I still function, LOL! Hope you enjoy this extremely long-overdue chapter! Updates have been abysmal, I know. I'll do my best to have something up by Christmas/New Years. THANK YOU to everyone who's been hanging in there with me! I try to reply to all my reviews eventually, but if anybody got passed over in the shuffle, I just want you to know that I still love and appreciate your every comment. You guys have been the greatest!

I mean it.

Happy Halloween!

Chapter 30: Ad Mortem Festinamus

It'd been ten minutes since Mr. Death had killed the headlights, ten minutes since the Humvee had dropped to a crawl, following the dusky orange spill of the fog lights. The forest around them was dark, watchful. Claire sat forward in her seat, looking for anything out of the ordinary. She was the first one to spot the flicker of light. "There," she said, pointing.

Mr. Death stopped and killed the engine. Picking up the 1911 in her lap, Claire ejected the magazine and counted the bullets. Fourteen. Good. She racked the slide just as Mr. Death got out, allowing a blast of freezing air into the cab. Claire did the same, grabbing the camouflaged parka flung over the back of the seat and trying not to think which of the recently deceased had worn it last. Beneath an inch or two of fresh powder, the snow was deep and crusty, sometimes rising as high as Claire's knees. After twenty feet, she gave up on bravado and followed in Mr. Death's footsteps instead. Despite the nearly pitch-darkness, he kept a straight and steady course, weaving uphill through the frozen pines. Claire wondered if that bucket on his head was equipped with infrared.

No, that was stupid.

Echolocation. Definitely echolocation.

Claire's toe hooked on something under the snow, probably a fallen branch. She shook it off with a grunt. Unwilling to stow the gun she was carrying, she rechecked the safety. In the (reasonably likely) event of a fall, she didn't want to squeeze off a round into HUNK's ass.

Said ass reached the top of the hill first and went down to his belly, crawling the last several feet to cover behind a misshapen bush. Claire winced, but gamely crept into place next to him. The hill below sloped gently away for about fifty or sixty feet, terminating in a muddy field where the trees had been cleared away. Halogen floodlights had been set up and the worksite was clogged with small excavators, piles of rubble, and dozens of metal crates. Twenty feet beyond that was a large structure and a handful of plastic tents squatting in the mud like a luminous white beetles.

"How very X-Files," Claire muttered, shivering.

"Mmm. Watch out for bees, Red. Watch out for bees."

Sometime in the past few minutes, Mr. Death had pulled out a pair of binoculars and was now using them to scan the worksite. They weren't alone. Claire could pick out several men in the distance, and the muted sound of several more. Her cold fingers flexed on the 1911, studying the half-buried structure. After a moment longer, she decided that the term was too generous. "Ruins" were closer to the truth, crumbled walls poking out of the ground like crooked teeth. They looked like they'd been there a while.

"What's out there?" Claire asked, pointing at another distant spread of floodlights.

"Mine shaft, be my guess," said Mr. Death.

Claire wasn't too surprised. The mountains around Harvardville were dotted with old mines, most abandoned after the silver boom had dried up. She had a disconcerting flash of some wealthy, extraordinarily paranoid old fart that'd opened the mine for renovation. Murder in the Mountains: Claire and Snake Eyes go claim jumping! Names of innocent victims to follow.

Mr. Death put the binoculars back in his pocket. Bent at the waist, they moved stealthily along the crest of the hill, following a sinuous path that dropped them into a shallow gully and round the edge of a massive pile of debris, where Claire almost fell headlong over the remains of a buried stump. The worksite seemed even bigger at ground level, a field of gelatinous mud and slush with the ragged look of something that'd been done in a hurry. More stumps poked up here and there, roots and broken twigs clawing out of the mire. Claire squinted against the floodlights, feeling an actual impression of warmth as Mr. Death sidled up against a large trailer that was sixty feet from end to end.

How'd they even… they'd never be able to get a semi up here. Claire glanced at the sky, and thought she might have figured it out. What are they even doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Given current events, her first hypothesis wasn't a pleasant one. Arklay. Mont St. Michel. The principle was the same. If biologics were involved, it only made sense to station them far removed from society.

Mr. Death approached the trailer door sidelong, slinging his TMP and grasping the knife sheathed at his shoulder instead. Reaching out, he tested the doorknob with his free hand. It turned easily, and Claire held her breath as he eased it open. The space beyond was dark, illuminated only by the invasive glow of the floodlights. Mr. Death beckoned to her and slipped inside. Taking another glance around the worksite, Claire hurried to join him, unsure what she was going to find, but expecting a mobile lab filled with glass tanks and syringes.

She didn't know whether to be relieved or worried by the plain, inoffensive office that greeted her. Mr. Death flipped on the lights and immediately began to prowl, opening drawers and pulling down folders. Claire decided to lock the door, her eyes roving for something useful. It was even colder in here than it was outside, as the steam forming around the dusty lightbulb could testify. There was a dry erase board on the opposite wall. Order new battery. Remind Reed to copy gate key. Ordinary, mundane stuff. Nothing so damning as "release virus at the intersection of Muppet and Main."

Claire tucked the 1911 into her belt and started by searching what was on the desk, piles of invoices for the most part, but there was also a stack of photographs tied with a rubber band – snaps of various small objects, mostly coins and bits of old ceramic. A search of the plastic inbox came up with more of the same. Mr. Death pulled down a binder, and Claire started sifting the contents of a drawer. She wondered what they were digging up and what exactly made it so interesting. There were enough protected sites, mostly old mining cabins, around Harvardville to make conservation a likely option, but Claire dismissed it out of hand. If historical preservation were the goal, they wouldn't have bulldozed the area. But if a hidden bio-lab was the goal, why excavate anything at all? The two things just weren't meshing.

Claire went on to the next drawer, frustrated by the sheer lack of anything helpful. For the third time in nearly as many minutes, she really hoped they weren't pawing through the drawers of some innocent logging outfit, because that conversation was bound to be interesting. "You sure we're in the right place?" she asked. "There's nothing here."

"I think that's the problem." Mr. Death closed the binder he was holding and tossed it back on the shelf. It was marked Daily Time Sheets along the spine. "This hasn't been updated in months."

Claire opened her mouth to say something, but the words exploded into a sneeze. She sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve, feeling another crawling up the back of her throat. It was then she realized what should have been obvious. She glanced down at the desk, at the dark streaks where her fingers had wiped away a thick layer of dust. The large calendar on the wall hadn't been changed since September. "But we heard people here."

Mr. Death didn't answer right away, his gaze roaming towards a second door near the back of the trailer. Stepping around the cabinet, he nudged it open with one hand. A man was sitting inside, slouched upright against the back wall. His bloodless skin was waxy, withered. Mummified. Mr. Death squatted down on his haunches. "I'd say the place is under new management," he said.

There was no stench of decay; the body had been there for months. Claire silently moved to stand behind Mr. Death. The unfortunate man wasn't especially big, but his rugged boots suggested that he'd been used to working outdoors, possibly as a foreman. The side of his head looked crushed, skin and brittle hair hanging from his scalp. The blood had long since frozen to ice.

"Blunt trauma mostly, but the laceration suggests something with an edge… maybe a shovel," Mr. Death observed, as casually as if he was reading the sports page. "Didn't kill him right away though. Subcraniel hematoma would've taken a few minutes."

"Thank you, Mr. Spock," Claire deadpanned, her voice cold. She was glad to see the man wasn't wearing a wedding ring. She shifted slightly, letting the dusty yellow light pour into the closet. Bloody frost twinkled on the floor in the shape of handprints. There was something in the shadow of the man's leg. Ah-ha. Claire scooched Mr. Death aside and reached for the cellphone, prying it off the floor in a soft splintering of frost. She held down the power button, hoping for a chime, but to no one's great surprise, the battery was quite dead.

Mr. Death shrugged and rose to his feet. "Could've told ya that, Red." He headed back through the trailer, giving it a final sweep. "Come on. Moonlight's a burning."

Claire gave the cellphone a disappointed look. Her body heat had already begun to melt the ice on its surface, which wasn't ice at all, but a rime of frozen blood. Claire hastily wiped her hand on her pants, but was loath to leave the phone behind. Maybe it contained something important. Enough shit had done the same in Raccoon. She shoved it into her jacket pocket and joined Mr. Death at the door, wondering who could have had murdered the man in the closet. Better yet, why? We've gotta be missing something. What's out there that was important enough to kill for? Salvage rights? She'd watched her obligatory roster of cop shows. People had certainly killed for dumber things.

Mr. Death halted suddenly, one arm bent up the elbow, hand curled into a fist. Claire didn't need to know the handsign to translate what it meant. She stopped in her tracks, lowering her voice to a tense whisper. "What is it?"

"Helicopter. Someone's coming."

He quickly took up position alongside the door, slinging his TMP into his hands. Claire sprang to do the same on the other side, reaching out and frantically shutting off the light, praying that it hadn't been leaking out from under the door or, God forbid, from a window they hadn't noticed. Ears straining, she waited in utter darkness as the chopper passed directly overhead, flying low. Dust sifted down from the ceiling, tickling her skin. She eased the 1911 free of her jeans.

The rotor-beat grew louder, slower. It's landing right outside somewhere, Claire realized. After a moment, the noise ceased entirely, its absence making the darkness seem all the closer. She heard the doorknob click slightly and nearly choked. A razor-thin beam of light sliced into the office, revealing Mr. Death's hand on the knob, easing it open by the barest of margins. Claire swallowed the hard lump of muscle in her throat, her pulse hammering with near hydraulic pressure. She took a deep breath. "See anything?"

"Mud," said Mr. Death, shifting his weight. The grenades on his belt clattered softly. After a moment, he edged the door open and slipped through, quickly moving out of sight. Claire scrubbed the dangerous itch in her nose. After a count of thirty, she decided she'd waited long enough. She eased back outside, keeping her back against the trailer as she sidled towards Mr. Death, crouched at the corner with his binoculars. He held them up to Claire without looking at her.

The helicopter that had landed next to the ruins was nondescript, painted green and white, with tinted cockpit windows. The pilot was even more generic. Dressed in a dark flight suit and helmet, Claire couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman, although his build leaned towards male. Right now the unnamed he-she was talking to a massive, beardy individual that could've been the lovechild of Rasputin and Osama Bin Laden. Claire was sure the man was well over 6-foot, even if the distance made it hard to guess accurately. There was quite a bit more activity out there now, people scurrying back and forth, mostly out of sight from her limited vantage point.

Mr. Death touched her hip, which Claire took as a warning not to lean out too far. She panned the binoculars, zeroing on the mineshaft Mr. Death had mentioned earlier. There wasn't much to see, just a rusted old gate and piles of soggy timber. Disappointed, she continued on, panning over another trailer and several pale men in muddy work clothes, just kind of standing there, zoning out to the rhythm of unseen music. Behind them, the worksite dropped away down another hill and, about a mile or so distant, Claire was taken aback to see little gleams of light through the trees. "What is that, a town?"

"You tell me. You're the one that lives around here." Mr. Death's voice was distracted.

Claire pursed her lips. She knew of a couple – Del Lago, Pine Valley, and a little burg called Wolf Creek, but their exact locations were a mystery to her. Chris hadn't been much for vacations and they'd passed through Wolf Creek only once, two suitcases and a handful of money to their name, running from the crater that was Raccoon City. "Might be Del Lago," she offered uncertainly. "Can you see a lake?"

"Alli esta!"

The hell!? Claire sprang back behind the trailer, startled by the sudden, guttural yell. Mr. Death had kept his hand on her hip as she jumped. Now he used his grip there to tug her back even further, disengaging the safety on his TMP. "Get ready!" he barked.

Claire fumbled the binoculars into her pocket and gripped the 1911 with both hands. Crap! Somebody had spotted them. She knew it without a doubt. She also knew they weren't coming to chew them out for trespassing. Who the hell are these people? They're not uniformed, or military or scientists! It was a flimsy line of reasoning, but all Claire could think about was the mercs Umbrella had sent into Raccoon. They'd at least looked like the enemy, not like regular folk.

Mr. Death moved around to Claire's other side and brought his TMP up to bear, the small Steyr leaping and bucking as bullets hammered downrange. Claire heard the wet smack of them meeting flesh, a series of soft, moist groans as she moved to take position about three feet behind HUNK's right elbow. The workers she'd seen milling about had formed a small crowd, stepping over the body of one Mr. Death had already dropped. One, two… four. No more than four. Claire's mouth went dry as she realized that each and every one of them was armed with something pointy – shovels, pickaxes, even a length of bent pipe. She thought of the murdered man inside the closet and her last misgivings evaporated.

She raised the 1911 and fired. The powerful .45 kicked hard, the heavy round pulverizing a man's jaw before blowing out the other side and catching another in the chest. Neither one fell, both just stumbling briefly before continuing to come at them. Claire felt an inappropriate surge of triumph. Ha! See? She let fly with another two rounds, feeling a hot casing bounce off her collarbone. The man she was aiming at went down. Mr. Death pulsed the trigger of his TMP, launching short, controlled bursts at about torso level. Two more proto-zombies fell, staggering the ones behind.

What kind of BOWs are these things?! Claire wondered, appalled. She shot the last man on the right, splitting his head above the ear. Blood and foul, yellow pus spurted from his open skull, his body staggering another few steps before finally tipping into the mud. The silence that followed was deafening by comparison. Claire lowered the still-smoking barrel of her gun as Mr. Death ejected the magazine on his TMP, stowing the half-empty one in his pocket before slapping in a fresh one. Wind gusted across the worksite, bringing with it the rancid stench of purulent flesh. Claire felt her gorge rise, but long experience enabled her to hold it down.

"Time to bail," said Mr. Death.

Claire had no reason to argue. She could hear movement in the distance, the sound of raised voices bellowing in Spanish. She jogged alongside Mr. Death for several dozen feet until they reached the edge of the worksite. She started to stop. Mr. Death planted a hand between her shoulders and gave a meaningful push. "Nope. Keep it moving," he ordered.

There was nothing ahead but an embankment and dark Colorado woods. Ah. Yes, of course. Why would I think otherwise? Claire shoved the 1911 into her pants and scrambled over, muddy snow sluicing behind her. The forested incline was steep and she was soon skidding on her ass more often than not, a hair's breadth away from loosing control entirely and pitching headfirst down the hill. A half second later Claire went over a treacherous little overhang, shifting her weight back entirely. Heart in her throat, she grabbed a nearby bush and clung to it until her boots churned the snow deep enough to find solid ground.

She lost sight of Mr. Death in the cloud of freezing powder that dropped out of the sky onto her head. Not a bush, then. A goddamn tree. Snarling, Claire found her balance and heaved herself forward again. The woods around her got darker, then faintly lighter again, the black silhouettes of trees edged with a familiar yellow-orange haze. Fifty yards later, Claire felt the hill trying to level out and attempted to slow, sensing an object rushing at her in the gloom. Even so, she nearly plowed headlong into a wooden fence. She put both arms up to break her momentum, feeling the entire structure clatter and rock. What the fu– where are we? Where's that light coming from?

"Up and over, Red!" Mr. Death hadn't even paused.

Claire seized the top of the fence. It wasn't tall, and she hauled herself up and over. She went to her knees on the other side as Mr. Death vaulted the fence like Olympic gymnast. Claire stayed on all fours, waiting for some kind of signal as the helmeted man paused to check back the way they'd came. She couldn't hear any sounds of pursuit, but it wouldn't be hard to miss with her own pulse hammering alongside the ringing in her ears.

"Well, that was fun," Mr. Death chuckled. He peered down at her. "You gonna make it?"

Claire growled an obscenity between clenched teeth. Up yours, HUNK of the Hidden Umbrella. Goddamnnsonuvabitch. She slumped back against the fence, her throat swelling from the cold. Just breathe. Don't have a heart attack. Don't shoot the ninja bastard in the leg. A jagged red haze seemed to throb at the edge of her vision, in time to the pounding of her heart. She forced herself to breathe through her nose and, gradually, felt her pulse begin to slow. A moment later, a hand wordlessly dropped into her vision. Claire sucked a breath and grabbed on, letting Mr. Death pull her to her feet. Standing there with the snow well past her ankles, she was able to get her first good look around.

They were at the far end of a small yard; she could pick out the mushroom-mound of a grill and a plastic swing set, all illuminated by the amber glow of a nearby streetlight. Ahead of them, the yard was open to the street, an empty, featureless expanse of white that led to another scattering of houses. After the chaos of the previous few minutes, the quiet scene, all nineteenth-century architecture and softly drifting snow, flowed over Claire's jangled nerves like a salve. It left her thinking of Christmas.

"Head across the street," Mr. Death ordered, tapping snow from his TMP with the side of his fist. "If they're determined, this won't slow em' down for long."

Now Claire was thinking of breaking and entering, of some burly guy coming to the door with handgun to investigate a couple of prowlers. Worse, she was thinking about the homicidal BOWs that, in all likelihood, might still be following them. She studied the surrounding neighborhood. Many of the houses still had their lights on. These people haven't got a clue what's up that hill. Just like Raccoon. It was a gut-wrenching thought. It'd all started as a couple of grisly murders in the surrounding forest, meaningful only to the police and the grieving girls' parents, just enough for people to lock their doors for a couple of nights. And then–

Mr. Death started moving, boots crunching in the newly fallen snow. Claire shook herself and followed. The seat of her jeans was soaked, clinging to her butt in a clammy embrace. Suddenly, she became uncomfortably aware of how cold her hands were, pale fingertips burning in the raw air. Shivering, Claire tucked them under her armpits just as Mr. Death mounted the front porch of a large, clapboard building directly in front of them. The windows were filled with rows of antique bottles displayed along the inner sill, plus a number of flyers advertising a local concert. A wooden sign with hand-painted letters hung above the door. Del Lago Historic Museum, Claire read. Mr. Death tested the door and found it unlocked. He went inside immediately.

The interior felt deliciously warm, even though Claire knew it wasn't. Her wet, snow-encrusted boots squeaked on floorboards that'd been worn to grooves by the passage of time. The air was dry and musty, like a box of old newspapers, but it wasn't an unpleasant smell. Fighting off a renewed bout of shivers, Claire stepped aside to let Mr. Death close the door, the lock giving off a formidable click. Aside from the glow of the streetlight seeping in from outside, the museum was dark. Claire cupped her hands and blew on them, her breath fogging visibly. Surely someone in this town must have heard all the gunfire – it'd echo for miles up the valley. She doubted the police would be responding, though. The switchboards had to be absolutely clogged.

"S.O. HUNK, White 38."

Mr. Death had his radio out, his shoulder propped against the windowframe. Looking past him, Claire could plainly see the fresh trail of footprints leading across the street directly to their hidey-hole. She grimaced, shooting a worried glance at the forest. She couldn't see the worksite, not directly, but she could divine its presence by the glow it left in the sky, turning the low clouds a slightly paler shade of coal.

"White 38, go ahead."

"Multiple unknown BOWs – humanoid Class 1 – have been encountered outside of Harvardville, bearing… 32-degrees north," Mr. Death continued, glancing at his watch. A digital compass glowed softly on his wrist. "Subjects retain intelligence and their behavior does not resemble that of any known infection. Damage to subject's brain no longer guarantees termination. Over."

The conversation faded as Claire wandered over to study the nearest display, if only for the excuse to keep up what little heat she had left. Her toes were absolutely freezing. The glass case was filled with ceramics, some mostly intact, others little more than shards. There was also an extensive collection of antique pesos, the oldest dating back well over hundred years. Claire's gaze moved to the large shadowbox fastened to the wall. Inside was a fossilized string of toaster-oven sized vertebrae, a partial ribcage, and several enormous teeth. Fascinated, she leaned in to the read the placard:

"Unknown prehistoric creature discovered when the drought of 1995 caused the lake to recede.

A complete skeleton has not been found, but the beast is estimated to have been over 20m long."

Holy God. Icy water dribbled down Claire's neck and she shuddered, reaching back to shake the melting snow out of her ponytail. Mr. Death was still leaning by the window, gazing out into the street. Claire wandered a few yards to the left, passing what amounted to a visitor center for the little museum. The antique counter also doubled as a gift shop, with crystal points on lanyards, novelty pens, and tiny replicas of the artifacts. There was also a tray filled with angular brass pins.

"The stylized image of an angel, artifacts just like these have been found at the nearby Del Lago excavation.

The symbol is still used today by the Church of Los Iluminados."

Claire stirred the ugly pins with a finger, her eyes drawn to a nearby pile of brochures. Deje a los Iluminados guiar su camino – Let the Enlightened Ones Guide Your Path. Become a member now! Claire frowned, recognizing the header. A priest had handed her one exactly like in the hospital.

A priest exactly like the ones that'd broken into her house.

Shit.

Claire snatched up the brochure, twisting her body in an attempt to read by the meager light from the window. It was amazing she hadn't noticed of the connection before. "Established in the late 1800s, the Church of Los Iluminados has been a fixture of Harvardville since its days as an early silver mining town. You too can benefit from– Claire brought the brochure nearly to her nose, squinting at the difficult grey-on-purple text. The floorboards creaked. She felt Mr. Death come up alongside her shoulder.

"Learnin' anything?" he asked.

"Look at this," Claire seethed, waving the brochure. "These people were in my house!"

Mr. Death took a small flashlight out of his pocket and held it out for her. "You too can benefit from our unique faith! Our Deity doesn't demand your worship. He begs your devotion! Allow his advocates upon this earth into your mind and body, and experience the difference for yourself. Visit the Steel Cathedral, 8230 Downtown Harvardville." Claire turned the brochure over to see large stained-glass window.

"They've gotta be involved in all this," she observed in a low voice. "They had one of their people at the hospital, too – bald head, robes, the whole getup. Just like the dead ones in my living room. I told you headshots didn't work, by the way." She couldn't help but remind him.

"Hmmm." Mr. Death squeezed the radio clipped to his shoulder. "S.O. HUNK, White 38. Can you get me any Intel on a local Church group known as Los Iluminados? Over."

"Standby."

It was a few minutes before the radio crackled again. This time it was a woman's voice, sounding as though she was reading from a computer screen: "Los Iluminados – based in Harvardville for over ninety years. Recently changed it's location to downtown. Some local outreach programs… spiritual counseling, couple of soup kitchens on the weekend. The usual charities. It's been a religious minority for decades, only recently coming into the public spotlight."

Claire could almost feel Mr. Death's suspicious face. "How recently?"

"Within the last year," said the woman. "Their website claims that they received a quote "generous" sponsorship to finance an archeological dig approximately two miles outside of Del Lago. Apparently, they found proof that theirs was one of the original religions of the area. Membership numbers have been going up since July."

I'd just been taken to Mont St. Michel, thought Claire. She scanned the brochure again, frowning.

"Have White Knight look into these people," Mr. Death ordered. "The excavation site is currently a hot zone for unknown BOW activity, plus they may have orchestrated an attack on the Crimson Queen."

"Acknowledged."

The museum grew quite again. Mouth agape, Claire found that she couldn't stop staring. Crimson Queen? She had no doubt that the codeword was meant to be her. She also knew there was only one person on earth that could have assigned it as such. Heat flowed up her neck to settle, blazing, in her cheeks. Well, dammit.

She shuffled uncomfortably, and the 1911 in her waistband suddenly moved lower for want of a proper holster. Claire cautiously dug it out, thinking ruefully of the lecture Chris would have given her about gun safety. They'd spent hours blasting empty soda cans in the woods a couple of miles outside of Raccoon, while Chris proudly showed her all the modifications he'd made to his STARS issue Beretta. Don't ever put your finger inside the trigger unless you really mean to blow something away had been one of his favorites. Claire mentally added her brother's voice to and don't shove a cocked and loaded firearm down your pants like some kind of bandit.

She carefully eased the hammer down, feeling homesick. I have to make him understand somehow. When I see him again I'll… I'll just tell him what really happened! About Alex. About Arklay. Everything. Her stomach turned over. If Wesker had wanted Chris to know, he would have already tried to explain. Right? She scoffed bitterly. Yeah, right. He's an obstinate, masochistic asshole that'd rather have Chris despise him for the rest of his life. And Chris is an obstinate, paranoid asshole. She'd already seen how that meeting had taken place. Her brother hadn't waited for an explanation. Not even from her.

Claire grit her teeth, furious that he would think so little of her that he actually thought she would lie to him. Or worse, try to hurt him! She wasn't blind. She knew how the situation looked, but still. A little faith would have been nice. But that's just it, isn't it? He doesn't have any faith. Not any more. Claire raked one hand through her bangs and immediately regretted it, spending the next minute carefully separating hair from the tree-sap on her fingers.

Something moved on the edge of her vision.

Claire looked up to see what it was. She was surprised to see numerous points of fire moving at her from across the street about fifty or sixty feet distant. The sound of voices was rising now, hoarse and inescapably angry. Mr. Death sprang to the window, Claire at his side. She could suddenly count upwards of fifteen people, all regular folk in normal clothes, most of them holding torches aloft. Not flashlights. Torches. Claire's heart constricted with sudden, dreamlike fear.

"Aaaaand now we've stumbled ass-backwards into a cult," said Mr. Death calmly. His voice had hardened again, at odds with the cheerful words. "How's your ammo, Red?"

Claire anxiously scrambled to check. "Nine," she informed, counting the one in the chamber. The weighty gun was suddenly far too light. Mr. Death lifted his TMP and released the safety with a sharp snap. Something bright and burning arced through the air at them, shattering a nearby window. Claire jumped as the torch clattered across the floor, hurling sparks. She smelled burning kerosene. Get something in front of the door. Slow them down! She scanned the museum for something to use, seizing a rickety old chair behind the information counter.

"Do it and get back!" Mr. Death ordered, walking backwards. "Keep clear of the windows!

Claire wedged the door and jumped back. The mob was infinitely closer; the front line was already climbing the porch, close enough for Claire to see the unhealthy, mottled texture of their skin. Christ, look at their eyes! They seemed to glow faintly in the darkness, a combination of red and dirty, incandescent violet. Several men began to pound on the door. A husky woman pressed against the window, a knife clutched in one meaty fist. They're intelligent, using weapons. They've gotta be something like the NEMESIS program, Claire decided, feeling almost supernaturally calm. The window broke, showering the floor with bits of glass and broken bottles.

Claire raised the 1911.

Mr. Death opened fire.