probably Irons's. Even from the short time she'd been in his company, she'd ascertained that he wasn't the most stable man who had ever walked; there was no question that he was on Umbrella's payroll, but there was also something about him that just screamed dysfunctional. Ada started down the hall, her dress flats clicking loudly on the scuffed blue tiles; she was already dreading yet another time-consuming mechanical puzzle. Not that there was any help for it; she had assumed from the beginning that the virus was still in the lab, but she couldn't afford to take any chances on passing up an earlier retrieval. The files indicated that there were between eight and twelve one-ounce vials of the stuff, information from a two-week-old video feed – and Birkin's lab was far from impenetrable. With the underground lab connected to the station through the sewer mains, she had to entertain the possibility that the samples had been moved. Besides, Bertolucci could be tucked away in the research library or in the S.T.A.R.S. office on the west side, maybe the darkroom; dead or not, he had to be found. And it would also give her a chance to collect a few more nine-millimeter clips from the fallen RPD. She followed the passage as it led her past a small waiting area, complete with vending machines that had already been pried open and ransacked. As with the rest of the station, the corridor was cold and badly in need of air freshener; she'd grown used to the smell, but the chill was murder. For the hundredth time since abandoning her table at the Arklay, Ada wished that she'd dressed more casually for dinner. The sleeveless tight red tunic dress and clattery shoes were fine for cover, as mission gear, however, the outfit was somewhat less than practical. She reached the end of the hall and carefully opened the door to her left, weapon half-raised. As before, the corridor was clear, yet another testament to the faded elegance of the building – dusky sand– colored walls and symmetrically patterned tiles in this one. The station must have been magnificent once, but years of serving as an institutional facility had leeched away its grandeur; the tattered grand movie– house look and the cold, hopeless atmosphere created a distinctly sinister feel – as if at any moment a cold hand could fall across your shoulder, a soft gust of diseased breath whisper across the back of your neck… Ada frowned again; after this job, she was going to take a very long vacation. Either that, or it was time to find a new career. Her concentration – her ability to focus – wasn't what it used to be. And in her business a slip at the wrong time could literally mean death.
Big bonus. Trent smells like money. I'll ask seven digits, high six minimum.
In her attempts to let her thoughts go, to let animal awareness take over, she found that she couldn't keep out the persistent image that crept into her mind. A memory of young Stacy Kelso, anxiously pushing her hair behind her ears as she talked about her baby brother… After what felt like a very long time, Ada shook the troublesome vision and continued down the hall, promising herself that there would be no more lapses of concentration and wondering why she couldn't make herself believe it.
SEVEN
Leon's boots scuffed shards of broken glass across the floor of the Kendo gun shop as he snapped open drawers, ash-stained sweat trickling down his face. If he couldn't find.50s pretty quick, he was screwed; the few weapons still remaining in the ravaged shop were inaccessible, strung with steel cable, and the front picture window was completely smashed. It wouldn't take long for the creatures to find him, he was down to his last round, and he still had a couple of blocks to go.
Come on, fifty cal action express, somebody in Raccoon must've ordered 'em…
'Yes!'
Fourth drawer, under the deer-rifle case; a half-dozen empty clips and as many boxes of ammo. Leon grabbed a box and turned, slapping it on the counter as he glanced hurriedly at the front of the small shop. Still clear, if you didn't include the dead guy on the floor. He wasn't moving, but from the freshness of the wounds that oozed from his considerable gut, staining his strappy white T, Leon wouldn't have long to linger; he didn't know how long it took for the freshly dead to stand up – and didn't really want to find out. Gotta do it fast anyway, it's like I'm a beacon for those things and this place is easy access… Gaze darting between the crashed front wall and his skittering hands, Leon started to load up. He'd lucked across the gun dealer's, having forgot– ten entirely about it in the dizzying, nightmarish run from the wreck. When the fastest route to the station had turned out to be blocked by a pile-up, the best detour was through Kendo's. It was a coincidence that had undoubtedly saved his life. Even killing two of the ex-living on his way, he'd nearly been over– whelmed by the sheer number of them.
'Uuunh…'
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–
