"E-than." The warped and distant, disembodied voice sounded through the blackness like a towline back to lucidity. "You didn't kill all of me, Ethan," she chimed, sing-songy. "I'm still here! And now, so are you!"

Ethan groaned with all that his partial consciousness would allow. "I'm not," he mouthed, a throbbing headache punctuating his words. "Not for long."

"You're mine now," she stated lightly, deciding with no hesitation. "You'll think every thought is yours, but they won't be. You won't even be able to tell a difference. Maybe now you'll play nicely."

He opened his taut, swollen eyes and expected to see the gaunt young girl lurking by the doorway, or the wheelchair bound woman sitting by the bedside, but no physical manifestation of Eveline accompanied the voice that rung in his head. She was there, he thought, somewhere. Not around the house like before, but up there in his brain with the mold that was never purged away, that was reintroduced unnecessarily. The instinct to escape rose within him as a wordless abstraction.

"You're not going anywhere," Eveline said before he could act, a calmness washed over him so that he was trapped by his own immovable deadweight. He glanced around the room from his static position as if anything nearby might give him an indication on how to break the spell. Mia had kept Eveline's influence at an arm's length for two years. How'd she do it, he implored, squeezing his eyes shut and straining to lift one arm, how'd she keep her control? His black eye screamed the tighter he shut it and a cut on his brow split slowly open.

He opened his eyes and looked up toward the headboard. "You can't do this, Eveline."

"I can," she retorted. "I am. And you can't stop me this time, daddy." A dim lantern floated past the doorway. "It's not fair that you took my mommy away! Both of them! You messed it all up, so now all I have is Jack, and you. And you will be a part of my family."

A grey light flashed in his peripheral vision so brightly that he winced, and he turned his head from one side to the other in an attempt to source it. His mind felt clearer as he lifted his head off the bed and peered to the doorway, seeing if anyone or anything was close. If he was fast, he could make a run for it, or see if there was any hatch in the floor by which to navigate the house from underneath. He dragged his body piece by piece, lifting his weight up onto an elbow, then bending one knee for balance, dragging the other leg off the side of the bed. Eveline felt subdued in his mind, at least for now, as he sat at the edge of the bed and racked his brain for what his options were, and what his capabilities were.

"There now," a matronly drawl spoke as a light waxed golden in the hallway outside. "Good of you to be sitting up. It's not good to eat lying down, you know."

Ethan nearly fell back to his previous position, if only to cover the fact that he had overcome Eveline's weakened volition. His elbow bent part way and his eyes narrowed. "You're dead" he stated slowly, denial pulsing through his pain-bleared eyes. "You weren't like him." Jack's howls of his wife's name swept through his mind with the image of his mutated form thrashing and writhing. In a low voice he muttered, "You could have kept her alive, Evie, if you had just given her the power. Jack and Lucas both got it, Mia seemed to, " he tongued his molars as Marguerite's likeness drew closer. They were no longer loose or tasting like iron. "Seems like I do, too." Trigger fingers twitched and drummed against the bed sheets as he places both feet on the floor.

"You eat on up now," Marguerite smiled, her face contorting under Ethan's glare. "No fussing about it now."

Ethan stood up, his vision fading with the sudden movement but only temporarily as he made for the door.

"You wouldn't disrespect hospitality, would you, cocksucker?" She shrieked, "You're family now! You're family now! You're-!"

With a blinding grey flash, she disappeared from the doorway. He looked to the spot where she had been standing and shook his head as if to clear the memory as well. He must have been out for a while if the infection was already becoming that potent, and if that was the case, then he didn't have a lot of time. He huffed a determined breath to himself. This time would be easier. Most of the family gone, most of the traps disabled, most of the puzzles figured out, and most of the house destroyed, he'd be out before sunrise this time. He had a line to Blue Umbrella and Zoe Baker, if he could only reach the house phone.

There was the one in the guest house, but that was splinters now. Begging to a God he'd lost faith in a long time ago, he prayed that Zoe's trailer still sat in the front yard. Jack wouldn't be able to hear the call from out there, either. Less chance of getting locked and processed in the basement. He crept along the hallway to the main flight of stairs, wincing at each creak and bend in the wood and wondering if Jack had superhuman hearing on top of everything else. He crossed the entrance hall and approached the door with the tricolor cerberus, and was about to apply the pressure to twist the doorknob when a low, sinister growl rumbled from beyond the door. Heavy footsteps thudded evenly across the hollow, weakened porch.

He felt his pockets for the knife and found that it was gone. Maybe if he was fast enough he could sprint to the trailer, but there was always the possibility that it had moved. Maybe he was stronger than the molded now, and he could heal, regenerate, even if they sunk their daggers into him. Maybe he wasn't, and the worst thing he could think of was to depend on Eveline's powers. That's exactly what she would want, so he would come crawling back once he detached himself from her deluded idea of family. No, it was better to get a weapon.

He looked over his right shoulder to the dark hallway that lead to the kitchen. He exhaled slowly as he factored this new decision into his plan. Get to the kitchen, secure a weapon, get to the trailer. The image of the Blue Umbrella operative's head lolling in a rancid molding pot struck him again, in a morbid, promising way.

He walked down the long, winding hallway with his right hand on the wall to guide him through the darkness and obscurity. Tight lipped and teeth closely clenched together he mouthed silently to himself, "Where are you, Jack?" Each mention of his name brought prickles across the back of his neck that he wished he could shake off. "Where are you, Jack?" he uttered over and over. He was everywhere. He was nowhere. He kept his guard up suffocatingly high, expecting the gravelly sound of a shovel's drag, or the thunderous growling of a chainsaw crescendoing as it drew closer. Neither came. The silence unnerved him exponentially more. "Where are you, Jack?" It was the cadence that kept him focused, quickly and quietly picking through pots and kitchen drawers.

One heavy pot rattled and removing the lid he found the operative's head again. Eyes watering from the thick, putrid, sour, earthy smell, he jostled the pot to be sure of the metallic sound that clanged in the bottom before he tipped the pot sideways. The head rolled out onto the countertop and let out a low, breathy vowel sound as the anatomy moved with the sudden change. Plastered in the mold at the bottom was an MPM handgun. He loosened the edges with his fingernails and cracked it free. The barrel of the gun clanged against the pot so loudly that Ethan jumped, and the pot fell to the floor with deafening reverberance as it bounced and rolled and came to a stop beside the cabinets.

He checked the clip and counted four rounds. Not a lot, but he could make them count. He had only heard one molded on the porch. The trailer was only a quick sprint away.

He kept his finger close to the trigger as he hustled back down to the hallway, occasional debris tripping his path. As long as he didn't set off an accidental shot, he could deal with the kicked up dust and the clatter of wooden boards and plaster. A cold sweat broke on his lip at the very thought of a wasted round. His pace began to match the circling thoughts in his head that spun in the same repetitive beat: Every. Shot. Counts. Get. Help. Now. Every. Shot. Counts. Get. Help. Now.

The first glimpses of cold haunted light had graced him when a fist caught his shirt collar and lifted him up in the air. "Whee-hee-heethan!" Jack screeched. "I was wondering when you'd wake up. Don't make this hard on me, son, I'd hate to put you down again."

"I got out once," he snarled, finger curling around the trigger. "I'll do it again."

Jack smiled something sinister. "She won't let you." He jerked his arm and released the shirt collar. Ethan hit the table in the center of the entrance hall with a loud bang while the items on it showered to the floor after him. Shards of glass plinked delicately to the floor and popped under his hands as he tried to get to his feet. A searing pain stopped him. He grimaced at the spread of blood blossoming from his calf and looked down at his hands white knuckling the raises in the soft wood floor. The left had shards and splinters like a pincushion. The right held the pistol, barrel smoking gently, trigger pressed all the way back. He lifted the handgun and lined up his iron sights while Jack cackled. Ethan squeezed the trigger again and the explosive pop of the gun drowned out the sound for a second, and it didn't start again. Jack's palm covered his throat and blood bubbled from the corners of his twisted smile. He hissed and sputtered as black and green oozed between his fingers.

He lined his sights again and the second round sounded, clapping off the bare walls so Ethan's ears began to ring. Jack's knee exploded in shards of bone and scraps of flesh that sprayed the surrounding area. Okay, Ethan thought, there's one to shut him up, one to keep him from following, now I just need to buy a little time to get away-

The shot was perfect. The left lens of Jack's glasses snowed to the floor in silver dust. Jack's head snapped back as the fluid from his eye thinned the blood leaking down his cheeks. The wall painted puce behind him, and debris fell from the wall and writhed on the ground with sentience that wasn't lost in its dispatch.

Ethan tossed the gun and turned to a low crawl. Raised slats in the wood floor, glass, and splinters caught the wound in his leg as he hauled himself towards the door. Jack shrieked as he leaned against the wall regaining himself.

"NOBODY," he bellowed with all the air his rotten lungs could hold, then gulped a vocal inhale, "LOVES," he gutterally wheezed in another barrel chestful, "MEEE!"

Ethan leaned on the door with all his strength and it heaved slowly open. It dragged open with a slow, deep creak. The four-legged monster on the other side jumped as soon as the door was wide enough to slash its hand through. Its boxcutter talons caught the stretch of Ethan's ribs and then it retreated so it's hind legs were high while its head was low to the ground. It snarled and awaited Ethan's next move, back legs flexing, ready to jump again.

He turned to his side and hauled himself to the porch. Dragging himself through the warmth of his own blood with one arm, he used the other to seal the gash in his side the best he could. The four legged monster hissed and scratched the dirt where it stood. "Goddamnit," he panted shallowly with bared teeth, looking to the monster, "You were human once, weren't you? I'll leave you if you leave me."

The molded softened, raising its head and levelling it's body to a more balanced position. Ethan must have been hallucinating because it sounded, briefly, like it purred an understanding. Then its body liquified and it sank into the ground, leaving only a shadow in the grass where it had formerly been.

"You see," Jack mangled the words that he tried to speak as they popped through thick liquid. His voice sounded like a shovel being dragged across stone. He leaned in the doorway while tendon and muscle stretched slowly across the gap in his leg. "You're one of us. They don't mind us as long as you don't sneak up on them, they're sensitive creatures. There's no threat here."

Ethan rolled to his back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the spread of warmth spreading steadily with each beat of his heart. The Louisiana sky was darker than the city's, all void smattered with track marks of bruise, grey and blue. The smile in his side yawned when he tried to sit up, and fell back with a series of velar stops and aspirations. "I can't die," he insisted. There was still Mia. He played his life with her over in his mind, except this time he saw the business trips, the babysitting job, and all the things he knew the truth of now. The history played fluently, revealing in better light every lie and deception, while he spoke like a scratched CD. "I can't die. I can't die. I can't die."

"My dear boy," he cooed, gurgling. "You're not able to die, anymore."

"I can't die," Ethan repeated. The southern wind carried a coldness he'd never felt before as Jack knelt by his side. "I can't die."

"Hush now," His whisper only bubbled. He slid one hand under his shoulders and another by his knees and lifted him up into his arms. "She'll get you all fixed up in no time. She's good to us. You'll see."

"I can't die." Already the wound in his leg was going numb. He leaned his cheek into Jack's shoulder, and grasped a fistful of his button down. He worked the fabric in his hand to assure himself he was still alive, the promise of healing honeying his thoughts. "I can't die," the phrase fell to a warm whisper, as he was carried into the house, eyes wide and glassy and unblinking, ears ringing, ringing, ringing.

"You won't," Jack hummed. "I've got you. I've got you, now."