Chapter Ten: The Home of Lisa Trevor
The climb down to the back courtyard wasn't nearly as difficult as Chris had initially thought. When he had left Richard and Rebecca, Richard looked like he had been only inches from death. Chris even half expected that he would have to carry the poor guy. Though, Richard kept pace even with his strained expression. The guy was stronger than he looked.
Maybe I'll buy him a drink if we make it out of this—Chris stopped the train of thought in its tracks. First off, now wasn't the time to think about that, and secondly…
Never again.
Chris kept his focus between the twinkling lights in the distance and his footfalls in the knee-high grass, burying his thoughts within the heat of the moment.
The sound of cicadas rang within the otherwise silent night. Chris kept thinking he spotted a figure move out of the corner of his eye. Thankfully, it was only the other two or his imagination.
The ground sloped down suddenly, catching Chris off guard but he was quickly able to regain his balance. With a couple of quick strides, he reached the end of the hill and a path at its foot.
"Watch out," he called up. "There's a drop-off."
Still, Rebecca and Richard barely needed a warning. By the time Chris turned back, Rebecca already had Richard's around her shoulder as she helped him down the side of the hill. He glanced down the path while he waited.
The left path stretched down from the mansion, while the other side seemed to wind on, splitting off into two routes. The ground dropped off again at the path's edge, but a picket fence—the wood darkened by the elements—stood in the way. Below, Chris saw that those lights belonged to a little shack. Chris sighed. Honestly, not the type of building he was hoping for, but still, maybe there could be something to salvage from inside it.
Rebecca and Richard finally made it to the path, dirt smudged Rebecca's face and sweat dotting Richards's brow. Rebecca helped sit Richard down at the base of the hill and walked over to Chris's side.
"Doesn't look like much," Rebecca muttered, looking down at the old shack.
"Yeah," Chris replied.
A burst of static came from the speaker of Chris's radio. He quickly scooped it up.
"This is Redfield, over," Chris said into the device. There was a moment of silence before Wesker's fractured voice came through the static.
"…respond!"
"Yes, Captain. I repeat, this is Redfield, over!"
"…monster in chains…retreat…do not engage…woods.."
Then, the static overwhelmed Wesker's voice. The hairs on the back of Chris's neck stood. He glanced down at the cabin, feeling his stomach twist at the sight of it without knowing fully why.
"What do we do now?" Rebecca asked, her wide eyes looking up at Chris. Chris looked down at her, resisting the urge to pat her on the head and tell her everything was going to be alright. She was a S.T.A.R.S. member after all and had already endured more than he could ever think of.
"You heard the captain," Chris replied. "On your toes."
Rebecca couldn't help but laugh in disbelief when they passed through the gate toward the cabin. Though the path continued forward into the woods, gravestones dotted the woods to the right. Chris couldn't help but take a sharp intake of breath. Usually, he found graveyards calming. Though, tonight seemed to make them far more sinister.
Still, the graveyard seemed still. A low fog blanketed the ground, and despite a distant howl, all was quiet. The hairs on the back of Chris's neck raised again. It felt as though something was watching it, and though he kept looking into the woods, he couldn't find anything. Maybe it was just the oppression of this place—of the mansion. Even when he looked back, the mansion looked down upon them with its lit windows, though in the dark it was more like a multi-eyed creature watching them, waiting for the right moment to finish them off.
They're coming to get you, Chris.
Chris grunted and shook his head, as though trying to shake off the intrusive thought like a fly. He turned to Rebecca and Richard. Rebecca was lowering Richard to sit beside a gravestone. The sight made Chris's stomach churn.
"You two wait here. Take a moment to rest," he said. "I'll take a quick look ahead."
"Chris," Rebecca replied. "I think it would be a good idea to stay together…"
Chris couldn't argue with her. The thought of traveling forward into that dark wood made him tremble, but he couldn't let Richard be a liability. Even now, Richard lay against the stone, sweat dotting his forehead—only adding to the image of a man walking toward death. And then there was Rebecca…he knew that she could take care of himself, but even so. Something reminded him of his sister, and it was more than just Rebecca's age. Maybe it was that determined look in her green eyes or the way she kept her chin up despite the situation or even that caring demeanor that radiated from her.
"I'll be fine," Chris said. "I won't be gone long. If anything does go wrong, don't wait for me. Head back to the mansion. Do you understand?"
Rebecca stared back for a moment, her gaze hard before she finally nodded. Before Chris's nerve left him, he drew his handgun and walked toward the iron gate at the opposite end of the path.
On the other side, the silence felt complete once more. The path sloped down, oaks standing with their limbs stretching over the path. The sky was almost blotted out. Only the occasional gap in the eves provided any moonlight to see by. A wooden, picket fence lined both sides of the path, creating a barrier between the dirt path and the tall grass beyond.
Chris took a step forward—
A low moan echoed through the forest, followed by the rattling of chains. It took everything in Chris not to turn back around. Don't be a little fag, a voice said in the back of his head. Chris's jaw clenched and his grip around his Beretta tightened. He walked forward with tentative steps. Adrenaline rushed through him to the point he felt removed from his own body. His focus was on the woods around him and the sound of his heart beating rapidly against his breast. Each footstep crunched a twig or a dry leaf, making a sound that seemed to loud to be allowed in these woods. The path winded down deeper into the forest, and with each step forward everything seemed to grow darker and darker. Chris finally pulled out his flashlight and flicked it on.
A face emerged from the darkness, haloed in the illumination of his flashlight. Chris aimed and tightened on the trigger, but then realized that it was only a statue of a woman holding a pitcher. Chris sighed, trying to regain composure.
Beyond was the dim light of the cabin, coming from a single bulb outside the front door. The exterior lacked any kind of embellishment. In fact, the cabin looked little more than a giant wooden box with a door. A window revealed flickering firelight coming from within, but little else.
Chris stood before the door, wondering if he should knock or just enter. But, then again, who could be there to answer? Still, tightening the grip on his gun, he took the door handle in his hand. Bits of rust flaked from the brass handle. Chris turned and it resisted, but nevertheless rotated. With a click and a push, the door sprang forward revealing a dark opening with only the faintest flickering of light coming from within. Chris waited on the threshold for a moment, listening for any sound. Only the light cracklings of a fire were heard, so finally, he stepped inside.
The corridor led right, turning after a few feet. Chris walked down the hall, the thick layer of dust on the floor doing little to mask the creaking floorboards. Cobwebs coated the walls and were tucked within the corners of the cabin. He turned to find a small living quarters. A fireplace with a roaring fire illuminated the web-covered shelves opposite from it. A small staircase led to another small room overlooking from above, a bed tucked in the corner with a desk across from it on the raised area.
Chris rounded the corner and climbed the stairs. Again, the feeling that something wasn't right overwhelmed him. The fire looked as though it had just been lit, but everything else looked as though it hadn't been touched in years. Even the bed, whose sheets were crumbled at its foot, smelled musty.
"Hello?" Chris asked. The silence that followed was almost oppressive. It was as though he weren't supposed to be here, that he was trespassing on someone else's territory.
Chris glanced at the table to his left. Only a typewriter and a diary sat upon its dusty surface. He gingerly reached out and lifted the book. He opened it, only for something to fall out onto the floor. Chris bent over and picked up the piece of paper. It was a photograph, torn and faded from time. A woman, in her early thirties with long, auburn hair sat in the chair of a study, a girl no more than ten on her lap. A balding man sat beside the woman, smiling at the photographer. Chris turned it over to find tiny, neat handwriting on the other side—
Nov. 10, 1967
–Progenitor Virus administered
Jessica
Administered virus: Type–A
Plasmolyzing of tissue during cell activation
Virus fusion: Negative
Action: Disposed
Lisa
Administered virus: Type–B
Plasmolyzing of tissue during cell activation
Virus fusion:
Positive but delayed fusion.
Body modification:
Observed constant results.
Status:
Continue protective observation.
George
Action: Terminated (Nov. 30, 1967)
Chris's stomach churned as he flipped the photo back and forth, rereading the back. He wasn't quite sure what it all meant, but it nevertheless failed to quell that creeping feeling of dread. Chris pocketed the picture and opened the diary, its pages rough to the touch, and they crinkled as he flipped through them. Each one was covered with hasty, looping writing—some dating back as far as the 1960s. Chris took one last look around before he bent over and started reading the last few entries in the diary.
Nov. 14, 1967
I feel dizzy after that shot they gave me. I don't see Mom. Where did they take her? She promised that we would escape together. Did she escape alone and leave me behind?
Nov. 15, 1967
I found Mom. We ate together. I was very happy.
But she was a fake. Not my real Mom. Same face but different inside.
Have to find Mom. Have to give face back to mother.
I got Mom's face back. Nobody can have my Mom except me. I attach her face to me so she doesn't go away. Because Mom sad when I meet her without her face.
Nov. 17, 19 7
from inside box, scent of mommy. maybe true mother there. stone box hard. It hurt. steel rope in the way. can't see mother becuz 4 stones.
19
dadddy atached first momm atached scond
iNside reD and sLimy whiTe and haRd
not true moM wheRe
dunno dadd found mum again
when atachd momMy she moved no more she screaming
why? Jst want to b with her
4
mom where?
I mis you
Chris turned the page with a trembling hand.
MOMMY covered the next two pages in scrawled handwriting in various sizes, so unlike that that came before.
A door slammed, making Chris give a sharp intake of breath. He waited there in silence for several seconds, straining his ears to pick up any sound of another person.
"Hello?" Chris asked, though it was in no louder than a whisper.
The rattling of a chain echoed through the cabin. He edged toward the stairs, both hands on his handgun. The noise grew closer and closer, and Chris grew more and more tense. Seconds ticked by to an obscene length, and he began to wonder if he hadn't been standing in the spot for years instead of a few moments.
A shadow lengthened on the wall, and the cacophony made by chains seemed to ring within his head. When the figure turned the corner, Chris's breath caught in his chest.
The woman, or at least what Chris thought was a woman, wore tattered and stained rags while she walked in a stooped position. Her arms hung before her, bound together by rusted shackles. Lumpy, flesh-colored hair obscured the woman's face. To Chris's horror, the closer the creature drew, the more he realized that it wasn't completely hair. In the faint flickering of the firelight, he thought he saw her face shift, only to realized that the skin wasn't connected to her skull.
Chris aimed the gun, his finger firmly on the trigger, but was unable to find the resolve to fire.
What are you doing, Redfield?! he thought. Still, his muscles remained obstinate. The creature turned toward him and froze, as though only just noticing Chris's presence. Her body convulsed, and with a shriek, tentacles burst from her head and body. Suddenly, it was as though whatever held Chris's body back released, and he fired at the creature, round after round.
The creature screamed as the bullets tore through her. Finally, the gun clicked and she fell forward with one last desperate cry. All Chris could do was stare at the thing for a few moments, its tentacles still twitching.
It was still alive.
Chris forced his limbs to move, and he reached the corner just as the monster dragged its chained hands under itself. He didn't stop running until he ran through the front door and headed back to the others. Of all the things he had faced that night—zombies and hellhounds alike—that creature was etched into his head.