Chapter Three: The Dead and Deceived
It was Kenneth Sullivan, Sully, they found in that passage, soaked in blood and ripped to shreds by his killer. His jacket had been torn away and chunks of flesh had been gouged from his bones with teeth and fingers. Jill slid his eyes closed and told Barry to stand watch at the curtain. Then she started rifling through their fallen comrade's pockets, looking for ammo for her Beretta.
He didn't think anyone, or anything, would stumble over them while she worked. Maybe she just didn't want him watching while she looted a corpse. A friend, no less. Either way, he didn't object. He just took his place at the entrance to the gallery and waited.
He tried to think of what he was going to say to Wesker when he found him. He wanted to get the conversation straight in his head. The Captain could talk rings around him, and he didn't want to give him that chance.
But he couldn't shake the thought that Joseph, Kenneth, and maybe even the rest of Bravo Team, were dead because of him. His throat was tight, on the verge of nausea. His body was quivering with adrenaline. His guts felt like they were twisting and balling up inside him.
Maybe he was in shock.
I can't take this.
"Barry?"
Jill was back with him. He closed his eyes, trying to reign in his runaway body before it gave the game away.
Remember who you're doing this for. Remember what happens if you screw up.
"Find anything?"
Somehow, he'd managed to push the tremble out of his voice. Success bred confidence. He turned to face her.
"Just a couple of clips," she said, patting the equipment pouch resting on her hip, "are you ready to move?"
He nodded. The sooner they got out of that gallery, the sooner he could forget about Kenneth lying in a gory heap, his ribcage glistening beneath tattered meat, his mouth hanging slack and filled with blood.
He winced. Maybe he'd never forget that image. Some things men took to the grave. He knew that all too well.
Jill took the door handle. He stood to the side, gun in hand. On her cue, he darted into the next room, eyes flitting left and right, searching for hostiles. The corridor was empty. Not just that, it was bland, at least by comparison with the parts of the mansion they'd seen thus far. The walls were clean and plain, lined with stout cabinets filled with china plates. Nothing more provocative than that.
In truth, he preferred it.
He moved ahead. Jill followed close behind. He wanted to keep himself, and Miranda, between her and any threats. Whatever else might have been lurking in that building, his .44 was the best chance they had of surviving it. And he owed her something. Chris too.
Right then, he'd have given just about anything to know that the other man was alive and well. Instead, all he knew was that he was wandering through hostile territory, with an enemy he thought was a friend watching his back. That wasn't an encouraging thought.
Glass fractured. He wheeled away from the window. A shadow vanished into the darkness beyond the pane, leaving a spider web of cracks at the centre of a bloody spatter. A thousand needles prickled along his arms, adrenaline making his hair rise. He just tried to breathe, to quiet his thundering heart and quell the ache in his chest.
Jill was next to him, Beretta raised.
"We need to get out of here," she said, moving ahead, "now."
He could hear barking. The dogs were circling the house, looking for a way in. She was right. They had to get out of that corridor.
She was ahead of him, barely a dozen metres between them, when one of the windows shattered. A sinewy, four-legged body covered in matted, bloody fur landed in front of him, skidding on the tiles. It started barking, jaws snapping, each thunderous blast of noise making his ears pop. He levelled Miranda. One bullet would pulp the dog and give him a clear run to his partner.
Another pane exploded, pelting him with glass. He covered his head with his arm, diving to the side as a second animal landed in the hallway. It leapt at him, maw wide and drooling. He swung for it, blind and wild. His gun slammed into the side of its head and threw it to the ground.
He looked back to his partner. She was coming for him, her pistol trained on the dogs.
"Jill, don't!" he yelled, "just run."
He stamped on the first dog's crown as it made a lunge for his ankle. Then he turned and ran. He could hear more glass breaking, more growling and barking filling the passage. Jill's gun spat death as she made her retreat. He did the same, racing back to the gallery door.
He wrenched it open and dove inside, then threw it back in the face of the closest animal. It bounced off its head and started to swing open again. He cursed and threw his bulk against it. A blood-soaked snout caught in the door. Its vicious snarl transformed into a shriek of pain. He slammed the butt of his revolver on its nose and it retreated, whining. With one final shunt, he forced the door shut and collapsed against it, panting for breath.
All he could hear from the other side was scratching and barking. No shooting from Jill. That meant she'd made it out already.
He didn't want to think about the alternative.
He stepped away from the door. It rattled, but stuck in place. She'd been right. If he'd forced it, he might not have been able to keep them out while he caught his wind.
Guess that's another one I owe you, Jill. Just hope we both live long enough for you to cash in.
-x-x-x-x-x-
The dogs had given up on the front entrance. The place was silent, save the distant howling of feral beasts. He wasn't stopping for the ambience. He had to regroup with Jill. He was certain there'd be a way around on the second floor.
He was halfway up the stairs when a gunshot cut through the hush. He froze, his foot hovering above the next step. The noise had come from the west wing, the same door that Wesker and Chris had used. A moment later, the gun barked again in confirmation.
"Shit."
He flew back down the staircase and sprinted to the door. He threw it open and levelled his revolver, searching for the threat.
Wesker was standing in what looked like a Dining Room, over the body of another zombie. It had crumpled to the floor after his first shot. The second had been a coup de grace to the back of the skull, pureeing its brain.
Its filth-caked clothing and bloody hands reminded him of the thing that killed Kenneth. No matter how hard he tried to forget.
The Captain turned and acknowledged him with a nod. "Barry."
He looked back to his victim. Barry growled. His knuckles turned white around Miranda. The thing might have been dead, but there was still a monster in the room.
Now. You wanted answers. Now's the time. Make that son of a bitch sing.
He jabbed the barrel of the pistol into the back of the other man's head. Wesker froze, his every muscle going rigid. Barry's mouth ran dry.
This is a mistake.
"I want answers."
He eased forward the hammer on the gun and then snapped it back again. That noise, that rattling click of precision-crafted parts settling into place, had power. It was a threat. A promise of readiness. A warning that he was only a pull of the trigger away from death. Men crumbled when they heard that noise.
But not Wesker.
His finger hadn't even been on the trigger. It had been a bluff. A stupid, panicked attempt to regain control of his life. The Captain spun around. Barry felt him catch his wrist, lock his index finger, and twist the gun out of his grip. Then he was face-down against the table, Wesker's palm on the back of his head.
"That was ill-advised."
He grunted, trying to force the other man off. It was no use. He was pinned. "What's going on here? You said they'd all be dead by now. You said no one else would have to die!"
Wesker said nothing for a few moments. Barry knew he was looking for the right lie. But just knowing he was lying didn't get him any closer to the truth.
"I underestimated T's capacity for prolonging the lives of its victims."
"Sully was killed by one of those things. That blood's on your hands."
Pain shot up his arm, cutting through his indignation, as the blond adjusted his grip. He didn't even seem to be exerting himself. Barry's face started to burn with the shame. Was Wesker just that good? Or was he really that out of shape?
"Don't test my patience, Barry."
"Where's Chris?"
"We encountered a member of Bravo Team. There was a ... misunderstanding. I ordered him to remain with her until his temporary blindness could be treated. Fortunate. His presence was an inconvenience."
"I'll bet."
"Can I trust that you've regained your senses?"
"Fine, just let me up."
The hold around his arm loosened. He pulled it into his body, massaging muscles that throbbed and joints that were stiff with swelling. Wesker adjusted his sunglasses, as though the rebellion had been nothing but a minor inconvenience.
Barry growled. Here they were, fighting for their lives, and he was acting so goddamn casual. At least anger would have been something. A glimmer of humanity, no matter how slight.
"We have a complication."
Wesker spun the revolver in his hand and returned it to him, grip-first. He tried to take it, but the blond held it tight, locking eyes with him, features stern. When he let it go, it snapped back, the corner jabbing him in the ribs. He winced.
"Another one, huh?" he grunted.
"The custodians of this installation had strict protocols to follow. All sensitive information concerning Umbrella's activities should have been disposed of."
"Let me guess. They dropped the ball, right?"
"I've recovered several documents already, but I'll wager there are more in the east wing and the second building behind the mansion. It's in our best interests to keep those documents out of the hands of our colleagues."
"Because if they learn too much, it'll make them a target too. Yeah, I understand."
"Then I can count on your cooperation?"
He put his head in his hands and blew out a breath. He felt tired, not just in body, but in mind. Maybe weary was the word. He'd have given anything to have the night over with.
All he could do was stick to the plan. Protect his family. Try to keep the others safe. If that meant playing the stooge for a while longer, so be it.
"Whatever you say."
Wesker nodded. "This ordeal will be over soon enough, Barry. Then we can put this whole sordid affair behind us. Don't jeopardise what we've worked for these past months, so close to the end."
-x-x-x-x-x-
There were two doors on the Main Hall's upper east side. He still hadn't quite nailed the geography yet. Still, if he was going to find Jill and the documents Wesker had mentioned, he had to be a fast learner. He picked a door and entered, for better or worse.
The corridor that followed was dark. A warm breeze was filtering in from some unseen aperture ahead. He groped for a light switch. Instead, his fingers brushed a sticky patch on the wall and he recoiled. Even in the dim light, he could make out the stain. He knew it was blood.
And he could see more of it, a trail of gore daubed along the length of the passage.
A shudder ran down his back. In the absence of cold, he knew it had to be dread. He stumbled along the hall, squinting as he waited for his eyes to adjust. He found a doorway lit by a shaft of moonlight, felt the caress of the breeze again, and knew that he'd found a way outside.
Sure enough, as he groped around the frame, he found himself standing on a balcony overlooking the forest. The trees rustled as the wind rocked them back and forth. Their leaves glowed with silver light. In the distance, he could see a streak of grey rising into the sky.
How long had it been since they'd found Bravo's helicopter? He couldn't say, but it felt like an eternity already. And the night was only going to get longer.
He stepped out onto the balcony, following it around the outside of the mansion's second floor. However long the building had been abandoned, the ivy looked like it'd had the run of this place for longer. It was tangled around ornaments and statues, and lay like a thick, leafy carpet over the wrought iron gantry under his feet.
There'd been recent movement. Something had ripped up a path through the vines. Maybe the same thing that had smeared blood across the wall.
There was a skeletal awning over the section of walkway ahead, nothing but a frame. A weave of tendrils shrouded what lay beneath from the moonlight. The shadows there were impenetrable, and he was wary of limited visibility. He didn't want to stumble over a corpse, in case it tried to drag him down and eat him.
He took each step as slow as he could, keeping Miranda trained on the emptiness in front of him. If something jumped out at him, he'd be ready for it.
Or he thought he would be.
The world exploded in a flurry of panicked screams and a noise like overlapping peels of thunder. The darkness surged towards him. He cried out and fell on his backside amid the foliage as it rushed past him. Miranda roared as his finger tightened around her trigger, a spasm of terror taking hold. Feathers scattered everywhere as the crows took to wing and surged skywards. He held his breath as they flew away, only daring to release it once he was certain they weren't going to exact some kind of murderous revenge upon him.
Maybe not everything in that death trap mansion was out to kill him after all.
He pushed himself up, only realising how much his posterior was aching once he was vertical.
He froze when he saw the figure sitting slumped in the corner of the shaded area, where the birds had been gathered. It was dead. He could tell that straight away. The body was covered in small wounds where flesh had been picked from its bones by beak and claw. Ribbons of meat were hanging like loose threads from its arms. On its shoulder, a larger injury gaped, the size of a human mouth.
It wouldn't have been a fatal wound, if it hadn't been for the infection. The disease had killed the sorry son of a bitch stone dead, and then the carrion had descended to eat their fill.
But something else was wrong. Something beyond the obvious. The lank, dark hair. The tactical vest. The gun, like an oversized revolver, lying beside it.
It was Forest. Forest Speyer, Bravo Team's weapons specialist, was the dead man in front of him.
"Oh Jesus." His voice was trembling. This time he just let it.
He leaned in, praying that the resemblance was just a trick of the light. It wasn't. This was another colleague, another friend, dead. Murdered. Eaten.
His eyes had been scraped out. His lower lip had been ripped away. His cheeks had been pecked to tattered shreds. But it couldn't have been anyone but him. He recognised the American flag flying proud on the skin of his right bicep, even now that it had been unravelled.
It was Forest.
He's not dead.
The realisation gripped him like cold fingers curling around the base of his spine. The ice rose up his back, freezing the sweat under his shirt. His body might have been slow on the uptake, but his mind was racing.
The virus. It'll bring him back. The first one of those things was falling apart, for God's sake. There's no way those birds killed him.
His breath caught in his chest. His heart started to ache again. The hand holding his pistol was shaking, a cocktail of adrenaline and nerves turning his body to gelatine.
It's on you now. Do it.
He cocked back the hammer. The noise made his gut flip-flop. Was he really doing this? Was he really pointing a .44 calibre revolver at a friend? Was this what his life had come to?
You killed him. You owe him this.
A throb of pain rushed from his centre and down his arm, filling his fingertips with needles. He tightened his grip on the gun, feeling the barbs constrict under his skin.
He had killed Forest. He'd hidden the truth that might have saved him. He'd sabotaged Bravo's helicopter and left him stranded in the building where he'd met his death.
And now he was going to turn into some kind of mindless creature. Unless he did something about it.
The corpse breathed. Its head turned, rustling the leaves draped around its crown.
Now!
The pistol bucked in his hands. Forest's head snapped back. His skull burst. His brain turned to mist, staining the greenery red. His face collapsed, twisting and distorting like a crumpled Halloween mask. Blood poured from his lipless mouth. He didn't move again.
The echo of the gunshot rolled out over the flats beyond the mansion's walls. Only mournful howls answered.
Miranda slid out of his hands and clattered to the floor. He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, forcing down bile. His eyes were stinging. He rubbed his palms into them, trying to make them stop. They watered under the pressure. He swallowed again. A noise, halfway between a grunt and a sob, escaped him.
He bent down and retrieved his gun, ignoring the dampness on his cheeks. The grenade launcher too. He grabbed it by its strap and hoisted it onto his shoulder.
He needed to get of there. He needed to get away from that body.
And he needed to find the rest of Alpha Team, before anyone else died.
-x-x-x-x-x-