Resident Evil. Retribution (31 page)

“Two minutes to the LZ,” the pilot said as they flew through the night to over what had been the nation’s capital.

Alice was standing with Becky, just behind the cockpit of the helicopter, as they approached the heart of Washington, D.C. She went to a port and looked down, trying to see what kind of shape the city was in. The lights of the choppers swung over the Lincoln Memorial, and as they swung past, the monument looked quite intact. So did the Washington Monument. Fires from slowly burning gas lines illuminated portions of the city as they banked past the Capitol Building. That particular tourist attraction hadn’t come through the apocalypse as well. The dome was cracked and burned; the windows were blackened, the glass shattered. Bodies lay scattered about, outside, mostly chewed down to the bone.

She saw a great many Undead surging about, but it was hard to see how many there were, in the darkness. Then they swung around over the Potomac River—which was choked with floating bodies—and back toward the White House. A dark mass surged on Pennsylvania Avenue, but it was hard to make out what it was, with the glare of lights from the White House. The grounds were dotted with spotlights, all watching the skies, probing the clouds. Most of the eighteen acres around the White House were crowded with missile emplacements, helipads, tanks, and bunkers.

There were only a few trees left standing. The grass of the great lawn was overgrown in some places, trampled and crushed to the dirt in others. Flower beds were ground away under tank treads, and around the grounds enormous barricades had been erected, a new fortress, topped with razor wire and guard posts.

The White House itself seemed more or less intact but there were gun emplacements on the roof, and more spotlights that locked onto the helicopter as it descended toward the grounds.

The pilot was busily talking into the mike, getting permission to land, reciting code phrases. Then they were spiraling down, headed into a helipad.

Alice shook her head, looking at all the armed men, the weapons, around that helipad. She was getting into something it was going to be hard to get out of. Had she made a big mistake, bringing Becky here?

She’d had a choice—she could have risked both their lives to escape. Now she was stuck.

But Jill was right.
Wait and watch. Look for your chance…

The helicopter settled on the helipad with a double thump of finality. The rotors whined, and slowed. Then a big man with flat-top hair, a scar down his cheek, and paramilitary togs stood outside the hatch of the chopper as it lowered to become a ramp. He had an assault rifle hung over his shoulder on a strap. Alice thought she remembered him.

“Grady?” she asked, as she came down the ramp.

“Yeah, Alice. It’s Grady,” he rumbled. He’d worked in the lower echelons of Umbrella Security at one time, under her authority.

“You still with Umbrella?” she asked, but she was pretty sure she knew the answer.

“Would I be working here?” he responded. “Nah. Come on—I got to get you and your little entourage into the big white place. We’re gonna have some doctors look you over, see what needs to be patched up. Might even feed you. Then you’re all going to see the Big Guy…”

The Big Guy?

Wesker.

Storage hold three seemed kind of spooky to Jack. He wasn’t sure why. It was just a ship’s hold, filled with shelves. Most of the stored goods were gone now— he, Lony, Tom, Judy, and Dori had spent most of the day unloading anything useful from the submarine. They were especially glad to get the medical supplies. By the time they were done, the only thing left on the shelves were a few big plastic bottles of engine-cleaning fluid.

Tom and Jack were alone now—Lony had gone back to the island, with Dori and Judy, to show them around, and to check on Bim.

“You think that fella that shot at us is ever going to be… you know, friendly, at all?” Tom asked, as they walked between the shelves. Tom was carrying the Desert Eagle they’d taken off Paco, and it was fully loaded. They’d made up their minds to trust him.

Jack had his M1.

“Sure, he’s a good guy. He was wounded and mad and not in the mood to trust anyone.”

“Oh, I don’t blame him, the shape the world’s in now…”

“What are we looking for, here?”

Tom stopped, and hunkered over the floor.

“Right here—got to flip this back, punch in this code… And there she goes.”

Jack felt a sick feeling of dread as the trap door lifted up, whirring on its servos, to show the eerie light below.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Tom said.

“What?”

“I have to have a closer look to be sure…”

He climbed down the ladder, and Jack climbed after him. Both of them stared through the glass of the container, flush with the floor, containing the Las Plagas Undead.

“You see?” Tom said. “There’s no ice. It’s not as cold in here. See, just before we got here we had problems with the ship’s power. It just failed—and I had to go to some emergency diesel back ups. And meanwhile, this thing… wasn’t refrigerated.”

Jack crouched down and looked closely.

“Aren’t they dead?”

“I don’t know—but I don’t think so. When they got that glow in their eyes, the spark of life is still there. And there it is!” Jack could see the red glow seeping from between the eyelids of the recumbent Las Plagas, and jumped a little when he saw those eyelids twitch.

“Oh, shit. I think I saw one blink.”

“Yeah. Well, I got that cabin cruiser tied up out back—well see if I can get this thing headed out to sea. You still willing to stand guard while I do that?”

“Yeah.”

His mouth was dry. His hands were sweaty and cold. But Jack didn’t want to seem like a coward. This man was Dori’s friend. If he impressed Tom—maybe that would impress Dori.

And he’d do anything to impress Dori. It had been love at first sight. Maybe the only sight of a young woman he’d get for years… if ever.

“Okay. But you don’t wait down here. Come on.” He led the way back up the ladder, and they closed the trap door. “Let’s shove some of these shelves down over the trap door,” Tom suggested. “And whatever else we can find. Those fire extinguishers, that box of bolts there—just pile up the weight.”

In twenty minutes they’d got it done. The room was a wreck, its shelves, and everything else they could find, piled up on the trap door.

“That should hold them,” Jack said, though he wasn’t sure. From what Tom had told him about those things…

“Alright, keep an eye on it. I’m gonna turn this thing around, and set it up to sink out to sea.”

Jack nodded, and Tom left the hold.

Back in the attack center, Tom was dismayed to see he could only get a few of the systems online. The main batteries had been corroded, and he hadn’t been able to recharge them. The reactors weren’t pumping, and he couldn’t figure out why. Luckily there was the diesel backup.

He directed the submarine to back up, then to swing slowly about till it was pointed west, out into the Pacific Ocean. He put it on top speed—wanted it to get as far from the island as possible before it went down—and tapped the controls to open up the valves for the ballast. Then he found the override on the hatches, which would keep them open even as the ship was submerging.

SCUTTLE ENGAGED

The notice began blinking on the control panel. He’d set it to start sinking in about thirty minutes.

Now he just had to wait…

Jack leaned against the bulkhead, shifting uncomfortably as the minutes passed. He’d been there nearly half an hour, and could feel the sub moving. They must’ve left the island some distance behind by now.

There was no sound from the trap door so far, but the room felt as if it was waiting for something.

He told himself it was foolish to feel spooked. There was no way the Las Plagas, even if they woke completely up, could get out through a locked trap door and past all that debris.

He really had to pee. He couldn’t quite bring himself to pee on the floor, even though he knew the submarine was going to be scuttled soon, if all went well. The men’s head was down the corridor… he’d just make it quick.

He hurried out through the hatch to the corridor, down to the head, rushed in and found a urinal. He got through it as quick as he could, and zipped up, picked up his rifle, stepped into the corridor—and then heard the banging from storage three.

“Oh, shit!”

Jack ran back—and looked through the hatch just in time to see the blockage they’d amassed, exploding upward, shelves and boxes and other debris flying as if a bomb had gone off under them. A plastic jug of engine cleaner rolled to his feet…

The trap door was up, bent from its hinges—and a man was climbing out into view. Jack was amazed. Those things were way stronger than he’d thought.

The man stepped onto the deck, kicked debris aside, and turned toward Jack. Its eyes glowed red, its body was swollen—just a little too big for its soldier’s clothing. Its face was veiny, its hands clawed…

Jack found himself unable to move; staring with fascination into those gleaming red eyes. Then the thing started toward him.

He raised the rifle, flicked off the safety, tucked the butt into his shoulder and fired. And fired again. And again…

With each bullet the Las Plagas rocked back… but it didn’t stop.

And another one came climbing up into view. He fired, emptying his clip—not seeming to have much effect, though he hit one of them right in the head.

“Shit shit
shit!”

Jack looked down at the big bottle of cleanser, picked it up, then slammed the hatch shut on the hold. He spun the wheel—but didn’t know how to lock them in, if it could be done at all.

He ran down the corridor, to the ladder. Encumbered by his rifle and the bottle of fluid, which was a full two gallons, he went clumsily up to the next deck. He heard the creak of a door opening, down below, and moved all the faster.

When he got to the attack center, Tom was just coming out.

“We’re on our way—whoa, what’s wrong, kid?”

“They busted out,” Jack said. “I shot two of them, but it didn’t slow ’em down much.”

“Yeah, you need a bigger caliber weapon than that to bring ’em down.” He looked at what Jack was carrying. “What’s with the jug there?”

“I don’t know—it says ‘danger flammable.’ I just thought…”

“Bring it!”

They hurried to the ladder, climbed up, then up another, eventually emerging onto the deck below the conning tower.

“Good thinking, bringing that stuff, Jack,” Tom said. “Open it up. I got a lighter, haven’t used it in a year, hope it’s still got some fluid in it.” He tore a piece of cloth from his already-torn trouser leg, stuffed it into the opening of the plastic bottle.

They could hear the snarling Las Plagas coming up the ladder, from below.

And the submarine, heading west, was beginning to go under. Water was washing around their ankles.

Tom fumbled at the lighter.

“Dammit!”

He stumbled, and dropped it into the water.

Frantically, Jack felt around under the surging, rising waters, hoping the lighter hadn’t already been washed overboard. His hand closed over it, and he gave it to Tom, who wiped it off. At that moment a Las Plagas reached the top of the ladder, moving into the entrance chamber just inside the hatch.

Tom snapped the lighter, again, again—and
finally
it lit. He held the blue flame to the chemical-soaked cloth, and it caught instantly.

“Ha!”

He tossed the big plastic jug through the hatch— and it exploded, inside, almost instantly. The Las Plagas was covered in burning fluid, shrieking, falling back down the ladder onto his fellow. The fire dripped and spread…

“Come on, Jack!” Tom splashed along the submerging deck, back to a line that was fixed to a cleat over the rudder. The submarine was going down faster now, and they untied the line. Tom took hold of it and Jack jumped into the water, swimming the few yards to the drifting cabin cruiser. He climbed up the rope ladder that hung over its side, and went forward, pulling the line in, helping Tom get aboard.

“We got to get this thing out of here, so we don’t get sucked down with the sub!” Tom shouted.

But Jack was already starting the engine, and he turned it back toward Catalina, tearing full throttle toward the island. He only looked back once, to see the submarine still heading out to sea, just the top of its conning tower showing.

And then it vanished under the waves…

That evening, the island of Catalina witnessed a small party. They used the old mansion’s solar power supply to rev up the sound system. Chung danced to an old Blue Oyster Cult song, “Dancing in the Ruins,” and Dori and Jack watched him, Jack a little embarrassed at the old man’s creaky dancing.

“I like Chung,” Dori whispered. “He’s… the most gentle person I’ve ever met.” After a moment she added, “But then, I haven’t met that many people. I’m a… I should tell you about it, I guess…” She seemed uncomfortable, and he didn’t quite know what to do.

“You want to take a walk with me—on the beach? You can tell me what you want, and leave out what you want. I’m just glad you’re here.”

“Okay,” she said shyly.

They went out the door. As they did, Jack noticed that Judy and Tom were dancing, now, too, Tom with his arms around her. Bim was on the deck, lying on a lounge chair, with Lony sitting beside him. They waved as Jack and Dori went out.

They took a long, long walk, under the moonlight on the beach… and when they came back they were holding hands.

Alice, Ada, Becky, Jill Valentine, and Leon were led by Grady and two other guards, through the war torn White House. At times they heard explosions, some distant, others too close for comfort. The floor rocked, and the lights flickered. They walked past portraits of presidents and beautiful old furniture, their feet quiet on the carpet.

Grady stopped at a door flanked by soldiers, knocked, listened, then opened it. Alice went in, but the guards kept the rest from following.

She knew the room—the Oval Office. And sitting at the president’s desk, dressed in black leather from head to toe, hair slicked back, dark shades covering his eyes… was Albert Wesker.