Resident Evil. Retribution (6 page)

“Where are Chris and Claire? Where are the others from the ship?” she demanded.

And then Alice was punished. She was stabbed by sound.

Squealing, hyper loud, painfully shrill feedback filled the room. It was beyond deafening, echoing back and forth between the walls as if it were hitting her face, over and over. Alice clapped her hands to cover her ears, but the shrieking noise only increased in pitch, in volume, passing unbearable and reaching what had to be near-lethal intensity.

She hunkered down, putting her head between her knees, trying to block out the sound, wondering if she would come out of this with her hearing permanently damaged. It couldn’t get any worse than this, she thought desperately.

It got worse.

Louder, higher pitched yet…

She writhed on the floor in agony, and then lost consciousness.

Alice woke, finding that she had been moved, somehow, onto a cot. Her ears were still ringing from the sonic assault. Her stomach was roiling with nausea.

The lights were brightly streaming up from the floor. The clinical glow seemed to say,
“We are watching you, Alice. This is the light of pure observation.”

The lights suddenly switched off. And even in darkness she felt eyes…

And then the light in the window, Jill Valentine’s silhouette overhead.

“Project Alice, who do you work for?”

“Jill… what
happened
to you?” Alice asked hoarsely.

“Project Alice, why did you turn against Umbrella?” Jill’s cold, impersonal voice reverberated around the octagonal chamber. “Why… why… did you turn…”

“Jill—answer me! Why are you doing this?”

And the punishment began again. The high-pitched feedback assaulted her so loud she could feel it rattling the bones of her head, vibrating in her chest, shivering her teeth. She fell to her knees, clapping her hands over her ears.

Like Becky—she screamed… and couldn’t hear it.

Alice fell to her side, and the assault on her ears, her whole being, got worse… and worse… until…

Alice woke on the cot, ears ringing, stomach twisting in her belly. She lay there, pretending to be alive.

They weren’t fooled. The lights switched off.

No,
Alice thought, sitting up.
NO.

Jill Valentine appeared in the window above.

“Project Alice—who do you work for?”

There she is, right on schedule,
Alice thought. She stood up, trying to marshal her dignity, her defiance.

She just stared up at the light. Words didn’t help. She knew her face spoke for her. Her eyes said it all.

I defy you.

But inside, she squirmed in fear, waiting for the assault, the scream that screamed for her…

And it came like an invisible bolt, a crack of lightning in the form of sound, an electrocution that never ended—shrilling, screaming, shrieking—till it filled all time and space.

Blood ran from Alice’s nose. Blood trickled from her ears.

She tried to remain standing but found herself on her knees, keeling over, writhing at the pain in her head, pitching into darkness.

Alice woke on the cot, ears ringing.

She lay there in rigid dread. Could she bear it one more time? She was dehydrated, hungry, her belly churning, her head throbbing…

She sat up.

The lights dimmed—and went out.

No.

But the light up above didn’t go on. No silhouette appeared in the window.

No Jill Valentine.

Not yet.

A light, just one spotlight, illuminated a steel drawer that came sliding out from the wall. Alice stood up, feeling weak and wobbly, and walked over to the illuminated drawer. In it she found a black Umbrella Corporation combat outfit, neatly folded, as well as a pair of boots. Her size. She picked up the battle suit. Under the outfit was a bottle of liquid. On the bottle was a label: H
YDRATION AND
N
UTRITION
.

It might be poison—or it might be a drug. But she was parched, and weak. She’d been, what, days? Yes, days without a drink, or food. She had to take a chance. She opened the bottle, and drank deeply, feeling enormously better after just a few swigs. The liquid was a little thick, a little sweet, and it tasted of vitamins. She waited to see if it would make her sick.

It didn’t. It restored her.

She drank the rest, dropped the bottle in the drawer, then pulled on the black outfit. It fit perfectly, of course. But there were no shoes—she was left barefoot.

A slight click sounded behind her. She turned her head to see the door opening, just a little.

She spun on her heels—and waited. No one came through the door. It was as if the unlocked portal was an invitation.

An invitation to escape—or into a trap? Into something even worse?

If someone was helping her escape, why were they doing it? What was their agenda?

She had no options. She had to find out…

So she took a deep breath, and walked to the door, slipped out into the corridor.

Alice looked to the right, and saw only a seemingly endless, white corridor. She looked left—and found the same view. Made of milky glass lit from behind, the corridor walls seemed almost alive, as if, once more, the light streaming from the walls was aware of her, watching her.

She heard nothing except for a hint, a faint hum that might be air filtration. She could hear her own breathing, it was so quiet.

She’d half expected someone out here, to meet her, to explain why they’d released her. But there was no one. And yet they had to be there… behind those glowing walls.

Jill Valentine sat on her barracks bunk, near a squad of other, subordinate Umbrella troopers; they all wore the leather masks and breathing apparatus of lower-echelon troops. They sat calmly, waiting for activation. Near them leaned their weapons—combat rifles, loaded and ready in case of need.

They all had the metal and glass scarabs on their chests. The scarab was the comforting node of Umbrella’s control; the source of the peace Jill felt, when she was in “neutral” like this; the source of the reward of hot stimulation she felt when it was time to act.

She felt that stimulation now, as a soft alarm bell sounded, and the room’s lights pulsed in warning. The scarab she wore over her bosom began to glow.

Against the milky-white walls stood various types of equipment, including a bank of surveillance monitors.

The scarab glowed, the alarm sounded, and Jill obediently stood up, marching smartly to the surveillance computer. The other troopers stood, as well, their scarabs pulsing with life. They snatched up their weapons and waited for her orders.

Jill touched the corner of the monitor, activating the “scan for irregularities” surveillance system. The system immediately provided an image of Alice, seen from a high angle, walking quickly down the long, seemingly empty corridor. She was wearing a black Umbrella combat suit. That was wrong, Jill knew. She should not have had access to it. She wasn’t far from her interrogation cell—how had she acquired the outfit?

The HUD style interface that projected images on the edge of Jill’s retina lit up with scrolling letters:

Jill received her orders.

“She got out!” she snapped. “Scramble the security team!”

Striding down that endless corridor, looking for an exit, Alice was encouraged by what appeared to be the corridor’s end, at last, not too far up ahead.

She hadn’t seen anyone else yet. The only sound was her breathing, her steps on the floor. Until…

Something else. A faint noise.

The sound got louder—it was distant, but getting closer, until it sounded like a giant’s footsteps.
THOOM, THOOM, THOOM, THOOM.
And it was coming from behind.

She turned and saw a laser grid, accompanying the booming sound, filling the corridor section by section.

THOOM.

Another section filled with the lethal beams.

THOOM.

Another section, and it seemed to Alice that she could hear the sizzle of the beams, coming ever closer. She turned and ran, knew instinctively that she didn’t want to be caught by even one of the beams in the grid…

Even though she had her back to them, she could feel them, hot on her heels.

Suddenly she reached the end of the corridor—and the door. She sprinted, jerked the door open just as the grid caught up with her, and she ran into…

Tokyo. At night.

Specifically, Shibuya Scramble. She was in the Times Square of Tokyo, where numerous major streets intersected, neon lights burned like hot emotions against the night, and JumboTrons flashed with endless advertisements,

Alice had been here, shopping, before the coming of the Undead, and it was just as she remembered it… except for one thing. There were no people. No cars, no traffic. The only movements were on the gigantic JumboTron screens, digitally capturing laughing faces, happy faces, coy faces, sexy faces… giant twodimensional people beaming down on the otherwise lifeless intersection.

But the Scramble wasn’t quite empty, because Alice was there, walking into the empty street—and marveling.

At least the Undead should be here. The electricity probably shouldn’t be on—not now. Not most of it. The buildings should be damaged, some of them burned, wrecked by the apocalyptic coming of the Undead.

But they weren’t—everything here was pristine, as if waiting for the crowd to come back.

Maybe there was a drug in that drink after all.

But she didn’t
feel
drugged. She touched the roof of a parked car. It was cold metal, very real indeed. Her bare feet felt the rough, cold concrete beneath them.

Walk/Don’t Walk signs flashed for vanished pedestrians. The traffic lights changed, as if hopeful that they might attract traffic.

Alice glanced behind her at the featureless building from which she’d come. The door was closed. There was no information there.

Then she walked to the center of the deserted Shibuya Scramble and stood there, alone, shivering in the chilly night, dwarfed by the city that was Tokyo. It was as if she were the last woman on Earth. She didn’t believe she was alone in the world—not for a moment—but she almost wished it were true. A world vacant of people might be better than a world overrun by the Undead.

The lights flashed, the signs blinked, the spotless buildings gleamed. She’d seen Tokyo destroyed. This… could not… be here.

On the edge of the Scramble was a small Tokyo police cruiser, parked against the curb. Alice walked over to the cop car, and tried the door. Locked.

Not for long.

Off to one side was a bicycle rack, with a dozen lonely-looking bicycles neatly stored. There was an empty slot, and lying across the metal of the slot was a bicycle chain with a large metal lock still attached. She picked it up, swung it experimentally. Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing—almost like a chain mace.

She went back to the cruiser and swung the chain, hard, smashing the lock into the side window on the driver’s side of the vehicle, shattering it. She pulled some excess glass out of the way, then reached through, unlocked the door, and opened it. Sliding into the seat, she did a quick search and found a .45 automatic stuck between the cushions; a nice Glock with a good heft to it. She could feel by the weight that it was fully loaded. She located a spare magazine on the floor, and stuck that in a pocket.

There was a police jacket in the back. She pulled it on and got out of the car, the gun in one hand, bicycle chain in the other.

Something chill struck her cheek. She touched it— water. She looked up and more struck her face. It was raining.

Suddenly the doors to every department store burst open, all at once, as if choreographed—and the Scramble began to fill up with busy people, who seemed serenely intent on their own personal missions. They were just the sort of people Alice had once seen, here in Tokyo. Dour salarymen in suits and young women in fashion finery and strolling girls in more conservative secretarial wear and teen girls with earphones, looking J-pop, and young men with spiky hair…

Cars swung around the corner, and suddenly there was traffic. Within seconds the streets were choked with pedestrians and vehicles, cars and cabs and trucks.

The rain was coming down more heavily, tapping on car roofs. Umbrellas sprouted throughout the crowd. Alice noticed that the rain seemed oddly warm—anyway, “room temperature.”

“Who did this?”

It was a cop. The angry uniformed officer pointed at his car, and the broken glass of his window. He didn’t seem to notice Alice.

A teen girl—in a mix of J-pop and kawaii styles— was walking by, frowning as if contemplating some inner conundrum. She was soaking from the rain, one of the few people who, like Alice, was without an umbrella. Something about her was fascinating. The girl’s eyes seemed unfocussed and distant.

She stopped at the center of the Scramble, in a crosswalk, and stood there, arms hanging at her sides. A businessman walked by, and glanced at the J-pop girl—who suddenly lunged at the salaryman, knocking him to the ground.

Then she was tearing at his throat with her teeth, so that blood sprayed… to be washed away in the heavy rain.

The crowd panicked.

They ran helter-skelter away from her, dropping their packages, bags, and umbrellas in terror.

The businessman was already transforming into the Undead. He came to his feet—his eyes had gone milky white. He stared at a confused kogal—a young woman dressed like a sexy Japanese schoolgirl—who hadn’t seen what the others were running from.

Without warning he lunged at her, bit deeply into her shoulder, ripping through fabric and skin with his teeth.

Women in the crowd screamed; men ran.

The panic quickly reached a fever pitch, and the sickness of the Undead spread with remarkable alacrity. Now the kogal spread it, leaping onto a man’s back and biting him; and the J-pop girl birthed another Undead, and that one made another…

Alice backed away, gun in one hand, chain in the other—and suddenly the fleeing crowd parted around her, leaving her exposed. She was the only one not actually running.