She sighed heavily and started back to the house, already dreading the cold stench of death and trying to prepare herself for the dangers that seemed to lurk at every corner.
The S.T.A.R.S. were trapped.
Chris knew he had to make the ammo count, so when he left Rebecca, he took off through the dim corridor at a full run, his boots pounding at the wood floor.
There were still only three of them, all grouped near the stairs. He dodged past them easily and sprinted down the hall and around the corner. As soon as he got to the door that led back to the other hall, he turned and assumed a classic shooter's stance, supporting his gun hand at the wrist, his finger on the trigger.
One by one, the zombies reeled around the corner, groaning and stumbling. Chris took careful aim, breathing evenly, keeping his focus…
He squeezed the trigger, sending two bullets through the gangrenous nose of the first. Without pausing, he sent a third shot into the center of the next zombie's forehead. Fluid and soft matter sprayed the wall behind them as the bullets slapped into the wood.
Even as they crumpled to the floor, he'd found his mark on the third creature. Two more muted explosions and the zombie's brow caved inward, dropping it like the bag of bones that it was.
Chris lowered the Beretta, feeling a flush of pride.
He was a high-ranked marksman, even had a couple of awards to show for it, but it was still good to see what he could do when given enough time to aim. His quick-draw wasn't nearly as strong, that was Barry's forte.
He reached for the door handle, urged into action by the thought of all that was at stake. He figured the Alphas could take care of themselves, they had as much of a chance as he did, but this was Rebecca's first operation and she didn't even have a gun; he needed to get her out.
He stepped back into the soft light of the hall with the green wallpaper, quickly checking both directions. Straight ahead, the corridor was in heavier shadow; no way to tell if it was clear.
To his right was the door with the sword on the key plate and the first zombie he'd shot, still sprawled lifelessly across the floor. Chris was gratified to see that it hadn't moved. Apparently head shots were the best way to kill a zombie, just like in the movies…
Chris edged toward the sword door, training his weapon left, then right, then left again; he'd had enough surprises for one day. He checked the small offshoot across from the door and seeing that it was clear, quickly inserted the slender key into the lock.
It turned smoothly. Chris stepped into a small bedroom, only slightly better lit than the corridor, a single bright lamp on a desk in one corner. It was all clear, unless there was something hiding under the narrow cot… or maybe in the closet across from the desk.
He shuddered, closing the door behind him. It was every kid's first set of fears, and had been his, too.
Monsters in the closet and the thing that lived under the bed, waiting for the careless child's ankle to come within reach.
And how old arw you now?
Chris shook off the case of nerves, embarrassed at his imaginative wanderings. He walked slowly around the room, looking for anything that might be helpful.
There was no other door, no path back to the main hall, but maybe he could find a better weapon for Rebecca than a can of bug spray.
Besides an oak table and bookshelf, there was the small, unmade bed and a study desk in the room, nothing more. He quickly rifled through the books, then moved around the foot of the bed to the desk.
There was a slim volume next to the desk lamp, the fabric cover untitled; a journal. And although the desktop was coated in dust, the diary had been moved recently.
Intrigued, Chris picked it up and flipped to the last few pages. Maybe there was a clue as to what the hell was going on. He sat on the edge of the cot and started to read.
May 9, 1998: Played poker tonight with Scott and Alias from Security, and Steve from Research. Steve was the big winner, but I think he was cheating. Scumbag.
Chris smiled a little at that. He skipped down to the next entry and his smile froze, his heart seeming to pause in mid-beat.
May 10,1998: One of the higher-ups assigned me to take care of a new experiment. It looks like a skinned gorilla.
Feeding instructions were to give it live animals. When I threw in a pig, the creature seemed to be playing with it tearing off the pig's legs and pulling out the guts before it actually started eating.
Experiment? Could the writer be talking about the zombies? Chris read on, excited by the find. The diary obviously belonged to someone who worked here, had to be meaning that the cover-up was even bigger than he'd suspected.
May 11, 1998: At around 5 A.M., Scott woke me up.
Scared the shit out of me, too. He was wearing a protective garment that looked like a space suit. He handed me another one and told me to put it on. Said there'd been an accident in the basement lab. I just knew something like this would happen. Those assholes in Research never rest, even at night.
May 12, 1998: I've been wearing the damn space suit since yesterday. My skin's getting grimy and feels itchy all over. The goddamn dogs have been looking at me funny, so I decided not to feed them today. Screw 'em.
May 13,1998: Went to the Infirmary because my back is all swollen and feels itchy. They put a big bandage on it and told me I didn't need to wear the suit any more. All I wanna do is sleep.
May 14, 1998: Found another blister on my foot this morning. I ended up dragging my foot all the way to the dogs' pen. They were quiet all day, which is weird. Then I realized some of them had escaped. If anybody finds out, I'll have my head handed to me.
May 15, 1998: My first day off in a long time and I feel like shit. Decided to go visit Nancy anyway, but when I tried to leave the estate, I was stopped by the guards. They said the company's ordered that no one leave the grounds. I can't even make a phone call – all the phones have been ripped out! What kind of bullshit is this?!
May 16, 1998: Rumor's going around that a researcher who tried to escape the estate last night was shot. My entire body feels hot and itchy and I'm sweating all the time now. I scratched the swelling on my arm and a piece of rotten flesh just dropped off. Wasn't until I realized the smell was making me hungry that I got violently sick.
The writing had become shaky. Chris turned the page, and could barely read the last few lines, the words scrawled haphazardly across the paper.
May 19. Fever gone but itchy. Hungry and eat doggie food. Itchy itchy Scott came ugly face so killed him. Tasty. 4 // Itchy. Tasty.
The rest of the pages were blank.
Chris stood up and slipped the journal inside his vest, his thoughts racing. Some of the pieces were finally fitting into place – secret research at a secretly kept estate, an accident in a hidden lab, an escaped virus or infection of some kind that altered the people working here, changing them into ghouls… … and some of them got out.
The murders and attacks on Raccoon started in late May, coinciding with the effects of the accident; the chronology made sense. But exactly what kind of research was being done here, and how deeply involved was Umbrella?
How involved was Billy?
He didn't want to think about that, but even as he tried to clear his mind of the thought, a new one occurred to him… what if it was still contagious?
He hurried to the door, suddenly desperate to get back to Rebecca with the news. With her training, maybe she could figure out what had been unleashed in the secret lab on the estate.
Chris swallowed heavily. Even now, he and the other S.T.A.R.S. could be infected.