The Umbrella Conspiracy - By S. D. Perry Page 0,22

this room as base.

Rubbing at his beard, he fixed her with a serious gaze. You up for this, Jill? We could search together...

No, you're right, she said. I can take the west wing. Unlike cops, S.T.A.R.S. seldom partnered.

They were trained to watch their own backs in dangerous situations.

Barry nodded. Okay. I'll go back and see if I can persuade one of those doors to open. Keep an eye out for a back exit, conserve ammo... and be careful.

You, too.

Barry grinned, holding up his Colt Python. I'll be fine.

There was nothing left to say. Jill headed straight for the set of doors on the west wall that Wesker hadn't tried earlier. Behind her, Barry hurried back to the dining room. She heard the door open and close, leaving her alone.

Here goes nothing.

The painted blue doors opened smoothly, revealing a small, shadowy room as cool and silent as the main hall, all in shades of blue. Muted track lighting illuminated framed paintings on dusky walls, and in the center of the room was a large statue of a woman holding an urn on one shoulder.

Jill closed the door behind her and let her eyes adjust to the gloom, noting the two doors opposite the one she'd come through. The one on the left was open, though a small chest was pushed in front of it, blocking access. It was unlikely that Wesker had gone that way.

She walked to the one on the right and tried the knob. Locked. Sighing, she reached into her pack for the picks and then hesitated, feeling the smooth weight of the mini-disk reader.

Let's see what Mr. Trent thinks is so important.

She slipped it out and studied it a moment, then tapped at a switch. A screen the size of a baseball card flickered to life, and with a few more taps, small lines of type scrolled across the monitor. She scanned the material, recognizing names and dates from local newspapers. Trent had apparently compiled every article he could find about the murders and disappearances in Raccoon, plus the pieces on the S.T.A.R.S.

Nothing new here... Jill skipped along, wondering what the point was. After the articles was a list of names.

WILLIAM BIRKIN,

STEVE KELLER,

MICHAEL DEES,

JOHN HOWE,

MARTIN CRAGKHORN,

HENRY SARTON,

ELLEN SMITH,

BILL RABBITSON

She frowned. None of the names were familiar, Except - wasn't Bill Rabbitson Chris's friend, the one who had worked for Umbrella? She couldn't be sure, she'd have to ask Chris... ... assuming we find him. This was a waste of time; she needed to start looking for the other S.T.A.R.S.

She pressed the forwarding key to get to the end of the data and a picture appeared, tiny lines set into patterns. There were squares and long rectangles, crosshatched with smaller marks that connected the empty boxes. Beneath it was a single line, a message as enigmatic as she could have expected from Mr. Trent:

KNIGHT KEYS;

TIGER EYES;

FOUR CRESTS (GATE OF NEW LIFE);

EAST-EAGLE/WEST-WOLF.

Gee, how illuminating. That just clears up everything, doesn't it? The picture was some kind of map, she decided. It looked like a floor plan. The biggest area was at the center, a slightly smaller one extending off to the left.

Jill suddenly felt her heart skip a beat. She stared down at the small screen, wondering how Trent had known.

It was the mansion's first floor. She tapped the forward button again and saw what could only be the second floor, the shapes corresponding to the first map. There was nothing after the second map, but it was enough.

As far as she was concerned, there was no longer any question that the Spencer estate was the source of the terror in Raccoon City, which meant that the answers were here, waiting to be uncovered.

The zombie groaned as Chris fired point-blank into its gut, twice. The shots were muffled by its rancid flesh and it fell against him, expelling a rush of foul, stinking air across his face.

Chris pushed it away, the back of his throat locking.

His hands and the barrel of his weapon were dripping with sticky fluids. The creature collapsed to the floor, its limbs spasming.

Chris backed away, wiping the Beretta against his vest as he took deep breaths, trying desperately not to vomit. The zombie out in the hall had been a desiccated mess, shriveled and dry; this one was-fresh, if that was the right word. Festering, necrotic, wet...

He swallowed, hard, and the urge to throw up slowly passed. He didn't have a particularly weak stomach, but that smell, God!

Keep it together, could be more of them...

The hall