Chapter Sixteen
It could have once been a spider, if spiders ever got to be the size of cattle. From the thick layer of white web that covered the room, floor to ceiling, it couldn't have been anything else.
Jill stared down at the curled, bristling legs of the abomination, her skin crawling. The creature that had attacked her by the courtyard entrance had been terrifying, but so alien that she hadn't been able to relate it to anything. Spiders, on the other hand. . . she already hated them, hated their dark, bustling bodies and skittering legs. This one had been the mother of all of them and even dead, it frightened her.
Hasn't been dead long, though. . .
She forced herself to look at it, at the slick puddles of greenish ichor that dripped from the holes in its rounded, hairy body. It had been shot several times and from the noxious ooze that seeped from the wounds, she guessed that it had still been alive and crawling not twenty minutes ago, maybe less.
She shuddered and stepped away toward the double metal doors that led out of the webbed chamber.
Whispering streams of the sticky stuff clung to her boots, making it a struggle to move. She took careful, deliberate steps, determined not to fall. The thought of being covered in spider web, having it clinging to her entire body. . . she shuddered again, swallowing thickly.
Think about something else, anything.
At least she knew she was on the right track, and close behind whoever had triggered the tunnel mechanism. Neat trick, that. When she'd reached the area where the pit had been, she'd thought that maybe she'd gotten lost after all. The gaping hole had been gone, smooth stone in its place. Looking up, she'd seen the ragged edges of the pit suspended overhead; the entire center section of the tunnel had been flipped over, turned like a giant wheel by some miracle of engineering.
The doors had led to another straight, empty tunnel. A giant boulder stood at one end, and past that, the room she was about to leave.
Jill grabbed the handle of one of the doors and pushed it open, stumbling out into yet another gloomy passage. She leaned back against the door and breathed deeply, barely resisting the urge to brush wildly at her clothes.
I can blow away zombies and monsters with the best of 'em; show me a spider and I lose my freaking mind.
The short, empty tunnel ran left to right in front of her, a door at either end, but the door to her left was set into the same wall as the one she'd just exited, leading back toward the courtyard. Jill opted for the one on the right, hoping that her sense of direction was still intact.
The metal door creaked open and she stepped in, feeling the change in the air immediately. The tunnel split in front of her. To the right, a thickening of shadow where the rock walls opened into another corridor. But to her left was a small elevator shaft like the ones in the courtyard. A warm, delicious wind swept down and over her, the sweet air like a forgotten dream.
Jill grinned and started for the shaft, seeing that the lift's platform had been taken up. Chances were good that she was still on the trail of Enrico's killer. . . . . . but maybe not. Maybe he went the other way, and you're about to lose him.
Jill hesitated, gazing wistfully at the small shaftand then turned around, sighing. She had to at least take a look.
She walked into the stone corridor that stretched in front of her, the temperature immediately dropping back to the now familiar unpleasant chill. The tunnel extended several feet to her right and dead ended. To her left, a massive, rounded boulder like the one she'd seen before marked the other end, a good hundred feet away. And there was something small laying in front of it, something blue. . .
Frowning, Jill walked toward the giant rock, trying to make out the blue object. Halfway down the dim tunnel was an offshoot to the left, and she recognized the metal plate next to it as the same kind of mechanism that had moved the pit.
She stepped into the small offshoot, examining the worn stones at its opening. There was a small door to her right, and Jill realized that the passage and room could be hidden by way of the mechanism, the walls turned to block the entrance.
Jeez, it must've taken them years to set all this up.
And to think I was impressed with the house. . .
She opened the door and looked inside. A midsized square room of rough stone, a statue of a bird on a pedestal the only decoration. There was no other exit, and Jill felt a sudden rush of relief as the implications sank in. She could leave the underground tunnels; the killer had to have left already.
Smiling, she stepped back out into the corridor and started toward the giant rock, still curious about the blue thing. As she got closer, she saw that it was a book, bound in blue-dyed leather. It had been thrown carelessly against the base of the stone, laying face down and open. She slung the Remington across her back and crouched down to pick it up.
It was a book-box. Her father had told her about them, though she'd never actually seen one. There was a cut-away section of pages behind the cover where valuables could be hidden, though this one was empty.
She flipped it closed, tracing the gold-leaf letters of the title, Eagle of East, Wolf of West, as she started back toward the elevator. Didn't sound like much of a thriller, though it was nicely bound.
Snick.
Jill froze as the stone beneath her left foot sank down a tiny bit-and she realized at the same instant that the entire tunnel gently sloped away from where she was standing. -oh noBehind her, a deep, thundering sound of rock grating against rock.
Dropping the book, Jill sprinted for cover, arms and legs pumping as the rumbling grew louder, the tripped boulder picking up momentum. The dark opening of the offshoot seemed miles away - -won 't make it, gonna die- and she could almost feel the tons of stone bearing down on her, wanted desperately to look but knew that the split-second difference would kill her.
In a final, desperate burst of speed she dove for the opening, crashing to the floor and jerking her legs in as the massive rock rolled past, missing her by inches. Even as she drew in her next gasping breath, the boulder hit the end of the tunnel with an explosive, bone-jarring crunch that shook the underground passage.
For a moment, it was all she could do to huddle against the cold floor and not throw up. When that passed, she slowly got to her feet and dusted herself off. The heels of her hands were abraded and both her knees bruised from the running dive, but compared to being smashed flat by a big rock, she thought she had definitely made the right choice.
Jill unstrapped the Remington and headed for the elevator shaft, very much looking forward to leaving the underground behind and keeping her fingers crossed that whatever came next, it wouldn't be cold.
And that there wouldn't be any spiders.
The basement was flooded, all right.
Chris stood at the top of a short ramp that led to the basement doors, staring down at his own unsmiling face reflected off of the shimmering water. It looked cold. And deep.
After he'd left Rebecca, he'd continued down the hall and found room 003 at the end, the ladder to the basement level tucked discreetly behind a bookcase in the neatly kept bedroom. He'd descended into a chilled concrete corridor with buzzing fluorescent lights overhead, a dramatic change from the plain wood and simple style of the bunkhouse above.
At least I found the basement.
It appeared that killing Plant 42 was their only option for escape after all. He'd seen no other exit from the bunkhouse, which meant that it had to be past the plant's room or else there was no back door, a thought that left him distinctly unsettled. It didn't seem possible, but then, neither did a carnivorous plant.
And you won't find out until you get this over with.
Chris sighed, and stepped into the water. It was cold, and had an unpleasant chemical smell. He waded down to the door, the water sliding up over his knees and finally stopping at mid-thigh, sloshing gently. Shivering, he pushed the door open and moved inside.
&n
bsp; The basement was dominated by a giant glass-fronted tank in the center of the room that extended floor to ceiling, a large, jagged hole toward the bottom right-hand side. Chris wasn't that good at judging volume, but to fill the whole area with water, he figured that the tank had to have held several thousands of gallons.
What the hell were they studying that they needed that much? Tidal waves?
It didn't matter; he was cold, and he wanted to find what he needed to find and get back to dry land. He started off toward the left, slowly, straining against the push and pull of the gently lapping waves.
It was totally unreal, wading through a well-lit concrete room, though he supposed it was no stranger than anything else he'd experienced since the Alpha 'copter had set down. Everything about the Spencer estate had a dream-like feel to it, as if it existed in its own reality far removed from the rest of the world's. . .
Try nightmare-like. Killer plants, giant snakes, the walking dead-all that's missing is a flying saucer, maybe a dinosaur.
He heard a soft sloshing behind him and glanced over his shoulder. . . . . . to see a thick, triangular fin rise up from the water twenty feet away and slide toward him, a wavering gray shadow beneath.
Panic shot through him, an all-encompassing panic that seared away rational thought. He took a giant, running step and realized that he couldn't run as he plunged face first into the cold, chemical water and came up gasping, spluttering tainted liquid from his nose and mouth, hoping to God Rebecca was right about the virus having burned itself out.
He whipped his head around, eyes burning, searching for the fin and saw that it had halved the distance between them. He could see it now - a shark, its rippling, distorted body sliding easily through the water, ten or twelve feet long, its broad tail lashing it forward - the black, soulless eyes set above its pointed grin. -wet bullets misfireChris stumbled away backwards, knowing that he didn't stand a chance of outrunning it. Wheeling his arms for balance, he sloshed heavily through the dragging water, turning himself sideways and managing a few more steps before the shark was on top of him. . . . . . and he leaped to the side, dodging the animal and slapping the water as violently as he could, churning it into foaming waves. The shark slid past him, its smooth, heavy body brushing against his leg.
As soon as it was past, Chris stumbled after it, splashing wildly to keep up as he turned the corner in the flooded room. If he could stay close enough, it wouldn't be able to turn, to get at him - except that in seconds, the shark would have the room to maneuver. He could see two doors ahead on the left but the giant fish was already leaving him behind, heading toward the next corner to turn around and come back for him.
Chris took a deep breath and plunged into the water, knowing it was crazy but that he didn't have a better chance. He stroked desperately toward the first door, kicking off against the cement floor to propel himself forward in great, bounding leaps.
He hit the door just as the shark was turning up ahead and grabbed for the handle, choking - - and it was locked.
Shit, shit, shit!!!
Chris jammed his hand into his wet vest and came up with Alias's keys, fumbling through them as the fin glided closer, the wide, pointed grin opening.
He shoved a key into the lock, the last key on the ring that he hadn't found the room for, and slammed his shoulder against the door at the same time, the shark now only a few feet away.
The door flew open and Chris stumbled in, falling and kicking frantically. His boot connected solidly with the shark's fleshy snout, deflecting it from the opening. In a flash, he was on his feet. He threw his weight into the door and in a slap of water, it was closed.
He sagged against the door, wiping at his stinging eyes with the back of his hand. The lapping water settled gently into smaller and smaller ripples as he caught his breath and his vision cleared. For now, he was safe.
He unholstered his Beretta and ejected the dripping magazine, wondering how the hell he was going to make it back upstairs. Looking around the small room, he saw nothing he could use as a weapon. One wall was lined with buttons and switches, and he trudged over to look at them, drawn to a blinking red light in the far corner.
Looks like I found a control room. . . aces. Maybe I can turn off the lights and get the shark to go to sleep.
There was a lever set next to the flashing light and Chris stared down at the faded tape beneath it, feeling a numb disbelief as he read the printed letters.
Emergency Drainage System.
You've gotta be kidding me! Why didn't anyone pull this thing the second the tank broke?
The answer occurred to him even as he thought it.
The people who worked here were scientists; no way they were going to turn down the opportunity to study their precious Plant 42, sucking up water from the man-made lake.
Chris grabbed the lever and pushed it down. There was a sliding, metallic noise outside the door-and immediately, the water level started to drop. Within a minute, the last of it had flowed out from under the door and a gurgling, liquid gasp came from the direction of the broken tank.
He walked back to the door, opening it carefully and heard the frantic, wet thumps of a very big fish trying to swim through air.
Chris grinned, thinking that he should probably feel pity for the helpless creature and hoping instead that it died a long, agonizing death.
Bite me, he whispered.
Wesker had shot four of the shuffling, gasping Umbrella workers on his way to the computer room on level three. He hadn't recognized any of them, though he was pretty sure that the second one he'd taken out had been Steve Keller, one of the guys from Special Research. Steve always wore penny loafers, and the pallid, dried-up husk that had reached for him by the stairs had been wearing Steve's brand.
It appeared that the effects of the viral spill had been harsher in the labs. . . less messy, but no less disquieting. The creatures that roamed the halls outside seemed to have been totally dehydrated, their limbs withered and stringy, their eyes like shriveled grapes. Wesker had dodged several of them, but the ones he'd been forced to put down had scarcely bled at all.
He sat at the computer in the cool, sterile room and waited for the system to boot up, feeling truly on top of things for the first time all day. He'd had earlier moments, of course. The way he'd handled Barry, finding the wolf medal in the tunnels - even shooting Ellen Smith in the face had given him a momentary sense of accomplishment, a feeling that he was in control of what was happening. But so much had gone wrong along the way that he hadn't had time to enjoy any of his successes.
But now I'm here. If the S. T. A. R. S. aren't already dead, they will be soon and assuming I don't suffer some massive lapse of skill, I'll be out of here within half an hour, mission complete.
There were still dangers, but Wesker could handle them. The mesh monkeys - the Ma2s - were undoubtedly loose in the power room, but they were easy enough to get past, as long as you didn't stop running; he should know, he'd helped come up with the design. And there was the big man, the Tyrant, waiting one level down in his glass shell, sleeping the sweet, dreamless sleep of the damned. . . . . . From which he'll surely never wake. What a waste. So much power, crossed off as a failure by the boys at White. . .
A gentle musical tone informed him that the system was ready. Wesker pulled a notebook out of his vest and opened it to the list of codes, though he already knew them; John Howe had set the system up months ago, using his name and the name of his girlfriend, Ada, as access keys.
Wesker tapped out the first of the passwords that would allow him to unlock the laboratory doors, feeling a sudden, vague wistfulness for the excitement of the day. It would be over so soon and there would be no one to witness his achievements, to share his fond memories after the fact.
Now that he thought about it, it was a shame that none of the S. T. A. R. S. would be joining him; the only thing better than a grand finale was a grand finale with an
audience. . .