Resident Evil – The "Umbrella" Conspiracy

      "… after a fly-by of the other central areas. Once they report in, we'll have a better idea of where to focus our energies." "But what about the Spencer place?" Chris asked. "It's practically in the middle of the crime scenes. If we start there, we can conduct a more complete search." "And if Bravo's information points to that area, rest assured, we'll search there. For now, I don't see any reason to consider it a priority." Chris looked incredulous. "But we only have Um-brella's word that the estate is secure…"
      Wesker leaned against his desk, his strong features expressionless. "Chris, we all want to get to the bottom of this. But we have to work as a team, and the best approach here is to do a thorough search for those missing hikers before we start jumping to con-
      clusions. Bravo will take a look-see and we'll conduct this by the book."
      Chris frowned, but said nothing more. Jill resisted the urge to roll her eyes at Wesker's little speech. He was doing the right thing, technically, but had left out the part about it being politic to do as Chief Irons wanted. Irons had made it clear time and again throughout the killing spree that he was in charge of the investigation and was calling the shots. It wouldn't have bothered her so much except that Wesker presented himself as an independent thinker, a man who didn't play politics. She had joined the
      S.T.A.R.S. because she couldn't stand the bullshit red-tape that dominated so much of law enforcement, and Wesker's obvious deferral to the chief was irri– tating.
      Well, and don't forget that you stood a good chance of ending up in prison if you hadn't changed your occupation… "Jill. I see that you managed to find the time to come in. Illuminate us with your brilliant insight. What have you got for us?"
      Jill met Wesker's sharp gaze evenly, trying to seem as cool and composed as he was. "Nothing new, I'm afraid. The only obvious pattern is location…"
      She looked down at the notes she had on the stack of files in front of her, scanning them for reference.
      "Uh, the tissue samples from underneath both Becky McGee's and Chris Smith's fingernails were an exact match, we got that yesterday… and Tonya Lipton, the third victim, had definitely been hiking in the foothills, that'd be sector-seven-B…"
      She looked back up at Wesker and made her pitch.
      "My theory at this point is that there's a possible ritualistic cult hiding in the mountains, four to eleven members strong, with guard dogs trained to attack intruders in their territory." "Extrapolate." Wesker folded his arms, waiting. At least no one had laughed. Jill plunged forward, warming to the material. "The cannibalism and dis-memberment suggest ritualistic behavior, as does the presence of decomposed flesh found on some of the victims – like the killers are carrying parts of previ-ous unknown victims to their attacks. We've got saliva and tissue samples from four separate human assail-ants, though eye-witness reports suggest up to ten or eleven people. And those killed by animals were all found or found to be attacked in the same vicinity, suggesting that they wandered into some kind of off-limits area. The saliva traces appear to be canine, though there's still some disagreement…" She
      trailed off, finished. Wesker's face betrayed nothing, but he nodded slowly. "Not bad, not bad at all. Disprove?" Jill sighed. She hated having to shoot her own theory down, but that was part of the job-and in all honesty, the part that most encouraged clear, rational thinking. The S.T.A.R.S. trained their people not to fixate on any single path to the truth. She glanced at her notes again. "It's highly unlikely that a cult that big would move around much, and the murders started too recently to be local; the RPD would've seen signs before now, some escalation to this kind of behavior. Also, the level of post-mortem violence indicates disorganized offenders, and they usually work solo."
      Joseph Frost, the Alpha vehicle specialist, piped up from the back of the room. "The animal attack part works, though, protecting their territory and all that."
      Wesker scooped up a pen and walked to the dry-erase board next to his desk, talking as he moved. "I agree."
      He wrote territoriality on the board and then turned back to face her. "Anything else?" Jill shook her head, but felt good that she'd contrib– uted something. She knew the cult aspect was reach– ing, but it had been all she could come up with. The police certainly hadn't come up with anything better. Wesker turned his attention to Brad Vickers, who suggested that it was a new strain of terrorism, and that demands would be made soon. Wesker put terror– ism on the board, but didn't seem enthusiastic about the idea. Neither did anyone else. Brad quickly went back to his headset, checking on Bravo team's status. Both Joseph and Barry passed on theorizing, and Chris's views on the killings were already well known, if vague; he believed that there was an organized assault going on, and that external influences were involved somehow. Wesker asked if he had anything new to add (stressing new, Jill noticed), and Chris shook his head, looking depressed. Wesker capped the black pen and sat on the edge of his desk, gazing thoughtfully at the blank expanse of board. "It's a start," he said. "I know you've all read the police and coroner reports, and listened to the eyewitness accounts." "Vickers here, over." From the back of the room, Brad spoke quietly into his headset, interrupting Wesker. The captain lowered his voice and continued.
      "Now at this point, we don't know what we're dealing with and I know that all of us have some… concerns with how the RPD has been dealing with the situation. But now that we're on the case, I…" "What?"
      At the sound of Brad's raised voice, Jill turned toward the back of the room along with everyone else. He was standing up, agitated, one hand pressed to the ear piece of his set.
      "Bravo team, report. Repeat, Bravo team, report!" Wesker stood up. "Vickers, put it on 'com!"Brad hit the switch on his console and the bright, crackling sound of static filled the room. Jill strained to hear a human voice amidst the fuzz, but for several tense seconds, there was nothing. Then. "… you copy? Malfunction, we're going to have to…"
      The rest was lost in a burst of static. It sounded like Enrico Marini, the Bravo team leader. Jill chewed at her lower lip and exchanged a worried glance with Chris. Enrico had seemed… frantic. They all lis– tened for another moment but there was nothing more than the sound of open air. "Position?" Wesker snapped. Brad's face was pale. "They're in the, uh, sector twenty-two, tail end of C… except I've lost the signal. The transmitter is off-line."
      Jill felt stunned, saw the feeling reflected in the faces of the others. The helicopter's transmitter was designed to keep working no matter what; the onlyway it would shut down was if something big hap– pened – the entire system blanking out or being seri– ously damaged. Something like a crash. Chris felt his stomach knot as he recognized the coordinates. The Spencer estate. Marini had said something about a malfunction, it had to be a coincidence – but it didn't feel like one. The Bravos were in trouble, and practically on top of the old Umbrella mansion. All of this went through his head in a split-second, and then he was standing, ready to move. Whatever happened, the S.T.A.R.S. took care of their own. Wesker was already in action. He addressed the team even as he reached for his keys, heading for the gun safe.
      "Joseph, take over the board and keep trying to raise them. Vickers, warm up the 'copter and get clearance, I want us ready to fly in five."
      The captain unlocked the safe as Brad handed the headset to Joseph and hurried out of the room. The reinforced metal door swung open, revealing an arse– nal of rifles and handguns shelved above boxes of ammo. Wesker turned to the rest of them, his expres– sion as bland as ever but his voice brisk with au-thority.
      "Barry, Chris I want you to get the weapons into the 'copter, loaded and secured. Jill, get the vests and packs and meet us on the roof." He clipped a key off his ring and tossed it to her.
      "I'm going to put a call in to Irons, make sure he gets us some backup and EMTs down at the barri– cade," Wesker said, then blew out sharply. "Five minutes or less, folks. Let's move."
      Jill left for the locker room and Barry grabbed one of the empty duffel bags from the bottom of the gun safe, nodding at Chris. Chris scooped up a second bag and started loading boxes of shells, cartridges, and clips as Barry carefully handled the weapons, check– ing each one. Behind them, Joseph again tried hailing the Bravo team to no avail. Chris wondered again about the proximity of the Bravo team's last reported position to the Spencer estate. Was there a connection? And if so, how? Billy worked for Umbrella, they own the estate-
      "Chief? Wesker. We just lost contact with Bravo; I'm taking us in."
      Chris felt a sudden rush of adrenaline and worked faster, aware that every second counted – could mean the difference between life and death for his friends and teammates. A serious crash was unlikely, the Bravos would have been flying low and Forest was a decent pilot… but what about after they'd gone down? Wesker quickly relayed the information to Irons over the phone and then hung up, walking back to join them.
      "I'm going up to make sure our 'copter's outfitted. Joseph, give it another minute and then turn it over to the boys at the front desk. You can help these two carry the equipment up. I'll see you on top."
      Wesker nodded to them and hurried out, his foot– steps clattering loudly down the hall. "He's good," Barry said quietly, and Chris had to agree. It was reassuring to see that their new captain didn't rattle easily. Chris still wasn't sure how he felt about the man personally, but his respect for Wesker's abilities was growing by the minute.
      "Come in, Bravo, do you copy? Repeat…"
      Joseph patiently went on, his voice tight with strain, his pleas lost to the haze of white static that pulsed out into the room.
      Wesker strode down the deserted hall and through the shabbier of the two second-floor waiting rooms, nodding briskly at a pair of uniforms that stood talking by the soda machine. The door to the outside landing was chocked open, a faint, humid breeze cutting through the stickiness of the air inside. It was still daylight, but not for much longer. He hoped that wouldn't complicate matters, although he figured it probably would… Wesker took a left and started down the winding corridor that led to the helipad, absently running through a mental checklist.
      … hailing open procedure, weapons, gear, re-port…
      He already knew that everything was in order, but went through it again anyway; it didn't pay to get sloppy, and assumptions were the first step down that path. He liked to think of himself as a man of precision, one who had taken all possibilities into account and decided on the best course of action after thoroughly weighing all factors. Control was what being a competent leader was all about.
      But to close this case…
      He shut the thought down before it could get any further. He knew what had to be done, and there was still plenty of time. All he needed to concentrate on now was getting the Bravos back, safe and sound. Wesker opened the door at the end of the hall and stepped out into the bright evening, the rising hum of the 'copter's engine and the smell of machine oil filling his senses. The small rooftop helipad was cooler than inside, partly draped by the shadow of an aging water tower, and empty except for the gunmetal gray Alpha helicopter. For the first time, he wondered what had gone wrong for Bravo; he'd had Joseph and the rookie check both birds out yesterday and they'd been fine, all systems go. He dismissed that train of thought as he walked toward the 'copter, his shadow falling long across the concrete. It didn't matter why, not anymore. What mattered was what came next. Expect the unexpected, that was the S.T.A.R.S. motto, although that basi– cally meant to prepare for anything. Expect nothing, that was Albert Wesker's motto. A little less catchy, maybe, but infinitely more useful. It virtually guaranteed that nothing would ever surprise him. He stepped up to the open pilot door and got a shaky thumbs-up from Vickers; the man looked posi– tively green, and Wesker briefly considered leaving him behind. Chris was licensed to fly, and Vickers had a reputation for choking under the gun; the last thing he needed was for one of his people to freeze up if there was trouble. Then he thought about the lost Bravos and decided against it. This was a rescue mission. The worst Vickers could do would be to throw up on himself if the 'copter had crashed badly, and Wesker could live with that. He opened the side door and crouched his way into the cabin, doing a quick inventory of the equipment that lined the walls. Emergency flares, ration kits… he popped the lid on the heavy, dented footlocker behind the benches and looked through the basic medical supplies, nodding to himself. They were as ready as they were going to be… Wesker grinned suddenly, wondering what Brian Irons was doing right now. Shitting his pants, no doubt. Wesker chuckled as he stepped back out onto the sun-baked asphalt, getting a sudden clear mental image of Irons, his pudgy cheeks red with anger and crap dribbling down his leg. Irons liked to think he could control everything and every-one around him and lost his temper when he couldn't, and that made him an idiot. Unfortunately for all of them, he was an idiot with a little bit of power. Wesker had checked him out carefully before taking the position in Raccoon City, and knew a few things about the chief that didn't paint him in a particularly positive light. He had no intention of using that information, but if Irons attempted to screw things up one more time, Wesker had no qualms about letting that information get out……or at least telling him that I have access to it; it'd certainly keep him out of the way. Barry Burton stepped out onto the concrete carry– ing more ammo cache, his giant biceps flexing as he shifted his hold on the heavy canvas bag and started for the 'copter. Chris and Joseph followed, Chris with the sidearms and Joseph lugging a satchel of RPGs, the compact grenade launcher slung over one shoulder. Wesker marveled at Burton's brute strength as the Alpha climbed in and casually set the bag down as though it didn't weigh over a hundred pounds. Barry was bright enough, but in the S.T.A.R.S., muscle was a definite asset. Everyone else in his squad was in good shape, but compared to Barry, they were pencil-necks. As the three of them stored the equipment, Wesker turned his attention back to the door, watching for Jill. He checked his watch and frowned. It had been just under five minutes since their last contact with Bravo, they'd made excellent time… so where the hell was Valentine? He hadn't interacted with her much since she'd come to Raccoon, but her file was a rave review. She'd gotten high recommendations from everyone she'd worked with, praised by her last captain as highly intelligent and "unusually" calm in a crisis. She'd have to be, with her history. Her father was Dick Valentine, the best thief in the business a couple of decades back. He'd trained her to follow in his footsteps, and word had it that she had done quite well until Daddy had been incarcerated… Prodigy or no, she could stand to buy a decent watch. He silently urged Jill to get her ass into gear and motioned for Vickers to start the blades turning. It was time to find out how bad things were out there.

THREE

      JILL TURNED TOWARD THE DOOR OF THE dim and silent S.T.A.R.S. locker room, her arms full with two bulging duffel bags. She set them down and quickly pulled her hair back, tucking it into a well– worn black beret. It was really too hot, but it was her lucky hat. She glanced at her watch before hefting the bags, pleased to note that it had only taken her three minutes to load up. She'd gone through all of the Alpha lockers, grab– bing utility belts, fingerless gloves, Kevlar vests and shoulder packs, noting that the lockers reflected their user's personalities: Barry's had been covered with snapshots of his family and a pin-up from a gun magazine, a rare.45 Luger, shining against red velvet. Chris had pictures of his Air Force buddies up and the shelves were a boyish mess-crumpled T-shirts, loose papers, even a glow-in-the-dark yo-yo with a broken string. Brad Vickers had a stack of self-help books and Joseph, a Three Stooges calendar. Only Wesker's had been devoid of personal effects. Somehow, it didn't surprise her. The captain struck her as too tightly wound to place much value on sentiment. Her own locker held a number of used paperback true crime novels, a toothbrush, floss, breath mints, and three hats. On the door was a small mirror and an old, frayed photo of her and her father, taken when she was a child and they'd gone to the beach one summer. As she'd quickly thrown the Alpha gear together, she decided that she'd redecorate when she had free time; anyone looking through her locker would think she was some kind of dental freak. Jill crouched a bit and fumbled at the latch to the door, balancing the awkward bags on one raised knee.
      She'd just grasped it when someone coughed loudly behind her. Startled, Jill dropped the bags and spun, looking for the cougher as her mind reflexively assessed the situation. The door had been locked. The small room held three banks of lockers and had been quiet and dark when she'd come in. There was another door in the back of the room, but no one had come through it since she'd entered-
      –which means that someone was already here when I came in, in the shadows behind the last bank. A cop grabbing a nap?
      Unlikely. The department's lunch room had a cou– ple of bunks in the back, a lot more comfortable than a narrow bench over cold concrete. Then maybe it's someone enjoying a little "leisure" time with a magazine, her brain snarled, does it matter? You're on the clock here, get moving! Right. Jill scooped up the bags and turned to leave. "Miss Valentine, isn't it?" A shadow separated itself from the back of the room and stepped forward, a tall man with a low, musical voice. Early forties, a thin frame, dark hair and deep set eyes. He was actually wearing a trench coat, and an expensive one at that. Jill readied herself to move quickly if the need arose. She didn't recognize him. "That's right," she said warily. The man stepped toward her, a smile flickering across his face. "I have something for you," he said softly. Jill narrowed her eyes and shifted automatically into a defensive position, balancing her weight on the balls of her feet. "Hold it, asshole – I don't know who the hell you think you are or what you think I want, but you're in a police station…"
      She trailed off as he shook his head, grinning broadly, his dark eyes twinkling with mirth. "You mistake my intentions, Miss Valentine. Excuse my manners, please. My name is Trent, and I'm… a friend to the S.T.A.R.S."
      Jill studied his posture and position and eased her own stance slightly, watching his eyes for even a flicker of movement. She didn't feel threatened by him, exactly… but how did he know my name?
      "What do you want?" Trent grinned wider. "Ah, straight to the point. But of course, you're on a rather tight schedule…"
      He slowly reached into a pocket of his coat and pulled out what looked like a cell phone. "Though it's
      not what I want that's important. It's what I think you should have."
      Jill glanced quickly at the item he held, frowning.
      "That?" "Yes. I've assembled a few documents that you should find interesting; compelling, in fact." As he spoke, he held out the device. She reached for it carefully, realizing as she did that it was a mini-disk reader, a very complicated and costly micro computer. Trent was well-financed, who– ever he was. Jill tucked the reader into her hip pack, suddenly more than a little curious. "Who do you work for?" He shook his head. "That's not important, not at this juncture. Although I will say that there are a lot of very important people watching Raccoon City right now." "Oh? And are these people 'friends' of the S.T.A.R.S., too, Mr. Trent?" Trent laughed, a soft, deep chuckle. "So many questions, so little time. Read the files. And if I were you, I wouldn't mention this conversation to anyone; it could have rather serious consequences."
      He walked toward the door in the back of the room, turning back to her as he reached for the knob. Trent's lined, weathered features suddenly lost all trace of humor, his gaze serious and intense.
      "One more thing, Miss Valentine, and this is criti-cal, make no mistake: not everyone can be trusted, and not everyone is who they appear to be – even the people you think you know. If you want to stay alive, you'll do well to remember it."
      Trent opened the door and just like that, he was gone. Jill stared after him, her mind going a million directions at once. She felt like she was in some melodramatic old spy movie and had just met the mysterious stranger. It was laughable, and yet-
      –and yet he just handed you several thousands of dollars worth of equipment with a straight face and told you to watch your back; you think he's kidding?
      She didn't know what to think, and she didn't have time to think it; the Alpha team was probably assem– bled, waiting, and wondering where the hell she was. Jill shouldered the heavy bags and hurried out the door.
      They'd gotten the weapons loaded and secured and Wesker was getting impatient. Although his eyes were hidden by dark aviator sunglasses, Chris could see it in the captain's stance and in the way he kept his head cocked toward the building. The helicopter was prepped and ready, the blades whipping warm, humid air through the tight compartment. With the door open, the sound of the engine drowned out any attempt at conversation. There was nothing to do but wait.
      Come on, Jill, don't slow us up here…
      Even as Chris thought it, Jill emerged from the building and jogged toward them with the Alpha gear, an apologetic look on her face. Wesker jumped down to help her, taking one of the stuffed bags as she climbed aboard. Wesker followed, closing the double hatches behind them. Instantly, the roar of the turbine engine was muted to a dull thrum. "Problems, Jill?" Wesker didn't sound angry, but there was an edge to his voice that suggested he wasn't all that happy, either. Jill shook her head. "One of the lockers was stuck. I had a hell of a time getting the key to work."
      The captain stared at her for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to give her a hard time, then shrugged. "I'll call maintenance when we get back. Go ahead and distribute the gear."
      He picked up a headset and put it on, moving up to sit next to Brad as Jill started passing out the vests. The helicopter lifted slowly, the RPD building falling away as Brad positioned them to head northwest. Chris crouched down next to Jill after donning his vest, helping her sort through the gloves and belts as they sped over the city toward the Arklay Mountains. The busy urban streets below quickly gave way to the suburbs, wide streets and quiet houses set amidst squares of browning grass and picket fences. An evening haze had settled over the sprawling but iso-lated community, fussing the edges of the picturesque view and giving it an unreal, dream-like quality. Minutes passed in silence as the Alphas prepared themselves and belted in, each team member preoccu– pied with his or her own thoughts.
      With any luck, the Bravo team's helicopter had suffered only a minor mechanical failure. Forest would've set it down in one of the scraggly open fields that dotted the forest and was probably up to his elbows in grease by now, cursing at the engine as they waited for Alpha to show. Without the bird in work– ing order, Marini wouldn't start the proposed search. The alternative…
      Chris grimaced, not wanting to consider any alter– natives. He'd once seen the aftermath of a serious 'copter crash, back in the Air Force. Pilot error had led to the fall of a Huey carrying eleven men and women to a training mission. By the time the rescuers had arrived, there'd been nothing but charred, smok– ing bones amidst the fiery debris, the sweet, sticky smell of gasoline-roasted flesh heavy in the blackened air. Even the ground had been burning, and that was the image that had haunted his dreams for months afterwards; the earth on fire, the chemical flames devouring the very soil beneath his feet… There was a slight dip in their altitude as Brad adjusted the rotor pitch, jolting him out of the un– pleasant memory. The ragged outskirts of Raccoon Forest slipped by below, the orange markers of the police blockade standing out against the thick muted green of the trees. Twilight was finally setting in, the forest growing heavy with shadow. "ETA… three minutes." Brad called back, and Chris looked around the cabin, noting the silent, grim expressions of his teammates. Joseph had tied a bandana over his head and was intently relacing his boots. Barry was gently rubbing a soft cloth over his beloved Colt Python, staring out the hatch window. He turned his head to look at Jill and was surprised to find her staring back at him thoughtfully. She was sitting on the same bench as him and she smiled briefly, almost nervously as he caught her gaze. Abruptly she unhooked her belt and moved to sit next to him. He caught a faint scent of her skin, a clean, soapy smell.
      "Chris… what you've been saying, about external factors in these cases…"
      Her voice was pitched so low that he had to lean in to hear her over the throbbing of the engine. She glanced quickly around at the others, as if to make sure that no one was listening, then looked into his eyes, her own carefully guarded. "I think you might be on the right track," she said softly, "and I'm starting to think that it might not be such a good idea to talk about it." Chris's throat suddenly felt dry. "Did something happen?"
      Jill shook her head, her finely chiseled features giving away nothing. "No. I've just been thinking that maybe you should watch what you say. Maybe not everyone listening is on the right side of this…"
      Chris frowned, not sure what she was trying to tell him. "The only people I've talked to are on the job." Her gaze didn't falter, and he realized suddenly what she was implying.
      Jesus, and I thought I was paranoid!
      "Jill, I know these people, and even if I didn't, the
 
      S.T.A.R.S. have psycho profiles on every member, history checks, personal references – there's no way it could happen." She sighed. "Look, forget I said anything. I just… just watch yourself, that's all."All right, kids, look lively! We're coming up on sector twenty-two, they could be anywhere."
      At Wesker's interruption, Jill gave him a final sharp glance and then moved to one of the windows. Chris followed, Joseph and Barry taking the search up on the other side of the cabin. Looking out the small window, he scanned the deepening dusk on automatic, thinking about what Jill had said. He supposed he should be grateful that he wasn't the only one who suspected some kind of a cover up, but why hadn't she said anything before? And to warn him against the S.T.A.R.S… She knows something. She must, it was the only explanation that made any sense. He decided that after they picked up Bravo, he'd talk to her again, try to convince her that going to Wesker would be their best bet. With both of them pushing, the captain would have to listen. He stared out at the seemingly endless sea of trees as the helicopter skimmed lower, forcing his full attention to the search. The Spencer estate had to be close, though he couldn't see it in the fading light. Thoughts of Billy and Umbrella and now Jill's strange warning circled through his exhaustion, trying to break his focus, but he refused to give in. He was still worried about the Bravos – though as the trees swept by, he was becoming more and more convinced that they weren't in any real trouble. It was probably nothing worse than a crossed wire, Forest had just shut it down to make repairs. Then he saw it less than a mile away, even as Jill pointed and spoke, and his concern turned to cold dread.
      "Look, Chris!"
      An oily plume of black smoke boiled up through the last remnants of daylight, staining the sky like a promise of death.
      Oh, no!
      Barry clenched his jaw, staring at the stream of smoke that rose up from the trees, feeling sick. "Captain, two o'clock sharp!" Chris called, and then they were turning, heading for the dark smudge that could only mean a crash. Wesker moved back into the cabin, still wearing his shades. He stepped to the window and spoke quietly, his voice subdued. "Let's not assume the worst.
      There's a possibility that a fire broke out after they landed, or that they started the fire on purpose, as a signal."
      Barry wished they could believe him, but even Wesker had to know better. With the 'copter shut down, a fire starting on its own was unlikely and if the Bravos wanted to signal, they would've used flares. Besides which, wood doesn't make that kind of smoke… "But whatever it is, we won't know till we get there. Now if I could have your full attention, please."
      Barry turned away from the window, saw the others do the same. Chris, Jill, and Joseph all wore the same look, as he imagined he did: shock. S.T.A.R.S. some– times got hurt in the line of duty, it was part of the job, but accidents like this… Wesker's only visible sign of distress was the set of his mouth, a thin, grim line against his tanned skin.