She sighed, picking it up. She already had the keys; in fact, she had everything she needed to search the sta-tion, and most of what she needed to get into the lab. If it wasn’t for someone at Umbrella dropping the bomb, the job would have been a walk. Easy money. Instead, I get a three-day vacation sans comfort, I get night of the living standoff, I get to play Put the Bullet in the Brain and Let’s Find the Reporter at the same time. The samples could be anywhere by now, depending on who survived. Assuming I make it out of here with the goods, I’m asking for a big goddamn bonus; no one should have to work in these conditions. Ada slipped the key into her hip pack, then gazed unseeing at the upper balustrade of the impressive hall, mentally checking off the rooms she’d been through and the ones she’d searched more thor-oughly. Bertolucci didn’t seem to be anywhere on the east side of the building, upstairs or down; she’d spent what felt like hours staring into dead faces, searching the reeking piles of corpses for his square jaw and anachronistic ponytail. Of course, he could be mov-ing—but from the information she had on him, it was improbable; the reporter was very much a rabbit, a hider in the face of danger.
Speaking of danger...
Ada shook herself and got moving, heading back to the door that led into the lower east wing. The lobby was safe enough from the virus carriers, they didn’t seem to understand the concept of doorknobs—but there were threats besides the infected. God only knew what Umbrella might send in to clean up ... or what had been freed from the laboratory when the leak occurred. Less frightening but just as bothersome were the live cops that might still be trooping around, looking for someone to save. She’d heard gunfire, some distant, some not, every hour or three since she’d gone to ground; there were still at least a few uninfected left in the expansive old building. Trying to convince a panicky he-man with a gun that she was alive and didn’t want an escort made facing the undead seem almost appealing.
Walking on the balls of her feet to avoid additional noise, Ada slipped through the door and then leaned against it at the end of a long hall, safe to decide on her next move; although she hadn’t checked out the basement yet and there were still several carriers wandering around in the detectives’ room, the hall’s doors were all closed; if someone or something wanted to get at her, she’d be able to see it coming and get out in time.
Ah, the exciting life of the freelance agent. Travel the world! Earn money by stealing important things! Fight off the living dead when you haven’t showered or eaten a decent meal in three days—impress your friends! She reminded herself again to insist on that bonus. When she’d arrived in Raccoon less than a week before, she thought she’d been prepared; the maps had been studied, the reporter’s files memorized, her cover story set—a young woman looking for her boyfriend, an Umbrella scientist. That part was al-most true; in fact, it had been her brief relationship with John Howe ten months before that had landed her the job. More of a one-night stand, actually, and not a very good one at that—but John had thought otherwise, and his connection to Umbrella, though it had probably killed him, had turned out to be a lucky break for her.
So, she’d been ready. But within twenty-four hours of her self-assured check-in at Raccoon City’s nicest hotel, her luck had changed; while eating dinner in the vinyl-encased and mostly empty lounge of
the Arklay Inn, she’d heard the first screams outside. The first, but by no means the last.
In some ways, the disaster was an asset; there’d be no guards posted around the lab, no endless covert trial runs. The prep work she’d done on the T-Virus had assured her that the airborne was short-lived and dissipated quickly; the only chance of catching it at this point would be through contact with a carrier, so that wasn’t a problem—and once she and a couple dozen others had made it to the police station, she’d seen that Bertolucci was among them. Even with the undead factor, it initially looked like things were going in her favor.
Mission objectives: question the hack, find out how much he knows and kill him or ignore him, depending; retrieve a sample of the new virus, Dr. Birkin’s latest wonder. No problem, right?
Three days before, with the knowledge of how the Umbrella lab connected into the sewer system and Bertolucci standing right in front of her, the job had looked pretty wrapped. And of course, that’s when things had started to go wrong.
The rearranged station, with the rooms shifted around after the S.T.A.R.S. fiasco, making half my preparations obsolete. People disappearing. The barri-cades that kept coming down. Police Chief Irons, throwing off commands like some cut-rate dictator, still trying to impress Mayor Harris and his whiny daughter even as the dead piled up....
She’d watched Bertolucci closely enough to see that he was going to duck and run, but had missed the exit; she hadn’t even had time to make contact before he had disappeared somewhere into the maze of the station, losing himself in the commotion of the first wave of attacks. Ada had decided to fly solo herself when three-fourths of the civilians were wiped out in a single mass assault not an hour later, all because no one had bothered to lower the garage gates. She wasn’t willing to die to keep up her cover as a frightened tourist looking for her boyfriend.
And so came the wait. Almost fifty hours of waiting for things to settle, tucked in the clock tower on the third floor, slipping downstairs to find food or to use a bathroom in the lengthening stretches of time be-tween gunplay. Between the echoing clatter of shots and the screams . . .
Terrific. So now you’re out and what do you do? Stand around and reflect. Get on with it; the sooner you finish, the sooner you can collect your wages and retire to some nice island somewhere.
Still, for a moment Ada didn’t move, tapping the muzzle of her Beretta absently against one long, stockinged leg. There were three bodies sprawled in the hallway; she couldn’t stop staring at one of them, crumpled beneath a window counter halfway down the corridor. A woman in cutoff shorts and a halter, her legs crudely splayed, one arm cocked above her blood-soaked head. The other two were cops, no one she recognized—but the woman had been one of the people she’d talked to when she’d first made it to the station. Her name had been Stacy something-or-other, a nervous but strong-willed girl just out of her teens.
Stacy Kelso, that was it. She’d run into town to pick up some ice cream and had ended up caught in the takeover—yet in spite of her own predicament, she was more concerned about her parents and little brother, still at home. A conscientious girl. A good girl. Why was she thinking about it? Stacy was dead, a ragged hole at her left temple, and Ada hadn’t capped her; it wasn’t like she had anything to feel personally responsible about. She’d come in on a job, and it wasn’t her fault that Raccoon had gone nova. .. . Maybe it’s not guilt, some part of her whispered. Maybe you’re just sorry she didn’t make it. She was a person, after all, and now she’s as dead as her parents and kid brother probably are. .. .
“Snap out of it,” she said, softly but with an edge of irritation. She tore her gaze from the woman’s pathet-ic form, fixing it instead on a broken ashtray at the end of the hall. Feeling bad about things she couldn’t control wasn’t her style, it wasn’t how she’d gotten to the top of her trade—and considering how much Mr. Trent was putting up to retain her services, now wasn’t the best time to be analyzing her empathy skills. People died, it was the way of the world, and if she’d learned anything in the course of her life it was that agonizing over that particular truth was point-less.
Mission objectives: talk to Bertolucci and get the G-Virus sample. That was all she needed to worry about. There was a mechanism that Ada still had to check a few twisted passages away from where she stood, in the press conference room. Trent’s notes on the archi-tect’s latest additions to the station had been sketchy, but she knew it had to do with the ornate, sculpted gas lamps and an oil painting. Whoever had commis-sioned all of the work had one serious secret life going on; there were actual hidden passages upstairs, behind the wall of what had once been a storage room. She hadn’t gone through them yet, although a quick glance had told her that the room itself had been remodeled as an office. Judging from the overstuffed and neuroti-cally macho decor, it was probably Irons’s. Even from the short time she’d been in his company, she’d ascertained that he wasn’t the most stable man who had ever walked; there was no question that he was on Umbrella’s payroll, but there was also something about him that just screamed dysfunctional. Ada started down the hall, her dress flats clicking loudly on the scuffed blue tiles; she was already dreading yet another time-consuming mechanical puzzle. Not that there was any help for it; she had assumed from the beginning that the virus was still in the lab, but she couldn’t afford to take any chances on passing up an earlier retrieval. The files indicated that there were between eight and twelve one-ounce vials of the stuff, information from a two-week-old video feed—and Birkin’s lab was far from impenetrable. With the underground lab connected to the station through the sewer mains, she had to entertain the possibility that the samples had been moved. Besides, Bertolucci could be tucked away in the research library or in the S.T.A.R.S. office on the west side, maybe the darkroom; dead or not, he had to be found. And it would also give her a chance to collect a few more nine-millimeter clips from the fallen RPD. She followed the passage as it led her past a small waiting area, complete with vending machines that had already been pried open and ransacked. As with the rest of the station, the corridor was cold and badly in need of air freshener; she’d grown used to the smell, but the chill was murder. For the hundredth time since abandoning her table at the Arklay, Ada wished that she’d dressed more casually for dinner. The sleeveless tight red tunic dress and clattery shoes were fine for cover, as mission gear, however, the outfit was somewhat less than practical.
She reached the end of the hall and carefully opened the door to her left, weapon half-raised. As before, the corridor was clear, yet another testament to the faded elegance of the building—dusky sand-colored walls and symmetrically patterned tiles in this one. The station must have been magnificent once, but years of serving as an institutional facility had leeched away its grandeur; the tattered grand movie-house look and the cold, hopeless atmosphere created a distinctly sinister feel—as if at any moment a cold hand could fall across your shoulder, a soft gust of diseased breath whisper across the back of your neck....
Ada frowned again; after this job, she was going to take a very long vacation. Either that, or it was time to find a new career. Her concentration—her ability to focus—wasn’t what it used to be. And in her business a slip at the wrong time could literally mean death. Big bonus. Trent smells like money. I’ll ask seven digits, high six minimum.
In her attempts to let her thoughts go, to let animal awareness take over, she found that she couldn’t keep out the persistent image that crept into her mind. A memory of young Stacy Kelso, anxiously pushing her hair behind her ears as she talked about her baby brother. . . .
After what felt like a very long time, Ada shook the troublesome vision and continued down the hall, promising herself that there would be no more lapses of concentration—and wondering why she couldn’t
make herself believe it.
SEVER
LEON’S BOOTS SCUFFED SHARDS OF BROKEN glass across the floor of the Kendo gun shop as he snapped open drawers, ash-stained sweat trickling down his face. If he couldn’t find .50s pretty quick, he was screwed; the few weapons still remaining in the ravaged shop were inaccessible, strung with steel cable, and the front picture window was completely smashed. It wouldn’t take long for the creatures to find him, he was down to his last round, and he still had a couple of blocks to go.
Come on, fifty cal action express, somebody in Raccoon must’ve ordered ‘em—
“Yes!”
Fourth drawer, under the deer-rifle case; a half-dozen empty clips and as many boxes of ammo. Leon grabbed a box and turned, slapping it on the counter as he glanced hurriedly at the front of the small shop. Still clear, if you didn’t include the dead guy on the floor. He wasn’t moving, but from the freshness of the wounds that oozed from his considerable gut, staining his strappy white T, Leon wouldn’t have long to linger; he didn’t know how long it took for the freshly dead to stand up—and didn’t really want to find out. Gotta do it fast anyway, it’s like I’m a beacon for those things and this place is easy access.... Gaze darting between the crashed front wall and his skittering hands, Leon started to load up. He’d lucked across the gun dealer’s, having forgot-ten entirely about it in the dizzying, nightmarish run from the wreck. When the fastest route to the station had turned out to be blocked by a pile-up, the best detour was through Kendo’s. It was a coincidence that had undoubtedly saved his life. Even killing two of the ex-living on his way, he’d nearly been over-whelmed by the sheer number of them.
“Uuunh ”
A ghastly, skeletal form staggered out of the street’s shadows, drunkenly aimed at the front of the shop. “Hell,” Leon muttered, his fingers somehow man-aging to go faster. One clip down, one more and he could take the rest. If he bolted now, he’d be dead before he could make it to the station.
Another leprous figure was suddenly standing at the mostly empty frame of the shop’s glass entrance, the decay so bad on its legs that Leon could see maggots squirming through the fibrous muscle.
• four.. . five. . . done!
He snatched up the Magnum and ejected the clip, reloading even as the mostly-empty hit the floor. The maggoty creature was shouldering its way through the jagged corners of glass still attached to the frame, something liquid in its throat gurgling softly. Bag, he needed a bag. Leon’s fevered gaze swept the space behind the counter, stopping on a grease-stained gym bag propped against a stool in the back corner. Two running steps and he had it, dumping the contents as he ran back to the pile of clips and loose bullets on the counter. Cleaning equipment rattled across the linoleum as Leon swept the clips into the bag, ignoring the scattered rounds in favor of the ammo drawer.
The decayed monster was shuffling toward him, stumbling on the body of the pot-bellied dead man, and Leon could smell how rotten it was. He jerked the Magnum up and leveled it at the creature’s face. The head, just like the two outside—
With a tremendous, thundering kick, the gurgling, pulpy skull blew apart, thick fluids splattering the shop’s walls and display cases in a wet slap. Before the decapitated mess could crumple, Leon spun and
dropped into a crouch by the ammo drawer. He shoveled the heavy boxes into the nylon sack, his stomach knotted and shaking from the fear that, even now, the back alley could be filling up with more of them, cutting him off from where he needed to go. Five clips per box, jive boxes, get out already—
Pushing off from his crouch, Leon shouldered the bag and ran for the back door. From the corner of his vision, he saw that another creature had made it inside Kendo’s; from the crunch of powdering glass, there were more of them filing in just behind it. He opened the exit door and slid through, glancing left and right as the door settled closed, the automatic lock catching with a soft metallic snick. Nothing but garbage cans and recycling bins, overflowing with mildewed waste. From where he stood, the alley stretched off to his left and then hooked left again; if his internal compass was still working, the narrow, cluttered passage would take him straight to Oak, letting out less than a block away from the station. So far, he’d been lucky; all he could do was hope that his fortune would hold out, would let him get to the RPD building alive and in one piece—and, God willing, find a heavily armed contingent of people who knew what the hell was going on.
And Claire. Be safe, Claire Redfield, and if you get there before me, don’t lock the door.
Leon repositioned the leaden weight of the ammo across his back and started down the dimly lit alley, ready to blow apart anything that got in his way. Claire almost made it without having to shoot; the zombies that trickled out into the streets of Raccoon were relentless but slow, and the adrenaline pumping through her system made it easy enough to dodge them. She figured that they were drawn out by the sound of the wreck, then just followed their noses, or what was left of them; of the ten or so that had made it close enough for her to get a good look, at least half were in an advanced stage of decay, flesh falling from the bone.
She was so busy watching the street and trying to sort through all that had happened, she almost ran right past the police station. She’d been to the RPD building twice before to visit Chris, but had never entered from the back—or in the cold and stinking dark, pursued by malignant cannibals. A crashed cop car and a handful of zombified officers had clued her in, sending her through a small parking lot and some kind of an equipment shed that opened into a tiny paved courtyard—a courtyard where she and Chris had eaten lunch once, sitting on the steps that led up to the station’s second-floor helipad. As simply as that, she’d made it.
Weaving past the two stumbling, uniformed corpses that wandered aimlessly across the L-shaped yard was easy, and it was such a relief to be somewhere she recognized, to know she was about to be safe, that she didn’t see the woman until it was almost too late. A wailing dead woman with one limply hanging arm and a gore-streaked, shredded tank top, who reached out from the shadows at the base of the stairs and brushed at Claire’s arm with cold and scabby fingers. Claire let out a strangled yelp of surprise, stumbling back from the creature’s outstretched hand—and nearly fell into the arms of another one, a tall, broad-shouldered rotting man who had emerged from be-neath the metal stairs, graceless yet silent. She dodged sideways and pointed the nine-millimeter at the man, backed up a step—
• and felt her calf hit the unyielding railing of the back steps to the roof. The woman was five feet to her right, the torn, bloody shirt exposing one gouged breast, the hand of her working arm grasping toward Claire. The man was one step from reaching distance, and she couldn’t back up any further.
Claire pulled the trigger and there was a mammoth boom, the gun jerking almost out of her hand. The right half of the tall man’s slack and withered face disappeared in a burst of dark, liquid streams gushing from his shattered skull.
She whipped the gun around, tightening her grip as she aimed for the woman’s pallid, moaning face.
Another blast of deafening sound and the rising moan was cut off, the waxen forehead imploding in a spray of blood and bone chips. The woman went over backwards, crashing to the pavement like—
• like a corpse, which she already was. They won’t be walking away from this one.
It was as if everything finally caught up to her at once, the reality of her situation driven home when she’d pulled the trigger. For a moment, Claire couldn’t move. She stared down at the two crumpled sacks of ruined flesh, at the two people she’d just shot, and felt like she was only an inch or two from losing it. She’d grown up around guns, been to shooting ranges dozens of times—but with a .22 target pistol, firing at pieces of paper. Targets that didn’t bleed, or spew brain matter like the two human beings she’d just—
No, a cool voice inside of her interrupted. Not human, not anymore. Don’t kid yourself and don’t waste time on remorse. Leon could be inside by now, looking for you. And if the S.T.A.R.S. got called in,
Chris could be here, too.