Chapter Three: The Remnants

Two dogs stalked before the mansion's front doors, while another circled the base of his tree. Keep waiting you bastard, Chris thought, watching them from his spot on a tree branch. He spotted the piece of silver that was his gun a few feet away, nearly hidden in the tall grass. Every time he saw it, he wanted to kick himself.

Most of what had happened was an adrenaline-fueled haze. He remembered Wesker opening the mansion's door and Jill and Barry rushing in. Chris had been no more than a yard away before something dug its teeth into his heel. He fell, the Beretta flying out his hand. With a couple of quick backward kicks, the dog cried and released him. Luckily enough, the animal's teeth hadn't pierced the hide of his boots. The other two dogs weren't too far behind. The one that attacked him growled as it righted itself. Chris knew he wouldn't be able to make it to the door in time. And so there he was, hanging from a tree-like Tarzan.

Chris grunted and grabbed his radio.

"Redfield to Vickers, over," he said into the receiver. It took everything within him to keep his voice steady. The only reply was a low hiss of static. "I repeat, Redfield to Vickers, over."

Still, nothing.

Chicken-shit bastard…

He turned the channels, hoping to get a response from any other of the team members. However, like his previous attempts, it was dead.

"Damn it," he said, clipping the radio back to his belt.

Now that he noticed, there was something off about these dogs. He hadn't gotten a good look at them in the dark. What little he could see of their silhouettes, they looked thin and undernourished. Sure, they had to be rabid, attacking Joseph like that—Chris sighed. A family is going to be grieving because of our incompetence. Maybe not tonight, but soon. Chris's stomach tightened in a wave of guilt.

Knock it off, he thought.

Chris surveyed his surroundings. The mansion was no more than a yard or two away. He could probably make it by just jumping from branch to branch. But then what would he do-jump through one of the windows? Chris chuckled at the idea but was contemplating it.

He was trying to judge what would be the easiest window to crash through when he spotted an open walkway on the side of the mansion. Chris judged the distance from between where he stood and the balcony. It seemed doable. Much like his first idea, the branches were close enough together to comfortably make the distance. The only exception might be around the side of the mansion, where the trees seemed to thin out a bit. Still, Chris guessed that if he could get a running start, he might be able to make it between limbs.

The emaciated Doberman paced below, it's hollow eyes staring at him. Waiting to fall.

"Alright," Chris muttered, standing. His heart fluttered as he took a cautious step on the branch. The oak groaned beneath his weight but remained sturdy all the same. The first limb intersected with his, making crossing relatively easy. The dog never looked away and followed him from tree to tree. Chris dreaded the leap to the next branch. He always took a deep breath and cleared his mind before making the jump. Chris landed each one if a little unsteadily. Yet, with each tree, the closer he drew to the thinning area. The other two dogs bored of their patrol of the door and joined the third in stalking Chris.

He stood on the edge, overlooking the gap before him. The dogs froze, gazing up. Ready to tear him apart the moment he fell. The branch seemed impossibly far now. I've leaped longer distances in basic, he thought. But then again, he hadn't been on an unsteady tree limb with rabid animals waiting for him below.

Just do it, Chris, he heard Claire, his little sister, say in the back of his mind—a saying that she would always use when he overthought things. Leap and be scared after. Chris quickened his step. The tree groaned beneath, growing with each footfall. He leaped—but the moment before his foot left the wood, the branch broke.

There was a moment where he raised, yet, all too soon, Chris felt himself falling. He flailed about, reaching in the dark. His stomach leaped up to his throat, and his body tensed for the rough landing that was to follow. The Dobermans growled, as though they knew that their next meal was moments away.

Chris's hand connected with something, and he grabbed it. His shoulder blade nearly exploded, but his body hung, swinging to and fro. He bit his lip. The sudden shock and pain were almost enough to let go, yet he focused on keeping his fingers locked around that branch. Red clouded his vision. Soon, it cleared as his shoulder blade eased to a throbbing ache.

He tried to pull himself up. The muscle responded and lifted him. Good, no dislocation, Chris thought. He reached up with his other hand and pulled himself onto the branch. It groaned beneath his weight but was otherwise sturdy. Chris wished he could have laid there for a moment and let his armrest, but the balcony was right in front of him and he didn't want to risk another tree limb breaking.

Chris stood up and leaped onto the landing. His knees buckled, but he remained upright. He grabbed the hilt of his combat knife. Only after a couple of seconds of surveying the area did he release his grip and fall to the floor.

The dog's barking grew louder, knowing that their feast had escaped.

"Keep barking," Chris said, smiling.

He worked his arm slowly, making sure that everything worked as it should. After a few minutes, his shoulder blade felt back to normal. It only ached if he moved a certain way—the tall-tell signs of bruising—but nothing debilitating.

Chris set his hand down onto something squishy and slick. He wrenched his hand back to find his glove covered in a thick slime. Chris hastily wiped the substance on his pants. What looked like a leech the size of his palm lay curled beside him. Chris nudged the leech with his foot, but the creature didn't move.

Jesus, I didn't know they got that big!

Chris drew his knife and pushed the leech open with the tip. Rows of tiny, needle=like teeth jutted out from its stomach. Chris grimaced. He sheathed blade, feeling bad for the person who had to exterminate those things.

The first hall of the mansion was a winding corridor that turned out of sight. Lights designed to look like lit candles in candelabras were bolted to the walls, casting long shadows off the white paint. Chris walked slowly, always keeping a hand on the hilt of his knife. A stairwell led down to another corridor. Two other doors stood at the corridor's end. He tried them both, found them locked, and then tried the stairs. Much like the second-floor, the corridor was empty. This new hallway was straight with only a pillar standing in the center. A mini-corridor ran beside the staircase, where another door faced it.

Chris descended the rest of the stairs and approached the first door. He placed his hand on the handle—voices came from the other side. Chris pressed his ear against the door, but the voices were so muffled that he couldn't discern them. He rapped a finger against the door. The muttering stopped. Chris waited a moment, to see if there was any response.

He reached for his knife once again.

Maybe the murderers behind those cannibal attacks were in there, or maybe one of Bravo team was trapped. Chris's held his breath and then burst through the door.

Something wet burned his face. Chris cried out as his eyes swelled and filled with tears.

"Oh, my God," a young woman said. Chris tried to blink through the pain and the tears, but it seemed to only make it worse. Pepper spray.

The hazy figure of a young woman shot before him. She bent over, shifting what looked like a crate, and handed Chris a bottle. "Here, it's water!"

Chris grunted, willing to bear through the pain instead of pouring an arguable substance from a stranger onto his face.

"It's alright," the young woman said. "My name is Rebecca Chambers. I'm with Bravo team."

Chris still refused. After all, this could still be a ruse. He blinked fiercely, but the tears refused to let up, and his throat began to tighten. Rebecca grabbed his hand. Chris jerked a little bit but let Rebecca's slender hand stay. She brought his hand to her shoulder where he could make out the patch on her arm. It was the S.T.A.R.S. embroidered seal.

"Fine," he said, grabbing the bottle and pouring it over his face. The water elevated the burning if only a little. It took several minutes of flushing his eyes with water before he could better examine the room. A cabinet filled with bottles stood on the right wall, while a shelf held other supplies across from it. A small table with a typewriter and lamp sat on the right corner. Its chair was pulled beside a bed, where a man with a blonde crew cut laid. A large puncture wound tore his orange S.T.A.R.S t-shirt at the shoulder and dotted it with flecks of blood. Bandages were visible through the rip. "Jesus…Richard! What happened to him?"

Rebecca glanced down at the bed. Dark rings hung beneath her eyes, making her eyes look dark. A set of dog tags hung from her purple tinted neck, and a red handkerchief tied up her frizzy brown hair. She was young—probably no more than eighteen.

"We were attacked," she said. Chris nodded.

"So were we."

Rebecca sighed, as though she had already figured as much.

"Do you know where any of your other team members are?" Chris asked.

Rebecca shook her head.

"I don't," she said. "For some reason, our radios don't work very well here."

There must be some kind of radio wave blocker, Chris thought.

"Monsters…" Richard muttered in his sleep. Rebecca returned to her seat, and then pressed a hand to his forehead.

"Swelling seems to be going down a bit," she muttered as she examined Richard's shoulder.

"What's does he mean…monsters?" Chris asked.

"Didn't you see them? You said you were attacked too," Rebecca said.

"I hardly label a pack of rabid dogs monsters," Chris replied. Though, the words felt heavy on his tongue as he remembered Joseph's screaming.

"There are other things in this house…" Rebecca said though it was more to herself. "I thought they had all been destroyed when the first facility exploded…guess not."

"Why do you keep talking about these monsters?" Chris said. "And an explosion…like the one this morning?"

Rebecca turned to him, fixing him with an examining stare. It lasted for several minutes and made Chris uneasy.

"You really don't know, do you?" She asked.

"About what."

"About the dead…they are coming back…"

"What?" Chris said with an uneasy laugh. "The dead?"

"You said you saw the dogs."

"Well, I did. It was dark though…they just looked emaciated."

"So, you haven't seen the zombies?"

"The zombies?" Chris said. "This some kind of joke—"

The door shuddered. It was as though someone on the other side pounded against it with the full weight of their body. Chris's hand instantly grabbed the handle of his knife, and Rebecca stood with a hand on her handgun. The door shook a couple more times, before the sound of dragging footsteps faded from the other side.

"I better go take care of it…" Rebecca said, drawing her Beretta.

"Wait a minute," Chris said, holding out a hand to stop her. "Before we do anything hasty, let me check it out."

"No," Rebecca said. "You don't know how to handle them."

"You have to stay and watch Richard," Chris replied. "Besides, you're the medic, aren't you?"

Rebecca sighed but nodded. Chris took a step toward the door, unsheathing his combat knife.

"Wait," Rebecca said. "Where's your gun?"

"I dropped it outside when we were being chased," Chris replied.

Rebecca walked over, flipped her Beretta, and extended its handle toward him.

"You need that," Chris said.

"It's alright," she said. "If anything happens, I can borrow Richard's."

Chris nodded. He took the steel into his hand, instantly feeling better knowing the comforting weight of a handgun was back in his grip. He ejected the gun's magazine. It was fully loaded—fifteen shots. Chris slammed the clip back in.

"Remember, aim for the head," Rebecca said. "And don't let them bite you."

"Yeah…sure," Chris said. He walked to the door and pressed an ear against it. When he didn't hear any movement behind it, he threw open door—handgun at the ready. As soon as he walked through the threshold, Rebecca shut the door behind him.

The hall was empty. The air seemed thicker than usual—the sensation he felt whenever another person was in the area, even if he couldn't see them. It was like some primal instinct that kicked in when his mind was focused. Chris moved with heavy footfalls. He walked to the foot of the steps and looked up. No one stood at the top. He glanced back down the hall. The pillar in the center obscured most of the corridor, though a shadow wavered from just behind it. Chris waited and watched. An arm swayed out if only enough for Chris to see a hand, before the person swung back behind the pillar.

"Hello?" Chris said. He took a few steps forward. The person behind the pillar continued to totter lightly to and fro. "Sir?" Chris said, only a few feet away from the pillar. The man's swaying stopped. A low groan came from behind the supporter. When the man turned, Chris staggered back.

Half of the man's face had been torn off, revealing the dark meat beneath. Muscled became taunt as he flexed his jaw. The man bent over, convulsing. Dull green vomit pored over his decayed teeth, dripping down and splashing onto the floor. The stench—one not unlike that of shit- made Chris want to gag. The man raised its white eyes onto Chris, bile still dripping from his chin. His gray flesh cracked over his strained muscles as he lumbered toward Chris with a low moan.

Chris took a sharp intake of breath. It was like Night of the Living Dead or Re-animator—one of those stupid horror movies that Claire always loved to watch. This isn't real, he thought. This person was obviously ill. The thought fell flat though. There was no way, sick or otherwise, that a human could be this mutilated and not have gone into shock.

"Sir, stay where you are," Chris said. Any other words were trapped in his throat. The stink of decay radiated from the monster, growing stronger with each step forward. "Stay back!"

Chris raised his weapon, but the zombie grabbed his wrist. Its fingertips were cold and rough. The shock of the grip made Chris pull the trigger. The sound of the shot rang in his ear, but it didn't find its mark, instead blowing plaster off the wall. The creature leaned in. Chris forced it back, but his balance was going more and more unsteady. All he saw was the decaying man's mouth coming toward his face.

Gunfire sounded from behind. The zombie's head sprang back. Gray matter blasted out of the back of its head and coated the pillar behind. Its body went limp, and Chris pushed it off him. He could still hear his pulse ringing in his ears. Chris turned to find Rebecca lowing her gun. He stood, hunched over for, trying to regain his breath. Thoughts flooded his mind. His body shook, and it took him a moment to bring it back under control. Finally, he gathered his composure to ask the one question he wanted the answer to.

"What…what happened here?"

"It's a long story," Rebecca said.