Resident Evil_ Extinction - Keith R. A. DeCandido [33]
But the fact that most of the world’s population had succumbed to the T-virus was of very little moment to Sam Isaacs—he had his research, he had resources, and he had a problem to solve, so he was content. Most of humanity was dead, but Isaacs had never cared much for most of humanity, made up as it was of dolts and dunderheads who got in the way of allowing Isaacs to do his work.
Thanks to the Umbrella Corporation, Isaacs had lost nothing when the world ended. He still had his research, and he was content with that.
Isaacs turned away from the undead and followed DiGennaro and Humberg to the guard tower on the other side of the weather station. The scent of lime wafted across his nostrils—which, oddly, was a palliative after being so close to the undead—but he didn’t even look at the pit where the Alices had been dumped. They represented failure, and while Isaacs was a firm believer in learning from failure, these corpses had gone beyond the point where anything could be learned from them.
Besides, he was getting well and truly sick of the sight of that face.
If only he’d been able to keep her in Detroit…
He entered the guard tower, where another hydraulic lift took him, DiGennaro, and Humberg up fifteen stories. Upon arrival at the top, Isaacs stepped into the basket. It was akin to those used on hot-air balloons, except that this one was attached to an extendable metal bar, similar to those used by firefighters.
DiGennaro said to the guard at the top, “How’s life treatin’ you up here in the nosebleed seats, Robertson?”
“Just fucking peachy, Deej. It’s nice and toasty warm up here. Heat rises, y’know.”
Humberg and DiGennaro followed Isaacs into the basket. At a nod from Isaacs, Robertson activated the bar, which cantilevered out over the mesh fence and above the undead.
This activity was far from covert, as the metal made a horrible noise when it moved—keeping the hinges oiled wasn’t a priority, as oil was needed for far more critical purposes in these dark times—and so all the undead looked up at the sound. They started jumping up, grabbing and clawing at the underside of the basket, sensing that there was fresh flesh for them to consume.
Robertson, however, kept them above the fray.
Since the project required a particularly strong specimen, Isaacs ruled out the women he saw. While he had known plenty of women who could hold their own in a physical conflict—up to and including Alice Abernathy, even before Isaacs got to experiment on her—when one was looking for a sample of humanity with the brute strength Isaacs required, the male of the species was far better suited.
He looked down, and eventually his eye caught a particularly fine one. In part, he stood out because of the brightly colored hockey shirt he wore with a number emblazoned on the back. It was impossible to tell at the stage of decay the clothes were in whether or not it was a legitimate hockey uniform or simply a store-bought facsimile, but what mattered to Isaacs was the broadness of the man’s shoulders.
Pointing at the man in question, he said, “There—that one at the back. He’ll do.”
DiGennaro nodded, and he and Humberg pulled out their carbon-fiber nooses. The former whipped the noose around his head with a goofy grin on his face.
Humberg rolled his eyes. “John fuckin’ Wayne, you ain’t.”
“Yeah, but that motherfucker’s dead, and I’m alive.”
“Big deal. Dead, he’s still more of a man than your ass.”
They threw the nooses down onto Hockey Jersey, each nabbing an arm. It was easy enough to accomplish, as he, along with all the other undead, reached upward, trying in vain to grab the basket.
Both security men pulled, hauling