“. . . thirty seconds until detonation. Twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight. . ”
The woman’s voice kept counting down, the num-bers seeming to come twice as fast as they should, and Sherry buried her face in Claire’s warm side, thinking about her mom. Mom and Dad. She hoped that they’d gotten out, that they were safe somewhere—
• but they’re probably not. They’re probably dead.
Sherry could hear Claire’s heart pounding, and she hugged her friend tighter, thinking that she would think about it later.
“. . . five. Four. Three. Two. One. Sequence com-plete. Detonation.”
For a second, there was no sound at all. The alarms had finally stopped, and the clattering movement of the racing train was all there was to hear—
• and then there was an explosion, a muffled sound, a shoomp sound that kept going, growing, becoming huge.
Sherry closed her eyes and the train rocked sud-denly, horribly, and they were all thrown to the metal floor as bright, burning light flickered through the window, as the sounds of a car crash blasted all around them, heavy thumps raining over the roof—
• and the train kept going. It kept going, and the light went away, and they weren’t dead.
The blinding flash dissipated, faded, and Leon felt the tension leaking out of his body. He rolled onto his side, and saw Claire sitting up, reaching for the hand of the young girl next to her.
“Okay?” Claire asked the girl, and the child nod-ded. Both of them turned to him, their faces express-ing what he felt—shock, exhaustion, disbelief, hope. “Leon Kennedy, this is Sherry Birkin,” Claire said, saying the words carefully, the slightest accent on “Birkin.” He got the message even without the inten-sity of her gaze, nodding his understanding before smiling at the girl.
“Sherry, this is Leon,” Claire continued. “I met him when I had just gotten to Raccoon.”
Sherry returned his smile, a weary, too-adult smile that seemed out of place; she was too young to smile like that.
One more rotten deed to lay at Umbrella’s door, innocence stolen from a child. . . .
For a few seconds, they just sat there on the floor, staring at one another, smiles fading all around. Leon hardly dared to hope that it was really over, that they were leaving the terror behind. Again, he saw his feelings mirrored in front of him, in Sherry’s worried brow and Claire’s tired gray eyes—
• and when they heard the distant squeal of metal coming from somewhere at the back of the train, he didn’t see any surprise. A rending, tearing screech—followed by a heavy, somehow stealthy thump—and then nothing.
Should’ve known it isn’t over—
“Zombie?” Sherry whispered, the word almost lost in the gently clattering sound of the speeding train. “I don’t know, sweetie,” Claire said softly, and for the first time, Leon noticed that her left leg was ripped to shit, blood oozing from several ragged scratches; he’d been too amazed at his, at their narrow escape to see it before.
“How about I go take a look?” Leon said, taking his cue from Claire, keeping his voice mild and even;
no point in scaring Sherry any worse. He stood up, nodding toward Claire’s leg.
“Sherry, why don’t you stay here with Claire, keep an eye on that leg? I’ll see if I can find some bandages while I’m checking things out; don’t let her move, okay?”
Sherry nodded, her small face intent with purpose that again was too old for her years. “Got it.” “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, and turned toward the back of the swaying train, praying that it was nothing at all and knowing better, as he reached for the Remington and went to see.
Leon opened the door, the sounds of the rolling train amplified for a second before it closed behind him. Claire couldn’t see him enter the next car from her position on the floor, and wished she’d been in shape to go with him; if there was something else on the train, Sherry wasn’t safe, none of them were—
• don’t think like that, it’s nothing. It’s over—
• like it was over with Mr. X?
“What should I do?” Sherry asked, pulling Claire away from the disheartening thoughts. “Direct pres-sure, right?”
Claire nodded. “Yeah, except we’re both pretty grimy, and I think it’s starting to clot. Let’s see if Leon comes back with something clean ...”
She trailed off, her thoughts going back to Mr. X. There was something nagging at her but she was a little dizzy from the blood she’d lost—
• G-Virus. It wanted the G-Virus before.
Why had Mr. X come to the subway platform? Why had it been trying to get inside the train, unless—
Claire struggled to get up, fighting her swimming head and the throbbing pain in her leg.
“Hey, don’t move,” Sherry said, a look of deep distress in her eyes. “Leon said to stay still!” She might have been able to overcome her physical problems, but seeing Sherry on the edge of panic was too much; if there was some G-Virus creature on board, if that was why Mr. X had come, Leon would have to face it alone. She couldn’t leave Sherry. If Leon didn’t come back, she’d have to figure out how to detach their train car, or stop the train so they could get off before the creature could get to them—
Claire shut the thoughts off, forcing a smile for Sherry. “Yes ma’am. I just wanted to make sure he got through the second car. . .”
She could see the relief sweep across Sherry’s face. “Oh. Well, forget it, I’m taking care of you now, and I say you stay still.”
Claire nodded absently, hoping that she was wrong, hoping that Leon would be back any second—
• Sam! Bam! Bam!
The thunder of the Remington was loud and clear. Sherry grabbed her hand as two more shots blasted the hope from Claire’s fuzzy mind, as the train sped through the dark.
The second car was clear, the same wide-open space that Leon had entered the train by, all dusty steel and not much else. Whoever had designed the escape vehicle had obviously figured the Umbrella employ-ees would have to be packed in like sardines. Just us three, though—and our stowaway.. .. There was nothing to see, but Leon moved slowly nonetheless, carefully scanning the shadowy corners and steeling himself for whatever was in the last car. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be as bad as the thing that had jumped him in the cargo room, the Birkin-thing, if that was what it was. The thought that the creature had anything at all to do with Claire’s young friend was deeply unsettling, even obscene. A monster and a madwoman, both destroyed, both parents of the little girl. . . .
He reached the back of the dim and rocking train car and peered through the door, pushing all other thoughts aside as he tried to make out anything at all in the last car. Darkness, and nothing else. Hell.
Maybe there wasn’t anything to see, but he had to look. He felt his heart start to pound fresh adrenaline through his body, felt his weariness fall away. Noth-ing, it was surely nothing, but it felt bad. Wrong. Last thing, very last thing. . . .
He took a deep breath and opened the door, step-ping into the loud, whipping breeze of the outside, holding on to the rail. The rattle of the train drowned out the thumping of his heart as he moved to the last car, opened the door, and stepped into darkness. Immediately, he raised the shotgun, all of his senses telling him to run as the door slid shut behind him. He reached back, slapping for a light switch. Dark-ness, but there was a powerful smell like bleach or chlorine, and there was the soft sound of wetness, of movement—
A single bare bulb flickered on in the middle of the car as he found a button, and he thought for just a second that he’d lost his mind.
A thing. A creature that wasn’t even vaguely hu-manoid, except for a strange, pulsing tumor protrud-ing from one side, a slick orb that looked very much like an eye.