Albert was in the lab, staring at X-ray sheets of DNA bands tacked to the lightboard. When they came inside, he turned toward her and asked, "Did Birkin fill you in, Alexia?" Birkin wandered over to Albert, who handed him an oak tag folder, and he sat down at a nearby table, leafing through the papers inside with intense concentration.
"A little," said Alexia, and she glanced at the X-rays. "The latest sequence?"
"Indeed. Chromosal deletion syndrome," said Albert, idly rubbing the pads of his thumb and finger together. "It's bad. It's no longer affecting just chromosomes 2 and 3. Larger parts of chromosome 4 are also being affected."
She pushed her hands into the pockets of her lab coat and looked at Birkin, who was tapping something out on the computer. "Albert and I have been running projection simulations," said Birkin, and Alexia watched karyotype unfold in bright lattices on the monitor, and Birkin was staring intently at them, his mouth a hard, thin line. "And if things keep going the way they're going?" He shook his head, and said, "Shit, Lisa'll be gone in a month, maybe a month and half. Fucking assholes, up in Umbrella Europe. All because of their stupid fucking NE-α prototype. They're not testing this shit thoroughly enough."
"They expected Lisa to remain unaffected," said Alexia, tipping her head on one side. "After all, she shrugged off everything we'd thrown at her." She remembered, then, Jessica's worn face, and she said, "Not like Jessica."
"Stop talking like you know what you're talking about, Ashford," said Birkin irritatedly, staring hard at her. He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward in his chair, the plastic frame creaking with the movement. "You weren't even born when they were running those fucking tests on the Trevors."
"And you were bloody five-years-old when they were running those tests, Birkin."
"Stop," warned Albert, looking between them. "Right now."
"Right," said Alexia, and she stopped. "Anyway," she continued, concentrating on the matter at hand now, "I've been thinking. We could create a new strain of Bingham's virus through recombination with the retrovirus, and consequently produce a more potent strain that will, in theory, eradicate the NE-α-infected cells."
"Reprogram the new virus to specifically target the NE-α-infected cells," said Birkin, scratching his cheek. He looked at Albert, and asked, "What do you think?"
"It's something," said Albert, and he shrugged. "We'll need to run a few tests."
"Bingham's virus is designed to bolster the immune system, and the retrovirus will help it spread," said Alexia. "On its own, the retrovirus doesn't do anything. Think of it like an inert vehicle. It doesn't move until something drives it."
"Hey, and it if fails," said Birkin, and he snickered, "we just fucking blame Ashford."
Alexia went back to the conference room, and she pushed the next tape into the VCR, labeled LISA TREVOR – 1969. She sat down and watched the fuzzy images unfold on the projection screen. In the video, Lisa still looked human, but she was empty-eyed and soft-spoken, and seemed, in the video, waxen and corpse-like. Lisa stared vacantly at the camera, dark crescents under her eyes. Alexia heard the scientist from the Jessica Trevor video, and he said, "Your mother is on her way, Lisa. Don't worry."
"Mama," said Lisa quietly, and she touched her lips with her fingers, and they were bloody, as though she'd been clawing at a wall. Her dark hair was a tangled mess, and there was a smattering of fresh purplish-red bruises on her face. "I want mama."
"She's coming, dear," said the scientist. He started speaking to the camera then, rattling off his observations: Subject is exhibiting early signs of catatonia, recommend upping Type-B dosage. The scientist, Alexia decided, sounded like one of those narrators from 1960s educational films. Extensive contusions on the face, continued the scientist. Recommend restraints, next round. Then Alexia heard a woman say, from somewhere off-screen, "Oh, Lisa dear. I'm here."
Lisa's face remained expressionless. Then she cried, "You're not mama," and Lisa got up, and Alexia heard the woman scream. The scientist shouted, all the calmness gone from his voice, "Good God, she's ripping her—get her restrained!" Then the scientist screamed, too, and then he gurgled, and the video cut out.
Alexia ejected the tape and put in the next. This one was from 1972, and Lisa looked nothing like the Lisa in the last video. Her face had deformed, the features asymmetrical and drooping like a stroke victim's. The voice in the video was a female voice, and she said to Lisa, "How are you feeling today, Lisa?"
"Want friends," said Lisa, and she was chained to her chair. A string of drool dripped from the corner of her mouth, onto the table she sat at. "Need keep safe. Mama wants her face." She started hyperventilating, and Lisa said, "Mama needs face. Needs face. Needs face." Lisa spoke the words like an invocation, and she started to sweat. "Need friends. They know her face. Mama's face. They keep it safe."
The female scientist said, "You can have your friends back after this session, Lisa." Alexia could hear the nervousness in the woman's voice. Lisa started to rattle the chair, and she cried for her mother. "Lisa, you need to stop," said the female scientist.
"Want mama, want mama, want mama," cried Lisa, still rattling and thumping the chair as though she'd been possessed. "Want mama face so can give back to mama because mama sad without it. Want mama, want mama, want mama—"
Alexia stopped the video, and realized her heart was pounding. "Enough of that," she said, and she reluctantly started on the next video. Lisa's condition became progressively worse in each video, until, by the time Alexia had reached the most recent tape, Lisa had decomposed into the thing that pissed and shit in its cell, and wore a dead man's face like a Halloween mask. Even so, Alexia couldn't help but feel a modicum of sympathy for the beast.
It was a cool night when Alexia emerged from Arklay, and she imagined she smelled autumn in the air. She found Grayson sitting on the porch in front of the estate, and she'd only known he'd been there because she'd smelled his cigarette. "I told you to stop smoking those," she said, scowling. Fog had settled over the woods, fuzzed Grayson's shape, the cherry of his cigarette like a tiny lighthouse beacon. "Grayson, put it out."
"Can you," he said, although he did put his cigarette out, "stop fucking riding me, Alexia?"
She sighed, and said, "I'm sorry."
Grayson stared at her. The remains of the cigarette smoldered on the step.
"I don't want to fight, Grayson," said Alexia.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and stared straight ahead.
"Grayson."
"You know George Trevor's from New York?"
"Grayson, I don't bloody care about George Trevor," she said. "I'm talking about us right now."
Grayson sighed, and he said, "I know. It's just—I don't want to fight either, Alexia."
She sat down beside him on the porch and stared at the smear of cigarette ash on the step, watching the last embers flicker out. A chilly early September wind blew, and it carried the smell of autumn; and Alexia knew, then, that summer, although it had not officially ended yet, might as well have been over. "Then let's stop fighting," said Alexia, without looking at him, drawing her legs up and looping her arms around her knees.
"Okay," he said, and he smiled at her, for the first time in a while.
"How did you find out where George Trevor had lived?" she asked.
"Went to the Raccoon City Public Library and did some research. Found an article about George Trevor in some microfilm, from the late 50s. Mentioned it," said Grayson, and he shrugged. "Had a place in Manhattan. Did a little more digging, and it turns out our man didn't disappear until around 1967. The case is cold. Police questioned some Umbrella suits, but got nothing. Spencer gave his condolences to George's family."
"You didn't tell anyone about his car, did you?" she asked.
Grayson shook his head, tracing the seam in his jeans. "Why bother?" he said. "Besides," he hesitated, worried, "Birkin said if I went blabbing, I'd be in deep shit. I backed off. I don't want to get you in trouble, Alexia."
"Probably best you heed Birkin's advice," said Alexia.
"I just know there's more there," said Grayson, frowning. "Just wanna know what happened to the guy."
Alexia looked at him. "He's probably dead."
"Yeah," said Grayson. "Maybe. Or maybe he's like Professor Falken in WarGames. Living on some island somewhere, under an assumed name." He beamed.
"Doubtful," said Alexia, and she stood, ruffling his hair and smiling. "Let's go to sleep, Grayson." She bent down and kissed the top of his head, and added, "It's been a long day for me."