by S. D. Perry
"… chest. Burns, it… burns…"
Ada relaxed just a bit. He'd seen or heard some– thing outside of the cell, something that had kicked off a massive coronary; that, she could accept. A pisser for the journalist, but it would save her the trouble of killing him herself… He reached out suddenly and grasped her forearm, staring up at her with an intensity that surprised her. His grip was weak, but there was desperation in his wet eyes – desperation and some frustrated sorrow that inspired not a little guilt for what she'd been thinking. "I never told… about Irons," he breathed, obvi-ously struggling to hang on to life, to get it all out.
"He's… working for Umbrella… all this time. The zombies… are Umbrella, research… and he covered up the murders but I couldn't… prove it all, yet… was going to be my… exclusive."
Bertolucci closed his braised-looking eyelids, breath– ing shallowly as his fingers fell away from her arm, and she felt a surge of pity for him in spite of herself.
The poor dumb jerk; his big secret was that Umbrella was into bioweapons and that Irons was on the take. It would have been a big scoop, too, but apparently he hadn't even been able to get any hard evidence. He doesn't know dick about the G-Virus, he never did – and he's going to die regardless. Talk about a shit deal. "Jesus," Leon said softly. "Chief Irons…" Ada had all but forgotten how clueless the young cop was. He was obviously new, but a couple of times he'd seemed so perceptive that she'd been taken aback; the kid wasn't just a testosterone case, there was definitely something going on upstairs…
… knock it off already, he's not much younger than you. The reporter's about to kick and you need to be on your way, not worrying about Officer Friendly…
Bertolucci spasmed suddenly, his hands clutching at his chest as he moaned, a sharp, tortured cry of agony. His back arched, his fingers hooked into claws…… and the moan went liquid as blood started to stream from his mouth in a burbling gout. Choking and shaking, Bertolucci's limbs convulsed violently, droplets of crimson spraying out with each racking cough…… and Ada saw red blossom across his rumpled white shirt beneath his scrabbling hands and heard the thick, wet crack of breaking bone. She leapt back as Leon grabbed for the reporter's hands, not sure what was happening but absolutely positive that it was not a heart attack…
… holy Christ what IS this?
All at once, Bertolucci went limp, his eyes rolled back and fixed, sightless. Blood still oozed from his cracked lips and there was a sound, a horrible sound of meat being torn, and under the stained fabric of his shirt, something moved. "Get back!" Ada shouted, pointing her Beretta at the dead reporter, and in the split-second it took her to aim, a thing erupted from Bertolucci's bloody chest. A thing the size of a big man's fist, a gore– drenched thing that opened a tiny black hole of a mouth and squealed shrilly, revealing nubs of sharp red teeth. It wriggled out of the corpse with a whip-ping manta's tail, splashing the cold cement with shreds of wet tissue and gut. Lashing against the cooling flesh of the reporter, it poured from the body in a gush of blood and onto the floor – and took off like a shot for the open gate back into the hall, propelling itself with its snaking tail and legs that Ada couldn't see, smearing a red path be– hind it. It was out the door before she even remembered that she was holding a gun; for the first time since she'd come to Raccoon, since ever, she had been so completely shocked that she hadn't thought to react. A chest-bursting parasitic creature, straight out of a sci-fi movie… "Was that… did you see…" Leon fumbled breath– lessly. "I saw it," Ada said softly, cutting him off. She turned and looked down at Bertolucci, at his face, frozen in a bloody contortion of anguish, and at the gaping wet cavity just below his sternum.
His mouth, cracked at the corners…
He'd been implanted with the creature, by what, she didn't know, and she didn't want to know. What she wanted was to get the mission wrapped, as quickly as possible, and then get as far away from Raccoon City as she could. In fact, she thought that she'd never wanted anything quite so badly. When she'd first realized that there had been a T-Virus incident, she'd expected to have to deal with some unpleasant organ– isms. But the thought of having one of them forced or forcing its way down her throat, nestling inside of her body like some slick, aberrant fetus before eating its way out… if that wasn't the most horrible thing she could think of, it ran a close second. She looked at Leon, giving up any pretense of trying to be reasonable. She was going to the lab, and it wasn't open to discussion. "I'm getting out of here," she said, and without waiting for a response, she turned and walked briskly toward the gate, careful not to step on the glistening trail of blood that the tiny monster had created.
"Wait! Look, I think… Ada? Hey…"
She stepped into the corridor, weapon raised, but the creature was gone. The blood trail petered out less than halfway down the hall, but she saw that they'd left the door to the kennel open…
… and the manhole cover's off. Terrific.
Leon caught up to her before she'd gone more than a few steps. He stood in front of her, blocking her path, and for just a moment, Ada thought he was going to try to physically stop her.
Don't do it. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. "Ada, please don't go," Leon said, not a command but a plea. "I… when I got to Raccoon, I met this girl, and I think she's in the station somewhere. If you could help me find her, the three of us could leave together. We'd stand a much better chance…" "Sorry, Leon, but it's a free goddamn country. You do what you have to, and good luck, but I'm not staying. I've had enough. If – when I get out, I'll send help."
She started to push past him, hoping it wouldn't come to violence and wishing that she could tell him not to get in her way – how dangerous it would be for him to try – when Leon surprised her yet again. "Then I'm coming with you," he said. He met her gaze evenly, his own unflinching and resolute – and scared. "I'm not going to let you do it alone. I don't want anyone else – I don't want you to get hurt."
Ada stared at him, not sure what to say. Now that Bertolucci was dead, she didn't want to have to ditch Leon in the sewers; it wouldn't be hard, considering how extensive the system was… but he was just so goddamn nice, so determined to be helpful, that she was starting to – to not want to have to do anything bad to him. Things would be a lot easier if he was just some asshole on a machismo kick…
Okay, so blow your cover. Tell him you're a private agent working to steal the G-Virus, and you don't want company; tell him about the relief you felt when you realized the reporter was about to die, or how you don't have a problem with killing, if it's for a good cause like getting paid. See how nice and helpful he is after that.
Not an option; neither was trying to talk him out of coming along, it wouldn't make sense. And there was some part of her, some part that she didn't want to admit to, that wanted very much not to be alone. Seeing that thing that had popped out of Bertolucci had shaken her, it had left her feeling that she wasn't as invulnerable as she liked to think.
So let him come, get to the lab and find a safe place to leave him there. No harm, no foul.
Leon was watching her closely, studying her – wait– ing for her approval. "Let's go," she said, and the grin he gave her, though winning, made her feel even more uncomfort– able. Without another word, they walked toward the kennel, Ada wondering what the hell she was doing and whether or not she was still capable of doing whatever it took to get the job done. Claire stood in front of a medieval door at the very end of the dark, dungeon-like hallway that the eleva– tor had taken her to. The station had been chilly, but the icy damp of this stone hall made the station seem like summer; it was like she'd descended into some ancient, haunted castle straight out of the Middle Ages. She took a deep breath, trying to decide how to go in; she was pretty sure that Irons wouldn't appreciate a surprise visit, but the idea of knocking seemed ludicrous – not to mention dangerous. There were torches burning in sconces on either side of the heavy wood door, the door itself belted with strips of rusting me
tal and if she'd had any doubt before that Irons was crazy, the sight of the twin sputtering torches and the feel of cold, quiet dread that suffused the corridor itself had wiped her uncertainty out.
A secret tunnel, a hidden room complete with mood-lighting… what sane person would want to hang out down here? It wasn't the disaster that did it – Irons must have been nuts way before the Umbrella acci– dent…
Another certainty, although she didn't have any proof – but when Sherry had told her about what her parents did for a living, and what had happened just prior to her coming to the station, something had clicked. Umbrella worked with diseases, and the population of Raccoon had definitely come down with a bad case of something. There must have been some kind of an accident, a spill that had released the strange zombie plague…
Quit stalling.
Claire bit at her lip, not sure what she should do. She didn't doubt that Irons was down here some– where, and she did not want to run into him again; maybe she should go back up, get Sherry, and try to find another way out. Just because the area was secret didn't mean that it was some kind of an escape route.
Still stalling, and Sherry is up there by herself. And you've got a gun, remember?
A gun with very little ammo. If this was Irons's hidden lair, maybe he kept weapons inside… or maybe it was just another corridor, one that led even deeper into the bowels of the station. Either way, wondering about it was telling her exactly jack shit. Claire put her hand on the latch, took another deep breath, and pushed it open, the heavy door swinging in slowly on well-oiled hinges. She stepped back, pointing the handgun…
Jesus.
An empty room, as dank and unwelcoming as the corridor, but with furnishings and a decor that made her skin crawl. A single naked bulb hung down from the ceiling, illuminating the creepiest chamber she'd ever seen. There was a table in the middle of the room, stained and battered, a hacksaw and other cutting utensils scattered on top; a dented metal bucket and a mop, slopped against one water-stained wall, next to a portable basin with dried red patches inside; shelves, laden with dusty bottles – and what looked like human bones, polished and pale, set out like macabre trophies. That, and the smell – a thick chemical reek, sharp and acidic, that only just cov– ered a darker smell. A smell like insanity. Even looking into the room made her want to be sick; "nuts" was maybe the understatement of the year for the police chief, but there was nobody home, and that meant that there could be another secret passage somewhere inside. At the very least, she had to check for weapons. Swallowing, Claire stepped into the room, glad that she hadn't brought Sherry with her; looking at the private little torture chamber was going to give her nightmares, it was nothing to expose a child to…
"Freeze, little girl, or I'll shoot you where you stand."
Claire froze. Every muscle in her body froze as Irons started to laugh from behind her, from behind the door where she hadn't thought to look.
Oh my God, oh, God, oh, Sherry I'm so sorry…
Irons's deep chuckle rose into the hearty, gleeful laughter of a madman, and Claire understood that she was going to die.
EIGHTEEN
Trying not to breathe too deeply, Leon reached the bottom of the metal ladder and turned around quickly, aiming the Magnum into the thick gloom. Murky water sloshed over his boots, and as his eyes adjusted to the low light, he saw the source of the terrible smell.
Parts of it, anyway…
The subbasement tunnel stretching out in front of him was littered with body parts, human corpses that had been torn into pieces. Limbs and heads and torsos were strewn randomly through the stone pas– sage, lapped at gently by the few inches of dark water that covered the floor. "Leon? How is it?" Ada's voice floated down from the circle of light above the ladder, echoing hollowly around him. Leon didn't answer, his shocked gaze fixed on the terrible scene, his brain trying to add up the shredded parts and come up with a number.
How many? How many people?
Too many to count. He saw a faceless head, the long hair streaming around it in a cloud. A heavy woman's decapitated trunk, one breast bobbing above the rippling darkness. An arm encased in the tatters of a cop's dress shirt. A bare leg, still wearing a sneaker. A curled hand, the fingers slick and white.
A dozen? Twenty? "Leon?" Ada's tone had sharpened. "It's… it looks okay," he called, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. "Nothing moving." "I'm coming down."
He stepped away from the ladder to give her room, remembering something she'd said before, something about bodies being dumped… Ada stepped off the bottom rung, splashing into the dark tunnel. His eyes had adjusted well enough to see a look of disgust cross her delicate features – disgust and something like sadness. "There was an attack in the garage," she said softly. "Fourteen or fifteen people died…"
She trailed off, frowning, and took a step past him
to get a closer look at the severed and mutilated
remains. When she spoke again, she sounded worried.
"I didn't see the attack, but I don't think they were torn up like this."
She looked up, scanning the roof of the tunnel, gripping her nine-millimeter tightly. Leon followed her gaze, but only saw algae-thick stone. Ada shook her head, looking back down at the gently rippling sea of broken flesh.
"The zombies didn't do this. Something got to these people after they were killed."
Leon felt a chill go up his spine. That was about the last thing he wanted to hear, standing in the humid, stinking dark and surrounded by savaged bodies.
"So it's not safe down here. We should head back up and…"
Ada started forward, stepping through the tangled limbs, the sound of her careful, sloshing movements seeming very loud in the otherwise silent tunnel.
Damn, does she ignore everybody, or is it just me?
Watching his step, Leon followed, reaching out with his free hand to touch her shoulder. "At least let me go first, okay?" "Fine," she said, sounding almost but not quite exasperated. "Lead the way." He stepped in front of her, and they started forward again, Leon trying to divide his attention between the darkness ahead and the sodden pieces of flesh and bone underfoot. Just ahead, the tunnel turned to the right, and there was some light reflected off the oily surface of the water; the passage was clearer, too, with not as many bodies. Leon paused just long enough to unshoulder the Remington, checking to make sure he'd chambered a round. Whatever had gotten to the corpses didn't seem to be around, but he didn't want to be unpre– pared if it came back. Ada waited without speaking, though he could feel her impatience – not for the first time, he wondered if there was more to her story than she'd told him. He was scared, and he was also cold and tired and afraid for Claire, who might still be wandering the station…… he didn't even know if Claire was still alive; but he hadn't felt right about letting Ada walk into a bad situation on her own. Ada, on the other hand… she was as calm and controlled as a veteran soldier, expressing nothing but a kind of irritable eagerness to get on with things and if she appreciated his presence at all, she was taking great pains not to show it. It wasn't that he needed or wanted her gratitude…
… but wouldn't most people be happy to have a cop along? Even a rookie?
Maybe not, and it wasn't the time or place to start asking questions. Leon shut down his thinking and started moving again, stepping gingerly over a chewed-up chunk of flesh that he couldn't identify. "Stop," Ada whispered sharply. "Listen." Leon tensed, Remington in one hand, Magnum in the other. He tilted his head, straining to hear, but there was only a distant, hollow drip of water…… and a soft thumping. A rapid but random sound, like padded hammers on a padded surface. Whatever it was, it was getting closer, coming toward them from where the tunnel turned up ahead.
Why isn't it splashing, why don't we hear water?
Leon backed up a step, raising both weapons slightly, remembering how Ada had looked at the ceiling before…… and saw it, saw it and felt his heart stop in midbeat. A spider the size of a big
dog, skittering over the wet stones halfway up the inner wall, its bristling, hairy legs tapping -
– not possible -
–and then there was a series of deafening explo-sions next to his right ear, bam-bam-bam-bam, the muzzle flash from Ada's Beretta strobing the hellish tunnel as she fired. The booming echoes pounded through the dark as the giant, impossible arachnid dropped from the wall, splashing into the inky water. It crawled toward them, wounded, dragging two of its multiple legs through the murk behind it, dark fluids spilling out from its grotesquely rounded body. It humped itself over a human head, the mutilated skull rolling out from beneath its swollen, pulsing abdomen, and Leon could see its shining black eyes, each the size of a ping-pong ball…… and he squeezed the trigger on the Remington, not even feeling the kick of the thundering blast, his entire focus on the inconceivable arachnid. The round hit it squarely, blowing its alien face into a thousand wet pieces. The spider flipped over backwards with a skidding splash, its thick legs quivering, curling in over its furred body. His ears ringing, his heart pounding, Leon cham– bered another round, his mind telling him that he had not just blown away a spider that big, the physics was wrong, it couldn't happen because it would collapse under its own weight…… Ada pushed past him, running ahead, shouting back to him.
"Come on, there could be more coming!"
Leon took off after her, forced by Ada's reckless behavior to put his shock on hold. He sprinted through the dark, jumping over the disturbed and gently rocking hunks of flesh, past the closed dead spider that would never have existed in the reality he'd known before Raccoon.
"Drop your weapon," Irons commanded, and the girl did so, hesitating for only a second. The Browning clattered to the floor, and Irons had to resist the urge to laugh again, scarcely able to credit how stupidly she'd acted. The Umbrella assassin had obviously grown arrogant, walking into his Sanctuary as if she owned the place – and her smug, inflated conceit had cost her the game.
