SIXTEEN
IT COULD HAVE ONCE BEEN A SPIDER, IF
spiders ever got to be the size of cattle. From the thick
layer of white web that covered the room, floor to
ceiling, it couldn't have been anything else.
Jill stared down at the curled, bristling legs of the
abomination, her skin crawling. The creature that had
attacked her by the courtyard entrance had been
terrifying, but so alien that she hadn't been able to
relate it to anything. Spiders, on the other hand . . .
she already hated them, hated their dark, bustling
bodies and skittering legs. This one had been the
mother of all of them and even dead, it frightened
her.
Hasn't been dead long, though . . .
She forced herself to look at it, at the slick puddles
of greenish ichor that dripped from the holes in its
rounded, hairy body. It had been shot several times
and from the noxious ooze that seeped from the
wounds, she guessed that it had still been alive and
crawling not twenty minutes ago, maybe less.
She shuddered and stepped away toward the double
metal doors that led out of the webbed chamber.
Whispering streams of the sticky stuff clung to her
boots, making it a struggle to move. She took careful,
deliberate steps, determined not to fall. The thought
of being covered in spider web, having it clinging to
her entire body . . . she shuddered again, swallowing
thickly.
Think about something else, anything.
At least she knew she was on the right track, and
close behind whoever had triggered the tunnel mechanism.
Neat trick, that. When she'd reached the area
where the pit had been, she'd thought that maybe
she'd gotten lost after all. The gaping hole had been
gone, smooth stone in its place. Looking up, she'd
seen the ragged edges of the pit suspended overhead;
the entire center section of the tunnel had been
flipped over, turned like a giant wheel by some
miracle of engineering.
The doors had led to another straight, empty tunnel.
A giant boulder stood at one end, and past that,
the room she was about to leave.
Jill grabbed the handle of one of the doors and
pushed it open, stumbling out into yet another
gloomy passage. She leaned back against the door and
breathed deeply, barely resisting the urge to brush
wildly at her clothes.
I can blow away zombies and monsters with the best
of 'em; show me a spider and I lose my freaking
mind.
The short, empty tunnel ran left to right in front of
her, a door at either end, but the door to her left was
set into the same wall as the one she'd just exited,
leading back toward the courtyard. Jill opted for the
one on the right, hoping that her sense of direction
was still intact.
The metal door creaked open and she stepped in,
feeling the change in the air immediately. The tunnel
split in front of her. To the right, a thickening of
shadow where the rock walls opened into another
corridor. But to her left was a small elevator shaft like
the ones in the courtyard. A warm, delicious wind
swept down and over her, the sweet air like a forgotten
dream.
Jill grinned and started for the shaft, seeing that the
lift's platform had been taken up. Chances were good
that she was still on the trail of Enrico's killer. . .
. . . but maybe not. Maybe he went the other way,
and you're about to lose him.
Jill hesitated, gazing wistfully at the small shaftand
then turned around, sighing. She had to at least
take a look.
She walked into the stone corridor that stretched in
front of her, the temperature immediately dropping
back to the now familiar unpleasant chill. The tunnel
extended several feet to her right and dead ended. To
her left, a massive, rounded boulder like the one she'd
seen before marked the other end, a good hundred
feet away. And there was something small laying in
front of it, something blue. . .
Frowning, Jill walked toward the giant rock, trying
to make out the blue object. Halfway down the dim
tunnel was an offshoot to the left, and she recognized
the metal plate next to it as the same kind of mechanism
that had moved the pit.
She stepped into the small offshoot, examining the
worn stones at its opening. There was a small door to
her right, and Jill realized that the passage and room
could be hidden by way of the mechanism, the walls
turned to block the entrance.
Jeez, it must've taken them years to set all this up.
And to think I was impressed with the house. . .
She opened the door and looked inside. A midsized
square room of rough stone, a statue of a bird on
a pedestal the only decoration. There was no other
exit, and Jill felt a sudden rush of relief as the
implications sank in. She could leave the underground
tunnels; the killer had to have left already.
Smiling, she stepped back out into the corridor and
started toward the giant rock, still curious about the
blue thing. As she got closer, she saw that it was a
book, bound in blue-dyed leather. It had been thrown
carelessly against the base of the stone, laying face
down and open. She slung the Remington across her
back and crouched down to pick it up.
It was a book-box. Her father had told her about
them, though she'd never actually seen one. There
was a cut-away section of pages behind the cover
where valuables could be hidden, though this one was
empty.
She flipped it closed, tracing the gold-leaf letters of
the title, Eagle of East, Wolf of West, as she started
back toward the elevator. Didn't sound like much of a
thriller, though it was nicely bound.
Snick.
Jill froze as the stone beneath her left foot sank
down a tiny bit-and she realized at the same instant
that the entire tunnel gently sloped away from where
she was standing.
-oh no-
Behind her, a deep, thundering sound of rock
grating against rock.
Dropping the book, Jill sprinted for cover, arms
and legs pumping as the rumbling grew louder, the
tripped boulder picking up momentum. The dark
opening of the offshoot seemed miles away -
-won 't make it, gonna die-
- and she could almost feel the tons of stone
bearing down on her, wanted desperately to look but
knew that the split-second difference would kill her.
In a final, desperate burst of speed she dove for the
opening, crashing to the floor and jerking her legs
in as the massive rock rolled past, missing her by
inches. Even as she drew in her next gasping breath,
the boulder hit the end of the tunnel with an explosive,
bone-jarring crunch that shook the underground
passage.
For a moment, it was all she could do to huddle
against the cold floor and not throw up. When that
passed, she slowly got to her feet and dusted herself
off. The heels of her hands were abraded and both her
knees bruised from the running dive, but compared to
being smashed flat by a big rock, she thought she had
definitely made the right choice.
Jill unstrapped the Remington and headed for the
elevator shaft, very much looking forward to leaving
the underground behind and keeping her fingers
crossed that whatever came next, it wouldn't be cold.
And that there wouldn't be any spiders.
The basement was flooded, all right.
Chris stood at the top of a short ramp that led to the
basement doors, staring down at his own unsmiling
face reflected off of the shimmering water. It looked
cold. And deep.
After he'd left Rebecca, he'd continued down the
hall and found room 003 at the end, the ladder to the
basement level tucked discreetly behind a bookcase in
the neatly kept bedroom. He'd descended into a
chilled concrete corridor with buzzing fluorescent
lights overhead, a dramatic change from the plain
wood and simple style of the bunkhouse above.
At least I found the basement.
It appeared that killing Plant 42 was their only
option for escape after all. He'd seen no other exit
from the bunkhouse, which meant that it had to be
past the plant's room or else there was no back
door, a thought that left him distinctly unsettled. It
didn't seem possible, but then, neither did a carnivorous
plant.
And you won't find out until you get this over with.
Chris sighed, and stepped into the water. It was
cold, and had an unpleasant chemical smell. He
waded down to the door, the water sliding up over his
knees and finally stopping at mid-thigh, sloshing
gently. Shivering, he pushed the door open and
moved inside.
The basement was dominated by a giant glass-fronted
tank in the center of the room that extended
floor to ceiling, a large, jagged hole toward the bottom
right-hand side. Chris wasn't that good at judging
volume, but to fill the whole area with water, he
figured that the tank had to have held several thousands
of gallons.
What the hell were they studying that they needed
that much? Tidal waves?
It didn't matter; he was cold, and he wanted to find
what he needed to find and get back to dry land. He
started off toward the left, slowly, straining against
the push and pull of the gently lapping waves.
It was totally unreal, wading through a well-lit
concrete room, though he supposed it was no stranger
than anything else he'd experienced since the Alpha
'copter had set down. Everything about the Spencer
estate had a dream-like feel to it, as if it existed in its
own reality far removed from the rest of the
world's . . .
Try nightmare-like. Killer plants, giant snakes, the
walking dead-all that's missing is a flying saucer,
maybe a dinosaur.
He heard a soft sloshing behind him and glanced
over his shoulder...
...to see a thick, triangular fin rise up from the
water twenty feet away and slide toward him, a
wavering gray shadow beneath.
Panic shot through him, an all-encompassing panic
that seared away rational thought. He took a giant,
running step and realized that he couldn't run as he plunged
face first into the cold, chemical water and came up
gasping, spluttering tainted liquid from his nose and
mouth, hoping to God Rebecca was right about the
virus having burned itself out.
He whipped his head around, eyes burning, searching
for the fin and saw that it had halved the distance between
them. He could see it now - a shark, its rippling,
distorted body sliding easily through the water, ten or
twelve feet long, its broad tail lashing it forward - the
black, soulless eyes set above its pointed grin.
-wet bullets misfire-
Chris stumbled away backwards, knowing that he
didn't stand a chance of outrunning it. Wheeling his
arms for balance, he sloshed heavily through the
dragging water, turning himself sideways and managing
a few more steps before the shark was on top of
him...
...and he leaped to the side, dodging the animal
and slapping the water as violently as he could,
churning it into foaming waves. The shark slid past
him, its smooth, heavy body brushing against his leg.
As soon as it was past, Chris stumbled after it,
splashing wildly to keep up as he turned the corner in
the flooded room. If he could stay close enough, it
wouldn't be able to turn, to get at him - except
that in seconds, the shark would have the
room to maneuver. He could see two doors ahead on
the left but the giant fish was already leaving him
behind, heading toward the next corner to turn
around and come back for him.
Chris took a deep breath and plunged into the
water, knowing it was crazy but that he didn't have a
better chance. He stroked desperately toward the first
door, kicking off against the cement floor to propel
himself forward in great, bounding leaps.
He hit the door just as the shark was turning up
ahead and grabbed for the handle, choking -
- and it was locked.
Shit, shit, shit!!!
Chris jammed his hand into his wet vest and came
up with Alias's keys, fumbling through them as the fin
glided closer, the wide, pointed grin opening.
He shoved a key into the lock, the last key on the
ring that he hadn't found the room for, and slammed
his shoulder against the door at the same time, the
shark now only a few feet away.
The door flew open and Chris stumbled in, falling
and kicking frantically. His boot connected solidly
with the shark's fleshy snout, deflecting it from the
opening. In a flash, he was on his feet. He threw his
weight into the door and in a slap of water, it was
closed.
He sagged against the door, wiping at his stinging
eyes with the back of his hand. The lapping water
settled gently into smaller and smaller ripples as he
caught his breath and his vision cleared. For now, he
was safe.
He unholstered his Beretta and ejected the dripping
magazine, wondering how the hell he was going to
make it back upstairs. Looking around the small
room, he saw nothing he could use as a weapon. One
wall was lined with buttons and switches, and he
trudged over to look at them, drawn to a blinking red
light in the far corner.
Looks like I found a control room . . . aces. Maybe I
can turn off the lights and get the shark to go to sleep.
There was a lever set next to the flashing light and
Chris stared down at the faded tape beneath it, feeling
a numb disbelief as he read the printed letters.
Emergency Drainage System.
You've gotta be kidding me! Why didn't anyone pull
this thing the second the tank broke?
The answer occurred to him even as he thought it.
The people who worked here were scientists; no way
they were going to turn down the opportunity to study
their precious Plant 42, sucking up water from the
man-made lake.
Chris grabbed the lever and pushed it down. There
was a sliding, metallic noise outside the door-and
immediately, the water level started to drop. Within a
minute, the last of it had flowed out from under the
door and a gurgling, liquid gasp came from the
direction of the broken tank.
He walked back to the door, opening it carefully
and heard the frantic, wet thumps of a very big fish
trying to swim through air.
Chris grinned, thinking that he should probably feel
pity for the helpless creature and hoping instead
that it died a long, agonizing death.
"Bite me," he whispered.
Wesker had shot four of the shuffling, gasping
Umbrella workers on his way to the computer room
on level three. He hadn't recognized any of them,
though he was pretty sure that the second one he'd
taken out had been Steve Keller, one of the guys from
Special Research. Steve always wore penny loafers,
and the pallid, dried-up husk that had reached for
him by the stairs had been wearing Steve's brand.
It appeared that the effects of the viral spill had
been harsher in the labs . . . less messy, but no less
disquieting. The creatures that roamed the halls outside
seemed to have been totally dehydrated, their
limbs withered and stringy, their eyes like shriveled
grapes. Wesker had dodged several of them, but the
ones he'd been forced to put down had scarcely bled
at all.
He sat at the computer in the cool, sterile room and
waited for the system to boot up, feeling truly on top
of things for the first time all day. He'd had earlier
moments, of course. The way he'd handled Barry,
finding the wolf medal in the tunnels - even shooting
Ellen Smith in the face had given him a momentary
sense of accomplishment, a feeling that he was in
control of what was happening. But so much had gone
wrong along the way that he hadn't had time to enjoy
any of his successes.
But now I'm here. If the S.T.A.R.S. aren't already
dead, they will be soon and assuming I don't suffer
some massive lapse of skill, I'll be out of here within
half an hour, mission complete.
There were still dangers, but Wesker could handle
them. The mesh monkeys - the Ma2s - were undoubtedly
loose in the power room, but they were
easy enough to get past, as long as you didn't stop
running; he should know, he'd helped come up with
the design. And there was the big man, the Tyrant,
waiting one level down in his glass shell, sleeping the
sweet, dreamless sleep of the damned. . .
. . . From which he'll surely never wake. What a
waste. So much power, crossed off as a failure by the
boys at White. . .
A gentle musical tone informed him that the system
was ready. Wesker pulled a notebook out of his vest
and opened it to the list of codes, though he already
knew them; John Howe had set the system up months
ago, using his name and the name of his girlfriend,
Ada, as access keys.
Wesker tapped out the first of the passwords that
would allow him to unlock the laboratory doors,
feeling a sudden, vague wistfulness for the excitement
of the day. It would be over so soon and there would
be no one to witness his achievements, to share his
fond memories after the fact.
Now that he thought about it, it was a shame that
none of the S.T.A.R.S. would be joining him; the only
thing better than a grand finale was a grand finale with
an audience. . .
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