Prologue : Counting Sins
4:00 P.M., Eastern Section, Raccoon City—The Somers Residence
The sight of the rust stains discoloring the Somers house was enough to make Tony Charleno's skin prickle. Umbrella sure had its way for hiring an interesting blend of careless (and psychotic) scientists. The stains flaming downward from the storm drain stretched itself vertically, creating and almost eerie fire decoration across the house exteriors. Details like these simply made Tony more grateful of his job as a plumber.
"Yo, Tony!" Enrique shouted. The volume of his voice nearly made him jump.
His head turned, pivoting around his neck to focus on his plumbing partner. The young bastard was wearing nothing but baggy jeans and a wife-beater. A goddamn wife-beater. The same white shirts you always saw on those beer-bellied slobs from those Cops episodes was on his partner. And he was about to enter a house with that on.
"What is it," Tony said solemnly. He had enough of Enrique's way of dress. Sure, at home the man could cross-dress with his girlfriend's lingerie, wear nothing but his fucking underwear—even roam the house naked for all he cared—Tony didn't mind any of that.
But to work alongside him wearing a shirt that exposed nothing but his scrawny arms and smelly pits—not to mention being able to scare away nearly half their customers—is what really fed him up. Proper attire was a requirement to Tony's plumbing business. He didn't care if he looked dirty wearing overalls and Ben Davises. They were plumbers, not street thugs. And with a fellow partner in the business not dressing to meet his standards, this pissed him off. Tony Charleno was gonna teach Enrique Chavez a big lesson. A very big lesson.
"Should I bring the propane torch or the auger?" Enrique asked, unaware of Tony's abrupt movement toward their van. A blank surprise brushed through his face. Enrique could sense something was wrong. "Or maybe I'll just bring both?"
Tony didn't answer Enrique's question. He saw his boss heave himself into the back of the van. His large face was red with anger. To Enrique, it seemed as though he might of pushed Tony a bit too far. He must of done something to switch off that light fuse of his. Done what, though? He simply asked him about which tools to bring. Was he pissed off at him because of that?
From the car window, he saw his boss's eyes glaring at him with rage. The same kind of rage seen in a serial killer. Tony backed away from their van, he took slow steps.
"Chavez…come here for a second, I want to teach you a very big lesson."
He heard rustling coming from the van. Something metallic; something heavy.
"Tony," Enrique said. His voice was beginning to quaver, sounding like a spindly pubescent clerk being held up at gunpoint. "I don't know what I did to piss you off, but whatever I did…" he swallowed hard, causing his throat to squeeze itself tight, "…I'm really sorry. I mean, I'm sorry, I really am sorry for what I did, Tony."
"Sorry, eh?" Tony's eyebrows began to narrow until they changed the outlook of his eyes. Now they looked definitely psychotic. "Italians like me don't like accepting apologies, Enrique. So either you take off that A-shirt you're wearing and quit this job, or I'm going to have to remove you the hard way because you're dead, boy, and your Hispanic head is mine!"
Enrique dropped his tools. They bounced on the pavement and rolled around beside his feet. He was quite positive that he could take on Tony any day—he had boxing running straight through his blood, but there was something else about the anger in his boss that terrorized him. It was true…it was actually beginning to happen.
Tony Charleno was going to kill him. He was actually about to kill him.
The steps Enrique made back were slow and began to increasingly numb him with every step. No, he thought, no, it can't be…please God, Jesus, what the Hell does he have in there. Please help me Lord, dammit…he's coming out of the van. Oh shit. Fuck me, he has a wrench and he's going to kill me! Holy shiiit my God, HE'S RUNNING STRAIGHT AT MEEEEEEE!
Enrique threw his arms up as he saw Tony rush out the van with that huge monkey wrench. The three-foot beast was raised high over his shoulders, aiming downwards onto Enrique's forehead. He then felt Tony's immense weight press down over him. The big guy leapt on him.
His body was thrown into the lawn of the Somers residence, he felt Tony's impounding mass crushing his stomach while he struck down at Enrique's forehead, delivering massive damage. He was sure to be dead now.
The wrench made contact with the top of his head, and Enrique felt everything. He felt the jagged teeth of the steel tool boring through his skull and encapsulating itself with the warm mass of his brain. His blood collided with Tony's grinning face. He saw this happen over and over again with Tony's continuing swipes. The wrench slammed into his head six…seven…eight…nine times without hesitation until Enrique felt his head growing numb with the pain.
Numb…with the pain…after nine times? Wait a minute.
Enrique opened his eyes and saw his supervisor as he continued to swing the wrench at his skull. He was laughing. The monkey wrench slapped him across the face again. He didn't feel the same pain he expected. All he saw as his boss winded up for the next swing was that the rubber wrench was wobbling. It was not only wobbling—it was jiggling before his very eyes. Enrique threw his hands onto his forehead and felt nothing but sweat. Sweat that felt like blood.
Tony howled with laughter; his hand came down and slapped Enrique on the chest. "Jesus, Enrique!" he chuckled while picking up his words again, "you're so fucking gullible! What were you thinking—I worked with you for two years, my boy, you actually thought I was gonna kill you?" His spasm of laughter continued, throwing bits of his saliva onto Enrique.
He was surprised to be alive; saved by a joke played on him by his boss. So I guess Tony ain't that killer type after all, Enrique thought. He shook his head. "Don't you try that again, I mean it. Geez, man, you know…you almost had me wetting my pants, for Goodness sakes! Now, how do you think my baby's gonna respond to me going home one day all soaked in my underwear?"
"She's gonna laugh her butt off, Chavez, because you're too uptight," Tony grinned. "And that wife-beater! For Christ's sake, Tony, you actually think I'm gonna let you wear that outfit in this nice neighborhood?"
Enrique sat up, wiping the blades of grass off his shoulders. They were yellow and frail, occasionally clinging onto his clothing. "Look," he bent down into his boss's eyes, "I was planning to change a minute ago before you had to go fucking Anthony Perkins on my ass!"
Tony chuckled, his deep voice still sounded authoritative. "Enrique, after ten more miserable years with you, I'll still have to remind you to never wear your funky shirts around me. Face it, you have the memory of a chicken. And I'm used to it."
"What, are you implying something about my heritage being—"
"And after two years, Chavez… two years, you still forget about never talking back to me. You're a lucky boy, Enrique, and you know I would've fired you long ago if you hadn't kept that mouth shut during your first days."
That was enough to silent Enrique. He brought his face down in apparent shame.
"So what's in store today," he asked.
Tony Charleno stood up. His sagacious image was tall and noble. "Get dressed, we're going to work with a special client today. You like Umbrella cola?"
Enrique nodded. "Sure, best nature-stuff I've tasted since Snapple. Why?"
"We could be getting a few free samples if we hadn't scared him off already."
"Great, I could definitely use a drink for this moment."
Tony walked over to the tools Enrique had last dropped moments ago. He bent down and picked up the closet auger. "Why did you decide on bringing the fucking auger?" he asked while the coil hanging from its tip swung freely, "we're working with a toilet for crying out loud."
The brown eyes on Enrique blinked twice. On normal circumstances you needed an auger to unclog a toilet. "But…don't you need that to drain out the toilet?"
"Not if we're planning on tearing it apart," Tony said, "the man says it might be pretty serious." He then picked up the propane torch. "Guy said we'll be needing more of this." Tony held up the torch for his naïve partner to see.
The eyes of his naïve partner widened. "You're telling me that we will be tearing out a toilet, right?" Enrique made sure he was actually positive of this.
Tony nodded, and with perplexing eyes, he added, "And get this: the man wants us to bring a jack-hammer…he says something really large could be down there."
"He wants us to bring in the Bosch so we can drain a toilet?"
Tony's face was unchanging. He nodded again.
"So," Tony asked their blonde customer, "how long have you been working for Umbrella?"
The Somers guy looked at him with sharp eyes. Sharp blue eyes. "Oh, around three…no wait, five years. That's right, five years."
Tony nodded, smirking a light frown. For a scientist working for one of the largest Corporations the world had to offer, he sure seemed unsure about what he was saying.
"That can amount to a good sum of experience," Tony said, chuckling lightly. He faced Enrique and slapped him across his shoulders while maintaining his laughter. Enrique was wearing a grey Dickies outfit—he now looked like the hard-core Mexican he always wanted to be. He faced his client while smiling. "So, Mr. Somers…"
"Kyle…Kyle Somers," he interrupted, "just call me by my name." He nodded, smiling frankly. "And yes, five years can amount to lots of good experience."
"Well hey!" Tony widened his eyes as he spread his arms. "Experience is what it's all about!" He smiled. Really, all Tony could conclude was that this Kyle Somers was one strange man to begin and end the road with. Extremists like these were not everyday types for a Raccoon City plumber to brush business with—but hey, the guy works for Umbrella, the folks down there must overwork the poor soul for all Tony knew. "So," Tony continued, "they must overwork you fellas down there, but we common citizens here at Raccoon favor the new drink you've provided us! Hell, to give free samples of your fragrance products before they're released…now that's meeting consumer demands!"
Tony must of mentioned something sensitive to Kyle. His face suddenly flushed red, as if he were blushing…or trying to cover up something. "Yes, yes…thank you, thank you very much," he said, "I'm glad you actually enjoy our products—and no, they don't really overwork us. They're quite flexible when it comes down to schedules." He then chuckled, nodding again.
"That's good…real swell." Tony placed his palms together so that it looked like he was in some prayer. "So, let's get to business here, Kyle. What exactly is the problem with your toilet?"
"Well, as I said before, it's simply clogged."
"And you've requested us to bring a jack-hammer and, which was recommended, a propane torch," Tony replied. He was actually making sure if this man actually meant what he said about bringing those extras.
"Yes, exactly," he nodded again. "I have this very faint feeling something large must have been lodged within the pipes down there. I just want you to make sure if it is something large down there, and nothing else."
Tony may not have noticed this earlier, but Kyle's voice seemed disturbed somewhat. It looked as if he was housing some intense emotions concerning what they were about to do with his toilet. This made Tony decide in raising this question for Somers: "Before this…clogging …has anything out of the ordinary happened to the toilet that must of caused it to clog? Meaning you drop anything? Or did anything particularly large become stuck down there?"
He looked up, apparently locked into his own thoughts, then looked at Tony again. "I don't remember anything being dropped in our toilet. Since my wife and I don't have anybody else living in this house, there was no way anybody or any thing would have dropped some object down there to cause it to clog up that way."
Tony nodded. "Hm, looks as if we might just be dealing with dirt and debris buildup. You sure nothing happened to the toilet that you could of missed?"
"Well, my wife did have a miscarriage and we flushed it away. That was a month ago, I think, but anything else…I don't think so."
Tony chuckled. "Baby must of grown down there," he said, continuing to chuckle.
Kyle smiled blankly in return.
"Hey," Enrique said, interrupting their developing silence, "cute kid."
Tony looked to where Enrique was standing. On the shelf, there was a framed picture of a blonde, blue-eyed girl of about 12 years. Smiling beside her was Kyle and what looked like his wife. Must have been one happy family.
"Ah, Sherry," Kyle said. "Yeah, she's a good kid. We were always trying to have a child…my wife and I. Been trying for nearly a year now."
"Oh, that's not you in the picture?" Enrique asked in amazement.
Kyle shook his head, laughing. "No, no…" he laughed again. "That's William Birkin—my cousin, lucky man. He's one of the head scientists at the Raccoon Branch of Umbrella. He has it all…I have nothing." He smiled.
"Oh!" Tony let his sentimental side take him. "Need not to feel you have nothing, Kyle! You got us, at least…the best plumbers in Raccoon I shit you not!" He turned to slap Enrique on the shoulder. "Is that right, my man?"
Enrique nodded, sighing to himself. His eyes rolled upward as he shook his head.
Tony smiled to cheer up his customer. Nothing like good 'ol heartiness. "I think your cousin Birkin should be jealous. You have us on your side, Somers, don't worry."
"May we get to fixing the toilet, gentlemen?" Kyle said, ignoring Tony's display of affection. Tony swore to himself he heard Enrique snickering behind his back.
"Sure, okay Kyle, let's do it," Tony said; his smile faded.
"I'll just be getting some business done upstairs while the both of you get that job done," Kyle said.
"Okie-dokie," Tony replied. He turned to Enrique and nodded. "Let's go."
"Ready…now!"
The toilet seat lurched forward, swaying a bit before steadying over the opened drain. Brownish liquid gushed from where the toilet and floor split apart. It crawled outward, spreading across the white tiling while leaving nothing but paths of darkened clumps. One of the chunks settled near Tony's boot.
"Ah, damn!" he cried while bringing his arm to his nose. "Seven years being a plumber, Enrique, and I haven't smelled shit this bad in my life."
"We should get this job done before that smell kills us," Enrique said, wincing.
They set the toilet lying in the bathtub. A small stream of clotted fluid slithered its way down the tub's drain. Both plumbers stood above the hole where the seat had been while gazing down the murky depths of its drain. Tony looked at Enrique.
"Oh, hell no…am I sticking my arm down there," Enrique said.
"Paper-Rock-Scissors," Tony said. Enrique nodded.
Both of them held out their bouncing fists. Tony brought out a rock.
Enrique's hand shot out a paper. He won.
"You lucky bastard," Tony said as he grinned. He then took a look at the drain.
The circular opening, around a foot in diameter, silently greeted Tony's proposed stare. The dark liquid made it impossible for him to see what was clogging the pipes down there. Small masses of shit floated silently on the surface. The silt-like haze clouding up the liquid slowly drifted around the water's area in small clouts. Tony readied his arms to plunge them into that mysterious area.
"Are you insane, man?" Enrique interrupted. "I thought you were just playing around! Let's just cut the crap and get the hammer set in!"
"You're too uptight, Enrique." Tony smiled. He liked doing stupid things. Whether it had the ability to kill or fatally injure him for life, Tony liked that. Plunging a bare arm into the smelly drain of a clogged toilet didn't seem to him as bad as sticking his arm in a sink drain equipped with a garbage disposer. So what was the risk? His arm would smell like shit? Ha! Tony liked living on the edge. Even though his life was anywhere but "the edge," he liked spicing things up.
He sat himself on the wet floor and brought his arm down the drain.
At first, the cool sensation of water engulfing his arm rushed to his senses. He brought his hand around, spreading it, feeling the rough surface of the pipe while grab-bing whatever object came floating within his grasp.
Something caught his arm—nah, it was just a soggy clot of toilet paper.
"Becky's pregnant again," Enrique said.
Tony jumped a little, shaken in surprise. His arm shot back and splashed some water all over the floor. "What? My Becky's pregnant?" He turned his face to meet Enrique's. His eyes were widened in dumbfounded astonishment.
"Told me it read blue the other day," Enrique said. "Look, don't kill the messenger—I was just doing my job. You're grateful I'm telling you this."
Tony's nostrils flared. It was the second time his daughter had a baby. His arm went deeper, now clawing away at everything that came within its path. "It was Brian, wasn't it? That bastard, Brian Leeman, I specifically told her not to see that—"
"Hey, the man's not as bad as you think he his…he's offering to take care of the baby for crying out loud! I mean come on! The guy at least makes up for the fun he's had—types like him are a lot harder to find than you think."
Tony grunted, gritting his teeth together. Whatever his stiffening arm could find down there, he'll rip to shreds. Oh yeah. He looked up at Enrique again. "What about the last guy…Ben, that's right, Ben Hogan—wasn't that his name? You know, the nerd turned football player?"
Enrique brought his hand back to scratch his head. "Died, he died in a car crash. I think a drunk driver went head on with him—he wasn't wearing a seatbelt, poor guy."
Tony chuckled, smiling. "That's right," he grinned, "deserved it for first making my daughter pregnant in the first place." He chuckled again. He wanted the same to happen to Brian—yep, bastard number two…that'll scare the rest of the next guys from fucking her again. He smiled.
"Whatever you say, Tony," Enrique said, "All of them weren't exactly the scum of the planet, but you had to terrorize them anyway—jeez do you think trying to wire bombs on their cars will make them stick around any longer? I mean give me a break."
"You shut up." Tony raised a finger at Enrique, he was still trying to find the source of the clogging with his other hand. He might as well give up and hammer the whole bathroom inside out, if it makes him feel any better. "Besides," he continued, "I'm gonna need some money so I can hire a hit man to shoot these pathetic low-lives."
Enrique smiled. "Who you gonna hire? The Mafia? The Government? One of Bartowen's hit men?" He snickered in amusement.
"Whatever comes to my attention," Tony said bitterly. His hand probed deeper.
"You think Bartowen, one of the most powerful crime bosses in the world will ever want to work for you?"
"I never said I was going to hire that scary fuck, Chavez, and why in the hell are you bringing up that bastard's name in front of me? You could probably get us killed talking about him like that."
Enrique shook his head. He then crossed his arms. "You're too uptight, Tony."
"Too uptight, huh?" Tony's eyes widened. Now he really felt like killing this prick who had been his partner for over two years. Two goddamn years. "Who the fuck was the one screaming, 'you almost had my pants wet for goodness sakes' after I ran out with a fucking rubber wrench. You're almost lucky I hadn't had a real one to unload on your wetback ass!"
Now Enrique's eye's widened. "Wetback? Who the hell you calling 'wetback' you jack-ass, motherfucker!" He then brought his arms up in a boxing guard. He was sure all the way that he could take down this Italian in any fight when given the chance. "So you want to put on a war, Tony—is that right?"
It was as if Enrique's words caused it to happen.
Tony, just about to retaliate and give Enrique another year-long lecture, stiffened as his eyes grew wide—with terror. The arm that he had probing down the drain jerked as if something caught it…or grabbed it. It then pulled him, causing his whole arm to be sucked down the malicious aperture. Tony grabbed the remnants of his voice and screamed.
"MY—FUCKING SHIT! AH, SHIT!" Tony cried. The pain was unbearable as he lied flattened on the floor with his arm being pulled down the toilet drain—and being chewed off by something. Something...
Well, my wife did have a miscarriage and we flushed it away...
Tony screamed again, his voice stretched out as his scream carried along with the continuation of time. At first, he felt a sharp prick as if a whole plethora of knives dug into the flesh of his arm. Then came the jerk and the pull. When it suddenly pulled him, he felt something in his arm go snap and was suddenly being yanked down the toilet drain by a force that seemed to equal the tugging of a large shark. But the pain he was now suffering this very moment made all that he had experienced feel like sweet massage therapy.
Sharp pain…cutting at his arm, tearing it away chunk by chunk ran through his senses. God, it felt like barb wire was scraping him across the wrists, picking up some of his veins along with it severing a tendon and twisting a ligament. It did all that and grinded together at the same time. Tony yelled out something indistinguishable to the English language. He couldn't stand it any longer. So he yanked at it. Yes, he pulled back, hoping to somehow loosen its grip on him so he could actually be free.
And he felt Enrique's arms wrap around him—he was helping! The bastard had heart! In between the hate, the prick was willing to help!
Enrique pulled, heaving with all his strength to release his boss from the clutches of whatever had him. His teeth were pressed together, showing a fine set of them in the unintended grin. He groaned as he tugged harder while hearing Tony scream louder.
"Almost…have you…Tony," Enrique winced under the pressure, "just a few more tugs and you're gonna be free…" his strained voice said.
They then both flew back into the wall beside them, slamming into it in one cold thud. The force caused the water to splash back over them, enabling some of the brown clumps to smash into their face and clothing. Both plumbers lied there silently. Tony, with a pale face was staring at his right arm. Enrique, dazed from his impact with the wall, stood panting with his arms embracing Tony from behind.
"OH MY GOD!" Tony shrieked. His right arm was literally gone. It was severed to the point where from his hand, and up the joint of his elbow, was torn off. Blood—mixed with the putrid sewage—rapidly dribbled off from the protruding bone of his arm. It rained down all over the white floor, smudging it red. From the developing crimson puddle beside Tony's foot—and with the help of the fluorescent lights—the outline of the cartilage emerging from Tony's detached elbow joint appeared in the liquid frame.
Both plumbers focused their eyes on what then came out of the drain hole.
From his first sight of it, Enrique thought a whole pile of shit was coming to life before his very eyes, but he knew better. The thing that came shooting up from the drain was brown—like the shit Enrique thought he had seen. One moment to Enrique's eyes, it was wide as the diameter of the drain hole—the next, it unfolded itself to the width of a terrifying five feet. And when its head came up to smile at Enrique—placing it around four feet tall, his face grew pale, and from the trembling in his lips, he felt like screaming the same way Tony did when his arm was shredded by it.
Tony took in shallow gasps while slowly squirming back with Enrique by his side. It looked like a spider—four legs with a bulging, large body attached to them—but at the same time, it was the most ugliest thing he had ever seen. Its tale, like a scorpion's, stood high over its head. Its eyes were white slits. Its teeth looked like a pair of combs stuck together to form a devilish grin. And with all its features intact before Tony's eyes, it leapt on him.
"Enriiique!" Tony hollered helplessly. If this lost soul could save his life from the thing today, then this Mexican hombre would be receiving one hell of a fine promotion en la manana. But from the looks of it, Tony's gonna have to save his own ass for now.
For a moment the pain left him, and Tony was suddenly the enraged Italian his reputation bore. His left hand jabbed at the beast in midair and grabbed it by the neck. Yes, he grabbed the fucker by the neck!
"Enrique, dammit!" Tony yelled while turning his head to face him. The ugly monster was beginning to push him towards the wall behind his large body. "Do something, grab anything!"
Enrique just sat back and gawked at what was happening. His hands were shaking as the set of his eyes rushed to find something useful. Do something, grab anything, the voice of Tony continued to ring in his head.
Tony stared into the eyes of the thing. The pupil-less slits looked back down into his own eyes. He sneered. It drew its mouth open and shrieked into his face. In its open mouth, a line of spittle stretched thin between its upper and lower jaws shuddered during its ear-splitting screech. A pack of lines then came sprouting forth from the sides of its body—shaking lines swinging and winding around like tentacles. The thick legs, each pronged at the tip with an assortment of blades, brought itself around and swiped at Tony's thick gut. The blades of its foot came down, disappeared into Tony's abdomen, and reappeared blood-drenched in the same swinging manner a pendulum went—back and forth and to-and-fro until nothing but ribbons were left.
The pain was faint to Tony's aggression, as his adrenaline anesthetized its sweeping feeling. He took the matter into his own hands. The vise-grip he had on its neck strengthened itself exponentially. Tony then leaned aside and brought the monster high over him, so he can swing it down and smash its head into the edge of the toilet. And he did slam it into the hard surface. It brought out blunt thuds with every crushing impact.
Tony smiled. He was able to lift the monster and bang it against the rim of the tub at least five times. At each, he saw its face begin to cave in until it became nothing but a soggy surface of blood and bruised flesh. But he also saw what it already did to his arm.
He screamed, bringing his damage on the thing to a slow tap. The little fuck had slashed away nearly all the flesh on his left arm. The whiteness of his radius and ulna—still miraculously attached to his arm—stood out from the stringy sinew. Blood was everywhere, speckled over the walls, and painted over every white surface within a three-foot radius. Tony screamed again. And the thing fell on him and began its turn with the infliction of damage.
The shocked eyes of Tony scanned the bathroom. Enrique was still rummaging through their bag of tools. There was nothing in the bag that could lay any sort of lasting impression on it. Nothing that could remind it of Tony and Enrique's wrath.
"The jack-hammer!" Tony screamed as the thing sat on top of him and slashed his face apart. "Enrique! The Hand Jack-hammer, grab the fucking Bosch!"
Enrique looked at his boss. That was it! The propane torch and the handheld jack-hammer! It was lain out on the front porch! If he could spare a few seconds to run out and get the tools, then that thing would be finished! Fucked straight off the planet! He then burst out the bathroom and raced to get the much-needed tools.
When Enrique ran from the room, the image of his boss being shredded by the thing stuck in his eyes. It stuck in his eyes the same way bright lights became multi-colored blurs whenever he clenched his eyelids shut. From that image, he was able to make out the nightmarish scene depicting the monster about to plunge something down Tony's mouth. He didn't know what it was, but to him it looked like the trunk of an elephant.
Enrique crouched low behind the entrance to the bathroom. The propane torch he had in his arms was lit, giving out that buuuuurr sound as the bluish flame continued to jut out the spout. The jack-hammer, plugged with an extension cord from the living room, was in his other hand.
And all he could heard was silence…except for a slow, squishing sound. Enrique waited.
Squishing…more squishing…silence…then squishing again…
He peered around and looked into the bathroom.
What Enrique was seeing was almost exactly what was left in his mind when he left to get the tools. The brown thing was sitting over Tony, sitting still as a tube was forced down his mouth. Except Tony was dead. His eyes were pupil-less, leaving nothing but whiteness in his dead eyes. But the tube down his throat was alive and it contracted one moment and thinned itself the next. After every few seconds, the spot on Tony's stomach rose and fell as if he were breathing.
Enrique tightened his lips together. Tony was dead…he was really dead. His boss whom he shared conversations with, laughed with each Friday night, consulted with whenever he had problems, and worked side to side with for over two years…was dead! Dead by some animal born from the toilet. And whatever that thing was doing to him, Enrique wanted it to suffer for what it did to his boss, and his friend. Suddenly, all Enrique could feel at that moment was anger—vengeance, blind fury. The hands gripping the tools began to shake with rage. He pulled his lips back, showing his teeth.
"I'M GONNA KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" Enrique squeezed the trigger of the Bosch, mini jack-hammer in his hands. He felt the inner motor sputter to life while its sharp tip began to repeatedly jab into the air with increasing speed until it blurred. The 100-decibal noise it made ripped across the walls. He ran into the bathroom and brought his foot over the thing and flattened it to the ground while the rapidly loud br-br-br-br! stood above its shrieking face.
Enrique rammed the active hammer down its abdomen.
A fountain of the thing's blood came squirting up. The liquid licked and stained Enrique's pants while the monster rocked violently with the motion of the jack-hammer. Its head repeatedly slammed into the tiled floor while its long legs swung up and down in staccato movements. The tip of the hammer's furious stabbing blurred within the flood of bursting red. It screamed, shrieking into Enrique's ears like the sound of an metallic object scratching the chalkboard.
Enrique smiled, watching it struggle to wriggling back amidst the jack-hammer's death prods. "Where do you think you're going?" Enrique asked in sarcastic sorrow. He chuckled. "Now who's the man?!"
The jack-hammer stopped, and Enrique began to ease with his laughter.
He looked at the crushing end of the hammer as it slowly waned from a deadly weapon to a benign garage appliance. The reddened, silver tip began to weaken in its action, ceasing to blur as it once did. The in and out motion grew slow before rolling to a stop. Enrique looked behind him. His jaw dropped.
The extension cord wasn't long enough.
"No! Shit, shit! This can't be happening!" Enrique cried. The hiss below him became the answer to his statement. He looked down. The thing was still alive, barely damaged from the previous strikes. Enrique's hand clenching the propane torch sprang to life.
If only Enrique's draw was faster than the monster's clawing swipe…then he'd still be living, as a happy plumber in Raccoon he would be. He'd own Tony's business—the money would all go his direction, and he'd probably be off on a vacation to Tahiti in the next few days. Hell, Malibu seems nicer. In fact, anywhere on Earth would seem a lot nicer than what Enrique's life turned out to be this very moment.
It freed itself from his foot and the claws rapidly slashed at his legs. The momentum of its swinging brought itself off the ground, clawing up Enrique with its slashing. So in other words, as it was slashing him to shreds, it was practically walking up his body to reach its face. And it did reach his face.
Enrique Chavez screamed—his last out of a number of many.
Genetic specimen A34-8.5, Version A. Code name: "Licker"
Primary Role: To infiltrate strongholds while choosing to dispatch as many enemies as possible. The augmented tongue of specimen A34-8.5 was created to ensure quick, fatal strikes to our enemies in points that would prove severe to the human body. Such places included the neck, where its tongue could easily lash at, causing a wide laceration across the carotid artery. The victim would easily perish in seconds from blood loss. This defensive mechanism proved to be highly useful until later updates.
In the more recent developments, the large, curved hooks, or "claws," modified to the creature's skeletal structure added immediate complexity to our established view of the tongue's integrity. With its naturally elongated skeletory limb, the Licker could achieve tremendous status as a feared, heightened killer. With only one downward swipe with its claws, it could quickly eliminate a common soldier, resulting in an immediate decapitation of the head, or of total separation of the body thereof…
The "Licker" didn't frighten Kyle as much as the new "Breeder" did.
And they were all formed from his cousin's creation: the G-Virus. He went over the notes memorized in his head again, beginning to tremble. With his mind, he ran over the notes pertaining to the newly-developed "Breeder" strains of G-Virus.
Genetic specimen B45-B714, Model 29. Code name: "Breeder"
Primary Role: Impregnation of allotted "victims" to overwhelm enemy forces. Specimen B45-B714 was designed as a less ethical method for insinuating enemy defenses. The creature, as described from superiors, was referred to as "the virus of the larger world."
Its function included the impregnation of its embryonic form (either in spores, or its more traditional embryo) into its host. Within a range of a matter of seconds to a number of hours, the creature grows covertly within its host, folded tight to avoid any feeling from the infected host whatsoever. When the Breeder is ready to emerge, it spontaneously erupts from within the victim, causing immediate death to its host. Recent tests from our experiments have shown that in the moment of its birth, the victims have been reported to show no pain or alarm in the moments before the Breeder's emergence.
Our problems concerning Models 1 and 15 were solved with the introduction of the Model 20 series. Our current version, Model 29, have been our perfected form. The creature holds a set of pronged "claws" nearly similar to the Licker's (smaller in whole), and the tendrils-armament added proved to be extra-useful to the Breeder's defenses. The four-legged configuration of the specimen now enables it to scale walls without difficulty. The creature is now optimized for use in prison areas for its ability to compact its insect-like body through tight crevices as small as three inches in width or diameter. With these multiple abilities, the Breeder is a monumental discovery since the upbringing of the Tyrant Strain of G-Virus...
Kyle Somers heard a scream from downstairs. With the first thought in mind, he assumed that the two plumbers downstairs were pulling pranks on each other as they have been earlier outside. Then the sound of the jack-hammer calmed him down. Good, they were working on his bathroom pipes as planned. Fortunately, nothing out of the ordinary happened. He remembered how one of them—Tony Charleno being his name—talked about Umbrella's future plans with the fragrance canisters.
Hell, to give free samples of your fragrance products before they're released…now that's meeting consumer demands!
What did the citizens of Raccoon know about consumer demands? They were being experimented on daily. Either it be within the depths of the "newly established" facility below Washington Hospital, or within the covert mansion in the forest destroyed earlier, Raccoon City was the center of Umbrella's experimentation. And now…with haste decisions, they now wanted to test their destruction on the whole city. The same city where one of the more powerful strains were being developed. What that Tony was talking about…the "consumer demands" with the fragrance canisters, was Umbrella's first stage in trying to experiment their new biological weapons. It was known as…
The First Order of Contagion—the introduction of harmful organisms within a city-wide population.
Umbrella was to introduce the T-Virus and G-Virus through two separate occasions. One was the airborne form of the virus. Another involved its liquid state. The fragrance canisters (through a free, door-to-door delivery) were used to test the overall effectiveness of the airborne mutation via a controlled, airborne vs. liquid experiment. The liquid form of the virus was introduced by way of the "Grand Opening" of the Umbrella lab facility beneath Washington Hospital. (The lab had been operating in secret since 1985) In the drinks of hundreds of the Umbrella beverages, the virus rested in the drink would later infect the hosts, causing key carriers of both virus forms. Both organisms are no longer contagious through air or contact with liquids when inside the host. The only method of spreading the virus once the key carriers acquired them, was through the same way AIDS or rabies was transmitted—bites or transfusion of blood among different hosts. Umbrella hopes through its first step in the experiment, they could study the effectiveness of the Virus on the population of Raccoon City using only its key carriers…
And that was scheduled to happen in the next two months.
The scream downstairs startled Kyle. He looked around, apparently confused in a jumble of his own thoughts. It couldn't be. No…it could not.
That scream wasn't human. It sounded high…in between a tea kettle's, along with a little of screeching tires. An average human can never achieve that.
Kyle's face discolored itself until it became lightly pale.
It was a Breeder's shriek. Nothing else in the world made that sound.
How could it be? A Breeder in his own house? It couldn't be…impossible.
The shriek continued, slicing through the house and into Kyle's ears. When the scream waned and lessened itself, it sounded like an ally cat's serenade to the night sky.
Kyle brought his senses together. He looked at the weapons cabinet across the room. A shotgun rested inside. He didn't exactly remember how to fully manage it in his arms, but he knew. All you had to was place the shells in place, pump the front handle with every shot, and squeeze the trigger. Easy.
He opened the cabinet and pulled the long gun out. The weapon was huge…he remembered it being called a Remington, but that was all. Kyle had no time to study the shotgun's characteristics. It was a present given to him from a friend.
The box of ammunition had only 8 shells. Kyle filled the chambers with seven of them, leaving one in his pocket. The shotgun felt heavier now, its brown color seemed to exact itself into an expression of ferocity as the large stock at the butt-end pressed itself to his chest. A fine specimen, indeed.
He held his breath and bolted downstairs to the bathroom.
Oh my God, he thought. The two bodies laying in front of him were definitely that of the plumbers. One of them—Tony he made out—had his right arm practically missing. His other arm, his left, was shredded away, revealing the bone underneath. The other plumber, Enrique, had his whole face torn inside out. It looked as if someone had held an exploding grenade before his face. Gnashes of his skin and muscle tissue were strewn everywhere. Kyle saw the spherical, white mass of his eyeball hanging from the socket of his face. It looked like a tetherball the way it hung there. But Kyle then brought his eyes to see what both of them had in common.
Their stomachs were both rising…and falling rhythmically. Soon, the rising would become more rapid and the Breeders would emerge. Then there would be three roaming Raccoon, each with the ability to spread its seeds and increase in number from each host. An average scientist at Umbrella would marvel at the work of their newfound weapons and allow the Breeders to continue in their work. Kyle didn't.
Kyle Somers tightened his jaw, causing the spot on the sides of his cheeks to rise in a stiff bump. He brought the barrel to Enrique's stomach and pulled the trigger. He did the same to Tony. Both bodies behaved the same way to the shotgun's deafening roar. Their stomachs housing the Breeders burst apart in a wave of flowing blood. It splashed on the white walls, making it more red than it already was. When Tony's stomach exploded, he was momentarily airborne as he was lifted off the ground and landed on a pool of his own blood. Kyle crouched before the dead plumbers. Their eyes were open in white blankness. He brought his palm over to close both their eyes.
"Rest in peace, Tony…and Enrique," he said. Sorrow overwhelmed him. He never knew he would have to put a shell down their stomachs, killing them, but they were infected by the menace Umbrella created. The menace his cousin created. Kyle grit his teeth and observed the trail of blood leading from the bathroom, across the living room, and into the garage. He grit his teeth again.
He paused, looking at the bathroom. The white walls were smeared, laced, and splattered with blood. The floor was a red sea. The propane torch, still lit, caught his attention. Kyle bent down and picked it up. The bluish flame coming from the nozzle was intense…able to melt anything within its range. Good.
Kyle made his way out the bathroom. The living room was silent. Silent except for the constant Brrrrrrr sound of the torch. He followed the trail of blood.
Hiss…a faint hiss, came from the garage. A Breeder's hiss.
Kyle's grip on both his weapons tightened. He felt his palms sweating. The shotgun suddenly began to feel heavy in his arms, nearly becoming a burden instead of a weapon. The hiss continued.
Kyle inched his way into the garage, his foot making brushes with the ground in careful movements. Breeders were very adept at sensing sudden movements made by people. He turned the torch off. The sound would make it very difficult for him to ambush it. And thank God, he thought, that there are windows in my garage to light up the place. The hiss, sounding like a snake's, sputtered in whispery breaths.
He saw the Breeder. It was resting on the wall with its head turned…watching him. The thing knew he was coming. My God, it knew. It bent low on the wall, bending its legs upon its joints—and left the wall headed for him.
Kyle threw his torch aside and aimed with his Remington. He fired twice, never forgetting to pump the front end back with every shot. Both shells missed the Breeder, hitting the ground in a flurry of dust. The spent casings bounced on the floor.
It landed on the floor five feet away from him, screeching loudly. Kyle noticed how large this one grew to become. It was a lot larger than most of the test specimens. And those were estimated to withstand around three direct shells of a shotgun to kill. This one might take up to five if Kyle didn't miss. And he had only four shells left.
Its open mouth dripped blood as its tentacles sprang forth to whip at Kyle. He dodged it, running around other sides of the garage to place his next aim toward its body. He pulled the trigger.
The shotgun leapt in his arms this time. It rammed itself into Kyle's chest as it struggled to hack another shell from its barrel. But it did knock the Breeder back a few feet. The shell's contents slammed into its thick abdomen. Kyle pumped another shell in place with his grip on the front handle. The plastic red-gold covering leapt from the slot in the shotgun's barrel. He fired twice more at the Breeder. One piece of ammunition hit the joint of its leg, ripping it off its body in messes of tossing particles. The other caused a section of its body to burst with an impact of red. It was still alive.
Kyle dug into his pockets for the last shell, watching the Breeder recover to its feet, literally wounded to the point of being impossibly alive. He loaded the last shell into the chamber and cocked the shotgun. He fastened his foresights on the breeder. It was no longer at the same spot. It was instead in the air inches from his face.
He threw his hands up, using the weapon as a narrow margin of protection against the fearsome claws. The Breeder threw its surprisingly immense weight on top of him, pressing down over Kyle and hoping to impregnate him the same way it did to Tony and Enrique. When it was on top of Kyle's shoulders, he stood his ground to the weight, and instead of falling back to crash into the floor, he hurled the screaming nightmare towards the gas pipes. Kyle then aligned the sights on his barrel toward the gas valves. One last shot…and it'd better make it.
He pulled the trigger.
The lead bearings left the barrel, breaking out in multiple directions in the loose flight formation. The bearings cut through the distance between Kyle and the Breeder, slowly inching toward the gas valve with every impending millisecond. The lead balls struck the gas valve, cutting through like knife through cheese and tearing away the metal pipes to spill forth the gaseous contents running through them. The spray was white and was kept under high pressure. The Breeder opened its mouth to a high scream at Kyle. But contrary to many Hollywood movies, the gas did not ignite. It stayed invisible and poisonous in its gaseous state.
Kyle didn't know what to do. How was he going to ignite it? Light a match in front while it exploded in his face? His eyes scanned the garage. The Breeder perched by the valve hissed. If Kyle did not take advantage of this situation quick enough, then the Breeder would escape. He had to find a way to light that gas up quick.
The propane torch…yes, how could he be so forgetful. But he needed a match to light up the torch.
A Bic lighter was on the table. Kyle hurried himself over towards it.
He snatched the torch and the lighter. The small flame lit from the Bic's miniscule nozzle. He twisted the cap to the torch and the blue flame shot out, so brilliant and bright. In the corner of his eye, the Breeder was preparing to leap itself onto Kyle again. (as it always did) If it succeeded to leave the spot and land on him, then it could have a chance to escape…and continue to breed.
He brought back his arm holding the lit torch and flung it toward the broken valve in one large wave.
The Breeder already left the air and was airborne again.
Kyle dove back and crashed through the window behind him. The large glass fragments gave way to his back. It cut him in certain places, but he was okay.
The torch, spinning in midair, drew closer toward the hissing valve, briskly missing the Breeder by less than an inch. If it did make contact with the thing, the breeder would still be alive to the days that followed. The silver nozzle (with the flame blowing from its opening) struck the leaking valve, sounding out a metallic clink!
The gas pouring from the pipes ignited. The flames brought itself to spread through and bloomed from all areas the gas flowed from. The ignition caused a chain reaction. First, the bursting flames crawled along the direction of the pipes, bursting their thick, steel hide as they caught the gas within. The combustion of chemicals continued until the flames reached the main gas tank somewhere within the walls.
And half the house exploded.
The bellowing flames swallowed the Breeder, burying it within the depths of the budding inferno. It shriveled within the engulfing fire and disappeared into fragments of shattered ashes. Then the flames blew the remains away. The searing cloud grew in its influence with the air until it splashed out the same window Kyle came from. The garage became a living container of heat and explosions.
The rupturing from within the house shook the first floor, shattering the windows.
The wood boards fastened to the house walls were flung forth into the air, leaving patches of black emptiness on the exterior. Near the walls of the gas pipe—and far away from Kyle's position—the wall bellowed with an eruption of fire. It gave way, spreading its fragments all over the street in clusters of flaming debris.
Kyle lied on his back while staring at the blue sky above. It was a beautiful day. The smoke inching its way up toward the Raccoon City sky was black and thickening before his eyes. Soon the Fire Dept. would arrive, then the ambulance, and so on. He felt comfortable resting on the dying grass in his lawn. He didn't have time to water them. Usually his wife did that…
The blissful expression on his face erased itself. In the last two days, he nearly forgot all about his wife. Where has she been? Kyle brought his memory together. To put facts together, he hasn't even seen her for two days. Then it all became clear.
He sprung himself off the grass and screamed. He screamed at the sky, the beautiful sky. He screamed until his throat could no longer handle the emotion it tried to translate from his brain. He brought his hands to his face, bawling uncontrollably. Tears moistened his palms. When the neighbors soon find him, asking him what was wrong, he'll tell them it was because of his house…when it really was because of something else. Something powerful that will grip this city and tear it apart.
(Umbrella. The Orders of Contagion. The different specimens. The experiment.)
The fucking fools…they were experimenting on his wife.
(Umbrella will pay…)
The Breeder…grown in the drain of his toilet, was his offspring.
(…For the creator of the G-Virus…)
He killed it…killed his own son; killed his own daughter.
(…William Birkin…)
Kyle knew his wife was dead—they'd tell him, but he knew the truth.
(…His cousin, a part of his family, was responsible for all of it.)
(All of it!)
Kyle brought his head back and screamed again, killing off his voice for the next couple days. He was to make sure something very special will be done for Umbrella.
Something, in his own mind, that was very personal.