The Umbrella Conspiracy

She’d made it this far she could make it a little farther, try to unravel the mystery that had taken the lives of so many—

• or die trying, her mind whispered softly.

Forest Speyer was dead. The laughing, Southern good oF boy with his ratty clothes and easy grin was no more. That Forest was gone, leaving behind a bloody, lifeless impostor slumped against a wall. Chris stared down at the impostor, the distant sounds of the night lost to a sudden gust of wind that whipped around the eaves, moaning through the railing of the second-story patio. It was a ghostly sound, but Forest couldn’t hear it; Forest would never hear anything again.

Chris crouched down next to the still body, care-fully prying Forest’s Beretta from beneath cool fin-gers. He told himself he wouldn’t look, but as he reached for Forest’s belt pack, he found his gaze fixed on the terrible emptiness where the Bravo’s eyes had once been.

Jesus, what happened? What happened to you, man? Forest’s body was covered with wounds, most an inch or two across and surrounded by raw, bloody flesh—it was as if he’d been stabbed hundreds of times with a dull knife, each vicious cut ripping away chunks of skin and muscle. Part of his ribcage was cruelly exposed, slivers of white showing beneath tattered redness. His eyeless, streaming stare was the crowning horror—like the killer hadn’t been content to take Forest’s life, wanting his soul instead. . . . There were three clips for the Beretta in Forest’s pack. Chris shoved the magazines into a pocket and quickly stood up, tearing his gaze from the mutilated body. He looked out over the dark woods, breathing deeply. His thoughts were jumbled and grasping, trying to find an explanation and yet unable to hold on to any coherent facts.

Once in the main hall, he’d decided to check all of the doors to see which were unlocked—and when he’d seen the bloody hand print in the tiny upstairs hall and heard the wailing cries of birds, he’d charged in, ready to deal out some justice.......crows. It sounded like crows, an entire flock . . .or a murder,

actually. Pack of dogs, kindle of kittens, murder of crows . . .

He blinked, his tired mind focusing on the seem-ingly random bit of trivia. Frowning, Chris crouched back down next to Forest’s ravaged body, studying the jagged wounds closely. There were dozens of tiny scratches amidst the more serious cuts, scratches set into lined patterns—

Claws. Talons.

Even as the thought occurred to him, he heard a restless flutter of wings. He turned slowly, still holding Forest’s Beretta in a hand that had suddenly gone cold.

A sleek, monstrous bird was perched on the railing not two feet away, watching him with bright black eyes. Its smooth feathers gleamed dully against its bloated body . . . and a ribbon of something red and wet hung from its beak.

The bird tilted its head to the side and let out a tremendous shriek, the streamer of Forest’s flesh droooine to the railing. From all around, the answer-ing cries of its gathered siblings flooded the night air. There was a furious whisper of oversized wings as dozens of dark, fluttering shapes swooped out from beneath the eaves, screeching and clawing. Chris ran, the image of Forest’s bloody, terrible eyes burned into his pounding thoughts as he lunged for escape. He stumbled into the tiny hall and slammed the door against the rising screams of the birds, adrenaline pumping through his system in hot, surging beats.

He took a deep breath, then another, and after a moment, his heart slowed down to a more normal pace. The shrieks of the crows gradually grew distant, blown away on a softly moaning wind.

Jesus, how dumb can I get? Stupid, stupid—

He’d stormed out onto the deck looking for a fight, looking to avenge the deaths of the other S.T.A.R.S.—and been shocked into stupidity by what he’d found. If he hadn’t let himself get so freaked out by Forest’s death, he would have made the connection sooner between the birds and the types of wounds—and perhaps noticed the gather-ing flesh-eaters that had watched him from the shadows, looking for their next victim. He headed for the door back to the main hall, angry with himself for going into a situation unprepared. He couldn’t afford to keep making mistakes, to let his attention wander from what was in front of him. This wasn’t some kind of a game, where he could push a reset button if he missed a trick. People were dying, his friends were dying—

• and if you don’t pull your head out of your ass and start being more careful, you ‘re going to join them—another torn and lifeless body crumpled in a cold hallway somewhere, another victim to the insanity of this house—

Chris silenced the nagging whisper, taking a deep breath as he stepped back into the high gallery of the lobby and closed the door behind him. Beating him-self up was no more useful than charging blindly around in a strange and dangerous environment, looking for revenge. He had to concentrate on what was important: the lost Alphas and Rebecca. . . .He walked toward the stairs, tucking Forest’s weap-on into his waistband. At least Rebecca would be able to defend herself—

“Chris.”

Startled, he looked down to see the young S.T.A.R.S. member at the base of the wide steps, grinning up at him.

He jogged down the stairs, glad to see her in spite of himself. “What happened? Is everything all right?” Rebecca held up a silver key as he reached her, still smiling widely. “I found something I thought you could use.”

He took the key, noting that the handle was etched with a tiny shield before slipping it inside his vest. Rebecca was beaming, her eyes flashing with excite-ment.

“After you left, I played the piano and this secret door opened up in the wall. There was this gold emblem inside, like a shield, and I switched it with the one in the dining room—and the grandfather clock moved, and that key was behind it—“ She broke off suddenly, her smile faltering as she studied his face. “I’m sorry ... I know I shouldn’t have left, but I thought I could catch you before you got too far ...”

“It’s okay,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’m just surprised to see you. Here, I found you something a little better than a can of insect repellent.” He handed her the Beretta, pulling out a couple of clips to go with it. Rebecca took the gun, staring down at it thoughtfully.

When she looked up at him again, her gaze was serious and intense. “Who was it?”

Chris thought about lying, but saw that she wasn’t going to buy it—and realized suddenly what it was about her that made him feel so protective, that made him want to shield her from the sad and sickening truth.

Claire.

That was it; Rebecca reminded him of his little sister, from her tomboy sarcasm and quick wit to the way she wore her hair.

“Listen,” she said quietly, “I know you feel respon-sible for me, and I admit that I’m pretty new at this. But I’m a member of this team, and sheltering me from the facts could get me killed. So—who was it?” Chris stared at her for a moment and then sighed. She was right. “Forest. I found him outside, he’d been pecked to death by crows. Kenneth’s dead, too.” A sudden anguish passed across her eyes, but she nodded firmly, keeping her gaze on his. “Okay. So what do we do now?”

Chris couldn’t help the slightest of smiles, trying to remember if he’d ever been so young.

He motioned up the stairs, hoping that he wasn’t about to make another mistake. “I guess we try another door. . . .”

Wesker didn’t catch much of the conversation be-tween Barry and Jill, but after a muffled, “Good luck,” from Mr. Burton, he heard a door open and close somewhere near by—and a moment later, the hollow thump of bootsteps against wood, followed by another closing door. The hall outside was clear, his team off on their mission to find the rest of the copper crests.

Looks like I picked the right room to wait in. . . . He’d used the helmet key to lock himself into a small study by the back door, the perfect place from which to monitor the team’s progress. Not only could he hear them coming and going, he’d be able to get a head start to the labs. . . .

He held the heavy wind crest up to the light of the desk lamp, grinning. It had been too easy, really. He’d happened across the plaster statue on his way back from talking to Barry, and remembered that it had a secret compartment somewhere. Rather than waste valuable time searching, he’d simply pushed the hide-ous thing off the dining room balcony. It hadn’t been hiding one of the crests, but the sparkle of the blue jewel amidst the rubble had been almost as good. There was a room just off the dining hall that held a statue of a tiger with one red eye and one blue, one of the few mechanisms that he’d remembered from an earlier visit. A quick visit to the statue had confirmed his suspicions; both eyes had been missing, and when he’d placed the gaudy blue jewel into its proper socket, the tiger had turned to one side and presented him with the crest. Just like that, he was one step closer to completing his mission.

When the other three are in place, I’ll wait until they’re off looking for the final piece and then slip right out the door. . . .

He considered going to check the diagram, but decided against it. The house was big, but not that big, and there was no need to expose himself to further risk of being seen. Besides, they probably hadn’t managed to find any of the other crests yet. He’d already had a close call when he’d gone downstairs to retrieve the jewel, almost stepping directly into Chris Redfield’s path. Chris had found the rookie and the two of them were blundering around, probably look-ing for “clues.” . . .

Besides, this room is comfortable. Maybe I’ll take a nap while I wait for the rest of them to catch up. He leaned back in the desk chair, pleased with himself for all he’d accomplished so far. What could have been a disaster was turning out quite nicely, thanks to some quick thinking on his part. He had already found one of the crests, he had Barry and Jill working for him—and he’d had the good fortune to run into Ellen Smith while he’d been in the li-brary. . . .

Oops, scratch that. It’s Doctor Ellen Smith, thank you very much.

After fetching the wind crest, he’d gone to the library to check the small side room that overlooked the estate’s heliport, the entrance concealed behind a bookcase. A quick search had revealed nothing useful, and he’d been about to check the back room when Dr. Smith had shambled out to greet him.

He had tried to get a date with her ever since he’d moved to Raccoon, drawn in by her long legs and platinum blond hair; he’d always been partial to blonds, particularly smart ones. Not only had she repeatedly turned him down, she hadn’t even tried to be nice about it. When he’d called her Ellen, she’d coolly informed him that she was his superior and a doctor, and would be addressed as such. Ice queen, through and through. If she hadn’t been so damned good-looking, he never would’ve bothered in the first place.

But my, how your beauty has faded, Dr. Ellen. . . . Wesker closed his eyes, smiling, reliving the experi-ence. It had been the ratty strings of blond hair that had given her away as she’d shuffled out from behind a shelf, moaning and reaching for him. Her legs were still long, but they’d lost a lot of their appeal—not to mention a fair amount of skin.. . .

“What lovely perfume you’re wearing, Dr. Smith,” he’d said. Then two shots to the head, and she’d gone down in a spray of blood and bone. Wesker didn’t like to think of himself as a shallow man, but pulling the trigger on that high-riding bitch had been wonder-fully—no, deeply—gratifying.

Like icing on a cake, a little bonus perk for taking matters in hand. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll run into that prick Sarton down in the labs. . . .

After a few moments, Wesker stood up and stretched, turning to scan some of the titles on the bookshelf behind him. He was eager to get moving, but it might take the S.T.A.R.S. awhile to find the rest of the puzzle pieces and there was really nothing he could do to hurry the process; he might as well keep busy. . . .

He frowned, struggling to make sense of the techni-cal titles. One of the books was called, Phagemids:

Alpha Complementation Vectors, the next one was, cDNA Libraries and Electrophoresis Conditions. Biochemistry texts and medical journals, terrific. Maybe he’d get that nap in after all. Just reading the titles was making him sleepy.

His gaze fell across a heavy-looking tome sitting by itself on one of the lower shelves, bound in a fine red leather. He picked it up, glad to see a title he could read printed across the front, even one as stupid as, Eagle of East, Wolf of West_Wait—that’s the same thing written on the foun-tain—

Wesker stared at the words, feeling his good mood slipping away. It couldn’t be, the researchers had gone nuts but surely they wouldn’t have locked down the labs, there was no reason for it. He opened the book almost frantically, praying that he was wrong—

• and let out a low moan of helpless rage at what was tucked into the sham book’s glued pages. A brass medallion with an eagle engraved on it lay in the cut away compartment—part of a key to yet another of Spencer’s insane locks.

It was like the punch line to a cruel joke. To get out of the house, he had to find the crests. Once out in the courtyard, he’d have to make his way through a winding maze of tunnels that ended in a hidden section of the garden—where there was an old stone fountain that marked the entrance to the under-ground labs. The fountain was one of Spencer’s fanciful creations, a marvel of engineering that could be opened and closed to hide the facility under-neath—provided, of course, that you had the keys: two medallions made out of brass, an eagle on one, a wolf on the other. . . .

Finding the eagle meant that the gate was closed. And that meant that the wolf could be anywhere, anywhere at all—and that his chances of even getting to the lab had just dropped down to somewhere near zero.

Unable to control his fury, he snatched up the medal and threw the book against the desk, knocking the lamp over with a crash and plunging the room into sudden blackness. There was no longer any point in holding on to the wind crest; his perfect plan was ruined. He’d have to give up his edge and hope that one of the others would inadvertently stumble across the wolf medal for him, secreted away somewhere on the massive, sprawling estate.

Which means more risk, more searching—and a chance that one of them will reach the labs before I do. Seething, Wesker stood in the dark silence with his fists clenched, trying not to scream.

TWELVE

JILL HEARD SOMETHING LIKE BREAKING glass and held perfectly still, listening. The acoustics of the mansion were strange, the long corridors and unusual floor plan making it hard to tell where sounds were coming from.

Or if you even heard them at all. . . . She sighed, taking a last look around the quiet, book-lined sitting room at the top of the stairs. She’d already checked the three other rooms along the gallery railing and found exactly nothing of interest—a sparse bedroom with two bunks, an office, and an unfinished den with a locked door and a fireplace inside. The only switches she’d found were light switches, though she had gotten excited over a rather sinister-looking black button on the wall of the of-fice—until she’d pushed it, and found that she’d managed to discover the drainage control for an empty fish tank in the corner.

She’d found some ammo for the Remington, she supposed she should be grateful for that—a dozen shells in a metal box underneath one of the bunks in the bedroom. But if there’d been any hidden crests, she’d missed them.

Jill took out Trent’s computer and checked the map, finding her position at the top of the stairs. Just past the sitting room’s second door was a wide, U-shaped corridor that angled back around to the front hall balcony. The corridor also connected to two rooms, one a dead end and the other leading through several more. . . .

She put the computer away and drew her Beretta, taking a moment to clear her mind before stepping into the corridor. It wasn’t easy. Between trying to figure out what had happened in the house to create monsters and her concerns for and about her team, her thoughts were distinctly messy.

Should’ve looked closer at those papers. . . . The office had been simple, a desk, a bookshelf—but there was a rack of lab coats by the door and the papers strewn across the desk had mostly been lists of numbers and letters. She knew just enough chemistry to know that she was looking at chemistry, so she didn’t bother trying to read them—but since finding the papers, she had begun to think of the zombies as the result of a research accident. The mansion was too well maintained to have come from private money, and the fact that it had been kept a secret for so long suggested a cover up. She guessed that there was a couple of months worth of dust on almost every-thing—which coincided with the first attacks in Rac-coon. If the people in the house had been conducting some kind of an experiment and something had gone wrong . . .

Something that transformed them into flesh-eating ghouls? That’s a bit far-fetched. . . . But it made more sense than anything else she could come up with, although she’d keep her mind open to other possibilities. As to her concerns about the team—Barry was acting weird and Chris and Wesker were still missing; no new developments there.

And there won’t be any if you don’t get going. Right. Jill put her musings on hold and stepped out into the hall.

She noticed the smell before she actually saw the zombie farther down the corridor, crumpled to the floor. The small wall sconces cast an uneven glow over the body, reflecting off of dark red trim and tinting everything in the corridor a smoky crimson. She trained her weapon on the still body—and heard a door closing somewhere close by.

Barry?

He’d said he was going to be in the mansion’s other wing, but maybe he’d found something and had come looking for her ... or maybe she was finally going to meet up with someone else from the team. Smiling at the thought she hurried down the gloomy hall, eager to see another familiar face. As she neared the corner, a fresh wave of decay washed over her—

• and the fallen creature at her feet grabbed at her boot, clutching her ankle with surprising strength. Startled, Jill flailed her arms to keep her balance, crying out in disgust as the slobbering zombie inched its rotting face toward her boot. Its peeling, skeletal fingers scrabbled weakly at the thick leather, seeking a firmer grip—

• and Jill instinctively brought her other boot down on the back of its head, the heavy treads sliding across the skull with a sickening wet sound. A wide piece of flaking scalp tore away, revealing glistening bone. The creature kept clawing at her, oblivious to pain.

The second and third kicks hit the back of its neck—and on the fourth, she felt as much as heard the dull snap of vertebrae giving out, crushed beneath her heel.

The pale hands fluttered and with a choking, liquid sigh, the zombie settled to the musty carpet. Jill stepped over the limp body and ran around the corner, swallowing back bile. She was convinced that the pitiful creatures roaming the halls were victims somehow, just as much as Becky and Pris had been, and releasing them to death was a kindness—but they were also a menace, not to mention morbidly un-wholesome. She had to be more cautious. There was a door to her right, heavy wood overlaid with twining metal designs. There was a picture of armor over the key plate, but like the other doors she’d come across upstairs, it was unlocked. There was no one inside the well-lit room but she hesitated, suddenly reluctant to continue her search for whoever else was wandering the area. Two walls of the large chamber were lined with full suits of armor, eight to a side, and there was a small display case at the back—not to mention a large red switch set into the middle of the gray tiled floor.

Another trap? Or a puzzle. . . .

Intrigued, she walked into the room and headed for the glass fronted display, the silent, lifeless guards seeming to watch her every move. There were a couple of mysterious grated holes in the floor, one on either side of the red switch, for ventilation per-haps—and she felt her heart speed up a little, sud-denly sure that she had found another of the mansion’s traps.

A quick inspection of the dusty display case de-cided it for her; there wasn’t any way that she could see to open it, the glass front a single thick piece. And something in one shadowy niche at the bottom glinted like dull copper. . . .

I’m supposed to push that button, thinking that it will open the case—and then what?

She had a sudden vivid image of the ventilation holes sealing off and the door locking itself, a death by slow suffocation in an airless tomb. The chamber could fill with water, or some kind of poisonous gas.

She looked around the room, frowning, wondering if she should try to block the door open or if perhaps there was another switch hidden in one of the empty suits. . . .

. . . every riddle has more than one answer, Jilly, don’t forget it.

Jill grinned suddenly. Why push the button at all? She crouched down next to the case and took a firm grip on the barrel of her handgun. With a single firm tap, the glass cracked, thin lines spidering away from the impact. She used the butt of the gun to knock out a thick chunk and reached carefully inside. She withdrew a hexagonal copper crest, engraved with an archaic smiling sun. She smiled back at it, pleased with her solution. Apparently some of the house’s tricks could be worked around, provided she ignored a few rules of fair play. All the same, she found herself hurrying back to the door, not wanting to call it a win until she was clear of the solemn chamber.

Stepping back into the blood-hued corridor, she stood for a moment, holding the crest as she weighed her options. She could continue to look for whoever had closed that door, or head back to the puzzle lock and place the crest. As much as she wanted to find her team, Barry had been right about needing to get out of the mansion. If any of the other S.T.A.R.S. were still alive, they’d surely also be looking for an escape. . . . Her thoughtful gaze fell across the fetid, broken creature that she’d killed, lingering on the slowly spreading pool of dark fluids surrounding its scabby head—and she realized suddenly that she desperately wanted to leave the house, to escape its tainted air and the pestilent creatures that stalked its cold and dusty halls. She wanted out, and as soon as was humanly possible.

Her decision made, Jill hurried back the way she’d come, gripping the heavy crest tightly. She’d already uncovered two of the pieces that the S.T.A.R.S. needed to escape the mansion. She didn’t know what they’d be escaping to, but anything had to be better than what they would leave behind. . . . “Richard!” Rebecca immediately dropped to her knees next to the Bravo, feeling his throat for a pulse with one trembling hand.

Chris stared mutely down at the torn body, already knowing that she wouldn’t find a heartbeat; the gap-ing wound on Richard Aiken’s right shoulder was drying, no fresh blood seeping through the mutilated tissue. He was dead.

He watched Rebecca’s slender hand slowly drop away from the Brave’s neck and then reach up to close his glazed, unseeing eyes. Her shoulders slumped. Chris felt sick over their discovery; the communica-tions expert had been a positive, sweet guy, and only twenty-three years old. . . .

He looked around the silent room, searching ran-domly for some clue as to how Richard had died. The room they’d entered just off the second-floor balcony was undecorated and empty. Except for Richard, there was nothing—

Frowning, Chris took a few steps toward the room’s second entrance and crouched down, brushing at the dark tile floor. There was a dried crust of blood in the shape of a boot heel between Richard’s body and the plain wooden door ten feet away. He stared at the door thoughtfully, tightening his hold on the Beretta. Whatever killed him is on the other side, maybe waiting for more victims—

“Chris, take a look at this.”

Rebecca was still kneeling by Richard, her gaze fixed on the bloody mass of his torn shoulder. Chris joined her, not sure what he was supposed to be looking at. The wound was ragged and messy, the flesh discolored by trauma. Strange, though, how it didn’t seem very deep. . . .

“See those purple lines, radiating out from the cuts? And the way the muscle has been punctured, here and here?” She pointed out two dark holes about six inches apart, each surrounded by skin that had turned an infected-looking red.

Rebecca sat back on her heels, looking up at him. “I think he was poisoned. It looks like a snake bite.” Chris stared at her. “What snake gets that big?” She shook her head, standing. “Got me. Maybe it was something else. But that wound shouldn’t have killed him, it would have taken hours for him to bleed out. I’m pretty sure he was poisoned.”

Chris regarded her with new respect; she had a good eye for details and was handling herself remarkably well, considering.

He searched Richard’s body quickly, coming up with another full clip and a short-wave radio. He handed both to Rebecca, tucking Richard’s empty Beretta into his waistband.

He looked at the door again, then back at Rebecca.

“Whatever killed him might be back there. ...” “Then we’ll have to be careful,” she said. Without another word, she walked to the door and stood there, waiting for him.

I’ve gotta stop thinking of her as a kid. She’s outlived most of the rest of her team already, she doesn’t need me to patronize her or tell her to wait behind. He stepped up to the door and nodded at her. She turned the knob and pushed it open, both of them raising their weapons as they edged into a narrow hallway.

Straight ahead were a few wood steps leading to a closed door. To their left, an offshoot of the hall, another door at the end. There was blood smeared on the walls bordering the steps, and Chris was suddenly certain that it was Richard’s; his killer was behind that door.

He motioned down the offshoot, speaking quietly. “You take that room. You run into any trouble, come back here and wait. Check back in five minutes either way.”

Rebecca nodded and moved down the narrow hall. Chris waited until she’d gone into the room before climbing the steps, his heart already thudding solidly against his ribs.

The door was locked, but Chris saw that there was a tiny shield etched next to keyhole. Rebecca was turning out to be more useful than he could have possibly imagined. He took out the key she’d given him and unlocked the wide door, checking his Beretta before moving inside.

It was a large attic, as plain and unassuming as the rest of the mansion was ornate. Wooden support beams extended from the floor to the sloping ceiling, and other than a few boxes and barrels against the walls, it was empty.

Chris walked farther in, his guard up as he scanned for movement. At the other side of the long room was a partial wall, maybe four feet by nine, standing several feet from the back of the attic. It reminded him of a horse stall, and it was the only area that wasn’t open to view. Chris moved toward it slowly, his boots against the wood floor sending hollow echoes through the cool air.

He edged to the wall, training his Beretta over the top as he peered down, heart pounding.

No snake, but there was a jagged hole near the floorboards between the two walls, a foot high and a couple across—and a strange, acrid odor, musky, like the smell of some wild animal. Frowning at the scent, Chris started to back away—

• and stopped, leaning in closer. There was a rounded piece of metal next to the hole, like a penny the size of a small fist. There was something engraved on it, a crescent shape. . . .

Chris walked around the side and into the stall, keeping a wary eye on the hole as he crouched down and picked up the metal piece. It was a six-sided disk of copper with a moon on it, a nice bit of craftsman-ship—

Inside the hole, a soft, sliding sound. Chris jumped back, targeting the opening as he moved. He backed up quickly until his shoulders brushed the attic wall, then started to edge away—

• and a dark cylinder shot out of the opening, lightning fast. It was as big around as a dinner plate and it hit the wall inches from his right leg, wood crunching from the impact—

• oh shit that’s a SNAKE—

Chris stumbled away as the giant reptile reared back, pulling more of its long, dusky body out of the wall. Hissing, it raised up, lifting its head as high as Chris’s chest and exposing dripping fangs. Chris ran

halfway across the room and spun, firing at the massive, diamond-shaped head. The snake let out a strange, hissing cry as a shot tore through one side of its gaping mouth, punching a hole through the tightly stretched skin.

It dropped back to the floor and whipped itself toward him with a single waving push of its muscular body, at least twenty feet long. Chris fired again and a chunk of scaly flesh erupted from the snake’s back, dark blood spewing from the wound.

With another roaring hiss, the animal reared up in front of him, its head only inches away from Chris’s gun, blood gushing from the hole in its mouth—

• Eyes. Get the eyes—

Chris pulled the trigger and the snake fell across him, knocking him to the floor, its body thrashing wildly. The tail slammed into one of the thick support beams hard enough to crack it as Chris struggled to free his pinned arms, to at least hurt it worse before he died—

• and the cold, heavy body suddenly went limp, sagging bonelessly to the floor.

“Chris!” Rebecca rushed into the room, and stopped cold, staring at the monstrous reptile.

“Woah_”

His boot found one of the wooden supports and with a tremendous shove, Chris managed to wiggle out from beneath the thick body. Rebecca reached down to help him up, her eyes wide with awe. They stared down at the wound that had killed the creature—the black, liquid hole where its right eye had been, obliterated by a nine-millimeter slug. “Are you okay?” She asked softly.

Chris nodded; a few bruised ribs maybe, but so what? He’d literally been inches from certain death, and all because he’d stopped to—

He held up the copper crest, having to pry his clenched fingers from around the thick metal. He’d held onto it throughout the attack without even realizing it—and looking at it now, he had a gut feeling that it was important somehow.......maybe because you were almost snake-food for picking it up?

Rebecca took it from him, tracing a finger over the engraved moon.

“You find anything?” he asked.

Rebecca shook her head. “Table, couple of shelves . . . what’s this for, anyway?” Chris shrugged, looking back down at the bloody hole where the snake’s shining eye had been. He shuddered involuntarily, thinking of what would have happened if he’d missed that final shot. . . . “Maybe we’ll figure it out somewhere along the way,” he said quietly. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Rebecca handed the crest back to him and together they hurried out of the cold attic. As he closed the door behind them, Chris realized suddenly that al-though he’d never cared before, he now absolutely hated snakes.

Barry walked heavily up the stairs in the main hall, the knot of dread in the pit of his stomach tightening with each step. He’d been through every room he could open in the east wing and had come up empty-handed.

The same horrible images played through his mind over and over as he trudged up the steps. Kathy and Moira and Poly Anne, terrified and suffering at the hands of strangers in their own home. Kathy knew the combination to the gun safe in the basement, but the chances of her making it down the stairs before someone could get in—

Barry reached the first landing and took a deep, shaky breath. Kathy wouldn’t even think to run for the weapons if she heard someone breaking through one of the windows or doors. Her first priority would be to get to the girls, to make sure they were okay. If I don’t turn up those crests soon, nothing will be okay.

He hadn’t seen a phone or radio anywhere in the house. If Wesker couldn’t get to that laboratory, how would he be able to contact the people at White Umbrella and call off the killers?

Barry reached the door on the upper landing that led into the west wing. His only hope was that either Jill or Wesker had managed to find the three missing pieces. He didn’t know where Wesker was (although he had no doubts that the rat-bastard would turn up soon enough), but Jill would probably still be search-ing upstairs. They could split up the rooms she hadn’t checked and at least rule out the least likely areas. If they couldn’t uncover any more of the crests, he’d have to go back through the east wing and start ripping apart furniture. . . .

He opened the door that led into the red hallway, lost in thought—and very nearly ran into Chris Redfield and Rebecca Chambers as they stepped out of the doorway on his right.

Chris’ s face lit up with a broad, beaming grin.

“Barry!”

The younger man stepped forward and embraced him roughly, then backed up, still grinning. “Jesus, it’s good to see you! I was starting to think that me and Rebecca were the last ones alive—where are Jill and Wesker?”

Barry pasted a smile on as he fumbled for an acceptable answer, feeling almost sick with guilt. Lying to Jill hadn’t been easy, but he’d known Chris for years—

• Kathy and the girls, dead—

“Jill and I came after you, but all the doors in that hall were locked—and when we got back to the lobby, the captain was gone. Since then, we’ve been looking for you two and trying to find a way out. . . ” Barry smiled more naturally. “It’s good to see you, too. Both of you.”

At least that much is true.

“So Wesker just disappeared?” Chris asked. Barry nodded, uncomfortable. “Yeah. And we found Ken. One of those ghouls got to him.” Chris sighed. “I saw. Forest and Richard are dead, too.”

Barry felt a wave of sadness and swallowed thickly, suddenly hating Wesker even more. The people Wesker worked for had done this and now they wanted to cover it all up, avoiding responsibility for their actions—

and like it or not, I’m going to help them do it.

Barry took a deep breath and fixed an image of his wife and daughters in his mind’s eye. “Jill found a back door, and we think it could be a way out—ex-cept its got this trick lock, like a puzzle, and we have to get all the pieces together to open it. There are these four metal crests, made out of copper—Jill got one already, and we think the rest are hidden through-out the mansion. . . ”

He trailed off at Chris’s sudden grin as Chris reached into his vest. “Something like this?” Barry stared at the crest that Chris had produced, feeling his heart speed up. “Yeah, that’s one of them! Where’d you find it?”

Rebecca spoke up, smiling shyly. “He had to fight a big snake for it—a really big snake. I think it may have been affected by the accident, though a cross-genus virus . . . those are pretty rare.” Barry reached for the crest as casually as he could manage, frowning. “Accident?”

Chris nodded. “We found some information that suggests there’s some kind of secret research facility here on the estate—and that something they were working on got loose. A virus.”

“One that can apparently infect mammals and reptiles,” Rebecca added. “Not just different species, different families.”

It’s certainly infected mine, Barry thought bleakly. He let his frown deepen, feigning thoughtfulness as he struggled to come up with an excuse to get away. The captain wouldn’t approach him unless he was alone, and he was desperate to get the copper piece into place, to prove that he was still on board, cooperating—and that he’d convinced the rest of the team to help him look. He could feel the seconds ticking away, the metal growing warm beneath his sweating fingers.

“We need to get the feds in on this,” he said finally, “a full investigation, military support, quarantine of the area—“ Chris and Rebecca were both nodding, and again Barry felt nearly overwhelmed by guilt. God, if only they weren’t so trusting—

“—but to do that, we have to find all of these crests. Jill might’ve turned up another one by now, maybe both of them. ... ”

. . . / can only pray . . .

“Do you know where she is?” Chris asked. Barry nodded, thinking fast. “I’m pretty sure, but this place is kind of a maze . . . why don’t you wait in the main hall while I go get her? That way we can organize our search, do a more thorough job—“ He smiled, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.

“—though if we don’t turn up soon, keep looking for more of those pieces. The back door is at the end of the west wing corridors, first floor.” Chris just stared at him for a moment, and Barry could see the questions forming in his bright gaze, questions that Barry wouldn’t be able to answer: Why split up at all? What about finding the missing cap-tain? How could he be certain that the back door was an escape?

Please, please just do as I say—

“Okay,” Chris said reluctantly. “We’ll wait, but if she’s not where you think she is, come back and get us. We stand a better chance of making it through this place if we stick together.”

Barry nodded, and before Chris could say anything more, he turned and jogged away down the dim hall. He’d seen the hesitation in Chris’s eyes, heard the uncertainty in his voice—and with his final words, Barry had felt himself wanting desperately to warn his friend of Wesker’s betrayal. Leaving was the only way to keep himself from saying something he might regret, something that might get his family killed. As soon as he heard the door back to the balcony close, he picked up speed, taking the corners at a full run. There was a dead zombie near the door that led to the stairs, and Barry leaped over it, the stench falling away as he ducked through the connecting passage. He took the back stairs three at a time as his conscience yammered mercilessly away at him, re-minding him of his treachery.

You’re a liar, Barry, using your friends the way Wesker’s using you, playing on their trust. You could’ve told them what was really going on, let them help you put a stop to it—

Barry shook the thoughts away as he reached the door to the covered walk, slamming the heavy metal aside. He couldn’t risk it, wouldn ‘t—what if Wesker had been nearby, had overheard? The captain had Barry’s family to blackmail him with, but once Chris and the others knew the truth, what was to stop Wesker from just killing them? If he helped Wesker destroy the evidence, the S.T.A.R.S. wouldn’t be able to prove anything, the captain could just let them all walk away—

Barry reached the diagram next to the back door and stopped, staring. Relief flooded through him, cool and sweet. Three of the four openings were filled, the sun, wind, and star crests in place. It was over. He can get to the lab now, call off his people, he doesn ‘t need us anymore! I can go back in and keep the team busy while he does whatever he has to do, the RPD will show eventually and we can forget this ever happened—

He was so elated that he didn’t register the muted footsteps on the stone path behind him, didn’t realize that he wasn’t alone anymore until Wesker’s smooth voice spoke up beside him.

“Why don’t you finish the puzzle, Mr. Burton?” Barry jumped, startled. He glared at Wesker, loath-ing the smug, bland face behind the sunglasses. Wesker smiled, nodding his head at the copper crest in Barry’s hand.

“Yeah, right,” Barry muttered darkly, and slipped the final piece into place. There was a thick metallic sound from inside the door, ka-chink—

• and Wesker walked past him, pushing the door open to reveal a small, well-used tool shed. Barry peered inside, saw the exit at the opposite wall. There was no diagram set next to it, no more crazy puzzles to figure out.

Kathy and the girls were safe.

With a low bow, Wesker motioned for Barry to step inside the shed, still smiling.

“Time’s short, Barry, and there’s still a lot for us to do.”

Barry stared at him, confused. “What do you mean? You can get to the lab now . . ” “Well, there’s been a slight change of plans. See, it turns out that I need to find something else, and I have an idea of where it might be, but there are some dangers involved . . . and you’ve done such a good job so far, I want you to come along—“ Wesker’s smile transformed into a shark-like grin, a cold, pitiless reminder of what was at stake. “—in fact, I’m afraid that I’m going to have to insist on it.”

After a long, terrible moment, Barry nodded help-lessly.

My dearest Alma,

I sit here trying to think of where to begin, of how to explain in a few simple words all that’s happened in my life since we last spoke, and already I fail. I hope this letter finds you well and whole, and that you will forgive the tangents of my pen; this isn’t easy for me. Even as I write, I can feel the simplest of concepts slipping away, lost to feelings of despair and confusion—but I have to tell you what’s in my heart before I can rest. Be patient, and accept that what I tell you is the truth.

The entire story would take hours for me to tell you, and time is short, so accept these things as fact: last month there was an accident in the lab and the virus we were studying escaped. All my colleagues who were infected are dead or dying, and the nature of the disease is such that those still THlRfEEn living have lost their senses. This virus robs its victims of their humanity, forcing them in their sickness to seek out and destroy life. Even as I write these words, I can hear them, pressing against my locked door like mindless, hungry animals, crying out like lost souls. There aren’t words true enough, deep enough to describe the sorrow and shame that I feel knowing that I had a hand in their creation. I believe that they feel nothing now, no fear or pain—but that they can’t experience the horror of what they’ve become doesn’t free me of my terrible burden. I am, in part, responsible for this nightmare that surrounds me.

In spite of the guilt that is burned into my very being, that will haunt my every breath, I might have tried to survive, if only to see you again. But my best efforts only delayed the inevitable; I am infected, and there is no cure for what will follow—except to end my life before I lose the only thing that separates me from them. My love for you. Please understand. Please know that I’m sorry.

Martin Crackhorn

Jill sighed, laying the crumpled paper gently on the desk. The creatures were victims of their own re-search. It seemed she’d had the right idea about what had happened in the mansion, though reading the heartfelt letter put a serious damper on any pride she might have taken from her deduction skills.

After placing the sun crest, she’d decided that the upstairs office merited a closer look—and with a little digging, she’d found the final scrawled testament of Crack-horn, tucked in a drawer.

Crackhorn, Martin Crackhorn—that was one of the names on Trent’s list. . . .

Jill frowned, walking slowly back to the office door. For some reason, Trent wanted the S.T.A.R.S. to figure out what had happened at the mansion before anyone else did—but with as much as he obviously knew about it, why not just tell them outright? And what did he stand to gain by telling them anything at all?

She stepped through the office’s small foyer and back out into the hall, still frowning. Barry had been acting strange before, and she needed to find out why. Maybe she could get a straight answer if she just asked him outright. . . .

Or maybe not. Either way, it’ll tell me something. Jill stopped by the back stairs, taking a deep breath—and realized that something was different. She looked around uncertainly, trying to figure out what it was her senses were telling her. It’s warmer. Just a little, but it’s definitely warmer.

And the air isn’t quite as stale. . . . Like someone had opened a window. Or maybe a door.

Jill turned and jogged down the stairs, suddenly anxious to check the puzzle lock. Reaching the bot-tom of the steps, she saw that the door connecting one hall to the next was standing open. She could hear crickets singing faintly, feel the fresh night air wafting toward her through the frigid mustiness of the house. She hurried to the darker corridor and hooked a right, trying not to get her hopes up. Another sharp right and she could see the door that led to the covered walkway standing open.

Maybe that’s all it is, it doesn’t mean the puzzle’s solved. . . .

Jill broke into a run, feeling the clean warmth of summer air against her skin as she rounded the corner in the stone path—

• and let out a short, triumphant laugh as she saw the four placed crests next to the open door. A warm breeze was flowing through the room that the puzzle had unlocked, a small storage shed for gardening tools. The metal door on the wall opposite was standing open, and Jill could see moonlight playing across a brick wall just past the rusted hinges. Barry had been right, the door led outside. They’d be able to get help now, find a safe route through the woods or at least signal—

But if Barry found the missing pieces, why didn’t he come looking for me?

Jill’s grin faded as she stepped into the shed, absently taking in the dusty boxes and barrels that lined the gray stone walls. Barry had known where she was, had suggested himself that she take the second floor of the west wing. . . .

So maybe it wasn ‘t Barry who opened the door. True, it could’ve been Chris or Wesker or one of the Bravos. If that was the case, she should probably go back in and look for Barry.

Or investigate a little first, make sure it’s worth the effort.

It was a bit of a rationalization, but she had to admit to herself that the thought of returning to the mansion with a possible escape in front of her wasn’t all that enticing. She unholstered her Beretta and walked toward the outer door, her decision made. The first thing she noticed was the sound of rushing water over the soft forest noises that filled the cooling air, like a waterfall. The second and third were the bodies of the two dogs that lay across the irregular stone path, shot to death.

Pretty safe bet that one of the S.T.A.R.S. came this way. . . .

Jill edged out into a high-walled courtyard, low hedges set into brick planters on either side. Dark clouds hung oppressively low overhead. Across the open space was a barred iron gate just past an island of shrubs; to her left, a straight path overshadowed by the ten-foot-high brick walls that bordered it. The gentle waterfall sound seemed to come from that direction, though the path ended abruptly in a metal gate a few feet high.

Stairs going down maybe?

Jill hesitated, looked back at the arched, rusty gate in front of her and then at the curled bodies of the mutant dogs. They were both closer to the gate than the walkway, and assuming they’d been killed while attacking, the shooter would have been headed in that direction—

There was a sudden sound of water splashing wildly, making the decision for her. Jill turned and ran down the moonlit walk, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever was making the noise.

She reached the end of the stone path and leaned over the gate—then drew back a little, surprised by the sudden drop off. There were no stairs, the gate opened to a tiny platform elevator and a huge, open courtyard, twenty feet below.

The splashing was off to the right, and Jill looked down and across the wide yard just in time to see a

shadowy figure walk through the waterfall she’d heard, disappearing behind the curtain of water that cascaded down the west wall.

What the hell—

She stared at the small waterfall, blinking, not sure if her eyes were playing tricks on her. The splashing had stopped as soon as the person disappeared, and she was fairly certain that she wasn’t hearing things—which meant that the rushing water concealed a secret passage.

Great, that’s just what this place needs. Lord knows I didn’t get enough of that inside.

The controls for the one-man lift were on a metal bar next to the rusting gate, the platform itself down in the courtyard. Jill toggled the power switch, but nothing happened. She’d have to get down another way, wasting time while the mysterious splasher got farther away.

Unless . . .

Jill looked down the narrow elevator shaft, an inset square only three feet across and open on the side facing the yard. Coming up would be a bitch, but descending? Cake. She could crouch her way down in a minute or less, using her back and legs to support her weight.

As she unstrapped the shotgun from her back in preparation for the climb, a disturbing thought oc-curred to her—if the person who’d gone through the waterfall was one of the S.T.A.R.S., how had they known that the passage was even there?

Good question, and not one she wanted to linger over. Holding the shotgun tightly, Jill pushed the gate open and carefully started down the shaft. They’d given Barry a full fifteen minutes before heading through the winding halls of the west wing and finding the open back door. They stood there now, looking at the slab of copper and its four engraved crests.

Chris stared at the crescent moon that Barry had taken, feeling confused and more than a little worried. Barry was one of the most honest, straightforward guys that he had ever known. If he said that he was going to look for Jill and then come back for them, then that’s what he meant to do.

But he didn’t come back. And if he ran into trouble, how did the piece I gave him end up here? He didn’t like any of the explanations his mind was giving him to work with. Someone could have taken it from him, he could’ve placed it himself and then been injured somehow ... the possibilities seemed end-less, and none of them good.

Sighing, he turned away from the diagram and looked at Rebecca. “Whatever happened to Barry, we should go ahead. This may be the only way off the estate.”

Rebecca smiled a little. “Fine by me. It just feels good to get out of there, you know?”

“Yeah, no kidding,” he said, with feeling. He hadn’t even realized how accustomed he’d grown to the cold, oppressive atmosphere of the house until they’d left it. The difference was truly amazing.

They walked through the tidy storage room and stopped at the back door, both of them breathing deeply. Rebecca checked her Beretta for about the hundredth time since they’d left the main hall, chew-ing at her lower lip nervously. Chris could see how tightly wound she was and tried to think if there was anything she needed to know, anything that would help her if they were forced into a combat situation. S.T.A.R.S. training covered all the basics, but shoot-ing at a video screen with a toy gun was a far cry from the real thing.

He grinned suddenly, remembering the words of wisdom he’d gotten on his first operation, a stand-off with a small group of whacked-out survivalists in upstate New York. He’d been terrified, and trying desperately not to show it. The captain for the mis-sion had been a tough-as-nails explosives expert, an extremely short woman named Kaylor. She’d pulled him aside just before they went in, looked him up and down, and given him the single best piece of advice he’d ever received.

“Son,” she’d said, “no matter what happens—when the shooting starts, try not to wet your pants.” It had surprised him out of his nervousness, the statement so totally weird that he’d literally been forced to let go of the worst of his fear to make room for it_“What are you grinning about?”

Chris shook his head, the smile fading. Somehow, he didn’t think it would work on Rebecca—and the dangers they faced didn’t shoot back. “Long story. Come on, let’s go.”

They moved out into the calm night air, crickets and cicadas buzzing sleepily in the surrounding woods. They were in a kind of courtyard, high brick walls on either side, an offshoot walkway to their left. Chris could hear rushing water nearby and the mournful cry of a dog or coyote in the distance, a lonely, faraway sound.

Speaking of dogs . . .

There were a couple of them sprawled out across the stones, soft moonlight glistening against their wet, sinewy bodies. Chris edged up to one of them and crouched down, touching its flank. He quickly pulled his hand back, scowling; the mutant dog was sticky and warm, like it had been sheathed in a thick layer of mucous.

He stood up, wiping his hand on his pants. “Hasn’t been dead long,” he said quietly. “Less than an hour, anyway.”

There was a rusted iron gate just past some hedges in front of them. Chris nodded at Rebecca and as they walked toward it, the sound of rushing water in-creased to a dull roar.

Chris pushed at the gate and it swung open on violently squealing hinges, revealing a huge, cut stone reservoir, easily the size of a couple of swimming pools put together. Deep shadows draped and hung at every side, caused by the seemingly solid walls of murky green trees and lush vegetation that threatened to break through the bordering rails.

They moved forward, stopping at the edge of the massive pool. It was apparently in the slow process of being drained, the turbulent noise caused by the narrow flow of water through a raised gate on the east side. There wasn’t a complete path around the reser-voir, but Chris saw that there was a walkway bisecting the pool itself, about five feet below water level. There were bolted ladders at both sides, and the path had obviously been submerged until quite recently, the stones dark with dripping algae.

Chris studied the unusual setup for a moment, wondering how anyone got across when it wasn’t being drained. Another mystery to add to the growing list.

Without speaking, they climbed down and hurried across, boots squelching against the slimy stones, a clammy humidity enveloping them. Chris quickly scaled the second ladder, reaching down to help Rebecca up.

The heavily shaded path was littered with branches and pine needles and appeared to border the east end of the reservoir, passing over the open floodgate. They started toward the forced waterfall and had only gotten a few feet when it started to rain. Plop. Plop plop.

Chris frowned, an inner voice informing him coolly that he shouldn’t be able to hear raindrops over the roar of the draining water. He looked up—

• and saw a twisted branch fall from the stretching foliage hanging over the rail, a branch that hit the stones and slid smoothly away—

• that’s not a branch—

• and there were dozens of them already on the ground, twisting across the dark stones, hissing and writhing as they fell from the trees overhead. He and Rebecca were surrounded by snakes.

“Oh, shit—“

Startled, Rebecca turned to look at Chris—and felt cold terror shoot through her, her heart squeezed in its icy grip as she took in the path behind him. The ground had come to life, black shapes coiling toward their feet and dropping from above like living rain. Rebecca started to raise her gun, realizing numbly that there were too many even as Chris roughly grabbed her arm.

“Run!”

They stumbled forward, Rebecca crying out invol-untarily as a thick, writhing body fell across her shoulder, a touch of cool scales against her arm as it slid heavily off and hit the stones.

The path zig-zagged and they ran through the shifting shadows, heels crunching down on rubbery, moving flesh, throwing them off balance. Snakes darted forward to strike at their passing boots as they ran over a steel grate, black, foaming water thunder-ing below, the sound of their boots hitting metal lost to the liquid roar.

Ahead of them, the stones were clearer—but the path also dropped off sharply, a small elevator plat-form marking its end. There was no place left to go. They crowded on to the tiny platform and Rebecca snatched at the controls, her breath coming in pan-icked gasps. Chris turned and fired repeatedly, the shots blasting over the crash of water as Rebecca found the operating button and slammed it down. The platform shuddered and started to descend, slipping down past rock walls toward a massive, empty courtyard below. Rebecca turned, raising the Beretta to help Chris—

• and felt her jaw drop, her throat locking at the gruesome scene. There had to be hundreds of them, the path almost completely hidden by the slithering creatures, hissing and squirming in an alien frenzy as they struck wildly at each other. By the time she managed to unfreeze, the loathsome sight had risen past eye level and was gone.

The ride seemed to last forever, both of them staring up at the edge of the path they’d left behind, tensely, breathlessly waiting for the bodies to start falling. When the lift was within a few feet of the bottom, they both jumped off, stumbling quickly away from the wall.

They both leaned against the cool rock, gasping. Rebecca took in the courtyard they’d escaped to in between shuddering breaths, letting the sound of the splashing waterfall soothe her nerves. It was a huge, open space made out of brick and stone, the colors washed out and hazy in the frail light. The water from the reservoir above tumbled down into two stone pools nearby, and there was a single gate across from them.

And no snakes.

She took a final deep breath and blew it out, then turned to Chris.

“Were you bit?”

He shook his head. “You?”

“No,” she said. “Though if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not go back that way. I’m more of a cat-person, really.”

Chris stared at her for a moment and then grinned, pushing away from the wall. “Funny, I would’ve figured you for lab rats. I—“

Beep-beep.

The radio!

Rebecca grabbed at the unit hooked to her belt, the snakes suddenly forgotten. It was the sound she’d been hoping to hear ever since they’d found Richard. They were being hailed, maybe by searchers—

She thumbed the receiver and held the radio up so they could both hear. Static crackled through the tinny speaker along with the soft whine of a wavering signal.

“. . . this is Brad!. . . Alpha team . . . read? If. . . can hear this...”

His voice disappeared in a burst of static. Rebecca hit the transmit button and spoke quickly. “Brad? Brad, come in!”

The signal was gone. They both listened for a moment longer, but nothing else came through. “He must have gotten out of range,” Chris said. He sighed, walking farther out into the open yard and gazing up at the dark, overcast sky.

Rebecca clipped the silent radio back to her belt, still feeling more hopeful than she had all night. The pilot was out there somewhere, circling around and looking for them. Now that they were clear of the mansion, they’d be able to hear him signal. Assuming he comes back.

Rebecca ignored the thought and walked over to join Chris, who had found another tiny elevator platform, tucked in the corner across from the water-fall. A quick check showed it to be without power. Chris turned toward the gate, slapping a fresh clip into his Beretta. “Shall we see what’s behind door number one?”

It was a rhetorical question. Unless they wanted to go back through the snakes, it was their only option. Just the same, Rebecca smiled and nodded, wanting to make sure he knew she was ready—and hoping

desperately that if anything else happened, she would be.

FovRtEEn

JILL STOOD AT THE EDGE OF A YAWNING,

open pit in the dank tunnel, staring helplessly at the door on the other side. The pit was too wide to safely jump and there was no way to climb down, at least not that she could see. She’d have to go back and try the door by the ladder.

Her frustrated sigh turned into a shiver. The damp chill emanating from the stone walls would have been bad enough without her being dripping wet. Great secret passage. To use it, you have to catch pneumonia.

A glint of metal caught her gaze as she turned, feet squelching in her boots. She peered down at it, brushing a wet strand of hair out of her eyes. It was a small iron plate set into the stone, a six-sided hole about the size of a quarter at the center. She looked back at the door thoughtfully.

Maybe it works a bridge, or lowers stairs . . . ? It didn’t matter, since she didn’t have whatever tool it required, it was as good as a dead end. Besides, it was unlikely that whoever she’d seen walking through the waterfall had managed to get across. Jill walked back through the twisting passage to-ward the entrance to the tunnel, still in awe of what she’d found behind the curtain of water. It appeared that there was a whole network of tunnels running beneath the estate. The walls were rough and uneven, chunks of sandy limestone protruding at odd angles—but the sheer amount of work that had gone into creating the underground path was mind-boggling.

She reached the metal door next to the ladder, having to make a conscious effort not to let her teeth chatter as a cold draft swept down from the courtyard above. The sound of the waterfall was strangely muted. The steady, echoing rhythm of water dripping to the rock floor was much louder, giving the tunnels a somewhat medieval feel. . . .

She pulled the door open—and froze, feeling a rush of mixed emotions as Barry Burton whirled around to face her, revolver in hand. Surprise won. “Barry?”

He quickly lowered his weapon, looking as shocked as she felt—and just about as wet, too. His T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders, his short hair plastered to his skull.

“Jill! How did you get down here?”

“Same way you did, apparently. But how did you know—“ He held up his hand, shushing her. “Listen.” They stood in tense silence, Jill looking up and down the stone corridor and failing to hear whatever Barry had heard. There were metal doors at either end, cast in shadow by the dim utility lights overhead. “I thought I heard something,” he said finally.

“Voices ...”

Before she could ask any questions, he turned and faced her, smiling uneasily. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you, but I heard somebody walking out in the garden and had to take a look. I found this place by accident, kind of tripped and fell in ... anyway. I’m glad you’re here. Let’s check around, see what we can dig up.”

Jill nodded, but decided to keep a close eye on Barry for awhile. Maybe she was paranoid, but in spite of his words, he didn’t seem all that happy to see her. . . .

Watch and wait, her mind whispered. For now, there was nothing else she could do.

Barry led them toward the door to the right, hold-ing his Colt up. He pulled the handle, revealing another gloomy tunnel.

A few steps in to the right was another metal door and across from it, the passage veered sharply into almost complete darkness. Barry motioned at the door and Jill nodded. He pushed it open and the two of them moved in to another silent corridor. Jill sighed inwardly as she studied the bare rocky walls, wishing that she had a piece of chalk with her. The tunnel they were in now looked pretty much like all the rest of them, turning left up ahead. She already felt lost, and hoped that there weren’t too many more twists and turns—

“Hello? Who’s there!” A deep, familiar voice shouted from somewhere ahead of them, the words echoing through the passage.

“Enrico?” Jill called out.

“Jill? Is that you?”

Excited, Jill ran the last few steps to the corner and around, Barry right behind her. The Bravo team leader was still alive, had somehow ended up down here—

Jill rounded the next corner and saw him sitting against the wall, the tunnel widening out and ending in a shadowy alcove.

“Hold it! Stop right there!”

She froze, staring at the Beretta he had pointed at her. He was injured, blood seeping from his leg and puddling on the floor.

“Are you with anyone, Jill?” His dark eyes were narrowed with suspicion, the black bore of his semi-automatic unwavering.

“Barry’s here, too—Enrico, what happened?

What’s this about?”

As Barry stepped out from behind the corner, Enrico stared at them both for a long moment, his gaze darting back and forth nervously—and then he sagged, lowering his gun as he fell back against the stones. Barry and Jill hurried over, crouching down next to the wounded Bravo.

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly. “I had to make sure. ...”

It was as though defending himself had taken his last bit of strength. Jill took his hand gently, alarmed at how pale he was. Blood oozed from his thigh, his pants soaked with it.

“This whole thing was a set-up,” he breathed, turning his watering gaze toward her. “I got lost, I climbed the fence, saw the tunnels . . . found the paper . . . Umbrella knew, all along. ...” Barry looked stricken,

his face almost as white as Enrico’s. “Hang on, Rico. We’ll get you out of here, you just have lie still—“ Enrico shook his head, still looking at Jill. “There’s a traitor in the S.T.A.R.S.,” he whispered. “He told me—“ Bam! Bam!

Enrico’s body jumped as two holes suddenly ap-peared in his chest, blood pulsing out of them in violent spurts. Through the resounding echo of the shots, running footsteps clattered away down the corridor behind them.

Barry launched to his feet and sprinted around the corner as Jill helplessly squeezed Enrico’s twitching hand, her heart pounding and sick. He slumped over, dead before he touched the cold stone floor. Her mind flooded with questions as Barry’s pursu-ing footsteps faded away, silence settling once again over the deep shadows. What paper had the Bravo found? When Enrico had said “traitor” she’d imme-diately thought of Barry, acting so strangely—but he’d been right beside her when the shots had been fired.

So who did this? Who was Trent talking about? Who did Enrico see?

Feeling lost and alone, Jill held his cooling hand and waited for Barry to come back.

Rebecca was going through an old trunk pushed against one wall of the room they’d entered, shuffling through stacks of papers and frowning while Chris checked out the rest of the room. A single, rumpled cot, a desk, and a towering, ancient bookshelf were the only other pieces of furniture. After the cold, alien splendor of the mansion, Chris was absurdly grateful to be in simpler surroundings.

They’d come to a house at the end of the long, winding path from the courtyard, much smaller and infinitely less intimidating than the mansion. The hall they’d stepped into was plain, undecorated wood, as were the two small bedrooms they’d discovered just off the silent corridor. Chris figured they’d found a bunkhouse for some of the mansion’s employees. He had noticed the thick, unmarked dust in the hallway on their way in with a sinking resignation, realizing that none of the other S.T.A.R.S. had made it out of the main house. With no way for him and Rebecca to get back, all they could do was try to find the back door and go for help. Chris didn’t like it, but there weren’t any other options.

After a brief perusal of the shelves, Chris walked to the battered wooden desk and pulled at the top drawer; it was locked. He bent down and felt along the bottom of the drawer, grinning as his fingers touched a thick piece of tape.

Don’t people ever watch movies? The key’s always stuck under the drawer. . . .

He peeled the tape away and came up with a tiny silver key. Still grinning, he unlocked the drawer and pulled it open.

There was a deck of playing cards, a few pens and pencils, gum wrappers, a crumpled pack of ciga-rettes—junk, mostly, the kind of stuff that always seemed to accumulate in desk drawers. . . .

Bingo!

Chris picked up the key ring by its leather tag, pleased with himself. If finding the exit was this easy, they’d be on their way back to Raccoon in no time. “Looks like we just got a break,” he said softly, holding up the keys. The leather tag had the word “Alias” burned into one side, the number “345” written on the back in smudged ball-point pen. Chris didn’t know the significance of the number, but he remembered the nickname from the diary he’d found in the mansion.

Thank you, Mr. Alias. Assuming the keys were for the bunkhouse, they were that much closer to getting

Rebecca was still sitting by the trunk, surrounded by papers, envelopes, even a few grainy photos that she’d pulled out. She seemed totally absorbed in whatever she was reading, and when Chris walked over to join her, she looked up at him with eyes clouded by worry.

“You find something?”

Rebecca held up the piece of paper she was reading. “A couple of things. Listen to this: ‘Four days since the accident and the plant at Point 42 is still growing and mutating at an incredible rate. . . .’” She skipped ahead, skimming the page with one finger as she spoke. “It calls this thing Plant 42, and says its root is in the basement. . . here. ‘Shortly after the accident, one of the infected members of the research team became violent and broke the water tank in the basement, flooding the entire section. We think some trace chemicals used in the T-virus tests contaminated the water and contributed to Plant 42’s radical mutations. A number of shoots have already been traced to different parts of the building, but the main plant now hangs from the ceiling in the large conference room on the first floor. . . . “ ‘We’ve determined that Plant 42 has become sensitive to movement and is now carnivorous. In close proximity to humans, it uses tentacular, prehen-sile vines to entrap its prey while leechlike adap-tations latch onto exposed skin and draw fatal quantities of blood; several members of the staff have already fallen victim to this.’ It’s dated May twenty-first, signed Henry Sarton”

Chris shook his head, wondering again how some-one could invent a virus like the one they had come across. It seemed to infect everything it touched with madness, transforming its carrier into a deadly carni-vore, hungry for blood.

God, now a man-eating plant. . .

Chris shuddered, suddenly twice as glad that they’d be leaving soon.

“So it infects plants, too,” he said. “When we report this, we’ll have to—“ “No, that’s not it,” she said. She handed him a photo, her expression grim.

It was a blurry snapshot of a middle-aged man wearing a lab coat. He was standing stiffly in front of a plain wooden door, and Chris realized that it was the very door they’d come through not ten minutes ago—the front entrance to the bunkhouse.

He flipped the picture over, squinting at the tiny script on the back. “H. Sarton, January ‘98, Point 42.”

He stared at Rebecca, finally understanding her fearful gaze. They were standing in Point 42. The carnivorous plant was here.

Wesker stood in the darkness of the unlit tunnel, his irritation growing as he listened to Barry stumble through the echoing corridors. Jill wouldn’t wait forever, and the raging Mr. Burton couldn’t seem to grasp that Enrico’s killer had simply slid into the shadows just around the corner, the most obvious place there was.

Come on, come on . . .

Since they’d left the house, he’d finally started to feel like things were going in his favor. He’d remem-bered the underground room near the entrance to the labs, and was almost certain that the wolf medal would be there. And the tunnels were clear. He had expected the 121s to be out, but apparently

no one had messed with the passage mechanisms since the accident. They’d split up to search for the lever that worked the passages—and it had been in plain sight, propped up next to the very mechanism that it controlled.

Everything would have been perfect—except god-damned Enrico Marini had wandered along, happen-ing across a very important paper that Wesker had accidentally dropped—his orders, straight from the head of White Umbrella. And then to complicate matters, Jill had blundered into the tunnels before Wesker could finish taking care of the problem. Wesker sighed inwardly. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. In truth, this whole aifair had been a massive headache from the beginning. At least the underground security hadn’t been activated—though he’d had no way of knowing that until they’d reached the tunnels, and having dragged Barry along as insur-ance, he now had to deal with the consequences. If the money wasn’t so good—

He grinned. Who was he kidding? The money was great.

After what felt like years, Barry huffed into the dark room, blindly waving his revolver around. Wesker tensed, waiting for him to walk past the generator’s alcove. This part could be tricky—Barry and Enrico had been close.

As Barry stormed past the small chamber, Wesker stepped out behind him and jammed the muzzle of his Beretta into Barry’s lower back, hard. At the same time, he started talking, low and fast. “I know you want to kill me, Barry, but I want you to think about what you’re doing. I die, your family dies. And right now, it looks like Jill may have to die, too—but you can stop it. You can put a stop to all the killing.”

Barry had stopped moving as soon as the gun touched him, but Wesker could hear the barely con-tained rage in his voice, the pure, driving hatred. “You killed Enrico,” he snarled.

Wesker pushed the gun deeper into his back. “Yes. But I didn’t want to. Enrico found some information he shouldn’t have, he knew too much. And if he’d told Jill what he knew about Umbrella, I’d have had to kill her, too.”

“You’re going to kill her anyway. You’re going to kill all of us—“ Wesker sighed, allowing a pleading note to creep into his voice. “That’s not true! Don’t you get it—I just want to get to the laboratory and get rid of the evidence before anyone finds it! Once that material is destroyed, there’s no reason for anyone else to get hurt. We can all just . . . walk away.” Barry was silent, and Wesker could tell that he wanted to believe him, wanted desperately to believe that things could be that simple. Wesker let him waver for a moment before pressing on.

“All I want you to do is keep Jill busy, keep her and anyone else you run into away from the labs, at least for a little while. You’ll be saving her life—and I swear to you that as soon as I get what I need, you and your family will never hear from me again.” He waited. And when Barry finally spoke, Wesker knew he had him.

“Where are the labs?”

Good boy!

Wesker lowered the gun, keeping his expression blank just in case Barry had good night vision. He pulled a folded paper out of his vest and slipped it into Barry’s hand, a map from the tunnels to the first basement level.

“If for some reason you can’t keep her away, at least go with her. There are a lot of doors with locks on the outside down there; worse comes to worst, you can lock her up until it’s over. I mean it, Barry—no one else has to get hurt. It’s all up to you.” Wesker stepped back quickly, reaching for the lever with the six-sided tip that he’d left next to the generator. He watched Barry for a few seconds longer, saw the sag in the big man’s shoulders, the submissive hang of his head. Satisfied, Wesker turned and walked out of the room. On the very slight chance that any of the S.T.A.R.S. made it to the lab, Mr. Burton would ensure that there wouldn’t be any more trouble. He hurried back through the entrance tunnel, si-lently congratulating himself on getting things back under control as he headed toward the first passage mechanism. He’d have to move fast from here on out; there were a few things he’d neglected to mention to Barry—like the experimental security detachment that would be released into the tunnels once he turned that lever for the first time. . . .

Sorry, Barry. Slipped my mind.

It would be interesting to see how his team fared with the 121s, the Hunters. Watching the S.T.A.R.S. pit their strength and agility against the creatures would be quite a show—and sadly, one that he’d have to miss.

It was too bad, really. The Hunters had been caged for a long time; they’d be very, very hungry.

FlFfEEn

BARRY HAD BEEN GONE FOR TOO LONG.

Jill had no idea how extensive the tunnels were, but from what she’d seen they all looked alike. Barry could be lost, trying to find his way back. Or he could have found the murderer, and without any back-up ...

He might not come back at all.

In any case, staying put wasn’t going to help any-thing. She stood up, taking a last look at the Bravo’s pale face and silently wishing him peace before walk-ing away.

What did he find out that got him killed? Who was it?

Enrico had only managed to get out that the traitor was a he, but that didn’t exactly narrow things down; except for herself and the rookie, the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. were all male. She could rule out Chris, since he’d been convinced from the start that there was something weird going on—and now Barry, who’d been with her when Marini died. Brad Vickers simply wasn’t the type to do anything dangerous, and Joseph and Kenneth were dead—

• which leaves Richard Aiken, Forest Speyer, and Albert Wesker.

None of them seemed likely, but she had to at least consider the possibility. Enrico was dead. And she no longer doubted that Umbrella had one of the S.T.A.R.S. in their pocket.

When she got to the door, she quickly leaned down and tightened her damp boot laces, preparing herself. Whoever had shot the Bravo could have just as easily taken her and Barry out—and since he hadn’t, she could only figure that he didn’t want to kill anyone else, and wouldn’t be looking for more targets. As-suming that he was still in the underground system, she’d have to be as quiet as possible if she wanted to find him; the tunnels were perfect sound conductors, amplifying even the tiniest sound.

She eased open the metal door, listening, and then edged out into the dim tunnel, staying close to the wall. In front of her, the corridor was unlit. She opted to head back the way she’d come instead; the darkness was a perfect spot for an ambush. She didn’t want to find out she was wrong about the killer’s intentions by taking a bullet.

A low, grinding rumble reverberated through the heavy stone walls, a sound like something big moving. Jill instinctively used the sound as cover, taking several sliding steps forward and reaching the next metal door just as the rumbling stopped. She slipped back out into the tunnel where she’d run into Barry, gently closing the door behind her.

What the hell was that? It sounded like an entire wall moving!

She shuddered, remembering the descending ceil-ing of that room in the house. Maybe the tunnels were rigged, too; she needed to watch every step. The idea of being crunched to death by some bizarre mecha-nism underground—

Like the one next to that pit, with the hexagonal hole?

She nodded slowly, deciding that she needed to go take another look at those doors she couldn’t get to before. Maybe the killer had the tool it required, and the noise she’d heard had come from him operating it. She could be wrong, but there was no harm in checking. . . .

And at least I won’t get lost.

She reached for the door that would lead her back and stopped, her head cocked to catch the strange sound coming from the tunnel behind her. It was—a rusty hinge? Some kind of a bird, maybe? It was loud, whatever it was. . . .

Thump. Thump. Thump.

That sound she knew. Footsteps, headed in her direction, and it was either Barry or someone built like him. They were heavy, plodding—but too far apart, too . . . deliberate.

Get out of here. Now!

Jill grabbed at the metal latch and ran into the next tunnel, no longer caring how much noise she made. Although she sometimes misread them, her instincts were never wrong—and they were telling her that whoever or whatever was making that sound, she didn’t want to be there when it showed up. She took several running steps down the stone corridor, away from the ladder that led back to the courtyard—and then forced herself to slow down, taking a deep breath. She couldn’t just go sprinting ahead, either; there were other dangers than the one she’d left behind—

Behind her, the door opened.

Jill turned, raising her Beretta—and stared in hor-ror at the thing standing there. It was huge, shaped like a man—but the resemblance stopped there. Na-ked but sexless, its entire muscular body was covered with a pebbled, amphibious skin, shaded a dark green. It was hunched over so that its impossibly long arms almost touched the floor, both its hands and feet tipped with thick, brutal claws. Tiny, light-colored eyes peered out at her from a flat reptilian skull. It turned its strange gaze toward her, dropped its wide-hinged jaw—and let out a tremendous, high-pitched screech like nothing she’d ever heard before,

the sound echoing around her, filling her with mortal terror.

Jill fired, three shots that smacked into the crea-ture’s chest and sent it reeling backwards. It stum-bled, fell against the tunnel wall—

• and with another terrible shriek it sprang at her, pushing off the stones with powerful legs, its claws outstretched and grasping.

She fired again and again as it flew toward her, the bullets tearing into its puckered flesh, ribbons of dark blood coiling away—

• and it landed in a heaving crouch only a few feet in front of her, screaming, one massive arm snaking out to swipe at her legs. A musky, moldy animal smell washed over her, a smell like dark places and feral rage.

• Jesus why won’t it die—

Jill trained the Beretta on the back of its skull and emptied the clip. Even as the green flesh splattered away and bone splintered, she continued to fire, the hot slugs ripping into the pulpy, pinkish mass of its brain.

Click. Click. Click.

No more bullets. She lowered the weapon, her entire body shaking. It was over, the creature was dead—but it had taken almost an entire clip, fifteen nine-millimeter rounds, the last seven or eight at close range. . . .

Still staring at the fallen monster, she ejected the empty magazine and loaded a fresh clip before hol-stering the Beretta. She reached back and unstrapped the Remington, taking comfort in the solid, balanced weight of the shotgun.

What the hell were you people working on out here? It seemed that the Umbrella researchers had invented more than just a virus—something just as deadly, but with claws. . . .

And there could be more of them.

She’d never had a more horrifying thought. Hold-ing the Remington close, Jill turned and ran. Chris and Rebecca walked down a long, wooden hallway, warily glancing up with every other step. There was what looked like dried, dead ivy poking out of every crack and crevice where the walls met the ceiling, a bone-colored growth that scaled across the planks like a fungus. It looked harmless—but after what Rebecca had read to him about Plant 42, Chris kept himself ready to move quickly.

After going through the rest of the papers in the trunk, Rebecca had come up with a report on some kind of an herbicide that could apparently be mixed in Point 42, called V-Jolt. She’d brought it along, though Chris doubted it would be useful. All he wanted was to find the exit, and if they could avoid the killer plant, so much the better.

The front hall had been clear of the growth, though Chris wasn’t prepared to call it secured. Besides the two bedrooms by the front door, there had been a rec room that had been distinctly creepy. Chris had looked inside and immediately felt his internal alarms going off, though he hadn’t known why; there’d been no danger that he could see, just a bar and a couple of tables. In spite of the seeming calm, he had closed the door quickly and they’d moved on. His gut feeling was enough of a reason to leave it alone. They stopped in front of the only door in the long, meandering stretch of hallway, both of them still glancing nervously at the scaling ivy near the ceiling. Chris pushed at the knob, and the door swung open. Warm, humid air flooded out of the shadowy room, thick and tropical—but with a nasty undertone, like the taint of spoiled fruit. Chris instinctively pushed Rebecca behind him as he saw the walls of the chamber. They were completely covered in the same kind of strange, straggling growth that was in the hall—but here, the scaling ivy was lush and bloated, a bilious verdant green.

There was a faint whispering coming from inside the room, a subtle sense of movement—and Chris realized that it was coming from the sickly plant matter itself, the walls quivering in a weird optical illusion as the draping tendrils crept and grew. Rebecca started to step past him and Chris pushed her back. “What, are you nuts? I thought you said this thing sucks blood!”

She shook her head, staring at the whispering walls. “That’s not Plant 42, at least not the part the report talked about. Plant 42 is gonna be a lot bigger, and a lot more mobile. I never did much with phytobiology, but according to that study, we’ll be looking for an angiosperm with motile foliage—“ She smiled a quick, nervous smile. “Sorry. Think great big plant bulb with ten to twenty foot vines waving around it.”

Chris grimaced. “Great. Thanks for putting my mind at rest.”

They edged into the large room, careful not to walk too closely to the hissing walls. There were three doors besides the one they came through: one directly across from the entrance and the other two facing each other to their left, where the room opened up. Chris led them toward the door opposite the entrance, figuring it as the most likely to lead out of the bunkhouse.

The door was unlocked, and Chris started to push it open—

BAM!

The door slammed shut, causing them both to jump back, weapons raised. A series of heavy, sliding thumps followed, like someone on the other side was kicking at the walls—except the sounds were every-where, above and below the door’s sturdy frame, beating against every corner of the sealed room. “Lots of vines, you said?” Chris asked.

Rebecca nodded. “I think we just found Plant 42.” They listened for a moment, Chris thinking about the kind of strength and weight it would take to slam the door so solidly.

No kidding, bigger and more mobile . . . and maybe blocking the only exit to this place. Terrific. They backed away, turning into the open area and looking at the other two doors. The one on their right had the number “002” above it. Chris fished out the keys he’d found and flipped through them, finding one with a matching number.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside, Rebecca behind him. There was a smaller door to the left that opened to a bathroom, quiet and dusty. The room itself was another bedroom, a bunk, a desk, a couple of shelves. Nothing of interest.

There was another series of dull thumps from behind the far wall and they quickly moved back into the humid, whispering room, Chris fighting a growing certainty that they were going to have to deal with the plant if they wanted to get out.

Not necessarily, there could still be another way—

The way things had been going so far, he didn’t think so. From the shuffling zombies lurking in the main house to the run through the courtyard, snakes dropping from the trees, every part of the Spencer estate seemed to be designed to keep them from leaving.

Chris shook the negative thoughts aside as they approached the shadowy chamber’s final door—but they came rushing back at the sight of the small green keypad set next to the frame. He rattled the knob but there was no give. It was another dead end. “Security lock,” he said, sighing. “No way to get in without the code.”

Rebecca frowned down at the pattern of tiny red lights set above the numbered buttons. “We could just

try numbers until we run across the right combina-tion_” Chris shook his head. “You know what our

chances are of just stumbling across the right—“ He stopped, staring at her, then fumbled the key ring out of his pocket.

“Try three-four-five,” he said, watching eagerly as Rebecca dutifully punched in the number. Come on, Mr. Alias, don’t fail us now. . . . The pattern of red lights flashed, then blinked out, one by one. As the last tiny light faded, there was a click from inside the door.

Chris grinned, pushing the door open—and felt his hope dwindle as he glanced around the tiny room. Dusty shelves filled with tiny glass bottles and a rust stained sink; not the exit he’d expected. No, that would have been too easy, God knows we can’t have that. . . .

Rebecca walked quickly to one of the shelves and looked over the glass bottles, mumbling to herself. “Hyoscyamine, anhydride, dieldrin . . ” She turned back to him, grinning widely. “Chris, we can kill the plant! That V-Jolt, the phytotoxin—I can make it here. If we can get to the basement, find the plant’s root—“ Chris smiled back. “—then we can destroy it without having to fight the damned thing! Rebecca, you’re brilliant. How long do you need?” “Ten, fifteen minutes.”

“You got it. Stay here, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Rebecca was already pulling down bottles as Chris closed the door and jogged back toward the corridor, past the whispering walls of shadowy green. They were going to beat this place, and once they got out, Umbrella was going down hard.

Barry was standing over Enrico’s cold body, Wesker’s map crumpled in one hand. Jill had been gone when he’d returned—and rather than look for her, he’d found himself unable to move, to even tear his gaze away from the corpse of his murdered friend. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t helped Wesker get out of the house, you’d still be alive. . . .

Barry stared miserably at Enrico’s face, so filled with guilt and shame that he didn’t know what to do anymore. He knew he had to find Jill, keep her from getting to Wesker, keep his family from being hurt—but still, he couldn’t seem to force himself to walk away. What he wanted more than anything was to be able to explain himself to Enrico, make him under-stand how things had come to be the way they were. He’s got Kathy and the babies, Rico . . . what else could I have done? What can I do but follow his orders? The Bravo stared back at him with glazed, unseeing eyes. No accusation, no acceptance, no nothing. For-ever. Even if Barry continued to help the captain and everything else turned out the way it was supposed to, Rico Marini would still be dead—and Barry didn’t know how he was going to live with the knowledge that he was responsible. . . .

Shots echoed through the tunnels. A lot of them.

Jill!

Barry’s head snapped around. He reached for his weapon automatically, the sounds spurring him to action as anger flushed through his system. There could only be one explanation; Wesker had found Jill. Barry turned and ran, sick at the thought of another S.T.A.R.S. member dead by Wesker’s treacherous hand, furious with himself for believing the captain’s lies—

The door in front of him slammed open and Barry stopped dead in his tracks, all thoughts of Wesker and Jill and Enrico wiped away by the sight of the crouch-ing thing in front of him. His mind couldn’t grasp what he saw, his stunned gaze feeding him bits of information that didn’t make sense. Green skin. Piercing, orange-white eyes. Talons.

It screamed, a horrible, squealing cry and Barry didn’t think anymore. He squeezed the trigger and the shriek turned into a bubbling, choking gasp as the heavy round tore into its throat and knocked it down. The thing flailed its limbs wildly as blood spurted from the smoking hole. Barry heard several sharp cracks like breaking bones, saw more blood pour from its fists as long, thick claws snapped off against rock. Barry stared in mute astonishment as the creature continued to spasm violently, burbling through the ragged hole in its throat as if still trying to scream. The shot should have blown its head off its neck—but it was another full minute before it died, its frenzied thrashings gradually weakening as blood continued to pump out at a tremendous rate. Finally, it stopped moving—and from the dark, noxious lake it had created, Barry realized that it had bled to death, conscious until the end.

What did I just kill? What the fu—

From the tunnel outside, another shrieking howl resounded through the clammy air—and was joined by a second, then third. The animal cries rose up, furious and unnatural, the screams of creatures that shouldn’t exist.

Barry dug into his hip pack with shaking hands and pulled out more rounds for the Colt, praying to God that he had enough—and that those shots he’d heard before hadn’t been Jill’s last stand.

SlXtEEFI

IT COULD HAVE ONCE BEEN A SPIDER, IF

spiders ever got to be the size of cattle. From the thick layer of white web that covered the room, floor to ceiling, it couldn’t have been anything else. Jill stared down at the curled, bristling legs of the abomination, her skin crawling. The creature that had attacked her by the courtyard entrance had been terrifying, but so alien that she hadn’t been able to relate it to anything. Spiders, on the other hand . . .she already hated them, hated their dark, bustling bodies and skittering legs. This one had been the mother of all of them—and even dead, it frightened her.

Hasn’t been dead long, though. . . .

She forced herself to look at it, at the slick puddles of greenish ichor that dripped from the holes in its rounded, hairy body. It had been shot several times—and from the noxious ooze that seeped from the wounds, she guessed that it had still been alive and crawling not twenty minutes ago, maybe less. She shuddered and stepped away toward the double metal doors that led out of the webbed chamber. Whispering streams of the sticky stuff clung to her boots, making it a struggle to move. She took careful, deliberate steps, determined not to fall. The thought of being covered in spider web, having it clinging to her entire body . . . she shuddered again, swallowing thickly.

Think about something else, anything—

At least she knew she was on the right track, and close behind whoever had triggered the tunnel mecha-nism. Neat trick, that. When she’d reached the area where the pit had been, she’d thought that maybe she’d gotten lost after all. The gaping hole had been gone, smooth stone in its place. Looking up, she’d seen the ragged edges of the pit suspended overhead; the entire center section of the tunnel had been flipped over, turned like a giant wheel by some miracle of engineering.

The doors had led to another straight, empty tun-nel. A giant boulder stood at one end, and past that, the room she was about to leave—

Jill grabbed the handle of one of the doors and pushed it open, stumbling out into yet another gloomy passage. She leaned back against the door and breathed deeply, barely resisting the urge to brush wildly at her clothes.

/ can blow away zombies and monsters with the best of ‘em; show me a spider and I lose my freaking mind. . . .

The short, empty tunnel ran left to right in front of her, a door at either end—but the door to her left was set into the same wall as the one she’d just exited, leading back toward the courtyard. Jill opted for the one on the right, hoping that her sense of direction was still intact.

The metal door creaked open and she stepped in, feeling the change in the air immediately. The tunnel split in front of her. To the right, a thickening of shadow where the rock walls opened into another corridor. But to her left was a small elevator shaft like the ones in the courtyard. A warm, delicious wind swept down and over her, the sweet air like a forgot-ten dream.

Jill grinned and started for the shaft, seeing that the lift’s platform had been taken up. Chances were

good that she was still on the trail of Enrico’s killer.......but maybe not. Maybe he went the other

way, and you’re about to lose him.

Jill hesitated, gazing wistfully at the small shaft—and then turned around, sighing. She had to at least take a look.

She walked into the stone corridor that stretched in front of her, the temperature immediately dropping back to the now familiar unpleasant chill. The tunnel extended several feet to her right and dead ended. To her left, a massive, rounded boulder like the one she’d seen before marked the other end, a good hundred feet away. And there was something small laying in front of it, something blue. . . .

Frowning, Jill walked toward the giant rock, trying to make out the blue object. Halfway down the dim tunnel was an offshoot to the left, and she recognized the metal plate next to it as the same kind of mecha-nism that had moved the pit.

She stepped into the small offshoot, examining the worn stones at its opening. There was a small door to her right, and Jill realized that the passage and room could be hidden by way of the mechanism, the walls turned to block the entrance.

Jeez, it must’ve taken them years to set all this up.

And to think I was impressed with the house. . . . She opened the door and looked inside. A mid-sized

square room of rough stone, a statue of a bird on a pedestal the only decoration. There was no other exit, and Jill felt a sudden rush of relief as the implications sank in. She could leave the under-ground tunnels; the killer had to have left already. Smiling, she stepped back out into the corridor and started toward the giant rock, still curious about the blue thing. As she got closer, she saw that it was a book, bound in blue-dyed leather. It had been thrown carelessly against the base of the stone, laying face down and open. She slung the Remington across her back and crouched down to pick it up.

It was a book-box. Her father had told her about them, though she’d never actually seen one. There was a cut-away section of pages behind the cover where valuables could be hidden, though this one was empty. . . .

She flipped it closed, tracing the gold-leaf letters of the title, Eagle of East, Wolf of West, as she started back toward the elevator. Didn’t sound like much of a thriller, though it was nicely bound—

Snick.

Jill froze as the stone beneath her left foot sank down a tiny bit—and she realized at the same instant that the entire tunnel gently sloped away from where she was standing.

• oh no—

Behind her, a deep, thundering sound of rock grating against rock.

Dropping the book, Jill sprinted for cover, arms and legs pumping as the rumbling grew louder, the tripped boulder picking up momentum. The dark opening of the offshoot seemed miles away—

• won ‘tmakeitgonnadie—

• and she could almost feel the tons of stone bearing down on her, wanted desperately to look but knew that the split-second difference would kill her. In a final, desperate burst of speed she dove for the opening, crashing to the floor and jerking her legs in—

• as the massive rock rolled past, missing her by inches. Even as she drew in her next gasping breath, the boulder hit the end of the tunnel with an explo-sive, bone-jarring crunch that shook the underground passage.

For a moment, it was all she could do to huddle against the cold floor and not throw up. When that passed, she slowly got to her feet and dusted herself off. The heels of her hands were abraded and both her knees bruised from the running dive, but compared to being smashed flat by a big rock, she thought she had definitely made the right choice.

Jill unstrapped the Remington and headed for the elevator shaft, very much looking forward to leaving the underground behind—and keeping her fingers crossed that whatever came next, it wouldn’t be cold. And that there wouldn’t be any spiders.

The basement was flooded, all right.

Chris stood at the top of a short ramp that led to the basement doors, staring down at his own unsmiling face reflected off of the shimmering water. It looked cold. And deep.

After he’d left Rebecca, he’d continued down the hall and found room 003 at the end, the ladder to the

basement level tucked discreetly behind a bookcase in the neatly kept bedroom. He’d descended into a chilled concrete corridor with buzzing fluorescent lights overhead, a dramatic change from the plain wood and simple style of the bunkhouse above. At least I found the basement. . . .

It appeared that killing Plant 42 was their only option for escape after all. He’d seen no other exit from the bunkhouse, which meant that it had to be past the plant’s room—or else there was no back door, a thought that left him distinctly unsettled. It didn’t seem possible, but then, neither did a carnivo-rous plant.

And you won’t find out until you get this over with. Chris sighed, and stepped into the water. It was cold, and had an unpleasant chemical smell. He waded down to the door, the water sliding up over his knees and finally stopping at mid-thigh, sloshing gently. Shivering, he pushed the door open and moved inside.

The basement was dominated by a giant glass-fronted tank in the center of the room that extended floor to ceiling, a large, jagged hole toward the bottom right-hand side. Chris wasn’t that good at judging volume, but to fill the whole area with water, he figured that the tank had to have held several thou-sands of gallons.

What the hell were they studying that they needed that much? Tidal waves?

It didn’t matter; he was cold, and he wanted to find what he needed to find and get back to dry land. He started off toward the left, slowly, straining against the push and pull of the gently lapping waves. It was totally unreal, wading through a well-lit concrete room, though he supposed it was no stranger than anything else he’d experienced since the Alpha ‘copter had set down. Everything about the Spencer estate had a dream-like feel to it, as if it existed in its own reality far removed from the rest of the world’s

Try nightmare-like. Killer plants, giant snakes, the walking dead—all that’s missing is a flying saucer, maybe a dinosaur—

He heard a soft sloshing behind him and glanced over his shoulder—

• to see a thick, triangular fin rise up from the water twenty feet away and slide toward him, a wavering gray shadow beneath.

Panic shot through him, an all-encompassing panic that seared away rational thought. He took a giant, running step—

• and realized that he couldn’t run as he plunged face first into the cold, chemical water and came up gasping, spluttering tainted liquid from his nose and mouth, hoping to God Rebecca was right about the virus having burned itself out.

He whipped his head around, eyes burning, search-ing for the fin—

• and saw that it had halved the distance between them. He could see it now—a shark, its rippling, distorted body sliding easily through the water, ten or twelve feet long, its broad tail lashing it forward—the black, soulless eyes set above its pointed grin.

• wet bullets misfire—

Chris stumbled away backwards, knowing that he didn’t stand a chance of outrunning it. Wheeling his

arms for balance, he sloshed heavily through the dragging water, turning himself sideways and manag-ing a few more steps before the shark was on top of him—

• and he leaped to the side, dodging the animal and slapping the water as violently as he could, churning it into foaming waves. The shark slid past him, its smooth, heavy body brushing against his leg. As soon as it was past, Chris stumbled after it, splashing wildly to keep up as he turned the corner in the flooded room. If he could stay close enough, it wouldn’t be able to turn, to get at him—

• except that in seconds, the shark would have the room to maneuver. He could see two doors ahead on the left but the giant fish was already leaving him behind, heading toward the next corner to turn around and come back for him.

Chris took a deep breath and plunged into the water, knowing it was crazy but that he didn’t have a better chance. He stroked desperately toward the first door, kicking off against the cement floor to propel himself forward in great, bounding leaps. He hit the door just as the shark was turning up ahead and grabbed for the handle, choking—

• and it was locked.

Shitshitshit—

Chris jammed his hand into his wet vest and came up with Alias’s keys, fumbling through them as the fin glided closer, the wide, pointed grin opening—

He shoved a key into the lock, the last key on the ring that he hadn’t found the room for, and slammed his shoulder against the door at the same time, the shark now only a few feet away.

The door flew open and Chris stumbled in, falling and kicking frantically. His boot connected solidly with the shark’s fleshy snout, deflecting it from the opening. In a flash, he was on his feet. He threw his weight into the door and in a slap of water, it was closed.

He sagged against the door, wiping at his stinging eyes with the back of his hand. The lapping water settled gently into smaller and smaller ripples as he caught his breath and his vision cleared. For now, he was safe.

He unholstered his Beretta and ejected the dripping magazine, wondering how the hell he was going to make it back upstairs. Looking around the small room, he saw nothing he could use as a weapon. One wall was lined with buttons and switches, and he trudged over to look at them, drawn to a blinking red light in the far corner.

Looks like I found a control room . . . aces. Maybe I can turn off the lights and get the shark to go to sleep. There was a lever set next to the flashing light and Chris stared down at the faded tape beneath it, feeling a numb disbelief as he read the printed letters. Emergency Drainage System.

You’ve gotta be kidding me! Why didn’t anyone pull this thing the second the tank broke?

The answer occurred to him even as he thought it. The people who worked here were scientists; no way they were going to turn down the opportunity to study their precious Plant 42, sucking up water from the man-made lake.

Chris grabbed the lever and pushed it down. There was a sliding, metallic noise outside the door—and

immediately, the water level started to drop. Within a minute, the last of it had flowed out from under the door and a gurgling, liquid gasp came from the direction of the broken tank.

He walked back to the door, opening it carefully—and heard the frantic, wet thumps of a very big fish trying to swim through air.

Chris grinned, thinking that he should probably feel pity for the helpless creature—and hoping instead that it died a long, agonizing death.

“Bite me,” he whispered.

Wesker had shot four of the shuffling, gasping Umbrella workers on his way to the computer room on level three. He hadn’t recognized any of them, though he was pretty sure that the second one he’d taken out had been Steve Keller, one of the guys from Special Research. Steve always wore penny loafers, and the pallid, dried-up husk that had reached for him by the stairs had been wearing Steve’s brand. It appeared that the effects of the viral spill had been harsher in the labs . . . less messy, but no less disquieting. The creatures that roamed the halls out-side seemed to have been totally dehydrated, their limbs withered and stringy, their eyes like shriveled grapes. Wesker had dodged several of them, but the ones he’d been forced to put down had scarcely bled at all.

He sat at the computer in the cool, sterile room and waited for the system to boot up, feeling truly on top of things for the first time all day. He’d had earlier moments, of course. The way he’d handled Barry, finding the wolf medal in the tunnels—even shooting Ellen Smith in the face had given him a momentary sense of accomplishment, a feeling that he was in control of what was happening. But so much had gone wrong along the way that he hadn’t had time to enjoy any of his successes.

But now I’m here. If the S.T.A.R.S. aren’t already dead, they will be soon—and assuming I don’t suffer some massive lapse of skill, I’ll be out of here within half an hour, mission complete—

There were still dangers, but Wesker could handle them. The mesh monkeys—the Ma2s—were un-doubtedly loose in the power room, but they were easy enough to get past, as long as you didn’t stop running; he should know, he’d helped come up with the design. And there was the big man, the Tyrant,

waiting one level down in his glass shell, sleeping the sweet, dreamless sleep of the damned.......

From which he’ll surely never wake. What a waste. So much power, crossed off as a failure by the boys at White. . . .

A gentle musical tone informed him that the system was ready. Wesker pulled a notebook out of his vest and opened it to the list of codes, though he already knew them; John Howe had set the system up months ago, using his name and the name of his girlfriend, Ada, as access keys.

Wesker tapped out the first of the passwords that would allow him to unlock the laboratory doors, feeling a sudden, vague wistfulness for the excitement of the day. It would be over so soon and there would be no one to witness his achievements, to share his fond memories after the fact.

Now that he thought about it, it was a shame that none of the S.T.A.R.S. would be joining him; the only thing better than a grand finale was a grand finale with an audience. . . .

SEVEnfEEn

JILL HAD TAKEN THE ELEVATOR INTO WHAT

seemed to be another part of the garden or courtyard, although the area had been isolated, surrounded by trees; she’d guessed as much from the few overgrown potted plants and the welcome sounds of the forest beyond the low metal railing. There had been nothing to see but a rusting door set into a nondescript, overgrown wall, welded shut—and a large, open well, like a stone wading pool. Inside had been a short, spiral staircase leading down to another small ele-vator.

Which I took—but now where the hell am I? The room that the elevator had led to was unlike any other part of the estate she’d seen. It lacked the strange, fetid charm of the mansion, or the dripping gloom of the underground. It was as though she’d walked out of a gothic horror story and into a military complex, a utilitarian’s bleak paradise. She was standing in a large, steel-reinforced con-crete room, the walls painted a muddy industrial orange. Metal ducts and overhead pipes lined the upper walls, and the room was rather aptly titled “XD-R Bl,” painted across the concrete in black, several feet high. Any sense she’d had of where she was in relation to the rest of the estate was totally gone.

Although it’s as cold as everywhere else, at least I know I’m still on the grounds. . . .

There was a heavy metal door on one side of the room, firmly locked. The sign to the left of it stated that it was only to be opened in case of a first-class emergency. She figured that the “Bl” on the wall stood for “Basement level one,” her theory confirmed by the bolted ladder that led down through a narrow shaft in the concrete; where there was Bl, B2 natu-rally followed.

And considering the alternative, it looks like that’s where I’m headed. My other option is to go back through the underground tunnels.

She peered down the ladder shaft, only able to see a square of concrete at the bottom. Sighing, she held on to the Remington and started down.

As soon as she hit the last rung, she turned anxious-ly—and faced a much smaller room, as bland and industrial as the first. Inset fluorescent lights on the ceiling, a gray metal door, concrete walls and floor.

She walked through quickly, starting to feel hopeful that there were no more creatures or traps. So far, the basement levels had offered nothing more dangerous than a lack of decorum. . . .

She opened the door and her hope faded as the dry, dusty smell of long-dead flesh hit her. She stepped out onto a cement walkway that led over a flight of descending stairs, a metal railing circling the path. At the top of the steps was a crumpled zombie, so emaciated and shriveled that it appeared mummified. She held the shotgun ready and walked slowly toward the stairs, noting that there was a hall branch-ing off to the left where the railing stopped. She darted a quick look around the corner and saw that it was clear. Still watching the desiccated corpse care-fully, she edged down the short corridor and stopped at the door on her left. The sign next to the door read “Visual Data Room,” and the door itself was un-locked.

It opened up into a still, gray room with a long meeting table in the center, a slide projector set up in front of a portable screen at the far end. There was a phone on a small stand pushed up against the right wall, and Jill hurried over, knowing that it was too much to hope for but having to check just the same. It wasn’t a phone at all, but an intercom system that didn’t seem to work. Sighing, she stepped past an ornamental pillar and walked around the table, glanc-ing at the empty slide projector. She let her gaze wander, looking for anything of interest—

• and it stopped on a flat, featureless square of metal set into the wall, about the size of a sheet of paper. Jill stepped over to take a closer look. There was a flat bar at the top. She touched it lightly, and the panel slid down into the wall, reveal-ing a large red button. She looked around the quiet room, trying to imagine what the trap would be—and then realized that there wouldn’t be a trap at all. The mansion, the tunnels—all of it was rigged to keep people from getting here, to these basement levels. They’re way too efficiently dull to be anything but where the real work gets done.

She knew instinctively that her logic was sound. This was a board room, a place for drinking bad coffee and sitting through meetings with colleagues; nothing was going to jump out at her if she pushed the button.

Jill pushed it. And behind her, the ornamental pillar slid to one side with a smooth, mechanical hum. Behind the pillar were several shelves, stacked with files—and something that glittered in the soft gray light of the room.

She hurried over and picked up a metal key, the top of it imprinted with a tiny lightning bolt. Slipping it into her pocket, she flipped through a few of the files. They were all stamped with the Umbrella logo, and though most of them were too thick and ponderous to spend time sorting through, the title on one of the reports told her what she needed to know, what she’d already suspected.

Umbrella / Bioweapons Report / Research and Develop-ment.

Nodding slowly, Jill put the file back. She’d finally found the real research facilities, and she knew that the S.T.A.R.S. traitor would be somewhere in these rooms. She was going to have to be very careful. With a final glance around her, Jill decided to go see if she could find the lock that the key belonged to. It was time to place the last few pieces of the puzzle that Umbrella had set up and that the S.T.A.R.S. had sacrificed themselves trying to solve.

The twisted, gnarled root of Plant 42 took up a large corner of the basement room, the bulk of it hanging down in slender, fleshy tendrils that almost touched the floor. A few of the tiny, worm-like threads squirmed blindly around each other, twisting slowly back and forth as if looking for the water supply that Chris had drained.

“God, that’s disgusting,” Rebecca said. Chris nodded agreement. Besides the control room he’d escaped into, there had only been two other chambers in the basement. One of them had been stacked with boxes of cartridges for all kinds of weapons—and although most of them had been use-lessly wet, he’d found most of a box of nine-millimeter rounds on a high shelf, saving them both from running out of ammunition.

The other room had been plain, containing only a wood table, a bench—and the massive, creeping root of the carnivorous plant that lived upstairs. “Yeah,” Chris said. “So how do we do this?” Rebecca held up a small bottle of purplish fluid and swirled it gently, still staring at the moving tendrils. “Well, you stand back, and don’t breathe too deeply. This stuffs got a couple of toxins in it that neither of us want to be ingesting, and it’ll turn gaseous once it hits the infected cells.”

Chris nodded. “How will we know if it’s working?” Rebecca grinned. “If the V-Jolt report is on the mark, we’ll know. Watch.”

She uncapped the bottle and stepped closer to the twisted root—then upended the glass vial, dousing the snaking tendrils with the watery fluid. Immediately, a billow of reddish smoke plumed up from the root as Rebecca emptied the bottle and stepped quickly away. There was a hissing, crackling sound like wet wood thrown atop a blazing fire—and within seconds, the feebly twisting fibers started to break, pieces of them snapping off and flaking away. The knotted thickness at the center started to tighten and shrink, pulling into itself.

Chris watched in amazement as the giant, terrible root suddenly shriveled up into a dripping ball of mush no bigger than a child’s ball and hung there, dead. The entire process had taken about fifteen seconds.

Rebecca nodded toward the door and both of them stepped out into the drying basement, Chris shaking his head.

“God, what’d you put in there?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know. You ready to get out of here?”

Chris grinned. “Let’s do it.”

They both jogged toward the basement doors, hur-rying out into the cold corridor and back toward the ladder that led upstairs. Chris was already going over escape plans for when they left the bunkhouse. It really would depend on where the exit led. If they ended up in the woods, he was thinking that they should head toward the closest road and light a fire, then wait for help to come. . . .

. . . though maybe we’ll get lucky, run across the damned parking lot for this place. We can hotwire a car and drive out—and get Irons to do something useful for a change, like call in reinforcements. . . . They reached the wood corridor and headed for the plant room, both of them taking long, easy strides past the hissing green walls and finally stopping at the room that held Plant 42.

Breathing deeply, Chris nodded to Rebecca. They both unholstered their weapons and Chris pushed the door open, eager to see what lay beyond the experi-mental plant.

They stepped into a huge, open room, the smell of rotting vegetation thick in the damp air. Whatever it had looked like before, the monster that had been Plant 42 was now a massive, steaming lake of dark purple goo in the center of the room. Bloated dead vines the size of fire hoses draped limply across the floor, extending out from the livid, gelid mass. Chris scanned for the next door, saw a plain fire-place against one wall, a broken chair in a corner—

• and a single door that apparently led back into the bedroom he’d searched earlier. A hidden passage that he’d missed—and that led to the very room in which they stood.

Must have been behind the bookcase. . . . There was no way out. Killing the plant had been a waste of time, it hadn’t been blocking anything. Rebecca looked as disappointed as he felt, her shoulders slumped and expression grim as she studied the bare walls.

Ah, I’m sorry, Rebecca.

They both walked slowly around the room, Chris staring at the dead plant and trying to decide what to do next. Rebecca walked to the fireplace and crouched down next to it, poking at the blackened ash. He wouldn’t drag her back to the mansion, neither of them were up for it. Even with the extra ammo, there were too many snakes. They could wait in the courtyard for Brad to fly by again, hope he got into range—

“Chris, I’ve found something.”

He turned and saw her pull a couple of pieces of paper out of the ashes, the edges scorched but both sheets otherwise intact. He walked across the room and leaned down to read over her shoulder—and felt his heart start pounding as the first words sank in.

SECURITY PROTOCOLS

BASEMENT LEVEL ONE:

Heliport/For executive use only. This restriction may not apply in the event of an emergency. Unauthorized persons entering the heliport will be shot on sight. Elevator/The elevator stops during emergencies.

BASEMENT LEVEL TWO:

Visual Data Room/For use by the Special Research

Division only. All other access to the Visual Data Room must be cleared with Keith Arving, Room Manager.

BASEMENT LEVEL THREE:

Prison/Sanitation Division controls the use of the prison. At least one Consultant Researcher (E. Smith,

S. Ross, A. Wesker) must be present if viral use is authorized. Power Room/Access limited to Headquarters Supervisors. This restriction may not apply to Consultant Researchers with special authorization.

BASEMENT LEVEL FOUR:

Regarding the progress of “Tyrant” after use of T-Virus . . .

The rest of the paper was burned, the words lost. “A. Wesker,” Chris said softly. “Captain Albert goddamn Wesker...”

Barry had said that Wesker disappeared right after the Alphas had made it to the house. And it was Wesker who led us here in the first place when the dogs attacked. Cool, competent, unreadable Wesker, work-ing for Umbrella. . . .

Rebecca flipped to the second page and Chris leaned in, studying the neatly typed labels beneath the drawn boxes and lines.

MANSION. COURTYARD. GUARDHOUSE. UNDERGROUND.

LABORATORIES.

There was even a compass drawn next to the sketch of the mansion, to show them what they’d missed—a secret entrance to the underground hidden behind the waterfall.

Rebecca stood up, eyes wide and uncertain. “Cap-tain Wesker is involved with all this?” Chris nodded slowly. “And if he’s still here, he’s down in those labs, maybe with the rest of the team. If Umbrella sent him here, God only knows what he’s up to.”

They had to find him, had to warn whoever was left of the S.T.A.R. S. that Wesker had betrayed them all. Everything was done. Wesker stepped into the elevator that led back to level three, running through his checklist as he lowered the outer gate and slid the inner one closed.

. . . samples collected, disks erased, power recon-nected, Tyrant support off. . .

It was really too bad about the Tyrant. Ugly as it was, the thing was a marvel of surgical, chemical, and genetic engineering, and he’d stood in front of its glass chamber for a long time, studying it in silent awe before reluctantly shutting down its life support. As the stasis fluids had drained, he’d found himself imagining what it would have been like to see it in action once the researchers had completed their work. It would have been the ultimate soldier, a thing of beauty in the battlefield . . . and now it had to be destroyed, all because some idiot tech had hit the wrong button. A mistake that had cost Umbrella millions of dollars and killed the researchers who had created it.

He hit the switch and the elevator thrummed to life, carrying him back up for his final task—activating the triggering system at the back of the power room. He’d give himself fifteen minutes to make sure he was clear of the blast radius, climb down the heliport ladder, hit the back road toward town—and boom, no more hidden Umbrella facility. At least not in Raccoon Forest. . . .

Once he got back into the city, he’d pack a bag and head for Umbrella’s private air strip. He could make the necessary calls from there, let his contacts in the White office know what had happened.

They’d have a clean-up team standing by to comb through the forest and take out the surviving specimens—and they’d be most eager to get their hands on the tissue samples he’d taken, two of everything except for the Tyrant. With the Tyrant scientists all dead, Umbrella had decided to shelve the project indefinitely. Wesker thought it was a mistake, but then, he wasn’t getting paid to think.

As the elevator slid to a stop, Wesker opened the gates and stepped out, setting down the sample case. He unholstered his Beretta, going over the twisting layout of the power room in his mind. He had to make another run through the Ma2s to get to the activation system. He’d already managed it once to hook up the elevator circuit, but they had been more active than he’d expected; instead of weakening them, their hun-ger had driven them to new heights of viciousness. He’d been lucky to make it through unscathed—

At a hydraulic hum from down the hall, Wesker froze. Footsteps clattered across the cement floor, hesitated—and then started for the power room at the opposite end of the corridor.

Wesker eased up to the corner and looked down the hall, just in time to see Jill Valentine disappear through the metal doors, a burst of hissing mechani-cal noise echoing through the corridor before they closed.

How did she make it through the Hunters? Jesus! Apparently he’d underestimated her . . . and she’d been alone, too. If she was that good, the Ma2s might not kill her, and she had effectively just blocked him from the triggering system. He wouldn’t be able to deal with the creatures that roamed the maze-like walkways and put a stop to her prying. . . . Frustrated, Wesker scooped up the sample case and walked quickly down the hall, back toward the hy-draulic doors that led to the main corridor of level three. If she made it back out, he’d just have to shoot her; it would only delay his escape by a few minutes. Still, it was an unexpected curve, and as far as he was concerned, it was too late in the game for surprises. Surprises pissed him off, they made him feel like he wasn’t in control. . . .

I AM in control, nothing is happening here that I can’t handle! This is MY game, my rules, and I will accomplish my mission without any interference from that little thief-bitch—

Wesker stalked out into the main corridor, saw that Jill had managed to take out a few more of the wizened, withered scientists and technicians that wandered the basement labs. Two of them lay just outside the door, their skulls blown into arid powder by what looked like shotgun blasts. He kicked one

of them angrily, his boot crunching into the corpse’s brittle ribs, the dry snap of bone loud in the silence—

• except that suddenly, he heard heavy boots com-ing down the metal stairs from B2, the hollow clump echoing through the hall. And then a rough, hesitant voice calling out.

“Jill?”

Barry Burton, as I live and breathe—

Wesker raised his weapon coolly, ready to fire when Barry stepped into view—and then lowered it thoughtfully. After a moment, a slow grin spread across his face.

ElGHfEEn

JILL EASED INTO THE STEAMING, HISSING

room, a thick smell of grease in the heated air. It was some kind of a boiler room, and a big one; heavy, thrumming machinery filled the large chamber, sur-rounded by winding catwalks. Massive turbines spun and pounded, generating power in a steady whine as hidden ducts spat out steam at short intervals. She moved slowly into the poorly lit chamber, peering down one of the railed walkways into the fluctuating shadows cast by the towering generators. From where she was, she could see that the place was a labyrinth of paths, twining around the giant blocks of noisy machinery.

The source of the estate’s power. That explains how they managed to keep it a secret for so long, they had their own little city out here, totally autonomous—probably had their food shipped in, too. . . . She turned down the narrow walk to her right, watching uneasily for any more of the strange, pale zombies that she’d seen in the corridors of B3. The path seemed clear, but with the movement and noise created by the turbines—

Something ripped at her left shoulder, a sudden, violent slash that tore open her vest and scraped the skin beneath.

Jill spun and fired, the roar of the shotgun drowning out the hissing machines. The blast hit metal, pellets ricocheting into the empty walk. There was nothing behind her.

Where—

A lunging, blade-like claw sliced the air in front of her face, swooping down from above.

She stumbled back, staring up at the steel mesh of the ceiling—and saw a dark shape skitter out of the shadows, hooking its way across the grate incredibly fast, curving claws at its hands and feet. She caught a glimpse of thick spines around its mutant, flattened face and then it turned and ran into the thrumming shadows of the power room.

There was a door at the end of the walk and Jill sprinted toward it, heart racing, the pounding whine of the generators thundering in her ears. She was five feet from the door when she saw the moving shadow position itself in front of her. She raised the shotgun and leaned back—

• more of them!

There were two of the creatures overhead, squat, terrible things with vicious, curving hooks instead of

hands. One of them dropped down suddenly, hanging by clawed feet to swipe at her with its bladed arm. Jill fired and the creature screeched, the blast hitting it in the chest. It fell from the ceiling with a clatter, thick blood oozing out of the ragged wound. She turned back toward the entrance and ran, hearing the patter of claws against the mesh overhead. Another of the aberrant monkey-like things swung down in front of her, and Jill ducked, afraid to stop running. The thing’s strange arm whistled past her ear, missing her head by less than an inch. The metal doors were in front of her. Jill crashed into them, slapping one handle down and stumbling back into the cold stillness of the corridor. The door closed on the furious, shrill cry of one of the mon-sters, rising high over the sounds of the working machines.

She sagged against the door, gasping—

• and saw Barry Burton standing midway down the chilled, silent hall. He hurried toward her, an expression of deep worry on his rugged, bearded face. “Jill! Are you alright?”

She pushed away from the door, surprised. “God, Barry, where have you been? I thought you’d gotten lost in the tunnels.”

Barry nodded grimly. “I did. And I ran into some trouble trying to get out.”

She saw the splatters of blood on his clothing, the rips and tears in his shirt, and realized that he must have come across more of those walking green night-mares. He looked like he’d been through a war. Speaking of. . .

Jill touched her shoulder, her ringers coming away bloody. It was painful but shallow; she’d survive. “Barry, we’ve got to get out of here. I found some papers upstairs, proof of what’s been going on. Enrico was right, Umbrella’s behind all of this and one of the S.T.A.R.S. knew about it. It’s too dangerous to keep looking around, we should get those files and head back to the mansion, wait for the RPD—“ “But I think I found the main lab,” Barry said. “Downstairs, there’s an elevator at the end of the hall. There are computers and stuff. We can get into their files, really nail ‘em”

He didn’t seem excited by the find, but Jill barely noticed. With the information they could get from Umbrella’s database: names, dates, research mate-rial—

We can find out everything, present the investigators with the whole, messy package. . . .

Jill nodded, grinning. “Lead the way.”

The tunnels had been a cold, miserable maze, but the map had led them through quickly. Rebecca and Chris had reached the first basement level, both of them shivering and wet—and not a little freaked out by the dead creatures they’d passed along the way. The Umbrella scientists had been disgustingly cre-ative in their approach to making monsters. Chris rattled the door that supposedly led to the heliport, but it was solidly locked, an emergency sign next to it implying that it could only be opened by an alarm system. He’d hoped to send Rebecca out with the radio while he searched for the others. He looked down the narrow stairwell and sighed, turning to her. “I want you to stay here. If you stand by the elevator, you should be able to pick up Brad’s signal from outside. Tell him where we are and what happened—and if I’m not back in twenty minutes, get back to the courtyard and wait there until help comes.”

Flustered, Rebecca shook her head. “But I want to go with you! I can take care of myself, and if you find the lab, you’ll need me to tell you what you’re looking at—“ “No. For all we know, Wesker already killed the other S.T.A.R.S. and is looking to finish the job. If we’re the last ones, we can’t risk both of us

getting ambushed. Somebody has to survive and tell people about Umbrella. I’m sorry, but it’s the only way.” He smiled at her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “And I know you can take care of yourself. This isn’t about your competence, okay? Twenty minutes. I just have to see if anyone else made it.”

Rebecca opened her mouth as if to protest further and then closed it, nodding slowly. “Okay, I’ll stay. Twenty minutes.”

Chris turned and started down the ladder, hoping he could keep his promise to come back. The captain had successfully deceived them all, acting the part of concerned leader for weeks while the people in Rac-coon City had died—and all along he’d known why. The man was a sociopath.

It seemed that Umbrella had created more than one kind of monster. And it was time to find out how much damage he’d done.

Barry couldn’t bring himself to look at Jill as they took the elevator down to B4. Wesker would be waiting for them at the bottom, and Jill would find out that he had been helping the captain all along. He’d killed three more of the violent, springing creatures down in the tunnels before making it to the lab—only to run into Wesker, who had insisted that he lure Jill down to B4 and assist him in locking her up. The smiling bastard had reminded Barry of his family’s situation and promised again that it was the last thing he’d have to do, that after Jill was safely locked away he’d call his people off—

• except he’s said that every time. Find the crests and you’re free. Help me in the tunnels, you’re free. Betray your friend. . .

“Barry, are you okay?”

He turned to her as the elevator stopped, looking miserably into her concerned, thoughtful eyes. “I’ve been worried about you ever since we got to the mansion,” she said, laying a hand across his arm. “I even thought—well, never mind what I thought. Is something wrong?”

He pulled the gate open and raised the mesh outer door, an excuse to look away. “I—yeah, something’s wrong,” he said quietly. “But now’s not the time. Let’s just get this over with.”

Jill frowned but nodded, still looking concerned.

“Okay. When this is over, we can talk.” You won’t want to talk to me when this is over. ... j Barry stepped out into the short hallway and Jill followed, their boots clanking across a steel grate. The * hall turned to the left just ahead and Barry slowed down on the pretense of checking his weapon, letting Jill get in front of him.

They turned the corner and Jill froze, staring into the muzzle of Wesker’s raised Beretta. He grinned at them, his sunglasses hiding his eyes, his smile smug and leering.

“Hello, Jill. Nice of you to drop by,” he said smoothly. “Nice work, Barry. Take her weapons.” She turned her startled gaze to him as he quickly plucked the shotgun from her hands, then reached around to unholster her Beretta, his face burning. “Now get back up to Bl and wait for me by the exit.

I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

Barry stared at him. “But you said you just wanted to lock her up—“ Wesker shook his head. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt her, I promise. Now get going.” Jill looked at him, confusion and fear

and anger playing across her face. “Barry?”

“I’m sorry, Jill.”

He turned and walked around the corner, feeling defeated and ashamed—not to mention terrified for Jill. Wesker had promised, but Wesker’s word meant nothing. He’d probably kill her as soon as he heard the elevator doors close—

• but what if I’m not in the elevator? Maybe I can still do something to keep her alive. . . . Barry hurried to the lift and opened the gates—then slammed them closed and pushed the operation switch, sending it back to B3 without a passenger. Moving silently, he edged back toward the corner, listening.

“. . . can’t say I’m all that surprised,” Jill was saying. “But how did you get Barry to help you?” Wesker laughed. “Ol’ Barry’s got some trouble at home. I told him that Umbrella has a team watching his house, waiting to kill his precious family. He was only too happy to help.”

Barry clenched his fists, his jaw tight.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” Jill said. “Maybe. But I’m going to be a rich bastard when all this is over. Umbrella is paying me a lot of money to clean up their little problem, and to get rid of a few of you goddamn snooping S.T.A.R.S. in the process.” “Why would Umbrella want to destroy the S.T.A.R.S.?” Jill asked.

“Oh, not all of them. They’ve got big plans for some of us, at least those of us that want to make a profit. It’s you sniveling do-gooders that they don’t want—the red-white-and-blue, apple pie, all that happy bullshit. The way Redfield’s been running around, mouthing off about conspiracies—you think Umbrel-la didn’t notice? It has to stop, here. This whole place was rigged to blow up just in case of an accident—and the Tyrant virus escaping qualifies. Once you’re all dead and this facility’s destroyed, no one will be able to get to the truth.”

Son-of-a-bitch was going to kill all of us—

“But enough about Umbrella. I had you brought down here for a little experiment of my own. I want to see how our most agile team member stands up against the miracle of modern science. If you’ll just step through that door—“ Barry flattened himself against the wall as Wesker stepped back, part of his shoulder coming into view. He put his hand on his Colt and drew it out slowly.

“I can’t believe that you’re doing this,” Jill said. “Selling out to protect a bunch of unethical corporate blackmailers—“ “Blackmailers? Oh, you mean Barry. Umbrella wouldn’t bother with blackmail. They can afford to buy people just as easily. I made all that up to get him on board—“ Barry slammed the butt of his Colt into Wesker’s skull as hard as he could, dropping him like a ton of bricks.

JILL STARED IN ASTONISHMENT AS WESKER

suddenly stopped talking and crumpled to the floor—and Barry stepped into view, staring down at Wesker’s body with a look of intense hatred, Colt in hand.

She crouched down next to Wesker and pried the Beretta from his fingers, tucking it into her waistband. Barry turned to look at her, his eyes swimming with apology. “Jill, I’m so sorry. I never should have believed him.”

Jill stared at him for a moment, thinking about his daughters. Moira was Becky McGee’s age. . . . “It’s okay,” she said finally. “You came back, that’s what matters.”

Barry handed her back her weapons, and they both FIlnEtEEn gazed down at Wesker’s sprawled form, still breathing but unconscious. He was out cold.

“I don’t suppose you have any handcuffs on you?”

Barry asked.

Jill shook her head. “Maybe we should check out the lab, there’s bound to be some cable or cord we can use. Besides, I’m kind of curious about this ‘miracle of modern science’ he was talking about. ...”

She turned and found the switch that operated the hydraulic door, noting the bio-hazard symbol painted across the front. The door slid open and the two of them stepped inside.

Wow. . .

It was a huge, high-ceilinged chamber lined with monitoring consoles, cables snaking across the floor and connecting to a whole series of standing glass tubes. There were eight of the tubes lined up in the center of the room, each of them big enough to hold a grown man. They were all empty.

Barry reached down and scooped up a handful of cable, digging into his pocket for a knife while Jill walked toward the back, gazing at the technical and medical equipment—and stopped, staring, feeling her jaw drop.

Against the back wall was a much larger tube, at least eight or nine feet tall, hooked up to its own computer console—and the thing inside filled it, top to bottom. It was monstrous.

“Jill, I got the cable. I—“

Barry stopped next to her, his words faltering as he saw the abomination. Silently, they both walked to-ward it, unable to resist a closer look. It was tall, but proportionally correct, at least through the broad, muscular torso and long legs; those parts appeared human. One of its arms had been altered into a cluster of massive, dragging claws, hanging past its knees, while the other seemed ordi-nary, if overly large. There was a thick, bloody tumor protruding from where its heart would be, and Jill realized, staring at the bulbous mass that it was the thing’s heart; it was pulsing slowly, expanding and contracting in slow, rhythmic beats.

She stopped in front of the tube, awed by the abomination. She could see lines of scar tissue snak-ing across its limbs, surgical scars. It had no sexual organs; they’d been cut away. She looked up at its face and saw that parts of the flesh there had also been removed; the lips were gone, and it seemed to grin broadly at her through the sliced red tissue of its face, all of its teeth exposed.

“Tyrant,” Barry said quietly.

Jill glanced over at him, saw him frowning down at the computer that was hooked to the tube by multiple cables.

She looked back at the Tyrant, feeling nearly over-whelmed by pity and disgust. Whatever it was now, it had once been a man. Umbrella had turned him into a freakish horror.

“We can’t leave it like this,” she said softly, and Barry nodded.

She joined him at the console, looking down at the myriad switches and buttons. There had to be a switch that would put an end to its life; it deserved that much.

There was a set of six red switches in a row along the bottom and Barry flipped one of them down. Nothing seemed to happen. He glanced at her, and she nodded for him to continue. He used the side of his hand to flip all of them.

There was a sudden, dull thump—

They both whirled around, saw the Tyrant pull back its human hand and hit the glass again. Cracks webbed out from the impact, though the glass had to be several inches thick—

“Oh . . . SHIT!”

Barry grabbed her arm as the creature drew its bleeding knuckles back for another blow. “Run!”

They ran, Jill wishing to God that they’d left it alone, panic welling up from deep inside of her. Barry slammed his hand down on the door control and it slid open as behind them, glass shattered. They stumbled through the door, terrified, Barry hitting the lock—

• and saw that Wesker was gone.

Wesker stumbled toward the power room, his head pounding, his limbs feeling strangely distant and weak. He felt like he was going to throw up. Goddamn Barry . . .

They’d taken his gun. He’d come to as they’d walked into the lab and reeled toward the elevator, cursing them both, cursing Umbrella for creating such a screwed up mess, cursing himself for not simply killing the S.T.A.R.S. when he could have. It’s not over. I’m still in control. This is my game. . . .

The sample case was down in the lab, probably being destroyed right now by one of those idiots. Tyrant, too. That magnificent creature, powerless without the adrenaline injections, dead. They’d shoot him in his sleeping heart, he’d die without ever tasting battle. . . .

Wesker reached the door to the room and leaned against it, struggling to catch his breath. Blood drib-bled out of his ears and he shook his head, trying to clear it of the strange fog that had settled into his brain.

He didn’t have the tissue samples, but he could still complete his mission. It was important, very impor-tant that he complete his mission. It was about control, and control was his game.

. . . triggering system, watch out for monkeys . . . The Ma2s, he had to be careful. Wesker opened the door and pitched forward, the ground seeming too far away and then too close. The machines were hissing at him, whining and hissing in the hot, oily air. His hand found the railing and he pulled himself toward the back of the room, trying to hurry but finding that his legs weren’t interested.

A claw shot down from above and tore into his scalp, yanking away a clump of hair. He felt warm liquid trickle down the back of his neck and stumbled on, the pain in his head sharper now.

Took my gun, stupid, stupid assholes took my gun. . . .

He reached the door and had just managed to get it open when something heavy landed on his back, knocking him into the next room. He fell on the cold metal floor and a terrible shriek sounded in his ear. Thick talons punctured the skin on his back and Wesker slapped at it, at the grinning, screaming thing that was trying to kill him.

He hit the creature as hard as he could, shoving the heel of his hand into its throat. It leaped away, landing on the mesh wall and clambering back up to the ceiling.

Wesker pulled himself up and stumbled on, fresh waves of pain and nausea washing over him. The air was too hot, the turbines loud and relentless in their spinning, throbbing frenzy—but he could see the door to the back now, the door that led to the completion of his mission.

All of the S.T.A.R.S., dead, blown into orbit while I escape, fly away a rich man. . . .

He flung the door open and made his way toward the small, glowing screen in the back corner. It was quieter here, cooler. The massive machines that filled the chamber hummed softly at him, their purpose quite different than that of the ones outside. These were the machines that wanted to help him regain his control.

The noise from the open door behind him seemed far away as he reached the glowing screen, his fingers numb as they touched the keyboard beneath. He found the keys he needed, the code spilling out across the monitor in soft green after only a few mistakes. A sexy, quiet voice informed him that the countdown would begin in thirty seconds. Dizzy, he tried to remember the setting for the timer. The system would trigger automatically in five minutes, but he had to reset it, give himself time to get reoriented and make his way to the outside—

Behind him, something screamed.

Wesker whirled around, confused—and saw four of the mesh-monkeys running at him, lashing out with long, curved hands as they reached him. Terrible pain shot up through his legs and he fell, crashing to the hard steel floor.

This can’t happen.

One of the creatures jumped onto his chest and suddenly Wesker couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even raise his weak arms to push it away. Another tore into his left leg, ripping away a thick chunk of flesh with its hooked claw. The third and fourth screamed in savage glee, dancing around him like dark, vicious children, lifting their claws as they pranced on squat legs. Somehow, there was blood in his eyes, and the world was spinning away, screams and hisses and incredible, searing heat blurring his vision, his mind—

Tyrant has come.

Wesker could feel it, could feel the presence of something vast and powerful touching him. Grinning through the pain, he searched for it through the red haze of his failing vision, wanting more than anything to see it slaughter his attackers in a glory of perfect motion—but he could only make out the immense shadow that seemed to flood over him, through him, could only imagine that the powerful, magnificent warrior was reaching down to lift him from his torment—

I control let me seeeee—

Darkness stole his hopes away, and Wesker thought no more.

“. . . S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team, Bravo, anybody—//” you can’t answer, try to signal! I’m running out of fuel, do you read? This is Brad! Repeat—S. T.A.R.S. Alpha team ...”

Rebecca hit the button, talking fast. “Brad! There’s a heliport at the Spencer estate, you have to get to the heliport! Brad, come in!”

There was a high, whining squeal and Rebecca heard what must have been the word “copy”—but the rest was lost.

“I copy”? Or, “Do you copy?”

There was no way to know. Frustrated and worried, Rebecca held on to the radio tightly, hoping that he’d heard her.

Suddenly, a shrill alarm blared into the silent room through some hidden speaker in the ceiling. Rebecca jumped, staring around the cold chamber helplessly. There was a buzzing click from inside the door that led to the heliport and she hurried over, grabbing the handle and pulling it open. It had unlocked. A cool, female voice began to speak, slowly and clearly over the jangling alarm.

“The triggering system has now been activated. All personnel must evacuate immediately or process deac-tivation. You have jive minutes. The triggering system has now been activated— “ As the recorded message repeated, Rebecca stood in the open doorway and watched the open ladder shaft, her blood racing, waiting to see Chris emerge from the levels below.

He’d only been gone a few minutes, but their time had just run out.

TwERfY

JILL AND BARRY RAN FROM THE ELEVATOR

back toward the main hall of B3, the cool voice informing them that they had four and a half minutes. They hit the open corridor at a dead run, sprinting around the corner—

• and saw Chris Redfield halfway up the metal stairs. “Chris!” Jill shouted.

He spun around, his face lighting up as he saw them dashing toward him.

“Hurry!” he shouted. “There’s a heliport on Bl!”

Thank God!

Chris waited until they reached the base of the stairs and then ran ahead, rushing around the walk-way and holding open the door that led to the ladder. Jill and Barry made it to the top and sped through, the computer telling them that they had four minutes, fifteen seconds to get away.

Barry went up the ladder first and Jill followed, Chris right behind. They piled out into Bl. Jill saw that Rebecca Chambers was standing at the emergen-cy exit, her youthful face tight with anxiety. Chris hustled her through the door and the four of them ran through a winding concrete hall, Jill praying silently that they’d have time to clear the estate. / hope you burn here, Wesker.

There was a large elevator at the end of the corridor and Barry slammed the gate open, holding it as they rushed inside. He jumped in after them. They had four minutes even.

The elevator seemed to crawl upward and Jill looked at her watch, heart pounding as the seconds ticked past.

Not gonna make it, we’ll never make it—

The lift hummed to a stop and Chris yanked the gate open, the cool air of early morning sweeping over them—and the sweet, wondrous sound of a helicop-ter overhead, circling.

“He heard me!” Rebecca shouted, and Jill grinned, feeling a sudden wave of affection for the rookie.

The helicopter port was huge, the wide, flat space surrounded by high walls, a circle of yellow paint on the asphalt showing Brad where to set down. Barry and Chris both waved their arms frantically, signaling the pilot to hurry as Jill looked at her watch again. A little over three and a half minutes remained. More than enough time—

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 Tyrant leaped out onto the heliport, rose smoothly from its agile crouch . . . and started toward them.

What the hell is that?

It had to be eight feet tall, parts of its giant body mutilated and deformed, its grinning face focusing on them even as it stood up. It moved toward them at a slow walk, the massive claw of its left arm flexing. No time, Brad can’t land—

Chris targeted the dark, tumorous thing on its chest and fired, pulling the trigger five times in rapid succession, three of the rounds finding their mark. The other two were within an inch of the pulsing redness—

• and the creature didn’t even slow down.

“Scatter!” Barry yelled.

The S.T.A.R.S. split, Jill pulling Rebecca to the farthest corner from the towering monster, Chris sprinting toward the southern wall. Barry stood his ground, pointing his Colt at the approaching beast. Three .357 rounds slammed into its belly, the thundering shots echoing against the high concrete walls.

The creature suddenly sped up, running toward Barry, drawing its giant claw back—

• and as Barry dove out of the way, the thing swept past him in a running crouch, bringing its claw up as if throwing a ball underhand. Its talons gouged the asphalt, ripping through it as though it was no more solid than water.

As soon as the monster was past, it stopped run-ning, turning almost casually back to watch Barry

scramble to his feet and fire again.

The bullet took out a fleshy chunk of its right shoulder. Thick blood coursed down its wide chest and joined the dripping, open mass of its stomach. Overhead, the Alpha ‘copter still circled, unable to land—and there was still no sign that the immense creature felt the injuries. It started its run again, dropping its terrible, inhuman hand down as it went for Barry—just as his revolver clicked on empty. Barry sprinted away, but the charging monster veered with him—

• and its sweeping claw glanced against his side, tumbling him to the ground. Barry!

Chris raced toward the creature, firing into its back as it bent down over the fallen Alpha. Barry was scrambling backwards, his vest shredded, his eyes wide with terror—

• and it must have felt the sting of the bullets because it turned, fixing its emotionless stare on Chris. Barry staggered to his feet and limped quickly away.

We don’t have any time!

Chris emptied the clip, the last several rounds hitting it in the face. Pieces of tooth flew from the creature’s lipless mouth, spattering to the asphalt in a rain of white and red. The creature didn’t seem to notice as it started to run toward him at incredible speed.

Jill and Rebecca were both firing, shouting, trying to turn its attention away from Chris but it was already fixated, pounding toward him and drawing its claw back—

• wait for it—

He dove to the side at the last possible second and the monster went flying past, its claw mulching the asphalt where he’d just been standing.

Chris ran, the horrible awareness dawning on him that the seconds were slipping past and that they couldn’t kill it in time.

Barry felt blood seeping from his thigh, the top several layers of his skin sliced neatly away by the Tyrant’s brutal swipe. The pain was bearable; the knowledge that they were going to die wasn’t. We ‘II blow up if we don’t get chopped to pieces first—

Tyrant turned its attention to Jill and Rebecca, both of them firing again at the seemingly invulnerable monster. It started its smooth, easy walk toward them, still indifferent to the bloody holes in its body. Shotgun blasts hit it in the legs and chest, nine millimeter bullets speckled its pasty flesh, and it didn’t falter, kept on walking.

Wind whipped down over Barry as the roar of the helicopter’s blades suddenly got louder. He heard a screaming shout come from above.

“Incoming!”

Barry stared up at the ‘copter, hovering only twenty feet from the ground—

• and saw a heavy black obj ect fly out of the open door on the side, hitting the tar with an audible thud. Chris was closest. He ran for it.

The Tyrant had almost reached Jill and Rebecca. The two of them split, each headed in a different direction and the creature turned toward Jill without hesitating, tracking her with its strange, fixed gaze. “Jill, this way!” Chris screamed.

Barry spun—and saw that Chris had the bulky rocket launcher propped on his shoulder. Yes!

Jill veered toward Chris, the Tyrant close behind.

“Clear!”

She leaped to one side and rolled as Chris fired, the whoosh of the rocket-propelled grenade almost lost to the thundering beat of the ‘copter’s rotors. The explosion wasn’t. The grenade hit the Tyrant square in the chest—and in a burst of incendiary light and deafening sound, it blew the monster into a million smoking pieces.

Even as tattered shreds of flesh and bone hailed down over them, Brad lowered the ‘copter back toward the ground and the four S.T.A.R.S. ran for it. The rails hadn’t touched yet as Jill dove into the open cabin, Chris and Rebecca and Barry all throwing themselves in after her.

“Go, Brad, now!” Jill screamed.

The bird lifted into the air and sped away.

TwEntY-OriE

THE CALM, FEMALE VOICE FELL ONLY ON inhuman ears.

“You have five seconds, three, two, one. System activation now.”

A circuit that ran the length and width of the estate connected.

With an earth-shaking thunderclap of motion and sound, the Spencer estate exploded. Devices went off simultaneously in the basement of the mansion, beneath the reservoir, behind a plain, uninterest-ing fireplace in the guardhouse and in the third level of the basement laboratories. Marble walls tumbled down over the disintegrating floors of the fine old mansion. Rock collapsed and concrete blew into a fine blackened dust. Massive fireballs rose up into the early morning sky and could be seen from miles away in their few brief seconds of brilliant life.

As the incredible peal of booming sound rolled across the forest and died away, the wreckage started to burn.

EPILOGUE

THE FOUR OF THEM WERE QUIET AS BRAD piloted the ‘copter back toward the city, and though he had a million questions, something about their silence didn’t invite conversation. Chris and Jill were both staring out the hatch window at the spreading fire that had been the estate, their expressions grim. Barry was slumped against the cabin wall, looking down at his hands like he’d never seen them before. The new girl was quietly moving among them, treat-ing their wounds without saying a word. Brad

kept his mouth shut, still feeling crappy about taking off earlier. He’d been through hell since then, flying around in circles and watching the fuel gauge slowly drop. It had been a total nightmare, and he had to take a piss like nobody’s business.

And then that monster—

He shuddered. Whatever it had been, he was glad it was dead. It had taken all of his nerve not to fly away the second he’d laid eyes on it—and as far as he was concerned, he deserved a little consideration for man-aging to kick the launcher out the door. He glanced back at the silent foursome, wondering if he should tell them about the weird call he’d gotten over the radio. Right after the rookie had screamed something about a heliport through the static, a clear, solid signal had come in, a male voice calmly giving him the exact coordinates. The guy had been listening in, which was weird—but the fact that he knew the location well enough to give Brad directions was downright spooky.

He frowned, trying to remember the mystery man’s name. Thad? Terrence?

Trent. That’s it, he said his name was Trent.

Brad decided that it would keep for another day.

For now, he just wanted to go home.