Chapter Two: Feast of the Damned

Chris slammed a fist against the doors. Outside, the dogs kept barking, their clawed feet gouging chunks out of the oak. "What the hell happened out there?"

No one answered. Jill was leaning against the wall, fanning herself with her beret. She had that far away look in her eyes, like she was reliving the chase, or the events before it. Wesker, ever the professional, was scanning their surroundings. Maybe to the others it looked like he was keeping himself occupied, dealing with the tragedy in his own way, but Barry knew better.

For his part, he was just trying to breathe. The run to the mansion had taken more out of him than it should have. But then, he was supposed to be retired by now. That was why he'd moved to Raccoon City in the first place. Instead, they'd roped him in for one last case, and he was stuck playing stooge to a corporate spy. He should have been curled up in bed next to his wife right then, his daughters sleeping in the next room.

Sarah. Moira. Polly. It's for them. Remember that.

"Why wasn't anyone watching Joseph?" Chris asked, kicking the wall with enough force to make the sideboard splinter, "how did those things get around us like that?"

Even as he fought to catch his wind, he felt a trickle of ice water roll along his spine. They'd know it was him who'd let the team down. Of course, he couldn't deny it. He'd broken rank to go chasing after their supposed leader. He owned the blame for what had happened to Joe.

And of course, Wesker would cover his own ass. What could Barry say against him? What could he say that wouldn't bring the other man's wrath upon his two oldest friends?

"It wasn't anyone's fault, Chris," Jill said. Barry disguised a sigh of relief as a heavy gasp for breath. "He wasn't keeping pace with the rest of us and he got separated. By the time I caught up to him, it was already too late."

Chris's fist bounced off the wall, rattling a painting. "First Kevin, now Joseph. This mission's jinxed. And still no sign of Bravo Team."

"I wouldn't be so certain," Wesker said. Everyone else turned to look at him. "There was a mansion in the Arklay foothills that Enrico believed might be a potential base of operations for the perpetrators. This could be it."

The team took their first real look at the décor. Thick, scarlet carpeting ran from the doors to the staircase opposite, which rose, split and curved to meet a balcony that overlooked the front entrance. Tiles hewn and laid by expert hands covered the floor, shimmering in the light from a dozen ornate candelabras and the grand chandelier suspended above. Framed oil paintings and oak furnishings added extra lavish touches.

The last time Barry had seen a place this impressive had been on his wedding day. But the church had been a couple of rooms. From the outside, this building had looked huge. If all the rooms were furnished like this one, it would have cost millions.

Jill broke the silence first. The incredulity in her voice spoke for them all. "This is the Spencer Mansion? I thought the report said this place was abandoned and condemned."

"Abandoned," Chris grunted, "right."

Wesker nodded. "This building clearly has its secrets. Bravo Team may well be here, but so could our suspects. Before we decide on a plan of action, I want everyone to check their equipment."

The team rifled through packs and pockets as one, counting up what meagre reserves of ammunition they had left. Chris and Jill had whittled three clips each to two between them. Wesker gave them both a magazine, bringing the three of them level. Barry reloaded Miranda. He still had three auto-loaders and a handful of loose bullets. More to the point, every one was a kill shot.

"I counted six, maybe seven clean shots back there, and they just got right back up," Chris said, readying his Beretta, "and when you showed up they were dropping like flies. Good job you brought that cannon after all."

On top of the sidearms, Chris was also carrying a combat knife in a sheath on his shoulder. Jill had a compact tazer, the kind women kept in their bag next to their lipstick and purse. Knowing her, she didn't own any of the other items. And, knowing her, she'd taken that tazer apart at some point, made it "better". He was more wary of it than Chris's blade.

"I trust you completed the requisite paperwork for that weapon," Wesker said, "it doesn't look like a standard police issue."

"Sure." Jill nodded, a slight smile touching the corners of her lips. "Just ask my Captain back in Chicago."

Maybe she thought Wesker wasn't being serious. If so, she was wrong. Barry knew he had a stick up his ass. The rules were the rules. It didn't matter that he was against everything STARS stood for. He crossed every T and dotted every I, not because he believed in anything, but because it was how things were done. It hadn't been difficult for him to live up to his falsified reputation.

It felt like he was the only one who saw the other man for what he was. Chris revered him as everything a cop should be. Jill thought he was a credit to their unit and the force in general. Only he knew the truth. Wesker was no good.

"We'll begin on the ground floor," the Captain said, once they had taken stock, "Barry. Jill. The two of you search the east wing. Chris and I will search the west. This hall can serve as our staging area and regroup point."

"Sir, should we really be splitting up?" Jill asked, "this place could be just as dangerous as outside."

Chris nodded, and Barry agreed, but kept the opinion to himself. It wouldn't help. If Wesker wanted them separated, nothing anyone said or did would dissuade him.

"Then it's imperative we find Bravo Team as quickly as possible, while we still have a chance of finding them alive."

His logic was sound. His motives were bull shit though.

Chris and Jill locked eyes. Barry had been accused of being dense a few times in the past. In fact, Sarah had noticed that the two were a couple months before he had. At that moment, he'd have had trouble missing it. They wanted to stay together. That much was obvious.

They weren't alone. Barry had hoped to keep tabs on Wesker, and make sure neither of his friends stumbled into any danger wandering around the potential death trap of a mansion.

There was nothing any of them could do. The Captain had spoken.

"Be safe," Chris said, looking first at his girlfriend, then at Barry.

Jill nodded. "You too."

They took a position on either side of the door, weapons ready. He shot a rueful glance at their comrades, watching as Chris took the lead, letting Wesker cover his back. There was nothing he could do but hope that now wasn't the time for the Captain to make his move.

He and Jill took a handle each and entered the east wing. Two sidearms and four trained eyes scanned the interior. They'd entered a gallery of the same stunning opulence as the Main Hall, albeit much smaller. The impact was muted by the fact that they'd already been surprised by the decor once.

All the same, it was grandiose. Paintings in oils and water colours lined the walls, set in ornamental frames. Faces contorted into frowns glared out from the canvas, alongside dismal landscapes choked with cloud and rain. The centrepiece was a towering statue of a woman bearing an urn upon her shoulder. Spotlights lit her in different colours from different angles.

Barry jumped when the doors banged closed behind him. He let out a sigh when he realised that he'd been holding his breath.

"Barry, what happened out there?" Jill asked. He jumped again. She had startled him almost as much as the doors. "You were supposed to be on Joseph's left. Where did you go?"

Her voice was calm, toneless. It was a question, not an accusation. In fact, she sounded like she was musing on the subject, as though there were inconsistencies she was trying to resolve in her mind. No anger. No suspicion. Just thoughtfulness.

That made him feel more guilty. No matter what he said, he'd be deceiving someone who trusted him. He avoided her gaze, but that didn't matter. He could feel her eyes watching him. His face was burning, and for the first time that night he was glad to be so out of shape. The glow of exertion in his cheeks would disguise his shame.

"I ... thought I heard something." It was true. In a way. "Stopped to check it out. Only realised there was something wrong when I heard the shotgun."

She stared at him for a few moments longer, and then nodded. "Okay."

He wanted to tell her everything. Part of him was sure she'd believe him and even understand. He was desperate and hopeless, and she'd be able to make sense of it all and tell him what to do about it. She was a smart girl, smarter than him at any rate. Given time, she'd figure it out on her own anyway.

It was more than that, though. His silence might have been justified before, but people had died. Every death that followed would be on his head, so long as he said nothing.

But he couldn't do it. The moment Wesker suspected he'd told the others was the moment his family died. It'd make Jill and Chris targets too. He didn't see them just going along with the Captain's plan, not the way he had. If they made things more complicated for him, he'd probably just kill them both.

No. The less they knew the better. This was his mess, and he had to dig his own way out of it.

First chance he got, he was going to reckon with Wesker.

He just hoped it wouldn't be too late.

-x-x-x-x-x-

"Y'know, it'd probably be easier just to kick the damn thing down," Barry said.

Jill ignored him. Maybe she hadn't even heard him. Her attention was focused, her hands cupped around the keyhole, her fingers working thin wires inside the lock.

"Maybe," she replied, after about twenty seconds, "but I don't want to risk breaking the lock. Just in case we need to shut this door later."

"You mean, in case those dogs get inside the building?" he asked. She nodded, absently. He'd lost her again.

He kept still and quiet for a few moments, before restlessness got the better of him again.

"Where'd you learn to do this, anyway?"

That same twenty second delay. "Night school. I took a locksmith course. Seemed like it might be useful. It's pretty easy once you know how. I'm pretty sure you'd pick it up in no time."

He couldn't tell if she was joking or not. Either way, the idea of Barry Burton picking locks sounded pretty funny to him. "I think this dog's a little too old to learn any new tricks." He ran a hand rough with calluses along Miranda's chrome finish. "I'll stick with what I know."

Jill gave a snort. "Come on. All you need is a steady hand and an eye for detail, and I know you have both. Or did that revolver put itself together? Besides, you could use a little subtlety in your repertoire. Now get down here."

She reached down to pat the floor beside her, holding the twin pins with her other hand. He rolled his eyes and sighed, before sliding his revolver onto his hip and doing as he was told. His knees creaked as he lowered himself to the floor. He hoped she appreciated this.

He stared at the keyhole, already lost. "Okay. What do you want me to do?"

"Take hold of this," she said, guiding his hand to one of the pins and letting him pry it out of her grip, "and turn it until you hear the click. Careful to keep it steady or you'll lose it."

He nodded, keeping the pick pinched between his fingers. He could feel it strain against the weight of the mechanism as he twisted it. He seemed to be doing it right, not that he could tell. It was pure beginner's luck. Jill would know if he screwed up.

It was hard to believe they'd been running from rabid dogs mere minutes ago. She was so composed now, her breathing level, her shakes under control. He hadn't even managed to rid himself of the scratchy tightness that had settled in his chest yet. He admired her, and not the grudging admiration he showed Wesker either.

Barry knew he was past his prime, but she hadn't even peaked yet. She was already a great cop. Some day she'd be one of the best.

If she survived the night.

The pick came away with a dull clunk. Jill sighed. Her head flopped forward. That hadn't been the click she'd been listening for.

He grunted, letting her slip the tool from his hand. "Damn it."

"Don't worry about it," she said, "wanna try again?"

"Thanks, but I think I'd rather leave this to the master."

"Never hurts to add another string to your bow." She brushed a clutch of errant chestnut strands out of her face and tucked them under her beret. "But suit yourself."

She went back to work. He left her to it this time, figuring he'd disrupted her, and the search, enough already.

It was less than a minute before the lock popped open. Jill sat back on her haunches, wiping the sweat off her forehead. She started to pack her tools away, but he wasn't paying attention.

"You hear that?" he asked.

She glanced back at him and shook her head. That was when he heard it again, a muffled thump he couldn't place. It sounded like it was coming from the next room. She rose to her feet, slipping her Beretta free from its holster. He stepped past her, towards a tapestry hanging in the corner of the gallery. The crimson weave didn't fit with the blue decor. He was certain that meant something.

He gripped an edge and pulled it aside. There was a corridor behind it. It was dark, but not black. An old oil lamp bolted to the wall painted the passage with soft, flickering radiance. It stank, but it wasn't the musty smell of disuse. Instead, the stench hit him like a jab to the nose. His empty stomach somersaulted, a swell of nausea rising in his throat.

He knew that smell. It had filled the houses of the victims of the cannibal killers. It had risen out of the dogs he'd split from head to tail, as they'd laid in the grass like ripped trash bags spilling their rotten guts. And now it was here, suffocating in strength, enough to make him gag.

Jill grunted in disgust, her face creasing as the wave hit her too. He could see her left hand twitching as she struggled against the impulse to smother her nose and mouth. She took the lead as he drew Miranda and thumbed back the hammer.

They walked deeper into the niche. He let the curtain fall closed behind them. The dim light closed in around them. Everything was fuzzy edges and vague shapes. Ahead and around the corner, something moved. The silence split with a wet tear, followed by a slurping, sucking sound.

Barry shuddered. This felt wrong. Nothing good lurked in the dark. Every instinct screamed for him to run. He just wished there was somewhere to run to.

There was a silhouette hunched over on the floor. His adjusting eyes picked out details in the gloom, a ragged jacket, a hairless scalp. The crunch and squelch of teeth on meat accompanied every bob of its head. The figure was gnawing on something with slow, ponderous movements, ripping away flesh and swallowing it down. Part of him wished he'd stayed blinded by the darkness.

It heard them coming, heard their feet thumping on the floorboards. It groaned, its throat clogged with blood that bubbled into its mouth. Then it turned its head, white eyeballs swivelling in their sockets to stare right at him. It gurgled again. A stream of gore poured down its front.

It stood up, lifting its hands towards them, a moan, plaintive and wordless, pushing from its lips like a laboured breath. The sight of it, emaciated, filthy, rotting, was more than he could stand. He froze, his revolver held out in front of him like a shield. If he couldn't pull the trigger it was useless. He knew that, even as the man, the thing, started to stagger towards him. But fear had taken over.

"Hey, hold it right there!"

Jill's voice cut through the ice. His heart started pumping again, melting away the rest.

"I said hold it!" she barked.

It didn't listen. It lunged at them, mouth falling open, fingers curving into claws poised to bunch in their clothing and sink under their skin. Her Beretta coughed. The bullet punched a hole in its shoulder. It flinched, but from the impact, not the pain. A second later, it came for them again, undeterred, not even favouring its damaged arm. That was why Barry preferred a gun with real stopping power. The Colt Python bucked in his hands.

The .44 slug hit it in the chest. Liquefied organs erupted from its back, mottling the walls crimson. The force threw it off its feet and sent it skidding along the bare boards. It left a bloody smear in its wake, before it slid to a stop. Then, it let out one last rasp and fell limp. Or as limp as something stiff with rigor mortis got.

Jill stepped towards the corpse. She kept her sidearm centred on it as she tapped it with her boot.

"Barry, this guy's been dead for weeks," she said.

It was true. Its skin was dried out and peeling like ancient wallpaper, and splitting at the joints. And the reek rising off it couldn't have been anything other than the stench of death. So how had it been walking around?

He said they'd all be dead. All the ones infected by whatever they'd been working on in this hole in the ground.

He'd been wrong. This one hadn't been dead. Maybe the others he'd mentioned wouldn't be dead either. Was this what Umbrella had been working on? Something to bring back the dead? He swallowed hard. What kind of place had Wesker dragged them into? Was this operation even within his control anymore? Or was he just as helpless as the rest of them now?

"I think we've found our killers," he said, as Jill walked deeper into the passage, leaving him to watch the cadaver.

He watched her stoop over the dark outline of whatever it had been feeding on. He couldn't see it at that distance, but he heard her swear. She rolled it over. A human hand flopped out of the gloom. A hand clutching a Beretta, just like the one she was holding.

She looked back at him, features grim. "I think we found Bravo Team too."

-x-x-x-x-x-