Стефани Перри: Nemesis

That didn't matter now, all that mattered was getting the hell away—

—and we've got maybe three minutes, four max— CRASH!

Jill whirled around, saw chunks of concrete and tar fly into the air and rain down over the northwest corner of the landing pad. A giant claw stretched up from the hole, fell across the jagged lip—

—and the pale, hulking monster, the one she and Barry had tried to kill in the lab, the Tyrant, leaped out onto the heliport. It rose smoothly from its agile crouch... and started toward them.

It was an abomination, at least eight feet tall, once human, perhaps, but no more. Its right hand, normal.

Its left, a massive, chitinous grasp of claws. Its face had been horribly altered, its lips cut away so that it seemed to grin at them through sliced red tissue. Its

naked body was sexless, the thick, bloody tumor that was its heart shuddering wetly outside of its chest.

Chris targeted the pulsing muscle with his Beretta and fired, five 9mm rounds tearing into its ghastly flesh; the Tyrant didn't even slow down. Barry screamed for them to scatter, and then they were running, Jill pulling Rebecca away, the thunder of Barry's .357 crashing behind them. Overhead, the 'copter circled and Jill could feel the seconds ticking away, almost believed she could feel the explosion building beneath their feet.

She and Rebecca pulled their weapons and started firing. Jill continued to pull the trigger even as she watched the creature knock Barry to the ground, slamming in a new clip as it went after Chris, firing and screaming, enveloped by a rising terror,why won't it

From above, a shout, and something thrown out of the 'copter. Chris ran for it, and Jill saw nothing else— nothing but the Tyrant as it turned its attention to her and Rebecca, indifferent to the firepower that continued plugging bloody holes through its strange body. Jill turned and ran, saw the girl do the same, and knew— knew—that the monster was after her, the face of Jill Valentine embedded in its lizard brain.

Jill ran, ran, and suddenly there was no heliport, no crumbling mansion, only a million trees and the sounds: her boots slapping the earth, the pulse of blood in her ears, her ragged breath. The monster was silent behind her, a mute and terrible force, relentless and as inevitable as death.

They were dead, Chris and Barry, Rebecca, even

Brad, she knew it, everyone but her—and as she ran, she saw the Tyrant's shadow stretch out in front of her, burying her own, and the hiss of its monstrous talons slicing down, melting through her body, killing her, no—

No—

"No!"

Jill opened her eyes, the word still on her lips, the only sound in the stillness of her room. It wasn't the scream she imagined but the weak, strangled cry of a woman doomed, caught in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

Which I am. None of us were fast enough, after all.

She lay still for a moment, breathing deeply, moving her hand away from the loaded Beretta under her pillow; it had become a reflex, and one she wasn't sorry to have developed.

"Useless against nightmares, though," she muttered and sat up. She'd been talking to herself for days now; sometimes, she thought it was the only thing that kept her sane. Gray light crept in through the blinds, casting the small bedroom in shadow. The digital clock on the nightstand was still working; she supposed she should be glad that the power was still on, but it was later than she'd hoped—nearly three in the afternoon. She'd slept for almost six hours, the most she'd managed to get in

the last three days. Considering what was going on outside, she couldn't help a flush of guilt. She should be out there, she should be doing more to save those who could still be saved...

Knock it off, you know better. You can't help anyone if you collapse. And those people you helped—

She wouldn't think about that, not yet. When she'd finally made it back to the suburbs this morning, after nearly forty-eight sleepless hours of "helping," she'd been on the verge of a breakdown, forced to face the reality of what had happened to Raccoon: The city was irretrievably lost to the T-virus, or some variant of it.

Like the researchers at the mansion. Like the Tyrant.

Jill closed her eyes, thinking about the recurring dream, about what it meant. It matched the real chain of events perfectly, except for the end—Brad Vickers, the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha pilot,had thrown something out of the 'copter, a grenade launcher, and Chris had blown up the Tyrant as it was going after her. They'd all gotten away in time... but in a way, that didn't matter.

For all the good they'd been able to accomplish since then, they might as well have died.

It's not our fault,Jill thought angrily, aware that she wanted to believe that more than anything.Ao one would listen —not the home office, not Chief Irons, not the press. If they'd listened, if they'd believed...

Strange, that all of it had happened only six weeks ago; it felt like years. The city officials and the local papers had enjoyed a field day with the S.T.A.R.S.'s reputation—six dead, the rest babbling fantastic stories about a secret laboratory, about monsters and zombies and an Umbrella conspiracy. They had been suspended and ridiculed—but worst of all, nothing had been done to prevent the spread of the virus. She and the others had only been able to hope that the destruction of the spill site had put an end to the immediate danger.

In the weeks following, so much had happened.

They'd uncovered the truth about the S.T.A.R.S., that

Umbrella—technically, White Umbrella, the division in charge of bioweapons research—was either bribing or blackmailing key members nationally in order to continue their research unimpeded. They'd learned that several of Raccoon City's council members were on the

Umbrella payroll, and that Umbrella probably had more than one research facility experimenting with man-made diseases. Their search for information about Trent, the stranger who'd contacted her before the disastrous mission as "a friend to the S.T.A.R.S.," had turned up nothing, but they'd come up with some extremely interesting background stuff on Chief Irons: it seemed that the chief had been in hot water at one point about a possible rape, and that Umbrella knew about it and had helped him get his position anyway. Perhaps most difficult of all, their team had been forced to split up, to make hard decisions about what needed to be done and about their own responsibilities to the truth.

Jill smiled faintly; the one thing she could feel good about in all of this was that at least her friends had made it out. Rebecca Chambers had joined up with another small group of S.T.A.R.S. dissidents who were checking out rumors of other Umbrella laboratories. Brad Vickers, true to his cowardly nature, had skipped town to avoid Umbrella's wrath. Chris Redfield was already in Europe, scoping out the company's headquarters and waiting for Barry Burton and Rebecca's team to join him... and for Jill, who was going to wrap up her investigation of Umbrella's local offices before hooking up with the others.

Except five days ago, something terrible had happened in Raccoon. It was still happening, unfolding

like some poisonous flower, and the only hope now was to wait for someone outside to take notice.

When the first few cases had been reported, no one had connected them with the S.T.A.R.S. stories about the Spencer estate. Several people had been attacked in the late spring and early summer—surely the work of some deranged killer, after all; the RPD would catch him in no time. It wasn't until the Raccoon Police Department had put up roadblocks on Umbrella orders, three days earlier, that people had started paying attention. Jill didn't know how they were managing to keep people out of the city, but they were—nothing shipped in, no mail service, and the outside lines were cut. Citizens trying to leave town were turned back, told nothing about why.