Chapter 3: A Hero's Memorial

In hindsight, Chris thought he was lucky that day the R.P.D.

Lucky that Elran didn't press charges. Lucky that Irons didn't notice the four beers on his breath. Lucky that he hadn't been banned from the memorial for the fallen S.T.A.R.S. members.

Somehow, Chris felt as if the last one would have been the worst. They had been good men and they were slaughtered. It should have been me, Chris thought. He'd then promptly get a beer, down it, and then take another until the buzz in his brain overwhelmed his thoughts. Times like this morning.

Chris shifted in his bed, his head throbbing and his shoulder aching. He glanced at his bedside table. Four beer bottles—three empty, the last with a swallow or two of amber liquid left. Chris reached for it though froze as his fingertips grazed the translucent brown bottle. Just the thought of that pungent bitter liquid touching his tongue was enough to make bile rise in his throat. He swallowed hard, forcing it back down before slumping back into his bed.

It had only been a week since the Spencer Estate but everything was still vivid in his head. Too many close calls. Climbing trees to escape skinless dogs, ambushes by mutant reptiles, almost getting impaled by Tyrant's claws…

Chris could still feel the creature's hand around his face, cold and bloated. A corpse's hand. Chris's stomach churned.

It's in the past, he had to remind himself. We blew that fucker away. It was hard to make the sentiment stick, particularly when they had returned to a new kind of nightmare. To survive something so horrific only to be told you were making it up.

'I wouldn't think of you as the woman.'

Heat flooded Chris's veins but his hangover quickly extinguished it. Part of him was glad Atkins had blabbed his little secret. The only people who knew the fine details of that were strictly between his commander and Salinger. The fact that Umbrella acquired such secure information so quickly was both enlightening and troubling. A week ago, Chris only knew Umbrella to be a major pharmaceutical company. Now, he was beginning to understand how powerful and twisted they were. The information they could obtain and what they were willing to do to people in their way…

Like Lisa Trevor—the skin stretched over her skull like an ill-fitting mask. Those tentacles that sprouted from her body, twitching and feeling in the open air—

Chris flung the covers off himself and sprinted to the bathroom. He barely raised the toilet lid before vomit spewed from his pursed lips. His throat burned as his dinner and those four beers from last night flowed from his lips. The yellowish liquid sloshed in the bowl. The sound only caused his stomach to convulse more violently. Minutes crawled past until the vomiting died down to a string of spittle clinging to his lips. His head throbbed violently and his stomach ached. The stitches in his shoulders burned.

What are you doing, Redfield? Chris thought, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. What if Claire could see him like this? Chris groaned but this time it had nothing to do with the alcohol.

The phone rang in the living room.

Let the fucker ring, Chris thought, slumping against the side of the tub. It was probably another call from those vultures at the Raccoon Times. They must have called him over a hundred times since he left the hospital.

The ringing ended, replaced by his greeting on the answering machine: "This is Chris Redfield. I can't get to the phone right now. Leave me a name and number and I'll get back to you. Maybe."

Beep.

Jesus, Chris thought, gritting his teeth. They just don't know how to give up.

"Chris."

Claire! Chris scrambled, his legs getting tangled under one another and making him fall back onto the linoleum.

"I haven't heard from you in a while," her voice came from the machine. "Is everything okay? I was hoping to pay you a visit once summer classes were over. Maybe in September? Anyway, give me a call when you can. I love you, big bro."

Chris closed the remaining distance in two leaps and snatched the phone from its cradle.

"Claire!"

The incessant drone of an open line came from the receiver. Chris placed the phone back onto its cradle but he found his feet still rooted to the floor before it. He had only talked to Claire a few times since the mansion and even that had been brief. It was easier that way. The longer he could keep her away from all of this, the better. He was sure that there was something in the paper about two Umbrella facilities exploding, even at Chicago State University, but Chris hoped that Claire was too busy with her studies or whatever guy she was dating that week to notice. So far, nothing. She had called once every other day but that was normal—only becoming more frequent as of late from Chris's reluctance to return them. It wasn't that he thought she couldn't take this. Claire was a strong girl—Probably stronger than me, Chris thought—but the thought of her being anywhere near Umbrella or the Arklay forest made his stomach churn.

Nevertheless, he stared at that phone, fighting back that wave of guilt that often came after missing Claire's calls. 'It's just us,' she said after their parents had died. 'We have to stick together.' And what was he doing? Keeping her in the dark. It's necessary, he told himself. You really want her anywhere near a place that has those…those things? He could move back to Illinois. He had no job to hold him down anymore. And run like a coward? Chris's cheeks flushed.

The phone rang once again. Chris felt his heart stop but he scooped up the receiver and pressed it against his ear.

"Claire?" Chris said. "I'm sorry I missed you, sis—"

"Hey Chris," a voice responded. Though it was young and feminine, it wasn't Claire. "I'm sorry…it's Rebecca."

"Oh, Rebecca. Sorry. I thought you were my sister."

"It's fine," Rebecca replied. Chris detected a tenseness in her voice. He had barely talked to her since the mansion incident. He had spent a day at Raccoon General, getting patched up, before locking himself in his room to drink himself into a stupor. Any way to quell his anger. Any way to hide his fears. Any way just to hide. Like a coward. Chris felt that wave of guilt wash over him again.

"How have you been?" Chris asked, pushing his thoughts aside.

"I'm alright. Just having bad dreams is all."

"I'm sure we all are," Chris replied.

"Are you going to the memorial today?"

Chris grimaced. The memorial was today? He completely forgot.

"Yeah, I think so," he said. "You going too?"

"I don't think so," Rebecca replied. That shakiness in her voice seemed to intensity, as though she was wanting to talk about something hard to get out.

"Yeah?" Chris said. "Why not?"

"I…" she said. Chris heard her take a deep breath on the other end of the line. "I'm not going to be here…I'm moving back to Indiana."

There was a moment of silence that hung there. So, Rebecca was running. Just like Chickenheart Vickers, she was going to just roll over and get out of dodge. Chris felt heat rise in his face and he opened his mouth—

"I just can't stay," Rebecca said, her voice shaking. "I tried Chris. I thought that maybe if I stayed I could make a difference but…God, I was never cut out for this. For any of this."

Chris's anger extinguished so quickly it left him cold. Of course, she should leave. She was still practically a kid and to have to deal with that all on her first assignment…most other officers weren't have made it half as far as she had. Big man you are, Redfield.

"You do what you have to do," he replied softly.

Rebecca sighed and when she talked again, her voice sounded surer.

"Thank you, Chris."

"Why are you telling me, though?" Chris asked. "You don't need my permission—"

"Oh, no! It's nothing like that," she replied. "Well…maybe it is. It's just…When I was out there in those woods. There were a few people who helped me. I don't think I'd be here if it weren't for them. You were one of those people, Chris. I kind of owe you my life—"

"You don't owe me anything, Rebecca," Chris replied.

"I guess some part of me thought that if Chris had enough nerve to stay, what right did I have to run," Rebecca said. "Maybe if I got your permission, it wouldn't be so back to leave. It all sounds silly."

"Just a little bit," Chris said, forcing a laugh. Anything to make her feel more at ease. He heard her snicker on the other end. "There's no shame in leaving." (You should take your own advice, he thought) "You have my blessing, whatever you do."

"Thanks again, Chris," she replied. "Maybe you can give me a call sometime if you're in Indiana."

Chris smiled.

"Sure," he said. "You take care, Rebecca."

"You too," Rebecca said. "I'll talk to her later."

Rebecca hung up, leaving Chris with the receiver still pressed to his ear.

"Take care," he repeated before setting down the phone.

There was no shame in leaving. Maybe he should take his own advice. Everyone seemed to either be leaving or staying quiet. Rebecca was returning home, Barry had shipped his family to Minnesota and was soon to be joining them, and Chickenheart had taken Umbrella's money. He wasn't sure about Jill. Either way, what was so wrong with self-preservation?

After the memorial, Chris thought. I'll pack up and leave for Illinois. Sure, he'd probably have to stay in a Holiday Inn for a few weeks, but he had enough money put back. And he would see Claire. That didn't sound so bad.

Regardless, the pit in Chris's stomach only deepened.

Since joining S.T.A.R.S., Chris always thought the R.P.D. pretentious. Pretentious but beautiful. It used to be the Perry Institute for the Arts back in the 50s and 60s. In '69, when the Institute fell into bankruptcy, Raccoon City bought it and renovated it into the police department it was known as today to accommodate the expanding city. Almost forty years later, remnants of the institute could still be seen throughout the building, whether it be the various marble statues placed in room corners to the varnished wooden handrails and doors to the clock tower on the west side of the building.

The R.P.D. atrium seemed particularly keen on keeping the artistry of its former life. It was a cavernous, three-story entrance hall. Past the receptionist desk, a counter made of rich dark wood, two inclines on either side lead to a teen foot statute of a goddess standing on a bronze and mahogany podium. Her marble dress flowed around her as she lifted a flag in her right hand, her hollow gaze following the cloth at the end of her outstretched arm.

Two large frosted windows shined the late afternoon light down upon the goddess so that it appeared as though she were bathed in gold light.

On either side of the statue was a staircase leading to the second floor where covered pathways, leading deeper into the police station. If anyone cared to crane their neck far enough they would be able to see the banister third-floor walkway, inaccessible except for stairs in the west and east wings.

By the time Chris arrived, the atrium was filled with officers, friends, and family members of the deceased. Everyone crowded up the ramps toward the goddess statue and Chris followed suit. It only took him a couple of minutes to spot Barry and Jill standing by the door to the officers' office.

"How's it going, Chris?" Jill asked, her tone somber.

"I'm fine," Chris replied. The drumming in his skull reminded him otherwise. "Hey, Barry."

Barry turned to Chris and gave him a brief nod. Where once was a stout man, Barry looked older and more feeble.

"How's Kathy and the girls?" Chris asked.

"The girls are doing alright," Barry replied, perking up slightly. "They're getting settled with Kathy's sister."

"Have you told them about…anything?"

Again, Barry's expression grew rigid and his mouth set in a thin line.

"Not yet," he said. "Not entirely anyway. I rather we're all out of dodge before we have that talk."

Chris nodded. He felt a little better about not saying anything to Claire yet.

"How are you?" Chris asked, turning to Jill.

"Not bad, all things considering," she replied, voice heavy. Jill's hair, usually straight and kept, was askew. The dark circles under her eyes seemed to have only gotten darker since the last time Chris had seen her. "Have you seen Rebecca?"

Chris shook his head.

"She told me she was heading out of town."

"Good," Jill replied. "It's for the best. She shouldn't have to be mixed up in any of this."

Chris nodded, but he couldn't help but think bitterly, 'should any of them be mixed up in any of this?' Sure, Barry had spent a good portion of his life in the air force; Chris for a couple of years himself; and Jill had spent a fair amount of time in the army. Chris had seen his share of atrocities during his service time, but none of it could have prepared him for that night. It was one thing to watch your comrades—your friends—die. It was another to watch them get back up.

Chris suddenly ached for the bitter taste of beer.

"I'm not surprised Vickers decided to skip out," Chris commented.

"Oh no," Barry replied. "He's here."

Barry nodded to the opposite end of the room. Chris spotted Brad standing beside the refreshments table. His hair was parted neatly and he wore a blue button-down and slacks. Yet, there was a worn quality to his face—his eyes heavy and his complexation pale. Despite everything that happened at the mansion, Chris almost felt sorry for him. Brad was suffering like the rest of them.

He took the money, a voice in the back of Chris's mind reminded him.

Whatever empathy he had for Chickenheart evaporated in an instant.

"It's enough to make you sick, isn't it?" Barry asked, his voice low and deep. Chris's brow furrowed. Had he said something out loud? But, when he looked back, Barry wasn't looking at Chris but toward the goddess. Another table stood before the statue, decorated in an assortment of carnations, roses, and lilies. Seven picture frames of glistening gold stood amongst the flowers, each containing a photo of a fallen S.T.A.R.S. member: Edward, Enrico, Richard, Joseph, Forrest, and Kenneth. In the center, between Enrico and Joseph was a portrait of former Alpha Captain, Albert Wesker.

Chris felt his blood boil at the sight of the ex-captain's—the traitor's—face with his signature sunglasses. Among the photos of heroes, he led them to their deaths. Chris's hands tightened. It wasn't until he glanced down did he realize he was clenching them into tight fists.

"I need a drink," Chris said, heading into the crowd before Barry or Jill could comment. Chris barely noticed as he shoved through people to the other side of the room. They had all told Irons of Wesker's betrayal when they had returned. Every single detail. The bastard had sat there, listening to them in silence. And now this. He thought Irons would have the decency…

Chris reached the refreshments table but all he could do was grip the table's edge. His face felt as though it were on fire. If he did see Irons—if he did show his fat fucking face—Chris might—

"Mr. Redfield?"

Chris spun around, opening his mouth to tell any cock rent-a-cop to save their snide remarks and fuck off. A squat elderly woman stood before him. She wore a modest black frock and her graying brunette hair lay neatly combed on her head.

"I…uh…" he said. "Yes. I am."

The woman nodded and gave him a little smile.

"My name is Martha Aiken. Richard's mother."

"Oh," Chris replied, feeling his face redden at how close he'd been to telling this woman off.

"Thank you for coming," Mrs. Aiken said. She glanced over to Jill and Barry at the other end of the entrance hall, who watched from afar. "I know it must be difficult being here, what with all they have been saying in the papers."

That's for sure, Chris thought. Since he's been there, he's felt eyes glance past him, but lingering for an extra second. Probably wondering why I'm here.

"I don't believe it," Mrs. Aiken stated. Her words forced Chris to look at her as if she had physically moved his head back. She watched him with wide blue eyes. Eyes that were not unlike Richard's own. "The whole thing…it seems very ginned up. My Richard was a straight edge. Didn't as much as smoke. I can't believe he would take narcotics, especially…I can't believe…"

Mrs. Aiken stared off as her voice faltered. Chris's brow furrowed. He realized there must still be some doubt. He hadn't known Richard very well, but he knew how people changed. One minute they would sacrifice everything for you and then the next they were stabbing you in the back, a completely different person.

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Aikens replied. "I'll let you be."

Mrs. Aiken turned. Chris opened his mouth before he knew what he was doing.

"Richard risked his life not once but twice to save his teammates," Chris finally said. "Richard died a hero."

Mrs. Aiken stood there for a moment, her mouth agape. But then, her expression tightened and her eyes grew glossy.

"Thank you, Mr. Redfield."

With that, she turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Chris standing there with a lump in his chest. His own words rang in his head "he died a hero." Now, only five people knew that. Everyone else probably thought Richard overdosed on the job, or whatever lie Umbrella was spreading today. Loved ones like Martha Aiken were probably wondering if they had really known those who died. That anger flared hot within Chris. He found his limbs shaking and not even clinching his fist did anything. The crowd felt as though it were crowding in. Chris turned and pushed through the crowd toward the R.P.D.'s entrance.

A late summer breeze swept through the small R.P.D. courtyard. Chris stood in the center, listening to the sounds of traffic just outside of the enclosure. Glimpses of cars speeding past the police station could just be seen through the bars of the iron-wrought gate. Above, the sky was a vivid purple as the sunset.

He stood there, feeling as though he were in a dream. It was so peaceful in this little courtyard, yet just outside of it, clearly visible was the madness of the world. That was the nature of the world after all, wasn't it? To keep going and question something unless it affects you directly. Wasn't that the genius of Umbrella's contingency plan? To gloss things over? Nothing to see here!

Yet, where there was anger inside, surrounded by all sides, here he felt serenity. Here, he could finally think clearly.

"Chris," Jill said from behind him. He looked over his shoulder. She stood on the top step of the front entrance's stoop while Barry was closing the station's door behind him.

"What happened?" Barry asked.

"I just…I needed to get out of there," Chris replied.

"Are you alright?" Jill asked.

Chris let the question hang in the air for several seconds. It almost made him want to laugh. What about any of this was alright?

"No," he replied, calmly. "Nothing is alright."

Chris heard the other's footsteps approach cautiously behind. Probably thinking he was about to go off again as he had with Elran.

"They can't get away with this," Chris said. The footsteps behind him stopped and he finally turned to face his teammates. "Umbrella…Atkins…whoever the Hell is responsible. They need to be stopped."

"Chris…" Jill said, her mouth opening and closing as though she couldn't find the right words.

"Think about what you're saying, Chris," Barry replied. "They are a multibillion-dollar corporation. One of the biggest benefactors of the city. How do you—"

"I don't know!" Chris replied. "But each minute they are allowed to go free is another minute another incident like in the forest happened. Richard, Enrico, all the others. They all would have died for nothing, and the cycle would just continue. Can you imagine what would happen if something like that happened here, in the city? To the world? There would be nothing left."

Jill glanced over to Barry, waiting for him to say something, but all Barry could do was stare at Chris with a stern expression. Another howl of wind whipped through the enclosure, ruffling Chris's hair.

"I'm going to fight them," Chris said, his voice low. "Even if I'm on my own. Even if I die trying. It's better than not doing anything at all."

Chris turned away and only took a step toward the courtyard's gate when—

"Wait," Barry said. Chris stopped and face back again. "You really intend to go through with this?"

"Yes," Chris replied. Barry took in a deep breath, wincing slightly at his broken ribs, and then let out a long sight.

"What about you?" Barry asked, turning to Jill. "Where do you stand?"

Jill's eyes widened at the question, but then they softened as she thought about the question. It only took a moment of thought before she finally replied.

"Chris is right. Umbrella has Irons, that much is clear. They probably have the mayor too. I wouldn't be surprised. And they are getting away with what happened. What reason would they have to stop their research?"

Barry took another sigh. The creases in his forehead deepened and his eyes shifted from Jill and Chris.

"Come to my place in a couple of days," Barry replied. "I'll call you, I can't make any promises. Just don't do anything stupid until then."

Chris wanted to ask what Barry meant, but Barry was already walking past Chris. He didn't look back as he opened the courtyard's gate and walked out into the city sidewalk. Chris and Jill watched him leave, wondering what their next course of action would be.