 
Resident Evil Legends Part Two: The Arklay Outbreak

By Andreas Leachim

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Andreas Leachim

Cover art and design by Andreas Leachim
This is a work of fan fiction based on the Resident Evil video game series. All characters and names and related trademarks are the property of Capcom. The author of this work receives no financial compensation from it and does not seek to infringe upon Capcom's copyrights in any way.
Chapter 1

Rebecca Chambers was twenty-four years old, but she looked barely older than eighteen. She had a youthful face with soft, innocent brown eyes, and straight reddish-brown hair that reached down just below her ears. She sat up straight, with her hands in her lap, dressed in a casual but businesslike blue blouse, knee-length skirt, and black stockings and shoes. Her outfit looked out of place on someone who appeared so young, as if she was just a child playing dress-up.

Wesker, seated at the desk in front of her, set her transfer paperwork down and sighed wearily, leaning back in the uncomfortable wooden desk chair. He wore a wrinkled gray dress shirt with visible sweat stains under the arms. His police badge hung from his belt. And, as always, his mirrored sunglasses were on his face.

"You graduated the Academy two months ago," he said.

Rebecca nodded vigorously. "Yes, sir."

"Don't take this the wrong way, Miss Chambers, but don't you think you're a little bit inexperienced for an assignment like the S.T.A.R.S. unit?"

"No, sir. I'm totally ready to be a member of your team."

Wesker noted how she said "totally" like an airheaded high school cheerleader. He had half a mind to deny her transfer on the spot. But she graduated third in her class at the Academy, and was qualified and trained as a primary first-aid specialist, which the S.T.A.R.S. teams currently lacked.

"We have other applicants, you know," he said, glancing down at her paperwork again. He had to admit that there was nothing in her background that necessarily disqualified her from the open position, except for her age. Wesker had already interviewed seven other applicants, and none of them had resumes any better or worse than Rebecca's, if he had to be honest.

"I understand, sir," Rebecca said. "All I can say is that I'll work hard to earn your trust. I know I'm young, but I'm dedicated and I strongly believe that I'm the right person for the job. If you think that someone else is better qualified, then I promise that you'll see me again the next time you have an opening. I truly believe that the S.T.A.R.S. team is where I'm meant to be."

Wesker thought about the other officers he had interviewed. All of them were hardworking, responsible, and talented individuals, but none of them really seemed to grasp what the S.T.A.R.S. units were all about. They came into the interview treating it as just another promotion to a higher rank and pay grade. There was no shortage of ambitious police officers like that. Wesker could have hired any one of them, but he knew that they would never fit into the team's unique dynamic.

Wesker was far from an idealist. He preferred to have tough, solid, experienced officers under his command. But he knew that he could not hire someone who treated the S.T.A.R.S. team as a stepping stone to a better promotion a few years down the line. Rebecca Chambers looked like she was better-suited to teaching a class of a kindergarten students, but something about her personality made Wesker think that maybe she was the right person for the job.

"You'll have to speak with Enrico Marini," he said. "He's the captain of Bravo team. He won't be here tomorrow, but can you come back on Friday morning for a meeting with him?"

"Yes, I would love to."

Wesker scribbled Enrico's office number on a slip of paper. "He comes in at around eight. Call first to schedule an interview. Ultimately, it will be his decision to hire you. But knowing Enrico like I do, I don't think that will be a problem. So let me be the first to say, welcome to the S.T.A.R.S. team, Rebecca."

Rebecca's face lit up and she almost jumped up out of the chair. "Thank you so much," she said, coming forward to shake his hand and take Enrico's phone number, which she tucked into her purse. "I can't tell you how happy I am about this. You are totally not going to regret it."

There was that "totally" again. Wesker wondered if he was making a mistake. Enrico would accept the girl right off the bat. He appreciated eagerness and enthusiasm toward the job. Someone like Rebecca was sure to impress him with her youthful energy, if nothing else.

In his ten years with the Raccoon City Police Department, Wesker was a model officer without so much as a smudge on his record. He quickly climbed the ranks, in accordance with his original deal with Chief Irons. Thankfully for both of them, no one had reason to complain about Wesker's rapid promotion, since he proved himself as one of the most capable officers on the force. It was somewhat ironic, since he was the only one of them not to graduate, or even attend, the Academy. His papers were all clumsy forgeries, but Irons lived up to his part of the arrangement and passed them without a hitch. And now, after ten years, Irons was still the Chief of Police and Wesker was captain of the Raccoon City S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team.

S.T.A.R.S. stood for Special Tactics And Rescue Squad, and there were no other police units quite like it. There were two teams, Alpha and Bravo, and each had six members. They performed missions all across the tri-state area, and were a very recognizable and highly regarded department within the RCPD. They were more than just a regular S.W.A.T. team, although comparisons could be made. S.T.A.R.S. was equally trained for search-and-rescue missions as well as urban infiltration and combat scenarios, along with a wide variety of specialty assignments that didn't fall neatly into any one category.

Wesker lifted his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted, physically and mentally, and if he didn't get some sleep soon he would just pass out at his desk. He'd been up for almost thirty hours, after spending all morning in the labs and now all evening here at the police station. And it was only nine-thirty.

He did not like to think of his life as a double life or a secret life. Granted, one half of his life was a secret from everyone involved in the other half, but Wesker didn't think of it that way. He simply had one very complicated, very complex life.

By day he was the head research supervisor at a state-of-the-art science laboratory, and by night he was the commander of a special unit of police officers in the RCPD. Both jobs, both lives, were highly stressful and incredibly demanding, but Wesker successfully kept them both going, meeting all the responsibilities and obligations of both with no one in the RCPD the wiser. Monday through Saturday, from six in the morning until noon, he worked in the labs, supervising all of the experiments and projects and also managing the entire research staff. Wednesday through Sunday, he worked in the police station from noon until ten at night. He usually stopped back at the lab for an hour or two before going home. His schedule allowed him to have Saturday night and Sunday morning off, which he usually spent catching up on sleep.

His cell phone rang, jarring him from his half-asleep introspection. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the number, and set it against his ear. "What is it?" he asked, slouching in his chair.

"Get to the lab right away," Spencer said.

"You know I can't just run off."

"Leave early for the night. Give them some excuse, I don't care what. You've got to get over here as soon as you can."

"Why?"

"It's the hunters again. One of them got loose from the tanks. They have it barricaded in the west observation lab, but it killed one of your boys."

"Can't you handle this yourself?" Wesker said angrily. "I haven't slept in two days. You don't need me there. Tell them to tranquilize it."

"This is your project. When things go wrong, you're held accountable."

"Then kill it for all I care," Wesker shot back. "We have more in the tanks. This isn't just my project, Spencer, this is everyone's project. You can't call me every time some crisis falls in your lap."

"We have a dead man here, Wesker."

"He isn't the first."

"Those hunters are dangerous," Spencer said. "You authorized their development. I didn't put off retirement just to clean up your messes."

"I'm busy," Wesker said. "I'll be there in the morning. You'll just have to keep things under control until I get there. Goodbye."

"Don't you hang up on me –" Spencer said, but Wesker didn't hear the rest of the sentence. He ended the call and then turned off his cell phone.

Things at the lab, for months now, were getting progressively more and more out of hand, and Spencer was no help at all. If Wesker didn't know better, he'd think the old man was going senile, or at least going soft. As impossible as it seemed, Spencer was merely in over his head. He was getting old, and progress at the lab had outpaced his ability to keep up with the new developments.

In the ten years since Wesker adopted two lives, Spencer delegated more and more responsibility onto him, as if he wasn't already overworked enough. Spencer no longer ran the Arklay facility with an iron hand, and as a result, Wesker was elected to handle every problem the lab faced. That, combined with his responsibilities in the S.T.A.R.S. team, was what made his life so difficult. Sometimes he wished he had never agreed to join the police department in the first place. At this point, he didn't even remember if it had been his idea or Spencer's.

His desk phone rang and he picked it up, expecting a call from forensics.

"Wesker here," he said.

"I'm not joking around," Spencer snapped at him. "This is serious. Drop whatever you're doing and get over here!"

"You can't call me on my office phone," Wesker said. "You know that. I'll be at the lab tomorrow morning. See you then."

He hung up the phone and unplugged the cord from the back. With a groan, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes again. He decided that it was a good thing his chair was so uncomfortable; if it was comfortable, he'd have fallen asleep in it by now.

There was a sharp knock on his door, and it opened to reveal a six-foot-three giant of a man with short brown hair and a scruffy beard. Barry Burton, the oldest member of Alpha team. He wore a plain white t-shirt with a red vest over it, dirty blue jeans, and black motorcycle gloves. He sat down in the chair opposite Wesker and it creaked alarmingly under his weight.

"How's it going, Wesker?" he asked.

"Rough. I just want to go to bed," Wesker replied honestly.

"There's not much going on tonight. Take off and get some sleep. You look like you need it."

Wesker shook his head. "No, I have to wait for the daily reports to show up. Chris and Jill still haven't turned one in. And I'm waiting for a call from forensics."

Barry glanced down at the phone. "You'd better plug it in then."

Wesker sighed and plugged the phone line back in. "Weird. I wonder how that happened."

Barry chuckled under his breath. "Man, do you look beat."

"That obvious?"

"Looks like you haven't slept in a week."

"I slept this week, just not that much."

"Why don't you just call it a day? Tell forensics to leave a message. Have Chris and Jill slide their reports under the door."

"No sense in leaving early," Wesker said, shaking his head. "Might as well get it done today and start fresh tomorrow."

Barry smirked and shook his head. "Man, I don't think I'll ever understand what makes you tick. You come here and work yourself to death, and don't have anyone at home waiting for you."

Wesker mentally prepared himself for Barry's daily "You should be married and have kids by now" speech. Barry was a huge family man himself, and would gladly show you the pictures in his wallet if you gave him half a chance, and he took it on himself to constantly berate those who chose not to participate in the traditional nuclear family. Wesker, the perpetual loner, was first on his list.

"Gonna tell me again now I need to find myself a wife?" he asked cynically, trying not to sound angry about it.

"You're not a complete person," Barry said, sounding like a pop psychologist, which was funny because he more closely resembled a lumberjack. "You need someone in your life before it's too late, man. You work all these long hours to make up for the fact that you don't have someone to share your life with."

Wesker laughed at that. "Barry, where do you come up with this stuff?"

"Just look at me," Barry said confidently. "Or Enrico, or even Ken. We're well-rounded because we have healthy family lives and healthy professional lives. You don't have a healthy family life, so you make up for it by working yourself into an early grave."

"You're exaggerating."

"Am I? Take a look in the mirror, buddy. You look like a walking zombie."

Wesker found that unintentionally hilarious, but that time he didn't laugh. Instead, he spread his hands and said, "I'm a busy guy. I don't have time for a girlfriend."

"What about that peach that just left your office?"

"Who?" When Wesker realized he was referring to Rebecca Chambers, he just shook his head. "For your information, that young woman is the newest member of Bravo team. It would be inappropriate for me to date someone under my command. Besides, she's a bit young for me."

"How old was she? Twenty?"

"Twenty-four."

"You're not that much older."

"I'm thirty-five," Wesker said, feeling older even as he said it. "Eleven years older."

Barry could not come up with a comeback to that. He shook his head, and Wesker could sense real disappointment in his reaction. "Thirty-five and still single. What am I gonna do with you?"

"Nothing," Wesker said. "Nothing at all."

There was another knock on the door, and it opened promptly. Chris Redfield, Alpha team's strategic coordinator, poked his head in.

"Hey, Barry. Hey, Wes. I got my daily report here, and Jill's too."

"Hand them over."

Chris gave them to Barry, who set them on Wesker's desk, and closed the door after him. Wesker set the papers on the edge of his desk without reading them. "Now why can't you do that?" he asked Barry. "Why can't you just pop in, give me your work, and leave again? Every day you come in and preach to me."

"Cause I'm worried about you, man. It ain't right seeing someone like you working yourself to the bone every day and not having anyone to go home to. If I didn't have Kathy and the girls, I'd be empty inside."

"I guess that's the difference between us," Wesker said, trying not to sound too scornful. "I don't need other people in my life to be happy. I can do just fine without anyone." He stood up and took his jacket off the filing cabinet behind him. "I will, however, take your advice and leave early. If I stay awake much longer, I'll fall asleep on the drive home."

They walked out of Wesker's office and he locked the door. He wished Barry a good night and left the office area. The forensics call would just have to wait until tomorrow.

Barry gave him a hard time, but he only knew half the story. If Barry ever realized what Wesker's life was really like, he'd praise him for not having an immediate nervous breakdown. If Wesker had to handle working in the labs all day, working at the police station all night, and dealing with a family on top of all that, the strain would kill him in less than a week. There was no room for a personal life when his professional life took up eighteen hours or more of his day. He had nothing to give a significant other. No woman in her right mind would put up with his insane work schedule for very long. Wesker had long ago resigned himself to being single for the rest of his life.

He left the police station and walked around back to the parking lot. Night had already fallen, and the street lamps cast long shadows across the bare cement. Wesker approached his car and looked around. No one was in sight. A black, wrought-iron fence surrounded the parking lot, the kind of fence that looked like it should line the grounds of a cemetery or a haunted house. Distantly, he heard the sounds of urban Raccoon City penetrate the twilight silence: car engines grumbling, tires bumping over pot holes, wind rushing through the streets, people talking, faint music coming from somewhere. He opened the door to his car and got in.

Although he desperately wanted to go home and sleep for twelve hours, the lab called to him. As much as he argued with Spencer for calling him every time something went wrong, he could not dismiss his responsibilities there. He was the Research Project Manager, after all. The lab – the entire lab – was his personal work area, and he did not have the luxury of ignoring problems and expecting someone else to clean up after him. Deep down, Wesker was an obsessive perfectionist regarding his work. If complications arose, he handled them himself rather than let anyone else possibly make them worse. He needed to know that everything was under control and running the way he wanted it to. Basically, he didn't trust anyone else to take care of it.

As he drove out of town, he tried to prepare himself for the situation awaiting him once he got to the lab. Spencer said they had one hunter loose and one scientist dead. That was nothing new. Four scientists had died in the past three years due to one of the experiments getting loose or due to virus contamination. It was a dangerous place to work, and they just weren't being careful enough.

The hunters were a problem from the beginning, ever since they first began growing them in the stasis tanks. They were the most uncontrollable, most brutally violent creatures Wesker had ever experimented with. He likened them to the Velociraptors in "Jurassic Park," extremely efficient and single-mindedly brutal killers. And to think, they all started out as harmless frogs.

When the pure T-virus was exposed to living creatures, it mutated them. In the case of humans, it turned them into Tyrants, the walking albino behemoths. But other animals mutated in different ways. Some of them disgusting, most of them totally useless. The testing labs looked like a circus freak show, with different animals transformed into hideous beasts shambling around behind metal bars and unbreakable glass.

Frogs grew to many times their normal size, until they were almost as large as dogs. Their limbs extended disproportionately, so that they began walking around like gorillas. They grew long claws and razor-like teeth, and were the most bloodthirsty monsters the scientists had ever seen. And that was before they began breeding.

Even though Marcus was long dead, his work lived on. Letting mutated creatures breed became standard procedure, and with each new generation, the mutations deepened. The hunters got larger and faster, until some of them measured five feet tall. And as they grew in size, they became more agile and unbelievably strong. They could jump over seven feet high if given the chance, and their claws, long and sharp as knife blades, could cleanly decapitate a man with one swipe. But unlike the other T-virus experiments such as the Tyrants, who were almost immune to physical damage, the hunters' strength and speed did not make them immune to harm. One shotgun blast could drop them fairly quickly. And once dead, they somehow stayed that way.

The hunters were just one of many experimental creatures at the lab. And despite Spencer's claim that Wesker had authorized their development, the truth was that Spencer directed their research in that direction almost from the beginning. The lab contained all sorts of experimental T-virus organisms. They had other creatures known as lickers and stingers, which were both just as dangerous as the hunters. The hunters just had a habit of escaping more often.

When Wesker pulled into the lab parking lot at the side of the mansion, he found Spencer standing there impatiently, his arms crossed, slightly shivering against the chilly night air. Wesker got out of his car and entered the mansion nonchalantly, Spencer hot on his heels.

"I'd better be getting overtime for this," he said.

"I pay you a salary," Spencer said, reasonably calm despite his anger and his time spent waiting outside. "Working late is part of your job."

Wesker laughed, but not at the comment. He realized that Barry was wrong the whole time. Wesker most certainly did have someone waiting for him when he came home from work. He had Ozwell Spencer.
Chapter 2

"Where's Daddy?" eight-year-old Sherry Birkin asked over breakfast, digging her spoon into an overflowing bowl of Lucky Charms. She knew the answer, but like most intelligent children, she asked the question just to see how her mother would respond. With the uncomfortable truth, or a convenient lie. To her mother's credit, she usually told the truth, since like most parents of intelligent children, she knew when her daughter knew more than she let on.

"He stayed at work all night," her mother said, making Sherry's school lunch. A peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, a fruit cup, and a thermos of chocolate milk.

"He does that a lot," Sherry said.

"He's a very busy man," her mother replied. "You know he comes home and spends time with us as often as he can."

"If his work is so hard, he should just quit and find a new job."

"He loves his job, honey. It means a lot to him."

"His family should mean a lot to him, too."

With a sigh and a sideways glance in her direction, Sherry's mother placed her lunch in her pink lunch box and clicked it closed. "Please don't start on that this morning." She set the lunch box on the kitchen table and glanced at her watch. "Now hurry up, honey. It's almost time to go."

Sherry obediently finished her cereal and grabbed her lunch box as she left the table. She was dressed in a dark blue shirt and checkered skirt, her school uniform. She wished that she could attend the local public school, where she wouldn't have to wear a uniform and could dress however she wanted, but her parents insisted on the so-called advantages of a private school. She knew that both of them had attended public elementary schools and they turned out just fine.

Annette Birkin grabbed her white jacket off the coat rack by the front foyer and opened the door. Sherry ran out the door and quickly got into the car. It was only early October, but the wind was numbingly cold this morning. Annette wrapped her arms around herself as she walked to the car, a shining black luxury coupe. Her blonde hair whipped around her face as she got into the car, relieved when she closed the door and got out of the biting wind.

Her husband had never liked the house. Birkin firmly proclaimed his opinion when they first bought it seven eight ago, but Annette refused to raise their daughter in the lab. They had a child and they needed to buy a house like a normal married couple, she told him at the time. Their combined salaries added up to well over three-hundred-thousand dollars a year, so they could easily afford to get financing for an upper-class home in the hills on the north side of Raccoon City. It was a residential area composed of beautiful two-story homes, well-manicured lawns, and overgrown pine trees, populated by millionaires and wealthy business owners and the spoiled rich children of millionaires who looked down at Annette because she chose not to employ a butler or a nanny. Birkin probably wouldn't have cared, because it would have made his life easier, but Annette refused to hire someone else to raise their child or manage their household. She took on those jobs herself, taking time away from her work at the lab and creating more distance between her and her husband.

"Do you think Daddy will come home tonight?" Sherry asked.

"I hope he does. I'll talk to him at work and see if he can come home, okay?"

"Thanks, Mommy."

The drive through the city was uneventful. Annette would have preferred moving to a bigger city, like New York or Boston, but that would mean leaving behind the Umbrella facilities in Raccoon City, which Birkin was not willing to do. Raccoon City was nice enough, but after thirteen years, Annette found the city rather dull and pedestrian.

She pulled the car into the school's driveway. Parked in front of her were expensive luxury cars and monstrous sport-utility vehicles, all shiny and new, since none of the wealthy parents would dare drive an old car. Children in the same dark blue uniform as Sherry hurried across the sidewalk to the large front doors. The school did not draw much attention when viewed from the street, but it looked like a historic European government office, built of austere gray marble and stone.

"Have a good day, honey," Annette said, touching Sherry's shoulder. Sherry leaned up and kissed Annette on the cheek. She got out of the car and ran to the school's entrance, turning back once to wave before she disappeared inside. Annette pulled the car out of its parking space and circled around the driveway to head back down the street.

She became pregnant not long after the hasty marriage, and she worked in the labs right up to the minute her water broke. But after that, things were undeniably different. The birth of their first child unintentionally and irrevocably caused a rift in their marriage, even if Birkin refused to admit it. Even Sherry seemed to sense it, but she was very bright for a second grader.

Annette forced herself not to judge Birkin too harshly. His first love had always been science and his work, regardless of what he said to her in their tender moments, and their marriage had not changed that. She knew that one of the things Birkin loved about her at the time was that her dedication to science nearly matched his own. But having a child altered her priorities. When she began spending less time at the labs, Birkin grew distant. He never said anything out loud, he was too stubborn to, but Annette would have to be blind not to see it. The baby took her away from the work, and Birkin loved her because of the work. Since her dedication to the work faltered, so did his feelings for her.

Convincing him to buy the house was another fracture in the relationship. Before the baby, Annette and Birkin spent all their time at the lab together, since they both lived and worked there. But when Annette bought the house and began spending most of her time caring for their new baby, Birkin's feelings for her faded. In a way, Annette knew that she should have seen it coming. Men like Birkin love their work, and they love people who love their work as well. Once you stop loving their work, they stop loving you.

It wasn't fair, though. It wasn't fair to her, and it certainly wasn't fair to Sherry, who saw her father only a few times a week, usually when he was too overworked to really spend quality time with her. It wasn't even fair to Birkin, who was missing out on his own daughter's childhood.

Annette arrived at the lab and made her way down into the lower levels, where Birkin always worked. The hallways were spotless white tile and stainless steel, and the scientists she passed in the halls wore white gowns, white slippers over their shoes, and white face masks. Annette had worked there too long to care about such things; she knew that if the virus escaped, a white face mask wasn't going to save her life. She wore comfortable black sneakers, gray slacks, and a blue shirt under her unbuttoned lab coat.

Birkin was in the central lab, hunched over his desk, scanning a pile of detailed image print outs. He glanced up as she entered and did not bother to say "Good morning" before he waved her over to the desk and began talking about work. His hair was a black tangle on his head, looking as if birds had recently nested there, and his eyes were deep with lines. He wore the same shirt and pants as he'd worn the day before.

"If we can isolate the VN-68 protein here," he said, pointing at one of the pictures, "we can splice it with the enhanced Progenitor-K. I think that it might solve, or at least delay, the nerve damage in the test subjects."

Annette pulled up a chair and sat down, examining the pictures, letting him rant for a few moments before interrupting him. VN-68 was just one of thousands of different enzymes and proteins and related biological products that the lab experimented with.

Birkin was like this every morning, going on about whatever minor aspect of the Progenitor he wanted to work on that day, and it changed every single day. He was too scattered, too frazzled. It was apparent in every movement of his hands, every twitch of his eye.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" she asked, cutting him off.

"Did I ...?" He seemed lost for a moment, and looked at her curiously. "Yes, I slept a few hours. Three or four. I spent all night calibrating one of the chemical analyzers and didn't get to bed until about three-thirty."

"Looks like you slept in your clothes."

Birkin scoffed and returned his attention to the print outs. "Please. I don't have to keep up appearances for anyone. I can look however I want."

"You look awful," Annette said bluntly.

"Yes, well, that's your opinion. I don't hear anyone else complaining."

"That's cause everyone else here works for you. It's not a good idea to criticize your boss. But I'm your wife, and I can say whatever I want."

Birkin put the images back into a neat pile and set it in front of him. He folded his hands and sat straight in his chair, staring forward. "Well, go ahead and say it then."

"You're never home. Don't you think it would be a good idea to spend a night at home with your family once and awhile? Your daughter misses you."

"Please, Annette," he said, putting his face in his hands. "Don't start nagging me about that again. I come home as often as I can, you know that. But I have things to do here, and I can't just leave after eight hours like some normal worker."

"Things to do? Like adjusting a chemical analyzer? That's what you have assistants for, Will. They do all the stupid grunt work."

"But no one else was here –"

"Exactly," Annette said forcefully. "They were all at home with their families and friends, while you abandoned yours to fix some machine that could have stayed broken until today. You don't have to spend every waking moment here, Will."

"But," Birkin started weakly. "You know how important this is."

"Your family is important, too. But your work will always be here waiting for you,. One of these days, your family might not be."

That got to him. He recoiled in the chair as if she had punched him in the face. He stared at her in shock, and she saw the frailty in his tired eyes. There it was again, his dependency, his weakness. Every time she saw him like this, she could not stay angry no matter how hard she tried. He was exposed, he was vulnerable, and she couldn't help but feel sorry for him in this state. He just couldn't help himself. He was like a drug addict who kept going back to the addiction even when everything else fell apart around him, even when he knew he was throwing his life away for a worthless cause. But that's the way addictions were; you couldn't help but submit to them even when you knew better.

"Annette, please don't say that," he whispered meekly, reaching for her arm.

She pulled away to enforce the point. "You come home tonight. No later than seven. And you spend a few hours with Sherry while she's still young enough to appreciate your attention. This is not negotiable."

Birkin swallowed hard and nodded in helpless agreement. He looked like a dog that had just been whipped into submission, and Annette hated herself for it. But it had to be done.

"Every day, I feel like I'm on the verge of figuring it all out," he said, and Annette wondered if he was talking to her, or just talking out loud to himself. "Like I'm about to unlock its secrets. It always feels in my grasp."

He held out his hand in front of him and closed his fist, as if he was actually holding intangible secrets there. "And I want it so much, no matter the cost. I've made so many sacrifices already, you know that. It always seems like the big discovery is right around the corner. I never want to stop working, because I'm afraid I might miss it."

Annette finally reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. "You won't miss it. I promise."

He collapsed into her open arms and gasped, trying to hold back tears. "I'm so sorry, I just can't let it go. I can't let the work go."

Annette embraced him lovingly, stroking his hair. He was still a child, still this naive boy trapped in the body of an adult. Ever since she entered his lonely life, he had lost the ability to care for himself. She had become his wife, his mother, and his guardian all at the same time. And she couldn't be mad at him, not for long. He needed her so badly, she could not hold a grudge against him. He would always come running back to her, even in the worst moments, and she would accept him without reserve. It had always been that way.

"It's all right," she said soothingly. "It's all right."

"I'll come home tonight, I promise."
Chapter 3

"We are single-handedly redefining genetic science," Wesker said to the group of scientists gathered in the room. After the unfortunate incident the day before, he felt they needed another pep talk. He had to give them one every few months to keep them focused on the goal of the company, to prevent them from losing faith in the work they were doing. Each time one of their own was killed, morale dropped a little more, and Wesker had to work that much harder to get them back on track, to keep their eye on the prize. Bad morale was like a disease by itself; one scientist discouraged by the difficulties would infect all the others and pretty soon he'd have a revolt on his hands.

"We are on the cutting edge of biology. We are learning more about genetic theory, DNA transmission, and biological extremes that anyone has ever known. Twenty years ago, what takes place here on a daily basis was considered outrageous science fiction. We are the scientific avant-garde. We are the leading edge in our entire field."

Wesker had worked with the same research team for the last six years, so he knew all of them quite well. They were all dedicated and loyal, but everyone had their breaking point. Seeing one of your coworkers murdered in front of your eyes by an unnatural monster you helped create could shake anyone's faith in their work. These men had consciences and work ethics, and Wesker had to motivate them to keep working despite the horrors they witnessed daily. Keeping them in line was the most stressful part of his job.

"What happened yesterday was a tragedy, but we can't let it get in the way of the progress we're making. We can't let it discourage us. Darryl was a good man and a brave scientist, and he didn't deserve to die that way, but we can't bring him back. The best we can do is keep working, keeping fighting, to make sure he didn't die for nothing. If we let this terrible accident stop our work, then his death would be even more of a tragedy."

He saw some of them nodding, and it made him feel better. They had seen other coworkers die in the past few years, so it was nothing new. He just had to ensure that they were still on his side.

Wesker's advantage in this aspect was that his team actually liked working with him. They liked him as a scientist, as a supervisor, and most importantly, they simply liked him as a person. Getting people to listen to him and do what he wanted was so much easier if he didn't have to make them like him as well. Wesker prided himself on being the kind of boss that his employees wouldn't hesitate to invite to a party. All the men who worked with him liked and respected him.

As opposed to someone like William Birkin, who treated his research team like garbage and was feared and despised in his own lab as a result. Wesker tried to imagine Birkin giving an impassioned pep talk to his team and simply couldn't do it.

In this way, Wesker's management style at the lab differed greatly from his work with the RCPD. None of the people in the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team would ever think to invite Wesker to a party. He maintained strict social detachment from the members of his police unit, because he couldn't afford for any of them to be involved in his private life. But managing a team of police officers was very different than managing scientists. Cops respected authority and followed the rules. Scientists were more fickle about their loyalties, as Wesker himself knew from personal experience.

"We're doing extremely dangerous work, as you all know. We always have to be on our guard, we always have to be aware of our surroundings. We have to exercise caution every step of the way. But we're making progress, and we get closer every day to solving the mystery of the Progenitor and the T-virus. When we finally learn all there is to know, we can step back, bask in the knowledge that we conquered biology, and reap the rewards for our efforts. And the sacrifices that men like Darryl made will always be on our minds."

Calling it a "sacrifice" was overly positive and very misleading. Surely, if Darryl could communicate beyond the grave, he would not call it a sacrifice at all. He would call it a gruesome accident, a terrible tragedy. Sacrifices, by definition, were made willingly, and Wesker doubted that poor Darryl had willingly let the loose hunter eviscerate and disembowel him with a few quick slashes from its claws.

"We have to keep working, we have to keep moving forward. We can't let this incident slow us down, or it will have been for nothing. After everything we've been through here in this lab, we have to go all the way. We owe it to ourselves to keep working."

He went on like that for a little while longer, alternatively urging them forward, cautioning them, supporting them, inspiring them, and nursing their grief. His voice was like a magic cure-all, telling them a dozen things at once, emphasizing a broad range of emotions simultaneously. He contradicted himself throughout, but his audience did not notice. They weren't there to study his words, only to accept them. They were a crowd of sheep, needing to be directed and managed. They were sheep, and Wesker was their shepherd.

After his speech, they all got back to work, as he knew they would. They just needed reinforcement and encouragement. It was the reason that Wesker was the one in charge; he was the only one of them who could really think for himself.
Chapter 4

The Sunday night poker game usually lasted until almost midnight. Five members of the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team got together in the break room, brought one dollar in pennies to the table, and played until someone had them all. Usually Chris won, but sometimes Barry or Joe did.

Jill Valentine, in two years of trying, had never won a single game. A dollar a week didn't seem like so much, but one dollar every week for two years equaled one-hundred-and-four dollars she had lost playing poker. And to her, that was a lot of money in the long run.

"I call," Barry said, tossing two pennies into the pot.

Chris smiled slyly and looked at Jill. She hated when he smiled like that, because she could never tell if he was bluffing or not. The smile told her, "That guy is such a fool for calling, because my cards are way better than his." But no matter what Jill did, she always lost. If she called his bluff, he always had a good hand. If she folded, he never had anything.

"I'll take a chance," she sighed, tossing pennies into the pot. "Call."

Jill was the Alpha team's only female member. She moved to Raccoon City and joined the RCPD six years ago and was promoted to the Alpha team four years after that, upon the recommendation of Barry Burton. She sported straight hair that hung below her shoulders when it wasn't in a ponytail, and was either light brown or dirty blonde depending on how often she dyed it. Naturally, her hair was dark brown, but her teammates didn't need to know that.

Jill grew up in a neighborhood full of boys, and spent most of her childhood playing baseball and exploring the woods behind her parents' house. As she got older, she suspected that her father had perhaps wanted a son instead of a daughter, and had gently pushed her interests in that direction. In any case, she spent her formative years trying to fit into a male-dominated environment, which proved good preparation for a career in law enforcement. Ever since she graduated high school and joined the Police Academy, she had been surrounded by men, and had to work twice as hard to prove her worth as a police officer. Sometimes her fellow officers ignored her, sometimes they harassed her, and sometimes they openly disliked her for no other reason than because she was a woman.

Her acceptance into the S.T.A.R.S. team proved a turning point in her life. She had not intended to even apply for the position until Barry suggested it. And now that she was part of the team, she could not imagine going back to being a regular cop. Some of the other officers in the RCPD believed she was nothing but the token woman in the S.T.A.R.S. unit, but Jill believed that she fit into the team in a way she had never really done before. Her teammates truly treated her like an equal, and she loved them for it.

"What about you, Joe?" Chris asked, holding his cards close to his chest.

Joseph Frost tossed his cards onto the table. He tapped his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray and returned it to his mouth, shaking his head. "No thanks, man. Can't afford to spend my retirement money." His arms were a bright mosaic of colorful tattoos and elaborate scars, all of which had a story behind them.

"Me neither," Brad Vickers said, setting his cards down. Brad only had eight pennies left in front of him, and he looked at them mournfully.

Each member of Alpha team had a particular specialty, but in practice they all worked together when they were on assignment. Jill was technically their surveillance and infiltration officer, but she rarely acted out that specific role. Joe was their negotiator and first-aid specialist, and Brad was their helicopter pilot.

Barry set his cards down, revealing three sevens. "What do you got, Chris?"

"Two pair. Sixes and nines," Chris said, shaking his head.

Barry chuckled and reached for the pennies, but Jill stopped him. "Oh no, you don't," she said, setting her cards down to show her hand. "I got three Jacks, baby. This one is mine."

Barry smiled and pushed the pennies toward her, and she greedily scooped them into a neat pile. "Don't spend it all in one place," he snickered.

Joseph blew out smoke rings and set his cigarette down in the ash tray once more. "Don't listen to that guy. You should always spend all your money in one place." He gathered up the cards and shuffled them expertly before dealing them out. "Everybody in?"

The game went on for three more hands before Brad made his last call, losing to Chris with a full house. Barry didn't last much longer, bluffing with a pair of twos when Joseph called with two pair. Brad said goodnight and left, disappointed by yet another loss. Barry stayed, however, standing over them like a poker referee, his thick arms crossed over his broad chest.

"Getting late," Joseph said, crushing his cigarette in the ashes. "Might as well throw in my whole savings." He pushed his remaining pennies into the pile and tapped his cards anxiously on the table.

Jill examined her cards and hesitantly called. Chris folded right away and leaned back in his chair to watch the showdown. Barry, standing over Chris' shoulder, laughed softly at his cards.

Joseph grinned at Jill and tapped his cards a little faster. "So what you got, baby?"

Jill took a deep breath and revealed her cards. She had a pair of threes.

Joseph laughed out loud and smacked the table. "Oh, you got me there! Looks like you beat my big fat pair of nothing," he said, tossing his cards into the pile. He pushed his chair back and stood up. "Been nice gambling with you, but my old lady awaits."

"What are you talking about?" Barry asked. "You aren't married."

"Didn't say I was," Joseph said, putting on his camouflage jacket. "I was referring to my dog."

"Give her a big kiss for me," Jill laughed, piling up her winnings.

Chris waved as Joseph went out the door. "Catch you later, Joe."

Joseph waved back. "Later, amigos."

Chris took a drink and slowly gathered the cards. "Looks like it's just you and me, darling," he said, grinning at her. "Think you're gonna make history?"

"I don't know," Jill said, looking at the two piles of pennies. Chris' was more than twice the size of hers. "I might have a chance."

Barry sat down and set his elbows on the table. "Don't let that guy scare you, Jill. He's not as good as he thinks he is. Most of the time I let him win."

"Keep telling yourself that," Chris said, dealing the cards between the two of them. "You're the one that brought me here."

"And look how you repay me. By stealing all my pennies each week."

Of all the Alpha team members, Chris and Barry had known each other the longest. Jill knew that Barry had actually been the one who recruited Chris into the team several years before, after Chris was kicked out of the Air Force. Jill wanted to know why, but did not want to appear nosy.

Barry, in his gruff way, was the father figure of the team, being the oldest and most experienced member. Everyone looked up to him, except for Wesker, their captain, who treated everyone with the same cold, impersonal approach. Why Wesker was their commander and not Barry was something Jill never understood. Wesker wasn't the worst boss she had ever known, since he wasn't rude or patronizing like so many others, and he was certainly qualified for his job, but he was distant and completely non-social. He treated the other members of the team like employees instead of friends or comrades.

Chris, on the other hand, was everybody's best friend. He was smart, handsome, charming, and excelled at everything he put his mind to. He was the type of person who always a mischievous smile on his face. He was the Alpha team's strategic coordinator and acted as the unofficial second-in-command under Wesker. When Jill had first joined S.T.A.R.S., she briefly considered asking him out on a date, but it never came to anything. Chris was one of her best friends, but she knew that friends was all they would ever be.

"I bet two cents," Chris said after he had dealt them both a new hand.

"I call."

Chris went on to win six hands in a row, seriously depleting Jill's bank account. After another twenty minutes, she only had about fifty cents remaining. Barry watched the competition, remaining interested but impassive as Jill lost hand after hand.

"How about one last hand?" Chris suggested. "It's almost one in the morning. One last hand for the whole pot."

"All right," Jill said, pushing her few remaining pennies into the center of the table. "One last hand."

Chris dealt the cards silently, watching Jill like a hawk. He discarded two and Jill discarded three, and he dealt replacement cards. Jill felt like she was at the last hand of the World Series of Poker, and the five dollars in pennies was actually one million dollars in cash. She viewed her cards and held her breath. She had a full house, two nines and three Queens. Trying to repress a smile, she set them one at a time on the table. Barry whistled in surprise.

"Not bad," Chris said, nodding appreciatively. He looked disappointed for a moment, and then smiled that frustrating smile of his. One at a time, like Jill had done, he set his cards on the table. He had four fives.

"Sorry, better luck next time," he said, pulling the pennies towards him.
Chapter 5

Enrico Marini, the commander of the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team, led Rebecca Chambers on a tour through the police station. He was a brawny, muscular man with thick black hair and a bushy mustache. He gestured with his hands when he spoke, and his voice was full of passion and intensity. Rebecca found him intimidating when she first met him, but after their initial meeting to discuss Rebecca's transfer to the S.T.A.R.S. unit, she quickly learned to like him. Enrico was like a tame grizzly bear.

If anyone had asked Rebecca what she was going to do for a living after she graduated high school, she would not have answered a police officer. At the time, she was considering a career in either music or health care. She wanted to be a violin player or a nurse, but most of all she wanted to be both. And if someone had told her that in a mere six years she would be a cop, she would have laughed at them.

But plans change.

She'd only been in Raccoon City for a few days, and she hadn't even unpacked most of her belongings yet. As soon as they formally accepted her transfer and she knew that she had the job, she went out and got the cheapest apartment she could find, although it was unfurnished and not in the best part of town. She didn't care about that, though. All that mattered was that she actually got the job.

Today was her first day, and already she felt like he was in way over her head. Enrico met with her as soon as she arrived, and decided to give her the guided tour before he even introduced her to her coworkers in Bravo team. She guessed that he wanted to form a complete opinion of her first, as if her behavior during the tour was some kind of subtle test. Rebecca felt confident that she could pass any test that Enrico wanted.

"That's the photograph development room," Enrico said as they walked by, gesturing toward a small room off to the side of one of the open lounges, underneath the wide staircase. They went up the stairs, Rebecca walking with her hands folded behind her, Enrico boldly pointing and gesturing at everything they passed, his loud voice echoing down the whole hallway. "This statue here is one of the many pieces of artwork you'll see here at the station," he said, referring to a marble statue of a man wearing a helmet, reaching into the air. "Chief Irons is quite an art collector. Did you meet with him last week?"

"No, I only had the interview with Mr. Wesker," Rebecca said.

"I'll have to introduce you, then," Enrico said. "He's a demanding boss, but basically a good guy. He's kind of weird though," he said, cupping his hand over the side of his mouth as if telling a secret, even though his voice was loud enough for people down the hall to hear him.

They continued down the hall and came to a set of bright wooden double doors. Enrico punched them open and ushered Rebecca inside. It was a cramped office area, with five large desks covered in papers. The S.T.A.R.S. logo was emblazoned on the far wall, with a detailed map of the city on the left, covered in pins and post-it notes. Several old computer monitors sat on a desk to the right, hooked up to printers and scanners. Above them was a wall covered in newspaper clippings, wanted posters, and other notes.

The only person in the room was handsome man seated behind one of the desks, his feet up casually on the desk top. His short brown hair was in a buzz cut, and his dirty sneakers and blue jeans contrasted with the crisp white dress shirt he wore. As Rebecca and Enrico entered, he was speaking into a phone. He looked up and nodded to Enrico.

"This is the command center," Enrico said proudly. "This is where the senior members of S.T.A.R.S. do all our planning. The senior members are myself, Albert Wesker, Barry Burton, Richard Aiken, and the young hotshot you see here, Chris Redfield."

Chris cupped his hand over the phone receiver and smiled . "Nice to see you too, Rico."

"Who's on the phone?"

"Who do you think?" Chris took his hand away and said, "Yes, Claire, I know what Mom and Dad are planning. They already told me."

Enrico nudged Rebecca's arm jokingly. "His sister, but the way she acts, you'd think she was his wife."

"Very funny," Chris said. Then, into the phone: "Nothing, I'm just talking to someone here in the office."

Enrico chuckled and led Rebecca around the office. "By the way, this is Rebecca Chambers," he said to Chris. "She's the new member of Bravo."

"Nice to meet you, Rebecca," Chris said with an easy smile. Rebecca smiled back and waved politely. As Chris got back to his phone call, Enrico spent a few minutes showing her around the room before heading back into the hall.

"Albert Wesker, who you already met, is the commander of Alpha team. Don't ever call him Albert, though. Everybody just calls him Wesker. Chris Redfield is the strategic coordinator and his second-in-command. Alpha and Bravo teams frequently work together, so you'll get to know them better as time goes on."

"I can't wait to get to know everyone," Rebecca said.

She followed Enrico around the station like that for over an hour, letting him show off the points of interest and introduce her to most of the other police officers. She enjoyed this kind of one-sided tour of the station, with Enrico doing all the talking. It kept her from having to introduce herself to everyone personally. So she trailed behind him like a fan seeking an autograph, smiling to those he introduced her to, looking interested when he showed off one of the expensive paintings or sculptures decorating the station, and in general just keeping quiet, trying to take it all in.

Enrico led her around the station and eventually to Chief Irons' office, but according to his secretary he was in a meeting, so she didn't get to meet him yet.

Eventually they made it back to the main office area. Rebecca her own desk there, although at the moment there was nothing on it except her jacket and purse. Seated two desks down was a tall, lanky black man with a science textbook in his lap, a red bandanna tied around his head, and the logo for a heavy metal band on his black t-shirt. He looked up at Enrico and Rebecca as they entered.

"Hey boss, what's up?"

"Rebecca," Enrico said, "this is Ken Sullivan, one of the members of Bravo team."

"How d'ya do?" Ken asked genially, sticking out his hand.

Rebecca leaned forward to shake it daintily, and then stood back up straight, folding her hands in front of her. "I'm good, thank you. I'm very happy to be here."

"Ken is our point man and also our team negotiator," Enrico explained. "Rebecca is our new medic and first-aid specialist."

"That's cool," Ken said, but when he said it, it didn't sound like a bland stock response. He seemed like the kind of guy who thought everything was cool, and always meant it when he said it. Rebecca liked him right off the bat.

"Where's the rest of the crew?" Enrico asked.

Ken shrugged. "Don't know, man. I think Rich is down in the weapons bay with Barry, checking something out. Forest and Eddie are probably in the garage."

"Well, I guess we can track them down later," Enrico said gruffly, annoyed that they weren't there for him to introduce Rebecca to.

They left Ken to his reading and went to Enrico's small office. He took a seat in his cushioned, leather office chair and Rebecca sat down in the small folding chair across from him.

"Okay, then," he said. "You've seen the place, met a few people, probably formed all your first impressions by now. So tell me what you think."

Rebecca knew that first impressions were never very reliable, so she tried hard not to be swayed by them. She had no other experience to draw from, since she was only a few months removed from the Academy. This was her first real job, and the tour was just brief taste of what working at the RCPD was going to be like.

"It's very large," she said hesitantly. "This building looks more like a museum than a police station. I expected something a little more conventional, I guess."

"That's Chief Irons for you," Enrico agreed. "Like I said, he's quite the art collector."

"And it's, well," she sighed, trying to think of the right word. "It's disorganized. I don't mean that in a bad way. It just seems like the organization here is haphazard. Our offices are down here, but the command center is upstairs. I mean, it seems like the S.T.A.R.S. teams take up most of the department's resources. I didn't realize how much emphasis was placed on them as part of the regular police force."

"That's very true. The S.T.A.R.S. teams are, for lack of a better word, the highlight of the RCPD. We're based here in Raccoon City, but we do work all around the state, so we get a lot of publicity. A large chunk of the RCPD's budget is dedicated to the S.T.A.R.S. for that reason."

"It just seems like so many resources set aside for such a relatively small group of officers. I mean, the S.W.A.T. team alone in New York City is probably more than twelve people."

Enrico leaned back in his chair. "Don't confuse manpower with effectiveness. Sure, we could hire a bunch more people to join S.T.A.R.S. and turn it into some huge organization, but that's not what we're about. We are a very tight-knit group, but in my opinion, that only makes us a more effective unit when we work together. I know it might sound like a cliché, but we're like family. It's one of the things that makes S.T.A.R.S. so special."

"Does that mean I'm part of the family now?"

"Give it a few weeks. I think you'll see what I mean. Being part of S.T.A.R.S. is more than just being a police officer. We're passionate about helping people and we're passionate about our mission."

"That's totally the same way I feel."

"And that's why we chose for you to join us," Enrico said.

As Enrico said, S.T.A.R.S. was a highly-publicized unit, so Rebecca already knew about them when she first decided to become a cop. At the time, she never expected that she would have the opportunity to join, but when they announced an open position, she applied immediately. She could have accepted a job as a police officer and been happy to do so, but the chance to be part of a special team appealed to her. S.T.A.R.S. performed many of the same functions as a S.W.A.T. team, but they also staged search-and-rescue operations, long-term criminal investigations, hostage and kidnapping scenarios, and a host of others.

They spoke at length about work schedules, responsibilities, paperwork requirements, and other boring details of the job. Bravo team worked the morning shift, from approximately eight in the morning until six in the evening. Their work week started on Friday and ended on Tuesday. Alpha team had an equally atypical weekly schedule, coming in Wednesday to Sunday, and worked the evening shift.

Rebecca asked, "If Alpha team has Mondays off, then why is Chris Redfield here?"

"Sometimes our schedules vary. It's not uncommon to see Alpha team members here in the morning, and we often get called to work evenings if a situation comes up. Although, to be honest, I have no idea what Chris is doing here," Enrico chuckled. "He probably showed up just so he could use the office phone to make long-distance calls."

Rebecca laughed. "I obviously haven't met everyone yet, but I was curious. I'm not the only woman in S.T.A.R.S., am I?"

"No, you're not. Jill Valentine is part of Alpha team. She's been with us for several years."

"Okay. Am I the youngest member of S.T.A.R.S.?"

"By about seven years. I think Brad Vickers was our youngest member, and he's only thirty. But we've had other members join when they were your age. Ken was twenty-four when he joined us, if I remember correctly. No one will judge you for being young."

"That's good to know" Rebecca replied with a smile.

Enrico leaned forward, setting his elbows on the desk and folding his hands. "Well, if you don't have any other questions, there's a few things I'd like to ask you, if you don't mind."

"Go ahead. What do you want to know?"

"Let's set up a hypothetical situation. You're called to investigate a shooting and you're in pursuit of the suspect. Along the way, you encounter some teenagers smoking marijuana. What do you do? Continue after the suspect or arrest the teenagers?"

For the next hour, Enrico went through about a dozen common police situations, and Rebecca answered as honestly as she could. Would she turn in a fellow officer who broke the law? Would she threaten a suspect in order to get information? Would she help a citizen in distress if it meant letting a dangerous suspect escape? They were fairly basic questions, but she knew that her responses mattered a great deal. Yes, she would turn in a fellow officer. No, she would not threaten a suspect. And yes, she would help a citizen who needed help.

"One last thing," Enrico asked once they were done. "After this, we can head out and I'll introduce you to the rest of the team. Everyone has their own personal reasons for becoming a police officer. So what made you want to join the force in the first place?"

Rebecca did not answer right away. She fidgeted in her chair, rubbing her hands but not really wringing them. She knew that eventually someone would ask her that question, and she considered a convenient platitude about helping people or believing in law and order. But Enrico would know a lie when he heard one. Rebecca fixed her gaze on the wall and told him the truth.

"My father was killed three years ago," she said quietly. "He worked at a bank. There was a robbery attempt. The robber didn't get any money, but he shot my father and a security guard on the way out. The police never found him."

She closed her eyes tightly, trying not to remember the phone call from her mother while she was at college. She tried not to remember the policemen offering their sympathies while at the same time admitting they had no suspects. The funeral, the grief, her mother's depression, and then her own. She pushed it to the side and opened her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Enrico whispered, and there was such pained sincerity in his voice that it almost broke down her barriers and made her descend into tears.

"I dropped out of college that year," she went on. "I just didn't see the point in it anymore. I joined the Police Academy a little while after that."

"There are a lot of people who become police officers for that exact reason," Enrico said. "You don't have to say any more if you don't want to."

Rebecca didn't say any more. Saying what little she did had been more than enough. But despite what most police officers felt, despite what Enrico maybe believed, it wasn't just about pursuing justice or revenge, or chasing some personal ideal or twisted vendetta. She wasn't out to find the man who murdered her father. She knew that would never happen. It went deeper than that, until it was not just about her or her father.

Donald Chambers had not died right away. He laid on the bank floor and slowly bled to death for seven minutes before the police showed up. None of the other bank employees knew proper first-aid or CPR, and neither did the first officers on the scene. Nine more minutes passed before the paramedics finally arrived. By then, Rebecca's father was gone.

For her, it was not just that her father had died, but that he died because no one knew how to help him. He could have survived if the police officers on the scene had been trained properly.

In the end, that's what motivated her. She had already planned to be a nurse before the tragedy struck, she used her knowledge of medicine to become qualified as a first-aid technician while studying at the Academy.

It wasn't about avenging herself or the death of her father. It was about saving someone else from that nightmare. No one should ever have to suffer through the loss of a loved one just because no one else knew how to save them. Most police officers received some first-aid training, but it was always a secondary concern, and many officers either forgot their training or did not practice it enough to be useful in an emergency situation.

Rebecca wanted to be the police officer who arrived first on the scene and could actually save someone who was wounded before the ambulance arrived. She wanted to be the one who could have saved her father.
Chapter 6

Brian Irons, in his most private moments, allowed himself to be overcome by guilt and shame over what he had done in the name of greed. Every man has his price, or so men who put themselves up for sale always believed. It was a small comfort, when you were doing wrong, to know that other men were doing wrong as well. At least he was not alone in his greed. Several members of the City Council joined him in his guilt, and probably the mayor as well. Irons had been under Umbrella's control for long enough to see the signs in others.

He flipped through the envelope, watching as the one-hundreds flipped by. They always paid the same, not counting for inflation. One-thousand a week. Fifty-two-thousand a year. Combined with his regular salary of eighty-five-thousand a year, it made him a fairly wealthy man, but his debt never went down. The more they paid, the more he spent. On extensive artwork and sculptures, many of which decorated the police station, and a huge amount on sports betting. Umbrella might pay him fifty-grand a year, but he lost fifty-five a year on gambling alone. It was a hole that just kept getting deeper.

"How's the wife and kids, Brian?" Wesker asked.

"They're fine," Irons muttered. He had no wife or children, as Wesker well knew. His only family was a bitter ex-wife and a brother he hadn't spoken to in eleven years. But Wesker said it every time, like some painfully unfunny running gag.

Sometimes, Irons wished that he could get rid of Wesker and never have to see his smarmy, arrogant face again. Unfortunately, Wesker was simply too good at his job for Irons to get rid of him easily. True to his word, he worked as hard as everyone else, and nobody in the entire department could fault Irons for promoting him to head of the Alpha team. But even after ten years working with him, he barely knew anything about Wesker aside from his connection to Umbrella. It was almost easy for Irons to forget that Wesker was basically a spy within the department, until their monthly meetings when Wesker's true purpose revealed itself once more.

Irons tucked the envelope of money into his desk drawer. Once the financial aspect of their meeting was over, he could get down to real business. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. "Good work on the Martinez case," he grumbled, as if the act of giving Wesker praise made him physically ill. "You even got yourself a mention in the newspaper last week. Congratulations."

"You know I don't do this job for newspaper headlines," Wesker replied.

"I don't know why you do this job," Irons countered. "I don't know anything about you. But I've approved your request for new computers in the S.T.A.R.S. command center, and I passed on your new training suggestions to Murphy at the Academy. I'll let you know if he gets back to me. He probably won't."

"Thank you," Wesker said with a nod. "I've submitted all our overtime sheets with Catherine, and everything seems in order there."

"Did you talk to Frost about his vacation request?"

Wesker nodded. "I have. Did you meet the new member of Bravo team?"

"That little girl Rebecca? Not personally, no."

"You reviewed her file, though?"

"Of course I did. I accepted her transfer request."

"Can I ask why?"

Irons looked at Wesker curiously, wondering why he cared. "Because she looked like a promising young officer. Bravo team needed a first-aid specialist anyway. The 'R' stands for 'Rescue,' remember."

"She's quite pretty, you know."

Irons grunted indifferently. "Yes, well S.T.A.R.S. needs more pretty girls in its ranks. I can only look at Enrico's ugly mug so often. What's your point, Wesker?"

"Nothing," Wesker said. "Nothing at all, just curious."

"You're usually not this talkative."

Wesker half-smiled and shrugged slightly. "That's because I have something to tell you, but I don't know think you want to hear it."

"Tell me what?" Irons asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

Wesker met his gaze unflinchingly. "Tomorrow, there's going to be a fire in one of the old warehouses in the industrial district. After the flames die down, the firefighters are going to find the badly burned remains of six people."

Irons fell back into his chair, raising a hand to cover his eyes. "Oh God, I knew you were going to tell me this one of these days."

"The fire will go largely un-investigated," Wesker continued. "You can tell the press whatever you want, but do not assign anyone to the case. Let me handle the investigation."

Irons stared at the ceiling, breathing heavily. He didn't want to ask, he didn't want to know anything about it, but at the same time, he could not go into this without some information, to soothe his guilty conscience if nothing else.

"Who are the victims?" he asked quietly.

"No one important," Wesker said, equally quietly. "No one that anyone will come looking for in the future."

"How did they die?"

"In a fire," Wesker said, but his eyes told Irons, "You don't want to know."

Irons had no choice but to accept that as the answer. Wesker reached into his pocket and pulled out another bulging envelope. "In return for your continued cooperation, I've been authorized to give you a bonus this week." He stood and tossed the envelope on the desk before leaving the office.

Irons gradually built up the strength to open it, finding five-thousand dollars inside. Quite a bonus, indeed. He held the envelope against his chest, trying to fight down the rising bile in his throat. The money was not worth it, no amount was worth what he had to put himself through, but he no longer had a choice.

That was the truth. He had no choice anymore. It suddenly occurred to him that the money in the envelope was not to buy his loyalty. It was merely to keep him content. They didn't need to buy his loyalty after all this time. They already owned him.
Chapter 7

Birkin agreed that, from now on, he would make it home by seven o'clock at least three days a week, and to only spend a few hours at the lab on Sunday morning. Sunday was the slowest day of the week, so staying at home was not much of a sacrifice of his productivity. Annette insisted on it, and he did not want to disappoint her any longer. It was not entirely about spending more time with Sherry, she explained. She was worried about his health, and on that point, at least, Birkin did not disagree.

But even after all this time, Annette still didn't accept how important his work was. At one time, he thought of it as "their" work, but that time had passed. Annette became a mother first and a scientist second; maybe part of her problem was that he had not followed the trend. But he would always be a scientist first.

He could discover a cure to everything – a cure to mortality itself – if only the Progenitor could be opened. He imagined a world without nerve damage, without cancer, without old age, and the Progenitor was the key to that world. A world like that was worth anything. If he could discover the key to unlock the Progenitor's potential, no price was too high. His time, his health, his marriage, even his life would be a small price to pay. His life was nothing compared to the biological riches the virus offered. Future generations would remember his great sacrifice.

Didn't Annette understand that? Couldn't she see how vital his research was? She, of all people, should know what the ramifications were. She knew what the Progenitor held, what it could give them. In the Progenitor held the cure to a dying world. Birkin was proud to dedicate his life to the quest for such a noble goal.

Annette, however, no longer felt that way. And whenever she confronted him, he could not disobey her. He was so weak without her, so helpless. Somehow, without her beside him, he stopped caring about the rest of the world. It was a cruel irony. It was her love and support that made him want to spend every waking moment working, and that was precisely what made her stop loving and supporting him. It was a vicious circle.

He came in the front door and dropped his briefcase on the floor, thoroughly exhausted after a mere twelve-hour stretch. He struggled out of his coat and hung it on the rack. Annette came from around the corner and embraced him quickly, kissing his cheek.

"I'm glad you came home," she said, stepping back. "I've already made dinner. Come on." She took his hand and led him into the kitchen.

Sherry was at the table, her homework spread out randomly in front of her. She dropped her pencil as he entered and rushed over to him.

"Hey Daddy! Mommy didn't know if you were coming home tonight. Can you help me with my homework?"

Birkin's smile was tired and wan. He touched Sherry on her shoulder and walked over to the table, taking a seat. "Sure thing, honey. Let Daddy eat his dinner first, okay?"

Annette set a plate of spaghetti in front of him. For some reason, he remembered the night he had proposed to her. He made spaghetti that night, since it was the only thing he knew how to make. Was Annette trying to remind him of that? He chuckled softy, picking up his fork. He ate slowly, trying to keep his mind from straying back to his work at the lab.

"We're doing multiplication," Sherry explained, fidgeting with her pencil in her hands. "And Mommy won't tell me what six times seven is."

Birkin took a forkful of noodles. It had been a long time since he did simple math like that. "That's cause you have to figure it out yourself, honey."

"But I don't know the answer."

"It's easy to find out." Birkin took her pencil and flipped her sheet upside down. He made six dots on the paper. "'Six times seven' means that you have seven groups of six. So you make seven groups of six dots each." He made six more dots and showed her the paper. "This would be six times two. So what is six times two?"

"Twelve," Sherry said. "I know the answer to that one."

Birkin continued making dots on the back of her homework paper until there were seven groups of six dots each. "Now, what is six times seven?"

Sherry counted the dots carefully. "Forty-two."

"That's right."

Sherry smiled and held the paper up. "That's all I have to do? Why didn't my teacher explain it this way?"

"Because you can't always do it like that. You have to learn to figure it out in your head."

Sherry wrote the answer to the question. "Thanks, Daddy."

"No problem, honey."

He looked up and saw Annette leaning against the wall in the entrance to the living room, smiling at him proudly. It made him feel good inside, having made her happy. He continued eating and felt better; he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast and he wondered if part of his exhaustion had been due to simple hunger. He didn't eat healthy meals often enough. Most of the time he simply grabbed snacks out of the vending machines.

"So four times nine means I have four dots nine times?"

"That's right, honey."

"Then what would nine times four be?"

"It would be nine dots four times. But they equal the same thing."

Sherry was amazed. Young children are always amazed how their parents automatically know things that they are just being taught. Birkin, however, rarely experienced that feeling when he was a child. He never had to ask his parents for help with anything. He studied algebra on his own when he was in second grade. But then again, he had not been a normal student. It discouraged him to see that Sherry was not as brilliant as he was at her age.

"Four times nine is thirty-six," she said, writing it down. "And nine times four is also thirty-six. That's so weird."

"Once you understand it, it will seem really simple."

"If you say so, Daddy."

He spent the next half hour helping her out, not just with math but with all her subjects. Math, Science, English, History. She had homework in every single subject, it seemed. Her homework in history consisted of reading a chapter of her textbook and answering some simple questions afterward. Although Birkin couldn't really help her with that, he stayed at the table anyway, while Annette watched him.

When they were done, Sherry put her arms around his neck and gave him a big hug. "Thank you, Daddy. Can you help me with my homework tomorrow, too?"

"I might be busy," he said. "But how about on Friday?"

Sherry laughed. "I don't do my homework on Friday, Daddy. I do it on Sunday."

"How about Sunday, then?"

"You'll be home on Sunday?"

"All day," he promised. "Mommy asked me to."

"That's because Mommy misses you too."

"I know," Birkin said, touching her shoulder. "And I miss you and Mommy, but what I do at work is very important. I can't always come home when I want to."

Sherry put all her homework papers together and put them in her pink bookbag, along with her textbooks and pencil box. She zipped it up and set it on the floor. "Okay, I'm all done. Can I watch some TV now?"

"Sure we can. Go on upstairs and change into your pajamas though. When you come back down, you can watch whatever you want."

Sherry hurried out of the kitchen, and Birkin listened to her footsteps as she ran up the stairs. He got up from the table and went to the coffee machine to pour himself a cup. At least Annette had remembered to brew some for him. That, at least, had remained constant in his life.

He entered the living room, and Annette gave him a fast hug. "Thank you for doing that. You know, sometimes you surprise me. You almost acted like a real father in there."

"I'm out of practice, though" he said, sitting down in a comfortable recliner in front of the television. He put his feet up on an ottoman and took a sip of his coffee.

"Maybe if you did it more often?"

Birkin set the cup down on the end table by his chair. "Tomorrow, we're starting a new series of tests to try to isolate VN-68. We also have some new bacterial cultures arriving from China. I won't be here to help her with her homework tomorrow, that's for sure. Probably not on Friday, either."

He could feel Annette tense up from across the room. "What about Sunday?"

"I'll be home," he said. "I promised I would be. But if things heat up at the lab, don't expect to see me here much next week." He picked up the coffee and took another drink.

"You know her birthday is next Thursday, don't you?" Annette asked, an edge to her voice.

He set the cup down abruptly. "Her birthday? So soon? What day is today?"

"The thirteenth."

"Is it really that late already?"

Annette nodded solemnly, still standing up with her arms crossed. "You will be here for her birthday party. I want you here when I get home from picking her up at school."

"Yes, I can do that," Birkin said after a short pause, mentally adjusting his schedule. They would have to wait until next Friday to expose the test subjects, then. "Is there anything else coming up that I should know about?"

"Do you want me to start writing things in your daily schedule at work?"

"Actually, that might be a good idea." Sometimes she reminded him of things and he promptly forgot about them amidst the chaos at work, so having notes would actually be a big help. Annette peered at him, unsure whether or not he was joking, but Birkin had never been good at making jokes. Satisfied that he was being serious, she nodded agreeably and reclined her chair.

"So how many kids are going to be at her birthday party? Not too many, I hope."

"She invited twelve of her friends. Some of their parents will probably stick around as well."

Birkin finished his cup of coffee and pursed his lips. He did not look forward to having a dozen screaming kids invade his house, but he liked even less the thought of making small talk with their parents. He supposed he could try talking to them about his job. They would probably leave him alone after that.

Sherry came running back downstairs and hopped into Birkin's lap, dressed in her pink flower pajamas. "Daddy, did Mommy tell you that I get to go on a field trip at school tomorrow?"

"No, I don't think she did. Where are you going for the field trip?"

"To the police station," Sherry beamed. "Mrs. Gaffey said that we'll get to meet some of the police officers and they'll show us all around the station. I think it's going to be great."

"I hope you have fun, honey," Birkin said with a chuckle. Maybe Sherry would run into Wesker while she was there. That would be quite the coincidence. Annette didn't know about Wesker's undercover job with the police, so Birkin left the thought unsaid.

Sherry picked up the remote control and turned on the television. "Is there anything you want to watch, Daddy?"

"I don't even know what's on," he said. "You can pick."

Sherry picked the cartoon channel and Birkin was subjected to an hour of manic talking dogs, cats, and mice beating each other up with frying pans and blowing each other up with red sticks of dynamite. Sherry thought it was hilarious, but Birkin did not understand how meaningless, exaggerated violence could be substituted for humor. When he was young, he never watched cartoons at all.

With the favorable genetic material Sherry had received, Birkin was surprised that she was not more intelligent or mature. Even with brilliant scientist parents, former child prodigies themselves, Sherry was just another average student, completely unspectacular. He knew from Annette that Sherry was not slow in any sense, but neither was she a young genius. And somehow, that disappointed him. He would like it so much more if Sherry was as brilliant as he had been at her age. It would be so much easier for him to bond with her.

For the whole hour he was subjected to loud cartoon nonsense, he let his mind wander back to his work at the lab. He hoped that the new experiments would prove fruitful. If they couldn't get VN-68 to combine with the Progenitor-K, then it would mean weeks of delays and possibly even a complete dead end to that line of research. If he was going to spend more time at home, as Annette wanted, he needed to narrow his focus to more productive experiments. He couldn't afford to waste any time at all.
Chapter 8

Dave Prindle joined Umbrella after a short and unsuccessful career in the Army, and had worked in their security department for eight years. Umbrella shifted around their security personnel on a regular basis to keep them from getting bored or lax in their duties. In the past two years, he had been assigned to various facilities in cities like Vancouver, Flagstaff, Minneapolis, and Baton Rouge. His current assignment was a lab compound in the middle of the Arklay Mountains near a town called Raccoon City, and it was by far the most boring place he had ever been to.

In his down time, he checked out the history of the place. Ever since the old training facility was shut down almost fifteen years before, the chemical treatment plant had not seen much use. It still received regular shipments from the main labs at the Arklay facility, but the plant had obviously been built to keep pace with a much greater workload. Once, the plant had its own maintenance and hazardous disposal technicians, but now the only on-site personnel was security.

The six security guards ran three split shifts. Dave was on duty from midnight to four a.m. and from noon to four p.m., walking the grounds for one four-hour shift and watching the cameras for the other. The Arklay lab had its own small security team, but Dave and his coworkers also performed additional security at the lab on a weekly basis, just to keep their schedule from getting too routine.

After years of disuse, much of the treatment plant was badly in need of repair. Pipes rusted and leaked insistently, machinery broke down, fuses and electrical boxes blew out on a regular basis. And since much of the plant was no longer functioning at all, numerous rooms, hallways, and entire wings of the compound became infested with vermin, cobwebs, and collected debris and garbage. However, since some work was still done there, security remained on patrol even in those unused areas. But it was painfully boring work. They all got used to doing nothing all day, since there was nothing to do but monitor the grounds and stare at television screens displaying views from the dozens of security cameras still in place.

It was Dave's turn to walk the grounds. He glanced at his watch as he walked down a long corridor within the plant, water dripping down from rusted pipes overhead and steam rising up from below the metal grating floor. His boots made a rhythmic clunking noise as he walked down the hallway. It was only one-thirty. His shift wasn't even half over yet. He sighed and readjusted the sling holding his assault rifle over his shoulder.

Suddenly, his walkie-talkie came to life. "Dave! Where are you? We got a prowler in sub-basement three!"

Dave snatched the walkie from his belt. "What? You better not be ragging me, Jeff. I'm not running down there for a rabbit or something."

"This ain't a joke!" the walkie screamed back. "I saw him on the camera!"

"How could anybody possibly get down there?"

"I don't know!"

Pulling his gun down and switching off the safety, Dave hurried back where he had come from, to the central maintenance elevator. "I'm on my way there now," he said into the walkie. "Let me know if you see him again."

He rode the one-man elevator down two floors into sub-basement three, an area of the plant he had only been to a few times. The elevator stopped in a crowded room full of rusted, motionless machinery. Strands of cobwebs hung from the ceiling and the musty odor of decay assaulted him. He switched on the lights. Naked yellow light bulbs glowed dully in their sockets along the edge of the ceiling, casting dim light and creating long, dark shadows in each corner.

Dave snuck forward, holding his gun out with one hand and covering his nose and mouth with the other. The smell was awful, like rotten food mixed with the stink of stagnant pond water. The air seemed thick with it, like a fog of poison gas. Distantly, he heard the sound of running machinery above him, along with the steady drip of water and hiss of steam. He waited, trying to listen for any other noise, but heard nothing.

Sub-basement three had not been in use in more than ten years, and the place looked it. The floor was littered with discarded junk and obsolete equipment, and a thick coating of dust and oily grime showed his footprints when he walked through it. Insects crawled along the walls and floor, scurrying from him as he approached.

He pushed open a door and it squeaked loudly with the movement. He cursed himself for making so much noise. The hallway beyond was lined with rusted, broken machine consoles, covered with cracked dials and smudged read-out screens. Everything was coated with grime; the place looked like it had been abandoned for fifty years instead of just ten. A few of the old fluorescent lights blinked intermittently.

Just as Dave began to suspect that his coworkers were screwing with him, he heard it. A crash, the sound of glass breaking. Not too far away, by the sound of it. Dave eased his way down the corridor, walking softly, and looked around the corner. He heard another sound from one of the rooms down at the end of the hall.

He turned the volume on his walkie-talkie down low, and quietly spoke into it. "I hear someone in one of the rooms down here. How in the world did they even get here? Isn't the elevator the only way down?"

"We don't know, man. He just appeared out of nowhere."

"Did you get a good look? Is he armed?"

"No, he wasn't carrying anything. He looked like some dirty bum."

"Okay, I'm going to try to confront him. Send someone else down here to back me up."

"Already done. Trevor and Eric are coming down right now."

"Good. You better call security at the lab, too."

"I'm on it."

He crept down the hallway, crouched down with his assault rifle facing in front of him. It almost felt exciting to finally see some action, although he doubted it would amount to anything. Some vagrant or homeless person, he supposed. But how did the person get this far into the treatment plant without being spotted?

Dave peeked into the room and saw an open door to an adjacent room. In faded black letters on the door window were the words "Equipment Storage Room 4." No lights were on inside. He heard another crash, a bottle being dropped, and muffled noises like someone muttering to himself.

And suddenly, the prowler appeared. Cloaked in shadows, he swept out of the room and began opening up some old wooden cupboards. The man, whoever he was, wore tattered gray pants and a dingy gray overshirt that hung to his knees. Patches of his shirt and pants were tinged green as if with mildew or mold. His hair was long and greasy black.

Dave silently moved back until he was a few paces down the hall. Moments later, the man came out of the room and headed in the other direction, never even glancing in Dave's direction, his long hair obscuring his face.

"Halt!" Dave shouted, raising his gun to eye level. The man stopped in his tracks, but otherwise did not react.

"Turn around!"

The man clenched and unclenched his fists. There was a significant pause, and Dave could hear the man's ragged breath.

"I said turn around! And put your hands in the air!"

The man spun around with blinding speed, and Dave did not even have time to pull the trigger before something flew at him and struck him directly in the face. He screamed, hurling the gun to the floor, and grabbed the thing latched onto his cheek, feeling a splinter of burning pain. He frantically tore it away, losing his balance and slipping on the grimy floor. He fell onto his back and stared in horror at his hands, which came away soaked with blood. And then there were more of them, fast black shapes lunging at him, too many to fight off. He screamed in agony as they tore into his body, his screams echoing around the abandoned hallways and rooms, before his voice finally cut off and he remained still, the small black shapes still squirming across his motionless body.

Just then, the other two guards burst through the doors, guns drawn, faces stretched wide in fear by the agonized screams of their fallen comrade. They opened fire as soon as they saw the intruder, but none of their bullets hit their mark.

Terrifying black shapes leaped from the man, and the two guards joined their coworker in death, scrambling and writhing as a mass of hungry parasites engulfed them. Their screams reverberated all the way up the narrow maintenance elevator shaft to the floors above.

The man knelt down, oblivious to the screams, and ran a finger along the edge of one of the dropped assault rifles. His memory was imperfect, full of gaps and small holes of uncertainty, leaving only sharp recollections of specific, unrelated events. His mind was a film sequence with half of the frames missing. He touched the gun and felt a memory rise to the surface. It was a memory of pain. He remembered guns like these.

After the guards were dead, the small black shapes flowed away from their half-devoured corpses and back to the man, like rats called by the Pied Piper. But they were not rats.

They were leeches.
Chapter 9

Wesker woke up when his cell phone rang. He laid in bed, letting it ring, hoping that whoever was calling him would get the point and hang up. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was just past three in the morning, and he deserved at least another two hours of sleep. By the twelfth ring, however, Wesker accepted that it was not going to happen, and groggily stumbled out of bed. He knew who it was before he even picked up; only one person could be stubborn enough to let the phone ring that many times.

Spencer. "Wesker, get over here right away."

"What is it this time? Hunters get loose again?" he muttered sarcastically, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

"No, this is more serious than that. You have to get over here now."

Wesker shook his head and sat on the edge of the bed. "How about I go back to sleep and you call me back in two hours? How about that?"

"I don't have time for this," Spencer said angrily. "Someone broke into the old treatment plant. We lost contact with the security there at about two in the morning. I sent another crew over there at three, and we just lost contact with them too."

Wesker stood up swiftly. He was fully awake now. "What are you talking about, 'lost contact?'"

"Just what I said. We can't get them on the radio, and half the security cameras are down. We have no idea what's going on."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

He threw on some clothes and ran out the front door, not even bothering to lock it behind him. He made it to the Arklay facility in nine minutes and forty-five seconds. Spencer was waiting for him in the front lobby. His brown suit was crumpled and his gray hair was uncombed. Wesker realized that he was dragged out of bed by this as well.

"They first caught the intruder on video at about a quarter after one," Spencer explained as they headed to one of the elevators to take them down into the lab. "Three guards went down after him and they didn't come back. Security called here, two more men went down and disappeared, and then the guards called me. I sent five men down there at three o'clock and haven't heard a peep."

"You said the security cameras are out? How is that possible?" Wesker asked. He produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his jeans pocket and lit up. He'd already smoked two on the way to the lab, but he felt the need for another already. It was bound to be one of those days.

"We patched in the cameras from the plant to see what they were seeing, and over half of them are blacked out. Everything from the second sub-basement on down."

"The second sub-basement? How many are there?"

Spencer shrugged. "I don't know, I haven't been there since the place was built. It has four or five sub-levels, I guess. That doesn't matter now."

"Have you got any visual of the intruder?"

"Just a few brief glances. Male, late twenties or early thirties. Long black hair. They never got a good look at him."

"And nothing from the security guards from over there?"

"Nothing. There's only six men stationed there."

The elevator door opened and a bell rung. They stepped out of the elevator and went down the hall. The security center was a room in the shape of a semi-circle with about forty television screens built into the curved wall, all showing the view from a different security camera. Like Spencer said, a significant number of them were blacked out. Two rows of desks with computer monitors cut across the middle of the room. Two security guards stood at attention when they entered, but said nothing. Spencer dismissed them both and they left the room.

Wesker set his hands on one of the desks and looked up into the screens. "So what are we doing now?"

"Sending in the strongarms," Spencer said, picking up a walkie-talkie. He pressed the button and spoke into it. "Where are you?"

After a blip of static, a voice responded. "Entering the security room. No one is here."

"Okay, keep moving forward," Spencer said calmly, as if nothing was wrong.

Wesker pointed at one of the screens, showing six Umbrella soldiers proceeding down a hallway. "There they are," he said. They all wore black body armor and wielded large black assault rifles. It had been years since he saw soldiers like that, ever since the unfortunate episode with Marcus so long ago. It brought back conflicting memories. Wesker never built up the courage to ask Spencer where the commandos came from, since he was certain that they were not stationed at the Arklay lab. But they must be stationed somewhere nearby to have gotten there so quickly.

He and Spencer watched the screens intently, watching as the soldiers made their way throughout the treatment plant, tracking their progress by way of the security cameras. As soon as they were out of the line of sight of one camera, they would appear in the screen of another. More than half of the cameras were still malfunctioning, though. Slowly, Wesker saw what this meant.

"All the blacked-out cameras are in the lower levels," he said to himself, taking his cigarette out of his mouth. He looked at Spencer.

"I already told you that," Spencer said.

"So whoever is down there hasn't been on the higher levels."

"Of course he hasn't been to the higher levels," Spencer said impatiently. "If he did, the security guards would have seen him sooner. What's your point?"

Wesker sat down at one of the computer terminals and opened up the security menu, setting the cigarette back between his lips. "There's no way to get down there," he said, opening up the map of the entire expanded compound. It took him a minute to locate the security map of the treatment plant, and Spencer watched over his shoulder as he scrolled down to the third sub-basement.

"The only way to get down there is through this staircase," Wesker said, pointing at the screen, "or down this maintenance elevator. The elevator leads right up to the upper levels."

"He couldn't have gone that way," Spencer said, already seeing what Wesker meant. "And that staircase leads up to a separate storage area inaccessible by any other means."

"So what did he do? Tunnel his way in?"

Spencer stepped back and rubbed his eyes. "He got in somehow. We'll have to do a complete investigation of the treatment plant to figure it out."

The walkie-talkie spoke up. "We are approaching the entrance to the second sub-level."

With Spencer preoccupied, Wesker picked up the walkie and said, "Go ahead. We're watching you."

On the screens, he watched as they made their way forward. It was hard to watch it on the security monitors, since the screen was so small and the resolution so choppy. He could only see a poorly-detailed, black and white version of what they saw. With such a limited viewpoint, he could not help them. He got up and stood in front of the screens, looking up at them with the walkie-talkie in his hand. His cigarette burned down to the filter, and he dropped it on the floor, crushing it under his shoe.

"Stop," he said into the walkie suddenly. "You're out of our vision."

"Can you see us on the security cameras?"

"No. See if you can find it."

He waited tensely, and they called back, "We found it, sir. It was smashed."

"Can you fix it?"

"No, sir. It looks like someone hit it with a sledgehammer. Do you want us to return to home base?"

Wesker looked at Spencer, who shook his head. "Just tell them to keep going. Who cares if we can't see them? I want to find out what's going on down there."

"But if we can't see them on the monitors ..."

"It won't make any difference," Spencer snapped. "Tell them to keep going."

Wesker pressed the talk button. "Negative. Keep going. But keep in contact the moment you see something out of place."

"Affirmative, sir."

Wesker sat down and set the walkie-talkie on the edge of the desk. Spencer walked over to him and leaned on the desk beside him. "And now we wait," he said quietly.

Wesker glanced up at the screens hopelessly. "We wait in the dark."

They waited for two minutes before the walkie-talkie snapped to life. "We're coming to the maintenance elevator to the lower level, sir."

Spencer picked up the walkie. "Continue to the next sub-basement," he said. "Keep us informed." He set it back down and crossed his arms.

Less than a minute later: "Sir, we're seeing some kind of residue on the floors here."

Wesker grabbed it before Spencer had the chance. "What kind of residue?" he asked quickly.

"Some kind of slime. It's pretty recent, too. I can see footprints in the dust on the floor here and other signs of movement."

"Do you see anything else?"

"Nothing else suspicious."

"Okay, leave your walkie-talkie turned on. Proceed and tell me everything you see."

"Yes, sir. The room here looks abandoned, a lot of broken and rusted machinery. The smell is pretty overpowering."

"The smell?"

"It stinks pretty bad down here, sir."

"Okay, keep going."

"We're going through a doorway now. I can see more of that slime on the floor. I think the smell is getting worse."

Spencer rubbed his forehead and stared at the walkie-talkie in Wesker's his hand, breathing nervously. Wesker saw dots of sweat break out on Spender's forehead, even though it wasn't very warm in the room. He realized that it was the first time he had ever seen Spencer truly scared. It didn't make him feel any better.

"There's blood here," the walkie said. "Blood on the floor. And more of that slime too."

"Do you see anyone?" Wesker asked.

"No one, sir. Just the blood. There's a gun lying on the ground near it. Probably belongs to whoever this blood belongs to."

"Be on your guard."

"Yes, sir. We're continuing down the hall now. There's a ... wait." The voice dropped to a whisper. "Something's making noise in one of the rooms up ahead."

Spencer reached for the walkie-talkie but Wesker held it away from him. "You wanted them to keep going. Don't back out now," he said harshly. "They're on their own now." He lifted the walkie-talkie and pressed the button, staring Spencer in the eyes. "Investigate, but take no chances."

"Understood, sir." For a few seconds, all they could hear was a low scuffling noise as the soldiers crept forward. Some whispers in the background, and then a sudden crash. Wesker jumped in his chair, and Spencer ran to grab the walkie-talkie from him.

"Jesus!" the soldier cried a moment before the thundering rattle of gunfire erupted. Wesker got out of the chair, holding Spencer back with one arm, and shouted helplessly into the walkie-talkie. "What's happening?" he shouted. "What's going on?" All he could hear through the walkie was incoherent yelling and sporadic gun shots.

Finally, the noise died down, and the soldier's voice returned. "Sir, we just encountered some... some hosts here. Second-stage, I think your scientists call them. Three of them, sir."

Spencer leaned over one of the desks and buried his face in his hands. Wesker kept his voice calm, and said, "Is everyone okay?"

"No, sir."

"Is someone injured?"

"One of them... one of them bit Fredricks, sir. Bit his hand."

"Listen," Wesker said, "Was anyone else in the group wounded?"

"No, sir."

"Are you sure? None of you got scratched or bitten?"

"The rest of us never came into contact with them."

Wesker opened his mouth to speak, but didn't know what to say. "Tell Fredricks... tell him to return to base immediately. He needs medical attention."

The soldier's voice lacked even the slightest trace of emotion. "I'm afraid that's not possible, sir. He turned his gun on himself."

"Stand by for more orders," Wesker said. He let his arm drop to his side. "Well?" he asked Spencer. "What do you want me to tell them? What do we do now?"

Spencer stood up straight and ran a hand through his thinning, gray hair. He tried to look calm and collected, and didn't succeed. He swallowed heavily and said, "Tell them to retreat back to the security office and wait for reinforcements. I'll call for more men." He waited a moment more, as if to say something else, and then thought better of it and began to walk out of the room.

"That's not what I mean. What do you want me to tell them? We have to tell them something."

Spencer stopped and looked over his shoulder. "No, we don't. They work here just like we do. They aren't fools, they now what kind of work goes on here." And with that, he left.

Wesker watched him go, bile rising in his stomach. He spoke into the walkie-talkie. "I want you and your men to return to the security office. Stay there and make sure nothing follows you. We're going to send more soldiers to back you up."

"What about Fredricks' body?"

"Leave it," Wesker said immediately. "Don't even touch it."

"Understood, sir," the soldier said.

Wesker set the walkie-talkie once more on the desk and took a deep breath, fumbling in his pocket for another cigarette. He wondered if the soldier really understood, or even if Spencer did. For once, Spencer called him into the lab for something that was actually important. But this wasn't merely important, it was the most devastating thing that had ever happened. The one thing they never imagined could actually occur.

Somehow, the virus was loose. Someone broke into the chemical treatment plant by an unknown entrance and released the virus on the security guards. They were zombies now, all of them. How many men did Spencer say worked there? Six full-time guards? Plus five more that Spencer sent, although three of them were down now. So there were eight more zombies still on the loose. But it might as well have been eight hundred. The virus was exposed.

Wesker put the cigarette into his mouth and flicked the lighter, lifting the flame to the tip of the cigarette. Maybe if he smoked enough of them, he thought humorlessly, he would get sick and die of cancer before things got any worse.

Suddenly, someone screamed, and Wesker dropped the lighter. From the walkie-talkie came a sudden rush of yelling and then rapid gunfire. Wesker grabbed it and yelled into it, but could barely be heard over the deafening noise. "What's going on down there? What's happening?" he shouted, but got no response.

There was only terrified yelling. "Jesus! Get it off me!" Wesker held the walkie-talkie in his hand as if it was infected, just staring at it in horror. "Get them off! Shoot them! Oh my God!" The roaring gunfire drowned out much of the screaming, and he was glad that he couldn't see them. If he had to watch it on the screens, it would have been too much for him. Slowly, the walkie-talkie slipped from his fingers and clattered to the tile floor, still emitting the sounds of war.

The screaming ceased abruptly, and the gunfire slowed and then finally stopped, signifying the end of the soldiers. Wesker felt all energy drain right out of him. Make that thirteen zombies. All that could be heard from the walkie-talkie now was a low hum, the sound of nothing. Whatever had happened was over.

And then Wesker heard something else. It was a faint repetitive sound, so low he could barely hear it. He bent over and lifted the walkie-talkie to his ear to listen more carefully, straining to identify the sound. It was in the distant background, far away from the walkie-talkie, which only barely picked it up at all. It was like a low grunting noise.

Ice formed in Wesker's veins as he gradually realized what the echoing noise was. It wasn't grunting, it was laughing.

Someone was laughing.

Chapter 10

Part of the reason Raccoon City was such an ideal location for Umbrella's biological laboratories was its relative seclusion from outlying populated areas. It was nestled comfortably among scenic hills and valleys and surrounded completely by the Arklay Mountains woodland, much of it protected national forest. The city was compact and rather dense, considering the few square miles it occupied, and there was no urban sprawl.

Only three roads went in or out of the city and none of them qualified as a major highway. The city was in effect rather cut off from the rest of the world, which was a fortunate characteristic as far as Umbrella was concerned. They knew what might happen if some contagious toxin escaped from one of the labs and made preparations to ensure that possible infection would be minimal at best. Raccoon City was relatively small and would be easy to contain in the event of a biological hazard.

Not that they seriously entertained the idea of a biological hazard ever occurring. But it was always better to be prepared, just in case. Even if the preparations were totally inadequate and difficult to implement.

The virus was loose. The chemical treatment plant was a total loss. Against Wesker's better judgment, he allowed a second group of commandos to enter the plant with orders to shoot on sight. They were told in advance that second-stage hosts were loose, so they knew the risks. The team leader had a video camera attached to his helmet. Through it, Wesker watched them progress through the plant, recording everything to watch again later. He watched in silent horror as they came upon their first zombie, one of the commandos from the previous group, its eyes milky white, its face ripped and torn, its clothing drenched in sticky blood. They killed it without incident, and then another, and then two more. They managed to kill six zombies before something went wrong.

They encountered another zombie, but Wesker didn't get a good look at it before the men opened fire, and suddenly panic broke loose. They started screaming in terror and shooting, and the video camera jerked wildly in every direction, indistinct black shapes blurring all around. Wesker could only watch in disbelief as the commandos screamed for their lives, as if they had been ambushed by an entire army of zombies. It was all over in less than a minute. He tried to imagine what could have killed them all in such a short time. Was there a hunter loose in the treatment plant as well? Or something even worse?

When the shooting stopped, Wesker found himself staring into the screen, which now showed an awkward view of a dirty ceiling lined with pipes. Spencer was nowhere to be found, so he was in charge all by himself, trying to keep from getting sick, desperately thinking of some way to salvage the oncoming catastrophe.

And then the man appeared. The mystery man who started this whole disaster. Wesker glanced at screen as he walked toward the camera, his body upside down through the camera's crooked angle. He looked familiar, but Wesker could not place him. Long black hair, dark eyes, wearing ragged clothes, his age hard to determine due to his dirty appearance. He was somewhere between twenty and forty, but Wesker couldn't pin it down better than that. Even when he stood directly in front of the camera, the poor lighting and his long hair made it hard to see his face, as if it was always stuck in a permanent shadow. He knelt in front of the camera, looked directly into it, and reached out. A second later the screen turned to snow.

Wesker called Spencer in his office. "We have the intruder on tape."

"What about the strongarms?"

"Dead, just like the others. Come down here and watch the tape."

"I'd rather not. I'm busy with something. Patch it up here and I'll watch it in my office."

Wesker plugged the recorder into the lab's closed-circuit television system, flipped some switches, and played the video. "Okay, it should be playing on channel six."

"Got it."

Once more, Wesker sat through the video, smoking another cigarette. The team leader died and fell, his camera pointing up at the ceiling. And then the man appeared, looked into the camera, and shut it off. End of video.

"Well?" Wesker said into the phone. "What do you think?"

There was no response.

"Spencer? Did you watch the tape?"

Again, nothing. Wesker hung up the phone and re-dialed Spencer's office, letting it ring five times with no answer before hanging up in frustration. He didn't have the patience to deal with Spencer. There were more important things to worry about.

Like how he was going to survive this disaster.

He left the security office and went down the hall to the elevator. The lab was completely silent except for the sound of his footsteps echoing down the empty white corridors. He rode the elevator up to the main level and went to his private office, closing the door behind him.

Compared to Spencer's lavish office at the mansion, Wesker's was as bare as a prison cell. It had a single black leather couch against one wall, bookcases loosely stocked with folders and binders against the other, and a white metal desk across from the door. No carpet, nothing hanging on the walls. A small television sat on an end table beside the desk. The desk had a lamp, a computer, and an ashtray. Wesker lit a cigarette and put the ashtray to good use.

The virus was out in the open. The most destructive biological disease known to man, and it was out in the open. How did it happen? The chemical plant was rarely used anymore, and everything sent there was decontaminated by fire. No samples of the virus were stored there, nothing else from the labs went there except dead host animals. How could the virus get loose? Had a trace somehow remained intact on one of the burned corpses? And even if it had, how could that account for such a sudden infection? The security guards didn't even deal directly with the waste materials.

And who was that man? How did he get into the plant in the first place, and even more importantly, how had he avoided the virus for so long? Why wasn't he infected? By the look of his filthy clothes, Wesker guessed he was a homeless man that somehow snuck into the plant by some forgotten rear entrance, but that was unlikely.

His appearance bothered Wesker. The way he looked, the way he was dressed. Wesker puffed on his cigarette absentmindedly and turned on the television, switching it to channel six, where the video was still running.

The man wore some filthy long overshirt, gray or black in places and moldy green in others. He had an equally dirty shirt on under it, and tattered, greasy pants that could have been any color. It was the clothes that bothered Wesker the most. They weren't just dirty, they were positively disgusting, as if the man had found them rotting in a sewer before putting them on.

Wesker's eyes popped wide open. It wasn't an overshirt, it was a lab coat. A lab coat so filthy it was no longer white. Wesker dialed Spencer's number once more and let it ring five times before hanging up. Why wasn't Spencer answering the stupid phone?

Wesker shut off the television and crushed the cigarette in the ashtray. Something was going on here that he didn't understand. Spencer was ignoring his calls on purpose, but why? Who was the man in the filthy lab coat? How had the virus escaped into the treatment plant? Just what was going on here?

He left his office and went right up to the mansion, entering through one of the concealed elevators. He could almost see what was happening, as if it was right on the edge of his peripheral vision, but he was too tired and too stressed out to think clearly. There was more to this than just some homeless man breaking into the plant and the virus getting loose, but Wesker couldn't quite piece it together. It was right in front of him, but he couldn't see it all at once.

It was still too early for Spencer's secretary to be at work. Wesker went right to Spencer's door and knocked loudly. There was no answer, so he just opened the door and entered.

The room was empty. Spencer was gone.

Wesker stood in the doorway for a few long moments, hands hanging at his sides. Spencer had been in his office when Wesker called to tell him to watch the video. That had not been longer than fifteen minutes ago. The lights were off in the office now, and Wesker sensed that Spencer had not just run out. He'd been gone for a little while.

Wesker walked up to the desk. The drawers were all pulled out, their contents scattered across the floor. Pens, envelopes, assorted papers, staples, paper clips. The desk chair was pushed back against the window, as if Spencer had pushed himself away from the desk and gotten up in a hurry. And emptied out his desk. And then left without telling Wesker where he was going.

The top of the desk was empty except for a single sheet of paper. Wesker picked it up and read it, his breath coming slow even as his heart began beating faster.

## Wesker –

## I gave you some advice once, a long time ago. I suggest you take it now. The game is over. Get away while you still have a chance.

## – Spencer

Wesker dropped the note and watched it flutter to the floor. He saw the events unfold in his mind's eye. Spencer watched the video and immediately realized the ramifications, and then rapidly packed his briefcase and ran for it, pausing just long enough to write his little note. He probably left the room before the tape was even over. He didn't need to see the whole thing to recognize the horror of it.

Wesker chuckled softly and took a seat on the edge of the desk. Gradually, his sense of humor gave way and his chuckle transformed into a full-fledged laugh and then into an outright insane cackle. His stomach hurt, he laughed so hard. And then slowly, he forced himself to stop, reaching a finger underneath his sunglasses to wipe away the tears that formed at the corners of his eyes.

The game was over, indeed. Right now, the infection was contained and localized in the treatment plant, but that would not last long. Soon, maybe in hours, but certainly in a day or two, the virus would get loose and spread like a wildfire. The man in the video would see to that, Wesker was sure of it.

The man in the video. Wesker shook his head in disbelief, but he saw it with his own eyes and the sheer impossibility of it made it hard for him to even accept it as reality. But reality it was. The lab coat, the face many years younger than the last time Wesker had seen it. He didn't even want to speculate how it had occurred, or why it had taken so long to surface, but there was no doubt about that man's identity.

And to think, he had been dead for more than fourteen years.

Wesker stood up and stalked out of the office. Maybe he should follow Spencer's advice and get out as fast as he could. Take whatever money he could scrape together, transfer as much information from the computers as he could onto disks, and get out of there before the entire thing came crashing down upon him. He didn't have long, and he had to act now.

But he passed the front doors and walked back to the elevator. No, he was not like Spencer. He was not going to just cut and run, and abandon the research he spent his entire adult life pursuing. It was going to come down hard, but Wesker was not prepared to jump ship just yet, when he had no assurance that there was a life raft waiting for him.

If he ran now, what could he do? What could he hope to accomplish? He'd be running for the rest of his life, and all of his work at the labs would be erased from existence, destroyed or lost when the labs became infested with the walking dead. When the virus spread, it would infect everyone. The lab, the mansion, all of Raccoon City, eventually the entire world would be infected.

Could he just run away from that? Wesker got to his office and collapsed into his chair. If he ran to save his own skin, where could he go where the virus would not reach? If he escaped without telling anyone, he was essentially leaving them to their fate. Running from a deadly outbreak without giving anyone a fair warning of the extreme danger they were in. Could he do that? Wesker had not been born with an overly active conscience, but the thought of running away and letting all of Raccoon City become infected was more than he could handle.

He had to do something. He was the only one who could sort out this madness, the only person in the world capable of setting it right.

But it was already too late to save anything. He knew that. The virus was in the open and there was nothing he could do to contain it. All he could really hope for was to somehow limit the rate of infection, control it somehow. Prevent it from getting out of hand too fast. He couldn't stop it, but maybe he could slow it down.

He had to accept the inevitable. Aside from dropping a bomb on the treatment plant, there was no way to keep it from spreading. It would spread from the plant to the surrounding woods and then to the main Arklay lab. The man in the video would make sure it spread. And if he didn't, then the zombies and any animal they came in contact with would do the job just as well.

What if Wesker just called the National Guard? Evacuated the entire lab and sent in the Army to destroy the place? It would save countless lives, those of both Umbrella employees and innocent civilians. He could just blow the whistle on the whole operation, let the world know a terrible plague had been unleashed, and just pray that they had the resources to handle it before it got out of hand. Maybe he could just do the selfless thing, just once.

And throw away his life's work. If the police or anyone else ever found out about the experiments done at the lab, they would be finished. There were not even names for the multitude of crimes they would be accused and convicted of. Most of the genetic work they performed was extremely illegal, not to mention unethical and immoral and a host of others, as Wesker himself had known for a very long time. There were laws specifically made to prevent the kind of work they did. If he blew the whistle, he would spend the rest of his life rotting in prison. Coming forward to the authorities would be the only thing to save him from the death penalty.

He could save people, he could save all of Raccoon City, but doing so would throw away his own life in the process. If he brought in the authorities, they would find out about everything that was done there, and Wesker would burn for it in the end. He was in charge of the entire lab, he would be the one to ultimately be blamed for the whole thing.

And if his conscience prevented him from running away, it was his ambition that prevented him from calling for help. In the end, it would be the same thing. So he was stuck. He could not run and he could not call the cops. He had to stay there and handle it himself.

In the end, there was only one thing he could really do.
Chapter 11

Sherry stepped off the school bus and looked up at the enormous building that greeted her. It was so huge it seemed to block the sky. The large letters RCPD were etched in the marble over the large front doors. She was quickly ushered forward as the other students behind her exited the bus and gathered in a small group on the sidewalk, about thirty of them in all, consisting of both second grade classes.

Her teacher, Mrs. Gaffey, waved her hands in the air to get their attention. "Okay, everyone. I want you all to be on your very best behavior today. Now remember, the police officers are very busy and it was very nice of them to let us come here today. I don't want anyone to cause trouble. That means you, Derek." One of the kids behind Sherry snickered.

Mrs. Gaffey led the group of students through the imposing black gate and into the police station. As soon as they entered, Sherry found herself looking up in awe at how huge the inside was. It was like a temple or a church. She imagined doves fluttering around under the lofty ceiling as brilliant shafts of sunlight poured in through stained-glass windows. The police station didn't have stained-glass windows though, unfortunately. It would look much more beautiful if it did.

It did, however, have a gorgeous white marble statue in the very center of the lobby, of a woman in a toga, with a large jug balanced on her shoulder. Water poured from the jug and splashed at her sandaled feet. In the surrounding fountain was a collection of coins. Sherry wished she had some change so she could make a wish.

Her daydreaming was interrupted by Mrs. Gaffey. "Okay kids, there's too many of you for one tour group, so we're going to split you into boys and girls." She gestured toward a uniformed black policeman standing beside her. "This is Officer Branagh, and he'll take the girls through the station. I'll take the boys."

"Shouldn't you take the girls and let us go with him?" one of the boys asked.

Mrs. Gaffey crossed her arms and shook her head. "I don't think so, Derek. I want to keep an eye on you."

They all laughed and as instructed, got into two groups. Mrs. Gaffey and Officer Branagh spoke together for a few moments, and Mrs. Gaffey started to lead the boys through the spacious lobby.

"Okay then," the police officer said. "Like your teacher said, my name is Mr. Branagh, but you can all call me Marvin if you want. We're going to visit the offices and supply rooms first and then head upstairs. But before we start, does anyone have any questions?"

Inevitably, Sherry felt, one of the girls raised her hand. "Have you ever shot anyone?"

Marvin smiled and laughed softly. Sherry watched him intently to see how he reacted. One of her favorite hobbies was studying adults. She had become increasingly good at it while watching her parents. She knew what they really meant when they said something, as if she could read the spaces between the words and see deeper into their conversation. Maybe if her parents were more normal, she wouldn't be so interested in what they said, but even at a young age, Sherry knew that her family was far from average.

"I've had to use my gun before, but I don't think you really need to know about that," Marvin said. Sherry decided that she liked him. He was a typical adult, in that he treated children like children, but she sensed a friendliness in him. His smile was natural and warm, and most importantly, she could see that he was in a good mood, which helped her judgment of him. It was always easier to like people when they were happy.

He led the group of girls through a door on the left side of the lobby and into a long room filled with desks and people running around. Some of them were dressed in blue uniforms like Marvin, and they acknowledged the girls and nodded or smiled politely, but some of them seemed to busy to do even that. The room was noisy and cluttered and hectic, not at all what Sherry had expected. Everyone seemed to be doing five things at once, talking on the phone, writing things down, talking to other people. Sherry had a vision of a police station as an orderly place where everything was done according to as schedule and everyone had their own small job to do, but this seemed the exact opposite of that.

"This is the main office," Marvin said. "Most of the street cops do their desk work here when they aren't on duty. They have to file paperwork, write reports, and a bunch of other boring stuff."

"Do you have a desk?" one of the girls asked.

"Yes I do. It's right over there," Marvin said, pointing into the crowd. Sherry couldn't tell which desk he was pointing at, because they all looked occupied at the moment.

They made their way around the room, carefully keeping out of the way of all the busy policemen and women running around. Marvin led them around the room without a snag and through a door in the back, herding them through the crowded room effortlessly. They entered a long, wide hallway lined with display cases that were filled with medals, plaques, awards, and a huge assortment of newspaper clippings arranged like an intricate mosaic of images.

"We call this the Hall of Fame," Marvin said. "Awards that the department has received, or that individual officers were given, are on display here. There's also a lot of newspaper articles showing off some of the things we've accomplished."

"Are there any articles about you?" someone asked.

Marvin grinned. "Maybe there are."

Sherry wanted to stay there and read the articles, but Marvin led them down the hall and to another large room filled with messy desks, ringing phones, clicking typewriters, and more busy people. Mrs. Gaffey hadn't been kidding when she said the police officers were busy. Marvin showed off the room but did not walk them through it. They continued down the hall where he showed them the totally disorganized file rooms and the evidence lockers.

"Do you keep criminals here?" another girl asked.

"Yes, but not for very long," Marvin explained. "When we arrest someone, we put them in the lock-up downstairs. After we finish all the paperwork, get their fingerprints, file charges, and all that boring stuff, then we usually transfer them to the jail."

As the tour continued, Sherry came to realize that the police station was even larger than it first looked when she stepped off the bus. There was a huge underground section, where the jail cells, car garage, armory, and maintenance areas were all located. Marvin only led them up to the second floor, while Sherry guessed the station was at least three stories tall. The place was simply gigantic. She wished she could take the time to explore the entire building, but she doubted that would ever happen. Unless she became a police officer when she grew up, all she could get was a short tour like this.

As Marvin led them down the hall, he pointed at some doors to their left, which had a large emblem painted on. "Special Tactics and Rescue Squad," Sherry said to herself, reading the words underneath.

"This is the office for the S.T.A.R.S. teams," Marvin explained. "Do you any of you know what those are?"

"Are they special police?" one of the girls asked.

"They are," Marvin said with a nod. "They're a very special unit here. They perform rescue missions and other special missions. Unfortunately, I can't bring you into the office because they do very important work. Plus," he added with a chuckle, "the office is pretty small, so I'm not sure we'd all even fit in there."

Just as he began to lead them back down the hall, the door to the office opened up and woman came out. She was engrossed in some paperwork in her hand and almost ran right into some of the girls in Sherry's class. "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry!" she apologized. She was a pretty young woman with short reddish hair, wearing a short-sleeved green shirt and dark green cargo pants. She gave the girls a nervous little wave and then went down the hall.

One of the students asked, "Is she one of the special police officers?"

"She is," Marvin answered. "Her name is Rebecca, and she just joined one of the S.T.A.R.S. teams this week. Maybe if one of you wants to be a police officer when you grow up, you could join S.T.A.R.S. as well. Does anyone of you want to be a police officer?"

The girls giggled and looked around at each other, unsure if any of them did. Sherry knew that most of them, like herself, came from wealthy families, so she doubted any of them would pursue a career in law enforcement. Some of the girls in her class already talked about being doctors or lawyers like their parents. Marvin didn't seem disappointed that none of them wanted to be a cop like him.

Sherry decided to ask a question. "Why do some police officers wear regular clothes and some have to wear uniforms?"

"The police officers who wear uniforms are the ones who drive police cars and patrol the streets on a regular basis," Marvin said. "But detectives and other special officers don't have to wear uniforms."

"Why not?"

"Well, you all wear uniforms at your school, right? But your teachers don't have to wear them."

"Does that mean you're just a student policeman?" she asked, trying to sound innocent instead of sarcastic.

Marvin laughed heartily. "I just mean that the people in charge don't have to wear uniforms and the people they boss around do have to wear them."

"Why aren't you in charge?"

"Because I like being a regular cop. Maybe someday I'll get promoted, but right now I'm happy where I am."

After seeing the rest of the second floor, Marvin led them back downstairs, where they completed their tour. They went through another doorway and the girls found themselves back in the main lobby. Mrs. Gaffey and the boys were already there waiting for them. The two groups rejoined each other and Mrs. Gaffey said, "Thank you, Officer Branagh, for taking the girls around. I trust they behaved well."

"They were fine. Asked some good questions."

One of the boys interrupted. "Hey, Mrs. Gaffey wouldn't show us where you keep all the guns and stuff. Can you show us?"

"Sorry, kid. It's a secret," he said, shaking his head. "If you want to see the guns, you'll have to be a police officer."

"Does anyone have any intelligent questions for Officer Branagh?" Mrs. Gaffey said, glancing angrily at the boy who'd asked about guns.

No one did, so she gathered them up and led them back out the front door. The bus was already parked at the curb, waiting for them to climb aboard. Sherry looked back at the enormous building, wishing she could get a complete tour of the place.

Before they got back on the bus, Marvin said, "Remember kids, if you ever have a problem, you can always find a police officer to help you. That's what we're here for. If you ever need help, if you're ever scared or in danger, a police officer will help you. And if you can't find one, you can always come right to the police station for help. We're open twenty-four hours a day. Any time you're in trouble, you can come to the police station for help."

Chapter 12

After getting a good night's sleep, Birkin came to work the next morning feeling more refreshed and optimistic than he had in days. It surprised his employees to find that he was actually in something that resembled a good mood. He called everyone into the main lab at the start of the day and set out their new work plan.

"We're abandoning the tests with VN-68 and Progenitor-K," he announced. "We might continue those experiments at some point in the future, but right now I think it's a waste of our time. I want to start fresh with some new lines of research."

All of the scientists revealed shock at his decision, but only one of them had the courage to raise his hand. "Sir? We already redesigned Lab Four to handle the project."

"Don't worry about Lab Four. We can leave it like it is."

"But... but why stop the project?"

Birkin stared at the young man and he retreated, expecting Birkin to lash out at him, as Birkin always did when someone dared to contradict him. But this time, Birkin merely grinned and said, "Because I've had an epiphany. I think we've been going about this all wrong."

For years, the research teams under Birkin's supervision had very gradually altered different strains of the Progenitor. They had about a dozen different strains now, all designated with letters, such as Progenitor-K and Progenitor-N. They were all heavily flawed, like the Progenitor itself. They killed their host and resurrected them as second-stage, but in different ways and at different rates, and the second-stage hosts varied in several categories. The Progenitor-H, for example, killed the host faster than normal by preventing oxygen from reaching vital tissues, and when it resurrected the host in the second-stage, the host was completely paralyzed in all cases. The Progenitor-L, as another example, killed the host more gradually and resurrected it almost immediately after death, so quick was the transition from first- to second-stage that the research crew still had not pinned it down precisely. All of the variants, regardless of their other differences, still killed the host and were therefore useless for what Birkin had in mind.

But they had also developed two unique viruses developed over several years, called R-virus and G-virus, named that way to put them in the same category as Wesker's revolutionary T-virus. The T-virus had been developed by breeding leeches until the Progenitor bonded with their DNA, although Birkin didn't know that until years later. Using that same methodology, the lab created the the R-virus and G-virus by breeding host animals. The R-virus was developed by breeding earthworms, and the G-virus was based on common garter snakes. They probably could have continued to create more and more new viruses in this way, but it was a laborious and time-consuming project, and once the results proved just as unstable and mutative as the T-virus, Birkin chose to end the projects.

But the Progenitor had been the focus of intense study by Umbrella for more than thirty years, and they had still not cracked it. It occurred to Birkin that maybe the power of those new viruses could be harnessed in a way that the Progenitor could not. One crucial fact about the T-virus that was often overlooked was that, technically, it did not kill its host. Of course, the resulting mutation killed the host in many cases, and making a biological distinction between a Tyrant and a regular second-stage host was pointless as far as their research was concerned. It could be said that while the T-virus might not technically kill the host, it did something far worse than that.

As Birkin laid out the new research plans, he watched as the other scientists warmed up to the project. A few of them made excellent suggestions right away. Birkin outlined three main avenues of research and split his team up accordingly.

The more promising of the two viruses was the G-virus. Even compared to the T-virus, the G-virus was explosively mutative, drastically altering the host's form less than an hour after exposure. It initiated random growths all over the host body, but in all their experiments, the host's biological processes remained active for an extended period, until the mutations eventually broke down the host's body until it could no longer function. Once the host's internal organs began to suffer from mutations as well, the host typically died of organ failure. The mutation was random, unlike the T-virus, but Birkin took that as a good sign. It might be possible to deal with random mutation. And at least organ failure was a relatively straightforward cause of death.

They already had hundreds, if not thousands, of variant enzymes and other substances in the lab that they combined with the various Progenitor strains to create different results. VN-68 was one of them, but there was also VN-01 through VN-90, among others.

They spent the rest of the morning reviewing their test results for a long list of variant enzymes and even specific Progenitor strains that might react well with the G-virus. The most promising among them would be subject to a new range of tests. If they could find a way to slow or even stop the insane mutation rate of the G-virus, it would open up all kinds of possibilities.

Birkin wondered why he had abandoned research into the G-virus in the first place, but he knew the real reason. Working with the G-virus made him feel like he was following the same path that Wesker took. All these years, Birkin believed that the Progenitor was the key. Straying from that central belief was difficult for him. Developing an even more unstable virus was the kind of work they did in the Arklay lab, with their Tyrants and hunters and all the other monsters Wesker had created over the years. Birkin hated to think that he was giving in to that kind of scientific impulse, so he stopped work on the G-virus and R-virus out of personal pride.

But this morning, he felt energized. He didn't know why, but he felt like this was a real turning point. Maybe this new research into the G-virus wasn't going to work out, but just getting started gave him a rush of anticipation that he hadn't felt in years. He'd spent too long drudging through failed test after failed test with the Progenitor, and it made him cynical. Starting fresh on a completely new project made him feel optimistic.

Birkin drank his coffee black, one cup an hour. It took most of the day to even sort out their old test results and decide which variants held the most promise. Birkin reviewed hundreds of pages of data and hurried through the lab, giving directions. One team began preparing numerous samples of the G-virus for the tests to come. Another group finished all their previous tests and made room for the new experiments. By late afternoon, they finally had a concrete plan of attack. One of the scientists went out for fast food, and Birkin ordered a hamburger.

As he chewed on it, scanning some old test results on the G-virus, one of his assistants poked his head into the room. "Dr. Birkin, your wife is on the phone. Line three."

"Okay," Birkin said, setting the hamburger down.

He picked up the phone receiver and pressed the button for line three. "Hello, honey."

"I wanted to give you a call," Annette said. "I hope I didn't miss anything important at the lab today."

Birkin smiled and sipped his coffee. "Oh, we had a few developments. I can tell you about it later."

"Thank you for sticking around this morning to see Sherry off to school."

"It's no problem."

"Your friend Wesker called here."

That stunned him momentarily. Birkin set the cup of coffee down, almost spilling it on himself. "Really? Did he say why he called?"

"No, he just asked if you were here. I told him you were at the lab, like always."

Birkin hadn't talked to Wesker in years. Ever since the training facility was shut down and the two of them went off to different labs, they had little reason to communicate. Their contact in the last ten years consisted of equipment requests or the occasional progress report. As a matter of common courtesy, they regularly sent reports detailing the work they were doing at the time, but they were impersonal communications. Birkin couldn't even remember the last time they had actually spoken to each other in person.

"He didn't call here. That's very strange."

"I didn't even know that he knew our home number."

"Neither did I," Birkin muttered. Why in the world would Wesker call him at home but not at the lab? Was something wrong?

"But anyway," Annette said with a sigh, "I guess it would be silly of me to ask you if you plan on coming home tonight."

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Almost six o'clock," she replied, and then added hopefully, "I could throw something in the oven if you want. We have leftover spaghetti, too."

Birkin rubbed his chin and looked down at the pile of papers on his desk. There was really no reason for him to stay the night, since they hadn't even started any of the tests yet. Half of his team had already gone home for the night. Some of them chose to stay late to get the samples prepared for the first new test runs, but they would probably head home by eight or nine. There was really nothing Birkin could accomplish on his own.

"Are you still there, Will?"

"I'm here, I was just thinking. I'll tell you what. Let me call you back in half an hour. I'll see if I can set some things up to run without me. Maybe I'll be home tonight."

"Are you serious?" Annette asked, the surprise in her voice evident.

He tossed his half-eaten hamburger in the trash. "Of course," he said. "You know I'm always serious. It'll give me a chance to update you about what's going on at the lab."

"Okay, that sounds great," she said, cautiously optimistic. "Call me back in half an hour and let me know. Should I tell Sherry?"

"Not yet. Let it be a surprise."

"Okay, I'll keep my fingers crossed."

"Bye, honey. Talk to you soon."

He hung up the phone but didn't let go of it. Instead, he picked it back up and held his hand over the number pad, thinking to himself. He started to dial a number and then stopped and hung up instead. He sat back and stared across his desk.

Why would Wesker call him at home? If he wanted to talk, he would have called the lab. But he didn't call the lab, and that made Birkin suspicious. Just receiving a call from Wesker at all made him suspicious. Wesker called him at home for a reason.

He didn't want the other scientists to know he called. That was the only logical reason. But why would he care about that? Almost no one at the lab even knew who Wesker was. None of them had ever worked at the Arklay facility, although many of them knew about it. They wouldn't bat an eye if someone named Wesker called for him.

Something had to be wrong. Wesker needed his help, and he didn't want to make it official by calling him at work. That didn't make much sense either, though. What could possibly have come up that Wesker couldn't handle by himself? Wesker never asked for help without good reason. Something important must be going on for him to call.

Birkin looked at the phone again, desperately wanting to know what Wesker was up to. But maybe he didn't want to call Wesker on his work phone, just in case. He did own a cell phone, but he kept it in his car in case of emergencies.

Making his decision, he got up and notified his team that he'd be leaving for the night. Some of the other scientists would stay later to finish their work, so for the first time in more than a year, he was not the last person to leave the lab.

He phoned Annette and gave her the good news.
Chapter 13

Nobody else was in the long room, but all the lights were still on. Normally, all of the rooms were full of caretakers, but none of them were there now. It was very strange.

At the end of the hall, a woman in ragged clothing sat hunched over with her knuckles on the floor, staring ahead and listening carefully, her head tilted. Heavy iron manacles decorated her wrists, with long lengths of chain dragging behind them. The chain used to be attached to a wall, but not anymore. Things were very different now.

Her name was Lisa. She remembered her name, but not much else. Her name was Lisa, and she had lived in the underground rooms for a very long time.

She moved forward hesitantly, the chains behind her making noise as she moved. Her hands were large and caked with blood, but she didn't care. Blood was something Lisa was very accustomed to. She came to an intersection and paused, looking both ways. This was the first time Lisa had ever gone through the long rooms all by herself. The caretakers never let her leave her room before, but for some reason the caretakers acted different now.

One of her caretakers always wore black glasses. He had been a caretaker for a long time, and Lisa knew his smell. A little while ago, he opened the door to her room and used an object in his hand to make loud noises. When Lisa pulled on her restraints, she was surprised when they came loose. They had never come loose before. It took her some time to realize that was free to move, and when she did, she moved with surprising speed.

But the caretaker who let her go was already gone. She followed his scent to a special kind of door that she couldn't open. She smashed it with her hands but it would not open for her, and soon she abandoned it.

Why did the caretaker let her go after keeping her stuck in her room for so long? She didn't know and it didn't worry her. She didn't really even know who her caretakers were, but they had always been there, as long as she could remember before her memories got too blurry. For all she knew, she had lived in the underground rooms forever.

It did not take long to find other caretakers in the long rooms, but these ones did not run away from her like they usually did. Maybe some of the caretakers wanted to be friends. Lisa liked having new friends, so she happily grabbed them and took their faces.

Friends visited her sometimes in her room, but they never stayed long. Every time a new friend came, Lisa was happy to see them. Lisa knew that she was too rough with her friends, but she could not help it. Sometimes they fought her, but in the end she always won them over. Even then, they did not stay long.

She liked to take their faces and keep them with her. Lisa wanted their faces so she could always see them and remember who they were, but for some reason she never really could. Even when she kept their faces, she forgot who they were. It was always the same. Her caretakers gave her many friends over the years, but all of them were gone now. Sometimes she took a caretaker as a friend, but not very often.

She had a new friend's face with her now, pressed against her own. She touched it constantly, to remind herself that it was still there. It belonged to one of the caretakers that Lisa found in the long rooms. When she met him, she knew by the smell that something was wrong with him, but he walked right over to her, so she befriended him and took his face.

There were lots of long rooms, many more than Lisa ever thought could be there. She broke down doors and looked into other small rooms, growing more confident the longer she explored. It was wonderful to finally be free from her room. Now that she was able to go wherever she wanted, she did not want to go back to that room again. She wanted to be free.

Following the smells of the caretakers, she found some special rooms that went upwards at an angle. So she climbed up the rooms and then discovered more long rooms. Lisa found lots of interesting places. There was so much to explore.

She hoped that she might find some more friends soon.
Chapter 14

"Daddy, it was so much fun," Sherry said with an enthusiastic gleam in her eye. "The police station is so huge! Have you ever been there?"

"No, honey," Birkin replied. "Did you get to meet lots of police officers?"

"The one who gave us the tour was named Marvin. I don't know if we learned anyone else's names, though. There were so many people, I never knew how many police worked in the city."

"There must be a lot of crime for there to be so many cops," Birkin said with a grin.

Annette frowned playfully, pouring him a cup of coffee. "Will, that's not very nice. I'm sure that there are lots of police officers because they want to make sure that we're all safe, right?"

Birkin leaned back and sipped the coffee. "When I was little, sometimes the police let children sit inside the prisoner cells, to scare them into obeying the law. Did they let you see the cells?"

"We walked by them, but didn't go in. But we got to see lots of other cool stuff."

"Well, I'm glad you had fun, honey."

Dinner was over, so Annette put away the dirty dishes. Since Sherry spent most the school day at her field trip, she didn't have much homework. Birkin helped her as best she could, and when she was done, they sent her up to her room to change into her pajamas.

He wanted to know more about Wesker's phone call, but he didn't want to ask. He didn't want Annette to think it was important. She already knew it was strange. As she said on the phone, she didn't even know that Wesker knew their home number. So Birkin pretended to dismiss it as something unimportant, even though he wished Wesker had given Annette more information. His curiosity was like an itch he couldn't scratch, but he didn't want to arouse Annette's suspicions. To his knowledge, she had never even met Wesker in person. All she knew of him was what Birkin had told her long ago.

If Wesker didn't call the lab, Birkin knew he would have to go and find out what was going on at the Arklay lab. It was just like Wesker to leave a mysterious message and force Birkin to abandon his work to investigate, rather than simply telling Birkin about it directly.

"Thanks for coming home," Annette said as they walked into the living room. She gave him a kiss and touched his hand affectionately as they sat down in front of the television. "You said there were some developments this morning?"

"I changed around our schedule, that's all," Birkin said. "I decided to drop the tests with Progenitor-K and start up a new line of research into the G-virus. Do you remember that one?"

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Yes, I remember it. Any particular reason you switched back to it? I thought you didn't believe those ones were useful at all."

"I changed my mind, I guess. I'm tired of getting nowhere with our current projects, so I decided to shake things up. Maybe we'll be able to look at the G-virus with fresh eyes and see something we never noticed before."

"How did everyone take it?"

"They were surprised, of course."

"Well, it's not like you to do something like that so suddenly."

"It's not like me to come home two nights in a row, either," he said. "Maybe I'm turning over a new leaf."

Annette smiled at him, the kind of genuine, loving smile that he so rarely saw from her anymore. He knew that he did little to earn such smiles from his wife, and seeing it again after so long made him realize how much he missed it.

Before he could say so, Sherry came rushing down the stairs. Once again, Birkin found himself subjected to an hour of animated animals getting into wacky hijinks. He still didn't think much of Sherry's choice of entertainment, but he really didn't know what else he would watch if the choice had been his. He didn't know any current television shows or movies. He didn't watch sports or anything like that. He supposed that he would watch the news. It would surely be informative, since he had no idea what was going on the world. If not for Annette keeping him somewhat up-to-date on current events, he might not even know who the President was.

During one of the commercial breaks, Sherry turned and said, "My friend Stacy is having a sleepover at her house tomorrow night. Mommy already said I could spend the night there, but do you think it's okay, too?"

"If Mom says it's okay with her, then it's okay with me."

Sherry beamed at him, "Thanks, Daddy."

When it was time for her to go to bed, Birkin led her to the bedroom and helped tuck her in. She was old enough that she no longer needed her parents to do that sort of thing, but Annette suggested it would be a good idea.

"Good night, Daddy."

"Night, honey," he said as he turned off the light.

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

She paused. "You don't have to come home tomorrow night if you don't want to. I'll be at Stacy's house. So you can stay at work if you need to."

"Thanks, honey. I'll think about it."

He closed her door and went back downstairs. Annette was in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of wine. She had a second glass next to hers and hesitated before pouring, looking up at him expectantly. "Would you like a drink too?"

"Do you want me to have a drink?"

She poured and slid the glass over to him. He picked it up without comment.

Annette sighed and sat down at the table. "Sherry won't be home tomorrow night," she said carefully, slowly moving her glass around so the wine swirled around within. "I was thinking that maybe you and I can go out to dinner."

Birkin took a seat beside her. "We haven't done that in a long time."

"Not since... I don't even remember. Since Sherry was a baby."

"Sherry told me that I could stay at work all night if I needed to," Birkin said. "I guess I've told her so often how important my work is, she's starting to believe it."

"It is important, Will. I know that. But it ..."

"Go ahead," he said. "I know."

"It's not more important than your family," Annette said. She took a drink of her wine. "I always feel the need to thank you when you come home. But the fact is, I shouldn't have to thank you for coming home to see your daughter."

Birkin nodded. "You're right. I'm not a very good father. I admit that."

"You could be," Annette said, leaning forward, looking at him passionately. "You're the smartest man I've ever known. You can do anything you set your mind to. Set your mind on being a better person, Will. A better father, and... and a better husband."

"Having a family isn't like solving a science problem," he said. "There's no solution that I can discover by doing experiments and making theories. Think about what I was like when you first met me, Annette. Remember how I used to be? If you hadn't come into my life, I would still be that same person. I was a pathetic excuse for a human being. It's taken me this long just to adapt to the life we have now."

She finished her drink and then took his, which he had not touched. "When we first had Sherry, I thought that you would come around," she admitted, as if to herself. "That once you saw that little angel in your arms, you'd stop being so obsessed about work. And for awhile, you did. But it just didn't last." She sighed again and gulped down the wine.

"Other professionals dedicate their lives to their jobs, too," he said. "Business owners, lawyers, stock brokers. They miss out on their children's lives, and for what? To make money? At least I'm trying to cure disease and help humanity, right? That's got to count for something."

"I just want to know when it's going to be enough," Annette said, looking at him. "When will you be satisfied? I think any normal person would have burned out long ago, but you still work just as hard as you always have. No vacations, no weekends. Working all night, barely getting enough sleep. Sometimes I have to practically beg you to come home. You've been at it for fifteen years, Will, and it's still not enough, is it?"

"When we unlock the power of the Progenitor. That's when it will be enough."

"And what if that never happens? What if it's impossible?"

"I can't believe that," he said. "I refuse to believe it."

Annette looked at the two empty wine glasses and sighed again. "Then you have to make a decision, Will. You have to decide what's more important to you. Your job or your family. Because I cannot spend the rest of my life like this. I want my husband to come home from work every night, I want to have a real family life, and I want to have another child."

Birkin flinched as if he'd been slapped. "Annette, you... you never said you wanted another child. How long have you wanted one?"

"A couple years," she admitted. "I've wanted to bring it up with you, but each time I tried to talk to you about it, I just decided not to. I knew how you'd react."

"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it. "I never realized."

"That's because you can't stop thinking about work, and you rarely take the time to think about me and Sherry. Your job is your real life, and your family is just an afterthought."

Birkin realized that Annette must have already drunk some wine before he came downstairs. It was only the alcohol that gave her enough courage to say this to his face. Somehow, that bothered him more than the words themselves. Annette had never been afraid to say what was on her mind. It saddened him to think that she needed to get drunk to say what she really felt.

"What if I promised that I would try to be a better husband? That I would come home more often?" he asked. "All I can do is promise you."

"Don't make promises. Keep them. Prove to me that you're serious about this."

"I am serious. I don't say it enough. I love you, Annette. And I swear that I would give up everything, all my work with Umbrella, if that's what it took to prove it."
Chapter 15

A huge growth tank dominated the lab room. The front side was made of durable transparent plastic to reveal its contents. A seven-foot-tall albino behemoth, one hand deformed into a massive club, floated in the suspension liquid, which was clear as water. A Tyrant, trapped in suspended animation. Harmless, at least for the moment.

After a long, strenuous personal debate, Wesker realized that he had no real loyalties. He was merely loyal to those who offered him the most, and when those offers shriveled up, so did his loyalty. His work with Umbrella was based on loyalty to the corporation, but Wesker came to the decision that he could care less what happened to Umbrella if it conflicted with his own strong sense of self-preservation. And he was not alone, as Spencer's hasty retreat pointed out. Wesker was loyal only to himself, and with that fact he formulated his plan to get out of here with everything he wanted.

It was not a perfect plan, not by a long shot. For it to work, he would have to put himself in some considerable danger. He would be at risk, and the slightest misstep would cost him his life's work, his freedom, and probably his life. But there was no other way.

At this point, the only way to prevent the virus from spreading would be to stage a full-scale military operation against the treatment plant, where the infection began. Since that would incriminate him and demonstrate his part in the whole disaster, that was out of the question. So the virus was doomed to spread at least to the Arklay labs and Spencer's mansion. Evacuating the labs was also out of the question, because each of the fifty-some people working there would be a liability. Any one of them could blab to the police or the press, and that would ruin everything. Some of them might even try to switch sides and join one of Umbrella's competitors, limiting Wesker's chances of selling his research profitably elsewhere.

And that was his main goal. All he had left was to gather up as much information about the projects and samples of the viruses as he could, and begin employment at another corporation where he could start the projects fresh and continue his research. He had already packed four cases full of samples of the numerous strains of the Progenitor and the T-virus, as well as a whole series of samples from their very own Typhoid Mary.

Lisa had been set free, and she was currently prowling through the lab like a wild animal exploring its new surroundings. Wesker wasn't sure if releasing her was a good idea or not. Probably not. It hadn't even been easy to do without getting killed. But in Wesker's more humane moments, he pitied the poor woman. Setting her free had been an act of kindness, so to speak. The odds of her making it out of the lab complex were infinitesimally small, so its not like she could do any real damage. The odds were considerably higher that Lisa would accidentally find Wesker's private lab and tear his face off to add to her collection, but he didn't think that was very likely either. But in retrospect, setting her free was just one more thing he had to keep track of. Maybe it would have been safer just to leave her chained up. Too late to worry about it now.

There were so many projects running at the labs, Wesker sometimes had trouble keeping track of them all. He had to get samples of everything. All of the main biological constructs: the Tyrants, hunters, lickers, stingers, and others. Plus side projects like Plant-42 at Theta lab, the aquatic experiments from Delta lab, and the newly-created N-virus they just started experimentation with not more than a month ago. Wesker even had some secret personal projects that Spencer didn't even know about. Mostly little ideas he worked on in his spare time, but some of them could be quite useful in the days to come. He had to make sure he packed everything.

In the meantime, he had lots of other work to do. He needed to contain the infection without letting anyone know it even existed, and call on someone to fight off the zombies without them knowing what they were up against. That part was easy. He had the perfect people in mind.

He needed to stall for time until he was done in the labs. He needed what military commanders might call a diversionary tactic. And he had to do it quick, because the longer he waited, the more likely the ghost at the treatment plant would set off a mass infection somewhere else and get the authorities involved before he was ready.

So Wesker did it. Right now it was six-thirty-two in the evening according to his watch. He released the Progenitor into the Arklay labs himself, over six hours ago.

Phase One was now over. Time for Phase Two.
Chapter 16

The supply rooms were long-abandoned and lined with a thick layer of dust. The security guards just left them locked and never went inside. He had to break the window on the door and reach in to unlock it. The glass cut his hand, but the wounds already closed up by themselves.

A closet in the back of the deserted room contained what he was looking for: old lab uniforms. He peeled off his slimy, filthy clothes and dropped them on the floor, where they puffed up dust. He wiped his greasy skin from head to toe with some old rags, cleaning himself up just enough. He dressed slowly in new clothes, dry ones that didn't stink of the grave. Blue pants and a shirt belonging to the janitorial staff, and a new lab coat to replace his previous one. His feet remained bare.

The zombies left him alone. He walked right by them and they seemed to ignore his presence, as if he wasn't really there. He walked down the rusted-out, foul-smelling hallways of the plant without being harassed and went up the elevator to the first level. He disabled all of the security cameras he passed. They would not be able to watch him unless he wanted them to.

Their names escaped him. He remembered faces, but the identities remained elusive. In his mind, he could see an old man, old like he himself used to be, with a harsh, pointed face and dark eyes behind thin glasses. And he saw a young man with short blond hair, with dark glasses hiding his eyes. He saw them both and felt a deep hatred. They did this to him, both of them together. And they would both pay. Everyone would pay.

He walked through the woods like a ghost haunting the wilderness. It was still light outside, but the sun had set behind the hills and it would be dark soon. Slowly, he made his way through the forest and up a steep hillside, far from the treatment plant and the old laboratory.

The laboratory stirred his memory. He worked there in the past, but his memories were too blurry for him to know how long ago it had been. Hazy, incomplete visions of walking down brightly lit hallways, performing experiments in darkened rooms. He saw himself there, alone for days, doing important work. Even now, the work felt important to him, like a burning coal in his chest. He was not doing the work anymore, but he still felt how meaningful it was.

The work, the labs. He tried to remember what he had done, clenched his fists and his teeth and strained at the unwilling memories, but he could not remember. He had made something, created something.

As if called there, one of his pets appeared on his arm. He touched it with his other hand and it vibrated softly, purring its contentment. It disappeared up his sleeve, sending a calming sensation of warmth throughout his body.

His pets. That's what he created. He created his pets and they stayed with him, even through death, even through the long, agonizing purgatory in the bottom of that terrible hole underneath the treatment plant. He remembered the soldiers and their guns, and the flashing lights as pain blossomed in his chest. He remembered the pain. It was like a blinding explosion in his brain, the memories bursting into his consciousness like fireworks.

He leaned heavily upon an outcropping of rock to steady himself. They killed him, murdered him, and dumped his body in a hole filled with other dead bodies, to rot there until the end of time. And for years he laid there, suffering a tortuous purgatory, neither alive nor dead, until he was brought back. He was reborn, resurrected.

His body was no longer his own. He and his pets were now one symbiotic organism. They were one and the same.

They came to him at will, like an extension of his being. Their bond was more than simply psychic or physical; he controlled his pets and they controlled him simultaneously. Perfect mutual symbiosis.

He climbed the rest of the hillside and upward onto the rocky cliff on the end of the ridge. He stood on the peak and looked down at the surrounding Arklay Mountains. In the distance, he could almost see the glowing skyline of the nearby town, although its name escaped him. Twilight descended upon the area like a cold fog. The wind blew by, rustling the folds of his lab coat and blowing his hair across his face.

This is where it would begin. They tried to kill him, tried to take what was rightfully his, and they succeeded. But his precious pets, what they tried to steal from him, brought him back from the underworld, resurrected him and pulled him back from the brink of oblivion. They saved him from death and gave him a brand new life.

And for them, he would wreak terrible vengeance upon his enemies. Spencer. Wesker. They would pay for what they did. He would have his revenge on them for sending him to the black pit of death. And then the whole world would follow them.

Railroad tracks went along the base of the hill, weaving through the mountains like a river, heading into the city. There was a train coming, the bright headlight on its locomotive shining like a beacon as it passed through the trees. He heard it coming long before it reached him.

It was not a freight train hauling coal or shipping containers, but a passenger train. Its design hearkened back to the previous century; the passenger cars had fake wooden siding with golden borders and accents. Written on the side of the locomotive in large golden letters were the words "The Ecliptic Express." It was a small train, only twelve cars long, moving at a slow pace. A train for casual travelers and tourists, making its weekly circuit through the mountains.

He watched the train as it approached. His pets were hungry, urging him on. He raised his arm, giving a silent order, and his pets obeyed eagerly. They poured from his body like water from a fountain, streaming down the cliffside like an avalanche.

He felt them. When he closed his own eyes, he could see through theirs. His pets flooded across the surface of the train and squeezed in through every small space, each open window, each ventilation shaft, each exposed seam on the connected doorways between cars. They infiltrated the passenger cars and spread like a plague to the people traveling within. He sensed their hunger, experienced their pleasure as they attacked the helpless passengers. He breathed deeply, inhaling the cool spring air, feeling the wind flow around him.

Distantly, he heard the train's brake come to life with a loud metallic screech. A spray or yellow sparks erupted from under the cars, flashing like fire along the rails. His pets spread along the entire train, infecting everyone they came across, leaving no one alive. He looked through his pets' eyes at the victims as they died. He saw the horror in their eyes, heard their terrified screams, tasted their flesh.

Gradually, he recovered from his out of body experience and opened his own eyes. The night greeted him calmly, and he cast his gaze downward to see his pets coming back to him, moving up the cliff like a reverse waterfall. Far below was the train, now stopped, silent and dead. His pets returned to him and he stared down into the valley, surveying the area. Nothing moved, nothing saw him.

Rain began to fall.

Chapter 17

"Bravo team!" Enrico roared. "We got a call! Let's move!"

In the office room, Ken Sullivan and Forest Speyer were stretched out in front of a television, watching an advanced police training video. Rebecca was at her desk, diligently typing up some reports on her computer. Her head snapped up when Enrico called, and she jumped from her chair and grabbed her gear.

She already wore her work uniform. S.T.A.R.S. members did not wear matching uniforms, but they all had the S.T.A.R.S. logo on their clothing, so people would recognize them as police officers. Rebecca wore a green jumpsuit with white shoes, white belt, and a white kevlar vest. Medical pouches marked with a red cross hung from her belt and the word MEDIC was stamped in red on her back. Her badge hung from her belt by a velcro strap. She slung her supply belt over her shoulder and grabbed her holstered pistol off her desk. Like the other officers in the S.T.A.R.S. teams, and most police officers in general, Rebecca carried a standard nine-millimeter Glock handgun with a 15-round clip.

Enrico grabbed Ken by the arm. "Go to the armory and get Richard. Ed's already at the chopper. We'll meet you there."

"Right on," Ken said, and headed for the stairs.

Enrico, Forest, and Rebecca got into the central elevator and headed up to the roof. On the roof of the police station were two large helicopters, one for Alpha team and one for Bravo. One helicopter was already started, its rotating blades slowly picking up speed.

Rebecca followed Forest into the helicopter and strapped herself in. Enrico got in after her and put on a radio helmet so he could communicate with Edward Dewey, their pilot. "We got an emergency call from out in the mountains," Enrico said, buckling himself in. "It's a passenger train. They hit something on the tracks and the engineer called a mayday. We called back but they aren't answering. We'll be the first on the scene."

"Are there injuries?" Rebecca asked.

"I believe so."

"What did they hit?" Forest asked, fastening his belt. "Are we talking about a train derailment?"

"We'll find out when we get there."

Ken and their communications officer, Richard Aiken, arrived and boarded the helicopter. As soon as they strapped themselves in, Enrico slid the door shut and the chopper lifted into the air.

Rebecca took a deep breath and rested her head against the back of the seat. She closed her eyes and gripped her seat belt as the chopper banked and headed south.

"Listen up," Enrico said, his loud voice overcoming the roar of the chopper blades. "We got a search and rescue, situation unknown. We got the location of the train and we're headed straight there. I want a clean run. We lost contact with the train, and we don't know what to expect."

He touched the side of his helmet; Edward was talking to him. "Okay, we're almost there. Ed, land us a hundred yards off. Remember, situation unknown. Keep your eyes open and be ready for anything."

Rebecca opened her eyes. This was her first real mission, her first test. It was still her first week on the team. So far, she had only participated in routine calls and training sessions for the past few days, getting to know the other members and learning common procedures. But this was her first real call, the first actual mission she would experience. She looked out the window and watched as dark trees whipped by below. She felt calm, she felt ready.

Suddenly, there was a dull thud above them and the chopper shuddered, trembling around them. Rebecca clapped her hands over her ears as an ear-piercing screech came from the spinning blades. They all grabbed onto something as the chopper quaked and headed for the ground.

Enrico grabbed a hand hold and yelled into his microphone, "What's happening?"

Rebecca heard Edward screaming from the cockpit, "Engine failure! We're going down! Get ready for an emergency landing!"

"Hold on!" Enrico bellowed.

The helicopter rushed toward the trees and spun wildly, the tail swinging around and clipping tree branches. Rebecca felt her whole body lurch to the side as the chopper swung around like an off-center top, tilting to the side as it spun for solid ground. Enrico groaned, trying to hold on. The chopper spun out of control and the tail smacked into a branch, shaking the whole chopper. It dipped down and hit the ground, throwing them all forward with a tremendous crash. The blades struck the ground and blew up a tidal wave of dirt, stopping with the high-pitched squeal of bending metal. And then, incredibly, everything was still and quiet. Dirt rained down on the ground and a flurry of leaves drifted down around the downed helicopter.

Enrico rubbed the back of his head. "Roll call," he grumbled, twisting in his seat.

"I'm good," Ken said.

"Me too," Forest chimed in.

Rebecca's hips felt sore from where the seat belt gripped her, but she was otherwise okay. "I'm fine," she said.

Enrico bumped the front wall with his elbow. "You boys all right?"

"We're okay," Richard called out. "Just a little banged up."

"Fine. Let's get out of this wreck."

He unbuckled himself and crawled over to the door, shoving it open with his shoulder. It was bent and the plastic window was cracked, but it slid open when he pushed it. One by one they exited the chopper and gathered outside the wreckage.

The rotors were gone, smashed to pieces when they hit the ground. Rebecca stepped over a huge gash in the ground, almost two feet deep, the wet ground churned up like it had been blown up with a stick of dynamite. She stared in awe at the remains of the helicopter. The entire tail was gone, ripped apart in the landing. The main body was dented and crushed, covered in dirt and lying on its side. She felt a delayed sense of fear, realizing that it was a miracle that they were all alive and unhurt. And she wasn't the only one.

"What happened, Ed?" Enrico asked in shock, surveying the damage.

Edward rubbed his arm, grimacing in pain. "I don't know, boss. Everything was fine and then something broke in the rotor engine. Blew the whole works."

"When was the last time it was serviced?"

"Two days ago. Me and Brad checked everything."

"We have to call base and let them know what happened."

"Sorry, boss," Edward said. "Radio's smashed."

"Cell phones?"

Ken already had his in his hand, and he frowned, shaking his head. "I don't have any bars out here, boss."

"Me neither," Richard said.

Enrico put his hands on his hips and looked around, frowning in frustration. They were in a heavily wooded area, surrounded by trees on all sides. In the clear twilight, it was fairly easy to see, but soon it would be too dark to see anything. Clouds gathered menacingly in the sky. It had been raining on an off for the past few hours and looked like it was going to start back up any minute.

"All right. First things first. Where are we?"

"Don't know," Richard said. "We were coming up on the train, but I lost track of what direction we were facing when the copter started spinning. We can't be that far away from it."

"Anyone got a compass?"

They all answered negative. Enrico sighed and shook his head. "Figures."

"Somebody must have seen the helicopter go down," Ken said, looking around the trees. "Or heard it crash. They have to know we're here. Maybe they'll come to us."

"Okay," Enrico said, rubbing his mustache. "The train is our first priority. We have walkie-talkies, so everyone keep in constant contact. Spread out, wide pattern, and find that train. Use the chopper as our point of reference. Ed, you stay here, just in case somebody does come looking for us. Let's get moving, folks."

They split up, heading out in different directions. Rebecca stood still for a moment, switching on her flashlight and sending the beam of light into the growing darkness. Enrico came up beside her and gently touched her shoulder.

"Relax," he said. "You'll be fine."

Rebecca sighed and looked out into the trees. "If they can handle it, I can handle it," she said confidently. She gave Enrico a thumbs up and smiled, heading off into the trees.

"Call if there's a problem," he said.

Rebecca held her pistol in one hand and her flashlight in the other, holding her wrists together to aim the beam of light wherever she pointed her gun. All she heard her own soft footsteps on the damp ground and the annoying sound of rattling branches all around her. Even with the flashlight, it was almost impossible to see anything. Each rustling bush, each wavering shadow looked like something coming out of the darkness, and before she was fifty paces from the chopper, she felt completely lost. The wind made everything move, and she was constantly spinning around at the sound of a twig snapping or something moving in the underbrush.

She stepped out from the trees and found herself somehow on a dirt road. Knee-high plants sprouted in the center of the road, signaling how rarely it was used, but when she shined her light down, she saw clear tracks on the wet dirt. A vehicle had drive by here, and fairly recently.

"This is Rebecca," she said into her walkie-talkie. "I found a road. Straight left from the helicopter, maybe two hundred yards."

"An old hunting road," Richard's voice said. "I bet it runs parallel to the train tracks."

Enrico's voice this time. "Cross the road, Rebecca. We'll catch up with you. Call us if you find the railroad tracks."

"Okay," she said, and stuck the walkie-talkie back onto her belt. She looked up and down the abandoned road, sending her beam of light in each direction.

And she saw a flash of something. She aimed her flashlight down the road and saw a red glint in the distance, like a bicycle reflector. Cautiously, she walked along the road, casting her light forward until she could see what was there. When she made out the shape of a vehicle lying upside down by the side of the road, she broke into a jog and then a run. She had her medical pack out before she even got there, and skidded to a stop in front of the vehicle, a large gray truck.

She slipped in the mud and fell down, dropping her flashlight. It rolled away from her and cast its light directly into through the windshield of the truck. Rebecca covered her mouth with her hands, repressing the urge to scream.

Hands shaking, she picked up her walkie-talkie and pressed the button. She tried to keep her voice steady. "This is Rebecca. I've found something terrible. There's been some kind of accident here."

Chapter 18

"We need to talk," Birkin said into his cell phone, sitting in the driver's seat of his car as it idled softly. In front of his car was a large wrought-iron gate stretched across the dirt road leading to Spencer's mansion. It was seven-thirty in the evening and the sky was dark and overcast, having rained on and off all day. His windshield wipers moved back and forth across the window, their steady rhythm a comforting distraction.

"I was wondering when you'd call," came Wesker's voice, and Birkin could detect the weariness and frustration in it. "Curiosity got the best of you?"

"Something like that," Birkin said. "Why is the outer gate closed?"

"For security reasons," Wesker hinted vaguely.

"Mine or yours?"

"Everyone's."

Birkin looked at the gate with a growing sense of alarm, taking a deep breath to calm himself. In all his years working for Umbrella, he never saw the gate closed. He thought the gate was purely ornamental, another of Spencer's eccentric touches. But seeing it closed sent an involuntary shiver down his back. This road was the only entrance into the compound. The entire property fenced off to prevent accidental trespassers.

He tried to keep his voice neutral. "Is the gate closed to keep me out, or to keep something else in?"

"Boy, I can't get anything past you, Will," Wesker snickered sarcastically. "You were always too smart for me."

"What happened?"

"It's loose, that's what happened."

Birkin let his breath out slowly. "How?"

"I have no idea."

"Let me talk to Spencer."

"He's gone."

"What do you mean, gone?"

"I mean he ran off as soon as he found out the virus was in the open," Wesker said matter-of-factly, as if merely stating the weather. "Left me a little note advising me to do the same."

"You mean he just left?" Birkin asked incredulously.

"That's exactly what I mean. I guess you could say he retired and left me in charge."

"And the virus is in the open?"

"Yes."

Birkin lowered the cell phone from his ear but did not turn it off. He let go of the steering wheel and let both hands rest in his lap, closing his eyes and resting his head against the headrest. The car idled softly as he sat there.

Ever since he first learned about the effects of the virus, more than fifteen years before, the one thing that nagged at the back of his mind, that kept him awake at night, that subtly haunted and terrified him, was the thought of the virus ever being escaping the lab and becoming exposed to the outside environment. If the Progenitor – or even worse, the T-virus – ever got loose and infected someone outside the lab, it would bring about an epidemic of catastrophic proportions. No one would be prepared for it, no one would be able to fight it, and no one would be immune to it. The virus, if allowed to spread uncontrolled, would infect everyone in Raccoon City in a matter of days, if it even took that long. The city would be completely infested with the walking dead, and the virus would not stop there. What if an infected individual made it out of the city and to the nearest town? What if the virus got loose of the city? What if they suddenly had to deal with a national epidemic instead of just a local one?

There would be no stopping it. The virus would spread like wildfire and consume the entire world. That was Birkin's most dreadful thought and deepest fear. And now, it seemed, his deepest fear had come true.

So he was mildly surprised by how well he was handling it. His breathing was calm and relaxed, and his heart was not racing, as he would have otherwise expected it to. In general, he was absorbing the news rather well.

But he kept hearing a strange, mumbling noise, and vaguely wondered what it was until he realized that the cell phone was still on and Wesker was speaking to him.

He raised the phone to his ear. "I'm still here, Wesker. I was just thinking."

"Good, I thought maybe you'd fainted on me."

"So the virus is loose," Birkin said, as if by repeating it one more time, Wesker might correct him and say that it was not loose at all and the whole thing was a big misunderstanding.

But Wesker said no such thing. "Will, the virus has been loose for more than forty-eight hours. As far as I can tell, I'm the only person on company property who's still a susceptible first-stage host."

Birkin winced at Wesker's distorted use of the term. "How did you avoid getting infected?"

"By being careful, how else do you think? Me and Spencer were the first two people to discover what happened."

"What about everyone else? They weren't as careful as you?"

Birkin detected Wesker's momentary hesitation. He knew what this meant, of course. He knew it the moment Wesker claimed to be the last one alive. "It's hard to be careful against something when you don't know it's there," he said evasively. "This wasn't exactly the kind of news I was going to announce over the intercom."

"You didn't even warn them," Birkin said flatly. It wasn't an accusation, just a plain statement of fact. It would have surprised him if Wesker had warned them at all.

"At least I stayed to try to clean up," Wesker said quickly, responding to the accusation that hadn't come. "Spencer ran out of here without so much as a goodbye."

"How exactly do you plan to clean something like this up?" Birkin asked.

"Perhaps 'clean up' is too optimistic a term," Wesker admitted. "I'm trying to organize the chaos a bit."

"Where are you?"

"Sigma lab. One of the new ones, I don't think you've been here."

Birkin sighed with resignation. "I think you and I need to have a face-to-face. Do you want to come out here and meet me, or is there a way inside that won't get me killed?"

"Of course there's a way in. How do you think I got here?"

"What do you mean?" Birkin asked. "You mean you haven't been here the whole time?"

"I have a double-life to lead, remember? I can't spend all my time here. I just got back from the police station a few hours ago."

"Whatever, just tell me how to get in."

"I'll open the gate in a minute. Drive through and head toward the west wing entrance. There's a maintenance shed on the other side of the fountain. I'll unlock it from here. Take the elevator inside down to level three and I'll meet you there."

"Right, see you in a minute," Birkin said, and clicked off the cell phone.

He wasn't quite sure what possessed him to demand a personal meeting, especially under the dangerous circumstances. Maybe he just wanted to converse without a cell phone masking Wesker's reactions; it was always easier to spot a lie when looking someone in the eye. Maybe he wanted to see some of the damage first-hand. Maybe he felt guilty about his involvement in the entire operation and wanted equal responsibility for trying to repair the damage.

But that wasn't it, really. As the gate slowly opened in front of him, he knew why he wanted to go down there himself. It wasn't that he thought he could somehow do a better job than Wesker could; if anything, Wesker was the most qualified person to deal with it. But deep down, Birkin just couldn't live with the thought of someone like Wesker being responsible for the lives of so many people. Wesker had no loyalties, no ethics, no morals to guide him when it came to someone else's welfare. Wesker cared only about Wesker.

If Birkin drove away and let Wesker deal with it, he was almost certainly dooming innocent people to their deaths, because Wesker wouldn't think twice about sacrificing someone to achieve a greater goal. Birkin had that much compassion for humanity, at least. Wesker was simply too selfish and heartless to handle this alone.

At least that's what Birkin told himself. The truth was probably much more complicated than that, but he opted to put it out of his mind. He put his car into gear and slowly drove through the open gate. In his rear view mirror, he watched it close again after him, like a set of huge metal teeth swallowing him up.
Chapter 19

Enrico knelt down in the mud and looked at the crashed truck. It was a military vehicle, at least according to the license plate and the fact that the two dead men in the cab both were wearing Army uniforms. It was a truck for transporting prisoners, and the back doors were broken wide open.

"Jesus," Enrico whispered. "What happened here?"

"I don't know," Rebecca said, holding up a clipboard. "But I found this. It looks like they were transporting a prisoner."

"Who?"

Rebecca shined her flashlight at the front sheet of paper. It showed a picture from the shoulders up of a young man with an angular, harsh face and a buzz cut. "William Coen," she said, reading off the paper. "Under military arrest for murder. Court-martialed last month. They were taking him to the Arklay Correctional Facility."

"That's on the other side of the hills," Richard said. "It's a military prison. I wonder why they were taking the back roads instead of the highway."

Enrico took the clipboard and read the file, scowling all the way through.

"Do you think this has anything to do with the train?" Richard asked.

"Maybe this guy broke loose and somehow blocked the tracks to stop the train," Enrico speculated. "After he killed the soldiers here."

"How did he kill them?" Rebecca asked nervously. "I mean, look at them."

The two soldiers in the cab of the truck looked as if their faces had been torn by claws or mauled by an animal. Enrico grimaced and set the clipboard back on the ground. He didn't look directly at the dead men. He took out his walkie-talkie and spoke into it. "Listen everyone, this is Enrico. We've got casualties here. They were soldiers transporting a prisoner. I need you all to be on the lookout for a man named William Coen. Six-foot-one, brown hair, a big tattoo on his arm. Consider him armed and dangerous. Do you copy?"

"I hear you," Ken's voice said, laced with static. "But me and Forest found some weird stuff out here. There's blood all over the ground."

"What?"

"We found blood all over the ground," Ken repeated, "or at least something that looks like blood. There's lights in the distance, so we're gonna check it out. There must be a house or something out here in the woods."

"Make it quick," Enrico said. "And be careful. Return to the chopper as soon as you can." He held the walkie-talkie, letting his arms hang at his sides, and looked from Richard to Rebecca, as if asking their opinion.

"I don't like this," Richard said firmly. "We don't have anything to go on."

"We haven't even found the train yet," Rebecca reminded them. "We can't look for this criminal and search for the train at the same time."

"Let's find the train," Enrico said. "We'll worry about Coen later." He spoke into the walkie-talkie again. "Ken, this is Enrico. Where are you now?"

"Me and Forest are about half a mile straight back from the chopper. There's a house out here all right, it looks like some kind of mansion. I don't remember anything like that being out here in the woods. I thought this is all supposed to be national forest."

"Keep an eye out for our suspect, he might have gone there. The train is probably exactly opposite your current location. We're going after it now."

"Okay, be there as soon as we can."

"See you soon," Enrico said, and hung the walkie from his belt. "Rich, you're pretty sure the train tracks run parallel to this road?"

"Pretty sure," Richard said.

"Then let's go."

Enrico, Richard, and Rebecca headed into the forest. They crept through the trees and brush, the whole area completely dark. When the moon appeared from between uncertain rain clouds, it only illuminated the woods a slight amount. Rebecca couldn't see more than ten feet away, and the flashlight was no help at all. William Coen could have been hiding right next to her and she wouldn't even see him.

"Here they are," Richard said suddenly, when they emerged from the trees. Ahead of them were train tracks upon a layer of white gravel. They ran to the left and right into the darkness.

"Which way?" Rebecca asked.

"It must be this way," Richard said, pointing to the left. He looked back where they had come from and tried to get his bearings. "We can't be south of the western ridge yet, and the call from the train said they had passed it. So they must be this way."

"One of us should go the other way, just in case," Rebecca said. "The caller might have been mistaken."

Enrico looked to the left and right. Rebecca knew what he was probably thinking, and couldn't really blame him for it. He might think that she was afraid to go on, and wanted to go the other way because the train probably wasn't there. Then again, if she went alone and found the train, then the least-experienced member of the team would be the first one there. She either wanted to avoid getting to the train, or she wanted to get to the train first and handle it herself. So either she was being too cowardly or too brave.

In reality, Rebecca believed she was neither. She just felt that it would be better if at least one of them went the other way. It didn't even have to be her.

Time was ticking by, and they had already wasted too much of it. The passengers on the train might be in danger and the rescue team was taking forever just getting there. Enrico didn't have time to spare.

"All right," he finally said. "Richard and I will go this way, you go the other. Whoever finds the train calls the other immediately?"

"Okay," Rebecca said, and she headed off in the other direction.
Chapter 20

Wesker hit play on the video monitor and leaned against a desk, folding his arms. Birkin sat in a chair beside him, upset and impatiently waiting for the video to start. Wesker insisted that he watch it first, before they discussed anything. Birkin didn't understand Wesker's insistence until he watched the tape in its entirety. When it was over, he rewound it and watched it again. After the second time through, static filled the screen but neither of them bothered to turn it off.

"How is it possible?" he whispered, so low Wesker almost didn't hear him.

"I don't know," Wesker said. "If this happened ten years ago, I might have a theory for you. But not now."

"I mean ..." Birkin sat back in his chair and lifted his hands to his face. "He looks younger, much younger. Maybe it isn't him and we're just imagining things."

"It's him all right. I'd bet money on it. I don't have the slightest idea why it took this long for him to appear, though. If he was still alive, he would have made his presence known years ago."

"He can't be alive."

"You know what I mean," Wesker snapped, annoyed by Birkin's frightened reaction to the video. He'd worked at Umbrella as long as Wesker had; this was no more horrifying than any of the other experiments they'd performed in the last decade, although it was much more confusing. The video didn't scare Wesker so much as frustrate him, but Birkin looked like he was about to start freaking out.

"Was he experimenting on himself, for God's sake?" Birkin asked.

"I don't know," Wesker muttered, finally turning the monitor off. "We didn't exactly have time to ask him what he'd been doing. I had to piece together most of the research from his notes, remember?"

"The T-virus must have done this, but how?"

Wesker sighed. "At this point, I don't even care."

Birkin looked at Wesker and his face softened. The look of fright receded and his eyes sharpened. He lowered his hands, and Wesker was glad to see that they were not trembling. He let out a steady breath and stood, running a hand through his hair, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.

"You're right," Birkin said. "It doesn't matter now. Who cares what brought him back? What we have to worry about is how we're going to stop him."

"Stop him?" Wesker asked, his voice hinting at sarcasm. "Stop him from doing what, exactly?"

"Well, stop him from ..." Birkin said, gesturing toward the blank video screen. And then he realized what a foolish statement it was. The labs were both completely overrun with zombies and animals mutated by the Progenitor and T-virus as well. There wasn't much left for them to stop. The damage had already been done.

"I wish I'd come here sooner," he said.

"I don't," Wesker said. "You would have gotten in my way."

"What do you mean?"

"I've already taken steps to contain this disaster," Wesker explained. "But I know you. You would have tried to stop me from doing it my way. So I'm glad you weren't here."

"That's the whole reason I came," Birkin shot back. "To stop you from doing it your way."

"It's too late, anyway. It's already started."

"What has? What have you done?"

"Not me," Wesker said with a slight shake of his head. He went to the computer and switched through several screens to select another security video. This one showed the side of a lone building with a fence visible in the background. Birkin didn't recognize it. Suddenly, a familiar figure walked out the door of the building and moved his arm. The image from the camera went black.

"Is that what I think it is?" Birkin asked.

Wesker nodded. "It's the main entrance building to the treatment plant. He left the building a little over an hour ago. So he's out in the open now. As long as he stayed inside, there was a tiny chance of containing the spread of the virus. Now, we have no chance."

Birkin felt his blood go cold. "He might come here," he said, his voice suddenly quavering. "He could come right here and infect everyone in the entire lab. We wouldn't be able to stop him from getting in. Wesker, what the hell are we going to do?"

"It's worse than you think," Wesker said. "Much, much worse."

"How could it possibly ..."

"On another camera, I caught a glimpse of him heading west from the plant. That means he was walking away from us. There isn't anything west of the plant except forest. But there are some railroad tracks that go through the mountains."

Birkin didn't know what that had to do with anything. "Railroad tracks?"

"Our radio system picked up a very brief emergency alarm. Just for a few seconds. We only picked it up because we were close to the source. I doubt the signal even reached Raccoon City. It was from a passenger train called the Ecliptic Express. It takes weekly trips around the Arklay mountains for tourism and sight-seeing. According to its schedule, it comes right through this area on its way back to the city. And as of right now, its late coming back to the station."

"Oh my God," Birkin groaned. "How many people were on that train?"

"Who knows? Twenty, fifty, a hundred? Why he went after the train, I have no idea, but we should consider ourselves lucky. It could be even worse that that. He could have gone right into Raccoon City and infected an entire apartment complex."

A sickening sensation flooded through Birkin's body and he had the urge to break down and cry in despair. He couldn't even imagine something like this in his worst nightmares. The thought of innocent people dying such horrible deaths made him want to vomit. And the worst part was that he knew that there was nothing any of them could have done about it. If the Umbrella commandos couldn't stop him, then what chance did the rest of them have?

At that thought, it occurred to him that so far, he had only seen Wesker since he arrived at the Arklay lab. None of the other scientists were here to see the video. It hadn't seemed important at the time, but now it seemed strange that he and Wesker were apparently alone.

"Where are the others?" he asked warily, feeling a cold dread sweep up his back. "Have you shown them this?"

"I have not."

"Why in the world not? You can't keep it a secret from them. You have to ..."

Nothing in Wesker's facial expression or his body language gave it away, but somehow, Birkin knew immediately that the other scientists were already dead. He knew it with absolute certainty, as if by divine inspiration.

"What have you done, Wesker?" he whispered, staring at him.

There was not an ounce of regret in Wesker's voice. "I did what I had to do."

"You killed them."

"I released the Progenitor into the lab. It was the only way."

"The only...?" Birkin muttered in disbelief. He rose from his chair and raised his hands in a futile gesture of bewilderment. "The only way? Are you out of your mind? You killed them, you murdered them!" he shouted. He suddenly stepped forward, feeling his hands ball into fists.

Wesker crossed his arms and squared his shoulders, as if daring Birkin to confront him. He radiated a cold wave of ruthless malevolence, and it stopped Birkin in his tracks. The last time he and Wesker had physically collided, the episode ended with Birkin on the floor with a bloody mouth. Birkin remembered it well, and Wesker surely did too.

Birkin tried to stare him down, but it was no use. He was impossible to threaten or intimidate, and Birkin was no match for him physically. Getting in a messy fist fight would solve nothing.

"How many people are going to die, Wesker?" Birkin spat, glaring at Wesker in undisguised contempt. "How many have to die before you feel even a sliver of guilt? You don't care at all about those innocent people. You're just going to let more of them die, aren't you?"

"I'm not just letting them die," Wesker replied, "I'm sending some of them to their deaths. Because that's the only way we're going to contain it. You can't stop the infection from spreading, you can only slow it down. You can't destroy it, you can only distract it."

Birkin shook his head as if trying to shake off some horrifying mental image. "You're wrong, Wesker. You can stop this. You just don't want to sacrifice yourself and your precious work to do it."

"Would you do it?" Wesker snapped, pointing at him. "Would you throw away everything you've worked for? All the work, all the research, everything you've accomplished in the last fifteen years? If the virus got loose on your watch, would you throw everything away just to save them?"

"I'm working to save lives!" Birkin shouted. "All of your work is just how to make bigger and more violent monsters! My work is going to save people!"

"So if you had to choose between protecting your life's work, and saving the lives of a bunch of ignorant fools that you've never even met, which would you do?"

"This isn't about me, this is about you!"

"What would you do?" Wesker shouted angrily, stabbing a finger at him, forcing Birkin to back away.

Suddenly, the tide had turned and Birkin discovered that he was floundering. How had the argument turned on him? How had Wesker managed to manipulate the conversation and make Birkin feel guilty, when Wesker was the one letting people die? The question – the accusal, really – finally got to him and he listened almost against his will. He was shocked to discover what the answer to the question was.

"You would do exactly what I'm doing," Wesker said flatly, not letting Birkin respond. "You'd justify it by telling yourself that your work is important to mankind, and if a few hundred people died, or even a few thousand, then it was worth it because your work could save millions."

Birkin was stunned silent. Those exact words had been right on the tip of his tongue, and Wesker turned them against him as well. He sat down and covered his eyes, too weak to argue any more. Wesker had already won.

Wesker didn't let it end there. "In the end, you and me are the same, Will. I know you like to think that you're more noble and more humane, but nobility and humanity have no place in our line of work. This isn't about them, it's about us."

His voice leveled out and he looked away from Birkin. "Right now it's about me." He set his hands on the nearest desktop and leaned heavily on it.

Birkin, in defeat, fell back into his chair, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He looked around the room forlornly. Is this really where all their years of hard work and dedication had led them? When they joined Umbrella, they both had such potential. And look where it got them. Birkin still wanted to be an idealist, his hopes and dreams pinned on some noble goal. He wanted to believe the best about himself, so the sudden realization that he was truly no better than his worst enemy was like getting shot in the heart. There was no more fight in him.

"We're doing it my way," Wesker said, sounding tired. "I don't want to do all this by myself, but I will if that's what it takes. I'm offering you a chance to be involved. You'll have to settle for that."

"Yes, I'll have to," Birkin muttered weakly. He lifted his eyes to Wesker like a beaten dog looking sadly up at its master. "So what do you want me to do?"

"I have to head back to the police station soon to keep my coworkers from getting too curious about what's going on. I'll have to muddy the waters quite a bit. While I'm there, you have to stay here and keep an eye on things. When was the last time you slept?" he asked.

"I slept last night," Birkin said. "I've slept at home two nights in a row, actually."

"I bet your wife was overjoyed," Wesker muttered. "I'm going to sleep when I get back, then. I'll need you to hold the fort tonight."

"I can handle it."

"I should hope so. I don't anticipate anything going wrong, but if there's a problem, you can wake me up. Otherwise let me sleep."

"If you want me to recognize any problems, you're going to have to actually explain to me what your plan is."

"Ah, yes," Wesker said. "I guess I will."
Chapter 21

Rebecca started off at a brisk jog. It was totally dark and getting cold, so she moved quickly to keep warm and to calm her jittery nerves. So far, her first mission had not gone at all like she planned. Bravo team should have located the train right away and entered as a team, but instead they were scattered all over the woods and would get there one or two at a time. She expected Enrico and Richard to call any minute now and tell her that they had found it.

But instead, she found it. When she first noticed the large shape on the tracks fifty yards in front of her, she took off at a run.

And she immediately tripped over one of the railroad ties. She hit the ground with a groan, banging her hip against the track and scraping the palms of her hands on the gravel. She got to her hands and knees, cursing her clumsiness, and got to her feet. At least she hadn't hurt herself.

She approached the train and heard nothing. The engine was off and the whole train exuded a cold sense of desertion and solitude. Rebecca held her pistol out in front of her and shined the flashlight in the windows of the rear car, the caboose of the train. She expected to see someone, to hear some sounds within, but she was alone and there was nothing but the steady, unnatural silence.

And then she heard a faint noise that chilled her blood and sent shivers down her back. A low, gurgling moan from inside the train, like nothing she had ever heard before. It froze her in place, terrified, and then she was scrambling for the walkie-talkie hanging from her belt.

"Enrico," she whispered urgently. "Enrico, this is Rebecca. I found the train. I think there's something inside, please get here as fast as you can."

She waited a moment for a response, and when there wasn't any, she tried again. "Enrico, this is Rebecca. Can you hear me?"

Nothing, not even static, came from the speaker. She shook the walkie-talkie and smacked the side of it, but still nothing. And then she noticed that the panel had come off the back and the battery was missing.

She looked back the way she had come. It must have broken off when she fell. She stepped back to where she had fallen, but there was no way she was going to find the battery. She swept her flashlight across the ground, but the battery was white and it blended in with all the white stones and gravel in between the railroad ties.

What could she do? Run back and get Enrico? Go inside the train first and see what was going on? She wanted to start screaming and hope Enrico could hear her, but she dared not do that either, not when someone or something dangerous might be in the train.

She heard that skin-crawling moan again, this time louder. It was a low, wet sound, like the last breath of a man drowning in his own blood.

She had no idea what was going on in the train, but she couldn't waste time running all the way back to get Enrico. People might be dying in there, and she could be their only chance. She climbed up the ladder railing on the back of the caboose and quickly went to the rear sliding door, looking in through the smeared window. She could see nothing inside, but the light was dim and indistinct. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, gun drawn.

It was the baggage car. Stacks of suitcases and other assorted luggage were piled up around her like a mountain range, making her feel claustrophobic in the enclosed space. She walked slowly on the metal floor, hands trembling as she held out her pistol. Near the doorway to the next car, some of the suitcases were on the floor, opened up and their clothing scattered.

Rebecca clicked off the flashlight and stuck it in her pocket. Through the window in the door to the next car, she could see the glow of soft yellow light. She held the handle of the pistol tighter as she came to the door.

It slid open soundlessly, and she inched her way into the next car, which appeared to be the dining car. Tables were lined up on each side of the car, which was carpeted in magenta lined with gold trim. Some of the tables had candles in brass candlesticks and plates of half-eaten food. The chairs were pushed away or knocked over. The unsteady light from the bulbs in the ceiling and the flickering candle light made the whole dining car seem to shimmer with light, and the fancy brass railings and ornaments around the car reflected the light, as if glowing on their own. Rebecca had to squint to see clearly in so much glittering light. The room smelled warm and comfortable, but on top of it was an acrid, rotten stink, like a dead body sprayed with perfume. She wrinkled her nose at the strange odor and crept forward.

Immediately to her left was a circular stairway to the upper floor of the car. She ignored it for now, concentrating on the first floor. It was not until she was a few steps into the room that she first saw the bodies. They were crowded into corners, three of them, as if the people had crawled and backed themselves into walls right before they died. Rebecca rushed forward until she saw them clearly, and then stopped in her tracks. They were dead, obviously and irrevocably dead, all three of them. Two men and one woman, all dressed nicely in clothes that were now ruined, ripped in places and stained with thick blood, the men in conservative suits and the woman wearing an expensive pink evening gown.

Rebecca backed away and covered her mouth with her hand, horrified by the gruesome scene before her. All three bodies were hideously mutilated, their exposed faces and hands ripped to shreds and smeared with gore, bits of flesh hanging off their dead faces, blood splashed and splattered all over their clothes and the walls behind them. They looked butchered, or torn to pieces by some wild animal. But no animal that Rebecca had ever heard of could have done what she saw. What in God's name had happened here?

She wanted to run back outside and get Enrico and the others. Something tragic had happened here, and she was not qualified to handle it on her own. She turned around and took a step toward the baggage car, and then she heard the noise again.

But closer this time. In the same room with her.

She turned around slowly, and the impossible was happening right before her eyes. One of the brutalized men was moving. The sound was coming from his gory throat as he clumsily tried to get to his feet. One eye was torn from the socket, but the other was pointed right at her. Slowly, incredibly, horribly, the man shambled to his feet and opened his mouth, letting blood drip down the front of his ruined brown suit.

"No," Rebecca whispered, frozen in place. The man was dead, he had to be dead. There was no way he could be moving. And yet he did, taking one unsteady step forward. And another, moving toward her.

Rebecca's arms swung up and the gun pointed at the man's shredded face. "Get back," she said, her voice as unsteady as the moving corpse's footsteps. "Don't come any closer, get back."

But the man didn't listen. If anything, the sound of her voice made him walk faster. He held out his arms and reached for her, moaning softly, head tilted to the side.

"Get back!" she screamed, and pulled the trigger.

In such a cramped space, the sound of the gunshot stung her ears. She was so scared that the recoil kicked her arms up. The bullet hit the man right in the center of his chest, directly at his sternum. It knocked him backward, onto his heels, but instead of falling down he staggered forward, coming right at her. There was blood in his eye.

Rebecca fired three more times, hitting him in the chest, neck, and then right in the face. The third impact knocked his head back, and more blood splattered up and stained the ceiling as the bullet entered through the empty eye socket and tore through the back of his soft skull. He groaned and tumbled backward, crashing onto one of the tables, knocking its contents to the floor.

Rebecca's breath came panicked and ragged. She suddenly heard sounds behind her and spun around to see a woman stumbling down the circular staircase from the upper level. She wore a fancy black dress that was ripped away at one shoulder, exposing a gaping, bloody wound and bone underneath. Her long blonde hair was streaked with blood, and half of her face was a gory mess. Her eyes were all white, aiming nowhere. She came right at Rebecca immediately, drawn by the loud noises.

"Get away from me!" she screamed, tears of fright pouring down her face, blurring her vision. The woman ignored her and kept coming. Rebecca fired three times, striking the woman in the chest three times in a row. Small spurts of blood and gore erupted from the bullet holes, but the woman did not even seem to notice. Rebecca had to walk backward to avoid her, and fired once more, hitting the woman in the chin. The bullet shattered her jaw and ricocheted into her head. Her mouth sagged open, a river of blood pouring down the front of her dress, and she fell forward like a toppled mannequin. Two more people came down the stairs after her, their bodies a gory ruin.

Rebecca turned and bolted for the door. The other man in the room was twitching, trying to get his feet under him as she ran past him and through the door into the next car.

There were three of them in that car as well. A man wearing a train engineer's uniform, navy blue with shining brass buttons. A woman in a casual blue sweater and blue jeans. A man in a black leather jacket. Both like the others, brutally mutilated and covered in blood.

The engineer walked toward her, arms outstretched. It was too narrow an area to try to dodge, so Rebecca did not even slow down, she just stuck her arms out and ran right into him, knocking him off his feet. He crashed backwards into the woman and the two of them tumbled to the floor like two drunks unable to stay on their feet. Some of the engineer's blood got on her hands and she stared at in disgust, feeling like she was going to vomit. The third victim staggered toward her and she fired at him in a panic, striking him in the arm, the chest, and finally in the face. He hit the floor just as the engineer was trying to get back on his feet.

Rebecca jumped past them and ran through the next door, slamming it closed after her. She prayed the people – the things – in the other room could not open doors. If they could, then she was trapped.

She found herself in a regular passenger car, lined with two rows of cushioned seats. In several of the seats were dead bodies, butchered like the others, slumped over in their seats. None of them moved, to her infinite relief. Desperately trying to catch her breath, she stared through the small window in the door as the engineer and the woman gradually got to their feet.

Her mind raced and her hands shook. Those people were dead, there was no doubt about it. But they were up and moving, their dead eyes staring thoughtlessly at her, their bloody hands reaching out, fingers clenching and unclenching as they tried to grab her through the door. They crowded into the narrow doorway and pushed into the door, bumping into it like robots, smearing the window with their blood as they pressed their faces into it, trying in vain to reach her through the barrier.

They were zombies.

With so many behind her, she could only move forward through the train. Unlike old-fashioned trains, she could not get in-between cars and get off that way. Each car was connected by an enclosed walkway to the ones in front of and behind it. She hurried to one of the windows and looked for an emergency exit. She'd traveled by train before, and they usually had an emergency strip that would dislodge the window. This train, however, did not seem to have them. In frustration, she struck her pistol against the window pane, but it did not break, it did not even budge. The windows were probably shatterproof, a safety feature to keep someone from accidentally breaking them or falling through the window.

She picked up a laptop computer from one of the seats and hefted it over her head before slamming it down on the window. All it did was bounce off. She smashed the laptop against the window twice more before giving up. The panes were just too solid to be broken that way.

The two zombies in the other room were still stumbling around the doorway , trying to get through. Rebecca could not go back, and she had no desire to keep moving forward, so she had no choice but to get off the train now. She raised her gun and fired at the window. The bullet broke through it, leaving white cracks, but the window didn't shatter.

At that moment, one of the bodies in the car with her began to move. A man, dressed in a white button-down shirt and gray slacks, now both stained red. He got up from his chair and began to shamble towards her, mouth open and moaning hungrily.

"Stop! Please!" Rebecca screamed, terror building up inside her. "Get away from me!" She raised her gun and pulled the trigger twice in quick succession, striking the man in the throat and then in the forehead.

The noise just attracted more of them. Two more zombies emerged from behind the train seats and stepped toward her. One of them was just a teenage kid, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Tears streamed down Rebecca's face as she shot him in the head.

The other zombie was an elderly man wearing a green sweater. His white hair was spotted with blood, and one of his eyes was missing, leaving a hideous hole in his face. Rebecca aimed her gun at him and pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked empty.

Rebecca shrieked in disbelief and stepped backwards as the zombie advanced on her. She slid out the empty clip and fumbled in her supply belt for another. She frantically pulled it out, trying to keep her eyes on the zombie, and it slipped out of her fingers. The zombie was ten feet away. She screamed in fear, stumbling backward, and tripped over the laptop she'd dropped, falling onto her back side. The clip was a mile away and the zombie was right on top of her. She scooted backward and found her back pressed against the door. She began to scream at the top of her lungs, paralyzed in fear, swinging her arms in front of her as if they could hold the zombie at bay. It stood right over her, blood from its mouth dripping onto her shoe, and reached for her. She screamed once more.

And a deafening gunshot rang out. Half of the zombie's head disappeared in a blur of red, and it fell to the floor right in front of her. But she just kept screaming.

Chapter 22

"We should have found the train by now," Richard said, shaking his head.

"Quiet," Enrico ordered, turning around suddenly. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Enrico paused, tilting his head to listen to the silence surrounding them. "It sounded like a gun shot."

Richard's eyebrows went up questioningly. "Do you think we should ...?"

"Let's go," Enrico said, taking off back in the direction they came from. Richard followed right after him.

Suddenly, their walkie-talkies began shouting at them in Ken's voice. "Enrico! Anybody! You've got to get here right away!"

Enrico snatched his walkie-talkie off his belt. "Ken! What's going on?"

"This mansion! Something crazy is going on here, man! Me and Forest found this guy and he attacked us! We had to shoot him but he just kept coming!"

"Ken, what are you saying? Are you talking about Coen?"

"No, man! He wasn't alive! We shot him ten times and he didn't go down!" Ken screeched. "We're in trouble here! You've got to get over here right away! The people here, they're ... they're like monsters or something!"

Enrico looked up at Richard. In the light from his flashlight, Richard's face was a mass of bright shadows, but the look in his eye was unmistakable. He was scared.

"I'm telling you they ain't human!" Ken cried out. "We shot the guy ten times and it didn't even slow him down! And there's these dogs, only they ain't dogs, and all their skin was melted off, and –" His voice cut out; he had let go of the talk button.

Enrico shook his head, a bewildered expression on his face. "What's he talking about? I've never heard him talk like that before."

"I don't know," Richard said uncertainly. "It makes no sense."

"Dogs with their skin melted off? Is he crazy or something?"

"We should check it out, Rico. If Ken's freaked out like that, we should go after him."

Enrico spoke into the walkie-talkie. "Ken, we're coming right now, okay? It's going to take us some time to get there."

"Just hurry, man," Ken begged. "They're everywhere in here, and I can't find my way out. I don't even know where Forest went. You've got get here fast. I can't hold them off."

"We're coming right now. Just hold on, okay?"

Another voice came from the walkie-talkie. "This is Ed. I heard the shots and I'm coming that way now. Hold on, Ken. I'll be there in just a minute."

"Be careful, man," Ken said, his voice choking up. "Look out for the dogs. And if you shoot someone, keep your eye on him to make sure he doesn't get back up."

"We'll all be there soon, Ken. Just keep safe," Enrico said.

"What about Rebecca?" Richard asked.

"I know," Enrico said. "Rebecca, meet me and Rich at the helicopter and we'll go to the mansion from there, okay? Do you copy?"

There was nothing from the walkie-talkie. Enrico tried again and got the same thing. He stuck the walkie-talkie on his belt and swore loudly. "Rich," he ordered, "Go find her and meet me back at the chopper. We have to find out what the hell is going on."

"Right," Richard said, heading off down the tracks. Enrico headed into the woods and back in the direction of the downed helicopter.

Richard pulled his gun from its holster as he ran. As a member of the S.T.A.R.S. unit for ten years, he had carefully developed police instincts. Right now, those instincts screamed at him that he was headed for danger. With Ken going crazy and Rebecca not responding, they were in serious trouble. And they still had not located the train.

When he realized there was someone on the tracks, he stopped so fast he almost fell over. Less than thirty feet away was a man standing right along the tracks, dressed in a long white shirt, with long black hair covering his face. He stood motionless, his arms hanging limply at his sides. There was nobody else in the woods. It was William Coen, it had to be.

"Freeze," Richard said, pointing his gun at him. "This is the police. Move and you're a dead man."

The man lifted his head, but Richard could not make out his face in the darkness. He could hear something moving around him, hissing and slithering like a bed of snakes. He glanced around him nervously but saw nothing.

The man held out his arm. Richard opened his mouth to say something, but it never came out. In a flash, he was under attack from all sides. The gun flew out of his grasp and he fell to the ground, flailing wildly as a million sparks of pain erupted all across his body. He did not have time to scream.

Chapter 23

Rebecca finally stopped screaming. Eyes wide and hands shaking, she stared up in front of her, at the man standing at the other end of the passenger car. He was tall and muscular with greasy brown hair and a harsh, narrow face with sharp brown eyes. He wore black boots, blue jeans, and a dark blue muscle shirt. His right arm was decorated with swirling black tattoo from his bicep to his wrist. In his hands was a Desert Eagle pistol, and it was aimed at her.

He studied her over the gun sights. "Did it touch you? Did it bite you?" he asked guardedly, his voice low and raspy.

"No... no," she stammered.

"Who are you?"

Rebecca lowered her trembling hands and glanced at the dead zombie at her feet. The bullet had taken off half of its head, and a mass of bloody gray clumps oozed from the opened skull. If the man chose to shoot her as well, the bullet would do the same to her.

"Rebecca," she said, feebly wiping her tear-streaked face.

"Rebecca who?"

"Chambers. I'm Rebecca Chambers. I'm with the Raccoon City police," she said, knowing that no lie she could have told would be as convincing. "The train sent out an emergency signal. We came to investigate."

"We? Are there other cops on this train?"

"No, just me. Our helicopter went down in the woods. We got turned around." Rebecca got her legs under her and stood up slowly, keeping her hands in view. "I don't know where my teammates are. My walkie-talkie broke and I can't call them."

"How unfortunate." The man did not lower his gun, and Rebecca began to wonder if she'd been any safer with the zombie. Her own gun was lying on the floor just a few feet away, but she did not dare try to reach for it.

"Aren't you going to tell me who you are?" she asked.

"My name's Tom," the man said. "I had a private room. somebody hit the emergency brake and I heard all this screaming. I came out to check it out and this is what I found."

Rebecca could still hear the zombies banging incessantly on the door right behind her. She stepped away from the door, walking around the body on the ground, and waited. "You don't have to point your gun at me anymore," she said. "I'm not... like them."

The man debated it for a moment, and then relented, lowering the pistol to his side. Rebecca bent over and picked her own gun and the clip off the floor. She casually slid the clip in and loaded a shell into the chamber. And then she quickly swung the gun up to aim it at the man, who started in surprise but did not raise his own.

"Don't move," Rebecca said, her voice tense but uneven. "Drop your gun on the floor."

"Why do you want me to do that?" he asked calmly, staring at her face as if studying her, ignoring the gun in her hand.

"I know who you are. Your name is William Coen. We found that truck by the side of the road. You killed the men inside."

"I didn't kill anyone. The MPs in the truck got killed by whatever killed all the people on this train. And my friends call me Billy."

"I'm not your friend." She looked at what he was wearing and frowned. "What did you do, steal someone else's clothes?"

"Well, I couldn't walk around in my prison uniform, now could I?"

"It doesn't matter. Now drop your gun."

Billy snorted a harsh laugh. "What do you think you're going to do, officer? Arrest me? Handcuff me and take me out of here with all these zombies in your way?"

Rebecca said nothing in response to that, because there was nothing she could say. He was right, and she regretted drawing her gun in the first place. She should have waited until they were out of the train before trying to apprehend him. Now she was stuck.

"I am going to arrest you," she insisted.

"And what if I don't want to be arrested? Are you going to shoot me?" he asked lightly, taking a look at the gun in her hands.

"Yes, I'll shoot you if I have to."

"I have a gun too, you know. And mine's bigger than yours."

She glanced down at the Desert Eagle. He wiggled it in his hand, just to remind her that she was seriously outgunned. A Desert Eagle was a hand cannon, capable of downing a charging rhino. If William Coen decided to shoot her with it, the bullet impact would knock her off her feet. It blew a zombie's head in half, and it was in the hand of a convicted murderer.

Suddenly, she heard a splintering crash directly behind her, and she spun around in a panic. The zombies behind the door finally broke through, snapping the sliding door off of its track. The top half bent forward and the zombies on the other side banged on it relentlessly. Each impact bent it down further, until it was barely hanging on.

Rebecca turned back around and saw that Coen had his gun pointed at her. She froze in place, flinching with each groaning smash on the doors behind her, her pistol pointed at Coen in self-defense now. The barrel of the gun trembled as her hands shook.

"It's me or them," he said calmly. "Make up your mind."

"I can't," she whispered to herself, "I can't do this."

The stand-off lasted another few seconds, and then the door gave way with the sound of cracking plastic. The door fell to the floor and the zombies poured through, more of them than before, at least five of them herded into the narrow doorway.

"Get down!" Coen shouted, and Rebecca listened. She let her legs give way and fell to the floor, twisting so she landed on her side.

Coen pulled the trigger and the deafening report stung her ears again. The zombie in front, the one wearing a train engineer's uniform, took the round directly in the chest and was kicked backward into the others. He fired again, and this time the bullet hit the zombie in the face, his head kicking back, the shot knocking him in a circle. Rebecca slid across the floor toward Coen, holding her gun up with one arm.

The other zombies surged forward and knocked the engineer to the ground, trampling right over him as they rushed into the car. Coen reached down and grabbed Rebecca's arm to pull her to her feet. The two of them backed rapidly out of the train car as the zombies came forward. Rebecca fired twice and managed to hit one of them in the head.

"Conserve your ammo," Coen ordered as they exited out the rear door and slid it closed.

The next car was composed of private compartments with a narrow hallway along the right side. Coen took her a few steps down the hallway, out of sight of the doorway, where the zombies were already gathering to bash the door down. As soon as they were out of sight, the zombies calmed down and stopped hitting it so much. After a few nervous breaths, they stopped hitting the door at all.

Coen pressed her against the wall of one of the compartments and jammed the barrel of the Desert Eagle into her midsection. He put his face close to hers but she turned her head away, closing her eyes.

"If they can't see or hear us, they forget about us," he said softly. "There aren't any of them in this car. I was hiding here when I heard you screaming."

"So what are you going to do with me?" Rebecca asked, keeping her face away from his. She could barely move with his body pressing hers into the wall, but her hand with the gun was free. She subtly pointed it upward at Coen, not reassured by the knowledge that if they shot each other, she would get it much worse than him.

"Nothing," he said. "The way I figure, we can help each other get out of here and then we can just go our separate ways. After we get out, you can go and tell your bosses whatever you want. I plan to run away and never ever come back."

"I can't let you go," she said. "You're a murderer and I have to arrest you."

"I'm innocent," he whispered right in her ear. "I never murdered anybody."

"You were convicted in a court of law."

"No, I wasn't. I was convicted at a military tribunal. Not the same thing."

Rebecca inched her gun forward until it was touching Coen right under his rib cage. He smiled and slid the Eagle slowly up the front of her kevlar vest, ending its journey right under her chin. "We don't have to be enemies," he said sincerely. "I just want to get out of this train alive. You owe me your life, remember?"

"You didn't save me in there just to blow my brains out right here," Rebecca said, finally turning her head to look him in the eyes.

"And you don't have the guts to shoot me in cold blood," he replied smoothly. "So let's stop playing games, okay?"

"You drop yours first," Rebecca said.

Coen leaned forward and tilted his head down as if breathing in her scent. "I don't think so. I saved your life, so you drop yours first."

"You're a murderer. I don't trust you."

"And you're a cop. I can't trust you."

Rebecca glared up at him defiantly. "I guess we can't trust each other then."

"We have to trust somebody," Coen said, not backing away. He was pressed so close to her, she could feel his heart beating. "There's nobody else left alive."

"I can take care of myself," Rebecca said, emphasizing the last word by nudging her gun a little deeper into Coen's midsection.

"Well, in that case, I'll just dump you off with the zombies out there and let you handle things by yourself. How does that plan sound?"

"I'd rather be stuck with them than stuck with you."

Coen chuckled and backed away an inch. "Okay, then. If I drop my gun, are you going to try to arrest me?"

"And if I drop mine, are you going to ..." Rebecca glanced down at his body, held so close to hers, and then stared disgustedly in his eyes, "I don't even want to think about what you might try to do."

"Why don't we just promise to work together until we can escape this death trap?" Coen suggested. "I mean, we can't spend forever pointing guns at each other."

"You drop yours," Rebecca said, "and I won't arrest you until we get off the train."

She knew that they were stuck with each other whether they liked it or not, but she wasn't going to just let Coen maintain the upper hand. She couldn't even try to arrest him in this situation and they both knew it. Leading him through the train in handcuffs was not an option. If she tried it, it would probably get both of them killed. And he was right about needing his help to get out of there. And he did save her life, despite what else he may have done, and she could not afford to count that out.

He could have left her to die, and maybe that fact alone made her want to trust him. She knew next to nothing about him except for his name and the fact he'd been court-martialed and convicted of murder. She didn't know enough about the crime he had supposedly committed to judge him yet. Maybe he'd been wrongly convicted; it was possible. She didn't trust him yet, but something about his manner or his speech made her believe she was not in danger from him.

Even when his gun was under her chin, he spoke light-heartedly and tried to defuse the stand-off. He pointed it partially in self-defense, just as she had. He didn't seem to want to hurt her. If he wanted to, he probably could have overpowered her by now and done what he wanted.

And she needed his help. He had been in the military and would know how to handle himself against whatever it was they were fighting. Maybe he knew a way out of the train. He knew something, that was certain.

But she could not let him get away. After they got out of the train, she was going to arrest him and turn him in, one way or the other.

Coen slid his gun back down the front of her vest and let it hang at his side. Rebecca eased her gun away from his ribcage and held it away from him. Slowly, Coen backed away until his back was against the opposite wall of the narrow hallway. There was a space of about three feet between them. He casually crossed his arms and sighed. Rebecca stood up straight and held the gun at her side, clicking the safety on.

"Okay," Coen said. "Now we can talk."

Chapter 24

Jill came into the command center and looked around the room, her hands on her hips. Chris was at his desk, typing at his computer. Barry was at his desk as well, cleaning and reassembling his gun, and he looked up at her when she entered. Enrico and Richard were out on a mission, and Wesker, as always, was nowhere to be found.

"What's the news from Bravo?" she asked. "They've been gone for a long time and they haven't given us their status."

"They haven't been gone that long," Barry said. "Maybe they're not there yet."

"Where were they going? I don't even know."

Barry shrugged with a frown and slid the oiled cylinder into the revolver, spinning it as he set it in. He began rubbing the gun with a rag. "They got out of here quick. I didn't hear where they went either." Jill could tell by the tone of his voice that it bothered him too, he was just less likely to state his concerns out loud. "Chris was here when the call came in. Maybe he knows."

"Didn't hear a thing," Chris said, continuing to look at his screen. "The speaker wasn't on when Rico took the call."

"Didn't he tell you?"

"No, he ran out of here in a hurry as soon as he hung up."

"So where are they?" Jill asked, visibly frustrated. "Why haven't they called back?"

"I have no idea," Chris said. "I thought Wesker was handling it."

"And where is Wesker?"

The door opened abruptly behind her and Wesker came in. "I'm right here," he said in a low, tired voice. His white shirt was wrinkled unprofessionally and his fatigue was evident in the way he moved. "What's the matter?"

"Where's Bravo team?" Jill asked, lowering her voice to sound less annoyed. Wesker was her boss, after all, and she didn't want to sound like she was making some kind of forceful demand. And somehow, his appearance restrained her anger; the way Wesker looked, a strong breeze could have knocked him over.

He sat heavily in his chair and let his arms flop to his sides. "They're on an assignment right now," he said wearily.

"They haven't called in."

"Yes, they have. It just didn't come in over the common band."

"What are you talking about?"

Wesker sighed and rubbed his eyes under the dark sunglasses he always wore. He rolled his chair closer to the desk and set his arms on it. "I don't want to keep this a secret, but it can't leave this room, okay? I shouldn't even be telling you about it, Jill, since you aren't a senior member. But you're here, and I'm too lazy to make pointless distinctions."

Barry set his gun on the desk and tossed the greasy rag into the garbage can. "What are you talking about, Wesker?"

"Bravo team is on an undercover mission," he said, looking at his desk. "We received a call from somewhere out in the mountains. I can't tell you where, except that it's a government location. They had an emergency situation there, so Bravo team went."

"A government location?" Jill said. "You mean like a military installation or something?"

"I mean a secret government location hidden in the Arklay Mountains. Emphasis on the word 'secret.'"

"You can't be serious."

Wesker looked up at Jill bitterly. "When am I not serious? Do you think this is something I would joke about?"

"Why would the government call a local police force for something like that?" Chris asked, turning around in his chair to face Wesker. "They have their own troops to handle emergencies."

"Don't ask me to explain it," Wesker said, shaking his head. "I don't understand it any more than you do. Any other time I would have thought it was a prank call or something. But Chief Irons okayed the mission."

"Irons okayed it?" Chris asked. "Since when does he authorize anything we do?"

"Never, since I always take responsibility for it," Wesker said. "But this time I needed verification that this was legit. And even now I don't know if we should have sent them on the mission. I didn't know what else I could do."

"But they called in?" Jill asked, more concerned about the team than the mission. "They let you know everything was okay?"

"Yes," Wesker said. "They called in about half an hour ago to say that they arrived and were being briefed on what they had been called for. They couldn't give me any details, though."

"That's ridiculous," Barry stated, his deep voice silencing the others for a moment. Even though Wesker was the actual leader of Alpha team, Barry was the most authoritative member when he wanted to be, and his voice was a demonstration of that authority. When he spoke in that tone of voice, everyone knew that there was no playing around. "The government would never call in a citizen police force to handle a secret mission. We aren't trained for that kind of work, and they know it."

"You think I don't know that?" Wesker asked, his voice all nerves. "You think I like what's going on? Why do you think I checked it out with Irons before I sent them out?" In the entire time Jill had been a member of S.T.A.R.S., she had never heard Wesker sound nervous or frightened, and now he sounded both. He was always the very definition of cool and composed, and now he looked at the end of his wits. If Wesker was having trouble dealing with it, then Jill realized just how serious it must be.

Chris must have noticed it too, because he tried to defuse the situation. "It's okay, man," he said supportively. "It's just kind of a shock, that's all. If Irons gave it the go-ahead, then we can ask him what it's all about."

"And that's exactly what I'm going to do," Barry said, standing up. He stuck his pistol into the sleeve on the front of his red vest and stalked out of the room.

"I don't like it at all," Wesker said as soon as Barry left. "I don't like it any more than Barry does, but there's nothing we can do about it now. We can't call them back."

"Can you tell us anything else?" Jill asked, trying to ask gently, given how shaken Wesker appeared to be. "Where they went? What they're supposed to do there?"

Wesker shrugged and spread his hands helplessly. "I can't tell you where they went and I don't know what they're doing. It doesn't make any sense," he said. He sat at the desk for a moment and suddenly dug into his pockets for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He fumbled with them and lit a cigarette with clumsy, nervous speed, as if he hadn't smoked one in days and desperately needed the nicotine. He inhaled deeply, and immediately, his features relaxed.

"You know you can't smoke those in here," Chris said lightly, making it sound like a joke.

"Let them fire me," Wesker grumbled, and it did not sound like a joke at all.

An extended, uncomfortable pause followed. Jill stood in the center of the room indecisively, not knowing whether to stay there and talk with Wesker and Chris, or to go after Barry and confront Chief Irons. Chris had abandoned whatever he was doing on the computer and seemed to be just staring into space. Wesker fixed his gaze on his desktop and smoked his cigarette relentlessly. He let the ashes fall to the floor.

Finally, Jill couldn't stand it anymore. "I'm going to see if Barry found out anything," she said, and hurried out of the room.

Chris got up a moment later and made for the door, before hesitating and turning back to Wesker's desk. "Hey Wesker, if you want I can –"

Wesker waved him off. "I'll be fine. Go after them, but Irons probably won't tell you anything."

Chris left without another word. When the door clicked closed behind him, Wesker leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply. His cigarette was down to the filter, so he took it out of his mouth and crushed it right into the S.T.A.R.S. logo that decorated the top of his desk.

He congratulated himself on his acting ability. If anything, his fatigue from lack of sleep and fear of being caught in a lie only enhanced his performance, since he really was stressed out and scared, just not for the reasons he stated. And they bought it too, especially Jill and Chris. Barry was too angry to be critical of the details, but he would come around as well. Especially after Irons told them nothing, which is exactly what he would tell them. Wesker had already purchased his compliance. And so at the moment, everything was going according to plan.

In a strange way, the mystery man had done him a favor. His unprovoked attack on the Ecliptic Express passenger train gave Wesker the perfect opportunity to send in the emergency call to Bravo team. Otherwise, he would have needed to come up with some other false emergency to bring them out to the mansion. When he made the phone call, he spoke in a deeper tone of voice and Enrico didn't even realize it was him.

Bravo team could not call back to home base at all, because their radio didn't work. Wesker had done performed some careful maintenance to it earlier in the day, along with a simple act of sabotage on the helicopter. Once the chopper landed, it would not be able to take off again, stranding Bravo team. They would be cut off from the outside, and if Wesker's opinions about their ability to handle a truly dangerous situation were valid, none of them would make it out of there alive.

They would hold the infection back, at least for a few hours. They would fight the zombies that by now had surely taken over the unfortunate train, and hopefully some of them would make their way to the mansion. Wesker couldn't afford to worry about how far they'd get, because he was too busy planning the Alpha team's eventual departure to the mansion as well, where things would get complicated, because he had to go with them to complete the illusion of innocence. He knew what this meant. For a little while, he would be just as exposed as them, and in just as much danger.

But he knew the mansion and the labs like the back of his hand, and his teammates didn't even know the place existed. He was confident that he could infiltrate the zombie-infested compound and make his way back to his private labs without getting killed or infected. Besides, Birkin was at the lab keeping an eye on things. As for the others, they would just have to fend for themselves.

They were his diversion. They would keep the zombies in check, at least in theory, and serve as bait to keep them from getting away from the mansion compound. They might even kill a few of the zombies along the way. They would also attract the attention of the nameless man from the video and direct his attention away from Wesker.

While the S.T.A.R.S. members blundered their way around the mansion, keeping the zombies and the mystery man busy, Wesker could finish up his work at the lab and leave without a trace. It might be a bit more difficult with Birkin nosing around, but all of the most sensitive research was beyond his reach. Wesker had to perform three stunts at once; lead Alpha team to their deaths, pull a fast one on Birkin, and get out of there unscathed in the bloody aftermath. Birkin wasn't really a necessary part of the plan, and so Wesker really didn't care what happened to him. If he made it out alive or if he got caught in the crossfire, either way was fine with Wesker.

But if any of the S.T.A.R.S. members somehow discovered his secret or made it down into the lab to confront him? Well, in that case, he had a plan for that too. He always left himself an opening. In the end, they were all going to die. One way or the other.
Chapter 25

"How did you get here?" Rebecca asked. As a sign of trust, she slid her pistol into the holster at her hip, although she left the clasp open so she could draw quickly. Billy Coen, in return, slid the Desert Eagle into his back pocket and crossed his arms.

"The same way you did," he said. "I crawled out of the truck and found the train tracks. I intended to follow them to the nearest city, but I found this train instead. I should have just kept running."

"What happened with the truck?"

Billy licked his lips and did not meet Rebecca's gaze. "I was in the back of the truck. They were taking me to prison. You know that much. I heard one of the guards say something about a man in the road, and the next thing I know they started screaming. The truck went off the road and rolled a couple times. I banged around the back of the truck like a sock in a dryer. When the dust settled, I kicked the door open and crawled out. Both the guards were already dead."

"Did you see what killed them?"

"No, and I consider myself lucky because of it. I might have joined them."

Rebecca shook her head. "I don't understand it. Did they see one of the zombies in the road and just lose control of the truck?"

"When I say they started screaming, I mean they were screaming as if they were being eaten alive," Billy said softly. "Something got in the truck with them and killed them before we even crashed. I couldn't see anything because it was too dark."

"But what could have happened? What could have gotten into the truck as they were driving?"

"Got me," Billy said, clearing his throat, as if anxious to end the discussion. "But it wasn't one of these zombies, I can tell you that."

At the mention of the zombies, Rebecca turned her head to glance back toward the car they had escaped from a few minutes before. She could hear them stumbling around and moaning gently, and it nauseated her. She closed her eyes and tried to force the images from her mind, the hideous images of savagely-mutilated corpses reaching for her with bloody hands. The very thought of undead hands reaching for her made her shiver uncontrollably.

Her eyes popped open when she felt Billy's hand on her arm. Almost instinctively, she reached for her gun, but Billy raised his hands in defense.

"Relax," he said, starting to smile, "I was just going to tell you not to worry about them. They can't get us in here."

Rebecca took a tense breath and lowered her arm. For just a moment, Billy had almost seemed sincere, like he was actually worried about her. She shook off the feeling and pushed him away.

"We can't stay here forever, you know," she said impatiently.

"I guess not," Billy admitted. He pointed at the car they had come from. "But there's zombies that way." He then pointed at the next car down. "And there's zombies that way as well."

"And we both have guns."

"With limited ammo. I have less than one clip left. How many clips do you have?"

"This one, and one more."

"Not bad, but I don't think we have enough bullets to stop all of them."

"What do you suggest, then?" Rebecca asked, getting frustrated.

Billy leaned past her to open the door to the private compartment next to them. The light was on inside to reveal a somewhat cramped room with seats on either side and one large window looking out into the dark wilderness beyond the train tracks. Some of the metal paneling alongside the edge of the window had been peeled back.

"A passenger train like this should really have emergency-release windows," Billy said. "I thought they were required by law, but this train doesn't have them."

"There must be emergency doors in the other cars," Rebecca said. "I was too busy running for my life to look too closely."

"I couldn't break the window, so I tried breaking off the panel, but that didn't work either. As a last resort, I was going to shoot it open, but I didn't want to waste bullets."

"I tried that too," Rebecca said. "It's not bulletproof, but it won't shatter. It's some kind of safety glass."

"Shoot it more than once, then," Billy said, motioning for her to go ahead and try. "Four shots in a square should weaken it enough to break."

"And you want me to use my bullets, is that it?"

"You have more than I do."

Rebecca sighed. Unless they wanted to go out and face the zombies again, she really didn't have much choice. "Okay," she said. "Let's do this. I'll shoot from the hallway. If I fired the gun in here, it would probably deafen me."

She retreated into the hallway with Billy and stuck her arms into the room. They closed the door as much as possible and she tilted her head away as she pulled the trigger. She checked her aim and fired three more times. The gunshots sounded frighteningly loud, and the zombies in the other car began to moan and bang against the door at the sound.

The window had four clean bullet holes in it, each one surrounded by white cracks in the safety glass. Billy reared back and kicked at the window. They heard a snapping noise, but the window didn't break. He kicked again and one section finally broke away.

Rebecca sat on one of the seats and stuck her arm through the gap. She felt rain falling on her outstretched arm.

"Careful," Billy said. "There might be more of them out there. Shine your flashlight out there before we go."

Rebecca hadn't even thought of that. Suddenly, the idea filled her with dread. If zombies were outside the train, they could go anywhere. They might follow the train tracks and wander until they hit the city, and then what would happen? How could anyone defend themselves if zombies suddenly invaded Raccoon City?

Belatedly, she realized that her fellow officers were still out there in the wilderness. What if the zombies found them? Out in the middle of the woods, they would have no doors to hide behind or rooms to escape to. And in the thickening darkness, how could anyone even see the zombies coming? Rebecca realized that she had to get off the train, not only to save herself, but to warn the others!

For all she knew, they had already encountered the zombies. They might be calling her on the radio right now to warn her! If only she hadn't broken her walkie-talkie!

She pulled her arm back inside. "Let's break this thing open," she said hurriedly, moving out of the way.

Billy slammed his booted foot into the window twice more, finally breaking away enough of the glass for them to climb through. Rebecca got in front of him and placed her hand on the edge of the broken glass, careful not to cut her hand.

"Me first," she said. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."

Billy stepped back with mock chivalry and said, "After you, madam."

Suddenly, the room moved and she lost her balance, tumbling into Billy. The two of them fell onto the floor together and quickly pushed away from each other. Rebecca sat up on the floor as Billy got to his feet. They felt the motion of the train, and when Rebecca looked up, she saw trees moving past the window.

"The train started back up," Rebecca said unnecessarily.

Billy went to the window and braced himself, ready to jump out. "Seems that way. Come on, we have to go now."

Rebecca stood up and wiped her hair from her face. "Who could have started the train? I thought everyone else on the train was dead."

"Who cares?" Billy said. "If we're going to get out, we have to do it now, before –"

The room shook again and he lost his balance, nearly falling down on top of her. He swore loudly and grabbed the edge of the window, staring out as the trees zipped past with increasing speed. Rain came through the window, streaking across the wall.

Rebecca got up and looked out into the darkness. "What are we going to do? We can't jump out now."

"Sure, we can," Billy said, but he didn't sound confident. By now, the train was moving at a steady clip, maybe thirty or even forty miles an hour.

They felt the pull of inertia and Rebecca let it push her back into a seat. "We're still picking up speed," she said. "This is bad."

Chapter 26

Wesker pressed a button on his keyfob and his car headlights flashed twice. He opened the driver's side door and looked back toward the police station, the exterior illuminated by streetlights. At night, the place looked like an oversize mausoleum.

I'm never going to see this place again, he thought. He wasn't at all sad about that fact, as he had too much else to be concerned with, but he had spent ten years working there and needed a moment to resign himself that his career as a police officer was over. He found it funny that he didn't care at all about law or justice, and had worked there solely to conceal his own crimes, and yet he had still been a pretty good cop in those ten years. If Raccoon City survived the oncoming undead apocalypse, and Wesker made it through without getting exposed as the mad scientist he was, he could almost see them putting up a plaque in his honor, commemorating his years of loyal service. It almost made him laugh just thinking about it.

"Wesker! Wait!"

He looked up toward the side entrance to the police station and saw Jill Valentine coming toward him. He wasn't in the mood to talk to any of his team members right now, but at least it wasn't Chris or Barry. Both of them were too smart for their own good. Jill, on the other hand, despite being a perfectly competent police officer and an overall nice person, was a bit naive and short-sighted. Lying to her was easier than lying to the others because she wasn't as good at spotting a lie.

"What is it, Jill?" he asked, tossing his jacket into the passenger seat.

She caught up to him and panted a little, putting her hands on her hips. "Are you going home?"

"Yes, I haven't been sleeping well. I think I'll need to be well rested come tomorrow."

Jill was on the verge of saying something, and then seemed to lose her train of thought. "Why? What's happening tomorrow?" she asked, taking the bait.

Sometimes, getting the edge in an argument was simply a matter of saying the right things to provoke the right questions. Jill came out to the parking lot to ask him something, probably a specific question about Bravo team that he didn't have a convenient lie for. All he had to do was insert comments at the right time to throw her off course. She had probably already forgotten what she had come out to ask him. And when she went back inside, she would feel as if he had answered it.

"You know as well as I do that something's wrong with this mission Bravo's supposed to be on," Wesker said, leading her to agree to the obvious to turn the conversation in his favor. "I can't do anything about it just now, but after twenty-four hours without radio contact, I can officially declare an emergency regardless of the circumstances."

"You don't expect radio contact for that long?"

Wesker realized he had overstepped his bounds. He had to make up something. "When they called in, Enrico said that they were being instructed to maintain radio silence, even over private bands. I don't know if it has to do with the nature of the location or their mission, but I got the feeling that they wouldn't be allowed to call us back."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a secret government installation, and they'll probably have to sign non-disclosure agreements or something. I don't know. This is supposed to be an undercover mission, and I think that they won't be allowed to contact us. It's just a hunch I have."

That seemed to satisfy her, even though Wesker had made it up on the spot. "So what happens after twenty-four hours?"

"If we don't hear from them, I can say that the mission is in danger and have Irons authorize a rescue mission to go after them."

"Would Irons do it?"

"He hates this as much as I do. He had no choice but to send Bravo, but if I give him an opportunity, he'll send us right after them."

"He didn't look happy when we talked to him," Jill said. "He said he couldn't give us any details about what Bravo was doing."

"I know. He said the same thing to me. But if we don't hear from Bravo by tomorrow night, we can do something about it. I don't care if it's a secret installation or not, we're going to back Bravo team up."

Jill smiled and Wesker felt a weird mixture of pride and self-disgust. He lied to her with a straight face and won her over completely, and even after years of practice, it still made him feel like a jerk sometimes. He saw that Jill respected him more in that moment than she ever had before, and it made him feel worse and better at the same time.

"I'm glad to hear that we're going after them," Jill said. "Do you mind if I tell the others?"

"Go ahead. The sooner they know, the sooner they can get ready. I don't even know what we'll be going up against, so we have to be prepared."

Jill nodded and set her hand on Wesker's shoulder. "Go get some sleep then. We'll see you tomorrow, and we'll be ready."

Wesker smiled and got into his car. "Good night, Jill," he said as he closed the door.

"Good night, Wesker," Jill said, stepping away from the car and retreating back into the station.

Wesker turned the key and the car came to life. He watched Jill walk away and sighed to himself, putting the car in reverse. Jill would tell the others, and by the time they left tomorrow evening, the rest of the team would be anxiously awaiting their departure. They would be looking forward to their chance to rescue Bravo team from whatever they faced. They would willingly hurry to their ultimate demise at the Arklay labs. It was so pathetic it almost broke his heart.

Because they had no chance of succeeding. All of Bravo team would certainly be dead by tomorrow night, if they weren't dead already. And Wesker fully intended to be the last member of Alpha team left alive when it was all over. Their "rescue mission" would really be a suicide mission.

Wesker put it out of his mind and drove his car out of the parking lot. He had to get back to the labs. There was still much more to do.
Chapter 27

"No, this is good news," Billy said, staring out the window.

Rebecca shook her head. "What are you talking about?"

The relentless click-clack of the train wheels got louder and louder until Rebecca and Billy had to speak loudly just to be heard at all. "We don't have to jump out," Billy said. "We can just ride the train until it gets wherever its going, right? We're safe in here."

Rebecca stared at him, unsure if he was trying to trick her, or if he was just being ignorant. She decided the latter. "There's zombies on this train. We can't let it reach a populated area," she said. "If these zombies get loose, who knows how many people they might kill?"

"If we get to a city we can get help," he countered. "The train must have started for a reason. Maybe the engineer is still alive somehow. Maybe it's some kind of automatic restart for emergencies," he said, trying to come up with some kind of logical explanation, but the look on his face said otherwise.

"This train is still infected with whatever killed those people," Rebecca said forcefully. "If it's some kind of disease or something, we can't let it get out of this area." She pushed him out of her way and grabbed the cord for the emergency brake. Billy reached for her arm as if to stop her, but nothing happened when she pulled it. She yanked on it harder and still nothing.

"This is really bad," she said, staring at the cord.

"What are you doing?" Billy asked. "What are you pulling the brake for?"

"To stop the train. Why else would I pull the brake?"

"Well, it looks like it didn't work."

"We have to stop the train," she said again, pulling out her gun. "We can't let the train make it to Raccoon City."

"But, Rebecca, listen –"

"No!" she snapped.

Billy just stared helplessly at her. "There's got to be a better way. We stop the train now, and we're still stuck in the middle of the forest. Maybe we can... I don't know," he said, shaking his head and looking back at the window.

Rebecca held her arm out to balance herself against the compartment wall. Billy held his foot against the seats to keep from getting pushed over. The train was still picking up speed. The acceleration did not stop, if anything it increased even more.

"I don't have time for this," Rebecca said finally. "I'm going to stop the train. You can either sit here or you can help me."

She left the room, letting the door bang shut behind her. As she headed down the hallway, she heard Billy call her name. She ignored him and went right to the door to the next train car, cradling her pistol in her hand. She had already fired two shots from this clip, so she had thirteen bullets left, plus one more extra clip, to get from here to the locomotive. She realized belatedly that she didn't even know how long the train was. She might have to traverse fifty cars to get all the way to the front.

Billy's stupidity infuriated her. His lame theories on why the train had started – the engineer, an emergency system – were too stupid to even consider. He was just coming up with excuses. He didn't really care why the train had started, because he didn't really care about anything but saving his own skin. If the train made it out of the woods and back to a populated area, it would be that much easier for him to escape successfully. Hot wiring a car in the train station parking lot probably sounded more appealing that walking fifty miles through the Arklay Mountains. In fact, Rebecca suspected his desire to get off the train was more about escaping justice than escaping the zombies.

For those few minutes that she was forced by circumstance to cooperate with him, she had almost forgotten that he was a convicted killer. She wished that she had taken a few more seconds to read the details of the report to find out exactly who he had killed and why. She guessed it would either ease her fears or strengthen her resolve. If the murder seemed accidental or justified, she might not worry about him so much, but if it was something exceptionally awful, she would be even more determined to bring him in to face the consequences.

It nagged at her that he was alone in the room, though. While tried to stop the train, he might risk jumping out while the train was still moving. Which was more important? Stopping the train, or keeping an eye on Coen?

The train was more important. Rebecca knew that she had to stop it, with or without his help. Whatever caused this atrocity needed to remain isolated here in the woods. Rebecca didn't even want to think what would happen if these zombies got loose in the middle of a city. Whoever started the train certainly didn't care, but Rebecca did. Stopping the train was surely her first priority.

She peeked through the window through the door to the next car and was dismayed to see that it was another private compartment car like this one. She could only see a few feet before the hallway curved around the corner. There might be a dozen zombies right around the corner and she wouldn't know about it until she opened the door and put herself in harm's way. She smacked the window with her palm, hoping to attract the attention of any zombies in the hall, but she still heard and saw nothing.

Carefully, she eased the door open and poked her gun through the opening. She slid through and snuck around the corner, gun forward and finger on the trigger. Nothing was waiting for her, and she let out her breath, which she'd been holding.

She tip-toed down the hall and made it to the other side of the car without incident. The next car was another regular passenger car with two wide rows of open seats and a staircase at the other end heading up the second level. Rebecca's breath caught in her throat when she saw a zombie at the other end of the car, its back to her. A man wearing a gray suit, swaying back and forth like a drunk on his feet.

Although she desperately wanted to wait, Rebecca knew that time was against her. She had to stop the train as soon as possible, before it got out of the mountains. She took a few deep breaths and opened the door.

The smell of decay was stronger in this room than the others. She counted four dead bodies other than the zombie, strewn in their seats like grotesque, discarded mannequins. Like all the others, they looked like they'd been shredded by wild animals.

Rebecca crept quietly behind the zombie without attracting its attention. When she was no more than a few feet away, she jumped at it, hitting it squarely in the back with her outstretched hands. The zombie crashed forward onto its stomach and Rebecca took the opportunity to jump on top of it, kneeling on its back as it writhed underneath her, moaning and gurgling incoherently, blood drooling from the corner of its ripped mouth.

The zombie flailed and struggled under her weight but could not get her off. Rebecca's heart beat slowly returned to normal as she realized that the beast could not reach her. She was safe, the zombie pinned underneath her.

Thinking about the hideous monster under her legs still disgusted her, but she was no longer afraid. The zombies were slow and uncoordinated, and with some simple evasive maneuvers, she felt confident that she could keep away from them. And if she couldn't get away, she could at least neutralize them. As long as they didn't come at her more than one or two at a time, she would be able to make it.

She placed her gun against the back of the zombie's head and put her finger on the trigger. She didn't know who this man used to be or why he was on the train, but it made no difference now. Maybe he was going on a business trip. Maybe he was going to see family. Whatever the reason, he would never reach his destination now. As the zombie groaned and tried to shake her off, Rebecca realized that the best thing she could do was simply put it out of its misery. No one deserved this kind of tortured afterlife. She did not have to regret killing him if he was already dead.

The head jerked forward and cracked against the floor when the gun went off, splattering blood and gray matter in a splashed circle on the purple carpet. The hole in the back of the skull smoked and the zombie stopped moving. Rebecca's arm relaxed.

And immediately, she jumped up when she heard the sound of something moving behind her. One of the dead bodies was up and moving. It was a woman that might have been beautiful a few hours ago. Now, her eyes were clouded and white, her silken blonde hair was coated with blood and gore and stuck to her face, and her blue dress was ripped open, exposing the ravaged flesh beneath.

Rebecca was on her feet the next moment, heading for the door. From the staircase to her left, a zombie suddenly appeared and reached out for her with bloody hands. She swung her hands up in defense and somehow grabbed the zombie's neck. Turning on her heel, using the zombie's own momentum to pull it forward, she tripped it with her other leg. She screamed when its hands brushed her face as it fell past her.

The zombie's forehead hit the solid armrest of the nearest seat, the sound like a baseball bat striking a mossy, wet log. It went down, still moaning angrily, and Rebecca staggered backward into the door.

She opened it and hurried into the next room, not even bothering to close it behind her. Two more zombies faced her in the next passenger car, two men wearing bloodstained t-shirts and jeans. She ran full-force into the first one, pushing him backwards into the seats, and lifted her gun to shoot the second as it went for her. It grabbed her shoulders roughly and pulled her face towards its own. Rebecca jammed her gun under its chin and closed her eyes when she pulled the trigger.

The impact knocked the zombie back, but somehow did not kill it. It gurgled and lurched toward her again, so she stuck the gun right into its eye and fired once more, blowing the top of its head off, ejecting clumps of gore and brain into the air. She knocked the zombie to the floor and quickly stepped over it on her way to the next door. She heard more zombies in pursuit. Lots of them.

As she slammed through the door, she thought she heard gunshots behind her, but she didn't slow down. The next room had three more waiting for her.

The first zombie, an old man with a wrinkled face and half his balding head chewed away, came at her and went down with a bullet between its eyes. Its body tripped the second zombie, which Rebecca ran right past. The third zombie was another train conductor, who lurched towards her with its gory mouth open and hungry.

She shot it in the face, blowing its lower jaw to pieces, but instead of going down it still came after her. She squared her shoulder and knocked it aside, taking a quick glance behind her. How many were there now, coming after her? Five? Seven? More? She didn't take the time to count, she had to keep going. When the conductor tried to get back up, she shot him right in the eye.

How many bullets had she used? Seven or eight? She had lost count. As she staggered to the door, she fumbled with her clip to check how many shots were left.

The door slid open and Rebecca felt a rush of cold water slap her in the face. The wind almost shoved her back into the car but she pushed through, sliding the door closed with one arm and holding the other in front of her face to block the rain. Squinting, she could see the locomotive directly ahead. To the left and right were walkways around the engine to the driver's cabin in front. Small lights lined the metal railings, illuminating them in the wet darkness, as sheets of rain battered the front of the train. It only took moments for Rebecca to become completely soaked.

The zombies chasing her made it to the door and crowded around the doorway, moaning hungrily and banging into the plastic window. Rebecca backed away slowly, flinching each time they slammed into the door. The wind deafened her, and the stinging rain made her shiver.

Gradually, she realized what she had done. She had led the zombies – a whole mob of them – to a door that could lead them right off the train if they got through. Only a few inches of plastic prevented them from getting off the train. If she couldn't stop the train, she might have to brace herself against the door to stop them from getting off.

She checked her clip and saw that she had seven rounds left. She glanced back at the zombies pounding on the door and stepped onto the narrow walkway to the engineer's cabin. She had to hold her hand in front of her face to block the rain and wind. The surrounding wilderness was nothing but a shadowy blur as it zipped past. Rebecca was no judge, but she felt that the train must be going close to one hundred miles an hour. The wind was practically shoving her down.

She was so intent on not falling over and keeping the rain out of her eyes, that she didn't notice the man standing in front of her until he was only a few feet away. When she saw him, she jumped back, almost losing her footing on the studded metal panels underneath her feet, and swung her gun up at him.

But the man was no zombie. He wore a long white coat that whipped madly around him like a cape and his long black hair flew around in the wind, obscuring his face. Even in the drenching rain, however, he appeared to be completely dry. Rebecca was so stunned, she could not speak or lower her weapon.

The man made no move towards her, but set one bare foot on the metal railing and hoisted himself up. He spared her one final glance before pushing off the railing and soaring off into the night, disappearing into the shadows.

Finally, Rebecca's stupor ended and she called out for the man, grabbing the railing and leaning dangerously out, staring into the darkness. The wind absorbed her shout. The man was gone.

Suddenly, there was a crash and Rebecca's head jerked back to the door, which hung by one hinge for a moment before crashing down, a zombie falling down on top of it. Two more stumbled over it and staggered unsteadily toward Rebecca, fighting the overpowering wind. She lifted her gun but did not fire, afraid of wasting the precious few bullets she had left. Instead, she ran forward and shoved the first zombie as hard as she could. The impact, combined with the wind, knocked it sideways and it tipped right over the railing, toppling down right along side the train, close enough to be dismembered by the wheels.

The other zombie reached for her, and Rebecca turned and ran. It was not far to the engineer's cabin, and she slammed the door shut behind her, gasping for breath. Her hair was plastered against her forehead and water dripped down her face and into her eyes, momentarily blurring her vision. She wiped her face on the back of her hand and stepped toward the main control console.

It was a ruin. The front panel had been forcefully torn off and thrown into a corner, revealing a mess of tangled wires spilling from the console like a disemboweled robot's entrails. It looked as if the entire control console had been smashed to pieces with a sledgehammer. Dials and gauges were shattered, digital read-outs were blacked out, and the throttle control was ripped from the console as if it was merely a cheap clay facsimile.

My God, she thought in despair. She couldn't stop it after all.

A wet gurgle behind her caused her to spin around, just in time to avoid being wrapped in a bear hug from the undead train engineer, who leaned forward to bite her, blood oozing from his mouth, his cloudy white eyes staring directly into hers. She screamed and pushed the zombie back, but it lurched forward and pressed her against the ruined console, moaning horribly, leaning so close that blood and spit dripped from its mouth onto the front of her uniform.

Distantly, she heard more gunshots and recognized the sound of Billy's Desert Eagle. He had followed her after all. She sucked in a deep breath and let out an ear-piercing scream, pushing against the zombie engineer with all her might.

Billy slammed through the door, gun raised, and fired. The booming report deafened her in the small cabin, but the zombie attacking her flew to the side with half its head now smeared across the opposite wall. Rebecca slipped off the console and fell to her knees.

"Are you alright? Did it hurt you?" Billy asked anxiously, rushing to her side and kneeling down to put his hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry I didn't come with you. I don't know what I was thinking. I came after you as fast as I could."

"It doesn't matter," Rebecca gasped, shaking her head, her wet hair hanging limply across her face. "The console is totaled. I can't stop the train."

Billy looked up at the destruction in disbelief. "What in the world could have done something like that?"

"I don't know," Rebecca said, slowly trying to stand, holding onto Billy's arm. He put one hand on her shoulder and one on her hip and eased her to her feet. "But there was a man in here. I saw him. He jumped over the railing just as I got here."

"Are you sure he wasn't a zombie?"

"Positive. He looked right at me and hopped right over the railing."

"There's no way he could have survived, not at the speed we're going."

"I don't know who he was," Rebecca said, looking sadly at the console, "but he must have done this."

"But why? And how?"

Before Rebecca could respond, she felt the train begin to turn. She and Billy lurched sideways and braced themselves against the side of the cabin. The train continued to turn, and Rebecca felt the locomotive begin to tremble. She glanced at the broken throttle and then up at Billy, her eyes wide.

Billy stared out the front window, fear glinting in his cold blue eyes. The cabin continued to tremble as the train kept turning, and the tremble graduated to a shake.

"Billy ..."

The cabin was leaning now. Rebecca could feel the floor tilting ever so slightly, and a low grinding noise came from under the floor. Billy reached over her shoulder to hold onto a pipe that ran from the ceiling to the floor. Rebecca felt herself holding onto him, her hands beginning to shake like the room around her.

The grinding noise got louder and louder, and then burst into a deafening screech, the sound of metal tearing like paper. The locomotive screamed like someone being tortured, and Billy wrapped his other arm around Rebecca. They braced themselves against the wall, staring out the front window in stunned terror.

"Hold on," Billy whispered.

Still in the middle of the long turn, the train's wheels broke apart like glass. The locomotive slid off the tracks, dragging the rest of the train with it like a tail. Showers of sparks burst from the train's undercarriage as it skipped the tracks, sliding across the wet, muddy ground and into the trees like a wild mustang running through the gates to escape its corral.

The train tipped sideways and fell onto its side as it crashed through the trees, knocking them down like a mower cutting grass. Billy and Rebecca fell onto the wall which now became their floor, and were showered in pieces of the broken console, shards of shattered glass, and clumps of dirt and smashed wood coming in the broken windows. The lights went down, drowning them in darkness.

The train slid through the woods, leaving a trail of destruction and downed trees in its wake. The passenger cars broke apart and scattered, heading off on their own trajectories. The dining car struck a huge boulder and broke cleanly in half, crumpling the tank for the kitchen's gas stove. It exploded in a swirling fireball, illuminating the forest like a supernova.

The locomotive skidded through a grove of trees, knocking them down like bowling pins, and crashed head-on into the grassy ridge beyond. But instead of stopping, it went right through like ridge like a tunneling drill and blasted through a wall of dirt and cement to the storage warehouse built underneath the ridge

The locomotive finally came to a stop in the middle of the warehouse floor in a shower of crumbling rock and a wave of dirt and smoke. Fire smoldered along the edge of the engineer's cabin and the lights in the warehouse flickered uncertainly. Dust floated down from the light fixtures and settled with the smoke from the train.

The room returned to silence.

Chapter 28

In his years as a police officer, Ken Sullivan had never truly been scared. He had engaged in violent gunfights, rode along in dangerous car chases, and snuck into criminals' houses, each time knowing that there existed the possibility of being hurt or killed. Being a police officer, especially a member of a special team like S.T.A.R.S., was always a dangerous occupation. But Ken had never really been scared; each time he was placed in a hostile situation, he was energized by adrenaline. Instead of fear, he felt overwhelmed by excitement.

But not this time. When going up against regular criminals, he knew the dangers he faced, he understood the risks he took, and he felt confident his training and instincts could get him out without a scratch. He knew all the proper procedures and methods for dealing with criminals, and used his experience to accurately estimate what a given criminal might attempt in a given situation. He minimized his fear by knowing all the variables.

But this time, none of that meant anything. His instincts told him that if he shot a suspect three times in the chest, the suspect would go down. His training told him that people did not come back from the dead. In this place, his training was wrong, and his instincts were useless. It was impossible to stay in control of the situation when he didn't even know what he was up against. What terrified him most was that he didn't know what to be afraid of.

When he and Forest found the mansion, they debated whether or not to even enter the place. They were trying to find the train, after all. But there was blood on the ground outside and they kept hearing noises. Ken desperately wished they had chosen to stay outside.

As soon as they came inside, they fell under attack. Two men came at them, staggering toward them and moaning incoherently. Ken tried to call them off, but it was no use. They weren't carrying anything that looked like a weapon, but the frightening look on their pale faces somehow told Ken that his life was in immediate danger. He and Forest practically had to empty their guns before the men went down and stayed there. If their lab coats were any indication, the men were either scientists or doctors. But there was no indication at all what was wrong with them, or why they attacked Ken and Forest, or how they were somehow able to keep coming when they'd been shot a dozen times each.

And then they found the dogs. Or they found animals that looked like they may have once been dogs. Now, they were bloodthirsty monsters out of a horror story. Their skin oozed off their flesh like half-melted plastic, their eyes shone brilliant red, they moved faster than any normal dog could possibly move, and like the scientists or doctors or whatever they were, it took half a clip to even slow them down.

Now Ken was down to five rounds and Forest was nowhere to be found. He ran off when the dogs attacked and Ken was too scared to go looking for him. Even now, Ken didn't know where he was in the mansion; he ran in a blind panic and got himself turned around. The place was like a maze built by a blind architect; the hallways went every direction, rooms seemed situated in no particular order, and Ken sincerely doubted that he could find his way back outside without a map and a compass.

He had encountered another maniac in a lab coat and got lucky, shooting him in the face and blowing the top of his head off, dropping him in one shot. The corpse now lay out in the hallway beyond the room where Ken was hiding. He was safe for the moment, but there was no door to prevent anything from coming in after him. It wasn't even a room, it was more like a small lounge at the end of the hallway. There was only one entrance but no exit. The small window letting in creepy moonlight was too narrow for him to squeeze through, so he was stuck there until he built up the nerve to leave, which he doubted would happen any time soon. His heart was beating so fast and hard it made his chest hurt, and he desperately tried to slow his loud, rapid breathing. He crawled into the corner of the room, partially hiding behind a small end table, and held his gun like a sacred talisman to ward off evil.

He spoke into his walkie-talkie in a nervous, high-pitched voice that he fought to keep level. "Enrico? Are you there?"

"I'm here, Ken. I can see the mansion."

Ken fought off a crazy urge to beg Enrico not to go inside. "Be careful, man, be careful. I know those dogs are outside too."

A few seconds passed. "Where are you in the mansion, Ken?"

"I don't know, boss. I'm in this little side room at the end of a hallway." He took a wild guess. "South side of the building."

"I see someone through a window."

Ken clutched his walkie-talkie harder, his heart skipping a beat. "It's another one of those things, boss!" he said urgently. "Don't let it see you!"

"It can't see me. I'm going inside now through a glass door at the rear. Is that the same door you entered from?"

"Yes, I think so," Ken whispered.

Another few seconds passed.

And then, a distant, muted noise from somewhere else in the mansion that might have been a scream. Four muffled thuds that were almost certainly gunshots. And then silence again.

Ken pushed his back harder into the wall. The walkie-talkie slipped from his fingers and he held both his hands against his mouth to stifle the terrified sobs that came out.
Chapter 29

Smoke drifted into the engineer's compartment like a heavy fog, seeping down through the shattered windows. Rebecca smelled it first and coughed involuntarily, sitting up as she gasped for breath, a wave of nausea and disorientation washing over her. It was almost totally dark and she had no memory of where she was or how she had gotten there. When she felt another body moving beside her, she panicked and quickly moved, crawling through the pile of debris she was surrounded by.

"Rebecca?" a pained, raspy voice said in the darkness.

At first, she wondered how the other person knew her name. And then suddenly her memory returned like a flash of insight. "I'm here, Billy," she said, and slowly stood up.

"Are you okay?"

"I think so. How about you?"

Billy sat up and gradually managed to get to his feet. "I have a splitting headache. Other than that, I think I'm fine."

Rebecca tried to see anything through the window but there was nothing to see. She stepped forward and put a hand on Billy's arm to steady herself. "Here," she said. "Give me a boost."

Billy stood underneath the door to the outside and put his hands together like a stirrup. Rebecca stepped into his hand and jumped up, and Billy lifted her up high enough to reach the door. She grabbed the edge, lifted herself, and swung her leg up to climb out. For a few moments, she sat on the lip of the door and surveyed the area. Billy stood underneath her, looking up expectantly.

They were in a storage warehouse of some kind. The room was full of high metal shelves, most of which were now knocked over, their contents strewn around the room. Large paper bags full of things like fertilizer and rock salt, boxes of all sizes containing everything from garbage bags to engine parts, metal canisters full of motor oil and various chemicals. Small fires burning here and there gave light to the extent of the destruction. Smoke and floating dust made it hard to see, but Rebecca could make out almost everything. At the far end of the room was a set of sturdy double-doors. As far as she could tell, about half of the locomotive had made it into the room before the train came to a stop.

"Well?" Billy finally asked.

Rebecca knelt on the edge of the doorway, and reached down into the engineer's cabin. "Come on," she said. "I'll help you up."

Billy jumped and grabbed her hands. She pulled back as much as she could, trying to lift his two-hundred-plus pounds until he was able to grab the edge of the door. A simple pull-up later, he climbed through the doorway. Rebecca made room for him, breathing heavy just from the exertion. It was easy enough to see Billy's muscular arms, but she hadn't realized exactly how strong he really was. She guessed he probably could have climbed out even without her help.

"Do you hear anything?" he asked, kneeling down and looking out across the demolished supply room.

Rebecca listened for a few moments and shook her head.

"Me neither," Billy said, grabbing onto the metal railing and swinging his legs over it. "Maybe we got lucky and none of those zombies made it through the crash." He lowered himself down expertly and dropped a few feet to the rubble-strewn floor.

Rebecca followed him down, albeit more slowly and less confidently. When she had two feet firmly on the dirty cement floor, she breathed a sigh of relief. She patted her holster to make sure her pistol was still there. Its presence reassured her.

Billy headed toward the doors at the other end of the room, stepping cautiously around the debris, making as little noise as possible. Rebecca walked behind him, placing her feet in the same places he had stepped. It occurred to her that sometime in the last few minutes, Billy had effectively taken command, and she was more than happy to let him. At least until they made it to safety, and then she was taking command right back. It would not be hard this time to persuade him, because it also occurred to her that he no longer carried the Desert Eagle. He must have lost it in the crash.

Somewhere nearby, some rock crumbled to the floor. Rebecca spun around at the sound, gun already drawn. Motion directed her eyes to a pile of rock and broken cement against the wall. There was an arm sticking out of the rubble, its hand waving feebly. The fingers flexed weakly, scratching at the rubble as if trying to dig itself loose.

Rebecca, for a fraction of a second, felt the urge to rush there with her medical kit and attempt to rescue the person buried under the rubble. She even leaned forward and put her hand to the kit attached to her hip. Billy hand reached out and gently touched her shoulder.

"We should really get out of here," he said. "Before any of them find us."

"Yeah," Rebecca said vaguely.

As they walked away, she could not help but look over her shoulder at the arm as it moved, the zombie trapped underneath making a pathetic effort to dig itself free. Even the zombies had some basic instinctual intelligence left, just enough to try to dig itself out from under a ton of rocks.

The doors opened with a rusty squeak and led them to a pitch black hallway. Billy fumbled on the wall and found a light switch. When he flipped it, the hallway erupted in bright yellow light, enough to make them both shield their eyes. The hallway went forward for a few yards, split to the right, and ended in a staircase heading up. Although clean, the hallway was obviously long unused. A visible layer of dust was on the floor and it smelled stale and old.

Down the hall to the right was a door with an "Authorized Employees Only" sign on it. They passed it and went up the stairs instead, taking one step at a time and then waiting for any noise before taking the next step. Rebecca held her gun out the entire time, even though Billy walked in front.

There was a door at the top of the stairs. Billy turned the door handle and gently pushed it open, bracing himself as if ready to expect anything on the other side. But nothing waited for them. It was just another dark hallway.

"Maybe I should walk in front," Rebecca finally suggested. "I have a gun, after all."

Billy considered it, then shook his head. "No, stay behind me for now. And don't shoot anything unless you have no choice. How many shots do you have left?"

"Seven, I think."

"Okay," Billy muttered. "Well, try to conserve your ammo."

"Do you think there's more of those zombies here?"

Billy looked down the hallway, illuminated only by the light shining over his shoulder. "I would prefer not to take any chances. We don't even know where 'here' is."

They were unable to find the light switch for the hall, so they made their way slowly in the dark. They passed two doors, both of which were locked. The hall turned to the left ahead of them, and Billy poked his head to take a look. "I can't see anything," he whispered.

Rebecca searched her pants pockets. "I had a flashlight," she said. "I have it here somewhere." She found it and took it out, but heard the sound of broken glass trickle to the floor. She felt the front of the flashlight and almost cut her hand. "Sorry, I guess it broke in the crash."

Billy sighed and looked into the pitch darkness ahead. "I guess we do it blind, then."

He reached out and took Rebecca's hand before heading down the rest of the hall. Rebecca followed him, but tried not to stay too close. She didn't want to appear too afraid or too dependent on his help. As for Billy, he did not squeeze her hand or hold it too gently either. It was obvious from his grip that he was holding her hand solely to keep from losing track of her in the dark. Somehow, that fact made her feel better.

She felt carpet under her feet, and then Billy stopped moving. "Found a door," he said. She heard the sound of a doorknob turning and then they were moving again, creeping in complete darkness. She had no idea where they were going or what was around them, so she just let Billy lead the way, keeping her eyes and ears open just in case. But for all she knew, she was walking right past a crowd of hungry zombies.

Suddenly, she saw pale blue light up ahead. Billy saw it at the same time and the two of them hurried their steps. The hallway ended in what looked like a large room with tile floor and a smell slightly less musty than the rest of the building. There were large bay windows at the front of the room, shining ethereal moonlight inside, which reflected beautifully off the floor and glittered on objects all around the room. Billy let go of her hand and crept to the front of the room between the windows. He slid his hands on the wall and found the light switch, flipping it on.

The entire room exploded in light, and once again they had to shield their eyes and squint from the overpowering glare. Rebecca walked to the center of the room and looked around her in undisguised awe and wonder, her arms hanging at her sides. Even Billy seemed stunned at the splendor of the room they were in.

It was unmistakably the entrance lobby for some kind of mansion. Right in front of them was a staircase covered in red carpet leading up to the right and left to the second story of the building. Over their heads hung an enormous golden chandelier with dozens of small lights, all shining brightly and reflecting off the golden staircase bannister, golden railings, golden trimmed woodwork along the walls. The place was decorated in gold and mahogany.

"Jesus," Billy whispered. "Where are we?"

"I don't know ..." Rebecca said, rendered almost speechless by the exquisite beauty of the room, and a lurking confusion as to why a gorgeous place such as this was completely abandoned in the middle of the Arklay Forest.

"And who in the world is that?" Billy asked, pointing up above the stairs.

On the wall was a gigantic portrait of a middle-aged man with thin white hair and glasses. His mouth was closed in a harsh expression and his eyes seemed to shine with dark intensity. To Rebecca, he looked like a brutal schoolmaster from the last century.

Under the portrait was written the name "Dr. James Marcus."
Chapter 30

He moved as if guided by remote control. In the back of his mind, he felt that he was only a passenger, watching from a distance as his body moved through the trees, unsure of what he was doing but strangely comfortable with it. He was not completely in control of his actions, and maybe he never had been, but he felt a soothing calmness in his mind, making it hard to resist the course his body was taking.

The rain subsided around him, the constant static noise reduced to damp silence. Not that it made any difference to him; even in the hardest rain he seemed to stay completely dry. And he moved so fast it was almost like flying close to the ground. When he raised his arms, his white lab coat flapped like wings.

He knew that his pets controlled him. It was as if he was merely the vessel for their desires, but the thought comforted him instead of frightened him. After all, they gave him this new life, and he felt that submitting to them coincided with his own desires as well. He wanted revenge against those who destroyed his body in a previous life and stole his dreams from him. From what he saw so far, his beautiful pets wanted the same thing, only on a much grander scale. His pets wanted vengeance against the world. The fact that they directed him to kill so many innocent people meant nothing to him. As long as the guilty were punished along with the innocent, his own sense of justice would be satisfied.

The girl on the train entered his thoughts. It surprised him that his pets hadn't forced him to kill her too. She had been close enough to touch; all he had to do was point at her and let his pets swarm to the feast. But in that moment, he did not feel the urge. His pets wanted her to live for some reason he didn't comprehend. And so she lived.

Or had she died in the crash? When he destroyed the train's controls, he knew vaguely that the train would derail, but how had his pets known? They were the ones directing his actions, and somehow they wanted to crash the train. They made his hands hard as stone and demolished the controls. But why would they do such a thing? What possible purpose did it serve? Again, he was just the vessel.

He stopped running when he reached a wide cement courtyard with a disused fountain in the center and large concrete vases lined up on either side, the plants in them long dead. The enormous mansion in front of him glowed in his memory like a flare. Far to his left, even in the near-perfect darkness, he could make out the top of an astronomy tower. That stirred memories as well. This wasn't his home, but he knew it well just the same.

He walked up to a pair of doors at the back of the mansion and pushed them open, shattering the metal locks effortlessly. Stale, dry, old air greeted him as he stepped inside, very different from the humid, organic, earthy smell of the forest he'd just left. The dusty floor tiles were cool and dry under his bare feet. As he entered the room, the doors swung shut silently, as if by their own volition.

Desks filled the room, five rows with four desks per row, each with a computer monitor built into it. All were blank, coated with a layer of dust. He could smell nothing but the dust and the scent of age. This room had not seen use in many years.

How long had he been gone? His memories were in pieces that he was just beginning to arrange into place, but he knew that the last time he had been in this room, it had been active and alive, full of noise and movement. Now it was abandoned and empty and had been so for years. How much time had passed since he had been betrayed? How long had it been?

How long had he been dead?
Chapter 31

Rebecca brushed dust from the frame of the painting. "It says here that he's the first director of the Umbrella Training Facility. That must be what this place is."

"Umbrella?" Billy asked. "Isn't that a pharmaceutical company? Why would they have a training facility way out here? Training for what?"

"I have no idea," Rebecca said, wiping her hands on her pants. "I heard they have a research laboratory in Raccoon City, but I don't know where it is. They have a couple buildings and a park named after them."

Billy looked around and nonchalantly headed for the front doors. They were thick, dark wood, with a series of decorative squares carved into them. The doorknobs and hinges were polished brass. He casually reached for the doorknob.

Rebecca pulled her gun out of her holster. Billy recognized the sound and smiled to himself. He set his hand on the doorknob but didn't turn it.

"Where do you think you're going?" Rebecca asked.

He turned to look at her over his shoulder. "I thought we were past this."

"You're still my prisoner."

"Sure I am. Are you gonna shoot me in the back if I try to run out this door?"

Rebecca shook her head and shrugged. "No, I'll probably get you in the leg. I'm a pretty good shot."

"I bet you are."

"At least I have a gun."

"That's right," Billy said, as if just now realizing it. "I guess I lost mine."

"That's okay. I like it better when convicted murderers aren't armed."

Billy's lips curved up in a smile, but there was nothing but sadness in his eyes. He turned away and let his hand slip from the doorknob. "Alright then, officer," he said flatly. "You can go out first."

Rebecca came down the stairs and went to the door. She grabbed the doorknob but it wouldn't turn. "That's stupid," she said, tugging on it. "It's locked."

"Then unlock it."

"I don't know how. There's no button on the knob."

The doors were securely locked, but neither of them could find any way to unlock them. The doorknobs were perfect spheres, and there were no keys or switches they could see to unlock anything. It was as if the doors had simply been glued shut.

"This is bizarre," Rebecca said, stepping away from the doors as if afraid of them.

A few chairs, presumably left there for waiting visitors, were lined up beside the wide, central staircase. Billy wasted no time in grabbing one and lifting up above his head. Before Rebecca could say anything to stop him, he walked toward one of the large front windows and hurled the chair right at it.

These windows, at least, were more fragile than the ones on the train. The chair went right through in an effortless crash, shattering the entire window. The glass on the upper part of the frame, with nothing below to support it, slid down like a guillotine blade and shattered as well, showering the tile floor with fragments of glass. Rebecca just looked at Billy, speechless.

Billy motioned toward the now vacant window frame. "After you," he said pleasantly.

Rebecca climbed out first, stepping out onto the spacious porch, pieces of glass crackling under her feet. The whole front of the building was a solid cement porch, complete with cement railing and wide steps to the front yard, which was now an overgrown mess. Weeds grew waist-high in some places, so thick you could barely see the path to the long gravel driveway, which led off into the darkness, flanked on both sides by tall trees. Clouds still blocked the light of the moon.

Billy came through the window and immediately walked off the porch toward the driveway. "Don't go too far," Rebecca said. "Stay in sight." Having said that, she stepped back to get a better look at the building.

Even at night, she could tell how beautiful it was. She couldn't even imagine how it must look in the middle of the day. It was two-stories tall with a gorgeous slanted roof and elaborate gables all around. It extended to the left and right until the sides were obscured by trees. She hadn't seen many mansions up close like this, but as far as she could tell, it looked like a masterpiece of architecture.

But why in the world was it abandoned?

Billy's feet crunched on the gravel, even though most of it was strewn with weeds creeping between the rocks. He looked back and saw Rebecca still on the porch, admiring the view. Billy had to admit the house was fascinating, but he had other concerns. Like Rebecca had ordered, he was still in sight, but he had put considerable distance between them. She might be a pretty good shot, but he doubted she could hit him in this gloom from a distance of a hundred feet.

He was just about to consider running off when he heard something in the underbrush a few yards in front of him. The weeds moved and an animal came out into the open. It almost looked like a dog, except it seemed to glimmer, as if it was wet and the thin moonlight was reflecting off the water. But it wasn't wet.

Billy took a step back, his feet crunching on the gravel again. The animal turned towards him and let out a low, deep growl. Something dripped from its snout. Its eyes seemed to glow, as if the lights from the mansion windows were reaching all the way out there and reflecting off the animal's retinas back at Billy. Except instead of yellow or green, the animal's eyes glowed red. Billy took another step back as the animal took another step forward.

It was a dog, it had to be. But there was something wrong with it.

"Rebecca," Billy said. Before he even got the name out, the dog came for him. He turned and ran as fast as he could, pounding the gravel as he charged back toward the mansion. He could hear the dog's padded feet fly along the ground, and its slobbery growl as if closed in on him.

"Rebecca!"

Rebecca spun around and raised her gun. He could practically feel the dog's breath on his heels when the barrel of the pistol spit fire and the report reached his ears. He cleared the porch steps in one bound as Rebecca fired two more times. He didn't even slow down as he leaped back through the window, the dog still right behind him. Rebecca fired once more as Billy and the dog whipped past her.

Billy landed on his side and slid a few feet on the tile before scrambling upright. The dog tumbled onto the floor and rolled into the wall, leaving a trail of blood behind it. Billy slumped against the side of the staircase, his heart battering the inside his chest. He took in deep breaths and watched the dog's unmoving body closely.

Rebecca crept through the window, her gun still drawn on the dog. Her expression went from concern, to fear, to disgust in a manner of seconds. The dog was dead, that much was obvious, but the real question was how it could have been alive in the first place.

It had no fur and no skin. There was nothing but exposed muscle and sinew, slick and shiny with blood. Its eyes and mouth were open, and blood slowly drained from the body into a small pool around it. Rebecca stepped closer but did not holster her gun.

"Thanks," Billy managed, his heart rate gradually returning to normal.

Rebecca swallowed and nodded shortly. "Yeah, you're welcome."

"How many times did you hit it?"

"I don't know. Maybe only twice. But I got it in the head that last shot."

Billy got to his feet and slowly approached the dog, crouching down to get a better look. Sure enough, there was a gaping hole in the side of its head. It was hard to tell since there were no telltale bullet holes in its skin, but Billy saw what looked like two more wounds.

"So what is it?" Rebecca asked nervously.

"A dog. Or something that used to be a dog. Maybe a pit bull or something. I'm not a dog expert."

"What could have done that to a dog?" Rebecca's voice stayed reasonably steady, but Billy saw the barrel of the gun wobble a little. She was getting freaked out. He didn't know why it bothered her so much. The dog had been chasing him, after all.

"The same thing that made those zombies," he said.

"This isn't a zombie dog or something, Billy! This is different, this is worse."

"I don't know how it can be worse than zombies –"

He stopped in mid-sentence when he heard another growl. Not from the dog on the floor, but something outside the window. Rebecca heard it too and spun around, pointing the gun at the sound. Billy wondered how many bullets she had left. He could just barely hear the sound of another dog, its claws clicking on the cement outside.

He grabbed Rebecca's arm and pulled her away. A hallway on the left led away from the lobby, and the two of them hurried down it, trying to be as quiet as possible. Billy turned around just in time to see the second dog jump through the window. It landed sure-footedly on the floor, saw its dead companion, and then turned its head right in Billy and Rebecca's direction. Like the first dog, this one was skinless and bloody. Little bits of flesh hung from its sides and like its dead companion, its eyes glowed red.

Just as it began to run after them, Billy went to the first door he saw and pushed it open, dragging Rebecca behind him. He slammed it shut and pressed against it as the dog reached it and began barking. Wet, gurgling, horrible sounds.

Rebecca pulled free of his grasp and slid her hand along the wall for a light switch. Finding one, the room burst into view. It was a small room like an office, with two empty desks, some filing cabinets, and a metal locker. There was another door at the back of the room with a nameplate reading "Supervisor."

The dog scratched madly at the door, still barking gruesomely. Billy did not leave the door, as if afraid the dog was somehow strong enough to knock it down. He looked at Rebecca, who ignored him as she walked around the room.

The desks, like everything else they'd seen so far, were covered in dust. She pulled open the drawers, expecting to find nothing, and was surprised that some of them were full of papers and files. Most of them were blank forms, but one drawer held a booklet labeled "Umbrella Security Procedures." Rebecca tossed it onto the desk top and dust puffed away in all directions.

All but one of the filing cabinets was empty, and it was full of files and reports in manilla folders. All of the folder tags held names. Rebecca slid the drawer shut with a clang.

"What are you looking for?" Billy asked. He had finally convinced himself that the door was secure and stepped away from it.

"I don't know," Rebecca said. "I'm just looking around."

Billy glanced the manual on the desk and looked at some of the blank forms in one of the drawers. "These are security shift report forms. Disturbance report forms," he said quietly. "Weapon discharge reports ..." He set the papers down on the desk and spied the metal locker in the corner, and the giant padlock hanging from the handle.

"This is the security office," Rebecca said. She opened the door to the supervisor's office, turned on the light, and began searching the desk. Billy, meanwhile, went to the locker and rattled the door, taking an educated guess as to what it contained.

One of the desk drawers was locked, so Rebecca took out a pocket knife from one of her supply packs and jimmied the lock. The drawer slid open, revealing some folders with "Confidential: Security Director Only" stamped on them, and at the back of the drawer, a small key ring with two keys on it.

Rebecca took the keys to the locker, pushing Billy out of the way. She unlocked it with a flick of her wrist, tossed the lock away, and pulled open the doors. Inside the locker was a pair of pump-action shotguns, three standard issue Glocks, and a small pile of ammo boxes.
Chapter 32

Enrico took a deep breath, looked around steadily, and closed his eyes when he was satisfied that he was now alone. At his feet lay a corpse, but unlike some of the other corpses that he had seen in the last hour, this one behaved like the way corpses were supposed to behave. An eight-inch long combat knife protruded from the side of its head, and thick blood slowly pooled around Enrico's boots. Enrico ran out of ammunition for his pistol less than fifteen minutes after he entered the mansion. The knife was all he had left.

He bent down and yanked it from the corpse's head. A little spurt of blood splashed onto his pants, but he ignored it. He wiped the blade on his pants leg anyway. The condition of his laundry was the last thing on his mind.

Like the last zombie he killed, this one wore a lab coat with an Umbrella Corporation identification badge on its shirt. Whatever this place was, Umbrella had something to do with it. Enrico wished he had time to investigate more fully, but the last thing he wanted to do was go back inside that place.

He was outside now again, having somehow made his way through the mansion's mazelike hallways to return to the rear yard. He lost his walkie-talkie when one of the zombies had knocked it off his belt in an attempt to grab him. As a result, he couldn't contact Kenneth or Rebecca or anyone. He had no idea if any of them were still alive. Rebecca might still be alive somewhere, or Richard, but Enrico had a sinking feeling that he was the only one left.

The rear courtyard of the mansion was empty except for some potted plants and cement benches. In the rare moments when the moon shone through the clouds, visibility was pretty good. In any case, zombies were not stealthy or silent, and Enrico felt confident that he could spot them long before they got close. Shooting them or stabbing them in the head seemed to put them down for good, and that was enough.

Zombies weren't the only thing he had to worry about, though. There were the fleshless dogs, of course. Enrico would prefer to use a gun, but until he found some ammo, his knife would have to do. And there was something else wandering around in the mansion. He heard what sounded like a woman crying a mindless scream and the sound of chains dragging. He didn't think it was a regular zombie like the others, but he didn't wait to find out.

He headed off at a brisk pace away from the mansion, debating whether or not to just keep going until he was back at the helicopter. Keeping his eyes to the left and right, he maintained a steady jog along the cement paths through the woods, listening for anything that sounded like a moan or a growl. His combat knife stayed right in his hand. He wished that it hadn't rained; it would have been easier to hear approaching danger with dry leaves underfoot.

He stopped when he saw a light ahead through the trees. As he crept closer, he saw it was a porch light outside the front door of another building in the woods. Moths fluttered aimlessly around the bulb. It was a long, rectangular house with a plain slanted roof, with blue siding and little outside decoration. Above the front door were the words "Authorized Personnel Only."

At this point, Enrico considered himself authorized for anything. He took another deep breath and looked around to assure himself it was safe, and went for the door. It was unlocked, and swung open easily.

It was warm and welcoming inside. The floor and walls were solid oak, stained and varnished to a beautiful shine. Dim lamps lined the hallway, giving the interior a warm, friendly glow. It was completely silent except for Enrico's quiet breathing.

To the left was a long hallway lined with doors with numbers on them. Enrico braced himself and opened the first door, number 101, finding a small room with a bed, desk, and wardrobe closet. Everything was clean and in order. Even the bed was made. There was a phone on the desk, but it had no dial tone when Enrico checked it.

He looked back down the hall. The other rooms were probably all the same as this. The building must be some kind of dormitory for employees of Umbrella, assuming that this entire place was operated by Umbrella, which Enrico suspected it was. He opened the wardrobe and found nothing but clothes, then went to the desk and began pulling out drawers. Papers, folders, but nothing important or meaningful. In the bottom of the last drawer was what he had been looking for: an official Umbrella employee manual. By the look of it, it had never been opened.

Enrico tossed it on the desk and went back out into the hallway, feeling himself begin to get angry. He had lived in Raccoon City for almost his entire life, and he never knew that Umbrella owned property out in the Arklay Mountains. This entire complex, the mansion and dormitory and who knew what else, must have been kept a secret from the public. The only reason Enrico could see to keep it a secret would be if it was doing research the public might not like. The other labs in Raccoon City did straight medical research, but Enrico felt in his bones that this place did research on a much different level. And now their research was running wild, risen from the grave.

It was obvious that the train accident was a result of whatever happened here. These zombies, or whatever they were, must have made their way to the tracks and attacked the passengers on the train. And if they could get all the way to the tracks, they could follow the tracks right back into town. Enrico tried to imagine these things invading Raccoon City, but his imagination was not equipped to handle an atrocity like that. Whatever had happened here, whatever research Umbrella had been doing, had to be stopped. And if Enrico was the last member of Bravo team alive, then he would have to stop it himself.

There was a noise around the corner. A quiet thump and soft click, the sound of a door being bumped closed. And then a shuffling noise and soft moan. As soon as the zombie appeared in front of him, Enrico dove at it and jammed the knife directly into its temple. They crashed to the ground together and the zombie thrashed, groaning painfully. Enrico held one hand on its throat and twisted the knife with his other hand, feeling it scrape the fracture in the skull. The zombie twitched and went still.

It wore the uniform of a security officer. An Umbrella identification badge was clipped to its shirt like a mark of shame. Its holster was unfortunately empty, but attached to the keyring hanging from its belt were two security key cards, one red and one blue. Enrico yanked them off and looked at them carefully.

The word "armory" was scrawled on the back of the red one. Enrico looked down the hallway. He wondered if this building was the dormitory for the full time security staff. If so, where was the most likely place for the armory to be? Probably somewhere near the front door, so all the officers could get their weapons as they left and return them when they came back at the end of their shift.

The door directly to the right of the front door was marked "Supervisors Only." The blue key card opened it. Inside was a small office with a desk and filing cabinets full of reports and other papers, and another door to the rear. The red key card opened it. Inside was a narrow closet space packed with guns. A dozen pump action shotguns were stacked up on one side, and the other side was lined with small shelves full of standard issue Glocks, each with a name tag for the user. In a drawer on the bottom were boxes of ammunition for both guns.

Enrico fit a box of pistol ammo in each of his cargo pants pockets, and a box of shells into one of the pouches of his supply belt. He loaded up a shotgun and slung it over his shoulder, put one pistol in his holster, another pistol in the front of his belt, and held another pistol in his hand. His trusty knife returned to the sheath around his ankle.

He debated whether or not to continue investigating the building. It stood to reason that there must be a road somewhere leading away from this place, and if he could find it he might be able to make his way back to Raccoon City to warn people. If there was a road, it probably went to the mansion, so he'd have to go back where he had just come from. And he had no idea where it might lead him; the road that led here might wind twenty miles through the woods before it reached a main highway into the city. Enrico did not look forward to running through the woods like that, not even knowing where he was headed. A compass would be useful for a trip like that. A flashlight would be nice too.

The only other option was to keep going. Since he didn't even know where he was, he had no idea how large the complex was. He didn't know where it would lead him and he didn't know what would be waiting.

But Enrico was angry, and when he got angry, nothing was going to get in his way. He was going to move farther and farther into this until he made it to the end. And no mindless zombies were going to stop him.

At the end of the central hallway was a set of double-doors with shining black handles. Enrico, gun drawn, marched right toward the doors and kicked them open. Beyond was a large, unlit room with a bar running the entire length of the far wall, lined with bar stools and silhouetted by glass shelves packed with colored bottles of alcohol. Standing right in front of the bar, facing Enrico, was another zombie wearing a security uniform. It went down with two bullets in its forehead, crashing into the bar stools and knocking two of them to the floor.

Enrico waited in the doorway but no other zombies announced their presence. He entered the room and felt on the wall beside him for a light switch. Finding one, the room burst into light, revealing a few tables and a small stage to his left, and to his right a pair of pool tables and a few arcade games. The security officers' rec room and bar.

The dead zombie on the floor, in addition to the two new holes in its head, had at least four gunshot wounds to the chest, marked by the four circles of now-dried blood. Enrico looked around and saw the source. A dead man slumped in the corner, also dressed in a security uniform, pistol still hanging off his trigger finger. A bright oval splatter of blood was on the wall above him. Enrico stepped closer and saw that most of the back of his head was missing, blown away when the man stuck the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

The last living man in a building full of newly-created zombies. A man who watched his former comrade take four bullets to the chest and keep coming, and chose to take his own life rather than join his coworker in undeath.

Enrico knelt down and used the barrel of his pistol to move the man's head. It lolled back to show the face of a young man, no older than twenty-five. His skin, although pale in death, did not show the ghastly gray pallor that the zombies all seemed to share. This man had not turned into a zombie. He killed himself before the infection got to him. That alone was an important clue. Whatever turned these people into zombies did not bring the dead to life, it turned the living directly into the undead.

Just as Enrico turned back around, he saw something moving above him and jumped away as a huge shape fell from the ceiling and landed on the floor with such a heavy impact the whole floor shook. Enrico scrambled backward, raising his gun but finding that he couldn't pull the trigger.

It was a spider. A spider as large around as the tables in front of the stage. Standing up on eight legs as wide around as plates, it stood three feet tall. Its red compound eyes glittered like gigantic rubies. Its legs twitched once before it flew at him.

Enrico screamed and pulled the trigger, shot after shot blasting away a bit of the spider's enormous abdomen, but the spider didn't seem to notice. Enrico dropped the gun and grabbed a bar stool by the seat just as the giant arachnid reached him, and held it in front of him as the spider lunged. The force knocked Enrico off his feet but he held the stool in front of him like a lion tamer fending off a lion.

The spider surged forward, pushing Enrico along the floor. He hit the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of his lungs, but he held the stool steady. The spider's mandibles clicked open and closed urgently, stringy venom dripping down onto the stool and all over Enrico's vest. The spider's legs scrambled along the floor, pressing Enrico back. His feet kicked at the spider's abdomen, getting caught up in the remnants of silk clinging to the bottom of the spinneret. One of the stool's legs got caught under the thorax and when the spider lunged again, it snapped right off, splintering like balsa wood.

As he struggled with the spider, Enrico rubbed his back against the wall and gradually eased the shotgun off his shoulder. He held the stool with one arm and grabbed the shotgun, holding it under the stool, pointing it directly at the spider. The arachnid lunged again frantically, slamming into the stool's legs. Enrico braced his legs and used his knees to hold the pump handle as he pushed the shotgun forward, racking a shell into the chamber.

He jammed the barrel into the spider's body and pulled the trigger. The blast knocked the spider away from him and the recoil almost broke his arm. He tossed the broken stool aside and pumped another shell into place. The wounded spider came for him again and he fired, hitting it square in the face.

He used the gun as a crutch as he got to his feet. The spider squirmed on the ground in front of him, legs writhing mindlessly, trying to reach the prey even as it had lost eyes to see and mouth to feed. Enrico racked another shell in and stood over the spider. The last shot blew it in half, separating the abdomen from the rest of the body. It stopped squirming and eventually went still, disgusting red and green blood oozing from the wounds and spreading out across the floor.

He stood for a few minutes and wiped his forehead, which was dripping with sweat. Exhausted, he slung the shotgun back over his shoulder and reached down to pick up the pistol he had dropped. He looked one final time down at the dead spider on the floor and slowly shook his head.

"I hate spiders," he muttered.
Chapter 33

Rebecca opened the office door a crack, and when the dog tried to push its way through, Billy stuck a shotgun through the opening and blew its head off. The body tumbled backwards and thumped against the wall, blood oozing from the fresh stump at the end of its neck. Billy thrust the gun to the left and right, expecting another dog to come running for them, but none came. He pushed the door open all the way and crept into the hallway. Rebecca followed close behind. She now had a fully-loaded pistol in her hand and another in her holster, both of them standard nine-millimeter Glocks. Billy had the shotgun and a Glock of his own shoved in his belt.

"Do you think we should go back outside?" she whispered over his shoulder.

"I would love to," Billy said. "How about you go first and tell me if it's safe?"

"You don't have to be a jerk."

"Hey, if you want to go outside, be my guest. But I like the idea of having doors to hide behind if we run into any more monsters."

"We need to find somewhere safe, Billy, and it isn't safe in here."

"Safer in here than out there."

Rebecca had nothing to say to that. Staying in this mysterious, abandoned mansion was a bad idea; who knew what could be lurking around the next corner? They'd already run into zombies and now mutated dogs, and she did not doubt for a moment that they would only find worse monsters the farther they went. This building was haunted.

But outside ... she did not even want to imagine trying to run through the woods in total darkness, not even knowing what might be just steps behind her. At least in here, they had light and could see what they were up against. And now they were armed. Maybe they had a fighting chance.

"So what do you think is causing all this?" Billy asked as they headed down the next hallway.

"What do you mean? How would I know?" Rebecca looked over her shoulder, nervous that something might be sneaking up behind them. For all she knew, something might come through the wall at any moment.

"I'm just wondering about this mansion. Why do you think it's deserted?"

"I have no idea."

"I wonder if it has anything to do with the zombies."

"How could there be a connection? This place has been empty for years, and I never saw a zombie in my entire life until an hour ago."

"Well, Umbrella makes chemicals and medicines and things, right? Maybe they were working on some formula and something went wrong. Instead of curing a disease, it turns people into zombies."

Rebecca shook her head. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard of. There's no way they could accidentally make something like that."

"Maybe that's why they closed this place up. Maybe they had some kind of accident."

"I don't believe that."

"All the scientists here probably turned into zombies and they've been haunting the place ever since."

"Shut up."

They turned another corner and found a dead end. The hallway ended with a small table with an ornate lamp on top. A painting of some anonymous countryside hung on the wall. On their left were two doors side by side, and on the right was a window looking out toward the back of the property. Billy went to the window, pressing his hands on the glass.

"Just more trees," he said quietly. "I can't see anything out there."

Rebecca went to the doors. One had a small emblem of a man and the other had an emblem of a woman. Rest rooms.

"Thank God for that," she muttered. "Listen, I'll be just a minute," she said to Billy, before carefully pushing the women's door open and flipping on the light switch inside. Billy didn't expect there to be any zombies in the bathroom, but Rebecca looked around inside thoroughly before closing the door behind her.

Billy stood at the window and crossed his arms. He didn't really believe any of that nonsense about Umbrella. Rebecca was handling herself pretty well, better than Billy would have expected from a young girl like her, but she was nearing the end of her rope. She might be a cop, but she wasn't a soldier. Billy was a soldier, and he knew that keeping your head in a dangerous situation was half the battle. Talking to her, making her think about something other than what might be around the next corner, was the best way to keep her steady. Keeping silent just allowed your thoughts to run wild, and he needed her to remain focused.

Regardless, it would be easier for two people to make it out of here alive than just one, even if one of them was an inexperienced young girl who could just barely keep her fear in check. She did seem to be a pretty good shot, but she was still scared. Billy was scared too, he couldn't deny that, but he had been dealing with fear for half his life. Zombies, as terrifying as they might seem to be, were nowhere near as frightening as trained guerrilla soldiers stalking you in the middle of the jungle. Zombies were stupid and unarmed, and that made them a walk in the park compared to what he had faced in the past.

He glanced back at the rest room door, getting impatient. He didn't like being cornered at the end of the hallway, if something came after them, he would be stuck.

And then something flashed by the window. Billy backed up immediately and raised the shotgun to his shoulder, holding his breath expectantly. He only saw a glimpse, but it looked like a person wearing something white, just barely illuminated by the light coming through the window. Billy took another two steps back but heard and saw nothing. He let out his breath slowly.

The window exploded in a rush of breaking glass and Billy pulled the trigger. The glittering bits of glass, combined with the shotgun's bright muzzle flash, were like a blast of fireworks in the narrow hallway. The boom of the gun was like a gigantic bass drum thundering in his ears.

Before Billy even could pump another shell in, something hit him squarely in the chest and lifted him off the floor. He held his breath again as he hit the ground and did a backward somersault, winding up on his knees. He racked another shell and pulled the trigger again, blowing a hole the size of a dinner plate in the wall.

It wasn't a zombie, but it wasn't a man either. Or rather, it was a man but it wasn't human. It was like a blurred photograph, the figure of a man wearing black pants and a white lab coat, but his features smudged and unrecognizable. His skin rippled and bulged like something was inside and trying to get out. And it moved faster than anything Billy had ever seen.

He got one foot under him before the creature swung an arm and knocked him off his feet again. The arm stretched out like a rubber band, swatting him down the hallway like a lizard's tail striking an insect. Billy grimaced and got onto his hands and knees, the shotgun far out of reach. Nothing was broken, but the blow knocked the wind out of him.

The creature turned the corner and came for him again. It was like watching a movie in fast forward; the creature was a blur from one spot to the next, and then Billy would see it clearly for a split second before the creature moved again. He reached behind him and pulled out the pistol. The creature screamed something unintelligible and shifted location again like some kind of static teleportation. Billy raised the gun and fired.

He didn't even know if he hit it, but the creature screamed again and jerked sideways, its whole body quivering and rippling. Billy braced himself and fired again, this time seeing a burst of watery blood squirt from the creature's shoulder and a chunk of flesh fly away.

And then more gun shots, but not from Billy. Rebecca was behind it, firing bullet after bullet into its squirming torso. The beast roared and spun around, bits of it being shot off each time Rebecca pulled the trigger. It reared back and swung its arm at her, the limb stretching twenty feet down the hallway like a whip. Rebecca jumped away as the arm smashed into the wall behind her, leaving a raw imprint raining plaster and broken drywall.

Billy shot it twice more and the creature roared, slamming the walls to its left and right, caving them in as if they were made of wet clay. It jumped forward and smashed right through a door to Billy's left, screaming so loud that his ears rang. There was another loud crash of breaking glass and wood and then nothing.

He grabbed his shotgun off the floor and staggered to the dark room, but he could see that it was empty. Instead of a wall, there was just a large hole at the other end of the room, leading out into the night. Billy limped toward it and looked outside. Nothing was there, not even a path of destruction to follow.

He went back out into the hallway and saw Rebecca come for him. Just as she reached him, he fell to his knees and the shotgun fell from his hand. She knelt down, grabbed his shoulders, and looked into his eyes.

"Look at me, Billy. Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

Billy's head slumped forward but he nodded, even though his ears were still ringing from the monster's inhuman screams. He had never felt more weak in his life. "Yes, I can hear you."

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

"Sit for a minute and catch your breath, okay?"

"Sure."

Rebecca left him for just a second to run to the room and see for herself that the beast was gone. Now that they were safe, Billy took a moment to see the damage. The walls looked as if they had been smashed by a wrecking ball. There was no way a living creature could have done that; even a raging elephant could not have just crushed the walls like that.

Rebecca helped Billy to his feet. He rubbed the side of his head and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, Rebecca was staring directly at him.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"That thing. It was him."

"Who?"

"The man on the train. That thing we just fought was the man I saw jump off the train."
Chapter 34

Lisa remembered the sun, but only vaguely. When she walked outside for the first time, she stared up at it in fascination until her eyes stung and black dots swam before her. It had been so long since she'd seen it, she felt that she was experiencing it for the first time. It was only a dim recollection in her mind, a fragment of a fragment of a childhood memory. Like so much of the rest of her earliest experiences, her memories of the sun were foggy and indistinct, so that she didn't know what was memory and what was half-forgotten dream.

It took her some time to get out of the long rooms under the ground, even longer since she kept spending time to investigate her new surroundings, but eventually she made it to the surface and rediscovered the sun among so many other things. There was a big building that seemed familiar. But it was the other things that caught her attention.

She saw all kinds of plants and trees and animals, and was inundated with a whole new range of smells and sights to keep her entertained. She liked the feeling of grass under her feet, she liked the wind blowing through her hair. It was like entering a whole new world, and within hours she had mostly forgotten about her long captivity in her room deep underground. Only occasionally did she think about the years she spent there, even with her friends' faces to remind her.

Now that she was free, she remembered more things. She remembered the sun, she remembered trees and birds and flowers. Being out of the rooms underground made her aware of more things.

When Lisa really tried, she could almost recall a time when she didn't live with the caretakers in her room under the ground. In her dreams, she saw a woman's face and knew who the woman was. It was her mother. But when she woke she would lose the vision and forget once more.

She was free now, free to roam through the woods and smother herself in all these new wonderful experiences. She still had the restraints attached to her scabbed wrists, but that was okay, because they did not hinder her movement. She could move very fast when she walked to, running across the grass at great speed, leaping high into the air. All the time, her chains clanked and banged loudly behind her, but she was so used to the sounds that she barely noticed them.

She came upon a ramshackle building close to the big building and decided to stay there. It was nicer than her room under the ground. It had a door so she could leave whenever she wanted. Once or twice, she encountered a new friend and took their face as a souvenir of the meeting. She had several faces now to remind her of the past. Several faces to keep her company.

The woman in her dreams, the one she knew as her mother, used to be her caretaker. Lisa remembered that. She had not known about her mother when she was still in her room underground, but being outside awakened the memories. Her mother was a caretaker, but not like her other caretakers, who always wore white shirts and did not talk to her. Her mother talked to her.

Lisa could not talk yet. She knew that people could move their mouths to make word sounds, but whenever she tried to make word sounds, it came out as gibberish. But she understood some of them, and wished she could find a new friend who might talk to her the way her mother had talked to her in the past, long ago.

Her mother had been her first caretaker, along with a man whose name Lisa had forgotten. They were her first caretakers, but they were long gone now. Maybe they were dead.

The thought surprised her. What did 'dead' mean? The word came to her sometimes but she didn't understand it. Her friends weren't dead, were they? Maybe she was the one who was dead and she didn't know it.
Chapter 35

"Listen," Billy said, "I don't care who or what that was. It's gone now, so there's no reason to run away."

"It's not safe here," Rebecca insisted. "We have to get out of here while we still can."

"It's outside and we're inside," Billy said. "And you want to go outside and join it?"

Rebecca pointed at the ragged whole in the wall where the creature had entered from. The entire hall was now littered with shattered wood, broken glass, and other debris. "It was outside before, and that didn't seem to protect us, now did it? I'm telling you that we are not safe here!"

"And where do you suggest we go? Who knows what else is waiting for us."

"If we stay here, we're just going to get lost. And then we'll be stuck here. Pretty soon we're going to get hungry and tired, and before that happens, I want to be somewhere safe. If you want to stay here in this death trap, be my guest," she said, mocking what Billy had said to her earlier. "But I'm getting out of here."

She stormed off back down the hall toward the main lobby. Billy watched her go and clenched his teeth in frustration. Didn't she understand that at this point, nowhere was safe? This mansion was the safest place they could possibly be. All they had to do was do some exploring until they found a secluded room without any windows, where they could barricade the door and wait out the storm. If they got tired, they could sleep in shifts. They were bound to get hungry, but what did she expect to find, a fast food restaurant next door? They were stuck here no matter what they did, because the only alternative was to go back outside, and that would be sheer stupidity. Why didn't she understand that?

He gripped his shotgun tighter, expecting to use it very soon. As much as he wanted to just go his own way, he couldn't let Rebecca go off on her own. It was not that he owed her anything; he had saved her life earlier and now she had saved his, so they were even. But to let her go off alone would be to let her go to her death, and he couldn't live with that. He wondered if he could just knock her out and carry her to safety. It would be easier than arguing every step of the way. Quieter too.

By the time he followed her to the lobby, she had already climbed up the stairs and was standing by the doors directly under the huge portrait of Dr. Marcus. She gave him an annoyed look when she saw him.

"Well, are you coming?" she asked.

He trudged up the stairs and stood on the other side of the doors. "You're impossible," he said, racking a shell into the shotgun.

"You just don't want to admit that I'm right."

"Whatever. Let's just do this."

Rebecca opened the door and they eased their way through, finding themselves in a large room lines with rows of computer desks. At the front of the room was a projector screen and a lectern. There were no zombies inside, and they both breathed quiet sighs of relief. Rebecca led the way through the room toward the doors in the back.

Despite herself, she was glad that Billy chose to join her. There was no way she was staying in this mansion, but she didn't really want to leave by herself. Their chances of survival increased as long as they stayed together. But she would have left even if he didn't come with her. If faced with two bad alternatives, she would rather leave and take her chances alone than stay in this mansion and face certain death.

Didn't Billy understand that staying here would do nothing but get them killed? Barricading themselves in some room would only turn them into sitting ducks. The zombies could just keep coming and congregate outside the door to keep them from leaving. They took plenty of ammo from the office, but it wouldn't last forever. For all they knew, the zombies could follow them by scent. They would be trapped in a room with no food or water while anything could wait outside the door for them to come out. And the zombies could wait forever, while they could not. Why couldn't he see that? The only way they were going to stay alive would be to keep moving. If they stopped to rest, it had to be a location with more than one entrance, so they would not be trapped there. And it had to have thick walls.

The doors at the other end of the room were already open. The lock was broken as if smashed with a hammer, but the doors themselves were undamaged. Rebecca bent down to examine part of the broken lock that had fallen to the floor, and noticed the footprints. Billy, noticing them as well, stepped back and followed the path around the room. The footprints were of bare feet, with bits of dirt and wet grass tracked across the room. They went from the door to the lectern at the front of the room, around the rows of desks to the door leading to the lobby, and then back to the rear door. They were still wet; whoever made them had just been in the room moments ago.

"It has to be the same guy," Rebecca whispered, still kneeling on the floor.

"The one that just attacked us?"

"He had bare feet. I noticed it when he jumped off the train."

Billy looked back at the door to the lobby. "He walked right over there. He must have heard us shooting those dogs."

"But then he went back outside. Why would he do that? He could have just gone through the lobby if he wanted to attack us."

Billy shook his head. "I don't really care what his motives are. I don't care who or what he is."

"He didn't attack us, Billy. He only attacked you. I was in the bathroom."

"He must not have known you were there."

"He didn't attack me on the train either, and he easily could have."

"Maybe he was too busy getting off the train to worry about you. He probably figured you would die in the crash anyway. If we had both been in that hallway, he would have attacked both of us, I'm sure of it."

Rebecca stood back up. "I wish I knew who he was. He's not a zombie like the others. He's not mindless, he smashed the train's controls on purpose."

"He's not a zombie, he's something worse. You saw what he did to the walls, he practically knocked them down with his arms. And he might not be mindless, but he isn't exactly in control of himself. He behaved like a wild animal."

"I know, but I can't help but wonder what made him that way."

Rebecca opened the door and crept through, looking around outside before letting Billy follow behind her. He held the shotgun up and braced it against his shoulder, ready to pull the trigger right away. It was still dark and gloomy outside, but the moon filtering through the clouds gave just enough light to make out their surroundings. A large cement patio with a fountain in the center, and paths, now overgrown with weeds, leading into the trees in distance.

From their new vantage point, they could see that the mansion was in the shape of an L. To their left, they could see how it extended at a right angle farther to the back of the property, and to their right it seemed to end a hundred feet down. But what they noticed first was the large tower off to their right.

"What is that, a grain silo?" Billy asked.

Rebecca took a few steps so she could get a better view. "No, there's something jutting out the top. I think it's a big telescope."

The tower was over two stories tall with a door on the second level leading to a balcony on the second floor of the mansion via a narrow walkway. The entrance on the ground floor was two solid metal doors lined with rust. The tower itself appeared to be built of solid cement blocks mortared in place. The structure looked curiously out of place next to the mansion, and not just because of its appearance.

"Umbrella is a pharmaceutical company," Billy said. "Why would they have a telescope at their training center?"

"I don't know, maybe just for their employees' recreational use."

Billy shook his head and went toward the tower. "If your employees want some recreation, you give them some pool tables or video games. The only people who would use a place like this would be astronomers."

They went to the doors and Billy slung the shotgun over his shoulder. Rebecca kept on the look out for zombies as he braced himself and pulled on the doors. The rusted edges crumbled and creaked much louder than Billy would have preferred.

"They're stuck. They probably haven't been opened in years."

"Are they locked?" Rebecca asked.

"No, they give about an inch. I think they're just stuck. Give me a hand."

Rebecca hesitantly slid her pistol into her belt, half-expecting zombies to jump out of the bushes as soon as she did so. None did, so she gripped one door handle while Billy grabbed the other. They pulled at the same time and the doors opened a few more inches, enough for them to squeeze in between.

The interior was as dark and cold as a tomb. Billy felt along the wall for a light switch but only discovered spider webs. What little light remained outside did not filter in through the crack in the doors, and the two of them were completely blind in the pitch darkness. Rebecca slid her feet along the dusty floor and hit something. When she bent down to investigate, she found what felt like stairs. They led up to the second floor.

"I can't find any lights," Billy said quietly.

"I wish I hadn't broken my flashlight," Rebecca muttered.

"Do you have a lighter?"

"No, I don't smoke. Actually, I just remembered that I have some flares."

"That would work fine," Billy said.

Rebecca knelt down and opened a small pants pouch down by her ankle. Inside were three flares about the size of a pencil. She pulled the cap off one and the tip burst into bright blue and yellow light. Rebecca and Billy both had to cover their eyes against the shining glare, and Rebecca held it above her head like a torch.

The inside of the tower was mostly featureless. A plain cement staircase with a black metal railing curved up to the second level. There were a few moldy cardboard boxes on the floor next to some old bags of fertilizer and empty metal pails, leftover gardening supplies stored here for some reason. The big surprise was the elevator in the center of the tower. There were no buttons, but there was a metal panel covering what might have been a button pad.

Worried that the light and noise might attract unwanted undead visitors, they took a moment to pull the doors closed. They took an old metal rake and slid it through the door handles, even though they doubted that the rake would really slow anyone down if they wanted to get inside.

"I think we might be safe here," Rebecca said. "At least for now."

Billy looked at her incredulously. "Five minutes ago, you kept going on about how we had to keep moving. And now you think it's safe inside here?"

"We weren't safe in the mansion, Billy," Rebecca said, holding the flare up high and looking up the staircase. She had returned her pistol to her other hand. "I'd rather be in here than stuck in there."

Billy looked back at the doors and for the moment, he had to agree with her. The doors were heavy and solid and opened outward, assuring them that zombies would not easily break them down. And the walls were solid cement instead of wood, so even the maniac they had fought would find it hard to break them down. And in an emergency, they could escape through the walkway upstairs back to the mansion. Billy, almost involuntarily, began coming up with plans of action based around the tower as their focal point.

Meanwhile, Rebecca headed up the stairs, leaving Billy in the dark. The second level of the tower had a tilted seat for someone to look through the telescope, which went right through an opening in the ceiling. There didn't seem to be any way to retract the lens, and Rebecca wondered how they kept it safe from the elements. Just out of curiosity, she tried to look through it but saw nothing but black. Maybe it wasn't turned on.

A thin glass door led outside to the walkway. Rebecca opened it and looked around. Two doors led from the mansion balcony to rooms within, but there was no other way up there. She closed it after her and went back downstairs.

"Anything useful up there?" Billy asked.

"Not really, just the telescope. Some controls and things. The door to that balcony wouldn't be hard to break down, though."

"Could a zombie climb up there?"

"No way. The only way to get there would be from the mansion."

"That's not too bad. It would be easy to defend if we had to."

"Yeah," Rebecca said, turning her flare away from Billy to look at the elevator behind him. "That's funny. This elevator doesn't go up to the second floor." She walked past him and touched the metal panel. On the underside, she noticed a small keyhole.

"You mean this goes underground?" Billy asked.

"I guess so. I wonder why." Rebecca handed Billy the flare, which by now had burned halfway down. She fished her pocket knife out of a supply pouch and extended the blade. Sticking it up under the panel, it did not take long to pry it back enough to bend it out of the way with her hand. Underneath was a number pad, dust free thanks to the panel.

"Well, that rules out that idea," Billy said, disappointed. "Unless you magically know the code to get inside."

"I could probably figure it out. Do you want me to try?" Rebecca asked.

"How could you figure it out?"

Rebecca went back to her supply pouch and took out a small plastic case. Inside was fine black powder and a tiny brush. Rebecca wiped the number pad with the brush. The powder stuck to five of the numbers.

"I thought you were a medic," Billy said. "Why do you have a fingerprint case?"

Rebecca shrugged and stuck the case back in the pouch. "I guess I like to be prepared."

"Got any zombie repellent in that supply belt of yours?"

"Very funny."

The fingerprint powder stuck to the numbers five through nine. Since the keypad had been covered and protected from dust and the elements, the numbers still held the residue from the last time they had been pressed, years before. Rebecca wasn't interested in the fingerprints themselves, she just wanted to know which ones had been pressed.

"Five, six, seven, eight, nine?" Billy suggested with a smile.

If for no other reason than to annoy Billy, Rebecca pressed them in the opposite order, and the elevator beeped satisfactorily. The doors slid open, ripping apart the cobwebs that covered them, and the light in the elevator compartment turned on.

"Well?" Rebecca asked. "That was simple enough."

"Do you want to go down to wherever this leads?" Billy asked.

"Sure, do you?"

Billy thought about it for a moment. "The way I look at it, if this is some special entrance to an underground lab or something, how could any zombies make their way down there? It's probably safer down there than it is up here."

"Sounds good to me," Rebecca said, and with that she walked inside.

Billy followed her inside. As the elevator doors closed, he looked at her and said, "You know, I was just being sarcastic."
Chapter 36

Wesker entered the lab room and shrugged his jacket from his shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. He tossed his car keys onto a nearby counter and resisted the urge to fall into a chair. He knew that if he sat down, he would never be able to stand back up.

"You don't look so good," Birkin said. "In fact, you look pretty bad. How long have you been awake now? Thirty hours?"

"Something like that."

"You should sleep."

Wesker leaned against a desk; it was the closest he'd allow himself to sitting down. "I have too much to do. I haven't even finished packing the samples."

"I can do that myself," Birkin said. "You can even trust me to do that right."

Wesker slid his fingers under his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. "Are you saying that I can't trust you to do the rest?"

"Well, I have this little thing called a conscience."

"So do I. But I installed a mute button."

Birkin smirked. "Very funny. But I'm serious, Wesker. You look like you're about to fall asleep standing up."

Wesker waved him away. "I'll be fine."

"Are you sure you want to pack samples if you're that tired? You might get clumsy and drop one of them. No offense, but I don't think I trust you to do it right."

"Fine," Wesker mumbled irritably. "You pack the remaining samples. But I have to monitor the Bravo team. Check their progress."

"I can do that too, you know."

Wesker ran a hand through his hair and his hand came away greasy. He'd been too busy the past few days to take a shower. He hadn't slept, he hadn't eaten. Considering the importance of the work he was doing, exhaustion was not likely to lead to success. He really should get some rest if he wanted to be ready and alert for the final stage, planned for late tomorrow night.

But it bothered him that Birkin was urging him toward sleep. Birkin couldn't have discovered anything important in the few hours he'd been gone, but then again, he was so tired that he might have missed something. Just because Birkin had a higher moral standard, or at least claimed to, it did not mean he was any less cunning. Most likely, he wanted Wesker asleep and out of the way so he could investigate the lab without his supervision for an extended period of time. Maybe he even felt that he could thwart Wesker's plans.

Wesker doubted that. Things had progressed much too far for Birkin to alter in a few hours. The disease was rampant, the Bravo team was already there, the zombies were contained momentarily. What harm could Birkin cause in eight hours? That would be more than enough sleep for Wesker. And then he would be rested and alert and prepared for the what was to come tomorrow. By that point, Birkin's presence in the lab would be irrelevant.

And besides, one of the reasons he had invited Birkin there in the first place was to hold the fort while he slept. If he refused to sleep, Birkin had no purpose there at all.

"All right," Wesker finally said. "I'll sleep for eight hours. Can you handle this on your own for that long?"

"You know I can," Birkin said, sounding rather self-satisfied.

Wesker left the room and went down the hall to one of the smaller offices. He had set up a cot the day before, ready for him to sleep on when he finally couldn't stay awake any longer. He kicked off his shoes and set his sunglasses on the floor beside the cot. He was asleep the moment he closed his eyes.

Birkin looked into the office a few minutes later. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, looking down at Wesker with an amused smile on his face. Somehow, when he was asleep, he looked different. Less threatening, maybe, but certainly less calculating.

Birkin probably knew Wesker as well as anyone on earth, save for the fugitive Spencer. Wesker never just looked at people, he studied them. He sized them up and determined what their strengths and weaknesses were, and how he could successfully take advantage of both. Wesker's mistrustful, manipulative nature was like a mask.

But sleeping, the mask was gone. The lines on his face softened, the harsh angle of his eyes relaxed, and the confident sneer of his mouth gone. He looked almost normal. He looked like he really did have a conscience. Birkin tried to remember what Wesker looked like when he was asleep. What he looked like when he wasn't constantly on his guard.

It occurred to Birkin that in all the years he'd known him, this was the first time he had ever seen Wesker without his sunglasses on. He always assumed that Wesker even slept with them.

He left the room silently, although he didn't think the sound of footsteps could wake Wesker now. He said he would sleep only eight hours, but Birkin intended to let him sleep as long as possible. He certainly wasn't going to wake him up. Wesker could only boss him around and get in the way if he was awake, and Birkin wanted some time to search the labs and learn what Wesker planned to do next. The possibility that Wesker actually told him everything never even entered his mind.

Of course, he knew that Wesker planned on leaving him in charge, so he doubted that he would discover anything blatantly obvious. But it would be best for him to look around some more to get a better feel for the whole operation.

Annette didn't like it when he called to tell her he wouldn't be home. He was deliberately vague about what he was doing and when he'd be home, much to her displeasure, but there was no real way around it. He couldn't very well confide in her that the Progenitor had gotten loose and all the scientists at Spencer's lab were now the walking dead. He didn't even tell her that was where he was, because that alone would have aroused too much suspicion. But he assured her that he would be home on Sunday night, as promised, and that helped derail some of her disappointment.

Unfortunately, Wesker's little dilemma overshadowed Birkin's family life, for the moment.

Birkin played the scenario over in his head a dozen times. Honestly, what would he have done in the same situation? Wesker hadn't released the Progenitor in the first place, that had been the work of the mystery man at the treatment plant. Then Spencer ran off, leaving Wesker holding the bag. Nothing that Wesker did mattered by that point. Birkin gave Wesker credit for standing his ground even then. He could have followed Spencer's advice and disappeared.

But to release the virus at the lab and infecting all the scientists working there? Was that really the best thing to do? Wesker had basically murdered dozens of innocent men, and for what? To save his work? To erase evidence and silence witnesses? To further his ambition? Wesker was too hard to figure out sometimes. It could be all or none of the above.

Birkin envisioned an outbreak at his own lab. The virus is loose, and it is only a matter of time before it spreads through the lab and reaches the city. What would he do?

Although he tried to believe he would take the noble course, he knew deep down that his first reaction would be to somehow delay the spread of the virus until he had secured the majority of his work and then escaped afterward, long after he had any chance of stopping it or warning the populace of the danger. His work was everything, it was his entire life. Wesker had said as much to him. He would not go about it in exactly the same way, but he would basically do as Wesker was doing. Contain the spread, minimize the chance of discovery for the time-being, and save as much of your work as possible before the outbreak gets out of control. Worry about yourself and your work first.

Infecting the other scientists was ruthless and inhuman to be sure, but it accomplished the desired effect: containing the spread. If Wesker warned the scientists, they would have escaped the compound and some of them would have undoubtedly informed the authorities. It didn't even matter if the police believed them. The point was that it would not help matters. If Wesker had simply not told them and let the virus make its way there through more conventional means, then he would have had an uncontrolled outbreak, and some of the scientists might have escaped anyway, maybe even infected ones. That choice could have spread the disease to Raccoon City even faster. It would have been a catastrophe.

Was that any better than deliberately infecting them all and letting them die? Was it any better than what Spencer had done? Was there anything Wesker could have truly done different? Maybe, but then he would not have been Wesker.

Birkin gradually made his way to one of the security offices and took a seat in front of a row of television monitors. Typing in a series of commands on a nearby keyboard, Birkin made the monitors come to life one by one, each displaying a different scene. Each screen showed the view from a different security camera from somewhere on Umbrella property. The Spencer mansion and labs, the Marcus labs, the old treatment plant, and even the closed training center.

Despite being deserted for well over a decade now, the training facility was never fully abandoned. Birkin never knew that it still had electricity and running water, and all the security cameras were still completely functional. At any time since the building had been locked up, Birkin could have patched into the security grid and viewed the rooms and hallways. Not that he, or anyone for that matter, had any reason to do so until just recently. But it was a good thing the cameras had stayed operational; Birkin doubted that Wesker could have made his plans without them.

Birkin sat back and put his hands in his lap. He felt like a voyeur in the worst way.

One of the cameras showed a black and white image of a narrow hallway ending in a small waiting lounge. There was an end table with an ornate lamp in the corner, two plush seats facing either side, and a black man crouched between a chair and the wall, a pistol shaking in his hands. It was one of the members of the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team. Birkin actually recognized where he was. It was down the hall next to the banquet room at the Spencer mansion. He wondered whether or not the officer would stay there if he knew that he could escape out the front door by simply taking the first door on his right and then heading through the dining room to the lobby.

Another screen showed the rec room at the guardhouse. An enormous dead spider lay in the middle of the floor, killed by another of the S.T.A.R.S. members earlier. Birkin watched the fight in tense disbelief, partially that the Progenitor could cause such unbelievable growth in a spider, and partially that the officer managed to kill it. He was still in the guardhouse somewhere; Birkin could use the cameras to track him if he wanted to.

And the most incredible scene of all: a side view of the lobby of the training center, showing the north main hallway. Everything was calm there now, but less than an hour before it had been quite busy. Birkin rewound the tape half a dozen times to watch the mystery man attack the two officers in the hall. Even after watching it over and over, he still was unsure exactly what it was that he had seen.

It was unprecedented for an animal to exhibit the characteristics the mystery man showed on the video. Birkin was beginning to doubt that his changes could be attributed purely to the Progenitor. Something else was happening. Rapid mutation, uncontrolled physical abilities, movement and speed verging on the supernatural. Nothing Birkin had ever seen in the labs prepared him for what the mystery man was turning into.

His speed and physical capabilities were simply staggering. He moved almost faster than the human eye could see for short distances. The first time Birkin watched the scene, he thought the video was skipping. And the way he lashed out his limbs, stretching them out to many times their original length before retracting them effortlessly, defied description.

Maybe Wesker could have given him a more informed perspective, since for all Birkin knew, Wesker already discovered similar effects in his own experiments. But Birkin opted not to even tell Wesker about what had happened. When Wesker asked if anything important happened while he was gone, Birkin said no. For the moment, he felt it best to keep some details to himself, just in case Wesker found his presence there unnecessary.

Wesker had pages of notes scattered across the office, detailing the events since the original outbreak. Birkin added notes here and there, adding what he felt was important enough to include but not important enough for him to keep to himself for now. He mentioned the current situation of all the members of the team, simply designating them numbers. He didn't know any of their names anyway, and preferred not to, given the circumstances.

"Number One" was the man hiding in the corner lounge. He was the first man to enter the Spencer mansion, and was designated as number one for that reason.

"Number Two" followed Number One inside, and was now prowling around the second floor. Birkin hadn't checked his progress in a little while, so he could have already been killed.

"Number Three" had also entered the mansion and was stranded in the southwest corner. Through the security monitors, Birkin saw what appeared to be a giant snake, yet another extreme mutation caused by the virus. It seemed likely that he would run into it eventually.

"Number Four" was the one at the guardhouse who miraculously killed the spider. Unlike the first three, he was not content to stay put and await his death. He made pretty good progress through the mansion and would soon make his way out of the guardhouse. If he kept going, he would surely make his way to the underground lab complex. Birkin gave him a lot of credit for getting as far as he did. He even killed a zombie or two with nothing more than his knife.

"Number Five" and "Number Six" were at the training facility, after somehow surviving the encounter with the mystery man. Birkin was confused about those two, because the man didn't have a S.T.A.R.S. uniform on, and the young woman appeared to point her gun at him threateningly a few times. But they worked together and S.T.A.R.S. members were the only ones alive on the premises, so they must both be officers. Besides, Wesker told him there were six S.T.A.R.S. members, and no one else had showed up on a security camera.

Exactly how they made it to the training facility was a question he didn't have an answer to. Their first appearance on video was in the main lobby of the mansion, and as far as Birkin could tell, they had come up from the basement, but there weren't any cameras to explain how they got there. He guessed that they must have come from the train Wesker told him about, since the railroad tracks did come fairly close to the training facility. But how they got into the mansion was a mystery.

The last time Birkin checked, they had snuck through the training classroom to the rear of the building, and by coincidence went to the astronomy tower. They probably felt it might be safer in there than in the mansion. There were no cameras in there either, but they hadn't left and there was no way for them to know the code for the elevator, so they must still be there.

So far, it appeared that none of the S.T.A.R.S. members had been killed. Birkin wasn't sure if that was good news or bad, since Wesker's plans required them all to die, but getting killed right away would make their presence there a waste of effort. They needed to stay alive long enough to effectively slow the zombies down, but once that purpose had been served, they were completely expendable.

Although in truth, Birkin didn't see why that had to be the case. If the S.T.A.R.S. members somehow managed to survive, maybe even long enough to escape, what did it matter? The longer they survived, the longer the zombies might be held in check, and that was the whole point after all. The zombies were going to make their way to the city eventually, so nothing the S.T.A.R.S. members could do would amount to anything anyway. Why did it matter if they died here today or in the city a week from now? He would have to ask Wesker about it later.

He checked the cameras for a few minutes, seeing if he could track down the current location of all the S.T.A.R.S. members. Numbers One, Five, and Six were still where he had last seen them. He found Number Four heading down a long hallway entering the labs underneath the guardhouse. He was making some impressive progress. Number Two was out on the second floor balcony of the mansion. Number three was nowhere to be found, but a lot of rooms did not have cameras and Birkin could only assume he was hiding out in one of them. He wrote down everything in a notebook, listing the times and conditions of the S.T.A.R.S. members.

After sitting at the desk for a few minutes, staring up at the screens above him, he picked up a phone on the desk and dialed his lab back in Raccoon City. After two rings, someone answered

"Hello?" said a man's voice. Birkin knew that a handful of people would still be working at the lab, even this late. Getting all the new tests and experiments ready according to Birkin's timetable would require some overtime. Although they were understandably concerned about an unexpected call this late at night.

"This is Birkin," he said. "Who is this?"

"Uh, Raines, sir. I work in lab three."

Birkin put his feet up and tapped the desk top with his free hand, not really caring who it was he was talking to. "Listen to me. This is very important. I know we just got started with the brand new project today, but I need you to stop what you're doing immediately. Scratch everything we have planned. No more tests, no more experiments, stop all work right away."

"What? What do you mean –"

"Shut up," Birkin ordered. "I'm not accustomed to anyone questioning me. You heard what I said. I know this is a shock, but you have to stop all new work as soon as I hang up this phone."

"What ... what do you want us to do?" the researcher said in a weak voice. Birkin could almost imagine the man's face going white with fear, but not just because Birkin was yelling at him. Everyone at the labs was smart enough to know that much of their research was borderline illegal, and if Birkin himself was telling them to shut everything down, that meant something serious was going on.

"Start taking an inventory," Birkin said calmly. "Everything at all the labs. As complete as possible. I want comprehensive files set up for each variation and strain we have samples of. Thankfully, we already have some of that ready right now. But I want all documents and biological reports organized and filed. Have everyone start on this right away, and I mean everyone. Do you have phone numbers for the rest of the research teams?"

"Um, yes, some of them."

"Call all of them and tell them to get to the lab immediately. Get the janitors and the security guards to help you. I want everyone working on this until I give further notice."

"But, but sir ..." the man squeaked. Birkin knew in advance what he was going to say. "Everything, sir? That, that could take weeks ..."

"We don't have weeks," Birkin said. "I'll be back at the lab late tomorrow morning. I'll give you more information when I get there. Until then I want everything at that lab inventoried and organized." As he spoke, he tried to think of everything that needed done. "I want all the sample catalogs pulled and put in order. Make sure everything is labeled correctly. I want all the biological reports and experiment details cross-referenced as thoroughly as possible, and I want all the samples organized to actually match our filing system."

Birkin knew what he was asking of them, and it was just short of impossible. Over the years, Birkin allowed himself to get sloppy with such inconveniences as paperwork and filing. His own office at the lab was a mess of papers and notes in no particular order. He was told it would take weeks, but even that was ridiculously optimistic. Even with two dozen people working around the clock, it could a month or more to complete such an overwhelming task.

"Is something happening, sir? Are we getting shut down?"

"Nothing like that," Birkin said quickly. "We're being audited by upper management. I just found out a little while ago. They were going to inspect the lab without telling us first, so we need to get all this done as fast as possible."

"Okay, sir, I was worried for a bit there," the researcher said, relief evident in his voice.

"Just get started on the inventory. We have maybe a week before the audit, and it all has to be complete by then. I'll call again before I return to see how things are progressing."

"Okay, we'll get on it right away."

Birkin hung up the phone. That should get the ball rolling. By the time he returned to the lab, they should have gotten a good head start on what he actually wanted done. He didn't really need all the files organized and cross-referenced, but he wanted them available without having to look for them. When he returned, he had to get as many samples packed away as possible. He needed all the biological reports in his possession, and all the samples at least set up to be taken away on a moment's notice. He had to be prepared for the inevitable.

His turn would come soon, and he wanted to be ready for it.
Chapter 37

The elevator door opened, and Billy and Rebecca found themselves underground. They stepped out into a long, dark hallway, illuminated only by the light from the elevator. Billy held the door open to keep them from getting lost in the darkness. For the moment, they just waited.

The place felt like a crypt. Rebecca wondered how long this place had lay unused. Years? Decades? And even more nagging was the reason for its abandonment. There were too many frightening coincidences. The dead coming back to life, a spooky abandoned mansion in the middle of the forest, and a company like Umbrella somehow involved in it all. Rebecca was not the type to give credence to conspiracy theorists who claimed that multinational pharmaceutical corporations like Umbrella engaged in illegal genetic experiments and such, but what were the odds that zombies would appear in a place like this? She had no doubts that they were about to enter an old research laboratory, hidden underneath the mansion above.

She took a few hesitant footsteps and flipped on a nearby row of light switches. For a moment, nothing happened, and they both feared that there was no electricity. But then the fluorescent lights above them flickered to life, glowing dimly at first, and gradually gaining strength until they spread pale white light across the entire hallway.

"Do you smell that?" Billy asked.

Rebecca sniffed the air and noticed the faint, lingering odor of chemicals. She couldn't place it exactly, but it reminded her of a hospital smell. Disinfectants, or something similar. But it wasn't fresh, it smelled old, like the inside of a time capsule.

Together, they slowly moved down the hall. Their feet made prints in the fine layer of dust on the floor, which was otherwise undisturbed, informing them that no zombies had been walking around there recently. Still, they took no chances. They walked side-by-side, weapons drawn and ready.

Rebecca nudged open the first door on the left, revealing a supply room of some kind. Each side of the room had a long, wide counter with cupboards above and below. The room was otherwise empty. Billy pushed open the door on the right, revealing a small bathroom. They let the doors close and continued down the hall.

"Look at that," Billy said. Rebecca stopped to see, but Billy walked ahead of her, right to the end of the hallway.

The hallway ended with a door to the left and an open doorway to the right, leading to a large laboratory room. But the wall where Billy stood was badly damaged. The metal ventilation panel along the floor was perforated with holes, and the white plaster above it was gouged and chipped all over. There was no leftover debris on the floor, so it must have been swept up, but it looked like someone had taken a pickaxe to the wall. Rebecca stepped closer, and realized it hadn't been chipped away after all.

"Automatic weapons fire," Billy said, running his hand across the damage. "Small arms, probably an uzi or a small caliber submachine gun." The wall to his right, directly before the entrance to the lab room, was shot up as well.

"Whatever happened, it's been cleaned up," Rebecca observed. "There's nothing on the floor."

Billy examined the wall closely. "That's the chemical smell. They cleaned this place up pretty good, but blood is pretty messy. I don't see any stains on the wall here."

"What were they shooting at then?"

"I don't know, but they have to have emptied two hundred rounds of ammo into this wall. They were shooting at something."

Rebecca looked curiously into the lab to their right and walked inside. The room was about fifty feet by twenty. The far wall was taken up by tall cupboards that looked almost like lockers. The wall to her right was one long desktop, empty except for three computer monitors wrapped in plastic dust covers. The wall to the left was plain except for two large indentations two feet deep and four feet wide.

Billy seemed interested more in the bullet-riddled wall than the room, so Rebecca looked around. The chemical smell was stronger here, but still faint. She wondered about the two large alcoves in the wall, and examined them closer. There was a groove along the entire inside, an inch from the edge. It only took Rebecca a moment to realize that she was looked at an enclosed terrarium, now unused. The groove was where the glass had been. Right away, she noticed scattered holes in the wall. More bullet holes.

She called Billy over, and he gently touched the holes in the wall. There were a few on the wall itself, and a few along the inside of the terrarium as well. Billy looked back to the door and nodded to himself. "There must have been a stand-off. Someone was hiding in this room. That's what all the gunfire in the hallway must have been about."

"What do you mean?" Rebecca asked. "They shot someone in here?"

"He must have been at the doorway holding them off. I bet we could find more bullet holes in the wall by the elevator. They shot up that wall and the doorway trying to hit him. Then they came in here and gunned him down." Billy stood in the middle of the room, facing the doorway. Rebecca, standing in front of him, could now see how all of the bullet holes in the lab wall were generally centered around where Billy was standing.

"How did you know that?" Rebecca asked.

Billy rubbed his chin and looked back at the terrarium. "I'm a soldier, remember? If there's one thing I understand, it's gun fights. With all the bullet holes out in the hall, there were probably three or four guys with automatics. In other words, trained soldiers. Security guards or civilians would have been using pistols."

"Maybe it was a S.W.A.T. team," Rebecca suggested.

Billy shook his head. "Do you really think that police officers have ever been down here?"

"But why would they send soldiers down here to kill someone?"

Billy folded his arms and stared at the terrarium. Rebecca felt her gaze drawn to it as well, and her imagination tried to conjure up what kind of creatures had been grown there.

"I bet that's why they closed this place," Billy said. "One of their scientists went too far and they had to silence him."

"This is crazy, Billy," Rebecca said. "We don't know what happened down here. Maybe a wild animal got loose down here and they had to put it down."

Billy smiled at her. "Do you really think that?"

"All I'm saying is that we're making wild guesses. It must have happened years ago, and we can't start making up crazy theories. Who knows what happened? We should focus on getting out of here alive."

"You have a point," Billy conceded.

"Good, now let's get going."

They left the room, went across the hall, and through the door to another hallway lined with thick glass doors and windows. Each room was about five feet square, with nothing but a large ventilation cover in the ceiling. Windows allowed people in the hall to look into the rooms, even though the doors were glass. There were half a dozen such rooms.

"I don't like this," Rebecca said nervously.

"Observation rooms," Billy said unnecessarily. "They did experiments here."

"Look at that one."

The window to the room at the far right was damaged. It was safety glass, but something had struck it hard enough to leave a spiderweb crack pattern. Billy ran his hand along the glass.

"It's bulged out here," he said. "Whatever hit the glass came from the inside."

"Something trying to get out?"

"Seems that way."

"What could have hit it that hard?"

Billy slid open the door and stepped inside. Rebecca looked at him worriedly, but he waved her off. He pulled out his pistol and fired unexpectedly at the window. Rebecca covered her ears with her hands and shrieked loudly.

The window did not shatter. Now, there were two large spiderweb patterns in the window, almost exactly the same size. "It's bulletproof, even," Billy said, half-surprised. "Someone shot at the window from inside here."

Rebecca moved her hands over her mouth. "Oh my God," she whispered, understanding the implications.

Billy returned the pistol to his back pocket, coming out of the room. He touched Rebecca's shoulder. "Come on, we should keep moving. Some bad things happened here."

They kept going through another door, leading to yet another hallway. Two doors were on the right, both empty. When this lab was shut down, the scientists must have looted it for every available piece of equipment. It was strange, because the mansion above them was apparently still furnished exactly as it had been while it was still in use. At least it looked that way. Why would they leave the mansion so undisturbed, but take everything of value from the labs below?

"We need a map or something," Billy said. "We'll might get lost down here."

"At least we're safe from zombies and dogs. I'll settle for being lost if it means being safe."

Through the next door was another large laboratory room, with more terrariums. Unlike the other lab, this one was larger and more complete, and all the terrariums were still intact. The floor was metal grating, and it clanged gently with their footsteps. Three large machines were against the far wall, silent and useless. More covered computer monitors were on a long desk. But also on the desk were several cardboard boxes.

Billy took a seat, cradling his shotgun in his lap. He faced the door as if guarding it, while Rebecca pulled the cover off one of the boxes and tossed it on the floor. Inside, she discovered dozens of colored folders stuffed with papers. She pulled one out at random and flipped it open.

The letterhead on top of the papers could not be more clear. "Umbrella Research Laboratories, For Authorized Research Personnel Only," it said in large red letters. Each paper was a mass of scribbled notes and diagrams Rebecca could not decipher. She set the folder aside and opened another, finding it much the same.

"Anything useful?" Billy asked, taking a look.

"Not really. It's all just notes and things. I can't read the writing."

"Looks like diagrams of molecules," he guessed. "I didn't take chemistry in high school, though."

Rebecca went through the folders one by one, looking for anything useful, although she doubted she would recognize useful information even if she saw it. Most of it was nearly illegible, full of unknown abbreviations and arrows pointing from one note to the next. Rebecca saw the letters "L" and "P" referenced over and over, but she didn't know what they stood for. There were also dates on most of the papers, but it was obvious that they were not placed in the folders in chronological order. The most recent date they could find was over a decade earlier, giving them at least a minor time frame.

Together, they skimmed most of the papers, looking for anything valuable. Against all odds, they hoped to find a map of the lab, or maybe notes about how to kill zombies, or at least the names of the people involved in the experiments. If she ever got out of here, Rebecca intended to have some evidence to bring to her superiors. She grabbed some of the papers and folded them up, stuffing them into one of her supply pouches.

"I can't find anything," Billy finally said. "This all might as well be written in another language."

"There's got to be something here."

"They probably took all the useful information away when they cleaned the lab. This is all the extra crap they didn't need."

"They didn't need it, but there's got to be something we can use."

Billy opened another box and began riffling through the papers. "This stuff is pretty old," he said. "The date on this one is 1985."

"Let me see," Rebecca said. The paper was full of more notes in the same handwriting, but it was slightly more readable.

"This has some names on it," Billy said, handing another sheet to her.

It was another older one, but instead of haphazard notes and scrawled diagrams, it was just a list of first initials and last names, but the paper didn't say who they were. Rebecca read them quickly, recognizing none of them until she reached the last name on the list.

It was "A. Wesker."
Chapter 38

He rushed wildly through the trees, body throbbing in pain, swatting aside thick branches like they were beads hanging from a doorway. He leaped up and crashed through a tree into open air, sailing as if he was in free-fall, and landed hard on the slippery, muddy ground. His body seemed to pulse with fire, his skin burning as if coated with acid. It was not raining any longer, but the forest was wet from the previous downpour and his clothes were soaked.

He came around the side of the mansion and ran into the rear yard. Before him, silhouetted against the gray night sky, was the astronomy tower, rising above the mansion like a cannon turret standing watch over a medieval castle.

He knew about the tower. He used to live below it. The two intruders went there. He could detect their scent in the humid air. They used the descending room to gain access to his former home. He should follow them.

He could not remember why he attacked them, but he remembered that they had fought back and wounded him. They used guns, just like his murderers used guns against him so long ago. They killed him that time, but this time the guns did not kill him, they only wounded him. And already those wounds were healed. Guns were no longer a threat.

He loped across the yard, making his way through the knee-high grass in just a few steps. He jumped over the concrete railing and landed sure-footedly on the wide patio, balancing himself with one hand on the ground.

His thoughts escaped him. He remembered having a reason for following the man and woman from the train, but it was lost to him now. He stood there in the middle of the patio, breath coming slowly, his mind trying to focus on what he was doing there.

His fingers clenched into a fist so tight his nails dug into the palm of his hand, although no blood came forth. He felt his body tense, urging him forward, but still he held his ground. Why did he want them dead? They were not the ones who killed him last time. They were meaningless to him. But his body forced him to move to the tower and push the doors in. The broke right off their hinges and crashed to the dusty floor.

His real enemies were the ones named Spencer and Wesker, but these two were unknown to him. He let the girl live on the train because there was no reason to kill her, but his body resisted momentarily, as he jumped the railing and flew clear of the train. Now, his body seemed to have control of him. He tried to fight it, tried to remember what was happening to him, but there was only darkness and shadow where his thoughts traveled.

He grabbed the metal doors and pulled them apart like they were banana peels. Beyond the door was a hole leading underground. He could still smell them. They were not far.

He jumped down.
Chapter 39

"That's strange," Rebecca said. "One of the names on this list looks like one of my bosses at the police station. Same first initial and last name."

"What name is it? Could it be the same guy?"

"Albert Wesker. I don't know any of the other names on this list."

Billy glanced down at the paper he was holding. "His name is on this one too," he said, handing it to her.

Before Rebecca could read the paper, she heard a loud noise coming from somewhere else in the lab, making her jump. "What was that?" she asked nervously, stuffing the papers in her pocket and drawing out her pistol.

Billy raised his shotgun and was about to say something when they heard a scream that made their blood run cold. It was not a human scream, but it was a sound they recognized just the same.

"He found us," Billy said through clenched teeth, flinching as another loud crash echoed through the hallways. "He must have come down the elevator."

There was another door at the back of the lab, and Rebecca grabbed Billy's arm to pull him along with her. They rushed through the door and found another lab much like the one they'd just left. They went down a short set of metal steps and hurried through the lab to a set of double doors to their left.

The screams got closer, and a reverberating crash echoed through the lab, the explosive sound of a wall being knocked down. The next hallway was wider than the others, with doors bearing labels like "Tissue Analysis" and "Blood Sample Containment." Rebecca ran full tilt, gun in hand, while Billy trailed behind her, running sideways so he could see behind them, his shotgun ready in his hands.

A bestial scream echoed down the hall so loud it hurt Rebecca's ears, and the doors far behind them crashed open violently, breaking apart into large chunks of plastic. The creature that used to be a man emerged from the wreckage, howling madly, running at them on all fours like an enraged gorilla.

Billy's eyes grew wide and he turned to run backwards, pulling the trigger and quickly pumping the handle to rack another shell into the chamber. The used shell flipped up over his shoulder, swirling a thin line of smoke. He fired again and again, shouting over the roar of the gun.

The creature shuddered with the shots but did not slow down. Bits of cloth and flesh burst from its body but the creature did not even notice. It made up the distance in just a few seconds and was upon them like a cheetah bringing down a gazelle. Billy got one more shot off before the creature's gigantic arm flew at him, bowling him right off his feet. He held his breath as he landed against the wall to keep it from getting knocked out of him.

Rebecca, farther down the hall, turned on her heel and fired her pistol rapidly. The shots did not even seem to effect the beast as it flew at her, swinging its arm like a battle mace. Rebecca jumped at a door, pushing it open and diving inside just as the arm struck the wall. The window on the door shattered, showering her in glass, and the wall smashed inward with the tremendous impact. She slid across the dusty floor, coughing and blinking her eyes, already sliding the used clip from her pistol and fumbling for another.

Billy got to his feet and raised the shotgun to his shoulder, taking just a second to aim as the beast turned its attention back to him. He pulled the trigger and the blast of buckshot caught the monster right in the face.

It staggered backwards, screaming so loud Billy thought his eardrums would break, flailing its arms wildly, smashing the walls around him like they were made of tissue paper. Then, as if by magic, the creature turned back toward him and its face was intact, twisted in hatred and anger. It ran at him in the blink of an eye and knocked the shotgun from his hands. He tried to duck under its arm, but the beast struck him in the chest and slammed him into the wall, knocking the wind out of him.

Gasping for breath, he found himself face to face with it. The face might have been human once, but now it was elongated like a lizard's, with large eyes glowing red and bared teeth like nails. Long black hair hung from its head like a mane. It pushed him against the wall and screamed in his face.

Billy could not breath. The monster's pressure on his chest kept him from inhaling, and he began to feel lightheaded as his body starved for oxygen. Staring up at the monster's face, he thought he saw it changing, rippling like water, moving like a blanket with two bodies underneath. The beast's skin was squirming as if something inside was fighting its way out. Billy's sight began to grow dim.

Rebecca screamed and charged the monster. In her hands was a long metal pole with a wide base, and she ran right at the creature, striking it squarely in the back like a knight jousting with a lance. The pole sunk into the soft flesh and impaled the creature right through the abdomen. It howled and backed away, letting Billy fall to the floor. The creature shook like a dog shaking off water, and Rebecca jumped out of the way to avoid the end of the pole jutting from the monster's back.

She knelt on the floor and fired her pistol, aiming at the beast's face and neck. Each shot hit the mark and the creature finally had to back off, raising its arms in front of its face to take the brunt of the pistol shots.

Billy, behind it, regained consciousness enough to grab his shotgun and shoot the monster in the back. It reared at him, but instead of attacking, it bounded over him and ran back down the hallway where it had come from.. The metal pole fell away and clattered to the floor as the monster escaped.

Billy gasped for breath and sat up, staring in disbelief down the hallway. His breathing was hard and labored and a sheen of sweat covered his face. Rebecca ran over to him and helped him to his feet.

"Let's get out of here," she said. "He might come back."

"I can't believe we fought it off," he gasped, letting her help him down the hallway.

They went to the doors at the other end of the hall and pushed them open. But instead of another sterile white lab room or hallway, they were surprised to find themselves standing on a cement walkway staring out into an industrial wasteland.

Large glowing lights hung from high above them, basking the area in ugly yellow light. They stood on a walkway that dropped off into darkness below. Across an expanse of maybe fifty feet, they saw gigantic columns lined with rust and covered in a maze-like network of pipes and hoses. The walls were composed of cracked, filthy concrete and sheets of rusted metal. A mechanical hum drifted around them, combined with the hushed sound of running water, but it was not loud enough to be very noticeable. Whatever the machines were, they were not turned on.

"Where in the world are we?" Rebecca whispered.

"We're still underground," Billy said. "But I have no idea what this place is."

Rebecca went to the railing and looked down into oblivion. "I hear water. I think there's an underground river here."

"This must be a natural cavern. Maybe this is some kind of power generator."

To their left was a metal staircase. They went down it quickly, holding onto the railing for balance, the whole huge room seeming to echo with their footsteps against the metal. At the bottom was another large cement walkway, but two rooms were built into the wall. Both were dark and silent, the light from above not reaching down that far. Billy found a row of switches and flipped them all with his arm. An arrow was painted on the wall, pointing up the stairs, with the words "Research Laboratories" written underneath.

Rebecca kept her gaze at the top of the steps. "Do you think he'll come after us again?"

"Who knows?" Billy muttered, heading for the two rooms. "I hope we hurt him enough that he leaves us alone from now on."

The first room had nothing in it except a lunch table and two vending machines. A break room. An ashtray was atop the table with ashes and crumpled cigarettes still inside, but they weren't recent. It was easy to see that the room hadn't been used in some time. The vending machines were dark and empty, even though they were still plugged in.

The next room had two computer banks with dozens of digital readouts and gauges, several dials and levers that could be adjusted, and a dusty computer monitor sitting atop an old wooden desk in the corner.

"Do you know what this stuff is?" Rebecca asked, coming up behind him. She had her arms wrapped around herself, but Billy couldn't tell if it was because she was scared or just cold.

"An operator's room, I guess," he replied, stepping inside. Grime and dust covered the machinery, another indicator of its age. "This must be some kind of generator supplying power to the labs. Or maybe it controlled the ventilation system."

"The lights are working, though."

"Maybe they were connected to a different system. I really don't know."

"Can we use it?"

Billy cast a doubtful glance at the ancient machinery, covered in dirt and rust. "We could try, but I don't see the point. We might overload it or something. It's been dormant too long."

Rebecca went to the desk in the corner. Stacked beside the computer monitor was a bunch of loose papers, wrinkled and yellowed with age. "These look like operation summaries," she said, glancing them over. "Inventory lists, movement orders, I'm not sure." She squinted to read the blurred writing. "It says that six specimens were transferred for removal. Specimens of what?"

"Do you really want to know?" Billy asked. "You can guess what they must have been doing here. You saw those observation rooms."

"This one was signed by James Marcus. Isn't he the man in that big painting we saw?"

"I think so. It said he was the director of this place."

"This one says that three specimens were transferred to another facility."

"So what?"

"Then there must be another facility somewhere nearby. Maybe we can get there."

Billy shook his head. "Listen, up until that thing attacked us, I was all for just staying here for awhile. Right now I vote for going back up to the surface, except that thing is between us and the elevator now."

Rebecca put her hands on her hips. "Well, if you don't want to stay here and we can't go back, I guess that means we should keep going forward."

"What is with you?" Billy hissed. "Did almost getting killed screw up your brain? We keep going, and we're just going to get farther away from any kind of help. No one's down here but us. There's no point in searching this whole place."

"We're right back where he started, then," Rebecca said. "This place isn't any safer than the mansion, because that monster is down here looking for us. We have no choice but to keep going forward."

"To what end?"

"Maybe we can find another way out. Maybe we'll find more survivors. Who knows, maybe we'll find what's causing all this."

Billy pointed at her. "Yeah, and maybe you're crazy."

"Well, what do you suggest?" Rebecca asked, raising her voice in anger. "Finding a closet and hiding inside until the coast is clear? You keep saying that you used to be a soldier, but I can't imagine a coward like you ever being a soldier."

"I'm not a soldier anymore," Billy said, his voice low. "And I don't owe you anything. If you want to run off and solve some mystery and save the day, you go right ahead. If I knew that I would be walking into a death trap like this, I would have stayed in the truck."

"You were going to spend the rest of your life in jail."

"Yes!" Billy shouted. "But that doesn't mean I wanted to come here and get killed instead!"

Rebecca stared at him but he stared right back, and she finally had to look away. She took a breath and crossed her arms, turning around as if to inspect the machinery. Behind her, she could hear Billy walk away.

She regretted calling him a coward. He might not be courageous, but he wasn't a coward. He could have kept on running when they were attacked in the hallway, but he stood his ground and fought even when it seemed hopeless. When they first made their way into the mansion, he insisted on walking in front. And she couldn't forget that he saved her life back on the train. He heard her scream and came to help her. A coward would not have done that.

But there was something about him she couldn't understand. He was strong enough and smart enough to get through this alive, but he was holding back. She didn't think he was afraid, but there was something nagging at him. If not fear, then what? It was as if his sense of self-preservation was battling with some sense of duty. He wanted to stay safe, but at the same time he felt the need to help and protect her. Despite their arguing, she knew that if she kept going forward he would follow her, resenting every minute of it.

But why? Rebecca wished she had read his file more carefully. She didn't even know what branch of the military he had been a member of. She wanted to ask him who he killed and why, but he wold probably refuse to tell her. Something was bothering him, holding him back, making him want to save his own skin when she could see that he felt obligated to stay with her. Was it a sense of guilt? Did he regret his crime and thought that by protecting her he could redeem himself? Rebecca doubted it was that simple.

She turned back around and saw him standing outside the room, facing away from her, looking out across the chasm. She wondered if he was angry at her or with himself. She desperately wanted to know why he was convicted of murder, but didn't have the courage to ask him straight out. Somehow, she felt that he would tell her when the time was right.

Deep down, she knew what her problem was. He demonstrated his courage and even saved her life, but she still didn't know if she could trust him. He was a convicted murderer, and although she knew that military tribunals didn't follow the same procedures as regular courts of law, that didn't mean he was innocent. He was proven guilty in a military court, and that had to mean something. He claimed to be innocent though, and innocent people had been convicted in the past. She wanted to believe him.

She noticed that he had turned and was looking at her. In the poor lighting, his eyes were like black gems. He was still mad at her, but she could read more than just anger in his gaze. He was frustrated, but he was also fearful and sad. Emotions glimmered like reflections in his dark eyes.

After a long, drawn-out pause, Rebecca finally broke the silence. "What do you think we should do next?"
Chapter 40

Annette opened her eyes and gasped in the dark. She sat up and pressed a hand against her heart, feeling it pound in her chest. A nightmare. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was just past midnight.

She got out of bed and shuffled to the master bathroom, the edge of her long white night gown swishing across the floor. She flipped the light on and blinked away the brightness as she opened the medicine cabinet. The bottle of sleeping pills was almost empty, but she only needed one.

In her dream, she was in the living room, talking to her parents. In reality, she hadn't spoken to her parents in almost two years. They had never visited her home, but she suspected that the dream uncovered some unconscious wish. Her parents asked her a question about her job, and she could not think of the right answer. Then the doorbell rang, and she went to the door quickly, as if waiting for someone. When she opened the door, her husband was standing on the porch, dressed in his white lab coat as always. But he was covered in blood, and dragged a corpse into the house with him. He came into the house and them proceeded to methodically kill both her parents, cutting their throats with a knife. In the dream, Annette ran out of the house screaming. She found Birkin suddenly in the front yard. He reached for her and said it was going to be okay. Then she woke up.

As she popped the sleeping pill into her mouth, she tried to block the vision of Birkin murdering her parents, but it was burned into her mind. It wasn't the first time she had dreams like that, and she knew it would not be the last. She took a drink of water to wash the pill down.

Sherry was sleeping over a friend's house tonight, so Annette had the house to herself. She could let the sleeping pill knock her out and stay in bed until noon for all she cared. Birkin wouldn't be home by then, and even if he was, he probably wouldn't care.

"Where are you, Will?" she whispered to herself, staring out the bedroom window.

She had to admit that things had actually been going well lately. Having him home two nights in a row was a welcome change. Sherry had been so happy to see him. For a brief moment, Annette dared hope that he was really going to change his habits from now on.

Usually, the rare times he was home, he was too tired to do much of anything. In fact, the main reason he came home most nights was to get some sleep. Sometimes she engaged him in conversation if she worked at it, and sometimes he played with Sherry or asked her about her day. But usually, he collapsed into a chair and zoned out until Annette dragged him to bed, where he would pass out for twelve hours. Needless to say, their sex life suffered along with every other aspect of their marriage, not that it had been great to begin with.

But the last few days had gone so well, Annette hoped things might continue to improve. She built up the courage to confess that she wanted to get pregnant again. And Birkin promised her that he would try. A promise was the best that she could hope for.

And then, of course, he called to tell her he wouldn't be home for a few days, dashing her hopes before they really had a chance to grow. At least he called her. Sometimes he didn't even do that.

But something was wrong. Annette was accustomed to Birkin's obsessive behavior and she knew his moods, but the phone call unnerved her just the same. Normally his phone calls were distracted and reluctant, but this time he'd been too precise and deliberately evasive. She could tell that he was hiding something. The fact that he wasn't at the lab in town was more than enough to alert her that something was wrong.

If he wasn't at the regular lab, then he could only be at the Arklay lab out in the mountains. Combined with the mysterious phone call from Wesker the day before, it was easy to figure out. But why would he go to the other lab? He had never actually worked there, and he wasn't involved in any of their research. Annette also knew that Birkin resented Wesker for reasons he never really bothered to explain. But Wesker must have contacted him and asked him to come help with something.

Annette went back to bed and wrapped herself in expensive silk sheets. With all the money Birkin made, she could afford things like that. But even with silk sheets, a queen-size bed was a lonely place for one person. Annette wanted Birkin sleeping next to her. But that was too much to ask. He ran to the Arklay lab at the drop of a hat to help his old nemesis Wesker, but despite all the nagging and outright begging by his own wife, he barely came home more than twice a week.

She tried to ignore it and focus on the positive side of things. Her husband's behavior had improved this week, so maybe after this strange situation at Arklay was done with, he would continue to come home on a regular basis. All she could do was hope.

Annette fell asleep alone and did not dream.
Chapter 41

"This place must be huge," Rebecca said as they walked down the wide corridor. Pipes and ventilation shafts lined the cobweb-covered ceiling, and the walls were a mixture of rust, water stains, and peeling paint. The air smelled like mold and motor oil. Steam hissed weakly from a few hairline cracks in the old pipes.

They passed rooms here and there, but they were just old storage rooms filled with useless junk, and none looked secure enough to sleep in. Rebecca wasn't really tired yet, but it was close to one in the morning, and she knew the fatigue would set in soon. At least they hadn't encountered anything dangerous since their last battle with the creature.

One room held rows of dusty filing cabinets. While Billy kept watch at the door, Rebecca quickly flipped through them, looking for anything helpful. All she found were status reports, daily checklists, and copies of memorandums. Most of the memos contained cryptic references to "specimens." Many of the memos were signed by James Marcus, and she took a few as evidence. She wondered if she would ever have a chance to hand the evidence in.

It took her by surprise when she realized that all of the other members of the Bravo team were probably looking for her. In all the excitement, she had almost forgotten about them. She didn't even have her walkie-talkie anymore; she must have left it back on the train. She wished that she had thought to check some of the zombies to see if they carried cell phones.

In one of the rooms they searched, she found a desk with an old rotary phone. But when she picked it up, she was greeted by the silence of a dead line.

"The electricity still works," she said to herself, "but the phone lines don't work."

"Maybe our friend cut the lines," Billy suggested sardonically.

"Maybe he did," Rebecca answered, not taking the bait.

"Well, I forgot to bring my cell phone," Billy said, "so I guess we're out of luck."

"You don't have to be a jerk. I'm just trying to understand this place. I want to figure to what went on down here, and what went wrong."

"Yes, of course you are. You're a cop after all, right? You're just trying to solve some big case and get promoted to detective."

"I hope you realize what an idiot you sound like."

Billy said nothing to that and just left the room. Rebecca followed him out into the hallway and they continued down it, saying nothing to each other.

Suddenly, Billy broke into a run, leaving Rebecca behind. For a moment, she feared that he saw something and was running away from it, but then she realized what he saw up ahead. It was an elevator farther down the hall.

When Rebecca caught up to him, he was already pounding on the buttons and cursing under his breath. The elevator was an industrial version, like the ones used at construction sites. It was closed off by a thick red fence that slid to the left to allow occupants inside. Rebecca could see through the fence, but the inside of the shaft was too dark to make out details. Billy pressed the UP button over and over, but nothing happened.

"It's not working," she said to him, shoving him out of the way. "Let's try to get the door open. Maybe we can climb up."

She got out her pocket knife and tried to jam it between the fence and the frame, but the fence went beyond the frame when it closed, and she couldn't fit her knife inside. Billy hooked his fingers through the links in the fence and pulled, while Rebecca braced herself against the frame and pushed on the handle. Slowly, the heard a rusty creaking and the fence began to move. They were able to get it open about two feet before it got stuck.

"That's wide enough," Billy said. He leaned the shotgun against the wall and stuck his head through the gap, looking both above and below.

"Can you see anything?"

"Not really. I can't see the elevator, but it's probably above us. It looks like this shaft goes down at least a few more floors."

"Well, we don't want to go down, now do we?"

Billy pulled his head back into the hallway. "I thought you didn't want to go anywhere," he said. "You said you wanted to keep investigating."

"I'm not stupid," Rebecca said. "That monster is down here. If we can get out, I'll try it."

"We don't even know where this elevator leads," Billy said, being deliberately contradictory.

"It was probably for the men who worked here. There's probably a small entrance building and a parking lot. It has to lead to a road."

"Yeah," Billy agreed. "Let's go."

"Can you climb up the cable?"

"Like climbing up a rope in gym class. Can you keep up with me?"

"If you can climb it, I can climb it."

Billy borrowed Rebecca's knife to cut away a long strip of cloth from the bottom of his shirt. He used it to fashion a sling for the shotgun, so he could hang it over his shoulder as he climbed. He also cut strips to wrap around his hands. Rebecca did the same.

He leaned out across the empty shaft until he reached one of the cables and held on tightly. He stepped off the ledge, grabbed the cable with his other hand, and quickly wrapped his legs around it, smearing himself in grease. He slid down a few feet before getting a solid grip on it. Rebecca held her breath as she watched him slide, and exhaled quietly when he began to climb back up.

He pulled himself up the cable inch by inch, making it look effortless but breathing hard just the same. The grease on the cable made it hard for him to get a good grip as he lifted himself up. He kept going until he was about five feet above Rebecca, ascending into darkness. She leaned out into the shaft and watched him continue upward.

"Okay, I'm going to follow you up," she said.

"Knock yourself out," he grunted.

Rebecca was not as tall as Billy, and had to lean out farther to reach the cable. Holding onto the fence with her other hand, she leaned out until almost her whole body was hanging above the emptiness of the shaft below. Finally she found the cable and grabbed it.

And then she heard the scream. From far away, the horrifying sound made its way down the hall and reached her ears as a high-pitched echo. It frightened her so badly, she lost her grip of the cable and slipped off the ledge of the elevator door. She screamed herself then, hanging by one hand over the abyss.

She grabbed the fence handle with her other hand and tried to hoist herself up. Her foot found purchase and she managed to haul herself back up to the ledge. Another monstrous scream came, this one much closer.

"Billy!" she cried.

"Run!" he shouted down at her. "I can't climb down that fast! Just go and I'll catch up to you!"

"But it's coming!"

"I hear it! Just go! I'll follow you!"

Rebecca heard one more scream and knew the creature was just around the corner. She turned and ran as fast as she could, looking over her shoulder just long enough to see what she feared most: the monster turning the corner and coming right at her.

Each time it attacked them, it seemed less human. The clothing hanging from its body was ripped and tattered, and its skin was no longer the color of any human flesh, it had changed to a sickening greyish-black. The face, once human, was human no longer. It howled after her, lines of saliva streaming from its hideous mouth.

Rebecca ran for all she was worth. The metal grating under her feet clanged loudly with her footsteps, and her supply belts banged against her hips so hard she was afraid they would fall off. She turned a corner and faced a set of red double doors. She braced her shoulder and slammed them open without even slowing down.

Beyond was a wide cement platform overhanging the underground river. Steps to her right went up to a walled-off control room overlooking the platform, and to her left was an expanse of cement littered with broken crates, rusted drums and cylindrical cans of propane and acetylene. And ahead of her, she saw something she almost couldn't believe.

It was like a subway train, but instead of riding on tracks, it hung from a series of heavy clamps attached to a thick metal rail attached to the ceiling by a series of rusted supports. It was three cars long and clearly had not seen use in many years. Rebecca didn't have time to look very closely. As soon as she came through the doors, she pulled out both of her pistols, holding one in each hand as she bolted across the platform, hoping to maybe shield herself with some of the junk lying everywhere.

The monster flew through the doors just moments after her, coming with such force that both doors broke right off their hinges and flew into the air. One door crashed through a window into the control room, and the other door missed the rail car by a few feet, falling far into the water below.

Rebecca knelt down, took aim, and opened fire. She held her elbows and wrists stiff as the guns' recoils rattled her arms. The creature took a few shots to the face and neck before holding an arm in front for protection, howling insanely, shaking as if it was being electrocuted. It swung its other massive arm out, slamming into a few empty oil drums like a bowling ball striking pins. The drums crumpled with the impact and flew into the air, sailing over Rebecca's head. She kept firing until both guns clicked empty, and used her thumbs to press the clip releases. The empty clips slid from the guns, trailing lines of smoke.

The creature took advantage of the lull in gunfire and swatted his arm again, crashing into a row of broken crates. Rebecca was showered in pieces of shattered wood and tiny bits of broken machinery. She fumbled with two new clips, her last ones, trying to load both guns simultaneously. The monster roared and came right at her.

And then arched its back and spun around as a shotgun blast rang out. Billy stood in the doorway, a dark black streak running all the way down his shirt and pants. His arms were smeared black as well from the grease on the elevator cable. He racked another shell and fired again, running from the doorway as the monster came after him.

Rebecca finished loading the clips and slid back the chamber on each gun to load the first round. She got to her feet and ran at the creature, firing between its shoulder blades.

With Billy in front firing with the shotgun, and Rebecca behind shooting with her pistols, the creature could not decide who to attack. It spun around, screaming its confusion, trying to shield its face from the bullets. It did not seem to be injured at all by the bullets ripping into its body, but it certainly felt pain. Rebecca went around it until she was close to the doors. Billy went around the other side and was close to the railing.

Suddenly, his shotgun was empty. His eyes and mouth opened wide in shock, as he fumbled in his pocket for some more shells. Rebecca fired her guns, but the creature seemed to know easy prey, and it came right for Billy. He tried to back up out of reach but the monster swung its arm and struck him in a glancing blow on his shoulder. He reeled sideways and hit the railing, his shotgun clattering over the edge.

Rebecca screamed, shooting at the monster to get its attention, but it was no use. With an unarmed target right before it, the monster seemed not even to notice the bullets hitting it in the back. Billy got to his feet as the monster reared up and rammed him.

With the ear-splitting sound of cement cracking and metal tearing, the railing ripped right out of the platform and broke away, swinging out across the chasm below like an opening door. Billy hung on to the railing and found himself dangling over the edge like a puppet on a string.

The monster also hung over the edge for a moment, but it grabbed onto the other railing, which was still attached to the platform. With one hand on the railing and the other on the platform, it began to climb back up.

Rebecca ran up to it and pulled the triggers again. One gun fired but the other was empty. The bullet hit the creature in the arm, not even fazing it. And then that gun was empty as well. The creature looked up at her and howled in victory as it hauled itself up. She was helpless now, her weapons gone dry. She backed up in terror, dropping the empty pistols at her feet. The creature planted its foot on the edge of the platform and lifted itself up.

Billy was no use, he was too far away. The railing he hung from bent down, sagging like a tree branch, barely attached to the platform. If he tried to climb across it to safety, it would probably break loose and drop him. He had no chance.

Resigned, he held on with one hand and reached behind him with the other to pull his gun out of his back pocket. Dangling over the abyss by one arm, he took careful aim at the monster's hand and fired.

The bullet hit the monster's fingers and blew them apart. It shrieked and flailed, trying to regain its balance as it teetered over the edge. Billy fired again, striking it right in the face. It jerked sideways, losing its grip with its other hand, and fell away from the platform, screaming as it went down into the darkness below. The scream ended with a loud splash.

And then, finally, there was silence.

Rebecca ran to the edge and grabbed the railing, staring in fear and panic at Billy as he dangled over the edge. The railing screeched with the sound of bending metal and Billy dipped down a few more inches as the railing gave way. He let go of his gun and reached up to hold on with both hands.

"Climb up!" Rebecca cried.

"It won't hold," Billy said. "I don't have time."

"You have to climb!" she insisted. "I can't reach you!"

Billy looked down at the pitch darkness below. "If I hit the water, maybe I can make it."

"Don't be crazy! You'll be killed!"

The railing broke free of the cement and swung down until Billy was directly beneath Rebecca, dangling helpless as the railing gave way.

"I'll get something for you to hold onto," she said desperately, looking down at him, her hair hanging in front of her face.

"Don't bother, there's not enough time," he said, looking up. "Listen, just get out of here, okay? Get back to the elevator and escape. If I hit the water, I can swim to safety. I'll be fine."

"Don't do this," she pleaded.

He shook head and smiled wanly. "There's no other way. Listen, if I don't get out of here, I want you to investigate my case, all right? I swear that I never murdered anybody."

And then the railing tore loose and gave way. Rebecca reached out and screamed, but it was too late. Billy fell down into the darkness and disappeared.
Chapter 42

Enrico was in water up to his knees. It was crystal clear and surprisingly warm, and if Enrico decided to walk down the small set of stairs off the elevated platform he was standing on, it would be up to his chest. The room was at least fifty feet square, with a ceiling almost that high. The center of the huge room was dominated by a gigantic water tank with glass walls and a twenty-foot wide hole in the side. Enrico didn't know what caused it, but something ruptured the tank and filled the huge room with over four feet of water.

He had discovered an elevator in a back room of the guard house and made his way underground, unsure of what he would find. He supposed he could have barricaded himself in one of the rooms and tried to wait out the storm, but he was not the kind of person to stand around and wait when there was investigating to be done. And so he used the elevator, and found himself in an extensive underground laboratory.

The platform ran around one side of the room to a separate room at the other end. Some kind of control room or observation room, Enrico guessed. He walked along the platform and looked out into the deeper water in the center of the room. And that's when he noticed the fins emerging from the water.

Sharks. Enrico was no expert on ocean life, but he had seen enough movies to know what sharks were. At least three of them swam around the room, now free from the water tank. One of them swam close by, but it sensed the railing between it and Enrico, and left him alone.

He was so preoccupied with the sharks that he didn't realize there was a zombie coming toward him until it moaned hungrily. He flinched and had his pistol out in a heartbeat. The zombie wore a white lab coat and gray slacks, sloshing in the knee-deep water, and shuffled spastically toward him. Enrico put a bullet in its head and it fell over backward, splashing into the water.

As he walked over the floating body, he saw the Umbrella identification badge clipped to the front of its lab coat. Like all the other zombies, this one was an Umbrella employee. Enrico wondered if any of them had ever suspected that one day, they would become victims of their own experiments. He felt sorry for them because of the bad choices they made. But he felt no sympathy now. The people who worked here were all dead.

He made his way to the control room and saw two computer banks with six screens apiece, showing views that at one time would have been of the inside of the tanks. There were dials and knobs for adjusting things like temperature and chemical content of the tanks, and a whole row of other levers and switches that Enrico could not even guess the function of.

A clipboard hanging above one of the consoles was stuffed full of papers. Enrico took it and flipped through them. Status reports and related documents, all emblazoned with the Umbrella logo. They listed dates and times, project and experiment numbers, and other notations and abbreviations that Enrico didn't know. He was about to set it down when something at the bottom of one of the sheets caught his eye. He flipped back to it and saw the signature on the bottom, on the line labeled "Supervisor."

It was one he recognized immediately, because it was written on the bottom of many reports and documents Enrico had filled out himself.

It was Wesker's signature. There could be no mistake.

Enrico was so confused by what he saw that he just stood there staring at it for what felt like half an hour. What in the world was Wesker's name doing at the bottom of these papers? It was so incredible that Enrico was completely clueless. If Wesker signed them, it meant that he was the supervisor in charge of the experiment. But that made no sense. It made less sense than anything Enrico had ever heard of.

Wesker wasn't a scientist, he was a police officer. Enrico had known him for years. The thought of him being somehow involved in Umbrella was simply unbelievable. But it was his signature on papers, Enrico was sure of it.

He set the clipboard down and leaned against the computer console, finding that his heart was racing and he had to catch his breath. He thought about everything he knew about Wesker, and gradually accepted that it wasn't much. He had known him for close to a decade, it was true, but Wesker was not the sort of person to volunteer information about his private life. Enrico knew that Wesker was a solitary person and left it at that. Wesker never told, so Enrico never asked.

But was it possible? Could Wesker possibly be involved in this? If he worked for Umbrella, that meant he had been living a double life all these years. As insane as it sounded, Enrico found that there was nothing about Wesker that discounted the possibility. Wesker was single and very secretive about his private life. It resulted in several rumors over the years, dealing with everything from his family background to his sexual orientation. But if there was anyone who could have pulled off a double life, it was Wesker.

No one really knew what Wesker did outside of work. No one had ever seen where he lived. No one really knew anything about him, and Enrico knew he worked hard to keep it that way. Chief Irons always defended him and backed him up, which usually was fine as far as Enrico was concerned, since Wesker had proved himself a skilled and valuable police officer many times over the years. But every once and awhile, it seemed as if something was up. And no one could really forget just how fast Wesker had climbed the ranks within the department. Gradually, Enrico began to see a pattern.

Despite all of Wesker's personality flaws, Enrico always respected him as a fellow officer, and as a person as well. But know, he began to wonder just what Wesker had been involved in.

And if Wesker had gotten them all involved in it as well.
Chapter 43

Rebecca staggered backward in disbelief and tripped over one of the broken crates littering the ground. She landed on her back and gasped as the air was knocked from her lungs. Rolling onto her side, she breathed heavily, feeling light-headed.

Billy was gone. She heard him shout as the water swept him away. She didn't understand what he said, but it was enough to know that he was alive. He landed in the water, but the force of the river washed him away. He was alive for the moment, but out of her reach.

Rebecca forced herself to sit up. Billy was still alive, but who knew for how long? The water might be cold enough to give him hypothermia, and if the river went completely underground he might get pulled under and drown. Pulling herself to her feet., she found herself staring at the rail car hanging silently in front of her.

If she could get it running ...

She ran across the platform and up the stairs to the control room. Stepping over the broken door thrown there from the creature's entrance, she went to the control panel. There was an array of levers and switches, but none of them worked. The system had no power.

On the far wall, there was a locked electrical panel. She found a crowbar conveniently leaning against the power console and used it to pry the lock off. Opening the panel, she found two rows of switches and a large lever. She gripped the lever and pushed it up.

There was a crackle and a loud buzz from the panel, and Rebecca jumped away, fearing she'd be electrocuted. When nothing else happened, she flipped all the switches. Lights and digital displays came to life on the console, and she could see lights come on inside the rail car. Excitedly, she pulled levers on the console labeled "Brake Release" and "Main Engine Power."

When she was confident she had turned everything on, she ran back down the steps and across the platform to the rail car. The door to the driver's car opened easily enough and she went right to the steering column. There was a single lever on the column and a few dusty dials. Rebecca pushed the lever forward and to her amazement, the rail car began to crawl forward.

Slowly at first, it crawled forward on the rail, long-disabled gears and machinery coming back to life. The rail was dirty and dry with disuse, but the car moved forward anyway. Rebecca didn't care about any damage she was doing, because she never intended to use the rail car again. But if she could drive it to the other end of the track, maybe she could reach Billy. She could only pray that the track followed the same path as the underground river, traveling along the natural cavern created by centuries of running water, or else it would all be for nothing.

The thought of Billy dying terrified her, and she didn't know why. She had only met him hours before, and half the time they had been together had been spent arguing or threatening each other. Back on the train, he pointed a Desert Eagle at her and threatened to leave her at the mercy of the zombies. He was a criminal and she was a cop. Barely five minutes before the creature attacked them the last time, they had been arguing. But Rebecca found herself scared to death that something had happened to him.

He had saved her life again and sacrificed his own in return. He could have stayed in the elevator shaft and climbed right to the top, leaving her to be killed by the creature. He could have abandoned her and left her to die. And yet, he came to her rescue. And when he was hanging over the edge of the platform, he saved her life again by shooting the monster's hand and causing it to fall. He saved her life twice.

And when she tried to save his? He told her not to worry about it.

But she did worry about it. If Billy died, she could never live with herself. He risked his life to save hers and if she didn't do everything in her power to save him, the guilt would eat her alive for the rest of her life. She had to try to save him.

Right now, he was the only thing she had. If he died, then she would be completely alone down here in this awful place, forced to confront whatever dangers lay ahead all by herself. The thought of being alone terrified her, although she hadn't realized it until now. Billy stood by her side throughout this entire horrible nightmare, and now she didn't believe she could make it the rest of the way without him.

It wasn't until one of her tears dripped from her chin onto her hand that she realized she was crying. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and tried to focus on what she was doing. She pushed the throttle all the way forward, forcing the rail car to grind along the rail at maybe fifteen miles an hour. Not terribly fast, but as fast as it would go. She had no idea how fast the water was moving, so she didn't know if she would get where she was going in time. She might even get there before Billy did, but if so, how could she tell?

The rail car rattled and quaked, and she heard the crackle of electricity over her head. She had the throttle up higher than was safe, and sparks burst from the rail clamps. But she didn't care.

She saw a light ahead and leaned forward expectantly, pushing the throttle harder even though it was as far as it would go. Up ahead she saw a platform much like the one she had just left, except there was one on each side of the rail. Wide metal steps led up to a walkway above the platform with doors on each side. Bright fluorescent lights shone from the ceiling, but Rebecca didn't know why they were already turned on.

She grabbed the brake lever and pulled it slightly, lurching forward as the rail car braked. A high-pitched squeal emanated from the rail above and a bright shower of sparks flew over the roof of the car. She smelled smoke as she pulled the brake harder, and then the car jerked forward and back, knocking her off her feet. She scrambled back up and tried the brake again, but nothing happened. The platform was too close now to stop in time. She was only a few seconds away and the rail car's speed had barely gone down at all. It swayed back and forth as it soared down the rail, sparks shooting from the top like fireworks.

Rebecca didn't have time to run to the rear car, so she just on the floor directly behind the driver's seat, bracing her knees against the back of the cushion. She closed her eyes and put her head between her legs and her arms over her head.

The rail screeched loudly as it came to the end and the car crashed through the stopping block. It broke free of the rail with an explosion of machinery and sparks and landed on the platform with a bone-shuddering thud. Rebecca fell sideways and slid into the corner of the cabin, trying to hold her arms up to protect her head.

The rail car tilted sideways as it jumping the track, just like the train Rebecca had been on just hours before. The rear car smashed through the metal braces holding the rail and flipped over, crashing through rows of metal drums, sending up a tidal wave of dust, smoke, and debris. The tremendous echo of the crash reverberated down the cavern and back again like ghosts howling.

The driver's car slid across the platform, seeming to float on a sea of sparks, and slammed into the rock wall at the end of the platform. Rocks and debris rained down on it like a minor landslide, and the middle car crashed into the back of it, sandwiching it into the wall.

The echo died down and the dust floated back to the floor, and then everything was silent again. Rebecca crawled from the wreckage of the driver's car and crawled on her hands and knees, her vision blurred and ears ringing. There was blood on her arms, but she didn't know where she was bleeding. She sat up on her knees and tried to clear her head.

She felt on the verge of passing out, but she had no time. Billy might be dead already. Dazed, she managed to get to her feet and staggered to the railing overlooking the river. This side of the cavern was much closer to the river than the other side was. She only had to look a few feet below to see the swirling, churning water below.

She guessed right. The river ended here at the end of the cavern and went completely underground. If she missed Billy here, the river would swallow him up and he would certainly drown. She leaned far over the railing, her head still spinning, and screamed his name.

"Billy!"

Panicked, she scanned the banks of the river on either edge of the platform. She held her breath when she saw him, almost not willing to believe it. Against all odds, he lay below the platform on the other side, his body pressed by the water against a small outcropping of rock.

She screamed for him again but he didn't move. She had to hurry, because if he was unconscious he might slip loose from the rock and go under the surface. She couldn't jump the gap between the two sides of the platform, so she had to run up the stairs to the walkway above and down the stairs on the other side.

She climbed over the railing and slid down the edge of the cavern wall until she could reach his body. Water splashed up over the rocks, soaking her from head to toe. It was cold water, but not freezing. Not cold enough for Billy to go into shock. She grabbed his arm and pulled him up until he was halfway out of the water. His hair was stuck to his face, and she quickly wiped it away to see if he was breathing, but it was too hard to tell. He had a pulse, and that was enough.

She put his arm over her shoulder and lifted him almost to his feet, adrenaline surging in her veins. She held him against the wall as she planted her feet and somehow managed to push Billy's limp body up under the railing and safe onto the platform. His legs dangled over the edge, but she didn't care. She climbed up the side of the wall and over the railing, collapsing in a heap next to him. She saw that his chest was moving. He had a pulse and was breathing, and his skin felt warm to the touch. He was alive, he was safe.

Rebecca laid down the ground beside him, utterly exhausted, and finally lost consciousness.
Chapter 44

Exactly seven hours and fifty-four minutes after fell asleep, Wesker awoke. He blinked twice and reached for his sunglasses. Sitting up, he put them on and immediately fumbled in his pants pocket for his cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled deeply, the sudden rush of pleasant nicotine helping him to wake up.

He wanted a hot shower and a big healthy breakfast, but he knew he would get neither. For breakfast, he might be able to gag down a stale breakfast bar and a cup of lousy coffee. As for the shower, he didn't have time for luxuries like personal hygiene and cleanliness. That would have to wait until the work here was done. Hopefully, it would only be one more day at the most.

After a quick stop in the bathroom, went out into the hallway and took out another cigarette, lighting it with the previous one. Birkin must have heard him coming, because he poked his head out of the security office, a surprised look on his face.

"You're awake already?"

Wesker shrugged and tossed the used cigarette away, popping the new on in its place. "I said eight hours," he said. "I usually don't even sleep that long."

Birkin returned to his seat at the desk as Wesker entered the room, leaning against one of the side tables. He took a long drag and blew smoke from his nostrils like an angry dragon. "I take it nothing important happened."

"Nothing I thought I needed to wake you up for."

"That doesn't tell me anything," Wesker grunted. "I doubt you would have woken me up for anything."

Birkin snickered. He didn't laugh often when working with his own men, but given the surreality of the situation and the presence of his old partner Wesker, Birkin felt free to find something funny enough to chuckle at. "Well, you might find this surprising. It turns out that two of your officers made their way into Marcus's old lab."

Wesker flinched as if Birkin had thrown a bucket of cold water on him. He coughed and cleared his throat, then asked, "Did they get all the way to the maintenance entrance?"

Birkin shook his head. "No, they somehow figured out the code to the elevator under the astronomy tower."

"How in the world did they do that?"

"Don't ask me. There's no camera inside the tower, so I couldn't see. In fact, I probably wouldn't have even known they made it down there if you-know-who hadn't followed them down." Birkin typed in code for the security camera showing the back of the training facility mansion. The video was a saved copy from earlier. It showed two figures, one male and one female, leaving the mansion through the back doors to the conference room. They headed right for the tower and went inside. "Now, let me fast forward a bit," Birkin said, and the video skipped forward rapidly for a few moments. When he returned it to normal speed, it showed someone in a white lab coat running across the rear lawn faster an any human could move.

"That's him?" Wesker said quietly.

"Unless we have another mutant undead scientist you failed to tell me about."

"No," Wesker muttered. "Just the one."

"He's changing, though," Birkin said, his tone more serious. "I won't even hazard a guess what the virus has done to him after all these years, but look at this." He switched to the saved video of the attack in the mansion hallway.

Wesker puffed silently on his cigarette as he watched the video. When he had it down to the filter, he tossed it on the floor and exhaled smoke. "How much do you know about T-virus mutation?" he asked suddenly.

Birkin weighed the question. "Not as much as I should, I guess," he said finally. "I know your work about as well as you know mine."

"I know more about it than anyone else alive," Wesker said, and then he pointed at the screen. "And I've never seen anything like that in my life."

"He looked pretty human in the other video you showed me."

"Something is altering the rate of mutation. It could be anything, a change of environment, a change in metabolism. He must have been in some kind of biological stasis before."

"We still haven't explained how he's here at all," Birkin said. "If he was dead, the T-virus shouldn't have affected him in the first place. You're sure he was dead, right? I mean, I'm not missing something, am I?"

"Getting shot a dozen times is usually fatal. He was dead when they took him out of the lab, that much I'm sure of. But when those idiots opened fire, they shattered the terrariums and some of his leeches got loose."

"Do you think they infected him before died?"

"I suppose it's possible, but if that was so, he would have come back long before now. Something kept him from coming back all this time. And besides, if this was a regular infection, he would just be a zombie like the others. At most, he would be a Tyrant, but this is something totally different."

Birkin did not say anything right away. "I never wanted to know before, but now I think it's important. What did you do with the body?"

"Dumped it at the plant," Wesker said straightforwardly. He pulled out another cigarette. "We should have burned it like the others, but I just ... I don't know. I guess I felt the old man deserved better than the incinerator. I told them to put the body in one of the disposal pits."

"He probably deserved a decent burial and a funeral service," Birkin said.

"I wouldn't go that far," Wesker said, lighting the cigarette. "His hands were dirtier than mine back then."

Birkin started to say something, and then shook his head, as if unwilling to take that topic any farther. In all the time they had discussed it, neither of them had gone far enough to even say his name, as if naming him would make his existence more complete. As long as he remained nameless, maybe they could deal with him easier.

"I wasn't done talking about those two cops," Birkin said, changing the subject. "Like I said, I wouldn't have known they made it into the lab if our old friend hadn't followed them. But what really got my attention was when the electrical grid lit up. I had to check the power mainframe maps, but it looks like they activated the old rail car."

"You're kidding."

"Nope, they got it running, and I think we can assume they drove it to the treatment plant."

"They're getting farther than I thought."

"They aren't the only ones," Birkin said. "One of the others made it through the guardhouse all the way to Delta lab. Last I checked, he passed through the aquatic lab, but that was a few hours ago."

"What about the others?"

"Still in the mansion. One of them is dead, and another might be."

"Which ones?" Wesker asked.

Birkin felt a tingle down his spine, a slight nauseous twinge. Wesker talked about the brutal deaths of people he had worked with as casually as someone else might discuss a baseball game. Birkin let it pass. He was in no position to judge Wesker at this point.

"I don't know their names," he said. "And I'd rather not."

"Just show me on the cameras."

It took a few minutes for Birkin to track down all of the members of Bravo team. Wesker took Birkin's notes and scribbled names down where Birkin had numbered them. He watched some more snippets of video that Birkin had saved for him.

Enrico made it all the way through Delta lab, but that wasn't much of a surprise. By far, he was the best officer in Bravo team, and Wesker fully expected him to outlast all the others. The man was stubborn as a bull and utterly fearless. He never functioned better than when he was placed in a volatile situation like this.

Kenneth was asleep in a corner, having cowered there all night by Birkin's account. If anyone was the opposite of Enrico in a combat situation, it was Kenneth. Wesker was stunned that he was still alive, although the only way he had stayed that way was by staying put, too scared to go anywhere.

Forest was dead, or at least he looked that way from the video. Wesker guessed he had been bitten by a zombie and succumbed to the virus sometime during the night. He was slumped in a chair out on the rear second floor balcony, most of his face missing. Crows flapped around his body, pecking at the exposed flesh.

Edward was not visible on any screen, but the last time Birkin had seen him, he was outside one of the gallery rooms on the second floor. A giant snake was around there somewhere according to Birkin, so Wesker guessed that he was dead as well.

Richard was listed nowhere in Birkin's notes and had left no sign on any security camera, so Wesker had to guess he had been killed before he got to the mansion. Either he was killed by one of the infected dogs running loose, or he found the train and was killed there.

That left Rebecca, the newest member of the team. Wesker wasn't exactly sure what happened on the train, but it was obvious that the mystery man had attacked it and killed everyone on board. He must have started it back up and driven it toward the training facility, although for what reason, Wesker had no idea. Rebecca must have been on the train, but how she wound up in the basement was unknown as well. And then there was her companion, whoever he was.

Wesker decided not to worry about it. He must have been a passenger on the train, but how he survived the attack was a mystery as well.

"So what's the plan for today?" Birkin asked.

"I have to go talk to Irons and set up the Alpha team. We'll be going in this evening."

"We?"

Wesker shrugged. "I have to go in with them to make it authentic."

"That's taking a pretty big risk."

"Unavoidable," Wesker said. "If I didn't go in with them, they'd know something was wrong. We're bound to get separated as soon as we land, and I'll take the opportunity to slip away and make my way here. I know the grounds like the back of my hand. It won't be too hard."

"Will you need my help?"

"Probably not. You can leave here any time you want. If I were you, I'd hurry up about it, because you're going to need all the time you can."

"Time for what?" Birkin asked, feigning innocence. "I'm not the one running from a biological time bomb. I'm not responsible for this."

"Have you listened to anything I've said? The virus is loose, and there is a one hundred percent chance that it's going to spread to Raccoon City. Do you really want to be there when it happens? You're going to have to do exactly what I'm doing now. Get all your work together and get out of town before the virus breaks out completely."

"It doesn't have to be that way. What if your cop friends manage to kill every zombie in the whole compound? If you destroy the sources, it won't spread."

Wesker laughed, a short harsh sound. "You're a scientist, Will. You know it isn't that easy. You'd have to kill every single zombie and animal that's been infected. Right now there's a bunch of crows feasting on Forest Speyer's body. Could you kill each crow before it passed the virus on to something else? We are way beyond containment here."

"Maybe if you'd reacted quicker," Birkin shot back, suddenly angry. "Instead of worrying about your career, you should have shut down the plant before any of the zombies got loose."

"Shutting down that entire plant would be impossible and you know it. We might be able to keep the zombies from getting out, but the cause of all this would still have escaped and spread the virus everywhere he went. You know that, so stop acting like all this is my fault."

Birkin shook his head. "I can't believe we're just going to sit back and let the virus spread like this, and not even try to stop it."

"You can't stop it. Every single rat and bird and insect that touches a zombie could carry it miles from here. Could you really keep a lid on something like that? Even burning down the whole forest might not stop it from spreading. The virus is exposed, and that's all she wrote."

Birkin sat at the desk for a few moments and pushed the chair back to stand up. He had known all of that already, of course, or else he would not have phoned his lab and told them to start organizing everything. But he had to preserve his moral superiority, as shallow as it was.

"I guess I might as well get going then," he said, looking at Wesker. "I have a lot of work to do."

"I bet you do," Wesker said. "And if you manage to get out of this mess with your life, look me up sometime. If we combine our research, we could probably make some real discoveries."

Birkin just laughed sourly and brushed past him. He went out into the hallway and Wesker listened to his footsteps as head headed down to the elevators to take him to the surface. At least he was out of Wesker's hair. He did what Wesker needed him to do, and now he was out of the way and Wesker could get on to the final parts of his plan.

He needed to make some last minute trips to the lab to finalize his departure, and then he had to pay Chief Irons a visit to thank him for his help over the years. And then he could arrange Alpha team's trip to the mountains. And then maybe he could finally finish what he had started.
Chapter 45

The last thing Billy remembered was trying to stay afloat. The river seemed to drag him under the surface like a spaceship being sucked into a black hole. He couldn't see anything in the darkness of the cavern, and all he could hear was the incessant sound of water splashing and swirling around him. The whirlpools and undercurrents kept pulling him under, like an octopus with its tentacles around his legs. He fought to stay above the water, gasping for breath and coughing up water. Finally, he could not fight it and he was pulled under.

He saw lights above him, shimmering like holographs through the water. And then he hit something, he never knew what. After that, he saw nothing but darkness.

And then slowly, his eyes opened and he saw lights again, bright yellow flares high above him. He smelled the lingering scent of smoke and rocky dust, and felt the cold surface of concrete beneath him. He took a few deep breaths, as if making sure he still knew how, and swallowed a few times to wet his throat. His head throbbed slightly, as if in remembrance of an old headache.

He sat up and an arm slipped off his chest, but it wasn't his arm. He glanced down at the ground beside him and saw a girl laying there, asleep as well. She wore a green and white jumpsuit with the word "Medic" on her back. Her short reddish-brown hair hung in front of her eyes. Momentarily, Billy could not remember her name.

Rebecca. Her name was Rebecca. She was a cop.

How long had he been unconscious? He wasn't wearing a watch, but it wouldn't have helped. He didn't know what time it had been when he fell in the river, so it didn't matter what time it was now. But at least a few hours must have passed, because his clothes were almost dry. Behind him, he became aware of what appeared to be a train car, smashed apart and lying on its side. Metal support beams were twisted and tangled around the wreckage like pieces of rope. He tried to put the pieces together and only became more confused. Weren't they already in a train crash? Didn't that happen a long time ago?

Gradually, his mind thawed, returning his memories of what happened. That mutant creature, the thing that used to be a man dressed in a lab coat but now was something else, had attacked them again. Billy fell into the water and washed down the river. But where was he now? And how was it that Rebecca was here with him?

He clambered to his feet and steadied himself, his headache receding as his mind cleared. He shuffled forward and held onto the railing for balance. He turned and looked across the destruction on the other end of the platform. He counted three separate rail cars that had apparently broken off the overhead rail and crashed to the ground. By now, the dust had long since cleared, but he still smelled smoke and noticed the telltale flickering light of fire inside one of the cars. The damage to the railing support beams and opposite platform was almost total.

Rebecca mumbled something and he looked down at her. She shifted her legs and slid her arms under her head, moving in her sleep. Had she come for him? He remembered being under water, and now he was up on the platform, so she must have pulled him out. But how could she have managed that? He looked again at the wrecked rail car and his mind wandered. Had she done all this in an attempt to save his life?

He walked over to some wooden boxes in the corner and sat down, his legs still too wobbly for him to stand confidently. His stomach growled at him, but he had nothing to feed it.

Rebecca sleepily reached out her arm toward where Billy had been and came up empty. She moved her arm and said something, and then suddenly pulled back her arm and jerked awake. She scrambled into an upright position, looking around with a dazed expression on her face, her eyes still half-closed. "Billy?" she mumbled, her voice weak and scared.

"Over here," Billy said.

She spun around and stared at him, reaching up to rub the sleep out of her eyes. "How long ... how long was I asleep?" she asked awkwardly, wiping her face and brushing her hair away from her face. She looked at her watch. "Oh, it's already morning. I must have slept for hours."

"Me too," Billy replied. "I've only been awake a few minutes."

"I pulled you out of the water," she blurted, and seemed to regret it. "You don't remember anything, do you?"

He shook his head. "Not really."

"You fell into the river, and I had to use ..." She looked behind her at the smoldering wreckage of the rail car, and then gestured at it feebly, not knowing what to say. "I came after you, and found you over there in the water. I climbed in and pulled you out. And then I pushed you up here and must have fallen asleep."

She trailed off then, realizing that she was babbling and tried to cover it up. She sat up, folding her legs underneath her and put her hands in her lap nervously, unsure what to do or say next. Billy could see that something had changed in her, something serious. It was obvious in every movement she made

"You came after me?" he asked gently.

"I was scared you might drown," Rebecca said softly. "I didn't know what else to do." She made eye contact and then looked away, embarrassed.

Billy looked at her and realized just how young she was. He knew that she was younger than he was, obviously, but her attitude and macho front helped mask her age. With a gun in her hand, she seemed older and more experienced. But now, sitting on the floor in front of him, her act was gone and she showed herself for the kid that she really was. She looked helpless and terrified, and her wide brown eyes made her look like a frightened teenager. It was the first time he had seen her when she wasn't trying to look harsh and strong. It almost surprised him that he hadn't seen through her mask long before. She was just a girl, and she came to his rescue to save his life, crashing another train in the process. And now, she was sat on the floor like a child seeking approval from her parents.

"I didn't know ..." she started, uncomfortable with the silence. "I didn't even know if you were still alive, but I couldn't just run away. I had to ... I had to do something, I had to try and save you. I was scared, and ..."

"It's okay," he said. "Thank you for saving my life."

She exhaled as if she'd been holding her breath and let herself smile. It was what she had been waiting for him to say, and she was scared that he wasn't going to say it.

He had never felt more awkward in his life. He had only a hazy memory of falling into the water, but the event must have changed Rebecca irrevocably. Gone was the tough cop who hadn't wavered when he had a gun against her chest, the resilient survivor who had used a metal pole like a spear to impale the monster just hours before. In her place was the frightened young woman that she had tried so hard not to be. She must have felt so guilty or helpless or scared that she dropped all her masks and came to save him out of pure emotional drive.

"Billy," Rebecca said, as if had built up the courage to speak, "I have to know something. I didn't want to ask you, before but I really have to know."

He knew what it was before she asked. "I told you the truth when I said I was innocent."

"But I want to know what happened. Who was murdered, and why did they find you guilty of the crime?"

"Lots of people died," he said, his voice low. "But I didn't kill anyone."

Rebecca walked forward on her knees until she was just a few feet from him, then sat back again. Her eyes were wide and anxious, as if the truth would make or break her. "Tell me what happened," she said.

Billy closed his eyes and let himself remember. He had spent the last year not thinking about it, even when he sat in the defendant's seat at the military trial. He forced himself not to think about it even then, because his commanding officer and former team members were right there in the room with him, and if he allowed himself to remember, he wouldn't have been able to control himself. So he just sat there and let his lawyer rely on his previously recorded statements on the matter. He had not spoken during the length of the trial except when ordered to, and said nothing when the verdict was handed down. It all seemed so long ago.

"I was part of a Special Forces group in Africa," he said, his eyes still closed. "There were six men in my unit, not including the commanding officer, but we'd only worked together for about two months. We hadn't built up the trust and teamwork that some other units have. We were still getting to know each other. We did a bunch of missions in Ethiopia to Somalia. Our commander liked to think he was some kind of commando, even though he only made Sergeant the year before. We were his first unit as a CO."

Billy remembered the man's face. He was always ready for a fight, sometimes having to pick one with a stranger if none would come to him. He wanted to make a name for himself, he wanted to be some kind of legend. Billy equated him with an ambitious news reporter trying desperately to break open some big news story. He was that type of person, which was to say he was the wrong sort of person to be commanding a group of soldiers.

"We kept getting sent into these little villages in the jungle to root out rebels and guerrillas, but we never found anyone. The villages were just full of old men and women, farming or hunting or whatever people in those villages did. We never found rebels, we never even saw evidence that rebels had been there. This went on for weeks, and our CO was getting frustrated. He was itching to find some hidden rebel camp and make a big impression on his superiors."

Billy remembered it all as if it had just happened. He felt like he wasn't talking at all, as if the voice was coming from somewhere else to describe the events of that fateful day.

"We came upon another village one afternoon, and the CO had us round everyone up and get them all in the center of town. We searched every hut and didn't find a thing. No weapons, no radios, no stockpiled supplies, nothing. The CO was furious. We spent weeks searching villages and he had nothing to show for it, nothing to show his bosses in the Army brass.

"Some old lady in the village was crying about something. I didn't know the language and couldn't understand what they were saying, but our CO ordered one of the other men to shut her up. So he hit her with the stock of his gun. Not even that hard, just enough to knock her down."

Billy felt his hands shaking as he spoke. His hands had shook that day as well, and it was all coming back to him now; the stifling heat, the buzz of the flies, the haggard looks on the faces of the African villagers, the sound of his CO's voice.

"A young kid came out of the group and attacked the CO. I guess he must have been the old lady's son or grandson, but when she went down he went right for the CO. I remember thinking that something bad was going to happen, but I couldn't move, I just stared at it. The CO didn't even hesitate, he just pulled out his pistol and shot the kid right in the head."

Rebecca gasped, but Billy kept going as if he hadn't been interrupted. "He announced that the villagers were aiding the enemy, that they were all rebel sympathizers. Honestly, I don't know if the kid set him off or not. But he said that all the villagers were rebels and he ordered us to open fire. He ordered us to open fire on a group of unarmed villagers."

Billy took a breath then, and his voice dropped even lower, so low that Rebecca had to strain to hear him. "And so the other guys all opened fire. They just raised their guns and pulled the trigger, all of them, like they didn't even care. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, and I just remember screaming at the top of my lungs for them to stop. I ran to the CO and yelled at him, I don't even remember what I said. I tried to stop one of the other guys from shooting, but the CO grabbed me and held my arms back as one of the other guys hit me and knocked me out."

"The next thing I remember was lying on the dirt with my hands tied behind my back. I could see the villagers, and they were all dead. There must have been thirty or forty of them, just lying in a pile like an open grave. I heard voices behind me, the CO and my former team members, talking about what to do with me."

He looked up into Rebecca's eyes and cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice had returned to normal volume, and he seemed calm and steady. "They blamed me for the whole thing. They testified that I opened fire first. The CO himself testified that he ordered me to stop and I refused. They said I killed the whole village."

"But they could check the bodies," Rebecca said in disbelief. "They could check the other soldiers' guns. They would know it was all a lie."

"Sure they could, but why bother?" Billy said. "What would be the point in incriminating an entire squad of men if you could blame it all on one? They all knew what happened. It didn't take a genius to see that I didn't have enough bullets in my gun to mow down forty people. But in court, it was their word against mine."

"But the evidence," Rebecca insisted.

"Like I said, military courts don't follow the same rules. You aren't innocent until proven guilty. You don't have the benefit of the doubt. All my former teammates testified against me, and they convicted me based on that alone. The whole thing was pushed under the rug. They didn't want to admit what really happened. It was all politics to protect the CO and the rest of the squad. I was just the scapegoat."

Rebecca looked away and shook her head. "I just can't believe that they would do that to you."

"They had to, because I disobeyed my orders. If I opened fire with the others, I would have been fine and nobody would have gotten in trouble. They would have written it off as a successful mission. We discovered a rebel base and eliminated a bunch of rebels. But I wouldn't go along with it, so they had to make me look like the guilty one to shift the blame. They couldn't trust me to keep my mouth shut, so they just accused me of the whole thing."

"That's awful."

"Tell me about it. I was on my way to serving a life sentence."

Rebecca got to her feet and continued to fidget with her hands. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and looked nervously at the ground. "Billy, I'm so sorry," she whispered. "About everything. I'm sorry I brought you into this, and I'm sorry about the things I said to you. I just didn't know –"

"Don't worry about it," he said.

"I'm sorry I didn't trust you," she finished. "I should have, right from the start. I should have trusted you. You've saved my life more than once."

"You've saved mine too," he reminded her. "We're even on that score."

"Billy, I ..." She took a hesitant step forward and put her hand on his shoulder, acting as if she expected him to brush it off. "I want to help you if I can. If we get out of this, I promise I'll do everything I can."

He looked up at her and saw that she meant it. But it was getting too personal for him. Telling her his story was difficult enough. He stood up, gently removing her hand from his shoulder, and took a few steps away. "We should probably start moving," he said. "That creature might still be after us, and we don't have weapons anymore."

Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest as if cold. "I'm hungry too. What chance do you think we'll find food here?"

"If this place has been abandoned as long as that lab, we won't find anything."

Rebecca seemed to recall something, and said, "You know, I never turned these lights on. They were on when I got here."

"That's strange. If there was someone here, they would have come to investigate this mess by now," he said, gesturing to the demolished rail car.

Rebecca shrugged. "Maybe they didn't hear it."

"Yeah, and maybe they wouldn't have heard an earthquake."

He sifted through the piles of broken crates and garbage and found a crowbar. Testing its weight, he patted it against his palm like a batter in the on-deck circle. Rebecca followed his lead and found a piece of broken metal with a jagged edge. She wrapped some old cloth around the base to serve as a handle and swung it experimentally. Their crude weapons would not do much good against the monster if it showed up again, but they might be enough to stop a zombie. Although they hadn't encountered a zombie since they left the passenger train.

The walkway above the platforms led to doors on the right and left. Billy went up the stairs, with Rebecca close behind, and paused at the top step. "Which way?" he asked.

Rebecca looked left, then right, and then left again. Billy was almost amused by it, because he hadn't expected a well-thought-out answer. Finally, she pointed to her left, but seemed unsure about her choice.

"Are you sure?" he asked, smiling.

She looked back to the right and started to say something, but when she glanced up and saw the look on his face, she realized he was kidding her. She smiled back and shrugged. "I guess I'm sure."

"That's good enough for me."

They went through the doors to the left and entered a long, straight hallway much like the ones at the other end of the cavern. Pipes and vents ran the length of the ceiling and were covered in cobwebs and dust. The ugly yellow paint on the walls was stained and peeling. They had gone maybe twenty feet before Billy stopped and raised his hand to his mouth, grimacing in disgust.

"What is that smell?" Rebecca asked, quickly lifting the collar of her shirt to cover her nose and mouth. "It smells terrible."

Billy couldn't place it exactly, but he could take a guess. He knew the smell of death and decay from his time in the jungles of Africa, and the smell here reminded him of that same rotten stink. But there was an overlying acrid odor that he couldn't identify. Whatever it was, it was getting thicker the farther they walked.

They came to set of doors on the left side of the hallway, and Billy took a chance by nudging one open and peeking inside. The room was dark and quiet, so Billy pushed the door all the way open to let some light pour inside.

It was an office, or at least it used to be. Worn, scratched desks were arranged haphazardly around the room, and a some cheap plastic chairs were stacked in the corner. Old filing cabinets were lined against one wall, some of them with drawers hanging open.

Rebecca came in and switched on the lights. Billy thought about stopping her, but guessed that it didn't matter. But of course it did matter, since the monster might still be alive. If several dozen rounds of ammo did not kill it, Billy doubted that drowning would either.

Rebecca riffled through some of the papers in the filing cabinets, but soon gave up. "It's mostly old banking statements and accounting files. Some of are dated from the 1970s," she said, shifting her attention to random stacks of paper on a narrow table in the corner. She flipped through them, just letting them flutter to the floor when she was done. After a minute or two, it looked as if she was standing in the middle of a snow drift. Billy, beginning to feel uncomfortable just standing there, looked out into the hallway, but he neither heard nor saw anything.

"Eureka," Rebecca said suddenly, holding up a few sheets of paper. "I found us a map of this place."

Billy was by her side in a second. The papers were actually diagrams showing the emergency exits, but it served well enough. There were about a dozen sheets of paper, each one apparently showing a different floor. Billy's mind reeled at the thought.

Looking at the maps, he saw that it was much, much larger than he had envisioned. It couldn't even be considered a single building, it was more like a industrial compound or a factory complex. On the map, the room they were in was not even labeled, and took up about a square centimeter of space. The rest of the sheet was covered in a maze of criss-crossing hallways and supply rooms and maintenance areas, some labeled and some not. He flipped to the next page, the floor below them he guessed, and immediately noticed three large areas, each labeled simply "Disposal Pit."

"Can you figure out how to get us out of here?" Rebecca asked, looking over his shoulder.

Billy traced his finger along the winding hallways, trying to see the quickest way to get to a staircase or, hopefully, a working elevator. Considering the number of floors in the complex, there was no shortage of either. Some of them did not go all the way to the top, though, and there seemed to be numerous places where the only way to go to an upper level was to first go down and then back up a separate set of stairs. Billy had to stand and examine the map for a few minutes before he could come up with a route that might take them out.

He neglected to mention that if Rebecca hadn't destroyed the rail car, they could have driven it back to the lab and returned the way they had come, now that the monster wasn't there to block the way.

"Okay," he said finally, pointing at the map so Rebecca could follow his logic. "If we head down this hall and go this way, we can go through this room to get here, and then can use this elevator here to get to the third level. Then we have to go around these rooms and go along this long hallway to reach this staircase. That should take to the ground level, at least I hope it does. We'd have to go around this way to get to the front door."

"It looks like they built this place to keep people from ever finding their way out," Rebecca noted. "It'll take us an hour to go through all that."

"I guess it was their way of keeping their employees from leaving," Billy said, trying to make a joke. He scanned the map once more to get a better idea of how to get to the elevator, which was labeled "Service Lift" on the map. It appeared to be an industrial elevator for hauling heavy machinery up and down throughout the factory, and Billy just prayed that it was still functional. If not, they would have to try to climb it like the other one. If that was not an option, he would have to consult the map and find another way.

"Let's get going then," Rebecca said, urging him on.

They went into the hallway and continued until they came to a T intersection. Billy instructed them to head right and they continued on for several minutes, turning left and right as Billy consulted and checked the map. After they had gotten thoroughly turned around, they came to a set of red doors at the end of the hall.

"Through here," Billy said confidently, nodding as their surroundings matched what the map showed. He pushed the doors open and walked through, his attention on the paper in front of him, not on the ground in front of him.

"Look out!" Rebecca cried out, a split-second too late.

Billy took one step and his foot hit nothing but empty air. Before he could even attempt to regain his balance, he fell through the gaping hole in the floor and fell ten feet to the pile of rubble and scrap metal below. He twisted as he fell and landed hard on his side, landing on a piece of metal grating that once probably served as a floor, now slanted upward at a sharp angle. He rolled down the rest of the way until he hit the bottom. Bits of rock and debris tumbled down after him, but aside from a sore shoulder, he wasn't injured. He looked back up the hole at Rebecca, who in turn was staring back down at him.

"Billy, are you okay?" she called down.

As far as Billy could tell, something broke through the floor on the level above Rebecca, crashed all the way through that level, and finally stopped where Billy was, effectively knocking a solid hole through two entire floors. He couldn't tell what might have caused the collapse, since it was now completely buried in a ton of twisted metal. He considered himself lucky that he hadn't fallen from the next level up, or he'd probably be dead.

"I'm okay," he said, sitting up. "I'll have to figure out how to get back to where you are. Just stay where you are for now."

"Billy, we can't go this way. The whole floor here is caved in. We can't get to the other side of the room."

He didn't want to hear that. If that way was blocked, he would have to come up with an entirely new plan to escape. He needed to look at the map again, but just then he didn't have it. He looked around him and saw a scrap of paper from behind a twisted chunk of metal. He leaned over to grab it, and just then did he notice where he was.

Just beyond the pile of rubble, there was a wide metal railing overlooking a huge enclosed square basin like a gigantic empty swimming pool. He hadn't really thought about the smell that he and Rebecca noticed when they first entered the complex, but he suddenly knew where it came from. He was right outside one of the disposal areas listed on the map.

Although calling it an open grave might have been more accurate. That's what it was, an enormous open grave.

He couldn't keep his eyes from the horrific scene before him. "Rebecca," he called up to her. "I think you'll have to make your way down here. I don't want to be the only one to see this."
Chapter 46

Sunlight streaming through the trees woke him. Or had he even been asleep? It felt more like he had been in stasis, and now the warmth of the sun was awakening his body, returning it to life. He got to his feet on the muddy banks of the stream and walked to the grass. His shirt and lab coat were gone now, washed away in the river's fierce torrent.

He looked back and saw the small waterfall behind him. The underground river split up and emerged from the rocks at several points farther down the valley. The waterfall poured over some smooth layers of shale and splashed down into a shallow pool that formed this stream. He didn't remember coming out, but he must have at some point during the dark of night. The cold water had slowed him, but the morning sun gave him his strength back.

He smelled the air and did not recognize his surroundings. He was miles away from his home, miles from the man and woman. He looked down at his hands and flexed his strong fingers, now clean and healed as if they had never been shot. He remembered the pain, but it was gone now. Bullets hurt, but the wounds did not last.

He jumped up and scaled the small cliff in a few seconds. At the top, just above where the water emerged from, he smelled the air again and got the scent he was searching for. And then he was off into the trees, running faster on all fours than any human could run on two legs.

He could not clearly recall why he attacked them. Like the time before, in the mansion lobby, he succumbed to an urge he could not understand. His body, once again, seemed determined to follow a path his mind could not see. He was just a passenger, that much was clear. Most of his memories had left him, and now his will was gone as well. His body had a mind and a will all its own now, and he could do nothing but come along and learn where it was taking him.

Deep down, submerged under levels of his subconscious, was a strong desire to extract his revenge on Wesker and Spencer, the two men who had killed him. But his body wanted to go after the man and woman. Why were they so important? He did not understand. Wesker and Spencer were important, they murdered him and threw him away into that dark hole. They were the ones who deserved to die. His vengeance was directed at them.

He felt his body changing again, morphing and reshaping like something made of clay. He fought to retain his mind, to see through his changed eyes and remember these moments. He had to control his mind and form his thoughts. He could not let himself get pushed away again.

He died once before and lost himself, and now that he had his body and the ability to get his revenge, he could not afford to lose himself again. This time, he would exert his own will.
Chapter 47

Irons was already at his desk when Wesker came to the police department and made his way unopposed to the Chief's office. The secretaries were so used to Wesker's presence that they barely even looked up as he walked through the reception area. Wesker wondered if Irons ever left his office, since he'd never actually seen the man anywhere else.

When Wesker entered the office, not bothering to knock on the door, he found Irons sitting in his chair, facing one of the walls, which was covered in expensive framed paintings. He remembered the first time he entered Irons' office, years before. It was much more cramped now. Over the years, Irons acquired more and more pieces of art and sculpture, and when he didn't have room in his office or home, he distributed them randomly throughout the police station. In his small office was probably two dozen paintings, an antique mahogany end table with plush victorian chairs, several stuffed animal heads hanging on the walls, a display case with rare butterflies, and at least twenty pieces of sculpture, ranging from small figurines to statues three feet tall that served to guard his massive desk.

He didn't even acknowledge that Wesker had entered the office. To his credit, Irons hadn't changed a bit in all these years. He was still burly and gruff, his hair and thick beard not yet betraying a hint of the gray that was surely due. He was still broad without being fat, and still quietly contained incredible strength in his muscular chest and arms. As huge as his desk was, Wesker did not doubt that if he wanted to, Irons could have flipped it upside down like a regular person might flip up a card table.

Irons' personality, however, rarely matched his appearance. Irons was calm and patient, and while not exactly soft-spoken, his voice was steady and direct. He never had to resort to yelling to get his point across.

He studied his wall for a few moments before he finally turned his head to see Wesker sitting there. And then he grunted and swiveled in his own chair to face him. Placing his hands on his generous stomach, he cleared his throat.

"Morning, Wesker. What do I owe the honor?" he said.

Wesker smiled. "I have some good news for you."

"I doubt that. You never bring good news."

"You're too kind. But you're going to like this, I promise."

Over the years, Irons had become more and more gruff and rude during their little private meetings, but with good reason. Wesker either came to his office to pay him off, or to tell him of some horrible crime that the police department, through Wesker, was going to cover up. Irons was boiling over with regret and guilt over the years of bribery and corruption, but like a good puppet, he kept accepting the envelopes full of money and then turning his head to let Wesker do what he wanted. Wesker paid him good money to do nothing all day.

"So what is it?" Irons grumbled.

Wesker leaned forward, as if telling a secret. "After today, you will never see me again."

At first, Irons just stared at him as if he hadn't spoken. And then his face softened as his eyes opened wider, and Wesker watched in amusement as Irons swallowed and let out a trembling breath. He was waiting in terror for the other half of the newsflash to come.

"My work with Umbrella is finished," Wesker continued, drawing out the tension. "And so I'm leaving Raccoon City as of this evening. As much as I have enjoyed your friendship over the years, it's time for me to move on."

"What do you want, Wesker?" Irons said. "Just tell me and get out of my office."

Wesker pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. But instead of just tossing on the desk like he usually did, he held it out politely, forcing Irons to reach out and take it from his hand. It was substantially thicker than usual.

"This is your final payment," Wesker said. "I hope you like it."

Irons felt the weight of the envelope in his hands. "How much is there?"

"Fifty-thousand."

Irons opened a desk drawer and dropped the envelope inside without ceremony, then leveled his dark eyes back at Wesker. "I take it there's one last thing I have to do to earn it?"

"Just the usual. Keep your mouth shut and do nothing."

"And then you're gone forever?"

"Forever. I'll be out of this city before midnight, never to return."

"Where are you going?"

"I was thinking of seeing Europe. Maybe Asia, maybe South America. I haven't decided yet." It was Wesker's way of saying, "None of your business."

"So that's it?"

"Pretty much," Wesker said. He started to stand up, but then sat back down, as if suddenly remembering one last thing. "Oh yes, there was something else I wanted to ask you. After today, I'd appreciate it greatly if you could manage to keep my name out of any investigations that might arise once I'm gone."

"That might be kind of hard. You've been working here for over ten years. If anyone asks me about you, I can't say I don't know who you are. Besides, all the other S.T.A.R.S. members know you better than me."

"I don't think you'll have to worry about them after today," Wesker said cryptically, but moved on before Irons could ask what he meant. "After I leave, certain facts may arise that I'd rather not have widely known. I'm sure you understand."

"Yes," Irons said.

"If it's in your power to keep those facts wrapped up, please do so. But I'm not asking you to do the impossible. If federal agents descend on Raccoon City and start an investigation without your permission, I won't hold it against you. But if such a thing happens, it might be in your interest to give them an abridged version of my history here."

For just a split-second, Irons' eyes darted to the drawer where he had deposited the envelope. Wesker knew that Irons understood the unspoken threat. Irons had knowledge of Umbrella's workings in the Arklay Mountains, limited as that knowledge might be. But Wesker also had detailed records of the money that he had been paying Irons over the years. If Irons exposed Wesker, even by accident, Wesker could release information about his bribery. Keeping Wesker's secrets would keep him out of jail as well, or so he hoped. If anyone learned about the bribery, Irons would spend the rest of life in jail. He would lose everything.

"What do you want me to do if something does happen?" Irons asked.

"Use your best judgment," Wesker said with a smile. "Within a few weeks it won't matter, but in the next two weeks, just to be safe, do your best to avoid any kind of investigation about me or the company. I trust that you'll do just fine."

"Sure you do."

"I've always trusted you," Wesker said. "And you've never let me down."

With that, Wesker stood up and made his way for the door. Just as he was reaching for the knob, Irons said his name, and he turned around to see what he wanted.

"Do you know what I was thinking about when you came in?" Irons asked.

"No," Wesker said, not taken off guard by the question, as Irons surely wanted him to be. "Why don't you enlighten me?"

"I was thinking about Bravo team. They never came back last night. I have a dozen messages on my voice mail about it."

"I think you can delete those messages. I wouldn't worry about Bravo team."

"Why not?"

"Because you should worry about Alpha team instead," Wesker said, and went out the door.
Chapter 48

Rebecca carefully climbed down through the gaping hole in the floor and dropped down to the pile of rubble below. Billy caught her when she landed and to keep her from losing her balance and hurting herself. She stared out across the gulf of bodies before them, but did not get sick or look away in horror, as Billy thought she might. She took in the scene, as if forcing herself to remember it later, when and if they made it out alive.

"How many do you think there are?" she asked softly.

Billy leaned on the railing. "Hundreds. At least two, maybe three hundred."

"How many places like this are on the map?"

"Three on this level. I haven't checked the rest of map."

"If there are two hundred here, that would be six hundred altogether."

"So it would."

Six hundred corpses, Billy thought. Six hundred people killed in some twisted experiment in that lab and just dumped in one of these enormous pits to rot. The bodies looked like they had been partially burned or treated with a corrosive substance, but they were still recognizable as human corpses. On some, nothing but bones and the rotted remains of their clothing was left, but most still possessed decayed flesh, mottled gray or green. Billy tried to just look at the bodies in a general manner and not study any individual corpse too closely, but he could not help but notice that some of them looked much more intact that he would have expected if this place had been abandoned for as long as the labs. Some of them looked very recent indeed.

After seeing the mansion and the labs underneath the astronomy tower, Billy assumed that the entire place was deserted. But what if there were other labs? Other areas that they hadn't seen yet? Billy could not imagine experiments such as these going on unnoticed for so long, but what other explanation was there?

"How could this happen?" Rebecca asked. "Raccoon City isn't a huge place, there's no way this many people could go missing without someone getting suspicious."

"Maybe they aren't all from here."

"They have to be. How else would they be here? Is Umbrella shipping people here for the scientists to do experiments on?"

Billy had no answer, so he just shrugged. Science labs usually tested on animals, and those animals would have to be shipped in, so why not human subjects as well? It would have to be more covert, but it could be done with the right bribes here and there. If Umbrella was doing this kind of work, they would be willing to spend as much money as possible to keep it secret. Billy wondered how many people had been paid to turn a blind eye to what was happening here.

"If people found out about this ..." Rebecca said to herself.

"It would be the biggest scandal in the history of the country," Billy finished for her. "Umbrella would be finished. Not just here, but around the world. The entire corporation would be brought down in a controversy like this. It would shock the entire world."

"Not just Umbrella," Rebecca added. "Every company like them would suffer too. People would think that if Umbrella could do this, then other companies might do it too. It would give all of medical research a black eye."

"Medical research? Is that what you'd call this?"

"What else could it be?"

"For all we know, these people were killed by some new chemical weapon made for the military. Who knows what Umbrella was researching here."

Rebecca nodded. "I suppose that's possible."

Billy touched her arm. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

They went out the closest door, anxious to get away from the disposal pit. As soon as they were in the hallway, Billy felt better. Although the sight of all those corpses was no more terrifying or disgusting than the sight of the zombies back on the train, he knew that if anything could give him nightmares for the rest of his life, it was the images of the disposal area. It was like looking right into the very worst sickness and depravity of the human soul.

He checked the map to see where they were and how to get out. The whole plan had to be reworked. They could not get across to the other side of the disposal pit because of the pile of rubble from the collapsed floor, and the only way up from their current location was an elevator halfway across the map. They started walking, neither one in the mood for conversation.

Billy tried to put things together in his head. If they made it out alive, what would they do next? They had to expose this atrocity to the world, but how could they go about doing it? The fact remained that Billy was a convicted killer and the guards driving him to prison were dead. He doubted his version of events would be trusted by anyone.

Rebecca was a cop though, and she would vouch for him. He knew she would. She was willing to believe the truth about him. But even if she did back him up, it might not be enough.

If they escaped, maybe it would be better for him to just disappear. Rebecca would report back to her police station and tell them everything, and then they could take care of it from there. They wouldn't need Billy by that point. And with all the death surrounding this place, who would really worry about one convicted killer? Even if there was no body, who would expend energy looking for him?

They came to an intersection in the hallway and Billy had to consult the map. They kept going straight, and then turned right at the next intersection. The elevator was at the end of the hallway, just like the map said it would be. Billy thanked God that they had an accurate map. Without it, they would be hopelessly lost.

Rebecca hesitated at the elevator door and glanced at Billy. He shrugged and pressed the elevator button. And to their surprise, they heard a thump and loud hum as the elevator activated, bringing it to their floor.

"This facility is still in use," Rebecca said. "It must be if these elevators are still functional. Do you think we might run into the people who work here?"

"I hope not. If they find us trespassing, they might decide to add us to their ranks of experiment volunteers. We might find ourselves in one of those pits."

The elevator doors opened with a musical ding that was completely out of place in a factory like this. Billy checked the map to see which floor to get off at, but Rebecca just pressed the top button on the panel. The doors closed and the elevator jerked upwards, momentarily making both of them nauseous.

Billy closed his eyes and sighed. If the elevator hadn't been operational, they would have had problems. According to the map, the elevator went up four levels. Billy had not eaten since lunch the day before, and his body felt it. He wondered if he could climb up an elevator cable for four floors. How far would that be? Forty feet at a minimum? That would be quite a climb. And even if he was somehow able to manage it, could Rebecca?

He turned his head to say something to her when the elevator dinged again and the doors opened. Before the words even came out of his mouth, Rebecca screamed and waved her metal club defensively at the zombie stumbling into the elevator with them.

Billy held his crowbar up horizontally and pushed against the zombie's chest as it grabbed at him. Its undead fingers reached around his neck and tried to pull him toward its gaping mouth. Like the zombies on the train, this one was ravaged and bloody. Its pale skin was torn and chewed up, its eyes pure white, and its mouth opening and closing reflexively as it tried to take a bite out of Billy's neck. It wore dark blue clothing that somehow looked familiar, but Billy was too concerned with fighting it off to recognize what it wore.

Rebecca struck it in the back with her metal club frantically, and then switched to slashing at it with the sharp end, hacking at the zombie's back like an explorer chopping up undergrowth with a machete. But nothing she did seemed to matter. The zombie pushed Billy back, grinding him into the wall until Billy lost his footing and staggered to his knees, the zombie moaning hungrily above him.

Rebecca screamed and struck the zombie over the head with the club, but it pushed Billy down until he was flat on the floor and the only thing keeping the zombie from mauling him was the crowbar that Billy managed to hold onto to push the zombie back.

Billy kicked with his legs, but he knew that it would do no good. He struggled and managed to turn his body sideways, so the zombie was no longer on top of him and instead was beside him on the ground, still desperately trying to pull Billy toward it. Rebecca stood above the zombie and stuck the sharp end of the metal club down right into the zombie's head as if she was planting a flag. Billy pushed it away as blood and gray matter poured from the gory wound. The zombie twitched once and went still, blood dripping from its mouth and nose.

Billy pushed it away with the crowbar and sat up, breathing and gasping heavily. Rebecca immediately knelt down beside him, nervously checking him for injuries. He had none, and shook his head in an attempt to tell her not to worry, but she ran her hands across his arms and neck to make sure there were no bites or scratches.

"I guess we don't have to worry about the people that work here," Billy chuckled. It was a poor excuse for a joke and he knew it, but he needed to laugh at something or else he would freak out. "They have more important things to worry about."

"I'm the one that's worried," Rebecca said. "I didn't think about it before, but if some disease turned these people into zombies, then maybe they passed it on to us."

Billy stopped laughing. He never even thought of that, when it should have been common sense to think a disease like that might spread. What if it was an airborne virus?

"We might already both be infected," he said.

Rebecca paused, and then shook it off. "If we were infected, it would have shown itself by now, right? We were on the train what, twelve hours ago? The people on the train didn't take that long to turn into zombies. If we were infected, we'd have turned already."

"I don't know. The people on the train were killed. Maybe we carry the disease, but it only turns us into zombies after we die."

Rebecca helped Billy to his feet, shaking her head. "There's no sense in us worrying about it then, is there? If we're infected, then we're already doomed. But if we aren't, then let's try to stay that way, all right?"

Billy was about to respond when something caught his eye down the hallway. He walked toward it, looking around as if expecting some kind of trap. Rebecca followed him, unsure what the object was until she was almost standing above it. Billy picked it up and it fit comfortably in his arms.

It was an assault rifle.

Rebecca looked back at the elevator and the dead zombie laying there. "It's wearing a dark uniform. Like some kind of security guard."

"I'd say it's dressed like some kind of commando. Look in the corner, there's its helmet."

"No wonder it didn't react when I hit it in the back. It was wearing body armor."

Billy turned the gun over in his hands, getting the feel of it. "I kind of noticed that actually, but I was in no position to tell you."

"Why would there be commandos down here?" Rebecca asked, although the answer was obvious.

"They tried to stop it," Billy said distractedly, looking down at the gun, as if he was able to discern its purpose simply by touching it. "This gun isn't government issue, but it isn't a civilian weapon either. I've never seen one quite like it, but I'd be willing to bet it's European-made. If I had to guess, I'd say these guys are a tactical combat team, privately owned and trained."

"What do you mean?"

Billy ejected the clip and checked the ammo. Satisfied, he jammed the clip back in and pulled the bolt to rack a bullet into place. He looked at Rebecca. "Mercenaries."

"Are you saying we're up against trained soldiers?"

"No, we're up against zombies."

"Yeah, the same zombies that killed all the trained soldiers."

Billy rested the gun against his shoulder, testing its weight and balance. He was getting comfortable with it, Rebecca realized. He would probably waste a few bullets to test its recoil. "Yes, but they didn't know what they were up against. We do, and that gives us an edge," he stated

Rebecca looked at him like he was crazy. "Billy, if a group of mercenaries couldn't defeat the zombies, what chance do we have?"

"What chance have we had since the beginning?" he asked casually. "We've survived this long, haven't we? And we've been up against more than just zombies. I mean, we killed the last one with a metal pipe. These guys couldn't even kill them with assault rifles."

"I don't see what –"

"I know how soldiers think," Billy interrupted. "They're arrogant and cocky and they think they're invincible. Trust me on this, I know what I'm talking about. They were sent in here, probably without any warning of what they were up against. But they're trained mercenaries, and they expected to come in and just wipe out whatever was down here. And that's when the first zombie showed up." Billy took a moment to put the gun's strap over his head and let it hang over his back.

He spoke very matter-of-factly, as if reciting a physics lecture. "These guys were probably trained as special ops. The thing about that kind of training is that its gives you very specific expectations. You're trained to react in accordance with your enemy, but it divides the enemy into several neat categories. Guerrillas, terrorists, or militia, for example. Certain types of enemies behave certain ways in certain situations. That's how they train you. That's how they can come up with scenarios to deal with things like hostage-taking and anti-terrorism."

Rebecca knew that police training went along similar lines, but it still sounded strange to her to think that way. Gradually, though, she caught on to what Billy was saying. "So they came in here expecting one thing, but the zombies surprised them."

"Exactly. They probably didn't even know what they were up against anyway, but as soon as they shot a zombie a dozen times and he came at them anyway, that shattered all their preconceived notions and rendered their training useless. Zombies aren't terrorists or gang members, and its hard to predict what they'll do. That's hard for a soldier who's trained to accurately predict his enemies actions."

"You're a soldier too, Billy. Or you used to be."

"That's true, but I didn't know I was going into a hostile situation. I thought I was going to hitch a ride on a train. By the time I started thinking like a soldier, I had already killed a zombie. These guys didn't get that chance. They went in relying on their guns and their training and it got them nowhere."

"They probably tried to retreat or something once they figured it out," Rebecca said.

Billy nodded. "Once the first guy ran, it was all over. We'll probably find a few zombies dressed like that."

"Do you think there might be some left alive?"

"It's possible. We'll have to keep an eye out. They might shoot us on sight, cause they'll think we're zombies."

Rebecca could see the irony already. They survive hordes of zombies just to get shot and killed by a soldier right before they leave.

She walked back down toward the elevator to the dead zombie and saw what she had been hoping was there: another gun. Stowed in a holster around the zombie's calf was a nine-millimeter Beretta. She pulled it out and found a spare clip in its belt.

Thus armed, she returned to Billy and they exchanged a glance before heading around the corner and down the next hall.
Chapter 49

Wesker returned to the lab again to make some final preparations before he went back to the police station for the start of his shift. Coming back was always kind of tricky, because there was always a chance that a zombie might find its way to the entrance Wesker used. But so far, he hadn't encountered anything on his trips back and forth.

Before he went to the labs to set up the finishing touches, he stopped at the security room and checked on the progress of the surviving S.T.A.R.S. members. Enrico had last been seen sneaking into a supply closet down in Delta lab several hours ago. Likely, he was getting some sleep while he had a chance. Ken was still crouched in the corner, where he had been for about twelve hours. Forest was still dead, and Edward and Richard were still missing and probably dead as well.

Rebecca and her partner were the big surprise. Wesker checked the video of the rail car connecting Marcus' labs to the treatment plant, and when he turned them on he was stunned by the image of the completely destroyed car smoldering amongst the wreckage of the entry platform. It was a complete disaster, so much so that Wesker couldn't imagine anyone walking away from it alive. They must have hit the platform going full speed, although Wesker had no idea why they would do something like that, unless the brakes failed, which was entirely possible. But why travel so fast in the first place?

A few minutes later he tracked down the video from a camera in one of the many elevators in the plant. Wesker was treated to a rather exciting video of Rebecca and her partner fighting off a zombie right in the elevator, killing it by stabbing it in the head with a length of pipe. Wesker thought he was about to watch them both get killed, but they miraculously walked away unhurt.

What surprised him most of all was that they seemed to know where they were going. The elevator they used was not the closest one to the rail car platform, and they used it to get all the way to the third level of the plant. The soldiers Spencer sent had not made it very far, and already Rebecca and her partner were that close to escape. That was certainly an unexpected twist. Rebecca, the youngest, most inexperienced member of the team might be the only one to escape. Wesker made a mental note to deal with that later.

He made his way down into his personal research labs, where all of his most important, most secret work was done. It was his last outpost, so to speak. It was located far beyond Gamma and Delta lab, closer to the huge, underground power generator than anything else. Wesker knew half a dozen ways to get there, but they were all hidden routes requiring special access codes or knowledge of the numerous hidden passageways around the labs and mansion itself. For any of the S.T.A.R.S. members to get there would mean traversing the mansion, guardhouse, all of Delta and Gamma, and taking the emergency elevator by the scenic outlook. Possible, but unlikely. Enrico was more than halfway there already. Wesker made another mental note to deal with that as well.

The central lab itself was fairly large, fifty feet to a side, with most of the center of the room taken up with computer banks and tall refrigerated cabinets for storing samples. The front of the lab was lined with glass tanks for displaying some of Wesker's creations. Currently, only one of the tanks was occupied. It contained a seven foot tall albino monstrosity with a club hand, one of the healthiest, most functional Tyrant specimens the lab had yet created.

On a wide metal desk in the corner were two refrigerated silver briefcases filled with various samples and cultures. Certain tests and experiments he worked on occasionally, when he could find the time. A few very secret projects he worked on with the help of a few trusted colleagues who were now fortunately dead and roaming the halls of the Spencer mansion. Wesker was the only person still alive who knew of the existence of these projects, although he was sure that Birkin, just as an obvious example, would probably kill to get his hands on them. They were not complete, and they had not been fully tested, but they were the best thing Wesker had going for him. They were his Last Resort, with capital letters.

There was a secret door out of the lab room that he deliberately concealed behind a tall shelf. On the other side was a wide cement garage with a white sport utility vehicle parked there. The garage led to a steep ramp that ended at a pair of horizontal doors, like the doors covering a missile silo. On top of the doors was a thin layer of dirt and grass a few yards from a dirt road leading to the highway out of Raccoon City. Wesker had this emergency escape route built only about two years before. Again, Wesker was the only person who knew about it, except for the men who built it, who were all employed by Umbrella and by now were probably transferred halfway around the world to build secret labs somewhere else.

The SUV was packed with more refrigerated containers and boxes full of paper documentation. Most of the important files were all on computer, and in addition to the hundreds of floppy discs and CDs packed away, he also had packed entire hard drives full of information. There was a considerable amount of material at his house, but that was all secondary information that could be abandoned if need be. All of the most vital material, the very core of Wesker's years of research, was in the truck. It amused him to think that his life's work could fit inside a single vehicle.

And even that, the truck full of information, the things at his house, this was only the tip of the iceberg. Wesker had been busy in the past couple of days, and not just with the routine work of packing away his research, or the more complicated work of sending the S.T.A.R.S. members to their deaths. Almost from the beginning, he had been making his preparations. Now, almost everything was in place.

He picked up a phone and dialed a number that he had called twice in the past few days, but already he knew it by heart. It rang twice before the other end picked up.

"Yes?" a voice said, thick and heavily accented. Russian or German or Czech, or some strange combination of the three.

"Is everything ready on your end?" Wesker asked, skipping the preliminaries.

"I am ready. When should I begin?"

"Stay in position. I'll call you from the police station later today."

"I will. And afterward?"

"Just wait for my call."

The man on the other end laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle that instantly conveyed an underlying feeling of malice and brutality. "I will wait then. But not too long. You are paying me a lot of money to do work for you, but with work there must also be fun, yes?"

"Just wait until I call. Then you can do whatever you want."

"Yes, whatever I want." There was that harsh laugh again, and Wesker felt himself shiver at the sound of it. What the man on the phone considered "fun" made Wesker feel uneasy, which was quite an accomplishment for someone as devoid of compassion as Wesker. He wished he'd had time to find a more agreeable accomplice, but time had been short. He had been forced to select from the bottom of the barrel, but as long as Wesker's money was good, the man would stay loyal. Wesker would have to kill him later, of course, but that didn't bother him. Surely, the man on the phone was planning to kill Wesker as well as soon as his obligation was at an end.

"Do not be waiting too long to call, Mister Wesker," the man said, and hung up.

Wesker put the phone down. He would rather have done everything by himself, but he could not be two places at once. He needed hired help to do some dirty work for him. Their relationship was purely business-oriented, which suited Wesker just fine. He didn't even like being in the same room with the man. But he would take care of some details while Wesker was busy. Unpleasant tasks call for unpleasant people.

It was almost noon. Time to go to work and brief Alpha team for their trip to the mansion. Pretty much everything else was done. The packing was nearly complete, Irons had been dealt with, and Wesker's accomplice on the phone would take care of anything else for the moment.

Finally, Wesker could get something to eat and maybe take that hot shower he had been looking forward to.
Chapter 50

With an assault rifle in his hand, Billy was in his element. Rebecca immediately noticed the way his demeanor changed. He walked differently, spoke with a different tone in his voice. For the first time since she had met him, he was in a comfortable state of mind, letting himself slip back into his training. She felt instantly safer by his side.

Using the map, they made their way through some twisting, turning hallways. When a zombie appeared in their path, Billy quickly and efficiently took it out with a shot or two to the head. They encountered three so far, not including the one from the elevator, and Billy only fired four times. And to think, Rebecca was worried about conserving ammunition.

They followed the map precisely, but when they came to the stairway leading to the upper levels, it was blocked by scrap machinery piled floor to ceiling. They tried to climb or make their way through the junk, but most of it was too heavy to move. And so they had to go back the way they came, circling around to another staircase, which led them down a level, so they could reach another staircase to take them back up. Rebecca could not understand why anyone would build a factory this way. There were hundreds of rooms along the way, full of unused supplies and machinery of an unknown nature. And there were more disposal pits, some as full as the first one, and some that were completely empty. There were also long rooms of machinery overlooking stagnant pools of water. But they passed by most everything they saw, intent on finding the way out of the maze.

At the top of the stairway, a zombie greeted them. Billy returned the greeting with a blast from the assault rifle. The first bullet struck it in the chest, knocking it backwards, and the second shot entered through its eye and blew the top of its head off. Blood and gore rained down behind it, splattering across the wall. So far, Rebecca had not even needed her pistol.

This zombie, however, was not dressed like the others. He wore a plain blue uniform like a common security guard. He even had a plastic security card hanging from his belt. Rebecca took the card and put it into her pocket. It might come in handy later.

They were getting closer to the exit, and as their eventual escape became more and more a reality, Rebecca had to face the choices she would have to make when they made it out. She didn't want to think about them, but she knew she had to.

She believed in Billy and trusted him with her life. If he said that he was innocent of murder, then she believed him. After what they had been through together, she could not emotionally afford to believe that he was a killer. But the rest of the world would believe otherwise. He was a wanted criminal, a fugitive from the law. It was her sworn duty as a police officer to arrest him. But if he was innocent, she had no obligation to arrest him, did she?

Billy would face prison for the rest of his life if Rebecca turned him in. Could she live with that, knowing that he was innocent and had saved her life so many times already? Could she send him to jail with a clear conscience?

And there was more to it than just that. There was a bigger choice ahead than whether to arrest him or not. If they escaped this place, Billy would surely not stick around for long. He would want to get away to ensure his freedom. But could Rebecca let him go?

She knew that in intense situations, people formed strong emotional bonds to those who shared traumatic experiences. It was textbook psychology. There were dozens of cases where individuals placed in extreme circumstances forged powerful bonds. People who lived through natural disasters frequently stayed in contact the rest of their lives. People taken hostage would sometimes fall in love with their captors. Rebecca knew this, but that didn't mean that she was immune to it. Despite herself, she felt attached to Billy in ways she had never felt before.

She didn't even know what to call it. She wasn't in love with him, at least not in the romantic sense. But what they had been through, the risks they had taken to save each others' lives, formed a powerful connection that she could not shake. She felt bound to him, as if he was some kind of soul mate. She knew deep down that she could never feel this strongly with anyone else. Billy, whether he liked it or not, was her new obsession.

She didn't think he felt the same way, but she didn't care. She couldn't bear to see him leave now, not after everything they had done together. They entered a world of nightmares and horror and came out alive, together. Rebecca, even though she knew rationally that it was crazy, could not help but feel that they were meant to stay together.

So when they made it out, and Billy wanted to leave, what could Rebecca do? Could she let him go? Could she go with him and abandon everything here in Raccoon City? She had a responsibility to see this thing through to the end, to make her way back to the city and tell everyone what happened here. She couldn't leave without doing her sworn duty as a police officer. She didn't know if any of the other members of Bravo team were still alive; she might be the only one left to tell the world what happened. She owed it to all of them to get out and return to Raccoon City to tell them about this. But if she had to choose between Billy and her duty, she didn't know if her duty would win out. She didn't know what to do.

Somehow, she suspected that Billy was not having the same problem as her. No doubts were in his head as to what his options were once they escaped. He would try to get out Raccoon City, out of the state, out of the country if he could manage it. He wanted to get as far away as possible and make sure the police and the Army never found him. He wouldn't stay here, not for a minute, even if Rebecca begged him to. Complicating matters, she felt that if she decided to abandon her life and come with him wherever he went, he would not allow her to do it. No matter how she imaged it, she couldn't think of a way for the to stay together. Once they made it out, they would split up. They had to. Billy would not let her come with him, she was sure of it. And he would never agree to stay in Raccoon City with her. It was hopeless.

They found an old service elevator that was not listed on the map, and used it to get to the next floor. Billy checked the map again. "We're on the second level now," he said confidently. "If we follow this hallway here and go through this large area here, it will take us right to this stairway. We follow it up and this hallway here should lead right to an exit," he said, pointing at a small red E on the map. "Not far to go."

"Let's get to it then," Rebecca said.

They passed by a room that looked like some kind of central command office located at the inside corner of a hallway turning left. Doors at each end of the room were propped open, but Billy and Rebecca looked inside through windows installed along the whole wall. Inside, two rows of computer screens and monitors suspended from the ceiling were all turned on, showing grainy black and white images. Unlike most of the rest of the plant, the room was not encased in dust. It almost looked like it had just been abandoned.

Rebecca walked inside. The desks and counters were clean, the computers and monitors all active. A paperback novel was turned face down beside one of the computers, and a radio was sitting in the corner with the volume turned all the way down. Next to one of the keyboards was a pack of cigarettes and a small Zippo lighter.

Billy spied a small refrigerator against the wall under a table covered in magazines. He pulled it open and a huge smile broke open on his face. "Dinner is served!" he laughed, pulling out some cold cans of soda and some sandwiches wrapped in ziploc bags.

Rebecca laughed in disbelief as he handed her a sandwich and reached back inside to pull out some plastic cups of pudding. He sat down at one of the desks and popped open a can of soda, gulping it down so fast that soda spilled down the sides of his face.

Rebecca tore open the sandwich and frowned to see that it was bologna. She disliked bologna, but she was so hungry that she greedily scarfed down the sandwich and opened a soda to wash it down. She hadn't eaten in probably close to twenty hours and she was starving.

"This must be where the security team works," Billy said between bites. "Those monitors all show views from security cameras, I bet. We're eating their lunch. I guess they won't be needing it now."

It felt weird to eat sandwiches made by men who were now dead, but Rebecca ate hers anyway. Then she opened one of the pudding cups and tracked down a plastic spoon to eat it with. Billy opened a second can of soda and drank it down.

As ate some of the pudding cup, Rebecca looked at his arm and the swirling tattoo drawn there. In all their time together, she'd never really looked at it clearly. She thought it was just a random swirling pattern, like some kind of tribal design. Now, surprisingly, she realized that it was actually some words in a looping font.

"Your tattoo," she said with a faint smile. "I didn't realize it was words."

"Yeah. It says 'Mother Love,'" Billy explained. "It's a song by the band Queen."

"I like it. Does it have personal meaning for you?"

"Sort of. My mom loves the band Queen, and she swore that she'd disown me if I ever got a tattoo. So I got this one because I thought she'd like it."

Rebecca laughed. "Did she like it?"

"Well, she didn't disown me."

They shared a laugh, and Rebecca felt almost giddy. She actually felt like they were safe. They were going to make it out alive.

"That's the best meal I've ever had," Billy said, brushing crumbs off his hands. "The bread was kind of stale, though. I bet those sandwiches are two or three days old."

"They can't be much older than that, or they'd have gone bad," Rebecca said, licking her spoon clean. She set the empty pudding cup down. "That means that whatever turned them into zombies only struck here a day or two ago."

"Makes sense. The train was infected last night. It must have started here first and then spread outward."

"I wonder how the train got infected in the first place," Rebecca said. "I don't think a zombie managed to get aboard and infect people one by one."

"I thought about that too," Billy said. "And about the truck I was in. Something attacked the truck and somehow got inside it, and then killed the guards. The same thing must have attacked the train, gotten inside, and killed all the passengers at the same time. Someone must have just hit the emergency stop when it happened."

Rebecca thought about it. With everything that had happened since then, she never really had the time to put it together in her head until now. It seemed possible. There was still a problem, though.

"So who sent out the emergency signal?"

Billy reached next to her to take the cigarettes and the lighter. He pocketed the cigarettes, but flipped open the lighter and lit it to make sure it worked. "What do you mean?"

"We got a call from the train saying they had an emergency. That was why we were sent there. But if this thing attacked at once, who would have been left to make the call?" She tried to remember back to when they first boarded the helicopter and Enrico told them the situation. It seemed like ages ago. "They never said anything about monsters attacking or people being killed. Whoever called us said that the train hit something and was stopped."

"That's weird," Billy said.

It was weird, Rebecca realized. She had never thought about it, but looking back, she saw that the whole train incident didn't make any sense. Whatever happened on the train happened immediately. There had been no survivors, none on the train and none in the forest. It must have occurred very rapidly, leaving no one left alive. But if no one was left, who made the call?

Someone must have known about the train. It couldn't have been a passenger, or they'd have been dead. Rebecca caught herself looking suspiciously around the control room. Could it have been someone here at this plant? Someone working for Umbrella? Did they discover that their zombie plague had struck the train, and then called in the local cops to clean up the mess?

But they lied about what happened. Why would you call the police and then lie about the situation? It was almost as if they were expected to fail. And then the helicopter malfunctioned and stranded them all here, making the situation even worse. If the helicopter hadn't broken down, they could have used it to get out of there once they discovered the zombies.

Whoever made the call must have known about the zombies, but they obviously didn't want that information revealed until S.T.A.R.S. arrived. But once they arrived, they were sure to find out and take the helicopter right back to the station. So the fact that the helicopter's engine failed worked right into the unknown caller's plans. Almost as if he or she had planned it that way.

"We were set up," Rebecca whispered, almost unwilling to believe her own train of thought.

Billy looked curiously at her. "What do you mean?"

"Whoever made the call knew about the zombies, but they didn't tell us about them. If our helicopter hadn't crashed, we would have flown to the train and discovered the zombies, and we probably would have left right away once we saw what we were up against."

"Okay," Billy said. "But that doesn't mean you were set up."

"But it's too much of a coincidence," Rebecca said. "They checked the helicopter two days ago and it was running fine. But the engine malfunctioned on the way to the train. Whoever made the call didn't want us to fly back to Raccoon City, because we'd tell everyone about the zombies. So they sabotaged the helicopter to keep us from getting away."

"How could they do that? They'd have had to sneak into the police station and sabotage every helicopter there."

Rebecca had to admit Billy was right. "But what are the odds that the helicopter would crash on this mission? Why would anyone even bother to call us in if they were trying to keep evidence of the zombies a secret?"

"What makes you think they were trying to keep it a secret? Maybe whoever called you knew about the zombies but was trying to expose them. Think about it, Rebecca. If someone called the police station and reported that an army of zombies attacked a train, the police would hang up in a heartbeat and think the guy was a crank caller. Maybe he lied about the situation to make sure you actually came. Maybe the malfunction was just a coincidence."

Rebecca didn't know why, but she was certain that she was right. There was nothing wrong with Billy's reasoning, it was completely possible for his version to be the truth. But Rebecca just didn't trust it. Someone called Bravo team in under false pretenses and expected them to fail. To make sure of it, they somehow sabotaged the helicopter to prevent their escape. It sounded right to her, but she couldn't explain why.

Almost without thinking, she reached into one of her pockets and pulled out some crumpled up papers she put there earlier. She unfolded them and found the paper with the list of names. At the bottom, the name "A. Wesker." It just felt like too much of a coincidence.

"Come on," Billy said, standing up. "Let's not waste any more time here. I want to get out as soon as I can." He snapped the Zippo lighter closed and put it in his pocket with the cigarettes.

Rebecca stuffed the papers back in her pocket and finished the last of her soda. Billy picked up his assault rifle and the two of them made their way out of the control room and down the hall. For the moment, Rebecca stopped thinking about conspiracies and concentrated on the task ahead of them. Namely, getting through the last two levels of this maze.

The went down the long hall at a brisk pace, invigorated by the meal and the knowledge that they were so close to their goal. If they hurried, they could be out of the plant in fifteen minutes. They turned right at the next T intersection and went down that hallway at a quick jog. No zombies were anywhere in sight.

The hallway ended in a large metal door covered in spots of rust. Through the rust, they could make out the words "Caution: Authorized Personnel Only" painted in red. On the wall beside the door was a small panel with a green button. Billy pressed it.

"We have to go through this next room to get to the stairway to the top level," he said.

"Why do you think it's sealed off like this?"

"I have no idea. On the map, it's just labeled a containment area. It's pretty big though, bigger than the disposal pits."

"That makes me nervous."

The door hummed loudly and began to open from the bottom like a garage door. Humming all the way, it rose to the top and stopped with a hiss. Billy and Rebecca wasted no time stepping through into the containment area, but they stopped in their tracks as soon as they were inside.

The containment area was the size of a school gymnasium. A host of unpleasant odors assaulted them, a disgusting combination of biological and mechanical decay. Gasoline and disinfectant combined with sewage and rotting meat. The walls were twenty feet high and ended with narrow catwalks around the edge of the area. The ceiling was another twenty feet above that, lined with support beams and thin girders.

As for the containment area itself, it was part storage area and part junkyard. One corner was filled with stacked crates, some wood and some plastic, most of them broken. One stack had collapsed, spilling machine parts across the floor. Piles of garbage and assorted refuse were everywhere. In the corner nearest Billy and Rebecca, there were a few dozen rusted oil drums, some of them knocked over. A huge puddle of dirty oil was spilled around most of them. Against the far wall were half a dozen large machines that Rebecca didn't recognize, sitting there like old cars in a scrap yard. Grime covered the floor and walls, and puddles of stagnant water were all around, probably caused by dripping pipes.

Billy was the first to start walking toward the other end of the room, where another large door was closed. As soon as Rebecca started to follow him, the door behind her hummed loudly and began to close. Rebecca was taken off guard, wondering how the door closed on its own. Was it programmed to close after a delay, or was there some motion sensor telling it that people had walked through? Curiously, she looked back at Billy, who was already crossing the center of the room. She jogged to catch up with him.

He made it to the other door and pressed the button. The door hummed and lifted up just a few inches before stopping with a jerk and going back down. They stared at it for a moment and Billy tried again. The door raised up and then shut back down for now reason.

"Why won't this stupid door open?" Billy asked, slapping the button console in annoyance.

"I don't like this," Rebecca said, trying to keep her voice level.

"We have to get through here. It'll take us an hour to go around the long way."

"The other door already closed behind us."

"What?"

They walked all the way back across the containment area and tried to open the door they had entered from. When they tried to open it, it would not work either.

"We're trapped," Rebecca said, gripping her pistol with both hands and looking around the area. "I think someone knows we're here."

"No one's here but zombies," Billy said, but the tone in his voice told Rebecca that he didn't believe it. He cradled his assault rifle and began to look around as well.

Rebecca cast her gaze up along the catwalks above them. Was it her imagination, or did she sense someone up there, looking down at them? Someone closed the door behind them and was keeping them trapped there. Rebecca could feel it in her bones.

And then she saw him, crouching in the darkness of a long shadow in the very corner. She gasped and grabbed Billy's arm.

He followed her gaze up into the catwalks and saw the man as well. He raised the gun but did not open fire yet, although his finger twitched on the trigger.

For a few tense seconds, no one moved.

"Who are you?" Billy called up, his voice harsh.

The man in the corner very slowly stood up and took two steps out into the light. He was wearing nothing but a filthy pair of pants and his long black hair hung almost to his waist. Rebecca was stunned. It was the man from the train, and this time he looked like a man again, not the monstrous creature that had attacked them three times now. His skin was pale and glistening with moisture. His chest and arms were chiseled with muscle that seemed to ripple as he moved. His face was masked by shadow, but his eyes seemed to glow as he stared down at them.

"Jesus," Billy whispered.

The man walked along the edge of the catwalk, staring down at them with a disinterested look on his dark face. His hair seemed to glide behind him like a cape. His body seemed to bear not a single mark or scar from the times they had shot him.

"Let us leave," Rebecca said loudly. "We don't want to fight you. We just want to leave this place."

The man paused in mid-stride and set both his hands on the catwalk railing. He looked down at them, studying them, and then slowly shook his head.

"Who are you?" Billy asked again.

The man tilted his head, as if confused by the question. His eyes shone brightly, but the look on his face was not violent or angry or any other negative emotion Rebecca could comprehend. If anything, he looked gentle and serene. He looked calm and harmless.

"My ... name ...?" he said slowly, as if forming the words for the first time.

Rebecca's hands shook. The man's voice was low and haunting, like the voice of a ghost. But it was not a human voice. It looked like a man, but Rebecca knew for certain that although it might have been human once, it was no longer. The beast that had attacked them so ferociously was not human, and just because it had changed shape into something more natural, it was still a monster.

"My ... name ...?" he said again, testing the words.

Rebecca could almost see comprehension dawning on the man's face. He knew what they meant, and he remembered. His eyes sparkled brightly.

"My name ... is James ... Marcus ..."

Chapter 51

Birkin slid his security card through the reader and the door slid open automatically. He walked purposefully, returning the key card to the large pocket of his lab coat. He glanced into a few of the lab rooms as he walked down the hallway, finding them empty, as he expected. If the staff was following his instructions, as he naturally expected them to, they should all be in the secondary labs and storage areas, organizing all of the records of the past few years. It stung him to think of all the man-hours being wasted on such a mundane task, but it was necessary.

In the end, all that mattered was the work. Ten, fifty, a hundred lives were worth the biological knowledge discovered at the lab. If that many people had to die to keep their work on the Progenitor from being destroyed, then Birkin had to agree that it was worth the cost. Birkin knew in his heart that his work with the virus was the stepping stone to curing all disease, and what price was too high for that kind of power? The power to cure all disease, the power to repair bodies and render anyone nearly immune to debilitating illness. Anything was worth that.

Birkin would give his own life to make that dream come true. But no one else in the lab was as knowledgeable about the virus as he was. No one had been working with it as long, no one else knew it as intimately. Birkin couldn't sacrifice his own life, because no one else was equipped to do the further work necessary. At one time, he could have trusted his wife Annette to do the work correctly, but that had been years ago. And none of the other workers at the lab were competent enough. Birkin was the only one able to handle it.

Or was this all self-justification? He had no way to tell.

He turned a corner and heard voices in one of the labs. Loud, excited voices. He entered the lab to find a dozen of his people standing around one of the lab tables, excitedly looking on as someone looked into one of the high-magnification microscopes. They seemed enthusiastic and bubbling over with excitement, but the only thing Birkin noticed was that they were certainly not doing what he had instructed them to do.

"What's going on here?" he said, his voice with a harsh edge. "I told everyone to start organizing the lab. What are you doing in here?"

They looked up at the sound of his voice, but instead of looking scared that he was angry, they seemed to brighten up even more. They rushed him unexpectedly, and he practically had to wave them away. He was not accustomed to having his assistants acting like a bunch of over-excited school children. They all babbled at him in a rush, and he only heard snippets of what they were saying.

"... just an hour ago, we haven't been able to contact you ..."

"... discovered it. We can't believe how perfect it is ..."

"... another routine experiment. This is exactly what we've been searching for ..."

"... so glad you're here, you absolutely have to see this ..."

Birkin pushed them off and yelled over them. "One at a time! What is so important that you're not doing the work I assigned?"

The assistant sitting at the microscope came forward and took Birkin's arm, leading him to the table. "Sir," he said apologetically, "we were starting on that, but you said to finish all the experiments that were currently running. This one just finished up an hour ago, and when we looked at the results, we couldn't believe our eyes." He gestured to the chair and Birkin took a seat to look down into the microscope.

"Which one is this?" he asked. "Which test?"

"The initial G-virus test with an enzyme cocktail composed of VN-16 and LP-20. Those are the ones that we mixed with Progenitor-F to –"

"Yes," Birkin interrupted. "I know which ones they are."

"We exposed some lab animals to the G-virus and then the enzyme cocktail. Just a first-round test, totally routine, and we didn't expect anything to come of it. But this is unlike anything we've ever seen. Look at it for yourself, sir."

Birkin looked down through the scope and saw yet another group of red blood cells infected with one of their viral strains. He'd seen thousands – probably tens of thousands – of slides just like this over the years. But immediately, he saw that this slide was different. He edged closer to the table and pressed his eye into the eyepiece to get a better look, and increased the magnification to full, so that he could actually see the interior of a single cell.

"They acted as a catalyst for the G-virus to bond with the host DNA almost immediately. It's completely amazing. This is one of the things we've been looking for, and we found it on the first day, totally by accident."

Birkin didn't need his assistant to explain the slide to him, because he could see it himself. The cell had mutated instantly, but not because of the virus in the way it normally did. The G-virus was already known for its incredible mutative powers, but this was different. Instead of simply infecting the cell and causing a mutation to occur, this time it the G-virus joined directly with the cell's DNA and changed its very genetic make-up.

VN-16 and LP-20 were two of the more useful protein mixes. Birkin used them in the past to alter transmission methods for various Progenitor strains, trying to find the right timing method to allow the Progenitor to heal without activating its negative traits. It never worked, but the two proteins were still very useful. Somehow, adding them to the G-virus allowed it to bypass the cell almost completely and bond directly with the cell DNA. It was completely unprecedented. With the G-virus penetrating the cell in this manner, it didn't even act like a virus. It was more like genetic therapy.

Birkin was fascinated and encouraged by the concept of gene therapy, but as a science it was still in its infancy. It was the process of implanting specific genes into a cell to repair damaged genes, replace missing ones, or even to cure hereditary diseases. The G-virus seemingly did exactly that, splicing itself right into the DNA of the host.

The assistant, meanwhile, just kept talking in Birkin's ear, but Birkin effectively tuned him out. He completely engrossed himself in the action underneath the slide and ignored the rest of the world around him.

The ramifications were beyond astounding, they were absolutely world-shattering. In all his years of endless research, Birkin had never come so close to finally solving the problem of the Progenitor. But here, right in front of him, was the key. The G-virus opened up a whole new world of possibilities.

The G-virus, like the Progenitor and all its other variants, passed on a powerful healing factor to its hosts, but that healing factor came with a terrible cost. In the cast of the Progenitor, death and resurrection as a second-stage host. In the case of the T-virus, mutation into a Tyrant. In the case of the G-virus, uncontrollable mutation and eventual biological breakdown. But those were the side effects of a viral infection. But this G-virus did not infect the host with a virus at all. Surely, the effects would not be the same. Birkin had no idea what this new form of the G-virus could do, and that idea both thrilled him and terrified him.

What would an altered form of the virus do to a living host? If the virus combined with the host's DNA, then how could still remain lethal under those circumstances? The virus would not be lethal to itself. Even in the advanced science labs of the Umbrella Corporation, some things were still considered to be science fiction. Instantaneous combination of DNA between virus and host was simply mind-boggling. Combining the DNA of two different lifeforms would do nothing less than create an entirely new organism. But how could that possibly happen?

The virus and the host would become one. The virus could no longer kill the host, because the virus and the host were now the same thing. But would the powerful regenerative qualities still be able to heal the cells? What if a host infected with the Progenitor was then also given the G-virus?

Birkin's mind reeled at the thought of what this could mean to their research. His assistant was still talking, but Birkin waved his arm to silence him. He slid his chair away from the microscope and ran his hands through his hair. Why did they have to make a discovery like this on today of all days! Birkin didn't have time to study it, not when the Progenitor was loose in the mountains and would reach Raccoon City any day now. There simply wasn't time to even begin studying this new discovery.

But he could not help himself.

"This is truly incredible," he said finally. "I can't believe what we have here. But right now we have other work that needs to be done." He pointed to one of the scientists, a young woman standing at the edge of the group. "You," he ordered, "stay here and assist me with this. The rest of you, get back to work with that I told you to do earlier. We need to get this lab organized. I know it seems like a waste of time, but it has to be done. Time is short."

They obviously didn't want to be assigned such a menial task, especially on the edge of such a momentous discovery, but they all left the lab without complaint, their euphoria outweighing their scientific curiosity. They chattered excitedly amongst themselves, voicing congratulations to each other and speculating on the future.

As soon as they were gone, Birkin snapped off orders to the remaining assistant. They had to prepare the next round of tests, and there was no time to waste. As the young woman worked, she asked, "Dr. Birkin, why did you ask me to help you with this? I mean, Teddy was the one who first found out, and he knows more about it than I do."

Birkin wasn't sure about all their names, but he guessed that Teddy was the one talking his ear off the entire time. "Yes, well, Teddy didn't know when to shut up when I was trying to think. You were the only one who didn't try to smother me when I entered the door. I appreciate professional restraint in my staff."

The girl almost blushed. "Thank you, sir." A comment like that was the closest Birkin ever got to an actual compliment.

A few tests were still running, but they were all very close to completion, so Birkin scanned the schedule to see what was left and what results he could safely ignore. All the initial tests were basic exploratory experiments to test the G-virus with various enzymes and combinations, to set a baseline for later tests. It amazed Birkin to think that such a basic test had returned such incredible results. To think, the G-virus had been sitting untested for years. He felt a growing sense of anger and frustration at the knowledge that he could have come to this discovery long before now, if only he had abandoned his scientific prejudices and continued research into the G-virus. They could have solved everything by now!

He pushed away his bitterness and focused on the present. They had to prepare the lab for a new series of experiments, even as Birkin knew that he was painting himself into a corner. The fact remained that he did not have time for this. He could not afford to spend time working on a brand new project, not right now, not when any day he might have to pack up and escape the city like Wesker. If he was smart, he would pack this new sample up with all the new test data and mark it as important for future reference. If he was smart, he would join his staff and start organizing and filing all the files and samples. If he was smart, he would do lots of things.

But he simply could not help himself. His desire for knowledge, his desire for the key to his life's work, and his obsession always got the best of him. This new version of the G-virus was something new, something revolutionary. He could not put it away untested. It was the single most important discovery the lab had ever made, and his scientific morals forbid him from simply setting it aside for later. He had to work on it now, it was like an addiction.

A new door had been revealed to him, a new path to follow, and he had to go through it, no matter what the cost. It opened up a whole world of opportunities. The next stage of his life's work had arrived, and he could not let it pass him by. Everything else took a back seat.

Right now, the G-virus was the most important thing in the world.

Chapter 52

Billy did not move, but Rebecca flinched when the man said his name. James Marcus was the man portrayed on the huge painting in the mansion lobby. He must have been sixty when the painting was made, but the man standing above them could not have been older than thirty. Of course, Rebecca knew that the man was not completely human anymore, but could it be possible that he was same man in the painting?

"We saw a picture of James Marcus," Rebecca said. "Are you the same person?"

"Yesssss," he said, drawing out the final sound like a snake hissing. "I am James Marcus. ... I was ... director of ... a school." As he spoke, he seemed to gain confidence, as if he had forgotten how to talk and was slowly remembering how to form the words. "That was ... many years ago."

"What are you?" Billy asked loudly, his finger tensing on the trigger.

The man spread his hands and stared down at them with a fascinated look on his face. "I am ... changed. They tried to ... kill me. But my pets ... made me whole again."

Rebecca was about to ask what he meant, when she saw them. Spreading around the man, pooling around him like spilled water, were hundreds of tiny black shapes. They seemed to appear out of nowhere, writhing like a single organism, oozing down the walls into the containment area like an overflowing dam. Rebecca's arms lowered to point the gun at the advancing mass, but Billy kept his gun trained on the man.

"My pets," the man said. "I created them ... and they gave me new life. They are my pets ... my beautiful pets ..."

Billy clenched his teeth. "Jesus, what are they?"

Rebecca's eyes were wide with fear, her hands trembling. "I think they're leeches," she squeaked.

The moving mass of leeches came forward until it was no more than twenty feet away. There were thousands of them, squirming and glistening with slime, seeming to pulse to some unheard beat. The man looked down at his pets and lowered his arms. Rebecca could not read his face, there were too many emotions there at once. Pride, fear, confusion, hatred, all of them flashed across his eyes.

"They brought me back," the man said, his voice changing pitch. "They made me something else ... and I thought I could control them. I thought ... they were still my pets. But they did not bring me back to control them ..."

Suddenly, he screamed and fell to one knee, grabbing the catwalk railing with both hands. He yanked back and tore the metal right apart, stumbling backwards. He went to his knees and screamed again, his body wracked with tremors. The huge swarm of leeches seemed to pulse and writhe with his inhuman cries, inching closer to Billy and Rebecca. With each scream, they got larger.

"It's the leeches," Rebecca whispered. "They're overpowering him ..."

He went onto his hands and knees, his entire body breaking out in sweat. His skin still rippled and shifted with the uncontrollable forces within him. He pressed his forehead against the catwalk floor and spoke quietly, but somehow Billy and Rebecca heard him perfectly clearly.

"I created them ... but now they control me. I cannot stop them. I do not know why they want me to kill you, but I cannot stop them. They are not my pets ... they are ... my ... masters."

Finally, he let out an agonizing howl and jerked backwards, his body changing rapidly. His chest expanded and his arms bulged out with a sudden mass of new muscle. His face distorted into something bestial and terrifying, and he leaped off the catwalk with a screech.

He landed on the ground among the leeches, somehow not crushing any of them . He looked more familiar now, like he did the last time they had fought. His arms were like massive clubs, his torso and back bent over like some grotesque combination of a hunchback and ogre. The leeches writhed around him like worshipers.

Billy moved so fast Rebecca almost did not see him. He did not fire his gun, but instead reached into his pocket and pulled out the Zippo lighter. He flicked it on and threw it at the creature before returning his hand to the stock of the gun and opening fire. The creature howled as the bullets struck its chest, but nothing appeared except tiny black holes that filled back in instantly, as if he'd never been shot.

And then the lighter landed on the ground right behind the creature.

Right in the huge puddle of motor oil from the leaking drums.

Rebecca barely had time to react before Billy spun around and grabbed her shoulder, turning her aside as the flames ignited with a powerful whoosh of hot air and the entire puddle turned into a blazing inferno of light blue and yellow flames.

The creature screamed as half of its body was suddenly engulfed in the swirling flames. A split-second later, the first drum went up. Billy and Rebecca hit the ground as the oil exploded in a bright flash and waves of burning oil splashed everywhere. The creature was blown right off his feet by the force of the massive fireball, hurled through the air into the stacks of unused machinery. The leeches scattered like cockroaches with the kitchen light on, going in every direction, suddenly disorganized by the fire.

Billy rolled onto his back, his gun at the ready. A group of leeches came for them, but Billy opened fire, blasting most of them to pieces, the rest scattering in a frenzy. Rebecca got onto her knees and held an arm in front of her face to block the extreme heat.

Another drum went up in a huge fireball, the wave of hot air knocked her right back off her feet. The burning oil covered the walls and a section of the floor forty feet wide. The creature was covered in flames, screaming madly and waving its arms in an attempt to smother the flames.

"Come on!" Billy shouted, dragging Rebecca to her feet. The air was so hot that it burned her lungs to breathe.

Half of the containment area turned into a blazing inferno. The fire spread to piles of garbage in the corner and it all went up like kindling. Thick black smoke rose to the ceiling, and the incredible heat seemed to burn Rebecca's face even when they made it to the other end of the area. The creature was far away, screaming and howling in agony as it burned.

Billy hit the button for the door again, and this time, it immediately hummed and began to open. Before it was even half way up, the two of them ducked under it and began to run, but an explosion shook the floor and knocked them off their feet. Billy's assault rifle flew out of his hands and clattered down the hall. Rebecca looked back and saw the creature coming at them, right to the door. She staggered to her feet and hit the button to close the door. Another blast made the whole building quake, and the door began to close much too slowly

"The whole place is going up!" Billy shouted, getting to his feet. "We have to get out of here!"

Rebecca screamed and backed away as the flaming monster reached them. It stuck its hand under the door just as it closed but could not hold it, and the door cut right through its arm. Rebecca scrambled backwards as the remaining half of its hand burst apart and a dozen burning leeches oozed across the floor.

They ran. The hallway trembled once more and they heard the sound of more explosions echo down the corridors. It didn't matter, they just had to run. They ran for everything they were worth. They found the stairway straight ahead and ran up three steps at a time. At the next level, they ran right down the hallway and found themselves in a wide, lighted lobby. Tall windows on each side let in beautiful, steaming sunlight. It felt like forever since they had seen the sun.

Another tremor shook the building and knocked some ceiling tiles loose. They fell to the floor as Billy and Rebecca ran right through the lobby and out the front door. Their feet hit pavement and they felt a cool autumn breeze on their face.

Behind them, a billowing fireball erupted far behind the lobby, rising like a mushroom cloud into the afternoon sky. Black smoke rose into the air.

They stopped in shock and watched the buildings burn. On the surface, the treatment plant was nothing more than a few scattered buildings in a large fenced-off compound, concealing the huge factory complex beneath. The fire from below came to consume the buildings, spreading through each one and burning them all to the ground.

"The fire must have spread to a gas main or something," Billy said, awestruck by the destruction playing out in front of them.

"Methane from all those bodies?" Rebecca said, sitting on the ground. "It would have built up for years in those hallways."

"I don't know."

Billy let his arms hang at his sides. The fire swallowed up the building they had exited from, and it began to collapse in upon itself, dense black smoke pouring out. Rebecca watched the flames twist and dance, still feeling heat on her face. She wiped her forehead on the back of her hand and it came away streaked with soot.

Billy did not sit down. In fact, he did not even relax, as if he expected the creature that used to be James Marcus come running from the blazing inferno to finally kill them. Rebecca didn't believe that anything could survive that place, not even him. James Marcus and all his leeches must have burned to death in the containment area. It would become their tomb.

"That was pretty smart," Rebecca said. "Using the lighter to set the oil on fire."

"Yeah," Billy said, sounding distracted. "I thought of it as soon as the leeches came down the wall at us. I was just waiting for him to come down as well."

"I can't believe we made it out of there alive."

Billy sighed. "Me neither."

They watched the fires burn for a hour. Finally, Billy felt sure that Marcus was not coming after them, and he sat down on the pavement beside Rebecca. They did not say much. Gradually, the buildings burned through and crumbled into ash and twisted metal skeletons. Smoke drifted from the remains, but the fires slowly died out as there was nothing left to burn. Soon, they were surrounded by nothing but smoldering ruins. The smoke drifted away, scattered by the gentle breeze, and it became hard to tell that they had just escaped with their lives. The entrance to the treatment plant was now buried under tons of ash and rubble.

"We should go," Billy said, looking up at the sky. It was past noon, and the sun was beginning its long descent to the horizon.

Rebecca got to her feet and brushed dirt and gravel off her pants. Billy stood as well but did not brush himself off. Rebecca took a moment to notice just how bad he looked. His clothes were filthy like hers, smeared with dirt and blood in places. The bottom of his shirt was ripped up from when he made the sling for his shotgun. His shirt and pants still showed a long black stain from the elevator cable. His long brown hair was greasy and stiff, his face and arms visibly dirty.

"Where are we going to go?" she asked.

"You're going back to the city and telling everyone what happened out here," he said, looking at her. "Anyone who'll listen. Get the rest of the police force out here if you can."

"And you?"

"Tell them whatever you want. Tell them about me if you want."

"No, I mean where are you going?"

"Anywhere but here," Billy said, looking into the distance. "I'll hitch a ride with somebody. If I can get to my parents' house in Colorado, they can help me get out of the country."

Rebecca could not help herself. "You could stay here, you know. I could help you."

"No," Billy said softly, just shaking his head, not making eye contact. "They'll be looking for me. You know I can't stay."

"I'll tell them you were killed. I'll say I saw you die. They'll have to believe me."

"And then what? I can't just move in with you, Rebecca. I have no identification, no money, nothing. I can't get a job, I can't buy a car. And even if you say that I'm dead, don't you think they might get suspicious about some strange man living with you, matching my description? My tattoo alone gives away my identity."

"Then let me ..." Rebecca wanted to say "Let me come with you," but she couldn't get the words to come out. She stared at him helplessly, begging with her eyes.

"I can't risk staying here, and you know it. And I can't put you at risk either, even if you want me to. I have to go."

"I don't want you to go," she said. "We've been through too much."

He put his hands on her shoulders and forced himself to look right in her eyes. "I have to get away from here. I know you want me to stay, but you know that it won't work. You feel this way now, but in a few weeks you'll get over it."

Rebecca knew it was coming, had known for hours, had tried to prepare herself for it. But it made no difference. She closed her eyes and felt tears run down her face. She did not sob or break down, but she cried silently and felt her throat tighten. She tried to reach for Billy, but he let go and backed away from her.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't know why I'm acting this way. You're right, you can't stay here." She wiped her eyes and sniffled, trying to regain her composure.

"I'm sorry too," Billy said. "But it has to end like this."

He looked at her for another moment and then turned to walk away. He walked across the empty parking lot to the perimeter of the fence and stopped at the open gate. He turned again to see her still standing there, more tears on her face.

"Hey, Billy," she called out. "Don't forget, my last name is Chambers. I'm a member of the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team. When this is all over, whenever you get where you're going, do me a favor and look me up, okay?"

Billy nodded almost imperceptibly. "I'll do that," he promised. And then he was through the gate and into the trees, disappearing into the woods, and out of her life.

Rebecca swallowed hard and wiped her eyes again. She had to get moving, she had to find a road to lead her back to Raccoon City. There was no way to tell how much time she had. All she knew was that there were still zombies and monsters loose, and she had to warn the city.

She walked to the gate and looked out into the woods. If she listened carefully, she thought she could hear him walking in the distance. He was gone now, and despite his promise, she believed that she would never hear from him again.

There was a rutted dirt road leading away from the plant into the forest. She could only assume that it would take her to a main road. She started walking.
A note from the author

Resident Evil Legends is a seven-part series that was originally posted online from 2007 to 2012 on Fanfiction.net. The entire series has been completely revised and edited for this new Smashwords Edition. The author would like to thank all of the readers on Fanfiction.net who posted comments and feedback. Without their help and support, this series would never have been completed. The author would also like to thank Capcom for creating such wonderful and memorable characters and making such entertaining games.

Resident Evil Legends

Part One: Welcome to the Umbrella Corporation

Part Two: The Arklay Outbreak

COMING SOON
Part Three: The Mansion Incident

Part Four: Calm Before the Storm

Part Five: City of the Dead

Part Six: Escape from Raccoon City

Part Seven: Aftermath
