Стефани Перри - Nemesis

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-

Itwas 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 single-minded cry, ”SSst —"

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 spattered 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 Nemesis's fury.

Gogogofaster—

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 ceramic 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—

—andBOOM, 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 second 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 occupied 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 of 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 animal rage, a demonic sound of bloodlust so strong that Jill shuddered convulsively. It was screaming forher, it was the nightmare all over again, she was marked for death.

She turned and ran, its howl fading into the dark behind 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 journey 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 flickering 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 Ml6, savoring the moment. 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 getting 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 corner 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 responsible 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 assassinations, both successful—one a tyrannical drug lord and the other a child pornographer, if memory serves. And you never harmed a civilian, not once. Umbrella 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.