Стефани Перри: Zero Hour

“Who is that guy?” Billy asked, and Rebecca shook her head. Maybe like the old man, made from the creatures—

The train lurched suddenly. A rising, heavy mechanical sound filled the car, the floor vibrating beneath their feet—and then the train was moving,] slowly at first, quickly picking up speed.

She looked at Billy, saw the same confused surprise on his face that she knew she wore, and for the first time, felt something besides angry disdain for the criminal. He was stuck in this—this nightmare, same as she was. And he did just save my life . . .

“Still handling things yourself?” he asked, smirking, and she felt the tenuous bond between them disappear. Before she could say anything, though, he seemed to realize that his passive-aggressive stab at humor wasn't what the situation called for.

“I think we could both use a little help here,” he said. “How about it? Just until we're out of this, all right?”

Rebecca thought about the viral victims she'd seen, those she'd killed, about what Edward had said, that the woods were full of zombies and monsters. She thought about the man made of leeches, and their strange, singing master out in the rain, and finally about the fact that someone, or some thing had started the train. Even if Enrico and the rest of the team were still alive, they were falling farther and farther away by the minute.

“Yeah, okay,” she said, and though his grim and arrogant demeanor didn't change, she thought that Billy was relieved. And she knew that she was.

The solitary figure on the hill watched as the train gathered speed and disappeared into the storm, his heart full of the song that spilled from his lips, that rang so sweetly through the wild air, calling his minions back to him. They had done well, readying the train for the inevitable cleanup crew as soon as the sun had gone down, leading most of the infected away through the woods, locking the doors, powering the engine; he wanted the leeches to feed, not the virus carriers, and once the Umbrella team boarded, there would be no escape. The rain washed over the many as they crept up the hill, beckoned by his voice, by his desires.

He received them with a smile as he finished his song. All was going as well as he might have wished. After so long a wait, it wouldn't be long, now. He would fulfill his dream; he would become Umbrella's nightmare, and then the world's.

“We need to stop this train, first thing,” Rebecca said.

Billy nodded. “Any suggestions?”

“We split up,” she said calmly. Surprisingly calmly, considering what she'd just been through. “The car at the front of the train is locked—where we met? We need to get that door open, to get to the engine.”

“So, we shoot the lock,” Billy said.

Rebecca shook her head. “Magnetic card reader. We have to find a key card.”

“I saw a conductor's office—”

“Locked,” Rebecca said. “We'll have to dig up one ourselves.”

“That could take awhile,” Billy said. “We should stick together.”

“It'll take us twice as long. And I'd rather get off this thing before it ends up wherever it's going.”

As much as he didn't want to wander the train alone, didn't want her to wander it alone, he couldn't argue with the logic.

“I'll start at the back, work forward,” she said. “You take the second floor. We'll meet at the front.”

Bossy little thing, aren 'tyou? he thought, but kept it to himself. At some point in the not-too-distant future, she might be the only thing keeping him from becoming somebody's lunch.

“And I will shoot you if you try anything funny,” she added. Billy started to snap back at her, then saw the shine in her eyes. She wasn't serious. Not entirely.

She nodded at his weapon. “You need ammo for that thing?”

“I'm good,” he said. “You?”

Another nod, and she started for the door. When she reached it, she turned back.

“Thanks,” she said, motioning vaguely toward the back of the car. “I owe you.”

Before he could answer, she was gone. Billy stared after her a moment, somewhat amazed by her willingness to face the train's dangers on her own. Had he been so brave when he was her age?

It's called “denial of mortality" when you 're that young, he thought. Yeah, he'd thought he'd live forever then, too. Being sentenced to death made one take a slightly different view on things.

He spent a brief moment checking the dining car, scowling at the smashed and liquid remains of a few dozen leech-things as he hurriedly checked behind the small bar, beneath the tables. There was a locked door at the front of the room, but a swift kick and a glance showed him an empty service cabin with a hole in the roof. He didn't linger, figuring their best bet would be searching the bodies of the train workers, anyway.

He headed down the stairs, pausing at the bottom a moment, looking toward the rear of the train before continuing on. Rebecca Chambers seemed capable of taking care of herself; better if he watched his own ass.

Back through the double doors, through the first passenger car, still empty, and a deep breath before heading into the second. A quick look to make sure there wasn't anyone walking around and he headed up the stairs, not wanting to look at the body of the man he'd killed. He'd killed before, but it was never something you got used to, not if you had a conscience.

The smell hit him before he reached the second floor and he slowed, breathing shallowly. Like sea water and rot. When he got to the top, he saw the source and swallowed back bile.

Now we know where they came from.

He'd stepped onto a landing at the top of the stairs, one that turned into a corridor to his immediate right, turning right again a few meters ahead— and from floor to ceiling, the corner of the landing to his left was webbed with what appeared to be hundreds of empty egg sacs, creating something like a spider's nest—only these sacs were black and wet, shining in the low light of a half-buried wall sconce. They swayed slightly as the train rocked back and forth on the track, making them appear almost alive.

At least they were empty. He hoped to God he wouldn't run into whatever had laid them.

He edged away from the webbed corner, stepping on strings of the glistening matter that spread across the hall's fine carpet, vaguely wondering if the jeep accident had been such a blessing, after all. He didn't want to die in any manner, but a nice, clean firing squad beat the shit out of being devoured by shape-changing leeches.

Knock it off, soldier. Be where you are.

Right. He walked the corridor, relaxing slightly once he realized it was empty. There were two closed cabin doors, one on each side of the narrow passage, each marked by a number. From that and the hall's luxurious decor, he guessed they were private cabins. It was a good guess. He pushed open the first door, 102, and found a small bedroom, well-appointed and thankfully free of blood and bodies. Unfortunately, there wasn't much else, either, though he did find a clutter of personal belongings in the tiny closet. There were papers, a clutch of photographs, a jewelry box. He opened the box, revealing a silver ring, unusual in design; it looked like a single part of one of those interlocking ring sets, notched and warped in a distinct pattern . . . And since he wasn't jewelry shopping, he put it back, heading out to the next cabin.

When he opened the door to 101, he felt a rush of hope. There, lying on the floor like a gift, was a shotgun. Billy scooped it up and cracked it, his hope turning to a guarded happiness. It was a Western, over-under, loaded with two twelve-gauge shells. Further searching turned up another handful of shells, though no key card.