“Your background’s in biochemistry, right? Have you looked through these?”
Rebecca joined him, shaking her head. “Barely. I’ve been kinda busy watching the door.”
He handed her one of the papers and she scanned it quickly. It was a list of neurotransmitters and level indicators.
“Brain chemistry,” she said, “but these numbers are all screwed up. The serotonin and norepinephrine are too low . . . but look here, the dopamine is off the chart, we’re talking big-time schizo—“ She noticed the incredulous look on his face and smiled a little. Being an eighteen-year-old college grad, she got a lot of that. The S.T.A.R.S. had recruited her right after graduation, promising her a whole team of researchers and a lab of her own to study molecular biology, her real passion—provided, of course, that she went through basic training and got some field experience. No one else had shown much interest in hiring a whiz kid. . . .
There was a soft thump at the door and her smile faded. She was getting experience, alright. Chris fished the sword key out of his pocket and looked at her seriously. “I passed a door with a sword engraved over the keyhole. I’m going to go check it out, see if it leads back to the main hall. I want you to stay here and go through those files. Maybe there’s something we can use.”
Her uncertainty must have showed in her face. He smiled gently, his voice low and soothing. “I’ve got plenty of ammo, thanks to you, and I won’t be gone long.”
She nodded, making a conscious effort to relax. She was scared, but letting him see it wasn’t going to help matters. He was probably scared, too.
He walked to the door, still talking. “The RPD should be here any time, so if I don’t come back right away, just wait here.”
He raised the weapon, putting his other hand on the knob. “Get ready. As soon as I’m out, move the trunk in front of the door. I’ll give a yell when I get back.” Rebecca nodded again, and with a final quick smile, Chris opened the door and looked both ways before moving out into the hall. She closed the door and leaned against it, listening. After long seconds of silence, she heard the rattle of gunfire not far away, five or six shots—then nothing.
After a few minutes, she moved the trunk to block part of the door, edging it in front of the hinges so she could push it out of the way easily. She knelt in front of it, trying to clear her thoughts as she started looking through the papers, trying not to feel as young and unsure as she actually felt.
Sighing, she pulled out a handful of papers and started to read.
SEVER
THE LOCK WAS A PIECE OF CAKE, THREE FLAT tumblers in a single row; Jill could have opened it with a couple of paper clips. According to the map, the door would open into a long hall. . ..
Sure enough. She took another long look at the pocket computer’s screen and then slipped it into her pack, thinking. It looked like there was a back way out, through several halls and past a series of rooms. She could look for Wesker and the others along the way, and maybe secure an escape route at the same time. She stepped into the narrow corridor, the fully loaded Beretta in hand.
It was a study in weirdness. The hall wasn’t all that spectacular, the carpet runner and the wallpaper done in basic tans and browns, the wide windows showing only the darkness outside. The display chests that lined the inner wall, though . . .
There were three of them, each topped by a small lamp, and each prominently displaying a wide array of bleached human bones on open shelves, inter-spersed with small items of obscurity. Jill started down the hall, stopping briefly at each bizarre specta-cle. Skulls, arm and leg bones, hands and feet. There were at least three complete skeletons, and amidst the pale and pitted bones were feathers, clay beads, gnarled strips of leather. . . .
Jill picked up one of the leather strips and then put it down quickly, wiping her fingers on her pants. She couldn’t be sure, but it felt like she imagined tanned, cured human skin would feel, stiff and kind of
greasy—
Crash!
The window behind her exploded inward, a lithe, sinewy form lunging into the hall, growling and snapping. It was one of the mutant, killing hounds, its eyes as red as its dripping hide. It charged her, its teeth as bright and dangerous as the jagged glitter of glass still falling from the shattered frame. Backed between two of the chests, Jill fired. The angle was wrong, the bullet splintering the wood at her feet as the dog jumped at her, growling deep in its throat.
It hit her in the thighs, slamming her painfully against the wall, gnashing to get its jaws at her flesh. The smell of rotting meat washed over her and she fired again and again, barely aware that she was moaning in fear and disgust, a sound as guttural and primal as the furious, dying shrieks that came from the canine abomination.
The fifth bullet fired directly into its barrel chest knocked it away. With a final, almost puppyish yelp it crumpled to the floor, blood gushing into the tan carpet.
Jill kept her weapon trained on the still form, gulping air in huge, shuddery breaths. Its limbs twitched suddenly, its massive claws beating a brief tattoo across the wet, red floor before it lay still again. Jill relaxed, recognizing the movement as a death spasm, the body releasing life. She’d have bruises, but the dog was dead.
She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and crouched down next to it, taking in the strange, exposed muscu-lature and huge jaws. It had been too dark and hectic on the run to the house to get a good look at the things that had killed Joseph—but in the bright light of the corridor, her initial impression wasn’t changed; it looked like a skinned dog.
She stood up and backed away, warily eyeing the row of windows in the hall. Obviously they offered no protection from the hazards outside. The corridor took a sharp left and she hurried on, past more of the macabre displays that decorated the inner wall. The door at the end of the long hall was unlocked. It opened into another hall, not as well lit as the first but at least not as creepy, either. The muted, gray-green wallpaper sported paintings of generic scenery and gentle landscapes, not a bone or fetish in sight. The first door on the right was locked, a carving of armor on the key plate. Jill remembered the list on the computer, something about knight keys, but decided not to bother with it for now. According to Trent’s map, there was a room on the other side that didn’t lead anywhere. Besides, if Wesker had come this way, she didn’t imagine that he was locking doors behind him. . . .
Right, just like it was unlikely that Chris would disappear; don’t assume anything about this place. The next door she tried opened into a small bath-room with an antique feel, complete with a ceiling fan and an old-fashioned, four-footed tub. There was no sign of recent use.
She stood for a moment in the stale, tiny room, breathing deeply, feeling the aftermath of the adrena-line
rush she’d had in the corridor. Growing up, she’d learned how to enjoy the thrill of danger, of sneaking in and out of strange places with only a handful of tools and her own wits to keep her safe. Since joining the S.T.A.R.S., that youthful excitement had faded away, lost to the realities of back-up and handguns—but here it was again, unexpected and not unwelcome. She couldn’t lie to herself about the simple joy that often followed facing death and walking away. She felt . . . good. Alive.
Let’s not have a party just yet, her mind whispered sarcastically. Or have you forgotten that S.T.A.R.S. are being eaten in this hellhole?
Jill stepped back into the silent hallway and edged around another corner, wondering if Barry had found Chris and if either of them had run across any of the Bravos. She felt like she had an advantage with the maps, and decided that once she’d checked out the possible escape, she’d go back to the main hall and wait for Barry. With the information on Trent’s computer, they could search more quickly and thor-oughly.