"On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero."
- Chuck Palaniuk
Day 34
Blood. There was never any blood.
The black scum was all that lined the walls – a crude painting of darkness. No screams, no bodies – silence. She wasn't used to this. She could deal with maimed corpses lying around, and blood from the floor to the ceiling. But this? No. This scared her. How did they devour their prey? Whole?
She let a shudder pass through her as she stepped into the room.
Sunlight streamed in through a broken window, the rays reflecting off the glass that was sprinkled on the floor like glitter. It almost gave the room a peaceful atmosphere, but she knew never to trust anything as innocent as lighting.
The carpet was hard and was beginning to form a dark, drying coat. Which, if disturbed, would break up and flake. It made her think of dandruff.
The smell had to have been the worse thing she was having to contend with right now, though. God, the smell. If not prepared for it, it could certainly make the head spin. Rotten flesh. Burning bodies. Blood. The sulfurous odor of sewers.
And that was only about half of what it smelled like.
She covered her nose; he wouldn't come in at all.
"Hurry up!" she heard him hiss from the next room, sounding genuinely irritated. He was probably nursing a nasty headache by now.
She took her sweet time.
She approached the bed that was lying askew, quite literally turned up on its side and laying haphazardly against the wall. The sheets had been torn from it and were laying in a crumpled heap on the floor. The blankets had been tossed aside, near the bathroom door. She didn't want to think about what might be lurking in there.
The walls and ceiling had once been white – like the carpet – but were now dripping with a black veil of slime. She moved around a fallen pillow that had been torn in half, the stuffing scattered around the room like flower petals – some particles were even still floating in the air. How long ago did this attack happen?
It didn't matter, they always moved on right after. Always hungry. Always searching.
She came to a nightstand, reaching down and pull open the drawer at the top. It was covered with the slime, her palms sticking to the handle as she tried to wrench the drawer open. The damn stuff was notorious for being vicious as hell. Almost adhesive. Did they use that to trap their victims? She didn't want to know.
It stretched once she managed to pry the drawer open, coming back with her hand – begging her not to go. She shook it ferociously until it snapped, and wiped it on the carpet. Disgusting. She began to rummage through the drawer with her other hand, holding her breath.
"Jill, I said hurry up." She jumped at the proximity of his voice, spinning around to see him holding himself up in the doorway. His sunglasses were tilted down far enough so that his serpentine eyes were revealed. He looked pissed off, and like he could use an Aleeve.
Something unwound within her.
Beautiful.
She ignored the comment.
Without looking at him, she reached down into the drawer and held up a pair of car keys high enough for him to see. She jingled them. His nostrils flared. His glare darkened.
"Patience is a virtue, Wesker."
Day -46
Back in America again. Straight through the airport – no questions asked.
The P30 eliminated any sense of common courtesy she possessed, and she shoved people out of the way with her shoulders if they happened to be blocking her path. She'd never been cursed at in public so much.
The terminal was congested with people – business men chatting on their phones, couples sleeping on benches or whispering about passerby, children running amok, parents simply watching.
Wesker was on his phone too, getting them a ride. They were dressed casually – no surprise. They couldn't be expected to waltz through airport security, she in a catsuit and Wesker in shrapnel-deflecting leather. No, even he was more understated than that.
He was wearing a dark dress shirt - sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing smooth, muscled forearms - a matching tie, a pair of perfectly pressed slacks, and meticulously shined shoes. He got quite a few admiring stares from the women around him – seeking another patron for their compulsive infidelity. That something inside her coiled tight with jealousy; this was not outwardly reflected. It never was.
She wore a butter-yellow summer dress – one of Excella's cast-offs. She had never liked that arrogant bitch, and now she was being forced to wear her shitty hand-me-downs. The fact that she was dead didn't help the cause – Jill felt haunted through wearing it. Wesker had emphasized that Excella wouldn't be needing it anymore. Gee, Wesker, thanks for the heads-up. It wasn't as if she hadn't watched him inject her, destroy her. She shivered at the memory. The detached expression on his face as he watched his lover sink to her knees… Cry for him. Beg for mercy.
He never glanced back as they walked through the terminals, not once, because he knew she would never be far behind him.
He had doped her up right before they got off the plane, dragging her to the bathroom and forcing her inside. The flight attendants hadn't even tried to stop him – Tricell employees. They knew who Wesker was, and how he needed to be accommodated. She hated being close to him, and being stuck in an airplane bathroom with him violated all laws of personal space she once had.
She brought a knee up, tried to nail him where it counted, her hands like the claws of a wildcat, tearing at his chest. It was hard to do damage at such close proximity; it reduced her to fighting like a girl. Before she could really put up a fuss, his fingers were digging into her cheeks and forcing her head back against the wall. He had managed to catch both of her wrists in one hand and was squeezing them so hard she could feel the bruises forming. He worked his hips between her legs and leaned against the wall, pinning her there. Her thighs forced to wrap around him in the tight space.
The position gave them both pause. Their eyes met and the air suddenly felt more… charged.
His hand slipped from her face to press against the wall, using his forearm to keep her head back as he held her there for a while – waiting until she calmed in his grasp. An exhausted little beast.
"I'm sorry, Jill, but you can't be trusted in public areas."
He was grinning. She didn't say anything, raising her eyes to the ceiling and choosing to look there instead of his face. She gave up. Mentally, physically, emotionally.
He let go of her wrists slowly; perfect, burning prints of his fingers lingering there. She wished she could report his abuse. She had a good 3 years worth she could tell "them" about. The thought made her lips twitch.
She didn't know where he had been hiding the syringe. He put it against her neck but did not pierce the skin - tracing a throbbing vein with the needle.
"Any last words?"
She met his gaze again. That grin infuriated her.
"Fuck. You."
Day 165
She was done.
The bloody, broken glass slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. The clean slices in her wrists were weeping. There was blood everywhere, and her only conscious thought was, "Is it deep enough?"
Her back against the wall, she slid to the floor, staring down at her hands as the feeling began to ebb away. The pain was of no concern to her. The barrage of her turbulent inner emotions were draining out, washing away with the blood leaking from her wrists.
He won't let you die.
A dark warning. There was a desperation in it that caught her attention, and made her smile.
You can't get away this easily.
Her laugh was hoarse.
You are not meant to play God.
"Watch me."
Fool. The snarl was angry, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Her head lolled, feeling light, and she collapsed. She was too busy trying to drown in a puddle of her own blood to care about anything.
He burst in then, drawn by the scent. His nostrils were flared, and he almost froze in the doorway when he spotted her.
Her eyes were nearly closed. She felt so tired. So cold. Finally, she could be done with this place.
With him.
His hands felt burning hot against her skin, and she let out a small groan of protest but was too weak to move away. He lifted her up in his arms none too gently and rushed out of the bathroom. They had been squatting in a hotel, and he had stepped out for something. She couldn't quite remember what it was now.
While he was gone the last of the P30 in her system for the day had been metabolized by her body – bad things usually followed a crash. Driven down from her high, she became weak, her emotions twisting around one another in their confusion – leaving her distressed and panicked. Shaking, drenched in sweat, she had sat on the bed with her head in her hands. Right then, she looked upon her situation, and realized – with horror – that she was giving up. She was relinquishing herself to him willingly. And God damn it, she wasn't going to let that just happen.
She rushed to the bathroom, staring at her reflection as tears streamed from her eyes and over her cheeks. With a scream she punched the mirror, shattering it easily. She hated the image that stared back at her. It didn't even look like her anymore.
She stood there trembling, blood already beginning to well up in the cuts on her knuckles.
Taking up a shard of the broken glass, she leaned against the wall and turned over the opposite arm. Staring at the skin on her wrist now with uncertainty. Could she do it?
She would have preferred a gun.
Beggars can't be choosers.
Day 167
She awoke on the hotel bed. The sheets were drenched in dry, crusty blood. There were bandages on her wrists.
She was alive.
She was still weak, her body trying to recover from the tremendous blood-loss. She didn't have the strength to try that again, but she didn't want to live either. Why couldn't he just let her put herself out of her misery? What stock did he have in her anyway? What did he care?
Her hands curled into fists, pulling up the fabric of the sheets. One failed attempt after another.
He had spared her again.
Tears spilled from her eyes, and she couldn't even lift an arm to wipe them away. She sobbed loudly, allowing herself to cry as hard as she needed to, ignoring the fact that he hovered in the corner like a vulture. She could sense the waves of anger still rolling off him. But she didn't care.
He ended up informing her later that he had injected her with a ridiculous amount of P30 to promote rapid recovery. He did what he could to mend the lacerations. It wasn't pretty – he was no surgeon. She was also going to have scars there for the rest of her life.
He told her that she deserved them.
How many more would she be forced to wear before her time was up?
He didn't speak to her for days.
Day -31
Stuck in a Tricell lab. Less and less P30. Less and less of Wesker.
Depression. Isolation.
She knew what he was doing. She could hear their screams – the sick sounds of flesh being torn from the bone, of pustules devouring any and everything they came across. She went there sometimes and watched him. He rarely spoke to her. Mostly just to give orders, or chastise her.
He was resurrecting Uroboros.
Go to him.
No. She wouldn't going to go crawling after him in desperate need of companionship.
She found herself standing in the room not two hours later. She was leaning against the wall while he hunched over a desk, frequently switching between a journal under his right hand and a microscope near his left. The room itself was a balcony guarded by heavy glass windows on all sides, jutting out into another room below. An observation room, if you will. Below, a product of Uroboros lumbered around in circles, occasionally raising its head and letting out a gurgling scream.
She knew what he was doing, yet that thing inside her compelled her to ask anyway, "What are you doing?"
He paused for a moment, turning to fix her with one cat-like eye from over his shoulder.
"Finishing what I started."
"And what exactly is that?"
He perked a brow. This is the longest they'd spoken in weeks. He suddenly rose up from the chair and opened a drawer in the desk, roaming around inside before pulling out something she couldn't see. She felt herself tense as he silently walked over to her, standing right in front of her and staring down at her. His face seemed almost naked without his sunglasses, but she defiantly stared back at him.
Closer. Don't struggle.
She inhaled sharply, pushing away the husky purr from her mind. No. She wasn't going to lose herself when he was around.
He leaned close, his hot breath tickling her ear. She shrank back against the wall, digging her nails into the palm of her hand as he reached up and tugged down the collar of her turtle neck. Something cold pressed up against her warm skin and she shivered.
"You'll find out soon enough."
There was the familiar sting of a needle, she gasped but didn't fight. She knew what it was. And she'd be damned if she ever admitted that she almost felt lost without it now. The familiar rush of strength and clarity came first, her eyesight more sharp and clear than ever before. Empowered.
"Now, run along and don't come back in here unless I come and retrieve you myself," He said, tossing the syringe in the bin, not watching as she turned on her heel and marched out. A drone. Mindless.
Chained.
Day 1
They dragged the first victim into an alley, making quick work of him. Injecting him and tossing him back out onto the street. He wouldn't be human for much longer.
It had begun.
Day 2
"Hundreds admitted into hospitals complaining of severe stomach pains. Dozens have already died and others..."
It was in the news. No one knew how to explain it. They'd be roaming the streets soon.
They were at the airport again. Tricell-owned, Tricell-operated. They didn't do a thing as innocent people were dragged off, infected, and then returned. They didn't know what was happening. They did know that the horrible pain in their stomachs wasn't normal.
Still, they got on the plane.
It spread.
Day 0
He told her his plans, told her why it will be successful. She could only stare.
Uroboros had mutated after it ate through several thousand hosts. It was free. It could take at will. Bodily fluids now, just like the T-virus. It was déjà vu.
They could work as a collective, hunt down their prey in packs. They could think.
She jumped from her seat, quivering, angry.
"How the hell is that going to complete your vision of utopia?" Her voice was rough with disuse, the increased volume scratching at her throat. He regarded her calmly. He always did. The voice of unreason.
"It will spread more quickly and sort out who is worthy and who is no-"
"No, it won't! Think about what you're doing! It's going to kill everyone! How many subjects have been successful in bonding with it?" she snarled, palm coming to slam down on the table. She'd glared, grew wild with rage. He narrowed his eyes, annoyed by her outburst, her questioning. Yes. That was what she wanted. To get under his skin.
"None," he answered curtly, a lofty air hanging about him like a plague. Arrogant bastard.
"Then what the fuck-," She leaned over the table hands flat against the surface, "makes you think it's going to work on anyone else?"
"There are exceptions to every disease. Those that are immune, saved… There will be survivors, Jill. And we will unite with them – the chosen."
She let out a frustrated cry, throwing her hands up in the air and kicking her chair, knocking it to the floor. His rhetoric, his propaganda, drove her to the brink of madness. He merely watched her lose her mind, lips turning up to a smirk. She ran her fingers through her hair, refusing to look at him.
"Please," she moaned, at the point of begging, "Don't do this."
She was broken, desperate. She heard his chair screech as he got up, moving toward the door without passing her. He paused, tilting his head in a contemplative manner before wrapping his fingers around the knob and turning it.
"Be sure to change your clothes tonight, we start tomorrow."
With that, he was gone.
She broke one of her knuckles on the wall. And then she cried.
It was over.
"This was freedom. Losing all hope was freedom."
-Chuck Palaniuk
