Chapter 9: The Road to Ruin

Route 93: South
Nevada
17 July, 1999
0900 hrs (9:00am)

"So I heard tell that Umbrella has a hand up your ass," Justin said, his tone conversational, but his interest somewhat beyond.

Captain Garrett Blake barked a short laugh, like the sound of a powerful, yet short–lived firecracker. "You might say that," he admitted, keeping his eyes trained on the road.

He was driving the rental, and Justin was in the passenger seat. They were bound for Sheena: Justin had his errands to run, and Garrett was heading east to PA – the state where this whole thing had started. Garrett's two fellow S.T.A.R.S. were travelling separately – to avoid any unnecessary attention at the airport. As it was, the meeting the night previous had been risky enough.

No one outside the Raccoon group had stayed overnight in the safehouse besides Justin. Leon and Claire, despite their close affiliation with the team, had left together, then parted company somewhere in nearby Wells. The Philly, New York, and Maine S.T.A.R.S. had all vacated the premises well before the clock had struck two in the morning, and they had not told the others were they were headed.

Despite his exhaustion, Justin had spent the majority of the night staring at the dark ceiling of the apartment sitting room. Frightening possibilities had plagued his mind, disturbing images had tormented him. The sofa had been decently comfortable, but there hadn't been any blankets to keep him warm.

And yet he barely noticed the chill. Too much had happened in just a day, too much for him to really understand it all, too much for him to sleep. He caught himself worrying about how angry Hernandez was going to be in the morning, how Sigfried was never going to allow him back on the force for it, and that Jonah would never agree to cover Justin's shift for him again…

His heart clenched: Jonah was dead. He had forgotten.

You can't go back, he thought morosely. That life is over.

And as he lay there, the mildew–spotted ceiling and the room around him suddenly grew blurry. His chest tightened around his already painful heart, and he literally bit down on his fist to stifle the overwhelming grief and the absolute terror drowning his faith.

His life was upside down, wrong, perverted. He had lost a good friend, his home, status, his reputation. Alyx. Everything. His sense of stability and self were just gone: technically, he didn't even exist anymore.

But he was a cop, or had been. He knew what it meant to be strong: he knew that now he had to be just that – perhaps now more than ever before. There was simply no going back: there was only the future, a future with the S.T.A.R.S. and the ongoing, perhaps never–ending war.

Blinking away the tears, Justin scowled at the ceiling, hating his weakness.

I am home, he thought angrily, miserably. I'm alive, and I'm home. I have purpose. God, you've given me a purpose, you've been more gracious than I deserve. Keep me now.

Prayer had always sustained him, even in intense doubt. Now, he lay awake, listening to Jeff snoring in the next room, hoping that God had heard.

"Yeah, we're Umbrella's puppets," Garrett said, bringing Justin suddenly back to the present. "It's not as bad as you would think, though – I mean, it's not a concentration camp or anything. Of course things could certainly get ugly if anyone found out about last night."

What the hell were we talking about?

Justin cleared his throat, stalling so he could remember. "So… so how does everything… work?" he asked finally, watching the cars flashing by on either side of them.

"What, operating under Umbrella command?" Garrett spared him a glance, then shrugged. "To tell you the truth, it's not much different than it was before. Our floor Director is an Umbrella crony if there ever was one: advocates everything Umbrella – from medicine to coffee mugs. Generally our procedures carry out the same, although we don't have to phone into NY for permission for anything anymore except for the most serious cases – orders now come from a central Director within Umbrella itself. Of course, the real difference is in the very foundation of the organization."

His tone was still conversational, but there was a tinge of bitterness to the words all of a sudden. "The title 'S.T.A.R.S.' really means nothing anymore – we're just another part of Umbrella. I suppose keeping the name works both ways – we don't have to feel like sellouts, and Umbrella doesn't have to consider the organization another branch to maintain.

"Since the takeover, all the S.T.A.R.S.' funding started coming straight from Umbrella's pockets. The S.T.A.R.S. organization was originally privately funded, but when Palmieri organized us into an MP branch of the NSDA something like a decade ago, we started getting paid by the government. Technically we still are, as a matter of fact, but now it's indirectly. Our paychecks are all issued by Umbrella. Our healthcare is all Umbrella, our pensions are all under Umbrella, our employees and officers all go through Umbrella screening…"

He shook his head slowly, his eyes not really focused on the road ahead of them. "It was gradual – real gradual. Slow enough to keep everyone happy, but rapid enough to let Umbrella relax, I suppose. You'd be hard–pressed to find a branch of the S.T.A.R.S. that isn't infiltrated now. In fact, I think the Raccoon boys and girls remain the only completely pure exception at the moment."

Justin studied the dashboard, drumming his hands rhythmically on his thighs. "Will it be difficult now that you're in on Freebird?"

Garrett grimaced. "No harder than usual, considering I've had to keep knowledge of the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. to myself all this time. It's just a matter of maintaining my composure, staying a good Captain, and keeping the cover stories flowing. Besides, this first operation will be over shortly, and from there on out I won't be needed unless something really big comes up."

Justin studied the dirty fender of the pickup Garrett was tailgating. "You know, I kind of got the impression that Captain Redfield would prefer to work alone on operations," he said. "I mean, obviously he's thrilled to have allies, but if you asked me, I'd say he would much rather just take his people into the lab than organizing three different strike teams."

"Yeah, I've always kind of been the same myself," Garrett admitted. "It's complicated to coordinate teams and keep orders straight, not to mention running the risk of friendly fire."

"And I'm sure a lot of it has to do with the suspension and all the rumors," Justin mused aloud. "I mean, it's clear that not everyone who was there last night believed the story completely. And it's pretty risky to trust people you're unsure of to watch your back."

"Spoken like a cop," Blake said, shooting him a grin. "Judging from the story you told last night, I'd suspect you feel the same way Chris does."

Justin nodded slowly. "Well, yeah, although it is good to know there are other people you can fall back on – even temporarily. I guess it's just a matter of looking both ways before crossing the street – and then hoping like hell nothing comes at you from behind."

Blake played his tongue around the inside of his cheek. "If you're thinking of Tom Kurtz – the AD? Uh, he's just one of those people you've got to get used to. You've got to keep in mind the position he's in: not wanting to get too involved for fear of implication – especially if it turns out that all of this was a scam. And yet, at the same time, he knows his duty and feels a sincere obligation to get to the bottom of things. Plus, he feels responsible for the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S., and he wants to do all he can for them without appearing weak and sniveling."

"And he's really got no choice, considering that Palmieri's involved himself already." Justin scratched at his unshaven jaw. "It's not that I don't trust him, I guess… Well, maybe it is. I mean… Well, think about it: if he had wanted to really get involved, then why didn't he investigate into the Raccoon situation before signing the suspension papers? Maybe that's not a fair question. I dunno – I guess I'm just being overly suspicious. Can't really help it after all that's gone down the last couple of days."

Indeed, it felt like he would never fully trust anyone again – not Jeff, not the S.T.A.R.S., not SPD, not the government. But what did it really matter to make distinctions, after all? It was all Umbrella now.

But Jeff… Jeff was his brother. Jeff had always been a hero.

He still is, Justin thought, distracted again. He always will be. I've got to teach myself to believe in him again.

Blake took a moment before responding, as though he knew what was going through Justin's mind. "Justin, if there's one thing I've learned through this thing, it's to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Cliché, I know, but hear me out. I've never been religious or anything, but I've always put a lot of stock in the general morality of man. Call it innocence, call it goodness – call it whatever you'd like. The fact of the matter is that I'm always going to be looking over my shoulder – probably for the rest of my life – but I'm not going to let the bad people in life corrupt the good. And I've got to have friends to back me up, to keep me sane. Do you see what I'm saying?"

Justin nodded. "Yeah. You can't live life believing that you are the only person you can trust."

"Exactly," Blake said, finally passing the pickup. "Living in fear is no way to live. That's not to say that fear isn't a good thing sometimes, but how can you fight if you're too afraid to?"

Justin chuckled, something he had not done in almost four days. "Thanks, Dr. Phil. I'm gonna get excited about my life now."

"Oh, shut up," Blake said. And then he laughed.

Blake dropped Justin off at the corner of the street where he had spent the past five years of his life.

The day was decidedly overcast and humid, yet the wind was hot and driving from the west, heralding an approaching storm. The trees lining Maine Street swayed and groaned in the gusts as Justin walked slowly down the sidewalk, his eyes fixed up ahead, on the place he could no longer call home.

There was caution tape everywhere, blocking off the front lawn and porch. Side A of the duplex appeared as derelict as B, and there was no car in the drive.

Momentarily, Justin wondered whether those neighbors had been home during the attack. Had they been the ones to hear the gunshots and call in the police?

Someone had heard, although no one had come running but Umbrella.

There was no activity in sight for the length of the block. In fact, the entire street seemed dead, with no sign of neighbors or children, no cars passing, nothing.

It was understandable: parents would be too afraid to let their children play outside for days, weeks. After all, what type of criminal attacks and kills a police officer in his own home? And how many people had been involved – there had been so many bodies, and what had been their agenda?

Who was safe?

Justin was almost shocked that he didn't see any "for sale" signs on any surrounding lawns. Not that anyone would be looking to buy.

He stopped across the street from the empty apartment, wrestling with a sense of foreboding that threatened to change his resolve. The rational part of him wanted to just go – to leave and never come back. But the reckless, foolishly heroic side of him told him to go the opposite way – to face his fears and get it over with.

The wind pushed his hair away from his forehead, like a blast from a furnace. Justin glanced up at the overcast sky, and made up his mind.

Licking his lips, he quickly looked up and down the street for anyone – or anything – suspicious before jogging across the street and ducking beneath the first line of tape.

Wary of being spotted, he quickly let himself into the enclosed porch (which was not locked), staying low, and then crawled almost cat–like into his own kitchen.

The stench of death was no longer present, although the memory was still fresh in Justin's mind – as fresh as the crimson stains of wasted life on the linoleum floor. Despite the fact that the police had removed all the bodies, Justin could still visualize exactly where each had lain – as though he'd taken photographs.

For a long time, he stood still, looking around at the scene of carnage, momentarily forgetting why he had even come back. There was nothing left for him to really do – he didn't exactly have to fill out the landlord's bill now, considering that he was technically "dead". He had no phone calls to make, no mail to check, no unfinished business to tend to.

He blew out a deep sigh. You came to get your things, nothing else. A shiver crawled up his spine as he looked around the kitchen where he had killed four men and watched a friend die.

Hurry up, he told himself. Hurry up and get out.

Indeed, his gut was warning him that it wasn't safe and that he was wasting time. Besides, he still had to go downtown before he caught a taxi back to Couver.

Being careful not to disturb anything in plain sight, Justin headed directly for the bedroom. He had never been one to keep important or sentimental items hanging around, but there were some things in his closet, and he needed to grab some clothes. As it was, he was still wearing Leon's t-shirt and Chucks.

The small house was like a tomb, echoing with his footfalls.

There was blood on the hallway walls, as well as the beige carpet in the bedroom. Broken glass, spent cases, and other debris littered the floors, crunching underfoot, impossibly loud.

Once in his room, Justin crossed immediately to the closet. It was nearly empty, but that wasn't unusual: he had never kept much of anything in there, save duffel bags, his two suits for special occasions, and a suitcase. On the top shelf was a big box of old photographs and other memorabilia from his childhood, but there was no time to go through it now.

He grabbed the larger of the two duffel bags and threw it onto the bed, heading next to the bureau.

Jeans, t-shirts, socks, boxers. He stuffed the bag with as much as he thought he would need, forgetting – perhaps willingly – that he would never be coming back again.

There were several 9mm clips left in the top drawer. He stuffed them into his pockets, checked to reassure himself that the Beretta was still in the back of his jeans, and then dropped to his knees beside the bed.

From beneath, he dragged out the heavy, fire-proof box and fumbled with the combination lock. It popped open, and he wasted no time in pulling out the papers inside – birth certificate, expired vehicle registrations, social security information, bank statements, diplomas – but they weren't important now.

And there – beneath all the now-useless documents – was what he was looking for: about two thousand dollars in cash, money he had saved in case of emergency.

Well, this qualified as an emergency in his book.

He hastily folded the bills and stuffed them into the duffel bag, beneath the clothes, out of sight. Standing, he put his hands on his hips, looking around slowly.

That was it. There really wasn't anything else he needed.

So that meant there was only one thing left to do.

Gritting his teeth, he walked back down the hall, back into the kitchen. The counter left of the sink, three drawers down, on top of the silverware: there should be some left…

He rummaged briefly through the cluttered drawer, and then straightened with a grim smile on his face.

Not leaving anything for Umbrella.

He went back to the bedroom, and without a second thought, struck one of the matches he had found and dropped it into the fireproof box.

His study Bible was on the nightstand, dusty with plaster. Justin grabbed it and his wristwatch, strapping the latter around his wrist as the smell of burning paper began to fill the room. He placed the Bible reverently atop the mass of clothing in the duffel bag, and then zipped it closed.

Time to go.

The smoke detector was going to go off momentarily, and he didn't want to be around when the authorities turned up and found the message he had left for them.

Nothing for Umbrella but a warning: I'm alive and well.

Grimly satisfied, he shouldered his possessions, and headed for the door. But something stopped him again, a nagging, guilty sensation that turned him around.

Smoke was already forming a thin curtain over the room. But he could still see the corner of the box on the top shelf of the closet through the open door, that treasure chest of things he had saved through the years.

"Dammitt," he said aloud as he quickly crossed back to the closet. "There's no time."

He grasped the cardboard box and heaved it down to the floor, tearing open the flaps and staring down at the mess of photographs sitting on top. Just looking seemed to bleed the world around him of life, blew away the heat and the smoke, drawing him to another land, a once–upon–a–time.

From within the box, his mother and father gazed up at him; his siblings laughed and waved. His younger brother, over in Germany, stationed there for three years of five and looking to be promoted to Sergeant soon. His little sister, an accomplished author and mother of three, somewhere in Kentucky with her husband and children. His mother and father in California even now, living some of the dreams they had shared throughout their marriage.

And as he dug through the mountain of memories, searching for particular photos he wanted, Justin felt the cold sensation grip him. There was a very good chance, a very real possibility, that he would never see any of them again.

And what would they think when he was just… gone?

There would be no funeral for them to attend, to plan. There would be no knowledge of how he had died. There would just be nothing, like he had dropped off the edge of the earth, leaving them behind with nothing but sadness and regret.

Maybe Umbrella had already contacted them all, with the false news and their "sympathies".

There's nothing I can do about that now, Justin thought furiously, shoving the fistful of pictures he had selected into the duffel bag. If I contact them, I could put them in jeopardy – Umbrella's sure to keep tabs on them in case I try.

He slowly began feeding the rest of the box into the blaze he had started, blinking in the smoke. He felt very real pain, watching as everything he had ever known disappeared into the flames. It was poetically beautiful and terrible: a metaphor of what was for real.

Nothing for Umbrella, he thought again and again, with every photo, childhood drawing, meaningful birthday card, and trinket he dropped into the consuming fire.

It was with a heavy heart, with a heavy bag on his back, that he left the bedroom for the last time, closing the door on the smoke, coughing a little as he made his way back to the kitchen.

It was time to go.

But as he crunched his way towards the front door, he heard something else – a small sound, like a whisper or a small movement.

He froze, his heart pounding, listening for the sound to repeat itself. If someone was here –

Who were they? What had they seen?

Justin pulled out the Beretta deftly, letting the duffel slide to the floor. He cautiously retraced his steps, heading this time into the sitting room, following the noise –

But the room was empty. There was no one, nothing.

He inhaled deeply, calmingly, lowering the handgun. Had he just been hearing things?

You're paranoid enough at the moment.

Straightening his stance, he swept his gaze over the crappy antenna TV, his old chair, the table where he and Jonah had looked over the folder only last night.

And there was the noise again, coming from the closet by the window.

Alyx' closet.

Justin's heart leapt, pounding, and he crossed the room in three steps.

Alyx had always slept in the bed with him, but when it was storming and she was frightened or if he went away, the closet had ever been her sanctuary.

He came to stand in the doorway, and that rising feeling in his chest turned into a dreadful type of horror as he beheld the blood–soaked blankets and toys.

And she was there, whimpering, shaking, bleeding.

She had survived the night.

"Alyx," Justin whispered. He dropped to his knees, crawled into the closet and touched her sticky head.

She opened her eyes, except one of them was gone – torn out, messily: a gunshot wound. She struggled to raise her head, to see who it was with her one remaining eye, but couldn't. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth, scarlet with her own blood.

Justin cradled her head in his hands, gently lifting it up so she could see him.

The dog whimpered, but then her tail thumped the floor, and then again. She had recognized him – his voice, his touch – even if she could not see him.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Justin buried his face in the dog's bloody shoulder, hugging her tightly and crying like a child. She was his hero, his protector, and she had always been there for him. Her rough tongue was on his neck, his cheek, comforting.

There's no time, there's no time, he thought at himself, but refused to heed the realization. He couldn't have let go if he had wanted to: it was almost like he was trying to save her, like clinging to a mother figure he had known for so long and yet not long enough.

As he stroked her head and back, he realized she was no longer moving. She was no longer breathing.

And yet he sat, rocking her poor, broken body. He did not only to calm himself, but also to soothe Alyx' soul – to ease her into the eternal sleep she so well deserved.