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The passage leading out of Irons' "Holy Land" was a claustrophobic trek through dripping pipes and the thick, iron scent of a slaughterhouse. But as the path widened, they stumbled into a room that defied the decay of the station above.
It was a private lounge, plush and arrogant. Scarlet carpets, leather sofas, and a mahogany desk that held the dregs of a fine vintage. It was a monument to a man who thought he was a king, even as his kingdom turned into a tomb.
Sherry, her nose crinkling, sniffed the air. "It smells like cedar," she whispered, her curiosity leading her to an ornate, carved cabinet in the corner.
She pulled open the heavy door. There were no toys or sweets inside. Instead, the cold, clinical scent of gun oil rushed out.
Irons wasn't just a collector of art; he was an arms enthusiast.
Leon and Noah were there in a heartbeat, Claire right behind them. For the first time in hours, a genuine look of hope—even ecstasy—broke across their faces.
"Twelve rounds of .50 Magnum," Leon whispered, picking up a massive, silver Desert Eagle. He spun the heavy hand-cannon with a practiced flick of his wrist, the metal catching the light. "I can work with this."
Noah's eyes found a Colt Python. Its blued finish was deep and dark, its lines brutal. Claire stepped up beside him, her voice professional and urgent. "This is a hand-breaker, Noah. Lock your wrists and absorb the kick with your whole frame, or it'll take your thumb off. But if it hits? It'll stop a truck."
Noah loaded six rounds into the cylinder, the mechanical click-click-click sounding like the hammer of justice.
But it was Claire who found the real prize. She pulled an HK MP5 submachine gun from the rack, her eyes glowing. "The bastard finally did something right," she breathed. She found two hundred-round drum magazines and boxes of 9mm ammo.
The three of them sat on the floor, a grim, efficient assembly line. They pressed rounds into magazines, the rhythmic snap-snap-snap of the springs the most beautiful music they'd heard all night.
"Should we build the guy a statue?" Leon joked, sliding the Desert Eagle into his holster. "'Brian Irons: Raccoon City's Most Generous Dealer'?"
"Wait until we're outside the city limits for that," Claire said, a satisfying click echoing as she slapped a drum magazine into the MP5.
She stood up, and the change was striking. With the MP5 across her chest, the grenade launcher on her back, and a bandolier of flame and acid rounds slung across her torso, Claire looked like a lethal, modern-day valkyrie. She stretched, the weight of the hardware giving her a surge of pure, cold confidence.
"Alright," Noah said, checking his Python. "Time to go."
They pushed through a set of double iron doors marked UMBRELLA UNDERGROUND SEWAGE FACILITY.
They were on a wire-mesh bridge, suspended over a dark abyss of crisscrossing pipes and rushing water. The air was cold, smelling of ozone and waste. Leon spread out a map he'd swiped from Irons' desk, trying to find a route through the steel labyrinth.
"She... Sherry..."
The voice didn't come from the walkie-talkie. It came from the shadows of the bridge they had just crossed. It was a raspy, scorched roar—a sound of unimaginable pain and singular, broken focus.
They whipped around.
William Birkin—or the thing that used to be him—stepped into the light. The massive eyeball on his shoulder spun frantically, its blood-red pupil locking onto the girl. He dragged a deformed steel pipe behind him, the metal screeching against the grating.
"Claire! Get her back!" Noah shouted.
But Sherry was already moving. With a composure that made Noah's heart ache, she didn't scream. She spotted a heavy, red iron tool trunk nearby. She sprinted to it, dumped the heavy wrenches onto the floor, scrambled inside, and slammed the lid shut with a final, metallic clank.
She had made herself safe so they wouldn't have to worry about her.
The monster stopped. Its massive eye stared at the red trunk. Birkin's only remaining instinct was to reach his daughter, but between him and the trunk stood three people who were no longer the desperate survivors from the library.
Leon leveled the Desert Eagle. Noah braced his Python. Claire gripped the MP5, her finger tightening on the trigger.
"You're not getting anywhere near her," Claire hissed.
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