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, pine– scented 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, wish-ing 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, sup– porting 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 explo– sions 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 direc– tions. 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 piece 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 in-volved 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.
EIGHT
AFTER JILL AND BARRY WENT THEIR SEPA-rate ways, Wesker stayed crouched on the balcony in the main hall, thinking. He knew that time was of the essence, but he wanted to outline a few possible scenarios before he acted; he'd already made mis– takes, and didn't want to make any more of them. The Raccoon Alphas were a bright group, making his margin for error very slim indeed. He'd received his orders a couple of days ago, but hadn't expected to be in a position to carry them out so soon; the Bravo team's 'copter going down had been a fluke, as had Brad Vickers's sudden display of cowardice. Still, he should have been more prepared. Being caught with his pants down like this went against his grain, it was so… unprofessional. He sighed, putting the thoughts aside. There'd be time for self-recrimination later. He hadn't expected to end up here, but here he was, and kicking himself for lack of foresight wasn't going to change anything. Besides, there was too much to do. He knew the grounds of the estate fairly well and the labs like the back of his hand, but he'd only been inside the mansion a few times and not at all since he'd been "officially" transferred to Raccoon City. The place was a maze, designed by a genius architect at the bidding of a madman. Spencer was bats, no two ways about it, and he'd had the house built with all kinds of tricky little mechanisms, a lot of that silly spy crap that had been so popular in the late sixties… Spy crap that's going to make this job twice as hard as it needs to be. Hidden keys, secret tunnels – it's like I'm trapped in an espionage thriller, complete with mad scientists and a ticking clock. His original plan had been to lead both the Alpha and Bravo teams to the estate and clear the area before he proceeded to the lower labs and wrapped things up. He had the master keys and codes, of course; they had been sent along with his orders, and would open most of the doors on the estate. The problem was, there was no key to the door that led to the garden, it had a puzzle lock and was currently the only way to get to the labs, outside of walking through the woods. Which ain't gonna happen. The dogs would be on me before I could take two steps, and if the 121s got out… Wesker shuddered, remembering the incident with the rookie guard who'd gotten too close to one of the cages, a year or so back. The kid had been dead before he could even open his mouth to call for help. Wesker had no intention of going back outside without an army to back him up. The last contact with the estate had been over six weeks ago, an hysterical call from Michael Dees to one of the suits in the White office. The doctor had sealed the mansion, hiding the four pieces of the puzzle lock in a fruitless effort to keep any more of the virus carriers from reaching the house. By then, they were all infected and suffering from a kind of para– noid mania, one of the more charming side effects of the virus. God only knew what tricks and traps the researchers down in the labs had screwed with as they slowly lost their minds. Dees had been no exception, although he had managed to hold out longer than most of the others; something to do with individual metabolism, or so Wesker'd been told. The company had already de– cided to call a complete wipe, though the babbling scientist had been assured that help was on the way. Wesker had enjoyed a good laugh over that one. There was no way the White boys would risk further infec– tion. They'd sat on their hands for almost two months while Raccoon suffered the consequences, letting the incompetent RPD investigate while the virus gradu– ally lost its punch and then sent him in to clean up the mess. Which by now was considerable. The captain absently ran his fingers across the plush carpet, trying to remember details of the briefing about Dees's call. Whether he liked it or not, every– thing had to be taken care of tonight. He had to collect the required evidence and get to the labs, and that meant finding the pieces of the puzzle lock. Dees had been mostly incoherent, ranting about murderous crows and giant spiders, but he had insisted that the crest-keys to the puzzle lock were "hidden where only Spencer could find them," and that made sense. Everyone who worked in the house knew about Spencer's penchant for cloak-and-dagger mecha– nisms. Unfortunately for Wesker, he hadn't bothered learning much about the mansion, since he never thought he'd need the information. He remembered a few of the more colorful hiding places – the statue of the tiger with mismatched eyes came to mind, as did the armor display room with the gas and the secret room in the library…
But I don't have time to go through all of them, not by myself.
Wesker grinned suddenly and stood up, amazed that he hadn't thought of it already. Who said he had to be by himself? He'd ditched the S.T.A.R.S. to map out a new plan and search for the crests, but there was no reason that he had to do everything. Chris wasn't viable, he was too gung-ho, and Jill was still an unknown quantity… Barry, though… Barry Bur– ton was a family man. And both Jill and Chris trusted him. And while they're all still fumbling around in the house, I can get to the triggering system and then get the hell out, mission complete. Still grinning, Wesker walked to the door that led to the dining room balcony, surprised to find that he was looking forward to his little adventure. It was a chance to test his skills against the rest of the team and against the accidental test subjects that were surely still lurching around not to mention, of Spencer himself. And if he pulled it off, he was going to be a very rich man. This might actually turn out to be fun.
NINE
CAW! Jill whipped her Beretta toward the sound, the mournful shriek echoing all around as the door slipped closed behind her. Then she saw the source of the noise and relaxed, smiling nervously.
What the hell are they doing in here?
She was still in the back part of the house, and had decided to check out a few of the other rooms before heading back to the main hall. The first door she'd tried had been locked, a carving of a helmet on the key plate. Her picks had been useless, the lock a type she'd never encountered, so she'd decided to try her luck on the door across the hall. It had opened easily enough, and she'd gone in ready for anything, though about the last thing she'd expected to see was a flock of crows, perched along the support bar for the track lighting that ran the length of the room. Another of the large black birds let out its morose shriek, and Jill shivered at the sound. There were at least a dozen of them, ruffling their shiny feathers and watching her with bright, beady eyes as she quickly surveyed the room for threats; it was clear. The U-shaped chamber she'd entered was as cold as the rest of the house, perhaps colder, and empty of furniture. It was a viewing hall, nothing but portraits and paintings lining the inner wall. Black feathers lay scattered across the worn wooden floor amidst dried mounds of bird droppings, and Jill wondered again how the crows had gotten inside, and how long they'd been there. There was definitely something strange about their appearance; they seemed much larger than normal crows, and they studied her with an intensity that seemed almost unnatural. Jill shivered again, turning back toward the door. There wasn't anything important in the room, and the birds were giving her the creeps. Time to move on. She glanced at a few of the paintings on her way out, mostly portraits, noticing that there were switches beneath the heavy frames – she assumed they were for the track lighting, though she couldn't imagine why anyone had bothered setting up such an elaborate gallery for such mediocre art. A baby, a young man… the paintings weren't awful, but they weren't exactly inspired, either. She stopped as she touched the cold metal handle of the door, frowning. There was a small, inset control panel set at eye level to the right of the door, labeled "spots." She punched one of the buttons and the room dimmed as a single directional light went out. Several of the crows barked their disapproval, flutter-ing ebony wings, and Jill turned the light back on, thinking.
So if these are the light switches, what are the controls beneath the paintings for?
Perhaps there was more to the room than she'd thought. She walked to the first picture across from the door, a large painting of flying angels and clouds shot with sunbeams. The title was, From Cradle to Grave. There wasn't a switch below it, and Jill moved to the next. It was a portrait of a middle-aged man, his lined features sagging with exhaustion, standing next to an elaborate fireplace. From the cut of his suit and his slicked back hair, it looked to have been painted in the late 1940s or early '50s. There was a simple on/off switch underneath, unlabeled. Jill flicked it from left to right and heard an electrical snap and behind her, the crows exploded into screaming motion, rising as one from their brooding perch. All she could hear was the beat of their dark wings and the sudden, manic ferocity of their cries as they swarmed toward her and Jill ran, the door seeming a million miles away, her heart pounding. The first of the crows reached her as she grabbed for the handle, its claws finding the soft skin at the back of her neck. There was a sharp stab of pain just behind her right ear and Jill flailed at the rustling feathers that brushed her cheeks, moaning as the furious shrieks enveloped her. She slapped at the air behind her and was rewarded with a startled squawk of surprise. The bird let go of her, reeling away.
–too many, out out OUT-
She jerked the door open and fell into the hallway, kicking the door closed even as she hit the floor. She lay there a moment, catching her breath, relishing the cool silence of the corridor in spite of the zombie stench. None of the crows had gotten out. As her heartbeat returned to something approach– ing normal, she sat up and carefully touched the wound behind her ear. Her fingers came away wet, but it wasn't too bad, the blood was already clotting; she'd been lucky. When she thought of what could have happened if she'd tripped and fallen…
Why had they attacked, what had the control switch done? She remembered the snap of electricity when she'd flipped it, the sound of a spark-the perch!
She felt a sudden rush of grudging admiration for whoever had set up the simple trap. When she'd hit the switch, she must have sent a current through the metal bar they'd been perched on. She'd never heard of attack-trained crows, but could think of no other explanation-which meant that someone had gone through a lot of trouble to keep whatever was in that room a secret. To get to the answer, she'd have to go back in.
I can stand in the doorway, take them out one at a time… She didn't much like the idea, she didn't trust her aim and would certainly waste a lot of ammunition.
Only fools accept the obvious and go no further; use your brain, Jilly.
Jill smiled a little; it was her father talking, remind– ing her of the training she'd had before the S.T.A.R.S. One of her earliest memories was of hiding in the bushes outside the rickety old house in Massachusetts that her father had rented for them, studying the dark, empty windows as he explained how to properly "case a prospect." Dick had made it into a game, teaching her over the next ten years all the finer points of breaking and entering, everything from how to re– move panes of glass without damaging them to walk– ing on stairs so they didn't creak and he'd also taught her, again and again, that every riddle had more than one answer. Killing the birds was too obvious. She closed her eyes, concentrating.
Switches and portraits… a little boy, a toddler, a young man, a middle-aged man… "From Cradle to Grave." Cradle to grave…
Once the solution occurred to her, she was almost embarrassed by the simplicity of it. She stood up and dusted herself off, wondering how long it would take for the crows to return to their roost. Once they were settled, she shouldn't have any more problems uncov– ering the secret. She cracked the door open and listened to the whispering beat of wings, promising herself to be more careful this time. Pushing the wrong button in this house could be deadly.
"Rebecca? Let me in, it's Chris."
There was the sound of something heavy sliding against the wall and the door to the storage room creaked opened. Rebecca stepped away from the entrance as he hurried inside, already pulling the diary out of his vest. "I found this journal in one of the rooms," he said. "It looks like there was some kind of research going
on here, I don't know what kind but…" "Virology," Rebecca interrupted, and held up a stack of papers, grinning. "You were right about there being something useful in here."
Chris took the papers from her and skimmed the first page. As far as he could tell, it was in a foreign language made out of numbers and letters.
"What is all this stuff? DH5a-MCR…" "You're looking at a strain chart," Rebecca said brightly. "That one's a host for generating genomic libraries containing methylated cytosine or adenine residues, depending." Chris cocked an eyebrow at her. "Let's pretend that I have no idea what you're talking about and try again. What did you find?"
Rebecca flushed slightly and took the papers back from him. "Sorry. Basically, there's a lot of, uh, stuff in here on viral infection." Chris nodded. "That I understand; a virus…" He quickly flipped through the journal, counting the dates from the first report of the accident in the lab. "On May eleventh, there was some kind of spill or outbreak in a laboratory on this estate. Within eight or nine days, whoever wrote this had turned into one of those creatures out there." Rebecca's eyes widened. "Does it say when the first symptoms appeared?" "Looks like… within twenty-four hours, he or she was complaining of itchy skin. Swelling and blisters within forty-eight hours." Rebecca paled. "That's… wow." Chris nodded. "Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Is there any way to tell if we could be infected?" "Not without more information. All of that…" Rebecca motioned at the trunk full of papers, "…is pretty old, ten years plus, and there's nothing specific about application. Though an airborne with that kind of speed and toxicity… if it was still viable, all of Raccoon City would probably be infected by now. I can't be positive, but I doubt it's still contagious."
Chris was relieved for himself and the rest of the S.T.A.R.S., but the fact that the "zombies" were all victims of a disease – it was depressing, whether it was a disaster of their own making or not. "We have to find the others," he said. "If one of them should stumble across the lab without knowing what's there…"
Rebecca looked stricken at the thought, but nodded gamely and moved quickly toward the door. Chris decided that, with a little experience, she'd make a first-rate S.T.A.R.S. member; she obviously knew her chemistry, and even without a gun, she was willing to leave the relative safety of the storage room in order to help the rest of the team. Together, they hurried through the dark, wooded hallway, Rebecca sticking close to his side. When they reached the door back to the first hallway, Chris checked his Beretta and then turned to Rebecca.
"Stay close. The door we want is to the right and at the end of the hall. I'll probably have to shoot the lock, and I'm pretty sure there's a zombie or two wandering around, so I'll need you to watch my back." "Yes, sir," she said quietly, and Chris grinned in spite of the situation. Technically, he was her superior – still, it was weird to have it pointed out. He opened the door and stepped through, training his gun on the shadows straight ahead and then down the hall to the right. Nothing moved. "Go," he whispered, and they jogged down the corridor, quickly stepping over the fallen creature that blocked their path. Rebecca turned to face the open stretch behind them as Chris rattled the door knob, hoping vainly that it had unlocked itself. No such luck. He backed away from the door and took careful aim. Firing at a locked door wasn't as easy or safe as it looked in the movies; a ricochet off of metal at such close range could kill the shooter "Chris!" He glanced over his shoulder and saw a shambling figure at the other end of the hall, moving slowly toward them. Even in the dim light, Chris could see that one of its arms was missing. The distinctive odor of decay wafted toward them as the zombie moaned thickly, stumbling forward. Chris turned back to the door and fired, twice. The frame splintered, the inset metal square of the lock revealed in a spray of wood chips. He jerked at the knob and the lock gave up, the door swinging open. He turned and grabbed at Rebecca's arm, hustling her through the doorway as he pointed the Beretta back down the hall. The creature had made it halfway, but was stopped at the lifeless body of the zombie that Chris had killed earlier. Even as Chris watched in horror and disgust, the one-armed zombie dropped to its knees and plunged its remaining hand into the other's crushed skull. It moaned again, a wet, phlegmy sound, and brought a handful of slushy gray matter to its eager lips.
Oh, man.
Chris shuddered involuntarily and hurriedly step– ped through to join Rebecca, closing the door on the gruesome scene. Rebecca was pale but seemed com– posed, and again, Chris admired her courage; she was young but tough, tougher than he'd been at eigh– teen. He took in the hall at a glance, immediately notic– ing the changes. To their right about twenty feet away was a corpse of one of the creatures, the top of its head blown away. It lay face up, the deep sockets of its eyes filled with blood. To their left were the two doors that Chris hadn't tried when he'd first come to investigate. The one at the very end of the hall was standing open, revealing deep shadows. At least one of the S.T.A.R.S. came this way, proba– bly looking for me. "Follow me," he said softly, and moved toward the open door, holding the Beretta tightly. He wanted to get back to the main hall with Rebecca, but the fact that one of his team must have gone through the opening deserved a quick look. As they passed the closed door on the right, Rebecca hesitated. "There's a picture of a sword next to the lock," she whispered. He kept his attention on the darkness just past the open door, but realized as she spoke that there were too many ways for them to get side-tracked. He didn't think the rest of the team was still waiting for him, but his original orders had been to report back to the lobby; he shouldn't be leading an unarmed rookie into unknown territory without at least checking. Chris sighed, lowering his weapon. "Let's get back to the main hall," he said. "We can come back and check it out later."
Rebecca nodded and together they walked back toward the dining room, Chris hoping against hope that someone would be there to meet them.
Barry pointed his Colt toward the crawling ghoul and fired, the heavy round splattering the thing's mushy skull into liquid even as it reached for his boot. Tiny drops of wetness splashed his face as the zombie spasmed and died. Scowling, Barry wiped at his skin with the back of his hand. The tiny white tiles of the kitchen wall got it much worse, rivulets of red cours– ing down the grouted tracks and pooling to the faded brown linoleum. Still, it was pretty disgusting. Barry lowered the revolver, feeling the ache in his left shoulder. The door upstairs had been solidly locked, he had the bruises to prove it and staring down at the zombie hash in front of him, he realized that he was going to have to go back up and break down another one. If he hadn't been certain before, he was now – Chris hadn't come this way. If he had, the crawling creature would already have been his– tory.
