his boots as he reached the door to the warehouse anteroom. He lis-tened for a moment and heard nothing; he gave a soft push at the door and it opened, revealing an empty break room for city workers – table, a few chairs, lock-ers – and, bolted to the far wall, a descending ladder. He crept in, gently closing the door behind him. The ladder went down into the small warehouse from which Dr. Thomlinson would report; a computer terminal was hidden behind some cleaning equipment on one of the shelves. Assuming Thomlinson would be coming from the lab, she'd enter via the small elevator platform in the comer of the room, if he'd read the map correctly. Nicholai sat down to wait, unhooking his shoulder bag and removing the laptop; he wanted to recheck his maps after the appointment with the good doctor. Thomlinson was punctual, arriving a full four min-utes before she was supposed to file. At the sound of the grinding lift motor, Nicholai trained the rifle's muz-zle into the corner, resting his finger on the trigger. A tall, disheveled woman rose into view, a distracted look on her smudged face. She wore a stained lab coat and carried a handgun she kept pointed at the floor; obvi-ously, she expected her checkpoint to be safe. Nicholai didn't give her a chance to react to his pres-ence. "Drop your weapon and step away from the lift. Now." She was a cool one, he had to give her that. Except for a slight widening of her eyes, there was no visible sign of alarm across her even features. She did as he asked, the clatter of the semiautomatic loud as she war-ily moved a few paces into the still room.
"Anything new to report, Janice?"
She studied him, her light brown gaze searching his as she crossed her arms. "You're one of the Watch-dogs," she said. It wasn't a question. Nicholai nodded. "Empty your pockets onto the table, Doctor. Slowly." Thomlinson smiled. "And if I won't?" Her voice was throaty, deep and alluring. "Will you… take it from me?"
Nicholai thought for a few seconds about what she was suggesting then pulled the trigger, obliterating her lovely smile in a sudden cough of fire. Really, he didn't have time to play that particular game; he should have shot her on sight, so as not to be tempted.
Besides, his feet were cold and wet, which he de-tested; nothing like wet boots to make a man miser-able. Still, it was a shame; she was his type, tall and curved, obviously intelligent. He walked to her slumped body and fished a disk out of her breast pocket without looking at the blood and bone confusion that had been her face, reminding himself that this was business. Only four to go. Nicholai slipped the disk into a plastic pouch, sealed it, and placed it in his bag. There'd be time to pore over its contents, later, once he'd collected everything. He turned on the portable and called up the sewer system map, frowning as he traced his next path. At least another half mile of wading through the dark be-fore making it topside. He glanced at Dr. Thomlinson again and sighed; perhaps he'd made a mistake. A quick tussle would have warmed him up… though he disliked having to kill women after enjoying them, on any level; the last time, he'd experienced feelings of true regret. No matter. She was dead, he had the information, and it was time to move on. Four left, and he could for-get about business for the rest of his extremely wealthy life, concentrating instead on the kinds of pleasure that poor men could only dream about.
Carlos knew he was close. From the area near the newspaper building, where the street signs had all begun with north, he'd ended up lost in a series of al-leys to the east – what had to be Trent's shopping dis-trict.
He said shopping district, northeast… so where's the theater? And he said something about a fountain, didn't he?
Carlos stood in front of a boarded-up barbershop at the intersection of two alleys, no longer sure which way to go. There weren't any street signs, and twilight had given its last gasp; it was full-on dark and he only had ten minutes left before the 1900 deadline, thanks to an initial blunder that had led him back toward the industrial part of town -not really what could be con-sidered the city proper, as Trent put it. Ten min-utes… and then what? Once he found the infamous Grill 13, what was supposed to happen? Trent had said something about helping… so if he blew the ap-pointed time, would Trent be able to do anything for him?
Taking a left would lead him back to the newspaper office, he thought – or was that behind him? Straight ahead was a dead end and a door that he hadn't tried yet, might as well give that a shot… He didn't see it coming, but he heard it. He'd taken a single step when a door crashed open behind him – and the thing was so fast that he was still turning, raising the assault rifle in reaction to the sound of the door when it reached him.
What…
A wave of malodorous darkness, an impression of shining black claws and hard, ribbed body like the exoskeleton of some giant insect…… and something ripped the air inches from his face, would have hit him if not for his stumbling step back-wards. He tripped over his own feet and fell, watching in horrified amazement as some thing flew over his upturned face, leaping nimbly to the wall on his right, and contin-ued to run, sideways, clinging to the brick in a skittering gallop. Awestruck, Carlos tracked it as far as he could turn his head, flat on his back, watching as it agilely pivoted on at least three of its legs and dropped to the ground. He might have simply waited for it to come for him, unable to believe his eyes even as it slashed one of its six, long-bladed legs across his throat, except that it screamed – and the trumpeting, triumphant whine that erupted from its inhumanly curved and bloated face was enough to get him moving. In a flash, Carlos rolled into a crouch and opened fire on the screeching, running thing, unaware that he was screaming, too, a low, raspy cry of terror and dis-belief. The creature faltered as the rounds tore into its brittle flesh, its limbs flailing wildly, the quality of its shriek changing to a howl of furious pain. Carlos kept firing, spraying the creature with deadly hot metal, con-tinuing even after it collapsed and was only moving be-cause of him, the rounds jerking at its limp form. He knew it was dead but couldn't let himself stop, couldn't until the M16 ran dry and the alley was silent except for the sound of his own tortured breathing. He backed against a wall, slammed a fresh mag into the rifle, and desperately tried to understand what the hell had just happened. At last he recovered enough of himself to ap-proach the dead thing – it was dead; even a six-legged, wall-climbing bug the size of a man was dead when its brains were drooling out of its skull. It was one truth he could hold on to in the face of this madness. "Deader than shit," he said, staring down at the twisted, bloody creature, and for just a second, he could feel part of his mind attempting to turn in on itself, to lock him away from what he was seeing. Zombies were bad enough, and he'd finally refused to accept the fact that Raccoon was overrun by the walking dead; they were just sick, that cannibal disease he'd read about, because there was no such thing as zombies except in the movies. Just like there were no real monsters, ei-ther, no giant killing bugs with claws that could walk on walls and scream like it had screamed… "Wo hay piri," he whispered, his one-time motto, this time spoken as a plea, his thoughts following in a kind of desperate litany, Don't sweat it, hang loose, be cool. And after a while, it took hold; his heart slowed to almost normal, and he started to feel like a person again, not some mindless, panicking animal. So, there were monsters in Raccoon City. It shouldn't be a surprise, not after the day he'd had; besides, they died like anything else, didn't they? He wasn't going to survive if he lost it, and he'd already been through way too much to give up now. With that, Carlos turned his back on the monster and headed down the alley, forcing himself not to look back. It was dead, and he was alive, and chances were good that there were more of them out there.
Trent might be my only way out, and now I've got… shit! Three minutes, he had three goddamn min-utes. Carlos broke into a run, up a few steps to the single door at the end of the alley and through – and found himself standing in a spacious, well-lit kitchen. A restaurant's kitchen. A quick look around; no one, and quiet except for a soft hiss from a large gas canister standing against the back wall. He took a deep breath but couldn't smell anything; maybe it was something else -
– and I wouldn't leave if it was toxic nerve gas. This has to be it, this is where he told me to go.
He walked through the kitchen, past shining metal counters and stoves, heading toward the dining area. There was a menu on one of the counters, GRILL 13 written across the front in gold script. It was unnerving, how relieved he felt; within a few hours, Trent had gone from being some creepy stranger to his best friend in the world.
I made it, and he said he could help – maybe a res-cue team is already on its way, or he arranged for me to be picked up here… or maybe there are weapons stored in the front, not as good as an evac but I'll take what I can get.
There was an opening in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, a counter where the chefs put the orders up. Carlos could see that the small, slightly darker restaurant was empty, although he took a moment to be certain; dancing light from a still-burn-ing oil lamp wavered over the leatherette booths that lined the walls, casting jittery shadows. He stepped around the serving counter and walked into the room, absently noting a faint scent of fried food lingering in the cool air as he stared around, searching. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he def-initely didn't see it – no unmarked envelope propped up on a table, no mysterious packages, no trench-coated man waiting. There was a pay phone by the front door; Carlos walked over and picked up the re-ceiver but got nothing, just like every other phone in town. He checked his watch for what felt like the thou-sandth time in the past hour and saw that it was 1901, one minute after seven o'clock and he felt a rush of anger, of frustration that only served to increase his un-acknowledged fear. I'm alone, no one knows I'm here and no one can help me. "I'm here," he said, turning to face the empty room, his voice rising. "I made it, I'm here on time and god-damnit, where the hell are you?"
As if on cue, the telephone rang, the shrill sound making him jump, Carlos fumbled for it, his heart thumping dully in his chest, his knees suddenly weak with hope.
"Trent? Is that you?"
A brief pause, and Trent's smooth, musical voice spilled into his ear. "Hola, Mr. Oliveira! I'm so pleased to hear your voice!" "Man, not half as glad as I am to hear yours." Carlos sagged against the wall, gripping the receiver tightly.
"This is some bad shit, amigo, everyone's dead and there are things out there, like – there are monsters, Trent. Can you get me out of here? Tell me you can get me out of here!"
There was another pause, and Trent sighed, a heavy sound. Carlos closed his eyes, already knowing what he would say.
"I'm very sorry, but that's simply out of the question. What I can do is give you information… but surviv-ing, that's your job. And I'm afraid that things are going to get worse, much worse before they get any better."
Carlos took a deep breath and nodded to himself,knowing that this was what he'd been expecting allalong. He was on his own."Okay," he said and opened his eyes, straighteninghis shoulders as he nodded again. "Tell me."
NINE
COMMENTS, DESCRIPTION OF REPORTED MISDEMANDOR
– 29-087:
Two of the twelve faux gems that are an integral part of the "clock-lock" at the ornamental main gate of the municipal complex have been removed, between (approximately) 2100 hours yesterday (September 24) and 0500 hours this morn-ing. With many local businesses boarded up at this time, loot-ers have been defacing town property and attempting to take what they believe to be valuable. This officer believes that the perp thought the gems were real, and stopped after removing two (one blue, one green) when he/she realized they were only glass. This gate (aka "City Hall" gate) is only one of several en-trances/exits that lead to the municipal complex. The gate is now locked due to its complicated (and in this officer's opin-ion, ridiculous) design, which requires that all gems be pres-ent for the gate to be unlocked. Until the City Parks Depart-ment removes the gate, or until the two gems can be recov-ered and reinstalled, this entrance/exit will remain locked. Due to the lack of available manpower at this time, there is no choice but to suspend the investigation of this case. reporting officer Marvin Branagh
Additional comments, case 29-087, M. Branagh Sept. 26
One of the missing gems (blue) has turned up inside the RPD building. It's 2000 hours. Bill Hansen, de-ceased owner of the restaurant Grill 13, was apparently carry-ing the fake gem when he came here seeking shelter earlier this evening. Mr. Hansen died shortly after arriving, killed by police fire after succumbing to the effects of the cannibal dis-ease. The gem was found on his person, though I'm this officer has no way of knowing if he stole it or where the other gem might be. With the city now under martial law, no effort will be made to find the second gem or to put this one back – but with sev-eral of the streets surrounding the municipal complex now impassable, the need for these gems may at some point be-come relevant. On a personal note: this will be my last written report until the current crisis has passed. Paperwork doesn't seem – at this time, the need to document misdemeanors seems sec-ondary to the enforcement of martial law, nor do I believe my-self to be alone in this assessment. Marvin Branagh, RPD Jill put the typed report and handwritten addendum back into the evidence drawer, sadly wondering if Mar-vin was still alive; it seemed unlikely, which was a thoroughly depressing thought. He was one of the best officers in the RPD, always nice as hell without sacri-ficing a professional demeanor.
Right up to the end, a real pro. Goddamm Um-brella.
She reached into the drawer and took out the dia-mond-shaped piece of blue glass, gazing at it thought-fully. The rest of the evidence room had been a bust, the locked cabinets and drawers yielding nothing useful as far as weapons went; obviously, she wasn't the only one who'd thought to check it for guns and ammo. The gem, on the other hand… Marvin was right about the streets being blocked all around the City Hall gate; she'd tried to get through the area once already and had found most of it barricaded. Not that there was much over there – the gate opened into a small garden with paved walkways, really a showcase for a rather boring statue of ex-mayor Michael Warren. Past that was City Hall, not used for much since the new courthouse had been built uptown, and a couple of paths that led north and west, respec-tively – an auto shop and a few used-car lots if you veered north, and to the west…
"Oh, shit, the trolley!"
Why hadn't she thought of it before? Jill felt a rush of excitement, hampered only slightly by the urge to slap her forehead. She'd totally forgotten about it. The old-fashioned two-car train's scenic route was a tourist thing, the city only ran it summers anymore, but it went all the way out to the westernmost suburbs, past City Park and through a few of the more expensive neigh-borhoods. There was an allegedly abandoned Umbrella facility out that way, too, where there might still be working cars and clear roads. Assuming it was in run-ning condition, the trolley would be the easiest way out of the city, hands down.
Except with all the blockades, the only way to get to it is through that locked gate – and I've only got one of the jewels.
She didn't have the equipment to take the heavy, over-sized gate down by herself… but Marvin's report said that Bill Hansen had had the blue gem, and his restau-rant was only three or four blocks away. There was no reason to assume he'd had the green one at some point, too, or that it was at the Grill, but it'd be worth checking out. If it wasn't there, she was no worse off – but if she could find it, she might be able to get out of the city much sooner than she'd expected. With the Nemesis running around out there, it couldn't be soon enough. So, it was decided. Jill turned and walked toward the hall door, slipping the blue gem into her fanny pack. She wanted to check out the RPD's darkroom before she left, see if she could find one of the photog-rapher's vests laying around; she didn't have any speed loaders for the Colt, and she wanted a few pockets to carry the loose rounds. While she was at it, she thought she might as well leave the shotgun behind. She'd rigged up an over-the-shoulder strap using a belt she'd taken off a dead man, so carrying it wasn't too bad, but without shells – and with the.357 as addi-tional firepower – she didn't see the point in lugging it around anymore… She stepped into the hall and took a left, deliberately not looking at the one slumped body beneath the win-dows that faced south. It was a young woman carrier she'd shot at from the stairs to the second floor, just around the corner, and she was pretty sure that she'd known the girl – a secretary/receptionist who worked at the front desk on weekends, Mary something. The darkroom faced the opening beneath the stairs; she'd have to pass within a few feet of the corpse, but she thought she could avoid looking too closely if she… CRASH! Two of the windows imploded, a driving rain of glass spraying over the receptionist's body, shards of it slicing at Jill's bare legs. In the same instant, a giant black mass was hurled inside, bigger than a man, as big as -
– S.T.A.R.S. killer -It was all she had time to think. Jill sprinted back the way she'd come, slamming into the evidence room door, while behind her, she heard crunching glass as it rolled to its feet, heard the ugly opening note of its sin-gle-minded cry, "SSstaarsss" She ran, snatching the heavy revolver from beneath her waist pack's strap, through the evidence room to the next door, through that into the patrol squadroom. A sharp left as soon as she was inside and desks blurred past, chairs and shelves and an overturned table spat-tered with the blood and fluids of at least two cops, their sprawled bodies reduced to obstacles in her path. Jill leaped over the twisted legs, hearing the door open, no, disintegrate behind her, a roar of splinters and cracking wood that couldn't drown out the Neme-sis's fury.
Go go go faster…
She hit the door running, ignoring the dull blossom of pain that enveloped her bruised shoulder, twisting to the right as she pounded into the lobby.
Shhh-BOOM!
A flare of brilliant light and smoke jetted past her, blowing a jagged, burning hole in the floor not three feet to her left. Shards of blackened marble and ce-ramic tile flew, exploding up and outward in a fountain of noise and heat.
Jesus, it's armed!
She ran faster, down the ramp into the lower lobby, remembering that she'd dead-bolted the front doors, the realization like a punch in the stomach. She'd never get them open in time, no chance…… and BOOM, another blast from what had to be a grenade launcher or bigger, close enough that she could feel the air part next to her right ear, could hear the whistle of incredible speed just before the front doors blasted open in front of her. They hung drunkenly on bent hinges, swaying and smoldering as she ran through, the night cool and dark.
"Ssstaaarrrsss! "
Close, too close. Instinctively Jill sacrificed a sec-ond of speed to leap to the side, kicking away from the ground, dimly aware that Brad's body was gone and not caring. Even as she landed, the Nemesis blew past her, barreling through the space she'd oc-cupied an instant before. Its momentum carried it several giant steps away, it was fast but too heavy to stop, its monstrous size giving her the time she needed. A squeal of rust and she was through the gates, slamming them, scrabbling the shotgun off her back. She turned and rammed the shotgun through the gates' hoop handles, both of them cracking against the barrel before she had time to let go, hard enough for her to realize that the gates wouldn't hold for very long. Behind the gates, the Nemesis screamed in ani-mal rage, a demonic sound of bloodlust so strong that Jill shuddered convulsively. It was screaming for her, it was the nightmare all over again, she was marked for death. She turned and ran, its howl fading into the dark be-hind her as she ran and ran. When Nicholai saw Mikhail Victor, he knew he'd have to kill him. Technically, there was no reason, but the opportunity was too enticing to pass up. By some fluke, the leader of platoon D had managed to survive, an honor he didn't deserve.
We'll just see about that…
Nicholai was feeling good; he was ahead of the schedule he'd set for himself, and the rest of his jour-ney through the sewers had been uneventful. His next goal was the hospital, which he could reach quickly enough if he took the cable car in Lonsdale Yard; he had more than enough time to relax for a few moments, take a break from his pursuit. Climbing back into the city and seeing Mikhail across the street, from the roof of one of Umbrella's buildings – the perfect sniper's roost – was like some cosmic reward for his work so far. Mikhail would never know what hit him. The platoon leader was two stories below, his back to the wall of a wrecking yard's shack as he changed rifle magazines. A security light, its bright beam flick-ering with the erratic movement of nocturnal insects, clearly illuminated his position and would make it impossible for him to see his killer.
Well, you can't have everything; his death will have to be enough.
Nicholai smiled and raised the M16, savoring the mo-ment. A cool night breeze ruffled his hair as he studied his quarry, noting with no small satisfaction the fear on Mikhail's lined, unknowing face. A head shot? No; on the off chance that Mikhail had been infected, Nicholai wouldn't want to miss the resurrection. He had plenty of time to watch, too. He lowered the barrel a hair, sighting one of Mikhail's kneecaps. Very painful… but he would still have use of his arms and would probably fire blindly into the dark; Nicholai didn't want to risk get-ting hit. Mikhail had finished his rifle inspection and was looking around as if to plot his next step. Nicholai took aim and fired, a single shot, extremely happy with his decision as the platoon leader doubled over, grabbing his gut and suddenly, Mikhail was gone, around the cor-ner of the building and into the night. Nicholai could hear the crunch of gravel fading away. He cursed softly, clenching his jaw in frustration. He'd wanted to see the man squirm, see him suffer from the painful and probably lethal wound. It seemed that Mikhail's reflexes weren't as poor as he'd thought.
So, he dies in the dark somewhere instead of where I can see him. What is it to me? It's not as though I have nothing else to occupy my time…
It didn't work. Mikhail was badly injured, and Nicholai wanted to see him die. It would only take a few minutes to find the trail of blood and track him down – a child could do it. Nicholai grinned. And when I find him, I can offer my assistance, play the concerned comrade – who did this to you, Mikhail? Here, let me help you…
He turned and hurried to the stairs, imagining the look on Mikhail's face when he realized who was re-sponsible for his plight, when he understood his own failure as a leader and as a man. Nicholai wondered what he'd done to deserve such happiness; so far, this had been the best night of his life.
When their conversation was over, the line went dead and Carlos walked to one of the booths and sat down, thinking hard about the things Trent had told him. If all he'd said was true – and Carlos believed that it probably was – then Umbrella had a lot to answer for. "Why are you telling me all this?" Carlos had asked near the end, his head spinning. "Why me?" "Because I've seen your records," Trent answered. "Carlos Oliveira, mercenary for hire – except you only ever fought the good fight, always on the side of the oppressed and abused. Twice you risked your life in as-sassinations, both successful – one a tyrannical drug lord and the other a child pornographer, if memory serves. And you never harmed a civilian, not once. Um-brella is involved in some extremely immoral practices, Mr. Oliveira, and you're exactly the kind of person who should be working to stop them."
According to Trent, Umbrella's T-virus or G-virus, there were apparently two strains – was created and used on homemade monsters to turn them into living, breathing weapons. When humans were exposed to it, they got the cannibal disease. And Trent said that the
U.B.C.S. administrators knew what they were sending their people into, and probably did it on purpose – all in the name of research.
"The eyes and ears of Umbrella are everywhere," Trent had said. "As I said before, be careful who you trust. Truly, no one is safe."
Carlos abruptly stood up from the table and walked toward the kitchen, lost in thought. Trent had refused to talk about his own reasons for undermining Umbrella, though Carlos had gotten the impression that Trent also worked for them in some capacity; it would explain why he was so secretive.
He's being careful, covering his ass, but how could he know so much? The things he told me…
A jumble of facts, some that seemed totally arbi-trary – there was a fake green jewel in a cold storage locker underneath the restaurant; Trent had said that it was one of a pair, but had refused to say where the other one was or why either of them was important. "Just make sure they end up together," Trent had said – as if Carlos was going to just happen to come across the other one. "When you find out where the blue one is, you'll get your explanation."
For as cryptically useless as that seemed to be, Trent had also told him that Umbrella kept two helicopters at the abandoned water treatment plant west and north of the city. Perhaps most useful of all, Trent had said that there was a vaccine being worked on at the city hospi-tal, and while it hadn't been synthesized yet, there was at least one sample there.
"Although there's a good chance the hospital may not be there for much longer," he'd said, leaving Carlos to wonder again how Trent came by his information.
What was supposed to happen to it? And how would Trent know that?
Trent seemed to think that Carlos's survival was im-portant; he seemed convinced that Carlos was going to be a significant part of the fight against Umbrella, but Carlos still wasn't sure why, or if he even wanted to join up. At the moment, all he wanted was to get out of the city… but for whatever reason Trent had decided to offer up information, Carlos was glad for the help.
Although a little more would've been nice – keys to an armored getaway car, maybe, or some kind of anti-monster spray.
Carlos stood in the kitchen, gazing down at the heavy-looking cover to what was, presumably, the basement ladder. Trent had told him that there were probably more weapons at a clock tower, not far from the hospital; that and the bit about the Umbrella heli-copters, due north from the tower and hospital, defi-nitely useful…
But why let me come here at all if I'm so goddamn important? He could've stopped me on the way to the field office.
A lot of it didn't make sense, and Carlos was willing to bet money that Trent hadn't told him everything. He had no choice but to trust him a little, but he was going to be very careful when it came to depending on Trent's information. Carlos crouched next to the basement entrance, grabbed the handle to the cover, and pulled. It was heavy, but he could just manage it, leaning back and using his leg muscles for leverage. Unless the cooks were body builders, there was probably a crowbar around somewhere. The front door to the restaurant opened and closed. Carlos gently, quietly put the cover aside and turned, still in a crouch, M16 aimed at the dining room en-trance. He didn't think the zombies were coordinated enough to open doors, but he had no idea what the monsters were capable of, or who else might be wan-dering the city streets. Slow, stealthy footsteps moved toward the kitchen. Carlos held his breath, thinking about Trent, wondering suddenly if he'd been set up…… and about the last thing he expected to see was a.357 revolver come around the corner, held by an at-tractive and extremely serious-looking young woman who moved in fast and low and aimed at Carlos before
he could blink.For a beat they stared at each other, neither moving,and Carlos could see in the woman's eyes that shewouldn't hesitate to shoot him if she thought it neces-sary. Since he felt pretty much the same way, he de-cided it might be best to introduce himself."My name is Carlos," he said evenly. "I'm no zom-bie. Take it easy, huh?"
The girl studied him another moment, then noddedslowly, lowering the revolver. Carlos took his finger offthe rifle's trigger and did the same as they bothstraightened up, moving carefully."Jill Valentine," she said, and seemed about to saysomething else when the back door to the restaurantcrashed open, the thundering sound matched by a gut-tural, barely human scream that raised the hairs on theback of Carlos's neck."Sstaarrsss!" whatever it was howled, the cry echo-ing through the restaurant, giant footsteps pounding to-ward them, relentless and certain.
– 29-087:
Two of the twelve faux gems that are an integral part of the "clock-lock" at the ornamental main gate of the municipal complex have been removed, between (approximately) 2100 hours yesterday (September 24) and 0500 hours this morn-ing. With many local businesses boarded up at this time, loot-ers have been defacing town property and attempting to take what they believe to be valuable. This officer believes that the perp thought the gems were real, and stopped after removing two (one blue, one green) when he/she realized they were only glass. This gate (aka "City Hall" gate) is only one of several en-trances/exits that lead to the municipal complex. The gate is now locked due to its complicated (and in this officer's opin-ion, ridiculous) design, which requires that all gems be pres-ent for the gate to be unlocked. Until the City Parks Depart-ment removes the gate, or until the two gems can be recov-ered and reinstalled, this entrance/exit will remain locked. Due to the lack of available manpower at this time, there is no choice but to suspend the investigation of this case. reporting officer Marvin Branagh
Additional comments, case 29-087, M. Branagh Sept. 26
One of the missing gems (blue) has turned up inside the RPD building. It's 2000 hours. Bill Hansen, de-ceased owner of the restaurant Grill 13, was apparently carry-ing the fake gem when he came here seeking shelter earlier this evening. Mr. Hansen died shortly after arriving, killed by police fire after succumbing to the effects of the cannibal dis-ease. The gem was found on his person, though I'm this officer has no way of knowing if he stole it or where the other gem might be. With the city now under martial law, no effort will be made to find the second gem or to put this one back – but with sev-eral of the streets surrounding the municipal complex now impassable, the need for these gems may at some point be-come relevant. On a personal note: this will be my last written report until the current crisis has passed. Paperwork doesn't seem – at this time, the need to document misdemeanors seems sec-ondary to the enforcement of martial law, nor do I believe my-self to be alone in this assessment. Marvin Branagh, RPD Jill put the typed report and handwritten addendum back into the evidence drawer, sadly wondering if Mar-vin was still alive; it seemed unlikely, which was a thoroughly depressing thought. He was one of the best officers in the RPD, always nice as hell without sacri-ficing a professional demeanor.
Right up to the end, a real pro. Goddamm Um-brella.
She reached into the drawer and took out the dia-mond-shaped piece of blue glass, gazing at it thought-fully. The rest of the evidence room had been a bust, the locked cabinets and drawers yielding nothing useful as far as weapons went; obviously, she wasn't the only one who'd thought to check it for guns and ammo. The gem, on the other hand… Marvin was right about the streets being blocked all around the City Hall gate; she'd tried to get through the area once already and had found most of it barricaded. Not that there was much over there – the gate opened into a small garden with paved walkways, really a showcase for a rather boring statue of ex-mayor Michael Warren. Past that was City Hall, not used for much since the new courthouse had been built uptown, and a couple of paths that led north and west, respec-tively – an auto shop and a few used-car lots if you veered north, and to the west…
"Oh, shit, the trolley!"
Why hadn't she thought of it before? Jill felt a rush of excitement, hampered only slightly by the urge to slap her forehead. She'd totally forgotten about it. The old-fashioned two-car train's scenic route was a tourist thing, the city only ran it summers anymore, but it went all the way out to the westernmost suburbs, past City Park and through a few of the more expensive neigh-borhoods. There was an allegedly abandoned Umbrella facility out that way, too, where there might still be working cars and clear roads. Assuming it was in run-ning condition, the trolley would be the easiest way out of the city, hands down.
Except with all the blockades, the only way to get to it is through that locked gate – and I've only got one of the jewels.
She didn't have the equipment to take the heavy, over-sized gate down by herself… but Marvin's report said that Bill Hansen had had the blue gem, and his restau-rant was only three or four blocks away. There was no reason to assume he'd had the green one at some point, too, or that it was at the Grill, but it'd be worth checking out. If it wasn't there, she was no worse off – but if she could find it, she might be able to get out of the city much sooner than she'd expected. With the Nemesis running around out there, it couldn't be soon enough. So, it was decided. Jill turned and walked toward the hall door, slipping the blue gem into her fanny pack. She wanted to check out the RPD's darkroom before she left, see if she could find one of the photog-rapher's vests laying around; she didn't have any speed loaders for the Colt, and she wanted a few pockets to carry the loose rounds. While she was at it, she thought she might as well leave the shotgun behind. She'd rigged up an over-the-shoulder strap using a belt she'd taken off a dead man, so carrying it wasn't too bad, but without shells – and with the.357 as addi-tional firepower – she didn't see the point in lugging it around anymore… She stepped into the hall and took a left, deliberately not looking at the one slumped body beneath the win-dows that faced south. It was a young woman carrier she'd shot at from the stairs to the second floor, just around the corner, and she was pretty sure that she'd known the girl – a secretary/receptionist who worked at the front desk on weekends, Mary something. The darkroom faced the opening beneath the stairs; she'd have to pass within a few feet of the corpse, but she thought she could avoid looking too closely if she… CRASH! Two of the windows imploded, a driving rain of glass spraying over the receptionist's body, shards of it slicing at Jill's bare legs. In the same instant, a giant black mass was hurled inside, bigger than a man, as big as -
– S.T.A.R.S. killer -It was all she had time to think. Jill sprinted back the way she'd come, slamming into the evidence room door, while behind her, she heard crunching glass as it rolled to its feet, heard the ugly opening note of its sin-gle-minded cry, "SSstaarsss" She ran, snatching the heavy revolver from beneath her waist pack's strap, through the evidence room to the next door, through that into the patrol squadroom. A sharp left as soon as she was inside and desks blurred past, chairs and shelves and an overturned table spat-tered with the blood and fluids of at least two cops, their sprawled bodies reduced to obstacles in her path. Jill leaped over the twisted legs, hearing the door open, no, disintegrate behind her, a roar of splinters and cracking wood that couldn't drown out the Neme-sis's fury.
Go go go faster…
She hit the door running, ignoring the dull blossom of pain that enveloped her bruised shoulder, twisting to the right as she pounded into the lobby.
Shhh-BOOM!
A flare of brilliant light and smoke jetted past her, blowing a jagged, burning hole in the floor not three feet to her left. Shards of blackened marble and ce-ramic tile flew, exploding up and outward in a fountain of noise and heat.
Jesus, it's armed!
She ran faster, down the ramp into the lower lobby, remembering that she'd dead-bolted the front doors, the realization like a punch in the stomach. She'd never get them open in time, no chance…… and BOOM, another blast from what had to be a grenade launcher or bigger, close enough that she could feel the air part next to her right ear, could hear the whistle of incredible speed just before the front doors blasted open in front of her. They hung drunkenly on bent hinges, swaying and smoldering as she ran through, the night cool and dark.
"Ssstaaarrrsss! "
Close, too close. Instinctively Jill sacrificed a sec-ond of speed to leap to the side, kicking away from the ground, dimly aware that Brad's body was gone and not caring. Even as she landed, the Nemesis blew past her, barreling through the space she'd oc-cupied an instant before. Its momentum carried it several giant steps away, it was fast but too heavy to stop, its monstrous size giving her the time she needed. A squeal of rust and she was through the gates, slamming them, scrabbling the shotgun off her back. She turned and rammed the shotgun through the gates' hoop handles, both of them cracking against the barrel before she had time to let go, hard enough for her to realize that the gates wouldn't hold for very long. Behind the gates, the Nemesis screamed in ani-mal rage, a demonic sound of bloodlust so strong that Jill shuddered convulsively. It was screaming for her, it was the nightmare all over again, she was marked for death. She turned and ran, its howl fading into the dark be-hind her as she ran and ran. When Nicholai saw Mikhail Victor, he knew he'd have to kill him. Technically, there was no reason, but the opportunity was too enticing to pass up. By some fluke, the leader of platoon D had managed to survive, an honor he didn't deserve.
We'll just see about that…
Nicholai was feeling good; he was ahead of the schedule he'd set for himself, and the rest of his jour-ney through the sewers had been uneventful. His next goal was the hospital, which he could reach quickly enough if he took the cable car in Lonsdale Yard; he had more than enough time to relax for a few moments, take a break from his pursuit. Climbing back into the city and seeing Mikhail across the street, from the roof of one of Umbrella's buildings – the perfect sniper's roost – was like some cosmic reward for his work so far. Mikhail would never know what hit him. The platoon leader was two stories below, his back to the wall of a wrecking yard's shack as he changed rifle magazines. A security light, its bright beam flick-ering with the erratic movement of nocturnal insects, clearly illuminated his position and would make it impossible for him to see his killer.
Well, you can't have everything; his death will have to be enough.
Nicholai smiled and raised the M16, savoring the mo-ment. A cool night breeze ruffled his hair as he studied his quarry, noting with no small satisfaction the fear on Mikhail's lined, unknowing face. A head shot? No; on the off chance that Mikhail had been infected, Nicholai wouldn't want to miss the resurrection. He had plenty of time to watch, too. He lowered the barrel a hair, sighting one of Mikhail's kneecaps. Very painful… but he would still have use of his arms and would probably fire blindly into the dark; Nicholai didn't want to risk get-ting hit. Mikhail had finished his rifle inspection and was looking around as if to plot his next step. Nicholai took aim and fired, a single shot, extremely happy with his decision as the platoon leader doubled over, grabbing his gut and suddenly, Mikhail was gone, around the cor-ner of the building and into the night. Nicholai could hear the crunch of gravel fading away. He cursed softly, clenching his jaw in frustration. He'd wanted to see the man squirm, see him suffer from the painful and probably lethal wound. It seemed that Mikhail's reflexes weren't as poor as he'd thought.
So, he dies in the dark somewhere instead of where I can see him. What is it to me? It's not as though I have nothing else to occupy my time…
It didn't work. Mikhail was badly injured, and Nicholai wanted to see him die. It would only take a few minutes to find the trail of blood and track him down – a child could do it. Nicholai grinned. And when I find him, I can offer my assistance, play the concerned comrade – who did this to you, Mikhail? Here, let me help you…
He turned and hurried to the stairs, imagining the look on Mikhail's face when he realized who was re-sponsible for his plight, when he understood his own failure as a leader and as a man. Nicholai wondered what he'd done to deserve such happiness; so far, this had been the best night of his life.
When their conversation was over, the line went dead and Carlos walked to one of the booths and sat down, thinking hard about the things Trent had told him. If all he'd said was true – and Carlos believed that it probably was – then Umbrella had a lot to answer for. "Why are you telling me all this?" Carlos had asked near the end, his head spinning. "Why me?" "Because I've seen your records," Trent answered. "Carlos Oliveira, mercenary for hire – except you only ever fought the good fight, always on the side of the oppressed and abused. Twice you risked your life in as-sassinations, both successful – one a tyrannical drug lord and the other a child pornographer, if memory serves. And you never harmed a civilian, not once. Um-brella is involved in some extremely immoral practices, Mr. Oliveira, and you're exactly the kind of person who should be working to stop them."
According to Trent, Umbrella's T-virus or G-virus, there were apparently two strains – was created and used on homemade monsters to turn them into living, breathing weapons. When humans were exposed to it, they got the cannibal disease. And Trent said that the
U.B.C.S. administrators knew what they were sending their people into, and probably did it on purpose – all in the name of research.
"The eyes and ears of Umbrella are everywhere," Trent had said. "As I said before, be careful who you trust. Truly, no one is safe."
Carlos abruptly stood up from the table and walked toward the kitchen, lost in thought. Trent had refused to talk about his own reasons for undermining Umbrella, though Carlos had gotten the impression that Trent also worked for them in some capacity; it would explain why he was so secretive.
He's being careful, covering his ass, but how could he know so much? The things he told me…
A jumble of facts, some that seemed totally arbi-trary – there was a fake green jewel in a cold storage locker underneath the restaurant; Trent had said that it was one of a pair, but had refused to say where the other one was or why either of them was important. "Just make sure they end up together," Trent had said – as if Carlos was going to just happen to come across the other one. "When you find out where the blue one is, you'll get your explanation."
For as cryptically useless as that seemed to be, Trent had also told him that Umbrella kept two helicopters at the abandoned water treatment plant west and north of the city. Perhaps most useful of all, Trent had said that there was a vaccine being worked on at the city hospi-tal, and while it hadn't been synthesized yet, there was at least one sample there.
"Although there's a good chance the hospital may not be there for much longer," he'd said, leaving Carlos to wonder again how Trent came by his information.
What was supposed to happen to it? And how would Trent know that?
Trent seemed to think that Carlos's survival was im-portant; he seemed convinced that Carlos was going to be a significant part of the fight against Umbrella, but Carlos still wasn't sure why, or if he even wanted to join up. At the moment, all he wanted was to get out of the city… but for whatever reason Trent had decided to offer up information, Carlos was glad for the help.
Although a little more would've been nice – keys to an armored getaway car, maybe, or some kind of anti-monster spray.
Carlos stood in the kitchen, gazing down at the heavy-looking cover to what was, presumably, the basement ladder. Trent had told him that there were probably more weapons at a clock tower, not far from the hospital; that and the bit about the Umbrella heli-copters, due north from the tower and hospital, defi-nitely useful…
But why let me come here at all if I'm so goddamn important? He could've stopped me on the way to the field office.
A lot of it didn't make sense, and Carlos was willing to bet money that Trent hadn't told him everything. He had no choice but to trust him a little, but he was going to be very careful when it came to depending on Trent's information. Carlos crouched next to the basement entrance, grabbed the handle to the cover, and pulled. It was heavy, but he could just manage it, leaning back and using his leg muscles for leverage. Unless the cooks were body builders, there was probably a crowbar around somewhere. The front door to the restaurant opened and closed. Carlos gently, quietly put the cover aside and turned, still in a crouch, M16 aimed at the dining room en-trance. He didn't think the zombies were coordinated enough to open doors, but he had no idea what the monsters were capable of, or who else might be wan-dering the city streets. Slow, stealthy footsteps moved toward the kitchen. Carlos held his breath, thinking about Trent, wondering suddenly if he'd been set up…… and about the last thing he expected to see was a.357 revolver come around the corner, held by an at-tractive and extremely serious-looking young woman who moved in fast and low and aimed at Carlos before
he could blink.For a beat they stared at each other, neither moving,and Carlos could see in the woman's eyes that shewouldn't hesitate to shoot him if she thought it neces-sary. Since he felt pretty much the same way, he de-cided it might be best to introduce himself."My name is Carlos," he said evenly. "I'm no zom-bie. Take it easy, huh?"
The girl studied him another moment, then noddedslowly, lowering the revolver. Carlos took his finger offthe rifle's trigger and did the same as they bothstraightened up, moving carefully."Jill Valentine," she said, and seemed about to saysomething else when the back door to the restaurantcrashed open, the thundering sound matched by a gut-tural, barely human scream that raised the hairs on theback of Carlos's neck."Sstaarrsss!" whatever it was howled, the cry echo-ing through the restaurant, giant footsteps pounding to-ward them, relentless and certain.
TEN
THERE WAS NO TIME FOR QUESTIONS, NO time to wonder how it had found her so quickly. Jill motioned for the young guy to get behind her and backed into the dining room as he hurried past; she des-perately looked around for something she could use to distract it long enough for them to escape. They ducked behind the service bar, Carlos moving as though he had some experience; he at least had the good sense to keep quiet as the S.T.A.R.S. killer charged into the kitchen, still screaming. Fire! A guttering oil lamp sat on a cart next to the counter. Jill didn't hesitate; it would reach them in sec-onds if she didn't act immediately, and maybe a little burning oil would slow it down. She motioned for Carlos to stay put, scooped up the lamp and stood, leaning over the counter and cocking her arm back. The hulking Nemesis had just started across the expansive kitchen when she threw the lamp at it, grunting with the effort it took to make the dis-tance. The lamp flew, and then everything slowed to a near stop, so much happening at once that her mind fed it to her one event at a time. The lamp shattered at the mon-ster's feet, glass and oil splashing and puddling, a tiny lake of spreading fire; the creature raised its massive fists, screaming in anger; Carlos yelled something and grabbed her waist, pulling her down, the clumsy move-ment toppling them both to the floor
and there was a mighty clap of brilliance andsound that she'd suffered once already since waking up,a displacement of air that slapped at her eardrums, andCarlos was trying to shield her, holding her head down,saying something in rapid Spanish as time sped up tonormal and something started to burn.
and there was a mighty clap of brilliance andsound that she'd suffered once already since waking up,a displacement of air that slapped at her eardrums, andCarlos was trying to shield her, holding her head down,saying something in rapid Spanish as time sped up tonormal and something started to burn.