NINE
CAW!
Jill whipped her Beretta toward the sound, the
mournful shriek echoing all around as the door
slipped closed behind her. Then she saw the source of
the noise and relaxed, smiling nervously.
What the hell are they doing in here?
She was still in the back part of the house, and had
decided to check out a few of the other rooms before
heading back to the main hall. The first door she'd
tried had been locked, a carving of a helmet on the
key plate. Her picks had been useless, the lock a type
she'd never encountered, so she'd decided to try her
luck on the door across the hall. It had opened easily
enough, and she'd gone in ready for anything,
though about the last thing she'd expected to see was a
flock of crows, perched along the support bar for the
track lighting that ran the length of the room.
Another of the large black birds let out its morose
shriek, and Jill shivered at the sound. There were at
least a dozen of them, ruffling their shiny feathers and
watching her with bright, beady eyes as she quickly
surveyed the room for threats; it was clear.
The U-shaped chamber she'd entered was as cold as
the rest of the house, perhaps colder, and empty of
furniture. It was a viewing hall, nothing but portraits
and paintings lining the inner wall. Black feathers lay
scattered across the worn wooden floor amidst dried
mounds of bird droppings, and Jill wondered again
how the crows had gotten inside, and how long they'd
been there. There was definitely something strange
about their appearance; they seemed much larger
than normal crows, and they studied her with an
intensity that seemed almost unnatural.
Jill shivered again, turning back toward the door.
There wasn't anything important in the room, and the
birds were giving her the creeps. Time to move on.
She glanced at a few of the paintings on her way
out, mostly portraits, noticing that there were
switches beneath the heavy frames - she assumed
they were for the track lighting, though she couldn't
imagine why anyone had bothered setting up such
an elaborate gallery for such mediocre art. A baby, a
young man . . . the paintings weren't awful, but
they weren't exactly inspired, either.
She stopped as she touched the cold metal handle of
the door, frowning. There was a small, inset control
panel set at eye level to the right of the door, labeled
"spots." She punched one of the buttons and the
room dimmed as a single directional light went out.
Several of the crows barked their disapproval, fluttering
ebony wings, and Jill turned the light back on,
thinking.
So if these are the light switches, what are the
controls beneath the paintings for?
Perhaps there was more to the room than she'd
thought. She walked to the first picture across from
the door, a large painting of flying angels and clouds
shot with sunbeams. The title was, From Cradle to
Grave. There wasn't a switch below it, and Jill moved
to the next.
It was a portrait of a middle-aged man, his lined
features sagging with exhaustion, standing next to an
elaborate fireplace. From the cut of his suit and his
slicked back hair, it looked to have been painted in
the late 1940s or early '50s. There was a simple on/off
switch underneath, unlabeled. Jill flicked it from left
to right and heard an electrical snap and behind her,
the crows exploded into screaming motion,
rising as one from their brooding perch.
All she could hear was the beat of their dark wings
and the sudden, manic ferocity of their cries as they
swarmed toward her and Jill ran,
the door seeming a million miles
away, her heart pounding. The first of the crows
reached her as she grabbed for the handle, its claws
finding the soft skin at the back of her neck. There was
a sharp stab of pain just behind her right ear and Jill
flailed at the rustling feathers that brushed her cheeks,
moaning as the furious shrieks enveloped her. She
slapped at the air behind her and was rewarded with a
startled squawk of surprise. The bird let go of her,
reeling away.
-too many, out out OUTShe
jerked the door open and fell into the hallway,
kicking the door closed even as she hit the floor. She
lay there a moment, catching her breath, relishing the
cool silence of the corridor in spite of the zombie
stench. None of the crows had gotten out.
As her heartbeat returned to something approaching
normal, she sat up and carefully touched the
wound behind her ear. Her fingers came away wet, but
it wasn't too bad, the blood was already clotting; she'd
been lucky. When she thought of what could have
happened if she'd tripped and fallen . . .
Why had they attacked, what had the control switch
done? She remembered the snap of electricity when
she'd flipped it, the sound of a spark-
-the perch!
She felt a sudden rush of grudging admiration for
whoever had set up the simple trap. When she'd hit
the switch, she must have sent a current through the
metal bar they'd been perched on. She'd never heard
of attack-trained crows, but could think of no other
explanation-which meant that someone had gone
through a lot of trouble to keep whatever was in that
room a secret. To get to the answer, she'd have to go
back in.
I can stand in the doorway, take them out one at a
time. . . She didn't much like the idea, she didn't
trust her aim and would certainly waste a lot of
ammunition.
Only fools accept the obvious and go no further; use
your brain, Jilly.
Jill smiled a little; it was her father talking, reminding
her of the training she'd had before the S.T.A.R.S.
One of her earliest memories was of hiding in the
bushes outside the rickety old house in Massachusetts
that her father had rented for them, studying the dark,
empty windows as he explained how to properly "case
a prospect." Dick had made it into a game, teaching
her over the next ten years all the finer points of
breaking and entering, everything from how to remove
panes of glass without damaging them to walking
on stairs so they didn't creak and he'd also
taught her, again and again, that every riddle had
more than one answer.
Killing the birds was too obvious. She closed her
eyes, concentrating.
Switches and portraits ... a little boy, a toddler, a
young man, a middle-aged man . . .
"From Cradle to Grave." Cradle to grave . . .
Once the solution occurred to her, she was almost
embarrassed by the simplicity of it. She stood up and
dusted herself off, wondering how long it would take
for the crows to return to their roost. Once they were
settled, she shouldn't have any more problems uncovering
the secret.
She cracked the door open and listened to the
whispering beat of wings, promising herself to be
more careful this time. Pushing the wrong button in
this house could be deadly.
"Rebecca? Let me in, it's Chris."
There was the sound of something heavy sliding
against the wall and the door to the storage room
creaked opened. Rebecca stepped away from the
entrance as he hurried inside, already pulling the
diary out of his vest.
"I found this journal in one of the rooms," he said.
"It looks like there was some kind of research going
on here, I don't know what kind but..."
"Virology," Rebecca interrupted, and held up a
stack of papers, grinning. "You were right about there
being something useful in here."
Chris took the papers from her and skimmed the
first page. As far as he could tell, it was in a foreign
language made out of numbers and letters.
"What is all this stuff? DH5a-MCR . . ."
"You're looking at a strain chart," Rebecca said
brightly. "That one's a host for generating genomic
libraries containing methylated cytosine or adenine
residues, depending."
Chris cocked an eyebrow at her. "Let's pretend that
I have no idea what you're talking about and try
again. What did you find?"
Rebecca flushed slightly and took the papers back
from him. "Sorry. Basically, there's a lot of, uh, stuff
in here on viral infection."
Chris nodded. "That I understand; a virus . . ."
He quickly flipped through the journal, counting
the dates from the first report of the accident in the
lab. "On May eleventh, there was some kind of spill
or outbreak in a laboratory on this estate. Within
eight or nine days, whoever wrote this had turned into
one of those creatures out there."
Rebecca's eyes widened. "Does it say when the first
symptoms appeared?"
"Looks like . . . within twenty-four hours, he or she
was complaining of itchy skin. Swelling and blisters
within forty-eight hours."
Rebecca paled. "That's . . . wow."
Chris nodded. "Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Is there
any way to tell if we could be infected?"
"Not without more information. All of that..."
Rebecca motioned at the trunk full of papers, "...is
pretty old, ten years plus, and there's nothing specific
about application. Though an airborne with that kind
of speed and toxicity ... if it was still viable, all of
Raccoon City would probably be infected by now. I
can't be positive, but I doubt it's still contagious."
Chris was relieved for himself and the rest of the
S.T.A.R.S., but the fact that the "zombies" were all
victims of a disease - it was depressing, whether it
was a disaster of their own making or not.
"We have to find the others," he said. "If one of
them should stumble across the lab without knowing
what's there ..."
Rebecca looked stricken at the thought, but nodded
gamely and moved quickly toward the door. Chris
decided that, with a little experience, she'd make a
first-rate S.T.A.R.S. member; she obviously knew her
chemistry, and even without a gun, she was willing to
leave the relative safety of the storage room in order
to help the rest of the team.
Together, they hurried through the dark, wooded
hallway, Rebecca sticking close to his side. When they
reached the door back to the first hallway, Chris
checked his Beretta and then turned to Rebecca.
"Stay close. The door we want is to the right and at
the end of the hall. I'll probably have to shoot the
lock, and I'm pretty sure there's a zombie or two
wandering around, so I'll need you to watch my
back."
"Yes, sir," she said quietly, and Chris grinned in
spite of the situation. Technically, he was her
superior - still, it was weird to have it pointed out.
He opened the door and stepped through, training
his gun on the shadows straight ahead and then down
the hall to the right. Nothing moved.
"Go," he whispered, and they jogged down the
corridor, quickly stepping over the fallen creature
that blocked their path. Rebecca turned to face the
open stretch behind them as Chris rattled the door
knob, hoping vainly that it had unlocked itself.
No such luck. He backed away from the door and
took careful aim. Firing at a locked door wasn't as
easy or safe as it looked in the movies; a ricochet off of
metal at such close range could kill the shooter "Chris!"
He glanced over his shoulder and saw a shambling
figure at the other end of the hall, moving slowly
toward them. Even in the dim light, Chris could see
that one of its arms was missing. The distinctive odor
of decay wafted toward them as the zombie moaned
thickly, stumbling forward.
Chris turned back to the door and fired, twice. The
frame splintered, the inset metal square of the lock
revealed in a spray of wood chips. He jerked at the
knob and the lock gave up, the door swinging open.
He turned and grabbed at Rebecca's arm, hustling
her through the doorway as he pointed the Beretta
back down the hall. The creature had made it halfway,
but was stopped at the lifeless body of the zombie that
Chris had killed earlier. Even as Chris watched in
horror and disgust, the one-armed zombie dropped
to its knees and plunged its remaining hand into
the other's crushed skull. It moaned again, a wet,
phlegmy sound, and brought a handful of slushy gray
matter to its eager lips.
Oh, man.
Chris shuddered involuntarily and hurriedly stepped
through to join Rebecca, closing the door on the
gruesome scene. Rebecca was pale but seemed composed,
and again, Chris admired her courage; she was
young but tough, tougher than he'd been at eighteen.
He took in the hall at a glance, immediately noticing
the changes. To their right about twenty feet away
was a corpse of one of the creatures, the top of its
head blown away. It lay face up, the deep sockets of its
eyes filled with blood. To their left were the two doors
that Chris hadn't tried when he'd first come to
investigate. The one at the very end of the hall was
standing open, revealing deep shadows.
At least one of the S.T.A.R.S. came this way, probably
looking for me.
"Follow me," he said softly, and moved toward the
open door, holding the Beretta tightly. He wanted to
get back to the main hall with Rebecca, but the fact
that one of his team must have gone through the
opening deserved a quick look.
As they passed the closed door on the right,
Rebecca hesitated. "There's a picture of a sword next
to the lock," she whispered.
He kept his attention on the darkness just past the
open door, but realized as she spoke that there were
too many ways for them to get side-tracked. He didn't
think the rest of the team was still waiting for him,
but his original orders had been to report back to the
lobby; he shouldn't be leading an unarmed rookie
into unknown territory without at least checking.
Chris sighed, lowering his weapon. "Let's get back
to the main hall," he said. "We can come back and
check it out later."
Rebecca nodded and together they walked back
toward the dining room, Chris hoping against hope
that someone would be there to meet them.
Barry pointed his Colt toward the crawling ghoul
and fired, the heavy round splattering the thing's
mushy skull into liquid even as it reached for his boot.
Tiny drops of wetness splashed his face as the zombie
spasmed and died. Scowling, Barry wiped at his skin
with the back of his hand. The tiny white tiles of the
kitchen wall got it much worse, rivulets of red coursing
down the grouted tracks and pooling to the faded
brown linoleum. Still, it was pretty disgusting.
Barry lowered the revolver, feeling the ache in his
left shoulder. The door upstairs had been solidly
locked, he had the bruises to prove it and staring
down at the zombie hash in front of him, he realized
that he was going to have to go back up and break
down another one. If he hadn't been certain before,
he was now - Chris hadn't come this way. If he had,
the crawling creature would already have been history.
So where the hell are you, Chris?
Of the three locked doors, Barry had picked the one
at the end of the hall on pure instinct. He'd ended up
in a dark, silent hall that led past an empty elevator
shaft and down a narrow set of stairs. The bare white
kitchen at the bottom had seemed deserted, the
counters thick with dust and corrosion stains on the
walls - no sign of recent use, no sign of Chris, and
the single door across from the sink had been locked.
He'd been about to leave when he'd noticed the trails
of disturbed dust on the floor and followed them.
Sighing heavily, Barry stepped over the stinking
monster, a final check before he headed back up for
door number two. There were some stacked crates
and the same old-fashioned elevator shaft, also empty.
He didn't bother with the call button since the one
upstairs hadn't worked. Besides, judging from the rust
on the metal grate, no one had used it in quite awhile.
He turned back the way he'd come, wondering how
Jill was making out. The sooner they could get away,
the better. Barry had never disliked any place as much
as he did this mansion. It was cold, it was dangerous,
and it smelled like a meat locker that had been
unplugged for a week. He generally wasn't the type to
frighten easily or let his imagination get out of hand,
but he half-expected to see some white-sheeted spook
rattling chains every time he turned around.
There was a distant echoing clatter behind him.
Barry spun, a knot of dread in his gut as he pointed
his weapon randomly at the empty air, his eyes wide
and mouth dry. There was another metallic clatter,
followed by a low, throbbing hum of machinery.
Barry took a deep breath and blew it out slowly,
getting a hold of himself. Not a disembodied spirit,
after all; someone was using the elevator.
Who? Chris and Wesker are missing and Jill's in the
other wing. .. .
He stayed where he was, lowering the Colt slightly
as he waited. He didn't think the ghouls were smart
enough to work the buttons, let alone open the gate,
but he didn't want to take any chances. He was a good
twenty feet from where the booth would open, assuming
it stopped in the basement, and would have a clear
shot at whoever stepped around the corner. A glimmer
of hope sparked through his confusion; maybe it
was one of the Bravos, or someone who lived here and
could tell them what had happened.
With a dull dang, the elevator stopped in the
kitchen. There was a squeal of dry metal hinges and
footsteps and Captain Wesker stepped into view, his perpetual
sunglasses propped on his tanned brow.
Barry lowered the revolver, grinning as cool relief
swept over him. Wesker stopped in his tracks and
grinned back at him.
"Barry! Just the man I was looking for," he said
lightly.
"God, you gave me a scare! I heard the elevator
start up and thought I was gonna have a heart
attack ..." Barry trailed off, his grin faltering.
"Captain," he said slowly, "where did you go?
When we came back, you were gone."
Wesker's grin widened. "Sorry about that. I had
some business to attend to - you know, call of nature?"
Barry smiled again, but was surprised by the confession;
trapped in hostile territory, and the man had
gone off to take a leak?
Wesker reached up and lowered his shades, breaking
their eye contact, and Barry suddenly felt a little
nervous. Wesker's grin, if anything, seemed to grow
wider. It looked like every tooth was showing.
"Barry, I need your help. Have you ever heard of
White Umbrella?"
Barry shook his head, feeling more uncomfortable
by the second.
"White Umbrella is a sector of Umbrella, Inc., a
very important division. They specialize in ... biological
research, I guess you could say. The Spencer
estate houses their research facilities, and recently, an
accident occurred."
Wesker brushed off a section of the kitchen's center
island and casually leaned against it, his tone almost
conversational.
"This division of Umbrella has a few ties to the
S.T.A.R.S. organization, and not long ago, I was
asked to ... assist in their handling of this situation.
It's a very delicate situation, mind you, very hush-hush;
White Umbrella doesn't want a whisper of their
involvement getting out.”
"Now, what I'm supposed to do is get to the
laboratories on the grounds here and put an end to
some rather incriminating evidence-proof that
White Umbrella is responsible for the accident that's
caused so much trouble in Raccoon as of late. The
problem is, I don't have the key to get to those labskeys,
actually. And that's where you come in. I need
for you to help me find those keys."
Barry stared at him for a moment, speechless, his
mind churning. An accident, a secret lab doing biological
research . . .
. . . and murdering dogs and zombies loose in the
tvoods. . .
He raised his revolver and pointed it at Wesker's
smiling face, stunned and angry. "Are you insane?
You think I'm going to help you destroy evidence?
You crazy son of a bitch!"
Wesker shook his head slowly, acting as if Barry
were a child. "Ah, Barry, you don't understand; you
don't have a choice in the matter. See, a few of my
friends from White Umbrella are currently standing
outside of your house, watching your wife and daughters
sleep. If you don't help me, your family is going to
die."
Barry could actually feel the blood drain from his
face. He cocked the hammer back on the Colt, feeling
a sudden, vicious hatred for Wesker infusing every
fiber of his being.
"Before you pull the trigger, I should mention that
if I don't report back to my friends fairly soon, their
orders are to go ahead and do the deed anyway."
The words cut through the red haze that had
flooded Barry's mind, turning his hands clammy with
terror.
Kathy, the babies – I...
"You're bluffing," he whispered, and Wesker's grin
finally disappeared, his expression slipping back into
the unreadable mask that he usually wore.
"I'm not," he said coldly. "Try me. You can apologize
to their headstones later."
For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence a
palpable thing in the chill air. Then Barry slowly
eased the hammer back down and lowered the weapon,
his shoulders slumped. He couldn't, wouldn 't risk
it; his family was everything.
Wesker nodded and reached into one of his pockets,
producing a ring of keys, his manner suddenly brisk
and business-like. "There are four copper plates
somewhere in this house. Each one is about the size of
a teacup, and has a picture engraved on one side:
sun, moon, stars, and wind. There's a back door on
the other side of the mansion where the four of them
belong."
He unhooked a key from the ring and set it on the
table, sliding it across to Barry. "This should open all
of the doors in the other wing, or at least the important
ones, first and second floor. Find those pieces for
me and your wife and children will be fine."
Barry reached for the key with numb fingers, feeling
weak and more afraid than he'd ever been in his life.
"Chris and Jill. . ."
"... will undoubtedly want to help you search. If
you see either of them, tell them that the back door
you've discovered could be the way out. I'm sure
they'll be more than happy to work with their trusted
friend, good ol' Barry. In fact, you should unlock
every door you can in order to promote a more
thorough job."
Wesker smiled again, a friendly half-grin that belied
his words. "Of course, you tell them you've seen
me - that could complicate matters. If I run into
trouble, say, get shot in the back . . . well, enough
said. Let's just keep this to ourselves."
The key was etched with a little picture, a chest
plate for a suit of armor. Barry slipped it into his
pocket. "Where will you be?"
"Oh, I'll be around, don't worry. I'll contact you
when the time is right."
Barry looked at Wesker pleadingly, helpless to keep
the wavering fear out of his voice. "You'll tell them
that I'm helping you, right? You won't forget to
report?"
Wesker turned and walked toward the elevator,
calling out over his shoulder. "Trust me, Barry. Do
what I tell you, and there's nothing to worry about."
There was the rattle of the elevator's gate opening
and closing, and Wesker was gone.
Barry stood a moment longer, staring into the
empty space where Wesker had been, trying to find a
way out of the threat. There wasn't one. There was no
contest between his honor and his family; he could
live without honor.
He set his jaw and walked back toward the stairs,
determined to do what he had to do to save Kathy and
the girls. Though when this was over, when he could
be sure they were safe.
There won't be any place for you to hide, "Captain."
Barry clenched his giant fists, knuckles whitening,
and promised himself that Wesker
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