Nemesis

CARLOS WAS JUST GETTING OUT OF THE shower when the phone rang. He wrapped a towel around his waist and stumbled out into the cramped living room, nearly tripping over a still unopened box of books in his haste to get to the bleating phone; he hadn't had time to get an answering machine since moving to the city, and only the new field office had his number. It wouldn't pay to miss any calls, particularly since Umbrella was footing his bills.

He snatched up the receiver with one dripping hand and tried not to sound too out of breath.

"Hello?"

"Carlos, it's Mitch Hirami."

Unconsciously, Carlos stood up a little straighter, still clutching the damp towel. "Yes, sir."

Hirami was his squad leader. Carlos had only met

him twice, not enough time to get a solid read on him, but he seemed competent enough—as did the other guys in the squad.

Competent, if not exactly up-front...Like Carlos, no one talked much about their past, although he knew for a fact that Hirami had been involved in gunrunning through South America a few years back before he'd started to work for Umbrella. It seemed that everyone he'd met on the U.B.C.S. had a secret or two—most of them involving activities not strictly legal.

"Orders just came down on a developing situation. We're calling everyone in on this, ASAP. You got an hour to report, and we leave in two, that's 1500 hours, comprende?"

"Si—uh, yes, sir." Carlos had been fluent in English for years, but he was still getting used to speaking it full-time. "Is there any info on what kind of situation?"

"Negative. You'll be briefed along with the rest of us when you come in."

Hirami's tone of voice suggested that he had more to say. Carlos waited, starting to feel chilled by the water "Word is, it's a chemical spill," Hirami said, and Carlos thought he could hear a thread of unease in the squad leader's voice. "Something that's making people... making them act differently."

Carlos frowned. "Differently how?"

Hirami sighed. "They don't pay us to ask questions, Oliveira, do they? Now you know as much as I do. Just get here."

"Yes, sir," Carlos said, but Hirami had already hung up.

Carlos dropped the receiver into its cradle, not sure if he should feel excited or nervous about his first U.B.C.S. operation. Umbrella Bio-Hazard Countermeasure Service: an impressive title for a group of hired ex-mercenaries and ex-military, most with combat experience and shady backgrounds. The recruiter in Honduras had said that they'd be called upon to "deal" with situations that Umbrella needed handled quickly and aggressively—and legally. After three years of fighting in private little wars between rival gangs and revolutionaries, of living in mud shacks and eating out of cans, the promise of real employment—and at an astonishingly good wage—was like an answered prayer.

Too good to be true, that's what I thought... and what if it turns out that I was right?

Carlos shook his head. He wasn't going to find out standing around in a towel. In any case, it couldn't possibly be worse man shooting it out with a bunch of coked-uppendejos in some anonymous jungle, wondering if he'd hear the bullet that finally took him out

He had an hour, and it was a twenty-minute walk to the office. He turned toward the bedroom, suddenly determined to show up early, to see if he could get any more out of Hirami about what was going on. Already, he could feel the warm build of nervous adrenaline in his gut, a feeling he'd grown up with and knew better than any other—part anticipation, part excitement, and a healthy dose of fear...

Carlos grinned as he finished toweling off, amused at himself. He'd spent too much time in the jungle. He was in the United States now, working for a legitimate phar-

maceutical company—what was there to be afraid of?

"Nada,"he said, and, still smiling, he went to find his fatigues.

Late September in the outskirts of the big city; it was a sunny day, but Carlos could feel the first whisper of autumn as he hurried toward the field office, a kind of thinning of the air, leaves beginning to wilt on the branches overhead. Not that there were very many trees; his apartment was at the edge of a sprawling industrial area—a few dingy fabrication plants, fenced lots overgrown with weeds, seeming acres of run-down storage facilities. The U.B.C.S. office was actually a renovated warehouse on an Umbrella-owned lot, surrounded by a fairly modern shipping complex complete with helipad and loading docks—a nice setup, although Carlos wondered again why they'd decided to build in such a crummy area. They could obviously afford much better.

Carlos checked his watch as he headed up Everett Street and started to walk a little faster. He wasn't going to be late, but he still wanted to get there before the briefing, see what the other guys were saying. Hirami had said they were calling in everyone—four platoons, three squads of ten in each platoon, 120 people all total. Carlos was a corporal in squad A of platoon D; ridiculous, how these things were set up, but he supposed it was necessary to keep track of everyone. Somebody had to know something ...

He took a right where Everett met 374th, his thoughts wandering, vaguely curious about where they were being sent—

—when a man stepped out of an alley only a few

meters in front of him, a well-dressed stranger wearing a wide smile. He stood there, hands jammed into the pockets of an expensive trench coat, apparently waiting for Carlos to reach him.

Carlos kept his expression carefully neutral, studying the man warily. Tall, thin, dark hair and eyes but definitely Caucasian, early to mid-40s—and grinning as though he meant to share an exceptionally funny joke.

Carlos prepared to walk past him, reminding himself of how many crazies lived in any decent-sized city, an unavoidable hazard of urban life.

He probably wants to tell me about the aliens monitoring his brain waves, maybe babble some conspiracy theory—

"Carlos Oliveira?" the man asked, but it was more of a statement than a question.

Carlos stopped in his tracks, his whole body tensing, instinctively letting his right hand drop to where he wore a gun—except he wasn't carrying, hadn't since crossing the border,carajo —

As if sensing the upset he'd caused, the stranger took a step back, holding his hands up in the air. He seemed amused, but not especially threatening.

"Who's asking?" Carlos snappedAnd how the hell did you know my name?

"My name is Trent, Mr. Oliveira," he said, his dark gaze glittering with barely suppressed mirth. "And I have some information for you."

ONE

IN THE DREAM, JILL DIDN'T RUN FAST ENOUGH.

It was the same dream she'd suffered every few days since the mission that had nearly killed them all that terrible, endless night in July. Back when only a few Raccoon citizens had been hurt by Umbrella's secret and the S.T.A.R.S. administration wasn't completely corrupt, back when she was still stupid enough to think that people would believe their story.

In the dream, she and the other survivors—Chris,

Barry, and Rebecca—waited anxiously for rescue at the hidden laboratory's helipad, all of them exhausted, wounded, and very aware that the buildings around and beneath them were about to self-destruct. It was dawn, cool light coming in shafts through the trees that surrounded the Spencer estate, the stillness broken only by the welcome sound of the approaching 'copter. Six

members of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad were dead, lost to the human and inhuman creatures that roamed the estate, and if Brad didn't set down quick, there wouldn't be any survivors. The lab was going to blow, destroying the proof of Umbrella's T-virus spill and killing them all.

Chris and Barry waved their arms, motioning for Brad to hurry. Jill checked her watch, dazed, her mind still trying to grasp all that had happened, to sort it all out. Umbrella Pharmaceutical, the single biggest contributor to Raccoon City's prosperity and a major force in the corporate world, had secretly created monsters in the name of bioweapons research—and in playing with fire had managed to burn themselves very badly.

That didn't matter now, all that mattered was getting the hell away—

—and we've got maybe three minutes, four max— CRASH!

Jill whirled around, saw chunks of concrete and tar fly into the air and rain down over the northwest corner of the landing pad. A giant claw stretched up from the hole, fell across the jagged lip—

—and the pale, hulking monster, the one she and Barry had tried to kill in the lab, the Tyrant, leaped out onto the heliport. It rose smoothly from its agile crouch... and started toward them.

It was an abomination, at least eight feet tall, once human, perhaps, but no more. Its right hand, normal.

Its left, a massive, chitinous grasp of claws. Its face had been horribly altered, its lips cut away so that it seemed to grin at them through sliced red tissue. Its

naked body was sexless, the thick, bloody tumor that was its heart shuddering wetly outside of its chest.

Chris targeted the pulsing muscle with his Beretta and fired, five 9mm rounds tearing into its ghastly flesh; the Tyrant didn't even slow down. Barry screamed for them to scatter, and then they were running, Jill pulling Rebecca away, the thunder of Barry's .357 crashing behind them. Overhead, the 'copter circled and Jill could feel the seconds ticking away, almost believed she could feel the explosion building beneath their feet.

She and Rebecca pulled their weapons and started firing. Jill continued to pull the trigger even as she watched the creature knock Barry to the ground, slamming in a new clip as it went after Chris, firing and screaming, enveloped by a rising terror,why won't it

From above, a shout, and something thrown out of the 'copter. Chris ran for it, and Jill saw nothing else— nothing but the Tyrant as it turned its attention to her and Rebecca, indifferent to the firepower that continued plugging bloody holes through its strange body. Jill turned and ran, saw the girl do the same, and knew— knew—that the monster was after her, the face of Jill Valentine embedded in its lizard brain.

Jill ran, ran, and suddenly there was no heliport, no crumbling mansion, only a million trees and the sounds: her boots slapping the earth, the pulse of blood in her ears, her ragged breath. The monster was silent behind her, a mute and terrible force, relentless and as inevitable as death.

They were dead, Chris and Barry, Rebecca, even

Brad, she knew it, everyone but her—and as she ran, she saw the Tyrant's shadow stretch out in front of her, burying her own, and the hiss of its monstrous talons slicing down, melting through her body, killing her, no—

No—

"No!"

Jill opened her eyes, the word still on her lips, the only sound in the stillness of her room. It wasn't the scream she imagined but the weak, strangled cry of a woman doomed, caught in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

Which I am. None of us were fast enough, after all.

She lay still for a moment, breathing deeply, moving her hand away from the loaded Beretta under her pillow; it had become a reflex, and one she wasn't sorry to have developed.

"Useless against nightmares, though," she muttered and sat up. She'd been talking to herself for days now; sometimes, she thought it was the only thing that kept her sane. Gray light crept in through the blinds, casting the small bedroom in shadow. The digital clock on the nightstand was still working; she supposed she should be glad that the power was still on, but it was later than she'd hoped—nearly three in the afternoon. She'd slept for almost six hours, the most she'd managed to get in

the last three days. Considering what was going on outside, she couldn't help a flush of guilt. She should be out there, she should be doing more to save those who could still be saved...

Knock it off, you know better. You can't help anyone if you collapse. And those people you helped—

She wouldn't think about that, not yet. When she'd finally made it back to the suburbs this morning, after nearly forty-eight sleepless hours of "helping," she'd been on the verge of a breakdown, forced to face the reality of what had happened to Raccoon: The city was irretrievably lost to the T-virus, or some variant of it.

Like the researchers at the mansion. Like the Tyrant.

Jill closed her eyes, thinking about the recurring dream, about what it meant. It matched the real chain of events perfectly, except for the end—Brad Vickers, the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha pilot,had thrown something out of the 'copter, a grenade launcher, and Chris had blown up the Tyrant as it was going after her. They'd all gotten away in time... but in a way, that didn't matter.

For all the good they'd been able to accomplish since then, they might as well have died.

It's not our fault,Jill thought angrily, aware that she wanted to believe that more than anything.Ao one would listen —not the home office, not Chief Irons, not the press. If they'd listened, if they'd believed...

Strange, that all of it had happened only six weeks ago; it felt like years. The city officials and the local papers had enjoyed a field day with the S.T.A.R.S.'s reputation—six dead, the rest babbling fantastic stories about a secret laboratory, about monsters and zombies and an Umbrella conspiracy. They had been suspended and ridiculed—but worst of all, nothing had been done to prevent the spread of the virus. She and the others had only been able to hope that the destruction of the spill site had put an end to the immediate danger.

In the weeks following, so much had happened.

They'd uncovered the truth about the S.T.A.R.S., that

Umbrella—technically, White Umbrella, the division in charge of bioweapons research—was either bribing or blackmailing key members nationally in order to continue their research unimpeded. They'd learned that several of Raccoon City's council members were on the

Umbrella payroll, and that Umbrella probably had more than one research facility experimenting with man-made diseases. Their search for information about Trent, the stranger who'd contacted her before the disastrous mission as "a friend to the S.T.A.R.S.," had turned up nothing, but they'd come up with some extremely interesting background stuff on Chief Irons: it seemed that the chief had been in hot water at one point about a possible rape, and that Umbrella knew about it and had helped him get his position anyway. Perhaps most difficult of all, their team had been forced to split up, to make hard decisions about what needed to be done and about their own responsibilities to the truth.

Jill smiled faintly; the one thing she could feel good about in all of this was that at least her friends had made it out. Rebecca Chambers had joined up with another small group of S.T.A.R.S. dissidents who were checking out rumors of other Umbrella laboratories. Brad Vickers, true to his cowardly nature, had skipped town to avoid Umbrella's wrath. Chris Redfield was already in Europe, scoping out the company's headquarters and waiting for Barry Burton and Rebecca's team to join him... and for Jill, who was going to wrap up her investigation of Umbrella's local offices before hooking up with the others.

Except five days ago, something terrible had happened in Raccoon. It was still happening, unfolding

like some poisonous flower, and the only hope now was to wait for someone outside to take notice.

When the first few cases had been reported, no one had connected them with the S.T.A.R.S. stories about the Spencer estate. Several people had been attacked in the late spring and early summer—surely the work of some deranged killer, after all; the RPD would catch him in no time. It wasn't until the Raccoon Police Department had put up roadblocks on Umbrella orders, three days earlier, that people had started paying attention. Jill didn't know how they were managing to keep people out of the city, but they were—nothing shipped in, no mail service, and the outside lines were cut. Citizens trying to leave town were turned back, told nothing about why.

It all seemed so surreal now, those first hours after Jill had found out about the attacks, about the blockades. She'd gone to the RPD building to see Chief Irons, but he had refused to talk to her. Jill had known

that some of the cops would listen, that not everyone was as blind or corrupt as Irons—but even with the bizarre nature of the assaults they'd witnessed, they hadn't been ready to accept the truth.

And who could blame them? "Listen up, officers— Umbrella, the company that's responsible for building up our fair city, has been experimenting with a designer virus in their own backyard. They've been breeding and growing unnatural creatures in secret laboratories, then injecting them with something that makes them incredibly strong and extremely violent. When humans are exposed to this stuff, they become zombies, for lack of a better term. Flesh-eating, mindless, decaying-on-the-hoof zombies, who feel no pain and try to eat other people. They're notreallydead, but they're pretty close. So, let's work together, okay? Let's go out there and start mowing down unarmed citizens in the streets, your friends and neighbors, because if we don't, you could be next."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jill sighed. She'd been a little more tactful, but no matter how well worded, it was still an insane story. Of course they hadn't believed her, not then, not in the light of day and in the safety of their uniforms. It hadn't been until after dark, when the screaming had begun ...

That had been the 25th of September, and today was the 28th, and the police were almost certainly all dead; she'd last heard gunshots ... yesterday? Last night? It could have been the rioters, she supposed, but it didn't matter anymore. Raccoon was dead, except for the brain-dead virus carriers that roamed the streets, looking for a meal.

Between no sleep and a near constant pump of adrenaline, the days had blurred together for her.

After the police force had been destroyed, Jill had spent her time looking for survivors, endless hours ducking down alleys, knocking on doors, combing buildings for those who'd managed to hide. She'd found dozens, and with some help from a few of them, they'd made it to a safe place, a high school that they had barricaded. Jill had made sure they were secure before going back out into the city, searching for others.

She'd found no one. And this morning, when she'd gone back to the high school...

She didn't want to think about it, but some part of her knew that she had to, that she couldn't afford to forget. This morning, she'd gone back and the barricade had been gone. Torn down by zombies, or perhaps taken down by someone inside, someone who looked out and thought they saw a brother or uncle or daughter in the crowd of flesh-eaters. Someone who thought that they were saving the life of a loved one, not realizing that it was too late.

It had been a slaughterhouse, the air fetid with the stink of shit and vomit, the walls decorated with great smears of blood. Jill had nearly given up, then, more tired than she'd ever been, unable to see anything but the bodies of those who'd been lucky enough to die before the virus could amplify in their systems. As she'd walked through the almost empty halls, killing the handful of carriers that had still been stumbling around—people she'd found, people who had cried with relief when they'd seen her only hours before— whatever hope she'd held on to was gone, lost with the realization that everything she'd been through was worthless. Knowing the truth about Umbrella hadn't saved anyone, and the citizens she thought she'd led to safety—over seventy men, women, and children—were gone.

She couldn't really remember how she'd made it home. She hadn't been able to think straight, and had barely been able to see through eyes swollen from crying. Outside of how it affected her,thousands had died; it was a tragedy so vast it was nearly incomprehensible.

It could have been prevented. And it was Umbrella's fault.

Jill pulled the Beretta out from under her pillow, allowing herself to feel for the first time the immensity of what Umbrella had done. For the last few days, she'd kept her emotions in check—there had been people to lead, to help, and there'd been no place for any personal feelings.

Now, though ...

She was ready to get out of Raccoon and make the bastards who'd let this happen know how she felt. They had stolen her hope, but they couldn't stop her from surviving.

Jill chambered a round and set her jaw, the stirrings of true hatred in her gut. It was time to leave.

Two

THEY WOULD BE IN RACCOON CITY IN JUST under an hour.

Nicholai Ginovaef was prepared, and he believed his squad would do well—better than the rest, anyway. The nine others that made up squad B respected him; he had seen it in their eyes, and although they would almost certainly die, their performance would be noteworthy. After all, he had practically trained them himself.

There was no talking in the helicopter that carried platoon D through the late afternoon, not even among the squad leaders, the only personnel who wore headsets. It was too loud for the troops to hear one another, and Nicholai had nothing to say to either Hirami or Cryan—or Mikhail Victor, for that matter. Victor was their superior, the commander of the entire platoon. It

was a job that should have belonged to Nicholai; Victor lacked the qualities that made up a true leader.

I possess them, though. I was chosen for Watchdog, and when this is all over, I'm the one Umbrella will have to deal with, whether they like it or not.

Nicholai kept his face as stone, but he smiled inside. When the time came, "they," the men who controlled Umbrella from behind the scenes, would realize that they'd underestimated him.

He sat near the A and C squad leaders against one wall of the cabin, soothed by the steady and familiar throb of the transport. The very air was charged with tension and heavy with the scent of masculine sweat; again, familiar. He had led men into battle before—although if everything went as planned, he would never have to again.

He let his gaze wander over the taut faces of the troops, wondering if any of them would survive more than an hour or two. It was possible, he supposed.

There was the scarred man from South Africa, in Cryan's group ... and on his own squad, John Wers-bowski, who had taken part in an ethnic cleansing a few years back, Nicholai couldn't remember which one. Both men had the combination of deep suspicion and self-possession that might conceivably allow them to escape Raccoon, howevef unlikely—and itwas unlikely. The briefing hadn't prepared any of them for what was ahead ...

Nicholai's own private briefing, two days earlier, had been a different matter; Operation Watchdog, they called it. He knew the projected numbers, had been told what to expect and how to most effectively dispatch the

unclean, the walking diseased. They'd told him about the Tyrant-like seeker units that were going to be sent in, and how to avoid them. He knew more than anyone on the transport.

But I'm also readier than Umbrella can possibly imagine... because I know the names of the other "dogs."

Again, he suppressed a smile. He possessed additional information that Umbrella didn't know he had, that was worth a great deal of money—or would be, soon enough. On the surface, the U.B.C.S. was being sent in to rescue civilians; that was what they'd been told, anyway. But he was one of the ten who'd been chosen to gather and record data on the T-virus carriers, human and otherwise, and on how they fared against trained soldiers—the real reason the U.B.C.S. were being sent in, aka Watchdog. In the helicopter that carried platoon A were two others, disguised as U.B.C.S.; there were six already planted in Raccoon—three scientists, two Umbrella paper pushers, and a woman who worked for the city. The tenth was a police officer, a personal assistant to the chief himself. Each of them probably knew one or two of the others that Umbrella had handpicked as information collectors—but thanks to his well-developed computer skills and a few "borrowed" passwords, he was the only one who knew about all of them, as well as where each was supposed to be to file their reports.

Wouldn't their contacts be surprised when they failed to report in? Wouldn't it be amusing if only one Watchdog survived and was able to name his price for the information that had been gathered? And wasn't it

amazing to think that a man could become a multimillionaire if he was willing to expend thought, a bit of effort, and a few bullets?

Nine people. He was nine people away from being the only Umbrella employee to have the information they wanted. Most, if not all, of the U.B.C.S. would die quickly, and then he'd be free to find the other Watchdogs, to take their data and end their miserable lives.

This time he couldn't help it; Nicholai grinned. The mission that lay ahead promised to be an exciting one, a true test of his many skills ... and when it was over, he was going to be a very wealthy man.

In spite of the cramped seating and the dull roar of the 'copter's engines, Carlos was only faintly aware of his surroundings. He couldn't get his mind off of Trent and the decidedly weird conversation they'd had only a couple of hours ago, and he found that he kept replaying it, trying to decide if any of it was useful.

To begin with, Carlos had trusted the guy about as far as he could toss him. The man had been way too happy; not outwardly so much, but Carlos had gotten the definite impression that Trent was laughing about something just beneath the surface. His dark eyes had fairly danced with humor as he'd told Carlos that he had information for him, stepping back into the alley he'd emerged from as if there had been no question Carlos would follow.

There hadn't been really. Carlos had learned to be very careful in his line of work, but he also knew a few things about reading people—and Trent, though obviously strange, hadn't been particularly threatening.

The alley had been cool and dark and had smelled faintly of urine. "What kind of information?" Carlos had asked.

Trent had acted as though he hadn't heard the question. "In the shopping district downtown, you'll find a diner called Grill 13; it's just up the street from the fountain and right next to the theater, you can't miss it.

If you can manage to get there by"—he'd glanced at his watch—"say, 1900 hours, I'll see what can be done to help you."

Carlos hadn't even known where to start. "Hey, no offense, but what the hell are you talking about?"

Trent had smiled. "Raccoon City. It's where you're going."

Carlos had stared at him, waiting for more, but Trent had seemed to be finished.

God knows how he got my name, but thisbatoain't playing with a full deck,

"Uh, listen, Mr. Trent—"

"Just Trent," he'd cut in, still smiling.

Carlos had started to get irritated. "Whatever. I think you might have the wrong Oliveira ... and while I appreciate your, uh,concern, I've really got to get going."

"Ah, yes, duty calls," Trent had said, his smile fading. "Understand, they won't tell you all you need to know. It will be far, far worse. The hours ahead may be dark ones, Mr. Oliveira, but I have faith in your abilities. Just remember—Grill 13, seven o'clock. Northeast corner of the city proper."

"Yeah, sure," Carlos had said, nodding, backing away into the daylight, wearing a somewhat forced grin of his own. "Good deal. I'll make a note of it."

Trent had smiled again, stepping out after him. "Be very careful who you trust, Mr. Oliveira. And good luck."

Carlos had turned and started to walk quickly away, throwing a glance back at Trent. The man had watched him, hands in his pockets again, his stance casual and relaxed. For a nutbag, he sure didn'tseem crazy ...

...andhe seems a lot less crazy now, eh?

Carlos had still made it to the office a little early, but nobody seemed to have heard anything off the grapevine about what was up. At the short briefing presented by the U.B.C.S. platoon leaders, they'd all been told what few facts there were: a toxic chemical spill had occurred earlier in the week in an isolated community, causing hallucinations that bred violence. The chemicals had dissipated, but regular civilians continued to be harassed by those who'd been affected; there was evidence that the damage could be permanent, and the local police hadn't been able to get things under control. The U.B.C.S. was being sent in to help evacuate the citizens who hadn't been affected, and to use force, if necessary, to protect them from harm. Top secret all the way.

In Raccoon City. Which meant that maybe Trent knew something, after all... and what didthat mean?

If he was right about where we're going, what about the rest of it? What didn't they tell us that we need to biow? And what could possibly be far, far worse than a mob of deranged and violent people?

He didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing.

He'd first picked up a gun at the age of twelve to help defend his family from a band of terrorists, and had

gone pro at seventeen—for four years now, he'd been paid to put his life in danger for one cause or another. But he'd always known what the stakes were, and what he was up against. This was not at all cool, the thought of going in blind. The only consolation was that he was going in with over a hundred experienced soldiers; whatever it was, they'd be able to handle it.

Carlos looked around, thinking that he was with a good group. Not good men, necessarily, but adept fighters, way more important in combat. They evenlooked ready, their eyes hard and watchful, their faces determined—

—except for the B squad leader, who was staring off into space and grinning like a shark. Like a predator. Carlos was suddenly uneasy, looking at the guy, Nicholai something-or-other, cropped white hair, built like a weight lifter. He'd never seen anyone smile quite like that...

The Russian met his gaze, and his grin widened for just a moment, in a way that made Carlos want to sit with his back to a wall, a gun in hand—

—and then the moment was over, and Nicholai nodded absently at him and looked away. Just another soldier acknowledging a comrade, nothing more. He was being paranoid, that meeting with Trent had him on edge, and he was always a little skitchy before a fight...

Grill 13, next to the theater.

He wouldn't forget. Just in case.

THREE

JILL'S PLAN WAS TO SKIRT THE TOWN TO THE southeast, sticking to side streets and cutting through buildings as much as possible; the main streets weren't safe, and many of them had been blocked off in an attempt to corral the zombies, before things got too bad.

If she could make it far enough south, she should be able to cut across farmland to Route 71, one of the feeders to the main highway.

So far, so good. At this rate, I'll make it to 71 before it gets completely dark.

It had taken less than an hour to make it from the suburbs to the apparently empty apartment building where she now stood, shivering a little from the damp chill that pervaded the poorly lit hallway. She'd dressed for ease of movement rather than protection from the elements—a tight shirt, a miniskirt, and boots, as well

as a fanny pack to hold extra magazines. The body-hugging outfit clung to her like a second skin and would allow her to move quickly. She'd also brought a plain white sweatshirt for when she made it out of the city, which she now wore tied around her waist—for the time being, she'd rather suffer the chill and have her arms free.

The Imperial was a slightly run-down apartment building at the southern edge of uptown Raccoon. Jill had discovered from her earlier excursions that once infected, the T-virus zombies went in search of food as soon as they could, abandoning their homes and taking to the streets. Not all of them, of course, but enough so that cutting through buildings was generally safer than being out in the open.

A noise. A soft moan coming from behind one of the apartment doors farther down the hall. Jill froze, gun in hand, straining to hear which side it came from, and realized in the same moment that she could smell gas.

"Shit," she whispered, trying to recall the layout of the building as the oily, pungent scent filled her nostrils. A right turn where the corridor T-ed ahead, and...

...and, another right? Or is the lobby right there? Think, you were here two days ago, Jesus, that's gotta be a massive leak —

There was another groan from up ahead, definitely coming from the apartment on the left. It was the mindless, empty sound that the zombies made, the only sound theycould make as far as she knew. The door was cracked open, and Jill almost imagined she could

see the shimmering waves of gas-thick air pouring out into the hall.

She gripped the Beretta tighter and took a step backwards. She'd have to go back the way she'd come, she didn't dare risk firing and she didn't particularly want to fend off one of the carriers bare-handed; a single bite from one of them would pass the infection on to her. Another step backwards, and—

Creak.

Jill spun around, instinctively raising her weapon as a door swung open perhaps five meters back. A shuffling, stoop-shouldered man lurched out into the gloom, cutting her off from the back entrance. He had the sallow skin and dead eyes of a virus carrier, as if the fact that one of his cheeks had been ripped off wasn't proof enough; zombies felt no pain. As this one opened its mouth to moan hungrily at her, she could see the base of its gray, swollen tongue, and even the reek of gas couldn't entirely overwhelm the sickly sweet odor of its decaying flesh.

Jill turned, saw that the hallway ahead was still clear; she had no choice but to run past the apartment with the gas leak and hope that its resident was too slow to try for her.

Go. Now.

She took off, staying as close to the right side of the hall as she could, feeling the effects of the gas as she pumped her arms for more speed—a soft distortion of light, a sense of dizziness, an ugly taste at the back of her throat. She ran past the cracked door, distantly relieved that it opened no wider, suddenly remembering that the lobbywas directly to the right. She rounded the corner—

—andbam, collided with a woman, knocking her down. Jill careened off her, hitting the stucco wall with her right shoulder hard enough that a light powder settled over them. She barely noticed, too intent on the fallen woman and on the three figures still standing in the small foyer, shifting their dumb attention to Jill. All

The woman, dressed in the tatters of a once white nightgown, gurgled incoherently and tried to sit up.

One of her eyes was gone, the red, raw socket shining in the overhead light. The three others, ah1male, started toward Jill, moaning, their gangrenous arms raising slowly; two of them were blocking the metal and glass wall that led into the street—her way out.

Three on foot, one crawling, reaching for her legs, at least two behind her. Jill scuttled sideways toward the security door, weapon pointed at the peeling forehead of the closest, less than two meters away. The wall of mailboxes behind him were made of metal, but she had no choice, she could only hope that the gas fumes were weaker here.

The creature lunged and Jill fired, simultaneously leaping for the door as the semi-jacketed round tore into his skull—

—and she felt as much as heard the explosion, sssssh-BOOM,a displacement of fiery air that shoved her in the direction she'd jumped, hard, everything moving too fast to separate, to understand chronologi-cally—her body, aching, the door dissolving, the world blotted out in shades of strobing white. She tucked and rolled, hard asphalt biting into her shoulder, the horrific smells of flash-fried meat and burning hair washing

over her as shards of blackened glass peppered the street.

Jill scrambled to her feet, ignoring all of it as she spun around, ready to fire again as flames began to eat the remains of the Imperial. She blinked her watering eyes, widening them, trying to see past the swimming flash spots that covered everything around her.

At least two of the zombies were down, probably dead, but two others stumbled around in the burning wreckage, their clothes and hair on fire. To Jill's right and rear were the remnants of a police blockade, barrier rails and parked cars; she could hear more of the human carriers on the other side, shuffling and moaning.

And there, to her left, already turning its slack and lolling head in her direction, was a single male, his ripped clothes slathered in drying blood. Jill took aim and squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet through its

virus-riddled brain, walking toward it even as it crumpled; there was a Dumpster just past the dying body, and past that, several uptown blocks of shopping district, now her best choice for escape.

Have to head west, see if I can work around the blockades farther along...

With the immediate danger past, she took a few seconds to catalog her injuries—abrasions on both knees and a bruised shoulder speckled with grit; it could have been a hell of a lot worse. Her ears rang and her vision still suffered, but those would pass soon enough.

She reached the Dumpster and did her best to lean over it, to see down either side of the overcast north-south street in front of her. The bin was wedged between the side wall of a trendy clothes shop and a

decidedly crunched car, limiting what she could see. Jill listened for a moment, for cries of hunger or the distinctive shuffling sounds of multiple carriers, but she heard nothing.

Probably wouldn't be able to hear a brass band at this point,she thought sourly and hoisted herself up. Straight across from the Dumpster was a door that she thought led through a back alley, but she was more interested in what lay to the left—with any luck, a straight shot out of town.

Jill jumped down, glanced to either side, and felt tendrils of real panic wrap around her brain. There were dozens of them, left and right, the closest already moving to cut her off from the Dumpster.

Move, Jilly!

Her father's voice. Jill didn't hesitate, took two running steps and threw her uninjured shoulder against the rusting door straight ahead. The door shuddered but didn't give.

"Comeon," she said, unaware that she'd spoken, focusing herself on the door,doesn't matter how close they are, gotta get through —

She rammed the door again, the cloying scent of their rotting flesh enveloping her, and still the door held.

Focus! Do it, now!Again, the authoritative voice of her father, her first teacher. Jill gathered herself, leaned back, and felt the brush of cold fingers against the side of her neck, a rush of putrid, eager breath across her cheek.

Crash,the door flew open and slammed into the bricks behind, and Jill was through, running, remembering a warehouse ahead and to the right, her pulse racing. Behind her, rising wails of disappointment, of frustrated hunger, echoing through the alley that was her salvation. A door ahead.

Please be open, please—

Jill grabbed for the handle, pushed, and the metal door opened into silence, into a well-lit, open space, thankGod —

—and she saw a man standing on the main floor, just below the landing she'd stepped onto; she raised the Beretta but didn't fire, quickly assessing him before lowering it again. In spite of his torn and blood-spattered clothes, she could tell by his desperate, fearful expression that he wasn't a carrier... or at least not one that had changed over yet.

Jill felt relief course through her at the sight of another person, and suddenly realized just how lonely she'd been. Even having an untrained civilian with her, someone to help who could help her in turn ...

She smiled shakily, moving toward the steps that led down to the main floor, already making changes in her plans. They'd have to find him a weapon, she'd seen an old shotgun at the Bar Jack two days before, unloaded, but they could probably find shells and it was pretty close—

—and together, we can probably get through one of the barricades!She only needed someone to keep watch and to help her push some of the cars out of the way.

"We have to get out of here," she said, forcing as much hope as she could manage. "Help isn't going to be coming, at least not for a while, but between the two of us—"

"Are you crazy?" he interrupted, his fevered gaze darting around. "I'm not going anywhere, lady. My

own daughter's out there somewhere, lost..."

He trailed off, staring at the door she'd come through as if he could see through it.

Jill nodded, reminding herself that he was probably in shock. "All the more reason to—"

Again, he cut her off, his panicky voice rising into a shout that reverberated through the open space. "She's out there, and she's probablydead like the rest of them, and if I won't go out there forher, you gotta be insane to think I'm going to go out there foryou!"

Jill jammed the Beretta into the waist of her skirt, quickly holding up both hands, keeping her tone soothing. "Hey, I understand. I'm sorry about your daughter, really, but if we get out of the city, we can get help, we can come back—maybe she's hiding somewhere, and our best bet to find her is if we get some help."

He backed up a step, and she could see the terror beneath his anger. She'd seen it before, the false fury that some people used to avoid being afraid, and she knew that she wasn't going to be able to get through to him.

But I have to try. ..

"I know you're scared," she said softly. "I am, too.

But I'm—I was one of the members of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad; we were trained for dangerous operations, and I truly believe that I can get us out of this. You'll be safer if you come with me."

He backed up another step. "Go to hell, you, you bitch"he spat, then turned and ran, stumbling across the cement floor. There was a storage trailer at the far side of the warehouse. He crawled inside, panting as he

pulled his legs in. Jill caught just a glimpse of his red and sweating face as he pulled the doors closed after him. She heard the metalclink of a lock, followed by a muffled shout that left no question as to his decision.

"Just go away! Leave me alone!"

Jill felt her own burst of anger, but knew it was useless, as useless as trying to reason with him any further. Sighing, she turned and walked back to the steps, carefully avoiding the depression that threatened to take over. She checked her watch—it was 4:30—and then

sat down, going over her mental map of uptown Raccoon. If the rest of the streets out were as thoroughly overrun, she was going to have to veer back into town, try from another direction. She had five full magazines, fifteen rounds in each, but she'd need more firepower ... like a shotgun, perhaps. If she couldn't find shells, she could at least club the bastards with it.

"The Bar Jack it is, then," she said quietly and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, wondering how she would ever make it.

FOUR

THEY REACHED THE CITY IN THE LATE AFTERnoon, 1650 by Carlos's check, and prepared to drop out over a deserted lot. Apparently there was an underground facility or somesuch nearby, owned by Umbrella; at least that's what they had been told at the briefing.

Carlos got in line with his squad, assault rifle slung over his shoulder as he hooked himself to the drop line and waited for Hirami to open the door. Directly in front of Carlos was Randy Thomas, one of the friendlier guys in A squad. Randy glanced back at him and pretend-growled, pointing his forefinger and thumb at Carlos, a mock-gun. Carlos grinned, then clutched his gut as if shot. Stupid shit, but Carlos found himself relaxing a little as their leader pulled the door open and the roar of multiple choppers filled the cabin.

Two by two, the men in front of Carlos slid down the dual rappelling lines anchored to the body of the helicopter. Carlos stepped closer to the opening, squinting against the whipping wind to see where they'd be landing. Their 'copter cast a long shadow in the late-day sun and he could see men from the other platoons on the ground, lining up by squad. Then it was his turn; he stepped out a second after Randy, the thrill of the practical free fall sending his stomach into his chest. A blur of passing sky, and he touched down, unhooking from the line and hurrying to where Hirami stood.

A few minutes later, they were all down. Almost in unison, the four transport 'copters swung west and buzzed away, their noise fading as dust settled around the assembled troops. Carlos felt alert and ready as the squad and platoon leaders started to point in different directions, assigning routes that had been plotted before they'd left the field office.

Finally, as the helicopters grew smaller, they could hear again—and Carlos was struck by the silence of their surroundings. No cars, no industrial sounds at all, and yet they were at the edge of a decent-sized city. Weird, how one took those noises for granted, not noticing them at all until they weren't there.

Mikhail Victor, platoon D's supervisor, stood quietly with Hirami and his other two squad leaders, Cryan and that creepy Russian, while the supervisors of A, B, and C platoons gave directions, the squads moving out briskly and with a minimum of noise. Their bootsteps seemed overly loud in the still air, and Carlos saw looks of vague unease on some of the passing faces, a look he knew he wore. Probably it was so quiet 'cause

people were at home sick, or holed up somewhere, but it was kind of eerie anyway, the stillness ...

"A squad, double-time!" Hirami called, and even his voice seemed oddly muted, but Carlos put it out of his mind as they started jogging after him. If his memory served from the briefing, they were all headed roughly west, into the heart of Raccoon City, the platoons fanning out to cover the greatest area. Within a hundred yards, squad A was on its own, thirty soldiers jogging through an industrial area not so different than the one that their field office was in; run-down lots strewn with trash, weedy patches of dirt, fenced storage units.

Carlos scowled, unable to keep quiet. "Fuchi," he said, half under his breath. Smelled like a fart in a bag full of fish.

Randy lagged back a few steps to run alongside Carlos. "You say something, bro?"

"I said something stinks," Carlos muttered. "You smell that?"

Randy nodded. "Yeah. Thought it was you."

"Ha, ha, you kill me,cabrdn." Carlos smiled sweetly. "That means 'good friend,' by the way."

Randy grinned. "Yeah, I bet. And I bet—"

"Hold up! And shut up, back there!"

Hirami called a stop, holding one hand up to ensure silence. Faintly, Carlos could hear another squad a block or two north, the beat of their boots on pavement. And after a second, he could hear something else.

Moans and groans, coming from somewhere ahead of them, faint at first but getting louder. Like a hospital population had been kicked out into the street. At the

same time, the bad smell was getting stronger, worse— and familiar, like ...

"Oh, shit," Randy whispered, his face paling, and Carlos knew at once what the smell was, just as Randy must know.

Not possible.

It was the smell of a human body rotting in the sun.

It was death. Carlos knew it well enough, but never had it been sohuge, so all-encompassing. In front of them, Mitch Hirami was lowering his hand uncertainly, a look of deep concern in his eyes. The distressed, wordless sounds of people in pain were getting louder. Hirami seemed about to speak—

—when gunfire erupted from nearby, from one of the other squads, and in between the blasts of automatic fire that ripped through the afternoon air, Carlos could hear men screaming.

"Line!" Hirami shouted, holding up both hands with the palms turned to the sky, his voice barely audible over the stutter of bullets.

Straight line, five men facing front, five back the way they'd come. Carlos ran to get in position, his mouth suddenly dry, his hands damp. The short bursts of automatic fire just north of then* position were getting longer, drowning out whatever else there was to hear, but the stench was definitely getting worse. To cap his worries, he could hear distant fire, soft, clattering pops behind the closer blasts; whatever was going on, it sounded like all of the U.B.C.S. was engaged.

Carlos faced front, rifle ready, searching the empty street that stretched out in front of them and T-ed three blocks ahead. An Ml6 loaded with a thirty-round mag

was nothing to scoff at, but he was afraid—of what, he didn't know yet.

Why are they still firing over there, what takes that many bullets? What is it—

Carlos saw the first one, then, a staggering figure that half-fell from behind a building two blocks in front of them. A second lurched out from across the street, followed by a third, a fourth—suddenly, at least a dozen plodding, stumbling people were in the street, coming their way. They seemed to be drunk.

"Christ, what'swrong with them, why are they walking like that?"

The speaker was next to Carlos, Olson his name was, and he was facing the direction they'd come from. Carlos shot a look back and saw at least ten more reeling toward them, appearing as if out of nowhere, and he realized in the same moment that the gunfire north of them was dying out, the intermittent bursts fewer and further apart.

Carlos faced front again and felt his jaw drop at what he saw and heard; they were close enough that he could make out individual features, then" strange cries clearly audible now. Tattered, blood-stained clothing, although a few were partially naked; pallid faces stained red, with eyes that saw nothing; the way that several held their arms out, as if reaching for the line of soldiers, still a block away. And the disfigurations—missing limbs, great hunks of skin and muscle torn off, body parts bloated and wet with putrefaction.

Carlos had seen the movies. These people weren't sick. They were zombies, the walking dead, and for a moment, all he could do was watch as they tottered

closer. Not possible,chale, and as his brain wrestled to accept what he was seeing, he remembered what Trent had said, about dark hours ahead.

"Fire, fire!..."Hirami was screaming as if from a great distance, and the sudden, violent chatter of automatic weapons to either side snapped Carlos back to reality. He aimed at the swollen belly of a fat man wearing ripped pajama bottoms, and he fired.

Three bursts, at least nine rounds smacked into the man's corpulent gut, punching a rough line across his lower belly. Dark blood splashed out, soaking the front of his pants. The man staggered but didn't fall. If anything, he seemed more eager to reach them, as if the smell of his own blood incited him.

A few of the zombies had gone down, but they continued to crawl forward on what was left of their stomachs, scraping broken fingers across the asphalt in their single-minded purpose.

The brain, gotta get the brain, in the movies shooting them in the head is the only way—

The closest was perhaps twenty feet away now, a gaunt woman who seemed untouched except for the dull glint of bone beneath her matted hair. Carlos sited the exposed skull and fired, feeling crazy relief when she went down and stayed there.

"The head, aim for the head—" Carlos shouted, but already, Hirami was screaming, wordless howls of terror that were quickly joined by some of the others as their line began to dissolve.

—oh, no—

From behind, the zombies had reached them.

* * *

Nicholai and Wersbowski were the only two from B to make it, and only then because they'd both taken advantage where they could—Nicholai had pushed Brett Mathis into the arms of one of the creatures when it had gotten too close, gaining a precious few seconds that had allowed him to escape. He'd seen Wersbowski shoot Li's left leg for the same reason, crippling the soldier and leaving him to distract the closest virus carriers.

Together, they made it to an apartment building's fire escape some two blocks from where the others had fallen. Gunfire tatted erratically as they climbed the rusty steps, but already the hoarse screams of dying men were fading to silence, becoming lost in the cries of the hungry damned.

Nicholai weighed his options carefully as they scaled the fire escape. As he'd predicted, John Wersbowski was a survivor and obviously had no problem doing whatever was necessary to remain one; with as bad as things were in Raccoon—worse, in fact, than Nicholai had been led to believe—it might pay to have such a man watching his back.

And if we're surrounded, there would be someone to sacrifice so that I might get away...

Nicholai frowned as they reached the rooftop, as Wersbowski stared out at what they could see from three stories up. Unfortunately, the sacrifice element worked both ways. Besides, Wersbowski wasn't an idiot or as trusting as Mathis and Li had been; getting the drop on him could be difficult.

"Zombies," Wersbowski muttered, clutching his rifle. Standing beside him, Nicholai followed his gaze to

where squad B had made its last stand, at the broken bodies that littered the pavement and the creatures that continued to feed. Nicholai couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed; they'd died in minutes, hardly putting up a fight...

"So, what's the planar?"

The sarcasm was obvious, both in tone and in the half amused, half disgusted expression he turned to Nicholai. Obviously, Wersbowski had seen him offer up Mathis. Nicholai sighed, shaking his head, the M16 loose in his hands; he had no choice, really.

"I don't know," he said softly, and when Wersbowski looked back at where they'd fought, Nicholai squeezed the assault rifle's trigger.

A trio of rounds hammered Wersbowski's abdomen, knocking him sprawling against the low cement ledge. Nicholai immediately raised the weapon and aimed at one of Wersbowski's shocked eyes, firing even as comprehension flooded the soldier's flushed face, an awareness that he'd made the fatal mistake of letting his guard down.

In under a second it was over, and Nicholai was alone on the rooftop. He stared blankly at the oozing body, wondering—and not for the first time—why he felt no guilt when he killed. He'd heard the term sociopathicbefore and thought that it probably applied ... although why people continued to see that as a negative, he didn't understand. It was the empathy thing, he supposed, the bulk of humanity acting as though the inability to "relate" was somehow wrong.

But nothing bothers me, and I never hesitate to do

what needs to be done, no matter how it is perceived by others; what's so terrible about that?

True, he was a man who knew how to control himself. Discipline, that was the trick. Once he'd decided to leave his homeland, within a year he didn't even thinkin Russian anymore. When he'd become a mercenary, he'd trained night and day with every manner of weapon and tested his skills against the very best in the field; he'd always won, because no matter how vicious his opponent, Nicholai knew that having no conscience set him free, just as having one hindered his enemies.

This was an asset, was it not?

Wersbowski's corpse had no answer. Nicholai checked his watch, already bored with his philosophical wanderings. The sun was low in the sky and it was only 1700 hours; he still had much to do if he meant to leave Raccoon with everything he needed. First, he needed to pick up a laptop and access the files he'd created only the night before, maps and names; there was supposed to be one locked up and waiting for him in the RPD building, although he'd have to be extremely careful in the area, as the two new Tyrant seekers would surely be there at some point. One was programmed to find some chemical sample, and Nicholai knew there was an Umbrella lab not far from the building. The other unit, the more technologically advanced creation, would be set to take out renegade S.T.A.R.S., assuming there were any still in Raccoon, and the S.T.A.R.S. office was inside the RPD. He wouldn't be in any danger as long as he stayed out of the way, but he'd hate to get between any series of Tyrant and its target if even half of what he'd heard was true. Umbrella was taking full advantage of the Raccoon situation, taking proactive steps—using the new Tyrant models, if that's what they were, exactly—in addition to data gathering; Nicholai admired their efficiency.

Nicholai heard a fresh burst of gunfire and reflexively stepped back from the edge of the roof, looking down to see two soldiers run past a moment later. One was injured, a ripped, bloody patch near his right ankle, and he leaned heavily against the other for support. Nicholai couldn't identify the wounded man, but his helper was the Hispanic who'd been watching him on the helicopter.

Nicholai smiled as the two stumbled past and out of sight; a few of the soldiers would have survived, of course, but they would probably suffer the same fate as the injured man, who'd almost certainly been bitten by one of the diseased.

Or the fate that surely awaits the Hispanic. I wonder, what will he do when his friend starts to get sick? When he starts to change?

Probably try to save him in some pathetic tribute to honor; it would be his undoing. Really, they were all as good as dead. Amazed by how predictable they were, Nicholai shook his head and went to get Wersbowski's ammo pack.

FIVE

ON HER WAY TO THE BAR JACK, JILL THOUGHT she heard gunfire.

She paused in the alley that would eventually lead her to the tavern's back entrance, head cocked to one side. It sounded like shots, like an automatic, but it was too far away for her to be sure. Still, her spirits lifted a little at the thought that she might not be fighting alone, that help might be on the way ...

...right. A hundred good guys have landed with bazookas, inoculations, and a can of whoop ass, maybe a steak dinner with my name on it to boot. They're all attractive, straight, and single, with college degrees and perfect teeth...

"Let's try to stick to reality, how 'bout," she said softly and was relieved that she sounded fairly normal, even in the dank and shadowy quiet of the back alley.

She'd been feeling pretty bleak back in the warehouse, even after finding a thermos of still-warm coffee in the upstairs office; the idea of trekking through the dead city one more time, alone—

—iswhat I have to do, she thought firmly,so I'm doing it. As her dear, incarcerated father was fond of saying, wishing that things were different didn't make it so.

She took a few steps forward, pausing when she was about five feet from where the alley branched. To her right was a series of streets and alleys that would lead her further into town; left would take her past a tiny courtyard, with a path straight to the bar—assuming that she knew this area as well as she thought she did.

Jill edged closer to the junction, moving as silently as she knew how, her back to the south wall. It was quiet enough for her to risk a quick look down the alley to the right, her weapon preceding her; all clear. She shifted position, stepping sideways across the empty path to look in the direction she meant to go—

—and heard it,uunnh, the soft, pining cry of a male carrier, half hidden by shadow perhaps four meters away. Jill targeted the darkest part of the shadow and waited sadly for it to step into view, reminding herself that it wasn't really human, not anymore. She knew that, had known it since what had happened at the Spencer estate, but she encouraged the feelings of pity and sorrow that she felt each time she had to put one of them down. Having to tell herself that each zombie was beyond hope allowed her to feel compassion for them.

Even the shambling, decomposing mess that now swayed into view had once been a person. She didn't,

couldn't let herself get overly emotional about it, but if she ever forgot that they were victims rather than monsters, she would lose some essential element of her own humanity.

A single shot to its right temple, and the zombie collapsed into a puddle of its own fetid fluids. He was pretty far gone, his eyes cataracted, his gray-green flesh sliding from his softening bones; Jill had to breathe through her mouth as she stepped over him, careful to avoid getting him on her boots.

Another step and she was looking down on the courtyard—

—and she saw two more zombies standing below, but also a flash of movement disappearing into the alley, heading toward the bar. It was too fast to be one of the carriers. Jill only caught a glimpse of camo pants and a black combat boot, but it was enough to confirm what she'd hoped—a person. It was a living person.

From the small set of steps that led down into the yard, Jill quickly dispatched both carriers, her heart pounding with hope. Camouflage gear. He or she was military, maybe someone sent in on reconnaissance; perhaps her little fantasy wasn't so far-fetched after all. She hurried past the fallen creatures, running as soon as she hit the alley, up a few steps, ten meters of brick, and she was at the back door.

Jill took a deep breath and opened the door carefully, not wanting to surprise anyone who might be packing a gun—

—and saw a zombie lurching across the tiled floor of the small bar, moaning hungrily as it reached out for a

man in a tan vest, a man who pointed what looked like a small-caliber handgun at the closing creature and opened fire.

Jill immediately joined him, accomplishing in two shots what he was unable to do in five; the carrier fell to its knees, and, with a final, desperate groan, it died, settling to the floor like liquid. Jill couldn't tell if it had been male or female, and at the moment, she didn't give a rat's ass.

She turned her eager attention to the soldier, an introduction rising to her lips, and realized that it was Brad Vickers, Alpha team pilot for the disbanded S.T.A.R.S. Brad, whose nickname had been Chicken-heart Vickers, who'd stranded the Alpha team at the Spencer estate when he'd been too afraid to stay, who'd crept out of town when he'd realized that Umbrella knew their names. A good pilot and a genius computer hacker, but when push came to shove, Brad Vickers was a grade-A weasel.

And I'm glad to see him, regardless.

"Brad, what are you doing here? Are you okay?"

She did her best to keep from asking how he'd managed to survive, though she had to wonder—espe-cially since he only seemed to be armed with a cheap .32 semi and had been the worst shot in the S.T.A.R.S. As it was, he didn't look good—there were splatters of dried blood on his vest and his eyes were haunted, wide and rolling with barely controlled panic.

"Jill! I didn't know you were still alive!" If he was glad to see her, he was hiding it well, and he still hadn't answered her question.

"Yeah, well, I could say the same," she said, working not to sound too accusatory. He might have information she could use. "When did you get here? Do you know anything about what's going on outside of town?"

It was as though every word she said compounded his fear. His posture was tense, wound up, and he had the shakes. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

"Brad, what is it? What's wrong?" she asked, but he was already backing toward the front door of the bar, shaking his head from side to side.

"It's coming for us," he breathed. "For the S.T.A.R.S. The police are dead, they can't do anything to stop it, just like they couldn't stop this—" Brad waved one trembling hand at the bloody creature on the floor. "You'll see."

He was on the edge of hysteria, his brown hair slick with sweat, his jaw clenched. Jill moved toward him, not sure what to do. His fear was contagious.

"What's coming, Brad?"

"You'll see!"

With that, Brad turned and snatched the door open, blind panic tripping him as he stumbled out into the street and took off running without looking back. Jill took one step toward the closing door and stopped, suddenly thinking that maybe there were worse things than being alone. Trying to take care of anyone as she made her way out of Raccoon—particularly a hysterical man with a history of cowardice who was too scared to be reasonable—was probably a bad idea.

She felt a chill thinking about what he'd said,

though. What was coming, specifically for the S.T.A.R.S.?

He seems to think I'll find out.

Unsettled, Jill mentally wished him luck and turned toward the polished bar, hoping that the ancient Remington was still tucked under the register—and wondering what the hell Chickenheart Vickers was doing in Raccoon, and what, exactly, had him so terrified.

Mitch Hirami was dead. So were Sean Olson, and Deets, Bjorklund, and Waller, and Tommy, and the two new guys, who Carlos couldn't remember except one of them was always cracking his knuckles and the other one had freckles—

Stop it, just knock it off! It doesn't matter now, all that matters is getting us out of here.

The wails had fallen far enough behind for Carlos to feel they could stop for a minute, after running for what felt like forever. Randy's limp seemed to be getting worse with every step, and Carlos desperately needed to catch his breath, just to think—

—about how they died, about the woman who bit into Olson's throat and the blood that ran down her chin, and the way that Waller started to laugh, high and crazy, just before he threw his weapon away and let himself be taken, and the sound of somebody screaming prayers at the uncaring sky—

Stop it!

They leaned against the back wall of a convenience store, a fenced recycling area with only one way in and a clear view of the street. There was no sound except the faraway singing of birds, wafting over them on a

cooling, late afternoon breeze that smelled faintly of rot. Randy had slid into a sitting position, pulling his right boot off to take a look at his wound. His lower pant leg was shiny wet with blood, as was the collar of his shirt.

He and Randy were the only two that had made it, and just barely; already, it seemed like some impossible dream.

The others in the squad had already gone down, and there were at least six of the cannibal zombies still coming at him and Randy. Carlos had fired again and again, the smells of burning gunpowder and blood combining with the stench of decay, all of it making him dizzy with adrenaline-driven horror, so disoriented that he hadn't seen Randy fall, hadn't realized it until he'd heard the sound of Randy's skull smacking into the pavement, loud even over the cries of the dead.

A crawling one had grabbed Randy and bitten through the leather of his boot; Carlos had slammed the butt of his M16 down, breaking its neck, his mind screaming uselessly that it had beeneating Randy's ankle, and he'd scooped up the half-conscious soldier with a strength he didn't know he possessed. And they had run, Carlos dragging his injured comrade away from the slaughter, his thoughts incoherent and wild and, in their own way, as terrifying to him as the rest of it. For a few minutes, he'd beenloco, unable to understand what had happened, what was still happening—

"Aw, Jesus, man..."

Carlos looked down at the sound of Randy's voice,

noticing with some alarm that his words were a little slurred, and saw the ragged edges of a deep bite maybe two inches above the top of his foot. Thick blood oozed steadily out, the inside of Randy's boot drenched with it.

"Bit me, goddamn thing bit right in. But it was dead, Carlos. They were all dead... weren't they?" Randy looked up at him, his eyes dazed with pain and something more, something that neither of them could af-ford—confusion, bad enough that Randy could barely focus.

Concussion, maybe. Whatever it was, Randy needed a hospital. Carlos crouched next to him, his heart sick as he tore off a piece of Randy's shirt and quickly folded it into a compress.

We're screwed, there were no cops out there, no paramedics, this city is dying or already dead. If we want help, we're going to have to find it ourselves, and he's in no shape to fight.

"This may hurt a little, 'mono, but we gotta stop you from getting your boot all wet," Carlos said, trying to sound relaxed as he pressed the fqlded material against Randy's bleeding ankle. There was no point in scaring him, especially if he was as whacked out as Carlos thought. "Hold it down tight, okay?"

Randy clenched his jaw, a violent tremor running through him, but he did as Carlos asked and held the makeshift bandage in place. As Randy leaned forward, Carlos studied the back of his head, wincing inwardly at the bloody, slightly misshapen spot beneath his tangled black curls. It didn't seem to be bleeding anymore, at least.

"We gotta get outta here, Carlos," Randy said. "Let's go home, okay? I want to go home."

"Soon," Carlos said softly. "Let's just sit here and rest for another minute, and then we'll go."

He thought about all of the wrecked cars they'd run past, the piles of broken furniture and wood and brick in the streets, hastily assembled blockades. Assuming they could even find a car with keys in it, just about every street was impassable. Carlos didn't have a pilot's license, but he had flown a helicopter a few times—fine, if they happened to stumble across an airport.

We'll never make it on foot, though. Even if Randy wasn't hurt, the entire U.B.C.S. was taken out, or damn near close. There's gotta be hundreds, maybe thousands of those things out there.

If they could find other survivors, group together ... but tracking anyone down in this nightmare would be a nightmare all its own. The thought of Trent's restaurant occurred to him briefly, but he ignored it; to hell with mat crazy shit, they needed to get out oftown, and they needed help to do it. The squad leaders were the only ones who'd known the plan for pickup, or had radios, and there was no way Carlos was going to go back—

—but I don't have to, do I?

He closed his eyes for a minute, realizing that he'd missed the obvious; maybe he was more freaked than he thought. There was more than one radio in the world; all he had to do was find one. Send out a call to the transports—hell, to anyone listening—and wait for somebody to show up.

"I don't feel so good," Randy said, so quietly that Carlos almost didn't hear him, the slur of his words more pronounced than before. "Itches, it itches."

Carlos squeezed his shoulder lightly, the heat from Randy's feverish skin radiating out from beneath his T-shirt. "You're going to be okay, bro, just hang on, I'm going to get us out of here."

He sounded confident enough. Carlos only wished that he could convince himself.

SIX

TED MARTIN, A THIN MAN IN HIS LATE 30s, had been shot several times in the head. Nicholai couldn't tell if he'd been murdered or if he'd been put down after contracting the virus, and he didn't care; what mattered was that Martin, whose official title was Personal and Political Liaison to the Chief of Police, had saved Nicholai the time it would have taken to track him down.

"Most kind of you," Nicholai said, smiling down at the very dead Watchdog. He'd also had the courtesy to die near where he was supposed to be, in the detective squadroom's office of the RPD's east wing.

An excellent start to my adventure; if they're all this easy, it will be a very short night.

Nicholai stepped over the body and crouched down next to the floor safe in the corner, quickly dialing in

the simple four-digit combination given to him by his Umbrella contact: 2236. The steel door swung open, revealing a few papers—one looked like a map for the police station—a box of shotgun shells, and what would surely become Nicholai's best friend until he left Raccoon: a state-of-the-art cellular modem, designed to look like a piece of shit but more advanced than anything on the market. Grinning, he lifted out the PC laptop and carried it to the desk, the safe door closing itself behind him.

His trip to the station had been reasonably uneventful, except for the seven undead he'd dispatched point-blank to avoid too much noise; they were embarrassingly easy to kill, as long as one paid attention to one's surroundings. He hadn't yet come across any of Umbrella's pets, the only real challenge he expected to face; there was one nicknamed "brain sucker" that he was very much looking forward to meeting, a multi-legged crawler with killing claws ...

One thing at a time; right now, you need information.

He'd already committed the names and faces of his

victims to memory and had a general idea of where each one was supposed to make contact, if not necessarily when; all of the Watchdogs were on different schedules, subject to change but mostly accurate. Martin, for instance, was due to report to Umbrella from a computer terminal at the RPD building's front desk at 1750 hours, about twenty minutes from now; his last report should have been just after noon.

"Let's see if you succeeded, Officer Martin,"

Nicholai said, quickly punching in the codes he'd acquired to access Umbrella's updated progress reports. "Martin, Martin ... ah, there you are!"

The policeman had missed his last two assigned windows, suggesting that he'd been dead or incapacitated for at least nine hours now. No information to collect there. Nicholai carefully read the numbers on the other Watchdogs, pleased with what he saw. Of the eight Watchdogs left after Martin, three others had failed to make their last assigned reports—one of the scientists, one Umbrella worker, and the woman who worked for the city's water department. Assuming they were dead—and Nicholai was willing to bet that they were— that left only five.

Two soldiers, two scientists, and the other Umbrella man...

Nicholai frowned, looking at the designated contact points for each of them. One scientist, Janice Thomlm-son, would be in the underground laboratory facility, the other at the hospital near the city park; the Umbrella worker was to report in from an allegedly abandoned water treatment facility on the outskirts of town, a cover for its use as an Umbrella chemical testing site. Nicholai didn't foresee any problems finding them ... but both of the soldier Watchdogs had been taken off the map.

"Where are you going to be, men ...," Nicholai said absently, tapping at the keys, his frustration growing.

At his last check only the night before, they had both been assigned to call in from the St. Michael Clock Tower...

Shit!

There they were, their names listed next to his; both

men had been moved to portable status, just like him. They'd report in from Umbrella laptops or wherever was most convenient, and were only required to file once a day—which meant that they could be anywhere in Raccoon City, anywhere at all.

A seething haze of red enveloped him, tearing at him. Without thinking, Nicholai charged across the office and kicked Martin's body as hard as he could, once, twice, venting his rage, feeling a deep satisfaction at the wet sounds his boot made, the jerking movement of the body and the crunch of ribs giving way—

—and then it was over, and he was himself once again, still frustrated but in control. He exhaled sharply and moved back to the desk, ready to revise his plans. It was simply going to take longer to find them, that was all; it wasn't the end of the world. And perhaps they would fail to report in, conveniently dying just like Martin and the other three.

He could hope but wouldn't count on it. What he could count on was his own perseverance and skill. Umbrella wouldn't send in their pickup for nearly a week—the longest, they believed, that they could keep the disaster quiet—unless the Watchdogs called in with complete results, unlikely at best. With six days to find only five people, Nicholai was certain that he would be the only one left to pick up.

"I won't even need all six," Nicholai said, nodding firmly at Martin's sprawled, lumpy corpse. "Three days, I'm sure I can do it in three."

With that, Nicholai leaned forward and started to call up the maps he would need, happy again.

Jill hadn't been able to find any shells for the 12-gauge, but she took it anyway, aware that her ammo wouldn't last forever; itwould make a good club, and she might find shells for it later. She'd just about decided to try climbing over one of the western blockades when she saw something that changed her mind, something she had fervently hoped never to see again.

A Hunter. Like the ones at the estate, in the tunnels.

She'd stood on the fire escape outside of an uptown boutique, seen it in the street just past one of the vans that blocked the fire escape's alley. It didn't see her; she watched it lope by and out of sight, a little different

than the ones from before, but close enough—the same strangely graceful, malignant carriage, the heavy, curved talons, the dark mud green color. She held her breath, her stomach in knots, remembering ...

...hunchedover so that its impossibly long arms almost touched the stone floor of the tunnel, both its hands and feet tipped with thick, brutal claws. Tiny, light-colored eyes peering out at her from aflat reptilian skull, its tremendous, high-pitched screech echoing through the dark underground just before it sprang...

She'd killed it, but it had taken her fifteen 9mm rounds to do it, an entire magazine. Later, Barry had told her that he'd heard them referred to as Hunters, one of Umbrella's bio-organic weapons. There had been other kinds on the estate—feral, skinned-looking dogs; a kind of giant, flesh-eating plant that Chris and Rebecca had destroyed; spiders the size of small cattle; and the dark, mutant things with bladed hooks for

hands, the ones that hung from the ceiling of the estate's boiler room, skittering overhead like spined monkeys.

And the Tyrant, somehow the worst because you could see that it had been human once; before the surgeries, before the genetic tampering and the T-virus.

So it wasn't just the T-virus loose in Raccoon. As awful as the realization was, it wasn't exactly shocking; Umbrella had been messing around with some very dangerous stuff, breeding slaughtering, nightmare children like some aberrant God without preparing for the inevitable consequences; sometimes, nightmares didn't just go away.

Unless—unless they did this on purpose.

No. If they'd meant to destroy Raccoon City, they would have evacuated their own people ... wouldn't they?

It was a question that haunted her on her journey to the police station. Seeing the Hunter had made up her mind for her about what to do next; she simply had to have more ammo, and she knew there'd be some in the S.T.A.R.S. office,in the gun safe—9mm, probably shotgun shells, maybe even one of Barry's old revolvers.

The station wasn't too far away, at least. She stuck to the growing shadows, easily dodging the few zombies she passed; many of them had decayed too much to move any faster than a slow walk. One of the gates she had to pass through to get to the station had been heavily roped and knotted, the knots soaked with oil. She gave herself a mental kick for forgetting to bring a knife; lucky for her she'd picked up a

lighter at the Bar Jack, although she worried some about the smoke drawing attention to her position— until she got through the gate and saw the heap of burning debris farther ahead, just in front of Umbrella's medical sales offices. Damage left over from the riots, she guessed. She thought about stopping to put out the flames, but there didn't seem to be any danger of their spreading in the cement and brick alleyway.

So, here she was, standing at the gates to the RPD courtyard. The rioting had been bad here. Trashed cars, broken barricades, and orange emergency cones littered the street, though there were no bodies amidst the rubble. To her right, a fire hydrant spewed a fountain of hissing water into the air. The gentle sound of splashing water might even have been pleasant in another circumstance—a hot summer day, children laughing and playing. Knowing that no fireman or city worker would be coming to fix the gushing hydrant made her ache inside, and the thought of children ... it was too much; she blocked it out, determined not to let herself start thinking about things she couldn't fix. She had enough to worry about.

Such as stocking up on supplies... so what are you waiting for, anyway? A written invitation?

Jill took a deep breath and pushed the gates open, wincing at the squeal of rusty metal. A quick scan told her the small, fenced yard was empty; she lowered her weapon, relieved, and carefully closed the gates before moving toward the heavy wooden doors of the RPD building. A lot of cops had died out in the streets, which would make this easier for her, as terrible as that

was; not as many carriers to deal with once she got inside—

Sqreeak!

Behind her, the gates swung open. Jill spun, almost

firing at the figure that crashed into the yard, until she realized who it was.

"Brad!"

He stumbled toward the sound of her voice, and she saw that he was badly wounded. He clutched his right side, blood dripping over his fingers, a look of complete terror on his face as he reached toward her with his free hand, gasping.

"juh—Jill!"

She stepped toward him, so focused on him that when he suddenly disappeared, she didn't understand what had happened. A wall of black had sprung up between them, a blackness that emitted a deep, rumbling howl of fury, that started toward Brad and shook the ground with each massive step.

"Sstaarrss,"it clearly said, the word nearly hidden beneath a wavering growl like that of a wild animal, and Jill knew what it was without seeing its face; she knew it like she knew her own dreams.

Tyrant.

Brad fell backwards, shaking his head as if to deny the approaching creature, staggering in a half circle and stopping when his back hit brick. In the split second before it reached him, Jill could see it in profile; time seemed to stop for that instant, allowing her to really seeit, to see that it wasn't her nightmare Tyrant, but no less horrible for that; in fact, it was worse.

Between seven and eight feet tall, humanoid, its

shoulders impossibly broad, its arms longer than they should have been. Only its hands and head were visible, the rest of its strangely proportioned body clothed in black, except for what appeared to be tentacles, slightly pulsing ropes of flesh that were only half tucked under its collar, their points of origin unseen. Its hairless skin was the color and texture of badly healed scar tissue, and its face looked as though whoever had designed the creature had decided not to bother, instead pulling a too-tight sack of torn leather over its rudimentary skull. Misshapen white slits for eyes were set too low and separated by an irregular line of thick surgical staples. Its nose was barely formed, but the dominant feature by far was its mouth, or lack thereof; the lower

half of its facewas teeth, giant and square, lipless, set against dark red gums.

Time started again when the creature reached out and covered Brad's entire face with one hand, still growling as Brad tried to say something, panting in high, wheezing gasps beneath its palm—

—and there was an awful, wetsquishing sound, heavy but slick, like someone punching a hole in meat.

Jill saw a flesh tentacle sticking out from the back of Brad's neck and understood that he was dead, that he would bleed out in seconds. Numbly, she saw that the ropelike appendage was moving, swaying like a blind snake, droplets of blood falling from its muscular length. The Tyrant-thing grasped Brad's skull, and in a single, fluid motion, it lifted the dead pilot and tossed him aside, retracting the killing tentacle back into its sleeve before Brad hit the ground.

"Sstaarrss,"it said again, turning to face her, and as

it focused its attention to her, Jill felt a fear greater than any she'd ever known.

The Beretta would be useless. She turned and sprinted, barreling through the doors to the RPD, slamming and dead-bolting them behind her, all on instinct; she was too frightened to think about what she was doing, too frightened to do anything but back away from the double doors as the monster slammed into them, rattling them on their hinges.

They held. Jill was very still, listening to the pound of blood in her ears, waiting for the next blow. Long seconds dragged by, and nothing happened—but full minutes passed before she dared to look away, and even the realization that it had stopped for the moment brought her no relief.

Brad had been right, itwas coming for them—and now that he was dead, it would be coming for her.

SEVEN

God help me, I've finally seen it for myself; God help us all.

They lied to us. Dr. Robison and the Umbrella people held a press conference at the hospital just this morning, and they damn near insisted that there's no need to panic—that the cases being called in were isolated events, that the victims were suffering from the flu; not, according to them, the so-called cannibal disease that the S.T.A.R.S. were going on about in July, in spite of what a few "paranoid" citizens are now eaying. Chief Irons was there, too, he backed the docs up and reiterated his views on the defunct S.T.A.R.S.'s incompetence; case closed, right? Nothing to worry about.

We were on our way back to the office from the press conference, south on Cole Street, and there was a commotion holding up traffic, a couple of stopped cars and a gathering crowd. No cops on the scene. I thought it was some minor accident and started to back up, but Dave wanted to get a few shots; he still had two rolls of film left from the hospital, what the hell. We got out and suddenly people were running, screaming for help, and we saw three pedestrians down in the middle of the street, and there was blood everywhere. The attacker was young, barely twenty, white male—he was straddling an older man, and...

My hands are shaking, I don't know how to say it, I don't want to say it but it's my job. People have to know. I can't let this get to me.

He was eating one of the older man's eyes. The other two victims were dead, slaughtered, an elderly woman and a younger one, both of them with bloody throats and faces. The younger woman's abdomen had been ripped open.

It was chaos, total hysteria—crying, shouting, even some crazy laughter. Dave snapped two pies and then threw up on himself. I wanted to do something, I did, but those people were already dead and I was afraid. The young man slurped away, digging his fingers into the man's other eye, seemingly oblivious to everything else; he was actually moaning like he couldn't get enough, gore all over him.

We heard the sirens and backed off along with everyone else. Most people left, but a few stayed, pale and sick and frightened. I got the story from a chubby shopkeeper who couldn't stop wringing his hands, though there wasn't much else to tell—the kid apparently just wandered onto the street and grabbed a woman, started biting her. The shopkeeper said the woman's name was Joelle something-or-other, and she was walking with her mother, a Mrs. Murray (the shopkeeper didn't know her first name). Mrs.

Murray tried to stop the attack, and the kid turned on her.

A couple of men tried to help, jumping the kid, and he managed to get one of them, too. After that, nobody tried to help anymore.

The cops showed up and before they even looked at the mess in the street—at the freakshow kid lunching on his fellow man—they cleared and secured the scene. Three squad cars surrounded the attacker, blocking him from view. The shopkeeper was actually told to close up and go home, along with the rest of us. When I told one of the officers that Dave and I were with the press, he confiscated Dave's camera; said it was evidence, which is total and utter bullshit, like they have a right...

Listen to me, worried about freedom of the press at this point. It doesn't matter. At four o'clock this afternoon, one hour ago, Mayor Harris declared martial law; blockades have been set up all over the place, and we've been cut off from the outside. According to Harris, the city's been quarantined so that the "unfortunate illness that is plaguing some of our citizens" won't spread. He wouldn't call it the cannibal disease, but there's obviously no question—and according to our police scanner, the attacks are multiplying exponentially.

I believe that it may already be too late for all of us. The disease isn't airborne or we'd all have it, but the evidence strongly suggests that you get it when you're bitten by one of them, just like in the movies I used to watch on the Double Creature Feature when I was a boy. That would explain the incredible growth rate of the attacks—but it also tells me that unless the cavalry comes in very soon, we're all going to die, one way or another. The cops have closed down the press, but I'm going to try to get the word out

anyway, even if I have to go door-to-door. Dave, Tom, Kathy, Mr. Bradson—everyone else has gone home to be with their families. They don't care about letting the people know anymore, but it's all I have left. I don't want to

I just heard glass breaking downstairs. Somebody's coming.

There wasn't any more. Carlos lowered the crumpled sheets he'd found, placing them on the reporter's desk, his mouth a grim line. He'd killed two zombies in the hallway... maybe one of them had been the writer, a distressing thought made all the worse by its application—how long had it taken for the writer to change?

And if he's right about the disease, how long does Randy have?

A police scanner and some kind of handheld radio sat on a countertop across the room, but suddenly all he could think of was Randy, downstairs and getting sicker, waiting for Carlos to come back. He'd held up pretty well so far, managing to crawl through two of the blockades with only a little help, but by the time they'd reached the Raccoon Press building, he'd hardly been able to stand up on his own. Carlos had left him propped up beneath a dead pay phone on the first floor, not wanting to drag him up the stairs; a few small fires were smoldering on the lower landing, and Carlos had been afraid that Randy might trip and get burned ...

.. .which might be the least of his worries right now. Puta,what a balls-up. Why didn't they tell us what we were getting into?

Carlos choked down the despair that question raised;

it was something he could take up with the proper authorities once they got out of here. He'd probably end up being deported, since he was only in the country through Umbrella, but so what? At the moment, going back to his old life sounded like a picnic.

He hurried to the radio equipment and switched the scanner on, not sure what to do next; he'd never used one, and his only experience with two-way radios was a set of walkie-talkies he'd once played with as a kid. 200channel multi-band was written on top of the scanner, and there was actually a scan button. He pushed it and watched a small digital readout flash meaningless numbers at him. Except for a few static bursts and clicks, nothing happened.

Great. That's real helpful.

The radio was what he wanted, anyway, and it at leastlooked like a walkie-talkie, though it said,am/ssb transceiver on the side. He picked it up, wondering if there were channels, or if there was some memory control button—

—and heard footsteps out in the hall. Slow, dragging footsteps.

He dropped the radio on the counter and hefted his assault rifle, turning toward the door that opened into the hallway, already recognizing the shuffling, aimless steps of a zombie. The large newspaper office was the only room on the second floor; unless he wanted to jump out a window, the hall and stairs were the only way out. He'd have to kill it to get back to...

Oh, shit, it had to go past Randy, what if it got to him? What if—

What if itwas Randy?

"Please, no," he whispered, but once the possibility occurred to him, he couldn'tnot think about it. He backed across the room, feeling sweat slide down the back of his neck. The footsteps continued, getting closer—and was that a limp he heard, the sound of one foot dragging?

Please, don't be, I don't want to have to kill him!

The footsteps paused just outside the door—and then Randy Thomas stepped,lurched into view, his expression blank and free of pain, strings of drool hanging from his lower lip.

"Randy? Stop there, 'mano, okay?" Carlos heard his voice break with dismal fear. "Say something, okay? Randy?"

A kind of dread acceptance filled Carlos as Randy tilted his head toward him and continued forward, raising his arms. A low, gurgling moan erupted from his throat, and it was the loneliest sound Carlos thought he'd ever heard. Randy didn't really see him, didn't understand what he was saying; Carlos had become food, nothing more.

"Lo siento mucho,"he said, and again in English, in case there was any part of Randy left, "I'm sorry. Sleep now, Randy."

Carlos aimed carefully and fired, looking away as soon as he saw the grouping of holes appear just above Randy's right eyebrow, hearing but not seeing his comrade's body hit the floor. For a long time he simply stood, shoulders slumped as he gazed at his own boots, wondering how he'd gotten so tired so fast... and telling himself there was nothing else he could have done.

At last, he walked over and picked up the radio, hitting

the switch and thumbing the send control. "This is Carlos Oliveira, member of Umbrella's U.B.C.S. team, squad Alpha, Platoon Delta. I'm at the Raccoon City newspaper office. Can anyone hear me? We were cut off from the rest of the platoon, and now we—I need help. Request immediate assistance. If you can hear this, please respond."

Nothing but static; maybe he needed to try specific channels; he could go through them one by one and just keep repeating the message. He turned the radio over, looking at all of the buttons, and saw, stamped into the backing,range five miles.

Which means I can call anybody in town, how use-ful—except nobody's gonna answer, because they're dead. Like Randy. Like me.

Carlos closed his eyes, trying to think, trying to feel anything like hope. And he remembered Trent. He checked his watch, realizing how crazy this was, thinking that it was the only thing that made sense anymore; Trent hadknown, he'd known what was going on and he'd told Carlos where to go when the shit came down. Without Randy to think about and with no clear path out of town...

Grill 13. Carlos had just over an hour to find it.

Jill had just reached the S.T.A.R.S. office when the communication console at the back of the room crackled to life. She slammed the door behind her and ran to it, words spitting out through a haze of static.

"... is Carlos ... Raccoon ... were cut off... platoon ... help ... assistance ... if you can hear... respond ... "

Jill snatched up the headset and hit the transmit switch. "This is Jill Valentine, Special Tactics and Rescue Squad! You're not coming in very clear, please re-peat—what's your location? Do you read me? Over!"

She strained to hear something, anything—and then saw that the light over the transmit relay switch wasn't on. She tapped several buttons and jiggled the switch, but the little green light refused to show itself.

"Damn it!" She knew dick about communications, too. Whatever was broken, she wasn't going to be the one to fix it.

Well, at least I'm not the only one up Shit Creek without a paddle...

Sighing, Jill dropped the headset and turned to look at the rest of the office. Other than a few loose papers scattered on the floor, it looked the same as always. A few desks cluttered with files, PCs, and personal items, some overloaded shelves, a fax machine—and behind the door, the tall, reinforced steel gun safe that she hoped to God wasn't empty.

That thing out there isn't going to die easy. That STARS. killer.

She shivered, feeling the knot of fear in her lower belly clench and grow heavier. Why it hadn't broken down the doors and killed her, she didn't know; it was easily strong enough. Just thinking about it made her want to crawl into a dark place somewhere and hide. It made the few zombies she'd passed on her way through the building seem as dangerous as infants. Not true, of course, but after seeing what the Tyrant-thing did to Brad...

Jill swallowed, hard, and pushed it out of her mind. Dwelling on it wasn't going to help.

Time to get to business. She stepped to her desk, randomly thinking that when she'd last sat there, she'd been a totally different person; it seemed like a lifetime had gone by since then. She opened the top drawer and started to dig—and there, behind a box of paper clips, was the set of tools she'd always kept at the office.

Yes! She lifted the small cloth bundle and unrolled it, looking over the picks and torsion bars with a practiced eye. Sometimes having grown up as the daughter of a professional thief paid off big. She'd been having to shoot at locks for the last few days, which wasn't nearly as easy or safe as people seemed to think; having a decent lockpick set along would be an enormous help.

Besides which, I don't have the key for the gun safe—but then, that never stopped me before. She'd practiced when no one was around just to see if she could do it and had experienced very little trouble; the safe was ancient.

Jill crouched in front of the door, inserted the bar and pick, and gently felt for the tumblers. In less than a minute, she was rewarded for her efforts; the heavy

door swung open, and there, in plain sight, was the stainless steel answer to at least one of her recent prayers.

"Bless you, Barry Burton," she breathed, lifting the heavy revolver off the otherwise empty lower shelf. A Colt Python .357 Magnum, six-shot with a swing-out cylinder. Barry had been the weapons specialist for the Alpha team and was a total gun nut besides. He'd taken her shooting several times, always insisting that she try out one of his Colts; he had three that she knew

of, all different calibers—but the .357 packed the biggest wallop. That he'd left it behind, either by mistake or on purpose, seemed like a miracle ... as did the twenty-plus rounds in a box on the floor of the safe. There weren't any shotgun shells, but there was one magazine's worth of 9mm rounds loose in one of the drawers.

Worth the trip, at least—and with the picks I can go through the downstairs evidence room now, check for confiscated materials...

Things were looking up. Now all she had to do was sneak out of the city in the dark, avoiding zombies, violent, genetically altered animals, and a Tyrant-creature that had proclaimed itself nemesis to the S.T.A.R.S. A Nemesis made for her.

Amazingly, the thought made her smile. Add an impending explosion and some bad weather to the mix, she'd have herself a party.

"Whee," she said softly and started to load the Magnum with hands that weren't quite steady, and hadn't been for a long time.

EIGHT

AS HE SLOGGED HIS WAY THROUGH THE sewer system underneath the city streets, Nicholai found himself fascinated by the careful planning that had gone into Raccoon's design. He'd studied the maps, of course, but it was another thing entirely to actually wander through it, to experience the arrangement firsthand. Umbrella had built a perfect playground; how unfortunate that they'd ruined it for themselves.

There were several underground passages that connected key Umbrella-owned facilities to one another,

some more obvious than others. From the basement of the RPD building, he'd entered the sewers that would lead him all the way to the multilevel underground laboratory where Umbrella had done its most serious research. Research had also been conducted at the Arklay/Spencer mansion lab in Raccoon Forest, and

there were three "abandoned" factory or warehouse test sites on the outskirts of town, but the best scientists had worked in and under the city. It would certainly make his job much easier; moving from one area to another would be much less hazardous underground.

Not for much longer, though. In another ten or twelve hours, nowhere will be safe.The bio-organics that Umbrella worked with were kept sedated, grown in Raccoon but usually shipped elsewhere for field trials. With the operation in virtual ruin, they'd break out in order to find food; some had surely escaped already, and the majority would undoubtedly make an appearance once they'd missed a few injections.

And won't that be fun? A little target practice to clear my palate in between searches, and with the firepower to enjoy it.

Holding the assault rifle in the crook of his right arm, he reached down and patted the extra mags he'd taken from Wersbowski; he hadn't thought to check them before, but the quick look before he'd descended into the sewers had left him quite pleased. U.B.C.S. soldiers were issued magazines of fully jacketed .223s, designed to shoot cleanly through a target; Wersbowski had loaded up with hollow points, rounds that expanded and flattened on contact for maximum damage. Nicholai had already planned to raid the lab's small arsenal; with an additional sixty rounds of HP, he'd be walking easy ...

...unlike now...

The cold, murky water that ran through the poorly lit tunnels came almost to his knees and smelled terrible, like urine and mold. He'd already come across several

undead, most wearing Umbrella lab coats, though there were a few civilians—maintenance people, or perhaps just unlucky souls who'd ventured into the sewers thinking to escape the city. He dodged them, mostly, not wanting to waste bullets or alert anyone to his whereabouts.

He came to a T junction and hung a right after checking for movement in either direction. As with much of his journey so far, there was nothing but the soft lap of polluted water against gray stones, the ripple of sullen yellow light against the oily surface. It was a dank and miserable environment, and Nicholai couldn't help but think of the A334s, the sliding worms. At the Watchdog briefing, they'd been listed as something like giant leeches that traveled by water in groups, one of Umbrella's newest creations. He wasn't afraid so much as disgusted by the thought of running into them, and he hated surprises, hated the idea that even now a school of them could be slipping through the dark waters, jaws stretching wide, seeking warmth and sustenance from human blood.

When he saw the raised ledge at the end of the tunnel, he was ashamed at the relief he felt. He quickly blocked the feeling, preparing himself for his meeting; a look at his watch as he stepped out of the water told him he was right on time. Dr. Thomlinson would be filing her next report within ten, minutes.

Nicholai hurried down the short corridor in front of him, annoyed by the faint squelching of his boots as he reached the door to the warehouse anteroom. He listened for a moment and heard nothing; he gave a soft push at the door and it opened, revealing an empty break room for city workers—table, a few chairs, lock-

ers—and, bolted to the far wall, a descending ladder.

He crept in, gently closing the door behind him.

The ladder went down into the small warehouse from which Dr. Thomlinson would report; a computer terminal was hidden behind some cleaning equipment on one of the shelves. Assuming Thomlinson would be coming from the lab, she'd enter via the small elevator platform in the comer of the room, if he'd read the map correctly. Nicholai sat down to wait, unhooking his shoulder bag and removing the laptop; he wanted to recheck his maps after the appointment with the good doctor.

Thomlinson was punctual, arriving a full four minutes before she was supposed to file. At the sound of the grinding lift motor, Nicholai trained the rifle's muzzle into the corner, resting his finger on the trigger. A tall, disheveled woman rose into view, a distracted look on her smudged face. She wore a stained lab coat and carried a handgun she kept pointed at the floor; obvi-

Nicholai didn't give her a chance to react to his presence. "Drop your weapon and step away from the lift. Now."

She was a cool one, he had to give her that. Except for a slight widening of her eyes, there was no visible sign of alarm across her even features. She did as he asked, the clatter of the semiautomatic loud as she warily moved a few paces into the still room.

"Anything new to report, Janice?"

She studied him, her light brown gaze searching his as she crossed her arms. "You're one of the Watchdogs," she said. It wasn't a question.

Nicholai nodded. "Empty your pockets onto the table, Doctor. Slowly."

Thomlinson smiled. "And if I won't?" Her voice was throaty, deep and alluring. "Will you ... take it from me?"

Nicholai thought for a few seconds about what she was suggesting then pulled the trigger, obliterating her lovely smile in a sudden cough of fire. Really, he didn't have time to play that particular game; he should have shot her on sight, so as not to be tempted. Besides, his feet were cold and wet, which he detested; nothing like wet boots to make a man miserable.

Still, it was a shame; she was his type, tall and curved, obviously intelligent. He walked to her slumped body and fished a disk out of her breast pocket without looking at the blood and bone confusion that had been her face, reminding himself that this was business.

Only four to go. Nicholai slipped the disk into a plastic pouch, sealed it, and placed it in his bag.

There'd be time to pore over its contents later, once he'd collected everything.

He turned on the portable and called up the sewer system map, frowning as he traced his next path. At least another half mile of wading through the dark before making it topside. He glanced at Dr. Thomlinson again and sighed; perhaps he'd made a mistake. A

quick tussle would have warmed him up ... though he disliked having to kill women after enjoying them, on any level; the last time, he'd experienced feelings of true regret.

No matter. She was dead, he had the information, and it was time to move on. Four left, and he could forget about business for the rest of his extremely wealthy life, concentrating instead on the kinds of pleasure that poor men could only dream about.

Carlos knew he was close. From the area near the newspaper building, where the street signs had all begun with north, he'd ended up lost in a series of alleys to the east—what had to be Trent's shopping district.

He said shopping district, northeast... so where's the theater? And he said something about a fountain, didn't he?

Carlos stood in front of a boarded-up barbershop at the intersection of two alleys, no longer sure which way to go. There weren't any street signs, and twilight had given its last gasp; it was full-on dark and he only had ten minutes left before the 1900 deadline, thanks to an initial blunder that had led him back toward the industrial part of town—not really what could be considered the city proper, as Trent put it. Ten minutes ... and then what? Once he found the infamous Grill 13, what was supposed to happen? Trent had said something about helping ... so if he blew the appointed time, would Trent be able to do anything for him?

Taking a left would lead him back to the newspaper office, he thought—or was that behind him? Straight ahead was a dead end and a door that he hadn't tried yet, might as well give that a shot—

He didn't see it coming, but he heard it.

He'd taken a single step when a door crashed open behind him—and the thing was so fast that he was still turning, raising the assault rifle in reaction to the sound of the door when it reached him.

What—

A wave of malodorous darkness, an impression of shining black claws and hard, ribbed body like the

exoskeleton of some giant insect—

—and somethingr/pped the air inches from his face, would have hit him if not for his stumbling step backwards. He tripped over his own feet and fell, watching in horrified amazement as something flew over his upturned face, leaping nimbly to the wall on his right, and continued to run, sideways, clinging to the brick in a skittering gallop. Awestruck, Carlos tracked it as far as he could turn his head, flat on his back, watching as it agilely pivoted on at least three of its legs and dropped to the ground.

He might have simply waited for it to come for him, unable to believe his eyes even as it slashed one of its six, long-bladed legs across his throat, except that it screamed—and the trumpeting, triumphant whine that erupted from its inhumanly curved and bloated face was enough to get him moving.

In a flash, Carlos rolled into a crouch and opened fire on the screeching, running thing, unaware that he was screaming, too, a low, raspy cry of terror and disbelief. The creature faltered as the rounds tore into its brittle flesh, its limbs flailing wildly, the quality of its shriek changing to a howl of furious pain. Carlos kept firing, spraying the creature with deadly hot metal, continuing even after it collapsed and was only moving because of him, the rounds jerking at its limp form. He

knew it was dead but couldn't let himself stop, couldn't until the M16 ran dry and the alley was silent except for the sound of his own tortured breathing. He backed against a wall, slammed a fresh mag into the rifle, and desperately tried to understand what the hell had just happened.

At last he recovered enough of himself to approach the dead thing—itwas dead; even a sixlegged, wall-climbing bug the size of a man was dead when its brains were drooling out of its skull. It was one truth he could hold on to in the face of this madness.

"Deader than shit," he said, staring down at the twisted, bloody creature, and for just a second, he could feel part of his mind attempting to turn in on itself, to lock him away from what he was seeing. Zombies were bad enough, and he'd finally refused to accept the fact that Raccoon was overrun by the walking dead; they were just sick, that cannibal disease he'd read about, because there was no such thing as zombies except in

the movies. Just like there were no real monsters, either, no giant killing bugs with claws that could walk on walls and scream like it had screamed—

'Wohay pin,” he whispered, his one-time motto, this time spoken as a plea, his thoughts following in a kind of desperate litanyDon't sweat it, hang loose, be cool. And after a while, it took hold; his heart slowed to almost normal, and he started to feel like a person again, not some mindless, panicking animal.

So, there were monsters in Raccoon City. It shouldn't be a surprise, not after the day he'd had; besides, they died like anything else, didn't they? He wasn't going to

survive if he lost it, and he'd already been through way too much to give up now.

With that, Carlos turned his back on the monster and headed down the alley, forcing himself not to look back. It was dead, and he was alive, and chances were good that there were more of them out there.

Trent might be my only way out, and now I've got... shit!Three minutes, he had three goddamn minutes.

Carlos broke into a run, up a few steps to the single door at the end of the alley and through—and found himself standing in a spacious, well-lit kitchen. A restaurant's kitchen.

A quick look around; no one, and quiet except for a soft hiss from a large gas canister standing against the back wall. He took a deep breath but couldn't smell anything; maybe it was something else—

—and I wouldn't leave if it was toxic nerve gas. This has to be it, this is where he told me to go.

He walked through the kitchen, past shining metal counters and stoves, heading toward the dining area. There was a menu on one of the counters,grill 13 written across the front in gold script. It was unnerving, how relieved he felt; within a few hours, Trent had gone from being some creepy stranger to his best friend in the world.

/made it, and he said he could help —maybe a rescue team is already on its way, or he arranged for me to be picked up here... ormaybe there are weapons stored in the front, not as good as an evac but I'll take what I can get.

There was an opening in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, a counter where the chefs put the orders up. Carlos could see that the small, slightly darker restaurant was empty, although he took a moment to be certain; dancing light from a still-burning oil lamp wavered over the leatherette booths that lined the walls, casting jittery shadows.

He stepped around the serving counter and walked into the room, absently noting a faint scent of fried food lingering in the cool air as he stared around, searching. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he definitely didn't see it—no unmarked envelope propped up on a table, no mysterious packages, no trench-coated man waiting. There was a pay phone by the front door; Carlos walked over and picked up the receiver but got nothing, just like every other phone in town.

He checked his watch for what felt like the thousandth time in the past hour and saw that it was 1901— one minute after seven o'clock—and he felt a rush of anger, of frustration that only served to increase his unacknowledged fear.I'm alone, no one knows I'm here and no one can help me.

"I'm here," he said, turning to face the empty room, his voice rising. "I made it, I'm here on time andgod-damnit, where the hell are you?"

As if on cue, the telephone rang, the shrill sound making him jump, Carlos fumbled for it, his heart thumping dully in his chest, his knees suddenly weak with hope.

"Trent? Is that you?"

A brief pause, and Trent's smooth, musical voice

spilled into his ear. "Hola, Mr. Oliveira! I'm so pleased to hear your voice!"

"Man, not half as glad as I am to hear yours." Carlos sagged against the wall, gripping the receiver tightly.

"This is some bad shit,amigo, everyone's dead and there are things out there, like—there aremonsters,

Trent. Can you get me out of here? Tell me you can get

There was another pause, and Trent sighed, a heavy sound. Carlos closed his eyes, already knowing what he would say.

"I'm very sorry, but that's simply out of the question.

What Ican do is give you information ... but surviving, that's your job. And I'm afraid that things are going to get worse, much worse before they get any better."

Carlos took a deep breath and nodded to himself, knowing that this was what he'd been expecting all along. He was on his own.

"Okay," he said and opened his eyes, straightening his shoulders as he nodded again. "Tell me."

NINE

Comments, description of reported misdemeanor—29-087:

Two of the twelve faux gems that are an integral part of the "clock-lock" at the ornamental main gate of the municipal complex have been removed, between (approximately) 2100 hours yesterday (September 24) and 0500 hours this morning. With many local businesses boarded up at this time, looters have been defacing town property and attempting to take what they believe to be valuable. This officer believes that the perp thought the gems were real, and stopped after removing two (one blue, one green) when he/she realized they were only glass.

This gate (aka "City Hall" gate) is only one of several entrances/exits that lead to the municipal complex. The gate is now locked due to its complicated (and in this officer's opinion, ridiculous) design, which requires that all gems be present for the gate to be unlocked. Until the City Parks Department removes the gate, or until the two gems can be recovered and reinstalled, this entrance/exit will remain locked.

Due to the lack of available manpower at this time, there is no choice but to suspend the investigation of this case.//report-ing officer Marvin Branagh

Additional comments, case 29-087, M. Branagh

Sept. 26—One of the missing gems (blue) has turned up inside the RPD building. It's 2000 hours. Bill Hansen, deceased owner of the restaurant Grill 13, was apparently carry-

ing the fake gem when he came here seeking shelter earlier this evening. Mr. Hansen died shortly after arriving, killed by police fire after succumbing to the effects of the cannibal disease. The gem was found on his person, though I'm

this officer has no way of knowing if he stole it or where the other gem might be.

With the city now under martial law, no effort will be made to find the second gem or to put this one back—but with several of the streets surrounding the municipal complex now impassable, the need for these gems may at some point become relevant.

On a personal note: this will be my last written report until the current crisis has passed. Paperwork doesn't seem—at this time, the need to document misdemeanors seems secondary to the enforcement of martial law, nor do I believe myself to be alone in this assessment.

Marvin Branagh, RPD

Jill put the typed report and handwritten addendum back into the evidence drawer, sadly wondering if Marvin was still alive; it seemed unlikely, which was a thoroughly depressing thought. He was one of the best officers in the RPD, always nice as hell without sacrificing a professional demeanor.

Right up to the end, a real pro.Goddamm Umbrella.

She reached into the drawer and took out the diamond-shaped piece of blue glass, gazing at it thoughtfully. The rest of the evidence room had been a bust, the locked cabinets and drawers yielding nothing useful as far as weapons went; obviously, she wasn't the only one who'd thought to check it for guns and ammo. The gem, on the other hand ...

Marvin was right about the streets being blocked all around the City Hall gate; she'd tried to get through the area once already and had found most of it barricaded.

Not that there was much over there—the gate opened into a small garden with paved walkways, really a showcase for a rather boring statue of ex-mayor Michael Warren. Past that was City Hall, not used for much since the new courthouse had been built uptown, and a couple of paths that led north and west, respectively—an auto shop and a few used-car lots if you

"Oh, shit, the trolley!"

Why hadn't she thought of it before? Jill felt a rush of excitement, hampered only slightly by the urge to slap her forehead. She'd totally forgotten about it. The old-fashioned two-car train's scenic route was a tourist thing, the city only ran it summers anymore, but it went all the way out to the westernmost suburbs, past City Park and through a few of the more expensive neighborhoods. There was an allegedly abandoned Umbrella facility out that way, too, where there might still be working cars and clear roads. Assuming it was in running condition, the trolley would be the easiest way out of the city, hands down.

Except with all the blockades, the only way to get to it is through that locked gate—and I've only got one of the jewels.

She didn't have the equipment to take the heavy, oversized gate down by herself... but Marvin's report said that Bill Hansen had had the blue gem, and his restaurant was only three or four blocks away. There was no reason to assume he'd had the green one at some point, too, or that it was at the Grill, but it'd be worth checking out. If it wasn't there, she was no worse off—but if she couldfind it, she might be able to get out of the city much sooner than she'd expected. With the Nemesis running around out there, it couldn't be soon enough.

So, it was decided. Jill turned and walked toward the hall door, slipping the blue gem into her fanny pack. She wanted to check out the RPD's darkroom before she left, see if she could find one of the photographer's vests laying around; she didn't have any speed loaders for the Colt, and she wanted a few pockets to carry the loose rounds. While she was at it, she thought she might as well leave the shotgun behind.

She'd rigged up an over-the-shoulder strap using a belt she'd taken off a dead man, so carrying it wasn't too bad, but without shells—and with the .357 as additional firepower—she didn't see the point in lugging it around anymore ...

She stepped into the hall and took a left, deliberately

not looking at the one slumped body beneath the windows that faced south. It was a young woman carrier

she'd shot at from the stairs to the second floor, just around the corner, and she was pretty sure that she'd known the girl—a secretary/receptionist who worked at the front desk on weekends, Mary something. The darkroom faced the opening beneath the stairs; she'd have to pass within a few feet of the corpse, but she thought she could avoid looking too closely if she— CRASH!

Two of the windows imploded, a driving rain of glass spraying over the receptionist's body, shards of it slicing at Jill's bare legs. In the same instant, a giant black mass was hurled inside, bigger than a man, as big as—

—S.T.A.R.S. killer-

Itwas all she had time to think. Jill sprinted back the way she'd come, slamming into the evidence room door, while behind her, she heard crunching glass as it rolled to its feet, heard the ugly opening note of its single-minded cry, ”SSst —"

She ran, snatching the heavy revolver from beneath her waist pack's strap, through the evidence room to the next door, through that into the patrol squadroom. A sharp left as soon as she was inside and desks blurred past, chairs and shelves and an overturned table spattered with the blood and fluids of at least two cops, their sprawled bodies reduced to obstacles in her path.

Jill leaped over the twisted legs, hearing the door open, no,disintegrate behind her, a roar of splinters and cracking wood that couldn't drown out the Nemesis's fury.

Gogogofaster—

She hit the door running, ignoring the dull blossom of pain that enveloped her bruised shoulder, twisting to the right as she pounded into the lobby.

Shhh-BOOM!

A flare of brilliant light and smoke jetted past her, blowing a jagged, burning hole in the floor not three feet to her left. Shards of blackened marble and ceramic tile flew, exploding up and outward in a fountain of noise and heat.

Jesus, it's armed!

She ran faster, down the ramp into the lower lobby, remembering that she'd dead-bolted the front doors, the realization like a punch in the stomach. She'd never get them open in time, no chance—

—andBOOM, another blast from what had to be a grenade launcher or bigger, close enough that she could feel the air part next to her right ear, could hear the whistle of incredible speed just before the front doors blasted open in front of her. They hung drunkenly on bent hinges, swaying and smoldering as she ran through, the night cool and dark.

"Ssstaaarrrsss! "

Close, too close. Instinctively Jill sacrificed a second of speed to leap to the side, kicking away from the ground, dimly aware that Brad's body was gone and not caring. Even as she landed, the Nemesis blew past her, barreling through the space she'd occupied an instant before. Its momentum carried it several giant steps away, it was fast but too heavy to stop, its monstrous size giving her the time she needed. A squeal of rust and she was through the

gates, slamming them, scrabbling the shotgun off her back.

She turned and rammed the shotgun through the gates' hoop handles, both of them cracking against the barrel before she had time to let go, hard enough for her to realize that the gates wouldn't hold for very long. Behind the gates, the Nemesis screamed in animal rage, a demonic sound of bloodlust so strong that Jill shuddered convulsively. It was screaming forher, it was the nightmare all over again, she was marked for death.

She turned and ran, its howl fading into the dark behind her as she ran and ran.

When Nicholai saw Mikhail Victor, he knew he'd have to kill him. Technically, there was no reason, but the opportunity was too enticing to pass up. By some fluke, the leader of platoon D had managed to survive, an honor he didn't deserve.

We'll just see about that...

Nicholai was feeling good; he was ahead of the schedule he'd set for himself, and the rest of his journey through the sewers had been uneventful. His next goal was the hospital, which he could reach quickly enough if he took the cable car in Lonsdale Yard; he had more than enough time to relax for a few moments, take a break from his pursuit. Climbing back into the city and seeing Mikhail across the street, from the roof of one of Umbrella's buildings—the perfect sniper's roost—was like some cosmic reward for his work so far. Mikhail would never know what hit him.

The platoon leader was two stories below, his back

to the wall of a wrecking yard's shack as he changed rifle magazines. A security light, its bright beam flickering with the erratic movement of nocturnal insects, clearly illuminated his position—and would make it impossible for him to see his killer.

Well, you can't have everything; his death will have to be enough.

Nicholai smiled and raised the Ml6, savoring the moment. A cool night breeze ruffled his hair as he studied his quarry, noting with no small satisfaction the fear on Mikhail's lined, unknowing face. A head shot? No; on the off chance that Mikhail had been infected, Nicholai wouldn't want to miss the resurrection. He had plenty of time to watch, too. He lowered the barrel a hair, sighting one of Mikhail's kneecaps. Very painful... but he would still have use of his arms and would probably fire blindly into the dark; Nicholai didn't want to risk getting hit

Mikhail had finished his rifle inspection and was looking around as if to plot his next step. Nicholai took aim and fired, a single shot, extremely happy with his decision as the platoon leader doubled over, grabbing his gut—

—and suddenly, Mikhail was gone, around the corner of the building and into the night. Nicholai could hear the crunch of gravel fading away.

He cursed softly, clenching his jaw in frustration.

He'd wanted to see the man squirm, see him suffer from the painful and probably lethal wound. It seemed that Mikhail's reflexes weren't as poor as he'd thought.

So, he dies in the dark somewhere instead of where I

can see him. What is it to me? It's not as though I have nothing else to occupy my time...

It didn't work. Mikhail was badly injured, and Nicholai wanted to see him die. It would only take a few minutes to find the trail of blood and track him down—a child could do it.

Nicholai grinned .And when I find him, I can offer my assistance, play the concerned comrade —who did this to you, Mikhail? Here, let me help you...

He turned and hurried to the stairs, imagining the look on Mikhail's face when he realized who was responsible for his plight, when he understood his own failure as a leader and as a man.

Nicholai wondered what he'd done to deserve such happiness; so far, this had been the best night of his life.

When their conversation was over, the line went dead and Carlos walked to one of the booths and sat down, thinking hard about the things Trent had told him. If all he'd said was true—and Carlos believed that it probably was—then Umbrella had a lot to answer for.

"Why are you telling me all this?" Carlos had asked near the end, his head spinning. "Why me?"

"Because I've seen your records," Trent answered. "Carlos Oliveira, mercenary for hire—except you only ever fought the good fight, always on the side of the oppressed and abused. Twice you risked your life in assassinations, both successful—one a tyrannical drug lord and the other a child pornographer, if memory serves. And you never harmed a civilian, not once. Umbrella is involved in some extremely immoral practices,

Mr. Oliveira, and you're exactly the kind of person who should be working to stop them."

According to Trent, Umbrella's T-virus—or G-virus, there were apparently two strains—was created and used on homemade monsters to turn them into living, breathing weapons. When humans were exposed to it, they got the cannibal disease. And Trent said that the U.B.C.S. administrators knew what they were sending their people into, and probably did it on purpose—all in the name of research.

"The eyes and ears of Umbrella are everywhere,"

Trent had said. "As I said before, be careful who you trust. Truly, no one is safe."

Carlos abruptly stood up from the table and walked toward the kitchen, lost in thought. Trent had refused to talk about his own reasons for undermining Umbrella, though Carlos had gotten the impression that Trent also worked for them in some capacity; it would explain why he was so secretive.

He's being careful, covering his ass—but how could he know so much? The things he told me...

A jumble of facts, some that seemed totally arbitrary—there was a fake green jewel in a cold storage locker underneath the restaurant; Trent had said that it was one of a pair but had refused to say where the other one was or why either of them was important.

"Just make sure they end up together," Trent had said—as if Carlos was going to justhappen to come across the other one. "When you find out where the blue one is, you'll get your explanation."

For as cryptically useless asthat seemed to be, Trent had also told him that Umbrella kept two helicopters at

the abandoned water treatment plant west and north of the city. Perhaps most useful of all, Trent had said that there was a vaccine being worked on at the city hospital, and while it hadn't been synthesized yet, there was at least one sample there.

"Although there's a good chance the hospital may not be there for much longer," he'd said, leaving Carlos to wonder again how Trent came by his information.

What was supposed to happen to it? And how would Trent know that?

Trent seemed to think that Carlos's survival was important; he seemed convinced that Carlos was going to be a significant part of the fight against Umbrella, but Carlos still wasn't sure why, or if he even wanted to join up. At the moment, all he wanted was to get out of the city ... but for whatever reason Trent had decided to offer up information, Carlos was glad for the help.

Although a little more would've been nice—keys to an armored getaway car, maybe, or some kind of antimonster spray.

Carlos stood in the kitchen, gazing down at the heavy-looking cover to what was, presumably, the basement ladder. Trent had told him that there were probably more weapons at a clock tower, not far from the hospital; that and the bit about the Umbrella helicopters, due north from the tower and hospital, definitely useful...

But why let me come here at all if I'm so goddamn important? He could've stopped me on the way to the field office.

A lot of it didn't make sense, and Carlos was willing to bet money that Trent hadn't told him everything. He

had no choice but to trust him a little, but he was going to be very careful when it came to depending on Trent's information.

Carlos crouched next to the basement entrance, grabbed the handle to the cover, and pulled. It was heavy, but he could just manage it, leaning back and using his leg muscles for leverage. Unless the cooks were body builders, there was probably a crowbar around somewhere.

The front door to the restaurant opened and closed. Carlos gently, quietly put the cover aside and turned, still in a crouch, M16 aimed at the dining room entrance. He didn't think the zombies were coordinated enough to open doors, but he had no idea what the monsters were capable of, or who else might be wandering the city streets.

Slow, stealthy footsteps moved toward the kitchen. Carlos held his breath, thinking about Trent, wondering suddenly if he'd been set up—

—and about the last thing he expected to see was a .357 revolver come around the corner, held by an attractive and extremely serious-looking young woman who moved in fast and low and aimed at Carlos before he could blink.

For a beat they stared at each other, neither moving, and Carlos could see in the woman's eyes that she wouldn't hesitate to shoot him if she thought it necessary. Since he felt pretty much the same way, he decided it might be best to introduce himself.

"My name is Carlos," he said evenly. "I'm no zombie. Take it easy, huh?"

The girl studied him another moment, then nodded

slowly, lowering the revolver. Carlos took his finger off the rifle's trigger and did the same as they both straightened up, moving carefully.

"Jill Valentine," she said, and seemed about to say something else when the back door to the restaurant crashed open, the thundering sound matched by a guttural, barely human scream that raised the hairs on the back of Carlos's neck.

" Sstaarrsss! "whatever it was howled, the cry echoing through the restaurant, giant footsteps pounding toward them, relentless and certain.

TEN

THERE WAS NO TIME FOR QUESTIONS, NO time to wonder how it had found her so quickly. Jill motioned for the young guy to get behind her and backed into the dining room as he hurried past; she desperately looked around for something she could use to distract it long enough for them to escape. They ducked behind the service bar, Carlos moving as though he had some experience; he at least had the good sense to keep quiet as the S.T.A.R.S. killer charged into the kitchen, still screaming.

Fire!A guttering oil lamp sat on a cart next to the counter. Jill didn't hesitate; it would reach them in seconds if she didn't act immediately, and maybe a little burning oil would slow it down.

She motioned for Carlos to stay put, scooped up the lamp and stood, leaning over the counter and cocking

her arm back. The hulking Nemesis had just started across the expansive kitchen when she threw the lamp at it, grunting with the effort it took to make the distance.

The lamp flew, and then everything slowed to a near stop, so much happening at once that her mind fed it to her one event at a time. The lamp shattered at the monster's feet, glass and oil splashing and puddling, a tiny lake of spreading fire; the creature raised its massive fists, screaming in anger; Carlos yelled something and

grabbed her waist, pulling her down, the clumsy movement toppling them both to the floor—

—and there was a mighty clap of brilliance and sound that she'd suffered once already since waking up, a displacement of air that slapped at her eardrums, and Carlos was trying to shield her, holding her head down, saying something in rapid Spanish as time sped up to normal and something started to burn.

God, again? The whole city's going to blow up at this rate...The thought was vague, disoriented, her mind muddled until she remembered to breathe. A deep inhalation and Jill pushed Carlos's arm away and stood, needing to see.

The kitchen was blasted, blackened, utensils and cookware everywhere. She saw several canisters leaning against the back wall, one of them the obvious source of the explosion, its smoking metal sides peeled back like jagged petals. Rancid smoke curled up from the smoldering body on the floor, the Nemesis laid out like a fallen giant, its black clothes singed and burnt. It didn't move.

"No offense, but are you batshit?" Carlos asked, staring at her as though the question was rhetorical. "You could've barbecued us both!"

Jill watched the Nemesis, ignoring him, the .357 aimed at its still legs; its head and upper body were blocked by a low shelf. The blast had been powerful, but after all she'd been through, she knew better than to assume anything.

Shoot, shoot it while it's down, you may not have another chance—

The Nemesis twitched, a slight jerk of the fingers on the hand she could see, and Jill's nerve fled. She wanted out, she wanted to be far away before it sat up, before it shook off the effects of the explosion, as it surely would.

"We have to get out of here, now," she said, turning to Carlos. Young, good-looking, obviously unnerved by the blast, he hesitated, then nodded, holding his assault rifle tightly to his chest. It looked like an M16, military, and he was dressed for combat—a very good sign.

Hope there's more where you came from,Jill thought, heading for the door at a brisk pace, Carlos right behind her. She had a lot of questions for him and realized that he probably had a few for her, too ... but they could talk somewhere else. Anywhere else.

As soon as they were outside, Jill couldn't stop herself; she broke into a run, the young soldier pacing her, hurrying through the cool dark of the dead city as she wondered if there was anyplace left where they could be safe.

The girl, Jill, ran a full block before slowing down.

She seemed to know where they were going, and it was

obvious that she'd had some kind of combat training; cop, maybe, though she sure as hell wasn't in uniform. Carlos was desperately curious but saved his breath, concentrating instead on keeping up with her.

From the restaurant they ran downhill, past the theater Trent had mentioned, taking a right at a decorative fountain at the end of the block; another half block and Jill signaled at a door on the left for a standard sweep. Carlos nodded, standing to one side of the door, rifle up

Jill pulled the handle and Carlos stepped in, ready to fire at anything that moved, Jill covering him. They were in some kind of a warehouse, at the end of a walkway that T-ed some fifteen meters ahead. It seemed to be clear.

"It should be all right," Jill said quietly. "I came through this way a few minutes ago."

"Better safe than sorry, though, right?" Carlos said, keeping the rifle up but feeling some of the tension leave his body. She was definitely a pro.

They edged into the warehouse, carefully checking it out before saying another word. It was cold and not very well lit, but it didn't smell as bad as most of the rest of the city and by standing at the T junction in the middle of the warehouse, they'd be able to see anything coming well before it got to them. In all, it felt like the safest place he'd been since the helicopter.

"I'd like to ask you something, if you don't mind,"

Jill said, finally turning her full attention to him.

Carlos opened his mouth and the words just spilled

out. "You want to ask me out, right? It's the accent, chicks love the accent. You hear it and you just can't help yourselves."

Jill stared at him, eyes wide, and for a moment he thought he'd made a mistake, that she wouldn't realize he was kidding. It was a stupid call, joking around in these circumstances. Just as he was about to apologize, one corner of her mouth lifted slightly.

"I thought you said you weren't a zombie," she said. "But if that's the best you can do, maybe we ought to reevaluate your situation."

Carlos grinned, delighted with her comeback—and suddenly thought of Randy, of him playing around just before they'd landed in Raccoon. His smile faded, and he saw the bright glitter of humor leave her face, too, as if she'd also remembered where they were and what had happened.

When she spoke again, her tone was much cooler. "I was going to ask if you were the same Carlos who sent out a message about an hour ago, hour and a half maybe."

"You heard that?" Carlos asked, surprised. "When no one answered, I didn't think—"

Be careful who you trust.Trent's words flashed through his mind, reminding him that he had no idea who Jill Valentine was. He trailed off, shrugging indifferently.

"I only caught part of it, and I couldn't transmit from where I was," Jill said. "You said something about a platoon, didn't you? Are there other, ah, soldiers here?"

Stick to the basics, and nothing about Trent."There were, but I think they're all dead now. This whole operation's been a disaster from word go."

"What happened?" she asked, studying him intently.

"And who are you with, anyway, National Guard? Are they sending backup?"

Carlos watched her in turn, wondering how careful he needed to be. "No reinforcements, I don't think. I mean, I'm sure they'll send someone in eventually, but

I'm just a grunt, I don't really know anything—we set down, the zombies attacked. Maybe some of the other guys got away, but so far's I know, you're looking at the last surviving member of the U.B.C.S. That's Umbrella Bio-Hazard Countermea—"

She cut him off, the expression on her face close to disgust. "You're with Umbrella?”

Carlos nodded. "Yeah. They sent us in to rescue the civilians." He wanted to say more, to tell her what he suspected—anything to change the look on her face, like she'd just found out he was a rapist or something— but Trent's advice kept repeating, reminding him to be wary.

Jill's lips curled. "How 'bout you can the shit? Umbrella's responsible for what happened here, as if you didn't know—where do you get off lying? What are you really doing here? Tell the truth, Carlos,// that's your name."

She was definitely pissed, and Carlos felt a moment's uncertainty, wondering if she was an ally, someone who knew the truth about Umbrella—but it could also be a trap.

Maybe she works for them and is trying to feel me out, find out where my loyalties are...

Carlos allowed a touch of anger to creep into his own voice. "I'm just a grunt, like I said. I'm—all of us—are guns-for-hire. No politics, dig? They don't tell

us shit. And at the moment, I'm not interested in what Umbrella is or isn't responsible for. If I see someone who needs help, I'm gonna do my job, but otherwise, I just want to get out."

He glared at her, determined to stay in character.

"And speaking of who-what-why, what areyou doing here?" he snapped. "What were you doing in that restaurant? And what was that thing that you blew up?"

Jill held his gaze for another second, then dropped her own, sighing. "I'm trying to get out, too. Thatthing is one of Umbrella's monsters, it's hunting me, and I doubt very much that it's dead, even now—which means I'm not safe. I thought there might be ... I was looking for a kind of key, I thought it might be at the

"What kind of key?" he asked, but somehow, he thought he already knew.

"It's this jewel, it's part of a locking mechanism to the City Hall gate. There are two jewels, actually, and I've got one already. If I can get the other one, get the gate open, there's a way out of town—a cable car that runs west, out to the suburbs."

Carlos kept his face neutral, but he was jumping beneath his skin. What had Trent said?

Go west, for one thing .. . and when I find out where the blue gem is, I'll understand their relevance ... but what does this mean about Jill Valentine? Do I trust her now, or not? What doessheknow ?

"No shit," he said, keeping his tone mild. "I saw something like that, in the basement at the restaurant. A green gem."

Jill's eyes widened. "Really? If we can get it... Carlos, we have to go back!"

"Ifthat's my name," he said, caught somewhere between irritation and amusement. She seemed to leap from mood to mood, brisk then funny then angry then excited; it was kind of tiring, and he still wasn't sure whether or not he could turn his back on her. She seemedto be sincere ...

"I'm sorry," she said, touching his arm lightly. "I shouldn't have said that, it's just—Umbrella and I aren't on the best of terms. There was a biohazardous incident at one of their labs, here, about six weeks ago. People died. And now this."

Carlos melted a little at the warmth of her hand.

Jesus, but he was a sucker forun primor, and she was something to look at.

"Carlos Oliveira," he said, "at your service."

Down, boy. Head out of town, says Trent, but are you sure you want to travel with someone who might end up killing you? You want to clear your head before you take off with thecueroMiss Valentine.

Immediately he started arguing with himself. Yeah, be careful, but are you going to leave her all alone? She said that monster was after her...

He joked about it sometimes, but he wasn't truly a sexist; she could take care of herself, as she'd already proven. And if shewas one of Umbrella's spies ... well, she deserved what she got, then, didn't she?

"I—I wouldn't feel right about leaving without at least trying to find some of the others," he said, and now that he knew there was a way out, he realized it was true. Even an hour ago, the thought would have

been ridiculous; now, armed with Trent's information, everything had changed. He was still scared, sure, but actuallyknowing something about the situation made him feel less vulnerable somehow. In spite of the risks, he wanted to walk a few more blocks before he left town, make some attempt to helpsomeone. He wanted time to think, to make up his mind.

That... and knowing that she survived means that I can, too.

"I saw the gate you're talking about, the one over by the newspaper office,si? Why don't I meet you there ... or better yet, at the cable car."

Jill frowned, then nodded. "Okay. I'll go back to the restaurant while you look around, and I'll wait for you at the trolley. Once you go through the gate, just follow the path and keep to the left, you'll see signs for Lons-daleYard."

For a few seconds, neither spoke, and Carlos saw, in the careful way she looked at him, that Jill had her own misgivings about him. Her leeriness made him trust her a little more; if shewas anti-Umbrella, it made sense that she wouldn't be too hot on hanging out with one of their employees.

Stop debating it and just go, for Christ's sake!

"Don't leave without me," Carlos said, meaning for it to come out lightly. He sounded dead serious.

"Don't make me wait too long," she returned and smiled, and he thought that maybe she was okay after all. Then she turned and jogged lightly away, back down the walk they'd entered by.

Carlos watched her leave, wondering if he was crazy for not going with her—and after a moment, he turned

and walked quickly toward the other exit before he could change his mind.

For someone who was bleeding like a stuck pig,

Mikhail was surprisingly swift. For at least twenty minutes Nicholai had followed the trail of dark droplets through a blockade, over gravel and asphalt, grass and debris, and still he hadn't sighted the dying man.

Perhapsdyingis too strong a word, considering...

Nicholai had planned to give up if he wasn't able to find the platoon leader after a few minutes, but the longer he searched, the more determined he became.

He found himself getting angry, too—how dare Mikhail run from his just punishment? Who did he think he was, wasting Nicholai's precious time? To frustrate him even further, Mikhail had covered quite a distance and was leading him back into town; another block or so and he'd be at the RPD building again.

Nicholai opened another door, scanned another room, sighed. Mikhail had to know that he was being followed—or he just didn't have the good sense to lay down and die. Either way, it wouldn't,couldn't be long now.

Nicholai walked through a small, orderly office, apparently attached to a parking garage, the erratic blood trail shining purple on the blue linoleum by the caged bare bulbs overhead. The splatters seemed to be thinning; either Mikhail was bleeding out—unlikely, it seemed—or he had found time to staunch his wound.

Nicholai gritted his teeth, reassuring himselfHe'll be weak, slowing down, perhaps looking for a place to rest. I saw the hit, he can't go on much longer.

He stepped out into the dark, cavernous garage, the cold air thick with the smells of gasoline and grease— and something else. He stopped, breathed deeply. A weapon had been fired recently, he was sure of it.

He moved quickly and silently across the cement, edging around a white van that blocked one of the rows of cars, and saw what appeared to be a dog sprawled in a puddle of blood, its strange body curled in a fetal position.

He hurried toward it, disgusted and thrilled at once. They'd warned him about the dogs, how quickly they became infected, and he knew that research had been conducted on their viability as weapons at the Spencer estate...

...and they were deemed too dangerous when they turned on their handlers. Untrainable, and their decay rate higher than the other organics.

Truly, the half-skinned animal at his feet looked and smelled like a piece of raw meat that had sat in the sun for too long. Accustomed as he was to death, Nicholai still felt his gorge rise at the stench, but he continued to study the creature, certain that the canine had been the target of recent gunplay.

Sure enough. Two entry wounds below the torn flap of its left ear... but not from an Ml6, the holes were much too big. Nicholai backed away, frowning. Someone besides Mikhail Victor had come through the garage in the last half hour, and probably not a U.B.C.S. soldier, unless they'd brought their own weapon, probably a handgun—

Nicholai heard something. His head snapped up, his attention on the exit door, ahead at two o'clock. A soft

sliding sound, an infected human brushing against the door, perhaps—or perhaps a wounded man, slumped and dying against the exit, too exhausted to press on.

Nicholai moved toward the door, hopeful—and grinned at the sound of Mikhail's voice, strained and weak, floating past the aging metal.

"No ... get away!"

Nicholai eagerly pushed the door open, wiping the smile off his face as he assessed the situation. A vast wrecking yard, gated, vehicles piled in a useless barricade, two more dead dogs limp on the cold ground.

Mikhail lay next to the garage door, partially propped against the wall and trying desperately to lift his rifle. His pale face was beaded with sweat and his hands shook wildly. Five meters away, half of a person was pulling itself toward the downed man on shredded fingertips, its rot-sexless face corrupted into a leering perma-grin. Its progress was achingly slow but constant; it seemed that

having no lower body—certainly not a complete digestive system—didn't stop the carrier from wanting to eat.

Do I play the hero, save my leader from being gnawed to death? Or do I enjoy the show?

"Nicholai, help me, please ...," Mikhail rasped, rolling his head to look up at him, and Nicholai found he couldn't resist. The idea that Mikhail would be grateful to him for saving his life seemed extraordinarily ...funny, for lack of a better term.

"Hang on, Mikhail," Nicholai said forcefully. "I'll take care of it!"

He dashed forward and jumped, slamming his boot heel into the carrier's skull, grimacing as a large section of its matted scalp sloughed wetly away from the bone.

He brought his heel down again, and a third time, and the once-human died in a thick, splinteringcrunch, its arms spasming, its fleshless fingertips dancing briefly on the asphalt.

Nicholai turned, hurrying back to kneel next to Mikhail.

"What happened?" he asked, voice heavy with concern as he gazed down at Mikhail's bloody stomach. "Did one of them get you?"

Mikhail shook his head, closing his eyes as if too exhausted to keep them open. "Somebody shot me."

"Who? Why?" Nicholai did his best to sound shocked.

"I don't know who, or why. I thought someone was following me, too, but—maybe they just thought I was one ofthem. A zombie."

Actually, that's not so far from the truth...Nicholai had to stifle another grin; he deserved an award for his performance.

"I saw... at least a few men got away," Mikhail whispered. "If we can get to the evac site, call in the transport... "

The St. Michael Clock Tower was the alleged evacuation site, where the soldiers were supposed to take the civilian survivors. Nicholai knew the truth—that a reconnaissance team would put down first disguised as

emergency medical, and no other helicopters would show unless Umbrella gave the word. Since the squad leaders were probably all dead, Nicholai had to wonder if any of the soldiers even knew about the "evacuation," though he supposed it wasn't important. It wouldn't affect his plans either way.

He found that he wasn't enjoying this game as much as he'd thought he would. Mikhail was too pathetically

trusting, it was as much of a challenge as hunting a friendly dog. It was almost shameful to watch, too, the way he surrendered to his pain ...

"I don't think you're in any shape to travel," Nicholai said coolly.

"It's not that bad. Hurts like hell, and I've lost some blood, but if I can just catch my breath, rest for a few minutes... "

"No, it looks very bad," Nicholai said. "Mortal. In fact, I think—"

Creeaak.

Nicholai shut up as the door to the garage opened next to them, a slow and even motion, and one of the U.B.C.S. soldiers stepped out, his eyes lighting up when he saw them, his assault rifle lowering—but only slightly.

"Sirs! Corporal Carlos Oliveira, A squad, Platoon Delta. I'm ... shit, it's good to see you guys."

Nicholai nodded briskly, annoyed beyond measure as Carlos crouched next to them, checking Mikhail's wound, asking stupid questions. He was ninety-nine percent sure he could kill both of them before they realized what was happening, but even one percent was too great a risk considering what was at stake. He would have to wait... but perhaps he could find a way to use these new circumstances to his advantage.

And if not... well, people turned their backs on their friends all the time, didn't they? And neither of them had reason to believe Nicholai was anything but.

What was the saying, about how an obstacle was only a disguised opportunity? Things were going to be fine.

ELEVEN

JILL SLID TO A STOP AT THE CITY HALL GATE, both gems held tightly in one sweaty hand. The area was clear, at least as far as she could see, but the restaurant had been empty, the Nemesis gone, and that meant she needed to hurry; she didn't know how, but itwas tracking her, and she wanted to get gone.

Her blurred dash through the alleyways behind the restaurant had left her short of breath and not a little frightened. She'd nearly tripped over the body of some unlikely creature, one she'd been unable to see in the deepening blackness—but the dark silhouette of multiple claws hanging dead in the shadows had been more than enough to keep her moving. It didn't look like anything she'd seen before; that, and the threat of the Nemesis's inevitable pursuit had her hi a mild panic.

She used it to lend speed to her efforts, careful to maintain tight control. She knew from experience that keeping in touch with one's animal instincts was a vital part of surviving; a little fear was a good thing, it kept the adrenaline flowing.

The ornamental clock was set into a raised dais next to the gate. She fumbled the blue jewel into place, the diamond-shaped glass setting off a faint electrical hum, a circular chain of lights that bordered the jewels flickering on. The green diamond went in just as easily, turning the light chain into a complete circle. There was a heavy grinding sound and the gate's two sets of doors slid open, revealing a shadowy path surrounded by overgrown hedges.

It didn't look bad from where she stood. She eased into the silent walk, opening her senses. Cool, dark, a mild breeze promising rain the only thing that moved, rustling the trees, brushing leaves, chilling the sweat on her face and arms. She could hear the soft wailing of a distant virus-zombie drift through the air, and she saw the pale smudges of early moonlight on the path stones. Alert but sensing no immediate danger, she stepped further inside, her thoughts turning to Carlos Oliveira.

He was telling the truth about being one of Umbrella's hired hands and probably about not knowing what the company was really up to, but he was also holding something back. He wasn't as good a liar as he thought, and his apparent willingness to lie didn't bode well.

On the other hand, he didn't come across as devious in any way—a liar who meant well, perhaps, or at least who didn't mean any harm. He was probably just being careful—doing exactly what she was doing. Whatever

the case, she didn't have time to do any major interpreting, so she was going with her first impression: he was one of the good guys. Whether or not that would be of any help to her was another story; for the moment, she was willing to settle for any ally who didn't have plans to kill her.

But should I be hooking up with anyone? What happens if he gets in the way of the Nemesis, and—

As if on cue she heard it, a malevolent coincidence that seemed unreal, like some deadly joke.

"Sstaarrss—"

Speak of the devil, oh, shit, where is it?Jill was almost at the center of the small park, where three trails intersected, and the sound came from somewhere ahead—or was it behind? The acoustics were strange, the tiny courtyard just in front of her making the low, hissing cry seem to come from everywhere. She spun, searching, but the path behind her and the two that stretched away from the open yard disappeared into shadow.

Which way...She stepped lightly into the open space, giving herself greater access to escape and room to maneuver, if it came to that.

A solid, heavy footstep. Another. Jill cocked her head—

—and there, ahead and to the left, the path that led to the trolley. A thickening darkness, still just out of clear sight.

Go back, newspaper office or back to the station, no, no way I can outrun it but there's the gas station, it has a metal lock-down shutter and there's a shitload of cars, the better to hide—

Ahead and to the right. A simple plan was better than none, and she'd run out of time to consider her options any further.

Jill took off, the light patter of her boots lost beneath a sudden clash of motion, the rising howl and dense tread of semisynthetic feet bearing down on the courtyard. She was deeply conscious of herself, of her muscles contracting, of the sounds of her heart and breath as she flew over the stones. In an instant, she was at the small gate that led further north, that would take her down a block packed with abandoned cars, past a gas station/repair shop, toward—

She couldn't remember. If the street was clear, she could head through the industrial section of town, hope that she didn't run into any of the zombie packs. If blockades had been put up—

—then I'm screwed, and it's too late anyway.

She let her well-trained body do the rest of her thinking, nimbly slipping through the gate and into a crouching run, carrying her into the relative safety of a maze of gridlocked cars and trucks. She could feel it coming, and she allowed herself to flow into the shadows, to find in herself some primal understanding of her place in the hunt. She was the prey, she had to be as elusive as the Nemesis was determined; if she did it right, she would survive and the creature would go hungry. If not...

No time, no more thinking. The Nemesis was coming. Jill moved.

In the parking garage's office, Carlos found a half case of bottled water, some duct tape, and a men's

dress shirt still in its package—as close to sterile supplies as they were going to get. He immediately set to doing what he could for Mikhail while Nicholai kept watch, staring out at the broken automobiles in the dark, rifle in hand. The courtyard was silent except for Mikhail's harsh breathing and the lonely cry of a distant crow.

Carlos didn't know much beyond simple triage, but he thought the wound wasn't too bad; the bullet had gone clean through Mikhail's side, not far above his left hip bone; an inch or two closer in and he would've been toast, a shot to the liver or kidneys his death warrant. As it was, his lower intestine had probably been pierced; it would kill him eventually, but with prompt medical attention, he should be okay for now.

Carlos cleaned and dressed the wound, taping compresses on, wrapping strips of the shirt around Mikhail's torso to keep the pressure up. The platoon leader seemed to be managing the pain well enough, though he was nauseous and dizzy from loss of blood.

Out of the corner of his eye, Carlos noticed that Nicholai was moving. He finished layering tape over the bandages and looked up, saw that the squad leader had taken a laptop computer out of his shoulder bag and was tapping at keys, his face a study in concentration. He'd slung his rifle and was crouched next to a smashed pickup truck.

"Sir—ah, Nicholai, I'm done here," Carlos said, standing. Mikhail had insisted that they drop the formalities of rank, pointing out that their situation demanded flexibility. Carlos had agreed, though he hadn't

gotten the impression that Nicholai liked it much; he seemed to be a by-the-book type.

Mikhail, pale and bleary-eyed, pushed himself up on his elbows. "Any way you can use that thing to call for evac?" His voice was weak.

Nicholai shook his head, sighing. He closed the laptop and returned it to his bag. "I found it at the police station and thought it might be of some use—lists of blockades, perhaps, or more information about this ... disaster."

"No luck?" Mikhail asked.

Nicholai moved toward them, his expression resigned. "No. I think our best option is to try and make it to the clock tower."

Carlos frowned. Trent had told him there was supposed to be a supply of weapons at a clock tower, and that he should head north from there; between Jill's westbound cable car and this new information, he was starting to feel plagued by coincidences. "Why the clock tower?"

Mikhail answered, speaking softly. "Evacuation.

It's where we were supposed to take the civilians and signal the transports to come in. The clock tower bells are scheduled to toll by computer, a system that emits a beacon signal when the program is being

used. We ring the bells, the 'copters come. Cute, huh?"

Carlos wondered why no one had bothered to in-cludethat little nugget of information in their briefing but decided not to ask. It didn't really matter at this point; they had to get to the trolley. He didn't know Nicholai well, but Mikhail Victor was no threat, not in

his condition, and he needed to get to a hospital. Trent had said there was one not far from the clock tower.

But Umbrella's eyes and ears—

No. Their stories were the same as his; they'd fought and watched their teammates die, gotten lost, looked for a way out and ended up here. It just felt weird, suddenly having two more people involved. Trent had him questioning everyone's motives now, wondering who might be involved in the alleged Umbrella conspiracy, worrying about what he could and couldn't say.

Besides, Umbrella screwed them over, too. Why would they want to help the bastards who landed us in this shit? Trent may be telling the truth, but he's not here. They are, and I need them.Weneed them. Jill couldn't possibly object to having a few soldiers on her side.

"There's a cable car we can use to get out there," Carlos said. "Right to the clock tower, I think. It's close, it runs west... and with all those things out there looking for fresh meat—"

"We could use a ride out of town," Nicholai broke in, nodding. "Assuming the tracks are clear. Wonderful. Are you sure it's in operating condition?"

Carlos hesitated, then shrugged. "I haven't actually seen it. I ran into a—cop, I guess, a woman, she told me about it. She was on her way there, to see, she said she'd wait for me. I wanted to see if I could find anyone before we left." He felt almost guilty telling them about her, and abruptly he realized that he was letting all of Trent's crazy spy crap get to him. Why keep Jill a secret? Who cared?

Mikhail and Nicholai exchanged a look and then

both nodded. Carlos was glad. At last, a real plan, a course of action. The only thing worse than being in "Let's go," Nicholai said. "Mikhail, are you ready?"

Mikhail nodded, and together, Carlos and Nicholai lifted him, supporting his weight as evenly as they could. They edged into the parking garage and had almost made it back to the office when Nicholai let out a mild curse and stopped.

"What?" Mikhail closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

"The explosives," Nicholai said. "I can't believe I forgot why I even came back this way. After I found Mikhail, I just—"

"Explosives?" Carlos asked.

"Yes. Just after the zombies attacked, and my squad"—Nicholai swallowed, obviously struggling to maintain his composure—"after the zombies attacked, I ended up near a construction site, back in the industrial area. A building was being torn down, I think, and I saw a few discarded boxes with high explosive warnings. There was a locked trailer, I was going to break in but another wave of them came after me."

He met Carlos's gaze squarely. "They'd think twice about attacking in groups if we had a few RDX dynamite mixes to throw at them. Do you think you can make it to the trolley without me? I can meet you there."

"I don't think we should split up," Mikhail said. "We stand a better chance if—"

"If we have a way to keep them from getting too close," Nicholai interjected. "We can't afford to run out

of ammo, not without something else to back us up. And there are the others to consider, the creatures ..."

Carlos didn't think splitting up was such a good idea, either, but remembering that clawed thing from outside the restaurant—

—and what about that bigfeoninside the restaurant? Jill said it would be coming after her again . ..

"Yeah, okay," Carlos said. "We'll wait for you at the cable car."

"Good. I won't be long." Without another word, Nicholai turned and quickly walked away, out of the garage and into the night.

Carlos and the pale Mikhail struggled on in silence. They'd gone back through the office and out into the street before Carlos realized that Nicholai hadn't bothered asking for directions to the trolley.

Nicholai had to resist a powerful urge to check the computer again as soon as he was out of sight; he had wasted enough time playing the upstanding squad leader to the two idiot soldiers. It had already been nineteen minutes since Captain Davis Chan had filed a Watchdog status report from the Umbrella medical sales office—about two blocks from the parking garage—and if Nicholai was very lucky, he might catch Chan still in the act, checking updated memos or trying to get through to one of the administrators.

Nicholai jogged down a narrow alley plastered with flyers, hopping over several corpses strewn throughout, careful to avoid their upper bodies in case they weren't dead. Sure enough, one of the blasted-looking things near the end of the alley tried to reach around and grab

his left boot. Nicholai jumped it with no trouble, smiling a little at its frustrated moan. Almost as pathetic as Mikhail.

Carlos Oliveira, though. Tougher than he looked, and definitely brighter—no match forhim, of course, but Nicholai would want to get rid of him sooner rather than later...

...or not. I could bypass that charade entirely.

Nicholai pushed through a metal door to his right, into another alley littered with human remains, considering his options as he hurried along. He didn't need to go to the clock tower for any reason, just the hospital—and he didn't have to take the trolley. Toying with Mikhail and now Carlos was enjoyable, but not a necessity. He could even let them live, if he chose...

He grinned, turning a corner in the winding alleyway. What fun wouldthat be? No, he was looking forward to watching the trust in their eyes crumble, seeing them realize how stupid they'd been—

Tic tic tic.

Nicholai froze, understanding the sound instantly.

Claws on rock, ahead of him, the almost gentle clatter coming from the shadows above and to the left. The only available light was behind him in the walkway's comer, one of those buzzing fluorescent security lamps that barely had the power to show itself; he backed toward it, thetics coming faster and closer, the creature still unseen.

"Show yourself, then," he growled, frustrated with yet another instance of bad timing. He had to get to the sales office before Chan disappeared, he didn't have

time to battle one of Umbrella's freaks, much as he wanted to.

Tic tic tic.

Two of them! He could hear claws scratching cement to his right, where he'd just been, even as an unholy shriek sounded from the dark in front of him, a sound like madness, like souls being ripped apart—

—and there it was, screaming, leaping from the dark as the other joined in its monstrous song, moving black hell in stereo. Nicholai saw the raised hook claws of the one in front of him, the snapping, dripping mandibles, the gleaming insectile eyes, and knew the other was only a second behind its sibling, preparing to jump even as the first landed.

Nicholai opened up, the rattle of automatic fire lost beneath the twin howls, the rounds finding their mark on the first, its scream changing as it shuddered to a stop barely three meters away—and, still firing,

Nicholai crouched and fell backwards, rolling up on his right side in a single fluid motion. The second charging animal was less than two meters away when he hit it, bloody divots appearing in its shining black exoskeleton like flowers in explosive bloom. Like the first, it twitched and spasmed to a halt before collapsing, its shrill cry becoming a gurgle, becoming silence.

Nicholai got to his feet, unnerved, not sure of the species—either brain sucker or the more amphibious deimos, another multi-legged breed. He'd expected the viciousness and the attack method, but hadn't under-

If I'd been even a second later. . .

No time to consider it, he was in a hurry. He edged

forward, quickly stepping over the dark, oozing sprawl of limbs, breaking into a run as soon as he was past.

With each step away from the dead creatures he felt his composure returning, felt a flush of accomplishment warm him from the inside out. They were fast, but he was faster—and with such monsters loose in the city, he wouldn't have to worry about Mikhail or Carlos oranyone escaping what they were due. If he didn't get to enjoy the pleasure himself, he could revel in the knowledge that his comrades would certainly fall prey to any one of a dozen horrors, their inadequate reflexes failing them, their lack of skills ensuring their doom.

Nicholai tightened his grip on the M16, a rush of elation adding spring to each agile step. Raccoon was no place for the weak. He had nothing to fear.

twelve

THE STEEL SHUTTER THAT PROTECTED THE front of the machine shop was down and locked, but Jill managed to get in through the garage, picking her way past a side door. The shop was sturdy enough, well protected from the average thief and certainly any zombie—but Jill had no doubt that if the Nemesis wanted to get in, it probably could. She'd just have to hope that it hadn't tracked her this far...

.. .however it does that, exactly.

Jill had no idea. Did it smell her? That didn't seem likely, considering her careful, breathless walk to the gas station; she'd dodged from shadow to shadow, hearing the Nemesis's thundering but clumsy progress as it searched for her amongst the crowd of abandoned cars. If it tracked her by scent, it would have caught her... though how did it know who she was, specifically? If another woman her size stumbled across its path, would it mistake that woman for Jill?

Jill walked through the well-lit garage, her boots making soft wet noises against the oil-sticky floor, her thoughts wandering as she took in the layout and checked doors. She didn't know how the Nemesis had been programmed to find and kill S.T.A.R.S. or why it seemed to break off its pursuit from time to time, either; with Brad dead, she was the only S.T.A.R.S. member still in Raccoon.

Unless...Police Chief Irons had been a B team member, some twenty years back, and he was probably still in town ...

Jill shook her head. Ridiculous. Chris had dug up enough information on Irons to make it a near certainty that he was working for Umbrella, just as they suspected their mysterious Mr. Trent was—the difference being that Trent seemed to want to help them, while Irons was a money-grubbing creep who didn't give a shit about anyone but himself. If Ironswas on the Nemesis's hit list, Jill was pretty much okay with that.

From the garage, she stepped into a kind of combination office-break room—a soda machine, a small table with a couple of chairs, a cluttered desk. Jill tried the telephone on general principles, receiving the dead air she expected.

"Now I wait, I guess," she said to no one in particular, leaning against the counter. If the Nemesis didn't show up after a few moments, she'd slip out again, head back to the trolley. She wondered if Carlos was there yet, and if he'd found any survivors from his pla-toon—what was it? Umbrella Bio-Hazard something.

Probably one of their semilegitimate branches; it would be good PR, once the news got out about Raccoon. Umbrella's admin would be able to point to their special task force, tell the media how quickly and decisively they'd acted when they'd realized there'd been an accident.

Except they won't call it an accident, because that could mean negligence on their part; no doubt they've already got a scapegoat lined up and ready to hang, some unlucky yes-man they can frame for the murder of thousands.. .

Not if she could help it, not if her friends could; one way or another, the truth was going to come out.

It had to.

Jill noticed a few tools lying around—a set of socket wrenches, a couple of crowbars—and it occurred to her

that it might be handy to pack a few things for the trolley. It'd suck to get there and end up needing a screwdriver or the like, something they'd have to come back for. She was a mechanical illiterate herself, but maybe Carlos had some experience—

Thump! Thump! Thump!

Jill dropped into a crouch behind the counter as soon as she heard the slow, heavy knocks at the garage's side door, insistent and steady.

Nemesis?No, the rappings were loud but not powerful, it was either a human or—

"Uuhh." The gently hungry cry filtered through the door, joined by another, then a third, then a chorus. Virus carriers, and it sounded like a large group of them. Any relief she felt upon realizing that it wasn't the Nemesis quickly faded; a dozen zombies hammering on the door was the equivalent of a flashing neon sign that readgood eats.

And how exactly am I going to sneak out of here now?

Her simple plan, to hide until the Nemesis went away, had pretty much crapped out. She needed a new plan, preferably one she had more than a few seconds to map out.

So come up with something already. Unless you mean to go charging out there and start kicking ass.

Jill sighed, the low gnaw of dread in her stomach so constant that she no longer noticed it. Outside, the decaying carriers continued to shuffle and cry, beating helplessly against the door.

Might as well run through her options; she had a few minutes to kill.

They made it to the trolley without any trouble.

Carlos was feeling hopeful as they staggered into the station yard lit by an expanse of merrily burning debris to one side—no zombies, no monsters, and Mikhail didn't seem to be getting any worse. The City Hall gate had been open, a dozen jewels set into a kind of clock on a nearby pedestal, which meant Jill had already gone through. Carlos had expected her to make it, but it "There it is," Mikhail said, and Carlos nodded, squinting as a gust of foul-smelling smoke washed over them. To their right was a grand old building, either the trolley station or the alleged City Hall. In front of them, past a stack of crates that blocked their path, was an old-fashioned trolley car, its red paint slightly faded. As they got closer, Carlos could see that a second car was

attached, most of it hidden in the shadow of a building overhang.

Jill was probably waiting in one of them. Carlos shoved a few of the crates aside with one hip, Mikhail steadying himself against the station wall.

"Almost there," Carlos said.

Mikhail smiled weakly. "Bet you'll be glad to dump my ass into a seat."

"Be gladder to sit my own ass down. One-way ticket outta here."

Mikhail actually managed a laugh. "I hear that."

They moved beneath the overhang, Carlos searching the windows of both cars for movement. He didn't see anything; worse, he didn't/eel anything. The place seemed totally deserted, still and lifeless.

Hope you 're taking a nap in there, Jill Valentine.

The sliding side door of the first car they reached was locked; to their mutual relief, the second wasn't. After giving the car a once-over to be certain it was empty, Carlos helped Mikhail aboard, getting him settled into a window bench seat. As soon as the platoon leader was lying down, he seemed to fall into a half swoon.

"I'm going to check out the second car, then see what I can do to get a few lights on in here," Carlos said. Mikhail grunted in response.

Not surprisingly, Jill wasn't in the other car, either, but Carlos did find the electrical controls next to the driver's seat. At the touch of a button, a row of overhead lights switched on, illuminating an aging wood floor and red vinyl padded seats lining both walls.

worry for her. If something had happened, he was going to feel at least partly responsible for not accompanying her back to the restaurant.

Mikhail was barely conscious when Carlos checked on him, but it was more like sleep than coma. Until a doctor looked at the wound, rest was probably the best thing for him.

There was an open control panel at the back of the car, which Carlos knelt to examine. His heart dropped when he saw that it was part of the primary power setup and that a few parts had been removed. He didn't know anything about cable cars, but it didn't take a genius to understand that you couldn't run a machine when the wires had been pulled, particularly on such an ancient system. It looked like there was a missing fuse, too.

"Hijo de la chingada,"he whispered and heard a feeble laugh behind him.

"I know just enough Spanish to know you shouldn't kiss your mother with that mouth," Mikhail said.

"What's wrong?"

"There's a fuse missing," Carlos said. "And these circuits have got to be shorted out. We'll have to bypass them if we want to get this thing moving."

"Just northeast of here ...," Mikhail started, but he had to pause for a few breaths before going on.

"There's a gas station. Repair shop. It was one of the landmarks on... the city map, it's suburbs past that. Probably have equipment there."

Carlos thought about it. He didn't want to leave Mikhail alone, and Jill or Nicholai could show up any minute...

...but we ain 't going no place without a power

cable and a high amp fuse, and Mikhail's on a downhill slide; what choice have I got?

"Yeah, okay," Carlos said lightly, walking over to Mikhail. He gazed down at him, concerned about the high color of his cheeks, the waxy pallor of his brow. "Guess I'll go check that out—wanna come with?"

"Ha ha," Mikhail whispered. "Be careful."

Carlos nodded. "Try to get some sleep. If anyone shows up, tell them I'll be right back."

Mikhail was already slipping back into a doze.

"Sure," he mumbled.

Carlos checked Mikhail's rifle to make sure it was loaded, and he placed it next to the padded bench, within easy reach. He hunted around for something else to say, some words of reassurance, and finally just turned and walked to the exit. Mikhail wasn't stupid, he knew what the stakes were.

His life, among other things.

Carlos took a deep breath and opened the door, praying that the gas station wasn't too far away.

Chan was gone, and not only was there no way to tell where he was headed but Nicholai had missed him by bare minutes. The computer he'd apparently made his report from was still warm, the glass of the monitor crackling with static electricity. Nicholai impulsively scooped up the monitor and threw it across the room, but wasn't satisfied with its mundane explosion of cheap plastic casing and glass. He wanted blood. If Chan came back to the office, Nicholai would beat him severely before ending his life.

He paced the small, heavily littered office, fuming.

He teases me with his ignorance. He is so stupid, so oblivious, how can he be so inferior and still be alive? Nicholai knew that the thought wasn't strictly rational, but he was furious with Chan. Davis Chan didn't deserve to be a Watchdog, he didn't deserve tolive.

Gradually, Nicholai took hold of himself, breathing deeply, forcing himself to count to a hundred by twos. It was still early in the game. Besides, Nicholai's plan depended on having information that Umbrella wanted— and if he meant to steal that information, he had to allowsome time for the other Watchdogs to collect it. The daily field reports were a bare summary of conditions and body count, used as much as a check-in as anything else; the real stuff was being stored on disk, transcribed from found documents or picked out of someone else's files, only downloaded by cell if the

Watchdog considered it of critical importance.

And... while I'm waiting, I can check in with my comrades at the trolley.

Nicholai stopped pacing, struck by the realization that he had truly enjoyed his deception of Carlos and Mikhail. Somehow, that there were two of them had turned it into a more exciting game. Would they suspect him? What were they saying about his sudden departure? What did theythink of him?

And what would it be like to witness Mikhail's slow, excruciating loss of life, watch him lose his capacity for reason as the young protagonist Carlos vainly struggles to beat the odds?Nicholai could disable the bell mechanism once they reached the clock tower... perhaps bravely volunteer to seek out the hospital, to bring back supplies—

Nicholai laughed suddenly, a harsh barking sound in the stillness of the room. He had to kill Dr. Aquino— the scientist who was supposed to report in from the hospital, the one working with the vaccine—anyway, and he knew that Aquino had been ordered to see to the hospital's destruction before leaving Raccoon, to eliminate trace evidence from his research. And there was also a specific species of organic stored at the hospital that Umbrella had decided to abandon, the Hunter Gamma series, so blowing up the hospital meant two objectives met for the price of one.

It seemed that the HGs weren't cost effective, although there had been serious disagreement within the administration about whether or not to destroy the prototypes. If Nicholai could lure Carlos into combat with one of them, he would have some valuable information of his own to sell... and he, too, would be meeting more than one objective with a single action.

It all came together, there was a kind of symmetry to it all. He'd drop me entire scheme if anything went wrong, of course, or if he found it wouldn't mesh with his plans. He wasn't an idiot—but having a project to fill his downtime would keep him from becoming overly frustrated.

Nicholai turned and started for the door, amused by his own indulgence. Raccoon City was like some haunted kingdom where he was ruler, able to do as he wished—anythinghe wished. Lie, murder, bathe in the glory of another man's defeat. It was all his for the tak-ing,and with a payoff at the end.

He felt like himself again. It was time to play.

THIRTEEN

JILL HAD FINALLY DECIDED TO OPEN THE metal shutter and make a break for it when she heard shots outside, the high-pitched chatter of an assault rifle. To say she was relieved was an understatement; the relentless thumping of the mostly dead outside had been eating at her nerves, almost tempting her to shoot herself, just so she wouldn't have to hear it anymore— and now, in a matter of seconds, it was quiet once again.

She moved quickly to the side door in the garage, ducking beneath a disemboweled red compact on a lift and pressing her ear to the cold metal. All was silent, the virus carriers surely dead—

Bam-bam-bam!

Jill jerked back as someone hammered on the door, her heart keeping time.

"Hey, is somebody in there? The zombies are dead, you can open up now!"

No mistaking the accent; it was Carlos Oliveira. Relieved, Jill turned the lock, announcing herself as she threw the door open.

"Carlos, it's Jill Valentine."

She was happy to see him, but the look on his face was so sincerely elated that she felt almost shy suddenly. She moved back from the door so he could step inside.

"I'm so glad you're okay, when you weren't at the trolley, I thought..." Carlos trailed off, his "thought" obvious enough. "Anyway, it's really good to see you again."

His apparently serious concern for her was a surprise, and she was uncertain how to respond—irrita-tion, that she was being patronized? She didn't/eel irritated. Having someone interested in her well-being, particularly considering the kind of chaos they were in,

The fact that that someone is tall, dark, and handsome isn't such a terrible thing, either, hmm?Jill instantly clamped down on the thought, cutting it short. True or not, they were in a survival situation; they could make eyes at each other later,/ they made it out alive.

Carlos didn't seem to notice her slight discomfort.

"So, what are you doing here?"

Jill gave him a half smile. "I got sidetracked. Don't suppose you saw Frankenstein's monster wandering around out there?"

Carlos frowned. "You saw him again?"

"Not him, it. It's called a Tyrant, if it's what I think it is—or some variation, anyway. Bio-synthetic, extremely strong, and very hard to kill. And it appears Umbrella figured out how to program it for a specific task—in this case, killing me."

Carlos gazed at her skeptically. "Why you?"

"Long story. The short answer is, I know too much. Anyway, I was hiding here, but—"

Carlos finished for her. "But a gang of zombies showed up, making it hard for you to leave. Gotcha."

Jill nodded. "What about you? You said you made it to the trolley, what you doing here?"

"I ran into two other U.B.C.S. guys. One of mem got shot, he's still alive but not doing so great Mikhail. Nicholai—that's the other one—thought he knew where to get some explosives, so Mikhail and I went to the trolley to wait for him. It turns out that there's an evac on standby, if we can get to the clock tower and ring the bells. We ring, helicopters come."

He noticed Jill's expression and shrugged, grinning. "Yeah, I know. It's some kind of computer signal, I don't know how it works. Great news, except to get the trolley running we're going to need a couple of things—a power cable and one of those old-fashioned electrical fuses, to start with. Mikhail told me there was a repair shop over here; he's one of the platoon leaders, he got a good look at a map before we

landed... "

Carlos frowned, then nodded to himself as if he'd solved some puzzle. "Nicholai must have seen a map, too, that would explain why he didn't need directions."

"Carlos, Mikhail, Nicholai—Umbrella doesn't discriminate based on nationality, does it?" Jill made the joke offhandedly, mostly to cover a deepening sense of unease. She thought Carlos was decent at heart, but two more Umbrella soldiers, one of them a platoon leader—what were the odds that all three were stand-up guys who had been misled by their employer? Umbrella was the enemy, she couldn't lose focus of that.

Carlos was already walking away, his attention fixed on the raised red car. "If they were doing any electrical checks, there should be ... there, that's what I'm looking for!"

It seemed that Carlos had seen the cable he wanted in the tangle of cords and wires spilling out from under the hood, some of them hooked to machines Jill didn't recognize, some just trailing on the oily cement.

"Careful," Jill said, moving to join him as he reached up and grabbed one of the cables, dark green. She had an instinctive mistrust of electrical equipment and vaguely believed that people who messed around with wires were just asking to be electrocuted.

"No problem," Carlos said easily. "Only a realba-boso would leave any of these hooked up to the—"

Crack!

An orange-white spark spat out from one of the trailing wires, loud and bright and as explosive as a gunshot. Before Jill could draw breath, the cement floor was on fire—no gradual build, no sense of expansion, it was just suddenly and completely ablaze, the flames two, three feet high and rising.

"This way!" Jill shouted, running toward the open door that led into the office, the oil-fed fire blasting

heat against her bare skin,when it hits the car's gas tank it's going to blow, we gotta get out of here —

Carlos was right behind her, and as they ran into the office, Jill felt her blood run cold. Screw the car, the car was nothing compared to what was going to happen when the fire got to the underground tanks in front of the station.

A chain pulley hung next to the steel shutter that blocked the front door. Jill ran for it, but Carlos was one step ahead. He snatched the chain and pulled, hand over hand, the shutter inching slowly upward in spite of the frantic rattle of metal links.

"Drop and crawl," Carlos said, raising his voice to be heard over the clanking, over the oceanlike rumble of spreading fire in the shop.

"Carlos, the tanks outside—"

"I know, now move!"

The bottom of the shutter was a foot and a half from the ground. Jill dropped, flattening herself against the cold floor, shouting up to Carlos before she belly-crawled outside.

"Leave it, it's good enough!"

Then she was through, stumbling to her feet, reaching around to grab Carlos's hand and pulling him up after her. Inside the shop, something exploded, a dullwhoomp of sound,maybe a gas can or that cabinet full of machine oil, Jesus I must be cursed doomed something things keep blowing up around me —

Carlos grabbed her arm, snapping her out of her wild-eyed freeze. "Come on!"

She didn't need to be told twice. With the rising light

pouring from the machine shop's windows, illuminating in manic orange the heaped corpses of at least eight virus carriers, she ran, Carlos beside her.

The gridlock was bad, the street jammed, no clear path for them to make time. Jill could feel the seconds fly as they struggled through the maze of dead metal and blank, staring glass. The first real explosion and the sound of shattering windows behind them was too close,we're not far enough yet, but all they could do was what they were doing—that and pray that the fire

would somehow miss the main tanks.

Maybe we should take cover, maybe we're out of the blast radius and—

Somehow, she didn't hear it—or rather, she heard a sudden, total absence of sound. Too focused on wending through the silent traffic in the dark, the rush of blood in her ears, the passing time, perhaps. All she knew was that she was running, and then there was a mammoth wave of pressure that boosted her from behind, lifting her up and forward at once, the side of a beaten panel truck rushing at her and Carlos screaming something—and then there was nothing but blackness, nothing but a distant sun that lapped at the edges of her dark, sending her dreams of angry light.