Chapter Nine
CAW! Jill whipped her Beretta toward the sound, the mournful shriek echoing all around as the door slipped closed behind her. Then she saw the source of the noise and relaxed, smiling nervously.
What the hell are they doing in here?
She was still in the back part of the house, and had decided to check out a few of the other rooms before heading back to the main hall. The first door she'd tried had been locked, a carving of a helmet on the key plate. Her picks had been useless, the lock a type she'd never encountered, so she'd decided to try her luck on the door across the hall. It had opened easily enough, and she'd gone in ready for anything, though about the last thing she'd expected to see was a flock of crows, perched along the support bar for the track lighting that ran the length of the room.
Another of the large black birds let out its morose shriek, and Jill shivered at the sound. There were at least a dozen of them, ruffling their shiny feathers and watching her with bright, beady eyes as she quickly surveyed the room for threats; it was clear.
The U-shaped chamber she'd entered was as cold as the rest of the house, perhaps colder, and empty of furniture. It was a viewing hall, nothing but portraits and paintings lining the inner wall. Black feathers lay scattered across the worn wooden floor amidst dried mounds of bird droppings, and Jill wondered again how the crows had gotten inside, and how long they'd been there. There was definitely something strange about their appearance; they seemed much larger than normal crows, and they studied her with an intensity that seemed almost unnatural.
Jill shivered again, turning back toward the door.
There wasn't anything important in the room, and the birds were giving her the creeps. Time to move on.
She glanced at a few of the paintings on her way out, mostly portraits, noticing that there were switches beneath the heavy frames - she assumed they were for the track lighting, though she couldn't imagine why anyone had bothered setting up such an elaborate gallery for such mediocre art. A baby, a young man. . . the paintings weren't awful, but they weren't exactly inspired, either.
She stopped as she touched the cold metal handle of the door, frowning. There was a small, inset control panel set at eye level to the right of the door, labeled spots. She punched one of the buttons and the room dimmed as a single directional light went out.
Several of the crows barked their disapproval, fluttering ebony wings, and Jill turned the light back on, thinking.
So if these are the light switches, what are the controls beneath the paintings for?
Perhaps there was more to the room than she'd thought. She walked to the first picture across from the door, a large painting of flying angels and clouds shot with sunbeams. The title was, From Cradle to Grave. There wasn't a switch below it, and Jill moved to the next.
It was a portrait of a middle-aged man, his lined features sagging with exhaustion, standing next to an elaborate fireplace. From the cut of his suit and his slicked back hair, it looked to have been painted in the late 1940s or early '50s. There was a simple on/off switch underneath, unlabeled. Jill flicked it from left to right and heard an electrical snap and behind her, the crows exploded into screaming motion, rising as one from their brooding perch.
All she could hear was the beat of their dark wings and the sudden, manic ferocity of their cries as they swarmed toward her and Jill ran, the door seeming a million miles away, her heart pounding. The first of the crows reached her as she grabbed for the handle, its claws finding the soft skin at the back of her neck. There was a sharp stab of pain just behind her right ear and Jill flailed at the rustling feathers that brushed her cheeks, moaning as the furious shrieks enveloped her. She slapped at the air behind her and was rewarded with a startled squawk of surprise. The bird let go of her, reeling away. -too many, out out OUTShe jerked the door open and fell into the hallway, kicking the door closed even as she hit the floor. She lay there a moment, catching her breath, relishing the cool silence of the corridor in spite of the zombie stench. None of the crows had gotten out.
As her heartbeat returned to something approaching normal, she sat up and carefully touched the wound behind her ear. Her fingers came away wet, but it wasn't too bad, the blood was already clotting; she'd been lucky. When she thought of what could have happened if she'd tripped and fallen. . .
Why had they attacked, what had the control switch done? She remembered the snap of electricity when she'd flipped it, the sound of a spark-the perch!
She felt a sudden rush of grudging admiration for whoever had set up the simple trap. When she'd hit the switch, she must have sent a current through the metal bar they'd been perched on. She'd never heard of attack-trained crows, but could think of no other explanation-which meant that someone had gone through a lot of trouble to keep whatever was in that room a secret. To get to the answer, she'd have to go back in.
I can stand in the doorway, take them out one at a time. . . She didn't much like the idea, she didn't trust her aim and would certainly waste a lot of ammunition.
Only fools accept the obvious and go no further; use your brain, Jilly.
Jill smiled a little; it was her father talking, reminding her of the training she'd had before the S. T. A. R. S.
One of her earliest memories was of hiding in the bushes outside the rickety old house in Massachusetts that her father had rented for them, studying the dark, empty windows as he explained how to properly case a prospect. Dick had made it into a game, teaching her over the next ten years all the finer points of breaking and entering, everything from how to remove panes of glass without damaging them to walking on stairs so they didn't creak and he'd also taught her, again and again, that every riddle had more than one answer.
Killing the birds was too obvious. She closed her eyes, concentrating.
Switches and portraits. . . a little boy, a toddler, a young man, a middle-aged man. . .
From Cradle to Grave. Cradle to grave. . .
Once the solution occurred to her, she was almost embarrassed by the simplicity of it. She stood up and dusted herself off, wondering how long it would take for the crows to return to their roost. Once they were settled, she shouldn't have any more problems uncovering the secret.
She cracked the door open and listened to the whispering beat of wings, promising herself to be more careful this time. Pushing the wrong button in this house could be deadly.
Rebecca? Let me in, it's Chris.
There was the sound of something heavy sliding against the wall and the door to the storage room creaked opened. Rebecca stepped away from the entrance as he hurried inside, already pulling the diary out of his vest.
I found this journal in one of the rooms, he said.
It looks like there was some kind of research going on here, I don't know what kind but. . .
Virology, Rebecca interrupted, and held up a stack of papers, grinning. You were right about there being something useful in here.
Chris took the papers from her and skimmed the first page. As far as he could tell, it was in a foreign language made out of numbers and letters.
What is all this stuff? DH5a-MCR. . .
You're looking at a strain chart, Rebecca said brightly. That one's a host for generating genomic libraries containing methylated cytosine or adenine residues, depending.
Chris cocked an eyebrow at her. Let's pretend that I have no idea what you're talking about and try again. What did you find?
Rebecca flushed slightly and took the papers back from him. Sorry. Basically, there's a lot of, uh, stuff in here on viral infection.
Chris nodded. That I understand; a virus. . .
He quickly flipped through the journal, counting the dates from the first report of the accident in the lab. On May eleventh, there was some kind of spill or outbreak in a laboratory on this estate. Within eight or nine days, whoever wrote this had turned into one of those creatures out there.
Re
becca's eyes widened. Does it say when the first symptoms appeared?
Looks like. . . within twenty-four hours, he or she was complaining of itchy skin. Swelling and blisters within forty-eight hours.
Rebecca paled. That's. . . wow.
Chris nodded. Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Is there any way to tell if we could be infected?
Not without more information. All of that. . .
Rebecca motioned at the trunk full of papers,. . . is pretty old, ten years plus, and there's nothing specific about application. Though an airborne with that kind of speed and toxicity. . . if it was still viable, all of Raccoon City would probably be infected by now. I can't be positive, but I doubt it's still contagious.
Chris was relieved for himself and the rest of the S. T. A. R. S. , but the fact that the zombies were all victims of a disease - it was depressing, whether it was a disaster of their own making or not.
We have to find the others, he said. If one of them should stumble across the lab without knowing what's there. . .
Rebecca looked stricken at the thought, but nodded gamely and moved quickly toward the door. Chris decided that, with a little experience, she'd make a first-rate S. T. A. R. S. member; she obviously knew her chemistry, and even without a gun, she was willing to leave the relative safety of the storage room in order to help the rest of the team.
Together, they hurried through the dark, wooded hallway, Rebecca sticking close to his side. When they reached the door back to the first hallway, Chris checked his Beretta and then turned to Rebecca.
Stay close. The door we want is to the right and at the end of the hall. I'll probably have to shoot the lock, and I'm pretty sure there's a zombie or two wandering around, so I'll need you to watch my back.
Yes, sir, she said quietly, and Chris grinned in spite of the situation. Technically, he was her superior - still, it was weird to have it pointed out.
He opened the door and stepped through, training his gun on the shadows straight ahead and then down the hall to the right. Nothing moved.
Go, he whispered, and they jogged down the corridor, quickly stepping over the fallen creature that blocked their path. Rebecca turned to face the open stretch behind them as Chris rattled the door knob, hoping vainly that it had unlocked itself.
No such luck. He backed away from the door and took careful aim. Firing at a locked door wasn't as easy or safe as it looked in the movies; a ricochet off of metal at such close range could kill the shooter Chris!
He glanced over his shoulder and saw a shambling figure at the other end of the hall, moving slowly toward them. Even in the dim light, Chris could see that one of its arms was missing. The distinctive odor of decay wafted toward them as the zombie moaned thickly, stumbling forward.
Chris turned back to the door and fired, twice. The frame splintered, the inset metal square of the lock revealed in a spray of wood chips. He jerked at the knob and the lock gave up, the door swinging open.
He turned and grabbed at Rebecca's arm, hustling her through the doorway as he pointed the Beretta back down the hall. The creature had made it halfway, but was stopped at the lifeless body of the zombie that Chris had killed earlier. Even as Chris watched in horror and disgust, the one-armed zombie dropped to its knees and plunged its remaining hand into the other's crushed skull. It moaned again, a wet, phlegmy sound, and brought a handful of slushy gray matter to its eager lips.
Oh, man.
Chris shuddered involuntarily and hurriedly stepped through to join Rebecca, closing the door on the gruesome scene. Rebecca was pale but seemed composed, and again, Chris admired her courage; she was young but tough, tougher than he'd been at eighteen.
He took in the hall at a glance, immediately noticing the changes. To their right about twenty feet away was a corpse of one of the creatures, the top of its head blown away. It lay face up, the deep sockets of its eyes filled with blood. To their left were the two doors that Chris hadn't tried when he'd first come to investigate. The one at the very end of the hall was standing open, revealing deep shadows.
At least one of the S. T. A. R. S. came this way, probably looking for me.
Follow me, he said softly, and moved toward the open door, holding the Beretta tightly. He wanted to get back to the main hall with Rebecca, but the fact that one of his team must have gone through the opening deserved a quick look.
As they passed the closed door on the right, Rebecca hesitated. There's a picture of a sword next to the lock, she whispered.
He kept his attention on the darkness just past the open door, but realized as she spoke that there were too many ways for them to get side-tracked. He didn't think the rest of the team was still waiting for him, but his original orders had been to report back to the lobby; he shouldn't be leading an unarmed rookie into unknown territory without at least checking.
Chris sighed, lowering his weapon. Let's get back to the main hall, he said. We can come back and check it out later.
Rebecca nodded and together they walked back toward the dining room, Chris hoping against hope that someone would be there to meet them.
Barry pointed his Colt toward the crawling ghoul and fired, the heavy round splattering the thing's mushy skull into liquid even as it reached for his boot.
Tiny drops of wetness splashed his face as the zombie spasmed and died. Scowling, Barry wiped at his skin with the back of his hand. The tiny white tiles of the kitchen wall got it much worse, rivulets of red coursing down the grouted tracks and pooling to the faded brown linoleum. Still, it was pretty disgusting.
Barry lowered the revolver, feeling the ache in his left shoulder. The door upstairs had been solidly locked, he had the bruises to prove it and staring down at the zombie hash in front of him, he realized that he was going to have to go back up and break down another one. If he hadn't been certain before, he was now - Chris hadn't come this way. If he had, the crawling creature would already have been history.
So where the hell are you, Chris?
Of the three locked doors, Barry had picked the one at the end of the hall on pure instinct. He'd ended up in a dark, silent hall that led past an empty elevator shaft and down a narrow set of stairs. The bare white kitchen at the bottom had seemed deserted, the counters thick with dust and corrosion stains on the walls - no sign of recent use, no sign of Chris, and the single door across from the sink had been locked.
He'd been about to leave when he'd noticed the trails of disturbed dust on the floor and followed them.
Sighing heavily, Barry stepped over the stinking monster, a final check before he headed back up for door number two. There were some stacked crates and the same old-fashioned elevator shaft, also empty. He didn't bother with the call button since the one upstairs hadn't worked. Besides, judging from the rust on the metal grate, no one had used it in quite awhile.
He turned back the way he'd come, wondering how Jill was making out. The sooner they could get away, the better. Barry had never disliked any place as much as he did this mansion. It was cold, it was dangerous, and it smelled like a meat locker that had been unplugged for a week. He generally wasn't the type to frighten easily or let his imagination get out of hand, but he half-expected to see some white-sheeted spook rattling chains every time he turned around.
There was a distant echoing clatter behind him.
Barry spun, a knot of dread in his gut as he pointed his weapon randomly at the empty air, his eyes wide and mouth dry. There was another metallic clatter, followed by a low, throbbing hum of machinery.
Barry took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, getting a hold of himself. Not a disembodied spirit, after all; someone was using the elevator.
Who? Chris and Wesker are missing and Jill's in the other wing. . .
He stayed where he was, lowering the Colt slightly as he waited. He didn't think the ghouls were smart enough to work the buttons, let alone open the gate, but he didn't want to take any chances. He was a
good twenty feet from where the booth would open, assuming it stopped in the basement, and would have a clear shot at whoever stepped around the corner. A glimmer of hope sparked through his confusion; maybe it was one of the Bravos, or someone who lived here and could tell them what had happened.
With a dull dang, the elevator stopped in the kitchen. There was a squeal of dry metal hinges and footsteps and Captain Wesker stepped into view, his perpetual sunglasses propped on his tanned brow.
Barry lowered the revolver, grinning as cool relief swept over him. Wesker stopped in his tracks and grinned back at him.
Barry! Just the man I was looking for, he said lightly.
God, you gave me a scare! I heard the elevator start up and thought I was gonna have a heart attack. . . Barry trailed off, his grin faltering.
Captain, he said slowly, where did you go?
When we came back, you were gone.
Wesker's grin widened. Sorry about that. I had some business to attend to - you know, call of nature?
Barry smiled again, but was surprised by the confession; trapped in hostile territory, and the man had gone off to take a leak?
Wesker reached up and lowered his shades, breaking their eye contact, and Barry suddenly felt a little nervous. Wesker's grin, if anything, seemed to grow wider. It looked like every tooth was showing.
Barry, I need your help. Have you ever heard of White Umbrella?
Barry shook his head, feeling more uncomfortable by the second.
White Umbrella is a sector of Umbrella, Inc. , a very important division. They specialize in. . . biological research, I guess you could say. The Spencer estate houses their research facilities, and recently, an accident occurred.
Wesker brushed off a section of the kitchen's center island and casually leaned against it, his tone almost conversational.
This division of Umbrella has a few ties to the S. T. A. R. S. organization, and not long ago, I was asked to. . . assist in their handling of this situation.
It's a very delicate situation, mind you, very hush-hush;
White Umbrella doesn't want a whisper of their involvement getting out. "
Now, what I'm supposed to do is get to the laboratories on the grounds here and put an end to some rather incriminating evidence-proof that White Umbrella is responsible for the accident that's caused so much trouble in Raccoon as of late. The problem is, I don't have the key to get to those labskeys, actually. And that's where you come in. I need for you to help me find those keys.
Barry stared at him for a moment, speechless, his mind churning. An accident, a secret lab doing biological research. . . . . . and murdering dogs and zombies loose in the tvoods. . .
He raised his revolver and pointed it at Wesker's smiling face, stunned and angry. Are you insane?
You think I'm going to help you destroy evidence?
You crazy son of a bitch!
Wesker shook his head slowly, acting as if Barry were a child. Ah, Barry, you don't understand; you don't have a choice in the matter. See, a few of my friends from White Umbrella are currently standing outside of your house, watching your wife and daughters sleep. If you don't help me, your family is going to die.
Barry could actually feel the blood drain from his face. He cocked the hammer back on the Colt, feeling a sudden, vicious hatred for Wesker infusing every fiber of his being.
Before you pull the trigger, I should mention that if I don't report back to my friends fairly soon, their orders are to go ahead and do the deed anyway.
The words cut through the red haze that had flooded Barry's mind, turning his hands clammy with terror.
Kathy, the babies - I. . .
You're bluffing, he whispered, and Wesker's grin finally disappeared, his expression slipping back into the unreadable mask that he usually wore.
I'm not, he said coldly. Try me. You can apologize to their headstones later.
For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence a palpable thing in the chill air. Then Barry slowly eased the hammer back down and lowered the weapon, his shoulders slumped. He couldn't, wouldn 't risk it; his family was everything.
Wesker nodded and reached into one of his pockets, producing a ring of keys, his manner suddenly brisk and business-like. There are four copper plates somewhere in this house. Each one is about the size of a teacup, and has a picture engraved on one side: sun, moon, stars, and wind. There's a back door on the other side of the mansion where the four of them belong.
He unhooked a key from the ring and set it on the table, sliding it across to Barry. This should open all of the doors in the other wing, or at least the important ones, first and second floor. Find those pieces for me and your wife and children will be fine.
Barry reached for the key with numb fingers, feeling weak and more afraid than he'd ever been in his life.
Chris and Jill. . . . . . will undoubtedly want to help you search. If you see either of them, tell them that the back door you've discovered could be the way out. I'm sure they'll be more than happy to work with their trusted friend, good ol' Barry. In fact, you should unlock every door you can in order to promote a more thorough job.
Wesker smiled again, a friendly half-grin that belied his words. Of course, you tell them you've seen me - that could complicate matters. If I run into trouble, say, get shot in the back. . . well, enough said. Let's just keep this to ourselves.
The key was etched with a little picture, a chest plate for a suit of armor. Barry slipped it into his pocket. Where will you be?
Oh, I'll be around, don't worry. I'll contact you when the time is right.
Barry looked at Wesker pleadingly, helpless to keep the wavering fear out of his voice. You'll tell them that I'm helping you, right? You won't forget to report?
Wesker turned and walked toward the elevator, calling out over his shoulder. Trust me, Barry. Do what I tell you, and there's nothing to worry about.
There was the rattle of the elevator's gate opening and closing, and Wesker was gone.
Barry stood a moment longer, staring into the empty space where Wesker had been, trying to find a way out of the threat. There wasn't one. There was no contest between his honor and his family; he could live without honor.
He set his jaw and walked back toward the stairs, determined to do what he had to do to save Kathy and the girls. Though when this was over, when he could be sure they were safe.
There won't be any place for you to hide, Captain.
Barry clenched his giant fists, knuckles whitening, and promised himself that Wesker would pay for what he was doing. With interest.