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"-get over here-"
The officer shouted at the helicopter, his voice tinged with panic; Claire saw why and felt her relief evaporate. There were two zombies lurching through the darkness of the helipad, headed for the well-lit target that was the shouting cop. She raised the nine-millimeter and then lowered it helplessly, afraid of hitting the cornered man. The spotlight didn't waver, illuminating the horror with brilliant clarity. The cop didn't seem to realize how close the zombies were until they were grabbing for him, their stringy arms extending into the beam of fixed white light. "Stay back! Don't come any closer!" he cried, and with the pure terror in his voice, Claire heard him perfectly. Just like she heard his howling scream as the two decaying figures obscured her view, reaching him at the same time. The sound of his automatic weapon ripped across the helipad, and even over the helicopter's clamor Claire could hear the whining ting of bullets flying wild. She dropped, knees cracking against the top step as the weapon's clattering fire went on and on…… and there was a change in the sound of the 'copter, a strange hum that rose quickly into a me– chanical scream. Claire looked up and saw the giant craft dip down, the back end swinging around in an erratic, jerking arc.
Jesus, he hit them!
The 'copter's spotlight was going all directions at once, flashing across metal pipes and concrete and the dying struggles of the cop, somehow still firing as the two monsters tore at him…… and then the helicopter was coming down, tee– tering sideways, its blades slamming into the brick of the elevated roof with a tremendous crash. Before Claire could blink, the nose of the craft hit – plowing across the helipad in a curtain of screeching sparks and flying glass. The explosion happened just as the mammoth machine slid to a stop against the southwest corner -
– directly on top of the fallen cop and his killers. The rattle of the machine gun was finally cut off in the whoosh of flame that sprang up after the initial sputtering boom, lighting the rooftop in a burning red glow. At the same instant, something in the roof gave with a rending crunch, as the nose of the 'copter plunged through a brick wall and out of sight. Claire stood up on legs she barely felt, staring in disbelief at the leaping fire that dominated almost half of the helipad. It had all happened too fast for her to feel like it had happened at all, and the smoking, burning evidence in front of her only made the sense of unreality greater. An acrid, sickly-sweet odor of burning meat wafted over her on a wave of heated air, and in the sudden silence, she could hear the soft groans of the zombies down in the courtyard.
She shot a look down the stairs and saw that both of the dead cops were at the foot, blindly and uselessly falling against the bottom step. At least they couldn't climb…
… can't. Climb. Stairs.
Claire turned her frightened glance toward the door that led into the RPD building, maybe thirty feet from the curling, popping flames that were slowly eating the body of the 'copter. Except for the stairs, it was the only way onto the roof. And if zombies couldn't climb -
– then I'm in some deep shit. The station isn't safe.
She stared thoughtfully at the burning wreck, weighing her options. The nine-millimeter held a lot of ammo and she still had two full clips; she could head back into the street, look for a car with keys in it and go for help.
Except what about Leon? And that cop was still Alive, what if there are more people inside, planning an escape?
She thought she'd held up pretty well on her own so far, but she also knew she'd feel safer if somebody else were in charge – a riot squad would be okay, though she'd settle for some battle-scarred veteran cop with a shitload of guns. Or Chris; Claire didn't know if she'd find him at the station, but she firmly believed that he was still alive. If anyone was equipped to handle himself in a crisis like this one, it was her brother. Whether or not she found anybody, she shouldn't take off without telling Leon; if she didn't, blowing town instead, and he got killed looking for her… Decision made. Claire walked for the entrance, carefully skirting the blaze and scanning the flickering shadows for movement. When she reached the door, she closed her eyes for a second, one sweating hand on the latch. "I can do this," she said quietly, and although she didn't sound as confident as she would've liked, at least her voice didn't tremble or break. She opened her eyes, then the door; when nothing jumped out at her from the softly lit hall, she slipped inside.
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
The officer shouted at the helicopter, his voice tinged with panic; Claire saw why and felt her relief evaporate. There were two zombies lurching through the darkness of the helipad, headed for the well-lit target that was the shouting cop. She raised the nine-millimeter and then lowered it helplessly, afraid of hitting the cornered man. The spotlight didn't waver, illuminating the horror with brilliant clarity. The cop didn't seem to realize how close the zombies were until they were grabbing for him, their stringy arms extending into the beam of fixed white light. "Stay back! Don't come any closer!" he cried, and with the pure terror in his voice, Claire heard him perfectly. Just like she heard his howling scream as the two decaying figures obscured her view, reaching him at the same time. The sound of his automatic weapon ripped across the helipad, and even over the helicopter's clamor Claire could hear the whining ting of bullets flying wild. She dropped, knees cracking against the top step as the weapon's clattering fire went on and on…… and there was a change in the sound of the 'copter, a strange hum that rose quickly into a me– chanical scream. Claire looked up and saw the giant craft dip down, the back end swinging around in an erratic, jerking arc.
Jesus, he hit them!
The 'copter's spotlight was going all directions at once, flashing across metal pipes and concrete and the dying struggles of the cop, somehow still firing as the two monsters tore at him…… and then the helicopter was coming down, tee– tering sideways, its blades slamming into the brick of the elevated roof with a tremendous crash. Before Claire could blink, the nose of the craft hit – plowing across the helipad in a curtain of screeching sparks and flying glass. The explosion happened just as the mammoth machine slid to a stop against the southwest corner -
– directly on top of the fallen cop and his killers. The rattle of the machine gun was finally cut off in the whoosh of flame that sprang up after the initial sputtering boom, lighting the rooftop in a burning red glow. At the same instant, something in the roof gave with a rending crunch, as the nose of the 'copter plunged through a brick wall and out of sight. Claire stood up on legs she barely felt, staring in disbelief at the leaping fire that dominated almost half of the helipad. It had all happened too fast for her to feel like it had happened at all, and the smoking, burning evidence in front of her only made the sense of unreality greater. An acrid, sickly-sweet odor of burning meat wafted over her on a wave of heated air, and in the sudden silence, she could hear the soft groans of the zombies down in the courtyard.
She shot a look down the stairs and saw that both of the dead cops were at the foot, blindly and uselessly falling against the bottom step. At least they couldn't climb…
… can't. Climb. Stairs.
Claire turned her frightened glance toward the door that led into the RPD building, maybe thirty feet from the curling, popping flames that were slowly eating the body of the 'copter. Except for the stairs, it was the only way onto the roof. And if zombies couldn't climb -
– then I'm in some deep shit. The station isn't safe.
She stared thoughtfully at the burning wreck, weighing her options. The nine-millimeter held a lot of ammo and she still had two full clips; she could head back into the street, look for a car with keys in it and go for help.
Except what about Leon? And that cop was still Alive, what if there are more people inside, planning an escape?
She thought she'd held up pretty well on her own so far, but she also knew she'd feel safer if somebody else were in charge – a riot squad would be okay, though she'd settle for some battle-scarred veteran cop with a shitload of guns. Or Chris; Claire didn't know if she'd find him at the station, but she firmly believed that he was still alive. If anyone was equipped to handle himself in a crisis like this one, it was her brother. Whether or not she found anybody, she shouldn't take off without telling Leon; if she didn't, blowing town instead, and he got killed looking for her… Decision made. Claire walked for the entrance, carefully skirting the blaze and scanning the flickering shadows for movement. When she reached the door, she closed her eyes for a second, one sweating hand on the latch. "I can do this," she said quietly, and although she didn't sound as confident as she would've liked, at least her voice didn't tremble or break. She opened her eyes, then the door; when nothing jumped out at her from the softly lit hall, she slipped inside.
EIGHT
Chief of police brian irons was standing in one of his private corridors, trying to catch his breath, when he felt the shuddering impact rumble through the building. He heard it, too – heard some– thing. A distant splintering sound, heavy and abrupt.
The roof, he thought distantly, something on the roof…
He didn't bother following the thought to any kind of conclusion. Whatever had happened, it couldn't make things any worse. Irons pushed away from the stone wall with one well-padded hip, hefting Beverly as gently as he could. They'd be at the elevator in a moment, then there was just the short walk to his office; he could rest there, and then… "And then," he mumbled, "that's the question, isn't it? And then what?"
Beverly didn't answer. Her perfect features re– mained still and silent, her eyes closed – but she seemed to nestle closer to him, her long, slender bodycurling against his chest. It was his imagination, surely. Beverly Harris, the mayor's daughter. Youthful, stunning Beverly, who had so often haunted his guiltydreams with her blond beauty. Irons hugged her closer and continued toward the elevator, trying not to let his exhaustion show in case she woke up. By the time he reached the lift, his back and armswere aching. He probably should have left her in his private hobby room, the room he'd always thought of as the Sanctuary – it was quiet there, and probablyone of the safest areas in the station. But when he'd decided to go to the office, to collect his journal and a few personal items, he found that he simply couldn't stand to leave her behind. She'd looked so vulnerable, so innocent; he'd promised Harris that he would watch out for her, and what if she was attacked in his absence? What if he came back from the office and she was just… gone? Gone like everything else… A decade of work. Networking, making the connec– tions, careful positioning… all of it, just like that. Irons lowered her to the cold floor and opened the elevator gate, trying desperately not to think about all that he'd lost. Beverly was the important thing now. "Going to keep you safe," he murmured, and did one corner of that perfect mouth rise slightly? Did she know she was safe, that Uncle Brian was taking care of her? When she was a child, when he used to frequent the Harrises' for dinner, she'd called himthat. "Uncle Brian."
She knows. Of course she knows.
He half-dragged her into the lift and leaned her in the corner, gazing tenderly at her angelic face. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of almost paternal love for her, and wasn't surprised to feel tears well up in his eyes, tears of pride and affection. For days now he'd been subject to such emotional outbursts – rage, terror, even joy. He'd never been a particularly emo– tional man, but had grown to accept the powerful feelings, even to enjoy them after a fashion; at least they weren't confusing. He'd also had moments when he'd been overcome by a kind of strange, creeping haze, a formless anxiety that left him feeling deeply unsettled… and as bewildered as a lost child.
No more of those. There's nothing else that can go wrong now; Beverly's with me, and once I collect my things, we can hide away in the Sanctuary and get some rest. She'll need time to recover, and I can, can sort things through. Yes, that's it; things need to be sorted through.
He blinked the already forgotten tears away as the metal cage started to rise, unholstering his sidearm and ejecting the clip to count how many rounds were left. His private rooms were safe, but the office was another story; he wanted to be prepared. The elevator came to a stop and Irons propped open the gate with one leg before lifting the girl, grunting with the exertion. He carried her as he would have carried a sleeping child, her cool, smooth body limp in his arms, her head rolled back and wobbling as he walked. He'd picked her up awkwardly, and her white gown had hiked up, exposing the tight, creamy skin of her thighs; Irons forced his gaze away, concen– trating on the panel controls that opened the wall into his office. Whatever harmless fantasies he'd had be– fore, she was his responsibility now, he was her protector, her white knight… He was able to hit the protruding button with one knee. The wall slid open, revealing his plushly deco– rated and thankfully empty office; only the blank, glassy stares of bis animal trophies greeted them. The massive walnut desk that he'd had imported from Italy was right in front of him and his stamina was going fast; Beverly was a petite woman, but he wasn't in shape the way he used to be. He quickly laid her on the desk, pushing a cup of pencils to the floor with his elbow. "There!" he exhaled deeply, smiling down at her. She didn't smile back, but he sensed that she would be awake soon, like before. He reached under the desk and tapped the wall controls; the panel slid closed behind them. He'd been concerned when he'd first found her, asleep next to Officer Scott in the back hall; George Scott was dead, covered with wounds, and when Irons had seen the red splash on Beverly's stomach, he'd been afraid that she was dead, too. But when he'd taken her to the Sanctuary, to his safe place, she'd whispered to him – that she didn't feel well, that she was hurt, that she wanted to go home…
… did she? Did she really?
Irons frowned, snapped out of the uncertain memo– ry by something, something he'd felt when he'd laid her on his hobby table and straightened her blood– stained gown, something he couldn't quite recall. It hadn't seemed important at the time, but now, away from the hidden comforts of the Sanctuary, it was nagging at him. Reminding him that he had suffered one of those confused moments when he'd, when he'd…
… felt the cold, rubbery jelly of intestine beneath my
fingers…
… touched her.
"Beverly?" he whispered, sitting down behind his desk when his legs went suddenly weak. Beverly kept her silence – and a turbulent flood of emotions hit Irons like a tidal wave, crashing over him, crowding his mind with images and memories and truths that he didn't want to accept. Cutting the outside lines after the first attacks. Umbrella and Birkin and the walking dead. The slaughter in the garage, when the bright coppery scent of blood had filled the air and Mayor Harris had been eaten alive, screaming until the very end. The dwindling numbers of the living through the first long and terrible night – and the cold, brutal realization that had hit him again and again, that the city – his city – was no more. After that, the confusion. The strange and hysteri– cal joy that had come when he'd understood that there would be no consequences for his actions. Irons remembered the game he'd played on the second night, after some of Birkin's pets had found their way to the station and taken out all but a few of the remaining cops. He'd found Neil Carson cowering in the library and had… tracked him, hunting the sergeant down like an animal.
What did it matter? What matters, now that my life in Raccoon is over?
All that was left, the only thing that he had to hold on to, was the Sanctuary – and the part of him that had created it, the dark and glorious heart inside of his own that he'd always had to keep hidden away.
That part was free now…
Irons looked at the corpse of Beverly Harris, laid out across his desk like some delicate and fragile dream, and felt that he might be torn apart by the feelings of fear and doubt that warred inside of him.
Had he killed her? He couldn't remember.
Uncle Brian. Ten years ago, I was her Uncle Brian.
What have I become?
It was too much. Without taking his gaze from her lifeless face, he pulled the loaded VP70 from its holster and began to rub the barrel with numb fingers, gentle strokes that reassured him somehow as the weapon turned toward him. When the bore was pressed firmly against his soft belly, he felt that some kind of peace might be within reach. His finger settled across the trigger, and it was then that Beverly whis– pered to him again, her lips still, her sweet, musical voice coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.
… don't leave me, Uncle Brian. You said you'd keep me safe, that you'd take care of me. Think of what you could do now that everyone is gone and there's nothing to stop you… "You're dead," he whispered, but she kept talking, soft and insistent.
… nothing to stop you from being fulfilled, truly fulfilled for the first time in your life…
Tortured and aching, Irons slowly, slowly pulled the nine-millimeter away from his stomach. After a mo– ment, he rested his forehead against Beverly's shoul-der and closed his tired eyes. She was right, he couldn't leave her. He'd prom– Ised – and there was something to what she'd said, about all of the things he could do. His hobby table was big enough to accommodate all kinds of animals… Irons sighed, not sure what to do next-and won-dering why he was in such a hurry to decide, anyway. They would rest for a while, perhaps even take a nap together. And when they awoke, things would be clear again.
Yes, that was it. They would rest, and then he could sort things through, take care of business; he was the chief of police, after all.
Feeling in control of himself again, Brian Irons slipped into a light and uneasy doze, Beverly's cool flesh like a balm against his feverish brow.
The roof, he thought distantly, something on the roof…
He didn't bother following the thought to any kind of conclusion. Whatever had happened, it couldn't make things any worse. Irons pushed away from the stone wall with one well-padded hip, hefting Beverly as gently as he could. They'd be at the elevator in a moment, then there was just the short walk to his office; he could rest there, and then… "And then," he mumbled, "that's the question, isn't it? And then what?"
Beverly didn't answer. Her perfect features re– mained still and silent, her eyes closed – but she seemed to nestle closer to him, her long, slender bodycurling against his chest. It was his imagination, surely. Beverly Harris, the mayor's daughter. Youthful, stunning Beverly, who had so often haunted his guiltydreams with her blond beauty. Irons hugged her closer and continued toward the elevator, trying not to let his exhaustion show in case she woke up. By the time he reached the lift, his back and armswere aching. He probably should have left her in his private hobby room, the room he'd always thought of as the Sanctuary – it was quiet there, and probablyone of the safest areas in the station. But when he'd decided to go to the office, to collect his journal and a few personal items, he found that he simply couldn't stand to leave her behind. She'd looked so vulnerable, so innocent; he'd promised Harris that he would watch out for her, and what if she was attacked in his absence? What if he came back from the office and she was just… gone? Gone like everything else… A decade of work. Networking, making the connec– tions, careful positioning… all of it, just like that. Irons lowered her to the cold floor and opened the elevator gate, trying desperately not to think about all that he'd lost. Beverly was the important thing now. "Going to keep you safe," he murmured, and did one corner of that perfect mouth rise slightly? Did she know she was safe, that Uncle Brian was taking care of her? When she was a child, when he used to frequent the Harrises' for dinner, she'd called himthat. "Uncle Brian."
She knows. Of course she knows.
He half-dragged her into the lift and leaned her in the corner, gazing tenderly at her angelic face. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of almost paternal love for her, and wasn't surprised to feel tears well up in his eyes, tears of pride and affection. For days now he'd been subject to such emotional outbursts – rage, terror, even joy. He'd never been a particularly emo– tional man, but had grown to accept the powerful feelings, even to enjoy them after a fashion; at least they weren't confusing. He'd also had moments when he'd been overcome by a kind of strange, creeping haze, a formless anxiety that left him feeling deeply unsettled… and as bewildered as a lost child.
No more of those. There's nothing else that can go wrong now; Beverly's with me, and once I collect my things, we can hide away in the Sanctuary and get some rest. She'll need time to recover, and I can, can sort things through. Yes, that's it; things need to be sorted through.
He blinked the already forgotten tears away as the metal cage started to rise, unholstering his sidearm and ejecting the clip to count how many rounds were left. His private rooms were safe, but the office was another story; he wanted to be prepared. The elevator came to a stop and Irons propped open the gate with one leg before lifting the girl, grunting with the exertion. He carried her as he would have carried a sleeping child, her cool, smooth body limp in his arms, her head rolled back and wobbling as he walked. He'd picked her up awkwardly, and her white gown had hiked up, exposing the tight, creamy skin of her thighs; Irons forced his gaze away, concen– trating on the panel controls that opened the wall into his office. Whatever harmless fantasies he'd had be– fore, she was his responsibility now, he was her protector, her white knight… He was able to hit the protruding button with one knee. The wall slid open, revealing his plushly deco– rated and thankfully empty office; only the blank, glassy stares of bis animal trophies greeted them. The massive walnut desk that he'd had imported from Italy was right in front of him and his stamina was going fast; Beverly was a petite woman, but he wasn't in shape the way he used to be. He quickly laid her on the desk, pushing a cup of pencils to the floor with his elbow. "There!" he exhaled deeply, smiling down at her. She didn't smile back, but he sensed that she would be awake soon, like before. He reached under the desk and tapped the wall controls; the panel slid closed behind them. He'd been concerned when he'd first found her, asleep next to Officer Scott in the back hall; George Scott was dead, covered with wounds, and when Irons had seen the red splash on Beverly's stomach, he'd been afraid that she was dead, too. But when he'd taken her to the Sanctuary, to his safe place, she'd whispered to him – that she didn't feel well, that she was hurt, that she wanted to go home…
… did she? Did she really?
Irons frowned, snapped out of the uncertain memo– ry by something, something he'd felt when he'd laid her on his hobby table and straightened her blood– stained gown, something he couldn't quite recall. It hadn't seemed important at the time, but now, away from the hidden comforts of the Sanctuary, it was nagging at him. Reminding him that he had suffered one of those confused moments when he'd, when he'd…
… felt the cold, rubbery jelly of intestine beneath my
fingers…
… touched her.
"Beverly?" he whispered, sitting down behind his desk when his legs went suddenly weak. Beverly kept her silence – and a turbulent flood of emotions hit Irons like a tidal wave, crashing over him, crowding his mind with images and memories and truths that he didn't want to accept. Cutting the outside lines after the first attacks. Umbrella and Birkin and the walking dead. The slaughter in the garage, when the bright coppery scent of blood had filled the air and Mayor Harris had been eaten alive, screaming until the very end. The dwindling numbers of the living through the first long and terrible night – and the cold, brutal realization that had hit him again and again, that the city – his city – was no more. After that, the confusion. The strange and hysteri– cal joy that had come when he'd understood that there would be no consequences for his actions. Irons remembered the game he'd played on the second night, after some of Birkin's pets had found their way to the station and taken out all but a few of the remaining cops. He'd found Neil Carson cowering in the library and had… tracked him, hunting the sergeant down like an animal.
What did it matter? What matters, now that my life in Raccoon is over?
All that was left, the only thing that he had to hold on to, was the Sanctuary – and the part of him that had created it, the dark and glorious heart inside of his own that he'd always had to keep hidden away.
That part was free now…
Irons looked at the corpse of Beverly Harris, laid out across his desk like some delicate and fragile dream, and felt that he might be torn apart by the feelings of fear and doubt that warred inside of him.
Had he killed her? He couldn't remember.
Uncle Brian. Ten years ago, I was her Uncle Brian.
What have I become?
It was too much. Without taking his gaze from her lifeless face, he pulled the loaded VP70 from its holster and began to rub the barrel with numb fingers, gentle strokes that reassured him somehow as the weapon turned toward him. When the bore was pressed firmly against his soft belly, he felt that some kind of peace might be within reach. His finger settled across the trigger, and it was then that Beverly whis– pered to him again, her lips still, her sweet, musical voice coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.
… don't leave me, Uncle Brian. You said you'd keep me safe, that you'd take care of me. Think of what you could do now that everyone is gone and there's nothing to stop you… "You're dead," he whispered, but she kept talking, soft and insistent.
… nothing to stop you from being fulfilled, truly fulfilled for the first time in your life…
Tortured and aching, Irons slowly, slowly pulled the nine-millimeter away from his stomach. After a mo– ment, he rested his forehead against Beverly's shoul-der and closed his tired eyes. She was right, he couldn't leave her. He'd prom– Ised – and there was something to what she'd said, about all of the things he could do. His hobby table was big enough to accommodate all kinds of animals… Irons sighed, not sure what to do next-and won-dering why he was in such a hurry to decide, anyway. They would rest for a while, perhaps even take a nap together. And when they awoke, things would be clear again.
Yes, that was it. They would rest, and then he could sort things through, take care of business; he was the chief of police, after all.
Feeling in control of himself again, Brian Irons slipped into a light and uneasy doze, Beverly's cool flesh like a balm against his feverish brow.
NINE
Thanks to a van parked in the alley behind Kendo's, Leon's straight shot to the station had taken a few detours – through an infested basket-ball court, another alley, and a parked bus that had reeked from the sprawled corpses inside. It was a nightmare, punctuated with whispering howls, the stink of decay, and once, a distant explosion that made his limbs feel weak. And though he had to shoot three more of the walking dead and was wired to the teeth with adrenaline and horror, he somehow man– aged to hold on to his hope that the RPD building would be a safe haven, that there would be some kind of crisis center set up, manned by police and paramedics – people in authority making decisions and marshaling forces. It wasn't just a hope, it was a need; the possibility that there might be no one left in Raccoon to take charge was unthinkable. When he finally stumbled out into the street in front of the station and saw the burning squad cars, he felt like he'd been hit in the gut. But it was the sight of the decaying, moaning police officers staggering around the dancing flames that truly wiped out his hope. There were only about fifty or sixty cops on the RPD force, and a full third of them were lurching through the wreckage or dead and bloody on the pavement not a hundred feet from the front door of the station. Leon forced the despair away, fixing his sight on the gate that led to the RPD building's courtyard. Wheth– er or not anyone had survived, he had to stick with his plan, put out a call for help – and there was Claire to think about. Concentrating on his fears would only make it harder to do whatever needed to be done. He ran for the gate, nimbly dodging a horribly burned uniformed cop with blackened bones for fingers. As he clutched the cold metal handle and pushed, he realized that some part of him was grow– ing numb to the tragedy, to the understanding that these things had once been the citizens of Raccoon. The creatures that roamed the streets were no less horrible, but the shock of it all just couldn't be sustained; there were too many of them.
Not too many here, thank God…
Leon slammed the gate shut behind him and pushed his sweaty hair off his brow, taking a deep breath of the almost fresh air as he scanned the courtyard. The small, grassy park to his right was well lit enough for him to see there were only a few of the once human creatures, and none close enough to be a threat. He could see the two flags that adorned the front of the station house, hanging limp in the still shadows, and the sight resparked the hope that he thought he'd lost; whatever else happened, he'd at least made it to someplace he knew. And it had to be safer than the streets. He hurried past a blindly reeling trio of the dead, easily avoiding them – two men and a woman; all three could have passed for normal if not for their mournful, hungry cries and uncoordinated staggers.
They must have died recently…
… but they're not dead, dead people don't gush blood when you shoot them. Not to mention the walking-around-and-trying-to-eat-people thing…
Dead people didn't walk… and living people tended to fall down after they'd been shot a few times with.50 caliber slugs, and didn't put up with their flesh rotting on their bones. Questions he hadn't yet had time to ask himself flooded through his mind as he jogged up the front steps to the station, questions he didn't have the answers for – but he would soon, he was sure of it. The door wasn't locked, but Leon didn't allow himself to feel surprise; with all he'd been through since he hit town, he figured that it would be best to keep his expectations to a minimum. He pushed it open and stepped inside, Magnum raised and his finger on the trigger. Empty. There was no sign of life in the grand old lobby of the RPD building and no sign of the disaster that had overtaken Raccoon. Leon gave up on not feeling surprised, closing the door behind him and stepping down into the sunken lobby. "Hello?" Leon kept his voice low, but it carried, echoing back to him in a whisper. Everything looked just as he remembered it; three floors of classically styled architecture in oak and marble. There was a stone statue of a woman carrying a water pitcher in the lower part of the large room, a ramp on either side leading up to the receptionist's station. The RPD seal set into the floor in front of the statue gleamed softly in the diffuse light from the wall lamps, as if it had just been polished.
No bodies, no blood… not even a shell casing. If there was an attack here, where the hell's the evidence?
Uneasy at the profound silence of the huge cham– ber, Leon walked up the ramp to his left, stopping at the counter of the reception desk and leaning over it; except for the fact that it was unmanned, nothing seemed to be out of place. There was a phone on the desk below the counter. Leon picked up the receiver and cradled it between his head and shoulder, tapping at the buttons with fingers that felt cold and distant. Not even a dial tone; all he heard was the sound of his own heavily thumping heart. He put the phone down and turned to face the empty room, trying to decide on where to go first. As much as he wanted to find Claire, he also desperately wanted to hook up with some other cops. He'd received a copy of an RPD memo just a couple of weeks before, stating that several of the departments were going to be relocated, but that didn't really matter; if there were cops hiding in the building, they probably weren't concerned with sticking close to their desks. There were three doors leading away from the lobby to different parts of the sprawling station, two on the west side and the other on the east. Of the two on the west, one led through a series of halls toward the back of the building, past a couple of filing offices and a briefing room; the second opened into the uniformed– officer squad room and lockers, which then connected into one of the corridors near the stairs to the second floor. The east door, in fact the whole east side of the first floor, was primarily for the detectives – offices, interrogation, and a press room; there was also access to the basement and another set of stairs on the outside of the building.
Claire probably came in through the garage… or through the back lot to the roof…
Or, she could've circled around and come through the same door he had – assuming she even made it to the station; she could be anywhere. And considering that the building took up almost an entire city block, that was a lot of ground to cover. Finally deciding that he had to start somewhere, he walked toward the squad room for the beat cops, where his own locker would be. A random choice, but he'd spent more time there than anywhere else in the station, interviewing and working through schedul-ing. Besides, it was closest, and the tomb-like silence of the oversized lobby was giving him the creeps. The door wasn't locked, and Leon pushed it open slowly, holding his breath and hoping that the room would be as undisturbed and orderly as the lobby. What he saw instead was the confirmation of his earlier fears: the creatures had been there – with a vengeance. The long room had been trashed, tables and chairs splintered and overturned everywhere he looked. Smears of dried blood decorated the walls, splashes of it in tacky, trailing puddles on the floor, leading toward…
"Oh, man…"
The cop was sitting against the lockers to his left, his legs splayed, half-hidden by a smashed table. At the sound of Leon's voice, he weakly raised one shaking arm, pointed a weapon vaguely in Leon's direction – then lowered it again, seemingly ex– hausted by the effort. His midsection was awash with oozing blood, his dark features contorted with pain. Leon was crouching at his side in two steps, gently touching his shoulder. He couldn't see the wound, but there was so much blood that he knew it was bad… "Who are you?" the cop whispered. The soft, almost dreamy tone of his voice scared Leon as much as the still oozing wound and the glassy look in his dark eyes; the man was slipping, fast. They'd never formally met, but Leon had seen him before. The young African-American beat cop had been pointed out to him as sharp, on the fast track to detective, Marvin, Marvin Branagh… "I'm Kennedy. What happened here?" Leon asked, his hand still on Branagh's shoulder. A sickly heat radiated through the officer's ragged shirt. "About two months ago," Branagh rasped, "the cannibal murders… the S.T.A.R.S. found zombies out at this mansion in the woods…"
He coughed weakly, and Leon saw a small bubble of blood form at the corner of his mouth. Leon started to tell him to be still, to rest, but Branagh's faraway gaze had fixed on his own; the cop seemed determined to tell the story, whatever it was costing him.
"Chris and the others discovered that Umbrella
was behind the whole thing… risked their lives, and
no one believed them… then this."
Chris… Chris Redfield, Claire's brother.
Leon hadn't made the connection before, although he'd known something about the trouble with the
S.T.A.R.S. He'd only heard bits and pieces of the story – the suspension of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad after their alleged mishandling of the murder cases had been the reason the RPD'd been hiring new cops. He'd even read the names of the infamous S.T.A.R.S. members in some local paper, listed along with some fairly impressive career records…
… and Umbrella runs this town. Some kind of a chemical leak, something that they tried to cover up by getting rid of the S.T.A.R.S…
All of this went through his mind in a split-second; then Branagh coughed again, the sound even weaker than before. "Hang in there," Leon said, and quickly looked around them for something to use to stop the bleed– ing, inwardly kicking himself for not having done it already. A locker next to Branagh was partly open; a crumpled T-shirt lay at the bottom. Leon scooped it up and folded it haphazardly, pressing it against Branagh's stomach. The cop placed his own bloody hand over the makeshift bandage, closing his eyes as he spoke again in a wheezing gasp.
"Don't… worry about me. There are… you have to try and rescue the survivors…"
The resignation in Branagh's voice was horribly plain. Leon shook his head, wanting to deny the truth, wanting to do something to ease Branagh's pain, but the wounded cop was dying, and there was no one to call for help.
Not fair, it's not fair… "Go," Branagh breathed, his eyes still closed. Branagh was right, there was nothing else Leon could do, but he didn't, couldn't move for a mo– ment – until Branagh raised his weapon again, point– ing it at him with a sudden burst of energy that strengthened his voice to a rough shout. "Just go!" Branagh commanded, and Leon stood up, wondering if he would be as selfless in the same situation, working to convince himself that Branagh would make it somehow. "I'll be back," Leon said firmly, but Branagh's arm was already drooping, his head settling against his heaving chest.
Rescue the survivors.
Leon backed toward the door, swallowing heavily and struggling to accept the change in plan that could very well kill him, but that he couldn't walk away from. Official or no, he was a cop. If there were other survivors, it was his moral and civic duty to try and help them. There was a weapons store in the basement, near the parking garage. Leon opened the door and stepped back into the lobby, praying that the lockers would be well stocked – and that there would be somebody left for him to help.
Not too many here, thank God…
Leon slammed the gate shut behind him and pushed his sweaty hair off his brow, taking a deep breath of the almost fresh air as he scanned the courtyard. The small, grassy park to his right was well lit enough for him to see there were only a few of the once human creatures, and none close enough to be a threat. He could see the two flags that adorned the front of the station house, hanging limp in the still shadows, and the sight resparked the hope that he thought he'd lost; whatever else happened, he'd at least made it to someplace he knew. And it had to be safer than the streets. He hurried past a blindly reeling trio of the dead, easily avoiding them – two men and a woman; all three could have passed for normal if not for their mournful, hungry cries and uncoordinated staggers.
They must have died recently…
… but they're not dead, dead people don't gush blood when you shoot them. Not to mention the walking-around-and-trying-to-eat-people thing…
Dead people didn't walk… and living people tended to fall down after they'd been shot a few times with.50 caliber slugs, and didn't put up with their flesh rotting on their bones. Questions he hadn't yet had time to ask himself flooded through his mind as he jogged up the front steps to the station, questions he didn't have the answers for – but he would soon, he was sure of it. The door wasn't locked, but Leon didn't allow himself to feel surprise; with all he'd been through since he hit town, he figured that it would be best to keep his expectations to a minimum. He pushed it open and stepped inside, Magnum raised and his finger on the trigger. Empty. There was no sign of life in the grand old lobby of the RPD building and no sign of the disaster that had overtaken Raccoon. Leon gave up on not feeling surprised, closing the door behind him and stepping down into the sunken lobby. "Hello?" Leon kept his voice low, but it carried, echoing back to him in a whisper. Everything looked just as he remembered it; three floors of classically styled architecture in oak and marble. There was a stone statue of a woman carrying a water pitcher in the lower part of the large room, a ramp on either side leading up to the receptionist's station. The RPD seal set into the floor in front of the statue gleamed softly in the diffuse light from the wall lamps, as if it had just been polished.
No bodies, no blood… not even a shell casing. If there was an attack here, where the hell's the evidence?
Uneasy at the profound silence of the huge cham– ber, Leon walked up the ramp to his left, stopping at the counter of the reception desk and leaning over it; except for the fact that it was unmanned, nothing seemed to be out of place. There was a phone on the desk below the counter. Leon picked up the receiver and cradled it between his head and shoulder, tapping at the buttons with fingers that felt cold and distant. Not even a dial tone; all he heard was the sound of his own heavily thumping heart. He put the phone down and turned to face the empty room, trying to decide on where to go first. As much as he wanted to find Claire, he also desperately wanted to hook up with some other cops. He'd received a copy of an RPD memo just a couple of weeks before, stating that several of the departments were going to be relocated, but that didn't really matter; if there were cops hiding in the building, they probably weren't concerned with sticking close to their desks. There were three doors leading away from the lobby to different parts of the sprawling station, two on the west side and the other on the east. Of the two on the west, one led through a series of halls toward the back of the building, past a couple of filing offices and a briefing room; the second opened into the uniformed– officer squad room and lockers, which then connected into one of the corridors near the stairs to the second floor. The east door, in fact the whole east side of the first floor, was primarily for the detectives – offices, interrogation, and a press room; there was also access to the basement and another set of stairs on the outside of the building.
Claire probably came in through the garage… or through the back lot to the roof…
Or, she could've circled around and come through the same door he had – assuming she even made it to the station; she could be anywhere. And considering that the building took up almost an entire city block, that was a lot of ground to cover. Finally deciding that he had to start somewhere, he walked toward the squad room for the beat cops, where his own locker would be. A random choice, but he'd spent more time there than anywhere else in the station, interviewing and working through schedul-ing. Besides, it was closest, and the tomb-like silence of the oversized lobby was giving him the creeps. The door wasn't locked, and Leon pushed it open slowly, holding his breath and hoping that the room would be as undisturbed and orderly as the lobby. What he saw instead was the confirmation of his earlier fears: the creatures had been there – with a vengeance. The long room had been trashed, tables and chairs splintered and overturned everywhere he looked. Smears of dried blood decorated the walls, splashes of it in tacky, trailing puddles on the floor, leading toward…
"Oh, man…"
The cop was sitting against the lockers to his left, his legs splayed, half-hidden by a smashed table. At the sound of Leon's voice, he weakly raised one shaking arm, pointed a weapon vaguely in Leon's direction – then lowered it again, seemingly ex– hausted by the effort. His midsection was awash with oozing blood, his dark features contorted with pain. Leon was crouching at his side in two steps, gently touching his shoulder. He couldn't see the wound, but there was so much blood that he knew it was bad… "Who are you?" the cop whispered. The soft, almost dreamy tone of his voice scared Leon as much as the still oozing wound and the glassy look in his dark eyes; the man was slipping, fast. They'd never formally met, but Leon had seen him before. The young African-American beat cop had been pointed out to him as sharp, on the fast track to detective, Marvin, Marvin Branagh… "I'm Kennedy. What happened here?" Leon asked, his hand still on Branagh's shoulder. A sickly heat radiated through the officer's ragged shirt. "About two months ago," Branagh rasped, "the cannibal murders… the S.T.A.R.S. found zombies out at this mansion in the woods…"
He coughed weakly, and Leon saw a small bubble of blood form at the corner of his mouth. Leon started to tell him to be still, to rest, but Branagh's faraway gaze had fixed on his own; the cop seemed determined to tell the story, whatever it was costing him.
"Chris and the others discovered that Umbrella
was behind the whole thing… risked their lives, and
no one believed them… then this."
Chris… Chris Redfield, Claire's brother.
Leon hadn't made the connection before, although he'd known something about the trouble with the
S.T.A.R.S. He'd only heard bits and pieces of the story – the suspension of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad after their alleged mishandling of the murder cases had been the reason the RPD'd been hiring new cops. He'd even read the names of the infamous S.T.A.R.S. members in some local paper, listed along with some fairly impressive career records…
… and Umbrella runs this town. Some kind of a chemical leak, something that they tried to cover up by getting rid of the S.T.A.R.S…
All of this went through his mind in a split-second; then Branagh coughed again, the sound even weaker than before. "Hang in there," Leon said, and quickly looked around them for something to use to stop the bleed– ing, inwardly kicking himself for not having done it already. A locker next to Branagh was partly open; a crumpled T-shirt lay at the bottom. Leon scooped it up and folded it haphazardly, pressing it against Branagh's stomach. The cop placed his own bloody hand over the makeshift bandage, closing his eyes as he spoke again in a wheezing gasp.
"Don't… worry about me. There are… you have to try and rescue the survivors…"
The resignation in Branagh's voice was horribly plain. Leon shook his head, wanting to deny the truth, wanting to do something to ease Branagh's pain, but the wounded cop was dying, and there was no one to call for help.
Not fair, it's not fair… "Go," Branagh breathed, his eyes still closed. Branagh was right, there was nothing else Leon could do, but he didn't, couldn't move for a mo– ment – until Branagh raised his weapon again, point– ing it at him with a sudden burst of energy that strengthened his voice to a rough shout. "Just go!" Branagh commanded, and Leon stood up, wondering if he would be as selfless in the same situation, working to convince himself that Branagh would make it somehow. "I'll be back," Leon said firmly, but Branagh's arm was already drooping, his head settling against his heaving chest.
Rescue the survivors.
Leon backed toward the door, swallowing heavily and struggling to accept the change in plan that could very well kill him, but that he couldn't walk away from. Official or no, he was a cop. If there were other survivors, it was his moral and civic duty to try and help them. There was a weapons store in the basement, near the parking garage. Leon opened the door and stepped back into the lobby, praying that the lockers would be well stocked – and that there would be somebody left for him to help.
TEN
From the burning rooftop, Claire moved through a snaking hallway littered with bro– ken glass and past a very dead cop, a bloody testament to her fears about the station's safety. She quickly stepped over the body and moved on, her nervous tension growing. A cool breeze ruffled through the shattered windows that lined the hall, making the darkness alive; there were shiny black feathers stuck in the streaks of blood that painted the floorboards, and their soft, wavering dance had her jerking the semiautomatic toward every shadow. She passed a door that she thought led back outside to a set of external stairs, but she kept going, taking a right toward the center of the building. The way the helicopter had buried itself in the rooftop was gnaw-ing at her, inspiring visions of the old station going up in flames.
From the look of things, maybe that's not such a bad idea…
Dead bodies and bloody handprints on the walls; Claire wasn't happy about the idea of touring the station. Still, death by fire didn't carry much appeal either, she needed to see how bad it was before she went looking for Leon. The corridor dead-ended at a door that felt cool to the touch. Mentally crossing her fingers, Claire opened it and stumbled back as a wave of acrid smoke washed over her, the smell of burnt metal and wood thick in the heated air. She dropped to a crouch and edged forward again, peering down the hall that stretched off to her right. The hall turned right again maybe thirty feet down, and although she couldn't see the fire proper, bright, fiery light was reflected off the gray paneled walls at the comer. The popping crackle of the unseen flames was magnified in the tight corridor, the sound as mindlessly hungry as the moans of the zombies down in the courtyard.
Well, shit. What now?
There was another door diagonally across from where she crouched, only a few steps away; Claire took a deep breath and moved, walking low to stay beneath the thickening blanket of smoke, hoping she could find a fire extinguisher and that a fire extin-guisher would be enough to put out whatever blaze the crashed 'copter had created. The door opened into an empty waiting room, a couple of green vinyl couches and a rounded counter– desk, with another door across from the one she'd entered by. The small room seemed untouched, as sterile and quietly unassuming as she might have expected – and unlike just about everywhere else she'd been tonight, there was no lurking disaster in the mild shadows thrown by the overhead fluores– cents, no stench of rot or shuffling zombie.
And no fire extinguisher…
Not in plain sight, anyway. She closed the door on the smoky corridor and stepped toward the desk, lifting the entrance flap with the barrel of the gun. There was an old manual typewriter on the counter and next to that, a telephone. Claire grabbed for it, hoping against hope, but heard only dead air through the receiver. Sighing, she dropped it and ducked down to check out the shelves beneath the counter. A phone book, a few stacks of papers and then, half-hidden by a woman's purse on the bottom shelf, was the familiar red shape she'd been hoping to find, coated with a thin layer of dust.
"There you are," she murmured, and paused just long enough to stick the nine-millimeter into her vest before hefting the heavy cylinder. She'd never used one before, but it looked simple enough – a metal handle with a locking pin, a black rubber nozzle hooked to the side. It was only a couple of feet long, but it weighed a good forty or fifty pounds; she figured that meant it was full. Armed with the extinguisher, Claire stepped back to the door and started to take short, sharp breaths, filling her lungs. It made her feel light-headed, but the hyperventilation would allow her to hold her breath longer. She didn't want to keel over from smoke inhalation before she'd had a chance to put it out. A final deep breath and she opened the door, crouching her way back into the now noticeably hotter corridor. The haze of smoke had gotten thicker too, extending down from the ceiling in a dark and choking fog at least four feet deep.
Keep low, breathe shallow and watch your step…
She turned the corner and felt a bizarre mix of relief and sorrow at the sight of the burning wreckage right in front of her. She bobbed her head and took a small breath through the fabric of her vest, feeling her skin flush and tighten from the heat. The fire wasn't as bad as she'd feared, more smoke than substance and not much taller or bigger than she was; the flames that licked up the wall in orange-yellow fingers seemed to be having trouble catching, stopped by the heavy wood of a half-smashed door. It was the nose of the helicopter that drew her attention, the blackened shell of the smoldering cockpit and the blackened husk of the pilot still strapped to the seat, the melted mouth frozen in a yawning, silent scream. There was no way to tell if it had been a man or a woman; the features had been obliterated, running together like dark tallow. Claire jerked the metal pin loose from the handle and aimed the hose at the burning floorboards, where the flame danced in white and blue. She squeezed the lever down and a hissing plume of snowy spray whooshed out, blasting over the debris in a powdery cloud. Barely able to see through the billowing white– ness, she directed the hose over everything, dousing the wreckage liberally with the oxygen killer. Within a minute, the fire appeared to be out, but she kept up with the extinguisher until it ran dry. At the last spluttering cough of spray, Claire let go of the handle and took a few more shallow breaths, inspecting the smoking wreck for any spots she'd missed. Not a flicker, but the wooden door alongside the helicopter's flocked cockpit was still leaking ten– drils of black smoke. She leaned closer and saw a tinge of glowing orange under the charred surface. The area surrounding the burning wood had already been torched, but she didn't want to take any chances; she stepped back and gave the door a solid kick, aiming for the glowing embers. Her boot connected squarely with the hot spot, and the door flew open with a splintering crack, the scorched wood giving way in a sparking shower of cinders. A few landed on her bare calf, but she drew her weapon before stopping to brush them off, more afraid of what might be waiting behind the ruined door than a few blisters. A short, empty hallway, littered with jagged pieces of splintered wood and hazy with smoke, then a door at the end on the left; Claire moved toward it, as much to get to some fresh air as to see where it led. With the immediate threat of the fire over with, she had to start looking for Leon and thinking about what they'd need to survive. If she could check out a few of the rooms along the way, maybe she'd be able to find stuff they could use.
A phone that works, car keys… hell, a couple of machine guns or aflame-thrower would be nice, but I’ll take what I can get.
The plain door at the end of the hall was unlocked. Claire pushed it open, ready to fire at anything that moved…… and stopped, feeling mildly shocked by the bi– zarre atmosphere of the lavish room. It was like some parody of a men's club from the fifties, a large office decorated with an extravagance that bordered on the ridiculous. The walls were lined with heavy mahogany bookshelves and matching tables, surrounding a kind of sitting area made up of padded leather chairs and a low marble table, all set atop an obviously expensive oriental rug. An elaborate chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a rich, mellow light over it all. Framed pictures and delicate vases were situated through-out, but their classic designs were overwhelmed by the stuffed animal heads and poised, lifeless birds that dominated the room, most gathered around a massive desk at the far side -
– oh, Jesus -
Laid out across the desk, like some character from a gothic horror story, was a beautiful young woman in a flowing white gown, her guts ripped to bloody shreds. The corpse was like a centerpiece; the dried and dusty animals stared down at her with dead glass eyes… there was a falcon and what looked like an eagle, their ratty wings spread in simulated flight, as well as a couple of mounted deer heads and that of a nappy furred moose. The effect was so creepy and surreal that for a moment, Claire couldn't breathe…… and when the high-backed chair behind the desk swiveled around suddenly, she barely held back a shriek of superstitious terror, half expecting to see some vision of dark and grinning death. It was only a man, but a man with a gun, pointed at her. Twice in one night, what are the odds… For a second, neither of them moved… and then the man lowered his weapon, a sickly half-smile playing across his pudgy face. "I'm terribly sorry," he said, his voice as oily and false as a bad politician's. "I thought you were anoth-er one of those zombies."
He smoothed his bristly mustache with one thick finger as he spoke, and although Claire had never met him before, she suddenly knew who he was; Chris had bitched about him often enough.
Fat, mustachioed, and as slick as a snake-oil sales-man – it's the police chief. Irons.
He didn't look good, his cheeks flushed with high color and his porcine eyes rimmed with puffed white flesh. The way his gaze darted around the room was unsettling, as if he was in the grip of some kind of heavy paranoia. In fact, he looked unbalanced, like he wasn't all that connected to reality. "Are you Chief Irons?" she asked, trying to sound pleasantly respectful as she stepped closer to the desk. "Yes, that's me," he said smoothly, "and just who are you?"
Before she could speak, Irons went on, confirming Claire's suspicions with what he said next – and with the bitter, petulant tone in which he said it. "No, don't bother telling me. It makes no difference. You'll end up like all the others…"
He trailed off, staring down at the dead woman in front of him with some emotion that Claire couldn't place. She felt bad for him, in spite of all that Chris had told her about his rotten personality and profes– sional incompetence; God only knew what horrors he'd witnessed, or what he'd had to do to survive.
Is it any wonder that he's having trouble with reality? Leon and I wandered into this horror show in the last reel; Irons was here for the previews, which probably included watching his friends die.
She looked down at the young woman on the desk and Irons spoke again, his voice somehow sad and pompous at the same time.
"That's the mayor's daughter. I was supposed to look out for her, but I failed miserably…"
Claire searched for some words of comfort, wanting to tell him that he was lucky to have lived, that it wasn't his fault, but as he continued his lament, the words died in her throat, along with her pity.
"Just look at her. She was a true beauty, her skin nothing short of perfection. But it will soon putre-fy… and within the hour, she'll become one of those things. Just like all the others."
Claire didn't want to jump to any conclusions, but the wistful longing in his tone and in his shining, hungry stare made her skin crawl. The way he was looking at the dead girl…
… you're imagining things. He's the chief of police, not some perverted lunatic. And he's the first person you've met who might be able to give you some kind of information. Don't waste the opportunity. "There must be some way to stop it…" Claire said gently.
"In a manner of speaking. A bullet in the brain, or decapitation."
He finally looked away from the body, but not at Claire. He turned to gaze at the stuffed creatures perched on the edge of his desk, his voice taking on a resigned but somehow mirthful quality.
"And to think taxidermy used to be my hobby. No longer…"
Claire's internal alarms were doing some serious jangling. Taxidermy? What the hell did that have to do with the dead human being on his desk?
Irons was finally looking at her, and Claire didn't like it one bit. His dark and beady gaze was directed at her face, but he didn't seem to actually see her at all. For the first time, it occurred to her that he hadn't asked her one question about how she'd come to be there or commented on the smoke that had leaked into his office. And the way he'd talked about the mayor's daughter… no real sorrow at her passing, only self-pity and some kind of twisted admiration.
Oh, boy. Oh boy, oh boy, he's not just out of touch here, he's on a different goddamn planet… "Please," Irons said softly. "I'd like to be alone now."
He sagged down into his chair, closing his eyes, his head falling back against the padded back as if in exhaustion. As simply as that, she'd been dismissed. And although she had a million questions – many of which she thought he could provide answers for – she did think that maybe it was for the best if she just got the hell away from him, at least for now… A soft creaking sound, behind her and to the left, so quiet that she wasn't even sure she'd heard it at all. Claire turned, frowning, and saw that there was a second door to the office. She hadn't noticed it before – and that soft, stealthy sound had come from behind it.
Another zombie? Or maybe somebody hiding…?
She looked back at Irons, and saw that he hadn't moved. Apparently he hadn't heard anything, and she'd ceased to exist for him, at least for the moment. He'd gone back to whatever private world he'd been in before she stumbled into his office.
So – back the way I came, or do I see what's behind door number two?
Leon – she needed to find Leon, and she had a pretty strong feeling that Irons was a creep, whether he was crazy or not; no great loss that he wasn't up for joining forces. But if there were other people hiding in the building, people that she and Leon could help or who might be able to help them… It would only take a moment to check. With a last glance at Irons, sagging next to the corpse of the mayor's daughter and surrounded by his lifeless ani– mals, Claire walked to the second door, hoping she wasn't making a mistake.
From the look of things, maybe that's not such a bad idea…
Dead bodies and bloody handprints on the walls; Claire wasn't happy about the idea of touring the station. Still, death by fire didn't carry much appeal either, she needed to see how bad it was before she went looking for Leon. The corridor dead-ended at a door that felt cool to the touch. Mentally crossing her fingers, Claire opened it and stumbled back as a wave of acrid smoke washed over her, the smell of burnt metal and wood thick in the heated air. She dropped to a crouch and edged forward again, peering down the hall that stretched off to her right. The hall turned right again maybe thirty feet down, and although she couldn't see the fire proper, bright, fiery light was reflected off the gray paneled walls at the comer. The popping crackle of the unseen flames was magnified in the tight corridor, the sound as mindlessly hungry as the moans of the zombies down in the courtyard.
Well, shit. What now?
There was another door diagonally across from where she crouched, only a few steps away; Claire took a deep breath and moved, walking low to stay beneath the thickening blanket of smoke, hoping she could find a fire extinguisher and that a fire extin-guisher would be enough to put out whatever blaze the crashed 'copter had created. The door opened into an empty waiting room, a couple of green vinyl couches and a rounded counter– desk, with another door across from the one she'd entered by. The small room seemed untouched, as sterile and quietly unassuming as she might have expected – and unlike just about everywhere else she'd been tonight, there was no lurking disaster in the mild shadows thrown by the overhead fluores– cents, no stench of rot or shuffling zombie.
And no fire extinguisher…
Not in plain sight, anyway. She closed the door on the smoky corridor and stepped toward the desk, lifting the entrance flap with the barrel of the gun. There was an old manual typewriter on the counter and next to that, a telephone. Claire grabbed for it, hoping against hope, but heard only dead air through the receiver. Sighing, she dropped it and ducked down to check out the shelves beneath the counter. A phone book, a few stacks of papers and then, half-hidden by a woman's purse on the bottom shelf, was the familiar red shape she'd been hoping to find, coated with a thin layer of dust.
"There you are," she murmured, and paused just long enough to stick the nine-millimeter into her vest before hefting the heavy cylinder. She'd never used one before, but it looked simple enough – a metal handle with a locking pin, a black rubber nozzle hooked to the side. It was only a couple of feet long, but it weighed a good forty or fifty pounds; she figured that meant it was full. Armed with the extinguisher, Claire stepped back to the door and started to take short, sharp breaths, filling her lungs. It made her feel light-headed, but the hyperventilation would allow her to hold her breath longer. She didn't want to keel over from smoke inhalation before she'd had a chance to put it out. A final deep breath and she opened the door, crouching her way back into the now noticeably hotter corridor. The haze of smoke had gotten thicker too, extending down from the ceiling in a dark and choking fog at least four feet deep.
Keep low, breathe shallow and watch your step…
She turned the corner and felt a bizarre mix of relief and sorrow at the sight of the burning wreckage right in front of her. She bobbed her head and took a small breath through the fabric of her vest, feeling her skin flush and tighten from the heat. The fire wasn't as bad as she'd feared, more smoke than substance and not much taller or bigger than she was; the flames that licked up the wall in orange-yellow fingers seemed to be having trouble catching, stopped by the heavy wood of a half-smashed door. It was the nose of the helicopter that drew her attention, the blackened shell of the smoldering cockpit and the blackened husk of the pilot still strapped to the seat, the melted mouth frozen in a yawning, silent scream. There was no way to tell if it had been a man or a woman; the features had been obliterated, running together like dark tallow. Claire jerked the metal pin loose from the handle and aimed the hose at the burning floorboards, where the flame danced in white and blue. She squeezed the lever down and a hissing plume of snowy spray whooshed out, blasting over the debris in a powdery cloud. Barely able to see through the billowing white– ness, she directed the hose over everything, dousing the wreckage liberally with the oxygen killer. Within a minute, the fire appeared to be out, but she kept up with the extinguisher until it ran dry. At the last spluttering cough of spray, Claire let go of the handle and took a few more shallow breaths, inspecting the smoking wreck for any spots she'd missed. Not a flicker, but the wooden door alongside the helicopter's flocked cockpit was still leaking ten– drils of black smoke. She leaned closer and saw a tinge of glowing orange under the charred surface. The area surrounding the burning wood had already been torched, but she didn't want to take any chances; she stepped back and gave the door a solid kick, aiming for the glowing embers. Her boot connected squarely with the hot spot, and the door flew open with a splintering crack, the scorched wood giving way in a sparking shower of cinders. A few landed on her bare calf, but she drew her weapon before stopping to brush them off, more afraid of what might be waiting behind the ruined door than a few blisters. A short, empty hallway, littered with jagged pieces of splintered wood and hazy with smoke, then a door at the end on the left; Claire moved toward it, as much to get to some fresh air as to see where it led. With the immediate threat of the fire over with, she had to start looking for Leon and thinking about what they'd need to survive. If she could check out a few of the rooms along the way, maybe she'd be able to find stuff they could use.
A phone that works, car keys… hell, a couple of machine guns or aflame-thrower would be nice, but I’ll take what I can get.
The plain door at the end of the hall was unlocked. Claire pushed it open, ready to fire at anything that moved…… and stopped, feeling mildly shocked by the bi– zarre atmosphere of the lavish room. It was like some parody of a men's club from the fifties, a large office decorated with an extravagance that bordered on the ridiculous. The walls were lined with heavy mahogany bookshelves and matching tables, surrounding a kind of sitting area made up of padded leather chairs and a low marble table, all set atop an obviously expensive oriental rug. An elaborate chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a rich, mellow light over it all. Framed pictures and delicate vases were situated through-out, but their classic designs were overwhelmed by the stuffed animal heads and poised, lifeless birds that dominated the room, most gathered around a massive desk at the far side -
– oh, Jesus -
Laid out across the desk, like some character from a gothic horror story, was a beautiful young woman in a flowing white gown, her guts ripped to bloody shreds. The corpse was like a centerpiece; the dried and dusty animals stared down at her with dead glass eyes… there was a falcon and what looked like an eagle, their ratty wings spread in simulated flight, as well as a couple of mounted deer heads and that of a nappy furred moose. The effect was so creepy and surreal that for a moment, Claire couldn't breathe…… and when the high-backed chair behind the desk swiveled around suddenly, she barely held back a shriek of superstitious terror, half expecting to see some vision of dark and grinning death. It was only a man, but a man with a gun, pointed at her. Twice in one night, what are the odds… For a second, neither of them moved… and then the man lowered his weapon, a sickly half-smile playing across his pudgy face. "I'm terribly sorry," he said, his voice as oily and false as a bad politician's. "I thought you were anoth-er one of those zombies."
He smoothed his bristly mustache with one thick finger as he spoke, and although Claire had never met him before, she suddenly knew who he was; Chris had bitched about him often enough.
Fat, mustachioed, and as slick as a snake-oil sales-man – it's the police chief. Irons.
He didn't look good, his cheeks flushed with high color and his porcine eyes rimmed with puffed white flesh. The way his gaze darted around the room was unsettling, as if he was in the grip of some kind of heavy paranoia. In fact, he looked unbalanced, like he wasn't all that connected to reality. "Are you Chief Irons?" she asked, trying to sound pleasantly respectful as she stepped closer to the desk. "Yes, that's me," he said smoothly, "and just who are you?"
Before she could speak, Irons went on, confirming Claire's suspicions with what he said next – and with the bitter, petulant tone in which he said it. "No, don't bother telling me. It makes no difference. You'll end up like all the others…"
He trailed off, staring down at the dead woman in front of him with some emotion that Claire couldn't place. She felt bad for him, in spite of all that Chris had told her about his rotten personality and profes– sional incompetence; God only knew what horrors he'd witnessed, or what he'd had to do to survive.
Is it any wonder that he's having trouble with reality? Leon and I wandered into this horror show in the last reel; Irons was here for the previews, which probably included watching his friends die.
She looked down at the young woman on the desk and Irons spoke again, his voice somehow sad and pompous at the same time.
"That's the mayor's daughter. I was supposed to look out for her, but I failed miserably…"
Claire searched for some words of comfort, wanting to tell him that he was lucky to have lived, that it wasn't his fault, but as he continued his lament, the words died in her throat, along with her pity.
"Just look at her. She was a true beauty, her skin nothing short of perfection. But it will soon putre-fy… and within the hour, she'll become one of those things. Just like all the others."
Claire didn't want to jump to any conclusions, but the wistful longing in his tone and in his shining, hungry stare made her skin crawl. The way he was looking at the dead girl…
… you're imagining things. He's the chief of police, not some perverted lunatic. And he's the first person you've met who might be able to give you some kind of information. Don't waste the opportunity. "There must be some way to stop it…" Claire said gently.
"In a manner of speaking. A bullet in the brain, or decapitation."
He finally looked away from the body, but not at Claire. He turned to gaze at the stuffed creatures perched on the edge of his desk, his voice taking on a resigned but somehow mirthful quality.
"And to think taxidermy used to be my hobby. No longer…"
Claire's internal alarms were doing some serious jangling. Taxidermy? What the hell did that have to do with the dead human being on his desk?
Irons was finally looking at her, and Claire didn't like it one bit. His dark and beady gaze was directed at her face, but he didn't seem to actually see her at all. For the first time, it occurred to her that he hadn't asked her one question about how she'd come to be there or commented on the smoke that had leaked into his office. And the way he'd talked about the mayor's daughter… no real sorrow at her passing, only self-pity and some kind of twisted admiration.
Oh, boy. Oh boy, oh boy, he's not just out of touch here, he's on a different goddamn planet… "Please," Irons said softly. "I'd like to be alone now."
He sagged down into his chair, closing his eyes, his head falling back against the padded back as if in exhaustion. As simply as that, she'd been dismissed. And although she had a million questions – many of which she thought he could provide answers for – she did think that maybe it was for the best if she just got the hell away from him, at least for now… A soft creaking sound, behind her and to the left, so quiet that she wasn't even sure she'd heard it at all. Claire turned, frowning, and saw that there was a second door to the office. She hadn't noticed it before – and that soft, stealthy sound had come from behind it.
Another zombie? Or maybe somebody hiding…?
She looked back at Irons, and saw that he hadn't moved. Apparently he hadn't heard anything, and she'd ceased to exist for him, at least for the moment. He'd gone back to whatever private world he'd been in before she stumbled into his office.
So – back the way I came, or do I see what's behind door number two?
Leon – she needed to find Leon, and she had a pretty strong feeling that Irons was a creep, whether he was crazy or not; no great loss that he wasn't up for joining forces. But if there were other people hiding in the building, people that she and Leon could help or who might be able to help them… It would only take a moment to check. With a last glance at Irons, sagging next to the corpse of the mayor's daughter and surrounded by his lifeless ani– mals, Claire walked to the second door, hoping she wasn't making a mistake.
ELEVEN
Sherry had been hiding for a long time in the police station, for what must have been three or four days, and hadn't seen her mother yet. Not once, not even when there had still been a lot of people left. She'd found Mrs. Addison right after she'd gotten there – one of the teachers from school – but Mrs. Addison had died. A zombie had eaten her. And not long after that, Sherry had found a ventilation shaft that ran over most of the whole building, and had decided that hiding was safer than staying with the grownups – because the adults kept dying, and because there was a monster in the station even worse than the zombies or the inside-out men, and she was pretty sure that the monster was looking for her. That was proba– bly stupid, she didn't think that monsters picked out just one person to go for, but then again, she'd never thought that monsters were real, either. So Sherry had stayed hidden, mostly in the knight room; there weren't any dead people there, and the only way to get in – besides the ventilation shaft behind the suits of armor – was to go down a long hall guarded by a giant tiger. The tiger was stuffed, but it was still scary and Sherry thought that maybe the tiger would scare away the monster. Part of her knew that that was dumb, but it made her feel better anyway. Since the zombies had taken over everything in the police station, she'd spent a lot of time sleeping. When she was asleep, she didn't have to think about what might have happened to her parents or worry about what was going to happen to her. The air shaft was pretty warm, and she had plenty to eat from the candy machine downstairs, but she was scared, and even worse than being scared was being lonely, so mostly she'd just slept. She'd been asleep, warm and curled up behind the knights, when she'd been awakened by a tremendous crash somewhere outside. She was sure it was the monster; she'd only caught a glimpse of it once before, of the giant's broad and terrible back, through a steel grate, but she'd heard it screaming and howling through the building many times since then. She knew that it was terrible, terrible and violent and hungry. Sometimes it disappeared for hours at a time, letting her hope that it had given up, but it always came back, and no matter where Sherry was, it always seemed to appear somewhere close by. The loud noise that had ripped her from her dreamless sleep was like the sound a monster would make tearing the walls down, and she'd huddled in her hiding place, ready to dart back into the shaft if the sound came any closer. It didn't. For a long time she didn't move, waiting with her eyes squeezed shut, holding on to her good luck charm – a beautiful gold pendant that her mother had given her only last week, so big that it filled up her whole hand. As it had before, the charm worked; the loud, terrible noise hadn't been repeated. Or maybe the big tiger had kept the monster from finding her. Either way, when she'd heard gentle thumping sounds in the office, she'd felt safe enough to creep out of the case and go out into the hall to listen. The zombies and inside-out men couldn't use doors, and if it was the monster, it would have come for her already, clawing down doors and screaming for blood.
It has to be a person. Maybe Mom…
Halfway down the hall, where it turned right, she'd heard people talking in the office and felt a burst of hope and loneliness mixed together. She couldn't tell what they were saying, but it was the first time she'd heard anybody who wasn't yelling for maybe two days. And if there were people talking, maybe it was because help had finally come to Raccoon.
The army or the government or the Marines, maybe all of them…
Excited, she hurried down the hall and was next to the big snarling tiger, right by the door, when her excitement faltered. The voices had stopped. Sherry stood very still, suddenly anxious. If people had come to Raccoon to help, wouldn't she have heard the planes and trucks? Wouldn't there be shooting and bombs and men with loudspeakers telling everybody to come out?
Maybe those voices aren't army people at all; maybe those voices are Bad People. Crazy, like that one man…
Not long after Sherry had gone into hiding, she'd seen a terrible thing through a grating that led into a locker room. A tall man with red hair had been in the room, talking to himself and rocking back and forth in a chair. At first, Sherry had thought about asking him for help, to find her parents, but something about the way he was talking and giggling and gently swaying back and forth made her wary, so she'd watched him for a while from the safe darkness of the air shaft. He'd been holding a big knife. And after a long time, still laughing and mumbling and rocking, he'd stabbed himself in the stomach. Sherry had been more scared by that man than by the zombies, be– cause it didn't make sense. He'd been crazy, and he'd killed himself and she'd crawled away, crying because it just didn't make any sense. She didn't want to meet anyone else like that. And even if the people in the office were okay, they might take her away from her safe place and try to protect her – and that would mean her death, because the monster surely wasn't afraid of adults.
It has to be a person. Maybe Mom…
Halfway down the hall, where it turned right, she'd heard people talking in the office and felt a burst of hope and loneliness mixed together. She couldn't tell what they were saying, but it was the first time she'd heard anybody who wasn't yelling for maybe two days. And if there were people talking, maybe it was because help had finally come to Raccoon.
The army or the government or the Marines, maybe all of them…
Excited, she hurried down the hall and was next to the big snarling tiger, right by the door, when her excitement faltered. The voices had stopped. Sherry stood very still, suddenly anxious. If people had come to Raccoon to help, wouldn't she have heard the planes and trucks? Wouldn't there be shooting and bombs and men with loudspeakers telling everybody to come out?
Maybe those voices aren't army people at all; maybe those voices are Bad People. Crazy, like that one man…
Not long after Sherry had gone into hiding, she'd seen a terrible thing through a grating that led into a locker room. A tall man with red hair had been in the room, talking to himself and rocking back and forth in a chair. At first, Sherry had thought about asking him for help, to find her parents, but something about the way he was talking and giggling and gently swaying back and forth made her wary, so she'd watched him for a while from the safe darkness of the air shaft. He'd been holding a big knife. And after a long time, still laughing and mumbling and rocking, he'd stabbed himself in the stomach. Sherry had been more scared by that man than by the zombies, be– cause it didn't make sense. He'd been crazy, and he'd killed himself and she'd crawled away, crying because it just didn't make any sense. She didn't want to meet anyone else like that. And even if the people in the office were okay, they might take her away from her safe place and try to protect her – and that would mean her death, because the monster surely wasn't afraid of adults.