SIX
"WESKER!" BARRY SHOUTED, HIS DEEP VOICE
echoing through the chilly room. "Captain Wesker!"
He jogged toward a row of arches at the back of the
hall, calling to Jill over his shoulder as he ran. "Don't
leave the room!"
Jill walked to the stairs, feeling almost dizzy. First
Chris, now the captain. They hadn't been gone five
minutes and he'd said he was going to stay put. Why
would he have left? She looked around for signs of a
struggle, a spent cartridge, a spot of blood - there was
nothing to indicate what might have happened.
Barry appeared on the other side of the giant
staircase, shaking his head and walking slowly to join
her. Jill bit her lower lip, frowning.
"You think Wesker ran into one of those-things?"
she asked.
Barry sighed. "I don't think the RPD showed and
snuck him out. Though if he did run into trouble, we
would have heard the shots."
"Not necessarily. He could have been ambushed,
dragged away ..."
They stood silently for a moment, thinking. Jill was
still a bit shaken from the face-to-face with the
walking corpse, but thought she'd accepted the facts
pretty well; the woods bordering Raccoon City had
become infested with zombies.
After a lifetime of reading trashy novels about serial
killers, is a cannibal zombie so hard to swallow?
Somehow it wasn't, and neither were the murderous
dogs or the secretly kept estate. There was no question
that it all existed. The question was, why? Did the
mansion have anything to do with the murders, or
had the zombies simply overrun it like they'd overrun
Raccoon Forest?
And was that creature the last thing Becky and Pris
saw?
She rejected that thought almost violently; thinking
about the girls now would be a mistake.
"So do we go looking or do we wait?" Jill said
finally.
"Go looking. Ken made it here. The rest of the
Bravos could be somewhere in this house. It'd be easy
enough to get lost. Chris . . ."
He half-smiled, though Jill could see the worry in
his eyes. "Chris and Wesker got-side-tracked, but
we'll find them. It'd take more than a couple of
walking stiffs to cause either of them any grief."
He reached into a pocket in his vest and pulled out
something wrapped in a handkerchief, handing it to
her. She felt the thin metal objects beneath the light
fabric and recognized them instantly.
"It's the set you gave me to practice with last
month," he said. "I figure you'll have better luck with
them."
Jill nodded, tucking the lockpicks into her hip
pouch. Barry had taken an interest in her former
"career" and she'd given him a few pieces from her
old set, several picks and torsion bars. They could
come in handy. The small bundle settled on top of
something hard and smooth-
-Trent's computer! In all the excitement, she'd
totally forgotten about her strange encounter in the
locker room. She opened her mouth to tell Barry, then
shut it, remembering Trent's cryptic warning.
"I wouldn't mention this conversation to anyone."
Screw that. She'd almost risked it anyway with
Chris.
And where is Chris now? Who's to say that Trent's
"dire consequences" haven't already occurred?
Jill realized what she was thinking and had to fight
off an urge to laugh at herself. What had happened
with Trent probably wasn't even relevant to their
predicament, and whether or not she could trust
Barry, she knew she didn't trust Trent - still, she
decided not to say anything about it, at least until she
had a chance to see what the computer held.
"I think we should split up," Barry continued.
"I know it's dangerous, but we need to cover a lot of
ground. We find anybody, we meet back here, use this
room as base."
Rubbing at his beard, he fixed her with a serious
gaze. "You up for this, Jill? We could search together
. . ."
"No, you're right," she said. "I can take the west
wing." Unlike cops, S.T.A.R.S. seldom partnered.
They were trained to watch their own backs in dangerous
situations.
Barry nodded. "Okay. I'll go back and see if I can
persuade one of those doors to open. Keep an eye out
for a back exit, conserve ammo . . . and be careful."
"You, too."
Barry grinned, holding up his Colt Python. "I'll be
fine."
There was nothing left to say. Jill headed straight
for the set of doors on the west wall that Wesker
hadn't tried earlier. Behind her, Barry hurried back to
the dining room. She heard the door open and close,
leaving her alone.
Here goes nothing.
The painted blue doors opened smoothly, revealing
a small, shadowy room as cool and silent as the main
hall, all in shades of blue. Muted track lighting
illuminated framed paintings on dusky walls, and in
the center of the room was a large statue of a woman
holding an urn on one shoulder.
Jill closed the door behind her and let her eyes
adjust to the gloom, noting the two doors opposite the
one she'd come through. The one on the left was
open, though a small chest was pushed in front of it,
blocking access. It was unlikely that Wesker had gone
that way.
She walked to the one on the right and tried the
knob. Locked. Sighing, she reached into her pack for
the picks and then hesitated, feeling the smooth
weight of the mini-disk reader.
Let's see what Mr. Trent thinks is so important.
She slipped it out and studied it a moment, then
tapped at a switch. A screen the size of a baseball card
flickered to life, and with a few more taps, small lines
of type scrolled across the monitor. She scanned the
material, recognizing names and dates from local
newspapers. Trent had apparently compiled every article
he could find about the murders and disappearances
in Raccoon, plus the pieces on the S.T.A.R.S.
Nothing new here. . . Jill skipped along, wondering
what the point was. After the articles was a list of
names.
WILLIAM BIRKIN, STEVE KELLER, MICHAEL DEES,
JOHN HOWE, MARTIN CRAGKHORN, HENRY SARTON,
ELLEN SMITH, BILL RABBITSON
She frowned. None of the names were familiar,
Except - wasn't Bill Rabbitson Chris's friend, the one
who had worked for Umbrella? She couldn't be sure,
she'd have to ask Chris. . . .
. . . assuming we find him. This was a waste of time;
she needed to start looking for the other S.T.A.R.S.
She pressed the forwarding key to get to the end of the
data and a picture appeared, tiny lines set into patterns.
There were squares and long rectangles, crosshatched
with smaller marks that connected the empty
boxes. Beneath it was a single line, a message as
enigmatic as she could have expected from Mr. Trent:
KNIGHT KEYS; TIGER EYES; FOUR CRESTS (GATE OF
NEW LIFE); EAST-EAGLE/WEST-WOLF.
Gee, how illuminating. That just clears up everything,
doesn't it? The picture was some kind of map,
she decided. It looked like a floor plan. The biggest
area was at the center, a slightly smaller one extending
off to the left.
Jill suddenly felt her heart skip a beat. She stared
down at the small screen, wondering how Trent had
known.
It was the mansion's first floor. She tapped the
forward button again and saw what could only be the
second floor, the shapes corresponding to the first
map. There was nothing after the second map, but it
was enough.
As far as she was concerned, there was no longer
any question that the Spencer estate was the source of
the terror in Raccoon City, which meant that the
answers were here, waiting to be uncovered.
The zombie groaned as Chris fired point-blank into
its gut, twice. The shots were muffled by its rancid
flesh and it fell against him, expelling a rush of foul,
stinking air across his face.
Chris pushed it away, the back of his throat locking.
His hands and the barrel of his weapon were dripping
with sticky fluids. The creature collapsed to the floor,
its limbs spasming.
Chris backed away, wiping the Beretta against his
vest as he took deep breaths, trying desperately not to
vomit. The zombie out in the hall had been a desiccated
mess, shriveled and dry; this one was-fresh, if
that was the right word. Festering, necrotic, wet. . .
He swallowed, hard, and the urge to throw up
slowly passed. He didn't have a particularly weak
stomach, but that smell, God!
Keep it together, could be more of them. . . .
The hall he'd entered was all dark wood and dim
light. For the moment, there was no sound except the
pulse of blood in his ears. He looked down at the
body, wondering exactly what it was, what it had
been. He had felt its hot, fetid breath against his face.
It wasn't a reanimated corpse, no matter what it
looked like.
He decided it didn't matter. For all intents and
purposes, it was a zombie. It had tried to bite him,
and creatures like it had already chowed down on
some of Raccoon's population. He needed to find his
way back to the others and they had to get out, get
help. They didn't have the firepower to handle the
situation alone.
He ejected the empty clip from the gummy weapon
and quickly reloaded, his chest tightening with stress;
fifteen rounds left. He had a Bowie knife, but the
thought of going up against a zombie with only a knife
wasn't all that appealing.
There was a plain-looking door to his left. Chris
pulled at the knob, but it was locked. He squinted at
the key plate, and wasn't all that surprised to see an
etching of what looked like armor. Sword, armorthere
was a definite theme developing.
He moved down the wide hall, listening for any
sound and taking frequent deep breaths through his
nose. The goo on his vest and hands made it hard to
tell if there were any more of them around, the smell
was all over him, but it could be his only chance to
avoid another close encounter.
The hall turned to the left and he took the corner
fast, sweeping the Beretta across the wide wooden
expanse. There was a support pillar partially blocking
his view but he could see the back of a man just past
it, the slumped shoulders and stained clothes of one
of the creatures.
Chris quickly edged to the right, trying to get a clear
shot. The zombie was maybe forty feet away, and he
didn't want to waste his last rounds. At the sound of
his boots against the hard wood floor, it turned,
shuffling slowly. So slowly that Chris hesitated,
watching the way it moved.
This one seemed to have been dipped in a thin layer
of slime, dull light reflecting off of its glistening skin
as it stumbled almost blindly toward Chris. It slowly
raised its arms, its pale, hairless skull wobbling on its
emaciated neck. Silently, it shuffled forward.
Chris took a sliding step back to his left and the
zombie changed direction, veering toward him eagerly,
closing the distance between them at a slow
walk.
Just like in the movies; dangerous but dumb. And
easy to outrun. . . .
He had to save ammo in case he got cornered.
There were stairs at the end of the hall, and Chris took
a deep breath, readying himself. He stepped back,
giving himself enough room to maneuver-
-and heard a gasping moan behind him, a fresh
wave of rancid stink assaulting his senses. He spun,
the realization hitting him even before he saw it.
The festering zombie was only a few feet away,
reaching for him, bits of its putrid gut spilling out
across its shattered abdomen. He hadn't killed it,
hadn't waited long enough to make sure, and his
stupidity was about to cost him.
Ah, shit!
Chris sprinted away and down the corridor, dodging
both of them and cursing himself. He passed the
thick support beam, almost to the stairs-
-and stopped cold, seeing what waited at the top.
He caught only a glimpse of the ragged creature
standing at the head of the stairs and spun away,
raising his weapon to face the attackers that shambled
toward him hungrily.
From the shadows beneath the steps came a heavy,
gurgling sigh and the scuffing of wood; another one.
He was trapped, there was no way he could kill them
all - door!
It faced the side of the stairs, the dark wood
blending so well with the shadows that he almost
hadn't seen it. Chris ran for it, grabbing at the handle,
praying that it would open as around him, the creatures
closed in.
If it was locked, he was dead.
Rebecca Chambers had never been more afraid, not
once in her eighteen years. For what seemed like an
eternity, she'd listened to the soft scrape of rotting
flesh brushing against the door and tried desperately
to think of a plan, her dread building with each
passing minute. There was no lock on the door, and
she'd lost her handgun on the run for the house. The
small storage room, though well stocked with chemicals
and stacks of papers, had offered nothing to use
as a defense except a half-empty can of insect repellent.
It was the can she gripped now, standing behind the
door of the tiny room. If or when the monsters finally
figured out how to use a doorknob, she planned on
spraying it in their eyes and then making a run for it.
Maybe they'll be laughing so hard I'll have a chance
to slip past; bug spray, great weapon...
She'd heard what could have been shots somewhere
close by, but they weren't repeated. Her hope that it
was one of the team faded as the seconds ticked past,
and she was starting to give serious consideration to
the concept that she was the only one left when the
door burst open and a gasping figure hurdled inside.
Rebecca didn't hesitate. She leapt forward and
pressed the button, releasing a cloud of chemical mist
into its face, tensing herself to run past it.
"Gah!" It yelled, and fell back against the door,
slamming it shut. It covered its eyes, spluttering.
It wasn't a monster; she'd just maced one of the
Alphas.
"Oh, no!" Rebecca was already reaching into her
field medical kit, her immense relief at seeing another
of the S.T.A.R.S. battling with monumental embarrassment.
She fumbled out a clean cloth and a tiny squeeze
bottle of water, stepping toward him. "Keep your eyes
closed, don't rub at them."
The Alpha dropped his hands, face red, and she
finally recognized him. It was Chris Redfield, only the
most attractive guy in the S.T.A.R.S., not to mention
her superior. She felt herself blush, and was suddenly
glad that he couldn't see her.
Nice going, Rebecca. Way to make a good impression
on your first operation. Lose your gun, get lost,
blind a teammate . . .
She led him over to the small cot in the corner of
the room and sat him down, letting her training take
over.
"Lean your head back. This is going to sting a little,
but it's just water, okay?" She dabbed at his eyes with
the damp cloth, relieved that she hadn't sprayed him
with anything worse.
"What was that stuff?" he said, blinking rapidly.
Tears and water streamed down his face, but there
didn't seem to be any damage.
"Uh, bug repellent. The label's been ripped off but
the active ingredient is probably permephrin, it's an
irritant but the effect shouldn't last long. I lost my
gun, and when you came in I thought you were one of
those things, though if they haven't figured out how to
use a doorknob by now, they probably won't."
She realized she was babbling and shut up, finishing
the crude irrigation and stepping back. Chris wiped at
his face and peered up at her with bloodshot eyes.
"Rebecca . . . Chambers, right?"
She nodded miserably. "Yeah. Look, I'm really
Sorry."
"Don't worry about it," he said, and smiled. "Not a
bad weapon, actually."
He stood up and looked around the small room,
frowning. There wasn't much to see: an open trunk
full of papers, a shelf lined with bottles of mostly
unlabeled chemicals, a cot, and a desk. Rebecca had
been through it all in her search for something to use
against the creatures.
"What about the rest of your team?" he asked.
Rebecca shook her head. "I don't know. Something
went wrong with the helicopter and we had to set
down. We were attacked by animals, some kind of
dogs, and Enrico told us to run for cover."
She shrugged, suddenly feeling like she was about
twelve years old. "I got-turned around in the woods
and ended up at the front door of this place. I think
one of the others broke it down, it was open . . ."
She trailed off, looking away from his intense gaze.
The rest was probably obvious: she had no weapon,
she'd gotten lost, she'd ended up here. All in all, a
pretty poor showing.
"Hey," he said softly. "There's nothing else you
could have done. Enrico said run, you ran, you
followed orders. Those creatures out there, the zombies
. . . they're all over the place. I got lost, too, and
the rest of the Alphas could be anywhere. Trust me,
just the fact that you made it this far."
Outside, one of the monsters let out a low, plaintive
wail and Chris stopped talking, his expression grim.
Rebecca shuddered. "So what do we do now?"
"We look for the others and try to find a way out."
He sighed, looking down at his weapon. "Except you
don't have a gun and I'm almost out of ammo. . ."
Rebecca brightened and reached into her hip pack.
She pulled out two full magazines and handed them
over, pleased that she had something to offer him.
"Oh! And I found this on the desk," she said, and
produced a silver key with a sword on it. She didn't
know what it unlocked, but thought it might be useful.
Chris stared at it thoughtfully, then slipped it into a
pocket. He walked to the open trunk and looked down
at the stacks of papers. He rifled through them,
frowning.
"Your background's in biochemistry, right? Have
you looked through these?"
Rebecca joined him, shaking her head. "Barely. I've
been kinda busy watching the door."
He handed her one of the papers and she scanned it
quickly. It was a list of neurotransmitters and level
indicators.
"Brain chemistry," she said, "but these numbers
are all screwed up. The serotonin and norepinephrine
are too low . . . but look here, the dopamine is off the
chart, we're talking big-time schizo."
She noticed the incredulous look on his face and
smiled a little. Being an eighteen-year-old college
grad, she got a lot of that. The S.T.A.R.S. had
recruited her right after graduation, promising her a
whole team of researchers and a lab of her own to
study molecular biology, her real passion-provided,
of course, that she went through basic training and got
some field experience. No one else had shown much
interest in hiring a whiz kid. . . .
There was a soft thump at the door and her smile
faded. She was getting experience, alright.
Chris fished the sword key out of his pocket and
looked at her seriously. "I passed a door with a sword
engraved over the keyhole. I'm going to go check it
out, see if it leads back to the main hall. I want you to
stay here and go through those files. Maybe there's
something we can use."
Her uncertainty must have showed in her face. He
smiled gently, his voice low and soothing. "I've got
plenty of ammo, thanks to you, and I won't be gone
long."
She nodded, making a conscious effort to relax. She
was scared, but letting him see it wasn't going to help
matters. He was probably scared, too.
He walked to the door, still talking. "The RPD
should be here any time, so if I don't come back right
away, just wait here."
He raised the weapon, putting his other hand on the
knob. "Get ready. As soon as I'm out, move the trunk
in front of the door. I'll give a yell when I get back."
Rebecca nodded again, and with a final quick smile,
Chris opened the door and looked both ways before
moving out into the hall. She closed the door and
leaned against it, listening. After long seconds of
silence, she heard the rattle of gunfire not far away,
five or six shots-then nothing.
After a few minutes, she moved the trunk to block
part of the door, edging it in front of the hinges so she
could push it out of the way easily. She knelt in front
of it, trying to clear her thoughts as she started
looking through the papers, trying not to feel as young
and unsure as she actually felt.
Sighing, she pulled out a handful of papers and
started to read.
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