A/N:

Here we go. Another 4 a.m. adventure. This one sets up the story a bit. We'll really start running at the first few scenes in the next chapter. But this starts us off.

Back story here and plot building. Keep the feedback coming. I like it so far.

Leon has to get fucked up a little bit. It's the nature of the thing. Remember, the second he sets foot in that house, he's already infected. He has to discover that so he can fight the Bakers. And don't worry about Claire – she got messed up living with them for 3 years….but she'll come around. She'll help as much as she can as the story progresses.

It's super fun to write this..haha.

-TLF

….


:One: Welcome to the Family:


Dulvey, Louisiana – 2017


The red and white Dodge Challenger streaked down the narrow highway. Unfolding before it, the landscape spread rich and unkempt. The teeming brush strokes of the swamp painted a portrait of the wilds of the bayou. It offered the eye green and gold, from moss to bald cypress, tupelo to Japanese maple – the sheer brilliant stream of endless colors was a kaleidoscope of joy to the naked observation. The reeds that blessed the saturated wetlands transported oxygen through hollow tubes while water lilies danced gracefully atop the murky green marsh seeking the soothing rays of the sun.

Hydrophytes were plants that thrived in wet climates. Graced with the ability to adapt to the waterlogged environment and survive the lack of oxygen, they grew abundant in the Louisiana wetlands which spread for over ten thousand square miles toward the mouth of the mighty Mississippi comprising more than ten percent of the entire fertile marshlands found within the United States. The abundant rush of nature encircled the humid banks, promising a plethora discovery for the nature dweller seeking a retreat from the concrete jungle of the standard metropolis. Cypress trees were the most common, offering elbows and knees of bent roots to the curious climber as they sought purchase high above the water line.

It was lost on him. It was all lost. From the thrilling gold and red of the world turning to fall, to the endless skyline over the flat horizon laced with weeping willows and wonder, to the joy of a cloudless sky across an unsoiled canvas depicting Mother Nature at her most virginal. He was a man on a mission.

His phone buzzed into his ear, uselessly.

"Damnit, Leon, you can't even be sure it's her. I can't get any confirmation on a damn thing. There are some rumors of missing people over the last few years but nothing that points to a fucking conspiracy here. You don't have any idea what you're getting into there."

The sleek muscle car ate up the pavement, racing like a jungle cat along the cracked surface until it ran out. The GPS told him he was close to the Baker Farm. Farm? What was being "farmed" in Louisiana?

"You think I can't handle it, big guy? Huh? Concerned about my well being? What if there's angry rednecks with pitchforks?! What if the Texas Chainsaw Massacre is happening? Will I run into the barn instead of jumping into my running car to escape!?" The mocking good humor was genuine. It often was with Leon Kennedy…or had been once, before the vessel carrying his wife had disappeared in the middle of nowhere. Humor had fled and left a shell behind.

Since that email had come in, he'd felt more like himself then he had in years. Even the smallest hope was better than the numbing emptiness that had permeated his existence in her absence. The answers were here, waiting. He could feel it in his bones.

The car slid to a stop beneath some teeming pine trees, nestled in the dying grass that hailed the end of summer and the rainy season. The road was gone here and there was no more taking the car onward. Up the canopied rise, a wrought iron gate blocked the way into the main concourse of the Farm. Beyond its blackened fingers, the house could be glimpsed between mossy branches.

First glance showed that it was massive and faded from the sun. Peeling paint spilled in an eggshell white that was graying and turning yellow with age. It was gothic revival in nature, showing several balconies and steepled rooves graced with the stack of a red brick chimney heralding a solution to a chilly winter. Corinthian style columns leveraged the sagging roof of a porch that invited the viewer to mount the crumbling stairs and enter the sprawling aging estate at their own peril.

Peril?

Leon considered the thought. He was usually the first person to put stock in his instincts. And his instincts said: DO NOT ENTER THAT HOUSE. Of course, he was also the first person to ignore the fuck out of his instincts too.

Chris returned, "Kennedy, don't be stupid here. You ran into that village in Spain like a fucking idiot lone ranger and look what happened there."

"That was different."

"How so?"

"I was young and dumb then."

"….you're still dumb. You're just old now."

"Still younger then you, old timer. How's that AARP discount treatin you?"

"Keep it up, chuckles. Keep it up. You're gonna joke your way into an early grave you go in there guns blazing and cracking bad one liners. Mark my words."

"I'm waiting for the ominous music to start playing following your dire predictions." The quiet stretched between them. "Still waiting. It should start soon."

"You're the dumbest person I've ever had the misfortune of being related to."

"Ahhh. That's like a big wet kiss with words, Redfield. Mental fist bump of love."

Chris couldn't stop the laugh. The unflappable Leon Kennedy – the dude didn't know any other way but sarcasm and bad jokes. Seriously. "I don't have the time to rescue you, Kennedy. I am not kidding here. I will be PISSED if you get yourself caught and I have to break you out."

"How far behind me are you?"

"To build the team and get the lay of the land? Two days. Seventy-two hours at the outside."

"Ok. I'll be fine. I'll probably find Claire locked in a dungeon, surrounded by the People Under the Stairs, waiting to be rescued. And I'll be back home by breakfast."

"….you ever known Claire to just hang out in a cage and wait? IF she's there...something has kept her there for three years. Claire isn't a wilting flower, Leon. She's a bad ass. I made sure of that. To keep her imprisoned? I don't want to know what has that kind of clout. Do you?"

He stared through the windshield, considering the question. Did he?

Yeah, he kinda did.

Because he was going to enjoy kicking the shit out of it. He hoped it was strong enough to require some skill. Really. He was COUNTING on it. Because it had taken what was his and was keeping it. It had fucked up his world.

He was here to return the favor.

"I can handle it. Don't believe me? Then get those arthritic old legs of yours moving, grab your walker, and get down here to help me. Otherwise? I got it covered. If I find a boulder that needs punching though? You're my first call."

"….I hate you. Try not to pun yourself to death saving my sister, Justin Bieber."

Leon chuckled good naturedly, hung up, and shouldered open his door to step out of the car. The heat smacked him in the face like a wet wash cloth the moment the air conditioning was left behind. It was hard on the skin and the lungs. It left you feeling wet within a handful of seconds.

Gnats buzzed annoyingly, trying to lick your sweat. Disgusted, Leon waved his hands. Admittedly, he might have considered the conditions before he'd gotten dressed and rushed the door.

He was ok, in one hand, maroon v-neck tee proclaiming CAJUN STYLE with a picture of a pepper (Claire had given it to him on their trip to Mardi Gras), deconstructed Diesel jeans and waterproof dark brown boots with a steel toe. He wore his tactical gloves, which he never went anywhere without, and it left his fingers bare but made sure his palms didn't get sweaty for holding his weapon. He hadn't OVER dressed but he was reconsidering the jeans. Shorts in the bayou would be soooo much easier on the body when versus the humidity. But mosquitos this close to stagnant water were bound to munch him alive. So at least he wouldn't be scratching himself to death while he was trudging through the swamp.

The watch on his wrist was paired with the cheap t-shirt in a way that was so utterly him. It was a three thousand dollar titanium G-Shock. Classy, comfortable, and versatile. It allowed him to know where he was, when he was, how he was, and what he was (sorta). He could swim in it, slap the shit out of bad guys in it, run wearing it, sweat and bleed all over it and it would survive long after his dried up corpse was discovered somewhere in the marshlands. It was Ironman on his wrist. Indestructible.

They'd find him. If he was lost in the middle of Siberia wearing this watch, they'd find him. He was yet to be sure if it would stop a bullet, but it wouldn't surprise him to find out it could.

His shoulder holster was good dark leather, inscribed with his initials (Christmas '07 via Chris Redfield – the douche had good taste in gear and bad taste in women as he was still unmarried and Jill Valentine was the second hottest woman in the world. Proving Redfield was either gay or an idiot. Potentially both.) and holding C-Bear: his Desert Eagle Magnum given to him three months after Raccoon City by the woman who would one day agree to spend her life tied to a wisecracking dumbass (bless her). So, he'd named the gun in her honor.

She'd stolen it off one of the Ashfords on Rockfort Island. He'd been touched to have the used weapon of a freaky incestual psycho killer (why not? It was the thought that counted) and the Magnum was modified and one of a kind, so he loved it. He had some spare clips strapped to his thigh just in case and a pair of Oakleys in polarized orange wrapped around his face. He was ready to go.

Somewhere Chris Redfield was dying, of course. Because Chris liked to come in strapped to the ass with explosives and bullet proof armor and provisions. It was his thing. The military man in him was a boyscout with an assault rifle.

Leon didn't even bother to bring a bottle of water. He did, however, have a lighter but that was mostly to smoke his last cigarette in the pack before he started trekking through the swamp. He inhaled sharply, smoke curled up into his nose, and he studied the house on the rise.

He wondered if Norman Bates lived there.

"Down here? It would be Norman Billy Bob Bates, proprietor." He quipped, in a pretty good southern drawl.

Tossing the butt of the smoke, Leon eased his way up the rise to the gate. It was padlocked and had a little panel beside with an intercom. He buzzed it, waited, and buzzed again after a minute or two. Nothing.

Naturally.

Turning down the path beside the gate, Leon pulled his Magnum and moved smoothly through the dappled sunlight. Gnats annoyed the shit out of him as he walked, listening to the crickets and the distant slap of water from the river. That moldy smell was permeating here, leaving the nostrils feeling naked and a little raw with it. More than just overly saturated ground, this smelled like stagnant standing water.

He might have considered the excess mold to be more concerning...if he didn't turn a corner and come face to face with...what could possibly have been intended as the equivalent of heads on pikes at the entrance to a castle. It was pieces of rotting carcass, bovine by the look of it, strung together at the knees and leaving the flanks and legs and hooves jutting up in a fanning semi-circle like an ungodly crown between two trees. "Ornaments" of rusty circular saw blades dangled from strings around it, tinkling in the breeze as they brushed the rancid flesh of the "sculpture" they accompanied.

In this moment, a normal man might have turned tail and run. A slightly more brave normal man might have braved the move forward with trepidation and fear. A man accustomed to danger would proceed, gun up, and cautious – aware that he was entering a hostile environment.

Leon Kennedy?

He lifted his phone and recorded it, uploaded it to Chris, and added a text: "See? No worries. Just hanging out on the Baker Farm – with their splendid take on modern artwork. Jealous? This could be you here chillin with me, big guy."

The phone beeped back: "You fucking kidding me here!? WAIT FOR ME."

Amused, Leon pocketed the phone without replying. But the fear gnawed around the edges of his humor. IF Claire was here, this was just a suggestion of what these things were capable of, clearly. He was terrified that she was here...in pieces. He was terrified she wasn't here and it was a trap, not because he was scared for himself but because it meant she was still missing.

Either way? Something that made art out of dead animals and hung it up like a warning sign? That needed stopped. It was bad. His instincts said: Psycho. His instincts were never wrong. Unless they said food truck fish tacos on Tuesday...then they were wrong. And most likely also suffering from food poisoning.

The path curved sharply after he ducked beneath the ugly display of the dead cows. Leon moved with the back of his neck prickling, telling him he was stupid, most likely courting death, and should immediately return to his car and call Chris Redfield and wait.

He snorted out a laugh.

When had he ever waited?

If he went inside the Baker house and it was House of Wax? Well, then it was. If it was a giant eyeball on a mutated body or a herd of enormous mosquitos ready to sting him to death or six thousand baby dolls with melted faces and one eye (….which was too horrifying to even begin to understand) he was going on.

He wouldn't leave Claire or the idea of Claire or the ghost of Claire in that god forsaken house. No. She would kick in the door, guns blazing, for him. He wasn't Chris, so the door kicking was out, but he would sneak in – Leon Kennedy style.

A minivan, sliding door ajar, waited at the curve of the road. Curious, he approached it and cleared it. But there were no threats. Just a small pamphlet on a dusty gray seat that informed him the van had likely belonged to a camera crew for a television series called Sewer Gators. He wondered if they'd ever met the sewer gator he'd blown to pieces in Raccoon. Most likely not. Since they hadn't been eaten alive by it.

He rolled the pamphlet over and there was a message on the back, written in red ink: COME JOIN US.

The silence was loud now. Loud. And his instincts? ROARING.

He didn't turn back. He tucked the pamphlet back on the seat and kept on going.

The ground dropped off to what appeared to be the back side of the manor. He jumped down easily to find himself facing the snapping and crackling remains of a fire. A fire in late summer was weird enough but not the weirdest thing. The weirdest thing?

The purse on the top.

It looked like it had been recently dropped on the embers. The pretty green bag wouldn't have done much for him, usually, but he recognized it. How? He'd given it to her on a trip to Laos. She'd eyed it for three days in a small shop before he'd finally rolled in, rolled out and handed it to her.

It was the first gift he'd given her after they'd started giving it a real go as a couple. Their friendship had been easy going, effortless, simple. After Raccoon, it mostly took place via email and phone calls and faxes.

And then he'd shown up in Harvardville.

A shitty three day trip to Sri Lanka had netted him eight hours of crappy sleep on a plane, a two hour ride on a helicopter, and the promise of another week of crappy coffee from a tent as he navigated the disaster at that airport. He'd gone in with two inferior SWAT team members (one of whom was as dumb as he was aggressive and the other who was too busy trying to get on his nuts to do her job) and no tolerance for bullshit. In all his life, he couldn't remember being less amused on a mission.

They probably thought he was as dry and boring as the desert. Not that it mattered. He wasn't there to make friends. He was there to do his job, to extract the living, and mow down the dead. T-Virus shit making a huge mess as usual. The M.O. of the dead, but still killing where it touched, Umbrella Pharmaceutical Company.

They'd mowed down a lot of dead but hadn't had much luck on survivors.

Until?

They had.

Why?

Claire. Who else?

Claire had kept alive a small handful of them inside the airport lounge. Of course, she had. Of course. She was Claire. It was what she did.

She'd been fighting for her life with a red and white umbrella (of which the significance was not lost on either of them) and he'd commanded: "Get down!"

Which, coincidentally, was also the first words he'd ever spoken to her.

She'd hit her butt, he'd plugged the zombie trying to eat her, and put his hand down to help her up.

The thing about Claire? She didn't look worried. She looked pissed. She'd risen, laughing dryly, "Great. Now I have brains on my jacket."

It was the first time in three fucking days he'd SMILED. He'd replied, boredly, "I hear brains are the new black."

She'd blinked at him and laughed. Just laughed. And said, "Leon Kennedy, where ya been all my life?"

To which he'd replied, "You know, livin the dream: popping the undead, stopping the terrorists, getting called back from vacations...missing all the good tv shows."

"Jesus, that's rough. No time for Grey's Anatomy?"

"No. DON'T spoil it."

"McDreamy is married."

"CLAIRE! I said DON'T spoil it!" He'd been kinda chuckling with frustration. She'd looked only slightly sheepish. Additionally, it was the first real time he'd seen her in years. He'd forgotten about that face. Smooth and pretty, tilted big eyes and perfect teeth. She'd been young and sweet in Raccoon, a hell's angel baby on a bike with a big attitude. The rough edges were refined in Harvardville; she'd grown into a beautiful woman...with a big attitude.

And they'd laughed. He couldn't remember the last real laugh he'd had.

But he'd never forget that one.

They'd gotten out of that airport after some fancy shooting, some survivor bitching (mostly the fat Senator), and some pretty wicked gun work by the former hell's angel. The blow had nearly broken her though. She'd nearly fallen apart after finding out Terrasave, attempting to protect the world, had crippled it by blocking WilPharma from distributing the T-Virus vaccine.

He'd found her in the medic tent crying. And Claire never cried. He tried to remember, in the whole time they'd run through sewers and kicked asses on that long night together, if she'd so much as flinched...nope.

But she'd been weeping in that tent.

Coolly, he'd said, "How's that helping anyone?"

Annoyed, Claire had swept her hand at her damp cheeks. "It's human, Mr. Robot. Didn't you get the memo? People feel things."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, Leon, you have a reputation. Cold. Calculating. Mr. Boring. You blow up bad guys and piss on ashes and never look back. Funny, actually, considering the guy I met in Raccoon was probably the funniest dude I've ever known. What the fuck happened to you?"

He'd shifted, uncomfortable, because she had that ability to lay it all out there. Redfield's – always punching you in the face instead of hugging you. But he'd answered her, "The T-Virus happened. You get that memo? It's ugly. You chose the path here, Claire, of savior. You picked the path to help instead of fight. You picked the path your brother and I can't walk."

"Yeah? And it got me where? Nowhere. I helped no one. I tried and ended up costing all these people their lives."

"No. No, you didn't." He'd moved now and knelt in front of her. She'd been sitting with her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. That red ponytail had laid pretty and soft on her back. "Umbrella did this. All of it. You? You tried to STOP IT. It's all we've done, both of us, for so long. What you do, Claire? It matters. You chose to help, to protect, to nurture."

"And I was wrong."

He'd grabbed her wrists and jerked her hands down. The move startled her. And her big eyes were sparkly in the muted light of the tent. "No. You weren't wrong. Look at me."

"I'm looking at you." So soft. Her voice had been whisper quiet.

"You chose the right path here, Claire. You've helped dozens of cities avoid outbreaks. You've stood like a shield between that fucking virus and the world. Sometimes? You get knocked down. You didn't lose here. You got knocked down. Get back up. The fight? It doesn't end here. I will scrub this virus from the face of the Earth. I swear to God. Help me. And get back up."

They'd held gazes for a long moment. Her head had tilted, back and forth like a curious dog. He'd still had her wrists. But she'd shifted them anyway and taken his face with her hands.

"Leon...thank you."

He'd had a choice in that moment. He could get up and pat her head and get on with it. Or he could do what any man in his right fucking mind would do and move in.

Sometimes the S in his name stood for stupid. Sometimes. On that day? It was S for smart. Because he didn't lean away. He moved in. He'd shifted and she'd parted her knees. He'd gone right in between her legs, she'd wrapped her arms around his kneeling torso, and he'd kissed her.

Or she'd kissed him.

Or they'd fallen on each other like ravenous beasts.

Something.

Kneeling, with her sitting on that bench, they'd been about the same height. Claire had made some kind of sound of excitement and he'd slid his hands down her back and tugged her into him. It remained, hands down, the best kiss between two people in the history of the world.

Totally fucking ill timed.

Awful.

And kinda wet from tears.

But awesome.

After the air dome had been destroyed and Curtis Miller tossed back into the abyss of crap from whence he'd come, there'd been a moment where they'd tumbled into the water together. It might have gone differently, but it ended up with a lot of near drowning and face sucking. Which...in hindsight, was the best ninety seconds of his life.

He'd been called away so quickly when it was over they'd had to say goodbye on a beach while his chopper waited. It was the first time he wanted to stay and not let go. She'd smirked a little when the pilot shouted for him to hurry.

"You think we could ever meet in a more normal situation?"

"Shit. I hope so. Otherwise how am I going to get the chance to stick my hand in your pants?"

Oh, her face. He'd loved it. The absolute humor mixed with lust. It was probably echoed on his. She'd coughed, shifted where she stood, and answered, "You could stick your hand in my pants right now."

Ha! He'd licked his teeth, chuckling hoarsely. "Pretty sure you're a tease, Redfield."

"Yeah? Who said I was kidding?"

The pilot had shouted again. Leon had ignored him. He'd kept watching her grinning face. And then? Well, he'd pulled her in, kissed her breathless, and did it with his hands in her pants gripping her perfect little butt.

She'd been laughing and moaning the whole time.

He'd let her go, sorta dying and desperate, "Well that back fired."

Giggling a little, Claire had mused, "See? No tease. What do you say we pick a place and finish this party?"

"Deal. You kidding? I'm gonna go find whoever this mission is I'm off on, kill them alot, and come back to this beach. Find a cave, pull off your pants, and await my return."

She'd laughed so hard it had been the best moment ever.

And then she'd hugged him.

And that was the best moment too.

"Let's go diving again sometime huh?"

She'd run off waving and winking. He'd run off half in love with her and laughing.

It was three days later, after debriefing and dealing with stupid bureaucratic bullshit, that he'd been able to meet up with her. She'd flown in to D.C., taken a taxi to his office, and popped in with a grin, a basket of fried chicken, and red panties beneath an ugly blue suit.

Red.

He'd gone half blind, been mostly retarded, and stuck on top of her for more than a week.

She'd moved into his penthouse a week after that.

He'd taken her to Laos on a lark. A whim. A moment of madness. They'd had the first vacation for either of them in years. Utterly frivolous. Mostly visiting Buddhist temples and hiking, laughing, and fucking like eels in waterfalls and naturally occurring pools. He'd bought her the purse, loved her on every surface of the hut they rented, and proposed to her in the Kuang Si Falls while they'd been skinny dipping and playing.

Sure, they'd only been together a week, technically. But what the hell? They'd known each other for years. She'd said yes, no hesitation. And he'd sold the penthouse and moved with her to that ugly little bungalow she loved in Georgia.

Twelve years.

The time seemed stupid now.

He picked up the purse and looked inside. If he'd doubted it before, it was clear now. Because her driver's license was half scorched inside the blackened bag.

The relief knowing she'd been here was coupled with that fear of what had kept her.

What could have kept her for three years?

His eyes turned to the sagging back porch beyond the fire. He snapped a photo of the license to Chris.

The text that came back read: "Copy that. Proceed with extreme caution. ETA eighteen hours."

That's how you got his old ass moving it seemed, offer him proof of life for his missing sister. It lit a fire under the old turtle like nothing else could. For both of them it seemed.

Gun in hand, Claire's ruined license in his back pocket, Leon eased toward the door.

It opened easily enough and spilled into the heavily shadowed interior of the house. A quick flick turned on the light attached to his gun. It bobbled around and offered little respite from the dark that permeated around him.

Leon cleared as he walked, noting the condition of the estate. It was dilapidated. It was derelict. The house was falling apart. Filthy and crumbling, the walls around him were peeling paint and fading paper. The floor was covered in broken pieces of sheet rock and rotting floorboard, warped and moist from infiltration.

There was a cupboard at the end of the dirty hallway that was ajar. Leon looked inside it and found nothing but canned goods. The hallway opened into a disgusting kitchen. Once, it seemed, the kitchen had been country cute. It still had the suggestions of good molding and ornate cabinets but it was lost beneath layers of grease and grime, the stench of rotting meat and decay, and years of neglect. A quick check at the sink showed rust and ruin and no running water to boot.

The rotting blue cabinets looked like they'd been mostly tossed by hurried hands. The drawers were ajar or missing, tossed on the cracked linoleum floor, or completely destroyed. He glanced at the microwave and saw the suggestion of beady button eyes that told him something had been cooked inside it.

Not at all interested in finding out WHAT, Leon eased open the door of the fridge.

He'd come up against quite a bit in his life. Zombies, rotting dogs, viruses, mutation, plagas and parasites that tried to eat your head...but this? This was...rancid.

It was rotting filth and necrosis. It stank like a body bloated in the river in high summer. He gagged, surprising himself, and kicked the door shut before his eyes could tell who or what was rotting inside that fridge. One thing was becoming clear...the Bakers? They were either dead or were eating people. Cannibals.

CANNIBALS.

"Jesus Christ."

Shuddering, Leon turned to glance at a small pot on the table. It was a dutch oven. He nudged it open with his gun, four nasty cockroaches came scurrying out (he nearly vomited), and the horrible truth was staring up at him, confirming his suspicions. Because there was the shell of an EAR in the horrid slop in the pot.

And possibly a nose.

His eyes flicked away, his stomach revolted, and he knew...he knew he was gonna throw chunks. He made it to the sink and wretched.

It never failed to surprise him, after blasting brains and guts to hell and back, how sensitive he could be to smells. It smelled like shit and vomit and sweaty sack mixed with skunk. It was the worst fucking thing he'd ever smelled. The contents were necrotic, rotting, gray and gelatinous – a stew made FROM human body parts and excrement.

Christ.

Wiping his mouth with the back of one gloved hand, Leon took a few slow breaths to regain his composure. The nausea still slid and twisted in his belly like oil on water. It left the taste of something worse than vomit in his mouth. It left a fine coating of disgust.

He turned from the kitchen, stopping to glance at a folded newspaper that lay forlornly on the table beside the disgusting pot. The headline of the article leapt off the page: OVER 20 MISSING IN 2 YEARS – LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT STUMPED.

Well he wasn't stumped.

The missing?

They were in that pot.

Leon turned cleared around the corner of the kitchen to the next hallway. It wrapped in a U pattern from the previous one. The front door here was totally blocked off by broken furniture that someone had shoved there like a barricade. An overturned couch, a stack of broken chairs, a shattered dresser with sharp jutting pieces of savaged wood and the remnants of a card table appeared to be among the carnage of dead decorations.

The hallway before him offered the chance to ascend a small flight of stairs or continue forward. He opted to avoid the stairs and moved down the narrow hallway beside it, clearing a small pantry beneath the staircase and coming up against a lock door at the end of the dark passage. The only other option was a door to his right. He eased through it and found himself in a desolate, stagnant living room that smelled of mildew and rot. A fireplace sat forlornly to one side and a piano, covered in three layers of old dust, sat across from it. A love seat and a sofa, in faded and dusty floral chintz, offered him the opportunity to sit down and put his feet up on the scarred and chipped oval coffee table.

He eased into the room, noting a flickering television perched atop an old secretariat in the corner. There was an old ass VCR sitting atop the ancient TV with a video tape poking out of it. As he moved through the room, the piano made a small sound like it was going to play music.

And then?

It did.

It released two tiny off key notes and the key cover snapped down loudly over the dusty ivory. Leon stood there, took a slow breath, and moved toward the fireplace. A family portrait above it showed a nice looking couple and their two children. Everyone was smiling.

Did they smile when they ate people?

Jesus.

He turned and caught sight of something tucked into the sofa. Curious, Leon bent and tugged it free. It was a photograph, black and white, of what appeared to a be cell? An iron door cut into a raggedy rock wall. He pocketed the photograph and started to move to the VCR when another photo caught his eye. This one was lying side by side with another on the coffee table.

The first was an old lady in a wheelchair. She looked half dead or drunk or out of her mind. She stared sightless and empty from a decrepit dried up husk. Scraggly hair was kept off her face in a lazy, sloppy bun. Her cheekbones stood out in sharp relief to the hollow face beneath it. The old lady was skeletal in build.

Shuddering, his eyes shifted to the other picture.

And he grabbed it, quickly.

Heart racing, he stared at it. His mind threw memories at him like bullets.

"Don't...don't...put it away!"

"You kidding? You're beautiful."

"I canNOT believe you are recording this right now. You are such a perv."

The little white tank top was nearly see through. The perfect impressions of her breasts were nearly visible beneath the ribbing. She covered her face with one hand as he zoomed the camera in on her and her mouth lifted in an embarrassed smile. "You better delete this. I swear to god."

"You kidding? I'm saving it and taking it with me when I'm out of town."

"What for?"

Silence. He zoomed the camera in on her gorgeous legs, bare, and graced at the top by tiny white panties. Holding the camera on her, he shifted one hand and slid a finger against the soft mound of those panties.

She shivered.

She peeped through her hand...and laughed. "Yeah. Perv."

Maybe she was right. But he didn't care.

He didn't think there was anything more beautiful than her in that tank and panties.

But he did drop the camera when he shifted on top of her to touch her in them.

His fingers curled around the photo, shaking.

Because it was her.

It was HER.

In a tiny tank top and panties. The picture was from the nose down. It was black and white. It was her hands covering her groin like she'd protect herself. But it was HER.

They'd taken a picture of her in practically nothing.

They'd taken a picture of her in PRACTICALLY NOTHING.

The rage fired into him so hard it nearly made him breathless. His head spun. He took the picture and rolled it over. The date on it put it three months after she'd gone missing. What the fuck had they done to her here?

What the fuck had they done?

Raped her?

His face was hot. His neck was sweaty. It wasn't the stagnant house. It was the image of someone holding her down while she screamed and cried and bled.

He was going to enjoy killing them. Every one of them. All of them. He was going to enjoy destroying them while they gushed and fought and died. Oh, god, he could hardly breathe with the anger that pushed into his blood like poison.

He tucked the picture in his back pocket. He turned and the tv flickered, the VCR chugged, and the tape went in without prompting. A video kicked on, showing a couple of goofy looking dudes that were cracking jokes and being lame. The angle of the camera showed the Baker house as they moved up to it.

Their conversation was filled with derision and verbal eye rolling. They were clearly the Swamp Gator team that had driven here in the empty van outside. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had become of them. They'd never gone back to the van, clearly.

The camera man was "Clancy" and one of them was "Andre". Andre went missing halfway through a check of the nasty kitchen. The camera man and the other guy went to find him. A trip down the same hallway Leon had just traveled opened into the very room where he now stood. The camera man never said a word, he just followed like a good dog, recording.

The other man was digging around in the fireplace. He tugged something...and a small door opened on the wall beside him. They ducked through and came to a ladder. Curious, the camera man descended. The other man continued to call for Andrea.

They reached the dark bottom of the ladder. It was some kind of a tunnel or sewer or something. It was so dark and you could hear water. The camera turned, it paused. Andre was standing against the far wall. He wasn't moving.

The other man called his name, softly, shaky with fear. No more good humor now. Just real fear. The camera man touched Andre's shoulder.

And the body fell on him. It fell on him while he screamed and kicked. The eyes and noses and mouth had burst and were running with blood. Blood all over the face, blood all over the camera man as he panicked and fell to his ass on the floor with Andre's horrible dead face looking at him.

The camera fell to the floor, some feet appeared, and someone started screaming.

The video cut off with a whir of tape and white noise.

Leon turned and moved to the fireplace. He ducked down and looked up under the edge. There was a dangling handle there just waiting. With the back of his neck prickling, he tugged the handle.

The small door opened beside him. Ducking through, he glanced down into the darkness. It was a bad idea to go down. But they had Claire. They had her. She was here.

He wasn't leaving without her.

Holstering his Magnum, he started down the ladder. Halfway down, he had a moment to realize the tensile strength of the rotting ladder was going to give, and it cracked in his hands. Anticipating, disaster, Leon leaped clear. He braced and rolled through it as he landed, skidding out on the wet ground.

He was standing in the small wet tunnel from the video.

The ladder was trash behind him, so there was no going back that way. Moving forward, he saw that the room descended into water.

"Right...right...because I'm just gonna go traipsing through the murky ass water beneath a filthy mansion in the middle of a swamp...that's what sane people do."

Clearly not.

But when had he ever been sane?

He'd be a damn kindergarten teacher if he was sane.

He was insane, obviously.

Leon moved into the water and it closed around him to the shoulders. It was warm and slimy. It felt like lake water in the sun. Moss brushed against his body as he moved. He realized, rather quickly, he was beneath the house now in the flood cellar.

He eased under the eaves of the crawl space as he came upon them, itching with the need to keep the Magnum in his hand. But it was just fine where it was holstered. His phone was tucked between his teeth to keep it dry. His watch told him it was nearly night now.

There was a short embankment up ahead leading out of the water. Leon eased toward it and something brushed his chest. Curious, he glanced down.

A human head was floating in the water.

For most normal people, this would be where one might scream and fall back in the water. But this wasn't the first time our hero had come across a head in the water. That's right, Leon Kennedy had encountered heads in the water for twenty years. This was nothing new to him. It was, however, terrifying. Because for a moment...he wasn't sure if it was Claire's head.

It appeared, however to be male. The flesh peeling from the skull ended in what looked to be a male haircut. The shape of the skull resembled a man as well. He couldn't be a hundred percent sure it was a guy, of course, but it wasn't Claire. That much he was sure of.

Shuddering with disgust, he eased the head away from him and climbed out of the muck. The walls immediately outside the water line were covered in biographies. Pictures of missing people with their info scattered from one side of the stone wall to the other.

The dread doubled, it tripled, because he'd been speculating before...but now he knew. The missing people had been taken here. Like a house of horrors, they'd come here to die and be eaten. And it wasn't zombies. He could feel that in his bones. Not zombies. Zombies didn't cook a gourmet goulash with bloody eyeballs and ears. Nope.

He started to text Chris and realized he had no service in the cell. Made sense but it still set off alarm bells in his head. He pulled the Magnum instead, poked his cellphone back into his pocket, and eased around the corner of one sagging stone support.

He was in some kind of workshop. A table to one side contained a series of tools from a drill to a set of bolt cutters to a ball peen hammer and nails that littered the table top like confetti. Leon cleared passed a tarp covered pile of boxes and found himself face to face with the cell door from the picture.

A small lamp was on beyond the cell door, granting the first real light he'd come across since he'd stepped into the depressing dark of this Amityville Horror House. The room was filthy, the wallpaper brown and beige and like pegged. Pegged? It looked like the walls one would find in a nuthouse. Pegged...and padded. There were boxes of useless crap lined against the cracked and seeping walls. But none of it mattered.

None of it.

Because Claire was lying on the bed.

His hand grabbed the cell door and found it looped by a long length of chain.

Holstering the Magnum, heart throbbing so hard it hurt, Leon ran back to the work table and grabbed the bolt cutters. He moved back and set the heavy mouth against the chain, jerked the handles, and split the chain with a clink of metal giving. He could taste the power of relief so wide, so vast, so eternal that he realized he hyperventilating.

He made an effort to slow his breathing, and pushed into the room where Claire lay. His hands dropped the bolt cutter, they grabbed his gun and he jerked the barrel around the empty chamber. But it was just her. Just her.

JUST HER.

He holstered the Magnum and moved to her. She was in jeans and a dirty red tank top. Her red hair, hacked off as if by kitchen shears, fell to just below her chin. She was curled on her side on the filthy naked mattress, sleeping.

Hands shaking, Leon turned her to her back, slid his arm under her narrow shoulders and shook her – gently. "Claire...honey..."

She was so dirty. Her face was streaked with filth. Her back and neck were slick with sweat. His thumb swept a smear of dirt from her cheekbone.

And her eyes fluttered open.

She was trembling.

No...HE was.

"Claire...oh my god...it's me..."

Her long lashes blinked, she rolled sleepily in his arms. Her gaze slid over his face and a smile...Jesus her smile. It was so soft. It was so happy.

Softly, she whispered, "Hey baby..."

He put his face against her dirty neck.

And there it was, he thought desperately, big fucking hero that he was. He was going to cry. He was going to cry on a filthy mattress in a decrepit old house where they ate people. Some tough guy he was.

He pulled her in, making a small sound of grief.

Her arms came up and looped, gently again. He felt her jerk the second she realized she wasn't dreaming. She gasped and shoved him away.

"Leon!?"

He tried to hold on to her but she scrambled up and was alert now. She grabbed his hands, scanning his face desperately. The horror and terror and pain on her face killed him where he sat.

"Leon? Oh my god...why? Why are you here? HOW are you!?"

"Claire...honey. It's ok. You asked me to come. Remember? I'm here to get you."

She looked like she might vomit. She was so thin. He hadn't ever seen her so thin. Her collarbone stuck out. Her arms, usually beautifully muscled, were sticks off her narrow shoulders. She was starving, clearly. Which meant she probably wasn't eating people...all the time.

Jesus Christ.

She rose, pacing, glancing around desperately. A naked bulb dangled from the ceiling of her cell, casting shadows and light in a pendulum of color. She grabbed two handfuls of her hair and jerked, gasping with pain at it.

Alarmed, he rose and tried to touch her. She backed up, shaking her head at him. "No..no no no. Why?! I wouldn't have done that. Right? I didn't. I warned you away. Remember? I said don't come. Don't come. You aren't here. I'm not seeing you. I'm not."

"Claire..." He took her wrists and stopped her pacing. Her eyes were set in her skinny face. The lack of weight on her made her chin jut from the fullness of her mouth. The triangle of her face was cut now with sharp cheekbones. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles and her skin was milk pale with a dusting of freckles.

Her face collapsed with pain and terror. "Oh Leon.." She whispered it now. "Why did you come? What have you done? Oh baby, oh my god...we have to get you out of here. Now. Now OK? Just...he's coming back. So now? Now."

"Who?"

"Daddy." Her voice broke, "Daddy is coming, Leon. Now. Come with me, baby. OK?"

He tried to gather her in again and she shook her head, face manic. Terrified. He had NEVER seen her terrified. Not in Raccoon City. Not in Harvardville. Never. She had SURVIVED on that fucking island with Alex Wesker because she was afraid. Claire didn't' scare. She didn't panic.

She was doing both.

He grabbed her shoulders, sharply now, and stopped her cold. "Stop. Now. Look at me."

The firm nature of his voice calmed her, almost instantly. She grabbed his face, holding on.

He nodded, "Yeah. Like that. Look right here. Forget him. Forget Daddy. I will rip off his arms and legs and beat him to death with them. I will protect you. And I will get us out of here. Ok?"

She nodded, softly, softly and made a small sound. She pulled him in and kissed him, sharp and fast. Her shaking hands released his face. "Ok. Ok. Come on. This way...we have to go. Now. We have to get out of here. Because...Leon...you can rip off his arms...it won't matter. It won't matter. He'll just keep coming."

So, that was a little scary.

A little.

But it wasn't the first time he'd come up against that kind of thing either. Who was she kidding here? None of this, so far, was terrifying to him. Gross. Potentially riddled with Texas Chainsaw Massacre jokes and décor...but manageable and not even the worst they'd ever seen. Not really. Her being scared?

That was the first damn thing to really worry him.

She was leading him toward a small hallway on the other side of the work desk. The wall there was half caved in, showing the room beyond the naked boards. She eased against the wall on her back, breathing sharp and low. She was so afraid.

Why?

What happened to her?

"Claire...honey...what the fuck is happening here?"

Claire shook her head, hard, "Not now. Not now. When we get out. Is Chris here?"

"Not yet. Soon. It's just me."

And her face collapsed.

Which kinda hurt his feelings, honestly.

"Just you? Just you. Oh Leon...you idiot."

Yep.

That DEFINITELY hurt his feelings.

"You think I can't get us out of here?"

"I think you're just one guy. Why are you always just one guy? You dumbass. You hero. You arrogant bastard. Why are you so stupid and brave?"

There...might be a compliment in there somewhere? Or not? He was getting more offended by the minute.

"Geez, wife, that's like I love you with a kick in the crotch for emphasis."

She held his gaze...and made a small laugh.

It seemed to startle her. She put a hand to her mouth. Had she forgotten she could laugh? He ached for her. She shook her head, covering her face with her hands.

"How long has it been? When did I go missing?"

"Three years ago."

In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have said that. Her fragile control shattered. She turned and hurried away from him into a small room with a couch and an open pantry beyond it. There was a wall in front of them that was just naked stone.

Her hands touched it, felt along it. And the panic came out of her voice in a desperate cry, "NO! Oh god...it was right here! It was here! Where did it go!?"

She struck the wall with her hands, slapping the wet stone.

And then she collapsed to the couch and threw her face into her hands, gasping for air. "We're gonna die down here. We're dead."

He hurt so badly. It was palpable. This place had broken her. She was so broken. His beautiful strong Claire, shaking and cracking and falling apart. What could he do here? What could he do?

Get her out. And fix her.

He would FIX her. It was all he could do.

He touched her shoulder, gently. "What did they do to you?"

Claire shook her head. She grabbed his hand. She tugged him down and looped her arms and legs around him while he crouched there, holding her.

She breathed, "I don't know. I don't know anything. I don't know why you're here. Where here is...I can't remember...I don't...we have to get out of here. Now. Hurry. Now ok, baby? I'll protect you from them. But we have to hurry."

"Claire..." He stroked her dirty hair, feeling her tremble in his arms, "From who?"

"Leon...Leon...why did you come? Why did you come after me?"

"Are you fucking kidding me? You know why. You asked me to come for you."

She breathed it now, quietly, "I didn't. It wasn't me...she wants us...to be a family."

It was the first time she'd said something...and it didn't sound like her. There was an edge to her voice that shifted around the words. He leaned back to see her face.

She stroked his, smiling gently. "She just wants a family. We can be her family."

Jesus.

His eyes volleyed over her calm expression.

And then he shook her. She gasped, her smile turned to a grimace of pain. She grabbed her head and moaned, releasing him.

"She's trying to get inside me. She's trying to get BACK IN. We need to get out of here. NOW."

He rose and pulled his Magnum. Leaving her on the couch, he moved into the small pantry to check it for the door she swore was here. But it was empty save for a tiny doll on a shelf. The doll was cute and guileless.

The scream from the room where Claire waited, was not.

"NOOO! LEAVE ME ALONE!"

He turned and cleared into the room.

A handful of seconds. Nothing really. Not even the length of a decent kiss.

And the room was empty.

Claire was gone...and the wall where she'd slapped was open now. Open.

His heart beat so hard it was in his ears. Terrified, he hurried through the opening. He wanted to shout for her but his instincts said to stay quiet. There was a staircase leading up from the cellar. He took the stairs two at a time and shoulder bumped open the door that was ajar at the top.

He cleared down the long hallway, took note of a couple doors and an old rotary phone on a small cabinet close by, and there was a sound from behind him.

Turning, he glanced down into the dark. He aimed the penlight, the small yellow illuminating where he'd been. The beam shifted and spilled over...Claire.

Claire was collapsed on her face on stairs like she'd fallen trying to climb.

"Jesus Christ!" Leon holstered the Magnum and hurried down the stairs. He took her arms and lifted her.

"Claire? You alright?"

He started to help her up.

In all his life, he couldn't remember a moment more terrifying. He'd stood face to face with death so many times he practically yawned at it now. It just wasn't worth the energy to get afraid of dying anymore. But Claire lifted her head...and he forgot to not be afraid.

He forgot he was Leon Kennedy.

He forgot that he'd survived things that would send most people shrieking into the dark.

He forgot to do anything...but feel the horror that came with the woman he loved looking at him...from a face turned pale and shiny...with infection. The skin was mottled and graying, it was run through with bulging veins turned dark with rot. Her eyes...were black from top to bottom. She opened a mouth filled with blackened gums and mold. Mold?

Mold.

And she screamed.

He'd never heard anything like it in his whole life. It was horrid. It was terrible. It rocked the small stairway and stole his breath.

And she lunged at him.

He scrambled, backing up, his butt hit the stairs and his hands threw up automatically to stop her as she snapped at his face like a god damn dog snarling for his throat.

"CLAIRE! STOP!"

She laughed, high pitched and terrifying.

He shoved her away and she...grabbed him.

She just grabbed fingers curled into his arm. It hurt like nothing he'd ever felt. Her strength was insane. It wasn't human. It was monster.

She was a monster.

She lifted him, snarling and snapping, and he felt the world fracture.

His hands scrambled for his Magnum, his heart...his heart was throbbing in his chest. And there was no time to pull it. No time to shout.

She threw him.

He was airborne, flung up the stairs like a pebble from a slingshot. She flung him away like he was nothing. Like he wasn't one hundred and eighty pounds of muscle. Like he wasn't twice as big as her. Like he wasn't her husband or the love of her life or the hero come to save her.

Like she wanted him dead.

Like she wanted him to run and die.

Like she was the enemy.

He hit the ground, skidding into the wall. The impact stole his breath and jarred his tail bone. Leon rolled to sit up, he started to rise...and she was there.

He tried again, desperately, "Claire! WAIT!"

But she wasn't Claire.

She wasn't Claire.

She wasn't anything human anymore.

She slung him so hard to the floor that it made his left arm go numb as she straddled him, laughing. His body went on without his fractured brain, it threw his arms up to stop the knife she thrust down at his gasping face. He cross armed her wrist, blocking her from splitting his skull like a coconut.

She gave up trying to stab him in the face...and took up slashing him instead.

The knife tore into his arms, it diced him like a tomato, his blood burst and spilled and painted the floor as he fought her off. He humped his hips and hooked them around her torso. As she split open his right forearm, he jerked her to her back and knocked the knife from her hands.

She screamed, flopping as he rolled her to her face on the floor and drove his knee into her back to hold her down.

"STAY DOWN! CLAIRE! STAY DOWN!"

His brain said: You kidding? Shoot this bitch.

But his heart...

His heart...

He scrambled his bleeding hand up to pull the Magnum. He was bleeding so badly from his right arm his fingers slid over the metal and Claire pushed up off the floor like he wasn't using all his weight to hold her down. She moved like a puppet pulled on strings. She sent him tumbling to his back again with the gesture of it.

She came at him, his bleeding hand grabbing the Magnum and jerked, and she grabbed his face with both hands.

His whispered, "Oh my god..."

And the gunshot echoed in the hallway.

He shot his wife point blank in the chest.

The heavy round threw her thin frame back. Her body skidded over the floor and smashed into the wall. And she was gasping on the floor, spine bowing.

She whispered, "I can feel her clawing...clawing...clawing...to get inside me...RUN! Leon...run...please...GET OUT OF ME! LEAVE ME ALONE!"

And his wife smashed her face into the wall so hard she knocked herself out where she lay.

And was still.

He was frozen.

Frozen on the floor.

Frozen.

His hands held the Magnum with its still smoking barrel. His body stayed on the floor against the wall, shaking. He watched the barrel drop and waver, like he was having a seizure. Like there was an earthquake. Shaking.

Shaking.

He was sticky and tacky with blood. His arms were covered in slashes. He needed to treat them. He was losing too much blood.

He needed...to MOVE.

But he stayed there on the floor, with his gun pointed at his dead wife, with his heart hammering in his bruised chest...

With his breathing ragged in his broken ears.

And he wondered if he was dead there on the floor beside her.