Darker Days
Chapter 1: Prologue
June 30th, 2066
It had just stopped snowing, and I turned my head up to the skies; the dark clouds were scattered now, and the blue sky could be seen behind them. My aerocar suddenly coming to a stop outside a large mansion, I placed it in manual and attempted to park it.
Jumping down from my 'car (as I never did get the hang of vertical parking), I stood in front of the mansion where potentially my most famous interview could take place. The person I was interviewing was a key figure in the Racoon City Incident at the end of the 20th century.
I had never felt so lucky in my life when I received the call from headquarters detailing whom I would be interviewing: a woman by the name of Sherry Birkin. Ms. Birkin lived alone in an isolated mansion about twenty miles outside of Maryland, Baltimore. Although it was a pain to drive all the way there just to meet her- as she had refused to speak to me over the holophone (holographic phone)- it was worth it; this showcase material was sure to attract millions of readers to the e-mag for which I worked.
Quickly rushing up to her front door, I stood still and waited for somebody to answer the door. After standing there for about five minutes however, I grew worried as nobody came to open it. Thinking that maybe her door sensor wasn't working, I banged on the door loudly. Half a minute later, I heard the door unlock, and Ms. Birkin herself popped out from the behind the door as it opened.
"You must be Mr. *****." She said; her face was withered and morose. The expression she wore left nothing to the imagination: she must have had in instant dislike of me. Her voice held a distinct accent, not uncommon in the old; I couldn't place it, however.
"Yes, that's right. Ms. Birkin, I presume? Thank you kindly for allowing such an interview to take place." I said, smiling awkwardly as she looked deeply into my eyes disapprovingly. I didn't wish to upset the old bag, so was determined to be as polite as possible.
"Please follow me." She commanded quietly, as she led me through a large, dark hallway. The mansion was impressively decorated, with antique furniture lining the walls. A grandfather clock situated just below the staircase leading up to further darkened rooms ticked loudly as I passed by it; it was an old clock, and only counted up to twelve. I didn't see a single piece of electronic equipment as she led me through the house; I suddenly felt stupid for assuming she had a door sensor, which alerted the home-owner to any visitors.
"Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. *****?" she asked politely. I was about to refuse, eager to get to the interview stage, when she suddenly gestured to a tray with a teapot and cups set out upon it; she had obviously prepared for my arrival.
As she had gone to so much trouble, I certainly could not refuse now. "Why, I would love some." I lied, with a smile. She nodded her head curtly and sat down on an old-looking armchair which rocked back and forth as she placed her frail frame upon it.
"Please, sit down." She commanded, gesturing to a graceful, white leather sofa that sat adjacent to the large open windows. A shiver went down my spine as I drew close to it, a cold breeze cooling my face; I wondered why she would keep the window open on such a cold day.
"Everybody wants to hear the story." She sighed, gazing out of the window at the now-blue skies.
"The Raccoon City incident, right?" I asked. She said nothing as she turned to the tray on the coffee table in front of her and poured two cups of tea from it. Handing me one, I politely took it and sipped at it, placing it down on the table afterwards to allow it to cool.
"Yes." She finally replied, after drinking half of her cup.
"Well, it's a very popular story. Especially with today's obsession with biotech and whatnot."
"Yes; it is a shame what a story it has become; it has been dramatized remarkably. In fact, the last article I read, written by you Mr. *****, sounded more like fiction than reality." She said these words sharply, afterwards sipping at her tea again. I was at a loss for words; how could I reply to something like that?
Coughing into my hand to give me some time to compose myself, I looked deeply into her icy blue eyes. "I wrote my article based on fact, Ms. Birkin."
"Young man," she began, her voice patronising in tone, "I do believe that you are not so old as to have been in Raccoon City at the time of the outbreak. The previous articles you have written upon the matter read like sensationalist dribble, integrating sexed up rumour with the very bare bones of fact."
Picking up an e- reader that lay nearby, she stood up from her armchair and approached me, placing it in my hands. I took it from her and looked at the screen.
The e-reader was tuned to an article I had written myself regarding the incidents of Raccoon City. It was written in Germanic-Latino, the language all newspapers in the States were written in today. A combination of English, Spanish and other European tongues, it was a language I was still learning, so I had to have somebody from the office translate my work. I quickly skimmed through a little of what I had read out of politeness.
"… κum ein periκιe pou 'Leyon Kennedi', su novγnoξfolk, era morτ por ein truκ feρal, diriγed por ein seκunδ zombie sie γnoξian…" (…with the fear that Leon Kennedy, her new acquaintance, was killed by a stray truck, driven by a second zombie they had met...)
The old woman wasn't wrong, it did read rather like a story. Placing it down beside me after having glanced through it, I turned my attention back on the old woman, who was pouring herself another cup of tea.
"This is one of the main reasons why I have invited you here for this interview: so you can write an article with some credibility and to close the matter once and for all before I pass away."
I said nothing, wishing her to stop criticizing my journalistic skills and get to the point.
"Therefore, if you are ready with your holowriter or whatever it is you use nowadays, listen to what I have to say intently."
Without a reply, I unbuttoned my jacket and took out a pocket holocorder which caught a three-dimensional image of its surroundings and allowed for dekaphonic sound (ten channels). This way, if the story I had written was ever rendered into a holocast (holographic broadcast), I could flesh it out a little with snippets from the interview. Perhaps I was getting a little ahead of myself, but it wasn't everyday one had the chance to interview such a key figure in the T-Virus incidents of the last century.
With a sip of her tea, she began to recount the events that transpired so many years ago.
"It all began nearly 70 years ago…"