REBECCA CHAMBERS RODE HER MOUNTAIN
bike through the dark, winding streets of the Cider
district, the late summer moon swelling in the warm,
clear night sky overhead. Although it was relatively
early, the suburban streets were deserted, the citywide curfew still in effect; no one under eighteen was
supposed to be out after dusk until the murderers
were caught and put safely behind bars. It had been a
tense and quiet summer in Raccoon City, at least on
the surface.
She glided past silent houses, the faint glow of
television sets spilling out across well-kept lawns, the
distant drone of crickets and an occasional barking
dog the only sounds in the air that whipped past her.
The uneasy citizens of Raccoon dwelled behind those
locked doors, waiting for the announcement that the
killers had been apprehended and that their city was
safe.
If they only knew...,
For just a moment, Rebecca envied them their
ignorance. She'd come to the rather disheartening
conclusion in the last couple of weeks that knowing
the truth wasn't all it was cracked up to be—particu-
larly when no one believed it.
It had been a long, merciless thirteen days since the
nightmare at the Spencer estate. The surviving
S.T.A.R.S. had escaped treachery and death just to
run up against a massive brick wall of scornful
disbelief when they'd tried to tell their tale. Jill, Chris,
Barry, and herself had been labeled drug addicts and
worse in the local papers, undoubtedly at Umbrella's
urging—and after their suspension, even the RPD
had refused to believe them. Now, with Umbrella
taking over the investigation of the fire, undoubtedly
getting rid of the last of the evidence ... it was as if
everywhere the S.T.A.R.S. turned, Umbrella had been
there first, greasing palms and covering tracks, mak-
ing it impossible to get anyone to listen to their story.
Not that it would have been that simple anyway. One
of the biggest, most respectable med research and
pharmaceutical companies in the world—not to men-
tion the primary source of income in Raccoon—con-
ducting bio-weapons research in a secret lab, creating
experimental monsters— If I didn't know better, I’d probably think I was crazy, too.
At least the absolute worst was over. With the lab
destroyed, the attacks on Raccoon had stopped—and
though the people responsible hadn't been held ac-
countable yet, she figured it was only a matter of time.
Umbrella was experimenting with dangerous stuff,
and wouldn't be able to hide it from a S.T.A.R.S.
investigation. She and the others just had to watch
their backs until the home office sent backup.
Speaking of—ouch ...
The pancake holster was poking into her ribcage.
Rebecca adjusted it through the thin cotton of her shirt, hoping that after tonight she wouldn't have to
carry the weapon anymore—a snub-nosed .38 revolv-
er from Barry's collection. She couldn't speak for the
others, but she hadn't had a decent night's sleep since
they'd escaped the Spencer estate, and walking
around armed all of the time wasn't her idea of safe.
Sighing inwardly, she took a left on Foster and
pedaled through the shadows toward Barry's house,
reminding herself that he'd probably called the meet-
ing because he'd heard from the home office with
orders. He would only say that there had been a
"development" and to show up ASAP—and though
she was trying not to let her imagination run away
with her, she couldn't help the steady pulse of excite-
ment that had knotted her stomach since he'd called.
Maybe they'll fly its to New York to brief the investi-
gation team, or even to Europe for when they storm
Umbrella's headquarters...
Wherever they were sent, it had to be better than
staying in Raccoon. The strain of looking over their
shoulders had been getting to all of them. Chris
seemed to think that Umbrella was waiting until the
public eye was off the S.T.A.R.S. before making their
move, though it was only a theory—and not exactly
the most reassuring thought to fall asleep by. Chicken-
heart Vickers had skipped out of town after only two
days, unable to take the pressure—and although Jill,
Chris, and Barry had condemned Brad's cowardice,
Rebecca was starting to wonder if maybe the Alpha
pilot didn't have the right idea. It wasn't that she
wanted Umbrella to walk, there was no question that
their experiments were morally reprehensible and
certainly illegal—but until the S.T.A.R.S. sent help,
staying in Raccoon City was dangerous.
Not after tonight; just a little bit longer, and this will
all be over. No more guns, no more locked doors—no
more worrying about what Umbrella will do to us for
knowing the truth.
When they'd first made the report, their superiors
in New York had told them to stay put. Assistant
Director Kurtz himself had promised to do some
investigating and get back to them—but it had been
eleven days, and still no word. She had no intention of
running away as Brad had done, but she'd come to
hate the feeling of that holster, the weight of the
deadly steel against her side every waking moment of
every day. She was supposed to be a chemist, for
chrissake...
And once the reinforcements come, maybe they'll
move me to one of the labs, let me study the virus.
Technically I'm still a Bravo; there's no way they'd want me on the front lines...
There was no question that it would be the best use
of her talents. The others were experienced soldiers,
but Rebecca had only been with the S.T.A.R.S. for
five weeks. Her first mission had been the one to
Raccoon Forest that had wiped out over half the team
and clued the rest of them in to Umbrella's secret.
Since then, she'd spent a lot of time brushing up on
the molecular architecture of viruses, trying to deter-
mine the T-Virus replication strategy. The S.T.A.R.S.
didn't need field medics right now, they needed
scientists ... and if she'd learned anything from the
Spencer estate disaster, it was that she belonged in a
lab. She'd held her own that night, but she also knew
that working with the T-Virus was the greatest contri-
bution she could make toward stopping Umbrella.
And you may as well face it, her mind whispered,
you're fascinated by it. The chance to study an unclas-
sified emerging mutagen, to find out what makes it
tick—that's what makes you tick.
Yeah, well, there was no shame in enjoying her
work. She'd joined the S.T.A.R.S. in hopes of just
such an opportunity—and with any luck, after to-
night's meeting she would be packing a bag and
getting the hell out of Raccoon City, heading into a
new phase of her life as a S.T.A.R.S. biochemist.
She pulled to a stop at the end of the block in front
of a huge, two-story remodeled Victorian painted a
pale yellow, checking all around for anything suspi-
cious before getting off her bike. The Burtons lived
next to a sprawling suburban park, heavy with trees.
Even a few weeks ago, she might have wandered
through the silent park, enjoying the balmy summer
night, looking at the stars; now it was just one more
dark place for someone to hide. Shivering slightly in
spite of the warm, humid air, she hurried up the front
walk.
Dragging her bike onto the porch, she wiped sweat
from the back of her neck and checked her watch.
She'd made excellent time, only twenty minutes since
Barry's call. Rebecca leaned the bicycle against the
railing, praying that he had good news.
Before she could knock, Barry opened the door,
dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, his heavily muscled
body filling the door's frame. Barry lifted weights.
With a vengeance.
He smiled and stood back to let her inside, taking a
quick look out at the quiet street before following her
into the front hall. His Colt Python was tucked into a
hip holster, making him look like an overgrown
cowboy.
"You saw anybody?" he asked lightly.
She shook her head. "No. I took back streets, too." Barry nodded, and though he was still smiling a
little, she could see the haunted look in his eyes, the
look he'd had ever since their narrow escape. She
wished she could tell him that nobody blamed him,
but knew it wouldn't make a difference; Barry still
held himself responsible for a lot of what had hap-
pened at the estate that night. He looked as though he
was losing weight, too, though she figured that had
more to do with him missing his wife and kids; he'd
sent them out of town immediately following the
incident, terrified for their safety.
Just one more way that Umbrella has damaged our
lives...
He led her through the spacious hallway past the
stairs, the walls decorated with framed drawings in
crayon that his daughters had made. The Burton
house was rambling and spacious, filled with the
scuffed and well-worn furnishings that epitomized
family.
"Chris and Jill should be here any time. You want
some coffee?"
He seemed tense, scruffing nervously at his short
red beard.
"No, thanks. Maybe some water."
"Yeah, sure. Go ahead and introduce yourself, I'll
be back in a minute." He hurried off to the kitchen before she could ask him if anything was wrong.
Introduce myself? What's going on?
She walked through the hall's arched opening into
the cluttered, comfortable living room and stopped, a
little startled to see a strange man sitting in one of the
recliners. He stood up as she entered the room,
smiling—but she could see by the way his dark gaze
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