Yellow chandelier light spread across the marble floor and stretched everyone’s shadows into twisted shapes.
The air in the hall felt suffocating.
Wesker’s disappearance tightened nerves already stretched to their limit.
Chris angrily shoved his completely empty Beretta back into its holster.
Hands on his hips, he turned in place twice, boots scraping sharply across the marble.
“What the fuck is going on?” Chris growled, veins pulsing in his forehead.
“The door is bolted from inside.
Where does a grown man go?
Does this house eat people?” Richard’s rifle shook badly in his hands as he kept looking toward the closed doors around the hall.
“Maybe…
maybe the captain found some clue and went to investigate on his own?” Richard guessed, stumbling over the words.
Leon stood at the bottom of the staircase with both hands resting on the broad black-steel greatsword.
Zombie fluids had dried across his full black armor and now gave off a foul smell.
He watched Chris lose his composure and shook his head faintly.
Losing your head at a time like this is the one thing you absolutely can’t afford.
“Stop guessing.” Barry’s rough voice cut through the argument.
He patted the holster of his .44 Magnum.
His Adam’s apple shifted, and he deliberately avoided Chris’s eyes while scanning the room.
“This isn’t the time to stand around.
We’re trapped, and we’re almost out of ammunition.” Barry cleared his throat.
“I say we split up.
Find Wesker and search for supplies at the same time.” Chris frowned and stepped toward him.
“Split up?
This place is full of man-eating things.
Separating just makes us easier to pick off.” “We don’t have a choice, Chris.” Barry turned sharply, voice rising.
“Stay together and the few rounds we have won’t go far.
We need to cover more ground.” Barry took a small black leather case from his tactical vest and handed it to Jill.
“My lockpicks.” He kept his eyes lowered toward the case.
“You’re better with complicated locks than any of us.
You, Leon, and Rebecca check the dining room on the west side.
I’ll search the second-floor terrace.” He looked to Chris and Richard.
“You two take the east corridor on the first floor.
If you find something, fire a warning shot—but don’t waste ammunition.” Chris clenched his jaw.
“Fine.
Richard, stay close.” Chris tightened one fist and headed toward the dark double doors on the east side.
Richard followed shakily.
Their figures vanished into the eastern corridor, and the heavy wooden door closed behind them with a dull thud.
Barry didn’t linger either.
Magnum in hand, he hurried up the stairs toward the second floor.
His long strides made the steps pound beneath his boots.
Only Leon, Jill, and Rebecca remained in the hall.
Leon watched Barry disappear around the upstairs corner, one metal glove tapping lightly against his sword hilt.
He tilted his head toward Jill and lowered his voice.
“The big bearded guy is lying.” “He wouldn’t look Chris in the eye, and his trigger finger keeps twitching without him realizing it.” Leon gave a cold smile.
“He’s trying very hard to hide something.” Jill didn’t answer immediately.
She looked down and rubbed a fingertip over the leather lockpick case.
“I know.” She looked up, lips pressed together.
“But whatever Barry is hiding, he’s still our teammate.
These tools are real.
That’s enough for now.
We’re nearly unarmed—we need supplies and a way out.” She turned toward the ornate wooden door on the west side.
“This way.” Jill moved first.
The instant her hand touched the handle, a dull impact sounded deep in the mansion’s eastern side.
A brief burst of violent noise followed—then silence.
Jill spun and pressed the transmit button on her radio.
“Chris?
Richard?
Respond!
What happened on the east side?” Only harsh static answered.
Chris’s communications had gone completely dead.
Rebecca raised the shotgun and edged closer to Leon’s black armor.
“Something happened to them…” Rebecca bit her lip.
Leon rolled his neck until it cracked, shouldered the greatsword one-handed, and looked at the closed western door.
The water in this damn house keeps getting muddier.
Better to break through the door in front of us than run around like headless chickens.
“We won’t find them by backtracking.
This place has too many hidden passages.” Leon stepped beside Jill.
“Search for supplies first.
If they’re still alive, they’ll make enough noise for us to find them.” Jill clenched her jaw and released the radio.
She turned the handle and pushed open the western door.
Beyond lay a huge, richly decorated dining room.
A long table dominated the center, still set with dust-covered silverware and withered candlesticks.
A massive stone fireplace occupied one corner.
Its logs had not burned out completely and still held a faint red glow.
An antique grandfather clock above the fireplace ticked on at an unhurried pace.
“This place was decorated by somebody with one foot in the grave.” Leon looked around and roughly dragged out a dining chair, his armor knocking against the wooden back.
Jill ignored him and began searching immediately.
She crouched and checked carefully beneath the table and between chair legs.
“Found something!” Jill pulled a small box from the shadow beside one table leg.
She stood and blew away the dust.
It was a brand-new, unopened box of 9mm Parabellum ammunition.
Jill tore it open and quickly pressed rounds into the empty Beretta magazine.
Rebecca was searching too.
Near the fireplace, she rummaged through a wooden medical box buried beneath a thick layer of dust.
“Leon, Jill—look what I found.” Rebecca held up several broad-leafed green herbs.
With practiced movements, she drew her tactical knife, cut away the roots, and crushed the herbs in a portable mortar from her kit.
She poured the green pulp into an empty spray canister, added a little clean water, and shook it hard.
“Improvised first-aid spray.” Rebecca clipped it to her tactical belt and lifted her chin toward Leon.
“Not as good as military-grade, but it can save a life when it counts.” “Nice work, medic.” Leon praised her without reservation.
Greatsword in hand, he strode to a pair of side doors at the far end of the dining room.
They looked thinner than the doors in the main hall, and strange claw marks covered the wood.
Leon reached for the handle.
Before he could press it down, a huge force struck from the other side.
“BANG!” The entire door shook violently.
Growls and frantic scratching came through the seam.
“Something wants in.” Leon immediately let go and stepped back.
Jill raised her freshly loaded pistol.
Rebecca leveled the shotgun.
“Locked from the other side.” Jill examined the mechanism and pulled a pick from Barry’s case.
“Cover me.
I’ll open it.” “Too slow.” Leon put a hand on Jill’s shoulder and pulled her behind him.
He planted the heavy black-steel greatsword in front of him like a cane and stepped far back with his right foot.
“Back up, ladies,” Leon said quietly.
He lowered his center of gravity, right leg coiling with force.
The steel-plated boot came up and drove straight into the still-shuddering mahogany door.
“BOOM—CRACK!” The entire door, metal latch and frame included, shattered under the brutally simple kick.
Broken panels flew inward.
The lab-coated zombie that had been ramming the door never even managed a growl before half the heavy door smashed it against the opposite wall.
Blood and scraps of meat slid down the wall, but the creature wasn’t quite dead.
It pushed away the broken wood, staggered upright, opened its foul mouth, and lunged at Leon as he entered first.
“BANG!” A crisp gunshot.
Jill stood just behind Leon with both hands on the pistol.
The 9mm round struck the zombie’s right kneecap with perfect precision.
Bone cracked.
The right leg collapsed instantly and the zombie tipped sideways, losing its balance.
“Good shot.” Leon didn’t bother drawing his sword.
He seized a heavy solid-wood bench from the corridor and swung it in a full arc.
“THUD!” The bench smashed into the zombie’s already deformed skull.
Bone caved, the neck snapped, and the body flew several meters before hitting the floor and going still.
Leon dropped the bench, now broken in half, and dusted his hands.
“Physical lockpicking.
Fast and efficient.” He raised an eyebrow at Jill.
“Much quicker than poking a piece of wire around in the keyhole for half an hour, isn’t it?” Jill holstered her weapon and rolled her eyes.
“If anything in this house was still asleep, it’s on its way here now.” She stepped over the shattered door into the corridor.
“You make too much noise, big guy.” The corridor beyond was narrow and dark.
Strange anatomical diagrams of animals hung along both walls, and the air reeked of animal waste mixed with rotten meat.
Rebecca followed last, pinching her nose and frowning.
“That smell is lethal,” she muttered.
“What did they use to do in here?” Jill didn’t answer.
A battered wooden table at the end of the corridor had caught her attention.
Several rusted cages were scattered across it, dried blood still clinging to the bars.
Beside them lay an open notebook with mold spreading across the cover.
Jill approached and used her folding knife to turn several pages.
Damp had made the paper brittle, and the handwriting was rough and hurried.
“What is it?” Leon walked over and looked down.
“Looks like a diary.
Or some kind of record.” Jill shifted aside.
Rebecca leaned closer and began reading in the weak corridor light.
“May 9, 1998: Played poker tonight with Scott and Alias from Security, and Steve from Research.
Steve cleaned up, but I know he cheated.
Scumbag.” Rebecca read slowly.
“May 10, 1998: After I threw it a pig, it seemed to treat the pig like a toy…
first pulled off the legs one by one, then tore out the organs before eating it.” Leon raised an eyebrow.
“So Umbrella employee recreation is poker and watching monsters eat live pigs.” Rebecca swallowed and continued.
“May 12, 1998: I’ve been stuck in this damn spacesuit since yesterday.
My skin feels hot, tight, and itchy.
Those damn dogs looked at me like they were laughing, so I’m not feeding them today.
Screw them.” “May 16, 1998: Rumor says a researcher trying to escape the mansion was shot last night.
I’m hot and itchy all over and can’t stop sweating.
Scratched my chest and a big piece of rotten flesh fell off.
What is happening to me?” Rebecca’s hands began to shake.
“May 19, 1998: Fever gone but still itchy.
Got hungry today.
Ate some dog food.” “May 21, 1998: Itchy.
Scott came.
Ugly face.
Killed him.
Tasty.” The last line was written in huge, distorted characters.
“XXXX, Month X, Day 4: Itchy.
Tasty.” Rebecca read the last words and snapped the moldy diary shut.
She covered her mouth, backed away two steps, bent over, and dry-heaved.
“Looks like Mr.
Keeper eventually turned himself into the feed.” Leon’s judgment was cold.
“Skrrr—skrrr—” The sound came from the metal ventilation duct directly overhead: sharp nails scraping against sheet metal.
It moved rapidly through the duct toward their position.
Leon looked up sharply, pulled Rebecca behind him, and gripped the black-steel greatsword in both hands, broad blade across his chest.
Jill raised her pistol at the same time, muzzle locked on the vent grille overhead as it began to shake violently.