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But I don't have time to go through all of them, not by myself.
Wesker grinned suddenly and stood up, amazed that he hadn't thought of it already. Who said he had to be by himself? He'd ditched the S.T.A.R.S. to map out a new plan and search for the crests, but there was no reason that he had to do everything. Chris wasn't viable, he was too gung-ho, and Jill was still an unknown quantity… Barry, though… Barry Bur– ton was a family man. And both Jill and Chris trusted him. And while they're all still fumbling around in the house, I can get to the triggering system and then get the hell out, mission complete. Still grinning, Wesker walked to the door that led to the dining room balcony, surprised to find that he was looking forward to his little adventure. It was a chance to test his skills against the rest of the team and against the accidental test subjects that were surely still lurching around not to mention, of Spencer himself. And if he pulled it off, he was going to be a very rich man. This might actually turn out to be fun.
NINE
TEN
Wesker grinned suddenly and stood up, amazed that he hadn't thought of it already. Who said he had to be by himself? He'd ditched the S.T.A.R.S. to map out a new plan and search for the crests, but there was no reason that he had to do everything. Chris wasn't viable, he was too gung-ho, and Jill was still an unknown quantity… Barry, though… Barry Bur– ton was a family man. And both Jill and Chris trusted him. And while they're all still fumbling around in the house, I can get to the triggering system and then get the hell out, mission complete. Still grinning, Wesker walked to the door that led to the dining room balcony, surprised to find that he was looking forward to his little adventure. It was a chance to test his skills against the rest of the team and against the accidental test subjects that were surely still lurching around not to mention, of Spencer himself. And if he pulled it off, he was going to be a very rich man. This might actually turn out to be fun.
NINE
CAW! Jill whipped her Beretta toward the sound, the mournful shriek echoing all around as the door slipped closed behind her. Then she saw the source of the noise and relaxed, smiling nervously.
What the hell are they doing in here?
She was still in the back part of the house, and had decided to check out a few of the other rooms before heading back to the main hall. The first door she'd tried had been locked, a carving of a helmet on the key plate. Her picks had been useless, the lock a type she'd never encountered, so she'd decided to try her luck on the door across the hall. It had opened easily enough, and she'd gone in ready for anything, though about the last thing she'd expected to see was a flock of crows, perched along the support bar for the track lighting that ran the length of the room. Another of the large black birds let out its morose shriek, and Jill shivered at the sound. There were at least a dozen of them, ruffling their shiny feathers and watching her with bright, beady eyes as she quickly surveyed the room for threats; it was clear. The U-shaped chamber she'd entered was as cold as the rest of the house, perhaps colder, and empty of furniture. It was a viewing hall, nothing but portraits and paintings lining the inner wall. Black feathers lay scattered across the worn wooden floor amidst dried mounds of bird droppings, and Jill wondered again how the crows had gotten inside, and how long they'd been there. There was definitely something strange about their appearance; they seemed much larger than normal crows, and they studied her with an intensity that seemed almost unnatural. Jill shivered again, turning back toward the door. There wasn't anything important in the room, and the birds were giving her the creeps. Time to move on. She glanced at a few of the paintings on her way out, mostly portraits, noticing that there were switches beneath the heavy frames – she assumed they were for the track lighting, though she couldn't imagine why anyone had bothered setting up such an elaborate gallery for such mediocre art. A baby, a young man… the paintings weren't awful, but they weren't exactly inspired, either. She stopped as she touched the cold metal handle of the door, frowning. There was a small, inset control panel set at eye level to the right of the door, labeled "spots." She punched one of the buttons and the room dimmed as a single directional light went out. Several of the crows barked their disapproval, flutter-ing ebony wings, and Jill turned the light back on, thinking.
So if these are the light switches, what are the controls beneath the paintings for?
Perhaps there was more to the room than she'd thought. She walked to the first picture across from the door, a large painting of flying angels and clouds shot with sunbeams. The title was, From Cradle to Grave. There wasn't a switch below it, and Jill moved to the next. It was a portrait of a middle-aged man, his lined features sagging with exhaustion, standing next to an elaborate fireplace. From the cut of his suit and his slicked back hair, it looked to have been painted in the late 1940s or early '50s. There was a simple on/off switch underneath, unlabeled. Jill flicked it from left to right and heard an electrical snap and behind her, the crows exploded into screaming motion, rising as one from their brooding perch. All she could hear was the beat of their dark wings and the sudden, manic ferocity of their cries as they swarmed toward her and Jill ran, the door seeming a million miles away, her heart pounding. The first of the crows reached her as she grabbed for the handle, its claws finding the soft skin at the back of her neck. There was a sharp stab of pain just behind her right ear and Jill flailed at the rustling feathers that brushed her cheeks, moaning as the furious shrieks enveloped her. She slapped at the air behind her and was rewarded with a startled squawk of surprise. The bird let go of her, reeling away.
–too many, out out OUT-
She jerked the door open and fell into the hallway, kicking the door closed even as she hit the floor. She lay there a moment, catching her breath, relishing the cool silence of the corridor in spite of the zombie stench. None of the crows had gotten out. As her heartbeat returned to something approach– ing normal, she sat up and carefully touched the wound behind her ear. Her fingers came away wet, but it wasn't too bad, the blood was already clotting; she'd been lucky. When she thought of what could have happened if she'd tripped and fallen…
Why had they attacked, what had the control switch done? She remembered the snap of electricity when she'd flipped it, the sound of a spark-the perch!
She felt a sudden rush of grudging admiration for whoever had set up the simple trap. When she'd hit the switch, she must have sent a current through the metal bar they'd been perched on. She'd never heard of attack-trained crows, but could think of no other explanation-which meant that someone had gone through a lot of trouble to keep whatever was in that room a secret. To get to the answer, she'd have to go back in.
I can stand in the doorway, take them out one at a time… She didn't much like the idea, she didn't trust her aim and would certainly waste a lot of ammunition.
Only fools accept the obvious and go no further; use your brain, Jilly.
Jill smiled a little; it was her father talking, remind– ing her of the training she'd had before the S.T.A.R.S. One of her earliest memories was of hiding in the bushes outside the rickety old house in Massachusetts that her father had rented for them, studying the dark, empty windows as he explained how to properly "case a prospect." Dick had made it into a game, teaching her over the next ten years all the finer points of breaking and entering, everything from how to re– move panes of glass without damaging them to walk– ing on stairs so they didn't creak and he'd also taught her, again and again, that every riddle had more than one answer. Killing the birds was too obvious. She closed her eyes, concentrating.
Switches and portraits… a little boy, a toddler, a young man, a middle-aged man… "From Cradle to Grave." Cradle to grave…
Once the solution occurred to her, she was almost embarrassed by the simplicity of it. She stood up and dusted herself off, wondering how long it would take for the crows to return to their roost. Once they were settled, she shouldn't have any more problems uncov– ering the secret. She cracked the door open and listened to the whispering beat of wings, promising herself to be more careful this time. Pushing the wrong button in this house could be deadly.
"Rebecca? Let me in, it's Chris."
There was the sound of something heavy sliding against the wall and the door to the storage room creaked opened. Rebecca stepped away from the entrance as he hurried inside, already pulling the diary out of his vest. "I found this journal in one of the rooms," he said. "It looks like there was some kind of research going
on here, I don't know what kind but…" "Virology," Rebecca interrupted, and held up a stack of papers, grinning. "You were right about there being something useful in here."
Chris took the papers from her and skimmed the first page. As far as he could tell, it was in a foreign language made out of numbers and letters.
"What is all this stuff? DH5a-MCR…" "You're looking at a strain chart," Rebecca said brightly. "That one's a host for generating genomic libraries containing methylated cytosine or adenine residues, depending." Chris cocked an eyebrow at her. "Let's pretend that I have no idea what you're talking about and try again. What did you find?"
Rebecca flushed slightly and took the papers back from him. "Sorry. Basically, there's a lot of, uh, stuff in here on viral infection." Chris nodded. "That I understand; a virus…" He quickly flipped through the journal, counting the dates from the first report of the accident in the lab. "On May eleventh, there was some kind of spill or outbreak in a laboratory on this estate. Within eight or nine days, whoever wrote this had turned into one of those creatures out there." Rebecca's eyes widened. "Does it say when the first symptoms appeared?" "Looks like… within twenty-four hours, he or she was complaining of itchy skin. Swelling and blisters within forty-eight hours." Rebecca paled. "That's… wow." Chris nodded. "Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Is there any way to tell if we could be infected?" "Not without more information. All of that…" Rebecca motioned at the trunk full of papers, "…is pretty old, ten years plus, and there's nothing specific about application. Though an airborne with that kind of speed and toxicity… if it was still viable, all of Raccoon City would probably be infected by now. I can't be positive, but I doubt it's still contagious."
Chris was relieved for himself and the rest of the S.T.A.R.S., but the fact that the "zombies" were all victims of a disease – it was depressing, whether it was a disaster of their own making or not. "We have to find the others," he said. "If one of them should stumble across the lab without knowing what's there…"
Rebecca looked stricken at the thought, but nodded gamely and moved quickly toward the door. Chris decided that, with a little experience, she'd make a first-rate S.T.A.R.S. member; she obviously knew her chemistry, and even without a gun, she was willing to leave the relative safety of the storage room in order to help the rest of the team. Together, they hurried through the dark, wooded hallway, Rebecca sticking close to his side. When they reached the door back to the first hallway, Chris checked his Beretta and then turned to Rebecca.
"Stay close. The door we want is to the right and at the end of the hall. I'll probably have to shoot the lock, and I'm pretty sure there's a zombie or two wandering around, so I'll need you to watch my back." "Yes, sir," she said quietly, and Chris grinned in spite of the situation. Technically, he was her superior – still, it was weird to have it pointed out. He opened the door and stepped through, training his gun on the shadows straight ahead and then down the hall to the right. Nothing moved. "Go," he whispered, and they jogged down the corridor, quickly stepping over the fallen creature that blocked their path. Rebecca turned to face the open stretch behind them as Chris rattled the door knob, hoping vainly that it had unlocked itself. No such luck. He backed away from the door and took careful aim. Firing at a locked door wasn't as easy or safe as it looked in the movies; a ricochet off of metal at such close range could kill the shooter "Chris!" He glanced over his shoulder and saw a shambling figure at the other end of the hall, moving slowly toward them. Even in the dim light, Chris could see that one of its arms was missing. The distinctive odor of decay wafted toward them as the zombie moaned thickly, stumbling forward. Chris turned back to the door and fired, twice. The frame splintered, the inset metal square of the lock revealed in a spray of wood chips. He jerked at the knob and the lock gave up, the door swinging open. He turned and grabbed at Rebecca's arm, hustling her through the doorway as he pointed the Beretta back down the hall. The creature had made it halfway, but was stopped at the lifeless body of the zombie that Chris had killed earlier. Even as Chris watched in horror and disgust, the one-armed zombie dropped to its knees and plunged its remaining hand into the other's crushed skull. It moaned again, a wet, phlegmy sound, and brought a handful of slushy gray matter to its eager lips.
Oh, man.
Chris shuddered involuntarily and hurriedly step– ped through to join Rebecca, closing the door on the gruesome scene. Rebecca was pale but seemed com– posed, and again, Chris admired her courage; she was young but tough, tougher than he'd been at eigh– teen. He took in the hall at a glance, immediately notic– ing the changes. To their right about twenty feet away was a corpse of one of the creatures, the top of its head blown away. It lay face up, the deep sockets of its eyes filled with blood. To their left were the two doors that Chris hadn't tried when he'd first come to investigate. The one at the very end of the hall was standing open, revealing deep shadows. At least one of the S.T.A.R.S. came this way, proba– bly looking for me. "Follow me," he said softly, and moved toward the open door, holding the Beretta tightly. He wanted to get back to the main hall with Rebecca, but the fact that one of his team must have gone through the opening deserved a quick look. As they passed the closed door on the right, Rebecca hesitated. "There's a picture of a sword next to the lock," she whispered. He kept his attention on the darkness just past the open door, but realized as she spoke that there were too many ways for them to get side-tracked. He didn't think the rest of the team was still waiting for him, but his original orders had been to report back to the lobby; he shouldn't be leading an unarmed rookie into unknown territory without at least checking. Chris sighed, lowering his weapon. "Let's get back to the main hall," he said. "We can come back and check it out later."
Rebecca nodded and together they walked back toward the dining room, Chris hoping against hope that someone would be there to meet them.
Barry pointed his Colt toward the crawling ghoul and fired, the heavy round splattering the thing's mushy skull into liquid even as it reached for his boot. Tiny drops of wetness splashed his face as the zombie spasmed and died. Scowling, Barry wiped at his skin with the back of his hand. The tiny white tiles of the kitchen wall got it much worse, rivulets of red cours– ing down the grouted tracks and pooling to the faded brown linoleum. Still, it was pretty disgusting. Barry lowered the revolver, feeling the ache in his left shoulder. The door upstairs had been solidly locked, he had the bruises to prove it and staring down at the zombie hash in front of him, he realized that he was going to have to go back up and break down another one. If he hadn't been certain before, he was now – Chris hadn't come this way. If he had, the crawling creature would already have been his– tory.
So where the hell are you, Chris?
Of the three locked doors, Barry had picked the one at the end of the hall on pure instinct. He'd ended up in a dark, silent hall that led past an empty elevator shaft and down a narrow set of stairs. The bare white kitchen at the bottom had seemed deserted, the counters thick with dust and corrosion stains on the walls – no sign of recent use, no sign of Chris, and the single door across from the sink had been locked. He'd been about to leave when he'd noticed the trails of disturbed dust on the floor and followed them. Sighing heavily, Barry stepped over the stinking monster, a final check before he headed back up for door number two. There were some stacked crates and the same old-fashioned elevator shaft, also emp– ty. He didn't bother with the call button since the one upstairs hadn't worked. Besides, judging from the rust on the metal grate, no one had used it in quite awhile. He turned back the way he'd come, wondering how Jill was making out. The sooner they could get away, the better. Barry had never disliked any place as much as he did this mansion. It was cold, it was dangerous, and it smelled like a meat locker that had been unplugged for a week. He generally wasn't the type to frighten easily or let his imagination get out of hand, but he half-expected to see some white-sheeted spook rattling chains every time he turned around. There was a distant echoing clatter behind him. Barry spun, a knot of dread in his gut as he pointed his weapon randomly at the empty air, his eyes wide and mouth dry. There was another metallic clatter, followed by a low, throbbing hum of machinery. Barry took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, getting a hold of himself. Not a disembodied spirit, after all; someone was using the elevator. Who? Chris and Wesker are missing and Jill's in the other wing…
He stayed where he was, lowering the Colt slightly as he waited. He didn't think the ghouls were smart enough to work the buttons, let alone open the gate, but he didn't want to take any chances. He was a good twenty feet from where the booth would open, assum-ing it stopped in the basement, and would have a clear shot at whoever stepped around the corner. A glim– mer of hope sparked through his confusion; maybe it was one of the Bravos, or someone who lived here and could tell them what had happened. With a dull dang, the elevator stopped in the kitchen. There was a squeal of dry metal hinges and footsteps and Captain Wesker stepped into view, his per-petual sunglasses propped on his tanned brow. Barry lowered the revolver, grinning as cool relief swept over him. Wesker stopped in his tracks and grinned back at him. "Barry! Just the man I was looking for," he said lightly.
"God, you gave me a scare! I heard the elevator start up and thought I was gonna have a heart attack…" Barry trailed off, his grin faltering. "Captain," he said slowly, "where did you go? When we came back, you were gone."Wesker's grin widened. "Sorry about that. I had some business to attend to – you know, call of na-ture?"
Barry smiled again, but was surprised by the con– fession; trapped in hostile territory, and the man had gone off to take a leak?
Wesker reached up and lowered his shades, break-ing their eye contact, and Barry suddenly felt a little nervous. Wesker's grin, if anything, seemed to grow wider. It looked like every tooth was showing.
"Barry, I need your help. Have you ever heard of White Umbrella?"
Barry shook his head, feeling more uncomfortable by the second.
"White Umbrella is a sector of Umbrella, Inc., a very important division. They specialize in… bio-logical research, I guess you could say. The Spencer estate houses their research facilities, and recently, an accident occurred."
Wesker brushed off a section of the kitchen's center island and casually leaned against it, his tone almost conversational.
"This division of Umbrella has a few ties to the
S.T.A.R.S. organization, and not long ago, I was asked to… assist in their handling of this situation. It's a very delicate situation, mind you, very hush-hush; White Umbrella doesn't want a whisper of their involvement getting out.” "Now, what I'm supposed to do is get to the laboratories on the grounds here and put an end to some rather incriminating evidence-proof that White Umbrella is responsible for the accident that's caused so much trouble in Raccoon as of late. The problem is, I don't have the key to get to those labs-keys, actually. And that's where you come in. I need for you to help me find those keys."
Barry stared at him for a moment, speechless, his mind churning. An accident, a secret lab doing biolog-ical research…
… and murdering dogs and zombies loose in the tvoods…
He raised his revolver and pointed it at Wesker's smiling face, stunned and angry. "Are you insane? You think I'm going to help you destroy evidence? You crazy son of a bitch!"
Wesker shook his head slowly, acting as if Barry were a child. "Ah, Barry, you don't understand; you don't have a choice in the matter. See, a few of my friends from White Umbrella are currently standing outside of your house, watching your wife and daugh– ters sleep. If you don't help me, your family is going to die."
Barry could actually feel the blood drain from his face. He cocked the hammer back on the Colt, feeling a sudden, vicious hatred for Wesker infusing every fiber of his being.
"Before you pull the trigger, I should mention that if I don't report back to my friends fairly soon, their orders are to go ahead and do the deed anyway."
The words cut through the red haze that had flooded Barry's mind, turning his hands clammy with terror.
Kathy, the babies – I… "You're bluffing," he whispered, and Wesker's grin finally disappeared, his expression slipping back into the unreadable mask that he usually wore. "I'm not," he said coldly. "Try me. You can apolo-gize to their headstones later."
For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence a palpable thing in the chill air. Then Barry slowlyeased the hammer back down and lowered the weap– on, his shoulders slumped. He couldn't, wouldn 't risk it; his family was everything. Wesker nodded and reached into one of his pockets, producing a ring of keys, his manner suddenly brisk and business-like. "There are four copper plates somewhere in this house. Each one is about the size of a teacup, and has a picture engraved on one side: sun, moon, stars, and wind. There's a back door on the other side of the mansion where the four of them belong."
He unhooked a key from the ring and set it on the table, sliding it across to Barry. "This should open all of the doors in the other wing, or at least the impor-tant ones, first and second floor. Find those pieces for me and your wife and children will be fine."
Barry reached for the key with numb fingers, feeling weak and more afraid than he'd ever been in his life.
"Chris and Jill…"
"… will undoubtedly want to help you search. If
you see either of them, tell them that the back door you've discovered could be the way out. I'm sure they'll be more than happy to work with their trusted friend, good ol' Barry. In fact, you should unlock every door you can in order to promote a more thorough job."
Wesker smiled again, a friendly half-grin that belied his words. "Of course, you tell them you've seen me – that could complicate matters. If I run into trouble, say, get shot in the back… well, enough said. Let's just keep this to ourselves."
The key was etched with a little picture, a chest plate for a suit of armor. Barry slipped it into his pocket. "Where will you be?" "Oh, I'll be around, don't worry. I'll contact you when the time is right."
Barry looked at Wesker pleadingly, helpless to keep the wavering fear out of his voice. "You'll tell them that I'm helping you, right? You won't forget to report?"
Wesker turned and walked toward the elevator, calling out over his shoulder. "Trust me, Barry. Do what I tell you, and there's nothing to worry about."
There was the rattle of the elevator's gate opening and closing, and Wesker was gone. Barry stood a moment longer, staring into the empty space where Wesker had been, trying to find a way out of the threat. There wasn't one. There was no contest between his honor and his family; he could live without honor. He set his jaw and walked back toward the stairs, determined to do what he had to do to save Kathy and the girls. Though when this was over, when he could be sure they were safe.
There won't be any place for you to hide, "Captain."
Barry clenched his giant fists, knuckles whitening, and promised himself that Wesker would pay for what he was doing. With interest.
What the hell are they doing in here?
She was still in the back part of the house, and had decided to check out a few of the other rooms before heading back to the main hall. The first door she'd tried had been locked, a carving of a helmet on the key plate. Her picks had been useless, the lock a type she'd never encountered, so she'd decided to try her luck on the door across the hall. It had opened easily enough, and she'd gone in ready for anything, though about the last thing she'd expected to see was a flock of crows, perched along the support bar for the track lighting that ran the length of the room. Another of the large black birds let out its morose shriek, and Jill shivered at the sound. There were at least a dozen of them, ruffling their shiny feathers and watching her with bright, beady eyes as she quickly surveyed the room for threats; it was clear. The U-shaped chamber she'd entered was as cold as the rest of the house, perhaps colder, and empty of furniture. It was a viewing hall, nothing but portraits and paintings lining the inner wall. Black feathers lay scattered across the worn wooden floor amidst dried mounds of bird droppings, and Jill wondered again how the crows had gotten inside, and how long they'd been there. There was definitely something strange about their appearance; they seemed much larger than normal crows, and they studied her with an intensity that seemed almost unnatural. Jill shivered again, turning back toward the door. There wasn't anything important in the room, and the birds were giving her the creeps. Time to move on. She glanced at a few of the paintings on her way out, mostly portraits, noticing that there were switches beneath the heavy frames – she assumed they were for the track lighting, though she couldn't imagine why anyone had bothered setting up such an elaborate gallery for such mediocre art. A baby, a young man… the paintings weren't awful, but they weren't exactly inspired, either. She stopped as she touched the cold metal handle of the door, frowning. There was a small, inset control panel set at eye level to the right of the door, labeled "spots." She punched one of the buttons and the room dimmed as a single directional light went out. Several of the crows barked their disapproval, flutter-ing ebony wings, and Jill turned the light back on, thinking.
So if these are the light switches, what are the controls beneath the paintings for?
Perhaps there was more to the room than she'd thought. She walked to the first picture across from the door, a large painting of flying angels and clouds shot with sunbeams. The title was, From Cradle to Grave. There wasn't a switch below it, and Jill moved to the next. It was a portrait of a middle-aged man, his lined features sagging with exhaustion, standing next to an elaborate fireplace. From the cut of his suit and his slicked back hair, it looked to have been painted in the late 1940s or early '50s. There was a simple on/off switch underneath, unlabeled. Jill flicked it from left to right and heard an electrical snap and behind her, the crows exploded into screaming motion, rising as one from their brooding perch. All she could hear was the beat of their dark wings and the sudden, manic ferocity of their cries as they swarmed toward her and Jill ran, the door seeming a million miles away, her heart pounding. The first of the crows reached her as she grabbed for the handle, its claws finding the soft skin at the back of her neck. There was a sharp stab of pain just behind her right ear and Jill flailed at the rustling feathers that brushed her cheeks, moaning as the furious shrieks enveloped her. She slapped at the air behind her and was rewarded with a startled squawk of surprise. The bird let go of her, reeling away.
–too many, out out OUT-
She jerked the door open and fell into the hallway, kicking the door closed even as she hit the floor. She lay there a moment, catching her breath, relishing the cool silence of the corridor in spite of the zombie stench. None of the crows had gotten out. As her heartbeat returned to something approach– ing normal, she sat up and carefully touched the wound behind her ear. Her fingers came away wet, but it wasn't too bad, the blood was already clotting; she'd been lucky. When she thought of what could have happened if she'd tripped and fallen…
Why had they attacked, what had the control switch done? She remembered the snap of electricity when she'd flipped it, the sound of a spark-the perch!
She felt a sudden rush of grudging admiration for whoever had set up the simple trap. When she'd hit the switch, she must have sent a current through the metal bar they'd been perched on. She'd never heard of attack-trained crows, but could think of no other explanation-which meant that someone had gone through a lot of trouble to keep whatever was in that room a secret. To get to the answer, she'd have to go back in.
I can stand in the doorway, take them out one at a time… She didn't much like the idea, she didn't trust her aim and would certainly waste a lot of ammunition.
Only fools accept the obvious and go no further; use your brain, Jilly.
Jill smiled a little; it was her father talking, remind– ing her of the training she'd had before the S.T.A.R.S. One of her earliest memories was of hiding in the bushes outside the rickety old house in Massachusetts that her father had rented for them, studying the dark, empty windows as he explained how to properly "case a prospect." Dick had made it into a game, teaching her over the next ten years all the finer points of breaking and entering, everything from how to re– move panes of glass without damaging them to walk– ing on stairs so they didn't creak and he'd also taught her, again and again, that every riddle had more than one answer. Killing the birds was too obvious. She closed her eyes, concentrating.
Switches and portraits… a little boy, a toddler, a young man, a middle-aged man… "From Cradle to Grave." Cradle to grave…
Once the solution occurred to her, she was almost embarrassed by the simplicity of it. She stood up and dusted herself off, wondering how long it would take for the crows to return to their roost. Once they were settled, she shouldn't have any more problems uncov– ering the secret. She cracked the door open and listened to the whispering beat of wings, promising herself to be more careful this time. Pushing the wrong button in this house could be deadly.
"Rebecca? Let me in, it's Chris."
There was the sound of something heavy sliding against the wall and the door to the storage room creaked opened. Rebecca stepped away from the entrance as he hurried inside, already pulling the diary out of his vest. "I found this journal in one of the rooms," he said. "It looks like there was some kind of research going
on here, I don't know what kind but…" "Virology," Rebecca interrupted, and held up a stack of papers, grinning. "You were right about there being something useful in here."
Chris took the papers from her and skimmed the first page. As far as he could tell, it was in a foreign language made out of numbers and letters.
"What is all this stuff? DH5a-MCR…" "You're looking at a strain chart," Rebecca said brightly. "That one's a host for generating genomic libraries containing methylated cytosine or adenine residues, depending." Chris cocked an eyebrow at her. "Let's pretend that I have no idea what you're talking about and try again. What did you find?"
Rebecca flushed slightly and took the papers back from him. "Sorry. Basically, there's a lot of, uh, stuff in here on viral infection." Chris nodded. "That I understand; a virus…" He quickly flipped through the journal, counting the dates from the first report of the accident in the lab. "On May eleventh, there was some kind of spill or outbreak in a laboratory on this estate. Within eight or nine days, whoever wrote this had turned into one of those creatures out there." Rebecca's eyes widened. "Does it say when the first symptoms appeared?" "Looks like… within twenty-four hours, he or she was complaining of itchy skin. Swelling and blisters within forty-eight hours." Rebecca paled. "That's… wow." Chris nodded. "Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Is there any way to tell if we could be infected?" "Not without more information. All of that…" Rebecca motioned at the trunk full of papers, "…is pretty old, ten years plus, and there's nothing specific about application. Though an airborne with that kind of speed and toxicity… if it was still viable, all of Raccoon City would probably be infected by now. I can't be positive, but I doubt it's still contagious."
Chris was relieved for himself and the rest of the S.T.A.R.S., but the fact that the "zombies" were all victims of a disease – it was depressing, whether it was a disaster of their own making or not. "We have to find the others," he said. "If one of them should stumble across the lab without knowing what's there…"
Rebecca looked stricken at the thought, but nodded gamely and moved quickly toward the door. Chris decided that, with a little experience, she'd make a first-rate S.T.A.R.S. member; she obviously knew her chemistry, and even without a gun, she was willing to leave the relative safety of the storage room in order to help the rest of the team. Together, they hurried through the dark, wooded hallway, Rebecca sticking close to his side. When they reached the door back to the first hallway, Chris checked his Beretta and then turned to Rebecca.
"Stay close. The door we want is to the right and at the end of the hall. I'll probably have to shoot the lock, and I'm pretty sure there's a zombie or two wandering around, so I'll need you to watch my back." "Yes, sir," she said quietly, and Chris grinned in spite of the situation. Technically, he was her superior – still, it was weird to have it pointed out. He opened the door and stepped through, training his gun on the shadows straight ahead and then down the hall to the right. Nothing moved. "Go," he whispered, and they jogged down the corridor, quickly stepping over the fallen creature that blocked their path. Rebecca turned to face the open stretch behind them as Chris rattled the door knob, hoping vainly that it had unlocked itself. No such luck. He backed away from the door and took careful aim. Firing at a locked door wasn't as easy or safe as it looked in the movies; a ricochet off of metal at such close range could kill the shooter "Chris!" He glanced over his shoulder and saw a shambling figure at the other end of the hall, moving slowly toward them. Even in the dim light, Chris could see that one of its arms was missing. The distinctive odor of decay wafted toward them as the zombie moaned thickly, stumbling forward. Chris turned back to the door and fired, twice. The frame splintered, the inset metal square of the lock revealed in a spray of wood chips. He jerked at the knob and the lock gave up, the door swinging open. He turned and grabbed at Rebecca's arm, hustling her through the doorway as he pointed the Beretta back down the hall. The creature had made it halfway, but was stopped at the lifeless body of the zombie that Chris had killed earlier. Even as Chris watched in horror and disgust, the one-armed zombie dropped to its knees and plunged its remaining hand into the other's crushed skull. It moaned again, a wet, phlegmy sound, and brought a handful of slushy gray matter to its eager lips.
Oh, man.
Chris shuddered involuntarily and hurriedly step– ped through to join Rebecca, closing the door on the gruesome scene. Rebecca was pale but seemed com– posed, and again, Chris admired her courage; she was young but tough, tougher than he'd been at eigh– teen. He took in the hall at a glance, immediately notic– ing the changes. To their right about twenty feet away was a corpse of one of the creatures, the top of its head blown away. It lay face up, the deep sockets of its eyes filled with blood. To their left were the two doors that Chris hadn't tried when he'd first come to investigate. The one at the very end of the hall was standing open, revealing deep shadows. At least one of the S.T.A.R.S. came this way, proba– bly looking for me. "Follow me," he said softly, and moved toward the open door, holding the Beretta tightly. He wanted to get back to the main hall with Rebecca, but the fact that one of his team must have gone through the opening deserved a quick look. As they passed the closed door on the right, Rebecca hesitated. "There's a picture of a sword next to the lock," she whispered. He kept his attention on the darkness just past the open door, but realized as she spoke that there were too many ways for them to get side-tracked. He didn't think the rest of the team was still waiting for him, but his original orders had been to report back to the lobby; he shouldn't be leading an unarmed rookie into unknown territory without at least checking. Chris sighed, lowering his weapon. "Let's get back to the main hall," he said. "We can come back and check it out later."
Rebecca nodded and together they walked back toward the dining room, Chris hoping against hope that someone would be there to meet them.
Barry pointed his Colt toward the crawling ghoul and fired, the heavy round splattering the thing's mushy skull into liquid even as it reached for his boot. Tiny drops of wetness splashed his face as the zombie spasmed and died. Scowling, Barry wiped at his skin with the back of his hand. The tiny white tiles of the kitchen wall got it much worse, rivulets of red cours– ing down the grouted tracks and pooling to the faded brown linoleum. Still, it was pretty disgusting. Barry lowered the revolver, feeling the ache in his left shoulder. The door upstairs had been solidly locked, he had the bruises to prove it and staring down at the zombie hash in front of him, he realized that he was going to have to go back up and break down another one. If he hadn't been certain before, he was now – Chris hadn't come this way. If he had, the crawling creature would already have been his– tory.
So where the hell are you, Chris?
Of the three locked doors, Barry had picked the one at the end of the hall on pure instinct. He'd ended up in a dark, silent hall that led past an empty elevator shaft and down a narrow set of stairs. The bare white kitchen at the bottom had seemed deserted, the counters thick with dust and corrosion stains on the walls – no sign of recent use, no sign of Chris, and the single door across from the sink had been locked. He'd been about to leave when he'd noticed the trails of disturbed dust on the floor and followed them. Sighing heavily, Barry stepped over the stinking monster, a final check before he headed back up for door number two. There were some stacked crates and the same old-fashioned elevator shaft, also emp– ty. He didn't bother with the call button since the one upstairs hadn't worked. Besides, judging from the rust on the metal grate, no one had used it in quite awhile. He turned back the way he'd come, wondering how Jill was making out. The sooner they could get away, the better. Barry had never disliked any place as much as he did this mansion. It was cold, it was dangerous, and it smelled like a meat locker that had been unplugged for a week. He generally wasn't the type to frighten easily or let his imagination get out of hand, but he half-expected to see some white-sheeted spook rattling chains every time he turned around. There was a distant echoing clatter behind him. Barry spun, a knot of dread in his gut as he pointed his weapon randomly at the empty air, his eyes wide and mouth dry. There was another metallic clatter, followed by a low, throbbing hum of machinery. Barry took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, getting a hold of himself. Not a disembodied spirit, after all; someone was using the elevator. Who? Chris and Wesker are missing and Jill's in the other wing…
He stayed where he was, lowering the Colt slightly as he waited. He didn't think the ghouls were smart enough to work the buttons, let alone open the gate, but he didn't want to take any chances. He was a good twenty feet from where the booth would open, assum-ing it stopped in the basement, and would have a clear shot at whoever stepped around the corner. A glim– mer of hope sparked through his confusion; maybe it was one of the Bravos, or someone who lived here and could tell them what had happened. With a dull dang, the elevator stopped in the kitchen. There was a squeal of dry metal hinges and footsteps and Captain Wesker stepped into view, his per-petual sunglasses propped on his tanned brow. Barry lowered the revolver, grinning as cool relief swept over him. Wesker stopped in his tracks and grinned back at him. "Barry! Just the man I was looking for," he said lightly.
"God, you gave me a scare! I heard the elevator start up and thought I was gonna have a heart attack…" Barry trailed off, his grin faltering. "Captain," he said slowly, "where did you go? When we came back, you were gone."Wesker's grin widened. "Sorry about that. I had some business to attend to – you know, call of na-ture?"
Barry smiled again, but was surprised by the con– fession; trapped in hostile territory, and the man had gone off to take a leak?
Wesker reached up and lowered his shades, break-ing their eye contact, and Barry suddenly felt a little nervous. Wesker's grin, if anything, seemed to grow wider. It looked like every tooth was showing.
"Barry, I need your help. Have you ever heard of White Umbrella?"
Barry shook his head, feeling more uncomfortable by the second.
"White Umbrella is a sector of Umbrella, Inc., a very important division. They specialize in… bio-logical research, I guess you could say. The Spencer estate houses their research facilities, and recently, an accident occurred."
Wesker brushed off a section of the kitchen's center island and casually leaned against it, his tone almost conversational.
"This division of Umbrella has a few ties to the
S.T.A.R.S. organization, and not long ago, I was asked to… assist in their handling of this situation. It's a very delicate situation, mind you, very hush-hush; White Umbrella doesn't want a whisper of their involvement getting out.” "Now, what I'm supposed to do is get to the laboratories on the grounds here and put an end to some rather incriminating evidence-proof that White Umbrella is responsible for the accident that's caused so much trouble in Raccoon as of late. The problem is, I don't have the key to get to those labs-keys, actually. And that's where you come in. I need for you to help me find those keys."
Barry stared at him for a moment, speechless, his mind churning. An accident, a secret lab doing biolog-ical research…
… and murdering dogs and zombies loose in the tvoods…
He raised his revolver and pointed it at Wesker's smiling face, stunned and angry. "Are you insane? You think I'm going to help you destroy evidence? You crazy son of a bitch!"
Wesker shook his head slowly, acting as if Barry were a child. "Ah, Barry, you don't understand; you don't have a choice in the matter. See, a few of my friends from White Umbrella are currently standing outside of your house, watching your wife and daugh– ters sleep. If you don't help me, your family is going to die."
Barry could actually feel the blood drain from his face. He cocked the hammer back on the Colt, feeling a sudden, vicious hatred for Wesker infusing every fiber of his being.
"Before you pull the trigger, I should mention that if I don't report back to my friends fairly soon, their orders are to go ahead and do the deed anyway."
The words cut through the red haze that had flooded Barry's mind, turning his hands clammy with terror.
Kathy, the babies – I… "You're bluffing," he whispered, and Wesker's grin finally disappeared, his expression slipping back into the unreadable mask that he usually wore. "I'm not," he said coldly. "Try me. You can apolo-gize to their headstones later."
For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence a palpable thing in the chill air. Then Barry slowlyeased the hammer back down and lowered the weap– on, his shoulders slumped. He couldn't, wouldn 't risk it; his family was everything. Wesker nodded and reached into one of his pockets, producing a ring of keys, his manner suddenly brisk and business-like. "There are four copper plates somewhere in this house. Each one is about the size of a teacup, and has a picture engraved on one side: sun, moon, stars, and wind. There's a back door on the other side of the mansion where the four of them belong."
He unhooked a key from the ring and set it on the table, sliding it across to Barry. "This should open all of the doors in the other wing, or at least the impor-tant ones, first and second floor. Find those pieces for me and your wife and children will be fine."
Barry reached for the key with numb fingers, feeling weak and more afraid than he'd ever been in his life.
"Chris and Jill…"
"… will undoubtedly want to help you search. If
you see either of them, tell them that the back door you've discovered could be the way out. I'm sure they'll be more than happy to work with their trusted friend, good ol' Barry. In fact, you should unlock every door you can in order to promote a more thorough job."
Wesker smiled again, a friendly half-grin that belied his words. "Of course, you tell them you've seen me – that could complicate matters. If I run into trouble, say, get shot in the back… well, enough said. Let's just keep this to ourselves."
The key was etched with a little picture, a chest plate for a suit of armor. Barry slipped it into his pocket. "Where will you be?" "Oh, I'll be around, don't worry. I'll contact you when the time is right."
Barry looked at Wesker pleadingly, helpless to keep the wavering fear out of his voice. "You'll tell them that I'm helping you, right? You won't forget to report?"
Wesker turned and walked toward the elevator, calling out over his shoulder. "Trust me, Barry. Do what I tell you, and there's nothing to worry about."
There was the rattle of the elevator's gate opening and closing, and Wesker was gone. Barry stood a moment longer, staring into the empty space where Wesker had been, trying to find a way out of the threat. There wasn't one. There was no contest between his honor and his family; he could live without honor. He set his jaw and walked back toward the stairs, determined to do what he had to do to save Kathy and the girls. Though when this was over, when he could be sure they were safe.
There won't be any place for you to hide, "Captain."
Barry clenched his giant fists, knuckles whitening, and promised himself that Wesker would pay for what he was doing. With interest.
TEN
JILL SLID THE HEAVY COPPER CREST WITH the engraved star into its position on the diagram, above the other three openings. It settled into place with a light click, flush against the metal plate. One down… She stepped back from the puzzle lock, smiling triumphantly. The crows had watched her walk through the hall of paintings without moving from their perch, crying out occasionally as she solved the simple puzzle. There had been six portraits in all, cradle to grave -
– from a newborn baby to a rather stern-looking old man. She'd assumed they were all of Lord Spencer, though she'd never seen a photo. The final painting had been a death scene, a pale man lying in state and surrounded by mourners. When she'd flipped the switch on that one, the painting had actually fallen off the wall, pushed out by tiny metal pegs at each corner. Behind it had been a small, velvet-lined opening that held the copper crest. She'd left the hall without any more trouble; if the birds had been disappointed, she couldn't say. She took a final deep breath of the pleasant night air before going back into the mansion, pulling Trent's computer from her pack as she went. Stepping care– fully over the crumpled corpse in the dim hall, she studied the map, deciding where to try next. Back the way she'd come, it looked like. She went back through the double doors that connected the corridors, into the winding, mild, gray-green hall with the landscape paintings. According to the map, the single door just across from her led to a small, square– shaped room which opened into a larger one. Tensing, she grabbed the knob and pushed it open, crouching and pointing her Beretta at the same time. The small room was indeed square-shaped, and to– tally empty. Straightening, Jill stepped into the chamber, briefly appraising its simple elegance as she walked toward the door on her right. It had a high, light ceiling and the walls were creamy marble flecked with gold; beautiful. And expensive, to say the least. She felt a vague wistfulness for the old days with Dick, all their grand plans and hopes for each score. This was what real money could buy. She readied herself, grasping the cold, flowing met– al of the latch and pushing the door open. A quick sweep with the Beretta and she felt herself relax; she was alone. There was a molded fireplace to her right beneath an ornate, red and gold tapestry. A low, modern couch and oval coffee table sat atop a burnt orange carpet of oriental design, and against the back wall -
– a pump-action shotgun was mounted on dual hooks, shining in the light from the antique light fixture overhead. Jill grinned and hurried across the room, unable to believe her luck.
Please be loaded, please be loaded.
As she stopped in front of it, she recognized the make. Guns weren't her strong suit, but it was the same as the S.T.A.R.S. used: a Remington M870, five shots. She bolstered the Beretta and lifted the shotgun with both hands, still grinning -
– and the smile dropped away as both mounting hooks clicked upward, released from the weight of the gun. At the same time, there was a heavier sound behind the wall, a sound like balanced metal changing position. Jill didn't know what it was, but she didn't like it. She turned around quickly, searching the room for movement. It was as still as when she'd entered, no screaming birds, no sudden alarms or flashing lights, none of the pictures fell off the wall. There was no trap. Relieved, she quickly checked the weapon and found it fully loaded. Someone had taken care of it, the barrel clean and smelling faintly of cleaner and oil; right now, it was about the best smell she could imagine. The solid weight of it in her hands was reassuring, the weight of power. She searched the rest of the room and was disap– pointed not to find any more shells. Still, the Reming– ton was a find. S.T.A.R.S. vests had a back holster for a shotgun or rifle, and although she wasn't that hot with an over-the-shoulder draw, at least she could carry it without tying up her hands. There was nothing else of interest in the room. Jill walked to the door, excited to get back to the main hall and share her discoveries with Barry. She'd checked out every room that she could open on this side of the first floor. If he'd managed the same, they could head upstairs to finish their search for the Bravos and their missing teammates. And then, hopefully, get the hell out of this morgue. She closed the door behind her and strode across the slate-colored tiles of the classy marble room, hoping, as she grasped the knob, that Barry had found Chris and Wesker. They sure didn't come this way. The door was locked. Jill frowned, turning the small gold knob back and forth. It rattled a little, but wouldn't give at all. She peered at the crack where the door met the frame, suddenly a little anxious. There it was, by the handle-the thick sliver of steel that indicated a dead-bolt, and a very solid one; the entire area surrounding it was reinforced. But only one keyhole, and that's for the knob… Click! Click! Click! Dust rained down from above as the sound of gears turning filled the room, a deep, rhythmic clatter of metal from somewhere behind the stone walls.
What?
Startled, Jill looked up-and felt her stomach shrivel in on itself, her breath catching in her throat. The high ceiling that she'd admired earlier was mov– ing, the marble at the corners powdering into dust with the heavy grind of stone against stone. It was coming down. In a flash she was back at the door to the shotgun room. She snatched at the handle, pushing it down… and found it locked as solidly as the first.
Holy shit! Bad thing! Bad thing!
Panic rising through her system, Jill ran back to the other door, her frightened gaze drawn back to the lowering ceiling. At two to three inches each second, it'd hit the floor in less than a minute. Jill raised the shotgun and aimed at the door to the hall, trying not to think about how many shots it would take to blow apart a reinforced steel dead-bolt; it was all she had, the picks wouldn't work on that kind of lock. The first round exploded against the door and splinters flew, revealing exactly what she'd feared. The metal plate that supported the bolt extended across half the door. Her mind raced for an answer and came up blank. She didn't have the shells to blow through it and the Beretta carried hollow points, they flattened on impact.
Maybe I can weaken it, break it down.
She fired again, targeting the frame itself. The thunderous shot tore apart wood and chipped marble, but not enough, not even close. The ceiling continued its clattering descent, now less than ten feet above her head. She was going to be crushed to death.
God, don't let me die like this. "Jill? Is that you?"
A muffled voice called from the corridor, and she
felt a sudden, desperate hope course through her at
the sound.
Barry!"Help! Barry, break it down, now!" Jill shouted, her voice high and shaking.
"Get back!"
Jill stumbled away as she heard a heavy blow strike the door. The wood shuddered but held. Jill let out a low cry of helpless frustration, her terrified gaze jumping between the door and the ceiling. Another solid, shaking hit to the door. Five feet overhead.
Come on, come ON.
The third pounding blow was joined by the crunch and splinter of wood. The door flew open, Barry framed in the entry, his face red and sweating, his hand reaching for hers. Jill lunged forward and he grabbed her wrist, liter– ally jerking her off of her feet and into the corridor. They crashed to the floor as behind them, the door was crushed off its hinges. Wood and metal squealed as the ceiling continued smoothly down, the door snapping in a series of harsh cracks. With a final, resonating boom of impact, the ceiling met the floor. It was over, the house again as silent as a tomb. They staggered to their feet, Jill staring at the doorway. The entire frame was filled with the solid block of stone that had been the ceiling, at least a couple of tons of rock. "Are you alright?" Barry asked. Jill didn't answer for a moment. She looked down at the shotgun she still held in her trembling hands, remembering how confident she'd been that there'd been no trap and for the first time, she wondered how they were ever going to make it out of this hellish place.
They stood in the empty front hall, Chris pacing the carpet in front of the stairs, Rebecca standing ner-vously by the banister. The massive lobby was as cold and ominous as when Chris had first seen it, the mute walls giving away none of their secrets; the S.T.A.R.S. were gone, and there were no clues as to where or why. From somewhere deep in the mansion, there was a heavy rumbling sound, like a giant door being slammed. They both cocked their heads, listening, but it wasn't repeated. Chris couldn't even tell from what direction it had come.
Terrific, that's just great. Zombies, mad scientists, and now things that go bump in the night. Priceless.
He smiled at Rebecca, hoping that he looked less rattled than he felt. "Well, no forwarding message. I guess that moves us to plan B." "What's plan B?" Chris sighed. "Hell if I know. But we can start by checking out that other room with the sword key. Maybe we can dig up some more information while we wait for the team to reassemble, a map or some-thing."
Rebecca nodded, and they headed back through the dining room, Chris leading the way. He didn't like the idea of exposing her to further danger, but he didn't want to leave her alone, either, at least not in the main hall; it didn't feel safe. As they passed the ticking grandfather clock, some-
thing small and hard cracked beneath Chris's boot. He crouched down and scooped up a dark gray chunk of plaster. There were two or three other fragments nearby.
"Did you notice these when we came through before?" he asked. Rebecca shook her head, and Chris ducked down, looking for more of them. He didn't remember if they'd been there before, either. On the other side of the table was a broken pile of the fragments. They hurried around the end of the long table past the elaborately decorated fireplace, stopping in front of the shattered pile. Chris nudged at the gray pieces with the tip of his boot. From the angles and shapes, it appeared to have been a statue of some kind. Whatever it was, it's garbage now. "Is it important?" Rebecca asked. Chris shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Worth a look, anyway. In a situation like this, you never know what might turn out to be a clue."
The echoing tick of the old clock followed themback to the hall door and into the smell of decay that filled the tight corridor. Chris pulled the silver key out of a pocket as they headed right and stopped, quickly drawing his Beretta and moving closer to Rebecca. The door at the end of the hall was closed; when they'd left, it had been standing open. There was no sense of being watched, of movement in the hall, but someone must have come through while they'd been in the lobby. The thought was disconcerting, reaffirming Chris's uneasy feeling that secret things were happening all around them. The dead creature to their left was in the same position as before, its blood-filled eyes staring blindly at the low ceiling, and Chris wondered again who had killed it. He knew he should examine the corpse and the unsecured area beyond it, but didn't want to go off on his own until he got Rebecca somewhere safe. "Come on," he whispered, and they edged to the locked door, Chris handing the key to Rebecca so that he could watch the hall for attackers. With a soft click, the intricately paneled door was unlocked, and Rebecca gently pushed it open. Chris could feel that the room was okay even as he did a quick check and motioned for Rebecca to step inside. It was set up like a piano bar, a baby grand dominating the floor across from a built-in counter, complete with stools bolted along its length. Perhaps it was the soft lighting or the muted colors that gave it such an atmosphere of calm stillness. Whatever it
was, Chris decided that it was the nicest room he'd encountered so far.
And maybe a good place for Rebecca to stay while I try to find the others.
Rebecca perched herself on the edge of the dusty black piano bench while Chris did a more thorough search of the room. There were a couple of potted plants, a small table, and a tiny alcove behind the wall where the piano was situated, a couple of wood bookshelves pushed in back. The only entrance was the one they'd come through. It was an ideal spot for Rebecca to hide. He holstered his weapon and joined her at the piano, trying to choose his words carefully; he didn't want to scare her with the suggestion that she stay behind. She smiled up at him hesitantly, looking even younger than she was, her spiky red bangs adding to the impression that she was only a child… a child who got through college in less time than it took you to get your pilot's license; don't patronize her, she's probably smarter than you are.
Chris sighed inwardly and smiled back at her.
"How would you feel about staying here while I take a look around the house?"
Her smile faltered a little, but she met his gaze evenly. "Makes sense," she said. "I don't have a gun, and if you run into trouble, I'd just slow you down." She grinned wider and added, "Though if you get your ass kicked by a mathematical theorem, don't come crying to me."
Chris laughed, as much at his own faulty assump– tions as at her joke; she wasn't one to be underesti– mated. He walked to the door, pausing as his hand touched the knob. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he said. "Lock the door behind me, and don't go wandering off, okay?"
Rebecca nodded, and he stepped back into the hall, closing the door firmly behind him. He waited until he heard the bolt drawn and drew his Beretta, the last trace of a smile falling away as he started briskly down the corridor. The closer he got to the rotting creature, the worse the smell. He took shallow sips of air as he reached the body, stepping past it to see if the hall continued on before he examined it for bullet holes and he stopped cold, staring at the second corpse stretched out in the alcove, headless and covered in blood. Chris studied the slack, lifeless features of the face that lay a foot away, recognizing them as Kenneth Sullivan's and felt a surge of anger and renewed determination sweep through him at the sight of the dead Bravo.
This is wrong, all wrong. Joseph, Ken, probably Billy – how many others have died? How many more have to suffer because of a stupid accident?
He finally turned away, striding purposefully to– ward the door that led back to the dining room. He'd start from the main hall, checking every possible path that the S.T.A.R.S. could have taken and killing every creature that got in the way of his search. His teammates weren't going to have died for nothing; Chris would see to it, if it was the last thing he ever did.
Rebecca locked the door after Chris left, silently wishing him good luck before walking back to the dusty piano and sitting down. She knew that he felt responsible for her, and wondered again how she could've been so stupid, dropping her gun.
At least if I had a gun, he wouldn't have to worry so much. I may be inexperienced, but I went through basic training, just like everybody else.
She traced a finger aimlessly across the dusty keys, feeling useless. She should've taken some of those files from the storage room. She didn't know that there was much more to be learned from them, but at least she'd have something to read. She wasn't very good at sitting still, and having nothing to do only made it worse. You could practice, her mind suggested brightly, and Rebecca smiled a little, gazing down at the keys. No, thanks. She'd suffered through four long years of lessons as a child before her mother had finally let her quit. She stood up, looking randomly around the silent room for something to keep her occupied. She walked to the bar and leaned over it, but saw only a few shelves of glasses and a stack of napkins, all thinly coated with dust. There were several liquor bottles, most of them empty, and a few unopened bottles of expensive-looking wine on the counter behind the bar. Rebecca dismissed the thought even as it occurred to her. She wasn't much of a drinker, and now wasn't exactly the best time to tie one on. Sighing, she turned and surveyed the rest of the room. Besides the piano, there wasn't much to see. There was a single small painting of a woman on the wall to her left, a bland portrait in a dark frame; a slowly dying plant on the floor next to the piano, the leafy kind she always saw in nice restaurants; a table that extended out from the wall with an overturned marti– ni glass on top. Considering what she had to work with, the piano was starting to look pretty interest– ing. She walked past the baby grand and peered into the small opening to her right. There were two empty bookshelves pushed to one side, nothing interest-ing. Frowning, she stepped closer to the shelves. The smaller one on the outside was empty, but the one behind it. She placed her hands on either side of the end piece and pushed, sliding the outer shelf forward. It wasn't heavy and moved easily, leaving a track in the dust on the wood floor. Rebecca scanned the hidden shelves, feeling disap-pointed. A dented old bugle, a dusty glass candy dish, a couple of knickknack vases-and some piano sheet music propped up on a tiny holder. She peered down at the title and felt a sudden rush of warm nostalgia for when she used to play; it was Moonlight Sonata, one of her favorite pieces. She picked up the yellowing sheets, remembering the hours she'd put in trying to learn it when she was ten or eleven. In fact, it had been this very piece of music that had made her realize she wasn't cut out to be a pianist. It was a beautiful, delicate tune and she'd pretty much butchered it every time she took the bench. Still holding the composition, she walked back around the corner and gazed at the piano thought-fully. It wasn't like she had anything better to do. And besides, maybe one of the other team members will hear it and come knocking, trying to track down the source of the terrible noise. Grinning, she dusted the bench off and sat down, propping the sheets open on the music holder. Her fingers found the correct positions almost automati– cally as she read the opening notes, like she'd never given it up. It was a comforting feeling, a welcome change from the horrors inside the mansion. Slowly, hesitantly, she started to play. As the first melancholy sounds rose into the stillness, Rebecca found herself relaxing, letting tension and fear slip away. She still wasn't very good, her tempo as off as ever-but she hit all the right notes, and the strength of the melody more than made up for her lack of finesse. If only the keys weren't so stiff. Something moved behind her. Rebecca jumped up, knocking the bench over as she spun around, searching wildly for the attacker. What she saw was so unexpected that she froze for a few seconds, unable to comprehend what her senses were telling her. The wall is moving. Even as the last notes lingered in the cool air, a three-foot panel of the bare wall to her right slid upwards into the ceiling, rumbling to a gentle halt. For a moment she didn't move, waiting for some– thing terrible to happen, but as the seconds ticked past in silence, nothing else moved; the room was as quiet and non-threatening as before.
Hidden sheet music. A strange stiffness to the keys…
… like maybe they were connected to some kind of a mechanism?
The narrow opening revealed a hidden chamber about the size of a walk-in closet, as softly lit as the rest of the room. Except for a bust and pedestal in the back, it was empty. She stepped toward the opening and then paused, thoughts of death-traps and poison darts whirling through her mind. What if she walked in and trig– gered some kind of a catastrophe? What if the door closed and she was trapped there, and Chris didn't come back?
– from a newborn baby to a rather stern-looking old man. She'd assumed they were all of Lord Spencer, though she'd never seen a photo. The final painting had been a death scene, a pale man lying in state and surrounded by mourners. When she'd flipped the switch on that one, the painting had actually fallen off the wall, pushed out by tiny metal pegs at each corner. Behind it had been a small, velvet-lined opening that held the copper crest. She'd left the hall without any more trouble; if the birds had been disappointed, she couldn't say. She took a final deep breath of the pleasant night air before going back into the mansion, pulling Trent's computer from her pack as she went. Stepping care– fully over the crumpled corpse in the dim hall, she studied the map, deciding where to try next. Back the way she'd come, it looked like. She went back through the double doors that connected the corridors, into the winding, mild, gray-green hall with the landscape paintings. According to the map, the single door just across from her led to a small, square– shaped room which opened into a larger one. Tensing, she grabbed the knob and pushed it open, crouching and pointing her Beretta at the same time. The small room was indeed square-shaped, and to– tally empty. Straightening, Jill stepped into the chamber, briefly appraising its simple elegance as she walked toward the door on her right. It had a high, light ceiling and the walls were creamy marble flecked with gold; beautiful. And expensive, to say the least. She felt a vague wistfulness for the old days with Dick, all their grand plans and hopes for each score. This was what real money could buy. She readied herself, grasping the cold, flowing met– al of the latch and pushing the door open. A quick sweep with the Beretta and she felt herself relax; she was alone. There was a molded fireplace to her right beneath an ornate, red and gold tapestry. A low, modern couch and oval coffee table sat atop a burnt orange carpet of oriental design, and against the back wall -
– a pump-action shotgun was mounted on dual hooks, shining in the light from the antique light fixture overhead. Jill grinned and hurried across the room, unable to believe her luck.
Please be loaded, please be loaded.
As she stopped in front of it, she recognized the make. Guns weren't her strong suit, but it was the same as the S.T.A.R.S. used: a Remington M870, five shots. She bolstered the Beretta and lifted the shotgun with both hands, still grinning -
– and the smile dropped away as both mounting hooks clicked upward, released from the weight of the gun. At the same time, there was a heavier sound behind the wall, a sound like balanced metal changing position. Jill didn't know what it was, but she didn't like it. She turned around quickly, searching the room for movement. It was as still as when she'd entered, no screaming birds, no sudden alarms or flashing lights, none of the pictures fell off the wall. There was no trap. Relieved, she quickly checked the weapon and found it fully loaded. Someone had taken care of it, the barrel clean and smelling faintly of cleaner and oil; right now, it was about the best smell she could imagine. The solid weight of it in her hands was reassuring, the weight of power. She searched the rest of the room and was disap– pointed not to find any more shells. Still, the Reming– ton was a find. S.T.A.R.S. vests had a back holster for a shotgun or rifle, and although she wasn't that hot with an over-the-shoulder draw, at least she could carry it without tying up her hands. There was nothing else of interest in the room. Jill walked to the door, excited to get back to the main hall and share her discoveries with Barry. She'd checked out every room that she could open on this side of the first floor. If he'd managed the same, they could head upstairs to finish their search for the Bravos and their missing teammates. And then, hopefully, get the hell out of this morgue. She closed the door behind her and strode across the slate-colored tiles of the classy marble room, hoping, as she grasped the knob, that Barry had found Chris and Wesker. They sure didn't come this way. The door was locked. Jill frowned, turning the small gold knob back and forth. It rattled a little, but wouldn't give at all. She peered at the crack where the door met the frame, suddenly a little anxious. There it was, by the handle-the thick sliver of steel that indicated a dead-bolt, and a very solid one; the entire area surrounding it was reinforced. But only one keyhole, and that's for the knob… Click! Click! Click! Dust rained down from above as the sound of gears turning filled the room, a deep, rhythmic clatter of metal from somewhere behind the stone walls.
What?
Startled, Jill looked up-and felt her stomach shrivel in on itself, her breath catching in her throat. The high ceiling that she'd admired earlier was mov– ing, the marble at the corners powdering into dust with the heavy grind of stone against stone. It was coming down. In a flash she was back at the door to the shotgun room. She snatched at the handle, pushing it down… and found it locked as solidly as the first.
Holy shit! Bad thing! Bad thing!
Panic rising through her system, Jill ran back to the other door, her frightened gaze drawn back to the lowering ceiling. At two to three inches each second, it'd hit the floor in less than a minute. Jill raised the shotgun and aimed at the door to the hall, trying not to think about how many shots it would take to blow apart a reinforced steel dead-bolt; it was all she had, the picks wouldn't work on that kind of lock. The first round exploded against the door and splinters flew, revealing exactly what she'd feared. The metal plate that supported the bolt extended across half the door. Her mind raced for an answer and came up blank. She didn't have the shells to blow through it and the Beretta carried hollow points, they flattened on impact.
Maybe I can weaken it, break it down.
She fired again, targeting the frame itself. The thunderous shot tore apart wood and chipped marble, but not enough, not even close. The ceiling continued its clattering descent, now less than ten feet above her head. She was going to be crushed to death.
God, don't let me die like this. "Jill? Is that you?"
A muffled voice called from the corridor, and she
felt a sudden, desperate hope course through her at
the sound.
Barry!"Help! Barry, break it down, now!" Jill shouted, her voice high and shaking.
"Get back!"
Jill stumbled away as she heard a heavy blow strike the door. The wood shuddered but held. Jill let out a low cry of helpless frustration, her terrified gaze jumping between the door and the ceiling. Another solid, shaking hit to the door. Five feet overhead.
Come on, come ON.
The third pounding blow was joined by the crunch and splinter of wood. The door flew open, Barry framed in the entry, his face red and sweating, his hand reaching for hers. Jill lunged forward and he grabbed her wrist, liter– ally jerking her off of her feet and into the corridor. They crashed to the floor as behind them, the door was crushed off its hinges. Wood and metal squealed as the ceiling continued smoothly down, the door snapping in a series of harsh cracks. With a final, resonating boom of impact, the ceiling met the floor. It was over, the house again as silent as a tomb. They staggered to their feet, Jill staring at the doorway. The entire frame was filled with the solid block of stone that had been the ceiling, at least a couple of tons of rock. "Are you alright?" Barry asked. Jill didn't answer for a moment. She looked down at the shotgun she still held in her trembling hands, remembering how confident she'd been that there'd been no trap and for the first time, she wondered how they were ever going to make it out of this hellish place.
They stood in the empty front hall, Chris pacing the carpet in front of the stairs, Rebecca standing ner-vously by the banister. The massive lobby was as cold and ominous as when Chris had first seen it, the mute walls giving away none of their secrets; the S.T.A.R.S. were gone, and there were no clues as to where or why. From somewhere deep in the mansion, there was a heavy rumbling sound, like a giant door being slammed. They both cocked their heads, listening, but it wasn't repeated. Chris couldn't even tell from what direction it had come.
Terrific, that's just great. Zombies, mad scientists, and now things that go bump in the night. Priceless.
He smiled at Rebecca, hoping that he looked less rattled than he felt. "Well, no forwarding message. I guess that moves us to plan B." "What's plan B?" Chris sighed. "Hell if I know. But we can start by checking out that other room with the sword key. Maybe we can dig up some more information while we wait for the team to reassemble, a map or some-thing."
Rebecca nodded, and they headed back through the dining room, Chris leading the way. He didn't like the idea of exposing her to further danger, but he didn't want to leave her alone, either, at least not in the main hall; it didn't feel safe. As they passed the ticking grandfather clock, some-
thing small and hard cracked beneath Chris's boot. He crouched down and scooped up a dark gray chunk of plaster. There were two or three other fragments nearby.
"Did you notice these when we came through before?" he asked. Rebecca shook her head, and Chris ducked down, looking for more of them. He didn't remember if they'd been there before, either. On the other side of the table was a broken pile of the fragments. They hurried around the end of the long table past the elaborately decorated fireplace, stopping in front of the shattered pile. Chris nudged at the gray pieces with the tip of his boot. From the angles and shapes, it appeared to have been a statue of some kind. Whatever it was, it's garbage now. "Is it important?" Rebecca asked. Chris shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Worth a look, anyway. In a situation like this, you never know what might turn out to be a clue."
The echoing tick of the old clock followed themback to the hall door and into the smell of decay that filled the tight corridor. Chris pulled the silver key out of a pocket as they headed right and stopped, quickly drawing his Beretta and moving closer to Rebecca. The door at the end of the hall was closed; when they'd left, it had been standing open. There was no sense of being watched, of movement in the hall, but someone must have come through while they'd been in the lobby. The thought was disconcerting, reaffirming Chris's uneasy feeling that secret things were happening all around them. The dead creature to their left was in the same position as before, its blood-filled eyes staring blindly at the low ceiling, and Chris wondered again who had killed it. He knew he should examine the corpse and the unsecured area beyond it, but didn't want to go off on his own until he got Rebecca somewhere safe. "Come on," he whispered, and they edged to the locked door, Chris handing the key to Rebecca so that he could watch the hall for attackers. With a soft click, the intricately paneled door was unlocked, and Rebecca gently pushed it open. Chris could feel that the room was okay even as he did a quick check and motioned for Rebecca to step inside. It was set up like a piano bar, a baby grand dominating the floor across from a built-in counter, complete with stools bolted along its length. Perhaps it was the soft lighting or the muted colors that gave it such an atmosphere of calm stillness. Whatever it
was, Chris decided that it was the nicest room he'd encountered so far.
And maybe a good place for Rebecca to stay while I try to find the others.
Rebecca perched herself on the edge of the dusty black piano bench while Chris did a more thorough search of the room. There were a couple of potted plants, a small table, and a tiny alcove behind the wall where the piano was situated, a couple of wood bookshelves pushed in back. The only entrance was the one they'd come through. It was an ideal spot for Rebecca to hide. He holstered his weapon and joined her at the piano, trying to choose his words carefully; he didn't want to scare her with the suggestion that she stay behind. She smiled up at him hesitantly, looking even younger than she was, her spiky red bangs adding to the impression that she was only a child… a child who got through college in less time than it took you to get your pilot's license; don't patronize her, she's probably smarter than you are.
Chris sighed inwardly and smiled back at her.
"How would you feel about staying here while I take a look around the house?"
Her smile faltered a little, but she met his gaze evenly. "Makes sense," she said. "I don't have a gun, and if you run into trouble, I'd just slow you down." She grinned wider and added, "Though if you get your ass kicked by a mathematical theorem, don't come crying to me."
Chris laughed, as much at his own faulty assump– tions as at her joke; she wasn't one to be underesti– mated. He walked to the door, pausing as his hand touched the knob. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he said. "Lock the door behind me, and don't go wandering off, okay?"
Rebecca nodded, and he stepped back into the hall, closing the door firmly behind him. He waited until he heard the bolt drawn and drew his Beretta, the last trace of a smile falling away as he started briskly down the corridor. The closer he got to the rotting creature, the worse the smell. He took shallow sips of air as he reached the body, stepping past it to see if the hall continued on before he examined it for bullet holes and he stopped cold, staring at the second corpse stretched out in the alcove, headless and covered in blood. Chris studied the slack, lifeless features of the face that lay a foot away, recognizing them as Kenneth Sullivan's and felt a surge of anger and renewed determination sweep through him at the sight of the dead Bravo.
This is wrong, all wrong. Joseph, Ken, probably Billy – how many others have died? How many more have to suffer because of a stupid accident?
He finally turned away, striding purposefully to– ward the door that led back to the dining room. He'd start from the main hall, checking every possible path that the S.T.A.R.S. could have taken and killing every creature that got in the way of his search. His teammates weren't going to have died for nothing; Chris would see to it, if it was the last thing he ever did.
Rebecca locked the door after Chris left, silently wishing him good luck before walking back to the dusty piano and sitting down. She knew that he felt responsible for her, and wondered again how she could've been so stupid, dropping her gun.
At least if I had a gun, he wouldn't have to worry so much. I may be inexperienced, but I went through basic training, just like everybody else.
She traced a finger aimlessly across the dusty keys, feeling useless. She should've taken some of those files from the storage room. She didn't know that there was much more to be learned from them, but at least she'd have something to read. She wasn't very good at sitting still, and having nothing to do only made it worse. You could practice, her mind suggested brightly, and Rebecca smiled a little, gazing down at the keys. No, thanks. She'd suffered through four long years of lessons as a child before her mother had finally let her quit. She stood up, looking randomly around the silent room for something to keep her occupied. She walked to the bar and leaned over it, but saw only a few shelves of glasses and a stack of napkins, all thinly coated with dust. There were several liquor bottles, most of them empty, and a few unopened bottles of expensive-looking wine on the counter behind the bar. Rebecca dismissed the thought even as it occurred to her. She wasn't much of a drinker, and now wasn't exactly the best time to tie one on. Sighing, she turned and surveyed the rest of the room. Besides the piano, there wasn't much to see. There was a single small painting of a woman on the wall to her left, a bland portrait in a dark frame; a slowly dying plant on the floor next to the piano, the leafy kind she always saw in nice restaurants; a table that extended out from the wall with an overturned marti– ni glass on top. Considering what she had to work with, the piano was starting to look pretty interest– ing. She walked past the baby grand and peered into the small opening to her right. There were two empty bookshelves pushed to one side, nothing interest-ing. Frowning, she stepped closer to the shelves. The smaller one on the outside was empty, but the one behind it. She placed her hands on either side of the end piece and pushed, sliding the outer shelf forward. It wasn't heavy and moved easily, leaving a track in the dust on the wood floor. Rebecca scanned the hidden shelves, feeling disap-pointed. A dented old bugle, a dusty glass candy dish, a couple of knickknack vases-and some piano sheet music propped up on a tiny holder. She peered down at the title and felt a sudden rush of warm nostalgia for when she used to play; it was Moonlight Sonata, one of her favorite pieces. She picked up the yellowing sheets, remembering the hours she'd put in trying to learn it when she was ten or eleven. In fact, it had been this very piece of music that had made her realize she wasn't cut out to be a pianist. It was a beautiful, delicate tune and she'd pretty much butchered it every time she took the bench. Still holding the composition, she walked back around the corner and gazed at the piano thought-fully. It wasn't like she had anything better to do. And besides, maybe one of the other team members will hear it and come knocking, trying to track down the source of the terrible noise. Grinning, she dusted the bench off and sat down, propping the sheets open on the music holder. Her fingers found the correct positions almost automati– cally as she read the opening notes, like she'd never given it up. It was a comforting feeling, a welcome change from the horrors inside the mansion. Slowly, hesitantly, she started to play. As the first melancholy sounds rose into the stillness, Rebecca found herself relaxing, letting tension and fear slip away. She still wasn't very good, her tempo as off as ever-but she hit all the right notes, and the strength of the melody more than made up for her lack of finesse. If only the keys weren't so stiff. Something moved behind her. Rebecca jumped up, knocking the bench over as she spun around, searching wildly for the attacker. What she saw was so unexpected that she froze for a few seconds, unable to comprehend what her senses were telling her. The wall is moving. Even as the last notes lingered in the cool air, a three-foot panel of the bare wall to her right slid upwards into the ceiling, rumbling to a gentle halt. For a moment she didn't move, waiting for some– thing terrible to happen, but as the seconds ticked past in silence, nothing else moved; the room was as quiet and non-threatening as before.
Hidden sheet music. A strange stiffness to the keys…
… like maybe they were connected to some kind of a mechanism?
The narrow opening revealed a hidden chamber about the size of a walk-in closet, as softly lit as the rest of the room. Except for a bust and pedestal in the back, it was empty. She stepped toward the opening and then paused, thoughts of death-traps and poison darts whirling through her mind. What if she walked in and trig– gered some kind of a catastrophe? What if the door closed and she was trapped there, and Chris didn't come back?