IlinEfEEn
ONE MINUTE, IRONS WAS STANDING IN FRONT of her, staring into her eyes with a terrible, wrenching sorrow—
• and in the next, he was gone. Yanked into a hole in the floor by an arm that she only caught a glimpse of, a muscular, dripping arm with foot-long claws. It whipped out of sight, taking Irons with it into the darkness below.
There was another scream from the creature, a powerful, lusty howl that was matched and then surpassed by the intensity of Irons’s terrified shriek. Frozen by the piercing screams, Claire could only listen, shock and relief and fear for herself battling through her as the horrible cries swept up through the open hole, pounding her ears in the cold, dismal dungeon that Irons had created—
• until his cries burbled to a stop, only a second or two later—and the slurping, meaty, wet noises began. Claire moved. She scooped up the handgun that Irons had dropped and ran around the table in the middle of the room, not wanting to be grabbed and pulled under like he had.
It killed him, it killed him and he was going to kill me—
The reality of what had just happened, what would have happened, hit her all at once, turning her limbs into rubber. Claire forced herself a few more steps away from the open pit and collapsed against one sweating stone wall, taking in great, whooping breaths of the bitterly scented air.
He had been planning to kill her, but not right away. She’d seen the way his mad gaze had crawled over her body, heard the eager anticipation in his crazy laugh—
There was a low, grunting sound from the corner, a bestial sound, the growl of a well-fed lion. Claire turned, raising the heavy gun, astounded that she could feel any more horror—
• and something burst up from the hole, some-thing with flailing arms, and Claire fired, the shot going wide. A glass bottle on a shelf exploded as the thing hit the floor—
• and it was Irons, but only half of him. He had been neatly bisected, cut in two by the thing that had snatched him; everything below the fleshy waist was gone, trails of torn skin and muscle hanging down over the oozing pool of blood that had replaced his legs.
Claire backed toward the door, the weapon still trained on the opening—and heard the creature, the monster scream again, an echoing howl that faded away, falling away into some distance that she couldn’t imagine. A second later, she couldn’t hear it at all; it was gone.
Sherry’s monster. That was Sherry’s monster. She edged slowly toward the mangled corpse of Chief Irons, toward the empty, yawning blackness of the hole—but it wasn’t all blackness. She could see light filtering up from somewhere, enough to see that there was another floor below, what looked like the metal grid pattern of a catwalk—and a ladder leading toil.
A subbasement. . . a way out?
She stepped back from the opening, her thoughts racing and disorganized, trying to absorb the infor-mation along with what Irons had told her. Chris wasn’t in Raccoon, the S.T.A.R.S. were gone—a wonderful, terrible relief, because it meant he was safe, but also that he wasn’t about to come running in to save the day. There had been a spill at Umbrella, which explained the zombies, at least—but what he’d said about Birkin, about Birkin’s virus . . . was that Sherry’s father?
And—maybe the zombies are the result of some laboratory accident, but what about all the other things,
The way Irons had ranted about Umbrella sug-gested that while the accident was unexpected, the pharmaceutical company wasn’t some innocent vic-tim. What had he called it?
“T-Virus,” she said softly, and shivered. “There was Birkin’s new virus, and there was the T-Virus_”
The zombie disease had a name. And you didn’t name something unless you knew something about it, which meant—
• which meant she didn’t know what it meant. All she knew was that she and Sherry needed to get out of Raccoon, and the subbasement might be a way. It wasn’t a dead end, the monster that had killed Irons had gone somewhere . . .
. . . and do you really want to follow it, with Sherry? It could come back—and if it actually is looking for her. . .
Not a happy thought—but then, neither was hitting the streets, and the station was already crawling with God knew what other creatures. Claire checked the clip of the weapon Irons had held on her, counting seventeen bullets. Not enough to face off with the things in the station—but maybe enough to keep a monster at bay. . . .
It was a chance, but she was willing to take it. Claire took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly, collecting herself. She needed to keep it together, for Sherry’s sake if not for her own.
She turned, looking down at the mangled remains of the police chief. It was a terrible way to have died, but she couldn’t find it in herself to feel sorry. He had been ready to rape and torture her, he had laughed when she’d pleaded for her life, and now he was dead; she wasn’t happy about it, but she wasn’t going to shed any tears, either. Her only feeling about it was that she should cover him up before she brought Sherry down with her; the girl had seen enough violence for one lifetime.
You and me both, kiddo, Claire thought tiredly, and started to look around for something to drape over the dead Chief Irons.
Leon caught up to her in the cold industrial hallway that led to the sewer entrance, a few steps up from the flooded subbasement. She’d run ahead to plant the keys that would get them into the sewers, not wanting to have to explain how she’d come by them; she’d just managed to toss them into the boiler room before his footsteps sounded on the metal steps behind her. At least I don’t have to fake being out of breath. . . . Ada could see by the look on his face that she needed to smooth things over; she started talking the second he stepped into the shadowy corridor. “I’m sorry I ran,” she said, offering him a nervous smile. “I hate spiders.”
Leon frowned, studying her—and looking into his searching blue gaze, Ada realized she was going to have to do better than that. She took a step closer to him, not close enough to be invasive but enough so that he could feel the heat of her body. Maintaining eye contact, she tilted her head back to emphasize the height difference between them; it was a little thing, but in her experience, men generally responded well to the little things.
“I guess I’m just in a hurry to get out of here,” she said quietly, losing the smile. “I hope I didn’t worry you.”
He dropped his gaze, but not before she saw a flicker of interest—confused and self-conscious, but
definitely interest. Which made it all the more sur-prising when he stepped away.
“Well, you did. Don’t do it again, okay? I may not be much of a cop, but I’m trying—and God only knows what we’re going to run into down here.” He met her gaze again, speaking softly. “I came with you because I want to help, I want to do my job—and I can’t do that if you go charging ahead.
Besides,” he added, smiling a little, “if you run off, who’s going to help me?”
It was Ada’s turn to look away. Leon was playing it straight with her, openly admitting to his fears—and his response to her not-so-subtle flirtation had been to step back and tell her that he wanted to be a good cop. Interested, but not a fool for his tool. . . and man enough to tell me that he’s unsure of his abilities. She was forced to smile back, but it was a shaky affair. “I’ll do my best,” she said.
Leon nodded and turned to inspect the hallway, letting the conversation drop—much to Ada’s relief.
She wasn’t sure what she thought of him, but was uncomfortably aware that her respect for him was growing; not a good thing, considering the circum-stances.
There wasn’t much to see in the damp, poorly lit hall; two doorways and a dead end. The boiler room, where she’d tossed the keys—or plugs, rather—was directly in front of them, the sewer disposal entrance in a back comer; according to the sign on the wall, the other door opened into a storage closet.