She took a final deep breath of the pleasant night air
before going back into the mansion, pulling Trent's
computer from her pack as she went. Stepping care-
fully over the crumpled corpse in the dim hall, she
studied the map, deciding where to try next.
Back the way she'd come, it looked like. She went
back through the double doors that connected the
corridors, into the winding, mild, gray-green hall with
the landscape paintings. According to the map, the
single door just across from her led to a small, square-
shaped room which opened into a larger one.
Tensing, she grabbed the knob and pushed it open,
crouching and pointing her Beretta at the same time.
The small room was indeed square-shaped, and to-
tally empty.
Straightening, Jill stepped into the chamber, briefly
appraising its simple elegance as she walked toward
the door on her right. It had a high, light ceiling and
the walls were creamy marble flecked with gold;
beautiful. And expensive, to say the least. She felt a
vague wistfulness for the old days with Dick, all their
grand plans and hopes for each score. This was what
real money could buy.
She readied herself, grasping the cold, flowing met-
al of the latch and pushing the door open. A quick
sweep with the Beretta and she felt herself relax; she
was alone.
There was a molded fireplace to her right beneath
an ornate, red and gold tapestry. A low, modern
couch and oval coffee table sat atop a burnt orange
carpet of oriental design, and against the back wall -
- a pump-action shotgun was mounted on dual
hooks, shining in the light from the antique light
fixture overhead. Jill grinned and hurried across the
room, unable to believe her luck.
Please be loaded, please be loaded.
As she stopped in front of it, she recognized the
make. Guns weren't her strong suit, but it was the
same as the S.T.A.R.S. used: a Remington M870, five shots.
She bolstered the Beretta and lifted the shotgun
with both hands, still grinning -
- and the smile dropped away as both mounting
hooks clicked upward, released from the weight of the
gun. At the same time, there was a heavier sound
behind the wall, a sound like balanced metal changing
position.
Jill didn't know what it was, but she didn't like it.
She turned around quickly, searching the room for
movement. It was as still as when she'd entered, no
screaming birds, no sudden alarms or flashing lights,
none of the pictures fell off the wall. There was no
trap.
Relieved, she quickly checked the weapon and
found it fully loaded. Someone had taken care of it,
the barrel clean and smelling faintly of cleaner and
oil; right now, it was about the best smell she could
imagine. The solid weight of it in her hands was
reassuring, the weight of power.
She searched the rest of the room and was disap-
pointed not to find any more shells. Still, the Reming-
ton was a find. S.T.A.R.S. vests had a back holster for
a shotgun or rifle, and although she wasn't that hot
with an over-the-shoulder draw, at least she could
carry it without tying up her hands.
There was nothing else of interest in the room. Jill
walked to the door, excited to get back to the main
hall and share her discoveries with Barry. She'd
checked out every room that she could open on this
side of the first floor. If he'd managed the same, they
could head upstairs to finish their search for the
Bravos and their missing teammates.
And then, hopefully, get the hell out of this morgue.
She closed the door behind her and strode across
the slate-colored tiles of the classy marble room,
hoping, as she grasped the knob, that Barry had found
Chris and Wesker. They sure didn't come this way. The door was locked. Jill frowned, turning the
small gold knob back and forth. It rattled a little, but
wouldn't give at all. She peered at the crack where the
door met the frame, suddenly a little anxious.
There it was, by the handle-the thick sliver of
steel that indicated a dead-bolt, and a very solid one;
the entire area surrounding it was reinforced. But only
one keyhole, and that's for the knob...
Click! Click! Click!
Dust rained down from above as the sound of gears
turning filled the room, a deep, rhythmic clatter of
metal from somewhere behind the stone walls.
What?
Startled, Jill looked up-and felt her stomach
shrivel in on itself, her breath catching in her throat.
The high ceiling that she'd admired earlier was mov-
ing, the marble at the corners powdering into dust
with the heavy grind of stone against stone. It was
coming down.
In a flash she was back at the door to the shotgun
room. She snatched at the handle, pushing it
down . . .
. . . and found it locked as solidly as the first.
Holy shit! Bad thing! Bad thing!
Panic rising through her system, Jill ran back to the
other door, her frightened gaze drawn back to the
lowering ceiling. At two to three inches each second,
it'd hit the floor in less than a minute.
Jill raised the shotgun and aimed at the door to the
hall, trying not to think about how many shots it
would take to blow apart a reinforced steel dead-bolt;
it was all she had, the picks wouldn't work on that
kind of lock.
The first round exploded against the door and
splinters flew, revealing exactly what she'd feared.
The metal plate that supported the bolt extended
across half the door. Her mind raced for an answer
and came up blank. She didn't have the shells to blow
through it and the Beretta carried hollow points, they
flattened on impact.
Maybe I can weaken it, break it down.
She fired again, targeting the frame itself. The
thunderous shot tore apart wood and chipped marble,
but not enough, not even close. The ceiling continued
its clattering descent, now less than ten feet above her
head. She was going to be crushed to death.
God, don't let me die like this.
"Jill? Is that you?"
A muffled voice called from the corridor, and she
felt a sudden, desperate hope course through her at
the sound.
Barry!
"Help! Barry, break it down, now!" Jill shouted, her voice high and shaking.
"Get back!"
Jill stumbled away as she heard a heavy blow strike
the door. The wood shuddered but held. Jill let out a
low cry of helpless frustration, her terrified gaze
jumping between the door and the ceiling.
Another solid, shaking hit to the door. Five feet
overhead.
Come on, come ON.
The third pounding blow was joined by the crunch and splinter of wood. The door flew open, Barry
framed in the entry, his face red and sweating, his
hand reaching for hers.
Jill lunged forward and he grabbed her wrist, liter-
ally jerking her off of her feet and into the corridor.
They crashed to the floor as behind them, the door
was crushed off its hinges. Wood and metal squealed
as the ceiling continued smoothly down, the door
snapping in a series of harsh cracks.
With a final, resonating boom of impact, the ceiling
met the floor. It was over, the house again as silent as
a tomb. They staggered to their feet, Jill staring at the
doorway. The entire frame was filled with the solid
block of stone that had been the ceiling, at least a
couple of tons of rock.
"Are you alright?" Barry asked.
Jill didn't answer for a moment. She looked down
at the shotgun she still held in her trembling hands,
remembering how confident she'd been that there'd
been no trap and for the first time, she wondered
how they were ever going to make it out of this hellish
place.
They stood in the empty front hall, Chris pacing the
carpet in front of the stairs, Rebecca standing ner-
vously by the banister. The massive lobby was as cold
and ominous as when Chris had first seen it, the mute
walls giving away none of their secrets; the S.T.A.R.S.
were gone, and there were no clues as to where or why.
From somewhere deep in the mansion, there was a
heavy rumbling sound, like a giant door being
