Jesus, what happened? What happened to you, man? Forest’s body was covered with wounds, most an inch or two across and surrounded by raw, bloody flesh—it was as if he’d been stabbed hundreds of times with a dull knife, each vicious cut ripping away chunks of skin and muscle. Part of his ribcage was cruelly exposed, slivers of white showing beneath tattered redness. His eyeless, streaming stare was the crowning horror—like the killer hadn’t been content to take Forest’s life, wanting his soul instead. . . . There were three clips for the Beretta in Forest’s pack. Chris shoved the magazines into a pocket and quickly stood up, tearing his gaze from the mutilated body. He looked out over the dark woods, breathing deeply. His thoughts were jumbled and grasping, trying to find an explanation and yet unable to hold on to any coherent facts.
Once in the main hall, he’d decided to check all of the doors to see which were unlocked—and when he’d seen the bloody hand print in the tiny upstairs hall and heard the wailing cries of birds, he’d charged in, ready to deal out some justice.......crows. It sounded like crows, an entire flock . . .or a murder,
actually. Pack of dogs, kindle of kittens, murder of crows . . .
He blinked, his tired mind focusing on the seem-ingly random bit of trivia. Frowning, Chris crouched back down next to Forest’s ravaged body, studying the jagged wounds closely. There were dozens of tiny scratches amidst the more serious cuts, scratches set into lined patterns—
Claws. Talons.
Even as the thought occurred to him, he heard a restless flutter of wings. He turned slowly, still holding Forest’s Beretta in a hand that had suddenly gone cold.
A sleek, monstrous bird was perched on the railing not two feet away, watching him with bright black eyes. Its smooth feathers gleamed dully against its bloated body . . . and a ribbon of something red and wet hung from its beak.
The bird tilted its head to the side and let out a tremendous shriek, the streamer of Forest’s flesh droooine to the railing. From all around, the answer-ing cries of its gathered siblings flooded the night air. There was a furious whisper of oversized wings as dozens of dark, fluttering shapes swooped out from beneath the eaves, screeching and clawing. Chris ran, the image of Forest’s bloody, terrible eyes burned into his pounding thoughts as he lunged for escape. He stumbled into the tiny hall and slammed the door against the rising screams of the birds, adrenaline pumping through his system in hot, surging beats.
He took a deep breath, then another, and after a moment, his heart slowed down to a more normal pace. The shrieks of the crows gradually grew distant, blown away on a softly moaning wind.
Jesus, how dumb can I get? Stupid, stupid—
He’d stormed out onto the deck looking for a fight, looking to avenge the deaths of the other S.T.A.R.S.—and been shocked into stupidity by what he’d found. If he hadn’t let himself get so freaked out by Forest’s death, he would have made the connection sooner between the birds and the types of wounds—and perhaps noticed the gather-ing flesh-eaters that had watched him from the shadows, looking for their next victim. He headed for the door back to the main hall, angry with himself for going into a situation unprepared. He couldn’t afford to keep making mistakes, to let his attention wander from what was in front of him. This wasn’t some kind of a game, where he could push a reset button if he missed a trick. People were dying, his friends were dying—
• and if you don’t pull your head out of your ass and start being more careful, you ‘re going to join them—another torn and lifeless body crumpled in a cold hallway somewhere, another victim to the insanity of this house—
Chris silenced the nagging whisper, taking a deep breath as he stepped back into the high gallery of the lobby and closed the door behind him. Beating him-self up was no more useful than charging blindly around in a strange and dangerous environment, looking for revenge. He had to concentrate on what was important: the lost Alphas and Rebecca. . . .He walked toward the stairs, tucking Forest’s weap-on into his waistband. At least Rebecca would be able to defend herself—
“Chris.”
Startled, he looked down to see the young S.T.A.R.S. member at the base of the wide steps, grinning up at him.
He jogged down the stairs, glad to see her in spite of himself. “What happened? Is everything all right?” Rebecca held up a silver key as he reached her, still smiling widely. “I found something I thought you could use.”
He took the key, noting that the handle was etched with a tiny shield before slipping it inside his vest. Rebecca was beaming, her eyes flashing with excite-ment.
“After you left, I played the piano and this secret door opened up in the wall. There was this gold emblem inside, like a shield, and I switched it with the one in the dining room—and the grandfather clock moved, and that key was behind it—“ She broke off suddenly, her smile faltering as she studied his face. “I’m sorry ... I know I shouldn’t have left, but I thought I could catch you before you got too far ...”
“It’s okay,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’m just surprised to see you. Here, I found you something a little better than a can of insect repellent.” He handed her the Beretta, pulling out a couple of clips to go with it. Rebecca took the gun, staring down at it thoughtfully.
When she looked up at him again, her gaze was serious and intense. “Who was it?”
Chris thought about lying, but saw that she wasn’t going to buy it—and realized suddenly what it was about her that made him feel so protective, that made him want to shield her from the sad and sickening truth.
Claire.
That was it; Rebecca reminded him of his little sister, from her tomboy sarcasm and quick wit to the way she wore her hair.
“Listen,” she said quietly, “I know you feel respon-sible for me, and I admit that I’m pretty new at this. But I’m a member of this team, and sheltering me from the facts could get me killed. So—who was it?” Chris stared at her for a moment and then sighed. She was right. “Forest. I found him outside, he’d been pecked to death by crows. Kenneth’s dead, too.” A sudden anguish passed across her eyes, but she nodded firmly, keeping her gaze on his. “Okay. So what do we do now?”
Chris couldn’t help the slightest of smiles, trying to remember if he’d ever been so young.
He motioned up the stairs, hoping that he wasn’t about to make another mistake. “I guess we try another door. . . .”
Wesker didn’t catch much of the conversation be-tween Barry and Jill, but after a muffled, “Good luck,” from Mr. Burton, he heard a door open and close somewhere near by—and a moment later, the hollow thump of bootsteps against wood, followed by another closing door. The hall outside was clear, his team off on their mission to find the rest of the copper crests.
Looks like I picked the right room to wait in. . . . He’d used the helmet key to lock himself into a small study by the back door, the perfect place from which to monitor the team’s progress. Not only could he hear them coming and going, he’d be able to get a head start to the labs. . . .
He held the heavy wind crest up to the light of the desk lamp, grinning. It had been too easy, really. He’d happened across the plaster statue on his way back from talking to Barry, and remembered that it had a secret compartment somewhere. Rather than waste valuable time searching, he’d simply pushed the hide-ous thing off the dining room balcony. It hadn’t been hiding one of the crests, but the sparkle of the blue jewel amidst the rubble had been almost as good. There was a room just off the dining hall that held a statue of a tiger with one red eye and one blue, one of the few mechanisms that he’d remembered from an earlier visit. A quick visit to the statue had confirmed his suspicions; both eyes had been missing, and when he’d placed the gaudy blue jewel into its proper socket, the tiger had turned to one side and presented him with the crest. Just like that, he was one step closer to completing his mission.