Free Resident Evil. Retribution by John Shirley

resented that for some reason. But none of that mattered now. There weren’t any basketball teams— no TV commercials, no endorsement deals, and sure as hell no superstars. There was little television or internet to speak of, anymore. Instead, there was a burning world overrun by the Undead. And in Hell, everyone was equally damned.
    They were joined by Sergei, their Russian technical specialist. Barry led the way to the edge of the cliff where the four men stood, side by side. Far below, at the foot of the ridge, Luther spotted a string of weathered, rust-streaked concrete-and-iron bunkers, part of the last century’s Soviet military installation. Barry grunted, peering at the bunkers through digital binoculars. Luther could hear the chip-enhanced device humming as he adjusted them.
    Beyond the rugged ground at the foot of the cliff lay the rocky beach, and the pack ice of the Kamchatka Strait. It was colder here—where they were exposed to the wind off the sea—and Luther had to work at it to keep his teeth from chattering. But he wasn’t about to complain again.
    In the distance, he saw the gray hulks of abandoned battleships, and one large carrier, all locked in the ice—part of the old, mothballed Soviet fleet. They seemed like gravestones—forlorn, decaying monuments to another era.
    Leon pointed at the three huge vents by the water’s edge.
    “There they are.”
    Sergei grunted.
    “Intake vents for the submarine pens,” he observed.
    Barry swept his binoculars over the abandoned facility one last time.
    “Looks abandoned.”
    “That’s what they want you to think,” Leon observed.
    Luther was ready to get moving.
    “So what are we waiting for?” he asked. Leon shot him a cutting look. Barry, Leon, and Sergei were a tight unit, used to each other’s rhythms. Luther was odd man out, no matter what he did.
    Leon sighed.
    “Let’s get something clear right now,” he said in an irritatingly condescending tone of voice. “You’re here as an advisor—nothing more. You know this woman, and that’s your value to me.
    “Understand?” he concluded.
    And what’s your value to me? Luther thought. But he didn’t say it. He had his own agenda, and he didn’t want to gum it up with arguments. These guys would reunite him with Alice—and maybe the others…
    So he just returned Leon’s glare.
    “I’ll take that as a yes,” Leon growled.
    It’s a yes for now, Luther thought.
    He turned and walked back to the ice crawlers.
    Jill Valentine felt herself drawn back to the empty interrogation cell. It was almost as if she hoped to find the prisoner here again.
    She remembered interrogating Alice, remembered slamming her with the sonic torture. She’d had a strange feeling, then—almost as if she were prolonging the process. Interrogation was the only kind of prisoner contact that Jill was allowed. Yet sometimes she’d felt as if there was something she wanted to say, something she wanted to do. But she wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps tell Alice that she felt sympathy for her.
    Maybe tell her, “I can’t control this.”
    But all that had come out of Jill’s mouth had been the pre-planned questions. Every time she got close to that vagrant, taunting feeling, a pulse from the scarab muted it, drove it away. Keeping her on task as security chief.
    Which was exactly what she needed to be, right now—back on task. There was no place for emotion, for questioning, for intuition, in the life she lived. She was part of Umbrella—part of the great effort, the grand design. That was all that mattered.
    So Jill found herself looking down at the scarabshaped mechanism on her chest. Her intimate connection with the corporate masters.
    She reached up to touch it… and suddenly drew her hand back.
    No. That’s not allowed.
    Two masked Umbrella troopers from her squad strode up, and Jill, standing in the open doorway, felt as if she had to say something.
    “The lock’s intact,” she noted, peering intently