SEVEN
THE LOCK WAS A PIECE OF CAKE, THREE FLAT
tumblers in a single row; Jill could have opened it with
a couple of paper clips. According to the map, the door
would open into a long hall. . ..
Sure enough. She took another long look at the
pocket computer's screen and then slipped it into her
pack, thinking. It looked like there was a back way
out, through several halls and past a series of rooms.
She could look for Wesker and the others along the
way, and maybe secure an escape route at the same
time. She stepped into the narrow corridor, the fully
loaded Beretta in hand.
It was a study in weirdness. The hall wasn't all that
spectacular, the carpet runner and the wallpaper done
in basic tans and browns, the wide windows showing
only the darkness outside. The display chests that
lined the inner wall, though . . .
There were three of them, each topped by a small
lamp, and each prominently displaying a wide array
of bleached human bones on open shelves, interspersed
with small items of obscurity. Jill started
down the hall, stopping briefly at each bizarre spectacle.
Skulls, arm and leg bones, hands and feet. There
were at least three complete skeletons, and amidst the
pale and pitted bones were feathers, clay beads,
gnarled strips of leather.
Jill picked up one of the leather strips and then put
it down quickly, wiping her fingers on her pants. She
couldn't be sure, but it felt like she imagined tanned,
cured human skin would feel, stiff and kind of
greasy.
Crash!
The window behind her exploded inward, a lithe,
sinewy form lunging into the hall, growling and
snapping. It was one of the mutant, killing hounds, its
eyes as red as its dripping hide. It charged her, its
teeth as bright and dangerous as the jagged glitter of
glass still falling from the shattered frame.
Backed between two of the chests, Jill fired. The
angle was wrong, the bullet splintering the wood at
her feet as the dog jumped at her, growling deep in its
throat.
It hit her in the thighs, slamming her painfully
against the wall, gnashing to get its jaws at her flesh.
The smell of rotting meat washed over her and she
fired again and again, barely aware that she was
moaning in fear and disgust, a sound as guttural and
primal as the furious, dying shrieks that came from
the canine abomination.
The fifth bullet fired directly into its barrel chest
knocked it away. With a final, almost puppyish yelp it
crumpled to the floor, blood gushing into the tan
carpet.
Jill kept her weapon trained on the still form,
gulping air in huge, shuddery breaths. Its limbs
twitched suddenly, its massive claws beating a brief
tattoo across the wet, red floor before it lay still again.
Jill relaxed, recognizing the movement as a death
spasm, the body releasing life. She'd have bruises, but
the dog was dead.
She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and crouched
down next to it, taking in the strange, exposed musculature
and huge jaws. It had been too dark and hectic
on the run to the house to get a good look at the things
that had killed Joseph, but in the bright light of the
corridor, her initial impression wasn't changed; it
looked like a skinned dog.
She stood up and backed away, warily eyeing the
row of windows in the hall. Obviously they offered no
protection from the hazards outside. The corridor
took a sharp left and she hurried on, past more of the
macabre displays that decorated the inner wall.
The door at the end of the long hall was unlocked. It
opened into another hall, not as well lit as the first but
at least not as creepy, either. The muted, gray-green
wallpaper sported paintings of generic scenery and
gentle landscapes, not a bone or fetish in sight.
The first door on the right was locked, a carving of
armor on the key plate. Jill remembered the list on the
computer, something about knight keys, but decided
not to bother with it for now. According to Trent's
map, there was a room on the other side that didn't
lead anywhere. Besides, if Wesker had come this way,
she didn't imagine that he was locking doors behind
him.
Right, just like it was unlikely that Chris would
disappear; don't assume anything about this place.
The next door she tried opened into a small bathroom
with an antique feel, complete with a ceiling fan
and an old-fashioned, four-footed tub. There was no
sign of recent use.
She stood for a moment in the stale, tiny room,
breathing deeply, feeling the aftermath of the adrenaline
rush she'd had in the corridor. Growing up, she'd
learned how to enjoy the thrill of danger, of sneaking
in and out of strange places with only a handful of
tools and her own wits to keep her safe. Since joining
the S.T.A.R.S., that youthful excitement had faded
away, lost to the realities of back-up and handguns,
but here it was again, unexpected and not unwelcome.
She couldn't lie to herself about the simple joy that
often followed facing death and walking away. She
felt . . . good. Alive.
Let's not have a party just yet, her mind whispered
sarcastically. Or have you forgotten that S.T.A.R.S. are
being eaten in this hellhole?
Jill stepped back into the silent hallway and edged
around another corner, wondering if Barry had found
Chris and if either of them had run across any of the
Bravos. She felt like she had an advantage with the
maps, and decided that once she'd checked out the
possible escape, she'd go back to the main hall and
wait for Barry. With the information on Trent's
computer, they could search more quickly and thoroughly.
The corridor ended with two doors facing each
other. The one on the right was the one she wanted.
She tried the handle and was rewarded with the soft
snick of the bolt retracting.
She stepped into a dark hall and saw one of the
zombies, a hulking, pale shadow standing next to a
door, maybe ten feet away. As she raised her weapon,
the creature started toward her, emitting soft hunger
sounds from its decaying lips. One of its arms hung
limply at its side, and although Jill could see jagged
bone protruding from the shoulder, it still clenched
and unclenched its rotting fist eagerly as it reached
out with its other arm.
The head, aim for the head.
The shots were incredibly loud in the chilly gloom,
the first blowing off its left ear, the second and third
punching holes into its skull just above its pallid
brow. Dark fluids streamed down the peeling face and
it fell to its knees, its flat, lifeless eyes rolling back into
its head.
There was shuffling movement in the shadows at
the back of the hall to the right, exactly where she
meant to go. Jill trained the gun on the darkness and
waited for it to move closer, her entire body wired
with tension.
How many of these things are there?
As soon as the zombie cleared the corner, she fired,
the Beretta jumping lightly in her sweating hands.
The second shot punctured its right eye and it immediately
collapsed to the dark, polished wood of the
floor, the sticky, viscous matter of the blown eyeball
flecked across its skeletal face.
Jill waited, but other than the spreading pools of
blood around the dead creatures, nothing moved.
Breathing through her mouth to avoid the worst of the
stench, she hurried to the back of the hall and turned
right, down a short, tight passage that dead ended at a
rusting metal door.
It creaked open and fresh air flooded past her,
warm and clean after the morgue-like chill of the
house. Jill grinned, hearing the drone of cicadas and
crickets on the night air. She'd reached the final leg of
her little excursion, and although she wasn't outside
yet, the sounds and smells of the forest renewed her
sense of accomplishment.
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, pinescented
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, wishing
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, supporting
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 explosions
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 directions.
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 involved
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.
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