Zero Hour (resident evil)

by Стефани Данелл Перри Неизвестный Автор

  He was slow, very slow. Rebecca looked between him and the door in front of her, the weight of the leech-key warm in her hand. Taking a chance, she stepped forward and pushed at the door, was through and quickly closing it behind her before the too-thin zombie could take another step.

  She'd stepped into an operating room, old and unclean, the once sterile tiles gray with a light film of scum, a few metal gurneys standing about on tilted wheels. And there, across from her and to the left, was a greenish door with a profile of Dr. Marcus on the front.

  “Gotcha,” she said, moving to the door, studiously avoiding a closer look at the operating table set in the room's far corner after she caught a glimpse of the heavy restraints attached. She had an idea of what Marcus had been up to; she didn't need to suffer the details.

  The small leech fit perfectly into a depression just under the likeness of Dr. Marcus, and she heard the sound of a latch giving way. The door opened—

  —and she took a step back, staggered by the smell, an odor she'd become all too familiar with.

  The narrow room was lined on both sides with morgue drawers, several of them standing open. There were two bodies on the floor, neither moving, but she trained her handgun on the closest, all the same. Breathing shallowly, she walked inside.

  God, please let there be something here worth locking up, she thought, stepping past an overturned gurney. And let it be in plain sight, if it's not too much trouble. There was no way she was going to search each drawer.

  At the far end of the room was an offshoot to the right. Rebecca stepped over the second body,

  turned the corner, trying not to gag at the atrocious smell. There was another metal gurney pushed to one side—and on top was a single metal key.

  She picked it up, feeling a mix of emotion. She'd found something, that was good—but whoopee, another key. It could go anywhere, could be the key to Marcus's summer home for all she knew.

  Maybe that first door in the corridor. . .

  “Rebecca?”

  She pocketed the key and picked up her radio, moving toward the door as she answered.

  “Yeah. What's up, over.” She moved through the operating room, stopping at the door that led back to the partial lab. She'd want to run through to the corridor's entrance, avoid having to shoot that zombie if she could...

  “There's no dial on the lock,” Billy said, sounding irritated. “I went back and checked Marcus's office, but I didn't see anything. You had any luck, over?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Let me check on one thing. I'll meet you back at the library, over.”

  “Careful. Over and out.”

  Careful. Rebecca shook her head slightly as she clipped the radio back to her belt, astounded at how fast a relationship could change, given the right—or wrong—circumstances. Only a few hours ago, she'd threatened to shoot him, had been convinced that he was ready to shoot her. Now, they were . . . Well, “friends” was probably not the right word, but it was seeming awfully unlikely that they'd end up killing one another.

  For the first time in a while, she wondered what her teammates were doing. Was the manhunt for Billy still on? Had they been looking for her, for Edward? Or had they run into troubles of their own, been caught out by the fallout from the T-virus spill?...

  . . . and speaking of. She listened at the door a moment, heard nothing. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open, quickly stepping across the short distance to the next door, not even looking into the lab. As she closed the door behind her, she heard a muffled wail of frustration, and felt a surge of pity for the hollow-eyed victim. The guy had probably worked here, but she wouldn't wish the zombie sickness on her worst enemy. It was a bad way to go, hands down.

  She walked to the first door she'd tried, hoping the key would work, doubting that it would. She supposed they'd have to do a more thorough search for whatever it unlocked, or just keep looking for something else, another map, another key, another hole in a floor somewhere; it was disheartening, to say the least. If they couldn't turn anything up, they'd have to use the elevator again, take their chances above ground—

  She slipped the key into the door's lock and turned it, heard and felt the lock give.

  “No shit,” she mumbled, grinning, and opened the door.

  Something huge and dark leaped for her, howling.

  Billy waited at the hole between the first and second floors, idly wondering if there was a way to

  blow that dial-lock door open with one of the Magnum shells—and heard a terrible, inhuman cry echoing down from the first floor, followed by one, two shots.

  He didn't think to try the radio. He hopped onto the low table beneath the hole, hefted the shotgun through, then jumped after it, catching the edge with his hands. He'd doubted his abilities before, but now it didn't cross his mind that he might not be able to pull himself up. With a grant of exertion, he lifted his body through the hole, first scrabbling to his elbows, then getting one knee up.

  He grabbed the shotgun and was on his feet in time to hear that animal scream again, a strange and unearthly sound, like a bird being shredded to pieces. He spent a half second orienting himself, finding the door, and then he was running.

  He crashed through the door into a hall—and there was Rebecca backed against the wall opposite, one sleeve of her shirt torn, her arm scored with four deep scratches, pointing her weapon at—

  —what the hell—

  —at a monster, an immense, reptilian monster. It was humanoid, hugely muscled, its pebbled skin a dark, noxious green. Its arms were so long that its clawed hands almost touched the floor. When it saw Billy it dropped its thick jaw and screeched again, the small eyes in its flat, sloping skull practically glowing with malevolence. A thin stream of dark blood flowed from its upper chest, one of Rebecca's shots, but it didn't seem to be overly affected by the wound.

  Try this, Billy thought, bringing the shotgun up as Rebecca opened fire again. He blasted the creature full in the face, pumped the weapon and fired again, not waiting to see what the first round had done—

  —and the thing's face was gone, splashed across the wall and floor behind it, its heavy body toppling. A frothing river of blood poured from the shreds of its neck, from what little was left of its head—a bit ofjawbone, of teeth, tatters of dark flesh.

  Billy didn't move for a few seconds, listening, searching for another sound, another movement, but there was nothing. He turned his attention to Rebecca, who was gripping her injured left shoulder with her right hand. Blood seeped from beneath her fingers.

  “The pack on my belt,” she said. “There's a bottle of antiseptic wash in there, some bandages and tape ... It just clawed me. It didn't bite.”

  She looked pale, wincing as Billy cleaned her wound and taped it, but she bore up well, taking the pain rather than giving in to it. It was bad, probably needed stitches, but it also could have been a lot worse. When he was finishing up, she nodded toward the half open door across from them.

  “It was locked in there. The thing, I mean.”

  She sounded shocked, dazed. Billy walked to the door, wanting to be in the way of anything else that might come popping out. He stopped at the headless monster, stood looking down at it.

  “Kinda looks like the Creature from the Black Lagoon on steroids,” Billy said, glancing back, hoping for a smile. He got one, shaky but real, and once again, was impressed with her fortitude. It was rare, to be able to recover so quickly from an unexpected attack, especially by a nightmare like the monster in front of him. Most people would be shaking for hours afterward.

  Rebecca moved to stand beside him. She nudged one of the creature's bulky legs with her boot. “Amazing,” she said. “The things they were doing out here. Genetic engineering, recombinant viruses . . .“

  “I think 'psychotic' is the word you're looking for,” Billy said.

  She nodded. “Can't argue that. Let's see if it was guarding anything important.”

  They stepped around the creature,
Rebecca explaining what she'd found on the rest of the floor as they moved into the room. It was a kennel of some kind, but Billy was fairly certain it hadn't been used to board dogs; there were stacks of steel bar cages, many of them fitted with restraints, and the smell in the air was that of wild animals, a gamy, rank odor.

  “. . . which is where I found the key to this room,” she was saying. “I was hoping that meant there'd be something useful here.”

  The room was U-shaped, split by shelves. They moved around the shelves, Rebecca letting out a small sound of disgust. Heaped in the far corner was a heap of torn fur and gnawed bones, what appeared to be the remains of a few of those baboon creatures. There was a lot of feces scattered about, too, dense piles of a black, tarry substance that smelled like— well, like shit. It seemed the monster had been locked up for a while.

  There was a small wood table between two of the cage stacks, a few papers scattered across the top. Billy walked over—stepping carefully—and picked up the page on top as Rebecca started poking through a few of the open cages. It appeared to be part of a report.

  . . . and yet research to date has shown that when the Progenitor virus is administered to living organisms, violent cellular changes cause breakdowns in every major system, most consistently the CNS. Furthermore, no satisfactory method has been found to control the organisms for use as weapons. Clearly, greater coordination at the cellular level is essential to enable further growth.

  Experiments on insecta, amphibia, mammalia (primate) have all fallen short of projected results. It appears that no further progress can be made without using humans as the base organism. Our recommendation at this time is that the experimental animals be kept alive for further study and as possible prey for field testing of newer suggested hybhd B.O.W.s, such as the upcoming Tyrant series.

  Jesus. Billy rifled through the pages, looking for the rest of the report, but there were only a handful of coffee-stained feeding schedules.

  Tyrant series. All the creatures we ve seen . . . And they were working on something that could conceivably kick said creatures' asses.

  “Ha!”

  Billy looked up, saw Rebecca holding something small up in the air, a triumphant grin on her face.

  “Dial, anyone?”

  He dropped the report back on the table. “You're kidding me.”

  “Nope. It was in one of the cages.” She tossed the item to him. Billy caught it, felt his own grin surfacing. It was exactly what he'd been looking for, a rounded knob made to fit on the front of the

  “Four eight six three?” Billy asked, and Rebecca nodded.

  “Four eight six three,” she repeated, and held up her hand, showing him her crossed fingers. Billy crossed his own. It was dumb, a child's superstition, but he was long past the point of caring whether or not he appeared rational. Anything that could help, he'd give it a shot.

  “Let's go see,” he said, feeling hope resurface yet again as they moved out of the monster's room, amazed at how resilient that particular feeling was. There was a quote somewhere, about how as long as there was life, there was hope. He'd heard it when he'd been on trial, had thought it obvious and stupid at the time. How strange and somehow marvelous, that he would discover the truth of that statement fighting for his life in such very different circumstances.

  Together, they headed back for the lab. Billy kept his fingers crossed.

  Twelve

  He watched the young twosome crawl down from the hole, make their way back to the combination door. Finally, they'd found a way to get it open; he'd expected them to break the lock, but one of them had apparently found the leech growth records, had worked out the code.

  It seemed a single Hunter, a lone knight, was no match for them. The young man was surprised, but not overly so, watching as they opened the locked door. They possessed some small animal cleverness, these two; how sad for the world that they had to be destroyed.

  The young man smiled. Humanity would surely recover from the loss, in ample time to effect Umbrella's crucifixion. Besides, the children were already in place.

  Billy pushed the door to the cable car hanger open, the two of them smiling, congratulating one another as they “discovered” their means of escaping the lab. The cable car was operational, although they wouldn't be operating it; their lives were mere seconds from ending. The children watched from the shadows beneath the car, from the half-drained sewers, gathering into humanoid form, one, two of them. With a thought, a sigh, the young man released them from harness, sent the two bishops lurching towards their prey.

  A sound, a scream. He frowned, turned one of the false men to see what had cried out from the darkness behind them—and it was attacked by an Eliminator, the primate jumping on the humanoid collective from out of nowhere, howling as it ripped into the midst of the children with dripping jaws.

  From the platform, Rebecca and Billy were alerted by the sound of the fight, were ready with their weapons. Furious, torn, the young man hesitated, wanting to finish them, to kill, but concerned for the children—

  He sent them forward, ignoring the primate's attack, letting the many stream away from its vicious jaws, reform again at the edge of the platform next to the second collective. The two false men clambered over the rail, eager to taste of the interlopers. The Eliminator followed, leaping after them.

  He watched in horror as Billy got off a single blast at one of the false men with his shotgun, managing a clear shot. The young man felt the many screaming, felt the hive diminish, and his fury intensified, was fraught with anguish now, too, as Billy fired again, Rebecca joining in with her handgun. In bare seconds, one of the collectives was effectively destroyed.

  “No, no!" The many had never faced a shotgun, he'd had no idea they could be so readily injured by it, but he couldn't retreat now, not in mid-attack. His racing thoughts told the survivors to rally, to join with the second false man as the Eliminator leaped for Billy, snatched at him with thick claws. The primate grappled with the killer—and then the two of them went over the rail, disappearing into the sewers with a mighty splash.

  Rebecca screamed, rushed to the railing, but the second collective was almost upon her now. The young man felt a hot satisfaction, watching as the false man extended one magnificent arm, slapped at Rebecca's stupid, screaming face hard enough to knock her down. She rolled away as he paused, deciding how best to finish her. The loss to the hive was tremendous, unprecedented, he wanted to be sure she paid for it in full—

  —except she was rolling to her feet now, holding Billy's dropped shotgun, her face contorted with rage. She fired at the collective, blew one of its arms away, the children shrieking in pain as she fired again, and again.

  The young man could barely see her now, the gazes upon her too few, many of the watchers dying even as he struggled to maintain contact. His last vision of her was a watery outline, a shadow growing darker, finally disappearing altogether.

  Around him, the many wept, their salt tears blending into their joined tracks, the sorrowful smell of ocean rising up from their despairing mass. The young man closed his eyes, wept with them, but not for long. His anger was too great; she had to die, as her murdering boyfriend had surely died.

  He didn't dare risk more of the children ...

  The Tyrant. His king.

  He managed a smile. His anger was great; his wrath would be greater still.

  There was a Magnum on the cable car, locked in the cold, rubbery fingers of a dead man. As the small aerial car made its short journey from one platform to another, gliding silently through the unknown dark, Rebecca pried the revolver free. It was unloaded. She remembered that Billy was carrying a

  couple of speed loaders with .50 caliber Magnum shells, but he was......is, he is alive and I'm going to

  find him, she told herself firmly, stepping from the cable car once it swung to a stop, ignoring the terrified voice in the back of her mind, the part that kept insisting he was surely dead. Billy was gone, lost to the fast-moving se
wer beneath the cable car platforms, which had swept him and that monster in this direction, but he was alive, and she was going to find him. The thought cycled, repeated itself; she owed him that hope, that belief, several times over.

  The second cable car platform was much like the first, small and cold and dark, but there was a set of stairs leading up and out of the hangar. Rebecca took a minute to resituate her weapons, to reload the nine-millimeter. Billy had the remaining shotgun shells on him, but he'd reloaded after that monster had attacked her outside the kennel room—

  —after he saved your life, again—

  —and there were still two rounds left; she wouldn't leave it behind, nor did she think it wise to leave the Magnum. She never knew when she might find another cache of ammo. The heavy revolver dragged on her belt, the shotgun hard on her injured shoulder, but she wanted to be ready for anything.

  He's dead, Rebecca. You have to save—

  No.

  —save yourself now, have to—

  No!

  She hurried up the stairs, ignoring her body's fatigue, have to find him, have to. At the top of the flight, a door, the door opening into a massive, mostly empty warehouse room, the far end open to the night. Rebecca walked across the bare room, stepping over the floor's transport track, moved past rusting barrels that lined the walls, her mind too full of Billy for her to think straight. If he was hurt, if he was—

  Dead. He might be dead. She started to reject the thought out of hand, but this mental voice wasn't terrified, wasn't in a blind panic; it was calm. Reasonable. She took a few deep breaths, stood a moment on the industrial platform elevator that bordered the big room, studied the cool, deep blue sky of early morning; the clouds were finally breaking up, a handful of pale, distant stars shining down. The storm had passed. She hoped it was an omen of good things to come . . . But she could only hope. If Billy was dead—and he probably was—she would have to deal with it.