agony. His back arched, his fingers hooked into claws...
... and the moan went liquid as blood started to
stream from his mouth in a burbling gout. Choking
and shaking, Bertolucci's limbs convulsed violently,
droplets of crimson spraying out with each racking
cough...
... and Ada saw red blossom across his rumpled
white shirt beneath his scrabbling hands and heard
the thick, wet crack of breaking bone. She leapt back
as Leon grabbed for the reporter's hands, not sure
what was happening but absolutely positive that it
was not a heart attack...
... holy Christ what IS this?
All at once, Bertolucci went limp, his eyes rolled
back and fixed, sightless. Blood still oozed from his
cracked lips and there was a sound, a horrible sound
of meat being torn, and under the stained fabric of his
shirt, something moved.
"Get back!" Ada shouted, pointing her Beretta at the dead reporter, and in the split-second it took her
to aim, a thing erupted from Bertolucci's bloody
chest. A thing the size of a big man's fist, a gore-
drenched thing that opened a tiny black hole of a
mouth and squealed shrilly, revealing nubs of sharp
red teeth. It wriggled out of the corpse with a whip-
ping manta's tail, splashing the cold cement with
shreds of wet tissue and gut.
Lashing against the cooling flesh of the reporter, it
poured from the body in a gush of blood and onto the
floor - and took off like a shot for the open gate back
into the hall, propelling itself with its snaking tail and
legs that Ada couldn't see, smearing a red path be-
hind it.
It was out the door before she even remembered
that she was holding a gun; for the first time since
she'd come to Raccoon, since ever, she had been so
completely shocked that she hadn't thought to react.
A chest-bursting parasitic creature, straight out of a
sci-fi movie. . .
"Was that ... did you see..." Leon fumbled breath- lessly.
"I saw it," Ada said softly, cutting him off. She turned and looked down at Bertolucci, at his face,
frozen in a bloody contortion of anguish, and at the
gaping wet cavity just below his sternum.
His mouth, cracked at the corners. . .
He'd been implanted with the creature, by what,
she didn't know, and she didn't want to know. What
she wanted was to get the mission wrapped, as quickly
as possible, and then get as far away from Raccoon
City as she could. In fact, she thought that she'd never wanted anything quite so badly. When she'd first
realized that there had been a T-Virus incident, she'd
expected to have to deal with some unpleasant organ-
isms. But the thought of having one of them forced or
forcing its way down her throat, nestling inside of her
body like some slick, aberrant fetus before eating its
way out. . . if that wasn't the most horrible thing she
could think of, it ran a close second.
She looked at Leon, giving up any pretense of trying
to be reasonable. She was going to the lab, and it
wasn't open to discussion.
"I'm getting out of here," she said, and without waiting for a response, she turned and walked briskly
toward the gate, careful not to step on the glistening
trail of blood that the tiny monster had created.
"Wait! Look, I think ... Ada? Hey..."
She stepped into the corridor, weapon raised, but
the creature was gone. The blood trail petered out less
than halfway down the hall, but she saw that they'd
left the door to the kennel open...
... and the manhole cover's off. Terrific.
Leon caught up to her before she'd gone more than
a few steps. He stood in front of her, blocking her
path, and for just a moment, Ada thought he was
going to try to physically stop her.
Don't do it. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I
have to.
"Ada, please don't go," Leon said, not a command but a plea. "I ... when I got to Raccoon, I met this girl, and I think she's in the station somewhere. If you
could help me find her, the three of us could leave
together. We'd stand a much better chance..."
"Sorry, Leon, but it's a free goddamn country. You
do what you have to, and good luck, but I'm not
staying. I've had enough. If - when I get out, I'll send
help."
She started to push past him, hoping it wouldn't
come to violence and wishing that she could tell him
not to get in her way - how dangerous it would be for
him to try - when Leon surprised her yet again.
"Then I'm coming with you," he said. He met her gaze evenly, his own unflinching and resolute - and
scared. "I'm not going to let you do it alone. I don't want anyone else - I don't want you to get hurt."
Ada stared at him, not sure what to say. Now that
Bertolucci was dead, she didn't want to have to ditch
Leon in the sewers; it wouldn't be hard, considering
how extensive the system was . . . but he was just so
goddamn nice, so determined to be helpful, that she
was starting to - to not want to have to do anything
bad to him. Things would be a lot easier if he was just some asshole on a machismo kick. . .
Okay, so blow your cover. Tell him you're a private
agent working to steal the G-Virus, and you don't want
company; tell him about the relief you felt when you
realized the reporter was about to die, or how you don't
have a problem with killing, if it's for a good cause
like getting paid. See how nice and helpful he is after
that.
Not an option; neither was trying to talk him out of
coming along, it wouldn't make sense. And there was
some part of her, some part that she didn't want to
admit to, that wanted very much not to be alone.
Seeing that thing that had popped out of Bertolucci
had shaken her, it had left her feeling that she wasn't
as invulnerable as she liked to think.
So let him come, get to the lab and find a safe place
to leave him there. No harm, no foul.
Leon was watching her closely, studying her - wait-
ing for her approval.
"Let's go," she said, and the grin he gave her,
though winning, made her feel even more uncomfort-
able.
Without another word, they walked toward the
kennel, Ada wondering what the hell she was doing
and whether or not she was still capable of doing
whatever it took to get the job done.
Claire stood in front of a medieval door at the very
end of the dark, dungeon-like hallway that the eleva-
tor had taken her to. The station had been chilly, but
the icy damp of this stone hall made the station seem
like summer; it was like she'd descended into some
ancient, haunted castle straight out of the Middle
Ages.
She took a deep breath, trying to decide how to go
in; she was pretty sure that Irons wouldn't appreciate
a surprise visit, but the idea of knocking seemed
ludicrous - not to mention dangerous. There were
torches burning in sconces on either side of the heavy
wood door, the door itself belted with strips of rusting
metal and if she'd had any doubt before that Irons
was crazy, the sight of the twin sputtering torches and
the feel of cold, quiet dread that suffused the corridor
itself had wiped her uncertainty out.
A secret tunnel, a hidden room complete with mood-
lighting . . . what sane person would want to hang out
down here? It wasn't the disaster that did it - Irons
must have been nuts way before the Umbrella acci-
dent . . .
Another certainty, although she didn't have any
proof - but when Sherry had told her about what her
parents did for a living, and what had happened just prior to her coming to the station, something had
clicked. Umbrella worked with diseases, and the
population of Raccoon had definitely come down
with a bad case of something. There must have been
some kind of an accident, a spill that had released the
strange zombie plague. . .
Quit stalling.
Claire bit at her lip, not sure what she should do.
She didn't doubt that Irons was down here some-
where, and she did not want to run into him again;
maybe she should go back up, get Sherry, and try to
find another way out. Just because the area was secret
didn't mean that it was some kind of an escape route.
Still stalling, and Sherry is up there by herself. And
you've got a gun, remember?
A gun with very little ammo. If this was Irons's
hidden lair, maybe he kept weapons inside ... or
maybe it was just another corridor, one that led even
deeper into the bowels of the station. Either way,
wondering about it was telling her exactly jack shit.
Claire put her hand on the latch, took another deep
breath, and pushed it open, the heavy door swinging
in slowly on well-oiled hinges. She stepped back,
pointing the handgun...
Jesus.
An empty room, as dank and unwelcoming as the
corridor, but with furnishings and a decor that made
her skin crawl. A single naked bulb hung down from
the ceiling, illuminating the creepiest chamber she'd
ever seen. There was a table in the middle of the
room, stained and battered, a hacksaw and other
cutting utensils scattered on top; a dented metal
bucket and a mop, slopped against one water-stained
wall, next to a portable basin with dried red patches
inside; shelves, laden with dusty bottles - and what
looked like human bones, polished and pale, set out
like macabre trophies. That, and the smell - a thick
chemical reek, sharp and acidic, that only just cov-
ered a darker smell. A smell like insanity.
Even looking into the room made her want to be
sick; "nuts" was maybe the understatement of the
year for the police chief, but there was nobody
home, and that meant that there could be another
secret passage somewhere inside. At the very least, she
had to check for weapons.
Swallowing, Claire stepped into the room, glad that
she hadn't brought Sherry with her; looking at the
private little torture chamber was going to give her
nightmares, it was nothing to expose a child to...
"Freeze, little girl, or I'll shoot you where you
stand."
Claire froze. Every muscle in her body froze as
Irons started to laugh from behind her, from behind
the door where she hadn't thought to look.
Oh my God, oh, God, oh, Sherry I'm so sorry...
Irons's deep chuckle rose into the hearty, gleeful
laughter of a madman, and Claire understood that she
was going to die.
EIGHTEEN
TRYING NOT TO BREATHE TOO DEEPLY, LEON
reached the bottom of the metal ladder and turned
around quickly, aiming the Magnum into the thick
gloom. Murky water sloshed over his boots, and as his
eyes adjusted to the low light, he saw the source of the
terrible smell.
Parts of it, anyway. . .
The subbasement tunnel stretching out in front of
him was littered with body parts, human corpses that
had been torn into pieces. Limbs and heads and
torsos were strewn randomly through the stone pas-
sage, lapped at gently by the few inches of dark water
that covered the floor.
"Leon? How is it?" Ada's voice floated down from the circle of light above the ladder, echoing hollowly
around him. Leon didn't answer, his shocked gaze
fixed on the terrible scene, his brain trying to add up
the shredded parts and come up with a number.
How many? How many people?
Too many to count. He saw a faceless head, the long
hair streaming around it in a cloud. A heavy woman's
decapitated trunk, one breast bobbing above the
rippling darkness. An arm encased in the tatters of a
cop's dress shirt. A bare leg, still wearing a sneaker. A
curled hand, the fingers slick and white.
A dozen? Twenty?
"Leon?" Ada's tone had sharpened.
"It's ... it looks okay," he called, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. "Nothing moving."
"I'm coming down."
He stepped away from the ladder to give her room,
remembering something she'd said before, something
about bodies being dumped. . .
Ada stepped off the bottom rung, splashing into the
dark tunnel. His eyes had adjusted well enough to see
a look of disgust cross her delicate features - disgust
and something like sadness.
"There was an attack in the garage," she said softly. "Fourteen or fifteen people died . . ."
She trailed off, frowning, and took a step past him
to get a closer look at the severed and mutilated remains. When she spoke again, she sounded worried.
"I didn't see the attack, but I don't think they were
torn up like this."
She looked up, scanning the roof of the tunnel,
gripping her nine-millimeter tightly. Leon followed
her gaze, but only saw algae-thick stone. Ada shook
her head, looking back down at the gently rippling sea
of broken flesh.
"The zombies didn't do this. Something got to
these people after they were killed."
Leon felt a chill go up his spine. That was about the
last thing he wanted to hear, standing in the humid,
stinking dark and surrounded by savaged bodies.
"So it's not safe down here. We should head back
up and..."
Ada started forward, stepping through the tangled
limbs, the sound of her careful, sloshing movements
seeming very loud in the otherwise silent tunnel.
Damn, does she ignore everybody, or is it just me?
Watching his step, Leon followed, reaching out with
his free hand to touch her shoulder. "At least let me go first, okay?"
"Fine," she said, sounding almost but not quite exasperated. "Lead the way."
He stepped in front of her, and they started forward
again, Leon trying to divide his attention between the
darkness ahead and the sodden pieces of flesh and
bone underfoot. Just ahead, the tunnel turned to the
right, and there was some light reflected off the oily
surface of the water; the passage was clearer, too, with
not as many bodies.
Leon paused just long enough to unshoulder the
Remington, checking to make sure he'd chambered a
round. Whatever had gotten to the corpses didn't
seem to be around, but he didn't want to be unpre-
pared if it came back.
Ada waited without speaking, though he could feel
her impatience - not for the first time, he wondered if
there was more to her story than she'd told him. He
was scared, and he was also cold and tired and afraid
for Claire, who might still be wandering the station...
... he didn't even know if Claire was still alive; but he
hadn't felt right about letting Ada walk into a bad
situation on her own.
Ada, on the other hand . . . she was as calm and
controlled as a veteran soldier, expressing nothing but
a kind of irritable eagerness to get on with things
and if she appreciated his presence at all, she was
taking great pains not to show it. It wasn't that he
needed or wanted her gratitude...
... but wouldn't most people be happy to have a cop along? Even a rookie?
Maybe not, and it wasn't the time or place to start
asking questions. Leon shut down his thinking and
started moving again, stepping gingerly over a
chewed-up chunk of flesh that he couldn't identify.
"Stop," Ada whispered sharply. "Listen."
Leon tensed, Remington in one hand, Magnum in
the other. He tilted his head, straining to hear, but
there was only a distant, hollow drip of water...
... and a soft thumping. A rapid but random sound,
like padded hammers on a padded surface. Whatever
it was, it was getting closer, coming toward them from
where the tunnel turned up ahead.
Why isn't it splashing, why don't we hear water?
Leon backed up a step, raising both weapons
slightly, remembering how Ada had looked at the
ceiling before...
... and saw it, saw it and felt his heart stop in
midbeat. A spider the size of a big dog, skittering over
the wet stones halfway up the inner wall, its bristling,
hairy legs tapping -
- not possible -
- and then there was a series of deafening explo-
sions next to his right ear, bam-bam-bam-bam, the
muzzle flash from Ada's Beretta strobing the hellish
tunnel as she fired. The booming echoes pounded
