Chapter Four: An Internal Torment
The second door on the main hall's upper level was more promising than the first. There were no bloody smears on the wall, for a start. This time, he felt as though he were one step closer to finding Jill.
He just hoped it wouldn't be too late to stop her from getting herself mixed up in something dangerous.
He'd only made it halfway along the new corridor when he heard gunfire.
-Too late...-
The gun kept barking. Maybe it was wishful thinking, or maybe it was preparing for the worst, but he was sure it was a Beretta. And under that, muffled voices yelling things he couldn't make out. Someone was in trouble.
He rammed a door aside and darted into the next room. The noise grew louder. He was getting closer. But there was nothing here. No zombies. No dogs. No friends.
He kept moving, around the corner, to the next door. His boot found the space beneath the handle and wood splintered. But it stuck. He cursed and kicked it again. This time, the door flew open and banged hard against the wall.
Jill was lying in the middle of the corridor, at the foot of a short flight of steps. Her arms were wrapped around the bulk of a shotgun, half-hidden by her body. There wasn't any sign of what had knocked her down.
He slid onto his knees beside her and rolled her onto her back. His hand cushioned her head, letting it fall to the dusty boards with care. She tried to open her eyes. They were unfocused, like she was trying to look in two directions at once.
The bloody lump at her temple told him everything. She'd taken a fall, from the steps it looked like. It was a concussion. He was almost certain. He had to get her some place safe, give her the chance to shake it off.
But she needed more than just a chance to rest. She needed medical attention. Maybe he could find somewhere to leave her and then come back for her once Wesker's job was done.
"Hang in there, Jill," he said, starting to lift her up in his arms.
And that was when someone screamed.
He'd heard animals make that noise, ones caught in traps or wounded by predators. It was pain and fear, primal and unchecked. He remembered the family dog picking a fight with a fox one night when he was a kid. They'd both made noises like that, and in the morning his Pop hadn't let him out in the yard.
He'd never heard it from a human before.
"Richard," Jill grunted. She was half-conscious. Swimming in and out, it seemed.
Barry's eyes looked to the door at the top of the steps. Had she been talking about Richard Aiken? Bravo Team's comms guy? Was that his scream he'd just heard?
He laid her down on her side, gentle as he could manage. She'd want him to be sure.
He took up Miranda. His boot made short work of another door. Beyond was an attic. Like the balcony, this place had been abandoned to disuse. Dust covered everything and cobwebs hung in thick clumps from the ceiling and beams. Huge funnels and fat globes filled the corners, protecting nests.
There were thick tracks running through the dust on the floor. Something had crushed a stack of wooden crates into splinters and strewn them across the room. Dark patches - he was pretty sure they were blood - were streaked and spattered on every surface. Here and there, he saw 12 gauge shell casings, the kind Jill's shotgun would have used.
-Or Richard's. He had one of those semi-automatics, just like Joe.-
He didn't want to risk wandering into the deeper, darker recesses. Not when there was something in here that could make a man scream like that. "Richard! You in here!"
No one answered. But something moved above.
He looked up. There, hovering above him, was a reptilian snout about as big as he was. One slitted eye glared down at him. The other dribbled watery gore out of its socket. Its tongue flicked out in front of it, spattering him with saliva.
"Holy shit!"
He reeled away. The snake's mouth fell open. Fangs unfolded from inside, dripping venom.
How had he missed it? He'd been looking right at the thing. Maybe it was the way its lustreless scales hid within the mess of webs. Or maybe his eyesight just wasn't what it used to be. Either way, he could see it now, coiled around the beams above, as long as a train.
It hissed, threatening. He was in its territory and it wanted him out.
Wesker had said people might be affected. He hadn't mentioned giant snakes. It was like something out of one of those dumb B-movie creature features. The ones he and Sarah had laughed through at the drive-in all those years ago. Attack of the Thirty Foot Pythons from Mars.
But he wasn't laughing now.
What the hell else had the Captain been wrong about? Had he known anything about what was going on in that mansion?
"Richard! Hey, Richard! Where are you?"
No answer. No cry for help. No scream of pain. Not a grunt. Not a whisper. If Richard was in that attic, he was dead, or unconscious.
-Or lunch.-
The snake hissed again. It reared back, like it was coiling to strike. He moved away, holding his hands out like a man at gunpoint. It was reflex. It wasn't like the thing understood. He only had one option. Get the hell out of the attic and hope the monster liked its dusty little corner too much to follow him.
Richard was gone. Jill wasn't. He had to get his head straight, focus on who he could save. Before he lost them too.
"Damn it," he growled, and then made his retreat, "damn it!"
He slammed the door shut behind him and listened. Another hiss. Muffled movement as the snake did something. He couldn't tell what. Then silence.
He let out a breath. Sweat was beading thick on his forehead. His hand came away dripping and he wiped it on his jacket. The mansion was a hothouse, amplifying the summer heat. Adrenaline didn't help, but at least the danger distracted him. Cold comfort.
Jill was still lying where he'd left her. Her back was pulsing in and out as she breathed, but each movement was sharp and shallow. Her arm was twisted around her torso, like she was gripping it. Maybe she'd bruised ribs when she fell.
He dropped down next to her and scooped her up a second time. "Don't worry, Jill. I've got you."
-x-x-x-x-x-
Jill had done a pretty good job at clearing the halls. There were a couple of zombies lying dead, decapitated, as he followed her path back through the upper floor. All he had to do was step over them. Lucky. He didn't fancy his chances of fighting off an attack while carrying her and her gear.
It took him longer than he would have liked, but he found a bedroom a few corridors away from the attic. All of the other rooms were locked or filthy. This one looked lived in, but it was clean and had something for her to lie on that wasn't the floor.
He laid her down on the bed. That was when he noticed the red on her lower lip. He wiped the smear away on the back of his fingers.
Blood.
Was it internal bleeding? Was that why she'd been holding her chest? Suddenly, moving her didn't seem like such a good idea. What if he'd made it worse?
"Damn it, Jill. You gonna quit on me too?"
Wasn't this place a lab of some kind? Hadn't the people here been doctors before all this happened? Even if there wasn't anyone left who could help her, maybe there were some supplies he could use.
He had to do something.
He brushed a few tangled tresses out of Jill's face. Her brow was pinched, her dreams troubled by pain or nightmares. Her arms were still wrapped around her chest. Whatever he was going to do, he had to do it quick.
He propped the grenade launcher and the shotgun he'd found her carrying against a wooden chair by the door. It was a Remington. An old model, but maintained with love and respect. Well-oiled parts. Polished mahogany grips. Smooth action. Wherever she'd picked it up, it was a good find.
She had pretty good taste in firearms for someone of her age and gender.
The fairer sex didn't have much of an opinion on guns, in his experience. His wife hated them. Moira and Polly didn't care for them. But Jill had an eye for them. Discerning, like an old veteran.
He'd never met a woman quite like her before. She wasn't Sarah, but still, Chris was a lucky man.
-And you're selling them both out. Some friend you turned out to be.-
He flinched. Right now, he didn't need that damning internal monologue storming through his head. Guilty sentiments wouldn't help Jill.
He wouldn't go far, in case she woke up. There was a door opposite the bedroom he wanted to search anyway. Maybe he'd find what he was looking for in there.
The door creaked on stiff hinges as he pushed it open. The smell hit him square in the nose. This time, he didn't stagger, didn't even falter. That stink saturated everything in this place.
Then he heard the noise. The scritch-scratch of a pen. He'd entered a study of some kind, and sitting at the desk was a figure who seemed to be writing.
Its clothing was dark with dirt and blood. Hair was sloughing off its scalp and slithering to the floor down its back in clumps, chunks of flesh still attached. Its fingers were clutching a fountain pen in a deathgrip, and its arm was moving in jerky spasms.
It turned to look at him, swivelling in its seat. The pen's nib ploughed a furrow in the paper. It moaned at him, its hand still twitching.
It was pathetic. Dangerous, but pathetic.
That suited him fine. He sighted along Miranda's barrel and put a .44 slug through its head. Its skull, with its mask of peeling skin stretched over it, blew apart, painting the wall red. Its chair rocked backwards, teetering on its wheels for a single, breathtaking moment, and then toppled over. The decapitated corpse crashed to the floor and lay still.
He breathed a sigh. They were easy enough to kill if you were expecting them. Once the initial shock of seeing a walking cadaver died down, it was just like fighting an ordinary man. A slower, dumber, dirtier man. A man that was trying to eat you.
He shuddered. Maybe that shock hadn't left him just yet.
If there were medical supplies in here, he couldn't see them. But then, he didn't know what he was looking for anyway. He'd been hoping for a satchel with a big, red cross on it, but he'd have been surprised if that was what he'd found.
All there seemed to be was books, weird diagrams, boards with dead insects tacked to them in rows, and an aquarium without any fish. He was about to give up when his eyes settled on the desk. He remembered what Wesker had said about sensitive documents. And about how they could be a threat to the lives of the other STARS.
He looked over the notes. There were textbooks, and sheets and sheets of indecipherable gibberish that looked like they'd been printed from a computer. The police department had started introducing those machines just as he'd been making plans to retire. He'd picked the right time to call it quits, it seemed.
Most of the pages were covered in ink from the zombie's incessant scribbling. It was even smeared across the wood. It was all just one line, a trail he followed back to the source, where the chaos turned to words.
The first page was pristine, devoid of the crazed spirals, loops and jerks that filled the rest. The handwriting seemed normal. The words too.
Alma,
I know you'll never read this. In fact, I know right now you don't even know anything's wrong. I know they'll have told you we're having communication problems here at the lab. You'll have believed them, because I never gave you any reason to think they were liars.
I never told you about my work. I always said it was complicated. That I was changing the world for the better, and I acted like that was all you needed to know. I treated you like an idiot. And because you loved me, you let me. But even if you suspected, and I know you did, I don't think that even in your wildest dreams you could have imagined what I was really doing.
The truth is, we were manufacturing viruses to be used as weapons. It feels insane to be writing that, but it's true. I know it wasn't right, not for the world, not for this country, but I thought I was doing what was right for us. Who cared if a few terrorists and dictators killed one another half a world away with what we created. So long as I could provide for you. I know you wouldn't have wanted it that way.
That's why I lied to you all these years. I used to think I was protecting you. Now I realise I was protecting myself from life without you. I've been such a fool.
We're all infected. Pretty soon I'll be a dead fool. There are men with guns on the perimeter, shooting down anyone who tries to leave. All we can do is let the virus run its course.
Some of the others hatched a plan to escape the facility. I heard that bufoon Jensen talking about releasing his dogs to attack the guards. They don't seem to realise that it's not about us anymore. We're already beyond hope. We're protecting Raccoon City, and the world, now.
The Guardhouse might have an outside line, but that place is probably just as dangerous as here. I should try to reach the lab. Maybe Fae managed to come up with a vaccine. Wouldn't count on it though.
It doesn't really matter. I want to be with you. If I can't have that, any place is as good as another, no matter how comfortable.
I know you'd be ashamed of me for what I've done all these years. Maybe you'd even hate me for lying to you. I hope I know you well enough to know you'd still hold me, and forgive me if I could make amends. I'm just sorry I'll never get that chance.
Forgive me.
I love you.
I love you...
And then, just that. Over and over, repeating. Covering the sheet. Covering all the sheets, until it descended into indecipherable insanity. I love you.
It was a punch to the gut. A reminder that the headless body on the floor had been a human being once. A man, like him, with regrets and guilt resting heavy on his shoulders. A man who loved a woman, who'd do anything for her, and who'd never be able to look her in the eye again.
Barry balled the letter in his fist. His eyes were stinging again. This was getting ridiculous. He blinked, trying to clear his vision and his head. But the question wouldn't be shaken.
-Sarah. Will you forgive me?-
The door handle rattled. Adrenaline flushed through his system, cold needles prickling down his spine. He wheeled around, his aim centring on the room's only entrance as it creaked open. He stuffed the researcher's letter into his pocket and grabbed the gun with both hands.
A beret with a familiar logo appeared, borne up by a face he was only too happy to see. He sagged with relief, easing forward the hammer on his gun and letting Jill enter the room. She was carrying the shotgun. The grenade launcher was resting against her back on its strap.
Her movements were stiff, but aside from the golf ball of swelling just above her right eye, she didn't look any worse for wear.
"You scared the hell out of me, Jill," he said, "you okay?"
She nodded. "I feel like crap. I assume I have you to thank for putting me on that bed?"
"Yeah. Couldn't just leave you lying there. You were banged up pretty bad."
Another nod. She was disoriented, that much was obvious. Nothing left you rattled quite like a head injury. "What happened to Richard? There was this snake in the attic. Must have been twenty, thirty feet long..."
"I saw it," he said.
But he hesitated to tell her the rest. He couldn't count the number of times he'd had to do this during his career. Women who'd lost their husbands in the line of duty. Kids who'd lost their parents. Parents who'd lost their kids. It got easier once you knew the right words. Somehow, it mattered how you said it. It was the difference between sobs and screams, acceptance and anger.
He'd never tried to do it for a friend before.
"But I never saw Richard. I'm sorry, Jill. That thing must have got him."
It wasn't easy to see the pain on her face. She'd liked Richard. Barry had liked him to. Unlike some of the other guys on the team, he'd been a consummate pro. He wouldn't have looked out of place as a part of the Chicago outfit. This mansion had cost another life, and a promising young career with it.
She reached behind her and patted the grenade launcher.
"And does this mean what I think it means?"
He'd have liked to deny it, say he'd never found that ravaged corpse on the balcony. At least, he'd have liked to give her a moment to recover before he presented her with more bad news. But it couldn't wait. "Forest too. Sorry."
Something inside him gave a bitter snort at the idea of him wanting to be honest with her.
Jill sighed. It was like watching her deflate. Her face lost some of its youth. The circles around her eyes seemed to darken, and the lines at their corners deepened. He saw a sliver of himself in that tired face."This is going to break Chris's heart," she muttered.
"Right now, I'm more worried about you," he said. She looked back up at him, confused. "You were spitting blood in your sleep. I think you might have some kind of internal injury."
She frowned, her fingertips brushing her lips. Then comprehension lit her features. "Bit through my tongue. Sorry for worrying you."
"Don't be. You think Chris'd be heartbroken about Forest? That's nothing compared to how he'd be if he lost you."
"Loving someone makes you vulnerable. I know that. I feel it too. If something happened to Chris... I don't know what I'd do."
It was odd to hear that from her. Not that she didn't make it obvious how much she cared for Chris, but it wasn't like her to be so grave. Maybe the horror of the situation was getting to her.
Still, she had it right. How easy had it been for Wesker to manipulate him by threatening Sarah and the kids? Half his age and already she understood.
She smiled. It caught him off guard.
"Guess you know about that already though, right? I mean, you've been married how long? Must be pretty weird hearing a kid like me trying to give you a life lecture."
He chuckled. "That your way of saying I'm an old man?"
"In a loving kind of way." Her face turned serious. She pointed at the chaos on the desk. "What's that?"
He looked back at it, then shrugged with as much nonchalance as he could manage. "Nothing much. Just some poor guy's last will and testament. Not too helpful to us."
Jill glanced at the body lying near his feet. It was strange how quick you became inured to the sight of a corpse. They'd been talking free and easy with it sitting just a few feet away, and hadn't even mentioned it until now.
-Same as the smell, I guess.-
She swept a hand through the papers. He was glad he'd had the wherewithal to stuff the letter in his pocket when he'd had the chance. Glad, and a little ashamed. "Maybe I was right," she muttered.
"About what?"
"About this being something biological. We were working the cult angle, remember? Small groups, possibly with dogs, cannibalistic, carrying trophies to explain the decayed tissue we found on the victims. I pitched to Wesker the idea that the decay was from the perpetrators, not trophies. Some kind of disease that causes necrosis and psychosis hand-in-hand."
"It'd explain the evidence, yeah. But not why the perps were never found. Crazy people aren't so good at evading detection."
"Crazy isn't the same as stupid. But you might be right. If these creatures are the perps we've been looking for, they wouldn't have been able to break into the victims houses and then escape unaided."
Barry nodded, but her train of thought was starting to make him sweat. She said unaided, like they might have had help getting away. Wesker hadn't mentioned Umbrella covering up evidence from the murders, but when he thought about it...
What other explanation was there? The zombies weren't smart enough to attack a residential area and then skulk back into the forest to hide. Not from what he'd seen so far at any rate.
Had the company spirited them away before handing the case over to the R.P.D? The murders themselves would have been too difficult to cover up. Whole families disappearing? Someone would notice.
But the killers vanishing? That was something they could engineer. And it would leave the case unsolvable.
The real question was how much of that did Jill suspect already?
"Wesker mentioned getting in touch with the C.D.C, seeing if they could sent someone to supervise the case. Don't know if he ever managed it."
She lifted a page of lopsided scrawl, smeared with blood and ink.
"If we are dealing with some kind of disease, we'd better hope so. We might all be infected already."
-x-x-x-x-x-
A/N: I'm getting there, step-by-step. This chapter needed a complete second draft after the first didn't pass the Shak Approval Phase. This story's probably going to be about a dozen chapters long, ish. Depends on how many scenes I actually write. Writing on chapter 5 has begun already.
Critique here will be appreciated. I felt there were a couple of bits in this chapter that felt awkward. Please let me know what you think.
Hope everyone enjoys this and continues to follow Barry's (mis)adventures. Thanks go to CJJS for being a dedicated reader and reviewer, and for creating one hell of a story in "A Corrupted Summer". Highly recommended. Extra thanks go to him for helping me fix the stupid error message keeping me from updating.