She started to push past him, hoping it wouldn't come to violence and wishing that she could tell him not to get in her way – how dangerous it would be for him to try – when Leon surprised her yet again. "Then I'm coming with you," he said. He met her gaze evenly, his own unflinching and resolute – and scared. "I'm not going to let you do it alone. I don't want anyone else – I don't want you to get hurt."

Ada stared at him, not sure what to say. Now that Bertolucci was dead, she didn't want to have to ditch Leon in the sewers; it wouldn't be hard, considering how extensive the system was… but he was just so goddamn nice, so determined to be helpful, that she was starting to – to not want to have to do anything bad to him. Things would be a lot easier if he was just some asshole on a machismo kick…

Okay, so blow your cover. Tell him you're a private agent working to steal the G-Virus, and you don't want company; tell him about the relief you felt when you realized the reporter was about to die, or how you don't have a problem with killing, if it's for a good cause like getting paid. See how nice and helpful he is after that.

Not an option; neither was trying to talk him out of coming along, it wouldn't make sense. And there was some part of her, some part that she didn't want to admit to, that wanted very much not to be alone. Seeing that thing that had popped out of Bertolucci had shaken her, it had left her feeling that she wasn't as invulnerable as she liked to think.

So let him come, get to the lab and find a safe place to leave him there. No harm, no foul.

Leon was watching her closely, studying her – wait– ing for her approval. "Let's go," she said, and the grin he gave her, though winning, made her feel even more uncomfort– able. Without another word, they walked toward the kennel, Ada wondering what the hell she was doing and whether or not she was still capable of doing whatever it took to get the job done. Claire stood in front of a medieval door at the very end of the dark, dungeon-like hallway that the eleva– tor had taken her to. The station had been chilly, but the icy damp of this stone hall made the station seem like summer; it was like she'd descended into some ancient, haunted castle straight out of the Middle Ages. She took a deep breath, trying to decide how to go in; she was pretty sure that Irons wouldn't appreciate a surprise visit, but the idea of knocking seemed ludicrous – not to mention dangerous. There were torches burning in sconces on either side of the heavy wood door, the door itself belted with strips of rusting metal and if she'd had any doubt before that Irons was crazy, the sight of the twin sputtering torches and the feel of cold, quiet dread that suffused the corridor itself had wiped her uncertainty out.

A secret tunnel, a hidden room complete with mood-lighting… what sane person would want to hang out down here? It wasn't the disaster that did it – Irons must have been nuts way before the Umbrella acci– dent…

Another certainty, although she didn't have any proof – but when Sherry had told her about what her parents did for a living, and what had happened just prior to her coming to the station, something had clicked. Umbrella worked with diseases, and the population of Raccoon had definitely come down with a bad case of something. There must have been some kind of an accident, a spill that had released the strange zombie plague…

Quit stalling.

Claire bit at her lip, not sure what she should do. She didn't doubt that Irons was down here some– where, and she did not want to run into him again; maybe she should go back up, get Sherry, and try to find another way out. Just because the area was secret didn't mean that it was some kind of an escape route.

Still stalling, and Sherry is up there by herself. And you've got a gun, remember?

A gun with very little ammo. If this was Irons's hidden lair, maybe he kept weapons inside… or maybe it was just another corridor, one that led even deeper into the bowels of the station. Either way, wondering about it was telling her exactly jack shit. Claire put her hand on the latch, took another deep breath, and pushed it open, the heavy door swinging in slowly on well-oiled hinges. She stepped back, pointing the handgun…

Jesus.

An empty room, as dank and unwelcoming as the corridor, but with furnishings and a decor that made her skin crawl. A single naked bulb hung down from the ceiling, illuminating the creepiest chamber she'd ever seen. There was a table in the middle of the room, stained and battered, a hacksaw and other cutting utensils scattered on top; a dented metal bucket and a mop, slopped against one water-stained wall, next to a portable basin with dried red patches inside; shelves, laden with dusty bottles – and what looked like human bones, polished and pale, set out like macabre trophies. That, and the smell – a thick chemical reek, sharp and acidic, that only just cov– ered a darker smell. A smell like insanity. Even looking into the room made her want to be sick; "nuts" was maybe the understatement of the year for the police chief, but there was nobody home, and that meant that there could be another secret passage somewhere inside. At the very least, she had to check for weapons. Swallowing, Claire stepped into the room, glad that she hadn't brought Sherry with her; looking at the private little torture chamber was going to give her nightmares, it was nothing to expose a child to…

"Freeze, little girl, or I'll shoot you where you stand."

Claire froze. Every muscle in her body froze as Irons started to laugh from behind her, from behind the door where she hadn't thought to look.

Oh my God, oh, God, oh, Sherry I'm so sorry…

Irons's deep chuckle rose into the hearty, gleeful laughter of a madman, and Claire understood that she was going to die.

EIGHTEEN

Trying not to breathe too deeply, Leon reached the bottom of the metal ladder and turned around quickly, aiming the Magnum into the thick gloom. Murky water sloshed over his boots, and as his eyes adjusted to the low light, he saw the source of the terrible smell.

Parts of it, anyway…

The subbasement tunnel stretching out in front of him was littered with body parts, human corpses that had been torn into pieces. Limbs and heads and torsos were strewn randomly through the stone pas– sage, lapped at gently by the few inches of dark water that covered the floor. "Leon? How is it?" Ada's voice floated down from the circle of light above the ladder, echoing hollowly around him. Leon didn't answer, his shocked gaze fixed on the terrible scene, his brain trying to add up the shredded parts and come up with a number.

How many? How many people?

Too many to count. He saw a faceless head, the long hair streaming around it in a cloud. A heavy woman's decapitated trunk, one breast bobbing above the rippling darkness. An arm encased in the tatters of a cop's dress shirt. A bare leg, still wearing a sneaker. A curled hand, the fingers slick and white.

A dozen? Twenty? "Leon?" Ada's tone had sharpened. "It's… it looks okay," he called, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. "Nothing moving." "I'm coming down."

He stepped away from the ladder to give her room, remembering something she'd said before, something about bodies being dumped… Ada stepped off the bottom rung, splashing into the dark tunnel. His eyes had adjusted well enough to see a look of disgust cross her delicate features – disgust and something like sadness. "There was an attack in the garage," she said softly. "Fourteen or fifteen people died…"

She trailed off, frowning, and took a step past him

to get a closer look at the severed and mutilated

remains. When she spoke again, she sounded worried.