Throngs of people packed Bangor International Airport. Families, couples, the occasional suit – Bill guessed many of them were on their way to or from summer vacations. A little girl in pigtails ran past, narrowly missing his knees, but he hardly paid her any attention. He tried to look around without looking like he was looking around. It was getting warm in the waiting area outside his gate, but that wasn't why he tugged compulsively at his collar. I wish I was as calm under pressure as Chris.
A family emergency. That's what Bill had claimed before skipping town. It wasn't a great excuse, considering the tiniest amount of digging would reveal that he had no family in Wisconsin, but Bill was counting on the low chance that anyone would care to check. Besides, he wouldn't be gone long.
Bill looked around again. He wasn't sure who or what he was expecting to see. It wasn't like he would be able to pick out someone following him if they were even the slightest bit professional.
The gate agent picked up her microphone, her practiced words amplified over the airport's PA system. "Good morning, passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for American Airlines Flight Six-Forty-Nine to Milwaukee, Wisconsin." She continued her speech as a handful of passengers began to gather patiently outside of the gate, ID and boarding passes in hand.
Bill checked his boarding pass and waited anxiously. It would be late evening by the time he would get back in to Raccoon City. He only hoped Chris was still awake when he did.
The briefing room had been rearranged hastily. Where previously a few dozen uncomfortable plastic chairs had faced the podium in neat rows, a pair of beat-up folding tables now stood. A huge map of the Arklays was spread out on their combined surface. They had tried to flatten it out, but its harsh folds made a crisscross of peaks and valleys in the paper. The chairs were now pushed out to the edges of the room, giving Bravo and Alpha teams enough space to gather around the map.
The detectives and FBI agent were there too, hanging close to Wesker and Enrico while the rest of the STARS talked amongst themselves. Wesker didn't seem particularly pleased to have them there. Rebecca felt somewhat useless as she watched Jill, Chris, Forest, and Joe debating likely places where their killers might be hiding. She tried to keep up with what they were saying, but found it difficult as she tried to untangle the mass of jargon from all their collective years in various branches of the military. There were some she knew from the police academy or otherwise, like "LZ," and some she could piece together, but other terms eluded her.
Rebecca watched Jill especially. There was a brusque confidence the more experienced woman gave off that Rebecca wished she could emulate. Jill was just so… cool was the best word Rebecca could come up with. Like some stoic, badass movie character. She could tell that everyone in STARS had a deep respect for Jill and her ideas, and it certainly seemed like she was the most level-headed member of Alpha besides maybe Wesker. Rebecca wanted to talk with her and find out how she did it, but didn't know how to approach her or even if Jill would want to talk. Besides, Rebecca hadn't really interacted with any of the Alphas beyond the occasional hello or goodbye.
Richard was helping Barry mark where bodies had been found as well as the last known locations of the five people who had gone missing in the last couple of months. Barry's red permanent marker squeaked as he scrawled another X. Rebecca felt something stir in her gut as she realized Barry had just marked where they'd found the logging foreman.
Edward and Brad were having what appeared to be a heated discussion in the corner, judging by their controlled but tense hand gestures. Rebecca couldn't quite make out what they were saying – they were trying to keep their voices hushed – but considering they were both certified to fly the RPD's helicopter on the rare occasion Irons allowed them to use it, she had a guess.
Forest looked up at Rebecca, inadvertently directing her attention back to the map. "What do you think, Chambers?"
She froze up as Jill, Chris, and Joe also turned their attention to her, waiting for a response. "Um…"
Joe gave her a welcoming smile and a wink, sensing her discomfort. "Don't worry – we don't bite." Jill and Chris' expressions were a little more intense, but by no means unfriendly or disinterested.
She studied the map again, not picking out anything she hadn't already before. There were a number of abandoned structures, some older than others. Many were in difficult to access areas. On top of which, there were a virtually infinite amount of gorges, caves, and other natural formations that would be even less conspicuous. "I think I don't know where to start." She didn't like that answer but it was the truth.
To her surprise, Chris nodded, his jaw set in frustration. "There's too much ground to cover all at once. We don't have those kind of resources, even if we pulled the whole RPD and got the Sheriff and Stoneville PD involved, too."
Rebecca tried not to look like she wanted to breath a sigh of relief.
Jill clasped the edge of the table, squinting at a few spots but seemingly just as lost. "Agreed. You could just walk past a campsite out there and not even notice in a lot of places."
"Not to mention they can just move in to any area we've already cleared. Making it a bit of a moot point," grumbled Forest resignedly.
The door swung open and Ken strolled in to the room. "Sorry I'm late. Doctor's appointment took a lot longer than expected."
Wesker dipped his head in a curt but understanding nod. "It's alright. Gather up, everyone." There was a bit of rustling as everyone in the room moved in closer, rearranging themselves as needed to make sure everyone could see. "Give me ideas."
Jill was the first to speak up. "We were just talking about how there's too much ground to cover and to many places to hide, ways to relocate, et cetera. I think we need to keep utilizing the helicopter – preferably both ours and the Sheriff Department's – and do aerial reconnaissance of the whole Victory Lake region to at least get the lay of the land. Send each out with a STARS team, that way if they find something the helicopter can drop them off and they can investigate."
Brad lowered and shook his head but said nothing. Wesker fixed him with a stern stare. "If you've got something to say, now's the time." Rebecca had gathered the captain had little patience for anything that wasn't straight to the point.
Brad glanced at Edward and cleared his throat. "It's a good idea. But…" he hesitated nervously. "We don't think the helicopter is safe. Edward and I both noticed that it's way behind on maintenance, and there are a lot of things that just didn't feel right about it when we went out last time. Lots of parts rattling around that shouldn't have been, and the transmission sounded off. I don't know how better to describe it."
"I don't know who the fuck they have inspecting and doing maintenance on that thing," Edward growled, "but I sure as hell wouldn't hire them."
Chris shrugged. "I've gone out in far worse plenty of times," he chimed in. "Never had a problem. Those Hueys are tough old birds. Besides, I have yet to hear any better ideas." He sounded a little defensive of his partner's plan.
Edward and Brad still didn't look satisfied by that answer.
"If we're really that worried about it, we can get away with only using the RPD's helicopter," suggested Jill. "It'll just be more time-consuming."
Wesker looked at Jill, still sternly, but Rebecca thought she saw his eyes soften just a bit in something of an apology. "Irons already nixed that. I asked."
"Why?" blurted Barry before Wesker had a chance to expand. The older man scowled under his reddish beard. "It makes more sense than using another department's." No one really liked the police chief, but Barry had been the most outspoken about it in Rebecca's few interactions with him. Even the mention of Irons seemed to get Barry's blood boiling.
"He says it's only for emergencies – we don't have the budget to use it for whatever we want."
Under his breath, Barry muttered, "Bull-shit." Wesker let it slide this time. It was easy to tell that the captain felt the same way. But there wasn't really much he could do.
"Look, I'm with Chris and Jill on this," Forest drawled. "I think our only real shot at catching whoever is out there is gonna necessitate an eye in the sky. Joe, you used to fix helicopters back in your Navy days. I'll give you a hand if you want to give that bucket of bolts a once-over."
"Yeah, I can do that," agreed Joe. "But you better be good at holding a flashlight real steady." He cracked a grin.
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, pops." Forest elbowed Joe in the ribs, maybe a little too hard.
Enrico scratched thoughtfully at his moustache. "I'd certainly feel a bit better about it. But, I'll wait until Joe's assessment before committing Bravo to anything."
Wesker seemed satisfied with that. "Alright then." He looked around the table, making eye contact with everyone, likely determining if anyone was holding back an opinion. "Any further objections? Vickers, Dewey – would that make you two any more comfortable? I'd rather avoid putting any of us in an unnecessarily dangerous situation."
"I suppose," Edward answered, arms crossed. "Depends on what they find."
Brad just nodded.
"Then that's settled for now. Let's hammer out the details so I can run this past the head honcho. Joe and Forest, I want you to head to the Sheriff's Department as soon as we're done and start inspecting. Get me a rough idea of how long you're going to need to do any repairs."
Joe gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up. "Yessir."
"Special Agent" Ada Wong brought one foot up to knee-height, fingers working to loosen the knotted shoelace holding the shoe in place. It had tightened up over the day, and was taking more effort than she was particularly pleased with. Succeeding finally, she slid the simple but expensive flat off and set it on the floor before starting on the other.
She had barely had a chance to warn the team patrolling the foothills. Apparently they had only packed up and fled two hours before STARS arrived at the mining camp. Now it seemed like the Special Tactics and Rescue Service wasn't going to leave any stone unturned. Ada's employer was going to be pissed, and there was little to nothing she could do about it.
It didn't help that Ada's employer's original mole in STARS seemed to be working his own angle. That's why she'd been sent in. They weren't sure if they could still trust him, and wanted more dependable eyes and ears on the inside – and on him.
It was almost like he wanted to expose what was actually going on, whatever that was. Ada, by design, knew little and planned to keep it that way. Technically she didn't even know who was paying her bills.
Maybe he'd grown a conscience, or the money just wasn't good enough anymore. It didn't really matter to Ada either way. They were paying her more than double her usual going rate, which was more than enough to buy her loyalty. And they were even going to let her keep her falsified FBI credentials, which were about as iron-clad as money could buy. She guessed they had at least a few people at the bureau on their payroll too.
Ada strode over to the end of her bed and took a seat. She began to unbutton her maroon blouse, untucking it from her skirt as she did. She had errands to run and, as lightweight as her more professional clothing was, it was still warmer than she would prefer in this unbearable heat. She missed her last job in Seattle, for the milder climate if nothing else.
A chorus of electronic beeps came from her purse. She reached in and pulled out her cellular phone, extending the antenna before answering.
"This is Wong."
The deep voice on the other end asked for a sitrep. She concisely explained the current situation. To the voice's credit, they didn't sound as angry as she anticipated. Maybe they already had a pretty good idea of what was going on.
"We have another task for you, Miss Wong."
"Go ahead."
They went on to explain that an individual had headed back to Raccoon on short notice and, based on other evidence they had acquired but couldn't divulge to her, said individual was prepared to blow the whistle and in return expose Ada's employer.
"You are to eliminate the target in whatever way you deem fit."
Ada stopped and contemplated her next words carefully. "I'm not an assassin."
"Miss Wong, you may wish to re-read the terms of our agreement."
"You forget that realistically I can back out of this any time I feel like it."
"True." There was a pause. "But that may not be the healthiest choice for you, either." The voice was amiable enough, but there was no mistaking the words as anything but a threat. Ada knew well enough that they weren't afraid to back up their words, either, if the current situation wasn't evidence enough.
She knew the money had been too good.
Well, it wasn't the first time she'd been paid to off someone. That didn't mean she enjoyed the thought – there was a reason she'd stopped doing that kind of work.
"Fine," she relented. "Send me the information on the target. But as soon as I've completed the original job you sent me here to do, I'm done working for you."
"Very well. You should receive the dossier shortly."
A nearby streetlight cast its tired glow into the otherwise dark studio apartment, its sulfer-yellow light sliced into stripes across the ceiling by the blinds covering the open window. Someone argued loudly outside. It didn't sound like they were arguing with anyone in particular, but it was nonetheless enough to keep Chris awake. He grumbled softly to himself as he tried to ignore it and get back to sleep. The numbers 2:03 burned red on the face of his alarm clock as he took a peek and groaned. Less than four hours until his alarm went off. Chris never slept well – less so when it was so warm. But his "neighbor" certainly wasn't helping.
The ruckus had just begun to die down and Chris' eyes started to drift closed when the ringer of his phone jolted him back awake. He let out an even bigger groan. Jiminy fucking Christmas, what does a guy have to do around here to get some shuteye?
Chris slapped at the top of his nightstand until his hand found the receiver of his phone.
"Hello?" he murmured, face still halfway smashed into the pillow..
There was only the hiss of static. Chris started to pull the phone away from his ear.
"Chris? Chris! Shit, dude. I need your help!" The voice on the other end, almost breaking with panic, sounded familiar. But there'd also been a rash of prank calls lately, and quite frankly Chris was getting sick of it.
"Who is this?" Chris demanded groggily.
"It's Bill!" He sounded out of breath, too. "Look, some shit happened, came across some information I wasn't supposed to, left Maine and I'm back in town, now I think there are some people after me. There's a car that's been following me and-"
Chris was wide awake now. He propped himself up on one arm. It was definitely his friend, and Chris had never heard him sound so freaked out. As a matter of fact, he'd never really seen or heard Bill lose his shit ever. "Whoa, whoa. Slow down and start from the beginning."
"Someone's trying to kill me, man!"
"Who's trying to kill you?" Chris' voice was louder now. Some of Bill's current urgency was starting to rub off on him.
"No time, man! All I can say for now is there's a lot more to those animal attacks than anyone realizes. It's real bad, Chris. Look. I'm about ten minutes from the diner. Meet me there – and hurry!"
"Alright, man. I'll be there," he started to say, but Bill had already hung up on the other end. Chris swung his legs over the side of his bed and slid into the rumpled jeans on his floor, fastening his belt all in one move. He grabbed the nearest t-shirt he saw in the darkness and pulled it over his head. It smelled like sweat and cigarettes. He took two steps toward his combat boots, not bothering to lace them as he plucked his keys from the counter.
As almost an afterthought, Chris tucked the heavy, .45 caliber 1911A1 he kept in his nightstand into the back of his pants and stuffed his badge in one of his pockets. If there really was someone after Bill, it wouldn't hurt to be prepared.
He ran outside and practically leapt into his car, the Mustang's V8 roaring to life. Chris flew backwards out of the parking spot, getting the smallest of squeals from his tires in the process before slamming the shifter into first and taking off down the empty street.
It would take Chris at least twelve minutes to get to the edge of town where Emmy's Diner was located, and he was already pushing the limit what speeds he could get away with. But if Bill was really in as much trouble as it sounded… He eked out a few more miles per hour, knowing it ultimately wouldn't make much of a difference.
Something up ahead didn't look right. Chris slowed to look at the car stopped in the middle of the road, diagonally across the lane. The small convertible was still running, tail lights burning faint red in the dark, headlights harshly illuminating the interior of a nearby barber shop. There was no one in the driver or passenger seat as far as Chris could see.
He continued to brake to a crawl, weighing his options and not liking any of them.
As much as his brain screamed for him to just rush along on his way and get to Bill, something was clearly wrong. He couldn't take off before checking and making sure whoever had been driving the car was alright. Chris stopped, engaging the emergency brake and turning on his hazard lights before getting out. He ducked back in to grab the flashlight from his center console.
He walked carefully up from the vehicle's rear, constantly scanning his surroundings. As he made it to the front, Chris could see the front bumper was dented in. There was something wet on the damaged paint. Blood.
It was on the pavement, too – just a handful of small spatters, but any blood was more than Chris would have preferred. He pulled the .45 from his waistband and racked the slide, chambering one of the large hollowpoints he kept loaded in the seven-round magazine. The blood trail led into a nearby alley.
"Fuck," he uttered, barely a whisper. He really didn't want to go in there alone, and it wasn't like he had a radio in his personal car to call for backup.
He heard a soft crunching noise, only adding to his apprehension. A chill ran down his spine despite the lingering heat.
Chris clicked the power button on his flashlight and shone it into the dark gap between the buildings. He saw what appeared to be a leg sticking out from behind a big, green dumpster.
There was also a lot more blood pooling out around it.
And something moved.
Chris stepped quietly down the alley, eyes never leaving the corner of the dumpster. The hindquarters of a dog slowly came into view. He brought the .45 up, noticing a slight tremble in his hand. There was another crunch, this one very clearly meaty, almost wet. Chris was only a few yards away now and could also hear raspy breathing. It sounded like the beginning of a growl.
"Hey!" he yelled at the animal in the scariest voice he could muster, not really sure what else to do. The dog really began to growl then and turned, its gore-covered face coming into view. The beast was massive, like a Doberman on steroids. Its teeth shone white in the flashlight's bright beam as it snarled and let out a vicious, gravelly bark that made Chris' "scary voice" sound wimpy by comparison.
Chris began to back away, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but that alleyway. This thing had already eaten dinner – he would very much prefer not to be dessert. Images from the animal attack case files flashed through his head. He tried to fight off those images so he could focus.
Something was wrong with the dog's skin, like it had a really bad case of mange. Patches of fur were completely gone, replaced by oozy, scabbing sores. Its eyes were milky like they had begun to develop cataracts.
It barked again and lunged, moving with incredible speed.
The .45 bucked in Chris' hands. Its thunderous report was almost deafening in the confined space. Thick, dark blood burst from where his well-placed round had hit the dog. It stopped dead in its tracks.
But it wasn't dead.
Instead of collapsing to the ground as Chris reckoned it should have, the dog slunk backward, head low, still snarling. It was lining up for another attack. Chris brought his sights up again and squeezed the trigger, but the dog moved at the last second. The .45 slug cracked harmlessly into the asphalt.
In a flash the dog disappeared into the dark. Chris started to run after it, but the animal was long gone.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Chris walked back over to the body of what he assumed was the convertible driver. The dog apparently hadn't had a lot of time with the corpse – the middle-aged man was mostly intact, minus the mangled hole that used to be his throat and pile of intestines partially unraveled on his lap. It smelled like hot roadkill. Chris suppressed the urge to wretch as he stood up and headed back to the road. Nothing he could do for the guy now. His ears rang from the two gunshots, but he kept his head on a swivel in case that… thing… returned.
"Shit!" he suddenly exclaimed, remembering that Bill was waiting for him. Two squad cars arrived. Someone had apparently called 911 when they heard the driver screaming, the officers informed him. Chris filled the officers in as quickly as he could before sprinting back to his car. They protested, yelling out behind him, but he could deal with their complaints later.
The Mustang swerved around the two black-and-whites as he resumed his original course. He was maybe four minutes away.
Up ahead was the pink and orange neon sign that filled one window of Emmy's, glowing like a beacon in the night. Chris accelerated the last bit before jerking the car into a parking spot, lurching abruptly to a halt. He killed the engine and ran in, throwing the glass door open wide and jangling the bell above wildly on its tether.
"Chris!" the pink-clad waitress, Rosie if memory served, greeted with a charming smile. "Hey, there was some guy here for you a bit ago-"
Bill already left?
He cut her off, still feeling the adrenaline from his encounter in the alley and fighting the rising panic about where his friend was. "Where'd he go?"
A few of the sparse customers turned to look their way, but most lost interest or decided it wasn't any of their business almost immediately.
Rosie looked a bit worried now. "Um, I… I don't know," she stuttered. "Chris, what's going on?"
"He didn't say anything? Leave a note?"
"No. He just got up and left with some woman who walked by his table. They drove off together."
"Did you get a good look at her?"
"No, and they were on the side of the restaurant with no other customers," she said, gesturing at one side of the L-shaped dining area as if to prove she was telling the truth. "Bill specifically asked to be seated as far from anyone else as possible. I thought it was a little weird, but-"
"Did you see the car?" He didn't mean it to, but his voice had slowly gotten louder and the question came out almost as a yell.
"A blue sedan. Uh, light blue. I don't know, maybe a Toyota? I don't know cars, Chris!" Her hands were shaking and it looked like she was going to start crying. One of the truckers looked like he was poised to get up and intervene.
You fucking jackass, he scolded himself. It's not like she knew what was going on. Lay off of her. Chris took a deep breath and tried to regain his composure. "Hey, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice like that. But Billy is in danger, and anything you can remember could help me find him."
"Yeah, I um…" she said, looking at the tile floor, clearly a bit shaken up by the sudden interrogation. She swallowed nervously. "I think the license plate number started in P-A-M."
"Good, I can work with that. Can I use your phone?"