Hello! Thank you for tuning in to my first ever RE fic. It's been a while since I've done any proper writing so I hope the prose isn't too terrible. Also, apologies in advance for any OOCness, I try my best based on my interpretations from the games/movies but I've only been into RE since a few weeks ago. And so, without further ado, I present to you: the first chapter.
Chapter 1 - The Professional Goes on a Road Trip
Something is horribly wrong with this morning's haul, Crawford is sure of it. The winch is wailing in the most ungodly way, and despite the efforts of Ed and Murphy and Bill, the net is still trailing stubbornly in the sea, barely breaching the choppy waves. Boss is preoccupied with the trawler's controls (he's not really their boss, just some guy with inventive parents) and Tommy is radioing their real boss back at the harbor for help. Once in a while, when the deck tilts at just the right angle, Crawford can see dozens of shimmering fish bellies beneath the criss-crossing cords of their fishing net. Surely the fish can't be the problem. They've never had a problem lifting that net out of the water before, however full it got. Something awful must have got in there today.
Whatever it is, he's not looking forward to sharing a boat with it.
From the radio room, Tommy comes running. He has thrown on his smock without bothering to fasten it, and in the strong open-sea gusts Crawford gets the bizarre impression of some awkward beer-bellied bird flapping its yellow plastic wings at them. "Cut the line!" Tommy shouts, motioning the same with a raised hand. "It's gonna pull us under if this keeps up!"
Ed, Murphy and Bill scramble to release the net, but before they can sever the ropes the trawler lurches forward, sending everyone sprawling. The stern pitches upward as though launched by a spring, hangs momentarily in the air, and then falls back into place with an almighty splash. The winch's complaining reverts to its usual mechanical hum.
"What happened?" groans Murphy as he sits up.
The answer soon comes cresting out of the water as the fishing net lifts over their heads. It has shriveled significantly from its full capacity, and is still deflating fast as a silver stream of fish pour from the hole at its bottom. Only Ed has the presence of mind to operate the winch, moving the net back onto the deck so their livelihood stops leaking back into the sea. The rest are busy gawking into the tangled black folds of the net.
Whatever had been fighting them so hard for the past ten minutes, it had eventually broken free and disappeared back wherever it came. But these lucky fishermen have stumbled upon more than one prize today.
Partially buried in the shining, wriggling mound on the deck is an oddly shaped lump. Crawford glimpses pasty skin, massive webbed toes and—is that a face?
The men exchange a look.
"What the hell is that?"
They're all still staring in confusion when "that" begins to move.
The raindrops start dotting Leon's windshield almost as soon as he crosses the state line. It's not hard remembering why he despises this particular stretch of New England when the reason comes descending so eagerly upon him every time he's here. March weather in Maine must be specially designed for maximal suffering—nowhere else has he felt quite as wet, or as cold, or just as goddamn miserable as when he's standing outdoors in the land of the Tommyknockers and Pennywise, feeling the icy rain seep in from above and the damp chill molest him from below. It's the last place on his mind as far as weekend getaways are concerned. How are you supposed to enjoy a getaway when all you want to do is get away from the damn place the whole time you're there?
Much to his chagrin, those sentiments don't seem to be shared by Ada.
He frowns as he thinks back to their conversation on Tuesday night. The call came completely out of the blue, the first contact they'd made with each other since they rang in the new decade together three months before. He'd raised an eyebrow at the sight of her name on the caller ID; her usual M.O. involved at least one text beforehand.
When he picked up, she sounded slightly out of breath, and for a moment he was so taken aback that his entire repertoire of snappy remarks flew out the window, leaving him with only stunned silence as his reply. Was she in trouble? Was she hurt? Or was she just jerking him along on another of her coquettish whims? Answer wrongly and he'd be sent straight to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. And he'd probably never hear the end of it for the rest of his days.
It was then that he registered the cars roaring by in her background.
"Are you outside?" he managed to sputter.
"No, Sherlock, I've converted my living room into a major roadway," she fired back. She was trying to play it off casually, but he could still detect that tense undertone. "Leon… I don't have much time to talk. I've been kinda wanting to see your face lately—"
"'Kinda'?"
She laughed that sweet, sultry laugh of hers. "What say you and I get together this weekend and… catch up? I've got a place booked already, you can meet me there."
"This weekend? That's awfully short notice, isn't it?"
"Three days, Leon. I need you there in that time. Take it or leave it," she said in a singsong voice.
"And where is this 'there' you mention?"
"I'll send you the location shortly. See you soon, handsome."
"Ada, w—"
The car sounds abruptly turned to silence as the line went dead.
"What the hell…?"
He squinted at his call history, still not entirely sure their dialogue just now had really happened. Whatever she had in mind, it was big and it was urgent, and he'd fallen for her wily ways enough times already to know to proceed with extreme caution. For all he knew, she could be luring him into a trap to seduce government secrets out of him.
Still, this was Ada…
Sighing, he crossed over to the closet to pack his things.
When her text message came in, the coordinates she sent pointed him to a tiny coastal town called Dundee, not far from the Canadian border. "Didn't know you were into canned fish and lighthouses," he murmured as he skimmed through the scant information he managed to uncover on his upcoming vacation retreat. It was no Paris or Milan, that was for sure, and he knew she didn't take him for an idiot who wouldn't see right through it. There'd better be a good story at the end of all this. He wouldn't rest until he got one.
Leon had used one of the three days to request leave for the other two. It was difficult on such short notice, but come Thursday morning he was able to set off bright and early on the interstate without a second thought for the poor fools now stuck shouldering his tasks for the rest of the week. The notion of highway cruising for twelve straight hours gave him a headache, so he'd split his travel over two days instead, sampling the local flavors along the way.
And so, here he is. Day two of his road trip, an hour from his destination, sullenly nursing a hangover from a now much-regretted decision to drop by the bar opposite his motel last night.
March 13, 2020. Friday the thirteenth in a gloomy Maine backdrop. The perfect vacation. So perfect, he could just Long Walk his rain-soggy ass back to D.C. afterwards to commemorate it.
He could have flown to Portland and saved himself a whole day on the road, but planes make him nervous and remind him too much of work. Besides, driving keeps him from spiralling into the booze again—any more than he already has, anyway. Last night cannot happen again. Helena has been getting on his case lately, and with the threat of AA meetings looming over him, he can't afford to slip up. Last night will not happen again.
He rounds a bend in the highway and swears as a wall of red taillights comes into view. Just his luck: a logjam, all the way out here in the boonies. Shoulda been paying attention to the traffic alerts. He tunes the radio until he finds the right station. Too little, too late now, but maybe he can at least figure out how long the holdup will be.
"...and over to the east, Route 1 is backed up in both directions due to a military blockade. They're not letting anyone through until further notice, so consider taking an alternate route. It looks like the BSAA is arriving on the scene…"
Alarm bells are going off in Leon's head. This can't all be a coincidence… What the hell is Ada getting him into? Almost reflexively, he raises a hand to his earpiece, and when he realizes it's not there he grabs his phone instead. There's still one person he can count on to fill him in on the situation.
"Leon? Aren't you off today?" The utter disbelief in Hunnigan's tone makes him cringe; it's probably the first time he's ever voluntarily called in on a day off. They'll never let him live this down at the office. "Are you okay?"
"Hunnigan, I'm in Maine," he says. "The BSAA have been deployed, and it's gone public. What's going on up here?"
"Maine? What are you doing there?"
"I heard it's great for hunting killer clowns."
The silence on the other end tells him she's far from amused. "Anyway," she mutters eventually, "the northern coast is currently in a state of emergency. Some fishing boats encountered B.O.W.s this morning. It's nothing we've ever seen before, and we're not sure where they came from—there's a horde of them swimming in from the sea as we speak. Most of them are coming to shore at a town named Dundee. The army and BSAA have blocked access into the area. Agent Birkin has been dispatched to investigate—"
"Sherry?"
"Yes, she's already on her way. What are you doing in Maine, Leon?"
He groans. His head is pounding with the weight of this new development. Behind him, an insistent honk urges him to get a move on; traffic has finally started to creep forward.
"Put me on the case," he says.
"What?"
"You heard me. Let me help Sherry. I'm already in the area anyway, so I can just…" He'd be lying if he said he isn't at least a little worried for his friend. Plus, being there in official capacity would grant him free rein to hang around while he figures out things with Ada.
"Huh. What happened to your vacation? You fought so hard to get that leave approved, too."
"Can't enjoy my time off when there are B.O.W.s sharing the beach, now can I?"
Hunnigan doesn't speak. He can practically hear the gears turning in her head. He knows she's vaguely aware of his involvement with… some ambiguous party who's been sighted too many times at various bioterrorism events to be coincidence, but she never presses him about it, and he never broaches the topic with her either. The sudden time off, the convenient timing of the attack, his elusiveness about how he just happened to be there… he'd be more surprised if she didn't smell something fishy. He puts on his most innocent face, hoping it will somehow telegraph to her through the line, and waits for her decision.
"Okay," she relents. "I'll get clearance for you with the BSAA. Meet up with Sherry once you arrive."
"Thanks, Hunnigan. You're the best."
"Don't get yourself court-martialed, Agent Kennedy."
He chuckles. "Well, there go my weekend plans." He hangs up before she can start berating him.
Leaning back in his seat, he rubs his temples with a sigh. The steady drizzle outside continues its death-by-tickling assault on his car, streaming down the windows in long, weeping trails. He's in no mood to go B.O.W.-hunting, not with Jim Beam's morning-after jackhammer still drilling at his skull. Some vacation this is turning out to be.
At least the wipers work.
I've never been over east in the spring, but it's hella rainy here on the west coast and I might've added a bit of my own frustrations into my rambling on that Rain of Ultimate Misery. And yes, I'm a bit of a Stephen King fan... just a little. xD
Thoughts/feedback are welcome! I don't know how long I can keep up a weekly update schedule, but things are all lined up for at least the next two chapters. Will be trying for updates every 2 weeks after that. Thanks for stopping by!
