Somewhere in the expanse of trees that darted the Arklay mountains on the outskirts of Raccoon City, a living sea of spongy tissue, needlelike teeth, and watery eyes moved through the shadow of the underbrush, avoiding the rays of sunlight that filtered through the thick canopy above. The mass of creatures were crying out in a single watery voice, a dirge of sadness that only they could hear as the emotion of grief filtered through their collective mind, unable to be filtered by their queen, who would have soothed them with her lulling, siren song of assurance.
And yet another emotion was present in their all-yet-single mind, driving them forth through their anguish of the loss of their queen, the hive, and their siblings. The blanket of squirming leeches continued on, leaving the dirt slick with a trail of viscous slime behind them as they continued on towards a monolithic mansion in the foreground, the memory of their farther, James Marcus, guiding them, driving them along with the desire of revenge that burned within them.
Albert Wesker reclined back in the chair of his desk, his fingers tented before his face, his feet propped on the desk, crossed at the angle; his gaze was set forward, towards no point in particular, not really taking in the image of the S.T.A.R.S. office as he stared at the world through the tinted haze of his perpetual glasses. He reviewed the events of the previous hours in his minds; it was a mostly clear image, but a few pieces of the puzzle were missing. And while he didn't need these pieces of the puzzle to figure out what had happened—or the general gist of it, at least—he couldn't help but wonder on some subjects
Like who had that young man in the white robe been? The captain of S.T.A.R.S. had an idea, one that was seemingly impossible and yet seemed to be the only thing that made sense in his mind. And if it was true, how had occurred? How was it possible that the man was who the former Umbrella scientist thought he to be?
The hidden thoughtful expression donning his face contorted as he smirked. What did it matter? Soon he would be out of Umbrella's clutches, and such things would be irrelevant. Besides, the robed man had most likely gone up in flames with the rest of the training facility and the water treatment plant.
All he had to worry about was getting the Alpha team to go into the woods under the pretense that they were on a "reconnaissance rescue mission" to locate Bravo Team. After that was done, all he had to do was sit back, make sure that all the members of Bravo Team weren't in possession of any information that could harm him, and set the mansion to blow, eliminating any evidence that linked him to any research the T-virus, before he made off with the combat data on Umbrella's pets and sold it to the highest bidder.
The S.T.A.R.S. medic made her way through the forest, her pistol facing the ground, at ready in one hand, and she tried to shake the sense of unease that had been with her shortly after leaving Billy on the cliff side. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she felt as if a hundred eyes were staring at her from the shadows around her. The gentle pad of her feet upon the ground blended in with the rustling of the canopy above, the sound of a snapping twig or crunching leaf beneath her boot occasionally interjecting into the symphony.
She had been walking for a couple of hours, her senses on edge the entire time, attuned to search for any sign that danger was near. She was within five hundred yards of the Umbrella mansion now, the house looming over her, a shadow was cast from the noon day's sun, blanketing the area in a pall, as if the darkness it self were a cancer upon nature itself.
Her green eyes roving over the Spencer Estate, anxiety building within her as she wondered what horror was contained within its behind the opulent façade. But then the auburn-haired medic stilled as a crunching noise came from nearby not a muscle in her body moving as she trained her ears for the sound.
There was only silence.
Dismissing the noise as a phantom conjured by her anxiety, Rebecca resumed her pace, albeit at a wearier pace, now entering the cool shadow of the mansion that eclipsed the sun.
And it felt as if the very marrow in her bones had turned to ice as a familiar, piercing shriek filled the air, its source dangerously close. Adrenaline pumped through her veins in an instant as she took off running for the mansion, praying that she would make it as she heard the rapid sound of the beast behind her begin its pursuit. Her mind instantly conjured up images of the reptilian humanoid that had been lurking in the kennel room of the research facility beneath the church, of how the 9mm rounds from her pistol bounced of the creature's tough hide, barely hurting it. She had received a series of gashes across her arm as a gift from the monster, and she would not have survived had it not been for Billy coming and blowing the creature's face away with a hail of buckshot from the shotgun she now carried.
Remembering the weapon she had forgot she had been holding, long since becoming accustomed to its weight in her hand, she wondered if she could stop, turn around, aim, and blast the creature, all without getting eviscerated by its thick talons. She quickly decided against this as she listened to the rapid tempo of the beasts footfalls; the one she had seen had abnormally long arms that nearly reached the floor, and judging by the sounds behind her, the creature was darting after her on its knuckles, moving as a gorilla would.
She was no the fifty yards away when she heard her the monster behind her let out a bloodcurdling keen that caused birds to flock from their resting places in the canopy above. Her legs moving on autopilot, heedless of the burning in their muscles as they desperately screamed for oxygen, the medic continued towards the gate of the estate; but in her mind Rebecca knew that it was too late, that the creature was soaring through the air, launched from airborne with the powerful corded muscles in its legs as it pounced on its pray, its maw of razor teeth exposed. And the S.T.A.R.S. medic would have been dead had she not tripped over the tree root and fallen prostate to the leaf-covered earth; the creature overshot her, and it would of let out a wail of frustration at being denied its prey had it not flown straight into the trunk of an oak tree, a resounding crunch sounding out as the bark of the tree splintered as the kinetic energy of the creature transferred to the creature.
Watching as it fell, Rebecca didn't entertain the idea of it being seriously injured—if anything, the tree had gotten the raw end of the deal on the collision—but it was disorientated, and she decided not to waste her good fortune.
Getting up, seemingly every muscle in her body aching from the strain she was putting them under to survive, she crossed the distance and sprinted under the arched opening of the gate that surrounded the perimeter of the mansion; and even as she did this she heard the creature let out another wail, this time fueled by rage as well as the primal urge to rip her limb-from-limb. Turning around, she slammed the gates of the fence closed, and as she did this she beheld the image of the monster soaring towards her, looking like a perverted angel of death, bits of splintered tree bark covering its body in places. She almost froze from shock but stopped herself, and the medic did the first thing she could think of: she rammed the shotgun between loops of the gate handles and ran for the doors of the mansion, praying to whatever gods that may be listening that they were not locked. The doors swung open even as she heard the metal of the fence screech and groan in protest as her pursuer's body collided with the barred gate. Dashing into the building, not even taking in the sight of the luxurious foyer, she turned and slammed the door, bracing her back against. And as the door shut, she saw the shotgun fly from the loops of the gate, noticeably bent, as the creature rammed the barrier a second time; the weapon landed on the ground, out of her view.
Breathing heavily, the rookie put all of her weight to the door, hearing the scream of the beast outside, separated only by a few inches of wood that would easily splinter should it attack. She waited, her breath frozen in her throat, for the shuddering impact of the reptile's body colliding with the door.
It never came.
Outside, the Hunter prepared to leap at the door, intending to reduce it to splinters to get to its pray, when a sound from the shadows along the house alerted it. Turning around, it saw a man walk towards in the shadows. The creature got ready to pounce, letting out a scream; it never got the chance as the man's arm shot out, stretching out, and all the Hunter knew then was darkness….
Rebecca waited there a full two minutes before she opened her eyes. She listened; there was nothing. Letting out a breath she had not been aware she had been holding, Rebecca slid limply down the door, resting her head on the surface of the wood as she collected her wits. After regaining her wits, Rebecca finally noticed the environment that she was in.
It was like the Umbrella training facility in a lot of ways; it screamed of wealth, with a wide staircase dominating the room, framed by two pillars on either side. The staircase met with a landing where it met it the wall, which had a large stain glass window placed into it, before splitting off in either direction into dual sets of staircases that led to a wide balcony. There were a number of doors on either side of the room on both floors, leading into unknown areas, as what looked to be an alcove behind the stairs.
Rebecca was drawn from her admiration of the architecture of George Trevor as an eclipsing wave of despair fell over, and had she not been sitting down, she would have from the sense of weariness that enveloped her just then.
When will it end? the medic asked herself, the cancerous thought of having to survive another living hell like a slap to the face. And this time she would have to make it through without Billy….
No! Rebecca thought adamantly, pushing away the despair as she got to her feet; she would make it out alive! Shifting the focus of her mind, Rebecca took stock of her situation. She was down her most powerful weapon, stuck in a mansion with God only knows what, and she was utterly alone, having no idea where Bravo Team was, or if they even were even inside the mansion. Letting out a frustrated sigh, Rebecca was about to go about checking her pistol round capacity when she felt a wet stickiness on her arm. Looking down she saw that her arm was coated in slick blood. She must have reopened the wound that the reptile monster in the Umbrella Training Facility had given her while she had been fleeing from its cousin.
Setting down her gun, she got out her first aid kit and set about treating her wound.
Forest Speyer was in a cramped corridor on the second floor of the Spencer Estate, heading towards the single door at the other end. Hefting his RPG grenade launcher in his hand, he turned the doorknob and shoved open the door with his shoulder. Before him lay him a small covered balcony leading to a patio adorned with a cast iron table and chairs.
As he began to step out onto the balcony, Forest heard a shrill shriek coming from down below on the ground, and he froze. Listening for a repeat of the unearthly sound, the sniper waited, and after failing to whatever had shrieked mime its call, he cast a glance to the balcony, which seemed much more foreboding than before.
Turning around, Forest began heading back into the dimly lit, cramped corridor, shutting the door behind him; after hearing that banshee-like wail, he didn't fancy going out onto the balcony and meeting up with made it—plus a strange sense of dread had settled into his gut, one that hadn't been there before the shriek. He decided to head back to the main hall, and from there, he would find something to do.
As he left, he never noticed the horde of beady eyes watching him from the railing, as a flock of crows gathered, their stares ravenous and their sharp beaks gleaming in the sun.
Billy hopped over the fence, his chest heaving as he slid down to a sitting position, feeling safer now that he had a barrier to act as a buffer between him and whatever might be lurking in the forest, he went about catching his breath. The second he heard the distant scream of the Hunter somewhere in the woods up ahead, he immediately became afraid for Rebecca, and he hadn't stopped running since. It was twilight now, the sun now setting on some unseen point.
Sucking in greedy breaths of air into his lungs, Billy looked up, his gun lying in his hand on his lap, and he looked around where he was, hoping there weren't any zombies nearby.
He was in a cemetery.
He looked skyward and closed his eyes in frustration. The former marine didn't know whom he had pissed off up there to deserve this, but whatever he had done he was sorry.
"God, my luck sucks," he muttered to himself as he got up, wondering why fate always had to shit on him. He eyed the tombstones around him with apprehension; if he walked on them, would the cold, slimy claws of the undead shoot up from their resting place to claw at his ankles, like they did in the movies?
Billy knew he was being ridiculous—the idea sounded ridiculous in his mind!—but he thought of all the things he had seen in the last twenty-four hours, from zombies to giant bats to a giant, hulking monster with knives for fingers on one hand.
He wasn't going to take any chances.
Walking forward, he brought down one of his boots onto the area of a grave, and immediately jumped away as if he had been burnt; he gazed at the ground, alert, his pistol aimed at the spot, ready to blow the living hell out of anything that even dared to emerge from the ground. When nothing came, he relaxed and mentally criticized himself; the zombies that had been in the facilities and on the trains hadn't been the strongest of creatures, and they didn't show signs of possessing enough strength to plow their fist through a few feet of solid earth. Besides that, judging from how old the mansion's exterior looked to be, all the corpses in the ground would be only skeletal remains by now, eaten away by maggots and earthworms, making it impossible for them to rise up from the grave.
Get a hold of yourself, Coen, he criticized himself as he shook his head at his foolishness. That shit only happens in Hollywood, he further rationalized to himself in his mind as he began to walk forward, still walking somewhat cautiously over the space before the graves despite his self-chastising. Besides, the important thing to do right now is to find Rebecca and make sure she hasn't become maggot bait in this hell-house.
Reaching behind him, he withdrew the military pistol from the waistband of his jeans; brining it up, his chocolate eyes shot to the firearm in concern. How many rounds did it have left? He knew he checked earlier, but he couldn't remember now. Did it even have any left in the magazine? He was about to release the safety keeping the magazine in the gun and check his ammo count when he heard shouts firing from nearby.
His head whipping towards the sound of the shots, Billy saw a wide cement plinth to his left, upon which a tombstone was set; he couldn't tell from here, but he thought there was a hole from the faint glow of light that seemed to be emerging from the stone; another shot rang from the phantom hole, the light issuing forth intensifying from the flare of the muzzle flash of the handgun being discharged within the underground.
Fearing it was Rebecca, the ex-lieutenant set off towards the plinth, hoping that he did indeed have rounds in his weapon. But it never occurred to him that it might not be Rebecca, that it might be one of her less benevolent S.T.A.R.S. Bravo compatriots…. He continued on, running down the stone steps, feeling as if he were descending into the very bowels of Hell itself.
Reaching the bottom, he found that he had been both right and wrong. He found himself in what looked to be a crematory; light from an old fashion furnace, grills along the wall, and torches resting in sconces along the wall gave a sinister feel to the underground room as it caused the shadows of the room to dance and write. And there, at the far end of the room, backed against a pedestal, was a person, the legend S.T.A.R.S. showing on their vest as they frantically tried to reload a handgun as a zombie advanced on them—but it wasn't Rebecca. It was a Hispanic man whom looked to be in his late thirties to early forties, with a neatly trimmed mustache and well-groomed hair.
Billy, having been ready to come to aid of besieged person in the crematory, hesitated for the slightest second. This was a S.T.A.R.S. person—one who didn't believe he was innocent, unlike Rebecca; he'd most likely try to arrest him on sight and send him back to Regathon to carry out his execution order. Yet even as the doubt entered his head, Billy saw the frantic look on the man's face, saw the zombie advancing, now doubt a slack-mouth, vacant, hungry look on its rotting face, and the ex-marine decided.
Taking aim, he fired.
Enrico backed up in fear, trying desperately to reload his gun, but fumbling with the spare magazine of Parabellum rounds and dropping them to the ground. His eyes darted to the fallen ammo before returning to the rotting face of his assailant, and his brain knew what it was seeing—the gaping whole in its skull, exposing gray matter; the torn and bloody lip, giving it a morbid, perpetual grin; the empty eye socket—and had seen him send three rounds straight into man's gut, but he refusing to believe it.
The "zombie continued its shuffling and limping gait, its cadaverous arms reached out, groping towards the leader of the Bravo Team with scabbed fingers as viscous strands of drool fell from its mouth, escaping between the gaps of the rotting teeth on its lower jaw.
Enrico found his backwards progress halted as he suddenly collided with an unknown object, and his eyes frantically darted about, his mind trying to find some way to escape from the crazed man that was advancing on him. The third in command of S.T.A.R.S. closed his eyes and forced down a gag as the man came close enough for him to smell the stagnant stench of rotten meat coming off his body; when suddenly, with a deafening roar that drowned out the incoherent moans of the crazed man, and a flash of light, the hostile fell to the ground in slump. Enrico opened his eyes and looked down, seeing the now-twitching body of the putrid man, taking in the smoking hole in the back of its head, and taking in through a section of torn shirt on the man's back, that the gleaming white bone of his spinal column was showing. Brining his gaze up, Enrico saw his savior, and he felt as if the very blood in his veins froze.
There, standing at the base of the steps with a gun pointed to him and a slight frown on his face, was the convict Billy Coen—a man sent to execution for the murder of twenty-three innocents.
Fugitive and leader of a special police task force stared at each other, two people on opposite sides of the law. Billy knew that he had the advantage here, that even though he didn't know if he had another bullet in his gun, he knew that the man across the room didn't know that, and knew that the man didn't have any ammo in his gun, for a fact. Deciding it best to use the advantage he had, the ex-marine donned the same façade of arrogance he had worn when he had met Rebecca on the train.
"Well, well," he drawled in a cool manner, narrowing his brown eyes to make them look cold, "another S.T.A.R.S…. I seem to be running into a lot of you guys tonight.
Enrico stared at the covicted felon for all but a second before raising his gun as well; his face taking on mask of confidence that Billy knew was nothing more than a show of bravado. "Billy Coen, as captain of the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team, I am hearby placing you under arrest for transport to Regathon Base." To the man's credit, his voice didn't skip a pace when he lied.
Billy felt his lips curling into a smirk at the sense of déjà vu he was getting, as the situation was very much like his meeting with the medic of the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team—only difference was this man wasn't a rookie on their first mission, and he wouldn't hesitate to shoot him, so it was a good thing that he was out of ammo. "Do you S.T.A.R.S. members make it a habit of threatening to shoot and arrest every person that saves your lives, or am I just lucky?" the former second lieutenant of the marine corps asked, just the slightest, almost undetectable hint of amusement entering his voice. Enrico's reply to this was his face taking on a slight look of confusion before he schooled it back into his poker face, and cocked the barrel of his gun back in a threatening matter.
"Come off it," Billy said, slightly exasperated at the show of masochism that the man in front of his was displaying. "You aren't fooling anyone. I know for a fact that that weapon is dry—I saw you drop the magazine of bullets."
Enrico's bluff faltered at this revelation, and the slightest hint of fear donned his rough features.
"As a matter of fact," Billy continued, gesturing towards the ground with the gun, "why don't you drop your gun to the ground and kick it and that magazine of ammo over to me. And don't try any fancy shit, hotshot; chances are that, even at this distance, I could plant a bullet in your brain before you could even begin to load your gun." A loud scraping sound echoed out in the crematory as the gun and magazine slid a stop just before the marine's boot.
"What now?" Enrico asked, his arms crossed, glaring. "Are you going to kill me like you did those soldiers?" Enrico saw just the barest flicker of emotion enter Billy's face, almost as if he were flinching at the accusation, but it disappeared just as quickly as the convict bent down to collect the standard issue pistol and the ammo magazine.
"I don't shoot the good guys," was the only answer Billy gave to Enrico, confusing the captain slightly. "Well, as nice as our chat time has been, I've got to go; in case you haven't noticed, there's some pretty freaky shit in this place, and I for one don't want to become dinner," he said, gesturing to the now-re-dead corpse that lied on the ground before the S.T.A.R.S. member. "And I wouldn't advise you follow me for at least two minutes—unless you want to get shot, that is," Billy said, giving the captain a jaunty salute with his pistol before walking to the base of the narrow stair way, playing up the part of the sociopath murderer that the man at the far end of the crematorium, by the boiler, thought he was. When he was up a few steps, almost out of Enrico's sights, he spoke up. "Oh," he called back, his voice echoing down the stairway and ringing in the Bravo captain's ears, "and I didn't kill those soldiers."
With that said, the only sound that Enrico heard was the fading footsteps of the murderer. To say that their meeting hadn't left the man in charge of Bravo team a little confused would be a lie. Sighing, the man brought a hand up to rub the stubble on his face; he had to wait at least two minutes. Looking around, his gaze fell on the corpse at his feet, and he looked at it in morbid curiosity, wondering just what the hell was wrong with the person, and why he didn't even seem to notice three rounds being barreled into his gut.
Walking out into the cool night air, Billy reviewed the conversation he had just had a moment before in his mind, and he found his eyes widening in slight interest. So that was Rebecca's superior, huh? Looking down to the handgun he had confiscated from—what was it? Enrico, he thought he had heard on Rebecca's radio? Looking down to "Enrico's" handgun that he had confiscated, Billy debated whether or not he should keep it. If he gave it back, chances were more than likely that the man would turn its barrel toward him without a second's thought. But if he didn't give it back, he would be leaving a man, who was only trying to do his job, and working on information that was true for all he knew, defenless in the zombie infested mansion.
Letting out a sigh into the cool night air, Billy cursed his conscience, musing once again on how much easier this "run-away fugitive" business would be if he didn't have one. Walking over to the edge of the plinth, Billy slapped the clip of ammo into the gun and slid the bridge back, loading a round into it, before setting it down at the base of the steps leading to the platform. Hopefully he would find it there.
Looking around, Billy realized that he had better get moving; two minutes was almost up, and he had to find Rebecca.