So where the hell are you, Chris?
Of the three locked doors, Barry had picked the one at the end of the hall on pure instinct. He’d ended up in a dark, silent hall that led past an empty elevator shaft and down a narrow set of stairs. The bare white kitchen at the bottom had seemed deserted, the counters thick with dust and corrosion stains on the walls—no sign of recent use, no sign of Chris, and the single door across from the sink had been locked. He’d been about to leave when he’d noticed the trails of disturbed dust on the floor and followed them. . . . Sighing heavily, Barry stepped over the stinking monster, a final check before he headed back up for door number two. There were some stacked crates and the same old-fashioned elevator shaft, also emp-ty. He didn’t bother with the call button since the one upstairs hadn’t worked. Besides, judging from the rust on the metal grate, no one had used it in quite awhile. He turned back the way he’d come, wondering how Jill was making out. The sooner they could get away, the better. Barry had never disliked any place as much as he did this mansion. It was cold, it was dangerous, and it smelled like a meat locker that had been unplugged for a week. He generally wasn’t the type to frighten easily or let his imagination get out of hand, but he half-expected to see some white-sheeted spook rattling chains every time he turned around—
There was a distant echoing clatter behind him. Barry spun, a knot of dread in his gut as he pointed his weapon randomly at the empty air, his eyes wide and mouth dry. There was another metallic clatter, followed by a low, throbbing hum of machinery. Barry took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, getting a hold of himself. Not a disembodied spirit, after all; someone was using the elevator. Who? Chris and Wesker are missing and Jill’s in the other wing. .. .
He stayed where he was, lowering the Colt slightly as he waited. He didn’t think the ghouls were smart enough to work the buttons, let alone open the gate, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He was a good twenty feet from where the booth would open, assum-ing it stopped in the basement, and would
have a clear shot at whoever stepped around the corner. A glim-mer of hope sparked through his confusion; maybe it was one of the Bravos, or someone who lived here and could tell them what had happened. . . . With a dull dang, the elevator stopped in the kitchen. There was a squeal of dry metal hinges and footsteps—
• and Captain Wesker stepped into view, his per-petual sunglasses propped on his tanned brow. Barry lowered the revolver, grinning as cool relief swept over him. Wesker stopped in his tracks and grinned back at him.
“Barry! Just the man I was looking for,” he said lightly.
“God, you gave me a scare! I heard the elevator start up and thought I was gonna have a heart attack ...” Barry trailed off, his grin faltering. “Captain,” he said slowly, “where did you go?
When we came back, you were gone.”
Wesker’s grin widened. “Sorry about that. I had some business to attend to—you know, call of na-ture?”
Barry smiled again, but was surprised by the con-fession; trapped in hostile territory, and the man had gone off to take a leak?
Wesker reached up and lowered his shades, break-ing their eye contact, and Barry suddenly felt a little nervous. Wesker’s grin, if anything, seemed to grow wider. It looked like every tooth was showing. “Barry, I need your help. Have you ever heard of White Umbrella?”
Barry shook his head, feeling more uncomfortable by the second.
“White Umbrella is a sector of Umbrella, Inc., a very important division. They specialize in ... bio-logical research, I guess you could say. The Spencer estate houses their research facilities, and recently, an accident occurred.”
Wesker brushed off a section of the kitchen’s center island and casually leaned against it, his tone almost conversational.
“This division of Umbrella has a few ties to the S.T.A.R.S. organization, and not long ago, I was asked to ... assist in their handling of this situation. It’s a very delicate situation, mind you, very hush-hush; White Umbrella doesn’t want a whisper of their involvement getting out.
“Now, what I’m supposed to do is get to the laboratories on the grounds here and put an end to some rather incriminating evidence—proof that White Umbrella is responsible for the accident that’s caused so much trouble in Raccoon as of late. The problem is, I don’t have the key to get to those labs—keys, actually. And that’s where you come in. I need for you to help me find those keys.”
Barry stared at him for a moment, speechless, his mind churning. An accident, a secret lab doing biolog-ical research . . .
. . . and murdering dogs and zombies loose in the tvoods. . .
He raised his revolver and pointed it at Wesker’s smiling face, stunned and angry. “Are you insane? You think I’m going to help you destroy evidence?
You crazy son of a bitch!”
Wesker shook his head slowly, acting as if Barry were a child. “Ah, Barry, you don’t understand; you don’t have a choice in the matter. See, a few of my friends from White Umbrella are currently standing outside of your house, watching your wife and daugh-ters sleep. If you don’t help me, your family is going to die.”
Barry could actually feel the blood drain from his face. He cocked the hammer back on the Colt, feeling a sudden, vicious hatred for Wesker infusing every fiber of his being.
“Before you pull the trigger, I should mention that if I don’t report back to my friends fairly soon, their orders are to go ahead and do the deed anyway.” The words cut through the red haze that had flooded Barry’s mind, turning his hands clammy with terror.
Kathy, the babies—/
“You’re bluffing,” he whispered, and Wesker’s grin finally disappeared, his expression slipping back into the unreadable mask that he usually wore. “I’m not,” he said coldly. “Try me. You can apolo-gize to their headstones later.”
For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence a palpable thing in the chill air. Then Barry slowly eased the hammer back down and lowered the weap-on, his shoulders slumped. He couldn’t, wouldn ‘t risk it; his family was everything.
Wesker nodded and reached into one of his pockets, producing a ring of keys, his manner suddenly brisk and business-like. “There are four copper plates somewhere in this house. Each one is about the size of a teacup, and has a picture engraved on one side—sun, moon, stars, and wind. There’s a back door on the other side of the mansion where the four of them belong.”
He unhooked a key from the ring and set it on the table, sliding it across to Barry. “This should open all of the doors in the other wing, or at least the impor-tant ones, first and second floor. Find those pieces for me and your wife and children will be fine.” Barry reached for the key with numb fingers, feeling weak and more afraid than he’d ever been in his life. “Chris and Jill. . ”
“... will undoubtedly want to help you search. If you see either of them, tell them that the back door you’ve discovered could be the way out. I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to work with their trusted friend, good ol’ Barry. In fact, you should unlock every door you can in order to promote a more thorough job.”