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Authors: John Shirley
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vista coming into view through the filter of ice and seawater, just beyond the wall-window. She shivered. That water would be brutally cold—death wouldn’t be instant, but it would be quick.
They weren’t getting out of here that way…
The glowing ice floes and inverted peaks were fascinating, even beautiful. Shafts of light reticulated, dancing across the murky seabed. A walrus swam past the window, the great beast looking surprisingly graceful. In the distance, she could see the dark undulating mass of a whale.
That hammer and sickle symbol, though faded with time, was still striking in its crimson starkness.
She turned back to Ada and the monitors—where Wesker waited for her reaction.
“Where exactly are we?” Alice asked.
“The Straits of Kamchatka,” he replied smoothly. “Northern Russia. The old Soviet Union built submarine pens here, back in the nineteen-eighties. After the Cold War ended, the Umbrella Corporation expanded them—and built the testing floor.”
So that was it. After she’d lost consciousness off the coast of Los Angeles, they’d brought her here, to an old Soviet base. But where, she wondered, was Wesker? Was he here in this sprawling facility? Or perhaps in some high-tech den under Tokyo? If she found him, and killed him again —would it turn out to be yet another Wesker clone?
How many were there?
“How do we get out?” Alice asked, looking at Ada.
“We cross the test floor,” she replied, her tone uncannily matter-of-fact, “through the submarine pens, then take an elevator to the surface.”
“Just like that?”
“No, not really.” Ada smiled.
“I didn’t think so.”
“But don’t worry… we are going to have a little help.”
“We,” she said. Alice shook her head doubtfully. She had no idea what this woman’s agenda was—still didn’t know why Ada had helped her escape from the interrogation. And who was this “help” she was talking about? Might they end up being just as much Alice’s enemy as the Umbrella troopers?
Sure, I won’t worry, Alice thought. Hell, why should I? Just because this facility is overrun with troopers and well stocked with the Undead?
“Don’t worry.”
Yeah, right.
Two vehicles churned across the snowfield atop a wind-raked ridge. The rectangular tractor-tread vehicles, called Sprytes—bigger than Humvees, and armored— ground their way steadily through the unforgiving expanse of Arctic snow and ice. The Kamchatka Peninsula. A tern flew overhead. Other than that, the only movement was spurts of snow-laden wind.
At last the ungainly vehicles rolled to a halt near the edge of a steep ridge.
Luther West, a tall, good-looking black man with a short-trimmed beard, tugged the fur collar of his military camouflage coat more tightly around him as he climbed out. The wind wasn’t strong, but it was so cold that it felt like being hit in the face with a fist of ice. His breath plumed in the air.
“Damn, it’s cold!” he said. “You know I’m from California, don’t you?”
Luther was addressing Leon Kennedy—a rugged man, mid-thirties, whose stern expression suggested that he had no interest in Luther’s protestations.
“Barry—let’s take a look,” Leon called out.
Barry Burton climbed down from the second vehicle. A professional soldier, with an unlit cigar clamped in his mouth—he was trying to quit but couldn’t quite give it up—he wore a customized .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda on his hip. He brushed roughly past Luther.
“Did it just get colder around her?” Luther asked, trying to make a joke of their attitude.
No response to that, either.
How had he gotten involved with these guys? They’d shared many of the same trials, coming from the prison he and Alice and Chris and the others had used as a fortress against the Undead. He wasn’t a professional gun-toter, but he’d become a pretty good shot. His pro-basketball skills had helped quite a bit.
Could be they thought he was a media whore—
They weren’t getting out of here that way…
The glowing ice floes and inverted peaks were fascinating, even beautiful. Shafts of light reticulated, dancing across the murky seabed. A walrus swam past the window, the great beast looking surprisingly graceful. In the distance, she could see the dark undulating mass of a whale.
That hammer and sickle symbol, though faded with time, was still striking in its crimson starkness.
She turned back to Ada and the monitors—where Wesker waited for her reaction.
“Where exactly are we?” Alice asked.
“The Straits of Kamchatka,” he replied smoothly. “Northern Russia. The old Soviet Union built submarine pens here, back in the nineteen-eighties. After the Cold War ended, the Umbrella Corporation expanded them—and built the testing floor.”
So that was it. After she’d lost consciousness off the coast of Los Angeles, they’d brought her here, to an old Soviet base. But where, she wondered, was Wesker? Was he here in this sprawling facility? Or perhaps in some high-tech den under Tokyo? If she found him, and killed him again —would it turn out to be yet another Wesker clone?
How many were there?
“How do we get out?” Alice asked, looking at Ada.
“We cross the test floor,” she replied, her tone uncannily matter-of-fact, “through the submarine pens, then take an elevator to the surface.”
“Just like that?”
“No, not really.” Ada smiled.
“I didn’t think so.”
“But don’t worry… we are going to have a little help.”
“We,” she said. Alice shook her head doubtfully. She had no idea what this woman’s agenda was—still didn’t know why Ada had helped her escape from the interrogation. And who was this “help” she was talking about? Might they end up being just as much Alice’s enemy as the Umbrella troopers?
Sure, I won’t worry, Alice thought. Hell, why should I? Just because this facility is overrun with troopers and well stocked with the Undead?
“Don’t worry.”
Yeah, right.
Two vehicles churned across the snowfield atop a wind-raked ridge. The rectangular tractor-tread vehicles, called Sprytes—bigger than Humvees, and armored— ground their way steadily through the unforgiving expanse of Arctic snow and ice. The Kamchatka Peninsula. A tern flew overhead. Other than that, the only movement was spurts of snow-laden wind.
At last the ungainly vehicles rolled to a halt near the edge of a steep ridge.
Luther West, a tall, good-looking black man with a short-trimmed beard, tugged the fur collar of his military camouflage coat more tightly around him as he climbed out. The wind wasn’t strong, but it was so cold that it felt like being hit in the face with a fist of ice. His breath plumed in the air.
“Damn, it’s cold!” he said. “You know I’m from California, don’t you?”
Luther was addressing Leon Kennedy—a rugged man, mid-thirties, whose stern expression suggested that he had no interest in Luther’s protestations.
“Barry—let’s take a look,” Leon called out.
Barry Burton climbed down from the second vehicle. A professional soldier, with an unlit cigar clamped in his mouth—he was trying to quit but couldn’t quite give it up—he wore a customized .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda on his hip. He brushed roughly past Luther.
“Did it just get colder around her?” Luther asked, trying to make a joke of their attitude.
No response to that, either.
How had he gotten involved with these guys? They’d shared many of the same trials, coming from the prison he and Alice and Chris and the others had used as a fortress against the Undead. He wasn’t a professional gun-toter, but he’d become a pretty good shot. His pro-basketball skills had helped quite a bit.
Could be they thought he was a media whore—
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