TWELVE
THE STEEL SHUTTER THAT PROTECTED THE
front of the machine shop was down and locked, but
Jill managed to get in through the garage, picking her
way past a side door. The shop was sturdy enough, well
protected from the average thief and certainly any zombie,
but Jill had no doubt that if the Nemesis wanted
to get in, it probably could. She'd just have to hope that
it hadn't tracked her this far...
... however it does that, exactly.
Jill had no idea. Did it smell her? That didn't seem
likely, considering her careful, breathless walk to the
gas station; she'd dodged from shadow to shadow,
hearing the Nemesis's thundering but clumsy progress
as it searched for her amongst the crowd of abandoned
cars. If it tracked her by scent, it would have caught
her ... though how did it know who she was, specifically?
If another woman her size stumbled across its
path, would it mistake that woman for Jill?
Jill walked through the well-lit garage, her boots
making soft wet noises against the oil-sticky floor, her
thoughts wandering as she took in the layout and
checked doors. She didn't know how the Nemesis had
been programmed to find and kill S.T.A.R.S. or why it
seemed to break off its pursuit from time to time, either;
with Brad dead, she was the only S.T.A.R.S.
member still in Raccoon.
Unless ... Police Chief Irons had been a B team
member, some twenty years back, and he was probably
still in town...
Jill shook her head. Ridiculous. Chris had dug up
enough information on Irons to make it a near certainty
that he was working for Umbrella, just as they suspected
their mysterious Mr. Trent was - the difference
being that Trent seemed to want to help them, while
Irons was a money-grubbing creep who didn't give a
shit about anyone but himself. If Irons was on the
Nemesis's hit list, Jill was pretty much okay with that.
From the garage, she stepped into a kind of combination
office-break room - a soda machine, a small table
with a couple of chairs, a cluttered desk. Jill tried the
telephone on general principles, receiving the dead air
she expected.
"Now I wait, I guess," she said to no one in particular,
leaning against the counter. If the Nemesis didn't
show up after a few moments, she'd slip out again,
head back to the trolley. She wondered if Carlos was
there yet, and if he'd found any survivors from his platoon
- what was it? Umbrella Biohazard something.
Probably one of their semilegitimate branches; it would
be good PR, once the news got out about Raccoon.
Umbrella's admin would be able to point to their special
task force, tell the media how quickly and decisively
they'd acted when they'd realized there'd been
an accident.
Except they won't call it an accident, because that
could mean negligence on their part; no doubt they've
already got a scapegoat lined up and ready to hang,
some unlucky yes-man they can frame for the murder of
thousands...
Not if she could help it, not if her friends could;
one way or another, the truth was going to come out.
It had to.
Jill noticed a few tools lying around - a set of socket
wrenches, a couple of crowbars and it occurred to her
that it might be handy to pack a few things for the trolley.
It'd suck to get there and end up needing a screwdriver
or the like, something they'd have to come back
for. She was a mechanical illiterate herself, but maybe
Carlos had some experience...
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Jill dropped into a crouch behind the counter as soon
as she heard the slow, heavy knocks at the garage's side
door, insistent and steady.
Nemesis? No, the rappings were loud but not powerful,
it was either a human or...
"Uuhh." The gently hungry cry filtered through the
door, joined by another, then a third, then a chorus.
Virus carriers, and it sounded like a large group of
them. Any relief she felt upon realizing that it wasn't
the Nemesis quickly faded; a dozen zombies hammering
on the door was the equivalent of a flashing neon
sign that read GOOD EATS.
And how exactly am I going to sneak out of here now?
Her simple plan, to hide until the Nemesis went
away, had pretty much crapped out. She needed a new
plan, preferably one she had more than a few seconds
to map out.
So come up with something already. Unless you
mean to go charging out there and start kicking ass.
Jill sighed, the low gnaw of dread in her stomach so
constant that she no longer noticed it. Outside, the decaying
carriers continued to shuffle and cry, beating
helplessly against the door.
Might as well run through her options; she had a few
minutes to kill.
They made it to the trolley without any trouble.
Carlos was feeling hopeful as they staggered into the
station yard lit by an expanse of merrily burning debris
to one side - no zombies, no monsters, and Mikhail
didn't seem to be getting any worse. The City Hall gate
had been open, a dozen jewels set into a kind of clock
on a nearby pedestal, which meant Jill had already
gone through. Carlos had expected her to make it, but it
was still a relief.
"There it is," Mikhail said, and Carlos nodded,
squinting as a gust of foul-smelling smoke washed over
them. To their right was a grand old building, either the
trolley station or the alleged City Hall. In front of them,
past a stack of crates that blocked their path, was an
old-fashioned trolley car, its red paint slightly faded. As
they got closer, Carlos could see that a second car was
attached, most of it hidden in the shadow of a building
overhang.
Jill was probably waiting in one of them. Carlos
shoved a few of the crates aside with one hip, Mikhail
steadying himself against the station wall.
"Almost there," Carlos said.
Mikhail smiled weakly. "Bet you'll be glad to dump
my ass into a seat."
"Be gladder to sit my own ass down. One-way ticket
outta here."
Mikhail actually managed a laugh. "I heard that."
They moved beneath the overhang, Carlos searching
the windows of both cars for movement. He didn't see
anything; worse, he didn't feel anything. The place
seemed totally deserted, still and lifeless.
Hope you 're taking a nap in there, Jill Valentine.
The sliding side door of the first car they reached
was locked; to their mutual relief, the second wasn't.
After giving the car a once-over to be certain it was
empty, Carlos helped Mikhail aboard, getting him settled
into a window bench seat. As soon as the platoon
leader was lying down, he seemed to fall into a half
swoon.
"I'm going to check out the second car, then see
what I can do to get a few lights on in here," Carlos
said. Mikhail grunted in response.
Not surprisingly, Jill wasn't in the other car, either,
but Carlos did find the electrical controls next to the
driver's seat. At the touch of a button, a row of overhead
lights switched on, illuminating an aging wood
floor and red vinyl padded seats lining both walls.
"Where are you, Jill?" Carlos muttered, feeling real
worry for her. If something had happened, he was
going to feel at least partly responsible for not accompanying
her back to the restaurant.
Mikhail was barely conscious when Carlos checked
on him, but it was more like sleep than coma. Until a
doctor looked at the wound, rest was probably the best
thing for him.
There was an open control panel at the back of the
car, which Carlos knelt to examine. His heart dropped
when he saw that it was part of the primary power setup
and that a few parts had been removed. He didn't know
anything about cable cars, but it didn't take a genius to
understand that you couldn't run a machine when the
wires had been pulled, particularly on such an ancient
system. It looked like there was a missing fuse, too.
"Hijo de la chingada," he whispered and heard a
feeble laugh behind him.
"I know just enough Spanish to know you shouldn't
kiss your mother with that mouth," Mikhail said.
"What's wrong?"
"There's a fuse missing," Carlos said. "And these circuits
have got to be shorted out. We'll have to bypass
them if we want to get this thing moving."
"Just northeast of here...," Mikhail started, but he
had to pause for a few breaths before going on.
"There's a gas station. Repair shop. It was one of the
landmarks on the city map, it's suburbs past that.
Probably have equipment there."
Carlos thought about it. He didn't want to leave
Mikhail alone, and Jill or Nicholai could show up any
minute...
... but we ain 't going no place without a power
cable and a high amp fuse, and Mikhail's on a downhill
slide; what choice have I got?
"Yeah, okay," Carlos said lightly, walking over to
Mikhail. He gazed down at him, concerned about the
high color of his cheeks, the waxy pallor of his brow.
"Guess I'll go check that out - wanna come with?"
"Ha ha," Mikhail whispered. "Be careful."
Carlos nodded. "Try to get some sleep. If anyone
shows up, tell them I'll be right back."
Mikhail was already slipping back into a doze.
"Sure," he mumbled.
Carlos checked Mikhail's rifle to make sure it was
loaded, and he placed it next to the padded bench,
within easy reach. He hunted around for something else
to say, some words of reassurance, and finally just
turned and walked to the exit. Mikhail wasn't stupid, he
knew what the stakes were.
His life, among other things.
Carlos took a deep breath and opened the door, praying
that the gas station wasn't too far away.
Chan was gone, and not only was there no way to
tell where he was headed but Nicholai had missed him
by bare minutes. The computer he'd apparently made
his report from was still warm, the glass of the monitor
crackling with static electricity. Nicholai impulsively
scooped up the monitor and threw it across the room,
but wasn't satisfied with its mundane explosion of
cheap plastic casing and glass. He wanted blood. If
Chan came back to the office, Nicholai would beat him
severely before ending his life.
He paced the small, heavily littered office, fuming.
He teases me with his ignorance. He is so stupid, so
oblivious, how can he be so inferior and still be alive?
Nicholai knew that the thought wasn't strictly rational,
but he was furious with Chan. Davis Chan didn't deserve
to be a Watchdog, he didn't deserve to live.
Gradually, Nicholai took hold of himself, breathing
deeply, forcing himself to count to a hundred by twos. It
was still early in the game. Besides, Nicholai's plan depended
on having information that Umbrella wanted
and if he meant to steal that information, he had to
allow some time for the other Watchdogs to collect it.
The daily field reports were a bare summary of conditions
and body count, used as much as a check-in as
anything else; the real stuff was being stored on disk,
transcribed from found documents or picked out of
someone else's files, only downloaded by cell if the
Watchdog considered it of critical importance.
And ... while I'm waiting, I can check in with my
comrades at the trolley.
Nicholai stopped pacing, struck by the realization
that he had truly enjoyed his deception of Carlos and
Mikhail. Somehow, that there were two of them had
turned it into a more exciting game. Would they suspect
him? What were they saying about his sudden departure?
What did they think of him?
And what would it be like to witness Mikhail's slow,
excruciating loss of life, watch him lose his capacity for
reason as the young protagonist Carlos vainly struggles
to beat the odds? Nicholai could disable the bell
mechanism once they reached the clock tower ... perhaps
bravely volunteer to seek out the hospital, to bring
back supplies...
Nicholai laughed suddenly, a harsh barking sound in
the stillness of the room. He had to kill Dr. Aquino
the scientist who was supposed to report in from the
hospital, the one working with the vaccine anyway,
and he knew that Aquino had been ordered to see to the
hospital's destruction before leaving Raccoon, to eliminate
trace evidence from his research. And there was
also a specific species of organic stored at the hospital
that Umbrella had decided to abandon, the Hunter
Gamma series, so blowing up the hospital meant two
objectives met for the price of one.
It seemed that the HGs weren't cost effective, although
there had been serious disagreement within the
administration about whether or not to destroy the prototypes.
If Nicholai could lure Carlos into combat with
one of them, he would have some valuable information
of his own to sell ... and he, too, would be meeting
more than one objective with a single action.
It all came together, there was a kind of symmetry to
it all. He'd drop me entire scheme if anything went
wrong, of course, or if he found it wouldn't mesh with
his plans. He wasn't an idiot, but having a project to
fill his downtime would keep him from becoming
overly frustrated.
Nicholai turned and started for the door, amused by
his own indulgence. Raccoon City was like some
haunted kingdom where he was ruler, able to do as he
wished - anything he wished. Lie, murder, bathe in the
glory of another man's defeat. It was all his for the taking,
and with a payoff at the end.
He felt like himself again. It was time to play.
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