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 grayflecked
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... wrongness
to the vast room, an atmosphere of vague oppression.
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 handgun,
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 loaders
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 helicopter
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 expensivelooking
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, surrounding
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 movement
of the second hand reverberated hollowly, amplified
by the cavernous room.
The door opened into one side of a narrow corridor,
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 unpleasant,
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 driedup,
pulpy remains of what once might have been a
woodchuck. Time and the summer heat had dissipated
the worst of the stink, though what had remained
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 creature'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, singleminded
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 only
had 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 operation
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 proving
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 expression
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 hesitate.
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 decapitated,
the head laying a foot away from the corpse, the
face completely covered in gore.
Oh jeez, it's Ken.
Kenneth Sullivan, one of the best field scouts Barry
had ever known and a hell of a nice guy. There was a
gaping, ragged wound in his chest, chunks of partly
eaten tissue and gut strewn around the bloody hole.
His left hand was missing, and there was no weapon
nearby; it must have been his gun that Joseph had
found out in the woods.
Barry looked away, sickened. Ken had been a quiet,
decent sort, did a lot of work in chemistry. He'd had a
teen-aged son who lived with his ex in California.
Barry thought of his own girls at home, Moira and
Poly, and felt a surge of helpless fear for them. He
wasn't afraid of death, but the thought of them
growing up without a father.
Jill dropped into a crouch next to his ravaged body
and rifled quickly through the belt pack. She shot an
apologetic look at Barry, but he gave her a slight nod.
They needed the ammo; Ken certainly didn't.
She came up with two clips for a nine-millimeter
and tucked them into her hip pocket. Barry turned
and stared down at Ken's murderer in disgust and
wonder.
He had no doubt that he was looking at one of the
cannibal killers that had been preying upon Raccoon
City. It had a crusty scum of red around its mouth
and gore-encrusted nails, as well as a ragged shirt that
was stiff with dried blood. What was weird was how
dead it looked.
Barry had once done a covert hostage rescue in
Ecuador, where a group of farmers had been held for
weeks by a band of insane guerrilla rebels. Several of
the hostages had been killed early in the siege, and
after the S.T.A.R.S. managed to capture the rebels,
Barry had gone with one of the survivors to record the
deaths. The four victims had been shot, their bodies
dumped behind the small wooden shack that the
rebels had taken over. After three weeks in the South
American sun, the skin on their faces had shriveled,
the cracking, lined flesh pulling away from sinew and
bone. He still remembered those faces clearly, and
saw them again now as he looked down at the fallen
creature. It wore the face of death.
Besides which, it smells like a slaughterhouse on a
hot day. Somebody forgot to tell this guy that dead
people don't walk around.
He could see the same sickened confusion on Jill's
face, the same questions in her eyes, but for now,
there weren't any answers; they had to find Chris and
regroup.
Together, they moved back down the corridor and
checked all three doors, rattling handles and pushing
at the heavy wood frames. All were securely locked.
But Chris had to have gone through one of them,
there's nowhere else he could have gone.
It didn't make sense, and short of breaking the
doors down, there was nothing they could do about it.
"We should report this to Wesker," Jill said, and
Barry nodded agreement. If they'd stumbled into the
hiding place of the killers, they were going to need a
plan of attack.
They ran back through the dining room, the stale
air a relief after the corridor's reek of blood and
decay. They reached the door back to the main hall
and hurried through, Barry wondering what the captain
would make of all this. It was downright.
Barry stopped short, searching the elegant, empty
hall and feeling like the butt of some practical joke
that simply wasn't funny.
Wesker was gone.
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