Bullet in the Brain and Let's Find the Reporter at the same time. The samples could be anywhere by now, depending on who survived. Assuming I make it out of here with the goods, I'm asking for a big goddamn bonus; no one should have to work in these conditions.
Ada slipped the key into her hip pack, then gazed unseeing at the upper balustrade of the impressive hall, mentally checking off the rooms she'd been through and the ones she'd searched more thor- oughly. Bertolucci didn't seem to be anywhere on the east side of the building, upstairs or down; she'd spent what felt like hours staring into dead faces, searching the reeking piles of corpses for his square jaw and anachronistic ponytail. Of course, he could be mov- ing, but from the information she had on him, it was improbable; the reporter was very much a rabbit, a hider in the face of danger.
Speaking of danger...
Ada shook herself and got moving, heading back to the door that led into the lower east wing. The lobby was safe enough from the virus carriers, they didn't seem to understand the concept of doorknobs, but there were threats besides the infected. God only knew what Umbrella might send in to clean up... or what had been freed from the laboratory when the leak occurred. Less frightening but just as bothersome were the live cops that might still be trooping around, looking for someone to save. She'd heard gunfire, some distant, some not, every hour or three since she'd gone to ground; there were still at least a few uninfected left in the expansive old building. Trying to convince a panicky he-man with a gun that she was alive and didn't want an escort made facing the undead seem almost appealing. Walking on the balls of her feet to avoid additional noise, Ada slipped through the door and then leaned against it at the end of a long hall, safe to decide on her next move; although she hadn't checked out the basement yet and there were still several carriers wandering around in the detectives' room, the hall's doors were all closed; if someone or something wanted to get at her, she'd be able to see it coming and get out in time.
Ah, the exciting life of the freelance agent. Travel the world! Earn money by stealing important things! Fight off the living dead when you haven't showered or eaten a decent meal in three days - impress your friends!
She reminded herself again to insist on that bonus. When she'd arrived in Raccoon less than a week before, she thought she'd been prepared; the maps had been studied, the reporter's files memorized, her cover story set - a young woman looking for her boyfriend, an Umbrella scientist. That part was al- most true; in fact, it had been her brief relationship with John Howe ten months before that had landed her the job. More of a one-night stand, actually, and not a very good one at that, but John had thought otherwise, and his connection to Umbrella, though it had probably killed him, had turned out to be a lucky break for her. So, she'd been ready. But within twenty-four hours of her self-assured check-in at Raccoon City's nicest hotel, her luck had changed; while eating dinner in the vinyl-encased and mostly empty lounge of the Arklay Inn, she'd heard the first screams outside. The first, but by no means the last. In some ways, the disaster was an asset; there'd be no guards posted around the lab, no endless covert trial runs. The prep work she'd done on the T-Virus had assured her that the airborne was short-lived and dissipated quickly; the only chance of catching it at this point would be through contact with a carrier, so that wasn't a problem - and once she and a couple dozen others had made it to the police station, she'd seen that Bertolucci was among them. Even with the undead factor, it initially looked like things were going in her favor.
Mission objectives: question the hack, find out how much he knows and kill him or ignore him, depending; retrieve a sample of the new virus, Dr. Birkin's latest wonder. No problem, right?
Three days before, with the knowledge of how the Umbrella lab connected into the sewer system and Bertolucci standing right in front of her, the job had looked pretty wrapped. And of course, that's when things had started to go wrong. The