Act 4: Enter the Demon

The sky was engulfed in a canopy dark clouds, the purple of dusk seeping over Stonefeather melding night with day, making Drake wonder how it long it had been since this horrid disaster happened. He trudged along the eastern road of the lake that would lead him to Casa Diablo, Blake Mansion, where he was fairly certain this nightmare originated from. His breath grew heavy as he watched for movement on the ground, wary of the deadly pattern the zombies used to attack with. He had fallen prey to these attacks a number of times, barely able to escape after each brutal attack. This time he knew how they operated, this time, he would be ready.

Not that it would help much since the Razor was making things all the more harder for the sheriff. Even with the goggles he wore, the snowstorm had proven to be an enemy itself, concealing zombies behind strong gusts of wind and snow. So now Drake was fighting two enemies, the zombies as well as the Razor who seemed to work very well together to Drake's utter dismay. Drake's thoughts were halted as he stood before a pair of opened large steel gates that informed Drake that he had arrived at his destination. Looking up, he could already make out the gargoyle-guarded rooftops of the dark mansion, their wings open in menacing poses. His eyes returned to the snow-covered path before him as he made his way cautiously to the front door. A demon-motiff door knock greeted him as he reached the large doors, its eyes locked in a vicious stare, a steel ring hung between teeth. There was no door knob in sight, only a small keyhole that sat a distance under the demon's head. Drake dug out the key he had found in Town Hall and jammed into the keyhole. He drew in some air before twisting the key, the sound of a lock opening assuring him. He pushed the door open to once again be greeted by darkness, a wide hall of Victorian taste shrouded in a veil of shadows. The first thing Drake noted was that it was much warmer in the mansion, a comfortable temperature that helped return feeling to his toes that were on the verge of frostbite. A staircase spiralled up around the hall, tempting Drake to climb but he decided to poke around on the ground floor first, gun at the ready. An initial search left Drake with nothing as he looked through Blake's grand game room and his equally extravagant dining hall which left Drake to wonder why Blake ever bothered with such things considering the fact that he never had any guests outside David Bernard. He found nothing of interest in the kitchen except a few slices of cold bread which he gobbled up to replenlish his already tested strength and found a Wine Cellar that concealed nothing, or so Drake thought. Silently, he gave the ground floor another once over before deciding to try his luck on the second floor.

As quietly as he could, Drake treaded up the teak steps, taking notice of the elaborate chandelier that hung above the hall. There were no noises in the dark, no grunts or growls of zombies nor the howls and whispers of the wind. Yet Drake could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. He came to the end of the stairs that led to a narrow hall with two doors lined on each side and one large door at the end. A red carpet paving his way, Drake strided across the hall, stopping at the first door on his right. He entered the room behind the door silently only to find a tidied room with a glass window that let in adark light, casting a grim feeling onto the sheriff. Night had fallen but the storm still raged. If Drake had to go out into the storm at this hour, he wasn't sure that he'd make it through the night. He poked around the room which Drake had assumed was a guest room but found nothing, the other two rooms bore similar results, but it was in the forth room that Drake was greeted by the sight of a ransacked bedroom. Drawers pulled out, the matress and pillows torn up with its feathers littering the floor along with pieces of shattered glass and sheets of paper. Someone was in a mood, or maybe someone was looking for something. Drake's trained eye found a sheet of paper torn into half near the farside of the ruined bed. In the darkness, he could barely make out the writing on the papers

To Matthew Dressard,

The report you sent me was pleasing. The completion of Blake's project means that Smythe will be pulling his head out of the sand soon. However I am disappointed that you did not detail the nature of the virus or its infection ratio. Needless to say, I expect you to have the required information and if possible samples of the virus ready for my operative to collect them. In the meantime, you are to stay undercover in Smythe's organization. My operative is tracing your steps now so keep yourself alive till then.

Albert Wesker

'A spy' Drake guessed as he dropped the papers to the floor. 'A discovered spy at that'. Drake made a mental note of the name Albert Wesker as well as this Smythe. If he had the chance, he'd ask Ada about them since it was likely she had some background on them. Drake thought about the 'virus' mentioned in the note. He recalled Ada mentioning that Blake was a gun runner but never said anything about him making a virus. "Feds," muttered Drake. Always concerned with their skeletons in the closet. He searched the room a little more before moving on, facing the teak doors of last room. He let out a sigh. It was too familiar a scene having watched numerous horror movies. Despite his grievances, Drake's hand was already on the doorknob. After what seemed like an eternity, Drake turned the knob and entered the room. Silence surrounded the room with the exception of the crackles of burning firewood, the orange hue of the flames barely illuminating its surroundings. Drake's eyes adjusted themselves to the dimly lit room and began looking around for clues. He found several folders on a large executive desk, their contents detailing materials and names Drake could not comprehend but words like "Bio-Weapon" and "Virus" assured him that he had found something. Still Drake was concerned. He hadn't found a trace of Blake and was certain that he had checked all the rooms except the attic though he had doubts that Blake would be holed up in there. A faint buzzing sound caught Drake's attention. A familiar sound. The sound of radio static. He returned his attention to the desk, files and sheets of paper piled up on it.Pushing off all the items on the table Drake found it: A radio.With nearly childlike excitement Drake fumbled with the radio,finding a frequency. "Mayday mayday!" he called into the device. "Mayday mayday this is Sheriff Drake Hartmann Stonefeather Lake. We require assistance," he said. Static. He tried another frequency, "Mayday mayday, this is Stonefeather Lake. Can anyone hear me!" Drake yelled with desperation in his voice. More static. Drake tossed the radio to the ground in surrender. He was so sure he had found a way to call for help. He rubbed his temples as he contemplated his next move.

"I hear you Sheriff Hartmann," said a voice,smooth as silk. Drake raised his head and looked at the radio.

Uneasily he picked it up. "This is Sheriff Drake Hartmann of Stonefeather Lake. We require assistance. The town's been contaminated by a virus and..."

"I'm well aware of the situation Sheriff," said the voice again.

Drake raised an eyebrow. "Who is this?" he said, almost whispering.

"Ah, well that would be telling. But if you must know, come down to the Russian circus at the edge of town. I am eager to meet you," the voice said again. Drake detected an English accent in the voice, a foreigner?

"Listen you sick sonuvabitch, I'm in no mood for games. Tell me who the hell are you!" Drake yelled.

"Good things come to those who wait Sheriff," replied the voice. Drake frowned and threw the radio into a wall, breaking the device in bits. He drew in a breath and considered his options. Freeze to death out in the storm or get eaten by zombies. Or he could just stay in the mansion.The last option was of course the most logical one, but something was pushing the young Sheriff. Something strong. He wasn't sure whether it was anger or sheer curiousity, but he had to go the circus.

"I can't believe this," Drake said aloud as he began making his way out of the room. 'Believe it' he thought as he stood out on the porch of Blake's Mansion. 'I'm going to the circus' he thought, running into the frosty plains making his way to the edge of town.

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Ada Wong carefully examined the shattered pieces of a radio, laid on a carpeted floor against a wall. She stood up with a sigh and eased herself into Blake's chair. Hartmann had been here earlier, it was likely that they had missed each other by mere minutes but it didn't matter to Ada, she worked better alone anyway. It was likely that the young lawman found nothing as Ada herself could not find anything as she searched the house thoroughly. Her contact, Matthew Dressard was gone, possibly dead from the way his room appeared. And Blake was nowhere in sight. Or so it seemed. She'd been in such situations before to know better than to jump to conclusions. There was something about the Wine Cellar that she had been in earlier. Something odd that she couldn't put her finger on.

A beeping sound from her communicator interrupted her thoughts. With a frown, Ada dug out the PDA like device and composed herself. Wesker's face appeared on the screen of the device, the static worse than before."Report," was all that Wesker uttered, a buzzing sound layered his voice.

"Situation's changed drastically. Dressard's gone. More likely he's been rooted out and killed," Ada said deadpan.

"Unfortunate, but it changes nothing. Your objective is to retrieve any sensitive data on Blake's creation as well as a prototype or a sample. Dressard's plight is but a minor setback I'm inclined to accept but failure is not," Wesker said, slight agitation in his usually emotionless voice.

"I see. Well then I suppose I'll have to try harder then," Ada sneered, a tight smile across her face.

"I suppose you do," Wesker said as he leaned forward to make his point. "Anything else to report? Our time grows short. Our satellites can't relay what's going on in your area for long. The storm seems to be growing," Wesker informed his operative.

"I have two survivors on my hands," Ada reported. "One Drake Hartmann and his grandfather."

At the news of these survivors, Wesker rubbed his chin with interest. "Hmm...Curious. I'll run a background check on this Hartmann fellow. Is he giving you any problems?" Wesker asked.

Ada eyed the remains of the shattered radio. "As of yet, none. He thinks I'm on his side, for now at least. He could be of some use," Ada explained.

Wesker grinned. "You always were good at using your assets to manipulate others Wong," Wesker said with some amusement. Ada's eyes became slits at the reference. "Very well then. Our window of opportunity is shrinking quickly Wong. Do what you have to and get me what I want. Whatever it takes," Wesker said at last. Ada nodded in acceptance as the screen turned black to signal that the converstion was over.

"Bastard," whispered Ada finally. It was no secret that whatever Wesker was planning, it wasn't for the greater glory of Umbrella. Nor was it simply about him rising in power. Her own contacts had confirmed that Wesker was working for another company know only a "S". It was likely that "S" had genetically enhanced him when he was believed killed after the Arklay Mountains incident. Like William Birkin, Wesker was proving to be a master of playing both sides of the fence. Whatever he was planning, Ada had no doubt that neither Umbrella or "S" would benefit from Wesker's plans once they came into fruition.

Ada jammed the communicator into one of her pockets as she headed down into the Mansion's Wine Cellar to check out her hunch. Large wine racks surrounded her from three sides in the large room but it was the one in front of her that raised her suspicions. She pulled out a bottle from one of the many diamond-shaped openings of the rack and gave it's label a casual glance. Château Léoville-Barton 1855. "Good year," Ada whispered to no one in particular as she returned the bottle to its original place. She pulled out another bottle which made her frown. Malaga. That was a Spanish wine. 'Why would any wine collector mix up Spanish and French wines in the samerack when there's enough room to seperate them' she thought. She pulled out another wine. Spanish. And another,German. 'Either Blake has no respect for Wine Collecting...or...' Ada thought, taking a step back. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she could make out small Roman numerals carved under the small openings of the racks. She'd missed something.

Ada headed back upstairs and searched Blake's office. A conspicuous book wedged between two large tomes caught her eye, aptly titled 'Fine Wine Companion'. Upon opening the book Ada noticed a dog-earred page that caught her attention.

In Amsterdam 1985, esteemed Wine connoisseur Roman Petrakovich made a revolutionary change in the world of wine tasting.He commented that wine tasting was concentrating too much on French and American wines, namely those from California. Feeling that other wines were not getting the recognition they deserved, Petrakovich, along with several fellow tasters agreed to hold an unofficial wine tasting competiton in a small Dutch bistro in the heart of Amsterdam. Though the contest was frowned upon by numerous prestigious connoisseurs, many wine makers, especially those from less recognized wine countries like Spain were more than happy to have their wines tasted by Petrakovich and company. Word of Petrakovich's impromptu challenge spread throughout the wine world, prompting wine makers from Germany, France and Australia to attend. Not since the Paris Wine Tasting of 1976 had there been such a turn-up for so small a competiton.

After being blindfolded, the judges sampled the wines that had entered the competition. Their results were shocking but well accepted. Petrakovich commented that the Château Léoville-Barton lived up to its reputation with a slight fruity taste that he felt was absent in many wines today. The German Auslese stunned the crowd by coming in second to the suprise of even the judges. Judge Amy Stanson said that she had never expected a German wine have such an impact. The Spaniards had their day as well, the distinctively Spanish Malaga with its flavorful spice impressing the judges while Chambolle-Musigny reminded the judges why French wines are celebrated in the world. Though the results were unrecognized by most of the Wine World as well as the media, many conoisseurs regard the results of the competition to be the most accurate and unbiased judgements since the infamous Paris Wine Tasting of 1976.

Ada smiled. Blake was probably too lazy to think of a code of his ownso he tried to memorize a sequence or a code that only a wine collector would have understood. Heading back into the Cellar, she pulled out all the bottles and arranged them in the order written. The Barton 1855 went to first opening, an Auslese 1736 went to the second, one of Ada's favourites, a Malaga 1919 was the third and the fourth was Chambolle-Musigny 1847. Upon placing the last bottle in place, the rack came to life as it slowly slid apart from the centre, revealing a cold steel door. Stepping forward, Ada noted an electronic lock at the side, a narrow slit sat under a control panel. Ada's slender finger traced the slit. It needed a keycard of sorts. With a sigh, Ada took a step back to look at the door once again. She was tempted to simply blow it up but she couldn't risk alerting anyone of her presence. 'Maybe Hartmann might find something' she thought as she grabbed a bottle from a nearby rack, a Château Pedesclaux. Uncharacteristically, Ada bit into the cork and yanked it out . She took a swing of the drink and looked at it with disdain. 1810. "Lousy year," she said as she took another gulp of it, making her way out of the cellar.

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"I don't believe this," the words escaped Drake's lips as he stared at the sight before him. Circus truck trailers were stacked atop one another to form an odd but effective barrier between himself and the only road that led out of Stonefeather. Along with cars and pieces of rubble that could have been caused by the harsh winds of the storm. Either fate was playing a very cruel joke on him or someone was doing their best to keep any survivors within the town. The destroyed radio relay that Drake's grandfather talked about came to mind. Impossible was a word that constantly ran through Drake's mind but after everything he had seen so far he should have known better than to expect things to get better. A low sigh escaped his throat as he turned to the shadowed Big Top. He whipped out his gun and changed to a fresh clip. "Let's get this over with," he whispered grimly as helifted a flap of the Big Top's heavy canvas.

Entering the structure, Drake could still hear the flapping sounds of wind against canvas. The pitch-black darkness about him did nothing to comfort him as he worried whether the Razor would simply bring the whole giant tent down on his head.The hairs on the back of his neck stood on its ends as Drake navigated blindly in the dark, finally bumping into a box or a pedestal of sorts. He focused his eyes on the object, making it out as one of the pedestals animal-tamers would have their performing animals sit on. He was in the ring, that much he guessed.A blinding light came down from the heavens nearly blinding Drake, forcing him to shield his eyes with his left arm. He squinted his eyes, noticing that a beam of bright white light focused solely on where he stood. 'A spotlight' thought Drake. Another light came to life a distance to his left towards the elevated seats that surrounded the ring. His eyes still stinging from the sudden light Drake could see two figures sitting atop one of the benches near the ring.

"Sheriff Drake Hartmann, I presume," came a familiar voice, an English accent, his tone smooth as silk. Then Drake saw him. His hair was a glistening silver, combed back in a smooth businessman-like fashion. His bore strong features: high cheekbones, a sharp nose and small narrow eyes along with thin silver eyebrows that lent a strange menacing appearance to his cold, yet flaming green eyes. Dressed immaculately in a well-tailored black overcoat with regal bearing , Drake could have imagined this man walking straight out of a Victorian-age painting. Drake grinded his teeth as he stared at the stranger.His grip tightened around his weapon as he stood poised for attack. "So nice to finally put a face to the name. And quite a face it is eh Miss Scarlett?" said the stranger again, glancing to his left to speak to the other person. Drake's eyes widened as he finally noticed her. She couldn't have been older than 16 with placid yet attractive facial features, short neck length blonde hair and warm blue eyes that seemed to melt into Drake's mind. Like her companion, she was dressed elegantly in a thick feminine fur coat cut stylishly to bare her small shoulders in a deep red to accentuate the heathly colour of her flawless skin. She gave Drake a cool look before turning to the man with a slight nod.

"Who the Hell are you?" Drake yelled with anger.

The stranger shook his head. "Where are my manners?" he said with genuine remorse. "My lovely companion is Miss Scarlett," he intoduced the young girl. "And I am Jeremiah Smythe, or Smythe if you'd prefer," he said casually. His emerald gaze sent a chill down Drake's spine.

"Are you the one who's behind this...nightmare?" Drake demanded.

Smythe shrugged slightly. "Well I can't take all the credit. However I suppose I can lay claim to setting things into motion," he replied calmly with an indifferent expression on his face.

Drake grinded his teeth as he stared hard at Smythe. "How can you be so smug about this?" he growled.

A slight grin crept across Smythe's face. "Well Sheriff Hartmann, in accordance to the laws of the theatre...I am the bad guy," he said in a soft yet mocking tone.

Instantly Drake raised his weapon pointing it straight at Smythe's head only to stop himself when the girl called Scarlett stood before his intended target, an angered look upon her face. He eased his finger off the triggered. "Get out of the way!" he yelled but the girl would not budge. A gentle hand on her shoulder assured Scarlett that all was right.

"You'll have to excuse Scarlett. She is a little protective of me," Smythe explained as he took her hand. "After all, I'm probably all the family she has. Now, before we proceed into the usual theatrics, may I ask you one question Sheriff Hartmann?"

Drake raised an eyebrow but remained silent, the heat of the light actually forcing sweat to roll down his face.

"Are you fond of clowns?" Smythe asked. Scarlett's eyes glowed a bright blue on cue as the lights that were focused on Drake and Smythe started moving around the Big Top, a strange mix of circus music suddenly filled the air. The noise and the absence of light made Drake lose sight of Smythe and Scarlett but a low moan captured his attention. The lights still roamed around the Big Top but Drake could already catch glimpses of zombies dressed gaudily rising to their feet.He rushed tothe entrance of the Big Top only to find it blocked by a trailer, 'Wha...that wasn't there earlier!' his mind screamed. Frantically, Drake looked around to see more zombies approaching him, their faces half-painted with chalky white make-up and thie lips crimson with lipstick and blood. Zombie clowns. Drake could here Sam's word's echo in the back of his mind: 'God I hate clowns'. Drake fired at brief sights of zombies approaching him, the spotlights flew all about the Big Top confusing him while the eerie theme of Thunder and Blazes played along side the sounds of horns and whistles, disorienting his bearings as he swept around looking for a way out. His heart pounded like a war drum as a pastry faced zombie clown crept out behind him, forcing Drake to slash at it with his combat knife. Another managed tograb his foot only to have its head stomped in by Drake's foot. He blasted at two or three of them as he backed away towards a long pole with a ladder. The deadman's click from his weapon froze Drake's blood as he instinctively climbed the ladder to escape the numerous zombies that tried to take a bite out of him staring up at the dark ceiling of the Big Top. A cold hand clutched his foot as a zombie climbed up after him, Drake responding with a thunderous kick to its face, sending it crashing into a group of the bloodthirsty creatures. He reached the top platform of the pole and could make out a body hanging dead on a swing attached to the ceiling. A dead trapeze artist dropped from its perch falling from a great distant, a sickening splatter echoed as the body hit the ground. Drake grimaced as he saw a huge lake of blood peering over the edge of the platform. More groans and grunts could be heard from below as zombies climbed up the pole from behind Drake. A distance before him, Drake could already make out another pole with a platform but already several zombies stood, groaning as they waited.

His eyes darted to his feet where he saw a rope tied to a steel ring of the platform. A tightrope. "Not one of my better ideas," muttered Drake as he grabbed on to the rope and cut it loose with his knife sending him swinging from a height. Drake yelled as his feet slammed against the other pole to stop his descent, the impact nearly turning his legs into gelatin as he released his grip on the rope, dropping to the ground with a thud. A zombie jumped on him as he struggled to his feet, wrestling him to the ground, then another, and another. Knife in one hand, empty gun in the other, Drake punched and kicked his way free, breakings jaws and ribs of his attackers with well placed kicks and clubbings. Bite marks adorned his arms as he limped his way towards the farside exit, more zombies in pursuit. He reached into his pocket and pulled out another clip, reloading his weapon. He turned and fired away at his attackers, one by one they fell, blood and bones punching out through their bodies as hot lead tore through their flesh. One of them seemed unfazed by the bullets, blood trickling from its lips as Drake punched another four slugs through it but it kept on coming towards him , poised for attack. It lunged at the lawmen, bloodstained teeth bared as it prepared to sink them into Drake's flesh only to have the barrel of Drake's .40 Berreta thrusted under its jaw. A thunderous gunshot sent blood, brain and bone splattering onto Drake's face as he pushed the corpse away, spitting out blood that had somehow seeped into his own mouth. He scanned the darkness to see if more zombies were around. Nothing. He'd killed them all. Drake's legs failed him as he fell to the ground, breathing hard as he laid on his back. "Jeremiah Smythe," he whispered, before letting his exhaustion overtake him...

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Scarlett and Smythe strode out the Big Top with the sound of Thunder and Blazes to mark their departure. Hammer had done well in coordinating Smythe's little lightshow. Though he often reminded himself not to get carried away, Smythe had a flair for the dramatic. Smythe's thoughts went back to Sheriff Hartmann. He wondered if the young man had survived the ordeal. 'Well if he did, then it would make for quite an interesting scenario' Smythe mused. As they passed a large steel cage, a humongous creature leaped out from the darkness smashing itself against the cold steel bars. The sight startled Scarlett as she backed away from the beastial scowl of the animal, not realizing that she had dropped one of Blake's keycards that Smythe had allowed her to hold onto. Smythe's eyes widened with interest as he approached the cage, the snout of the bear mere inches away from his face, it's warm putrid breath rolling onto his face. He locked eyes with the beast, icy green against it fiery brown. Drool dripped from its mouth as it bared its fangs in anger, a low growl expressing its vicious desires. Scarlett hid behind Smythe, taking peeks at the bear like it were a demonic beast. "What a magnificent creature," Smythe proclaimed as he drew closer to the cage, agitating the Kodiak even more. " One of nature's purest, most efficient killing machines," he continued as he reached his arm into the cage. Scarlett's eyes widened in fear. The Kodiak roared as its head came down to chew off Smythe's arm, only to have a strong, strangling hold around its neck as Smythe drew its head closer to his face. "But like all things...there's still room for improvement...