Perry S.d.. Resident Evil – City of the Dead

   It felt awful to turn away, but there was no other choice. Sherry started back for the armor room…
   Creak!
   … and froze as the floor shifted underfoot. The sound of the creaking board seemed incredibly loud and she held her breath, clutching her pendant and praying that the door wouldn't come flying open behind her, that some crazy wouldn't charge in and…… and get her.
   She didn't hear anything, but felt sure that the pounding of her heart would give her away, it was so loud. After a full ten seconds, she carefully started back down the hall, stepping as lightly as she could, feeling like she was creeping out of a cave filled with sleeping snakes. The hall back to the armor room seemed like it was a mile long, and she had to use all of her willpower not to run once she reached the turn, but if there was one thing she'd learned from the movies and TV, it was that running from danger always meant a horrible death.
   When she finally reached the entrance back to the armor room, she felt like she might just collapse from relief. She was safe again, she could snuggle back into the old blanket that Mrs. Addison had found for her and just… The door from the office opened, opened and closed. And a second later, there were footsteps.
   Coming for her.
   Sherry flew into the armor room, no longer think– ing about anything at all in the bright and trembling crush of panic that swept through her. She sprinted past the three knights, forgetting her safe place be-cause all she knew was that she had to get away, get as far away as possible. There was a dark, tiny chamber past the glass case in the middle of the room and darkness was what she needed, a shadow to disappear into…… and she could hear the running footsteps some– where behind her, pounding over wood as she hurtled into the dark room and into the farthest corner. Sherry crouched down between the dusty brick of the room's fireplace and the padded chair beside it and tried to make herself as small as possible, hugging her knees and hiding her face.
   Please please please don't come in, don't see me, I'm not here…
   The running footsteps had come into the armor room and were slow now, hesitant, moving around the big glass case in the middle. Sherry thought of her safe place, the mouth of the ventilation shaft that could have taken her away, and struggled to hold back hot tears of self-condemnation. The fireplace room had no escape; she was trapped. Each hollow, thumping step brought the stranger closer to the dark room in which Sherry hid. She scrunched herself tighter, making promises that she would do anything, anything at all if only the stranger would go away… Thump. Thump. Thump. Suddenly, the room flashed into blinding bright– ness, the soft click of the light switch lost beneath Sherry's terrified cry. She pushed away from her corner and ran, screaming and unseeing, hoping to get past the stranger and back to the air shaft…… and a warm hand grabbed her arm, tight, keeping her from going one more step. She screamed again, jerking as hard as she could, but the stranger was strong… "Wait!" It was a lady, the voice almost as frantic as Sherry's hammering heart. "Let me go," Sherry wailed, but the lady was still holding on, even pulling her closer.
   "Easy, easy – I'm not a zombie, take it easy, it's okay…"
   The woman's voice had turned soothing, the words crooned gently, the hand on Sherry's wrist warm and strong. The sweet, musical voice repeated the gentle words again and again.
   "… easy, it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you, you're safe now."
   Sherry finally looked at the lady, and saw how pretty she was, how her eyes were soft with concern and sympathy. And just like that, Sherry stopped trying to get away and felt the hot tears trickle down her face, tears that she'd been holding back ever since she'd seen the red-haired man commit suicide. She instinctively hugged the young, pretty stranger and the lady hugged her back, her slender arms tight across Sherry's trembling shoulders. Sherry cried for a couple of minutes, letting the woman stroke her hair and whisper soothing words to her – and at last, she felt like the worst was over. As much as she wanted to crawl into the lady's arms and forget all of her fears, to believe that she was safe, she knew better. And besides, she wasn't a baby anymore; she'd turned twelve last month. With an effort, Sherry stepped away from the woman and wiped her eyes, looking up into her pretty face. The woman wasn't that old, maybe only twenty or so, and was dressed really cool – boots and cutoff pink denim shorts and a matching vest with no sleeves. She wore her shiny brown hair in a ponytail, and when she smiled, she looked like a movie star. The woman crouched down right in front of her, still smiling gently. "My name's Claire. What's yours?"
   Sherry felt shy suddenly, embarrassed for running and then trying to get away from such a nice lady. Her parents had often told her that she acted like an emotional baby, that she was "too imaginative" for her own good, and here was proof; Claire wasn't going to hurt her, she could tell. "Sherry Birkin," she said, and smiled at Claire, hoping that Claire wasn't mad at her; she didn't look mad. In fact, she looked pleased with Sherry's answer. "Do you know where your parents are?" Claire asked, in the same sweet tone.
   "They work at the Umbrella chemical plant, just outside of town," Sherry said. "Chemical plant… then what are you doing here?" "My mom called, and told me to go to the police
   station. She said it was too dangerous to stay at home." Claire nodded. "From the look of things, she was probably right. But it's dangerous here, as well…"
   Claire frowned thoughtfully, then smiled again.
   "You'd better come with me."
   Sherry felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach, and shook her head, wondering how to explain to Claire that it wasn't a good idea, that it was a very bad idea. She wanted more than anything not to be alone anymore, but it just wasn't safe.
   If I go with her and the monster finds us…
   Claire would be killed. And although Claire was thin, Sherry was pretty sure that she wouldn't be able to fit in the ventilation shaft. "There's something out there," she said finally. "I saw it, it's bigger than the zombies. And it's coming after me."
   Claire shook her head, opening her mouth to saysomething, probably to try and talk her into changing her mind, when a terrible, furious sound filled the room, echoing in violent waves from somewhere in the building. Somewhere close.
   "Rrraaahh…"
   Sherry felt her blood turn to ice. Claire's eyes went wide, her skin paling.
   "What was that?"
   Sherry backed away, breathless, in her mind al– ready running for the safe place behind the three suits of armor. "That's what I was telling you," she gasped out, and before Claire could stop her, she turned and ran.
   "Sherry!"
   Sherry ignored the shouted plea, sprinting past the glass exhibit case for the safety of the air shaft. She leapt nimbly over the knight's pedestal and dropped to her hands and knees, ducking her head and scram– bling into the ancient stone hole set into the base of the wall. Her only chance, Claire's only chance, was for Sherry to get as far away from her as possible. Maybe they would find each other again when the monster had gone. As Sherry crawled quickly through the tight and winding darkness, she hoped it wasn't already too late.

TWELVE

   Ada sat on the edge of the cluttered desk in the office of the Chief of Detectives, resting her aching feet and staring blankly at the empty steel safe in the corner. Her patience was wearing thin. Not only was the G-Virus sample nowhere to be found, she was starting to think that Bertolucci had flown the coop. She'd gone through the break room, the
   S.T.A.R.S. office, the library – in fact, she was pretty sure she'd covered just about everywhere the reporter would have had easy access to, and had used two full clips to do it. It wasn't that she was low on ammo, it was the waste of time that the bullets represented -
   – twenty-six rounds and no results, except that there were a dozen more virus-riddled corpses lying around. And two of Umbrella's freak hybrids… Ada shuddered, remembering the warped red flesh and trumpeting shrieks of the bizarre creatures that she'd capped in the press room. She'd never been particularly bothered by greed, corporate or other– wise, but Umbrella had been up to some seriously immoral experimentation. Trent had warned her about the Tyrant retrievers – which, thankfully, hadn't put in an appearance yet – but the long– tongued, clawed, bloody humanoids were an affront to even her sensibilities. Not to mention a lot harder to kill than the virus carriers. If they were T-Virus products, she'd have to keep her fingers crossed that Birkin hadn't done anything with his newest creation. According to Trent, the G series hadn't been put to use yet, but it was supposed to be twice as potent… Ada let her gaze wander, taking in the plain, functional office. It wasn't the most inspiring environ– ment to take a break in, but at least it was reasonably gore-free; with the door closed, she could hardly smell the officers in the main part of the room. They'd been pretty far gone when she'd put them down, that bonelessly wet stage that apparently preceded total collapse.
   Not that it matters if I can smell them, my hair and clothes have absorbed the goddamn smell; when they start to go bad, it seems to happen with a bang…
   She wished she'd bothered to learn more on the science end; she knew what the T-Virus was used for, but hadn't thought it necessary to research the physio– chemical effects. Why bother, when she had no reason to think that Umbrella had been planning to spill a shitload of it in their hometown? She was getting plenty of firsthand information about how well it worked, but it would have been nice to know exactly what happened in the infected party's body and mind, what turned them from a person into a mindless flesh– eater. Instead, she could only file away her observa– tions and make guesses at the truth. From what she'd seen, it took less than an hour for someone infected to turn zombie. Sometimes the victim went into a kind of fever-coma first, which presumably burnt out parts of the brain and only added to the impression that they were waking from the dead when they stood up and started looking for fresh meat. The symptoms of the virus were the same for everyone, but not the progression rate; she'd seen at least three cases where the victim had turned bloodthirsty within a couple of moments of being infected, the stage she'd started to think of as "going cataract." One of the few constants was that their eyes clouded with a thin film of eggy white mucous when they turned and although the physical deterioration always started immediately, some fell to pieces much faster than others…
   … and why are you thinking about it? Your job doesn't include finding a cure, does it?
   She sighed, bending over to rub her toes. True enough. Still, it was something to think about. Focus– ing on staying alive was tiring and all-encompassing work; she didn't have a chance to consider the subtle-ties of the circumstances while clearing out corridors. She was on break, and she needed to let her brain run around a bit, ponder a few of the job's more puzzling aspects.
   And there are about a thousand to mull over… Trent, what Bertolucci should or shouldn't know… and the S.T.A.R.S. – what the hell had happened to that merry crew?
   From the articles that Trent had included in the info packet, she knew about the S.T.A.R.S.'s suspen– sion – and considering what they'd been investigat– ing, it didn't take a genius to figure out that they'd been railroaded by Umbrella for uncovering part if not all of the bioweapon operations. Umbrella had probably offed them by now, if they hadn't gone into hiding and she had to wonder if Trent had played any part in the S.T.A.R.S.'s little misadventure, or if he'd tried to contact them before or after. Not that he would've told her; Trent was an enigma, to be sure. She'd only had one actual meeting with him, although he'd contacted her several times prior to her leaving for Raccoon, mostly by phone and although she'd always prided herself on her ability to read people, she knew absolutely nothing about where his interests lay, why he wanted the G-Virus or what his gripe with Umbrella was about. It was obvious that he had some inside connection, he knew too much about the company's workings, but if that was the case, why not just pick up his own goddamn sample and then quit? Hiring an outside agent was the act of someone trying to avoid implication, but implication of what?
   Ours is not to question why…
   A good principle to live by; she also wasn't getting paid to figure out Trent. She doubted she'd be able to even if she was getting paid for it; she'd never met such a supremely self-controlled man as Mr. Trent. In every interaction they'd had, she'd gotten the feeling that he had been smiling inside, as if he knew some intensely pleasurable secret that no one else was privy to and yet somehow, he hadn't come across as arrogant or overblown. He was a cool one, his genial-ity so natural that she'd been vaguely intimidated; she might not have been able to pick up on his motives, but she'd seen that calm humor before it was the real face of true power, of a man with a plan and the means to implement it.
   So has the spill upset his plans, whatever they are? Or was he prepared for this contingency…? He may not have planned it, but I can't imagine that "caught unawares" is anywhere in Trent's vocabulary…
   Ada leaned back, rolling her head tiredly before pushing herself off the desk and stepping back into her uncomfortable shoes. Enough down time, she couldn't spare her aches and pains more than a few minutes and didn't expect to figure out much of anything until she was well away from Raccoon. She still had a couple of areas to check for Bertolucci before heading into the sewers, and she'd noticed that some of the first-floor window barricades weren't as solid as she might have hoped; she didn't want to end up blocked out of a path by a new group of carriers from outside. There were the "secret" passages on the east side, and the holding cells downstairs past the parking garage. If she couldn't find him in either of those places, she'd have to assume he'd left the station and concentrate her efforts on obtaining the sample. She decided to try the basement first; it seemed unlikely that he'd stumbled across the hidden corn– dors. From what she'd read of his work, he wasn't a good enough reporter to find his own ass. And if he was hiding in or near the holding cells, she wouldn't have to spend any more time roaming the station, facing the inevitable invasion; the entrance into the subbasement was downstairs, so barring any compli– cations, she could head straight for the lab. Ada walked out of the office, wrinkling her nose at the fresh burst of rotting smell pushed at her by the lazily spinning ceiling fans. There had to be seven or eight bodies in the desk-filled room, all of them cops, and at least the three that she'd shot had been fairly rank…
   … and didn't I leave five carriers still walking around in here when I came through before?
   Ada paused just outside the large and open room, looking back in from the narrow connecting corridor that led to the back stairs. Had there been five? She knew she'd capped a couple on her first visit; the rest had been too slow to hassle with, and she thought there'd been five of them. And yet she'd only had to knock off three when she had returned for her im– promptu break.
   There were five. I may not be at peak, but I can still count.
   She wasn't in the habit of doubting her ability to keep track of such things, and the fact that she'd only just noticed was a sign of how tired she was; two days ago, she would have made the observation immedi– ately. There was no way to tell if the additional corpses had been shot or had simply disintegrated on their own without exposing herself to contact – they were too messed up; but it would be wisest to assume that there were still a few survivors wandering around.
   Not for long, one way or another…
   Whether or not the zombies managed to break through, Umbrella would act soon, if they hadn't already. What had happened in Raccoon was a share– holder's worst nightmare, and Umbrella certainly wasn't going to ignore the problem; they'd probably already worked up a fail-safe disaster and prepared their own spin to feed to the press. And it was a foregone conclusion that they'd try to salvage Birkin's synthesis before putting their fail-safe into effect, which meant that she'd have to be very careful. Birkin had apparently been somewhat secretive about his work, and Trent had relayed that Umbrella would eventually send in a retrieval team… with Raccoon in ashes, that eventuality had probably been moved forward a few notches.
   A team of human beings, hopefully. I can handle that. A Tyrant, though… I don't need that kind of pain.
   Ada turned away from the room, walking toward the closed door that would lead her to the basement steps. Tyrant was the code name for a particular series in Umbrella's organic weapons research, a series that embodied the most destructive applications of the T-Virus. According to Trent, the White Umbrella scien– Tists – the ones working in the secret labs – had just started tests on a kind of humanoid bloodhound, designed to hunt down any assigned scent or sub– stance it had been encoded for with relentless and inhuman capabilities. A Tyrant retriever, a nearly indestructible construct of infected flesh and surgi-cally implanted wiring – just the kind of thing that they might send in to find, say, a sample of the G-Virus… Once she collected Trent's sample, she was history, paid and drinking margaritas on a beach somewhere. And anything she might or might not feel about it, about how many innocents had died or what Trent wanted the G-Virus for – it was just one more thing to put on her list of things the job didn't call for. Her defenses safely in place, Ada started for the basement to see if she could find the troublesome reporter.
   Leon stood in the ransacked basement weapons locker, adjusting the holster straps and thinking about where Claire might be. From what little he'd seen so far, the station wasn't too bad. Cold and dim and stinking of the bodies heaped in the hallways, but not as actively dangerous as the streets. It wasn't much to be grateful for, but he'd take what he could get. He'd killed two of his fellow officers and a woman in the tatters of a traffic patrol uniform on his way to the basement – the cops upstairs and the woman just outside the morgue, a few yards from the small room that housed the RPD armament. Only three zombies since he'd reached the station, not including the few he'd been able to avoid in the detectives' room, but he'd passed over a dozen corpses on the short journey and had been able to make out the bullet holes on about half of them, through the eyes or directly to the temple. Between the cleanly "dispatched" creatures and the number of weapons missing from the lockers, he dared to hope that Branagh had been right about there being survivors.
   Marvin Branagh… probably dead by now. Does that mean he'll turn into a zombie?If Umbrella's really behind all this, it has to be some kind of a plague or disease, they're a pharmaceutical company – so how do you catch it? Is it a contact thing, or can you get it from taking a deep breath…
   Leon dropped that train of thought, fast; as cool and humid as the basement was, the thought that he could be infected by the zombie sickness made him break out in a sudden feverish sweat. What if all of Raccoon was still hot, and he'd caught it just driving into town? The cluttered shelves of the storage room seemed to close in just a bit, in an anxiety flash of epic proportions. But before real panic set in, he heard his mind's voice remind him of the reality – and the acceptance of the reality came with it, allowing him to let go of the fear.
   If you're sick, you're sick. You can eat a bullet before it gets bad. If you're not sick, maybe you can survive to tell your grandkids about all this. Either way, there's probably nothing you can do about it now – except try to be a cop.
   Leon nodded to himself, sighing. A better plan than worrying about it, and he now had the equipment to boost his chances. The electronic lock for the weapons store had been shot through, saving him from having to go searching for a key card or shooting it himself; the door had obviously been pried open, the external locks and handle practically shredded. On his first dig through the room, he'd been disappointed, and not a little freaked. There had been no handguns at all and very little ammo left in the dented green lockers – but he had found a box of shotgun shells, and after a second, more desperately thorough search, he'd un– covered a twelve-gauge hidden behind a high stack of boxes. There were a couple of shoulder harnesses for the Remington model still hanging on a wall hook, as well as a bigger utility belt than the one he already wore; it even had a sidepack deep enough to hold all of the loaded Magnum clips. With a final cinch on the harness, he decided that it would be best to start searching the most obvious places first, every connecting corridor from every possible entrance. He'd head back to the lobby first, find something to leave a note on… Bam! Bam! Bam! Shots fired, close, and the echoing tone said it was the garage just down the hall. Leon yanked the Magnum out and ran for the door, precious seconds wasted as he fumbled at the mangled handle. The hall was clear, except for the dead traffic cop on the floor to his right. Straight ahead was the entrance to the parking garage, and Leon hurried toward it, reminding himself that he wanted to go in easy, that he didn't want to get shot by a panicked gunman.
   Take it slow, get a good look before you move, identify yourself clearly…
   The door, set into the wall to his right, was standing open and as Leon darted a look into wide and open space, his body shielded by the concrete-block wall, he saw something that startled him into forgetting about the shooter.
   The dog. It's the same goddamn dog.
   Impossible – but the sprawled, lifeless animal in the middle of the car-lined chamber looked the same. Even with the barest glimpse he'd had before, the slimy wet demon in canine form that had nearly scared him into a crash ten miles outside the city could have come from the same litter. Beneath the sputtering fluorescent strips that lit the cold, oil-stained garage, Leon could see how truly abnormal it was. There didn't seem to be anything moving, and no sound except for the buzz of lights. Still holding the Magnum ready, Leon stepped into the garage, deter– mined to get a closer look at the creature – and saw a second one next to a parked squad car, apparently just as dead as the first. Both lay in sticky red pools of their own blood, their long, skinned-looking limbs splayed brokenly.
   Umbrella. The wild animal attacks, the disease…… how long has this shit been going on? And how did they manage to keep it quiet after all those murders?
   What was even more confusing was why Raccoon wasn't crawling with support services already; Um– brella may have been able to keep their involvement with the "cannibal" murders silent, but how could they keep Raccoon's citizens from calling for help from outside the city?
   And these dogs, like carbon copies… something else that Umbrella made up in their labs?
   He took another step toward the fallen dog-things, frowning, not liking the dark conspiracy theories that were forming in his thoughts but unable to ignore them. What he liked even less was the look of the oil stains on the concrete floor; they were rust-colored and there were too many of the dried splotches for him to count. He bent down to get a closer look, so intent on putting to rest a sudden terrible suspicion that he didn't register the shot until he heard the high, singing whine when it blew past his head. Bam! Leon spun left, bringing the Magnum up and shout– ing at the same time…
   "Hold your fire!"
   … and saw the shooter lowering her weapon, a woman in a short red dress and black leggings stand– ing by a van against the far wall. She started walking toward him, her slender hips rolling smoothly, her head high and shoulders back. As if they were at a cocktail party.
   Leon felt a rush of anger, that she could seem so calm after very nearly killing him, but as she got closer, he found himself wanting to forgive her. She was beautiful, and wore an expression of genuine pleasure at seeing him; a welcome sight after so much death. "Sorry about that," she said. "When I saw the uniform, I thought you were another zombie."
   She was Asian-American, fine-boned but tall, her short hair a thick and glossy black. Her deep, satiny voice was almost a purr, a strange contrast to the way she looked at him. The slight smile she wore didn't seem to touch her almond-shaped eyes, which were scrutinizing him carefully. "Who are you?" Leon asked. "Ada Wong." That throaty purr again. She tilted her head, still smiling. "I'm Leon Kennedy," he said reflexively, not sure what to ask or where to start. "I… what are you doing down here?"
   Ada nodded toward the van behind her, an RPD transport wagon that was blocking the holding cell area. "I came to Raccoon looking for a man, a reporter named Bertolucci; I have reason to think that he's in one of the cells, and I think he might be able to help me find my boyfriend…"
   Her smile faded, her sharp, almost electric gaze meeting his… "And I think he knows all about what happened here. Would you help me move the van?"
   If there was a reporter locked up on the other side of the garage wall who could tell them anything at all, Leon was eager to meet him. He wasn't sure what to make of Ada's story, but couldn't imagine why she would lie about anything. The station wasn't safe, and she was looking for survivors, just as he was. "Yeah, okay," he said, feeling caught off guard by her smoothly direct manner. It felt like she had taken control of their meeting, some subtle but deliberate manipulation that had put her in charge and from the casual way she turned and walked back to the van, as if there was no question that he would follow, he thought she knew it. Don't be paranoid; strong women do exist. And the more people we can find, the more help I can get to look for Claire. Maybe it was time to stop making plans, and just try to keep up. Leon bolstered the Magnum and went after her, hoping that the reporter was where Ada thought he was and that things would start making sense, sooner rather than later.

THIRTEEN

   Sherry birkin was gone, and Claire couldn't fit herself into the ventilation duct to go after her. Whatever or whoever had screamed and scared the little girl so badly hadn't put in an appearance, but Sherry was history, maybe still crawling frantically through some dark and dusty tunnel. She had apparently been hiding by the duct for a while; there were empty candy-bar wrappers and a musty old blanket stuffed in the opening, the pathetic little hideaway tucked behind three standing suits of armor. Once she'd realized that Sherry wasn't coming back, Claire had hurried back to Irons's office, hoping that he might be able to tell her where the duct let out, but Irons was gone, along with the body of the mayor's daughter. Claire stood in the office, watched over by the dumb glass eyes of the morbid decor, and felt really uncertain for the first time since she'd hit town. She'd started out to find Chris, a goal that had expanded to include worries about zombie dodging, hooking up with Leon, and avoiding creepy Chief Irons, pretty much in that order. But in the few moments between meeting the little girl and that strange, howling scream, her priorities had shifted dramatically. A child was caught up in this nightmare, a sweet, little kid who believed that there was a monster stalking her.
   Maybe there is. If I can accept that Raccoon's got zombies, why not monsters? Hell, why not vampires or killer robots?
   She wanted to find Sherry, and she didn't know how to start. She wanted her big brother, but was just as clueless as to where he might be – and she had begun to wonder if he knew anything about what had happened to Raccoon. The last time she'd talked to him, he'd avoided her questions about why the S.T.A.R.S. had been sus– pended, insisting that it wasn't anything to worry about – that he and the team had run into some political trouble at the office and it was all going to be sorted out. She was used to his protectiveness, but thinking back, hadn't he seemed overly evasive? And the S.T.A.R.S. had been investigating the cannibal murders, it wasn't much of a stretch to connect the past flesh-eating activity with the current…
   … which means what? That Chris uncovered some evil plot and was hiding it?
   She didn't know. All that she knew was that she didn't believe he was dead, and that for now finding Chris or Leon would have to take a back seat to finding Sherry. As bad as things were, Claire had defenses – she had a gun, she had at least a little emotional maturity, and after nearly two years of daily five-mile runs, she was in excellent shape. But Sherry Birkin couldn't be older than eleven or twelve, and seemed frail in every sense of the word, from the dirt in her pixie blond hair to the desperate anxiety in her wide blue eyes – she had inspired all of Claire's protective instincts… Thump! A heavy, hollow vibration rattled through the ceil– ing, making the intricate chandelier in Irons's office tremble. Claire reflexively looked up, gripping her handgun. There was nothing to see but wood and plaster, and the sound didn't repeat itself.
   Something on the roof… but what could have made a noise like that? An elephant being air-dropped?
   Maybe it was Sherry's monster. The vicious scream they'd heard back in the private exhibit room had come through a duct or the fireplace, the origin of the cry impossible to pin down, but it could have been the roof. Claire wasn't particularly keen on meeting up with whatever had screamed, but Sherry had seemed certain that the creature was following her…
   … so find the screamer, find the girl? Not my idea of the perfect plan, but I don't have much else to go on at this point; it might be the only way to find her.
   Or maybe it was Irons up there and although her meeting with him had left a slimy taste in her mouth, she regretted not having tried to get more information out of him. Crazy or not, he hadn't struck her as stupid; it might not be a bad idea to find him again, at least to ask some questions about the ventilation system. She wouldn't know anything until she checked it out. Claire turned and went to the office door that opened into the outer corridor, where she'd put out the helicopter fire. The smoke had thinned in the adjoining hall, and although the air was still warm, it wasn't the heat of a fresh blaze. In that, at least, she'd been successful… Claire stepped back into the main hall, averting her eyes from what was left of the pilot…… and craa-ack!… She froze, and heard a massive splintering of wood followed by the thick, ponderous steps of some– one who must be huge moving through the corridor past the turn, the sounds deliberate and thundering. Guy must weigh a ton, and oh Jesus tell me that wasn't a door being torn apart… Claire shot a look back down the small hallway to Irons's office, her instincts telling her to run, her brain reminding her that it was a dead end, her body paralyzed between the two…… and the biggest man she'd ever seen stepped into view, shadowed by the thin haze of smoke drifting through the hall. He was dressed in a long army-green overcoat that only accented his size, and was as tall as an NBA star – taller, but with proportionate bulk. A thick utility belt was wrapped around his waist, and though she didn't see any weapons, she could feel the violence radiating off him in invisible waves. She could just make out his sickly white blur of a face, the hairless, sloping skull – and quite suddenly, Claire was certain that he was a monster, a killer with black gloved fists, each as big as a human head…
   Shoot! Shoot it!
   Claire aimed but hesitated, terrified of making a horrible mistake – until it took one massive step toward her on tree-trunk legs, and she heard the crunch of denting wood beneath its booted Franken– stein feet, and saw the black eyes, black and rimmed with red. Like lava-filled pits in a misshapen white boulder, blank but not at all blind, his gaze found hers – and he raised one meaty clenched fist, the threat unmistakable.
   –shootshootshoot-
   She squeezed the trigger, one, two times, and saw the impact – a flap of its lapel blew into shreds just below his collarbone, the second shot slicing cleanly through one side of the neck…… and he took another step, not a flicker of expres-sion passing over his rough-hewn features, the fist still raised, seeking a target, seeking to crush… The black, smoking hole in its throat wasn't bleeding.
   Oh SHIT!
   In a rush of adrenaline-boosted dread, Claire pointed the handgun at the creature's heart and pulled the trigger repeatedly, the giant taking another step, striding into the stream of explosive fire without flinching…… and she lost track of the shots, unable to believe that it could still be coming, less than ten feet away as the rounds hammered its mammoth chest…… and the gun clicked empty, even as the monster stopped in its thundering tracks, swaying from side to side like a tall building in a high wind. Without taking her shocked gaze from the reeling giant, Claire grabbed another clip from her vest and fumbled through reloading, her brain crazily trying to name this walking abortion.
   Terminator, Frankenstein's monster, Dr. Evil, Mr. X
   Whatever it was supposed to be, the seven-plus semi-jacketed rounds to the chest had finally taken effect. Silently, the towering creature slumped to his right, falling heavily against one smoke-blackened wall and sagging there – not crumpling, but not mov– ing, either.
   Weird angle, that's all, he's dead, just propped up by his own weight…
   Claire didn't move any closer, keeping the handgun leveled at the motionless giant. Was this the screamer? For as powerful and inhuman as it looked, she didn't think so; this was no primal, furious demon, howling for blood. Mr. X was more like some soulless ma– chine, bloodless flesh that could ignore pain… or embrace it. "Dead now, doesn't matter," Claire whispered, as much to reassure herself as to cut off the relentless stream of useless thought. She had to think, to figure out what this meant – this wasn't some freak zombie mutation, so what the hell was it? Why didn't it fall down? She'd emptied a mostly full clip – would somebody hear the shots, would Sherry or Irons or Leon or whoever else might be lurking around the station come find her? Should she stay where she was?
   The creature that she'd already started to think of as Mr. X wasn't breathing, its muscular body per– fectly still, its face as closed as death. Claire bit her lower lip, staring at the still impossibly standing, leaning creature, trying to think through her confused fear…… and saw his eyes open, his shiny black and red eyes. Without so much as a wince of pain or effort, Mr. X swayed back to a stand, blocking the hall, his giant hands raising again…… and with a mighty swing, he crashed his fists through the air, his long arms whipping just in front of her as she stumbled back. The momentum was enough for both of his huge hands to plunge into the wall across from where he'd leaned. The impact buried his fists, his arms stuck in the wood and plaster halfway to his elbows.
   Me, could've been ME…
   Back through Irons's office and she'd be trapped. Without giving the matter any further thought, Claire moved, sprinting toward Mr. X. She flew past him, her right arm actually brushing against his heavy coat,
   her heart skipping a beat as the material wisped across her skin. She ran, hung a left and dashed down the hazy hall, trying to remember what was past the waiting room, trying not to hear the unmistakable sounds of move– ment behind her as Mr. X jerked his hands free.
   Jesus, what is that THING…
   Back through the waiting room, slamming the door behind her as she ran, Claire decided that she would decide later. She ran, not letting herself think anything at all but how to run faster.
   Ben Bertolucci was in the last cell in the room farthest from the garage, crashed out on a metal cot and snoring lightly. Keeping her expression carefully neutral, Ada decided to let Leon wake him up. She didn't want to seem overly eager, and if there was one thing she knew about men, it was that they were easier to handle when they thought they were in control. Ada looked up at Leon with a patience she didn't feel and waited. They'd checked out an empty kennel and a winding concrete hall before finding him, and though the cold, dank air reeked of blood and virus decay, they hadn't come across any bodies – which was strange, consid– ering the slaughter that Ada knew had occurred in the dank garage. She thought about asking Leon if he knew what had happened, but decided that the less they spoke, the better; there was no point in letting him get used to having her around. She'd seen the manhole in the kennel, rusting and set into a dark corner, and been gratified to see a crowbar on an open shelf nearby. With Bertolucci snoozing in front of them, Ada felt like things were finally starting to pick up… "Let me guess," Leon said loudly, and reached out to thump on the metal bars with the butt of his gun.
   "You must be Bertolucci, right? Get up, now."
   Bertolucci groaned and sat up slowly, rubbing at his stubbled jaw. Ada wanted to smile, watching him frown wearily in their direction; he looked like shit… his clothes rumpled, his lank ponytail frazzled. Still wearing his tie, though. The poor slob probably thinks it makes him look more like a real reporter… "What do you want? I'm trying to sleep here." He sounded grouchy, and again Ada had to suppress a smile. It served him right for being so difficult to find. Leon glanced at Ada, looking a trifle uncertain. "Is this the guy?"
   She nodded, realizing that Leon probably thought Bertolucci was a prisoner. Their conversation would dispel that particular notion pretty fast, but she didn't want Leon to know more than he had to; she'd have to choose her words carefully. "Ben," she said, letting her voice carry a hint of desperation. "You told the city officials that you knew something about what's been going on, didn't you? What did you tell them?"
   Bertolucci stood up and glared at her, his lips curling. "And who the hell are you?" Pretending that she hadn't heard, Ada upped the desperation, but just a hair; she didn't want to over– play the helpless female bit, it kind of clashed with the fact that she'd survived this long.
   "I'm trying to find a friend of mine, John Howe.
   He was working for a branch office of Umbrella based
   in Chicago, but he disappeared several months ago
   and I heard a rumor that he's here, in this city…"
 
   She trailed off, watching Bertolucci's expression. He knew something, no question, but she didn't think he was going to give it up. "I don't know anything," he said gruffly. "And even if I did, why would I want to tell you?"
   Original. If the cop wasn't here, I'd probably just shoot him. Actually, she probably wouldn't; Ada wasn't into killing for the fun of it, and thought that she could probably get it out of him using one of her more persuasive methods – if her feminine charmsdidn't work, there was always a shot to the kneecap. Unfortunately, she couldn't do anything with Officer Leon hanging around. She hadn't planned on their encounter, but for the moment, she was stuck with him. The cop obviously wasn't happy with the reporter's responses. "Okay, I say we leave him in there," he growled, talking to Ada but staring at Bertolucci with undisguised irritation. Bertolucci half-smiled, reaching into one pocket and pulling out a set of silver cell keys on a thick ring. Ada wasn't surprised, but Leon looked even more pissed off. "Fine by me," Bertolucci said smugly. "I'm not about to leave this cell, anyway. It's the safest place in the building. There are more than just zombies run-ning around here, believe you me."
   From the way he said it, Ada thought she'd proba– bly have to kill him after all. Trent's instructions had been clear – if Bertolucci knew anything about Bir– kin's work on the G-Virus, he was to be disposed of; why, exactly, she wasn't sure, but that was the job. If she could just get a few moments alone with him,she'd be able to ascertain how much he actually knew.
   The question was, how? She didn't want to shoot Leon; as a rule, she didn't kill innocents – and be– sides, she liked cops. Not necessarily the brightest lot, but anyone who took a job that required putting his or her life on the line had her respect. And he had great taste in weaponry – the Desert Eagle was top of the line…
   … so why rationalize? I ditch him first and then circle back, doesn't mean I'm going soft… "Ggrraaaa!"
   A violent, inhuman shriek pierced the tense silence. Ada snapped her Beretta around, aiming at the open gate that led back through the empty cell-block area. Whatever it was, it was somewhere in the basement… "What was that?" Leon breathed from behind her, and Ada wished she knew the answer. The still resonating echo of that furious scream was like noth– ing she'd heard before – and nothing she expected to hear, even knowing about Umbrella's research. "Like I said, I'm not leaving this cell," Bertolucci said, his voice breaking slightly. "Now get out of here before you lead it right to me!" Sniveling coward… "Look, I may be the only cop left alive in this building," Leon said, and something about the com-bination of fear and strength in his tone made Ada shoot a look back at him. The officer's gaze was fixed on Bertolucci, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding.
   "… so if you want to live, you're gonna have to come with us." "Forget it," Bertolucci snapped. "I'm staying here 'til the cavalry shows up – and if you're smart, you'll do the same thing." Leon shook his head. "It could be days before anyone comes, our best chance is to find a way out of Raccoon – and you heard that scream. Do you really want to get a visit from whatever made it?"
   She was impressed; some Umbrella freak could be lurching its way toward them even now, and Leon was actually trying to save the reporter's worthless hide. "I'll take the risk," said Bertolucci. "And good luck getting out, you're gonna need it…"
   The rumpled reporter stepped up to the bars, looking back and forth between them, running a hand over his greasy hair. "Look," he said, his voice softening. "There's a kennel in the back of the building, with a manhole in it. You can get to the sewers from there, it's probably the fastest way out of the city."
   Ada sighed inwardly. Terrific; so much for her hidden route to the lab. If she dumped Leon now, it would take him about five minutes to find her.
   You can always kill him, if it comes to that, or… you can get him lost in the sewers and come back for Bertolucci while he's clearing the path for you.
   Unlike Bertolucci, she didn't want to run into whatever had screamed and now that she knew he was staying put, luring the cop away was the next logical step.