A ghastly, skeletal form staggered out of the street's
shadows, drunkenly aimed at the front of the shop.
"Hell," Leon muttered, his fingers somehow man- aging to go faster. One clip down, one more and he
could take the rest. If he bolted now, he'd be dead
before he could make it to the station.
Another leprous figure was suddenly standing at the
mostly empty frame of the shop's glass entrance, the
decay so bad on its legs that Leon could see maggots
squirming through the fibrous muscle.
... four ... five ... done!
He snatched up the Magnum and ejected the clip,
reloading even as the mostly-empty hit the floor. The
maggoty creature was shouldering its way through the
jagged corners of glass still attached to the frame,
something liquid in its throat gurgling softly.
Bag, he needed a bag. Leon's fevered gaze swept the
space behind the counter, stopping on a grease-
stained gym bag propped against a stool in the back
corner. Two running steps and he had it, dumping the
contents as he ran back to the pile of clips and loose
bullets on the counter. Cleaning equipment rattled
across the linoleum as Leon swept the clips into the
bag, ignoring the scattered rounds in favor of the
ammo drawer.
The decayed monster was shuffling toward him,
stumbling on the body of the pot-bellied dead man, and Leon could smell how rotten it was. He jerked the
Magnum up and leveled it at the creature's face.
The head, just like the two outside...
With a tremendous, thundering kick, the gurgling,
pulpy skull blew apart, thick fluids splattering the
shop's walls and display cases in a wet slap. Before the
decapitated mess could crumple, Leon spun and
dropped into a crouch by the ammo drawer. He
shoveled the heavy boxes into the nylon sack, his
stomach knotted and shaking from the fear that, even
now, the back alley could be filling up with more of
them, cutting him off from where he needed to go.
Five clips per box, five boxes, get out already...
Pushing off from his crouch, Leon shouldered the
bag and ran for the back door. From the corner of his
vision, he saw that another creature had made it
inside Kendo's; from the crunch of powdering glass,
there were more of them filing in just behind it.
He opened the exit door and slid through, glancing
left and right as the door settled closed, the automatic
lock catching with a soft metallic snick. Nothing but
garbage cans and recycling bins, overflowing with
mildewed waste. From where he stood, the alley
stretched off to his left and then hooked left again; if
his internal compass was still working, the narrow,
cluttered passage would take him straight to Oak,
letting out less than a block away from the station.
So far, he'd been lucky; all he could do was hope
that his fortune would hold out, would let him get to
the RPD building alive and in one piece - and, God
willing, find a heavily armed contingent of people
who knew what the hell was going on.
And Claire. Be safe, Claire Redfield, and if you get
there before me, don't lock the door.
Leon repositioned the leaden weight of the ammo
across his back and started down the dimly lit alley,
ready to blow apart anything that got in his way.
Claire almost made it without having to shoot; the
zombies that trickled out into the streets of Raccoon
were relentless but slow, and the adrenaline pumping
through her system made it easy enough to dodge
them. She figured that they were drawn out by the
sound of the wreck, then just followed their noses, or
what was left of them; of the ten or so that had made
it close enough for her to get a good look, at least half
were in an advanced stage of decay, flesh falling from
the bone.
She was so busy watching the street and trying to
sort through all that had happened, she almost ran
right past the police station. She'd been to the RPD building twice before to visit Chris, but had never
entered from the back or in the cold and stinking
dark, pursued by malignant cannibals. A crashed cop
car and a handful of zombified officers had clued her
in, sending her through a small parking lot and some
kind of an equipment shed that opened into a tiny
paved courtyard - a courtyard where she and Chris
had eaten lunch once, sitting on the steps that led up
to the station's second-floor helipad. As simply as
that, she'd made it.
Weaving past the two stumbling, uniformed corpses
that wandered aimlessly across the L-shaped yard was
easy, and it was such a relief to be somewhere she
recognized, to know she was about to be safe, that
she didn't see the woman until it was almost too late.
A wailing dead woman with one limply hanging arm
and a gore-streaked, shredded tank top, who reached
out from the shadows at the base of the stairs and
brushed at Claire's arm with cold and scabby fingers.
Claire let out a strangled yelp of surprise, stumbling
back from the creature's outstretched hand and
nearly fell into the arms of another one, a tall, broad-
shouldered rotting man who had emerged from be-
neath the metal stairs, graceless yet silent.
She dodged sideways and pointed the nine-
millimeter at the man, backed up a step...
... and felt her calf hit the unyielding railing of the
back steps to the roof. The woman was five feet to her
right, the torn, bloody shirt exposing one gouged
breast, the hand of her working arm grasping toward
Claire. The man was one step from reaching distance
.and she couldn't back up any further.
Claire pulled the trigger and there was a mammoth
boom, the gun jerking almost out of her hand. The
right half of the tall man's slack and withered face
disappeared in a burst of dark, liquid streams gushing
from his shattered skull.
She whipped the gun around, tightening her grip as
she aimed for the woman's pallid, moaning face.
Another blast of deafening sound and the rising moan
was cut off, the waxen forehead imploding in a spray
of blood and bone chips. The woman went over
backwards, crashing to the pavement like...
... like a corpse, which she already was. They won't
be walking away from this one.
It was as if everything finally caught up to her at
once, the reality of her situation driven home when
she'd pulled the trigger. For a moment, Claire
couldn't move. She stared down at the two crumpled
sacks of ruined flesh, at the two people she'd just shot,
and felt like she was only an inch or two from losing it. She'd grown up around guns, been to shooting
ranges dozens of times - but with a .22 target pistol,
firing at pieces of paper. Targets that didn't bleed, or
spew brain matter like the two human beings she'd
just...
No, a cool voice inside of her interrupted. Not
human, not anymore. Don't kid yourself and don't
waste time on remorse. Leon could be inside by now,
looking for you. And if the S.T.A.R.S. got called in,
Chris could be here, too.
If that weren't motivation enough, the two zombie
cops that Claire had passed when she first hit the
courtyard were on their way, boots shuffling and
dragging across the flagstones. It was time to go.
She jogged up the stairs, barely able to hear the
clang of her steps over the high-pitched ringing in her
ears. The nine-millimeter blasts had done a tempo-
rary number on her hearing - which explained why
she didn't know about the helicopter until she was
almost to the roof.
Claire hit the second-to-top riser and stopped dead,
a whipping wind pounding rhythmically at her bare
shoulders as the giant black vehicle hovered into
view, half lost in shadow. It was near the ancient
water tower that bordered the helipad at the south-
west corner, though she couldn't tell if it had just
taken off or was coming in to land.
Couldn't tell and didn't care. "Hey!" she shouted, raising her left hand into the air. "Hey, over here!" Her words were lost in the blowing dust that swirled
across the rooftop, drowned out by the steady chop of
the 'copter's blades. Claire waved wildly, feeling like
she'd just hit the lottery.
Somebody came! Thank God, thank you!
A blaring searchlight snapped on from the midsec-
tion of the hovering bird, scrawled across the roof
and was going in the wrong direction, away from her.
Claire waved more frantically, drawing in breath to
call out again...
... and saw what the spotlight saw, even as she heard
the desperate, mostly unintelligible shout beneath the
'copter's roar. A man, a cop, standing at the helipad's
corner opposite the stairs, backed against an elevated
section of the roof. He held what looked like a
machine gun and appeared to be very much alive.
"—get over here—"
The officer shouted at the helicopter, his voice
tinged with panic; Claire saw why and felt her relief
evaporate. There were two zombies lurching through
the darkness of the helipad, headed for the well-lit
target that was the shouting cop. She raised the nine- millimeter and then lowered it helplessly, afraid of
hitting the cornered man.
The spotlight didn't waver, illuminating the horror
with brilliant clarity. The cop didn't seem to realize
how close the zombies were until they were grabbing
for him, their stringy arms extending into the beam of
fixed white light.
"Stay back! Don't come any closer!" he cried, and with the pure terror in his voice, Claire heard him
perfectly. Just like she heard his howling scream as the
two decaying figures obscured her view, reaching him
at the same time.
The sound of his automatic weapon ripped across
the helipad, and even over the helicopter's clamor
Claire could hear the whining ting of bullets flying
wild. She dropped, knees cracking against the top step
as the weapon's clattering fire went on and on...
... and there was a change in the sound of the
'copter, a strange hum that rose quickly into a me-
chanical scream. Claire looked up and saw the giant
craft dip down, the back end swinging around in an
erratic, jerking arc.
Jesus, he hit them!
The 'copter's spotlight was going all directions at
once, flashing across metal pipes and concrete and the
dying struggles of the cop, somehow still firing as the
two monsters tore at him...
... and then the helicopter was coming down, tee-
tering sideways, its blades slamming into the brick of
the elevated roof with a tremendous crash. Before
Claire could blink, the nose of the craft hit - plowing
across the helipad in a curtain of screeching sparks
and flying glass.
The explosion happened just as the mammoth
machine slid to a stop against the southwest corner -
- directly on top of the fallen cop and his killers. The
rattle of the machine gun was finally cut off in the
whoosh of flame that sprang up after the initial
sputtering boom, lighting the rooftop in a burning red
glow. At the same instant, something in the roof gave
with a rending crunch, as the nose of the 'copter
plunged through a brick wall and out of sight.
Claire stood up on legs she barely felt, staring in
disbelief at the leaping fire that dominated almost half
of the helipad. It had all happened too fast for her to
feel like it had happened at all, and the smoking,
burning evidence in front of her only made the sense
of unreality greater. An acrid, sickly-sweet odor of
burning meat wafted over her on a wave of heated air,
and in the sudden silence, she could hear the soft
groans of the zombies down in the courtyard.
She shot a look down the stairs and saw that both of
the dead cops were at the foot, blindly and uselessly
falling against the bottom step. At least they couldn't
climb ...
... can't. Climb. Stairs.
Claire turned her frightened glance toward the door
that led into the RPD building, maybe thirty feet
from the curling, popping flames that were slowly
eating the body of the 'copter. Except for the stairs, it
was the only way onto the roof. And if zombies
couldn't climb -
- then I'm in some deep shit. The station isn't safe.
She stared thoughtfully at the burning wreck,
weighing her options. The nine-millimeter held a lot
of ammo and she still had two full clips; she could
head back into the street, look for a car with keys in it
and go for help.
Except what about Leon? And that cop was still
Alive, what if there are more people inside, planning
an escape?
She thought she'd held up pretty well on her own so
far, but she also knew she'd feel safer if somebody else
were in charge - a riot squad would be okay, though
she'd settle for some battle-scarred veteran cop with a
shitload of guns. Or Chris; Claire didn't know if she'd
find him at the station, but she firmly believed that he
was still alive. If anyone was equipped to handle
himself in a crisis like this one, it was her brother.
Whether or not she found anybody, she shouldn't
take off without telling Leon; if she didn't, blowing
town instead, and he got killed looking for her...
Decision made. Claire walked for the entrance,
carefully skirting the blaze and scanning the flickering
shadows for movement. When she reached the door,
she closed her eyes for a second, one sweating hand on
the latch.
"I can do this," she said quietly, and although
she didn't sound as confident as she would've liked,
at least her voice didn't tremble or break. She
opened her eyes, then the door; when nothing
jumped out at her from the softly lit hall, she slipped
inside.
EIGHT
CHIEF OF POLICE BRIAN IRONS WAS STAND-
ing in one of his private corridors, trying to catch his
breath, when he felt the shuddering impact rumble
through the building. He heard it, too - heard some-
thing. A distant splintering sound, heavy and abrupt.
The roof, he thought distantly, something on the roof. . .
He didn't bother following the thought to any kind
of conclusion. Whatever had happened, it couldn't
make things any worse.
Irons pushed away from the stone wall with one
well-padded hip, hefting Beverly as gently as he could.
They'd be at the elevator in a moment, then there was
just the short walk to his office; he could rest there,
and then. . .
"And then," he mumbled, "that's the question,
isn't it? And then what?"
Beverly didn't answer. Her perfect features re-
mained still and silent, her eyes closed - but she
seemed to nestle closer to him, her long, slender body
curling against his chest. It was his imagination,
surely.
Beverly Harris, the mayor's daughter. Youthful,
stunning Beverly, who had so often haunted his guilty
dreams with her blond beauty. Irons hugged her
closer and continued toward the elevator, trying not
to let his exhaustion show in case she woke up.
By the time he reached the lift, his back and arms
were aching. He probably should have left her in his
private hobby room, the room he'd always thought of
as the Sanctuary - it was quiet there, and probably
one of the safest areas in the station. But when he'd
decided to go to the office, to collect his journal and a
few personal items, he found that he simply couldn't
stand to leave her behind. She'd looked so vulnerable,
so innocent; he'd promised Harris that he would
watch out for her, and what if she was attacked in his
absence? What if he came back from the office and she
was just ... gone? Gone like everything else ...
A decade of work. Networking, making the connec-
tions, careful positioning... all of it, just like that.
Irons lowered her to the cold floor and opened the
elevator gate, trying desperately not to think about all
that he'd lost. Beverly was the important thing now.
"Going to keep you safe," he murmured, and did one corner of that perfect mouth rise slightly? Did she
know she was safe, that Uncle Brian was taking care
of her? When she was a child, when he used to
frequent the Harrises' for dinner, she'd called him
