Barry stared at him, confused. “What do you mean? You can get to the lab now . . ” “Well, there’s been a slight change of plans. See, it turns out that I need to find something else, and I have an idea of where it might be, but there are some dangers involved . . . and you’ve done such a good job so far, I want you to come along—“ Wesker’s smile transformed into a shark-like grin, a cold, pitiless reminder of what was at stake. “—in fact, I’m afraid that I’m going to have to insist on it.”
After a long, terrible moment, Barry nodded help-lessly.
My dearest Alma,
I sit here trying to think of where to begin, of how to explain in a few simple words all that’s happened in my life since we last spoke, and already I fail. I hope this letter finds you well and whole, and that you will forgive the tangents of my pen; this isn’t easy for me. Even as I write, I can feel the simplest of concepts slipping away, lost to feelings of despair and confusion—but I have to tell you what’s in my heart before I can rest. Be patient, and accept that what I tell you is the truth.
The entire story would take hours for me to tell you, and time is short, so accept these things as fact: last month there was an accident in the lab and the virus we were studying escaped. All my colleagues who were infected are dead or dying, and the nature of the disease is such that those still THlRfEEn living have lost their senses. This virus robs its victims of their humanity, forcing them in their sickness to seek out and destroy life. Even as I write these words, I can hear them, pressing against my locked door like mindless, hungry animals, crying out like lost souls. There aren’t words true enough, deep enough to describe the sorrow and shame that I feel knowing that I had a hand in their creation. I believe that they feel nothing now, no fear or pain—but that they can’t experience the horror of what they’ve become doesn’t free me of my terrible burden. I am, in part, responsible for this nightmare that surrounds me.
In spite of the guilt that is burned into my very being, that will haunt my every breath, I might have tried to survive, if only to see you again. But my best efforts only delayed the inevitable; I am infected, and there is no cure for what will follow—except to end my life before I lose the only thing that separates me from them. My love for you. Please understand. Please know that I’m sorry.
Martin Crackhorn
Jill sighed, laying the crumpled paper gently on the desk. The creatures were victims of their own re-search. It seemed she’d had the right idea about what had happened in the mansion, though reading the heartfelt letter put a serious damper on any pride she might have taken from her deduction skills.
After placing the sun crest, she’d decided that the upstairs office merited a closer look—and with a little digging, she’d found the final scrawled testament of Crack-horn, tucked in a drawer.
Crackhorn, Martin Crackhorn—that was one of the names on Trent’s list. . . .
Jill frowned, walking slowly back to the office door. For some reason, Trent wanted the S.T.A.R.S. to figure out what had happened at the mansion before anyone else did—but with as much as he obviously knew about it, why not just tell them outright? And what did he stand to gain by telling them anything at all?
She stepped through the office’s small foyer and back out into the hall, still frowning. Barry had been acting strange before, and she needed to find out why. Maybe she could get a straight answer if she just asked him outright. . . .
Or maybe not. Either way, it’ll tell me something. Jill stopped by the back stairs, taking a deep breath—and realized that something was different. She looked around uncertainly, trying to figure out what it was her senses were telling her. It’s warmer. Just a little, but it’s definitely warmer.
And the air isn’t quite as stale. . . . Like someone had opened a window. Or maybe a door.
Jill turned and jogged down the stairs, suddenly anxious to check the puzzle lock. Reaching the bot-tom of the steps, she saw that the door connecting one hall to the next was standing open. She could hear crickets singing faintly, feel the fresh night air wafting toward her through the frigid mustiness of the house. She hurried to the darker corridor and hooked a right, trying not to get her hopes up. Another sharp right and she could see the door that led to the covered walkway standing open.
Maybe that’s all it is, it doesn’t mean the puzzle’s solved. . . .
Jill broke into a run, feeling the clean warmth of summer air against her skin as she rounded the corner in the stone path—
• and let out a short, triumphant laugh as she saw the four placed crests next to the open door. A warm breeze was flowing through the room that the puzzle had unlocked, a small storage shed for gardening tools. The metal door on the wall opposite was standing open, and Jill could see moonlight playing across a brick wall just past the rusted hinges. Barry had been right, the door led outside. They’d be able to get help now, find a safe route through the woods or at least signal—
But if Barry found the missing pieces, why didn’t he come looking for me?
Jill’s grin faded as she stepped into the shed, absently taking in the dusty boxes and barrels that lined the gray stone walls. Barry had known where she was, had suggested himself that she take the second floor of the west wing. . . .
So maybe it wasn ‘t Barry who opened the door. True, it could’ve been Chris or Wesker or one of the Bravos. If that was the case, she should probably go back in and look for Barry.
Or investigate a little first, make sure it’s worth the effort.
It was a bit of a rationalization, but she had to admit to herself that the thought of returning to the mansion with a possible escape in front of her wasn’t all that enticing. She unholstered her Beretta and walked toward the outer door, her decision made. The first thing she noticed was the sound of rushing water over the soft forest noises that filled the cooling air, like a waterfall. The second and third were the bodies of the two dogs that lay across the irregular stone path, shot to death.
Pretty safe bet that one of the S.T.A.R.S. came this way. . . .
Jill edged out into a high-walled courtyard, low hedges set into brick planters on either side. Dark clouds hung oppressively low overhead. Across the open space was a barred iron gate just past an island of shrubs; to her left, a straight path overshadowed by the ten-foot-high brick walls that bordered it. The gentle waterfall sound seemed to come from that direction, though the path ended abruptly in a metal gate a few feet high.
Stairs going down maybe?
Jill hesitated, looked back at the arched, rusty gate in front of her and then at the curled bodies of the mutant dogs. They were both closer to the gate than the walkway, and assuming they’d been killed while attacking, the shooter would have been headed in that direction—
There was a sudden sound of water splashing wildly, making the decision for her. Jill turned and ran down the moonlit walk, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever was making the noise.
She reached the end of the stone path and leaned over the gate—then drew back a little, surprised by the sudden drop off. There were no stairs, the gate opened to a tiny platform elevator and a huge, open courtyard, twenty feet below.
The splashing was off to the right, and Jill looked down and across the wide yard just in time to see a
shadowy figure walk through the waterfall she’d heard, disappearing behind the curtain of water that cascaded down the west wall.
What the hell—
She stared at the small waterfall, blinking, not sure if her eyes were playing tricks on her. The splashing had stopped as soon as the person disappeared, and she was fairly certain that she wasn’t hearing things—which meant that the rushing water concealed a secret passage.