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The things I do to avoid unnecessary bloodshed… "Alright, I'm going to check it out," she said, and without waiting for Leon's response, she turned and sprinted for the gate.
"Ada! Ada, wait!"
She ignored him, hurrying past the empty cells and back into the chilled hall, relieved that the passage was still clear and feeling a little unnerved by her sudden reluctance to simplify the situation. Things would be a lot easier if she just got rid of them both, a decision she wouldn't have hesitated to make under different circumstances. But she was sick of death, sick and tired and disgusted with Umbrella for what they'd done; she wasn't going to take the cop out unless she had to.
And if she did have to, if it came down to some innocent's life or completing the job?
That she could ask herself that question at all told her more about her state of mind than she wanted to admit. She'd reached the door to the kennel; Ada took a deep breath, forcing every twinge of nagging emo– tion from her thoughts, and stepped inside to wait for Leon Kennedy.
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
"Ada! Ada, wait!"
She ignored him, hurrying past the empty cells and back into the chilled hall, relieved that the passage was still clear and feeling a little unnerved by her sudden reluctance to simplify the situation. Things would be a lot easier if she just got rid of them both, a decision she wouldn't have hesitated to make under different circumstances. But she was sick of death, sick and tired and disgusted with Umbrella for what they'd done; she wasn't going to take the cop out unless she had to.
And if she did have to, if it came down to some innocent's life or completing the job?
That she could ask herself that question at all told her more about her state of mind than she wanted to admit. She'd reached the door to the kennel; Ada took a deep breath, forcing every twinge of nagging emo– tion from her thoughts, and stepped inside to wait for Leon Kennedy.
FOURTEEN
So beautiful… even in death, beverly Harris was radiant, but Irons couldn't risk having her wake up while he wasn't watching; he carefully folded her into the stone cabinet beneath the sink and latched it, promising himself that he would take her out when he had more time. She would become the most exquisite animal he'd ever transformed, posed and forever perfect once he'd prepared her the proper way… a dream come true.
If I have time. If there's any time left.
He knew he was feeling sorry for himself again, but there was no one else to commiserate with, no one to marvel at the sheer magnitude of all that he'd suf– fered. He felt terrible – sad and angry and alone, but he also felt that things had finally become clear. He knew now, knew why he was being persecuted, and that awareness had given him a focus – as de– pressing as the truth was, at least he was no longer lost.
Umbrella. An Umbrella conspiracy to destroy me, all along…
Irons sat on the scarred, stained table in the Sanctu-ary, his special, private place, and wondered how long it would be before the young woman came for him. The one with the athletic body, the one who'd refused to tell him her name. In a way, she was responsible for his newfound clarity, an irony that he couldn't help but appreciate; it had been her sudden appearance that had provided him with the truth. She would find him, of course; she was an Umbrella spy, and Umbrella had obviously been watching him for quite some time. They probably had lists of everything he owned, volumes of psychological profil– ing reports, even copies of his financial records. It all made sense, now that he'd had some time to think; he was the most powerful man in Raccoon, and Umbrel– la had designed his downfall, tailored each vicious backstab to cause him the most acute agony possible. Irons stared at his treasures, the tools and trophies that sat on the shelves in front of him, but felt none of the pride they usually inspired. The polished bones were simply something to look at as his mind worked, absorbed with Umbrella's treachery. Years before, when he'd started taking money to turn a blind eye to the company's doings, things had been different; then it had been a matter of politics, of finding himself a niche in the power structure that really controlled Raccoon. And things had worked smoothly for a long time – his career had progressed on schedule, he'd earned the respect of officials and citizens alike, and for the most part, his investments had paid off. Life had been good.
And then there was Birkin. William Birkin and his neurotic wife and their brat daughter.
After the Spencer estate spill, he'd almost con– vinced himself that the S.T.A.R.S. and goddamn Captain Wesker had been responsible for all the trouble, but he could see now that it was the arrival of Birkin and his family, nearly a year before, that had started the ball rolling; the destruction of the Spencer lab had only hurried things along. Umbrella had probably started monitoring him the day he'd had the misfortune to meet Birkin – at first, just watching, planting bugs, and installing cameras. The spies would have come later… The Birkins had come to Raccoon so that William could concentrate on developing a superior synthesis of the T-Virus, based on the research being done at the Spencer lab. As quirky and unpleasant as William could sometimes be, Irons had liked him, right from the start. The male Birkin had been Umbrella's boy genius, but like Irons, he wasn't the type to brag about his position; William was a humble man, only inter– ested in fulfilling his own potential. They'd both been too busy to have much of a friendship, but there had been a mutual respect between them; Irons had often felt that William looked up to him…
… and my mistake was to allow it. To allow my regard for him to cloud my instincts, to keep me from noticing that I was being watched, all along.
The loss of the Spencer lab sent some big ripples through Umbrella's hierarchy, and only days after the explosion, Irons had been approached by Annette Birkin with a message from her husband – a message and a request for a favor. Birkin had been worried that Umbrella was going to demand the new synthe– sis, the G-Virus, before it was ready; apparently, he'd been most dissatisfied with the application of his previous work, something about how Umbrella hadn't let him perfect the replication process, Irons couldn't remember exactly – and with Umbrella looking to recover from the financial blow of the Spencer loss, Birkin had been concerned that they might compromise the integrity of the untested virus. Through Annette, Birkin had asked for assistance and offered him a little extra incentive to keep things fair. For a hundred grand, all Irons had to do was help keep the G-Virus under wraps – in short, watch out for Umbrella spies and keep an eye on the surviving S.T.A.R.S., making sure they didn't do any more "discovering" of Umbrella's research.
That was it. A hundred thousand dollars, and I was already watching my city, and keeping tabs on that rebellious little pack of troublemakers. Easy, easy money, and more to be made if everything went as planned. Except it was a trap, an Umbrella trap…
Irons had walked right into it, and that was when Umbrella had started plotting against him, using the information they'd gathered to seal his fate. How else could things have gone wrong so quickly? The
S.T.A.R.S. had disappeared, then Birkin – and before he'd even had a chance to assess the situation, the attacks had started up again. He'd barely had time to seal Raccoon off before everything had fallen to shit.
And all because I was helping a friend – for the greater good of the company, no less. Tragic. Irons stood up and walked slowly around the cut– ting table, idly tracing the dents and scars in the wood with his fingertips. Behind every mark was a story, a memory of accomplishment, but again, he could take no comfort. The cool, quiet atmosphere of the Sanctuary had always soothed him before, it was where he practiced his hobbies, where he was truly able to be himself, but it wasn't his anymore. Noth– ing was. Umbrella had taken it from him, just as they'd taken his city. Was it so far-fetched to deduce that they'd unleashed their virus to get at him, to rob him of his power and then sent that scantily clad brown-haired girl to rub his nose in it? Why else was she so attractive? They knew his weaknesses and were exploiting them, trying to keep him from retaining even a shred of dignity…
… and soon she'll come for me, maybe still playing dumb, still trying to seduce me with her helplessness. An Umbrella assassin, a spy and an exploiter, that's all she is, probably laughing at me behind that pretty face…
Maybe the spill had been an accident; the last time they'd met, William Birkin had seemed unsteady, paranoid, and exhausted, and accidents happened even under the best of circumstances. But the rest was fact, there was no other explanation for how com-pletely Irons had been ruined. That girl was coming to get him, she was from Umbrella and she'd been sent to murder him. And she wouldn't stop there, oh, no; she'd find Beverly and… and defile her somehow, just to make certain that nothing he cared about was left. Irons looked around the small, softly lit room that had once been his, gazing wistfully at the well-used tools and furniture, the sweet, familiar smells of disinfectant and formaldehyde emanating from the rugged stone walls.
My Sanctuary. Mine.
He picked up the handgun that lay on his special cutting table, the VP70 that was still his, and felt a bitter smile curl his lips. His life was over, he knew that now. This whole affair had started with Birkin, and would end here, by his own hand. But not yet. The girl would come for him, and he would kill her before he said his final good-byes to Beverly, before he admitted his defeat by taking a bullet. But he would see to it that she understood his suffering first. For every torture he'd endured, the girl would pay, the bill settled through flesh and bone and as much pain as he could inflict. He was going to die, but not alone. And not without hearing the girl scream in agony, creating a voice for the death of his dreams – a voice so clear and true that the echoes would reach even the black hearts of the company executives who had betrayed him.
The S.T.A.R.S. office was empty, cluttered and cold and layered with dust, but Claire was reluctant to leave. After her stumbling, frightened flight through the body-strewn halls of the second floor, finding the place where her brother had spent his working days had left her feeling weak with relief. Mr. X hadn't followed her, and although she was still anxious to help Sherry and find Leon, she found herself linger– ing, afraid to step back into the lifeless halls and hesitant to leave the one place that felt like Chris.
Where are you, big brother? And what am I going to do? Zombies, fire, death, your weird Chief Irons and that lost little girl – and just when I thought things couldn't get any more insane, I get to face off with The Thing That Would Not Die, the freak to end all freaks. How am I going to get through this?
She sat at Chris's desk, gazing at the small strip of black-and-white pictures that she'd found tucked in the bottom drawer; the four shots were of the two of them, grinning and making faces, a photo-booth memento of the week they'd spent in New York last Christmas. Finding the strip had made her want to cry at first, all of the fear and confusion she'd been holding back finally surging to the front at the sight of his well-loved smile – but the longer she'd looked at him, at the two of them laughing and having a good time, the better she'd started to feel. Not happy or even okay, and no less afraid of what was to come…… just better. Calmer. Stronger. She loved him, and knew that wherever he was he loved her back – and that if the two of them had been able to survive the loss of both of their parents, to build lives for them– selves and share a silly Christmas vacation in spite of having no real home to go to, then they could cope with anything. She could cope.
Can and will. I'm going to find Sherry and Leon and, God willing, my brother – and we're going to make it out of Raccoon.
The truth was, she didn't really have any choice, but she needed to go through the process of accepting her lack of options before she could act. She'd heard before that real bravery wasn't an absence of fear, it was accepting the fear and doing what was necessary anyway – and once she'd sat for a moment, thinking about Chris, she thought that she could do just that. Claire took a deep breath, slipped the photos into her vest, and pushed away from the desk. She didn't know where Mr. X had been headed, but he hadn't seemed like the waiting-around type; she would head back to Irons's office and see if Sherry had come back – or Irons, for that matter. If X was still there, she could always run.
Besides, I should have searched his office, tried to find something about the S.T.A.R.S. There's nothing here that can tell me anything…
Standing, she took a last look around, wishing that the S.T.A.R.S. office had offered a little more in the way of supplies or information. All she'd found of any use was a discarded fanny pack in the desk behind Chris's; according to the expired library card in one of the pouches, it had belonged to Jill Valentine. Claire had never met her, but Chris had mentioned her a couple of times, said she was good with a gun…
Too bad she didn't leave one behind.
The team had obviously cleared out all of the important stuff after their suspension, although there were still a surprising number of personal items left around, framed pictures and coffee mugs and the like; she'd spotted Barry's desk right away from the partly finished plastic gun model on top. Barry Burton was one of Chris's closest friends, a huge, friendly bear of a man and a serious gun nut. Claire hoped that wherever Chris was, Barry was with him, watching his back. With a rocket launcher.
And speaking of…
On top of everything else, she needed to find another weapon, or more ammo for the nine– millimeter; she had thirteen bullets left, one full clip, and when those were gone, she was SOL. Maybe she should stop and check some of the corpses on the way back to the east wing; even in her panicked run, she'd noticed that some of them were cops, and the hand– gun was an RPD issue. Claire didn't like the idea of touching any of the dead bodies, but running out of firepower was distinctly less desirable – particularly with Mr. X running around. Claire walked toward the door and pushed it open, trying to get her thoughts organized as she stepped back into the dim hall. Leaving the office put a damper on her resolve; she had to suppress a shudder at the still vivid image of Mr. X as she closed the door behind her, suddenly feeling vulnerable again. She turned right and started back toward the library, deciding that she wouldn't think about the giant unless she had to, wouldn't dwell on the memory of those blank, inhuman eyes or the way he'd raised his terrible fist, as if driven to destroy anything in his way…
… so knock it off already. Think about Sherry, think about getting some goddamn ammo or how to handle Irons, if you can find him. Think about trying to stay alive.
Just ahead, the dark wooden hall turned right again and Claire tried to steel herself against the task ahead; if memory served, there was a dead cop around the corner -
– like I can't tell by the smell -
– and she'd have to search him. He hadn't been too disgusting, at least, not that she'd noticed. Claire turned the corner and froze, staring. Her stomach knotted, telling her she was in danger before her senses could. The body that she'd jumped over on the way to the S.T.A.R.S. office was now only a bloody, tangled mass, flesh and broken limbs and shredded uniform. The head was gone, although there was no way to tell if it had been taken away or just smashed into an unrecognizable pulp. It looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer or an axe to the corpse in the few moments since she'd passed it, beating it into a clotted smear.
But when, how, I didn't hear anything…
Something moved. A shadow, soft and darting over the mashed remains some twenty feet in front of her, and at the same time, Claire heard a strange rasping sound, breathing… and she looked up, still not sure what she was seeing or hearing – that ragged breathing and the tick of talons on wood, the talons themselves, thick and curved, the claws of a creature that couldn't exist. Big, the size of a full-grown man, but the resemblance ended there – and it was so impossible that she could only see it in pieces, her mind struggling to put them together. The inflamed, purplish flesh of the naked, long-limbed creature that clung to the ceiling. The puffed gray-white tissue of the partially exposed brain. The scar-rimmed holes where the eyes should have been.
– not seeing this -
The creature's rounded head dropped back, the wide jaw opening, a ropy stream of dark drool pour– ing out and splattering over what was left of the cop. It extended its tongue, eely and pink, the rough surface shimmering wetly as it slithered out. And out. And out, the snaking tongue uncoiling and whipping from side to side, so long that it actually trailed through the ripped flesh of the corpse. Still frozen, Claire watched in horrified disbelief as the incredible tongue snapped back up, flicking drop-lets of blood through the shadowy air. The entire process had taken only a second, but time had slowed to a crawl, Claire's heart beating so fast that every– thing else was in slow motion – even the creature's drop to the wooden floor, its body flipping in midair so that it landed in a crouch atop the mutilated cop. The creature opened its mouth again and screamed…… and Claire was finally able to move as the bizarre, hollow shriek erupted from the monster, able to point her weapon and fire. The thunder of nine-millimeter rounds drowned out the howl that echoed through the tight hallway, bam-bam-bam…… and still screaming that chilling, trumpeting cry, the creature was thrown back, its claw-tipped arms flailing. Its spasming legs kicked up bloody chunks of the eviscerated body; Claire saw a ragged flap of scalp, one ear still attached, fly across the hall and smack into the wall with a wet slapping sound, sliding down…… and the creature got its legs beneath it somehow and flopped forward in a boneless lunge. It spidered toward her, lightning fast, gripping the wood floor with its terrible claws and howling. Claire fired again, unaware that she was also screaming as three more rounds hit the scuttling thing, ripping through the gray matter that protruded from its open skull. She was going to die, it would be on her in less than a second and its massive talons were only inches from her legs…… and as suddenly as the attack had come, it was over. Every part of the sinewy body quivered and shook as liquid gray dribbled from its burbling head, the thick claws tapping wildly against the wood floor in a frantic tattoo. With a final whispering whine, the creature died. There was no mistaking it this time. She'd blasted through its brain, it wasn't going to get up again. She stared down at the monster, her shocked mind digging for something to relate it to, some animal or even a rumor of an animal that came close, but she gave it up after a few seconds, recognizing it as a lost cause. This was no natural creature, and as close as it was, she could finally smell it – the odor was not as pungent as the zombies', it was a bitter, oily smell, somehow more chemical than animal…
… and it could smell like chocolate-chip cookies, who gives a shit? Raccoon City's got monsters, it's time to stop being so goddamn surprised when you see one of them.
The chiding tone of her mind's voice wasn't partic– ularly convincing. As much as she wanted to feel brave and determined, to step over the monstrous creature and get on with things, she just stood for a moment and for that moment, she thought very seriously about going back to the S.T.A.R.S. office, going inside, and locking the door behind her. She could hide, hide and wait for help, she could be safe…
Decide, then. Do something, one way or another, stop this wavering and whining, because it's not just you anymore. Will Sherry be safe? Do you want to survive at the cost of her life?
The moment passed. Claire took a careful step over the raw red flesh of the creature and crouched down next to the cop's remains, using the muzzle of the handgun to push a torn piece of bloody uniform aside. She swallowed down bile as she poked through the rotten flesh and bone, working not to think about who the cop had been or how he had died. Nothing, and she now had only seven bullets left, but she refused to panic, letting the disappointment fuel her determination instead. If she could search one bloody mess, she could search another. With a last look at the dead animal-thing, Claire stood and walked quickly toward the end of the corridor, her decision made: no hiding and no more running from the fear. At the very least, she could take a few of the monsters with her, raising Sherry's chances of escape. It would be better to die trying than not to try at all. She wouldn't waver again.
If I have time. If there's any time left.
He knew he was feeling sorry for himself again, but there was no one else to commiserate with, no one to marvel at the sheer magnitude of all that he'd suf– fered. He felt terrible – sad and angry and alone, but he also felt that things had finally become clear. He knew now, knew why he was being persecuted, and that awareness had given him a focus – as de– pressing as the truth was, at least he was no longer lost.
Umbrella. An Umbrella conspiracy to destroy me, all along…
Irons sat on the scarred, stained table in the Sanctu-ary, his special, private place, and wondered how long it would be before the young woman came for him. The one with the athletic body, the one who'd refused to tell him her name. In a way, she was responsible for his newfound clarity, an irony that he couldn't help but appreciate; it had been her sudden appearance that had provided him with the truth. She would find him, of course; she was an Umbrella spy, and Umbrella had obviously been watching him for quite some time. They probably had lists of everything he owned, volumes of psychological profil– ing reports, even copies of his financial records. It all made sense, now that he'd had some time to think; he was the most powerful man in Raccoon, and Umbrel– la had designed his downfall, tailored each vicious backstab to cause him the most acute agony possible. Irons stared at his treasures, the tools and trophies that sat on the shelves in front of him, but felt none of the pride they usually inspired. The polished bones were simply something to look at as his mind worked, absorbed with Umbrella's treachery. Years before, when he'd started taking money to turn a blind eye to the company's doings, things had been different; then it had been a matter of politics, of finding himself a niche in the power structure that really controlled Raccoon. And things had worked smoothly for a long time – his career had progressed on schedule, he'd earned the respect of officials and citizens alike, and for the most part, his investments had paid off. Life had been good.
And then there was Birkin. William Birkin and his neurotic wife and their brat daughter.
After the Spencer estate spill, he'd almost con– vinced himself that the S.T.A.R.S. and goddamn Captain Wesker had been responsible for all the trouble, but he could see now that it was the arrival of Birkin and his family, nearly a year before, that had started the ball rolling; the destruction of the Spencer lab had only hurried things along. Umbrella had probably started monitoring him the day he'd had the misfortune to meet Birkin – at first, just watching, planting bugs, and installing cameras. The spies would have come later… The Birkins had come to Raccoon so that William could concentrate on developing a superior synthesis of the T-Virus, based on the research being done at the Spencer lab. As quirky and unpleasant as William could sometimes be, Irons had liked him, right from the start. The male Birkin had been Umbrella's boy genius, but like Irons, he wasn't the type to brag about his position; William was a humble man, only inter– ested in fulfilling his own potential. They'd both been too busy to have much of a friendship, but there had been a mutual respect between them; Irons had often felt that William looked up to him…
… and my mistake was to allow it. To allow my regard for him to cloud my instincts, to keep me from noticing that I was being watched, all along.
The loss of the Spencer lab sent some big ripples through Umbrella's hierarchy, and only days after the explosion, Irons had been approached by Annette Birkin with a message from her husband – a message and a request for a favor. Birkin had been worried that Umbrella was going to demand the new synthe– sis, the G-Virus, before it was ready; apparently, he'd been most dissatisfied with the application of his previous work, something about how Umbrella hadn't let him perfect the replication process, Irons couldn't remember exactly – and with Umbrella looking to recover from the financial blow of the Spencer loss, Birkin had been concerned that they might compromise the integrity of the untested virus. Through Annette, Birkin had asked for assistance and offered him a little extra incentive to keep things fair. For a hundred grand, all Irons had to do was help keep the G-Virus under wraps – in short, watch out for Umbrella spies and keep an eye on the surviving S.T.A.R.S., making sure they didn't do any more "discovering" of Umbrella's research.
That was it. A hundred thousand dollars, and I was already watching my city, and keeping tabs on that rebellious little pack of troublemakers. Easy, easy money, and more to be made if everything went as planned. Except it was a trap, an Umbrella trap…
Irons had walked right into it, and that was when Umbrella had started plotting against him, using the information they'd gathered to seal his fate. How else could things have gone wrong so quickly? The
S.T.A.R.S. had disappeared, then Birkin – and before he'd even had a chance to assess the situation, the attacks had started up again. He'd barely had time to seal Raccoon off before everything had fallen to shit.
And all because I was helping a friend – for the greater good of the company, no less. Tragic. Irons stood up and walked slowly around the cut– ting table, idly tracing the dents and scars in the wood with his fingertips. Behind every mark was a story, a memory of accomplishment, but again, he could take no comfort. The cool, quiet atmosphere of the Sanctuary had always soothed him before, it was where he practiced his hobbies, where he was truly able to be himself, but it wasn't his anymore. Noth– ing was. Umbrella had taken it from him, just as they'd taken his city. Was it so far-fetched to deduce that they'd unleashed their virus to get at him, to rob him of his power and then sent that scantily clad brown-haired girl to rub his nose in it? Why else was she so attractive? They knew his weaknesses and were exploiting them, trying to keep him from retaining even a shred of dignity…
… and soon she'll come for me, maybe still playing dumb, still trying to seduce me with her helplessness. An Umbrella assassin, a spy and an exploiter, that's all she is, probably laughing at me behind that pretty face…
Maybe the spill had been an accident; the last time they'd met, William Birkin had seemed unsteady, paranoid, and exhausted, and accidents happened even under the best of circumstances. But the rest was fact, there was no other explanation for how com-pletely Irons had been ruined. That girl was coming to get him, she was from Umbrella and she'd been sent to murder him. And she wouldn't stop there, oh, no; she'd find Beverly and… and defile her somehow, just to make certain that nothing he cared about was left. Irons looked around the small, softly lit room that had once been his, gazing wistfully at the well-used tools and furniture, the sweet, familiar smells of disinfectant and formaldehyde emanating from the rugged stone walls.
My Sanctuary. Mine.
He picked up the handgun that lay on his special cutting table, the VP70 that was still his, and felt a bitter smile curl his lips. His life was over, he knew that now. This whole affair had started with Birkin, and would end here, by his own hand. But not yet. The girl would come for him, and he would kill her before he said his final good-byes to Beverly, before he admitted his defeat by taking a bullet. But he would see to it that she understood his suffering first. For every torture he'd endured, the girl would pay, the bill settled through flesh and bone and as much pain as he could inflict. He was going to die, but not alone. And not without hearing the girl scream in agony, creating a voice for the death of his dreams – a voice so clear and true that the echoes would reach even the black hearts of the company executives who had betrayed him.
The S.T.A.R.S. office was empty, cluttered and cold and layered with dust, but Claire was reluctant to leave. After her stumbling, frightened flight through the body-strewn halls of the second floor, finding the place where her brother had spent his working days had left her feeling weak with relief. Mr. X hadn't followed her, and although she was still anxious to help Sherry and find Leon, she found herself linger– ing, afraid to step back into the lifeless halls and hesitant to leave the one place that felt like Chris.
Where are you, big brother? And what am I going to do? Zombies, fire, death, your weird Chief Irons and that lost little girl – and just when I thought things couldn't get any more insane, I get to face off with The Thing That Would Not Die, the freak to end all freaks. How am I going to get through this?
She sat at Chris's desk, gazing at the small strip of black-and-white pictures that she'd found tucked in the bottom drawer; the four shots were of the two of them, grinning and making faces, a photo-booth memento of the week they'd spent in New York last Christmas. Finding the strip had made her want to cry at first, all of the fear and confusion she'd been holding back finally surging to the front at the sight of his well-loved smile – but the longer she'd looked at him, at the two of them laughing and having a good time, the better she'd started to feel. Not happy or even okay, and no less afraid of what was to come…… just better. Calmer. Stronger. She loved him, and knew that wherever he was he loved her back – and that if the two of them had been able to survive the loss of both of their parents, to build lives for them– selves and share a silly Christmas vacation in spite of having no real home to go to, then they could cope with anything. She could cope.
Can and will. I'm going to find Sherry and Leon and, God willing, my brother – and we're going to make it out of Raccoon.
The truth was, she didn't really have any choice, but she needed to go through the process of accepting her lack of options before she could act. She'd heard before that real bravery wasn't an absence of fear, it was accepting the fear and doing what was necessary anyway – and once she'd sat for a moment, thinking about Chris, she thought that she could do just that. Claire took a deep breath, slipped the photos into her vest, and pushed away from the desk. She didn't know where Mr. X had been headed, but he hadn't seemed like the waiting-around type; she would head back to Irons's office and see if Sherry had come back – or Irons, for that matter. If X was still there, she could always run.
Besides, I should have searched his office, tried to find something about the S.T.A.R.S. There's nothing here that can tell me anything…
Standing, she took a last look around, wishing that the S.T.A.R.S. office had offered a little more in the way of supplies or information. All she'd found of any use was a discarded fanny pack in the desk behind Chris's; according to the expired library card in one of the pouches, it had belonged to Jill Valentine. Claire had never met her, but Chris had mentioned her a couple of times, said she was good with a gun…
Too bad she didn't leave one behind.
The team had obviously cleared out all of the important stuff after their suspension, although there were still a surprising number of personal items left around, framed pictures and coffee mugs and the like; she'd spotted Barry's desk right away from the partly finished plastic gun model on top. Barry Burton was one of Chris's closest friends, a huge, friendly bear of a man and a serious gun nut. Claire hoped that wherever Chris was, Barry was with him, watching his back. With a rocket launcher.
And speaking of…
On top of everything else, she needed to find another weapon, or more ammo for the nine– millimeter; she had thirteen bullets left, one full clip, and when those were gone, she was SOL. Maybe she should stop and check some of the corpses on the way back to the east wing; even in her panicked run, she'd noticed that some of them were cops, and the hand– gun was an RPD issue. Claire didn't like the idea of touching any of the dead bodies, but running out of firepower was distinctly less desirable – particularly with Mr. X running around. Claire walked toward the door and pushed it open, trying to get her thoughts organized as she stepped back into the dim hall. Leaving the office put a damper on her resolve; she had to suppress a shudder at the still vivid image of Mr. X as she closed the door behind her, suddenly feeling vulnerable again. She turned right and started back toward the library, deciding that she wouldn't think about the giant unless she had to, wouldn't dwell on the memory of those blank, inhuman eyes or the way he'd raised his terrible fist, as if driven to destroy anything in his way…
… so knock it off already. Think about Sherry, think about getting some goddamn ammo or how to handle Irons, if you can find him. Think about trying to stay alive.
Just ahead, the dark wooden hall turned right again and Claire tried to steel herself against the task ahead; if memory served, there was a dead cop around the corner -
– like I can't tell by the smell -
– and she'd have to search him. He hadn't been too disgusting, at least, not that she'd noticed. Claire turned the corner and froze, staring. Her stomach knotted, telling her she was in danger before her senses could. The body that she'd jumped over on the way to the S.T.A.R.S. office was now only a bloody, tangled mass, flesh and broken limbs and shredded uniform. The head was gone, although there was no way to tell if it had been taken away or just smashed into an unrecognizable pulp. It looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer or an axe to the corpse in the few moments since she'd passed it, beating it into a clotted smear.
But when, how, I didn't hear anything…
Something moved. A shadow, soft and darting over the mashed remains some twenty feet in front of her, and at the same time, Claire heard a strange rasping sound, breathing… and she looked up, still not sure what she was seeing or hearing – that ragged breathing and the tick of talons on wood, the talons themselves, thick and curved, the claws of a creature that couldn't exist. Big, the size of a full-grown man, but the resemblance ended there – and it was so impossible that she could only see it in pieces, her mind struggling to put them together. The inflamed, purplish flesh of the naked, long-limbed creature that clung to the ceiling. The puffed gray-white tissue of the partially exposed brain. The scar-rimmed holes where the eyes should have been.
– not seeing this -
The creature's rounded head dropped back, the wide jaw opening, a ropy stream of dark drool pour– ing out and splattering over what was left of the cop. It extended its tongue, eely and pink, the rough surface shimmering wetly as it slithered out. And out. And out, the snaking tongue uncoiling and whipping from side to side, so long that it actually trailed through the ripped flesh of the corpse. Still frozen, Claire watched in horrified disbelief as the incredible tongue snapped back up, flicking drop-lets of blood through the shadowy air. The entire process had taken only a second, but time had slowed to a crawl, Claire's heart beating so fast that every– thing else was in slow motion – even the creature's drop to the wooden floor, its body flipping in midair so that it landed in a crouch atop the mutilated cop. The creature opened its mouth again and screamed…… and Claire was finally able to move as the bizarre, hollow shriek erupted from the monster, able to point her weapon and fire. The thunder of nine-millimeter rounds drowned out the howl that echoed through the tight hallway, bam-bam-bam…… and still screaming that chilling, trumpeting cry, the creature was thrown back, its claw-tipped arms flailing. Its spasming legs kicked up bloody chunks of the eviscerated body; Claire saw a ragged flap of scalp, one ear still attached, fly across the hall and smack into the wall with a wet slapping sound, sliding down…… and the creature got its legs beneath it somehow and flopped forward in a boneless lunge. It spidered toward her, lightning fast, gripping the wood floor with its terrible claws and howling. Claire fired again, unaware that she was also screaming as three more rounds hit the scuttling thing, ripping through the gray matter that protruded from its open skull. She was going to die, it would be on her in less than a second and its massive talons were only inches from her legs…… and as suddenly as the attack had come, it was over. Every part of the sinewy body quivered and shook as liquid gray dribbled from its burbling head, the thick claws tapping wildly against the wood floor in a frantic tattoo. With a final whispering whine, the creature died. There was no mistaking it this time. She'd blasted through its brain, it wasn't going to get up again. She stared down at the monster, her shocked mind digging for something to relate it to, some animal or even a rumor of an animal that came close, but she gave it up after a few seconds, recognizing it as a lost cause. This was no natural creature, and as close as it was, she could finally smell it – the odor was not as pungent as the zombies', it was a bitter, oily smell, somehow more chemical than animal…
… and it could smell like chocolate-chip cookies, who gives a shit? Raccoon City's got monsters, it's time to stop being so goddamn surprised when you see one of them.
The chiding tone of her mind's voice wasn't partic– ularly convincing. As much as she wanted to feel brave and determined, to step over the monstrous creature and get on with things, she just stood for a moment and for that moment, she thought very seriously about going back to the S.T.A.R.S. office, going inside, and locking the door behind her. She could hide, hide and wait for help, she could be safe…
Decide, then. Do something, one way or another, stop this wavering and whining, because it's not just you anymore. Will Sherry be safe? Do you want to survive at the cost of her life?
The moment passed. Claire took a careful step over the raw red flesh of the creature and crouched down next to the cop's remains, using the muzzle of the handgun to push a torn piece of bloody uniform aside. She swallowed down bile as she poked through the rotten flesh and bone, working not to think about who the cop had been or how he had died. Nothing, and she now had only seven bullets left, but she refused to panic, letting the disappointment fuel her determination instead. If she could search one bloody mess, she could search another. With a last look at the dead animal-thing, Claire stood and walked quickly toward the end of the corridor, her decision made: no hiding and no more running from the fear. At the very least, she could take a few of the monsters with her, raising Sherry's chances of escape. It would be better to die trying than not to try at all. She wouldn't waver again.
FIFTEEN
Leon found ada in the kennel, straining to lever up the rusted manhole cover that the reporter had told them about. She'd turned up a crowbar from somewhere and had it wedged beneath the thick iron plate, her well-defined biceps lightly sheened with sweat as she worked the bar. She'd managed to raise the cover about an inch, but let it drop back into place as he walked in, the metallic clang loud in the cold, empty room. Before he could say anything, she lay the crowbar on the cement floor and looked up at him with a strained half-smile, brushing at her rust-dirty hands.
"I'm glad you're here. I don't think I'm strong enough to do this by myself…"
He hadn't been sure before, but the helpless look she gave him cinched it; she was playing him, or trying to. He'd known Ada for all of twenty minutes, but he doubted seriously that she'd ever been helpless about anything.
"Looks like you're doing just fine," he said, holster-ing the Magnum but not making any move toward the manhole. He crossed his arms, frowning slightly. He wasn't angry, just curious.
"Besides, what's the hurry? I thought you wanted to talk to the reporter. About John, your Umbrella friend."
The woman-in-distress look melted away and her delicate features turned cool and hard, but not in a bad way; it was as though she was letting her real self show, the strong and self-assured Ada he'd first met. Leon could tell that he'd surprised her by not rushing to her aid and was glad to see it; he had enough to worry about without being manipulated by a mysteri– ous stranger. She'd been very careful to avoid his questions, but it was time for Ms. Wong to explain a few things. Ada stood up, meeting his gaze evenly. "You heard him – he wasn't going to tell us anything. And with this place as dangerous as it is, I don't really want to stand around waiting for him to develop a con-science…" She dropped her gaze, her voice softening."… and I don't even know if John's in Raccoon. But I do know that he's not here – and I want to leave before the station's completely overrun."
It sounded good, but for some reason, he had the feeling that she was holding something back. For a few seconds, he struggled to think of a polite way to get her to open up – then decided to hell with it; under the circumstances, social graces would have to be suspended.
"What's going on, Ada? Do you know something that you're not telling me?"
She looked at him again, and again, he had the feeling that he'd surprised her, but her cool, dark gaze was as unreadable as ever. "I just want to get out of here," she said, and the sincerity of her tone was impossible to deny. If he didn't believe anything else she'd said, he had to believe that much.
And I wish it was that easy, but there's Claire, and even Ben, our asshole friend, and God knows how many others… Leon shook his head. "I can't leave. Like I said, I may be the only cop left around here. If there are still people in the building, I have to at least try to help them. And I think it'd be best if you came with me."
Ada gave him another one of her half-smiles.
"I appreciate your concern, Leon, but I can take care of myself."
He didn't doubt it, but he also didn't want to see her abilities tested. Granted, he was pretty untested himself, but he'd been trained to deal with crisis situations, it was his job.
And be honest with yourself – you lost Claire, you couldn't help Branagh, and Ben Bertolucci could give a rat's ass for your protection skills; you don't want to fail with Ada on top of all that. And you don't want to be alone.
Ada seemed to know what he was thinking. Before he could come up with a convincing argument, she stepped forward and put one slender hand on his arm, the humor fading from her bright eyes.
"I know you want to do your job here, but you said it yourself – we have to find a way out of Raccoon, try and get outside help. And the sewers are probably the best chance we've got…"
The light, gentle touch surprised him and sent an electric flutter through his belly, an unexpected flush of warmth that left him feeling confused and uncer– tain. He managed to keep his reaction from showing, but just barely. Ada continued, frowning thoughtfully. "How about This – help me with the manhole cover, and let's see what's down there. If it looks dangerous, I'll come with you… but if it's not bad – well, we can talk about what to do next."
He wanted to protest, but the truth was, he couldn't make her do anything she didn't want to do and he wanted very much for her to know that he wasn't some overbearing macho type, that he was receptive to compromise…
… and does the name "John" ring a bell? This isn't a date for Chrissake, stop thinking with your hor-mones.
Feeling awkward even thinking about it with her hand still on his arm, Leon stepped away, nodding briskly. Together, they crouched down next to the manhole. Leon picked up the crowbar and jammed one end beneath the lid; as he pulled back, Ada pushed on the bar, and with a heavy grating sound the thick metal plate came up. Leon put his back into it and heaved the lid to one side, clearing the opening -
– and both of them recoiled back from the smell that bellowed out of the dark hole, a choking, dark stench of blood and piss and vomit. "Gah, what is that?" Leon coughed. Ada sat back on her heels, one hand pressed to her mouth. "The bodies from the garage, they must have dumped them down here…"
Before he could ask what she was talking about, a scream of pure terror echoed through the basement halls, filtering through the closed door. The cry went on and on, a man's voice, the panicked scream suddenly changing to a gurgling shriek of pain.
The reporter.
Leon locked gazes with Ada, saw the same startled realization flash across her face and then they were both up and running, pulling out their weapons and sprinting through the door before the echoes died.
I left him, I shouldn't have left him…
They ran down the corridor for the cell block, guilt driving Leon to run faster than he thought he could. Someone or something had gotten to Bertolucci and had passed right behind his back to do it.
Sherry stood in Mr. Irons's office, rubbing at her good luck pendant and wishing that Claire would come back. She had crawled through a dozen dusty tunnels to get away from the monster and to lead it away from Claire, and was pretty sure it had worked – she hadn't heard it again, and had come back to find that Claire had left; if the monster had found her, she would have been dead and ripped apart.
But she's not here. Nobody is…
Sherry sat on the edge of a low table in the middle of the room, wondering what she should do. She'd gotten used to being alone, and hadn't even realized how lonely she'd been, but meeting Claire had changed that. Sherry wanted to see her again, she wanted to be with other people, she wanted her parents so bad that it made her ache. Even Mr. Irons would be okay, although Sherry didn't like him; she'd only met him a couple of times but he was weird, showy and fake – and his office was creepy besides. Still, she'd gladly put up with him if it meant she didn't have to be alone anymore… Footsteps. In the hall outside of the office. Sherry stood up and ran to the open door that led back to the armor room, hoping it was Claire and ready to sprint for cover if it wasn't. She ducked around the door frame and held her breath, staring at the stuffed tiger in the hall and silently praying. The outer door opened and closed. Muffled steps on the carpet, moving slowly, and she tensed to run, at the same time trying to muster up enough courage to sneak a look…
"Sherry?" Claire! "I'm here!"
She ran back into the office and there was Claire,
her whole face lit up with a beaming smile. Sherryflew into her open arms, so happy to see her that she wanted to cry."I was looking for you," Claire said, holding her tightly. "Don't run off like that again, okay?"Claire knelt in front of her, still smiling, but Sherry could see the worry behind the smile and in her cool gray eyes. "I'm sorry," Sherry said. "I had to, or the monster would have come." "What does it look like?" Claire asked, her smile fading. "Does it look – kind of red, with claws?"Sherry swallowed heavily. "The inside-out men! You saw one, didn't you?"
Incredibly, Claire grinned, shaking her head.
"Yeah, that's exactly what I saw, an inside-out man… good description."
She looked at Sherry more seriously, frowning.
" 'Men'? There are more of them?" Sherry nodded. "Yes, but they aren't anything like the monster. I only saw him once, from behind, but he's a man, a giant man…"Claire seemed excited. "Bald? Wearing a long coat?"No, he had hair, brown hair. And one of his arms was all screwed up, a lot longer than the other one." Claire sighed. "Terrific. Raccoon's got something for everyone, sounds like…"
She reached out and took Sherry's hand, squeezing it. "… and that's all the more reason that you should stay with me. You've done a really good job of taking care of yourself, and you've been very brave, but until we find your parents, I feel like it's my job for now, to watch out for you. And if the monster comes, I’ll just kick its ass, okay?"
Sherry laughed, surprised into it. She liked that Claire didn't talk down to her. She nodded, and Claire squeezed her hand again.
"Good. So we've got zombies, inside-out men, and a monster. And a big bald guy… Sherry, do you know what happened to Raccoon? How this all got started? Anything you can tell me, anything at all – it could be important." Sherry frowned, thinking. "Well, there were a bunch of murders last May, or June I think – like ten people got killed. And then they stopped, but then maybe a week ago, somebody got attacked." Claire nodded encouragingly. "Okay. Did more people start getting attacked, or… what did the police do?"
Sherry shook her head, wishing she could be more
helpful. "I don't know. Right before that girl got attacked, my mother called from work really upset, and told me that I couldn't leave the house. Mrs. Willis – that's our next-door neighbor – she came over and cooked dinner for me, and that's how I heard about that girl. Mom called again the next day, and told me that she and Dad were stuck at the plant and wouldn't be home for a while – and then like three days ago, she called again and told me to come here. I went to see if Mrs. Willis would come with me, but her house was dark and empty. I guess things had already gotten pretty bad by then." Claire was staring at her intently. "You were alone all that time? Even before you got to the station?" Sherry nodded. "Well yeah, but I stay alone a lot. My parents are both scientists; their work is impor-tant, and sometimes they can't stop in the middle of what they're doing. And my mother always says that I'm very self-sufficient, when I want to be." "Do you know what kind of work your parents do? At Umbrella?" Claire was still watching her closely. "They develop cures for things, for diseases," Sher-ry said proudly. "And make medicines, like serums that hospitals use…"
She trailed off, noticing that Claire seemed dis– tracted suddenly, her gaze far away. It was a look she had seen plenty of times before, on both of her parents' faces – and it meant that they weren't really listening anymore. But as soon as she stopped talking, Claire refocused on her, reaching out to pat her on the shoulder – and for some stupid reason, that made Sherry want to cry again.
Because she's listening to me. Because she wants to watch out for me now. "Your mother's right," Claire said gently, "you're very self-sufficient, and that you've made it this far means that you're also very strong. That's good, because we're both going to have to be strong, to make it out of here." Sherry felt her eyes go wide. "What do you mean? Leave the station? But there are zombies all over the place, and I don't know where my parents are, what if they need help or they're looking for me…" "Sweetie, I'm sure your folks are just fine," Claire said quickly. "They're probably still at the plant, hiding and safe, just like you were – waiting for people to come from outside of the city, to, to make everything better…" "You mean kill everything," Sherry said. "I'm twelve, you know, I'm not a baby." Claire smiled. "Sorry. Yeah, to kill everything. But until the good guys come, we're on our own. And the best thing we can do, the smartest thing, is to get out of their way – to get as far out of their way as possible. You're right, the streets aren't safe, but maybe we can get a car…"
It was Claire's turn to trail off. She stood up and walked toward the big desk at the far end of the office, looking around as she went.
"Maybe Chief Irons left his car keys here, or another weapon, something we can use…"
Claire saw something on the floor behind the desk. She crouched down and Sherry hurried after her, as much to stay close as to see what she'd found. She already knew that she didn't want to lose her again, no matter what else happened. "There's blood here," Claire said softly, so softlythat Sherry thought she hadn't meant to say it out loud.
"So?"
Claire looked up at the plain tan wall, frowning, then back down at the big drying splotch of red on the floor. "It's still wet, for one thing. And see the way it's just kind of cut off? There should be some on the wall here…"
She rapped on the dark wood trim that lined the wall, then on the wall itself. There was an obvious difference; a dull thump from the trim, but the wall sounded hollow. "Is there a room back there?" Sherry asked. "I don't know, it sounds like it. And it would explain where he took… where he took off to earli-er. Chief Irons."
She glanced up at Sherry as she started to feel along the baseboards, running her hands up the wall and pushing at it. "Sherry, look around the desk, see if you can find like a switch or a lever. My guess is it would be hidden somewhere, maybe in one of the drawers…"
Sherry started to move behind the desk and tripped, her foot sliding on a handful of pencils that she hadn't seen. She grabbed at the desktop, trying to catch her balance, but still came down pretty hard on her bare knees.
"Ow!"
Claire was next to her right away, putting an armaround her shoulders. "Are you okay?" "Yeah. I just… hey! Look!"
Her bruised knees forgotten, Sherry pointed at the switch under the top drawer of the desk, set into a small metal plate. It looked like a light switch, but it had to be for the secret door, she just knew it.;
I found it!
Claire reached out and flipped the switch and behind them, a section of the wall a few feet across slid smoothly upwards, disappearing into the ceiling and exposing a dimly lit room lined with oversized bricks. Cool, damp air breezed into the office; it was a secret passage, just like in the movies. Together, they stood and stepped toward the open– ing, Claire holding Sherry back with one arm until she'd looked first. The small room was totally empty – three brick walls and a stained wood floor, and only about half the size of the office. The fourth wall was dominated by a big old-fashioned elevator gate, the kind that pushed to one side. "Are we going to take it?" Sherry asked. She was excited but nervous, too. Claire had taken her gun out. She crouched down next to Sherry and smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile, and Sherry knew what was coming before Claire said a word.
"Sweetie, I think it would be safest if I went and looked around first, and you stayed here…" "But you said we should stay together! You said we could find a car and leave! What if the monster comes back and you're not here, or you get killed?"
Claire hugged her, but Sherry felt almost sick with helpless anger. She was going to tell her not to worry, that the monster wouldn't come, that nothing bad would happen and then she was going to leave anyway.
Stupid grownup lies…
Claire leaned back, smoothing Sherry's hair away from her face. "I don't blame you for being scared. I'm scared, too. This is a bad situation and hon-estly, I don't know what's going to happen. But I want to do the right thing by you, and that means that I'm not going to take you into a situation where you could get hurt, not if I can help it." Sherry swallowed back tears, trying again. "But I want to come with you… what if you don't come back?" "I'm going to come back," Claire said firmly, "I promise. And if… if I don't, I want you to hide again, like before. Somebody will come, help is going to come soon, and they'll find you."
At least she was being honest; Sherry didn't like it, not at all, but at least there was that and from the look on her face, Sherry could see that there was nothing she could say to change her mind. She could be a baby about it, or she could accept it. "Be careful," she whispered, and Claire hugged her again before standing and moving toward the eleva– tor. She pushed a button next to the gate and there was a low, soft hum; after a few seconds an elevator car rose into view, coming to a gentle stop. Claire pulled the gate open and stepped inside, turning for a last look at Sherry. "Stay here, sweetie," she said. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
Sherry forced herself to nod and Claire let the gate close. She touched something inside the elevator and the car went down, her smiling, strong face descending out of sight, leaving Sherry by herself in the cold, dark passage. Sherry sat down on the dusty floor and hugged her knees close to her body, rocking herself slowly. Claire was brave and smart, she'd be back soon, she had to come back soon… "I want my mommy," Sherry whispered, but there was nobody to hear. She was alone again, the thing she wanted least of all.
But I'm strong. I'm strong, and I can wait.
She rested her chin on one knee, touching the necklace her mother had given her for good luck, and started to wait for Claire to come back.
"I'm glad you're here. I don't think I'm strong enough to do this by myself…"
He hadn't been sure before, but the helpless look she gave him cinched it; she was playing him, or trying to. He'd known Ada for all of twenty minutes, but he doubted seriously that she'd ever been helpless about anything.
"Looks like you're doing just fine," he said, holster-ing the Magnum but not making any move toward the manhole. He crossed his arms, frowning slightly. He wasn't angry, just curious.
"Besides, what's the hurry? I thought you wanted to talk to the reporter. About John, your Umbrella friend."
The woman-in-distress look melted away and her delicate features turned cool and hard, but not in a bad way; it was as though she was letting her real self show, the strong and self-assured Ada he'd first met. Leon could tell that he'd surprised her by not rushing to her aid and was glad to see it; he had enough to worry about without being manipulated by a mysteri– ous stranger. She'd been very careful to avoid his questions, but it was time for Ms. Wong to explain a few things. Ada stood up, meeting his gaze evenly. "You heard him – he wasn't going to tell us anything. And with this place as dangerous as it is, I don't really want to stand around waiting for him to develop a con-science…" She dropped her gaze, her voice softening."… and I don't even know if John's in Raccoon. But I do know that he's not here – and I want to leave before the station's completely overrun."
It sounded good, but for some reason, he had the feeling that she was holding something back. For a few seconds, he struggled to think of a polite way to get her to open up – then decided to hell with it; under the circumstances, social graces would have to be suspended.
"What's going on, Ada? Do you know something that you're not telling me?"
She looked at him again, and again, he had the feeling that he'd surprised her, but her cool, dark gaze was as unreadable as ever. "I just want to get out of here," she said, and the sincerity of her tone was impossible to deny. If he didn't believe anything else she'd said, he had to believe that much.
And I wish it was that easy, but there's Claire, and even Ben, our asshole friend, and God knows how many others… Leon shook his head. "I can't leave. Like I said, I may be the only cop left around here. If there are still people in the building, I have to at least try to help them. And I think it'd be best if you came with me."
Ada gave him another one of her half-smiles.
"I appreciate your concern, Leon, but I can take care of myself."
He didn't doubt it, but he also didn't want to see her abilities tested. Granted, he was pretty untested himself, but he'd been trained to deal with crisis situations, it was his job.
And be honest with yourself – you lost Claire, you couldn't help Branagh, and Ben Bertolucci could give a rat's ass for your protection skills; you don't want to fail with Ada on top of all that. And you don't want to be alone.
Ada seemed to know what he was thinking. Before he could come up with a convincing argument, she stepped forward and put one slender hand on his arm, the humor fading from her bright eyes.
"I know you want to do your job here, but you said it yourself – we have to find a way out of Raccoon, try and get outside help. And the sewers are probably the best chance we've got…"
The light, gentle touch surprised him and sent an electric flutter through his belly, an unexpected flush of warmth that left him feeling confused and uncer– tain. He managed to keep his reaction from showing, but just barely. Ada continued, frowning thoughtfully. "How about This – help me with the manhole cover, and let's see what's down there. If it looks dangerous, I'll come with you… but if it's not bad – well, we can talk about what to do next."
He wanted to protest, but the truth was, he couldn't make her do anything she didn't want to do and he wanted very much for her to know that he wasn't some overbearing macho type, that he was receptive to compromise…
… and does the name "John" ring a bell? This isn't a date for Chrissake, stop thinking with your hor-mones.
Feeling awkward even thinking about it with her hand still on his arm, Leon stepped away, nodding briskly. Together, they crouched down next to the manhole. Leon picked up the crowbar and jammed one end beneath the lid; as he pulled back, Ada pushed on the bar, and with a heavy grating sound the thick metal plate came up. Leon put his back into it and heaved the lid to one side, clearing the opening -
– and both of them recoiled back from the smell that bellowed out of the dark hole, a choking, dark stench of blood and piss and vomit. "Gah, what is that?" Leon coughed. Ada sat back on her heels, one hand pressed to her mouth. "The bodies from the garage, they must have dumped them down here…"
Before he could ask what she was talking about, a scream of pure terror echoed through the basement halls, filtering through the closed door. The cry went on and on, a man's voice, the panicked scream suddenly changing to a gurgling shriek of pain.
The reporter.
Leon locked gazes with Ada, saw the same startled realization flash across her face and then they were both up and running, pulling out their weapons and sprinting through the door before the echoes died.
I left him, I shouldn't have left him…
They ran down the corridor for the cell block, guilt driving Leon to run faster than he thought he could. Someone or something had gotten to Bertolucci and had passed right behind his back to do it.
Sherry stood in Mr. Irons's office, rubbing at her good luck pendant and wishing that Claire would come back. She had crawled through a dozen dusty tunnels to get away from the monster and to lead it away from Claire, and was pretty sure it had worked – she hadn't heard it again, and had come back to find that Claire had left; if the monster had found her, she would have been dead and ripped apart.
But she's not here. Nobody is…
Sherry sat on the edge of a low table in the middle of the room, wondering what she should do. She'd gotten used to being alone, and hadn't even realized how lonely she'd been, but meeting Claire had changed that. Sherry wanted to see her again, she wanted to be with other people, she wanted her parents so bad that it made her ache. Even Mr. Irons would be okay, although Sherry didn't like him; she'd only met him a couple of times but he was weird, showy and fake – and his office was creepy besides. Still, she'd gladly put up with him if it meant she didn't have to be alone anymore… Footsteps. In the hall outside of the office. Sherry stood up and ran to the open door that led back to the armor room, hoping it was Claire and ready to sprint for cover if it wasn't. She ducked around the door frame and held her breath, staring at the stuffed tiger in the hall and silently praying. The outer door opened and closed. Muffled steps on the carpet, moving slowly, and she tensed to run, at the same time trying to muster up enough courage to sneak a look…
"Sherry?" Claire! "I'm here!"
She ran back into the office and there was Claire,
her whole face lit up with a beaming smile. Sherryflew into her open arms, so happy to see her that she wanted to cry."I was looking for you," Claire said, holding her tightly. "Don't run off like that again, okay?"Claire knelt in front of her, still smiling, but Sherry could see the worry behind the smile and in her cool gray eyes. "I'm sorry," Sherry said. "I had to, or the monster would have come." "What does it look like?" Claire asked, her smile fading. "Does it look – kind of red, with claws?"Sherry swallowed heavily. "The inside-out men! You saw one, didn't you?"
Incredibly, Claire grinned, shaking her head.
"Yeah, that's exactly what I saw, an inside-out man… good description."
She looked at Sherry more seriously, frowning.
" 'Men'? There are more of them?" Sherry nodded. "Yes, but they aren't anything like the monster. I only saw him once, from behind, but he's a man, a giant man…"Claire seemed excited. "Bald? Wearing a long coat?"No, he had hair, brown hair. And one of his arms was all screwed up, a lot longer than the other one." Claire sighed. "Terrific. Raccoon's got something for everyone, sounds like…"
She reached out and took Sherry's hand, squeezing it. "… and that's all the more reason that you should stay with me. You've done a really good job of taking care of yourself, and you've been very brave, but until we find your parents, I feel like it's my job for now, to watch out for you. And if the monster comes, I’ll just kick its ass, okay?"
Sherry laughed, surprised into it. She liked that Claire didn't talk down to her. She nodded, and Claire squeezed her hand again.
"Good. So we've got zombies, inside-out men, and a monster. And a big bald guy… Sherry, do you know what happened to Raccoon? How this all got started? Anything you can tell me, anything at all – it could be important." Sherry frowned, thinking. "Well, there were a bunch of murders last May, or June I think – like ten people got killed. And then they stopped, but then maybe a week ago, somebody got attacked." Claire nodded encouragingly. "Okay. Did more people start getting attacked, or… what did the police do?"
Sherry shook her head, wishing she could be more
helpful. "I don't know. Right before that girl got attacked, my mother called from work really upset, and told me that I couldn't leave the house. Mrs. Willis – that's our next-door neighbor – she came over and cooked dinner for me, and that's how I heard about that girl. Mom called again the next day, and told me that she and Dad were stuck at the plant and wouldn't be home for a while – and then like three days ago, she called again and told me to come here. I went to see if Mrs. Willis would come with me, but her house was dark and empty. I guess things had already gotten pretty bad by then." Claire was staring at her intently. "You were alone all that time? Even before you got to the station?" Sherry nodded. "Well yeah, but I stay alone a lot. My parents are both scientists; their work is impor-tant, and sometimes they can't stop in the middle of what they're doing. And my mother always says that I'm very self-sufficient, when I want to be." "Do you know what kind of work your parents do? At Umbrella?" Claire was still watching her closely. "They develop cures for things, for diseases," Sher-ry said proudly. "And make medicines, like serums that hospitals use…"
She trailed off, noticing that Claire seemed dis– tracted suddenly, her gaze far away. It was a look she had seen plenty of times before, on both of her parents' faces – and it meant that they weren't really listening anymore. But as soon as she stopped talking, Claire refocused on her, reaching out to pat her on the shoulder – and for some stupid reason, that made Sherry want to cry again.
Because she's listening to me. Because she wants to watch out for me now. "Your mother's right," Claire said gently, "you're very self-sufficient, and that you've made it this far means that you're also very strong. That's good, because we're both going to have to be strong, to make it out of here." Sherry felt her eyes go wide. "What do you mean? Leave the station? But there are zombies all over the place, and I don't know where my parents are, what if they need help or they're looking for me…" "Sweetie, I'm sure your folks are just fine," Claire said quickly. "They're probably still at the plant, hiding and safe, just like you were – waiting for people to come from outside of the city, to, to make everything better…" "You mean kill everything," Sherry said. "I'm twelve, you know, I'm not a baby." Claire smiled. "Sorry. Yeah, to kill everything. But until the good guys come, we're on our own. And the best thing we can do, the smartest thing, is to get out of their way – to get as far out of their way as possible. You're right, the streets aren't safe, but maybe we can get a car…"
It was Claire's turn to trail off. She stood up and walked toward the big desk at the far end of the office, looking around as she went.
"Maybe Chief Irons left his car keys here, or another weapon, something we can use…"
Claire saw something on the floor behind the desk. She crouched down and Sherry hurried after her, as much to stay close as to see what she'd found. She already knew that she didn't want to lose her again, no matter what else happened. "There's blood here," Claire said softly, so softlythat Sherry thought she hadn't meant to say it out loud.
"So?"
Claire looked up at the plain tan wall, frowning, then back down at the big drying splotch of red on the floor. "It's still wet, for one thing. And see the way it's just kind of cut off? There should be some on the wall here…"
She rapped on the dark wood trim that lined the wall, then on the wall itself. There was an obvious difference; a dull thump from the trim, but the wall sounded hollow. "Is there a room back there?" Sherry asked. "I don't know, it sounds like it. And it would explain where he took… where he took off to earli-er. Chief Irons."
She glanced up at Sherry as she started to feel along the baseboards, running her hands up the wall and pushing at it. "Sherry, look around the desk, see if you can find like a switch or a lever. My guess is it would be hidden somewhere, maybe in one of the drawers…"
Sherry started to move behind the desk and tripped, her foot sliding on a handful of pencils that she hadn't seen. She grabbed at the desktop, trying to catch her balance, but still came down pretty hard on her bare knees.
"Ow!"
Claire was next to her right away, putting an armaround her shoulders. "Are you okay?" "Yeah. I just… hey! Look!"
Her bruised knees forgotten, Sherry pointed at the switch under the top drawer of the desk, set into a small metal plate. It looked like a light switch, but it had to be for the secret door, she just knew it.;
I found it!
Claire reached out and flipped the switch and behind them, a section of the wall a few feet across slid smoothly upwards, disappearing into the ceiling and exposing a dimly lit room lined with oversized bricks. Cool, damp air breezed into the office; it was a secret passage, just like in the movies. Together, they stood and stepped toward the open– ing, Claire holding Sherry back with one arm until she'd looked first. The small room was totally empty – three brick walls and a stained wood floor, and only about half the size of the office. The fourth wall was dominated by a big old-fashioned elevator gate, the kind that pushed to one side. "Are we going to take it?" Sherry asked. She was excited but nervous, too. Claire had taken her gun out. She crouched down next to Sherry and smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile, and Sherry knew what was coming before Claire said a word.
"Sweetie, I think it would be safest if I went and looked around first, and you stayed here…" "But you said we should stay together! You said we could find a car and leave! What if the monster comes back and you're not here, or you get killed?"
Claire hugged her, but Sherry felt almost sick with helpless anger. She was going to tell her not to worry, that the monster wouldn't come, that nothing bad would happen and then she was going to leave anyway.
Stupid grownup lies…
Claire leaned back, smoothing Sherry's hair away from her face. "I don't blame you for being scared. I'm scared, too. This is a bad situation and hon-estly, I don't know what's going to happen. But I want to do the right thing by you, and that means that I'm not going to take you into a situation where you could get hurt, not if I can help it." Sherry swallowed back tears, trying again. "But I want to come with you… what if you don't come back?" "I'm going to come back," Claire said firmly, "I promise. And if… if I don't, I want you to hide again, like before. Somebody will come, help is going to come soon, and they'll find you."
At least she was being honest; Sherry didn't like it, not at all, but at least there was that and from the look on her face, Sherry could see that there was nothing she could say to change her mind. She could be a baby about it, or she could accept it. "Be careful," she whispered, and Claire hugged her again before standing and moving toward the eleva– tor. She pushed a button next to the gate and there was a low, soft hum; after a few seconds an elevator car rose into view, coming to a gentle stop. Claire pulled the gate open and stepped inside, turning for a last look at Sherry. "Stay here, sweetie," she said. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
Sherry forced herself to nod and Claire let the gate close. She touched something inside the elevator and the car went down, her smiling, strong face descending out of sight, leaving Sherry by herself in the cold, dark passage. Sherry sat down on the dusty floor and hugged her knees close to her body, rocking herself slowly. Claire was brave and smart, she'd be back soon, she had to come back soon… "I want my mommy," Sherry whispered, but there was nobody to hear. She was alone again, the thing she wanted least of all.
But I'm strong. I'm strong, and I can wait.
She rested her chin on one knee, touching the necklace her mother had given her for good luck, and started to wait for Claire to come back.
SIXTEEN
Annette birkin sat in the laboratory monitor room, exhausted, staring up at the wall of video screens centered over the surveillance console. She'd been there for what felt like years, waiting for William to appear, and was starting to think that he never would. She'd give it a little longer, but if she didn't see him soon, she'd have to do another search.
Goddamn technology…
It was a brand-new system, less than a month old -
– twenty-five screens with a channel control that should have allowed her to see any and every part of the facility. A brilliant security advance – except only eleven of the screens still worked at all, and over half of those would only show static, an endless dance of electric snow. Of the five she could still get a clear picture from, all she could see – all there was to see -
–were dead, rotting bodies and the occasional Re3, either feasting or sleeping…
"Lickers. You called them lickers, because of their tongues…"
She thought she'd been past the worst of the pain, but the lonely sound of her own voice in the cold, cavernous chamber and the realization that there would be no answer – that there would never be an answer again – brought on a fresh, knifing wave of grief. William was gone, he was gone and she was talking to no one at all. Annette lowered her head to the console, closing her weary eyes. At least there were no more tears; she'd wept an ocean of them in the days since Um– brella had come for the G-Virus, but was simply too spent to cry anymore. Now there was only pain, interspersed with fits of violent, helpless fury over what Umbrella had done.
Another month, maybe two, and we would have given it to them. We would have turned it over without a fight, and William would have made the executive board and we would have been happy. Everyone would have been happy…
There was a faint squealing from one of the muted security screens. Annette looked up, hoping and dreading at once, but it was just a licker, one floor up in the surgical bay. It had dropped from its ceiling roost to snack on one of the techs, howling stupidly to itself as it ripped into the corpse's guts. The dead man looked like Don Weller, one of the chemical plant go– betweens, but she couldn't tell for certain; he was almost as mutilated and inhuman looking as the Re3 that was eating him. She watched the licker feed, watched the small screen but didn't really see; her mind wandered, running over what was left for her to do. She'd already wiped all of the computers and locked in the countdown codes; the lab was ready, and her escape route was secured. But she couldn't finish things until she saw him again, saw that he was back in the Umbrella facility. Destroying the lab wouldn't solve anything if he wasn't in the blast zone; they would find him, and extract the virus from his blood…
… and Umbrella won't have it. I'll die before I let them have it, so help me God.
Her only consolation in all of this mad, horrible affair was that Umbrella hadn't managed to get their greedy hands on William's synthesis. They hadn't and they never would. Everything that had gone into the creation of the G-Virus would be buried under a thousand burning tons of stone and wood, along with William and all of the monsters they had created for the company. She would go into hiding for a while, take some time to heal, to consider her options and then she would sell the G-Virus to the competition. Umbrella was the biggest, but they weren't the only conglomerate working on bioweapons research and when she was through with them, they wouldn't be the biggest anymore. It wasn't much of a revenge, but it was all she had left. "Except for Sherry," Annette whispered, and the thought of their young daughter made her heart ache, a different pain but pain nonetheless. Since the day Sherry had been born, Annette had meant to spend more time with her, to focus on the child instead of on her part in William's brilliant work. And yet some– how the years had slipped by, William's promotions had kept coming up, the work had grown ever more interesting and valuable and although both she and William had made promises to themselves and each other that they would make more of an effort to develop their family life, they had continued to put it off.
And now it's too late. We'll never be a family, we'll never be parents together. All that time wasted, slaving for a company that sold us out in the end…
It was too late; there was no point in mourning what could have been. All she could do now was make sure that Umbrella wouldn't get anything else from the Birkin family. William was gone, but there was still Sherry; that part of him would go on, and Annette meant to finally become the mother she should have been all along. Of course she'd have to wait until things cooled down before she could collect Sherry, at least a few months, but the girl would be safe; the cops would send her to live with William's sister, it was in both of their wills…
… unless Irons is still alive. That fat, greedy bas-tard could find a way to screw even that up if given half a chance.
She hoped he was dead; even if he wasn't directly responsible for Umbrella's awareness of the G-Virus, Brian Irons was a disgusting, arrogant man with the morals of a sea slug. After years of loyalty to the company, he'd been bought out for a measly hundred thousand dollars. Even William had been surprised, and he'd had an even lower opinion of the police chief than she had… On the screen, the Re3 had finished its meal. All that was left of the dead man was an empty shell, arched, bloody ribs, and a faceless cup of skull, the surely vibrant colors lost to the video's flat shades of gray. The licker scrabbled out of view, trailing sticky fluids in its wake. Thanks to the T-Virus, all of the reptile series were efficient killers, although the 3s had design flaws – the protruding cerebrum was the most obvious, but they also had a ridiculously high meta– bolic rate; keeping them fed had been a constant hassle.
Goddamn technology…
It was a brand-new system, less than a month old -
– twenty-five screens with a channel control that should have allowed her to see any and every part of the facility. A brilliant security advance – except only eleven of the screens still worked at all, and over half of those would only show static, an endless dance of electric snow. Of the five she could still get a clear picture from, all she could see – all there was to see -
–were dead, rotting bodies and the occasional Re3, either feasting or sleeping…
"Lickers. You called them lickers, because of their tongues…"
She thought she'd been past the worst of the pain, but the lonely sound of her own voice in the cold, cavernous chamber and the realization that there would be no answer – that there would never be an answer again – brought on a fresh, knifing wave of grief. William was gone, he was gone and she was talking to no one at all. Annette lowered her head to the console, closing her weary eyes. At least there were no more tears; she'd wept an ocean of them in the days since Um– brella had come for the G-Virus, but was simply too spent to cry anymore. Now there was only pain, interspersed with fits of violent, helpless fury over what Umbrella had done.
Another month, maybe two, and we would have given it to them. We would have turned it over without a fight, and William would have made the executive board and we would have been happy. Everyone would have been happy…
There was a faint squealing from one of the muted security screens. Annette looked up, hoping and dreading at once, but it was just a licker, one floor up in the surgical bay. It had dropped from its ceiling roost to snack on one of the techs, howling stupidly to itself as it ripped into the corpse's guts. The dead man looked like Don Weller, one of the chemical plant go– betweens, but she couldn't tell for certain; he was almost as mutilated and inhuman looking as the Re3 that was eating him. She watched the licker feed, watched the small screen but didn't really see; her mind wandered, running over what was left for her to do. She'd already wiped all of the computers and locked in the countdown codes; the lab was ready, and her escape route was secured. But she couldn't finish things until she saw him again, saw that he was back in the Umbrella facility. Destroying the lab wouldn't solve anything if he wasn't in the blast zone; they would find him, and extract the virus from his blood…
… and Umbrella won't have it. I'll die before I let them have it, so help me God.
Her only consolation in all of this mad, horrible affair was that Umbrella hadn't managed to get their greedy hands on William's synthesis. They hadn't and they never would. Everything that had gone into the creation of the G-Virus would be buried under a thousand burning tons of stone and wood, along with William and all of the monsters they had created for the company. She would go into hiding for a while, take some time to heal, to consider her options and then she would sell the G-Virus to the competition. Umbrella was the biggest, but they weren't the only conglomerate working on bioweapons research and when she was through with them, they wouldn't be the biggest anymore. It wasn't much of a revenge, but it was all she had left. "Except for Sherry," Annette whispered, and the thought of their young daughter made her heart ache, a different pain but pain nonetheless. Since the day Sherry had been born, Annette had meant to spend more time with her, to focus on the child instead of on her part in William's brilliant work. And yet some– how the years had slipped by, William's promotions had kept coming up, the work had grown ever more interesting and valuable and although both she and William had made promises to themselves and each other that they would make more of an effort to develop their family life, they had continued to put it off.
And now it's too late. We'll never be a family, we'll never be parents together. All that time wasted, slaving for a company that sold us out in the end…
It was too late; there was no point in mourning what could have been. All she could do now was make sure that Umbrella wouldn't get anything else from the Birkin family. William was gone, but there was still Sherry; that part of him would go on, and Annette meant to finally become the mother she should have been all along. Of course she'd have to wait until things cooled down before she could collect Sherry, at least a few months, but the girl would be safe; the cops would send her to live with William's sister, it was in both of their wills…
… unless Irons is still alive. That fat, greedy bas-tard could find a way to screw even that up if given half a chance.
She hoped he was dead; even if he wasn't directly responsible for Umbrella's awareness of the G-Virus, Brian Irons was a disgusting, arrogant man with the morals of a sea slug. After years of loyalty to the company, he'd been bought out for a measly hundred thousand dollars. Even William had been surprised, and he'd had an even lower opinion of the police chief than she had… On the screen, the Re3 had finished its meal. All that was left of the dead man was an empty shell, arched, bloody ribs, and a faceless cup of skull, the surely vibrant colors lost to the video's flat shades of gray. The licker scrabbled out of view, trailing sticky fluids in its wake. Thanks to the T-Virus, all of the reptile series were efficient killers, although the 3s had design flaws – the protruding cerebrum was the most obvious, but they also had a ridiculously high meta– bolic rate; keeping them fed had been a constant hassle.