Chapter 26: My Name is Death
Sitting on the tile with her back against the wall, Jill came to the realization that the only thing she could rely on tonight was the heavy revolver between her hands. A laugh rose within her, only when it reached her lips it sounded more like a sob. The hallway was clogged with people, overflow that couldn't be fit into any of the rooms, so Jill had found herself a place between a fake plant and a gurney, her knees pulled as close to her chest as she could manage. Hospital equipment beeped and whistled all around her, accompanied by the occasional crackle of a radio:
"10-36, do you copy? Second floor is now secure."
"What's the situation on the ground?"
"Camera feeds are picking up over twenty of those things. Aside from that, nothing."
"…Any survivors?"
"A few pockets right now – mostly in Radiology."
"Copy that."
Jill took a moment to let the information process in her mind. Twenty confirmed sightings – that's a lot more than the two I put down in the lobby. It's spreading fast. She swallowed a lump in her throat. The hospital was only three floors high and relatively medium for its size, obtaining most of its square footage by spreading out in width instead of height. From what she could gather it employed a maximum number of five security guards, which didn't leave enough firepower to attempt any kind of rescue without outside help from the police department. Jill's initial feeling of being trapped was turning out to be oddly prophetic. With the first floor compromised and Critical Care festering like a tumor, they were left stranded like refugees on a floating island. And if Jill had learned anything from Raccoon City, those precious islands only lasted for so long. If the doors gave out…
Jill reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of bullets. She looked at them for a minute, letting them clink together in her palm. Standard .9mm hollow points designed to squash upon impact, they could blast an exit wound the size of an egg. The thought was a comforting one, and Jill wondered what kind of person that made her. Ex-paramilitary with issues, she thought dryly. Serious issues.
With the long ease of practice, Jill cracked the cylinder on her revolver and let the empty shells clatter to the floor before loading the new rounds one at a time. The familiar motion felt good, and it soothed her frazzled nerves. She thought of Chris and winced. How Wesker had managed to evade getting shot, she didn't know. She hadn't even seen the man move before the gun had gone off, and she wondered if he'd really known that it had put Chris out of ammo. He'd certainly seemed confident enough to turn his back.
Arrogant bastard. And he made it look so easy, too.
With a flick of her wrist, Jill popped the cylinder back into place. She let her head fall back against the wall and closed her eyes. The world around her was teetering on the brink of hell, but all she felt was an iron-like sense of calm. The fear was still there, lurking at the edges of her composure, but now it was only a reminder to keep on edge. She wasn't the same person that had stumbled into the Spencer Estate. None of them were. And yet here we are, together again in more or less the same situation, she thought, tasting the irony of that statement. It was if no matter how hard they tried to forget, how hard they tried to break free, some inescapable karma doomed them to exist as tiny planets caught in a decaying orbit around a sun manifested as Albert Wesker.
"How can you even stand there after what you did? You don't have the right to care anymore!"
"You're right, but that does not change the fact that I am here. I don't recall asking you to trust me."
Truer words had never been spoken. More was going on here than just the obvious, and Jill let herself acknowledge the fact that she was glad that Chris hadn't succeeded in killing Wesker. She didn't know why. If anything she should have felt the exact opposite, but she didn't and she was confused enough already without trying to dupe herself into believing otherwise. And I'll take responsibility for whatever that decision gets me, thought Jill. She took a deep breath, her thoughts interrupted as a wheelchair went clattering by, and she opened her eyes to make sure she was still out of everybody's way. The television monitor across the hall slowly increased in volume, a nurse urging their coworkers to come and see.
"…with the scene reminiscent of the viral outbreak in Raccoon City over two years ago, police are setting up barricades around the affected areas."Jill got to her feet, the television suddenly the focus of her attention. The news anchor was standing in front of a wall of police cruisers, her face lighting up with alternating flashes of blue and red. Behind the barricade, a wall of smoke and fire – and several shambling figures. "Initial descriptions of an explosion have now been confirmed, but there is no news as of yet on how this deadly virus emerged. People are now being evacuated from the surrounding area and are advised to get as far away from downtown Harvardville as possible."
Jill felt cold. The outbreak came from outside, she realized, the information taking a moment to sink in. The people in Critical Care must have been exposed to the virus before they were brought here. No wonder the first floor gave out so fast. Jill tried to remember how many hospitals were in the immediate area and was relived to come up with only one, unless of course they'd flown some to neighboring Denver. Her mouth suddenly felt as dry as cotton. She turned to look for a vending machine, tucking the revolver into the back of her jeans. Further down the hall, the stairwell door swung open – barely missing a young nurse.
Chris muttered an apology without meeting her gaze, shivering and rubbing his arms. His stubbled cheeks were ashen, blotched a feverish red around his nose and eyes. Jill opened her mouth to call out to him, but as she did a feeling of anxiety came over her and the words shriveled in her throat. She'd seen the way Chris had glared at her, his expression bordering on something close to complete hatred. He was so on edge right now, Jill had a feeling her presence would only make things worse. She dropped her arm, suddenly not wishing to be seen as Chris looked back and forth a few times, his gaze latching onto the TV where Heather Eisley was still narrating the scene downtown.
"Dis is insane, man," said a voice. "I moved outta LA to get away from de crazy shit!"
Jill's eyes slid to the left, noticing the security guard from before standing next to Chris. Watching them out of the corner of her eye, she quietly fished some spare change out of her pocket and after an inordinate amount of rattling the machine finally dropped a bottle of water into the slot. Chris hardly spared the man a glance. In fact he seemed almost irritated by the attempt at conversation. Shrugging, the security guard stuck a hand in his pocket and dug out a crumpled pack of smokes, propping his riot shotgun against the counter. It was the snap of his lighter that finally got Chris' attention, giving Jill a better view of his face. He looked as though he'd aged ten years in just the last couple of hours.
"Hey. Mind if I bum one of those?" he asked gruffly.
The security guard exhaled a cloud of smoke and flicked one of the cigarettes up for Chris to take. "Ya, man. Have two if it makes ya feel better." He handed Chris the lighter.
"Thanks," Chris muttered, sticking the Marlboro in his mouth. For a moment he seemed to notice Jill standing near the vending machine, but he immediately looked away, his expression darkening to a menacing scowl. Jill swallowed and uncapped the bottle she was holding, draining almost half of it in one gulp. What am I going to say to him? I have to say something eventually…
"De name's Mike Byrd, by de way," said the security guard, "but ya can call me Jay."
"Thanks, but I didn't ask," Chris snapped. There was a slightly awkward pause, then: "Chris Redfield," he grunted, almost apologetically. He took a long drag and coughed. Jay eyed him carefully.
"Ya look like shit, man."
"Well, maybe that's cause I feel like shit," said Chris scathingly.
"Join de club. It's free admission," said Jay. He returned his gaze to the TV where the mayor was in the middle of announcing a state of emergency for the city, promising that every available measure would be taken. Jill wondered if that meant the National Guard or another nuclear bomb. She suppressed a bitter snort. The mayor of Raccoon City had been a coward who'd regularly lined with pockets with Umbrella's dirty money in the years before the outbreak, only to leave the city to rot when its citizens needed him the most. And Harvardville's own Stephen Queen – a man in his sixties whose only notable achievement, at least in Jill's mind, was to light up the media with his extramarital affairs – didn't inspire her confidence in the slightest.
She rolled the chilled bottle of water between her palms, wondering when she'd become so cynical. Let's think… Oh, maybe it was when my Captain – who I'm actually sort of quasi-trusting right now, that's how screwed up I am – left us to die in some madman's funhouse. Or maybe it was when Raccoon City went to hell. It's all so hard to decide! Her internal voice was almost cheerful, only it wasn't funny in the slightest. Jill downed the rest of the water and threw the bottle in the trash. Chris had taken his dose of Reality to the extreme, but the lesson had been a brutal one to learn for everybody. It was a wonder they weren't all alcoholics or drug addicts.
Chris pulled deeply on his cigarette, probably thinking the same thing as the television went back to a live feed of Heather Eisley crouched behind a police cruiser, dirty snow piled up around her patent leather heels. In the distance, Jill heard the muffled staccato of gunfire. "As you can hear, the police are now treating the situation as a full-blown terrorist attack," Eisley told them. The electricity flickered, the fluorescents browning, and Jill's eyes snapped up to stare at the ceiling. "However, radio communication IS limited due to unknown reasons, and scattered reports suggest that this is not the only area affected by the Raccoon City virus. Anyone with further information is urged to call–"
The television cut out as the hallway was thrown into sudden darkness. Jill startled violently as somebody down the hall screamed. Momentarily blinded she instinctively fumbled for her revolver, her heart jammed into her throat. Somewhere nearby she heard Jay shouting to be heard over the sudden confusion. "Na'body panic! Give a minute and de generators will kick in–"
The electricity blinked back on, a low hum resonating up from somewhere far below. Jay smiled nervously. "See? Nothin' to worry about."
In a detached way, Jill realized how strange it was to hear something go wrong. It started as a raspy buzz, the lights faltering like toys trying their damndest to function on dying batteries. Jill held her breath. Please stay on, please stay on… She should have known better than to expect any divine intervention at this point. The fluorescents stuttered for several tense seconds before going out entirely. For a moment everything was completely silent, and then everybody started moving at once. Phones, watches and iPods flared into existence up and down the hall as people used what they had as makeshift flashlights. Jill took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to quell the urge to panic. Hospital staff was rushing everywhere as a new reality began to solidify itself. The power was out, and with it every piece of life-saving equipment.
Industrial-size flashlights finally started clicking on as the doctors hurried from one room to the next identifying the patients in need of care. Chris seized hold of Jay's arm, his shadow black and hulking. "What about the doors?" he demanded.
Jay shook his head. "What? Dey should stay locked."
"Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure, but if dem generators don't come back online, dat is gonna be one of the least of our problems." He shook out of Chris' grip and grabbed his radio. "Jason, code four, do you copy? We need dem generators back online. Over." Jill sidled closer to listen to the conversation, the dark hallway covering her approach.
"Code four affirmative. Tim and Karen are on their way right now."
"Dat's not enough, man!" Jay exclaimed. In the castoff light, his dark skin had taken on the exact shade of old, curdled coffee. "Tim's 200 pounds, and Karen's just a baby. Isn't dere anyone else ya can send?"
"Negative. Look, I know it's not ideal, but they're all we've got left. I can't leave dispatch."
"What about SWAT? De are coming, right?"
There was a long pause. "I don't know," the man on the radio admitted, albeit reluctantly. "I've been trying to get in contact with them for over an hour and they're not responding. I think the department might have gotten hit. We're just going to have to handle things on our own for now. Over."
"No kiddin'. But there's gotta be somebody…" Jay trailed off, thinking hard. Jill had a terrible feeling she knew what was going to happen, like a fever prickle on the back of her neck. She starting praying, begging every deity that was listening.
"I'll do it," said Chris suddenly. "I'll go."
Jill squeezed her eyes shut and cursed.
Jay took his finger off the radio, surprised. "Heh, thanks for de offer, big man, but you're not exactly qualified."
"The hell I am," said Chris, his voice hardening. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it out, his eyes burning. "Trust me, I've handled this kind of shit before. You have to stay up here and protect all these people in case those doors give out."
Jay gave him a look. "Ya don't think I know dat? Look, I appreciate ya offering, but dis ain't no time to be Batman. De generators are all de way down in the sub-basement, through all dem–"
"Undead motherfuckers. So what else is new?" Chris snapped. "Just give me a gun and point me in the right direction. I'll do what I can."
Jay said nothing for a long time. Somewhere down the hall, an old woman went into cardiac arrest and her doctor yelled for an oxygen bag while he did chest compressions. Jay mopped his brow with his sleeve, caught right between the proverbial rock and hard place. At last, however, he relented just as Jill knew he would.
"…Okay, man. It's your call. Here," he handed Chris the radio, then reached over and picked up his shotgun. "Take dis with ya."
"Won't you be needing it?" Chris asked.
"I got my piece and my backup weapon. I'll be fine."
"Chris, are you insane?" Jill demanded suddenly. "You can't do something like this by yourself!"
Chris leveled a venomous glare in her direction. "And who's gonna help me? You?" He snorted and cocked the shotgun with one hand, hefting the weapon as though it were made of plastic. "Go to hell."
Jill bit her tongue, forcing herself not to take it personal. Chris was about as stable as a box of homemade firecrackers right now. His reaction was understandable, and who knows? Maybe she deserved it. But she'd be damned if she just let him waltz into a zombie apocalypse just to prove a point. She set her purse on the counter and emptied the rest of shells into her pockets, cocking her revolver with a dull snap. "I'm already in hell," she told him icily. "And you're not going alone."
Chris roughly knocked past her. "I'm already alone," he growled. He opened the stairwell door and hesitated, glancing upstairs with an ugly scowl. Jill could almost hear his thoughts and she couldn't say she liked the odds of Wesker versus a 12-gauge shotgun. If it came to that, she wasn't going to throw her life away for the man, regardless of any qualms she might have, but after a tense moment Chris went down the stairs, his natural tendency to do the right thing momentarily outweighing his need for personal revenge. If tonight was a game he was determined to win just out of spite, at least until he got close enough to cram Wesker's evil plans right up his evil ass.
Jay nervously rubbed the back of his neck. "Should I tell Wes–"
"Better not," said Jill sharply, cutting him off. "He's probably busy." With that, she shouldered through the stairwell after Chris and hurried to catch up. It was as if the world was sliding out from under her on a greased incline, and all she could do was scrabble on her hands and knees until she came to the inevitable bottom.
"Conseguirla!"
There was a muted thud from downstairs and Claire sprang back from the window, her heart beating fast. What in the hell? It sounded as though someone was using their fists to hammer on the door. And they weren't knocking, either, instead beating out the slow, relentless tempo of an insane man pounding on the door of his asylum.
Thud. Thud-thud. THUD.
Somewhere below, the front door flew open so hard it crashed against the wall. Claire heard a picture frame shatter. Her thoughts whirled frantically. What do these people want? Did they follow me? Why on earth would they follow me? Claire instincts tingled, raising the hair on the back of her neck. She thought of the priest she'd spoken to in the hospital lobby, and then again watching her brother with almost demented intensity. Claire heard footsteps on the stairs and in an instant it didn't matter who they were.
They'd broken down her door, which was breaking and entering. And that meant she could deal with them however she damn well pleased. Bounding across the room, Claire pulled open the nightstand and felt around inside the drawer. Near the back her hand encountered the cold butt of a Luger. Pulling it out, she popped the safety and strode to the door. She didn't bother checking to see if it was loaded. Chris always kept his firearms loaded – you know, just in case he caught Wesker trying to heave himself through the window at 2:00 o'clock in the morning. Again, movement on the stairs.
"Morir es vivir… morir es vivir…"
Claire took a deep breath and spun out into the hallway, the Luger trained at the top of the stairs. One of the priests had just reached the upper floor. "Stop right there!" Claire hollered. Give him a chance to surrender… they don't know I'm armed.
The priest gave no indication he even heard her, his movements deliberate but unnaturally slow. His skin looked like ash in the low grey light, his head lolling ever so slightly. Claire wondered if he was drunk. He certainly seemed unfazed by the gun she was holding. Doubt crept in Claire's brain. Was she really going to shoot this man? She'd only killed the infected before, people that were already dead. What would she tell the police?
"I said stop!"
No effect. Claire fired a warning shot, the round punching through the man's left knee. The sound he made was as unnatural as his movements, more of a hoarse gasp than the scream of pain she would have expected. He clutched at his knee with both hands, writhing–
–and then he straightened, coming towards her again despite the blood soaking his robes. Claire gaped in openmouthed astonishment. She remembered something her brother had mentioned once about drug addicts not being able to feel pain. What the hell? They shooting smack during mass? Claire realized she no longer had a choice. She steadied her aim again and squeezed the trigger, sending another shot through the man's head. With a soft groan, he slid down to his knees before collapsing in a motionless heap.
Claire grimaced and moved quickly down the hall, stopping just long enough to toe the corpse. It didn't move, so she left it alone. The other two priests were at the bottom of the stairs, moving swiftly up. Claire raised the Luger and fired, two rounds punching through the chest of the first. Without pausing, Claire switched her aim and sent a third bullet through the next man's eye. With a raspy howl, he bent to clutch at his face.
Time froze, wobbling for a moment – and then both men continued to climb the stairs.
Claire's chest tightened in dismay, staring the gaping, bloody hole where the priest's eye used to be. That- that's impossible! I don't care how many drugs they're on! All the horrific incidents she'd survived over the years flooded her thoughts, her mind reeling. But these men weren't zombies, at least like none she'd ever seen before. Their movements weren't normal, but neither were they the careful shuffling of a corpse reanimated by the T-virus. Something was very wrong. The closest priest lunged at her, one arm raised above his head.
Light flashed along the edge of a blade.
Claire leapt back with a gasp and the knife grazed the banister, gouging the wood. She kicked out hard, her height on the stairs giving her the advantage, and the heel of her cowboy boot connected with a satisfying crunch. The priest's head whipped to the side, his nose exploding in a spray of blood, and Claire put the gun point blank against his temple. The shot was muffled by his thick hood, ruining the wallpaper as the man's skull exploded in blood and bits of bone. He dropped to the stairs with a dull thump, tangling under the man behind him.
Claire lifted the muzzle of the Luger and fired. This time the bullets did their job. Thick, mushy gore leapt into the air as the third priest rolled back down the stairs. Silence. Claire exhaled slowly and after a moment she cautiously came down the stairs, weapon trained on the bodies crumpled on the bottom landing. A freezing wind whipped across the side of her face. She turned her head. The front door stood wide open. Where's the other one?
There.
The red-robed priest was standing on the porch, observing her. Suddenly he began to move, coming at her with an unnatural loping stride. Claire fired twice, directly into his forehead, and he staggered, his jaw lolling open to display unnaturally bright red gums. He lurched for her, pale hands almost grazing her wrists as she leapt out of reach and fired again. Three rounds and still nothing?! What the hell is going on? She clubbed him hard with the side of the gun and ducked, unwilling to let herself be cornered. The front door was at her back now, the cold draft lifting the hairs on the back of her neck. The Luger had a small clip; she had maybe two shots left. If those didn't put the bastard down there was still a heavy aluminum bat near the door, she rationalized.
She lifted the gun again–
–and the front window exploded in a spray of glass. Claire yelped and leapt back as a hail of bullets tore through the living room, shattering everything in their path. The priest jerked as though he were having a seizure, bloody mist leaping into the air as the rounds tore a line across his front. He toppled back and hit the carpet with a dull thud, limbs splayed at every conceivable angle. Claire wanted to scream, but she didn't get the chance. Something moved behind her and she hastily squirreled away from the door, flattening her back against the opposite wall. Had those bullets been meant for her and simply missed? Or had somebody come to help? Ever pragmatic, some part of Claire's brain wondered what kind of "help" came packing an automatic.
Breathing hard, she pointed the Luger at the door as a man stepped into the house. He was tall and dark-haired, dressed neatly in black fatigues. He swept the TMP he was carrying back and forth, finally spotting Claire. She tightened her hold on the gun. Twitch, you bastard. Twitch and I swear…
"Easy," the man said, lowering his weapon. Lowered, Claire noticed, but not put away. She made no move to respond in kind. The man gave her an even look, almost as if he were studying her. "I'm here to help," he added calmly. "Albert Wesker sent me."
Wesker? Claire blinked, the muzzle of the Luger dipping slightly. She quickly raised it back up. Her skin felt clammy, freezing in the cold draft. She repressed a shiver. "Yeah… sure looks that way," she said slowly, nodding at the dead priest. "But if you think I'm just going to trust you after all this, you've got another thing coming."
The stranger smiled, his mouth tilting up at the corner. "Smart of you, Red, but then again…" he moved suddenly, one hand atop the Luger before Claire could even think of responding. In an instant, she watched him disengage the slide from the rest of the gun, spilling several springs and a bright, brassy shell onto the carpet.
"You don't have much of a choice," he finished calmly.
Claire's mouth formed a silent O of disbelief. He'd pulled the gun apart with one hand. With. One. Hand. The act itself was about as cool as it was impossible to comprehend. She looked at the useless piece of metal she was clutching. Well, maybe I can still throw it in his face, she thought weakly. She lowered her hands to the sides. "What do you want, then?" she asked.
"My orders were to keep an eye on you, so I suggest you finish whatever you were doing here. You've got…" the stranger looked at his watch, "three minutes and counting."
"But how did you–"
"Two minutes, fifty eight seconds."
Claire snapped her mouth shut. She moved sideways, slowly at first, slipping around the dead bodies piled haphazard at the bottom of the stairs. The stranger watched her for a moment, then switched his attention to the priest in the red cassock. He frowned at the corpse for a moment, then put the toe of his combat boot aside the man's chin, roughly flipping his head to the side. His jaw lolled and fell slack, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The stranger nodded to himself, satisfied. The plain casualness of it gave Claire a chill.
She hurried upstairs to calculate her options. Had Wesker really sent the man? She had no real way of knowing, which didn't leave her that many options. Claire thought of the upstairs bathroom window. It wouldn't be all that hard to escape out onto the roof and get the hell out of Dodge. She thought it was a good plan, too, until she remembered the crazy priests had successfully trapped her in the driveway by double-parking. Claire sucked in a breath, thinking fast. The stranger downstairs was obviously a professional, which fit Wesker's usual MO, but that didn't answer the question on how Wesker knew she'd need help to begin with. As far as she knew, physic powers weren't listed under "rare but serious viral side-effects".
He must have known something was wrong, Claire realized, thinking back. Him not wanting me to come up here had nothing to do with ice on the road, did it? Why didn't he just tell me?
She leaned against the wall, pushing loose strands of hair out of her eyes. The house felt cold and empty, darkness clinging to every corner. In her desperation to think of anything that would help, Claire suddenly remembered the stranger she'd noticed following Chris around at the hospital. It was the combat boots that gave him away, she realized, certain it was the same man downstairs. But was that a good thing? The day was getting more complicated by the minute. Seized by a sudden inspiration, Claire hurried into the bedroom and plucked the spare phone from its cradle, but the line was completely dead. Shit, how could I forget? No electricity meant no phone, unless she wanted to go digging in the closet for one that didn't need plugged in.
"One minute thirty seconds," called a voice from below.
Claire grit her teeth. She tossed the phone back onto the nightstand. What should she do? But even as she wondered, she realized she didn't have much of a choice. The stranger had made one thing abundantly clear: if he meant her harm, there wasn't anything she could do, and in any case Claire got the feeling that her mysterious "savior" wasn't used to being contradicted. She looked at the half-empty suitcase she'd begun to pack. It seemed pretty silly now and she swallowed a grimace, throwing several articles of clothing into the suitcase without bothering to fold them. All this for Chris' goddamn jeans, she seethed, regretting ever leaving the hospital. She viciously slammed the lid and dragged the suitcase down the stairs with as much noise as she could muster – if only to have something to vent her frustration.
She found the stranger lounging against the kitchen counter with his hand buried in a box of Nabisco wafers. Claire stopped short, staring at him with nothing short of pure, bemused disbelief. Without giving any indication that he'd even noticed her, the stranger put another handful into his mouth and casually flipped the kitchen drawer open with a finger, the quintessential nosy neighbor. He raised an eyebrow and reached inside, pulling a tiny revolver out from between the butter knives. Claire felt an embarrassed laugh rise in her throat as he popped the cylinder.
"Loaded, too. You expecting company, Red?"
Claire snorted and stood the suitcase up at her side. The wheels had left crimson tracks on the linoleum from where she'd pulled it through the puddle of blood at the bottom of the stairs. It struck her as incredibly funny for some reason, which she supposed fit right in with the rest of today's insanity. "Yeah, angry blonds," she said dryly. "Your car or mine?"
The stranger closed the revolver and lobbed it in her direction. Claire caught it one-handed, looking at him oddly. "Just in case Jehovah's Witnesses come back," he said, putting the Nabisco'son the counter. He took a few steps towards her, paused, then backed up and took the box anyway. "I'm taking these."
Claire wondered if things could get possibly any weirder. "Knock yourself out," she muttered, standing aside to let him pass. She wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans, the low buzz of adrenaline still coursing through her veins. Bizarre humor aside, she didn't feel all that good. The house felt colder than ever, filling with the faint coppery reek of blood. And something else… something musky and rotten, like an infected wound. Claire hurried after the stranger, following him to a silver Jeep parked behind the congregation of vehicles in the driveway. Good thing she hadn't gone for the escape plan.
"How long were you following me?" she asked, shivering.
"Throw your stuff in the back."
That's not what I asked, thought Claire sourly, but she did what she was told. She climbed in the front seat, resisting the urge to rub her arms for warmth. The Jeep smelled like Febreze and new upholstery, obviously a rental picked up in town. The stranger hopped in beside her and turned the key, backing out of the driveway without preamble. Claire nervously buckled her seatbelt as they sped down the freeway, snow churning in their wake. As they drove, the stranger settled his TMP on his lap and crammed the box of Nabisco's upright beside the gearshift. Rolling her eyes at the sheer absurdity of it all, Claire propped her elbow on the door, watching the forest whip by at what seemed to be breakneck speed.
He must have been following me since the hospital, she concluded after some thought. Or did he follow the priests? How the hell did I miss two cars tailing me all the way up the mountain? The thought irritated Claire to no end. Had she really been that distracted, or had they simply hung back far enough not to draw attention to themselves? It seemed like all she had was questions.
"Who were those people?" she asked suddenly, unable to contain herself any longer.
The stranger continued to munch his Nabisco's in silence.
"You must have some idea," Claire pressed. "Wesker sent you, after all, so he had to know something."
The stranger shrugged. "Mr. Wesker chose not to share the details when he expressed his concerns for your safety," he told Claire. "Before we arrived at the airport, I received my orders to guard your brother while he was convalescing, and then to guard you after you left. I'm not paid to ask questions, but whatever his reasons, it seems that they were well founded."
"Yeah, I got that part, but still…"
"You're over-thinking it, Red. Just sit back and enjoy the drive." The stranger popped another handful of Nabisco's into his mouth and downshifted, maneuvering the Jeep around a particularly icy corner. Just enjoy the drive, he says, thought Claire, bracing herself against the door. Why not? It's not like I'm in the car with a guy I don't know, who claims to be working for Wesker, who's driving one-handed while stuffing his face with cookies. What's not to enjoy?
She wondered if the people that had attacked her had meant to kill her, or whether their plan had been to try and take her alive. To where she didn't know, and quite frankly she didn't want to. More importantly, why had it taken so long for them to die? Claire reran the incident over and over in her mind, trying to come up with a reason, any at all, that would explain what she had seen.
"Those men. There was something wrong with them," she said slowly. "I put an entire clip in them and they just kept coming at me." She just had to say something. It was driving her crazy just trying to rationalize how such a thing was possible because in all honestly it scared her. She'd dealt with zombies before, but at least those things had the common decency to die when you put a round through their brains. Those priests, obviously not so much.
The stranger glanced at her sideways. "T-Virus?" he asked in a low voice.
"I thought so at first, but they were still alive, I'm sure of it. I mean, I heard a few of them actually talk!" Not that she'd understood a word of what had been said, but that was beside the point. She wondered what language they'd been using. Latin, or maybe Spanish? The Church of Los Iluminados was Spanish, right?
"And I put a couple of rounds through their heads, too, so it's not like I just missed the bastards," Claire added, not wanting the stranger to think that'd she just been pissing herself and launching bullets into the ceiling. "You encountered anything like that before?"
"Only in certain BOWs," said the stranger, obviously deep in thought. Claire opened her mouth to point out that they hadn't been Tyrants, but changed her mind. It was pretty obvious that they weren't. She returned her gaze to the forest, feeling as though the Earth was wobbling on its axis and threatening to whip her off into space like a speck of flotsam. It wasn't a nice feeling at all. She wondered what she'd do if her Nabisco-eating bodyguard did anything strange, like not going back to Harvardville. I'll put a bullet in the side of his head for one, she thought. I'll betcha he dies like a normal person.
Only in her life would a statement like that make sense. She furtively observed the stranger out of the corner of his eye. His dark hair had flecks of grey near the temples, which meant he was most likely a little older than younger. Claire eyed the TMP in his lap. Not something everybody has access to, she mused. Chris had tried to obtain one a couple years ago, but the Feds tended to frown on such purchases no matter how hard people tried to convince them that the chairman of Umbrella was a madman bent on world domination.
Well, he got the world domination part right, anyway, thought Claire. God, help me.
God was apparently on His tropical vacation, however. Forty-five minutes later, and no more than a few miles outside the city, Claire and her mysterious stranger ran straight into bumper-to-bumper traffic. The highway was packed, the storm beating down on the huddled cars as if determined to bury them where they sat. Horns honked and squealed, and people were sticking their heads out of windows for no other reason than to flash each other the bird. Claire huffed a breath. "Well, isn't this typical," she muttered. She wondered if it was a holiday. How close were they to Thanksgiving, again?
The stranger said nothing. For the first couple of minutes he simply started at the traffic with a frown. Ten minutes after that, he began drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. And five minutes after that, Claire wondered if he was just going to roll the window down and start spraying bullets into the oncoming lane. Not that he did or said anything to indicate that he would. The man simply sat there, as cold as anyone could be while fishing out the last crumbs of Nabisco's, but Claire could feel him simmering under the surface – an icy blue flame just waiting for gasoline. She eyed him again as he put on a tiny earpiece, the cord trailing away to a radio stashed somewhere under his coat. Yes, that described him perfectly, she decided. It was just that he was so used to killing, so used to being an absolute professional, that it'd become as easy as breathing. And snacking on the job wasn't all that odd, now was it?
"We need to get off," the stranger said suddenly. His voice was sharper now, harder, carrying none of the would-be casual tone he'd been using before. Claire couldn't imagine what could have caused it. She gave him a worried look. "Why?" she asked.
She didn't get an answer. After another five minutes inching through traffic the stranger pulled the Jeep off at the nearest exit, parking them sideways in front of a mini mart. He got out of the car and Claire followed without thinking, popping the door to stand beside the Jeep. He was listening intently to something on the radio, ignoring her attempts to get his attention. Claire scowled and looked into the press of traffic. The closest set of wheels belonged to a tiny European model that most vehicles could run over without looking back. A young man was driving, constantly reaching over to try and console the baby strapped in the carseat next to him. The poor guy looked absolutely terrified and Claire smothered a laugh. She wondered if it was his first time out with the baby.
The wind kicked up, hurling snow into her face, and her gaze wandered. Everybody in traffic looked horrified, she realized after a moment. She looked harder, certain that she'd just imagined it, but no – everywhere she could see signs of panic. Crying kids, pale mothers, teenagers leaning frantically on the horn. Claire whirled around to face the stranger. "What's going on?" she demanded.
He gave her an expressionless look.
"I mean it," Claire growled. "Tell me what's going on!"
There was a slight pause, then the stranger casually unplugged his earpiece. Claire listened intently as the radio squelched, sounding hopelessly small and metallic against the noise from the highway. "Dispatch, can you confirm? Can you confirm, dammit? Where's my backup?!"
The radio switched, scanning multiple channels. "Fall back! Fall back now! Erin!" The transmission dissolved into screaming static. The channel switched again to gunfire and more screaming. Claire's tongue felt welded to the roof of her mouth, her heartbeat thudding in her ears. Words and phrases came to her in bursts, howling out of the confusion like flaming brands: Retreat. Overrun. Fire. Spreading. Raccoon City virus.
Claire felt her world shatter like a broken mirror.
The stranger looked up; his eyes traveling up the nearby hill. Suddenly he was moving, weaving between the snow-covered pines. Claire stumbled after him as fast as she could, but the hill was steep, the snow piled over a foot deep in some places. Once she tripped and fell, catching herself on a tree. The stranger kept going. This cannot be happening. I must've heard wrong, thought Claire, the icy cold air searing the back of her throat. She shoved away from the tree and fought her way to where the stranger was standing at the top of the hill.
The land fell away steeply before them, the granite mountain dropping away into a bowl-shaped valley. The sun was almost set, leaving everything bleak and cold. Harvardville spread out in the valley below, a few thousand lights glittering somberly in the darkness. Huge swatches of the city were completely black as though something had just eaten them away. A bitter wind sliced through Claire's sweater and she clutched the edges of her vest more tightly around her, her breath misting in the air. Fire, she realized numbly. The city is on fire.
Entire blocks were engulfed by flame, bright orange and blazing, crowned by billowing clouds of smoke. The chaos of nearby traffic drifted to her on the breeze, and Claire realized the gridlock stretched all the way back into the city, headlights glowing like a necklace of dirty yellow diamonds. She shuddered hard, listening to the panicked broadcasts still coming from the stranger's radio. She heard someone mention the Raccoon City virus again, the words hitting her like a hammer blow to the skull, and this time they sunk in. She shook her head, trying to deny the impossible reality manifesting around her.
The stranger turned away grimly. "Get back to the car."
Claire slid back down the hill in a daze. She felt nothing. Not fear, not panic. Nothing. Just cold. She staggered out into the parking lot, the heels of her cowboy boots clacking on the cold pavement. Her jeans were soaked past her calves, caked with mud and snow. Claire looked at them for a moment as the roar of idling engines and wailing horns faded into the background. The air in her lungs was heavy with the smell of car exhaust and frozen pine. I- I don't know what to do. Is this really happening? There was no other explanation for what'd she'd heard. And with this realization a new and frightening thought crashed through her. Harvardville Memorial was right in the middle of ground zero.
Her head cleared, the fog sheared away as though by a scalpel. Stiff and clumsy, Claire hurried after the stranger, reaching him just as he opened the trunk of the Jeep. A black duffle she hadn't noticed before was thrown in back alongside her suitcase. A flood of questions rose to her lips, and was immediately silenced as he unzipped the heavy bag. Claire blinked, unable to do anything but watch as the stranger buckled himself into a full-body harness loaded with magazine clips, pouches, and carabineers – enough to wage a small war. Flash grenades dangled from his belt like weird metallic fruit. "Who are you?"Claire whispered.
The stranger took out a gasmask with red lenses and pulled it over his face.
"They call me Mr. Death."