by S. D. Perry
Jesus, what is that THING…
Back through the waiting room, slamming the door behind her as she ran, Claire decided that she would decide later. She ran, not letting herself think anything at all but how to run faster.
Ben Bertolucci was in the last cell in the room farthest from the garage, crashed out on a metal cot and snoring lightly. Keeping her expression carefully neutral, Ada decided to let Leon wake him up. She didn't want to seem overly eager, and if there was one thing she knew about men, it was that they were easier to handle when they thought they were in control. Ada looked up at Leon with a patience she didn't feel and waited. They'd checked out an empty kennel and a winding concrete hall before finding him, and though the cold, dank air reeked of blood and virus decay, they hadn't come across any bodies – which was strange, consid– ering the slaughter that Ada knew had occurred in the dank garage. She thought about asking Leon if he knew what had happened, but decided that the less they spoke, the better; there was no point in letting him get used to having her around. She'd seen the manhole in the kennel, rusting and set into a dark corner, and been gratified to see a crowbar on an open shelf nearby. With Bertolucci snoozing in front of them, Ada felt like things were finally starting to pick up… "Let me guess," Leon said loudly, and reached out to thump on the metal bars with the butt of his gun.
"You must be Bertolucci, right? Get up, now."
Bertolucci groaned and sat up slowly, rubbing at his stubbled jaw. Ada wanted to smile, watching him frown wearily in their direction; he looked like shit… his clothes rumpled, his lank ponytail frazzled. Still wearing his tie, though. The poor slob probably thinks it makes him look more like a real reporter… "What do you want? I'm trying to sleep here." He sounded grouchy, and again Ada had to suppress a smile. It served him right for being so difficult to find. Leon glanced at Ada, looking a trifle uncertain. "Is this the guy?"
She nodded, realizing that Leon probably thought Bertolucci was a prisoner. Their conversation would dispel that particular notion pretty fast, but she didn't want Leon to know more than he had to; she'd have to choose her words carefully. "Ben," she said, letting her voice carry a hint of desperation. "You told the city officials that you knew something about what's been going on, didn't you? What did you tell them?"
Bertolucci stood up and glared at her, his lips curling. "And who the hell are you?" Pretending that she hadn't heard, Ada upped the desperation, but just a hair; she didn't want to over– play the helpless female bit, it kind of clashed with the fact that she'd survived this long.
"I'm trying to find a friend of mine, John Howe.
He was working for a branch office of Umbrella based
in Chicago, but he disappeared several months ago
and I heard a rumor that he's here, in this city…"
She trailed off, watching Bertolucci's expression. He knew something, no question, but she didn't think he was going to give it up. "I don't know anything," he said gruffly. "And even if I did, why would I want to tell you?"
Original. If the cop wasn't here, I'd probably just shoot him. Actually, she probably wouldn't; Ada wasn't into killing for the fun of it, and thought that she could probably get it out of him using one of her more persuasive methods – if her feminine charmsdidn't work, there was always a shot to the kneecap. Unfortunately, she couldn't do anything with Officer Leon hanging around. She hadn't planned on their encounter, but for the moment, she was stuck with him. The cop obviously wasn't happy with the reporter's responses. "Okay, I say we leave him in there," he growled, talking to Ada but staring at Bertolucci with undisguised irritation. Bertolucci half-smiled, reaching into one pocket and pulling out a set of silver cell keys on a thick ring. Ada wasn't surprised, but Leon looked even more pissed off. "Fine by me," Bertolucci said smugly. "I'm not about to leave this cell, anyway. It's the safest place in the building. There are more than just zombies run-ning around here, believe you me."
From the way he said it, Ada thought she'd proba– bly have to kill him after all. Trent's instructions had been clear – if Bertolucci knew anything about Bir– kin's work on the G-Virus, he was to be disposed of; why, exactly, she wasn't sure, but that was the job. If she could just get a few moments alone with him,she'd be able to ascertain how much he actually knew.
The question was, how? She didn't want to shoot Leon; as a rule, she didn't kill innocents – and be– sides, she liked cops. Not necessarily the brightest lot, but anyone who took a job that required putting his or her life on the line had her respect. And he had great taste in weaponry – the Desert Eagle was top of the line…
… so why rationalize? I ditch him first and then circle back, doesn't mean I'm going soft… "Ggrraaaa!"
A violent, inhuman shriek pierced the tense silence. Ada snapped her Beretta around, aiming at the open gate that led back through the empty cell-block area. Whatever it was, it was somewhere in the basement… "What was that?" Leon breathed from behind her, and Ada wished she knew the answer. The still resonating echo of that furious scream was like noth– ing she'd heard before – and nothing she expected to hear, even knowing about Umbrella's research. "Like I said, I'm not leaving this cell," Bertolucci said, his voice breaking slightly. "Now get out of here before you lead it right to me!" Sniveling coward… "Look, I may be the only cop left alive in this building," Leon said, and something about the com-bination of fear and strength in his tone made Ada shoot a look back at him. The officer's gaze was fixed on Bertolucci, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding.
"… so if you want to live, you're gonna have to come with us." "Forget it," Bertolucci snapped. "I'm staying here 'til the cavalry shows up – and if you're smart, you'll do the same thing." Leon shook his head. "It could be days before anyone comes, our best chance is to find a way out of Raccoon – and you heard that scream. Do you really want to get a visit from whatever made it?"
She was impressed; some Umbrella freak could be lurching its way toward them even now, and Leon was actually trying to save the reporter's worthless hide. "I'll take the risk," said Bertolucci. "And good luck getting out, you're gonna need it…"
The rumpled reporter stepped up to the bars, looking back and forth between them, running a hand over his greasy hair. "Look," he said, his voice softening. "There's a kennel in the back of the building, with a manhole in it. You can get to the sewers from there, it's probably the fastest way out of the city."
Ada sighed inwardly. Terrific; so much for her hidden route to the lab. If she dumped Leon now, it would take him about five minutes to find her.
You can always kill him, if it comes to that, or… you can get him lost in the sewers and come back for Bertolucci while he's clearing the path for you.
Unlike Bertolucci, she didn't want to run into whatever had screamed and now that she knew he was staying put, luring the cop away was the next logical step.
The things I do to avoid unnecessary bloodshed… "Alright, I'm going to check it out," she said, and without waiting for Leon's response, she turned and sprinted for the gate.
"Ada! Ada, wait!"
She ignored him, hurrying past the empty cells and back into the chilled hall, relieved that the passage was still clear and feeling a little unnerved by her sudden reluctance to simplify the situation. Things would be a lot easier if she just got rid of them both, a decision she wouldn't have hesitated to make under different circumstances. But she was sick of death, sick and tired and disgusted with Umbrella for what they'd done; she wasn't going to take the cop out unless she had to.
And if she did have to, if it came down to some innocent's life or completing the job?
That she could ask herself that question at all told her more about her state of mind than she wanted to admit. She'd reached the door to the kennel; Ada took a deep breath, forcing every twinge of nagging emo– tion from her thoughts, and stepped inside to wait for Leon Kennedy.
FOURTEEN
So beautiful… even in death, beverly Harris was radiant, but Irons couldn't risk
having her wake up while he wasn't watching; he carefully folded her into the stone cabinet beneath the sink and latched it, promising himself that he would take her out when he had more time. She would become the most exquisite animal he'd ever transformed, posed and forever perfect once he'd prepared her the proper way… a dream come true.
If I have time. If there's any time left.
He knew he was feeling sorry for himself again, but there was no one else to commiserate with, no one to marvel at the sheer magnitude of all that he'd suf– fered. He felt terrible – sad and angry and alone, but he also felt that things had finally become clear. He knew now, knew why he was being persecuted, and that awareness had given him a focus – as de– pressing as the truth was, at least he was no longer lost.
Umbrella. An Umbrella conspiracy to destroy me, all along…
Irons sat on the scarred, stained table in the Sanctu-ary, his special, private place, and wondered how long it would be before the young woman came for him. The one with the athletic body, the one who'd refused to tell him her name. In a way, she was responsible for his newfound clarity, an irony that he couldn't help but appreciate; it had been her sudden appearance that had provided him with the truth. She would find him, of course; she was an Umbrella spy, and Umbrella had obviously been watching him for quite some time. They probably had lists of everything he owned, volumes of psychological profil– ing reports, even copies of his financial records. It all made sense, now that he'd had some time to think; he was the most powerful man in Raccoon, and Umbrel– la had designed his downfall, tailored each vicious backstab to cause him the most acute agony possible. Irons stared at his treasures, the tools and trophies that sat on the shelves in front of him, but felt none of the pride they usually inspired. The polished bones were simply something to look at as his mind worked, absorbed with Umbrella's treachery. Years before, when he'd started taking money to turn a blind eye to the company's doings, things had been different; then it had been a matter of politics, of finding himself a niche in the power structure that really controlled Raccoon. And things had worked smoothly for a long time – his career had progressed on schedule, he'd earned the respect of officials and citizens alike, and for the most part, his investments had paid off. Life had been good.
And then there was Birkin. William Birkin and his neurotic wife and their brat daughter.
After the Spencer estate spill, he'd almost con– vinced himself that the S.T.A.R.S. and goddamn Captain Wesker had been responsible for all the trouble, but he could see now that it was the arrival of Birkin and his family, nearly a year before, that had started the ball rolling; the destruction of the Spencer lab had only hurried things along. Umbrella had probably started monitoring him the day he'd had the misfortune to meet Birkin – at first, just watching, planting bugs, and installing cameras. The spies would have come later… The Birkins had come to Raccoon so that William could concentrate on developing a superior synthesis of the T-Virus, based on the research being done at the Spencer lab. As quirky and unpleasant as William could sometimes be, Irons had liked him, right from the start. The male Birkin had been Umbrella's boy genius, but like Irons, he wasn't the type to brag about his position; William was a humble man, only inter– ested in fulfilling his own potential. They'd both been too busy to have much of a friendship, but there had been a mutual respect between them; Irons had often felt that William looked up to him…
… and my mistake was to allow it. To allow my regard for him to cloud my instincts, to keep me from noticing that I was being watched, all along.
The loss of the Spencer lab sent some big ripples through Umbrella's hierarchy, and only days after the explosion, Irons had been approached by Annette Birkin with a message from her husband – a message and a request for a favor. Birkin had been worried that Umbrella was going to demand the new synthe– sis, the G-Virus, before it was ready; apparently, he'd been most dissatisfied with the application of his previous work, something about how Umbrella hadn't let him perfect the replication process, Irons couldn't remember exactly – and with Umbrella looking to recover from the financial blow of the Spencer loss, Birkin had been concerned that they might compromise the integrity of the untested virus. Through Annette, Birkin had asked for assistance and offered him a little extra incentive to keep things fair. For a hundred grand, all Irons had to do was help keep the G-Virus under wraps – in short, watch out for Umbrella spies and keep an eye on the surviving S.T.A.R.S., making sure they didn't do any more "discovering" of Umbrella's research.
That was it. A hundred thousand dollars, and I was already watching my city, and keeping tabs on that rebellious little pack of troublemakers. Easy, easy money, and more to be made if everything went as planned. Except it was a trap, an Umbrella trap…
Irons had walked right into it, and that was when Umbrella had started plotting against him, using the information they'd gathered to seal his fate. How else could things have gone wrong so quickly? The
S.T.A.R.S. had disappeared, then Birkin – and before he'd even had a chance to assess the situation, the attacks had started up again. He'd barely had time to seal Raccoon off before everything had fallen to shit.
And all because I was helping a friend – for the greater good of the company, no less. Tragic. Irons stood up and walked slowly around the cut– ting table, idly tracing the dents and scars in the wood with his fingertips. Behind every mark was a story, a memory of accomplishment, but again, he could take no comfort. The cool, quiet atmosphere of the Sanctuary had always soothed him before, it was where he practiced his hobbies, where he was truly able to be himself, but it wasn't his anymore. Noth– ing was. Umbrella had taken it from him, just as they'd taken his city. Was it so far-fetched to deduce that they'd unleashed their virus to get at him, to rob him of his power and then sent that scantily clad brown-haired girl to rub his nose in it? Why else was she so attractive? They knew his weaknesses and were exploiting them, trying to keep him from retaining even a shred of dignity…
… and soon she'll come for me, maybe still playing dumb, still trying to seduce me with her helplessness. An Umbrella assassin, a spy and an exploiter, that's all she is, probably laughing at me behind that pretty face…
Maybe the spill had been an accident; the last time they'd met, William Birkin had seemed unsteady, paranoid, and exhausted, and accidents happened even under the best of circumstances. But the rest was fact, there was no other explanation for how com-pletely Irons had been ruined. That girl was coming to get him, she was from Umbrella and she'd been sent to murder him. And she wouldn't stop there, oh, no; she'd find Beverly and… and defile her somehow, just to make certain that nothing he cared about was left. Irons looked around the small, softly lit room that had once been his, gazing wistfully at the well-used tools and furniture, the sweet, familiar smells of disinfectant and formaldehyde emanating from the rugged stone walls.
My Sanctuary. Mine.
He picked up the handgun that lay on his special cutting table, the VP70 that was still his, and felt a bitter smile curl his lips. His life was over, he knew that now. This whole affair had started with Birkin, and would end here, by his own hand. But not yet. The girl would come for him, and he would kill her before he said his final good-byes to Beverly, before he admitted his defeat by taking a bullet. But he would see to it that she understood his suffering first. For every torture he'd endured, the girl would pay, the bill settled through flesh and bone and as much pain as he could inflict. He was going to die, but not alone. And not without hearing the girl scream in agony, creating a voice for the death of his dreams – a voice so clear and true that the echoes would reach even the black hearts of the company executives who had betrayed him.
The S.T.A.R.S. office was empty, cluttered and cold and layered with dust, but Claire was reluctant to leave. After her stumbling, frightened flight through the body-strewn halls of the second floor, finding the place where her brother had spent his working days had left her feeling weak with relief. Mr. X hadn
't followed her, and although she was still anxious to help Sherry and find Leon, she found herself linger– ing, afraid to step back into the lifeless halls and hesitant to leave the one place that felt like Chris.
Where are you, big brother? And what am I going to do? Zombies, fire, death, your weird Chief Irons and that lost little girl – and just when I thought things couldn't get any more insane, I get to face off with The Thing That Would Not Die, the freak to end all freaks. How am I going to get through this?
She sat at Chris's desk, gazing at the small strip of black-and-white pictures that she'd found tucked in the bottom drawer; the four shots were of the two of them, grinning and making faces, a photo-booth memento of the week they'd spent in New York last Christmas. Finding the strip had made her want to cry at first, all of the fear and confusion she'd been holding back finally surging to the front at the sight of his well-loved smile – but the longer she'd looked at him, at the two of them laughing and having a good time, the better she'd started to feel. Not happy or even okay, and no less afraid of what was to come…… just better. Calmer. Stronger. She loved him, and knew that wherever he was he loved her back – and that if the two of them had been able to survive the loss of both of their parents, to build lives for them– selves and share a silly Christmas vacation in spite of having no real home to go to, then they could cope with anything. She could cope.
Can and will. I'm going to find Sherry and Leon and, God willing, my brother – and we're going to make it out of Raccoon.
The truth was, she didn't really have any choice, but she needed to go through the process of accepting her lack of options before she could act. She'd heard before that real bravery wasn't an absence of fear, it was accepting the fear and doing what was necessary anyway – and once she'd sat for a moment, thinking about Chris, she thought that she could do just that. Claire took a deep breath, slipped the photos into her vest, and pushed away from the desk. She didn't know where Mr. X had been headed, but he hadn't seemed like the waiting-around type; she would head back to Irons's office and see if Sherry had come back – or Irons, for that matter. If X was still there, she could always run.