him, at the two of them laughing and having a good
time, the better she'd started to feel. Not happy or
even okay, and no less afraid of what was to come...
... just better. Calmer. Stronger. She loved him, and
knew that wherever he was he loved her back - and
that if the two of them had been able to survive the
loss of both of their parents, to build lives for them-
selves and share a silly Christmas vacation in spite of
having no real home to go to, then they could cope
with anything. She could cope.
Can and will. I'm going to find Sherry and Leon
and, God willing, my brother - and we're going to
make it out of Raccoon.
The truth was, she didn't really have any choice,
but she needed to go through the process of accepting
her lack of options before she could act. She'd heard
before that real bravery wasn't an absence of fear, it
was accepting the fear and doing what was necessary
anyway - and once she'd sat for a moment, thinking
about Chris, she thought that she could do just that.
Claire took a deep breath, slipped the photos into
her vest, and pushed away from the desk. She didn't
know where Mr. X had been headed, but he hadn't seemed like the waiting-around type; she would head
back to Irons's office and see if Sherry had come
back - or Irons, for that matter. If X was still there,
she could always run.
Besides, I should have searched his office, tried to
find something about the S.T.A.R.S. There's nothing
here that can tell me anything. . .
Standing, she took a last look around, wishing that
the S.T.A.R.S. office had offered a little more in the
way of supplies or information. All she'd found of any
use was a discarded fanny pack in the desk behind
Chris's; according to the expired library card in one of
the pouches, it had belonged to Jill Valentine. Claire
had never met her, but Chris had mentioned her a
couple of times, said she was good with a gun. . .
Too bad she didn't leave one behind.
The team had obviously cleared out all of the
important stuff after their suspension, although there
were still a surprising number of personal items left
around, framed pictures and coffee mugs and the like;
she'd spotted Barry's desk right away from the partly
finished plastic gun model on top. Barry Burton was
one of Chris's closest friends, a huge, friendly bear of
a man and a serious gun nut. Claire hoped that
wherever Chris was, Barry was with him, watching his
back. With a rocket launcher.
And speaking of. . .
On top of everything else, she needed to find
another weapon, or more ammo for the nine-
millimeter; she had thirteen bullets left, one full clip,
and when those were gone, she was SOL. Maybe she
should stop and check some of the corpses on the way
back to the east wing; even in her panicked run, she'd
noticed that some of them were cops, and the hand-
gun was an RPD issue. Claire didn't like the idea of
touching any of the dead bodies, but running out of
firepower was distinctly less desirable - particularly
with Mr. X running around.
Claire walked toward the door and pushed it open,
trying to get her thoughts organized as she stepped
back into the dim hall. Leaving the office put a
damper on her resolve; she had to suppress a shudder
at the still vivid image of Mr. X as she closed the door
behind her, suddenly feeling vulnerable again. She
turned right and started back toward the library,
deciding that she wouldn't think about the giant
unless she had to, wouldn't dwell on the memory of
those blank, inhuman eyes or the way he'd raised his
terrible fist, as if driven to destroy anything in his
way . . .
. . . so knock it off already. Think about Sherry, think about getting some goddamn ammo or how to
handle Irons, if you can find him. Think about trying
to stay alive.
Just ahead, the dark wooden hall turned right again
and Claire tried to steel herself against the task ahead;
if memory served, there was a dead cop around the
corner -
- like I can't tell by the smell -
- and she'd have to search him. He hadn't been too
disgusting, at least, not that she'd noticed.
Claire turned the corner and froze, staring. Her
stomach knotted, telling her she was in danger before
her senses could. The body that she'd jumped over on
the way to the S.T.A.R.S. office was now only a
bloody, tangled mass, flesh and broken limbs and
shredded uniform. The head was gone, although there
was no way to tell if it had been taken away or just
smashed into an unrecognizable pulp. It looked like
someone had taken a sledgehammer or an axe to the
corpse in the few moments since she'd passed it,
beating it into a clotted smear.
But when, how, I didn't hear anything...
Something moved. A shadow, soft and darting over
the mashed remains some twenty feet in front of her,
and at the same time, Claire heard a strange rasping
sound, breathing. . .
. . . and she looked up, still not sure what she was
seeing or hearing - that ragged breathing and the tick
of talons on wood, the talons themselves, thick and
curved, the claws of a creature that couldn't exist. Big,
the size of a full-grown man, but the resemblance
ended there - and it was so impossible that she could
only see it in pieces, her mind struggling to put them
together. The inflamed, purplish flesh of the naked,
long-limbed creature that clung to the ceiling. The
puffed gray-white tissue of the partially exposed
brain. The scar-rimmed holes where the eyes should
have been.
- not seeing this -
The creature's rounded head dropped back, the
wide jaw opening, a ropy stream of dark drool pour-
ing out and splattering over what was left of the cop.
It extended its tongue, eely and pink, the rough
surface shimmering wetly as it slithered out. And out.
And out, the snaking tongue uncoiling and whipping
from side to side, so long that it actually trailed
through the ripped flesh of the corpse.
Still frozen, Claire watched in horrified disbelief as
the incredible tongue snapped back up, flicking drop-
lets of blood through the shadowy air. The entire
process had taken only a second, but time had slowed to a crawl, Claire's heart beating so fast that every-
thing else was in slow motion - even the creature's
drop to the wooden floor, its body flipping in midair
so that it landed in a crouch atop the mutilated cop.
The creature opened its mouth again and
screamed...
... and Claire was finally able to move as the
bizarre, hollow shriek erupted from the monster, able
to point her weapon and fire. The thunder of nine-
millimeter rounds drowned out the howl that echoed
through the tight hallway, bam-bam-bam...
... and still screaming that chilling, trumpeting cry,
the creature was thrown back, its claw-tipped arms
flailing. Its spasming legs kicked up bloody chunks of
the eviscerated body; Claire saw a ragged flap of scalp,
one ear still attached, fly across the hall and smack
into the wall with a wet slapping sound, sliding
down...
... and the creature got its legs beneath it somehow
and flopped forward in a boneless lunge. It spidered
toward her, lightning fast, gripping the wood floor
with its terrible claws and howling.
Claire fired again, unaware that she was also
screaming as three more rounds hit the scuttling
thing, ripping through the gray matter that protruded
from its open skull. She was going to die, it would be
on her in less than a second and its massive talons
were only inches from her legs...
... and as suddenly as the attack had come, it was
over. Every part of the sinewy body quivered and
shook as liquid gray dribbled from its burbling head,
the thick claws tapping wildly against the wood floor
in a frantic tattoo. With a final whispering whine, the
creature died. There was no mistaking it this time.
She'd blasted through its brain, it wasn't going to get
up again.
She stared down at the monster, her shocked mind
digging for something to relate it to, some animal or
even a rumor of an animal that came close, but she
gave it up after a few seconds, recognizing it as a lost
cause. This was no natural creature, and as close as it
was, she could finally smell it - the odor was not as
pungent as the zombies', it was a bitter, oily smell,
somehow more chemical than animal...
... and it could smell like chocolate-chip cookies,
who gives a shit? Raccoon City's got monsters, it's time
to stop being so goddamn surprised when you see one
of them.
The chiding tone of her mind's voice wasn't partic-
ularly convincing. As much as she wanted to feel
brave and determined, to step over the monstrous creature and get on with things, she just stood for a
moment and for that moment, she thought very
seriously about going back to the S.T.A.R.S. office,
going inside, and locking the door behind her. She
could hide, hide and wait for help, she could be
safe...
Decide, then. Do something, one way or another,
stop this wavering and whining, because it's not just
you anymore. Will Sherry be safe? Do you want to
survive at the cost of her life?
The moment passed. Claire took a careful step over
the raw red flesh of the creature and crouched down
next to the cop's remains, using the muzzle of the
handgun to push a torn piece of bloody uniform
aside. She swallowed down bile as she poked through
the rotten flesh and bone, working not to think about
who the cop had been or how he had died.
Nothing, and she now had only seven bullets left,
but she refused to panic, letting the disappointment
fuel her determination instead. If she could search
one bloody mess, she could search another.
With a last look at the dead animal-thing, Claire
stood and walked quickly toward the end of the
corridor, her decision made: no hiding and no more
running from the fear. At the very least, she could
take a few of the monsters with her, raising Sherry's
chances of escape.
It would be better to die trying than not to try at all.
She wouldn't waver again.
FIFTEEN
LEON FOUND ADA IN THE KENNEL, STRAIN-
ing to lever up the rusted manhole cover that the
reporter had told them about. She'd turned up a
crowbar from somewhere and had it wedged beneath
the thick iron plate, her well-defined biceps lightly
sheened with sweat as she worked the bar. She'd
managed to raise the cover about an inch, but let it
drop back into place as he walked in, the metallic
clang loud in the cold, empty room.
Before he could say anything, she lay the crowbar
on the cement floor and looked up at him with a
strained half-smile, brushing at her rust-dirty hands.
"I'm glad you're here. I don't think I'm strong
enough to do this by myself ..."
He hadn't been sure before, but the helpless look
she gave him cinched it; she was playing him, or
trying to. He'd known Ada for all of twenty minutes,
but he doubted seriously that she'd ever been helpless
about anything.
"Looks like you're doing just fine," he said, holster- ing the Magnum but not making any move toward
the manhole. He crossed his arms, frowning slightly.
He wasn't angry, just curious.
"Besides, what's the hurry? I thought you wanted to
talk to the reporter. About John, your Umbrella
friend."
The woman-in-distress look melted away and her
delicate features turned cool and hard, but not in a
bad way; it was as though she was letting her real self
show, the strong and self-assured Ada he'd first met.
Leon could tell that he'd surprised her by not rushing
to her aid and was glad to see it; he had enough to
worry about without being manipulated by a mysteri-
ous stranger. She'd been very careful to avoid his
questions, but it was time for Ms. Wong to explain a
few things.
Ada stood up, meeting his gaze evenly. "You heard him - he wasn't going to tell us anything. And with
this place as dangerous as it is, I don't really want to
stand around waiting for him to develop a con-
science ..."
She dropped her gaze, her voice softening.". . . and I don't even know if John's in Raccoon. But I do know
that he's not here - and I want to leave before the
station's completely overrun."
It sounded good, but for some reason, he had the
feeling that she was holding something back. For a
few seconds, he struggled to think of a polite way to
get her to open up - then decided to hell with it;
under the circumstances, social graces would have to
be suspended.
"What's going on, Ada? Do you know something
that you're not telling me?"
She looked at him again, and again, he had the
feeling that he'd surprised her, but her cool, dark
gaze was as unreadable as ever.
"I just want to get out of here," she said, and the sincerity of her tone was impossible to deny. If he
didn't believe anything else she'd said, he had to
believe that much.
And I wish it was that easy, but there's Claire, and
even Ben, our asshole friend, and God knows how
many others. . .
Leon shook his head. "I can't leave. Like I said, I may be the only cop left around here. If there are still
people in the building, I have to at least try to help
them. And I think it'd be best if you came with me."
Ada gave him another one of her half-smiles.
"I appreciate your concern, Leon, but I can take care of
myself."
He didn't doubt it, but he also didn't want to see
her abilities tested. Granted, he was pretty untested
himself, but he'd been trained to deal with crisis
situations, it was his job.
And be honest with yourself - you lost Claire, you
couldn't help Branagh, and Ben Bertolucci could give a
rat's ass for your protection skills; you don't want to
fail with Ada on top of all that. And you don't want to
be alone.
Ada seemed to know what he was thinking. Before
he could come up with a convincing argument, she
stepped forward and put one slender hand on his arm,
the humor fading from her bright eyes.
"I know you want to do your job here, but you said
it yourself - we have to find a way out of Raccoon, try
and get outside help. And the sewers are probably the
best chance we've got ..."
The light, gentle touch surprised him and sent an
electric flutter through his belly, an unexpected flush
of warmth that left him feeling confused and uncer-
tain. He managed to keep his reaction from showing,
but just barely.
Ada continued, frowning thoughtfully. "How about This - help me with the manhole cover, and let's see
what's down there. If it looks dangerous, I'll come
with you ... but if it's not bad - well, we can talk
about what to do next."
He wanted to protest, but the truth was, he couldn't
make her do anything she didn't want to do and he
wanted very much for her to know that he wasn't
some overbearing macho type, that he was receptive
to compromise . . .
. . . and does the name "John" ring a bell? This isn't
a date for Chrissake, stop thinking with your hor-
mones.
Feeling awkward even thinking about it with her
hand still on his arm, Leon stepped away, nodding
briskly. Together, they crouched down next to the
manhole. Leon picked up the crowbar and jammed
one end beneath the lid; as he pulled back, Ada
pushed on the bar, and with a heavy grating sound the
thick metal plate came up. Leon put his back into it
and heaved the lid to one side, clearing the opening -
- and both of them recoiled back from the smell
that bellowed out of the dark hole, a choking, dark
stench of blood and piss and vomit.
"Gah, what is that?" Leon coughed
