head shots; gotta be Chris - though I had to splatter a
couple more of 'em upstairs, so I figure he holed up
somewhere along the way."
Barry nodded toward the copper diagram set into
the wall. "So, was this star crest here already?" Jill frowned, a little surprised at the abrupt change
of topic; Chris was one of Barry's closest friends.
"No. I found it in another room with a trap. This
place seems to be full of them. In fact, maybe we
should look for Wesker and Chris together - no tell-
ing what they might've stumbled into, or what else
could happen to either of us."
Barry shook his head. "I don't know. I mean,
you're right, we should watch our step, but there are
a lot of rooms, and our first priority ought to be
securing an escape. If we split up, we can try to find
the rest of these crests, and look for Chris at the same
time. And Wesker."
Though his demeanor didn't change, Jill had the
sudden distinct impression that Barry was uncom-
fortable. He had turned away to study the copper
diagram, but it almost seemed as if he was trying to
avoid eye contact.
"Besides," he said, "we know what we're up against now. As long as we use a little common sense, we'll be
fine."
"Barry, are you okay? You seem-tired." It wasn't the right word, but it was the only one that came to
Jill’s mind.
He sighed, finally looking at her. He did seem tired;
there were dark circles under his eyes, and his wide shoulders were slumped.
"No, I'm alright. Just worried about Chris, you
know."
Jill nodded, but she couldn't shake the feeling that
there was more to it than that. Since he'd pulled her
out of the trap he'd been acting unusually subdued,
even nervous.
Paranoid much? This is Barry Burton you're talking
about, the backbone of the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. - not
to mention, the man who just saved your life. What
could he possibly be hiding?
Jill knew she was probably being overly suspi-
Cious, but all the same, she decided to keep her
mouth shut about Trent's computer. After all she'd
been through, she wasn't feeling particularly trusting.
And it sounded like he already had a pretty good idea
of the mansion's layout, so it wasn't like he needed the
information.
That's it, keep rationalizing. Next thing, you'll be
suspecting Captain Wesker of planning this whole
thing.
Jill scoffed inwardly as she pushed herself away
from the wall and she and Barry walked slowly back
toward the house. Now that was paranoid.
They stopped as they reached the door, Jill taking a
few final lungfuls of the sweet air, letting it settle her
nerves. Barry had taken out his Colt Python and was
reloading the empty chambers, his expression grim.
"I thought I'd go back over to the east wing, see if I
can pick up Chris's trail," he said. "Why don't you head upstairs and start looking for the other crests?
That way we can cover all of the rooms, work our way
back to the main hall."
Jill nodded and Barry opened the door, the rusty
hinges squealing in protest. A wave of cold swept past
them and Jill sighed, trying to prepare herself to face
another maze of frigid, shadowy halls, another series
of unopened doors and the secrets that lay behind
them.
"You're gonna do fine," Barry said smoothly, plac- ing a warm hand on her shoulder and gently ushering
her back inside. As soon as the door closed behind
them he lifted his hand in a casual salute, smiling.
"Good luck," he said, and before she could re- spond, he turned and hurried away, weapon in hand.
With another creak of ancient metal, he slipped
through the double doors at the end of the hall and
was gone.
Jill stared after him, alone once again in the chilled,
stinking silence of the dim corridor. It wasn't her
imagination; Barry was keeping something from her. But was it something she needed to worry about, or
was he just trying to protect her?
Maybe he found Chris or Wesker, dead, and didn't
want to tell me.
It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it would explain
his strange, hurried behavior. He obviously wanted
them to get out of the house as soon as possible, and
wanted her to stay on the west side. And the way he'd
fixated on the puzzle mechanism, seeming more con-
cerned with their exit than with Chris's or Wesker's
whereabouts. . .
She looked down at the two crumpled figures in the
hall, at the tacky, drying pools of red that surrounded
them. Maybe she was trying too hard to find a motive
that didn't exist. Maybe, like her, Barry was scared,
and sick of feeling like death could come at any time.
Maybe I should stop thinking about it and do my
job. Whether or not we find the others, he's right about
needing to get out. We have to get back to the city, let
people know what's out here.
Jill straightened her shoulders and walked to the
door that led to the stairwell, drawing her weapon.
She'd made it this far she could make it a little
farther, try to unravel the mystery that had taken the
lives of so many or die trying, her mind whispered softly.
Forest Speyer was dead. The laughing, Southern
good ol’ boy with his ratty clothes and easy grin was
no more. That Forest was gone, leaving behind a
bloody, lifeless impostor slumped against a wall.
Chris stared down at the impostor, the distant
sounds of the night lost to a sudden gust of wind that
whipped around the eaves, moaning through the
railing of the second-story patio. It was a ghostly
sound, but Forest couldn't hear it; Forest would never
hear anything again.
Chris crouched down next to the still body, care-
fully prying Forest's Beretta from beneath cool fin-
gers. He told himself he wouldn't look, but as he
reached for Forest's belt pack, he found his gaze fixed
on the terrible emptiness where the Bravo's eyes had
once been.
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
