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Not a problem anymore. Plenty of canton to go around – and lucky them, they'II get a chance for a hot dinner soon enough…
Annette felt drained of energy, and didn't want to go back out into the facility – but she couldn't just keep hoping that William would happen by one of the working cameras. She'd heard him up on level three, perhaps two days before, but hadn't seen him in almost twice as long; she couldn't keep waiting. Umbrella's people were probably already working on a way in – even with the mainframe wiped, there were other ways to get past the doors…
… and William may have found a way out. I can't keep denying it, no matter how much I want to. There was an abandoned factory west of the lab, a shipping company that had been bought up by Um-brella to ensure that the underground levels would stay secret; it was how Umbrella had managed to build the complex in the first place without arousing suspicion, hiding equipment and materials in the factory's warehouses and using the heavy machinery lift to transport them. Although the entrances from the factory had still been sealed off the last time she'd checked, there was a slim chance that William had gotten through – and if he could get to the factory, he could get into the sewers.
Annette forced herself to stand up, ignoring the cramps in her legs and back as she picked up the handgun on the console. She didn't know much about guns, although she'd figured out how to use one quickly enough, after…
… after they came for the G-Virus, the men in the gas masks, shooting and running and William, poor William dying in a puddle of blood and I didn 't see the syringe until it was too late…
She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to push that terrible memory aside, trying to forget about the incident that had taken William from her and turned Raccoon into a city of the dead. It didn't matter anymore. The journey ahead wouldn't be a pleasant one, and she had to concentrate. Escaped Re3s, first-and second-stage infected humans, the botany experi– ments, the arachnid series – she could run into any of the T-Virus carriers, not to mention whomever Um– brella had managed to send.
And William. My husband, my beloved – the first human G-Virus carrier, who isn't really human any-more.
She'd been wrong to think that she had no more tears inside. Annette stood in the middle of the vast, sterile room five floors beneath the surface of Rac– coon and wept lost, racking sobs that didn't even begin to touch the pain of her loneliness. Umbrella would be sorry. Once she could be sure that William was beyond their reach, she was going to destroy their precious facility, she was going to take the G-Virus and run, she was going to make sure that they understood how badly they'd screwed up – and God help anyone who tried to stop her.
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
Annette felt drained of energy, and didn't want to go back out into the facility – but she couldn't just keep hoping that William would happen by one of the working cameras. She'd heard him up on level three, perhaps two days before, but hadn't seen him in almost twice as long; she couldn't keep waiting. Umbrella's people were probably already working on a way in – even with the mainframe wiped, there were other ways to get past the doors…
… and William may have found a way out. I can't keep denying it, no matter how much I want to. There was an abandoned factory west of the lab, a shipping company that had been bought up by Um-brella to ensure that the underground levels would stay secret; it was how Umbrella had managed to build the complex in the first place without arousing suspicion, hiding equipment and materials in the factory's warehouses and using the heavy machinery lift to transport them. Although the entrances from the factory had still been sealed off the last time she'd checked, there was a slim chance that William had gotten through – and if he could get to the factory, he could get into the sewers.
Annette forced herself to stand up, ignoring the cramps in her legs and back as she picked up the handgun on the console. She didn't know much about guns, although she'd figured out how to use one quickly enough, after…
… after they came for the G-Virus, the men in the gas masks, shooting and running and William, poor William dying in a puddle of blood and I didn 't see the syringe until it was too late…
She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to push that terrible memory aside, trying to forget about the incident that had taken William from her and turned Raccoon into a city of the dead. It didn't matter anymore. The journey ahead wouldn't be a pleasant one, and she had to concentrate. Escaped Re3s, first-and second-stage infected humans, the botany experi– ments, the arachnid series – she could run into any of the T-Virus carriers, not to mention whomever Um– brella had managed to send.
And William. My husband, my beloved – the first human G-Virus carrier, who isn't really human any-more.
She'd been wrong to think that she had no more tears inside. Annette stood in the middle of the vast, sterile room five floors beneath the surface of Rac– coon and wept lost, racking sobs that didn't even begin to touch the pain of her loneliness. Umbrella would be sorry. Once she could be sure that William was beyond their reach, she was going to destroy their precious facility, she was going to take the G-Virus and run, she was going to make sure that they understood how badly they'd screwed up – and God help anyone who tried to stop her.
SEVENTEEN
Ada ran into the cell block only a step behind Leon, just in time to see the reporter stumble out of his cage and fall to the floor. "Help him!" Leon shouted, and ran past Bertolucci to check out the cell. Ada stopped in front of the gasping reporter but ignored the command, waiting to see if whatever had gotten to him was going to spring out of the open cell…
… he was behind bars, how did this happen.
She waited, weapon pointed after Leon as he leapt in front of the open cell, her heart pounding – and saw the bewilderment on his youthful face, the open surprise. The way his gaze searched the cell told her that it was empty. Unless the attacker was invis– ible…
Not a chance. Don't even start thinking like that, don't let it get to you.
Ada knelt next to the reporter, taking in immedi– ately that he was in a bad way – dying bad. He'd crumpled into a half-sitting position, his head against the bars of the cell adjacent to his. He was still breathing, but it wouldn't be long before he stopped. Ada had seen the look before, the far-seeing gaze and the trembling, the pallor, but what she didn't see was how, and that scared her. There were no wounds. It had to be a heart attack, maybe a stroke -
– but that scream.
"Ben? Ben, what happened?"
His flickering gaze fixed on her face, and she saw that the corners of his mouth were cracked and bleeding. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a rasping, unintelligible croak. Leon crouched down next to them, looking as confused as she felt. He shook his head at her, an unspoken answer to her unasked question; there was apparently no sign of what had happened. Ada looked down at Bertolucci and tried again.
"What was it, Ben? Can you tell us what happened?"
The reporter's shaking hands crawled up his body, resting across his chest. With a visible effort, he managed to whisper a single word.
"… window…"
Ada wasn't reassured. The cell's "window" was hardly a foot across, maybe six inches wide, and set eight feet off the floor – nothing more than a ventila– tion hole that opened into the parking garage. Noth-ing could have gotten through – at least nothing that she'd heard of or read about, and that meant that there were dangers she wasn't prepared against. Bertolucci was still trying to speak. Both Ada and Leon leaned closer, straining to catch his painful whispers.
"… chest. Burns, it… burns…"
Ada relaxed just a bit. He'd seen or heard some– thing outside of the cell, something that had kicked off a massive coronary; that, she could accept. A pisser for the journalist, but it would save her the trouble of killing him herself… He reached out suddenly and grasped her forearm, staring up at her with an intensity that surprised her. His grip was weak, but there was desperation in his wet eyes – desperation and some frustrated sorrow that inspired not a little guilt for what she'd been thinking. "I never told… about Irons," he breathed, obvi-ously struggling to hang on to life, to get it all out.
"He's… working for Umbrella… all this time. The zombies… are Umbrella, research… and he covered up the murders but I couldn't… prove it all, yet… was going to be my… exclusive."
Bertolucci closed his braised-looking eyelids, breath– ing shallowly as his fingers fell away from her arm, and she felt a surge of pity for him in spite of herself.
The poor dumb jerk; his big secret was that Umbrella was into bioweapons and that Irons was on the take. It would have been a big scoop, too, but apparently he hadn't even been able to get any hard evidence. He doesn't know dick about the G-Virus, he never did – and he's going to die regardless. Talk about a shit deal. "Jesus," Leon said softly. "Chief Irons…" Ada had all but forgotten how clueless the young cop was. He was obviously new, but a couple of times he'd seemed so perceptive that she'd been taken aback; the kid wasn't just a testosterone case, there was definitely something going on upstairs…
… knock it off already, he's not much younger than you. The reporter's about to kick and you need to be on your way, not worrying about Officer Friendly…
Bertolucci spasmed suddenly, his hands clutching at his chest as he moaned, a sharp, tortured cry of agony. His back arched, his fingers hooked into claws…… and the moan went liquid as blood started to stream from his mouth in a burbling gout. Choking and shaking, Bertolucci's limbs convulsed violently, droplets of crimson spraying out with each racking cough…… and Ada saw red blossom across his rumpled white shirt beneath his scrabbling hands and heard the thick, wet crack of breaking bone. She leapt back as Leon grabbed for the reporter's hands, not sure what was happening but absolutely positive that it was not a heart attack…
… holy Christ what IS this?
All at once, Bertolucci went limp, his eyes rolled back and fixed, sightless. Blood still oozed from his cracked lips and there was a sound, a horrible sound of meat being torn, and under the stained fabric of his shirt, something moved. "Get back!" Ada shouted, pointing her Beretta at the dead reporter, and in the split-second it took her to aim, a thing erupted from Bertolucci's bloody chest. A thing the size of a big man's fist, a gore– drenched thing that opened a tiny black hole of a mouth and squealed shrilly, revealing nubs of sharp red teeth. It wriggled out of the corpse with a whip-ping manta's tail, splashing the cold cement with shreds of wet tissue and gut. Lashing against the cooling flesh of the reporter, it poured from the body in a gush of blood and onto the floor – and took off like a shot for the open gate back into the hall, propelling itself with its snaking tail and legs that Ada couldn't see, smearing a red path be– hind it. It was out the door before she even remembered that she was holding a gun; for the first time since she'd come to Raccoon, since ever, she had been so completely shocked that she hadn't thought to react. A chest-bursting parasitic creature, straight out of a sci-fi movie… "Was that… did you see…" Leon fumbled breath– lessly. "I saw it," Ada said softly, cutting him off. She turned and looked down at Bertolucci, at his face, frozen in a bloody contortion of anguish, and at the gaping wet cavity just below his sternum.
His mouth, cracked at the corners…
He'd been implanted with the creature, by what, she didn't know, and she didn't want to know. What she wanted was to get the mission wrapped, as quickly as possible, and then get as far away from Raccoon City as she could. In fact, she thought that she'd never wanted anything quite so badly. When she'd first realized that there had been a T-Virus incident, she'd expected to have to deal with some unpleasant organ– isms. But the thought of having one of them forced or forcing its way down her throat, nestling inside of her body like some slick, aberrant fetus before eating its way out… if that wasn't the most horrible thing she could think of, it ran a close second. She looked at Leon, giving up any pretense of trying to be reasonable. She was going to the lab, and it wasn't open to discussion. "I'm getting out of here," she said, and without waiting for a response, she turned and walked briskly toward the gate, careful not to step on the glistening trail of blood that the tiny monster had created.
"Wait! Look, I think… Ada? Hey…"
She stepped into the corridor, weapon raised, but the creature was gone. The blood trail petered out less than halfway down the hall, but she saw that they'd left the door to the kennel open…
… and the manhole cover's off. Terrific.
Leon caught up to her before she'd gone more than a few steps. He stood in front of her, blocking her path, and for just a moment, Ada thought he was going to try to physically stop her.
Don't do it. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. "Ada, please don't go," Leon said, not a command but a plea. "I… when I got to Raccoon, I met this girl, and I think she's in the station somewhere. If you could help me find her, the three of us could leave together. We'd stand a much better chance…" "Sorry, Leon, but it's a free goddamn country. You do what you have to, and good luck, but I'm not staying. I've had enough. If – when I get out, I'll send help."
She started to push past him, hoping it wouldn't come to violence and wishing that she could tell him not to get in her way – how dangerous it would be for him to try – when Leon surprised her yet again. "Then I'm coming with you," he said. He met her gaze evenly, his own unflinching and resolute – and scared. "I'm not going to let you do it alone. I don't want anyone else – I don't want you to get hurt."
Ada stared at him, not sure what to say. Now that Bertolucci was dead, she didn't want to have to ditch Leon in the sewers; it wouldn't be hard, considering how extensive the system was… but he was just so goddamn nice, so determined to be helpful, that she was starting to – to not want to have to do anything bad to him. Things would be a lot easier if he was just some asshole on a machismo kick…
Okay, so blow your cover. Tell him you're a private agent working to steal the G-Virus, and you don't want company; tell him about the relief you felt when you realized the reporter was about to die, or how you don't have a problem with killing, if it's for a good cause like getting paid. See how nice and helpful he is after that.
Not an option; neither was trying to talk him out of coming along, it wouldn't make sense. And there was some part of her, some part that she didn't want to admit to, that wanted very much not to be alone. Seeing that thing that had popped out of Bertolucci had shaken her, it had left her feeling that she wasn't as invulnerable as she liked to think.
So let him come, get to the lab and find a safe place to leave him there. No harm, no foul.
Leon was watching her closely, studying her – wait– ing for her approval. "Let's go," she said, and the grin he gave her, though winning, made her feel even more uncomfort– able. Without another word, they walked toward the kennel, Ada wondering what the hell she was doing and whether or not she was still capable of doing whatever it took to get the job done. Claire stood in front of a medieval door at the very end of the dark, dungeon-like hallway that the eleva– tor had taken her to. The station had been chilly, but the icy damp of this stone hall made the station seem like summer; it was like she'd descended into some ancient, haunted castle straight out of the Middle Ages. She took a deep breath, trying to decide how to go in; she was pretty sure that Irons wouldn't appreciate a surprise visit, but the idea of knocking seemed ludicrous – not to mention dangerous. There were torches burning in sconces on either side of the heavy wood door, the door itself belted with strips of rusting metal and if she'd had any doubt before that Irons was crazy, the sight of the twin sputtering torches and the feel of cold, quiet dread that suffused the corridor itself had wiped her uncertainty out.
A secret tunnel, a hidden room complete with mood-lighting… what sane person would want to hang out down here? It wasn't the disaster that did it – Irons must have been nuts way before the Umbrella acci– dent…
Another certainty, although she didn't have any proof – but when Sherry had told her about what her parents did for a living, and what had happened just prior to her coming to the station, something had clicked. Umbrella worked with diseases, and the population of Raccoon had definitely come down with a bad case of something. There must have been some kind of an accident, a spill that had released the strange zombie plague…
Quit stalling.
Claire bit at her lip, not sure what she should do. She didn't doubt that Irons was down here some– where, and she did not want to run into him again; maybe she should go back up, get Sherry, and try to find another way out. Just because the area was secret didn't mean that it was some kind of an escape route.
Still stalling, and Sherry is up there by herself. And you've got a gun, remember?
A gun with very little ammo. If this was Irons's hidden lair, maybe he kept weapons inside… or maybe it was just another corridor, one that led even deeper into the bowels of the station. Either way, wondering about it was telling her exactly jack shit. Claire put her hand on the latch, took another deep breath, and pushed it open, the heavy door swinging in slowly on well-oiled hinges. She stepped back, pointing the handgun…
Jesus.
An empty room, as dank and unwelcoming as the corridor, but with furnishings and a decor that made her skin crawl. A single naked bulb hung down from the ceiling, illuminating the creepiest chamber she'd ever seen. There was a table in the middle of the room, stained and battered, a hacksaw and other cutting utensils scattered on top; a dented metal bucket and a mop, slopped against one water-stained wall, next to a portable basin with dried red patches inside; shelves, laden with dusty bottles – and what looked like human bones, polished and pale, set out like macabre trophies. That, and the smell – a thick chemical reek, sharp and acidic, that only just cov– ered a darker smell. A smell like insanity. Even looking into the room made her want to be sick; "nuts" was maybe the understatement of the year for the police chief, but there was nobody home, and that meant that there could be another secret passage somewhere inside. At the very least, she had to check for weapons. Swallowing, Claire stepped into the room, glad that she hadn't brought Sherry with her; looking at the private little torture chamber was going to give her nightmares, it was nothing to expose a child to…
"Freeze, little girl, or I'll shoot you where you stand."
Claire froze. Every muscle in her body froze as Irons started to laugh from behind her, from behind the door where she hadn't thought to look.
Oh my God, oh, God, oh, Sherry I'm so sorry…
Irons's deep chuckle rose into the hearty, gleeful laughter of a madman, and Claire understood that she was going to die.
… he was behind bars, how did this happen.
She waited, weapon pointed after Leon as he leapt in front of the open cell, her heart pounding – and saw the bewilderment on his youthful face, the open surprise. The way his gaze searched the cell told her that it was empty. Unless the attacker was invis– ible…
Not a chance. Don't even start thinking like that, don't let it get to you.
Ada knelt next to the reporter, taking in immedi– ately that he was in a bad way – dying bad. He'd crumpled into a half-sitting position, his head against the bars of the cell adjacent to his. He was still breathing, but it wouldn't be long before he stopped. Ada had seen the look before, the far-seeing gaze and the trembling, the pallor, but what she didn't see was how, and that scared her. There were no wounds. It had to be a heart attack, maybe a stroke -
– but that scream.
"Ben? Ben, what happened?"
His flickering gaze fixed on her face, and she saw that the corners of his mouth were cracked and bleeding. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a rasping, unintelligible croak. Leon crouched down next to them, looking as confused as she felt. He shook his head at her, an unspoken answer to her unasked question; there was apparently no sign of what had happened. Ada looked down at Bertolucci and tried again.
"What was it, Ben? Can you tell us what happened?"
The reporter's shaking hands crawled up his body, resting across his chest. With a visible effort, he managed to whisper a single word.
"… window…"
Ada wasn't reassured. The cell's "window" was hardly a foot across, maybe six inches wide, and set eight feet off the floor – nothing more than a ventila– tion hole that opened into the parking garage. Noth-ing could have gotten through – at least nothing that she'd heard of or read about, and that meant that there were dangers she wasn't prepared against. Bertolucci was still trying to speak. Both Ada and Leon leaned closer, straining to catch his painful whispers.
"… chest. Burns, it… burns…"
Ada relaxed just a bit. He'd seen or heard some– thing outside of the cell, something that had kicked off a massive coronary; that, she could accept. A pisser for the journalist, but it would save her the trouble of killing him herself… He reached out suddenly and grasped her forearm, staring up at her with an intensity that surprised her. His grip was weak, but there was desperation in his wet eyes – desperation and some frustrated sorrow that inspired not a little guilt for what she'd been thinking. "I never told… about Irons," he breathed, obvi-ously struggling to hang on to life, to get it all out.
"He's… working for Umbrella… all this time. The zombies… are Umbrella, research… and he covered up the murders but I couldn't… prove it all, yet… was going to be my… exclusive."
Bertolucci closed his braised-looking eyelids, breath– ing shallowly as his fingers fell away from her arm, and she felt a surge of pity for him in spite of herself.
The poor dumb jerk; his big secret was that Umbrella was into bioweapons and that Irons was on the take. It would have been a big scoop, too, but apparently he hadn't even been able to get any hard evidence. He doesn't know dick about the G-Virus, he never did – and he's going to die regardless. Talk about a shit deal. "Jesus," Leon said softly. "Chief Irons…" Ada had all but forgotten how clueless the young cop was. He was obviously new, but a couple of times he'd seemed so perceptive that she'd been taken aback; the kid wasn't just a testosterone case, there was definitely something going on upstairs…
… knock it off already, he's not much younger than you. The reporter's about to kick and you need to be on your way, not worrying about Officer Friendly…
Bertolucci spasmed suddenly, his hands clutching at his chest as he moaned, a sharp, tortured cry of agony. His back arched, his fingers hooked into claws…… and the moan went liquid as blood started to stream from his mouth in a burbling gout. Choking and shaking, Bertolucci's limbs convulsed violently, droplets of crimson spraying out with each racking cough…… and Ada saw red blossom across his rumpled white shirt beneath his scrabbling hands and heard the thick, wet crack of breaking bone. She leapt back as Leon grabbed for the reporter's hands, not sure what was happening but absolutely positive that it was not a heart attack…
… holy Christ what IS this?
All at once, Bertolucci went limp, his eyes rolled back and fixed, sightless. Blood still oozed from his cracked lips and there was a sound, a horrible sound of meat being torn, and under the stained fabric of his shirt, something moved. "Get back!" Ada shouted, pointing her Beretta at the dead reporter, and in the split-second it took her to aim, a thing erupted from Bertolucci's bloody chest. A thing the size of a big man's fist, a gore– drenched thing that opened a tiny black hole of a mouth and squealed shrilly, revealing nubs of sharp red teeth. It wriggled out of the corpse with a whip-ping manta's tail, splashing the cold cement with shreds of wet tissue and gut. Lashing against the cooling flesh of the reporter, it poured from the body in a gush of blood and onto the floor – and took off like a shot for the open gate back into the hall, propelling itself with its snaking tail and legs that Ada couldn't see, smearing a red path be– hind it. It was out the door before she even remembered that she was holding a gun; for the first time since she'd come to Raccoon, since ever, she had been so completely shocked that she hadn't thought to react. A chest-bursting parasitic creature, straight out of a sci-fi movie… "Was that… did you see…" Leon fumbled breath– lessly. "I saw it," Ada said softly, cutting him off. She turned and looked down at Bertolucci, at his face, frozen in a bloody contortion of anguish, and at the gaping wet cavity just below his sternum.
His mouth, cracked at the corners…
He'd been implanted with the creature, by what, she didn't know, and she didn't want to know. What she wanted was to get the mission wrapped, as quickly as possible, and then get as far away from Raccoon City as she could. In fact, she thought that she'd never wanted anything quite so badly. When she'd first realized that there had been a T-Virus incident, she'd expected to have to deal with some unpleasant organ– isms. But the thought of having one of them forced or forcing its way down her throat, nestling inside of her body like some slick, aberrant fetus before eating its way out… if that wasn't the most horrible thing she could think of, it ran a close second. She looked at Leon, giving up any pretense of trying to be reasonable. She was going to the lab, and it wasn't open to discussion. "I'm getting out of here," she said, and without waiting for a response, she turned and walked briskly toward the gate, careful not to step on the glistening trail of blood that the tiny monster had created.
"Wait! Look, I think… Ada? Hey…"
She stepped into the corridor, weapon raised, but the creature was gone. The blood trail petered out less than halfway down the hall, but she saw that they'd left the door to the kennel open…
… and the manhole cover's off. Terrific.
Leon caught up to her before she'd gone more than a few steps. He stood in front of her, blocking her path, and for just a moment, Ada thought he was going to try to physically stop her.
Don't do it. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. "Ada, please don't go," Leon said, not a command but a plea. "I… when I got to Raccoon, I met this girl, and I think she's in the station somewhere. If you could help me find her, the three of us could leave together. We'd stand a much better chance…" "Sorry, Leon, but it's a free goddamn country. You do what you have to, and good luck, but I'm not staying. I've had enough. If – when I get out, I'll send help."
She started to push past him, hoping it wouldn't come to violence and wishing that she could tell him not to get in her way – how dangerous it would be for him to try – when Leon surprised her yet again. "Then I'm coming with you," he said. He met her gaze evenly, his own unflinching and resolute – and scared. "I'm not going to let you do it alone. I don't want anyone else – I don't want you to get hurt."
Ada stared at him, not sure what to say. Now that Bertolucci was dead, she didn't want to have to ditch Leon in the sewers; it wouldn't be hard, considering how extensive the system was… but he was just so goddamn nice, so determined to be helpful, that she was starting to – to not want to have to do anything bad to him. Things would be a lot easier if he was just some asshole on a machismo kick…
Okay, so blow your cover. Tell him you're a private agent working to steal the G-Virus, and you don't want company; tell him about the relief you felt when you realized the reporter was about to die, or how you don't have a problem with killing, if it's for a good cause like getting paid. See how nice and helpful he is after that.
Not an option; neither was trying to talk him out of coming along, it wouldn't make sense. And there was some part of her, some part that she didn't want to admit to, that wanted very much not to be alone. Seeing that thing that had popped out of Bertolucci had shaken her, it had left her feeling that she wasn't as invulnerable as she liked to think.
So let him come, get to the lab and find a safe place to leave him there. No harm, no foul.
Leon was watching her closely, studying her – wait– ing for her approval. "Let's go," she said, and the grin he gave her, though winning, made her feel even more uncomfort– able. Without another word, they walked toward the kennel, Ada wondering what the hell she was doing and whether or not she was still capable of doing whatever it took to get the job done. Claire stood in front of a medieval door at the very end of the dark, dungeon-like hallway that the eleva– tor had taken her to. The station had been chilly, but the icy damp of this stone hall made the station seem like summer; it was like she'd descended into some ancient, haunted castle straight out of the Middle Ages. She took a deep breath, trying to decide how to go in; she was pretty sure that Irons wouldn't appreciate a surprise visit, but the idea of knocking seemed ludicrous – not to mention dangerous. There were torches burning in sconces on either side of the heavy wood door, the door itself belted with strips of rusting metal and if she'd had any doubt before that Irons was crazy, the sight of the twin sputtering torches and the feel of cold, quiet dread that suffused the corridor itself had wiped her uncertainty out.
A secret tunnel, a hidden room complete with mood-lighting… what sane person would want to hang out down here? It wasn't the disaster that did it – Irons must have been nuts way before the Umbrella acci– dent…
Another certainty, although she didn't have any proof – but when Sherry had told her about what her parents did for a living, and what had happened just prior to her coming to the station, something had clicked. Umbrella worked with diseases, and the population of Raccoon had definitely come down with a bad case of something. There must have been some kind of an accident, a spill that had released the strange zombie plague…
Quit stalling.
Claire bit at her lip, not sure what she should do. She didn't doubt that Irons was down here some– where, and she did not want to run into him again; maybe she should go back up, get Sherry, and try to find another way out. Just because the area was secret didn't mean that it was some kind of an escape route.
Still stalling, and Sherry is up there by herself. And you've got a gun, remember?
A gun with very little ammo. If this was Irons's hidden lair, maybe he kept weapons inside… or maybe it was just another corridor, one that led even deeper into the bowels of the station. Either way, wondering about it was telling her exactly jack shit. Claire put her hand on the latch, took another deep breath, and pushed it open, the heavy door swinging in slowly on well-oiled hinges. She stepped back, pointing the handgun…
Jesus.
An empty room, as dank and unwelcoming as the corridor, but with furnishings and a decor that made her skin crawl. A single naked bulb hung down from the ceiling, illuminating the creepiest chamber she'd ever seen. There was a table in the middle of the room, stained and battered, a hacksaw and other cutting utensils scattered on top; a dented metal bucket and a mop, slopped against one water-stained wall, next to a portable basin with dried red patches inside; shelves, laden with dusty bottles – and what looked like human bones, polished and pale, set out like macabre trophies. That, and the smell – a thick chemical reek, sharp and acidic, that only just cov– ered a darker smell. A smell like insanity. Even looking into the room made her want to be sick; "nuts" was maybe the understatement of the year for the police chief, but there was nobody home, and that meant that there could be another secret passage somewhere inside. At the very least, she had to check for weapons. Swallowing, Claire stepped into the room, glad that she hadn't brought Sherry with her; looking at the private little torture chamber was going to give her nightmares, it was nothing to expose a child to…
"Freeze, little girl, or I'll shoot you where you stand."
Claire froze. Every muscle in her body froze as Irons started to laugh from behind her, from behind the door where she hadn't thought to look.
Oh my God, oh, God, oh, Sherry I'm so sorry…
Irons's deep chuckle rose into the hearty, gleeful laughter of a madman, and Claire understood that she was going to die.
EIGHTEEN
Trying not to breathe too deeply, Leon reached the bottom of the metal ladder and turned around quickly, aiming the Magnum into the thick gloom. Murky water sloshed over his boots, and as his eyes adjusted to the low light, he saw the source of the terrible smell.
Parts of it, anyway…
The subbasement tunnel stretching out in front of him was littered with body parts, human corpses that had been torn into pieces. Limbs and heads and torsos were strewn randomly through the stone pas– sage, lapped at gently by the few inches of dark water that covered the floor. "Leon? How is it?" Ada's voice floated down from the circle of light above the ladder, echoing hollowly around him. Leon didn't answer, his shocked gaze fixed on the terrible scene, his brain trying to add up the shredded parts and come up with a number.
How many? How many people?
Too many to count. He saw a faceless head, the long hair streaming around it in a cloud. A heavy woman's decapitated trunk, one breast bobbing above the rippling darkness. An arm encased in the tatters of a cop's dress shirt. A bare leg, still wearing a sneaker. A curled hand, the fingers slick and white.
A dozen? Twenty? "Leon?" Ada's tone had sharpened. "It's… it looks okay," he called, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. "Nothing moving." "I'm coming down."
He stepped away from the ladder to give her room, remembering something she'd said before, something about bodies being dumped… Ada stepped off the bottom rung, splashing into the dark tunnel. His eyes had adjusted well enough to see a look of disgust cross her delicate features – disgust and something like sadness. "There was an attack in the garage," she said softly. "Fourteen or fifteen people died…"
She trailed off, frowning, and took a step past him
to get a closer look at the severed and mutilated
remains. When she spoke again, she sounded worried.
"I didn't see the attack, but I don't think they were torn up like this."
She looked up, scanning the roof of the tunnel, gripping her nine-millimeter tightly. Leon followed her gaze, but only saw algae-thick stone. Ada shook her head, looking back down at the gently rippling sea of broken flesh.
"The zombies didn't do this. Something got to these people after they were killed."
Leon felt a chill go up his spine. That was about the last thing he wanted to hear, standing in the humid, stinking dark and surrounded by savaged bodies.
"So it's not safe down here. We should head back up and…"
Ada started forward, stepping through the tangled limbs, the sound of her careful, sloshing movements seeming very loud in the otherwise silent tunnel.
Damn, does she ignore everybody, or is it just me?
Watching his step, Leon followed, reaching out with his free hand to touch her shoulder. "At least let me go first, okay?" "Fine," she said, sounding almost but not quite exasperated. "Lead the way." He stepped in front of her, and they started forward again, Leon trying to divide his attention between the darkness ahead and the sodden pieces of flesh and bone underfoot. Just ahead, the tunnel turned to the right, and there was some light reflected off the oily surface of the water; the passage was clearer, too, with not as many bodies. Leon paused just long enough to unshoulder the Remington, checking to make sure he'd chambered a round. Whatever had gotten to the corpses didn't seem to be around, but he didn't want to be unpre– pared if it came back. Ada waited without speaking, though he could feel her impatience – not for the first time, he wondered if there was more to her story than she'd told him. He was scared, and he was also cold and tired and afraid for Claire, who might still be wandering the station…… he didn't even know if Claire was still alive; but he hadn't felt right about letting Ada walk into a bad situation on her own. Ada, on the other hand… she was as calm and controlled as a veteran soldier, expressing nothing but a kind of irritable eagerness to get on with things and if she appreciated his presence at all, she was taking great pains not to show it. It wasn't that he needed or wanted her gratitude…
… but wouldn't most people be happy to have a cop along? Even a rookie?
Maybe not, and it wasn't the time or place to start asking questions. Leon shut down his thinking and started moving again, stepping gingerly over a chewed-up chunk of flesh that he couldn't identify. "Stop," Ada whispered sharply. "Listen." Leon tensed, Remington in one hand, Magnum in the other. He tilted his head, straining to hear, but there was only a distant, hollow drip of water…… and a soft thumping. A rapid but random sound, like padded hammers on a padded surface. Whatever it was, it was getting closer, coming toward them from where the tunnel turned up ahead.
Why isn't it splashing, why don't we hear water?
Leon backed up a step, raising both weapons slightly, remembering how Ada had looked at the ceiling before…… and saw it, saw it and felt his heart stop in midbeat. A spider the size of a big dog, skittering over the wet stones halfway up the inner wall, its bristling, hairy legs tapping -
– not possible -
–and then there was a series of deafening explo-sions next to his right ear, bam-bam-bam-bam, the muzzle flash from Ada's Beretta strobing the hellish tunnel as she fired. The booming echoes pounded through the dark as the giant, impossible arachnid dropped from the wall, splashing into the inky water. It crawled toward them, wounded, dragging two of its multiple legs through the murk behind it, dark fluids spilling out from its grotesquely rounded body. It humped itself over a human head, the mutilated skull rolling out from beneath its swollen, pulsing abdomen, and Leon could see its shining black eyes, each the size of a ping-pong ball…… and he squeezed the trigger on the Remington, not even feeling the kick of the thundering blast, his entire focus on the inconceivable arachnid. The round hit it squarely, blowing its alien face into a thousand wet pieces. The spider flipped over backwards with a skidding splash, its thick legs quivering, curling in over its furred body. His ears ringing, his heart pounding, Leon cham– bered another round, his mind telling him that he had not just blown away a spider that big, the physics was wrong, it couldn't happen because it would collapse under its own weight…… Ada pushed past him, running ahead, shouting back to him.
"Come on, there could be more coming!"
Leon took off after her, forced by Ada's reckless behavior to put his shock on hold. He sprinted through the dark, jumping over the disturbed and gently rocking hunks of flesh, past the closed dead spider that would never have existed in the reality he'd known before Raccoon.
"Drop your weapon," Irons commanded, and the girl did so, hesitating for only a second. The Browning clattered to the floor, and Irons had to resist the urge to laugh again, scarcely able to credit how stupidly she'd acted. The Umbrella assassin had obviously grown arrogant, walking into his Sanctuary as if she owned the place – and her smug, inflated conceit had cost her the game.
"Turn around, slow – and keep your hands where I can see them," he said, still grinning. Oh, what a gloriously easy conquest! Umbrella had underesti– mated him for the last time. Again, the girl did as he asked, pivoting slowly, her hands empty and open. The look on her face was priceless, her aquiline features fixed in a mask of fear and shock; she hadn't expected this, she thought it would be a simple task to take out Brian Irons. After all, he was a broken man, a shadow of his former self, his city, his life taken away… "Mistaken, weren't you?" he said, feeling the hu-mor leak out of the situation, feeling the anger stir again. He kept the VP70 trained on her ridiculously young face; insulting, that they'd sent a child in to do their dirty work. Even such a pretty one… "Calm down, Chief Irons," she said, and even angry, he was pleased to hear the strain in her sultry voice, the edge of fear beneath her useless plea. He was going to enjoy this, even more than he'd imag– ined…
… but first, some answers.
"Who sent you? Was it Coleman, from headquar-
ters? Or did your orders come from higher up…
… someone on the board, perhaps? There's no point in
lying, not anymore."
The girl stared at him, her eyes wide with feigned confusion. "I… I don't know what you're talking about. Please, there's been some kind of a mistake…"Oh, there's been a mistake, all right," Irons spat, "and you made it. How long has Umbrella been watching me? What were your orders, exactly – were you supposed to kill me outright, or did Umbrella want to see me suffer a little more first?"
The girl didn't answer for a moment, obviously trying to decide how much to tell him. She was good, her expression still carefully arranged to show only a
bewildered fear, but he saw right through it. She's been caught, she must know that I won't let her live and she's going to try and conceal the truth, even now. Young, but well-trained. "I came to Raccoon looking for my brother," she said slowly, her wide gray eyes fixed on the gun.
"He was with the S.T.A.R.S., and I just…" "S.T.A.R.S.? Is that the best you can do?" Irons laughed bitterly, shaking his head. The Raccoon
S.T.A.R.S. had fled well before things had fallen to Shit – and last he'd heard, Umbrella had already "converted" the organization to their purposes, and was working to eliminate those who wouldn't cross over. As a cover story, it didn't play.
But there is something…
He narrowed his eyes, studying her pale, anxious face. "And just who is your brother?" "Chris Redfield, you know him – I'm Claire, his sister, and I don't know anything about whatever Umbrella did, and I wasn't sent here to kill you." She spoke quickly, all but stumbling over herself to get her story out. She did look like Redfield, through the eyes at Least… although why she thought that connection would help her somehow was beyond him. Chris Redfield was a pompous, disrespectful upstart who had openly defied him many times; in fact.
"Redfield was working for Umbrella, wasn't he?"
Even saying it aloud, Irons could see that it was the truth and his anger swelled up like a red tide, an acid heat that flushed through his veins and made him feel sick.
Even my employees, all along. Treasonous Umbrella puppets. "The Spencer estate, the accusations against Um-brella… it was all a setup, they had him stirring up trouble to… to distract me so they could steal Birkin's new virus…"
Irons took a step toward the girl, barely able to keep himself from pulling the trigger in spite of his plans. The girl, Claire, took a step back, holding up her hands, palms out, as if to ward off his righteous fury.
"That's how the S.T.A.R.S. knew to get out of town," he snarled, "they were warned to get out of town before the T-Virus leak!"
He took another step forward, but Claire had stopped, her eyes going even wider. "You mean Chris isn't here?"
Her small, hopeful whisper only fed the red, burn– ing heat that pounded through him and the feelings were so powerful that they transcended rage, focusing his intentions into something brutal and precise. It wasn't enough that he'd been betrayed by Umbrella and the S.T.A.R.S., it wasn't enough that he'd been manipulated, tormented, hunted.
No. No, I have to be lied to by this little girl, a spy and an assassin from a family of traitors, A lifetime devoted to service, a lifetime of hard-won experience and self-sacrifice, and this is my reward. "A slap in the face," he said, his voice as cold as this new savagery that filled him up, transforming him into the hunter. "Treating me like an idiot. You don't even have enough respect to lie well."
He extended the nine-millimeter and walked to– ward her, each step measured and deliberate and her fear was real this time, he could see it in the way she stumbled back, her lips trembling, her young chest heaving in a most delicious way. She was terrified, trying to look for a weapon and watch him and get away all at the same time, succeeding at none of them as he marched forward. "I have the power," he said, "this is my Sanctuary, this is my domain. You are the intruder. You are the liar, you are the evil – and I'm going to skin you alive. I'm going to make you scream, you bitch, I'm going to make you wish you were never born. Whatever they paid you, it wasn't enough."
She backed against one of the shelves, tripping over the leg of the worktable, almost falling on top of the covered trap door in the corner. Irons followed, feeling that beautiful, exciting power course through him, feeling excited by her helplessness.
"Please, you don't want to do this, I'm not who you think I am!"
Her pathetic entreaties made him stop and laugh, wanting to add to her terror, wanting for her to know that his control was absolute. She was wedged be-tween a trophy shelf and the covered pit, and Irons stayed a safe distance away, enjoying the look in her glistening, overbright eyes – the panic of a trapped animal, a soft, warm, powerless animal of tender, pliable flesh… Irons licked his lips, his hungry gaze traveling over her limber, smooth, cowering form. Another trophy, another body to transform… and it was time to get down to business, to…
"Graaagh!" What the…
The board that covered the subbasement entrance flew into the air, splitting with a tremendous crack, one jagged piece hitting Irons's hip. He staggered, not understanding – he was in control and yet something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. Something wrapped around his ankle, something that squeezed so tight he heard the bone being crushed, felt incredible, spiking pain travel up his leg…… and he locked gazes with the girl, her eyes bright with a new terror, and in that instant of contact, of clarity, he wanted to teil her so much, wanted to tell her that he was a good man, a man who'd never deserved any of what had happened to him…… and the vise-like grip jerked, and Irons was falling, dropping the gun, pulled into the pit by the screaming and the pain and the beast that waited for him below.
Parts of it, anyway…
The subbasement tunnel stretching out in front of him was littered with body parts, human corpses that had been torn into pieces. Limbs and heads and torsos were strewn randomly through the stone pas– sage, lapped at gently by the few inches of dark water that covered the floor. "Leon? How is it?" Ada's voice floated down from the circle of light above the ladder, echoing hollowly around him. Leon didn't answer, his shocked gaze fixed on the terrible scene, his brain trying to add up the shredded parts and come up with a number.
How many? How many people?
Too many to count. He saw a faceless head, the long hair streaming around it in a cloud. A heavy woman's decapitated trunk, one breast bobbing above the rippling darkness. An arm encased in the tatters of a cop's dress shirt. A bare leg, still wearing a sneaker. A curled hand, the fingers slick and white.
A dozen? Twenty? "Leon?" Ada's tone had sharpened. "It's… it looks okay," he called, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. "Nothing moving." "I'm coming down."
He stepped away from the ladder to give her room, remembering something she'd said before, something about bodies being dumped… Ada stepped off the bottom rung, splashing into the dark tunnel. His eyes had adjusted well enough to see a look of disgust cross her delicate features – disgust and something like sadness. "There was an attack in the garage," she said softly. "Fourteen or fifteen people died…"
She trailed off, frowning, and took a step past him
to get a closer look at the severed and mutilated
remains. When she spoke again, she sounded worried.
"I didn't see the attack, but I don't think they were torn up like this."
She looked up, scanning the roof of the tunnel, gripping her nine-millimeter tightly. Leon followed her gaze, but only saw algae-thick stone. Ada shook her head, looking back down at the gently rippling sea of broken flesh.
"The zombies didn't do this. Something got to these people after they were killed."
Leon felt a chill go up his spine. That was about the last thing he wanted to hear, standing in the humid, stinking dark and surrounded by savaged bodies.
"So it's not safe down here. We should head back up and…"
Ada started forward, stepping through the tangled limbs, the sound of her careful, sloshing movements seeming very loud in the otherwise silent tunnel.
Damn, does she ignore everybody, or is it just me?
Watching his step, Leon followed, reaching out with his free hand to touch her shoulder. "At least let me go first, okay?" "Fine," she said, sounding almost but not quite exasperated. "Lead the way." He stepped in front of her, and they started forward again, Leon trying to divide his attention between the darkness ahead and the sodden pieces of flesh and bone underfoot. Just ahead, the tunnel turned to the right, and there was some light reflected off the oily surface of the water; the passage was clearer, too, with not as many bodies. Leon paused just long enough to unshoulder the Remington, checking to make sure he'd chambered a round. Whatever had gotten to the corpses didn't seem to be around, but he didn't want to be unpre– pared if it came back. Ada waited without speaking, though he could feel her impatience – not for the first time, he wondered if there was more to her story than she'd told him. He was scared, and he was also cold and tired and afraid for Claire, who might still be wandering the station…… he didn't even know if Claire was still alive; but he hadn't felt right about letting Ada walk into a bad situation on her own. Ada, on the other hand… she was as calm and controlled as a veteran soldier, expressing nothing but a kind of irritable eagerness to get on with things and if she appreciated his presence at all, she was taking great pains not to show it. It wasn't that he needed or wanted her gratitude…
… but wouldn't most people be happy to have a cop along? Even a rookie?
Maybe not, and it wasn't the time or place to start asking questions. Leon shut down his thinking and started moving again, stepping gingerly over a chewed-up chunk of flesh that he couldn't identify. "Stop," Ada whispered sharply. "Listen." Leon tensed, Remington in one hand, Magnum in the other. He tilted his head, straining to hear, but there was only a distant, hollow drip of water…… and a soft thumping. A rapid but random sound, like padded hammers on a padded surface. Whatever it was, it was getting closer, coming toward them from where the tunnel turned up ahead.
Why isn't it splashing, why don't we hear water?
Leon backed up a step, raising both weapons slightly, remembering how Ada had looked at the ceiling before…… and saw it, saw it and felt his heart stop in midbeat. A spider the size of a big dog, skittering over the wet stones halfway up the inner wall, its bristling, hairy legs tapping -
– not possible -
–and then there was a series of deafening explo-sions next to his right ear, bam-bam-bam-bam, the muzzle flash from Ada's Beretta strobing the hellish tunnel as she fired. The booming echoes pounded through the dark as the giant, impossible arachnid dropped from the wall, splashing into the inky water. It crawled toward them, wounded, dragging two of its multiple legs through the murk behind it, dark fluids spilling out from its grotesquely rounded body. It humped itself over a human head, the mutilated skull rolling out from beneath its swollen, pulsing abdomen, and Leon could see its shining black eyes, each the size of a ping-pong ball…… and he squeezed the trigger on the Remington, not even feeling the kick of the thundering blast, his entire focus on the inconceivable arachnid. The round hit it squarely, blowing its alien face into a thousand wet pieces. The spider flipped over backwards with a skidding splash, its thick legs quivering, curling in over its furred body. His ears ringing, his heart pounding, Leon cham– bered another round, his mind telling him that he had not just blown away a spider that big, the physics was wrong, it couldn't happen because it would collapse under its own weight…… Ada pushed past him, running ahead, shouting back to him.
"Come on, there could be more coming!"
Leon took off after her, forced by Ada's reckless behavior to put his shock on hold. He sprinted through the dark, jumping over the disturbed and gently rocking hunks of flesh, past the closed dead spider that would never have existed in the reality he'd known before Raccoon.
"Drop your weapon," Irons commanded, and the girl did so, hesitating for only a second. The Browning clattered to the floor, and Irons had to resist the urge to laugh again, scarcely able to credit how stupidly she'd acted. The Umbrella assassin had obviously grown arrogant, walking into his Sanctuary as if she owned the place – and her smug, inflated conceit had cost her the game.
"Turn around, slow – and keep your hands where I can see them," he said, still grinning. Oh, what a gloriously easy conquest! Umbrella had underesti– mated him for the last time. Again, the girl did as he asked, pivoting slowly, her hands empty and open. The look on her face was priceless, her aquiline features fixed in a mask of fear and shock; she hadn't expected this, she thought it would be a simple task to take out Brian Irons. After all, he was a broken man, a shadow of his former self, his city, his life taken away… "Mistaken, weren't you?" he said, feeling the hu-mor leak out of the situation, feeling the anger stir again. He kept the VP70 trained on her ridiculously young face; insulting, that they'd sent a child in to do their dirty work. Even such a pretty one… "Calm down, Chief Irons," she said, and even angry, he was pleased to hear the strain in her sultry voice, the edge of fear beneath her useless plea. He was going to enjoy this, even more than he'd imag– ined…
… but first, some answers.
"Who sent you? Was it Coleman, from headquar-
ters? Or did your orders come from higher up…
… someone on the board, perhaps? There's no point in
lying, not anymore."
The girl stared at him, her eyes wide with feigned confusion. "I… I don't know what you're talking about. Please, there's been some kind of a mistake…"Oh, there's been a mistake, all right," Irons spat, "and you made it. How long has Umbrella been watching me? What were your orders, exactly – were you supposed to kill me outright, or did Umbrella want to see me suffer a little more first?"
The girl didn't answer for a moment, obviously trying to decide how much to tell him. She was good, her expression still carefully arranged to show only a
bewildered fear, but he saw right through it. She's been caught, she must know that I won't let her live and she's going to try and conceal the truth, even now. Young, but well-trained. "I came to Raccoon looking for my brother," she said slowly, her wide gray eyes fixed on the gun.
"He was with the S.T.A.R.S., and I just…" "S.T.A.R.S.? Is that the best you can do?" Irons laughed bitterly, shaking his head. The Raccoon
S.T.A.R.S. had fled well before things had fallen to Shit – and last he'd heard, Umbrella had already "converted" the organization to their purposes, and was working to eliminate those who wouldn't cross over. As a cover story, it didn't play.
But there is something…
He narrowed his eyes, studying her pale, anxious face. "And just who is your brother?" "Chris Redfield, you know him – I'm Claire, his sister, and I don't know anything about whatever Umbrella did, and I wasn't sent here to kill you." She spoke quickly, all but stumbling over herself to get her story out. She did look like Redfield, through the eyes at Least… although why she thought that connection would help her somehow was beyond him. Chris Redfield was a pompous, disrespectful upstart who had openly defied him many times; in fact.
"Redfield was working for Umbrella, wasn't he?"
Even saying it aloud, Irons could see that it was the truth and his anger swelled up like a red tide, an acid heat that flushed through his veins and made him feel sick.
Even my employees, all along. Treasonous Umbrella puppets. "The Spencer estate, the accusations against Um-brella… it was all a setup, they had him stirring up trouble to… to distract me so they could steal Birkin's new virus…"
Irons took a step toward the girl, barely able to keep himself from pulling the trigger in spite of his plans. The girl, Claire, took a step back, holding up her hands, palms out, as if to ward off his righteous fury.
"That's how the S.T.A.R.S. knew to get out of town," he snarled, "they were warned to get out of town before the T-Virus leak!"
He took another step forward, but Claire had stopped, her eyes going even wider. "You mean Chris isn't here?"
Her small, hopeful whisper only fed the red, burn– ing heat that pounded through him and the feelings were so powerful that they transcended rage, focusing his intentions into something brutal and precise. It wasn't enough that he'd been betrayed by Umbrella and the S.T.A.R.S., it wasn't enough that he'd been manipulated, tormented, hunted.
No. No, I have to be lied to by this little girl, a spy and an assassin from a family of traitors, A lifetime devoted to service, a lifetime of hard-won experience and self-sacrifice, and this is my reward. "A slap in the face," he said, his voice as cold as this new savagery that filled him up, transforming him into the hunter. "Treating me like an idiot. You don't even have enough respect to lie well."
He extended the nine-millimeter and walked to– ward her, each step measured and deliberate and her fear was real this time, he could see it in the way she stumbled back, her lips trembling, her young chest heaving in a most delicious way. She was terrified, trying to look for a weapon and watch him and get away all at the same time, succeeding at none of them as he marched forward. "I have the power," he said, "this is my Sanctuary, this is my domain. You are the intruder. You are the liar, you are the evil – and I'm going to skin you alive. I'm going to make you scream, you bitch, I'm going to make you wish you were never born. Whatever they paid you, it wasn't enough."
She backed against one of the shelves, tripping over the leg of the worktable, almost falling on top of the covered trap door in the corner. Irons followed, feeling that beautiful, exciting power course through him, feeling excited by her helplessness.
"Please, you don't want to do this, I'm not who you think I am!"
Her pathetic entreaties made him stop and laugh, wanting to add to her terror, wanting for her to know that his control was absolute. She was wedged be-tween a trophy shelf and the covered pit, and Irons stayed a safe distance away, enjoying the look in her glistening, overbright eyes – the panic of a trapped animal, a soft, warm, powerless animal of tender, pliable flesh… Irons licked his lips, his hungry gaze traveling over her limber, smooth, cowering form. Another trophy, another body to transform… and it was time to get down to business, to…
"Graaagh!" What the…
The board that covered the subbasement entrance flew into the air, splitting with a tremendous crack, one jagged piece hitting Irons's hip. He staggered, not understanding – he was in control and yet something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. Something wrapped around his ankle, something that squeezed so tight he heard the bone being crushed, felt incredible, spiking pain travel up his leg…… and he locked gazes with the girl, her eyes bright with a new terror, and in that instant of contact, of clarity, he wanted to teil her so much, wanted to tell her that he was a good man, a man who'd never deserved any of what had happened to him…… and the vise-like grip jerked, and Irons was falling, dropping the gun, pulled into the pit by the screaming and the pain and the beast that waited for him below.
NINETEEN
One minute, irons was standing in front of her, staring into her eyes with a terrible, wrenching sorrow…… and in the next, he was gone. Yanked into a hole in the floor by an arm that she only caught a glimpse of, a muscular, dripping arm with foot-long claws. It whipped out of sight, taking Irons with it into the darkness below. There was another scream from the creature, a powerful, lusty howl that was matched and then surpassed by the intensity of Irons's terrified shriek. Frozen by the piercing screams, Claire could only listen, shock and relief and fear for herself battling through her as the horrible cries swept up through the open hole, pounding her ears in the cold, dismal dungeon that Irons had created…… until his cries burbled to a stop, only a second or two later and the slurping, meaty, wet noises began. Claire moved. She scooped up the handgun that Irons had dropped and ran around the table in the middle of the room, not wanting to be grabbed and pulled under like he had.
It killed him, it killed him and he was going to kill me…
The reality of what had just happened, what would have happened, hit her all at once, turning her limbs into rubber. Claire forced herself a few more steps away from the open pit and collapsed against one sweating stone wall, taking in great, whooping breaths of the bitterly scented air. He had been planning to kill her, but not right away. She'd seen the way his mad gaze had crawled over her body, heard the eager anticipation in his crazy laugh. There was a low, grunting sound from the corner, a bestial sound, the growl of a well-fed lion. Claire turned, raising the heavy gun, astounded that she could feel any more horror…… and something burst up from the hole, some– thing with flailing arms, and Claire fired, the shot going wide. A glass bottle on a shelf exploded as the thing hit the floor…… and it was Irons, but only half of him. He had been neatly bisected, cut in two by the thing that had snatched him; everything below the fleshy waist was gone, trails of torn skin and muscle hanging down over the oozing pool of blood that had replaced his legs. Claire backed toward the door, the weapon still trained on the opening and heard the creature, the monster scream again, an echoing howl that faded away, falling away into some distance that she couldn't imagine. A second later, she couldn't hear it at all; it was gone.
Sherry's monster. That was Sherry's monster.
She edged slowly toward the mangled corpse of Chief Irons, toward the empty, yawning blackness of the hole, but it wasn't all blackness. She could see light filtering up from somewhere, enough to see that there was another floor below, what looked like the metal grid pattern of a catwalk and a ladder leading toil.
A subbasement… a way out?
She stepped back from the opening, her thoughts racing and disorganized, trying to absorb the infor– mation along with what Irons had told her. Chris wasn't in Raccoon, the S.T.A.R.S. were gone – a wonderful, terrible relief, because it meant he was safe, but also that he wasn't about to come running in to save the day. There had been a spill at Umbrella, which explained the zombies, at least, but what he'd said about Birkin, about Birkin's virus… was that Sherry's father?
And maybe the zombies are the result of some laboratory accident, but what about all the other things, Mr. X and the inside-out men?
The way Irons had ranted about Umbrella sug– gested that while the accident was unexpected, the pharmaceutical company wasn't some innocent vic– tim. What had he called it? "T-Virus," she said softly, and shivered. "There was Birkin's new virus, and there was the T-Virus…"
The zombie disease had a name. And you didn't name something unless you knew something about it, which meant…… which meant she didn't know what it meant. All she knew was that she and Sherry needed to get out of Raccoon, and the subbasement might be a way. It wasn't a dead end, the monster that had killed Irons had gone somewhere…
… and do you really want to follow it, with Sherry? It could come back – and if it actually is looking for her…
Not a happy thought, but then, neither was hitting the streets, and the station was already crawling with God knew what other creatures. Claire checked the clip of the weapon Irons had held on her, counting seventeen bullets. Not enough to face off with the things in the station, but maybe enough to keep a monster at bay… It was a chance, but she was willing to take it. Claire took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly, collecting herself. She needed to keep it together, for Sherry's sake if not for her own. She turned, looking down at the mangled remains of the police chief. It was a terrible way to have died, but she couldn't find it in herself to feel sorry. He had been ready to rape and torture her, he had laughed when she'd pleaded for her life, and now he was dead; she wasn't happy about it, but she wasn't going to shed any tears, either. Her only feeling about it was that she should cover him up before she brought Sherry down with her; the girl had seen enough violence for one lifetime. You and me both, kiddo, Claire thought tiredly, and started to look around for something to drape over the dead Chief Irons.
Leon caught up to her in the cold industrial hallway that led to the sewer entrance, a few steps up from the flooded subbasement. She'd run ahead to plant the keys that would get them into the sewers, not wanting to have to explain how she'd come by them; she'd just managed to toss them into the boiler room before his footsteps sounded on the metal steps behind her.
At least I don't have to fake being out of breath…
Ada could see by the look on his face that she needed to smooth things over; she started talking the second he stepped into the shadowy corridor. "I'm sorry I ran," she said, offering him a nervous smile. "I hate spiders." Leon frowned, studying her – and looking into his searching blue gaze, Ada realized she was going to have to do better than that. She took a step closer to him, not close enough to be invasive but enough so that he could feel the heat of her body. Maintaining eye contact, she tilted her head back to emphasize the height difference between them; it was a little thing, but in her experience, men generally responded well to the little things. "I guess I'm just in a hurry to get out of here," she said quietly, losing the smile. "I hope I didn't worry you."
He dropped his gaze, but not before she saw a flicker of interest – confused and self-conscious, but definitely interest. Which made it all the more sur– prising when he stepped away.
"Well, you did. Don't do it again, okay? I may not be much of a cop, but I'm trying – and God only knows what we're going to run into down here." He met her gaze again, speaking softly. "I came with you because I want to help, I want to do my job – and I can't do that if you go charging ahead. Besides," he added, smiling a little, "if you run off, who's going to help me?"
It was Ada's turn to look away. Leon was playing it straight with her, openly admitting to his fears and his response to her not-so-subtle flirtation had been to step back and tell her that he wanted to be a good cop.
Interested, but not a fool for his tool… and man enough to tell me that he's unsure of his abilities.
She was forced to smile back, but it was a shaky affair. "I'll do my best," she said. Leon nodded and turned to inspect the hallway, letting the conversation drop – much to Ada's relief. She wasn't sure what she thought of him, but was uncomfortably aware that her respect for him was growing; not a good thing, considering the circum– stances. There wasn't much to see in the damp, poorly lit hall; two doorways and a dead end. The boiler room, where she'd tossed the keys – or plugs, rather – was directly in front of them, the sewer disposal entrance in a back comer; according to the sign on the wall, the other door opened into a storage closet. Ada followed as Leon walked to the closest of the two doors, the storage room, hanging back as he pushed it open with his Magnum and stepped inside. Boxes, a table, a trunk; nothing important, but at least no creepy-crawlies. After a quick search, he stepped back into the hall and they moved toward the boiler room. "How'd you learn to shoot like that, anyway?" Leon asked as they stopped in front of the door. His tone was casual, but she thought she detected more than
casual curiosity. "You're pretty good. Were you in the military or something…?"Nice try, Officer.
Ada smiled, falling into her carefully rehearsed character. "Paintball, believe it or not. I mean, I went target-shooting some when I was a teenager, with my uncle, but never got into it much. And then a few years ago, a friend at work – we're both buyers at an art gallery in New York – dragged me to one of those weekend survival retreats, and we had a blast. You know, hiking, rock-climbing, stuff like that – and paintball. It's great, we go up every couple of months… although I never thought I'd have to use it for real."
She could actually see him buy it, see that he wanted to buy it. It probably answered a few ques– tions that he'd been hesitant to ask.
"Well, you're better than a lot of the guys I gradu– ated the academy with. Really. So, you ready to get on with this?"
Ada nodded. Leon pushed the door to the boiler room open, scanning the ancient, rusting machinery in the wide empty space before ushering her inside. She made a point of not looking down, wanting Leon to find the small wrapped package that she'd tossed in a few moments earlier. She hadn't gotten a good look before. The room, shaped like a sideways "H," was fitted with corroded railings and two massive old boilers, one on either side. Fluorescent lights sputtered overhead, the few that still worked casting strange shadows across the metal pipes that ran down the water-marked walls. The door that led into the sewer system was in the far left corner, a heavy-looking hatch next to an inset panel. "Hey…" Leon crouched down, picking up the bundle of plugs that would open the hatch. "Looks like somebody dropped something…"
Before Ada could go through the charade of asking him what he'd found, she heard a noise. A soft, slithery noise, coming from the area in the right back corner, neatly blocked from view by one of the boilers. Leon heard it, too. He stood up quickly, dropping the bundle and raising the shotgun. Ada pointed her Beretta toward the sound, remembering how the door had been slightly ajar when she'd come up from the subbasement.
Oh, hell. The implant.
She knew it even before it crawled into sight – and was shocked anyway. The little bugger had grown, and it had grovmfast, easily twenty times its former size in half as many minutes – and it was still growing, apparently at an exponential rate. In the few seconds it took for the creature to move into the middle of the room, it went from the size of a small dog to the size – and bulk – of a ten-year-old child. The shape had changed, was changing, too. It was no longer the alien tadpole that had chewed its way out of Bertolucci. The tail was gone, and the creature that inched its way across the rusting floor had developed limbs, stretching arms folding out of its rubbery flesh. Claws popped out of the tan and swimming skin that swirled over its body, accompa– nied by a sound like gristle being punctured. Muscu– lar legs unfurled, liquid that snapped into sinewy shape as its stuttering crawl became smoother, almost feline… The shotgun and Beretta sounded at the same time, a string of massive blasts peppered with the higher whine of the nine-millimeter. The creature was still shifting, standing, mutating into a humanoid shape and its response to the booming shots that smacked into its twisting flesh was to open its mouth and vomit, a grunting projectile scream of rotten green bile that hit the floor and started moving. The stream that gushed from its wide, flat face was alive and the dozen or so crab-like creatures that tumbled out of the monster's gaping mouth like liquid seemed to know exactly where the threat was to their fetid, mutant womb. The skittering, multi-legged animals swarmed toward Ada and Leon in a silent wave as the implant monster took one massive step forward, pulsing cords standing out on its impossibly long, thick neck. Leon had the heavier firepower. "Got 'em!" Ada shouted, already targeting and shooting at the closest of the tiny, bilious green crabs. They were fast, but she was faster; she pointed and squeezed, pointed and squeezed, and the baby monsters exploded into small fountains of dark, ichorous fluid, dying as silently as they'd come. Leon blasted again and again with the shotgun, but Ada couldn't spare a glance to see how he was faring with the mother beast. Five of the crawling babies left, three more rounds and she'd be dry…and she heard the shotgun clatter to the floor, heard the deeper but less powerful fire of the.50 AE rounds resounding through the metal room as she picked off" two more of the spidering creatures, and her weapon clicked empty. Without stopping to think, Ada let go of the Beretta and dropped to the floor. She grabbed the shotgun by the barrel, rolling up into a crouch beneath Leon's line of fire, and swung the weapon down, hard. Two of the mutant animals were smashed into goo by the heavy stock, but the third, the last of them, sprang forward in an unexpected burst of speed and landed on her thigh, catching hold with needle-sharp claws. Ada dropped the shotgun, crying out as the animal scuttled up her leg, the warm, damp weight of it making her frantic with disgust.
It killed him, it killed him and he was going to kill me…
The reality of what had just happened, what would have happened, hit her all at once, turning her limbs into rubber. Claire forced herself a few more steps away from the open pit and collapsed against one sweating stone wall, taking in great, whooping breaths of the bitterly scented air. He had been planning to kill her, but not right away. She'd seen the way his mad gaze had crawled over her body, heard the eager anticipation in his crazy laugh. There was a low, grunting sound from the corner, a bestial sound, the growl of a well-fed lion. Claire turned, raising the heavy gun, astounded that she could feel any more horror…… and something burst up from the hole, some– thing with flailing arms, and Claire fired, the shot going wide. A glass bottle on a shelf exploded as the thing hit the floor…… and it was Irons, but only half of him. He had been neatly bisected, cut in two by the thing that had snatched him; everything below the fleshy waist was gone, trails of torn skin and muscle hanging down over the oozing pool of blood that had replaced his legs. Claire backed toward the door, the weapon still trained on the opening and heard the creature, the monster scream again, an echoing howl that faded away, falling away into some distance that she couldn't imagine. A second later, she couldn't hear it at all; it was gone.
Sherry's monster. That was Sherry's monster.
She edged slowly toward the mangled corpse of Chief Irons, toward the empty, yawning blackness of the hole, but it wasn't all blackness. She could see light filtering up from somewhere, enough to see that there was another floor below, what looked like the metal grid pattern of a catwalk and a ladder leading toil.
A subbasement… a way out?
She stepped back from the opening, her thoughts racing and disorganized, trying to absorb the infor– mation along with what Irons had told her. Chris wasn't in Raccoon, the S.T.A.R.S. were gone – a wonderful, terrible relief, because it meant he was safe, but also that he wasn't about to come running in to save the day. There had been a spill at Umbrella, which explained the zombies, at least, but what he'd said about Birkin, about Birkin's virus… was that Sherry's father?
And maybe the zombies are the result of some laboratory accident, but what about all the other things, Mr. X and the inside-out men?
The way Irons had ranted about Umbrella sug– gested that while the accident was unexpected, the pharmaceutical company wasn't some innocent vic– tim. What had he called it? "T-Virus," she said softly, and shivered. "There was Birkin's new virus, and there was the T-Virus…"
The zombie disease had a name. And you didn't name something unless you knew something about it, which meant…… which meant she didn't know what it meant. All she knew was that she and Sherry needed to get out of Raccoon, and the subbasement might be a way. It wasn't a dead end, the monster that had killed Irons had gone somewhere…
… and do you really want to follow it, with Sherry? It could come back – and if it actually is looking for her…
Not a happy thought, but then, neither was hitting the streets, and the station was already crawling with God knew what other creatures. Claire checked the clip of the weapon Irons had held on her, counting seventeen bullets. Not enough to face off with the things in the station, but maybe enough to keep a monster at bay… It was a chance, but she was willing to take it. Claire took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly, collecting herself. She needed to keep it together, for Sherry's sake if not for her own. She turned, looking down at the mangled remains of the police chief. It was a terrible way to have died, but she couldn't find it in herself to feel sorry. He had been ready to rape and torture her, he had laughed when she'd pleaded for her life, and now he was dead; she wasn't happy about it, but she wasn't going to shed any tears, either. Her only feeling about it was that she should cover him up before she brought Sherry down with her; the girl had seen enough violence for one lifetime. You and me both, kiddo, Claire thought tiredly, and started to look around for something to drape over the dead Chief Irons.
Leon caught up to her in the cold industrial hallway that led to the sewer entrance, a few steps up from the flooded subbasement. She'd run ahead to plant the keys that would get them into the sewers, not wanting to have to explain how she'd come by them; she'd just managed to toss them into the boiler room before his footsteps sounded on the metal steps behind her.
At least I don't have to fake being out of breath…
Ada could see by the look on his face that she needed to smooth things over; she started talking the second he stepped into the shadowy corridor. "I'm sorry I ran," she said, offering him a nervous smile. "I hate spiders." Leon frowned, studying her – and looking into his searching blue gaze, Ada realized she was going to have to do better than that. She took a step closer to him, not close enough to be invasive but enough so that he could feel the heat of her body. Maintaining eye contact, she tilted her head back to emphasize the height difference between them; it was a little thing, but in her experience, men generally responded well to the little things. "I guess I'm just in a hurry to get out of here," she said quietly, losing the smile. "I hope I didn't worry you."
He dropped his gaze, but not before she saw a flicker of interest – confused and self-conscious, but definitely interest. Which made it all the more sur– prising when he stepped away.
"Well, you did. Don't do it again, okay? I may not be much of a cop, but I'm trying – and God only knows what we're going to run into down here." He met her gaze again, speaking softly. "I came with you because I want to help, I want to do my job – and I can't do that if you go charging ahead. Besides," he added, smiling a little, "if you run off, who's going to help me?"
It was Ada's turn to look away. Leon was playing it straight with her, openly admitting to his fears and his response to her not-so-subtle flirtation had been to step back and tell her that he wanted to be a good cop.
Interested, but not a fool for his tool… and man enough to tell me that he's unsure of his abilities.
She was forced to smile back, but it was a shaky affair. "I'll do my best," she said. Leon nodded and turned to inspect the hallway, letting the conversation drop – much to Ada's relief. She wasn't sure what she thought of him, but was uncomfortably aware that her respect for him was growing; not a good thing, considering the circum– stances. There wasn't much to see in the damp, poorly lit hall; two doorways and a dead end. The boiler room, where she'd tossed the keys – or plugs, rather – was directly in front of them, the sewer disposal entrance in a back comer; according to the sign on the wall, the other door opened into a storage closet. Ada followed as Leon walked to the closest of the two doors, the storage room, hanging back as he pushed it open with his Magnum and stepped inside. Boxes, a table, a trunk; nothing important, but at least no creepy-crawlies. After a quick search, he stepped back into the hall and they moved toward the boiler room. "How'd you learn to shoot like that, anyway?" Leon asked as they stopped in front of the door. His tone was casual, but she thought she detected more than
casual curiosity. "You're pretty good. Were you in the military or something…?"Nice try, Officer.
Ada smiled, falling into her carefully rehearsed character. "Paintball, believe it or not. I mean, I went target-shooting some when I was a teenager, with my uncle, but never got into it much. And then a few years ago, a friend at work – we're both buyers at an art gallery in New York – dragged me to one of those weekend survival retreats, and we had a blast. You know, hiking, rock-climbing, stuff like that – and paintball. It's great, we go up every couple of months… although I never thought I'd have to use it for real."
She could actually see him buy it, see that he wanted to buy it. It probably answered a few ques– tions that he'd been hesitant to ask.
"Well, you're better than a lot of the guys I gradu– ated the academy with. Really. So, you ready to get on with this?"
Ada nodded. Leon pushed the door to the boiler room open, scanning the ancient, rusting machinery in the wide empty space before ushering her inside. She made a point of not looking down, wanting Leon to find the small wrapped package that she'd tossed in a few moments earlier. She hadn't gotten a good look before. The room, shaped like a sideways "H," was fitted with corroded railings and two massive old boilers, one on either side. Fluorescent lights sputtered overhead, the few that still worked casting strange shadows across the metal pipes that ran down the water-marked walls. The door that led into the sewer system was in the far left corner, a heavy-looking hatch next to an inset panel. "Hey…" Leon crouched down, picking up the bundle of plugs that would open the hatch. "Looks like somebody dropped something…"
Before Ada could go through the charade of asking him what he'd found, she heard a noise. A soft, slithery noise, coming from the area in the right back corner, neatly blocked from view by one of the boilers. Leon heard it, too. He stood up quickly, dropping the bundle and raising the shotgun. Ada pointed her Beretta toward the sound, remembering how the door had been slightly ajar when she'd come up from the subbasement.
Oh, hell. The implant.
She knew it even before it crawled into sight – and was shocked anyway. The little bugger had grown, and it had grovmfast, easily twenty times its former size in half as many minutes – and it was still growing, apparently at an exponential rate. In the few seconds it took for the creature to move into the middle of the room, it went from the size of a small dog to the size – and bulk – of a ten-year-old child. The shape had changed, was changing, too. It was no longer the alien tadpole that had chewed its way out of Bertolucci. The tail was gone, and the creature that inched its way across the rusting floor had developed limbs, stretching arms folding out of its rubbery flesh. Claws popped out of the tan and swimming skin that swirled over its body, accompa– nied by a sound like gristle being punctured. Muscu– lar legs unfurled, liquid that snapped into sinewy shape as its stuttering crawl became smoother, almost feline… The shotgun and Beretta sounded at the same time, a string of massive blasts peppered with the higher whine of the nine-millimeter. The creature was still shifting, standing, mutating into a humanoid shape and its response to the booming shots that smacked into its twisting flesh was to open its mouth and vomit, a grunting projectile scream of rotten green bile that hit the floor and started moving. The stream that gushed from its wide, flat face was alive and the dozen or so crab-like creatures that tumbled out of the monster's gaping mouth like liquid seemed to know exactly where the threat was to their fetid, mutant womb. The skittering, multi-legged animals swarmed toward Ada and Leon in a silent wave as the implant monster took one massive step forward, pulsing cords standing out on its impossibly long, thick neck. Leon had the heavier firepower. "Got 'em!" Ada shouted, already targeting and shooting at the closest of the tiny, bilious green crabs. They were fast, but she was faster; she pointed and squeezed, pointed and squeezed, and the baby monsters exploded into small fountains of dark, ichorous fluid, dying as silently as they'd come. Leon blasted again and again with the shotgun, but Ada couldn't spare a glance to see how he was faring with the mother beast. Five of the crawling babies left, three more rounds and she'd be dry…and she heard the shotgun clatter to the floor, heard the deeper but less powerful fire of the.50 AE rounds resounding through the metal room as she picked off" two more of the spidering creatures, and her weapon clicked empty. Without stopping to think, Ada let go of the Beretta and dropped to the floor. She grabbed the shotgun by the barrel, rolling up into a crouch beneath Leon's line of fire, and swung the weapon down, hard. Two of the mutant animals were smashed into goo by the heavy stock, but the third, the last of them, sprang forward in an unexpected burst of speed and landed on her thigh, catching hold with needle-sharp claws. Ada dropped the shotgun, crying out as the animal scuttled up her leg, the warm, damp weight of it making her frantic with disgust.