بعض المعلومات بس بالإنجليزي!!!
PRQLOGUE
Latham Weekly June 2, 1998
BIZARRE MURDERS COMMITTED IN RACCOON CITY
RACCOON CITY—The mutilated body of forty-teen-year-old Anna Mitaki was discovered late yesterday in an abandoned lot not far from her home in northwest Raccoon City, making her the fourth victim of the supposed “cannibal killers” to be found in or near the Victory Lake district in the last month. Consistent with the coroner reports of the other recent victims, Mitaki’s corpse showed evidence of having been partially eaten, the bite patterns apparently formed by human jaw. Shortly after the discovery of Miss Mitaki by two joggers at approximately nine o’clock last night, Chief Irons made a brief statement insisting that the RPD is “working diligently to apprehend the perpetrators of such heinous crimes and meant of the curfew that he is currently consulting with city officials about more drastic protection measures for Raccoon citizens.
In addition to the murderous spree of the cannibal killers, three others have died from probable animal attacks in Raccoon Forest in the past several weeks, bringing the toll of mysterious deaths up to seven....
Raccoon Times, June 22, 1998
HORROR IN RACCOON
MORE VICTIMS DEAD
RACCOON CITY—The bodies of a young couple were found early Sunday morning in Victory Park, making Deanne Ruach and Christopher Smith the eighth and ninth victims in the reign of violence that has terrorized the city since mid-May of this year.
Both victims, aged 19, were reported as missing by concerned parents late Saturday night and were discovered by police officers on the west bank of Victory Lake at approximately 2 A.M. Although no formal statement has been issued by the police department, witnesses to the discovery confirm that both youths suffered wounds similar to those found on prior victims. Whether or not the attackers were human or animal has yet to be announced.
According to friends of the young couple, the two had talked about tracking down the rumored “wild dogs” recently spotted in the heavily forested park and had planned to violate the city-wide curfew in order to see one of the alleged nocturnal creatures.
Mayor Harris has scheduled a press conference for this afternoon, and is expected to make an announcement regarding the current crisis, calling for a stricter enforce
Cityside, July 21, 1998
“S.T.A.R.S.” SPECIAL TACTICS AND RESCUE
SQUAD 8ENT TO SAVE RACCOON CITY
RACCOON CITY—With the reported disappearance of three hikers in Raccoon Forest earlier this week, city officials have finally called for a roadblock on rural Route 6 at the foothills of the Arklay Mountains. Chief Brian Irons announced yesterday that the S.T.A.R.S. will participate fulltime in the search for the hikers and will also be working closely with the RPD until there is an end to the rash of murders and disappearances that are destroying our community.
Chief Irons, a former S.T.A.R.S. member himself, said today (in an exclusive Cityside telephone interview) that it is “high time to employ the talents of these dedicated men and murders here in lees than two months, and at least five disappearances now—and all of these events have taken place in a close proximity to Raccoon Forest This leads us to believe that the perpetrators of these crimes may be hiding somewhere in the Victory Lake district, and the S.T.A.R.S. have just the kind of experience we need to find them.
When asked why the S.T.A.R.S. hadn’t been assigned to these cases until now, Chief Irons would only say that the S.T.A.R.S. have been assisting the RPD since the beginning and that they would be a ‘welcome addition” to the task force currently working on the murders full-time.
Founded in New York in 1967, the privately funded S.T.A.R.S. organization was originally created as a measure against cult-affiliated terrorism by a group of retired military officials and ex-field operatives from both the CIA and FBI. Under the guidance of former NSDA (National Security and Defense Agency) director Marco Palmieri, the group quickly expanded its services to include everything from hostage negotiation to code breaking to riot control Working with local police agencies, each branch office of the S.T.A.R.S. is designed to work as a complete unit in itself. The S.T.A.R.S. set up it's Raccoon City branch through the fund-raising efforts of several local busme68e8 in 1972 and is currently led by Captain Albert Wesker, promoted to the position less than six months ago.
JILL WAS ALREADY LATE FOR THE BRIEFING when she somehow managed to drop her keys into her cup of coffee on the way out the door. There was a muted ting as they hit the bottom, and as she paused in mid-stride, staring in disbelief at the steaming ceramic mug, the thick stack of files she carried under her other arm slid smoothly to the floor. Paper clips and sticky notes scattered across the tan carpeting.
“Ah, shit.”
She checked her watch as she turned back toward the kitchen, cup in hand. Wesker had called the meeting for 1900 sharp, which meant she had about nine minutes to make the ten-minute drive, find parking and get her butt into a chair. The first full disclosure meeting since the S.T.A.R.S. had gotten the case—hell, the first real meeting since she’d made the Raccoon transfer—and she was going to be late.
Figures. Probably the first time in years I actually give a rat’s ass about being on time and I fall apart at the door....
Muttering darkly she hurried to the sink, feeling tense and angry with herself for not getting ready earlier. It was the case, the goddamn case. She’d picked up her copies of the ME files right after breakfast and spent all day digging through the reports, searching for something that the cops had somehow missed—and feeling more and more frustrated as the day slipped past and she’d failed to come up with anything new.
She dumped the mug and scooped up the warm, wet keys, wiping them against her jeans as she hurried back to the front door. She crouched down to gather the files—and stopped, staring down at the glossy color photo that had ended up on top.
Oh, girls.
She picked it up slowly, knowing that she didn’t have time and yet unable to look away from the tiny, blood-spattered faces. She felt the knots of tension that had been building all day intensify, and for a moment it was all she could do to breathe as she stared at the crime scene photo. Becky and Priscilla McGee, ages nine and seven. She’d flipped past it earlier, telling herself that there was nothing there she needed to see.
But it isn’t true, is it? You can keep pretending, or you can admit it—everything’s different now, it’s been different since the day they died.
When she’d first moved to Raccoon, she’d been under a lot of stress, feeling uncertain about the transfer, not even sure if she wanted to stay with the S.T.A.R.S. She was good at the job, but had only taken it because of Dick; after the indictment, he’d started to pressure her to get into another line of work. It had taken awhile, but her father was persistent. Telling her again and again that one Valentine in jail was one too many, even admitting that he was wrong to raise her the way he had. With her training and background, there weren’t a whole lot of options—but the S.T.A.R.S., at least, appreciated her skills and didn’t care how she came by them. The pay was decent, there was the element of risk she’d grown to enjoy. . .. In retrospect, the career change had been surprisingly easy; it made Dick happy, and gave her the opportunity to see how the other half lived.
Still, the move had been harder on her than she’d realized. For the first time since Dick had gone inside, she’d felt truly alone, and working for the law had started to seem like a joke—the daughter of Dick Valentine, working for truth, justice, and the American way. Her promotion to the Alphas, a nice little house in the suburbs—it was crazy, and she’d been giving serious thought to just blowing out of town, giving the whole thing up, and going back to what she’d been before until the two little girls who lived across the street had shown up on her doorstep and asked her with wide, tear-stained eyes if she was really a policeman. Their parents were at work, and they couldn’t find their dog....
Becky in her green school dress, little Pris in her overalls—both of them sniffling and shy...
The pup had been wandering through a garden only a few blocks away, no sweat—and she’d made two new friends, as easy as that. The sisters had promptly adopted Jill, showing up after school to bring her scraggy bunches of flowers, playing in her yard on weekends, singing her endless songs they’d learned from movies and cartoons. It wasn’t like the girls bad miraculously changed her outlook or taken away her loneliness—but somehow her thoughts of leaving had been put on a back burner, left alone for awhile. For the first time in her twenty-three years, she’d started to feel like a part of the community she lived and worked in, the change so subtle and gradual that she’d hardly noticed.
Six weeks ago, Becky and Pris had wandered away from a family picnic in Victory Park—and became the first two victims of the psychopaths that had since terrorized the isolated city.
The photo trembled slightly in her hand, sparing her nothing. Becky lying on her back, staring blindly at the sky, a gaping, ragged hole in her belly. Pris was sprawled next to her, arms outstretched, chunks of flesh ripped savagely from the slender limbs. Both children had been eviscerated, dying of massive trauma before they’d bled out. If they’d screamed, no one had heard....
Enough! They’re gone, but you can finally do something about it!
Jill fumbled the papers back into their folder, then stepped outside into the early evening, breathing deeply. The scent of freshly cut grass was heavy in the sun-warmed air. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked happily amidst the shouts of children.
She hurried to the small, dented gray hatchback parked by the front walk, forcing herself not to look at the silent McGee house as she started the car and pulled away from the curb. Jill drove through the wide suburban streets of her neighborhood, window down, pushing the speed limit but careful to watch for kids and pets. There weren’t many of either around. Since the trouble had started, more and more people were keeping their children and animals indoors, even during the day.
The little hatchback shuddered as she accelerated up the ramp to Highway 202, the warm, dry air whipping her long hair back from her face. It felt good, like waking up from a bad dream. She sped through the sun-dappled evening, the shadows of trees growing long across the road.
Whether it was fate or just the luck of the draw, her life had been touched by what was happening in Raccoon City. She couldn’t keep pretending that she was just some jaded ex-thief trying to stay out of jail, trying to toe the line to make her father happy—or that what the S.T.A.R.S. were about to do was just another job. It mattered. It mattered to her that those children were dead, and that the killers were still free to kill again.
The victim files next to her fluttered slightly, the top of the folder caught by the wind; nine restless spirits, perhaps, Becky and Priscilla McGee’s among them.
She rested her right hand on the ruffled sheaf, stilling the gentle movement—and swore to herself that no matter what it took, she was going to find out who was responsible. Whatever she’d been before, whatever she would be in the future, she had changed and wouldn’t be able to rest until these murderers of the innocent had been held accountable for their actions.
“Yo, Chris!”
Chris turned away from the soda machine and saw Forest Speyer striding down the empty hail toward him, a wide grin on his tanned, boyish face. Forest was actually a few years older than Chris, but looked like a rebellious teenager—long hair, studded jean jacket, a tattoo of a skull smoking a cigarette on his left shoulder. He was also an excellent mechanic, and one of the best shots Chris had ever seen in action.
“Hey, Forest. What’s up?” Chris scooped up a can of club soda from the machine’s dispenser and glanced at his watch. He still had a couple of minutes before the meeting. He smiled tiredly as Forest stopped in front of him, blue eyes sparkling. Forest was carrying an armful of equipment—vest, utility belt, and shoulder pack.
“Wesker gave Marini the go-ahead to start the search. Bravo team’s goin’ in.” Even excited, Forest’s Alabama twang slowed his words to a stereotypical drawl. He dropped his stuff on one of the visitors’ chairs, still grinning widely.
Chris frowned. “When?”
“Now. Soon as I warm up the ‘copter.” Forest pulled the Kevlar vest on over his T-shirt as he spoke. “While you Alphas sit taking notes, we’re gonna go kick some cannibal ass!”
Nothing if not confidant, us S. T.A.R.S. “Yeah, well. . . just watch your ass, okay? I still think there’s more going on here than a couple of slobbering nut jobs hanging around in the woods.”
“You know it.” Forest pushed his hair back and grabbed his utility belt, obviously already focused on the mission. Chris thought about saying more, but decided against it. For all of his bravado, Forest was a professional; he didn’t need to be told to be careful.
You sure about that, Chris? You think Billy was careful enough?
Sighing inwardly, Chris slapped Forest’s shoulder lightly and headed for ops through the doorway of the small upstairs waiting room and down the hall. He was surprised that Wesker was sending the teams in separately. Although it was standard for the less experienced S.T.A.R.S. to do the initial recon, this wasn’t exactly a standard operation. The number of deaths they were dealing with alone was enough to call for a more aggressive offense. The fact that there were signs of organization to the murders should have brought it to Al status, and Weaker was still treating it like some kind of a training run.
Nobody else sees it; they didn’t know Billy....
Chris thought again about the late-night call he’d gotten last week from his childhood friend. He hadn’t heard from Billy in awhile, but knew that he’d taken a research position with Umbrella, the pharmaceutical company that was the single biggest contributor to the economic prosperity of Raccoon City. Billy had never been the type to jump at shadows, and the terrified desperation in his voice had jolted Chris awake, filling him with deep concern. Billy had babbled that his life was in danger, that they were all in danger, begged Chris to meet him at a diner at the edge of town—and then never showed up. No one had heard from him since.
Chris had run it over and over again in his mind during the sleepless nights since Billy’s disappearance, trying to convince himself that there was no connection to the attacks on Raccoon—and yet was unable to shake his growing certainty that there was more going on than met the eye, and that Billy had known what it was. The cops had checked out Billy’s apartment and found nothing to indicate foul play. . . but Chris’s instincts told him that his friend was dead, and that he’d been killed by somebody who wanted to keep him from talking.
And I seem to be the only one. Irons doesn’t give a shit, and the team thinks I’m just torn up over the loss of an old friend....
He pushed the thoughts aside as he turned the corner, his boot heels sending muted echoes through the arched second floor corridor. He had to focus, to keep his mind on what he could do to find out why Billy had disappeared—but he was exhausted, running on a minimum of sleep and an almost constant anxiety that had plagued him since Billy’s call. Maybe he was losing his perspective, his objectivity dulled by recent events.
He forced himself not to think about anything at all as he neared the S.T.A.R.S. office, determined to be clear-headed for the meeting. The buzzing fluorescents above seemed like overkill in the blazing evening light that filled the tight hallway; the Raccoon police building was a classic, if unconventional, piece of architecture, lots of inlaid tile and heavy wood, but it had too many windows designed to catch the sun. When he’d been a kid, the building had been the Raccoon City Hall. With the population increase a decade back, it had been renovated as a library, and four years ago, turned into a police station. It seemed like there was always some kind of construction going on.
The door to the S.T.A.R.S. office stood open, the muted sounds of gruff male voices spilling out into the hail. Chris hesitated a moment, hearing Chief Iron’s among them. “Just call me Brian” Irons was a self-centered and self-serving politician masquerading as a cop. It was no secret that he had his sweaty fingers in more than a few local pies. He’d even been implicated in the Cider district land-scam back in ‘94, and although nothing had been proved in court, anyone who knew him personally didn’t harbor any doubt.
Chris shook his head, listening to Iron’s greasy voice. Hard to believe he’d once led the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S., even as a paper-pusher. Maybe even harder to believe that he’d probably end up as mayor someday.
Of course, it doesn’t help much that he hates your guts does it, Redfield?
Yeah, well. Chris didn’t like to kiss ass, and Irons didn’t know how to have any other kind of relation-ship. At least Irons wasn’t a total incompetent, he’d had some military training. Chris pasted on a straight face and stepped into the small, cluttered office that served as the S.T.A.R.S. filing cabinet and base of operations.
Barry and Joseph were over by the rookie desk, going through a box of papers and talking quietly. Brad Vickers, the Alpha pilot, was drinking coffee and staring at the main computer screen a few feet away, a sour expression on his mild features. Across the room Captain Wesker was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, smiling blankly at something Chief Irons was telling him. Iron’s bulk was leaned against Wesker’s desk, one pudgy hand brushing at his carefully groomed mustache as he spoke.
“So I said, ‘You’re gonna print what I tell you to print, Bertolucci, and you’re gonna like it, or you’ll never get another quote from this office!’ And he says—”
“Chris!” Wesker interrupted the chief, sitting forward. “Good, you’re here. Looks like we can stop wasting time.”
Irons scowled in his direction but Chris kept his poker face. Wesker didn’t care much for Irons, either, and didn’t bother trying to be any more than polite in his dealings with the man. From the glint in his eye, it was obvious that he didn’t care who knew it, either.
Chris walked into the office and stood by the desk he shared with Ken Sullivan, one of the Bravo team. Since the teams usually worked different shifts, they didn’t need much room. He set the unopened can of soda on the battered desktop and looked at Wesker.
“You’re sending Bravo in?”
The captain gazed back at him impassively, arms folded across his chest. “Standard procedure, Chris.”
Chris sat down, frowning. “Yeah, but with what we talked about last week, I thought—”
Irons interrupted. “I gave the order, Redfield. I know you think that there’s some kind of cloak-and dagger going on here, but I don’t see any reason to deviate from policy.”
Sanctimonious prick...
Chris forced a smile, knowing it would irritate Irons. “Of course, sir. No need to explain yourself on my behalf.”
Irons glared at him for a moment, his piggy little eyes snapping, then apparently decided to let it drop. He turned back to Wesker. “I’ll expect a report when Bravo returns. Now if you’ll excuse me, Captain. . .“
Wesker nodded. “Chief.”
Irons stalked past Chris and out of the room. He’d been gone less than a minute before Barry started in.
“Think the chief took a shit today? Maybe we all should chip in for Christmas, get him some laxatives.”
Joseph and Brad laughed, but Chris couldn’t bring himself to join in. Irons was a joke, but his mishandling of this investigation wasn’t all that funny. The S.T.A.R.S. should’ve been called in at the beginning instead of acting as RPD back up.
He looked back at Wesker, the man’s perpetually composed expression hard to read. Wesker had taken over the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. only a few months ago, transferred by the home office in New York, and Chris still didn’t have any real insight into his character. The new captain seemed to be everything he was reputed to be: smooth, professional, cool—but there was a kind of distance to him, a sense that be was often far removed from what was going on.
Wesker sighed and stood up. “Sorry, Chris. I know you wanted things to go different, but Irons didn’t put a whole lot of stock into your. . . misgivings.”
Chris nodded. Wesker could make recommendations, but Irons was the only one who could upgrade a mission’s status. “Not your fault.”
Barry walked toward them, scruffing at his short, reddish beard with one giant fist. Barry Burton was only six feet tall but built like a truck. His only passion outside of his family and his weapons collection was weight lifting, and it showed.
“Don’t sweat it, Chris. Manni will call us in the second he smells trouble. Irons is just pullin’ your chain.”
Chris nodded again, but he didn’t like it. Hell, Enrico Marini and Forest Speyer were the only experienced soldiers in Bravo. Ken Sullivan was a good scout and a brilliant chemist, but in spite of his S.T.A.R.S. training, be couldn’t shoot the broad side of a barn. Richard Aiken was a top-rate communications expert, but he also lacked field experience. Rounding out Bravo team was Rebecca Chambers, who’d only been with the S.T.A.R.S. for three weeks, supposed to be some kind of medical genius. Chris had met her a couple of times and she seemed bright enough, but she was just a kid.
It’s not enough. Even with all of us, it may not be enough.
He cracked open his soda but didn’t drink any, wondering instead what the S.T.A.R.S. were going up against, Billy’s pleading, desperate words echoing through his mind yet again.
“They’re going to kill me, Chris! They’re going to kill everyone who knows/Meet me at Emmy’s, now, I’ll tell you everything. . .
Exhausted, Chris stared off into space, alone in the knowledge that the savage murders were only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
Barry stood by Chris’s desk for a minute, trying to think of something else to say, but Chris didn’t look like he was in the mood for conversation. Barry shrugged inwardly and headed back to where Joseph was going through files. Chris was a good guy, but he took things too hard sometimes; he’d get over it as soon as it was their turn to step in.
Man, it was hot! Seemingly endless trickles of sweat rolled down his spine, gluing his T-shirt to his broad back. The air-conditioning was on the fritz as usual, and even with the door open, the tiny S.T.A.R.S. office was uncomfortably warm.
“Any luck?’
Joseph looked up at him from the pile of papers, a rueful smirk on his lean face. “You kidding? It’s like somebody hid the damn thing on purpose.”
Barry sighed and scooped up a handful of files. “Maybe Jill found it. She was still here when I left lastnight, going through the witness reports for about the hundredth time. . .“
“What are you two looking for, anyway?” Brad asked.
Barry and Joseph both looked over at Brad, still sitting at the computer console, headset on. He’d be monitoring Bravo’s progress throughout their fly-by of the forested district, but for now he looked bored as hell.
Joseph answered him. “Ah, Barry claims that there are floor plans in here somewhere on the old Spencer estate, some architectural digest that came out when the house was built—” He paused, then grinned at Brad. “Except that I’m thinkin’ that ol’ Barry’s gone senile on us. They say memory is the first thing to go.”
Barry scowled good-naturedly. “01’ Barry could easily kick your ass into next week, little man.”
Joseph looked at him mock-seriously. “Yeah, but would you remember it afterwards?”
Barry chuckled, shaking his head. He was only thirty-eight, but had been with the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. for fifteen years, making him the senior member. He endured numerous old age jokes, mostly from Joseph.
Brad cocked an eyebrow. “The Spencer place? Why would it be in a magazine?”
“You kids, gotta learn your history,” Barry said. “It was designed by the one and only George Trevor, just before he disappeared. He was that hot-shit architect who did all those weird skyscrapers in D.C.—in fact, Trevor’s disappearance may have been the reason that Spencer shut the mansion down. Rumor has it that
Trevor went crazy during the construction and when it was finished, he got lost and wandered the halls until he starved to death.”
Brad scoffed, but suddenly looked uneasy. “That’s bullshit. I never heard anything like that.”
Joseph winked at Barry. “No, it’s true. Now his tortured ghost roams the estate each night, pale and emaciated, and I’ve heard tell that sometimes you can hear him, calling out, ‘Brad Vickers. . . bring me Brad Vickers. .. .“
Brad flushed slightly. “Yeah, ha ha. You’re a real comedian, Frost.”
Barry shook his bead, smiling, but wondered again bow Brad had ever made it to Alpha. He was undoubtedly the best hacker working for S.T.A.R.S., and a decent enough pilot, but he wasn’t so hot under pressure. Joseph had taken to calling him “Chickenheart Vickers” when he wasn’t around, and while the S.T.A.R.S. generally stuck up for one another, nobody disagreed with Joseph’s assessment.
“So is that why Spencer shut it down?” Brad addressed this to Barry, his cheeks still red.
Barry shrugged. “I doubt it. It was supposed to be some kind of guesthouse for Umbrella’s top execs. Trevor did disappear right about the time of completion—but Spencer was whacko, anyway. He decided to move Umbrella’s headquarters to Europe, I forget where exactly, and just boarded up the mansion. Probably a couple million bucks, straight into the crapper.”
Joseph sneered. “Right. Like Umbrella would suffer.’
حاولت بشتى الطرق اني اترجمها ولكن لم استطع ترجمت القليل منها فقط:( :(
