Стефани Перри: Zero Hour

dark.

Something moved in the bushes. Something bigger than a squirrel.

Rebecca spun toward the sound, aiming the flashlight and nine-millimeter at the shrub. The light caught the last of the movement, the leaves still shaking, the beam from her flashlight trembling along with them. She took a step closer, swallowing dryly, counting backward from ten. Whatever it was, it was gone now.

A raccoon, is all. Or maybe somebody's dog got loose.

She looked at her watch, sure that it must be time to head back, and saw that she'd been on her own for just over five minutes. She hadn't seen or heard anyone else since she'd walked away from the helicopter; it was as though everyone else had fallen off the face of the earth.

Or I have, she thought darkly, lowering the handgun slightly, turning to check her position. She'd been heading roughly southwest from the landing point; she'd continue on a few more minutes, then—

Rebecca blinked, surprised to see a metal wall beneath the flashlight's beam, not ten meters away. She played the light across the surface, saw windows, a door—

“A train,” she breathed, frowning slightly. It seemed like she remembered something about a track up here . . . Umbrella, the pharmaceutical corporation, had a private line that ran from Latham to Raccoon City, didn't they? She wasn't too certain on the history—she wasn't a local—but she was pretty sure the company had been founded in Raccoon. Umbrella's headquarters had moved off to Europe some time ago, but they still owned practically the entire town.

So what's it doing sitting up here, dead in the woods at this time of night? She ran the light up and down the train, saw that there were five tall cars, each two stories high. Ecliptic Express was written just below the roof of the car in front of her. There were a few lights on, but they were faint, barely casting through the windows . . . several of which were broken. She thought she saw a person's silhouette near one of the unbroken ones, but it wasn't moving. Someone asleep, maybe.

Or hurt, or dead. Maybe this thing is stopped because Billy Coen found his way onto the

track.

God, that was a thought. He could be inside now, with hostages. She should definitely call for backup. She started to reach for her radio, then paused.

Or maybe the train broke down two weeks ago and it's been here ever since, and all you'll find inside is a colony of woodchucks. Wouldn't the team have a laugh over that? They'd be nice about

it, but she'd have to endure weeks, maybe months of gentle ribbing, calling for backup over a deserted train.

She checked her watch again, saw that two minutes had passed since the last check . . . and felt a drop of cool liquid splash on her nose. Then another on her arm. Then the soft, musical patter of a hundred drops against leaves and dirt, then thousands as the sky opened up, the storm finally beginning.

The rain decided it for her; a quick look inside before she headed back, just to make sure everything was the way it was supposed to be. If Billy wasn't around, she'd at least be able to report back that the train appeared to be clear. And if he was ...

“You'll have to deal with me,” she murmured, the sound lost to the growing storm as she approached the silent train.

Billy sat on the floor between two rows of seats, working at the handcuffs with a paper clip he'd found on the floor. One of the cuffs was off, the right one, bashed open when the jeep had gone over, but unless he wanted to be wearing a jangly and rather incriminating bracelet, he had to get the other one off.

Get it off and get the hell out of here, he thought, pushing at the lock with the thin piece of metal. He didn't look up, didn't need to remind himself of his whereabouts; he didn't have to. The air was heavy with the scent of blood, it was splattered all over the place, and although the train car he'd found was empty of bodies, he had no doubt that the other cars were full of them. The dogs, has to he those dogs... though who let them on?

The same guy they'd seen in the woods, had to be. The guy who'd stepped in front of the jeep, sending it crashing out of control. Billy had been thrown clear and except for a few bruises, was pretty much unscathed. His MP escort, Dickson and Elder, had both been trapped beneath the overturned vehicle. They'd been alive, though. The human roadstop, whoever he was, was nowhere to be seen.

It had been a tough minute or two, standing there in the gathering dark, the hot, oily smell of gas in his face, his body aching, trying to decide—run for it, or radio for help? He didn't want to die, didn't deserve to die, unless being trusting and stupid was an offense worthy of death. But he couldn't leave them, either, two men pinned under a ton of twisted metal, injured and barely conscious. Their choice, to take some unpaved backwoods trail to the base, meant it could be a long time before anyone happened upon them. Yeah, they were delivering him to his execution, but they were following orders; it wasn't personal, and they didn't deserve to die any more than he did.

He'd decided to split the difference, radio for help, then run like hell . . . but then the dogs had come. Big, wet, freaky looking things, three of them, and then he was running for his life, because there was something very, very wrong about them; he knew it even before they'd attacked Dickson, ripping his throat out as they pulled him from beneath the jeep.

Billy thought he heard a click and tried the handcuff, hissing air through his teeth when the metal latch refused to budge. Goddamn thing. The paper clip was a lucky find, though there was shit everywhere—papers, bags, coats, personal belongings— and blood on just about all of it. Maybe he'd

find something more useful, if he looked harder . . . though that would mean staying on the train, and that didn't sound like much fun at all. For all he knew, this was where those dogs lived, holed up here with that crazy asshole who liked to step in front of moving cars. He'd only come aboard to avoid the dogs, to regroup, try and figure out his next move.

And it turns out to be the Slaughterhouse Special, he thought, shaking his head. Talk about out of the frying pan, into the fire. Whatever the hell was going on out in these woods, he didn't want to be a part of it. He'd get the cuff off, find himself some kind of weapon, maybe grab a wallet or two out of all the blood-splattered luggage—he had no doubt that the owners were long past caring—and hightail it back to civilization. Then Canada, or Mexico, maybe. He'd never stolen before, never considered leaving the country, but he had to think like a criminal now, if he wanted to survive. He heard thunder, then gentle taps of rain against some of the unbroken windows. The taps became a tattoo, the blood-scented air thinning with a gust of wind through a shattered pane. Dandy. Apparently, he'd be hiking out in a rainstorm.

“Whatever,” he mumbled, and threw the useless paper clip against the seat in front of him. The situation was seriously FUBAR, he doubted it could get much worse—

Billy froze, held his breath. The outside door to the train was opening. He could hear the metal sliding, the rain getting louder, then quieter again. Someone had come aboard.

Shit! What if it was the maniac with the dogs?

Or what if someone found the jeep?

He felt a sick, heavy knot in his stomach. Could be. Could be that someone else from the base had decided to use the back road tonight, maybe had already called in when they'd seen the crash—and learned that there should've been a third passenger, a certain dead man walking.

Maybe he was already being hunted.

He didn't move, straining to hear the movements of whoever had come in from the rain. For a few seconds, nothing—then he heard a soft tread, one step, then another. Moving away from him, toward the front of the car.