they keep Raccoon's citizens from calling for help
from outside the city?
And these dogs, like carbon copies . . . something
else that Umbrella made up in their labs?
He took another step toward the fallen dog-things,
frowning, not liking the dark conspiracy theories that
were forming in his thoughts but unable to ignore
them. What he liked even less was the look of the oil
stains on the concrete floor; they were rust-colored
and there were too many of the dried splotches for
him to count. He bent down to get a closer look, so
intent on putting to rest a sudden terrible suspicion
that he didn't register the shot until he heard the high,
singing whine when it blew past his head.
Bam!
Leon spun left, bringing the Magnum up and shout-
ing at the same time...
"Hold your fire!"
... and saw the shooter lowering her weapon, a
woman in a short red dress and black leggings stand-
ing by a van against the far wall. She started walking
toward him, her slender hips rolling smoothly, her
head high and shoulders back. As if they were at a
cocktail party.
Leon felt a rush of anger, that she could seem so
calm after very nearly killing him, but as she got
closer, he found himself wanting to forgive her. She
was beautiful, and wore an expression of genuine
pleasure at seeing him; a welcome sight after so much
death.
"Sorry about that," she said. "When I saw the
uniform, I thought you were another zombie."
She was Asian-American, fine-boned but tall, her
short hair a thick and glossy black. Her deep, satiny
voice was almost a purr, a strange contrast to the way
she looked at him. The slight smile she wore didn't
seem to touch her almond-shaped eyes, which were
scrutinizing him carefully.
"Who are you?" Leon asked.
"Ada Wong." That throaty purr again. She tilted her head, still smiling.
"I'm Leon Kennedy," he said reflexively, not sure what to ask or where to start. "I ... what are you doing down here?"
Ada nodded toward the van behind her, an RPD
transport wagon that was blocking the holding cell
area. "I came to Raccoon looking for a man, a reporter named Bertolucci; I have reason to think that
he's in one of the cells, and I think he might be able to
help me find my boyfriend. . ."
Her smile faded, her sharp, almost electric gaze
meeting his. . . "And I think he knows all about what happened here. Would you help me move the
van?"
If there was a reporter locked up on the other side
of the garage wall who could tell them anything at all,
Leon was eager to meet him. He wasn't sure what to
make of Ada's story, but couldn't imagine why she
would lie about anything. The station wasn't safe, and
she was looking for survivors, just as he was.
"Yeah, okay," he said, feeling caught off guard by her smoothly direct manner. It felt like she had taken
control of their meeting, some subtle but deliberate
manipulation that had put her in charge and from
the casual way she turned and walked back to the van,
as if there was no question that he would follow, he
thought she knew it.
Don't be paranoid; strong women do exist. And the
more people we can find, the more help I can get to look
for Claire.
Maybe it was time to stop making plans, and just
try to keep up. Leon bolstered the Magnum and went
after her, hoping that the reporter was where Ada
thought he was and that things would start making
sense, sooner rather than later.
THIRTEEN
SHERRY BIRKIN WAS GONE, AND CLAIRE
couldn't fit herself into the ventilation duct to go
after her. Whatever or whoever had screamed and
scared the little girl so badly hadn't put in an
appearance, but Sherry was history, maybe still
crawling frantically through some dark and dusty
tunnel. She had apparently been hiding by the duct
for a while; there were empty candy-bar wrappers
and a musty old blanket stuffed in the opening, the
pathetic little hideaway tucked behind three standing
suits of armor.
Once she'd realized that Sherry wasn't coming
back, Claire had hurried back to Irons's office, hoping
that he might be able to tell her where the duct let out,
but Irons was gone, along with the body of the
mayor's daughter.
Claire stood in the office, watched over by the
dumb glass eyes of the morbid decor, and felt really
uncertain for the first time since she'd hit town. She'd
started out to find Chris, a goal that had expanded to
include worries about zombie dodging, hooking up
with Leon, and avoiding creepy Chief Irons, pretty
much in that order. But in the few moments between
meeting the little girl and that strange, howling
scream, her priorities had shifted dramatically. A
child was caught up in this nightmare, a sweet, little
kid who believed that there was a monster stalking
her.
Maybe there is. If I can accept that Raccoon's got
zombies, why not monsters? Hell, why not vampires or
killer robots?
She wanted to find Sherry, and she didn't know
how to start. She wanted her big brother, but was just
as clueless as to where he might be - and she had
begun to wonder if he knew anything about what had
happened to Raccoon.
The last time she'd talked to him, he'd avoided her
questions about why the S.T.A.R.S. had been sus-
pended, insisting that it wasn't anything to worry
about - that he and the team had run into some
political trouble at the office and it was all going to be
sorted out. She was used to his protectiveness, but
thinking back, hadn't he seemed overly evasive? And
the S.T.A.R.S. had been investigating the cannibal
murders, it wasn't much of a stretch to connect the
past flesh-eating activity with the current. . .
. . . which means what? That Chris uncovered some
evil plot and was hiding it? She didn't know. All that she knew was that she
didn't believe he was dead, and that for now finding
Chris or Leon would have to take a back seat to
finding Sherry. As bad as things were, Claire had
defenses - she had a gun, she had at least a little
emotional maturity, and after nearly two years of
daily five-mile runs, she was in excellent shape. But
Sherry Birkin couldn't be older than eleven or twelve,
and seemed frail in every sense of the word, from the
dirt in her pixie blond hair to the desperate anxiety in
her wide blue eyes - she had inspired all of Claire's
protective instincts...
Thump!
A heavy, hollow vibration rattled through the ceil-
ing, making the intricate chandelier in Irons's office
tremble. Claire reflexively looked up, gripping her
handgun. There was nothing to see but wood and
plaster, and the sound didn't repeat itself.
Something on the roof ... but what could have
made a noise like that? An elephant being air-dropped?
Maybe it was Sherry's monster. The vicious scream
they'd heard back in the private exhibit room had
come through a duct or the fireplace, the origin of the
cry impossible to pin down, but it could have been
the roof. Claire wasn't particularly keen on meeting
up with whatever had screamed, but Sherry had
seemed certain that the creature was following
her. . .
. . . so find the screamer, find the girl? Not my idea of
the perfect plan, but I don't have much else to go on at
this point; it might be the only way to find her.
Or maybe it was Irons up there and although her
meeting with him had left a slimy taste in her mouth,
she regretted not having tried to get more information
out of him. Crazy or not, he hadn't struck her as
stupid; it might not be a bad idea to find him again, at
least to ask some questions about the ventilation
system.
She wouldn't know anything until she checked it
out. Claire turned and went to the office door that
opened into the outer corridor, where she'd put out
the helicopter fire. The smoke had thinned in the
adjoining hall, and although the air was still warm, it
wasn't the heat of a fresh blaze. In that, at least, she'd
been successful. . .
Claire stepped back into the main hall, averting her
eyes from what was left of the pilot...
... and craa-ack!
... She froze, and heard a massive splintering of
wood followed by the thick, ponderous steps of some-
one who must be huge moving through the corridor past the turn, the sounds deliberate and thundering.
Guy must weigh a ton, and oh Jesus tell me that
wasn't a door being torn apart...
Claire shot a look back down the small hallway to
Irons's office, her instincts telling her to run, her brain
reminding her that it was a dead end, her body
paralyzed between the two...
... and the biggest man she'd ever seen stepped into
view, shadowed by the thin haze of smoke drifting
through the hall. He was dressed in a long army-green
overcoat that only accented his size, and was as tall as
an NBA star - taller, but with proportionate bulk. A
thick utility belt was wrapped around his waist, and
though she didn't see any weapons, she could feel the
violence radiating off him in invisible waves. She
could just make out his sickly white blur of a face, the
hairless, sloping skull - and quite suddenly, Claire
was certain that he was a monster, a killer with black
gloved fists, each as big as a human head...
Shoot! Shoot it!
Claire aimed but hesitated, terrified of making a
horrible mistake - until it took one massive step
toward her on tree-trunk legs, and she heard the
crunch of denting wood beneath its booted Franken-
stein feet, and saw the black eyes, black and rimmed
with red. Like lava-filled pits in a misshapen white
boulder, blank but not at all blind, his gaze found
hers - and he raised one meaty clenched fist, the
threat unmistakable.
—shootshootshoot—
She squeezed the trigger, one, two times, and saw
the impact - a flap of its lapel blew into shreds just
below his collarbone, the second shot slicing cleanly
through one side of the neck...
... and he took another step, not a flicker of expres-
sion passing over his rough-hewn features, the fist still
raised, seeking a target, seeking to crush...
The black, smoking hole in its throat wasn't
bleeding.
Oh SHIT!
In a rush of adrenaline-boosted dread, Claire
pointed the handgun at the creature's heart and
pulled the trigger repeatedly, the giant taking another
step, striding into the stream of explosive fire without
flinching...
... and she lost track of the shots, unable to believe
that it could still be coming, less than ten feet away as
the rounds hammered its mammoth chest...
... and the gun clicked empty, even as the monster
stopped in its thundering tracks, swaying from side to
side like a tall building in a high wind. Without taking her shocked gaze from the reeling giant, Claire
grabbed another clip from her vest and fumbled
through reloading, her brain crazily trying to name
this walking abortion.
Terminator, Frankenstein's monster, Dr. Evil, Mr. X
Whatever it was supposed to be, the seven-plus
semi-jacketed rounds to the chest had finally taken
effect. Silently, the towering creature slumped to his
right, falling heavily against one smoke-blackened
wall and sagging there - not crumpling, but not mov-
ing, either.
Weird angle, that's all, he's dead, just propped up by
his own weight...
Claire didn't move any closer, keeping the handgun
leveled at the motionless giant. Was this the screamer?
For as powerful and inhuman as it looked, she didn't
think so; this was no primal, furious demon, howling
for blood. Mr. X was more like some soulless ma-
chine, bloodless flesh that could ignore pain ... or
embrace it.
"Dead now, doesn't matter," Claire whispered, as much to reassure herself as to cut off the relentless
stream of useless thought. She had to think, to figure
out what this meant - this wasn't some freak zombie mutation, so what the hell was it? Why didn't it fall
down? She'd emptied a mostly full clip - would
somebody hear the shots, would Sherry or Irons or
Leon or whoever else might be lurking around the
station come find her? Should she stay where she was?
The creature that she'd already started to think of
as Mr. X wasn't breathing, its muscular body per-
fectly still, its face as closed as death. Claire bit her
lower lip, staring at the still impossibly standing,
leaning creature, trying to think through her confused
fear...
... and saw his eyes open, his shiny black and red
eyes. Without so much as a wince of pain or effort,
Mr. X swayed back to a stand, blocking the hall, his
giant hands raising again...
... and with a mighty swing, he crashed his fists
through the air, his long arms whipping just in front
of her as she stumbled back. The momentum was
enough for both of his huge hands to plunge into the
wall across from where he'd leaned. The impact
buried his fists, his arms stuck in the wood and plaster
halfway to his elbows.
Me, could've been ME...
Back through Irons's office and she'd be trapped.
Without giving the matter any further thought, Claire
moved, sprinting toward Mr. X. She flew past him,
her right arm actually brushing against his heavy coat, her heart skipping a beat as the material wisped
across her skin.
She ran, hung a left and dashed down the hazy hall,
trying to remember what was past the waiting room,
trying not to hear the unmistakable sounds of move-
ment behind her as Mr. X jerked his hands free.
Jesus, what is that THING...
Back through the waiting room, slamming the door
behind her as she ran, Claire decided that she would
decide later. She ran, not letting herself think any-
thing at all but how to run faster.
Ben Bertolucci was in the last cell in the room
farthest from the garage, crashed out on a metal cot
and snoring lightly. Keeping her expression carefully
neutral, Ada decided to let Leon wake him up. She
didn't want to seem overly eager, and if there was one
thing she knew about men, it was that they were easier
to handle when they thought they were in control.
Ada looked up at Leon with a patience she didn't feel
and waited.
They'd checked out an empty kennel and a winding
concrete hall before finding him, and though the cold,
dank air reeked of blood and virus decay, they hadn't
come across any bodies - which was strange, consid-
ering the slaughter that Ada knew had occurred in the
dank garage. She thought about asking Leon if he
knew what had happened, but decided that the less
they spoke, the better; there was no point in letting
him get used to having her around. She'd seen the
manhole in the kennel, rusting and set into a dark
corner, and been gratified to see a crowbar on an open
shelf nearby. With Bertolucci snoozing in front of
them, Ada felt like things were finally starting to pick
up...
"Let me guess," Leon said loudly, and reached out to thump on the metal bars with the butt of his gun.
"You must be Bertolucci, right? Get up, now."
Bertolucci groaned and sat up slowly, rubbing at his
stubbled jaw. Ada wanted to smile, watching him
frown wearily in their direction; he looked like shit...
his clothes rumpled, his lank ponytail frazzled.
Still wearing his tie, though. The poor slob probably
thinks it makes him look more like a real reporter...
"What do you want? I'm trying to sleep here." He sounded grouchy, and again Ada had to suppress a
smile. It served him right for being so difficult to find.
Leon glanced at Ada, looking a trifle uncertain. "Is this the guy?"
She nodded, realizing that Leon probably thought
Bertolucci was a prisoner. Their conversation would dispel that particular notion pretty fast, but she didn't
