July 22nd, 1998
"And the man?" said a man with sunglasses.
"We lost him in the woods," replied a soldier, glaring at him out of a heavy gasmask. "She was heading towards the Spencer Mansion."
The man with the shades smiled. "Just as I expected."
"Should we locate the male, sir?"
"That won't be necessary," he replied, "I doubt a wanted criminal is about to expose himself."
"We found these on the girl," said the man in the gasmask. He held out a set of dog-tags.
The man in the shades chuckled. "How very clever. Let us stage our own 'death' for Mr. Coen. You did a fine job, Hunk."
* * *
September 27th, 1998
He looked up from his coffee just in time to see the waitress returning his glance. Nervously, she turned, away, pushing her golden hair behind her ear. She pretended to inspect a nearby table, removing the cups from the crusty table-cloth. As she walked away, Billy smiled to himself, returning to his paper.
The usual Raccoon City garbage, he thought. There hadn't been anything particularly juicy in the paper since July, when the S.T.A.R.S. wrapped up the murders occurring in and around Raccoon City. Billy continued skipping through the articles. He was half-expecting to see on detailing the rescue of a cat from a dangerously high tree. But no, just the usual, boring bull- crap: a kid shoots his own eye out with a firework, some girl graduated from the local high-school a year early, nothing special. But it wasn't the articles he was interested. Instead, he favoured the obituaries. And, as he expected, there he was, officially dead. No picture, no verses, not even a birth date, just the one of his death. Billy Coen officially died on 24th September 1998.
He smiled to himself, closing the paper slowly and resting it on the table. Sipping from his coffee again, he put on his sunglasses and admired the morning sunrise. The city was just waking up, but Billy's eyes had been open for many days now. Now that his death was official, he could begin to build a new life, give himself a new name. But it was how that bothered him. How does a nameless face earn an identity? He couldn't just walk into a government building and demand some new records. He needed contacts, someone on the inside who could arrange it all for him.
As much as the situation bothered him, he allowed himself to bask in the glory of the new day. The sun rose, its kindling light bouncing of the windows of the apartment building just near the twenty-four hour diner Billy was sitting outside of. He watched as the various curtains opened to welcome the sunlight. He smiled to himself
To think, I could've missed all of this. I owe a lot to you girl. You saved my ass out there. If only I could tell you, Rebecca...
He sipped at his coffee again. It was going cold. Placing it on the table, he waited for the waitress to come back outside. He watched the cars moving down the road. There were only a few of them at the moment. For a minute he was a seer; later, he could see the road filled with too many cars to count, and the rampant shouts of tired business workers trying to get home. He could already see the red faces. Laughing to himself, he placed his hand in the top pocket of his suit. Pulling out the business card, he read the name aloud.
"Geoffrey Hamilton, foreman," he said, flipping it over to look at the number. Taking of his jacket, slinging it over the chair to maintain his seat, he walked over to the payphone, merely ten feet away from the table. Removing three quarters from his pocket, he began to dial the number, listening to the inane hum of the receiver in his ear. A click, the hum turned to a ring. After three rings, another click, and a hoarse voice.
"Mr. Hamilton's office, Jane speaking, how may I help you?" She sounded almost automated. Billy would've mistaken the voice for that of an answering machine had it not been for the twenty a day crackle in her throat.
"Hi," said Billy, "I'm calling about the jobs you have at the moment..."
"Name please," she interrupted, rudely.
He had time to figure out a new identity, to get new papers and a new national security number, but right now he was happy being, "Ray Walker."
"Just a moment," she replied. Billy could hear the shuffling of some paper and the woman groaning and cursing under her breath. He couldn't help but smile. Voyeurism was not exactly his favourite hobby, but it certainly provided some good humour in his mind.
"Ah, Mr. Walker," came the woman's voice again, at long last.
"Hello," replied Billy, fumbling some more quarters into the money slot. He saw the waitress standing by his table. She was looking at him. He gestured as if he were pouring something. She smiled, and filled his cup with some fresh coffee. Giving her the thumbs up, he returned to the phone call, "right here."
"Mr. Hamilton asks if you can start today," she said as monotonously as before.
Billy was shocked. He thought getting a job using a fake name and background would be much harder than this. "Cool, I mean, yeah sure," he said, happily, "were? What time?"
"Um..." The woman trailed of again, the shuffling of papers, the groaning and cursing. Except this time, Billy wasn't as amused. Something had caught his eye. In a nearby alley way was an ill looking man. He looked like an average bum, but Billy had never seen one chewing on a rat before. Bemused, he looked over at the waitress. She was clearing the tables as if on automation. Looking up, she met Billy's stare. Blushing, she looked quickly away and hurried back into the diner. But there was not flirtation on Billy's side. Suddenly, a voice spoke in his ear.
"Mr. Walker?"
Snapped out of his trance, he looked away from the diner, and the bum, and returned to his important phone call. "Yes...here ma'am."
"Yes," she seemed a little put of by the 'ma'am', "if you could make you way to the Carver memorial building, near the city limits, you should see the site were they need you. Try to be there before ten."
Billy gulped. "Do I need to bring any ID, or papers?"
For the first time, the woman on the phone showed a little emotion. She laughed. "I wouldn't worry about that Mr. Walker; I doubt somebody would lie to get this type of work."
Laughing silently, he replied, "so I just go in, tell them who I am..."
"And you'll be paid in cash at the end of the week," she said, back to her monotonous self, "I wish you'd cut the crap and get straight to the point." She seemed to speak under her breath again.
"Thanks, bye," said Billy placing the receiver back on its hook. "Carver memorial building," he said to himself. Then suddenly, he remembered. Spinning around, he looked into the alleyway. The bum was gone. He returned to his table and put his jacket back on. Sipping his coffee, he found that it had gone cold again. Laughing, he placed the money for coffee on the table. As he did so, he noticed a piece of paper resting under the saucer. He picked it up cautiously, unfolding it slowly. He could not contain his smug smile.
"Alyssa, huh?"
Folding up the girl's number, he walked onwards towards the bus stop.
* * *
"Today, let us remember those who fought bravely and died in the name of justice. Today, let us remember the faces of our friends and allies who fought for the good of this city. Today, let us remember the bravery of those men that fell in battle to rescue their allies. Today, let us remember the members of the Raccoon Police Department's Special Tactics and Rescue Service, who were taken away from us only two months ago. Let us put our hands together, and pray to our lord, the creator of all, for the souls of those who fell on that fateful day, July the twenty-third, nineteen ninety-eight."
Rebecca closed her eyes and clasped her hands together, and tried to listen to the prayer. But nothing could block out the loud anger in her mind.
Two people! Two crummy people! Are we the only one's that cared? I can't blame Chris and the others for not turning up, but were are the other officers? Who is left to pay these people respect?
She held back her tears. The pain in her stomach was more than enough to remind her of the anguish she felt in her heart. It was only her and Brad Vickers there. And she knew he was only there to try and worm his way into her good books again. Ever since the mission, he'd been following her around. Its not that she didn't like the guy, it was just the wrong time to be starting relationships, especially when she had other people on her mind.
The event proceeded, songs were sung, prayers were spoken, and after half an hour, the service was over. Solemnly, Rebecca stood up and walked towards the heavy wooden doors beneath the shining visage of Christ on the window. Behind her, she could hear the clumsy steps of her team-mate, Brad, making their way towards her. Stopping just outside she waited for him to near her. Closing her eyes and wiping the tears from her eyes, she let him speak first.
"Hi, Rebecca," said Brad, his S.T.A.R.S. uniform clearly visible underneath his green army jacket.
Beginning to button up her coat, she looked at him. "Hey Brad," she said, forcing a smile.
"How're you feeling?" said Brad, his face earnest.
"As well as can be expected," she said, looking around, "hell of a turnout, huh?"
Brad scratched his head nervously, searching for something else to look at in the early morning sunlight. "Yeah," he said, "but I'm sure the others are paying tribute in their own way. With justice."
Rebecca nodded, another cold tear trickling down her cheek. "You're right Brad."
She looked out into the street. It was certainly a cold day, unusual for this time of year in Raccoon City. The sun was visible in the sky, beating its rays onto the earth. But its harsh brightness could not compete with the dismal wind that swirled across the city. A storm was coming.
He finally came out and said it. "Do you want to go for drinks later? Raise a glass to the guys?"
"Brad..."
Brad nodded. "I know, Rebecca, I know. But, I...I need this, you know, someone to talk to. And I'm sure you don't want to be alone later either. This isn't a date or anything. Just two friends remembering there comrades."
He was right, thought Rebecca. It would be good for both of them to get out. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been at a social gathering, the last time she heard the laughter of others, the sound of loud music and people dancing. Most of all, she couldn't remember feeling the warmth of others around her. The warmth of happiness.
"Ok, Brad," she said, pulling out her car keys. Suddenly, she began to giggle to herself.
"What's so funny?" asked Brad, a tad annoyed. He hated people laughing without knowing the joke, and he was always paranoid that he was the joke.
"You do realise, I still can't drink?"
He had to laugh. "I'm sure we can arrange something. Talk about it at the office?"
"No can do," said Rebecca, strolling towards the car park, "it's my day of. Just come round my place, eight o'clock."
He nodded as she clambered into her car. She had never taken the time to learn about her car. She didn't even know what it was called, what model it was. All she knew is that it was a Mercedes, and in her mind, that was enough. Mr and Mrs Chambers were very proud of their little girl becoming a college graduate before both of her older brothers at the tender age of eighteen. And its not like they couldn't afford this gift. Turning the key, she realised she hadn't spoken to her mother and father since the beginning of August.
When I get home, I'll call them...
She drove down the busy roads that lead to the church. Many cars were filling the roads now, the people making their way to their jobs. She smiled. Having a day of as a member of S.T.A.R.S was a rare gift. Deciding that some retail therapy would do her good, she drove towards the local shopping arcade.
* * *
Billy stepped out of the cab and looked around. The sun was high in the sky now, though the warmth still couldn't be felt. The gathering clouds in the distance provided a dark backdrop creating a dismal greyness in the sky. Cold didn't get to Billy, though. The coldness of the open air was always much more welcome than the coldness of a damp prison cell, than the coldness of death.
Behind him was a complex of massive building, each owning several towering chimneys. They emitted black smoke into the sky, creating a nasty smell all around. Near the road that exited the city was a metal fence, containing a large building site. The sounds of pneumatic drills and massive cranes lifting heavy loads could be heard. Knowing this was his destination, he walked across the lifeless road and entered through the creaky gate. Immediately, he saw Geoffrey Hamilton, who was looking at a blueprint.
He didn't look like a millionaire. In fact, Billy thought he looked like the exact opposite. Dressed in a chequered shirt, a pair of blue denim dungarees and a yellow hard-hat, it seemed like Billy should've been the one giving the orders. Moving closer, he realised that the man had a striking resemblance to one of the Super Mario Brothers, peering over a fat black moustache. He looked away from the blueprints and looked straight at Billy, smiling.
"Ray Walker, right?" he said in a deep, Italian-American voice. He put out his hand. "Geoffrey Hamilton."
Billy shook his hand, "nice to meet you sir."
Suddenly, Hamilton broke into a rumbling laughter. "Please, call me Geoff. I'm not quite what you were expecting, am I?"
"I'm not sure I follow you," said Billy, trying to guess if the man was playing games.
"Everyone expects rich people to be all well-dressed, and well spoken," replied Hamilton, obvious scorn in his voice, "son, those are people who are born with a silver spoon in their mouths. I don't buy into that crap. I earned my way here. I am down to earth, my business is down to earth. You follow me?"
Billy nodded with a smile, "that's very admirable, Geoff."
Hamilton laughed again. "Thanks," he said, starting to turn around, "come on, I'll show you around. Not much here, but I'll show you were you'll be working. Let's go."
Walking slowly towards a ditch, Billy noticed that Hamilton had slight limp. Groaning, he looked over his shoulder at Billy and tapped his leg.
"'Nam," he said, "damned VC got my right in the nerve. Now I can't feel shit in this leg. You seen any action son?"
"Yeah," replied Billy, not fully thinking.
Hamilton stopped. He seemed a little surprised.
"Really? Were?"
It hit Billy like a tonne of bricks. He had to think quickly, he couldn't have anybody find out his true identity. "Oh, a bit of time in Africa. Got sent home because of malaria. Didn't see much fighting."
"War is hell, my boy," said Hamilton, a little more stern than before, "you want to stay a million miles away from it. Come on, we're almost there."
He followed silently. Hamilton didn't know how experienced his new protégé was. Billy had seen plenty of action. He recalled the crime's that had caused him to be sentenced to death. He recalled the orders from his arrogant commander, to round up an innocent village and kill all, just because it was in 'enemy territory'. He remembered turning his weapon on his commanding officer, the shocked looks on his team-mates faces. The screams of the villagers still haunted him. Insomnia was something he could live with. Hallucinations were a bit more difficult. He couldn't remember the last time he slept a whole night, seeing them standing in his room, reaching out towards him, like products of...
"Umbrella built this factory about twenty years ago. They were just starting out in this city back then."
"What?" said Billy, coming away from his thoughts.
"You listening to me?" said Hamilton.
"Sorry, I was in a world of my own. You were saying."
"There was an accident here a couple of months ago. A little explosion. Nobody was hurt, but it damaged business. I had a contract here, but there was a chemical spill. Umbrella cleaned up most of it, but their 'busy schedule' meant that they left a load here. That's why you're here. We've got to shift this mess before October the tenth, otherwise we can't start building on time, and that's not good business."
Billy pondered. "I guess you're right."
"I know I'm right," he said, stopping at the edge of the pit. Billy looked over. There was a ladder that lead down into a swamp-like pool. There were several people moving liquid into drums suspended on pulleys. The liquid was at knee length. "You're lucky you're starting now. It was at their waist last week. There is some protective clothing in that trailer over there. Jimmy will show you the ropes."
"Cool," said Billy, saddened by the daunting task, "I just want to know, will I be paid in cash?"
"Sure," he said, "I'll arrange for Jane to set yours aside. Forgive her if she helps herself to a dollar or two."
Billy chuckled. "Sure," he said, "and thanks. For the job, I mean."
"Don't mention it," he said, removing the blueprints from his pocket. "Happy cleaning."
"And the man?" said a man with sunglasses.
"We lost him in the woods," replied a soldier, glaring at him out of a heavy gasmask. "She was heading towards the Spencer Mansion."
The man with the shades smiled. "Just as I expected."
"Should we locate the male, sir?"
"That won't be necessary," he replied, "I doubt a wanted criminal is about to expose himself."
"We found these on the girl," said the man in the gasmask. He held out a set of dog-tags.
The man in the shades chuckled. "How very clever. Let us stage our own 'death' for Mr. Coen. You did a fine job, Hunk."
* * *
September 27th, 1998
He looked up from his coffee just in time to see the waitress returning his glance. Nervously, she turned, away, pushing her golden hair behind her ear. She pretended to inspect a nearby table, removing the cups from the crusty table-cloth. As she walked away, Billy smiled to himself, returning to his paper.
The usual Raccoon City garbage, he thought. There hadn't been anything particularly juicy in the paper since July, when the S.T.A.R.S. wrapped up the murders occurring in and around Raccoon City. Billy continued skipping through the articles. He was half-expecting to see on detailing the rescue of a cat from a dangerously high tree. But no, just the usual, boring bull- crap: a kid shoots his own eye out with a firework, some girl graduated from the local high-school a year early, nothing special. But it wasn't the articles he was interested. Instead, he favoured the obituaries. And, as he expected, there he was, officially dead. No picture, no verses, not even a birth date, just the one of his death. Billy Coen officially died on 24th September 1998.
He smiled to himself, closing the paper slowly and resting it on the table. Sipping from his coffee again, he put on his sunglasses and admired the morning sunrise. The city was just waking up, but Billy's eyes had been open for many days now. Now that his death was official, he could begin to build a new life, give himself a new name. But it was how that bothered him. How does a nameless face earn an identity? He couldn't just walk into a government building and demand some new records. He needed contacts, someone on the inside who could arrange it all for him.
As much as the situation bothered him, he allowed himself to bask in the glory of the new day. The sun rose, its kindling light bouncing of the windows of the apartment building just near the twenty-four hour diner Billy was sitting outside of. He watched as the various curtains opened to welcome the sunlight. He smiled to himself
To think, I could've missed all of this. I owe a lot to you girl. You saved my ass out there. If only I could tell you, Rebecca...
He sipped at his coffee again. It was going cold. Placing it on the table, he waited for the waitress to come back outside. He watched the cars moving down the road. There were only a few of them at the moment. For a minute he was a seer; later, he could see the road filled with too many cars to count, and the rampant shouts of tired business workers trying to get home. He could already see the red faces. Laughing to himself, he placed his hand in the top pocket of his suit. Pulling out the business card, he read the name aloud.
"Geoffrey Hamilton, foreman," he said, flipping it over to look at the number. Taking of his jacket, slinging it over the chair to maintain his seat, he walked over to the payphone, merely ten feet away from the table. Removing three quarters from his pocket, he began to dial the number, listening to the inane hum of the receiver in his ear. A click, the hum turned to a ring. After three rings, another click, and a hoarse voice.
"Mr. Hamilton's office, Jane speaking, how may I help you?" She sounded almost automated. Billy would've mistaken the voice for that of an answering machine had it not been for the twenty a day crackle in her throat.
"Hi," said Billy, "I'm calling about the jobs you have at the moment..."
"Name please," she interrupted, rudely.
He had time to figure out a new identity, to get new papers and a new national security number, but right now he was happy being, "Ray Walker."
"Just a moment," she replied. Billy could hear the shuffling of some paper and the woman groaning and cursing under her breath. He couldn't help but smile. Voyeurism was not exactly his favourite hobby, but it certainly provided some good humour in his mind.
"Ah, Mr. Walker," came the woman's voice again, at long last.
"Hello," replied Billy, fumbling some more quarters into the money slot. He saw the waitress standing by his table. She was looking at him. He gestured as if he were pouring something. She smiled, and filled his cup with some fresh coffee. Giving her the thumbs up, he returned to the phone call, "right here."
"Mr. Hamilton asks if you can start today," she said as monotonously as before.
Billy was shocked. He thought getting a job using a fake name and background would be much harder than this. "Cool, I mean, yeah sure," he said, happily, "were? What time?"
"Um..." The woman trailed of again, the shuffling of papers, the groaning and cursing. Except this time, Billy wasn't as amused. Something had caught his eye. In a nearby alley way was an ill looking man. He looked like an average bum, but Billy had never seen one chewing on a rat before. Bemused, he looked over at the waitress. She was clearing the tables as if on automation. Looking up, she met Billy's stare. Blushing, she looked quickly away and hurried back into the diner. But there was not flirtation on Billy's side. Suddenly, a voice spoke in his ear.
"Mr. Walker?"
Snapped out of his trance, he looked away from the diner, and the bum, and returned to his important phone call. "Yes...here ma'am."
"Yes," she seemed a little put of by the 'ma'am', "if you could make you way to the Carver memorial building, near the city limits, you should see the site were they need you. Try to be there before ten."
Billy gulped. "Do I need to bring any ID, or papers?"
For the first time, the woman on the phone showed a little emotion. She laughed. "I wouldn't worry about that Mr. Walker; I doubt somebody would lie to get this type of work."
Laughing silently, he replied, "so I just go in, tell them who I am..."
"And you'll be paid in cash at the end of the week," she said, back to her monotonous self, "I wish you'd cut the crap and get straight to the point." She seemed to speak under her breath again.
"Thanks, bye," said Billy placing the receiver back on its hook. "Carver memorial building," he said to himself. Then suddenly, he remembered. Spinning around, he looked into the alleyway. The bum was gone. He returned to his table and put his jacket back on. Sipping his coffee, he found that it had gone cold again. Laughing, he placed the money for coffee on the table. As he did so, he noticed a piece of paper resting under the saucer. He picked it up cautiously, unfolding it slowly. He could not contain his smug smile.
"Alyssa, huh?"
Folding up the girl's number, he walked onwards towards the bus stop.
* * *
"Today, let us remember those who fought bravely and died in the name of justice. Today, let us remember the faces of our friends and allies who fought for the good of this city. Today, let us remember the bravery of those men that fell in battle to rescue their allies. Today, let us remember the members of the Raccoon Police Department's Special Tactics and Rescue Service, who were taken away from us only two months ago. Let us put our hands together, and pray to our lord, the creator of all, for the souls of those who fell on that fateful day, July the twenty-third, nineteen ninety-eight."
Rebecca closed her eyes and clasped her hands together, and tried to listen to the prayer. But nothing could block out the loud anger in her mind.
Two people! Two crummy people! Are we the only one's that cared? I can't blame Chris and the others for not turning up, but were are the other officers? Who is left to pay these people respect?
She held back her tears. The pain in her stomach was more than enough to remind her of the anguish she felt in her heart. It was only her and Brad Vickers there. And she knew he was only there to try and worm his way into her good books again. Ever since the mission, he'd been following her around. Its not that she didn't like the guy, it was just the wrong time to be starting relationships, especially when she had other people on her mind.
The event proceeded, songs were sung, prayers were spoken, and after half an hour, the service was over. Solemnly, Rebecca stood up and walked towards the heavy wooden doors beneath the shining visage of Christ on the window. Behind her, she could hear the clumsy steps of her team-mate, Brad, making their way towards her. Stopping just outside she waited for him to near her. Closing her eyes and wiping the tears from her eyes, she let him speak first.
"Hi, Rebecca," said Brad, his S.T.A.R.S. uniform clearly visible underneath his green army jacket.
Beginning to button up her coat, she looked at him. "Hey Brad," she said, forcing a smile.
"How're you feeling?" said Brad, his face earnest.
"As well as can be expected," she said, looking around, "hell of a turnout, huh?"
Brad scratched his head nervously, searching for something else to look at in the early morning sunlight. "Yeah," he said, "but I'm sure the others are paying tribute in their own way. With justice."
Rebecca nodded, another cold tear trickling down her cheek. "You're right Brad."
She looked out into the street. It was certainly a cold day, unusual for this time of year in Raccoon City. The sun was visible in the sky, beating its rays onto the earth. But its harsh brightness could not compete with the dismal wind that swirled across the city. A storm was coming.
He finally came out and said it. "Do you want to go for drinks later? Raise a glass to the guys?"
"Brad..."
Brad nodded. "I know, Rebecca, I know. But, I...I need this, you know, someone to talk to. And I'm sure you don't want to be alone later either. This isn't a date or anything. Just two friends remembering there comrades."
He was right, thought Rebecca. It would be good for both of them to get out. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been at a social gathering, the last time she heard the laughter of others, the sound of loud music and people dancing. Most of all, she couldn't remember feeling the warmth of others around her. The warmth of happiness.
"Ok, Brad," she said, pulling out her car keys. Suddenly, she began to giggle to herself.
"What's so funny?" asked Brad, a tad annoyed. He hated people laughing without knowing the joke, and he was always paranoid that he was the joke.
"You do realise, I still can't drink?"
He had to laugh. "I'm sure we can arrange something. Talk about it at the office?"
"No can do," said Rebecca, strolling towards the car park, "it's my day of. Just come round my place, eight o'clock."
He nodded as she clambered into her car. She had never taken the time to learn about her car. She didn't even know what it was called, what model it was. All she knew is that it was a Mercedes, and in her mind, that was enough. Mr and Mrs Chambers were very proud of their little girl becoming a college graduate before both of her older brothers at the tender age of eighteen. And its not like they couldn't afford this gift. Turning the key, she realised she hadn't spoken to her mother and father since the beginning of August.
When I get home, I'll call them...
She drove down the busy roads that lead to the church. Many cars were filling the roads now, the people making their way to their jobs. She smiled. Having a day of as a member of S.T.A.R.S was a rare gift. Deciding that some retail therapy would do her good, she drove towards the local shopping arcade.
* * *
Billy stepped out of the cab and looked around. The sun was high in the sky now, though the warmth still couldn't be felt. The gathering clouds in the distance provided a dark backdrop creating a dismal greyness in the sky. Cold didn't get to Billy, though. The coldness of the open air was always much more welcome than the coldness of a damp prison cell, than the coldness of death.
Behind him was a complex of massive building, each owning several towering chimneys. They emitted black smoke into the sky, creating a nasty smell all around. Near the road that exited the city was a metal fence, containing a large building site. The sounds of pneumatic drills and massive cranes lifting heavy loads could be heard. Knowing this was his destination, he walked across the lifeless road and entered through the creaky gate. Immediately, he saw Geoffrey Hamilton, who was looking at a blueprint.
He didn't look like a millionaire. In fact, Billy thought he looked like the exact opposite. Dressed in a chequered shirt, a pair of blue denim dungarees and a yellow hard-hat, it seemed like Billy should've been the one giving the orders. Moving closer, he realised that the man had a striking resemblance to one of the Super Mario Brothers, peering over a fat black moustache. He looked away from the blueprints and looked straight at Billy, smiling.
"Ray Walker, right?" he said in a deep, Italian-American voice. He put out his hand. "Geoffrey Hamilton."
Billy shook his hand, "nice to meet you sir."
Suddenly, Hamilton broke into a rumbling laughter. "Please, call me Geoff. I'm not quite what you were expecting, am I?"
"I'm not sure I follow you," said Billy, trying to guess if the man was playing games.
"Everyone expects rich people to be all well-dressed, and well spoken," replied Hamilton, obvious scorn in his voice, "son, those are people who are born with a silver spoon in their mouths. I don't buy into that crap. I earned my way here. I am down to earth, my business is down to earth. You follow me?"
Billy nodded with a smile, "that's very admirable, Geoff."
Hamilton laughed again. "Thanks," he said, starting to turn around, "come on, I'll show you around. Not much here, but I'll show you were you'll be working. Let's go."
Walking slowly towards a ditch, Billy noticed that Hamilton had slight limp. Groaning, he looked over his shoulder at Billy and tapped his leg.
"'Nam," he said, "damned VC got my right in the nerve. Now I can't feel shit in this leg. You seen any action son?"
"Yeah," replied Billy, not fully thinking.
Hamilton stopped. He seemed a little surprised.
"Really? Were?"
It hit Billy like a tonne of bricks. He had to think quickly, he couldn't have anybody find out his true identity. "Oh, a bit of time in Africa. Got sent home because of malaria. Didn't see much fighting."
"War is hell, my boy," said Hamilton, a little more stern than before, "you want to stay a million miles away from it. Come on, we're almost there."
He followed silently. Hamilton didn't know how experienced his new protégé was. Billy had seen plenty of action. He recalled the crime's that had caused him to be sentenced to death. He recalled the orders from his arrogant commander, to round up an innocent village and kill all, just because it was in 'enemy territory'. He remembered turning his weapon on his commanding officer, the shocked looks on his team-mates faces. The screams of the villagers still haunted him. Insomnia was something he could live with. Hallucinations were a bit more difficult. He couldn't remember the last time he slept a whole night, seeing them standing in his room, reaching out towards him, like products of...
"Umbrella built this factory about twenty years ago. They were just starting out in this city back then."
"What?" said Billy, coming away from his thoughts.
"You listening to me?" said Hamilton.
"Sorry, I was in a world of my own. You were saying."
"There was an accident here a couple of months ago. A little explosion. Nobody was hurt, but it damaged business. I had a contract here, but there was a chemical spill. Umbrella cleaned up most of it, but their 'busy schedule' meant that they left a load here. That's why you're here. We've got to shift this mess before October the tenth, otherwise we can't start building on time, and that's not good business."
Billy pondered. "I guess you're right."
"I know I'm right," he said, stopping at the edge of the pit. Billy looked over. There was a ladder that lead down into a swamp-like pool. There were several people moving liquid into drums suspended on pulleys. The liquid was at knee length. "You're lucky you're starting now. It was at their waist last week. There is some protective clothing in that trailer over there. Jimmy will show you the ropes."
"Cool," said Billy, saddened by the daunting task, "I just want to know, will I be paid in cash?"
"Sure," he said, "I'll arrange for Jane to set yours aside. Forgive her if she helps herself to a dollar or two."
Billy chuckled. "Sure," he said, "and thanks. For the job, I mean."
"Don't mention it," he said, removing the blueprints from his pocket. "Happy cleaning."