Стефани Перри: Code Veronica

headstones, remembered them as bizarrely ornate for a prison cemetery. There was definitely a fire close to the top of the stairs, but apparently not a big one there was no heat filtering down, only a cool and humid breeze that carried the pervasive smoke smell. It seemed quiet, and as she neared the top, she heard drops of rain hissing as they met the flames, an oddly comforting sound. As she emerged from the stairwell, she saw the source of the fire, only meters away. A helicopter had crashed, a large portion of it merrily burning amid a thick, smoking haze. To her left was a wall, another just past the flaming wreck; to her right, the open space of the cemetery, gloomy and shrouded by the increasing rain and the oncoming night. Claire squinted into the rainy dusk and made out a number of dark shapes, though none of them seemed to be moving; more headstones, she thought. A whisper of relief edged through her anxiety; whatever had happened seemed to be over. Amazing, she thought, that she could possibly be relieved to be alone in a cemetery at night. Even six months ago, her imagination would have conjured up all sorts of horrible things. It appeared that ghosts and cursed souls just didn't cut it on the scary meter anymore, not after her run-ins with Umbrella. She took a right on the U-shaped path, moving slowly, remembering how she'd been led through the graveyard before being pushed to the stairs. She thought she could make out what looked like a gate past the line of graves in the center of the yard, or at least an open space in the far wall… … and suddenly she was flying, the sound of an explosion behind her assaulting her ears, WHUMP, a wave of broiling heat throwing her into the mud. The wet twilight was suddenly brighter, the reek of burning chemicals stinging her nose and eyes. She landed without grace but managed not to stab herself with the combat knife, all of it happening so fast that she barely had time to register confusion.

… don't think I'm hurt … helicopter's fuel tank must have blown… "Unnnh…"

Claire was on her feet instantly, the soft, pitiful, unmistakable moan inspiring a near panic of action, the sound joined by another, and another. She spun around and saw the first one stumbling toward her from what was left of the burning helicopter, a man, his clothes and hair on fire, the skin of his face blistering and black. She turned again and saw two more of them crawling up from the mud, their faces a sickening gray-white,

their skeletal fingers grasping in her direction, clutching air as they reeled toward her. Shit! Just as in Raccoon, Umbrella's viral synthesis had effectively turned them into zombies, stealing their humanity and their lives. She didn't have time for disbelief or dismay, not with three of them closing in, not when she realized that there were others farther along the path. They staggered out from the shadows, slack, brutalized faces all turning slowly toward her, mouths hanging open, their gazes blank and unchanging. Some wore shreds of uniforms, camo or plain gray, guards and prisoners. There had been a spill, after all.

"Uhhhh…" "Ohhh…"

The overlapping cries epitomized great longing, each plaintive wail that of a starving man looking at a feast. Goddamn Umbrella for what they'd done! It was beyond tragic, the transformation from human into mindless, dying creatures, decaying as they walked. The inevitable fate of each virus carrier was death, but she couldn't let herself mourn for them, not now, her pity limited by the need to survive.

Go go go NOW!

Her assessment and analysis lasted less than a second and then she was moving, no plan except to get away. With the path blocked in both directions, she leaped for the center of the graveyard, clambering over the marble slabs that marked the resting places of the true dead. Her wet, muddy jeans clung to her legs, hampering her, her boots slipping against the smooth headstones, but she managed to climb up and balance her weight between two of them, out of reach for the moment. For the second! You gotta get out of here, fast. The knife was no good, she didn't dare get close enough to use it a single healthy bite from one of those things and she'd end up joining their ranks, if they didn't eat her first. The one with the blackened face was nearest, his hair melted away, part of his shirt still smoldering. He was close enough for her to smell the greasy, nauseating smell of burnt flesh, overlaid by the stench of the fuel that had cooked it. She had ten, fifteen seconds at most before he'd be close enough to grab for her. She shot a glance at the southeast corner of the yard, her arms out for balance. There were only two of them between her and the exit, but that was two too many, she'd never make it past both of them. She knew from Raccoon that they were slow, and that their reasoning skills were zip they saw prey, they moved toward it in a straight line, regardless of what was in the way. If she could just bait them away from the gate…

Good idea, except there were too many on the ground, six or seven of them, she'd end up surrounded…

.. but not if you stay on the headstones.

There were multiple zombies to either side of the center row of graves, but only one standing at the end of the line, directly in front of her … and that one barely functional, an eye gouged out, an arm broken and hanging. It was a risky plan, one stumble and she was toast, but the burned man was already reaching for her ankle with his charred and shaking hands, rain sizzling on his upturned face. Claire leaped, arms wheeling as she landed with both feet on the narrow top of the next stone slab in line. She started to pitch forward, jerking and swiveling her body to maintain her center of gravity, but it was no good, she was going to fall –

– and without thinking, she quickly jumped again, then again, using the uneven stones like rocks in a river, using her lack of balance to propel her forward. An ashen-faced virus carrier snatched at her lower legs, moaning in feverish hunger, but she was already past it, leaping to the next headstone. She didn't have time to consider how she was going to stop, which was just as well because the unlikely path ran out one jump later and her next leap was into a sloppy shoulder roll against the muddy ground a meter below. Oof, a hard drop, but she followed through and came up on her feet, just barely, her legs sliding unsteadily in the muck. The one-eyed zombie lurched toward her, gurgling, within easy reach, but she quickly stumbled around it, keeping on its blind side, the knife ready. The creature attempted to turn, to find its meal once more, but she easily stayed out of its limited sight. She risked a glance away from her awkward, shuffling dance and saw the other zombies closing in. The rain intensified, sluicing the mud off of her. It's working, just another few seconds… Frustrated by its lack of success, the half-blinded carrier pawed at the air with its one good arm. The dirty, blackened nails scraped across her chest and the zombie moaned anxiously, scrabbling at the wet denim, but it couldn't get a solid grip. God, it's touching me.

With a wordless cry of fear and disgust Claire slashed out with the knife, deep, nearly bloodless cuts opening up across its wrist. The zombie continued to clutch at her, oblivious to the damage she was doing as it staggered closer, and Claire decided that it was time to leave. She pulled her arms back, hands fisted, and then drove them forward into the creature's chest, pushing as hard as

she could. She turned again to the center line of graves as the creature fell backward, the others much closer now. How she managed to climb back up so quickly she didn't know; one second she was on the ground, the next she was on top of beveled granite. She saw that the exit was clear, the zombies now loosely grouped near the west wall. Her hopping second journey along the headstones was only slightly more controlled than the first, each leap like a leap of faith, that she wouldn't slip and seriously injure herself. The rain was tapering off, and she could hear the wet, sucking sounds of their plodding, slow-motion chase clearly; unless one of them suddenly remembered how to jog, they were too far away to catch up to her.