Part Two: The Ruins of Spencer Mansion
September 21th, 1998
Prologue: The Lingering Threat
"What is your status," Vladimir's thick Russian accent came from the radio. Greg Harlow looked at the work his men had already done. The Spencer Mansion, or at least what was left of it, stood half a mile away behind a chain-link fence. Its front remained fundamentally intact, though its black, glassless windows looked like the empty sockets of a corpse hidden within the forest. Harlow gave an involuntary shiver every time he looked at the place.
"We've finished the front of the estate," Harlow spoke into the radio. "Should get the north and south sides done by tomorrow if we bust our asses."
"This is unacceptable," Vladimir replied through a brief burst of static. Harlow's eye twitched. They had been at this since daybreak and the sky was already darkening. His sweat dampened his brow and he felt the heavy black uniform- an 'Umbrella Cooperation' patch on the upper right breast—stick to his chest.
"This takes time, sir," Harlow replied.
"I want the property enclosed by the end of tomorrow," Vladimir replied. "No excuses."
Harlow sighed and clipped the radio to his belt. Fucking Russian Prick, Harlow replied. The boys weren't going to be happy about this. It would mean working overtime. Sometimes, he wondered if the money was worth it. All this time and effort for a fence and for fucking what? To deter any teenagers from stumbling in and messing with any chemicals or hurting themselves on the crumbling infrastructure? Good luck getting here. It's like finding a needle in a haystack if you don't know where it is.
He turned back to the fence in front of him. An aluminum sign had already been attached—'NO TRESPASSING. This property is owned by the UMBRELLA CORPORATION.'
He flipped the sign the bird before trudging through the forest after his colleagues. The sounds of cicadas mixed with the crunching of undergrowth beneath his feet. The only other sound was his beleaguered breathing. Harlow was running close to fifty now. Not to mention his joints were flaring up, shooting pain through his body with each step. One more year, Harlow told himself. One more year and you'll have your 401k and be in the Bahamas somewhere. Until now, he was stuck here.
At least this job isn't too bad, he thought. The last place they had to fence out here was on a fucking cliff. Though calling it a place was an exaggeration. It had been more like a crater.
He nearly cleared the front of the property when something pierced the air—the sound of several men screaming. Harlow froze. It was just some animal—probably a bunch of coyotes or something…Still, Harlow gritted his teeth against the pain in his legs and quickened his pace. The last thing he needed was a mishap on the job. Then he'd never hear the end of it.
Though, as the end of his team's progress came into view, a cold shiver ran through him. No one was there and the rolled-up chain-link lay sprawled on the ground. Harlow slowed his walk as he noticed something red glisten on the metal. Harlow's heartbeat harshly within his breast. It's not blood, he kept trying to tell himself. Call HQ. Remain calm. It's not blood.
Harlow reached for the radio. Something moved out the corner of his eye. He instinctively turned—whatever sprayed onto his face burned on impact. Harlow screamed, clawing to wipe away the liquid. Bits of flesh fell off, making his fingers hot and wet with his own blood. The pain—was worse than anything he had ever felt. It burrowed beneath the flesh, beneath the muscle, straight down into the bone. Harlow's screams became muffled as blood filled his throat. The last thing he remembered was the liquid fire on his face, barely registering a thick, vine-like appendage wrapped around his legs and dragging him off into the forest.