Resident Evil Read online

  She read the pertinent parts aloud. “‘Court order for transportation... prisoner William Coen, ex-lieutenant, twenty-six years old. Court-martialed and sentenced to death, July 22nd. Prisoner is to be transferred to the Ragithon base for execution.’” The lieutenant had been convicted of first-degree murder.

  Edward pulled the clipboard from her hands, saying what was already formulating in Rebecca’s mind, his voice heavy with anger. “Those poor soldiers. They were just doing their jobs, and that scum murdered them and escaped.”

  Enrico took the clipboard away from him, scanning it quickly. “All right, everyone. Change of plan. We may have an escaped killer on our hands. Let’s separate and survey the immediate area, see if we can’t locate Lieutenant Billy. Keep your guard up, and report back in fifteen, regardless.”

  There were nods all around. Rebecca took a deep breath as the others started to move out, checking her watch, determined to be as professional as anyone else on the team. Fifteen minutes alone, no big deal. What could happen in fifteen minutes? Alone. In the dark, dark woods.

  “Got your radio?”

  Rebecca jumped and turned at the sound of Edward’s voice, the big man standing directly behind her. The mechanic patted her on the shoulder, smiling.

  “Easy, kiddo.”

  Rebecca smiled back at him, though she despised being called “kiddo.” Edward was only twenty-six, for God’s sake. She tapped the unit on her belt.

  “Check.”

  Edward nodded, stepping away. His message was clear, and reassuring. She wasn’t really alone, not as long as she had her radio. She looked around, saw that the several of the others were already out of sight. Kevin, still in the pilot’s seat, was going through the briefcase that she’d found. He saw her and snapped her a salute. Rebecca gave him a thumbs-up and squared her shoulders, drawing her weapon once more and heading out into the night. Overhead, thunder rumbled.

  * * *

  Albert Wesker sat in the treatment plant’s Con B1, the room dark except for the flicker from a bank of observation monitors, six of them, each changing view on five-second rotations. There were shots from every level of the training facility, the upper and lower floors of the factory and water treatment plant, and the tunnel that connected the two. He gazed at the soundless black-and-white screens without really looking at them; most of his attention was focused on the incoming transmissions from the cleanup crew. The three-man team—well, two and a pilot—was en route by ’copter, and mostly silent; they were professionals, after all, not given to macho banter or juvenile jokes, which meant Wesker was hearing a lot of static. That was all right; the white noise went well with the blank and staring faces he saw on the monitors, the ravaged bodies slumped in corners, the men who’d been infected shambling aimlessly through empty corridors. Like the Arklay mansion and labs only a few miles away, White Umbrella’s private training grounds and connected facilities had been hit by the virus.

  “ETA thirty minutes, over,” the pilot said, his voice crackling through the dimly lit room.

  Wesker leaned in. “Copy that.”

  Silence again. There was no need to talk about what would happen when they reached the train... and though the channel was scrambled, it was best not to say more than was necessary, anyway. Umbrella had been built on a foundation of secrecy, a characteristic of the pharmaceutical giant that was still honored by everyone in the upper echelons of management. Even in the company’s legitimate dealings, the less said the better.

  It’s all coming down, Wesker thought idly, watching the screens. Spencer’s mansion and the surrounding labs had gone down in the middle of May. White Umbrella’s take on it had been “accidental,” the lab locked down until the infected researchers and staff became “ineffective.” Mistakes happened, after all. But the training facility nightmare that was still playing out in front of him had followed not a month later... and only a few hours ago, the engineer of Umbrella’s private train, the Ecliptic Express, had pushed the biohazard panic button.

  So, the lockdown didn’t work, the virus leaked and spread. It’s that simple... isn’t it?

  There were a handful of infected grunts in the training facility’s dining room, one of them walking in looping circles around the once-handsome table. He was leaking some viscous fluid out of a nasty head wound as he staggered along, oblivious to his whereabouts, to pain, to everything. Wesker tapped at the control panel beneath the monitor, keeping the surveillance from moving to the next picture. He sat back in his chair, watching the doomed walker as he circled the table yet again.

  “Sabotage, maybe,” he said softly. He couldn’t be sure. It was set up to look natural—a spill at the Arklay lab, an incomplete lockdown. A few weeks later, a couple of missing hikers, likely caused by an escaped test subject or two, and a few weeks more, infection at a second White Umbrella facility. It was highly improbable that one of the virus carriers would just happen to blunder their way to one of Raccoon’s other labs, but it was possible... except now there was the train to consider. And it didn’t feel like an accident. It felt... planned.

  Hell, I might have done it myself, if I’d thought of it. He’d been looking for a way out for some time now, tired of working for people who were obviously his inferiors... and well aware that too much time on White Umbrella’s payroll wasn’t good for the health. Now they wanted him to lead the S.T.A.R.S. into the Arklay mansion and labs, to find out just how well Umbrella’s war pets fared against armed soldiers. Did they give a shit if he died in the process? Not so long as he recorded the data first, he was sure.

  Researchers, doctors, techs—anyone who worked for White Umbrella for more than a decade or two had a habit of winding up missing or dead, eventually. George Trevor and his family, Dr. Marcus, Dees, Dr. Darius, Alexander Ashford... and those were just some of the bigger names. God only knew how many of the little people had ended up in shallow graves somewhere... or turned up as test subjects A, B, and C.

  The corner of Wesker’s mouth twitched. Come to think of it, he had a fairly good idea of how many. He’d been working for White Umbrella since the late seventies, most of that in the Raccoon area, and had watched the docs run through quite a few test subjects, many he had helped procure himself. It was well past his time to get out... and if he could get the data the big boys wanted, he might just be able to throw himself a little bidding war, a going-away present to fund his retirement. White Umbrella wasn’t the only group interested in bioweapons research.

  But first a cleanup for the train. And this place, he thought, watching as the soldier with the head wound tripped over a chair leg and went down hard. The training facility was connected to the “private” water treatment plant by an underground tunnel; it would all have to be cleared.

  A few seconds passed, and the soldier onscreen staggered to his feet again, continuing on his mindless quest to nowhere... and now there appeared to be a dinner fork sticking out of his upper right shoulder, a little souvenir from his fall. The soldier didn’t notice, of course. A charming little disease. It had been the same kind of scene at the Arklay labs, Wesker was sure; the last few desperate phone calls from the quarantined lab had painted a vivid picture of just how effective the T-virus really was. That would have to be cleaned up, too... but not until after he got the S.T.A.R.S. out there for a little training exercise.

  It would be an interesting match. The S.T.A.R.S. were good—he’d handpicked half of them himself—but they’d never seen anything like the T-virus. The dying soldier on the screen was a prime example—hot with the recombinant virus, he went on with his endless tour of the dining room, slow and mostly brainless. He also felt no pain—and he would attack anyone or anything that happened across his path with no hesitation, the virus continually seeking new hosts to infect. Although the original spill was allegedly airborne, after this long, the virus would only be spread by bodily fluids. By blood, or, say, a bite... And the soldier was just a man, after all; the T-virus worked on all manners of living tissue, and
there were a number of other... animals... to see in action, from laboratory triumphs to local wildlife.

  Enrico should have the Bravos out by now, searching for the latest missing hikers, but it was doubtful they’d find anything where he was planning to look. Sometime soon, Wesker would see about organizing an Alpha-Bravo camp-out at the “deserted” Spencer mansion. Then he’d wipe out the evidence and be on his merry, wealthy way, to hell with White Umbrella, to hell with his life as a double-agent, playing with the petty lives of men and women he didn’t give a shit about.

  The dying man on the screen fell down once again, dragged himself to his feet, and soldiered on.

  “Go for the gold, baby,” Wesker said, and chuckled, the sound echoing out through the empty dark.

  * * *

  Something moved in the bushes. Something bigger than a squirrel.

  Rebecca spun toward the sound, aiming the flashlight and nine-millimeter at the shrub. The light caught the last of the movement, the leaves still shaking, the beam from her flashlight trembling along with them. She took a step closer, swallowing dryly, counting backward from ten. Whatever it was, it was gone now.

  A raccoon, is all. Or maybe somebody’s dog got loose.

  She looked at her watch, sure that it must be time to head back, and saw that she’d been on her own for just over five minutes. She hadn’t seen or heard anyone else since she’d walked away from the helicopter; it was as though everyone else had fallen off the face of the earth.

  Or I have, she thought darkly, lowering the handgun slightly, turning to check her position. She’d been heading roughly southwest from the landing point; she’d continue on a few more minutes, then—

  Rebecca blinked, surprised to see a metal wall beneath the flashlight’s beam, not ten meters away. She played the light across the surface, saw windows, a door—

  “A train,” she breathed, frowning slightly. It seemed like she remembered something about a track up here... Umbrella, the pharmaceutical corporation, had a private line that ran from Latham to Raccoon City, didn’t they? She wasn’t too certain on the history—she wasn’t a local—but she was pretty sure the company had been founded in Raccoon. Umbrella’s headquarters had moved off to Europe some time ago, but they still owned practically the entire town.

  So what’s it doing sitting up here, dead in the woods at this time of night? She ran the light up and down the train, saw that there were five tall cars, each two stories high. ECLIPTIC EXPRESS was written just below the roof of the car in front of her. There were a few lights on, but they were faint, barely casting through the windows... several of which were broken. She thought she saw a person’s silhouette near one of the unbroken ones, but it wasn’t moving. Someone asleep, maybe.

  Or hurt, or dead. Maybe this thing is stopped because Billy Coen found his way onto the track.

  God, that was a thought. He could be inside now, with hostages. She should definitely call for backup. She started to reach for her radio, then paused.

  Or maybe the train broke down two weeks ago and it’s been here ever since, and all you’ll find inside is a colony of woodchucks. Wouldn’t the team have a laugh over that? They’d be nice about it, but she’d have to endure weeks, maybe months of gentle ribbing, calling for backup over a deserted train.

  She checked her watch again, saw that two minutes had passed since the last check... and felt a drop of cool liquid splash on her nose. Then another on her arm. Then the soft, musical patter of a hundred drops against leaves and dirt, then thousands as the sky opened up, the storm finally beginning.

  The rain decided it for her; a quick look inside before she headed back, just to make sure everything was the way it was supposed to be. If Billy wasn’t around, she’d at least be able to report back that the train appeared to be clear. And if he was...

  “You’ll have to deal with me,” she murmured, the sound lost to the growing storm as she approached the silent train.

  TWO

  Billy sat on the floor between two rows of seats, working at the handcuffs with a paper clip he’d found on the floor. One of the cuffs was off, the right one, bashed open when the jeep had gone over, but unless he wanted to be wearing a jangly and rather incriminating bracelet, he had to get the other one off.

  Get it off and get the hell out of here, he thought, pushing at the lock with the thin piece of metal. He didn’t look up, didn’t need to remind himself of his whereabouts; he didn’t have to. The air was heavy with the scent of blood, it was splattered all over the place, and although the train car he’d found was empty of bodies, he had no doubt that the other cars were full of them.

  The dogs, has to be those dogs... though who let them on?

  The same guy they’d seen in the woods, had to be. The guy who’d stepped in front of the jeep, sending it crashing out of control. Billy had been thrown clear and except for a few bruises, was pretty much unscathed. His MP escorts, Dickson and Elder, had both been trapped beneath the overturned vehicle. They’d been alive, though. The human roadstop, whoever he was, was nowhere to be seen.

  It had been a tough minute or two, standing there in the gathering dark, the hot, oily smell of gas in his face, his body aching, trying to decide—run for it, or radio for help? He didn’t want to die, didn’t deserve to die, unless being trusting and stupid was an offense worthy of death. But he couldn’t leave them, either, two men pinned under a ton of twisted metal, injured and barely conscious. Their choice, to take some unpaved backwoods trail to the base, meant it could be a long time before anyone happened upon them. Yeah, they were delivering him to his execution, but they were following orders; it wasn’t personal, and they didn’t deserve to die any more than he did.

  He’d decided to split the difference; radio for help, then run like hell... but then the dogs had come. Big, wet, freaky looking things, three of them, and then he was running for his life, because there was something very, very wrong about them; he knew it even before they’d attacked Dickson, ripping his throat out as they pulled him from beneath the jeep.

  Billy thought he heard a click and tried the handcuff, hissing air through his teeth when the metal latch refused to budge. Goddamn thing. The paper clip was a lucky find, though there was shit everywhere—papers, bags, coats, personal belongings—and blood on just about all of it. Maybe he’d find something more useful, if he looked harder... though that would mean staying on the train, and that didn’t sound like much fun at all. For all he knew, this was where those dogs lived, holed up here with that crazy asshole who liked to step in front of moving cars. He’d only come aboard to avoid the dogs, to regroup, try and figure out his next move.

  And it turns out to be the Slaughterhouse Special, he thought, shaking his head. Talk about out of the frying pan, into the fire. Whatever the hell was going on out in these woods, he didn’t want to be a part of it. He’d get the cuff off, find himself some kind of weapon, maybe grab a wallet or two out of all the blood-splattered luggage—he had no doubt that the owners were long past caring—and hightail it back to civilization. Then Canada, or Mexico, maybe. He’d never stolen before, never considered leaving the country, but he had to think like a criminal now, if he wanted to survive.

  He heard thunder, then gentle taps of rain against some of the unbroken windows. The taps became a tattoo, the blood-scented air thinning with a gust of wind through a shattered pane. Dandy. Apparently, he’d be hiking out in a rainstorm.

  “Whatever,” he mumbled, and threw the useless paper clip against the seat in front of him. The situation was seriously FUBAR, he doubted it could get much worse—

  Billy froze, held his breath. The outside door to the train was opening. He could hear the metal sliding, the rain getting louder, then quieter again. Someone had come aboard.

  Shit! What if it was the maniac with the dogs?

  Or what if someone found the jeep?

  He felt a sick, heavy knot in his stomach. Could be. Could be that someone else from the base had decided to use the back road
tonight, maybe had already called in when they’d seen the crash—and learned that there should’ve been a third passenger, a certain dead man walking.

  Maybe he was already being hunted.

  He didn’t move, straining to hear the movements of whoever had come in from the rain. For a few seconds, nothing—then he heard a soft tread, one step, then another. Moving away from him, toward the front of the car.

  Billy leaned forward, carefully sliding his dog tags under his collar so they wouldn’t jingle, moving slowly, until he could just see around the edge of the aisle seat. Someone was stepping through the connecting door, thin, short—a girl, or a young man, maybe, dressed in a Kevlar vest and army green. He could just make out a few letters on the back of the vest, an S, a T, an A—and then he or she was gone.

  S.T.A.R.S. Had they sent out a team looking for him? Couldn’t be, not so fast—the jeep had crashed maybe an hour ago, tops, and the S.T.A.R.S. didn’t have a military affiliation, they were a PD offshoot, no one would have called them in. It probably had to do with the dogs he saw, obviously some mutant feral pack; the S.T.A.R.S. usually dealt with the weird shit that local cops couldn’t or wouldn’t handle. Or maybe they’d come in to investigate whatever had gone down on the train.

  Doesn’t matter why, does it? They’ll have guns, and if they figure out who you are, this taste of freedom will be your last. Get out of here. Now.

  With man-eating dogs running around in the woods? Not without a weapon, no way. There had to be some kind of security on board, a rented uniform with a gun; he just had to look. It would be a risk, with a S.T.A.R.S. on board—but there was only one of them, after all. If he had to...

  Billy shook his head. He’d seen his share of death in Special Forces. If it came down to it, here and now, he’d fight, or run. He wouldn’t kill, not ever again. At least not one of the good guys.

  Billy crawled to his feet, keeping low, the handcuffs dangling from his wrist. He’d look through the stuff in this car, first, then move away from the S.T.A.R.S. interloper, see what he could find. No point in having a confrontation if it could be avoided. He’d just—