After Dr. Aquino, there were the soldiers—Chan and a Sergeant Ken Franklin—and the factory worker, Foster. When they were all out of the way, Nicholai still had to collate their data, arrange a meeting, and 'copter out.
He had plenty to do... yet he couldn't help feeling cheated by the circumstances.
He stopped walking, cocking his head to one side. He heard a crash, an impact of some kind further west, perhaps even a small explosion muffled by distance. A second later he felt the slightest of vibrations coming from the trolley tracks. The tracks ran down the middle of a main street, anything solid could have given them a jolt—
—but it's them, it's Mikhail and Carlos and Jill Valentine. They ran into something, or something went wrong with the engine,or...
Or he didn't know what, but he was suddenly quite sure that they had encountered trouble. It reinforced for him the positive feeling he had thathe was the one with skill; they were forced to rely on luck, and not all luck was good.
Perhaps we will meet again. Anything is possible, especially in a place like this.
Ahead of him and to the left, from in between an office building and a fenced lot, came a gurgling groan, then another. Three infected shambled out into the open, ten meters or so from where he stood. They were too far away to make out clearly in the waxy moonlight, but Nicholai could see that none of them were in good shape; two were missing arms and the third's legs had somehow been cut down, so that it seemed to be walking on its knees, each stumping footstep creating a noise like someone smacking their lips.
"Uhllg," the closest complained, and Nicholai shot it through its disintegrating brains. Two more shots and the other two joined the first, collapsing to the asphalt in wetthumps.
He felt much better. Whether or not he got an opportunity to see his duplicitous comrades again—and he found that he felt strongly that he would—he was the superior man, and he would triumph in the end.
The awareness filled him with a new energy.
Nicholai broke into a trot, eager to meet whatever challenge came next.
SIXTEEN
THE TROLLEY'S DOOR WAS JAMMED, SO JILL and Carlos had to climb out of a window, Carlos looking as drained as Jill felt. It was a frankly weird coincidence that the trolley had ended up exactly where they needed to go, but then the last several hours—hell, weeks—had been weird. Jill thought it would serve her well to stop letting things surprise her.
The clock tower yard seemed empty of life, nothing moving but a thin haze of oily smoke boiling up from the cable car's electrical system. They walked to the unused decorative fountain in front of the main doors, gazing up at the giant clock and the small belfry that topped the tower, Jill's thoughts heavy with images of Mikhail Victor. She'd never even been properly introduced to the man who'd saved her life, but she thought that they'd lost a valuable ally. The strength of character it took to die so that another might live ...heroic was the only word that fit.
Maybe he even killed the Nemesis, it was practically on top of him when the grenade went off... Wishful
"So, I guess we try to find the bell mechanism,"
Carlos said. "Do you think it's safe to split up, or should we—"
Caw!
The harsh cry of a crow cut him off, and Jill felt a fresh surge of adrenaline pump new life into her veins. She grabbed Carlos's hand as a fluttering sound filled the dark from above and around them, the sound of birds' wings pushing air.
The hall of portraits at the mansion, watched from above by dozens of shiny black eyes as they waited to attack. And Forest Speyer, from the Bravo team, Chris said he'd been ripped apart by dozens, perhaps hundreds of them.
"Come on!" She pulled at Carlos, remembering the relentless viciousness of the altered, oversized crows at the Spencer estate. Carlos seemed to know better than to ask questions as a dozen more hoarse cries pierced the air. They ran around the fountain to the front doors of the tower.
Locked.
"Cover me!" Jill shouted, reaching into her pack for her lockpick tools, the wheeling cries closing in on them—
—and Carlos threw himself at the doors, hitting the heavy old wood hard enough that splinters flew. He jogged back a few paces and ran at them again, bam —
—and they crashed inward, Carlos following through to trip and sprawl across the tastefully tiled floor, Jill quickly stepping in behind him. She grabbed the door handles and slammed the doors closed not a second too soon. There were two audible thumps from the other side, joined by a chorus of angry screeching and the brush of dark wings, and then they were retreating, the sounds fading away. Jill sagged against the doors, exhaling heavily.
God, is it ever going to stop? Do we have to face off with every demonic asshole in the city before we 're allowed to leave?
"Zombie birds? Are you kidding me?" Carlos said, pushing himself to his feet as Jill manually bolted the doors. She didn't bother answering him, turning to take in the clock tower's grand lobby instead.
It reminded her of the Spencer mansion's foyer, the low lights and Gothic scrollwork giving it a kind of shabbily elegant atmosphere. A wide marble staircase dominated the large room, leading up to a second-floor landing with stained-glass windows. There were doors on either side of the room, a couple of polished wood tables in front of them, and to their left...
Jill sighed inwardly and felt something inside tighten a little. She hadn'texpected the clock tower to be some kind of untouched sanctuary, even as far out of town as it was, but she realized that she had hoped—a hope lost at the sight of more death.
The scene told a story, a kind of mystery. Five male corpses, all of them dressed in somewhat military garb. Three of them lay next to the tables, apparently victims of a virus carrier; the carrier's bullet-riddled body was
nearby. The victims' flesh had been gnawed, their skulls crushed and empty. The fifth corpse, a young man, had shot himself in the head, presumably after dispatching the zombie. Had he killed himself out of despair at the sight of his half-eaten friends? Had he been responsible somehow? Or had he known the virus carrier well, and taken his life after being forced to kill it?
No way we can ever know. It's just another handful of lives lost in some untold tragedy, one among this city's thousands.
Carlos moved closer to the bodies, frowning. From the grim look on his face, she got the impression that he knew who they were. He crouched down and pulled a blood-streaked duffel bag out from in between two of them, drawing a trail of red across the tile. Jill could hear metal touching metal inside, and it was obviously heavy, Carlos's bicep straining to lift the bag.
"Is that what I think it is?" Jill asked.
Carlos took the bag to one of the tables and eased the contents out. Jill felt a sudden, unexpected burst of glee at what was there; she hurried to the table, hardly able to believe their luck.
A half dozen hand grenades like the one Mikhail had used, RG34s; eight M16 thirty-round magazines, loaded as far as she could tell; and, more than she could have hoped for, a US M79 grenade launcher with a handful of fat 40mm cartridges.
"Weapons at the clock tower," Carlos said thoughtfully. Before Jill could ask what he meant, he picked up one of the rifle grenades and whistled softly.
"Buckshot loads," he said. "One of these would have blasted the living shit out of that Nemesisespantajo. "
Jill raised her eyebrows. " 'Espantajo'?"
"Literally, a scarecrow," Carlos said, "but it's used like weirdo, or freak."
Appropriate. Jill nodded toward the men who had carried the weapons. "Do you recognize these people?"
Carlos shrugged uncomfortably, handing her three of the hand grenades. "They're all U.B.C.S., I've seen them around, but I don't—I didn't know them. They were just dumb grunts, they probably had no idea what they were getting into when they joined Umbrella, or when we were sent here. Like me."