FIFTEEN
BARRY HAD BEEN GONE FOR TOO LONG.
Jill had no idea how extensive the tunnels were, but
from what she'd seen they all looked alike. Barry
could be lost, trying to find his way back. Or he could
have found the murderer, and without any backup ...
He might not come back at all.
In any case, staying put wasn't going to help anything.
She stood up, taking a last look at the Bravo's
pale face and silently wishing him peace before walking
away.
What did he find out that got him killed? Who was it?
Enrico had only managed to get out that the traitor
was a he, but that didn't exactly narrow things down;
except for herself and the rookie, the Raccoon
S.T.A.R.S. were all male. She could rule out Chris,
since he'd been convinced from the start that there
was something weird going on and now Barry,
who'd been with her when Marini died. Brad Vickers
simply wasn't the type to do anything dangerous, and
Joseph and Kenneth were dead - which leaves
Richard Aiken, Forest Speyer, and Albert Wesker.
None of them seemed likely, but she had to at least
consider the possibility. Enrico was dead. And she no
longer doubted that Umbrella had one of the
S.T.A.R.S. in their pocket.
When she got to the door, she quickly leaned down
and tightened her damp boot laces, preparing herself.
Whoever had shot the Bravo could have just as easily
taken her and Barry out - and since he hadn't, she
could only figure that he didn't want to kill anyone
else, and wouldn't be looking for more targets. Assuming
that he was still in the underground system,
she'd have to be as quiet as possible if she wanted to
find him; the tunnels were perfect sound conductors,
amplifying even the tiniest sound.
She eased open the metal door, listening, and then
edged out into the dim tunnel, staying close to the
wall. In front of her, the corridor was unlit. She opted
to head back the way she'd come instead; the darkness
was a perfect spot for an ambush. She didn't want to
find out she was wrong about the killer's intentions by
taking a bullet.
A low, grinding rumble reverberated through the
heavy stone walls, a sound like something big moving.
Jill instinctively used the sound as cover, taking
several sliding steps forward and reaching the next
metal door just as the rumbling stopped. She slipped
back out into the tunnel where she'd run into Barry,
gently closing the door behind her.
What the hell was that? It sounded like an entire
wall moving!
She shuddered, remembering the descending ceiling
of that room in the house. Maybe the tunnels were
rigged, too; she needed to watch every step. The idea
of being crunched to death by some bizarre mechanism
underground. . .
Like the one next to that pit, with the hexagonal hole?
She nodded slowly, deciding that she needed to go
take another look at those doors she couldn't get to
before. Maybe the killer had the tool it required, and
the noise she'd heard had come from him operating it.
She could be wrong, but there was no harm in
checking.
And at least I won't get lost.
She reached for the door that would lead her back
and stopped, her head cocked to catch the strange
sound coming from the tunnel behind her. It was
a rusty hinge? Some kind of a bird, maybe? It was loud,
whatever it was. . .
Thump. Thump. Thump.
That sound she knew. Footsteps, headed in her
direction, and it was either Barry or someone built
like him. They were heavy, plodding, but too far
apart, too . . . deliberate.
Get out of here. Now!
Jill grabbed at the metal latch and ran into the next
tunnel, no longer caring how much noise she made.
Although she sometimes misread them, her instincts
were never wrong and they were telling her that
whoever or whatever was making that sound, she
didn't want to be there when it showed up.
She took several running steps down the stone
corridor, away from the ladder that led back to the
courtyard and then forced herself to slow down,
taking a deep breath. She couldn't just go sprinting
ahead, either; there were other dangers than the one
she'd left behind.
Behind her, the door opened.
Jill turned, raising her Beretta and stared in horror
at the thing standing there. It was huge, shaped
like a man, but the resemblance stopped there. Naked
but sexless, its entire muscular body was covered
with a pebbled, amphibious skin, shaded a dark
green. It was hunched over so that its impossibly long
arms almost touched the floor, both its hands and feet
tipped with thick, brutal claws. Tiny, light-colored
eyes peered out at her from a flat reptilian skull.
It turned its strange gaze toward her, dropped its
wide - hinged jaw and let out a tremendous, highpitched
screech like nothing she'd ever heard before,
the sound echoing around her, filling her with mortal
terror.
Jill fired, three shots that smacked into the creature's
chest and sent it reeling backwards. It stumbled,
fell against the tunnel wall and with another terrible shriek
it sprang at her, pushing off the stones with powerful legs,
its claws outstretched and grasping.
She fired again and again as it flew toward her, the
bullets tearing into its puckered flesh, ribbons of dark
blood coiling away and it landed in a heaving crouch
only a few feet in front of her,
screaming, one massive arm snaking
out to swipe at her legs. A musky, moldy animal smell
washed over her, a smell like dark places and feral
rage.
-Jesus why won't it die-
Jill trained the Beretta on the back of its skull and
emptied the clip. Even as the green flesh splattered
away and bone splintered, she continued to fire, the
hot slugs ripping into the pulpy, pinkish mass of its
brain.
Click. Click. Click.
No more bullets. She lowered the weapon, her
entire body shaking. It was over, the creature was
dead, but it had taken almost an entire clip, fifteen
nine-millimeter rounds, the last seven or eight at close
range. . .
Still staring at the fallen monster, she ejected the
empty magazine and loaded a fresh clip before holstering
the Beretta. She reached back and unstrapped
the Remington, taking comfort in the solid, balanced
weight of the shotgun.
What the hell were you people working on out here?
It seemed that the Umbrella researchers had invented
more than just a virus - something just as deadly, but
with claws. . .
And there could be more of them.
She'd never had a more horrifying thought. Holding
the Remington close, Jill turned and ran.
Chris and Rebecca walked down a long, wooden
hallway, warily glancing up with every other step.
There was what looked like dried, dead ivy poking out
of every crack and crevice where the walls met the
ceiling, a bone-colored growth that scaled across the
planks like a fungus. It looked harmless, but after
what Rebecca had read to him about Plant 42, Chris
kept himself ready to move quickly.
After going through the rest of the papers in the
trunk, Rebecca had come up with a report on some
kind of an herbicide that could apparently be mixed
in Point 42, called V-Jolt. She'd brought it along,
though Chris doubted it would be useful. All he
wanted was to find the exit, and if they could avoid
the killer plant, so much the better.
The front hall had been clear of the growth, though
Chris wasn't prepared to call it secured. Besides the
two bedrooms by the front door, there had been a rec
room that had been distinctly creepy. Chris had
looked inside and immediately felt his internal alarms
going off, though he hadn't known why; there'd been
no danger that he could see, just a bar and a couple of
tables. In spite of the seeming calm, he had closed the
door quickly and they'd moved on. His gut feeling
was enough of a reason to leave it alone.
They stopped in front of the only door in the long,
meandering stretch of hallway, both of them still
glancing nervously at the scaling ivy near the ceiling.
Chris pushed at the knob, and the door swung open.
Warm, humid air flooded out of the shadowy room,
thick and tropical, but with a nasty undertone, like
the taint of spoiled fruit. Chris instinctively pushed
Rebecca behind him as he saw the walls of the
chamber. They were completely covered in the same
kind of strange, straggling growth that was in the
hall, but here, the scaling ivy was lush and bloated, a
bilious verdant green.
There was a faint whispering coming from inside
the room, a subtle sense of movement and Chris
realized that it was coming from the sickly plant
matter itself, the walls quivering in a weird optical
illusion as the draping tendrils crept and grew.
Rebecca started to step past him and Chris pushed
her back. "What, are you nuts? I thought you said this
thing sucks blood!"
She shook her head, staring at the whispering walls.
"That's not Plant 42, at least not the part the report
talked about. Plant 42 is gonna be a lot bigger, and a
lot more mobile. I never did much with phytobiology,
but according to that study, we'll be looking for an
angiosperm with motile foliage."
She smiled a quick, nervous smile. "Sorry. Think of a
great big plant bulb with ten to twenty foot vines
waving around it."
Chris grimaced. "Great. Thanks for putting my
mind at rest."
They edged into the large room, careful not to walk
too closely to the hissing walls. There were three
doors besides the one they came through: one directly
across from the entrance and the other two facing
each other to their left, where the room opened up.
Chris led them toward the door opposite the entrance,
figuring it as the most likely to lead out of the
bunkhouse.
The door was unlocked, and Chris started to push it
open. . .
BAM!
The door slammed shut, causing them both to jump
back, weapons raised. A series of heavy, sliding
thumps followed, like someone on the other side was
kicking at the walls - except the sounds were everywhere,
above and below the door's sturdy frame,
beating against every corner of the sealed room.
"Lots of vines, you said?" Chris asked.
Rebecca nodded. "I think we just found Plant 42."
They listened for a moment, Chris thinking about
the kind of strength and weight it would take to slam
the door so solidly.
No kidding, bigger and more mobile . . . and maybe
blocking the only exit to this place. Terrific.
They backed away, turning into the open area and
looking at the other two doors. The one on their right
had the number "002" above it. Chris fished out the
keys he'd found and flipped through them, finding
one with a matching number.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, Rebecca
behind him. There was a smaller door to the left that
opened to a bathroom, quiet and dusty. The room
itself was another bedroom, a bunk, a desk, a couple
of shelves. Nothing of interest.
There was another series of dull thumps from
behind the far wall and they quickly moved back into
the humid, whispering room, Chris fighting a growing
certainty that they were going to have to deal with the
plant if they wanted to get out.
Not necessarily, there could still be another way. . .
The way things had been going so far, he didn't
think so. From the shuffling zombies lurking in the
main house to the run through the courtyard, snakes
dropping from the trees, every part of the Spencer
estate seemed to be designed to keep them from
leaving.
Chris shook the negative thoughts aside as they
approached the shadowy chamber's final door, but
they came rushing back at the sight of the small green
keypad set next to the frame. He rattled the knob but
there was no give. It was another dead end.
"Security lock," he said, sighing. "No way to get in
without the code."
Rebecca frowned down at the pattern of tiny red
lights set above the numbered buttons. "We could just
try numbers until we run across the right combination."
Chris shook his head. "You know what our chances
are of just stumbling across the right..."
He stopped, staring at her, then fumbled the key
ring out of his pocket.
"Try three-four-five," he said, watching eagerly as
Rebecca dutifully punched in the number.
Come on, Mr. Alias, don't fail us now.
The pattern of red lights flashed, then blinked out,
one by one. As the last tiny light faded, there was a
click from inside the door.
Chris grinned, pushing the door open and felt his
hope dwindle as he glanced around the tiny room.
Dusty shelves filled with tiny glass bottles and a rust
stained sink; not the exit he'd expected.
No, that would have been too easy, God knows we
can't have that...
Rebecca walked quickly to one of the shelves and
looked over the glass bottles, mumbling to herself.
"Hyoscyamine, anhydride, dieldrin . . ."
She turned back to him, grinning widely. "Chris, we
can kill the plant! That V-Jolt, the phytotoxin - I can
make it here. If we can get to the basement, find the
plant's root."
Chris smiled back. "Then we can destroy it
without having to fight the damned thing! Rebecca,
you're brilliant. How long do you need?"
"Ten, fifteen minutes."
"You got it. Stay here, I'll be back as soon as I can."
Rebecca was already pulling down bottles as Chris
closed the door and jogged back toward the corridor,
past the whispering walls of shadowy green.
They were going to beat this place, and once they
got out, Umbrella was going down hard.
Barry was standing over Enrico's cold body,
Wesker's map crumpled in one hand. Jill had been
gone when he'd returned and rather than look for
her, he'd found himself unable to move, to even tear
his gaze away from the corpse of his murdered friend.
It's my fault. If I hadn't helped Wesker get out of the
house, you'd still be alive...
Barry stared miserably at Enrico's face, so filled
with guilt and shame that he didn't know what to do
anymore. He knew he had to find Jill, keep her from
getting to Wesker, keep his family from being hurt,
but still, he couldn't seem to force himself to walk
away. What he wanted more than anything was to be
able to explain himself to Enrico, make him understand
how things had come to be the way they were.
He's got Kathy and the babies, Rico . . . what else
could I have done? What can I do but follow his orders?
The Bravo stared back at him with glazed, unseeing
eyes. No accusation, no acceptance, no nothing. Forever.
Even if Barry continued to help the captain and
everything else turned out the way it was supposed to,
Rico Marini would still be dead and Barry didn't
know how he was going to live with the knowledge
that he was responsible...
Shots echoed through the tunnels. A lot of them.
Jill!
Barry's head snapped around. He reached for his
weapon automatically, the sounds spurring him to
action as anger flushed through his system. There
could only be one explanation; Wesker had found Jill.
Barry turned and ran, sick at the thought of another
S.T.A.R.S. member dead by Wesker's treacherous
hand, furious with himself for believing the captain's
lies.
The door in front of him slammed open and Barry
stopped dead in his tracks, all thoughts of Wesker and
Jill and Enrico wiped away by the sight of the crouching
thing in front of him. His mind couldn't grasp
what he saw, his stunned gaze feeding him bits of
information that didn't make sense.
Green skin. Piercing, orange-white eyes. Talons.
It screamed, a horrible, squealing cry and Barry
didn't think anymore. He squeezed the trigger and the
shriek turned into a bubbling, choking gasp as the
heavy round tore into its throat and knocked it down.
The thing flailed its limbs wildly as blood spurted
from the smoking hole. Barry heard several sharp
cracks like breaking bones, saw more blood pour from
its fists as long, thick claws snapped off against rock.
Barry stared in mute astonishment as the creature
continued to spasm violently, burbling through the
ragged hole in its throat as if still trying to scream.
The shot should have blown its head off its neck, but
it was another full minute before it died, its frenzied
thrashings gradually weakening as blood continued to
pump out at a tremendous rate. Finally, it stopped
moving and from the dark, noxious lake it had
created, Barry realized that it had bled to death,
conscious until the end.
What did I just kill? What the fu...
From the tunnel outside, another shrieking howl
resounded through the clammy air and was joined
by a second, then third. The animal cries rose up,
furious and unnatural, the screams of creatures that
shouldn't exist.
Barry dug into his hip pack with shaking hands and
pulled out more rounds for the Colt, praying to God
that he had enough and that those shots he'd heard
before hadn't been Jill's last stand.
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