Zombies.
No, no way, that was fiction, but maybe some kind of a disease, mimicking the symptoms. He had to tell the others. He turned and grabbed at the handle, but the heavy door wouldn't move, it must have locked itself when he'd stumbled.
Behind him, a wet movement. Chris spun, eyes wide as the twitching creature clawed at the wooden floor, pulling itself toward him in an eager, singleminded silence. Chris realized that it was drooling, and the sight of the sticky pink rivulets pooling to the wood floor finally spurred him to action.
He fired again, two shots into the thing's decaying, upturned face. Dark holes opened up in its knobby skull, sending tiny rivers of fluid and fleshy tissue through its lower jaw. With a heavy sigh, the rotting thing settled to the floor in a spreading red lake.
Chris didn't want to make any bets on it staying down. He gave one more futile yank on the door and then stepped carefully past the body, moving down the corridor. He rattled the handle of a door on his left, but it was locked. There was a tiny etching in the key plate, what looked like a sword; he filed that bit of information into his confused, whirling thoughts and continued on, gripping the Beretta tightly.
There was an offshoot to his right with a single door, but he ignored it, wanting to find a way to circle back to the front hall. The others must have heard the shots, but he had to assume that there were more creatures running around here like the one he'd killed. The rest of the team might already have their hands full.
There was a door at the end of the hall on the left, where the corridor turned. Chris hurried toward it, the putrid scent of the creature – the zombie, call it what it is – – making him want to gag. As he neared the door, he realized that the smell was actually getting worse, intensifying with each step.
He heard the soft, hungry moan as his hand touched the knob, even as it registered that he only had two bullets left in his clip. In the shadows to his right, movement.
Gotta reload, get somewhere safe.
Chris jerked the door open and stepped into the arms of the shambling creature that waited on the other side, its peeling fingers grasping at him as it lunged for his throat.
Three shots. Seconds later, two more, the sounds distant but distinct in the palatial lobby.
Chris!
Jill, why don't you… Wesker started, but Barry didn't let him finish.
I'm going, too, he said, already starting for the door on the east wall. Chris wouldn't waste shots like that unless he had to; he needed help.
Wesker relented quickly, nodding. Go. I'll wait here.
Barry opened the door, Jill right behind. They walked into a huge dining room, not as wide as the front hall but at least as long. There was another door at the opposite end, past a grandfather clock that ticked loudly in the frigid, dusty air.
Barry jogged toward it, revolver in hand, feeling tense and worried. Christ, what a balls-up this operation was! S.T.A.R.S. teams were often sent into risky situations where the circumstances were unusual, but this was the first time since he'd been a rookie that Barry felt like things had gone totally out of control.
Joseph was dead, Chickenheart Vickers had left them to be eaten by dogs from hell, and now Chris was in trouble. Wesker shouldn't have sent him in alone.
Jill reached the door first, touching the handle with slim fingers and looking to him. Barry nodded and she pushed it open, going in low and left.
Barry took the other side, both of them sweeping an empty corridor.
Chris? Jill called out quietly, but there was no answer. Barry scowled, sniffing the air; something smelled like rotting fruit.
I'll check the doors, Barry said. Jill nodded and edged to the left, alert and focused.
Barry moved toward the first door, feeling good that Jill was at his back. He'd thought she was kind of bitchy when she'd first transferred, but she was proving to be a bright and capable soldier, a welcome addition to the Alphas.
Jill let out a high-pitched gasp of surprise and Barry spun, the scent of decay suddenly thick in the narrow hall.
Jill was backing away from an opening at the end of the corridor, her weapon trained on something Barry couldn't see.
Stop! Her voice was high and shaky, her expression horrified and she fired, once, twice, still backing toward Barry, her breathing fast and shallow.
Get clear, left! He raised the Colt as she moved out of the way, as a tall man stepped into view. The figure's arms were stretched out like a sleepwalker's, the hands frail and grasping.
Barry saw the creature's face then and didn't hesitate. He fired, a.357 round peeling the top of its ashen skull away in an explosive burst, blood coursing down its strange, terrible features and staining the cataracts of its pale, rolling eyes.
It pitched back, sprawling face-up at Jill's feet.
Barry hurried to her side, stunned.
What… he started, then saw what was on the carpet in front of them, laying in the small sitting area that marked the end of the corridor.
For a moment, Barry thought it was Chris, until he saw the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo insignia on the vest, and felt a different kind of horror set in as he struggled to recognize the features. The Bravo had been decapitated, the head laying a foot away from the corpse, the face completely covered in gore.
Oh jeez, it's Ken.
Kenneth Sullivan, one of the best field scouts Barry had ever known and a hell of a nice guy. There was a gaping, ragged wound in his chest, chunks of partly eaten tissue and gut strewn around the bloody hole.
His left hand was missing, and there was no weapon nearby; it must have been his gun that Joseph had found out in the woods.
Barry looked away, sickened. Ken had been a quiet, decent sort, did a lot of work in chemistry. He'd had a teen-aged son who lived with his ex in California.
Barry thought of his own girls at home, Moira and Poly, and felt a surge of helpless fear for them. He wasn't afraid of death, but the thought of them growing up without a father.
Jill dropped into a crouch next to his ravaged body and rifled quickly through the belt pack. She shot an apologetic look at Barry, but he gave her a slight nod.
They needed the ammo; Ken certainly didn't.
She came up with two clips for a nine-millimeter and tucked them into her hip pocket. Barry turned and stared down at Ken's murderer in disgust and wonder.
He had no doubt that he was looking at one of the cannibal killers that had been preying upon Raccoon City. It had a crusty scum of red around its mouth and gore-encrusted nails, as well as a ragged shirt that was stiff with dried blood. What was weird was how dead it looked.
Barry had once done a covert hostage rescue in Ecuador, where a group of farmers had been held for weeks by a band of insane guerrilla rebels. Several of the hostages had been killed early in the siege, and after the S.T.A.R.S. managed to capture the rebels, Barry had gone with one of the survivors to record the deaths. The four victims had been shot, their bodies dumped behind the small wooden shack that the rebels had taken over. After three weeks in the South American sun, the skin on their faces had shriveled, the cracking, lined flesh pulling away from sinew and bone. He still remembered those faces clearly, and saw them again now as he looked down at the fallen creature. It wore the face of death.
Besides which, it smells like a slaughterhouse on a hot day. Somebody forgot to tell this guy that dead people don't walk around.
He could see the same sickened confusion on Jill's face, the same questions in her eyes, but for now, there weren't any answers; they had to find Chris and regroup.
Together, they moved back down the corridor and checked all three doors, rattling handles and pushing at the heavy wood frames. All were securely locked.
But Chris had to have gone through one of them, there's nowhere else he could have gone.
It didn't make sense, and short of breaking the doors down, there was nothing they could do about it.
We should report this to Wesker, Jill said, and Barry nodded agreement. If they'd stumbled into the hiding place
