Genesis - Keith R. A. DeCandido [0]
Proofed & re-formatted by nukie.
Resident Evil: Genesis
Keith DeCandido
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2004 by Davis Films/Impact (Canada) Inc. / Constantin Film (UK) Limited
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To Danelle, for paving the way,
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Special thanks to editor Marco Palmieri, who dragged me into this; agent Lucienne Diver, who kept me in it; author S.D. Perry, who did all the other books; writer/ director Paul W. S. Anderson, who provided the source material; the game developers at Capcom, who provided Paul's source material; to Milla Jovovich, Michelle Rodriguez, Eric Mabius, James Purefoy, Martin Crewes, Colin Salmon, and the rest of the cast of the first Resident Evil film, who gave me voices to work with; GraceAnne Andreassi DeCandido, who kept my writing sound; and my super-duper wonder sweetie Terri Osborne, who keeps me going.
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One
AARON VRICELLA REGARDED THE YOUNGER man sitting opposite him with a combination of awe and outrage.
He took a sip of Chianti before speaking. "You know, Matthew, I did warn you when I recruited you that this was an endeavor that might claim your sanity. I must confess, however, that I did not expect the fall to happen so soon." He set the wine glass down on one of the few clear spots on his massive oak desk. The Tuscan vintage went down a bit too smoothly. Aaron preferred the harsher red wines from northern Italy—the type of wine you need to punch a hole through the wall to get down.
In the guest chair, Matthew Addison sat staring down at the desk. An overburdened wire-frame inbox took up one corner, Aaron's flatscreen monitor and keyboard, both products of the Umbrella Corporation, another. The irony of his equipment being of Umbrella manufacture was not lost on Aaron, given that a goodly portion of the machine's computing power was given over to trying to expose that corporation's illegal activities.
The rest of the desk's wooden surface was laden with random assortments of books, CDs, Zip disks, floppy disks, Post-its, printouts, spiral-bound reports, envelopes, folders, and quite possibly the corpse of Jimmy Hoffa. Aaron had been meaning to clean the desk in his office since the Carter administration.
Once you got past the desk, the office—located in the western corner of Aaron's large suburban home—was quite orderly. Bookshelves lined one wall, contents arranged neatly. A wet bar—from whence he had taken the Chianti—and several landscape paintings adorned the opposite wall, and behind him was the picture window looking out on his acres of property. A cleaning service came in twice a week to vacuum, dust, and make sure everything was in order, but the cleaners were not allowed to touch Aaron's desk. Any attempt to disturb his chaotic jumble would, he was sure, destroy the consulting business