Strength Through Wounding
AN - Well, we're nearing the end, only one more chapter to go. This was the original final epilogue (though a lot has been modified since the order changed). I initially intended it to be like the epilogue slides of RE3; just snippets of what happens during/after Raccoon. I never intended to write what happens in Raccoon, because the story was meant to be an exploration of the characters in the wake of the mansion incident. Whether or not I succeeded in that is yours to decide, but it was the intention, and adding another major conflict felt to me like it defeated the point in that. Anyway, this chapter is essentially snippets of 'what happened next', which bridges this chapter with the next. The snippets aren't in chronological order. I wrote them in the order I had planned, and for some reason it reads better this way than it did in chronological order (Jill's segment was always intended to come first).
There is also a little setting up for the sequel (character-wise) here, which is why it ended up so long, because that section was intended to start half way through what I ended up writing lol. I will reveal more about the sequel in the next (last) chapter or to whoever can't wait until then and wants to know.
I'll stop rambling now ^_^. Chapter title is from a song by Enter Shikari.
Thank you to everyone who reviewed. I'm running out of ways to express my appreciation ^_^. You all know who you are, but you're getting a shout-out anyway: Rock Lees Lotus (also thank you for correcting my embarrassing French), Ultimolu, .-SnipingWolf, Sparkle Valentine, ditto9, KT324, tek, Kenshin13, cjjs, xSummonerYunax and wolfdemon22. After checking my stats, I realise that the first person to review this chapter will be my one hundredth reviewer! So thank you from the bottom of my speechless heart in advance. It still boggles my mind to consider the response I've gotten.
Chapter Ten - Juggernauts
'We'll do what we've always done; shut our eyes and hope for the best.
No, we're gonna face this and step out on to the tracks, stare it right in the face.'
September 27, 1998. 11:50pm
Silence.
It was a strange sound within the walls of a city so vast and densely populated.
Gunshots.
Jill rose suddenly, head rising from damp sheets though her body remained uselessly still. A scream brought an abrupt end to her misplaced hope; what was alive evidently did not remain so for long, not here, not anymore.
She used to let music run in the background, for no reason other than to drown out the howls. Then the power had failed. Regardless, there were a lot of songs that would never sound the same to her.
It had all began days ago, though she was unsure of the exact number. It could have been weeks, she would have been unable to tell. She did not believe the reports at first, as the citizens of Raccoon had not believed hers. It was easier and far more comforting not to. Then, she saw it with her own eyes. A magazine tucked beneath her arm, a bottle of juice in one hand and complete shock at the disruption that fell over the local store when a heavily wounded, middle-aged man stumbled into the store. There was so much blood she had not quite known what to do. The hour was late, and though there were but a few customers inside the store it was enough to provoke panic. Others had rushed to his aid, and she had fallen to offer what she could. He bled out before she could ask his name.
Fifteen minutes, many frantic phone calls and several accusations of insanity later and the man was on his feet, sinking whitened teeth into the jugular of the cashier. What ensued was quite literally a bloodbath. The cashier fell backwards over nearby shelves, a perfect arc of blood spattering all who were in close proximity, and a woman less than a foot behind the risen man brought down a large jar of Marmite upon his skull. The man turned, new prey in his sights. She had fired. The blood had not yet settled in the regular post-mortem fashion and droplets of crimson erupted from the point of impact, just below his cheek bone. Another shot took out his eye, tissue and blood travelling further than they previously had as the bullet continued to his brain. For the sake of peace of mind, she pulled a metal spade from a discount bucket by the register and swung it as hard as she could into the base of the stunned man's skull. Rebecca had warned her that not all headshots would destroy the areas of the brain necessary for movement; the T-virus worked on the basis of powering the most basic functions, and once those areas had been destroyed the body would die a more permanent death.
The customers had all turned to her in that moment, wanting advice and the knowledge that they would be safe. Jill found it strange that they should turn to a woman they had previously ridiculed, a woman now stained in the blood of a man who begged for a death that would prevent the inevitable, and that of a man they were too late to save. But she had agreed, and had taught them all that she knew. Once they were gone, she had returned to her apartment with the realisation that she had saved the lives of those few customers, and that she could do so much more if she just stayed.
The downfall accelerated at that point. By the time dawn broke the following day, hysteria was widespread. Twenty-four hours later, most of the city had been infected. Twenty-four hours later still, the US Army had taken control of the situation...or at least wanted it to appear that they had. A quarantine was in effect, with daily evacuations from hotspots throughout the city. As time passed, several evacuation zones became overrun and eventually announcements were made regarding the few safe locations, urging citizens to make their way to the city limits if at all possible.
The days had merged together as she shunned safety in lieu of helping those she could. She had pulled many survivors from their homes; individuals too afraid to leave their safety of the house and make for the evacuation zones. A nearby elementary school had provided the safest environment to house these terrified citizens as she continued her search, intending to gather as many survivors and weapons as possible before leading them to the city limits. Safety in numbers was what she had assumed.
Some of the survivors helped her search for supplies, from food to simple toiletries and toys for the children. Others worked on barricading the school, and those who knew how to handle a firearm shared their knowledge with those who did not.
She loaned assistance also to the clueless officers of the R.P.D., fighting their hopeless fight until Marvin told her that they were pulling out, told her to get out while she could or to join them at the precinct.
In retrospect, she knew that she should have taken his advice. Finding no further survivors, she returned to the school, bloody and exhausted but ready to leave this God forsaken town.
Something seemed misplaced, even from a distance. She could not quite put her finger on it, but it was there and it niggled at her until her blistered feet carried her towards the barricaded entrance.
Barricaded...
The heavy, old-fashioned door hung open, planks that had once been nailed across the bulk on the inside ripped from their position. There was a door to the side that remained guarded, allowing for her return and a lack of opportunity for the mindless undead to stumble across their position. There was no use for the main entrance, no reason why the barricade would have been removed.
She stepped on something soft that squelched beneath her boot. She knew from experience not to look down. The stench hit her before the visual cue arrived. Blood, pooled down the hallway, smeared in all directions. Torn clothing and mutilated flesh provided an occasional break in pattern, but the general scene was one of devastation.
Shock was all that kept her from tears, all that kept her from choking on the bile that rose to her throat.
A solitary groan echoed down the vast hallway, a shuffle drawing a shadow to the light. She raised her weapon, preparing for the inevitable.
They were dead, every single one of them, every life she had saved. Even the children had not been spared.
She did not know what had happened, surmising only that someone had tried to escape or had responded to a familiar face amongst the dead. There were signs of a struggle at the door, an elderly man dead from wounds other than ripped flesh; the others had attempted - and failed - to keep the doors closed, but it was just too late.
When she returned to her apartment, she had fallen into a shower, thankful that the building's emergency generators provided enough electricity to power her appliances. The blood of those she had once saved and later gunned down after their deaths fell from her skin, but the memories lingered. When the water finally run clear, she cried, passed out on her bed, all sense of hope and reason gone. She had lost contact with Brad in the chaos; who knew if he was still alive? The survivors she had sworn to protect were dead, the police likely meeting a similar fate. She was on her own, alone...and somewhere along the way, she had lost the will to try. For all her experience, there was nothing she could do. It was pure chaos, and the city she had once called home could never be put right.
Though her body was unwilling, she hauled it into an upright position, clutching the dry towel around her chest. Her hair had dried; hours had obviously passed. Numerous bruises were visible against pale skin, new wounds adding to old that were not quite healed at that time. She wondered if her body would ever be whole again.
Dried tears crusted at the corner of her eyes and she made to wipe them away, regret weighing heavily on her mind. She had missed her opportunity to flee, had thrown aside safety to help others, for all the good it had achieved. Aside from the missing pilot, she had not spoken to Chris since he had left. There was no way of knowing if he had made it to Paris, if he was safe and not in the hands of the enemy. The increasing unlikelihood that she would make it to the city limits alive was disheartening; she could not protect the survivors, how could she possibly protect herself?
Though she had cried for them previously, tears fell as she considered their fate. Would they have survived if she had not found them? Would their deaths have been more humane?
A quick wave of her hand signalled to the blonde, and she rushed to her side, daughter held tightly to her as she ran.
"Where are we going?" the girl asked, voice barely audible above her fear.
"Somewhere safe," her mother assured her, smoothing back flyaway hair. "Then we're going to see grandpa, we'll stay with him for a while."
The hope in her quaking voice brought a smile to Jill's lips, and she was once again assured of the reason she had stayed behind. The girl was barely seven years old, her mother young in her own right. The father was absent, and all talk of his whereabouts ended in solemn silence; he was likely a victim, as so many others were.
"You are very brave," Jill told the young girl with a smile. "We're almost there, not far to go now."
She checked around the corner, relieved when the coast was revealed to be clear.
"I'm scared," the girl gasped, grabbing her arm suddenly as she made to move. Jill blinked down at her, heart aching for the poor child. When she was the same age as the girl, she had been preoccupied with dolls and experimenting with make up, not feeling the undead and fighting for survival. Even if she survived, her childhood would effectively be over. There was no recovering from something like this, Jill knew that well.
"So am I," she admitted, knowing that the truth was all that could put her mind at ease.
She had not found the bodies of the girl and her mother, but knew better than to hope they had escaped. It was far more likely that they had become infected and had joined the others that roamed the streets of Raccoon.
A light blinked in the corner of her eye, drawing her attention to the phone cradle at her bedside. She had spent very little time in her apartment over the last week, and though it had been a while since the phone lines had disconnected, she could not remember receiving any calls prior to this time.
"You have two new messages," the automated voice told her. She had little tolerance for what others would have to say, but chose to listen. Anything that would pull her thoughts from reality, even if only for a brief moment.
"Hey, it's Barry," sounded the familiar voice. "Just to let you know we're all settled and I'm ready to head out in the next few days. The girls send their love; it's perfect for them here, they're having so much fun. Take care of yourself, and I'll see you soon. Looking forward to it."
Warmth grew within the pit of her stomach, hope flourishing for a moment before flickering and faltering. A short reminder of the world that existed outside of Raccoon; a world she had doubted to exist.
The machine skipped to the next message, giving a time stamp of September twenty-second; the day she was to leave.
"Jill..."
Suddenly, she could not breathe. Every instinct screamed at her to reach for the 'delete' key, but she remained as she was, the familiar tone of Chris's voice pulling her that little bit farther into the light of hope.
"God, I don't even know what to say. I don't even know if you'll get this message; you've probably already left. I hope not..."
There was a long pause, and a strained breath that willed thoughts into existence.
"I'm sorry," he insisted, voice brimming with emotion that caused her shoulders to hunch. "I've been so stupid. I should never have left the way I did, it was selfish and-"
She could tell that he was having difficulty forming the words to vocalise what he wished to say. In that moment, she did not care what he had done, or the intention behind his hurtful actions; she was scared and she wanted him at her side, assuring her that it would all be alright. Because now, she felt as though her life was in its final hours.
"I told myself that I left because you told me to, but that's not true," he admitted. "Saying goodbye to the others...it hurt, Jill, more than I thought it would. But saying goodbye to you... It was cowardly of me to run, but I didn't know what else to do. No, dammit, I'm making excuses again. You didn't deserve that, and you don't deserve this. So here it is; me being honest. You are...the most important person in my life Jill, family aside. I said it before and I'll say it again; I don't regret what happened between us. Despite everything that followed, I wouldn't trade that night for anything. You can take what you want from that, but it's the truth."
She savoured his words, the faint whisper that told her to ignore them overpowered by the wish to be comforted. He spoke all that she wished to hear, and though she knew she was clinging to hope that was too dangerous to live up to its promise, it was all that kept her from pressing her weapon to her temple and pulling the trigger; a pre-emptive strike to the seemingly inevitable. Rather dead on her own terms than at the hands of a virus that would turn her into one of the very creatures she hunted.
"The past few weeks have given me time to sort my head out," he continued. Would the machine cut him off prematurely? She hoped not. "I promise that things will be different when you get here. I...I can't wait to see you. Paris is- it's nice. You'd love it here. I haven't had much time to explore; hopefully we can find time to explore it together. You can tell me what everything means, I'm no good at this French thing."
There was a pause for breath as he chuckled quietly at the thought.
"Please be careful," he urged. "I...I don't know what I would do if I lost you."
The machine reverted to the selection menu and she slammed her palm against it, disconnecting the mechanical voice.
Hope now flourished in what had once been a cavern of confusion; her heart beat with a reason, with a purpose. There were people out there who cared for her, others that waited for her in worry. What the hell was she doing, lying around feeling sorry for herself? Where was the girl who had fought her way through a mansion designed to be her tomb? Where was the girl who survived training with the Delta Force, who proved herself amongst men of far greater strength?
The towel dropped to the floor as she rose, Chris's words following her to the closet. They offered her hope in an entirely different form; a promise of resolution that would not be painful in the least. It was more than she could have asked for, given their history, but it was there and she would cling to it.
'None of that matters if you don't make it out of here,' she reminded herself.
A single outfit remained in the confines of her closet, the vast majority of her clothes shipped ahead to Paris and the rest lying in bloody tatters at her feet. It was an outfit she intended to leave behind; a gift from Patricia when her wardrobe had been deemed 'unsexy'. Jill had protested furiously; she knew how to be sexy, she simply believed that 'sexy' was not 'almost naked'.
Be that as it may, she was faced with the choice of squeezing into a clean tube top and miniskirt combo or recycling the more intact of her worn outfits, which bore an unsightly rip up the thigh and splatterings of blood and other substances she dared not attempt to recognise. There was the likelihood that brain matter existed somewhere on these items of clothing and Rebecca had surmised from previous observation that the undead were drawn to the scent of brain matter in a manner similar to snakes; she could not take the risk.
A pair of old brown biker boots Chris's younger sister had bought her the previous year were pulled onto her feet, a small knife sliding easily down the side in case of 'close encounters'. Collecting what little ammunition remained, she loaded her weapon, tying her white cardigan around her waist as she dropped a spare clip into each deep pocket, her lock picking kit pushed into her waistband. As an added afterthought, she checked a case she had carefully concealed within her living room. A single metal object remained within, and she frowned at the sorry sight. Would one be enough? She had not the time nor material to construct more.
The front of her apartment block looked out onto a main street; it was far too dangerous. A carefully-placed hole on the east side of the building would lead her out into the street at a reasonable running distance to a much safer area. Hopefully she would take out a few of the creatures in the blast.
Her mind calmed for a moment in the rush, and she looked over her apartment. So many memories, all to be thrown away. But what choice did she have? Even if all it boiled down to was which way she would prefer to die, the decision was easy to make; she would rather fight until her last breath than die alone in cowardice. If she was to die, she wanted to be sure as hell that she took as many of those poor bastards with her. The less undead that wandered the street, the more chances any remaining survivors stood. If her death earned them as little as one more breath, she would die happy.
Too much time had been spent running and hiding. This was her last escape, her last flight. After this...she would fight, fight to the bitter end.
September 25, 1998. 1:00pm (CET).
Nothing. Not even a dial tone.
"Come on," Chris urged, bashing a familiar number into the keypad once again.
"There is still no official word on the cause of the disaster, only that the United States armed forces have stepped in to take control of the situation. Though official figures are unavailable at this time, the death toll is likely to be in the thousands, with more casualties expected in the coming days."
Barry unplugged the television, to the relief of both men. Though Chris had initially been thankful for the discovery of an English news channel, he had begun to dislike the stories that he heard.
Disbelief was the first reaction they had provoked. Raccoon City had been hit by an epidemic, causing usually law-abiding citizens to attack one another. More reports flooded in; the dead were rising, and soon outnumbered the living. Evacuations were proving useless. Thousands had been saved, but many more remained trapped.
He had called Stone-Ville airport, had asked if the tickets he had left for Jill and Brad had been collected. The answer he received was a resounding "no". Cue frantic phone calls, each and every one bringing him no further to learning the truth of her fate.
"You need to relax," Barry told him. "Jill is fine, I'm sure of it. She likely took a different flight, she could be on her way right now."
Chris ignored his words and waited for the usual insistence that the number he had dialled was not available.
"Fuck!" he screamed, flinging the handset with all his might against the wall.
Barry flinched, trying to forget how much they had been forced to pay for it in the first place.
"Nice work," he commended. "Now you'll never know if she calls back."
The glare that was thrown in his direction could have cut through diamond.
"She should be here by now," Chris pointed out. "She should be here, but she's not. Brad, too…they should both be here!"
He sank into the cushions of the couch and buried his head in his hands. Helplessness was not something he was used to dealing with and on the occasions it was forced upon him, he never quite knew how to handle it.
What if she had been caught in the destruction? Fragmented images of nightmares from months past resurfaced and a horrifying picture was painted in his mind's eye. Death was not the worst that she could have suffered.
"I have to go back," he realised aloud.
"The hell are you babbling?"
He ignored the mild insult and made for the back of the room. It was a small apartment; studio. The rent was affordable, landlord asked no questions and the location was somewhat hidden away from the hustle and bustle of Parisian life. It had been enough for him in the weeks he had spent alone, and provided a good base from which to find accommodation more suitable for a larger number.
Hauling a bag from beneath the metal frame of the bed, he began to search for the various weapons he had obtained upon arrival by various means that were not quite legal.
"Chris, you can't seriously be considering this?" Barry growled.
"We can't just leave them there to die!" Chris roared in return.
"I agree, but what in the name of all that is holy do you plan to do when you get there?" Barry's question pulled him back to reality; he did not truly know, had not thought that far ahead.
"Search the city? Street by street if I have to."
"Don't-"
"I have to!" There was no questioning the matter. The thought of what she faced were she still trapped within Raccoon city limits turned his stomach. Brad would likely have fled at the first sign of trouble; she would be fighting alone. There was also the selfish pain when he considered all that had been left unsaid. He did not want her to die with the belief that he did not care. "I have to find her…I have to know that she is alright."
"If you'd let me finish," Barry pressed. "I was about to say don't you go jetting over there with half a brain in your head. I'll go."
This suggestion was enough to cease his hurried packing.
"You would barrel in there without a plan, wound up like you are now and you'd be dead before you covered Downtown," he explained. Chris found it difficult to disagree with anything he had said. "I have a friend in Stone-Ville with a chopper. I can search the city from the skies, radio down and hope she hears. You'd never make it past the barricades in the first place."
Chris allowed the handles of the bag to fall into the fabric and took a step back, considering the offer. While a job was always best done by one's self, he had already settled in Paris and was far more skilled at lying low and avoiding detection than Barry.
"I'm a better pilot," he tried, knowing that his friend would shoot the idea down.
"I'm worried about her, too," Barry spoke with a smile. "It may take me a day or two to get to Raccoon but if she's out there, I'll find her."
'This is his chance to prove that he can be trusted,' a small voice whispered somewhere in his mind. Though he had long since forgiven Barry, the issue of trust was not one that he could resolve so easily. But was it appropriate to test him with Jill's life? There was nothing in the world more important that he could have placed into the care of the former traitor.
"Alright," he relented.
Whether or not trust was on trial, he knew that he was better suited for the work that awaited him in the French capital. They had all agreed that seeing to Umbrella's end was far more important than the life of any one of them.
"Just bring her back, Bear," Chris begged, using his friend's old nickname to inject the gravity of his decision into his words. Barry nodded accordingly, understanding the importance of his task.
"Make sure you're safe when we get back."
September 29, 1998. 8:30pm.
Echoes of phantom sounds reverberated within his seemingly hollow skull. No, not hollow. There was definitely something in there, something extremely sensitive to pain.
With a deep, exhausted groan he stretched out a hand and reached for the cell phone he always kept by the side of his bed.
"Eight thirty?" he groaned. "Fuck."
Of all the days to be hungover...
With the greatest of effort, he rolled out of an unfamiliar bed, careful to conceal himself with the thin sheet. Why the hell was he naked?
Memories were hazy at best, but he pieced together enough of the previous night to form a picture that he suddenly wished never to see again. A simple 'going away' party had spiralled out of control. Lord knows what he drank, because he did not have a clue. Whatever it was, it seemed to provoke his brain into beating against the inside of his skull in a desperate attempt to escape whatever devastation had been wrought.
The kitchen was almost spotless, saved for a shattered glass he was careful not to tread upon. He laughed, knowing that he had likely attempted – and obviously failed – to pour himself a glass of water before stripping and collapsing into his friend's bed.
A note was pinned to the refrigerator, his eyes barely focusing to read the neat script upon the paper.
Kennedy,
If you can read this then good, you survived the party. I would have warned you, but they made me swear not to. Sorry I couldn't be there, but I hope they gave you an awesome send-off. If it went as planned then it's likely you don't know where the fuck you are. So, I gathered all you need to know because I know how important this job is to you and I really don't want for you to screw this up. It's your big shot, kid!
Location: Raccoon City, Michigan, USA…Earth (I know, I know, it doesn't feel like it, right?)
Purpose: Be a kick-ass cop and put those S.T.A.R.S. cats to shame.
What you need to know: Your first shift starts at 9pm, September 29, 1998 (that's tonight, dude). You need to report to the R.P.D. precinct (circled on map above this note) at this time, to an Officer Branagh. Your uniform is folded in the third shelf on the right in the closet. Wear it. The squad car you left the keys for is parked opposite the building; you may have seen it when you arrived.
Take good care of the apartment and she'll take good care of you.
See you in October!
Chuck
P.S. There's a little something in the fridge that should help with the hangover.
Reality seeped back into his defeated mind and suddenly he understood. Raccoon City was his new home, the R.P.D. his new place of employment. Chuck had been kind enough to loan him his apartment whilst he was on holiday, until he found his own place. He had no memory of the journey there, which meant that he had likely driven whilst intoxicated.
"Not a good way to start a career in law enforcement," he muttered. "How the hell was I not pulled over?"
It seemed strange that he had freely committed such a stupid crime; he was textbook in his views on laws and what should happen when they were broken. He had never committed a crime in his life, and was deeply ashamed that he had endangered lives with his reckless behaviour.
There was no sound from outside the windows, not even the distant hum of traffic. It was not possible that Chuck could afford such a good location on bartender wages. Perhaps Raccoon was dead on a Tuesday night? Though he knew that he should hope this, were he in his right mind, he could not suppress tremors of excitement. Fresh out of college, thirsting for the opportunity to make a difference; the R.P.D. seemed to be the perfect opportunity to kick start his working life. A new city, a job he knew he would love and everything he wanted lay out before him. Now he did not know why he had been so nervous.
The car was where Chuck had claimed it to be, though the short walk to its location proved disturbing. The streets were deserted, a window across the street shattered, a door left wide open. A homeless man curled into an alcove halfway down the street, his clothes tattered, worn and stained horribly. He did not appear to be moving, and despite the light breeze that blew through the otherwise comfortably warm night, he appeared to have made no attempt to cover himself. Trash cans had been overturned, and he was sure there were spots of blood on the road.
Then there was the smell. Rotting meat, garbage and the general stench of items that were far past their prime. Perhaps there was an abattoir nearby? It was the only explanation that made sense.
'Damn,' he thought to himself. 'I need to find my own place fast.'
He jogged to the vehicle and drove away as soon as he was seated.
The streets that passed were as empty as the one he had left, some appearing respectable and tidy, others in varying states of disarray. One thing was clear; he sure had his work cut out for him as a cop in this city.
The scenery rolled by, little variation in architecture until the outskirts of Downtown were approached. A dimly lit street, the dark grey of concrete buildings, isolation…a body in the street.
Leon slammed on the brakes.
It was unbelievable…unimaginable. Whatever was wrong with this city, he had not expected it to extend to bodies being carelessly dumped in the middle of the road.
"What the hell?" he muttered as his feet hit the tarmac. He could now see the woman clearly, sprawled in a pool of blood that was too large to allow life. Her body riddled with strange wounds, many resembling teeth marks…human teeth.
He crouched low by the body, the streetlamps flickering above his head. The light bounced off the surface of the pool at his feet; the blood was recently shed, the shallow edges of the stain only just beginning to crust.
Flesh was missing from her arm, chunks ripped clean from the bone. There was no pulse, and no breath. If the blood had not been enough, he confirmed with reluctance that the woman was deceased.
"What could have done this?" he wondered aloud.
There was little doubt that he would be late, but he weighed the consequences of tardiness and walking away from a murder scene and recognised that the former would be far more lenient than the latter. Besides, he could not simply leave her here. This woman had obviously been murdered, her killer likely nearby.
He rose, turning hastily to jog back to the car. But he did not move. Several figures lurched in the distance, their steps unsteady, feet dragging painfully against the ground.
A bloody hand slammed against the side of his car and he jumped, raising his firearm as an arm flexed, pulling a body up and around the side, into plain view.
"R.P.D., stop right there!" he ordered. Blood dripped heavily from the mouth of a young man, perhaps not much older than he. Pale skin, black hair, white eyes. It appeared that he had found the perpetrator.
He pulled himself forward, edging slowly towards where Leon stood.
"I am warning you sir," he calmly insisted. "One more step and I will open fire."
The man ignored his warning, an arm now outstretched, fingers clutching at thin air. A low, guttural growl escaped his throat; the desperate sound of starvation.
Leon lowered his weapon, aimed for the calf…and fired.
The man barely flinched.
"What the fuck?"
He fired again, this time into the thigh, and again when he continued towards him. The stomach, chest, shoulder, neck, forehead. It was only with this final shot that the young man fell, presumably dead.
"He didn't even feel it," Leon gasped beneath his breath, stumbling backwards.
Suddenly, hands were at his ankles, the woman whose pulse he had failed to find only moments before biting into the tough leather of his boots. Her grasp was surprisingly strong for a dead woman, and this time he did not hesitate to fire the last round in his clip into her skull. She fell back to her original position, blood, hair and lumps of pink he dared not think to describe now staining the leg of his uniform.
The other figures were at the level of his vehicle now, and every single one of them had their hungry, soulless eyes on him.
'What the hell are they? This…this can't be real, this can't be happening.'
Embracing the natural reflex, he ran, reaching for a nearby door. Perhaps inside was safer?
No luck, it was locked. As were the next three. More figures appeared, more decaying corpses – because it was the only word he could think of to describe them – lumbering towards him.
"Get away from me!"
He heard the voice before she tumbled through a door several feet away, falling to her knees with a painful shriek.
Leon put down the man that followed her, and she was already on her feet when he turned. She threw her hands in the air, fearful eyes widening in shock.
"What are you doing?" she demanded as he raised the gun to eye level. "Don't-"
The creature behind her fell before she knew it was even there. There was a strange sense of trust and understanding in her eyes when she thanked him; the recognition that he represented hope and clarity in a world that obviously astounded them both.
It was a single moment that he stole to appreciate the first sense of normality that he had found within Raccoon. Normality in the form of a young girl with the bluest eyes he had ever seen, brunette hair so vibrant it was almost red and an attitude he could feel before she chose to utilise it.
It was a single moment in which his concentration lapsed, and a single moment later his body collided with the hard tarmac, a heavy weight atop him. The creature snarled, exposing an incomplete set of teeth, and a stench so overpowering befell him that he could feel the muscles of his arms weaken. It was a fight he could not win under those conditions.
In a split-second, the creature was dead. The sharp, pointed tip of a combat knife protruded from a mouth that now dripped crimson. The knife retracted, the body was pulled backwards and small yet strong hands pulled him back to his feet.
"Are you alright?" asked the girl, eyeing the approaching crowd. He could only nod, hoping that she meant physically because he sure as hell did not know what had happened to his mind. The sensible, responsible police officer within wrestled with an immature teenager that had seen one too many horror films.
"We have to get out of here," he told her, knowing that he stated the obvious. "Follow me."
The city had obviously gone to hell; there was bound to be a working vehicle just waiting to be robbed.
They found it three blocks away, inconvenient aches setting in to all four legs long before they dove into the appropriately-situated squad car. Keys remained in the ignition, windows were all intact…he wasted not one second before speeding off, not quite knowing where he was heading.
"What the fuck is going on here?" the girl screamed, surprising him to hear such language from one as young as she.
'She's probably not much younger than you, idiot,' he acknowledged.
"I have no idea," he answered honestly. "I haven't been here long; the place was like this when I woke up."
The interior of the car was unfamiliar to him; it was an older model, one he had not had the opportunity to drive during training. Try as he did, he could not get the damn radio to work.
"Shit," he swore, regretting it a moment later. He made a point not to swear in front of women, especially those younger than he. It was not that he was brought up to do so, more that he saw it as a sign of respect and strove to extend to it those who had yet to prove that they did not deserve it.
"So you're a cop, huh?" the girl asked, observing his soiled uniform.
"Yeah," he spoke with an ironically amused lilt to his tone. "First day on the job, great huh? Name's Leon Kennedy, nice to meet you."
She stared sideways at him in a manner that was not uncomfortable but made him incredibly aware of her attention.
"Claire Redfield," she offered with a smile that was almost infectious. She offered nothing else; not her age, occupation, where she was from or even what she was doing in Raccoon.
"Thank you for helping me back there," he sighed. "Can't say I was expecting something like that from-"
He cut himself short, realising how nothing appropriate could follow those words. He was not sexist, not in the least; it was simply that he had not expected a young girl to carry a knife, let alone know how to use it – even if that young girl wore biker boots and a jacket he quite admired.
"From a college student?" she finished, laughing off his mistake. She wiped the blade against her shorts before inserting it into a carefully-conceal holster inside her right boot.
"My aunt and uncle never expected it, either," she continued with a smile. "You can imagine their surprise when they found my big brother trying to teach me the three most painful spots to hit a man. Turned out they were his allowance, car keys and Playstation, as he found out soon after."
Her voice seemed to chase the hysteria from the moment, and he selfishly lost himself to the conversation, craving the return to everyday life that it provided, even if just for now.
"Your brother taught you to use that?"
"Yeah," she laughed. "I had my heart set on NYU and he insisted on teaching me how to defend myself if I was going to live in the big city. Used to call me every weekend, just to make sure I was doing alright. I…haven't spoken to him for weeks."
Sadness fell upon her, and her eyes were drawn to the chaos of the streets that they passed. There was no need for her to explain her reasons for being in Raccoon; he already knew.
"He lived in Raccoon?" There was no harm in asking for clarity, and it was perhaps in their best interests to keep the conversation going lest their minds fall back to the danger around them.
"Yes," she spoke quickly. "He-uh…he was a cop, like you. For the S.T.A.R.S. unit, before they disbanded it earlier this month. He suddenly just stopped calling, and nobody knows where he is. I tried contacting him, and his friends, but…no answer. Now I know why. It was reckless of me to come looking for him, I know that, but I think he's in trouble."
"We'll find your brother," he assured her, knowing that it was foolish to make a promise he was not sure that he could keep. "I don't know the best way out of the city, so I'm heading to the police station. They should know what to do. Your brother may still be there. If not, someone may know what happened to him. I'm not making any promises, but we'll do the best we can."
She smiled gratefully but he could tell that she was not clinging to this hope.
"I like you," she told him. "I hate cops, but you're…honest. Just don't baby me, okay? I may be a teenager, but I'm not stupid."
Laughter rang throughout the car, freeing the remaining tension. Claire's appearance had given him hope; if she had survived, there may be others out there, others they could help. He could not promise that he would protect Claire, or even find her brother, but he could offer her hope.
In that moment, hope was all that mattered.
September 28, 1998. 1:59am
Where was he? He could barely make sense of his surroundings. Droplets of sweat clouded his vision; his heart almost beat clean out of his chest. Every part of him ached, longed for rest, but he had to keep moving. Blood continued to pour from various wounds and he fought with all his might to ignore what Rebecca had told them all.
A bite. Just one. That was all it took. Even something as simple as smearing a sufficient amount of recently-shed infected blood onto an open wound could turn a man in days; hours if a large amount of the virus entered the system.
He had counted seven bites in total; seven possible sources of infection. Despite the knowledge that this was a death sentence, he struggled on with the hope that somewhere out there, there was a cure…or that he would be the one person lucky enough to avoid infection from multiple wounds. He had to believe it, because he wasn't going to die. No, he couldn't die.
"S.T.A.R.S."
"No, no, no!"
How the hell could it speak? How did it know who he was, what he was and where he would be? No matter where he ran, it always managed to find him.
Was Jill's luck any better? He did not think that the beast had caught her scent yet, and hoped that it stayed that way. Though he had been desperate to remain with her and to cower in her shadow, he had no desire to offer her up to such a horrible fate. Running was all that kept her safe…for now. Because eventually he would find her.
A blue blur was visible past the gates, and his heart both sank and leapt. He crashed though the gates, frantic, desperate, manic.
"Jill!" he screamed, rushing towards her. "Get out of- Get-"
"Brad?"
There was a thud, a sound akin to dropping an elephant from an enormous height. He was here, in all his leather-clad glory. There was nowhere to run, and hiding from this thing was useless.
"Help!" he cried. There was nothing else he could think to do. "Help me! Please…"
She fired into its fleshy hide, but it did not seem to feel the impact of such small bullets. His own weapon was empty; even his knife had been lost in the rush.
It moved towards him, a hand clasped around his throat.
"No, no! Brad! Brad!"
He screamed, but it was no use. He had failed to save himself, had even failed in his desire to protect his friend. There were so many regrets that came to mind as he watched the beast's hand rise, so many things he wished that he could put right. So many things, so little time…
And then, time was up.
October 1, 1998. 8am
Rebecca had heard the explosion; everyone in town had. They had been assured that they would all be safe from the blast, but she still felt the tremors in the earth.
She could not believe that Raccoon City was gone. It was not a person, it was not an event that ran every last Sunday of the month; it was a city. People never expected cities to leave, they were always just…there.
Where were they?
She had been hours away from boarding her flight to Paris when Barry had contacted her, asking to meet him at an address in Stone-Ville, and to gather as many medical supplies as she could find because he may need her help.
It was no secret that Jill and Brad had not left Raccoon. She had received a frantic phone call from Chris, as had everyone from her parents to Kathy Burton. How he found her parents' number, she did not know. Barry had flown out with the intention of searching for her, but she did not yet know if he had been successful.
The back door swung open all of a sudden and she jumped from the unexpected sound.
"Are you sure it is safe here?"
She did not recognise the lightly accented voice, but a quick peek around the side of an open door revealed Barry's muscular frame and she rushed forward to greet her old friend.
"Did you-" she began, but froze when her answer came to her in the form of a rather inappropriately-dressed familiar face, stained head to toe in blood, dirt and bearing a heavily bandaged shoulder.
"Hey," Jill greeted with a tentative smile. "It's good to see you."
There were a thousand sentiments she wished to throw her way, most of which involved varying degrees of scolds and tongue-lashings. What the hell had she been trying to prove?
Apparently sensing tension between the two, the stranger to Jill's right coughed awkwardly.
"I'm going to take a shower," he explained quickly, and left before she was given the opportunity to ask his name.
"I'll go find some clean clothes for you both," Barry chuckled. "You may want to have a look at her shoulder."
Jill flinched nervously and touched the saturated bandage, as though mere mention of the wound caused pain to flicker through her arm.
"Sit down," Rebecca instructed once they were alone. Somehow, an embrace did not seem appropriate. She was operating in that moment as a medic, not as the scared teenaged friend of a young woman who had obviously been through hell. Had she allowed her emotions to take the lead, she knew that she would be overcome and would be unable to offer the survivors the aid they so obviously required.
Now that distance was not an issue, every mark upon Jill's skin was strikingly evident. Most were simple grazes and bruises that would heal in a matter of days, but she could tell from the colour of the bandage that whatever lay beyond was not so simple, and would likely leave one hell of a scar.
"I'm sorry I didn't call," Jill apologised, fatigue weighing down her words. "It all happened so fast. Everything pretty much snowballed after the first night."
"It's alright," Rebecca smiled. "I'm just glad you're alright. Chris will be too, he's been in quite a state."
Jill did not reply to this, simply flinched when the bandage was carefully peeled back.
"Jesus, Jill," Rebecca gasped. She fought against a rising wave of nausea, reaching quickly for the bowl of water she had prepared in advance.
Even the wounded girl found it hard to glance upon the damage.
"What happened?"
"I'll explain later," Jill excused. "Long story short, Umbrella dropped a few of their own ingredients into the mix."
Rebecca fought hard to disguise her worry; whatever had inflicted this upon her must have been huge. Where Jill had found the strength to pull through, she did not know. The events within the grounds of the mansion were terrifying enough, but to witness your home destroyed in such a horrific manner? She was glad only that she had left with time to spare.
She carefully wiped the area clean and was relieved to find that layers of blood had made the wound beneath appear far more serious than it was. It appeared to be something akin to a burn, as though something had narrowly missed impaling her shoulder but succeeded in breaking the skin nonetheless.
"We haven't heard from Brad," she explained. Anything to draw her friend's attention away from the stinging pain as she cleaned the wound with alcohol drawn from a small bottle she was lucky enough to find the day before.
Jill jumped, which was strange because Rebecca had turned from her injured shoulder and was preparing a fresh bandage. Yet somehow, she had still succeeded in inflicting pain upon the injured woman.
"What?" she wanted to know.
"We…we have a lot to talk about." Her voice was strangled, as though she were reluctant to speak the words that came forth.
Rebecca knew in that moment that Brad had not made it out of Raccoon.
A moment's silence passed for the death of their friend and teammate, and Jill's shoulder was carefully concealed beneath a new, waterproofed bandage.
"Carlos should be done now," she mumbled. "I should shower, too. Take…take a look at his ribs, I think he may have broken a few."
She rose to her feet unsteadily, the pain of overworked muscles threatening to topple her.
"Be nice to him," she requested. "His uniform may read 'Umbrella', but he's on our side. He saved my life; I owe him more than I know how to give."
And with that, she was gone.
The man she assumed was the 'Carlos' Jill had mentioned stepped through the door she had left moments later. She could better see his face now that accumulated dirt had been cleaned away. Younger than Jill yet older than herself, he held himself with more confidence than she would have expected from one who had experienced such trauma for the first time. Something told her that it was not the first time he had witnessed death, nor been forced to fire upon another. A tragic past, made evident in a simple positioning of the shoulders.
"You must be Rebecca?" he asked with a smile, offering his hand to her. She accepted it with a smile of her own.
"Carlos, right?"
"Si," he agreed. His lilt told her that Spanish was the most likely contender for his first language, but that he did not hail from Spain. South America, perhaps? If she was to hazard a guess, she would assume Colombia from his accent.
"Well, Carlos," she spoke nervously. After all, unattractive was most definitely not a word she would utilise to describe him. "Apparently I have to take a look at your ribs, so…sit."
Carlos laughed, though obliged and lowered himself to the chair Jill had previously occupied.
"My ribs are broken," he explained. "There really isn't any need for you to check them."
Rebecca sighed with disappointment. It was perhaps better that he did not need to be attended to, but now that her job was effectively over she could not help but feel completely useless.
Carlos turned from her, tugging at a bandage that had obviously been self-applied to his left forearm.
"This may need stitches, though," he offered, holding his arm out towards her.
An unintentional blush rose to her cheeks. He seemed to have sensed her desire for involvement and had offered her what he could. The wound was by no means deep, and though she could apply stitches to it she knew that it would help very little with healing, though would perhaps minimise the width of the scar it would leave.
She set about repairing the damage, not failing to notice how much darker his skin was to her own. She could never seem to tan, even when sunbathing for long periods. Jealously rose in the wake of the wish that she had been so genetically blessed.
"All done," she announced when the last stitch had been painstakingly completed. "You shouldn't need to bandage it but I can wrap it if it stings too much…"
"No," Carlos laughed with raised eyebrows. "You did an amazing job. You sure you're only nineteen?"
She blinked, overwhelmed by his words. It had been far too long since she had spoken to someone other than family or S.T.A.R.S. members.
"How do you-"
"Jill," he explained. "She filled me in on everything on the way over here. I'm sorry about what happened to your friends."
"Yeah," she breathed. "So am I."
It was not until she had exchanged the buzz of Raccoon for the tranquility of her hometown that the emptiness had finally hit her. She had considered Chris in Paris, Barry in Canada and Jill with Brad in Raccoon; such a small number when a few months ago she welcomed large influx of friends that S.T.A.R.S. provided her with. Now, as it transpired, she had one less friend to worry about.
"Hey," Carlos spoke, breaking through her thoughts. "Drop the bad thoughts. They'll only hurt you from here."
He winked in a misplaced attempt to reassure her, and she laughed quietly to herself. Carlos did not have many years on her; if he could remain optimistic in the midst of such a crisis, then so could she. At the very least, she could try.
October 7, 1998. 2:04pm (CET)
Five days had passed since Jill's adopted city had been smote by the heavy hand of fate, erasing all trace of Umbrella's significant influence on the wealthy town. Five days and she had only that morning began to adjust to the idea that there was no 'home' to return to.
The crystalline waters of the atlantic ocean had succeeded in calming her mind as they had passed beneath her and she landed in Paris with anticipation so eager she dared not reveal it to the others. At last, she stood on the same soil as Chris, breathed the same air. His phone call had eased her doubts over their next meeting and consequently she looked to the inevitable event with a hopeful mind, if not heart.
"Is all this walking really necessary?" Rebecca groaned. It was no secret that she had not clocked many hours of sleep on the plane; Jill's excitement had kept her awake and enabled her to witness the seemingly neverending conversation between the medic and the newest member of the team.
She wondered if Carlos's friendliness was flirtatious or if he was simply the kind of person who was naturally extremely charming. While she herself had not been fool enough to fall for it, she knew that Rebecca's mind was less wise to the way of men than her own and that her heart was still her own. Jill had not been so lucky on that account.
Whatever it was, she decided to let it be for the time at hand. It would do no harm, and she would intervene if she feared for the young girl's heart. Her worry was likely to be misplaced, and she could not imagine Rebecca tolerating well her attempts to seperate her from a man who, crass flirtation aside, she noted would be a good match for the shy teenager.
"We're almost there," Barry informed the group. "Just this building up ahead."
The building Barry pointed out was a mid-sized apartment block, inconspicuous in a way that pleased her immensely. It was not shabby or run-down, as a hideout would be assumed to be, but it was not glamorous enough to attract the type that Umbrella employed.
There was no doorman as they approached the entrance, and the entire building was inaccessible to those who did not possess a key. She stepped aside hastily as Barry removed the small tool and held open the door for the others.
"I think the two of you should probably talk," he whispered quietly as he held her back. "It's best if we get all unpleasantness out of the way before we dive into this thing."
She nodded in agreement; apologies were owed, and above all she needed her partner back. Whatever was betwen them could be worked out at the end of the madness, but here and now they had to learn how to be friends and push their feelings to the back of their hearts.
The staircase was clean and quiet, and there was not a soul in sight. It was eerie in a sense that she could not quite grasp, and every step that took her closer to Chris's apartment pressed a feeling of unease deeper and deeper into her twisting stomach.
Something was not right.
She quickened her pace, pushing past Carlos and Rebecca on the stairs.
"Sixteen," she muttered beneath her breath. "Sixteen..."
Pausing before she could catch her breath, the weight in her stomach dropped.
There was a door two feet before her, the number '16' displayed clearly in steel decorative numbers against the wood. The door stood open, just a crack.
There was little hope in her actions as she forcefully pushed against the door, revealing the contents of the small dwelling to her and to the others.
"Oh no..."
Barry's hushed utterance barely touched her. She could hear nothing but a faint chime in her ears, which grew increasingly louder with every thought that passed through her mind. The scene before her was surreal; something out aof a movie, not a visual one ever expected to see in ordinary life.
What little furnishings decorated the room were overturned, even the contends of the fridge spilled out onto the floor. Windows were intact, but this offered no relief. Splintered wood, ripped bedsheets; it was utter chaos. No personal possessions were immediately visible; not even a photograph of his beloved sister.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" Carlos asked, obviously picking up on the same niggling details as Jill.
"Damn sure," Barry snapped gruffly. "He...he must have moved on. They found him and he got away; he kept all his things in a duffel bag, it would have been easy to snatch and run."
He was grasping at hope, Jill could tell. Though it comforted her a little to know that her friend was equally worried about Chris, she continued to fight over a crippling pain that had settled in her chest. Mind raced, thoughts falling apart the instant they materialised.
She allowed her eyes to fall to the floor, and caught sight of a personal effect that the others had not yet noticed.
Dropping to her knees, she reached for the bloodstained knife, and the others fell deathly silent around her. It was Chris's knife, there was no doubt about that. Whether or not the blood that stained the knife edge was his was another matter entirely. There was not enough blood to signal a massacre, rather enought to hint at a fairly intense fight that had culminated with a blind slash at skin; the blood was likely drawn defensively, and not deliberately.
"He's alive," she insisted. Her mind was open to no other concept. "He's alive...I know he is."
She stubornly fought off the idea of kidnap, of a clean assasination and subsequent disposal of his body; it was not that they were not realistic, she simply could not contemplate the thought of such horrors. He was not dead, not in captivity...he was out there, somewhere, waiting to be found.
All hope of reconciliation fell from plan. All that she had hoped to find in Paris dissolved before her, and suddenly grasping at ideals simply did not suffice. She was close to tears, could feel pressure building in the corners of her eyes. She no longer cared about apologising or demanding that he explain all he had done; all that she wanted was to know that he was alright.
Perhaps this was her fault? If she had not remained in Raccoon, she would have been with him weeks ago and Barry would have had no need to leave his side. What if they had found him? What if he had escaped with an injury, only to bleed out in some country ditch, never to be found.
The possiblities were numerous, and each was as horrific as the last.
A hand pressed to her shoulder. It was friendly, encouraging, but not overbearing. It expected nothing from her, only offered what little comfort was left in their increasingly smaller world.
"He is alive, and you will need a strong mind if we are to find him," Carlos urged. It was strange how his words, which had previously driven her to her wit's end, soothed the burning pain she felt within. She was wrong to have assumed him irrational and immature. For a child raised amongst violence, he had an extremely compassionate heart, and though he often displayed this goodness in the wrong way, the intention was always good.
"Thank you," she whispered.
She would take his words, and she would be strong for the sake of those who had yet to fall, and those who perhaps needed a sturdy hand to raise them once again to their feet. Chris was alive, she felt it in her heart. She would find him...and she would kick his ass for all the worrying she knew he was about to put her through.
AN - Please review :)
