Chapter Six
Wesker! barry shouted, his deep voice echoing through the chilly room. Captain Wesker!
He jogged toward a row of arches at the back of the hall, calling to Jill over his shoulder as he ran. Don't leave the room!
Jill walked to the stairs, feeling almost dizzy. First Chris, now the captain. They hadn't been gone five minutes and he'd said he was going to stay put. Why would he have left? She looked around for signs of a struggle, a spent cartridge, a spot of blood - there was nothing to indicate what might have happened.
Barry appeared on the other side of the giant staircase, shaking his head and walking slowly to join her. Jill bit her lower lip, frowning.
You think Wesker ran into one of those-things? she asked.
Barry sighed. I don't think the RPD showed and snuck him out. Though if he did run into trouble, we would have heard the shots.
Not necessarily. He could have been ambushed, dragged away. . .
They stood silently for a moment, thinking. Jill was still a bit shaken from the face-to-face with the walking corpse, but thought she'd accepted the facts pretty well; the woods bordering Raccoon City had become infested with zombies.
After a lifetime of reading trashy novels about serial killers, is a cannibal zombie so hard to swallow?
Somehow it wasn't, and neither were the murderous dogs or the secretly kept estate. There was no question that it all existed. The question was, why? Did the mansion have anything to do with the murders, or had the zombies simply overrun it like they'd overrun Raccoon Forest?
And was that creature the last thing Becky and Pris saw?
She rejected that thought almost violently; thinking about the girls now would be a mistake.
So do we go looking or do we wait? Jill said finally.
Go looking. Ken made it here. The rest of the Bravos could be somewhere in this house. It'd be easy enough to get lost. Chris. . .
He half-smiled, though Jill could see the worry in his eyes. Chris and Wesker got-side-tracked, but we'll find them. It'd take more than a couple of walking stiffs to cause either of them any grief.
He reached into a pocket in his vest and pulled out something wrapped in a handkerchief, handing it to her. She felt the thin metal objects beneath the light fabric and recognized them instantly.
It's the set you gave me to practice with last month, he said. I figure you'll have better luck with them.
Jill nodded, tucking the lockpicks into her hip pouch. Barry had taken an interest in her former career and she'd given him a few pieces from her old set, several picks and torsion bars. They could come in handy. The small bundle settled on top of something hard and smooth-Trent's computer! In all the excitement, she'd totally forgotten about her strange encounter in the locker room. She opened her mouth to tell Barry, then shut it, remembering Trent's cryptic warning.
I wouldn't mention this conversation to anyone.
Screw that. She'd almost risked it anyway with Chris.
And where is Chris now? Who's to say that Trent's dire consequences haven't already occurred?
Jill realized what she was thinking and had to fight off an urge to laugh at herself. What had happened with Trent probably wasn't even relevant to their predicament, and whether or not she could trust Barry, she knew she didn't trust Trent - still, she decided not to say anything about it, at least until she had a chance to see what the computer held.
I think we should split up, Barry continued.
I know it's dangerous, but we need to cover a lot of ground. We find anybody, we meet back here, use this room as base.
Rubbing at his beard, he fixed her with a serious gaze. You up for this, Jill? We could search together. . .
No, you're right, she said. I can take the west wing. Unlike cops, S. T. A. R. S. seldom partnered.
They were trained to watch their own backs in dangerous situations.
Barry nodded. Okay. I'll go back and see if I can persuade one of those doors to open. Keep an eye out for a back exit, conserve ammo. . . and be careful.
You, too.
Barry grinned, holding up his Colt Python. I'll be fine.
There was nothing left to say. Jill headed straight for the set of doors on the west wall that Wesker hadn't tried earlier. Behind her, Barry hurried back to the dining room. She heard the door open and close, leaving her alone.
Here goes nothing.
The painted blue doors opened smoothly, revealing a small, shadowy room as cool and silent as the main hall, all in shades of blue. Muted track lighting illuminated framed paintings on dusky walls, and in the center of the room was a large statue of a woman holding an urn on one shoulder.
Jill closed the door behind her and let her eyes adjust to the gloom, noting the two doors opposite the one she'd come through. The one on the left was open, though a small chest was pushed in front of it, blocking access. It was unlikely that Wesker had gone that way.
She walked to the one on the right and tried the knob. Locked. Sighing, she reached into her pack for the picks and then hesitated, feeling the smooth weight of the mini-disk reader.
Let's see what Mr. Trent thinks is so important.
She slipped it out and studied it a moment, then tapped at a switch. A screen the size of a baseball card flickered to life, and with a few more taps, small lines of type scrolled across the monitor. She scanned the material, recognizing names and dates from local newspapers. Trent had apparently compiled every article he could find about the murders and disappearances in Raccoon, plus the pieces on the S. T. A. R. S.
Nothing new here. . . Jill skipped along, wondering what the point was. After the articles was a list of names.
WILLIAM BIRKIN,
STEVE KELLER,
MICHAEL DEES,
JOHN HOWE,
MARTIN CRAGKHORN,
HENRY SARTON,
ELLEN SMITH,
BILL RABBITSON
She frowned. None of the names were familiar, Except - wasn't Bill Rabbitson Chris's friend, the one who had worked for Umbrella? She couldn't be sure, she'd have to ask Chris. . . . . . assuming we find him. This was a waste of time; she needed to start looking for the other S. T. A. R. S.
She pressed the forwarding key to get to the end of the data and a picture appeared, tiny lines set into patterns. There were squares and long rectangles, crosshatched with smaller marks that connected the empty boxes. Beneath it was a single line, a message as enigmatic as she could have expected from Mr. Trent:
KNIGHT KEYS;
TIGER EYES;
FOUR CRESTS (GATE OF NEW LIFE);
EAST-EAGLE/WEST-WOLF.
Gee, how illuminating. That just clears up everything, doesn't it? The picture was some kind of map, she decided. It looked like a floor plan. The biggest area was at the center, a slightly smaller one extending off to the left.
Jill suddenly felt her heart skip a beat. She stared down at the small screen, wondering how Trent had known.
It was the mansion's first floor. She tapped the forward button again and saw what could only be the second floor, the shapes corresponding to the first map. There was nothing after the second map, but it was enough.
As far as she was concerned, there was no longer any question that the Spencer estate was the source of the terror in Raccoon City, which meant that the answers were here, waiting to be uncovered.
The zombie groaned as Chris fired point-blank into its gut, twice. The shots were muffled by its rancid flesh and it fell against him, expelling a rush of foul, stinking air across his face.
Chris pushed it away, the back of his throat locking.
His hands and the barrel of his weapon were dripping with sticky fluids. The creature collapsed to the floor, its limbs spasming.
Chris backed away, wiping the Beretta against his vest as he took deep breaths, trying desperately not to vomit. The zombie out in the hall had been a desiccated
mess, shriveled and dry; this one was-fresh, if that was the right word. Festering, necrotic, wet. . .
He swallowed, hard, and the urge to throw up slowly passed. He didn't have a particularly weak stomach, but that smell, God!
Keep it together, could be more of them. . .
The hall he'd entered was all dark wood and dim light. For the moment, there was no sound except the pulse of blood in his ears. He looked down at the body, wondering exactly what it was, what it had been. He had felt its hot, fetid breath against his face.
It wasn't a reanimated corpse, no matter what it looked like.
He decided it didn't matter. For all intents and purposes, it was a zombie. It had tried to bite him, and creatures like it had already chowed down on some of Raccoon's population. He needed to find his way back to the others and they had to get out, get help. They didn't have the firepower to handle the situation alone.
He ejected the empty clip from the gummy weapon and quickly reloaded, his chest tightening with stress; fifteen rounds left. He had a Bowie knife, but the thought of going up against a zombie with only a knife wasn't all that appealing.
There was a plain-looking door to his left. Chris pulled at the knob, but it was locked. He squinted at the key plate, and wasn't all that surprised to see an etching of what looked like armor. Sword, armorthere was a definite theme developing.
He moved down the wide hall, listening for any sound and taking frequent deep breaths through his nose. The goo on his vest and hands made it hard to tell if there were any more of them around, the smell was all over him, but it could be his only chance to avoid another close encounter.
The hall turned to the left and he took the corner fast, sweeping the Beretta across the wide wooden expanse. There was a support pillar partially blocking his view but he could see the back of a man just past it, the slumped shoulders and stained clothes of one of the creatures.
Chris quickly edged to the right, trying to get a clear shot. The zombie was maybe forty feet away, and he didn't want to waste his last rounds. At the sound of his boots against the hard wood floor, it turned, shuffling slowly. So slowly that Chris hesitated, watching the way it moved.
This one seemed to have been dipped in a thin layer of slime, dull light reflecting off of its glistening skin as it stumbled almost blindly toward Chris. It slowly raised its arms, its pale, hairless skull wobbling on its emaciated neck. Silently, it shuffled forward.
Chris took a sliding step back to his left and the zombie changed direction, veering toward him eagerly, closing the distance between them at a slow walk.
Just like in the movies; dangerous but dumb. And easy to outrun. . .
He had to save ammo in case he got cornered.
There were stairs at the end of the hall, and Chris took a deep breath, readying himself. He stepped back, giving himself enough room to maneuver-and heard a gasping moan behind him, a fresh wave of rancid stink assaulting his senses. He spun, the realization hitting him even before he saw it.
The festering zombie was only a few feet away, reaching for him, bits of its putrid gut spilling out across its shattered abdomen. He hadn't killed it, hadn't waited long enough to make sure, and his stupidity was about to cost him.
Ah, shit!
Chris sprinted away and down the corridor, dodging both of them and cursing himself. He passed the thick support beam, almost to the stairs-and stopped cold, seeing what waited at the top.
He caught only a glimpse of the ragged creature standing at the head of the stairs and spun away, raising his weapon to face the attackers that shambled toward him hungrily.
From the shadows beneath the steps came a heavy, gurgling sigh and the scuffing of wood; another one.
He was trapped, there was no way he could kill them all - door!
It faced the side of the stairs, the dark wood blending so well with the shadows that he almost hadn't seen it. Chris ran for it, grabbing at the handle, praying that it would open as around him, the creatures closed in.
If it was locked, he was dead.
Rebecca Chambers had never been more afraid, not once in her eighteen years. For what seemed like an eternity, she'd listened to the soft scrape of rotting flesh brushing against the door and tried desperately to think of a plan, her dread building with each passing minute. There was no lock on the door, and she'd lost her handgun on the run for the house. The small storage room, though well stocked with chemicals and stacks of papers, had offered nothing to use as a defense except a half-empty can of insect repellent.
It was the can she gripped now, standing behind the door of the tiny room. If or when the monsters finally figured out how to use a doorknob, she planned on spraying it in their eyes and then making a run for it.
Maybe they'll be laughing so hard I'll have a chance to slip past; bug spray, great weapon. . .
She'd heard what could have been shots somewhere close by, but they weren't repeated. Her hope that it was one of the team faded as the seconds ticked past, and she was starting to give serious consideration to the concept that she was the only one left when the door burst open and a gasping figure hurdled inside.
Rebecca didn't hesitate. She leapt forward and pressed the button, releasing a cloud of chemical mist into its face, tensing herself to run past it.
Gah! It yelled, and fell back against the door, slamming it shut. It covered its eyes, spluttering.
It wasn't a monster; she'd just maced one of the Alphas.
Oh, no! Rebecca was already reaching into her field medical kit, her immense relief at seeing another of the S. T. A. R. S. battling with monumental embarrassment.
She fumbled out a clean cloth and a tiny squeeze bottle of water, stepping toward him. Keep your eyes closed, don't rub at them.
The Alpha dropped his hands, face red, and she finally recognized him. It was Chris Redfield, only the most attractive guy in the S. T. A. R. S. , not to mention her superior. She felt herself blush, and was suddenly glad that he couldn't see her.
Nice going, Rebecca. Way to make a good impression on your first operation. Lose your gun, get lost, blind a teammate. . .
She led him over to the small cot in the corner of the room and sat him down, letting her training take over.
Lean your head back. This is going to sting a little, but it's just water, okay? She dabbed at his eyes with the damp cloth, relieved that she hadn't sprayed him with anything worse.
What was that stuff? he said, blinking rapidly.
Tears and water streamed down his face, but there didn't seem to be any damage.
Uh, bug repellent. The label's been ripped off but the active ingredient is probably permephrin, it's an irritant but the effect shouldn't last long. I lost my gun, and when you came in I thought you were one of those things, though if they haven't figured out how to use a doorknob by now, they probably won't.
She realized she was babbling and shut up, finishing the crude irrigation and stepping back. Chris wiped at his face and peered up at her with bloodshot eyes.
Rebecca. . . Chambers, right?
She nodded miserably. Yeah. Look, I'm really Sorry.
Don't worry about it, he said, and smiled. Not a bad weapon, actually.
He stood up and looked around the small room, frowning. There wasn't much to see: an open trunk full of papers, a shelf lined with bottles of mostly unlabeled chemicals, a cot, and a desk. Rebecca had been through it all in her search for something to use against the creatures.
What about the rest of your team? he asked.
Rebecca shook her head. I don't know. Something went wrong with the helicopter and we had to set down. We were attacked by animals, some kind of dogs, and Enrico told us to run for cover.
She shrugged, suddenly feeling like she was about twelve years old. I got-turned around in the woods and ended up at the front door of this place. I think one of the others broke it down, it was open. . .
S
he trailed off, looking away from his intense gaze.
The rest was probably obvious: she had no weapon, she'd gotten lost, she'd ended up here. All in all, a pretty poor showing.
Hey, he said softly. There's nothing else you could have done. Enrico said run, you ran, you followed orders. Those creatures out there, the zombies. . . they're all over the place. I got lost, too, and the rest of the Alphas could be anywhere. Trust me, just the fact that you made it this far.
Outside, one of the monsters let out a low, plaintive wail and Chris stopped talking, his expression grim.
Rebecca shuddered. So what do we do now?
We look for the others and try to find a way out.
He sighed, looking down at his weapon. Except you don't have a gun and I'm almost out of ammo. . .
Rebecca brightened and reached into her hip pack.
She pulled out two full magazines and handed them over, pleased that she had something to offer him.
Oh! And I found this on the desk, she said, and produced a silver key with a sword on it. She didn't know what it unlocked, but thought it might be useful.
Chris stared at it thoughtfully, then slipped it into a pocket. He walked to the open trunk and looked down at the stacks of papers. He rifled through them, frowning.
Your background's in biochemistry, right? Have you looked through these?
Rebecca joined him, shaking her head. Barely. I've been kinda busy watching the door.
He handed her one of the papers and she scanned it quickly. It was a list of neurotransmitters and level indicators.
Brain chemistry, she said, but these numbers are all screwed up. The serotonin and norepinephrine are too low. . . but look here, the dopamine is off the chart, we're talking big-time schizo.
She noticed the incredulous look on his face and smiled a little. Being an eighteen-year-old college grad, she got a lot of that. The S. T. A. R. S. had recruited her right after graduation, promising her a whole team of researchers and a lab of her own to study molecular biology, her real passion-provided, of course, that she went through basic training and got some field experience. No one else had shown much interest in hiring a whiz kid. . .
There was a soft thump at the door and her smile faded. She was getting experience, alright.
Chris fished the sword key out of his pocket and looked at her seriously. I passed a door with a sword engraved over the keyhole. I'm going to go check it out, see if it leads back to the main hall. I want you to stay here and go through those files. Maybe there's something we can use.
Her uncertainty must have showed in her face. He smiled gently, his voice low and soothing. I've got plenty of ammo, thanks to you, and I won't be gone long.
She nodded, making a conscious effort to relax. She was scared, but letting him see it wasn't going to help matters. He was probably scared, too.
He walked to the door, still talking. The RPD should be here any time, so if I don't come back right away, just wait here.
He raised the weapon, putting his other hand on the knob. Get ready. As soon as I'm out, move the trunk in front of the door. I'll give a yell when I get back.
Rebecca nodded again, and with a final quick smile, Chris opened the door and looked both ways before moving out into the hall. She closed the door and leaned against it, listening. After long seconds of silence, she heard the rattle of gunfire not far away, five or six shots-then nothing.
After a few minutes, she moved the trunk to block part of the door, edging it in front of the hinges so she could push it out of the way easily. She knelt in front of it, trying to clear her thoughts as she started looking through the papers, trying not to feel as young and unsure as she actually felt.
Sighing, she pulled out a handful of papers and started to read.