Epilogue: Questions with No Answers
Atkins always found Taxidermy a repulsive hobby. Taking an animal, killing it, and then mounting it on a wall was such a waste of life. By no means was he against the taking of life. In fact, Atkins enjoyed it, though only if it served a higher purpose. Like achieving his own goals. Unfortunately, Raccoon's Chief of Police, Brian Irons seemed far too enamored by the tactless hobby. Though his office held classy, chestnut desks and bookcases, it was also overlooked by the glass eyes of many mounted deer heads. Birds arranged in mid-flight perched from high shelves. Even a full stag stood motionless in a corner of the office, as though it had been frozen in time from its woodland grazing.
Yet, he listened to Irons—perhaps the most intently had had ever listened to the chief—as he recounted the surviving S.T.A.R.S. tale. Atkins traced his finger around the rim of his glass of brandy. He watched the other man over the top of his glasses. A bright sheen of sweet coated Iron's forehead and Atkin's noticed that his gaze always shifted back to the white and silver Umbrella pin on his lapel. Finally, Iron's droning voice finished his story. Atkins took a long gulp from his drink, feeling the burn as it went down his throat.
"And what proof do they have?" Atkins asked coolly.
Iron's leaned back across from Atkins, the chair groaning under the chief's considerable weight.
"None," Irons replied, taking a sip from his glass.
"I see no reason to concern yourself then," Atkins replied. "No one would believe in such an outlandish story. They're simply suffering from PTSD—something caused by the S.T.A.R.S.'s own gross incompetence. I assume the RPD will agree."
Irons smoothed his mustache. He wasn't exactly the smartest man, but he was intelligent enough to understand an order when he heard it. The chief merely nodded.
"I know these men and women though," Irons replied. "Valentine, Redfield, Burton, others. They won't take this lying down."
Atkins's grin broadened, but he didn't bristle.
"You just leave them to me," he said coolly. Still, Iron's chair squeaked as he shifted anxiously. "You have nothing to worry about, Brian," Atkins continued, trying to inject some softness into his usual formal voice. "You're doing the right thing. Umbrella knows what's best. Just keep doing what is asked of you and your ambitions for mayor will be assured."
Irons only nodded. It would have to do for now.
"Now," Atkins said, glancing at his wristwatch. "I believe we have a press conference to attend." With that, Atkins set the half-empty glass on the chief's glass and stood.
"Mr. Atkins," Brian said, just as Atkins reached the door. Atkins looked back to see that same perturbed look on the police chief's face. "How much of what they said is true?'
"Chief Irons," Atkins replied, straightening his glasses. "It's best to put those worries out of your mind."
To Be Continued...
The Biohazard Chronicles: Interlude I