Thomlinson was punctual, arriving a full four minutes before she was supposed to file. At the sound of the grinding lift motor, Nicholai trained the rifle's muzzle into the corner, resting his finger on the trigger. A tall, disheveled woman rose into view, a distracted look on her smudged face. She wore a stained lab coat and carried a handgun she kept pointed at the floor; obvi-
Nicholai didn't give her a chance to react to his presence. "Drop your weapon and step away from the lift. Now."
She was a cool one, he had to give her that. Except for a slight widening of her eyes, there was no visible sign of alarm across her even features. She did as he asked, the clatter of the semiautomatic loud as she warily moved a few paces into the still room.
"Anything new to report, Janice?"
She studied him, her light brown gaze searching his as she crossed her arms. "You're one of the Watchdogs," she said. It wasn't a question.
Nicholai nodded. "Empty your pockets onto the table, Doctor. Slowly."
Thomlinson smiled. "And if I won't?" Her voice was throaty, deep and alluring. "Will you ... take it from me?"
Nicholai thought for a few seconds about what she was suggesting then pulled the trigger, obliterating her lovely smile in a sudden cough of fire. Really, he didn't have time to play that particular game; he should have shot her on sight, so as not to be tempted. Besides, his feet were cold and wet, which he detested; nothing like wet boots to make a man miserable.
Still, it was a shame; she was his type, tall and curved, obviously intelligent. He walked to her slumped body and fished a disk out of her breast pocket without looking at the blood and bone confusion that had been her face, reminding himself that this was business.
Only four to go. Nicholai slipped the disk into a plastic pouch, sealed it, and placed it in his bag.
There'd be time to pore over its contents later, once he'd collected everything.
He turned on the portable and called up the sewer system map, frowning as he traced his next path. At least another half mile of wading through the dark before making it topside. He glanced at Dr. Thomlinson again and sighed; perhaps he'd made a mistake. A
quick tussle would have warmed him up ... though he disliked having to kill women after enjoying them, on any level; the last time, he'd experienced feelings of true regret.
No matter. She was dead, he had the information, and it was time to move on. Four left, and he could forget about business for the rest of his extremely wealthy life, concentrating instead on the kinds of pleasure that poor men could only dream about.
Carlos knew he was close. From the area near the newspaper building, where the street signs had all begun with north, he'd ended up lost in a series of alleys to the east—what had to be Trent's shopping district.
He said shopping district, northeast... so where's the theater? And he said something about a fountain, didn't he?
Carlos stood in front of a boarded-up barbershop at the intersection of two alleys, no longer sure which way to go. There weren't any street signs, and twilight had given its last gasp; it was full-on dark and he only had ten minutes left before the 1900 deadline, thanks to an initial blunder that had led him back toward the industrial part of town—not really what could be considered the city proper, as Trent put it. Ten minutes ... and then what? Once he found the infamous Grill 13, what was supposed to happen? Trent had said something about helping ... so if he blew the appointed time, would Trent be able to do anything for him?
Taking a left would lead him back to the newspaper office, he thought—or was that behind him? Straight ahead was a dead end and a door that he hadn't tried yet, might as well give that a shot—
He didn't see it coming, but he heard it.
He'd taken a single step when a door crashed open behind him—and the thing was so fast that he was still turning, raising the assault rifle in reaction to the sound of the door when it reached him.
What—
A wave of malodorous darkness, an impression of shining black claws and hard, ribbed body like the
exoskeleton of some giant insect—
—and somethingr/pped the air inches from his face, would have hit him if not for his stumbling step backwards. He tripped over his own feet and fell, watching in horrified amazement as something flew over his upturned face, leaping nimbly to the wall on his right, and continued to run, sideways, clinging to the brick in a skittering gallop. Awestruck, Carlos tracked it as far as he could turn his head, flat on his back, watching as it agilely pivoted on at least three of its legs and dropped to the ground.
He might have simply waited for it to come for him, unable to believe his eyes even as it slashed one of its six, long-bladed legs across his throat, except that it screamed—and the trumpeting, triumphant whine that erupted from its inhumanly curved and bloated face was enough to get him moving.
In a flash, Carlos rolled into a crouch and opened fire on the screeching, running thing, unaware that he was screaming, too, a low, raspy cry of terror and disbelief. The creature faltered as the rounds tore into its brittle flesh, its limbs flailing wildly, the quality of its shriek changing to a howl of furious pain. Carlos kept firing, spraying the creature with deadly hot metal, continuing even after it collapsed and was only moving because of him, the rounds jerking at its limp form. He
knew it was dead but couldn't let himself stop, couldn't until the M16 ran dry and the alley was silent except for the sound of his own tortured breathing. He backed against a wall, slammed a fresh mag into the rifle, and desperately tried to understand what the hell had just happened.
At last he recovered enough of himself to approach the dead thing—itwas dead; even a sixlegged, wall-climbing bug the size of a man was dead when its brains were drooling out of its skull. It was one truth he could hold on to in the face of this madness.
"Deader than shit," he said, staring down at the twisted, bloody creature, and for just a second, he could feel part of his mind attempting to turn in on itself, to lock him away from what he was seeing. Zombies were bad enough, and he'd finally refused to accept the fact that Raccoon was overrun by the walking dead; they were just sick, that cannibal disease he'd read about, because there was no such thing as zombies except in
the movies. Just like there were no real monsters, either, no giant killing bugs with claws that could walk on walls and scream like it had screamed—
'Wohay pin,” he whispered, his one-time motto, this time spoken as a plea, his thoughts following in a kind of desperate litanyDon't sweat it, hang loose, be cool. And after a while, it took hold; his heart slowed to almost normal, and he started to feel like a person again, not some mindless, panicking animal.
So, there were monsters in Raccoon City. It shouldn't be a surprise, not after the day he'd had; besides, they died like anything else, didn't they? He wasn't going to
survive if he lost it, and he'd already been through way too much to give up now.
With that, Carlos turned his back on the monster and headed down the alley, forcing himself not to look back. It was dead, and he was alive, and chances were good that there were more of them out there.
Trent might be my only way out, and now I've got... shit!Three minutes, he had three goddamn minutes.
Carlos broke into a run, up a few steps to the single door at the end of the alley and through—and found himself standing in a spacious, well-lit kitchen. A restaurant's kitchen.
A quick look around; no one, and quiet except for a soft hiss from a large gas canister standing against the back wall. He took a deep breath but couldn't smell anything; maybe it was something else—
—and I wouldn't leave if it was toxic nerve gas. This has to be it, this is where he told me to go.
He walked through the kitchen, past shining metal counters and stoves, heading toward the dining area. There was a menu on one of the counters,grill 13 written across the front in gold script. It was unnerving, how relieved he felt; within a few hours, Trent had gone from being some creepy stranger to his best friend in the world.