prologue
CARLOS WAS JUST GETTING OUT OF THE
shower when the phone rang. He wrapped a towel
around his waist and stumbled out into the cramped liv-
ing room, nearly tripping over a still unopened box of
books in his haste to get to the bleating phone; he hadn't
had time to get an answering machine since moving to
the city, and only the new field office had his number. It
wouldn't pay to miss any calls, particularly since Um-
brella was footing his bills.
He snatched up the receiver with one dripping hand
and tried not to sound too out of breath.
"Hello?"
"Carlos, it's Mitch Hirami."
Unconsciously, Carlos stood up a little straighter,
still clutching the damp towel. "Yes, sir."
Hirami was his squad leader. Carlos had only met
him twice, not enough time to get a solid read on him,
but he seemed competent enough—as did the other
guys in the squad.
Competent, if not exactly up-front... Like Carlos,
no one talked much about their past, although he knew
for a fact that Hirami had been involved in gunrunning
through South America a few years back before he'd
started to work for Umbrella. It seemed that everyone
he'd met on the U.B.C.S. had a secret or two—most of
them involving activities not strictly legal.
"Orders just came down on a developing situation.
We're calling everyone in on this, ASAP. You got an
hour to report, and we leave in two, that's 1500 hours,
comprende?"
"Si—uh, yes, sir." Carlos had been fluent in English
for years, but he was still getting used to speaking it
full-time. "Is there any info on what kind of situation?"
"Negative. You'll be briefed along with the rest of us
when you come in."
Hirami's tone of voice suggested that he had more to
say. Carlos waited, starting to feel chilled by the water
drying on his body.
"Word is, it's a chemical spill," Hirami said, and
Carlos thought he could hear a thread of unease in the
squad leader's voice. "Something that's making peo-
ple... making them act differently."
Carlos frowned. "Differently how?"
Hirami sighed. "They don't pay us to ask questions,
Oliveira, do they? Now you know as much as I do. Just
get here."
"Yes, sir," Carlos said, but Hirami had already
hung up.
Carlos dropped the receiver into its cradle, not sure if
he should feel excited or nervous about his first
U.B.C.S. operation. Umbrella Bio-Hazard Countermea-
sure Service: an impressive title for a group of hired
ex-mercenaries and ex-military, most with combat ex-
perience and shady backgrounds. The recruiter in Hon-
duras had said that they'd be called upon to "deal" with
situations that Umbrella needed handled quickly and
aggressively—and legally. After three years of fighting
in private little wars between rival gangs and revolu-
tionaries, of living in mud shacks and eating out of
cans, the promise of real employment—and at an as-
tonishingly good wage—was like an answered prayer.
Too good to be true, that's what I thought... and
what if it turns out that I was right?
Carlos shook his head. He wasn't going to find out
standing around in a towel. In any case, it couldn't pos-
sibly be worse man shooting it out with a bunch of
coked-up pendejos in some anonymous jungle, wonder-
ing if he'd hear the bullet that finally took him out
He had an hour, and it was a twenty-minute walk to
the office. He turned toward the bedroom, suddenly de-
termined to show up early, to see if he could get any
more out of Hirami about what was going on. Already,
he could feel the warm build of nervous adrenaline in
his gut, a feeling he'd grown up with and knew better
than any other—part anticipation, part excitement, and
a healthy dose of fear...
Carlos grinned as he finished toweling off, amused at
himself. He'd spent too much time in the jungle. He was
in the United States now, working for a legitimate phar-
maceutical company—what was there to be afraid of?
"Nada," he said, and, still smiling, he went to find
his fatigues.
Late September in the outskirts of the big city; it was
a sunny day, but Carlos could feel the first whisper of
autumn as he hurried toward the field office, a kind of
thinning of the air, leaves beginning to wilt on the
branches overhead. Not that there were very many
trees; his apartment was at the edge of a sprawling in-
dustrial area—a few dingy fabrication plants, fenced
lots overgrown with weeds, seeming acres of run-down
storage facilities. The U.B.C.S. office was actually a
renovated warehouse on an Umbrella-owned lot, sur-
rounded by a fairly modern shipping complex complete
with helipad and loading docks—a nice setup, although
Carlos wondered again why they'd decided to build in
such a crummy area. They could obviously afford
much better.
Carlos checked his watch as he headed up Everett
Street and started to walk a little faster. He wasn't
going to be late, but he still wanted to get there before
the briefing, see what the other guys were saying. Hi-
rami had said they were calling in everyone—four pla-
toons, three squads of ten in each platoon, 120 people
all total. Carlos was a corporal in squad A of platoon D;
ridiculous, how these things were set up, but he sup-
posed it was necessary to keep track of everyone.
Somebody had to know something ...
He took a right where Everett met 374th, his
thoughts wandering, vaguely curious about where they
were being sent—
—when a man stepped out of an alley only a few
meters in front of him, a well-dressed stranger wearing
a wide smile. He stood there, hands jammed into the
pockets of an expensive trench coat, apparently waiting
for Carlos to reach him.
Carlos kept his expression carefully neutral, studying
the man warily. Tall, thin, dark hair and eyes but defi-
nitely Caucasian, early to mid-40s—and grinning as
though he meant to share an exceptionally funny joke.
Carlos prepared to walk past him, reminding himself
of how many crazies lived in any decent-sized city, an
unavoidable hazard of urban life.
He probably wants to tell me about the aliens moni-
toring his brain waves, maybe babble some conspiracy
theory—
"Carlos Oliveira?" the man asked, but it was more of
a statement than a question.
Carlos stopped in his tracks, his whole body tensing,
instinctively letting his right hand drop to where he
wore a gun—except he wasn't carrying, hadn't since
crossing the border, carajo—
As if sensing the upset he'd caused, the stranger took
a step back, holding his hands up in the air. He seemed
amused, but not especially threatening.
"Who's asking?" Carlos snapped. And how the hell
did you know my name?
"My name is Trent, Mr. Oliveira," he said, his dark
gaze glittering with barely suppressed mirth. "And I
have some information for you."
ONE
IN THE DREAM, JILL DIDN'T RUN FAST ENOUGH.
It was the same dream she'd suffered every few days
since the mission that had nearly killed them all that
terrible, endless night in July. Back when only a few
Raccoon citizens had been hurt by Umbrella's secret
and the S.T.A.R.S. administration wasn't completely
corrupt, back when she was still stupid enough to think
that people would believe their story.
In the dream, she and the other survivors—Chris,
Barry, and Rebecca—waited anxiously for rescue at the
hidden laboratory's helipad, all of them exhausted,
wounded, and very aware that the buildings around and
beneath them were about to self-destruct. It was dawn,
cool light coming in shafts through the trees that sur-
rounded the Spencer estate, the stillness broken only by
the welcome sound of the approaching 'copter. Six
members of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad were
dead, lost to the human and inhuman creatures that
roamed the estate, and if Brad didn't set down quick,
there wouldn't be any survivors. The lab was going to
blow, destroying the proof of Umbrella's T-virus spill
and killing them all.
Chris and Barry waved their arms, motioning for
Brad to hurry. Jill checked her watch, dazed, her mind
still trying to grasp all that had happened, to sort it all
out. Umbrella Pharmaceutical, the single biggest con-
tributor to Raccoon City's prosperity and a major force
in the corporate world, had secretly created monsters in
the name of bioweapons research—and in playing with
fire had managed to burn themselves very badly.
That didn't matter now, all that mattered was getting
the hell away—
—and we 've got maybe three minutes, four max—
CRASH!
Jill whirled around, saw chunks of concrete and tar
fly into the air and rain down over the northwest cor-
ner of the landing pad. A giant claw stretched up from
the hole, fell across the jagged lip—
—and the pale, hulking monster, the one she and
Barry had tried to kill in the lab, the Tyrant, leaped out
onto the heliport. It rose smoothly from its agile
crouch... and started toward them.
It was an abomination, at least eight feet tall, once
human, perhaps, but no more. Its right hand, normal.
Its left, a massive, chitinous grasp of claws. Its face had
been horribly altered, its lips cut away so that it
seemed to grin at them through sliced red tissue. Its
naked body was sexless, the thick, bloody tumor that
was its heart shuddering wetly outside of its chest.
Chris targeted the pulsing muscle with his Beretta
and fired, five 9mm rounds tearing into its ghastly
flesh; the Tyrant didn't even slow down. Barry
screamed for them to scatter, and then they were run-
ning, Jill pulling Rebecca away, the thunder of Barry's
.357 crashing behind them. Overhead, the 'copter cir-
cled and Jill could feel the seconds ticking away, al-
most believed she could feel the explosion building
beneath their feet.
She and Rebecca pulled their weapons and started
firing. Jill continued to pull the trigger even as she
watched the creature knock Barry to the ground, slam-
ming in a new clip as it went after Chris, firing and
screaming, enveloped by a rising terror, why won't it
go down?
From above, a shout, and something thrown out of
the 'copter. Chris ran for it, and Jill saw nothing else—
nothing but the Tyrant as it turned its attention to her
and Rebecca, indifferent to the firepower that contin-
ued plugging bloody holes through its strange body. Jill
turned and ran, saw the girl do the same, and knew—
knew—that the monster was after her, the face of Jill
Valentine embedded in its lizard brain.
Jill ran, ran, and suddenly there was no heliport, no
crumbling mansion, only a million trees and the
sounds: her boots slapping the earth, the pulse of blood
in her ears, her ragged breath. The monster was silent
behind her, a mute and terrible force, relentless and as
inevitable as death.
They were dead, Chris and Barry, Rebecca, even
Brad, she knew it, everyone but her—and as she ran,
she saw the Tyrant's shadow stretch out in front of her,
burying her own, and the hiss of its monstrous talons
slicing down, melting through her body, killing her, no—
No—
"No!"
Jill opened her eyes, the word still on her lips, the
only sound in the stillness of her room. It wasn't the
scream she imagined but the weak, strangled cry of a
woman doomed, caught in a nightmare from which
there was no escape.
Which I am. None of us were fast enough, after all.
She lay still for a moment, breathing deeply, moving
her hand away from the loaded Beretta under her pil-
low; it had become a reflex, and one she wasn't sorry to
have developed.
"Useless against nightmares, though," she muttered
and sat up. She'd been talking to herself for days now;
sometimes, she thought it was the only thing that kept
her sane. Gray light crept in through the blinds, casting
the small bedroom in shadow. The digital clock on the
nightstand was still working; she supposed she should
be glad that the power was still on, but it was later than
she'd hoped—nearly three in the afternoon. She'd slept
for almost six hours, the most she'd managed to get in
the last three days. Considering what was going on out-
side, she couldn't help a flush of guilt. She should be
out there, she should be doing more to save those who
could still be saved...
Knock it off, you know better. You can't help anyone
if you collapse. And those people you helped—
She wouldn't think about that, not yet. When she'd
finally made it back to the suburbs this morning, after
nearly forty-eight sleepless hours of "helping," she'd
been on the verge of a breakdown, forced to face the re-
ality of what had happened to Raccoon: The city was
irretrievably lost to the T-virus, or some variant of it.
Like the researchers at the mansion. Like the Tyrant.
Jill closed her eyes, thinking about the recurring
dream, about what it meant. It matched the real chain
of events perfectly, except for the end—Brad Vickers,
the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha pilot, had thrown something out
of the 'copter, a grenade launcher, and Chris had blown
up the Tyrant as it was going after her. They'd all got-
ten away in time... but in a way, that didn't matter.
For all the good they'd been able to accomplish since
then, they might as well have died.
It's not our fault, Jill thought angrily, aware that she
wanted to believe that more than anything. No one
would listen—not the home office, not Chief Irons, not
the press. If they'd listened, if they'd believed...
Strange, that all of it had happened only six weeks
ago; it felt like years. The city officials and the local
papers had enjoyed a field day with the S.T.A.R.S.'s
reputation—six dead, the rest babbling fantastic stories
about a secret laboratory, about monsters and zombies
and an Umbrella conspiracy. They had been suspended
and ridiculed—but worst of all, nothing had been done
to prevent the spread of the virus. She and the others
had only been able to hope that the destruction of the
spill site had put an end to the immediate danger.
In the weeks following, so much had happened.
They'd uncovered the truth about the S.T.A.R.S., that
Umbrella—technically, White Umbrella, the division in
charge of bioweapons research—was either bribing or
blackmailing key members nationally in order to con-
tinue their research unimpeded. They'd learned that
several of Raccoon City's council members were on the
Umbrella payroll, and that Umbrella probably had
more than one research facility experimenting with
man-made diseases. Their search for information about
Trent, the stranger who'd contacted her before the dis-
astrous mission as "a friend to the S.T.A.R.S.," had
turned up nothing, but they'd come up with some ex-
tremely interesting background stuff on Chief Irons: it
seemed that the chief had been in hot water at one point
about a possible rape, and that Umbrella knew about it
and had helped him get his position anyway. Perhaps
most difficult of all, their team had been forced to split
up, to make hard decisions about what needed to be
done and about their own responsibilities to the truth.
Jill smiled faintly; the one thing she could feel good
about in all of this was that at least her friends had
made it out. Rebecca Chambers had joined up with an-
other small group of S.T.A.R.S. dissidents who were
checking out rumors of other Umbrella laboratories.
Brad Vickers, true to his cowardly nature, had skipped
town to avoid Umbrella's wrath. Chris Redfield was al-
ready in Europe, scoping out the company's headquar-
ters and waiting for Barry Burton and Rebecca's team
to join him... and for Jill, who was going to wrap up
her investigation of Umbrella's local offices before
hooking up with the others.
Except five days ago, something terrible had hap-
pened in Raccoon. It was still happening, unfolding
like some poisonous flower, and the only hope now
was to wait for someone outside to take notice.
When the first few cases had been reported, no one
had connected them with the S.T.A.R.S. stories about
the Spencer estate. Several people had been attacked in
the late spring and early summer—surely the work of
some deranged killer, after all; the RPD would catch
him in no time. It wasn't until the Raccoon Police De-
partment had put up roadblocks on Umbrella orders,
three days earlier, that people had started paying atten-
tion. Jill didn't know how they were managing to keep
people out of the city, but they were—nothing shipped
in, no mail service, and the outside lines were cut. Citi-
zens trying to leave town were turned back, told noth-
ing about why.
It all seemed so surreal now, those first hours after
Jill had found out about the attacks, about the block-
ades. She'd gone to the RPD building to see Chief
Irons, but he had refused to talk to her. Jill had known
that some of the cops would listen, that not everyone
was as blind or corrupt as Irons—but even with the
bizarre nature of the assaults they'd witnessed, they
hadn't been ready to accept the truth.
And who could blame them? "Listen up, officers—
Umbrella, the company that's responsible for building
up our fair city, has been experimenting with a de-
signer virus in their own backyard. They've been
breeding and growing unnatural creatures in secret
laboratories, then injecting them with something that
makes them incredibly strong and extremely violent.
When humans are exposed to this stuff, they become
zombies, for lack of a better term. Flesh-eating, mind-
less, decaying-on-the-hoof zombies, who feel no pain
and try to eat other people. They're not really dead,
but they're pretty close. So, let's work together, okay?
Let's go out there and start mowing down unarmed cit-
izens in the streets, your friends and neighbors, be-
cause if we don't, you could be next."
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jill sighed. She'd been
a little more tactful, but no matter how well worded, it
was still an insane story. Of course they hadn't believed
her, not then, not in the light of day and in the safety of
their uniforms. It hadn't been until after dark, when the
screaming had begun ...
That had been the 25th of September, and today was
the 28th, and the police were almost certainly all dead;
she'd last heard gunshots ... yesterday? Last night? It
could have been the rioters, she supposed, but it didn't
matter anymore. Raccoon was dead, except for the
brain-dead virus carriers that roamed the streets, look-
ing for a meal.
Between no sleep and a near constant pump of
adrenaline, the days had blurred together for her.
After the police force had been destroyed, Jill had
spent her time looking for survivors, endless hours
ducking down alleys, knocking on doors, combing
buildings for those who'd managed to hide. She'd
found dozens, and with some help from a few of
them, they'd made it to a safe place, a high school that
they had barricaded. Jill had made sure they were se-
cure before going back out into the city, searching for
others.
She'd found no one. And this morning, when she'd
gone back to the high school...
She didn't want to think about it, but some part of
her knew that she had to, that she couldn't afford to for-
get. This morning, she'd gone back and the barricade
had been gone. Torn down by zombies, or perhaps
taken down by someone inside, someone who looked
out and thought they saw a brother or uncle or daughter
in the crowd of flesh-eaters. Someone who thought that
they were saving the life of a loved one, not realizing
that it was too late.
It had been a slaughterhouse, the air fetid with the
stink of shit and vomit, the walls decorated with great
smears of blood. Jill had nearly given up, then, more
tired than she'd ever been, unable to see anything but
the bodies of those who'd been lucky enough to die be-
fore the virus could amplify in their systems. As she'd
walked through the almost empty halls, killing the
handful of carriers that had still been stumbling
around—people she'd found, people who had cried
with relief when they'd seen her only hours before—
whatever hope she'd held on to was gone, lost with the
realization that everything she'd been through was
worthless. Knowing the truth about Umbrella hadn't
saved anyone, and the citizens she thought she'd led to
safety—over seventy men, women, and children—were
gone.
She couldn't really remember how she'd made it
home. She hadn't been able to think straight, and had
barely been able to see through eyes swollen from cry-
ing. Outside of how it affected her, thousands had died;
it was a tragedy so vast it was nearly incomprehensible.
It could have been prevented. And it was Umbrella's
fault.
Jill pulled the Beretta out from under her pillow, al-
lowing herself to feel for the first time the immensity of
what Umbrella had done. For the last few days, she'd
kept her emotions in check—there had been people to
lead, to help, and there'd been no place for any per-
sonal feelings.
Now, though ...
She was ready to get out of Raccoon and make the
bastards who'd let this happen know how she felt. They
had stolen her hope, but they couldn't stop her from
surviving.
Jill chambered a round and set her jaw, the stirrings
of true hatred in her gut. It was time to leave.
Two
THEY WOULD BE IN RACCOON CITY IN JUST
under an hour.
Nicholai Ginovaef was prepared, and he believed his
squad would do well—better than the rest, anyway. The
nine others that made up squad B respected him; he
had seen it in their eyes, and although they would al-
most certainly die, their performance would be note-
worthy. After all, he had practically trained them
himself.
There was no talking in the helicopter that carried
platoon D through the late afternoon, not even among
the squad leaders, the only personnel who wore head-
sets. It was too loud for the troops to hear one another,
and Nicholai had nothing to say to either Hirami or
Cryan—or Mikhail Victor, for that matter. Victor was
their superior, the commander of the entire platoon. It
was a job that should have belonged to Nicholai; Victor
lacked the qualities that made up a true leader.
I possess them, though. I was chosen for Watchdog,
and when this is all over, I'm the one Umbrella will
have to deal with, whether they like it or not.
Nicholai kept his face as stone, but he smiled inside.
When the time came, "they," the men who controlled
Umbrella from behind the scenes, would realize that
they'd underestimated him.
He sat near the A and C squad leaders against one
wall of the cabin, soothed by the steady and familiar
throb of the transport. The very air was charged with
tension and heavy with the scent of masculine sweat;
again, familiar. He had led men into battle before—al-
though if everything went as planned, he would never
have to again.
He let his gaze wander over the taut faces of the
troops, wondering if any of them would survive more
than an hour or two. It was possible, he supposed.
There was the scarred man from South Africa, in
Cryan's group ... and on his own squad, John Wers-
bowski, who had taken part in an ethnic cleansing a
few years back, Nicholai couldn't remember which
one. Both men had the combination of deep suspicion
and self-possession that might conceivably allow them
to escape Raccoon, howevef unlikely—and it was un-
likely. The briefing hadn't prepared any of them for
what was ahead ...
Nicholai's own private briefing, two days earlier, had
been a different matter; Operation Watchdog, they
called it. He knew the projected numbers, had been told
what to expect and how to most effectively dispatch the
unclean, the walking diseased. They'd told him about
the Tyrant-like seeker units that were going to be sent
in, and how to avoid them. He knew more than anyone
on the transport.
But I'm also readier than Umbrella can possibly
imagine... because I know the names of the other
"dogs."
Again, he suppressed a smile. He possessed addi-
tional information that Umbrella didn't know he had,
that was worth a great deal of money—or would be,
soon enough. On the surface, the U.B.C.S. was being
sent in to rescue civilians; that was what they'd been
told, anyway. But he was one of the ten who'd been
chosen to gather and record data on the T-virus carriers,
human and otherwise, and on how they fared against
trained soldiers—the real reason the U.B.C.S. were
being sent in, aka Watchdog. In the helicopter that car-
ried platoon A were two others, disguised as U.B.C.S.;
there were six already planted in Raccoon—three sci-
entists, two Umbrella paper pushers, and a woman who
worked for the city. The tenth was a police officer, a
personal assistant to the chief himself. Each of them
probably knew one or two of the others that Umbrella
had handpicked as information collectors—but thanks
to his well-developed computer skills and a few "bor-
rowed" passwords, he was the only one who knew
about all of them, as well as where each was supposed
to be to file their reports.
Wouldn't their contacts be surprised when they
failed to report in? Wouldn't it be amusing if only one
Watchdog survived and was able to name his price for
the information that had been gathered? And wasn't it
amazing to think that a man could become a multimil-
lionaire if he was willing to expend thought, a bit of ef-
fort, and a few bullets?
Nine people. He was nine people away from being
the only Umbrella employee to have the information
they wanted. Most, if not all, of the U.B.C.S. would die
quickly, and then he'd be free to find the other Watch-
dogs, to take their data and end their miserable lives.
This time he couldn't help it; Nicholai grinned. The
mission that lay ahead promised to be an exciting one,
a true test of his many skills ... and when it was over,
he was going to be a very wealthy man.
In spite of the cramped seating and the dull roar of
the 'copter's engines, Carlos was only faintly aware of
his surroundings. He couldn't get his mind off of Trent
and the decidedly weird conversation they'd had only a
couple of hours ago, and he found that he kept replay-
ing it, trying to decide if any of it was useful.
To begin with, Carlos had trusted the guy about as
far as he could toss him. The man had been way too
happy; not outwardly so much, but Carlos had gotten
the definite impression that Trent was laughing about
something just beneath the surface. His dark eyes had
fairly danced with humor as he'd told Carlos that he
had information for him, stepping back into the alley
he'd emerged from as if there had been no question
Carlos would follow.
There hadn't been really. Carlos had learned to be
very careful in his line of work, but he also knew a few
things about reading people—and Trent, though obvi-
ously strange, hadn't been particularly threatening.
The alley had been cool and dark and had smelled
faintly of urine. "What kind of information?" Carlos
had asked.
Trent had acted as though he hadn't heard the ques-
tion. "In the shopping district downtown, you'll find a
diner called Grill 13; it's just up the street from the
fountain and right next to the theater, you can't miss it.
If you can manage to get there by"—he'd glanced at
his watch—"say, 1900 hours, I'll see what can be done
to help you."
Carlos hadn't even known where to start. "Hey, no
offense, but what the hell are you talking about?"
Trent had smiled. "Raccoon City. It's where you're
going."
Carlos had stared at him, waiting for more, but Trent
had seemed to be finished.
God knows how he got my name, but this bato ain't
playing with a full deck,
"Uh, listen, Mr. Trent—"
"Just Trent," he'd cut in, still smiling.
Carlos had started to get irritated. "Whatever. I think
you might have the wrong Oliveira ... and while I ap-
preciate your, uh, concern, I've really got to get going."
"Ah, yes, duty calls," Trent had said, his smile fad-
ing. "Understand, they won't tell you all you need to
know. It will be far, far worse. The hours ahead may be
dark ones, Mr. Oliveira, but I have faith in your abili-
ties. Just remember—Grill 13, seven o'clock. Northeast
corner of the city proper."
"Yeah, sure," Carlos had said, nodding, backing
away into the daylight, wearing a somewhat forced grin
of his own. "Good deal. I'll make a note of it."
Trent had smiled again, stepping out after him. "Be
very careful who you trust, Mr. Oliveira. And good
luck."
Carlos had turned and started to walk quickly away,
throwing a glance back at Trent. The man had watched
him, hands in his pockets again, his stance casual and
relaxed. For a nutbag, he sure didn't seem crazy ...
... and he seems a lot less crazy now, eh?
Carlos had still made it to the office a little early, but
nobody seemed to have heard anything off the grape-
vine about what was up. At the short briefing presented
by the U.B.C.S. platoon leaders, they'd all been told
what few facts there were: a toxic chemical spill had
occurred earlier in the week in an isolated community,
causing hallucinations that bred violence. The chemi-
cals had dissipated, but regular civilians continued to
be harassed by those who'd been affected; there was
evidence that the damage could be permanent, and the
local police hadn't been able to get things under con-
trol. The U.B.C.S. was being sent in to help evacuate
the citizens who hadn't been affected, and to use force,
if necessary, to protect them from harm. Top secret all
the way.
In Raccoon City. Which meant that maybe Trent
knew something, after all... and what did that mean?
If he was right about where we're going, what about
the rest of it? What didn't they tell us that we need to
biow? And what could possibly be far, far worse than a
mob of deranged and violent people?
He didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing.
He'd first picked up a gun at the age of twelve to help
defend his family from a band of terrorists, and had
gone pro at seventeen—for four years now, he'd been
paid to put his life in danger for one cause or another.
But he'd always known what the stakes were, and what
he was up against. This was not at all cool, the thought
of going in blind. The only consolation was that he was
going in with over a hundred experienced soldiers;
whatever it was, they'd be able to handle it.
Carlos looked around, thinking that he was with a
good group. Not good men, necessarily, but adept fight-
ers, way more important in combat. They even looked
ready, their eyes hard and watchful, their faces deter-
mined—
—except for the B squad leader, who was staring off
into space and grinning like a shark. Like a predator.
Carlos was suddenly uneasy, looking at the guy,
Nicholai something-or-other, cropped white hair, built
like a weight lifter. He'd never seen anyone smile quite
like that...
The Russian met his gaze, and his grin widened for
just a moment, in a way that made Carlos want to sit
with his back to a wall, a gun in hand—
—and then the moment was over, and Nicholai nod-
ded absently at him and looked away. Just another sol-
dier acknowledging a comrade, nothing more. He was
being paranoid, that meeting with Trent had him on
edge, and he was always a little skitchy before a
fight...
Grill 13, next to the theater.
He wouldn't forget. Just in case.
THREE
JILL'S PLAN WAS TO SKIRT THE TOWN TO THE
southeast, sticking to side streets and cutting through
buildings as much as possible; the main streets weren't
safe, and many of them had been blocked off in an at-
tempt to corral the zombies, before things got too bad.
If she could make it far enough south, she should be
able to cut across farmland to Route 71, one of the
feeders to the main highway.
So far, so good. At this rate, I'll make it to 71 before
it gets completely dark.
It had taken less than an hour to make it from the
suburbs to the apparently empty apartment building
where she now stood, shivering a little from the damp
chill that pervaded the poorly lit hallway. She'd dressed
for ease of movement rather than protection from the
elements—a tight shirt, a miniskirt, and boots, as well
as a fanny pack to hold extra magazines. The body-
hugging outfit clung to her like a second skin and
would allow her to move quickly. She'd also brought a
plain white sweatshirt for when she made it out of the
city, which she now wore tied around her waist—for
the time being, she'd rather suffer the chill and have her
arms free.
The Imperial was a slightly run-down apartment
building at the southern edge of uptown Raccoon. Jill
had discovered from her earlier excursions that once in-
fected, the T-virus zombies went in search of food as
soon as they could, abandoning their homes and taking
to the streets. Not all of them, of course, but enough so
that cutting through buildings was generally safer than
being out in the open.
A noise. A soft moan coming from behind one of
the apartment doors farther down the hall. Jill froze,
gun in hand, straining to hear which side it came
from, and realized in the same moment that she could
smell gas.
"Shit," she whispered, trying to recall the layout of
the building as the oily, pungent scent filled her nos-
trils. A right turn where the corridor T-ed ahead,
and...
... and, another right? Or is the lobby right there?
Think, you were here two days ago, Jesus, that's gotta
be a massive leak—
There was another groan from up ahead, definitely
coming from the apartment on the left. It was the mind-
less, empty sound that the zombies made, the only
sound they could make as far as she knew. The door
was cracked open, and Jill almost imagined she could
see the shimmering waves of gas-thick air pouring out
into the hall.
She gripped the Beretta tighter and took a step back-
wards. She'd have to go back the way she'd come, she
didn't dare risk firing and she didn't particularly want
to fend off one of the carriers bare-handed; a single bite
from one of them would pass the infection on to her.
Another step backwards, and—
Creak.
Jill spun around, instinctively raising her weapon as a
door swung open perhaps five meters back. A shuffling,
stoop-shouldered man lurched out into the gloom, cut-
ting her off from the back entrance. He had the sallow
skin and dead eyes of a virus carrier, as if the fact that
one of his cheeks had been ripped off wasn't proof
enough; zombies felt no pain. As this one opened its
mouth to moan hungrily at her, she could see the base
of its gray, swollen tongue, and even the reek of gas
couldn't entirely overwhelm the sickly sweet odor of
its decaying flesh.
Jill turned, saw that the hallway ahead was still clear;
she had no choice but to run past the apartment with
the gas leak and hope that its resident was too slow to
try for her.
Go. Now.
She took off, staying as close to the right side of the
hall as she could, feeling the effects of the gas as she
pumped her arms for more speed—a soft distortion of
light, a sense of dizziness, an ugly taste at the back of her
throat. She ran past the cracked door, distantly relieved
that it opened no wider, suddenly remembering that the
lobby was directly to the right. She rounded the corner—
—and bam, collided with a woman, knocking her
down. Jill careened off her, hitting the stucco wall with
her right shoulder hard enough that a light powder set-
tled over them. She barely noticed, too intent on the
fallen woman and on the three figures still standing in
the small foyer, shifting their dumb attention to Jill. All
of them were virus carriers.
The woman, dressed in the tatters of a once white
nightgown, gurgled incoherently and tried to sit up.
One of her eyes was gone, the red, raw socket shining
in the overhead light. The three others, ah1 male, started
toward Jill, moaning, their gangrenous arms raising
slowly; two of them were blocking the metal and glass
wall that led into the street—her way out.
Three on foot, one crawling, reaching for her legs, at
least two behind her. Jill scuttled sideways toward the
security door, weapon pointed at the peeling forehead
of the closest, less than two meters away. The wall of
mailboxes behind him were made of metal, but she had
no choice, she could only hope that the gas fumes were
weaker here.
The creature lunged and Jill fired, simultaneously
leaping for the door as the semi-jacketed round tore
into his skull—
—and she felt as much as heard the explosion,
sssssh-BOOM, a displacement of fiery air that shoved
her in the direction she'd jumped, hard, everything
moving too fast to separate, to understand chronologi-
cally—her body, aching, the door dissolving, the world
blotted out in shades of strobing white. She tucked and
rolled, hard asphalt biting into her shoulder, the horrific
smells of flash-fried meat and burning hair washing
over her as shards of blackened glass peppered the
street.
Jill scrambled to her feet, ignoring all of it as she
spun around, ready to fire again as flames began to eat
the remains of the Imperial. She blinked her watering
eyes, widening them, trying to see past the swimming
flash spots that covered everything around her.
At least two of the zombies were down, probably
dead, but two others stumbled around in the burning
wreckage, their clothes and hair on fire. To Jill's right
and rear were the remnants of a police blockade, barrier
rails and parked cars; she could hear more of the human
carriers on the other side, shuffling and moaning.
And there, to her left, already turning its slack and
lolling head in her direction, was a single male, his
ripped clothes slathered in drying blood. Jill took aim
and squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet through its
virus-riddled brain, walking toward it even as it crum-
pled; there was a Dumpster just past the dying body,
and past that, several uptown blocks of shopping dis-
trict, now her best choice for escape.
Have to head west, see if I can work around the
blockades farther along...
With the immediate danger past, she took a few sec-
onds to catalog her injuries—abrasions on both knees
and a bruised shoulder speckled with grit; it could have
been a hell of a lot worse. Her ears rang and her vision
still suffered, but those would pass soon enough.
She reached the Dumpster and did her best to lean
over it, to see down either side of the overcast north-
south street in front of her. The bin was wedged be-
tween the side wall of a trendy clothes shop and a
decidedly crunched car, limiting what she could see.
Jill listened for a moment, for cries of hunger or the
distinctive shuffling sounds of multiple carriers, but she
heard nothing.
Probably wouldn't be able to hear a brass band at
this point, she thought sourly and hoisted herself up.
Straight across from the Dumpster was a door that she
thought led through a back alley, but she was more in-
terested in what lay to the left—with any luck, a
straight shot out of town.
Jill jumped down, glanced to either side, and felt ten-
drils of real panic wrap around her brain. There were
dozens of them, left and right, the closest already mov-
ing to cut her off from the Dumpster.
Move, Jilly!
Her father's voice. Jill didn't hesitate, took two run-
ning steps and threw her uninjured shoulder against the
rusting door straight ahead. The door shuddered but
didn't give.
"Come on," she said, unaware that she'd spoken, fo-
cusing herself on the door, doesn't matter how close
they are, gotta get through—
She rammed the door again, the cloying scent of
their rotting flesh enveloping her, and still the door
held.
Focus! Do it, now! Again, the authoritative voice of
her father, her first teacher. Jill gathered herself, leaned
back, and felt the brush of cold fingers against the side
of her neck, a rush of putrid, eager breath across her
cheek.
Crash, the door flew open and slammed into the
bricks behind, and Jill was through, running, remem-
bering a warehouse ahead and to the right, her pulse
racing. Behind her, rising wails of disappointment, of
frustrated hunger, echoing through the alley that was
her salvation. A door ahead.
Please be open, please—
Jill grabbed for the handle, pushed, and the metal
door opened into silence, into a well-lit, open space,
thank God—
—and she saw a man standing on the main floor, just
below the landing she'd stepped onto; she raised the
Beretta but didn't fire, quickly assessing him before
lowering it again. In spite of his torn and blood-spat-
tered clothes, she could tell by his desperate, fearful ex-
pression that he wasn't a carrier... or at least not one
that had changed over yet.
Jill felt relief course through her at the sight of an-
other person, and suddenly realized just how lonely
she'd been. Even having an untrained civilian with her,
someone to help who could help her in turn ...
She smiled shakily, moving toward the steps that led
down to the main floor, already making changes in her
plans. They'd have to find him a weapon, she'd seen an
old shotgun at the Bar Jack two days before, unloaded,
but they could probably find shells and it was pretty
close—
—and together, we can probably get through one of
the barricades! She only needed someone to keep watch
and to help her push some of the cars out of the way.
"We have to get out of here," she said, forcing as
much hope as she could manage. "Help isn't going to
be coming, at least not for a while, but between the two
of us—"
"Are you crazy?" he interrupted, his fevered gaze
darting around. "I'm not going anywhere, lady. My
own daughter's out there somewhere, lost..."
He trailed off, staring at the door she'd come through
as if he could see through it.
Jill nodded, reminding herself that he was probably
in shock. "All the more reason to—"
Again, he cut her off, his panicky voice rising into a
shout that reverberated through the open space. "She's
out there, and she's probably dead like the rest of them,
and if I won't go out there for her, you gotta be insane
to think I'm going to go out there for you!"
Jill jammed the Beretta into the waist of her skirt,
quickly holding up both hands, keeping her tone sooth-
ing. "Hey, I understand. I'm sorry about your daughter,
really, but if we get out of the city, we can get help, we
can come back—maybe she's hiding somewhere, and
our best bet to find her is if we get some help."
He backed up a step, and she could see the terror be-
neath his anger. She'd seen it before, the false fury that
some people used to avoid being afraid, and she knew
that she wasn't going to be able to get through to him.
But I have to try. ..
"I know you're scared," she said softly. "I am, too.
But I'm—I was one of the members of the Special Tac-
tics and Rescue Squad; we were trained for dangerous
operations, and I truly believe that I can get us out of
this. You'll be safer if you come with me."
He backed up another step. "Go to hell, you, you
bitch" he spat, then turned and ran, stumbling across
the cement floor. There was a storage trailer at the far
side of the warehouse. He crawled inside, panting as he
pulled his legs in. Jill caught just a glimpse of his red
and sweating face as he pulled the doors closed after
him. She heard the metal clink of a lock, followed by a
muffled shout that left no question as to his decision.
"Just go away! Leave me alone!"
Jill felt her own burst of anger, but knew it was use-
less, as useless as trying to reason with him any further.
Sighing, she turned and walked back to the steps, care-
fully avoiding the depression that threatened to take
over. She checked her watch—it was 4:30—and then
sat down, going over her mental map of uptown Rac-
coon. If the rest of the streets out were as thoroughly
overrun, she was going to have to veer back into town,
try from another direction. She had five full magazines,
fifteen rounds in each, but she'd need more fire-
power ... like a shotgun, perhaps. If she couldn't find
shells, she could at least club the bastards with it.
"The Bar Jack it is, then," she said quietly and
pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, wondering
how she would ever make it.
FOUR
THEY REACHED THE CITY IN THE LATE AFTER-
noon, 1650 by Carlos's check, and prepared to drop out
over a deserted lot. Apparently there was an under-
ground facility or somesuch nearby, owned by Um-
brella; at least that's what they had been told at the
briefing.
Carlos got in line with his squad, assault rifle slung
over his shoulder as he hooked himself to the drop line
and waited for Hirami to open the door. Directly in
front of Carlos was Randy Thomas, one of the friend-
lier guys in A squad. Randy glanced back at him and
pretend-growled, pointing his forefinger and thumb at
Carlos, a mock-gun. Carlos grinned, then clutched his
gut as if shot. Stupid shit, but Carlos found himself re-
laxing a little as their leader pulled the door open and
the roar of multiple choppers filled the cabin.
Two by two, the men in front of Carlos slid down the
dual rappelling lines anchored to the body of the heli-
copter. Carlos stepped closer to the opening, squinting
against the whipping wind to see where they'd be land-
ing. Their 'copter cast a long shadow in the late-day
sun and he could see men from the other platoons on
the ground, lining up by squad. Then it was his turn; he
stepped out a second after Randy, the thrill of the prac-
tical free fall sending his stomach into his chest. A blur
of passing sky, and he touched down, unhooking from
the line and hurrying to where Hirami stood.
A few minutes later, they were all down. Almost in
unison, the four transport 'copters swung west and
buzzed away, their noise fading as dust settled around
the assembled troops. Carlos felt alert and ready as the
squad and platoon leaders started to point in different
directions, assigning routes that had been plotted before
they'd left the field office.
Finally, as the helicopters grew smaller, they could
hear again—and Carlos was struck by the silence of
their surroundings. No cars, no industrial sounds at all,
and yet they were at the edge of a decent-sized city.
Weird, how one took those noises for granted, not
noticing them at all until they weren't there.
Mikhail Victor, platoon D's supervisor, stood quietly
with Hirami and his other two squad leaders, Cryan and
that creepy Russian, while the supervisors of A, B, and
C platoons gave directions, the squads moving out
briskly and with a minimum of noise. Their bootsteps
seemed overly loud in the still air, and Carlos saw
looks of vague unease on some of the passing faces, a
look he knew he wore. Probably it was so quiet 'cause
people were at home sick, or holed up somewhere, but
it was kind of eerie anyway, the stillness ...
"A squad, double-time!" Hirami called, and even
his voice seemed oddly muted, but Carlos put it out of
his mind as they started jogging after him. If his mem-
ory served from the briefing, they were all headed
roughly west, into the heart of Raccoon City, the pla-
toons fanning out to cover the greatest area. Within a
hundred yards, squad A was on its own, thirty soldiers
jogging through an industrial area not so different than
the one that their field office was in; run-down lots
strewn with trash, weedy patches of dirt, fenced stor-
age units.
Carlos scowled, unable to keep quiet. "Fuchi," he
said, half under his breath. Smelled like a fart in a bag
full of fish.
Randy lagged back a few steps to run alongside Car-
los. "You say something, bro?"
"I said something stinks," Carlos muttered. "You
smell that?"
Randy nodded. "Yeah. Thought it was you."
"Ha, ha, you kill me, cabrdn." Carlos smiled
sweetly. "That means 'good friend,' by the way."
Randy grinned. "Yeah, I bet. And I bet—"
"Hold up! And shut up, back there!"
Hirami called a stop, holding one hand up to ensure
silence. Faintly, Carlos could hear another squad a
block or two north, the beat of their boots on pavement.
And after a second, he could hear something else.
Moans and groans, coming from somewhere ahead
of them, faint at first but getting louder. Like a hospital
population had been kicked out into the street. At the
same time, the bad smell was getting stronger, worse—
and familiar, like ...
"Oh, shit," Randy whispered, his face paling, and
Carlos knew at once what the smell was, just as Randy
must know.
Not possible.
It was the smell of a human body rotting in the sun.
It was death. Carlos knew it well enough, but never had
it been so huge, so all-encompassing. In front of them,
Mitch Hirami was lowering his hand uncertainly, a look
of deep concern in his eyes. The distressed, wordless
sounds of people in pain were getting louder. Hirami
seemed about to speak—
—when gunfire erupted from nearby, from one of the
other squads, and in between the blasts of automatic
fire that ripped through the afternoon air, Carlos could
hear men screaming.
"Line!" Hirami shouted, holding up both hands with
the palms turned to the sky, his voice barely audible
over the stutter of bullets.
Straight line, five men facing front, five back the way
they'd come. Carlos ran to get in position, his mouth
suddenly dry, his hands damp. The short bursts of auto-
matic fire just north of then* position were getting
longer, drowning out whatever else there was to hear,
but the stench was definitely getting worse. To cap his
worries, he could hear distant fire, soft, clattering pops
behind the closer blasts; whatever was going on, it
sounded like all of the U.B.C.S. was engaged.
Carlos faced front, rifle ready, searching the empty
street that stretched out in front of them and T-ed three
blocks ahead. An Ml6 loaded with a thirty-round mag
was nothing to scoff at, but he was afraid—of what, he
didn't know yet.
Why are they still firing over there, what takes that
many bullets? What is it—
Carlos saw the first one, then, a staggering figure
that half-fell from behind a building two blocks in front
of them. A second lurched out from across the street,
followed by a third, a fourth—suddenly, at least a
dozen plodding, stumbling people were in the street,
coming their way. They seemed to be drunk.
"Christ, what's wrong with them, why are they walk-
ing like that?"
The speaker was next to Carlos, Olson his name was,
and he was facing the direction they'd come from. Car-
los shot a look back and saw at least ten more reeling
toward them, appearing as if out of nowhere, and he re-
alized in the same moment that the gunfire north of
them was dying out, the intermittent bursts fewer and
further apart.
Carlos faced front again and felt his jaw drop at what
he saw and heard; they were close enough that he could
make out individual features, then" strange cries clearly
audible now. Tattered, blood-stained clothing, although
a few were partially naked; pallid faces stained red,
with eyes that saw nothing; the way that several held
their arms out, as if reaching for the line of soldiers,
still a block away. And the disfigurations—missing
limbs, great hunks of skin and muscle torn off, body
parts bloated and wet with putrefaction.
Carlos had seen the movies. These people weren't
sick. They were zombies, the walking dead, and for a
moment, all he could do was watch as they tottered
closer. Not possible, chale, and as his brain wrestled to
accept what he was seeing, he remembered what Trent
had said, about dark hours ahead.
"Fire, fire!..." Hirami was screaming as if from a
great distance, and the sudden, violent chatter of auto-
matic weapons to either side snapped Carlos back to re-
ality. He aimed at the swollen belly of a fat man
wearing ripped pajama bottoms, and he fired.
Three bursts, at least nine rounds smacked into the
man's corpulent gut, punching a rough line across his
lower belly. Dark blood splashed out, soaking the front
of his pants. The man staggered but didn't fall. If any-
thing, he seemed more eager to reach them, as if the
smell of his own blood incited him.
A few of the zombies had gone down, but they con-
tinued to crawl forward on what was left of their stom-
achs, scraping broken fingers across the asphalt in their
single-minded purpose.
The brain, gotta get the brain, in the movies shooting
them in the head is the only way—
The closest was perhaps twenty feet away now, a
gaunt woman who seemed untouched except for the
dull glint of bone beneath her matted hair. Carlos sited
the exposed skull and fired, feeling crazy relief when
she went down and stayed there.
"The head, aim for the head—" Carlos shouted, but
already, Hirami was screaming, wordless howls of ter-
ror that were quickly joined by some of the others as
their line began to dissolve.
—oh, no—
From behind, the zombies had reached them.
*   *   *
Nicholai and Wersbowski were the only two from B
to make it, and only then because they'd both taken ad-
vantage where they could—Nicholai had pushed Brett
Mathis into the arms of one of the creatures when it
had gotten too close, gaining a precious few seconds
that had allowed him to escape. He'd seen Wersbowski
shoot Li's left leg for the same reason, crippling the
soldier and leaving him to distract the closest virus car-
riers.
Together, they made it to an apartment building's fire
escape some two blocks from where the others had
fallen. Gunfire tatted erratically as they climbed the
rusty steps, but already the hoarse screams of dying
men were fading to silence, becoming lost in the cries
of the hungry damned.
Nicholai weighed his options carefully as they scaled
the fire escape. As he'd predicted, John Wersbowski
was a survivor and obviously had no problem doing
whatever was necessary to remain one; with as bad as
things were in Raccoon—worse, in fact, than Nicholai
had been led to believe—it might pay to have such a
man watching his back.
And if we're surrounded, there would be someone to
sacrifice so that I might get away...
Nicholai frowned as they reached the rooftop, as
Wersbowski stared out at what they could see from
three stories up. Unfortunately, the sacrifice element
worked both ways. Besides, Wersbowski wasn't an
idiot or as trusting as Mathis and Li had been; getting
the drop on him could be difficult.
"Zombies," Wersbowski muttered, clutching his rifle.
Standing beside him, Nicholai followed his gaze to
where squad B had made its last stand, at the broken
bodies that littered the pavement and the creatures that
continued to feed. Nicholai couldn't help feeling a bit
disappointed; they'd died in minutes, hardly putting up
a fight...
"So, what's the plan, sir?"
The sarcasm was obvious, both in tone and in the
half amused, half disgusted expression he turned to
Nicholai. Obviously, Wersbowski had seen him offer
up Mathis. Nicholai sighed, shaking his head, the M16
loose in his hands; he had no choice, really.
"I don't know," he said softly, and when Wersbowski
looked back at where they'd fought, Nicholai squeezed
the assault rifle's trigger.
A trio of rounds hammered Wersbowski's abdomen,
knocking him sprawling against the low cement ledge.
Nicholai immediately raised the weapon and aimed at
one of Wersbowski's shocked eyes, firing even as com-
prehension flooded the soldier's flushed face, an aware-
ness that he'd made the fatal mistake of letting his
guard down.
In under a second it was over, and Nicholai was
alone on the rooftop. He stared blankly at the oozing
body, wondering—and not for the first time—why he
felt no guilt when he killed. He'd heard the term
sociopathic before and thought that it probably ap-
plied ... although why people continued to see that
as a negative, he didn't understand. It was the empa-
thy thing, he supposed, the bulk of humanity acting
as though the inability to "relate" was somehow
wrong.
But nothing bothers me, and I never hesitate to do
what needs to be done, no matter how it is perceived by
others; what's so terrible about that?
True, he was a man who knew how to control him-
self. Discipline, that was the trick. Once he'd decided
to leave his homeland, within a year he didn't even
think in Russian anymore. When he'd become a merce-
nary, he'd trained night and day with every manner of
weapon and tested his skills against the very best in the
field; he'd always won, because no matter how vicious
his opponent, Nicholai knew that having no conscience
set him free, just as having one hindered his enemies.
This was an asset, was it not?
Wersbowski's corpse had no answer. Nicholai
checked his watch, already bored with his philosophi-
cal wanderings. The sun was low in the sky and it was
only 1700 hours; he still had much to do if he meant to
leave Raccoon with everything he needed. First, he
needed to pick up a laptop and access the files he'd cre-
ated only the night before, maps and names; there was
supposed to be one locked up and waiting for him in
the RPD building, although he'd have to be extremely
careful in the area, as the two new Tyrant seekers
would surely be there at some point. One was pro-
grammed to find some chemical sample, and Nicholai
knew there was an Umbrella lab not far from the build-
ing. The other unit, the more technologically advanced
creation, would be set to take out renegade S.T.A.R.S.,
assuming there were any still in Raccoon, and the
S.T.A.R.S. office was inside the RPD. He wouldn't be
in any danger as long as he stayed out of the way, but
he'd hate to get between any series of Tyrant and its
target if even half of what he'd heard was true. Um-
brella was taking full advantage of the Raccoon situa-
tion, taking proactive steps—using the new Tyrant
models, if that's what they were, exactly—in addition
to data gathering; Nicholai admired their efficiency.
Nicholai heard a fresh burst of gunfire and reflex-
ively stepped back from the edge of the roof, looking
down to see two soldiers run past a moment later. One
was injured, a ripped, bloody patch near his right ankle,
and he leaned heavily against the other for support.
Nicholai couldn't identify the wounded man, but his
helper was the Hispanic who'd been watching him on
the helicopter.
Nicholai smiled as the two stumbled past and out of
sight; a few of the soldiers would have survived, of
course, but they would probably suffer the same fate as
the injured man, who'd almost certainly been bitten by
one of the diseased.
Or the fate that surely awaits the Hispanic. I wonder,
what will he do when his friend starts to get sick? When
he starts to change?
Probably try to save him in some pathetic tribute to
honor; it would be his undoing. Really, they were all as
good as dead. Amazed by how predictable they were,
Nicholai shook his head and went to get Wersbowski's
ammo pack.
FIVE
ON HER WAY TO THE BAR JACK, JILL THOUGHT
she heard gunfire.
She paused in the alley that would eventually lead
her to the tavern's back entrance, head cocked to one
side. It sounded like shots, like an automatic, but it was
too far away for her to be sure. Still, her spirits lifted a
little at the thought that she might not be fighting alone,
that help might be on the way ...
... right. A hundred good guys have landed with
bazookas, inoculations, and a can of whoop ass, maybe
a steak dinner with my name on it to boot. They're all
attractive, straight, and single, with college degrees
and perfect teeth...
"Let's try to stick to reality, how 'bout," she said
softly and was relieved that she sounded fairly normal,
even in the dank and shadowy quiet of the back alley.
She'd been feeling pretty bleak back in the warehouse,
even after finding a thermos of still-warm coffee in the
upstairs office; the idea of trekking through the dead
city one more time, alone—
—is what I have to do, she thought firmly, so I'm
doing it. As her dear, incarcerated father was fond of
saying, wishing that things were different didn't make
it so.
She took a few steps forward, pausing when she was
about five feet from where the alley branched. To her
right was a series of streets and alleys that would lead
her further into town; left would take her past a tiny
courtyard, with a path straight to the bar—assuming
that she knew this area as well as she thought she did.
Jill edged closer to the junction, moving as silently
as she knew how, her back to the south wall. It was
quiet enough for her to risk a quick look down the alley
to the right, her weapon preceding her; all clear. She
shifted position, stepping sideways across the empty
path to look in the direction she meant to go—
—and heard it, uunnh, the soft, pining cry of a male
carrier, half hidden by shadow perhaps four meters
away. Jill targeted the darkest part of the shadow and
waited sadly for it to step into view, reminding herself
that it wasn't really human, not anymore. She knew
that, had known it since what had happened at the
Spencer estate, but she encouraged the feelings of pity
and sorrow that she felt each time she had to put one of
them down. Having to tell herself that each zombie was
beyond hope allowed her to feel compassion for them.
Even the shambling, decomposing mess that now
swayed into view had once been a person. She didn't,
couldn't let herself get overly emotional about it, but if
she ever forgot that they were victims rather than mon-
sters, she would lose some essential element of her own
humanity.
A single shot to its right temple, and the zombie col-
lapsed into a puddle of its own fetid fluids. He was
pretty far gone, his eyes cataracted, his gray-green flesh
sliding from his softening bones; Jill had to breathe
through her mouth as she stepped over him, careful to
avoid getting him on her boots.
Another step and she was looking down on the court-
yard—
—and she saw two more zombies standing below,
but also a flash of movement disappearing into the
alley, heading toward the bar. It was too fast to be one
of the carriers. Jill only caught a glimpse of camo
pants and a black combat boot, but it was enough to
confirm what she'd hoped—a person. It was a living
person.
From the small set of steps that led down into the
yard, Jill quickly dispatched both carriers, her heart
pounding with hope. Camouflage gear. He or she was
military, maybe someone sent in on reconnaissance;
perhaps her little fantasy wasn't so far-fetched after all.
She hurried past the fallen creatures, running as soon as
she hit the alley, up a few steps, ten meters of brick,
and she was at the back door.
Jill took a deep breath and opened the door care-
fully, not wanting to surprise anyone who might be
packing a gun—
—and saw a zombie lurching across the tiled floor of
the small bar, moaning hungrily as it reached out for a
man in a tan vest, a man who pointed what looked like
a small-caliber handgun at the closing creature and
opened fire.
Jill immediately joined him, accomplishing in two
shots what he was unable to do in five; the carrier fell
to its knees, and, with a final, desperate groan, it died,
settling to the floor like liquid. Jill couldn't tell if it had
been male or female, and at the moment, she didn't
give a rat's ass.
She turned her eager attention to the soldier, an in-
troduction rising to her lips, and realized that it was
Brad Vickers, Alpha team pilot for the disbanded
S.T.A.R.S. Brad, whose nickname had been Chicken-
heart Vickers, who'd stranded the Alpha team at the
Spencer estate when he'd been too afraid to stay, who'd
crept out of town when he'd realized that Umbrella
knew their names. A good pilot and a genius computer
hacker, but when push came to shove, Brad Vickers
was a grade-A weasel.
And I'm glad to see him, regardless.
"Brad, what are you doing here? Are you okay?"
She did her best to keep from asking how he'd man-
aged to survive, though she had to wonder—espe-
cially since he only seemed to be armed with a cheap
.32 semi and had been the worst shot in the
S.T.A.R.S. As it was, he didn't look good—there were
splatters of dried blood on his vest and his eyes were
haunted, wide and rolling with barely controlled
panic.
"Jill! I didn't know you were still alive!" If he was
glad to see her, he was hiding it well, and he still hadn't
answered her question.
"Yeah, well, I could say the same," she said, working
not to sound too accusatory. He might have information
she could use. "When did you get here? Do you know
anything about what's going on outside of town?"
It was as though every word she said compounded
his fear. His posture was tense, wound up, and he had
the shakes. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing
came out.
"Brad, what is it? What's wrong?" she asked, but he
was already backing toward the front door of the bar,
shaking his head from side to side.
"It's coming for us," he breathed. "For the
S.T.A.R.S. The police are dead, they can't do anything
to stop it, just like they couldn't stop this—" Brad
waved one trembling hand at the bloody creature on the
floor. "You'll see."
He was on the edge of hysteria, his brown hair slick
with sweat, his jaw clenched. Jill moved toward him,
not sure what to do. His fear was contagious.
"What's coming, Brad?"
"You'll see!"
With that, Brad turned and snatched the door open,
blind panic tripping him as he stumbled out into the
street and took off running without looking back. Jill
took one step toward the closing door and stopped,
suddenly thinking that maybe there were worse
things than being alone. Trying to take care of anyone
as she made her way out of Raccoon—particularly a
hysterical man with a history of cowardice who was
too scared to be reasonable—was probably a bad
idea.
She felt a chill thinking about what he'd said,
though. What was coming, specifically for the
S.T.A.R.S.?
He seems to think I'll find out.
Unsettled, Jill mentally wished him luck and turned
toward the polished bar, hoping that the ancient Rem-
ington was still tucked under the register—and wonder-
ing what the hell Chickenheart Vickers was doing in
Raccoon, and what, exactly, had him so terrified.
Mitch Hirami was dead. So were Sean Olson, and
Deets, Bjorklund, and Waller, and Tommy, and the two
new guys, who Carlos couldn't remember except one
of them was always cracking his knuckles and the other
one had freckles—
Stop it, just knock it off! It doesn't matter now, all
that matters is getting us out of here.
The wails had fallen far enough behind for Carlos to
feel they could stop for a minute, after running for what
felt like forever. Randy's limp seemed to be getting
worse with every step, and Carlos desperately needed
to catch his breath, just to think—
—about how they died, about the woman who bit
into Olson's throat and the blood that ran down her
chin, and the way that Waller started to laugh, high and
crazy, just before he threw his weapon away and let
himself be taken, and the sound of somebody screaming
prayers at the uncaring sky—
Stop it!
They leaned against the back wall of a convenience
store, a fenced recycling area with only one way in and
a clear view of the street. There was no sound except
the faraway singing of birds, wafting over them on a
cooling, late afternoon breeze that smelled faintly of
rot. Randy had slid into a sitting position, pulling his
right boot off to take a look at his wound. His lower
pant leg was shiny wet with blood, as was the collar of
his shirt.
He and Randy were the only two that had made it,
and just barely; already, it seemed like some impossible
dream.
The others in the squad had already gone down, and
there were at least six of the cannibal zombies still
coming at him and Randy. Carlos had fired again and
again, the smells of burning gunpowder and blood
combining with the stench of decay, all of it making
him dizzy with adrenaline-driven horror, so disori-
ented that he hadn't seen Randy fall, hadn't realized it
until he'd heard the sound of Randy's skull smacking
into the pavement, loud even over the cries of the
dead.
A crawling one had grabbed Randy and bitten
through the leather of his boot; Carlos had slammed
the butt of his M16 down, breaking its neck, his mind
screaming uselessly that it had been eating Randy's
ankle, and he'd scooped up the half-conscious soldier
with a strength he didn't know he possessed. And
they had run, Carlos dragging his injured comrade
away from the slaughter, his thoughts incoherent and
wild and, in their own way, as terrifying to him as the
rest of it. For a few minutes, he'd been loco, unable to
understand what had happened, what was still hap-
pening—
"Aw, Jesus, man..."
Carlos looked down at the sound of Randy's voice,
noticing with some alarm that his words were a little
slurred, and saw the ragged edges of a deep bite maybe
two inches above the top of his foot. Thick blood
oozed steadily out, the inside of Randy's boot drenched
with it.
"Bit me, goddamn thing bit right in. But it was dead,
Carlos. They were all dead... weren't they?" Randy
looked up at him, his eyes dazed with pain and some-
thing more, something that neither of them could af-
ford—confusion, bad enough that Randy could barely
focus.
Concussion, maybe. Whatever it was, Randy needed
a hospital. Carlos crouched next to him, his heart sick
as he tore off a piece of Randy's shirt and quickly
folded it into a compress.
We're screwed, there were no cops out there, no
paramedics, this city is dying or already dead. If we
want help, we're going to have to find it ourselves, and
he's in no shape to fight.
"This may hurt a little, 'mono, but we gotta stop you
from getting your boot all wet," Carlos said, trying to
sound relaxed as he pressed the fqlded material against
Randy's bleeding ankle. There was no point in scaring
him, especially if he was as whacked out as Carlos
thought. "Hold it down tight, okay?"
Randy clenched his jaw, a violent tremor running
through him, but he did as Carlos asked and held the
makeshift bandage in place. As Randy leaned forward,
Carlos studied the back of his head, wincing inwardly
at the bloody, slightly misshapen spot beneath his tan-
gled black curls. It didn't seem to be bleeding anymore,
at least.
"We gotta get outta here, Carlos," Randy said. "Let's
go home, okay? I want to go home."
"Soon," Carlos said softly. "Let's just sit here and
rest for another minute, and then we'll go."
He thought about all of the wrecked cars they'd run
past, the piles of broken furniture and wood and brick
in the streets, hastily assembled blockades. Assuming
they could even find a car with keys in it, just about
every street was impassable. Carlos didn't have a
pilot's license, but he had flown a helicopter a few
times—fine, if they happened to stumble across an air-
port.
We'll never make it on foot, though. Even if Randy
wasn't hurt, the entire U.B.C.S. was taken out, or damn
near close. There's gotta be hundreds, maybe thou-
sands of those things out there.
If they could find other survivors, group to-
gether ... but tracking anyone down in this nightmare
would be a nightmare all its own. The thought of
Trent's restaurant occurred to him briefly, but he ig-
nored it; to hell with mat crazy shit, they needed to get
out of town, and they needed help to do it. The squad
leaders were the only ones who'd known the plan for
pickup, or had radios, and there was no way Carlos was
going to go back—
—but I don't have to, do I?
He closed his eyes for a minute, realizing that he'd
missed the obvious; maybe he was more freaked than
he thought. There was more than one radio in the
world; all he had to do was find one. Send out a call to
the transports—hell, to anyone listening—and wait for
somebody to show up.
"I don't feel so good," Randy said, so quietly that
Carlos almost didn't hear him, the slur of his words
more pronounced than before. "Itches, it itches."
Carlos squeezed his shoulder lightly, the heat from
Randy's feverish skin radiating out from beneath his
T-shirt. "You're going to be okay, bro, just hang on, I'm
going to get us out of here."
He sounded confident enough. Carlos only wished
that he could convince himself.
SIX
TED MARTIN, A THIN MAN IN HIS LATE 30s,
had been shot several times in the head. Nicholai
couldn't tell if he'd been murdered or if he'd been put
down after contracting the virus, and he didn't care;
what mattered was that Martin, whose official title was
Personal and Political Liaison to the Chief of Police,
had saved Nicholai the time it would have taken to
track him down.
"Most kind of you," Nicholai said, smiling down at
the very dead Watchdog. He'd also had the courtesy to
die near where he was supposed to be, in the detective
squadroom's office of the RPD's east wing.
An excellent start to my adventure; if they're all this
easy, it will be a very short night.
Nicholai stepped over the body and crouched down
next to the floor safe in the corner, quickly dialing in
the simple four-digit combination given to him by his
Umbrella contact: 2236. The steel door swung open, re-
vealing a few papers—one looked like a map for the
police station—a box of shotgun shells, and what
would surely become Nicholai's best friend until he left
Raccoon: a state-of-the-art cellular modem, designed to
look like a piece of shit but more advanced than any-
thing on the market. Grinning, he lifted out the PC lap-
top and carried it to the desk, the safe door closing
itself behind him.
His trip to the station had been reasonably uneventful,
except for the seven undead he'd dispatched point-blank
to avoid too much noise; they were embarrassingly easy
to kill, as long as one paid attention to one's surround-
ings. He hadn't yet come across any of Umbrella's pets,
the only real challenge he expected to face; there was
one nicknamed "brain sucker" that he was very much
looking forward to meeting, a multi-legged crawler with
killing claws ...
One thing at a time; right now, you need informa-
tion.
He'd already committed the names and faces of his
victims to memory and had a general idea of where
each one was supposed to make contact, if not neces-
sarily when; all of the Watchdogs were on different
schedules, subject to change but mostly accurate. Mar-
tin, for instance, was due to report to Umbrella from a
computer terminal at the RPD building's front desk at
1750 hours, about twenty minutes from now; his last
report should have been just after noon.
"Let's see if you succeeded, Officer Martin,"
Nicholai said, quickly punching in the codes he'd ac-
quired to access Umbrella's updated progress reports.
"Martin, Martin ... ah, there you are!"
The policeman had missed his last two assigned win-
dows, suggesting that he'd been dead or incapacitated
for at least nine hours now. No information to collect
there. Nicholai carefully read the numbers on the other
Watchdogs, pleased with what he saw. Of the eight
Watchdogs left after Martin, three others had failed to
make their last assigned reports—one of the scientists,
one Umbrella worker, and the woman who worked for
the city's water department. Assuming they were
dead—and Nicholai was willing to bet that they were—
that left only five.
Two soldiers, two scientists, and the other Umbrella
man...
Nicholai frowned, looking at the designated contact
points for each of them. One scientist, Janice Thomlm-
son, would be in the underground laboratory facility,
the other at the hospital near the city park; the Um-
brella worker was to report in from an allegedly aban-
doned water treatment facility on the outskirts of town,
a cover for its use as an Umbrella chemical testing site.
Nicholai didn't foresee any problems finding them ...
but both of the soldier Watchdogs had been taken off
the map.
"Where are you going to be, men ...," Nicholai said
absently, tapping at the keys, his frustration growing.
At his last check only the night before, they had both
been assigned to call in from the St. Michael Clock
Tower...
Shit!
There they were, their names listed next to his; both
men had been moved to portable status, just like him.
They'd report in from Umbrella laptops or wherever
was most convenient, and were only required to file
once a day—which meant that they could be anywhere
in Raccoon City, anywhere at all.
A seething haze of red enveloped him, tearing at
him. Without thinking, Nicholai charged across the of-
fice and kicked Martin's body as hard as he could,
once, twice, venting his rage, feeling a deep satisfac-
tion at the wet sounds his boot made, the jerking move-
ment of the body and the crunch of ribs giving way—
—and then it was over, and he was himself once
again, still frustrated but in control. He exhaled sharply
and moved back to the desk, ready to revise his plans.
It was simply going to take longer to find them, that
was all; it wasn't the end of the world. And perhaps
they would fail to report in, conveniently dying just like
Martin and the other three.
He could hope but wouldn't count on it. What he
could count on was his own perseverance and skill.
Umbrella wouldn't send in their pickup for nearly a
week—the longest, they believed, that they could keep
the disaster quiet—unless the Watchdogs called in with
complete results, unlikely at best. With six days to find
only five people, Nicholai was certain that he would be
the only one left to pick up.
"I won't even need all six," Nicholai said, nodding
firmly at Martin's sprawled, lumpy corpse. "Three
days, I'm sure I can do it in three."
With that, Nicholai leaned forward and started to call
up the maps he would need, happy again.
Jill hadn't been able to find any shells for the 12-
gauge, but she took it anyway, aware that her ammo
wouldn't last forever; it would make a good club, and
she might find shells for it later. She'd just about de-
cided to try climbing over one of the western blockades
when she saw something that changed her mind, some-
thing she had fervently hoped never to see again.
A Hunter. Like the ones at the estate, in the tunnels.
She'd stood on the fire escape outside of an uptown
boutique, seen it in the street just past one of the vans
that blocked the fire escape's alley. It didn't see her;
she watched it lope by and out of sight, a little different
than the ones from before, but close enough—the same
strangely graceful, malignant carriage, the heavy,
curved talons, the dark mud green color. She held her
breath, her stomach in knots, remembering ...
... hunched over so that its impossibly long arms al-
most touched the stone floor of the tunnel, both its
hands and feet tipped with thick, brutal claws. Tiny,
light-colored eyes peering out at her from aflat reptil-
ian skull, its tremendous, high-pitched screech echoing
through the dark underground just before it sprang...
She'd killed it, but it had taken her fifteen 9mm
rounds to do it, an entire magazine. Later, Barry had
told her that he'd heard them referred to as Hunters,
one of Umbrella's bio-organic weapons. There had
been other kinds on the estate—feral, skinned-looking
dogs; a kind of giant, flesh-eating plant that Chris and
Rebecca had destroyed; spiders the size of small cattle;
and the dark, mutant things with bladed hooks for
hands, the ones that hung from the ceiling of the es-
tate's boiler room, skittering overhead like spined mon-
keys.
And the Tyrant, somehow the worst because you
could see that it had been human once; before the surg-
eries, before the genetic tampering and the T-virus.
So it wasn't just the T-virus loose in Raccoon. As
awful as the realization was, it wasn't exactly shocking;
Umbrella had been messing around with some very
dangerous stuff, breeding slaughtering, nightmare chil-
dren like some aberrant God without preparing for the
inevitable consequences; sometimes, nightmares didn't
just go away.
Unless—unless they did this on purpose.
No. If they'd meant to destroy Raccoon City, they
would have evacuated their own people ... wouldn't
they?
It was a question that haunted her on her journey to
the police station. Seeing the Hunter had made up her
mind for her about what to do next; she simply had to
have more ammo, and she knew there'd be some in the
S.T.A.R.S. office, in the gun safe—9mm, probably
shotgun shells, maybe even one of Barry's old re-
volvers.
The station wasn't too far away, at least. She stuck
to the growing shadows, easily dodging the few zom-
bies she passed; many of them had decayed too much
to move any faster than a slow walk. One of the
gates she had to pass through to get to the station had
been heavily roped and knotted, the knots soaked
with oil. She gave herself a mental kick for forget-
ting to bring a knife; lucky for her she'd picked up a
lighter at the Bar Jack, although she worried some
about the smoke drawing attention to her position—
until she got through the gate and saw the heap of
burning debris farther ahead, just in front of Um-
brella's medical sales offices. Damage left over from
the riots, she guessed. She thought about stopping to
put out the flames, but there didn't seem to be any
danger of their spreading in the cement and brick al-
leyway.
So, here she was, standing at the gates to the RPD
courtyard. The rioting had been bad here. Trashed
cars, broken barricades, and orange emergency cones
littered the street, though there were no bodies amidst
the rubble. To her right, a fire hydrant spewed a foun-
tain of hissing water into the air. The gentle sound of
splashing water might even have been pleasant in an-
other circumstance—a hot summer day, children
laughing and playing. Knowing that no fireman or city
worker would be coming to fix the gushing
hydrant made her ache inside, and the thought of chil-
dren ... it was too much; she blocked it out, deter-
mined not to let herself start thinking about things she
couldn't fix. She had enough to worry about.
Such as stocking up on supplies... so what are you
waiting for, anyway? A written invitation?
Jill took a deep breath and pushed the gates open,
wincing at the squeal of rusty metal. A quick scan told
her the small, fenced yard was empty; she lowered her
weapon, relieved, and carefully closed the gates before
moving toward the heavy wooden doors of the RPD
building. A lot of cops had died out in the streets,
which would make this easier for her, as terrible as that
was; not as many carriers to deal with once she got in-
side—
Sqreeak!
Behind her, the gates swung open. Jill spun, almost
firing at the figure that crashed into the yard, until she
realized who it was.
"Brad!"
He stumbled toward the sound of her voice, and she
saw that he was badly wounded. He clutched his right
side, blood dripping over his fingers, a look of com-
plete terror on his face as he reached toward her with
his free hand, gasping.
"juh—Jill!"
She stepped toward him, so focused on him that
when he suddenly disappeared, she didn't understand
what had happened. A wall of black had sprung up be-
tween them, a blackness that emitted a deep, rumbling
howl of fury, that started toward Brad and shook the
ground with each massive step.
"Sstaarrss," it clearly said, the word nearly hidden
beneath a wavering growl like that of a wild animal,
and Jill knew what it was without seeing its face; she
knew it like she knew her own dreams.
Tyrant.
Brad fell backwards, shaking his head as if to deny
the approaching creature, staggering in a half circle and
stopping when his back hit brick. In the split second
before it reached him, Jill could see it in profile; time
seemed to stop for that instant, allowing her to really
see it, to see that it wasn't her nightmare Tyrant, but no
less horrible for that; in fact, it was worse.
Between seven and eight feet tall, humanoid, its
shoulders impossibly broad, its arms longer than they
should have been. Only its hands and head were visi-
ble, the rest of its strangely proportioned body clothed
in black, except for what appeared to be tentacles,
slightly pulsing ropes of flesh that were only half
tucked under its collar, their points of origin unseen. Its
hairless skin was the color and texture of badly healed
scar tissue, and its face looked as though whoever had
designed the creature had decided not to bother, instead
pulling a too-tight sack of torn leather over its rudimen-
tary skull. Misshapen white slits for eyes were set too
low and separated by an irregular line of thick surgical
staples. Its nose was barely formed, but the dominant
feature by far was its mouth, or lack thereof; the lower
half of its face was teeth, giant and square, lipless, set
against dark red gums.
Time started again when the creature reached out
and covered Brad's entire face with one hand, still
growling as Brad tried to say something, panting in
high, wheezing gasps beneath its palm—
—and there was an awful, wet squishing sound,
heavy but slick, like someone punching a hole in meat.
Jill saw a flesh tentacle sticking out from the back of
Brad's neck and understood that he was dead, that he
would bleed out in seconds. Numbly, she saw that the
ropelike appendage was moving, swaying like a blind
snake, droplets of blood falling from its muscular
length. The Tyrant-thing grasped Brad's skull, and in a
single, fluid motion, it lifted the dead pilot and tossed
him aside, retracting the killing tentacle back into its
sleeve before Brad hit the ground.
"Sstaarrss," it said again, turning to face her, and as
it focused its attention to her, Jill felt a fear greater than
any she'd ever known.
The Beretta would be useless. She turned and
sprinted, barreling through the doors to the RPD, slam-
ming and dead-bolting them behind her, all on instinct;
she was too frightened to think about what she was
doing, too frightened to do anything but back away
from the double doors as the monster slammed into
them, rattling them on their hinges.
They held. Jill was very still, listening to the pound
of blood in her ears, waiting for the next blow. Long
seconds dragged by, and nothing happened—but full
minutes passed before she dared to look away, and even
the realization that it had stopped for the moment
brought her no relief.
Brad had been right, it was coming for them—and
now that he was dead, it would be coming for her.
SEVEN
God help me, I've finally seen it for myself; God help us
all.
They lied to us. Dr. Robison and the Umbrella people
held a press conference at the hospital just this morning,
and they damn near insisted that there's no need to
panic—that the cases being called in were isolated events,
that the victims were suffering from the flu; not, accord-
ing to them, the so-called cannibal disease that the
S.T.A.R.S. were going on about in July, in spite of what a
few "paranoid" citizens are now eaying. Chief Irons was
there, too, he backed the docs up and reiterated his views
on the defunct S.T.A.R.S.'s incompetence; case closed,
right? Nothing to worry about.
We were on our way back to the office from the press
conference, south on Cole Street, and there was a commo-
tion holding up traffic, a couple of stopped cars and a gath-
ering crowd. No cops on the scene. I thought it was some
minor accident and started to back up, but Dave wanted to
get a few shots; he still had two rolls of film left from the
hospital, what the hell. We got out and suddenly people
were running, screaming for help, and we saw three pedes-
trians down in the middle of the street, and there was
blood everywhere. The attacker was young, barely twenty,
white male—he was straddling an older man, and...
My hands are shaking, I don't know how to say it, I
don't want to say it but it's my job. People have to know. I
can't let this get to me.
He was eating one of the older man's eyes. The other
two victims were dead, slaughtered, an elderly woman and
a younger one, both of them with bloody throats and faces.
The younger woman's abdomen had been ripped open.
It was chaos, total hysteria—crying, shouting, even
some crazy laughter. Dave snapped two pies and then
threw up on himself. I wanted to do something, I did, but
those people were already dead and I was afraid. The
young man slurped away, digging his fingers into the
man's other eye, seemingly oblivious to everything else; he
was actually moaning like he couldn't get enough, gore all
over him.
We heard the sirens and backed off along with everyone
else. Most people left, but a few stayed, pale and sick and
frightened. I got the story from a chubby shopkeeper who
couldn't stop wringing his hands, though there wasn't
much else to tell—the kid apparently just wandered onto
the street and grabbed a woman, started biting her. The
shopkeeper said the woman's name was Joelle something-
or-other, and she was walking with her mother, a Mrs. Mur-
ray (the shopkeeper didn't know her first name). Mrs.
Murray tried to stop the attack, and the kid turned on her.
A couple of men tried to help, jumping the kid, and he
managed to get one of them, too. After that, nobody tried
to help anymore.
The cops showed up and before they even looked at the
mess in the street—at the freakshow kid lunching on his
fellow man—they cleared and secured the scene. Three
squad cars surrounded the attacker, blocking him from
view. The shopkeeper was actually told to close up and go
home, along with the rest of us. When I told one of the offi-
cers that Dave and I were with the press, he confiscated
Dave's camera; said it was evidence, which is total and
utter bullshit, like they have a right...
Listen to me, worried about freedom of the press at this
point. It doesn't matter. At four o'clock this afternoon, one
hour ago, Mayor Harris declared martial law; blockades
have been set up all over the place, and we've been cut off
from the outside. According to Harris, the city's been quar-
antined so that the "unfortunate illness that is plaguing
some of our citizens" won't spread. He wouldn't call it the
cannibal disease, but there's obviously no question—and
according to our police scanner, the attacks are multiply-
ing exponentially.
I believe that it may already be too late for all of us. The
disease isn't airborne or we'd all have it, but the evidence
strongly suggests that you get it when you're bitten by one
of them, just like in the movies I used to watch on the Dou-
ble Creature Feature when I was a boy. That would explain
the incredible growth rate of the attacks—but it also tells
me that unless the cavalry comes in very soon, we're all
going to die, one way or another. The cops have closed
down the press, but I'm going to try to get the word out
anyway, even if I have to go door-to-door. Dave, Tom, Kathy,
Mr. Bradson—everyone else has gone home to be with
their families. They don't care about letting the people
know anymore, but it's all I have left. I don't want to
I just heard glass breaking downstairs. Somebody's
coming.
There wasn't any more. Carlos lowered the crum-
pled sheets he'd found, placing them on the reporter's
desk, his mouth a grim line. He'd killed two zombies
in the hallway... maybe one of them had been the
writer, a distressing thought made all the worse by its
application—how long had it taken for the writer to
change?
And if he's right about the disease, how long does
Randy have?
A police scanner and some kind of handheld radio
sat on a countertop across the room, but suddenly all he
could think of was Randy, downstairs and getting
sicker, waiting for Carlos to come back. He'd held up
pretty well so far, managing to crawl through two of
the blockades with only a little help, but by the time
they'd reached the Raccoon Press building, he'd hardly
been able to stand up on his own. Carlos had left him
propped up beneath a dead pay phone on the first floor,
not wanting to drag him up the stairs; a few small fires
were smoldering on the lower landing, and Carlos had
been afraid that Randy might trip and get burned ...
.. . which might be the least of his worries right now.
Puta, what a balls-up. Why didn't they tell us what we
were getting into?
Carlos choked down the despair that question raised;
it was something he could take up with the proper au-
thorities once they got out of here. He'd probably end
up being deported, since he was only in the country
through Umbrella, but so what? At the moment, going
back to his old life sounded like a picnic.
He hurried to the radio equipment and switched the
scanner on, not sure what to do next; he'd never used
one, and his only experience with two-way radios was
a set of walkie-talkies he'd once played with as a kid.
200 channel multi-band was written on top of the
scanner, and there was actually a scan button. He
pushed it and watched a small digital readout flash
meaningless numbers at him. Except for a few static
bursts and clicks, nothing happened.
Great. That's real helpful.
The radio was what he wanted, anyway, and it at
least looked like a walkie-talkie, though it said, am/ssb
transceiver on the side. He picked it up, wondering if
there were channels, or if there was some memory con-
trol button—
—and heard footsteps out in the hall. Slow, dragging
footsteps.
He dropped the radio on the counter and hefted his
assault rifle, turning toward the door that opened into
the hallway, already recognizing the shuffling, aimless
steps of a zombie. The large newspaper office was the
only room on the second floor; unless he wanted to
jump out a window, the hall and stairs were the only
way out. He'd have to kill it to get back to...
Oh, shit, it had to go past Randy, what if it got to
him? What if—
What if it was Randy?
"Please, no," he whispered, but once the possibility
occurred to him, he couldn't not think about it. He
backed across the room, feeling sweat slide down the
back of his neck. The footsteps continued, getting
closer—and was that a limp he heard, the sound of one
foot dragging?
Please, don't be, I don't want to have to kill him!
The footsteps paused just outside the door—and then
Randy Thomas stepped, lurched into view, his expres-
sion blank and free of pain, strings of drool hanging
from his lower lip.
"Randy? Stop there, 'mano, okay?" Carlos heard his
voice break with dismal fear. "Say something, okay?
Randy?"
A kind of dread acceptance filled Carlos as Randy
tilted his head toward him and continued forward, rais-
ing his arms. A low, gurgling moan erupted from his
throat, and it was the loneliest sound Carlos thought
he'd ever heard. Randy didn't really see him, didn't un-
derstand what he was saying; Carlos had become food,
nothing more.
"Lo siento mucho," he said, and again in English, in
case there was any part of Randy left, "I'm sorry. Sleep
now, Randy."
Carlos aimed carefully and fired, looking away as
soon as he saw the grouping of holes appear just above
Randy's right eyebrow, hearing but not seeing his com-
rade's body hit the floor. For a long time he simply
stood, shoulders slumped as he gazed at his own boots,
wondering how he'd gotten so tired so fast... and
telling himself there was nothing else he could have
done.
At last, he walked over and picked up the radio, hitting
the switch and thumbing the send control. "This is Carlos
Oliveira, member of Umbrella's U.B.C.S. team, squad
Alpha, Platoon Delta. I'm at the Raccoon City newspaper
office. Can anyone hear me? We were cut off from the rest
of the platoon, and now we—I need help. Request imme-
diate assistance. If you can hear this, please respond."
Nothing but static; maybe he needed to try specific
channels; he could go through them one by one and
just keep repeating the message. He turned the radio
over, looking at all of the buttons, and saw, stamped
into the backing, range five miles.
Which means I can call anybody in town, how use-
ful—except nobody's gonna answer, because they're
dead. Like Randy. Like me.
Carlos closed his eyes, trying to think, trying to feel
anything like hope. And he remembered Trent. He
checked his watch, realizing how crazy this was, think-
ing that it was the only thing that made sense anymore;
Trent had known, he'd known what was going on and
he'd told Carlos where to go when the shit came down.
Without Randy to think about and with no clear path
out of town...
Grill 13. Carlos had just over an hour to find it.
Jill had just reached the S.T.A.R.S. office when the
communication console at the back of the room crack-
led to life. She slammed the door behind her and ran to
it, words spitting out through a haze of static.
"... is Carlos ... Raccoon ... were cut off... pla-
toon ... help ... assistance ... if you can hear... re-
spond ..."
Jill snatched up the headset and hit the transmit
switch. "This is Jill Valentine, Special Tactics and Res-
cue Squad! You're not coming in very clear, please re-
peat—what's your location? Do you read me? Over!"
She strained to hear something, anything—and then
saw that the light over the transmit relay switch wasn't
on. She tapped several buttons and jiggled the switch,
but the little green light refused to show itself.
"Damn it!" She knew dick about communications,
too. Whatever was broken, she wasn't going to be the
one to fix it.
Well, at least I'm not the only one up Shit Creek
without a paddle...
Sighing, Jill dropped the headset and turned to look
at the rest of the office. Other than a few loose papers
scattered on the floor, it looked the same as always. A
few desks cluttered with files, PCs, and personal items,
some overloaded shelves, a fax machine—and behind
the door, the tall, reinforced steel gun safe that she
hoped to God wasn't empty.
That thing out there isn't going to die easy. That
S.T.A.R.S. killer.
She shivered, feeling the knot of fear in her lower belly
clench and grow heavier. Why it hadn't broken down the
doors and killed her, she didn't know; it was easily strong
enough. Just thinking about it made her want to crawl
into a dark place somewhere and hide. It made the few
zombies she'd passed on her way through the building
seem as dangerous as infants. Not true, of course, but
after seeing what the Tyrant-thing did to Brad...
Jill swallowed, hard, and pushed it out of her mind.
Dwelling on it wasn't going to help.
Time to get to business. She stepped to her desk, ran-
domly thinking that when she'd last sat there, she'd
been a totally different person; it seemed like a lifetime
had gone by since then. She opened the top drawer and
started to dig—and there, behind a box of paper clips,
was the set of tools she'd always kept at the office.
Yes! She lifted the small cloth bundle and unrolled it,
looking over the picks and torsion bars with a practiced
eye. Sometimes having grown up as the daughter of a
professional thief paid off big. She'd been having to
shoot at locks for the last few days, which wasn't
nearly as easy or safe as people seemed to think; hav-
ing a decent lockpick set along would be an enormous
help.
Besides which, I don't have the key for the gun
safe—but then, that never stopped me before. She'd
practiced when no one was around just to see if she
could do it and had experienced very little trouble; the
safe was ancient.
Jill crouched in front of the door, inserted the bar and
pick, and gently felt for the tumblers. In less than a
minute, she was rewarded for her efforts; the heavy
door swung open, and there, in plain sight, was the
stainless steel answer to at least one of her recent
prayers.
"Bless you, Barry Burton," she breathed, lifting the
heavy revolver off the otherwise empty lower shelf. A
Colt Python .357 Magnum, six-shot with a swing-out
cylinder. Barry had been the weapons specialist for the
Alpha team and was a total gun nut besides. He'd
taken her shooting several times, always insisting that
she try out one of his Colts; he had three that she knew
of, all different calibers—but the .357 packed the
biggest wallop. That he'd left it behind, either by mis-
take or on purpose, seemed like a miracle ... as did
the twenty-plus rounds in a box on the floor of the
safe. There weren't any shotgun shells, but there was
one magazine's worth of 9mm rounds loose in one of
the drawers.
Worth the trip, at least—and with the picks I can go
through the downstairs evidence room now, check for
confiscated materials...
Things were looking up. Now all she had to do was
sneak out of the city in the dark, avoiding zombies, vio-
lent, genetically altered animals, and a Tyrant-creature
that had proclaimed itself nemesis to the S.T.A.R.S. A
Nemesis made for her.
Amazingly, the thought made her smile. Add an im-
pending explosion and some bad weather to the mix,
she'd have herself a party.
"Whee," she said softly and started to load the Mag-
num with hands that weren't quite steady, and hadn't
been for a long time.
EIGHT
AS HE SLOGGED HIS WAY THROUGH THE
sewer system underneath the city streets, Nicholai
found himself fascinated by the careful planning that
had gone into Raccoon's design. He'd studied the
maps, of course, but it was another thing entirely to ac-
tually wander through it, to experience the arrangement
firsthand. Umbrella had built a perfect playground; how
unfortunate that they'd ruined it for themselves.
There were several underground passages that con-
nected key Umbrella-owned facilities to one another,
some more obvious than others. From the basement of
the RPD building, he'd entered the sewers that would
lead him all the way to the multilevel underground lab-
oratory where Umbrella had done its most serious re-
search. Research had also been conducted at the
Arklay/Spencer mansion lab in Raccoon Forest, and
there were three "abandoned" factory or warehouse test
sites on the outskirts of town, but the best scientists had
worked in and under the city. It would certainly make
his job much easier; moving from one area to another
would be much less hazardous underground.
Not for much longer, though. In another ten or
twelve hours, nowhere will be safe. The bio-organics
that Umbrella worked with were kept sedated, grown in
Raccoon but usually shipped elsewhere for field trials.
With the operation in virtual ruin, they'd break out in
order to find food; some had surely escaped already,
and the majority would undoubtedly make an appear-
ance once they'd missed a few injections.
And won't that be fun? A little target practice to
clear my palate in between searches, and with the fire-
power to enjoy it.
Holding the assault rifle in the crook of his right
arm, he reached down and patted the extra mags he'd
taken from Wersbowski; he hadn't thought to check
them before, but the quick look before he'd descended
into the sewers had left him quite pleased. U.B.C.S.
soldiers were issued magazines of fully jacketed .223s,
designed to shoot cleanly through a target; Wersbowski
had loaded up with hollow points, rounds that ex-
panded and flattened on contact for maximum damage.
Nicholai had already planned to raid the lab's small ar-
senal; with an additional sixty rounds of HP, he'd be
walking easy ...
... unlike now...
The cold, murky water that ran through the poorly lit
tunnels came almost to his knees and smelled terrible,
like urine and mold. He'd already come across several
undead, most wearing Umbrella lab coats, though there
were a few civilians—maintenance people, or perhaps
just unlucky souls who'd ventured into the sewers
thinking to escape the city. He dodged them, mostly,
not wanting to waste bullets or alert anyone to his
whereabouts.
He came to a T junction and hung a right after check-
ing for movement in either direction. As with much of his
journey so far, there was nothing but the soft lap of pol-
luted water against gray stones, the ripple of sullen yellow
light against the oily surface. It was a dank and miserable
environment, and Nicholai couldn't help but think of the
A334s, the sliding worms. At the Watchdog briefing,
they'd been listed as something like giant leeches that
traveled by water in groups, one of Umbrella's newest
creations. He wasn't afraid so much as disgusted by the
thought of running into them, and he hated surprises,
hated the idea that even now a school of them could be
slipping through the dark waters, jaws stretching wide,
seeking warmth and sustenance from human blood.
When he saw the raised ledge at the end of the tun-
nel, he was ashamed at the relief he felt. He quickly
blocked the feeling, preparing himself for his meeting;
a look at his watch as he stepped out of the water told
him he was right on time. Dr. Thomlinson would be fil-
ing her next report within ten, minutes.
Nicholai hurried down the short corridor in front of
him, annoyed by the faint squelching of his boots as he
reached the door to the warehouse anteroom. He lis-
tened for a moment and heard nothing; he gave a soft
push at the door and it opened, revealing an empty
break room for city workers—table, a few chairs, lock-
ers—and, bolted to the far wall, a descending ladder.
He crept in, gently closing the door behind him.
The ladder went down into the small warehouse
from which Dr. Thomlinson would report; a computer
terminal was hidden behind some cleaning equipment
on one of the shelves. Assuming Thomlinson would be
coming from the lab, she'd enter via the small elevator
platform in the comer of the room, if he'd read the map
correctly. Nicholai sat down to wait, unhooking his
shoulder bag and removing the laptop; he wanted to
recheck his maps after the appointment with the good
doctor.
Thomlinson was punctual, arriving a full four min-
utes before she was supposed to file. At the sound of
the grinding lift motor, Nicholai trained the rifle's muz-
zle into the corner, resting his finger on the trigger. A
tall, disheveled woman rose into view, a distracted look
on her smudged face. She wore a stained lab coat and
carried a handgun she kept pointed at the floor; obvi-
ously, she expected her checkpoint to be safe.
Nicholai didn't give her a chance to react to his pres-
ence. "Drop your weapon and step away from the lift.
Now."
She was a cool one, he had to give her that. Except
for a slight widening of her eyes, there was no visible
sign of alarm across her even features. She did as he
asked, the clatter of the semiautomatic loud as she war-
ily moved a few paces into the still room.
"Anything new to report, Janice?"
She studied him, her light brown gaze searching his
as she crossed her arms. "You're one of the Watch-
dogs," she said. It wasn't a question.
Nicholai nodded. "Empty your pockets onto the
table, Doctor. Slowly."
Thomlinson smiled. "And if I won't?" Her voice
was throaty, deep and alluring. "Will you ... take it
from me?"
Nicholai thought for a few seconds about what she
was suggesting then pulled the trigger, obliterating
her lovely smile in a sudden cough of fire. Really, he
didn't have time to play that particular game; he
should have shot her on sight, so as not to be tempted.
Besides, his feet were cold and wet, which he de-
tested; nothing like wet boots to make a man miser-
able.
Still, it was a shame; she was his type, tall and
curved, obviously intelligent. He walked to her
slumped body and fished a disk out of her breast pocket
without looking at the blood and bone confusion that
had been her face, reminding himself that this was
business.
Only four to go. Nicholai slipped the disk into a
plastic pouch, sealed it, and placed it in his bag.
There'd be time to pore over its contents later, once
he'd collected everything.
He turned on the portable and called up the sewer
system map, frowning as he traced his next path. At
least another half mile of wading through the dark be-
fore making it topside. He glanced at Dr. Thomlinson
again and sighed; perhaps he'd made a mistake. A
quick tussle would have warmed him up ... though he
disliked having to kill women after enjoying them, on
any level; the last time, he'd experienced feelings of
true regret.
No matter. She was dead, he had the information,
and it was time to move on. Four left, and he could for-
get about business for the rest of his extremely wealthy
life, concentrating instead on the kinds of pleasure that
poor men could only dream about.
Carlos knew he was close. From the area near the
newspaper building, where the street signs had all
begun with north, he'd ended up lost in a series of al-
leys to the east—what had to be Trent's shopping dis-
trict.
He said shopping district, northeast... so where's
the theater? And he said something about a fountain,
didn't he?
Carlos stood in front of a boarded-up barbershop at
the intersection of two alleys, no longer sure which
way to go. There weren't any street signs, and twilight
had given its last gasp; it was full-on dark and he only
had ten minutes left before the 1900 deadline, thanks
to an initial blunder that had led him back toward the
industrial part of town—not really what could be con-
sidered the city proper, as Trent put it. Ten min-
utes ... and then what? Once he found the infamous
Grill 13, what was supposed to happen? Trent had
said something about helping ... so if he blew the ap-
pointed time, would Trent be able to do anything for
him?
Taking a left would lead him back to the newspaper
office, he thought—or was that behind him? Straight
ahead was a dead end and a door that he hadn't tried
yet, might as well give that a shot—
He didn't see it coming, but he heard it.
He'd taken a single step when a door crashed open
behind him—and the thing was so fast that he was still
turning, raising the assault rifle in reaction to the sound
of the door when it reached him.
What—
A wave of malodorous darkness, an impression of
shining black claws and hard, ribbed body like the
exoskeleton of some giant insect—
—and something ripped the air inches from his face,
would have hit him if not for his stumbling step back-
wards. He tripped over his own feet and fell, watching in
horrified amazement as some thing flew over his upturned
face, leaping nimbly to the wall on his right, and contin-
ued to run, sideways, clinging to the brick in a skittering
gallop. Awestruck, Carlos tracked it as far as he could turn
his head, flat on his back, watching as it agilely pivoted
on at least three of its legs and dropped to the ground.
He might have simply waited for it to come for him,
unable to believe his eyes even as it slashed one of its
six, long-bladed legs across his throat, except that it
screamed—and the trumpeting, triumphant whine that
erupted from its inhumanly curved and bloated face
was enough to get him moving.
In a flash, Carlos rolled into a crouch and opened
fire on the screeching, running thing, unaware that he
was screaming, too, a low, raspy cry of terror and dis-
belief. The creature faltered as the rounds tore into its
brittle flesh, its limbs flailing wildly, the quality of its
shriek changing to a howl of furious pain. Carlos kept
firing, spraying the creature with deadly hot metal, con-
tinuing even after it collapsed and was only moving be-
cause of him, the rounds jerking at its limp form. He
knew it was dead but couldn't let himself stop, couldn't
until the M16 ran dry and the alley was silent except
for the sound of his own tortured breathing. He backed
against a wall, slammed a fresh mag into the rifle, and
desperately tried to understand what the hell had just
happened.
At last he recovered enough of himself to ap-
proach the dead thing—it was dead; even a six-
legged, wall-climbing bug the size of a man was
dead when its brains were drooling out of its skull. It
was one truth he could hold on to in the face of this
madness.
"Deader than shit," he said, staring down at the
twisted, bloody creature, and for just a second, he could
feel part of his mind attempting to turn in on itself, to
lock him away from what he was seeing. Zombies were
bad enough, and he'd finally refused to accept the fact
that Raccoon was overrun by the walking dead; they
were just sick, that cannibal disease he'd read about,
because there was no such thing as zombies except in
the movies. Just like there were no real monsters, ei-
ther, no giant killing bugs with claws that could walk
on walls and scream like it had screamed—
'Wo hay piri," he whispered, his one-time motto,
this time spoken as a plea, his thoughts following in a
kind of desperate litany, Don't sweat it, hang loose, be
cool. And after a while, it took hold; his heart slowed to
almost normal, and he started to feel like a person
again, not some mindless, panicking animal.
So, there were monsters in Raccoon City. It shouldn't
be a surprise, not after the day he'd had; besides, they
died like anything else, didn't they? He wasn't going to
survive if he lost it, and he'd already been through way
too much to give up now.
With that, Carlos turned his back on the monster
and headed down the alley, forcing himself not to
look back. It was dead, and he was alive, and
chances were good that there were more of them out
there.
Trent might be my only way out, and now I've
got... shit! Three minutes, he had three goddamn min-
utes.
Carlos broke into a run, up a few steps to the single
door at the end of the alley and through—and found
himself standing in a spacious, well-lit kitchen. A
restaurant's kitchen.
A quick look around; no one, and quiet except for a
soft hiss from a large gas canister standing against the
back wall. He took a deep breath but couldn't smell
anything; maybe it was something else—
—and I wouldn't leave if it was toxic nerve gas. This
has to be it, this is where he told me to go.
He walked through the kitchen, past shining metal
counters and stoves, heading toward the dining area.
There was a menu on one of the counters, grill 13
written across the front in gold script. It was unnerving,
how relieved he felt; within a few hours, Trent had
gone from being some creepy stranger to his best friend
in the world.
/ made it, and he said he could help—maybe a res-
cue team is already on its way, or he arranged for me
to be picked up here... or maybe there are weapons
stored in the front, not as good as an evac but I'll take
what I can get.
There was an opening in the wall between the
kitchen and the dining room, a counter where the chefs
put the orders up. Carlos could see that the small,
slightly darker restaurant was empty, although he took
a moment to be certain; dancing light from a still-burn-
ing oil lamp wavered over the leatherette booths that
lined the walls, casting jittery shadows.
He stepped around the serving counter and walked
into the room, absently noting a faint scent of fried
food lingering in the cool air as he stared around,
searching. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he def-
initely didn't see it—no unmarked envelope propped
up on a table, no mysterious packages, no trench-
coated man waiting. There was a pay phone by the
front door; Carlos walked over and picked up the re-
ceiver but got nothing, just like every other phone in
town.
He checked his watch for what felt like the thou-
sandth time in the past hour and saw that it was 1901—
one minute after seven o'clock—and he felt a rush of
anger, of frustration that only served to increase his un-
acknowledged fear. I'm alone, no one knows I'm here
and no one can help me.
"I'm here," he said, turning to face the empty room,
his voice rising. "I made it, I'm here on time and god-
damnit, where the hell are you?"
As if on cue, the telephone rang, the shrill sound
making him jump, Carlos fumbled for it, his heart
thumping dully in his chest, his knees suddenly weak
with hope.
"Trent? Is that you?"
A brief pause, and Trent's smooth, musical voice
spilled into his ear. "Hola, Mr. Oliveira! I'm so pleased
to hear your voice!"
"Man, not half as glad as I am to hear yours." Carlos
sagged against the wall, gripping the receiver tightly.
"This is some bad shit, amigo, everyone's dead and
there are things out there, like—there are monsters,
Trent. Can you get me out of here? Tell me you can get
me out of here!"
There was another pause, and Trent sighed, a heavy
sound. Carlos closed his eyes, already knowing what he
would say.
"I'm very sorry, but that's simply out of the question.
What I can do is give you information ... but surviv-
ing, that's your job. And I'm afraid that things are
going to get worse, much worse before they get any
better."
Carlos took a deep breath and nodded to himself,
knowing that this was what he'd been expecting all
along. He was on his own.
"Okay," he said and opened his eyes, straightening
his shoulders as he nodded again. "Tell me."
NINE
Comments, description of reported misdemeanor—29-087:
Two of the twelve faux gems that are an integral part of the
"clock-lock" at the ornamental main gate of the municipal
complex have been removed, between (approximately) 2100
hours yesterday (September 24) and 0500 hours this morn-
ing. With many local businesses boarded up at this time, loot-
ers have been defacing town property and attempting to take
what they believe to be valuable. This officer believes that the
perp thought the gems were real, and stopped after removing
two (one blue, one green) when he/she realized they were
only glass.
This gate (aka "City Hall" gate) is only one of several en-
trances/exits that lead to the municipal complex. The gate is
now locked due to its complicated (and in this officer's opin-
ion, ridiculous) design, which requires that all gems be pres-
ent for the gate to be unlocked. Until the City Parks Depart-
ment removes the gate, or until the two gems can be recov-
ered and reinstalled, this entrance/exit will remain locked.
Due to the lack of available manpower at this time, there is no
choice but to suspend the investigation of this case.//report-
ing officer Marvin Branagh
Additional comments, case 29-087, M. Branagh
Sept. 26—One of the missing gems (blue) has turned up
inside the RPD building. It's 2000 hours. Bill Hansen, de-
ceased owner of the restaurant Grill 13, was apparently carry-
ing the fake gem when he came here seeking shelter earlier
this evening. Mr. Hansen died shortly after arriving, killed by
police fire after succumbing to the effects of the cannibal dis-
ease. The gem was found on his person, though I'm
this officer has no way of knowing if he stole it or where the
other gem might be.
With the city now under martial law, no effort will be made
to find the second gem or to put this one back—but with sev-
eral of the streets surrounding the municipal complex now
impassable, the need for these gems may at some point be-
come relevant.
On a personal note: this will be my last written report until
the current crisis has passed. Paperwork doesn't seem—at
this time, the need to document misdemeanors seems sec-
ondary to the enforcement of martial law, nor do I believe my-
self to be alone in this assessment.
Marvin Branagh, RPD
Jill put the typed report and handwritten addendum
back into the evidence drawer, sadly wondering if Mar-
vin was still alive; it seemed unlikely, which was a
thoroughly depressing thought. He was one of the best
officers in the RPD, always nice as hell without sacri-
ficing a professional demeanor.
Right up to the end, a real pro. Goddamm Um-
brella.
She reached into the drawer and took out the dia-
mond-shaped piece of blue glass, gazing at it thought-
fully. The rest of the evidence room had been a bust,
the locked cabinets and drawers yielding nothing useful
as far as weapons went; obviously, she wasn't the only
one who'd thought to check it for guns and ammo. The
gem, on the other hand ...
Marvin was right about the streets being blocked all
around the City Hall gate; she'd tried to get through the
area once already and had found most of it barricaded.
Not that there was much over there—the gate opened
into a small garden with paved walkways, really a
showcase for a rather boring statue of ex-mayor
Michael Warren. Past that was City Hall, not used for
much since the new courthouse had been built uptown,
and a couple of paths that led north and west, respec-
tively—an auto shop and a few used-car lots if you
veered north, and to the west...
"Oh, shit, the trolley!"
Why hadn't she thought of it before? Jill felt a rush
of excitement, hampered only slightly by the urge to
slap her forehead. She'd totally forgotten about it. The
old-fashioned two-car train's scenic route was a tourist
thing, the city only ran it summers anymore, but it went
all the way out to the westernmost suburbs, past City
Park and through a few of the more expensive neigh-
borhoods. There was an allegedly abandoned Umbrella
facility out that way, too, where there might still be
working cars and clear roads. Assuming it was in run-
ning condition, the trolley would be the easiest way out
of the city, hands down.
Except with all the blockades, the only way to get to
it is through that locked gate—and I've only got one of
the jewels.
She didn't have the equipment to take the heavy, over-
sized gate down by herself... but Marvin's report said
that Bill Hansen had had the blue gem, and his restau-
rant was only three or four blocks away. There was no
reason to assume he'd had the green one at some point,
too, or that it was at the Grill, but it'd be worth checking
out. If it wasn't there, she was no worse off—but if she
could find it, she might be able to get out of the city
much sooner than she'd expected. With the Nemesis
running around out there, it couldn't be soon enough.
So, it was decided. Jill turned and walked toward
the hall door, slipping the blue gem into her fanny
pack. She wanted to check out the RPD's darkroom
before she left, see if she could find one of the photog-
rapher's vests laying around; she didn't have any speed
loaders for the Colt, and she wanted a few pockets to
carry the loose rounds. While she was at it, she
thought she might as well leave the shotgun behind.
She'd rigged up an over-the-shoulder strap using a belt
she'd taken off a dead man, so carrying it wasn't too
bad, but without shells—and with the .357 as addi-
tional firepower—she didn't see the point in lugging it
around anymore ...
She stepped into the hall and took a left, deliberately
not looking at the one slumped body beneath the win-
dows that faced south. It was a young woman carrier
she'd shot at from the stairs to the second floor, just
around the corner, and she was pretty sure that she'd
known the girl—a secretary/receptionist who worked at
the front desk on weekends, Mary something. The
darkroom faced the opening beneath the stairs; she'd
have to pass within a few feet of the corpse, but she
thought she could avoid looking too closely if she—
CRASH!
Two of the windows imploded, a driving rain of
glass spraying over the receptionist's body, shards of it
slicing at Jill's bare legs. In the same instant, a giant
black mass was hurled inside, bigger than a man, as
big as—
—S.T.A.R.S. killer-
It was all she had time to think. Jill sprinted back the
way she'd come, slamming into the evidence room
door, while behind her, she heard crunching glass as it
rolled to its feet, heard the ugly opening note of its sin-
gle-minded cry, "SSst—"
She ran, snatching the heavy revolver from beneath
her waist pack's strap, through the evidence room to
the next door, through that into the patrol squadroom. A
sharp left as soon as she was inside and desks blurred
past, chairs and shelves and an overturned table spat-
tered with the blood and fluids of at least two cops,
their sprawled bodies reduced to obstacles in her path.
Jill leaped over the twisted legs, hearing the door
open, no, disintegrate behind her, a roar of splinters
and cracking wood that couldn't drown out the Neme-
sis's fury.
Gogogofaster—
She hit the door running, ignoring the dull blossom
of pain that enveloped her bruised shoulder, twisting to
the right as she pounded into the lobby.
Shhh-BOOM!
A flare of brilliant light and smoke jetted past her,
blowing a jagged, burning hole in the floor not three
feet to her left. Shards of blackened marble and ce-
ramic tile flew, exploding up and outward in a fountain
of noise and heat.
Jesus, it's armed!
She ran faster, down the ramp into the lower lobby,
remembering that she'd dead-bolted the front doors, the
realization like a punch in the stomach. She'd never get
them open in time, no chance—
—and BOOM, another blast from what had to be a
grenade launcher or bigger, close enough that she could
feel the air part next to her right ear, could hear the
whistle of incredible speed just before the front doors
blasted open in front of her. They hung drunkenly on
bent hinges, swaying and smoldering as she ran
through, the night cool and dark.
"Ssstaaarrrsss! "
Close, too close. Instinctively Jill sacrificed a sec-
ond of speed to leap to the side, kicking away from
the ground, dimly aware that Brad's body was gone
and not caring. Even as she landed, the Nemesis
blew past her, barreling through the space she'd oc-
cupied an instant before. Its momentum carried it
several giant steps away, it was fast but too heavy to
stop, its monstrous size giving her the time she
needed. A squeal of rust and she was through the
gates, slamming them, scrabbling the shotgun off her
back.
She turned and rammed the shotgun through the
gates' hoop handles, both of them cracking against the
barrel before she had time to let go, hard enough for
her to realize that the gates wouldn't hold for very
long. Behind the gates, the Nemesis screamed in ani-
mal rage, a demonic sound of bloodlust so strong that
Jill shuddered convulsively. It was screaming for her,
it was the nightmare all over again, she was marked
for death.
She turned and ran, its howl fading into the dark be-
hind her as she ran and ran.
When Nicholai saw Mikhail Victor, he knew he'd
have to kill him. Technically, there was no reason, but
the opportunity was too enticing to pass up. By some
fluke, the leader of platoon D had managed to survive,
an honor he didn't deserve.
We'll just see about that...
Nicholai was feeling good; he was ahead of the
schedule he'd set for himself, and the rest of his jour-
ney through the sewers had been uneventful. His next
goal was the hospital, which he could reach quickly
enough if he took the cable car in Lonsdale Yard; he
had more than enough time to relax for a few moments,
take a break from his pursuit. Climbing back into the
city and seeing Mikhail across the street, from the roof
of one of Umbrella's buildings—the perfect sniper's
roost—was like some cosmic reward for his work so
far. Mikhail would never know what hit him.
The platoon leader was two stories below, his back
to the wall of a wrecking yard's shack as he changed
rifle magazines. A security light, its bright beam flick-
ering with the erratic movement of nocturnal insects,
clearly illuminated his position—and would make it
impossible for him to see his killer.
Well, you can't have everything; his death will have
to be enough.
Nicholai smiled and raised the Ml6, savoring the mo-
ment. A cool night breeze ruffled his hair as he studied
his quarry, noting with no small satisfaction the fear on
Mikhail's lined, unknowing face. A head shot? No; on
the off chance that Mikhail had been infected, Nicholai
wouldn't want to miss the resurrection. He had plenty of
time to watch, too. He lowered the barrel a hair, sighting
one of Mikhail's kneecaps. Very painful... but he
would still have use of his arms and would probably fire
blindly into the dark; Nicholai didn't want to risk get-
ting hit
Mikhail had finished his rifle inspection and was
looking around as if to plot his next step. Nicholai took
aim and fired, a single shot, extremely happy with his
decision as the platoon leader doubled over, grabbing
his gut—
—and suddenly, Mikhail was gone, around the cor-
ner of the building and into the night. Nicholai could
hear the crunch of gravel fading away.
He cursed softly, clenching his jaw in frustration.
He'd wanted to see the man squirm, see him suffer
from the painful and probably lethal wound. It seemed
that Mikhail's reflexes weren't as poor as he'd
thought.
So, he dies in the dark somewhere instead of where I
can see him. What is it to me? It's not as though I have
nothing else to occupy my time...
It didn't work. Mikhail was badly injured, and
Nicholai wanted to see him die. It would only take a
few minutes to find the trail of blood and track him
down—a child could do it.
Nicholai grinned. And when I find him, I can offer
my assistance, play the concerned comrade—who did
this to you, Mikhail? Here, let me help you...
He turned and hurried to the stairs, imagining the
look on Mikhail's face when he realized who was re-
sponsible for his plight, when he understood his own
failure as a leader and as a man.
Nicholai wondered what he'd done to deserve such
happiness; so far, this had been the best night of his
life.
When their conversation was over, the line went
dead and Carlos walked to one of the booths and sat
down, thinking hard about the things Trent had told
him. If all he'd said was true—and Carlos believed that
it probably was—then Umbrella had a lot to answer for.
"Why are you telling me all this?" Carlos had asked
near the end, his head spinning. "Why me?"
"Because I've seen your records," Trent answered.
"Carlos Oliveira, mercenary for hire—except you only
ever fought the good fight, always on the side of the
oppressed and abused. Twice you risked your life in as-
sassinations, both successful—one a tyrannical drug
lord and the other a child pornographer, if memory
serves. And you never harmed a civilian, not once. Um-
brella is involved in some extremely immoral practices,
Mr. Oliveira, and you're exactly the kind of person who
should be working to stop them."
According to Trent, Umbrella's T-virus—or G-virus,
there were apparently two strains—was created and
used on homemade monsters to turn them into living,
breathing weapons. When humans were exposed to it,
they got the cannibal disease. And Trent said that the
U.B.C.S. administrators knew what they were sending
their people into, and probably did it on purpose—all
in the name of research.
"The eyes and ears of Umbrella are everywhere,"
Trent had said. "As I said before, be careful who you
trust. Truly, no one is safe."
Carlos abruptly stood up from the table and walked
toward the kitchen, lost in thought. Trent had refused to
talk about his own reasons for undermining Umbrella,
though Carlos had gotten the impression that Trent also
worked for them in some capacity; it would explain
why he was so secretive.
He's being careful, covering his ass—but how could
he know so much? The things he told me...
A jumble of facts, some that seemed totally arbi-
trary—there was a fake green jewel in a cold storage
locker underneath the restaurant; Trent had said that it
was one of a pair but had refused to say where the other
one was or why either of them was important.
"Just make sure they end up together," Trent had
said—as if Carlos was going to just happen to come
across the other one. "When you find out where the
blue one is, you'll get your explanation."
For as cryptically useless as that seemed to be, Trent
had also told him that Umbrella kept two helicopters at
the abandoned water treatment plant west and north of
the city. Perhaps most useful of all, Trent had said that
there was a vaccine being worked on at the city hospi-
tal, and while it hadn't been synthesized yet, there was
at least one sample there.
"Although there's a good chance the hospital may
not be there for much longer," he'd said, leaving Carlos
to wonder again how Trent came by his information.
What was supposed to happen to it? And how would
Trent know that?
Trent seemed to think that Carlos's survival was im-
portant; he seemed convinced that Carlos was going to
be a significant part of the fight against Umbrella, but
Carlos still wasn't sure why, or if he even wanted to
join up. At the moment, all he wanted was to get out of
the city ... but for whatever reason Trent had decided
to offer up information, Carlos was glad for the help.
Although a little more would've been nice—keys to
an armored getaway car, maybe, or some kind of anti-
monster spray.
Carlos stood in the kitchen, gazing down at the
heavy-looking cover to what was, presumably, the
basement ladder. Trent had told him that there were
probably more weapons at a clock tower, not far from
the hospital; that and the bit about the Umbrella heli-
copters, due north from the tower and hospital, defi-
nitely useful...
But why let me come here at all if I'm so goddamn
important? He could've stopped me on the way to the
field office.
A lot of it didn't make sense, and Carlos was willing
to bet money that Trent hadn't told him everything. He
had no choice but to trust him a little, but he was going
to be very careful when it came to depending on Trent's
information.
Carlos crouched next to the basement entrance,
grabbed the handle to the cover, and pulled. It was
heavy, but he could just manage it, leaning back and
using his leg muscles for leverage. Unless the cooks
were body builders, there was probably a crowbar
around somewhere.
The front door to the restaurant opened and closed.
Carlos gently, quietly put the cover aside and turned,
still in a crouch, M16 aimed at the dining room en-
trance. He didn't think the zombies were coordinated
enough to open doors, but he had no idea what the
monsters were capable of, or who else might be wan-
dering the city streets.
Slow, stealthy footsteps moved toward the kitchen.
Carlos held his breath, thinking about Trent, wondering
suddenly if he'd been set up—
—and about the last thing he expected to see was a
.357 revolver come around the corner, held by an at-
tractive and extremely serious-looking young woman
who moved in fast and low and aimed at Carlos before
he could blink.
For a beat they stared at each other, neither moving,
and Carlos could see in the woman's eyes that she
wouldn't hesitate to shoot him if she thought it neces-
sary. Since he felt pretty much the same way, he de-
cided it might be best to introduce himself.
"My name is Carlos," he said evenly. "I'm no zom-
bie. Take it easy, huh?"
The girl studied him another moment, then nodded
slowly, lowering the revolver. Carlos took his finger off
the rifle's trigger and did the same as they both
straightened up, moving carefully.
"Jill Valentine," she said, and seemed about to say
something else when the back door to the restaurant
crashed open, the thundering sound matched by a gut-
tural, barely human scream that raised the hairs on the
back of Carlos's neck.
"Sstaarrsss!" whatever it was howled, the cry echo-
ing through the restaurant, giant footsteps pounding to-
ward them, relentless and certain.
TEN
THERE WAS NO TIME FOR QUESTIONS, NO
time to wonder how it had found her so quickly. Jill
motioned for the young guy to get behind her and
backed into the dining room as he hurried past; she des-
perately looked around for something she could use to
distract it long enough for them to escape. They ducked
behind the service bar, Carlos moving as though he had
some experience; he at least had the good sense to keep
quiet as the S.T.A.R.S. killer charged into the kitchen,
still screaming.
Fire! A guttering oil lamp sat on a cart next to the
counter. Jill didn't hesitate; it would reach them in sec-
onds if she didn't act immediately, and maybe a little
burning oil would slow it down.
She motioned for Carlos to stay put, scooped up the
lamp and stood, leaning over the counter and cocking
her arm back. The hulking Nemesis had just started
across the expansive kitchen when she threw the lamp
at it, grunting with the effort it took to make the dis-
tance.
The lamp flew, and then everything slowed to a near
stop, so much happening at once that her mind fed it to
her one event at a time. The lamp shattered at the mon-
ster's feet, glass and oil splashing and puddling, a tiny
lake of spreading fire; the creature raised its massive
fists, screaming in anger; Carlos yelled something and
grabbed her waist, pulling her down, the clumsy move-
ment toppling them both to the floor—
—and there was a mighty clap of brilliance and
sound that she'd suffered once already since waking up,
a displacement of air that slapped at her eardrums, and
Carlos was trying to shield her, holding her head down,
saying something in rapid Spanish as time sped up to
normal and something started to burn.
God, again? The whole city's going to blow up at
this rate... The thought was vague, disoriented, her
mind muddled until she remembered to breathe. A deep
inhalation and Jill pushed Carlos's arm away and stood,
needing to see.
The kitchen was blasted, blackened, utensils and
cookware everywhere. She saw several canisters lean-
ing against the back wall, one of them the obvious
source of the explosion, its smoking metal sides peeled
back like jagged petals. Rancid smoke curled up from
the smoldering body on the floor, the Nemesis laid out
like a fallen giant, its black clothes singed and burnt. It
didn't move.
"No offense, but are you batshit?" Carlos asked, star-
ing at her as though the question was rhetorical. "You
could've barbecued us both!"
Jill watched the Nemesis, ignoring him, the .357
aimed at its still legs; its head and upper body were
blocked by a low shelf. The blast had been powerful,
but after all she'd been through, she knew better than to
assume anything.
Shoot, shoot it while it's down, you may not have an-
other chance—
The Nemesis twitched, a slight jerk of the fingers on
the hand she could see, and Jill's nerve fled. She
wanted out, she wanted to be far away before it sat up,
before it shook off the effects of the explosion, as it
surely would.
"We have to get out of here, now," she said, turning
to Carlos. Young, good-looking, obviously unnerved by
the blast, he hesitated, then nodded, holding his assault
rifle tightly to his chest. It looked like an M16, military,
and he was dressed for combat—a very good sign.
Hope there's more where you came from, Jill
thought, heading for the door at a brisk pace, Carlos
right behind her. She had a lot of questions for him and
realized that he probably had a few for her, too ... but
they could talk somewhere else. Anywhere else.
As soon as they were outside, Jill couldn't stop her-
self; she broke into a run, the young soldier pacing her,
hurrying through the cool dark of the dead city as she
wondered if there was anyplace left where they could
be safe.
The girl, Jill, ran a full block before slowing down.
She seemed to know where they were going, and it was
obvious that she'd had some kind of combat training;
cop, maybe, though she sure as hell wasn't in uniform.
Carlos was desperately curious but saved his breath,
concentrating instead on keeping up with her.
From the restaurant they ran downhill, past the the-
ater Trent had mentioned, taking a right at a decorative
fountain at the end of the block; another half block and
Jill signaled at a door on the left for a standard sweep.
Carlos nodded, standing to one side of the door, rifle up.
Jill pulled the handle and Carlos stepped in, ready to
fire at anything that moved, Jill covering him. They
were in some kind of a warehouse, at the end of a
walkway that T-ed some fifteen meters ahead. It
seemed to be clear.
"It should be all right," Jill said quietly. "I came
through this way a few minutes ago."
"Better safe than sorry, though, right?" Carlos said,
keeping the rifle up but feeling some of the tension
leave his body. She was definitely a pro.
They edged into the warehouse, carefully checking it
out before saying another word. It was cold and not
very well lit, but it didn't smell as bad as most of the
rest of the city and by standing at the T junction in the
middle of the warehouse, they'd be able to see anything
coming well before it got to them. In all, it felt like the
safest place he'd been since the helicopter.
"I'd like to ask you something, if you don't mind,"
Jill said, finally turning her full attention to him.
Carlos opened his mouth and the words just spilled
out. "You want to ask me out, right? It's the accent,
chicks love the accent. You hear it and you just can't
help yourselves."
Jill stared at him, eyes wide, and for a moment he
thought he'd made a mistake, that she wouldn't realize
he was kidding. It was a stupid call, joking around in
these circumstances. Just as he was about to apologize,
one corner of her mouth lifted slightly.
"I thought you said you weren't a zombie," she said.
"But if that's the best you can do, maybe we ought to
reevaluate your situation."
Carlos grinned, delighted with her comeback—and
suddenly thought of Randy, of him playing around just
before they'd landed in Raccoon. His smile faded, and
he saw the bright glitter of humor leave her face, too, as
if she'd also remembered where they were and what
had happened.
When she spoke again, her tone was much cooler. "I
was going to ask if you were the same Carlos who sent
out a message about an hour ago, hour and a half
maybe."
"You heard that?" Carlos asked, surprised. "When no
one answered, I didn't think—"
Be careful who you trust. Trent's words flashed
through his mind, reminding him that he had no idea
who Jill Valentine was. He trailed off, shrugging indif-
ferently.
"I only caught part of it, and I couldn't transmit
from where I was," Jill said. "You said something
about a platoon, didn't you? Are there other, ah, sol-
diers here?"
Stick to the basics, and nothing about Trent. "There
were, but I think they're all dead now. This whole oper-
ation's been a disaster from word go."
"What happened?" she asked, studying him intently.
"And who are you with, anyway, National Guard? Are
they sending backup?"
Carlos watched her in turn, wondering how careful
he needed to be. "No reinforcements, I don't think. I
mean, I'm sure they'll send someone in eventually, but
I'm just a grunt, I don't really know anything—we set
down, the zombies attacked. Maybe some of the other
guys got away, but so far's I know, you're looking at
the last surviving member of the U.B.C.S. That's Um-
brella Bio-Hazard Countermea—"
She cut him off, the expression on her face close to
disgust. "You're with Umbrella?"
Carlos nodded. "Yeah. They sent us in to rescue the
civilians." He wanted to say more, to tell her what he
suspected—anything to change the look on her face,
like she'd just found out he was a rapist or something—
but Trent's advice kept repeating, reminding him to be
wary.
Jill's lips curled. "How 'bout you can the shit? Um-
brella's responsible for what happened here, as if you
didn't know—where do you get off lying? What are
you really doing here? Tell the truth, Carlos, if that's
your name."
She was definitely pissed, and Carlos felt a mo-
ment's uncertainty, wondering if she was an ally, some-
one who knew the truth about Umbrella—but it could
also be a trap.
Maybe she works for them and is trying to feel me
out, find out where my loyalties are...
Carlos allowed a touch of anger to creep into his
own voice. "I'm just a grunt, like I said. I'm—all of
us—are guns-for-hire. No politics, dig? They don't tell
us shit. And at the moment, I'm not interested in what
Umbrella is or isn't responsible for. If I see someone
who needs help, I'm gonna do my job, but otherwise, I
just want to get out."
He glared at her, determined to stay in character.
"And speaking of who-what-why, what are you doing
here?" he snapped. "What were you doing in that
restaurant? And what was that thing that you blew
up?"
Jill held his gaze for another second, then dropped
her own, sighing. "I'm trying to get out, too. That thing
is one of Umbrella's monsters, it's hunting me, and I
doubt very much that it's dead, even now—which
means I'm not safe. I thought there might be ... I was
looking for a kind of key, I thought it might be at the
restaurant."
"What kind of key?" he asked, but somehow, he
thought he already knew.
"It's this jewel, it's part of a locking mechanism to
the City Hall gate. There are two jewels, actually, and
I've got one already. If I can get the other one, get the
gate open, there's a way out of town—a cable car that
runs west, out to the suburbs."
Carlos kept his face neutral, but he was jumping be-
neath his skin. What had Trent said?
Go west, for one thing .. . and when I find out where
the blue gem is, I'll understand their relevance ... but
what does this mean about Jill Valentine? Do I trust
her now, or not? What does she know?
"No shit," he said, keeping his tone mild. "I saw
something like that, in the basement at the restaurant. A
green gem."
Jill's eyes widened. "Really? If we can get it... Car-
los, we have to go back!"
"If that's my name," he said, caught somewhere be-
tween irritation and amusement. She seemed to leap
from mood to mood, brisk then funny then angry then
excited; it was kind of tiring, and he still wasn't sure
whether or not he could turn his back on her. She
seemed to be sincere ...
"I'm sorry," she said, touching his arm lightly. "I
shouldn't have said that, it's just—Umbrella and I
aren't on the best of terms. There was a biohazardous
incident at one of their labs, here, about six weeks ago.
People died. And now this."
Carlos melted a little at the warmth of her hand.
Jesus, but he was a sucker for un primor, and she was
something to look at.
"Carlos Oliveira," he said, "at your service."
Down, boy. Head out of town, says Trent, but are you
sure you want to travel with someone who might end up
killing you? You want to clear your head before you
take off with the cuero Miss Valentine.
Immediately he started arguing with himself. Yeah,
be careful, but are you going to leave her all alone?
She said that monster was after her...
He joked about it sometimes, but he wasn't truly a
sexist; she could take care of herself, as she'd already
proven. And if she was one of Umbrella's spies ... well,
she deserved what she got, then, didn't she?
"I—I wouldn't feel right about leaving without at
least trying to find some of the others," he said, and
now that he knew there was a way out, he realized it
was true. Even an hour ago, the thought would have
been ridiculous; now, armed with Trent's information,
everything had changed. He was still scared, sure, but
actually knowing something about the situation made
him feel less vulnerable somehow. In spite of the risks,
he wanted to walk a few more blocks before he left
town, make some attempt to help someone. He wanted
time to think, to make up his mind.
That... and knowing that she survived means that I
can, too.
"I saw the gate you're talking about, the one over by
the newspaper office, si? Why don't I meet you
there ... or better yet, at the cable car."
Jill frowned, then nodded. "Okay. I'll go back to the
restaurant while you look around, and I'll wait for you
at the trolley. Once you go through the gate, just follow
the path and keep to the left, you'll see signs for Lons-
daleYard."
For a few seconds, neither spoke, and Carlos saw, in
the careful way she looked at him, that Jill had her own
misgivings about him. Her leeriness made him trust her
a little more; if she was anti-Umbrella, it made sense
that she wouldn't be too hot on hanging out with one of
their employees.
Stop debating it and just go, for Christ's sake!
"Don't leave without me," Carlos said, meaning for
it to come out lightly. He sounded dead serious.
"Don't make me wait too long," she returned and
smiled, and he thought that maybe she was okay after
all. Then she turned and jogged lightly away, back
down the walk they'd entered by.
Carlos watched her leave, wondering if he was crazy
for not going with her—and after a moment, he turned
and walked quickly toward the other exit before he
could change his mind.
For someone who was bleeding like a stuck pig,
Mikhail was surprisingly swift. For at least twenty min-
utes Nicholai had followed the trail of dark droplets
through a blockade, over gravel and asphalt, grass and
debris, and still he hadn't sighted the dying man.
Perhaps dying is too strong a word, considering...
Nicholai had planned to give up if he wasn't able to
find the platoon leader after a few minutes, but the
longer he searched, the more determined he became.
He found himself getting angry, too—how dare
Mikhail run from his just punishment? Who did he
think he was, wasting Nicholai's precious time? To
frustrate him even further, Mikhail had covered quite a
distance and was leading him back into town; another
block or so and he'd be at the RPD building again.
Nicholai opened another door, scanned another
room, sighed. Mikhail had to know that he was being
followed—or he just didn't have the good sense to lay
down and die. Either way, it wouldn't, couldn't be
long now.
Nicholai walked through a small, orderly office, ap-
parently attached to a parking garage, the erratic blood
trail shining purple on the blue linoleum by the caged
bare bulbs overhead. The splatters seemed to be thin-
ning; either Mikhail was bleeding out—unlikely, it
seemed—or he had found time to staunch his wound.
Nicholai gritted his teeth, reassuring himself, He'll
be weak, slowing down, perhaps looking for a place to
rest. I saw the hit, he can't go on much longer.
He stepped out into the dark, cavernous garage, the
cold air thick with the smells of gasoline and grease—
and something else. He stopped, breathed deeply. A
weapon had been fired recently, he was sure of it.
He moved quickly and silently across the cement,
edging around a white van that blocked one of the rows
of cars, and saw what appeared to be a dog sprawled in
a puddle of blood, its strange body curled in a fetal po-
sition.
He hurried toward it, disgusted and thrilled at once.
They'd warned him about the dogs, how quickly they
became infected, and he knew that research had been
conducted on their viability as weapons at the Spencer
estate...
... and they were deemed too dangerous when they
turned on their handlers. Untrainable, and their decay
rate higher than the other organics.
Truly, the half-skinned animal at his feet looked and
smelled like a piece of raw meat that had sat in the sun
for too long. Accustomed as he was to death, Nicholai
still felt his gorge rise at the stench, but he continued to
study the creature, certain that the canine had been the
target of recent gunplay.
Sure enough. Two entry wounds below the torn flap
of its left ear... but not from an Ml6, the holes were
much too big. Nicholai backed away, frowning. Some-
one besides Mikhail Victor had come through the
garage in the last half hour, and probably not a
U.B.C.S. soldier, unless they'd brought their own
weapon, probably a handgun—
Nicholai heard something. His head snapped up, his
attention on the exit door, ahead at two o'clock. A soft
sliding sound, an infected human brushing against the
door, perhaps—or perhaps a wounded man, slumped
and dying against the exit, too exhausted to press on.
Nicholai moved toward the door, hopeful—and
grinned at the sound of Mikhail's voice, strained and
weak, floating past the aging metal.
"No ... get away!"
Nicholai eagerly pushed the door open, wiping the
smile off his face as he assessed the situation. A vast
wrecking yard, gated, vehicles piled in a useless barri-
cade, two more dead dogs limp on the cold ground.
Mikhail lay next to the garage door, partially propped
against the wall and trying desperately to lift his rifle. His
pale face was beaded with sweat and his hands shook
wildly. Five meters away, half of a person was pulling it-
self toward the downed man on shredded fingertips, its
rot-sexless face corrupted into a leering perma-grin. Its
progress was achingly slow but constant; it seemed that
having no lower body—certainly not a complete diges-
tive system—didn't stop the carrier from wanting to eat.
Do I play the hero, save my leader from being
gnawed to death? Or do I enjoy the show?
"Nicholai, help me, please ...," Mikhail rasped,
rolling his head to look up at him, and Nicholai found
he couldn't resist. The idea that Mikhail would be
grateful to him for saving his life seemed extraordinar-
ily .. .funny, for lack of a better term.
"Hang on, Mikhail," Nicholai said forcefully. "I'll
take care of it!"
He dashed forward and jumped, slamming his boot
heel into the carrier's skull, grimacing as a large section
of its matted scalp sloughed wetly away from the bone.
He brought his heel down again, and a third time, and
the once-human died in a thick, splintering crunch, its
arms spasming, its fleshless fingertips dancing briefly
on the asphalt.
Nicholai turned, hurrying back to kneel next to Mikhail.
"What happened?" he asked, voice heavy with con-
cern as he gazed down at Mikhail's bloody stomach.
"Did one of them get you?"
Mikhail shook his head, closing his eyes as if too ex-
hausted to keep them open. "Somebody shot me."
"Who? Why?" Nicholai did his best to sound shocked.
"I don't know who, or why. I thought someone was
following me, too, but—maybe they just thought I was
one of them. A zombie."
Actually, that's not so far from the truth... Nicholai
had to stifle another grin; he deserved an award for his
performance.
"I saw... at least a few men got away," Mikhail
whispered. "If we can get to the evac site, call in the
transport..."
The St. Michael Clock Tower was the alleged evacu-
ation site, where the soldiers were supposed to take the
civilian survivors. Nicholai knew the truth—that a re-
connaissance team would put down first disguised as
emergency medical, and no other helicopters would
show unless Umbrella gave the word. Since the squad
leaders were probably all dead, Nicholai had to wonder
if any of the soldiers even knew about the "evacuation,"
though he supposed it wasn't important. It wouldn't af-
fect his plans either way.
He found that he wasn't enjoying this game as much
as he'd thought he would. Mikhail was too pathetically
trusting, it was as much of a challenge as hunting a
friendly dog. It was almost shameful to watch, too, the
way he surrendered to his pain ...
"I don't think you're in any shape to travel," Nicholai
said coolly.
"It's not that bad. Hurts like hell, and I've lost some
blood, but if I can just catch my breath, rest for a few
minutes..."
"No, it looks very bad," Nicholai said. "Mortal. In
fact, I think—"
Creeaak.
Nicholai shut up as the door to the garage opened next
to them, a slow and even motion, and one of the
U.B.C.S. soldiers stepped out, his eyes lighting up when
he saw them, his assault rifle lowering—but only slightly.
"Sirs! Corporal Carlos Oliveira, A squad, Platoon
Delta. I'm ... shit, it's good to see you guys."
Nicholai nodded briskly, annoyed beyond measure as
Carlos crouched next to them, checking Mikhail's
wound, asking stupid questions. He was ninety-nine
percent sure he could kill both of them before they real-
ized what was happening, but even one percent was too
great a risk considering what was at stake. He would
have to wait... but perhaps he could find a way to use
these new circumstances to his advantage.
And if not... well, people turned their backs on
their friends all the time, didn't they? And neither of
them had reason to believe Nicholai was anything but.
What was the saying, about how an obstacle was
only a disguised opportunity? Things were going to be
fine.
ELEVEN
JILL SLID TO A STOP AT THE CITY HALL GATE,
both gems held tightly in one sweaty hand. The area
was clear, at least as far as she could see, but the restau-
rant had been empty, the Nemesis gone, and that meant
she needed to hurry; she didn't know how, but it was
tracking her, and she wanted to get gone.
Her blurred dash through the alleyways behind the
restaurant had left her short of breath and not a little
frightened. She'd nearly tripped over the body of some
unlikely creature, one she'd been unable to see in the
deepening blackness—but the dark silhouette of multi-
ple claws hanging dead in the shadows had been more
than enough to keep her moving. It didn't look like
anything she'd seen before; that, and the threat of the
Nemesis's inevitable pursuit had her hi a mild panic.
She used it to lend speed to her efforts, careful to main-
tain tight control. She knew from experience that keep-
ing in touch with one's animal instincts was a vital part
of surviving; a little fear was a good thing, it kept the
adrenaline flowing.
The ornamental clock was set into a raised dais next
to the gate. She fumbled the blue jewel into place, the
diamond-shaped glass setting off a faint electrical hum,
a circular chain of lights that bordered the jewels flick-
ering on. The green diamond went in just as easily,
turning the light chain into a complete circle. There
was a heavy grinding sound and the gate's two sets of
doors slid open, revealing a shadowy path surrounded
by overgrown hedges.
It didn't look bad from where she stood. She eased
into the silent walk, opening her senses. Cool, dark, a
mild breeze promising rain the only thing that moved,
rustling the trees, brushing leaves, chilling the sweat on
her face and arms. She could hear the soft wailing of a
distant virus-zombie drift through the air, and she saw
the pale smudges of early moonlight on the path stones.
Alert but sensing no immediate danger, she stepped
further inside, her thoughts turning to Carlos Oliveira.
He was telling the truth about being one of Um-
brella's hired hands and probably about not knowing
what the company was really up to, but he was also
holding something back. He wasn't as good a liar as he
thought, and his apparent willingness to lie didn't bode
well.
On the other hand, he didn't come across as devious
in any way—a liar who meant well, perhaps, or at least
who didn't mean any harm. He was probably just being
careful—doing exactly what she was doing. Whatever
the case, she didn't have time to do any major interpret-
ing, so she was going with her first impression: he was
one of the good guys. Whether or not that would be of
any help to her was another story; for the moment, she
was willing to settle for any ally who didn't have plans
to kill her.
But should I be hooking up with anyone? What hap-
pens if he gets in the way of the Nemesis, and—
As if on cue she heard it, a malevolent coincidence
that seemed unreal, like some deadly joke.
"Sstaarrss—"
Speak of the devil, oh, shit, where is it? Jill was al-
most at the center of the small park, where three trails
intersected, and the sound came from somewhere
ahead—or was it behind? The acoustics were strange,
the tiny courtyard just in front of her making the low,
hissing cry seem to come from everywhere. She spun,
searching, but the path behind her and the two that
stretched away from the open yard disappeared into
shadow.
Which way... She stepped lightly into the open
space, giving herself greater access to escape and room
to maneuver, if it came to that.
A solid, heavy footstep. Another. Jill cocked her
head—
—and there, ahead and to the left, the path that led to
the trolley. A thickening darkness, still just out of clear
sight.
Go back, newspaper office or back to the station, no,
no way I can outrun it but there's the gas station, it has
a metal lock-down shutter and there's a shitload of
cars, the better to hide—
Ahead and to the right. A simple plan was better than
none, and she'd run out of time to consider her options
any further.
Jill took off, the light patter of her boots lost beneath
a sudden clash of motion, the rising howl and dense
tread of semisynthetic feet bearing down on the court-
yard. She was deeply conscious of herself, of her mus-
cles contracting, of the sounds of her heart and breath
as she flew over the stones. In an instant, she was at the
small gate that led further north, that would take her
down a block packed with abandoned cars, past a gas
station/repair shop, toward—
She couldn't remember. If the street was clear, she
could head through the industrial section of town, hope
that she didn't run into any of the zombie packs. If
blockades had been put up—
—then I'm screwed, and it's too late anyway.
She let her well-trained body do the rest of her think-
ing, nimbly slipping through the gate and into a crouch-
ing run, carrying her into the relative safety of a maze
of gridlocked cars and trucks. She could feel it coming,
and she allowed herself to flow into the shadows, to
find in herself some primal understanding of her place
in the hunt. She was the prey, she had to be as elusive
as the Nemesis was determined; if she did it right, she
would survive and the creature would go hungry. If
not...
No time, no more thinking. The Nemesis was com-
ing. Jill moved.
In the parking garage's office, Carlos found a half
case of bottled water, some duct tape, and a men's
dress shirt still in its package—as close to sterile sup-
plies as they were going to get. He immediately set to
doing what he could for Mikhail while Nicholai kept
watch, staring out at the broken automobiles in the
dark, rifle in hand. The courtyard was silent except for
Mikhail's harsh breathing and the lonely cry of a dis-
tant crow.
Carlos didn't know much beyond simple triage, but
he thought the wound wasn't too bad; the bullet had
gone clean through Mikhail's side, not far above his
left hip bone; an inch or two closer in and he
would've been toast, a shot to the liver or kidneys his
death warrant. As it was, his lower intestine had
probably been pierced; it would kill him eventually,
but with prompt medical attention, he should be okay
for now.
Carlos cleaned and dressed the wound, taping com-
presses on, wrapping strips of the shirt around
Mikhail's torso to keep the pressure up. The platoon
leader seemed to be managing the pain well enough,
though he was nauseous and dizzy from loss of blood.
Out of the corner of his eye, Carlos noticed that
Nicholai was moving. He finished layering tape over
the bandages and looked up, saw that the squad leader
had taken a laptop computer out of his shoulder bag
and was tapping at keys, his face a study in concentra-
tion. He'd slung his rifle and was crouched next to a
smashed pickup truck.
"Sir—ah, Nicholai, I'm done here," Carlos said,
standing. Mikhail had insisted that they drop the for-
malities of rank, pointing out that their situation de-
manded flexibility. Carlos had agreed, though he hadn't
gotten the impression that Nicholai liked it much; he
seemed to be a by-the-book type.
Mikhail, pale and bleary-eyed, pushed himself up on
his elbows. "Any way you can use that thing to call for
evac?" His voice was weak.
Nicholai shook his head, sighing. He closed the lap-
top and returned it to his bag. "I found it at the police
station and thought it might be of some use—lists of
blockades, perhaps, or more information about this ...
disaster."
"No luck?" Mikhail asked.
Nicholai moved toward them, his expression re-
signed. "No. I think our best option is to try and make
it to the clock tower."
Carlos frowned. Trent had told him there was sup-
posed to be a supply of weapons at a clock tower, and
that he should head north from there; between Jill's
westbound cable car and this new information, he was
starting to feel plagued by coincidences. "Why the
clock tower?"
Mikhail answered, speaking softly. "Evacuation.
It's where we were supposed to take the civilians and
signal the transports to come in. The clock tower
bells are scheduled to toll by computer, a system that
emits a beacon signal when the program is being
used. We ring the bells, the 'copters come. Cute,
huh?"
Carlos wondered why no one had bothered to in-
clude that little nugget of information in their briefing
but decided not to ask. It didn't really matter at this
point; they had to get to the trolley. He didn't know
Nicholai well, but Mikhail Victor was no threat, not in
his condition, and he needed to get to a hospital. Trent
had said there was one not far from the clock tower.
But Umbrella's eyes and ears—
No. Their stories were the same as his; they'd fought
and watched their teammates die, gotten lost, looked
for a way out and ended up here. It just felt weird, sud-
denly having two more people involved. Trent had him
questioning everyone's motives now, wondering who
might be involved in the alleged Umbrella conspiracy,
worrying about what he could and couldn't say.
Besides, Umbrella screwed them over, too. Why
would they want to help the bastards who landed us in
this shit? Trent may be telling the truth, but he's not
here. They are, and I need them. We need them. Jill
couldn't possibly object to having a few soldiers on her
side.
"There's a cable car we can use to get out there,"
Carlos said. "Right to the clock tower, I think. It's
close, it runs west... and with all those things out
there looking for fresh meat—"
"We could use a ride out of town," Nicholai broke in,
nodding. "Assuming the tracks are clear. Wonderful.
Are you sure it's in operating condition?"
Carlos hesitated, then shrugged. "I haven't actually
seen it. I ran into a—cop, I guess, a woman, she told
me about it. She was on her way there, to see, she said
she'd wait for me. I wanted to see if I could find any-
one before we left." He felt almost guilty telling them
about her, and abruptly he realized that he was letting
all of Trent's crazy spy crap get to him. Why keep Jill a
secret? Who cared?
Mikhail and Nicholai exchanged a look and then
both nodded. Carlos was glad. At last, a real plan, a
course of action. The only thing worse than being in
deep shit was being in deep shit with no direction.
"Let's go," Nicholai said. "Mikhail, are you ready?"
Mikhail nodded, and together, Carlos and Nicholai
lifted him, supporting his weight as evenly as they
could. They edged into the parking garage and had al-
most made it back to the office when Nicholai let out a
mild curse and stopped.
"What?" Mikhail closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
"The explosives," Nicholai said. "I can't believe I
forgot why I even came back this way. After I found
Mikhail, I just—"
"Explosives?" Carlos asked.
"Yes. Just after the zombies attacked, and my
squad"—Nicholai swallowed, obviously struggling to
maintain his composure—"after the zombies at-
tacked, I ended up near a construction site, back in
the industrial area. A building was being torn down, I
think, and I saw a few discarded boxes with high ex-
plosive warnings. There was a locked trailer, I was
going to break in but another wave of them came
after me."
He met Carlos's gaze squarely. "They'd think twice
about attacking in groups if we had a few RDX dyna-
mite mixes to throw at them. Do you think you can
make it to the trolley without me? I can meet you
there."
"I don't think we should split up," Mikhail said. "We
stand a better chance if—"
"If we have a way to keep them from getting too
close," Nicholai interjected. "We can't afford to run out
of ammo, not without something else to back us up.
And there are the others to consider, the creatures ..."
Carlos didn't think splitting up was such a good idea,
either, but remembering that clawed thing from outside
the restaurant—
—and what about that big feon inside the restau-
rant? Jill said it would be coming after her again . ..
"Yeah, okay," Carlos said. "We'll wait for you at the
cable car."
"Good. I won't be long." Without another word,
Nicholai turned and quickly walked away, out of the
garage and into the night.
Carlos and the pale Mikhail struggled on in silence.
They'd gone back through the office and out into the
street before Carlos realized that Nicholai hadn't both-
ered asking for directions to the trolley.
Nicholai had to resist a powerful urge to check the
computer again as soon as he was out of sight; he had
wasted enough time playing the upstanding squad
leader to the two idiot soldiers. It had already been
nineteen minutes since Captain Davis Chan had filed a
Watchdog status report from the Umbrella medical
sales office—about two blocks from the parking
garage—and if Nicholai was very lucky, he might catch
Chan still in the act, checking updated memos or trying
to get through to one of the administrators.
Nicholai jogged down a narrow alley plastered with
flyers, hopping over several corpses strewn throughout,
careful to avoid their upper bodies in case they weren't
dead. Sure enough, one of the blasted-looking things
near the end of the alley tried to reach around and grab
his left boot. Nicholai jumped it with no trouble, smil-
ing a little at its frustrated moan. Almost as pathetic as
Mikhail.
Carlos Oliveira, though. Tougher than he looked, and
definitely brighter—no match for him, of course, but
Nicholai would want to get rid of him sooner rather
than later...
... or not. I could bypass that charade entirely.
Nicholai pushed through a metal door to his right,
into another alley littered with human remains, con-
sidering his options as he hurried along. He didn't
need to go to the clock tower for any reason, just the
hospital—and he didn't have to take the trolley. Toy-
ing with Mikhail and now Carlos was enjoyable, but
not a necessity. He could even let them live, if he
chose...
He grinned, turning a corner in the winding alley-
way. What fun would that be? No, he was looking for-
ward to watching the trust in their eyes crumble, seeing
them realize how stupid they'd been—
Tic tic tic.
Nicholai froze, understanding the sound instantly.
Claws on rock, ahead of him, the almost gentle clatter
coming from the shadows above and to the left. The
only available light was behind him in the walkway's
comer, one of those buzzing fluorescent security lamps
that barely had the power to show itself; he backed to-
ward it, the tics coming faster and closer, the creature
still unseen.
"Show yourself, then," he growled, frustrated with
yet another instance of bad timing. He had to get to the
sales office before Chan disappeared, he didn't have
time to battle one of Umbrella's freaks, much as he
wanted to.
Tic tic tic.
Two of them! He could hear claws scratching cement
to his right, where he'd just been, even as an unholy
shriek sounded from the dark in front of him, a sound
like madness, like souls being ripped apart—
—and there it was, screaming, leaping from the dark
as the other joined in its monstrous song, moving black
hell in stereo. Nicholai saw the raised hook claws of the
one in front of him, the snapping, dripping mandibles,
the gleaming insectile eyes, and knew the other was
only a second behind its sibling, preparing to jump
even as the first landed.
Nicholai opened up, the rattle of automatic fire lost
beneath the twin howls, the rounds finding their mark
on the first, its scream changing as it shuddered to a
stop barely three meters away—and, still firing,
Nicholai crouched and fell backwards, rolling up on his
right side in a single fluid motion. The second charging
animal was less than two meters away when he hit it,
bloody divots appearing in its shining black exoskele-
ton like flowers in explosive bloom. Like the first, it
twitched and spasmed to a halt before collapsing, its
shrill cry becoming a gurgle, becoming silence.
Nicholai got to his feet, unnerved, not sure of the
species—either brain sucker or the more amphibious
deimos, another multi-legged breed. He'd expected the
viciousness and the attack method, but hadn't under-
stood how fast they were.
If I'd been even a second later. . .
No time to consider it, he was in a hurry. He edged
forward, quickly stepping over the dark, oozing sprawl
of limbs, breaking into a run as soon as he was past.
With each step away from the dead creatures he felt
his composure returning, felt a flush of accomplish-
ment warm him from the inside out. They were fast, but
he was faster—and with such monsters loose in the
city, he wouldn't have to worry about Mikhail or Carlos
or anyone escaping what they were due. If he didn't get
to enjoy the pleasure himself, he could revel in the
knowledge that his comrades would certainly fall prey
to any one of a dozen horrors, their inadequate reflexes
failing them, their lack of skills ensuring their doom.
Nicholai tightened his grip on the M16, a rush of ela-
tion adding spring to each agile step. Raccoon was no
place for the weak. He had nothing to fear.
twelve
THE STEEL SHUTTER THAT PROTECTED THE
front of the machine shop was down and locked, but
Jill managed to get in through the garage, picking her
way past a side door. The shop was sturdy enough, well
protected from the average thief and certainly any zom-
bie—but Jill had no doubt that if the Nemesis wanted
to get in, it probably could. She'd just have to hope that
it hadn't tracked her this far...
.. . however it does that, exactly.
Jill had no idea. Did it smell her? That didn't seem
likely, considering her careful, breathless walk to the
gas station; she'd dodged from shadow to shadow,
hearing the Nemesis's thundering but clumsy progress
as it searched for her amongst the crowd of abandoned
cars. If it tracked her by scent, it would have caught
her... though how did it know who she was, specifi-
cally? If another woman her size stumbled across its
path, would it mistake that woman for Jill?
Jill walked through the well-lit garage, her boots
making soft wet noises against the oil-sticky floor, her
thoughts wandering as she took in the layout and
checked doors. She didn't know how the Nemesis had
been programmed to find and kill S.T.A.R.S. or why it
seemed to break off its pursuit from time to time, ei-
ther; with Brad dead, she was the only S.T.A.R.S.
member still in Raccoon.
Unless... Police Chief Irons had been a B team
member, some twenty years back, and he was probably
still in town ...
Jill shook her head. Ridiculous. Chris had dug up
enough information on Irons to make it a near certainty
that he was working for Umbrella, just as they sus-
pected their mysterious Mr. Trent was—the difference
being that Trent seemed to want to help them, while
Irons was a money-grubbing creep who didn't give a
shit about anyone but himself. If Irons was on the
Nemesis's hit list, Jill was pretty much okay with that.
From the garage, she stepped into a kind of combina-
tion office-break room—a soda machine, a small table
with a couple of chairs, a cluttered desk. Jill tried the
telephone on general principles, receiving the dead air
she expected.
"Now I wait, I guess," she said to no one in particu-
lar, leaning against the counter. If the Nemesis didn't
show up after a few moments, she'd slip out again,
head back to the trolley. She wondered if Carlos was
there yet, and if he'd found any survivors from his pla-
toon—what was it? Umbrella Bio-Hazard something.
Probably one of their semilegitimate branches; it would
be good PR, once the news got out about Raccoon.
Umbrella's admin would be able to point to their spe-
cial task force, tell the media how quickly and deci-
sively they'd acted when they'd realized there'd been
an accident.
Except they won't call it an accident, because that
could mean negligence on their part; no doubt they've
already got a scapegoat lined up and ready to hang,
some unlucky yes-man they can frame for the murder of
thousands.. .
Not if she could help it, not if her friends could;
one way or another, the truth was going to come out.
It had to.
Jill noticed a few tools lying around—a set of socket
wrenches, a couple of crowbars—and it occurred to her
that it might be handy to pack a few things for the trol-
ley. It'd suck to get there and end up needing a screw-
driver or the like, something they'd have to come back
for. She was a mechanical illiterate herself, but maybe
Carlos had some experience—
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Jill dropped into a crouch behind the counter as soon
as she heard the slow, heavy knocks at the garage's side
door, insistent and steady.
Nemesis? No, the rappings were loud but not power-
ful, it was either a human or—
"Uuhh." The gently hungry cry filtered through the
door, joined by another, then a third, then a chorus.
Virus carriers, and it sounded like a large group of
them. Any relief she felt upon realizing that it wasn't
the Nemesis quickly faded; a dozen zombies hammer-
ing on the door was the equivalent of a flashing neon
sign that read good eats.
And how exactly am I going to sneak out of here now?
Her simple plan, to hide until the Nemesis went
away, had pretty much crapped out. She needed a new
plan, preferably one she had more than a few seconds
to map out.
So come up with something already. Unless you
mean to go charging out there and start kicking ass.
Jill sighed, the low gnaw of dread in her stomach so
constant that she no longer noticed it. Outside, the de-
caying carriers continued to shuffle and cry, beating
helplessly against the door.
Might as well run through her options; she had a few
minutes to kill.
They made it to the trolley without any trouble.
Carlos was feeling hopeful as they staggered into the
station yard lit by an expanse of merrily burning debris
to one side—no zombies, no monsters, and Mikhail
didn't seem to be getting any worse. The City Hall gate
had been open, a dozen jewels set into a kind of clock
on a nearby pedestal, which meant Jill had already
gone through. Carlos had expected her to make it, but it
was still a relief.
"There it is," Mikhail said, and Carlos nodded,
squinting as a gust of foul-smelling smoke washed over
them. To their right was a grand old building, either the
trolley station or the alleged City Hall. In front of them,
past a stack of crates that blocked their path, was an
old-fashioned trolley car, its red paint slightly faded. As
they got closer, Carlos could see that a second car was
attached, most of it hidden in the shadow of a building
overhang.
Jill was probably waiting in one of them. Carlos
shoved a few of the crates aside with one hip, Mikhail
steadying himself against the station wall.
"Almost there," Carlos said.
Mikhail smiled weakly. "Bet you'll be glad to dump
my ass into a seat."
"Be gladder to sit my own ass down. One-way ticket
outta here."
Mikhail actually managed a laugh. "I hear that."
They moved beneath the overhang, Carlos searching
the windows of both cars for movement. He didn't see
anything; worse, he didn't feel anything. The place
seemed totally deserted, still and lifeless.
Hope you 're taking a nap in there, Jill Valentine.
The sliding side door of the first car they reached
was locked; to their mutual relief, the second wasn't.
After giving the car a once-over to be certain it was
empty, Carlos helped Mikhail aboard, getting him set-
tled into a window bench seat. As soon as the platoon
leader was lying down, he seemed to fall into a half
swoon.
"I'm going to check out the second car, then see
what I can do to get a few lights on in here," Carlos
said. Mikhail grunted in response.
Not surprisingly, Jill wasn't in the other car, either,
but Carlos did find the electrical controls next to the
driver's seat. At the touch of a button, a row of over-
head lights switched on, illuminating an aging wood
floor and red vinyl padded seats lining both walls.
"Where are you, Jill?" Carlos muttered, feeling real
worry for her. If something had happened, he was
going to feel at least partly responsible for not accom-
panying her back to the restaurant.
Mikhail was barely conscious when Carlos checked
on him, but it was more like sleep than coma. Until a
doctor looked at the wound, rest was probably the best
thing for him.
There was an open control panel at the back of the
car, which Carlos knelt to examine. His heart dropped
when he saw that it was part of the primary power setup
and that a few parts had been removed. He didn't know
anything about cable cars, but it didn't take a genius to
understand that you couldn't run a machine when the
wires had been pulled, particularly on such an ancient
system. It looked like there was a missing fuse, too.
"Hijo de la chingada," he whispered and heard a
feeble laugh behind him.
"I know just enough Spanish to know you shouldn't
kiss your mother with that mouth," Mikhail said.
"What's wrong?"
"There's a fuse missing," Carlos said. "And these cir-
cuits have got to be shorted out. We'll have to bypass
them if we want to get this thing moving."
"Just northeast of here ...," Mikhail started, but he
had to pause for a few breaths before going on.
"There's a gas station. Repair shop. It was one of the
landmarks on... the city map, it's suburbs past that.
Probably have equipment there."
Carlos thought about it. He didn't want to leave
Mikhail alone, and Jill or Nicholai could show up any
minute...
... but we ain 't going no place without a power
cable and a high amp fuse, and Mikhail's on a downhill
slide; what choice have I got?
"Yeah, okay," Carlos said lightly, walking over to
Mikhail. He gazed down at him, concerned about the
high color of his cheeks, the waxy pallor of his brow.
"Guess I'll go check that out—wanna come with?"
"Ha ha," Mikhail whispered. "Be careful."
Carlos nodded. "Try to get some sleep. If anyone
shows up, tell them I'll be right back."
Mikhail was already slipping back into a doze.
"Sure," he mumbled.
Carlos checked Mikhail's rifle to make sure it was
loaded, and he placed it next to the padded bench,
within easy reach. He hunted around for something else
to say, some words of reassurance, and finally just
turned and walked to the exit. Mikhail wasn't stupid, he
knew what the stakes were.
His life, among other things.
Carlos took a deep breath and opened the door, pray-
ing that the gas station wasn't too far away.
Chan was gone, and not only was there no way to
tell where he was headed but Nicholai had missed him
by bare minutes. The computer he'd apparently made
his report from was still warm, the glass of the monitor
crackling with static electricity. Nicholai impulsively
scooped up the monitor and threw it across the room,
but wasn't satisfied with its mundane explosion of
cheap plastic casing and glass. He wanted blood. If
Chan came back to the office, Nicholai would beat him
severely before ending his life.
He paced the small, heavily littered office, fuming.
He teases me with his ignorance. He is so stupid, so
oblivious, how can he be so inferior and still be alive?
Nicholai knew that the thought wasn't strictly rational,
but he was furious with Chan. Davis Chan didn't de-
serve to be a Watchdog, he didn't deserve to live.
Gradually, Nicholai took hold of himself, breathing
deeply, forcing himself to count to a hundred by twos. It
was still early in the game. Besides, Nicholai's plan de-
pended on having information that Umbrella wanted—
and if he meant to steal that information, he had to
allow some time for the other Watchdogs to collect it.
The daily field reports were a bare summary of condi-
tions and body count, used as much as a check-in as
anything else; the real stuff was being stored on disk,
transcribed from found documents or picked out of
someone else's files, only downloaded by cell if the
Watchdog considered it of critical importance.
And... while I'm waiting, I can check in with my
comrades at the trolley.
Nicholai stopped pacing, struck by the realization
that he had truly enjoyed his deception of Carlos and
Mikhail. Somehow, that there were two of them had
turned it into a more exciting game. Would they suspect
him? What were they saying about his sudden depar-
ture? What did they think of him?
And what would it be like to witness Mikhail's slow,
excruciating loss of life, watch him lose his capacity for
reason as the young protagonist Carlos vainly strug-
gles to beat the odds? Nicholai could disable the bell
mechanism once they reached the clock tower... per-
haps bravely volunteer to seek out the hospital, to bring
back supplies—
Nicholai laughed suddenly, a harsh barking sound in
the stillness of the room. He had to kill Dr. Aquino—
the scientist who was supposed to report in from the
hospital, the one working with the vaccine—anyway,
and he knew that Aquino had been ordered to see to the
hospital's destruction before leaving Raccoon, to elimi-
nate trace evidence from his research. And there was
also a specific species of organic stored at the hospital
that Umbrella had decided to abandon, the Hunter
Gamma series, so blowing up the hospital meant two
objectives met for the price of one.
It seemed that the HGs weren't cost effective, al-
though there had been serious disagreement within the
administration about whether or not to destroy the pro-
totypes. If Nicholai could lure Carlos into combat with
one of them, he would have some valuable information
of his own to sell... and he, too, would be meeting
more than one objective with a single action.
It all came together, there was a kind of symmetry to
it all. He'd drop me entire scheme if anything went
wrong, of course, or if he found it wouldn't mesh with
his plans. He wasn't an idiot—but having a project to
fill his downtime would keep him from becoming
overly frustrated.
Nicholai turned and started for the door, amused by
his own indulgence. Raccoon City was like some
haunted kingdom where he was ruler, able to do as he
wished—anything he wished. Lie, murder, bathe in the
glory of another man's defeat. It was all his for the tak-
ing, and with a payoff at the end.
He felt like himself again. It was time to play.
THIRTEEN
JILL HAD FINALLY DECIDED TO OPEN THE
metal shutter and make a break for it when she heard
shots outside, the high-pitched chatter of an assault
rifle. To say she was relieved was an understatement;
the relentless thumping of the mostly dead outside had
been eating at her nerves, almost tempting her to shoot
herself, just so she wouldn't have to hear it anymore—
and now, in a matter of seconds, it was quiet once
again.
She moved quickly to the side door in the garage,
ducking beneath a disemboweled red compact on a lift
and pressing her ear to the cold metal. All was silent,
the virus carriers surely dead—
Bam-bam-bam!
Jill jerked back as someone hammered on the door,
her heart keeping time.
"Hey, is somebody in there? The zombies are dead,
you can open up now!"
No mistaking the accent; it was Carlos Oliveira. Re-
lieved, Jill turned the lock, announcing herself as she
threw the door open.
"Carlos, it's Jill Valentine."
She was happy to see him, but the look on his face
was so sincerely elated that she felt almost shy sud-
denly. She moved back from the door so he could step
inside.
"I'm so glad you're okay, when you weren't at the
trolley, I thought..." Carlos trailed off, his "thought"
obvious enough. "Anyway, it's really good to see you
again."
His apparently serious concern for her was a sur-
prise, and she was uncertain how to respond—irrita-
tion, that she was being patronized? She didn't feel
irritated. Having someone interested in her well-being,
particularly considering the kind of chaos they were in,
was—well, kind of nice.
The fact that that someone is tall, dark, and hand-
some isn't such a terrible thing, either, hmm? Jill in-
stantly clamped down on the thought, cutting it short.
True or not, they were in a survival situation; they
could make eyes at each other later, if they made it out
alive.
Carlos didn't seem to notice her slight discomfort.
"So, what are you doing here?"
Jill gave him a half smile. "I got sidetracked. Don't
suppose you saw Frankenstein's monster wandering
around out there?"
Carlos frowned. "You saw him again?"
"Not him, it. It's called a Tyrant, if it's what I think it
is—or some variation, anyway. Bio-synthetic, ex-
tremely strong, and very hard to kill. And it appears
Umbrella figured out how to program it for a specific
task—in this case, killing me."
Carlos gazed at her skeptically. "Why you?"
"Long story. The short answer is, I know too much.
Anyway, I was hiding here, but—"
Carlos finished for her. "But a gang of zombies
showed up, making it hard for you to leave. Gotcha."
Jill nodded. "What about you? You said you made it
to the trolley, what you doing here?"
"I ran into two other U.B.C.S. guys. One of mem got
shot, he's still alive but not doing so great Mikhail.
Nicholai—that's the other one—thought he knew
where to get some explosives, so Mikhail and I went to
the trolley to wait for him. It turns out that there's an
evac on standby, if we can get to the clock tower and
ring the bells. We ring, helicopters come."
He noticed Jill's expression and shrugged, grinning.
"Yeah, I know. It's some kind of computer signal, I
don't know how it works. Great news, except to get the
trolley running we're going to need a couple of
things—a power cable and one of those old-fashioned
electrical fuses, to start with. Mikhail told me there
was a repair shop over here; he's one of the platoon
leaders, he got a good look at a map before we
landed..."
Carlos frowned, then nodded to himself as if he'd
solved some puzzle. "Nicholai must have seen a map,
too, that would explain why he didn't need directions."
"Carlos, Mikhail, Nicholai—Umbrella doesn't dis-
criminate based on nationality, does it?" Jill made the
joke offhandedly, mostly to cover a deepening sense of
unease. She thought Carlos was decent at heart, but two
more Umbrella soldiers, one of them a platoon
leader—what were the odds that all three were stand-up
guys who had been misled by their employer? Um-
brella was the enemy, she couldn't lose focus of that.
Carlos was already walking away, his attention fixed
on the raised red car. "If they were doing any electrical
checks, there should be ... there, that's what I'm look-
ing for!"
It seemed that Carlos had seen the cable he wanted
in the tangle of cords and wires spilling out from
under the hood, some of them hooked to machines Jill
didn't recognize, some just trailing on the oily ce-
ment.
"Careful," Jill said, moving to join him as he reached
up and grabbed one of the cables, dark green. She had
an instinctive mistrust of electrical equipment and
vaguely believed that people who messed around with
wires were just asking to be electrocuted.
"No problem," Carlos said easily. "Only a real ba-
boso would leave any of these hooked up to the—"
Crack!
An orange-white spark spat out from one of the trail-
ing wires, loud and bright and as explosive as a gun-
shot. Before Jill could draw breath, the cement floor
was on fire—no gradual build, no sense of expansion, it
was just suddenly and completely ablaze, the flames
two, three feet high and rising.
"This way!" Jill shouted, running toward the open
door that led into the office, the oil-fed fire blasting
heat against her bare skin, when it hits the car's gas
tank it's going to blow, we gotta get out of here—
Carlos was right behind her, and as they ran into the
office, Jill felt her blood run cold. Screw the car, the car
was nothing compared to what was going to happen
when the fire got to the underground tanks in front of
the station.
A chain pulley hung next to the steel shutter that
blocked the front door. Jill ran for it, but Carlos was
one step ahead. He snatched the chain and pulled, hand
over hand, the shutter inching slowly upward in spite of
the frantic rattle of metal links.
"Drop and crawl," Carlos said, raising his voice to be
heard over the clanking, over the oceanlike rumble of
spreading fire in the shop.
"Carlos, the tanks outside—"
"I know, now move!"
The bottom of the shutter was a foot and a half from
the ground. Jill dropped, flattening herself against the
cold floor, shouting up to Carlos before she belly-
crawled outside.
"Leave it, it's good enough!"
Then she was through, stumbling to her feet,
reaching around to grab Carlos's hand and pulling
him up after her. Inside the shop, something ex-
ploded, a dull whoomp of sound, maybe a gas can or
that cabinet full of machine oil, Jesus I must be
cursed doomed something things keep blowing up
around me—
Carlos grabbed her arm, snapping her out of her
wild-eyed freeze. "Come on!"
She didn't need to be told twice. With the rising light
pouring from the machine shop's windows, illuminat-
ing in manic orange the heaped corpses of at least eight
virus carriers, she ran, Carlos beside her.
The gridlock was bad, the street jammed, no clear
path for them to make time. Jill could feel the seconds
fly as they struggled through the maze of dead metal
and blank, staring glass. The first real explosion and the
sound of shattering windows behind them was too
close, we're not far enough yet, but all they could do
was what they were doing—that and pray that the fire
would somehow miss the main tanks.
Maybe we should take cover, maybe we're out of the
blast radius and—
Somehow, she didn't hear it—or rather, she heard a
sudden, total absence of sound. Too focused on wend-
ing through the silent traffic in the dark, the rush of
blood in her ears, the passing time, perhaps. All she
knew was that she was running, and then there was a
mammoth wave of pressure that boosted her from be-
hind, lifting her up and forward at once, the side of a
beaten panel truck rushing at her and Carlos screaming
something—and then there was nothing but blackness,
nothing but a distant sun that lapped at the edges of her
dark, sending her dreams of angry light.
Mikhail was sinking, descending into the fevered
delirium that would undoubtedly kill him. All Nicholai
had been able to get out of the dying man was that Car-
los had gone to get equipment to repair the trolley, and
that he would be back soon. If there was any more,
Nicholai would have to wait—until Mikhail's fever
broke or Carlos returned, neither of which seemed
likely. Mikhail was only going to get worse, and the
deep, rumbling explosion that had quaked the ground
beneath the trolley, that had preceded a lightening of
the night sky to the north, suggested that there had been
a fire at the gas station—not necessarily Carlos's fault,
but Nicholai suspected that it probably was, and that
Carlos Oliveira had burned to a crisp.
Which means I'll have to find a power cable myself if
I want a ride to the hospital.
Irritating, but it couldn't be helped. Nicholai had
found a box of spare fuses inside the station, as well as
a five-gallon container of properly mixed machine oil,
more than enough to get the cable car to the hospital—
but no power cable, no wiring at all with which to by-
pass the shorted circuits. Nicholai wondered why
Carlos hadn't thought to break into the station's main-
tenance room, and decided it was probably due to an
absence of imagination.
"No ... no, it can't—fire! Fire at will, I think... I
think..."
Nicholai looked up from his inspection of the trolley's
control panel, curious, but whatever Mikhail thought was
lost as he dropped back into a troubled slumber, the an-
cient bench creaking beneath his restless movements. Pa-
thetic. He could at least babble out something interesting.
Nicholai stood and stretched, turning toward the
door. He'd already added the oil to the engine's rudi-
mentary tank system, but he'd taken the wrong land of
fuse. He'd get another one on his way back into town,
probably all the way back to that same damned parking
garage where he'd tracked Mikhail; he'd noticed some
shelves of equipment there. All of the running back and
forth was becoming tiresome, but at least most of the
cannibals in the area had already been killed, so it
wouldn't take too long—and when he returned, he
could reward himself for his efforts by telling Mikhail
who was responsible for his impending death.
He stepped out into the train's yard, thinking
vaguely about where he might sleep for the night,
when he saw two figures stumbling toward the trolley,
their forms half hidden in the sparse light from a
dying fire in the northwest corner of the yard. They
drew closer, and he saw that Carlos had managed to
escape death after all and had brought a woman with
him, undoubtedly the same woman who'd told him
about the trolley. Both were singed, their exposed skin
reddened and grimy with ash; perhaps he hadn't been
that far off the mark about who had started that
fire . ..
... and once again, let the games begin!
"Carlos! Are you injured? Either of you?" He
stepped forward so they could see him clearly, could
see the deep concern on his face.
Carlos was obviously glad to see him. "No, I'm—
we're both fine, just a little banged up. The gas station
caught fire and blew. Jill blacked out for a minute or
two, but she's ..."
Carlos abruptly cleared his throat, nodding toward
the woman. "Uh, Jill Valentine, this is Sergeant
Nicholai Ginovaef, U.B.C.S."
"Nicholai, please," he offered, and she stared at him,
her expression unreadable. It seemed that Ms. Valentine
wasn't interested in making friends. That pleased him,
though he wasn't sure why. She carried a .357 revolver
and had what looked like a 9mm tucked into the waist-
band of an extremely snug skirt.
"We are indebted to you for telling Carlos about the
trolley. You're with the police?" Nicholai asked.
Jill's gaze was fixed on his, and there was no mistak-
ing the tone of challenge in her response. "The police
are dead. I'm with the S.T.A.R.S., Special Tactics and
Rescue Squad."
Well, well, how ironic. I wonder if she's encoun-
tered Umbrella's little surprise yet. . . If she had, she
probably wouldn't be standing in front of him; unless
it was malfunctioning, a Tyrant could break a full-
grown man in half without exerting even a quarter of
its strength. Someone like Jill Valentine didn't stand
a chance against something even more advanced,
Umbrella's new toy that had been scheduled to ap-
pear.
Nicholai was pleased with the strange coincidence of
meeting a S.T.A.R.S. member; it made him feel like
everything was in order, that connections in his mind
were reflected in the world around him...
"How's Mikhail?"
Nicholai looked away from Jill's unwavering stare to
answer Carlos, not wanting to seem combative. "Not
very well, I'm afraid. We should leave as soon as possi-
ble. Did you find anything useful? Mikhail said you
were going to get repair equipment."
"It's all gone, burned up," Carlos said. "I guess we'll
have to keep—"
"Did you get your explosives?" Jill interrupted, still
watching him carefully. "Where were they?"
Not openly hostile, but very close; not surprising,
considering. The inside line on the S.T.A.R.S. was that
they had uncovered information about Umbrella's real
research at the Spencer estate lab. They'd been discred-
ited later, of course, but Umbrella had been trying to
get rid of them ever since.
If they're all as suspicious as this one, it's no wonder
Umbrella hasn 't succeeded.
"There weren't any explosives," he said slowly,
abruptly deciding to push her a little, see how forth-
right she was. "All I found were empty boxes. Ms.
Valentine, is something bothering you? You seem...
tense."
He deliberately shot a sharp glance at Carlos, as if
angry that he'd brought the mistrustful woman along.
Carlos flushed and quickly spoke up, trying to redirect
the conversation.
"I think we're all on edge, but the important thing
right now is Mikhail. We've got to get him out of
here."
Nicholai held Jill's gaze a beat longer, then nodded
and turned his attention to Carlos. "Agreed. If you can
come up with a cable, I'll see what I can do about a
fuse—there's a power station not too far from here, I'll
look there. Back at the garage where we found Mikhail,
I'm sure I saw battery cables, you should try there. Re-
gardless of our success, we meet back here in a half
hour."
Carlos nodded. Nicholai made a point of ignoring
Jill's response, addressing Carlos instead. "Good. I'll
check on Mikhail before I go. Move out."
He turned back toward the cable car as though every-
thing was settled, silently congratulating himself as he
climbed aboard. They would fetch the cable for him,
while all he had to do was walk a dozen steps into the
trolley station and reach into a box.
Which means I'll have plenty of time left over. I won-
der what they'll talk about when I'm not around...
Perhaps he'd arrange to meet them on their way back,
watch them for a moment or two before revealing his
presence.
Nicholai walked to where Mikhail was sleeping and
grinned at him, well pleased. Things were getting inter-
esting, finally. Carlos was working for him, Mikhail
was at death's door, and the addition of the S.T.A.R.S.
woman had thickened the plot, so to speak. He glanced
out the trolley window and saw that the two of them
had already gone, disappearing back into the dark. Jill
Valentine was suspicious of him, but only because of
what she knew about Umbrella; he was sure that she
would warm to him, given a little time.
"And if she doesn't, I'll kill her along with the rest of
you," he said softly.
Mikhail let out a soft sound of distress but slept on,
and after a moment, Nicholai quietly left.
FOURTEEN
ALTHOUGH THERE WAS PROBABLY A LOT THEY
could talk about, Jill didn't feel like it and neither did Car-
los. They had to get a power cable, get back to the trolley,
and not get killed in the process—not exactly the time for
small talk, even if the streets did seem to be clear. And
after the near death experience they'd just shared running
from the gas station, Carlos couldn't imagine chatting.
What would we talk about, anyway? The weather?
How many of her friends are dead? How about whether
or not that Tyrant-thing is going to pop up and kill her
anytime soon, or maybe the top ten reasons she doesn't
like Nicholai...
Jill was obviously uncomfortable with Nicholai—al-
most certainly because of her feelings about Um-
brella—and Carlos thought Nicholai didn't like her
much, either, though he wasn't sure why; the squad
leader had been perfectly polite, if a little brisk. Carlos
liked that Jill wasn't like that with him, suspicious and
challenging, but the animosity between her and
Nicholai made him a little nervous. As cliched as it
was, they needed to stick together if they meant to sur-
vive.
In any case, Jill wasn't volunteering to discuss her
feelings on the topic, and Carlos was busy debating
himself about whether or not to tell the others about
Trent, and they both were watching their asses. They
walked in silence from the trolley back into downtown
and were almost back to the garage when Carlos saw
someone he recognized.
The dead man was propped in the corner of a wind-
ing alley, not far from the grotesque bodies of two
Umbrella creatures that Carlos had passed twice al-
ready in the past couple of hours, like the thing he'd
killed by the restaurant; from the look of his corpse,
he'd been there awhile—which meant Carlos had
passed him by as well, never noticing. It was kind of
distressing to realize he didn't even look at their faces
anymore, but he was a little too surprised to hang on to
the feeling.
"Hey, I've met this guy," he said, crouching next to
him, trying to remember the name—Hennessy? Hen-
nings, that was it. Tall, dark hair, a thin scar that ran
from one corner of his mouth to his chin. Single gun-
shot wound to the head, no obvious signs of decay ...
. .. and what the hell is he doing here?
Jill had been walking a few steps ahead of Carlos.
She turned and walked back, surreptitiously checking
her watch.
"I'm sorry about your friend, but we really have to
get going," she said gently.
Carlos shook his head and started to pat the body
down, searching for extra ammo or some ID. "No, we
weren't friends. I met him at the field office right after I
was hired, he worked for another U.B.C.S. branch, I
think. The guy's a spook, ex-military, and he definitely
didn't come to Raccoon with us ... hola, what's this?"
Carlos pulled a small, leather-bound book about the
size of a paperback out of Hennings's jacket lining and
opened it. A journal. He flipped to the back and saw
that the last entry was dated only the day before yes-
terday.
"This could be important," he said, standing up. "I'm
sure Nicholai knew him, he'll want to see this."
Jill frowned. "If it's important, maybe you should
look at it now. Maybe it... maybe he mentioned
Nicholai or Mikhail."
The last was delivered lightly, but Carlos understood
what she was getting at, and he didn't like it much.
"Look, Nicholai's kind of standoffish, but you don't
know him. He lost his entire squad today, men he's
probably known and worked with for years, so why
don't you give him a break?"
Jill didn't flinch. "Why don't you look through that
book while I go get the power cable? You say this
man's some kind of agent, that he works for Umbrella
and that technically he shouldn't be here. I want to
know what he had to say in his final hours, don't you?"
Carlos glared at her for another moment, then nod-
ded reluctantly, letting the tension go. She was right; if
there was something definitive in Hennings's notes
about what was happening in Raccoon, it might be of
use to them.
"Fine. Just grab every cable you can find and hurry
back, okay?"
Jill nodded and was gone a second later, disappear-
ing into the shadows without a sound. Amazing, how
quiet she was; that took serious training. Although he
didn't know much about them, Carlos had heard of the
S.T.A.R.S., heard they were supposed to be good; Jill
Valentine certainly proved it.
"Let's see what you have to say for yourself, Hen-
nings," Carlos muttered, flipped open the journal, and
started to read the final entry.
I didn't know it was going to be like this. I owe them every-
thing, but I would have turned this down if I had known. It's
the screaming, I can't take it anymore and who gives a crap
if my cover's blown? Everybody's going to die, it doesn't mat-
ter. The streets are filled with screaming and that doesn't
matter, either.
When the company saved my ass two years ago, they told
me that I was going to be working on the dark side, which was
fine by me. I was about to be executed, I would have agreed to
ten years of shit shoveling, and what the rep told me didn't
sound too bad—me and some other cons were going to be
trained as troubleshooters, dealing with illegal aspects of their
research. They have their legit organizations already, couple of
paramilitary units, the bio-hazard boys, a pretty decent envi-
ronmental protection crew. Our job was going to be cleaning
up messes before too many people noticed, and making sure
the people who did notice never got a chance to talk about it.
Six months of intensive training and I was ready for any-  ;
I
thing. Our first assignment was to get rid of some test sub-
jects who'd gone into hiding. These people wanted to go public
about the drug they'd been injected with, it was supposed to
slow down the aging process but it gave all of them cancer. It
took awhile, but we got all of them. I'm not proud of myself
for that, or for anything else I did in the last year and a half,
but I learned to live with it.
I was specially selected for Operation Watchdog. They
planted a bunch of us here right after the first spill, just in
case, but not everyone was chosen to be a Watchdog. They said
I was more committed than the others, that I wouldn't crumble
watching others die. Hooray for me. I worked in a warehouse
for two weeks as an inventoiy specialist, waiting for something
to happen, bored out of my goddamn skull—and then every-
thing happened at once, and I haven't slept for three days and
everyone keeps screaming until the flesh eaters get to them,
and then they either die or they also start to eat.
I tried to get hold of some of the others, the plants, but I
can't find anyone. I only know a few of them anyway, four of
the people selected as Watchdogs—Terry Foster, Martin, that
spooky Russian, the hospital doc with the glasses. Maybe
they're dead, maybe they escaped, maybe they have yet to be
sent in. I don't care. I haven't made a report since day before
yesterday, and Umbrella can blow it out their ass and burn in
hell. I'm sure I'll see them there.
I've chosen to pull the trigger myself, a head shot so I
won't come back. I wish they'd left me to be executed, I de-
served that. Nobody deserves this.
I'm sorry. If anyone finds this, believe that much.
The rest of the pages were blank.
Carlos knelt next to Hennings in a kind of numb
haze and examined his cold right hand for gunshot
residue. It was there. Somebody must have taken the
gun later—
"Carlos?"
He looked up and saw Jill holding a handful of ca-
bles, a look of curious concern on her dirty, pretty
face.
"That spooky Russian." How many could there pos-
sibly be? Carlos didn't know what a Watchdog was, but
he thought that Nicholai had some explaining to do—
and that it might be a good idea to get back to Mikhail
as soon as possible.
"I think I owe you an apology," Carlos said, his
stomach suddenly in knots. Nicholai had found Mikhail
just after he'd been shot, allegedly by some random
stranger...
"What for?" Jill asked.
Carlos tucked the journal into a vest pocket, taking a
last look at Hennings, feeling disgust and pity and a
building anger—at Umbrella, at Nicholai, at himself
for being so naive.
"I'll explain on the way back," he said, gripping his
assault rifle so tightly that his hands started to tremble,
the anger continuing to rise in him like a black flood.
"Nicholai will be waiting for us."
After installing the new fuse in the trolley's control
panel, Nicholai decided to wait inside the station for
Carlos and Jill to return. Many of the first-floor win-
dows were broken, and it was dark inside; he'd be able
to hear any private, last-minute conversation between
them as they entered the yard. Nicholai had no doubt
that Jill would have a few words of warning for Carlos
regarding Umbrella, perhaps about Nicholai directly,
and the truth was, he just couldn't help himself; he
wanted to know what the S.T.A.R.S. woman had to say,
what paranoid drivel she'd spout, and how Carlos
would react. He'd rejoin them a minute or so after they
boarded the trolley, say he was checking the building
for supplies or something, and see what developed
from there.
Do we take a ride, or will I be traveling alone? Per-
haps we'll stay together for the night, foraging for
food, taking turns at standing guard. I could kill them
in their sleep; I could entice both of them to accom-
pany me to the hospital to engage the Hunters; I could
disappear, and allow them to evacuate thinking that
their dear friend had been lost.
Nicholai smiled, a cool night draft from a shattered
pane breezing across his face. In a very real way, their
lives were in his hands. It was a powerful feeling, even
intoxicating, to have that kind of control. What had
started out as a primarily financial venture had evolved
into something new, something he had no words for—a
game, but so much more. An understanding of human
destiny like nothing he'd ever experienced. He'd al-
ways known that he was different, that societal bound-
aries didn't apply to him in the same way that others
understood them; coming to Raccoon was an amplifica-
tion of that, it was like an alternate reality in which they
were the strangers, the outsiders, and he was the only
one who really knew what was going on. For the first
time in his life, he felt free to do as he liked.
Nicholai heard the gate from the alleyway creak
open, slowly, stealthily, and he backed away from the
window. A second later, the two young soldiers stepped
into view, moving almost as silently as himself. He
noted with some surprise that they were sweeping the
yard, as if they expected trouble.
Perhaps they met up with the Tyrant-creature. That
would certainly spice things up, if Jill was being
tracked, although Nicholai meant to let the seeker have
her if it showed up. It would kill anyone stupid enough
to get in its way; Nicholai would happily step aside.
Jill was slightly ahead of Carlos, and as they cau-
tiously edged forward, Nicholai saw that she carried
several cables slung over one shoulder. Maybe he
would keep them around awhile, they were proving to
be successful at running errands.
"All clear," Carlos whispered, and Nicholai smiled to
himself. He could hear them perfectly.
"He has to be back by now, if he didn't run into one
of the creatures," Jill whispered.
Nicholai's smile faltered a little. It was impossible,
but... were they sweeping for him?
"I say we approach like we don't know anything,"
Carlos said, keeping his voice low. "Get on board, get
on either side of him, make him give up the rifle. He
carries a knife, too."
What is this, what's changed? Nicholai was con-
fused, uncertain. What can they possibly know?
Jill was nodding. "Let me ask the questions. I know
more background on Umbrella, I think I have a better
chance of convincing him that we know all about this
Watchdog mission. If he thinks we already know—"
"—then he won't bother hiding anything," Carlos
finished. "Okay. Let's do it. Keep your weapon ready,
just in case he's planning a surprise party."
Jill nodded again, and they both straightened up,
Carlos shouldering his rifle. They started toward the
trolley, no longer bothering to keep quiet.
The fury that overtook Nicholai was so passionate,
so all encompassing, that for a moment he was literally
blinded by it. Flashes of red and black pounded
through his brain, thoughtless and violent, and the only
thing that kept him from running out into the yard and
murdering them both was the distant awareness that
they were prepared for his attack. He almost did it any-
way, the urge, the need to hurt them so strong that the
consequences seemed unimportant. It took all of his
control to stand still, to stand and shake and not scream
his rage.
After some indeterminate time, he heard the trolley's
engine roar to life, the sound finally getting through to
him. His mind began to work again, but he could only
think simply, as though his anger was too great for
complexity of thought.
They knew he wasn't telling the truth. They knew
something about Operation Watchdog, and they knew
he was involved, so he was their enemy now. There
would be no consummation of the careful groundwork
he'd laid, no development of trust for comrade
Nicholai. It had all been a waste of his time ... and to
add insult to injury, he was now going to have to walk
to the hospital.
Nicholai ground his teeth together, drowning, the
impotent hatred like a diseased secret that was crush-
ing him from the inside out. They had done this to
him, stolen his sense of control as though they had a
right to it.
My plans, my money, my decision. Mine, not theirs,
mine— After a moment the mantra started to work,
calming him slightly, the words soothing in their truth.
Mine, I decide, me.
Nicholai took several deep breaths and fixated on the
only thing that could bring him relief as he heard the
trolley slowly rumble away.
He'd find a way to make them sorry. He'd make
them beg for mercy, and laugh while they screamed.
FIFTEEN
JILL STOOD NEXT TO CARLOS AT THE TRAIN'S
controls, looking out as the dark ruins of Raccoon
slowly slipped past. They couldn't see much by the yel-
lowed beam of the single headlight, but there were nu-
merous small fires blazing unchecked and a partial
moon shone its cold light down on it all—debris-
packed streets, broken, boarded windows, living shad-
ows that swayed and wandered aimlessly.
"Keep it slow," Jill said. "If the tracks are blocked
and we're going too fast..."
Carlos shot her an irritated look. "Gee, I hadn't
thought about that. Gracias."
His sarcasm invited a reply, but Jill was too tired to
banter, and her body felt like a single, massive bruise.
"Yeah, okay. Sorry."
The tracks unrolled in front of them as Carlos care-
fully handled the controls, slowing to a virtual crawl
with each curve. Jill wanted to sit, maybe go into the
other car with Mikhail and lay down—it was a few
miles to the clock tower and a jogger could easily keep
up with them—but she knew that Carlos was tired, too;
she could at least suffer aching feet along with him for
another few minutes.
By some unspoken agreement, they hadn't discussed
Nicholai yet, perhaps because speculation on where he
was and what he was doing didn't serve any purpose;
whatever he was up to, they were getting out of town.
Assuming they survived, Jill was more committed than
ever to seeing that Umbrella paid for their crimes, and
it was Umbrella, not Nicholai, who held responsibility
for the death of Raccoon.
Her intuition had been good on Nicholai, that he
wasn't ignorant of Umbrella's evils, though she hadn't
suspected the depth of his deception. From what she'd
read in the journal Carlos had found, it appeared that
the company had been prepared for Raccoon to be in-
fected and had set up a secret team to make reports on
the catastrophe. It was disgusting, but not surprising.
We're dealing with Umbrella, after all. If they can il-
legally design genetic viruses and breed killing ma-
chines to inject said viruses into, why not capitalize on
mass murder? Take some notes, document a few
fights-
Crash!
Jill stumbled against Carlos as the trolley rocked, the
sound of shattering glass coming from the other car. A
half second later, they heard Mikhail let out a fevered
cry—of fear or pain, Jill couldn't tell.
"Here, take the controls," Carlos said, but she was al-
ready halfway across the car, the heavy revolver in
hand.
"I got it, keep us going," she shouted back, not want-
ing to think about what it could be as she dashed to-
ward the door. For the trolley to shake like that—
—it has to be one of their monsters. And Mikhail
probably can't even sit up on his own.
She pushed the door open and stepped onto the con-
necting platform, the heavy clatter of the moving trol-
ley seeming incredibly loud as she opened the second
door, Mikhail's helplessness in the forefront of her
mind.
Oh, shit.
The elements of the scene were simple, straightfor-
ward, and deadly: a broken window, glass everywhere;
Mikhail, to her left, his back to the wall as he struggled
to get to his feet, using his rifle as a crutch—and the
S.T.A.R.S. killer standing in the middle of the car, mis-
shapen head thrown back, its giant lipless mouth open-
ing as it growl-screamed wordlessly. The remaining
windows shook from the strength of its insane cry.
Jill opened fire, each shot a deafening explosion, the
heavy rounds slamming into its upper torso as it contin-
ued to howl. The sheer force of the assault drove it
back a few steps, but if there was any effect otherwise,
she couldn't see it.
On the sixth round, Mikhail's rifle joined in, the
smaller slugs peppering the Nemesis's gigantic legs as
Jill went dry. Mikhail was still slumped against the wall
and his aim was poor, but Jill would take any help she
could get. She grabbed her Beretta—even with a speed
loader the .357 would take too long—and opened up,
going for head shots—
—not working—
—and the Nemesis stopped screaming and fixed its
attention on her, its slitted white eyes like cataracts, its
huge teeth shining and slick. Tentacles snaked around
its hairless, lumpy head.
"Get out!" Mikhail shouted, and Jill spared him a
glance, not even considering the idea as she fired
again—until it registered an instant later that he was
holding a grenade, one shaking finger hooked through
its ring. She recognized the make without thinking
about it—a Czech RG34, Barry had collected antiper-
sonnel grenades—as she sent a round into the Neme-
sis's stitched brow to no effect. Impact grenade, once
the ring was pulled it'd detonate on contact—
—and Mikhail won't make it, it's suicide—
"No, you go, get behind me," she screamed, and the
S.T.A.R.S. killer took one massive step forward, almost
halving the distance between them.
"Get out!" Mikhail ordered again and popped the
ring, an expression of incredible concentration and pur-
pose on his dead-white face. "I'm dead already! Do it,
now!"
Her Beretta fired once more and was empty.
Jill spun and ran, leaving Mikhail to face the monster
alone.
Carlos heard the yelling amidst the shots as he
worked to bring the trolley to a stop, desperate to help
Jill and Mikhail, but they were in the middle of a rela-
tively tight curve and the poorly maintained controls
fought his efforts. He was about a second from joining
them anyway when the door behind him crashed open.
Carlos whipped around, one-arming his M16 as he in-
stinctively kept his other hand on the throttle, and saw
Jill. She practically flew into the car, her expression a
mask of expectant terror, his name forming on her lips—
—and a tremendous shock of fire and sound
bloomed up behind her, pushing her to dive, a clumsy
shoulder roll that was punctuated by the echoing boom-
crash from the second car. Tongues of flame burst
through the back door's window as the floor tilted
wildly. Carlos slammed against the driver's seat, the
chair's arm whacking him mid-thigh hard enough to
bring tears to his eyes.
Mikhail!
Carlos took one faltering step toward the back—and
saw only burning pieces of the obliterated second car
dragging behind them, falling away as the trolley
picked up speed. There was no chance that Mikhail
could have survived, and Carlos started having serious
doubts about their own chances as Jill stumbled for-
ward, her face haunted by whatever she'd seen.
The cable car bit another curve, and then it was out
of control, tossing back and forth like a ship on stormy
seas, except the thunder and lightning were caused by
their car smashing mightily into buildings and autos
alike, sending up great plumes of sparks. Instead of
slowing them down, the trolley seemed to be picking
up speed with each impact, hurtling through the dark in
a series of fiery metal screams.
Carlos fought gravity to grab the throttle, aware that
they'd jumped the tracks, that Mikhail was gone, that
their only hope was the manual brake. If they were very
lucky, the wheels would lock. He yanked back as hard
as he could—
—and nothing happened, nothing at all. They were
screwed.
Jill made it to the front, clutching at chair backs and
support poles as the trolley continued to buck and
screech. Carlos saw her staring at the useless throttle
beneath his fingers, saw despair flash in her eyes, and
he knew that they had to jump.
"The brakes!" Jill shouted.
"No good! We have to bail!"
He turned, grabbed his rifle by the barrel, and used
the locked stock to break out a side window, a sudden
shift of the floor sending the glass shards raining on his
chest. He held on to the slick window frame with one
hand, reached back to grab Jill—
—and saw her drive her elbow into a small glass
panel set low into the console, a look of crazed hope on
her face as she pulled a switch he couldn't see—
SKREEEEEEE—
emergency brake
—and incredibly, the trolley was slowing, tipping to
the left a final time before settling back, sliding forward
in a diminishing spray of bright sparks. Carlos closed
his eyes and gripped the useless throttle, tensing, trying
to prepare himself for the impact—and a few seconds
later, a mild, anticlimactic crunch signified their jour-
ney's end; the car had come to rest against a pile of bro-
ken concrete pieces in the middle of a neatly trimmed
lawn, a few shadowy statues and hedges nearby. A final
tremor rattled through the car, and it was over.
Silence, except for the tick of cooling metal. He
opened his eyes, hardly able to credit their nightmare
ride through the city. Next to him, Jill took a shaky
breath. It had all happened so fast, it was a miracle that
he and Jill were still alive.
"Mikhail?" he asked softly.
Jill shook her head. "It was the Tyrant-thing, the
S.T.A.R.S. Nemesis. Mikhail had a grenade, it kept
coming at us and he—"
Her voice broke, and she reached into her pack and
started to reload her weapons, concentrating on the
simple movements. It seemed to calm her. When she
spoke again, her voice was firm.
"Mikhail sacrificed himself when he saw that the
Nemesis was coming after me."
She looked away, out into the dark as a chill wind
drafted through the trolley's shattered windows. Her
shoulders slumped. Carlos wasn't sure what to say. He
stepped toward her, gently touching one abraded shoulder,
and felt her body stiffen beneath his fingers. He quickly
dropped his hand, afraid that he'd offended her somehow,
and then realized that she was staring out at something, a
look of pure amazement on her delicate features.
Carlos followed her gaze, looking out and up to see a
giant, three- or four-story tower looming over them, sil-
houetted against a backdrop of clouded night sky. A
glowing white clock face near the top read that it was
almost midnight.
"Somebody loves us, Carlos," Jill said, and Carlos
could only nod mutely.
They had reached the clock tower.
*    *    *
Nicholai walked along the moonlit tracks, not both-
ering to conceal himself as he plodded west. He'd be
able to see anything coming and kill it long before it
reached him; he was in a foul mood and almost wel-
comed the opportunity to blow the guts out of some-
thing, human or otherwise.
His anger had abated somewhat, giving way to a
rather fatalistic state of mind. It no longer seemed fea-
sible for him to track down the dying platoon leader
and two young soldiers—basically, there just wasn't
enough time. It would take at least an hour for him to
make it to the clock tower; assuming they could figure
out how to ring the bells, they'd be long gone by the
time he got there.
Nicholai scowled, working to remind himself that his
plans hadn't changed, that he still had an agenda to ful-
fill. Four people were unwittingly waiting for him.
After Dr. Aquino, there were the soldiers—Chan and a
Sergeant Ken Franklin—and the factory worker, Foster.
When they were all out of the way, Nicholai still had to
collate their data, arrange a meeting, and 'copter out.
He had plenty to do... yet he couldn't help feeling
cheated by the circumstances.
He stopped walking, cocking his head to one side. He
heard a crash, an impact of some kind further west, per-
haps even a small explosion muffled by distance. A sec-
ond later he felt the slightest of vibrations coming from
the trolley tracks. The tracks ran down the middle of a
main street, anything solid could have given them a jolt—
—but it's them, it's Mikhail and Carlos and Jill
Valentine. They ran into something, or something went
wrong with the engine, or...
Or he didn't know what, but he was suddenly quite
sure that they had encountered trouble. It reinforced for
him the positive feeling he had that he was the one with
skill; they were forced to rely on luck, and not all luck
was good.
Perhaps we will meet again. Anything is possible, es-
pecially in a place like this.
Ahead of him and to the left, from in between an of-
fice building and a fenced lot, came a gurgling groan,
then another. Three infected shambled out into the
open, ten meters or so from where he stood. They were
too far away to make out clearly in the waxy moon-
light, but Nicholai could see that none of them were in
good shape; two were missing arms and the third's legs
had somehow been cut down, so that it seemed to be
walking on its knees, each stumping footstep creating a
noise like someone smacking their lips.
"Uhllg," the closest complained, and Nicholai shot it
through its disintegrating brains. Two more shots and
the other two joined the first, collapsing to the asphalt
in wet thumps.
He felt much better. Whether or not he got an oppor-
tunity to see his duplicitous comrades again—and he
found that he felt strongly that he would—he was the
superior man, and he would triumph in the end.
The awareness filled him with a new energy.
Nicholai broke into a trot, eager to meet whatever chal-
lenge came next.
SIXTEEN
THE TROLLEY'S DOOR WAS JAMMED, SO JILL
and Carlos had to climb out of a window, Carlos look-
ing as drained as Jill felt. It was a frankly weird coinci-
dence that the trolley had ended up exactly where they
needed to go, but then the last several hours—hell,
weeks—had been weird. Jill thought it would serve her
well to stop letting things surprise her.
The clock tower yard seemed empty of life, nothing
moving but a thin haze of oily smoke boiling up from
the cable car's electrical system. They walked to the
unused decorative fountain in front of the main doors,
gazing up at the giant clock and the small belfry that
topped the tower, Jill's thoughts heavy with images of
Mikhail Victor. She'd never even been properly intro-
duced to the man who'd saved her life, but she thought
that they'd lost a valuable ally. The strength of charac-
ter it took to die so that another might live ... heroic
was the only word that fit.
Maybe he even killed the Nemesis, it was practically
on top of him when the grenade went off... Wishful
thinking, probably, but she could hope.
"So, I guess we try to find the bell mechanism,"
Carlos said. "Do you think it's safe to split up, or
should we—"
Caw!
The harsh cry of a crow cut him off, and Jill felt a
fresh surge of adrenaline pump new life into her veins.
She grabbed Carlos's hand as a fluttering sound filled
the dark from above and around them, the sound of
birds' wings pushing air.
The hall of portraits at the mansion, watched from
above by dozens of shiny black eyes as they waited to
attack. And Forest Speyer, from the Bravo team, Chris
said he'd been ripped apart by dozens, perhaps hun-
dreds of them.
"Come on!" She pulled at Carlos, remembering the
relentless viciousness of the altered, oversized crows at
the Spencer estate. Carlos seemed to know better than
to ask questions as a dozen more hoarse cries pierced
the air. They ran around the fountain to the front doors
of the tower.
Locked.
"Cover me!" Jill shouted, reaching into her pack for
her lockpick tools, the wheeling cries closing in on
them—
—and Carlos threw himself at the doors, hitting the
heavy old wood hard enough that splinters flew. He
jogged back a few paces and ran at them again, bam—
—and they crashed inward, Carlos following through
to trip and sprawl across the tastefully tiled floor, Jill
quickly stepping in behind him. She grabbed the door
handles and slammed the doors closed not a second too
soon. There were two audible thumps from the other
side, joined by a chorus of angry screeching and the
brush of dark wings, and then they were retreating, the
sounds fading away. Jill sagged against the doors, ex-
haling heavily.
God, is it ever going to stop? Do we have to face off
with every demonic asshole in the city before we 're al-
lowed to leave?
"Zombie birds? Are you kidding me?" Carlos said,
pushing himself to his feet as Jill manually bolted the
doors. She didn't bother answering him, turning to take
in the clock tower's grand lobby instead.
It reminded her of the Spencer mansion's foyer, the
low lights and Gothic scrollwork giving it a kind of
shabbily elegant atmosphere. A wide marble staircase
dominated the large room, leading up to a second-floor
landing with stained-glass windows. There were doors
on either side of the room, a couple of polished wood
tables in front of them, and to their left...
Jill sighed inwardly and felt something inside tighten
a little. She hadn't expected the clock tower to be some
kind of untouched sanctuary, even as far out of town as
it was, but she realized that she had hoped—a hope lost
at the sight of more death.
The scene told a story, a kind of mystery. Five male
corpses, all of them dressed in somewhat military garb.
Three of them lay next to the tables, apparently victims
of a virus carrier; the carrier's bullet-riddled body was
nearby. The victims' flesh had been gnawed, their skulls
crushed and empty. The fifth corpse, a young man, had
shot himself in the head, presumably after dispatching
the zombie. Had he killed himself out of despair at the
sight of his half-eaten friends? Had he been responsible
somehow? Or had he known the virus carrier well, and
taken his life after being forced to kill it?
No way we can ever know. It's just another handful
of lives lost in some untold tragedy, one among this
city's thousands.
Carlos moved closer to the bodies, frowning. From
the grim look on his face, she got the impression that
he knew who they were. He crouched down and pulled
a blood-streaked duffel bag out from in between two of
them, drawing a trail of red across the tile. Jill could
hear metal touching metal inside, and it was obviously
heavy, Carlos's bicep straining to lift the bag.
"Is that what I think it is?" Jill asked.
Carlos took the bag to one of the tables and eased the
contents out. Jill felt a sudden, unexpected burst of glee
at what was there; she hurried to the table, hardly able
to believe their luck.
A half dozen hand grenades like the one Mikhail had
used, RG34s; eight M16 thirty-round magazines,
loaded as far as she could tell; and, more than she could
have hoped for, a US M79 grenade launcher with a
handful of fat 40mm cartridges.
"Weapons at the clock tower," Carlos said thought-
fully. Before Jill could ask what he meant, he picked up
one of the rifle grenades and whistled softly.
"Buckshot loads," he said. "One of these would have
blasted the living shit out of that Nemesis espantajo."
Jill raised her eyebrows. " 'Espantajo'?"
"Literally, a scarecrow," Carlos said, "but it's used
like weirdo, or freak."
Appropriate. Jill nodded toward the men who had
carried the weapons. "Do you recognize these people?"
Carlos shrugged uncomfortably, handing her three of
the hand grenades. "They're all U.B.C.S., I've seen
them around, but I don't—I didn't know them. They
were just dumb grunts, they probably had no idea what
they were getting into when they joined Umbrella, or
when we were sent here. Like me."
He seemed angry and a little sad, and he abruptly
changed the topic, suddenly remembering how close
they were to escaping Raccoon City. "Do you want to
carry the grenade gun?"
"I thought you'd never ask," Jill said, smiling. She
could use a weapon that would, as Carlos so colorfully
put it, blast the living shit out of the Nemesis freak.
"Now all we have to do is find a button somewhere,
push it, and wait for our taxi to arrive."
Carlos smiled faintly in turn, tucking M16 mags into
his vest pockets. "And try not to end up dead, like
everyone else in this goddamn place."
Jill had no response to that. "Upstairs?"
Carlos nodded. Armed and ready, they started up.
The clock tower's second floor was really only a bal-
cony that overlooked the front room. It ran along three
sides of the building, and there was a single door where
it ended, which had to lead to another set of staks—to
the belfry, if Carlos remembered the term correctly.
Where the bells were.
Almost over, this is almost over, almost over... He
let the repeating thought drive away almost everything
else, too fatigued to consider his feelings of anger and
sorrow and fear, aware that his breaking point wasn't
all that far off. He could sort through his emotions once
they left Raccoon behind.
The balcony itself was as richly adorned as the
lobby, blue tiles that matched the blue of the stained-
glass windows, an arched overhang supported by
white columns. They could see almost all of the fine
balcony from the top of the stairs, and it appeared to
be clear, not a zombie or monster in sight. Carlos
breathed easier and saw that Jill also seemed more at
ease. She carried the Colt Python and wore the
grenade gun on her back, using Carlos's belt as a
sling.
How did Trent know there would be weapons here?
Did he know I'd be taking them from dead men?
Carlos realized suddenly that he was overestimating
Trent's reach. There had to be another cache of
weapons somewhere in the building, that was all, he
and Jill had just happened across the duffel bag. The al-
ternative—that Trent had somehow known about the
dead soldiers—was too bizarre to consider.
They started down the first leg of the balcony side by
side, Carlos wondering what Jill would say if he told
her about Trent. She'd probably think he was kidding,
the whole thing was so spy-novel mysterious—
Something moved. Ahead of them and around the
first corner, something on the ceiling, a flash of dark
movement. Carlos stepped to the railing and leaned out
to look, but, whatever it was, it was either hidden be-
hind one of the hanging arches or something that his
exhausted brain had come up with to keep him awake.
"What?" Jill whispered at his shoulder, holding her
revolver ready.
Carlos searched a few seconds longer and then shook
his head, turning away. "Nothing, I guess, thought I
saw something on the ceiling, but—"
"Shit!"
Carlos swung around as Jill jerked her weapon up,
pointing at the ceiling just in front of them as a creature
the size of a large dog skittered in their direction, a
thing with a humped body and multiple legs, its thickly
furred feet thumping stickily across the ceiling faster
than seemed possible.
Jill unloaded three rounds into it before Carlos could
blink, but not before he registered what he was looking
at. It was a spider, big enough for Carlos to see his own
reflection in its shining eyes as it crashed to the floor.
Dark fluids spouted from its back as it thrashed its mul-
ticolored legs in the air, ichorous blood pooling beneath
it. The wild, silent dance lasted only a second or two
before it curled into itself, dead.
"I hate spiders," Jill said, a look of revulsion on her
face as she started forward again, scanning the ceiling.
"All those legs, that bloated stomach ... yuck."
"You've seen these before?" Carlos asked, unable to
look away from the closed fist of its body.
"Yeah, at the Umbrella lab in the woods. Not alive,
though, the ones I saw were dead."
Jill's apparent calm as they skirted the dead spider
and continued on reminded Carlos how lucky he was to
have hooked up with her. He'd come across a lot of
tough men in his experiences, but he doubted very
much that any one of them, put in her position, would
be handling themselves as capably as Jill Valentine.
The rest of the balcony was clear, although Carlos
uncomfortably noted a shitload of webbing on the ceil-
ing, mounds of the thick white stuff accumulated in
every corner; he didn't care much for spiders, either.
When they reached the door and swept their way
through, Jill going in low, Carlos was relieved to be
outside again.
They'd come out on a wide ledge in front of the
tower itself, a barren space surrounded by an ancient
railing, a couple of defunct spotlights, and a few
dead plants. There was a doorlike opening set a story
higher up in the tower but no way to get to it. It
seemed like a dead end, nowhere to go but back the
way they'd come. Carlos sighed; at least the crows,
if that's what they were, had migrated somewhere
else.
"So what now?" Carlos asked, looking out over the
dark courtyard, at the still smoking wrecked trolley car.
When Jill didn't answer, Carlos turned and saw her
standing by a copper plaque he hadn't noticed, set into
the stone face of the tower. She reached into her bag
and produced a wrapped set of lockpicks.
"You give up way too easy," Jill said, selecting a few
pieces from the bundle. "Watch for crows, and I'll see
what I can do about getting us a ladder."
Carlos covered her, vaguely wondering if there was
anything she couldn't do, smelling rain on the cold
wind that blew across the ledge. A moment later there
was a series of clicks followed by a low hum of hidden
machinery, and a narrow metal ladder descended from
just beneath the opening above.
"How do you feel about standing guard for another
few minutes?" Jill asked, smiling.
Carlos grinned, feeling her excitement; it really was
almost over. "You got it."
Jill quickly scaled the ladder and disappeared
through the open door above. She called down an all-
clear a second later, and for the next several minutes,
Carlos paced the ledge, thinking about what he was
going to do after they were rescued. He wanted to talk
to Trent again, about what needed to be done to stop
Umbrella; whatever it took, he was there.
/ bet he'd be interested in talking to Jill, too. When
the 'copters come, we play stupid until they let us go,
then plan out our next step—after a good meal and a
shower  and about  twenty-four hours  of sleep,   of
course...
He was so fixated on their deliverance from Raccoon
that he didn't notice Jill's expression at first as she de-
scended the ladder, didn't really think about the fact
that there weren't any bells tolling. He smiled at
her... and then felt his heart sink, understanding that
their trial wasn't over yet.
"There's a gear missing from the bell mechanism,"
she said, "and we have to have it to make them ring.
The good news is, I'm willing to bet that it's some-
where in the building."
Carlos arched an eyebrow. "How do you figure?"
"I found this next to one of the other gears," Jill said
and handed him a tattered postcard.
The picture on the front was of three paintings hung
in a row, each piece incorporating a clock. Carlos
flipped the card over and saw "St. Michael Clock
Tower, Raccoon City" in fine print on the upper left
corner. Below that was a printed line of verse, which
Jill said out loud.
" 'Give your soul to the goddess. Put your hands to-
gether to pray before her.' "
Carlos stared at her. "Are you suggesting that we
pray for the missing gear?"
"Ha ha. I'm suggesting that the gear is wherever
these clocks are."
Carlos handed the card back. "You said that was the
good news—what's the bad?"
Jill smiled sourly, an entirely humorless expression.
"I doubt that the gear is going to be laying out in plain
sight. It's some kind of puzzle, like the ones I ran
across at the Spencer estate—and a few of those almost
got me killed."
Carlos didn't ask. For the moment, at least, he didn't
want to know.
SEVENTEEN
AFTER TRACKING HIM FOR NEARLY HALF AN
hour, Nicholai found Dr. Richard Aquino on the fourth
floor of Raccoon City's largest hospital. Seeing the
Watchdog made Nicholai happy in a way he couldn't ex-
plain, not even to himself. A sense that all was right with
the world, that things were unfolding as they should ...
... with me on top, making the decisions. In a mo-
ment there will only be three left, three little doggies for
me to hunt in the land of the walking dead, he thought
dreamily. Does it get any better than this?
Aquino was just locking a door behind him, a look
of sweaty fear on his pallid face as his gaze darted
around nervously. He pocketed his keys and turned to-
ward the hallway that led back to the elevator, pushing
his smudged glasses to the bridge of his nose. Nicholai
was amused to note that he wasn't even armed.
Nicholai stepped half out of the shadows, planning
to enjoy himself. After Nicholai had spent over an hour
getting to the hospital, jogging most of the way, the
mousy Dr. Aquino had had the nerve to try and hide
from him—although looking at him now, Nicholai
thought it was more likely that the scientist hadn't
even known that he was being hunted and had eluded
Nicholai by pure accident. Aquino looked like the kind
of man who could get lost in his own backyard; even
now, the "watchdog" didn't realize that he wasn't
alone anymore, that Nicholai was only three meters
away.
"Doctor!" Nicholai called loudly, and Aquino
jumped around, gasping, involuntarily waving his
hands in front of him; his surprise was absolute.
Nicholai couldn't help a slight smile.
"Who, who are you?" Aquino stammered. He had
watery blue eyes and a bad haircut.
Nicholai stepped closer, deliberately intimidating the
scientist with his size. "I'm with Umbrella. I came to
see how you were progressing with the vaccine...
among other things."
"With Umbrella? I didn't—what vaccine, I don't
know what you're talking about."
No weapon, no physical skills, and he can't tell a lie
without blushing. He must be brilliant.
Nicholai lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Opera-
tion Watchdog sent me, Doctor. You haven't filed a de-
tails report lately. They've been worried about you."
Aquino seemed on the verge of collapsing with re-
lief. "Oh, if you know about—I thought you were—
yes, the vaccine, I've been very busy; my, ah, contact
wanted the initial synthesis broken down into stages, so
there isn't an actual mixed sample cultivated—but I can
assure you that it's only a matter of combining ele-
ments, everything's ready." The doctor practically bab-
bled in his effort to submit.
Nicholai shook his head in mock wonder, playing his
part. "And you've done this all yourself?"
Aquino smiled weakly. "With help from my assis-
tant, Douglas, God rest his soul. I'm afraid that I've
been running a bit ragged since his death, day before
yesterday. That's why I've been remiss in my re-
ports ..."
He trailed off, then attempted another smile.
"So ... you're the one they sent to pick up the sam-
ple—Franklin, isn't it?"
Nicholai couldn't believe his own luck, or Aquino's
naivete; the man was about to turn over the only
TGViral antidote in existence, and all because Nicholai
had said that Umbrella sent him. And now another one
of his targets would be showing up—
"Yes, that's right," Nicholai said smoothly. "Ken
Franklin. Where is the vaccine, Doctor?"
Aquino rumbled for his keys. "In here. I was just
hiding it—the vaccine base, I mean, we've kept the
medium separate—I hid it in here for safekeeping, until
you arrived. I thought you were supposed to come in
tomorrow night... no, the night after, you're much
earlier than I expected."
He opened the door and gestured inside. "There's a
refrigerated wall safe behind that rather tacky land-
scape—a recent addition by a wealthy patient, an ec-
centric as I understand it, not that that's important..."
Nicholai stepped past the driveling doctor, tuning
him out, still feeling dumbfounded that Aquino had
been selected as a Watchdog, when he suddenly real-
ized that he'd allowed the scientist to get behind him.
It all came together in that instant, a complete sce-
nario in Nicholai's mind—the stupid, gossiping science
nerd, putting his enemies at ease, capitalizing on their
underestimation of his abilities—
The awareness took only a fraction of a second, and
then Nicholai was moving.
He dropped to his knees and swung his arms around,
grabbing Aquino's calves and following through, liter-
ally sweeping him off his feet.
Aquino yelped and collapsed on top of Nicholai. A
syringe clattered to the floor and Aquino lunged after it,
but Nicholai still held his bony legs. The doctor had no
muscle to speak of. In fact, Nicholai found it quite easy
to hold the flailing doctor with one arm while reaching
for the knife sheathed in his boot with his other.
Nicholai sat up, jerked Aquino closer, and stabbed
him in the throat.
Aquino put his hands to his neck as Nicholai with-
drew the blade, staring at his killer with wide, shocked
eyes, blood pouring over his fingers as his heart contin-
ued its work.
Nicholai stared back at him, grinning and pitiless.
Aquino had been slated to die, anyway, and that he'd
attacked Nicholai only made his death a pleasure, in
addition to its being a necessity.
The scientist finally fell over, still clutching his bub-
bling throat, and lost consciousness. He died quickly
after that, a final spasm and he was gone.
"Better you than me," Nicholai said. He searched the
cooling body and found several more syringes and a
four-digit code on a slip of paper—undoubtedly the
wall safe's combination. Aquino obviously hadn't ex-
pected Nicholai to be around to steal the vaccine.
Nicholai stood and walked to the safe, revising his
plans as he always tried to do after any unexpected oc-
currence. Aquino had been expecting Ken Franklin to
pick up the sample, which meant that Franklin would
be putting in an appearance, unless the doctor had been
lying. Nicholai didn't think so. Aquino had been so
convincing because he had been telling the truth, an ex-
cellent technique to distract one's opponent...
... so I synthesize the vaccine, maybe enjoy some
hunting while I wait for Sergeant Franklin to show up,
get rid of him—and then destroy the hospital, Aquino's
research along with it. If Umbrella's watching, they'll
think everything is going according to plan. After that,
there's only Chan and the factory worker, Terence Fos-
ter ...
To hell with Mikhail and the other two, they weren't
important anymore. As the soon-to-be only surviving
Watchdog with information to sell, Nicholai would be
worth millions. But with the TG vaccine in hand, there
was no limit to what Umbrella might pay.
By the time they reached the building's back rooms,
Jill was almost ready to admit defeat. They'd been
everywhere, picking locks, slogging through each taste-
fully furnished room, stepping over corpses and creat-
ing a few new ones. A broken picture window outside
the tower's chapel had allowed several carriers to get
in, and they'd come across another viral spider in the
hallway just past the library.
Along the way, she told Carlos a little about the
mansion and grounds of the Spencer estate, history that
she had dug up after the S.T.A.R.S.'s disastrous mis-
sion. Old man Spencer, one of Umbrella's founders,
had been a fanatic for secret hiding places and hidden
passages and had hired George Trevor, an architect
renowned for his creativity, to design the mansion and
to help renovate a few of the town's historical land-
marks, tying parts of Raccoon to Spencer's spy fan-
tasies.
"This was all thirty years ago," Jill said, "and the old
man was completely crazy by then, so the story goes.
As soon as everything was finished, he boarded up the
mansion and moved Umbrella's headquarters to Eu-
rope."
"What happened to George Trevor?" Carlos asked.
They stopped outside yet another door, what had to be
one of the last rooms.
"Oh, that's the best part," Jill said. "He disappeared
just before Spencer skipped town. No one ever saw him
again."
Carlos shook his head slowly. "This is one nut job of
a place to live, you know that?"
Jill nodded, pushing open the door and stepping
back, revolver up. "Yeah, I've been thinking that my-
self."
Nothing was moving. Stacks of chairs to the right.
Three statues, busts of women, straight in front of
them. There were two corpses huddled together to the
left of the door, a couple, holding each other, making
Jill wince and look away—and there, hanging on the
southern wall in heavy gold frames, were the three
clock paintings.
They walked into the room, Jill nervously studying
their surroundings. It seemed normal...
... but so did that room in the mansion that turned
out to be a giant trash compactor. On impulse, Jill
stepped back and used one of the chairs to prop the
door open before going to take a closer look at the
paintings.
Well, kind of paintings. She supposed technically
they'd be called mixed media. The three pieces were of
women, one on each canvas, but each also contained an
octagonal clock—the first and last set at midnight, the
one in the middle at five o'clock. A small, bowl-like
tray protruded from the bottom of each frame. They
were labeled as the goddesses of the past, present, and
future, from left to right.
"On the postcard, it said something about putting
your hands together," Carlos said. "That's like the clock
hands, right?"
Jill nodded. "Yeah, makes sense. It's just obscure
enough to be annoying."
She reached forward and lightly touched the tray on
the middle frame, a dancing woman. There was a tiny
click and the tray dipped like a scale, the weight of her
hand pushing it down. At the same time, the hands of
the clock started to spin.
Jill jerked her hand back, afraid that she'd set some-
thing off, and the clock hands quickly spun back to
their previous settings. Nothing else happened.
"Hands together...," she murmured. "Do you think
they mean that all of the clocks have to be set for the
same time? Or do they mean literally, the hands
aligned?"
Carlos shrugged and reached out to touch the tray of
the future goddess, definitely the creepiest of the paint-
ings. The past was a young girl sitting on a hill, the
present a dancing woman ... and the goddess of the fu-
ture was the figure of a woman in a slinky cocktail
dress, her body enticingly posed—but with the bald,
grinning face of a skeleton.
Jill suppressed a shudder and didn't let any thoughts
get started on the theme of imminent death, like I don't
have enough of that already.
The tray Carlos touched dipped down, but again, it
was the hands on the clock of the present goddess that
moved. Apparently, the other two were fixed at mid-
night.
Jill stepped back from the wall, arms folded, think-
ing—and suddenly she had it, she knew how the puzzle
t worked, if not the exact solution. She turned around,
hoping that the missing pieces were nearby, and she
smiled when she saw the three statues—ah, the symme-
try—and the shining objects they held in their slender
stone fingers.
"It's a balancing puzzle," Jill said, walking to the
statues. At closer inspection, she saw that each held a
tray with a single, fist-sized stone. She picked them up,
hefting each orb, noting the different weights.
"Three balls, three trays," she continued, walking
back to the pictures, handing the black stone—made
from obsidian or onyx, she wasn't sure—to Carlos. An-
other was clear crystal, the third a glowing amber.
"And the goal is to make the middle clock hit mid-
night," Carlos said, catching on.
Jill nodded. "I'm sure there's a motif to the solution,
a color match, like black for death, maybe... or
maybe it's mathematical. It doesn't matter, it won't
take that long to try all of the combinations."
They set to work, trying each ball on one painting at
a time, then using them all, Jill carefully studying the
present clock's hand movements with each placement.
It appeared that the different balls held different values,
depending on which tray they were in. Jill was just
starting to feel like she could figure it out—it was defi-
nitely mathematical—when they lucked across the so-
lution.
With crystal in the past, obsidian in the present, and
amber in the future, the clock in the middle struck mid-
night, chiming softly. The minute hand started to move
backwards with a clattering sound—and then the face
of the clock itself fell from the picture, pushed out by
some machinery that Jill couldn't see. In the revealed
hollow was the glittering gold cog that had been miss-
ing from the tower's bell mechanism.
Sneaky, you pricks, but not sneaky enough.
Carlos was frowning, his expression openly con-
fused. "What the hell is all this, anyway? Who would
hide the gear at all, and why in such a complicated
way?"
Jill plucked the shining gear from its hiding place,
remembering her own thoughts on that exact subject
only six weeks before, standing in the dark halls of
Spencer's mansion. Why, why such elaborate secrecy?
The files Trent had given her just before the estate mis-
sion had been full of clues to the mansion's puzzles,
lucky for her; without those, she might never have got-
ten out. Most of the bizarre little mechanisms had been
much too intricate to be practical, time-wise or func-
tionally. What was the point?
After giving it a lot of thought, Jill had finally con-
cluded that Umbrella's real board of directors, the ones
no one knew about, were paranoid fanatics. They were
self-involved children, playing secret agent games and
betting with other people's lives, because they could.
Because no one had ever explained to them that hiding
toys and making treasure maps was something people
outgrew.
Because no one has stopped them. Yet.
Suddenly eager to wrap it all up, to place the gear
and ring the bell and just leave, Jill phrased it much
more simply to Carlos. "They're wacko, that's why.
One-hundred-percent grade-A jacked-up batshit. You
ready to get out of here, or what?"
Carlos nodded somberly, and after a final look
around the room, they headed back out the way they'd
come.
EIGHTEEN
CARLOS WATCHED JELL CLIMB THE LADDER
once more, trying not to get his hopes up again. If this
didn't work, he was going to be deeply—no, majesti-
cally pissed.
Hell with it. If this doesn't work, we should just walk
out, or see if we can get to that factory and steal our-
selves a ride. She's right, these people are andar lurias,
lost in space; the sooner we get out of their territory,
the better.
He stared blankly out at the dark yard for a few mo-
ments, so bone-weary that he wondered how he would
do one more thing, take one more step; it seemed im-
possible. All that kept him going was his desire to
leave, to get away from this holocaust and try to re-
cover.
When the first massive peal of sound rang out, its
deep and hollow tone rolling out from the top of the
tower, Carlos realized he couldn't keep a lid on his
hope. He tried, telling himself that there was going to
be a glitch in the program, telling himself that Um-
brella would send assassins, that the pilot would be a
zombie; nothing worked. A helicopter was coming for
them, he knew it, he believed it; he just hoped the res-
cue team wouldn't have any trouble finding a place to
land—
—spotlights! There were four of them on the ledge
and a crusty-looking control box near the door that led
back inside; the light would guide the transport in
faster. Carlos hurried toward it, glancing up to see if Jill
had started down yet. She hadn't—
—and when he looked ahead again, he saw that he
wasn't alone. As if by magic, the giant, mutilated freak
that had been chasing Jill was simply there, close
enough for Carlos to smell a burnt meat smell, snarling,
its piggy, distorted gaze turned to the top of the ladder.
"Carlos, look out!" Jill screamed down, but the
Nemesis-monster ignored him completely, taking a
mammoth step toward the ladder, the eyeless snakes
that were its tentacles whipping around its colossal
head. One more step and it would be at the base of the
ladder—and Jill would be trapped.
—she said bullets don't hurt it—
Desperate to do something, Carlos saw the large
green power switch on the spotlights' control panel and
lunged for it, not sure what he expected. To distract it,
if they were lucky—
—and all four lights snapped on at once, blinding,
instantly heating the air around them and illuminating
the tower, probably for miles to see. One of the beams
was full-on blocked by the freak's hideous face. The
light actually forced the thing to stumble backwards,
giant hands covering its mutant eyes, and Carlos acted.
He ran at the blinded Nemesis, M16 held high, and
slammed the rifle against its chest, pushing as hard as
he could. Off balance, it stumbled backwards, its legs
slapping the ancient railing—
—and with a brittle snap, a wide section of the rail-
ing gave way, falling into the darkness, the Nemesis
plummeting after it. Carlos heard a sickly thump from
the ground below at the same instant that the over-
heated spotlights shut down, making glowing dark
shapes float in Carlos's eyes for a moment.
The huge, mellow sound of the bells continued to
fill the air as Jill scrambled down the ladder and un-
slung the grenade launcher, joining Carlos at the bro-
ken railing.
"I... thanks," Jill said, looking into his eyes, her
own gaze sincere and unwavering. "If you hadn't hit
the lights, I would have been dead. Thank you."
Carlos was impressed and a little flustered by her
candor. "De nada," he said, suddenly very aware of
how attractive she was—not just physically—and how
little experience he actually had with women. He was a
self-educated twenty-one-year-old mere, and he hadn't
exactly had a whole lot of time or opportunity to date.
She can't be much older, twenty-five at the outside,
and maybe she—
Jill snapped her fingers in front of him, bringing him
back to reality and reminding him of how tired he re-
ally was. He'd totally spaced out.
"You still with me?"
Carlos nodded, clearing his throat. "Yeah, sorry. Did
you say something?"
"I said we need to move. If it's still that feisty after a
grenade in the face, I doubt a two-story drop will kill it."
"Right," Carlos said. "We should circle around front,
anyway. They'll probably drop a harness if they can't
set down."
Jill nodded. "Let's do it."
Ushered inside by the deep voice of hollowed metal,
Carlos suddenly wondered if Nicholai was still alive—
and if he was, what he would do when he heard the
tolling bells.
Nicholai heard the bells on his walk back into town
and scoffed irritably, refusing to be baited. He hadn't
expected the barely skilled trio to make it, but so what
if they had? Davis Chan had filed another report, from
a woman's boutique of all places, and Nicholai meant
to track him down.
And why should I care if they limp away with their
miserable lives, with what I've got?
Nicholai pulled the slender metal case out of his
pocket for the third time since leaving the hospital, un-
able to resist. Inside was a glass vial of purplish fluid
that he'd synthesized himself, with a little help from an
instruction sheet that Aquino's assistant had thought-
fully left behind.
Nicholai knew it would be safest to store the sample
someplace, but the small container represented his au-
thority over the other Watchdogs and a newly elevated
status with Umbrella; he was a leader, a supervisor of
lesser men, and he found that carrying the vaccine with
him and occasionally holding it made him feel power-
ful. Grounded, in a way.
Smiling, Nicholai slipped the container back into his
pocket, within easy reach, and started walking again,
deliberately ignoring the bells. Things were going very
well—he had the vaccine; he knew where Chan was
and where Franklin was going to be in just under forty-
eight hours; he'd already rigged the hospital to blow;
and he would push the button as soon as his meeting
with Franklin was over. Nicholai thought he might
duck over to the factory and get rid of Terence Foster
while he waited on Franklin, there was plenty of
time—
—just like there was plenty of time to track Mikhail,
to play at being a noble team member, to decide who
would die first among them . . .
The clamorous bells pounded at him, seeking to re-
mind him of his failure, but he refused to be distracted
by the escape of three incompetents. He was getting
closer to town, he could see the combined glow of hun-
dreds of small and not so small fires encasing the dark
city; even if he wanted to, he wouldn't make it back to
the clock tower before the first helicopter came. And he
didn't want to, he'd had the opportunity after killing
Aquino and had decided that it wasn't worth his time. It
was the right decision ... and the strange doubts that
curled up inside of him at the sound of the bells were to
be disregarded; it meant nothing, that they had sur-
vived, it didn't mean that they were as good as him.
Besides, he still had a few dogs to put down to en-
sure his monopoly on information. He thought that
Chan might choose to bunk down at the store he'd re-
ported from, as late as it was. Nicholai would kill him,
take his data, and retire for the evening somewhere in
the city. At the Watchdog briefing he'd heard that food
was scarce, but he was certain that he could manage—
raid a few pantries for canned goods, perhaps. In the
morning he would file his own report, to keep up his
cover, and spend the day hunting up information of his
own before heading west again.
Everything was fine, and as he gradually crossed
over from the suburbs into the city, the sound of the ap-
proaching helicopter didn't bother him a bit. Let those
spineless, shit-eating bastards run, he felt great, in con-
trol, better than great. He only had a headache because
of those damned bells.
They retraced much of their winding path through
the clock tower, Jill wanting to make sure the Neme-
sis either got confused or had plenty of time to wan-
der away before they went out to meet the 'copter. As
they walked, they hammered out a story to tell who-
ever was running the evac—Jill was Kimberly
Sampsel (the name of Jill's best friend from fifth
grade), she'd worked at a local art gallery, no family,
and she'd only moved to Raccoon recently. Carlos had
found her just after his platoon leader, the only other
U.B.C.S. member to have survived, had been killed by
zombies. Together, they'd made it to the clock tower,
end of story.
They decided not to mention Nicholai, the Nemesis,
or any unidentifiable creatures they'd seen running
around; the idea was to appear as ignorant of the facts
as possible. Neither of them wanted to take any
chances on the allegiance of the rescue team, and Jill
had no doubt that there would be someone on the trans-
port waiting to debrief them, so the simpler the story,
the better. They'd just have to pray that no one had her
pic on hand. They could worry about how to slip away
once they got out of the city.
At the front doors of the clock tower they paused for
a moment, readying themselves, Jill feeling a strange
mixture of happiness and anxiety. Rescue was coming,
but they were so close to getting out now that she was
afraid something would go wrong.
Maybe that's just because Umbrella is doing the res-
cuing, God knows they don't have a very good track
record for keeping their shit together...
"Jill? Before we leave, I want to tell you something,"
Carlos said, and for a few seconds, Jill thought her anx-
iety was about to be confirmed, that he was going to
tell her some terrible secret he'd been holding back—
but then she saw his careful, thoughtful expression and
thought different.
"Okay, shoot," she said neutrally, thinking about the
way he'd looked at her out on the balcony. She'd seen
that look before, from other men—and she wasn't sure
how she felt about it from Carlos. Before he'd left for
Europe, Chris Redfield and she had been getting pretty
close...
"Before I came here, I was approached by this guy
about Raccoon, about what was going on here," Carlos
started, and Jill had just enough time to feel stupid
about her assumption before-his words sank in.
Trent!
"He told me that we were in for a rough time, and
offered to help me out. I thought he was crazy at
first—"
"—but then you got here and found out he wasn't."
Carlos stared at her. "You know him or something?"
"Probably as well as you do. It was the same with
me, just before the estate mission, he gave me informa-
tion about the mansion—and told me to be careful who
I trusted. Trent, right?"
Carlos nodded, and although they both opened their
mouths to speak, neither of them said a word. It was
the sound of the approaching helicopter that cut them
off, that made both of them grin and exchange looks of
joy and relief.
"Let's talk about him later," Carlos said, pushing
open the front doors, the chop of the 'copter's blades
filling the tower's lobby as they both stepped out into
the yard.
Jill only saw one transport helicopter but didn't care,
there obviously wasn't anyone else to evacuate, and as
it swung over the crashed trolley, she and Carlos both
started to wave their arms and shout.
"Over here! We're over here!" Jill screamed, and she
actually saw the clean-shaven face of the pilot, his
smile glowing by the lights in the cockpit as he flew
closer—
—close enough that she could see the smile disap-
pear hi the same instant that she heard the weapon dis-
charge to their right, a look of horror dawning on that
youthful face.
Shhhh—
A line of colored smoke, streaking toward the hover-
ing ship from someone on the roof of the tower's ad-
junct buildings, surface to air, bazooka or rocket
launcher—
—BOOM!
"No," Jill whispered, but the sound was lost as the
missile slammed into the 'copter and exploded, Jill
numbly thinking that it had to be a HEAT rocket to do
the damage it was doing as the airship spun toward
them, listing badly to one side, fire spouting from the
shattered cockpit.
Carlos grabbed her arm and yanked, almost jerking
her off her feet, pulling her out into the yard as a high,
climbing, whining noise blew over them, the burning
helicopter stuttering forward as they huddled behind
the fountain—
—and then it crashed into the clock tower. Flaming
chunks of metal and stone and wood showered down
upon them as the transport plunged through the roof of
the lobby, and like the voice of destruction, Jill heard
the Nemesis's triumphant scream rising above it all.
;
NINETEEN
CARLOS HEARD THE MONSTER'S SCREAMING
howl and started to get up, still holding Jill's arm. They
had to get away before it saw her—
—and the front of the building cracked open as
though it were made of balsa wood, wreckage from the
helicopter spewing out in a burst of smoking debris.
Before Carlos could get down, a large piece of
blackened rock from the building's outer wall smacked
into his left side. He heard and felt a rib give way as he
fell, the pain instant and intense.
"Carlos!"
Jill leaned over him, her gaze darting back and forth
between him and part of the tower he couldn't see, the
grenade launcher still clutched in her hands. The
Nemesis had stopped roaring; between that and the
sudden, brutal silencing of the bells, Carlos could hear
something thumping heavily to the ground, followed by
the crumble of powdering rock in a slow, even rhythm.
Crunch. Crunch.
It's coming, it jumped off the roof and it's coming—
"Run," Carlos said, and he saw that she understood,
a second before she took off, that she had no other
choice. Boots kicking the ground away, she left him
alone as fast as she could.
Carlos turned his head as he sat up, willing himself
not to feel pain, and saw the creature standing in a pile
of broken concrete and burning wood, unaware that the
hem of its leathery coat was on fire as its aberrant gaze
tracked Jill. As before, it didn't seem to see him.
As long as I don't get in its way, Carlos thought,
propping himself against the cool stone of the fountain,
lifting his rifle. It doesn 't hurt, it doesn 't, doesn 't.
In a single, powerful motion the Nemesis lifted a
rocket launcher to its giant shoulder and took aim, as
Carlos started firing.
Each chattering round from the Ml6 sent a fresh
pulse of muffled agony through his bones, but his aim
was good in spite of the pain. Tiny black holes ap-
peared on the creature's face, and Carlos could hear the
ping of ricochet off the battered launcher. The fleshy
tentacles that rose up from beneath the monster's long
jacket whipped around its upper body as if outraged,
coiling and uncoiling with incredible speed.
Carlos saw that it was swinging the bazooka toward
him, but he kept firing, knowing that he couldn't get up
in time to run. Get away, Jill, go!
It sighted Carlos and fired, and Carlos saw a burst of
light and motion coming at him, felt the heat of the
high-explosive anti-tank missile radiating against his
skin—
—and somehow, he wasn't dead, but something not
far behind him blew up. The force of the blast lifted
and threw him roughly against the side of the fountain;
the pain was spectacular but he raggedly held on to
consciousness, determined to buy Jill a few more sec-
onds.
Half laying across the lip of the fountain, Carlos
started firing again, shooting for its face, rounds
going everywhere as he struggled to control the
weapon.
Die, just die already... But it wasn't dying, it
wasn't even flinching, and Carlos knew he only had a
half second left before he was blown into a greasy stain
on the lawn.
The rocket launcher was pointed directly at Carlos's
face when it happened, a one in a million shot—
/Carajo!
—as one of the metallic pings turned into an explo-
sion, a sudden white-hot light show. The monster
pitched backwards as its weapon disintegrated, drop-
ping out of sight.
Carlos's rifle went dry. He reached for a new maga-
zine, and there was new pain. He lost track of the light,
darkness pulling him down.
Jill saw Carlos collapse and made herself stay where
she was, standing between the trolley and a hedge row.
She'd seen the Nemesis go down, thrown into the burn-
ing rubble by the misfire that had obliterated its
bazooka, but its confirmed ability to avoid death kept
her from going to Carlos. If it was still corning, she
wanted to keep it focused on her alone.
The grenade launcher felt light in her hands, high
adrenaline giving her a second wind with a ven-
geance—and when the Nemesis rose up, one shoulder
burning, blistering black and red flesh visible beneath
its ruined clothing, Jill fired.
The buckshot-loaded "grenade," like a super shotgun
shell, sent a concentrated blast of thousands of pellets
across the yard—but she missed the howling Nemesis
entirely, the shot tearing new holes in what was left of
the tower's front wall.
The Nemesis stopped screaming even though its
chest was still burning, the skin crackling and black
now. It squared its body toward Jill as she broke open
the grenade launcher and snatched another load out of
her bag, praying that it was more seriously injured by
Carlos's lucky shot than it appeared.
It lowered its head and ran at her, its gigantic stride
carrying it toward her incredibly quickly. In a second it
was across the yard, its snaking appendages spread out
as if to grab her up.
Jill leaped to her left and took off at a dead run, still
holding the grenade, in between the row of hedges and
the undamaged west wall of the tower. She could hear it
enter the row behind her as she reached the end; it still
almost had her, its speed extraordinary, putting it an
arm's length away as she rounded the end of the row—
—and something struck her right shoulder as she
tore around the hedge, something solid and slick, bur-
rowing into her flesh like a giant, boneless finger. It
stung, a thousand hornets at once flooding her system
with poison, and she understood that one of the search-
ing tentacles had pierced her.
Oshitoshitoshit, she couldn't think about it, there
wasn't time, but the Nemesis stopped suddenly, threw
its head back and bellowed its victory to the cold stars
above, and Jill stumbled to a halt, shoved the load into
the gun and snapped the breech closed—
—and fired as it lunged toward her again. The shot
clipped the howling Nemesis just below its right hip
and tore into the meat of its upper thigh, bits of skin
and muscle flying out behind it—
—and it crashed, a few more momentum strides and
it went down in a spray of ravaged tissue, monstrous
and silent and suddenly still.
In a fever to reload, Jill dropped the second to last
buckshot grenade, and it rolled away. She managed to
get a firm grip on the fifth and was just snapping the
gun closed when the Nemesis sat up, facing away
from her.
Jill aimed for its lower back and fired, the thunder of
the weapon just another dull sound beneath the ringing
in her ears. The Nemesis was moving, standing up
when it was hit, and the pellets hit low and left, what
would be a lethal kidney shot for a human. Apparently
not for the S.T.A.R.S. killer. It stumbled, then stood up
and started to limp away, one giant hand clapped over
its new wound.
Leaving, it's leaving—
Her thoughts were slow and heavy. It took her a mo-
ment to understand that its departure wasn't good news.
She couldn't let it get away, let it repair itself and come
back—she had to try and kill it while it was weak.
Jill drew the Python and tried to take aim, but her vi-
sion doubled suddenly and she couldn't focus on the
receding figure as it dragged itself through the fiery
wreckage. She felt light-headed and flushed and
thought it very likely that she'd been infected by the T-
virus.
She didn't have to see the shoulder wound to know it
was bad, she could feel hot blood coursing down her
side, soaking into the waistband of her skirt. She
wished she could believe that the virus was being
washed out of her system, but she couldn't kid herself,
even so direly injured.
For a few seconds she considered the loaded .357
she still held—and then thought of Carlos and knew
she had to wait. She had to help him if she could, she
owed him that much.
Summoning the last of her rapidly draining strength,
Jill started toward Carlos. He lay by the fountain,
groaning and half conscious, hurt, but at least she
couldn't see any blood, maybe he's okay...
It was her last thought before she felt her body be-
tray her by giving up, dropping her to the ground and
putting her into a very deep sleep.
Dark, elsewhere ringing and escape, fire and dark
and bullets, can't hear, Jill running from the fire and
the thing firing, high-explosive missile aimed—
aimed at my—
face.
Carlos came to in a rush, confused and hurting and
looking for the fight, for the Nemesis and Jill. She was
in trouble if that thing got hold of her...
It was a quiet, still night, and low fires burned all
around, providing a dancing orange light and enough
heat to make him sweat. Carlos forced himself to move,
crawling to his feet and holding his ribs tightly, jaw
clenched from the pain. Fractured or broken, maybe
two of them, but he had to think about Jill now, had to
shake off the effects of the multiple blasts and—
"Oh, no," he said, forgetting about his aching ex-
haustion as he hurried toward her. Jill was lying on a
patch of burnt grass, perfectly still except for the steady
ooze of blood from her right shoulder. Still alive, but
maybe not for much longer.
Carlos swallowed his pain and picked her up, the
dead weight of her body making him want to scream in
anger, at the insanity that had unfolded and grown in
Raccoon, that had imposed its merciless grasp on Jill
and on himself. Umbrella, monsters, spies, even
Trent—all of it was crazy, it was a nightmare fairy
tale ... but the blood was real enough.
He held her close, turning, searching. He had to get
her inside, safe, somewhere he could dress her wounds,
where they could both rest for a little while. There was
the chapel in the mostly undamaged west wing; there
were no windows and good locks on the door.
"Don't die, Jill," he said, and hoped she was listen-
ing as he carried her across the burning yard.
TWENTY
TIME PASSING. DARK AND DARK, AND FRAG-
ments of a thousand dreams, spinning into focus for a
brief glimpse before spinning away. She was a child at
the beach with her father, the taste of salt on the wind.
She was a gawky teenager, in love for the first time; a
thief, stealing from wealthy strangers as her father had
taught her to do; a student, training for the S.T.A.R.S.,
learning to apply her skills to help people.
Darker. The day her father went to prison for grand
larceny. Lovers she had betrayed, or who had betrayed
her. Feelings of loneliness. And her life in Raccoon
City, the very death of light.
Becky and Priscilla McGee, ages seven and nine, the
first victims. Eviscerated, parts of them eaten. Finding
the crashed Bravo team helicopter outside of the man-
sion; the smell inside, of dust and rot. Learning about
Umbrella's conspiracy and the corruption and collabo-
ration of at least a few S.T.A.R.S. members. The death
of the traitorous team leader, Albert Wesker, and the
Nemesis's final attack.
Several times, half awake, she swallowed cool water
and then slept again, more recent memories taking
over. The lost survivors, the people she'd tried to save,
the faces of the children, mostly. All of them, gone.
Brad Vickers's brutal death. Carlos. Nicholai's flat,
emotionless gaze, and Mikhail's sacrifice. And reigning
over it all like the demonic epitome of evil, the beyond-
Tyrant monster, the Nemesis, its terrible voice calling
for her, its terrible eyes seeking her wherever she went,
whatever she did.
The most troubling thing, though, was that there was
something happening to her—a distant feeling, because
it was happening to her body and she was very much
asleep, but no less unpleasant for that. It felt like her
veins were heating up and expanding. Like her every
cell was becoming thick and heavy with strange spices,
sticking to the cells around it, all of them boiling
gently. Like her whole body was a vessel filled with
moving wet heat.
Finally, the gentle sound of falling rain lapped at the
edges of her awareness and she yearned to see it, feel
its coolness on her skin, but it was a long, tiring strug-
gle to leave the dark behind. Her body didn't want to,
protesting louder the closer she got to the surface of
gray, the twilight between the dreams and the rain—but
determined, she won out.
After deciding that she was alive, Jill opened her eyes.
TWENTY-ONE
CARLOS WAS SITTING WITH HIS BACK TO THE
door eating fruit cocktail out of a can when he heard
Jill stir, the regular, consistent sound of her deep
breathing becoming lighter. She turned her head from
side to side, still asleep, but the movement was the
most deliberate action he'd seen in forty-eight hours.
He stood as quickly as he could, forced to be careful by
the pinch of his tightly taped ribs, and hurried to the
raised altar where she lay.
He picked up the bottle of water at the base of the
dais, and when he stood up again, she opened her eyes.
"Jill? I'm going to give you some water now. Try
and help me out, okay?"
She nodded, and Carlos felt sappy with relief, hold-
ing her head up while she drank a few swallows from
the bottle. It was the first time she had responded
clearly to anything, and her color looked good. For two
days she had drunk when he'd pushed it on her, swal-
lowing at least but white as a ghost and completely out
of it otherwise.
"Where ... are we?" Jill asked weakly, closing her
eyes as she lay her head back down on the makeshift
pillow, a piece of rolled-up carpet. Her blanket was
made from unburned drapes he'd salvaged from the
foyer.
"The chapel of the clock tower," he said softly, still
smiling. "We've been here since—since the helicopter
crashed."
Jill opened her eyes again, obviously aware and rea-
sonably focused. She wasn't infected, he'd been so
afraid for a while, but she was okay, she had to be.
"How long?"
Talking seemed to be tiring for her, so Carlos tried to
summarize everything that had happened, to save her
the questions. "The Nemesis shot down the helicopter,
and you and I were both wounded. Your shoulder
was ... injured, but I've been changing the dressings
and it doesn't seem to be infected. We've been here two
days, recuperating, you've been sleeping mostly. It's
October first, I think, the sun set an hour ago and it's
been raining off and on since last night..."
He trailed off, not sure what else he could tell her but
not wanting her to fall asleep again, not right away.
He'd been stuck with his own thoughts for long
enough.
"Oh, I found a case of fruit cocktail, of all things, in
the trunk in that one sitting room—the one with the
chessboard, remember? Water, too, someone was
hoarding, I guess, lucky for us. I didn't want to leave
you alone, I've been, ah, taking care of you." He didn't
add that he'd been cleaning her up, changing the drapes
she lay upon when it was necessary; he didn't want her
to feel embarrassed.
"You're hurt?" she asked, frowning, blinking slowly.
"Couple of fractured ribs, no big deal. Well,
maybe when I have to pull the tape off, that's gonna
hurt like a son of a bitch. All I could find was duct
tape."
She smiled faintly, and Carlos softened his tone, al-
most afraid to ask. "How are you doin'?"
"Two days? No more helicopters?" she asked, look-
ing away, and he felt himself tense slightly. She hadn't
answered his question.
"No more helicopters," he said and noticed for the
first time that the color in her cheeks was overly red.
He touched the side of her neck, and his tension grew;
fever, not too bad, but she hadn't had it the last time
he'd checked, an hour before. "Jill, how do you feel?"
"Not bad. Not bad at all, hardly any pain." Her voice
was flat, inflectionless.
Carlos smiled crookedly. "Bien, si? That's good
news, that means we can pack up and get out of here
soon..."
"I'm infected with the virus," she said, and Carlos
froze, his smile fading.
No. No, she's wrong, it's not possible.
"It's been two days, you can't be," he said firmly,
telling her what he'd been telling himself since he first
woke up. "I saw one of the other soldiers turn into a
zombie, couldn't have been more than two hours from
the time Randy was bit until he changed. If you have it,
something would have happened by now."
Jill carefully rolled onto her side, wincing a little,
closing her eyes again. She sounded incredibly tired.
"I'm not going to argue with you, Carlos. Maybe it's a
different mutation because it came from the Nemesis,
or maybe I picked up some kind of immunity, from
being at the Spencer estate. I don't know, but I have it."
Her voice shook. "I can feel it, I can feel myself getting
worse!"
"Okay, okay, shhh," Carlos said, deciding that he
would leave immediately. He'd take Jill's revolver in
addition to the assault rifle, and definitely a couple of
hand grenades.
The hospital was close, and there was at least one
vaccine sample there, that's what Trent had said. Carlos
had wanted to find the hospital earlier, for supplies, but
he'd been too exhausted and hurt to go looking, at
first—and then he hadn't wanted to risk leaving Jill
alone and unconscious, dangerous for several reasons.
/'// go out front and head west, see if I can find a
sign or something... Trent had also said something
about the hospital not being there for much longer;
Carlos hoped he wasn't too late.
"Try and get back to sleep," Carlos said. "I'm going
to take off for a while, to try and find something that
might help you. I won't be gone long."
Jill already seemed to be half asleep, but she raised
her head and made an effort to be clear, enunciating
carefully. "If you come back and I'm—sicker, I want
you to help me. I'm asking you now, I may not be able
to ask you later. Do you understand?"
Carlos wanted to protest but knew that he'd want the
same thing if he had the disease. Being dead sucked,
but Raccoon was proof that there were worse things.
Like having to shoot someone you care about.
"I understand," he said. "You rest now. I'll be back
soon."
Jill slept, and Carlos started to load up. Just before
he left, he gazed into her sleeping face for a long mo-
ment, silently praying that she'd still be Jill when he
got back.
The hospital turned out to be much closer than he
thought, less than two blocks away.
Nicholai waited for Ken Franklin eagerly, knowing
that the Watchdog's death would mark the beginning of
the end game. Nicholai's growing frustration was about
to come to an end.
If the bastard ever shows up... But no, he was com-
ing, and then Nicholai would be on track again. He
checked the corner window of the office he'd chosen,
overlooking the dark, empty street—also his escape
route, if the sergeant turned out to be troublesome—fra-
me tenth time in half as many minutes, willing the er-
rant Watchdog to hurry.
Nothing had gone as he'd planned, and although he'd
made the best of it, Nicholai was losing his patience.
The search for Davis Chan had been spectacularly un-
successful; Nicholai hadn't even caught a glimpse of
him during the two days he'd stayed in the city—and
twice more the elusive soldier had managed to avoid a
confrontation after filing his reports, sending Nicholai
running all over town.
Nicholai had also been planning to head to Um-
brella's "water treatment" facility to get rid of Terence
Foster earlier in the day, but he'd been further side-
tracked in a wild-goose chase—he'd seen an uninfected
woman near the RPD building, a tall, Asian-American
woman wearing a tight, sleeveless red dress and hold-
ing a gun like she knew what to do with it. She'd
slipped into the building and was gone. Nicholai had
searched for nearly four hours but hadn't seen the mys-
tery woman again.
So, all three of his targets, still alive. He'd been able
to collect some Watchdog information, at least, uncov-
ering a couple of private lab reports on the strength of
the average zombie—but he'd had enough, enough eat-
ing cold beans out of cans, enough sleeping with one
eye open, enough playing big game hunter. By his
count, he'd killed four Beta Hunters, three giant spi-
ders, and three brain suckers. And dozens of zombies,
of course, although he didn't really count those as wor-
thy of note, not anymore. They just kept getting slower
and stickier; Raccoon already smelled like a giant
cesspool, and it was only going to get worse as the
virus carriers continued to decay, turning into great
sludgy piles of malodorous stew.
/'// be gone by then. After all, Franklin will be here
any minute.
After two days of unmet objectives, Nicholai had
come to see Franklin's appointment at the hospital as
something solid, something he could hold on to—a
sure kill. And as he'd passed long, solitary hours im-
mersed in the growing chaos of uncertainty, the death
of Ken Franklin had become extremely important.
Once he was dead, Nicholai could blow up the hospital;
once the hospital was destroyed, Nicholai could hunt
down Chan and Foster, and then he could leave. Every-
thing would fall into place as soon as he killed
Franklin.
Even as Nicholai embraced that thought, he heard
footsteps out in the hall. Heart swelling with pleasure,
Nicholai took his position by the window and waited
for Franklin to find him. The cluttered office/supply
room was on the fourth floor, not far from where he'd
killed and hidden Dr. Aquino.
Come along, Sergeant...
When the Watchdog opened the door, Nicholai was
leaning casually in the corner, arms folded. Franklin
was carrying top of the line, a 9mm VP70, and he had it
trained on Nicholai's face in the blink of an eye.
Nicholai didn't move.
"You're not supposed to be here," Franklin said
coolly, his voice deep and deadly. He stepped further
into the room, not taking his gaze—or the semiauto-
matic—off of Nicholai.
Time for him to find out who's smarter. Anyone
could stage an ambush, but it took a certain amount of
intelligence and skill to make one's opponent willingly
walk into one. Nicholai feigned a mildly surly nervous-
ness.
"You're right, I'm not. Aquino should be here—but
he stopped filing reports yesterday. They thought he was
too busy, working on the antiviral, but I've been looking
since last night and can't find him." Nicholai had actu-
ally filed several status reports with Dr. Aquino's name
on them since killing him, to keep up appearances.
"Who are you?" Franklin asked. He was tall and well
muscled, with very dark skin and rather delicate-look-
ing wire rimmed glasses. There was nothing delicate in
the way he looked at Nicholai, however.
Nicholai uncrossed his arms and lowered them very
slowly. "Nicholai Ginovaef, U.B.C.S___and Watch-
dog. I was tapped to check things out when the doctor
went AWOL. You're Franklin, right? Have you had any
contact with Aquino since your arrival? Did he talk to
you about where he was going to secure the sample, or
give you a combination, or a key?"
Franklin didn't lower his weapon, but he was obvi-
ously confused. "Nobody told me about any change in
plans. Who did you say sent you?"
This part was a risk. Nicholai knew the names of
four men important enough to have made changes to
Umbrella's agenda, and chances were good that one of
them was Franklin's contact and would already have
informed Franklin.
"I didn't say," Nicholai said. "But I guess it's okay to
tell you ... Trent called me in on this."
He'd chosen the man he knew least about, even after
all of his careful research, in the hope that Franklin
wouldn't know anything about him, either. Trent was
an enigma, skulking around the other top brass like
some cryptic shadow. Nicholai didn't even know his
first name.
It worked for the sergeant. Franklin lowered his
weapon, still wary but obviously willing to believe.
"So, you couldn't find Aquino? What about the vac-
cine?"
Nicholai sighed, shaking his head and then deliber-
ately looking to his left, a space hidden from Franklin's
view by an overstuffed shelf. "No sign of the
doc ... but this was his office, and there's a wall safe
back here. Do you know anything about getting one of
these things open?"
Nicholai knew that Franklin did—on his personnel
file, safecracking was listed among his skills.
Nicholai didn't give a shit whether or not Franklin
could open the safe; what mattered was that to get to
the safe, the sergeant would have to turn his back on
Nicholai.
I'm better, better at this than Aquino or Chan or this
fool, and this will prove it. I'd never turn my back on
anyone, ever. Yes, that would be unworthy of him ...
Franklin nodded, bolstering the VP70 and walking
toward the corner where Nicholai stood. "Yeah, I know
a little. I can take a look at it, anyway."
Nicholai nodded briskly. "Good. I was starting to
think that I was going to be stuck here for a while."
"Maybe that's for the best," Franklin said, stepping
past Nicholai to a small safe inset behind the shelf.
"With the way things are going out there, I've been
thinking about holing up someplace for a while, wait-
ing until things die down a little."
Nicholai took a silent step closer to Franklin, eyeing
the VP70's unsnapped holster. "Not a bad idea."
Franklin nodded, frowning at the keypad. "Chan is
doing it, he says the info will still be there tomorrow so
why not, right?"
Davis Chan!
Nicholai held very still, deciding—and then he
darted forward and snatched up the 9mm, not willing to
dance for what he wanted. He shoved Franklin at the
same time, pushing him off balance, using the split sec-
ond of his recovery time to sight the heavy handgun.
"Chan—tell me where he is, and you live,"
Nicholai barked. With his free hand, he reached into
his pocket and touched the vaccine case, for luck. It
had become something of a talisman for him, a re-
minder of how good he was—and it was lucky, he
knew it.
Franklin and now Chan, the only two Watchdogs
with no assigned filing locale. Incredible.
Franklin backed up a step, hands up. "Hey, take it
easy—"
"Where is he?"
Franklin was sweating. "At the radio setup, okay? At
the cemetery. Look, I don't know you, and I don't care
what you're doing—"
"Terrific," Nicholai said, and shot Franklin in the ab-
domen, twice.
"Uuh!" Franklin grunted heavily as blood splattered
the wall behind him. The sergeant fell backwards and
landed on his butt, arms still outspread, an expression
of surprise on his dark features. Nicholai was a little
surprised himself; he'd expected better from one of the
soldier dogs.
Nicholai raised the weapon, aiming it at Franklin's
forehead—
—when he heard the door open, boot steps jogging
into the room. Handgun still pointed at the dying
Franklin, Nicholai ducked down and peered through an
opening in the shelf—
—and saw Carlos Oliveira standing there, staring
around wildly and hefting a .357 revolver, obviously
trying to figure out where the shots had come from.
It was a gift from the fates. Nicholai stepped into
view, Carlos's stupid face targeted before the soldier
even realized that there was somebody else in the
room.
"Gotcha," Nicholai whispered.
TWENTY-TWO
NICHOLAI HAD HIM, DEAD TO RIGHTS. CAR-
los dropped the revolver and raised his hands. He had
to buy some time.
Talk to him, get his attention. Jill needs you to come
back, with or without the vaccine.
"Hola, dickhead," Carlos said lightly. "I wondered if
I was going to see you again, after our ride out of town
got blown to shit. A monster did it, believe it or not. So,
what's your story? Kill anything interesting lately?"
From behind the tall shelf unit jutting out from one
wall, somebody groaned in pain. Nicholai didn't look
away, and Carlos could see that he'd taken the right
tact. Nicholai was smug, irritated ... and intrigued.
"I'm about to kill you—so no, nothing interesting.
Tell me, has Mikhail died yet? And how is your bitch
friend, Ms. Valentine?"
Carlos glared at him. "Both dead. Mikhail died on
the trolley, and Jill contracted the virus. I... I had to
put her down just a few hours ago." He probably wasn't
going to walk away from this, and he didn't want
Nicholai going after Jill; he quickly changed the sub-
ject. "You shot Mikhail, didn't you?"
"I did." Nicholai's eyes sparkled. He reached into his
front pocket as he spoke, pulling out what looked like a
metal cigar holder. "And as luck would have it, this is
the cure to what killed your other friend. If only you'd
come sooner ... in a way, I suppose you could say I'm
at least partly responsible in both deaths, couldn't
you?"
The sample. The only thing that could save Jill now,
and Carlos was being held at gunpoint by the madman
who had it.
Think! Think of something!
There was another gruff wail of pain from behind the
shelf. Carlos tilted his head and could see a man
slumped in the back corner of the room, just visible be-
tween two stacks of files. Carlos couldn't see his face,
but the man's lower half was drenched with blood.
"And that guy makes three," Carlos said, desperately
trying to keep the conversation going, trying not to
stare at the silver case that Nicholai held up. "Aren't
you a go-getter? Tell me, is this a means to an end, or
do you like killing people?"
"I enjoy killing people who are as useless as you,"
Nicholai said, slipping the vaccine into an open pocket.
"Can you think of one reason you deserve to live?"
Another moan came from the dying man behind the
shelf. Carlos glanced between the stacks again and saw
an impact grenade clenched in shaking hands, the ring
already pulled; Carlos realized that the man must have
groaned to cover the sound, and some part of him ad-
mired the clear thinking, all in the instant before he
started to back up, hands still raised. The grenade was
an RG34, the same kind that Carlos had tucked in his
vest, and he wanted as much distance as he could get.
Make it look good...
"I'm an excellent shot, I have a generous nature, and
I floss every day," Carlos said, backing up another step,
trying to appear that he was deeply afraid and covering
it up with bravado.
"Such a waste this will be," Nicholai said, smiling,
extending his arm.
Throw the goddamn thing!
"Why?" Carlos asked quickly. "Why are you doing
this?"
Nicholai's smile stretched into a grin, the same
predatorial grin that Carlos had seen him wearing on
the transport, what felt like a million years before.
"I possess leadership qualities," Nicholai said, and
for the first time, Carlos could see the insanity in his
murky eyes. "That's all you need to know—"
"Die!" the bleeding man screamed. Carlos caught a
flicker of motion behind the shelf, and then Carlos was
diving sideways, trying to get behind a table as a win-
dow broke and—
—BOOM, folders and books were airborne and ex-
ploded materials rained down, wood and paper and chips
of metal, the heavy shelf tipping over with a thundering
creak. It slammed to the floor with a tremendous crash,
and then everything was quiet, and shit was everywhere.
Carlos sat up, one arm wrapped around his throbbing
rib cage, tears of pain in his eyes. He blinked them
away and got to his feet, grabbing the revolver he'd
dropped as he stood up.
Nicholai was gone. Carlos kicked his way through
the debris to the corner, remembering that a window
had shattered before the grenade exploded. Although it
was dark and rainy outside, Carlos could see the roof of
an adjacent building one floor below.
Bam! Bam!
Carlos jumped back as two rounds hit the outer wall,
hardly a hand's width from his face. He silently berated
himself for sticking his head out the window, like some
half-witted baboso. He backed away from the window
and turned, only to find himself staring at the burnt,
bloody remains of the grenade thrower.
"Gracias," Carlos said quietly. He wished he could
think of something else to say, but then he decided it
would only be useless symbolism; the guy was dead, he
wasn't hearing shit.
Carlos walked back across the room, thinking, won-
dering how he was going to catch up with Nicholai. It
wasn't going to be easy, but there was no other
choice—
—and he saw the glint of metal from the corner of
his eye, and stopped. He blinked, feeling a kind of awe
as he realized what he was looking at—and then
scooped it up, a giant weight lifting from his shoulders
and from around his heart.
He was going to be able to save Jill. The crazy pen-
dejo had dropped the vaccine.
*   *   *
Nicholai moved quickly through the rain toward the
front of the hospital. Everything is fine, he's dead at the
push of a button and I control it, I can shut down the
power and trap him—
He laughed out loud suddenly, thinking about the
containment tubes in the basement where the Hunter
Gammas were stored, each floating in its own see-
through womb. Shut down the power and there was au-
tomatic drainage so they wouldn't drown in the
unaerated fluid.
Die, or fight and die, Carlos. Nicholai had been smart,
he'd thought ahead and now all he had to do was hit a
few switches and Carlos would be in the dark and the
amphibious Hunters would be squelching toward him,
and maybe Carlos would actually be dead before the hos-
pital was blown apart, but he was dead no matter what
Jill was sleeping again, and she was sick. Hot and
achy, and her dreams were gone, pulsing, squirming
shadows in their place. Shadows with textures, rough
and wet. Nausea warred with an unfulfilled emptiness,
with a dying thirst and a growing heat.
She rolled to one side and then the other, trying to
find relief from the crawling itch that had embedded it-
self in every part of her, that made the ugly shadows
get bigger as she slept on.
Carlos found needles, syringes, and a half bottle of
Betadine in a doctor's office on the third floor. He also
found a cabinet full of drug company samples and was
trying to decipher the labels, looking for a mild
painkiller, when the lights when out.
"Shit." He put down the sample, trying to get his
bearings in the sudden dark. It took him about a sec-
ond and a half to decide it was Nicholai, and a sec-
ond longer to decide he needed to get out, and get out
fast. Nicholai probably hadn't shut down the power
just to make him stub his toe in the dark. Whatever
Nicholai was planning, Carlos thought he'd take a
rain check.
He edged out of the room and into the hall, moving
slowly, his hands out in front of him. Just as he reached
the stairwell, the hospital's emergency backup lights
hummed into soft red life. The effect was otherworldly,
the light just bright enough to see by, casting every-
thing in murky shadow.
Carlos started down the stairs, taking them two at a
time, thumb on the hammer of the Python. He ignored
his aching side, deciding that he'd collapse later, when
he wasn't in such a hurry. He only knew of two options
for getting out of the hospital—the window Nicholai
had jumped from and the front door. There were cer-
tainly more, but he didn't want to waste time trying to
find them; in his experience, most hospitals were
mazes.
The front door was his best bet. Nicholai probably
didn't think Carlos had the nerve to charge straight out
of the most obvious exit, or so Carlos hoped.
He'd reached the landing between the first and sec-
ond floors when he heard a door crash open somewhere
far below, echoing up the stairwell, making him freeze.
The sound that followed—the furious, piglike battle cry
of some distinctly mutant creature—got him moving
again. His feet hardly touched the steps, but he still
wasn't fast enough; just as he was bounding down the
last flight, a monstrous figure leaped in front of the exit
to the ground floor.
It was giant, humanoid, tall and wide and dripping
slime. Its body was a dark blue-green, almost black in
the dim red light. With its webbed oversized hands and
feet and its huge rounded head and mouth, it resembled
nothing so much as a mammoth, hideously squashed
frog.
Its powerful lower jaw dropped open, and another
piercing, squealing screech filled the stairwell, re-
bounding throughout. Carlos heard at least three more
answer the first, a fierce and freakish chorus erupting
from somewhere down below.
Carlos opened fire, the first round hitting the
metal door and creating a deafening tornado of
sound. Before he could squeeze the trigger again, the
amphibious creature was springing, squealing as it
leaped toward Carlos, stretching its muscular arms
wide.
Carlos reflexively dropped, firing as he slid down
several steps, rolling to his uninjured side so he could
follow the creature's descent. Three, four rounds
plugged into the shrieking frog-thing's slimy body as it
flew overhead—
—and it was dead by the time it landed, dark gouts
of watery, brackish fluid spuming from its spasming
body.
Carlos was on his feet running and halfway
through the door even as the creature's siblings began
their feral, earsplitting lament. Not too hard to kill,
maybe, but he didn't want to consider his chances
if there were three or more of them all leaping at
once.
Into the lobby and he slammed the door, saw that it
required a key to lock, and he turned to look for some-
thing he could use to block it—
—and instead he saw a tiny, blinking white light
from across the room, its brightness drawing his gaze
from the midst of a shady red ocean of trashed furniture
and dead bodies.
A blinking white light on a small box, the box af-
fixed to a pillar. A timer light for a detonating com-
pound.
Carlos tried to think of something else it might be
and came up blank, knowing only that it hadn't been
there when he'd arrived; it was a bomb, Nicholai had
put it there, and suddenly the frog monsters were a
much smaller deal.
His mind was curiously blank as he pounded through
the lobby, a thoughtless, wordless panic overtaking
him, pushing him to run fast and far, to not waste time
thinking. He tripped over a shredded couch and didn't
notice whether or not he fell or felt pain, he was mov-
ing too fast, the glass doors at the front of the building
all he could see.
Bam, through the doors, shining black asphalt
splashing under his feet, rain misting on his sweaty
face. Rows of smashed and abandoned cars, shining
like wet jewels beneath a streetlight. The drum of his
shuddering heart—
—and the explosion was so massive that his hearing
couldn't encompass it all, a kind of ka-WHAMM that
was as much motion as it was sound. His body was
thrown, a leaf in a hot and violent hurricane, the ground
and sky becoming connected, interchangeable.
He was skidding across wet pavement, tumbling to
a gritty stop against a fire hydrant, feeling the enor-
mity of pain in his side and tasting salt from a nose-
bleed.
Barely a block away, the hospital had been reduced
to a smoking ruin, smaller pieces of it still coming
down, cracking against the ground like deadly hail.
Parts were on fire, but a lot of it had just disintegrated,
matter blown to dust, the dust settling and turning to
mud as the skies continued to dump water on every-
thing.
Jill.
Carlos pulled himself up and started to limp back to
the clock tower.
Nicholai realized he'd lost the vaccine sample as he
was running away from the hospital, when there was
one minute left before all of it went sky high. When it
was already too late.
There was no choice but to keep running, and he did,
and when the hospital exploded, Nicholai paced back
and forth in the street three blocks away, lost in anger.
So lost that he didn't realize that the agonized moaning,
whining noise he heard was coming from him, or that
he'd clenched his jaw hard enough to crack two teeth.
After a long time, he remembered that he still had to
kill two more people, and he started to calm down.
Being able to express his anger would be constructive;
it wasn't healthy to keep feelings bottled up.
The Watchdog operation was his interest. The vac-
cine had been an extra, a gift—so in a way, he hadn't
really lost anything.
Nicholai told himself that several times on his way to
get Davis Chan; it made him feel better, though not as
good as when he remembered that he'd had his hunting
knife sharpened just before he'd come to Raccoon. He
was sure Chan would appreciate it.
TWENTY-THREE
WHEN JILL WOKE UP, IT WAS STILL RAINING
outside, and she felt like herself again. Weak, thirsty,
and hungry, definitely in pain from her shoulder wound
and about a thousand lesser aches—but herself. The
sickness was gone.
Disoriented and a little confused, she sat up slowly
and looked around, trying to piece together what had
happened. She was still in the clock tower chapel, and
Carlos was crashed out on one of the front pews. She
remembered telling him that she had the virus, and him
saying that he was going to get something ...
... but I was sick, I had the disease... and I don't
just feel better now, I absolutely don't have it anymore.
How could—
"Oh my God," she whispered, seeing the syringe and
empty vial on the organ bench next to the altar, sud-
denly understanding what had happened, if not how.
Carlos had found an antidote.
Jill sat for a moment, slightly overwhelmed by the
mix of emotions that hit her—shock, gratitude, a reluc-
tance to believe she was actually okay. Her happiness at
being alive and reasonably well was tempered by guilt,
that she should have been cured when so many others
had died. She wondered whether or not there was more
of the antidote but found she couldn't consider that too
carefully; the thought that there might be gallons of it
lying around somewhere when tens of thousands had
died was simply obscene.
Finally, she eased herself off her sickbed and stood,
carefully stretching, checking herself over. Considering
all that had happened, she was surprised at how well-
off she was. Except for her right shoulder, she had no
serious injuries, and after drinking some water, she ac-
tually felt awake and able to move around without any
trouble.
Over the next couple of hours, Jill ate three cans of
fruit cocktail, drank a half gallon of water, and reloaded
and wiped down all of the weapons. She also cleaned
herself up, as much as she could, with bottled water
and a dirty sweatshirt. Carlos didn't stir once, deeply
asleep—and from the way he was curled up and hold-
ing his left side, she thought that his trip to the hospital
had probably been rough.
Jill also gave a great deal of thought to what they
would do next. They couldn't stay. They didn't have the
supplies or ammo to keep themselves alive indefinitely,
and they had no way of knowing when—or even if, she
didn't want to take it for granted anymore—rescue was
coming. As hard as it was to believe, it seemed that
Umbrella had managed to keep a lid on what had hap-
pened, and if they could do it for this long, it might be
several more days before the story broke. To add to the
pressure, she also couldn't convince herself that the
Nemesis was dead; once it had recuperated, it would be
coming back. They were incredibly lucky that it hadn't
attacked already.
Before she'd hooked up with Carlos, she had tenta-
tively planned to head for the abandoned Umbrella-
owned plant north of the city. She'd come to believe
that there was no such thing as a deserted Umbrella fa-
cility—they loved their secret operations too much—
and thought that they might have kept the roads clear
around the plant so their employees could get out. It
was still worth a shot, and it was also the best she could
come up with. Besides, the fastest way out of town
from their current position was straight past the facility.
Carlos continued to sleep, perfectly still except for
the rise and fall of his chest, his face slack from exhaus-
tion ... and once Jill had decided on a course of action,
she watched him for a little while and realized that she
had to leave him behind. It was a much harder decision
to make, but only because she didn't want to be alone, a
selfish reason at best. The truth of it was, he was hurting
because he'd gotten in between her and the Nemesis,
and she couldn't put him in that position again.
/'// go check out the plant, maybe find a radio and
call for help. If things look good, safe, I can come back
for him. If they look shitty... well, I guess I'll just
come back if I can. The facility was barely a mile away
if she remembered right, she could get there by cutting
through Memorial Park, just behind the clock tower, a
very short trip. It was just after two in the morning,
she'd be able to get there and back well before dawn.
With any luck, Carlos would still be asleep when she
returned, perhaps bearing good news.
She decided to leave him a note in case something
happened to her so he'd know the route, at least. She
couldn't find a pen or pencil, but she uncovered an an-
cient manual typewriter, of all things, beneath a stack
of hymnbooks. She used the back of a fruit cocktail
label for paper. The soft clack of keys was as soothing
to her as the rain that continued to patter down on the
roof, sounds that made her very glad to be alive.
She took the grenade gun even though there was only
one round left—Carlos must have found the one she'd
dropped in the yard—remembering the damage it had in-
flicted on the S.T.A.R.S. killer. She also took the Beretta,
but she left the revolver for Carlos so that he'd have some-
thing a little heavier than the assault rifle. Just in case.
Jill left the note on the altar, where Carlos would see
it as soon as he woke up, and she crouched next to him,
reaching out to touch his cool brow. He was definitely
out, not even a twitch as she brushed his duty hair off
his forehead, wondering how she could ever thank him
for all he'd done.
"Sleep well," she whispered, and before she could
change her mind, she stood up and turned away, hurry-
ing to the door and not looking back.
There was a cabin behind the small cemetery in
Memorial Park, ostensibly used for tool storage. It had
been taken over as one of several Umbrella receiver
stations for the duration of the Raccoon outbreak—
kind of a rest stop for operatives, each in a private place
where they could organize files without being seen and
get general updates from Umbrella, if they didn't have
immediate access to a computer.
Nicholai had not planned to stop by any of the re-
ceiver stations; he thought they were an unnecessary
risk on Umbrella's part, even as well hidden as they
were—the setup at the cemetery cabin was behind a
false wall. Umbrella didn't want anyone tracking sig-
nals coming out of the city, so the stations were set to
receive only, another precaution, but Nicholai still
thought they were dangerous. If he wanted to trap an
agent, he'd stake out one of the receiver stations.
Or if I wanted to kill one. Although in this case, I
only have to walk in... or wait for a little while.
He stood in the shadows of a large monument a few
meters from the false room, thinking of how fine it was
going to be to kill Captain Chan. Nicholai had consid-
ered just barging through the concealed door and shoot-
ing him, but he needed to relax, to get into a better
frame of mind. Chan would come out for a bathroom
break or a smoke sooner or later, and by allowing his
anticipation to build, Nicholai was able to let go of
some of his more unpleasant emotions. He didn't do it
often; he wasn't crazy or anything, and he generally
preferred to keep things moving along—but sometimes,
savoring the suspense before an intimate killing was
just the thing to lift him out of a depression.
Nicholai watched the door—actually a hinged corner
of the building—enjoying the cool rain in spite of how
miserable he knew he'd be later, running around in wet
clothes. He was going to take someone's life. Things
had been a little out of control for a few moments,
when he'd realized he'd lost the vaccine, but who was
in control now? Davis Chan was about to die and
Nicholai was the only one who knew it, because he had
decided Chan's fate.
And Carlos is dead, I caused that. And Mikhail, and
three Watchdogs so far. He couldn't really make a
claim on Jill Valentine, but Nicholai had enjoyed the
stricken look on Carlos's face when he'd suggested it.
What counted, though, the only thing that had ever re-
ally mattered, was that his enemies were dead and he
was still walking.
When Davis Chan stepped out into the rain a few mo-
ments later, Nicholai had released most of his negative
feelings of self-pity and undirected frustration. And by
the tune his knife had finished with Chan, fifteen min-
utes later, he was his old self again. Chan, of course, no
longer resembled anything human, but Nicholai sin-
cerely thanked the remains for getting him back on track.
0250 hours October 2
Carlos:
I've gone to the water treatment facility directly northeast
from the clock tower, a mile give or take. Umbrella owns it,
there may be resources there that we can use. I'll be back as
soon as I take a look around. Wait here for me, for at least a
few hours. If I'm not back by morning, you should probably try
to get out on your own.
I'm grateful to you, for a lot of things. Stay here and get
some rest, please. I shouldn't be long.
Jill
Carlos read the curled paper twice more, then
grabbed his vest and stood up, checking his watch.
She'd been gone less than a half hour. He could still
catch up with her.
Staying wasn't an option. She'd left him behind ei-
ther because he was injured or because she didn't want
to put him in further danger... neither of which was
acceptable to him. And he'd never had a chance to tell
her what Trent had said, about there being helicopters
at an Umbrella facility northwest of town, but northeast
from where they were now, after the trolley ride. Obvi-
ously the same place.
"You may kick ass all over Umbrella's monsters, but
can you pilot a helicopter?" Carlos mumbled, locking a
new mag to the Ml6. If only she'd waked him up ...
He headed for the door, as ready as he was going to
be, trying not to breathe too deeply. It hurt, but he'd
manage. He'd been in worse pain and still gotten things
done; once, he'd walked six klicks on a fractured ankle,
and it didn't get a whole lot worse than that.
Carlos didn't waste time trying to convince himself
that wanting to share Trent's info was why he was going
after her. He couldn't stand by and do nothing, that was
all. She was trying to protect him, he could appreciate
the sentiment, but he just couldn't stay there and—
Nicholai. He's out there and she doesn 't know.
He suddenly felt sick thanking of that mad glimmer
in Nicholai's eyes. Carlos hurried out of the chapel and
into the moonlit rain. He had to find her.
TWENTY-FOUR
THE RAIN HAD TURNED INTO A DRIZZLE, BUT
Nicholai didn't notice, walking beneath the thick
canopy of autumn leaves back through the cemetery.
Another fifty or sixty meters and he could cut east, par-
allel the trail that ran straight to the water treatment fa-
cility's back entrance. He never used paths in public
places when he could avoid them, not liking the sense
of exposure.
On last check, Terence Foster was still alive and well
and filing environmental status reports from the treat-
ment plant, perfectly unaware that, as the last surviving
Watchdog, his hours were numbered. Nicholai had al-
ready decided to just kill the man outright, to hell with
talking. He'd found Chan's Watchdog data easily
enough, sitting on the small table in the receiver sta-
tion; he'd find Foster's, too. A quick encryption on the
combined files—a little health insurance—then he'd
radio for pickup and go take a meeting with the deci-
sion makers.
Nicholai had just reached the copse of pines behind
the fence of one of the park's reflecting pools when he
saw Jill Valentine, walking casually past the water's
edge beneath a row of wrought-iron lamps and headed
in the direction he wanted to go. The low lights re-
flected off the water at her, giving her a ghostly appear-
ance, but she was definitely alive.
He supposed he shouldn't be surprised, but he was.
The look of pain on Carlos's face when he'd talked
about her... Nicholai had been sure it was real, he
hadn't doubted for a second that she was dead.
Ah, well, it was the last lie he ever told. Very noble of
him, to try and protect the girl from who he believes to
be the dastardly villain.. . as if I would waste my time.
No time wasted if he killed her now. Nicholai raised
the assault rifle, carefully took aim at the back of her
head—and hesitated, curious in spite of his resolve to
finish his business in Raccoon. How had she managed
to evade the S.T.A.R.S. seeker all this time? Where had
she been when her Latin lover had so idiotically wan-
dered into Nicholas's path at the hospital? And where,
exactly, did she think she was going?
He decided to follow her, at least until an easy op-
portunity presented itself for him to get the answers to
his questions. As it was, with her on the main trail
through the park and him behind a waist-high railing,
he couldn't maneuver very well; telling her to freeze,
drop her weapons, and then hold still while he climbed
the fence wasn't the most desirable option.
Nicholai sank back into the shadows and counted
slowly to twenty, letting her get far enough ahead that
she shouldn't be able to hear him moving through the
trees. He would trail her until the main path became the
bridge over the park's large duck pond, confronting her
once she was halfway across, out in the open with
nowhere to run.
Satisfied with his plan, Nicholai started walking,
moving as quietly as he could. He'd lost sight of her on
his count, but unless she was jogging, he'd catch up
with her just before—
"Freeze." Her voice was calm and clear, the semiau-
tomatic's muzzle hard against the side of his head. "Oh,
but drop the rifle first, if you would."
Nicholai did as he was told, shocked into it, unsling-
ing his rifle and letting it fall. How had she spotted
him? How had she managed to circle back so quietly,
without his notice?
And how much does she really know about me?
"Please don't shoot," he said, his voice cracking.
"Jill, it's me, Nicholai."
The gun stayed where it was. "I know who you are.
And I know you're working for Umbrella, not just as a
soldier. What's Operation Watchdog, Nicholai?"
She already knew something about it. If he lied, he
lost any credibility he might still have with her.
Say and do whatever it takes. "Umbrella sent me and
several others in to gather information about the virus
carriers," he said. "But I didn't know it was going to be
like this, I swear, I never would have agreed to it if I
had known. I just want to get out with my life, that's all
I care about anymore."
Still the muzzle stayed pressed to his temple. She
was careful, he had to give her that much.
"What do you know about the water treatment plant
near here?" she asked.
"Nothing. I mean, I know Umbrella owns it, but
that's it. Please, you must believe me, I just want to—"
"What about the vaccine for the virus, what you
know about that?"
Nicholai's gut knotted at the very mention, but he
stayed in character. "Vaccine? There's no vaccine."
"Bullshit, or I'd be dead. Prove to me that you
want to cooperate here, and maybe we can work
something out. What have you heard about a T-virus
vaccine?"
Carlos. The look on his face when he talked about
her... and when he saw the sample case.
Nicholai didn't trust himself to speak, the depth of
his sudden and complete inner turmoil like a physical
force, pushing him to act—but he couldn't, and he had
to convince her that he was just another Umbrella pawn
or she was going to shoot him. He opened his mouth,
not sure what was going to come out—
—and he was saved by the very ground beneath
them. There was a deep rumble and the earth shook,
pitching both of them into a drunken stumble, leaves
and sticks jumping around their feet. The gun swung
away from his head as Jill struggled for balance.
Even as disorienting as it was to try and stay upright,
Nicholai didn't think it was a real earthquake. It was lo-
calized around them; for one thing, he could see that
the water in the pool was barely moving. The tremor
went on and on, seeming to increase in magnitude, and
Nicholai knew he wasn't going to get a better opportu-
nity to get away.
Feigning panic, Nicholai threw up his arms and
shouted, carefully noting where his rifle lay on the
shaking ground. "It's one of the mutants! Run!"
It was as likely to be some viral monster as it was
anything else, and telling her to run would work for
him—she'd think twice about shooting someone trying
to help her.
The quake was intensifying as Nicholai ran away
from Jill, one arm still waving frantically. He yelled
again for her to run as he snatched up the rifle and
sprinted away, not looking back, hoping she'd bought
his performance. If not, he'd feel the bullet soon
enough—
—and within twenty meters, the ground that he was
on was practically still, although he could still feel and
hear the rumbling earth behind him.
Far enough, find cover and shoot her—
There was a big oak tree straight ahead. Still run-
ning, Nicholai reached out with his right arm and
veered left, grabbing the tree and letting his own
weight swing him around. As soon as he was safely be-
hind the gnarled trunk, he darted a look back, readying
the M16 as he spotted her, weaving slowly away from
the quake in the opposite direction.
Now you die, you billion dollar bitch—
—and the rumbling was suddenly a roar, and a huge
fountain of muddy white spewed up from the ground,
blocking his shot, trees crashing all around. A strange
and horrible bellowing erupted from the fountain, a
hissing bass note, and as the pale column twisted five
meters into the air and then curved down suddenly,
Nicholai realized it was an animal, one that had surely
never existed before—the gnashing circle of pointed
tusks and teeth that tipped the massive white worm-
body were proof enough.
It bellowed again, arching, a titan hybrid of maggot
and lamprey eel, of waxworm and snake, as big
around as a man was tall—and it dove away from
Nicholai.
Toward Jill Valentine.
Nicholai turned and ran away, giggling, cursing Jill
and Carlos as he dodged trees in the dark, heading for
the plant, laughing as he damned them to everlasting
hell.
Jill was running, skirting the water's edge, and didn't
know it was coming until it crashed to the ground only
a few meters behind her. A wash of foul air blew over
her, a smell of dirt and wet meat coming from the
mouth of the carnivorous worm.
Holy crap!
She ran faster, wanting to get some distance before
she dared to look back, one grenade load's not enough,
have to run for it—
Ahead, the rounded reflecting pool curved, a few
benches at the comer, a stand of trees behind them. The
ground was rumbling again, but Jill was almost there; if
she could get around the corner she should be clear—
the man-made pool was lined with cement, the thing
would knock itself out if she was lucky—
—and the benches and trees in front of her suddenly
blew up into the air, raised up on a wave of dirt, the
blind, probing worm vomiting soil from its toothed
maw as it swept its head toward her.
Jesus, it's fast! Jill raised the Beretta she still held
tightly and buried two rounds in its bloated underbelly,
the worm screaming again, deep and hissing like the
roar of an attacking crocodile.
Jill spun and took off, heart pounding, already hear-
ing and feeling the start of another quake as she
grabbed her Beretta. It would get in front of her again,
she knew it, she'd never make it around either end of
the long pool. Going across would slow her down too
much. Think, if you can't run what can you use to stop
it, dirt, water, trees, lamps—
Lamps. Several were leaning wildly from the under-
ground movements of the mammoth grub, like up-
rooted saplings about to fall. Into the pool.
No time to plan, she had to get it into the water,
she'd have to bait it out. She took a last running step
and paused long enough to pivot ninety degrees right,
dashing toward the pool. It was damaged, rivulets of
scummy water draining from the concrete lip.
It rises up then crashes down, takes it a second or
two to raise itself again—A second or two, that's how
long she'd have to get out of the water. Assuming she
could knock a lamp over with bullets first, and that
the monstrous worm would obligingly dive into the
pool.
Calculating the odds meant she'd have to think, and
the ground was already trembling, shaking hard enough
to send her to her knees. She fell and slid through a
thick layer of grass and mud, and then she was trying to
get to her feet and keep the gun dry—
—and it was bursting up through the edge of the
pool not ten feet to her right, blotting out the cloudy
sky in a blast of mud and stone, concrete and water.
There was a single lamp between her and the monster,
already almost touching the water.
Move!
Jill scrambled backwards, moving faster than she
would have thought possible, stopping as she saw that
the creature had peaked and was starting to bend over,
sheets of water pouring from its swollen form.
She opened fire as she rolled up onto her feet, the
first shots wild, the third and fourth clanging off the
metal post. The worm was coming down, creating a
tidal wave of mud as the fifth shot blew out the light. It
was going to crush her if she didn't move, close, gonna
be close—
Bam! Bam!
It was the seventh shot that did it, and the results
were spectacular. There was a giant, buzzing pop as Jill
threw herself backwards and to the side, the lamp im-
mersed in the rapidly draining pool. The semi-gelati-
nous flesh of the screaming worm shivered and shook
as it raised itself up, twisting in agony. Its pallid skin
began to blacken and crisp as an oily, noxious smoke
poured out of its throat, the hidden length of its body
thrashing up giant sprays of dirt and rock. It bellowed
once more, the unearthly sound becoming choked, gur-
gling—
—and then it collapsed, dead before it hit the
ground, before its outer layer of skin began to curl
away, revealing the cooking meat of its innards.
Jill staggered to her feet, left hand pressed to her
throbbing shoulder as she backed away from the frying
worm, the smell of it making her gag repeatedly. She'd
actually done it, she'd killed the goddamn thing! A
warm swell of triumphant victory surged through her as
she breathed in another wave of roasting worm smell, 7
did it, and then she bent over and vomited her guts out.
When there was nothing left to purge, Jill shakily
stood up and started walking east again, thinking about
her confrontation with Nicholai. He wasn't as good a
liar as he thought, and if she'd had only suspicions be-
fore, she was now certain that he was extremely bad
news.
Her plans hadn't changed, but she was going to have
to be very careful when she got to the water treatment
plant. Nicholai was going to be there, she had no
doubt... and if he saw her first, she'd be dead before
she knew what hit her.
The roadblock was a massive pileup of cars that had
actually been stacked three and four high, stretched be-
tween several buildings at the end of a block in a rough
semicircle. Carlos could still see the crisscross of greasy
treadmarks from whatever piece of heavy machinery had
managed the feat, just as he'd spotted them on the last
three streets he'd tried. Umbrella and the RPD hadn't
been screwing around when they'd sealed the city.
He stood in front of the stacked, partly crushed metal
wall, experiencing an almost desperate indecision. Go
back, try heading north first, then east—or try climbing
over one of the precarious barricades, which seemed to
have been specifically set up to deter him from finding
Jill.
That's what it feels like, anyway. All that was north
of the clock tower was a big park, but maybe that was
the only way to get to the Umbrella facility; he couldn't
imagine Jill scaling a wall of cars with a bad shoulder,
and crawling through them was too dangerous ...
... but you're assuming she even made it this far, a
nagging little voice whispered. Maybe she's already
dead, maybe the Nemesis came for her, orNicholai, or—
Carlos cocked his head to one side, frowning, his
thoughts disturbed by a distant sound. Shots? Possibly,
but the light mist that was falling was having a dampen-
ing effect, distorting and muffling noises. He couldn't
even be sure from which direction the sound had
come ... but he was suddenly even more frantic to find
Jill than before.
"After all I went through to get that vaccine, you bet-
ter not get yourself killed," he murmured lightly, but it
was too close to the truth to be funny. He had to do
something, now.
Carlos stared at the wall of cars for another moment,
picking what appeared to be the most stable route, over
a minivan and two compact cars. He took as deep a
breath as he was able to manage, mentally crossed his
fingers, and started to climb.
TWENTY-FIVE
"NO, LISTEN, YOU GOTTA LISTEN—I DON'T
know anything, you don't want to do this. They've had
me doing reports on water and soil samples, that's it,
I'm no threat to you! I swear!"
Foster was working himself into a froth, and Nicholai
decided that making a man wait for his death, particularly
such a sad little man, was cruel. The researcher was al-
ready cowering in the corner, pressed against the door in
the northeast comer of his office, his pinched, ratty fea-
tures flushed and sweaty. It had taken Nicholai less than
five minutes to find him once he'd reached the facility.
"... and I'll just leave, okay?" Foster was still bab-
bling. "I'll be gone and you'll never hear from me
again, swear to God, why do you want to kill me, I'm
nobody. Tell me what you want and I'll do it, whatever
it is, talk to me, man, okay? Let's just talk, okay?"
Nicholai suddenly realized that he was just staring at
Foster, as if he'd been lulled into a trance by the rise
and fall of the man's hysteria. It had been an endless
day in a series of them... but as much as he wanted to
get out, to be done with the entire operation, Nicholai
felt oddly compelled to say something.
"There's nothing personal in this, I'm sure you un-
derstand," Nicholai said. "It's about money... or it
was at the beginning, but things are different now."
Foster nodded quickly, eyes wide. "Yeah, sure they
are, different."
Now that he'd started, Nicholai found he couldn't
stop. It suddenly seemed important for someone else to
understand what he'd gone through, what he was still
up against—even if it was only someone like Foster.
"The money is still most of it, of course. But after I
got here, after Wersbowski, I started to feel like I had
come to a very special place. I felt... I felt that things
were finally becoming the way they were supposed to
be. The way my life should have been all along. Ex-
treme circumstances, you see?"
Foster bobbed his head again but wisely said nothing.
"But then Carlos tricked me; he couldn't have died
in the explosion, because Jill received the antidote. And
I'm starting to think that she's the cause, that things
changed because of her." As he spoke, he sensed the
truth of it, as though a light was dawning in his mind's
eye. It was true, talking helped.
"Even at the beginning, she ruined the setup I had
with Carlos and Mikhail. Manipulative, controlling
woman, there are a lot of them like that. She probably
slept with both of them, too. Seduced them."
"Bitches, all of 'em," Foster sincerely agreed.
"Then she got sick and sent Carlos to steal the vac-
cine. I'm not excusing his part in all of this, not at all,
but there's something about her... it's like her pres-
ence alters things, makes everything wrong somehow. I
don't even think she's dead now. If a seeker can't kill
her, a mutant certainly can't."
Nicholai stood silently, lost in thought for a moment.
He'd never been a superstitious man, but things really
were different. Jill Valentine was—
—a woman, she's just a woman and you 're not think-
ing clearly, haven't been for days—
Nicholai blinked, and the thought was gone, and
Foster was still in the corner, watching him with an ex-
pression of cautious terror. As though he thought
Nicholai was crazy. Nicholai felt a rush of hatred for
the little man, for trying to trick him, telling him to talk
and then judging him for it. He deserved to die, as
much as any of them.
"I'm not crazy," Nicholai shouted angrily, "and I'm
done talking about this! You're the last one, after you
it's over and that's just the way things are, so be a man
and accept it! "
Three rounds, a burst of tat tat tat through one of Ter-
ence Foster's pleading green eyes, and the researcher's
head snapped back, blood splashing the door he leaned
against, his body collapsing lifeless to the cold floor.
Nicholai felt nothing. The last Watchdog, dead, and
there was no sense of accomplishment, no feeling of
conquest. Just another corpse on the floor in front of
him and a deeply felt desire to get out of Raccoon,
where things had gone so sour.
Nicholai shook his head, his heart heavy, and started
to search the office for Foster's data.
Jill stood in front of the narrow bridge that con-
nected Memorial Park's back gate to the second floor
of the Umbrella facility, suspended over what had to be
a marsh or swamp, from the gassy-mud smell. It was
too dark to tell by looking, but the odor was unmistak-
able—and so were the fresh bootprints that led from
where she stood to the door on the opposite side. As
she'd expected, Nicholai was here.
Wonderful. What a treat.
Nicholai aside, she was glad to have found the
bridge; she'd been concerned that the park would turn
out to be a dead end and that she'd have to backtrack.
The bridge also conveniently led to the second floor; it
made sense that the offices and control rooms—hope-
fully at least one of them would have a transmitter sys-
tem—would be on the second floor of the two-story
building, the first floor being where the water treatment
took place. Assuming Umbrella had bothered with a
sensible layout, she should be able to get in and out
easily enough. If there was no radio, she'd circle
around to the front of the building's first floor and see
about the roads.
She carefully edged out onto the wood-and-metal
span, breathing deeply, focusing herself as she reached
for the low wood railing to steady herself. Dealing with
Umbrella's creatures, bred or created, took skill and
concentration, but facing a human adversary took more
than that; people were much less predictable than ani-
mals, and if she meant to keep away from Nicholai, she
had to be as fully alert as possible, her intuition and
awareness jacked up to feel an oncoming attack—
—like now—
Jill froze halfway across the bridge, feeling for the
Beretta's safety with her thumb, something was very
wrong but she couldn't tell—
Ka thud! Behind her.
Jill spun, heart racing, and saw the Nemesis stand-
ing twenty feet away, its freakish body hideously
transformed by fire and buckshot. Its chest and arms
were bare, giving her a clear look at how the waving
tentacles were attached, sprouting from its upper back
and shoulders. Much of its skin had burned off, re-
vealing fibrous red muscle tissue in patches of ashy
black.
"Starsss," it rumbled, limping forward a step, and
she saw that much of its lower right side was mangled
from where she'd hit it with the grenade gun. The flesh
from the bottom of its rib cage to about midthigh
looked like burned spaghetti, smashed and shredded—
but she doubted very much that it felt pain, and she had
few illusions about its strength being overly affected.
In an instant, her adrenaline-pumped mind flashed
through a hundred options and latched on to her best
bet. The ledge at the clock tower. Carlos had pushed it
right off, but it had been blinded, distracted—
—distract this, freak!
She opened fire, aiming at the most obvious part of
its deformed face, its improbably white teeth—and saw
at least two shots shatter through the eerie grin, pale
splinters exploding out in a spray.
The S.T.A.R.S. killer howled, its flesh tentacles
spreading like a cape behind it, framing the beast in a
coiling, quivering sunburst.
—not in pain, maybe, but it feels something—
—GO NOW!
Jill continued to fire as she ran for it, her instincts
screaming at her to run the other way, her logic remind-
ing her that she couldn't possibly run fast enough.
The Nemesis was still howling when Jill smashed
into it, pushing up and out to smack into its chest the
way Carlos had, inwardly cringing at the feel of its skin
against her palms, wet, gritty, cold—
—and it staggered backwards, landing heavily at the
very edge of the bridge, inches from empty space. Its
weight and mass worked for Jill as she'd prayed it
would, she could hear the explosive crack of the weath-
ered board beneath its heels, the side rail crunching as
the giant fell against the slats—
—but two, three of the twisting tentacles were grab-
bing at the undamaged railing on the other side, the
reeling Nemesis putting its hands out, struggling to re-
gain its balance.
Jill jumped, twisting, knowing that she couldn't let it
stand up again, and landed both feet against its ravaged
abdomen, kicking off from the monster's body with all
of her strength.
She fell solidly to the wood planking, involuntarily
crying out in pain as her wounded shoulder absorbed
much of the impact—but the sight of those fleshy
ropes, flailing at air as the Nemesis lost its grip and
plunged over the side, did her a world of good ... as
did the murky, thunderous splash she heard a beat later.
She stumbled to her feet and across the rest of the
bridge, silently cheering as the door that led into the fa-
cility swung open, unlocked. Inside, a short hall turned
left fifteen feet ahead, all utilitarian metal grate floors
and concrete walls. She quickly deadbolted the door
behind her and sagged against it, pointing her weapon
at the blind corner while she caught her breath.
No footsteps outside or in, nothing but a faint me-
chanical hum coming from somewhere deeper in the
facility. When she could breathe almost normally again,
she moved forward, anxious to get out before the
Nemesis returned. She had to get out a call for help, or
just get out; the Nemesis wasn't going to give up, and
she couldn't hope to elude it forever.
She edged further down the hall and saw that a metal
shutter stood at the right end, facing the corridor she
couldn't see. Another step forward, and she darted a
look around the corner. Clear, another short hall that
turned right. She stepped back and took a closer look at
the metal shutter, the kind that opened with a key card.
The room's name was just above the door, in black
stencil: communications. Jill felt a rush of hope, then
saw that there was no manual lock. The key card reader
to the right of the shutter was the only way in.
Frustrated, Jill turned away. Running into the Neme-
sis had changed things. She could leave, get far away
from it and Nicholai and try to come up with some-
thing new, or she could continue on, search for the card
and keep looking for other possibilities.
Jill smiled wearily. Both options sounded terrible,
actually, but the latter seemed to suck a little less. At
least her clothes would have a chance to dry.
Shivering, Jill started down the adjoining corridor,
feeling vaguely envious of Carlos, warm and sleeping
back at the chapel.
The Umbrella facility was a series of small single-
level buildings and one large two-story one, set among
several open areas that had been stacked high with
crap—piles of lumber, old cars, and scrap metal being
the main competitors for space. If there were heli-
copters on the site, Carlos thought they'd be behind
one of the warehouses—nearly impossible to get
around, of course, unless he wanted to scale another
stack of cars.
Not unless I have to, thank you very much. His ear-
lier climb had been enough to last him the rest of his
life. He'd banged the hell out of both his knees when
he'd come down hard on the cab of a flatbed truck,
and he'd limped most of the rest of the way to the fa-
cility.
He stood in a small and crowded yard, which he'd
hopped a fence to get to, memorizing the compound's
sprawling layout as best he could before moving to-
ward the main building. He wanted to make sure Jill
was okay before he went hunting for a 'copter. As soon
as he reached the building, Carlos broke the first win-
dow he could reach with the M16's stock and boosted
himself up.
He sat on the frame, looking into a long, narrow,
bunkerlike room, dimly lit and littered with bodies. To
the right was a set of doors with an exit sign overhead,
probably leading out to the main warehouse; he'd have
to try the doors when he went for the helicopters. To
his left, though, was a metal ladder that went straight
up to a hatch in the ceiling. He couldn't have asked for
more.
Well, an elevator, maybe, he thought as he pulled
himself through the window, his taped ribs protesting.
Although as long as I'm wishing, suddenly waking up
and finding out this has all been a bad dream would be
pretty nice, too.
The room smelled like blood and rot, a smell that he
had gotten used to, he realized. It smelled like Rac-
coon, and as he slowly climbed the ladder, he thought
that he would die a happy man if he could just do it
breathing fresh, untainted air.
The square metal hatch at the top lifted easily,
swinging up and back on hinges to lean against a three-
sided railing. Carlos ascended carefully into another
dim room with a bunker feel, lined with consoles and
cabinets, no bodies—
"Caramba," he breathed, stepping away from the
ladder to the desk console against the front wall, set
beneath large windows that looked out over the
mostly dark yard. It was an old communications relay
system, and even as he reached out to pick up the
headset, a crackle of static hissed from a small
speaker set into a side panel, followed by a woman's
cool, clear voice.
"Attention. The Raccoon City project has been aban-
doned. Political maneuvering to delay federal plans has
failed. All personnel must evacuate immediately to out-
side of the ten-mile blast radius. Missiles will be
launched at daybreak. This message is being broadcast
on all available channels, and will repeat in five min-
utes."
Stunned, Carlos looked at his watch and felt his
stomach knot. It was half past four in the morning,
which left them an hour, maybe a little more.
He snatched up the headset and started pushing but-
tons. "Hello? Does anybody read me, I'm still in the
city, hello?"
Nothing. Carlos ran for the door at the back of the
room, his thoughts repeating in an endless loop, day-
break, Jill, helicopter, daybreak, Jill—
—and the door, a metal shutter, was firmly locked.
No keyhole, no nothing. He couldn't get into the
building.
And I don't even know if she's here, maybe she
started back already, maybe...
Maybe a lot of things, and as much as he wanted to
find her, if he didn't secure a way for them to escape
the city, they weren't going to make it.
He turned away from the door, not wanting to leave,
knowing he didn't have a choice. He had to find one of
those helicopters that Trent had told him about and
make sure it was fueled up and working. Maybe he
could buzz the facility, get her attention from outside,
or find her on her way back to the clock tower.
And if I can't... He didn't finish the thought, well
aware of Jill's fate if he failed.
Hardly noticing the pain in his side, Carlos ran for
the ladder, his heart pounding and filled with dread.
TWENTY-SIX
WHEN NICHOLAI SAW JILL STEP HESITANTLY
through the door into treatment operations, he immedi-
ately slipped back out of view, through the security side
door and into a large, empty corridor that led to the
chemical tank room. A fierce joy took hold of him as
he eased the door closed, feelings of vindication and
self-affirmation lifting his spirits high.
After he'd found Foster's data disk, he'd set up his
laptop to combine files. That's when he'd seen the
warning from H.Q. Not much of a surprise, it had been
one of several possible outcomes projected, but it had
further depressed him. A part of him had still wanted to
get closure with Jill and Carlos, for what they had done
to him, and he'd even been considering a final look
around before calling for pickup. There was no time for
that with missiles coming, and he'd been on his way to
place the call when he'd heard footsteps.
She's here, I was right about her and now she's here!
He had to be right, or whatever fates were working
in Raccoon wouldn't have sent her. He could see now
that everything that had happened since he'd arrived in
Raccoon had been predestined. Fate, testing him,
sending him gifts and then pulling them away, to see
what he would do. It all made perfect sense, and now
there was a ticking clock, he had to get out, and here
she was.
/ won't fail. I've succeeded so far, and that's why this
synchronicity has occurred. So that I can reestablish
the control I command before I return to civilization.
He could ask her about Carlos and Mikhail, he could
question her thoroughly ... and if there was time, he
could dominate her in a more pleasurable fashion, a
farewell that he could reflect back upon for years to
come.
Nicholai quickly moved behind the door, his boot-
steps echoing in the roomwide corridor, rifle ready.
He'd earned this, and he was going to get exactly what
he deserved.
Jill walked into some kind of operations room, her
senses on high alert as she looked across the open
space, decorated in classic Umbrella laboratory style—
blank, cold, cement walls, metal railings that separated
the bi-level room in an absolutely functional way, noth-
ing bright or colorful in sight.
Unless blood counts... Dried splashes of it stained
the floor all around the low worktable that dominated
the room. Probably not Nicholai's work, unlike the
corpse she'd found in the office next to the room with
the broken steam pipes. A short man in his mid-30s,
shot in the face, his body still warm. She had no doubt
that Nicholai was close, and she found herself almost
hoping she'd run into him soon, just so she could stand
down, not have to look over her shoulder with every
step.
She didn't see anything resembling a key card or a
radio in the room, so she decided to move on—she
could head through the side door in the nook to her left
or go down. Side door, she decided, on the off chance
that Nicholai had headed that way; so far, she'd been
through every room she could get into on the second
floor and didn't want to go downstairs and risk letting
him get behind her.
She walked to the door, wondering again what had
been done with the bodies of those who had died in the
facility. She'd seen plenty of blood and fluid stains, but
only a handful of corpses.
Maybe they were dumped downstairs..., she thought,
pulling the security door open and sweeping left to right
with the Beretta. A corridor as big as a room, with a
small offshoot at the back wall that headed right. Totally
empty. She stepped inside-----or Umbrella ordered
everything cleaned up so their employees didn't have to
spend the crisis stepping over their dead coworkers—
"Freeze, bitch," Nicholai said from behind her, roughly
jamming the barrel of his rifle into her lower back. "But
drop your weapon first, if you wouldn't mind."
A sarcastic rephrasing of what she'd said to him in
the park, and she couldn't miss the thread of almost
hysterical glee in his voice. She'd been careless, and
she was going to die for it.
"Okay, okay," she said, letting the 9mm slip from her
fingers and clatter to the floor. She still had the grenade
gun on her back, but it was useless—in the time it
would take her to unstrap the thing, he could empty a
mag into her and have a chance to reload.
'Turn around slowly and back away, hands clasped
in front of you. Like you're praying."
Jill did what he wanted, backing across the room
until her back touched the wall, more afraid than she
wanted to admit when she saw the constantly twitching
smile, and the way his eyes rolled from side to side.
He's gone over. Whatever was wrong with him to
start, being in Raccoon sparked it into a full-blown
psychosis. The way he looked her up and down filled
her with a different kind of fear. She knew of several
effective ways to stop a rapist's attack—but that was
assuming she was still able-bodied enough to fight, and
she doubted very much that Nicholai would approach
her without firing a few well-placed shots first.
She glanced to her left, down a narrow hall that dead
ended at a closed door. Won't make it, try to talk to him.
"I thought you just wanted to get out of the city," she
said neutrally, not sure what tack to use. She'd always
heard that crazy people should be humored, but she
couldn't see that it was going to make much of a differ-
ence; Nicholai meant to kill her, period.
He casually walked toward her, smiling his trem-
bling smile. Thunder rumbled overhead, a distant
sound. "I want to get out now, now that I have all the
information. I killed all of the others for theirs, the
Watchdogs. Umbrella is going to have to deal with me,
and only me, and I'm going to be extremely wealthy.
It's all balanced out, and now that you're here, my suc-
cess is assured."
In spite of herself, Jill was curious. "Why me?"
Nicholai moved closer but stayed a safe distance
away. "Because you took the antidote," he said in a
matter-of-fact tone. "Carlos stole it at your bidding,
don't try to deny it. Tell me, are you working on
your own initiative, or were you sent to interfere
with my plans? How much do Carlos and Mikhail
know?"
Christ, what do I say to that? Again thunder mut-
tered overhead, and Jill found herself distracted by it,
too confused by Nicholai's bizarre reasoning to answer
him right away. Strange, that they could hear it through
the heavily insulated ceiling ...
... not as strange as thinking about the weather at a
time like this. She had to say something, to at least try
and prolong her life; as long as she was breathing, there
was a chance.
"Why should I tell you anything? You're going to kill
me anyway," she said, as though there was something
to tell.
Nicholai's smile faltered, and then he brightened
again, nodding. "You're right, I am." He aimed the rifle
at her left knee and licked his lips. "But not before we
get to know each other a little better, I think we have
enough time—"
Crash!
Jill fell backwards, sure she'd been hit, but he didn't
fire, it was thunder—
—and the ceiling was falling, part of it, chunks of
drywall and concrete raining down as Nicholai
screamed, firing wildly—
—and disappeared.
Nicholai had her within his control, she was going to
bleed and cry and he would be victorious, he had won—
—and then the ceiling gave way, debris crashing
over him and something giant and cold and hard
wrapped around the back of his neck. Nicholai fired,
screaming, A witch, she's—
—and he was yanked up into the dark by the mas-
sive, icy thing, a hand, Jill's shocked face the last thing
he saw before the fingers tightened, before a cold and
living rope coiled around his waist. The hand and rope
pulled in opposite directions, and Nicholai felt his
bones crack, skin and muscle stretching as blood filled
his mouth, screaming—
—this is wrong I control stop—
—and he was torn in half, and he knew no more.
Jill could only see part of what happened, but it was
enough. As a river of blood poured over the hole's
ragged edge, splashing to the floor, she heard the rum-
bling growl of the Nemesis and saw a tentacle snake
down through the steaming red gush, searching—
She didn't dare run beneath it. She turned and ran
down the offshoot, scrabbling for the grenade gun, her
only weapon—
—bam, she hit the heavy door and was through, into
a dark and echoing abyss, a wave of stench hitting her
like a slap. She slammed the door closed and reached
for the only light she could see, a glowing red square in
a panel next to the entrance.
It was a light switch, and as rows of fluorescent bars
fluttered on, she saw and understood two things simulta-
neously. The dead Umbrella workers had been dumped
here in a huge pile, the source of the incredible odor—
and there were no other doors. She was trapped and had
a single load of buckshot with which to defend herself.
Oh man, think, think—
Outside, she heard the Nemesis howl the only word it
knew, the terrible cry encouraging her to move, to do
something. She ran for the tremendous mound of corpses,
the only thing in the giant U-shaped chamber that wasn't
bolted to the floor. Maybe one of them had a weapon.
The segmented metal floor rang hollowly beneath
her feet, telling her where she was—some kind of
garbage dumping room, the floor obviously capable of
opening up to drop waste into some unknown below,
vats of chemicals, a Dumpster, the sewers. Didn't mat-
ter, because she had no idea how to operate such a sys-
tem; all she cared about at the moment was finding
something she could use against the Nemesis.
The dead people were all in advanced stages of
decay, thick, hot, gaseous waves of stink radiating from
the darkening, bloated bodies, the pile almost as high
as her chin. Jill couldn't afford to be particular; she
dropped the grenade gun and immediately started to
paw at the corpses, lifting sticky lab coats, jamming her
hands into pockets that squished beneath her flying fin-
gers. Pens and pencils, soggy packs of cigarettes, loose
change—a key card, probably the very one she'd been
looking for, Wonderful, isn't that just—
BOOM! BOOM!
Giant fists hammered at the door, echoing in the
large chamber. The door was going to give in seconds,
she'd have to go with what she had. No way she could
kill it, but she could try to get around it.
Tucking the key card into the top of her left boot, she
grabbed the gun and ran back toward the door, thinking
that Nicholai had at least left her with a good idea, least
he could do, the crazy bastard—
Jill took a position next to the door, close to where it
would swing back upon opening. She didn't stand di-
rectly behind it, the plan kind of fell to shit if she ended
up crushed.
BOOM, and the door flew open, slamming into the
wall inches from where she stood, the Nemesis storm-
ing in, arms and tentacles spread wide as it howled for
blood.
It's changing, getting bigger—
Jill aimed at its already mangled lower back and fired,
the load tearing into its flesh from less than ten feet away.
Screaming, the creature stumbled forward, and be-
fore it could stand up straight again, Jill was through
the door and gone, praying that she'd have time to call
for help and get away before it found her again. She
pounded through the corridor, snatched up the Beretta,
and sped into the next room, out into the hallway.
At least time to call; she may not survive to meet res-
cue, but Carlos still could, God willing.
There was only one helicopter, but it was in excellent
shape, fueled and ready to fly. If he could find Jill, Car-
los thought they might make it after all.
He sat in the pilot's seat, looking over the controls,
running over the basics as best he could remember.
He'd been taught by another mere with no formal train-
ing, and it had been a while, but he was pretty sure he
could pull it off. The 'copter was an older two seater
with a hover ceiling of about 4,000 feet, range, maybe
200 miles. He still didn't know what some of the
switches and buttons did on the control panels, but he
didn't need to, to get the thing airborne. The cyclic
control stick moved the bird forward, back, and side-
ways. The collective control altered the thrust, control-
ling height.
Carlos checked his watch and was unhappily startled to
see mat twenty minutes had passed since he'd heard the
announcement about the missiles. He'd spent a few min-
utes checking the helicopter, and there'd been a couple of
zombies roaming around in the yard he'd had to shoot...
Didn't matter. They now had between twenty and
forty minutes, tops. The facility compound was too big,
he'd never be able to cover it all in time—
—so use the goddamn radio, dumbass!
Carlos reached for the headset, amazed that he hadn't
thought of it, promising himself that he would smack
himself silly for the oversight later, when he had time.
Assuming there was a later.
"Hello, this is Carlos Oliveira with Umbrella, I am in
Raccoon City, copy? There are still people alive here. If
you can hear me, you have to stop the missile launch.
Hello? Copy?"
No way to know if someone was getting his signal.
Umbrella probably had a block on all outgoing trans-
missions, he'd just have to try and—
"Carlos? Is that you, over?"
Jill!
He felt weak with relief as her voice crackled into
his ear, perhaps the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.
"Yes! Jill, I found a helicopter, we have to get out of
here, now! Where are you, over?"
"In a radio room, at the Umbrella facility—what did
you say about a missile launch, over?"
She was so close! Carlos laughed, We're outta here,
it's over! "The feds are gonna blow up the city in like
half an hour, at dawn, but it's okay, we're ready to
fly—do you see that ladder in the middle of the room?
Over."
"Yeah, it's—they're going to blow up Raccoon, are
you sure?" She sounded totally bewildered and forgot
to use radio protocol.
We don't have time for this!
"Jill, I'm positive. Listen to me—go down the ladder
and start running, you'll end up where I am, there's
nowhere else to go. Through a cement room to the exit
sign, then outside, then through this huge warehouse—
there's some kind of a power generator in there, you'll
have to run around some equipment. The back door
will be at about... eleven o'clock from the front, got
it? I'll be on the other side. And you better bust ass to
get here, no dicking around."
There was the slightest pause, and Carlos could hear
the tight smile in her voice when she responded. "Dick-
ing around you wish. On my way, over and out."
Grinning, Carlos powered up the 'copter as the deep,
navy blue sky began to lighten, preparing for dawn.
TWENTY-SEVEN
JILL SLID DOWN THE LADDER AND STARTED
running, her mind reeling with the news about Rac-
coon. She couldn't imagine what had been going on
outside of the city in past days that the conclusion had
been reached to blast a quarantine site out of existence.
Of course it has to be blown up, they would have
wanted that once they'd collected their data, to make
sure all the evidence is destroyed—
Jill leaped over a sprawled body, then another, and
was at the doors with the exit sign overhead, just as
Carlos had said. She barreled through and was greeted
by wonderfully fresh, cool air, heavy with dew.
Dawn, he said they were launching at dawn. Half an
hour was a generous estimate. Jill ran faster, through a
winding corridor of stacked cars and junk metal, and
there was the warehouse, straight ahead. It was big,
low, and wide, and she was already thinking in hours
when she hit the heavy, steel-reinforced front doors.
Eleven o'clock... She couldn't see the back door
for the giant wall of unidentifiable machinery in the
way, all thick pipes and metal shielding, but Carlos had
said she'd have to run around some equipment. She
veered right—
—and stopped in her tracks, staring at the mon-
strous apparatus that Carlos had mistaken for a genera-
tor. It was some kind of a laser cannon, huge,
cylindrical, she'd seen them before but not even half
the size—it was at least ten feet high and twenty long,
and as big around as a table for six. Dozens of cables
led from various outlets to the wall of machinery she
stood next to, and it was aimed approximately at the
front door, making her wonder what the hell they'd
tested it on...
The back door slammed open. Jill reflexively
pointed the Beretta and saw Carlos standing there, the
whining sound of a revving helicopter outside.
"Jill, come on!"
He was obviously glad to see her, but she could read
the urgency in his face, a reminder of what was coming
as the door closed behind him.
She jogged toward him in the sudden silence, shak-
ing her head. "Sorry, I was surprised is all, that's a laser
cannon, biggest I ever—"
Ka-rash!
Near the ceiling by the front door, a giant mass ex-
ploded out of the wall, disappearing from their sight as
it fell to the floor behind the wall of machinery. Jill had
just an impression of a swollen, bulbous body sur-
rounded by claws and tentacles, and she knew that
she'd been right about the Nemesis. It was evolving.
A beat later there was another crash. Sparks crackled
and flew from a tall panel next to the entrance, and a
gurgling, warped howl erupted into the room, the cry of
the Nemesis, but horribly mutated, deeper, rougher—
"Come on!" Carlos shouted, and Jill ran to him as he
jerked at the handle on the back door—
—and it didn't open, and Jill noticed the small blink-
ing lights on the panel next to it and understood that the
Nemesis had shorted out the locking mechanisms.
They were locked in the warehouse with the thing
that had been the S.T.A.R.S. killer, and it was scream-
ing for blood.
TWENTY-EIGHT
CARLOS HEARD THE THING HOWL AND KNEW
what it was. He'd only caught a glimpse of the monster
on its way down, but it was big and badass, and he sus-
pected that they were screwed.
Jill raised her voice to a shout, and Carlos could only
barely hear her over the Nemesis's seemingly endless
scream.
"Where's the .357?"
Carlos shook his head. He had the M16, but he'd
stowed the heavy revolver and the rest of the rifle's
magazines on the helicopter.
"Grenade gun?" he shouted back, and it was Jill's
turn to shake her head.
A 9mm and maybe twenty rounds left for the rifle.
We'll have to blow open the door, it's our only chance—
Carlos knew better even as he thought it. The front
and back doors were heavy-duty, they'd have better
luck blowing a hole in the wall—
—and the answer hit him, and he saw that Jill al-
ready had it from the way she was staring at him, eyes
wide and blinking.
The Nemesis-monster's howl was winding down, but
a horrible, wet slurping noise had begun, the sound of
something vast and sticky moving slowly and steadily
across concrete.
It's coming for her.
"Can you operate it?" Carlos asked, already steeling
himself for a confrontation with whatever the Nemesis
had become.
"Maybe, but—"
Carlos cut her off. "I'm going to distract it—get that
thing running and let me know when to duck."
Before Jill could protest, Carlos hurried past her, de-
termined to do whatever he could to keep it from get-
ting to her, at least it's slower than it was, if I can just
slow it down a little more—
He reached the end of the wall of equipment, took
a deep breath, stepped around the corner—and cried
out in involuntary disgust at the oozing, undulating
mass that crept and crawled toward him, pulling it-
self along with clawed, shapeless appendages the
color of blisters. Fleshy lumps rose and fell like bub-
bles in a pot of stew along its twisted back, thin,
black fluid trickling from dozens of tiny slits on its
body, wetting the floor, lubricating its meaty pas-
sage.
Carlos picked a slightly raised lump on top of the
giant, pulsing creature and opened fire, the rounds
splashing into the fleshy surface like pebbles into a
stream, tat tat tat—
—and lightning fast, one of the tentacles at the front
of the body lashed out, slapping Carlos's legs hard
enough to knock him down.
Carlos scrambled backwards through the pain in his
side, awed by its incredible speed and not a little afraid.
The bulk of it moved slowly, but its reflexes were in-
sanely fast, and it had reached across three meters of
open space to knock him down, seemingly without
strain.
"Puta madre," he breathed, the worst curse he could
think of as he rolled to his feet and backed away. It was
already to the corner of the metal wall, ten meters or
less from the cannon where Jill was wildly slapping at
switches. He'd distracted it about as effectively as a fly
distracted an airplane. How much time do we have left
before daybreak—
Suddenly, it howled again, a chorus of sound, each
small, leaking slit on its body gaping open, a thousand
mouths screaming, creating a trumpeting, deafening
roar.
It wasn't going to stop. Carlos backed further away
and opened fire again, a waste of bullets, but there was
nothing else he could do—
—and then he heard the powerful, rising hum of a
mighty turbine spinning fast and faster, and Jill was
screaming for him to move, and Carlos moved.
She hadn't been able to find the power main, no but-
tons or cords to connect, and she didn't know enough
about machines to figure it out. She'd seen Carlos fall
and her heart had stopped, but she'd forced herself to
keep trying, knowing it was all they had.
After a second frantic, desperate search she'd found
the power switches on its base, and the machine had
thrummed to beautiful, wonderful life.
"Move!" Jill shouted, pushing the levers that slowly
and precisely raised the cannon, its movements spelled
out digitally on a small screen next to the base. She
could feel the energy building, the ah" around her heat-
ing up, and as Carlos got out of the way and the Neme-
sis-entity slithered out into the open, she found herself
positively thrilled, almost overcome with an intense
and violent sense of self-satisfaction.
It had killed Brad Vickers and tracked her merci-
lessly through the city. It had murdered the rescue team
and stranded them in Raccoon, it had infected her with
disease, it had terrorized her and wounded Carlos—and
that it had been programmed to do these things didn't
matter; she hated it with everything inside of her, de-
spised it more than anything she'd ever despised.
The mutated, aberrant thing inched forward on a
wave of slime as the cannon's hum reached an explo-
sive crescendo, the sound drowning out everything.
Jill's words went unheard, even by her.
"You want S.T.A.R.S., I'll give you S.T.A.R.S., you
piece of shit," she said, and slammed her hand down on
the activation switch.
TWENTY-NINE
A BRILLIANT LIGHT, WHITE BUT SHADED
with electrically searing orange and blue, burst from
the end of the laser cannon in a beam of concentrated
fury. Arcs of heat and light stormed over the body of
the cannon like miniature bolts of lightning, and the
laser found the once-Nemesis's writhing, pulsating
body and began to eat.
The creature that had once been the pride of Um-
brella's development section whined and thrashed,
flailing its multiple limbs in a frenzy of agonized
confusion. The tight beam of light bored into its
flesh, as-relentless as it had proved, melting layers of
tissue and soldering harder materials—bone and car-
tilage and pliable metal—into fused and useless
lumps.
The creature began to smolder, then smoke, and
as the brain stem inside of it withered and cooked,
the Nemesis ceased to exist, its program wiped, its
improbable heart finally bursting silently, deep in-
side.
A few seconds later, the cannon overheated and shut
itself down.
THIRTY
THE HELICOPTER LIFTED UP AND AWAY, A
little jerky at first, but Carlos quickly found his bal-
ance. The first streaks of real light were swelling into
the eastern sky as the doomed city fell behind them. It
seemed so strange to finally be on their way, after
days of wanting it so badly, of working toward noth-
ing else.
"Nicholai's dead," Jill said, her voice cool and clear
over the headset. It was the first thing she'd said since
they'd taken off. "The Nemesis got him."
"No great loss," Carlos replied and meant it.
They fell into silence again, Carlos content to just fly
for the moment, give himself a chance to be still. He
was dog-tired and wanted only to get as far away from
Raccoon as possible before the missiles hit.
After a moment, Jill reached across and placed her
hand over his, and that was okay, too.
Jill held Carlos's hand as the sun inched slowly up
over the horizon, turning the sky magnificent shades of
pink and gray and lemon yellow. It was lovely, and Jill
found that, as hard as she tried, she couldn't feel sorry
that Raccoon was about to be dusted. It had been her
home for a while, but it had become pain and death for
thousands of people, and she thought that blasting it to
hell and gone was probably the best thing that could
happen to it.
Neither of them spoke as the sun continued to rise,
as the miles flew beneath them, forests and farms and
empty roads appearing fresh and bright in the gently
warming light.
When the sky flashed white and the sound wave hit
them a moment later, Jill didn't look back.
EPILOGUE
TRENT HAD HIS HANDS FULL FOR MOST OF
the day, listening in on the spindoc meetings, arrang-
ing for media sympathy with a few of their bought
networks, and explaining the difference between
HARMs—the air to surface missiles that the army had
used on Raccoon—and SRAMs to the three heads of
White Umbrella. Jackson, in particular, was unhappy
that the larger tactical missiles hadn't been used; he
didn't seem to understand that a deliberate nuclear in-
cident within the United States had to be kept as small
and contained as possible. Ironic, that a man with so
much wealth and power could be so oblivious to the
reality he had helped create.
Trent finally had a few moments to himself in the
early evening, after a final review of the Watchdog re-
ports. He took a cup of coffee out onto the balcony of
the rooms he used when he was at the DC offices. The
brisk twilight was refreshing after a day of recycled air
and fluorescent lights.
From twenty stories up, the city below seemed un-
real, sounds distant and features blurred. Gazing out
at nothing in particular, Trent sipped his coffee and
thought about all he'd witnessed in the past few days
from the shielded privacy of his home. Umbrella's
few dozen stationary remotes in Raccoon had had
nothing on the satellite pirate that piped information
to his private screening room; he'd been able to follow
several dramas that had unfolded in the last hours of
the city.
There had been the rookie policeman, Kennedy, and
Chris Redfield's sister—the two of them had barely es-
caped the lab explosion, managing to save Sherry
Birkin, the young daughter of one of Umbrella's top re-
search scientists, of all people. Trent hadn't had contact
with any of them, but he knew that Leon Kennedy and
Claire Redfield had become part of the fight. They
were young, determined, and filled with a hatred for
Umbrella; he couldn't have asked for better.
Trent's high hopes for Carlos Oliveira had been well
met, and that he had joined forces with Jill Valen-
tine ... Trent had been utterly transfixed by their es-
cape, pleased that two of his unwitting soldiers had
worked so well together, surviving in spite of Jill's in-
fection, the lunatic Russian, and the S.T.A.R.S. seeker.
Use of the experimental Tyrant-like units was still in
question by many of the White Umbrella researchers;
for as deadly efficient as they usually were, they were
also very expensive, and Trent knew that the debates
would go on, fueled by the loss of two units in the de-
struction of the city.
Ada Wong, though...
Trent sighed, wishing that she had survived. The tall,
beautiful, Asian-American agent he had sent in had
been as brilliant as she was competent. He hadn't actu-
ally seen her die, but the chances that she had escaped
both the lab explosion and the complete obliteration of
Raccoon were slim to none. Unfortunate, to say the
least.
Overall, though, Trent was satisfied with how things
were progressing. As far as he could tell, no one in the
company had the slightest inkling of who he really was
or what he was doing. The three most powerful men in
Umbrella relied on him more and more every day, com-
pletely unaware of his agenda—to destroy the organi-
zation, from without and within, to devastate its
leaders' lives and deliver them to justice; to organize an
elite army of men and women committed to Umbrella's
downfall, and to guide them as much as he was able in
their quest.
If his methods were complicated, the reason was
simple: to avenge the death of his parents, both scien-
tists, murdered when he was a child so that Umbrella
could profit from their research.
Trent smiled to himself, taking another sip from his
mug. It sounded so melodramatic, so grandiose. It had
been almost thirty years since his parents had been
burned alive in the alleged laboratory accident. He'd
left the pain behind long ago—his resolve, however,
had never faltered. He'd changed his name, his back-
ground, given up any hope of ever having a normal
life—and regretted nothing, even now that he shared
responsibility for the deaths of so many.
It was getting dark. Far below, streetlights were
flickering on, sending up a soft glow that would radiate
out into the night sky like a halo above the city. In its
own way, it was quite beautiful.
Trent finished his coffee and absently traced the Um-
brella logo on the side of the cup with his fingers,
thinking about darkness and light, good and evil, and
the shades of gray that existed in between everything.
He needed to be very careful, and not just to avoid
being discovered; it was those shades of gray that wor-
ried him.
After a few moments, Trent turned his back on the
gathering dark and went inside. He still had a lot to do
before he could go home.