dead.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, sitting back on her heels. It seemed inconceivable that he was gone, that he'd died in the short time she'd been shooting at the dog-things, and a wash of guilt swept over her. If she'd been faster, if she'd packed his wound better...
. . . But you didn't, and the longer you sit here feeling bad about it, the more likely it is that you '11 end up joining him. Get moving.
Rebecca felt new guilt at the insensitive thought, but a glance at the open windows got her on her feet. She'd have to assess her culpability later, when it was safe to do so.
Her radio beeped. She grabbed it, backing away from the windows, from poor Edward.
Reception was bad, but she could tell it was Enrico. She held the speaker to her ear, hugely relieved to hear the captain's strong voice in between bursts of static. “. . . you copy? . . . more information on . . . Coen...”
Rebecca reluctantly stepped closer to the windows, hoping to hear better, but the static barely
lifted.
“. . . institutionalized . . . killed at least twenty-three people ... careful...”
What? Rebecca pressed the transmit button. “Enrico, this is Rebecca! Do you read me? Over.”
A wave of static.
“Captain! S.T.A.R.S. Bravo, do you copy?”
Long seconds of more static. She'd lost the signal. Rebecca put the radio back on her belt. She had to get to the 'copter, tell the others about Edward, about Billy and the train and the terrible danger they were all facing. She changed clips for the nine-millimeter, taking a moment to reload the half spent one. With a final sorrowful look at her fallen teammate, she stepped over a dog body, doing her best to avoid slipping in the pool of blood surrounding it, and started back toward the passenger car.
Although she knew she should be eager to run across the missing convict, to arrest him, she hoped she wouldn't see Billy again. Edward's death, the dogs... She felt unsteady, incapable of taking charge. And twenty- three people? She shuddered, amazed that he hadn't killed her when he'd had the chance.
In the passenger car, she saw the result of the two shots she'd heard earlier. The disease victim she'd thought had moved, but hadn't been sure about... It seemed he'd been alive, after all. He must have tried to attack Billy, the way the others had gone after her. She paused at the door back to the car she'd originally come through, looking over the decayed bodies of the people she'd killed. If Edward was right, if the woods were full of these things, she was going to have to move fast—
—and maybe Billy didn't kill those marines.
Rebecca blinked. It hadn't occurred to her earlier, but the jeep may have been attacked, allowing
Billy to escape—forcing him to run, in fact. It seemed likely. The two dead men had been mauled, not just shot; the dogs could have done it.
She shook her head. It didn't matter. He was a killer, either way, and if she wasn't up to the job of apprehending him, she'd better go get someone who could. As serious as the unknown sickness was, they couldn't just let Coen run.
She left the passenger car behind, hurrying through the empty car to the side door, hoping that the others were all back at the helicopter, safe. She reached for the handle, lifted it. She wasn't sure how to break the news about Edward, that was going to be rough—
Rebecca frowned, pushing at the sliding door, which was refusing to slide. She tried the handle again, then again . .. and then kicked the door, cursing silently. It was stuck—or Billy had locked it, maybe to keep her from following him.
“Damn.” She chewed at her lower lip, remembering that key in the dead worker's hand. She hadn't managed to pull it free, and then had forgotten about it after her run-in with Billy, not to mention Edward and the dogs . . . But then, who needed keys? She could just as easily crawl out through one of the broken windows, no big deal—
She heard a sound, a door closing, and looked to her left, toward the back of the train. Someone was moving around in the next car over. Another sick passenger, probably. Or perhaps Billy was still on board. Either way, she was ready to get off, and she had her choice of windows to exit.
Unless... it's someone else back there. Someone who needs help.
It could even be another of the S.T.A.R.S., and now that she'd thought of it, she felt duty-bound to take a look, sensible or not. She walked quickly to the end of the empty car, readying herself for whatever would come next. It didn't seem possible that anything weirder could happen tonight—but then, most of what had already happened didn't seem possible. She wanted to be prepared for anything.
She opened the door to the next car and took it in with a sweep of the nine-millimeter, vastly relieved to find it empty and blood-free. There were stairs going up on the left, a door straight ahead. That must have been the door she'd heard closing ...
. . . And now it opened, and out walked Billy Coen.
Billy stopped, stared at the girl, at the weapon in her hand—and was glad. That she was still alive, that she had a gun and apparently knew how to use it. After what he'd just learned, having a partner might be his only chance to survive.
“This is bad,” he said, and could see that she knew he wasn't referring to the gun in his face. She didn't answer, only watched him steadily, her nine-millimeter unwavering, and he raised his hands, understanding that game time was over. The dangling handcuff slapped his wrist.
“Those people—the ones you had to kill—they were sick,” he said. “One of them tried to bite me. I shot him, and found a notebook in his jacket. May I—?“
He started to lower one of his hands, to reach for his back pocket.
“No! Keep your hands up!” she said, jerking the weapon. She still seemed scared, but was apparently prepared to arrest him.
“Okay, fine,” he said. “You get it. It's in my right back pocket.”
“You're kidding, right? I'm not coming near you.”
Billy sighed. “It's important, some kind of a diary. It doesn't make a lot of sense, something about an investigation into a lab that's been abandoned or destroyed—but it also talks about a bunch of murders that have happened around here, and the possibility that a virus has been released. Something called T-virus.”
He saw a spark of interest, but she was playing it safe. “I'll read it after you put that handcuff back on,” she said.
He shook his head. “Whatever's happening, it's dangerous. Someone locked all the exits, have you noticed? Why don't we cooperate, until we can get out of this?”
“Cooperate?” Her eyebrows rose. “With you?'
He stepped closer, lowering his hands, ignoring the gun in his face. “Listen, little girl—if you haven't noticed, there's some pretty freaked out shit on this train. I, for one, want to get out of here, and we don't stand a chance of doing it alone.”
She didn't lower the gun. “You expect me to trust you? I don't need your help, I can handle this on my own. And don't call me little girl.”
She was starting to piss him off, but he reined it in. He didn't need her as an enemy. “All right, Miss Do-It- Yourself,” he said. “What should I call you?”
“The name is Rebecca Chambers,” she said. “That's Officer Chambers to you.”
“Well then, Rebecca, why don't you tell me your plan of action?” he asked. “You gonna arrest me? Great, do it. Call the whole force in, and tell 'em to bring heavy artillery. We can wait here for them.”
For the first time, she seemed to falter. “Radio's out,” she said.
Hell. “How'd you get here?” he asked. “Air or ground? How close is your transport?”
“We came in by 'copter, but. .. there was a malfunction,” she said. “Not that it's any of your business. Put the cuff back on. My team is waiting outside.”
Billy lowered his hands, slowly. “How far? Are you sure they're still around?”
The girl scowled. “This isn't twenty questions, Lieutenant. I'm taking you out of here. Turn around and face the wall.”
“No.” Billy crossed his arms. “Shoot me if you have to, but there's no way I'm giving up my weapon or letting you cuff me.”
