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 . . ."
"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.
He moved down the wide hall, listening for any
sound and taking frequent deep breaths through his
nose. The goo on his vest and hands made it hard to
tell if there were any more of them around, the smell
was all over him, but it could be his only chance to
avoid another close encounter.
The hall turned to the left and he took the corner
fast, sweeping the Beretta across the wide wooden
expanse. There was a support pillar partially blocking his view but he could see the back of a man just past
it, the slumped shoulders and stained clothes of one
of the creatures.
Chris quickly edged to the right, trying to get a clear
shot. The zombie was maybe forty feet away, and he
didn't want to waste his last rounds. At the sound of
his boots against the hard wood floor, it turned,
shuffling slowly. So slowly that Chris hesitated,
watching the way it moved.
This one seemed to have been dipped in a thin layer
of slime, dull light reflecting off of its glistening skin
as it stumbled almost blindly toward Chris. It slowly
raised its arms, its pale, hairless skull wobbling on its
