Author's Note: This story was originally written in 2010. It was my first venture into the Resident Evil fandom. It holds a special place in my heart and it's really, really amateur. I haven't edited it at all since I wrote it, except to try and catch any of the "blonds" spelled with an "e" (I probably missed some). Enjoy!
slt.
"Fuck…"
All he could remember was the fight. The plane was out of control. Turbulence, lots of it. And they went down in the middle of an African storm.
He was on the ground now. All around him, the wreckage of Wesker's military jet lay, a mangled reminder of what had happened. A huge propeller was to his right, the blades inside stalled. A small fire was burning itself out in what was left of the torn-open cockpit. Chris let his head fall back to the ground and looked up. He winced and turned his face to the side then, eyes screwing shut. The sun was at high noon above the grasslands. Cicadas whirred and buzzed in the leaves of baobab trees, creating an eerie soundtrack for the midday savanna.
Chris's hands busied themselves with a protrusion in his right side. He felt around the piece of shrapnel, lodged deeply between his ribs. It was a scrap of riveted metal from the wall of the jet – nearly a foot in length, six inches across at its widest point, triangular. His fingers tested the edges of the sheet metal. Chris gasped and grunted. He tried to sit but found the pain to be too intense.
Instead, he held his gloved hands out in front of his face, squinting against the sun. Just as he had feared, they were covered in blood. He looked down the flank of his body. Blood was seeping out of the wound and staining the sand that he lay on. He laid his head back and closed his eyes. It was not looking good for him. He needed medical attention now.
"Sheva!" It took nearly all of his strength to call her name. He cried out and wheezed from the exertion. He imagined that his right lung may have been punctured, that it was filling with blood. His throat grew dry and tight. He was going to die out here, alone, in the middle of Africa.
"Sheva!" he yelled again. Briefly, his world went black and slowly came back into focus. The pain in his ribs was throbbing with every breath. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Sweat dripped steadily from his forehead down into his hairline. Little rivulets of clean skin showed on his face where tears had streamed through the soot and dirt. Flies were already congregating around him in a cloud, wanting the wound. He was afraid. More afraid than he'd been in a long time.
Chris breathed as deeply as possible and moved his legs, kicking them out, trying to push his body further from the wreckage. A weak moan escaped from him. He moved steadily onward this way – his back leaving a trail in the sand and grass, blood streaking the ground. Every few feet, he would stop and gasp for air.
Wesker watched with detachment. He stood noiselessly next to the dismembered propeller. The grassland air hung with the stench of jet fuel. Through that, Wesker could smell what he was seeing – the agony of Chris Redfield. The scent of blood both repulsed and aroused something in him. Here, outside of civilization, he could feel his dual nature with an intensity not normally known to him. He watched, unblinking eyes, as an oblivious Chris moved like a crushed bug, pushing his damaged body away. Wesker could hardly contain the smile that was tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Chris paused, sensing something wasn't right. He held what little breath he had and his hand went to the gun in the underarm holster. Suddenly, the sun was blocked. Chris ripped the gun from his side and aimed it at the figure above him. Through one squinted, tearing eye, he made out the shape of a man. They were wordless for a moment. Chris's breathing was labored and his body exhausted. Nevertheless, he continued to keep the weapon steady. Wesker crossed his arms and stared down smugly.
"Fuck. Off." Chris's voice rattled in his chest.
Wesker raised his eyebrows and nodded, smirking. He liked that there was still fight in Chris. It was… interesting. He glanced around. The shimmering air was heavy with humidity. Although he was unaffected by climate, he knew that the temperature was approaching 110 degrees. Off in the distance there was an endless horizon, broken up by small clusters of shade-giving trees. A flock of birds flew above.
"They'll be here soon, you piece of shit. They'll crash your little fucking party and you'll wish your mother would have swallowed you." Chris followed this up with a wet cough.
Wesker's attention returned to Chris and he coolly surveyed the wound. He knew just by looking that it probably wasn't life threatening, but it was far from his role to assuage Chris's feelings of impending doom. Quite the opposite. Wesker also knew that the scavengers would arrive soon. Vultures, lions, hyenas, wild dogs. They would all smell the fleshy delights that Chris had to offer. There was a plethora of ways to die in Africa and here was Chris: immobile, in a great deal of pain, stinking of blood. It was almost pitiable. Wesker thumbed his nose in thought. He looked as if he might speak but decided not to. He was suddenly gone from Chris's side. The sun blasted Chris's face again, threatening to blind him. Little black spots appeared in his peripheral vision and faded away.
Chris craned his head upside down to watch Wesker stalk off. The vision of the lanky blond through the oppressive heat was quaking and shaky. As he had always been, Wesker became nothing more than a mirage to Chris.
"What the fuck… Shit. Shit," was all Chris could muster as he lay panting in the dirt.
It was dusk when Chris heard the laugh of a hyena for the first time. He shivered and his shirt cracked with dried blood. The dying sun sank slowly and cast a red glow on the grasslands. He held his gun up in front of his face and checked the cartridge. 7 bullets. Chris dropped his arms to his chest, gun clutched protectively to his body, and he waited.
The clouds were painted hues of violet and pink by the last light of day. The air had a chill to it now. It was pleasant for the time being, but Chris knew that it would become dangerously cold soon. The sweat that soaked his shirt was already making his skin tingly and numb. If he persisted out here in this condition for another day, and the animals or the wound didn't kill him, hypothermia would. He wondered about Sheva. He was certain she was dead.
He was thirsty but his mind wouldn't let him feel the true extent of it. His body was still humming with adrenaline. The pain in his ribs was growing though. And he was still under the impression that he might be bleeding out from the inside.
The hyena's cries drew closer. It was answered by another dog off in the brush. Keeping the gun gripped tightly on his chest, Chris's lips moved in a silent prayer.
"Our Father, who art in heaven…"
A hyena appeared from the taller grass to Chris's right. It was a big animal – he hadn't realized exactly how big they really were.
"Hallowed be thy name…"
Chris could smell the hyena now. Drool hung from its open jowls and it whimpered with hunger. Dark beady eyes travelled down the length of Chris's body and an eager snout snorted the air.
"Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done…"
Chris aimed the gun. The hyena approached slowly in a zigzagged path. When it was within six feet of Chris, it growled. And Chris fired twice. The animal collapsed and whined as it died.
"… on earth as it is in heaven."
Another hyena broke from the brush line, and another behind it. Chris could barely see them from over his feet. He struggled to a half-sitting position, his weight resting on his left arm, bent at the elbow. Ignoring the searing pain in his side, he fired at them and missed. Fired again and missed. The dogs advanced and retreated like this several times until Chris was down to his last bullet.
He swallowed and bitterly reflected on his last day. The entire pack was closing in now.
"Give us our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses…"
One of the beasts darted at Chris from behind and nipped his neck, clipping the tender flesh with its fangs. Chris arched his back. He knew how this would go. First blood had been drawn. It was time.
Chris had been into fishing once, before Umbrella had consumed his existence. He'd gone out by himself to camp in Yellow Stone and had run into a wolf pack. They'd trapped a fawn in the thickets. Chris recalled how it had bleated miserably as the pack circled it and bit at its awkward spindly legs. A wolf finally managed to pull it down by the throat and the others immediately fell upon it.
They'd started eating the poor bastard before it was even dead.
Chris would not be the fawn. He leveled the gun at his temple.
"…as we forgive those that trespass us…," he whispered aloud.
Chris held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut.
There was a deafening silence around him. It was as if time had stopped. Even the bugs had stilled their cacophony in the trees.
Reluctantly, Chris half-opened his eyes, gun still aimed at his head.
The hyenas were fleeing in the distance - running off in every direction. Chris's muddled brain couldn't understand it.
Seeing his chance, Wesker gripped the barrel of Chris's gun from behind and wrenched it from his hand. In complete surprise, Chris let this happen and was pulled backwards from the force of the struggle.
Once again, Chris found himself looking up at the blonde, stunned.
"Suicide is such an undignified way to die, Chris."
