Стефани Перри - City Of The Dead

“We—“ Leon started to say something and then stopped, his eyes widening as he stared at the rear-view mirror. Claire looked behind her—and for a second, could only think that at some point since she’d left the university, she’d been cursed. Cursed. Somebody wants me dead, that’s all there is to it.

A semi was barreling down the street, still several blocks away but close enough for them to see that it was out of control. The truck veered back and forth, smashing against a blue pickup parked on one side of the street and then plowing under a mailbox on the other. Claire realized with numb horror that it was a tanker—and from the way the haul was sliding dan-gerously at each frantic swerve, the driver had a full load. In the split-second that it took to digest that information, to pray that it wasn’t gas or oil, the tanker had halved the distance between them. She could actually see the flames painted across the dark green cab, but even then it wasn’t real until Leon broke their stunned silence.

“—maniac’s gonna ram us,” he breathed, and then they were both stabbing at the seat-belt releases, Claire praying that the crash hadn’t locked them somehow—

The sound of the belts letting go were inaudible beneath the rising monolithic growl of the oncoming tanker and the echoing crunch of cars being side-swiped left and right. It would be on them in a heartbeat.

“Run!” Leon shouted, and then she was pushing her way out of the squad car, cool air against her sweaty skin and the scream of the truck’s engine blocking out everything else.

She took three giant running leaps and then felt as much as heard the impact, the asphalt shaking be-neath her feet even as the crash of rending metal thundered behind her.

One more flying step, and—

KABOOM!

• she was being pushed, shoved roughly off her feet by an incredible pressure wave of heat and sound. She managed to kick off against the ground as the tanker’s explosion turned night to day in one brilliant instant. An awkward shoulder roll, grit biting into her heat-blasted skin, and she landed behind a parked car in a gasping heap.

There was a brief, clattering rain of smoking debris, and Claire was on her feet, stumbling back into the street to search the towering flames for some sign of Leon. Her heart sank. The tanker, squad car, and what had once been a hardware store were all envel-oped in an inferno of chemical fire, the street com-pletely blocked by the mass of twisted, burning destruction.

“Claire—“

Leon’s voice, muffled but audible through the wall of curling flame.

“Leon?”

“I’m okay!” he shouted. “Head to the station, I’ll meet you there!”

Claire hesitated for a second, staring down at the handgun she still held tightly in one shaky hand. She was afraid, scared of being alone in a city that had turned into a living graveyard—but it wasn’t like there was much of a choice. Wishing that circum-stances were different was a waste of time. “Okay!”

She turned, trying to get her bearings by the smok-ing, flickering light of the wreck. The station was close, a couple of blocks away—

• and there were creatures lurching out of the shadows, from behind cars and inside darkened buildings. With single-minded purpose, they sham-bled into the strange light of the blazing accident, making small sounds of hunger as they came—two, three, four of them. She saw tattered skin and rotting limbs, gaping blackness where eyes should be—and still they came, moving slowly toward her as if homing in on living flesh.

Beyond the fiery wreck, she heard gunfire—two shots from perhaps a block away, then nothing—nothing but the crackle of consuming flame and the soft, helpless cries of the shuffling dead. Leon’s on his own now MOVE!

Claire took a deep breath, spotted an opening with-in the lethal crowd closing in on her, and ran.

Six

ADA WONG FIT THE SHIMMERING DISC OF

metal into the slot on the statue, patting it into the opening until it was flush with the marble. As soon as it was in place, she heard the shift of hidden levers and stepped back to see what would happen. Her footfalls echoed through the massive lobby of the RPD building, the sounds reverberating back to her

Another key? One of the subbasement medals? Or perhaps the sample itself, hidden in plain sight. . . wouldn’t that be a happy surprise.

If wishes were horses. The water-bearing nymph made of stone slid forward at a slight angle, the pitcher at her shoulder dropping a slender piece of metal atop the lip of the defunct fountain. The spade key.

She sighed, picking it up. She already had the keys; in fact, she had everything she needed to search the sta-tion, and most of what she needed to get into the lab. If it wasn’t for someone at Umbrella dropping the bomb, the job would have been a walk. Easy money. Instead, I get a three-day vacation sans comfort, I get night of the living standoff, I get to play Put the Bullet in the Brain and Let’s Find the Reporter at the same time. The samples could be anywhere by now, depending on who survived. Assuming I make it out of here with the goods, I’m asking for a big goddamn bonus; no one should have to work in these conditions. Ada slipped the key into her hip pack, then gazed unseeing at the upper balustrade of the impressive hall, mentally checking off the rooms she’d been through and the ones she’d searched more thor-oughly. Bertolucci didn’t seem to be anywhere on the east side of the building, upstairs or down; she’d spent what felt like hours staring into dead faces, searching the reeking piles of corpses for his square jaw and anachronistic ponytail. Of course, he could be mov-ing—but from the information she had on him, it was improbable; the reporter was very much a rabbit, a hider in the face of danger.

Speaking of danger...

Ada shook herself and got moving, heading back to the door that led into the lower east wing. The lobby was safe enough from the virus carriers, they didn’t seem to understand the concept of doorknobs—but there were threats besides the infected. God only knew what Umbrella might send in to clean up ... or what had been freed from the laboratory when the leak occurred. Less frightening but just as bothersome were the live cops that might still be trooping around, looking for someone to save. She’d heard gunfire, some distant, some not, every hour or three since she’d gone to ground; there were still at least a few uninfected left in the expansive old building. Trying to convince a panicky he-man with a gun that she was alive and didn’t want an escort made facing the undead seem almost appealing.

Walking on the balls of her feet to avoid additional noise, Ada slipped through the door and then leaned against it at the end of a long hall, safe to decide on her next move; although she hadn’t checked out the basement yet and there were still several carriers wandering around in the detectives’ room, the hall’s doors were all closed; if someone or something wanted to get at her, she’d be able to see it coming and get out in time.

Ah, the exciting life of the freelance agent. Travel the world! Earn money by stealing important things! Fight off the living dead when you haven’t showered or eaten a decent meal in three days—impress your friends! She reminded herself again to insist on that bonus. When she’d arrived in Raccoon less than a week before, she thought she’d been prepared; the maps had been studied, the reporter’s files memorized, her cover story set—a young woman looking for her boyfriend, an Umbrella scientist. That part was al-most true; in fact, it had been her brief relationship with John Howe ten months before that had landed her the job. More of a one-night stand, actually, and not a very good one at that—but John had thought otherwise, and his connection to Umbrella, though it had probably killed him, had turned out to be a lucky break for her.