Chapter Six: War in the Shadows
Smoke filled Billy's chest. His lungs convulsed, throat burning and head reeling. Well, I've had less graceful awakenings. His body ached as he sat up. The room spun. Billy had to close his eyes for a few seconds to keep from vomiting. Finally, the dizziness died and he opened his eyes.
An orange glow filled the tunnel with the smells of burning rubber and leaking oil. Grease fires clutched to the sides of the fallen train. Billy raised himself up. Pain radiated through him-not only from the stiff ache of joint trauma but also from the raw sting of road rash on his arms. He glanced at the wounds. Though they were an angry red, irritation and superficial scratches were all they were.
Billy's neck popped as he rose to full stature. What had once been a beautiful and luxurious train, now lay like a fallen beast.
"Rebecca?" he said though smoke clogged his vocals. Billy coughed. "Rebecca!?"
"I'm here," she said from behind. The young woman staggered from a side of the overturned train.
"You okay," Billy asked, moving forward stiffly.
"Yeah," Rebecca said. "I'm fine. You?"
"I'll live," he said. Almost simultaneously, they turned toward the train. "Well…we managed to stop the train."
Rebecca glanced over, eyes narrowed.
"Yeah," she said, glaring at Billy. "We managed."
"Yeah," Billy scratched his head, handcuff jangling. You try squashing an insect the size of a minivan and stopping a train at the same time, he thought but bit his lip. Like she would believe me. "We should get out of here. Smoke's killing me."
Rebecca nodded. Despite her limp, she wore that usual stoic expression. Billy smirked. You got moxie, kid. He glanced around the tunnel. A white light shined over a door only a few feet away. Lime green paint peeled off of it, revealing the rusted metal beneath. Billy walked over, Rebecca following. However, they didn't get half a dozen steps before a beeping filled the tunnel. Billy turned, and Rebecca unfastened the walkie talkie on her hip.
"Richard here!" A voice erupted from the device before Rebecca even brought it to her lips. "Rebecca! Where are you?"
Rebecca's face lit up for a moment, but then returned it to her stoic expression.
"I'm not sure," she replied. "It looks like some kind of service tunnel."
"Alright! Have you made contact with any of the others?"
"I…" Rebecca started. Her face fell, and her eyes turned glassy. Rebecca blinked several times. "I've spoken to Enrico…I don't know where his. Edward…he's…he's gone."
Near silence filled the tunnel, only broken by the crackling of the flames.
"Right…" Richard replied. "I'm with Speyer now. There's a mansion out here. We're are going to take a look at it. Rendezvous with us there!"
"Roger that," Rebecca said. She held the walkie talkie for several seconds, as though wanting to say something more, but finally allowed it to drop. Rebecca sighed. She tried the usual 'tough girl' expression, but even Billy could see that it was everything was taking its toll on her. He could see it in her eyes—darker and heavier than when they first met. "Let's get moving."
"Wait," Billy said. He glanced around and found the shotgun laying a few feet away from where he had awoken. He ran over and picked it up. The metal felt good in his hands—strong, reliable. He opened the weapon. Only one shell.
"You're crazy if you think I'm letting you carry that around," Rebecca said, but her gun remained low.
"And you're crazy," Billy said, eyes still on the gun. "If you think that I'm going any farther without any protection. Sorry to say it, Doll Face, but you're a piss-poor shot." He snapped the shotgun shut. Rebecca grunted.
"Fine!" she said, eyes following Billy as he lifted himself back onto the front end of the Ecliptic Express. He climbed through the shattered windshield. Other than the pilot's chair—which lay toppled—everything was bolted and remained where it was. The cabinet hung above him, however, its door remained wide open. He jumped up, grab the door, and pulled himself up. Shotgun shells littered the side of the cabinet's upper shelf.
"What are you doing?" Rebecca asked outside.
"Just getting some insurance," he said and grabbed as many shells as possible.
Rebecca waited, tapping her foot. I'm so stupid, she thought as she stared into at the shattered windshield. Giving a murderer a gun. Rebecca could smack herself. But, why then did she allow him to have it? Not that she could have taken it away, but something told her that it might be a good idea. Besides, he did help before, she thought. Yet, for how much longer?
"Are you done yet?" she asked. Rebecca glanced down at her wristwatch for the third time since he'd been in there. Ten minutes.
"Yeah, yeah," he said, much like the other two times she had asked. The answer made her limb shake. Richard and Forest were somewhere out there—still alive! It would be nice to see a teammate who wasn't—No! She thought, forcing the image of Edward out of her mind, though a little too late. Her body felt heavy. She wanted to cry but forced it back. 'Crying never did nothing for nobody,' she remembered her dad telling her. 'Buck up and take action.'
"Alright," Billy's voice echoed from the train. The hollow space filled with his grunts and the tinks of him reaching for the opening. He crawled over the side and lumbered out of the wreckage. A sling made of an old shirt hung around his shoulder, jingling with shells.
"You prepared enough?" Rebecca said.
"Yep," Billy said, landing on his feet. "After all, you're going to need a bodyguard."
"Speak for yourself," Rebecca replied. She gestured toward the door.
A rotten stench and the sound of running water were the first things that met them on the other side. Black mold grew on the concrete walls. The floor only ran for a couple of feet before it took a drop down, where murky, green water flowed down the corridor like a river. Rusted grating blocked any entrance to the right side of the corridor.
Rebecca coughed at the smell, however, cut it off before she could gag. Billy leaned over the ledge and around the corner.
"There's another ledge at the other end," he said. Rebecca's grimaced.
"Maybe there's another way—"she said, but before she could finish, Billy hopped into the sewage water. His legs disappeared beneath the green depths, stopping at his hips. Rebecca sighed but jumped into the sewage as well. She nearly gagged as it reached halfway up her abdomen.
The corridor only extended for about a yard, where another rusted grate blocked it off. As Billy had said, another ledge stood on the other end. Water pushed against the back of their leg. Rebecca kept staggering. Her stomach twisted.
Think of something else, she thought. Yet everywhere she looked only reminded her of the sewage surrounding her—the gray, moldy walls, the rusted iron grating. Finally, her eyes fell on Billy's tattooed arm. She followed the curves of it—how each inked stroke played with the hard mound of his bicep. The more Rebecca looked at the tattoo, the more she realized that it wasn't a random tribal tattoo. It spelled "Mother love."
"You a fan of Queen?" Rebecca asked.
"Wha—" Billy said, cocking his head around. "Oh, yeah. Love 'em."
"Oh," Rebecca said. "It's just cool…your tattoo, I mean."
"Thanks," Billy said. "Anyway, you go first." Rebecca glanced over to see the other ledge next to her. She leaped over it. Murky water clung to her clothes like slime. Rebecca grimaced at the stench, and her stomach churned once again as she realized that she would have to walk around with it permeating from her clothing. But she was out. Thank god.
A sick splash came from behind as Billy climbed up as well, and then walked past her to the metal rings on the far wall. The wall-rings extended for at least a quarter of a mile up through a curved opening in the ceiling. Rebecca closed her eyes and gave out a deep breath—barely smelling the sewer stink. They had survived the train. This is almost over, she thought.
Billy pushed against the ceiling door once. It gave with a groan, and with a hard thrust of his hand, the trap door swung open. Light rained down on the two of them, making Billy squint as he climbed out.
"Woah," Billy said, as his eyes adjusted. Rebecca emerged from the opening, and when she saw the room, her mouth dropped open as well. The two stood in a two-story entrance hall. Light from old fashioned lamp posts reflected off the white and green marble floor. Two suits of armor stood on either end of double doors on the room's west side, and a grand staircase stood across from it. The staircase rose to a mid-level, and then it split into two separate staircases.
Billy wandered around, staring up at the domed ceiling. A crystal chandelier hung from the center, with painted angels playing around it against a blue, cloudy sky.
"Whoever lives here spared no expense," Billy muttered. His gaze travelled down to the second floor, where a walkway ran the entire perimeter of the second floor. Square pillars lined the walls, holding the upper-level up. Finally, Billy's eyes traveled down. He stood in the center of an octagon-each side was divided into triangles, each one alternating between red and white. "Umbrella Research Center," Billy read the letters under the logo. "Umbrella…like the pharmaceutical company Umbrella? Rebecca?"
Rebecca climbed up the stairs slowly, her eyes focused on a portrait that hung on the wall of the mid-level. An aged painting of an older man glared back. His white hair sat stoic and perfect, much like his suit and tie. Billy's gaze narrowed. I've seen this guy, he thought. But where…He walked up behind Rebecca, however, she continued looking straight ahead.
"What's up?" Billy said.
"I've seen this man before," Rebecca said in a voice hardly above a whisper. "He was the leech thing on the train."
"Who on earth are those people?!" Birkin said, looking at the two on the flickering monitor. He leaned over the console with wide eyes. Wesker didn't even have to touch his companion's hands to know that they were sweaty. Your nervous habits will get the best of you, William, Wesker thought.
"She's just a rookie," Wesker said. "A member of S.T.A.R.S."
"And what about the male?" Birkin said.
"I'm unfamiliar with him. However, I doubt he will be of—"
"Attention!" A deep voice echoed through the room. Birkin jumped back, turning his head around to and fro as though it came from someone in the room. Wesker leaned forward, folding his hands and resting his chin on them. No, there was no one in the room. Wesker knew it. There had been no creak of the door opening. Besides, the quality of the voice skipped slightly—as though coming from an old recording. "This is Dr. James Marcus. Please be silent as we reflect upon our company motto. Obedience breeds discipline, discipline breeds unity, unity breeds power, power is life!"
"Who would have access to the control room in the research center?!" Birkin said. Wesker ignored him but conceded the question. He remembered the recording very well from his first tour of the center. How long ago had that been? Twenty years? No—now was not the time for memories. It might be a glitch—no, he thought, his mind whirling numbers. The probability of that occurring would be 0.000000003 percent. However, before Wesker could think of the matter any farther, the images on all six monitors before him changed to one.
A young man in a white robe gazed back at him with two dark eyes—as though looking through the very camera. Long, brown hair lay on either side of his narrow face.
"Well, well," the young man said. "It has been a long time—Birkin, Wesker."
"Wh—who is that?!" Birkin said. Body tense. Can practically smell your perspiration in the air.
"Oh, come now," the young man said as a grin crossed his face. "Surely you must remember us?"
Wesker's brow furrowed. That voice, that face—he had seen both before. But where?
"Still nothing?" the young man said. "How disappointing. Here, allow us to jog your memories." The young man closed his eyes and raised his arms. A mound of something shiny raised into the camera's view. It bubbled and pulsed, as though it were a living mass. Soon, it smoothed and grew definition until it took the form of—
"Dr. Marcus," Birkin said, livid.
"Ah!" the young man said, walking about Marcus-creature. "At last, we have an answer! But you wouldn't have seen this face for a while, have you. Though, you were the last faces he saw."
"Who are you?!" Birkin cried.
"Ah, nothing has changed," the young man said. "Both of you still Spencer's little playthings—Birkin, the frightened little boy, and little Albert, Spencer's puppet."
Wesker lifted his head.
"I am no one's puppet," he said. The young man chuckled. "State your business."
"My business," the young man replied. "Is vengeance on Umbrella. Have you not figured it out yet? It was I who contaminated the train, as well as both of the Arkley facilities. This is only the beginning, gentlemen. The Raccoon facility, Antarctica, Sheena and Rockford Island. I know them all. And one by one they will fall."
Wesker watched the mystery men—looking for any slight of movement, any gesture which might betray his identity.
"So, run a little message, will you boys?" the man said, his grin growing painfully wide. "Tell Spencer that soon everyone will know his dirty little secret. Tell him I declare war on him, and on Umbrella."
With that, the monitors skipped and returned to their usual positions. Silence hung in the air between the two men.
"We can't do this," Birkin said. Wesker remained silent. A face…a face was finally coming to mind.
"How," Wesker muttered to himself.
"I'm calling Vladimir. This is beyond either of us, Albert."
Wesker remained silent, working through all the possible outcomes that this event—this man—could produce. If it is, indeed, him. All came to a similar end point.
"Indeed," Wesker finally said.