Author's Notes: I apologize for the rather substantial delay between these chapters... However, I've had the incredible misfortune of having SIX separate high-level exams to take, and I was unwilling to let my grades suffer. However, I am truly, incredibly grateful to all of the magnificent reviewers, and all of the positive feedback that I have received for Lonely Lover's Lament, as well as this current arc... And, as usual, a massive, 'thank you!,' to my loyal slave driver, Cherry.

Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I assert no ownership of it. If by their request, I shall immediately remove this piece from fanfiction.net, and anywhere else that it may be posted and\or archived.

As the moan reverberated through the kitchen, the acoustics enhancing the normally anemic groan of the T-virus specimen into an agonized, horrifying moan of hunger and pain, which had an obvious and immediate affect on the HCF commandos. The other three developing a pallor equal to, or even greater than, their leader, they remained frozen; seemingly unwilling to accept the reality that was now shuffling toward them.

Suddenly, the T-specimen burst through the doors, rearing its decaying face, the mouth, its rotting teeth covered in blood and scraps of flesh, surrounded by blood, the crimson stains giving the sickly ironic appearance of healthy, red lips; the eyes were blank, lifeless, unthinking glass orbs, the irises now gray, and with only the most limited, most feral intellect; its lab coat was stained completely with blood and gore, partially its own, partially that of its latest victim, and it was saturated with water, indicating that it was one of the specimens in the cold-storage freezer. Its body was already heavily degraded, masses of flesh sagging loosely, a sickly, greenish pallor having already formed. It was the appearance of a long-dead human... Once a man, now nothing more than an organic machine, reanimated by the machinations of its own colleagues, its fellow men; now reduced to a mindless animal, driven by only the most base impulse. It lumbered toward us, intent on fulfilling one carnal need: the need to feed.

Stumbling toward our tightly clustered group, the Zombie moaned pitifully, the horrible, disgusting noise apparently breaking the entrancement of the HCF commandos. The Hispanic woman, Rodriguez, opened fire, the repeated whispering, understated puffs of the silenced sub-machinegun a stark contrast to the climactic, horrible mist of red that burst forth from the T- specimen. The stomach burst open, thick, red fluids spilling as it continued forward, the grotesque torrent of crimson flowing from its wound seeming to invigorate it.

"Sir, what the hell is this?!" Shouted Rodriguez, an anticlimactic clicking signaling that her magazine was empty.

Backing up, the other three merely stared on in horror as the zombie surged forward, defying its own body's limits, and grasped Rodriguez, her eyes widening in terror as it brought its mouth down onto her throat. Suddenly, there was a sickening, repulsive tearing sound as the monster sank its teeth into her neck, and then pulled its head back, torrents of blood streaming down her collar as the zombie pulled away, severed tendons and arteries from her neck in its mouth. Shrieking in agony, she managed to push the zombie away, fumbling for her pistol and firing wildly, striking the T-specimen with several of the shots, the rest of the magazine lodging itself in the oak paneling of the room. The zombie latched onto her again, and she was only able to scream in horror and pain as it bit into her throat, finally tearing out her jugular vein, a flood of red bursting forth and covering the monster and her own body. Tumbling to the ground, the monstrosity still attached to her neck, she lay in a pool of her own blood, a look of terror forever cemented in place on her face.

"R-Rodriguez!" The commander shouted, the horrific sight somehow making something snap inside of his brain, as he drew his combat knife, dropping the sub-machinegun, and charged forward, embedding the blade into the skull of the zombie. A spray of fluids bursting forth as he withdrew the knife, and then pressed it again into the brainpan of the horrible monster, he repeatedly stabbed it, not stopping until it had been decapitated, the skull crushed and blood leaking from its now-broken brain.

Dropping to the ground, panting with exertion, he let the blood-soaked blade slip from his grasp, striking the lightly carpeted floor with a dull metallic thud.

"What do we do now, Sir?" The quiet, disturbed voice of the other woman, Yan, rose over the unbearable silence.

"I... I don't know..." The commander trailed-off; "we have to get out of this hellhole; never mind the mission..."

"What about Rodriguez?" The man, Jones, abruptly interrupted the commander.

"Don't disturb her... Let her be..." The commander finished darkly.

"No," I began, the firmness of my voice eliciting an obviously horrified reaction from the others; they must've assumed that I was being callous; I knew that I was being reasonable. "We have to decapitate her..." I halted abruptly at the furious glares that t he rest of the team shot me.

"What the hell is wrong with you?! Isn't it enough that she died because of your organization?!" Yan shouted, grasping me by the shirt and shaking me.

"She'll become one of them..." I started, prompting Yan to release me, "she'll become one of them unless you do it..." I ended vaguely.

"What do you mean? What are those monsters?" Jones demanded.

"They're B.O.W.s... They're failures, really, but Umbrella is still using them as specimens. They're early T-virus results; reanimated corpses, truly. They have no mind, once infected... All of their intelligence recedes, and disappears entirely in the face of the virus. They're just shells, searching for food. If you're bitten, and the anti-virus isn't administered within four hours, you'll become one of them... Even if you're already dead. The only way to stop it otherwise is to decapitate the body or destroy the brain." I finished, my voice sympathetic, but firm.

For a moment, silence reigned, only broken by the sharp, determined voice of the commander. "All right."

"What? Sir, are you really buying into that?" Jones demanded, sounding betrayed.

"I believe her... We've all heard of those claims about the Raccoon Forest; she's one of those survivors."

"That's insane! Even if there are B.O.W.s on this train, that can't be possible! Nothing can reanimate dead tissue after that kind of trauma... That kind of trauma..." Yan trailed-off, staring at the mangled, shattered corpse of the zombie, the knife wounds seeming to be the least of its injuries.

Bending down before Rodriguez's corpse, the commander picked up his knife, pressing it laterally over her throat, and then closing his eyes; he pressed it down with intense force, the incredibly sharp blade cutting through her the bone and sinew of her neck, decapitating her. Removing his combat vest, he placed it over her broken body, the ceremony seeming out of place in such an insane situation, but also right.

"Let's go..." He softly spoke, his voice haunted. "We have to move to the Biohazard storage car... Maybe we can find something with which to destroy these."

"Chambers," Yan started, her voice disturbed, but apologetic, "I'm sorry..."

"It's all right," I replied softly.

Retrieving his sub-machinegun from the floor, now clad only in a light, black jacket, the commander stalked determinedly toward the exit to the dining car. The others following obediently behind him, their stride rapid, and their faces grimly set on their mission, they held their sub- machineguns tightly in their hands. I followed closely behind them this time, realizing that the greatest threat would not come from the Umbrella soldiers, but from the now-released B.O.W.s.

After a matter of seconds, which dragged on like minutes, we arrived at the doorway; the high-density metal door was forced aside, deep claw marks embedded in the surface. The others pretended not to notice, but I saw that each of their gazes lingered on the door; I was transfixed on the deep gouges. I didn't wish to confront the horrific advancements of science that Umbrella had pioneered, but I realized that it was inevitable; I realized that Umbrella had no intention of allowing any of us to leave this train alive.

Passing tentatively through the portal into the dark, dimly lit room, my first reaction was absolute relief, almost disappointment; there was absolutely nothing in this final guardroom, except for a desk, and a rack of weapons. However, as we moved deeper into the sterile, metallic room, the large biohazard symbol on the partially shattered window looking into the Biohazard storage area's entrance indicated that we had arrived at our objective. But, as we arrived at the center of the rather large guardroom, our confidence inflated by the false sense of peace because of the lack of any real danger, we didn't notice a soft, gentle hissing, and a sound akin to the rapid beating of large wings.

Suddenly, an MA-103, classified under Umbrella's documents as the 'Chimera,' burst forth from an antechamber, charging toward us, the mass of gunfire from the commandos' sub-machineguns not even fazing it. Looking into its beastly, animalistic compound eyes, and its horrible, hairy exoskeleton, I knew that it was the manifestation of death; the bringer of destruction with its massive, scythe-like arms; I ran...

While the MA-103 was distracted, I sprinted past it into the biohazard storage area, sealing the heavy steel door behind me and then barricading myself in an anteroom. The squeals of agony from the MA-103 and the soft, incessant and erratic gasping of the sub-machineguns finally halting, I realized that the skirmish had ended. However, as I looked up, my eyes caught something far more horrifying. Before me was the containment tube of one of the T-104s, the flashing LED numbers on the timer mechanism on an adjoining panel gradually decreasing in value. "15, 14, 13, 12..."



Author's Note: I truly apologize if the initial scene with the zombie was excessively graphic, as this is the first time that I have ever truly strayed from the romantic format and wrote a dramatic horror scene, so I'm not certain what the acceptable limits are... Also, I'm not particularly confident in this piece, so, if it seems obtuse, mundane, or otherwise unfavorable, please, inform me, and I'll revise it immediately. Again, a monumentally great and eternally expression of thanks to all of the magnificent reviewers and readers, and, in particular, my incredible slave driver, Cherry, who has been an unending source of encouragement.