September 25th, 7:56 a.m., Mission Street, Raccoon City.
Glass was crunching under the boots of Jill Valentine as she trotted through the mess that was now the lit streets of her home city. Cars lay forgotten in the boulevard, making the paths narrower than they should have been while she traversed through. Barricades that had been attempted were strewn around different entry points to the thoroughfare and alleys.
The body of one police officer that was slung over a blue barricade caught Jill's lengthened attention due to the radio that hung off his belt. The flapping of the café banner to her immediate right had pulled her eyes away from the dead man's face she recognized, and it allowed her a moment of grief.
While she made her way through the throngs of the infected citizens that were still healthy enough to walk around, Jill tried not to calculate the damage that had been done in such a short amount of time. The calls of the dead were a testament to the inverted planes of a new Elysium that Jill kept finding herself in.
The mounting anger that lived within her gut began to shift. Without the prying eyes of her comrades, she allowed herself to acknowledge what was always beneath that anger: Fear.
For just a moment, while Jill looked at the faces around her that had fallen to the T-Virus, she wilted in the middle of her destroyed city. Where, for a brief second, she belonged to the dead, the debris, and cracked pieces of every single street.
"Technically Irons is in charge, but he's abandoned his post, over." Marvin Branagh responded over the radio.
When she first received the response from Marvin on the radio, the previous S.T.A.R.S. member faltered in her steps at the mention of her old chief. Aside from the flaring rage, Jill was also perplexed that the corrupt police chief had remained in the city.
Brian Irons was in the paid pocket of Umbrella, but Jill hadn't been able to prove it just yet.
Despite Albert Wesker's betrayal, even the previous blonde-haired captain had seemed irritated with the hesitant commands of Brian Irons—No doubt it was from hindering Wesker's own plans with the S.T.A.R.S. but Jill hadn't been able to shake her thoughts when she had studied the casefiles well into the warm June nights. There had been plenty of critiques on where the taxpayer money had been going for the last ten years, but the most startling portion wasn't about missing money. It was an influx of money that couldn't be accounted for.
Chief Irons had done everything in his power to sabotage their investigation into the murders and then into Umbrella. Now, he remained behind in the precinct and in the ashes of Umbrella's wake, he had left his men and women to die behind him while he hid away or planned his escape.
The hand Jill had wrapped around her Beretta tightened along with the force of her perpetually clenched jaw.
"Jill, did you read? Over."
"Loud and clear, Lieutenant Branagh. I'm on my way. Over." Jill managed before she slung the radio that she had retrieved from the fallen body of Officer Kyle Morris on the barricade back on her belt.
Marvin's voice had been an instant comfort. Jill hadn't worked with many of the R.P.D. officers regularly, but Marvin had acted as a lay person between their investigations and fed the S.T.A.R.S. reports that his men and women were filing. He was a sharp man and had been keen on making his way up in the ranks.
Earlier, Sheriff Daniel Cortini, Captain Joseph Moon of Fire Station 11, and the rest of the men had worked the last few hours helping Jill scour the surrounding buildings on the north side of Raccoon. For hours they had searched and there had only been 3 survivors they had found huddled in a shop. Captain Moon had taken point in leading the survivors through the streets to reach the railyard and would meet back up with them.
Jill had also returned to her apartment building to retrieve Mr. and Mrs. Prescott but the hallway to their shared apartment hall had been in ruins. The entrance to elderly couple's home lay open and a bloody, smeared handprint had marked their white front door like an omen. Jill hadn't found either of them inside, and against her better judgement, she hoped Mrs. Prescott had gotten away unscathed.
Working with Sheriff Cortini, Captain Moon, and the men of Arklay County Sheriff's Department was a welcome change from the time Jill had spent alone in her apartment in the last month. They were capable men, and even though Captain Moon lay more so on the medical side, he had proven to be an excellent addition on their scouting mission through the north side of the city.
"Wait," Jill had said from her position at the front of the team a few hours ago. The six of them were poised at the front doors of an apartment complex on Spear Street. "They hunt by sound and sight. When you enter a building or a new hall, use that to your advantage; they'll give themselves away every time."
Jill pushed open the apartment complex doors and the six of them were met with an empty lobby. There were four connected halls, the south facing one was directly opposite the front doors and it led down the row of first floor apartments. Light spilled out from one ajar door in the hall.
With her right foot lifting, Jill tapped the steel-toed cap of her boot against the metal trash can that sat near the doors of the lobby. The twang of metal permeated the space and traveled down the long halls. An elongated moan filtered out from a second corridor on their right, and before long, a figure shambled out to reveal itself.
Sheriff Cortini was nodding to Deputy Jason Everett beside them. Deputy Everett was a large man, easily 6'4 and somewhere around 220 pounds of pure muscle. He was slower than the rest of them, but the power behind his baseball bat swing had Jill flinching when the aluminum rang out against bone. Blood splattered on the tiled wall behind the zombie, and the previous citizen was falling to their knees with a gurgled moan.
"May God help us all." The sheriff was talking quietly beside his deputy when he stepped up beside him and checked down the hall.
Neither man seemed to be able to look at the upturned face of the now dead zombie.
Not one of them said it, but only finding three survivors in the hours they had searched had been harrowing and left no room to argue how bad their odds currently were. The Sheriff's face had lit up when someone finally responded from one of the smaller shops on Mina Street. A woman had been hiding with her two children at their daycare center. The mother had been running errands when the screaming had started. A day care staff had let the mother in, but the staff member had departed not long after; wanting to get home to her own children. The mother, Samantha, had decided to stay huddled in the day care.
Just after 6 a.m. the sun had begun to rise on a misty horizon, and the cold temperatures were whisking through the surrounding buildings of northside Raccoon when Jill gave the order for the men to return to the railyard. The cloud coverage and the rain had lessened, but the storm hadn't seemed to wholly pass yet.
"You shouldn't be traveling alone." Deputy Everett interjected into the silence while he was squinting toward the morning sun. They had stood in front of the Umbrella Raccoon H.Q. building.
"They trained us to watch our own backs in S.T.A.R.S." Jill replied easily with a note of exhaustion tinging. "I need to get back to my apartment and grab some paperwork. I want the evidence on Umbrella to survive."
"May have trained you to travel alone, but it's not required. I can assist you." Everett argued quietly. For a large man, his voice was soft, and it carried a weight that Jill was used to hearing from her male counterparts.
"I'll be fine, deputy." Jill's response left no room for argument.
The deputy had remained close to her throughout their search, and whether it was because she was a woman or he had grown fond of her in their current predicament, Jill didn't have time to sort through it.
The dead were still filtering in from the south side. With the light of dawn, the horrors of the city seemed to become more apparent without the darkness to hide the small details of Umbrella's apathy.
The Sheriff—Daniel had made it a point to shake her hand before she departed. His voice drew her eyes.
"Come back to us, Jill. We're just a radio call away now." His hand was reaching out to hers. And she took it with a hard squeeze.
"I plan to." Jill responded with a nod. "Keep your men alive, Daniel."
"I plan to." The sheriff parroted back. His smile was hesitant and strained but he was soon taking a step back and dropping her hand.
"'Best laid plans', huh?" Jill asked when her hand returned to her side.
The sheriff's face lost its smile, and a shadow of reality was crossing his visage shortly after. The look they shared was one they both understood without further comment.
Nothing was certain anymore.
The five men were turning and keeping in a tight formation while they made their way back toward the railyard where the survivors and Captain Moon waited. Deputy Everett glanced back at her once and held her violet gaze for a beat. Jill held the look and lifted a hand before she turned away.
Now, as Jill ran down Mission Street, her thoughts centered on her reason for requesting entry into the R.P.D. She had wanted to meet up with the other officers at the precinct, but an hour after she had departed from the men of the Arklay County Sheriff's Department, a low hum began to fill the sunlit streets of Raccoon. The sun's light reflected off the metal of the overhead Boeing CH-47 Chinook when it came into sight. The tandem rotor helicopter was flying low when Jill caught a glimpse of the Army National Guard symbol.
Military radios were usually Ultra High Frequency (UHF), and those radio types were typically used by public safety officials like fire, police, and EMS.
R.P.D.'s radios were capable of corresponding with military units with the right encryption keys, however, the best communication device for bypassing all of that was in the S.T.A.R.S. office.
If she could get a signal out, Jill could update whoever was in command overseeing Raccoon's quarantine through the Army National Guard.
The Chinook was out of sight and heading toward the South part of town. Jill began a steady run toward the downtown streets while she fumbled with the radio to contact Marvin once more.
"J-Jill!" A scream had her jerking her attention over her left shoulder just as she landed from hurdling over a fallen newspaper stand.
Brad Vickers was pushing out from where Raccoon Street met with Mission. The Saint Michael's Clock Tower stood off to their right.
Jill was opening her mouth to reply when she heard the thundering steps of something coming from the way Brad had emerged.
Brad looked horrible—in fact, he looked like shit. His yellow vest had been torn near the left shoulder and blood was stained around the left side of his face. The haggard way Brad carried himself alerted Jill to a man who had been running all night and mostly likely hadn't slept… As if something had been chasing him.
A tall, monstrous figure was rounding the corner shortly after her assessment, and the humanoid creature that walked on two legs was a sight she knew all too well.
"Tyrant." Jill's clarity came to a momentary standstill as the thoughts began to take over her mind.
Umbrella's virus had created many deadly threats to her and the rest of the Alpha Team in the Spencer Mansion. None had been more deadly than the Tyrant Series that Captain Wesker had unleashed on them before their rescue.
"S.T.A.R.S…"
Jill's thought pattern picked back up when the breathy expel of anger reached her ears. The tyrant she had encountered previously hadn't ever spoken.
A long whip-like appendage burst forth from the giant's hand and the explosion of blood from Brad's chest announced the strength behind the tyrant's attack. With a shout, Jill was lifting her Beretta and firing off shot after shot while she began to slowly walk forward. The hollow points slammed into the hulking figure's face, but still it was lifting Brad off the ground and pulling the terrified S.T.A.R.S. member toward itself.
When a large fist clamped around Brad's face, the sickening sound of his head being pierced by the tentacle-like organ had Jill releasing a gasp, "No!"
The dead on the streets were getting closer; now drawn in from the gunfire.
The tyrant was wearing a dark trench coat of some sort and the blood dripping from Brad's now limp body above it seemed to disappear into the impossibly black color.
Hateful eyes were now turning toward Jill when it exclaimed once more, "S.T.A.R.S."
The lipless mouth was pulled into a frozen grin from poorly cultivated human tissue that had been stretched over what Jill knew was a man-made experiment. This tyrant, however, seemed to be a little more alert than the one from previous history.
When Brad's body fell to the ground with a tumble of brain matter, Jill was turning back toward the street, her legs pumping to drive her forward while she dodged the grasping hands around her.
She could return to the railyard where the men waited, but now that they were watching over the mother and her children, Jill directed herself south—toward the Chinook and toward what she hoped was the mighty weight of the military's best weapons.
The landscape was blurring around Jill and glass from the broken shop on her left was refracting sunlit rainbows over her face when she passed. Had anyone been present, they might not have suspected she was crying—or see the shiver in her jerking limbs, not from the cold, but from the fear she had tried to hide for the past month.
The weighted steps that thundered behind her signified a chase Jill knew she had just inherited from Brad.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.
The tyrant's booted footfalls had been muted under the chorus of moans around her, but when Jill deviated through the shopping district's alleyway, they became like a heartbeat in her ears and a steady vibration she could feel in her chest.
"'Best laid plans.'" Was the whispering echo in Jill's mind as she tumbled from a sloping fence toward a parking garage nearby.
Hours had passed since Jill's radio transmission and Briggs' last breath. Leon had remained mostly silent as he held Claire and allowed her to cling to him while her anguish wet the front of his police vest. The rookie whispered to her softly every now and then but seemed to understand her need to just be held.
It had been years since Claire had allowed herself to express such grief and if she was being honest, it felt worse than when the doctor had told her and Chris that their mother would likely never wake up.
The watch at Leon's wrist read 10:14 a.m. when Claire lifted her head from his chest and dared to meet his eyes.
"I'm sorry." She interrupted the silence hoarsely. "I can't seem to stop—"
They sat against the holding cell's far, cold brick wall and were facing adjacent Briggs' cell. Claire suspected that Leon had faced them away purposefully and the small fact had her stating her gratitude to him in a blubbering whimper earlier.
Leon had sat her across his lap at some point while she had cried. Claire had barely noticed when he lifted her onto his legs sideways and adjusted her head against his chest. His arms were warm in the cool air of the basement level.
Leon picked his head up from the brick wall he had been leaning back into and met her gaze with a soft look.
"We don't apologize for our grief, Claire." His hand lifted her chin and the look he gave her now was of a man who connected in the spirit of loss.
"I don't know how I would have done this without you." She admitted softly when she leaned into his hand and shut her eyes.
"I was fortunate to have met you when I did." Leon responded gently. His thumb was stroking the side of her jaw and he kept a hold of her face. "I'm keeping watch. Just rest now; you barely even slept earlier."
Leon's magnum lay on the ground beside them as he spoke and Claire knew that she would be safe, if only for a few hours.
"Neither did you." Claire admitted, but even as she said it, she was lowering her head back onto his chest to close her eyes once more. The rest of the cells around them were quiet.
Claire wasn't sure when she had fallen asleep, but Leon continued to hold her and didn't move from his position. The reprieve seemed to benefit him as much as it did her. When Claire did open her eyes next, she jerked up slightly and Leon's arms tightened around her.
"Still here. You're safe." Leon said above her.
The medic of Fire Station 12 was looking once more up at her blonde counterpart, and even in her sleepy haze, she could see the strain that also lined his youthful face.
"Are you alright?" She asked.
Leon's brow furrowed for a moment before he shifted slightly beneath her.
"Not sure." He admitted quietly to her then. "I think I'm what you would call 'white knuckling it' right now."
"What you did for Briggs—What you did for me—back there in the cell." Claire started as she sat up and reached up for his face and took both sides in her hands. "I can't ever repay you for that but I'm going to try."
"I just know that you gave him his dignity, Claire. I don't think you could have offered him better given the circumstances. Most people die alone, and you allowed him to pass with your presence guiding him."
"He finally said your surname correctly." Claire admitted. A laugh escaped her lips while she shook her head and released Leon's face.
Leon was smiling at her and leaning his head down to capture her eyes again. "I noticed that. Is there a joke I should know?"
"Briggs caught me having a…moment the morning you pulled me over—" Claire winced at her new admission with another laugh as she thought of her mentor's antics.
"Go on." Leon's smile deepened while he watched her.
Claire let a shy smile grace her features but managed to hold Leon's gaze. "He was just teasing me, and the misuse of your surname was a constant lure to get a rise out of me."
"The man was wise," Leon said playfully but soon sobered up. "I'm glad to have met you both. Not sure how things would have turned out, but I won't lie to you and tell you I'm not secretly pleased that you were as smitten with meeting me as I was with you."
"Who said I was smitten?" Claire asked in mock offence.
"'Mango'?" Leon muttered her and Briggs' code word for being uncomfortable and leaned his head back into the wall.
Claire leaned forward and kissed him softly. She could feel the rookie smile against her lips when he returned her affection.
"Guess I might be your good luck charm after all." Leon murmured before pulling his face back slightly.
"I guess you're right… Are you always so unshakable, Kennedy?"
Leon snorted softly and stared down at her with that soft look living in his eyes. "Makes a casual drink a bit awkward given the lingering PTSD…Unless that's your thing; clingy and paranoid rookies."
Claire was pressing her face back into his chest when she lowered her head. The arms she still had around him tightened while she responded, "I don't know if you're going to be able to get rid of me after this. Gonna have to let your girlfriend in New York down softly."
"I'll be sure to put out that memo then." Leon's voice became muffled as he leaned down to press his lips into the hair at her temple. "And there's no girlfriend in New York."
The radio Leon had set on the ground beside his gun blared with static when the mic opened but the transmission cut off into silence once more. The sound had Claire looking up toward Rita's cell and she was pushing off Leon's legs soon after. She heard the young cop release a groan and her head was turning to him when she noticed the sheepish smile he carried.
"Legs fell asleep." He explained.
"You calling me heavy, Kennedy?" Claire found herself asking as she lifted her hand to help him stand.
Her muscles felt stiff and the dried tear streaks that had previously tracked across her face made the skin feel itchy when she smiled again.
"I may not be a hunter, but that's definitely a trap." He retorted with a half-smile while he took her hand and stood.
"Did Jill make it here safely?" Claire was asking while she pulled her hair from her ponytail and redid the messy strands in a fresh bind. His comment lifted the corners of her mouth higher.
"Not sure. The radio had been quiet while you slept." Leon replied behind her. He was studying the radio that had opened just a few moments prior.
Claire was nodding quietly while she finished with her hair and began to walk toward Rita's cell. She kept her eyes off Briggs' cell when she passed.
"Ryman, to Branagh. The boards have been removed on the west side. The hall is flooded." The radio was coming alive in Leon's hand when Claire turned at the noise. Kevin's voice was higher than normal, and the sounds of gunshots were coming through the open airwaves. "Oh, god—What is that?"
A high-pitched scream came through the radio before Kevin's transmission ended.
"What's going on?" Claire uttered.
"What do you mean the boards were 'removed'? Ryman—" Another high-pitched screech could be heard in the background of Marvin's line. The sound seemed to distract the young lieutenant too as he paused before he was shouting an order back towards the other officers in the room. "Move the survivors into the east office now! Ryman, can you and Detective Elliot head back?"
Kevin didn't respond.
"Marvin? This is Kennedy. What's going on?" Leon was walking up beside Claire while he spoke on the radio.
"Station has been breached. They're coming in." Marvin's voice had gooseflesh rising on Claire's skin. Rita was shifting in her cell and sitting up from her bunk. The female officer was looking up into Claire's eyes.
Her color was still healthy.
"Leon—you gotta get up there." Claire turned toward him as she began to dig for the cell keys in her pocket. "I'll stay here and watch over the others, just get up there and see if you can help."
In her hurry, Claire was turning back to the door and jamming the key for Rita's cell when Leon responded almost harshly behind her.
"I'm not leaving you down here, Claire."
The old and rusting door swung open after a simple twist to the locking mechanism. At least someone had maintained the doors of the aging police station.
"Come on," Claire said to Rita. "We'll need your help too and I think if you were going to show signs, it would have happened by now."
Claire was turning on her booted heel when she met Leon's fierce gaze she had seen once before outside of the police station. "Leon, I'll be fine. Someone needs to stay down here with the others, and I'm qualified to do that, but Liam is upstairs, and they need help. Go, now!"
The severe tone wasn't something Claire had used with Leon yet, but the rookie seemed to straighten up at the mention of their little orphan. The radio in Leon's hand blared once more.
"Back up, Ryman—Marvin, there's something else in the station—something from earlier. Move everyone back out of the great hall." Detective Elliot was panting on the line now, presumedly watching Kevin's back as they fought whatever had entered the building.
"Let's go, rookie." Rita was pulling her gun and holster from the wall where Claire had hung up the other officers' weapons. "Your duty lies upstairs now. Let Claire take care of our wounded."
The muscle in Leon's jaw was clenching while he continued to stare into Claire's eyes. He was a man divided by duty and something else that Claire knew had a name.
The warmth for his desire to stay with her had her reaching out to squeeze his forearm when she whispered, "I'll be fine. You took care of me when I needed it, Leon. Now let me do what I need to. I promise I won't leave this basement area."
Leon opened his mouth to say something before he just nodded. His hand was clasping over hers in a warning squeeze before he pushed past and quickly followed a limping Rita out of the cell block and up toward the struggling officers.
The slam of the cell door made Claire flinch and she found her eyes wandering over to the last three cells of the remaining officers. Andy was facing away from her on his cot, and he hadn't stirred once at the noise. Jeff sat slightly out of sight in his cell; he was sitting on the ground with his back leaned against the furthest wall. His head lay in his hands and Claire couldn't tell if he had heard them at all.
When Claire shifted to move toward Eric's cell, she paused as she noted the man was standing with his back to her. He was swaying softly on his feet.
"Eric?" Claire whispered quietly.
The reality of her current situation was beginning to weigh on her. Leon and Rita had departed to help the rest of the station, but they had taken the only radio with them. She wouldn't be able to know what was going on… or call for help if she needed it.
Eric was turning slowly at the noise and before he made his full rotation, Claire could already see the changes manifesting before her eyes. Drool was hanging from Eric's rubbery pale lips when his dull eyes were turning toward her. A gurgling sound passed through the officer's throat when he lifted a hand through the bars to reach for her. She saw no evidence of a higher functioning capacity and the morbid portion of her EMS training was cataloging the time in which she had spoken to him last up until this point.
Claire felt her shoulders slump when she released the breath she had been holding. Eric had died sometime while she had slept, and she could only hope he hadn't suffered.
Claire took a step further away from the bars and when Jeff's odd drawling voice spoke from his cell behind her, she nearly screamed out.
"Time to let me out."
Claire was whipping toward the man and took in his face pressing between two bars of the door. His features were slack, but his eyes were wide and the light that hung from the far-left portion of the corridor was only lighting part of his face from the shadow.
"I can't do that, Jeff." Claire was stammering out before she cleared her throat and maintained eye contact as she walked toward the side but was still out of reach. "You're infected and you know that. How are you feeling right now?"
"Hungry." Jeff answered honestly as he kept his body still, but his large, rounded eyes tracked her in a neat line. His voice came out slowly as if it was at great cost for him to form sentences.
Claire took another exploratory step, and she viewed the tracking behavior he was beginning to exhibit. Jeff still appeared to have higher executive functioning by being able to communicate, but the predatory nature of his responses reminded Claire of something Chris said when he and Barry Burton had taken her out for her first hunting trip.
"Rare enemy effect." Chris had said as he put his bird caller down at their campsite in the Arklay mountains in 1992. "The rare enemy effect happens when a predator exploits the prey's anti-predator response to another predator."
"Think of a burglar that pretends to be a security system salesman that wants to 'inspect' your home for a sale. Effectively, when you think you're being safe, what you're actually doing is inviting the predator in to trap you." Barry added while he fiddled with the stock of his hunting shotgun.
"Open the door." Jeff interrupted her thoughts while she stared.
The last stages of infection still allowed for communication, however, the dominant hemisphere of the brain seemed to further generate dialog that acquiesced to what the virus was made to do—Spread.
The floor of the cell block rumbled, and the sharp but distant sound of an explosion followed shortly after. Claire was turning her head toward the cell block doors with a look of apprehension crossing her features. Behind her, Eric began to make cowling noises, and Claire was straining to hear while she listened for more sounds out toward the garage.
The sound had come from the basement level.
Had Leon and Rita been met with resistance? Claire could admit she wasn't entirely sure about the R.P.D.'s arsenal, but she was certain they only had so much access to explosives.
"Hungry…Hungry…" Jeff was continuing to speak as Claire walked toward the cell block door. "Hungry."
The gun at Claire's hip was cold from the chilly atmosphere of the basement level and the touch of metal in her reaching hand had her shivering when she reached for the door to the parking structure.
She would have to put Eric down after she investigated the noise. Jeff was still alive, but she knew he wouldn't have long based on his deteriorating assessment. She wasn't sure about Andy.
One of the three men in the cell block had begun to bang on the cell bars when Claire stepped out of the door and closed it quietly behind her. The muffled sounds of banging behind her could still be heard through the door as she advanced.
At first glance, the parking structure looked as it had when she had come down earlier that morning. Nothing moved around the cars that sat in the spaces, but the moans of a nearby hoard drew Claire's attention to the gate she had closed when she and Briggs had found Rita initially.
Fear licked at Claire senses while she took measured steps toward the gate of the R.P.D. garage. Several zombies were making their way down the ramp.
The gate was still solidly closed, but Claire noticed a black scorch mark that stood out against the concrete at the top of the gate's rolling mechanism. Her eyes narrowed as she stepped up and took in what looked like a blast radius—someone had blown the automatic rolling pins on the gate; the gate would no longer remain locked and could be freely lifted if someone was strong enough to do so.
One of the zombies reached the gate and began to reach through for her. Claire took a large step back while she continued to look around the gate. In doing so, her eyes caught on the small pool of fresh blood on the ground beside her foot.
With a tilt of her head, Claire gave one last glance at the garage around her. With no immediate threats noted, she squatted down and examined the blood in closer detail.
There was a distinct difference between low velocity blood splatters and high velocity blood splatters. Low velocity spatters signified dripping blood in the absence of impact; it acted similarly to water when splashed to the ground at a reasonable height. High velocity splatters were an indicator of an object impacting the source of the blood—such as a gunshot, a baseball bat, or a car.
The blood puddle beside her foot was a low velocity spatter, signifying that someone had been injured and had passed through the area.
Yanking out one of the blue gloves from her pocket that she had taken from the medical supplies they had brought down from the great hall, Claire was pulling the latex over her right hand and dipping her index finger into the blood.
"Warm—uncoagulated." Claire whispered. Whomever it belonged to was most likely still alive.
And was most likely still in the garage with her.
Claire turned her head over her shoulder and spotted more blood splatters in the faint lighting. Her eyes began to spot the dripped path that led around one of the cars in the center of the lot. Standing slowly, Claire yanked the single glove off and regripped the Beretta in both hands.
As she rounded the pillar in the center of the garage, she noted the blood splatters that led to two black and white police car units in the far-left corner of the room. Her gun began to lift with each step she took. Closer now, her eyes caught on the bloodied handle of the cop car on the left side. The windows of the unit were tinted, and in the darkness, Claire couldn't tell if anyone was inside.
"Fuck," Claire whispered as she began to reach for the handle. "This is such a bad idea."
With a quick jerk of the cold handle, Claire yanked the passenger side of the car door open and took a quick step back. The sight inside had her lowering her gun slowly.
A person in a black uniform sat slumped in the passenger seat of the car. Claire couldn't immediately discern if it was a man or a woman due to a dark gas mask that covered their face and the black helmet that rested atop their head. Haunting red lenses in the mask concealed the eyes, and she couldn't tell if they were open or not.
One of their gloved hands lay carefully over a large injury on their right side. Blood continued to leak in large rivulets and disappeared into the black fabric of what appeared to be military gear. A dark green vest with various pockets and holsters were strapped to their chest. One of the clasps of the vest on their right side had nearly been severed by what looked like a clean swipe. The sparkle of a chain peaked out in between the space of the gas mask and the armored shirt. Claire assumed it was a dog tag.
Given what Marvin said earlier, Claire also assumed this must be one of the S.W.A.T. members of the R.P.D. who had managed to make it back. Claire began to let her eyes drop toward the shoulders and chest, but she couldn't spot a company tag, patch, or a badge.
Maybe not S.W.A.T after all.
"Hey—" She began to ask but jerked as the clatter of something metal and heavy twanged throughout the room.
A loud screech followed, and Claire swiveled her head toward the center of the garage. Something crawled out from what looked like a manhole on the floor. The threat sat low to the ground and in the light, appeared to be red and slick.
What moved across the floor on all fours was something Claire had seen a quick glimpse of when she and Leon had been traversing the west corridors. It had taken several shots from Leon's magnum to put it down, but even still, Claire hadn't been able to see the monstrosity that it was.
But she could now.
A creature in the shape of a man inched across the floor slowly; talons were in place of what should have been fingers on the human shaped appendages that lead to a wrist and a bicep. The talons produced a soft clicking sound as it moved.
The red appearance Claire had first noted was due to a lack of dermis that seemed to have been peeled off or had disintegrated with whatever was causing the infection in Raccoon. A muscle structure Claire almost didn't recognize was rippling with each clambering step it took.
Claire felt frozen as she stood next to the open car door of the police unit. Aside from the clicking of the creature before her, her ears picked up the steady, muffled breathing of the person sitting in the car. They were still alive.
Claire's left hand slowly lifted from the Beretta and was laying itself on the top of the car door in moments. With careful consideration, she slowly shut the door until the metal of the door rested quietly against the patrol car, enclosing the person within in a small form of safety.
Her eyes stayed on the creature, and she watched for its attention to change from her movement. The creature continued its stroll and was now moving toward where the zombies were banging against the garage door.
"Hunts by sound?" Claire wondered to herself silently while her hand reached into her back pocket.
When her fingertips touched the ring of keys in her pocket, she grasped them tightly to keep them from jingling. With an underhanded toss, the keys arced through the air and hit the ground with a loud, scraping clatter in the large space of the room.
The screech she had heard earlier was produced once more and the creature was quickly pouncing on the spot. A long, barbed tongue slithered from the thing's mouth and struck the spot where the keys lay.
The new position of the creature gave Claire a perfect view of its hissing face. The mouth of sharp teeth dropped open under the flex of enlarged masseter muscles on the side of its face. Above, an exposed frontal lobe of the brain had extended forward over the forehead. The lumpy mass of the engorged tissue seemed disproportionate, and the growth of the cells appeared to have filled in the eye sockets.
"It's blind." Claire concluded in her head with a jolt. "Hunts only by sound but it's not going for the zombies making noise."
Her eyes were catching on the many cars around them before she tilted her head to the side and glanced back at the patrol car with the unconscious person still sitting inside.
"You better be some sort of G.I. Joe." Claire thought sourly as she clenched her jaw and turned from the unconscious survivor's position.
With a decision made, Claire began to walk toward the center pillar where a civilian car sat. She walked slowly; each foot lifting carefully and deliberately, not allowing the rubber of her soles to scrape on the ground before she would shift closer.
Claire had spotted a yellow roadside helmet that officers and EMS workers used when responding to calls on the side of the road. The Poly-Med high-density, plastic helmet weighed somewhere around 3 to 4 pounds. It wasn't a wrench, but Claire had decided to make do as she repeated her little stunt from the Apple Inn. With a hefty throw, Claire hurled the helmet as hard as she could at the civilian car near the pillar.
The responding screech that pierced the air and the clicking of the creature was lost to the suddenly blaring car alarm. The headlights of the vehicle began to flash in time with the tune, and with the strobing effect, Claire fired as the creature began to rush the car.
The first bullet caught the monster in the side of the neck, and it was whipping its head toward Claire when the second one clipped the very top of its crown.
The gunfire, along with the car alarm, was creating a flutter echo that transmitted the sounds back and forth across the open space; however, it didn't seem to be enough because the creature was rearing back and flinging itself like a slingshot at Claire.
Claire bit her own tongue to keep from screaming while she reacted by dropping to her knees with a crack of bone against concrete. The crunch of metal behind her had her whirling her torso back toward the sound and watching as the creature moved away from the dented vehicle it had slammed into when it had missed her.
The creature opened its mouth in another angry cry and Claire wasted no time in lifting her shaking hands and pulling the trigger of the handgun. Two more rounds were slamming into its chest until she lifted her aim and delivered the last of the bullets into its skull.
When the gun clicked empty, Claire uttered a single lonely sound that was lost to cacophony. The creature was leaping forward once more and the weight of it slammed into her chest, knocking the air from her lungs. The creature landed atop her, and it folded her back awkwardly when her legs were trapped in a curled position beneath it.
The hot breath of the beast hit her face and if Claire had the ability to properly breathe, she knew she may have vomited from the smell of decaying meat that overwhelmed her. Blood from the creature's wounds was pouring onto her jacket when the abomination released another roar into her face. A clawed hand was arcing down toward her head when Claire jerked her neck to the right. Talons seared through her hair and Claire winced as she felt the skin of her scalp pull when the claws missed and caught in her hair-tied strands.
Shaking fingers were curling around the combat knife at her hip, and Claire was shouting with her first breath. Yanking the knife to her chest level, she brought both hands over the hilt and drove it up into the creature's chin with everything she had left. The scream in her face was cut off and the head of the beast began to shake.
Sensing her victory, Claire shoved until the hilt of the knife pushed up past the barrier of the skull and deeper into the parting, serrated tissue. The knuckles of her hands sunk in with the hilt and she shuddered at the warm flesh and blood that began to surround her fists that remained tightly clenched around the hilt.
The creature gave one last breath before it collapsed fully on top of her. The mighty weight of the beast knocked her further back and trapped her hands against her chest.
The sudden tears on her face were hot as they began to drip down her temples. Claire couldn't stop the sob that released from her throat as she released the knife, placed her palms on the slick muscle of the creature's chest, and gave a shove.
It took a few attempts to get the body off her, but Claire finally managed once she focused on breathing appropriately. She couldn't control her shaking legs when she finally rose to her feet.
A quick glance down at her form had her noting the gore covered red jacket that glistened in the overhead lights. Her hands were covered in dark red blood—tissue was stuck under two of her nails. The talon of the creature had cut a good chunk of her hair out and it now lay against her shoulders with a severed hair tie hanging from one of the chunks.
Claire lifted a boot and delivered a severe kick to the side of the now-dead creature's body while she let out a curse. She bent and yanked out the knife from under the monster's chin before she moved to scoop up the empty Beretta that had fallen to the floor.
The car alarm continued its tune and Claire turned her eyes toward the vehicle while she tried her best to steady the thrumming heartbeat in her chest. Rubbing her angry tears from her eyes with the clean part of her wrist, she realized she had done it—she had survived.
"What's next?" She muttered thickly while she quickly made her way to the noisy car and yanked the driver's side door open.
With a pull to the lever for the hood release, she was then rounding the front of the car to wrench up the heavy metal hood. Spotting the fuse hatch, Claire located the wires connected to the box before she slipped the combat knife under them and gave an angry tug upwards, cutting the alarm off abruptly.
Aside from the moans of the dead still outside the structure, the garage was quiet once more.
Claire set the knife on top of the car's air-filter housing and braced both of her bloody hands on the rim of the car's front. Her head hung for a moment as she worked to get herself back under control.
A soft sound behind her had her snatching the knife up once more and whirling around with a messy curtain of red hair flaring around her shoulders. A solid body stood two feet from her; the metallic barrel of the machine gun bumped into her chest at her swinging momentum.
The certain figure of a man stood before her now—the one from the patrol car. The red lenses of the mask gave away nothing as the deep, muffled breaths took up the space in Claire's racing thoughts.
Claire had been held at gunpoint a few times in her short 23 years. Some domestic violence calls could go south, and police could miss a hidden weapon at any time. For all domestic disputes that required medical aid, police would arrive on scene and clear it for medics once it was deemed safe. Twice in Claire's history, police had missed a gun. The worst one was with a severely sick man who had lifted his revealed firearm without ceremony and placed it to Claire's forehead as he breathed harshly into her face.
It had been one of the only times Claire had ever seen Briggs lose his composure and he at least had kept it together while on scene.
With the barrel pressing in the space between her breasts now, Claire lifted her eyes back up to the red eyepieces of the mask. The combat knife dropped from her hand, but she didn't bother to raise either one of them in surrender.
"I could've used your help and your gun about two minutes ago." Claire breathed before she tilted her head up toward his imposing gas mask. The man was easily 6'2 over her short stature.
"Survival is your responsibility." A crisply accented, American voice answered in a slight muffle from beneath the mask. The man stepped back but he didn't lower the weapon, however.
Claire snorted and was pushing hair back from her face with the back of her hand when she glanced back toward the doors that led to the cell block.
"Are we operating under rigorous honesty right now?" She asked when she turned back toward him. "How's this for survival: you need that stitched up." Her right hand gestured to his injured side.
The man said nothing and continued to watch her before he lowered the weapon back to his side.
"Who are you?" Claire finally asked as she again tried to scope for a patch or some form of identification. "Military? S.W.A.T.? Or did you just have that lying around?"
"Do you have medical supplies?" He ignored her questions.
"I do, c'mon." She said with a sigh before she bent to scoop up her knife, turned from her spot, and began to move for the door.
A hand grasped the back of her neck, and the barrel of the gun was once more pressing into her clothed flesh.
"If you try anything—" The voice inside the mask deepened as he began to speak.
"You're going to fucking die if you don't let me treat that. What's more: Didn't they teach you that killing a medic is a war crime?" Claire interrupted with anger lacing her own voice. "All I have is a knife and an empty gun—which is empty because I protected you, by the way. I'm pretty sure you will win this fight."
The man behind her released her neck and the barrel was pulling away from her skin once more.
"Can you treat this?" Claire could detect the sarcasm in his tone even through the respirator at the end of his mask.
Claire was pushing the door to the cells open when she said, "Like I said, I'm a medic and I can easily be an absent medic if you don't stop pointing your little toy at me."
"You could easily be a dead one too." The masked man answered simply behind her.
"A dead medic and a dead military dog—who would write about our saga then?" Claire sassed as she continued to walk. She could have sworn she heard a huff of a laugh from the man behind her, but it was so faint she thought she may have imagined it.
Jeff had completely fallen to his infection during her fight with the creature in the garage. He, along with Eric, were now poised against the bars of the cells. Their hungry moans became louder as she and the man in the mask rounded the corridor.
The sounds of snuffed gunfire made Claire jump, and she watched as both Eric and Jeff fell back into the cells with a crash. A perfect shot through the temple was what Claire caught before Jeff's face fell away from sight.
There was no noise or movement from Andy's cell.
The medic was turning her chin over her left shoulder to see the man slipping the silenced pistol back into a holster on his thigh. His machine gun was still held loosely in his left hand. Claire couldn't confirm if he was looking at her then, but she knew that he was by the tiny hairs that still stood straight on the back of her neck.
"This way." She said quietly as she moved to the sink near a fuse box.
She was motioning to a chair in the corner as she turned on the facet and began to rigorously clean her hands. Glancing down at her jacket once she was finished, she quickly grabbed for the zipper and was flinging the jacket off her shoulders; she would need to clean that too.
"Did you get any of its blood in your wounds?" The man asked from his sitting position in the chair. His gun now lay across his lap.
Claire had begun to wash her wrists and arms and was looking over at the man once she twisted the knob to shut the water back off. Her red hair was sticking to the sweat on the right side of her face as she gazed into his mask.
"It didn't cut me." She said carefully before nodding toward his bloodied side. "Something you may want to consider in the future."
The man had no response for that when she snatched up her medic bag and moved to squat beside him.
"What are you doing?" He asked as he shifted in his seat.
Claire looked up with a frown, her hands clutching the suture kit before she uttered, "Do you know how to do the Interrupted Suture Pattern?"
Silence reigned once more.
"I didn't think so—move your hands." Claire was tearing the zipper open and pulling out the needle, the permanent sutures, and a bottle of betadine.
The man paused for a moment longer before he gripped the barrel of his gun and laid it back against the wall on the opposite side of her. With quick hands, he was unclasping a buckle at his belt and lifting the material of the armored shirt.
Claire's eyes lingered on the 6-inch cut on his side. He had been lucky; it wasn't as deep as she suspected, but with a wound like that in circumstances like this, he would have the unlucky death of infection in a few days' time if he hadn't managed to escape. His skin seemed to have a natural tan hue to it, but Claire could tell his coloration was slightly off; he had lost a decent amount of blood.
"What's this from?" she asked as she scooted closer and began dumping the betadine across the wound. She snatched out alcohol wipes from the pack and sanitized her hands further. Slipping on the gloves last, she set to work.
"What's your name?" He asked instead.
Claire let out a huff and shook her head while she threaded the needle. She placed her hand against the skin at his hip and looked up when he flinched.
"It's Claire," she said then. "Claire Redfield. I'm a firefighter—was a firefighter at Station 12."
The man fell into the silence once more and didn't flinch again when she pierced the first portion of his flesh. Claire found herself grateful for the silence after a few moments. It wasn't her duty to suture patients on the ambulance, but one tended to learn a lot from bored firefighter medics who also happened to be medics in the military. Station 12 had two men who loved to show off those skill sets.
Claire's eyes briefly wandered across the side of the man in front of her and she noted the various scars that surrounded the wound she was currently working on.
"Seems like you get hurt a lot." She commented dryly.
"Product of survival." He responded above her easily. "Seems you have your own stories etched on your skin."
The air of the basement was cool on Claire's shoulders and this time around she found she didn't care if someone saw her scars—He wasn't Leon, and she certainly wouldn't be sharing that side of herself. She opened her mouth to respond but the man continued.
"Anyone ever told you they look like wings on your back? The scars?" The voice coming out from the mask wasn't one Claire would have described as kind, but there seemed to be something different from his previously delivered words.
Claire paused once more and tilted her face up toward the mask that was already bent toward her. Her hands stilled around his wound.
"No…" She answered quietly. A small smile was tugging at her lips when she turned her head back toward his wound and focused on finishing the stitch. "That's not usually what people look for when they see it."
"Every living thing is flawed in some way." The man above her commented through his mask. "It's nature's way of reminding us that every living thing also eventually dies."
"Death bows to Life." Claire responded absently as she looped the last of the stitch in his side. She leaned over and snapped up the scissors. "But Life always surrenders to Death. Flawed or not."
Claire set the needle, the pair of scissors down, and pressed two fingers near the bottom of the now stitched wound. The stitching remained in place at her palpation, and she smiled before she looked up into the mask.
A gloved hand was wrapping around her wrist and Claire sucked in a breath expecting pain from the grip. The fingers closed around the delicate bones of her wrist and squeezed softly.
"Thank you." The crisp accented voice bid before the man was standing and resecuring his clothing.
"Where are you going now? You still haven't told me who you are and who you're with. We have—" She paused as the mask whipped back toward her. His gun was back in his hands. "—We have survivors here. We're trying to get a hold of someone on the outside."
The mask hid any trace elements of humanity, but Claire felt the stare beneath it shift when he said, "There's a platoon here in the city. It's going to take off from Saint Michael's Clock Tower in a day's time. Make sure you're on that chopper."
With that, the man was turning back toward the entry of the cell block.
"Hey." She said suddenly before he rounded the corner. The man paused and glanced back once more. Claire reached down and grabbed out a pill bottle from the pack. After dumping out a few for herself, she tossed it toward him. "Take those every six hours. The story of the medic and the military dog wouldn't be as interesting if you died too soon."
His hand snapped out and caught the bottle effortlessly. His mask tilted toward her then. It dipped once as he nodded his head. "A bit of advice for you as a trade: Don't drink the water in Raccoon. See you around, Claire."
The door to the cell block snapped shut a few moments later, announcing Claire's solitary state once more.
"I sure hope not." She murmured softly as her hand lifted to her shoulder. The tips of her fingers grazed a portion of her burn scars and she smiled at the man's previous words.
Claire was scooping up her soiled jacket and moved toward the sink to wash off the creature's blood. She paused while she stared at the water. He had said not to drink it—was that how the infection had spread so quickly in Raccoon?
Her hand paused on the letters of the jacket, and she blew out her breath. Her body was coming down off its adrenaline high; the bruising on her chest and limbs were starting to sing in pain.
"Made in heaven." Claire whispered softly to herself as she slipped the jacket back up her shoulders and made her way toward the door. She paused momentarily outside of the cell where Briggs' body still lay.
She wouldn't be able to bury him like she wanted to, but as she gripped the bracelet around her wrist, she knew she could still honor him with every breath she took.
It was time to see what had become of the rest of the station.
A/N: Thank you to my reviewers who left me such kind and gracious feedback. You guys are awesome!
I'll be slowing down on my posting schedule here for a little bit. My job gets very busy during this time, and with the holiday coming up, I know I'll be a little behind. Latest posting will be early December if I can't keep my butt in the chair. Happy holidays to all who celebrate and thank you so much for your support!