Chapter Seven
The lock was a piece of cake, three flat tumblers in a single row; Jill could have opened it with a couple of paper clips. According to the map, the door would open into a long hall. . .
Sure enough. She took another long look at the pocket computer's screen and then slipped it into her pack, thinking. It looked like there was a back way out, through several halls and past a series of rooms.
She could look for Wesker and the others along the way, and maybe secure an escape route at the same time. She stepped into the narrow corridor, the fully loaded Beretta in hand.
It was a study in weirdness. The hall wasn't all that spectacular, the carpet runner and the wallpaper done in basic tans and browns, the wide windows showing only the darkness outside. The display chests that lined the inner wall, though. . .
There were three of them, each topped by a small lamp, and each prominently displaying a wide array of bleached human bones on open shelves, interspersed with small items of obscurity. Jill started down the hall, stopping briefly at each bizarre spectacle. Skulls, arm and leg bones, hands and feet. There were at least three complete skeletons, and amidst the pale and pitted bones were feathers, clay beads, gnarled strips of leather.
Jill picked up one of the leather strips and then put it down quickly, wiping her fingers on her pants. She couldn't be sure, but it felt like she imagined tanned, cured human skin would feel, stiff and kind of greasy.
Crash!
The window behind her exploded inward, a lithe, sinewy form lunging into the hall, growling and snapping. It was one of the mutant, killing hounds, its eyes as red as its dripping hide. It charged her, its teeth as bright and dangerous as the jagged glitter of glass still falling from the shattered frame.
Backed between two of the chests, Jill fired. The angle was wrong, the bullet splintering the wood at her feet as the dog jumped at her, growling deep in its throat.
It hit her in the thighs, slamming her painfully against the wall, gnashing to get its jaws at her flesh.
The smell of rotting meat washed over her and she fired again and again, barely aware that she was moaning in fear and disgust, a sound as guttural and primal as the furious, dying shrieks that came from the canine abomination.
The fifth bullet fired directly into its barrel chest knocked it away. With a final, almost puppyish yelp it crumpled to the floor, blood gushing into the tan carpet.
Jill kept her weapon trained on the still form, gulping air in huge, shuddery breaths. Its limbs twitched suddenly, its massive claws beating a brief tattoo across the wet, red floor before it lay still again.
Jill relaxed, recognizing the movement as a death spasm, the body releasing life. She'd have bruises, but the dog was dead.
She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and crouched down next to it, taking in the strange, exposed musculature and huge jaws. It had been too dark and hectic on the run to the house to get a good look at the things that had killed Joseph, but in the bright light of the corridor, her initial impression wasn't changed; it looked like a skinned dog.
She stood up and backed away, warily eyeing the row of windows in the hall. Obviously they offered no protection from the hazards outside. The corridor took a sharp left and she hurried on, past more of the macabre displays that decorated the inner wall.
The door at the end of the long hall was unlocked. It opened into another hall, not as well lit as the first but at least not as creepy, either. The muted, gray-green wallpaper sported paintings of generic scenery and gentle landscapes, not a bone or fetish in sight.
The first door on the right was locked, a carving of armor on the key plate. Jill remembered the list on the computer, something about knight keys, but decided not to bother with it for now. According to Trent's map, there was a room on the other side that didn't lead anywhere. Besides, if Wesker had come this way, she didn't imagine that he was locking doors behind him.
Right, just like it was unlikely that Chris would disappear; don't assume anything about this place.
The next door she tried opened into a small bathroom with an antique feel, complete with a ceiling fan and an old-fashioned, four-footed tub. There was no sign of recent use.
She stood for a moment in the stale, tiny room, breathing deeply, feeling the aftermath of the adrenaline rush she'd had in the corridor. Growing up, she'd learned how to enjoy the thrill of danger, of sneaking in and out of strange places with only a handful of tools and her own wits to keep her safe. Since joining the S. T. A. R. S. , that youthful excitement had faded away, lost to the realities of back-up and handguns, but here it was again, unexpected and not unwelcome.
She couldn't lie to herself about the simple joy that often followed facing death and walking away. She felt. . . good. Alive.
Let's not have a party just yet, her mind whispered sarcastically. Or have you forgotten that S. T. A. R. S. are being eaten in this hellhole?
Jill stepped back into the silent hallway and edged around another corner, wondering if Barry had found Chris and if either of them had run across any of the Bravos. She felt like she had an advantage with the maps, and decided that once she'd checked out the possible escape, she'd go back to the main hall and wait for Barry. With the information on Trent's computer, they could search more quickly and thoroughly.
The corridor ended with two doors facing each other. The one on the right was the one she wanted.
She tried the handle and was rewarded with the soft snick of the bolt retracting.
She stepped into a dark hall and saw one of the zombies, a hulking, pale shadow standing next to a door, maybe ten feet away. As she raised her weapon, the creature started toward her, emitting soft hunger sounds from its decaying lips. One of its arms hung limply at its side, and although Jill could see jagged bone protruding from the shoulder, it still clenched and unclenched its rotting fist eagerly as it reached out with its other arm.
The head, aim for the head.
The shots were incredibly loud in the chilly gloom, the first blowing off its left ear, the second and third punching holes into its skull just above its pallid brow. Dark fluids streamed down the peeling face and it fell to its knees, its flat, lifeless eyes rolling back into its head.
There was shuffling movement in the shadows at the back of the hall to the right, exactly where she meant to go. Jill trained the gun on the darkness and waited for it to move closer, her entire body wired with tension.
How many of these things are there?
As soon as the zombie cleared the corner, she fired, the Beretta jumping lightly in her sweating hands.
The second shot punctured its right eye and it immediately collapsed to the dark, polished wood of the floor, the sticky, viscous matter of the blown eyeball flecked across its skeletal face.
Jill waited, but other than the spreading pools of blood around the dead creatures, nothing moved.
Breathing through her mouth to avoid the worst of the stench, she hurried to the back of the hall and turned right, down a short, tight passage that dead ended at a rusting metal door.
It creaked open and fresh air flooded past her, warm and clean after the morgue-like chill of the house. Jill grinned, hearing the drone of cicadas and crickets on the night air. She'd reached the final leg of her little excursion, and although she wasn't outside yet, the sounds and smells of the forest renewed her sense of accomplishment.
Got a secured path now, straight to the back of this place. We can head north, hit one of the logging roads and hike down to the barricade. . .
She stepped out onto a covered walkway, a mosaic of green stone surrounded by high concrete walls.
There were small intermittent openings near the ceiling of the pathway, accounting for the faint, pinescented breeze. Ivy trickled down from the arched openings like a reminder of the outside world. She hurried down the dim passage, remembering from the map that there was a single room at the end and to the
right, probably a storage shed.
She turned the corner and stopped at another heavy-looking metal door, her smile fading as she reflexively reached for the handle; the keyhole was plugged. She crouched and poked at the tiny hole, but to no avail. Someone had stopped it up with epoxy.
To the left of the door was some kind of diagram set into the concrete, made of dull copper. There were four hexagonal depressions in the flat metal plate, each fist-sized hole connected to the next by a thin line. Jill squinted at the legend etched beneath, wishing that she had a flashlight as she struggled to make out the words. She brushed a thin layer of dust off of the indented letters and tried again.
WHEN THE SUN. . . SETS IN THE WEST AND THE MOON RISES IN THE EAST, STARS WILL BEGIN TO APPEAR IN THE SKY. . . AND WIND WILL BLOW TOWARD THE GROUND. THEN THE GATE OF NEW LIFE WILL OPEN.
She blinked. Four holes - Trent's list!
Four crests, and something about the gate of new life - - it's a combination mechanism for the lock. Place the four crests, the door opens. . . . . . except that means I have to find them first.
Jill pushed against the door and felt her hope fizzle out completely; not even a rattle, no give at all. They were going to have to find another way out, unless the crests could be found - which in this place could take years.
A lone howl rose in the distance and was joined by the echoing cries of the dogs near the mansion, the strange, yodeling sounds piercing the gentle quiet of the woods. There had to be dozens of them out there, and Jill realized suddenly that escaping out the back door probably wasn't such a hot idea. She had limited ammunition for her handgun and no doubts that there were more ghoulish creatures wandering the halls, shuffling about in hungry, mindless silence as they searched for their next grisly meal. . .
She sighed heavily and started back to the house, already dreading the cold stench of death and trying to prepare herself for the dangers that seemed to lurk at every corner.
The S. T. A. R. S. were trapped.
Chris knew he had to make the ammo count, so when he left Rebecca, he took off through the dim corridor at a full run, his boots pounding at the wood floor.
There were still only three of them, all grouped near the stairs. He dodged past them easily and sprinted down the hall and around the corner. As soon as he got to the door that led back to the other hall, he turned and assumed a classic shooter's stance, supporting his gun hand at the wrist, his finger on the trigger.
One by one, the zombies reeled around the corner, groaning and stumbling. Chris took careful aim, breathing evenly, keeping his focus. . .
He squeezed the trigger, sending two bullets through the gangrenous nose of the first. Without pausing, he sent a third shot into the center of the next zombie's forehead. Fluid and soft matter sprayed the wall behind them as the bullets slapped into the wood.
Even as they crumpled to the floor, he'd found his mark on the third creature. Two more muted explosions and the zombie's brow caved inward, dropping it like the bag of bones that it was.
Chris lowered the Beretta, feeling a flush of pride.
He was a high-ranked marksman, even had a couple of awards to show for it, but it was still good to see what he could do when given enough time to aim. His quick-draw wasn't nearly as strong, that was Barry's forte.
He reached for the door handle, urged into action by the thought of all that was at stake. He figured the Alphas could take care of themselves, they had as much of a chance as he did, but this was Rebecca's first operation and she didn't even have a gun; he needed to get her out.
He stepped back into the soft light of the hall with the green wallpaper, quickly checking both directions. Straight ahead, the corridor was in heavier shadow; no way to tell if it was clear.
To his right was the door with the sword on the key plate and the first zombie he'd shot, still sprawled lifelessly across the floor. Chris was gratified to see that it hadn't moved. Apparently head shots were the best way to kill a zombie, just like in the movies. . .
Chris edged toward the sword door, training his weapon left, then right, then left again; he'd had enough surprises for one day. He checked the small offshoot across from the door and seeing that it was clear, quickly inserted the slender key into the lock.
It turned smoothly. Chris stepped into a small bedroom, only slightly better lit than the corridor, a single bright lamp on a desk in one corner. It was all clear, unless there was something hiding under the narrow cot. . . or maybe in the closet across from the desk.
He shuddered, closing the door behind him. It was every kid's first set of fears, and had been his, too.
Monsters in the closet and the thing that lived under the bed, waiting for the careless child's ankle to come within reach.
And how old arw you now?
Chris shook off the case of nerves, embarrassed at his imaginative wanderings. He walked slowly around the room, looking for anything that might be helpful.
There was no other door, no path back to the main hall, but maybe he could find a better weapon for Rebecca than a can of bug spray.
Besides an oak table and bookshelf, there was the small, unmade bed and a study desk in the room, nothing more. He quickly rifled through the books, then moved around the foot of the bed to the desk.
There was a slim volume next to the desk lamp, the fabric cover untitled; a journal. And although the desktop was coated in dust, the diary had been moved recently.
Intrigued, Chris picked it up and flipped to the last few pages. Maybe there was a clue as to what the hell was going on. He sat on the edge of the cot and started to read.
May 9, 1998: Played poker tonight with Scott and Alias from Security, and Steve from Research. Steve was the big winner, but I think he was cheating. Scumbag.
Chris smiled a little at that. He skipped down to the next entry and his smile froze, his heart seeming to pause in mid-beat.
May 10,1998: One of the higher-ups assigned me to take care of a new experiment. It looks like a skinned gorilla.
Feeding instructions were to give it live animals. When I threw in a pig, the creature seemed to be playing with it tearing off the pig's legs and pulling out the guts before it actually started eating.
Experiment? Could the writer be talking about the zombies? Chris read on, excited by the find. The diary obviously belonged to someone who worked here, had to be meaning that the cover-up was even bigger than he'd suspected.
May 11, 1998: At around 5 A. M. , Scott woke me up.
Scared the shit out of me, too. He was wearing a protective garment that looked like a space suit. He handed me another one and told me to put it on. Said there'd been an accident in the basement lab. I just knew something like this would happen. Those assholes in Research never rest, even at night.
May 12, 1998: I've been wearing the damn space suit since yesterday. My skin's getting grimy and feels itchy all over. The goddamn dogs have been looking at me funny, so I decided not to feed them today. Screw 'em.
May 13,1998: Went to the Infirmary because my back is all swollen and feels itchy. They put a big bandage on it and told me I didn't need to wear the suit any more. All I wanna do is sleep.
May 14, 1998: Found another blister on my foot this morning. I ended up dragging my foot all the way to the dogs' pen. They were quiet all day, which is weird. Then I realized some of them had escaped. If anybody finds out, I'll have my head handed to me.
May 15, 1998: My first day off in a long time and I feel like shit. Decided to go visit Nancy anyway, but when I tried to leave the estate, I was stopped by the guards. They said the company's ordered that no one leave the grounds. I can't even make a phone call - all the phones have been ripped out! What kind of bullshit is this?!
May 16, 1998: Rumor's going around that a researcher who tried to escape the estate last night was shot. My entire body feels hot and itchy and I'm sweating all the time now. I scratched the swelling on my arm and a p
iece of rotten flesh just dropped off. Wasn't until I realized the smell was making me hungry that I got violently sick.
The writing had become shaky. Chris turned the page, and could barely read the last few lines, the words scrawled haphazardly across the paper.
May 19. Fever gone but itchy. Hungry and eat doggie food. Itchy itchy Scott came ugly face so killed him. Tasty. 4 // Itchy. Tasty.
The rest of the pages were blank.
Chris stood up and slipped the journal inside his vest, his thoughts racing. Some of the pieces were finally fitting into place - secret research at a secretly kept estate, an accident in a hidden lab, an escaped virus or infection of some kind that altered the people working here, changing them into ghouls. . . . . . and some of them got out.
The murders and attacks on Raccoon started in late May, coinciding with the effects of the accident; the chronology made sense. But exactly what kind of research was being done here, and how deeply involved was Umbrella?
How involved was Billy?
He didn't want to think about that, but even as he tried to clear his mind of the thought, a new one occurred to him. . . what if it was still contagious?
He hurried to the door, suddenly desperate to get back to Rebecca with the news. With her training, maybe she could figure out what had been unleashed in the secret lab on the estate.
Chris swallowed heavily. Even now, he and the other S. T. A. R. S. could be infected.