She sat up swiftly, cocking her ears to the resounding rumble. It was not far off, not in the clocktower, but close enough for her to feel the altar shake and hear the objects in their cupboards lightly rattle. She strained her ears, even closing her eyes to concentrate on the fading roar. At first it sounded like an explosion, but it had lasted too long for that. What could've made that sort of noise?

Jill wished Carlos was back She couldn't have imagined were he could have gone. The only logical idea was that he ventured out of the courtyard in front, over the rubble of both the helicopter and trolley.

…Gone a long time. He's really looking hard.

They should have found some radios or such. Jill realized and accepted how lonely she was. Most of it was boredom – she swore she could describe the chapel down to every last splinter on the stupid pews. The other percentage was her need to have some sort of presence by her. She figured it was the whole "social animal" stuff about humans. And anyways, Jill thought somewhat uneasily, I like the guy. He was immature at first, but when the situation started to heat up and get serious, he responded with more than enough skill to match it. When he was by her side, she felt confident and secure.

Probably 'cause it's another gun; double the firepower, less risk.

Jill brought her knees up to her chin and scratched her thigh. She didn't approve at all with being helpless. Those people shouldn't have any hope. People who took action had more of a chance. Certainly, Carlos was giving her a chance at that moment, however that was because she was close to incapacitated. There really wasn't such a thing as helplessness, or incapacitation. She was sure he wanted her to stay in place, wanted her to be there when he returned. That was why she wasn't leaving, to tag or whatever. At least that's what she told herself.

Finally Jill lay back down, fanning herself with some hymns she found on the table behind her. The muggy air was getting annoying. It felt as if her pores were yawning open and soaking in humidity. She had felt the same thing a few months back when she was running a fever. It was like she was sweating on the inside of her skin, and she received little relief from her makeshift air conditioning.

Funny how she was worried in the mansion about contracting the virus. Jill chuckled. Barry and the rest of them probably thought so too. Chris laughed nervously about it all, then swiped a hand through his roan hair and looked far past the wall, into some deep thought, some deep memory Jill didn't want to disturb. Rebecca had clearly explained how the virus wasn't airbourne at the point they stepped in, but even Barry still looked uneasy visualizing that the zombies and the Tyrant as human. But, she was going to be one –

Jesus, how exactly are you supposed to get used to that line?

Shit, Jill wished Chris was having better luck in Europe. At least he wasn't being chased and infected by some hyped Tyrant in a tacky trench coat. 'Ol Redfield could take care to not be a fucking sitting duck like she was. She was glad he couldn't see her now, yet it was too bad he was probably thinking she was okay. And Jill didn't want that. She didn't want him to have the shock when he did find out – either that she turned or was dead – like she knew he did in the Spencer estate, finding Kenneth, Forest, and Richard. God, she was a survivor. It would be hell seeing one of the survivors dying by what they escaped. The S.T.A.R.S. knew it was far from over, but never intended to be destroyed by it. One less gun for the umbrella headquarters assault.

Chris was too strong to let it take him down. He was too kind and too intelligent to have been brought into all this crap, just like Carlos. Rebecca was too young – her spirit had gone to waste on impossible horrors. And Barry had vulnerability in his family, which should have never been so. All of them…the stupid shit umbrella left around didn't deserve them.

Jill rolled over and fiercely scratched a spot on her hip. It only her skin didn't feel as if a million ants were squirming under her epidermis, or was covered in mosquito bites, she could lay in peace. Returning to her side, she tucked a falling strand of auburn hair behind her ear and continued to fan.

Despite earlier conditions, Jill was finding herself enfolded in the future, in what she knew was coming. She wished she knew how long it would take, though that would perhaps make her lose her composure.

They had in a way discovered how the virus worked in humans turned into zombies. Chris, long ago on August fifteenth, had found those files on the new virus, and working through…a difficult, strenuous, and emotional night, found some answers to their questions. The zombies were humans with their gray stuff deteriorated away, decomposing alive. All they had in their heads were the little primal organs underneath the brain working, keeping the involuntary parts in the body toiling and barely sustaining the epitome of existence – survival. That was the first and last instinct, the foundation of life – life was the struggle for life. God no, that couldn't be, because there were those other things cropping up that made it more. There was a connection to other beings, and a certain happiness that could make someone oblivious to danger. So many things. Love defied the whole survival thing. In love, you could sacrifice yourself, Jill thought, and that sure wasn't the propagation of self.

Yet everything she could think of was torn down by her experience of the zombies. They only ate. The instinct left last was persistence. Still…their selves weren't there, so technically it wasn't the base cause of life. That would mean the self was contained in the cerebrum, then. And of course this answer didn't satisfy Jill either. Nothing she came to a conclusion to did – only the springboard – that as a zombie her self, or sense of self, just wasn't there. It was losing to her body and losing her soul.

As much as she wanted to hope, Jill knew it was all in vanity. "It is better to die on your feet than live on your knees" she had heard once, but that was applying to resistance. She wasn't helpless, she was hopeless. Even she couldn't understand it fully…

…Must be the virus rotting my brain.

Jill didn't feel much fear, which made her uneasy in a distant way. Fear of death…seemed illogical to be spawned from the environment around her. Everything stunk of death. Fear of pain…she doubted the whole T-virus munchy on her brain would hurt. Fear of fear…that was sort of what she was hitting for. She didn't allow herself to be afraid because of what fear does to someone. And that kind of fear that most probably would spring up in the present situation would be hopeless; she was already hopeless.

She swatted at the voice taunting her back in her mind. She was afraid of dying alone.

It was all because Jill didn't want to lose her self.

If there was someone…anyone with her…she wouldn't have felt so lost, so useless.

Jill's grip tightened on the hymns.

No! Not useless, not helpless. Just hopeless. I have the power to do something to change an experience I have yet to have – I don't have the power to change an experience.

That thought was beginning to make lucid some subject.

She pushed herself up on her elbow, pressing her fanning hand to her forehead.

To lie down and die…or to take matters into my own hands.

Jill couldn't purge the virus, but she could make sure it didn't take her psyche.

To take my self into my own hands.

She clenched her teeth and languidly pushed herself off the altar. It was getting to the point the S.T.A.R.S. member couldn't walk well without using a pew for support, and she weakly staggered towards the big brown trunk.

Absently itching her arm, Jill grabbed the Beretta from beside the typewriter.

No hope, but not hopeless.

Jill was staring at the dried blood that had besmirched the strict shine of the gun. She ran her fingers over the barrel, over the trigger, and reached the safety, slowly pushed it down.

She pressed the Beretta to her temple, shaking mildly. There was a hard fuzziness behind her eyes, and this time she let it out.

God, just look at yourself.

No hope, but not helpless.

She gave up a chocked cry.

You can fend off fear of fear, but are afraid of losing yourself?

Isn't this losing herself? What was noble? Was she helpless if she didn't pull the trigger?

Then she thought of Carlos and sobbed aloud. Shakily, Jill set her gun down on the box lid and pressed a hand to her eyes. She couldn't get his words out of her mind.

"I'm going to get something to help you."

If he came back and found her collapsed, dead…

She didn't want to kill his hope, and she didn't want to die alone. Suicide…no, it wasn't her answer.

God, she was sick and tired of not finding answers!

One hand on the gun, a sudden flare of itchy intensity surfaced on her hamstring. Jill reached down, tears steaming on her face and eyes hot…

And layers of skin fell off in her hand.

The rain shushed any particularly loud thoughts, any impulses to itch. It was becoming more and more difficult to ignore. The water song and the crawling scream were contending for her attentions. Jill found staring at the rain source helped.

Jill was trying to ignore something else.

Carlos.

A while ago the clocktower had struck two. From what she could…asers- figure out, the U.B.C.S. soldier had been gone for something close to three hours.

And she knew he wouldn't stay away that long. She knew Carlos Oliveira.

Jill had lain in the opposite direction on the altar because in the previous position, she could catch fuzzy glimpses of her face in the polished metal of a cross on the mahogany shelves. She was pallid, her skin translucent, and both her eyes were progressively becoming bloodshot. She looked like a waxy, sweaty doll.

She coughed, scratching the back of her throat. With a feeble moan, Jill curled up. No matter which way she lay, however, it still felt like she was in a sauna with twenty towels muffling her. It was a dirty sensation, feeling so sticky hot.

Jill noticed she couldn't much have a speal of thought without her body annoying her and throwing her off.

Yes, it was Carlos and how late he was. She had already booted the notion that he was searching really hard. He was determined to save her and she wouldn't put it past the boy, but… like she said –

-damn that tingle –

-she knew him. She had seen that determined glint in his eyes, oh, yes, but she had also seen the soft concern in his eyes. He wouldn't have left her alone for lone. Unless he was pursuing something that took up lots of time. No that wouldn't be it. Carlos…would have come back to check on her. She wished he would. He would see how bad she was – how sick – and stay. No, she knew him. It would make him even more… resil- determined. He would go out again –

She shifted and wearily reached a hand up to push away a cover.

But she would tell him to stay. Jill would ask him, plead with him to stay.

No use to go out again, Carlos. Gone for too long…already.

She didn't want to itch anywhere. She was afraid she'd shear off a chunk of her flesh. But her skin crawled.

Jill closed her eyes, trying to focus on the mellow slink of rainfall.

No. Of course he was gone too long. Her mind wanted to be reluctant. But she knew. So goddamn itchy. Knew Carlos was dead.

Jill clenched her teeth, felt the sting of tears and the tightening of her chest.

Jill shushed along with the rain. It lulled her. It was a nice. Nicest sound she ever heard. It cooled off her skin. Itchy itchy still. But it was a nice sound.

She thought in long slurs. She breathed short breaths – something smelt. It smelled sweet. But it smelled like bile and sour. Slowly, Jill stretched to wipe at drool. Fever gone but itchy…stomach growled.

Wait. Waiting. Waiting for someone. Never coming back. Gun for that…for that no hope. Not helpless. He had hope. That someone. Hope. Gun…so far away.

She scratched her side. Oh, forgot. No itching. Something pulled. Like threads out of skin. Moved. Don't itch.

Just listen. Remember? Nice sound. Beating down. Fall, rain.

Lulluby. Itchy. Itchy.

Rain.

**

In the clocktower, just barely was a shuffling noise. The dead silence rung until a bare slip of sound came out from the tucked-away chapel. In the small space, a lone zombie swayed on its feet, sometimes venturing a foot forward. It didn't seem to notice that all save one candle had extinguished its wick, and by this frail light the virus carrier's face was shown. Under pealing, ashen skin and bloodred eyes, the absent ghost's blank gaze held unwavering on the door, waiting.

AUTHOR's NOTE.

Now ain't ya'll glad you have a reset button?

Thanks to Pink Apocalypse's Jenn and Kree for helping me construct this chapter – 'tis difficult to structure the gradual change into a zombie!

Hell, I didn't know this whole fic was going to be so damn philosophical. I thought meself it was going to be good old Resident Evil fun! It just kinda turned out that way. You can get pretty deep at four in the morning, I tell ya. And emotional. Ohhhh, yeah. I cried at the end of writing Carlos' death. Yeah- that's right: cried when writing it! Ain't it pathetic? And I was depressed when I was finishing this chapter.

Well, you made it through five chapters. Now you can go back and read between the lines for that extra philosophical kick. I swear- it's oozing with it! Yes- I know the horror: learning something. ::Gasp!:: That's the end, now SHOO. Go home!