--
Climbing exhaustedly from the raging river, she dragged her shivering body along the muddy banks before finally reaching dry land. A small part of her wished she hadn't given Sherry her vest; the slightest extra bit of clothing would provide at least some warmth. Every muscle in her body wanted to collapse, but she forced herself to her wobbly feet, steadying herself with a makeshift walking stick. Claire knew if she stopped to rest, she wouldn't be able to get up. And so she pushed onward, heading east in the hopes of hitting the highway further down the way, away from the police and their questions and Umbrella and their goons. Then again, she would probably hear out the devil's offer for her soul to put up with some annoying and incompetent cops. At least they weren't trying to kill her. She just hoped someone would pull over for a hobbling, mud covered hitchhiker.
Pushing her way through the deep darkness, Claire realized she must've sprained her ankle doing her Fugitive impression. The adrenaline must have dulled the pain, but now the ankle was beginning to throb with every step. Sighing, she put more of her weight onto the other foot, using a sturdy tree branch to balance herself. The bumpy terrain wasn't exactly making it easier, either. The moon was high, nearly full, but the thick trees weren't granting her much, if any, of the moon's light. Two shitty days in a row, she thought. Which one was worse?
The earth beneath her feet slipped away, dropping into a suddenly steep decline, and she tumbled downwards, her waving hands seeking something to grab but finding nothing. Bouncing through dirt and bushes and onto harder ground, she felt her ribs crack and the wind knocked from her lungs. She lay in a shallow ditch, staring up at the open sky, and felt a sudden need to cry, to break down and just let it all flow out. Maybe to even let those guys find her and put her out of her misery.
It was the image of her brother that broke her wave of self-pity, his quiet strength and determination guiding them through the many hardships their family had faced. The last time she had seen him was when he had dropped her off at school the month before, heaving far too many of her boxes onto his broad shoulders and lugging them up countless flights of stairs without a single complaint. She could tell he was in a rush, anxious to get back and investigate deeper into the grisly cannibal murders in the city, but still he made time for her.
He tried to never talk about his work, but anyone with the slightest morbid curiosity knew about the rash of brutal murders on the city's outskirts. Even her summer job at the shop had resulted in her learning some of the more lurid details. Most of the men were reluctant to talk about such gruesome stuff around the new girl, but once they found out she wasn't the prissy type that they had to tip-toe around, it was all they seemed to talk about. Claire mostly listened, worrying more about Chris being in danger, mentally preparing herself for the worst each day. She swore to him that last night, that if he let anything bad happen to himself, she would never forgive him. As he walked down the steps, he turned back and said the same went for her.
Claire remembered that moment fondly; it was the first time her brother had ever treated her as an equal and not just as a little sister. He had skipped the usual lectures, too, as if he finally trusted her to make her own mistakes. Maybe the year before she had spent away at college had changed him, not having to constantly look out for her and learning to worry on his own time. She realized she couldn't let him down no matter how badly things looked.
Fighting the soreness that filled her every muscle, Claire rolled onto her side, bracing her hands against the ground and pushing herself up slowly. Her eyes suddenly widened as she saw the light up ahead on the mountainside. It was probably just a light beacon, but those stations had communications, maybe even people.
The incline was thankfully easy, even with her aching ankle. She could smell skunky marshlands to the east, and she headed away from them; footing was much more important now with her tender ankle. Sloshing through miles of wet mud would tire her out long before she reached her destination. Not to mention the obvious tracks she'd leave behind.
Claire reached what appeared to be a worn dirt path, the beaten back brush already thickening back over. Had she been walking at her normal pace, she would have missed the small clearing altogether. Peering through the foliage, her sharp eyes picked out a small cabin no more than a hundred yards ahead. Although the desolate cabin bore no light, she began to limp towards it.
She quietly pushed the door open with the butt of her knife, her eyes slowly scanning the dark interior of the cabin before stepping in. A dusky odor emanated from the inside, but there was little dust on the windows. This place was definitely lived in, at least recently. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the thick blackness, she realized the cabin was larger than she had expected. The ceiling was over a dozen feet high, crisscrossing rafters forming the support beams of a small overhead loft. Most of the wood was unfinished, giving the one-room cabin a harsh and raw edge. This was definitely not a cozy retreat for whoever owned it. She faintly recalled reading something about strange sightings in the Arklay Mountains, and speculation that it was probably being a hermit of some kind. Could this be that hermit's retreat, she wondered.
Regardless of who owned the cabin, it seemed no one was there now. Claire hobbled over to an unvarnished cabinet, rifling through the drawers in search of a first aid kit. She'd need to fashion a splint if she wanted to stay ahead of her pursuers, and she'd have to do it quickly. She found a moth eaten sweater in the lower drawer, gratefully wrapping it around her still damp shoulders. No one would miss this ugly thing, she figured.
Rubbing her mud caked hands together for warmth, she continued her hasty search for anything useful. She had initially feared that whomever lived here might be in a sudden need for the supplies, but there were plenty left. Turned out there was no medical kit of any kind, so she made due with what she could scavenge.
Her sock peeled off painfully, the elastic clinging about her swollen ankle, ultimately revealing several blisters and two bleeding toenails. Placing the short wooden plank against the throbbing joint, she tightly tied the shreds of the towel she had found, wincing at the painful process. Claire took her knife, slicing into the side of her boot to widen the opening as she pulled it over her sloppy splint job. She drilled holes into each side of the cut with the tip of the knife, sewing it up with a shoestring she had dug out of the rusted footlocker. Looking at her crusty, blood soaked sock with disdain, she figured the least she could do was dispose of it after borrowing so many supplies from the cabin's owner.
Tossing it out the window, she saw a worn box, bigger than a jewelry box but small enough to go unnoticed, sitting by the windowsill. Pushing open its slide top revealed a pile of old handwritten letters held by a rubber band. She tossed those to the side, immediately feeling more guilt for invading the cabin owners' privacy, but hoping to fish out a map. Beneath the stack of letters she found some old black and white photographs of a frail young woman and what appeared to be her significant other. Flipping one over into the moonlight, she saw the feminine scrawl of a woman professing her undying love for someone named Al. Claire guessed it to be the man in the other picture, a robust and dark-haired man wearing a white lab coat. Must've been a doctor of some sort, too. Dorothy certainly knew how to pick them.
The box was quickly returned to its place when it yielded no useful info. The small desk held nothing useful except for a flask of whiskey, which she considered taking before putting it back. As dry mouthed as she was, the alcohol would only dehydrate her further. Plus she hated the buttery woodsy taste. Chris loved the stuff, but she suspected it was part of his tough guy routine. She had caught him sipping a wine cooler at her graduation party, and he had begged her not to tell anyone. Claire laughed at the memory, his red faced embarrassment at the collapse of his tough guy façade far too rare to forget.
--
The office was plush, the décor modest but with a taste for fine woods and sleek, elegant design. Light generously flowed through white curtains draped over tall windows displaying a wide expanse of greenery. A few pictures adorned the walls, featuring many famous political faces, but Leon didn't want to seem impressed by them, instead sitting on a simple leather seat by the desk. The lower lumbar of the chair forced a straight back position, and Leon couldn't help but think this was somewhat intentional.
A door behind him opened, and he recognized the familiar faces of Agent Red and Blue behind the serious looking short man dressed in a simple dark blue suit. The small man walked over to the desk, sitting down without offering handshake nor smile. The two agents stood behind Leon, their hawkish gaze never leaving him.
"Stand up, you disrespectful punk," ordered Agent Blue, shoving the back of his chair. Leon stared blankly at him.
"Not necessary, Jones," said the small man, his own birdlike eyes sizing up Leon. "So…you're the one I've been hearing about. Must say, I expected you to be a bit taller," he said gruffly, a slight Southern drawl to his easygoing voice. Leon opened his mouth to respond, but the man was already talking again, his words gaining momentum.
"It's quite impressive, but I'm sure you've been hearing that all day now and must be sick and tired of it," he said. "Hell, I'm sick of saying it myself already. But like my wife used to say, 'tis the burden of doing something amazing'."
"What did you do with Sherry," Leon blurted out.
"Ah, a direct man…I like that," admired the man. "My men here have informed me of your little 'backroom deal'," he said, pausing. "The thing is, they made you this offer without talking to me first. Seeing as how I'm behind the nice big desk with the nice corner office, you figure they'd run everything by me," he added, glancing at his men. "But the way it turns out, the US government has no rights to custody of that girl, no matter what happened to her parents. As a US citizen, she has no special rights to asylum like some foreigner might. I know, I know…the system failed her, wah wah…but decisions regarding her well-being are best made by those who know her, love her, and—well, you get the idea."
"Where-is-she?"
"She's with her family, son," answered the talkative man. "Best protection there is on God's green earth. Some distant relative came and claimed her this morning; nothing more for you to worry about."
"I made a promise I'd look after her."
"So you're also a man of your word, I take it. Good…very good. We can use a man like you in the new agency I'm starting up. So I'll tell you what; you complete your training and placement, and I will make sure you can have regular contact with that little girl there."
"That wasn't the deal I agreed to."
"Maybe, but that's the deal you have. Me, I been doing this job here for a long, long time, son. I make decisions every day that impact the people of this country's lives. Sometimes we have to make harder choices than we thought; promises are broken, mistakes are made…the only thing we can do is make the best choice we can."
"Like my 'choice' to come here?"
"Just think of the opportunity you have before you, not about the way you got here. This new department could revolutionize US domestic security…"
"Isn't that what the Secret Service is for?"
"Yes, but the Service has a very limited reach. The O.R.E. won't be limited by the same constraints."
"O.R.E.?"
"Yes, the 'Operations Reporting to the Executive Office'…ORE for short."
"Shouldn't it be OREO, then…or were you afraid of the cookie people coming after you," Leon asked. The man smiled.
"This is a chance to work directly under the President of the United States, Mr. Kennedy. I hope you realize the seriousness of the matter. While I may appreciate your…candor, I assure you, the men who will be training you most certainly won't."
Leon straightened his defiant slouch, realizing this was for real. The little man took notice, changing his tone to reflect a more professional manner, even leaning in towards the young man.
"What I am offering you is a chance to start something new, something that will start with the dismantling of the Umbrella Corporation. Wouldn't you like that?"
"…I'm listening."
--
Her trained ears picked up the sound of shuffling feet. The air was thinner up here, the howling wind louder. Over the gusts of wind, she could still make out that distinct noise. And yet…there was none of that usual, rancid odor of rotting flesh. She had taken care to move upwind, but still couldn't detect that particular stench of undead.
Her skin suddenly felt clammy, a cold shiver of what might have been fear running along her sweaty back. This was similar to what she had felt when she had stumbled upon the Ashford twin's sanctuary; the nightmarish image of that gigantic doll's head still lingering in her thoughts. The mansion had been empty, void of even the slightest clue to the whereabouts of either Ashford, but loaded with odd trinkets, most of great monetary value (and which Ada promptly pocketed). She had also found some shell casings by the staircase, which smelled freshly of gunpowder, but no trace of blood. As far as she could tell, someone with a high-powered rifle had taken more than a few potshots from the balcony and been unable to hit anything. Whoever it was definitely needed to invest more in target practice than fancy guns.
That sound again. As Ada got closer, it occurred to her that the sound was slightly different from the clumsy zombies. This was a strange sound —something like a small locomotive's chugging pistons. But squishy. Like massive muscles contracting and folding up within themselves, or gallons of fluid being pumped out of a giant heart.
Sidling against the corner of the hallway, she leaned slowly around the edge and saw what appeared to be another zombie. This one was quite different, however, much to her annoyance. Though nearly the same size as an undead, she noticed its skin was a yellowish tan as it stood stark naked in the dim light of the hallway's candles. She smirked at the absence of genitalia, and couldn't help but think that was for the better. The lopsided gait of the creature distinguished it from anything else she had ever read about in Wesker's files…unless he was holding out on her, which was completely reasonable to suspect. On its right side hung a mass of muscle larger than she could have ever imagined on a human; it was easily as thick as a telephone pole. It hung limply, but she could see tendons clenching and contorting, shifting chunks of hardened sinew from side to side.
Never was a fan of body building guidos, she thought, sliding her higher-powered rounds into the handgun. These were mercury core rounds with a dash of acetate compound and compressed nitrogen, a combination deadly to the stronger virus infected beings. Though she was going in with no knowledge of the monster before her, she assessed it to be a Level B bio-creature. Probably on par with a Hunter, or maybe an advanced Licker. Regardless, one well placed round would eliminate the threat easily enough. As handy as her advanced gun was, its shortened barrel forced her to get closer than she liked for the most accurate shooting. Still, Ada figured she could stay out of its one arm reach and get a good shot off in spite of that.
She stepped around the corner, her handgun held straight down and parallel to her side, and crept quietly towards the creature. Taking careful aim, she cocked the hammer, the audible click of the gear shifting louder than she had anticipated. She had neglected to oil the cylinder earlier in the day, and cursed her lack of preparation. It turned to face her now, quicker than she would have expected. Ada froze for a second, taking in its gruesome visage. Its terrible features were stretched, the nose missing, and a mouth half-covered by what appeared to be a flap of hardened skin, frozen in a tragically evil grin. Even though she hesitated for no more than a second, that second was all it needed. Its elephant trunk arm lashed outwards at her, stretching over a dozen feet and slapping her roughly across the chest.
Slamming against a wall, she felt the plaster cave in around her at the impact. She struggled to free herself from the hole, keeping an eye on the creature as it moved towards her with deadly purpose. Wriggling free, Ada went to raise her handgun, and found her hands empty. Desperately searching for the weapon amidst the rubble, she saw it far behind the monster, at least fifteen feet away. Digging hastily through her side pack, she realized she hadn't taken the compact flash-bangs Wesker had instructed during the briefing. She had been lost in her thoughts, imagining the opportunity to finally gain Wesker's trust, and perhaps that bit of rebellious daydreaming would cost Ada her life.
--
The two agents escorted him out, much more politely than before. It was like they had already accepted his induction into their secret brotherhood after only a few minutes of conversation.
"Surprised you didn't throw a hissy fit about him not introducing himself," said Jones.
"I may not read the newspaper everyday, but I know the Secretary of the Interior when I see him," Leon answered. "Former Chief of Staff to the last President, too, I believe."
"Looks like someone paid attention in civics," said the other agent, somewhat impressed. Leon tried to remember if his name was said at all. He shrugged, deciding it wasn't important.
"Knowing the score is more important than knowing the names, right?"
"Couldn't agree more, Leon," replied Jones. "Secretary Graham is a very busy man, so we're going to show you around the rest of the way."
"He didn't look that busy to me."
"Well, he is. In fact, he has to coordinate the cleanup operation in Raccoon City as well as any other PR fallout because of his involvement."
"And what involvement is that?"
"He's the one who made the recommendation to the President to nuke the city. As such, he's obligated to document and present the information to the public and media outlets."
"He what?"
"The fail safe had to be initiated. You saw what happened first hand…I figured you'd have supported the decision."
"I figure more importantly that any evidence was destroyed by his solution of blowing everything up."
"Perhaps. But the protocols of the O.R.E. will afford us allow far more freedom than your usual police procedures. So evidence isn't a must for us to go after the bad guys."
"That solution sounds worse than the problem."
"What, you a commie or something?"
Leon walked silently between them, the joking laughter of the two men ringing in his ears. He was lost in his thoughts, feeling guilty about Sherry, when he realized one of them had asked him a question.
"Sorry, what was that?"
"I asked if you had a missus back home."
His mind was flooded with images over the past few days, flipping back and forth between Ada's cool smirk and Claire's soft eyes, the warm strength of Ada's grip and the wily toughness in Claire's smile.
"No, I don't," he finally said.
"What? I figure a pretty boy like you'd be a ladykiller for sure."
Their faces again, his thoughts torn between two beautiful women…one had died because he wasn't strong enough to save her, and the other had to be pushed away for her own protection. Yeah, he certainly was a killer with the ladies these days.
--
She had a long-standing rule never to get her hands dirty; not that she was the dainty, weak type. She just liked feeling fresh and clean. She had no choice but to cast that rule aside now, sighing as she reached for Wesker's knife prototype. He had gone on and on about the survival knife and its countless applications in field use, but Ada really didn't look forward to the idea of getting close enough to use it.
Not that I have a choice, she thought, watching the creature wind up its massive arm for another attack. This one was a thrust attack, the compact mass of muscle shooting out like a battering ram. Ada rolled to her side, towards the wall, before springing off it with her knife drawn.
The knife was nothing special; Wesker had at least been honest enough about that. What made this one unique was the sheath that housed it. Using a combination of treated chemicals on the sharpened steel, and applying microwaves on the blade just before drawing it would result in a far deadlier edge. The blade needed a minimum of 10 seconds for optimal "cooking" in its sheath, but Ada was short on time and used no more than six. Still, the ten-inch blade slid easily into the flesh of the creature's arm, running along its bone as she charged forwards, splitting the limb in two. Tightening muscles recoiled in pain as the monster howled, its already twisted face contorting even more. Releasing the handle, Ada dove under the gigantic arm as dark blood rained down on her and slid towards her pistol. Grasping its cool handle, she turned over quickly, firing one round squarely through the back of the creature's skull and painting the wall in front of it with bloody gray matter. It took a clumsy step forward, and she readied the gun for another shot. Turned out she didn't need it; the creature crumpled into a heap a moment later, the gaping hole in its forehead pouring out dark viscous fluid.
Wiping away the gore from her hair and face with disgust, she wondered if there was enough training in the world to keep from feeling this dirty ever again. The idle thought was interrupted by Wesker's voice over the radio.
"Ada…this is Wesker, do you copy?"
"Still alive and kicking."
"Alfred is on the move. Locate him and extract the information."
"Could you be a bit more specific?"
"He is headed for the hangar, and he is wounded. He will surely know Alexia's location."
"Is he armed?"
"Does it make a difference?"
"I suppose not."
"Then get moving. I expect to see you tonight at our…usual time."
"Of course, Wesker," she said, hearing his radio click off in her ear. For the first time since the battle, she didn't notice the guts and gore clinging to her. Ada realized that no matter how much she washed and cleaned, she'd never feel clean again as long as Wesker had her in his grasp.
--
Author's Note: To make up for past delays, I decided to write a bit more than usual. I keep meaning to end Claire's escape and move to the next storyline, but I can't resist making her suffer just a wee bit more. I promise, though, that her RC story will wrap up next chapter and she'll catch up to the rest of the timeline. Oddly, the biggest trouble I have when submitting these chapters (besides the site's tendency to take away spaces) is coming up with chapter names. So many different things going on, I'm considering abandoning chapter titles altogether. We'll see.
