Apocalypse - Keith R. A. DeCandido [29]
When they reached the church gate, Jill said, “Inside. Let’s get under cover.”
The church was a huge Gothic structure that looked like something Tim Burton had asked Frank Lloyd Wright to build when both of them were drunk. The funky architecture and giant gargoyles were spooky enough in the firelit darkness outside, but apparently the electricity wasn’t on full bore inside, either. The roof was high in here, the shadows long, the light sources few and far between. Over the front door was a huge stained-glass window depicting Lucifer being cast out of heaven and into hell—which Jill recognized more from reading Paradise Lost in college than from any religious training. A huge cross hung above the altar.
Just as Jill was starting to wonder if this was such a hot idea, a voice sounded from one of the many shadows.
“That’s it! No closer!”
A figure stepped out. It was a disheveled white man, probably early thirties, holding a .357 Magnum that looked about as comfortable in his hand as it would’ve looked in Morales’s.
Jill had seen the expression on the man’s face dozens of times over the years since she’d joined S.T.A.R.S., usually in hostage takers and kidnappers: the uniquely crazed look of someone who had nothing to lose and carried a high-caliber weapon.
Putting on her best negotiator voice—and wishing that Goldblume, their actual negotiator, were here—Jill said, “It’s okay. We’re not those things.”
“This is my place! I found it! I’m hiding here!”
Morales butted in drily. “I think it’s big enough for all of us.”
The man started waving the .357. “You’ll lead them here! You have to get out!”
To Jill’s shock, Morales got right in the man’s face. She either had balls of steel or was dumb as a post. Or both.
Jill’s money was on both.
“We’re not going back outside! You got it?”
The man put the .357’s muzzle right at Morales’s face. “Don’t tell me—”
“Okay, just cool it! Put the gun down!”
Both of them backed off at Peyton’s command, which echoed off the high ceilings.
Jill smiled. Apparently Peyton could still sound tough.
The man lowered the gun.
Walking up to him and holding out a hand, Jill said, “You might want to give that to me.”
“I don’t think so.” The man was still shaken, but he sounded a bit less crazy.
Peyton looked at Morales. “And you—take it easy.”
Jill did likewise. “Plenty of ways to get killed here without getting yourself shot.”
Morales said nothing in reply. Instead, she looked down at her hand. Only then did Jill notice that she was holding something small and metallic. Had she given anything like a shit about Terri Morales, she might have asked what it was.
Instead, she sat in one of the pews and pulled out a cigarette. A flash of worry that she was desecrating sacred ground came over her, but it passed quickly. Zombies were roaming the streets, corporations were shooting innocent people—if there was a God, He hadn’t been to Raccoon City lately.
After taking a drag, Jill noticed that Morales was now looking at her.
“Jill Valentine, right? Remember me? I covered some of your cases—before your suspension.” She stuck out a hand. “Terri Morales, Raccoon 7.”
Not bothering to return the offered handshake, Jill blew cigarette smoke into Morales’s face. “I’ve seen all your work.”
Morales smiled. The expression didn’t really work on her face. “A fan.”
“Not really. You do the weather now, right?”
The smile fell. Jill took some enjoyment from that.
She indicated Peyton, who was now also seated in a pew. “Sergeant Peyton Wells.”
Pointing to the item in Morales’s hand, Peyton asked, “What’s that you’ve got there?”
Morales held up the item: a small, handheld video camera. The red record light was on—Jill suspected it had been on since Morales arrived at the bridge.
“My Emmy,” she said with another smile. “If any of us make it out.” She pointed the camera’s lens right at Peyton. “So, does the Raccoon City Police Department have a comment on what those things are?”
“The Lord’s judgment.”
The voice wasn’t Peyton’s—it echoed off the high ceilings, but Jill realized quickly