• shootshootshoot—
She squeezed the trigger, one, two times, and saw the impact—a flap of its lapel blew into shreds just below his collarbone, the second shot slicing cleanly through one side of the neck—
• and he took another step, not a flicker of expres-sion passing over his rough-hewn features, the fist still raised, seeking a target, seeking to crush—
The black, smoking hole in its throat wasn’t bleeding.
Oh SHIT!
In a rush of adrenaline-boosted dread, Claire pointed the handgun at the creature’s heart and pulled the trigger repeatedly, the giant taking another step, striding into the stream of explosive fire without flinching—
• and she lost track of the shots, unable to believe that it could still be coming, less than ten feet away as the rounds hammered its mammoth chest—
• and the gun clicked empty, even as the monster stopped in its thundering tracks, swaying from side to side like a tall building in a high wind. Without taking her shocked gaze from the reeling giant, Claire grabbed another clip from her vest and fumbled through reloading, her brain crazily trying to name this walking abortion.
Terminator, Frankenstein’s monster, Dr. Evil, Mr.
X—
Whatever it was supposed to be, the seven-plus semi-jacketed rounds to the chest had finally taken effect. Silently, the towering creature slumped to his right, falling heavily against one smoke-blackened wall and sagging there—not crumpling, but not mov-ing, either.
Weird angle, that’s all, he’s dead, just propped up by his own weight—
Claire didn’t move any closer, keeping the handgun leveled at the motionless giant. Was this the screamer? For as powerful and inhuman as it looked, she didn’t think so; this was no primal, furious demon, howling for blood. Mr. X was more like some soulless ma-chine, bloodless flesh that could ignore pain ... or embrace it.
“Dead now, doesn’t matter,” Claire whispered, as much to reassure herself as to cut off the relentless stream of useless thought. She had to think, to figure out what this meant—this wasn’t some freak zombie mutation, so what the hell was it? Why didn’t it fall down? She’d emptied a mostly full clip—would somebody hear the shots, would Sherry or Irons or Leon or whoever else might be lurking around the station come find her? Should she stay where she was? The creature that she’d already started to think of as Mr. X wasn’t breathing, its muscular body per-fectly still, its face as closed as death. Claire bit her lower lip, staring at the still impossibly standing, leaning creature, trying to think through her confused fear—
• and saw his eyes open, his shiny black and red eyes. Without so much as a wince of pain or effort, Mr. X swayed back to a stand, blocking the hall, his giant hands raising again—
• and with a mighty swing, he crashed his fists through the air, his long arms whipping just in front of her as she stumbled back. The momentum was enough for both of his huge hands to plunge into the wall across from where he’d leaned. The impact buried his fists, his arms stuck in the wood and plaster halfway to his elbows.
Me, could’ve been ME—
Back through Irons’s office and she’d be trapped. Without giving the matter any further thought, Claire moved, sprinting toward Mr. X. She flew past him, her right arm actually brushing against his heavy coat, her heart skipping a beat as the material wisped across her skin.
She ran, hung a left and dashed down the hazy hall, trying to remember what was past the waiting room, trying not to hear the unmistakable sounds of move-ment behind her as Mr. X jerked his hands free.
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 any-thing 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 charms didn’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 . . .