S. D. Perry - Resident Evil 05 - Nemesis

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PROLOGUE
CARLOS WAS JUST GETTING OUT OF THE
shower when the phone rang. He wrapped a towel
around his waist and stumbled out into the cramped liv-
ing room, nearly tripping over a still unopened box of
books in his haste to get to the bleating phone; he hadn't
had time to get an answering machine since moving to
the city, and only the new field office had his number. It
wouldn't pay to miss any calls, particularly since Um-
brella was footing his bills.
He snatched up the receiver with one dripping hand
and tried not to sound too out of breath.
"Hello?"
"Carlos, it's Mitch Hirami."
Unconsciously, Carlos stood up a little straighter,
still clutching the damp towel. "Yes, sir."
Hirami was his squad leader. Carlos had only met
him twice, not enough time to get a solid read on him,
but he seemed competent enough - as did the other
guys in the squad.
Competent, if not exactly up-front... Like Carlos,
no one talked much about their past, although he knew
for a fact that Hirami had been involved in gunrunning
through South America a few years back before he'd
started to work for Umbrella. It seemed that everyone
he'd met on the U.B.C.S. had a secret or two - most of
them involving activities not strictly legal.
"Orders just came down on a developing situation.
We're calling everyone in on this, ASAP. You got an
hour to report, and we leave in two, that's 1500 hours,
comprende?"
"Si-uh, yes, sir." Carlos had been fluent in English
for years, but he was still getting used to speaking it
full-time. "Is there any info on what kind of situation?"
"Negative. You'll be briefed along with the rest of us
when you come in."
Hirami's tone of voice suggested that he had more to
say. Carlos waited, starting to feel chilled by the water
drying on his body.
"Word is, it's a chemical spill," Hirami said, and
Carlos thought he could hear a thread of unease in the
squad leader's voice. "Something that's making peo-
ple ... making them act differently."
Carlos frowned. "Differently how?"
Hirami sighed. "They don't pay us to ask questions,
Oliveira, do they? Now you know as much as I do. Just
get here."
"Yes, sir," Carlos said, but Hirami had already
hung up.
Carlos dropped the receiver into its cradle, not sure if
he should feel excited or nervous about his first
U.B.C.S. operation. Umbrella Biohazard Countermea-
sure Service: an impressive title for a group of hired
ex-mercenaries and ex-military, most with combat ex-
perience and shady backgrounds. The recruiter in Hon-
duras had said that they'd be called upon to "deal" with
situations that Umbrella needed handled quickly and
aggressively - and legally. After three years of fighting
in private little wars between rival gangs and revolu-
tionaries, of living in mud shacks and eating out of
cans, the promise of real employment - and at an as-
tonishingly good wage - was like an answered prayer.
Too good to be true, that's what I thought ... and
what if it turns out that I was right?
Carlos shook his head. He wasn't going to find out
standing around in a towel. In any case, it couldn't pos-
sibly be worse man shooting it out with a bunch of
coked-up pendejos in some anonymous jungle, wonder-
ing if he'd hear the bullet that finally took him out.
He had an hour, and it was a twenty-minute walk to
the office. He turned toward the bedroom, suddenly de-
termined to show up early, to see if he could get any
more out of Hirami about what was going on. Already,
he could feel the warm build of nervous adrenaline in
his gut, a feeling he'd grown up with and knew better
than any other - part anticipation, part excitement, and
a healthy dose of fear...
Carlos grinned as he finished toweling off, amused at
himself. He'd spent too much time in the jungle. He was
in the United States now, working for a legitimate phar-
maceutical company - what was there to be afraid of?
"Nada," he said, and, still smiling, he went to find
his fatigues.
Late September in the outskirts of the big city; it was
a sunny day, but Carlos could feel the first whisper of
autumn as he hurried toward the field office, a kind of
thinning of the air, leaves beginning to wilt on the
branches overhead. Not that there were very many
trees; his apartment was at the edge of a sprawling in-
dustrial area - a few dingy fabrication plants, fenced
lots overgrown with weeds, seeming acres of run-down
storage facilities. The U.B.C.S. office was actually a
renovated warehouse on an Umbrella-owned lot, sur-
rounded by a fairly modern shipping complex complete
with helipad and loading docks - a nice setup, although
Carlos wondered again why they'd decided to build in
such a crummy area. They could obviously afford
much better.
Carlos checked his watch as he headed up Everett
Street and started to walk a little faster. He wasn't
going to be late, but he still wanted to get there before
the briefing, see what the other guys were saying. Hi-
rami had said they were calling in everyone - four pla-
toons, three squads of ten in each platoon, 120 people
all total. Carlos was a corporal in squad A of platoon D;
ridiculous, how these things were set up, but he sup-
posed it was necessary to keep track of everyone.
Somebody had to know something...
He took a right where Everett met 374th, his
thoughts wandering, vaguely curious about where they
were being sent...
... when a man stepped out of an alley only a few
meters in front of him, a well-dressed stranger wearing
a wide smile. He stood there, hands jammed into the
pockets of an expensive trench coat, apparently waiting
for Carlos to reach him.
Carlos kept his expression carefully neutral, studying
the man warily. Tall, thin, dark hair and eyes but defi-
nitely Caucasian, early to mid-40s - and grinning as
though he meant to share an exceptionally funny joke.
Carlos prepared to walk past him, reminding himself
of how many crazies lived in any decent-sized city, an
unavoidable hazard of urban life.
He probably wants to tell me about the aliens moni-
toring his brain waves, maybe babble some conspiracy
theory...
"Carlos Oliveira?" the man asked, but it was more of
a statement than a question.
Carlos stopped in his tracks, his whole body tensing,
instinctively letting his right hand drop to where he
wore a gun - except he wasn't carrying, hadn't since
crossing the border, carajo...
As if sensing the upset he'd caused, the stranger took
a step back, holding his hands up in the air. He seemed
amused, but not especially threatening.
"Who's asking?" Carlos snapped. "And how the hell
did you know my name?"
"My name is Trent, Mr. Oliveira," he said, his dark
gaze glittering with barely suppressed mirth. "And I
have some information for you."
ONE
IN THE DREAM, JILL DIDN'T RUN FAST ENOUGH.
It was the same dream she'd suffered every few days
since the mission that had nearly killed them all that
terrible, endless night in July. Back when only a few
Raccoon citizens had been hurt by Umbrella's secret
and the S.T.A.R.S. administration wasn't completely
corrupt, back when she was still stupid enough to think
that people would believe their story.
In the dream, she and the other survivors - Chris,
Barry, and Rebecca - waited anxiously for rescue at the
hidden laboratory's helipad, all of them exhausted,
wounded, and very aware that the buildings around and
beneath them were about to self-destruct. It was dawn,
cool light coming in shafts through the trees that sur-
rounded the Spencer estate, the stillness broken only by
the welcome sound of the approaching 'copter. Six
members of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad were
dead, lost to the human and inhuman creatures that
roamed the estate, and if Brad didn't set down quick,
there wouldn't be any survivors. The lab was going to
blow, destroying the proof of Umbrella's T-virus spill
and killing them all.
Chris and Barry waved their arms, motioning for
Brad to hurry. Jill checked her watch, dazed, her mind
still trying to grasp all that had happened, to sort it all
out. Umbrella Pharmaceutical, the single biggest con-
tributor to Raccoon City's prosperity and a major force
in the corporate world, had secretly created monsters in
the name of bioweapons research and in playing with
fire had managed to burn themselves very badly.
That didn't matter now, all that mattered was getting
the hell away -
- and we 've got maybe three minutes, four max -
CRASH!
Jill whirled around, saw chunks of concrete and tar
fly into the air and rain down over the northwest cor-
ner of the landing pad. A giant claw stretched up from
the hole, fell across the jagged lip -
- and the pale, hulking monster, the one she and
Barry had tried to kill in the lab, the Tyrant, leaped out
onto the heliport. It rose smoothly from its agile
crouch ... and started toward them.
It was an abomination, at least eight feet tall, once
human, perhaps, but no more. Its right hand, normal.
Its left, a massive, chitinous grasp of claws. Its face had
been horribly altered, its lips cut away so that it
seemed to grin at them through sliced red tissue. Its
naked body was sexless, the thick, bloody tumor that
was its heart shuddering wetly outside of its chest.
Chris targeted the pulsing muscle with his Beretta
and fired, five 9mm rounds tearing into its ghastly
flesh; the Tyrant didn't even slow down. Barry
screamed for them to scatter, and then they were run-
ning, Jill pulling Rebecca away, the thunder of Barry's
.357 crashing behind them. Overhead, the 'copter cir-
cled and Jill could feel the seconds ticking away, al-
most believed she could feel the explosion building
beneath their feet.
She and Rebecca pulled their weapons and started
firing. Jill continued to pull the trigger even as she
watched the creature knock Barry to the ground, slam-
ming in a new clip as it went after Chris, firing and
screaming, enveloped by a rising terror, "why won't it
go down?"
From above, a shout, and something thrown out of
the 'copter. Chris ran for it, and Jill saw nothing else
nothing but the Tyrant as it turned its attention to her
and Rebecca, indifferent to the firepower that contin-
ued plugging bloody holes through its strange body. Jill
turned and ran, saw the girl do the same, and knew -
- knew that the monster was after her, the face of Jill
Valentine embedded in its lizard brain.
Jill ran, ran, and suddenly there was no heliport, no
crumbling mansion, only a million trees and the
sounds: her boots slapping the earth, the pulse of blood
in her ears, her ragged breath. The monster was silent
behind her, a mute and terrible force, relentless and as
inevitable as death.
They were dead, Chris and Barry, Rebecca, even
Brad, she knew it, everyone but her - and as she ran,
she saw the Tyrant's shadow stretch out in front of her,
burying her own, and the hiss of its monstrous talons
slicing down, melting through her body, killing her, no...
No...
"No!"
Jill opened her eyes, the word still on her lips, the
only sound in the stillness of her room. It wasn't the
scream she imagined, but the weak, strangled cry of a
woman doomed, caught in a nightmare from which
there was no escape.
Which I am. None of us were fast enough, after all.
She lay still for a moment, breathing deeply, moving
her hand away from the loaded Beretta under her pil-
low; it had become a reflex, and one she wasn't sorry to
have developed.
"Useless against nightmares, though," she muttered
and sat up. She'd been talking to herself for days now;
sometimes, she thought it was the only thing that kept
her sane. Gray light crept in through the blinds, casting
the small bedroom in shadow. The digital clock on the
nightstand was still working; she supposed she should
be glad that the power was still on, but it was later than
she'd hoped - nearly three in the afternoon. She'd slept
for almost six hours, the most she'd managed to get in
the last three days. Considering what was going on out-
side, she couldn't help a flush of guilt. She should be
out there, she should be doing more to save those who
could still be saved...
Knock it off, you know better. You can't help anyone
if you collapse. And those people you helped...
She wouldn't think about that, not yet. When she'd
finally made it back to the suburbs this morning, after
nearly forty-eight sleepless hours of "helping," she'd
been on the verge of a breakdown, forced to face the re-
ality of what had happened to Raccoon: The city was
irretrievably lost to the T-virus, or some variant of it.
Like the researchers at the mansion. Like the Tyrant.
Jill closed her eyes, thinking about the recurring
dream, about what it meant. It matched the real chain
of events perfectly, except for the end - Brad Vickers,
the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha pilot, had thrown something out
of the 'copter, a grenade launcher, and Chris had blown
up the Tyrant as it was going after her. They'd all got-
ten away in time ... but in a way, that didn't matter.
For all the good they'd been able to accomplish since
then, they might as well have died.
It's not our fault, Jill thought angrily, aware that she
wanted to believe that more than anything. No one
would listen - not the home office, not Chief Irons, not
the press. If they'd listened, if they'd believed...
Strange, that all of it had happened only six weeks
ago; it felt like years. The city officials and the local
papers had enjoyed a field day with the S.T.A.R.S.'s
reputation - six dead, the rest babbling fantastic stories
about a secret laboratory, about monsters and zombies
and an Umbrella conspiracy. They had been suspended
and ridiculed, but worst of all, nothing had been done
to prevent the spread of the virus. She and the others
had only been able to hope that the destruction of the
spill site had put an end to the immediate danger.
In the weeks following, so much had happened.
They'd uncovered the truth about the S.T.A.R.S., that
Umbrella - technically, White Umbrella, the division in
charge of bioweapons research - was either bribing or
blackmailing key members nationally in order to con-
tinue their research unimpeded. They'd learned that
several of Raccoon City's council members were on the
Umbrella payroll, and that Umbrella probably had
more than one research facility experimenting with
man-made diseases. Their search for information about
Trent, the stranger who'd contacted her before the dis-
astrous mission as "a friend to the S.T.A.R.S.," had
turned up nothing, but they'd come up with some ex-
tremely interesting background stuff on Chief Irons: it
seemed that the chief had been in hot water at one point
about a possible rape, and that Umbrella knew about it
and had helped him get his position anyway. Perhaps
most difficult of all, their team had been forced to split
up, to make hard decisions about what needed to be
done and about their own responsibilities to the truth.
Jill smiled faintly; the one thing she could feel good
about in all of this was that at least her friends had
made it out. Rebecca Chambers had joined up with an-
other small group of S.T.A.R.S. dissidents who were
checking out rumors of other Umbrella laboratories.
Brad Vickers, true to his cowardly nature, had skipped
town to avoid Umbrella's wrath. Chris Redfield was al-
ready in Europe, scoping out the company's headquar-
ters and waiting for Barry Burton and Rebecca's team
to join him ... and for Jill, who was going to wrap up
her investigation of Umbrella's local offices before
hooking up with the others.
Except five days ago, something terrible had hap-
pened in Raccoon. It was still happening, unfolding
like some poisonous flower, and the only hope now
was to wait for someone outside to take notice.
When the first few cases had been reported, no one
had connected them with the S.T.A.R.S. stories about
the Spencer estate. Several people had been attacked in
the late spring and early summer - surely the work of
some deranged killer, after all; the RPD would catch
him in no time. It wasn't until the Raccoon Police De-
partment had put up roadblocks on Umbrella orders,
three days earlier, that people had started paying atten-
tion. Jill didn't know how they were managing to keep
people out of the city, but they were - nothing shipped
in, no mail service, and the outside lines were cut. Citi-
zens trying to leave town were turned back, told noth-
ing about why.
It all seemed so surreal now, those first hours after
Jill had found out about the attacks, about the block-
ades. She'd gone to the RPD building to see Chief
Irons, but he had refused to talk to her. Jill had known
that some of the cops would listen, that not everyone
was as blind or corrupt as Irons - but even with the
bizarre nature of the assaults they'd witnessed, they
hadn't been ready to accept the truth.
And who could blame them? "Listen up, officers -
- Umbrella, the company that's responsible for building
up our fair city, has been experimenting with a de-
signer virus in their own backyard. They've been
breeding and growing unnatural creatures in secret
laboratories, then injecting them with something that
makes them incredibly strong and extremely violent.
When humans are exposed to this stuff, they become
zombies, for lack of a better term. Flesh-eating, mind-
less, decaying-on-the-hoof zombies, who feel no pain
and try to eat other people. They're not really dead,
but they're pretty close. So, let's work together, okay?
Let's go out there and start mowing down unarmed cit-
izens in the streets, your friends and neighbors, be-
cause if we don't, you could be next."
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jill sighed. She'd been
a little more tactful, but no matter how well worded, it
was still an insane story. Of course they hadn't believed
her, not then, not in the light of day and in the safety of
their uniforms. It hadn't been until after dark, when the
screaming had begun...
That had been the 25th of September, and today was
the 28th, and the police were almost certainly all dead;
she'd last heard gunshots ... yesterday? Last night? It
could have been the rioters, she supposed, but it didn't
matter anymore. Raccoon was dead, except for the
brain-dead virus carriers that roamed the streets, look-
ing for a meal.
Between no sleep and a near constant pump of
adrenaline, the days had blurred together for her.
After the police force had been destroyed, Jill had
spent her time looking for survivors, endless hours
ducking down alleys, knocking on doors, combing
buildings for those who'd managed to hide. She'd
found dozens, and with some help from a few of
them, they'd made it to a safe place, a high school that
they had barricaded. Jill had made sure they were se-
cure before going back out into the city, searching for
others.
She'd found no one. And this morning, when she'd
gone back to the high school...
She didn't want to think about it, but some part of
her knew that she had to, that she couldn't afford to for-
get. This morning, she'd gone back and the barricade
had been gone. Torn down by zombies, or perhaps
taken down by someone inside, someone who looked
out and thought they saw a brother or uncle or daughter
in the crowd of flesh-eaters. Someone who thought that
they were saving the life of a loved one, not realizing
that it was too late.
It had been a slaughterhouse, the air fetid with the
stink of shit and vomit, the walls decorated with great
smears of blood. Jill had nearly given up, then, more
tired than she'd ever been, unable to see anything but
the bodies of those who'd been lucky enough to die be-
fore the virus could amplify in their systems. As she'd
walked through the almost empty halls, killing the
handful of carriers that had still been stumbling
around - people she'd found, people who had cried
with relief when they'd seen her only hours before -
- whatever hope she'd held on to was gone, lost with the
realization that everything she'd been through was
worthless. Knowing the truth about Umbrella hadn't
saved anyone, and the citizens she thought she'd led to
safety - over seventy men, women, and children - were
gone.
She couldn't really remember how she'd made it
home. She hadn't been able to think straight, and had
barely been able to see through eyes swollen from cry-
ing. Outside of how it affected her, thousands had died;
it was a tragedy so vast it was nearly incomprehensible.
It could have been prevented. And it was Umbrella's
fault.
Jill pulled the Beretta out from under her pillow, al-
lowing herself to feel for the first time the immensity of
what Umbrella had done. For the last few days, she'd
kept her emotions in check - there had been people to
lead, to help, and there'd been no place for any per-
sonal feelings.
Now, though...
She was ready to get out of Raccoon and make the
bastards who'd let this happen know how she felt. They
had stolen her hope, but they couldn't stop her from
surviving.
Jill chambered a round and set her jaw, the stirrings
of true hatred in her gut. It was time to leave.
Two
THEY WOULD BE IN RACCOON CITY IN JUST
under an hour.
Nicholai Ginovaef was prepared, and he believed his
squad would do well - better than the rest, anyway. The
nine others that made up squad B respected him; he
had seen it in their eyes, and although they would al-
most certainly die, their performance would be note-
worthy. After all, he had practically trained them
himself.
There was no talking in the helicopter that carried
platoon D through the late afternoon, not even among
the squad leaders, the only personnel who wore head-
sets. It was too loud for the troops to hear one another,
and Nicholai had nothing to say to either Hirami or
Cryan - or Mikhail Victor, for that matter. Victor was
their superior, the commander of the entire platoon. It
was a job that should have belonged to Nicholai; Victor
lacked the qualities that made up a true leader.
I possess them, though. I was chosen for Watchdog,
and when this is all over, I'm the one Umbrella will
have to deal with, whether they like it or not.
Nicholai kept his face as stone, but he smiled inside.
When the time came, "they," the men who controlled
Umbrella from behind the scenes, would realize that
they'd underestimated him.
He sat near the A and C squad leaders against one
wall of the cabin, soothed by the steady and familiar
throb of the transport. The very air was charged with
摘要：

PROLOGUECARLOSWASJUSTGETTINGOUTOFTHEshowerwhenthephonerang.Hewrappedatowelaroundhiswaistandstumbledoutintothecrampedliv-ingroom,nearlytrippingoverastillunopenedboxofbooksinhishastetogettothebleatingphone;hehadn'thadtimetogetanansweringmachinesincemovingtothecity,andonlythenewfieldofficehadhisnumber....

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