Note: The two documents in this chapter (marked with *) are taken directly from the game Resident Evil: Survivor. They are added for plot purposes. Capcom owns them, I do not.
Chapter Seven: Name is Identity
Walking straight into the confusion around him, the pilot had a look as if he had no purpose, lost. With his memory gone, the main focus of his current mindset was why am I here? Slowly walking to the next street over, he looked at his current environment. Buildings surrounded him on all sides, and by the looks of things, it looked like a small city. Apartment buildings, shops, cars, all had no life in them. It was as if the place suddenly became a ghost town. His eyes diverted to something in the middle of the street, but from the slightly blurred vision, all he could make out was that it was white, stained with dark patches of color. Peaking his interest and curiosity, he walked closer and found to his shock that it was a man, slumped face down on the ground, his white lab coat stained red with blood. From the look of it, the man died very recently.
Hmm…he looks familiar…I don't know why he does, but he does. Hmm? What are these?
Kneeling over the fallen man, he noticed a set of dog tags in the man's clenched hand. Taking the shiny metallic objects, the pilot examined them closely. On the dog tags was the inscribed name "Ark Thompson."
Guess that was his name.
Suddenly the pilot noticed an acrid smell in the air, the smell of rotting flesh. Its pungent aroma caused the pilot's stomach to turn in a wave of nausea.
God! What is that awful smell? Where the heck is it coming from? Is there a dead animal nearby?
Looking behind him, he froze at the sight. Walking groggily towards him was a human—a human that had blood on his shirt. And his mouth. And his hands. And dripping from said mouth.
What the--
His eyes were glazed over, a filmy off-white color. His mouth looked like a giant red sore pasted to the front of his decaying face.
What the fuck are you?!
The rotted, moldy arms reached out, letting out a moan as the source of the terrible, shitty smell of death closed the distance—
--when suddenly two bullet holes ripped through the creature's head, blowing away chunks of brain, skull and rotted meat, blood running in torrents. A third shot to the head, straight through the glazed right eye, and he staggered backwards, falling to the ground, his head cracking open on impact. A shiny object fell out of the man's pocket. A pool of blood formed by his face, the one remaining eye filmed over with red. Images of horror movies suddenly flashed back to the pilot, and he only came to one conclusion.
A…zombie…
He placed the gun down, and walked cautiously over to where the carrion lay. Near his leg was the object that fell. Bending down to pick it up, he noticed that it was a key. Rusted, but a key. Instinct told him that he had to seek shelter immediately. There could be more of those—things—out there. A little ways down the road, he saw what could have been a church. Seeing that being the only thing, he ran now for the church. Reaching for the handle, it didn't turn. It was locked.
Hmm…maybe…
His luck held true, and the rusted key turned. Once inside, he did a quick look-see for danger. Nothing. From his observation, the church was small, and relatively simple looking; not too fancy or extravagant. Well maintained, for the most part. However, something didn't gel right, for above the altar was the image of an umbrella carved into the wall. Walking through the church, he decided to investigate where some of the back doors went. He found a room, observed that there was maybe a bookcase or two, and noted nothing suspicious about it, except for an open publication on the desk, perhaps a diary of some sort. And so he read:
*October 7, 1998
Today, the leaders of each section of the city, including myself, attended a meeting with the commander. The briefing was on the destruction of Raccoon City.
During the conference, everyone placed blame on William Birkin. He betrayed the company and wanted to keep the G-virus for himself. The commander told us that if there is a traitor like Birkin in this city, we should execute him immediately and without question.
I wholeheartedly agree with the commander's orders. This city is as vital to Umbrella as that laboratory in Raccoon City was. No...It is actually much more important.
We must not allow a biohazard to happen in this city. We cannot let Umbrella's efforts to buy the city and establish these billion-dollar facilities go to waste. We should keep a closer eye on the behavior of personnel in the future.*
Raccoon City? Umbrella? William Birkin? Why so familiar?
Confused and disillusioned, he exited. Seeing no further use for being here, he found the back exit of the structure and exited. The door led him to an isolated street. A feeling of being lost swept through the dazed pilot. The street was unfamiliar, uncharted territory. He walked what he felt was down the street, until a new faint sound was picked up by his ears. At first, he thought his ears were ringing, but as he got closer, the ringing got increasingly louder. His confusion was tossed aside when he saw the pay phone at the corner of the street. Running over to the telephone, he picked the receiver.
"Hello? Who is this?" the pilot said, his voice firm.
Click.
"Hello? Hello? Anyone?" Annoyed, he sighed and hung up the phone. As soon as he did, he heard a whiny, raspy sound, similar to a sound of nails scraping a chalkboard.
What the hell is that? A car screeching?
Looking into the haze, he spotted a silhouette of something. Whatever it was, it was moving toward him—fast. He could hear the sounds of tick tick as the thing headed toward him.
Talons?
Finally, when it got into his clear line of view, he could not believe what he was seeing. He froze in shock at the gruesome sight of the creature, the size of a full-grown man, and he stared at the skin, noticing that there was no skin—the entire body covering was an intricate network of living, breathing red muscle. He could make out the puffy gray-white substance of a partially exposed brain, seeing the scar-rimmed spots where eyes could have been.
No fuckin' way. Not possible. I'm seeing things—what kinds of creatures like that exist? Where the hell am I?
The totally unreal creature lashed out its tongue, a long, very long thin tongue, almost like a lance. Hanging from it were gobs of viscous saliva, giving it a sick shine, and from the shocked mind of the pilot, it looked like that tongue could pierce straight through a human body with no problems at all. It let out another roar, a feral sound that combined the screeching of tires and nails before rushing toward him, closing fast.
I'm gonna die—I'm gonna die—talon will rip me in half—die—die—
He let out a scream and suddenly he found himself firing the Glock, the bullets hitting the warped creature with a sick splatting sound as they took chunks of exposed brain with it. The creature suddenly flipped over on its back, its legs spasming violently.
Whew…
Until the creature got its legs under it and flipped itself over in an action movie-type back flip and headed for him again. He fired round after round, taking chunks of the body with it until—it leaped into the air with surprising height and flexibility and began falling rapidly toward him, one razor-sharp talon exposed ready to slice the hapless pilot in two neat halves—
--when the last bullet went straight through its face, this one taking out a significant portion of grey matter. It let out an earsplitting screech of pain, and landed hard on its back, its legs flailing everywhere before finally relaxing, dying in a puddle of its own viscous blood. Breathing heavily, the pilot stood there, dumbfounded at the hideous creation lying still in front of him, the legs splayed out around the mass of still muscle. His gun raised and still panting, he treaded forward very slowly, his sense of hearing heightened, hoping he wouldn't see another one of those monstrosities, let alone hear one. Further up the street, his eyes could make out some infrastructure, and upon his getting closer, he saw a sign saying "Arcade." Directly outside the arcade entrance, he noticed another pay phone. Seeing it as unimportant, he kept walking steadily up the street, curious but scared to see where he'd end up. No more than three steps went by until the phone rang, startling the confused pilot, letting out a cry and aiming his Glock at the ringing pay phone. Sighing with relief, but feeling slightly sheepish for letting his fear get the best of him, he walked over to the pay phone and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?" He asked.
"Vincent," a cold voice responded.
"Who? Vincent?" A look of confusion came over his face.
"You are nothing but a cold blooded murderer," the firm voice accused.
"What?" The pilot asked, shocked. "Me?"
"Don't play games with me, Vincent," the male voice shot back. "You are a ruthless assassin. A killer. Murderer."
"I am not a murderer," the shocked pilot said, his tone of voice showing irritation. "I demand to know more!"
The voice laughed.
"Please—" the pilot was cut off by the sound of a click. The line was dead. "Hello? Hey? I'm not done talking to you!" He let out a cry of frustration as he slammed the receiver back down.
He called me a murderer. What did I do? And who is this Vincent? Am I Vincent? Did I really kill people? This doesn't make any sense, no sense at all…hmm?
He heard the sounds of a helicopter approaching his position. Wait…make that two. Make that…several. The pilot looked up, only to find his suspicion correct. Several helicopters were heading over him, and suddenly he saw men in black and blue uniforms jump out of the choppers, descending over him. Seeing the small group of uniformed soldiers suddenly caused feelings of panic to creep inside the scared pilot. They could have been assassins, someone that he didn't feel like messing with. They looked like a force not to be reckoned with. Looking quickly around him, he noticed the closest possible shelter was the arcade directly in front of his position. Looking inside, he saw that it was dark, offering a possible hideout. His mind made up, he ran to the entrance and found, luckily, that it was unlocked. In no time, he was safely inside, and found a position to hide while looking out the window. His heart pounding, the sound of his heartbeat thundering inside him, he saw the SWAT team touch down just by where he stood a moment ago. Several men stood in front of one officer, facing him. He was probably the commander, he couldn't tell.
"You know the drill, men," the commander said, his voice muffled by a respirator. "You are to cleanse the area of its infection." The group gave a collective nod of approval. Just then the pilot saw two zombies approaching from behind the group of "cleaners," their arms outstretched, chunks of decayed flesh falling off them. With almost lightning speed, the group turned and fired semi-automatic rifles, completely eviscerating the viral carriers as decayed skin, bone, brain, and blood sprayed everywhere. The whole process takes about three seconds, and after they dispatched the two zombies, the group split off in all directions, save one. The one remaining SWAT officer turned his head immediately in the pilot's direction. With frightening speed, he ran headlong into the window, the pane shattering, sending shards everywhere, the sudden sharp sounds piercing the eerie silence.
Shit—shit—shit—he knows where I am—
In his clear line of sight, the fearful pilot saw that up close the SWAT officer looked more like a gorilla dressed in body armor than anything else—the arms reaching almost to their feet, and he was moving rapidly toward the pilot, rolling around on his knuckles like an ape.
Another weird creation? This is getting more bizarre by the second…
On pure instinct, the pilot aimed his gun and fired two bullets in rapid succession. To his shock, the SWAT creature let out a feral roar, screaming like a dying wildcat before suddenly dissolving into nothingness. Gone. Poof. Just like that. Powder. He stared at where the creature just was, and was totally bewildered, to say the least.
What the hell is going on here?
Suddenly a shot rang out, and a bullet flew straight into the wall next to the pilot, sending bits of drywall flying. The pilot let out a cry of surprise, and he dove behind an arcade game, hoping to shield himself from the sniper. He breathed heavily, realizing that that sniper fire came within inches of ending his life, a premature death in unfamiliar territory.
"Vincent!" The sniper yelled from what could have been the other end of the arcade.
The pilot sat on the tile floor, completely motionless and silent.
"I know you're around," he yelled. "If I were you, I'd watch my step from now on. Next time I see you, I won't miss," he said menacingly. The sniper seemed to make an exit, his footsteps fading into obscurity. He sat there for a few minutes thinking.
Who is this Vincent character that everyone seems to hate? Am I him? Is what the man on the phone said true, that I really am just a cold-hearted murderer? An assassin? That can't be right…but what if I am?
He rose to his feet, and did a quick look around, hoping for a somewhat easy exit. He walked back toward the rear to explore a bit, gun raised, hoping not for another run in with the sniper. Finding nothing of interest, he headed to the rear exit and headed out into another unfamiliar street.
* * *
Even though it was blissfully quiet in the safe haven of the elaborate sewer network, it was a complex maze. Safety does no good when you're lost. Without a bearing at all and no landmarks in sight, Lott Klein was, in every sense of the word, lost.
"Damn," the young teen says under his breath. He had a basic knowledge of the sewer system on this island, but nothing looked familiar at all. Every passageway was lit by lights attached to the damp stone walls, giving the atmosphere a creepy feel. Still, the contamination didn't spread to here, so he was safe…for now. He came to an intersection, and was faced with two possible directions—left or right. Making a sporadic decision, he decided left for no reason. Lott ran down the dimly lit hallway, the smell of dank, mildewed air invading his nostrils. He could hear the steady drip of water echoing throughout.
I have to find him…he must know…
Several days ago, he had reported to Vincent Goldman, commander and overall leader of the island, that a spy had managed to get to the island. Not too long later, twenty prisoners like himself had escaped, only to meet up with death. Rumors about the cause of death flew, ranging from a mass suicide to all of them being gunned down. Then the trouble began. Soon, former soldiers and employees began roaming the streets like the living dead, and in the fray, everything seemed to fall to contamination and ruin. Where was Vincent? Lott had no idea, but he was scared for his life. Scared for him, scared for his sister Lily, scared for everyone. This was something he had never seen before in his life. Nothing was right anymore. It all happened so quickly, one strange quixotic event to the next, that it was bizarre—too bizarre. What had happened to everyone on this island? Were the rumors true? Was this the same fate that this so-called rumored Raccoon City endured? All those questions, with no concrete answer in sight, having their own possible explanations, each one seemingly more farfetched than the previous one. Then again, Lott was plunged, forced, into the current situation. He had to protect his sister from the evil man, those evil creatures, the evil everything.
"Damn it," he swore softly, realizing that he came to yet another intersection, but this time he was faced with only one choice—left. To his right was a cave-in, probably a result from whatever chaos, human, animal, or otherwise, had done.
That's new…
"Might as well." Lott said to himself, going left. He saw something in the distance, and his excellent young eyesight showed him a ladder going up. A fleeting feeling of joy entered the young boy's heart, a sense of accomplishment after running around aimlessly for what seemed like hours. Hoping to achieve his goal, he kept running toward the ladder.
*September 6th
I've never seen him, but I heard that one called Vincent has become the city's supreme commander. Officially, he is an elite sent by Umbrella headquarters. In truth, he is such a fiend that he would not hesitate to kill his friend it if would promote him. Well, since I live here in this
dark sewer, it doesn't mean anything to me...
September 20th
I heard a disgusting rumor... The new commander Vincent, orders the facility personnel to do savage experiments every day on kids brought in from all over the world. I don't even know why those kids were brought to this city, but it sure is disturbing. Well, I don't want to get involved, so long as it doesn't affect me...
October 10th
It seems some terrible accident happened above ground last night. I don't know any more details, but I heard that Commander Vincent has done something cruel.
November 9th
Today at last, Commander Vincent came down here for an inspection. We made small talk, but I could see nothing but cruelty in him. When I took a picture of him as a souvenir, he became very angry...he is such a jerk!*
Flipping to the last page of the diary, he found a picture of a very familiar looking man. The man in the picture wore the same thing that the pilot was wearing now—a dark green parka with dark brown pants, slacks, if you will.
This man in the picture…it's…me.
And then a sudden revelation:
That means…I am Vincent. I am…this cruel man that these people say I am. It's true. The man on the phone, the sniper, the diary, all of it…true all along.
Vincent heard the sound of metal, someone climbing up a ladder from the open manhole near him in the office. Pulling his gun and aiming it at the opening, half hoping that it was one of these bizarre freaks, half hoping it was a human, a human just as lost as he was. The figure climbed up into his view, his back facing him. From Vincent's perspective, he was a young boy, probably no more than sixteen. He wore a long short sleeved yellow shirt, covering the waist of his black shorts, and around his neck he wore a set of dog tags. Vincent sighed in relief and placed the gun down. When the boy turned to see where he was, he cried out in surprise to the fact that he wasn't at all alone. The boy's eyes widened in a look of total fear.
"Don't—don't shoot—" the boy stammered, his hands raised in automatic defense. "Don't—kill—kill me—"
Vincent's expression changed to confusion and he took one step toward the frightened child. "Why would I?" Vincent used a calm voice. "Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you. If—"
"Get away!" the boy yelled in fright.
"Please, I won't—"
"Don't…come…any closer," the boy said in a frightened whisper, backing away.
"But…"
"No! Get away!" In one quick motion, the boy bolted down the ladder, and ran, ran into the sewer tunnels below. Vincent, wanting to find the boy, also began to go down the ladder into the unexplored territory below.
When he arrived at the bottom, he turned around just in time to see the panic-stricken child turn a corner to the right.
Why? What does this have to do with me? I need answers…
"Must…get…away," Lott said in between heavy breaths. His worn shoes hit the ground hard with each running step away from that man. In a sudden flash of vision, his mind recalled the way back to Paradise, and Lott knew that's where he must go. He looked behind him, seeing to his horror that he was still behind him--a considerable distance, yes, but still tailing him regardless. Lott tried to lose him by making quick turns into other passageways, but to no avail. The man kept up with him.
"I won't hurt you!" Lott heard the echoed cry of the evil man reverberate off the tunnel walls.
Yeah, you and all of the guards say the same thing…all of you…
"Liars!" Lott yelled back. He kept running, running as fast as his legs could carry him. His heart felt as if it was going to burst, it was pounding so hard. Finally, after seemingly endless miles of running through the humid labyrinth, he found the ladder he so wanted to find. Almost crashing headlong into it, he quickly got a firm grip and pulled himself up the metal ladder, rung by goddamn rung. He climbed out in front of a gate, and without a second thought he bolted inside, shutting the gate behind him, hoping Lott would lose him.
Damn! Where did he go?
He came out onto a passageway where he last saw the boy. Looking quick in both directions, he saw a ladder to his left.
He must've.
Hoping he wasn't long gone, he too headed up the ladder. He came out directly in front of a thick gate, barred with metal. It looked very much like a gate to a prison.
Could he have run in here?
Looking behind him, he could see several zombies some distance away, walking toward him with that familiar stagger, the same moaning sounds. There was now no doubt in his mind that the child ran into here. He looked at the gate once again, and saw a sign with just one word.
Paradise.
A/N: Wow. Almost halfway through! So, how do you like my attempt at beginning novelizing RE Survivor? Let me know! Soon Chapter 8 will be posted. Send me feedback!