Стефани Перри - The Umbrella Conspiracy

. . . though maybe we’ll get lucky, run across the damned parking lot for this place. We can hotwire a car and drive out—and get Irons to do something useful for a change, like call in reinforcements. . . . They reached the wood corridor and headed for the plant room, both of them taking long, easy strides past the hissing green walls and finally stopping at the room that held Plant 42.

Breathing deeply, Chris nodded to Rebecca. They both unholstered their weapons and Chris pushed the door open, eager to see what lay beyond the experi-mental plant.

They stepped into a huge, open room, the smell of rotting vegetation thick in the damp air. Whatever it had looked like before, the monster that had been Plant 42 was now a massive, steaming lake of dark purple goo in the center of the room. Bloated dead vines the size of fire hoses draped limply across the floor, extending out from the livid, gelid mass. Chris scanned for the next door, saw a plain fire-place against one wall, a broken chair in a corner—

• and a single door that apparently led back into the bedroom he’d searched earlier. A hidden passage that he’d missed—and that led to the very room in which they stood.

Must have been behind the bookcase. . . . There was no way out. Killing the plant had been a waste of time, it hadn’t been blocking anything. Rebecca looked as disappointed as he felt, her shoulders slumped and expression grim as she studied the bare walls.

Ah, I’m sorry, Rebecca.

They both walked slowly around the room, Chris staring at the dead plant and trying to decide what to do next. Rebecca walked to the fireplace and crouched down next to it, poking at the blackened ash. He wouldn’t drag her back to the mansion, neither of them were up for it. Even with the extra ammo, there were too many snakes. They could wait in the courtyard for Brad to fly by again, hope he got into range—

“Chris, I’ve found something.”

He turned and saw her pull a couple of pieces of paper out of the ashes, the edges scorched but both sheets otherwise intact. He walked across the room and leaned down to read over her shoulder—and felt his heart start pounding as the first words sank in.

SECURITY PROTOCOLS

BASEMENT LEVEL ONE:

Heliport/For executive use only. This restriction may not apply in the event of an emergency. Unauthorized persons entering the heliport will be shot on sight. Elevator/The elevator stops during emergencies.

BASEMENT LEVEL TWO:

Visual Data Room/For use by the Special Research

Division only. All other access to the Visual Data Room must be cleared with Keith Arving, Room Manager.

BASEMENT LEVEL THREE:

Prison/Sanitation Division controls the use of the prison. At least one Consultant Researcher (E. Smith,

S. Ross, A. Wesker) must be present if viral use is authorized. Power Room/Access limited to Headquarters Supervisors. This restriction may not apply to Consultant Researchers with special authorization.

BASEMENT LEVEL FOUR:

Regarding the progress of “Tyrant” after use of T-Virus . . .

The rest of the paper was burned, the words lost. “A. Wesker,” Chris said softly. “Captain Albert goddamn Wesker...”

Barry had said that Wesker disappeared right after the Alphas had made it to the house. And it was Wesker who led us here in the first place when the dogs attacked. Cool, competent, unreadable Wesker, work-ing for Umbrella. . . .

Rebecca flipped to the second page and Chris leaned in, studying the neatly typed labels beneath the drawn boxes and lines.

MANSION. COURTYARD. GUARDHOUSE. UNDERGROUND.

LABORATORIES.

There was even a compass drawn next to the sketch of the mansion, to show them what they’d missed—a secret entrance to the underground hidden behind the waterfall.

Rebecca stood up, eyes wide and uncertain. “Cap-tain Wesker is involved with all this?” Chris nodded slowly. “And if he’s still here, he’s down in those labs, maybe with the rest of the team. If Umbrella sent him here, God only knows what he’s up to.”

They had to find him, had to warn whoever was left of the S.T.A.R. S. that Wesker had betrayed them all. Everything was done. Wesker stepped into the elevator that led back to level three, running through his checklist as he lowered the outer gate and slid the inner one closed.

. . . samples collected, disks erased, power recon-nected, Tyrant support off. . .

It was really too bad about the Tyrant. Ugly as it was, the thing was a marvel of surgical, chemical, and genetic engineering, and he’d stood in front of its glass chamber for a long time, studying it in silent awe before reluctantly shutting down its life support. As the stasis fluids had drained, he’d found himself imagining what it would have been like to see it in action once the researchers had completed their work. It would have been the ultimate soldier, a thing of beauty in the battlefield . . . and now it had to be destroyed, all because some idiot tech had hit the wrong button. A mistake that had cost Umbrella millions of dollars and killed the researchers who had created it.

He hit the switch and the elevator thrummed to life, carrying him back up for his final task—activating the triggering system at the back of the power room. He’d give himself fifteen minutes to make sure he was clear of the blast radius, climb down the heliport ladder, hit the back road toward town—and boom, no more hidden Umbrella facility. At least not in Raccoon Forest. . . .

Once he got back into the city, he’d pack a bag and head for Umbrella’s private air strip. He could make the necessary calls from there, let his contacts in the White office know what had happened.

They’d have a clean-up team standing by to comb through the forest and take out the surviving specimens—and they’d be most eager to get their hands on the tissue samples he’d taken, two of everything except for the Tyrant. With the Tyrant scientists all dead, Umbrella had decided to shelve the project indefinitely. Wesker thought it was a mistake, but then, he wasn’t getting paid to think.

As the elevator slid to a stop, Wesker opened the gates and stepped out, setting down the sample case. He unholstered his Beretta, going over the twisting layout of the power room in his mind. He had to make another run through the Ma2s to get to the activation system. He’d already managed it once to hook up the elevator circuit, but they had been more active than he’d expected; instead of weakening them, their hun-ger had driven them to new heights of viciousness. He’d been lucky to make it through unscathed—

At a hydraulic hum from down the hall, Wesker froze. Footsteps clattered across the cement floor, hesitated—and then started for the power room at the opposite end of the corridor.

Wesker eased up to the corner and looked down the hall, just in time to see Jill Valentine disappear through the metal doors, a burst of hissing mechani-cal noise echoing through the corridor before they closed.

How did she make it through the Hunters? Jesus! Apparently he’d underestimated her . . . and she’d been alone, too. If she was that good, the Ma2s might not kill her, and she had effectively just blocked him from the triggering system. He wouldn’t be able to deal with the creatures that roamed the maze-like walkways and put a stop to her prying. . . . Frustrated, Wesker scooped up the sample case and walked quickly down the hall, back toward the hy-draulic doors that led to the main corridor of level three. If she made it back out, he’d just have to shoot her; it would only delay his escape by a few minutes. Still, it was an unexpected curve, and as far as he was concerned, it was too late in the game for surprises. Surprises pissed him off, they made him feel like he wasn’t in control. . . .