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SIX
"WESKER!" BARRY SHOUTED, HIS DEEP VOICE echoing through the chilly room. "Captain Wesker!" He jogged toward a row of arches at the back of the hall, calling to Jill over his shoulder as he ran. "Don't leave the room!" Jill walked to the stairs, feeling almost dizzy. First Chris, now the captain. They hadn't been gone five minutes and he'd said he was going to stay put. Why would he have left? She looked around for signs of a struggle, a spent cartridge, a spot of blood – there was nothing to indicate what might have happened. Barry appeared on the other side of the giant staircase, shaking his head and walking slowly to join her. Jill bit her lower lip, frowning.
"You think Wesker ran into one of those-things?"
she asked. Barry sighed. "I don't think the RPD showed and snuck him out. Though if he did run into trouble, we would have heard the shots." "Not necessarily. He could have been ambushed, dragged away…"
They stood silently for a moment, thinking. Jill was still a bit shaken from the face-to-face with the walking corpse, but thought she'd accepted the facts pretty well; the woods bordering Raccoon City had become infested with zombies. After a lifetime of reading trashy novels about serial killers, is a cannibal zombie so hard to swallow? Somehow it wasn't, and neither were the murderous dogs or the secretly kept estate. There was no question that it all existed. The question was, why? Did the mansion have anything to do with the murders, or had the zombies simply overrun it like they'd overrun Raccoon Forest? And was that creature the last thing Becky and Pris saw? She rejected that thought almost violently; thinking about the girls now would be a mistake. "So do we go looking or do we wait?" Jill said finally.
"Go looking. Ken made it here. The rest of the Bravos could be somewhere in this house. It'd be easy enough to get lost. Chris…"
He half-smiled, though Jill could see the worry in his eyes. "Chris and Wesker got-side-tracked, but we'll find them. It'd take more than a couple of walking stiffs to cause either of them any grief."
He reached into a pocket in his vest and pulled out something wrapped in a handkerchief, handing it to her. She felt the thin metal objects beneath the light fabric and recognized them instantly.
"It's the set you gave me to practice with last month," he said. "I figure you'll have better luck with them."
Jill nodded, tucking the lockpicks into her hip pouch. Barry had taken an interest in her former "career" and she'd given him a few pieces from her old set, several picks and torsion bars. They could come in handy. The small bundle settled on top of something hard and smooth– -Trent's computer! In all the excitement, she'd totally forgotten about her strange encounter in the locker room. She opened her mouth to tell Barry, then shut it, remembering Trent's cryptic warning.
"I wouldn't mention this conversation to anyone."
Screw that. She'd almost risked it anyway with Chris.
And where is Chris now? Who's to say that Trent's "dire consequences" haven't already occurred?
Jill realized what she was thinking and had to fight off an urge to laugh at herself. What had happened with Trent probably wasn't even relevant to their predicament, and whether or not she could trust Barry, she knew she didn't trust Trent – still, she decided not to say anything about it, at least until she had a chance to see what the computer held. "I think we should split up," Barry continued. "I know it's dangerous, but we need to cover a lot of ground. We find anybody, we meet back here, use this room as base."
Rubbing at his beard, he fixed her with a serious gaze. "You up for this, Jill? We could search to-gether…" "No, you're right," she said. "I can take the west wing." Unlike cops, S.T.A.R.S. seldom partnered. They were trained to watch their own backs in dan– gerous situations. Barry nodded. "Okay. I'll go back and see if I can persuade one of those doors to open. Keep an eye out for a back exit, conserve ammo… and be careful." "You, too." Barry grinned, holding up his Colt Python. "I'll be fine."
There was nothing left to say. Jill headed straight for the set of doors on the west wall that Wesker hadn't tried earlier. Behind her, Barry hurried back to the dining room. She heard the door open and close, leaving her alone. Here goes nothing. The painted blue doors opened smoothly, revealing a small, shadowy room as cool and silent as the main hall, all in shades of blue. Muted track lighting illuminated framed paintings on dusky walls, and in the center of the room was a large statue of a woman holding an urn on one shoulder. Jill closed the door behind her and let her eyes adjust to the gloom, noting the two doors opposite the one she'd come through. The one on the left was open, though a small chest was pushed in front of it, blocking access. It was unlikely that Wesker had gone that way. She walked to the one on the right and tried the knob. Locked. Sighing, she reached into her pack for the picks and then hesitated, feeling the smooth weight of the mini-disk reader.
Let's see what Mr. Trent thinks is so important.
She slipped it out and studied it a moment, then tapped at a switch. A screen the size of a baseball card flickered to life, and with a few more taps, small lines of type scrolled across the monitor. She scanned the material, recognizing names and dates from local newspapers. Trent had apparently compiled every arti– cle he could find about the murders and disappear– ances in Raccoon, plus the pieces on the S.T.A.R.S. Nothing new here… Jill skipped along, wonder-ing what the point was. After the articles was a list of names. WILLIAM BIRKIN, STEVE KELLER, MICHAEL DEES, JOHN HOWE, MARTIN CRAGKHORN, HENRY SARTON, ELLEN SMITH, BILL RABBITSON She frowned. None of the names were familiar, Except – wasn't Bill Rabbitson Chris's friend, the one who had worked for Umbrella? She couldn't be sure, she'd have to ask Chris… assuming we find him. This was a waste of time; she needed to start looking for the other S.T.A.R.S. She pressed the forwarding key to get to the end of the data and a picture appeared, tiny lines set into pat– terns. There were squares and long rectangles, cross-hatched with smaller marks that connected the empty boxes. Beneath it was a single line, a message as enigmatic as she could have expected from Mr. Trent: KNIGHT KEYS; TIGER EYES; FOUR CRESTS (GATE OF NEW LIFE); EAST-EAGLE/WEST-WOLF.
Gee, how illuminating. That just clears up every-thing, doesn't it? The picture was some kind of map, she decided. It looked like a floor plan. The biggest area was at the center, a slightly smaller one extending off to the left. Jill suddenly felt her heart skip a beat. She stared down at the small screen, wondering how Trent had known. It was the mansion's first floor. She tapped the forward button again and saw what could only be the second floor, the shapes corresponding to the first map. There was nothing after the second map, but it was enough. As far as she was concerned, there was no longer any question that the Spencer estate was the source of the terror in Raccoon City, which meant that the answers were here, waiting to be uncovered.
The zombie groaned as Chris fired point-blank into its gut, twice. The shots were muffled by its rancid flesh and it fell against him, expelling a rush of foul, stinking air across his face. Chris pushed it away, the back of his throat locking. His hands and the barrel of his weapon were dripping with sticky fluids. The creature collapsed to the floor, its limbs spasming. Chris backed away, wiping the Beretta against his vest as he took deep breaths, trying desperately not to vomit. The zombie out in the hall had been a desic– cated mess, shriveled and dry; this one was-fresh, if that was the right word. Festering, necrotic, wet… He swallowed, hard, and the urge to throw up slowly passed. He didn't have a particularly weak stomach, but that smell, God!
Keep it together, could be more of them…
The hall he'd entered was all dark wood and dim light. For the moment, there was no sound except the pulse of blood in his ears. He looked down at the body, wondering exactly what it was, what it had been. He had felt its hot, fetid breath against his face. It wasn't a reanimated corpse, no matter what it looked like. He decided it didn't matter. For all intents and purposes, it was a zombie. It had tried to bite him, and creatures like it had already chowed down on some of Raccoon's population. He needed to find his way back to the others and they had to get out, get help. They didn't have the firepower to handle the situation alone. He ejected the empty clip from the gummy weapon and quickly reloaded, his chest tightening with stress; fifteen rounds left. He had a Bowie knife, but the thought of going up against a zombie with only a knife wasn't all that appealing. There was a plain-looking door to his left. Chris pulled at the knob, but it was locked. He squinted at the key plate, and wasn't all that surprised to see an etching of what looked like armor. Sword, armor– there was a definite theme developing. He moved down the wide hall, listening for any sound and taking frequent deep breaths through his nose. The goo on his vest and hands made it hard to tell if there were any more of them around, the smell was all over him, but it could be his only chance to avoid another close encounter. The hall turned to the left and he took the corner fast, sweeping the Beretta across the wide wooden expanse. There was a support pillar partially blocking his view but he could see the back of a man just past it, the slumped shoulders and stained clothes of one of the creatures. Chris quickly edged to the right, trying to get a clear shot. The zombie was maybe forty feet away, and he didn't want to waste his last rounds. At the sound of his boots against the hard wood floor, it turned, shuffling slowly. So slowly that Chris hesitated, watching the way it moved. This one seemed to have been dipped in a thin layer of slime, dull light reflecting off of its glistening skin as it stumbled almost blindly toward Chris. It slowly raised its arms, its pale, hairless skull wobbling on its emaciated neck. Silently, it shuffled forward. Chris took a sliding step back to his left and the zombie changed direction, veering toward him ea– gerly, closing the distance between them at a slow walk.
Just like in the movies; dangerous but dumb. And easy to outrun…
He had to save ammo in case he got cornered. There were stairs at the end of the hall, and Chris took a deep breath, readying himself. He stepped back, giving himself enough room to maneuver– -and heard a gasping moan behind him, a fresh wave of rancid stink assaulting his senses. He spun, the realization hitting him even before he saw it. The festering zombie was only a few feet away, reaching for him, bits of its putrid gut spilling out across its shattered abdomen. He hadn't killed it, hadn't waited long enough to make sure, and his stupidity was about to cost him.
Ah, shit!
Chris sprinted away and down the corridor, dodg– ing both of them and cursing himself. He passed the thick support beam, almost to the stairs– -and stopped cold, seeing what waited at the top. He caught only a glimpse of the ragged creature standing at the head of the stairs and spun away, raising his weapon to face the attackers that shambled toward him hungrily. From the shadows beneath the steps came a heavy,gurgling sigh and the scuffing of wood; another one. He was trapped, there was no way he could kill themall -door!It faced the side of the stairs, the dark wood blending so well with the shadows that he almost hadn't seen it. Chris ran for it, grabbing at the handle, praying that it would open as around him, the crea– tures closed in. If it was locked, he was dead.
Rebecca Chambers had never been more afraid, not once in her eighteen years. For what seemed like an eternity, she'd listened to the soft scrape of rotting flesh brushing against the door and tried desperately to think of a plan, her dread building with each passing minute. There was no lock on the door, and she'd lost her handgun on the run for the house. The small storage room, though well stocked with chemi– cals and stacks of papers, had offered nothing to use as a defense except a half-empty can of insect repel– lent. It was the can she gripped now, standing behind the door of the tiny room. If or when the monsters finally figured out how to use a doorknob, she planned on spraying it in their eyes and then making a run for it.
Maybe they'll be laughing so hard I'll have a chance to slip past; bug spray, great weapon…
She'd heard what could have been shots somewhere close by, but they weren't repeated. Her hope that it was one of the team faded as the seconds ticked past, and she was starting to give serious consideration to the concept that she was the only one left when the door burst open and a gasping figure hurdled inside. Rebecca didn't hesitate. She leapt forward and pressed the button, releasing a cloud of chemical mist into its face, tensing herself to run past it. "Gah!" It yelled, and fell back against the door, slamming it shut. It covered its eyes, spluttering. It wasn't a monster; she'd just maced one of the Alphas. "Oh, no!" Rebecca was already reaching into her field medical kit, her immense relief at seeing another of the S.T.A.R.S. battling with monumental embar– rassment. She fumbled out a clean cloth and a tiny squeeze bottle of water, stepping toward him. "Keep your eyes closed, don't rub at them."
The Alpha dropped his hands, face red, and she finally recognized him. It was Chris Redfield, only the most attractive guy in the S.T.A.R.S., not to mention her superior. She felt herself blush, and was suddenly glad that he couldn't see her.
Nice going, Rebecca. Way to make a good impres-sion on your first operation. Lose your gun, get lost, blind a teammate…
She led him over to the small cot in the corner of the room and sat him down, letting her training take over.
"Lean your head back. This is going to sting a little, but it's just water, okay?" She dabbed at his eyes with the damp cloth, relieved that she hadn't sprayed him
with anything worse. "What was that stuff?" he said, blinking rapidly. Tears and water streamed down his face, but there didn't seem to be any damage.
"Uh, bug repellent. The label's been ripped off but the active ingredient is probably permephrin, it's an irritant but the effect shouldn't last long. I lost my gun, and when you came in I thought you were one of those things, though if they haven't figured out how to use a doorknob by now, they probably won't."
She realized she was babbling and shut up, finishing the crude irrigation and stepping back. Chris wiped at his face and peered up at her with bloodshot eyes.
"Rebecca… Chambers, right?" She nodded miserably. "Yeah. Look, I'm really Sorry." "Don't worry about it," he said, and smiled. "Not a bad weapon, actually."
He stood up and looked around the small room, frowning. There wasn't much to see: an open trunk full of papers, a shelf lined with bottles of mostly unlabeled chemicals, a cot, and a desk. Rebecca had been through it all in her search for something to use against the creatures. "What about the rest of your team?" he asked. Rebecca shook her head. "I don't know. Something went wrong with the helicopter and we had to set down. We were attacked by animals, some kind of dogs, and Enrico told us to run for cover."
She shrugged, suddenly feeling like she was about twelve years old. "I got-turned around in the woods and ended up at the front door of this place. I think one of the others broke it down, it was open…"
She trailed off, looking away from his intense gaze. The rest was probably obvious: she had no weapon, she'd gotten lost, she'd ended up here. All in all, a pretty poor showing. "Hey," he said softly. "There's nothing else you could have done. Enrico said run, you ran, you followed orders. Those creatures out there, the zom– bies… they're all over the place. I got lost, too, and the rest of the Alphas could be anywhere. Trust me, just the fact that you made it this far."
Outside, one of the monsters let out a low, plaintive wail and Chris stopped talking, his expression grim. Rebecca shuddered. "So what do we do now?"We look for the others and try to find a way out." He sighed, looking down at his weapon. "Except you don't have a gun and I'm almost out of ammo…"
Rebecca brightened and reached into her hip pack.
She pulled out two full magazines and handed them over, pleased that she had something to offer him. "Oh! And I found this on the desk," she said, and produced a silver key with a sword on it. She didn't know what it unlocked, but thought it might be useful. Chris stared at it thoughtfully, then slipped it into a pocket. He walked to the open trunk and looked down at the stacks of papers. He rifled through them, frowning.
"Your background's in biochemistry, right? Have you looked through these?" Rebecca joined him, shaking her head. "Barely. I've been kinda busy watching the door."
He handed her one of the papers and she scanned it quickly. It was a list of neurotransmitters and level indicators. "Brain chemistry," she said, "but these numbers are all screwed up. The serotonin and norepinephrine are too low… but look here, the dopamine is off the chart, we're talking big-time schizo."
She noticed the incredulous look on his face and smiled a little. Being an eighteen-year-old college grad, she got a lot of that. The S.T.A.R.S. had recruited her right after graduation, promising her a whole team of researchers and a lab of her own to study molecular biology, her real passion-provided, of course, that she went through basic training and got some field experience. No one else had shown much interest in hiring a whiz kid… There was a soft thump at the door and her smile faded. She was getting experience, alright. Chris fished the sword key out of his pocket and looked at her seriously. "I passed a door with a sword engraved over the keyhole. I'm going to go check it out, see if it leads back to the main hall. I want you to stay here and go through those files. Maybe there's something we can use."
Her uncertainty must have showed in her face. He smiled gently, his voice low and soothing. "I've got plenty of ammo, thanks to you, and I won't be gone long."
She nodded, making a conscious effort to relax. She was scared, but letting him see it wasn't going to help matters. He was probably scared, too. He walked to the door, still talking. "The RPD should be here any time, so if I don't come back right away, just wait here."
He raised the weapon, putting his other hand on the knob. "Get ready. As soon as I'm out, move the trunk in front of the door. I'll give a yell when I get back."
Rebecca nodded again, and with a final quick smile, Chris opened the door and looked both ways before moving out into the hall. She closed the door and leaned against it, listening. After long seconds of silence, she heard the rattle of gunfire not far away, five or six shots-then nothing. After a few minutes, she moved the trunk to block part of the door, edging it in front of the hinges so she could push it out of the way easily. She knelt in front of it, trying to clear her thoughts as she started looking through the papers, trying not to feel as young and unsure as she actually felt. Sighing, she pulled out a handful of papers and started to read.
"You think Wesker ran into one of those-things?"
she asked. Barry sighed. "I don't think the RPD showed and snuck him out. Though if he did run into trouble, we would have heard the shots." "Not necessarily. He could have been ambushed, dragged away…"
They stood silently for a moment, thinking. Jill was still a bit shaken from the face-to-face with the walking corpse, but thought she'd accepted the facts pretty well; the woods bordering Raccoon City had become infested with zombies. After a lifetime of reading trashy novels about serial killers, is a cannibal zombie so hard to swallow? Somehow it wasn't, and neither were the murderous dogs or the secretly kept estate. There was no question that it all existed. The question was, why? Did the mansion have anything to do with the murders, or had the zombies simply overrun it like they'd overrun Raccoon Forest? And was that creature the last thing Becky and Pris saw? She rejected that thought almost violently; thinking about the girls now would be a mistake. "So do we go looking or do we wait?" Jill said finally.
"Go looking. Ken made it here. The rest of the Bravos could be somewhere in this house. It'd be easy enough to get lost. Chris…"
He half-smiled, though Jill could see the worry in his eyes. "Chris and Wesker got-side-tracked, but we'll find them. It'd take more than a couple of walking stiffs to cause either of them any grief."
He reached into a pocket in his vest and pulled out something wrapped in a handkerchief, handing it to her. She felt the thin metal objects beneath the light fabric and recognized them instantly.
"It's the set you gave me to practice with last month," he said. "I figure you'll have better luck with them."
Jill nodded, tucking the lockpicks into her hip pouch. Barry had taken an interest in her former "career" and she'd given him a few pieces from her old set, several picks and torsion bars. They could come in handy. The small bundle settled on top of something hard and smooth– -Trent's computer! In all the excitement, she'd totally forgotten about her strange encounter in the locker room. She opened her mouth to tell Barry, then shut it, remembering Trent's cryptic warning.
"I wouldn't mention this conversation to anyone."
Screw that. She'd almost risked it anyway with Chris.
And where is Chris now? Who's to say that Trent's "dire consequences" haven't already occurred?
Jill realized what she was thinking and had to fight off an urge to laugh at herself. What had happened with Trent probably wasn't even relevant to their predicament, and whether or not she could trust Barry, she knew she didn't trust Trent – still, she decided not to say anything about it, at least until she had a chance to see what the computer held. "I think we should split up," Barry continued. "I know it's dangerous, but we need to cover a lot of ground. We find anybody, we meet back here, use this room as base."
Rubbing at his beard, he fixed her with a serious gaze. "You up for this, Jill? We could search to-gether…" "No, you're right," she said. "I can take the west wing." Unlike cops, S.T.A.R.S. seldom partnered. They were trained to watch their own backs in dan– gerous situations. Barry nodded. "Okay. I'll go back and see if I can persuade one of those doors to open. Keep an eye out for a back exit, conserve ammo… and be careful." "You, too." Barry grinned, holding up his Colt Python. "I'll be fine."
There was nothing left to say. Jill headed straight for the set of doors on the west wall that Wesker hadn't tried earlier. Behind her, Barry hurried back to the dining room. She heard the door open and close, leaving her alone. Here goes nothing. The painted blue doors opened smoothly, revealing a small, shadowy room as cool and silent as the main hall, all in shades of blue. Muted track lighting illuminated framed paintings on dusky walls, and in the center of the room was a large statue of a woman holding an urn on one shoulder. Jill closed the door behind her and let her eyes adjust to the gloom, noting the two doors opposite the one she'd come through. The one on the left was open, though a small chest was pushed in front of it, blocking access. It was unlikely that Wesker had gone that way. She walked to the one on the right and tried the knob. Locked. Sighing, she reached into her pack for the picks and then hesitated, feeling the smooth weight of the mini-disk reader.
Let's see what Mr. Trent thinks is so important.
She slipped it out and studied it a moment, then tapped at a switch. A screen the size of a baseball card flickered to life, and with a few more taps, small lines of type scrolled across the monitor. She scanned the material, recognizing names and dates from local newspapers. Trent had apparently compiled every arti– cle he could find about the murders and disappear– ances in Raccoon, plus the pieces on the S.T.A.R.S. Nothing new here… Jill skipped along, wonder-ing what the point was. After the articles was a list of names. WILLIAM BIRKIN, STEVE KELLER, MICHAEL DEES, JOHN HOWE, MARTIN CRAGKHORN, HENRY SARTON, ELLEN SMITH, BILL RABBITSON She frowned. None of the names were familiar, Except – wasn't Bill Rabbitson Chris's friend, the one who had worked for Umbrella? She couldn't be sure, she'd have to ask Chris… assuming we find him. This was a waste of time; she needed to start looking for the other S.T.A.R.S. She pressed the forwarding key to get to the end of the data and a picture appeared, tiny lines set into pat– terns. There were squares and long rectangles, cross-hatched with smaller marks that connected the empty boxes. Beneath it was a single line, a message as enigmatic as she could have expected from Mr. Trent: KNIGHT KEYS; TIGER EYES; FOUR CRESTS (GATE OF NEW LIFE); EAST-EAGLE/WEST-WOLF.
Gee, how illuminating. That just clears up every-thing, doesn't it? The picture was some kind of map, she decided. It looked like a floor plan. The biggest area was at the center, a slightly smaller one extending off to the left. Jill suddenly felt her heart skip a beat. She stared down at the small screen, wondering how Trent had known. It was the mansion's first floor. She tapped the forward button again and saw what could only be the second floor, the shapes corresponding to the first map. There was nothing after the second map, but it was enough. As far as she was concerned, there was no longer any question that the Spencer estate was the source of the terror in Raccoon City, which meant that the answers were here, waiting to be uncovered.
The zombie groaned as Chris fired point-blank into its gut, twice. The shots were muffled by its rancid flesh and it fell against him, expelling a rush of foul, stinking air across his face. Chris pushed it away, the back of his throat locking. His hands and the barrel of his weapon were dripping with sticky fluids. The creature collapsed to the floor, its limbs spasming. Chris backed away, wiping the Beretta against his vest as he took deep breaths, trying desperately not to vomit. The zombie out in the hall had been a desic– cated mess, shriveled and dry; this one was-fresh, if that was the right word. Festering, necrotic, wet… He swallowed, hard, and the urge to throw up slowly passed. He didn't have a particularly weak stomach, but that smell, God!
Keep it together, could be more of them…
The hall he'd entered was all dark wood and dim light. For the moment, there was no sound except the pulse of blood in his ears. He looked down at the body, wondering exactly what it was, what it had been. He had felt its hot, fetid breath against his face. It wasn't a reanimated corpse, no matter what it looked like. He decided it didn't matter. For all intents and purposes, it was a zombie. It had tried to bite him, and creatures like it had already chowed down on some of Raccoon's population. He needed to find his way back to the others and they had to get out, get help. They didn't have the firepower to handle the situation alone. He ejected the empty clip from the gummy weapon and quickly reloaded, his chest tightening with stress; fifteen rounds left. He had a Bowie knife, but the thought of going up against a zombie with only a knife wasn't all that appealing. There was a plain-looking door to his left. Chris pulled at the knob, but it was locked. He squinted at the key plate, and wasn't all that surprised to see an etching of what looked like armor. Sword, armor– there was a definite theme developing. He moved down the wide hall, listening for any sound and taking frequent deep breaths through his nose. The goo on his vest and hands made it hard to tell if there were any more of them around, the smell was all over him, but it could be his only chance to avoid another close encounter. The hall turned to the left and he took the corner fast, sweeping the Beretta across the wide wooden expanse. There was a support pillar partially blocking his view but he could see the back of a man just past it, the slumped shoulders and stained clothes of one of the creatures. Chris quickly edged to the right, trying to get a clear shot. The zombie was maybe forty feet away, and he didn't want to waste his last rounds. At the sound of his boots against the hard wood floor, it turned, shuffling slowly. So slowly that Chris hesitated, watching the way it moved. This one seemed to have been dipped in a thin layer of slime, dull light reflecting off of its glistening skin as it stumbled almost blindly toward Chris. It slowly raised its arms, its pale, hairless skull wobbling on its emaciated neck. Silently, it shuffled forward. Chris took a sliding step back to his left and the zombie changed direction, veering toward him ea– gerly, closing the distance between them at a slow walk.
Just like in the movies; dangerous but dumb. And easy to outrun…
He had to save ammo in case he got cornered. There were stairs at the end of the hall, and Chris took a deep breath, readying himself. He stepped back, giving himself enough room to maneuver– -and heard a gasping moan behind him, a fresh wave of rancid stink assaulting his senses. He spun, the realization hitting him even before he saw it. The festering zombie was only a few feet away, reaching for him, bits of its putrid gut spilling out across its shattered abdomen. He hadn't killed it, hadn't waited long enough to make sure, and his stupidity was about to cost him.
Ah, shit!
Chris sprinted away and down the corridor, dodg– ing both of them and cursing himself. He passed the thick support beam, almost to the stairs– -and stopped cold, seeing what waited at the top. He caught only a glimpse of the ragged creature standing at the head of the stairs and spun away, raising his weapon to face the attackers that shambled toward him hungrily. From the shadows beneath the steps came a heavy,gurgling sigh and the scuffing of wood; another one. He was trapped, there was no way he could kill themall -door!It faced the side of the stairs, the dark wood blending so well with the shadows that he almost hadn't seen it. Chris ran for it, grabbing at the handle, praying that it would open as around him, the crea– tures closed in. If it was locked, he was dead.
Rebecca Chambers had never been more afraid, not once in her eighteen years. For what seemed like an eternity, she'd listened to the soft scrape of rotting flesh brushing against the door and tried desperately to think of a plan, her dread building with each passing minute. There was no lock on the door, and she'd lost her handgun on the run for the house. The small storage room, though well stocked with chemi– cals and stacks of papers, had offered nothing to use as a defense except a half-empty can of insect repel– lent. It was the can she gripped now, standing behind the door of the tiny room. If or when the monsters finally figured out how to use a doorknob, she planned on spraying it in their eyes and then making a run for it.
Maybe they'll be laughing so hard I'll have a chance to slip past; bug spray, great weapon…
She'd heard what could have been shots somewhere close by, but they weren't repeated. Her hope that it was one of the team faded as the seconds ticked past, and she was starting to give serious consideration to the concept that she was the only one left when the door burst open and a gasping figure hurdled inside. Rebecca didn't hesitate. She leapt forward and pressed the button, releasing a cloud of chemical mist into its face, tensing herself to run past it. "Gah!" It yelled, and fell back against the door, slamming it shut. It covered its eyes, spluttering. It wasn't a monster; she'd just maced one of the Alphas. "Oh, no!" Rebecca was already reaching into her field medical kit, her immense relief at seeing another of the S.T.A.R.S. battling with monumental embar– rassment. She fumbled out a clean cloth and a tiny squeeze bottle of water, stepping toward him. "Keep your eyes closed, don't rub at them."
The Alpha dropped his hands, face red, and she finally recognized him. It was Chris Redfield, only the most attractive guy in the S.T.A.R.S., not to mention her superior. She felt herself blush, and was suddenly glad that he couldn't see her.
Nice going, Rebecca. Way to make a good impres-sion on your first operation. Lose your gun, get lost, blind a teammate…
She led him over to the small cot in the corner of the room and sat him down, letting her training take over.
"Lean your head back. This is going to sting a little, but it's just water, okay?" She dabbed at his eyes with the damp cloth, relieved that she hadn't sprayed him
with anything worse. "What was that stuff?" he said, blinking rapidly. Tears and water streamed down his face, but there didn't seem to be any damage.
"Uh, bug repellent. The label's been ripped off but the active ingredient is probably permephrin, it's an irritant but the effect shouldn't last long. I lost my gun, and when you came in I thought you were one of those things, though if they haven't figured out how to use a doorknob by now, they probably won't."
She realized she was babbling and shut up, finishing the crude irrigation and stepping back. Chris wiped at his face and peered up at her with bloodshot eyes.
"Rebecca… Chambers, right?" She nodded miserably. "Yeah. Look, I'm really Sorry." "Don't worry about it," he said, and smiled. "Not a bad weapon, actually."
He stood up and looked around the small room, frowning. There wasn't much to see: an open trunk full of papers, a shelf lined with bottles of mostly unlabeled chemicals, a cot, and a desk. Rebecca had been through it all in her search for something to use against the creatures. "What about the rest of your team?" he asked. Rebecca shook her head. "I don't know. Something went wrong with the helicopter and we had to set down. We were attacked by animals, some kind of dogs, and Enrico told us to run for cover."
She shrugged, suddenly feeling like she was about twelve years old. "I got-turned around in the woods and ended up at the front door of this place. I think one of the others broke it down, it was open…"
She trailed off, looking away from his intense gaze. The rest was probably obvious: she had no weapon, she'd gotten lost, she'd ended up here. All in all, a pretty poor showing. "Hey," he said softly. "There's nothing else you could have done. Enrico said run, you ran, you followed orders. Those creatures out there, the zom– bies… they're all over the place. I got lost, too, and the rest of the Alphas could be anywhere. Trust me, just the fact that you made it this far."
Outside, one of the monsters let out a low, plaintive wail and Chris stopped talking, his expression grim. Rebecca shuddered. "So what do we do now?"We look for the others and try to find a way out." He sighed, looking down at his weapon. "Except you don't have a gun and I'm almost out of ammo…"
Rebecca brightened and reached into her hip pack.
She pulled out two full magazines and handed them over, pleased that she had something to offer him. "Oh! And I found this on the desk," she said, and produced a silver key with a sword on it. She didn't know what it unlocked, but thought it might be useful. Chris stared at it thoughtfully, then slipped it into a pocket. He walked to the open trunk and looked down at the stacks of papers. He rifled through them, frowning.
"Your background's in biochemistry, right? Have you looked through these?" Rebecca joined him, shaking her head. "Barely. I've been kinda busy watching the door."
He handed her one of the papers and she scanned it quickly. It was a list of neurotransmitters and level indicators. "Brain chemistry," she said, "but these numbers are all screwed up. The serotonin and norepinephrine are too low… but look here, the dopamine is off the chart, we're talking big-time schizo."
She noticed the incredulous look on his face and smiled a little. Being an eighteen-year-old college grad, she got a lot of that. The S.T.A.R.S. had recruited her right after graduation, promising her a whole team of researchers and a lab of her own to study molecular biology, her real passion-provided, of course, that she went through basic training and got some field experience. No one else had shown much interest in hiring a whiz kid… There was a soft thump at the door and her smile faded. She was getting experience, alright. Chris fished the sword key out of his pocket and looked at her seriously. "I passed a door with a sword engraved over the keyhole. I'm going to go check it out, see if it leads back to the main hall. I want you to stay here and go through those files. Maybe there's something we can use."
Her uncertainty must have showed in her face. He smiled gently, his voice low and soothing. "I've got plenty of ammo, thanks to you, and I won't be gone long."
She nodded, making a conscious effort to relax. She was scared, but letting him see it wasn't going to help matters. He was probably scared, too. He walked to the door, still talking. "The RPD should be here any time, so if I don't come back right away, just wait here."
He raised the weapon, putting his other hand on the knob. "Get ready. As soon as I'm out, move the trunk in front of the door. I'll give a yell when I get back."
Rebecca nodded again, and with a final quick smile, Chris opened the door and looked both ways before moving out into the hall. She closed the door and leaned against it, listening. After long seconds of silence, she heard the rattle of gunfire not far away, five or six shots-then nothing. After a few minutes, she moved the trunk to block part of the door, edging it in front of the hinges so she could push it out of the way easily. She knelt in front of it, trying to clear her thoughts as she started looking through the papers, trying not to feel as young and unsure as she actually felt. Sighing, she pulled out a handful of papers and started to read.
SEVEN
THE LOCK WAS A PIECE OF CAKE, THREE FLAT tumblers in a single row; Jill could have opened it with a couple of paper clips. According to the map, the door would open into a long hall.… Sure enough. She took another long look at the pocket computer's screen and then slipped it into her pack, thinking. It looked like there was a back way out, through several halls and past a series of rooms. She could look for Wesker and the others along the way, and maybe secure an escape route at the same time. She stepped into the narrow corridor, the fully loaded Beretta in hand. It was a study in weirdness. The hall wasn't all that spectacular, the carpet runner and the wallpaper done in basic tans and browns, the wide windows showing only the darkness outside. The display chests that lined the inner wall, though… There were three of them, each topped by a small lamp, and each prominently displaying a wide array of bleached human bones on open shelves, inter– spersed with small items of obscurity. Jill started down the hall, stopping briefly at each bizarre specta– cle. Skulls, arm and leg bones, hands and feet. There were at least three complete skeletons, and amidst the pale and pitted bones were feathers, clay beads, gnarled strips of leather. Jill picked up one of the leather strips and then put it down quickly, wiping her fingers on her pants. She couldn't be sure, but it felt like she imagined tanned, cured human skin would feel, stiff and kind of greasy. Crash! The window behind her exploded inward, a lithe, sinewy form lunging into the hall, growling and snapping. It was one of the mutant, killing hounds, its eyes as red as its dripping hide. It charged her, its teeth as bright and dangerous as the jagged glitter of glass still falling from the shattered frame. Backed between two of the chests, Jill fired. The angle was wrong, the bullet splintering the wood at her feet as the dog jumped at her, growling deep in its throat. It hit her in the thighs, slamming her painfully against the wall, gnashing to get its jaws at her flesh. The smell of rotting meat washed over her and she fired again and again, barely aware that she was moaning in fear and disgust, a sound as guttural and primal as the furious, dying shrieks that came from the canine abomination. The fifth bullet fired directly into its barrel chest knocked it away. With a final, almost puppyish yelp it crumpled to the floor, blood gushing into the tan carpet. Jill kept her weapon trained on the still form, gulping air in huge, shuddery breaths. Its limbs twitched suddenly, its massive claws beating a brief tattoo across the wet, red floor before it lay still again. Jill relaxed, recognizing the movement as a death spasm, the body releasing life. She'd have bruises, but the dog was dead. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and crouched down next to it, taking in the strange, exposed muscu– lature and huge jaws. It had been too dark and hectic on the run to the house to get a good look at the things that had killed Joseph, but in the bright light of the corridor, her initial impression wasn't changed; it looked like a skinned dog. She stood up and backed away, warily eyeing the row of windows in the hall. Obviously they offered no protection from the hazards outside. The corridor took a sharp left and she hurried on, past more of the macabre displays that decorated the inner wall. The door at the end of the long hall was unlocked. It opened into another hall, not as well lit as the first but at least not as creepy, either. The muted, gray-green wallpaper sported paintings of generic scenery and gentle landscapes, not a bone or fetish in sight. The first door on the right was locked, a carving of armor on the key plate. Jill remembered the list on the computer, something about knight keys, but decided not to bother with it for now. According to Trent's map, there was a room on the other side that didn't lead anywhere. Besides, if Wesker had come this way, she didn't imagine that he was locking doors behind him.
Right, just like it was unlikely that Chris would disappear; don't assume anything about this place.
The next door she tried opened into a small bath– room with an antique feel, complete with a ceiling fan and an old-fashioned, four-footed tub. There was no sign of recent use. She stood for a moment in the stale, tiny room, breathing deeply, feeling the aftermath of the adrena– line rush she'd had in the corridor. Growing up, she'd learned how to enjoy the thrill of danger, of sneaking in and out of strange places with only a handful of tools and her own wits to keep her safe. Since joining the S.T.A.R.S., that youthful excitement had faded away, lost to the realities of back-up and handguns, but here it was again, unexpected and not unwelcome. She couldn't lie to herself about the simple joy that often followed facing death and walking away. She felt… good. Alive. Let's not have a party just yet, her mind whispered sarcastically. Or have you forgotten that S.T.A.R.S. are being eaten in this hellhole?
Jill stepped back into the silent hallway and edged around another corner, wondering if Barry had found Chris and if either of them had run across any of the Bravos. She felt like she had an advantage with the maps, and decided that once she'd checked out the possible escape, she'd go back to the main hall and wait for Barry. With the information on Trent's computer, they could search more quickly and thor– oughly. The corridor ended with two doors facing each other. The one on the right was the one she wanted. She tried the handle and was rewarded with the soft snick of the bolt retracting. She stepped into a dark hall and saw one of the zombies, a hulking, pale shadow standing next to a door, maybe ten feet away. As she raised her weapon, the creature started toward her, emitting soft hunger sounds from its decaying lips. One of its arms hung limply at its side, and although Jill could see jagged bone protruding from the shoulder, it still clenched and unclenched its rotting fist eagerly as it reached out with its other arm.
The head, aim for the head.
The shots were incredibly loud in the chilly gloom, the first blowing off its left ear, the second and third punching holes into its skull just above its pallid brow. Dark fluids streamed down the peeling face and it fell to its knees, its flat, lifeless eyes rolling back into its head. There was shuffling movement in the shadows at the back of the hall to the right, exactly where she meant to go. Jill trained the gun on the darkness and waited for it to move closer, her entire body wired with tension.
How many of these things are there?
As soon as the zombie cleared the corner, she fired, the Beretta jumping lightly in her sweating hands. The second shot punctured its right eye and it imme– diately collapsed to the dark, polished wood of the floor, the sticky, viscous matter of the blown eyeball flecked across its skeletal face. Jill waited, but other than the spreading pools of blood around the dead creatures, nothing moved. Breathing through her mouth to avoid the worst of the stench, she hurried to the back of the hall and turned right, down a short, tight passage that dead ended at a rusting metal door. It creaked open and fresh air flooded past her, warm and clean after the morgue-like chill of the house. Jill grinned, hearing the drone of cicadas and crickets on the night air. She'd reached the final leg of her little excursion, and although she wasn't outside yet, the sounds and smells of the forest renewed her sense of accomplishment.
Got a secured path now, straight to the back of this place. We can head north, hit one of the logging roads and hike down to the barricade…
She stepped out onto a covered walkway, a mosaic of green stone surrounded by high concrete walls. There were small intermittent openings near the ceiling of the pathway, accounting for the faint, pine– scented breeze. Ivy trickled down from the arched openings like a reminder of the outside world. She hurried down the dim passage, remembering from the map that there was a single room at the end and to the right, probably a storage shed. She turned the corner and stopped at another heavy-looking metal door, her smile fading as she reflexively reached for the handle; the keyhole was plugged. She crouched and poked at the tiny hole, but to no avail. Someone had stopped it up with epoxy. To the left of the door was some kind of diagram set into the concrete, made of dull copper. There were four hexagonal depressions in the flat metal plate, each fist-sized hole connected to the next by a thin line. Jill squinted at the legend etched beneath, wish-ing that she had a flashlight as she struggled to make out the words. She brushed a thin layer of dust off of the indented letters and tried again. WHEN THE SUN… SETS IN THE WEST AND THE MOON RISES IN THE EAST, STARS WILL BEGIN TO APPEAR IN THE SKY… AND WIND WILL BLOW TOWARD THE GROUND. THEN THE GATE OF NEW LIFE WILL OPEN.
She blinked. Four holes – Trent's list!Four crests, and something about the gate of new life –
–it's a combination mechanism for the lock. Place the four crests, the door opens… except that means I have to find them first.
Jill pushed against the door and felt her hope fizzle out completely; not even a rattle, no give at all. They were going to have to find another way out, unless the crests could be found – which in this place could take years. A lone howl rose in the distance and was joined by the echoing cries of the dogs near the mansion, the strange, yodeling sounds piercing the gentle quiet of the woods. There had to be dozens of them out there, and Jill realized suddenly that escaping out the back door probably wasn't such a hot idea. She had limited ammunition for her handgun and no doubts that there were more ghoulish creatures wandering the halls, shuffling about in hungry, mindless silence as they searched for their next grisly meal… She sighed heavily and started back to the house, already dreading the cold stench of death and trying to prepare herself for the dangers that seemed to lurk at every corner. The S.T.A.R.S. were trapped.
Chris knew he had to make the ammo count, so when he left Rebecca, he took off through the dim corridor at a full run, his boots pounding at the wood floor. There were still only three of them, all grouped near the stairs. He dodged past them easily and sprinted down the hall and around the corner. As soon as he got to the door that led back to the other hall, he turned and assumed a classic shooter's stance, sup– porting his gun hand at the wrist, his finger on the trigger. One by one, the zombies reeled around the corner, groaning and stumbling. Chris took careful aim, breathing evenly, keeping his focus… He squeezed the trigger, sending two bullets through the gangrenous nose of the first. Without pausing, he sent a third shot into the center of the next zombie's forehead. Fluid and soft matter sprayed the wall behind them as the bullets slapped into the wood. Even as they crumpled to the floor, he'd found his mark on the third creature. Two more muted explo– sions and the zombie's brow caved inward, dropping it like the bag of bones that it was. Chris lowered the Beretta, feeling a flush of pride.
He was a high-ranked marksman, even had a couple of awards to show for it, but it was still good to see what he could do when given enough time to aim. His quick-draw wasn't nearly as strong, that was Barry's forte. He reached for the door handle, urged into action by the thought of all that was at stake. He figured the Alphas could take care of themselves, they had as much of a chance as he did, but this was Rebecca's first operation and she didn't even have a gun; he needed to get her out. He stepped back into the soft light of the hall with the green wallpaper, quickly checking both direc– tions. Straight ahead, the corridor was in heavier shadow; no way to tell if it was clear. To his right was the door with the sword on the key plate and the first zombie he'd shot, still sprawled lifelessly across the floor. Chris was gratified to see that it hadn't moved. Apparently head shots were the best way to kill a zombie, just like in the movies… Chris edged toward the sword door, training his weapon left, then right, then left again; he'd had enough surprises for one day. He checked the small offshoot across from the door and seeing that it was clear, quickly inserted the slender key into the lock. It turned smoothly. Chris stepped into a small bedroom, only slightly better lit than the corridor, a single bright lamp on a desk in one corner. It was all clear, unless there was something hiding under the narrow cot… or maybe in the closet across from the desk. He shuddered, closing the door behind him. It was every kid's first set of fears, and had been his, too. Monsters in the closet and the thing that lived under the bed, waiting for the careless child's ankle to come within reach.
And how old arw you now?
Chris shook off the case of nerves, embarrassed at his imaginative wanderings. He walked slowly around the room, looking for anything that might be helpful. There was no other door, no path back to the main hall, but maybe he could find a better weapon for Rebecca than a can of bug spray. Besides an oak table and bookshelf, there was the small, unmade bed and a study desk in the room, nothing more. He quickly rifled through the books, then moved around the foot of the bed to the desk. There was a slim volume next to the desk lamp, the fabric cover untitled; a journal. And although the desktop was coated in dust, the diary had been moved recently.
Intrigued, Chris picked it up and flipped to the last few pages. Maybe there was a clue as to what the hell was going on. He sat on the edge of the cot and started to read.
May 9, 1998:Played poker tonight with Scott and Alias from Security, and Steve from Research. Steve was the big winner, but I think he was cheating. Scumbag.
Chris smiled a little at that. He skipped down to the next entry and his smile froze, his heart seeming to pause in mid-beat.
May 10,1998:One of the higher-ups assigned me to take care of a new experiment. It looks like a skinned gorilla. Feeding instructions were to give it live animals. When I threw in a pig, the creature seemed to be playing with it tearing off the pig's legs and pulling out the guts before it actually started eating. Experiment? Could the writer be talking about the zombies? Chris read on, excited by the find. The diary obviously belonged to someone who worked here, had to be meaning that the cover-up was even bigger than he'd suspected.
May 11, 1998:At around 5 A.M., Scott woke me up. Scared the shit out of me, too. He was wearing a protective garment that looked like a space suit. He handed me another one and told me to put it on. Said there'd been an accident in the basement lab. I just knew something like this would happen. Those assholes in Research never rest, even at night.
May 12, 1998:I've been wearing the damn space suit since yesterday. My skin's getting grimy and feels itchy all over. The goddamn dogs have been looking at me funny, so I decided not to feed them today. Screw 'em.
May 13,1998:Went to the Infirmary because my back is all swollen and feels itchy. They put a big bandage on it and told me I didn't need to wear the suit any more. All I wanna do is sleep.
May 14, 1998:Found another blister on my foot this morning. I ended up dragging my foot all the way to the dogs' pen. They were quiet all day, which is weird. Then I realized some of them had escaped. If anybody finds out, I'll have my head handed to me.
May 15, 1998:My first day off in a long time and I feel like shit. Decided to go visit Nancy anyway, but when I tried to leave the estate, I was stopped by the guards. They said the company's ordered that no one leave the grounds. I can't even make a phone call – all the phones have been ripped out! What kind of bullshit is this?!
May 16, 1998:Rumor's going around that a researcher who tried to escape the estate last night was shot. My entire body feels hot and itchy and I'm sweating all the time now. I scratched the swelling on my arm and a piece of rotten flesh just dropped off. Wasn't until I realized the smell was making me hungry that I got violently sick.
The writing had become shaky. Chris turned the page, and could barely read the last few lines, the words scrawled haphazardly across the paper.
May 19.Fever gone but itchy. Hungry and eat doggie food. Itchy itchy Scott came ugly face so killed him. Tasty. 4 //Itchy. Tasty.
The rest of the pages were blank. Chris stood up and slipped the journal inside his vest, his thoughts racing. Some of the pieces were finally fitting into place – secret research at a secretly kept estate, an accident in a hidden lab, an escaped virus or infection of some kind that altered the people working here, changing them into ghouls… and some of them got out. The murders and attacks on Raccoon started in late May, coinciding with the effects of the "accident"; the chronology made sense. But exactly what kind of research was being done here, and how deeply in-volved was Umbrella? How involved was Billy?
He didn't want to think about that, but even as he tried to clear his mind of the thought, a new one occurred to him… what if it was still contagious? He hurried to the door, suddenly desperate to get back to Rebecca with the news. With her training, maybe she could figure out what had been unleashed in the secret lab on the estate. Chris swallowed heavily. Even now, he and the other S.T.A.R.S. could be infected.
Right, just like it was unlikely that Chris would disappear; don't assume anything about this place.
The next door she tried opened into a small bath– room with an antique feel, complete with a ceiling fan and an old-fashioned, four-footed tub. There was no sign of recent use. She stood for a moment in the stale, tiny room, breathing deeply, feeling the aftermath of the adrena– line rush she'd had in the corridor. Growing up, she'd learned how to enjoy the thrill of danger, of sneaking in and out of strange places with only a handful of tools and her own wits to keep her safe. Since joining the S.T.A.R.S., that youthful excitement had faded away, lost to the realities of back-up and handguns, but here it was again, unexpected and not unwelcome. She couldn't lie to herself about the simple joy that often followed facing death and walking away. She felt… good. Alive. Let's not have a party just yet, her mind whispered sarcastically. Or have you forgotten that S.T.A.R.S. are being eaten in this hellhole?
Jill stepped back into the silent hallway and edged around another corner, wondering if Barry had found Chris and if either of them had run across any of the Bravos. She felt like she had an advantage with the maps, and decided that once she'd checked out the possible escape, she'd go back to the main hall and wait for Barry. With the information on Trent's computer, they could search more quickly and thor– oughly. The corridor ended with two doors facing each other. The one on the right was the one she wanted. She tried the handle and was rewarded with the soft snick of the bolt retracting. She stepped into a dark hall and saw one of the zombies, a hulking, pale shadow standing next to a door, maybe ten feet away. As she raised her weapon, the creature started toward her, emitting soft hunger sounds from its decaying lips. One of its arms hung limply at its side, and although Jill could see jagged bone protruding from the shoulder, it still clenched and unclenched its rotting fist eagerly as it reached out with its other arm.
The head, aim for the head.
The shots were incredibly loud in the chilly gloom, the first blowing off its left ear, the second and third punching holes into its skull just above its pallid brow. Dark fluids streamed down the peeling face and it fell to its knees, its flat, lifeless eyes rolling back into its head. There was shuffling movement in the shadows at the back of the hall to the right, exactly where she meant to go. Jill trained the gun on the darkness and waited for it to move closer, her entire body wired with tension.
How many of these things are there?
As soon as the zombie cleared the corner, she fired, the Beretta jumping lightly in her sweating hands. The second shot punctured its right eye and it imme– diately collapsed to the dark, polished wood of the floor, the sticky, viscous matter of the blown eyeball flecked across its skeletal face. Jill waited, but other than the spreading pools of blood around the dead creatures, nothing moved. Breathing through her mouth to avoid the worst of the stench, she hurried to the back of the hall and turned right, down a short, tight passage that dead ended at a rusting metal door. It creaked open and fresh air flooded past her, warm and clean after the morgue-like chill of the house. Jill grinned, hearing the drone of cicadas and crickets on the night air. She'd reached the final leg of her little excursion, and although she wasn't outside yet, the sounds and smells of the forest renewed her sense of accomplishment.
Got a secured path now, straight to the back of this place. We can head north, hit one of the logging roads and hike down to the barricade…
She stepped out onto a covered walkway, a mosaic of green stone surrounded by high concrete walls. There were small intermittent openings near the ceiling of the pathway, accounting for the faint, pine– scented breeze. Ivy trickled down from the arched openings like a reminder of the outside world. She hurried down the dim passage, remembering from the map that there was a single room at the end and to the right, probably a storage shed. She turned the corner and stopped at another heavy-looking metal door, her smile fading as she reflexively reached for the handle; the keyhole was plugged. She crouched and poked at the tiny hole, but to no avail. Someone had stopped it up with epoxy. To the left of the door was some kind of diagram set into the concrete, made of dull copper. There were four hexagonal depressions in the flat metal plate, each fist-sized hole connected to the next by a thin line. Jill squinted at the legend etched beneath, wish-ing that she had a flashlight as she struggled to make out the words. She brushed a thin layer of dust off of the indented letters and tried again. WHEN THE SUN… SETS IN THE WEST AND THE MOON RISES IN THE EAST, STARS WILL BEGIN TO APPEAR IN THE SKY… AND WIND WILL BLOW TOWARD THE GROUND. THEN THE GATE OF NEW LIFE WILL OPEN.
She blinked. Four holes – Trent's list!Four crests, and something about the gate of new life –
–it's a combination mechanism for the lock. Place the four crests, the door opens… except that means I have to find them first.
Jill pushed against the door and felt her hope fizzle out completely; not even a rattle, no give at all. They were going to have to find another way out, unless the crests could be found – which in this place could take years. A lone howl rose in the distance and was joined by the echoing cries of the dogs near the mansion, the strange, yodeling sounds piercing the gentle quiet of the woods. There had to be dozens of them out there, and Jill realized suddenly that escaping out the back door probably wasn't such a hot idea. She had limited ammunition for her handgun and no doubts that there were more ghoulish creatures wandering the halls, shuffling about in hungry, mindless silence as they searched for their next grisly meal… She sighed heavily and started back to the house, already dreading the cold stench of death and trying to prepare herself for the dangers that seemed to lurk at every corner. The S.T.A.R.S. were trapped.
Chris knew he had to make the ammo count, so when he left Rebecca, he took off through the dim corridor at a full run, his boots pounding at the wood floor. There were still only three of them, all grouped near the stairs. He dodged past them easily and sprinted down the hall and around the corner. As soon as he got to the door that led back to the other hall, he turned and assumed a classic shooter's stance, sup– porting his gun hand at the wrist, his finger on the trigger. One by one, the zombies reeled around the corner, groaning and stumbling. Chris took careful aim, breathing evenly, keeping his focus… He squeezed the trigger, sending two bullets through the gangrenous nose of the first. Without pausing, he sent a third shot into the center of the next zombie's forehead. Fluid and soft matter sprayed the wall behind them as the bullets slapped into the wood. Even as they crumpled to the floor, he'd found his mark on the third creature. Two more muted explo– sions and the zombie's brow caved inward, dropping it like the bag of bones that it was. Chris lowered the Beretta, feeling a flush of pride.
He was a high-ranked marksman, even had a couple of awards to show for it, but it was still good to see what he could do when given enough time to aim. His quick-draw wasn't nearly as strong, that was Barry's forte. He reached for the door handle, urged into action by the thought of all that was at stake. He figured the Alphas could take care of themselves, they had as much of a chance as he did, but this was Rebecca's first operation and she didn't even have a gun; he needed to get her out. He stepped back into the soft light of the hall with the green wallpaper, quickly checking both direc– tions. Straight ahead, the corridor was in heavier shadow; no way to tell if it was clear. To his right was the door with the sword on the key plate and the first zombie he'd shot, still sprawled lifelessly across the floor. Chris was gratified to see that it hadn't moved. Apparently head shots were the best way to kill a zombie, just like in the movies… Chris edged toward the sword door, training his weapon left, then right, then left again; he'd had enough surprises for one day. He checked the small offshoot across from the door and seeing that it was clear, quickly inserted the slender key into the lock. It turned smoothly. Chris stepped into a small bedroom, only slightly better lit than the corridor, a single bright lamp on a desk in one corner. It was all clear, unless there was something hiding under the narrow cot… or maybe in the closet across from the desk. He shuddered, closing the door behind him. It was every kid's first set of fears, and had been his, too. Monsters in the closet and the thing that lived under the bed, waiting for the careless child's ankle to come within reach.
And how old arw you now?
Chris shook off the case of nerves, embarrassed at his imaginative wanderings. He walked slowly around the room, looking for anything that might be helpful. There was no other door, no path back to the main hall, but maybe he could find a better weapon for Rebecca than a can of bug spray. Besides an oak table and bookshelf, there was the small, unmade bed and a study desk in the room, nothing more. He quickly rifled through the books, then moved around the foot of the bed to the desk. There was a slim volume next to the desk lamp, the fabric cover untitled; a journal. And although the desktop was coated in dust, the diary had been moved recently.
Intrigued, Chris picked it up and flipped to the last few pages. Maybe there was a clue as to what the hell was going on. He sat on the edge of the cot and started to read.
May 9, 1998:Played poker tonight with Scott and Alias from Security, and Steve from Research. Steve was the big winner, but I think he was cheating. Scumbag.
Chris smiled a little at that. He skipped down to the next entry and his smile froze, his heart seeming to pause in mid-beat.
May 10,1998:One of the higher-ups assigned me to take care of a new experiment. It looks like a skinned gorilla. Feeding instructions were to give it live animals. When I threw in a pig, the creature seemed to be playing with it tearing off the pig's legs and pulling out the guts before it actually started eating. Experiment? Could the writer be talking about the zombies? Chris read on, excited by the find. The diary obviously belonged to someone who worked here, had to be meaning that the cover-up was even bigger than he'd suspected.
May 11, 1998:At around 5 A.M., Scott woke me up. Scared the shit out of me, too. He was wearing a protective garment that looked like a space suit. He handed me another one and told me to put it on. Said there'd been an accident in the basement lab. I just knew something like this would happen. Those assholes in Research never rest, even at night.
May 12, 1998:I've been wearing the damn space suit since yesterday. My skin's getting grimy and feels itchy all over. The goddamn dogs have been looking at me funny, so I decided not to feed them today. Screw 'em.
May 13,1998:Went to the Infirmary because my back is all swollen and feels itchy. They put a big bandage on it and told me I didn't need to wear the suit any more. All I wanna do is sleep.
May 14, 1998:Found another blister on my foot this morning. I ended up dragging my foot all the way to the dogs' pen. They were quiet all day, which is weird. Then I realized some of them had escaped. If anybody finds out, I'll have my head handed to me.
May 15, 1998:My first day off in a long time and I feel like shit. Decided to go visit Nancy anyway, but when I tried to leave the estate, I was stopped by the guards. They said the company's ordered that no one leave the grounds. I can't even make a phone call – all the phones have been ripped out! What kind of bullshit is this?!
May 16, 1998:Rumor's going around that a researcher who tried to escape the estate last night was shot. My entire body feels hot and itchy and I'm sweating all the time now. I scratched the swelling on my arm and a piece of rotten flesh just dropped off. Wasn't until I realized the smell was making me hungry that I got violently sick.
The writing had become shaky. Chris turned the page, and could barely read the last few lines, the words scrawled haphazardly across the paper.
May 19.Fever gone but itchy. Hungry and eat doggie food. Itchy itchy Scott came ugly face so killed him. Tasty. 4 //Itchy. Tasty.
The rest of the pages were blank. Chris stood up and slipped the journal inside his vest, his thoughts racing. Some of the pieces were finally fitting into place – secret research at a secretly kept estate, an accident in a hidden lab, an escaped virus or infection of some kind that altered the people working here, changing them into ghouls… and some of them got out. The murders and attacks on Raccoon started in late May, coinciding with the effects of the "accident"; the chronology made sense. But exactly what kind of research was being done here, and how deeply in-volved was Umbrella? How involved was Billy?
He didn't want to think about that, but even as he tried to clear his mind of the thought, a new one occurred to him… what if it was still contagious? He hurried to the door, suddenly desperate to get back to Rebecca with the news. With her training, maybe she could figure out what had been unleashed in the secret lab on the estate. Chris swallowed heavily. Even now, he and the other S.T.A.R.S. could be infected.
EIGHT
AFTER JILL AND BARRY WENT THEIR SEPA-rate ways, Wesker stayed crouched on the balcony in the main hall, thinking. He knew that time was of the essence, but he wanted to outline a few possible scenarios before he acted; he'd already made mis– takes, and didn't want to make any more of them. The Raccoon Alphas were a bright group, making his margin for error very slim indeed. He'd received his orders a couple of days ago, but hadn't expected to be in a position to carry them out so soon; the Bravo team's 'copter going down had been a fluke, as had Brad Vickers's sudden display of cowardice. Still, he should have been more prepared. Being caught with his pants down like this went against his grain, it was so… unprofessional. He sighed, putting the thoughts aside. There'd be time for self-recrimination later. He hadn't expected to end up here, but here he was, and kicking himself for lack of foresight wasn't going to change anything. Besides, there was too much to do. He knew the grounds of the estate fairly well and the labs like the back of his hand, but he'd only been inside the mansion a few times and not at all since he'd been "officially" transferred to Raccoon City. The place was a maze, designed by a genius architect at the bidding of a madman. Spencer was bats, no two ways about it, and he'd had the house built with all kinds of tricky little mechanisms, a lot of that silly spy crap that had been so popular in the late sixties… Spy crap that's going to make this job twice as hard as it needs to be. Hidden keys, secret tunnels – it's like I'm trapped in an espionage thriller, complete with mad scientists and a ticking clock. His original plan had been to lead both the Alpha and Bravo teams to the estate and clear the area before he proceeded to the lower labs and wrapped things up. He had the master keys and codes, of course; they had been sent along with his orders, and would open most of the doors on the estate. The problem was, there was no key to the door that led to the garden, it had a puzzle lock and was currently the only way to get to the labs, outside of walking through the woods. Which ain't gonna happen. The dogs would be on me before I could take two steps, and if the 121s got out… Wesker shuddered, remembering the incident with the rookie guard who'd gotten too close to one of the cages, a year or so back. The kid had been dead before he could even open his mouth to call for help. Wesker had no intention of going back outside without an army to back him up. The last contact with the estate had been over six weeks ago, an hysterical call from Michael Dees to one of the suits in the White office. The doctor had sealed the mansion, hiding the four pieces of the puzzle lock in a fruitless effort to keep any more of the virus carriers from reaching the house. By then, they were all infected and suffering from a kind of para– noid mania, one of the more charming side effects of the virus. God only knew what tricks and traps the researchers down in the labs had screwed with as they slowly lost their minds. Dees had been no exception, although he had managed to hold out longer than most of the others; something to do with individual metabolism, or so Wesker'd been told. The company had already de– cided to call a complete wipe, though the babbling scientist had been assured that help was on the way. Wesker had enjoyed a good laugh over that one. There was no way the White boys would risk further infec– tion. They'd sat on their hands for almost two months while Raccoon suffered the consequences, letting the incompetent RPD investigate while the virus gradu– ally lost its punch and then sent him in to clean up the mess. Which by now was considerable. The captain absently ran his fingers across the plush carpet, trying to remember details of the briefing about Dees's call. Whether he liked it or not, every– thing had to be taken care of tonight. He had to collect the required evidence and get to the labs, and that meant finding the pieces of the puzzle lock. Dees had been mostly incoherent, ranting about murderous crows and giant spiders, but he had insisted that the crest-keys to the puzzle lock were "hidden where only Spencer could find them," and that made sense. Everyone who worked in the house knew about Spencer's penchant for cloak-and-dagger mecha– nisms. Unfortunately for Wesker, he hadn't bothered learning much about the mansion, since he never thought he'd need the information. He remembered a few of the more colorful hiding places – the statue of the tiger with mismatched eyes came to mind, as did the armor display room with the gas and the secret room in the library…