Chapter 1: Surviving the Horror
| Sergeant Freemont Lassart | |
| Corporal Wilson Gammon (second-in-command) | Private First Class Andrew Watchreid (strategist) |
| Private First Class William Patton (soldier) | Private Sloan "Stymie" Hackson (soldier) |
| Private Kyle Hedgewick (pilot) | Private Jane Quigg (nurse) |
| Private Haley Ysborne (sharpshooter) | Ed Payton (sharpshooter) |
| Private Flora Lamont (communications) | Civilian Benson Coldwart (negotiations) |
I feel since everyone else is doing this, I'll have to as well. Basically, the whole concept of Resident Evil, and a lot of the plot points taken from this story, have been directly grabbed from the Resident Evil series. The characters I created, but the whole concept, and the title 'Resident Evil', belong to Capcom Games. And, of course, legally, I can't accept money for doing any of this unless directly licensed from Capcom Games and, since I'm not, well.... There goes that idea. This isn't a Capcom-approved fanfic, either. Wait for five minutes to let simmer, serve, and enjoy.
Will sat in the uncomfortable chair as he watched what looked like stars float by the windowpane to his left. He couldn't really tell. They could have been burning asteroids; this far away from the atmosphere of Earth, anything was possible. The twelve-man shuttle had just slowed down to a comfortable speed of about three hundred kilometers per hour, maybe a little more. But Will was never a good judge of speeds, especially in space. As he watched, he could see his brown hair and somewhat-square jaw reflected back at him.
They had exited Earth's atmosphere exactly--he checked his watch--nine hours and forty-eight minutes ago, and he'd been sitting almost the whole time. He was aching to get off his butt, walk around, do a little stretching.
He wasn't too worried about being in space. He'd been in space before; heck, that was his job. He and the other ten special tactics members were trained for space operations. But, after exploration had pretty much burned itself out, there really wasn't anything to do. No supervising the construction or coordination of space stations on Mars or Venus. No otherworldly skirmishes. And those space pirates hadn't shown their faces for months now.
But then, eleven hours ago, Earth had gotten a transmission from the moon. It almost seemed like a 'Houston, we have a problem' type of transmission, but for some reason, the transmission had been delayed for days, almost a week.
Scientists on the moon--called Luna--had told the people back on Earth that transmissions would be shut down for a little while. It turned out that the planets around the sun were in such a position that satellites would have to send signals around it (what a large beast). So, as much as they didn't like it, they had to dedicate the moon's satellites to the task of bouncing signals from Venus around the sun. All of the satellites. Especially with the political battles fighting for territory on Venus, half of the satellites went to cover news stories on that problem alone. Since there was no shipping that needed to be done to or from the moon, everything seemed normal. No transmissions, no problem. It was expected. But what wasn't expected was the garbled message Earth had received when the sun passed by. It was unintelligible, seemed apparently like some sort of hoarse moaning. Even amplified, there were no spoken words.
So here Will found himself aboard this ship--the Goliath, as it was called--in an army of eleven soldiers that was being sent in to investigate why such a strange message was sent... and why no additional transmissions had followed, even after hailing. Will hated it when the government assumed siege. Or at least that's what it looked like the government was assuming by the looks of the riot gear and heavy artillery weapons they were taking with them.
He looked over at Edward Payton, sitting in a seat a couple of rows in front of him, green as a pale patch of moss, trying to hold whatever was fighting against his gag reflexes to get out. Will chuckled. Payton always got sick on the way up. It was a wonder he got through training. But, then again, he was one of the better marksmen the militia had to offer. If there indeed were a siege, Payton would be invaluable.
Will could hear Sloan "Stymie" Hackson behind him as he leaned forward to tap Will on the shoulder. "Hey, Will," he said. "I haven't heard anything from you. What do you think of all this siege stuff they're probably thinking?" Stymie must have gotten the same idea that Will had, most likely from the gear they were taking with them.
Stymie was a typical thrill-seeker: quickly amused and loved the thrill of battle whenever death was near. He got into the thick of things, was usually the first to jump in with reckless abandon and no second thoughts. And he was good at it.
Will turned his body as much as he could while still held in the seat. He peered at Stymie through the small crack between his seatback and the window. Stymie's long, blond hair was tied back into a ponytail, and his scruffy face hadn't been shaved in a few days. "Not much," he said, answering Stymie's question. "I'd hate to say it, but I think we're just getting a free ride to the moon, and that's all."
"Yeah, I thought so. It's always like you to assume the least fun scenario. I mean, come on. A lot can happen in a week!"
A slight smile cracked Will's usual Poker face. "Sorry about that. I'm just an optimist."
The sound of a door slamming open! Will turned forward as Stymie lifted his head to peer above the line of seats. Mission Sergeant Freemont Lassart entered through the cockpit door after having given their pilot, Kyle Hedgewick, instructions on where to land, and probably had made a few attempts at hailing anybody on the moon.
"Listen up, people," Lassart started, in a stance that left both hands held together behind his back and his legs spread apart at shoulder length. Will heard that Lassart liked to start his briefing the same way every time, just like in the movies, but this was the first mission in which he'd been under Lassart's command. "Here's the situation. We haven't heard anything except for one unintelligible or garbled message from Luna since July 7, 2099." He stopped and looked over the crowd in front of him. Will assumed he was pausing for effect, but thought up until now that only comedians would do that. He wouldn't put it past Lassart.
"I have here that message." Lassart pulled his right hand out from behind his back and in it was a handheld tape recorder/player. "What you are listening for is the sound of a moan, followed by something else which we haven't figured out yet." Will assumed there was a tape already queued inside and was proven correct when Lassart promptly pressed the play button.
At first, nothing. It was dead silence aside from some tape hiss, which was probably static or just air (it was a live recording, so there was no doctoring or filtering). A few seconds went by, and still nothing. Was this all there was? Where was the--
Suddenly, it came. At first, it was quiet, but then it grew louder. It sounded human, and Will wondered what kind of human could make such a hoarse moan. Then... what was that, the sound of eating? Lips smacking together? A soft click, and the transmission ended. Lassart pressed the stop button and lowered the recorder/player behind his back.
He continued. "We assume that the transmission was made hastily, most likely unintentionally. That was July 7. The date is now July 15. That's seven-and-a-half days without a peep. Now, the sun was in such a position that all of Luna's transmission satellites had to be dedicated for other uses, and that accounts for one week's worth of silence. Still, we have not been able to account for the extra seven hours of silence, and for a moon that has been unable to broadcast and has had no outgoing or incoming shipments for a week, that is very unusual.
"We are assuming nothing--"
"That's why we were equipped for a siege," Stymie added, and caught the attention of Lassart.
"Is something funny, Private Hackson?" Lassart asked with a slight nod of the chin. Will noticed that, ever since the mission began, Lassart and Stymie hadn't exactly been best of friends... and it had only been less than ten hours.
All eyes were on Stymie, but, without skipping a beat, he said, "I was just remarking, sir, that it's unusual that we're assuming nothing, yet we've been equipped to deal with riots and sieges."
Lassart breathed out heavily, his nose whistling. "Hmm," he grunted. "It's not up to us to tell the government what they assume and what they let us take with them. Just thank Uncle Sam that we're taking the powerful stuff." He regained his briefing mode of speech, continuing with the hopefully short talk. Will was anticipating getting on the planet, and he was sure Stymie was itching to blow something up. "Anyway, to continue, we are to assume nothing is happening. But we are to be prepared for the worst. I want everyone equipped with goggles and rifles. If we are unsuccessful in hailing anybody on Luna, we won't know what's going on. Even if we do, we're going to be doing a little recon, so don't think we're just going to turn back around at the first sign of good news.
"You're probably wondering why you're in such an unusual bunch, why most of you had never met until you boarded this rocket. You have been specially selected for this mission, based on your skills and social situation."
"Social situation?" Private Haley Ysborne asked, and Will could detect a little inquisitiveness in her tone.
"Social situation. You'll notice not many people from your own platoon are here on this mission. This is a mixed platoon here today, made up from selections. You were selected because you didn't know anybody. In a mission this delicate, you can never be sure. If things are the way we aboard this ship have been thinking they are, we may not be sure who will be coming back and who won't. I'm sorry to say this, in a way, but you've been selected because you don't know anybody. You have no family, no friends, no pets, no dependants--"
"Correction, sir," Stymie said. "I have a houseplant."
Lassart ignored his comment, probably to Stymie's advantage, and continued. "Simply put, you will not be missed." He paused. "Now, to get on with our briefing, we will be landing in the city of New Atlanta, in the Washington Standard Time Zone, just above the seventieth meridian. Our landing is scheduled for three minutes from now, so I want everyone suited up the second we touch ground. We're a go in exactly three minutes and five seconds." He pointed to a circled city on a large atlas pasted on the front of the passenger's cabin of the ship that Will somehow hadn't noticed until then. "That is, of course, the closest military base to the American embassy on the moon, the closest place we can land without doing it on the embassy's lawn. We will then spread out and cover the hangar bay in which we land, establish a perimeter, make sure the bay--and then the base--is ours. The first sign that this is not a hostile situation, we return to the ship and begin recon procedures. If it is, we'll be happy that we established this perimeter. And, plus, if it is hostile, the most likely place the situation will be based is in that embassy. That's where our concern is.
"In most situations, it's best to get all civilians out of the way. Unfortunately, if the entire moon isn't responding, it's most likely that this hostile situation is involving everyone on it, and an evacuation of civilians of that scale is simply out of the question. There is also the possibility that, since all the master transmitters on the moon are stationed at that military base, the problem may not have spread past it. But it's not likely, and we're not assuming that. That's why this will be a quick in-and-out procedure.
"People, we're dealing with mostly unknown factors. We need to play this professionally and with any skill we can. When we've established that perimeter, we'll see what we're dealing with. Questions?" No one responded, even though Lassart gave a full ten seconds. He checked his watch, then looked back up. "Everybody, out of your seats. Let's move and good luck." His final words spoken, he retreated into the cockpit. Those seemed like a fitting phrase to engrave on a tombstone and Will determined then and there that those words were what he wanted his own tombstone to say. 'His sergeant wished him luck.' Perfect.
Will didn't even know with whom he was about to die. Aside from Stymie and Ed Payton, who were both in his original platoon, he had just met these people today. He looked them over, really only knowing their ranks and nothing more. Kyle Hedgewick was obviously the pilot, and a good one, Will had heard. He knew that Haley Ysborne was a sharpshooter, just like Ed. Jane Quigg was the military doctor. She specialized in bone fractures and gunshot wounds, if that held any promise for their mission. Andrew Watchreid was their military strategist, and was the only one among them that was more mechanical than human, having had three quarters of his body replaced after being caught in a landmine explosion. Flora Lamont was their communications engineer, and was sent on the mission mostly in case the reason why transmissions hadn't resumed yet wasn't obvious. Wilson Gammon was a second-in-command under Lassart, but mostly was there to shoot things and lift other, heavier things. Fat Benson Coldwart was the only civilian on this mission, an expert hostage negotiator, apparently the prodigal son as far as it went with negotiations, which is why the military hadn't gone in-house for their negotiator. It was a wonder why Coldwart's social skills were evidently not up to par. Rounding out the eleven-person troop were Will and Stymie, nothing more than the hitters and shooters, basic soldier but with a knack and proven track-record for cutting through enemy lines.
Eleven people. That was it. Against what could be insurmountable and unknown odds, the American nation had sent eleven people.
Stymie was first in line to exit the Goliath. He loved it, but he was sure that the sergeant hated him and that was why he was first in line but he didn't care about what Lassart thought of him, oh no. If there were a siege, and he was pretty sure there were, he was the point man and that was just the way he liked things. No fuss, no muss. Just shooting at whatever shot at him. He imagined that the whole landscape would be teeming with terrorists because these siege scenarios usually did. Pirates--the ones who usually did these sieges--always had hundreds and hundreds of armed crazies, although they'd soon realize that no one was crazier or more off-the-wall than Stymie.
Everyone was suited up and armed to the hilt except for their negotiator, Coldwart, who was going to stay behind with the ship and the communicator--Lamont?--whatever her name was.
He readied his gun by chambering a bullet, waiting for the command to open door and jump out, firing into the darkness at the first sign of opposition fire. If there wasn't any opposition fire, that meant that the terrorists didn't know they were here, which was more than likely since they weren't expecting an antiterrorist platoon this soon but, hey, no one promised it would be fun right from the first minute.
Behind him, he could hear Ed upchuck, and he let out a silent laugh as he heard Lassart yell, "Not on my boot, Private!" And then the magic words came: "It's go time! Move it!" The sergeant had spoken and Stymie slammed his fist on the button. The door raised open in a low, quick hum and he rushed out in a sudden sprint, exiting and taking his position at the right side of the disembarking ramp, training his gun around the area and looking for snipers. Ysborne, right behind him, took the position on the left side of the ramp and did the same. Both of them were equipped with night vision and Ysborne had an additional sniper's scope, and so they could spot even the most camouflaged of snipers but there didn't seem to be any. Stymie took the area in, a huge clearing, like a square with very high catwalks, which made sense since this was a hangar bay. It was covered completely with a reinforced canopy, so no outside space elements could contaminate the area. It was conditioned for humans, and breathable air was routinely pumped into the area, and that was why they hadn't bothered to wear their full space uniforms including the bulky and cumbersome helmets. It was just a huge square clearing they were in, very dark as the lights had been shut off for some reason or another, and he couldn't see much but randomly strewn boxes lying about the area and ridged, concrete walls towering upward with the catwalks along the top.
After Ysborne came Payton, who should have been on the other side of this ramp with Ysborne, watching the catwalks since he was the other sharpshooter, but, hey. Lassart chose Stymie because he got on the sergeant's nerves, and that made Stymie want to smile wider.
Stymie scoured the catwalks with goggles that wrapped around his head like a hungry octopus tentacle and they chaffed his skin, but he ignored it and scanned the area, his gun following his gaze, slowly and methodically looking for anyone and--
"Sergeant!" he screamed as the last of the platoon aside from the communication chick and Coldwart, filed out of the ship and ran for cover. "No one's out here! It's dead!"
He assumed Lassart was waiting and, having covered the one side, moved around to the other side of the ship, slowly looking as he did. He watched the ground and the catwalks, but no one was out there and, he assumed, no one was watching. The outer doors had been covered by the rest of the platoon or they would have heard signs of something and, in fact, the whole darkened area sounded so much like a ghost town that he half expected to run into a tumbleweed being blown by a gust of wind. He finished the semicircle, meeting with Ysborne halfway at the other side of the Goliath.
"You're right, private," Lassart admitted (a first--that was weird), and then said, "Platoon, gather at the ship--"
"Sergeant, I think you ought to look at this!" Hedgewick bellowed--or, at least, it sounded like Hedgewick.
"Gammon, Patton, with me!" Lassart barked with such foul breath that Stymie thought he could smell it from halfway across the bay. "The rest of you, keep covering your areas!" Lassart broke into a slow jog with Gammon and Will following behind him. Stymie looked up and could see Ed watching out for enemy fire, doing some funky thing with his gun that he must have been taught in sharpshooter school and it looked cool, so Stymie would make it a point to ask him what he was doing once this thing was over.
"Holy--"
"--mother of Pearl!" Will bellowed as he approached the rotting thing lying just under the darkened passageway that no doubt connected the bay with the rest of the compound. He caught sight of it as he approached, his goggles showing it in green hue. "What the--?" He cut himself off as he covered his mouth with one gloved hand, catching the stench.
It was a rotting carcass, a human at some point in time. The head had been ground into some sort of red, bloody pulp, and the legs and arms had met the same fate. Well, he had to assume so much since they were all missing. The stomach had been torn open, snaking coils of intestines and splattered mush hanging about. He couldn't even tell the gender of the person; the body had been mangled so much.
"We're definitely dealing with hostiles here," Lassart barked, a little too close to his ear for comfort, but he didn't care. What would do this to someone?
"Should we radio back to Earth for backup, sir?" Will asked.
"Yeah, or get back home," Kyle Hedgewick responded.
"Shut that mouth, Private Hedgewick," Lassart responded. "You're a U.S. soldier, and we're here for a reason. Zip that chicken attitude or I'll have you in morale training."
Lassart was a jerk, but he was right, Will reflected. Nobody needed to hear that kind of stuff, especially after this.
Gammon stood up and asked, "What's our next move, sir?"
Lassart paused, which wasn't in character. Usually he had every move calculated even before they got to it. That was one thing Will respected about the man: what Lassart lacked in social skills, he made up for in pure military brilliance. He opened up the communication channel in his suit to everyone so they could hear, and kept his voice low. "We've got this area covered," Lassart began. "We move out, down this hallway and find out where it goes. Don't make a peep until we know it's covered. If there is anybody, we shoot out the lights. They may not be able to see in the dark, but we sure can, so keep your goggles on. Once we reach the end of this passage, we'll find out our next move. If it splits, we keep tight. Patton's got schematics of the whole compound loaded into his suit, so he'll lead us out, so follow him. Patton, we need to get to the main building, so the quickest, most stealthy way is the way we go. Now, move. Patton first, then Hedgewick. Stymie, you bring up the rear."
"Beautiful," Stymie responded, but on a channel only open to Will. He obviously didn't want Lassart to hear his comments, and Will chuckled.
Will broke into a slow walk, carefully checking the map that now displayed as an overlay in his goggles on top of his vision. Up ahead, it showed that he had to turn left and, with a thrust of his hand in that direction, he indicated to the others behind him. He tried as hard as possible to make his footsteps as soundlessly as he could, and the old saying 'as quiet as a mouse' came to mind.
Behind him, he assumed that Watchreid was listening for errant communication signals, searching for broadcasts on a myriad of channels. Nothing. Everything was silent. If these siege terrorists--however unlikely the possibility, unless that body had been spat out of a blender--were awake, they were silent. Introverted terrorists? The thought crossed his mind.
Will reached the corner and snapped around it, trying to still be silent but deadly.
Like a fart, he thought.
Nobody was around the corner, no waiting terrorists, not even a rat, and the passage was getting darker now as they had passed the source of light--a dim, overhanging lamp--a while ago.
This was eerie, he noticed. This wasn't a typical siege. If it was one, they would have met with opposition by now, or at least some kind of clue. Shot hostages, a ransom demand, something! The only thing they found was a mangled body, which looked more like a cannibal's work than a hostage taker's. Plus they were the only ship in such a large hangar. What was going on?
Will looked back slightly, seeing Lassart in a greenish hue. Lassart kept looking over to his right as if half expecting a doorway to show up. Lassart had a reputation for having an uncanny ability for anticipating paths, but it was almost as if he knew the place. Will checked the map and, sure enough, a doorway just ahead of them and on their right opened up to the main compound, the mess hall, to be exact. Will snickered silently. One more point for the sergeant. That was uncanny.
They soon reached the door and Will positioned himself on the far side of it to leave room for Hedgewick and Lassart to reach it, the others behind them. Will pointed to it, indicating that this was their next move. Lassart nodded and raised his gun, indicating with a nod from his chin for Will to take point.
Will sighed. He hated taking point, but he also hated facing the consequences of disobeying orders. He stepped in front of the door and looked at Lassart. He assumed, just like Lassart was doing, that everyone in the nine-man parade was performing a final weapons check, as if they knew that beyond this door were the terrorists. Lassart looked up and gave the nod, and Will could feel his heart surge, an electrical pulse shooting out through his body. Here goes nothing.
Will kicked the door! It went flying back and he took to the left side, Hedgewick behind him and to the right! The others filed in and--
No gunfire! What was this? Will was almost getting frustrated! Nothing made sense. Were the supposed terrorists playing a game with them, leading them on? Was that their plan? And that pungent aroma that now pricked his senses was growing.
They were in the mess hall. It was as pitch black and comparable to a tomb as the rest of the compound had been so far. Strewn across the red-stained tables were morsels of food, bones picked clean and left bloody, just sitting on the tables. No evidence of a civilization was apparent, really, except for the tables and the serving counter. No one had used plates or utensils in what looked like the big feeding frenzy, and bits of ravenously eaten food were even festering on the floor. In fact, Will had noticed, the only food seen around was meat, and it didn't look like it'd been cooked before being eaten!
Lassart lowered his gun, looking almost as puzzled as Will was. The comm-link indicator lighted up, telling him that Lassart had reopened communication.
"Thoughts?" Lassart asked as he looked around the platoon.
Stymie filed in, pushing his way past Quigg and Gammon. "My thought is that the smell in here is vile."
"Any serious thoughts?"
"One, sir," Gammon spoke. He lifted his goggles out from his eyes and wiped his brow. He stayed in the door, halfway between the threshold of the mess hall and the corridor behind them. Will wasn't sure how he could turn his back on such a dark, ominous corridor in light of the strangeness here. "I have no clue what's going on, but I do know that we need to get a warning back to Lamont. She and the civilian are in the ship right now. I'd be surprised if they haven't been taken yet."
"Good idea," Lassart replied. "See if you can--"
A creak. Everyone heard it, as they stopped talking and looked up, as if not wanting anything at eye-level to distract them from carefully listening. Then another one.
"What was--" Ysborne began, but was cut off by Lassart raising a hand to her. Where was the sound coming from? Was it anything? In the weird acoustics of this moon military station, no one was sure if the sound was coming from the mess hall, the corridor, even outside.
A groan! From the corridor! Hands grabbed at Gammon, two chalk-white, rotting hands that clawed at his face! Something resembling a human--
--it chewed right into Gammon's temple before Gammon could even react! Crimson fluid erupted like out a geyser, spurting from the large, torn wound, and Gammon's body fell with a loud, dull thud. The monster--man?--that had killed him lowered itself down as it... took the chunk it had grabbed and fed itself!
The one named Quigg gasped. "Holy--"
"Back me up! I'm going to take that sucker down!" Lassart barked and raised his weapon. The entire platoon did likewise, and as the rotting man stood up, a torn ear hanging from its mouth, and took a lurching step forward, Lassart squeezed his trigger and sent a bullet splattering into the man's eye. It went down, stumbling backward onto Gammon's twitching body and hitting the wall behind it before settling into a sitting position. A smear of blood trickled down the wall, marking its descent.
"Private Quigg," Lassart barked. "How is he?"
Quigg kneeled down and took a pulse reading of Gammon's neck. Her suit's glove was equipped for pulse readings, and Will could see by the look on her face that it read a dead flatline. She nodded, closing her eyes and slowly standing up. "He's gone."
"Sir, if I may say so," Will started, "we need to get back to the ship. Get Lamont and the civilian, replan if we need to...."
"Suggestion noted," Lassart said. "Back to the ship. Double-time it!"
Stymie filed out first, followed closely by Will and then Watchreid and, after that, Will couldn't keep track of who was next. It took them about a minute to reach the dark clearing and, when they did, Will could see over Stymie's shoulder that the civilian, Coldwart, had exited the ship and was in one corner, doing what looked like taking a leak. It made him realize that the multimillion-dollar toilets aboard the ship must have been clogged again, but that was the least of his worries right now.
Will approached the ship while Stymie went to grab Coldwart.
BOOM! Before Will could realize what was happening, he was ducking to one side as flames spewed out of the ship. The entire Goliath had been reduced to ashen, twisted metal, now just an empty shell with fire erupting from it. Backed-up toilets could cause that?
"What's going on here?" Stymie yelled to Will. Will backpedaled to the wall and frantically looked in all directions, searching for the terrorist with the heavy-artillery missile launcher. Nobody! What was this?
"What is going on?" Will asked frantically. Nothing was adding up! And now their ride home was nothing more than a strewn wreckage of melting metal and plastics!
"Was Lamont on that ship?" Stymie yelled at Coldwart over the crackling fire as Coldwart struggled to zip his pants up in wide-eyed terror. Coldwart could hardly speak, and Stymie reasserted himself. "Was Lamont on the ship when it exploded?"
Will looked back at the rest of the crew and saw that they were just as puke-faced as Coldwart was, trying to make sense of the unfolding situation. Now, even Lassart was confused, the first time since they'd landed! And he wasn't an easily confused man.
Coldwart gagged. "Y--yeah, she was," he responded.
"Great," Will said as he sidestepped toward the rest of the platoon, Stymie hauling Coldwart along behind him. "Two down in three minutes." They reached the platoon, and Will approached an openmouthed Lassart. "What next, sergeant?" he asked.
"Back into the mess hall," he responded, regaining his composure. "We're going to find out what's going on."
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