After a lifetime of reading trashy novels about serial killers, is a cannibal zombie so hard to swallow? Somehow it wasn’t, and neither were the murderous dogs or the secretly kept estate. There was no question that it all existed. The question was, why? Did the mansion have anything to do with the murders, or had the zombies simply overrun it like they’d overrun Raccoon Forest?
And was that creature the last thing Becky and Pris saw?
She rejected that thought almost violently; thinking about the girls now would be a mistake. “So do we go looking or do we wait?” Jill said finally.
“Go looking. Ken made it here. The rest of the Bravos could be somewhere in this house. It’d be easy enough to get lost. Chris . . ”
He half-smiled, though Jill could see the worry in his eyes. “Chris and Wesker got—side-tracked, but we’ll find them. It’d take more than a couple of walking stiffs to cause either of them any grief.” He reached into a pocket in his vest and pulled out something wrapped in a handkerchief, handing it to her. She felt the thin metal objects beneath the light fabric and recognized them instantly.
“It’s the set you gave me to practice with last month,” he said. “I figure you’ll have better luck with them.”
Jill nodded, tucking the lockpicks into her hip pouch. Barry had taken an interest in her former “career” and she’d given him a few pieces from her old set, several picks and torsion bars. They could come in handy. The small bundle settled on top of something hard and smooth—
• Trent’s computer! In all the excitement, she’d totally forgotten about her strange encounter in the locker room. She opened her mouth to tell Barry, then shut it, remembering Trent’s cryptic warning. “I
wouldn’t mention this conversation to anyone.” Screw that. She’d almost risked it anyway with Chris_
And where is Chris now? Who’s to say that Trent’s “dire consequences” haven’t already occurred? Jill realized what she was thinking and had to fight off an urge to laugh at herself. What had happened with Trent probably wasn’t even relevant to their predicament, and whether or not she could trust Barry, she knew she didn’t trust Trent—still, she decided not to say anything about it, at least until she had a chance to see what the computer held. “I think we should split up,” Barry continued. “I know it’s dangerous, but we need to cover a lot of ground. We find anybody, we meet back here, use this room as base.”
Rubbing at his beard, he fixed her with a serious gaze. “You up for this, Jill? We could search to-gether .
55
“No, you’re right,” she said. “I can take the west wing.” Unlike cops, S.T.A.R.S. seldom partnered. They were trained to watch their own backs in dan-gerous situations.
Barry nodded. “Okay. I’ll go back and see if I can persuade one of those doors to open. Keep an eye out for a back exit, conserve ammo . . . and be careful.” “You, too.”
Barry grinned, holding up his Colt Python. “I’ll be fine.”
There was nothing left to say. Jill headed straight for the set of doors on the west wall that Wesker hadn’t tried earlier. Behind her, Barry hurried back to the dining room. She heard the door open and
close, leaving her alone.
Here goes nothing.
The painted blue doors opened smoothly, revealing a small, shadowy room as cool and silent as the main hall, all in shades of blue. Muted track lighting illuminated framed paintings on dusky walls, and in the center of the room was a large statue of a woman holding an urn on one shoulder.
Jill closed the door behind her and let her eyes adjust to the gloom, noting the two doors opposite the one she’d come through. The one on the left was open, though a small chest was pushed in front of it, blocking access. It was unlikely that Wesker had gone that way. . . .
She walked to the one on the right and tried the knob. Locked. Sighing, she reached into her pack for the picks and then hesitated, feeling the smooth weight of the mini-disk reader.
Let’s see what Mr. Trent thinks is so important. . . . She slipped it out and studied it a moment, then tapped at a switch. A screen the size of a baseball card flickered to life, and with a few more taps, small lines of type scrolled across the monitor. She scanned the material, recognizing names and dates from local newspapers. Trent had apparently compiled every arti-cle he could find about the murders and disappear-ances in Raccoon, plus the pieces on the S.T.A.R.S. Nothing new here. . . . Jill skipped along, wonder-ing what the point was. After the articles was a list of names.
WILLIAM BIRKIN, STEVE KELLER, MICHAEL DEES, JOHN HOWE, MARTIN CRAGKHORN, HENRY SARTON, ELLEN SMITH, BILL RABBITSON She frowned. None of the names were familiar, except—wasn’t Bill Rabbitson Chris’s friend, the one who had worked for Umbrella? She couldn’t be sure, she’d have to ask Chris. . . .
. . . assuming we find him. This was a waste of time; she needed to start looking for the other S.T.A.R.S. She pressed the forwarding key to get to the end of the data and a picture appeared, tiny lines set into pat-terns. There were squares and long rectangles, cross-hatched with smaller marks that connected the empty boxes. Beneath it was a single line, a message as enigmatic as she could have expected from Mr. Trent:
KNIGHT KEYS; TIGER EYES; FOUR CRESTS (GATE OF NEW LIFE); EAST-EAGLE/WEST-WOLF.
Gee, how illuminating. That just clears up every-thing, doesn’t it? The picture was some kind of map, she decided. It looked like a floor plan. The biggest area was at the center, a slightly smaller one extending off to the left Jill suddenly felt her heart skip a beat. She stared down at the small screen, wondering how Trent had known.
It was the mansion’s first floor. She tapped the forward button again and saw what could only be the second floor, the shapes corresponding to the first map. There was nothing after the second map, but it was enough.
As far as she was concerned, there was no longer any question that the Spencer estate was the source of the terror in Raccoon City—which meant that the answers were here, waiting to be uncovered. The zombie groaned as Chris fired point-blank into its gut, twice. The shots were muffled by its rancid flesh and it fell against him, expelling a rush of foul, stinking air across his face.
Chris pushed it away, the back of his throat locking. His hands and the barrel of his weapon were
dripping with sticky fluids. The creature collapsed to the floor, its limbs spasming.
Chris backed away, wiping the Beretta against his vest as he took deep breaths, trying desperately not to vomit. The zombie out in the hall had been a desic-cated mess, shriveled and dry; this one was—fresh, if that was the right word. Festering, necrotic, wet. . . He swallowed, hard, and the urge to throw up slowly passed. He didn’t have a particularly weak stomach, but that smell, God!
Keep it together, could be more of them. . . . The hall he’d entered was all dark wood and dim light. For the moment, there was no sound except the pulse of blood in his ears. He looked down at the body, wondering exactly what it was, what it had been. He had felt its hot, fetid breath against his face. It wasn’t a reanimated corpse, no matter what it looked like.
He decided it didn’t matter. For all intents and purposes, it was a zombie. It had tried to bite him, and creatures like it had already chowed down on some of Raccoon’s population. He needed to find his way back to the others and they had to get out, get help. They didn’t have the firepower to handle the situation alone.
He ejected the empty clip from the gummy weapon and quickly reloaded, his chest tightening with stress; fifteen rounds left. He had a Bowie knife, but the thought of going up against a zombie with only a knife wasn’t all that appealing.
There was a plain-looking door to his left. Chris pulled at the knob, but it was locked. He squinted at the key plate, and wasn’t all that surprised to see an etching of what looked like armor. Sword, armor—there was a definite theme developing.