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Grinning ear to ear, DiGennaro said, “Ride ’em, cowzombie! Who’s John Wayne now, asshole?”

Isaacs held in a sigh. It didn’t do to antagonize those tasked with keeping Isaacs and the others safe. Thus far, Umbrella had been able to buy their loyalty with its stores of foodstuffs, but there was always the chance that the best-armed employees might take it upon themselves to take over. And since they had the guns and knew how to use them, they stood quite an excellent chance of succeeding.

If they got the notion into their heads. One sure way to make that happen was to antagonize them by, say, complaining about their endless half-witticisms. Isaacs, however, was no fool. He let them carry on.

Besides, he was going to need them for his long-term plans. One of history’s finest lessons was that the strongest emperors were the ones with the most powerful armies.

Upon their return to the top of the guard tower, Robertson had the shackles ready. The large metal bar covered the occupant from neck to knee and was more effective than any straitjacket. They had disabled the function that shot a blast of electricity into the subject if he moved, simply because it was a waste of energy with the undead. The electricity wouldn’t slow them down. In fact, there was some evidence to suggest that it would make them more active.

Humberg and DiGennaro held the undead in place while Robertson applied the restraints.

“This guy smells like ass. Like dead ass. Any chance we can take him for a shower, first?” Humberg asked.

“Go right ahead,” DiGennaro said. “I assume you’re volunteering to scrub those hard-to-reach areas?”

“Blow me, asshole.”

“Later, if you’re good.”

They rode back down to ground level, then took the lift in the weather station back into the complex. Isaacs closed his eyes as they descended, enjoying the feel of the air conditioning wafting over him. He had never cared much for desert air, particularly when it was perfumed by the aroma of decaying corpses.

As soon as he got to the bottom, he saw Slater. This time, he didn’t bother to hold in the sigh.

Alexander Slater’s post as second in command of Umbrella’s Science Division was most assuredly not Isaacs’s idea. However, there were fewer places to assign personnel these days, and Slater was qualified to be Isaacs’s right hand. Most of his staff from San Francisco and Detroit had died, and he couldn’t afford to be choosy, nor could he afford to complain to the Committee about Slater’s appointment.

At least, not yet.

And while he had no choice but to acquiesce to Slater’s placement, Isaacs certainly had no reason to treat him with anything other than contempt.

“We’re late,” Slater said without preamble.

“I’m sorry?”

“The Committee meeting started five minutes ago. Where the hell’ve you been?”

Ignoring the question, Isaacs turned to DiGennaro. “Put that in my lab. You know the drill.”

“You betcha, boss-man.” DiGennaro turned to Hockey Jersey. “C’mon, Gretzky, let’s stick you in the goal.”

Isaacs turned and walked toward the meeting room, not bothering to see if Slater followed. Reaching into his lab-coat pocket, he touched the button on a device held therein.

As he approached the room, Isaacs could hear the conversation from down the corridor. The French accent and nasal tone indicated that Jacques Mercier, the head of the French Division, was giving his report. “—ualties. Biohazard numbers increasing.”

A moment later, the clipped British tones of the head of the United Kingdom Division, Colin Wainwright, could be heard. “London facility: food supplies down to twenty-eight percent, seventeen casualties. Biohazard numbers increasing.”

Isaacs entered just as Chairman Wesker’s authoritative voice could be heard. “Thank you for your reports.”

Upon entering the large room, Isaacs saw a large dark table in the center of the dimly lit space. A holographic representation of the globe rotated over the tabletop, with the hexagonal Umbrella logo indicating the location of Umbrella’s headquarters