The last door on the ground floor was locked. "Oh yeah, great, 'I'll find a way around.' Fantastic idea, Redfield," Chris muttered mockingly to himself, trying in vain to get at the door's latch with the blade of his knife. Not for the first time he wished that he'd asked Jill to teach him how to pick locks. Shoulda fuckin' known. Murphy's law strikes again.

Chris wasn't making any progress, so he decided it was time for a new strategy. With the building's size, it wasn't unlikely that there was another staircase in the east wing of the mansion. If he found where it met the second floor, maybe he could make his way back down to Jill. Anything beat waiting around by himself. Besides, it was possible he would run in to Barry and Wesker, who might be able to help him search.

Admittedly there was another reason, too – Jill was one of the toughest people he knew, but that didn't stop him from worrying. There was no telling what other surprises the mansion had in store. Chris knew he would feel a lot better with Jill watching his back, and the thought of not being there if it was her who needed the backup twisted a knot in the pit of his stomach. The sooner they regrouped, the better.

What if she finds a way back and you're gone? It was possible, but he still felt like being proactive was the better option. There was an antique typewriter balanced on a little, round table near the end of the banister. Chris strode up and was glad to find it already loaded with a blank sheet of paper. He began to type.

Jill—

Went upstairs to find alternate route. Will return in twenty minutes (23:37) if unsuccessful.

—Chris

It was a simple note, but it would do. He carefully extracted the paper after a brief struggle with the multitude of unfamiliar levers on the machine's side. Now to put it somewhere Jill won't be able to miss it. Chris didn't see much as far as options as simply wedged one corner of his note under the typewriter. Not entirely satisfied with his work, Chris headed upstairs.

Chris had three options to choose from, similarly oriented to the doors on the floor below. Unfortunately, he hadn't noticed which one Barry and Wesker had taken. So, somewhat arbitrarily, he picked the one closest to the mansion's entrance. A cool breeze washed over him as the door opened to the ghostly stillness of a moonlit balcony. He hadn't realized how much the temperature outside had dropped. Goosebumps formed on his arms as the perspiration glistening on his skin began to chill.

Relieved not to be greeted by more demonic canines, Chris nonetheless felt exposed. Beyond the balcony's wrought-iron railing stretched seemingly endless woodland and underneath the moon-frosted caps of the trees was nothing but inky, indistinct darkness. Chris' boots crunched over bits of broken glass from the shattered top of an outdoor table. In the stifling silence it sounded as loud as a string of firecrackers. He cringed, knowing he should've seen it so he could step around. Luckily nothing seemed to take notice.

There was a man up ahead, slumped over in his chair right at the point where the balcony rounded the mansion's southeast corner. The man didn't move. Chris cautiously approached, not sure what to expect.

It took Chris a full two seconds to identify the body, and not just because it was shrouded in the shadow of an ivy-covered trellis. His stomach felt like someone had dropped a lead weight into it.

"Forest…"

Cautiously, Chris leaned in closer. Forest was long gone. His friend's face was covered in blood that had run from his partially closed eyes and dozens of vicious gouges to his cheeks and lips. Behind the lids were nothing but hollow sockets. The same type of wounds marred any bit of exposed flesh, especially around the gigantic gash in his side. It almost looked like a large claw had torn into his abdomen, ripping it asunder to reveal the pale arcs of ribs beneath.

Chris shook his head slowly, not wanting to believe another of his teammates – of his friends – was dead. "What happened to you, buddy?"

Across Forest's lap lay his rifle. The magazine was still inserted, but judging by how the bolt was locked open, it was either out of ammunition or jammed. Chris gingerly picked it up and determined it was the former, also realizing that the rifle was sticky in a few spots with what he guessed to be his friend's blood. The good news was that the Mini 14 took the same ammunition as the one Chris had lost. But, because nothing could be easy, they used different types of magazines – Chris would have to sit somewhere and transfer the ammunition over cartridge by cartridge from the spare in his vest pouch.

Something fluttered loudly behind him. Chris turned to see either a raven or a large crow staring back from where it had landed just out of arm's reach. It made a hoarse croak and began to preen itself. Another one settled onto the back rest of Forest's chair. Suddenly Chris realized that the shape of Forest's injuries were very similar to the sharp, shiny beaks of the birds that were slowly beginning to surround him…

Chris backed away slowly, trying not to spook the winged predators into an attack. The crows appeared not to be particularly interested in him once he was away from their food source, however. The one on the chair craned over, rooting around where Forest's right eye had been and tearing free a ribbon of muscle. It hungrily gobbled down the piece of meat and went in for another. Feeling sick, Chris made it back inside, wanting to put as much distance between himself and that particular spectacle as possible.

It didn't take Jill long to find out where the rancid meat smell was coming from. She was still getting her bearings when another zombie, likely alerted to her presence by the earlier commotion, emerged from the shadows. Its jerky, limping gate only made it seem less human. Jill took aim. Dried blood flaked from the zombie's cracked lips and claw-like fingers. The rough, hungry wail rising from its throat triggered something deep inside of Jill that told her to run. She held her ground. It wasn't like turning around would have been any safer, anyway.

"Don't move!" she tried, hoping there was some amount of humanity left in the approaching zombie's decaying brain. As she had feared, it only seemed to entice it more. Her finger tightened around her Beretta's trigger.

Another shuffled around the corner, falling in behind and to the left of the first. It hissed and bubbled from the hole in its trachea. Their crazed eyes stayed locked on Jill even as they bumped clumsily into each other. They completely blocked the hallway.

They were getting too close. Jill didn't bother with another warning. Her first shot blew out the eye socket of the closer zombie, globs of pulped gray matter and dark bodily fluids gushing from the wound. The zombie toppled stiffly to the floor. Shot number two plowed a trough in the top of the second zombie's skull. It staggered at first but regained its balance and began to shamble faster. Jill ducked its grasping hands and did her best to get away, but there was no room to maneuver. As she tried to slip past, it grabbed her arm in its iron grip. Its rotting fingers clamped painfully tight as it tried to drag her in, bloody spittle dripping from the edges of its open, waiting mouth. Jill swore and struggled to break free, but it wasn't letting go. She brought her gun up to its forehead and fired point blank.

Blood sprayed from the bullet hole, misting Jill's gun and hand with tiny, red droplets.

The zombie released her and sank to its knees before falling over backward. Its head hit the floor with a melon-like thunk.

Fuck that was close. She carefully stepped over the two bodies, eyes rapidly moving between them and the dark corridor ahead in case there were any more surprises lying in ambush.

Jill noticed one of the zombies wore what appeared to be a white lab coat. Well, she corrected, it used to be white. The fabric was stained gray-brown in patches, and crusty auburn in others. She wondered how long these two had been waiting here. They certainly looked pretty ripe.

Something else caught Jill's eye, and she looked closer at the coat. The corner of a familiar symbol was just barely visible above the breast pocket from her angle. She moved, trying to get a better view, but wasn't having any luck. Keeping her gun aimed at the zombie's head just in case, Jill used one boot to carefully turn the body over. Embroidered in red and white was the octagonal logo of Umbrella Pharmaceutical.

Jill puzzled for a moment. Was the corpse in front of her a scientist or lab tech for Umbrella, or had some schmuck stolen a lab coat? The mansion was built by Umbrella… But, she countered, the nearest lab was in the city. What were they doing all the way out here? Maybe the explanation was simple, but Jill felt like she had to have been missing something. Remembering the blood slowly drying on her gun and hand, she wiped them off as best she could on her pant leg and made a note in her head to clean both better if she found a sink.

You're not going to figure anything else out by standing here staring at a dead body, Jill thought. Keep it moving.

Jill didn't hear anything else moving in the corridor but didn't trust that to mean much. She tried to keep track of what direction she was facing as she followed the zigzag of walls in what she hoped was a way back. Had the circumstances been different, she would have checked the doors she was passing. But if her experience so far was any indicator, she didn't have the ammunition to clear every single room, nor did she want to keep exploring by herself. Her priority had to be reuniting with Chris.

Up ahead, through an open set of French doors, Jill saw a human-shaped shadow sluggishly meandering in a circle. This time there would be no pointless warning, procedure or not. As soon as she saw it look at her with cataracted eyes and snarl, she lined up her sights and put it out of its misery with a single shot.

Can they still feel? Jill wondered. Without knowing the cause of their condition, Jill doubted she would get any sort of definitive answer, but hoped for the sake of whoever they had been before that it was the latter.

If her mental map was correct, the door ahead on her left would make the most sense to get her back to the main hall. Taking a final look around to make sure nothing was sneaking up behind her, Jill clutched the brass doorknob in her hand and twisted.

CAW!

She jumped at the sudden noise, reflexively slamming the door closed in the process. Was that a fucking bird? Jill let her heart rate slow back down before opening the door again.

Sure enough, there was an entire flock of crows perched on a bar running the perimeter of the room. Murder, she corrected, a flock of crows is called a murder. She almost laughed at just how weirdly that fit with the events of her night so far. The way they looked at her – tilting their heads one way or the other, letting out little chortles as they sized her up like prey – quickly removed any of the brief levity Jill had felt. She stepped through the doorway, ready to bolt out again at the first sign of trouble.

One of the crows hopped along the rail, following her movements. "Curious little guy," Jill remarked, trying to cut the anxiousness she felt with so many beady eyes staring at her. The crow squawked softly in response. She already had her trepidations about birds, thanks to a certain aunt's cantankerous parrot, and the odd intensity of their scrutinization did nothing to help. It was just so weird – why would a murder of crows be locked in a room like this? Clearly, by the mounds of bird droppings on the floor, they were getting food somehow. But from where?

The chamber was U-shaped, with a series of oil-paint portraits lining the section of wall that divided it into such a shape. Each painting had a switch beneath it. Looking around, Jill couldn't tell what the switches controlled. It didn't make much sense to have that many for the lighting in a single room.

Two of the crows squabbled, either over some morsel or trinket too small for Jill to see, or simply for space. The rest still stared at her with an intensity that was beginning to give Jill a serious case of the creeps.

The paintings were alright, but not nearly as nice as the ones in the art gallery she had passed through with Chris earlier. Their style almost reminded Jill of the blocky simplicity of stained glass one might find in a church. The first was of a distraught middle-aged man, then a swaddled baby, and so on. Not awful, but not something Jill would have built a whole gallery to showcase. Maybe there had been some bigger meaning to the original artist. Whatever that meaning may be was lost on her.

Jill was disappointed to find that there was no second door leading out of the room. Instead, at the end of the "U" was a picture of angels ascending to what she assumed was supposed to be heaven. On the placard beneath were the words From Cradle to Grave. There was no switch below it.

Curiosity got the best of her as she eyed the switch beneath the next closest painting. The disheveled old man it depicted stared sullenly off into an imaginary distance. Jill flipped the switch.

There was an electric pop. Without warning the crows launched from their perch as one mass of dark feathers, screeching with a manic fury unlike any she could have seen. Jill was off like a shot as the birds descended upon her with outstretched claws and eager beaks. She slipped on a slick patch of bird shit rounding the corner, accidentally dodging one of the psychotic crows as it hurtled past her from behind. Run run run run RUN!

Jill catapulted herself through the door, narrowly escaping the talons that threatened to latch on to her hair, and slammed it shut behind her. There were a trio of muffled thumps from three of the birds that hadn't stopped quite quickly enough. She laughed nervously, not sure what else to do in such an absurd situation. Is everything in this goddamned place trying to kill me? It was certainly starting to feel like it. She also wondered what kind of sadistic jackass could have come up with the idea to use trained, electrified birds as a trap. One thing was certain – she wasn't going back in that room without a damn good reason.

Wesker briefly checked his PalmPilot again as Barry, staying a short distance behind, covered him with the revolver he kept as backup. Barry's Beretta sat useless in its holster, the last of its ammunition depleted after two encounters with the ghoulish denizens of the mansion.

"This way," Wesker declared, heading left.

Barry followed. "Don't get me wrong, Captain, I'm glad you have a map. But how did you know we were going to need it?"

"I didn't, it was just a hunch."

One hell of a hunch. Something about the captain's demeanor felt different. Usually he was the epitome of focus. But he had seemed disconnected, distracted maybe, ever since they had split of from Chris and Jill. Barry wasn't sure what to make of it. Admittedly, though, there were far bigger things to worry about.

Up ahead was a door covered in elaborate scrollwork. Wesker made a beeline for it, forcing Barry to rush to keep up. Stopping Barry before they entered, Wesker warned, "Be careful. I've heard rumors that parts of the estate are boobytrapped."

That raised a whole load of other questions. Barry made a mental note to grill Wesker for answers later.

Eight suits of medieval armor stood rigidly at attention, shining weapons in hand, lining either side of the room. With how their night had been going so far, Barry almost expected to see eyes watching him back from the narrow slits in the front of their helmets. He watched them carefully as he and Wesker headed to the dais at the back of the room, noticing that two on each side had been moved away from the walls. On top of the dais was a bronze plaque reading, "Woe to those who disturb my sleep." Well isn't that just downright welcoming.

Above the plaque were four paintings, each depicting one of the armored statues. Wesker studied them for a moment and turned to Barry. "I'm going to need a hand."

"I hope you mean figuratively," joked Barry, eyeballing the razor-sharp edge of the halberd conveniently poised at just the right angle to swing down and split his head like a watermelon. "What are we doing, captain? I don't see anything in here that helps us get out of this place. Enlighten me."

"Do you see those statues that aren't in line with the others?" Barry nodded hesitantly. "We need to push them back into place."

Barry felt like he was missing something. "And this'll accomplish what, exactly?"

Wesker sighed impatiently. "We don't have time for me to explain. You're going to have to trust me for now."

"This have anything to do with that hunch of yours?" Barry asked, mostly serious but with just enough sarcasm to get a harsh glare from the captain.

"As a matter of fact, yes." Barry detected the irritated tension beginning to simmer beneath Wesker's stone-cold veneer.

Deciding it wasn't worth the fight, he conceded. "Alright. If we're gonna do this, let's get it done." He leaned into the nearest – the one carrying the halberd – with his shoulder and started to push. It was stuck. Maybe if I push just a little bit harder…

"Burton, wait—!"

The statue gave, grinding back on its stone track. There was another noise too, like old gears clattering against each other.

Something shifted.

"Shit!"

Barry leapt out of the way as the halberd suddenly split the air where he had just been. It began to slowly retract back up as the statue crept forward, back into place.

"So," Barry said, panting, feeling as though his heart was going to beat out of his chest, "you mentioned boobytraps earlier."

Wesker reached out a hand and helped Barry back to his feet. "I did."

"That's a, uh, good hunch, captain."

"I thought so too. Look," Wesker elaborated, suddenly looking very tired. "I'll explain what's going on when we have the time, but for now believe me – I want out of here just as badly as you do. Follow my lead, and hopefully we will make it out in one piece."

So there definitely was something more going on, as Barry had suspected. "I'm guessing there's a specific way to do this, then?"

"Yes. We have to push the statues back in the order of the paintings. I'll do the first one, in case I'm wrong."

Wesker glanced back at the paintings and moved to the statue holding a broadsword, pushing with all his weight. It slowly began to move backward. There was the same clatter as before, but this time there was a loud click as it locked into place. The sword didn't budge. Wesker seemed to relax a little. "I'll take that as a good sign. Your turn."

The shield and axe statues luckily worked much the same. Once again, it was both Barry's turn and time to move the halberd statue. He watched the blade with suspicion, ready to abandon ship if it so much as twitched. It didn't. As it locked into place, the top of the dais at the back of the room flipped open. Wesker reached inside and pulled out a hexagonal, gold medallion. On the front was an embossment of an art nouveau-style sun. Wesker handed it to Barry.

It was heavy for its size, possibly heavy enough to be made of actual gold. Barry turned it over in his hands, studying it, confused. "What is this?"

"A key of sorts; one of four. They're our tickets out of here."

"Y'know, that was pretty clever," Billy said, head tilted back. He winced a little as Rebecca poured water in his eyes to flush out the remaining antiseptic.

"What was?" Rebecca watched intently as the water ran off Billy's face and spattered loudly on the wood floor.

Billy blinked as she stopped pouring, standing back up straight. "Your improvised weapon." He pointed at the bottle of antiseptic. "Not a lot of people would've thought of that."

"Yeah, well, I still lost my weapon," Rebecca grumbled, embarrassed. Then she caught herself and put her guard back up. "You trying to flatter me into giving you your gun back?"

Billy let out a single, tired laugh. "Is it working?"

With as harsh a glare as the still jittery rookie could manage, she tersely replied, "No."

She already didn't like the big Marine. Some of it probably came down to having a hard time believing some of the details of his captivity and escape, but there was definitely more to it. Maybe it was the slicked-back hair, or the tribal sleeve tattoo on one arm. It could also be that he looked like he was born and raised in a weightlifting room. She also couldn't tell if he had actually been irritated the whole time, or if his face was just like that. It could easily be either. To Rebecca, everything about him just screamed douchebag. As long as he remained on her side, though, Rebecca had to admit she was grateful not to be alone anymore.

There's nothing saying he won't eventually turn on you, though, Rebecca reminded herself.

"You're sure you didn't see or hear anything that could identify your captors?"

Billy shook his head, looking a bit irritated at the repeated question. "Again, no. Other than two of their last names that I overheard, it wasn't like there were any unit markings or patches of any kind on their uniforms. Only time I've ever seen that was some spec ops guys who were going somewhere they very much weren't supposed to. Look, ma'am, if there were more I'd tell you." Something about the way he said ma'am struck Rebecca as more condescending than honorific, but she bit her tongue. "I'd love to find out who those fuckers were so I could lock them in a closet for a few days with no food or water."

Rebecca didn't see any of the telltale signs that Billy was twisting the truth and decided that was as good as she was going to get for the moment. "I need to find the rest of my team, if anyone else made it." Saying the last part aloud flooded her with a range of panicked emotions, but she choked them down. "You just admitted to killing someone. Justified or not, you're going to have to come with me."

"Fine by me. I'm gonna need a weapon though – going out there unarmed would be suicide."

After a moment of thought, Rebecca picked up the bottle of antiseptic and tossed it to him. He caught it and gave her an exasperated look.

"What? You're the one who said it was clever. It wasn't my top choice either. I've already torn this place apart looking for something more effective, but…" She shrugged apologetically.

Billy rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath but didn't argue any further. "Since you're the one in charge, what's the plan Officer Chambers?"

She actually hadn't made it that far. "Are there still more of those… things wandering around outside?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I wasted a couple that were immediately upstairs but didn't get a chance to clear the entire hallway down here."

There were only a few of the stout .45 ACP cartridges left in the brick of a handgun she had taken from Billy, but it would have to do. You should go back and see if Ken made it. As sure as Rebecca was that Ken was dead, the slight chance that he may be alive was more than enough. If she didn't step out of the room soon, she'd lose her nerve. Rebecca ordered, "Let's go."

She took the lead. The zombie that had been shuffling back and forth outside her door lay belly-up, what was left of its head lolled to one side. Bits of its brain and scalp decorated the nearby wall. An airy groan drifted around the corner up ahead, from the direction Rebecca had initially come from.

"Shoot for the head," Billy suggested in a low whisper as Rebecca checked the chamber for the umpteenth time. "They go down eventually if you shoot them elsewhere, but it takes way more effort and ammo than it's worth."

Rebecca gave only a nod in response.

The zombie was facing the other way when it came into her line of sight. Heeding Billy's advice, she lined up the large combat sights on its head and did her best to steady herself. Rebecca squeezed the trigger. With the suppressor threaded onto its barrel, the shot was barely as loud as a BB gun. The puff of red as the .45 caliber hollowpoint blasted gray matter out the front of the zombie's skull was weirdly, morbidly gratifying. The second zombie, drawn by the sound, emerged from an alcove and met a similarly gruesome end.

Suddenly Rebecca felt like she was going to throw up.

"We should check these rooms," Billy said, seeing the rookie police officer starting to turn pale. "Don't want anyone sneaking up behind us."

"Yeah," she replied weakly. He had expected a sarcastic reply like earlier, but that side of her seemed to have temporarily disappeared. Billy guessed correctly that it was the first time the young cop had ever had to shoot anything besides paper targets. Still, she held it together well enough to clear the first room, following proper tactics to a T.

Satisfied that there was nothing that was going to attack them, Billy spied a softcover notebook on a writing desk in the corner. Its edges were softened and stained from heavy use. He stepped past Rebecca and picked it up.

"Hey!" she hissed. "Don't touch that – it could be evidence!"

He gave her a cockeyed look. "How many things have you already touched tonight that could've had important fingerprints on them?" Rebecca seemed to deflate a little bit at that comment. "I think it'll be fine. If it makes you feel better, you can read it." Billy tossed the notebook to her as she began to protest, and she almost fumbled the catch.

"I guess it's too late now," she relented sourly, shaking her head as she opened the cover.

December 17, 1997

Last night, we played poker with Scott the guard, Alice, and Steve. I think Steve was cheating. What a scumbag.

So it was a journal. Rebecca skimmed through the sporadic entries, stopping when she saw one that seemed relevant.

May 11, 1998

Scott woke me up at 5 o'clock this morning wearing a hazmat suit like I've seen some of the virology researchers wear. He had one for me and told me to put it on. Apparently there was some sort of accident in the lower levels with an infectious disease. I'm not surprised – those nutcases never take a break, especially the past few weeks.

Virology researchers? Lower levels? Rebecca kept reading, hoping to find out more while Billy poked around the room for anything else of interest.

May 12, 1998

I've been wearing this stupid suit since yesterday. We aren't supposed to take them off, even to sleep or go to the bathroom. I think I'm starting to come down with something, and didn't bother feeding the dogs today. Too tired.

May 13, 1998

I went to the medical room because my back feels itchy. I think it must be a rash from the suit. Doc slapped a big bandage on it and said I didn't need to wear the suit anymore. Thank God. Maybe I'll actually get some sleep tonight, if this headache goes away.

To Rebecca, that didn't sound like such good news. She had been studying biochemistry before deciding to change career paths. With a growing sense of dread, she wondered if the zombies were part of the aforementioned laboratory breach. The next few entries only added to her suspicions, talking about a lockdown and sores developing on the journal writer's body. She also noticed that the writer seemed to be having some trouble holding the pen steady.

May 16, 1998

I heard a researcher tried to escape through the mansion last night and was shot. I didn't think Umbrella would go that far. My entire body aches and is itchy, and I think the fever is making me hallucinate. I've got to let the dogs out so they aren't stuck here too.

Rebecca stopped. She remembered Forest saying that the mansion was owned by the pharmaceutical company, but the journal made it sound like there was a research facility beneath the estate. That seemed odd.

May 18, 1998

Someone else must have let the dogs out – they're gone. My skin is starting to rot. Smells so bad. Dog food was tasty.

The final entry had no date, and the handwriting was barely legible.

Fever gone but itchy. Hungry hungry ate Scott, ugly face killed him. Tasty. Itchy arms tasty.

There was more, but it was all gibberish. After that was nothing but blank pages.

Her thoughts were racing. There were a lot of pieces still missing, but the ones she had were starting to fall into place. Virus spill. Infection makes people go crazy and eat other people. Some escaped. Are we infected? They couldn't go back to Raccoon City until they knew. If there really was some sort of secret lab below their feet, that was their best bet to find some answers. But how would they get there?