Merry Christmas, Happy Solstice, and the very best of the New Year! ^_^

Chapter 29: Good Night, Good Luck

Chris wondered how the current situation ranked on his Top 5 Worst Nights of my Life. The shitstorm hadn't quite reached the legendary proportions of Arklay, but it was definitely gaining steam over the Gulf. He raced across the parking lot, sliding in the icy snow, and grunted as his hip collided with the bumper of a car. It was so dark he could barely see, an ordinary parking lot turned into a treacherous minefield. Jill grabbed his arm – maybe to steady him, but probably to keep from crashing into his back.

"Veer left, 9 o'clock!" Wesker ordered.

Chris strained his ears for sound of pursuit. Several buildings loomed in front of him, rising darkly to either side as the group cut through a narrow alley. An instant later, the featureless expanse of snow dropped down a flight of stairs. Barely avoiding careening down them headfirst, Chris hurried to find his footing, using the handrail for guidance. The snow was up to the middle of his shins, sliding over the tops of his sneakers and burning his ankles. He grit his teeth and kept going, turning right at the next juncture.

Behind them, the hospital rose up between the buildings, flaming like a torch. It had fallen behind at a remarkable rate. A stitch burned in Chris' side like someone was twisting a knife between his ribs. Slowing, he fought to keep Wesker in sight, ever fiber of his body screaming not to follow the man, but he did anyway – unable to see another option. Looking ahead, however, Chris kept expecting to see the crumbling façade of Spencer's funhouse, because when it came down to it, the only difference between tonight and the one in '98 was they were running from the Hulk instead of a pack of infected dogs.

They skidded out of the alley and stopped. Chris slouched against the corner of the building, puffing for breath. The city was unnaturally quiet, but it wasn't quiet as dark as Chris had thought. Flakes of ash drifted by with the snow and he lifted his eyes to the sky, a canvas of lead and inky black clouds ablaze with a menacing orange glow. Harvardville was burning to the ground.

Chris nervously checked the alley they'd just emerged from, half-expecting the Hulk to come pounding around the corner. Apparently, so did Jill. "What was that thing?" she demanded. "Another Nemesis?"

Standing with his back to them, Wesker unclenched his fists as though the effort cost him greatly – and only because he'd realized he was about to crush his glasses into shards. Unfolding them, he ducked his head and slowly put them back on. "You know the area, Valentine," he rumbled. "I need your best opinion. We need to get off the street."

He'd ignored Jill's question completely.

Jill glared at him, visibly irritated, but clearly weighing something in her mind. Chris was disgusted to realize that they both knew what Wesker was really asking. He's not looking for a bolthole. We could use any of these buildings for that. He wants something with a tactical advantage… maybe with access to weapons or radios.

"There's a Cabelas about a mile from here," Jill offered slowly.

Wesker nodded. "Lead the way."

Chris snorted contemptuously and Jill glared at him, waiting for him to say something stupid, but Chris didn't rise to the bait. Aside from the obvious, he couldn't find a problem with the so-called plan – at least none that didn't involve popping a cap in Wesker's head and THEN heading out to Cabelas. A cap that you don't have, by the way. Jill's the only one with a gun here.

After a prolonged silence, Jill turned away to get her bearings. Chris sucked a deep breath, his throat painfully raw, and tried to gather enough strength to move. What are we gonna do when we get there, anyway? He pushed off the wall and headed after Jill. Wesker stood a moment longer before joining them. Chris glowered out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing, figuring that the best he could hope for right now was to simply keep the man in sight. It crossed his mind that Wesker had a secret lab set up in Cabelas, but the notion was just too insane to take seriously – even for him.

They crossed another empty parking lot. Chris hadn't been in Raccoon City when it fell, but he imagined this was what it'd been like, filled with fire and crawling shadows. He didn't see any zombies, but he knew they were out there, an invisible threat squeezing in from all sides. And with Harvardville surrounded by some of the most rugged white-pine forest the Rockies had to offer, the city itself had become a trap. Chris glared at the shin-deep snow, realizing that using a vehicle would be impossible. It's gonna take hours if we try to hoof it on foot.

Jill swung herself over a guardrail and carefully started down the hill. The highway was directly at the bottom, filled with the white humps of abandoned cars. It was still painfully dark and Chris desperately wished he hadn't left his flashlight behind. Shivering violently, he shoved his hands under his arms. Sweatpants, an old t-shirt, and sneakers were hardly suited to escaping a zombie-infested blizzard. Damned if he said anything, however, Chris ducked his head against the wind and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other.

Middle of another zombie apocalypse and I drop from exposure. What a peachy way to die, he thought sourly. The bitter cold crept into his chest, sending his muscles into little spasms. It was a sick, unnatural feeling, like something inside him was trying to worm its way deeper, seeking the warmth of his core. Chris stumbled and went to his knees. Jill immediately swooped down next to him.

"Chris–"

He waved her off. "S'okay. I just need… to catch my breath…"

Without warning, something heavy and gloriously hot descended over Chris' shoulders, enveloping him in a familiar smell. Suddenly, it was summer. The STARS office was stifling and he was lounging on the corner of Wesker's desk, knowing full-well that it pissed the man off. An added bonus was that it brought him closer to the shabby fan oscillating in the corner, wheezing dust and the scent of Wesker's cologne into his face. Reeling away from the unwelcome memory, Chris instinctively reached up to clutch whatever had been dropped on him. What the?

A hand gripped him above the elbow and levered him to his feet with the strength of a forklift. "Get up, Redfield. You've already comprised us enough," said Wesker.

He wasn't wearing his coat.

Furious and confused, Chris nearly tore the coat off his shoulders and hurled it to the ground, but the garment was just so godforsaken warm. Impossibly warm. It was too much to resist. Hands like frozen claws, Chris cursed himself as he tugged the heavy leather more tightly around his body, hunching deeper into its revolting heat. Who'd have guessed he'd sell his soul for it? Jill mutely wound her arm through his, helping him stay upright as Wesker started forward again.

By the time they actually reached Cabelas, however, Chris was shuddering hard enough for his teeth to clatter – coat or no coat, which despite the initial warmth it provided, was too small to offer much protection. Sweatpants coated in frost, he made the last painful steps towards the front door. Wesker struck the glass with his elbow, crumbling it into a million glistening cubes. Sweeping the remainder aside with his foot, the blond ducked through into the store. Chris heard the unmistakable scrape of a handgun being withdrawn from its holster, and wasn't even surprised.

Inside, the showroom floor was filled with black, crouching shapes. Wesker panned the thin beam of a penlight back and forth, revealing racks of camo jackets, fishing poles, and plastic kayaks. Jill moved off to his right, revolver extended as she swept the aisles. Feeling utterly and irrevocably useless, Chris tried to squeeze under as much of Wesker's coat as possible.

They probed deeper into the store, Wesker's penlight sweeping over a massive glass-fronted tank. Something inside moved suddenly, dark, fluid, and impossibly large. Shark! Chris leapt back into a rack of clothes, wheeling his arms for balance on the slick linoleum. A massive grouper lashed through the gloomy water, darting quickly into a pile of rocks. Dozens of black, soulless eyes stared at him from stands of slimy weeds. Chris swallowed his heart back down into his chest. Just a fishtank, he assured himself. With nice normal fish.

He realized Wesker was looking at him, his lips twitching suspiciously.

"Fuck off," Chris growled, straightening. It might've sounded more threatening if his teeth weren't chattering from the cold. Wesker moved on and Chris followed with a scowl, grateful that he hadn't been carrying a gun after all – otherwise he'd definitely have put a round or two into the fishtank, an act he would have considered well-justified. Jill faded in from the nearby aisle. "Premises looks clear," she said quietly.

Premises looks clear, Chris mimicked sourly, although he didn't do so aloud. It wasn't so much that Jill was cooperating with Wesker that ticked him off; it was how she was doing it, like the previous couple of years had just been a leave of absence or something. Wesker holstered his handgun and began prowling the shelves, pulling down several blister packs of unknown contents. A sudden blaze of light flooded the area and Chris blinked, squinting painfully. Jill had set up a camping lantern.

"Here," she said, passing him an unzipped sleeping bag.

Divesting himself of Wesker's coat and kicking it just out of spite, Chris bundled himself up and sat down, concentrating on getting warm. With some difficulty, he pried off his miserably wet sneakers and tucked his feet under his thighs. A pack of chemical hand-warmers landed beside him with a loud smack. Chris sent a drop-dead glare at the bastard who'd launched them, but Wesker had already turned away and couldn't appreciate it. After a moment of glowering, Chris activated the entire pack and tucked them close. He was tired, he realized suddenly, his gritty eyes drooping.

"White Command 38, this is Red King. Transport helicopter has been compromised. I repeat: transport helicopter has been compromised. Request immediate evac."

Startled to realize he'd been dozing, Chris looked up to see Wesker with a cellphone pressed to his ear. Immediately alert, he listened hard to the one-sided conversation. There was a moment's pause. "In just the past thirty minutes?" Wesker demanded suspiciously. Despite the sunglasses, Chris felt the man glance in his direction, felt the red flags shoot up and began to wave.

"Impossible!" Wesker growled, looking away. "The nature of the outbreak places this under corporate jurisdic what intel? Who provided that information?" His jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his temple. "I see. Has Red Command been made aware? Good. I'll be in contact."

He snapped the cellphone closed. "Let me guess," Chris began scathingly. "No rescue helicopter. Gotta go through the funhouse out back, snag a couple of keys, fight some mutant fuckjobs. You know, the usual." He struggled upright despite the pins and needles in his feet.

Wesker glared at him. "I applaud your deductive reasoning," he sneered. "The military has just restricted any traffic, including air traffic of any sort, in and out of Harvardville for the time being. So, yes – you should be accustomed to the situation." His stance was easy but aggressive, his feet placed apart on the tile. Jill's eyes narrowed, her gaze flicking between them.

"Awful convenient," Chris seethed. He marked Jill's position, specifically the revolver she'd tucked into the waistband of her jeans. He'd go for it again if he had to, and this time he'd make sure the damn thing was loaded. Wesker folded his arms.

"Yes, Chris. It is convenient," the blond agreed darkly. The fingers of his right hand were drumming a silent tempo on his sleeve, one of the man's rare tics, an unconscious – or carefully crafted – indication that the gears in his head were grinding at double speed. Chris glowered at him.

"And just what's that supposed to mean?"

"Has it occurred to you that too many things are happening at once?" Wesker asked by way of an answer. But it wasn't really an answer. It was a statement meant to lure him in a particular direction. Chris remembered the tactic well. It hadn't been that long since he'd sat through one of the man's debriefs, his palms sticking to some nameless, tacky substance (probably old soda) on the worn plastic desk. He wished that Wesker would stop dredging up memories he didn't want.

"You mean besides the obvious? Yeah, I heard the news – about the explosions all over town," he answered harshly. "Plus, T-virus don't spread this fast, so that means you just went around town plunking- plunking down viral pipe-bombs," he spat the phrase with savage triumph, "and let er' rip! Then you made sure we had to stay in your little nightmare!"

Wesker leaned against the counter, crossing his legs at the ankle. The motion was so infuriatingly casual that Chris wanted to tear him in half. "If you recall, I ordered you to evacuate and you refused," he said and Chris blanched, reminded of the confrontation. He cursed inwardly. Shit, he's right. If we'd just gotten on the damn helicopter… He gathered himself for a retort, but Wesker cut him off:

"However, you are essentially correct. Someone intentionally released the virus."

"Someone," Chris repeated, every syllable dripping with disgust. A coppery film had begun to gather at the back of his throat. He fought the maddening urge to cough. "You– you know what, I don't care. You demented fuck." He stuck his hand out, dark eyes flaming. "Give me the phone."

Wesker looked at him blankly. "And why would I do that?"

"I want my sister. Give. Me. The. Phone."

Wesker looked at him for a beat, his face betraying nothing, and then extended the device without a word. Astonished, it took Chris a moment to actually remember to take it. The black plastic square felt light, flimsy, and freakishly hot against the broad expanse of his palm. Chris swallowed and tasted blood. I- I don't know her number.

"517-3241," said Wesker.

For a single, cringe-worthy moment, Chris felt like an idiot. Maybe I ought to stop locking horns with this prick and try to cooperate, figure a way out of– No. Uh-uh. Never again. Boggled that he would even dare commit such a thought-crime, Chris opened the phone with a scowl and dialed the unfamiliar number. The line rang ominously in the stillness… and continued to ring. Finally it was picked up by voicemail. The person you have dialed has not set up their mailbox. If you'd like to leave a callback number–

Chris closed the phone with a mutinous snap. Is she ignoringme? No, she wouldn't know it was me calling, unless she can't pick up because she's locked in a basement somewhere. He shook his head as a sullen, but more rational explanation occurred to him. She's probably just out of service range. The Bastard said she was home; you know there's no signal once you're past Dickey's Point. Chris lobbed the phone from hand to hand, trying hard to stay pissed, but it required more energy than he had at the moment. Exhausted, he sat back down on the floor.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," said Jill, sounding relieved. "We'll just wait here until the quarantine's lifted."

"If we had the luxury of time, yes," Wesker replied. He was looking at Chris.

"Meaning that we don't?"

Wesker didn't answer, but Chris could think of several reasons, including the sonuva bitch that'd shot down their ride. He snorted and tilted his head back against a display case, lethargically drawing the sleeping bag around his shoulders. Sitting back down had been a mistake. "We'll go as soon as I warm up," he said. This was directed only at Jill, although he doubted that Wesker could tell that just from his voice.

Chris threw a sidelong glance at the man, absently running a calloused finger around the seam of the phone. I'm keeping this, he though sulkily, although he didn't know what he planned on doing with it. 911? Yeah, hi. Send a couple of cars to Cabelas, would you? His gaze wandered over the dome of a tent that'd been set up for display, past the racks of waterproofing spray and flannel shirts. Need me one of those, for sure.

He rubbed his eyes with one cold hand, sliding backwards into oblivion.


Unable to use her hands to support herself, Claire was starting to feel mildly sick. Or maybe it was the testosterone she was huffing, crammed into an airless vehicle with no less than three soldiers. The Humvee swerved around a bend and the nausea rose a little higher. Definitely not the testosterone.

Claire jammed her boot into a crevice and flattened against the seat, trying to regulate her breathing. There was nothing remarkable outside the window, and the Humvee's plain tan interior offered nothing to distract her, so she studied her captors instead. The burly Latino was driving, accompanied by an equally massive blond riding shotgun. The man sitting next to Claire looked like the red-haired version of Clint Eastwood; gruff, surly, with a cleft chin deep enough to use as a bottle opener. Claire wondered if she could explain things to them – and if it was smart to even try. For some reason, volunteering information didn't seem like a good idea.

She craned her neck, looking behind for Mr. Death, but all she could see was the blazing headlights of the trailing Humvee. The road was too narrow for anything except single file, although it seemed to Claire that they were heading up the mountain, not down. Up front, the radio continued to squawk out reports and various coordinates, making it abundantly obvious that Harvardville was in deep shit. Claire thought about her family and grimaced. They were all well-trained and highly capable, but even so, there was a cutoff point where overwhelming numbers trumped skill, not to mention that all three of them were just as likely to kill each other. Jesus, she was really starting to be sick.

"Hey!" Claire's voice croaked uncomfortably. "Could you roll the window down a crack?"

She was summarily ignored. Even by the soldier sitting next to her. Claire made a mental note that when it came time to puke, she was leaning over and doing it in the guy's lap. Her fingers curled to touch her restraints, feeling the thin strip of ridged plastic, but her inspection was interrupted by a loud crackle from the radio. It was Captain Hammerson.

"47, do you copy?"

The driver picked up the radio. "47 copies. Go ahead."

"We're pulling over for a minute. Do the same and await my next."

The soldier verified and began to slow. Somebody need a piss break? I hope it freezes mid-stream, Claire thought, irritated. She wondered again about what she was going to say once they reached their destination. Surely there was someone in the chain of command that would take a minute to listen. If I tell them about the priests, they can send somebody over… but how's that gonna prove that shooting them in the head "didn't work"? They'll just think I unloaded on them like some kind of redn–

The headlights pouring through the back window suddenly went askew, followed by a loud crunch. Claire swiveled to look, but her Humvee braked sharply, tossing her forward. The driver turned in his seat, swore loudly, and got out. His buddies did the same. Alone in the vehicle, Claire righted herself and looked again.

The rear Humvee had plowed headfirst into a ditch and wrapped its bumper around a pine, bursting one of its headlights. Snow was still showering from the branches, dusting the windshield and making it impossible to see inside the cab. Claire's mouth twisted in surprise, followed by an immature burst of smugness. She wondered which was to blame: ice, the antlered menace, or some combination of the two? The crash hadn't occurred at speed, so she doubted anyone was seriously hurt, but that didn't stop her from hoping that Captain Hammerhead hadn't been wearing his seatbelt – and she'd be compensated by the sight of his bloody nose. Jackass.

Approaching the crashed vehicle, Claire's driver opened the side door. There was a flash of light and the muffled but unmistakable crack of a gunshot. Claire jumped violently as the man toppled, dead before he even hit the snow. Hammerson lunged drunkenly from the backseat, landing beside the body just as a dark shadow exited the Humvee on the opposite side, low and lethal. The blond soldier backpedaled crazily, swinging the automatic he was carrying to his shoulder and spraying the vehicle with bullets. Some pierced the glass, but most ricocheted into the forest. Claire heard a sharp ping as one hit the rear of her Humvee. She dropped lower in her seat, horrified. He can't do this! They're just regular people!

Hammerson seized the blond's gun and desperately yanked it down, fumbling to open the passenger door of the Humvee. Reaching in, he guided another man out onto the snow, dazed and sporting a bloody nose, but otherwise unscathed by the reckless spray of bullets. Meanwhile, darkness moved off the edge of the road, sliding partway around a tree. The blond soldier was still standing in the open, his face white. Claire cried out to warn him, but it was too late. There was another gunshot and the man fell, blood leaping out of a hole in his throat.

Clint Eastwood – the man who'd been sitting next to Claire – threw himself prone next to Hammerson. The third man was rapidly coming around, struggling to get his gun out of its holster. Claire couldn't hear what they were saying, but she could see Hammerson gesturing, the three of them holding a palaver behind the relative safety of the Humvee.

After that, it happened fast. Leaving Hammerson behind, the two soldiers stood up in unison and opened fire on the woods, shredding bark from the trees and throwing clots of snow into the air. The shadow had disappeared, but Claire knew he was still out there. Everything seemed to be occurring in glorious slow motion the two men charged the hill, laying down bursts of cover fire as they went. Keeping the shadow pinned. For a moment, Claire forgot about the soldiers and worried about Mr. Death instead. In all likelihood, he would die here on the side of the road and she'd be left alone in the custody of soldiers who weren't likely to be sympathetic, all things considered.

Clint Eastwood reached the treeline first. The instant he drew level with the nearest pine, the darkness behind the trunk boiled and Claire could see the exact moment when Mr. Death's arm snapped forward, driving the heel of his hand into the soldier's chin, his other hand grasping the barrel of his M16. There was a frantic chatter of gunfire, cut short as Mr. Death wrenched the gun from the soldier's grasp and drove the stock into his face, christening the weapon with blood and fragments of teeth.

Claire felt sick, shocked by his uncanny, ruthless speed. It reminded her of Wesker, but while Wesker was cold efficiency – a body driven to perfection by a superior mind – Mr. Death was something else entirely. Not a movement wasted, the art of killing perfected. No hesitation. No remorse. The Grim Reaper come to collect. The remaining soldier opened fire just as Mr. Death spun back behind the tree. A moment later, something white and spherical lobbed through the air towards him.

His pistol swiveled to follow, an instinctive reaction – and the man's last. He pulled the trigger, missing the snowball just as a dark shape rolled out in the opposite direction. It was a distraction of only a second, but it was enough. He couldn't bring the muzzle of his weapon back fast enough to stop Mr. Death from squeezing off several rounds. The soldier dropped like a sack of dirty laundry and Claire watched in silent, horrified fascination as he tumbled down the hill, a trio of bloody flowers opened across his the front of his uniform.

Silence fell, cold and surreal. Claire could hear herself breathing as Mr. Death looked around, slowly rising to his feet. A heartbeat passed, and then another. He started carefully down the hill, eyes trained on the crashed Humvee, but then something else moved in the icy landscape – something much closer. Claire startled, looking out her side window. Gun in hand, Captain Hammerson was crouched against the side of her Humvee, his face bruised, one eye swelling shut from an earlier confrontation. Claire had forgotten all about him. She looked up. Mr. Death didn't seem to have noticed and it occurred to Claire that he might not be able to, not if the angle was bad. But could Hammerson see him? Claire felt the arteries in her neck begin to pound.

Hammerson took the gun in both hands.

And Claire made the awful decision to act. She felt the strip of plastic around her wrists, unbreakable steel with a very breakable flaw. You don't need muscles, Claire-bear. Just technique. Watch me, okay? Hammerson rose carefully on the balls of his feet. Another few steps and–

The Humvee's heavy door blasted open and caught him full in the back. He exclaimed loudly and squeezed the trigger, the gun bucking in his startled grasp. An instant later, Mr. Death was within arm's reach. He seized the captain's head between his hands and cracked his neck with a single, instantaneous jerk. The man collapsed in a heap and Mr. Death just stood there, radiating a predator's easy grace, and looked to where Claire was squatting in the open door of the Humvee. Both her hands were free. Mr. Death raised an eyebrow.

"Chris used to be a cop," Claire said without thinking. She rubbed the torn, reddened skin of her wrists, unable to forget the sound Hammerson's neck had made, a fibrous bundle of wet bone and breaking cartilage. "And just what the hell do you think you're doing?!" she went on, her voice reedy and explosive, rising to a dangerous pitch. "They're the goddamn military, you psychotic sonuva bitch! Just normal people! Who the hell do you think you–"

"They're not military," Mr. Death interrupted.

Claire broke off. She swallowed hard. "What?"

"There is no 106th Brigade out of Fort Carson," Mr. Death clarified. "And even if there were, their minimum ETA would be four to five hours, give or take. Theoretically they could've flown in on broomsticks, but they still wouldn't be squandering resources huddled up on an unpaved road out here in the sticks – not this early in the game, anyway. Tomorrow? Different story. Tonight? Not so much."

Claire watched, incredulous, as Mr. Death picked up Hammerson's gun. "So if we discard the military, what we've got left are PMC's. Expensive ones. The question is, who hired them and why?" He gave Hammerson a look of deep regret, sorry that he wouldn't get the chance to ask, and got to his feet. "Nice work, by the way."

Claire said nothing. She wasn't even sure she'd done the right thing, nor was she certain she believed Mr. Death's excuse. And even if she did, what did that really change? No matter what, he murdered these people. And she'd helped. Mr. Death might have done the actual deed, but Hammerson's blood was on her hands. And she was going to have to step over his body to get out the door.

She inched forward, looking down at where the older man was sprawled. Was- had he been married? Did he have kids? Surely he must have family. Feeling sick again, Claire stretched a leg out the door. She'd killed zombies and even drugged-up cultists. She'd certainly seen her share of bodies, but one that had been alive just a minute ago, a man whose only crime so far had been his piss-poor luck? Claire awkwardly hopped out of the Humvee and got as far away as possible. The icy wind picked up, plucking at the bodies lying in the snow, and Claire put both hands on her thighs, trying to pull in enough air to freeze the sickness threatening to climb up her throat. She looked at Mr. Death, and the voice inside her was cold. I'm an accomplice to murder.

"If it makes you feel any better, they were going to kill me first," said Mr. Death quietly, in the same patient tone as before. Claire looked up at him, not comprehending, as he continued: "Hammerson opened a private channel to talk to somebody in charge and that somebody only wanted one of us alive. You."

Her eyes widening, Claire broke out in goosebumps, like she'd swallowed a chunk of ice. "Is that what they were doing, just- just pulling over and taking care of it like the goddamn mafia?! Who would do that?" she whispered, appalled.

Mr. Death shrugged. "Same folks that sent the Jehovah's Witnesses to your front door, be my guess. It's just been that kind of night." He walked over to the crashed Humvee, opened the cargo hatch, and starting rooting around. Claire straightened, floundering under the weight of what she'd been told. They only wanted me alive? Why? Did they think I'd be easier to handle? That doesn't make any sense. They already had us in handcuffs! Claire's thoughts whirled, trying to reconcile the icy road with some lawless ghetto in Colombia where cartel enforcers were free to kidnap and butcher anybody they didn't like.

"But they," Claire struggled for words, "they couldn't have been waiting for us. There's no way anybody could've known we'd take that road!" She knew she was stalling, scrabbling for another explanation.

"Meaning that we were a kidnapping of opportunity," said Mr. Death. He'd retrieved his gear and was meticulously putting it back on. "There also weren't any tracks when we made our approach, so that means–"

"–they came down the road the other way," Claire finished.

"Probably. I'm guessing they were sitting there for a while and we're just that unlucky. Knock on wood, Red, or get a good fondle of those," he gestured to an obscenely tacky pair of purple dice hanging from the Humvee's rearview mirror. "Next it'll be aliens and you're on your own after that. They ain't probing my ass."

Claire let out an awful, shaky laugh as Mr. Death slung his TMP over one shoulder. He paused there, gazing up the road with a dark, brooding expression. Claire thought she understood why. She also knew that once she acknowledged it, there was no going back. "They were guarding something, weren't they?" she said softly, as much to herself as Mr. Death. "That's why they were here in the first place, sitting in the middle of nowhere. Like dogs chained in front of the house."

Mr. Death said nothing. He just looked at her, the incandescence light winking off the few silver strands in his beard. Claire nodded to herself. It was all the answer she needed. Through the open door of the Humvee she could see the driver slumped over the steering wheel, his neck twisted and already beginning to purple. The crash hadn't done that, but Claire forced the nausea down, forced herself not to care. Regardless of what kind of person that makes me.

"Let's go find out then," she said.

Mr. Death's expression didn't change, but his slate-grey eyes twinkled, like sunlight glinting on steel. "My orders were to keep you safe, not go gallivanting into the woods," he said sternly, but Claire could hear the amusement in his voice. You better not be laughing at me, prick.

"You can do both," she challenged, keeping his gaze. "If these people work for the crazies like you think, then they've also got something to do with the outbreak. They have to – there's too much crap going on for it all to be coincidence." Claire put her hand out for Hammerson's gun. "I survived Raccoon City on my own," she added. "Rockfort Island, too. I can handle myself."

Mr. Death smiled. It was a dangerous, feral look. "Alright, Red – but when we get back, you'll be the one explaining to Mr. Wesker that it was your idea. I'll look forward to watching when he tears you a new one." He took the 1911 out of his waistband and handed it to her. Claire gripped it tight.

"Your car this time, I think," said Mr. Death.

They circled back to the front Humvee, its engine still idling. Claire took shotgun, feeling perversely exuberant. Mr. Death hadn't contradicted her theory, which meant he was thinking the same thing. The road isn't paved, so it's either a logging route or Forestry. It could go anywhere on the mountain. Claire thought that her brother might've known, though. He'd spent hours pouring over maps in the kitchen, memorizing every single way in and out of the area – just in case Darth Wesker showed up with a legion of Storm Troopers at his elbow. Because doomsday preppers had nothing on Chris Redfield. Claire felt a sudden spasm of loneliness. Just be okay, Chris.

Mr. Death put the Humvee in gear and the vehicle rolled forward, fresh snow crunching beneath the tires. "They already know we're coming," Claire pointed out suddenly, dismayed. "They'll be waiting for this convoy to show."

Mr. Death nodded. "Yup."

"You're not worried?"

"No."

He said it with such cold finality that Claire shivered.

A pause. Then, "I need more cookies."

She was starting to like Mr. Death.


Chris was dreaming, and in some strange way he knew it. A Midsummer's Nightmare filled with rotten silk drapes and dusty, bloodstained carpet, claustrophobic hallways drenched in the sickly-sweet, cinnamon stench of decay. Hot, sticky, and humid. A battered piece of paper tacked to a broken door:

I've left some ammo in the room to the right. I'll continue on ahead and try to find a way out.

Find a way out.

Chris awoke with a start. Shooting upright, he actually heard the sound of vertebrae popping in his back like a muffled string of firecrackers. His hand touched freezing linoleum and he jerked it back. I fell asleep. Unbelievable. The camping lantern was still ablaze, throwing hulking shadows onto the walls. Jill was seated a couple of feet away, surrounded by open shoeboxes and wads of tissue paper. She was just lacing up a pair of heavy boots.

"It's okay, Chris," she said, like he was some kind of skittish horse.

Chris grumbled something vulgar, dislodging the sleeping bag around his shoulders. The chilly air rushed in like something alive and hungry, and he quickly pulled it tight again. The hand warmers were still tucked here and there around his body, putting out their comforting heat. "Why'd you let me sleep?" he growled.

"Because you needed it," Jill answered simply. She flexed her foot experimentally and Chris counted no less than three other pairs of boots that'd obviously been tried, found wanting, and discarded. It must have taken her twenty minutes or more. There was also a thick winter parka, empty bags that'd once contained thermal underwear, and gloves sitting on a nearby counter. Definitely more than twenty minutes. It also meant she'd left him alone with Wesker while she'd gone shopping. Chris turned a vicious glare in the man's direction, only to find him gone.

"Wesker– shit, where is he?"

"He went to get a couple more things," she said without looking up, as if allowing a known murderer to wander loose was the most natural thing in the world. Chris immediately got to his feet, letting loose a string of blistering profanities that included the dubious sexual kinks of the floor.

"And you just– Dammit, who knows what he's doing out there!"

"He'll be back. If he'd wanted to screw us over, I doubt he would've waited until now," Jill told him calmly, obviously having talked herself into believing it because hey, Wesker totally didn't have a record for slipping away and leaving them to die. "Anyway, I found you some clothes and a pair of boots." She gestured at the pile of things on the counter.

Chris continued to glare at her. "How the hell can you possibly trust him?" he demanded.

Jill gave him an unpleasantly cool look. "I don't."

Chris opened his mouth twice without saying anything, feeling like a fool. And at that moment, he realized that he was tired of arguing in circles, tired of standing around holding his dick and waiting for somebody else to steer him around by the nose. Something Jill had already figured out, apparently. Turning his back, Chris grabbed the floppy thermals on top on the pile and starting getting dressed. To his further disgust, Jill had already picked out his sizes and he wasn't left with anything to bitch about.

Either way, I'm not hanging around to find out what kind of hairless abomination he lets out this time. Chris jammed his feet into a pair of boots and laced them up. We're hiking outta here right now! By then, however, his blood had cooled and a welcome sensation of detachment had settled over him. He couldn't afford to be irrational. Not twice in one night.

It's gonna be dark out there, he thought, throwing a baleful look towards the front of the store. Stepping up to the counter, he swept a Maglite off the display rack and started loading it with batteries. I need a gun. A couple of them. Ammo, too. At that he smiled grimly, realizing he was standing in the middle of Cabelas, America's hunting superstore. First piece of good news all night!

Heavy, padded footfalls announced Wesker's return and Chris immediately aimed his flashlight into the man's face, startled by his stealthy appearance – or rather, that he'd reappeared at all. Despite the sunglasses he was wearing, Wesker instantly canted his head back by several inches, leaning away from the intrusive brightness. It struck Chris as an extremely odd thing to do, but his attention was immediately diverted to the small duffle Wesker was holding. The blond tyrant set it on the floor.

"Gear up," he ordered.

Gear up. It was a familiar order, usually followed by mission intel, like whether they were leaving the precinct in the van or the helicopter. Overwhelmed by a sensation that was half déjà vu, half encroaching doom, Chris grabbed the duffle and reached suspiciously inside. His hand closed around something cool and hard, and he realized what he was holding long before he pulled it out. The Beretta 92FS was missing Kendo's custom grips, but it didn't matter – the feel was exactly the same: heavy, solid, and reassuring. A similar one had won him a trophy for marksmanship, then gone on to save his life at Arklay. Moving on instinct, Chris dropped the magazine. It was empty, but a quick glance inside the duffle revealed several boxes of bullets and extra magazines. This doesn't… this doesn't make any sense. Why would he hand me a weapon? And why this one, of all the shit he could've grabbed?

Chris lifted his gaze to Wesker's face. The blond nodded, but Chris had no idea what the gesture was meant to communicate. "By my guess, it's approximately three to four miles to the edge of the city," said Wesker. "White Umbrella will have established a checkpoint on the main highway, so we'll make for that. Questions?"

Chris swallowed. He had plenty of questions, but he couldn't sort them out, let alone find the proper words to articulate them. He gave a jerky shake of his head, then knelt and opened a box of rounds. Only then did he notice the shotgun. Chris was blown away by the unreality of it all. Doing the Agent Smith in the face of a near-empty revolver (and damn him, but Chris couldn't help but feel amazed) was one thing. Two heavily armed persons was quite another. Unless all this hardware is so we can battle his army of Umbrella freakshows.

Chris hastily loaded the extra magazines and crammed them into his pockets before the opportunity was snatched from him. Jill did the same, loading her revolver and tucking it away before going for the second gun in the duffle. It was a Beretta, too. Jill appeared to hesitate for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and briskly continued on as if nothing strange had happened.

He's fucking with us. That's gotta be it, Chris thought, unable to take his eyes from Wesker. In the cold, blue-black darkness, the man seemed like a wraith. Haunting. Haunted. Chris didn't know what was worse, those jet black sunglasses, or the knowledge that Wesker's icy blue eyes were boring into him from behind the lenses. Dimly, he noticed that Wesker had put his coat back on.

"I got these radios, too," said Jill suddenly, handing them out. "We don't want to get separated."

Wesker nodded, his mouth bracketed with silent amusement. "An excellent idea, Miss Valentine."

Yeah, I'll bet it is. The radios were bright yellow low-bands with four channels, a 25-mile operating range, and cheap little mics. Chris tucked one into the back pocket of his jeans. This is crazy. Any minute now, Barry'll come around the corner hauling our gear. Except Barry had grabbed his family and ran all the way to Canada, trying to escape the ghosts. Chris harshly reminded himself to keep that in perspective.

"Are we ready now?" he growled.

Wesker casually hooked one of the mics over his ear. "I believe we are," he agreed, in that smug, would-be pleasant voice of his. Chris resisted the urge to punch him in the face. He bent and lifted the shotgun instead, thinking about how nice to would be to bend it over Wesker's head. Jill put on a pair of thin gloves, then offered a pair to Chris. He took them without thinking. This wasn't going to be another reckless sortie into a dark, freezing basement. This time he was going to be prepared. I'm so cool, Cucumber outta be my middle name, he thought, bitterly and without humor.

This time he was going to watch Wesker's every move.

And if he zigs instead of zags, I'm going to kill him.

Without saying anything, they left the store in formation: Chris in front, Wesker bringing up the rear. The icy wind buffeted Chris' hair, sizzling along the still-tender flesh of his jaw. Much too late, he regretted not picking out a hat. All around him, the smoke now had a nasty acrid smell. Burning gasoline, thought Chris grimly. Above, the sky was pitch black.

"What time is it?" he grumbled.

Jill checked her watch. "Little after eleven."

It's a dark and stormy night in Harvardville. Balancing the shotgun, Chris zipped his jacket up as far as it would go, throwing a sidelong look at Wesker. What's he playing at? Why give us a bunch of weapons, when he knows I might cram one up his bunghole? Why stick with us at all? It almost like…

"You want to get back on the highway, then?" Jill asked.

"It's the safest option. We don't know how many have been infected, so we need to avoid populated areas as much as possible," said Wesker, turning his collar up. Without a word, Chris started across the empty parking lot, back towards abandoned road. Like he's trying to look out for us, or something. The idea was too insane to even consider.

"There still might be people," Chris said grimly, both to bring up the topic and to derail his previous train of thought. "Scared, pissed-off people." With whom he could totally sympathize, by the way.

"Then we'll deal with them," said Wesker.

Chris decided not to examine that too closely. For the first time all night, he was truly feeling confident. Maybe it'd been the nap – or maybe it was the fact he was dressed properly this time around – but either way, he was on his feet and that was good enough. Chris gripped the shotgun tighter as he slid down the hill. Or maybe it's 8 rounds of 12-gauge insurance. He thought about Claire again. Stupid choices aside, she was still his baby sister.

Hopefully, he'd still get the chance to tell her that.