according to our police scanner, the attacks are multiply-
ing exponentially.
I believe that it may already be too late for all of us. The
disease isn't airborne or we'd all have it, but the evidence
strongly suggests that you get it when you're bitten by one
of them, just like in the movies I used to watch on the Dou-
ble Creature Feature when I was a boy. That would explain
the incredible growth rate of the attacks - but it also tells
me that unless the cavalry comes in very soon, we're all
going to die, one way or another. The cops have closed
down the press, but I'm going to try to get the word out
anyway, even if I have to go door-to-door. Dave, Tom, Kathy,
Mr. Bradson - everyone else has gone home to be with
their families. They don't care about letting the people
know anymore, but it's all I have left. I don't want to
I just heard glass breaking downstairs. Somebody's
coming.
There wasn't any more. Carlos lowered the crum-
pled sheets he'd found, placing them on the reporter's
desk, his mouth a grim line. He'd killed two zombies
in the hallway... maybe one of them had been the
writer, a distressing thought made all the worse by its
application - how long had it taken for the writer to change?
And if he's right about the disease, how long does
Randy have?
A police scanner and some kind of handheld radio
sat on a countertop across the room, but suddenly all he
could think of was Randy, downstairs and getting
sicker, waiting for Carlos to come back. He'd held up
pretty well so far, managing to crawl through two of
the blockades with only a little help, but by the time
they'd reached the Raccoon Press building, he'd hardly
been able to stand up on his own. Carlos had left him
propped up beneath a dead pay phone on the first floor,
not wanting to drag him up the stairs; a few small fires
were smoldering on the lower landing, and Carlos had
been afraid that Randy might trip and get burned...
... which might be the least of his worries right now. Puta, what a balls-up. Why didn't they tell us what we
were getting into?
Carlos choked down the despair that question raised;
it was something he could take up with the proper au-
thorities once they got out of here. He'd probably end
up being deported, since he was only in the country
through Umbrella, but so what? At the moment, going
back to his old life sounded like a picnic.
He hurried to the radio equipment and switched the
scanner on, not sure what to do next; he'd never used
one, and his only experience with two-way radios was
a set of walkie-talkies he'd once played with as a kid.
200 CHANNEL MULTI-BAND was written on top of the scanner, and there was actually a scan button. He
pushed it and watched a small digital readout flash
meaningless numbers at him. Except for a few static
bursts and clicks, nothing happened.
Great. That's real helpful.
The radio was what he wanted, anyway, and it at
least looked like a walkie-talkie, though it said, AM/SSB TRANSCEIVER on the side. He picked it up, wondering if there were channels, or if there was some memory con-
trol button and heard footsteps out in the hall. Slow, dragging
footsteps.
He dropped the radio on the counter and hefted his
assault rifle, turning toward the door that opened into
the hallway, already recognizing the shuffling, aimless
steps of a zombie. The large newspaper office was the
only room on the second floor; unless he wanted to
jump out a window, the hall and stairs were the only
way out. He'd have to kill it to get back to...
Oh, shit, it had to go past Randy, what if it got to
him? What if...
What if it was Randy?
"Please, no," he whispered, but once the possibility occurred to him, he couldn't not think about it. He
backed across the room, feeling sweat slide down the
back of his neck. The footsteps continued, getting
closer - and was that a limp he heard, the sound of one
foot dragging?
Please, don't be, I don't want to have to kill him!
The footsteps paused just outside the door - and then
Randy Thomas stepped, lurched into view, his expres-
sion blank and free of pain, strings of drool hanging
from his lower lip.
"Randy? Stop there, 'mano, okay?" Carlos heard his voice break with dismal fear. "Say something, okay? Randy?"
A kind of dread acceptance filled Carlos as Randy
tilted his head toward him and continued forward, rais-
ing his arms. A low, gurgling moan erupted from his
throat, and it was the loneliest sound Carlos thought
he'd ever heard. Randy didn't really see him, didn't un-
derstand what he was saying; Carlos had become food,
nothing more.
"Lo siento mucho," he said, and again in English, in case there was any part of Randy left, "I'm sorry. Sleep now, Randy."
Carlos aimed carefully and fired, looking away as
soon as he saw the grouping of holes appear just above
Randy's right eyebrow, hearing but not seeing his com-
rade's body hit the floor. For a long time he simply
stood, shoulders slumped as he gazed at his own boots,
wondering how he'd gotten so tired so fast ... and
telling himself there was nothing else he could have
done.
At last, he walked over and picked up the radio, hitting
the switch and thumbing the send control. "This is Carlos Oliveira, member of Umbrella's U.B.C.S. team, squad
Alpha, Platoon Delta. I'm at the Raccoon City newspaper
office. Can anyone hear me? We were cut off from the rest
of the platoon, and now we - I need help. Request imme-
diate assistance. If you can hear this, please respond."
Nothing but static; maybe he needed to try specific
channels; he could go through them one by one and
just keep repeating the message. He turned the radio
over, looking at all of the buttons, and saw, stamped
into the backing, RANGE FIVE MILES.
Which means I can call anybody in town, how use-
ful - except nobody's gonna answer, because they're
dead. Like Randy. Like me.
Carlos closed his eyes, trying to think, trying to feel
anything like hope. And he remembered Trent. He
checked his watch, realizing how crazy this was, think-
ing that it was the only thing that made sense anymore;
Trent had known, he'd known what was going on and
he'd told Carlos where to go when the shit came down.
Without Randy to think about and with no clear path
out of town...
Grill 13. Carlos had just over an hour to find it.
Jill had just reached the S.T.A.R.S. office when the
communication console at the back of the room crack-
led to life. She slammed the door behind her and ran to
it, words spitting out through a haze of static.
"... is Carlos ... Raccoon ... were cut off... pla-
toon ... help ... assistance ... if you can hear... re-
spond ..."
Jill snatched up the headset and hit the transmit
switch. "This is Jill Valentine, Special Tactics and Res-cue Squad! You're not coming in very clear, please re-
peat - what's your location? Do you read me? Over!"
She strained to hear something, anything and then
saw that the light over the transmit relay switch wasn't on. She tapped several buttons and jiggled the switch,
but the little green light refused to show itself.
"Damn it!" She knew dick about communications, too. Whatever was broken, she wasn't going to be the
one to fix it.
Well, at least I'm not the only one up Shit Creek
without a paddle...
Sighing, Jill dropped the headset and turned to look
at the rest of the office. Other than a few loose papers
scattered on the floor, it looked the same as always. A
few desks cluttered with files, PCs, and personal items,
some overloaded shelves, a fax machine - and behind
the door, the tall, reinforced steel gun safe that she
hoped to God wasn't empty.
That thing out there isn't going to die easy. That
S.T.A.R.S. killer.
She shivered, feeling the knot of fear in her lower belly
clench and grow heavier. Why it hadn't broken down the
doors and killed her, she didn't know; it was easily strong
enough. Just thinking about it made her want to crawl
into a dark place somewhere and hide. It made the few
zombies she'd passed on her way through the building
seem as dangerous as infants. Not true, of course, but
after seeing what the Tyrant-thing did to Brad...
Jill swallowed, hard, and pushed it out of her mind.
Dwelling on it wasn't going to help.
Time to get to business. She stepped to her desk, ran-domly thinking that when she'd last sat there, she'd
been a totally different person; it seemed like a lifetime
had gone by since then. She opened the top drawer and
started to dig - and there, behind a box of paper clips,
was the set of tools she'd always kept at the office.
Yes! She lifted the small cloth bundle and unrolled it, looking over the picks and torsion bars with a practiced
eye. Sometimes having grown up as the daughter of a
professional thief paid off big. She'd been having to
shoot at locks for the last few days, which wasn't
nearly as easy or safe as people seemed to think; hav-
ing a decent lockpick set along would be an enormous
help.
Besides which, I don't have the key for the gun
safe - but then, that never stopped me before. She'd practiced when no one was around just to see if she
could do it and had experienced very little trouble; the
safe was ancient.
Jill crouched in front of the door, inserted the bar and
pick, and gently felt for the tumblers. In less than a
minute, she was rewarded for her efforts; the heavy
door swung open, and there, in plain sight, was the
stainless steel answer to at least one of her recent
prayers.
"Bless you, Barry Burton," she breathed, lifting the heavy revolver off the otherwise empty lower shelf. A
Colt Python .357 Magnum, six-shot with a swing-out
cylinder. Barry had been the weapons specialist for the
Alpha team and was a total gun nut besides. He'd
taken her shooting several times, always insisting that
she try out one of his Colts; he had three that she knew
of, all different calibers - but the .357 packed the
biggest wallop. That he'd left it behind, either by mis-
take or on purpose, seemed like a miracle ... as did
the twenty-plus rounds in a box on the floor of the
safe. There weren't any shotgun shells, but there was
one magazine's worth of 9mm rounds loose in one of
the drawers.
Worth the trip, at least - and with the picks I can go
through the downstairs evidence room now, check for
confiscated materials...
Things were looking up. Now all she had to do was
sneak out of the city in the dark, avoiding zombies, vio-
lent, genetically altered animals, and a Tyrant-creature
that had proclaimed itself nemesis to the S.T.A.R.S.
A Nemesis made for her.
Amazingly, the thought made her smile. Add an im-
pending explosion and some bad weather to the mix,
she'd have herself a party.
"Whee," she said softly and started to load the Mag-num with hands that weren't quite steady, and hadn't
been for a long time.
EIGHT
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