Стефани Перри - The Umbrella Conspiracy

“We can’t leave it like this,” she said softly, and Barry nodded.

She joined him at the console, looking down at the myriad switches and buttons. There had to be a switch that would put an end to its life; it deserved that much.

There was a set of six red switches in a row along the bottom and Barry flipped one of them down. Nothing seemed to happen. He glanced at her, and she nodded for him to continue. He used the side of his hand to flip all of them.

There was a sudden, dull thump—

They both whirled around, saw the Tyrant pull back its human hand and hit the glass again. Cracks webbed out from the impact, though the glass had to be several inches thick—

“Oh . . . SHIT!”

Barry grabbed her arm as the creature drew its bleeding knuckles back for another blow. “Run!”

They ran, Jill wishing to God that they’d left it alone, panic welling up from deep inside of her. Barry slammed his hand down on the door control and it slid open as behind them, glass shattered. They stumbled through the door, terrified, Barry hitting the lock—

• and saw that Wesker was gone.

Wesker stumbled toward the power room, his head pounding, his limbs feeling strangely distant and weak. He felt like he was going to throw up. Goddamn Barry . . .

They’d taken his gun. He’d come to as they’d walked into the lab and reeled toward the elevator, cursing them both, cursing Umbrella for creating such a screwed up mess, cursing himself for not simply killing the S.T.A.R.S. when he could have. It’s not over. I’m still in control. This is my game. . . .

The sample case was down in the lab, probably being destroyed right now by one of those idiots. Tyrant, too. That magnificent creature, powerless without the adrenaline injections, dead. They’d shoot him in his sleeping heart, he’d die without ever tasting battle. . . .

Wesker reached the door to the room and leaned against it, struggling to catch his breath. Blood drib-bled out of his ears and he shook his head, trying to clear it of the strange fog that had settled into his brain.

He didn’t have the tissue samples, but he could still complete his mission. It was important, very impor-tant that he complete his mission. It was about control, and control was his game.

. . . triggering system, watch out for monkeys . . . The Ma2s, he had to be careful. Wesker opened the door and pitched forward, the ground seeming too far away and then too close. The machines were hissing at him, whining and hissing in the hot, oily air. His hand found the railing and he pulled himself toward the back of the room, trying to hurry but finding that his legs weren’t interested.

A claw shot down from above and tore into his scalp, yanking away a clump of hair. He felt warm liquid trickle down the back of his neck and stumbled on, the pain in his head sharper now.

Took my gun, stupid, stupid assholes took my gun. . . .

He reached the door and had just managed to get it open when something heavy landed on his back, knocking him into the next room. He fell on the cold metal floor and a terrible shriek sounded in his ear. Thick talons punctured the skin on his back and Wesker slapped at it, at the grinning, screaming thing that was trying to kill him.

He hit the creature as hard as he could, shoving the heel of his hand into its throat. It leaped away, landing on the mesh wall and clambering back up to the ceiling.

Wesker pulled himself up and stumbled on, fresh waves of pain and nausea washing over him. The air was too hot, the turbines loud and relentless in their spinning, throbbing frenzy—but he could see the door to the back now, the door that led to the completion of his mission.

All of the S.T.A.R.S., dead, blown into orbit while I escape, fly away a rich man. . . .

He flung the door open and made his way toward the small, glowing screen in the back corner. It was quieter here, cooler. The massive machines that filled the chamber hummed softly at him, their purpose quite different than that of the ones outside. These were the machines that wanted to help him regain his control.

The noise from the open door behind him seemed far away as he reached the glowing screen, his fingers numb as they touched the keyboard beneath. He found the keys he needed, the code spilling out across the monitor in soft green after only a few mistakes. A sexy, quiet voice informed him that the countdown would begin in thirty seconds. Dizzy, he tried to remember the setting for the timer. The system would trigger automatically in five minutes, but he had to reset it, give himself time to get reoriented and make his way to the outside—

Behind him, something screamed.

Wesker whirled around, confused—and saw four of the mesh-monkeys running at him, lashing out with long, curved hands as they reached him. Terrible pain shot up through his legs and he fell, crashing to the hard steel floor.

This can’t happen.

One of the creatures jumped onto his chest and suddenly Wesker couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even raise his weak arms to push it away. Another tore into his left leg, ripping away a thick chunk of flesh with its hooked claw. The third and fourth screamed in savage glee, dancing around him like dark, vicious children, lifting their claws as they pranced on squat legs. Somehow, there was blood in his eyes, and the world was spinning away, screams and hisses and incredible, searing heat blurring his vision, his mind—

Tyrant has come.

Wesker could feel it, could feel the presence of something vast and powerful touching him. Grinning through the pain, he searched for it through the red haze of his failing vision, wanting more than anything to see it slaughter his attackers in a glory of perfect motion—but he could only make out the immense shadow that seemed to flood over him, through him, could only imagine that the powerful, magnificent warrior was reaching down to lift him from his torment—

I control let me seeeee—

Darkness stole his hopes away, and Wesker thought no more.

“. . . S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team, Bravo, anybody—//” you can’t answer, try to signal! I’m running out of fuel, do you read? This is Brad! Repeat—S. T.A.R.S. Alpha team ...”

Rebecca hit the button, talking fast. “Brad! There’s a heliport at the Spencer estate, you have to get to the heliport! Brad, come in!”

There was a high, whining squeal and Rebecca heard what must have been the word “copy”—but the rest was lost.

“I copy”? Or, “Do you copy?”

There was no way to know. Frustrated and worried, Rebecca held on to the radio tightly, hoping that he’d heard her.

Suddenly, a shrill alarm blared into the silent room through some hidden speaker in the ceiling. Rebecca jumped, staring around the cold chamber helplessly. There was a buzzing click from inside the door that led to the heliport and she hurried over, grabbing the handle and pulling it open. It had unlocked. A cool, female voice began to speak, slowly and clearly over the jangling alarm.

“The triggering system has now been activated. All personnel must evacuate immediately or process deac-tivation. You have jive minutes. The triggering system has now been activated— “ As the recorded message repeated, Rebecca stood in the open doorway and watched the open ladder shaft, her blood racing, waiting to see Chris emerge from the levels below.

He’d only been gone a few minutes, but their time had just run out.

TwERfY

JILL AND BARRY RAN FROM THE ELEVATOR

back toward the main hall of B3, the cool voice informing them that they had four and a half minutes. They hit the open corridor at a dead run, sprinting around the corner—

• and saw Chris Redfield halfway up the metal stairs. “Chris!” Jill shouted.

He spun around, his face lighting up as he saw them dashing toward him.