Nemesis

Chapter 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 reason to assume he'd had the green one at some point, too, or that it was at the Grill, but it'd be worth checking out. If it wasn't there, she was no worse off - but if she could find it, she might be able to get out of the city much sooner than she'd expected. With the Nemesis running around out there, it couldn't be soon enough. So, it was decided. Jill turned and walked toward the hall door, slipping the blue gem into her fanny pack. She wanted to check out the RPD's darkroom before she left, see if she could find one of the photog-rapher's vests laying around; she didn't have any speed loaders for the Colt, and she wanted a few pockets to carry the loose rounds. While she was at it, she thought she might as well leave the shotgun behind. She'd rigged up an over-the-shoulder strap using a belt she'd taken off a dead man, so carrying it wasn't too bad, but without shells - and with the. 357 as addi-tional firepower - she didn't see the point in lugging it around anymore. . . She stepped into the hall and took a left, deliberately not looking at the one slumped body beneath the win-dows that faced south. It was a young woman carrier she'd shot at from the stairs to the second floor, just around the corner, and she was pretty sure that she'd known the girl - a secretary/receptionist who worked at the front desk on weekends, Mary something. The darkroom faced the opening beneath the stairs; she'd have to pass within a few feet of the corpse, but she thought she could avoid looking too closely if she. . . CRASH! Two of the windows imploded, a driving rain of glass spraying over the receptionist's body, shards of it slicing at Jill's bare legs. In the same instant, a giant black mass was hurled inside, bigger than a man, as big as -

  - S. T. A. R. S. killer -It was all she had time to think. Jill sprinted back the way she'd come, slamming into the evidence room door, while behind her, she heard crunching glass as it rolled to its feet, heard the ugly opening note of its sin-gle-minded cry, "SSstaarsss" She ran, snatching the heavy revolver from beneath her waist pack's strap, through the evidence room to the next door, through that into the patrol squadroom. A sharp left as soon as she was inside and desks blurred past, chairs and shelves and an overturned table spat-tered with the blood and fluids of at least two cops, their sprawled bodies reduced to obstacles in her path. Jill leaped over the twisted legs, hearing the door open, no, disintegrate behind her, a roar of splinters and cracking wood that couldn't drown out the Neme-sis's fury.

  Go go go faster. . .

  She hit the door running, ignoring the dull blossom of pain that enveloped her bruised shoulder, twisting to the right as she pounded into the lobby.

  Shhh-BOOM!

  A flare of brilliant light and smoke jetted past her, blowing a jagged, burning hole in the floor not three feet to her left. Shards of blackened marble and ce-ramic tile flew, exploding up and outward in a fountain of noise and heat.

  Jesus, it's armed!

  She ran faster, down the ramp into the lower lobby, remembering that she'd dead-bolted the front doors, the realization like a punch in the stomach. She'd never get them open in time, no chance. . . . . . and BOOM, another blast from what had to be a grenade launcher or bigger, close enough that she could feel the air part next to her right ear, could hear the whistle of incredible speed just before the front doors blasted open in front of her. They hung drunkenly on bent hinges, swaying and smoldering as she ran through, the night cool and dark.

  "Ssstaaarrrsss! "

  Close, too close. Instinctively Jill sacrificed a sec-ond of speed to leap to the side, kicking away from the ground, dimly aware that Brad's body was gone and not caring. Even as she landed, the Nemesis blew past her, barreling through the space she'd oc-cupied an instant before. Its momentum carried it several giant steps away, it was fast but too heavy to stop, its monstrous size giving her the time she needed. A squeal o
f rust and she was through the gates, slamming them, scrabbling the shotgun off her back. She turned and rammed the shotgun through the gates' hoop handles, both of them cracking against the barrel before she had time to let go, hard enough for her to realize that the gates wouldn't hold for very long. Behind the gates, the Nemesis screamed in ani-mal rage, a demonic sound of bloodlust so strong that Jill shuddered convulsively. It was screaming for her, it was the nightmare all over again, she was marked for death. She turned and ran, its howl fading into the dark be-hind her as she ran and ran. When Nicholai saw Mikhail Victor, he knew he'd have to kill him. Technically, there was no reason, but the opportunity was too enticing to pass up. By some fluke, the leader of platoon D had managed to survive, an honor he didn't deserve.

  We'll just see about that. . .

  Nicholai was feeling good; he was ahead of the schedule he'd set for himself, and the rest of his jour-ney through the sewers had been uneventful. His next goal was the hospital, which he could reach quickly enough if he took the cable car in Lonsdale Yard; he had more than enough time to relax for a few moments, take a break from his pursuit. Climbing back into the city and seeing Mikhail across the street, from the roof of one of Umbrella's buildings - the perfect sniper's roost - was like some cosmic reward for his work so far. Mikhail would never know what hit him. The platoon leader was two stories below, his back to the wall of a wrecking yard's shack as he changed rifle magazines. A security light, its bright beam flick-ering with the erratic movement of nocturnal insects, clearly illuminated his position and would make it impossible for him to see his killer.

  Well, you can't have everything; his death will have to be enough.

  Nicholai smiled and raised the M16, savoring the mo-ment. A cool night breeze ruffled his hair as he studied his quarry, noting with no small satisfaction the fear on Mikhail's lined, unknowing face. A head shot? No; on the off chance that Mikhail had been infected, Nicholai wouldn't want to miss the resurrection. He had plenty of time to watch, too. He lowered the barrel a hair, sighting one of Mikhail's kneecaps. Very painful. . . but he would still have use of his arms and would probably fire blindly into the dark; Nicholai didn't want to risk get-ting hit. Mikhail had finished his rifle inspection and was looking around as if to plot his next step. Nicholai took aim and fired, a single shot, extremely happy with his decision as the platoon leader doubled over, grabbing his gut and suddenly, Mikhail was gone, around the cor-ner of the building and into the night. Nicholai could hear the crunch of gravel fading away. He cursed softly, clenching his jaw in frustration. He'd wanted to see the man squirm, see him suffer from the painful and probably lethal wound. It seemed that Mikhail's reflexes weren't as poor as he'd thought.

  So, he dies in the dark somewhere instead of where I can see him. What is it to me? It's not as though I have nothing else to occupy my time. . .

  It didn't work. Mikhail was badly injured, and Nicholai wanted to see him die. It would only take a few minutes to find the trail of blood and track him down - a child could do it. Nicholai grinned. And when I find him, I can offer my assistance, play the concerned comrade - who did this to you, Mikhail? Here, let me help you. . .

  He turned and hurried to the stairs, imagining the look on Mikhail's face when he realized who was re-sponsible for his plight, when he understood his own failure as a leader and as a man. Nicholai wondered what he'd done to deserve such happiness; so far, this had been the best night of his life.

  When their conversation was over, the line went dead and Carlos walked to one of the booths and sat down, thinking hard about the things Trent had told him. If all he'd said was true - and Carlos believed that it probably was - then Umbrella had a lot to answer for. "Why are you telling me all this?" Carlos had asked near the end, his head spinning. "Why me?" "Because I've seen your records," Trent answered. "Carlos Oliveira, mercenary for hire - except you only ever fought the good fight, always on the side of the oppressed and abused. Twice you risked your life in as-sassinations, both successful - one a tyrannical drug lord and the other a child pornographer, if memory serves. And you never harmed a civilian, not once. Um-brella is involved in some extremely immoral practices, Mr. Oliveira, and you're exactly the kind of person who should be working to stop them. "

  According to Trent, Umbrella's T-virus or G-virus, there were apparently two strains - was created and used on homemade monsters to turn them into living, breathing weapons. When humans were exposed to it, they got the cannibal disease. And Trent said that the

  U. B. C. S. administrators knew what they were sending their people into, and probably did it on purpose - all in the name of research.

  "The eyes and ears of Umbrella are everywhere," Trent had said. "As I said before, be careful who you trust. Truly, no one is safe. "

  Carlos abruptly stood up from the table and walked toward the kitchen, lost in thought. Trent had refused to talk about his own reasons for undermining Umbrella, though Carlos had gotten the impression that Trent also worked for them in some capacity; it would explain why he was so secretive.

  He's being careful, covering his ass, but how could he know so much? The things he told me. . .

  A jumble of facts, some that seemed totally arbi-trary - there was a fake green jewel in a cold storage locker underneath the restaurant; Trent had said that it was one of a pair, but had refused to say where the other one was or why either of them was important. "Just make sure they end up together," Trent had said - as if Carlos was going to just happen to come across the other one. "When you find out where the blue one is, you'll get your explanation. "

  For as cryptically useless as that seemed to be, Trent had also told him that Umbrella kept two helicopters at the abandoned water treatment plant west and north of the city. Perhaps most useful of all, Trent had said that there was a vaccine being worked on at the city hospi-tal, and while it hadn't been synthesized yet, there was at least one sample there.

  "Although there's a good chance the hospital may not be there for much longer," he'd said, leaving Carlos to wonder again how Trent came by his information.

  What was supposed to happen to it? And how would Trent know that?

  Trent seemed to think that Carlos's survival was im-portant; he seemed convinced that Carlos was going to be a significant part of the fight against Umbrella, but Carlos still wasn't sure why, or if he even wanted to join up. At the moment, all he wanted was to get out of the city. . . but for whatever reason Trent had decided to offer up information, Carlos was glad for the help.

  Although a little more would've been nice - keys to an armored getaway car, maybe, or some kind of anti-monster spray.

  Carlos stood in the kitchen, gazing down at the heavy-looking cover to what was, presumably, the basement ladder. Trent had told him that there were probably more weapons at a clock tower, not far from the hospital; that and the bit about the Umbrella heli-copters, due north from the tower and hospital, defi-nitely useful. . .

  But why let me come here at all if I'm so goddamn important? He could've stopped me on the way to the field office.

  A lot of it didn't make sense, and Carlos was willing to bet money that Trent hadn't told him everything. He had no choice but to trust him a little, but he was going to be very careful when it came to depending on Trent's information. Carlos crouched next to the basement entrance, grabbed the handle to the cover, and pulled. It was heavy, but he could just manage it, leaning back and using his leg muscles for leverage. Unless the cooks were body builders, there was probably a crowbar around somewhere. The front door to the restaurant opened and closed. Carlos gently, quietly put the cover aside and turned, still in a crouch, M16 aimed at the dining room en-trance. He didn't think the zombies were coordinated enough to open doors, but he had no idea what the monsters were capable of, or who else might be wan-dering the city streets. Slow, stealthy footsteps moved toward the kitchen. Carlos held his breath, thinking about Trent, wondering suddenly if he'd been set up. . . . .
. and about the last thing he expected to see was a. 357 revolver come around the corner, held by an at-tractive and extremely serious-looking young woman who moved in fast and low and aimed at Carlos before

  he could blink. For a beat they stared at each other, neither moving,and Carlos could see in the woman's eyes that shewouldn't hesitate to shoot him if she thought it neces-sary. Since he felt pretty much the same way, he de-cided it might be best to introduce himself. "My name is Carlos," he said evenly. "I'm no zom-bie. Take it easy, huh?"

  The girl studied him another moment, then noddedslowly, lowering the revolver. Carlos took his finger offthe rifle's trigger and did the same as they bothstraightened up, moving carefully. "Jill Valentine," she said, and seemed about to saysomething else when the back door to the restaurantcrashed open, the thundering sound matched by a gut-tural, barely human scream that raised the hairs on theback of Carlos's neck. "Sstaarrsss!" whatever it was howled, the cry echo-ing through the restaurant, giant footsteps pounding to-ward them, relentless and certain.