The car by the mangroves had been swallowed by weeds. Only the shine of the paint hinted that it was still there underneath browning long grass and broken tree branches. Insects buzzed a high-pitched hum between the trees and the sound of the bayou lapping over their half-sunken roots. A sticky humid breeze carried the whispers of the long glass in waves: the most noticeable sound for miles, and yet too quiet to hear what was being said.
A low humming slowly grew nearer, distant like a dream at first, a quiet purr that rose to a growl. The suspension squeaked and tires sliding off rocks made a popping sound like hot oil. The car lumbered up to the treeline, until the path that lead to the property became too narrow to drive on. The engine whirred to a stop alongside the mass of vegetation that hid the other car.
The driver stepped out and pulled her thick dark hair off her shoulders. It clung damply to the back of her neck as she looked at the abandoned car beside hers. Already, a nauseating pit sank in her stomach. More than twenty-four hours had passed since Ethan arrived at the Baker's, and neither call nor text nor email had come from him since. Mia had nearly chewed a hole in her lip with worry after the first night alone in their house. Spinning like a ceiling fan, her mind circled back to the same question as she lay in the perfect, absolute silence of solitude: What if he was right? After the first day of no contact, she assumed the worst. Another full day allowed her to gather all the firepower she needed. Even still, anxiety clawed at her incessantly. If Ethan hadn't gotten in touch with her, then something bad had happened. If something bad had happened, then all of Blue Umbrella had been unsuccessful in containing the mess. If all of Blue Umbrella had been unsuccessful, how could she expect to do any better?
She popped the trunk of her car and withdrew a shotgun and a swollen backpack full of smaller handguns and their ammunition. She sighed a hurricane: the unsavory anxiety of returning to the property writhed inside her like snakes. Old wounds that she thought had closed split painfully, dryly open. Something close to self-hatred stung like a slap that she was performing an extraction mission on her own.
She reviewed the scraps of E-001's file that she left in the passenger's side during her drive, the only artifact she kept from her time with the Connections, save for a few scars and more repressed memories than she knew how to count. "Oh, Evie," she muttered to herself as she paged through the photos and notes in the crumbling manilla folder. The whirring of the bayou filled the consequent pause as she considered the conflicting abstractions that followed. A pseudo-maternal guilt regretted that Eveline had been raised in a lab. A lurch in her heart tightened her trigger finger at the thought of Ethan repeating what she had gone through. Then those two feelings washed to red as revenge blinded her, the memories of the last three years rising from their inky depths. She set the folder down and took the safety off her shotgun, and decided bitterly, "you should have stayed dead, you little bitch."
She hustled through the swamp weeds and large stones that littered the path until the mansion came into view. Going in the front door would be too risky, walking into the heart of the house and not knowing what she was up against. She went around the side of the main house to the garage. She crouched to place her weapon on the ground and wedged her fingers under the warps and dents in the door. With all her strength she worked to straighten her legs while the misshapen and rusty door squeaked its protests. She heaved it up to knee height and used her leg to keep the door up. She pushed the shotgun in ahead of her and wriggled under the gap she had created. Her jeans tore across her thigh on the rough edge, but no skin broke.
She inspected the tear and wiped a nervous sweat from her brow when she found no blood. Eveline's methods of infection were multiple and ubiquitous, and there were very few risks that Mia was willing to take that might subject her to Eveline's influence again. She secured her shotgun as the door squealed shut and landed with a sentencing clang.
She had just gone up the stairs to the hall and rounded the corner toward the main entrance when something caught her eye. She backtracked curiously, and quietly pushed the door to the laundry room farther open. Helmets and vests with the Umbrella insignia littered the floor surrounding the table at the center of the room. One of Eveline's boots still lay in one of the corners. Spread out on the table was a button down with pale stripes, a long, fraying gash from the tag to the lowest button, and mottled pastel brown tainting all but one sleeve.
"Oh my God, Ethan," she whispered. Her palms hovered over it so she felt the cool dampness emmenating off of it. A sour smell hung in the air near it and clung to her fingertips as she traced the tear in the fabric and turned the sleeves to investigate the stains.
Think about this carefully, she told herself. The gash and the inferred bloodloss didn't paint a promising picture, but the wash was the freshest thing in the house. The kidnapped victims had received a different treatment than she had when she first arrived at the Baker's. Any foreign body that entered the house after her didn't go to the guest house, they went to the basement to be processed. She set the shirt down and picked up her shotgun. She didn't like that her lead was based on assumption, but it was the only one she had that might help her find Ethan.
She headed down the hallway and through the scorpion door. The swaths of mold on the wall let none of the paint show. It engulfed every surface and corner beyond the door so that crossing the threshold felt like stepping into void. She switched on the flashlight that she kept in the mesh pocket on the side of her pack and expertly navigated the new topography of the room. Her footsteps squelched on the matter as it seemed to crack and writhe underneath her. She wound through the gnarled veins and black tangles, resisting to put her hand on the wall as a guide. Though she knew the treatments she had been given were strong, the thought of becoming Eveline's plaything again sent shudders up her neck and bile to her throat.
The stairs leading to the basement were so overgrown that the warped wood all merged together and formed a steep and jagged slope down. She took a moment to listen for anything that might lurk behind the door and only heard the creaking of the mold like the swing of a taut rope. She descended to the basement and cleared the room with her light each time she rounded a new corner. No disembodied hissing, no voices in her head. All that accompanied her was the rhythmic dripping of moisture from the ceiling onto the floor. The drops split apart and splattered, creating tepid puddles in the rough, root-ridden foundation, and mimicking her footsteps as she pushed deeper into the inky blackness.
She entered the processing room cautiously, expecting the swarms of monsters that crowded it when production was at its peak. Most of the morgues were sealed, the bloody handprints faded, names lost to everything but the family's bookkeeping. She pulled the light from the small rectangular doors to the gurney that sat on the other side of the room.
Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of a figure lying on its side, back towards her. The narrow, limited ray of light caught the folds of a striped brown button down, wrinkled and blotted with black splotches. She approached slowly, waiting for life to be breathed back into the static body. She tightened her hold on her weapon and adjusted her pack. Her sense of duty mounted and she built a plan in her mind. Veteran memories washed her fear to a pale, vapid shadow of itself.
The beam of light scaled the victim from the black shoes to the close-cropped hair. Too fresh to be left over from August. The other victims' bodies had long since decayed into the mold of the house or turned into the staggering atrocities that crept around the property. She looked for a rise and fall in his chest and noticed the gradienting variants of black and puce that stretched across his ribs. She drew closer to the gurneyside and the light revealed a dull blond beneath sable stains and clotted debris.
"Ethan?" she called in a whisper. In another few steps she placed her hand on his shoulder. "Ethan, are you alright?"
"Mia?" Her name carried on a tide of disbelief, turning onto his back and propping up on one elbow. "W-hat are you doing here? You shouldn't be here."
"I came to get you," she explained. "You told me you'd be in the house less than a day and then I didn't hear from you. I couldn't let you go through what I did."
"Have you called anyone – Umbrella, or–?"
Mia shook her head. "I had to know what we were dealing with first."
"Jack Baker," he smeared his mouth with the palm of his hand and dropped it to his side, letting out a bit of a chuckle. "Shouldn't be a surprise." He began to stand and winced and sucked his teeth as the wound moved stiffly with the new thick scar. Dark stains slowly dampened his shirt afresh as Mia took him by the arm.
"I saw your shirt in the laundry room. You must be badly wounded– let me have a look–" The hem of the oversized shirt reached his mid thigh but she lifted each inch delicately all the same, watching the patchy stains on the fabric fill in, trying to gently free the threads from what had already scabbed over.
"It's fine, Mia," he started, swatting her hand away as the shirt rose above his belt. The glimmer of evenly spaced metal caught the light briefly before the fabric slid from her hand so quickly it burned. "He's going to come back any second. Let's get out of here now, and get help later."
"Okay." The tension in her voice matched his, then she repeated it more gently. "Okay. Let's go, then. The exit's this way."
She took his hand and guided him through the corridors by the beam of her singular survival light, almost completely overwhelmed and swallowed by the mold of the house. They navigated the twisting hallways with expert and specific knowledge that only experience engenders. Finally the cold beam of the flashlight merged with the yellow glow shining down from the top of the stairs.
They stopped by the scorpion door and Mia slid her pack off. "Here," she said as she dug through all the firepower she had brought. She selected and M19 and handed it to him. "How many of Evie's little friends are around?"
"Enough to make it difficult," he replied as he loaded his weapon. "Not many in the house anymore. Most are in the swamp or the salt mines."
"Probably from the lack of visitors. Less people to induct into her little family. God, she must be going mad with loneliness."
"Yeah. But then again, she wasn't exactly stable to begin with."
Mia pushed the scorpion door open and listened for heavy bootfalls from anywhere nearby. Over the creaking of the door, she heard Ethan whisper something through his teeth. A sharp "S" cut the air but the rest was inaudible. He's been through a lot, she reminded herself, focusing her attention to the sounds of the house. The wood paneling creaked with every breath of wind. Insects scuttled within the walls like fingernails tapping on a desk. Ethan placed his hand on her shoulder as Mia cracked the door further. The entrance hall appeared empty from her limited viewpoint. She tried to edge forward but Ethan tightened his grip. She looked over her shoulder at him, and before she could ask anything, he said, "I'm so sorry, Mia." His grip trembled and his nails bit her skin. A shudder spread across his body and veins blackened in his face like glass cracking.
"Wh– No, no, no, Ethan, look at me," she started, grounding her shotgun and putting her hands on his jaw. "You're stronger than her. Fight this."
"I can't hold her off for long," he choked through tightly grit teeth. The black veins spindled past the collar of his shirt. The force of effort retained color in his cheeks and temples while the rest washed to pallid gauntness. "You should go. Forget you ever knew me. I can be the last victim."
"I'm not just going to leave you here," she insisted.
"I'm sorry, but I'm not giving you that choice." He squeezed his eyes shut and pursed his lips. "You need to go." His voice wavered into a different register. He took her wrists and pulled her hands away, looking at her like it would be the last time. "Go, now," he pleaded, as the light steadily drained from his eyes and resignation swept his expression. "Oh god," he whimpered weakly. "I've been bad."
Mia's eyes widened. "Ethan." His name fell out in a whisper. His hand snapped to her throat before she could say anything else. She grasped for his wrist to relieve the crushing pressure as he lifted her from crouching to dangling off the ground. In one deft movement he threw her across the room. She landed on her shoulder blades, spreading her arms and slapping the ground to disperse her momentum. She recovered in time to see Ethan raising the handgun she'd given him. She dove for the table at the center of the room and tipped it on its side. Five shots rang out over the clatter of objects hitting the floor. She scanned the underside of the table for grouping. Finding no holes in the fibery wood, she released a shallow, temporary sigh of relief.
She dug in her pack for her last handgun and attached a pre-loaded magazine. She listened for any advancement, triangulating his location in the room by the tpk tpk tpk of his steps. Close range, easy shot. She sprung from cover with one eye closed and pulled the trigger with quick iron sights. The gun snapped back almost at the exact moment as Ethan's head. Her survival instincts coursed within her too potently to feel sick as she ducked back behind the table and twisted her wedding ring, waiting to hear his fall or his footsteps.
Instead a low, bubbling chuckle rose from the direction she had fired. Her blood ran cold and she quickly scanned for a more secure place to hide. There was no cover once she got outside. An exhilarated cheer from the other side of the table burst as loud as a gunshot. She'd have to incapacitate the threat before she could make a getaway. Three more bullets took chunks out of the wood that she hid behind. All she needed was a minute, and place that she could ditch her pack that had no blind spots. Her thorough scanning stopped on a statue at the back of the room where a boy gripped a shotgun confidently.
She lifted a glass bottle off the floor and side-armed it from cover. It skidded over the uneven floor with loud hollow clanking. Instantly she took off towards the small room at the back of the hall. Another round exploded, forcing Mia to dive, as the bottle shattered violently with a sprinkling of glass. She snatched the broken shotgun from the hands of the statue and the doors behind her grated closed. The sounds from beyond seemed distant. She took a larger sigh of relief and set the broken shotgun on the ground beside her.
A rain of plaster, dust, and bugs fell from the ceiling above her. The opaque clouds spaced equidistant from one another. She drew a gasp through her teeth and blinked the fallout from wide eyes. All the noise had drawn some attention. She pressed her hand to the wall behind her and expected to feel the bars she had been trapped behind as Jack's boots thumped above her with a nauseating familiarity.
A heavy bang on the wall behind her jolted her from her thoughts. "Mia?" Ethan's voice broke, muffled from the barrier between them. "Mia, I have a headache."
She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned her head against the door behind her. "Eveline," she called back, testing to see if her imprinting protocol had survived. "Please, Evie, let him go."
A gentle thump beat behind her as he rested his forehead on the seam of the wall. His voice sounded garbled and tense with pain. "Hurts…"
"Eveline," She pried. "I'm going to count to three and then you have to release him."
"Come on, Mia," he whined, scratching at the hinges. "Come kiss it better."
"One," she threatened with an authoritative power swelling in her voice.
A bang rocked the door and an anguished groan rose into a scream.
"Two," she growled, drawing it out maliciously. An upwards inflection at the end insinuated serious and unknown consequences. She took her next breath and racked the slide of her weapon, placing her tongue to her teeth for the final count, when a bang jolted against the stubborn hinges. A shushing sound crossed the door before a heavy slump and clatter of limbs preceded silence.
She took a few slow breaths, looking up at the statue. Okay, she thought, white knuckling the broken shotgun as she lifted it from the ground beside her. Every fiber of her being agonised the thought of leaving him. She would come back, she negotiated with herself. She would bring reinforcements. It was possible, like with Zoe. Everything would be fine. She gripped the M19 tightly in one hand and replaced the broken shotgun with the other. As soon as the doors opened, she sprinted for the exit.
"Well, lookee here," Jack's voice held a tone of paternal scorn. He stomped down one stair after the other so the sound grew louder as he approached. "If it isn't the prodigal daughter. As if having one of my own blood wasn't enough."
The front door shook violently as her shoulder collided with it and knocked the cerberus faces from their place. She tried to force the door but it only rattled a hollow, inanimate laugh. She scrambled to look for the dog's heads. One was within close reach. She grabbed it off the ground and tried to fit it in the ambiguous outline. The bootfalls pounded like a funeral drum. The blue head locked into place. The red one poked out from under the door. Her movements became rushed and imprecise as panic swelled in her gut. As she bent to reach it, she kicked it across the threshold. Sliding her slender fingers under the small gap in the frame, she gruellingly flicked it back towards her. Not fast enough as the heavy piece stubbornly inched along and the footsteps pounded closer.
Doubt rose in her mind like a suffocating fog, but her breath only caught when a raking sound grated across the ground floor. Mia tried to rush her work as it crescendoed, then stopped. A forceful shunk and a blinding pain radiated from her leg. She collapsed as her balance was thrown and grabbed for the source of the pain. Her palms clasped either side of her knee and her scream of agony was replaced with one of horror as her fingers wrapped around the stump where her calf would be.
"That's more like it!" Jack cheered, tossing the shovel irreverently beside her. "I should have clipped your wings a long time ago, city-girl."
She watched through bleary eyes as he strode over to Ethan and crouched by his side. He said something Mia couldn't make out and gently aided him to stand. Ethan stirred and stumbled with a dizzy haze. Black veins radiated from his eyes down his neck as he blinked back to consciousness. "Daddy?" he asked dreamily, then his voice dropped off and he swayed again.
"Easy, boy, take it easy," Jack cooed. "The first headshot is the hardest, but don't you worry. I've got a little something for you." He put his arm around him and walked him to the front of the room. The scent of Mia's blood overwhelmed the bouquet of rot that otherwise stagnantly hung. The spill of it coated the previous debris and stains as if they had never been there to begin with. The swath grew with every fearful beat of her heart.
"Oh god," she hissed through swallowed screams. "Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh god."
"Now, the question is," Jack set Ethan in front of him and smoothed his brown button down off his shoulders so the ill-fitted seam rested on his deltoid. His beard wreathed the cuff of his ear. "What ever shall we do with her?"
"Well," Ethan smiled wryly. "You always did want a bed and breakfast."
"Now that's true," Jack said as he lifted the hem of his shirt and tugged playfully at the staples that lined his side, nails clicking on the edges, "but is that what you want?"
Ethan closed his eyes as Jack plucked at the resistant metal. He tipped his head vulnerably to one side and grimaced in aching ecstacy. Fresh rot oozed green and yellow and white from the tiny punctures. "Mmh," he considered, weakening under Jack's touch. "She could try and take me from you."
One staple plinked onto the wooden floorboards. "I can see to that," he assured as glanced to Mia's detached leg.
"The memory of her," Ethan amended with a hushed moan. "I don't want anything to go back to." He reached to the small of his back and and curled his fingers around the handgun.
"Ethan, please," Mia begged, desperation shredding her voice. "Please, baby, I'll leave and I won't come back. Let me go, and I promise I'll forget I ever knew you."
"Oh, your promises." he clicked his mouth with insidious disapproval. "I know that August was the end of all your lies," he raised the gun and set one foot forward, Jack's hands on his shoulders again now. "One thing I never figured out was what else you were lying to me about. The Connections? The 'babysitting job?' What else, Mia? Our relationship? Our wedding vows?"
Jack's grip tightened on his shoulders as the memories prodded the still uninfluenced pieces of his psyche. "Easy, boy," he soothed, "take it easy."
"It was always you and me," he continued emotionlessly. The M19 poised so perfectly stable it didn't even move with his breathing. "How could I trust you? Really, Mia. Was a family of our own ever a question after that?" A sinister laugh rung in his voice. "Jack had something that we never will. I took it away from him when I had no right to. I owe it to him to fill the gaps." He turned his head to the side and gave Jack a light kiss on his cheek, then turned to face her again slowly, hesitant to pull away, until the barrel of the gun met her eyes again. "I'm sorry, Mia," he said frankly as his finger tightened on the trigger. "You had your chance."
The shot broke the air before Mia could plead or protest. It reverberated in the spacious rooms and echoed in the clatter of her body. Ethan waited for the smoke to dissipate before he lowered his weapon and tossed it off onto the floor. His eyes stayed on Mia until two fingers under his chin coaxed his head away. His empty eyes cast to the side like he could stare through his skull. No twinge of emotion crossed his face and all settled in the consequent silence.
Jack placed one hand at the small of Ethan's back and turned him away from the mess. Ethan still kept his eyes averted, hollow and haunted, as Jack pressed a hand to his cheek. "Good, boy," Jack praised, rubbing one thumb lightly across the short stubble. "You did good."
Ethan slowly lifted his eyes to Jack's face, then an involuntary smile pulled the corners of his mouth to a pert smirk. He wrapped his arms around Jack's neck and tipped his head to one side. "I did what I should've done," he stated airily. "Fair is fair."
Jack glanced over to the corpse and pulled Ethan's body against his own with a gentle sigh. "We'll bring her down to the processing room," he thought aloud, then looking back to his boy, he smiled and adjusted his hold around his waist. "The rest is up to you."
"First things first," he leaned forward so the tips of their noses touched. "You get the rest of those staples out."
Jack smiled and kissed him tenderly, taking his bottom lip sweetly between his own. A mutual, unspoken understanding passed between them as their mouths opened in unison. They kissed as if it sealed a contract. It was a kiss of devotion. It was a kiss of conclusion. It was a kiss that sang I'm yours, and you're mine, until our undying bodies give out.