Стефани Перри - The Umbrella Conspiracy

Try nightmare-like. Killer plants, giant snakes, the walking dead—all that’s missing is a flying saucer, maybe a dinosaur—

He heard a soft sloshing behind him and glanced over his shoulder—

• to see a thick, triangular fin rise up from the water twenty feet away and slide toward him, a wavering gray shadow beneath.

Panic shot through him, an all-encompassing panic that seared away rational thought. He took a giant, running step—

• and realized that he couldn’t run as he plunged face first into the cold, chemical water and came up gasping, spluttering tainted liquid from his nose and mouth, hoping to God Rebecca was right about the virus having burned itself out.

He whipped his head around, eyes burning, search-ing for the fin—

• and saw that it had halved the distance between them. He could see it now—a shark, its rippling, distorted body sliding easily through the water, ten or twelve feet long, its broad tail lashing it forward—the black, soulless eyes set above its pointed grin.

• wet bullets misfire—

Chris stumbled away backwards, knowing that he didn’t stand a chance of outrunning it. Wheeling his

arms for balance, he sloshed heavily through the dragging water, turning himself sideways and manag-ing a few more steps before the shark was on top of him—

• and he leaped to the side, dodging the animal and slapping the water as violently as he could, churning it into foaming waves. The shark slid past him, its smooth, heavy body brushing against his leg. As soon as it was past, Chris stumbled after it, splashing wildly to keep up as he turned the corner in the flooded room. If he could stay close enough, it wouldn’t be able to turn, to get at him—

• except that in seconds, the shark would have the room to maneuver. He could see two doors ahead on the left but the giant fish was already leaving him behind, heading toward the next corner to turn around and come back for him.

Chris took a deep breath and plunged into the water, knowing it was crazy but that he didn’t have a better chance. He stroked desperately toward the first door, kicking off against the cement floor to propel himself forward in great, bounding leaps. He hit the door just as the shark was turning up ahead and grabbed for the handle, choking—

• and it was locked.

Shitshitshit—

Chris jammed his hand into his wet vest and came up with Alias’s keys, fumbling through them as the fin glided closer, the wide, pointed grin opening—

He shoved a key into the lock, the last key on the ring that he hadn’t found the room for, and slammed his shoulder against the door at the same time, the shark now only a few feet away.

The door flew open and Chris stumbled in, falling and kicking frantically. His boot connected solidly with the shark’s fleshy snout, deflecting it from the opening. In a flash, he was on his feet. He threw his weight into the door and in a slap of water, it was closed.

He sagged against the door, wiping at his stinging eyes with the back of his hand. The lapping water settled gently into smaller and smaller ripples as he caught his breath and his vision cleared. For now, he was safe.

He unholstered his Beretta and ejected the dripping magazine, wondering how the hell he was going to make it back upstairs. Looking around the small room, he saw nothing he could use as a weapon. One wall was lined with buttons and switches, and he trudged over to look at them, drawn to a blinking red light in the far corner.

Looks like I found a control room . . . aces. Maybe I can turn off the lights and get the shark to go to sleep. There was a lever set next to the flashing light and Chris stared down at the faded tape beneath it, feeling a numb disbelief as he read the printed letters. Emergency Drainage System.

You’ve gotta be kidding me! Why didn’t anyone pull this thing the second the tank broke?

The answer occurred to him even as he thought it. The people who worked here were scientists; no way they were going to turn down the opportunity to study their precious Plant 42, sucking up water from the man-made lake.

Chris grabbed the lever and pushed it down. There was a sliding, metallic noise outside the door—and

immediately, the water level started to drop. Within a minute, the last of it had flowed out from under the door and a gurgling, liquid gasp came from the direction of the broken tank.

He walked back to the door, opening it carefully—and heard the frantic, wet thumps of a very big fish trying to swim through air.

Chris grinned, thinking that he should probably feel pity for the helpless creature—and hoping instead that it died a long, agonizing death.

“Bite me,” he whispered.

Wesker had shot four of the shuffling, gasping Umbrella workers on his way to the computer room on level three. He hadn’t recognized any of them, though he was pretty sure that the second one he’d taken out had been Steve Keller, one of the guys from Special Research. Steve always wore penny loafers, and the pallid, dried-up husk that had reached for him by the stairs had been wearing Steve’s brand. It appeared that the effects of the viral spill had been harsher in the labs . . . less messy, but no less disquieting. The creatures that roamed the halls out-side seemed to have been totally dehydrated, their limbs withered and stringy, their eyes like shriveled grapes. Wesker had dodged several of them, but the ones he’d been forced to put down had scarcely bled at all.

He sat at the computer in the cool, sterile room and waited for the system to boot up, feeling truly on top of things for the first time all day. He’d had earlier moments, of course. The way he’d handled Barry, finding the wolf medal in the tunnels—even shooting Ellen Smith in the face had given him a momentary sense of accomplishment, a feeling that he was in control of what was happening. But so much had gone wrong along the way that he hadn’t had time to enjoy any of his successes.

But now I’m here. If the S.T.A.R.S. aren’t already dead, they will be soon—and assuming I don’t suffer some massive lapse of skill, I’ll be out of here within half an hour, mission complete—

There were still dangers, but Wesker could handle them. The mesh monkeys—the Ma2s—were un-doubtedly loose in the power room, but they were easy enough to get past, as long as you didn’t stop running; he should know, he’d helped come up with the design. And there was the big man, the Tyrant,

waiting one level down in his glass shell, sleeping the sweet, dreamless sleep of the damned.......

From which he’ll surely never wake. What a waste. So much power, crossed off as a failure by the boys at White. . . .

A gentle musical tone informed him that the system was ready. Wesker pulled a notebook out of his vest and opened it to the list of codes, though he already knew them; John Howe had set the system up months ago, using his name and the name of his girlfriend, Ada, as access keys.

Wesker tapped out the first of the passwords that would allow him to unlock the laboratory doors, feeling a sudden, vague wistfulness for the excitement of the day. It would be over so soon and there would be no one to witness his achievements, to share his fond memories after the fact.

Now that he thought about it, it was a shame that none of the S.T.A.R.S. would be joining him; the only thing better than a grand finale was a grand finale with an audience. . . .

SEVEnfEEn

JILL HAD TAKEN THE ELEVATOR INTO WHAT

seemed to be another part of the garden or courtyard, although the area had been isolated, surrounded by trees; she’d guessed as much from the few overgrown potted plants and the welcome sounds of the forest beyond the low metal railing. There had been nothing to see but a rusting door set into a nondescript, overgrown wall, welded shut—and a large, open well, like a stone wading pool. Inside had been a short, spiral staircase leading down to another small ele-vator.