prologue
Raccoon Times, August 26,1998
MAYOR ANNOUNCES 'KEEP CITY SAFE' PLAN
RACCOON CITY—On the front steps of City Hall, Mayor Harris
announced in a press conference yesterday afternoon that the City
Council will be hiring at least ten new police officers to join the
Raccoon police, in response to the continued suspension of the
Special Tactics and Rescue Squad (S.T.A.R.S.), in effect since the
brutal murders that plagued Raccoon earlier this summer. Joined
by Police Chief Brian Irons and all of Raccoon's Council members,
Harris assured the gathered citizens and reporters that Raccoon
City will once again be a safe community in which to live and
work, and that the investigation into the eleven "cannibal"
murders and three fatal wild-animal attacks is far from closed.
"Just because no one else has been attacked in the last month
doesn't mean that the elected officials of this city can relax,"
Harris stated. "The good people of Raccoon deserve to have
confidence in their police force and to be secure in the knowledge
that their political representatives are doing everything possible to
ensure each citizen's safety. As many of you know, the
S.T.A.R.S.'s suspension is likely to become permanent. That unit's
gross mishandling of the murder investigations and its subsequent
disappearance from Raccoon City suggests that they don't care
about this community—but I want to assure you that we care,
that myself, Chief Irons, and the men and women you see here
today want nothing more than to make Raccoon a place in which
our children can grow up without fear."
Harris went on to detail a three-point plan designed to bolster
public confidence and keep Raccoon citizens from falling victim to
violence. Besides hiring between ten and twelve new police
officers, the citywide curfew will remain in place through at least
September, and Chief Irons will personally head a task force of
several officers and detectives to continue searching for the killers
who took the lives of eleven people between May and July of this
year. . . .
Cityside, September 4,1998
RENOVATION OP UMBRELLA COMPLEX PLANNED
RACCOON CITY— The Umbrella chemical plant just south of
downtown Raccoon is due for major construction efforts, slated to
begin next Monday. This will be the third such structural
renovation in the last year for the thriving pharmaceutical
company. According to Umbrella spokesperson Amanda Whitney,
two of the laboratories inside the main plant will be fitted with
several million dollars' worth of new equipment designed for
vaccine synthesis, and the building itself will receive a state-of-
the-art security system. In addition, all of the connected office
buildings will be upgrading computers over the next several
weeks. But will this be a problem for downtown traffic? Said
Whitney, "With the Raccoon police building just finishing up yet
another one of their renovations, we know that local commuters
are getting pretty tired of blocked streets. We're going to do our
best not to get in the way of downtown traffic; most of the
construction is internal, and the rest we'll be doing after business
hours." The courtyard in front of the RPD building, our readers
may remember, was recently repaved and landscaped after several
mysterious cracks appeared in the cement and topsoil; traffic had
to be diverted around two blocks of Oak Street for six days.
When asked why so many "overhauls" as of late, Whitney
replied, "Umbrella has stayed ahead of the competition for as long
as it has by keeping up with current technology. It's going to be a
busy couple of months, but I think it will be well worth the effort
when we're finally through. . . ."
Raccoon Weekly Editorial, September 17, 1998
IRONS TO RUN?
RACCOON CITY— Mayor Harris may be in for a rough race next
spring. Weekly sources inside the RPD are saying that Brian Irons,
chief of police for the last four-and-a-half years, may be running
for the city's top office in the next election, facing off against the
popular and as yet unopposed Devlin Harris, already in office for
three consecutive terms. Although Irons would not confirm his
possible entry into the political arena, the onetime S.T.A.R.S.
member also refused to deny the rumor.
With his approval rating at an all-time high ever since the
cessation of this summer's savage murders (as yet unsolved) and
the planned expansion of the RPD, Chief Irons may indeed be the
man to knock Harris out of City Hall; the question is, will voters
be able to forget Irons's alleged involvement in the 1994 Cider
District land scam? Or his rather expensive tastes in art and
interior design, which have turned parts of the RPD building into
something more like a museum than a working office? Assuming
he means to throw his hat into the ring, this reporter—for one—
will be looking forward to examining Irons's financial
records. . . .
Raccoon Times, September 22,1998
TEENAGER ATTACKED IN CITY PARK
RACCOON CITY—At, approximately 6:30 p.m. last night, fourteen-
year-old Shanna Williamson was accosted by a mysterious stranger
in downtown's Birch Street Park on the way home from softball
practice. The man came out from behind a row of hedges at the
south end of the park and knocked Ms. Williamson off of her
bicycle before attempting to grab her. The teen managed to get
away with only a few scratches, running to the nearby residence of
Tom and Clara Atkins; Mrs. Atkins alerted the authorities, who
conducted a thorough search of the park but found no sign of the
attacker. According to the girl (through a police statement issued
earlier this morning), the man appeared to be a transient; his
clothes and hair were dirty, and she described a bad odor coming
from him, a "smell like rotten fruit." She also said that he seemed
drunk, staggering and falling after her as she ran.
With the plague of cannibalistic murders from May to July still
unsolved, the RPD is taking Ms. Williamson's encounter very
seriously; the assailant bears a striking resemblance to eyewitness
reports of the "gang" members spotted in Victory Park last June.
Mayor Harris has called a press conference for later today, and
Police Chief Brian Irons has stated already that with the first of
the newly hired police officers expected next week, regular patrols
will extend their routes to include the downtown park blocks. . . .
one
SEPTEMBER 26, 1998
WITH THE GUYS WAITING OUTSIDE IN BAR-
ry's truck, Jill did her best to hurry. It wasn't easy; the
house had been tossed since the last time she'd been
there, the floors were strewn with books and papers,
and it was too dark to navigate around the debris
easily. That her small home had been violated was
upsetting, though not much of a surprise. She figured
she should just be thankful that she wasn't really the
sentimental type—and that the intruders hadn't
managed to find her passport.
She grabbed random handfuls of clean socks and
underwear in the cramped darkness of the bedroom
and stuffed them deep into her weathered backpack,
wishing she could turn on the lights. Packing a bag in
the dark was harder than it sounded, would be even if
one's house hadn't been trashed; but she knew they
couldn't afford to take any chances. It was unlikely
that Umbrella still had all of their houses staked out,
but if there was anyone watching, a light in the
window could draw fire.
At least you're getting out. No more hiding.
There was that much. They were headed for foreign
soil, to storm enemy headquarters and very likely get
killed in the process, but at least she wouldn't have to
hang out in Raccoon anymore. And from what she'd
read in the papers lately, maybe that was for the best.
Two attacks in the last week . . . Chris and Barry were
skeptical about the danger, even knowing what the T-
Virus did to people—Barry thought it was some kind
of a PR stunt, that Umbrella would "rescue" Raccoon
before anyone got hurt. Chris agreed, insisting that
Umbrella wouldn't crap in their own back yard, so to
speak, what with the Spencer estate disaster so recent.
But Jill wasn't prepared to assume anything; Umbrel-
la had already proven that they couldn't contain their
research. And with what Rebecca and David Trapp's
team had faced in Maine . . .
Now wasn't the time to think about that—they had
a plane to catch. Jill scooped the flashlight off the
dresser and was about to head for the living room
when she remembered that she only had one bra with
her. Scowling, she turned back to the open drawers
and started to dig. She had enough clothing already,
chosen from what Brad had left behind when he'd fled
Raccoon; she and the guys had been holed up in his
vacant house for several weeks, ever since Umbrella
had hit Barry's house, and although none of Brad's
stuff fit Chris's tall frame or Barry's massive one,
she'd been able to make do. Lingerie, however, wasn't
something the S.T.A.R.S. pilot had stocked up on.
She didn't particularly want to hop off the plane in
Austria and have to go bra shopping.
"Vanity, thy name is underwire," she muttered
softly, pawing through the rumpled heap. She found
the elusive article only after she'd gone through the
drawer twice, and crammed it into the bag as she
jogged toward the small front room of the rented
house. It was only the second time she'd been there
since they'd gone into hiding; she had the feeling she
might not be coming back for a while. There was a
picture of her father on one of the bookshelves that
she wanted to take.
Stepping nimbly through the dark clutter, she
hooded the flashlight with one hand and trained the
narrow beam at the corner where the shelf had been.
The Umbrella team had knocked the whole thing over
but apparently hadn't bothered to go through the
books themselves. God only knew what they'd been
looking for in the first place. Clues as to where the
renegade S.T.A.R.S. were hiding, probably; after the
attack at Barry's house and the disastrous mission at
Caliban Cove, she no longer had any illusions about
Umbrella simply ignoring them.
Jill spotted the book she wanted, a rather lurid-
looking paperback entitled Prison Life; her father
would have laughed. She picked it up and rifled
through the pages, stopping when the light fell across
Dick Valentine's crooked grin. He'd sent the picture
along with one of his more recent letters, and she'd
tucked it into the book so that she wouldn't lose it.
Hiding important things was a habit she'd gotten into
young, one that had just paid off yet again.
She let the book drop, the need to hurry suddenly
forgotten as she gazed down at the photo. A faint
smile played across her lips. He was probably the only
man she knew of who looked good in the bright
orange jumpsuit of a maximum security pen. For just
a moment, she wondered what he'd think of her
current predicament; in a roundabout way, he was
responsible, at least for her getting involved with the
S.T.A.R.S. in the first place. After he'd been sent up,
he'd urged her to get out of the business, even saying
that he'd been wrong to train her as a thief . . .
. . . so I take a legit job, actually working for society
instead of against it—and people in Raccoon start
dying. The S.T.A.R.S. uncover a conspiracy to create
bioweapons with a virus that turns living things into
monsters. Obviously nobody believes us, the S.T.A.R.S.
that can't be bought by Umbrella are either discredited
or eliminated. So we go underground, try to dig up
proof and come up empty-handed as Umbrella contin-
ues to screw around with their dangerous research and
more good people are killed. Now we're off on what will
probably be a suicide mission to Europe to see if we can
infiltrate the headquarters of a multibillion-dollar cor-
poration and stop them from destroying the goddamn
planet. What would you think, I wonder? Assuming
you'd even believe such a fantastic tale, what would
you think?
"You'd be proud of me, Dick," she whispered,
scarcely aware that she'd spoken aloud—and not at
all sure if it was the truth. Her father wanted to see
her in a less perilous line of work, and compared to
what she and the other ex-S.T.A.R.S. were currently
up against, burglary was about as dangerous as ac-
counting.
After a long moment, she carefully placed the photo
into a pocket of the backpack and looked around at
the broken remnants of her small home, still thinking
about her father and what he'd say about the strange
path her life had taken; if things went well, maybe
she'd be able to ask him in person. Rebecca Chambers
and the other survivors of the Maine mission were
still in hiding, quietly networking through the
S.T.A.R.S. organization for support and waiting to
hear what she and Chris and Barry could tell them
about Umbrella's headquarters. The official HQ was
in Austria, although they all suspected that the minds
behind the T-Virus had their own secret complex
elsewhere—
—which you won't find out if you don't get your ass
in gear; the guys are gonna think you stopped to take a
nap.
Jill shouldered the bag and took a final look around
the room before moving toward the back door,
through the kitchen. There was a lingering scent of
rotten fruit in the dark air, coming from a bowl of
apples and pears on top of the refrigerator that had
long since disintegrated into mush. Even though she
knew better, the smell caused a chill to run up her
spine; she hurried for the closed door, trying to block
out the sudden vivid flashes of memory of what
they'd found at the Spencer estate . . .
. . . rotting as they walked, reaching out with wet
and withered fingers, faces melting with pus and de-
cay—
"Jill?"
She barely contained a cry of surprise at the sound
of Chris's soft voice just outside. The door opened,
Chris silhouetted against the darkness by a distant
streetlight.
"Yeah, right here," she said, stepping forward.
"Sorry it took me so long. Umbrella's been through
here with a bulldozer."
Even in the bare light she could see the half grin on
his boyish face. "We were starting to think the zom-
bies got ya," he said, and although his tone was light,
she could hear real concern beneath it.
Jill knew that he was trying to ease the tension but
couldn't find it in herself to smile back. Too many
people had died because of what Umbrella had un-
leashed in the woods outside of town; if the spill had
happened closer to Raccoon . . .
"Not funny," she said softly.
Chris's grin faded. "I know. You ready?"
Jill nodded, although she didn't feel particularly
ready for what lay ahead. Then again, she hadn't felt
ready for what they were leaving behind, either. In a
matter of weeks, her concept of reality had undergone
a massive shift, turning nightmares into the common-
place.
Evil corporations, mad scientists, killer viruses. And
the walking dead . . .
"Yeah," she said finally. "I'm ready."
Together, they stepped outside. As Jill closed the
door behind them, she was suddenly struck by a
strange and ominous certainty—that she would never
set foot in the house again, that the three of them
wouldn't be coming back to Raccoon City at all ...
. . . but not because anything happens to us. Some-
thing will happen, but not to us.
Frowning, hand on the doorknob, she hesitated for
a moment and tried to make sense of the bizarre
thought. If they survived the recon, if they were
successful in their fight against Umbrella, why
wouldn't they come back to their homes? She didn't
know, but the feeling was uncomfortably strong.
Something bad was going to happen, something—
"Hey, you okay?"
Jill looked up at Chris, saw the same concern on his
youthful face that she'd noticed earlier. They'd gotten
pretty close in the last few weeks, although she
suspected that Chris might like to get a bit closer.
Oh, and you don't?
The sense of impending unpleasantness was already
fading, other confusions and uncertainties stepping in
to take its place. Jill shook herself mentally and
nodded at Chris, letting the feelings go. The flight to
New York wasn't going to wait for her to indulge in
self-analysis—or to worry about things that she
couldn't control, imagined or otherwise.
Still, that feeling . . .
"Let's get the hell out of here," she said, and
meant it.
They moved out into the night, leaving the house
dark behind them, as lonely and silent as a tomb.
two
OCTOBER 3, 1998
TWILIGHT HAD SETTLED ACROSS THE MOUN-
tains, painting the jagged horizon in shades of purple
dusk. The winding blacktop snaked through the gath-
ering darkness, surrounded by shadowed hills that
towered into the cloudless sky, stretching toward the
first faint glimmerings of starlight.
Leon might have appreciated the majestic view a
bit more if he wasn't so goddamn late. He'd make it to
his shift on time, sure, but he'd been hoping to get
settled into the new apartment first, take a shower, get
something to eat; as it was, he might have time to hit a
drive-through on his way to the station. Changing into
his uniform back at the last rest stop had saved him a
couple of minutes, but basically he was screwed.
Way to go, Officer Kennedy. First day on the job and
you'll be picking cheeseburger out of your teeth during
roll call. Very professional.
His shift started at nine and it was already just after
eight; Leon let his boot ride a little heavier on the gas,
even as his Jeep whipped past a sign that told him he
was half an hour away from Raccoon City. At least the
road was clear; except for a couple of semis, he hadn't
seen anyone for what felt like hours. A nice change,
considering the traffic tie-up just outside of New York
that had cost him most of the afternoon. He'd actu-
ally tried to call the night before to leave a message
with the desk sergeant that he might be late, but
there'd been something wrong with the connection.
Nothing but a busy signal.
What little furniture he had was already moved into
a studio apartment in the working-class but basically
decent Trask district of Raccoon City, there was a
nice park not two blocks away, and it was only a five-
minute drive to the station. No more gridlock, no
more overcrowded slums or random acts of brutality.
Assuming he could survive the embarrassment of
showing up to his first shift as a full-blown officer of
the law without having unpacked his bags, he was
looking forward to living in the peaceful community.
Raccoon is about as far removed from the Big Apple
as you can get, thank you very much—well, except for
the last few months. Those murders . . .
In spite of himself, he felt a tiny thrill at the
thought. What had happened in Raccoon was horri-
ble, of course, sickening—but the perps had never
been caught and the investigation was really just
getting started. And if Irons liked him, liked him as
much as the heads of the academy had liked him,
maybe Leon would get a chance to work on the case.
Word had it that Chief Irons was kind of a prick, but
Leon knew his training had been top-notch—even a
prick would have to be a little impressed. He'd
graduated in the top tenth, after all. And it wasn't like
he was a stranger to Raccoon City, since he'd spent
most of his summers there as a kid, when his grand-
parents were still alive. Back then, the RPD building
had been a library and Umbrella was still several
years away from turning the town into an actual city,
but in most ways it was still the same quiet place he
remembered from his childhood. Once the cannibal
killers were finally put away, Raccoon would be ideal
again—beautiful, clean, a white-collar community
nestled in the mountains like a secret paradise.
So I get settled in and a week or two passes, and
Irons notices how well written my reports are, or sees
how good I am on the target range. He asks me to take
a look at the case files, just to familiarize myself with
the details so I can do some footwork—and I see
something that no one else has seen. A pattern, maybe,
or a motive on more than one of the victims . . . maybe
I run across a witness report that reads wrong. No one
else has caught it because they've lived with it for too
long, and this rookie cop just comes along and cracks
the case, not a month out of the academy and I—
Something ran in front of the Jeep.
"Jesus!"
Leon hit the brake and swerved, shocked out of his
daydream as he struggled for control of the vehicle.
The brakes locked and there was a screech of rubber
that sounded like a scream. The Jeep half-turned to
face the darkening trees that lined the road—and
came to a stop on the shoulder, dying after a final
lurching jolt.
Heart pounding and stomach in knots, Leon
opened the window and craned his neck, scanning the
shadows for the animal that had darted across the
highway. He hadn't hit it, but it had been close. Some
kind of a dog, he didn't get a clear look—a big one,
anyway, a shepherd or maybe an oversized Dober-
man, but it had looked wrong somehow. He'd only
seen it for a split-second, a flash of glowing red eyes
and lean, wolfish body. And there was something else,
it had seemed kind of . . .
. . . slimy? No, trick of the light, or you were just so
shit-scared that you saw it wrong. You're okay and you
didn't hit it, that's the important thing.
"Jesus," he said again, softer this time, feeling both
relieved and suddenly quite angry as the adrenaline
leaked out of his system. People who let their dogs run
loose were idiots—claiming they wanted their pets to
be free and then acting surprised when Fido got
squashed by a car.
The Jeep had come to a stop just a few feet away
from a road sign that read RACCOON CITY 10; he
could just make out the lettering in the growing
shadows. Leon glanced at his watch; he still had
almost half an hour to get to the station, plenty of
time—but for some reason, he simply sat for a
moment, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. Cool
pine-scented air breezed across his face; the deserted
stretch of road seeming almost unnaturally quiet—as
if the landscape was holding its breath, waiting. Now
that his heart had resumed a more normal pace, he
was surprised to find that he still felt unsettled, even
anxious.
The murders in Raccoon. Weren't a few of those
people killed by animal attack? Wild dogs, or some-
thing? Maybe that wasn't someone's pet dog at all.
A disturbing thought—and even more disturbing
was the sudden feeling he had that the dog was still
close by, maybe watching him from the darkness in
the trees.
Welcome to Raccoon City, Officer Kennedy. Watch
out for things that may be watching you. . . .
"Don't be an asshole," Leon mumbled to himself,
and felt a little better at the sound of his no-nonsense
adult tone of voice. He often wondered if he would
ever outgrow his imagination.
Daydreaming like a kid about catching bad guys,
then inventing killer dog-monsters lurking in the
woods—let's try to act our age, eh, Leon? You're a cop,
for God's sake, a grownup. . . .
He started the engine and backed onto the road,
ignoring the strange sense of unease that had some-
how managed to take hold of him in spite of his
mind's chiding voice. He had a new job and a nice
apartment in a nice little up-and-coming city; he was
competent, bright, and decent-looking; as long as he
kept his creativity glands in check, everything would
be fine.
"And I'm on my way," he said to himself, forcing a
grin that felt out of place but suddenly necessary to
his peace of mind. He was on his way to Raccoon
City, to a promising new life—there was nothing to
be uneasy about, nothing at all. . . .
Claire was exhausted, both physically and emotion-
ally, and the fact that her butt had been aching for the
last couple of hours wasn't helping matters much. The
thrum of the Harley's engine seemed to have settled
deep into her bones, a physical counterpoint to the
butterflies in her stomach—and of course, the worst
of it seemed to emanate from her extremely sore and
overheated ass. Plus, it was getting dark and like an
idiot she wasn't wearing her leathers; Chris would be
totally pissed.
He's going to yell his head off, and I won't even care.
God, Chris, please be there to scream at me for being
such an idiot. . . .
The Harley buzzed along the dark road, the sound
of the engine echoing back at her from the sloping
hills and shadow-laden trees. She took the corners
carefully, very aware of how deserted the winding
highway was; if she took a spill, it could be a long time
before anyone happened by.
Like it would matter. Take a spill without your gear
on, they'll be scraping pieces of you off the asphalt with
a squeegee.
It was stupid, she knew it was stupid to have left in
such a godawful hurry that she couldn't be bothered
to suit up—but something had happened to Chris.
Hell, something may have happened to the entire city.
Over the past couple of weeks, the growing suspicion
that her brother was in trouble had become a cer-
tainty—and the calls she'd made that morning had
cinched it for her.
Nobody home. Nobody home anywhere. Like Rac-
coon moved and forgot to leave a forwarding address.
It was definitely creepy, although she could give a
shit about Raccoon. What mattered was that Chris
was there, and if something bad had happened to
him—
She couldn't, wouldn't think that way. Chris was all
she had left. Their father had been killed on his
construction job when they were both still kids, and
when their mother had died in a car crash three years
ago, Chris had done his best to take on a parental role.
Even though he was only a few years older, he'd
helped her pick a college, find a decent therapist—he
even sent her a little money each month beyond what
the insurance policies paid out, what he called "walk-
ing around cash." And on top of all that, he called her
every couple of weeks like clockwork.
Except he hadn't called at all in the last month and
a half, and hadn't returned any of her calls. She'd
tried to convince herself that she was silly to worry—
maybe he'd finally met a girl, or something had turned
up on the S.T.A.R.S. suspension thing, whatever that
was all about. But after three unanswered letters and
days of waiting for the phone to ring, she'd finally put
in a call to the RPD that very afternoon, hoping
against hope that someone there might know what
was going on. She'd gotten a busy signal.
Sitting in her dorm room, listening to that soulless
mechanical bleat, she'd started to worry for real. Even
a small city like Raccoon had a voice-mail answering
system set up to field calls. The rational part of her
mind told her not to panic, that a downed line was
nothing to get freaky about—but already, her emo-
tional self was screaming foul. She'd gone through her
address book with trembling hands, dialing the few
numbers she had for friends of his, people or places
he'd told her to call if there was ever an emergency
and he wasn't at home—Barry Burton, Emmy's Din-
er, some cop she'd never met named David Ford. She
even tried Billy Rabbitson's number, although Chris
had told her that he'd disappeared a few months
earlier. And with the exception of an overloaded
answering machine at David Ford's house, she'd
gotten nothing but busy signals.
By the time she'd hung up, the worry had trans-
formed into something close to panic. The trip to
Raccoon City was only about six-and-a-half hours
from the university. Claire's roommate had borrowed
her riding gear to go out with her new biker boyfriend,
but Claire had an extra helmet—and with that feeling
that was not quite panic spinning through her fright-
ened thoughts, she had simply grabbed the helmet
and gone.
Stupid, maybe. Impulsive, definitely. And if Chris is
okay, we can laugh about how ridiculously paranoid I
am 'til the cows come home. But until I find out what's
going on, I won't know a moment's peace.
The last of the day's light was draining from the
strip of cloudless sky above, although a waxing, nearly
full moon and the Softail's headlight gave her enough
light to see by—more than enough to see the small
sign ahead on her left: RACCOON CITY 10.
Telling herself that Chris was fine, that if anything
weird had happened in Raccoon, somebody would
have checked it out by now, Claire forced her concen-
tration back to handling the heavy bike. It would be
full dark soon, but she'd be in Raccoon before it was
too dark to ride safely.
Whether or not Raccoon City would be safe, she'd
find out soon enough.
three
LEON REACHED THE OUTSKIRTS OF TOWN
with twenty minutes to spare, but decided that a hot
dinner was going to have to wait. From his previous
visits to the station, he knew that there were a couple
of vending machines he could hit up for something to
tide him over. The thought of stale candy and peanuts
didn't sit well on his growling stomach, but it was his
own damned fault for not taking New York traffic into
account.
The drive into the city proper did a lot to soothe his
still rattled nerves; he passed the few small farms that
lay east of town, the fairgrounds and storage sheds,
and finally the truck stop that marked the separation
of rural Raccoon from urban. Something about know-
ing that he was going to be patrolling those back roads
before long, keeping them safe, gave him a surprising
sense of well-being and not a little pride. The early
autumn air from the open window was pleasantly
brisk, and the rising moon bathed everything he saw
in a silvery glow. He wasn't going to be late after all;
within the hour, he'd officially become one of Rac-
coon's finest.
As Leon turned the Jeep down Bybee, heading for
one of the main north-south streets that would take
him to the RPD building, he got his first hint that
something was very wrong. In the first few blocks, he
was mildly surprised; by the fifth, he found himself
slipping toward a state of shock. It wasn't just strange,
it was . . . well, it was impossible.
Bybee was the first real city street, coming from the
east, where buildings outnumbered empty lots. There
were several espresso bars and cheap diners, as well as
a bargain movie theater that never seemed to run
anything but horror movies and sexy comedies—and
was therefore the most popular hangout for the youth
of Raccoon. There were even a few generically hip
taverns that served microbrew and hot rum drinks for
the winter college-student ski crowd. At quarter to
nine on a Saturday night, Bybee should have been
teeming with life.
But of the mostly single or two-story brick shops
and restaurants that lined the street, Leon saw that
almost all were dark—and in the few that still
boasted some light, it didn't look like there was
anyone inside. There were plenty of cars parked along
the narrow street, and yet not one person that he
could see; Bybee, the hangout for cruising teens and
college students, was totally deserted.
Where the hell is everybody?
His mind grasped for answers as he crept down the
silent street, searching desperately for a reason—and
for some way to alleviate the sweaty anxiety that had
once again settled over him. Maybe there was some
kind of an event going on, a church function, like a
spaghetti feed. Or perhaps Raccoon had decided to
take up Oktoberfest and tonight was the big kickoff.
Yeah, but everybody at the same time? It'd have to
be one hell of a party.
It was then that Leon realized he also hadn't seen a
single car on the road since he'd had the scare with the
dog ten miles out of town. Not one. And with that
thoroughly unsettling realization came the next—less
dramatic, but distinctly more immediate.
Something smelled bad. In fact, something smelled
like shit.
Jeez, dead skunk. And apparently it threw up on
itself before dying.
He'd already slowed the Jeep to a crawl and had
planned to take a left on Powell, just a block ahead—
but that horrible smell and the total absence of life
were giving him a serious case of the creeps. Maybe he
should stop and check things out, look around for
some sign of—
"Oh, hey. . . ."
Leon grinned, relief flooding through his confusion.
There were a couple of people standing at the corner,
practically right in front of him; the streetlight was
out on their side, but he could see them in silhouette
clear enough—a couple, a woman in a skirt and a big
man wearing work boots. As he got closer he could see
by the way they moved, heading south on Powell, that
they had to be monumentally drunk. Both of them
staggered into the shadows cast by an office supply
store and out of sight; but he was going in that
direction anyway—no harm in stopping to ask what
was going on, was there?
Must've come out of O'Kelly's. A pint or two too
many, but as long as they're not driving anywhere, fine
by me. Am I going to feel stupid when they tell me that
tonight's the big free concert or the all-you-can-eat
town barbecue. . . .
Almost giddy with relief, Leon turned the corner
and squinted into the heavy shadows, looking for the
pair. He didn't see them, but there was an alley tucked
between the supply store and a jewelry shop. Maybe
his two drunk friends had ducked in for a bathroom
break or something even less legal—
"Shit!"
Leon slammed on the brake as a half-dozen dark
shapes fluttered up from the street, caught in the
Jeep's headlights like giant whirling leaves. Startled, it
took him a second to realize he was seeing birds; they
didn't cry out, although he was close enough to hear
the brushing of dry wings as they took to the air.
Crows, enjoying a late night feast of roadkill, what
looked like—
Oh, my God.
There was a human body in the middle of the road,
twenty feet in front of the Jeep. Face down, but it
looked like a woman—and judging from the liquid
red stains that covered most of the once-white blouse,
it wasn't some beer-happy college student who'd
decided to take a nap in the wrong place.
Hit-and-run. Some bastard hit her and then drove
away, Jesus what a mess—
Leon killed the engine and was half out the door
before his racing thoughts caught him up. He hesi-
tated, one foot on the asphalt, the stench of death
heavy in the cool still air. His mind had latched on to
an idea that he didn't want to consider, but knew he
had better; this wasn't some training exercise, this was
his life.
What if it's not a hit-and-run? What if there's no one
around because some psycho gunman decided on a
little target practice? Everyone could be inside, laying
low—maybe the RPD's on the way, and maybe those
drunks weren't drunk, they could've been shot and were
trying to get help. . . .
He leaned back into the Jeep and fumbled under
the passenger seat for his graduation gift, a Desert
Eagle .50AE Magnum with a custom ten-inch barrel,
Israeli export. His father and uncle—both cops—had
gone in together on it. Not standard issue for the
RPD, in fact much more powerful; as Leon grabbed a
clip from the glovebox and slapped it in, feeling the
solid weight of the weapon in his slightly unsteady
hands, he decided it was the best present he'd ever
received. He stuffed two more clips into a belt pouch
on general principle; each only held six rounds.
Pointing the loaded Magnum at the ground, he
stepped out of the Jeep and took a quick look at his
surroundings. He wasn't all that familiar with Rac-
coon at night, but he knew that it shouldn't be as dark
as it was. Several of the streetlights farther along
Powell were either shot out or simply not on, and the
shadows past the blood-soaked body were thick; if not
for the Jeep's headlights, he wouldn't have even been
able to see that.
He edged forward, feeling horribly exposed as he
left the relative cover of the Jeep, but aware that she
could still be alive; it didn't seem likely, but he had to
at least check.
A few steps closer, and he could see that it was
definitely a young woman. Lank red hair obscured the
face, but the clothes were right, denim pedal-pushers
and flats. The wounds were mostly hidden by the
bloody shirt, but there seemed to be dozens—ragged
holes in the wet cloth exposed torn, glistening flesh
and the crimson of muscle beneath.
Swallowing heavily, Leon quickly switched the gun
to his left hand and crouched down next to her. The
cool, clammy skin yielded easily beneath his finger-
tips as he touched her throat, pressing his first two
fingers against the carotid. A few seconds passed,
seconds that made him feel horribly young and afraid
as he tried to remember the procedure for CPR and
prayed, at the same time, that he would feel a pulse.
Five compressions, two short breaths, keep my el-
bows locked and come on please don't be dead—
He couldn't find it, and didn't want to wait one
more second. He tucked the Magnum into his belt
and grabbed her shoulders to turn her over, to check
for breathing—but as he started to lift, he saw some-
thing that made him lay her down again, his heart a
twisting knot in his chest.
The victim's shirt had pulled out of her pants
enough for him to see that her spine and part of her
ribcage were exposed, the still-fleshy knobs of verte-
brae shining and red, the narrow, curving ribs disap-
pearing into masses of shredded tissue. It was like
she'd been knocked down and . . . chewed on. Infor-
mation that Leon had disregarded as unimportant
suddenly registered, and even as the few facts he had
clicked into place, he felt the first inky tendrils of real
fear slither into his mind.
The crows couldn't have done this, would've taken
them hours, and who the hell ever heard of crows
flocking after dark to eat? And that shit-smell, it's not
coming from her, she died recently, and—
Cannibal. Murders.
No. No way. For that to happen, for a person to
have been killed and then partially—devoured on a
city street with no one to stop it—
—and with enough time to pass for scavengers to
come—for that to happen, the killers would have had
to slaughter most if not all of the population. Doesn't
seem likely? Fine. Then what's that smell? And where
is everyone?
Behind Leon, there was a low, soft groan. A shuf-
fling footstep, and another sound. A wet sound.
It took him barely a second to stand and turn,
hand instinctively snatching for the Magnum. It was
the couple, the drunks, staggering toward him, and
they'd been joined by a third, a beefy-looking guy
with—
—with blood all over his shirt. And his hands. And
dripping out of his mouth, a rubbery red mouth set
into his pasty, rotting face like an open sore. The
other man, the big man with the work boots and
suspenders, looked much the same—and the vee of
the blond woman's pink blouse revealed cleavage that
was spotted with darkness, with what appeared to be
mold.
The trio stumbled toward him, past his Jeep, rais-
ing pale hands as they emitted moaning, hungry wails.
Some dark fluid gurgled out of the beefy man's nose
and ran across his moving lips, and Leon was over-
whelmed by the understanding that the terrible, shitty
smell was decayed flesh, and it was coming from
them—
—and there was another one, stepping out from a
door stoop across the street, a young woman in a
stained T-shirt, hair tied back from a slack and
mindless face.
A groan from behind him. Leon shot a look over his
shoulder and saw a youth with dark hair and rotting
arms shamble out from the sidewalk darkness of an
awning's shadow.
Leon raised the Magnum and aimed at the closest,
the man with suspenders, while his instincts screamed
at him to run. He was terrified, but his trained logic
continued to insist that there was an explanation for
what he was seeing, that he was not looking at the
walking dead.
Control, procedure, you're a cop—
"All right! That's far enough! Don't move!"
His voice was strong, commanding and authorita-
tive, and he was wearing his uniform, and God, why
wouldn't they stop? The man in suspenders moaned
again, blind to the weapon pointed at his chest and
still flanked by the others, now less than ten feet away.
"Don't move!" Leon said again, and the sound of
his own panic made him back up a step, darting his
gaze left and right, seeing that there were still more of
the wailing, lurching people coming out of the
shadows.
Something grabbed his ankle.
"No!" he shouted, whipped the gun around—
—and saw that the corpse of the hit-and-run victim
was scrabbling at his boot with one blood-crusted
hand, working to drag her crippled body closer. Her
gasping cry of frantic hunger rose to join those of the
others as she tried to bite into his foot, bloody smears
of saliva drooling off her abraded chin, dripping onto
the leather.
Leon fired into her upper back, the sharp, explosive
crack of the massive weapon loosening her grip—and
at such close range, probably obliterating her heart.
Spasming, she dropped back to the pavement—
—and he turned and saw that the others were less
than five feet away, and he fired twice more, the
rounds splattering red flowers into the chest of the
closest. The entry wounds spouted scarlet.
The man in suspenders was hardly fazed by the
twin gaping holes in his torso, his stagger faltering for
only a second. He opened his bloody mouth and
gasped out a hissing mewl of hunger, hands raised
again as if to direct him to the source of relief.
Must be on something, firepower like that could drop
an elephant—
Backing away, Leon fired again. And again. And
again. And then the empty clattered to the pavement,
another was slammed in, more rounds fired. And still
they kept coming, oblivious to the shots that ripped at
their stinking flesh. It was a bad dream, a bad movie,
it wasn't real—and Leon knew that if he didn't start
believing, he was going to die. Eaten alive by these—
Go ahead, Kennedy, say it. These zombies.
Blocked from his Jeep, Leon stumbled away, still
firing.
four
SO MUCH FOR THE NIGHTLIFE; THIS PLACE IS
deadsville.
Claire had seen a couple of people wandering
around as she'd pulled into Raccoon, though not
nearly as many as there should have been. In fact, the
place seemed spectacularly deserted; the helmet
blocked out a lot of visual evidence, but there was
definitely a lack of business going on at the east end of
town. A lack of traffic, as well. It struck her as weird,
but considering the disasters she'd been imagining all
afternoon, not all that ominous. Raccoon still existed,
at least, and as she headed for the twenty-four-hour
diner off Powell, she saw a fairly large group of
partyers walking down the middle of a side street.
Drunken frat boys, if she remembered her last visit
clearly. Obnoxious, but hardly the horsemen of the
apocalypse.
No bombed-out ruins, no dying fires, no air-raid
sirens; so far, so good.
She'd planned to head straight for Chris's apart-
ment before she realized that she'd be passing Em-
my's on the way. Chris couldn't cook worth a damn;
consequently, he lived on cereal, cold sandwiches,
and dinner at Emmy's about six nights a week; even if
he wasn't there, it might be worth it to stop in and ask
one of the waitresses if they'd seen him lately.
As Claire pulled the Softail to a gentle stop in front
of Emmy's, she noticed a couple of rats scurrying for
cover from atop a garbage can on the sidewalk. She
put down the stand and unstraddled the bike, taking
off her helmet and setting it on the warm seat.
Shaking out her ponytail, she wrinkled her nose in
disgust; from the smell of things, the trash had been
sitting out for quite a while. Whatever they were
throwing away gave off a seriously toxic stink.
Before going in, she chafed her bare legs and arms
lightly, as much to warm them as to wipe off the top
layer of road grime. Shorts and a vest were no match
for the October night, and it reminded her once again
of how dumb she'd been to ride bare. Chris would
give her one hell of a lecture . . .
. . . but not here.
The building's glass front gave her a clear look at
the well-lit, homey restaurant, from the bolted red
stools at the lunch counter to the padded booths
lining the walls—and there wasn't a soul in sight.
Claire frowned, her initial disappointment giving way
to confusion. Having visited Chris pretty regularly
over the last few years, she'd been to the diner at all
hours of the day and night; they were both night owls,
often deciding to go out for cheeseburgers at three in
the morning—which meant Emmy's every time. And
there was always someone at Emmy's, chatting with
one of the pink polyester-clad waitresses or hunched
over a cup of coffee with a newspaper, no matter what
time it was.
So where are they? It's not even nine o'clock. . . .
The sign said Open, and she wasn't going to find
out standing in the street. With a last glance at her
bike, she opened the door and stepped inside. Taking
a deep breath, she called out hopefully.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
Her voice seemed somehow flat in the muted
silence of the empty restaurant; except for the soft
hum of the ceiling fans overhead, there wasn't a
sound. There was the familiar smell of stale grease in
the air, but something else, too—a scent that was
bitter and yet soft, like rotting flowers.
The restaurant was L-shaped, booths stretching off
in front of her and to the left. Walking slowly, Claire
headed straight; at the end of the lunch counter was
the wait station, and past that the kitchen; if Emmy's
was open, the staff would probably be hanging out
there, maybe as surprised as she was that there were
no customers—
—except that wouldn't explain the mess, would it?
It wasn't a mess, exactly; the disorder was subtle
enough that she hadn't even noticed it from outside.
A few menus on the floor, an overturned water glass
on the counter, and a couple of randomly strewn
pieces of silverware were the only signs of something
amiss—but they were enough.
To hell with checking out the kitchen, this is too
weird, something is seriously fucked up in this city—or
maybe they got robbed, or maybe they're setting up for
a surprise party. Who cares? Time for you to be
elsewhere.
From the hidden space at the end of the counter,
she heard a gentle sound of movement, a sliding
whisper of cloth followed by a muffled grunt. Some-
body was there, ducked down.
Heart thumping loudly, Claire called out again.
"Hello?"
For a beat, there was nothing—and then another
grunt, a muted moan that raised the hair on the back
of her neck.
In spite of her misgivings, Claire hurried toward the
back, suddenly feeling childish for her desire to leave;
maybe there had been a robbery, maybe the custom-
ers had been tied up and gagged—or even worse, so
badly injured that they couldn't cry out. Like it or not,
she was involved.
Claire reached the end of the counter, pivoted
left—
—and froze, eyes wide, feeling as though she'd
been physically slapped. Next to a cart loaded with
trays was a balding man dressed in cook's whites, his
back to her. He was crouched over the body of a
waitress; but there was something very wrong about
her, so wrong that Claire's mind couldn't quite accept
it at first. Her shocked gaze took in the pink uniform,
the walking shoes, even the plastic name tag still
pinned to the woman's chest, what looked like "Julie"
or "Julia." . . .
. . . her head. Her head is missing.
Once Claire realized what was wrong, she couldn't
force herself to un-realize it, as much as she wanted
to. There was only a pool of drying blood where the
waitress's head should have been, a sticky puddle
surrounded by fragments of skull and dark mashed
hair and chunks of miscellaneous gore. The cook had
his hands over his face, and as Claire stared in horror
at the headless corpse, he let out a low, pitiful wail.
Claire opened her mouth, not sure what would
come out. To scream, to ask him why, how, to offer to
call for help—she honestly didn't know, and as the
man turned to look up at her, hands dropping away,
she was stunned to hear that nothing came out at all.
He was eating the waitress. His thick fingers were
clotted with dark bits of tissue; the strange and alien
face he raised into view was smeared with blood.
Zombie.
A child of late-night creature features and campfire
stories, her mind accepted it in the split-second it
took for her to think it; she wasn't an idiot. He was
deathly pale and ripe with that sickly-sweet scent of
decay she'd noticed earlier, his eyes cataracted and
gleaming white.
Zombies, in Raccoon. I never expected that.
With that calm, logical realization came a sudden
rush of absolute terror. Claire stumbled backwards,
feverish panic turning her guts into liquid as the cook
continued to turn, rising from his crouch. He was
huge, easily a foot over her 5'3", and broad as a
barn—
—and dead! He's dead and he was EATING her,
don't let him get any closer!
The cook took a step toward her, his stained hands
clenching into fists. Claire backed up faster, almost
slipping on a menu. A fork clattered away from
beneath one boot.
GET OUT NOW.
"I'll be on my way now," she babbled. "Really,
don't bother to show me out—"
The cook staggered forward, his blind eyes glowing
with dumb hunger. Another step back and Claire
reached behind her, felt air, felt nothing—
—and then the cool metal of the door's handle. A
shot of adrenaline triumph bolted through her as she
spun, snatched at the handle—
—and screamed, a short, sharp cry of horror. There
were two, three more of them outside, their disinte-
grating flesh pressed to the glass front of the diner.
One of them had only one eye, a suppurating hole
where the other should have been; another had no
upper lip, a ragged, permanent grin scrawled across its
lower jaw. They clawed mindlessly at the windows,
their ashy, ravaged faces awash with blood—and
from the shadows across the street, dark shapes
shambled out into the open.
Can't get out, trapped—
—Jesus, the back door!
From the edge of her vision, the glowing green exit
sign shone like a beacon. Claire spun again and barely
saw the cook reaching out to her from a few feet away,
her full attention fixating on the only hope of escape.
She ran, the booths whipping by in a flash of unseen
color, her arms pumping for speed. The door opened
out into the alley, she was going to hit it running and
if it was locked, she was screwed.
Claire slammed into the door and it flew open,
crashing into the brick wall of the alley—
—and there was a gun pointed at her face, the only
thing that could possibly have stopped her at that
second, a man with a gun—
She froze, raising her arms instinctively as if to
ward off a blow.
"Wait! Don't shoot!"
The gunman didn't move, the deadly-looking weap-
on still aimed at her head—
—gonna kill me—
"Get down!" the gunman shouted, and Claire
dropped, her knees buckling as much from the com-
mand as from the cold fingertips suddenly groping at
her shoulder—
Boom! Boom!
The gunman fired and Claire snapped her head
around, saw the dead cook falling backwards from
directly behind her, at least one massive hole now in
its forehead. Sluggish spurts of blood jetted from the
wound, the white eyes filming over with red. The
fallen corpse twitched, once, twice—and stopped
moving.
Claire turned back to the man who'd saved her life,
and his uniform registered for the first time. Cop. He
was young, tall—and almost as terrified-looking as
she felt, his upper lip beaded with sweat, his blue eyes
wide and unblinking. His voice, at least, was strong
and sure as he reached down to help her up.
"We can't stay out here. Come with me, we'll be a
lot safer at the police station."
As he spoke, she could hear a closing chorus of
gasping moans from the street, the wails of hunger
growing louder. Claire let herself be pulled up, grip-
ping his hand tightly, taking small comfort in the fact
that his fingers were as feverish and shaky as hers.
They ran, dodging dumpsters and heaps of flat-
tened boxes, chased by echoing, haunted cries as the
zombies found the dark alley and started after them.
five
LEON RAN ALONGSIDE THE GIRL, DESPER-
ately racking his memory for the city's downtown
layout. The alley should let out on Ash, not far from
Oak, the RPD's street—but the station was at least
another fifteen blocks west; unless they could find
transportation, they weren't going to make it. He was
on his last clip, four rounds left, and from the sounds
reverberating through the alley, there were dozens,
maybe hundreds of the creatures at either end.
As they reached the mouth of the alley, Leon held
up his hand and slowed to a jog, scanning the dimly lit
street. He couldn't see much, but from where they
stood to the next streetlight, there were eleven or
twelve of the creatures to the right, staggering and
reeling their way through the stinking darkness. There
were only three of them to the left, not far from—
—hallelujah!
"There!"
Leon pointed at the squad car parked across the
street, feeling a flush of wild hope. There were no
officers in sight, that was too much to ask for—but
the front doors were standing open, and the three
moaning things that roamed nearby wouldn't reach it
before he and the girl could. Even if there were no
keys, there was a radio and the windshield was
bulletproof. They could probably hold out against the
walking corpses until help came—
—and it's the only chance you've got. Go!
He hesitated just long enough to see the girl nod,
her brown ponytail bobbing, and then they were
sprinting for the black-and-white, the pavement a blur
beneath their feet. Leon kept the handgun half-
pointed toward the creatures closest to them, fifty
feet away; he wanted to shoot, to keep them from
getting one step closer, but he couldn't afford to waste
the ammo.
God, let there be keys—
They reached the car at the same time and split, the
girl running around to the passenger's side, and Leon
realized with a new kind of horror that she probably
thought the car was his. He waited for her to slam the
door before jumping behind the wheel, a small,
deeply frightened part of him screaming that this was
his first day as he yanked his own door shut.
A prayer answered; the keys were in the ignition.
Leon dropped the Magnum into his lap and grabbed
them, feeling that wild hope once again, like there
were options besides dying.
"Buckle up," he said, barely hearing her assent as
he turned the keys and the flashers came on. Ash
Street and the creatures that stalked it were bathed in
blue and red swirls of pallid color, shadows changing
form and thickness. It was a vision of hell and he hit
the gas, desperate to get away from it as fast as he
could.
The car spun away from the curb with a squeal.
Leon pulled the wheel right and then left, narrowly
missing a lurching woman whose scalp had been torn
half off. Even through the closed windows, he could
hear her frustrated howl as they sped away, joined by
the cries of many more.
Backup, call for backup—
Leon fumbled for the radio, not taking his gaze off
of the road. The creatures were scattered but persis-
tent, dark and shambling monsters that staggered out
into the street as if drawn to the sound of the speeding
car. As the black-and-white rocketed across Powell
and continued on, he had to dodge several more of
them.
The girl was talking, staring out at the desolate
landscape as Leon hit the com button on the radio, his
sense of helplessness rising. No static, no nothing.
"What the hell's going on, I arrive in Raccoon and the
whole place is insane—"
"Great, the radio's out," Leon interrupted, drop-
ping the radio and focusing on the road. The entire
city seemed like an alien world, the streets strangely
shadowed. There was a dreamlike quality to it, but the
smell kept him from believing that he was asleep. The
stench of diseased flesh had permeated even the
interior of the squad car, making it hard to concen-
trate on driving. At least there was no traffic and no
people. No real people . . .
. . . except me and the girl. I've got to do my job
here, keep her from getting hurt. Poor kid, she can't be
older than nineteen or twenty, she's probably terrified;
I've got to keep it together and shield her from further
danger here, get to the station and—
"You're a cop, right?"
The girl's lilting but somehow sarcastic tone snapped
him out of his panicked musings. He shot a look in
her direction, noting that while she looked pale, she
didn't seem to be quivering on the edge of a break-
down. There was even a trace of humor in her clear
gray eyes, and Leon got a sudden strong impression
that she wasn't the breakdown type. A very good
thing, considering the circumstances.
"Yeah. First day on the job; great, huh? I'm Leon
Kennedy."
"Claire," she said. "Claire Redfield. I came to find
my brother, Chris. . . ."
She trailed off, staring back out at the passing street.
Two of the creatures were staggering into the path of
the car from either side, but Leon hit the gas and
managed to drive between them. The steel mesh
screen separating the back compartment was down,
giving him a clear look from the rearview mirror, the
two shuffling ghouls were now plodding mindlessly
after them.
Hungry. Just like in the movies.
For a moment, neither spoke, the obvious question
remaining unspoken. Whatever had happened to turn
Raccoon into a horror show didn't matter as much as
how they were going to survive it. They'd be at the
station in a couple of minutes, assuming the roads
stayed clear. There was an underground parking lot,
he'd try that first—but if the gates were closed, they'd
have to cover a short distance on foot. There was a
small courtyard in front of the building, a park area—
Four rounds left—and maybe a city full of those
things. We need another weapon. . . .
"Hey, open the glovebox," he said. If it was locked,
there was a key on the ring that should open it.
Claire tapped the button and reached inside, reveal-
ing the back of her pink sleeveless vest; the legend
"Made in Heaven" was appliquéd above a voluptuous
posing angel holding a bomb. The outfit suited her.
"There's a gun inside," she said, and pulled out a
sleek semiautomatic. She raised it carefully and
checked to see if it was loaded before digging out a
couple of clips. It was one of the RPD's old issues, a
nine-millimeter Browning HP. Since the slew of re-
cent murders, the Raccoon force had been carrying
H & K VP70s, another nine-millimeter—the difference
was that the Browning could only hold thirteen, while
the newer issues held eighteen rounds, nineteen if you
kept one chambered. From the way she handled it,
Leon could tell that she knew what she was doing.
"Better take it with you," he said. The RPD kept a
decent arsenal; assuming that there were still cops
around, he could pick up his assigned weapon and—
—and why are you assuming anything?
As Leon took the corner of Ash and Third a little
too quickly, the realization finally hit him that the
station itself might be crawling with corpses. Every-
thing was happening so fast, he just hadn't considered
the possibility. He straightened out the car and let up
on the gas, trying to come up with an alternate plan as
calmly and rationally as he could. Maybe there was an
organized defense at the station—but it wasn't easy
to feel hopeful with the stink of decay so heavy in the
air.
We have three-quarters of a tank, more than enough
to make it over the mountains; we could be in Latham
in less than an hour.
They could drive by the station and if it looked—
unfriendly, just get the hell out of town; sounded good
to him. He started to tell Claire, see what she
thought—
—when the horrible smell of slaughter washed over
him and something lunged out of the back seat.
Claire screamed and the monster that had been in
the squad car all along grasped Leon's shoulder with
icy hands, its flyblown breath gusting into his face. It
snatched at his right arm, pulling it toward its drool-
slick teeth with inhuman strength.
"No!" Leon shouted as the car veered wildly to the
right, jumping the curb and sliding toward a brick
building. The creature was unbalanced, losing some
of its grip; Leon jerked the wheel but too late to avoid
the wall completely. Metal shrieked and a brilliant
flash of sparks illuminated the groping hands and
leering, ghoulish grin of their passenger as the speed-
ing car shot back out into the street.
The dead thing swung its eager arms at Claire, and
without thinking, Leon slammed on the gas and
pulled a hard right. The car fishtailed, the back end
crunching against a parked pickup truck in another
burst of fiery sparks. The drooling corpse fell back
into the padded seat but immediately pulled itself
forward again, gnashing its teeth and clawing for the
girl.
The squad car sped down Third, Leon trying to
control the wheel as he grabbed his weapon and half-
turned, holding the Magnum by the barrel. He didn't
think to take his foot off the gas, couldn't think
of anything except that the zombie was about to sink
its teeth into Claire's struggling shoulder.
He brought the heavy weapon down and across its
face, the butt sliding across flesh that peeled away in a
thick flap. Blood gushed from the wound as the grips
crushed into its nose, cartilage separating from bone
with a wet crunch. Gurgling, the creature clutched at
its bleeding head and Leon just had time to feel a
second's triumph—
—when Claire screamed, "Look out!"
—and Leon looked up to see that they were about
to crash.
Leon hit the zombie with his gun and Claire in-
stinctively flinched from the splatter of blood, her
horrified gaze finding that the street they were on was
about to end.
"Look out!"
She caught just a glimpse of his white knuckles on
the wheel, his clenched jaw—
—and the car was spinning, screeching, buildings
and streetlights flashing by so fast that all she saw was
a blur, and then—
BAM!
There was an explosion of sound, of glass shattering
and metal compressing as the cop car slammed into
something solid, throwing Claire against her safety
belt. The impact hurled the zombie forward at the
same time, and Claire reflexively threw her arms up as
the dead thing crashed through the windshield—
—and then everything was still. There was only the
ticking of hot metal and the sound of her own heart
thundering in her ears. Claire brought her arms down
and saw that Leon had already recovered, was already
staring at the bloody, broken mess sprawled across the
hood, its head hanging mercifully out of sight. It
wasn't moving.
"You okay?"
Claire turned and looked at Leon, suddenly having
to fight off a semi-hysterical laughing fit. Raccoon had
been taken over by the living dead and they'd just
been in a serious car wreck because a corpse had been
trying to eat them. All things considered, "okay" was
not the first word to come to mind.
At the sight of Leon's sincere and stricken expres-
sion, the urge to freak out passed. He looked on the
edge of a fit himself; allowing her devastated nerves
free reign wouldn't help anything.
"Still in one piece," she managed, and the young
cop nodded, seeming relieved.
Claire took a deep breath, feeling like it was the first
she'd taken in hours, and looked around at where
they'd ended up. Leon had managed a complete 180
at the very end of the street where it T-ed, the
obviously totaled squad car facing back the way
they'd come. There were no zombies in the immedi-
ate vicinity, but Claire had the feeling that they
wouldn't have long to find cover; from what she'd
seen so far, most if not all of Raccoon had been
affected by—by whatever it was that had happened.
She held the handgun tightly, trying to get her tangled
emotions under control.
"We—" Leon started to say something and then
stopped, his eyes widening as he stared at the rear-
view mirror. Claire looked behind her—and for a
second, could only think that at some point since
she'd left the university, she'd been cursed.
Cursed. Somebody wants me dead, that's all there is
to it.
A semi was barreling down the street, still several
blocks away but close enough for them to see that it
was out of control. The truck veered back and forth,
smashing against a blue pickup parked on one side of
the street and then plowing under a mailbox on the
other. Claire realized with numb horror that it was a
tanker—and from the way the haul was sliding dan-
gerously at each frantic swerve, the driver had a full
load. In the split-second that it took to digest that
information, to pray that it wasn't gas or oil, the
tanker had halved the distance between them. She
could actually see the flames painted across the dark
green cab, but even then it wasn't real until Leon
broke their stunned silence.
"—maniac's gonna ram us," he breathed, and then
they were both stabbing at the seat-belt releases,
Claire praying that the crash hadn't locked them
somehow—
The sound of the belts letting go were inaudible
beneath the rising monolithic growl of the oncoming
tanker and the echoing crunch of cars being side-
swiped left and right. It would be on them in a
heartbeat.
"Run!" Leon shouted, and then she was pushing
her way out of the squad car, cool air against her
sweaty skin and the scream of the truck's engine
blocking out everything else.
She took three giant running leaps and then felt as
much as heard the impact, the asphalt shaking be-
neath her feet even as the crash of rending metal
thundered behind her.
One more flying step, and—
KABOOM!
—she was being pushed, shoved roughly off her feet
by an incredible pressure wave of heat and sound. She
managed to kick off against the ground as the tanker's
explosion turned night to day in one brilliant instant.
An awkward shoulder roll, grit biting into her heat-
blasted skin, and she landed behind a parked car in a
gasping heap.
There was a brief, clattering rain of smoking debris,
and Claire was on her feet, stumbling back into the
street to search the towering flames for some sign of
Leon. Her heart sank. The tanker, squad car, and
what had once been a hardware store were all envel-
oped in an inferno of chemical fire, the street com-
pletely blocked by the mass of twisted, burning
destruction.
"Claire—"
Leon's voice, muffled but audible through the wall
of curling flame.
"Leon?"
"I'm okay!" he shouted. "Head to the station, I'll
meet you there!"
Claire hesitated for a second, staring down at the
handgun she still held tightly in one shaky hand. She
was afraid, scared of being alone in a city that had
turned into a living graveyard—but it wasn't like
there was much of a choice. Wishing that circum-
stances were different was a waste of time.
"Okay!"
She turned, trying to get her bearings by the smok-
ing, flickering light of the wreck. The station was
close, a couple of blocks away—
—and there were creatures lurching out of the
shadows, from behind cars and inside darkened
buildings. With single-minded purpose, they sham-
bled into the strange light of the blazing accident,
making small sounds of hunger as they came—two,
three, four of them. She saw tattered skin and rotting
limbs, gaping blackness where eyes should be—and
still they came, moving slowly toward her as if
homing in on living flesh.
Beyond the fiery wreck, she heard gunfire—two
shots from perhaps a block away, then nothing—
nothing but the crackle of consuming flame and the
soft, helpless cries of the shuffling dead.
Leon's on his own now. MOVE!
Claire took a deep breath, spotted an opening with-
in the lethal crowd closing in on her, and ran.
six
ADA WONG FIT THE SHIMMERING DISC OF
metal into the slot on the statue, patting it into the
opening until it was flush with the marble. As soon as
it was in place, she heard the shift of hidden levers
and stepped back to see what would happen. Her
footfalls echoed through the massive lobby of the
RPD building, the sounds reverberating back to her
from three stories of open room.
Another key? One of the subbasement medals? Or
perhaps the sample itself, hidden in plain sight . . .
wouldn't that be a happy surprise.
If wishes were horses. The water-bearing nymph
made of stone slid forward at a slight angle, the
pitcher at her shoulder dropping a slender piece of
metal atop the lip of the defunct fountain. The spade
key.
She sighed, picking it up. She already had the keys;
in fact, she had everything she needed to search the sta-
tion, and most of what she needed to get into the lab.
If it wasn't for someone at Umbrella dropping the
bomb, the job would have been a walk. Easy money.
Instead, I get a three-day vacation sans comfort, I
get night of the living standoff, I get to play Put the
Bullet in the Brain and Let's Find the Reporter at the
same time. The samples could be anywhere by now,
depending on who survived. Assuming I make it out of
here with the goods, I'm asking for a big goddamn
bonus; no one should have to work in these conditions.
Ada slipped the key into her hip pack, then gazed
unseeing at the upper balustrade of the impressive
hall, mentally checking off the rooms she'd been
through and the ones she'd searched more thor-
oughly. Bertolucci didn't seem to be anywhere on the
east side of the building, upstairs or down; she'd spent
what felt like hours staring into dead faces, searching
the reeking piles of corpses for his square jaw and
anachronistic ponytail. Of course, he could be mov-
ing—but from the information she had on him, it was
improbable; the reporter was very much a rabbit, a
hider in the face of danger.
Speaking of danger . . .
Ada shook herself and got moving, heading back to
the door that led into the lower east wing. The lobby
was safe enough from the virus carriers, they didn't
seem to understand the concept of doorknobs—but
there were threats besides the infected. God only
knew what Umbrella might send in to clean up . . . or
what had been freed from the laboratory when the
leak occurred. Less frightening but just as bothersome
were the live cops that might still be trooping around,
looking for someone to save. She'd heard gunfire,
some distant, some not, every hour or three since
she'd gone to ground; there were still at least a few
uninfected left in the expansive old building. Trying
to convince a panicky he-man with a gun that she was
alive and didn't want an escort made facing the
undead seem almost appealing.
Walking on the balls of her feet to avoid additional
noise, Ada slipped through the door and then leaned
against it at the end of a long hall, safe to decide on
her next move; although she hadn't checked out the
basement yet and there were still several carriers
wandering around in the detectives' room, the hall's
doors were all closed; if someone or something
wanted to get at her, she'd be able to see it coming and
get out in time.
Ah, the exciting life of the freelance agent. Travel the
world! Earn money by stealing important things! Fight
off the living dead when you haven't showered or eaten
a decent meal in three days—impress your friends!
She reminded herself again to insist on that bonus.
When she'd arrived in Raccoon less than a week
before, she thought she'd been prepared; the maps
had been studied, the reporter's files memorized, her
cover story set—a young woman looking for her
boyfriend, an Umbrella scientist. That part was al-
most true; in fact, it had been her brief relationship
with John Howe ten months before that had landed
her the job. More of a one-night stand, actually, and
not a very good one at that—but John had thought
otherwise, and his connection to Umbrella, though it
had probably killed him, had turned out to be a lucky
break for her.
So, she'd been ready. But within twenty-four hours
of her self-assured check-in at Raccoon City's nicest
hotel, her luck had changed; while eating dinner in the
vinyl-encased and mostly empty lounge of the Arklay
Inn, she'd heard the first screams outside. The first,
but by no means the last.
In some ways, the disaster was an asset; there'd be
no guards posted around the lab, no endless covert
trial runs. The prep work she'd done on the T-Virus
had assured her that the airborne was short-lived and
dissipated quickly; the only chance of catching it at
this point would be through contact with a carrier, so
that wasn't a problem—and once she and a couple
dozen others had made it to the police station, she'd
seen that Bertolucci was among them. Even with the
undead factor, it initially looked like things were
going in her favor.
Mission objectives: question the hack, find out how
much he knows and kill him or ignore him, depending;
retrieve a sample of the new virus, Dr. Birkin's latest
wonder. No problem, right?
Three days before, with the knowledge of how the
Umbrella lab connected into the sewer system and
Bertolucci standing right in front of her, the job had
looked pretty wrapped. And of course, that's when
things had started to go wrong.
The rearranged station, with the rooms shifted
around after the S.T.A.R.S. fiasco, making half my
preparations obsolete. People disappearing. The barri-
cades that kept coming down. Police Chief Irons,
throwing off commands like some cut-rate dictator,
still trying to impress Mayor Harris and his whiny
daughter even as the dead piled up. . . .
She'd watched Bertolucci closely enough to see that
he was going to duck and run, but had missed the exit;
she hadn't even had time to make contact before he
had disappeared somewhere into the maze of the
station, losing himself in the commotion of the first
wave of attacks. Ada had decided to fly solo herself
when three-fourths of the civilians were wiped out in
a single mass assault not an hour later, all because no
one had bothered to lower the garage gates. She wasn't
willing to die to keep up her cover as a frightened
tourist looking for her boyfriend.
And so came the wait. Almost fifty hours of waiting
for things to settle, tucked in the clock tower on the
third floor, slipping downstairs to find food or to use a
bathroom in the lengthening stretches of time be-
tween gunplay. Between the echoing clatter of shots
and the screams . . .
Terrific. So now you're out and what do you do?
Stand around and reflect. Get on with it; the sooner you
finish, the sooner you can collect your wages and retire
to some nice island somewhere.
Still, for a moment Ada didn't move, tapping the
muzzle of her Beretta absently against one long,
stockinged leg. There were three bodies sprawled in
the hallway; she couldn't stop staring at one of them,
crumpled beneath a window counter halfway down
the corridor. A woman in cutoff shorts and a halter,
her legs crudely splayed, one arm cocked above her
blood-soaked head. The other two were cops, no one
she recognized—but the woman had been one of the
people she'd talked to when she'd first made it to the
station. Her name had been Stacy something-or-
other, a nervous but strong-willed girl just out of her
teens.
Stacy Kelso, that was it. She'd run into town to pick
up some ice cream and had ended up caught in the
takeover—yet in spite of her own predicament, she was
more concerned about her parents and little brother,
still at home. A conscientious girl. A good girl.
Why was she thinking about it? Stacy was dead, a
ragged hole at her left temple, and Ada hadn't capped
her; it wasn't like she had anything to feel personally
responsible about. She'd come in on a job, and it
wasn't her fault that Raccoon had gone nova. . . .
Maybe it's not guilt, some part of her whispered.
Maybe you're just sorry she didn't make it. She was a
person, after all, and now she's as dead as her parents
and kid brother probably are. . . .
"Snap out of it," she said, softly but with an edge of
irritation. She tore her gaze from the woman's pathet-
ic form, fixing it instead on a broken ashtray at the
end of the hall. Feeling bad about things she couldn't
control wasn't her style, it wasn't how she'd gotten to
the top of her trade—and considering how much Mr.
Trent was putting up to retain her services, now
wasn't the best time to be analyzing her empathy
skills. People died, it was the way of the world, and if
she'd learned anything in the course of her life it was
that agonizing over that particular truth was point-
less.
Mission objectives: talk to Bertolucci and get the G-
Virus sample. That was all she needed to worry about.
There was a mechanism that Ada still had to check
a few twisted passages away from where she stood, in
the press conference room. Trent's notes on the archi-
tect's latest additions to the station had been sketchy,
but she knew it had to do with the ornate, sculpted gas
lamps and an oil painting. Whoever had commis-
sioned all of the work had one serious secret life going
on; there were actual hidden passages upstairs, behind
the wall of what had once been a storage room. She
hadn't gone through them yet, although a quick glance
had told her that the room itself had been remodeled
as an office. Judging from the overstuffed and neuroti-
cally macho decor, it was probably Irons's. Even from
the short time she'd been in his company, she'd
ascertained that he wasn't the most stable man who
had ever walked; there was no question that he was on
Umbrella's payroll, but there was also something
about him that just screamed dysfunctional.
Ada started down the hall, her dress flats clicking
loudly on the scuffed blue tiles; she was already
dreading yet another time-consuming mechanical
puzzle. Not that there was any help for it; she had
assumed from the beginning that the virus was still in
the lab, but she couldn't afford to take any chances on
passing up an earlier retrieval. The files indicated that
there were between eight and twelve one-ounce vials
of the stuff, information from a two-week-old video
feed—and Birkin's lab was far from impenetrable.
With the underground lab connected to the station
through the sewer mains, she had to entertain the
possibility that the samples had been moved. Besides,
Bertolucci could be tucked away in the research
library or in the S.T.A.R.S. office on the west side,
maybe the darkroom; dead or not, he had to be found.
And it would also give her a chance to collect a few
more nine-millimeter clips from the fallen RPD.
She followed the passage as it led her past a small
waiting area, complete with vending machines that
had already been pried open and ransacked. As with
the rest of the station, the corridor was cold and badly
in need of air freshener; she'd grown used to the
smell, but the chill was murder. For the hundredth
time since abandoning her table at the Arklay, Ada
wished that she'd dressed more casually for dinner.
The sleeveless tight red tunic dress and clattery shoes
were fine for cover, as mission gear, however, the
outfit was somewhat less than practical.
She reached the end of the hall and carefully
opened the door to her left, weapon half-raised. As
before, the corridor was clear, yet another testament
to the faded elegance of the building—dusky sand-
colored walls and symmetrically patterned tiles in this
one. The station must have been magnificent once,
but years of serving as an institutional facility had
leeched away its grandeur; the tattered grand movie-
house look and the cold, hopeless atmosphere created
a distinctly sinister feel—as if at any moment a cold
hand could fall across your shoulder, a soft gust of
diseased breath whisper across the back of your
neck. . . .
Ada frowned again; after this job, she was going to
take a very long vacation. Either that, or it was time to
find a new career. Her concentration—her ability to
focus—wasn't what it used to be. And in her business
a slip at the wrong time could literally mean death.
Big bonus. Trent smells like money. I'll ask seven
digits, high six minimum.
In her attempts to let her thoughts go, to let animal
awareness take over, she found that she couldn't keep
out the persistent image that crept into her mind. A
memory of young Stacy Kelso, anxiously pushing her
hair behind her ears as she talked about her baby
brother. . . .
After what felt like a very long time, Ada shook the
troublesome vision and continued down the hall,
promising herself that there would be no more lapses
of concentration—and wondering why she couldn't
make herself believe it.
seven
LEON'S BOOTS SCUFFED SHARDS OF BROKEN
glass across the floor of the Kendo gun shop as he
snapped open drawers, ash-stained sweat trickling
down his face. If he couldn't find .50s pretty quick, he
was screwed; the few weapons still remaining in the
ravaged shop were inaccessible, strung with steel
cable, and the front picture window was completely
smashed. It wouldn't take long for the creatures to
find him, he was down to his last round, and he still
had a couple of blocks to go.
Come on, fifty cal action express, somebody in
Raccoon must've ordered 'em—
"Yes!"
Fourth drawer, under the deer-rifle case; a half-
dozen empty clips and as many boxes of ammo. Leon
grabbed a box and turned, slapping it on the counter
as he glanced hurriedly at the front of the small shop.
Still clear, if you didn't include the dead guy on the
floor. He wasn't moving, but from the freshness of the
wounds that oozed from his considerable gut, staining
his strappy white T, Leon wouldn't have long to
linger; he didn't know how long it took for the freshly
dead to stand up—and didn't really want to find out.
Gotta do it fast anyway, it's like I'm a beacon for
those things and this place is easy access. . . .
Gaze darting between the crashed front wall and
his skittering hands, Leon started to load up.
He'd lucked across the gun dealer's, having forgot-
ten entirely about it in the dizzying, nightmarish run
from the wreck. When the fastest route to the station
had turned out to be blocked by a pile-up, the best
detour was through Kendo's. It was a coincidence that
had undoubtedly saved his life. Even killing two of
the ex-living on his way, he'd nearly been over-
whelmed by the sheer number of them.
"Uuunh. . . ."
A ghastly, skeletal form staggered out of the street's
shadows, drunkenly aimed at the front of the shop.
"Hell," Leon muttered, his fingers somehow man-
aging to go faster. One clip down, one more and he
could take the rest. If he bolted now, he'd be dead
before he could make it to the station.
Another leprous figure was suddenly standing at the
mostly empty frame of the shop's glass entrance, the
decay so bad on its legs that Leon could see maggots
squirming through the fibrous muscle.
—four . . . five . . . done!
He snatched up the Magnum and ejected the clip,
reloading even as the mostly-empty hit the floor. The
maggoty creature was shouldering its way through the
jagged corners of glass still attached to the frame,
something liquid in its throat gurgling softly.
Bag, he needed a bag. Leon's fevered gaze swept the
space behind the counter, stopping on a grease-
stained gym bag propped against a stool in the back
corner. Two running steps and he had it, dumping the
contents as he ran back to the pile of clips and loose
bullets on the counter. Cleaning equipment rattled
across the linoleum as Leon swept the clips into the
bag, ignoring the scattered rounds in favor of the
ammo drawer.
The decayed monster was shuffling toward him,
stumbling on the body of the pot-bellied dead man,
and Leon could smell how rotten it was. He jerked the
Magnum up and leveled it at the creature's face.
The head, just like the two outside—
With a tremendous, thundering kick, the gurgling,
pulpy skull blew apart, thick fluids splattering the
shop's walls and display cases in a wet slap. Before the
decapitated mess could crumple, Leon spun and
dropped into a crouch by the ammo drawer. He
shoveled the heavy boxes into the nylon sack, his
stomach knotted and shaking from the fear that, even
now, the back alley could be filling up with more of
them, cutting him off from where he needed to go.
Five clips per box, five boxes, get out already—
Pushing off from his crouch, Leon shouldered the
bag and ran for the back door. From the corner of his
vision, he saw that another creature had made it
inside Kendo's; from the crunch of powdering glass,
there were more of them filing in just behind it.
He opened the exit door and slid through, glancing
left and right as the door settled closed, the automatic
lock catching with a soft metallic snick. Nothing but
garbage cans and recycling bins, overflowing with
mildewed waste. From where he stood, the alley
stretched off to his left and then hooked left again; if
his internal compass was still working, the narrow,
cluttered passage would take him straight to Oak,
letting out less than a block away from the station.
So far, he'd been lucky; all he could do was hope
that his fortune would hold out, would let him get to
the RPD building alive and in one piece—and, God
willing, find a heavily armed contingent of people
who knew what the hell was going on.
And Claire. Be safe, Claire Redfield, and if you get
there before me, don't lock the door.
Leon repositioned the leaden weight of the ammo
across his back and started down the dimly lit alley,
ready to blow apart anything that got in his way.
Claire almost made it without having to shoot; the
zombies that trickled out into the streets of Raccoon
were relentless but slow, and the adrenaline pumping
through her system made it easy enough to dodge
them. She figured that they were drawn out by the
sound of the wreck, then just followed their noses, or
what was left of them; of the ten or so that had made
it close enough for her to get a good look, at least half
were in an advanced stage of decay, flesh falling from
the bone.
She was so busy watching the street and trying to
sort through all that had happened, she almost ran
right past the police station. She'd been to the RPD
building twice before to visit Chris, but had never
entered from the back—or in the cold and stinking
dark, pursued by malignant cannibals. A crashed cop
car and a handful of zombified officers had clued her
in, sending her through a small parking lot and some
kind of an equipment shed that opened into a tiny
paved courtyard—a courtyard where she and Chris
had eaten lunch once, sitting on the steps that led up
to the station's second-floor helipad. As simply as
that, she'd made it.
Weaving past the two stumbling, uniformed corpses
that wandered aimlessly across the L-shaped yard was
easy, and it was such a relief to be somewhere she
recognized, to know she was about to be safe, that
she didn't see the woman until it was almost too late.
A wailing dead woman with one limply hanging arm
and a gore-streaked, shredded tank top, who reached
out from the shadows at the base of the stairs and
brushed at Claire's arm with cold and scabby fingers.
Claire let out a strangled yelp of surprise, stumbling
back from the creature's outstretched hand—and
nearly fell into the arms of another one, a tall, broad-
shouldered rotting man who had emerged from be-
neath the metal stairs, graceless yet silent.
She dodged sideways and pointed the nine-
millimeter at the man, backed up a step—
—and felt her calf hit the unyielding railing of the
back steps to the roof. The woman was five feet to her
right, the torn, bloody shirt exposing one gouged
breast, the hand of her working arm grasping toward
Claire. The man was one step from reaching distance,
and she couldn't back up any further.
Claire pulled the trigger and there was a mammoth
boom, the gun jerking almost out of her hand. The
right half of the tall man's slack and withered face
disappeared in a burst of dark, liquid streams gushing
from his shattered skull.
She whipped the gun around, tightening her grip as
she aimed for the woman's pallid, moaning face.
Another blast of deafening sound and the rising moan
was cut off, the waxen forehead imploding in a spray
of blood and bone chips. The woman went over
backwards, crashing to the pavement like—
—like a corpse, which she already was. They won't
be walking away from this one.
It was as if everything finally caught up to her at
once, the reality of her situation driven home when
she'd pulled the trigger. For a moment, Claire
couldn't move. She stared down at the two crumpled
sacks of ruined flesh, at the two people she'd just shot,
and felt like she was only an inch or two from losing
it. She'd grown up around guns, been to shooting
ranges dozens of times—but with a .22 target pistol,
firing at pieces of paper. Targets that didn't bleed, or
spew brain matter like the two human beings she'd
just—
No, a cool voice inside of her interrupted. Not
human, not anymore. Don't kid yourself and don't
waste time on remorse. Leon could be inside by now,
looking for you. And if the S.T.A.R.S. got called in,
Chris could be here, too.
If that weren't motivation enough, the two zombie
cops that Claire had passed when she first hit the
courtyard were on their way, boots shuffling and
dragging across the flagstones. It was time to go.
She jogged up the stairs, barely able to hear the
clang of her steps over the high-pitched ringing in her
ears. The nine-millimeter blasts had done a tempo-
rary number on her hearing—which explained why
she didn't know about the helicopter until she was
almost to the roof.
Claire hit the second-to-top riser and stopped dead,
a whipping wind pounding rhythmically at her bare
shoulders as the giant black vehicle hovered into
view, half lost in shadow. It was near the ancient
water tower that bordered the helipad at the south-
west corner, though she couldn't tell if it had just
taken off or was coming in to land.
Couldn't tell and didn't care. "Hey!" she shouted,
raising her left hand into the air. "Hey, over here!"
Her words were lost in the blowing dust that swirled
across the rooftop, drowned out by the steady chop of
the 'copter's blades. Claire waved wildly, feeling like
she'd just hit the lottery.
Somebody came! Thank God, thank you!
A blaring searchlight snapped on from the midsec-
tion of the hovering bird, scrawled across the roof—
and was going in the wrong direction, away from her.
Claire waved more frantically, drawing in breath to
call out again—
—and saw what the spotlight saw, even as she heard
the desperate, mostly unintelligible shout beneath the
'copter's roar. A man, a cop, standing at the helipad's
corner opposite the stairs, backed against an elevated
section of the roof. He held what looked like a
machine gun and appeared to be very much alive.
"—get over here—"
The officer shouted at the helicopter, his voice
tinged with panic; Claire saw why and felt her relief
evaporate. There were two zombies lurching through
the darkness of the helipad, headed for the well-lit
target that was the shouting cop. She raised the nine-
millimeter and then lowered it helplessly, afraid of
hitting the cornered man.
The spotlight didn't waver, illuminating the horror
with brilliant clarity. The cop didn't seem to realize
how close the zombies were until they were grabbing
for him, their stringy arms extending into the beam of
fixed white light.
"Stay back! Don't come any closer!" he cried, and
with the pure terror in his voice, Claire heard him
perfectly. Just like she heard his howling scream as the
two decaying figures obscured her view, reaching him
at the same time.
The sound of his automatic weapon ripped across
the helipad, and even over the helicopter's clamor
Claire could hear the whining ting of bullets flying
wild. She dropped, knees cracking against the top step
as the weapon's clattering fire went on and on—
—and there was a change in the sound of the
'copter, a strange hum that rose quickly into a me-
chanical scream. Claire looked up and saw the giant
craft dip down, the back end swinging around in an
erratic, jerking arc.
Jesus, he hit them!
The 'copter's spotlight was going all directions at
once, flashing across metal pipes and concrete and the
dying struggles of the cop, somehow still firing as the
two monsters tore at him—
—and then the helicopter was coming down, tee-
tering sideways, its blades slamming into the brick of
the elevated roof with a tremendous crash. Before
Claire could blink, the nose of the craft hit—plowing
across the helipad in a curtain of screeching sparks
and flying glass.
The explosion happened just as the mammoth
machine slid to a stop against the southwest corner—
directly on top of the fallen cop and his killers. The
rattle of the machine gun was finally cut off in the
whoosh of flame that sprang up after the initial
sputtering boom, lighting the rooftop in a burning red
glow. At the same instant, something in the roof gave
with a rending crunch, as the nose of the 'copter
plunged through a brick wall and out of sight.
Claire stood up on legs she barely felt, staring in
disbelief at the leaping fire that dominated almost half
of the helipad. It had all happened too fast for her to
feel like it had happened at all, and the smoking,
burning evidence in front of her only made the sense
of unreality greater. An acrid, sickly-sweet odor of
burning meat wafted over her on a wave of heated air,
and in the sudden silence, she could hear the soft
groans of the zombies down in the courtyard.
She shot a look down the stairs and saw that both of
the dead cops were at the foot, blindly and uselessly
falling against the bottom step. At least they couldn't
climb . . .
. . . can't. Climb. Stairs.
Claire turned her frightened glance toward the door
that led into the RPD building, maybe thirty feet
from the curling, popping flames that were slowly
eating the body of the 'copter. Except for the stairs, it
was the only way onto the roof. And if zombies
couldn't climb—
—then I'm in some deep shit. The station isn't safe.
She stared thoughtfully at the burning wreck,
weighing her options. The nine-millimeter held a lot
of ammo and she still had two full clips; she could
head back into the street, look for a car with keys in it
and go for help.
Except what about Leon? And that cop was still
alive—what if there are more people inside, planning
an escape?
She thought she'd held up pretty well on her own so
far, but she also knew she'd feel safer if somebody else
were in charge—a riot squad would be okay, though
she'd settle for some battle-scarred veteran cop with a
shitload of guns. Or Chris; Claire didn't know if she'd
find him at the station, but she firmly believed that he
was still alive. If anyone was equipped to handle
himself in a crisis like this one, it was her brother.
Whether or not she found anybody, she shouldn't
take off without telling Leon; if she didn't, blowing
town instead, and he got killed looking for her. . . .
Decision made. Claire walked for the entrance,
carefully skirting the blaze and scanning the flickering
shadows for movement. When she reached the door,
she closed her eyes for a second, one sweating hand on
the latch.
"I can do this," she said quietly, and although
she didn't sound as confident as she would've liked,
at least her voice didn't tremble or break. She
opened her eyes, then the door; when nothing
jumped out at her from the softly lit hall, she slipped
inside.
eight
CHIEF OF POLICE BRIAN IRONS WAS STAND-
ing in one of his private corridors, trying to catch his
breath, when he felt the shuddering impact rumble
through the building. He heard it, too—heard some-
thing. A distant splintering sound, heavy and abrupt.
The roof, he thought distantly, something on the
roof . . .
He didn't bother following the thought to any kind
of conclusion. Whatever had happened, it couldn't
make things any worse.
Irons pushed away from the stone wall with one
well-padded hip, hefting Beverly as gently as he could.
They'd be at the elevator in a moment, then there was
just the short walk to his office; he could rest there,
and then—
"And then," he mumbled, "that's the question,
isn't it? And then what?"
Beverly didn't answer. Her perfect features re-
mained still and silent, her eyes closed—but she
seemed to nestle closer to him, her long, slender body
curling against his chest. It was his imagination,
surely.
Beverly Harris, the mayor's daughter. Youthful,
stunning Beverly, who had so often haunted his guilty
dreams with her blond beauty. Irons hugged her
closer and continued toward the elevator, trying not
to let his exhaustion show in case she woke up.
By the time he reached the lift, his back and arms
were aching. He probably should have left her in his
private hobby room, the room he'd always thought of
as the Sanctuary—it was quiet there, and probably
one of the safest areas in the station. But when he'd
decided to go to the office, to collect his journal and a
few personal items, he found that he simply couldn't
stand to leave her behind. She'd looked so vulnerable,
so innocent; he'd promised Harris that he would
watch out for her, and what if she was attacked in his
absence? What if he came back from the office and she
was just—gone? Gone like everything else . . .
A decade of work. Networking, making the connec-
tions, careful positioning . . . all of it, just like that.
Irons lowered her to the cold floor and opened the
elevator gate, trying desperately not to think about all
that he'd lost. Beverly was the important thing now.
"Going to keep you safe," he murmured, and did
one corner of that perfect mouth rise slightly? Did she
know she was safe, that Uncle Brian was taking care
of her? When she was a child, when he used to
frequent the Harrises' for dinner, she'd called him
that. "Uncle Brian."
She knows. Of course she knows.
He half-dragged her into the lift and leaned her in
the corner, gazing tenderly at her angelic face. He was
suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of almost paternal
love for her, and wasn't surprised to feel tears well up
in his eyes, tears of pride and affection. For days now
he'd been subject to such emotional outbursts—rage,
terror, even joy. He'd never been a particularly emo-
tional man, but had grown to accept the powerful
feelings, even to enjoy them after a fashion; at least
they weren't confusing. He'd also had moments when
he'd been overcome by a kind of strange, creeping
haze, a formless anxiety that left him feeling deeply
unsettled . . . and as bewildered as a lost child.
No more of those. There's nothing else that can go
wrong now; Beverly's with me, and once I collect my
things, we can hide away in the Sanctuary and get
some rest. She'll need time to recover, and I can, can
sort things through. Yes, that's it; things need to be
sorted through.
He blinked the already forgotten tears away as the
metal cage started to rise, unholstering his sidearm
and ejecting the clip to count how many rounds were
left. His private rooms were safe, but the office was
another story; he wanted to be prepared.
The elevator came to a stop and Irons propped
open the gate with one leg before lifting the girl,
grunting with the exertion. He carried her as he would
have carried a sleeping child, her cool, smooth body
limp in his arms, her head rolled back and wobbling
as he walked. He'd picked her up awkwardly, and her
white gown had hiked up, exposing the tight, creamy
skin of her thighs; Irons forced his gaze away, concen-
trating on the panel controls that opened the wall into
his office. Whatever harmless fantasies he'd had be-
fore, she was his responsibility now, he was her
protector, her white knight . . .
He was able to hit the protruding button with one
knee. The wall slid open, revealing his plushly deco-
rated and thankfully empty office; only the blank,
glassy stares of bis animal trophies greeted them.
The massive walnut desk that he'd had imported
from Italy was right in front of him and his stamina
was going fast; Beverly was a petite woman, but he
wasn't in shape the way he used to be. He quickly laid
her on the desk, pushing a cup of pencils to the floor
with his elbow.
"There!" he exhaled deeply, smiling down at her.
She didn't smile back, but he sensed that she would be
awake soon, like before. He reached under the desk
and tapped the wall controls; the panel slid closed
behind them.
He'd been concerned when he'd first found her,
asleep next to Officer Scott in the back hall; George
Scott was dead, covered with wounds, and when Irons
had seen the red splash on Beverly's stomach, he'd
been afraid that she was dead, too. But when he'd
taken her to the Sanctuary, to his safe place, she'd
whispered to him—that she didn't feel well, that she
was hurt, that she wanted to go home . . .
. . . did she? Did she really?
Irons frowned, snapped out of the uncertain memo-
ry by something, something he'd felt when he'd laid
her on his hobby table and straightened her blood-
stained gown, something he couldn't quite recall. It
hadn't seemed important at the time, but now, away
from the hidden comforts of the Sanctuary, it was
nagging at him. Reminding him that he had suffered
one of those confused moments when he'd, when
he'd—
—felt the cold, rubbery jelly of intestine beneath my
fingers—
—touched her.
"Beverly?" he whispered, sitting down behind his
desk when his legs went suddenly weak. Beverly kept
her silence—and a turbulent flood of emotions hit
Irons like a tidal wave, crashing over him, crowding
his mind with images and memories and truths that
he didn't want to accept. Cutting the outside lines
after the first attacks. Umbrella and Birkin and the
walking dead. The slaughter in the garage, when the
bright coppery scent of blood had filled the air and
Mayor Harris had been eaten alive, screaming until
the very end. The dwindling numbers of the living
through the first long and terrible night—and the
cold, brutal realization that had hit him again and
again, that the city—his city—was no more.
After that, the confusion. The strange and hysteri-
cal joy that had come when he'd understood that
there would be no consequences for his actions. Irons
remembered the game he'd played on the second
night, after some of Birkin's pets had found their way
to the station and taken out all but a few of the
remaining cops. He'd found Neil Carson cowering in
the library and had . . . tracked him, hunting the
sergeant down like an animal.
What did it matter? What matters, now that my life
in Raccoon is over?
All that was left, the only thing that he had to hold
on to, was the Sanctuary—and the part of him that
had created it, the dark and glorious heart inside of
his own that he'd always had to keep hidden away.
That part was free now. . . .
Irons looked at the corpse of Beverly Harris, laid
out across his desk like some delicate and fragile
dream, and felt that he might be torn apart by the
feelings of fear and doubt that warred inside of him.
Had he killed her? He couldn't remember.
Uncle Brian. Ten years ago, I was her Uncle Brian.
What have I become?
It was too much. Without taking his gaze from her
lifeless face, he pulled the loaded VP70 from its
holster and began to rub the barrel with numb fingers,
gentle strokes that reassured him somehow as the
weapon turned toward him. When the bore was
pressed firmly against his soft belly, he felt that some
kind of peace might be within reach. His finger settled
across the trigger, and it was then that Beverly whis-
pered to him again, her lips still, her sweet, musical
voice coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.
. . . don't leave me, Uncle Brian. You said you'd keep
me safe, that you'd take care of me. Think of what you
could do now that everyone is gone and there's nothing
to stop you. . . .
"You're dead," he whispered, but she kept talking,
soft and insistent.
. . . nothing to stop you from being fulfilled, truly
fulfilled for the first time in your life . . .
Tortured and aching, Irons slowly, slowly pulled the
nine-millimeter away from his stomach. After a mo-
ment, he rested his forehead against Beverly's shoul-
der and closed his tired eyes.
She was right, he couldn't leave her. He'd prom-
ised—and there was something to what she'd said,
about all of the things he could do. His hobby table
was big enough to accommodate all kinds of
animals . . .
Irons sighed, not sure what to do next—and won-
dering why he was in such a hurry to decide, anyway.
They would rest for a while, perhaps even take a nap
together. And when they awoke, things would be clear
again.
Yes, that was it. They would rest, and then he could
sort things through, take care of business; he was the
chief of police, after all.
Feeling in control of himself again, Brian Irons
slipped into a light and uneasy doze, Beverly's cool
flesh like a balm against his feverish brow.
nine
THANKS TO A VAN PARKED IN THE ALLEY
behind Kendo's, Leon's straight shot to the station
had taken a few detours—through an infested basket-
ball court, another alley, and a parked bus that had
reeked from the sprawled corpses inside. It was a
nightmare, punctuated with whispering howls, the
stink of decay, and once, a distant explosion that
made his limbs feel weak. And though he had to shoot
three more of the walking dead and was wired to the
teeth with adrenaline and horror, he somehow man-
aged to hold on to his hope that the RPD building
would be a safe haven, that there would be some kind
of crisis center set up, manned by police and
paramedics—people in authority making decisions
and marshaling forces. It wasn't just a hope, it was a
need; the possibility that there might be no one left in
Raccoon to take charge was unthinkable.
When he finally stumbled out into the street in
front of the station and saw the burning squad cars, he
felt like he'd been hit in the gut. But it was the sight of
the decaying, moaning police officers staggering
around the dancing flames that truly wiped out his
hope. There were only about fifty or sixty cops on the
RPD force, and a full third of them were lurching
through the wreckage or dead and bloody on the
pavement not a hundred feet from the front door of
the station.
Leon forced the despair away, fixing his sight on the
gate that led to the RPD building's courtyard. Wheth-
er or not anyone had survived, he had to stick with his
plan, put out a call for help—and there was Claire to
think about. Concentrating on his fears would only
make it harder to do whatever needed to be done.
He ran for the gate, nimbly dodging a horribly
burned uniformed cop with blackened bones for
fingers. As he clutched the cold metal handle and
pushed, he realized that some part of him was grow-
ing numb to the tragedy, to the understanding that
these things had once been the citizens of Raccoon.
The creatures that roamed the streets were no less
horrible, but the shock of it all just couldn't be
sustained; there were too many of them.
Not too many here, thank God . . .
Leon slammed the gate shut behind him and
pushed his sweaty hair off his brow, taking a deep
breath of the almost fresh air as he scanned the
courtyard. The small, grassy park to his right was well
lit enough for him to see there were only a few of the
once human creatures, and none close enough to be a
threat. He could see the two flags that adorned the
front of the station house, hanging limp in the still
shadows, and the sight resparked the hope that he
thought he'd lost; whatever else happened, he'd at
least made it to someplace he knew. And it had to be
safer than the streets.
He hurried past a blindly reeling trio of the dead,
easily avoiding them—two men and a woman; all
three could have passed for normal if not for their
mournful, hungry cries and uncoordinated staggers.
They must have died recently—
—but they're not dead, dead people don't gush blood
when you shoot them. Not to mention the walking-
around-and-trying-to-eat-people thing. . . .
Dead people didn't walk . . . and living people
tended to fall down after they'd been shot a few times
with .50 caliber slugs, and didn't put up with their
flesh rotting on their bones. Questions he hadn't yet
had time to ask himself flooded through his mind as
he jogged up the front steps to the station, questions
he didn't have the answers for—but he would soon,
he was sure of it.
The door wasn't locked, but Leon didn't allow
himself to feel surprise; with all he'd been through
since he hit town, he figured that it would be best to
keep his expectations to a minimum. He pushed it
open and stepped inside, Magnum raised and his
finger on the trigger.
Empty. There was no sign of life in the grand old
lobby of the RPD building—and no sign of the
disaster that had overtaken Raccoon. Leon gave up on
not feeling surprised, closing the door behind him and
stepping down into the sunken lobby.
"Hello?" Leon kept his voice low, but it carried,
echoing back to him in a whisper. Everything looked
just as he remembered it; three floors of classically
styled architecture in oak and marble. There was a
stone statue of a woman carrying a water pitcher in
the lower part of the large room, a ramp on either side
leading up to the receptionist's station. The RPD seal
set into the floor in front of the statue gleamed softly
in the diffuse light from the wall lamps, as if it had
just been polished.
No bodies, no blood . . . not even a shell casing. If
there was an attack here, where the hell's the evidence?
Uneasy at the profound silence of the huge cham-
ber, Leon walked up the ramp to his left, stopping at
the counter of the reception desk and leaning over it;
except for the fact that it was unmanned, nothing
seemed to be out of place. There was a phone on the
desk below the counter. Leon picked up the receiver
and cradled it between his head and shoulder, tapping
at the buttons with fingers that felt cold and distant.
Not even a dial tone; all he heard was the sound of his
own heavily thumping heart.
He put the phone down and turned to face the
empty room, trying to decide on where to go first. As
much as he wanted to find Claire, he also desperately
wanted to hook up with some other cops. He'd
received a copy of an RPD memo just a couple of
weeks before, stating that several of the departments
were going to be relocated, but that didn't really
matter; if there were cops hiding in the building, they
probably weren't concerned with sticking close to
their desks.
There were three doors leading away from the lobby
to different parts of the sprawling station, two on the
west side and the other on the east. Of the two on the
west, one led through a series of halls toward the back
of the building, past a couple of filing offices and a
briefing room; the second opened into the uniformed-
officer squad room and lockers, which then connected
into one of the corridors near the stairs to the second
floor. The east door, in fact the whole east side of the
first floor, was primarily for the detectives—offices,
interrogation, and a press room; there was also access
to the basement and another set of stairs on the
outside of the building.
Claire probably came in through the garage . . . or
through the back lot to the roof . . .
Or, she could've circled around and come through
the same door he had—assuming she even made it to
the station; she could be anywhere. And considering
that the building took up almost an entire city block,
that was a lot of ground to cover.
Finally deciding that he had to start somewhere, he
walked toward the squad room for the beat cops,
where his own locker would be. A random choice, but
he'd spent more time there than anywhere else in the
station, interviewing and working through schedul-
ing. Besides, it was closest, and the tomb-like silence
of the oversized lobby was giving him the creeps.
The door wasn't locked, and Leon pushed it open
slowly, holding his breath and hoping that the room
would be as undisturbed and orderly as the lobby.
What he saw instead was the confirmation of his
earlier fears: the creatures had been there—with a
vengeance.
The long room had been trashed, tables and chairs
splintered and overturned everywhere he looked.
Smears of dried blood decorated the walls, splashes of
it in tacky, trailing puddles on the floor, leading
toward—
"Oh, man—"
The cop was sitting against the lockers to his left,
his legs splayed, half-hidden by a smashed table. At
the sound of Leon's voice, he weakly raised one
shaking arm, pointed a weapon vaguely in Leon's
direction—then lowered it again, seemingly ex-
hausted by the effort. His midsection was awash with
oozing blood, his dark features contorted with pain.
Leon was crouching at his side in two steps, gently
touching his shoulder. He couldn't see the wound,
but there was so much blood that he knew it was
bad—
"Who are you?" the cop whispered.
The soft, almost dreamy tone of his voice scared
Leon as much as the still oozing wound and the glassy
look in his dark eyes; the man was slipping, fast.
They'd never formally met, but Leon had seen him
before. The young African-American beat cop had
been pointed out to him as sharp, on the fast track to
detective, Marvin, Marvin Branagh. . . .
"I'm Kennedy. What happened here?" Leon asked,
his hand still on Branagh's shoulder. A sickly heat
radiated through the officer's ragged shirt.
"About two months ago," Branagh rasped, "the
cannibal murders . . . the S.T.A.R.S. found zombies
out at this mansion in the woods. . . ."
He coughed weakly, and Leon saw a small bubble of
blood form at the corner of his mouth. Leon started to
tell him to be still, to rest, but Branagh's faraway gaze
had fixed on his own; the cop seemed determined to
tell the story, whatever it was costing him.
"Chris and the others discovered that Umbrella
was behind the whole thing . . . risked their lives, and
no one believed them . . . then this."
Chris . . . Chris Redfield, Claire's brother.
Leon hadn't made the connection before, although
he'd known something about the trouble with the
S.T.A.R.S. He'd only heard bits and pieces of the
story—the suspension of the Special Tactics and
Rescue Squad after their alleged mishandling of the
murder cases had been the reason the RPD'd been
hiring new cops. He'd even read the names of the
infamous S.T.A.R.S. members in some local paper,
listed along with some fairly impressive career
records—
—and Umbrella runs this town. Some kind of a
chemical leak, something that they tried to cover up by
getting rid of the S.T.A.R.S.—
All of this went through his mind in a split-second;
then Branagh coughed again, the sound even weaker
than before.
"Hang in there," Leon said, and quickly looked
around them for something to use to stop the bleed-
ing, inwardly kicking himself for not having done it
already. A locker next to Branagh was partly open; a
crumpled T-shirt lay at the bottom. Leon scooped it
up and folded it haphazardly, pressing it against
Branagh's stomach. The cop placed his own bloody
hand over the makeshift bandage, closing his eyes as
he spoke again in a wheezing gasp.
"Don't . . . worry about me. There are . . . you
have to try and rescue the survivors. . . ."
The resignation in Branagh's voice was horribly
plain. Leon shook his head, wanting to deny the truth,
wanting to do something to ease Branagh's pain—but
the wounded cop was dying, and there was no one to
call for help.
Not fair, it's not fair—
"Go," Branagh breathed, his eyes still closed.
Branagh was right, there was nothing else Leon
could do—but he didn't, couldn't move for a mo-
ment—until Branagh raised his weapon again, point-
ing it at him with a sudden burst of energy that
strengthened his voice to a rough shout.
"Just go!" Branagh commanded, and Leon stood
up, wondering if he would be as selfless in the same
situation, working to convince himself that Branagh
would make it somehow.
"I'll be back," Leon said firmly, but Branagh's arm
was already drooping, his head settling against his
heaving chest.
Rescue the survivors.
Leon backed toward the door, swallowing heavily
and struggling to accept the change in plan that could
very well kill him—but that he couldn't walk away
from. Official or no, he was a cop. If there were other
survivors, it was his moral and civic duty to try and
help them.
There was a weapons store in the basement, near
the parking garage. Leon opened the door and stepped
back into the lobby, praying that the lockers would be
well stocked—and that there would be somebody left
for him to help.
ten
FROM THE BURNING ROOFTOP, CLAIRE
moved through a snaking hallway littered with bro-
ken glass—and past a very dead cop, a bloody
testament to her fears about the station's safety. She
quickly stepped over the body and moved on, her
nervous tension growing. A cool breeze ruffled
through the shattered windows that lined the hall,
making the darkness alive; there were shiny black
feathers stuck in the streaks of blood that painted the
floorboards, and their soft, wavering dance had her
jerking the semiautomatic toward every shadow.
She passed a door that she thought led back outside
to a set of external stairs, but she kept going, taking a
right toward the center of the building. The way the
helicopter had buried itself in the rooftop was gnaw-
ing at her, inspiring visions of the old station going up
in flames.
From the look of things, maybe that's not such a bad
idea....
Dead bodies and bloody handprints on the walls;
Claire wasn't happy about the idea of touring the
station. Still, death by fire didn't carry much appeal
either, she needed to see how bad it was before she
went looking for Leon.
The corridor dead-ended at a door that felt cool to
the touch. Mentally crossing her fingers, Claire
opened it—and stumbled back as a wave of acrid
smoke washed over her, the smell of burnt metal and
wood thick in the heated air. She dropped to a crouch
and edged forward again, peering down the hall that
stretched off to her right. The hall turned right again
maybe thirty feet down, and although she couldn't see
the fire proper, bright, fiery light was reflected off the
gray paneled walls at the corner. The popping crackle
of the unseen flames was magnified in the tight
corridor, the sound as mindlessly hungry as the
moans of the zombies down in the courtyard.
Well, shit. What now?
There was another door diagonally across from
where she crouched, only a few steps away; Claire
took a deep breath and moved, walking low to stay
beneath the thickening blanket of smoke, hoping she
could find a fire extinguisher—and that a fire extin-
guisher would be enough to put out whatever blaze
the crashed 'copter had created.
The door opened into an empty waiting room—a
couple of green vinyl couches and a rounded counter-
desk, with another door across from the one she'd
entered by. The small room seemed untouched, as
sterile and quietly unassuming as she might have
expected—and unlike just about everywhere else
she'd been tonight, there was no lurking disaster in
the mild shadows thrown by the overhead fluores-
cents, no stench of rot or shuffling zombie.
And no fire extinguisher. . . .
Not in plain sight, anyway. She closed the door on
the smoky corridor and stepped toward the desk,
lifting the entrance flap with the barrel of the gun.
There was an old manual typewriter on the counter—
and next to that, a telephone. Claire grabbed for it,
hoping against hope, but heard only dead air through
the receiver. Sighing, she dropped it and ducked down
to check out the shelves beneath the counter. A phone
book, a few stacks of papers—and then, half-hidden
by a woman's purse on the bottom shelf, was the
familiar red shape she'd been hoping to find, coated
with a thin layer of dust.
"There you are," she murmured, and paused just
long enough to stick the nine-millimeter into her vest
before hefting the heavy cylinder. She'd never used
one before, but it looked simple enough—a metal
handle with a locking pin, a black rubber nozzle
hooked to the side. It was only a couple of feet long,
but it weighed a good forty or fifty pounds; she figured
that meant it was full.
Armed with the extinguisher, Claire stepped back
to the door and started to take short, sharp breaths,
filling her lungs. It made her feel light-headed, but the
hyperventilation would allow her to hold her breath
longer. She didn't want to keel over from smoke
inhalation before she'd had a chance to put it out.
A final deep breath and she opened the door,
crouching her way back into the now noticeably
hotter corridor. The haze of smoke had gotten thicker
too, extending down from the ceiling in a dark and
choking fog at least four feet deep.
Keep low, breathe shallow and watch your step—
She turned the corner and felt a bizarre mix of relief
and sorrow at the sight of the burning wreckage right
in front of her. She bobbed her head and took a small
breath through the fabric of her vest, feeling her skin
flush and tighten from the heat. The fire wasn't as bad
as she'd feared, more smoke than substance and not
much taller or bigger than she was; the flames that
licked up the wall in orange-yellow fingers seemed to
be having trouble catching, stopped by the heavy
wood of a half-smashed door. It was the nose of the
helicopter that drew her attention, the blackened shell
of the smoldering cockpit—and the blackened husk
of the pilot still strapped to the seat, the melted
mouth frozen in a yawning, silent scream. There was
no way to tell if it had been a man or a woman; the
features had been obliterated, running together like
dark tallow.
Claire jerked the metal pin loose from the handle
and aimed the hose at the burning floorboards, where
the flame danced in white and blue. She squeezed the
lever down and a hissing plume of snowy spray
whooshed out, blasting over the debris in a powdery
cloud. Barely able to see through the billowing white-
ness, she directed the hose over everything, dousing
the wreckage liberally with the oxygen killer. Within a
minute, the fire appeared to be out, but she kept up
with the extinguisher until it ran dry.
At the last spluttering cough of spray, Claire let go
of the handle and took a few more shallow breaths,
inspecting the smoking wreck for any spots she'd
missed. Not a flicker, but the wooden door alongside
the helicopter's flocked cockpit was still leaking ten-
drils of black smoke. She leaned closer and saw a tinge
of glowing orange under the charred surface. The area
surrounding the burning wood had already been
torched, but she didn't want to take any chances; she
stepped back and gave the door a solid kick, aiming
for the glowing embers.
Her boot connected squarely with the hot spot, and
the door flew open with a splintering crack, the
scorched wood giving way in a sparking shower of
cinders. A few landed on her bare calf, but she drew
her weapon before stopping to brush them off, more
afraid of what might be waiting behind the ruined
door than a few blisters.
A short, empty hallway, littered with jagged pieces
of splintered wood and hazy with smoke, then a door
at the end on the left; Claire moved toward it, as
much to get to some fresh air as to see where it led.
With the immediate threat of the fire over with, she
had to start looking for Leon—and thinking about
what they'd need to survive. If she could check out a
few of the rooms along the way, maybe she'd be able
to find stuff they could use.
A phone that works, car keys . . . hell, a couple of
machine guns or aflame-thrower would be nice, but I'll
take what I can get.
The plain door at the end of the hall was unlocked.
Claire pushed it open, ready to fire at anything that
moved—
—and stopped, feeling mildly shocked by the bi-
zarre atmosphere of the lavish room. It was like some
parody of a men's club from the fifties, a large office
decorated with an extravagance that bordered on the
ridiculous. The walls were lined with heavy mahogany
bookshelves and matching tables, surrounding a kind
of sitting area made up of padded leather chairs and a
low marble table, all set atop an obviously expensive
oriental rug. An elaborate chandelier hung from the
ceiling, casting a rich, mellow light over it all. Framed
pictures and delicate vases were situated through-
out—but their classic designs were overwhelmed by
the stuffed animal heads and poised, lifeless birds that
dominated the room, most gathered around a massive
desk at the far side—
—oh, Jesus—
Laid out across the desk, like some character from a
gothic horror story, was a beautiful young woman in a
flowing white gown, her guts ripped to bloody shreds.
The corpse was like a centerpiece; the dried and dusty
animals stared down at her with dead glass eyes—
there was a falcon and what looked like an eagle, their
ratty wings spread in simulated flight, as well as a
couple of mounted deer heads and that of a nappy
furred moose. The effect was so creepy and surreal
that for a moment, Claire couldn't breathe—
—and when the high-backed chair behind the desk
swiveled around suddenly, she barely held back a
shriek of superstitious terror, half expecting to see
some vision of dark and grinning death. It was only a
man—but a man with a gun, pointed at her.
Twice in one night, what are the odds—
For a second, neither of them moved—and then
the man lowered his weapon, a sickly half-smile
playing across his pudgy face.
"I'm terribly sorry," he said, his voice as oily and
false as a bad politician's. "I thought you were anoth-
er one of those zombies."
He smoothed his bristly mustache with one thick
finger as he spoke, and although Claire had never met
him before, she suddenly knew who he was; Chris had
bitched about him often enough.
Fat, mustachioed, and as slick as a snake-oil sales-
man—it's the police chief. Irons.
He didn't look good, his cheeks flushed with high
color and his porcine eyes rimmed with puffed white
flesh. The way his gaze darted around the room was
unsettling, as if he was in the grip of some kind of
heavy paranoia. In fact, he looked unbalanced, like he
wasn't all that connected to reality.
"Are you Chief Irons?" she asked, trying to sound
pleasantly respectful as she stepped closer to the desk.
"Yes, that's me," he said smoothly, "and just who
are you?"
Before she could speak, Irons went on, confirming
Claire's suspicions with what he said next—and with
the bitter, petulant tone in which he said it. "No,
don't bother telling me. It makes no difference. You'll
end up like all the others. . . ."
He trailed off, staring down at the dead woman in
front of him with some emotion that Claire couldn't
place. She felt bad for him, in spite of all that Chris
had told her about his rotten personality and profes-
sional incompetence; God only knew what horrors
he'd witnessed, or what he'd had to do to survive.
Is it any wonder that he's having trouble with reality?
Leon and I wandered into this horror show in the last
reel; Irons was here for the previews, which probably
included watching his friends die.
She looked down at the young woman on the desk
and Irons spoke again, his voice somehow sad and
pompous at the same time.
"That's the mayor's daughter. I was supposed to
look out for her, but I failed miserably. ..."
Claire searched for some words of comfort, wanting
to tell him that he was lucky to have lived, that it
wasn't his fault—but as he continued his lament, the
words died in her throat, along with her pity.
"Just look at her. She was a true beauty, her skin
nothing short of perfection. But it will soon putre-
fy ... and within the hour, she'll become one of those
things. Just like all the others."
Claire didn't want to jump to any conclusions, but
the wistful longing in his tone and in his shining,
hungry stare made her skin crawl. The way he was
looking at the dead girl—
—you're imagining things. He's the chief of police,
not some perverted lunatic. And he's the first person
you've met who might be able to give you some kind of
information. Don't waste the opportunity.
"There must be some way to stop it. . . ." Claire
said gently.
"In a manner of speaking. A bullet in the brain—or
decapitation."
He finally looked away from the body, but not at
Claire. He turned to gaze at the stuffed creatures
perched on the edge of his desk, his voice taking on a
resigned but somehow mirthful quality.
"And to think—taxidermy used to be my hobby.
No longer. . . ."
Claire's internal alarms were doing some serious
jangling. Taxidermy? What the hell did that have to
do with the dead human being on his desk?
Irons was finally looking at her, and Claire didn't
like it one bit. His dark and beady gaze was directed
at her face, but he didn't seem to actually see her at
all. For the first time, it occurred to her that he hadn't
asked her one question about how she'd come to be
there or commented on the smoke that had leaked
into his office. And the way he'd talked about the
mayor's daughter . . . no real sorrow at her passing,
only self-pity and some kind of twisted admiration.
Oh, boy. Oh boy oh boy, he's not just out of touch
here, he's on a different goddamn planet—
"Please," Irons said softly. "I'd like to be alone
now."
He sagged down into his chair, closing his eyes, his
head falling back against the padded back as if in
exhaustion. As simply as that, she'd been dismissed.
And although she had a million questions—many of
which she thought he could provide answers for—she
did think that maybe it was for the best if she just got
the hell away from him, at least for now—
A soft creaking sound, behind her and to the left, so
quiet that she wasn't even sure she'd heard it at all.
Claire turned, frowning, and saw that there was a
second door to the office. She hadn't noticed it
before—and that soft, stealthy sound had come from
behind it.
Another zombie? Or maybe somebody hiding. . . ?
She looked back at Irons, and saw that he hadn't
moved. Apparently he hadn't heard anything, and
she'd ceased to exist for him, at least for the moment.
He'd gone back to whatever private world he'd been
in before she stumbled into his office.
So—back the way I came, or do I see what's behind
door number two?
Leon—she needed to find Leon, and she had a
pretty strong feeling that Irons was a creep, whether
he was crazy or not; no great loss that he wasn't up for
joining forces. But if there were other people hiding in
the building, people that she and Leon could help or
who might be able to help them. . . .
It would only take a moment to check. With a last
glance at Irons, sagging next to the corpse of the
mayor's daughter and surrounded by his lifeless ani-
mals, Claire walked to the second door, hoping she
wasn't making a mistake.
eleven
SHERRY HAD BEEN HIDING FOR A LONG TIME
in the police station, for what must have been three or
four days, and hadn't seen her mother yet. Not once,
not even when there had still been a lot of people left.
She'd found Mrs. Addison right after she'd gotten
there—one of the teachers from school—but Mrs.
Addison had died. A zombie had eaten her. And not
long after that, Sherry had found a ventilation shaft
that ran over most of the whole building, and had
decided that hiding was safer than staying with the
grownups—because the adults kept dying, and because
there was a monster in the station even worse than the
zombies or the inside-out men, and she was pretty sure
that the monster was looking for her. That was proba-
bly stupid, she didn't think that monsters picked out
just one person to go for—but then again, she'd never
thought that monsters were real, either.
So Sherry had stayed hidden, mostly in the knight
room; there weren't any dead people there, and the
only way to get in—besides the ventilation shaft
behind the suits of armor—was to go down a long hall
guarded by a giant tiger. The tiger was stuffed, but it
was still scary—and Sherry thought that maybe the
tiger would scare away the monster. Part of her knew
that that was dumb, but it made her feel better
anyway.
Since the zombies had taken over everything in the
police station, she'd spent a lot of time sleeping.
When she was asleep, she didn't have to think about
what might have happened to her parents or worry
about what was going to happen to her. The air shaft
was pretty warm, and she had plenty to eat from the
candy machine downstairs—but she was scared, and
even worse than being scared was being lonely, so
mostly she'd just slept.
She'd been asleep, warm and curled up behind the
knights, when she'd been awakened by a tremendous
crash somewhere outside. She was sure it was the
monster; she'd only caught a glimpse of it once before,
of the giant's broad and terrible back, through a steel
grate—but she'd heard it screaming and howling
through the building many times since then. She knew
that it was terrible, terrible and violent and hungry.
Sometimes it disappeared for hours at a time, letting
her hope that it had given up—but it always came
back, and no matter where Sherry was, it always
seemed to appear somewhere close by.
The loud noise that had ripped her from her
dreamless sleep was like the sound a monster would
make tearing the walls down, and she'd huddled in
her hiding place, ready to dart back into the shaft if
the sound came any closer. It didn't. For a long time
she didn't move, waiting with her eyes squeezed shut,
holding on to her good luck charm—a beautiful gold
pendant that her mother had given her only last week,
so big that it filled up her whole hand. As it had
before, the charm worked; the loud, terrible noise
hadn't been repeated. Or maybe the big tiger had kept
the monster from finding her. Either way, when she'd
heard gentle thumping sounds in the office, she'd felt
safe enough to creep out of the case and go out into
the hall to listen. The zombies and inside-out men
couldn't use doors, and if it was the monster, it would
have come for her already, clawing down doors and
screaming for blood.
It has to be a person. Maybe Mom ...
Halfway down the hall, where it turned right, she'd
heard people talking in the office and felt a burst of
hope and loneliness mixed together. She couldn't tell
what they were saying, but it was the first time she'd
heard anybody who wasn't yelling for maybe two
days. And if there were people talking, maybe it was
because help had finally come to Raccoon.
The army or the government or the Marines, maybe
all of them . . .
Excited, she hurried down the hall and was next to
the big snarling tiger, right by the door, when her
excitement faltered. The voices had stopped. Sherry
stood very still, suddenly anxious. If people had come
to Raccoon to help, wouldn't she have heard the
planes and trucks? Wouldn't there be shooting and
bombs and men with loudspeakers telling everybody
to come out?
Maybe those voices aren't army people at all; maybe
those voices are Bad People. Crazy, like that one
man...
Not long after Sherry had gone into hiding, she'd
seen a terrible thing through a grating that led into a
locker room. A tall man with red hair had been in the
room, talking to himself and rocking back and forth
in a chair. At first, Sherry had thought about asking
him for help, to find her parents—but something
about the way he was talking and giggling and gently
swaying back and forth made her wary, so she'd
watched him for a while from the safe darkness of the
air shaft. He'd been holding a big knife. And after a
long time, still laughing and mumbling and rocking,
he'd stabbed himself in the stomach. Sherry had been
more scared by that man than by the zombies, be-
cause it didn't make sense. He'd been crazy, and he'd
killed himself and she'd crawled away, crying because
it just didn't make any sense.
She didn't want to meet anyone else like that. And
even if the people in the office were okay, they might
take her away from her safe place and try to protect
her—and that would mean her death, because the
monster surely wasn't afraid of adults.
It felt awful to turn away, but there was no other
choice. Sherry started back for the armor room—
Creak!
—and froze as the floor shifted underfoot. The
sound of the creaking board seemed incredibly loud
and she held her breath, clutching her pendant and
praying that the door wouldn't come flying open
behind her, that some crazy wouldn't charge in and—
and get her.
She didn't hear anything, but felt sure that the
pounding of her heart would give her away, it was so
loud. After a full ten seconds, she carefully started
back down the hall, stepping as lightly as she could,
feeling like she was creeping out of a cave filled with
sleeping snakes. The hall back to the armor room
seemed like it was a mile long, and she had to use all
of her willpower not to run once she reached the
turn—but if there was one thing she'd learned from
the movies and TV, it was that running from danger
always meant a horrible death.
When she finally reached the entrance back to the
armor room, she felt like she might just collapse from
relief. She was safe again, she could snuggle back into
the old blanket that Mrs. Addison had found for her
and just—
The door from the office opened, opened and
closed. And a second later, there were footsteps.
Coming for her.
Sherry flew into the armor room, no longer think-
ing about anything at all in the bright and trembling
crush of panic that swept through her. She sprinted
past the three knights, forgetting her safe place be-
cause all she knew was that she had to get away, get as
far away as possible. There was a dark, tiny chamber
past the glass case in the middle of the room and
darkness was what she needed, a shadow to disappear
into—
—and she could hear the running footsteps some-
where behind her, pounding over wood as she hurtled
into the dark room and into the farthest corner.
Sherry crouched down between the dusty brick of the
room's fireplace and the padded chair beside it and
tried to make herself as small as possible, hugging her
knees and hiding her face.
Please please please don't come in, don't see me, I'm
not here—
The running footsteps had come into the armor
room and were slow now, hesitant, moving around
the big glass case in the middle. Sherry thought of her
safe place, the mouth of the ventilation shaft that
could have taken her away, and struggled to hold back
hot tears of self-condemnation. The fireplace room
had no escape; she was trapped.
Each hollow, thumping step brought the stranger
closer to the dark room in which Sherry hid. She
scrunched herself tighter, making promises that she
would do anything, anything at all if only the stranger
would go away—
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Suddenly, the room flashed into blinding bright-
ness, the soft click of the light switch lost beneath
Sherry's terrified cry. She pushed away from her
corner and ran, screaming and unseeing, hoping to get
past the stranger and back to the air shaft—
—and a warm hand grabbed her arm, tight, keeping
her from going one more step. She screamed again,
jerking as hard as she could, but the stranger was
strong—
"Wait!" It was a lady, the voice almost as frantic as
Sherry's hammering heart.
"Let me go," Sherry wailed, but the lady was still
holding on, even pulling her closer.
"Easy, easy—I'm not a zombie, take it easy, it's
okay—"
The woman's voice had turned soothing, the words
crooned gently, the hand on Sherry's wrist warm and
strong. The sweet, musical voice repeated the gentle
words again and again.
"—easy, it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you, you're
safe now."
Sherry finally looked at the lady, and saw how
pretty she was, how her eyes were soft with concern
and sympathy. And just like that, Sherry stopped
trying to get away and felt the hot tears trickle down
her face, tears that she'd been holding back ever since
she'd seen the red-haired man commit suicide. She
instinctively hugged the young, pretty stranger—and
the lady hugged her back, her slender arms tight
across Sherry's trembling shoulders.
Sherry cried for a couple of minutes, letting the
woman stroke her hair and whisper soothing words to
her—and at last, she felt like the worst was over. As
much as she wanted to crawl into the lady's arms and
forget all of her fears, to believe that she was safe, she
knew better. And besides, she wasn't a baby anymore;
she'd turned twelve last month.
With an effort, Sherry stepped away from the
woman and wiped her eyes, looking up into her pretty
face. The woman wasn't that old, maybe only twenty
or so, and was dressed really cool—boots and cutoff
pink denim shorts and a matching vest with no
sleeves. She wore her shiny brown hair in a ponytail,
and when she smiled, she looked like a movie star.
The woman crouched down right in front of
her, still smiling gently. "My name's Claire. What's
yours?"
Sherry felt shy suddenly, embarrassed for running
and then trying to get away from such a nice lady. Her
parents had often told her that she acted like an
emotional baby, that she was "too imaginative" for
her own good, and here was proof; Claire wasn't going
to hurt her, she could tell.
"Sherry Birkin," she said, and smiled at Claire,
hoping that Claire wasn't mad at her; she didn't look
mad. In fact, she looked pleased with Sherry's answer.
"Do you know where your parents are?" Claire
asked, in the same sweet tone.
"They work at the Umbrella chemical plant, just
outside of town," Sherry said.
"Chemical plant... then what are you doing
here?"
"My mom called, and told me to go to the police
station. She said it was too dangerous to stay at
home."
Claire nodded. "From the look of things, she was
probably right. But it's dangerous here, as well. . . ."
Claire frowned thoughtfully, then smiled again.
"You'd better come with me."
Sherry felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach, and
shook her head, wondering how to explain to Claire
that it wasn't a good idea, that it was a very bad idea.
She wanted more than anything not to be alone
anymore, but it just wasn't safe.
If I go with her and the monster finds us. . . .
Claire would be killed. And although Claire was
thin, Sherry was pretty sure that she wouldn't be able
to fit in the ventilation shaft.
"There's something out there," she said finally. "I
saw it, it's bigger than the zombies. And it's coming
after me."
Claire shook her head, opening her mouth to say
something, probably to try and talk her into changing
her mind, when a terrible, furious sound filled the
room, echoing in violent waves from somewhere in
the building. Somewhere close.
"Rrraaahh—"
Sherry felt her blood turn to ice. Claire's eyes went
wide, her skin paling.
"What was that?"
Sherry backed away, breathless, in her mind al-
ready running for the safe place behind the three suits
of armor.
"That's what I was telling you," she gasped out, and
before Claire could stop her, she turned and ran.
"Sherry!"
Sherry ignored the shouted plea, sprinting past the
glass exhibit case for the safety of the air shaft. She
leapt nimbly over the knight's pedestal and dropped
to her hands and knees, ducking her head and scram-
bling into the ancient stone hole set into the base of
the wall.
Her only chance, Claire's only chance, was for
Sherry to get as far away from her as possible. Maybe
they would find each other again when the monster
had gone.
As Sherry crawled quickly through the tight and
winding darkness, she hoped it wasn't already too
late.
twelve
ADA SAT ON THE EDGE OF THE CLUTTERED
desk in the office of the Chief of Detectives, resting
her aching feet and staring blankly at the empty steel
safe in the corner. Her patience was wearing thin. Not
only was the G-Virus sample nowhere to be found,
she was starting to think that Bertolucci had flown the
coop. She'd gone through the break room, the
S.T.A.R.S. office, the library—in fact, she was pretty
sure she'd covered just about everywhere the reporter
would have had easy access to, and had used two full
clips to do it. It wasn't that she was low on ammo, it
was the waste of time that the bullets represented—
twenty-six rounds and no results, except that there
were a dozen more virus-riddled corpses lying
around. And two of Umbrella's freak hybrids. . . .
Ada shuddered, remembering the warped red flesh
and trumpeting shrieks of the bizarre creatures that
she'd capped in the press room. She'd never been
particularly bothered by greed, corporate or other-
wise, but Umbrella had been up to some seriously
immoral experimentation. Trent had warned her
about the Tyrant retrievers—which, thankfully,
hadn't put in an appearance yet—but the long-
tongued, clawed, bloody humanoids were an affront
to even her sensibilities. Not to mention a lot harder
to kill than the virus carriers. If they were T-Virus
products, she'd have to keep her fingers crossed that
Birkin hadn't done anything with his newest creation.
According to Trent, the G series hadn't been put to
use yet, but it was supposed to be twice as potent. . . .
Ada let her gaze wander, taking in the plain,
functional office. It wasn't the most inspiring environ-
ment to take a break in, but at least it was reasonably
gore-free; with the door closed, she could hardly smell
the officers in the main part of the room. They'd been
pretty far gone when she'd put them down, that
bonelessly wet stage that apparently preceded total
collapse.
Not that it matters if I can smell them, my hair and
clothes have absorbed the goddamn smell; when they
start to go bad, it seems to happen with a bang...
She wished she'd bothered to learn more on the
science end; she knew what the T-Virus was used for,
but hadn't thought it necessary to research the physio-
chemical effects. Why bother, when she had no reason
to think that Umbrella had been planning to spill a
shitload of it in their hometown? She was getting
plenty of firsthand information about how well it
worked, but it would have been nice to know exactly
what happened in the infected party's body and mind,
what turned them from a person into a mindless flesh-
eater. Instead, she could only file away her observa-
tions and make guesses at the truth.
From what she'd seen, it took less than an hour for
someone infected to turn zombie. Sometimes the
victim went into a kind of fever-coma first, which
presumably burnt out parts of the brain—and only
added to the impression that they were waking from
the dead when they stood up and started looking for
fresh meat. The symptoms of the virus were the same
for everyone, but not the progression rate; she'd seen
at least three cases where the victim had turned
bloodthirsty within a couple of moments of being
infected, the stage she'd started to think of as "going
cataract." One of the few constants was that their eyes
clouded with a thin film of eggy white mucous when
they turned—and although the physical deterioration
always started immediately, some fell to pieces much
faster than others ...
... and why are you thinking about it? Your job
doesn't include finding a cure, does it?
She sighed, bending over to rub her toes. True
enough. Still, it was something to think about. Focus-
ing on staying alive was tiring and all-encompassing
work; she didn't have a chance to consider the subtle-
ties of the circumstances while clearing out corridors.
She was on break, and she needed to let her brain run
around a bit, ponder a few of the job's more puzzling
aspects.
And there are about a thousand to mull over...
Trent, what Bertolucci should or shouldn't know...
and the S.T.A.R.S.—what the hell had happened to
that merry crew?
From the articles that Trent had included in the
info packet, she knew about the S.T.A.R.S.'s suspen-
sion—and considering what they'd been investigat-
ing, it didn't take a genius to figure out that they'd
been railroaded by Umbrella for uncovering part if
not all of the bioweapon operations. Umbrella had
probably offed them by now, if they hadn't gone into
hiding—and she had to wonder if Trent had played
any part in the S.T.A.R.S.'s little misadventure, or if
he'd tried to contact them before or after.
Not that he would've told her; Trent was an enigma,
to be sure. She'd only had one actual meeting with
him, although he'd contacted her several times prior
to her leaving for Raccoon, mostly by phone—and
although she'd always prided herself on her ability to
read people, she knew absolutely nothing about where
his interests lay, why he wanted the G-Virus or what
his gripe with Umbrella was about. It was obvious
that he had some inside connection, he knew too
much about the company's workings—but if that was
the case, why not just pick up his own goddamn
sample and then quit? Hiring an outside agent was the
act of someone trying to avoid implication—but
implication of what?
Ours is not to question why. . . .
A good principle to live by; she also wasn't getting
paid to figure out Trent. She doubted she'd be able to
even if she was getting paid for it; she'd never met
such a supremely self-controlled man as Mr. Trent. In
every interaction they'd had, she'd gotten the feeling
that he had been smiling inside, as if he knew some
intensely pleasurable secret that no one else was privy
to—and yet somehow, he hadn't come across as
arrogant or overblown. He was a cool one, his genial-
ity so natural that she'd been vaguely intimidated; she
might not have been able to pick up on his motives,
but she'd seen that calm humor before—it was the
real face of true power, of a man with a plan and the
means to implement it.
So has the spill upset his plans, whatever they are?
Or was he prepared for this contingency... ?He may
not have planned it, but I can't imagine that "caught
unawares" is anywhere in Trent's vocabulary....
Ada leaned back, rolling her head tiredly before
pushing herself off the desk and stepping back into
her uncomfortable shoes. Enough down time, she
couldn't spare her aches and pains more than a few
minutes and didn't expect to figure out much of
anything until she was well away from Raccoon. She
still had a couple of areas to check for Bertolucci
before heading into the sewers, and she'd noticed that
some of the first-floor window barricades weren't as
solid as she might have hoped; she didn't want to end
up blocked out of a path by a new group of carriers
from outside.
There were the "secret" passages on the east side,
and the holding cells downstairs past the parking
garage. If she couldn't find him in either of those
places, she'd have to assume he'd left the station and
concentrate her efforts on obtaining the sample.
She decided to try the basement first; it seemed
unlikely that he'd stumbled across the hidden corn-
dors. From what she'd read of his work, he wasn't a
good enough reporter to find his own ass. And if he
was hiding in or near the holding cells, she wouldn't
have to spend any more time roaming the station,
facing the inevitable invasion; the entrance into the
subbasement was downstairs, so barring any compli-
cations, she could head straight for the lab.
Ada walked out of the office, wrinkling her nose at
the fresh burst of rotting smell pushed at her by the
lazily spinning ceiling fans. There had to be seven or
eight bodies in the desk-filled room, all of them cops,
and at least the three that she'd shot had been fairly
rank...
. . . and didn't I leave five carriers still walking
around in here when I came through before?
Ada paused just outside the large and open room,
looking back in from the narrow connecting corridor
that led to the back stairs. Had there been five? She
knew she'd capped a couple on her first visit; the rest
had been too slow to hassle with, and she thought
there'd been five of them. And yet she'd only had to
knock off three when she had returned for her im-
promptu break.
There were five. I may not be at peak, but I can still
count.
She wasn't in the habit of doubting her ability to
keep track of such things, and the fact that she'd only
just noticed was a sign of how tired she was; two days
ago, she would have made the observation immedi-
ately. There was no way to tell if the additional
corpses had been shot or had simply disintegrated on
their own without exposing herself to contact—they
were too messed up; but it would be wisest to assume
that there were still a few survivors wandering
around.
Not for long, one way or another....
Whether or not the zombies managed to break
through, Umbrella would act soon, if they hadn't
already. What had happened in Raccoon was a share-
holder's worst nightmare, and Umbrella certainly
wasn't going to ignore the problem; they'd probably
already worked up a fail-safe disaster and prepared
their own spin to feed to the press. And it was a
foregone conclusion that they'd try to salvage Birkin's
synthesis before putting their fail-safe into effect,
which meant that she'd have to be very careful. Birkin
had apparently been somewhat secretive about his
work, and Trent had relayed that Umbrella would
eventually send in a retrieval team ... with Raccoon
in ashes, that eventuality had probably been moved
forward a few notches.
A team of human beings, hopefully. I can handle
that. A Tyrant, though ... 7 don't need that kind of
pain.
Ada turned away from the room, walking toward
the closed door that would lead her to the basement
steps. Tyrant was the code name for a particular series
in Umbrella's organic weapons research, a series that
embodied the most destructive applications of the T-
Virus. According to Trent, the White Umbrella scien-
tists—the ones working in the secret labs—had just
started tests on a kind of humanoid bloodhound,
designed to hunt down any assigned scent or sub-
stance it had been encoded for with relentless and
inhuman capabilities. A Tyrant retriever, a nearly
indestructible construct of infected flesh and surgi-
cally implanted wiring—just the kind of thing that
they might send in to find, say, a sample of the G-
Virus....
Once she collected Trent's sample, she was history,
paid and drinking margaritas on a beach somewhere.
And anything she might or might not feel about it,
about how many innocents had died or what Trent
wanted the G-Virus for—it was just one more thing
to put on her list of things the job didn't call for.
Her defenses safely in place, Ada started for the
basement to see if she could find the troublesome
reporter.
Leon stood in the ransacked basement weapons
locker, adjusting the holster straps and thinking about
where Claire might be. From what little he'd seen so
far, the station wasn't too bad. Cold and dim and
stinking of the bodies heaped in the hallways, but not
as actively dangerous as the streets. It wasn't much to
be grateful for, but he'd take what he could get.
He'd killed two of his fellow officers and a woman
in the tatters of a traffic patrol uniform on his way to
the basement—the cops upstairs and the woman just
outside the morgue, a few yards from the small room
that housed the RPD armament. Only three zombies
since he'd reached the station, not including the few
he'd been able to avoid in the detectives' room—but
he'd passed over a dozen corpses on the short journey
and had been able to make out the bullet holes on
about half of them, through the eyes or directly to the
temple. Between the cleanly "dispatched" creatures
and the number of weapons missing from the lockers,
he dared to hope that Branagh had been right about
there being survivors.
Marvin Branagh ... probably dead by now. Does
that mean he'll turn into a zombie?If Umbrella's really
behind all this, it has to be some kind of a plague or
disease, they're a pharmaceutical company—so how
do you catch it? Is it a contact thing, or can you get it
from taking a deep breath—
Leon dropped that train of thought, fast; as cool
and humid as the basement was, the thought that he
could be infected by the zombie sickness made him
break out in a sudden feverish sweat. What if all of
Raccoon was still hot, and he'd caught it just driving
into town? The cluttered shelves of the storage room
seemed to close in just a bit, in an anxiety flash of epic
proportions.
But before real panic set in, he heard his mind's
voice remind him of the reality—and the acceptance
of the reality came with it, allowing him to let go of
the fear.
If you're sick, you're sick. You can eat a bullet before
it gets bad. If you're not sick, maybe you can survive to
tell your grandkids about all this. Either way, there's
probably nothing you can do about it now—except try
to be a cop.
Leon nodded to himself, sighing. A better plan than
worrying about it, and he now had the equipment to
boost his chances. The electronic lock for the weapons
store had been shot through, saving him from having
to go searching for a key card or shooting it himself;
the door had obviously been pried open, the external
locks and handle practically shredded. On his first dig
through the room, he'd been disappointed, and not a
little freaked. There had been no handguns at all and
very little ammo left in the dented green lockers—but
he had found a box of shotgun shells, and after a
second, more desperately thorough search, he'd un-
covered a twelve-gauge hidden behind a high stack of
boxes. There were a couple of shoulder harnesses for
the Remington model still hanging on a wall hook, as
well as a bigger utility belt than the one he already
wore; it even had a sidepack deep enough to hold all
of the loaded Magnum clips.
With a final cinch on the harness, he decided that it
would be best to start searching the most obvious
places first, every connecting corridor from every
possible entrance. He'd head back to the lobby first,
find something to leave a note on—
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Shots fired, close, and the echoing tone said it was
the garage just down the hall. Leon yanked the
Magnum out and ran for the door, precious seconds
wasted as he fumbled at the mangled handle.
The hall was clear, except for the dead traffic cop on
the floor to his right. Straight ahead was the entrance
to the parking garage, and Leon hurried toward it,
reminding himself that he wanted to go in easy, that
he didn't want to get shot by a panicked gunman.
Take it slow, get a good look before you move,
identify yourself clearly—
The door, set into the wall to his right, was standing
ooen—and as Leon darted a look into wide and open
space, his body shielded by the concrete-block wall,
he saw something that startled him into forgetting
about the shooter.
The dog. It's the same goddamn dog.
Impossible—but the sprawled, lifeless animal in
the middle of the car-lined chamber looked the same.
Even with the barest glimpse he'd had before, the
slimy wet demon in canine form that had nearly
scared him into a crash ten miles outside the city
could have come from the same litter. Beneath the
sputtering fluorescent strips that lit the cold, oil-
stained garage, Leon could see how truly abnormal it
was.
There didn't seem to be anything moving, and no
sound except for the buzz of lights. Still holding the
Magnum ready, Leon stepped into the garage, deter-
mined to get a closer look at the creature—and saw a
second one next to a parked squad car, apparently just
as dead as the first. Both lay in sticky red pools of
their own blood, their long, skinned-looking limbs
splayed brokenly.
Umbrella. The wild animal attacks, the disease—
how long has this shit been going on? And how did they
manage to keep it quiet after all those murders?
What was even more confusing was why Raccoon
wasn't crawling with support services already; Um-
brella may have been able to keep their involvement
with the "cannibal" murders silent, but how could
they keep Raccoon's citizens from calling for help
from outside the city?
And these dogs, like carbon copies . . . something
else that Umbrella made up in their labs?
He took another step toward the fallen dog-things,
frowning, not liking the dark conspiracy theories that
were forming in his thoughts but unable to ignore
them. What he liked even less was the look of the oil
stains on the concrete floor; they were rust-colored—
and there were too many of the dried splotches for
him to count. He bent down to get a closer look, so
intent on putting to rest a sudden terrible suspicion
that he didn't register the shot until he heard the high,
singing whine when it blew past his head.
Bam!
Leon spun left, bringing the Magnum up and shout-
ing at the same time—
"Hold your fire!"
—and saw the shooter lowering her weapon, a
woman in a short red dress and black leggings stand-
ing by a van against the far wall. She started walking
toward him, her slender hips rolling smoothly, her
head high and shoulders back. As if they were at a
cocktail party.
Leon felt a rush of anger, that she could seem so
calm after very nearly killing him—but as she got
closer, he found himself wanting to forgive her. She
was beautiful, and wore an expression of genuine
pleasure at seeing him; a welcome sight after so much
death.
"Sorry about that," she said. "When I saw the
uniform, I thought you were another zombie."
She was Asian-American, fine-boned but tall, her
short hair a thick and glossy black. Her deep, satiny
voice was almost a purr, a strange contrast to the way
she looked at him. The slight smile she wore didn't
seem to touch her almond-shaped eyes, which were
scrutinizing him carefully.
"Who are you?" Leon asked.
"Ada Wong." That throaty purr again. She tilted
her head, still smiling.
"I'm Leon Kennedy," he said reflexively, not sure
what to ask or where to start. "I—what are you doing
down here?"
Ada nodded toward the van behind her, an RPD
transport wagon that was blocking the holding cell
area. "I came to Raccoon looking for a man, a
reporter named Bertolucci; I have reason to think that
he's in one of the cells, and I think he might be able to
help me find my boyfriend. . . ."
Her smile faded, her sharp, almost electric gaze
meeting his. . . . "And I think he knows all about
what happened here. Would you help me move the
van?"
If there was a reporter locked up on the other side
of the garage wall who could tell them anything at all,
Leon was eager to meet him. He wasn't sure what to
make of Ada's story, but couldn't imagine why she
would lie about anything. The station wasn't safe, and
she was looking for survivors, just as he was.
"Yeah, okay," he said, feeling caught off guard by
her smoothly direct manner. It felt like she had taken
control of their meeting, some subtle but deliberate
manipulation that had put her in charge—and from
the casual way she turned and walked back to the van,
as if there was no question that he would follow, he
thought she knew it.
Don't be paranoid; strong women do exist. And the
more people we can find, the more help I can get to look
for Claire.
Maybe it was time to stop making plans, and just
try to keep up. Leon bolstered the Magnum and went
after her, hoping that the reporter was where Ada
thought he was—and that things would start making
sense, sooner rather than later.
THIRTEEN
SHERRY BIRKIN WAS GONE, AND CLAIRE
couldn't fit herself into the ventilation duct to go
after her. Whatever or whoever had screamed and
scared the little girl so badly hadn't put in an
appearance, but Sherry was history, maybe still
crawling frantically through some dark and dusty
tunnel. She had apparently been hiding by the duct
for a while; there were empty candy-bar wrappers
and a musty old blanket stuffed in the opening, the
pathetic little hideaway tucked behind three standing
suits of armor.
Once she'd realized that Sherry wasn't coming
back, Claire had hurried back to Irons's office, hoping
that he might be able to tell her where the duct let out,
but Irons was gone—along with the body of the
mayor's daughter.
Claire stood in the office, watched over by the
dumb glass eyes of the morbid decor, and felt really
uncertain for the first time since she'd hit town. She'd
started out to find Chris, a goal that had expanded to
include worries about zombie dodging, hooking up
with Leon, and avoiding creepy Chief Irons, pretty
much in that order. But in the few moments between
meeting the little girl and that strange, howling
scream, her priorities had shifted dramatically. A
child was caught up in this nightmare, a sweet, little
kid who believed that there was a monster stalking
her.
Maybe there is. If I can accept that Raccoon's got
zombies, why not monsters? Hell, why not vampires or
killer robots?
She wanted to find Sherry, and she didn't know
how to start. She wanted her big brother, but was just
as clueless as to where he might be—and she had
begun to wonder if he knew anything about what had
happened to Raccoon.
The last time she'd talked to him, he'd avoided her
questions about why the S.T.A.R.S. had been sus-
pended, insisting that it wasn't anything to worry
about—that he and the team had run into some
political trouble at the office and it was all going to be
sorted out. She was used to his protectiveness, but
thinking back, hadn't he seemed overly evasive? And
the S.T.A.R.S. had been investigating the cannibal
murders, it wasn't much of a stretch to connect the
past flesh-eating activity with the current...
. . . which means what? That Chris uncovered some
evil plot and was hiding it?                                        .
She didn't know. All that she knew was that she   j
didn't believe he was dead, and that for now finding
Chris or Leon would have to take a back seat to
finding Sherry. As bad as things were, Claire had
defenses—she had a gun, she had at least a little
emotional maturity, and after nearly two years of
daily five-mile runs, she was in excellent shape. But
Sherry Birkin couldn't be older than eleven or twelve,
and seemed frail in every sense of the word, from the
dirt in her pixie blond hair to the desperate anxiety in
her wide blue eyes—she had inspired all of Claire's
protective instincts—
Thump!
A heavy, hollow vibration rattled through the ceil-
ing, making the intricate chandelier in Irons's office
tremble. Claire reflexively looked up, gripping her
handgun. There was nothing to see but wood and
plaster, and the sound didn't repeat itself.
Something on the roof.. . but what could have
made a noise like that? An elephant being air-dropped?
Maybe it was Sherry's monster. The vicious scream
they'd heard back in the private exhibit room had
come through a duct or the fireplace, the origin of the
cry impossible to pin down—but it could have been
the roof. Claire wasn't particularly keen on meeting
up with whatever had screamed, but Sherry had
seemed certain that the creature was following
her. . .
. . . so find the screamer, find the girl? Not my idea of
the perfect plan, but I don't have much else to go on at
this point; it might be the only way to find her.
Or maybe it was Irons up there—and although her
meeting with him had left a slimy taste in her mouth,
she regretted not having tried to get more information
out of him. Crazy or not, he hadn't struck her as
stupid; it might not be a bad idea to find him again, at
least to ask some questions about the ventilation
system.
She wouldn't know anything until she checked it
out. Claire turned and went to the office door that
opened into the outer corridor, where she'd put out
the helicopter fire. The smoke had thinned in the
adjoining hall, and although the air was still warm, it
wasn't the heat of a fresh blaze. In that, at least, she'd
been successful. . . .
Claire stepped back into the main hall, averting her
eyes from what was left of the pilot—
—and craa-ack!
—She froze, and heard a massive splintering of
wood followed by the thick, ponderous steps of some-
one who must be huge moving through the corridor
past the turn, the sounds deliberate and thundering.
Guy must weigh a ton, and oh Jesus tell me that
wasn't a door being torn apart—
Claire shot a look back down the small hallway to
Irons's office, her instincts telling her to run, her brain
reminding her that it was a dead end, her body
paralyzed between the two—
—and the biggest man she'd ever seen stepped into
view, shadowed by the thin haze of smoke drifting
through the hall. He was dressed in a long army-green
overcoat that only accented his size, and was as tall as
an NBA star—taller, but with proportionate bulk. A
thick utility belt was wrapped around his waist, and
though she didn't see any weapons, she could feel the
violence radiating off him in invisible waves. She
could just make out his sickly white blur of a face, the
hairless, sloping skull—and quite suddenly, Claire
was certain that he was a monster, a killer with black
gloved fists, each as big as a human head—
Shoot! Shoot it!
Claire aimed but hesitated, terrified of making a
horrible mistake—until it took one massive step
toward her on tree-trunk legs, and she heard the
crunch of denting wood beneath its booted Franken-
stein feet, and saw the black eyes, black and rimmed
with red. Like lava-filled pits in a misshapen white
boulder, blank but not at all blind, his gaze found
hers—and he raised one meaty clenched fist, the
threat unmistakable.
—shootshootshoot—
She squeezed the trigger, one, two times, and saw
the impact—a flap of its lapel blew into shreds just
below his collarbone, the second shot slicing cleanly
through one side of the neck—
—and he took another step, not a flicker of expres-
sion passing over his rough-hewn features, the fist still
raised, seeking a target, seeking to crush—
The black, smoking hole in its throat wasn't
bleeding.
Oh SHIT!
In a rush of adrenaline-boosted dread, Claire
pointed the handgun at the creature's heart and
pulled the trigger repeatedly, the giant taking another
step, striding into the stream of explosive fire without
flinching—
—and she lost track of the shots, unable to believe
that it could still be coming, less than ten feet away as
the rounds hammered its mammoth chest—
—and the gun clicked empty, even as the monster
stopped in its thundering tracks, swaying from side to
side like a tall building in a high wind. Without taking
her shocked gaze from the reeling giant, Claire
grabbed another clip from her vest and fumbled
through reloading, her brain crazily trying to name
this walking abortion.
Terminator, Frankenstein's monster, Dr. Evil, Mr.
X—
Whatever it was supposed to be, the seven-plus
semi-jacketed rounds to the chest had finally taken
effect. Silently, the towering creature slumped to his
right, falling heavily against one smoke-blackened
wall and sagging there—not crumpling, but not mov-
ing, either.
Weird angle, that's all, he's dead, just propped up by
his own weight—
Claire didn't move any closer, keeping the handgun
leveled at the motionless giant. Was this the screamer?
For as powerful and inhuman as it looked, she didn't
think so; this was no primal, furious demon, howling
for blood. Mr. X was more like some soulless ma-
chine, bloodless flesh that could ignore pain ... or
embrace it.
"Dead now, doesn't matter," Claire whispered, as
much to reassure herself as to cut off the relentless
stream of useless thought. She had to think, to figure
out what this meant—this wasn't some freak zombie
mutation, so what the hell was it? Why didn't it fall
down? She'd emptied a mostly full clip—would
somebody hear the shots, would Sherry or Irons or
Leon or whoever else might be lurking around the
station come find her? Should she stay where she was?
The creature that she'd already started to think of
as Mr. X wasn't breathing, its muscular body per-
fectly still, its face as closed as death. Claire bit her
lower lip, staring at the still impossibly standing,
leaning creature, trying to think through her confused
fear—
—and saw his eyes open, his shiny black and red
eyes. Without so much as a wince of pain or effort,
Mr. X swayed back to a stand, blocking the hall, his
giant hands raising again—
—and with a mighty swing, he crashed his fists
through the air, his long arms whipping just in front
of her as she stumbled back. The momentum was
enough for both of his huge hands to plunge into the
wall across from where he'd leaned. The impact
buried his fists, his arms stuck in the wood and plaster
halfway to his elbows.
Me, could've been ME—
Back through Irons's office and she'd be trapped.
Without giving the matter any further thought, Claire
moved, sprinting toward Mr. X. She flew past him,
her right arm actually brushing against his heavy coat,
her heart skipping a beat as the material wisped
across her skin.
She ran, hung a left and dashed down the hazy hall,
trying to remember what was past the waiting room,
trying not to hear the unmistakable sounds of move-
ment behind her as Mr. X jerked his hands free.
Jesus, what is that THING—
Back through the waiting room, slamming the door
behind her as she ran, Claire decided that she would
decide later. She ran, not letting herself think any-
thing at all but how to run faster.
Ben Bertolucci was in the last cell in the room
farthest from the garage, crashed out on a metal cot
and snoring lightly. Keeping her expression carefully
neutral, Ada decided to let Leon wake him up. She
didn't want to seem overly eager, and if there was one
thing she knew about men, it was that they were easier
to handle when they thought they were in control.
Ada looked up at Leon with a patience she didn't feel
and waited.
They'd checked out an empty kennel and a winding
concrete hall before finding him, and though the cold,
dank air reeked of blood and virus decay, they hadn't
come across any bodies—which was strange, consid-
ering the slaughter that Ada knew had occurred in the
dank garage. She thought about asking Leon if he
knew what had happened, but decided that the less
they spoke, the better; there was no point in letting
him get used to having her around. She'd seen the
manhole in the kennel, rusting and set into a dark
corner, and been gratified to see a crowbar on an open
shelf nearby. With Bertolucci snoozing in front of
them, Ada felt like things were finally starting to pick
up—
"Let me guess," Leon said loudly, and reached out
to thump on the metal bars with the butt of his gun.
"You must be Bertolucci, right? Get up, now."
Bertolucci groaned and sat up slowly, rubbing at his
stubbled jaw. Ada wanted to smile, watching him
frown wearily in their direction; he looked like shit—
his clothes rumpled, his lank ponytail frazzled.
Still wearing his tie, though. The poor slob probably
thinks it makes him look more like a real reporter. . . .
"What do you want? I'm trying to sleep here." He
sounded grouchy, and again Ada had to suppress a
smile. It served him right for being so difficult to find.
Leon glanced at Ada, looking a trifle uncertain. "Is
this the guy?"
She nodded, realizing that Leon probably thought
Bertolucci was a prisoner. Their conversation would
dispel that particular notion pretty fast, but she didn't
want Leon to know more than he had to; she'd have to
choose her words carefully.
"Ben," she said, letting her voice carry a hint of
desperation. "You told the city officials that you knew
something about what's been going on, didn't you?
What did you tell them?"
Bertolucci stood up and glared at her, his lips
curling. "And who the hell are you?"
Pretending that she hadn't heard, Ada upped the
desperation, but just a hair; she didn't want to over-
play the helpless female bit, it kind of clashed with the
fact that she'd survived this long.
"I'm trying to find a—friend of mine, John Howe.
He was working for a branch office of Umbrella based
in Chicago, but he disappeared several months ago—
and I heard a rumor that he's here, in this city ..."
She trailed off, watching Bertolucci's expression.
He knew something, no question—but she didn't
think he was going to give it up.
"I don't know anything," he said gruffly. "And even
if I did, why would I want to tell you?"
Original. If the cop wasn't here, I'd probably just
shoot him. Actually, she probably wouldn't; Ada
wasn't into killing for the fun of it, and thought that
she could probably get it out of him using one of her
more persuasive methods—if her feminine charms
didn't work, there was always a shot to the kneecap.
Unfortunately, she couldn't do anything with Officer
Leon hanging around. She hadn't planned on their
encounter, but for the moment, she was stuck with
him.
The cop obviously wasn't happy with the reporter's
responses. "Okay, I say we leave him in there," he
growled, talking to Ada but staring at Bertolucci with
undisguised irritation.
Bertolucci half-smiled, reaching into one pocket
and pulling out a set of silver cell keys on a thick ring.
Ada wasn't surprised, but Leon looked even more
pissed off.
"Fine by me," Bertolucci said smugly. "I'm not
about to leave this cell, anyway. It's the safest place in
the building. There are more than just zombies run-
ning around here, believe you me."
From the way he said it, Ada thought she'd proba-
bly have to kill him after all. Trent's instructions had
been clear—if Bertolucci knew anything about Bir-
kin's work on the G-Virus, he was to be disposed of;
why, exactly, she wasn't sure, but that was the job. If
she could just get a few moments alone with him,
she'd be able to ascertain how much he actually knew.
The question was, how? She didn't want to shoot
Leon; as a rule, she didn't kill innocents—and be-
sides, she liked cops. Not necessarily the brightest lot,
but anyone who took a job that required putting his or
her life on the line had her respect. And he had great
taste in weaponry—the Desert Eagle was top of the
line . . .
. . . so why rationalize? I ditch him first and then
circle back, doesn't mean I'm going soft—
"Ggrraaaa!"
A violent, inhuman shriek pierced the tense silence.
Ada snapped her Beretta around, aiming at the open
gate that led back through the empty cell-block area.
Whatever it was, it was somewhere in the basement—
"What was that?" Leon breathed from behind her,
and Ada wished she knew the answer. The still
resonating echo of that furious scream was like noth-
ing she'd heard before—and nothing she expected to
hear, even knowing about Umbrella's research.
"Like I said, I'm not leaving this cell," Bertolucci
said, his voice breaking slightly. "Now get out of here
before you lead it right to me!"
Sniveling coward—
"Look, I may be the only cop left alive in this
building," Leon said, and something about the com-
bination of fear and strength in his tone made Ada
shoot a look back at him. The officer's gaze was fixed
on Bertolucci, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding.
". . . so if you want to live, you're gonna have to
come with us."
"Forget it," Bertolucci snapped. "I'm staying here
'til the cavalry shows up—and if you're smart, you'll
do the same thing."
Leon shook his head. "It could be days before
anyone comes, our best chance is to find a way out of
Raccoon—and you heard that scream. Do you really
want to get a visit from whatever made it?"
She was impressed; some Umbrella freak could be
lurching its way toward them even now, and Leon
was actually trying to save the reporter's worthless
hide.
"I'll take the risk," said Bertolucci. "And good luck
getting out, you're gonna need it. . . ."
The rumpled reporter stepped up to the bars,
looking back and forth between them, running a hand
over his greasy hair.
"Look," he said, his voice softening. "There's a
kennel in the back of the building, with a manhole in
it. You can get to the sewers from there, it's probably
the fastest way out of the city."
Ada sighed inwardly. Terrific; so much for her
hidden route to the lab. If she dumped Leon now, it
would take him about five minutes to find her.
You can always kill him, if it comes to that, Or...
you can get him lost in the sewers and come back for
Bertolucci while he's clearing the path for you.
Unlike Bertolucci, she didn't want to run into
whatever had screamed—and now that she knew he
was staying put, luring the cop away was the next
logical step.
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
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.
FIFTEEN
LEON FOUND ADA IN THE KENNEL, STRAIN-
ing 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. Sherry
flew 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,
j'H__ril 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 softly
that 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-  j
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 arm
around 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 j
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.
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
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.
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.
"/ 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.
Off get it OFF—
She fell backwards, slapping at the creature that
had already reached her shoulder and was skittering
toward her face, toward her mouth—
—and then Leon was grabbing her, roughly pulling
her up with one hand as he snatched at the animal
with the other. Ada stumbled against him, clutching
at his waist to keep from falling. The bug clung
tenaciously to the tight fabric of her dress, but Leon
had a good grip. He tore it away, shouting as he flung
the flailing thing across the room.
"The Magnum!"
The weapon was stuck in Leon's belt. Ada jerked it
free, saw the creature land near the giant, motionless
heap that had birthed it, blasted to death by Leon—
—and fired, managing to get a clean shot despite
how off-balance she was, how deeply unnerved she
was by how close she'd come to being implanted. The
heavy round clanged against the floor, rust chips
spattering up—and the creature was blown into an
ugly stain against the back wall. Obliterated.
Nothing moved, and the two of them just stood for
a moment, leaning against each other like survivors of
some sudden, terrible accident—which, in a way,
they were. The entire firefight had taken place in less
than a minute, and they had come out unscathed—
but Ada wasn't going to kid herself about how close it
had been, or what they had just managed to destroy.
G-Virus.
She was sure of it; the T-Virus couldn't have
created such a complicated creature, not without a
team of surgeons—and they'd seen it growing; how
big, how powerful would the creature have become if
they hadn't walked in when they had? The beast
might have been some early G-strain experiment, but
what if it had been the result of a leak? What if there
were more of them?
The sewers, the factory, the underground levels—
dark, shadowy places, secret places, where anything
could be growing. . . .
Whatever the situation, the trip to the labs wasn't
looking like a walk anymore—and Ada was suddenly
very glad that Leon had decided to come along. Since
he was so goddamn insistent on going first, if some-
thing attacked, she'd have a better chance of surviv-
ing—
"Are you okay? Did it hurt you?"
Leon, one arm still supporting her, looking into her
eyes with a heartfelt concern. Ada realized that she
could smell him, a clean, soapy smell, and pushed
herself away. She handed the Magnum back to him
and straightened her dress, studiously inspecting it for
rips to avoid looking at him.
"Thanks, I'm fine. Don't sweat it."
It came out harsher than she meant it to, but she
was rattled, and not just by the implant's vicious
attack. She glanced at him, and wasn't sure how to
feel when she saw that her response had caught him
off guard. He blinked slowly, and a kind of coolness
settled into his gaze, indicating a strength of character
that she hadn't bothered to give him credit for.
"Paintball, huh?" he said mildly, and without an-
other word, he turned to pick up the package she'd
planted.
Ada stared after him, telling herself how absolutely
ridiculous it was to care what he thought of her. They
were about to embark on a journey in which she
might have to desert him, or watch him sacrifice his
life in order to save her own . . .
. . . or kill him myself. Let's not forget that, friends
and neighbors. So who gives a shit if he thinks I'm an
ungrateful bitch?
Straight up. She should thank him, for reminding
her.
Ada stooped down to retrieve the shotgun, feeling
like she needed to do a better job of keeping her
priorities straight—and feeling an emptiness inside
that she hadn't noticed in a long, long time.
TWENTY
MR. IRONS HAD BEEN A VERY BAD MAN. A
sick man. Sherry supposed she'd known it all along on
some level, but seeing his secret torture chamber, like
some mad doctor's workshop, made it a lot more real.
The room was just gross, bones and bottles and a
smell even worse than the zombies. Perhaps that was
why seeing the shape on the floor, the incomplete
body shape beneath the bloodstained tarp, didn't
bother her half as much as Claire seemed to think it
would. Sherry stared at it, wondering what had hap-
pened exactly.
"Come on, sweetie, let's get going," Claire said, and
the forced note of brightness in her voice told Sherry
that Mr. Irons had been severely messed up. All Claire
had told her was that Mr. Irons had attacked her, and
then something had attacked him, and that there was
a chance they could get somewhere safe if they went
down into the basement. Sherry had been so relieved
to see Claire at all that she hadn't bothered to ask
questions.
Not big enough to be a whole person under there . . .
did he get eaten? Or chopped into pieces?
"Sherry? Let's go, okay?"
Claire laid a hand on her shoulder, gently pulling
her away from what was left of the police chief. Sherry
let herself be led toward the dark hole in the corner,
deciding that it was best to keep her questions to
herself. She thought about saying that she didn't care
that Mr. Irons was dead, but she didn't want to
appear rude or disrespectful. Besides which, Claire
was trying to take care of her, and Sherry didn't mind
that at all.
Claire went down the ladder first, and after a
second, called up to her that it was safe to come down.
Sherry stepped carefully on the metal rungs, feeling
really happy for the first time in days. They were
doing something, they were getting out of the RPD
station and headed for escape; whatever else hap-
pened, it was a good way to feel.
Claire helped her down the last couple of rungs,
lifting her and setting her on the metal floor. Sherry
turned and looked around, her eyes widening.
"Wow," she said, and the word whispered away
into the dim shadows and came whispering back,
reflected off" the strange walls.
"Yeah," Claire said. "Come on."
Claire started walking, her boots clanking out ech-
oes, and Sherry followed closely, still looking around
in amazement. It was like a bad guy's lair in a spy
movie, some factory passage inside of a mountain or
something. They were on a catwalk surrounded by
rails, a murky green light coming up through the grate
floor from somewhere far below—and although there
was rough brick to their right, to the left was an actual
cave wall. She could see giant, dripping pillars of
stone that stretched off into the dark, natural forma-
tions of rock that were stained green by the weak and
ghostly light.
Sherry wrinkled her nose. As interesting as it was, it
smelled pretty rotten. And she didn't like the way that
sound carried in the chill air, making everything seem
hollow.
"What do you think this place is?" she asked softly.
Claire shook her head. "I'm not sure. Between the
smell and the location, I'd say we're in part of a
sewage treatment plant."
Sherry nodded, glad to know—and even more glad
to see the way out just ahead of them. The walkway
wasn't very long; it turned left, and there was another
ladder at the end, one that went up. When they got to
it, Claire hesitated, peering up at the opening over-
head and then back around at the dark and empty
cave.
"I should go up first . . . how 'bout you climb up
right behind, but stay on the ladder until I say it's
clear?"
Sherry nodded, relieved. For a second, she'd been
afraid that Claire was going to tell her to stay down
here and wait, like before.
No way. It's dark, stinky, and lonely. If I were a
monster, this is where I'd be. . . .
Claire went up, boosting herself easily through the
hole, and Sherry clambered up just behind, holding
the cool metal of the rungs tightly. After a few
seconds, Claire's long, slender arms reached down to
help her out.
They were back on solid ground, a short cement
hallway that seemed incredibly bright after the cave.
Sherry figured they were still in the sewage plant; the
smell wasn't as bad, but the hall was bordered on the
left by a motionless river of sludge water, maybe a
foot deep and five or six feet across; the muddy water
ran off in either direction, one end through a low,
rounded tunnel, the other stopped by a big metal
door. It was all overlooked by a kind of balcony, but
Sherry didn't see any stairs.
Which means . . . oh, yuck.
"Do we have to?" she asked.
Claire sighed. '"Fraid so. But look at the bright
side—no sane monster would follow us through
that."
Sherry smiled. It wasn't particularly funny, but she
appreciated what Claire was trying to do—it was the
same as covering up Mr. Irons's body, or telling her
that her parents were probably safe.
She's trying to shield me from how bad things really
are. .. .
Sherry liked that, so much so that she was already
dreading the moment when Claire would leave her for
good. Eventually, she would; Claire had a whole life
somewhere else, her own friends and family, and once
they got out of Raccoon, she would go back to
wherever she came from and Sherry would be alone
again. Even if her parents were okay, she would be
alone .. . and though she wanted very much for them
to be safe and well, she wasn't looking forward to the
end of her time with Claire.
She was only twelve, but she'd known for a couple
of years that her family was different from most. The
other kids at school had parents who spent time with
them, had birthday parties and went on camping
trips, and had brothers and sisters and pets. She'd
never had any of those things. She knew that her
parents meant well, and that they loved her—but
sometimes, she felt like no matter how quiet and good
and self-sufficient she was, she was still in their way—
"You ready for this?"
Claire's soft, pretty voice brought her back to the
situation, reminding her that she needed to be more
alert. Sherry nodded, and Claire stepped down into
the dark, dirty water, reaching back to help her.
The water was cold and greasy, and came up to
Sherry's knees; it was gross, but not puking bad.
Claire motioned toward the big metal door to their
left with her new gun, looking as disgusted as Sherry
felt.
"Looks like we're going to—"
A loud noise from the balcony cut her off, and they
both looked up, Sherry instinctively moving closer to
Claire as the noise came again. It sounded like foot-
steps, but too slow and too loud to be normal—
—and Sherry saw a man in a long, dark coat walk
into view, and felt her mouth go dry with fear. He was
a giant, maybe as tall as ten feet, and his bald skull
gleamed as white as a dead fish belly. She couldn't see
him clearly because of the angle, but she could see
enough—and she could feel that he was bad, that
there was something very wrong and bad about him.
It radiated off of him like sickness.
"Claire?" she squeaked, her voice breaking as the
giant man stalked across the balcony, as he started to
turn toward them—slowly, so slowly, and Sherry
didn't want to see his face, didn't want to see the face
of a man that could frighten her so deeply by just
walking onto a balcony—
"Run!"
Claire grabbed her hand and the two of them ran,
splashing through the thick water toward the sealed
door. Sherry concentrated on not falling, on praying
that the door would open—
—don't be locked, don't be locked!
—and on not looking back, not wanting to see what
the giant, bad man was doing. The door was close but
it seemed to take forever, each second stretched out as
they fought against the weight of the cold and oily
water.
They stumbled to the hatch and Claire found its
control, slamming at the button in a kind of panic
that made Sherry even more afraid. The door split in
the middle, one half sliding up into the ceiling and the
other slipping beneath the rippling waves.
Sherry didn't look back, but Claire did. Whatever
she saw made her leap through the door, pulling
Sherry off her feet and hurtling into the long, dark
tunnel that lay behind the hatch. As soon as they were
through, Claire fumbled at the wall and the door slid
closed behind them, sealing them into the dripping
darkness.
"Don't move and be quiet," Claire whispered, and
in the very dim light that came from somewhere up
ahead, Sherry could see that she was holding the gun
out in front of her, trying to search the heavy shadows
for any new threats. Sherry obeyed, her heart pound-
ing, wondering who, what that man had been—it was
the man Claire had asked her about before, that much
was obvious, but what was he? People didn't get that
big, and Claire had been scared, too—
Clink.
A metal noise, soft and muffled from the wall
behind her—and Sherry felt the water around her feet
start to move suddenly, a swift rush of current that
pulled on her legs, pulled her off balance—
—and she stumbled, tripped, plunging face-first
into the cold and nasty water as the current got
stronger, sucking her backwards. Sherry reached out,
trying to find something, anything, to hold on to, and
felt slimy stone whip beneath her clutching fingers as
the waters rushed her away, away from Claire.
—can't breathe—
Sherry kicked wildly, twisting her body, her eyes
stinging from the bad water—and managed to take a
breath as her head broke the surface, as she realized
that she was in a tunnel, a pitch black shaft no bigger
than the vents from the station. The swift waters
carried her along, Sherry taking deep gasps of the foul
air overhead, forcing herself not to struggle against
the relentless power of the hissing liquid. The tunnel
had to end somewhere—and wherever it came out,
she had to be ready to run.
Claire, please find me, please don't give up on
me. ...
She was lost, blind and deaf, sliding down through
the dark—and farther and farther away from the only
person who could protect her from the nightmare
creatures that had taken over Raccoon.
Annette no longer doubted that her husband had
escaped the laboratory levels. Not only were half of
the facility entrances unsealed, the fences that sur-
rounded the factory had been breached—and the
sewer tunnels, the tunnels that should have been
mostly empty, were crawling with human carriers that
had to have come from outside. Even as advanced as
they'd been in terms of cellular deterioration, she'd
had to shoot down five of them just to clear a path
from the tram to the sewage operations room.
After what seemed an eternity of trudging through
the semi-treated, inky waters of the labyrinthian
system, she came to the platform she'd been looking
for. Annette stepped up into the concrete tunnel,
gazing warily at the closed door a few meters in front
of her. Closed and undamaged, a good sign—but
what if he'd gone through before he'd lost all trace of
human intelligence, before he'd grown into an un-
thinking, violent animal? Even now, he might still
retain something resembling memory; the truth was,
she didn't know. The G-Virus hadn't been tested on
humans yet. . .
. . . and if he did go through? If he made it to the
police station?
No. She couldn't, wouldn't entertain the possibili-
ty. Considering what she did know about the progres-
sive chemophysiologic changes—what he would be
capable of doing if the virus worked the way it was
supposed to—the thought of him getting to an unin-
fected population . . . well, it was unthinkable.
The station is safe, she thought firmly. Irons may be
an incompetent ass, but his cops aren't. Wherever
William is, he couldn't have gotten past them.
She couldn't afford to believe anything else; Sherry
was there, if she'd done what she was supposed to
do—and besides being her own flesh and blood
(which, she reminded herself, was reason enough),
Sherry played a very important role in her future
plans.
Annette leaned against one cold and sweating wall,
aware that time was running out but simply unable to
go on without resting for a moment. She'd been
counting on the encoded territorial instinct to keep
him close to the lab, and had been so sure that she
would find him, that her live, human scent would lure
him to her . .. but she was almost at the end of the
contained area, and all she'd found were a dozen ways
in which he could have escaped.
And Umbrella will be here soon. I have to get back, I
have to activate the fail-safe before they can stop me.
William deserved to be at peace—but beyond that,
destroying the creature that had once been her hus-
band would eradicate all of her doubts about the
success of her objective. What if she blew the lab and
escaped, only to find that Umbrella had captured
him? All of her struggles, all of his work, for
nothing. . . .
Annette closed her eyes, wishing that there was an
easy way to make the decision that had to be made.
The fact was, William's death simply wasn't as crucial
as getting rid of the lab. And there was a good chance
that they wouldn't find him, that they weren't even
aware of his transformation—
—and it's not as though I have a choice. He's not
here, he's not anywhere.
She pushed away from the wall, walking slowly
toward the door. She would check the last few tun-
nels, perhaps see if the conference rooms showed any
sign of damage—and then she would go back. Go
back and finish what Umbrella had started.
Annette pushed the door open—
—and heard footsteps, echoing through the lonely
corridor from somewhere up ahead; the hall was
shaped like a "T," the sounds melting into them-
selves, making it impossible to tell from which direc-
tion they were coming—but they were the strong,
sure steps of an uninfected human, perhaps more
than one, and that could only mean one thing.
Umbrella. They've finally come.
Rage boiled up through her, making her hands
shake, her lips curl back from gritted teeth. It had to
be them, it had to be one of their murdering spies;
besides Irons and a few of the city officials, only
Umbrella knew that these tunnels were still in use—
and that they led to the underground facility. The
possibility that it was some innocent survivor of the
spill didn't cross her mind, and neither did running;
she raised the handgun and waited for the heartless,
murdering bastard to appear.
A figure stepped into sight, a woman in red, and
Annette fired—
—bam, but she was trembling, screaming inside,
and the shot went high. It ricocheted off the cement
wall with a whining, zipping sound, and the woman
was raising a weapon of her own—
—and Annette fired again, barn-zip, but suddenly
there was another one, a blurred, flying shape that
leapt in front of the woman, knocking her out of the
way, all of it happening at once—
—and Annette heard the cry of pain, a man's cry,
and felt a burst of roaring triumph.
Got him, I got him—
But there could be more, she hadn't hit the
woman—and they were trained killers.
Annette turned and ran, her dirty lab coat flying,
her wet shoes slapping against the cement. She had to
get back to the lab, fast.
Time had run out.
TWENTY-ONE
LEON STOPPED TO ADJUST HIS SHOULDER
harness, so Ada walked on ahead, musing over how
surprisingly clear the first few tunnels had been. If
memory served, this corridor let out right next to
sewage treatment ops; past that was the tram to the
factory, and then the machine lift to the underground.
Conditions would probably get worse the closer they
got to the labs, but with the trek as trouble-free as it
had been so far, she was feeling optimistic.
Leon had been uncomfortably quiet since they'd
opened the path into the sewers, only talking when it
was necessary—watch your step, hold up a minute,
which way do you think we should go ... she didn't
think he was even aware of the defenses he'd put up,
but she was getting better at reading him. Officer
Kennedy was brave, he was at least above-average in
the brains department, he was a crack shot—and he
didn't know dick about women. When she'd blown off
his attempt to comfort her, she'd confused and hurt
him—and now he didn't know how to interact with
her. He'd chosen to withdraw rather than risk another
rejection.
Really, it's for the best. No point in leading him on
when it's not necessary, and it saves me the trouble of
ego-stroking. . . .
She stepped into the intersection of the empty hall,
thinking about the easiest place to part company from
her escort—
—and saw the woman, just as she fired.
Bam!
Ada felt chips of concrete spray across her bare
shoulders as she brought the Beretta up, a blur of
emotions and realizations flashing through her in the
instant it took to react. She wouldn't be able to return
fire in time, the woman's next shot would kill her,
anger at herself for being so stupid—and recognition.
Birkin—
She heard the second shot—and then she was hit,
shoved out of the way and falling to the cold floor as
Leon cried out in pain and surprise, his warm bulk
landing on top of her.
Ada took a deep breath, shocked and amazed as she
understood what had happened, as Leon rolled off of
her and clutched at his arm. She heard running
footsteps and Leon's harsh panting, and sat up.
Oh, my God. No shit—
He'd taken a bullet. For her.
Ada stumbled to her feet, bending over him.
"Leon!"
He looked up at her, jaw clenched against the pain.
Blood seeped through the fingers of his hand, pressed
to his left armpit.
"I'm—okay," he gasped, and although his face was
pale, his eyes clouded with suffering, she thought he
was probably right. It undoubtedly hurt like a son of a
bitch, but it wouldn't—shouldn't—kill him.
It would have killed me, Leon saved my life—
And on the tail of that thought, —Annette Birkin.
Still alive.
"That woman," she blurted, the guilt hitting her
even as she turned to run. "I have to talk to her."
Ada took off, sprinting around the corner and down
the hall, the door at the end standing open. Leon
would live, he would be fine, and if she could catch up
to Annette, this whole goddamn nightmare would be
over. She'd studied the file photos, she knew it was
Birkin's wife—and if, by chance, the woman wasn't
carrying a sample, she'd sure as hell know where one
was.
She ran through the door and stopped short of
jumping into yet another water-filled tunnel, pausing
just long enough to listen, to scan the surface of the
rippling murk. No splashing sounds, and there were
still lapping waves to the left—
—and a ladder bolted to the wall, leading up to a
fan shaft.
—goes to operations.
Ada plunged into the water and made for the
ladder. There was a hallway farther along, but it was a
dead end; Annette would surely have opted for es-
cape.
She quickly scaled the metal rungs, refusing to let
herself think about Leon (because he was fine) as she
peered through the shaft and saw that it was clear.
Mrs. Doctor was probably still running, but Ada
wasn't going to walk into another bullet.
Through the shaft, a quick peek past the dead,
massive blades of the vent fan at the far end, and back
down another ladder. The giant two-story chamber
that housed the sewage-treatment machines was emp-
ty of life, as cold and industrial and strewn with
equipment as she'd expected. There was a hydraulic
bridge that spanned the room, raised to the level she'd
exited on—which meant that Annette must have
gone down via the west ladder, the only other way out.
Ada flipped through her mental maps as she started
across the bridge, remembering that it went down into
one of the treatment center's dumping grounds—
"Drop it, you bitch!"
Behind her. Ada halted, feeling a pain inside—the
pain of a hearty slap to the ego. The second time she'd
screwed up, badly, in as many minutes—but there
was no way she was going to obey Annette's hysterical
command. The woman's aim was for shit and Ada
tensed, preparing to drop, to spin and fire—
Barn-ping!
The shot hit the floor next to Ada's right foot,
glancing off the rusting bridge. Annette had her.
Ada dropped the Beretta, raising her hands slowly,
turning to face the scientist.
Jesus, I deserve to die for this. . . .
Annette Birkin walked toward her, a Browning
nine-millimeter trembling wildly in one outstretched
hand. Ada winced inwardly at the sight of that
shaking gun—but saw a possible opportunity as An-
nette moved closer, finally coming to a stop less than
ten feet in front of her.
Too close. Too close, and she's right on the edge of a
total collapse, isn't she?
"Who are you? What's your name?!"
Ada swallowed heavily, putting a stutter into her
voice. "Ada, Ada Wong. Please don't shoot, please, I
haven't done anything—"
Annette frowned, backing up a step. "Ada...
Wong. I know that name—Ada, that was John's
girlfriend's name...."
Ada's mouth dropped open. "Yes, John Howe!
But—how did you know? Do you know where he is?"
The disheveled scientist glared at her. "I know
because John worked with my husband, William.
You've heard of him, of course—William Birkin, the
man responsible for the creation of the T-Virus."
Annette fairly glowed with a mix of pride and
despair as she spoke, giving Ada hope; it was a
weakness that she could use. Ada had read the files on
William Birkin—read about his steady climb through
Umbrella's hierarchy, the advances in virology and
genetic sequencing... and about the scientific ambi-
tion that had made him a veritable sociopath. It
looked as though his wife was operating on a similar
plane—which meant that the Mrs. would have no
problem pulling the trigger.
Play it dumb, and don't give her a reason to doubt it.
"T-Virus? What's—" Ada blinked, then widened
her eyes. "Doctor—Birkin? Wait, the Doctor Birkin,
the biochemist?"
She saw a flash of pleasure cross Annette's face—
but then it was gone, and there was only despair.
Despair and the flickering of bitter madness, deep in
her bloodshot eyes.
"John Howe is dead," she said coldly, "he died
three months ago at the Spencer estate. My condo-
lences—but then, you're about to join him, aren't
you? You're not going to take the G-Virus away from
me, you can't have it!"
Ada started to shake all over. "G-Virus? Please, I
don't know what you're talking about!"
"You know," Annette snarled. "Umbrella sent you
to steal it, you can't lie to me! William's dead to me
now, Umbrella took him from me, they forced him to
use it! They forced him. ..."
She trailed off, her gaze suddenly far away. Ada
tensed—but then Annette was back, her eyes welling
up with tears, the weapon pointed at Ada's face.
"A week ago, they came," she whispered. "They
came to take it, and they shot my William when he
wouldn't give them the samples. They took the case,
they took all of the finals, both series—except for the
one that he managed to keep, the G-Virus ..."
Annette's voice raised into a shout suddenly, a
pathetic and somehow pleading shout. "He was dy-
ing, don't you see? He didn't have any choice!"
Ada understood. She understood all of it. "He
injected himself, didn't he?"
The scientist nodded, her limp blond hair falling
across her eyes, her voice a whisper again. "It revi-
talizes cellular function. It—it changed him. I didn't
see—what he did, but I saw the bodies of the men
who tried to kill him, afterwards ... and I heard the
screams."
Ada took a step closer, reaching out as if to comfort
her, her own features set into a mask of sympathy—
but Annette thrust the gun at her again. Even in her
sorrow, she wasn't going to let Ada get any closer.
But it's almost close enough....
"I'm so sorry," Ada said, lowering her arms. "So
the G-Virus, it leaked, it changed all of Raccoon—"
Annette shook her head. "No. When the Umbrella
assassins were—stopped, the case was broken. The
T-Virus leaked—the lab workers hit by the airborne
were contained, but there were rats, you see. Rats in
the sewers...."
She paused, her lips trembling. "... unless Wil-
liam, my sweet William has started to reproduce.
Implanting embryos, replicating ... it shouldn't be
time for that yet, but I—"
She broke off, her eyes narrowing, the madness
sweeping over her again as visibly as a crashing wave.
High color flared in her pale cheeks, her red-rimmed
eyes glossy with paranoia.
Get ready—
"You can't have it!" Annette screamed, spittle
flying from her cracked lips. "He gave his life to keep
it from you, you're a spy and you can't have it—"
Ada ducked and leapt, pistoning both of her arms
beneath Annette's, shoving the gun up and away from
both of them. The Browning discharged, sending a
round clanging off the ceiling as they fought for
control of the weapon. Annette was physically weaker,
but she was driven by demons of hatred and loss, the
edge of insanity lending her strength—
—but no sense—
Ada let go of the gun suddenly and Annette stum-
bled, not prepared for the unexpected move. She
crashed against the railing of the bridge and Ada
charged, driving her elbow into Annette's lower belly,
hitting her beneath her center of balance—
—and Annette half-turned, her mouth an open
darkness of surprise, her arms pinwheeling for bal-
ance—and she plummeted over the railing, silently,
not a sound until the dull thump as her body hit the
floor some twenty feet below.
"Shit, "Ada hissed, stepping to the rail and looking
down. She lay there, facedown and motionless, the
gun still clenched in one thin white hand.
That's just great. Walk into an ambush, not once but
twice for hell's sake, then kill the one crazy bitch who
can tell you where the samples are—
A low moan floated up from Annette Birkin's
body—and she moved, hunching her back, trying to
roll onto her side.
Shit shit shit!
Ada turned and ran across the bridge, scooping up
the Beretta as she hurried for what looked like a
control panel next to the fan shaft ladder. She'd have
to lower the bridge, get to Annette before she could
crawl away—
—except the panel was for the fan, and as another
painful moan—a slightly louder moan—echoed up
through the chamber, Ada knew she didn't have much
time.
The dump, I can go through the dump, circle back
around through one of the tunnels—
Even as she thought it, she was jogging for the west
ladder, hoping that the pitiful scientist was injured
enough to stay down for a minute or two. There was a
small balcony at the end of the bridge that looked
over the dump, and the metal ladder hung down from
an opening at the far right. Ada lowered herself down
as quickly as she could, dropping the last several feet
onto a cement landing.
The dumping area was a large boxy room, the walls
heaped with industrial debris—smashed crates, rust-
ing pipes, wire-encrusted panels, and rotting card-
board. She stepped off the landing and into almost
three feet of black sludge, the cold, gooey muck rising
up to her thighs. She didn't care, she only wanted to
get to the lady Birkin, to bring an end to her time in
Raccoon—
—except something moved. Beneath the opaque
and stinking liquid, something big moved. Ada saw
what might have been a reptilian spine slice through
the murk in front of her, saw and heard a stack of
boards topple into the water some ten feet away in the
same instant.
You gotta be kidding me. . . .
Whatever it was, it was big enough to change her
mind about the hurry she was in to get to Annette.
Ada backed to the platform and boosted herself up,
never taking her gaze from the indeterminate shape as
it curled back through the lapping sludge—
—and rose up in a sudden, violent spray of dark-
ness, coming straight at her. Ada raised the Beretta
and started to fire.
There was a tiny elevator platform in one corner of
the empty conference room, a square of metal that
apparently went down. Claire hurried toward it, fetid
water dripping from her clothes, feeling horribly lost
and anxious to keep moving, to find Sherry.
Please be alive, baby, please....
She'd found the drainage hole, but no Sherry—and
after agonizingly long moments of screaming into the
rushing water, of trying to squeeze into the tiny hole,
she'd forced herself to abandon the effort. Sherry was
gone, maybe drowned, maybe not—but unless the
flow of water suddenly decided to reverse itself, she
wasn't coming back.
Claire found the controls for the one-man lift and
punched a button. A hidden motor whirred and the
lift descended, inching down through the floor, proba-
bly taking her to some other empty hall, some other
blank and unknown room—or worse, directly into
the path of yet another unnatural creature.
She clenched her damp hands in frustration as the
lift slid slowly down, wishing that it was faster, that
there was some way to speed up her search. She felt
like she was running blind, taking whatever path was
in front of her; from the tunnel where Sherry had
been lost, she'd found a dimly lit corridor and then
the unadorned and somehow sterile conference room.
It was like an endless funhouse—sans fun—and she
was feeling pretty shitty for bringing Sherry into it; if
the girl was dead, it would be her fault—
She shut down the futile thinking before it got any
farther, making herself focus. Self-recrimination was
a killer, and she couldn't afford it. The elevator was
lowering into a hall, and she crouched down, pointing
Irons's heavy gun in front of her as her new surround-
ings rose into view.
The concrete corridor had another lift at the other
end, and was intersected by a second hall, maybe
forty feet away—and next to the junction there was a
body propped against one cement wall, what looked
like a cop—
She felt a mix of shock and distress, her eyes
widening as she took in the cop's slack features, the
hair color, the build . . .
. . . that's—Leon?
Before the lift hit the floor, Claire jumped off and
ran toward the crumpled figure. It was Leon, and he
wasn't moving, either unconscious or dead—but no,
he was breathing, and as she crouched in front of him,
his eyes flickered open. His hand was high on his left
arm, his fingers wet with blood.
"Claire?" His blue eyes seemed clear, tired but
aware.
"Leon! What happened, are you okay?"
"I got shot, must've blacked out for a minute. . .."
He carefully took his hand away, exposing a small
ragged hole just above his armpit, oozing red. It
looked painful, but at least it wasn't gushing.
Wincing, Leon pulled the shredded fabric of his
uniform over the hole and put his hand back over it.
"Hurts like all hell, but I think I'll survive—Ada,
where's Ada?"
The last was delivered almost frantically, Leon
struggling to push himself away from the wall. With a
soft groan, he fell back, obviously in no shape to
move.
"Lie still, just rest for a minute," Claire said.
"Who's Ada?"
"I met her at the station," he said. "I couldn't find
you, and we heard that you can get out of Raccoon—
through the sewers. The city's not safe, there was
some kind of a leak at the Umbrella lab, and Ada
wanted to leave right away. Somebody shot at us, and
I got hit—Ada went after the shooter, down that hall,
she said it was a woman...."
He shook his head as if to clear it, then frowned up
at her. "I have to find her. I don't know how long I
was out, but not more than a couple of minutes, she
can't have gone far—"
He started to sit forward again and Claire stopped
him, pushing him back gently. "I'll go. I—I was with
this little girl, and she's lost somewhere in the sewers.
Maybe I can find both of them."
Leon hesitated—then nodded, resigning himself to
his injury. "How's your ammo?"
"Uh—seven in this one—" She patted the weapon
that she'd taken from the squad car, tucked in her
belt. It suddenly seemed like a million years ago, that
wild ride. "—and seventeen in this one."
She held up Irons's gun, and Leon nodded again,
his head rolling back tiredly. "Okay, that's good. I
should be able to follow in a few minutes... be
careful, alright? And good luck."
Claire stood up, wishing that they had more time.
She wanted to tell him about Chris, about Irons and
Mr. X and the T-Virus, she wanted to find out what
he knew about Umbrella, or if he knew the way out of
the sewers—
—but this Ada might be facing down a sniper right
now, and Sherry could be anywhere. Anywhere at all.
Leon had closed his eyes. Claire turned and started
down the intersecting hall, wondering if any of them
had a chance to make it out of this madness alive.
TWENTY-TWO
ANNETTE HURT ALL OVER. SHE SAT UP SLOW-
ly, feeling sick from the seeming hundreds of aches
and pains that yammered for her attention. Her neck
and stomach hurt, she'd jammed her right wrist, both
knees felt like they were swelling—but it was the
sharp pain in her right side that was the worst,
because she thought she might have cracked or even
broken a rib.
You horrible, horrible woman—
Annette leaned back, supporting her strained neck
with her uninjured hand, but saw only metal and
shadow; Ada Wong, the bitch from Umbrella, had
apparently run away. She'd pretended not to know
anything, but Annette wasn't stupid; Ada was proba-
bly already on her way to the lab—or coming after
her, anxious to finish her off.
Umbrella, Umbrella did this. . . .
Annette crawled to her feet, using the rage to
overcome the pain. She had to get out, to get to the
laboratory before the spies did—but oh, she hurt so
very much! The stabbing sensation in her gut was
terrible, a knife sawing at her insides, and the lab
seemed a million miles away . . .
. . . can't let them steal his work. . . .
She staggered toward the door to the cavernous
room, one arm wrapped around her burning chest—
and stopped, tilting her head to one side, listening.
Shots. Echoing through the chill air, coming from
the adjacent dumping grounds—and a second later,
she heard a thundering hiss, more shots, splashing—
Annette grinned, a tight, humorless grin. Perhaps
she'd get to the lab first, after all.
The bridge, lower the bridge, don't let her es-
cape. . . .
Tired and aching, Annette stumbled to the hydrau-
lic's controls and activated the span's descent. The
powerful hum of the bridge's motors drowned out the
noises of whatever battle was being waged, the plat-
form rotating down and locking into place with a
heavy clang.
Annette pushed herself away from the wall, falling
against the console by the door. She found the
switches for the ventilation fan and flicked them up,
still smiling grimly as the whining start-up high
overhead grew into a dull roar. Ada had run into
trouble in the dump, and Annette wasn't going to let
her just climb back out of it; with the bridge lowered
and the shaft blocked, Ms. Wong would have to fight
her way through.
Hope it's a pack of tickers, you bitch, I hope they're
tearing you to pieces in there. .. .
Annette turned away from the console—and fell,
the pain and dizziness too much, her bruised and
swelling knees hitting the floor and sending fresh
needles of agony through her legs—
—and the door in front of her opened. Annette
raised the gun but wasn't able to aim, expending what
was left of her strength just to keep from screaming in
suffering and frustration.
William, it hurts so bad, I'm sorry but I can't—
A young woman crouched in front of her, a look of
wary concern on her smudged face. She was dressed
in cutoffs and a vest, dripping with sewer water—and
held a sleek and heavy handgun, not pointing it
directly at Annette—but not pointing it away, either.
Another spy.
"Are you Ada?" the girl asked tentatively, reaching
out to touch her—and it was more than Annette
could stand, to be touched in pity by some heartless,
scheming corporate pawn.
"Get away from me," Annette snarled, slapping at
the girl's outstretched hand weakly. "I'm not your
'contact,' and I don't have it on me. You can kill me,
but you won't find it."
The girl moved back, a look of confusion on her
dirty face. "Find what? Who are you?"
The questions again, and the fury passed, leaving
her numb. Annette was tired of playing games; it hurt
too much, and she just wasn't strong enough to fight
anymore. "Annette Birkin," she said wearily. "As if
you didn't know. . . ."
She'll kill me now. It's over, it's all over.
Annette couldn't help it. Tears trickled down
cheeks, tears as futile as her plans. She'd failed
William, she'd failed as a wife and a mother and even
as a scientist. At least it would end now, at least there
would finally be an end to the anguish—
"Are you Sherry's mother?"
The girl's words stunned her, snapping her out of
her exhausted collapse as sharply as a slap to the face.
"What?! Who—how do you know about Sherry?"
"She's lost in the sewers," the girl said, speaking
quickly, her voice tinged with desperation as she
shoved her handgun into her belt. "Please, you have
to help me find her! She was sucked into one of the
drainage shafts and I don't know where to look—"
"But I told her to go to the station," Annette
wailed, the physical pain all but forgotten, her heart
pounding out waves of horrified disbelief. "Why is
she here? It's dangerous, she'll be killed! And the G-
Virus—Umbrella will find her, they'll take it, why is
she here?"
The girl reached for her again, helping her up, and
Annette didn't fight, too weak and terrified to fight. If
Sherry was in the sewers, if Umbrella found her—
The girl stared at her intently, looking somehow
guilty and afraid and hopeful all at once. "The station
was overrun—where do the drains go? Please, An-
nette, you have to tell me!"
The truth dawned into her exhaustion and fear like
a ray of bitter light.
The drains let out into the filter pool—which hap-
pens to be right next to the factory tram.
The fastest route to the labs.
It was a trick. The girl was using Sherry's name to
get to the facility, to get information about the G-
Virus. Sherry was still at the station, safe and well,
and this was all an elaborate ruse—
—but Umbrella knows the way, why would she ask if
she knows already?It doesn't make sense!
Annette raised the gun, her aching wrist trembling,
and backed away from the girl. Her confusion was
too big, the questions too many—and because she
couldn't be sure of anything, she couldn't pull the
trigger.
"Don't you move. Don't you follow me," she
snarled, ignoring the pain, reaching back to push the
door open. "I'll shoot if you try to follow me."
"Annette—I don't understand, I just want to—"
"Shut up! Shut up and leave me alone, can't you all
just leave me alone?!"
She backed through the door, pushing it closed on
the surprised and frightened girl, squeezing her arm
against her bruised or broken ribs as soon as the hatch
was shut.
Sherry. . . .
It was a lie, it had to be a lie—but it didn't change
anything, either way. She could still make it, she had
to make it back to the facility, to finish what she had
started.
Turning, limping and gasping, Annette stumbled
into the cold darkness of the connecting tunnel,
letting each terrible, aching step be a reminder of
what Umbrella had done.
*   *   *
A cold, silent cavern, the walls sheened with ice, and
I am lost. I am lost and exhausted, running and afraid
for a very long time, so I sit down to rest. So quiet, so
cold—but my arm hurts, I'm sitting against a wall that
has grown spines, and one of them is digging into my
flesh, piercing me. It hurts so badly, and I have to get
up, I have to find someone, I have to—
—wake up.
Leon opened his eyes, aware at once that he'd hazed
out again. The realization made him catch his breath,
the sudden fear jolting him fully awake.
Ada, Claire—Jesus, how long?
He gently pulled his hand away from his arm, the
blood gummy and thick between his fingers. It hurt,
but not as sharply as before—and the bleeding had
stopped, at least at the entrance; the shreds of his torn
uniform had clotted to the wound, forming a stiff seal.
He leaned forward, reaching around to touch where
the bullet had come out; again, a hardening, tacky
patch of fabric beneath the pulsing ache of the wound.
He couldn't be positive, but he thought that the bullet
had gone straight through the flesh, missing the bone
completely—which meant he was extremely god-
damn lucky.
Even if it blew my arm off, Ada's still out there—and
I sent Claire after her. I have to go after them.
He thought it was the shock of the trauma that had
made him black out, rather than the pain or blood
loss—and he couldn't afford any more time to re-
cover. Clenching his teeth, Leon pushed himself up
with his good arm, his muscles cold and stiff from the
damp chill of the concrete.
His left shoulder brushed against the wall, and he
gasped as the pain intensified briefly, stabbing and
hot—but it ebbed, receding to the duller throbbing
sensation after a few seconds. Leon waited it out,
breathing deeply, reminding himself that it could
have been a hell of a lot worse.
When he was finally on his feet, he decided that he
could take it; he wasn't light-headed or dizzy, and
although there was blood on the floor and wall, there
wasn't nearly as much as he'd thought there would be.
Careful not to jostle his wound, Leon turned and
walked down the corridor to the closed door at the
end, moving as quickly as he could.
Through the door, he was faced with another water-
filled tunnel stretching off in either direction; there
was a ladder on the wall to his left, but he didn't even
want to guess at how to climb it without ripping open
the wound—besides which, there was a loudly spin-
ning fan at the top. He struck off to the right, stepping
down into the dark water and sloshing forward,
hoping that he'd see some sign as to where Ada or
Claire had gone.
Chasing after the sniper . . . how could she do that,
how could she just leave me there?
After their confrontation with the vomiting
monster-thing, he'd sworn to himself that he wouldn't
assume anything else about Ada Wong; she was alter-
nately flirtatious and standoffish, and if she'd learned
how to shoot by playing paintball, he was a bank
executive. But in spite of her confusing behavior and
probable duplicity, he liked her; she was smart and
confident, she was beautiful—and he had assumed
there was a good, decent person beneath that contra-
dictory facade ...
... and yet she left you to chase after the shooter,
left you rolling on the floor with a bullet in your arm.
Yeah, she's great; you should propose.
He'd reached a split in the tunnel, and blocked out
his wandering attempts to figure out Ada's actions,
reminding himself that he could ask her when he
found her—//he found her. There was a locked gate
to the right, so Leon turned left, peering uneasily into
the thickening shadows as he trudged onward. He
shouldn't have let Claire go after Ada alone, he should
have pulled himself together and gone with her—
He stopped, hearing something. Shots, distant and
hollow, coming from somewhere up ahead, distorted
by the winding maze of tunnels that made up the
sewer system.
Still holding the Magnum tightly, Leon pressed his
wrist against the bullet wound and started to run, the
pain going sharp again, making him queasy. He
couldn't manage much better than a shagging jog, the
water slowing him down almost as much as the nasty
bite of the wound—but as the last echo of the shots
faded away, he somehow found the motivation to go
faster.
There was a dimly lit offshoot to the tunnel ahead
and to the left, pale yellow light streaming out across
the softly slopping water. Even before he reached it,
he saw that he would have to make a choice. Straight
in front of him was a platform of sorts, a heavy door
set into the ragged bricks of the tunnel's end, water
dripping down from the ceiling in slender rivulets.
An obvious choice, except—
Leon stopped in the elongated patch of murky light,
looking down into the offshoot. Another door, and he
didn't have time to decide, the shots could have come
from anywhere—
Barn-bam!
To the left. Leon jumped up from the tunnel, feeling
new pain, feeling hot wetness against his wrist as the
wound started to seep. He ignored it, hurrying to the
door and pulling it open, hearing more rounds fired as
he started down a wide and empty hall.
The corridor he'd entered was as shadowy and cold
as the sewage tunnels, but much bigger, wider, pre-
sumably some kind of transport hall for heavy equip-
ment. It twisted left and then left again, boxes and a
rack of steel canisters against the second comer, just
past some kind of a loading door.
. . . acetylene, maybe oxy, good GOD what takes
that many bullets and doesn't die?
He heard another string of shots, splashing water—
and a different sound, a deep and guttural hissing that
chilled him to his core. Strangely familiar, but too
loud to be possible.
A million snakes, a thousand giant cats, some pri-
mordial, terrible dinosaur—
He ran, finally giving up trying to hold the bullet
hole closed, needing his arm free to pump for more
speed. The end of the tunnel was close, he saw a panel
of blinking lights and an opening to the left, another
huge loading door—
—and he stopped just short of running into the line
of fire as another rapid succession of shots sounded,
as a thundering crash of water sprayed out, water
raining down on the floor in a thick sheet.
"Stop, I'm coming in!" He shouted—
—and heard Ada's voice, and felt a sweeping relief
in spite of whatever horror was ahead.
"Leon!"
She's alive!
Magnum raised, his wound bleeding freely now,
he stepped in front of the open door—and saw Ada
across a lake of churning muck, boxes and broken
boards swimming through the turbulent liquid.
She was standing on a small ledge of concrete be-
neath a ladder, her Beretta pointed into the thrash-
ing pool.
"Ada, what—"
Splash!
A giant burst out of the lake and slammed him off
of his feet, knocking him back into the corridor. It
happened so fast that he didn't actually see it before
he was flying through the air, his mind feeding him
the picture as he hit the ground. He fell on his injured
arm and cried out, as much from the shock of what
he'd seen as from the stinging blast of pain.
—crocodile—
Leon was on his feet and stumbling away before he
even knew he could get up—and the giant lizard, the
croc that was thirty feet long if it was an inch, stepped
into the corridor behind him with a mighty, bellowing
roar. The cement trembled as the mammoth reptile
crawled up from the waters of its home, gallons of
black water streaming from its toothy, grinning jaws.
—jaws as big as me, bigger—
Leon ran, there was no pain, his heart hammering
in a primal panic. It would eat him, it would shred
him into a hundred screaming, bloody chunks—
—and the beast roared again, an impossibly low
bellow that rattled his bones, that urged sweat to burst
from every quaking pore—
—and Leon shot a look back, and saw that he was
much, much faster than the grinning lizard. It was
still climbing through the loading door, its tree-trunk
legs short and squat, its incredible bulk too huge to
maneuver so easily.
Leon swapped weapons in a daze of terror, his
wound shrieking as he chambered a round into the
Remington. He sidled backwards in an uneven gait,
reaching a turn in the hall—
—and unloaded all five shells as quickly as he could
pump them, the heavy rounds blasting the monster
crocodile's hideous snout.
It roared, swinging its head from side to side, blood
erupting from its grinning face in buckets—but still it
came, lumbering forward, dragging its armored tail
from the pool of slime behind it.
Not enough, not enough power—
Leon turned and ran again, horrified at having to
retreat, afraid of what would happen to Ada when he
left the crocodile behind, but knowing that it would
take another fifty rounds to stop it—that or a nuclear
blast, and why was he still thinking, he needed to get
away and then worry about what to do.
Hang on, Ada—
The booming steps of the giant filled his ears as he
ran past the boxes, past the row of steel cylinders—
—and stopped running. His instincts cried out for
sanity, but he had an idea—and as the terrible lizard
took another twisting, thundering step, Leon turned
and went back.
Let this work, it works in the movies, please God be
listening—
The row of five gleaming canisters was inset on a
thick shelf cut into the wall, held into place by a steel
cable. There was a release button for the cable on the
side of the shelf. Leon slapped it, and the heavy wire
drooped, one looped end falling to the floor.
Dropping the shotgun, he grabbed the closest of the
cylinders, his muscles straining, blood pouring from
his injured arm. He could feel thin, trickling trails of
it sliding down his sweat-slick chest but didn't stop,
rocking back on his heels to free the can of com-
pressed gas.
—there!
Leon jumped back as the silver can fell off the shelf,
hitting the ground and rolling a few inches. He looked
up and saw that the croc had covered another fifty
feet—close enough for him to see the dull, dirty pits
in its six-inch teeth as it roared again, close enough
for him to smell the rotting-meat stench of its hot
breath only a second later.
Leon raised one boot to the canister and shoved
with all he had, the can lazily rolling back toward the
gaining lizard. By some incredible stroke of fortune,
the corridor floor had some slant to it; the two-
hundred-plus pounds of cylinder seemed to pick up
speed, spinning in the croc's direction in a loose
semicircle.
Backing away, he yanked the Magnum from his belt
and pointed it at the shining can, forcing his fingers
not to pull the trigger. The crocodile plodded forward,
its tail slapping the walls so hard that stone dust
rained down with each violent whip. Leon was in a
state of total awe, in the grip of an instinctual terror so
deep that it was all he could do not to turn and flee.
Come on, you bastard—
Less than a hundred feet away, the crocodile and
the canister met—and Leon pulled the trigger. The
first shot pinged off the floor in front of the rocking
can—and the grinning jaws opened, the massive beast
lowering its head to catch at the obstacle, to push it
aside.
—steady—
Leon fired again, and—
KA-BOOM!
—was thrown to the ground as the canister ex-
ploded. In a blast of curled steel and igniting gases,
the creature's head was obliterated, disappearing like
a popped balloon. Almost simultaneously, a wave of
steaming gore hit Leon, bits of tooth and bone and
shredded, smoking flesh clapping over him like a
thick wet blanket.
Gagging, his ears ringing and arm bleeding, Leon
sat up as the headless carcass settled to the floor, the
legs crumpling beneath the brainless weight of the
reptilian monster. He pressed his blood-covered hand
against the wound, exhausted, sick, in pain—and as
deeply satisfied as he'd felt in quite some time.
"Gotcha, you dumb shit," he said, and smiled.
When Ada came jogging up the corridor a moment
later, that's how she found him—staring at his handi-
work in dazed and dizzy triumph, bloody and bleed-
ing and grinning like a little kid.
TWENTY-THREE
LEON WAS WEARING A WHITE UNDERSHIRT
beneath his uniform; Ada tore it into strips and
bandaged his arm with it, fashioning a kind of sling
for him to wear once she'd slipped his ruined shirt
back on. He'd lost enough blood to be dazed, almost
helpless, and Ada used his mild shock to explain
herself as she tended to him, feeling mildly shocked
herself by the complex emotions that warred inside of
her.
"... and I thought she looked familiar. I thought
I'd met her through John, and I almost caught up to
her—but she must have slipped past me. I got lost in
the tunnels, trying to find my way back...."
Nothing of truth, but Leon didn't seem to notice—
just as he didn't seem to notice the gentle, careful way
she touched him, or the very slight tremor in her
voice as she apologized for a third time, for leaving
him behind.
He saved my life. Again. And all I have to give him in
return are lies, calculated deceit in exchange for his
selflessness....
Something had changed for her when he'd taken the
bullet in her stead, and she didn't know how to
change it back. Even worse, she didn't know that she
wanted to change it back. It was like the birth of a new
feeling, some emotion that she couldn't name but that
seemed to fill her up; it was unsettling, uncomfort-
able—and yet somehow, not altogether unpleasant.
His clever solution to the problem of the nearly
invincible crocodile—the creature that she'd only
just been able to hold at bay, in spite of her best
efforts—had made the unnamed feeling even stron-
ger. The hole in his arm was only a flesh wound, but
from the streaks of fresh blood across his smooth
chest and stomach, she knew that it had been hurting
bad—draining him, killing him as he'd worked to
save her ass.
Get rid of him now, her mind hissed, leave him,
don't let this affect the job—the job, Ada, the mission.
Your life.
She knew it was what she had to do, that it was the
only thing to do—but when he was fixed up as best as
she could manage, and her pathetic cover story had
been told, she conveniently forgot to listen to herself.
Ada helped him to his feet and led him away from the
gut-splattered scene of the monster reptile's demise,
spouting off some nonsense about having found what
looked like an exit when she'd been lost.
Annette Birkin was gone; as soon as Leon had led
the crocodile out of the dump, she'd scaled the ladder
and checked—and seen that Annette had retained
enough sense to start up the fans and lower the bridge
before running, effectively blowing Ada's other op-
tions for escape. The woman was possibly psychotic,
but not a moron—and although she'd been wrong
about Ada's source of purpose, she'd been dead on as
to the purpose itself. To wrap the mission, Ada would
have to get to the lab as quickly as she could, before
Annette could do anything ... final—and Leon, si-
lent and stumbling Leon, would add to her time by
half.
Drop him! Lose the weight, you're not a nursemaid,
for Chrissake, this isn't you, Ada—
"I'm thirsty," Leon whispered, his breath warm
across her neck. She looked up into his gore-stained,
blinking face and found that the voice inside was
easier to ignore this time. She'd have to leave him, of
course, in the end there would have to be a parting of
the ways—
—but not yet.
"Then we'll have to find you some water," she said,
and steered him gently in the direction she needed
to go.
Sherry woke up in the dark, a terrible, bitter taste in
her mouth, a river of cold gunk tugging at her clothes.
There was a rumbling sound all around her, a sound
like the sky was falling, and for a second, she couldn't
remember what had happened or where she was—
and when she realized that she couldn't move, she
panicked. The thundering sound was fading, fading
and then gone—but she was stuck in some awful
stinking river, pressed against cold, wet hardness, and
she was alone.
She opened her mouth to scream—and then re-
membered the screaming monster, the monster and
then the giant bald man, and then Claire. Remember-
ing Claire stopped her from screaming; somehow, the
image of her was like a soothing touch, easing through
the blind terror and allowing her to think.
Got sucked into a drain hole, and now I'm—some-
where else, and screaming won't help.
It was a brave thought, a strong thought, and it
made her feel better to think it. She pushed herself
away from the hardness at her back, treading the dark
water, and discovered that she wasn't stuck at all; she
had been up against a row of bars or openings in the
rock, and the force of the current had held her there—
held her, and probably saved her from drowning. The
disgusting goop was flowing around her, tinkling and
burbling like a regular old stream, not nearly as strong
as before—and the bad taste in her mouth meant that
she must have swallowed some of it. ...
Thinking that opened up the rest of her memory.
She'd been floating along and then had gotten twisted
somehow, and had gulped some of the horrible,
chemical-tasting liquid and freaked out—passed out,
she thought.
At least the noise had stopped, whatever that had
been, a sound like a moving train, maybe, or a giant
truck, roaring away .. . and now that she was more
awake, she realized that she could see. Not very much,
but enough to know that she was in a big room filled
with water, and there was a tiny, feeble shaft of light
coming down from high above.
There has to be a way out. Somebody built this
place, they had to have a way out. . . .
Sherry swam a little farther into the big room, and
kicking, she felt the toes of her shoes glance off against
something hard. Something hard and flat. Feeling
stupid for not thinking of it already, she took a deep
breath, lowered her legs—and stood up. The water
was all the way up to her shoulders, but she could
stand.
The last traces of panic slipped away as she stood in
the middle of the room, turning slowly, her eyes
finally getting the most from the weak light—and saw
the ladder shape against the far wall. She was still
scared, no question, but the sight of the shadowy
rungs meant she'd found the way out. Sherry lifted
her feet and paddled toward the ladder, proud of how
she was handling herself.
No screaming, no crying. Just like Claire said.
Strong.
She reached the ladder and pulled her knees up to
the bottom rung, a few inches above the surface. She
got her feet beneath her and started to climb, grimac-
ing at the thick, slimy feel of the metal bars beneath
her pruned fingers. The ladder seemed to go on
forever, and when she risked a look down to see how
high she'd gone, she could only see a tiny, shimmering
patch of the water's lapping top where the light hit it
directly. She could see the source of the light, too—a
narrow slit in the ceiling, not much higher than where
she was.
Almost to the top. And if I fall, I won't get hurt.
There's nothing to be scared of.
Sherry swallowed heavily, willing the thought to be
true, and looked up again.
A few more rungs, and when she reached up for the
next, her hand touched a bumpy metal ceiling. She
felt a burst of accomplishment, pushing at it with one
hand—
—and it didn't move. Not at all.
"Shit," she whispered, but it didn't sound annoyed,
the way she'd hoped; the word sounded small and
lonely, almost like a plea.
Sherry hooked an elbow through the rung she was
holding, touched her pendant for luck, and tried
again, really pushing this time. Straining with all of
her might, she thought she felt it give, just a little—
but not anywhere near enough. She lowered her hand,
cursing silently this time; she was trapped.
For several minutes she didn't move, not wanting to
go back down into the water, not wanting to believe
that she really was stuck—but her arms were getting
tired, and she didn't want to jump, either. Finally, she
started down, much more slowly than she'd come up.
Each step lower was like admitting defeat.
She was perhaps a third of the way back to the
water when she heard the footsteps overhead—a light
thumping at first, more of a vibration than anything,
but then quickly redefined into separate steps, getting
louder. Then closer—and getting louder still, ap-
proaching the top of the pit where she'd awakened.
Sherry gave about a second's thought to ignoring
the footsteps and then scrambled up the ladder,
deciding that it was worth the risk; it might not be
Claire, or even anyone who meant her well—but it
could be her only chance at escape.
She started shouting before she got back to the top.
"Hello! Help, can you hear me? Hello, hello!"
The footsteps seemed to pause, and as she reached
the ceiling again, still calling out, she hit the metal
several times with her fist.
"Hello, hello, hello!"
Another smack with her decidedly sore hand—and
suddenly she was hitting air, and a blinding light was
in her face.
"Sherry! Oh, my God, sweetie, I'm so glad you're
okay!"
Claire, it was Claire, and Sherry couldn't see her
but was nearly overwhelmed with delight at the sound
of her voice. Strong, warm hands helped her up,
warm, damp arms were hugging her tightly. Sherry
blinked and squinted, and started to be able to make
out the features of a vast room through the brilliant
white haze.
"How did you know it was me?" Claire asked, still
holding her.
"Didn't. But I couldn't get out by myself, and I
heard walking. . . ."
Sherry looked around at the big room that Claire
had pulled her into, feeling stunned amazement that
Claire had heard her at all. The room was huge,
spanned by a series of thin metal catwalks laid out in
diagonals—and the section of floor that she'd come
out of was at the farthest corner of the darkest part of
the room, the panel that Claire had lifted only a
couple of feet across.
Man. If I hadn 't knocked, or if she'd been going any
faster....
"I'm very glad it's you," Sherry said firmly, and
Claire grinned, looking just as happy and amazed as
Sherry felt.
Claire knelt in front of her, her smile fading a little.
"Sherry—I saw your mom. She's okay, she's alive—"
"Where? Where is she?" Sherry blurted, excited by
the news—but feeling a kind of nervous uncertainty
tensing her muscles suddenly, making it hard to
breathe.
She looked into Claire's worried gray eyes, and saw
that she was thinking about lying again—that she was
trying to figure out the best way to tell her something
unpleasant. Even a few hours ago, Sherry might have
let her do it, too—
—but not anymore. Strong and brave we have to
be....
"Tell me, Claire. Tell me the truth."
Claire sighed, shaking her head. "I don't know
where she went. She was—scared of me, Sherry. I
think she thought I was someone else, someone bad or
crazy. She ran away from me—but I'm pretty sure she
came this way, and I was trying to find her again when
I heard you calling."
Sherry nodded slowly, struggling to accept the idea
that her mother had been acting weird—weird
enough for Claire to try and sugar-coat it.
"And you think she came in here?" Sherry asked
finally.
"I can't be positive. I also ran into this cop, Leon,
before I saw your mother; I met him when I first got to
the city, and he was in one of the tunnels I went
through after you disappeared. He was hurt, he
couldn't come with me to look for you—so after your
mom took off, I went back to get him, but he was
gone."
"Dead?"
Claire shook her head. "Nope. Just gone—so I
backtracked, and as far as I can tell, this is the only
way your mom could have gone. But like I said, I'm
not sure. . . ."
She hesitated, frowning, gazing at Sherry thought-
fully. "Did your mom ever tell you about something
called the G-Virus?"
"G-Virus? I don't think so."
"Did she ever give you anything to hold onto, like a
little glass container, something like that?"
Sherry frowned back at her. "No, nothing. Why?"
Claire stood up, putting her hand on Sherry's
shoulder and shrugging at the same time. "It's not
really important."
Sherry narrowed her eyes, and Claire smiled again.
"Really. Come on, let's see if we can figure out where
your mom went. I bet she's looking for you."
Sherry let Claire lead the way, wondering why she
was suddenly sure—almost certain, in fact—that
Claire didn't believe what she was saying. . . and
wondering why she couldn't find it in herself to ask
any more questions about it.
The factory machine lift, like the tram, was exactly
where Annette had left it. The margin had surely
tightened, but she was still ahead of the spies, of Ada
Wong and her ragged little friend .. .
... lies, telling me lies like they all tell lies, as if
losing William, suffering such pain and loss isn't
enough to shame them....
She fumbled the control key out of her torn lab coat
pocket, leaning heavily against the mounted controls
as she inserted the key and turned it. Her shaking
fingers touched the activation switch and a trail of
lights appeared on the console, too bright even in the
moon-filled darkness. Cool autumn air brushed over
her aching body, a friendly, secret wind that smelled
like fire and disease ...
... like Halloween, like bonfires in the dark when
they brought out their dead, burning the pestilent flesh
of the plague-riddled bodies...
Four squealing, blaring honks sounded into the
night sky, the massive elevator room telling her that it
was time to go. Annette staggered up the gray and
yellow steps, unable to remember what she'd been
thinking about before. It was time to go, and she was
so, so tired. How long had it been since she'd slept?
She couldn't remember that, either.
Hit my head, yes? Or just sleepy, may haps. .. .
She'd been exhausted before, but the relentless pain
of her injuries had sent her to some delirious place
that she'd never imagined could exist. Her thoughts
came in spiraling, uneasy bursts of feeling that she
couldn't seem to sort through, at least not to her
satisfaction; she knew what had to be done—the
triggering system, the subway gate opening, the hiding
in the shadows and waiting to heal—but the rest had
become some strange, disjointed grouping of free
association, as if she'd taken some drug that had
overloaded her senses, and would only let her think a
bit at a time.
It was almost over. That was something she could
hold on to, one of the only constants in her muddled
mind. A positive and somehow magical phrase that
she could still see, no matter how blind she became.
On her way through the factory, she'd coughed and
coughed and then vomited from the pain a thin and
acidic string of bile that had made dark bubbles burst
in front of her eyes, the darkness staying for so long
that she thought she might actually lose her sight—
—it's almost over.
Clutching the thought like a lost love, she found the
latch to the metal room and went inside. The controls,
pushed. The movement and sound of movement
engulfing her as she lay across one soft metal bench
and closed her eyes. A few moments of rest, and it was
almost over.. ..
Annette sank into the dark, the humming motors
lulling her into a deep and instant sleep. She was
going down, her muscles relaxing, her aches and
miseries loosening their hold—and for some endless
reach of time, she found a silence—
—until a howling, terrible scream knifed into her
darkness, a shriek of such fury and pain that it spoke
for her heart, and she jerked back to life, panting and
afraid—
—and then realized what had snapped her out of
her dreamless sleep, and her thoughts came together,
giving her one more clear and constant thing to hold
on to.
It was William. William had come home, he had
followed her—and Umbrella would have nothing,
because the thing that had been her husband had
come back into the blast radius.
The scream sounded again, this time echoing away
into one of the lab's many secret places as the lift went
down and down.
Annette closed her eyes again, the new thought
joining her lost love from before, the two of them
together making her happy at last.
William has come home. It's almost over.
The third followed naturally, added as she slipped
back into the silence, knowing that she had to get up
too soon, to begin the final journey. When the lift
stopped, she'd wake up and be ready.
Umbrella will suffer for what they've done—and
everybody dies at the very end.
She smiled, and fell asleep, dreaming of William.
TWENTY-FOUR
LEON FINALLY STARTED TO FEEL LIKE HIM-
self again, sitting in the control room where Ada had
left him. She'd found a medkit in one of the dust-
covered cabinets, along with a bottle of water; she'd
only been gone for about ten minutes, but the aspirin
was starting to kick in, and the water had worked
wonders.
He sat in front of a switch-covered console, trying
to piece together what had happened after the explo-
sion in the sewers; the last thing he really remembered
clearly was seeing the headless crocodile collapse, and
then being overwhelmed by a light-headed weakness.
Ada had bandaged him up and then led him through
tunnels—
—and a subway, we were on a subway for a minute
or two—
—and finally to this room, where she'd told him to
rest while she went to check on something. Leon had
protested, reminding her that it wasn't safe, but had
still been too fuzzy to do much more than sit where
she'd put him. He'd never felt so helpless, or so totally
dependent on another person. Once he'd gulped
about half of the gallon jug of water, though, he'd
started to snap out of it. Apparently, blood loss
tended to dehydrate ...
... so she gave me the water and then went to check
on what, exactly? And how did she know to come this
way?
He'd barely been able to walk, let alone ask any
questions—but even in his delirium, he'd noticed
how certain she was, how she'd chosen their path with
unwavering precision. How could she know? She was
an art buyer from New York, how could she know
anything about the sewer system of Raccoon City?
And where is she? Why hasn't she come back?
She'd helped him, she'd most probably saved his
life—but he just couldn't keep believing that she was
who she said she was. He wanted to know what she
was doing, and he wanted to know now, and not just
because she'd been keeping secrets; Claire was still
somewhere in the sewers, and if Ada knew the way
out of the city, Leon owed it to her to try and find out.
Leon stood up slowly, holding onto the back of the
chair, and took a deep breath. Still weak, but no
dizziness, and his arm didn't hurt as badly, either—
the aspirin, perhaps. He drew his Magnum and
walked to the door of the small, dusty room, promis-
ing himself that he wasn't going to accept any more
vague answers or smiling brush-offs.
He opened the door and stepped out into an open-
ended warehouse almost big enough to be an aircraft
hangar, it was empty, decrepit, and heavily shadowed,
but the brisk night air that breezed through made it
almost pleasant—
—and there was Ada, stepping onto a raised plat-
form just outside of the hangar, disappearing behind
what looked like a section of a train. It was an
industrial transport lift—and from the well-oiled
look of the rails that ran through the warehouse, it
was one part of the abandoned factory that hadn't
been completely abandoned.
"Ada!"
Keeping his wounded arm tightly pressed to his
body, Leon ran toward the lift—and felt dull anger as
he heard the rising thrum of the transport's engines,
the heavy mechanical sound spilling out into the clear
night sky. Ada was leaving, she hadn't gone to
"check" on anything—
—but she's not going anywhere until she tells me
why.
Leon ran out into the moonlit open, hearing the
door to the transport slam shut as he skirted a control
console and stepped up to the vibrating metal plat-
form, nearly tripping on the brightly painted steps.
Before he could catch his balance, the transport
started its descent; three-foot-high panels of corru-
gated metal rose all the way around the train, contain-
ing the large platform as it slid smoothly down into
the ground.
Leon grabbed for the door handle as the darkness
swept up around the humming transport, the sky
dwindling into a smaller and smaller starry patch
overhead. The cool, pale light of the moon and stars
was quickly replaced by the electric orange of the
transport's mercury lamps.
He stumbled inside, and saw the startled look on
Ada's face as she stood up from a bench bolted to one
side, as she half-raised her Beretta and then lowered it
again—and a flash of guilt, there and gone in the time
it took for him to close the door.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, staring at
each other as the room continued its smooth descent.
Leon could almost see her working to come up with
an explanation—and as tired as he was, he decided
that he just wasn't in the mood.
"Where are we going?" he asked, making no effort
to keep the anger out of his voice.
Ada sighed—and sat down again, her shoulders
sagging. "I think it's the way out," she said quietly.
She looked up at him, her dark gaze searching his.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried to leave without
you, but I was afraid. . . ."
He could hear real sorrow in her voice, see it in her
eyes, and felt his anger give a little. "Afraid of what?"
"That you wouldn't make it. That 7 wouldn't make
it, trying to keep both of us safe."
"Ada, what are you talking about?" Leon moved to
the bench, sitting down beside her. She looked down
at her hands, speaking softly.
"When I was looking for you, back in the sewers, I
found a map," she said. "It showed what looked like
some kind of an underground laboratory or factory—
and if the map was right, there's a tunnel that runs
from there to somewhere outside of the city."
She met his gaze again, honestly distressed. "Leon,
I didn't think you were in any condition to make a
trip like that, like this—and I was scared that if I
brought you with me, if it was a dead end or some-
thing attacked us. . . ."
Leon nodded slowly. She'd been trying to protect
herself—and him.
"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I should have told you,
I shouldn't have just left you there like that. After all
you've done for me, I—I at least owed you the truth."
The guilt and shame in her eyes wasn't something
that could be faked. Leon reached for her hand, ready
to tell her that he understood and that he didn't blame
her—
—when there was a resounding thump outside. The
entire transport shook, just a slight tremble, but
enough to make both of them tense.
"Probably a rough spot in the track...." Leon
said, and Ada nodded, gazing at him with an intensity
that made him pleasantly uncomfortable, a warmth
spreading through his entire body—
BAM!
—and Ada flew off the bench, thrown to the floor as
a massive, curled thing slammed through the wall,
crashing through the sheet metal of the vehicle's side
as though it were made of paper. It was a fist, a fist
with bone claws, each of them nearly a foot long, the
claws dripping with—
"Ada!"
The giant hand withdrew, its bloody talons ripping
new holes in the metal wall as Leon dropped to the
floor, grabbing Ada's limp body, pulling her into the
center of the transport. A terrible shriek pealed
through the moving darkness outside—and it was the
same furious cry that they'd heard in the station but
louder, more violent—and even less human than
before.
Leon held on to Ada with his one good arm, feeling
the warm trickle of blood seeping out from her right
side, feeling her dead weight against his heaving chest.
"Ada, wake up! Ada!"
Nothing. He lowered her gently to the floor, then
pulled at the bloody hole in her dress, just above her
hip. Blood was welling up from two deep punctures;
there was no way to tell how bad, and he ripped at the
fabric, tearing off" the bottom few inches of her short
dress and pressing the wadded material against the
wound—
—and again the monster screamed, and the rage in
its throaty howl was nothing to what Leon was feeling,
staring down at Ada's still and closed face. He
stretched her tight dress over the makeshift bandage,
fixing it in place as best he could, then stood up and
unstrapped the Remington.
Ada had taken care of him, had protected him when
he couldn't protect himself. Leon loaded the shotgun
grimly, feeling no pain at all as he prepared to return
the favor.
When they reached what looked like the end of the
line, it was Sherry who figured out where her mother
must have gone. They'd walked into yet another open,
shadowy room, but it only had the one door; there
seemed to be no other way out of the cavernous
chamber, unless Annette had jumped off the raised
floor and trekked off through the unlit emptiness that
surrounded them.
They stood at the edge of the darkness, trying to see
down into the shadows and having no luck. The room
was set up almost like a loading dock: a railed
platform ran from the door along the back wall, then
ended abruptly, giving way to a seemingly endless
void. Either Annette had climbed down and navi-
gated some secret path through the dark, or Claire
had been mistaken about which way she'd gone.
So what now? Go back, or try to follow?
She didn't want to do either one—although going
back pretty much beat the crap out of the idea of
walking into a pitch-black abyss. And Leon was
probably still back there somewhere . . .
"Could it be a train? Is this like a train station?"
Sherry asked, and as soon as she said "train," Claire
gave herself a solid mental kick in the ass.
Platform, railings, about a thousand overhead
"pipes."...
Claire grinned at Sherry, shaking her head at her
own stupidity; she was getting flaky, no doubt
about it.
"Yeah, I think it is," she said, "though you guessed
it, not me. My brain must be on strike. .. ."
The small computer console on one side of the
platform, the one she'd dismissed as unimportant,
was probably the control board. Claire headed for it,
Sherry following along and clutching absently at her
gold locket as she described the noises she'd heard,
down in the drainage well.
"... and it was moving away, like a train would. It
scared me pretty bad, too. It was loud."
Sure enough, just beneath the small monitor screen
on the standing console was a recall command code
and a ten-key. Claire tapped in the code and hit
"enter"—and the chamber was filled with the smooth
hum of working machinery: the sound of a train.
"You're one smart cookie, you know that?" Claire
said, and Sherry practically beamed, her entire face
crinkling with her sweet smile. Claire wrapped an arm
around her shoulders and they walked back to the
edge of the platform to wait.
The tram's light appeared after a few seconds, the
tiny circle of brightness getting bigger as they
watched. After the trials they'd been through, Claire
decided to be as fantastically optimistic about this
new development as she could—primarily to keep
from worrying about what horrible thing would prob-
ably happen next. The train would lead out of the city,
of course, and it would be well-stocked with food and
water; it'd have showers and fresh, warm clothes—
—nah, scratch that. A hot tub, and a couple of those
thick terry robes, for after. And slippers.
Nice, but she'd settle for anything that didn't in-
clude monsters or crazy people. She glanced at Sher-
ry, and noticed that she was still rubbing her locket.
"So what's in there?" she asked, wanting to make
Sherry smile again. "You got a picture of your boy-
friend, or what?"
"Inside? Oh, it's not a locket," Sherry said, and
Claire was pleased to see a faint blush rise in her
cheeks. "My mom gave it to me, it's a good-luck
charm—and I don't have a boyfriend. Boys my age
are totally immature."
Claire grinned. "Get used to it, sweetie. As far as I
can tell, some of them never grow out of it."
The train was close enough now for them to see its
shape, a single car about twenty or twenty-five feet
long riding smoothly along its overhead track.
"Where do you think it goes?" Sherry asked, and
before Claire could answer, the door to the platform
exploded.
The hatch blew inward, torn off its hinges in a
squeal of metal and clanging to the floor—
—and Claire grabbed Sherry, pulling her close as
the towering Mr. X stepped into the room, bending
low and sideways to squeeze through the opening, his
soulless gaze turning toward them at once.
"Get behind me!" Claire shouted, pulling Irons's
handgun, risking a glance back at the approaching
train. Ten seconds, they needed ten seconds—
—but X took a giant step toward them, and she
knew they didn't have them. His bland, terrible face,
expressionless, his giant hands already rising, still
twenty feet away but only four steps in his massive
stride—
"Get on the train when it stops!" Claire screamed,
and pulled the trigger.
Four, five, six shots, beating into his chest. The
seventh hit one dead-white cheek, but Mr. X didn't
blink, didn't bleed—and didn't stop. Another mighty
step, the black, smoking pit in his face a testament to
his inhumanity. Claire lowered her aim, legs, knees—
Bam-bam-bam!
—and he paused as the rounds smashed into him,
at least one a direct hit to his left knee, the black eyes
fixed on her, marking her—
"—here, come on!"
Sherry was pulling at her vest, screaming, and
Claire backed away, squeezing the trigger again. Two
more rounds hit him in the gut—
—and then she was on the train, and Sherry had
found the control for the door. It whooshed shut, Mr.
X framed in the tiny window, not coming forward
anymore but still not falling. Not dying.
"Follow me!" Claire shouted, spotting the board of
blinking lights to her right, knowing that the door
wouldn't hold for a second if the giant, terrible
creature started walking again.
She ran for the control board with Sherry at her
side, thanking God that the designer had been user-
friendly as the red "go" button snapped down be-
neath her shaking hand—
—and the train was moving, sliding away from the
platform, away from the indestructible un-man and
into the black.
Annette sat in the staff bunk room on level four,
waiting for the mainframe to respond to the power-up
and debating whether or not to initiate the P-Epsilon
sequence. Once the fail-safe system was triggered, all
of the connecting corridor doors would unlock, and
those doors that were electronically powered would
open. The creatures that had been trapped these last
days would be free to roam, and most of them would
be hungry ...
... hungry and hot, bleeding pure virus from their
clotted flesh ...
She didn't want to run into any—unpleasantness
upon her departure, but as the first lines of code
spilled across the screen, she decided against running
the sequence. The P-Epsilon gas was an experiment
anyway, something a couple of the microbiologist
techs had worked up to appease the Umbrella
damage-control staff. If it worked, it would knock out
the Re3s and all of the human carriers that had been
infected by the initial airborne—the first wave—en-
suring her a safer trip to the escape transport tunnel;
but the spies were coming, and Annette didn't want to
make things easy for them. She'd heard the lift being
recalled as she'd stumbled her way to the synthesis
lab—which was fine, great, they'd be just in time for
the finale, and she wanted them fighting for their
lives as she sped away from the facility, away from
the brilliant explosion that would consume the
multibillion-dollar facility...
... and it'll burn, it'll all burn and I'll be free of this
nightmare. Endgame and I win. Umbrella loses, once
and for all, the sneaking, murdering animal bas-
tards—
She felt good, awake and aware and in very little
pain; she'd meant to go straight to the nearest com-
puter outlet upon her return to activate the fail-safe
even before collecting the sample, but she'd barely
been able to see straight as she'd stumbled off the lift;
she'd been afraid of forgetting something—or worse,
of falling and being unable to get up again. A trip to
the meds locker in the synthesis lab had fixed all that;
already, the terrible pain was a distant memory, along
with the bizarre, deluded thought processes that had
made it so hard to concentrate. When her little
cocktail shot wore off, she'd pay for the temporary
reprieve, but for the next couple of hours, at least, she
was as good—she was better—than new.
Epinephrine, endorphin, amphetamine, oh my!
Annette knew she was high, that she shouldn't
overestimate her abilities, but why shouldn't she feel
happy? She grinned at the small computer in front of
her and started to tap in the codes, her fingers flying
over the keys, feeling like her teeth would crack as the
synthetic adrenaline pounded through her dilated
veins. She'd made it back to the lab, William had
come back, and the sample, the very last viable G-
Virus sample in the facility, was tucked into her
pocket. She'd hidden it in one of the fuse cases before
she'd gone looking for William, and picked it up on
the way to the staff room—
—76E, 43L, 17A, fail-safe time... 20, vocal
warning/power cut, 10, personal authorization,
OOOlBirkin—
—and that was it. Annette couldn't stop grinning,
didn't want to stop as she lightly stroked the "enter"
key, the triumph a hot and liquid joy spinning
through her numb and tattered flesh. One touch, and
there was nothing on earth that could stop it. In ten
minutes, the taped warnings would start to run, and
the transport lift would shut down, cutting the facility
off from the surface; in fifteen, the audio would begin
the countdown—five minutes to reach the minimum
safe distance by train, another five and—
Boom. Twenty minutes before the explosion. More
than enough time to get to the tunnel and power up the
train, no matter what is loosed; enough time to speed
away from the ticking dock, beneath the city streets,
through the isolated foothills at the outskirts of Rac-
coon. Enough time to get to the end of the track, walk
out into the private plot of land, turn around—and see
Umbrella lose it all.
As the clock ticked to zero, the plastique fail-safe
charges in the laboratory's central power core would
be activated. Even if all but one of the twelve explo-
sive packets failed, that one blast would be enough to
set off the secondary charges that were built into the
walls themselves; Umbrella's fail-safe system had
been designed to take it all down. The lab would
become an inferno, blasting up into the dead city,
visible for miles—and she'd be there to see it, to
know that she'd done what she could to make things
right.
This is for you, William. . . .
The thought was bittersweet... for some time,
they hadn't—enjoyed their relationship as husband
and wife. William was so brilliant, so devoted to the
work, that the pleasures of synthesis and development
had taken the place of the perks of married life. She
had come to recognize his genius, to learn the joy of
supporting him without the nuisance of relationship
struggles—but now, her finger resting on the end to it
all, she found herself suddenly wishing very much
that there had been more between them in the last few
years, more than her adoration for his incredible gifts,
his appreciation of her assistance....
This is our last kiss, my love. This is my contribution
to the work, my final loving act for what we shared.
Yes, that was right, that was the feeling. Annette
pressed the key, her heart singing, and saw the locked
code flash across the monitor in glowing green.
"I respectfully tender my resignation," she said
softly, and started to laugh.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE DARK SLID PAST THE MOVING PLAT-
form, metal darkness bathed in murky orange light,
and whatever had punched through the wall of the
transport was gone. Leon had edged his way around
the enclosed room twice, and seen nothing at all,
heard nothing but the smooth hum of the working
motors.
When the creature finally howled from the shadows
atop the roof, and Leon snapped the shotgun up, what
he saw actually made him freeze. In the second it took
him to really see it, his vengeful fury blew away like so
much dust, replaced by an absolute bone-chilling awe.
Holy shit—
The thing was still shrieking, its head thrown back,
the brutal, gurgling scream like the voice of hell in the
moving dark. It had been a man, once—arms and
legs, shreds of clothing still hanging from its hulking
body—but everything human about it had changed,
was still changing as it bellowed its rage into the cold
black, and Leon could only stare.
Its body was swollen and rippling with strange
muscles, the bare chest puffed and bloated with its
endless scream. Its right arm was six inches longer
than the left, the stained bone claws jutting from the
pulsing hand. And the bulbous moving tumor in its
right bicep looked like nothing so much as an eyeball
the size of a dinner plate, jerking wetly from side to
side as if searching—
—and the scream was changing, too, getting deep-
er, rougher, the shaggy face falling forward—and
melting into its chest. Like hot wax, like a movie
effect, the creature's head flowed into its upper body,
disappearing smoothly into the inflamed and greedy
skin—
—and at the same time, another face was forming,
growing, rising up from the back of its neck with a
horrible snapping sound, like fingers being broken.
Slitted eyes cracked open, a bony red hole of a mouth
forming, taking up the furious cry with a new voice—
—and Leon squeezed the trigger in denial, a denial
of the monster's unholy existence.
Boom!
The shot hit its chest, and a thick, purplish blood
sprayed out, cutting off the creature's scream—but
that was all it did. The monster's new face angled
toward Leon, the domed head tilting—
—and it hopped down onto the platform, landing
in a half-crouch on legs as big around as Leon's chest.
It took one jumping, crooked step forward and was
close enough for Leon to smell the strange, chemical
musk that poured from its glistening skin—and see
that the wound on its chest had stopped bleeding, that
the strange flesh was eating the tiny holes.
The creature raised its mighty claw and Leon
stumbled backwards, pumping another round and
firing as the talons came down—
—shhink!
—and sparks flew up from the metal rail as the shot
blasted into the creature's stomach, more purplish
fluid spattering from its body. The almost point-blank
range of the heavy round barely fazed the towering
monster. It took another step, and Leon backed away,
pumping another round—
—and he tripped on the steps that led up to the
transport room, tripped and fell on his ass, the round
going high over the creature's bullet-shaped head.
One more step and it would be on him—
—dead I'm—
—except it didn't take the step. Instead, it turned
toward the railing, its bizarre head tilting, the pits of
its rudimentary nostrils flaring—
—and silently, almost gracefully, it leapt over the
edge of the platform, out into the passing darkness.
For a moment, Leon didn't move. He couldn't, he
was too busy trying to understand that the monster
hadn't killed him. It had smelled or sensed some-
thing, it had broken off the attack that it most
certainly would have won—and had jumped off the
moving transport.
I'm not dead. It's gone, and I'm not dead.
Why, he didn't know, and couldn't begin to guess.
Accepting that he was alive was enough—and a short
time later, maybe no more than a few seconds, his
knotted thoughts and senses told him that the trans-
port was slowing down, that the shaft was getting
lighter, the blackness washing to gray.
Leon crawled to his feet and went to check on Ada.
!
Sherry had heard the monster from far away, from
somewhere deep in the giant hole, and felt even more
scared than she had when the giant—Mr. X, Claire
called him—had come into the train station. Claire
had said it probably wasn't even the monster, that it
was most likely some machine problem, but Sherry
wasn't convinced. The sound was so distant and
strange that it could have been something else . . .
... but what if it isn't? What if Claire's wrong?
They stood outside a warehouse in the chill of the
dark, stood over the big hole in the ground and waited
for the mechanical noises to stop. The almost-full
moon was low in the sky, and Sherry could tell by the
deep blue light of the horizon that it was very early in
the morning; she didn't feel tired, though. She felt
scared and anxious, and even with Claire holding her
hand she didn't want to go down into the black hole
where the monster could be.
After what seemed like a long time, the humming
noise of the machinery stopped, and Claire stepped
back from the hole—the transport shaft, she said—
and turned back toward the warehouse.
"Let's go see if we can recall the—Sherry?"
Sherry hadn't moved to follow her. She stared
down into the hole, holding her charm and wishing
that she was brave like Claire—but she wasn't, she
knew she wasn't, and she didn't want to go down into
the dark.
I can't, I can't go down there, I'm NOT like Claire
and I don't care if that's where my mom went, I don't
care at all—
Sherry felt warmth across her back and looked up,
startled, to see that Claire had taken oflFher vest and
was slipping it over her shoulders.
"I want you to have this," Claire said, and in spite
of her fear, Sherry felt a sudden rush of confused
happiness.
"But—why? It's yours, and you'll get cold.. .."
Claire ignored her for a minute, helping her put it
on. It was too big for her and it had some dirt on it,
but it was the coolest thing Sherry thought she'd ever
worn.
For me. She wants me to have it.
Claire knelt in front of her, now wearing only a thin
black T-shirt and shorts. She looked at her very
seriously, pulling the vest closed over Sherry's chest.
"I want you to have it because I can tell that you're
scared," she said firmly, "and I've had it for a long
time, and when I wear it, I feel like I can kick ass. Like
nothing can stop me. My brother has a leather jacket
with the same design on the back, and he kicks ass—
but he got the idea from me."
She smiled suddenly, a tired, warm smile that made
Sherry forget about the monster, just for a minute.
"So now it's yours, and every time you wear it, I
want you to remember that I think you are the best
twelve-year-old who ever walked."
Sherry smiled back, hugging the faded pink denim
to her body. "And it's a bribe, huh?"
Claire nodded without hesitation. "Yes. And it's a
bribe. So what do you say?"
Sighing, Sherry reached for her hand, and they
walked back into the warehouse to find the controls
for the elevator.
Ada woke up as Leon set her gently on a creaking
cot, woke up with a pounding headache and a pain in
her side. Her first thought was that she'd been shot—
but as she opened her eyes, and Leon's worried, pale
face swam into focus, she remembered.
He was going to kiss me, I think—and then . . .
"What happened?"
Leon reached down and brushed her hair off of her
forehead, smiling a little. "A monster happened. The
same one that got Bertolucci, I think. It put its hand
through the wall of the transport and knocked you
over. You hit your head, after it—clawed you."
Virus!
Ada struggled to sit up, to look at the wound, but
the headache knocked her back. She reached up and
carefully touched the throbbing spot just over her left
temple, wincing at the feel of the sticky lump.
"Hey, just stay put," Leon said. "The wound isn't
too bad, but you took a pretty serious knock. . . ."
Ada closed her eyes, trying to collect herself. If
she'd been infected, there wasn't anything she could
do about it now—and really, what an irony that
would be—if it was Birkin who'd stabbed her and he
was still hot, she'd end up collecting a G-Virus sample
in an extremely personal way.
Deep breath, keep it together. You're not in the
transport anymore, what does that tell you?
"Where are we?" she asked, opening her eyes.
Leon shook his head. "I'm not sure. Like you said,
it's an underground lab or factory of some kind. The
transport is just outside. I brought you to the closest
room."
Ada turned her aching head enough to see the small
windows, over a cluttered counter, looking out into
the transport bay.
Gotta be fourth level, where the lift stops.. . .
The main synthesis lab was on the fifth level.
Leon was staring down at her so sincerely, his
bright blue gaze so achingly tender, that for just a few
seconds, Ada thought about aborting the mission.
They could go down to the escape tunnel together,
they could hop on the train and get out of the city.
They could run away, run far, far away—
—and then what? Call Trent and tell him that you'll
offer a refund? Sure. Then maybe you can meet Leon's
parents, get a ring, buy a little white house with a
picket fence, have a couple of kids ... you could take
up crochet, and rub his feet when he comes home from
a hard day busting drunks and making traffic stops.
Happily ever after....
Ada closed her eyes again, unable to look at him as
she spoke.
"My head hurts pretty bad, Leon, and the tunnel I
saw, on that map—I don't know where it is, ex-
actly___"
"I'll find it," he said softly. "I'll find it, and then I'll
come back for you. Don't worry about anything,
okay?"
"Be careful," she whispered, and then felt his soft
lips graze her forehead, heard him stand up and move
toward the door.
"Just stay here, I'll be back soon," he said, and the
door opened and closed, and she was alone.
He'll be okay. He'll get lost trying to find the tunnel,
he'll come back, he'll see that I'm gone and take the lift
back to the surface... I can find the sample and
escape, and it will be over.
Ada counted a minute and then sat up slowly,
grimacing at the pounding in her skull. A bad knock
indeed, but not a debilitating one; she could function.
There was a noise outside, and Ada stood up,
walking to one of the small windows. She knew the
sound even before she looked, and felt her heart sink a
little; the transport was heading up, probably recalled
to the factory by an Umbrella team ...
. .. which means I don't have a lot of time. And if
they find him—
No, Leon would be okay. He was a fighter, he had
the sense to run from danger, he was strong and
decent—and he didn't need to have someone like her
in his life. She'd been crazy to consider it, even for a
moment. It was time to wrap things up, to do what
she'd come to do, to remember who she was—a
freelance agent, a woman with no qualms about
stealing or killing to complete a job, a cool and
efficient thief who could take pride in a career with no
misses. Ada Wong always walked away with the
goods, and it would take more than a few hours with
one blue-eyed cop to make her forget it.
Ada pulled the key cards and master from her
pouch and opened the door, telling herself that she
was doing the right thing—and hopeful that in time
she'd come to believe it.
TWENTY-SIX
ANNETTE HAD RUN INTO SOME TROUBLE.
The trip down to the cargo room hadn't been bad;
she'd only run across one carrier, one of the first-
stagers, and had blown a hole into its ashy, withered
skull with the first shot. She'd passed under a sleeping
Re3, but it hadn't stirred from its ceiling bed, and it
seemed that the other creatures still lurking in the
facility shadows hadn't yet figured out that they were
free. Either that, or more of them had disintegrated
into mush than she'd imagined ... in any case, she'd
be gone before she had to worry about it either way.
In all, she made it to the cargo room hall in under
three minutes, and had punched in the key code with
a sense of grand accomplishment; the high from the
shot was wearing off, but she was still feeling good—
—until the hatch to the cargo room refused to
open. Annette had tapped the simple code in a second
time, more carefully—and nothing. It was one of the
only doors in all the facility that didn't open automat-
ically on fail-safe triggering, but it shouldn't have
been a problem—there was a verification disk in the
slot beneath the controls, the disk that was always
there in spite of Umbrella's insistence that only the
section heads were supposed to have access—
—and of course, upon checking, she'd seen that it
wasn't there, that it wasn't where it was supposed to
be. Someone had taken it.
Annette stood in front of the locked hatch in the
empty hall and felt the first bright tendrils of panic
reach into her mind, a hysteria that she couldn't allow
to take hold.
The lab's going to blow up, and I've wasted four,
almost five minutes now and where's the goddamn
disk?
"Easy, take it easy, you're okay, it's okay. .. ."
A gentle echo, a whisper of reason in the shining
hall. She'd simply have to take the elevator from a
different level; she had the master key, she had a
weapon, she had time. Not as much, but enough.
Breathing deeply, Annette started back toward the
hall that led to the stairs, reminding herself that all
was well and that it didn't really matter, that Umbrel-
la was going to pay whether or not she made it out
alive. She didn't want to die, she wasn't going to die,
but the gleaming, blood-splattered corridors and
once-sterile labs were going to burn either way, so
there was no need to panic—
—and as she turned right and moved quickly down
the connecting hall, her footsteps loud and hollow in
the silence, a ceiling panel crashed down in front of
her—
—and an Re3, a licker, dropped to the floor and
screamed for her blood.
No!
Annette fired, but only hit its scrabbling shoulder as
it darted forward, reaching out with one deformed
claw to swipe at her. She felt a sharp red pain in her
forearm, and fired again, shocked and disbelieving—
—and the second one caught it in the throat, and it
screamed, blood spraying from its torn neck, its
trumpeting shriek a garbled and spitting cry as it
lunged at her again.
The third shot blew into the gray jelly of its brain,
and it flopped to a spasming stop just inches from her
trembling legs.
Gasping as she realized how close she'd been,
Annette looked down at her bleeding arm, at the thick
scratches that had torn through her lab coat—
—and something gave. Something in her mind.
Her racing mind, her pounding heart, the blood
and the licker, William's licker, dead on the floor in
front of her—all these things whirled and danced,
spinning into a circle that came together and focused
into a single, stunningly simple thought. A thought
that made sense of it all.
It isn't theirs.
It was so clear, so crystal clear. She couldn't run
from pain, because pain would find her wherever she
ran; she had proof, dripping down her arm. William
had understood, but had lost himself before he could
explain, before he could tell her what she really
needed to do. She had to confront her attackers, and
make sure they understood—that the G-Virus wasn't
theirs—because it didn't belong to them.
But will they understand? Can they?
Maybe, maybe not. But she was so overwhelmed by
the profound simplicity of the truth, she knew that
she had to try, to make them see. The work was
William's. It was his legacy, and now it was hers;
she'd known that before, but now she knew it, a ray of
light in her mind that made everything else trivial.
Not theirs. Mine.
She'd have to find them, tell them, and once they
accepted the truth of it, they would have to leave her
alone—and then, if there was still time, she could go
her own way.
But first, she needed another shot. Smiling, her eyes
wide and starry, Annette stepped over the licker and
started for the stairs.
Leon thought he heard shots.
He was in some kind of a surgical bay, the first
room at the end of the first passage that he'd taken
after leaving Ada, and he looked up from the pile of
crumpled papers he'd found, listening—but the dis-
tant cracks didn't repeat, so he went back to his
search. He rifled quickly through the pages, desperate
to find anything besides the endless lists of numbers
and letters beneath the Umbrella letterhead.
Come on, there must be something useful in all
this....
He wanted out, he wanted to get Ada and get the
hell out. The disemboweled corpse slumped in the
corner was reason enough, but it was more than
that—the very air of the room, of the hall outside the
room, and, he was willing to bet, of every room in the
facility, was just wrong. It stank like death, but worse,
there was an atmosphere of something darker, some-
thing amoral. Evil.
They performed experiments here, they ran tests and
God knows what else here—and they'd created a
zombie plague, they'd created the monstrous demon
that attacked Ada, they'd murdered an entire city.
Whatever they meant to do, they were practicing evil.
—Evil on a grand scale; the transport had taken
them into a secret Umbrella facility, and it was a big
one. From the numbers on the walls, he knew he was
on the fourth floor, whatever that meant—and the
catwalk he'd taken to get to the strange operating
room, only one of three choices, had stretched over
what had to be sixty or seventy feet of open space, the
bottom to it lost in shadow. He didn't know how deep
he and Ada had come, and he didn't really care; what
he wanted was a map like the one she'd found in the
sewers, a clear and simple diagram with an arrow
pointing to out.
And it ain't here....
Frustrated, Leon pushed the useless papers aside—
and saw there was a computer disk lying on the steel
table that had been hidden beneath the stack of
chemical readouts. He picked it up, frowning—"For
Cargo Room Verification" was printed on the label in
smudged block letters.
Sighing, Leon slipped it into his pocket and rubbed
at his aching eyes with his right hand, his left arm
basically useless again after carrying Ada from the
lift. He didn't want to look for a computer to see what
was on the disk, he didn't want to go wandering from
room to room looking for the exit, seeing what
atrocities Umbrella had played with before they'd
shut themselves down. He was tired and in pain and
worried about Ada . . . and he decided, as he walked
back to the door, that he should go back and talk to
her. He'd wanted to ease her mind, saying that he
would find the way out, but the place was just too
goddamn huge; if she even knew the direction, or
could remember the floor number....
Leon opened the door, stepped into the hall—
—and a woman with a gun was standing in front of
him, a nine-millimeter pointed at his chest. She was
bleeding, thin streams of crimson pouring from one
arm and dripping down her dirty white lab coat—and
the look on her face, the strange, wide-eyed glassy
look that played across her features, told him that
making any sudden moves would be a very bad idea.
Oh, Jesus, what is this?
"You murdered my husband," she said, "you and
your partner and the girl, too—all of you, you wanted
to dance on his grave but / have news for you!"
She was high on something, he could hear it in her
high, trembling voice and see it by the way her skin
twitched and ticked. He kept his hands at his sides,
kept his voice low and calm.
"Ma'am, I'm a police officer, and I'm here to help,
okay? I don't want to hurt you, I just—"
The woman dipped her bloody hand into her pock-
et and held up something, a glass tube full of some
purple fluid. She grinned wildly, raising it over her
head, the gun still trained on his chest.
"Here it is! It's what you want, isn't it? Listen to
me, do you hear me? It isn 't yours! Do you understand
what I'm saying? William made it, and I helped him,
and it doesn't belong to you!"
Leon nodded, speaking slowly. "It doesn't belong
to me, you're right. It's yours, absolutely—"
The woman wasn't even listening. "You think you
can take it, but I'll stop you, I'll keep you from taking
it—there's plenty of time, time for me to kill you and
Ada and anyone else who tries to take it!"
Ada—
"What do you know about Ada?" Leon barked,
taking a half-step toward the madwoman, no longer
feeling so calm. "Did you hurt her? Tell me!"
The woman laughed, a humorless, insane cackle.
"Umbrella sent her, you stupid shit! Ada Wong, Miss
Love-em-and-leave-em herself! She seduced John to
get the G-Virus but it's not hers, either! It's not, it's
NOT YOURS IT'S MINE—"
A massive shock rocked the floor, pitching Leon to
the ground, a rumbling vibration that shook the
walls—
—and crash, pipes and plaster rained from the
ceiling, a thick beam striking the woman down with a
dull thump. Leon covered his head as bits of concrete
and white chunks of drywall slapped at him—
—and it was over. Leon sat up, staring at the
woman in shock, not sure what had happened. She
wasn't moving. The metal beam that had struck her
still hanging from the ceiling, one of her arms pinned
beneath it—
—and a cool, clear voice suddenly blared from
hidden speakers somewhere in the walls—female,
calm, and punctuated by the rhythmic bleat of a
honking alarm.
"The self-destruct sequence has been activated.
This auto-destruct sequence cannot be aborted. All
personnel should evacuate immediately. The self-
destruct sequence has been activated. This program
cannot be aborted. All personnel should evacuate
immediately—"
Leon scrambled to his feet, took one running step
toward the fallen woman—then reached down and
plucked the glass cylinder from her outstretched
hand, shoving it into his utility pack. He didn't know
who she was, but she was too crazy to be holding
anything in a test tube.
Ada—he had to get to Ada and they had to get out.
The throbbing, screeching alarms blasted through the
echoing halls, chasing him through the door to the
catwalk along with the indifferent-sounding female's
repeating message of imminent destruction.
The recorded voice didn't say how long they had,
but Leon felt quite certain he didn't want to be
around when the clock ran out.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE COOL, DARK RIDE DOWN THROUGH THE
elevator shaft ended in a squeal of hydraulic brakes—
and then silence, as the engines shut down and
trapped them somewhere in the seemingly endless
tunnel.
"Claire? What—"
Claire held a finger to her lips, hushing Sherry—
and heard what sounded like an alarm from some-
where outside, a repeating, muffled bleat of honking
noise. There seemed to be talking, too, but Claire
could only make out the faintest mumble.
"Come on, sweetie, I think the ride's over. Let's see
where we ended up, okay? And stay close."
They moved out of the transport room and onto the
platform, the distant sounds not so distant any-
more—and there was light, coming from somewhere
behind the lift. Claire took Sherry's hand as they
walked quickly around, not wanting to worry the girl
but feeling pretty sure that it was an alarm they were
hearing. There was definitely someone speaking over
the rhythmic squeals, too, and Claire wanted to know
what they were saying.
The lift had stopped only a few feet down from
some kind of a service tunnel, the light she'd seen
coming from a caged bulb that hung down from the
tunnel's ceiling. There wasn't a door, but there was a
decent-sized crawl space at the end of the short
passage; it would have to do.
It's either that or climb back to the surface, probably
only a mile or so up. . . .
Not a chance. Claire boosted Sherry up and then
climbed after her, moving to the front and then
crouch-walking to the dark hole. The bleating sound
got louder the closer she got to the crawl space, the
mumble transforming into a woman's voice. She
strained to hear the words, hoping that she'd catch
"elevator malfunction" and "temporary"—but she
still couldn't make it out. They'd have to abandon the
lift and hope that they were leaving it for something
better.
Claire swiveled around, sighing. "Looks like crawl
time for me and thee, kiddo. I'll go first, and then—"
SLAM!
Sherry shrieked as something landed on the roof of
the transport behind them, crashing through the top
in a thundering clap of rending metal. Claire grabbed
her, pulling her close, her breath caught in her
throat—
—and a hand, two hands appeared through the
hole in the roof. Two thick arms, clad in shadow—
—and the gleaming white of Mr. X's enormous
skull rose up from the destroyed lift, like a dead moon
on a starless night.
Claire turned and pushed Sherry toward the dark-
ness of the crawl space, her heart hammering, her
body suddenly slick with sweat.
"Go! Go, I'm right behind you!"
Sherry disappeared into the curving black, darting
out of sight like a frightened mouse, and Claire didn't
look back, was too scared shitless to look back as she
followed Sherry into the hole, their relentless stalker
surely climbing through the shattered elevator to
continue his determined and unfathomable hunt.
Ada had heard pieces of Annette's screaming rant
from the shadows of the catwalk hub, where the three
metal spans joined. She'd forced herself not to rush to
Leon's aid, promising herself that if she heard shots,
she'd reconsider—
—but then the laboratory facility had been vio-
lently shaken, and the bland voice of the recording
started its loop.
Shit!
Ada staggered to her feet, furious at the woman
scientist, a part of her aching for Leon, knowing what
this meant. Annette had triggered the fail-safe, which
meant they probably had less than ten minutes to get
the hell out of Dodge—
—and Leon doesn't know the way.
No, not important. If she was going to collect the
sample, which Annette surely had on her, she needed
to do it now. Leon wasn't her problem, he'd never
been her problem, and she couldn't quit now, not
after the hell she'd been through to get Trent's pre-
cious virus.
Ada took a single step away from the main fuse
panel that connected the three catwalks—and heard
the pounding footsteps coming toward her, footsteps
too heavy to be Annette's. She slid back into the
shadows and around to the span that led west, press-
ing herself against the hub's frame.
A second later, Leon went running past, probably
back to where he thought she'd be waiting for him.
Ada took a deep breath, blowing it out as she swept
Leon from her mind, and hurried across the southern
bridge to find Annette.
Ada was gone.
"—has been activated. This auto-destruct
sequence—"
"Shut up, shut up—" Leon hissed, standing help-
lessly in the middle of the room, his stomach knotted,
his hands balled into fists.
When she'd heard the alarm, she must have pan-
icked and run. She was probably stumbling through
the giant facility, lost and dazed, maybe looking for
him as that infernally calm voice repeated, as the
sirens blared and rang.
The transport lift!
Leon turned and ran back through the door—and
saw that it was gone, a large empty hole a few feet
deep where it had been. He'd been too intent on
getting to Ada, he hadn't even noticed that it wasn't
there anymore—
—we have to find that tunnel, we have to! Without
the lift, we're trapped here!
With a silent howl of frustration, Leon turned and
ran back toward the catwalks, praying that he would
find her before it was too late.
The crawl space ended abruptly, stopping over at
least a seven-foot drop to an empty tunnel. Her ears
ringing, her mouth dry as dust, Sherry grabbed the
edges of the square hole, closed her eyes, and jumped.
She swung out over the hall and let go as soon as she
was straight up and down, landing crooked and falling
as her right leg crumpled. It hurt, but she hardly felt
it, scrambling on hands and knees to get out of the
way, staring up at the hole—
—and there was Claire, her head coming out, her
wide, worried eyes taking in that she was okay, that
the hall was empty and safe . . . except that there
were bells ringing and a woman on an intercom was
talking, and Mr. X was coming.
Claire stretched her arm down as far as she could
with the gun. "Sherry, I need you to hold this, I can't
turn around."
Sherry stood and reached up, grabbing the barrel,
amazed at how heavy the gun was as Claire let go.
"Don't point it at anything," Claire breathed, and
then she actually dove out of the hole, curling her
body and landing on her shoulder, her head tucked in
tight. She did a half-somersault and then her legs
banged into the concrete wall.
Before Sherry could even ask if she was all right,
Claire was on her feet, taking the gun and pointing to
the door at the end of the hall.
"Run!" she said, and started to run herself, one
hand pushing on Sherry's back as they sprinted for
the door, as the intercom voice told them to get out,
told them that a self-destruct sequence had been
activated—
—and behind them, a sound of crashing metal tore
through the blaring noise of the sirens, and Sherry ran
faster, terrified.
TWENTY-EIGHT
ANNETTE BIRKIN CRAWLED OUT FROM BE-
neath the crushing weight of the cold metal, still
holding the gun, the G-Virus gone. As she opened her
mouth to scream her fury, to rail to the Gods at the
injustice of her terrible plight, blood dribbled out
across her lips in a thick streamer of clotted drool.
—mine mine mine—
Somehow, she made it to her feet.
Ada told herself that she didn't deserve Leon Ken-
nedy's good opinion anyway. She'd never deserved it.
Forgive me . . .
As he ran back across the catwalk from the trans-
port bay area and swung west, running blind with fear
for her, she stepped out of the hub's shadows and
pointed the Beretta at his back.
"Leon!"
He spun around, and Ada felt her throat lock at the
relief that spread across his face—and struggled not
to feel anything more as the joy turned sour, his grin
fading.
Oh, Jesus, forgive me!
"I've been waiting for you," she said, and felt no
pride at how smooth and steady her voice sounded.
How very cold.
The alarms blared, the mechanical voice almost as
icy as hers, telling them that the fail-safe couldn't be
shut down. She didn't have time to let him get used to
the idea, that she was as much a monster as the
Birkin-thing or one of the soulless zombies.
"The G-Virus," she said. "Give it to me."
Leon didn't move. "She was telling the truth," he
said, no anger but more pain than Ada wanted to
hear. "You work for Umbrella."
Ada shook her head. "No. Who I work for is no
concern of yours. I—I—"
For the first time in years, since she'd been a very
young girl, Ada felt the sting of tears—and suddenly
she hated him for that, for making her hate herself.
"I tried!" she wailed, her composure blown by the
fierce torrent of anger that coursed through her. "I
tried to leave you, back in the factory! And you had to
take it from Birkin, didn't you, you couldn't just leave
it alone!"
She saw pity on his face, and felt the fury pass,
swept away on a wave of sorrow—for what she'd lost,
with him; for the part of herself she'd lost a long, long
time ago.
She wanted to tell him about Trent. About the
missions in Europe and Japan, about how she'd
become what she was, about every event in her
miserable, successful life that had brought her to this
place—holding a weapon on a man who'd saved her.
A man she might have cared about, in a different time
and place.
The clock was ticking.
"Hand it over," she said. "Don't make me kill
you."
Leon stared into her eyes, and said, simply, "No."
A second gone, then another.
Ada lowered the Beretta.
Leon steeled himself for the shot, for the bullet
from Ada's gun that would kill him—
—and she slowly lowered the weapon, her shoul-
ders sagging, a tear running down one porcelain
cheek.
Leon blew out his held breath, feeling too many
things, a jumble of sadness and betrayal—and pity,
for the tortured struggle in her beautiful dark gaze—
—and a shot rang out from the shadows behind
her. Ada's eyes went wide, her mouth falling open as
she pitched forward, the gun hitting the floor, her
body hitting the rail and flipping over.
"Ada, no!"
He ran and dove, and somehow she caught the rail
as he grabbed her wrist, her body dangling over the
bottomless dark, blood spouting from her hanging,
shattered shoulder.
"Ada, hold on!"
*   *   *
"Mine," Annette whispered.
She raised the handgun again, intending to shoot
the other, to take back what was hers, to make them
all pay—
—and the gun was too heavy, it was falling, and she
was falling with it. Together, they fell to the dark
metal, the dark, the dark spinning up into her mind
and finally taking her pain away.
William-
It was her very last thought before she went to sleep.
The door opened into a room filled with screaming
machines, the howls and hisses of the humming,
rattling giants drowning out the shrill call of the alarm
warning.
Claire ran, pulling and pushing Sherry along, look-
ing desperately for a way out, knowing that the
monster was close.
What does he want, why us?
There, a platform in the corner some six feet off the
floor, a stack of crates pushed to one side just be-
neath it.
"This way!" Claire screamed, and they ran, past the
rows of shuddering metal consoles, heat pouring from
the machines as Claire pushed Sherry up and then
climbed after her.
Crash!
She turned, saw that the massive creature was
ripping through the door across the room, striding
into the screaming heat and searching, searching—
At the end of the platform, a double metal hatch.
They dashed for it, Claire not thinking of anything
but how to get away, how to destroy a thing that had
survived all that it had—
—the door was unlocked, and they ran onto anoth-
er platform; the heat in the shadowy chamber was
searing, terrible—
—and a dead end. Claire saw that before they'd
taken a half-dozen running strides into the massive
room. They were on the overseer's platform in a
foundry, the boiling heat rising up from the heavy
smelting vats below.
She had twelve bullets, split between two guns.
Claire stumbled to the edge of the platform, Sherry
next to her, the electric orange of the molten metal
bathing them in its fevered glow. Hot enough to burn
anything. . . .
How? How do I make him jump?
"Sherry, go over there!"
She pointed to the farthest corner of the platform,
and Sherry shook her head, her small face trembling
with fear.
"Do it! Now!" Claire shouted, and with a cry of
terror, Sherry ran, her locket banging against the open
flaps of the denim vest—
—not a locket—
—and Sherry screamed, and Claire turned, and
Mr. X was coming.
He walked into the chamber, as stiff and huge and
impossible as when she'd first seen him, the eerie
orange light turning him into even more of a night-
mare. Claire stood her ground, jamming Irons's gun
into her shorts, the half-formed plan running through
her frightened mind. It probably wouldn't work but
she had to try—
—he reaches for me, I jump over the railing, I grab
on, he falls—
Mr. X turned his blank gaze toward her as he took
his floor-shaking, measured steps, the black bullet
holes in his face and throat just pockets of shadow in
the smooth, terrible pumpkin light—
—and he turned toward Sherry, and raised his fists,
and started for her.
"Hey! Hey, I'm here!" Claire screamed, and he
didn't hear her, didn't see her, his entire monstrous
being focused on the cowering, sobbing girl huddled
against the far wall, clutching her locket—
—and Claire knew what he wanted. The half
remembered phrases from both Sherry and Annette
came together in a flash of awareness, forming the
answer.
G-Virus, rip her apart, good luck charm—
Not a locket.
"Sherry, he wants the necklace! Throw it to me!"
If she was wrong, they were both dead. Mr. X
closed in on the girl, blocking her from Claire's
view—
—and the pendant, the G-Virus pendant that An-
nette Birkin had inflicted on her young daughter came
flying through the heated dark, hitting the floor in
front of Claire's feet.
Mr. X reeled around, following the path of the
thrown pendant with his black eyes, forgetting Sherry
the second the necklace left her grasp. It was true.
Good girl!
Claire scooped it up, waving it at the monster,
feeling a rush of incredible anger and malicious glee
as the bloated giant started toward her with unwaver-
ing intent, fists raising again, his lifeless features fixed
on the glittering pendant.
"You want this?" Claire taunted, the words spilling
out of the fury, for the wasted bullets, for the fear that
she and Sherry had suffered. "Yeah? Then come and
get it, you miserable, mindless freak!"
The monster was less than five feet away when
Claire turned and threw it into the bubbling, burning
hot pool, the necklace disappearing into the melted
iron—
—and the superman creature that had terrorized
them throughout the endless night walked straight
into the rail, the metal bars snapping in his all-
powerful wake—
—and plunged silently into the giant vat, a great
wave of sizzling metal sloshing over the blackened
sides, spontaneous eruptions of flame dancing up
from the dark shape of his body as he disappeared
beneath the surface of the molten lake.
Triumph, sweet and wonderful—and then the cool
voice of the recording changed suddenly, wiping away
the joy of seeing Mr. X take a lava bath.
Over the shrill blasts of the mechanical sirens—
"There are five minutes to reach minimum safe
distance. All remaining personnel should evacuate
immediately. Please report to the bottom platform.
Repeat, please report to the bottom platform. Re-
peat___"
Sherry was at her side, and Claire grabbed her
hand, and they ran.
The pain was incredible, and Ada closed her eyes,
wondering if she would die from it.
"Ada, hang on! Just hang on, I'll pull you up!"
Through the throbbing, pounding sirens that as-
saulted her ears, Ada heard the countdown for the
fail-safe start to run. Five minutes.
He tries to save me, we both die.
Leon's grip was strong, the determination in his
panicked, pleading voice almost as strong as her own
will. Almost, but not quite.
Ada turned her face up to his, saw that in spite of it
all, he still wanted her to survive, he wanted to help
her up and carry her away to the safety of escape.
Not this time. Not for me. . . .
Her life had been about selfishness, about ego and
greed. She'd seen a lot of good people die, and
somewhere along the way, she'd lost the ability to
care—telling herself that even the effort was a waste
of time and a sign of weakness.
And I was wrong, I was selfish and wrong and now
it's too late.
Not too late. Whatever waited beneath her, the
decision was made.
"Leon—go down, west, and find the cargo room,
past the—row of plastic chairs. You'll need the disk,
it's in my—pouch—"
"Ada, I have it! Cargo disk, right, I have it, I found
it—don't talk, just hold on, let me help you!" He
fumbled at the rail, trying to maintain his grip.
Talking was a horrible effort, but she had to finish,
had to tell him before time ran out.
"The code is 345. Get to the elevator, Leon. Take it
down. The subway—tunnel leads out. Have to—run
full throttle . . . and watch out for Birkin, the G-
carrier, he—he's changing by now. Got it?"
Leon nodded, his blazing blue eyes filling her up.
"Live," she said, and it was a good word, a word to
go out on. She was tired, and the mission was
wrapped, and Leon would live.
She let go of the railing, and Leon screamed her
name, and the sound of it followed her down into the
dark like a bittersweet good-bye.
TWENTY-NINE
SHERRY WAS SCARED, BUT MR. X WAS DEAD
and he must have been the monster all along, not the
one at the station but the real monster, the one that
had wanted to rip her apart all along—
—but she didn't have time to think about it as
Claire sprinted, jerking her along back the way they'd
come, through the machine room, through the hall
with the crawl space and around a corner—
—and Sherry screamed as a zombie reeled toward
them, a dead white creature made of dusty bone, and
Claire raised her gun and shot—
—bang, and the dry white head caved in, the
moaning dead creature crumpled to the floor, and
then Claire was dragging her over the body and
running for the door at the end of the hall.
It was an elevator, and Sherry collapsed against one
wall after Claire pulled her inside, trying to catch her
breath as Claire punched the controls. After the speed
of their run from Mr. X, the elevator's descent was a
crawl, a softly humming crawl.
"We're gonna make it," Claire gasped, "just a little
longer."
Sherry nodded, her heart pounding even harder as
the intercom voice told them that they had four
minutes left to be safe.
Leon felt like he didn't know how to stand up and
walk away. The image of her composed, beautiful face
in the second before she'd let go ... she's gone. Ada's
dead.
He reached for the Beretta, fresh grief washing
over him as he picked it up, the weapon still warm
from her touch—and it was too light, too light by
half because it wasn't loaded. There wasn't even a
clip. She'd never meant to hurt him; she'd lied, she'd
lied all along, but she'd never meant to hurt him at
all.
"... are four minutes to reach minimum safe dis-
tance. All remaining personnel should evacuate im-
mediately. Please report to the bottom platform . . ."
Four minutes. He had four minutes to get far
enough away to fulfill Ada's last request.
He stood up and turned for the door—and stopped,
reaching into his pocket, pulling out the tiny glass
tube full of purple fluid. He knew he didn't have time
to spare, but it only took a second to pull his arm back
and throw the sample as hard as he could, wanting it
as far away from him as possible.
If the laboratory responsible for so much death was
going to burn, let the G-Virus burn with it.
"Yes!"
The elevator door opened—and there was a train, a
secret subway train in shining silver. It was silent and
dark, not the powered-up, thrumming machine that
Claire had hoped to see, but it was still the most
beautiful escape vehicle that she'd ever laid eyes on,
hands down.
Sherry holding on to her arm, they ran to the door
at the front of the three-car subway, the bleating
alarms still sounding, echoing through the concrete
tunnel. The woman's bland voice, the voice that
Claire had started to hate long moments ago, in-
formed them that they had three minutes to get to the
minimum safe distance.
They hurried aboard, Claire noticing and not car-
ing that there weren't any seats, just a wide, empty
space for the passengers to stand in. The control
booth was to the left.
"Let's get this show on the road," Claire said, and
the bright and radiant look of hope on Sherry's dirty,
tired face made Claire's heart break, just a little.
Oh, baby ...
Claire looked quickly away, hopping up the steps to
the control room, making a silent promise to herself
that if the train didn't work, she'd carry Sherry
through the tunnel herself. Whatever it took to see
that the fragile hope in her eyes wasn't broken.
* * *
The code and the verification disk he'd found in the
operating room opened the door just as Ada had said,
the broad hatch opening into a short hall. With three
minutes left, Leon dashed down the cold corridor,
through another overwide door, a biohazard symbol
emblazoned across the front, and found himself in the
cargo room.
He didn't have time to stop and get a good look, his
focus on getting to the elevator before the recording
told him he couldn't possibly get out of the facility
alive. Leon ran to the back of the wide, strangely
red-tinted room, found the controls for the large
warehouse-type elevator, and slapped the button for
down, ready to jump in and go—
—and nothing happened, except that a row of tiny
lights—perhaps twenty tiny lights over the elevator
door—started to flash in descending order. Slowly.
Leon reached forward and slapped the button
again, feeling something like numb disbelief as the
elevator crept down, pausing for what seemed like
minutes between floors, as the alarms blared and the
countdown to the lab's destruction ticked closer and
closer to the end.
"Jesus!" He turned around, feeling like he'd scream
if he had to wait much longer—
—and for the first time, got a clear look at the room
he was in. The two tall, wide shelves that ran the
length of the chamber held a very specific kind of
"cargo"—and although the half-dozen giant glass
containers that lined each shelf held nothing but clear
red fluid, Leon felt a chill just looking at them. Each
cylinder was large enough to hold a full-grown man,
and it made him wonder what they'd been built for.
Doesn't matter, they're gonna be blown to shit in a
matter of minutes, and so am I if this goddamn thing
doesn't hurry UP—
He turned back to the elevator, almost glad to be
angry, frustrated, to have something to feel besides
loss—
—and the ceiling over the elevator started to shake
and rattle ... Leon backed away, pointing his Mag-
num at the solid metal ceiling panel as it crashed
down and out—
—and the monster from the transport lift landed in
front of him, the same demonic creature that had hurt
Ada, that should have killed him—
Birkin—?
—and from the way it threw back its strange head
and howled, the vicious, feral sound drowning out the
buzz of the alarms, he could tell it had come to finish
the job.
The subway was ready, it was powered up and
ready to go—except it seemed that the tunnel gate
release had malfunctioned; a console full of green
lights, and a single red dot that insisted the gate
needed to be opened manually.
Two minutes to safe minimum distance.
Won't make it, we'll never make it—
"Stay here," Claire said, and went outside to find
the release, praying that it was nothing.
*   *   *
Leon turned and ran as the monster started walking
toward him, each powerful stride thundering through
the chamber, the echoes of its terrible shriek still
spinning through the room.
Think!
The powerful shotgun hadn't been enough, he had
to hit it someplace vulnerable, the eyes, use the
Magnum—
Leon was back at the door. He spun and fired,
aiming the Magnum at the creature's face—
—except that the face was changing again, the jaw
dropping, falling away as it screamed. Great jagged
spikes of tooth or claw slid out from what was left of
the mouth, from out of the top of its pulsating chest—
and as another scream burst out of its mutating throat
Leon saw two new arms unfurl from its sides. The
limbs snapped into place, elbows locking, thick
worms of taloned fingers growing from the tips.
Bam-bam-bam!
The shots grouped tight, blowing into the thin-
stretched skin over its slitted left eye. The monster
roared, this time in pain, and Leon saw shards of bone
and pus-purple fluid splatter out, a small stream of
dark blood obscuring the yellow ball of its eye.
It shook its head back and forth, flinging more
liquid, squatting down on its haunches like a mutant
frog—
—and leapt into the air, springing up and right,
landing on one of the seven-foot-high shelves with an
animal grunt.
Oh shit, how'd it do that—
He couldn't see its eyes, couldn't see anything but
its back as it slumped down—but it was changing
again, he could hear the wet snapping sounds and see
the knobs of spine rising up through the purpled flesh
of its back.
He didn't want to see what it was becoming, but the
elevator hadn't landed yet, and he had two goddamn
minutes.
Leon grabbed another clip and slapped it home,
then fired at what he could see—a shape with six legs,
a shape that no longer looked like anything human.
The shot hit one of its muscular shoulders, and the
creature jumped. Like some wild, spidering beast it
leapt back to the floor, landing a few feet in front of
him. Its chest had become a wall of strange teeth, of
spikes that opened and closed as it panted—and
when it screamed again, the sound was a demon cry,
like nothing he'd ever heard, like the dying screams of
a thousand damned souls.
Leon got two shots off into the cluster of moving
teeth and stumbled away, and beneath the constant
blare of the sirens, he heard the bright and cheery
ping of the elevator's arrival.
Claire ran to the front of the train, looking at the
series of levers and switches set into the tunnel wall,
frowning, finding the red and white handle in less
than ten seconds and slamming it down. She heard
the grating of metal somewhere in front of the train
and turned to run back to the door—
—when she heard metal again—the ripping, tear-
ing sounds of steel being bent and hammered out of
shape, coming from somewhere behind the subway,
from somewhere in the back of the tunnel—
No, no way.
She stared toward the back of the train, past the
metal bars of a closed gate that led back into shad-
ows—and heard a sound like bone on concrete, a
grinding heavy noise that repeated, and again.
Footsteps.
Claire ran for the door, knowing that it couldn't be
X, absolutely could not—he was melted, gone, and
they didn't have the G-Virus anymore—
—and she caught a glimpse of movement past the
bars of shadow some thirty feet away. A glimpse of
something tall, wisps of smoke curling through the
darkness—and the bitter, choking stench of some-
thing burned. It stepped out of shadow, stepped
toward the back of the train car, raising charred,
massive fists—
BAM!
—and the car actually rocked, as Claire realized
that it was Mr. X, or what was left of him—and that
he was surely a demon straight from hell.
She'd combined the clips on their elevator ride;
eleven rounds left; there was no way it would be
enough, but it was all they had.
Claire raised Irons's gun, wondering if this was the
end.
Leon ran, around the shelf to his right, heading
back for the elevator, and there were galloping, thun-
dering footsteps right behind, he couldn't stop.
Another turn, back through the middle of the
room—
—and he was hit in the back, propelled forward
and down as the beast rammed him, hot, rubbery
flesh slamming him into the floor.
Leon rolled and it was on top of him, its dripping
teeth poised to drive through his skull, its thick legs
pinning him down. The tumor like an eye was still
there, opening out of the shoulder, looking at him—
—and he jammed the barrel of the weapon against
its drooling chin and pulled the trigger, screaming,
emptying the heavy rounds into its thrashing head.
The beast shrieked, flailing, falling sideways off
Leon. In a flash, he was up and running, straight for
the open elevator. The enormous, freakish animal was
still howling as Leon sprinted into the lift and turned,
hitting the control marked down—
—and saw the beast shuddering, changing, scream-
ing, and spitting chunks of bone and flesh and blood
as it also turned and started for the elevator. It picked
up speed with each staggering step, the door closing
slowly, the terrible creature almost flying now—
—and Leon had the shotgun in his hands, pumped
a shot and squeezed. The blast hit its barrel chest,
knocking it back—
—and the door closed, Leon was going down, and
there was only one minute left.
THIRTY
BAM!
Sherry felt the train rock violently all around her.
Claire!
She ran to the door, remembering that Claire said
not to leave and not caring; she didn't know what it
was or what she could do to help, but she couldn't just
stand there—
BAM!
—and the car shifted again, another loud, banging
crash blasting through the stale air, the floor trem-
bling beneath her feet. Sherry reached the door and
hit the open switch, her heart hammering, sweat
dribbling through the dirt on her face.
The door slid open—and there was Claire, pointing
her gun at something Sherry couldn't see, something
at the back of the car.
Claire's gaze flickered to her, and her shouted
words quaked with fear and panic.
"Don't come out! Shut the door!"
Sherry reached for the controls and hesitated, terri-
fied for Claire, wanting to see what it was—
—quick look—
—and she darted her head out, just for a second,
searching for the source of Claire's fear, for whatever
was slamming into the train car. A smell like chemi-
cals and burnt meat had filled the dimly lit platform,
coming from—
Sherry screamed when she saw it, when she saw the
tattered, charred monster that was rocking the sub-
way, just past a wall of metal bars. She saw its giant
fist pound the steel wall of the train, but it was the
monster's face that she couldn't look away from.
Mr.X.
The skin was burnt away from his face, from his
whole body. Smoke drifted up from the blackened,
melted lump of his skull, but the eyes were still
alive—red and black and steaming with acrid smoke,
but still very much alive.
"Sherry! Do it, now!" Claire screamed, not taking
her gaze from the smoking monster, from its terrible,
giant body coated with red, metallic muscle, as red
and burnt as its awful eyes.
Sherry hit the controls, the door closing as Claire
started to fire.
The elevator did go down, though not as Leon had
expected, and not nearly as fast as he needed it to go.
The wide platform slipped down an angled tunnel,
like a slide, neon gridwork on black walls humming
past. Slowly.
". .. now forty seconds to reach minimum safe
distance."
"Go go go—" Leon breathed, every ache and pain
in his body forgotten in the rising dread that beat at
his brain. The voice had stopped telling him to report
to the bottom platform, now only making announce-
ments in ten-second increments. As much as he
loathed the repeated instructions, it was much worse
not hearing them; the silences between the statements
were telling him not to bother trying.
To make it this far and then die because of a slow
elevator. ... He couldn't accept that. He'd been
through too much. The car crash, Claire, the running
and the monsters and Ada and Birkin—he had to
make it, or it was all for nothing.
There didn't seem to be a real floor beneath the
descending platform, or he would've tried it on
foot—but the lift seemed to be lowering by grooves
cut into either side of the darkness, by some mecha-
nism that he couldn't begin to guess at.
". .. twenty seconds to reach .. ."
Leon started to shake, the tension running through
his muscles, tightening them, making it hard to
breathe. What was safe distance? When that cool,
inhuman voice reached zero, how long before the
explosion?
Full throttle, she said full throttle—
The train would have to be fast. And he had ten
seconds left to get to it, as the strange elevator
continued its smooth, unhurried trek down into the
dark.
The door slid shut and Sherry was safe. For the
moment. Claire's thoughts had kicked into overdrive,
spinning through her limited options in a flash.
Can't let him knock it off the tracks—
She knew she couldn't hope to injure the creature,
but she might be able to distract it long enough for
them to get away. She wished she'd bothered to show
Sherry the simple controls for the train, wished that
the train was already moving, taking Sherry to
safety—
—but I didn't and we have to go NOW.
The recorded message was counting down the final
ten seconds to reach a safe distance. As the smoking
remains of Mr. X dealt another hammering blow to
the dented subway wall, Claire aimed for its mutant
head and fired.
Five shots, four of them smacking into the bizarre
material that made up its flesh, about where a hu-
man's ear would be. The fifth went wide, and as the
explosive thunder echoed through the shadows of the
chill platform, the thing that she'd dubbed Mr. X
turned slowly toward her.
Now what?
The recorded female voice distracted her for a split-
second, as Mr. X took a single step toward her, a
lumbering, monstrous step that pulled it out of the
shadows.
". . . three. Two. One. Safe distance minimum now
required. Self-destruct will occur in five minutes.
There are now five minutes until detonation."
The alarms still blared, but at least the voice had
shut up. She wouldn't have noticed in any case, her
wide-eyed gaze fixed on the creature. It was hideous,
all the more so for its still humanoid shape, like a
mockery of reality, of sanity. In spite of the charred,
smoking patches that covered most of its body, its
unnatural flesh hadn't lost its elasticity; the reddish
matter beneath the burns flexed and contracted like
real muscle. It looked like a skinned giant that had
crawled from beneath a burning building—and if it
had suffered from its molten metal bath, she couldn't
see it. Another mighty step, and the arms rose, the
barred gate was ripped down, the iron bars were
crashing to the concrete.
Slow at least, at least there's still that—
It was the only thing she had going for her. Claire
sprinted for the subway door, still afraid, but the
smoking monster was slow, powerful but unable to
really move—
—and suddenly, Mr. X wasn't just walking any-
more. The creature bent at the waist, bent its knees—
—and pushed off the ground in a dynamic lunge
that tore gouges in the concrete, its deformed feet
propelling it toward her at a full run.
Claire didn't think. She dodged right and took off
past the hunched, loping monster, running as fast as
she could. It almost got her anyway, its reflexes faster
than fast—as if losing its facade of skin had freed it
somehow, the liauid metal oaring it down to its core
strength. As she leapt over the broken gate and into
the shadows, she heard the screech of not-flesh fingers
raking across the cement, saw that Mr. X had brought
one mighty arm up, slashing through the air where
she'd been only a second before. It meant to disem-
bowel her—
—but why, no G-Virus, no reason—
Claire ran deeper into the echoing darkness as the
intercom system calmly informed her that they had
four minutes left.
"There are now four minutes until detonation. . .."
Shit shit shit!
Just when he thought he might have a stroke from
the frustration, the elevator had finally stopped. Leon
jerked at the handle to a thick metal door, tensing
himself to run—
—and the door opened into one wall of a passage, a
sterile concrete corridor lit by flickering overhead
bars. And there were no signs telling him which way
to go.
Left or right?
The few seconds that he hesitated could cost him
his life—//he still had any chance at all.
He'd heard once that when faced with a choice,
most people instinctively turned in the direction of
their dominant hand. With the crappy luck he'd had
throughout his long, long night in Raccoon, he de-
cided to go the other way.
Left. Leon ran, his boots pounding the floor, won-
dering if he should even bother.
*   *   *
Not far past the broken gate, Claire saw a walkway
that crossed over the train, the stairs hidden by deep
shadow—
—and she heard the pounding of Mr. X behind as
it started after her, each running step a violent slap of
mutant flesh against cement. The terror drove her on,
her feet hardly touching the ground, not caring if she
ran head-on into a wall in the deepening dark. Maybe
that would be best, it was tremendously powerful, it
was fast, it was impossible to kill—she didn't stand a
chance if it caught her—
—and the steps were getting louder, faster, she
heard the ripping scrape of its clawed fingers plowing
up concrete. She had maybe a second before that hand
tore into her—
—and she dodged right again, throwing herself into
a well of darkness just past the stairs. Mr. X flew past,
a mammoth, hulking blur, and she actually felt the
wind from his moving hand whisper against her leg as
she hit the cold floor.
Sharp pain shot up her arm, her elbow cracking
hard against the cement. She ignored it, jumping to
her feet, searching for the monster in the dark.
Can it see, does it see me?
Her hand found an angled wall to the right, cement
against her back and on the left. She was in the space
beneath the stairs, and she had no idea where the
impossibly silent X was; the shadows wouldn't help
her if it could see in the dark.
She ran her hands over the walls, found a switch
and punched it. The texture of shadow changed as
dim light filtered down from somewhere above—and
she saw the monster less than fifty feet away just as it
turned, its thick red gaze scanning evenly across the
deserted platform—
—and finding her. Marking her. The only sound
was a soft crackling coming from its still-smoking
flesh—until it took a step for the stairwell, and
cement crunched beneath one purpled leg.
Six or seven shots left, get the eyes—
Claire stepped quickly out of the shadows and
raised Irons's gun, squeezing the trigger, backing
toward the stairs.
Bam-bam-bam—
—and X was positioning itself for another attack,
the bullets smashing into its melted face, two of them
ricocheting from the matter of its skull as it aligned to
her position.
—bam-bam—
She was at the stairs, sidling up a step, the rounds
useless, Mr. X starting its lurching run. It would be on
her before she could turn, before she could get up the
steps.
—I'll die—
—but at least I'll hurt it first-
Mr. X took one—two powerful strides, halving the
distance between them as Claire aimed, determined
to make the last shots count. She would die, and her
only regret was for Sherry, her only wish that she
would be able to incapacitate the nightmare X before
it killed her.
She fired, and the monster's left eye exploded, a
burst of inky fluid splattering its wretched, inhuman
face.
Yes!
Mr. X veered to its right, not stopping but not
coming straight at her anymore—it would still hit the
base of the stairs—too close!—she had to try for the
other eye and she had about two seconds left—
Claire aimed, found her mark, and—
—click!
—there were no bullets left, and the monster was
slamming into the base of the steps, the smell of
roasted meat washing over her as it raised its giant
hand up, and its giant, terrible body was all she could
see.
Claire rolled down the concrete stairs, hunching
herself into a ball—
—and screamed as Mr. X's ragged clawed fingers
raked across her left thigh, and a distant voice told her
that they had three minutes left.
THIRTY-ONE
HE'D GONE THE WRONG WAY. TWISTS AND
turns in the cold and empty hall had led him to a
storage room—a dead end.
"There are now three minutes until detonation."
Leon turned back the way he'd come, and with
what felt like the very last of his strength, forced
himself into a stumbling run. He was too exhausted to
feel disappointed, to worry about his impending
death, to wish that things were different; it took all of
his energy just to keep moving.
He'd make it or he wouldn't; either way, he didn't
think he'd be surprised.
Claire hit the floor at the base of the stairs and
leapt to her feet, blood running down her leg in a hot
pulse of stinging pain. She staggered away, nothing
broken—
—but she knew her clawed leg was just the begin-
ning of what it would do to her, a prelude to the real
pain.
Mr. X was still bent over the railing of the steps, but
as she stumbled away, back toward the broken gate of
the platform, the monster pushed itself off. It turned
its immense body in her direction, the open blackness
of its empty eye socket drooling out some dark and
ichorous liquid. It would compensate for its altered
senses, she was sure—it would compensate, realign,
run at her again—and would slaughter her like the
merciless machine it was, there was nothing she could
do to stop it.
At least I'll die in the explosion—
Claire tripped on the metal bars of the gate, barely
catching herself, blood pattering to the ground as she
staggered another step, please let it be quick—
"Here! Use this!"
Claire spun, saw that Mr. X was positioning itself
for its killing strike—and saw the silhouette high
above, on the walkway over the train. A woman's
voice, a woman's shape, the shadowed figure throwing
something—
—who—
—that clattered across the concrete, landing be-
tween her and Mr. X. It was metal, it was silver—
she'd seen them in movies, it was a machine gun—
and Claire ran for it. Another final hope, another
chance, however slim, that she and Sherry would
survive.
She reached the weapon, dropped, saw X pushing
itself toward her, the thunder of its steps shaking the
ground—
—and she scooped up the heavy gun, kicking
against the floor and rolling onto her back, her
shaking hand finding the trigger, her body moving to
accommodate the weapon. Stock on the ground, arms
twisted around the cold metal, aiming—
—please please—
The monster was only a step away when the spray of
bullets crashed out of the gun, a clattering, rattling
string of tiny explosions that shook Claire's entire
body—and whammed into the gut of the beast, the
sheer force of so many rounds stopping it in mid-
stride—and pushing it back.
—tattatattatatta—
She felt the vibrating metal trying to shake itself
free of her grip, so she held it tighter, the butt of the
weapon tapping against the floor at a manic pace. The
bullets were still pounding into the creature's abdo-
men, so fast and so many that she couldn't hear her
own gasping cries of fury and pain and exaltation—
—and Mr. X was trying to move forward, but a
strange thing was happening, a strange and beautiful
thing. Its gut was being shredded by the endless stream
of rounds, its midsection gaining depth and texture,
black fluids coursing down its lower half from the
ragged, growing wound. X's mouth was open, an
empty hole like its eye socket—and like the socket,
thick liquid was pouring out, obscuring its pitiless
face.
—tattatattatat—
Claire held on, directing the hail, watching the
creature try to stand against the pulsing, crashing
spray. Watching it bleed. Watching as it seemed to—
condense, its massive body crumpling, its torso sink-
ing down.
The bullets still flying, Mr. X raised its arms—
—and split in two.
Claire took her finger off the trigger as X's upper
body toppled to the cement, a wet slap of heavy meat,
and its legs collapsed, falling to one side, more strange
blood gushing from both halves. Pools of shiny black
grew around the massive pieces of its broken body,
forming stinking puddles. The creature was dead—
and even if it wasn't, it didn't matter anymore. Unless
it could pull itself across the floor as fast as she could
run, her battle with the terrible mystery that had been
Mr. X was finally through—
—hell with all that, no time, MOVE!
Claire was on her feet in a second, ignoring the
squelch of blood in her boot and the pain that had
caused it, her gaze searching the upper platform for
her unknown savior. No one was there, and she didn't
know if another minute had ticked by, the warning
lost in the gunfire.
"Hey!" Claire shouted, backing toward the subway
car. "We have to go, now!"
No answer, no sound but the ringing in her ears and
the echo of her trembling words. If she wanted to save
Sherry . . .
Claire turned and ran.
*   *   *
"—two minutes until—"
Leon pushed himself to go faster, the twining
tunnel a blur of gray that spun past his aching,
breathless perception. He'd lost all track of the turns
and twists of the corridor and was rapidly losing
hope, a voice in the back of his mind telling him that
maybe it would be best to stop, to sit and rest—
—and then he heard it, and that tiny, despairing
whisper was obliterated by the sound.
The sound of heavy machinery stirring to life,
somewhere up ahead. Not far ahead.
Train!
Faster, legs distant, rubbery, lungs working, heart
pounding—one way or another, it was almost over.
THIRTY-TWO
CLAIRE BURST INTO THE TRAIN, HOLDING A
giant rifle and with one leg covered in blood, barely
pausing to hit the controls to the door before running
for the engineer's booth. Sherry knew that they were
in trouble, that it was going to be close, so she didn't
waste time asking questions; she followed, relieved
beyond measure that Claire was okay but keeping it to
herself.
Okay, she's okay and we're going now....
A small, tinny version of the intercom voice and
alarms blared out of the tiny room's control board.
"There are two minutes until detonation."
Claire had dropped the oddly shaped rifle and was
hitting buttons, throwing switches, her attention fixed
on the console. A giant mechanical hum suddenly
enveloped them, a growing, whining rumble that
made Claire grit her teeth; Sherry couldn't tell if it
was a smile, but she smiled as she felt the train
lurch—
—and start to move, taking them away from the
platform.
Claire turned, saw Sherry standing behind her, and
tried to smile. Claire rested one hand on Sherry's
shoulder, but didn't say anything—so Sherry didn't
either, waiting to see what would happen.
The train started to go faster, sliding past dimly lit
halls and platforms, the tunnel in front of them dark
and empty. Sherry let the warmth of Claire's hand
remind her that they were friends, that whatever
happened, Claire was her friend—
—and she saw a man, a policeman, stumble into
view ahead on the left, and then the train was gliding
past him, his eyes wide and searching and desperate
in his dirty face.
"Claire!"
"I see him—"
Claire turned and ran out of the booth, her foot-
steps clattering through the metal train car, sprinting
to the door. She hit the control and the door slid open,
the booming, grinding sounds of the subway billowing
into the closed space.
"Leon!" she screamed. "Hurry!"
She jerked back suddenly, a wall sliding by, and
spun around looking as desperate as the man—
Leon—had. After another second she turned back
and closed the door.
"Did he make it?" Sherry asked, realizing that
Claire couldn't possibly know, even as the words
came out of her mouth.
Claire came to her and put an arm around her, as
the train kept going faster and her face knotted with
worry—
—and the voice in the intercom told them they had
one minute left—
—and the door in the back of the car opened. In
stumbled Leon, his arm wrapped with a shredded,
stained bandage, his hair matted with dark, dried goo,
his eyes bright and blue in the mask of dirt.
"Full throttle!" he shouted; Claire nodded, and
Leon blew out a heavy breath. He staggered toward
them, the train shifting back and forth, speeding now,
rocketing through the tunnel. He put his arm around
Claire, and Claire hugged him tightly.
"Ada?" Claire whispered. "Ann—the scientist?"
Leon shook his head, and Sherry saw that he might
cry. "No. I didn't—no."
". . . thirty seconds until detonation. Twenty-
nine . . . twenty-eight. . ."
The woman's voice kept counting down, the num-
bers seeming to come twice as fast as they should, and
Sherry buried her face in Claire's warm side, thinking
about her mom. Mom and Dad. She hoped that
they'd gotten out, that they were safe somewhere—
—but they're probably not. They're probably dead.
Sherry could hear Claire's heart pounding, and she
hugged her friend tighter, thinking that she would
think about it later.
". . . five. Four. Three. Two. One. Sequence com-
plete. Detonation."
For a second, there was no sound at all. The alarms
had finally stopped, and the clattering movement of
the racing train was all there was to hear—
—and then there was an explosion, a muffled
sound, a shoomp sound that kept going, growing,
becoming huge.
Sherry closed her eyes and the train rocked sud-
denly, horribly, and they were all thrown to the metal
floor as bright, burning light flickered through the
window, as the sounds of a car crash blasted all
around them, heavy thumps raining over the roof—
—and the train kept going. It kept going, and the
light went away, and they weren't dead.
The blinding flash dissipated, faded, and Leon felt
the tension leaking out of his body. He rolled onto his
side, and saw Claire sitting up, reaching for the hand
of the young girl next to her.
"Okay?" Claire asked the girl, and the child nod-
ded. Both of them turned to him, their faces express-
ing what he felt—shock, exhaustion, disbelief, hope.
"Leon Kennedy, this is Sherry Birkin," Claire said,
saying the words carefully, the slightest accent on
"Birkin." He got the message even without the inten-
sity of her gaze, nodding his understanding before
smiling at the girl.
"Sherry, this is Leon," Claire continued. "I met
him when I had just gotten to Raccoon."
Sherry returned his smile, a weary, too-adult smile
that seemed out of place; she was too young to smile
like that.
One more rotten deed to lay at Umbrella's door,
innocence stolen from a child. . . .
For a few seconds, they just sat there on the floor,
staring at one another, smiles fading all around. Leon
hardly dared to hope that it was really over, that they
were leaving the terror behind. Again, he saw his
feelings mirrored in front of him, in Sherry's worried
brow and Claire's tired gray eyes—
—and when they heard the distant squeal of metal
coming from somewhere at the back of the train, he
didn't see any surprise. A rending, tearing screech—
followed by a heavy, somehow stealthy thump—and
then nothing.
Should've known it isn't over—
"Zombie?" Sherry whispered, the word almost lost
in the gently clattering sound of the speeding train.
"I don't know, sweetie," Claire said softly, and for
the first time, Leon noticed that her left leg was ripped
to shit, blood oozing from several ragged scratches;
he'd been too amazed at his, at their narrow escape to
see it before.
"How about I go take a look?" Leon said, taking his
cue from Claire, keeping his voice mild and even; no
point in scaring Sherry any worse. He stood up,
nodding toward Claire's leg.
"Sherry, why don't you stay here with Claire, keep
an eye on that leg? I'll see if I can find some bandages
while I'm checking things out; don't let her move,
okay?"
Sherry nodded, her small face intent with purpose
that again was too old for her years. "Got it."
"I'll be back in a minute," he said, and turned
toward the back of the swaying train, praying that it
was nothing at all and knowing better, as he reached
for the Remington and went to see.
Leon opened the door, the sounds of the rolling
train amplified for a second before it closed behind
him. Claire couldn't see him enter the next car from
her position on the floor, and wished she'd been in
shape to go with him; if there was something else on
the train, Sherry wasn't safe, none of them were—
—don't think like that, it's nothing. It's over—
—like it was over with Mr. X?
"What should I do?" Sherry asked, pulling Claire
away from the disheartening thoughts. "Direct pres-
sure, right?"
Claire nodded. "Yeah, except we're both pretty
grimy, and I think it's starting to clot. Let's see if Leon
comes back with something clean ..."
She trailed off, her thoughts going back to Mr. X.
There was something nagging at her but she was a
little dizzy from the blood she'd lost—
—G-Virus. It wanted the G-Virus before.
Why had Mr. X come to the subway platform? Why
had it been trying to get inside the train, unless—
Claire struggled to get up, fighting her swimming
head and the throbbing pain in her leg.
"Hey, don't move," Sherry said, a look of deep
distress in her eyes. "Leon said to stay still!"
She might have been able to overcome her physical
problems, but seeing Sherry on the edge of panic was
too much; if there was some G-Virus creature on
board, if that was why Mr. X had come, Leon would
have to face it alone. She couldn't leave Sherry. If
Leon didn't come back, she'd have to figure out how
to detach their train car, or stop the train so they
could get off before the creature could get to them—
Claire shut the thoughts off, forcing a smile for
Sherry. "Yes ma'am. I just wanted to make sure he got
through the second car. . .."
She could see the relief sweep across Sherry's face.
"Oh. Well, forget it, I'm taking care of you now, and I
say you stay still."
Claire nodded absently, hoping that she was wrong,
hoping that Leon would be back any second—
—Sam! Bam! Bam!
The thunder of the Remington was loud and clear.
Sherry grabbed her hand as two more shots blasted
the hope from Claire's fuzzy mind, as the train sped
through the dark.
The second car was clear, the same wide-open space
that Leon had entered the train by, all dusty steel and
not much else. Whoever had designed the escape
vehicle had obviously figured the Umbrella employ-
ees would have to be packed in like sardines.
Just us three, though—and our stowaway.. ..
There was nothing to see, but Leon moved slowly
nonetheless, carefully scanning the shadowy corners
and steeling himself for whatever was in the last car.
Whatever it was, it couldn't be as bad as the thing that
had jumped him in the cargo room, the Birkin-thing,
if that was what it was. The thought that the creature
had anything at all to do with Claire's young friend
was deeply unsettling, even obscene. A monster and a
madwoman, both destroyed, both parents of the little
girl. . . .
He reached the back of the dim and rocking train
car and peered through the door, pushing all other
thoughts aside as he tried to make out anything at all
in the last car. Darkness, and nothing else.
Hell.
Maybe there wasn't anything to see, but he had to
look. He felt his heart start to pound fresh adrenaline
through his body, felt his weariness fall away. Noth-
ing, it was surely nothing, but it felt bad. Wrong.
Last thing, very last thing. . . .
He took a deep breath and opened the door, step-
ping into the loud, whipping breeze of the outside,
holding on to the rail. The rattle of the train drowned
out the thumping of his heart as he moved to the last
car, opened the door, and stepped into darkness.
Immediately, he raised the shotgun, all of his senses
telling him to run as the door slid shut behind him.
He reached back, slapping for a light switch. Dark-
ness, but there was a powerful smell like bleach or
chlorine, and there was the soft sound of wetness, of
movement—
A single bare bulb flickered on in the middle of the
car as he found a button, and he thought for just a
second that he'd lost his mind.
A thing. A creature that wasn't even vaguely hu-
manoid, except for a strange, pulsing tumor protrud-
ing from one side, a slick orb that looked very much
like an eye.
Birkin.
The creature was a giant, stretching blob of dark,
slimy matter, spanning the width of the car; Leon
couldn't tell how tall it was. The Birkin-thing had
thick streamers extended out, tentacles of wet and
elastic goo attached to every part of the space in
front of it—the ceiling, walls, and floor. And as Leon
watched, the alien beast pulled itself forward, the
dark limbs contracting, bringing the mass of the body
a few feet ahead of where it had been.
Not crazy. He was seeing it, seeing the brackish,
moving colors of black and green and purple in its
tentacles as it stretched out again, the viscous materi-
al latching to the metal of the car somehow, dragging
the blob a few more feet ahead. The body itself was
nothing so much as a gaping maw, a wet cave that still
had teeth—
—and that would reach him pretty soon if he didn't
snap out of his disgusted stupor.
Leon aimed into the giant hole of its mouth and
pulled the trigger, pumping in another round, firing,
pumping, firing—
—and then the shotgun was empty, and the giant
semi-liquid thing was still moving steadily forward.
He didn't know how to kill it, didn't know if the
rounds had even damaged it. His mind raced for an
answer, for a solution that would end the terrible life
of the G-Virus monster. He could detach the last car,
fire through the pins and chains that held it together,
//he could find the locking mechanism—
—and it would still be alive. Still living and chang-
ing in the blackness of the tunnel, becoming something
new—
The stretching elastic of its nebulous form inched
forward, and Leon reached back for the door control.
He'd have to try unhooking the cars, there was no
other choice—
—unless—
He hesitated, then unholstered his Magnum and
pointed it at the impossible mass. At the strange
tumor that peered out of a slit in its rubber flesh, the
eye that had been in every form that Birkin had taken.
Careful aim, and—
—BAM!
The effect was immediate and total, the heavy
round piercing the rheumy sphere—and a hissing,
screaming whine or whistle pouring out of the toothed
maw, like nothing on Earth, like the howl of some-
thing mechanical and insane. The tendrils of un-
formed matter shrank inward, turning black, shriv-
eling—
—and the thing imploded, pulling in on itself,
withering into a steaming black mass less than a
quarter its original size. Like a deflated beachball, the
gelid blob wrinkled and shrank, collapsing into a
flattening thickness, drooling itself into a wide puddle
of bubbling slime.
"Suck on that," Leon said softly, the last bubbles
popping, the pool a dead and inanimate thing. He
watched it for a few moments, thinking about nothing
at all—and finally turned to join the others, to tell
them it was over.
First day on the job, he thought.
"I want a raise," Leon said, to no one at all, and
couldn't help the grin that broke across his face, a
tired, sunny grin that faded quickly ... but for the
few seconds he wore it, Leon felt better than he had in
a very long time.
Leon was back, and had found a jumpsuit that he
tore into pieces and used to bind up Claire's leg. All
he'd said was that they were safe now, although
Sherry had seen him and Claire exchange a look—
one of those "we-shouldn't-talk-about-it-right-now"
looks. Sherry was too tired to take offense.
She snuggled into Claire's arms, Claire stroking her
hair, the three of them not talking. There was nothing
to say, or at least not for a little while. They were alive,
on a train thundering through the dark—and from
somewhere not far ahead, a soft light came filtering in,
coming through the window in the control booth, and
Sherry thought it looked very much like morning.
EPILOGUE
THEY SAW THE AFTERMATH OF THE EXPLO-
sion from ten miles outside the city, a black and
billowing cloud that rose up into the early morning
light and hung over Raccoon like a terrible storm—
—or a bad dream, Rebecca thought, a recurring
one. Umbrella.
She didn't say it aloud, because it wasn't necessary.
John and David hadn't gone through the Spencer
estate nightmare, but they'd been at the Cove facility,
witnesses to what Umbrella was capable of; they
knew.
Nobody spoke as David stepped up the speed, his
knuckles white on the wheel. For once, John didn't
crack any jokes about what might have happened.
They all knew that it was bad; before Jill, Chris, and
Barry had left for Europe, Jill had wired them with
her suspicions about another accident, and asked
them to keep tabs. When the phone lines had gone
down, they'd loaded up the SUV and left Maine to see
what could be done. The only question was how many
people had died this time.
Maybe this is the end, finally. A blast like that...
Umbrella can't cover this up so easily, not if it's as bad
as it looks.
John finally broke the silence, his deep, mellow
voice uncharacteristically subdued. "Fail-safe?"
David sighed. "Probably. And if there was a spill,
we're not going in; we'll circle the city and then call
for help from Latham. Umbrella is surely sending in
its cleanup staff already."
Rebecca nodded along with John. They weren't
technically part of the S.T.A.R.S. anymore, but David
had been a captain before, and with good reason.
They fell back into a tense silence, the dawn-touched
trees spinning past the utility vehicle, Rebecca won-
dering what they would find—
—when she saw the people, staggering up into the
road, waving their arms.
"Hey—" she started, but David was already hitting
the brakes, slowing down as they neared the three-
some of ragged strangers. A cop with a bandaged arm
and a young woman in shorts, both of them holding
weapons, and a little girl in a pink vest that was much
too big for her. They weren't infected, or at least not
showing signs that Rebecca could see—but they
looked like hell nonetheless. With their ripped clothes
and their faces pale and shocked beneath masks of
dirt, they certainly could have passed for walking
death.
"I'll talk," David said, his crisp British accent mild
but firm, and then they were pulling up beside the
Raccoon survivors.
David opened his window and killed the engine,
the young cop stepping forward as the woman slipped
one grimy arm around the little girl's shoulders.
"There's been an accident, in Raccoon," he said,
and although they were obviously tired and wounded
and badly in need of help, there was a wariness in the
cop's tone, a guarded, careful note that suggested just
how bad things had been. "A terrible accident. You
don't want to go there, it's not safe."
David frowned. "What sort of accident, Officer?"
The young woman spoke up, her mouth a set and
bitter line. "An Umbrella accident," she said, and the
cop nodded, and the little blond girl buried her face
against the woman's hip.
John and Rebecca exchanged a look, and David hit
the switch to unlock the doors.
"Really? Those tend to be the worst kind," he said
gently. "We'd be happy to help you, if you'd like, or
we could call for help. . .."
It was a question. The cop glanced back at the
woman, then met David's gaze for several long beats.
He must have seen something in David's face that he
felt he could trust; he nodded slowly, then motioned
for the woman and girl to come forward.
"Thanks," he said, the exhaustion finally coming
through. "If you could give us a ride, that'd be great."
David smiled. "Please, get in. John, Rebecca—
would you assist.. . ?"
John grabbed a couple of blankets out of the back as
Rebecca reached for her medical kit, careful not to
uncover the rifles tucked next to the wheel well.
An Umbrella accident . . .
Rebecca wondered if they knew how lucky they
were to have survived it—but another look into those
three exhausted, shell-shocked faces told her that they
probably did.
They started talking even before David turned the
vehicle around—and in a very short time, they dis-
covered that they had a lot in common, as the child
fell asleep and they drove back the way they'd come,
leaving the burning city behind.