The second shot punctured its right eye and it imme-
diately collapsed to the dark, polished wood of the
floor, the sticky, viscous matter of the blown eyeball
flecked across its skeletal face.
Jill waited, but other than the spreading pools of
blood around the dead creatures, nothing moved.
Breathing through her mouth to avoid the worst of the
stench, she hurried to the back of the hall and turned
right, down a short, tight passage that dead ended at a
rusting metal door.
It creaked open and fresh air flooded past her,
warm and clean after the morgue-like chill of the
house. Jill grinned, hearing the drone of cicadas and
crickets on the night air. She'd reached the final leg of
her little excursion, and although she wasn't outside
yet, the sounds and smells of the forest renewed her
sense of accomplishment.
Got a secured path now, straight to the back of this
place. We can head north, hit one of the logging roads
and hike down to the barricade. . .
She stepped out onto a covered walkway, a mosaic
of green stone surrounded by high concrete walls.
There were small intermittent openings near the
ceiling of the pathway, accounting for the faint, pine-
scented breeze. Ivy trickled down from the arched
openings like a reminder of the outside world. She
hurried down the dim passage, remembering from the
map that there was a single room at the end and to the
right, probably a storage shed.
She turned the corner and stopped at another
heavy-looking metal door, her smile fading as she
reflexively reached for the handle; the keyhole was
plugged. She crouched and poked at the tiny hole, but
to no avail. Someone had stopped it up with epoxy.
To the left of the door was some kind of diagram set
into the concrete, made of dull copper. There were
four hexagonal depressions in the flat metal plate,
each fist-sized hole connected to the next by a thin
line. Jill squinted at the legend etched beneath, wish-
ing that she had a flashlight as she struggled to make
out the words. She brushed a thin layer of dust off of
the indented letters and tried again.
WHEN THE SUN ... SETS IN THE WEST AND THE
MOON RISES IN THE EAST, STARS WILL BEGIN TO
APPEAR IN THE SKY ... AND WIND WILL BLOW TOWARD THE GROUND. THEN THE GATE OF NEW LIFE WILL OPEN. She blinked. Four holes - Trent's list!
Four crests, and something about the gate of new life –
- it's a combination mechanism for the
lock. Place the four crests, the door opens . . .
. . . except that means I have to find them first.
Jill pushed against the door and felt her hope fizzle
out completely; not even a rattle, no give at all. They
were going to have to find another way out, unless the
crests could be found - which in this place could take
years.
A lone howl rose in the distance and was joined by
the echoing cries of the dogs near the mansion, the
strange, yodeling sounds piercing the gentle quiet of
the woods. There had to be dozens of them out there,
and Jill realized suddenly that escaping out the back
door probably wasn't such a hot idea. She had limited
ammunition for her handgun and no doubts that
there were more ghoulish creatures wandering the
halls, shuffling about in hungry, mindless silence as
they searched for their next grisly meal. . . .
She sighed heavily and started back to the house,
already dreading the cold stench of death and trying
to prepare herself for the dangers that seemed to lurk
at every corner.
The S.T.A.R.S. were trapped.
Chris knew he had to make the ammo count, so
when he left Rebecca, he took off through the dim
corridor at a full run, his boots pounding at the wood
floor.
There were still only three of them, all grouped near
the stairs. He dodged past them easily and sprinted
down the hall and around the corner. As soon as he
got to the door that led back to the other hall, he
turned and assumed a classic shooter's stance, sup-
porting his gun hand at the wrist, his finger on the
trigger.
One by one, the zombies reeled around the corner,
groaning and stumbling. Chris took careful aim,
breathing evenly, keeping his focus. . . .
He squeezed the trigger, sending two bullets
through the gangrenous nose of the first. Without
pausing, he sent a third shot into the center of the next
zombie's forehead. Fluid and soft matter sprayed the
wall behind them as the bullets slapped into the
wood.
Even as they crumpled to the floor, he'd found his
mark on the third creature. Two more muted explo-
sions and the zombie's brow caved inward, dropping
it like the bag of bones that it was.
Chris lowered the Beretta, feeling a flush of pride.
He was a high-ranked marksman, even had a couple
of awards to show for it, but it was still good to see
what he could do when given enough time to aim. His
quick-draw wasn't nearly as strong, that was Barry's
forte.
He reached for the door handle, urged into action
by the thought of all that was at stake. He figured the
Alphas could take care of themselves, they had as
much of a chance as he did, but this was Rebecca's
first operation and she didn't even have a gun; he
needed to get her out.
He stepped back into the soft light of the hall with
the green wallpaper, quickly checking both direc-
tions. Straight ahead, the corridor was in heavier
shadow; no way to tell if it was clear.
To his right was the door with the sword on the key
plate and the first zombie he'd shot, still sprawled
lifelessly across the floor. Chris was gratified to see
that it hadn't moved. Apparently head shots were the
best way to kill a zombie, just like in the movies. . .
Chris edged toward the sword door, training his
weapon left, then right, then left again; he'd had
enough surprises for one day. He checked the small
offshoot across from the door and seeing that it was
clear, quickly inserted the slender key into the lock.
It turned smoothly. Chris stepped into a small
bedroom, only slightly better lit than the corridor, a
single bright lamp on a desk in one corner. It was all
clear, unless there was something hiding under the
narrow cot ... or maybe in the closet across from the
desk.
He shuddered, closing the door behind him. It was
every kid's first set of fears, and had been his, too.
Monsters in the closet and the thing that lived under
the bed, waiting for the careless child's ankle to come
within reach.
And how old arw you now?
Chris shook off the case of nerves, embarrassed at
his imaginative wanderings. He walked slowly around
the room, looking for anything that might be helpful.
There was no other door, no path back to the main
hall, but maybe he could find a better weapon for
Rebecca than a can of bug spray.
Besides an oak table and bookshelf, there was the
small, unmade bed and a study desk in the room,
nothing more. He quickly rifled through the books,
then moved around the foot of the bed to the desk.
There was a slim volume next to the desk lamp, the
fabric cover untitled; a journal. And although the
desktop was coated in dust, the diary had been moved
recently.
Intrigued, Chris picked it up and flipped to the last
few pages. Maybe there was a clue as to what the hell
was going on. He sat on the edge of the cot and started
to read.
May 9, 1998: Played poker tonight with Scott and Alias from Security, and Steve from Research. Steve was the
big winner, but I think he was cheating. Scumbag.
Chris smiled a little at that. He skipped down to the
next entry and his smile froze, his heart seeming to
pause in mid-beat.
May 10,1998: One of the higher-ups assigned me to take care of a new experiment. It looks like a skinned gorilla.
Feeding instructions were to give it live animals. When I
threw in a pig, the creature seemed to be playing with it
tearing off the pig's legs and pulling out the guts before it
actually started eating.
Experiment? Could the writer be talking about the
zombies? Chris read on, excited by the find. The diary obviously belonged to someone who worked here, had
to be meaning that the cover-up was even bigger
than he'd suspected.
May 11, 1998: At around 5 A.M., Scott woke me up. Scared the shit out of me, too. He was wearing a protective
garment that looked like a space suit. He handed me
0 Comments