As her heartbeat returned to something approaching normal, she sat up and carefully touched the wound behind her ear. Her fingers came away wet, but it wasn't too bad, the blood was already clotting; she'd been lucky. When she thought of what could have happened if she'd tripped and fallen…

Why had they attacked, what had the control switch done? She remembered the snap of electricity when she'd flipped it, the sound of a spark-the perch!

She felt a sudden rush of grudging admiration for whoever had set up the simple trap. When she'd hit the switch, she must have sent a current through the metal bar they'd been perched on. She'd never heard of attack-trained crows, but could think of no other explanation-which meant that someone had gone through a lot of trouble to keep whatever was in that room a secret. To get to the answer, she'd have to go back in.

I can stand in the doorway, take them out one at a time… She didn't much like the idea, she didn't trust her aim and would certainly waste a lot of ammunition.

Only fools accept the obvious and go no further; use your brain, Jilly.

Jill smiled a little; it was her father talking, reminding her of the training she'd had before the S.T.A.R.S.

One of her earliest memories was of hiding in the bushes outside the rickety old house in Massachusetts that her father had rented for them, studying the dark, empty windows as he explained how to properly case a prospect. Dick had made it into a game, teaching her over the next ten years all the finer points of breaking and entering, everything from how to remove panes of glass without damaging them to walking on stairs so they didn't creak and he'd also taught her, again and again, that every riddle had more than one answer.

Killing the birds was too obvious. She closed her eyes, concentrating.

Switches and portraits… a little boy, a toddler, a young man, a middle-aged man…

From Cradle to Grave. Cradle to grave…

Once the solution occurred to her, she was almost embarrassed by the simplicity of it. She stood up and dusted herself off, wondering how long it would take for the crows to return to their roost. Once they were settled, she shouldn't have any more problems uncovering the secret.

She cracked the door open and listened to the whispering beat of wings, promising herself to be more careful this time. Pushing the wrong button in this house could be deadly.

Rebecca? Let me in, it's Chris.

There was the sound of something heavy sliding against the wall and the door to the storage room creaked opened. Rebecca stepped away from the entrance as he hurried inside, already pulling the diary out of his vest.

I found this journal in one of the rooms, he said.

It looks like there was some kind of research going on here, I don't know what kind but…

Virology, Rebecca interrupted, and held up a stack of papers, grinning. You were right about there being something useful in here.

Chris took the papers from her and skimmed the first page. As far as he could tell, it was in a foreign language made out of numbers and letters.

What is all this stuff? DH5a-MCR…

You're looking at a strain chart, Rebecca said brightly. That one's a host for generating genomic libraries containing methylated cytosine or adenine residues, depending.

Chris cocked an eyebrow at her. Let's pretend that I have no idea what you're talking about and try again. What did you find?

Rebecca flushed slightly and took the papers back from him. Sorry. Basically, there's a lot of, uh, stuff in here on viral infection.

Chris nodded. That I understand; a virus…

He quickly flipped through the journal, counting the dates from the first report of the accident in the lab. On May eleventh, there was some kind of spill or outbreak in a laboratory on this estate. Within eight or nine days, whoever wrote this had turned into one of those creatures out there.

Rebecca's eyes widened. Does it say when the first symptoms appeared?

Looks like… within twenty-four hours, he or she was complaining of itchy skin. Swelling and blisters within forty-eight hours.

Rebecca paled. That's… wow.

Chris nodded. Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Is there any way to tell if we could be infected?

Not without more information. All of that…

Rebecca motioned at the trunk full of papers,…is pretty old, ten years plus, and there's nothing specific about application. Though an airborne with that kind of speed and toxicity… if it was still viable, all of Raccoon City would probably be infected by now. I can't be positive, but I doubt it's still contagious.

Chris was relieved for himself and the rest of the S.T.A.R.S., but the fact that the zombies were all victims of a disease – it was depressing, whether it was a disaster of their own making or not.

We have to find the others, he said. If one of them should stumble across the lab without knowing what's there…

Rebecca looked stricken at the thought, but nodded gamely and moved quickly toward the door. Chris decided that, with a little experience, she'd make a first-rate S.T.A.R.S. member; she obviously knew her chemistry, and even without a gun, she was willing to leave the relative safety of the storage room in order to help the rest of the team.

Together, they hurried through the dark, wooded hallway, Rebecca sticking close to his side. When they reached the door back to the first hallway, Chris checked his Beretta and then turned to Rebecca.

Stay close. The door we want is to the right and at the end of the hall. I'll probably have to shoot the lock, and I'm pretty sure there's a zombie or two wandering around, so I'll need you to watch my back.

Yes, sir, she said quietly, and Chris grinned in spite of the situation. Technically, he was her superior – still, it was weird to have it pointed out.

He opened the door and stepped through, training his gun on the shadows straight ahead and then down the hall to the right. Nothing moved.

Go, he whispered, and they jogged down the corridor, quickly stepping over the fallen creature that blocked their path. Rebecca turned to face the open stretch behind them as Chris rattled the door knob, hoping vainly that it had unlocked itself.

No such luck. He backed away from the door and took careful aim. Firing at a locked door wasn't as easy or safe as it looked in the movies; a ricochet off of metal at such close range could kill the shooter Chris!

He glanced over his shoulder and saw a shambling figure at the other end of the hall, moving slowly toward them. Even in the dim light, Chris could see that one of its arms was missing. The distinctive odor of decay wafted toward them as the zombie moaned thickly, stumbling forward.

Chris turned back to the door and fired, twice. The frame splintered, the inset metal square of the lock revealed in a spray of wood chips. He jerked at the knob and the lock gave up, the door swinging open.

He turned and grabbed at Rebecca's arm, hustling her through the doorway as he pointed the Beretta back down the hall. The creature had made it halfway, but was stopped at the lifeless body of the zombie that Chris had killed earlier. Even as Chris watched in horror and disgust, the one-armed zombie dropped to its knees and plunged its remaining hand into the other's crushed skull. It moaned again, a wet, phlegmy sound, and brought a handful of slushy gray matter to its eager lips.

Oh, man.

Chris shuddered involuntarily and hurriedly stepped through to join Rebecca, closing the door on the gruesome scene. Rebecca was pale but seemed composed, and again, Chris admired her courage; she was young but tough, tougher than he'd been at eighteen.

He took in the hall at a glance, immediately noticing the changes. To their right about twenty feet away was a corpse of one of the creatures, the top of its head blown away. It lay face up, the deep sockets of its eyes filled with blood. To their left were the two doors that Chris hadn't tried when he'd first come to investigate. The one at the very end of the hall was standing open, revealing deep shadows.