Chapter Seventeen
Jill had taken the elevator into what seemed to be another part of the garden or courtyard, although the area had been isolated, surrounded by trees; she'd guessed as much from the few overgrown potted plants and the welcome sounds of the forest beyond the low metal railing. There had been nothing to see but a rusting door set into a nondescript, overgrown wall, welded shut and a large, open well, like a stone wading pool. Inside had been a short, spiral staircase leading down to another small elevator.
Which I took, but now where the hell am I?
The room that the elevator had led to was unlike any other part of the estate she'd seen. It lacked the strange, fetid charm of the mansion, or the dripping gloom of the underground. It was as though she'd walked out of a gothic horror story and into a military complex, a utilitarian's bleak paradise.
She was standing in a large, steel-reinforced concrete room, the walls painted a muddy industrial orange. Metal ducts and overhead pipes lined the upper walls, and the room was rather aptly titled XD-R Bl, painted across the concrete in black, several feet high. Any sense she'd had of where she was in relation to the rest of the estate was totally gone.
Although it's as cold as everywhere else, at least I know I'm still on the grounds. . .
There was a heavy metal door on one side of the room, firmly locked. The sign to the left of it stated that it was only to be opened in case of a first-class emergency. She figured that the Bl on the wall stood for Basement level one, her theory confirmed by the bolted ladder that led down through a narrow shaft in the concrete; where there was Bl, B2 naturally followed.
And considering the alternative, it looks like that's where I'm headed. My other option is to go back through the underground tunnels.
She peered down the ladder shaft, only able to see a square of concrete at the bottom. Sighing, she held on to the Remington and started down.
As soon as she hit the last rung, she turned anxiousLy and faced a much smaller room, as bland and industrial as the first. Inset fluorescent lights on the ceiling, a gray metal door, concrete walls and floor.
She walked through quickly, starting to feel hopeful that there were no more creatures or traps. So far, the basement levels had offered nothing more dangerous than a lack of decorum. . .
She opened the door and her hope faded as the dry, dusty smell of long-dead flesh hit her. She stepped out onto a cement walkway that led over a flight of descending stairs, a metal railing circling the path.
At the top of the steps was a crumpled zombie, so emaciated and shriveled that it appeared mummified.
She held the shotgun ready and walked slowly toward the stairs, noting that there was a hall branching off to the left where the railing stopped. She darted a quick look around the corner and saw that it was clear. Still watching the desiccated corpse carefully, she edged down the short corridor and stopped at the door on her left. The sign next to the door read Visual Data Room, and the door itself was unlocked.
It opened up into a still, gray room with a long meeting table in the center, a slide projector set up in front of a portable screen at the far end. There was a phone on a small stand pushed up against the right wall, and Jill hurried over, knowing that it was too much to hope for but having to check just the same.
It wasn't a phone at all, but an intercom system that didn't seem to work. Sighing, she stepped past an ornamental pillar and walked around the table, glancing at the empty slide projector. She let her gaze wander, looking for anything of interest and it stopped on a flat, featureless square of metal set into the wall, about the size of a sheet of paper. Jill stepped over to take a closer look.
There was a flat bar at the top. She touched it lightly, and the panel slid down into the wall, revealing a large red button. She looked around the quiet room, trying to imagine what the trap would be and then realized that there wouldn't be a trap at all.
The mansion, the tunnels - all of it was rigged to keep people from getting here, to these basement levels.
They're way too efficiently dull to be anything but where the real work gets done.
She knew instinctively that her logic was sound.
This was a board room, a place for drinking bad coffee and sitting through meetings with colleagues; nothing was going to jump out at her if she pushed the button.
Jill pushed it. And behind her, the ornamental pillar slid to one side with a smooth, mechanical hum.
Behind the pillar were several shelves, stacked with files and something that glittered in the soft gray light of the room.
She hurried over and picked up a metal key, the top of it imprinted with a tiny lightning bolt. Slipping it into her pocket, she flipped through a few of the files.
They were all stamped with the Umbrella logo, and though most of them were too thick and ponderous to spend time sorting through, the title on one of the reports told her what she needed to know, what she'd already suspected.
Umbrella / Bioweapons Report / Research and Development.
Nodding slowly, Jill put the file back. She'd finally found the real research facilities, and she knew that the S. T. A. R. S. traitor would be somewhere in these rooms. She was going to have to be very careful.
With a final glance around her, Jill decided to go see if she could find the lock that the key belonged to. It was time to place the last few pieces of the puzzle that Umbrella had set up and that the S. T. A. R. S. had sacrificed themselves trying to solve.
The twisted, gnarled root of Plant 42 took up a large corner of the basement room, the bulk of it hanging down in slender, fleshy tendrils that almost touched the floor. A few of the tiny, worm-like threads squirmed blindly around each other, twisting slowly back and forth as if looking for the water supply that Chris had drained.
God, that's disgusting, Rebecca said.
Chris nodded agreement. Besides the control room he'd escaped into, there had only been two other chambers in the basement. One of them had been stacked with boxes of cartridges for all kinds of weapons and although most of them had been uselessly wet, he'd found most of a box of ninemillimeter rounds on a high shelf, saving them both from running out of ammunition.
The other room had been plain, containing only a wood table, a bench and the massive, creeping root of the carnivorous plant that lived upstairs.
Yeah, Chris said. So how do we do this?
Rebecca held up a small bottle of purplish fluid and swirled it gently, still staring at the moving tendrils.
Well, you stand back, and don't breathe too deeply.
This stuffs got a couple of toxins in it that neither of us want to be ingesting, and it'll turn gaseous once it hits the infected cells.
Chris nodded. How will we know if it's working?
Rebecca grinned. If the V-Jolt report is on the mark, we'll know. Watch.
She uncapped the bottle and stepped closer to the twisted root, then upended the glass vial, dousing the snaking tendrils with the watery fluid.
Immediately, a billow of reddish smoke plumed up from the root as Rebecca emptied the bottle and stepped quickly away. There was a hissing, crackling sound like wet wood thrown atop a blazing fire and within seconds, the feebly twisting fibers started to break, pieces of them snapping off and flaking away.
The knotted thickness at the center started to tighten and shrink, pulling into itself.
Chris watched in amazement as the giant, terrible root suddenly shriveled up into a dripping ball of mush no bigger than a child's ball and hung there, dead. The entire process had taken about fifteen seconds.
Rebecca nodded toward the door and both of them stepped out into the drying basement, Chris shaking his head.
God, what'd you put in there?
Trust me, you don't want to know. You ready to get out of here?
Chris grinned. Let's do it.
They both jogged toward the basement doors, hurrying out into the cold
corridor and back toward the ladder that led upstairs. Chris was already going over escape plans for when they left the bunkhouse. It really would depend on where the exit led. If they ended up in the woods, he was thinking that they should head toward the closest road and light a fire, then wait for help to come. . . . . . though maybe we'll get lucky, run across the damned parking lot for this place. We can hotwire a car and drive out - and get Irons to do something useful for a change, like call in reinforcements.
They reached the wood corridor and headed for the plant room, both of them taking long, easy strides past the hissing green walls and finally stopping at the room that held Plant 42.
Breathing deeply, Chris nodded to Rebecca. They both unholstered their weapons and Chris pushed the door open, eager to see what lay beyond the experimental plant.
They stepped into a huge, open room, the smell of rotting vegetation thick in the damp air. Whatever it had looked like before, the monster that had been Plant 42 was now a massive, steaming lake of dark purple goo in the center of the room. Bloated dead vines the size of fire hoses draped limply across the floor, extending out from the livid, gelid mass.
Chris scanned for the next door, saw a plain fireplace against one wall, a broken chair in a corner and a single door that apparently led back into the bedroom he'd searched earlier. A hidden passage that he'd missed and that led to the very room in which they stood.
Must have been behind the bookcase. . .
There was no way out. Killing the plant had been a waste of time, it hadn't been blocking anything.
Rebecca looked as disappointed as he felt, her shoulders slumped and expression grim as she studied the bare walls.
Ah, I'm sorry, Rebecca.
They both walked slowly around the room, Chris staring at the dead plant and trying to decide what to do next. Rebecca walked to the fireplace and crouched down next to it, poking at the blackened ash.
He wouldn't drag her back to the mansion, neither of them were up for it. Even with the extra ammo, there were too many snakes. They could wait in the courtyard for Brad to fly by again, hope he got into range.
Chris, I've found something.
He turned and saw her pull a couple of pieces of paper out of the ashes, the edges scorched but both sheets otherwise intact. He walked across the room and leaned down to read over her shoulder and felt his heart start pounding as the first words sank in.
SECURITY PROTOCOLS
BASEMENT LEVEL ONE:
Heliport/For executive use only. This restriction may not apply in the event of an emergency. Unauthorized persons entering the heliport will be shot on sight.
Elevator/The elevator stops during emergencies.
BASEMENT LEVEL TWO:
Visual Data Room/For use by the Special Research Division only. All other access to the Visual Data Room must be cleared with Keith Arving, Room Manager.
BASEMENT LEVEL THREE:
Prison/Sanitation Division controls the use of the prison.
At least one Consultant Researcher (E. Smith, S. Ross, A. Wesker) must be present if viral use is authorized.
Power Room/Access limited to Headquarters Supervisors.
This restriction may not apply to Consultant Researchers with special authorization.
BASEMENT LEVEL FOUR:
Regarding the progress of Tyrant after use of T-Virus. . .
The rest of the paper was burned, the words lost.
A. Wesker, Chris said softly. Captain Albert goddamn Wesker. . .
Barry had said that Wesker disappeared right after the Alphas had made it to the house. And it was Wesker who led us here in the first place when the dogs attacked. Cool, competent, unreadable Wesker, working for Umbrella. . .
Rebecca flipped to the second page and Chris leaned in, studying the neatly typed labels beneath the drawn boxes and lines.
MANSION. COURTYARD. GUARDHOUSE. UNDERGROUND. LABORATORIES.
There was even a compass drawn next to the sketch of the mansion, to show them what they'd missed - a secret entrance to the underground hidden behind the waterfall.
Rebecca stood up, eyes wide and uncertain. Captain Wesker is involved with all this?
Chris nodded slowly. And if he's still here, he's down in those labs, maybe with the rest of the team. If Umbrella sent him here, God only knows what he's up to.
They had to find him, had to warn whoever was left of the S. T. A. R. S. that Wesker had betrayed them all.
Everything was done. Wesker stepped into the elevator that led back to level three, running through his checklist as he lowered the outer gate and slid the inner one closed. . . . samples collected, disks erased, power reconnected, Tyrant support off. . .
It was really too bad about the Tyrant. Ugly as it was, the thing was a marvel of surgical, chemical, and genetic engineering, and he'd stood in front of its glass chamber for a long time, studying it in silent awe before reluctantly shutting down its life support. As the stasis fluids had drained, he'd found himself imagining what it would have been like to see it in action once the researchers had completed their work.
It would have been the ultimate soldier, a thing of beauty in the battlefield. . . and now it had to be destroyed, all because some idiot tech had hit the wrong button. A mistake that had cost Umbrella millions of dollars and killed the researchers who had created it.
He hit the switch and the elevator thrummed to life, carrying him back up for his final task-activating the triggering system at the back of the power room.
He'd give himself fifteen minutes to make sure he was clear of the blast radius, climb down the heliport ladder, hit the back road toward town and boom, no more hidden Umbrella facility. At least not in Raccoon Forest. . .
Once he got back into the city, he'd pack a bag and head for Umbrella's private air strip. He could make the necessary calls from there, let his contacts in the White office know what had happened. They'd have a clean-up team standing by to comb through the forest and take out the surviving specimens-and they'd be most eager to get their hands on the tissue samples he'd taken, two of everything except for the Tyrant.
With the Tyrant scientists all dead, Umbrella had decided to shelve the project indefinitely. Wesker thought it was a mistake, but then, he wasn't getting paid to think.
As the elevator slid to a stop, Wesker opened the gates and stepped out, setting down the sample case.
He unholstered his Beretta, going over the twisting layout of the power room in his mind. He had to make another run through the Ma2s to get to the activation system. He'd already managed it once to hook up the elevator circuit, but they had been more active than he'd expected; instead of weakening them, their hunger had driven them to new heights of viciousness.
He'd been lucky to make it through unscathed.
At a hydraulic hum from down the hall, Wesker froze. Footsteps clattered across the cement floor, hesitated and then started for the power room at the opposite end of the corridor.
Wesker eased up to the corner and looked down the hall, just in time to see Jill Valentine disappear through the metal doors, a burst of hissing mechanical noise echoing through the corridor before they closed.
How did she make it through the Hunters? Jesus!
Apparently he'd underestimated her. . . and she'd been alone, too. If she was that good, the Ma2s might not kill her, and she had effectively just blocked him from the triggering system. He wouldn't be able to deal with the creatures that roamed the maze like walkways and put a stop to her prying. . .
Frustrated, Wesker scooped up the sample case and walked quickly down the hall, back toward the hydraulic doors that led to the main corridor of level three. If she made it back out, he'd just have to shoot her; it would only delay his escape by a few minutes.
Still, it was an unexpected curve, and as far as he was concerned, it was too late in the game for surprises.
Surprises pissed him off, they mad
e him feel like he wasn't in control. . .
I AM in control, nothing is happening here that I can't handle! This is MY game, my rules, and I will accomplish my mission without any interference from that little thief-bitch.
Wesker stalked out into the main corridor, saw that Jill had managed to take out a few more of the wizened, withered scientists and technicians that wandered the basement labs. Two of them lay just outside the door, their skulls blown into arid powder by what looked like shotgun blasts. He kicked one of them angrily, his boot crunching into the corpse's brittle ribs, the dry snap of bone loud in the silence - - except that suddenly, he heard heavy boots coming down the metal stairs from B2, the hollow clump echoing through the hall. And then a rough, hesitant voice calling out.
Jill?
Barry Burton, as I live and breathe.
Wesker raised his weapon coolly, ready to fire when Barry stepped into view and then lowered it thoughtfully. After a moment, a slow grin spread across his face.