July 14 1998. Arklay Forest.
"Come on, move!"
Forest gave Chambers a shove. The duffle-bag smacked against her back, and she doubled forward. She flailed, found her feet and leapt ahead like a spooked deer.
Sullivan's head knocked against his shoulder. He staggered and grabbed at Forest's webbing.
Behind them, those hell-dogs scrambled over themselves. Not a pack, no clear leader, just a black swarm with sharp teeth.
Blood hammered through his veins. His temples throbbed.
Sullivan hooked an arm around him.
Ed Dewey finally stopped screaming.
FUBAR, SNAFU, Clusterfuck —all those Army terms they used for a mission gone sideways— none of them did the current situation justice. This was nothing they taught at Fort Bragg. There was no enemy to outflank and enfilade. There was no tactical retreat, no covering-fire. All they could do was run.
"Right side of the mansion, big window, Go!" He shot out two panes. Sharp triangles winked lightning at them.
Chambers veered for the opening. The dogs snapped and barked. Sullivan groaned and dragged one heel.
"Hey, Sully?"
Sullivan grunted something that sounded like a what.
"There's a window twenty yards ahead." He took a quick look at Sullivan. He was pale, and blood trickled from one ear. "You're gonna have to run for it. Chambers'll help you through."
Sullivan rolled his head.
"You can make it?"
Sullivan nodded.
"Alright, ten yards up, GO NOW!" He pushed Sullivan toward the window, ejected his spent mag, and fumbled at his waist-pouch. The fresh reload slammed home with a hungry snap.
"Chambers, help Sully though!"
Chambers hopped through and turned to receive Sullivan. Her eyes were huge and round, like shiny white skeet-pigeons
Five yards to safety. Sullivan would need time to get through. He spun and sighted down his Beretta. The closest dog —twenty yards and closing— disappeared behind his front-sight's white paint. He exhaled, let it get in his killzone, and resighted. Its stomach was slit, and a double sausage-link of intestine trailed behind. White skull contrasted filthy fur. Two shots dropped it.
Dark shadows closed in, two more dogs at nine o-clock. Five shots stopped them, half a mag left. He glanced to the window. Sullivan was sagging over Chambers. The tiny medic's knees shook under his two-hundred pound frame.
"C'mon, hurry!" He took careful steps backward. Another hell-hound was closing in fast, well into his killzone. A single bullet sheared-off the left side of its head. It veered right and crashed into the mansion like a hairy missile.
Another quick peek, Sullivan was though. The dogs homed-in on him. He fired once more, caught a big one in the front shoulder. It collapsed and plowed a furrow with its muzzle, ending a foot in front of him. Time up, he spun, sprinted, and leapt through the empty window-frame.
There was no time to take in the mansion's features. His soldier's mind searched only for possible threats, his teammate's position, and their escape route.
-Threats: the dogs behind me, nothing inside. Team's five yards up, exit's the door they're at-
Chambers had the door swung wide, invisible under Sullivan and the duffle-bag. He could hear her whistling gasps over the dogs.
Glass crunched behind him. Something growled. He charged forward, grabbed Sullivan in a linebacker's tackle, and bowled him and Chambers into the next room. He caught the door as he passed and slammed it shut. They fell in a heap. Chambers dropped her pistol. The dog thumped against the door and howled in frustration.
Sullivan groaned; Chambers gasped for air. Forest was already up, scanning their new room.
-Nothing moving, L-shaped hallway, two exits other than the one we just left. Secure the room and reassess-
He allowed a moment to shake the jitters out, trembled and took jackrabbit breaths, but a moment was all he would afford, and he balled his hands and forced even breathing. He walked over and put an ear to the door. The dogs on the other side were madder than ever, but the door was strong and heavy: a real fingerbreaker. A Doberman could never knock it down.
Although he never thought a Doberman could chase a man while its guts were hanging out like party streamers. Tonight was full of surprises.
They killed Ed Dewey, dragged him off and tore into him like wolves. The more he screamed, the hungrier they got, and the more showed up. They ate him from the legs up. He was alive until the very end.
He frowned and returned his attention to the room. The lights were on, and it was cleaner than he expected an abandoned building to be. There was little doubt that the cannibal killers were using this place as a hideout, so much for Umbrella's assurances that the place was secure.
He readied his Beretta and checked the other doors. One was locked, and the other was an empty hallway. They were safe, for now.
Sullivan groaned.
"Sully, you doin' okay?" Forest took a knee and gave him a gentle shake. His breathing was shallow, his lips wet with spittle. A bloody crust gelled on one earlobe.
"Sully?"
Sullivan fixed his eyes on him. One pupil was bigger than the other. "We crashed..."
"Yeah, we crashed all right," Forest said. "Turbine failed."
"I heard an explosion…before…sounded like a small plastique charge."
Forest wiped his forehead and recalled the crash. There had been that hollow whump, that gut-twisting ride into the trees, Chambers screaming, and Dooley shouting 'hold on'.
The chopper hit a big Oak tree as they spun in. A branch shattered the windscreen, took Dooley's head clean off. It landed in Squid's lap. The control panel crumpled and broke Ed Dewey's leg. They had to cut him out with a fire-axe.
Ken Sullivan heard a primary detonation.
And Ken Sullivan was never wrong.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure..." His eyes lost focus. "I think something's wrong with me. Knocked my contacts out…I think."
"We'll see to you." He gave him a pat on the shoulder, glanced at Chambers. She had kicked herself into a corner and held both hands in front of her chest. Her bottom lip trembled, and those big hazel eyes were fixed on the door. She flinched every time the dogs rammed it.
"Hey,"
She didn't respond, just a flinch and a sniffle.
"Hey, Chambers!" He crawled over, positioned himself between her and the door. "Chambers!"
She pulled into herself. Teary ribbons gleamed on either side of her nose.
Anger bubbled. He grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a firm shake. "Hey! You snap out of it right now!" He spoke with a Drill Instructor's clipped commands, spun her toward Sullivan. "You're our Medic, and we've got a hurt man here."
He gave her another shake, gentler this time. "You reading me?"
She blinked, gave a hesitant nod. Her bottom lip drew tighter.
"You done your little freak-out?"
"Yeah." Her eyes lost that animalistic panic and sharpened to quick concern. She crawled over to Sullivan, already grabbing into her pack.
"Kenneth, talk to me." She pulled out a penlight and shone it into his eyes.
Sullivan grunted and smacked at her.
Satisfied that Chambers was straight for the time being, Forest turned back to the door. It trembled in its frame, and dust whiffed from the top casement. As he picked up Chambers' Beretta, a narrow crack opened in the lower panel.
-There's no way a dog could do that-
There was also no way a dog could crush a man's leg-bones, but they had done that as well. He heard the snap, loud over Dewey's screams.
He cracked his knuckles, walked to the duffle-bag, and set to unpacking.
"Sully going to be okay?" he asked.
Sullivan groaned.
Chambers clicked her tongue. "I think he might have cerebral contusion in the frontal lobe. He can't focus his eyes, and his motor control is off. Or it might just be a bad concussion. Either way, that run didn't help."
"Uh huh…" Forest opened the bag, frowned at the unfamiliar gun-case. "Can you fix him?"
"I'm going to try, but there isn't much I can do if his brain is swelling. Can you hand me that first-aid kit?"
Forest slid the white box over, turned back to the case, and undid the latch.
A deep frown cut above his eyes, and he muttered under his breath. He'd told Squid to grab his rifle. It seemed that a Navy man couldn't tell the difference between a Remington Seven-hundred and a Milkor tear-gas launcher.
Those dogs barely flinched at nine millimetre rounds. He doubted that tear-gas would do much but piss them off.
A search of the bag turned up a signal kit, a can of hemostatic spray, two boxes of .338 Lapua rounds, and a half-dozen flashbangs. No rifle, no pistol rounds. "Dumbass fucking Squid." He turned from their kit and walked over to Chambers and Sullivan.
"Stay, with me, Kenneth." Chambers was waving a vial under Sullivan's nose.
Sullivan swore and swatted at her.
"Any change?" Forest asked.
Chambers checked his eyes again. "No, but he's not getting any worse, so that's a good sign."
"You're bleeding." Forest pointed at her hand. "You get bit?"
She paused, wiped at the gash between her thumb and trigger-finger, and patted her empty holster. She blushed as he handed her the missing pistol. "I got my hand caught in the gun's slide."
"Gotta watch those Beretta bites. You don't wear shooting gloves?"
She gazed at the floor and wiped her nose. It left a red streak along her upper lip. "I took them off while I was treating Edward."
Forest didn't answer.
A dog howled and charged the door. The crack widened.
Sullivan groaned.
"You're bleeding too, Forest."
Forest glanced down, at last allowed the scrap-iron throb in his left forearm to take president. He held the arm out and inspected the torn flesh. "One of those mutts got me." He frowned at the haggard holes, the purple-red swelling around the wound. "Sumbitch bit pretty hard."
"Let me see." Chambers got to her feet and started toward him.
"It's okay." He waved her off. "Just worry about Sully. Ain't the first time a dog bit me."
Yes, but a dog had never bit him this hard, and why the hell did it itch so much?
"Kenneth will be alright for a minute. Give me your arm."
"I'm tellin' you, I'm fine. I ju…motherfuck!" He jerked his arm away, but she held tight and kept dousing him with hemostat. The pain needled and flashed white. He pulled again.
She bucked forward but held fast. "Quit it, you'll tear it worse!"
Forest ground his teeth. He would almost rather bleed to death than be sprayed with that damn stuff. It felt like being cooked from the inside. At last, she released him. He drew away, put some distance from her.
"Sorry for swearin' but you could've warned me you were gonna do that."
"You wouldn't have let me."
He eyed the blackened scabs. That confusing itch still gnawed his skin; dark blood welled around every cut.
"I could've done it myself."
"Sorry, but I-" She frowned. "Hold your arm out for me again."
Forest complied.
The frown deepened. "Do you have low platelets, Forest?"
"Say again?"
"Are you anemic? Any trouble with clotting?"
Forest shook his head. "Normally I got gravy for blood."
"Well, that spray should have sealed you up, and you're still bleeding. Have you donated blood recently?"
He shook his head.
She grabbed his arm, gave him another spray.
Forest gave her another 'motherfuck'.
"I don't understand." She rubbed a finger between her eyebrows. "I'll need to put a dressing on it."
"Do what you need to keep me moving. We can't be-"
"STARS Bravo…come in, over."
They both turned to the voice, consonants smoothed over with static interference, but unmistakably Squid Aiken. Sullivan grimaced and pawed at the radio clipped to his belt.
"STARS Bravo…come in, over."
Forest shooed Chambers away, bent over, and slid the Motorolla out of Sullivan's belt. Something deep inside relaxed. Special Forces had conditioned him to operate on his own, but he was so far from a standard mission that even a single extra friendly came as tremendous relief. "This is Speyer. I'm reading you three-by. Go ahead."
A different voice answered, deep and gruff with words too loud and fast, nowhere near Squid's disciplined diction. "This is Marini. Who's with you? You alone?"
"Negative, Captain. I have Sullivan and Chambers."
"Good, are you guys alright?"
"Sullivan is injured and immobile. Chambers and I are good."
"What happened to Dewey?"
"Dewey's dead. Those dogs caught him."
Marini didn't respond, but Forest knew he was swearing.
"What's your location?"
"We're in a mansion a half-click northwest of the chopper. We're on the ground floor on the west side, in a hallway."
There was a lengthy pause. Forest tried to hail Marini several times. His idle hand scratched the injured forearm.
At last Marini's angry rasp cut through the static. The signal was clearer, four-by-five, but Marini's voice was hard to make out over the heavy breathing. "You still there, Speyer?"
"Affirmative."
"Good, we're in the mansion as well: the backside, near some sort of courtyard. We-" Marini's voice was drowned-out by Squid shouting 'look out' and a shotgun's hollow bark.
"Marini, come in."
"Marini here" The Captain took a whistling breath. It stirred the static on the line. "One of those fucking dogs smashed in a window. Do you have the bag Aiken packed?"
Forest sneered at the grenade launcher. "Affirmative."
"Is the flare gun there?"
He opened the signal-kit. A cartoon-orange revolver with squat red cartridges lay on its coiled lanyard. "Affirmative."
"Good. Aiken says he can't get a signal to HQ, and that crash probably triggered the chopper's Emergency Locator Transmitter. We've got to signal anyone coming to rescue us. If they set down by the site, they'll get torn apart. Can get up to the roof?"
Forest scratched his arm. He had seen a second-storey balcony during their run to the mansion. If he could get a decent handhold on a gutter or something, he could make it to the roof.
"Speyer, come in."
"Speyer, here, affirmative. The roof should not be a problem." He glanced at Sullivan and Chambers. "What orders do you have for Chambers?"
"Tell her to stay where she is, and leave the radio with her. We'll rendezvous with them."
"Roger that."
"And Speyer."
"Go ahead."
There was a short pause, and when Marini spoke next, his voice was softer, less muddied by the static. "Be careful. We saw someone through a second-storey window. We're not alone here."
Forest's hand made an instinctive move for his Beretta. "Roger that, Speyer out."
The line went dead. He handed the radio to Chambers and took a knee in front of Sullivan.
"How's he doing?" He picked a compression bandage out of the first-aid kit and gave his arm a tight wrapping.
"I'm okay…just…dizzy." Sullivan grimaced and put a hand to his head. He was the colour of old coffee.
"He's stable." Chambers stowed the Motorolla.
"How many mags you got left, Chambers?"
She frowned. "Mags?"
He sighed and pulled out his gun. "The things that go in here."
"Oh…clips." She patted her waist pouch. Her face sagged. She looked so much older than nineteen. "I…um…"
"You didn't clip your pouch after a reload."
She dropped her head and sniffed. If she started crying again, he was bound to give her a kick in the ass.
"They must have fallen out." She thumped a fist against her thigh. "Shit!"
Forest ran a palm down his face. "No matter." He grabbed Sullivan's shoulder. "Hey, Sully, how many mags you got?"
Sullivan gave his head a shake, as if he were roused from a sleep, and pawed at his ammo pouches.
"I've got all my loads, plus the one in my pistol." He chuckled. "Didn't fire a single shot."
"You mind spotting me a pair?"
He flopped a clumsy hand over the snap. "Help yourself." The bitterness in his voice was hard to miss. "At least you can put them to use."
"Thanks." He stowed the mags and pointed to Chambers' pistol. "You know how many rounds you got left?"
She nodded "I have four."
"Good. With any luck you won't need 'em, though. Just sit tight, but if that door gets in any worse shape, you'll have to move on."
"I'll keep in contact with Richard and the Captain."
"Good."
Chambers handed him the half-can of hemo. "Watch your arm, okay?"
"Yes ma'am." He stood and grabbed the worthless grenade launcher. If nothing else, he could beat someone to death with it. "See you in a bit."
-Don't get yourself killed-
The first few rooms were quiet: a pair of darkened offices and a storage closet that smelled like stale roadkill. Forest continued his search for a stairway, kept his gun drawn and his footsteps light. His boots padded on the hardwood, whisked over the occasional sheet of paper. The mansion looked like someone had stuck a hand-grenade in a filing-cabinet. Some rooms had more paper than rug. He didn't spend much time looking at them —paper didn't have teeth, and so it wasn't a threat— but it was mostly long strings of numbers and letters, and all written on Umbrella letterhead. This wasn't a surprise; Marini had said Umbrella was using the mansion as archives and for chemical storage. It seemed the killers were busying themselves making a mess of the archives. He didn't want to think of what they were doing with the chemicals, probably drinking the stuff, crazy bastards.
He paused, stared through a dusty window. Lighting flashed behind the trees like faraway cannon-fire. Dog-sized shadows prowled on the other side of an iron gate. His Beretta stayed trained on the glass as he sidestepped to the next door.
Two doors down and he was sweating. His pulse thumped an uneasy rhythm, and rusty nails stabbed his temples. He took a breath and scratched the bloody gauze on his arm. That dried swampy smell was stronger here, soaked into the Turkish carpets and silk wallpaper. Music played somewhere: old lounge type stuff, probably Frank Sinatra. He swallowed and wiped his forehead, pricked an ear toward a door to the right. He heard something: a light thump, like combat boots falling to the floor, and then a wet smack, definitely not Sinatra.
"I've got you…under my skin…" The tune drowned it out again.
The hinges squeaked as he cracked the door, slow and careful. The opening revealed another black room. He stopped, killed light for the room he was in —no sense giving anyone a nice silhouette to shoot at— and inched into the new hallway.
Quiet steps, quiet breaths. He grabbed his mag-light, modified with a red filter to preserve his night-vision, and swung the pistol wherever the beam fell.
"Don't you know, little fool, that you never can win?"
He heard a soft grunt, fabric tearing. Something rolled from under one foot with a musical tink. It was a bullet cartridge; he'd know that sound anywhere.
The light fell on another wall. The wallpaper was torn and sagged like a parachute. The plaster was knocked down to the laths. He took a silent step, bunted an unseen bullet cartridge. It was small from the sound of it, probably a pistol round.
The music screeched, skipped. Frank Sinatra went back to calling him a little fool.
That muffled grunt again, a light thud.
He passed a locked door, swung around a corner, kept the flashlight at arm's length and his body close to the wall. The beam picked up three divots. The holes were dished sideways, long comet-shaped scars. The shooter had fired from the other end of the hallway.
"...under my skin…"
He swung the flashlight; an overturned china cabinet blocked a door. White crockery gleamed on red carpeting like a mouthful of broken teeth. A dull-black pistol poked out of the shards: a lonely grain of pepper in a pile of salt.
The music skipped. He ghost-walked to the cabinet. Porcelain gnashed under his boots. With an ear turned to the mystery noise, he grabbed the gun: a .40 caliber Glock, breech open, no magazine, useless. He let the gun drop.
His hand came back bloody.
He wiped the hand on his fatigues and scratched his arm. His heart was racing, and he was sweating like a nun in a whorehouse, but his hands held steady. He was on mission. He was good.
"I've got you deep in the heart of me…"
Back on his feet, he shone the light over the expensive barricade, and froze at the horror on the other side. Near the other end, there was a corpse, white skin, torn grey uniform, brown blood. And there was a man hunched over the body, both hands were at his mouth.
Forest aimed his pistol. The man's tarnished tie-clip disappeared behind his front sight.
"Hey! Stand up now!" Forest sucked a breath, that awful stink: worse than the dead-pile on the family farm, worse than Srebrenica.
The man grunted, dropped a pink tube with accordion pleats. Forest recognised it as an esophagus. He ground his teeth. His bitten forearm screamed to be itched.
"This is the RPD. Stand up now or I will shoot. And keep your hands where I can see them."
The cannibal raised his head, gave a low moan as if in orgasm, and Forest let his gun's muzzle drop along with his jaw.
-I'm dead. We crashed, and I was killed, and now I'm in Hell, damned for not protecting those refugees-
The man's Slavic features, broad mouth and coarse black hair: as Bosnian as they came. His bluegrey skin and hollow eye sockets, those skeleton's fingers, tarred redblack with the other man's lifeblood. The man was a walking corpse.
Forest was dead, and his punishment for falling short in The Saviour's eyes was to be killed by the men murdered by his inaction. He was to be ripped apart, cast off in a forgotten corner and left to rot, invisible to the world's eyes.
Just as what had been done to the men and boys of Srebrenica.
"No."
His judgement tottered to its feet and picked itself over the china cabinet.
"Oh, Lord. Please."
He had been tried and was found wanting, damned.
"You shall reap what you have sown."
The dead man's eyes glowed brimstone under Forest's flashlight. Those reaper's fingers were stretched out, yearning, ready to claim Forest and drag him into the depth of Hell.
Forest shook. The flashlight wobbled.
The dead Bosniak groaned and opened his black mouth. Its thin lips, cracked to the muscles underneath, quivered as if in benediction. Its skinned palms rippled wet brown under the red light.
Forest's flashlight fell from the man's ruined face, landed on an ID tag clipped his breast pocket. It was smeared with thick black unknowable, but Forest could make out the Umbrella logo and a name: N. Shevchenko.
Forest blinked, took a step back.
Shevchenko was a Ukrainian name. Bosnians had those screwy accents on their letters.
And no Bosnian refugee dressed that well. This guy looked like a college professor, except kill-floor filthy.
Forest shook his head, took another step away. Irene said her attacker in the woods had been wearing a mask made of dead skin. That was what this looked like. Except this one seemed to be wearing a full body-suit.
"Stop right there." The authority in his voice was missing. He sounded like Chambers.
The man gurgled and staggered forward like a boozehound at last call. Forest leapt back. The killer's fingers, slippery like rotten vegetables, grazed his arm.
Forest controlled his breathing, put three feet between himself and the man. "I said stop right there. I will shoot."
-Never aim for the head with a pistol, too inaccurate. Go for the center of mass, lots of organs to hit-
The degenerate offered no sign of complying. The gun shook in Forest's hand, steadied as he put pressure on. The gun barked. The room flashed yellow.
Shevchenko staggered; one arm pinwheeled. A scrap of skin peeled off and lobbed past Forest's head.
He fired again, an inch above his first round. Dark blood painted the overturned cabinet, and the man crumpled into a brown and grey lump.
-Killed a man. Holy shit-
He let a breath out, scratched his arm, and took careful steps toward the crumpled figure.
"I said to myself, this affair never will go so well."
The music skipped, reset to the chorus. Forest crouched over Shevchenko's body. God did he ever stink. He set the flashlight aside, checked for a pulse. His fingers swam through folds or putrid skin, slid along cold wet tendon. He held his breath. A boyhood's worth of butchering pigs had taught him enough to know when he was inside something. He frowned, rolled Shevchenko over, and grabbed his flashlight.
He forced his heartbeat steady.
This man wasn't wearing someone else's skin. He was rotten. Forest's fingers had dug clean into his neck.
"Holy Hell." Forest wiped his hand clean, scratched his arm. "How the-"
Sinatra screeched, and the unmistakable sound of cracking wood and squealing hinges echoed from around the corner.
Footsteps: heavy and fast.
Forest stood, pointed his flashlight, and got into a shooter's stance. His back foot settled on Shevchenko's hand.
A shadow rounded the corner, thin and bent forward with long arms. It passed though the flashlight's beam in a heartbeat, faster than those dogs, but Forest had enough time to see what it was.
The man was naked at the waist, with skin like an overripe tomato. He had a black beard, eyes like gumballs, and long fingers that tapered into claws the length of railway spikes.
Forest fired instantly. If N. Shevchenko was supposed to be his judgement, than the thing careening toward him was Satan himself.
-Not Satan, he's got an Umbrella ID clipped to his belt. Come on, slow down!-
Forest corrected his aim, fired twice. His bullets opened bloodless craters above the sternum.
The thing wheeled left, wheeled right, clawed a harrow though the wallpaper.
Forest kept firing, three more bullets: all good hits. The thing's chest was open like a Thanksgiving turkey, but it continued its charge, faster than any man Forest had ever seen. It grunted like a big ape, and swept one of its wicked claws toward him. Retreat was blocked; Forest sidestepped. The claws sliced though his right bicep. His hand went numb; his pistol clattered to the dark floor.
"Shit!" Forest scrambled away. Hot blood rained off his elbow.
The red thing kept after him, grunted in satisfaction. Its jaw hung wide. Jagged teeth leaked red. It had breath like a steak left on the counter. It lunged, sliced at Forest again, ripped though his flak vest.
-Fuck he's fast!-
Forest jumped backward, flexed his right hand, weak but workable, and unslung the grenade launcher. He grabbed the barrel with both hands and swung it like a hardballer hitting for the bleachers. He caught the thing in the head, drove it sideways into a wall.
The music skipped.
The man-devil staggered forward and grabbed him by the belt. It was strong as it was fast, and before Forest had time to react, those broken teeth had battened themselves into his shoulder.
"Sonofawhore!" Pain rocketed to the top of his head. The thing twisted sideways like a bulldog. The grenade launcher dropped.
Forest swore. His free hand patted his pockets for a weapon, any weapon, and fell on a pistol grip, only lighter and softer than his Beretta.
-The flare gun?-
It would do.
The thing clawed at Forest's back, ripped tufts out of his vest. Forest closed his eyes, brought the gun to the thing's head and squeezed the oversized trigger.
The gun fired with a muffled 'fwap'. The room flashed sunrise-orange, and the thing bent backward. Its claws released Forest and snatched at its own face, sliced at the skin. The thing squealed like a razorback and swung its head. White phosphorous glowed from one eye socket. Brown steam curdled along the ceiling. It slashed the wallpaper into ribbons, rammed a door. The light fixtures clinked.
And as if the thing had been switched to off, it dropped its head and sagged to the hardwood, leaving an arterial-red streak on the yellow wall.
"Shit…"
Forest stood silent, rigid as a recruit, breathing like a horse in full gallop. Opposite to him, the red thing sizzled and popped. The white light from its skull winked out, and until Forest's night vision returned, the room was a black void with a spot of red penlight.
"little fool…little fool…little fool…little fool…"
He clamped a hand over his bleeding shoulder, clenched his gut, and forced the throwup down his throat. That cooked smell from the red man was just about the worst thing ever. He had smelled burning bodies before, sort of an oily-sweet smell, but this was something new: phosphor and spoiled meat and embalming fluid.
"little fool…little fool…little fool…little fool…"
The room swam and bleached grey. He needed to get out, needed to get somewhere safe and fix himself up. With fingers wrapped around his bicep and his thumb pressed into the bite-wound, Forest collected his gear and made a tactical retreat in the direction he came.
"little fool…little fool…little fool…little fool…"
Ten minutes later, Forest leaned heavy on a wooden railing leading upstairs. Blood leaked through the bandages he had cut from his shredded vest. His arm was wrapped tight enough to make the fingers tingle, but he just wouldn't clot.
Once at the top, he gave his head a little shake, cleared the fuzzy eyesight, and did a quick recce: wood paneling, a discarded white coat, crooked pictures. He was still the only living thing in the hallway.
Forest frowned. Apparently 'living thing' wasn't a very good descriptor anymore. He needed to get familiar with referring to himself as 'the only moving thing'. He had run into another of those walking corpses: Umbrella staffer, J. Howe, according to the ID tag. It had taken a half-mag to drop him. J. Howe hadn't been wearing Kevlar, and every bullet punched clean holes through his chest, yet somehow J. Howe hadn't felt them.
Forest scratched his arm. The wounded flesh had turned the colour of prunes and smelled like a ripe fart. What the Hell was wrong with him?
-Stop fretting, you've got a job to do-
He had to keep moving. There was good chance a rescue team was already inbound. He kept west, found an unlocked door, and entered a smallish room. It was similar to others he had investigated: well-finished antique furniture, overturned stacks of notes. He trailed his fingers along a rolltop desk, over a backgammon board with a coffee ring on it. Across the room, a nightmarishly deformed fetus floated weightless in yellow formaldehyde. It regarded him with insect-eyes curtained behind wax lids.
So much for archives and chemical storage, Umbrella was doing some sort of experiment here: something that had melted their skin and destroyed their minds.
Before he could explore the thought further, the room swam away from him. He grabbed a highback chair, gasped, and threw up. A few deep breaths got him stable, and he checked the dressings on his right arm. Why hadn't that hemo spray done anything?
It didn't matter right now. There was a window in this room, and beyond it, an iron railing that shone dull-grey in the moonlight.
"'Bout time." A jab with the grenade launcher made easy work of the glass. Forest climbed through, grateful for fresh air.
With his Beretta leading the way, Forest secured the balcony: nothing but rusty furniture, overgrown plants, and bird shit. He stopped near a stained glass window, twice the size of his F-250, and allowed a smile. A metal trellis ran to the roof on both sides, easy climbing compared to the muddy rope-nets at Fort Bragg.
The smile fell. He just hoped he had the stamina to make it up.
-Remember, climb with your legs. You'll tire yourself out if you just use your arms-
He gave himself a reassuring nod, propped the grenade launcher on a bistro table, and got to climbing. The wind gusted and stirred the vines. They were thick as the Kudzu back home and tangled in his boots. Occasional lightning spawned disorientating shadows. Forest was panting after a minute. Sweat stung his eyes, and he was shivering.
He was halfway up when he heard scratching, like squirrels in an attic.
"CAW!"
Forest gripped the trellis and jerked his head over. Three feet up, a crow hunched on a ledge and peered at him with its moonlit eyes, curious and aggressive.
"CAW!"
"Yeah yeah, I know you're there." Forest kept climbing, brought himself closer to the bird.
Another crow landed nearby: a big one with a hooked beak. As it settled, a feather fluttered under Forest's nose. It smelled like silage and dust.
"CAW!"
He hoisted himself another foot and swatted the closest bird. "Go on. Git!"
The crow held its ground. It ruffled its feathers and fixed its black eyes on him.
Another crow landed nearby.
"CAW!" It bobbed forward, snapped at Forest's nearest hand.
Forest couldn't believe it. He'd heard that crows could be hostile, but he'd never seen it firsthand. Well, he had an inbound chopper, and no Tennessee Turkey was going to get in the way.
He got a good foothold. "Try that again, shithead."
His hand settled on the Beretta.
"CAW!"
Its jagged beak clicked. Forest's gun answered back. The crow disappeared in a bad smelling spackle of blood and feathers.
"That's right you little-"
The rest of his boast was drowned out by a traffic-jam chorus of crows. In a split-second, the sky was full of black smudges. They swarmed from the trees, the roof, from under the balcony, moving with a single-minded coordination he had only seen with barnswallows and yellow-jackets.
-Shit!-
Noisy black shapes were everywhere. Forest's heartbeat rocketed, and he began a clumsy climb upward.
Not fast enough, not by any means. Something collided with his left thigh. It felt like being stabbed with a pencil.
"Fuck!" Faster, he had to move faster.
One leg slipped. He caught himself, leapfrogged upward. A crow landed on his back collar, snipped at his ear.
"Argh!" He grabbed it and squeezed. It bit his trigger-finger. Forest tightened his grip, felt bones crush. The crow let out a strangled cry and spat blood, but it kept biting, tore a chunk from the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.
Another crow landed on his shoulder, latched onto the soft skin near his jaw. It felt like a big shaving cut. Forest swore, crushed the crow he held into the wall and swatted the one on his shoulder. His feet slipped; he was hanging by one arm. His fingers skidded along the iron and snagged in a vee.
He heard his pinkie snap, and felt the wet evening wind buffet him as he fell.
-Oh shit! Roll when you land, elbows first-
He kept his body loose. It was instinct after his Eighteen-Bravo training. The crows followed him down, like fighters tailing a smoking bomber.
The ground came too soon. He must have misjudged. His right ankle rolled inward. The snap sounded like lake-ice in spring. Forest rolled, tried to find his feet. The sheared bone sliced at tendons. He screamed, but was drowned-out by the crows. One of the birds perched on his lapel and snapped his cheek. He waved a hand forward, bunted it away. It flew off with a chunk of flesh in its beak.
He moaned, crawled toward the window. A crow landed on his head, dipped forward and caught an eyelid. He grabbed the bird. It held tight, tore the lid. Forest screamed, pressed a hand against his eye. The crow settled on his collar, made a go for his tongue. Forest bit down, tasted spoiled meat and coffin dust.
Birds, so many birds. All he could hear were their rusty screeches. He could smell nothing but dust and blood and feathers. He elbowed forward with both hands crushed into his bleeding face. He had to make it to the window. He had to retreat and regroup.
The crows covered him: a living tar and feathering.
Forest tucked in tight, protected as much as he could. Blood flowed from a long slice on his neck.
Every bit of him was being pulled at. His clothing was torn, his skin shredded by claws and beaks.
The world brightened to an unearthly light.
His hair was yanked back.
His hearing tuned to the deafening ring of blood in his ears.
It sounded like rushing wind.
He fell.
In that last month before varsity year summer-break, Hurricane Bonnie had swung up from Louisiana and clobbered much of the state. As the storm hit Pincher, his cousin Bert, one year older and skinny and wild, had convinced him to climb the granary roof. Painted wet, they hooted and leaned into the wind. Upturned roof-shingles wagged against their brogans. Hot rain filled their mouths. Their T-shirts snapped like square-rigged sails.
Below them, trout-coloured floodwater spilled from Dead Horse Creek and blitzed across the farmyard. They cheered and waved their arms, a pair of milk-fed immortals laughing defiant at their Creator's impotent fury.
And above them, the gunship clouds marched in soldier's rows toward Little Rock.
He never felt so alive.
Front Page, Raccoon Herald, July 15 1998
Disaster in the mountains. Both STARS teams destroyed in explosion.
Ben Bertolucci.
Early reports from the Raccoon Police Department indicate that both STARS teams were deployed into the Aklay Mountains yesterday night prior to the early morning explosion that lit up Raccoon City and broke windows as far as the Cider District.
Details are unclear at this point, but it is known that one STARS helicopter has crashed, and the majority of both teams are dead or missing. The RPD has yet to list which officers have been killed but-
Front Page, Raccoon Herald, July 16 1998
RPD confirm officers slain in Arklay Explosion. Refuse to provide details.
Ben Bertolucci
At a press conference yesterday evening, RPD Chief Brian Irons confirmed that eight of the twelve STARS members perished in the explosion at the abandoned Spencer mansion, now a chemical storage facility owned by Umbrella Chemicals. Irons has confirmed that one STARS helicopter had crashed, but refused to provide any further details until 'an exhaustive investigation has been completed'.
Dead are Captain Enrico Marini 41, Captain Albert Wesker 38, Officer Kenneth Sullivan 45, Officer Joseph Frost 27, Officer Richard Aiken 26, Officer Willard Speyer 29, Officer Edward Dewey 40, and Special Officer Kevin Dooley 36. No bodies have been recovered, and Umbrella's Chemical Containment Unit claims the blast would have erased all traces of the fallen officers.
A memorial service will be held at the Umbrella Center July 18.
Page A2, Raccoon Herald, July 16 1998
Latham evacuated due to toxic plume from Arklay fire.
George Shultz
Under advisement from private crews battling the blaze at the site of the Spencer mansion fire, all seven thousand residents of Latham have been evacuated.
Facility owners, Umbrella Chemicals, are using their own specialised hazardous materials containment team to control the blaze and subsequent chemical spill following yesterday's accident. A company spokesman has assured that the evacuations are a precautionary measure, but necessary as many substances stored at the Arklay Facility can be hazardous if mixed.
Front Page, Raccoon Herald, August 1 1998.
STARS disbanded.
Alyssa Ashcroft
RPD spokesman Patrick Davies issued a memorandum yesterday morning that the department has no plans to reform the decimated STARS units. The paper makes no mention as to reasons for the move, nor does it mention the circulating rumours that STARS members were acting inappropriately and intoxicated prior to the disastrous crash July 14.
Davies could not be reached for comment, and Police Chief Irons did not return the paper's calls, but the memo pledges that when more information becomes available it will…
Page A2, Raccoon Herald, August 4 1998
'Cannibal Killings' survivor scheduled to return home.
George Shultz
Jeremy Houseman, the only known survivor to last month's sensational cannibal murders, was released from Raccoon General Hospital yesterday afternoon, bound for his Hillsboro hometown. Houseman's family state that Houseman is 'improving every day', both from the trauma suffered in the Arklay Forest and his unexplained heart-failure suffered after a week in hospital, but (Houseman) refuses to speak about the events in the woods.
A Raccoon Police Department spokesman stated that the force is 'pleased to see Houseman's improvement' and anticipates the day Houseman will be able to provide details regarding he and his wife's disappearance.
Editorial Page, Raccoon Herald, August 6 1998
RPD overreacting to surviving STARS members' claims
Allison Greaves
It is understandable that RPD policy makers have chosen to disband their elite STARS team after its six years in operation. For even though the team has had many successful and high-profile missions, most recently in assisting with the Twin Bridges siege in Montana, STARS has been largely considered unnecessary and a drain on the department's budget.
However, it is not only unfair, but illogical, to suspend the surviving officers on grounds that one or more may have leaked information to the press that Umbrella Pharmaceuticals had been conducting illegal experiments at the site of the Spencer Mansion, and that the explosion and cleanup was part of an elaborate cover-up.
Even if such allegations turn out to be untrue, to suspend without even a cursory inquiry seems to lend credibility to…
AN. Okay, I know I made a few changes to the RE storyline here (points to AU disclaimer in summary). Basically, in my version, RE Zero never happens. That's right, fangirls, no Lieutenant Billy the bemulletted badass, and no adventures of James the giant leech. And no, fanboys, in 'my' RE, Rebecca does not kick any BOW ass. She's a medic, not John Rambo.
And I'm not even sorry.
Stay Tuned!
-C
