Prologue
The signature read "Claire Redfield". Robert Kesling handed the thin girl her credit card she used with a bandaged hand. He looked her over for at least the seventh time—the girl looked like she had been through hell. Why she was at his little motel versus, maybe, a hospital, was beyond him.
"What happened?" she asked after tucking the card away. She gestured to his hand. "If you don't mind my asking, that is."
Robert gave a faint chuckle and rubbed the bandage. After swallowing a few times—his throat was so dry for some reason—he spoke in a slightly weakened voice.
"My cat went psycho today. She'd been missing for a day, came back scratching and acting crazy. Bit my wife and then me an hour later. We had to get those stupid rabies shots." He shook his head, and began mindlessly scratching his arm. It—in fact his entire body had been itching so bad for the last hour. Damn allergies. Once more, he looked her over. "Where'd you say you came from again?"
"Just got out of Raccoon," she breathed.
Robert blinked at that. That place was completely quarantined...
"I heard it's BAD there..."
Redfield grinned weakly, but he could just tell she had seen more than her fair share.
"You have no idea..." And then she gave the biggest (fakest) smile she could, and she jiggled the key to the motel room she just rented from him. "Thanks."
Redfield turned and slowly walked away, walking like she just fell off a horse... or a five-story building. Robert smirked a bit though, she seemed like a good girl.
A wince came to his face. He looked at his arm where he had been scratching, and was horrified to see that he somehow scratched clean through his skin. It looked like someone scratched out lines in a chunk of clay—why was that? Blood was thick the minute it hit the surface, coagulating almost immediately. It was that damn cat...
Robert's eyes rolled a little when a fever began to hit him. He felt like he was sweating, but looking over at a mirror his wife had hung up last weak, he could see his skin was chalky, dry... yellow too. And for some reason, the more his throat hurt, the hungrier he got... and he was starving.
He rose to his feet slowly. His position was awkward; it felt like his spine was trying to turn to putty. After a moment of energy recuperation, he staggered back for the area his wife and he lived. She was resting in bed, she was so ill earlier she couldn't walk. Robert wondered if it was rabies at all...
To his numb surprise, his wife was sitting there, on the bed, staring at something, but nothing he could see. She seemed in a trance, and like she wasn't breathing much at all.
"Honey—are you feeling better--?" he asked, words hard to say...
"No," she said. Her voice was hoarser than his. "No..." she repeated...
"What's wrong...?"
His beloved wife scratched a cheek. Shreds of skin fell from her face, from under her nails, almost like snow. After a moment of just scratching layer by layer away, she stood, a faint moan emitting from her pale lips. Head slumped like she couldn't lift it, she rolled her eyes to look to his, needing and wanting... something...
"Hungry... feed... me...?"
The signature read "Claire Redfield". Robert Kesling handed the thin girl her credit card she used with a bandaged hand. He looked her over for at least the seventh time—the girl looked like she had been through hell. Why she was at his little motel versus, maybe, a hospital, was beyond him.
"What happened?" she asked after tucking the card away. She gestured to his hand. "If you don't mind my asking, that is."
Robert gave a faint chuckle and rubbed the bandage. After swallowing a few times—his throat was so dry for some reason—he spoke in a slightly weakened voice.
"My cat went psycho today. She'd been missing for a day, came back scratching and acting crazy. Bit my wife and then me an hour later. We had to get those stupid rabies shots." He shook his head, and began mindlessly scratching his arm. It—in fact his entire body had been itching so bad for the last hour. Damn allergies. Once more, he looked her over. "Where'd you say you came from again?"
"Just got out of Raccoon," she breathed.
Robert blinked at that. That place was completely quarantined...
"I heard it's BAD there..."
Redfield grinned weakly, but he could just tell she had seen more than her fair share.
"You have no idea..." And then she gave the biggest (fakest) smile she could, and she jiggled the key to the motel room she just rented from him. "Thanks."
Redfield turned and slowly walked away, walking like she just fell off a horse... or a five-story building. Robert smirked a bit though, she seemed like a good girl.
A wince came to his face. He looked at his arm where he had been scratching, and was horrified to see that he somehow scratched clean through his skin. It looked like someone scratched out lines in a chunk of clay—why was that? Blood was thick the minute it hit the surface, coagulating almost immediately. It was that damn cat...
Robert's eyes rolled a little when a fever began to hit him. He felt like he was sweating, but looking over at a mirror his wife had hung up last weak, he could see his skin was chalky, dry... yellow too. And for some reason, the more his throat hurt, the hungrier he got... and he was starving.
He rose to his feet slowly. His position was awkward; it felt like his spine was trying to turn to putty. After a moment of energy recuperation, he staggered back for the area his wife and he lived. She was resting in bed, she was so ill earlier she couldn't walk. Robert wondered if it was rabies at all...
To his numb surprise, his wife was sitting there, on the bed, staring at something, but nothing he could see. She seemed in a trance, and like she wasn't breathing much at all.
"Honey—are you feeling better--?" he asked, words hard to say...
"No," she said. Her voice was hoarser than his. "No..." she repeated...
"What's wrong...?"
His beloved wife scratched a cheek. Shreds of skin fell from her face, from under her nails, almost like snow. After a moment of just scratching layer by layer away, she stood, a faint moan emitting from her pale lips. Head slumped like she couldn't lift it, she rolled her eyes to look to his, needing and wanting... something...
"Hungry... feed... me...?"