ONE
SEPTEMBER 26, 1998
WITH THE GUYS WAITING OUTSIDE IN BAR-
ry's truck, Jill did her best to hurry. It wasn't easy; the
house had been tossed since the last time she'd been
there, the floors were strewn with books and papers,
and it was too dark to navigate around the debris
easily. That her small home had been violated was
upsetting, though not much of a surprise. She figured
she should just be thankful that she wasn't really the
sentimental type - and that the intruders hadn't
managed to find her passport.
She grabbed random handfuls of clean socks and
underwear in the cramped darkness of the bedroom
and stuffed them deep into her weathered backpack,
wishing she could turn on the lights. Packing a bag in
the dark was harder than it sounded, would be even if
one's house hadn't been trashed; but she knew they
couldn't afford to take any chances. It was unlikely
that Umbrella still had all of their houses staked out,
but if there was anyone watching, a light in the
window could draw fire.
At least you're getting out. No more hiding.
There was that much. They were headed for foreign
soil, to storm enemy headquarters and very likely get
killed in the process, but at least she wouldn't have to
hang out in Raccoon anymore. And from what she'd
read in the papers lately, maybe that was for the best.
Two attacks in the last week ... Chris and Barry were
skeptical about the danger, even knowing what the
T-Virus did to people - Barry thought it was some kind
of a PR stunt, that Umbrella would "rescue" Raccoon
before anyone got hurt. Chris agreed, insisting that
Umbrella wouldn't crap in their own back yard, so to
speak, what with the Spencer estate disaster so recent.
But Jill wasn't prepared to assume anything; Umbrel-
la had already proven that they couldn't contain their
research. And with what Rebecca and David Trapp's
team had faced in Maine ...
Now wasn't the time to think about that - they had
a plane to catch. Jill scooped the flashlight off the
dresser and was about to head for the living room when she remembered that she only had one bra with
her. Scowling, she turned back to the open drawers
and started to dig. She had enough clothing already,
chosen from what Brad had left behind when he'd fled
Raccoon; she and the guys had been holed up in his
vacant house for several weeks, ever since Umbrella
had hit Barry's house, and although none of Brad's
stuff fit Chris's tall frame or Barry's massive one,
she'd been able to make do. Lingerie, however, wasn't
something the S.T.A.R.S. pilot had stocked up on.
She didn't particularly want to hop off the plane in
Austria and have to go bra shopping.
"Vanity, thy name is underwire," she muttered softly, pawing through the rumpled heap. She found
the elusive article only after she'd gone through the
drawer twice, and crammed it into the bag as she
jogged toward the small front room of the rented
house. It was only the second time she'd been there
since they'd gone into hiding; she had the feeling she
might not be coming back for a while. There was a
picture of her father on one of the bookshelves that
she wanted to take.
Stepping nimbly through the dark clutter, she
hooded the flashlight with one hand and trained the
narrow beam at the corner where the shelf had been.
The Umbrella team had knocked the whole thing over
but apparently hadn't bothered to go through the
books themselves. God only knew what they'd been
looking for in the first place. Clues as to where the
renegade S.T.A.R.S. were hiding, probably; after the
attack at Barry's house and the disastrous mission at
Caliban Cove, she no longer had any illusions about
Umbrella simply ignoring them.
Jill spotted the book she wanted, a rather lurid-
looking paperback entitled Prison Life; her father
would have laughed. She picked it up and rifled
through the pages, stopping when the light fell across
Dick Valentine's crooked grin. He'd sent the picture
along with one of his more recent letters, and she'd
tucked it into the book so that she wouldn't lose it.
Hiding important things was a habit she'd gotten into
young, one that had just paid off yet again.
She let the book drop, the need to hurry suddenly
forgotten as she gazed down at the photo. A faint
smile played across her lips. He was probably the only
man she knew of who looked good in the bright
orange jumpsuit of a maximum security pen. For just
a moment, she wondered what he'd think of her
current predicament; in a roundabout way, he was
responsible, at least for her getting involved with the
S.T.A.R.S. in the first place. After he'd been sent up, he'd urged her to get out of the business, even saying
that he'd been wrong to train her as a thief. . .
. . . so I take a legit job, actually working for society
instead of against it and people in Raccoon start
dying. The S.T.A.R.S. uncover a conspiracy to create
bioweapons with a virus that turns living things into
monsters. Obviously nobody believes us, the S. T.A.R.S.
that can't be bought by Umbrella are either discredited
or eliminated. So we go underground, try to dig up
proof and come up empty-handed as Umbrella contin-
ues to screw around with their dangerous research and
more good people are killed. Now we're off on what will
probably be a suicide mission to Europe to see if we can
infiltrate the headquarters of a multibillion-dollar cor-
poration and stop them from destroying the goddamn
planet. What would you think, I wonder? Assuming
you'd even believe such a fantastic tale, what would
you think?
"You'd be proud of me, Dick," she whispered,
scarcely aware that she'd spoken aloud and not at
all sure if it was the truth. Her father wanted to see
her in a less perilous line of work, and compared to
what she and the other ex-S.T.A.R.S. were currently
up against, burglary was about as dangerous as ac-
counting.
After a long moment, she carefully placed the photo
into a pocket of the backpack and looked around at
the broken remnants of her small home, still thinking
about her father and what he'd say about the strange
path her life had taken; if things went well, maybe
she'd be able to ask him in person. Rebecca Chambers
and the other survivors of the Maine mission were
still in hiding, quietly networking through the
S.T.A.R.S. organization for support and waiting to
hear what she and Chris and Barry could tell them
about Umbrella's headquarters. The official HQ was
in Austria, although they all suspected that the minds
behind the T-Virus had their own secret complex
elsewhere - which you won't find out if you don't get your ass
in gear; the guys are gonna think you stopped to take a
nap.
Jill shouldered the bag and took a final look around
the room before moving toward the back door,
through the kitchen. There was a lingering scent of
rotten fruit in the dark air, coming from a bowl of
apples and pears on top of the refrigerator that had
long since disintegrated into mush. Even though she
knew better, the smell caused a chill to run up her
spine; she hurried for the closed door, trying to block
out the sudden vivid flashes of memory of what
they'd found at the Spencer estate ...
... rotting as they walked, reaching out with wet
and withered fingers, faces melting with pus and de-
cay -
"Jill?"
She barely contained a cry of surprise at the sound
of Chris's soft voice just outside. The door opened,
Chris silhouetted against the darkness by a distant
streetlight.
"Yeah, right here," she said, stepping forward. "Sorry it took me so long. Umbrella's been through
here with a bulldozer."
Even in the bare light she could see the half grin on
his boyish face. "We were starting to think the zom- bies got ya," he said, and although his tone was light, she could hear real concern beneath it.
Jill knew that he was trying to ease the tension but
couldn't find it in herself to smile back. Too many
people had died because of what Umbrella had un-
leashed in the woods outside of town; if the spill had
happened closer to Raccoon ...
"Not funny," she said softly.
Chris's grin faded. "I know. You ready?"
Jill nodded, although she didn't feel particularly
ready for what lay ahead. Then again, she hadn't felt
ready for what they were leaving behind, either. In a
matter of weeks, her concept of reality had undergone
a massive shift, turning nightmares into the common-
place.
Evil corporations, mad scientists, killer viruses. And
the walking dead ...
"Yeah," she said finally. "I'm ready."
Together, they stepped outside. As Jill closed the
door behind them, she was suddenly struck by a
strange and ominous certainty that she would never
set foot in the house again, that the three of them
wouldn't be coming back to Raccoon City at all ...
... but not because anything happens to us. Some-
thing will happen, but not to us.
Frowning, hand on the doorknob, she hesitated for
a moment and tried to make sense of the bizarre
thought. If they survived the recon, if they were
successful in their fight against Umbrella, why
wouldn't they come back to their homes? She didn't
know, but the feeling was uncomfortably strong.
Something bad was going to happen, something. . .
"Hey, you okay?"
Jill looked up at Chris, saw the same concern on his
youthful face that she'd noticed earlier. They'd gotten
pretty close in the last few weeks, although she
suspected that Chris might like to get a bit closer.
Oh, and you don't?
The sense of impending unpleasantness was already
fading, other confusions and uncertainties stepping in
to take its place. Jill shook herself mentally and
nodded at Chris, letting the feelings go. The flight to
New York wasn't going to wait for her to indulge in
self-analysis ... or to worry about things that she
couldn't control, imagined or otherwise.
Still, that feeling . . .
"Let's get the hell out of here," she said, and
meant it.
They moved out into the night, leaving the house
dark behind them, as lonely and silent as a tomb.
TWO
OCTOBER.3, 1998
TWILIGHT HAD SETTLED ACROSS THE MOUN-
tains, painting the jagged horizon in shades of purple
dusk. The winding blacktop snaked through the gath-
ering darkness, surrounded by shadowed hills that
towered into the cloudless sky, stretching toward the
first faint glimmerings of starlight.
Leon might have appreciated the majestic view a
bit more if he wasn't so goddamn late. He'd make it to
his shift on time, sure, but he'd been hoping to get
settled into the new apartment first, take a shower, get
something to eat; as it was, he might have time to hit a
drive-through on his way to the station. Changing into
his uniform back at the last rest stop had saved him a
couple of minutes, but basically he was screwed.
Way to go, Officer Kennedy. First day on the job and
you'll be picking cheeseburger out of your teeth during
roll call. Very professional.
His shift started at nine and it was already just after
eight; Leon let his boot ride a little heavier on the gas,
even as his Jeep whipped past a sign that told him he
was half an hour away from Raccoon City. At least the
road was clear; except for a couple of semis, he hadn't
seen anyone for what felt like hours. A nice change,
considering the traffic tie-up just outside of New York
that had cost him most of the afternoon. He'd actu-
ally tried to call the night before to leave a message
with the desk sergeant that he might be late, but
there'd been something wrong with the connection.
Nothing but a busy signal.
What little furniture he had was already moved into
a studio apartment in the working-class but basically
decent Trask district of Raccoon City, there was a
nice park not two blocks away, and it was only a five-
minute drive to the station. No more gridlock, no more overcrowded slums or random acts of brutality.
Assuming he could survive the embarrassment of
showing up to his first shift as a full-blown officer of
the law without having unpacked his bags, he was
looking forward to living in the peaceful community.
Raccoon is about as far removed from the Big Apple
as you can get, thank you very much - well, except for the last few months. Those murders . . .
In spite of himself, he felt a tiny thrill at the
thought. What had happened in Raccoon was horri-
ble, of course, sickening, but the perps had never
been caught and the investigation was really just
getting started. And if Irons liked him, liked him as
much as the heads of the academy had liked him,
maybe Leon would get a chance to work on the case.
Word had it that Chief Irons was kind of a prick, but
Leon knew his training had been top-notch - even a
prick would have to be a little impressed. He'd
graduated in the top tenth, after all. And it wasn't like
he was a stranger to Raccoon City, since he'd spent
most of his summers there as a kid, when his grand-
parents were still alive. Back then, the RPD building
had been a library and Umbrella was still several
years away from turning the town into an actual city,
but in most ways it was still the same quiet place he
remembered from his childhood. Once the cannibal
killers were finally put away, Raccoon would be ideal
again - beautiful, clean, a white-collar community
nestled in the mountains like a secret paradise.
So I get settled in and a week or two passes, and
Irons notices how well written my reports are, or sees
how good I am on the target range. He asks me to take
a look at the case files, just to familiarize myself with
the details so I can do some footwork and I see
something that no one else has seen. A pattern, maybe,
or a motive on more than one of the victims ... maybe
I run across a witness report that reads wrong. No one
else has caught it because they've lived with it for too
long, and this rookie cop just comes along and cracks
the case, not a month out of the academy and I. . .
Something ran in front of the Jeep.
"Jesus!"
Leon hit the brake and swerved, shocked out of his
daydream as he struggled for control of the vehicle.
The brakes locked and there was a screech of rubber
that sounded like a scream. The Jeep half-turned to
face the darkening trees that lined the road—and
came to a stop on the shoulder, dying after a final
