EIGHT
AS HE SLOGGED HIS WAY THROUGH THE
sewer system underneath the city streets, Nicholai
found himself fascinated by the careful planning that
had gone into Raccoon's design. He'd studied the
maps, of course, but it was another thing entirely to actually
wander through it, to experience the arrangement
firsthand. Umbrella had built a perfect playground; how
unfortunate that they'd ruined it for themselves.
There were several underground passages that connected
key Umbrella-owned facilities to one another,
some more obvious than others. From the basement of
the RPD building, he'd entered the sewers that would
lead him all the way to the multilevel underground laboratory
where Umbrella had done its most serious research.
Research had also been conducted at the
Arklay/Spencer mansion lab in Raccoon Forest, and
there were three "abandoned" factory or warehouse test
sites on the outskirts of town, but the best scientists had
worked in and under the city. It would certainly make
his job much easier; moving from one area to another
would be much less hazardous underground.
Not for much longer, though. In another ten or
twelve hours, nowhere will be safe. The bio-organics
that Umbrella worked with were kept sedated, grown in
Raccoon but usually shipped elsewhere for field trials.
With the operation in virtual ruin, they'd break out in
order to find food; some had surely escaped already,
and the majority would undoubtedly make an appearance
once they'd missed a few injections.
And won't that be fun? A little target practice to
clear my palate in between searches, and with the firepower
to enjoy it.
Holding the assault rifle in the crook of his right
arm, he reached down and patted the extra mags he'd
taken from Wersbowski; he hadn't thought to check
them before, but the quick look before he'd descended
into the sewers had left him quite pleased. U.B.C.S.
soldiers were issued magazines of fully jacketed .223s,
designed to shoot cleanly through a target; Wersbowski
had loaded up with hollow points, rounds that expanded
and flattened on contact for maximum damage.
Nicholai had already planned to raid the lab's small arsenal;
with an additional sixty rounds of HP, he'd be
walking easy ...
... unlike now...
The cold, murky water that ran through the poorly lit
tunnels came almost to his knees and smelled terrible,
like urine and mold. He'd already come across several
undead, most wearing Umbrella lab coats, though there
were a few civilians - maintenance people, or perhaps
just unlucky souls who'd ventured into the sewers
thinking to escape the city. He dodged them, mostly,
not wanting to waste bullets or alert anyone to his
whereabouts.
He came to a T junction and hung a right after checking
for movement in either direction. As with much of his
journey so far, there was nothing but the soft lap of polluted
water against gray stones, the ripple of sullen yellow
light against the oily surface. It was a dank and miserable
environment, and Nicholai couldn't help but think of the
A334s, the sliding worms. At the Watchdog briefing,
they'd been listed as something like giant leeches that
traveled by water in groups, one of Umbrella's newest
creations. He wasn't afraid so much as disgusted by the
thought of running into them, and he hated surprises,
hated the idea that even now a school of them could be
slipping through the dark waters, jaws stretching wide,
seeking warmth and sustenance from human blood.
When he saw the raised ledge at the end of the tunnel,
he was ashamed at the relief he felt. He quickly
blocked the feeling, preparing himself for his meeting;
a look at his watch as he stepped out of the water told
him he was right on time. Dr. Thomlinson would be filing
her next report within ten, minutes.
Nicholai hurried down the short corridor in front of
him, annoyed by the faint squelching of his boots as he
reached the door to the warehouse anteroom. He listened
for a moment and heard nothing; he gave a soft
push at the door and it opened, revealing an empty
break room for city workers - table, a few chairs, lockers
- and, bolted to the far wall, a descending ladder.
He crept in, gently closing the door behind him.
The ladder went down into the small warehouse
from which Dr. Thomlinson would report; a computer
terminal was hidden behind some cleaning equipment
on one of the shelves. Assuming Thomlinson would be
coming from the lab, she'd enter via the small elevator
platform in the comer of the room, if he'd read the map
correctly. Nicholai sat down to wait, unhooking his
shoulder bag and removing the laptop; he wanted to
recheck his maps after the appointment with the good
doctor.
Thomlinson was punctual, arriving a full four minutes
before she was supposed to file. At the sound of
the grinding lift motor, Nicholai trained the rifle's muzzle
into the corner, resting his finger on the trigger. A
tall, disheveled woman rose into view, a distracted look
on her smudged face. She wore a stained lab coat and
carried a handgun she kept pointed at the floor; obviously,
she expected her checkpoint to be safe.
Nicholai didn't give her a chance to react to his presence.
"Drop your weapon and step away from the lift.
Now."
She was a cool one, he had to give her that. Except
for a slight widening of her eyes, there was no visible
sign of alarm across her even features. She did as he
asked, the clatter of the semiautomatic loud as she warily
moved a few paces into the still room.
"Anything new to report, Janice?"
She studied him, her light brown gaze searching his
as she crossed her arms. "You're one of the Watchdogs,"
she said. It wasn't a question.
Nicholai nodded. "Empty your pockets onto the
table, Doctor. Slowly."
Thomlinson smiled. "And if I won't?" Her voice
was throaty, deep and alluring. "Will you ... take it
from me?"
Nicholai thought for a few seconds about what she
was suggesting then pulled the trigger, obliterating
her lovely smile in a sudden cough of fire. Really, he
didn't have time to play that particular game; he
should have shot her on sight, so as not to be tempted.
Besides, his feet were cold and wet, which he detested;
nothing like wet boots to make a man miserable.
Still, it was a shame; she was his type, tall and
curved, obviously intelligent. He walked to her
slumped body and fished a disk out of her breast pocket
without looking at the blood and bone confusion that
had been her face, reminding himself that this was
business.
Only four to go. Nicholai slipped the disk into a
plastic pouch, sealed it, and placed it in his bag.
There'd be time to pore over its contents, later, once
he'd collected everything.
He turned on the portable and called up the sewer
system map, frowning as he traced his next path. At
least another half mile of wading through the dark before
making it topside. He glanced at Dr. Thomlinson
again and sighed; perhaps he'd made a mistake. A
quick tussle would have warmed him up ... though he
disliked having to kill women after enjoying them, on
any level; the last time, he'd experienced feelings of
true regret.
No matter. She was dead, he had the information,
and it was time to move on. Four left, and he could forget
about business for the rest of his extremely wealthy
life, concentrating instead on the kinds of pleasure that
poor men could only dream about.
Carlos knew he was close. From the area near the
newspaper building, where the street signs had all
begun with north, he'd ended up lost in a series of alleys
to the east - what had to be Trent's shopping district.
He said shopping district, northeast ... so where's
the theater? And he said something about a fountain,
didn't he?
Carlos stood in front of a boarded-up barbershop at
the intersection of two alleys, no longer sure which
way to go. There weren't any street signs, and twilight
had given its last gasp; it was full-on dark and he only
had ten minutes left before the 1900 deadline, thanks
to an initial blunder that had led him back toward the
industrial part of town - not really what could be considered
the city proper, as Trent put it. Ten minutes
... and then what? Once he found the infamous
Grill 13, what was supposed to happen? Trent had
said something about helping ... so if he blew the appointed
time, would Trent be able to do anything for
him?
Taking a left would lead him back to the newspaper
office, he thought - or was that behind him? Straight
ahead was a dead end and a door that he hadn't tried
yet, might as well give that a shot...
He didn't see it coming, but he heard it.
He'd taken a single step when a door crashed open
behind him - and the thing was so fast that he was still
turning, raising the assault rifle in reaction to the sound
of the door when it reached him.
What...
A wave of malodorous darkness, an impression of
shining black claws and hard, ribbed body like the
exoskeleton of some giant insect...
... and something ripped the air inches from his face,
would have hit him if not for his stumbling step backwards.
He tripped over his own feet and fell, watching in
horrified amazement as some thing flew over his upturned
face, leaping nimbly to the wall on his right, and continued
to run, sideways, clinging to the brick in a skittering
gallop. Awestruck, Carlos tracked it as far as he could turn
his head, flat on his back, watching as it agilely pivoted
on at least three of its legs and dropped to the ground.
He might have simply waited for it to come for him,
unable to believe his eyes even as it slashed one of its
six, long-bladed legs across his throat, except that it
screamed - and the trumpeting, triumphant whine that
erupted from its inhumanly curved and bloated face
was enough to get him moving.
In a flash, Carlos rolled into a crouch and opened
fire on the screeching, running thing, unaware that he
was screaming, too, a low, raspy cry of terror and disbelief.
The creature faltered as the rounds tore into its
brittle flesh, its limbs flailing wildly, the quality of its
shriek changing to a howl of furious pain. Carlos kept
firing, spraying the creature with deadly hot metal, continuing
even after it collapsed and was only moving because
of him, the rounds jerking at its limp form. He
knew it was dead but couldn't let himself stop, couldn't
until the M16 ran dry and the alley was silent except
for the sound of his own tortured breathing. He backed
against a wall, slammed a fresh mag into the rifle, and
desperately tried to understand what the hell had just
happened.
At last he recovered enough of himself to approach
the dead thing - it was dead; even a sixlegged,
wall-climbing bug the size of a man was
dead when its brains were drooling out of its skull. It
was one truth he could hold on to in the face of this
madness.
"Deader than shit," he said, staring down at the
twisted, bloody creature, and for just a second, he could
feel part of his mind attempting to turn in on itself, to
lock him away from what he was seeing. Zombies were
bad enough, and he'd finally refused to accept the fact
that Raccoon was overrun by the walking dead; they
were just sick, that cannibal disease he'd read about,
because there was no such thing as zombies except in
the movies. Just like there were no real monsters, either,
no giant killing bugs with claws that could walk
on walls and scream like it had screamed...
"Wo hay piri," he whispered, his one-time motto,
this time spoken as a plea, his thoughts following in a
kind of desperate litany, Don't sweat it, hang loose, be
cool. And after a while, it took hold; his heart slowed to
almost normal, and he started to feel like a person
again, not some mindless, panicking animal.
So, there were monsters in Raccoon City. It shouldn't
be a surprise, not after the day he'd had; besides, they
died like anything else, didn't they? He wasn't going to
survive if he lost it, and he'd already been through way
too much to give up now.
With that, Carlos turned his back on the monster
and headed down the alley, forcing himself not to
look back. It was dead, and he was alive, and
chances were good that there were more of them out
there.
Trent might be my only way out, and now I've
got ... shit! Three minutes, he had three goddamn minutes.
Carlos broke into a run, up a few steps to the single
door at the end of the alley and through - and found
himself standing in a spacious, well-lit kitchen. A
restaurant's kitchen.
A quick look around; no one, and quiet except for a
soft hiss from a large gas canister standing against the
back wall. He took a deep breath but couldn't smell
anything; maybe it was something else -
- and I wouldn't leave if it was toxic nerve gas. This
has to be it, this is where he told me to go.
He walked through the kitchen, past shining metal
counters and stoves, heading toward the dining area.
There was a menu on one of the counters, GRILL 13
written across the front in gold script. It was unnerving,
how relieved he felt; within a few hours, Trent had
gone from being some creepy stranger to his best friend
in the world.
I made it, and he said he could help - maybe a rescue
team is already on its way, or he arranged for me
to be picked up here ... or maybe there are weapons
stored in the front, not as good as an evac but I'll take
what I can get.
There was an opening in the wall between the
kitchen and the dining room, a counter where the chefs
put the orders up. Carlos could see that the small,
slightly darker restaurant was empty, although he took
a moment to be certain; dancing light from a still-burning
oil lamp wavered over the leatherette booths that
lined the walls, casting jittery shadows.
He stepped around the serving counter and walked
into the room, absently noting a faint scent of fried
food lingering in the cool air as he stared around,
searching. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he definitely
didn't see it - no unmarked envelope propped
up on a table, no mysterious packages, no trenchcoated
man waiting. There was a pay phone by the
front door; Carlos walked over and picked up the receiver
but got nothing, just like every other phone in
town.
He checked his watch for what felt like the thousandth
time in the past hour and saw that it was 1901,
one minute after seven o'clock and he felt a rush of
anger, of frustration that only served to increase his unacknowledged
fear. I'm alone, no one knows I'm here
and no one can help me.
"I'm here," he said, turning to face the empty room,
his voice rising. "I made it, I'm here on time and goddamnit,
where the hell are you?"
As if on cue, the telephone rang, the shrill sound
making him jump, Carlos fumbled for it, his heart
thumping dully in his chest, his knees suddenly weak
with hope.
"Trent? Is that you?"
A brief pause, and Trent's smooth, musical voice
spilled into his ear. "Hola, Mr. Oliveira! I'm so pleased
to hear your voice!"
"Man, not half as glad as I am to hear yours." Carlos
sagged against the wall, gripping the receiver tightly.
"This is some bad shit, amigo, everyone's dead and
there are things out there, like - there are monsters,
Trent. Can you get me out of here? Tell me you can get
me out of here!"
There was another pause, and Trent sighed, a heavy
sound. Carlos closed his eyes, already knowing what he
would say.
"I'm very sorry, but that's simply out of the question.
What I can do is give you information ... but surviving,
that's your job. And I'm afraid that things are
going to get worse, much worse before they get any
better."
Carlos took a deep breath and nodded to himself,
knowing that this was what he'd been expecting all
along. He was on his own.
"Okay," he said and opened his eyes, straightening
his shoulders as he nodded again. "Tell me."
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