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S.D. Perry
Resident Evil – Underworld
PROLOGUE
Associated Press, October 6, 1998
THOUSANDS KILLED AS FIRE SWEEPS THROUGH MOUNTAIN COMMUNITY,
MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS MAY BE INVOLVED
NEW YORK, NY – The secluded mountain community of Raccoon City, PA, has officially been declared a disaster area by state and federal officials, as dedicated firefighters continue to wage war against the dying blazes and the death toll continues to rise. It is now estimated that over seven thousand people were killed by the explosive fires that raged through Raccoon in the early hours of Sunday, October 4. It is being called the worst U.S. disaster in terms of lives lost since the industrial age, and as national aid organizations and international press flock to the blockades surrounding the still burning ruins of the city, shocked friends and family of Raccoon citizens have been gathering, waiting for word in nearby Latham. National Disaster Control (NDC) Director Terrence Chavez, coordinator for the combined efforts of the multiple firefighting and emergency teams, released a statement to the press last night stating that barring unforeseen complications, he expects the last of the flames to be extinguished before midweek, but that it may be months before the origin of the fire is determined, as well as whether or not arson was involved. Said Chavez, "The magnitude of the damage in terms of area alone is going to make finding the answers a great undertaking, but the answers are there. We will get to the bottom of this, whatever it takes."
As of 6 A.M. today, seventy-eight survivors have been found, and their names and conditions withheld; they have been transported to an undisclosed federal facility for observation and/or treatment. Initial reports by HazMat teams suggest that an unknown illness may be responsible for the incredible number of victims, as infected citizens were unable to escape due to the possibly incapacitating sickness. There is the further suggestion that the disease may have induced violent psychosis in some of those infected. Members of private and federal disease-control centers have called for extending the quarantine boundaries, and although no official statement has been released, there have been several "leaked" descriptions of physical and biological abnormali– ties in many of the victims. Said one source, a worker for a federal assessment team, "Some of those people weren't just burned or dead from smoke inhalation. I saw people who'd been killed by gunshot wounds or stabbings, and other forms of violence. I saw people who'd obviously been sick, dead, or dying long before the fire ever hit. The fire was bad – terrible – but it's not the only disaster that occurred there, I'd bet money on it."
Raccoon City was in the news earlier this year when a series of unusual murders rocked the community. These were apparently unmotivated slayings, of extreme violence, and several involved cannibalism; already, tentative connections are being made by local press near Raccoon between the eleven unsolved murders from last summer and the rumors of mass violence prior to the consuming flames. Mr. Chavez refused to confirm or deny the rumors, saying only that investigations into the tragedy will be thorough…
Nationwide Today, A.M… Edition, October 10,1998
RACCOON DEATH TOLL RISES AS SEARCH AND RESCUE TEAMS COMBINE EFFORTS
NEW YORK, NY – The official body count now stands at just under 4500, with the blackened ruins of Raccoon City still being combed for additional victims of the apocalypse that took place early last Sunday morning. As a nation's mourning begins, over six hundred men and women are working to uncover the reasons behind the destruction of the once peaceful community. Local relief organizations, scientists, soldiers, federal agents, and corpo– rate research teams have come together in a show of determina– tion and purpose, pooling resources and accepting delegated responsibilities in order to get to the truth. NDC Director Terrence Chavez, the official head of the effort, has been joined by top researchers from disease-control centers all around the world, national security agents from several federal branches, and a privately funded team of microbiologists from Umbrella, Inc., the pharmaceutical company, which is investigat– ing the possibility that there may be a connection between their chemical lab on the outskirts of the city and the strange infection now being called "Raccoon syndrome." Initial studies of this illness have been vague and inconclusive, says Umbrella team leader Dr. Ellis Benjamin, "but we're convinced that the citizens of Raccoon were infected with something, either accidentally or intentionally. All we know at this point is that it doesn't seem to have been airborne, and that the final result was rapid cellular disintegration and death; we still don't know if it was bacterial or viral, or what the symptoms were, but we won't rest until we've exhausted all of our resources. Whatever the findings, and whether or not Umbrella materials were a part of it, we're committed to seeing this through to the end. It's the least we can do, considering how much our company owes the people of Raccoon." The Umbrella chemical plant and administration facilities in Raccoon City provided nearly a thou– sand local jobs. The 142 survivors are still being held in quarantine for observation and questioning at an undisclosed location. While their identities are still being protected, the FBI has released a statement listing medical conditions. Seventeen survivors suffered minor injuries but are in stable condition, seventy-nine are still on a critical list following surgical procedures, and forty-six of the survivors, while not injured, have suffered some major mental or emotional breakdown. There is no confirmation as to whether or not any are infected with the syndrome, but the statement did include a reference to survivor's stories that verified the existence
of the infection. Gen. Martin Goldmann, overseer of military operations in the ravaged city, is hopeful that all of those still missing will be found within the next seven days. "We've already got four hundred people out there working twenty-four/seven, searching for survi-vors and running identification checks – and I just got word that another two hundred will be coming in on Monday…" Fort
Worth Bugler, October 18, 1998
POSSIBLE CONSPIRACY BY CITY EMPLOYEES IN RACCOON TRAGEDY
FORT WORTH, TX – New evidence uncovered by cleanup crews in Raccoon City, PA, indicates that the "Raccoon syndrome," the disease responsible for the majority of the 7200 deaths that have occurred in Raccoon as of this writing, may have been unleashed upon the unsuspecting populace by Raccoon Police Chief Brian Irons and several members of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad (S.T.A.R.S.). At a press conference held early yesterday evening by FBI spokesman Patrick Weeks, NDC Director Terrence Chavez, and Dr. Robert Heiner – called in by Umbrella team leader Dr. Ellis Benjamin – Weeks revealed that there is strong circumstantial evidence that the disaster in Raccoon was the result of a terrorist act that went horribly wrong. The subsequent fires that have nearly wiped out the small city may have been an attempt by Irons or one of his accomplices to cover up the disastrous effects of the spill. According to Weeks, several documents were found in the wreckage of the RPD building that implicate Irons as the ringleader of a conspiracy to take hostage the Umbrella chemical plant on the outskirts of the city. Allegedly, Irons was furious with city officials over the suspension of the S.T.A.R.S. in late July for their mishandling of a multiple murder investigation – the now well-documented cannibal slayings that took the lives of eleven people early last summer. The Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. were suspended after a helicopter crash in the last week of July that claimed the lives of six team members. The five surviving S.T.A.R.S. members were suspended without pay after evidence suggested drug or alcohol abuse in connection to the crash – and while Irons publicly advocated the suspension of his elite squad, the docu– ments found indicate that Irons meant to threaten Mayor Devlin Harris and several City Council members with a spill of extremely volatile and dangerous chemicals unless certain financial demands were met. Weeks went on to say that Irons had a history of emotional instability, and that the documents – correspondence between Irons and an accomplice – revealed a plan by Irons to extort ransom from Raccoon and then flee the country. The accomplice is named only as "C.R.," but there are also references to "J.V.," "B.B.," and "R.C." – all initials for four of the five suspended S.T.A.R.S. Said Terrence Chavez, "Assuming these documents are accu-rate, Irons and his crew had planned to storm the Umbrella plant
at the end of September, which would correspond exactly to the timeline described by Dr. Heiner for the Raccoon syndrome to achieve full amplification. We're currently operating under the assumption that the takeover did take place, and that an unexpected accident occurred with cataclysmic results. At this time, we don't know if Mr. Irons or any of the S.T.A.R.S. are still alive, but they are wanted for questioning. We've released a national APB and all of our international airports and border patrols have been alerted. We urge anyone with information relating to this case to come forward."
Dr. Helner, a renowned microbiologist as well as an associate member of Umbrella's Biohazardous Materials Division, stated that the exact mix of chemicals released in Raccoon may never be known. "It's obvious that Irons and his people didn't know what they were handling – and with Umbrella continuously developing new variations of enzyme syntheses, bacterial growth mediums, and viral repressers, the lethal compound was almost certainly an accidental aggregation. With the possible combinations of materials numbering in the millions, the odds of duplicating the Raccoon syndrome mix are astronomical."
The S.T.A.R.S. national director wasn't available for comment, but Lida Willis, regional spokesperson for the organization, has gone on record as saying that they "are shocked and saddened" by the disaster, and would devote every available agent to the search for the missing S.T.A.R.S. team members, as well as for any contacts they might still have within the network. Ironically, the documents were found by one of Umbrella's search teams…
THOUSANDS KILLED AS FIRE SWEEPS THROUGH MOUNTAIN COMMUNITY,
MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS MAY BE INVOLVED
NEW YORK, NY – The secluded mountain community of Raccoon City, PA, has officially been declared a disaster area by state and federal officials, as dedicated firefighters continue to wage war against the dying blazes and the death toll continues to rise. It is now estimated that over seven thousand people were killed by the explosive fires that raged through Raccoon in the early hours of Sunday, October 4. It is being called the worst U.S. disaster in terms of lives lost since the industrial age, and as national aid organizations and international press flock to the blockades surrounding the still burning ruins of the city, shocked friends and family of Raccoon citizens have been gathering, waiting for word in nearby Latham. National Disaster Control (NDC) Director Terrence Chavez, coordinator for the combined efforts of the multiple firefighting and emergency teams, released a statement to the press last night stating that barring unforeseen complications, he expects the last of the flames to be extinguished before midweek, but that it may be months before the origin of the fire is determined, as well as whether or not arson was involved. Said Chavez, "The magnitude of the damage in terms of area alone is going to make finding the answers a great undertaking, but the answers are there. We will get to the bottom of this, whatever it takes."
As of 6 A.M. today, seventy-eight survivors have been found, and their names and conditions withheld; they have been transported to an undisclosed federal facility for observation and/or treatment. Initial reports by HazMat teams suggest that an unknown illness may be responsible for the incredible number of victims, as infected citizens were unable to escape due to the possibly incapacitating sickness. There is the further suggestion that the disease may have induced violent psychosis in some of those infected. Members of private and federal disease-control centers have called for extending the quarantine boundaries, and although no official statement has been released, there have been several "leaked" descriptions of physical and biological abnormali– ties in many of the victims. Said one source, a worker for a federal assessment team, "Some of those people weren't just burned or dead from smoke inhalation. I saw people who'd been killed by gunshot wounds or stabbings, and other forms of violence. I saw people who'd obviously been sick, dead, or dying long before the fire ever hit. The fire was bad – terrible – but it's not the only disaster that occurred there, I'd bet money on it."
Raccoon City was in the news earlier this year when a series of unusual murders rocked the community. These were apparently unmotivated slayings, of extreme violence, and several involved cannibalism; already, tentative connections are being made by local press near Raccoon between the eleven unsolved murders from last summer and the rumors of mass violence prior to the consuming flames. Mr. Chavez refused to confirm or deny the rumors, saying only that investigations into the tragedy will be thorough…
Nationwide Today, A.M… Edition, October 10,1998
RACCOON DEATH TOLL RISES AS SEARCH AND RESCUE TEAMS COMBINE EFFORTS
NEW YORK, NY – The official body count now stands at just under 4500, with the blackened ruins of Raccoon City still being combed for additional victims of the apocalypse that took place early last Sunday morning. As a nation's mourning begins, over six hundred men and women are working to uncover the reasons behind the destruction of the once peaceful community. Local relief organizations, scientists, soldiers, federal agents, and corpo– rate research teams have come together in a show of determina– tion and purpose, pooling resources and accepting delegated responsibilities in order to get to the truth. NDC Director Terrence Chavez, the official head of the effort, has been joined by top researchers from disease-control centers all around the world, national security agents from several federal branches, and a privately funded team of microbiologists from Umbrella, Inc., the pharmaceutical company, which is investigat– ing the possibility that there may be a connection between their chemical lab on the outskirts of the city and the strange infection now being called "Raccoon syndrome." Initial studies of this illness have been vague and inconclusive, says Umbrella team leader Dr. Ellis Benjamin, "but we're convinced that the citizens of Raccoon were infected with something, either accidentally or intentionally. All we know at this point is that it doesn't seem to have been airborne, and that the final result was rapid cellular disintegration and death; we still don't know if it was bacterial or viral, or what the symptoms were, but we won't rest until we've exhausted all of our resources. Whatever the findings, and whether or not Umbrella materials were a part of it, we're committed to seeing this through to the end. It's the least we can do, considering how much our company owes the people of Raccoon." The Umbrella chemical plant and administration facilities in Raccoon City provided nearly a thou– sand local jobs. The 142 survivors are still being held in quarantine for observation and questioning at an undisclosed location. While their identities are still being protected, the FBI has released a statement listing medical conditions. Seventeen survivors suffered minor injuries but are in stable condition, seventy-nine are still on a critical list following surgical procedures, and forty-six of the survivors, while not injured, have suffered some major mental or emotional breakdown. There is no confirmation as to whether or not any are infected with the syndrome, but the statement did include a reference to survivor's stories that verified the existence
of the infection. Gen. Martin Goldmann, overseer of military operations in the ravaged city, is hopeful that all of those still missing will be found within the next seven days. "We've already got four hundred people out there working twenty-four/seven, searching for survi-vors and running identification checks – and I just got word that another two hundred will be coming in on Monday…" Fort
Worth Bugler, October 18, 1998
POSSIBLE CONSPIRACY BY CITY EMPLOYEES IN RACCOON TRAGEDY
FORT WORTH, TX – New evidence uncovered by cleanup crews in Raccoon City, PA, indicates that the "Raccoon syndrome," the disease responsible for the majority of the 7200 deaths that have occurred in Raccoon as of this writing, may have been unleashed upon the unsuspecting populace by Raccoon Police Chief Brian Irons and several members of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad (S.T.A.R.S.). At a press conference held early yesterday evening by FBI spokesman Patrick Weeks, NDC Director Terrence Chavez, and Dr. Robert Heiner – called in by Umbrella team leader Dr. Ellis Benjamin – Weeks revealed that there is strong circumstantial evidence that the disaster in Raccoon was the result of a terrorist act that went horribly wrong. The subsequent fires that have nearly wiped out the small city may have been an attempt by Irons or one of his accomplices to cover up the disastrous effects of the spill. According to Weeks, several documents were found in the wreckage of the RPD building that implicate Irons as the ringleader of a conspiracy to take hostage the Umbrella chemical plant on the outskirts of the city. Allegedly, Irons was furious with city officials over the suspension of the S.T.A.R.S. in late July for their mishandling of a multiple murder investigation – the now well-documented cannibal slayings that took the lives of eleven people early last summer. The Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. were suspended after a helicopter crash in the last week of July that claimed the lives of six team members. The five surviving S.T.A.R.S. members were suspended without pay after evidence suggested drug or alcohol abuse in connection to the crash – and while Irons publicly advocated the suspension of his elite squad, the docu– ments found indicate that Irons meant to threaten Mayor Devlin Harris and several City Council members with a spill of extremely volatile and dangerous chemicals unless certain financial demands were met. Weeks went on to say that Irons had a history of emotional instability, and that the documents – correspondence between Irons and an accomplice – revealed a plan by Irons to extort ransom from Raccoon and then flee the country. The accomplice is named only as "C.R.," but there are also references to "J.V.," "B.B.," and "R.C." – all initials for four of the five suspended S.T.A.R.S. Said Terrence Chavez, "Assuming these documents are accu-rate, Irons and his crew had planned to storm the Umbrella plant
at the end of September, which would correspond exactly to the timeline described by Dr. Heiner for the Raccoon syndrome to achieve full amplification. We're currently operating under the assumption that the takeover did take place, and that an unexpected accident occurred with cataclysmic results. At this time, we don't know if Mr. Irons or any of the S.T.A.R.S. are still alive, but they are wanted for questioning. We've released a national APB and all of our international airports and border patrols have been alerted. We urge anyone with information relating to this case to come forward."
Dr. Helner, a renowned microbiologist as well as an associate member of Umbrella's Biohazardous Materials Division, stated that the exact mix of chemicals released in Raccoon may never be known. "It's obvious that Irons and his people didn't know what they were handling – and with Umbrella continuously developing new variations of enzyme syntheses, bacterial growth mediums, and viral repressers, the lethal compound was almost certainly an accidental aggregation. With the possible combinations of materials numbering in the millions, the odds of duplicating the Raccoon syndrome mix are astronomical."
The S.T.A.R.S. national director wasn't available for comment, but Lida Willis, regional spokesperson for the organization, has gone on record as saying that they "are shocked and saddened" by the disaster, and would devote every available agent to the search for the missing S.T.A.R.S. team members, as well as for any contacts they might still have within the network. Ironically, the documents were found by one of Umbrella's search teams…
ONE
"GO, GO, GO!" DAVID SHOUTED, AND JOHN Andrews hit the gas, whipping the minivan around a tight corner as gunfire thundered through the cold Maine night. John had spotted the two unmarked black sedans only a moment before, which had barely given the team enough time to arm themselves. Whoever was on their ass – Umbrella or the S.T.A.R.S. or the local cops – it didn't matter, it was all Umbrella. "Get us lost, John!" David called, somehow manag– ing to sound cool and controlled even as bullets riddled the back of the van. It was the accent -he always sounds like that, and where the hell's Fal-worth?
John felt scattered, his thoughts racing and jumbled; he kicked ass on a mission, but sneak attacks bit the bone -
–right on Falworth and head for the strip – Christ, ten more minutes and we would've been gone
It had been too long since John had been in combat,
and never in the midst of a car chase. He was good, but it was a minivan. Bam bam bam!Someone in the back of the van was returning fire, shooting out of the open back window. The nine-millimeter explosions in the tight space were as loud as the voice of an irate God, pounding at John's ears and making it even harder to focus.
Ten more goddamn minutes.
Ten minutes from the airstrip, where the chartered flight would be waiting. It was like a bad joke – weeks of hiding, waiting, not taking any risks, and then getting tagged on the way out of the damn country. John hung on to the wheel as they shot down 6th Street, the van too heavy to outmaneuver the sedans. Even without five people and a shitload of artillery, the bulky, boxy knockoff mini wasn't exactly a power– house. David had bought it because it was so nonde-script, so unlikely to be noticed, and they were paying for it – if they managed to shake their pursuers, it'd be a small miracle. Their only chance was to try to find traffic, play some dodge. It was dangerous, but so was getting run off the road and shot to death. "Clip!" Leon shouted, and John shot a look in the rearview, saw that the young cop was crouched at the back window next to David. They'd taken out the back seats for the trip to the airstrip, all the more room for weapons, but that also meant no seatbelts; take a corner too fast and bodies would be flying… Bam! Bam! Two more blasts from the sedan ass– holes, maybe from a.38. John gave the shuddering van a little more pedal as Leon returned fire with a Browning nine-millimeter. Leon Kennedy was their best shot, David probably had him trying to draw bead on the tires -
–best shot next to me, anyway, and how the hell am I going to get us lost in Exeter, Maine, at eleven o'clock on a weeknight? There is no traffic -One of the women tossed Leon a mag, John didn't have time to see which one as he jerked the wheel right, heading for downtown. With a smoking squeal of rubber on asphalt, the mini teetered around the corner of Falworth, heading east. The airstrip was west, but John didn't figure that anyone in the van was worrying much about getting to the plane on time.
First things first, gotta ditch Umbrella's hired goons. Doubt there's room on the charter for all of us. John saw red and blue light in the mirror, saw that at least one of the sedans had put a flasher on the roof. Maybe they were cops, which would really suck.
Umbrella's job of spin control had been thorough -
– thanks to them, every cop in the country probably believed that their small team was at least partly responsible for what had happened to Raccoon. The
S.T.A.R.S. were being played, too – some of the higher-ups had sold out, but the agents in the trenches probably had no idea that their organization had become a puppet of the pharmaceutical company -
–which makes it a hell of a lot harder to shoot back.
No one on their makeshift team wanted innocents to get hurt; being misled by Umbrella wasn't a crime, and if the sedan teams were cops… "No antennae, no warning, not cops!" Leon called, and John had time to feel about a second's worth of relief before he saw the barricades looming in front of them, the roadwork sign propped next to the blocked street. He saw the white circle of a man's face above an orange vest, the man holding a sign that said "Slow," the man dropping the sign and diving for cover…… and it would've been funny except they were doing eighty and had maybe three seconds before they hit. "Hang on!" John screamed, and Claire pushed her legs against the van wall, saw David grab hold of Rebecca, Leon snatching at the handle -
–and the van was screeching, jerking, and bucking like a wild horse, spinning sideways…… and Claire actually felt open space beneath the right side of the van as her body was compressed to the left, the back of her neck crunching painfully against the tire well.
– oh hell
David shouted something but Claire didn't hear it over the squealing brakes, didn't understand until David dove to the right, Rebecca scrambling right next to him -and wham, the van dropped back to the ground with a terrific bounce and John seemed to have it under control again, but there was still the piercing screech of locked brakes coming from…
CRASH!
The explosion of metal and shattering glass behind them was so close that Claire's heart skipped a beat. She turned, looked out the back with the others and saw that one of the cars had barreled into a roadwork barricade – a barricade they'd probably come within a second or two of bashing into themselves. She caught just a glimpse of a crumpled hood, of broken windows and a stream of oily smoke, and then the second sedan was blocking her view, shrieking around the corner and continuing the chase. "Sorry 'bout that," John called back to them, sounding anything but; he seemed wired with adrenaline-pumped glee. In the few weeks since she and Leon had joined up with the fugitive ex-S.T.A.R.S., she'd discovered that John would make jokes about anything. It was simul– taneously his most endearing and most annoying trait. "Everyone alright?" David asked, and Claire nod-ded, saw Rebecca do the same. "Took a whack but I'm okay," Leon said, rubbing his arm with a pained expression. "But I don't think…"
BAM! Whatever Leon didn't think was cut off by the powerful blast that slammed into the back of the van. Still most of a block away, the sedan's passenger had fired a shotgun at them; a few inches higher and the pellets would have come in through the window. "John, change of plans," David called as the van swerved, his cool, authoritative voice rising over the noise of the screaming engines. "We're in their sights…"
Before he could finish, John took a hard left. Rebecca fell backwards, nearly crashing into Claire. The van was now headed down a quiet suburban street. "Hold on to your butts," John called over his shoulder. Chill night air whipped through the van, dark houses flying by as John picked up speed. Leon and David were already reloading, crouched behind the metal half-door. Claire exchanged a look with Rebecca, who looked as unhappy about their situa– tion as she felt. Rebecca Chambers was ex-S.T.A.R.S., she'd worked with Claire's brother, Chris, as well as undertaking a recent Umbrella operation with David and John, also ex-S.T.A.R.S. – but the young woman had been trained as a medic with a background in biochemistry. Marksmanship wasn't her forte – even Claire was a better shot – and she was the only person in the van who hadn't had any real training… unless you count surviving Raccoon. Claire shuddered involuntarily as John took a hard right, veering wide around a parked truck, the sedan gaining ground. Raccoon City; the scratches and bruises on Claire's body hadn't even faded yet, and she knew that Leon's shoulder was still giving him pain… BAM!
Another shotgun blast from behind, but it went wide and high.
This time… "Change of plans," David said, his crisp British accent calming, like the voice of reason and logic in the midst of chaos. It was no wonder he'd been a
S.T.A.R.S. captain.
"Everyone brace for an impact. John, just past your next turn, bring us to a stop. Hit and run, alright?"
David brought his knees up, wedging his feet against the van's wall. "They want us so badly, let them have us."
Claire slid over and pushed her feet against the back of the passenger seat, knees bent and head down. Rebecca moved closer to David, and Leon sidled back so that his head was close to Claire's. They locked gazes and Leon smiled faintly. "This is nothing" he said, and in spite of her fear, Claire found herself smiling back at him. After mak– ing it through the madness of Raccoon City, skirting the murderous Umbrella creatures and crazed hu– mans – not to mention their extremely narrow escape from explosive death when Umbrella's secret facilities blew up – compared to all that, a simple car wreck was like a Sunday picnic. Yeah, just keep telling yourself that, her mind whis– pered, and then she didn't think anything at all, because the van was swerving around a corner and John was pumping the brakes and they were about to get hit by about a ton and a half of fast moving metal and glass. David inhaled and exhaled deeply, relaxing his muscles as best he could, the squeal of brakes coming up fast from behind…… and wham, violent motion, a sense of incredible vibration, a second that seemed to stretch for an endless and silent eternity…… and the noise coming immediately after – break– ing glass and the sound of a tin can being crushed amplified a million times. David was jerked forward and back, heard Rebecca emit a strangled gasp -
– and it was over, and John was already hitting the gas as David rolled to his knees, raising his Beretta. He shot a look out the back and saw that the sedan was motionless, skewed across the dark street, the front grill and headlamps smashed all to hell. The slumped, shadowy figures behind the spidered glass were as still as the ruined car.
Not that we fared much better…
The inexpensive green minivan he'd bought specifi– cally for their ride to the airfield no longer had a bumper, tail lights, a rear license plate – or, he imag– ined, any possible method for opening the back gate; the door was a warped and crunched-up mass of useless metal. No great loss. David Trapp despised minivans, and it wasn't as though they'd planned on taking it to Europe. The important thing was that they were still alive – and that – for the moment at least – they'd managed to avoid the infinitely long arm of Umbrel– la's wrath. As they sped away from the wrecked car, David turned and regarded the others, reflexively putting a hand out to help Rebecca up. Since the ill-fated mission to the Umbrella lab on the coast, he'd grown quite attached to the young woman, as had John. The rest of his team hadn't survived… He shook off the thought before it could take hold, and called up to John that they should circle back toward their original destination, staying away from major streets. A bad break that they'd been spotted just as they were leaving, but not all that surprising, however. Umbrella had staked Exeter out two months earlier, right after they'd returned from Caliban Cove. It had only been a matter of time. "Nice trick, David," Leon said. "I'll have to re– member that next time I get chased by Umbrella goons."
David nodded uncomfortably. He liked Leon and Claire, but wasn't so sure how he felt about two more people looking to him for leadership. He could under– stand it with John and Rebecca, they'd at least been part of the S.T.A.R.S. before – but Leon was a rookie cop from Raccoon and Claire was a college student who just happened to be Chris Redfield's little sister. When he'd made the decision to break from the
S.T.A.R.S. after finding out about their connection to Umbrella, he hadn't expected to continue leading, hadn't wanted to -
–but it wasn't my decision to make, was it… he hadn't asked for their allegiance, or offered himself up as decision maker and it didn't matter, that was just the way things had turned out. In war, one didn't always have the luxury of choice. David glanced around at the others before staring out the back, watching the homes and buildings slip past in the cold dark. Everyone seemed a bit subdued, always the aftermath of an adrenaline rush. Rebecca was unloading clips and repacking the weapons, Leon and Claire sitting close together across from her, not talking. Those two were usually joined at the hip, and were still as tight as they'd been since David, John, and Rebecca had picked them up just outside of Raccoon less than a month earlier, dirty and damaged and reeling from their run-in with Umbrella. David didn't think there was a romantic connection there, at least not yet; it was more likely their shared night– mare. Nearly dying together could be quite a bonding experience. As far as David knew, Leon and Claire were the only survivors of the Raccoon disaster who knew about Umbrella's T-Virus spill. The child they'd had with them had only had the faintest idea, although Claire had been very careful to shield the little girl from the truth. Sherry Birkin didn't need to know that her parents had been responsible for the creation of Umbrella's most powerful bioweapons; better that she remember her mother and father as decent people…
"David? Anything wrong?"
He shook himself out of his mental wanderings and nodded at Claire. "I'm sorry. Yes, I'm fine. Actually, I was thinking about Sherry; how is she?"
Claire smiled, and David was struck again by how she brightened when Sherry's name came up. "She's good, she's settling in. Kate is nothing like her sister, a definite plus. And Sherry likes her."
David nodded again. Sherry's aunt had seemed nice, but beyond that, she'd be able to protect Sherry if Umbrella decided to track the girl down; Kate Boyd was a fiercely competent criminal lawyer, one of the best in California. Umbrella would do well to stay away from the Birkins' only child.
Too bad the same doesn't apply to us; wouldn't that make things quite a lot easier…
Rebecca had finished reorganizing their rather im– pressive cache of weapons. She scooted over to sit next to him, brushing a loose strand of hair off her forehead. Her eyes much older than the rest of her face; barely nineteen, she'd already lived through two Umbrella incidents. Technically, she had more expe– rience than any of them as far as the pharmaceutical company went. Rebecca didn't speak for a moment, staring out at the passing streets. When she finally spoke, she kept her voice low, her sharp gaze studying him intently.
"Do you think they're still alive?"
He wouldn't bother feeding her a sunny picture; young as she was, the girl had a knack for seeing through people. "I don't know," he said, careful not to let the others overhear. Claire wanted desperately to reunite with her brother. "I doubt it. We should have heard from
them. Either they're afraid of being traced, or…"
Rebecca sighed. Not surprised, but not happy.
"Yeah. Even if they couldn't get through to us – Texas still has the scrambler up, don't they?"
David nodded. Texas, Oregon, Montana – all open channels with S.T.A.R.S. members who could still be trusted, and they hadn't gotten a call in over a month. The last message had been from Jill; David knew it by heart. In fact, it had been haunting him daily for weeks.
"Safe and sound in Austria. Barry and Chris track-ing lead at UHQ, looks promising. Get ready."
Ready to join them, to call in the few waiting troops that he and John had managed to network. Ready to storm Umbrella's real headquarters, the power be– hind it all. Ready to strike against the evil at its source. Jill and Barry and Chris had gone to Europe to find out where the true leaders of Umbrella's hidden purpose were secreted, starting at internation-al HQ in Austria – and had promptly disappeared. "Heads up, kids," John called from the front, and David looked away from Rebecca's unsmiling face, looked out to see they were already at the airfield. Whatever had happened to their friends, they'd find out soon enough.
John felt scattered, his thoughts racing and jumbled; he kicked ass on a mission, but sneak attacks bit the bone -
–right on Falworth and head for the strip – Christ, ten more minutes and we would've been gone
It had been too long since John had been in combat,
and never in the midst of a car chase. He was good, but it was a minivan. Bam bam bam!Someone in the back of the van was returning fire, shooting out of the open back window. The nine-millimeter explosions in the tight space were as loud as the voice of an irate God, pounding at John's ears and making it even harder to focus.
Ten more goddamn minutes.
Ten minutes from the airstrip, where the chartered flight would be waiting. It was like a bad joke – weeks of hiding, waiting, not taking any risks, and then getting tagged on the way out of the damn country. John hung on to the wheel as they shot down 6th Street, the van too heavy to outmaneuver the sedans. Even without five people and a shitload of artillery, the bulky, boxy knockoff mini wasn't exactly a power– house. David had bought it because it was so nonde-script, so unlikely to be noticed, and they were paying for it – if they managed to shake their pursuers, it'd be a small miracle. Their only chance was to try to find traffic, play some dodge. It was dangerous, but so was getting run off the road and shot to death. "Clip!" Leon shouted, and John shot a look in the rearview, saw that the young cop was crouched at the back window next to David. They'd taken out the back seats for the trip to the airstrip, all the more room for weapons, but that also meant no seatbelts; take a corner too fast and bodies would be flying… Bam! Bam! Two more blasts from the sedan ass– holes, maybe from a.38. John gave the shuddering van a little more pedal as Leon returned fire with a Browning nine-millimeter. Leon Kennedy was their best shot, David probably had him trying to draw bead on the tires -
–best shot next to me, anyway, and how the hell am I going to get us lost in Exeter, Maine, at eleven o'clock on a weeknight? There is no traffic -One of the women tossed Leon a mag, John didn't have time to see which one as he jerked the wheel right, heading for downtown. With a smoking squeal of rubber on asphalt, the mini teetered around the corner of Falworth, heading east. The airstrip was west, but John didn't figure that anyone in the van was worrying much about getting to the plane on time.
First things first, gotta ditch Umbrella's hired goons. Doubt there's room on the charter for all of us. John saw red and blue light in the mirror, saw that at least one of the sedans had put a flasher on the roof. Maybe they were cops, which would really suck.
Umbrella's job of spin control had been thorough -
– thanks to them, every cop in the country probably believed that their small team was at least partly responsible for what had happened to Raccoon. The
S.T.A.R.S. were being played, too – some of the higher-ups had sold out, but the agents in the trenches probably had no idea that their organization had become a puppet of the pharmaceutical company -
–which makes it a hell of a lot harder to shoot back.
No one on their makeshift team wanted innocents to get hurt; being misled by Umbrella wasn't a crime, and if the sedan teams were cops… "No antennae, no warning, not cops!" Leon called, and John had time to feel about a second's worth of relief before he saw the barricades looming in front of them, the roadwork sign propped next to the blocked street. He saw the white circle of a man's face above an orange vest, the man holding a sign that said "Slow," the man dropping the sign and diving for cover…… and it would've been funny except they were doing eighty and had maybe three seconds before they hit. "Hang on!" John screamed, and Claire pushed her legs against the van wall, saw David grab hold of Rebecca, Leon snatching at the handle -
–and the van was screeching, jerking, and bucking like a wild horse, spinning sideways…… and Claire actually felt open space beneath the right side of the van as her body was compressed to the left, the back of her neck crunching painfully against the tire well.
– oh hell
David shouted something but Claire didn't hear it over the squealing brakes, didn't understand until David dove to the right, Rebecca scrambling right next to him -and wham, the van dropped back to the ground with a terrific bounce and John seemed to have it under control again, but there was still the piercing screech of locked brakes coming from…
CRASH!
The explosion of metal and shattering glass behind them was so close that Claire's heart skipped a beat. She turned, looked out the back with the others and saw that one of the cars had barreled into a roadwork barricade – a barricade they'd probably come within a second or two of bashing into themselves. She caught just a glimpse of a crumpled hood, of broken windows and a stream of oily smoke, and then the second sedan was blocking her view, shrieking around the corner and continuing the chase. "Sorry 'bout that," John called back to them, sounding anything but; he seemed wired with adrenaline-pumped glee. In the few weeks since she and Leon had joined up with the fugitive ex-S.T.A.R.S., she'd discovered that John would make jokes about anything. It was simul– taneously his most endearing and most annoying trait. "Everyone alright?" David asked, and Claire nod-ded, saw Rebecca do the same. "Took a whack but I'm okay," Leon said, rubbing his arm with a pained expression. "But I don't think…"
BAM! Whatever Leon didn't think was cut off by the powerful blast that slammed into the back of the van. Still most of a block away, the sedan's passenger had fired a shotgun at them; a few inches higher and the pellets would have come in through the window. "John, change of plans," David called as the van swerved, his cool, authoritative voice rising over the noise of the screaming engines. "We're in their sights…"
Before he could finish, John took a hard left. Rebecca fell backwards, nearly crashing into Claire. The van was now headed down a quiet suburban street. "Hold on to your butts," John called over his shoulder. Chill night air whipped through the van, dark houses flying by as John picked up speed. Leon and David were already reloading, crouched behind the metal half-door. Claire exchanged a look with Rebecca, who looked as unhappy about their situa– tion as she felt. Rebecca Chambers was ex-S.T.A.R.S., she'd worked with Claire's brother, Chris, as well as undertaking a recent Umbrella operation with David and John, also ex-S.T.A.R.S. – but the young woman had been trained as a medic with a background in biochemistry. Marksmanship wasn't her forte – even Claire was a better shot – and she was the only person in the van who hadn't had any real training… unless you count surviving Raccoon. Claire shuddered involuntarily as John took a hard right, veering wide around a parked truck, the sedan gaining ground. Raccoon City; the scratches and bruises on Claire's body hadn't even faded yet, and she knew that Leon's shoulder was still giving him pain… BAM!
Another shotgun blast from behind, but it went wide and high.
This time… "Change of plans," David said, his crisp British accent calming, like the voice of reason and logic in the midst of chaos. It was no wonder he'd been a
S.T.A.R.S. captain.
"Everyone brace for an impact. John, just past your next turn, bring us to a stop. Hit and run, alright?"
David brought his knees up, wedging his feet against the van's wall. "They want us so badly, let them have us."
Claire slid over and pushed her feet against the back of the passenger seat, knees bent and head down. Rebecca moved closer to David, and Leon sidled back so that his head was close to Claire's. They locked gazes and Leon smiled faintly. "This is nothing" he said, and in spite of her fear, Claire found herself smiling back at him. After mak– ing it through the madness of Raccoon City, skirting the murderous Umbrella creatures and crazed hu– mans – not to mention their extremely narrow escape from explosive death when Umbrella's secret facilities blew up – compared to all that, a simple car wreck was like a Sunday picnic. Yeah, just keep telling yourself that, her mind whis– pered, and then she didn't think anything at all, because the van was swerving around a corner and John was pumping the brakes and they were about to get hit by about a ton and a half of fast moving metal and glass. David inhaled and exhaled deeply, relaxing his muscles as best he could, the squeal of brakes coming up fast from behind…… and wham, violent motion, a sense of incredible vibration, a second that seemed to stretch for an endless and silent eternity…… and the noise coming immediately after – break– ing glass and the sound of a tin can being crushed amplified a million times. David was jerked forward and back, heard Rebecca emit a strangled gasp -
– and it was over, and John was already hitting the gas as David rolled to his knees, raising his Beretta. He shot a look out the back and saw that the sedan was motionless, skewed across the dark street, the front grill and headlamps smashed all to hell. The slumped, shadowy figures behind the spidered glass were as still as the ruined car.
Not that we fared much better…
The inexpensive green minivan he'd bought specifi– cally for their ride to the airfield no longer had a bumper, tail lights, a rear license plate – or, he imag– ined, any possible method for opening the back gate; the door was a warped and crunched-up mass of useless metal. No great loss. David Trapp despised minivans, and it wasn't as though they'd planned on taking it to Europe. The important thing was that they were still alive – and that – for the moment at least – they'd managed to avoid the infinitely long arm of Umbrel– la's wrath. As they sped away from the wrecked car, David turned and regarded the others, reflexively putting a hand out to help Rebecca up. Since the ill-fated mission to the Umbrella lab on the coast, he'd grown quite attached to the young woman, as had John. The rest of his team hadn't survived… He shook off the thought before it could take hold, and called up to John that they should circle back toward their original destination, staying away from major streets. A bad break that they'd been spotted just as they were leaving, but not all that surprising, however. Umbrella had staked Exeter out two months earlier, right after they'd returned from Caliban Cove. It had only been a matter of time. "Nice trick, David," Leon said. "I'll have to re– member that next time I get chased by Umbrella goons."
David nodded uncomfortably. He liked Leon and Claire, but wasn't so sure how he felt about two more people looking to him for leadership. He could under– stand it with John and Rebecca, they'd at least been part of the S.T.A.R.S. before – but Leon was a rookie cop from Raccoon and Claire was a college student who just happened to be Chris Redfield's little sister. When he'd made the decision to break from the
S.T.A.R.S. after finding out about their connection to Umbrella, he hadn't expected to continue leading, hadn't wanted to -
–but it wasn't my decision to make, was it… he hadn't asked for their allegiance, or offered himself up as decision maker and it didn't matter, that was just the way things had turned out. In war, one didn't always have the luxury of choice. David glanced around at the others before staring out the back, watching the homes and buildings slip past in the cold dark. Everyone seemed a bit subdued, always the aftermath of an adrenaline rush. Rebecca was unloading clips and repacking the weapons, Leon and Claire sitting close together across from her, not talking. Those two were usually joined at the hip, and were still as tight as they'd been since David, John, and Rebecca had picked them up just outside of Raccoon less than a month earlier, dirty and damaged and reeling from their run-in with Umbrella. David didn't think there was a romantic connection there, at least not yet; it was more likely their shared night– mare. Nearly dying together could be quite a bonding experience. As far as David knew, Leon and Claire were the only survivors of the Raccoon disaster who knew about Umbrella's T-Virus spill. The child they'd had with them had only had the faintest idea, although Claire had been very careful to shield the little girl from the truth. Sherry Birkin didn't need to know that her parents had been responsible for the creation of Umbrella's most powerful bioweapons; better that she remember her mother and father as decent people…
"David? Anything wrong?"
He shook himself out of his mental wanderings and nodded at Claire. "I'm sorry. Yes, I'm fine. Actually, I was thinking about Sherry; how is she?"
Claire smiled, and David was struck again by how she brightened when Sherry's name came up. "She's good, she's settling in. Kate is nothing like her sister, a definite plus. And Sherry likes her."
David nodded again. Sherry's aunt had seemed nice, but beyond that, she'd be able to protect Sherry if Umbrella decided to track the girl down; Kate Boyd was a fiercely competent criminal lawyer, one of the best in California. Umbrella would do well to stay away from the Birkins' only child.
Too bad the same doesn't apply to us; wouldn't that make things quite a lot easier…
Rebecca had finished reorganizing their rather im– pressive cache of weapons. She scooted over to sit next to him, brushing a loose strand of hair off her forehead. Her eyes much older than the rest of her face; barely nineteen, she'd already lived through two Umbrella incidents. Technically, she had more expe– rience than any of them as far as the pharmaceutical company went. Rebecca didn't speak for a moment, staring out at the passing streets. When she finally spoke, she kept her voice low, her sharp gaze studying him intently.
"Do you think they're still alive?"
He wouldn't bother feeding her a sunny picture; young as she was, the girl had a knack for seeing through people. "I don't know," he said, careful not to let the others overhear. Claire wanted desperately to reunite with her brother. "I doubt it. We should have heard from
them. Either they're afraid of being traced, or…"
Rebecca sighed. Not surprised, but not happy.
"Yeah. Even if they couldn't get through to us – Texas still has the scrambler up, don't they?"
David nodded. Texas, Oregon, Montana – all open channels with S.T.A.R.S. members who could still be trusted, and they hadn't gotten a call in over a month. The last message had been from Jill; David knew it by heart. In fact, it had been haunting him daily for weeks.
"Safe and sound in Austria. Barry and Chris track-ing lead at UHQ, looks promising. Get ready."
Ready to join them, to call in the few waiting troops that he and John had managed to network. Ready to storm Umbrella's real headquarters, the power be– hind it all. Ready to strike against the evil at its source. Jill and Barry and Chris had gone to Europe to find out where the true leaders of Umbrella's hidden purpose were secreted, starting at internation-al HQ in Austria – and had promptly disappeared. "Heads up, kids," John called from the front, and David looked away from Rebecca's unsmiling face, looked out to see they were already at the airfield. Whatever had happened to their friends, they'd find out soon enough.
TWO
REBECCA STRAPPED HERSELF INTO THE TINY seat of the tiny plane and looked out the window, wishing that David had chartered a jet. A giant, solid, can't-possibly-be-unsafe-'cause-it's-so-damned-big jet. From where she sat, she could see the propellers on the wing of the aircraft – propellers, like on a kid's toy.
Bet this puppy will sink like a rock, though, once it falls out of the sky at a few hundred miles an hour and slams into the ocean… "Just so you know, this is the kind of plane that's always killing rock stars and the like. Just as they make it off the ground, a big gust of wind knocks them right back down."
Rebecca looked up to see John's grinning face; he was hanging over the seats in front of her, his massive arms folded across the headrests. He probably needed two seats to himself; John wasn't just big, he was body-builder huge, two hundred forty pounds of mus– cle packed into his six-foot-six frame.
"We'll be lucky to get off at all, dragging your fat ass up there," Rebecca shot back, and was rewarded with a flash of concern in John's dark eyes. He'd broken a couple of ribs and punctured a lung on his last mission, less than three months before, and still wasn't up to pumping iron. For as burly and macho as John was, she knew he was vain about his looks, and had absolutely hated not being able to work out. John grinned wider, the deep brown of his skin crinkling. "Yeah, you're probably right; a few hun-dred feet off the ground and wham, that's all she wrote."
She never should have told him that this was only the second flight she'd ever been on (the first was when she accompanied David to Exeter for the mis– sion to Caliban Cove). It was exactly the kind of thing on which John got off cracking jokes… The plane started to rumble all around them, the engine whining up into a deep hum that made Rebecca grit her teeth. Damned if she was going to let John see how nervous she was; she looked back out the window and saw Leon and Claire walking toward the metal steps. Apparently, the weapons were all loaded up. "Where's David?" Rebecca asked, and John shrugged.
"Talking to the pilot. We've only got the one, you know, some friend of a friend of some guy in Arkan– sas. Not many pilots willing to smuggle people into Europe, I guess…"
John leaned closer, dropping his voice to a fake whisper, his grin fading. "I hear he drinks. We got him cheap 'cause he crashed some soccer team into the side of a mountain." Rebecca laughed, shaking her head. "You win. I'm terrified, okay?" "Okay. That's all I wanted," John said mildly, and turned around as Leon and Claire walked into the small cabin. They moved back to the middle of the plane, taking the two seats across the aisle from where Rebecca was sitting. David had mentioned that the area over the wings was the most stable, although it wasn't like there was that much of a choice – there were only twenty seats. "Ever flown before?" Claire asked, leaning out into the aisle, looking a little nervous herself. Rebecca shrugged. "Once. You?" "Couple of times, but always on big airliners, DC 747s or -27s, I forgot. I don't even know what this thing is." "It's a DHC 8 Turbo," Leon said. "I think. David mentioned it at some point…" "It's a killer, is what it is." John's deep voice floated over the seats. "A rock with wings." "John, sweetie… shut up," Claire said amiably.
John cackled, obviously pleased to have somebody new to play with. David appeared at the front of the cabin, stepping through the curtained area that led to the cockpit, and John broke off, their collective attention turning to-ward him. "It seems that we're ready to go," David said. "Our pilot, Captain Evans, has assured me that all systems are fully functional and we'll be taking off in just a moment. He's asked that we remain seated until he's given us leave to do otherwise. Um – the restroom is just back of the cockpit, and there's a small refrigera– tor at the rear of the plane with sandwiches and drinks…"
His voice trailed off, and he looked as if there was something else he wanted to say but wasn't sure what it was. It was a look that Rebecca had seen often enough in the past few weeks, a kind of uneasy uncertainty. Since the day that Raccoon had been blown to shit, she supposed they'd all had that look at one time or another…… because they shouldn't have been able to do it. That should have been the end, and it wasn 't, and now we're all more freaked out than any of us wants to admit.
When news of the disaster first hit the papers, they had all been so certain that this time Umbrella wouldn't be able to cover its tracks. The spill at the Spencer estate had been small, easy enough to write off after fire gutted the mansion and surrounding buildings; the facility at Caliban Cove had been on private land and was too isolated for anyone to know about – again, Umbrella had swept up the broken pieces and kept it quiet. Raccoon City, though. Thousands of people dead and Umbrella had walked away from it smell– ing like a rose, after planting false evidence and getting their scientists to lie for them. It should have been impossible; it had disheartened them all. What chance did a handful of fugitives have against a multi billion-dollar conglomerate that could kill an entire city and get away with it? David had decided not to say anything at all. He nodded briskly and then walked back to join them, pausing next to Rebecca's seat.
"Do you need some company?"
She could see that he was trying to be supportive and she could also see that he was tired. He'd been up late the night before, doublechecking every detail of their trip. "Nah, I'm okay," she said, smiling up at him, "and
I've always got John to talk me through it." "You know it, baby," John called loudly, and David nodded, giving her shoulder a light squeeze before moving to the seats behind her. He needs the rest. We all do, and it's a long flight -
–so why do I have the feeling that we're not going to get any?
Nerves, that was all. The engine sound got louder, higher, and with a stuttering jerk, the plane started to move forward. Rebecca clutched the arm rests on either side and closed her eyes, thinking that if she had the guts to go up against Umbrella, she could certainly survive a plane ride. Even if she couldn't, it was too late to change her mind; they were on their way, no turning back. They'd been in the air for only twenty minutes, and already Claire was nodding off, half-leaning against Leon's shoulder. Leon was tired, too, but knew he wasn't going to get to sleep so easily. He was hungry, for one thing – and then there was the fact that he still wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing.
Great time to think about it, now that you're pretty much committed, his mind whispered sarcastically. Maybe you could just ask them to drop you off in London or something, you could hang out in a pub until they're all finished… or dead. Leon told himself to shut up, sighing a little. He was committed; what Umbrella had been doing wasn't just criminal, it was evil – or at least as close to evil as some money-grubbing corporate dickheads could get. They'd murdered thousands, created bioweapons ca– pable of murdering billions, wiped out his carefully planned future and been responsible for the death of Ada Wong, a woman he'd respected and liked. They'd helped each other through some rough spots on that terrible night in Raccoon; without her, he never would have gotten out alive. He believed in what David and his people were doing, and it wasn't that he was afraid, that wasn't it at all… Leon sighed again. He'd given the matter a hell of a lot of thought since he and Claire and Sherry had stumbled away from the burning city, and the only real reason he could come up with was so stupid that he didn't want to credit it. Standing against Umbrella was the right thing to do – it was that he didn't feel qualified to be there.
Yep, that's pretty stupid.
Maybe it was, but it was holding him back, mak– ing him feel uncertain, and he needed to examine it.
David Trapp had made a career of the S.T.A.R.S., only to watch the organization fall under the control of Umbrella; he'd lost two close friends on a mission to infiltrate a bioweapons testing facility, as had John Andrews. Rebecca Chambers had just been starting out in the S.T.A.R.S., but she was some kind of scientific child prodigy with a deep interest in Um– brella's work; that and the fact that she'd been through more than anyone else made her continued dedication understandable. Claire wanted to find her brother, the only family she had; their parents were dead, and the two of them were close. Chris, Jill, and Barry he'd never met, but he was sure they had compelling reasons of their own; he knew Barry Burton's wife and children had been threatened, Rebecca had mentioned it… And what about Leon Kennedy? He'd stumbled into the fight without a clue, a cop fresh out of the academy on his way to his first day at work – which just happened to be with the Raccoon PD. There was Ada, true – but he'd known her less than half a day, and she had been killed just after admitting to him that she was some kind of an agent, sent to steal a sample of an Umbrella virus.
So I lost a job, and a possible relationship with a woman I barely knew and couldn't trust. Of course Umbrella should be stopped… but do I belong here?
He'd decided to become a cop because he wanted to help people, but he'd always figured that meant keeping the peace – busting drunk drivers, breaking up bar fights, catching crooks. Never in his wild-est dreams would he have figured on being caught up in an international conspiracy, cloak-and-dagger infiltration-type stuff against a giant company that made war monsters. It was crime on a much bigger scale than he felt he was ready for…… and is that the real reason, Officer Kennedy? At exactly that moment, Claire mumbled some– thing from her light doze, nuzzling her head against his arm before falling silent and still again – and making Leon uncomfortably aware of another facet to his involvement with the ex-S.T.A.R.S. Claire. Claire was… she was an incredible woman. In the days after their escape from Raccoon City, they'd talked a lot about what had happened, the experiences they'd had both separately and together. At the time, it had felt like an exchange of information, filling in blanks – she'd told him about her run-in with Chief Irons and the creature she'd called Mr. X, and he'd told her all about Ada and the terrible thing that had once been William Birkin. Between them, they'd been able to come up with a continuous story, with infor– mation that was important to the fugitive team. In retrospect, though, he could see that those long, rambling conversations had been essential for an– other reason entirely – they'd been a way to leach out the poison of what had happened to them, like talking out a bad dream. If he'd had to keep it all inside, he thought, he might have gone crazy. In any case, the feelings he had for her now were convoluted ones – warmth, connection, dependence, respect, others that he had no name for. And that scared him, because he'd never felt so strongly about anyone before and because he wasn't sure how much of it was real and how much was just some kind of a post-traumatic stress thing.
Face it, stop bullshitting yourself. What you're really afraid of is that you're only here because she is, and you don't like what that says about you.
Leon nodded inwardly, realizing that it was the truth, the real reason behind his uncertainty. He'd always believed that want was okay, but need? He didn't like the idea of being led around by some neurotic compulsion to be close to Claire Redfield.
And what if it isn't need? Maybe it's want, and you just don't know it yet…
He scowled at his own pathetic attempts at self– analysis, deciding that maybe it would be best just to stop worrying about it so much. Whatever the reason for becoming involved, he was involved – he could kick ass with the best of them and Umbrella deserved to have their ass kicked, big time. For now, he had to pee, and then he was going to eat something and do his best to catch some sleep. Leon gently moved out from beneath Claire's warm, heavy head, doing his best not to wake her up. He slid out into the aisle, glancing around at the others. Rebecca was staring out her window, John was flipping through a muscle mag, David was dozing. They were all good people, and thinking that made him feel a little easier about things.
They're the good guys. Hell, I'm a good guy, fighting for truth, justice, and fewer viral zombies in the world…
The bathroom was in the front. Leon started to– ward it, steadying himself by touching each seat as he passed, thinking that the steady drone of the plane's engine was a soothing sound, like a waterfall -
–and then the curtain at the front of the cabin was pushed open, and a man stepped out, a tall, smiling man in an expensive-looking trench coat. He wasn't the pilot, and there wasn't anyone else on the plane, and Leon felt his mouth go dry with an almost superstitious dread even though the thin, smiling man didn't seem to be armed. "Hey!" Leon shouted, backing up a step. "Hey, we got company!" The man grinned, his eyes twinkling. "Leon Ken-nedy, I presume," he said softly, and Leon was suddenly absolutely sure that whoever he was, this man was trouble with a capital "T."
Bet this puppy will sink like a rock, though, once it falls out of the sky at a few hundred miles an hour and slams into the ocean… "Just so you know, this is the kind of plane that's always killing rock stars and the like. Just as they make it off the ground, a big gust of wind knocks them right back down."
Rebecca looked up to see John's grinning face; he was hanging over the seats in front of her, his massive arms folded across the headrests. He probably needed two seats to himself; John wasn't just big, he was body-builder huge, two hundred forty pounds of mus– cle packed into his six-foot-six frame.
"We'll be lucky to get off at all, dragging your fat ass up there," Rebecca shot back, and was rewarded with a flash of concern in John's dark eyes. He'd broken a couple of ribs and punctured a lung on his last mission, less than three months before, and still wasn't up to pumping iron. For as burly and macho as John was, she knew he was vain about his looks, and had absolutely hated not being able to work out. John grinned wider, the deep brown of his skin crinkling. "Yeah, you're probably right; a few hun-dred feet off the ground and wham, that's all she wrote."
She never should have told him that this was only the second flight she'd ever been on (the first was when she accompanied David to Exeter for the mis– sion to Caliban Cove). It was exactly the kind of thing on which John got off cracking jokes… The plane started to rumble all around them, the engine whining up into a deep hum that made Rebecca grit her teeth. Damned if she was going to let John see how nervous she was; she looked back out the window and saw Leon and Claire walking toward the metal steps. Apparently, the weapons were all loaded up. "Where's David?" Rebecca asked, and John shrugged.
"Talking to the pilot. We've only got the one, you know, some friend of a friend of some guy in Arkan– sas. Not many pilots willing to smuggle people into Europe, I guess…"
John leaned closer, dropping his voice to a fake whisper, his grin fading. "I hear he drinks. We got him cheap 'cause he crashed some soccer team into the side of a mountain." Rebecca laughed, shaking her head. "You win. I'm terrified, okay?" "Okay. That's all I wanted," John said mildly, and turned around as Leon and Claire walked into the small cabin. They moved back to the middle of the plane, taking the two seats across the aisle from where Rebecca was sitting. David had mentioned that the area over the wings was the most stable, although it wasn't like there was that much of a choice – there were only twenty seats. "Ever flown before?" Claire asked, leaning out into the aisle, looking a little nervous herself. Rebecca shrugged. "Once. You?" "Couple of times, but always on big airliners, DC 747s or -27s, I forgot. I don't even know what this thing is." "It's a DHC 8 Turbo," Leon said. "I think. David mentioned it at some point…" "It's a killer, is what it is." John's deep voice floated over the seats. "A rock with wings." "John, sweetie… shut up," Claire said amiably.
John cackled, obviously pleased to have somebody new to play with. David appeared at the front of the cabin, stepping through the curtained area that led to the cockpit, and John broke off, their collective attention turning to-ward him. "It seems that we're ready to go," David said. "Our pilot, Captain Evans, has assured me that all systems are fully functional and we'll be taking off in just a moment. He's asked that we remain seated until he's given us leave to do otherwise. Um – the restroom is just back of the cockpit, and there's a small refrigera– tor at the rear of the plane with sandwiches and drinks…"
His voice trailed off, and he looked as if there was something else he wanted to say but wasn't sure what it was. It was a look that Rebecca had seen often enough in the past few weeks, a kind of uneasy uncertainty. Since the day that Raccoon had been blown to shit, she supposed they'd all had that look at one time or another…… because they shouldn't have been able to do it. That should have been the end, and it wasn 't, and now we're all more freaked out than any of us wants to admit.
When news of the disaster first hit the papers, they had all been so certain that this time Umbrella wouldn't be able to cover its tracks. The spill at the Spencer estate had been small, easy enough to write off after fire gutted the mansion and surrounding buildings; the facility at Caliban Cove had been on private land and was too isolated for anyone to know about – again, Umbrella had swept up the broken pieces and kept it quiet. Raccoon City, though. Thousands of people dead and Umbrella had walked away from it smell– ing like a rose, after planting false evidence and getting their scientists to lie for them. It should have been impossible; it had disheartened them all. What chance did a handful of fugitives have against a multi billion-dollar conglomerate that could kill an entire city and get away with it? David had decided not to say anything at all. He nodded briskly and then walked back to join them, pausing next to Rebecca's seat.
"Do you need some company?"
She could see that he was trying to be supportive and she could also see that he was tired. He'd been up late the night before, doublechecking every detail of their trip. "Nah, I'm okay," she said, smiling up at him, "and
I've always got John to talk me through it." "You know it, baby," John called loudly, and David nodded, giving her shoulder a light squeeze before moving to the seats behind her. He needs the rest. We all do, and it's a long flight -
–so why do I have the feeling that we're not going to get any?
Nerves, that was all. The engine sound got louder, higher, and with a stuttering jerk, the plane started to move forward. Rebecca clutched the arm rests on either side and closed her eyes, thinking that if she had the guts to go up against Umbrella, she could certainly survive a plane ride. Even if she couldn't, it was too late to change her mind; they were on their way, no turning back. They'd been in the air for only twenty minutes, and already Claire was nodding off, half-leaning against Leon's shoulder. Leon was tired, too, but knew he wasn't going to get to sleep so easily. He was hungry, for one thing – and then there was the fact that he still wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing.
Great time to think about it, now that you're pretty much committed, his mind whispered sarcastically. Maybe you could just ask them to drop you off in London or something, you could hang out in a pub until they're all finished… or dead. Leon told himself to shut up, sighing a little. He was committed; what Umbrella had been doing wasn't just criminal, it was evil – or at least as close to evil as some money-grubbing corporate dickheads could get. They'd murdered thousands, created bioweapons ca– pable of murdering billions, wiped out his carefully planned future and been responsible for the death of Ada Wong, a woman he'd respected and liked. They'd helped each other through some rough spots on that terrible night in Raccoon; without her, he never would have gotten out alive. He believed in what David and his people were doing, and it wasn't that he was afraid, that wasn't it at all… Leon sighed again. He'd given the matter a hell of a lot of thought since he and Claire and Sherry had stumbled away from the burning city, and the only real reason he could come up with was so stupid that he didn't want to credit it. Standing against Umbrella was the right thing to do – it was that he didn't feel qualified to be there.
Yep, that's pretty stupid.
Maybe it was, but it was holding him back, mak– ing him feel uncertain, and he needed to examine it.
David Trapp had made a career of the S.T.A.R.S., only to watch the organization fall under the control of Umbrella; he'd lost two close friends on a mission to infiltrate a bioweapons testing facility, as had John Andrews. Rebecca Chambers had just been starting out in the S.T.A.R.S., but she was some kind of scientific child prodigy with a deep interest in Um– brella's work; that and the fact that she'd been through more than anyone else made her continued dedication understandable. Claire wanted to find her brother, the only family she had; their parents were dead, and the two of them were close. Chris, Jill, and Barry he'd never met, but he was sure they had compelling reasons of their own; he knew Barry Burton's wife and children had been threatened, Rebecca had mentioned it… And what about Leon Kennedy? He'd stumbled into the fight without a clue, a cop fresh out of the academy on his way to his first day at work – which just happened to be with the Raccoon PD. There was Ada, true – but he'd known her less than half a day, and she had been killed just after admitting to him that she was some kind of an agent, sent to steal a sample of an Umbrella virus.
So I lost a job, and a possible relationship with a woman I barely knew and couldn't trust. Of course Umbrella should be stopped… but do I belong here?
He'd decided to become a cop because he wanted to help people, but he'd always figured that meant keeping the peace – busting drunk drivers, breaking up bar fights, catching crooks. Never in his wild-est dreams would he have figured on being caught up in an international conspiracy, cloak-and-dagger infiltration-type stuff against a giant company that made war monsters. It was crime on a much bigger scale than he felt he was ready for…… and is that the real reason, Officer Kennedy? At exactly that moment, Claire mumbled some– thing from her light doze, nuzzling her head against his arm before falling silent and still again – and making Leon uncomfortably aware of another facet to his involvement with the ex-S.T.A.R.S. Claire. Claire was… she was an incredible woman. In the days after their escape from Raccoon City, they'd talked a lot about what had happened, the experiences they'd had both separately and together. At the time, it had felt like an exchange of information, filling in blanks – she'd told him about her run-in with Chief Irons and the creature she'd called Mr. X, and he'd told her all about Ada and the terrible thing that had once been William Birkin. Between them, they'd been able to come up with a continuous story, with infor– mation that was important to the fugitive team. In retrospect, though, he could see that those long, rambling conversations had been essential for an– other reason entirely – they'd been a way to leach out the poison of what had happened to them, like talking out a bad dream. If he'd had to keep it all inside, he thought, he might have gone crazy. In any case, the feelings he had for her now were convoluted ones – warmth, connection, dependence, respect, others that he had no name for. And that scared him, because he'd never felt so strongly about anyone before and because he wasn't sure how much of it was real and how much was just some kind of a post-traumatic stress thing.
Face it, stop bullshitting yourself. What you're really afraid of is that you're only here because she is, and you don't like what that says about you.
Leon nodded inwardly, realizing that it was the truth, the real reason behind his uncertainty. He'd always believed that want was okay, but need? He didn't like the idea of being led around by some neurotic compulsion to be close to Claire Redfield.
And what if it isn't need? Maybe it's want, and you just don't know it yet…
He scowled at his own pathetic attempts at self– analysis, deciding that maybe it would be best just to stop worrying about it so much. Whatever the reason for becoming involved, he was involved – he could kick ass with the best of them and Umbrella deserved to have their ass kicked, big time. For now, he had to pee, and then he was going to eat something and do his best to catch some sleep. Leon gently moved out from beneath Claire's warm, heavy head, doing his best not to wake her up. He slid out into the aisle, glancing around at the others. Rebecca was staring out her window, John was flipping through a muscle mag, David was dozing. They were all good people, and thinking that made him feel a little easier about things.
They're the good guys. Hell, I'm a good guy, fighting for truth, justice, and fewer viral zombies in the world…
The bathroom was in the front. Leon started to– ward it, steadying himself by touching each seat as he passed, thinking that the steady drone of the plane's engine was a soothing sound, like a waterfall -
–and then the curtain at the front of the cabin was pushed open, and a man stepped out, a tall, smiling man in an expensive-looking trench coat. He wasn't the pilot, and there wasn't anyone else on the plane, and Leon felt his mouth go dry with an almost superstitious dread even though the thin, smiling man didn't seem to be armed. "Hey!" Leon shouted, backing up a step. "Hey, we got company!" The man grinned, his eyes twinkling. "Leon Ken-nedy, I presume," he said softly, and Leon was suddenly absolutely sure that whoever he was, this man was trouble with a capital "T."
THREE
JOHN WAS ON HIS FEET BEFORE LEON HAD finished his warning, hopping out into the aisle and stepping in front of Leon in a single stride. "Who the hell…" John snarled, his shoulders set, ready to break the thin mam in two if he so much as blinked wrong. The stranger held up pale, long-fingered hands, looking as though he could barely contain his de– light – which made John all the more wary. He could easily pound the guy into hamburger, what the hell was he so happy about? "And you're John Andrews," the man said, his voice low and calm and as pleased as his expression.
"Formerly a communications expert and field scout for the Exeter S.T.A.R.S. It's so good to meet you -
–tell me, how are your ribs? Still tender?" Shit. Who is this guy? John had broken two ribs and cracked a third on the cove mission, and didn't know this man – how the hell did this man know him? "My name is Trent," the stranger said easily, nod– ding at both Leon and John. "I believe your Mr. Trapp can vouch for my identity…?"
John flicked a glance back, saw that David and the girls were right behind them. David gave a quick nod, his expression strained.
Trent. Goddamn. The mysterious Mr. Trent.
The same Mr. Trent who had given maps and clues to Jill Valentine, just before the Raccoon
S.T.A.R.S. had discovered Umbrella's initial T-Virus spill at the Spencer estate. The Trent who had given a similar package to David one rainy August night, information about Umbrella's Caliban Cove facility, where Steve and Karen had been murdered. The Trent who'd been playing games with the
S.T.A.R.S. – with people's lives – all along. Trent was still smiling, still holding his hands up. John noticed a black ring made out of stone on one slender finger, the only affectation that Mr. Trent seemed to have; it looked heavy and expensive.
"So what the hell do you want?" John growled. He didn't like secrets or surprises, and he didn't like the fact that Trent seemed totally unimpressed by his formidable size. Most people backed down when he got in their face; Trent seemed amused.
"Mr. Andrews, if you please…?"
John didn't move, glaring into Trent's dark, intelli– gent eyes. Trent gazed back impassively, and John could see cool self-assurance in that bright gaze, a look that was almost but not quite patronizing. As big and buff as John was, he wasn't a violent man, but that confident, mirthful look made John think that Mr. Trent could use a good beating. Not by him, necessarily, but by someone.
How many people have died, just because he decided to stir things up a little? "It's alright, John," David said quietly. "I'm sure that if Mr. Trent meant us harm, he wouldn't be standing here introducing himself."
David was right, whether John liked it or not. He sighed inwardly and stepped aside, but decided that he definitely didn't like it; from what little he knew about the man, he didn't like it at all. Gonna be watching you, "friend"… Trent nodded as though there had never been any question and walked past John, smiling at all of them. He motioned for them to sit in the seats on one side of the cabin; he took off his trench coat and put it aside, moving slowly and carefully, obviously aware that any sudden moves could be detrimental to his health. Beneath the coat he wore a black suit, black tie, and shoes; John didn't know clothes but the shoes were Asante. Trent had taste, anyway, and a shitload of money if he could afford to blow a couple thou on footwear. "This may take a few moments," he said. "Please, get comfortable." He pushed himself up to sit atop one of the chairs opposite their group, moving with a smooth grace that made John feel even less comfort– able. He moved like someone with training, martial arts maybe… The others sat or leaned against the chairs, each of them studying the uninvited guest, each looking as unhappy about his appearance as John felt. Trent studied them in turn.
"Mr. Andrews, Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Trapp, and I have already met…" Trent looked back and forth between Rebecca and Claire, his sparkling gaze finally settling on Claire. "Claire Redfield, yes?" He seemed a little more hesitant, which wasn't a surprise. Rebecca and Claire
could have been sisters, both brunettes, same height, only a few months difference in age. "Yes," Claire said. "Does the pilot know you're on board?"
John frowned, irritated with himself for not having asked first. It was a fairly important question, and it hadn't occurred to him. If the pilot had let Mr. Trent aboard… Trent nodded, running one pale hand through his tousled black hair. "Yes, he does. In fact, Captain Evans is an acquaintance of mine, so when I realized that you were going… traveling, I arranged for him to be in the right place at the right time. Much easier than it sounds, really." "Why?" David asked, an edge coming into his voice that John had only ever heard in combat situations. The captain was right on the verge of being seriously upset. "Why would you do that, Mr. Trent?" Trent seemed to ignore him. "I realize that you're concerned about your friends on the continent, but let me assure you that they're in the best of health. Really, there's no reason for you to worry your– selves…" "Why?" David's voice was steel. Trent stared at him, then sighed. "Because I don't want you to go to Europe, and making it so that Captain Evans is your pilot means that you won't. You can't. In fact, we should be turning back any moment now."
"Formerly a communications expert and field scout for the Exeter S.T.A.R.S. It's so good to meet you -
–tell me, how are your ribs? Still tender?" Shit. Who is this guy? John had broken two ribs and cracked a third on the cove mission, and didn't know this man – how the hell did this man know him? "My name is Trent," the stranger said easily, nod– ding at both Leon and John. "I believe your Mr. Trapp can vouch for my identity…?"
John flicked a glance back, saw that David and the girls were right behind them. David gave a quick nod, his expression strained.
Trent. Goddamn. The mysterious Mr. Trent.
The same Mr. Trent who had given maps and clues to Jill Valentine, just before the Raccoon
S.T.A.R.S. had discovered Umbrella's initial T-Virus spill at the Spencer estate. The Trent who had given a similar package to David one rainy August night, information about Umbrella's Caliban Cove facility, where Steve and Karen had been murdered. The Trent who'd been playing games with the
S.T.A.R.S. – with people's lives – all along. Trent was still smiling, still holding his hands up. John noticed a black ring made out of stone on one slender finger, the only affectation that Mr. Trent seemed to have; it looked heavy and expensive.
"So what the hell do you want?" John growled. He didn't like secrets or surprises, and he didn't like the fact that Trent seemed totally unimpressed by his formidable size. Most people backed down when he got in their face; Trent seemed amused.
"Mr. Andrews, if you please…?"
John didn't move, glaring into Trent's dark, intelli– gent eyes. Trent gazed back impassively, and John could see cool self-assurance in that bright gaze, a look that was almost but not quite patronizing. As big and buff as John was, he wasn't a violent man, but that confident, mirthful look made John think that Mr. Trent could use a good beating. Not by him, necessarily, but by someone.
How many people have died, just because he decided to stir things up a little? "It's alright, John," David said quietly. "I'm sure that if Mr. Trent meant us harm, he wouldn't be standing here introducing himself."
David was right, whether John liked it or not. He sighed inwardly and stepped aside, but decided that he definitely didn't like it; from what little he knew about the man, he didn't like it at all. Gonna be watching you, "friend"… Trent nodded as though there had never been any question and walked past John, smiling at all of them. He motioned for them to sit in the seats on one side of the cabin; he took off his trench coat and put it aside, moving slowly and carefully, obviously aware that any sudden moves could be detrimental to his health. Beneath the coat he wore a black suit, black tie, and shoes; John didn't know clothes but the shoes were Asante. Trent had taste, anyway, and a shitload of money if he could afford to blow a couple thou on footwear. "This may take a few moments," he said. "Please, get comfortable." He pushed himself up to sit atop one of the chairs opposite their group, moving with a smooth grace that made John feel even less comfort– able. He moved like someone with training, martial arts maybe… The others sat or leaned against the chairs, each of them studying the uninvited guest, each looking as unhappy about his appearance as John felt. Trent studied them in turn.
"Mr. Andrews, Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Trapp, and I have already met…" Trent looked back and forth between Rebecca and Claire, his sparkling gaze finally settling on Claire. "Claire Redfield, yes?" He seemed a little more hesitant, which wasn't a surprise. Rebecca and Claire
could have been sisters, both brunettes, same height, only a few months difference in age. "Yes," Claire said. "Does the pilot know you're on board?"
John frowned, irritated with himself for not having asked first. It was a fairly important question, and it hadn't occurred to him. If the pilot had let Mr. Trent aboard… Trent nodded, running one pale hand through his tousled black hair. "Yes, he does. In fact, Captain Evans is an acquaintance of mine, so when I realized that you were going… traveling, I arranged for him to be in the right place at the right time. Much easier than it sounds, really." "Why?" David asked, an edge coming into his voice that John had only ever heard in combat situations. The captain was right on the verge of being seriously upset. "Why would you do that, Mr. Trent?" Trent seemed to ignore him. "I realize that you're concerned about your friends on the continent, but let me assure you that they're in the best of health. Really, there's no reason for you to worry your– selves…" "Why?" David's voice was steel. Trent stared at him, then sighed. "Because I don't want you to go to Europe, and making it so that Captain Evans is your pilot means that you won't. You can't. In fact, we should be turning back any moment now."