"Listen up. We've got people down in a possibly hostile environment. I want all of you armed, and I want an organized approach, a standard fan as soon as we set down. Barry, you'll take point."
Barry nodded, pulling himself together. Wesker was right; now was not the time to get emotional.
"Brad's going to set us down as close to the site as he can get, what looks like a small clearing about fifty meters south of their last coordinates. He'll stay with the 'copter and keep it warm in case of trouble. Any questions?" Nobody spoke, and Wesker nodded briskly. "Good. Barry, load us up. We can leave the rest of the gear on board and come back for it."
The captain stepped to the front to talk to Brad, while Jill, Chris, and Joseph turned to Barry. As weapons specialist, he checked the firearms in and out to each S.T.A.R.S. team member and kept them in prime condition. Barry turned to the cabinet next to the outer hatch and unhooked the latch, exposing six Beretta 9mm handguns on a metal rack, cleaned and sighted only yesterday. Each weapon held fifteen rounds, semi– jacketed hollow points. It was a good gun, though Barry preferred his Python, a lot bigger punch with.357 rounds… He quickly distributed the weapons, passing out three loaded clips with each. "I hope we don't need these," Joseph said, slapping in a clip, and Barry nodded agreement. Just because he paid his dues to the NRA didn't mean he was some trigger-happy dumbass, looking to kill; he just liked guns. Wesker joined them again and the five of them stood at the hatch, waiting for Brad to bring them in. As they neared the plume of smoke, the helicopter's whirling blades pushed it down and out, creating a black fog that blended into the heavy shadows of the trees. Any chance of spotting the downed vehicle from the air was lost to the smoke and dusk. Brad swung them around and settled the bird into a scrappy patch of tall grass, snapping wildly from the forced wind. Even as the rails wobbled to the ground, Barry had his hand on the latch, ready to move out. A warm hand fell on his shoulder. Barry turned and saw Chris looking at him intently. "We're right behind you," Chris said, and Barry nodded. He wasn't worried, not with the Alphas backing him up. All he was concerned with was the Bravo team's situation. Rico Marini was a good friend of his. Marini's wife had baby-sat for the girls more times than Barry could count, and was friends with Kathy. The thought of him dead, to a stupid mechanical screw-up… Hang on, buddy, we're comin'. One hand on the butt of his Colt, Barry pulled the handle and stepped out into the humid, whipping twilight of Raccoon Forest, ready for anything.
FOUR
THEY SPREAD OUT AND STARTED NORTH, Wesker and Chris behind and to Barry's left, Jill and Joseph on his right. Directly in front of them was a sparse stand of trees, and as the Alpha's 'copter blade revved down, Jill could smell burning fuel and see wisps of smoke curling through the foliage. They moved quickly through the wooded area, visibility dropping off sharply beneath the needled branches. The warm scents of pine and earth were overshadowed by the burning smell, the acrid odor growing stronger with each step. From the dim light filtering toward them, Jill saw that there was another clearing ahead, high with brittle grasses.
"I see it, dead ahead!"
Jill felt her heart speed up at Barry's shout, and then they were all running, hurrying to catch up to their point man. She emerged from the copse of trees, Joseph next to her. Barry was already at the downed 'copter, Chris and Wesker right behind. Smoke was still rising from the silent wreck, but it was thinning. If there had been a fire, it had died out.
She and Joseph reached the others and stopped, staring, no one speaking as they surveyed the scene. The long, wide body of the 'copter was intact, not a single scratch visible. The port landing rail looked bent, but besides that and the dying haze of smoke from the rotor, there seemed to be nothing wrong with it. The hatches stood open, the beam from Wesker's penlight showing them an undamaged cabin. From what she could see, most of the Bravo's gear was still on board.
So where are they? It didn't make any sense. It hadn't been fifteen minutes since their last transmission; if anyone had been injured, they would have stayed. And if they'd decided to leave, why had they left their equipment behind?
Wesker handed the light to Joseph and nodded toward the cockpit. "Check it out. The rest of you, spread out, look for clues-tracks, shell casings, signs of struggle-you find anything, let me know. And stay alert."
Jill stood a moment longer, staring at the smoking 'copter and wondering what could have happened.
Enrico had said something about a malfunction; so okay, the Bravos had set down. What had happened next? What would have made them abandon their best chance of being found, leaving behind emergency kits, weaponry – Jill saw a couple of bullet-proof vests crumpled next to the hatch and shook her head, adding it to the growing list of seemingly irrational actions. She turned to join the search as Joseph stepped out of the cockpit, looking as confused as she felt. She waited to hear his report as he handed the light back to Wesker, shrugging nervously.
"I don't know what happened. The bent rail sug-gests a forced landing, but except for the electrical system, everything looks fine."
Wesker sighed, then raised his voice so the others could hear. "Circle out, people, three meters apart, widen as we go!"
Jill moved over to stand between Chris and Barry, both men already scanning the ground at their feet as they slowly moved east and northeast of the helicop– ter. Wesker stepped into the cabin, probing the dark-ness with his penlight. Joseph headed west. Dry weeds crackled underfoot as they widened their circle, the only sound in the still, warm air except for the distant hum of the Alpha helicopter engine. Jill used her boots to search through the thick ground cover, brushing the tall grasses aside with each step. In another few moments, it'd be too dark to see anything; they needed to break out the flashlights, Bravo had left theirs behind… Jill stopped suddenly, listening. The sighing, crack– ling steps of the others, the far away drone of their 'copter and nothing else. Not a chirp, a chitter, nothing. They were in the woods, in the middle of summer; where were the animals, the insects? The forest was unnaturally still, the only sounds human. For the first time since they'd set down, Jill was afraid. She was about to call out to the others when Joseph shouted from somewhere behind them, his voice high and cracking.
"Hey! Over here!"
Jill turned and started jogging back, saw Chris and Barry do the same. Wesker was still by the helicopter and had drawn his weapon at Joseph's cry, pointing it up as he broke into a run. In the murky light, Jill could just make out Joseph's shadowy form, crouched down in the high grass near some trees a hundred feet past the 'copter. Instinc– tively, she pulled her own sidearm and double-timed, suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of encroaching doom. Joseph stood up, holding something, and let out a strangled scream before dropping it, his eyes wide with horror. For a split-second, Jill's mind couldn't accept what it had seen in Joseph's grasp. A S.T.A.R.S. handgun, a Beretta. Jill ran faster, catching up to Wesker. And a disembodied human hand curled around it, hacked off at the wrist. There was a deep, guttural snarl from behind Jo– seph, from the darkness of the trees. An animal, growling joined by another rasping, throaty shriek and suddenly dark, powerful shapes erupted from the woods, lunging at Joseph and taking him down.
"Joseph!"
Jill's scream ringing in his ears, Chris drew his weapon and stopped in his tracks, trying to get a clear shot at the raging beasts that were attacking Joseph. Wesker's penlight sent a thin beam dancing over the writhing creatures, illuminating a nightmare. Joseph's body was all but hidden by the three animals that tore at him, ripping at him with gnash– ing, dripping jaws. They were the size and shape of dogs, as big as German shepherds maybe, except that they seemed to have no fur, no skin. Wet, red sinew and muscle flashed beneath Wesker's wavering light, the dog-creatures shrieking and snapping in a frenzy of bloodlust. Joseph cried out, a burbling, liquid sound as he flailed weakly at the savage attackers, blood pouring from multiple wounds. It was the scream of a dying man. There was no time to waste; Chris targeted and opened fire. Three rounds smacked wetly into one of the dogs, a fourth shot going high. There was a single, high-pitched yelp and the beast went down, its sides heaving. The other two animals continued their as– sault, indifferent to the thunderous shots. Even as Chris watched in horror, one of the slavering hell hounds lunged forward and ripped out Joseph's throat, exposing bloody gristle and the glistening slickness of bone. The S.T.A.R.S. opened up, sending a rain of explo-sive fire at Joseph's killers. Red spatters burst into the air, the dog-things still trying to get at the spasming corpse while bullets riddled their strange flesh. With a final series of harsh, barking mewls, they fell-and didn't rise again.
"Hold your fire!"
Chris took his finger off the trigger but continued to point the handgun at the fallen creatures, ready to blow apart the first one that so much as twitched. Two of them were still breathing, growling softly through panting gasps. The third sprawled lifelessly next to Joseph's mutilated body.
They should be dead, should"ve stayed down at the first shots! What are they?
Wesker took a single step toward the slaughter in front of them when all around, deep, echoing howls filled the warm night air, shrill voices of predatorial fury com-ing at the S.T.A.R.S. from all directions. "Back to the 'copter, now!" Wesker shouted. Chris ran, Barry and Jill in front of him and Wesker bringing up the rear. The four of them sprinted through dark trees, unseen branches slapping at them as the howls grew louder, more insistent. Wesker turned and fired blindly into the woods as they stumbled toward the waiting helicopter, its blades already spinning. Chris felt relief sweep through him; Brad must have heard the shots. They still had a chance…
Chris could hear the creatures behind them now, the sharp rustling of lean, muscular bodies tearing through the trees. He could also see Brad's pale, wide– eyed face through the glass front of the 'copter, the reflected lights of the control panel casting a greenish glow across his panicked features. He was shouting something, but the roar of the engine drowned out everything now, the blast of wind churning the field into a rippling sea. Another fifty feet, almost there. Suddenly, the helicopter jerked into the air, acceler– ating wildly. Chris caught a final glimpse of Brad's face and could see the blind terror there, the unthink-ing panic that had gripped him as he clawed at the controls. "No! Don't go!" Chris screamed, but the wobbling rails were already out of reach, the 'copter pitching forward and away from them through the thundering darkness. They were going to die.
Damn you, Vickers!
Wesker turned and fired again, and was rewarded with a squeal of pain from one of their pursuers. There were at least four more close behind, gaining on them rapidly."Keep going!" he shouted, trying to get his bearings as they stumbled on, the piercing shrieks of the mutant dogs urging them faster. The sound of the helicopter was dying away, the cowardly Vickers taking their escape with him.Wesker fired again, the shot going wide, and saw another shadowy form join the hunt. The dogs were brutally fast. They didn't stand a chance, unless…
The mansion! "Veer right, one o'clock!" Wesker yelled, hoping that his sense of direction was still intact. Theycouldn't outrun the creatures, but maybe they could keep them at bay long enough to reach cover. He spun and fired the last round in his clip.
"Empty!"
Ejecting the spent magazine, he fumbled for anoth– er one tucked into his belt as both Barry and Chris took up the defense, firing past him and into the closing pack. Wesker slapped in the fresh clip as they reached the edge of the overgrown clearing and plunged into another dark stand of trees. They stumbled and dodged through the woods, tripping on uneven ground as the killer dogs came on. Lungs aching for air, Wesker imagined that he could smell the fetid, rotting meat stench of the beasts as they narrowed the distance and he somehow found the capacity to run faster.
We should be there by now, gotta be dose…
Chris saw it first through the thinning shadows of trees, the looming monstrosity back-lit by an early moon. "There! Run for that house!" It looked abandoned from the outside, the weath– ered wood and stone of the giant mansion crumbling and dark. The full size of the structure was cloaked by the shadowy, overgrown hedges that surrounded it, isolating it from the forest. A massive outset front porch presented double doors, their only option for escape. Wesker actually heard the snap of powerful jaws behind him and fired at the sound, intuitively squeez– ing the trigger as he ran for the front of the mansion. A gurgling yelp and the creature fell away, the howls of its siblings louder than ever, raised to a fever pitch by the thrill of the chase. Jill reached the doors first, slamming into the heavy wood with one shoulder as she snatched at the han-dles. Amazingly, they crashed open; brightness spilled out across the stone steps to the porch, lighting their path. She turned and started firing, providing cover as the three gasping men ran for the opening in the darkness. They piled into the mansion, Jill diving in last and Barry throwing his considerable bulk against the door, wedging it closed against the snarls of the creatures. He collapsed against it, face red and sweat-ing, as Chris found the entry's steel deadbolt and slid it home. They'd made it. Outside, the dogs howled and scrabbled uselessly at the heavy doors. Wesker took a deep breath of the cool, quiet air that filled the well-lit room and exhaled sharply. As he'd already known, the Spencer house wasn't abandoned. And now that they were here, all his careful planning was for nothing. Wesker silently cursed Brad Vickers again and wondered if they were any better off inside than out…
FIVE
JILL TOOK IN THEIR NEW SURROUNDINGS AS she caught her breath, feeling like she was a character in a nightmare that had just taken a turn into grand fantasy. Wild, howling monsters, Joseph's sudden death, a terrifying run through the dark woods-and now this.
Deserted, huh?
It was a palace, pure and simple, what her father would have called a perfect score. The room they had escaped into was the epitome of lavish. It was huge, easily bigger than Jill's entire house, tiled in gray– flecked marble and dominated by a wide, carpeted staircase that led to a second-floor balcony. Arched marble pillars lined the ornate hall, supporting the dark, heavy wood balustrade of the upper floor. Fluted wall sconces cast funnels of light across walls of cream, trimmed in oak and offset by the deep burnt ocher of the carpeting. In short, it was magnificent. "What is this?" Barry muttered. No one answered him. Jill took a deep breath and decided immediately that she didn't like it. There was a sense of… wrong– ness to the vast room, an atmosphere of vague oppres– sion. It felt haunted somehow, though by who or what, she couldn't say.
Beats the hell out of getting eaten by mutant dogs, though, gotta give it that much. And on the trail of that thought, God, poor Joseph! There hadn't been time to mourn him, and there wasn't time now-but he would be missed.
She walked toward the stairs clutching her hand-gun, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpet that led from the front door. There was an antique typewriter on a small table to the right of the steps, a blank sheet of paper spooled into the works. A strange bit of a decorum. The expansive hall was otherwise empty. She turned back toward the others, wondering what their take on all this was. Barry and Chris both looked uncertain, their faces flushed and sweaty as they surveyed the room. Wesker was crouched by the front door, examining one of the latches. He stood up, his dark shades still in place, seeming as detached as ever. "The wood around the lock is splintered. Somebody broke this door open before we got here." Chris looked hopeful. "Maybe the Bravos?" Wesker nodded. "That's what I'm thinking. Help should be on the way, assuming our 'friend' Mr. Vickers bothers to call it in."
His voice dripped sarcasm, and Jill felt her own anger kindling. Brad had screwed up big time, had almost cost them their lives. There was no excuse for what he'd done. Wesker continued, walking across the room toward one of the two doors on the west wall. He rattled the handle, but it didn't open. "It's not safe to go back out. Until the cavalry shows up, we might as well take a look around. It's obvious that somebody's been keeping this place up, though why and for how long…"
He trailed off, walking back toward the group.
"How are we set for ammo?"
Jill ejected the clip from her Beretta and counted: three rounds left, plus the two loaded magazines on her belt. Thirty-three shots. Chris had twenty-two left, Wesker, seventeen. Barry had two racked speed load– ers for his Colt, plus an extra handful of loose cartridges tucked into a hip pouch, nineteen rounds in all. Jill thought about all they'd left back on the heli– copter and felt another rush of anger toward Brad. Boxes of ammunition, flashlights, walkie-talkies, Shotguns – not to mention medical supplies. That Beretta that Joseph had found out in the field, the pale, blood-spattered fingers still wrapped around it – a S.T.A.R.S. team member dead or dying, and thanks to Brad, they didn't even have a band-aid to offer. Thump! A sound of something heavy sliding to the floor, somewhere close by. In unison, they turned toward the single door on the east wall. Jill was suddenly reminded of every horror movie she'd ever seen; a strange house, a strange noise… she shivered, and decided that she was most definitely going to kick Brad's narrow ass when they got out of here.
"Chris, check it out and report back ASAP," Wesker said. "We'll wait here in case the RPD comes knocking. You run into any trouble, fire your weapon and we'll find you."
Chris nodded and started toward the door, his boots clacking loudly against the marble floor. Jill felt that sense of foreboding wash over her again. "Chris?" His hand on the knob, he turned back, and she realized that there was nothing she could tell him that made any sense. Everything was happening so fast, there was so much wrong with this situation that she didn't know where to start.
And he's a trained professional, and so are you. Start acting like it. "Take care," she said finally. It wasn't what she wanted to say, but it'd have to be enough. Chris gave her a lopsided grin, then raised his Beretta and stepped through the doorway. Jill heard the ticking of a clock and then he was gone, closing the door behind him. Barry caught her gaze and smiled at her, a look that told her not to worry, but Jill couldn't shake the sudden certainty that Chris wouldn't be coming back. * * * Chris swept the room, taking in the stately elegance of the environment as he realized he was alone; whoever had made the noise, they weren't here.
The solemn ticking of a grandfather clock filled the cool air, echoing off of shining black and white tiles. He was in a dining hall, the kind he'd only ever seen in movies about rich people. Like the front room, this one had an incredibly high ceiling and a second floor balcony, but it was also decorated with expensive– looking art and had an inset fireplace at the far end, complete with a coat of arms and crossed swords hung over the mantle. There didn't seem to be any way to get to the second floor, but there was a closed door to the right of the fireplace. Chris lowered his weapon and started for the door, still awed by the wealth of the "abandoned" mansion that the S.T.A.R.S. had stumbled into. The dining room had polished red wood trim and expensive looking artwork on the beige stucco walls, surround-ing a long wooden table that ran the length of the room. The table had to seat at least twenty, though it was only set for a handful of people. Judging from the dust on the lacy place mats, nothing had been served for weeks. Except no one is supposed to have been here for thirty years, let alone hosted a formal dinner! Spencer had this place closed down before anyone ever stayed here. Chris shook his head. Obviously someone had reopened it a long time ago… so how was it that everyone in Raccoon City believed the Spencer estate to be boarded up, a crumbling ruin out in the woods? More importantly, why had Umbrella lied to Irons about its condition?
Murders, disappearances, Umbrella, Jill… It was frustrating; he felt like he had some of the answers, but wasn't sure what questions to ask. He reached the door and turned the knob slowly, listening for any sound of movement on the other side. He couldn't hear anything over the ticking of the old clock; it was set against the wall and each move– ment of the second hand reverberated hollowly, am– plified by the cavernous room. The door opened into one side of a narrow corri-dor, dimly lit by antique light fixtures. Chris quickly checked both directions. To the right was maybe ten meters of hardwood hall, a couple of doors across from him and a door at the end of the corridor. To the left, the hallway took a sharp turn away from where he stood, widening out. He saw the edge of a patterned brown run on the floor there. He wrinkled his nose, frowning. There was a vague odor in the air, a faint scent of something unpleas– ant, something familiar. He stood in the doorway another moment, trying to place the smell. One summer when he was a kid, the chain had come off his bike when he'd been out on a ride with some friends. He'd ended up in a ditch about six inches away from a choice bit of roadkill, the dried– up, pulpy remains of what once might have been a woodchuck. Time and the summer heat had dissi– pated the worst of the stink, though what had re-mained had been bad enough. Much to the amusement of his buddies, he'd vomited his lunch all over the carcass, taken a deep breath, then puked again. He still remembered the sun-baked scent of drying rot, like thickly soured milk and bile; the same smell that lingered in the corridor now like a bad dream. Fummp. A soft, shuffling noise from behind the first door to his right, like a padded fist sliding across a wall. There was someone on the other side. Chris edged into the hallway and moved toward the door, careful not to turn his back to the unsecured area. As he got closer, the gentle sounds of movement stopped, and he could see that the door wasn't closed all the way. No time like the present. With an easy tap the door swung inward, into a dim hall with green flecked wallpaper. A broad-shouldered man was standing not twenty feet away, half-hidden in shadow, his back to Chris. He turned around slowly, the careful shuffling of someone drunk or injured, and the smell that Chris had noticed before came off of the man in thick, noxious waves. His clothes were tattered and stained, the back of his head patchy with sparse, scraggly hair. Gotta be sick, dying maybe. Whatever was wrong with him, Chris didn't like it; his instincts were screaming at him to do something. He stepped into the corridor and trained his Beretta on the man's torso. "Hold it, don't move!" The man completed his turn and started toward Chris, shambling forward into the light. His, its, face was deathly pale, except for the blood smeared around its rotting lips. Flaps of dried skin hung from its sunken cheeks, and the dark wells of the creature's eye sockets glittered with hunger as it reached out with skeletal hands. Chris fired, three shots that smacked into the crea– ture's upper chest in a fine spray of crimson. With a gasping moan, it crumpled to the floor, dead. Chris staggered back, his thoughts racing in time with his hammering heart. He hit the door with one shoulder, was vaguely aware that it latched closed behind him as he stared at the fallen, stinking heap. -dead, that thing's the walking goddamn dead! The cannibal attacks in Raccoon, all of them near the forest. He'd seen enough late-night movies to know what he was looking at, but he still couldn't believe it. Zombies. No, no way, that was fiction, but maybe some kind of a disease, mimicking the symptoms. He had to tell the others. He turned and grabbed at the handle, but the heavy door wouldn't move, it must have locked itself when he'd stumbled. Behind him, a wet movement. Chris spun, eyes wide as the twitching creature clawed at the wooden floor, pulling itself toward him in an eager, single– minded silence. Chris realized that it was drooling, and the sight of the sticky pink rivulets pooling to the wood floor finally spurred him to action. He fired again, two shots into the thing's decaying, upturned face. Dark holes opened up in its knobby skull, sending tiny rivers of fluid and fleshy tissue through its lower jaw. With a heavy sigh, the rotting thing settled to the floor in a spreading red lake. Chris didn't want to make any bets on it staying down. He gave one more futile yank on the door and then stepped carefully past the body, moving down the corridor. He rattled the handle of a door on his left, but it was locked. There was a tiny etching in the key plate, what looked like a sword; he filed that bit of information into his confused, whirling thoughts and continued on, gripping the Beretta tightly. There was an offshoot to his right with a single door, but he ignored it, wanting to find a way to circle back to the front hall. The others must have heard the shots, but he had to assume that there were more creatures running around here like the one he'd killed. The rest of the team might already have their hands full. There was a door at the end of the hall on the left, where the corridor turned. Chris hurried toward it, the putrid scent of the creature – the zombie, call it what it is -
– making him want to gag. As he neared the door, he realized that the smell was actually getting worse, intensifying with each step. He heard the soft, hungry moan as his hand touched the knob, even as it registered that he onlyhad two bullets left in his clip. In the shadows to his right, movement. Gotta reload, get somewhere safe. Chris jerked the door open and stepped into the
arms of the shambling creature that waited on the other side, its peeling fingers grasping at him as it lunged for his throat.
Three shots. Seconds later, two more, the sounds
distant but distinct in the palatial lobby.
Chris!
"Jill, why don't you…" Wesker started, but Barry
didn't let him finish.
"I'm going, too," he said, already starting for the
door on the east wall. Chris wouldn't waste shots like
that unless he had to; he needed help.
Wesker relented quickly, nodding. "Go. I'll wait
here."
Barry opened the door, Jill right behind. They walked into a huge dining room, not as wide as the front hall but at least as long. There was another door at the opposite end, past a grandfather clock that ticked loudly in the frigid, dusty air. Barry jogged toward it, revolver in hand, feeling tense and worried. Christ, what a balls-up this opera-tion was! S.T.A.R.S. teams were often sent into risky situations where the circumstances were unusual, but this was the first time since he'd been a rookie that Barry felt like things had gone totally out of control. Joseph was dead, Chickenheart Vickers had left them to be eaten by dogs from hell, and now Chris was in trouble. Wesker shouldn't have sent him in alone. Jill reached the door first, touching the handle with slim fingers and looking to him. Barry nodded and she pushed it open, going in low and left. Barry took the other side, both of them sweeping an empty corridor. "Chris?" Jill called out quietly, but there was no answer. Barry scowled, sniffing the air; something smelled like rotting fruit. "I'll check the doors," Barry said. Jill nodded and edged to the left, alert and focused. Barry moved toward the first door, feeling good that Jill was at his back. He'd thought she was kind of bitchy when she'd first transferred, but she was prov– ing to be a bright and capable soldier, a welcome addition to the Alphas. Jill let out a high-pitched gasp of surprise and Barry spun, the scent of decay suddenly thick in the narrow hall. Jill was backing away from an opening at the end of the corridor, her weapon trained on something Barry couldn't see. "Stop!" Her voice was high and shaky, her expres– sion horrified and she fired, once, twice, still backing toward Barry, her breathing fast and shallow. "Get clear, left!" He raised the Colt as she moved out of the way, as a tall man stepped into view. The figure's arms were stretched out like a sleepwalker's, the hands frail and grasping. Barry saw the creature's face then and didn't hesi– tate. He fired, a.357 round peeling the top of its ashen skull away in an explosive burst, blood coursing down its strange, terrible features and staining the cataracts of its pale, rolling eyes. It pitched back, sprawling face-up at Jill's feet. Barry hurried to her side, stunned. "What…" he started, then saw what was on the carpet in front of them, laying in the small sitting area that marked the end of the corridor. For a moment, Barry thought it was Chris, until he saw the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo insignia on the vest, and felt a different kind of horror set in as he struggled to recognize the features. The Bravo had been decapi-tated, the head laying a foot away from the corpse, the face completely covered in gore.
