wall-climbing bug the size of a man was dead when its brains were drooling out of its skull. It was one truth he could hold on to in the face of this madness. 'Deader than shit,' he said, staring down at the twisted, bloody creature, and for just a second, he could feel part of his mind attempting to turn in on itself, to lock him away from what he was seeing. Zombies were bad enough, and he'd finally refused to accept the fact that Raccoon was overrun by the walking dead; they were just sick, that cannibal disease he'd read about, because there was no such thing as zombies except in the movies. Just like there were no real monsters, ei-ther, no giant killing bugs with claws that could walk on walls and scream like it had screamed… 'Wo hay piri,' he whispered, his one-time motto, this time spoken as a plea, his thoughts following in a kind of desperate litany, Don't sweat it, hang loose, be cool. And after a while, it took hold; his heart slowed to almost normal, and he started to feel like a person again, not some mindless, panicking animal. So, there were monsters in Raccoon City. It shouldn't be a surprise, not after the day he'd had; besides, they died like anything else, didn't they? He wasn't going to survive if he lost it, and he'd already been through way too much to give up now. With that, Carlos turned his back on the monster and headed down the alley, forcing himself not to look back. It was dead, and he was alive, and chances were good that there were more of them out there.
Trent might be my only way out, and now I've got… shit! Three minutes, he had three goddamn min-utes. Carlos broke into a run, up a few steps to the single door at the end of the alley and through – and found himself standing in a spacious, well-lit kitchen. A restaurant's kitchen. A quick look around; no one, and quiet except for a soft hiss from a large gas canister standing against the back wall. He took a deep breath but couldn't smell anything; maybe it was something else -
– and I wouldn't leave if it was toxic nerve gas. This has to be it, this is where he told me to go.
He walked through the kitchen, past shining metal counters and stoves, heading toward the dining area. There was a menu on one of the counters, GRILL 13 written across the front in gold script. It was unnerving, how relieved he felt; within a few hours, Trent had gone from being some creepy stranger to his best friend in the world.
I made it, and he said he could help – maybe a res-cue team is already on its way, or he arranged for me to be picked up here… or maybe there are weapons stored in the front, not as good as an evac but I'll take what I can get.
There was an opening in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, a counter where the chefs put the orders up. Carlos could see that the small, slightly darker restaurant was empty, although he took a moment to be certain; dancing light from a still-burn-ing oil lamp wavered over the leatherette booths that lined the walls, casting jittery shadows. He stepped around the serving counter and walked into the room, absently noting a faint scent of fried food lingering in the cool air as he stared around, searching. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he def- initely didn't see it – no unmarked envelope propped up on a table, no mysterious packages, no trench-coated man waiting. There was a pay phone by the front door; Carlos walked over and picked up the re-ceiver but got nothing, just like every other phone in town. He checked his watch for what felt like the thou-sandth time in the past hour and saw that it was 1901, one minute after seven o'clock and he felt a rush of anger, of frustration that only served to increase his un-acknowledged fear. I'm alone, no one knows I'm here and no one can help me. 'I'm here,' he said, turning to face the empty room, his voice rising. 'I made it, I'm here on time and god-damnit, where the hell are you?'
As if on cue, the telephone rang, the shrill sound making him jump, Carlos fumbled for it, his heart thumping dully in his chest, his knees suddenly weak with hope.
'Trent? Is that you?'
A brief pause, and Trent's smooth, musical voice spilled into his ear. 'Hola, Mr. Oliveira! I'm so pleased to hear your voice!' 'Man, not half as glad as I am to hear yours.' Carlos sagged against the wall, gripping the receiver tightly.
'This is some bad shit, amigo, everyone's dead and there are things out there, like – there are monsters, Trent. Can you get me out of here? Tell me you can get me out of here!'
There was another pause, and Trent sighed, a heavy sound. Carlos closed his eyes, already knowing what he would say.
'I'm very sorry, but that's simply out of the question. What I can do is give you information… but surviv-ing, that's your job. And I'm afraid that things are going to get worse, much worse before they get any better.'
Carlos took a deep breath and nodded to himself,knowing that this was what he'd been expecting allalong. He was on his own.'Okay,' he said and opened his eyes, straighteninghis shoulders as he nodded again. 'Tell me.'
NINE
COMMENTS, DESCRIPTION OF REPORTED MISDEMANDOR
– 29-087:
Two of the twelve faux gems that are an integral part of the 'clock-lock' at the ornamental main gate of the municipal complex have been removed, between (approximately) 2100 hours yesterday (September 24) and 0500 hours this morn-ing. With many local businesses boarded up at this time, loot-ers have been defacing town property and attempting to take what they believe to be valuable. This officer believes that the perp thought the gems were real, and stopped after removing two (one blue, one green) when he/she realized they were only glass. This gate (aka 'City Hall' gate) is only one of several en-trances/exits that lead to the municipal complex. The gate is now locked due to its complicated (and in this officer's opin-ion, ridiculous) design, which requires that all gems be pres-ent for the gate to be unlocked. Until the City Parks Depart-ment removes the gate, or until the two gems can be recov-ered and reinstalled, this entrance/exit will remain locked. Due to the lack of available manpower at this time, there is no choice but to suspend the investigation of this case. reporting officer Marvin Branagh
Additional comments, case 29-087, M. Branagh Sept. 26
One of the missing gems (blue) has turned up inside the RPD building. It's 2000 hours. Bill Hansen, de-ceased owner of the restaurant Grill 13, was apparently carry-ing the fake gem when he came here seeking shelter earlier this evening. Mr. Hansen died shortly after arriving, killed by police fire after succumbing to the effects of the cannibal dis-ease. The gem was found on his person, though I'm this officer has no way of knowing if he stole it or where the other gem might be. With the city now under martial law, no effort will be made to find the second gem or to put this one back – but with sev-eral of the streets surrounding the municipal complex now impassable, the need for these gems may at some point be-come relevant. On a personal note: this will be my last written report until the current crisis has passed. Paperwork doesn't seem – at this time, the need to document misdemeanors seems sec-ondary to the enforcement of martial law, nor do I believe my-self to be alone in this assessment. Marvin Branagh, RPD Jill put the typed report and handwritten addendum back into the evidence drawer, sadly wondering if Mar-vin was still alive; it seemed unlikely, which was a thoroughly depressing thought. He was one of the best officers in the RPD, always nice as hell without sacri-ficing a professional demeanor.
Right up to the end, a real pro. Goddamm Um-brella.
She reached into the drawer and took out the dia-mond-shaped piece of blue glass, gazing at it thought-fully. The rest of the evidence room had been a bust, the locked cabinets and drawers yielding nothing useful as far as weapons went; obviously, she wasn't the only one who'd thought to check it for guns and ammo. The gem, on the other hand… Marvin was right about the streets being blocked all around the City Hall gate; she'd tried to get through the area once already and had found most of it barricaded. Not that there was much over there – the gate opened into a small garden with paved walkways, really a showcase for a rather boring statue of ex-mayor Michael Warren. Past that was City Hall, not used for much since the new courthouse had been built uptown, and a couple of paths that led north and west, respec-tively – an auto shop and a few used-car lots if you veered north, and to the west…
'Oh, shit, the trolley!'
Why hadn't she thought of it before? Jill felt a rush of excitement, hampered only slightly by the urge to slap her forehead. She'd totally forgotten about it. The old-fashioned two-car train's scenic route was a tourist thing, the city only ran it summers anymore, but it went all the way out to the westernmost suburbs, past City Park and through a few of the more expensive neigh-borhoods. There was an allegedly abandoned Umbrella facility out that way, too, where there might still be working cars and clear roads. Assuming it was in run-ning condition, the trolley would be the easiest way out of the city, hands down.
Except with all the blockades, the only way to get to it is through that locked gate – and I've only got one of the jewels.
She didn't have the equipment to take the heavy, over-sized gate down by herself… but Marvin's report said that Bill Hansen had had the blue gem, and his restau-rant was only three or four blocks away. There was no
