Happy Friday! Here's the longest-ass passage I've ever posted as one chapter. Enjoy!
Chapter 3 - The Professional Takes a Tour
The smell hits Leon the moment he opens the door to the stairwell. Every fish market, every chum bucket, every canned sardine he's ever sniffed is manifested in that stale air, and when the combined force of a thousand Ghosts of Stinkmas Past infiltrates his nostrils it makes his eyes burn and his throat seize up. Behind him, Sherry clutches her nose and rears back with a cry. He quickly shoves the door shut, but it's too late: the stench is etched into every cranny of his sinuses.
"Can't say I didn't warn ya," says Yeung, their BSAA support for the mission, though it is with a sympathetic smile that he produces a tin of menthol rub from his pocket. "Try this. It might help block out the smell."
It doesn't.
Their comms crackle to life. "Alright, you three," comes the Delta leader's voice. "Here's the run-down. The missing survivors' names are Michael Cornwall and Tilda Henriksen. There's been no sign of them on the factory floor, where they were last sighted right before the B.O.W. attack. We believe they may have taken refuge in one of the offices on the top floor. Alpha and half of my team are in the loading bay dealing with a fresh wave of B.O.W.s. A secondary unit is on its way upstairs to clear a path for Tulling. You guys head straight for the top and work your way down from there, and Tulling's group will come back and start from the second floor up once they've finished evacuating their survivor. Try not to split up unless you have to; we've had reports of unusual activity up there. All clear?"
"Loud and clear," affirms Sherry.
"Good luck, folks. Over and out."
"Ready or not, here we come," Leon mutters. His hand pauses on the doorknob. "Um… isn't there another staircase we can use?"
"They're all badly damaged in places. This is the most efficient way up," Yeung responds. "Sorry, I know it smells awful, we're not even sure when or how that B.O.W. got in there and did that… that big job it did. Just make sure you don't step in it. That's the kind of stink that'll stick on you forever."
They scramble up the steps three at a time and burst out onto the third floor red-faced and gasping for fresh air. Catching his breath against a pillar, Leon gestures for the floor plan, which Yeung pulls up on his PDA. The cannery's office level is a labyrinth of corridors and cubicles, confusing to navigate even on a good day; on a bad day like today, the B.O.W. antics downstairs have severed the power lines, plunging the entire floor into near-darkness. They'll have their work cut out for them, scouring every corner for the two terrified children.
They're barely halfway down the first hallway when Sherry signals them to stop. In the pale glow of her flashlight, her eyes are wide with apprehension. She raises a hand to her ear: Do you hear that? A second later, they all do, and Leon's pulse quickens. From the sound of that distant shambling, something very bulky is blundering around in here with them.
"That's one humongous grade-schooler," Leon comments. "Stay sharp, you two." Handgun at the ready, he leads their way deeper into the shadows.
They discover Michael Cornwall in a bathroom, cowering by the U-bend inside one of the stalls. A chubby, snub-nosed boy, he wipes his tears and puts on a strong face as the agents take stock of him: luckily, other than some scrapes and bruises, he's in one piece. "Let's get you back outside where it's safe," says Sherry as she helps him to his feet, and he nods eagerly at her. "Have you seen your friend Tilda, by any chance?"
To their surprise, Michael's bottom lip begins to tremble, and his eyes screw up with tears again. The three agents exchange looks. Suddenly those faraway footfalls beyond the corridor are taking on a far more sinister undertone.
"Michael," Sherry says, as gently as her shaky voice allows her, "did something happen to Tilda?"
A sniffle. Then another. Michael's face puckers in anguish, until finally the words escape his throat. "Sh-she's not my friend! She hit me! And then she r-ran away!"
Yeung's eyebrows hitch up to his hairline.
"O-oh dear." Sherry pats Michael awkwardly as he buries his face in the hem of her parka. "Um… there there, you'll be alright. That was a little over-dramatic, don't you think?"
"I'd cry too if I got decked by a third-grader," Leon says with a pitying smirk. "Come on, let's get moving."
While Yeung reports their progress to his superiors, Leon surveys the map. They're at a junction of three hallways branching out to different corners of the floor, one leading back the way they came. Two more remain to be checked. A plan forms in his head. "Sherry, you and Yeung get Michael downstairs," he says. "I'll keep searching."
As he expects, his suggestion is met by resistance. "We can't leave you alone up here, it's too dangerous," Sherry protests.
"I'll be fine," he assures her. "It'd be a waste of time if we all had to double back. That kid could find trouble any second, what with that thing lurking around." As if to prove his point, a muffled clatter erupts from the breakroom.
"Then take Yeung with you—"
"Yeung has the greatest firepower out of us three. I need him to cover you and Michael in case things go south."
"I hate to say it, but he has a point," Yeung agrees.
Sherry's gaze falls on Michael, who's practically champing at the bit to leave. "I'll come back and help afterwards," she promises Leon. "Don't you go finding any trouble in the meantime."
Leon chuckles. "Yes, ma'am."
With a tentative farewell, they part ways, Sherry and Yeung leading their still teary-eyed charge to safety, Leon continuing in the opposite direction further into the unknown.
He'd suspected from the moment they first heard the creature's movements that they would inevitably run into it, but when the noises grow too close for comfort he still finds himself sweaty-palmed and dreading whatever face-off is in store for him. A cursory glance behind him reveals nothing, and the path in front of him is clear, too; as far as his eyes can discern, he is all alone in this stretch of the office. But the bumps and thumps don't let up—if anything, they're getting even closer. Blood pounds mercilessly loud in his ears. He's starting to feel like the clueless protagonist of a horror movie.
And there's that smell again. That eye-watering, nostril-singeing stink that takes him to scorching hot days on the pier, sunny-eyed fishers brandishing their catches of the day, stainless steel tables splattered with fish offal…
He shudders, thinking of the breath mints sitting in his car—if only these filthy beasts could learn to use one. Or a hundred. Thank god he managed to banish Sherry and the others before they could stumble upon this ordeal.
He places his location within the building using the view from one of the windows. Several floors below, he can see the docks surrounded by dark water, along with a whitish blob he takes to be the pile of B.O.W.s he and Sherry examined earlier. He must be close to where he saw—thought he saw—the unidentified figure. But apart from whatever's making those clumsy sounds and that unearthly smell, there have been no other signs of life up here.
Goddamnit. He'd probably caught a peek of the B.O.W. and his ever-hopeful imagination filled in the rest.
Feeling defeated, he tears his gaze away from the window—and his heart nearly leaps out of his chest at the sight that greets him.
There it is. The Fisherman's Foe, in the flesh.
In the conference room directly across from him stands the B.O.W., its slimy snout pressed against the window, claws trailing long screeching marks as it drags its weird webby hands across the glass that separates them—glass a mere fraction of an inch thick, Leon suddenly realizes, and a sensation like ice-cold water drenches him from head to toe. The thing's beady little peepers are staring blankly in his direction, unblinking, two soulless little pinpricks straddling the corners of a wide, drooling mouth. A mouth whose interior he's seen far too recently, and has no desire to see ever again…
Run, every instinct screams, but Leon remains rooted in place. A moment later, when the initial shock of the encounter wears off and rational thought resumes, he decides it was the right choice of action. The B.O.W.'s movements are only exploratory; despite its uncanny affection for the window, it seems hardly bothered by Leon's presence, if it's aware of him at all.
Cautiously, experimentally, he takes one slow step to the side, and his suspicions are confirmed when the creature carries on without acknowledging his new position. Just like a Licker, sight doesn't seem to be one of this new breed's talents. And just like a Licker, sprinting off with abandon would probably have given him away immediately.
Still, he clicks off his light just in case, letting the grayish glow seeping in from the outside windows guide his way forward.
Only when he rounds the corner does he feel safe enough to breathe normally, and he rests briefly against the wall, allowing all the tension in his body to evaporate. Scanning the hallway ahead, he spies a wayward file cabinet a few feet ahead—and then, just behind it, yet another pair of eyes locking gazes with him in the semi-darkness. These ones are wide and fearful, and he almost laughs with relief when he recognizes the tiny frame they're attached to.
"Hey, uh… Tilda," he calls to her, as loudly as he dares, which in the proximity of the B.O.W. is hardly above a whisper. "I'm here to help you."
The girl's expression doesn't change, and Leon considers whether to approach her or try to soothe her mistrust in him first. But that choice is promptly made for him by the tinkle of shattering glass behind him.
"Sorry, but we have to go, right now," he says, starting towards her. Tilda backs away, her lip trembling, shoulders hiking upward as her lungs draw in air—and Leon foresees with a thrill of horror the shitshow that is about to unfold.
He closes the distance between them in an instant and clamps a hand over her mouth before she can scream. She squirms, eyes darting around like a frightened animal, but he holds fast and grasps her shoulder with his other hand. "Keep it dow—AAAAAGH! Shit!"
Leon recoils as though electrocuted. Years of experience fighting zombies have instilled in him a deep-seated terror of bites; when he feels teeth close around the meat of his thumb, a bolt of panic cleaves him between the eyes and he lets out a startled shriek before he can catch himself. He feels the twerp squirm out of his grip, but before she can take off he manages to snag her by the ankle and bring her face-first into the carpet. "Shit!" he gasps again as the beginnings of a sob burble from her prone form. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
But making amends is the least of their worries right now, as rapid thundering thumps alert him that despite successfully silencing her, he still managed to tip off the B.O.W. with his accidental outburst. "We gotta move!" he cries, hoisting her over his shoulder. She flops limply against him like a ragdoll, all the fight gone out of her. Spotting an open door, he ducks into the room and barricades them in with a shelf.
The footsteps slow as the B.O.W. draws up behind the door, snuffling like a dog on a scent, no doubt putting its hideous nose-holes to good use. There's a gut-wrenching crunch as it shoves its head against the door. Through the room's inner window, Leon catches glimpses of its pasty back as it paces eagerly just outside.
He lets Tilda slide off his shoulder as he calls in. "Sherry, I have good news and bad news," he says. "The good news is I've secured our last survivor. The bad news…"
"Let me guess," comes Sherry's exasperated voice, "you also found trouble."
The shelf shudders from the force of the B.O.W.'s next blow. "Not exactly," he corrects her. "It found me."
"Suuuuure." He can almost hear the eye-roll behind her sigh. "Okay, well, Hunnigan's just pinpointed your location. I'll stand by outside."
"Leon, there's an emergency exit at the end of the hall," the FOS agent joins in. "Can you make it?"
Books and binders are tumbling to the floor, loose papers fluttering everywhere. Tilda has regained her composure somewhat and is craning her neck toward the source of the ruckus. With a tutting noise, he sweeps a hand over her line of sight, diverting her gaze away from the B.O.W. She turns to him with tear-streaked cheeks and he gives her a reassuring smile. "I think I can manage," he tells Hunnigan, drawing his pistol. "Sherry, cover me at the exit. There'll be no extra bus seat for our fishy friend today."
"Copy that. On my way."
Leon looks down at the girl now huddling against him. "You okay?" he asks. She seems to have accepted him as an ally, much to his relief; she's much more agreeable when she's not trying to chew his hand off.
Tilda gives one last sniffle and nods. "Uh-huh."
"Good. We're gonna get out of here really soon, just hang in there." It occurs to him that he hasn't properly introduced himself yet. "My name's Leon, by the way."
"Leon," she repeats, eyeing him curiously.
"That's right." He steers her toward the corner of the room, as far away from the B.O.W. as they can manage. The door is beginning to give way now, curved black claws poking through fresh gouges in the wood. "Now, we're going to have to act fast in just a second, so stay on your toes, okay?"
She nods again, more resolutely this time. He pats her shoulder in approval. It's now the shelf's turn to be shredded as the B.O.W. strains at the gaping hole in what remains of the door. "Cover your ears and follow me closely," he instructs her. "Ready?"
"Y-yeah."
With a groan of finality, the shelf topples over as the B.O.W. bursts in like a hideously amphibious Jack Torrance. At the same time, Leon fires at the interior window. Glass showers down on the carpet. Leaping through the now empty frame, he turns and scoops up Tilda, sneaking a glance at the B.O.W. struggling to fully extricate itself from the doorway.
Not today, Johnny.
Then they are gone, making a mad dash for the exit without a second to spare.
"What is that thing?" asks Tilda, as the metal door to their salvation comes into view.
"A shitweasel," Leon replies without missing a beat. "Don't look at it, it'll give you nightmares." Setting her down, he tries the exit door and swears when the push bar refuses to budge. "Hunnigan! This door better not be locked!"
"It's an emergency exit, Leon, how can it be locked? It must be jammed, try putting more force into—"
"It's coming!" Tilda cuts in.
Johnny, pissed off and not about to reschedule, has come barrelling around the corner, and Leon hates how its pea-brained "double the legs, double the speed" logic is actually working as it streaks down the corridor on all fours. He empties his magazine on it, but to no avail; the bullets soak into its slimy hide like raisins in a sponge cake.
He searches frantically for an alternate exit. The window just adjacent is wide open, but it's a perilous drop to the ground below…
It is then that a muffled beeping reaches his ears, a split second before an explosion rattles the emergency door. He barely has time to shield Tilda from the shrapnel. When he turns back around, there's a smoking hole in the doorjamb where the latch used to be.
Someone just provided them with all the force they needed, and as Leon kicks open the door and spots the charred remains of the crossbow bolt used to deliver the bomb, he has a sneaking suspicion of who it is.
But now is not the time to think, as the snarling behind them reminds him; now is the time to run. Leon and Tilda descend the stairs so fast they almost tumble over one another. Below them, the sounds of combat echo amid their frenzied footsteps. The BSAA are just downstairs; safety is almost within reach.
Then a grenade goes off below them and takes out their path to the ground floor.
"Watch out!" Leon throws out an arm to catch her as the steps before them crumble. What the hell are those ding-dongs over there playing at, hurling explosives around with a civilian in close proximity? Seconds later, the scream of another B.O.W. nearby answers his question.
With no way forward, they're forced to backtrack. Before they can get proper footing, though, their pursuer has slithered into the stairwell and is once again resuming its charge. They won't reach the closest floor before it catches up to them.
Tilda screams and hugs him, and he holds her tightly. He can almost see a shit-eating grin on the shitweasel's face as it slides down the final flight of stairs toward them. But Leon isn't beaten yet.
There are windows in the stairwell.
"Sherry, get that backup ready! I'm taking a shortcut!" he shouts. Cradling Tilda's head and neck firmly against his chest, he launches the two of them from the second floor, tucking into a roll as they arc through the air.
He hits the concrete hard, pain exploding in every inch of his body. The world fades momentarily into white static. When he comes to, it is to furious roars and the rattle of machine gun fire. But that, too, subsides soon enough with a final agonized cry and a thud, leaving him with nothing to contemplate but the whole lot of hurt comprising his entire existence.
Rain on his face. Wet hair over his forehead. A small hand clasped tenderly in his. Little by little, the sensations return. He hears a high voice calling his name. Splashes in a puddle as a pair of boots run up to him. Who is that? A weight on top of him shifts; they're trying to remove something from him. He is surprised when a low growl rumbles in his own throat and his arm tightens around whatever is lying over him. Somewhere in his mind, the faintest inkling flickers that he can't surrender it, that it still needs to be protected.
"…Leon! It's me… C'mon, you gotta let go—"
The stars saturating his vision finally begin to dissipate, and as the blonde's face comes into focus, everything comes flooding back. He releases his grip on Tilda so Sherry can lift her away. There's a throbbing in the back of his head where he must've rolled over something hard. As he slowly takes stock of himself, he's peeved to discover that when he tries to get up, pain shoots through his left arm and his movement there is restricted to an erratic twitch of his hand.
Sherry squats beside him. "Are you alright?"
"Shoulder," he wheezes. How is he still winded from the impact? Getting old sure is a bitch. "I can't move it… probably dislocated. Hurts like hell."
"Hold still, I'll call for a medic," says Sherry, but he's already clambered to a sitting position using his three good limbs. "Leon! You'll make it worse—"
"I'm fine like this," Leon insists. "How's Tilda?"
"Pretty great, all things considered. She's a bit cut up but otherwise seems fine. The doctor will check her out later in case of internal injuries. What's that?"
Leon looks where she's pointing: nestled among the folds of his jacket, a strange metallic glint catches his eye. He picks out the object and holds it up for them both to see: a jade pendant on a broken silver chain.
He gapes, wondering if he'd banged his head hard enough to be seeing things.
"Is that yours?" Sherry asks.
"No…" Technically, it's the truth: this piece of jewelry isn't his, nor has it been for the past ten years since it left his possession. With a chill, he recognizes its design, the intricate craftsmanship of the frame surrounding the flawlessly polished stone, the very markings unique to the stone itself… But surely it can't be…?
He turns it over in his hand. As expected—and dreaded—an inscription is etched into the metal backing, and upon reading the tiny curlicued text his breath hitches in his throat.
"Oh! Maybe it's Tilda's. It could have fallen off when you guys jumped from the building." Thankfully, Sherry's temporarily distracted by the BSAA medic tromping in their direction, and she mistakes his reaction for one of physical pain. "Don't worry, Leon, we'll get you patched up in no time."
"Y-yeah… Guess I'll have to return it to her later," he mumbles.
With one last long, pensive stare, he slips the pendant he had once gifted to Ada into his pocket.
