Suddenly, the helicopter jerked into the air, acceler-ating wildly. Chris caught a final glimpse of Brad’s face and could see the blind terror there, the unthink-ing panic that had gripped him as he clawed at the controls.
“No! Don’t go!” Chris screamed, but the wobbling rails were already out of reach, the ‘copter pitching forward and away from them through the thundering darkness.
They were going to die.
Damn you, Vickers!
Wesker turned and fired again, and was rewarded with a squeal of pain from one of their pursuers.
There were at least four more close behind, gaining on them rapidly.
“Keep going!” he shouted, trying to get his bearings as they stumbled on, the piercing shrieks of the mutant dogs urging them faster. The sound of the helicopter was dying away, the cowardly Vickers taking their escape with him.
Wesker fired again, the shot going wide, and saw another shadowy form join the hunt. The dogs were brutally fast. They didn’t stand a chance, unless . . . The mansion!
“Veer right, one o’clock!” Wesker yelled, hoping that his sense of direction was still intact. They couldn’t outrun the creatures, but maybe they could keep them at bay long enough to reach cover. He spun and fired the last round in his clip.
“Empty!”
Ejecting the spent magazine, he fumbled for anoth-er one tucked into his belt as both Barry and Chris took up the defense, firing past him and into the closing pack. Wesker slapped in the fresh clip as they reached the edge of the overgrown clearing and plunged into another dark stand of trees. They stumbled and dodged through the woods, tripping on uneven ground as the killer dogs came on. Lungs aching for air, Wesker imagined that he could smell the fetid, rotting-meat stench of the beasts as they narrowed the distance and he somehow found the capacity to run faster.
We should be there by now, gotta be dose—
Chris saw it first through the thinning shadows of trees, the looming monstrosity back-lit by an early moon. “There! Run for that house!”
It looked abandoned from the outside, the weath-ered wood and stone of the giant mansion crumbling and dark. The full size of the structure was cloaked by the shadowy, overgrown hedges that surrounded it, isolating it from the forest. A massive outset front porch presented double doors, their only option for escape.
Wesker actually heard the snap of powerful jaws behind him and fired at the sound, intuitively squeez-ing the trigger as he ran for the front of the mansion. A gurgling yelp and the creature fell away, the howls of its siblings louder than ever, raised to a fever pitch by the thrill of the chase.
Jill reached the doors first, slamming into the heavy wood with one shoulder as she snatched at the han-dles. Amazingly, they crashed open; brightness spilled out across the stone steps to the porch, lighting their path. She turned and started firing, providing cover as the three gasping men ran for the opening in the darkness.
They piled into the mansion, Jill diving in last and Barry throwing his considerable bulk against the door, wedging it closed against the snarls of the creatures. He collapsed against it, face red and sweat-ing, as Chris found the entry’s steel deadbolt and slid it home.
They’d made it. Outside, the dogs howled and scrabbled uselessly at the heavy doors. Wesker took a deep breath of the cool, quiet air that filled the well-lit room and exhaled sharply. As he’d already known, the Spencer house wasn’t abandoned. And now that they were here, all his careful planning was for nothing.
Wesker silently cursed Brad Vickers again and wondered if they were any better off inside than out. . . . FIVE
JILL TOOK IN THEIR NEW SURROUNDINGS AS she caught her breath, feeling like she was a character in a nightmare that had just taken a turn into grand fantasy. Wild, howling monsters, Joseph’s sudden death, a terrifying run through the dark woods—and now this.
Deserted, huh?
It was a palace, pure and simple, what her father would have called a perfect score. The room they had escaped into was the epitome of lavish. It was huge, easily bigger than Jill’s entire house, tiled in gray-flecked marble and dominated by a wide, carpeted staircase that led to a second-floor balcony. Arched marble pillars lined the ornate hall, supporting the dark, heavy wood balustrade of the upper floor. Fluted wall sconces cast funnels of light across walls of cream, trimmed in oak and offset by the deep burnt ocher of the carpeting. In short, it was magnificent. “What is this?” Barry muttered. No one answered him.
Jill took a deep breath and decided immediately that she didn’t like it. There was a sense of... wrong-ness to the vast room, an atmosphere of vague oppres-sion. It felt haunted somehow, though by who or what, she couldn’t say.
Beats the hell out of getting eaten by mutant dogs, though, gotta give it that much. And on the trail of that thought, God, poor Joseph! There hadn’t been time to mourn him, and there wasn’t time now—but he would be missed.
She walked toward the stairs clutching her hand-gun, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpet that led from the front door. There was an antique typewriter on a small table to the right of the steps, a blank sheet of paper spooled into the works. A strange bit of a decorum. The expansive hall was otherwise empty.
She turned back toward the others, wondering what their take on all this was. Barry and Chris both looked uncertain, their faces flushed and sweaty as they surveyed the room. Wesker was crouched by the front door, examining one of the latches.
He stood up, his dark shades still in place, seeming as detached as ever. “The wood around the lock is splintered. Somebody broke this door open before we got here.”
Chris looked hopeful. “Maybe the Bravos?” Wesker nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking. Help should be on the way, assuming our ‘friend’ Mr. Vickers bothers to call it in.”
His voice dripped sarcasm, and Jill felt her own anger kindling. Brad had screwed up big time, had almost cost them their lives. There was no excuse for what he’d done.
Wesker continued, walking across the room toward one of the two doors on the west wall. He rattled the handle, but it didn’t open. “It’s not safe to go back out. Until the cavalry shows up, we might as well take a look around. It’s obvious that somebody’s been keeping this place up, though why and for how long . . ”
He trailed off, walking back toward the group.
“How are we set for ammo?”
Jill ejected the clip from her Beretta and counted:
three rounds left, plus the two loaded magazines on her belt. Thirty-three shots. Chris had twenty-two left, Wesker, seventeen. Barry had two racked speed load-ers for his Colt, plus an extra handful of loose cartridges tucked into a hip pouch, nineteen rounds in all.
Jill thought about all they’d left back on the heli-copter and felt another rush of anger toward Brad. Boxes of ammunition, flashlights, walkie-talkies, shotguns—not to mention medical supplies. That Beretta that Joseph had found out in the field, the pale, blood-spattered fingers still wrapped around it—a S.T.A.R.S. team member dead or dying, and thanks to Brad, they didn’t even have a band-aid to offer.
Thump!
A sound of something heavy sliding to the floor, somewhere close by. In unison, they turned toward the single door on the east wall. Jill was suddenly reminded of every horror movie she’d ever seen; a strange house, a strange noise . . . she shivered, and decided that she was most definitely going to kick Brad’s narrow ass when they got out of here. “Chris, check it out and report back ASAP,” Wesker said. “We’ll wait here in case the RPD comes knocking. You run into any trouble, fire your weapon and we’ll find you.”
Chris nodded and started toward the door, his boots clacking loudly against the marble floor. Jill felt that sense of foreboding wash over her again. “Chris?”