EIGHT
After jill and barry went their separate ways, Wesker stayed crouched on the balcony in the main hall, thinking. He knew that time was of the essence, but he wanted to outline a few possible scenarios before he acted; he'd already made mistakes, and didn't want to make any more of them. The Raccoon Alphas were a bright group, making his margin for error very slim indeed.
He'd received his orders a couple of days ago, but hadn't expected to be in a position to carry them out so soon; the Bravo team's 'copter going down had been a fluke, as had Brad Vickers's sudden display of cowardice. Still, he should have been more prepared.
Being caught with his pants down like this went against his grain, it was so… unprofessional.
He sighed, putting the thoughts aside. There'd be time for self-recrimination later. He hadn't expected to end up here, but here he was, and kicking himself for lack of foresight wasn't going to change anything.
Besides, there was too much to do.
He knew the grounds of the estate fairly well and the labs like the back of his hand, but he'd only been inside the mansion a few times and not at all since he'd been officially transferred to Raccoon City.
The place was a maze, designed by a genius architect at the bidding of a madman. Spencer was bats, no two ways about it, and he'd had the house built with all kinds of tricky little mechanisms, a lot of that silly spy crap that had been so popular in the late sixties…
Spy crap that's going to make this job twice as hard as it needs to be. Hidden keys, secret tunnels – it's like I'm trapped in an espionage thriller, complete with mad scientists and a ticking clock.
His original plan had been to lead both the Alpha and Bravo teams to the estate and clear the area before he proceeded to the lower labs and wrapped things up. He had the master keys and codes, of course; they had been sent along with his orders, and would open most of the doors on the estate. The problem was, there was no key to the door that led to the garden, it had a puzzle lock and was currently the only way to get to the labs, outside of walking through the woods.
Which ain't gonna happen. The dogs would be on me before I could take two steps, and if the 121s got out…
Wesker shuddered, remembering the incident with the rookie guard who'd gotten too close to one of the cages, a year or so back. The kid had been dead before he could even open his mouth to call for help. Wesker had no intention of going back outside without an army to back him up.
The last contact with the estate had been over six weeks ago, an hysterical call from Michael Dees to one of the suits in the White office. The doctor had sealed the mansion, hiding the four pieces of the puzzle lock in a fruitless effort to keep any more of the virus carriers from reaching the house. By then, they were all infected and suffering from a kind of paranoid mania, one of the more charming side effects of the virus. God only knew what tricks and traps the researchers down in the labs had screwed with as they slowly lost their minds.
Dees had been no exception, although he had managed to hold out longer than most of the others; something to do with individual metabolism, or so Wesker'd been told. The company had already decided to call a complete wipe, though the babbling scientist had been assured that help was on the way.
Wesker had enjoyed a good laugh over that one. There was no way the White boys would risk further infection. They'd sat on their hands for almost two months while Raccoon suffered the consequences, letting the incompetent RPD investigate while the virus gradually lost its punch and then sent him in to clean up the mess. Which by now was considerable.
The captain absently ran his fingers across the plush carpet, trying to remember details of the briefing about Dees's call. Whether he liked it or not, everything had to be taken care of tonight. He had to collect the required evidence and get to the labs, and that meant finding the pieces of the puzzle lock. Dees had been mostly incoherent, ranting about murderous crows and giant spiders, but he had insisted that the crest-keys to the puzzle lock were hidden where only Spencer could find them, and that made sense.
Everyone who worked in the house knew about Spencer's penchant for cloak-and-dagger mechanisms. Unfortunately for Wesker, he hadn't bothered learning much about the mansion, since he never thought he'd need the information. He remembered a few of the more colorful hiding places – the statue of the tiger with mismatched eyes came to mind, as did the armor display room with the gas and the secret room in the library…
But I don't have time to go through all of them, not by myself.
Wesker grinned suddenly and stood up, amazed that he hadn't thought of it already. Who said he had to be by himself? He'd ditched the S.T.A.R.S. to map out a new plan and search for the crests, but there was no reason that he had to do everything. Chris wasn't viable, he was too gung-ho, and Jill was still an unknown quantity… Barry, though… Barry Burton was a family man. And both Jill and Chris trusted him.
And while they're all still fumbling around in the house, I can get to the triggering system and then get the hell out, mission complete.
Still grinning, Wesker walked to the door that led to the dining room balcony, surprised to find that he was looking forward to his little adventure. It was a chance to test his skills against the rest of the team and against the accidental test subjects that were surely still lurching around not to mention, of Spencer himself. And if he pulled it off, he was going to be a very rich man.
This might actually turn out to be fun.
NINE
CAW! Jill whipped her Beretta toward the sound, the mournful shriek echoing all around as the door slipped closed behind her. Then she saw the source of the noise and relaxed, smiling nervously.
What the hell are they doing in here?
She was still in the back part of the house, and had decided to check out a few of the other rooms before heading back to the main hall. The first door she'd tried had been locked, a carving of a helmet on the key plate. Her picks had been useless, the lock a type she'd never encountered, so she'd decided to try her luck on the door across the hall. It had opened easily enough, and she'd gone in ready for anything, though about the last thing she'd expected to see was a flock of crows, perched along the support bar for the track lighting that ran the length of the room.
Another of the large black birds let out its morose shriek, and Jill shivered at the sound. There were at least a dozen of them, ruffling their shiny feathers and watching her with bright, beady eyes as she quickly surveyed the room for threats; it was clear.
The U-shaped chamber she'd entered was as cold as the rest of the house, perhaps colder, and empty of furniture. It was a viewing hall, nothing but portraits and paintings lining the inner wall. Black feathers lay scattered across the worn wooden floor amidst dried mounds of bird droppings, and Jill wondered again how the crows had gotten inside, and how long they'd been there. There was definitely something strange about their appearance; they seemed much larger than normal crows, and they studied her with an intensity that seemed almost unnatural.
Jill shivered again, turning back toward the door.
There wasn't anything important in the room, and the birds were giving her the creeps. Time to move on.
She glanced at a few of the paintings on her way out, mostly portraits, noticing that there were switches beneath the heavy frames – she assumed they were for the track lighting, though she couldn't imagine why anyone had bothered setting up such an elaborate gallery for such mediocre art. A baby, a young man… the paintings weren't awful, but they weren't exactly inspired, either.