Стефани Перри: Zero Hour

Rebecca smiled back at him, though she despised being called “kiddo.” Edward was only twenty-six, for God's sake. She tapped the unit on her belt.

“Check.”

Edward nodded, stepping away. His message was clear, and reassuring. She wasn't really alone, not as long as she had her radio. She looked around, saw that the several of the others were already out of sight. Kevin, still in the pilot's seat, was going through the briefcase that she'd found. He saw her and snapped her a salute. Rebecca gave him a thumbs-up and squared her shoulders, drawing her weapon once more and heading out into the night. Overhead, thunder rumbled.

Albert Wesker sat in the treatment plant's Con Bl, the room dark except for the flicker from a bank of observation monitors, six of them, each changing view on five-second rotations. There were shots from every level of the training facility, the upper and lower floors of the factory and water treatment plant, and the tunnel that connected the two. He gazed at the soundless black-and-white screens without really looking at them; most of his attention was focused on the incoming transmissions from the cleanup crew. The three-man team—well, two and a pilot— was en route by 'copter, and mostly silent; they were professionals, after all, not given to macho banter or juvenile jokes, which meant Wesker was hearing a lot of static. That was all right; the white noise went well with the blank and staring faces he saw on the monitors, the ravaged bodies slumped in corners, the men who'd been infected shambling aimlessly through empty corridors. Like the Arklay mansion and labs only a few miles away, White Umbrella's private training grounds and connected facilities had been hit by the virus.

“ETA thirty minutes, over,” the pilot said, his voice crackling through the dimly lit room.

Wesker leaned in. “Copy that.” Silence again. There was no need to talk about what would happen when they reached the train . . . and though the channel was scrambled, it was best not to say more than was necessary, anyway. Umbrella had been built on a foundation of secrecy, a characteristic of the pharmaceutical giant that was still honored by everyone in the upper echelons of management. Even in the company's legitimate dealings, the less said the better.

It's all coming down, Wesker thought idly, watching the screens. Spencer's mansion and the surrounding labs had gone down in the middle of May. White Umbrella's take on it had been “accidental,” the lab locked down until the infected researchers and staff became “ineffective.” Mistakes happened, after all. But the training facility nightmare that was still playing out in front of him had followed not a month later . . . and only a few hours ago, the engineer of Umbrella's private train, the Ecliptic Express, had pushed the biohazard panic button.

So, the lockdown didn 't work,, the virus leaked and spread. It's that simple .. . isn 't it?

There were a handful of infected grunts in the training facility's dining room, one of them walking in looping circles around the once-handsome table. He was leaking some viscous fluid out of a nasty head wound as he staggered along, oblivious to his whereabouts, to pain, to everything. Wesker tapped at the control panel beneath the monitor, keeping the surveillance from moving to the next picture. He sat back in his chair, watching the doomed walker as he circled the table yet again.

“Sabotage, maybe,” he said softly. He couldn't be sure. It was set up to look natural—a spill at the Ark-lay lab, an incomplete lockdown. A few weeks later, a couple of missing hikers, likely caused by an escaped test subject or two, and a few weeks more, infection at a second White Umbrella facility. It was highly improbable that one of the virus carriers would just happen to blunder their way to one of Raccoon's other labs, but it was possible . . . except now there was the train to consider. And it didn't feel like an accident. It felt... planned.

Hell, I might have done it myself, if I'd thought of it. He'd been looking for a way out for some time now, tired of working for people who were obviously his inferiors . . . and well aware that too much time on White Umbrella's payroll wasn't good for the health. Now they wanted him to lead the S.T.A.R.S. into the Arklay mansion and labs, to find out just how well Umbrella's war pets fared against armed soldiers. Did they give a shit if he died in the process? Not so long as he recorded the data first, he was sure.

Researchers, doctors, techs—anyone who worked for White Umbrella for more than a decade or two had a habit of winding up missing or dead, eventually. George Trevor and his family, Dr. Marcus, Dees, Dr. Darius, Alexander Ashford . . . and those were just some of the bigger names. God only knew how many of the little people had ended up in shallow graves somewhere ... or turned up as test subjects A, B, and C.

The corner of Wesker's mouth twitched. Come to think of it, he had a fairly good idea of how many. He'd been working for White Umbrella since the late seventies, most of that in the Raccoon area, and had watched the docs run through quite a few test subjects, many he had helped procure himself. It was well past his time to get out... and if he could get the data the big boys wanted, he might just be able to throw himself a little bidding war, a going-away present to fund his retirement. White Umbrella wasn't the only group interested in bioweapons research.

But first a cleanup for the train. And this place, he thought, watching as the soldier with the head wound tripped over a chair leg and went down hard. The training facility was connected to the “private” water treatment plant by an underground tunnel; it would all have to be cleared.

A few seconds passed, and the soldier onscreen staggered to his feet again, continuing on his mindless quest to nowhere ... and now there appeared to be a dinner fork sticking out of his upper right shoulder, a little souvenir from his fall. The soldier didn't notice, of course. A charming little disease. It had been the same kind of scene at the Arklay labs, Wesker was sure; the last few desperate phone calls from the quarantined lab had painted a vivid picture ofjust how effective the T-virus really was. That would have to be cleaned up, too . . . but not until after he got the S.T.A.R.S. out there for a little training exercise.

It would be an interesting match. The S.T.A.R.S. were good—he'd handpicked half of them himself— but they'd never seen anything like the T-virus. The dying soldier on the screen was a prime example— hot with the recombinant virus, he went on with his endless tour of the dining room, slow and mostly brainless. He also felt no pain—and he would attack anyone or anything that happened across his path with no hesitation, the virus continually seeking new hosts to infect. Although the original spill was allegedly airborne, after this long, the virus would only be spread by bodily fluids. By blood, or, say, a bite ... And the soldier was just a man, after all; the T-virus worked on all manners of living tissue, and

there were a number of other ... animals ... to see in action, from laboratory triumphs to local wildlife.

Enrico should have the Bravos out by now, searching for the latest missing hikers, but it was doubtful they'd find anything where he was planning to look. Sometime soon, Wesker would see about organizing an Alpha-Bravo camp-out at the “deserted” Spencer mansion. Then he'd wipe out the evidence and be on his merry, wealthy way, to hell with White Umbrella, to hell with his life as a double-agent, playing with the petty lives of men and women he didn't give a shit about.

The dying man on the screen fell down once again, dragged himself to his feet, and soldiered on.

“Go for the gold, baby,” Wesker said, and chuckled, the sound echoing out through the empty