Resident Evil

by S. D. Perry

  “Maybe it’s another stage of the disease or something,” Billy said.

  Rebecca nodded, though she doubted it. The zombielike people they’d seen on the train and the man in the dining car—who appeared to be one James Marcus—didn’t have the same symptoms.

  “Or maybe the leeches infect some people, and... I don’t know, take other people over,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Billy said. He ran one hand through his hair and smiled at her, a surprisingly pleasant smile. “Anyway. You should probably find a phone or something, call your friends in.”

  His tone was dismissive. Rebecca’s hand tightened on her nine-millimeter. “What are you going to do?”

  Billy turned and started down the staircase, his step light. “Thought I might take a walk,” he called back to her.

  She followed him as he walked to the front door, not sure what to do, what to say. She seriously doubted that she could shoot him, not after he’d saved her life, but she couldn’t just let him leave, either. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she said.

  He pulled the door open. Cool, humid night air swept in, though the rain had turned to drizzle. “Much as I appreciate the concern, I think I’ve earned a head start, don’t you? So let’s just—”

  He stopped in mid-stride, in mid-sentence, looking out at the rainswept landscape in front of them. The facility, it seemed, had been built into the side of a hill. In front of them was a paved walkway, big enough to be a road, that stretched out ten meters—and then ended abruptly, falling off into nothingness.

  Together, they walked out to the edge of the path. There were light posts on either side of the front door; only one of them was working, but it was enough to see that without a rope, neither of them was going anywhere. The path ended in a jagged line of rubble, atop a steep slope that dropped down at least five meters, probably more. It was too dark to tell much of anything.

  “You were saying?” Rebecca said.

  “So, I’ll find another door,” Billy said, turning back to look at the building. It looked like an estate, was certainly decorated like some stuffy billionaire’s weekend getaway, but they’d both seen the UMBRELLA TRAINING FACILITY logo stamped into the polished marble floor. Rebecca figured it was like an executive retreat or something. It had an air of abandonment, but the place had power, lights... Of course, all they’d seen so far was where the train had crashed, the extravagant lobby, and a half-submerged tunnel that connected the two. Not much to go on.

  “I saw at least two in there, not counting whatever’s at the top of the stairs,” he continued. “And if all else fails, maybe I can crawl back out through the train.”

  “Assuming my friends don’t show up first,” Rebecca said. She stepped back, picked up her radio and hit the transmit signal. Bill’s radio beeped in response, but that was the only response. After a long moment of radio silence, the only sound that of rain dripping off distant trees, Billy smirked.

  “Assuming you find a phone.”

  God, he was irritating. She turned and started back for the house, slightly amazed, as she reached the door, that she felt safe enough to turn her back to him... Although if he’d wanted her dead, he’d already had ample opportunity. In spite of her intentions to the contrary, she was having trouble thinking of him as dangerous. Her instincts were telling her otherwise, and that was one of the first lessons that S.T.A.R.S. taught—you might misread your intuition, but it was never wrong.

  He caught up to her as she stepped back inside—and they both stopped, staring. The painting of Marcus was gone. There was a doorway there now, a dark opening in the wall; from their angle at the bottom of the stairs, there was no way to tell what was past the opening.

  She was about to tell Billy to hang back when he stepped in front of her, his weapon in hand. As he swept the area, his posture, his gaze at full alert, she was again struck by the strong feeling that he wasn’t what he had originally appeared to be.

  Not that I need to be protected. She moved to his side, surveying the room as she’d been trained, and together, they headed up the stairs, stopping at the landing. The new entry opened on a staircase heading down, a blank, barely lit corridor at the bottom.

  “Questions, comments?” Billy asked, peering down.

  “Someone wants us to go downstairs,” she said.

  “Kinda what I was thinking. And I’m also thinking that might not be such a good idea.”

  Rebecca nodded. She turned away from the opening, looking around at their options. There were two doors downstairs, one on the left wall, one on the right. On the second floor, she could see four more from where she was standing—and as she looked around, a loud ffump came from somewhere behind them, from somewhere down in that blank, dark hallway. It sounded like something very soft and very heavy, falling to the floor. Without speaking, they both edged away from the opening.

  “So, what say we extend our truce for a little while longer?” Billy asked, and though his voice was light, he wasn’t smiling.

  Rebecca nodded again. “Yeah,” she said, wondering what they’d gotten themselves into, and what it would take for them to get out.

  SEVEN

  They walked back down to the lobby floor, Billy glad that she’d agreed to keep cooperating. This place, whatever it was, was definitely bad news. She was inexperienced, but at least she wasn’t nuts.

  “We should split up,” Rebecca said.

  Billy barked a laugh, one entirely devoid of humor. “Are you nuts? Haven’t you ever seen a horror movie? Besides, look what happened last time.”

  “We found the key to that briefcase, if I remember correctly. And what we need now is a way out of here.”

  “Yeah, but alive,” Billy said. “This place has hostile territory written all over it. I suggested a truce in the first place because I don’t want to die, get it?”

  “You’ve taken care of yourself pretty good so far,” she said. “I’m not saying we go get in trouble. Just open a few doors, is all. And we’ve got radios now.”

  Billy sighed. “Didn’t the S.T.A.R.S. teach you about teamwork?”

  “Actually, this was my first mission,” Rebecca said. “Look, we take a look around, call if we find anything. I’ll head upstairs, you check down here. If the radios fritz out, we meet back here in twenty minutes.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to. Just do it.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Billy snapped. She wasn’t lacking leadership tendencies, he’d give her that—although maybe it wasn’t so hard to order a convicted felon around when you worked for the law. “How old are you, anyway? I’d like to know I’m taking orders from someone more mature than your average Girl Scout.”

  Rebecca shot him a scowl, then turned and went back up the stairs. A few seconds later, he heard a door close.

  Well. Billy looked around the lobby. Eeny, meeny, miney...

  “Mo,” Billy said, turning to the left wall. He didn’t want to go it alone, he’d rather have backup, but it was probably better this way; if he found an exit, he could take his walk, after all, call her to say good-bye on his way out. Leaving her behind wouldn’t make him feel so hot, but she could hole up and wait for rescue; she’d be all right. He had to keep his continued health in mind; if any other S.T.A.R.S. showed up, or the RCPD, or the MPs, he’d be on his way back to Ragithon in a heartbeat.

  He pushed the thought away as he stepped up to the door. He’d been pretty screwed up since the sentencing, filled with rage and anguish in equal parts. Since the jeep wreck he’d been able to put his date with death out of mind, a necessity if he wanted to be able to think clearly. He had to keep it up.

  “Let’s see what’s behind door number one,” he mumbled, pushing the nondescript door open—and tensed, raising the handgun, taking aim. It was a dining room, one that had once been quite elegant. Now there were two, three infected men wandering around the trashed dinner table in the center of the room, and all three were turning toward him. They a
ll looked like zombies, their skin gray and torn, their eyes blank. One of them had a fork sticking out of one shoulder.

  Billy quickly closed the door and stepped back, waiting to see if any of the creatures could manage a doorknob, the emptiness of the lobby weighing on his back like a cold stare. After a few beats he heard a shuffling against the wood and then a low, frustrated cry, the sound as mindless as the zombies seemed to be.

  Well. The house, training facility, whatever it was, had been infected just like the train; that answered that question. He grabbed the radio, hit the transmit button.

  “Rebecca, come in. We got zombies here. Over.” He thought about the giant scorpion-thing and shuddered, hoping that zombies was all they had.

  There was a pause, then her youthful voice crackled out. “Copy that. Do you need help? Over.”

  “No,” Billy said, annoyed. “But don’t you think we should reconsider our plans? Over?”

  “This doesn’t change anything,” she said. “We still have to find a way out. Keep looking, and let me know what else you find. Over and out.”

  Great. Wondergirl was sticking to the plan. So, door number two, unless he wanted to take his chances with three of the things. He turned and walked across the room, telling himself it would be a waste of ammo, which was true. It was also true that he didn’t want to shoot sick people, no matter how deranged... And that the zombies were seriously freaky, and if he could avoid them, he would.

  He pushed the second door open, held it, his senses on high. It opened into a plush hallway that led along to his right, turning not far ahead. There was no sound, no movement, and it smelled like dust, nothing more ominous. He waited a moment, then stepped inside, letting the door settle closed behind him.

  He crept down the hall, his steps muffled by thick carpet, leading around the turn with his weapon, letting out a breath when he saw that it, too, was clear. So far, so good. The hall continued on, turning again, but there was a door on the left he could try.

  Billy pushed the door open—and smiled at the empty bathroom, at the row of sinks that he could see from the door.

  “That reminds me,” he said, stepping inside. He checked the room quickly; sinks lined two walls of the U-shaped room, four toilet stalls lining a third, discreetly out of sight from the door. As nice as the house was, it did seem to be abandoned, perhaps recently; one of the stall doors was hanging off its hinges, the toilet seat fractured, and there were a few odds and ends scattered across the floor, empty bottles, potted plants, unlikely debris for a bathroom. There was even a plastic gas tank in one of the stalls. On the other hand, there was relatively clean water in the bowl... Which, considering the urgency of his visit, was good enough for him.

  He was just zipping up a minute later when he heard someone step into the bathroom. A single step, then a long pause... Then a second step.

  Had he closed the door? He couldn’t remember, and silently cursed himself for the slip. He pulled his weapon and pivoted on the balls of his feet, moving silently, easing the stall door open. He couldn’t see the door from where he was, but he could see part of the room reflected in a long mirror above the sinks. He kept the handgun level and waited.

  A third step, and again silence. Whoever it was had wet feet, he could hear the soles of his or her shoes coming off the floor with a squelching sound—and on the fourth step, he saw a profile in the mirror, and stepped out of the stall, feeling a strange mix of horror and relief as he readied himself to fire. It was a zombie, a male, its face slick and blank, its eyes trained on nothing as it swayed slightly, balancing to stay upright. They were awful—but at least they were relatively slow. And much as he didn’t like the job, killing them was surely a mercy.

  The zombie took another step, moving into Bill’s line of fire. Billy took careful aim, sighting just above the thing’s right ear, he didn’t want to waste a shot—

  —and the zombie turned suddenly, quickly, faster than it had any right to move. It crouched slightly, stared at Billy through one blood-burst eye, the other looking at the wall, and reached for him, still two meters away—

  —but its arm was stretching, thinning out as it snapped toward him like a rubber band, the fabric of its wet, colorless shirt stretching with it.

  Billy ducked. The thing’s hand sailed over his head and slapped against the stall door with a wet smack, then retreated, pulled back to the inhuman body that somehow looked like a zombie.

  On the train, like Marcus—

  It was close enough that he could see the movement of the creature’s clothes, the strange rippling effect as its arm snapped back into place. Leeches, the goddamn thing was made out of leeches, and as it took a step closer, Billy stumbled backward into the stall, firing into its wet and meaty face.

  It hesitated, black ooze sliding from the wound that appeared just below its left eye—and then the wound disappeared, the faux skin gliding over it, the leeches resituating themselves. Healing themselves.

  It took another step forward and Billy kicked the stall door closed, slamming it and holding it with one boot, running through ideas and discarding them just as fast.

  Call for Rebecca, no time, keep shooting, not enough bullets, run, it’s blocking the way—

  Billy hissed in frustration—and his frenzied gaze fell on the red plastic gas can on the floor. He threw himself forward, blocking the stall door with one shoulder as he dug through his right front pocket. There, under one of the rifle shells—

  He pulled out the lighter he’d taken from the train, thanking God for it, and bent down, scooped up the gas can, the loose handcuff banging against the plastic. It wasn’t quite half full. Jesus, I hope that’s gas—

  The stall door was struck as though by a battering ram. Billy bounced off, then threw himself forward again, unscrewing the lid of the container with one shaking hand, his shoulder aching. The creature was strangely, horribly silent as it again charged the door, slamming into it hard enough to dent the metal.

  The dizzying scent of gasoline filled the tiny stall. Billy snatched at the toilet paper roll on the wall, jerked it free—and the door smashed open, blown off its hinges by another powerful, inhuman blow. The creature stood there, swaying, its one strange eye finding Billy, targeting him.

  Billy upended the can as he pushed himself to his feet, sloshing gas on himself. He thrust the can forward, pouring it onto the thing’s chest.

  The reaction was immediate and repulsive. The body began to writhe, to tremble, and a high-pitched squeal erupted into the room, not one voice but a thousand tiny creatures screeching as one. Thick, dark fluid began to run from seemingly every pore of its face and body.

  Billy gave it a solid kick, and it staggered backward, still cohesive, still squealing, the sound piercing in the small room. He didn’t know if the gas alone was enough, and wasn’t going to wait and see. He flipped the lighter open and spun the wheel, holding the roll of toilet paper over the flame that sputtered to life. A second later, it was aflame.

  Billy jumped out of the stall and dodged around the shrieking monster. As soon as he was past, he pivoted and threw the flaming roll of paper. It hit the leech-man just below its breastbone—and the squealing cry intensified for one horrible, deafening second as flames roared over him, enveloping him, before he collapsed into a thousand burning pieces. A black, burning puddle took shape on the tile floor, the tiny cries dying out in a matter of seconds.

  A few straggling leeches crawled away from the fire, but they were disorganized, randomly sliding up the walls, slithering past his feet. Billy backed away from them, from the bubbling, dying fire, shoving the lighter back in his pocket as he neared the door.

  Back in the hall, he took a deep breath, blew it out, and reached for the radio. He no longer cared what Rebecca’s plans were; they were going to regroup, ASAP, and get the hell out of this place if they had to dig through the walls with their bare goddamn hands.

  * * *

  December 4th

  When we first sta
rted, I had my doubts—but tonight, we celebrate. We finally did it after all this time. We’re calling the new construct virus Progenitor, Ashford’s idea, but I like it. We’ll begin testing immediately.

  March 23rd

  Spencer says he’s going to start a company specializing in pharmaceutical research, maybe branch into drug manufacture. As always, he’s the businessman of our group. His interest in Progenitor is primarily financial, it seems, but I’m not going to complain. He wants to see us succeed, which means he’ll keep us well funded; as long as he’s writing checks, he can do what he likes.

  August 19th

  Progenitor is a marvel, but its applications are still so unsure. Just when we think we have the amplification rate documented, when we have a half dozen tests all showing the same results, everything falls apart. Ashford is still banking on working the cytokine numbers, coming at it backward, but he’s dreaming. We need to keep looking.

  Spencer keeps asking me to be the director of his new training facility. Maybe it’s because of the business, but he’s becoming intolerably-pushy. In any case, I’m considering it. I need a place to properly explore new possibilities for this virus, a place where I will not be interfered with.

  November 30th

  Damn him. “Let’s have lunch, James,” he says, old comrades and fond memories. It’s bullshit. He wants Progenitor ready, now. His “friends” in their White Umbrella clubhouse, with their ridiculous spy games for the rich and jaded—they want something exciting to play with, to auction off, and they don’t want to wait for it. Fools. Spencer thinks that this will all come down to money, but he’s wrong. That’s not what any of this is about, not anymore, I don’t know that it ever was. I have to strengthen my own position, guard my queen, so to speak, or I could be steamrolled.

  September 19th

  At last, at last! I engineered a plasmid with leech DNA and then recombined it with Progenitor—and it’s stable! It was the breakthrough I’ve been counting on. Spencer will be happy, damn him, though I’ll only let on that some progress has been made, not how much, not how. I’ve named it after him, my own private joke. I’m calling it T, for Tyrant.