Act 3: Nightmares Past
Drake rested against the wall of the Nurse's office, under the window. Old trick he learned from a friend of his from SWAT, allowed him to rest, keep out of sight and maintain his position all at the same time. He eyed the door a few metres before him, looking out for shadows through the clouded glass window that adorned the door, gun in his right hand, grenade in his left. He glanced at the grenade for a moment, eyeing the pin on. His eyelids were heavy as he watched the door. Rubbing his eyes, he let out a tired sigh, hearing the winds and the rustling of snow against glass above him. Drake wondered how long the Razor would last. When he was young, Drake's grandfather told him the story about the big one, the deadliest storm to hit Stonefeather over fifty years ago. His Great Grandfather Klaus had just arrived in Alaska with his wife and 5 year old son, hoping to make a living mining coal. Stonefeather was a different place then, a rural town where newcomers rubbed shoulders with Aluets and other Natives and some Russians hoping to find fortunes. Irish settlers were apparently the roughest bunch around, getting drunk on anything for any occasion and causing few vicious scuffles. The African-American settlers were the hardest working of the settlers, earning their keep with long hours in the mines but were still victimized by some white purists that had found their way into town. It wasn't the thriving town it was now, but a community held together by neccesity, the mines providing them their incomes and livelihoods. That all changed when the Razor came, more vicious than ever, destroying homes, buildings and roads. The mines collapsed and hundreds were left to face the elements without proper clothing or shelter, falling prey to frostbite and illness.
It lasted three days, according to Daniel. 'Three days I was cradled against my mother's chest, her warmth keeping me alive as the storm tore through that settlement like a hot knife through melting butter while dad was out looking for survivors. I remembered how my mom argued with my dad after we found a small cave in the woods, about how he shouldn't have to risk his life for people he didn't know or people who heaped scorn on him for simply being German. Let's not forget kid that this was shortly after the Great War and most Germans in the States were giving themselves more English names to avoid being alienated. But not dad. He was proud that he was a German, proud that he was a Hartmann. And he never let anyone make him feel otherwise. He helped those people not because he liked them, but because it was the right time to do. It was something he always said to me: no matter what I grew up to be, I had to do the right thing. My duty, he used to say. Anyway, after the storm ravaged through the town, it wasn't a town of strangers who tolerated each other to earn a living. We had become a town of survivors, a community that had a common thread. We survived the Razor. After that, differences didn't matter. Native, Irish, African and the other settlers re-built Stonefeather Lake together, proud of what they had lived through, never letting differences get between them again'. Drake yawned.
'What I wouldn't do for a cup right now' he thought, thinking about coffee. 'And maybe an assault rifle, a platoon of SEALs and some air support too'. Drake smiled as he shifted his legs. His thoughts drifted to Ada Wong. Drake had worked with Feds more times that he would have liked while he was a cop in Cameron. He'd seen their badges and IDs before and was more or less able to tell the difference between a fake and the genuine article. If Ada's shield was a fake, it was a pretty good one. He wondered about what she said: she had lost contact with her superiors before the storm hit. Why would she have come to Stonefeather unless she didn't know that the Razor was coming? Feds were known to do their homework pretty thoroughly before taking on an assignment, so the info of the Razor must have caught her attention if she'd done some research. But then again, outside the people of Fort Holden and a handful of others, no one else knew about Stonefeather Lake. It was possible that she had little or more likely no information on the small town at all. He frowned when he thought of Blake. He had to check out if what Ada said was true. He tried to move only to have his muscles cry out in protest. He returned to the wall again. 'Five minutes', he told himself. 'Five minutes of rest. No more'. Drake shut his eyes, his right hand gripping tightly around his gun. To his surprise, sleep came quicker than he expected...
'This the place?' Drake asked Meggan. His crimson-haired partner nodded, her green eyes scanned the street behind them. Cameron's suburbs were peaceful most of the time, partially because the residents of the area had 'connections'. Still there were times they needed to be checked on, this night being one of them. Drake knocked lightly on the door of the quaint looking house, waiting patiently for an answer. 'Can't believe they'd send us out here on St.Patty's' grumbled Meggan as she thumbed the hammer of the black SIG Sauer. 'One less day for you to get drunk Meg. No big loss' chuckled Drake as he watched her freckled face frown. Drake noticed a shadow cover the peephole of the door. He composed himself as he awaited the door to open. A woman in her late thirties opened the door, a chain in place. She looked through the crack of the door, her blue eyes showed concern. 'Ms. Kincaid?' Drake asked. 'Yes?' she replied. 'I'm officer Hartmann and this is Lieutenant Bryant. We're here investigating the disappearances of three young boys. They were last seen in this neighbourhood. We were hoping to ask you a few questions', Drake said. 'No, I'm afraid I don't know anything', she said hastily. Drake glanced at Meggan who responded with a nod. Something was up. 'Ms.Kincaid. Anything would help. Anything'. Kincaid remained quiet for a stir. She closed the door, Drake hearing the sound of metal as she unfastened the door chain. The door opened again, could we come in?' Drake asked, more forcefully. Kincaid's eyes darted from Drake's face to Meggan's. 'Why?' she asked. 'We'd really like to get a statement from you n, fully this time as Ms.Kincaid ushered the two officers in. Drake's trained eyes scanned the house immediately for anything out of the ordinary. It was a rather large house, with tasteful wooden decor and furniture. A number of black and white photographs adorned the walls. One of a dishevelled man seeking shelter under a bridge, a homeless man perhaps. 'You took these?' Drake asked as he took one of the pictures off the wall. Kincaid nodded, her arms folded with a tight look on her face. 'They're nice. You're a professional?' Drake asked again. 'No...It's just a hobby' she replied as she looked around to see Meggan snooping around. It was an unwritten Police procedure; keep the suspect busy with casual conversation while another cop checked the surrounding. A coloured picture atop a round coffee table caught Drake's eye. A younger Kincaid, along with two young girls. 'Your daughters?' Drake asked. Kincaid remained silent, nodding. 'They're very lovely. They must be 19, 20 now?' he said genuinely, Meggan inspecting a shelfin the corner of his eye. 'They would have been' Kincaid replied, her blue eyes downcast. 'I'm sorry to hear that' Drake said, returning the picture to the coffee table. Kincaid looked at Drake, annoyance evident on her expressions. 'Officer...Hartmann? Please, I'm a very busy woman and it's late. For goodness sake, it's St.Patrick's day! If you want to ask me questions then lets just...' a phone ring from the kitchen interrupted Kincaid. 'Excuse me' she said as she stormed off. Drake looked to Meggan as Kincaid disappeared from sight. She shook her head to signify she'd found nothing. Drake frowned. He wasn't a detective but he'd notice all the signs of anxiety a skell or perp would have when a cop came along. But he could have been wrong. He took a moment to look around the Kincaid living room. The air was heavily perfumed by a strong minty smell that would have been pleasant if used in the right amount. Unfortunately, the smell was so overpowering that Drake started to feel light-headed. As he headed for the hallway, another scent made his way up his nostrils. This was a different smell. Drake had almost missed it over the minty air that surrounded him. This one was pungent, like rotting meat kept too long in the fridge. It was coming from behind a door under the stairs. 'Meg,' Drake whispered to his partner. Meggan treaded lightly towards Drake. 'What?' she asked. 'Smell that?' he said. Meggan took a moment to sniff the air. She gave Drake a serious look as she drew her weapon. Drake kept his holstered as he opened the door slightly. A red light greeted him as he opened the door wider. A Dark room. Drake signalled for Meggan to enter first. Wordlessly, the red-haired policewoman complied, holding her weapon in a prepared stance. A dripping sound echoed slightly through the Dark room. Drake's eyes found it difficult to adjust to the red light that illuminated the small confines. Pictures hung on wires showed towers, buildings and people alike, some of Cameron's landmarks captured in black and white. But mostly, were pictures of children. Children playing, children on the bus, children with their parents. Drake looked carefully at the pictures again. Not children. Girls. Young girls. 'Oh God!' yelled Meggan as she came to the end of the room, staring up at what hung over a sink. Drake stared in disbelief, his guts wound up so tight that it hurt. It was the boys...hung from their feet above a sink, their blood dripping into it. Meggan fell to her knees, unable to control herself. Drake noted something else that made his stomach churn. Their genitals. They were gone, bloodied meat instead present over the area. An amateur castration. Drake grinded his teeth as he helped Meggan to her feet. 'Call for back-up' he ordered, drawing his weapon. A shrill scream came from behind them as Kincaid lunged at Drake a knife in hand. Drake dodged her attack but in the small confines of the room was unable to get a clear shot at her. She slashed at him, catching him in his right arm; a long gash tore through the side of his arm. Drake threw a punch catching the insane Kincaid in the jaw, sending her crashing against the sink. He raised his weapon. 'Put the knife down!' he ordered. A mad growl came in response as Kincaid turned around slowly, her eyes crimson in the light of the dark room. Meggan levelled her weapon at Kincaid, sweat drops pouring down her freckled face. 'I said put the knife down!' Drake shouted aggressively. His eyes widened as Kincaid came at them again, knife in hand. Drake fired. Meggan fired. Kincaid was flung back, her head knocking against the sink. Meggan's pants unnerved Drake as he crept closer to Kincaid's fallen body. He looked carefully at her face, her eyes still open, blood flowing freely from her mouth as well as the bullet holes in her chest and stomach. Drake sucked in some air as he bent down on one knee and checked her pulse. A sudden gasp from Kincaid shocked Drake as he jerked his hand away from her. Kincaid's eyes swelled with tears. 'They would have been such nice girls' she whispered between gurgles of blood. 'Such nice girls...
A hand on his left shoulder prompted Drake to raise his gun instinctively at his grandfather who stared down the barrel of the weapon without flinching. Drake caught himself, de-cocking his .40 Berretta as he lowered it. "Sorry," Drake said as he massaged his temples. Daniel shrugged as he backed away, allowing Drake to stand up. He shook his heard clear and looked at his grandfather. "Found anyone you were looking for?" asked in a hopeful voice.
"No. I checked out the radio tower on my way here. The damn thing's shot to hell. Something ripped it up pretty bad," Daniel said.
Drake frowned. "Ripped it up?" From what he had seen, the townsfolk who had become zombies weren't rocket scientists, following only the scent of warm blood and movement. Why would they destroy a radio array? And if it wasn't them, who?
"I don't think it was them", Daniel said, as though reading Drake's thoughts. 'Them' referring to the seemingly possessed townsfolk. The zombies as Ada called them.
"Zombies," Drake said aloud.
"Zombies?" Daniel said with a frown. "Well I guess this is all pretty reminiscent of a bad George Romero movie I saw once. Alright then, I don't think it was the zombies. They may take a helluva wallop and are sneaky but they're probably the dumbest things on two feet I've ever seen," Daniel explained.
"I was thinking the same," Drake agreed.
"Any survivors?"
Drake shook his head. Daniel sighed. "Christ. Not even the kids?"
"No," Drake said as he looked away from his grandfather's concerned look. "But I did meet an FBI agent," Drake told his grandfather.
"What's a Fed doing out here?" Daniel asked predictably. Drake told his grandfather about Ada Wong, Wilson Blake and how all that had happened might have been Blake's work. "Blake," Daniel spat out the name like venom. "I knew that bastard was trouble from the start. Bernard was acting pretty suspiciously after Blake arrived" he said naming the Mayor of Stonefeather Lake, David Bernard.
"Suspicious? How?" Drake asked.
"Dave was a frequent guest at Casa Diablo. Probably to talk business with the snake," Daniel looked at Drake. "We should head out for Blake's. We might find something". Drake recognized his grandfather's tone, strong and commanding with no room for negotiation. Still he had to try.
"No grandpa. There may still be some survivors out there. I'll handle Blake. You look out for survivors," Drake said.
"What!" Daniel roared. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Kid, this is my town. My father's town. Your father's town. It's my responsibility to..."
"No. It's my responsibility now grandpa," Drake said in an equally strong tone. "My responsibility to investigate Blake and bring justice. My responsibility to keep you safe," he lowered his tone, his eyes softened. He held out Sam's badge and gave it a long hard look. "I'm the sheriff around these parts now".
Daniel frowned and let out a sigh. He looked at Drake. "Yeah," he began, "You always did wear it right kid," he said in surrender.
Drake put his hand on his grandfather's shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. "I'll be alright," he said, convinced that it was what Daniel wanted to hear.
"You'd better," muttered Daniel, followed by a small smile. "So where to first?" Daniel asked.
"If Mayor Bernard has connections to Blake, I should check them out. He might have some information on what we're dealing with," Drake said.
"So it's Town Hall for you. I'll check Rajiv's clinic," Daniel announced.
"Watch your fire. We might have friendlies out there. Plus there's Wong to look out for," Drake warned.
At mention of the supposed Federal Agent's name Daniel raised his eyebrows. "Drake, about this Fed woman. You trust her?" Daniel asked.
Drake remained quiet for a moment. It was a fair question. Even Drake wasn't sure of what Wong was doing out there. But she did save his life. He owed her that much. "She's all we've got right now grandpa," Drake replied. He gave Daniel a sad look. "We don't have much of a choice," he continued. Daniel nodded as the two made their way out of the school, off on their separate ways. On the roof of the school, a young man dressed in a black Armani suit watched as the two groped in the snowstorm with a smile.
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Blake looked dumb-founded before the screen of his main computer console deep in the secret laborotory he had built under his mansion. Sweat trickled down his face as he furiously worked on the binary codes that flashed across the screen, inputing all the command codes he had originally set for his most covert files. "Well Wilson?" said a voice from behind him. Blake's gut tightened as he felt the eyes of Jeremiah Smythe drill into his back.
He turned to face Smythe, who sat comfortably on Blake's own command chair, his enforcer, Hammer at his side. Scarlett wandered around the lab, looking at the specimens of Blake's B.O.W experiments that lined the side of Blake's lab in large capsules with the fascination of a child rather than fear or disgust that a normal person might have felt. "There's...a...a slight problem...Mr.Smythe," Blake stuttered. He reached for his handkerchief in his pocket and wiped the sweat off his face. The cold air did little to comfort him as he came under Smythe's emerald gaze.
"Problem?" Smythe said, as he stood up. He walked to Blake, his eyes never left the other man's. He stood mere inches away from Blake. "What kind of problem?"
Blake swallowed hard. "It seems...that the codes that I had used to encrypt my files on the project...has been altered."
If Smythe was displeased, he didn't seem to show it as he looked upon the large screen of the computer console, red numbers constantly flashing across it. "Matthew's work no doubt," Smythe mused, naming the agent of Wesker that he had dealt with. "A pity we didn't know about this sooner. You are able to break his encryption, I hope?" Smythe said. Blake nodded. Smythe wasn't asking a question, he was giving him an order. "How long?"
"Maybe 2 hours or more...I'll need to retrace Samson's...I mean Matthew's steps," Blake said with uncertainty.
Just as Smythe was about to say something, Weasel waltzed into the lab, an amused look on his face. "Some news Boss," Weasel announced.
"Indeed," Smythe said with interest.
"We got two hicks walking around town. A cop and some old geezer with a shotgun. Wanted to deal with them but figured I should tell you about 'em first," Weasel reported, grinning at Blake with satisfaction.He had hopes that Smythe would tear into the pompous fat man after failing to live up to his '100' infection ratio. Instead Smythe looked at Blake with an equally amused look.
"Well Wilson, it seems you haven't lived up to your own standards. A police officer. Do you know who he is?" Smythe asked.
Blake's eyes showed both fear and confusion. He had tested the virus numerous times, working out the problems he had encountered. There was no way anyone in the town could have survived it. Not withwhen he had altered the virus with his personal touch. "Wilson?" Smythe called out to him, snapping the confounded man to his senses.
"There's only one Sheriff in town. That's Sam O'Neil. But he couldn't possibly have survived the virus. He's nearly 50...The virus should have infected him easily!" Blake exclaimed.
"50? Nah, this guy was young. He looked kinda roughed up too it," Weasel said.
Blake's eyes darted. "Hartmann's boy. Drake if I'm not mistaken. Came into town less than 6 months ago. He's O'Neil's deputy," Blake said, unsure if he was correct.
"And the old man?" Smythe pressed on.
"I'm not sure...there are hundreds of old people in this God forsaken spithole. But it doesn't make sense...no one should have survived the virus...No one!" Blake shouted.
"Calm yourself Blake," said Smythe, his eyes glistened with interest. He turned to Weasel. "Our guest?" he asked.
"Haven't found her yet. Bitch is pretty sneaky and there are plenty of cracks for her to crawl into" Weasel said with a frown. That much was certain. There were plenty of alleyways and houses 'she' could have holed herself in. Weasel's eyes were slitted as he thought of the things he was going to do to 'her' when he found her.
"I see" Smythe replied simply. Scarlett returned to Smythe's side, wordlessly as usual. Smythe remained silent in thought. The silence unnerved the other three men who stood in the lab. He glanced at Blake, "Two hours?" he asked.
"Maybe longer..." Blake admitted nervously.
"Escape routes?" Smythe said turning to Weasel.
"Left a couple of surprises," said Weasel with a smile.
Smythe took Scarlett's hand. "I saw a circus on our way her. Ms.Scarlett has never been to a circus before. I haven't been to one in nearly 60 years myself," Smythe said. "Break the code before I return, Mr.Blake. And Weasel, don't do anything to our fortunate friends. They bear some observation...if they live long enough". Smythe's eyes lightened with amusement. He took out a small radio from his coat and handed it to Blake. "Leave this in your office. I have a feeling that one of our guests will be looking for you," he said.
"But sir..." Blake began.
"Don't worry. It only has a short range. They won't be able to inform anyone of what's happening here," Smythe assured his subordinate.
"But how will you know when they'll be here?" Blake asked, his face puzzled.
"Oh, I will know," he said with a sinister tone as he looked upon Scarlett's face with a dark smile. "I will know."
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A frosty hand grabbed Drake's foot as a zombie rose from the snow. Drake kicked it away, aiming his weapon at its head only to be pulled off his feet by another pair of hands, sending him crashing face first into the snow. Drake rolled to his side, pulling out his knife while the zombies crawled towards him. He slashed one of them across its face, opening a gash that sent a spray of blood across the snow. Getting to his feet, Drake finished off one of them with two shots as he attempted to retreat, running blindly into the arms of a waiting zombie.
With little effort, it held Drake up by his neck, his hands tightening around Drake's throat with such pressure that Drake started to see dark spots, dropping his gun. His eyes widened as the zombie drew him closer, its mouth open to reveal blood-stained teeth. Summoning all his strength, Drake force its head back with his right hand while he stabbed the zombie through its jugular with his combat knife, viciously twisting the blade as he kicked wildly sending both of them tumbling to the ground. Drake wrestled free of the zombie's hold, panting heavily while he searched for his dropped gun, finding it covered under a light layer of snow. Wiping the frost off the lenses of his goggles, Drake checked the clip only to find he had only three rounds left. He checked his pocket to ensure that his spare clip was still there, relieved to know it was. With a sigh, Drake rose to his feet, pressing on towards the silhouette of a large building hidden by the storm. Town Hall.
He reached the short flight of steps that sat before the familiar stone pillars that lined the front of the building. Reaching the large polished wooden doors of its entrance, Drake drew in a deep breath as he slowly opened one of them, gun at the ready. He slipped silently into the building, greeted only by darkness that engulfed the interior of the building. Drake pulled his goggles around his neck, striding carefully inot the main hall. Town Halls was only two storeys high but was extravagantly furninshed by the mayor, David Bernard, after he was appointed mayor of the town. Drake's eyes adjusted to the darkness making out the familiar teak information counter that sat in the centre of the main hall, a large Greek or Roman statue loomed a distance behind it depicting a warrior armed with a spear standing victorious over a slain lion. The first time Drake saw it months ago, he had wondered where Mayor Bernard had gotten the money for such an art piece. After his encounter with the Federal Agent, Ada Wong, he more or less had some clue as to how. Two staircases lined each side of the hall, the walls adorned with oil paintings of the town's early settlers. He climbed the stairs to his left, taking each step cautiously as he eyed the top of the steps. He reached the second floor thankfully without interference and made his way to the Mayor's office.
A locked door halted him forcing Drake to kick it open and was greeted by a cold blast of air. He raised his weapon, ready for anything, grinding his teeth against the chill while walking slowly into the room, finding a broken window with pieces of glass underneath it. A small wooden desk took up space in the left corner of the room, the secretary's desk, while a sofa sat against the right wall. Another door stood before Drake. Bernard's office. For some reason, Drake felt a chill upon touching knob of Bernard's door. He looked behind him to see nothing, returning his attention to the door with a shake off his head. Turning the knob slowly, Drake peered through a narrow crack of the door as he pulled it open. Silently, he stepped into Bernard's office to see a large work desk that sat before a wide window, the grey skies outside casting a grim light onto the barely illuminated room, a dead tree shaking violently outside the window, reminding Drake that the Razor still moved through Stonefeather, its branches tapping against the glass. A large chair sat facing the window, its back to Drake. The young sheriff took a few steps forward, his eyes darted across the room looking for any signs of movement. He twitched slightly everytime he heard the tapping of of the branches on glass while he drew closer to the chair. Drake resisted the impulse to turn the chair around and see what awaited him, but failed, his hand already holding the top left corner of the chair. Taking in a deep breath, Drake spinned the chair towards him, raising his gun. David Bernard's small frame laid slumped against the black leather of the oversized swivel chair, his head hung low, his mouth agape allowing blood to flow freely down his chin and his tongue to dangle limp on one side. His eyes were fixed in a glassy stare towards the floor, his frozen visage sending a chill down Drake's spine. Bernard's flesh hung loose on his face, the colour of his skin a pale white of a man long dead. Drake turned away from the sight momentarily, letting out a cough as he fought the fear that was enveloping his being. He holstered his weapon, turning to Bernard's desk to look for clues about Wilson Blake. Three drawers lined each side of the desk, Drake searching each one thoroughly finding nothing but unimportant memos, some reports from Fort Holden and fortunately, a box of 9mm Luger rounds and another of shotgun shells. Thinking of his grandfather, Drake stuffed the shells into his pocket as he came to the last drawer only to find it locked. "Hello," whispered Drake while he tried to force the drawer open. After several unsuccessful attempts, Drake whipped out his knife and broke the lock with a strong stab. Opening the drawer, Drake found a leather-bound book that laid above a blue file. He looked through the contents of the file first which was mainly made up of delivery manifests, transaction notes and some receipts that detailed purchased items and equipment unfamiliar to Drake. Not mining equipment, that much Drake was sure of as he read words like 'DNA splicer' and 'Cryo-Lock engine' off the list. He put away the file, turning his attention to the black leather-bound book. It was a diary or a journal, Bernard's. Drake flipped through the pages looking for any mention of Blake when he came upon an entry that caught his eye:
19th March 2005
Another tunnel collapse in the mines killed two men today, Kristoff Hartmann and Bob Sharpe. Apparently the western tunnels are far more unstable than we believed, once again putting a halt to activities momentarily. I had a word with the foreman about what had happened when he told me something interesting. By accident, the tunnel collapse had opened a way into a natural cavern of sorts that leads out to Raven Creek, behind the mountain range. I asked him if it were possible to keep this natural tunnel open but was disappointed to hear that by doing so, no mining could take place in the western tunnels where there is a higher concentration of coal. The foreman also queried me on the status of the equipment he had ordered from Fort Holden some time ago to help heighten the safety measures of the mines. Unfortunately, I have Blake's demands to attend to, using the receipts and manifests for the equipment as a cover for Blake's own neccesities. I'll have to hold off the foreman a little longer.
Drake's blood boiled as he read the entry. By some strange twist of fate, his father had had become a victim of Blake's plans and Bernard's greed. Had the neccesary equipment for the mines arrived earlier, his father might have been alive today. 'But then he'd have to live through this nightmare' Drake thought. Angrily Drake continued to read through the journal when he came across something that mentioned Blake in detail:
4th April 2005
Blake invited me to his grand mansion again today to celebrate his supposed success in his research. I have long admired the architecture of Blake's home but more intrigued by its exquisite interior. We discussed the matter of my final payment which is supposedly due when Blake's employer arrives to to collect his prize. I queried Blake about the nature of his research, hoping that he might show me what he had been working on. After all, I felt I had an important role in its completion, helping Blake procure the equipment he required under the guise of mining equipment as well as helping him find human subjects picked from the filth of Fort Holden. Understandably, Blake told me that it was his employer's privilage to see the fruits of his labours first, but assured me that I would soon be privy to what he had developed. I am under no illusion that Blake's experiments here are legal, hence his need for secrecy and subterfuge, but with the money that I've been paid and the amount I'm soon to receive, Blake could be developing a Doomsday device for all I care. As a token of his appreciation for my contributions, Blake gave me a key to his home, telling me that I would be welcomed in his mansion as long as I lived. I was vaguely disturbed by his choice of words but accepted the key anyway. Soon I would be rich enough to have my own mansion in a more comfortable climate, away from this sorry excuse of a town.
Upon reading about the key, Drake frantically looked through the six drawers again to make sure he had missed not missed anything. He found nothing, uneasily turning to Bernard's corpse. Mustering all his will, Drake reached his hands out towards Bernard's body slowly. His eyes were glued toBernard's downcast gave as he searched his coat, pockets and breast pockets. Nothing. Then he noticed something. Bernard's left hand, its fingers wrapped tightly around something. A heavy feeling suddenly pulled at Drake's stomach, the tapping of the branches against glass and the ominous feeling he had felt earlier did nothing to comfort him. Bernard's hand was cold upon touch, sending a shiver up Drake's arm. He pried open Bernard's fingers to find an old brass key.
Drake's heart froze when a hand grabbed his before he could take the key . Bernard's glassy stare lifted from the floor and levelled his eyes with Drake's, letting out a familiar low groan. Drake's shock became primal fear as Bernard forced him against his desk and threw him effortlessly into a nearby shelf, knocking the wind out of the lawman. Before Drake could recover Bernard was on him again growling viciously as he tried to take a bite out of the fallen sheriff. Drake rolled Bernard off and swung hard at him with a left hook, literally knocking the zombie's jaw off. He watched in horror as the loss of its lower jaw did nothing to stop Bernard charging at him again. Drake reacted by drawing his weapon, firing two well placed shotsat the zombie's chest onlybut Bernard still kept coming, forcing Drake's back against the window. Bernard climbed atop his desk, the jawless and bloodied zombie ready to pounce. Drake ducked just in time as glass shards flew threw the air, raising his head in time to see Bernard flying out the window. A sickening thud followed, asound similar to meat dropping onto concrete. Drake looked out the shattered window to see Bernard's corpse lying motionless atop the snow covered ground, the white snow soaked in crimson. The key, mere inches away.
The sound of pounding footsteps, growls and groans suddenly echoed through the building. Drake's eyes widened. The people in the Hall's shelter. Just as his thought became sour, countless of zombies burst through Bernard's door, all rushing for Drake, forcing the lawman to follow Bernard's lead, taking flight out the window. He hit the ground hard on his wounded shoulder, letting out a cry of agony as he willed himself to his feet. He frantically searched for the brass key near Bernard's corpse as zombies fell tho the ground, jumping out the window in pursuit, some of them breaking their legs upon landing forcing them to crawl after Drake. Drake grabbed the key and dashed blindly into the storm once again, the groans and hisses of zombies behind him.