AN - I combined two chapters into one with this update, but I think it works better this way. It took me quite a while to get the pacing right, hopefully I succeeded ^_^. Next chapter signals the beginning of the climax of the story, and hopefully should be up soon as finals are finally over. Chapter title is from a song by Bullet For My Valentine.
Thank you again to everyone who reviewed: SnipingWolf, tek, Ninja-Gnome, Kenshin13, xSummonerYunax, Sparkle Valentine and xwittychickx. I really appreciate it!
Blindside
Chapter Seven - Scream, Aim, Fire
"You have a choice. Live or die.
Every breath is a choice.
Every minute is a choice."
~Chuck Palahnuik~
August 22, 2003. 9:37pm. Verisanda Technologies, Inner Sanctum Area 1A.
The incessant ringing woke her from a terrible sleep. Sleep? Was that the correct word? Dust touched upon her skin, irritating her sinuses. Voices hummed, their words drowned out by the continuous ring.
"Jill."
Every inch of her body ached, her head throbbing painfully. It was not natural, did not even register on the scale of comfort.
"Is she alright?"
"She's breathing; pulse is strong, pupils responsive. Jill, can you hear me?"
Jill groaned loudly, attempting to lift her head. Surely it had not always been so heavy? But no sooner had she began to push herself upright, hands pulled her into a seated position, before pulling back her eyelids and shining an obscenely bright light directly into her pupils. She batted the hands away, refusing to allow long fingers to press against the skull that already ached something terrible.
Light slowly returned to her world, the voices forming a more substantial sound, full sentences emerging from the buzz.
"Take it easy!" Abramowitz growled, throwing away Tessa's hands as she crawled from Jill's position on the floor to test the strength of his shoulder. "You already fixed it."
And every sense rushed back at once, hitting her with the full force of clarity.
"Now that we've ascertained that everyone is in one p-piece," Donny attempted to say, deep shuddering breaths tearing apart his words. "What the fuck just happened?"
"How long was I out?" Jill asked, ignoring his seemingly absurd question. The light above their heads swung loose from its fixture, trolleys that had evidently once been upright now flat against the floor, their contents strewn across the tiles. They could have been in the middle of a hospital ward, so familiar was the décor.
"Not long," Tessa answered as she once again began to poke her particularly sensitive skull. "A matter of seconds rather than minutes. How do you feel? Any nausea? Do you remember what happened?
"Move out!"
"Wait!" she cried, reaching to grip Leon's arm, as though to somehow reinforce her point.
Leon sighed, evidently not wishing to exert his power over her one more time.
"Give me one more chance," she begged. "I can do this."
"Jill, it wasn't-" he began, but was cut off by her sudden confidence.
"Something buckled, Leon," she pressed. "Something gave under the picks. I can still break this lock. Do you really want to add more hours to the mission? Something is out there, you heard- You heard it cut them down. I can do this."
His dubious expression did not falter as he turned to the other members of the team. Each face was as uncertain as the last, hoping that the mission would end sooner rather than later and they would be able to learn of the fates of their comrades.
How could he deny them that?
"You have one minute," he told her. It was a small time frame, even for Jill's expertise. But while her confidence in herself had faltered as of late, her confidence in her abilities was never lacking.
She set to work immediately, retrieving fallen picks from the floor. She could feel the pin that had slipped, firmly in place as it had been before. But something felt strange; something niggled at her sense of how things should have been. She dared to test the pin, and it did not react to the pressure she applied.
"Thirty seconds," Leon reminded her.
She worked quickly, retracing every step, progressing as she should until finally...
"Access granted."
"And I'm that good," she gloated, relieved that she had stayed true to her word.
"Alright," Leon laughed, the smile that he wore rippling throughout the group. "Don't get too cocky now."
She smiled weakly, chewing on her bottom lip. They were one step closer to their destination, but what of Bravo? There was a numb core to her heart that refused to reveal its emotion. She assumed that it was her natural defences, remnants of the Jill Valentine she knew she should have been in that moment. She did not need psychological defences to separate her emotion from her working mind. Yet there it was, this cold little shell.
"For what it's worth, I think he's an ass too," Tessa laughed, misreading her expression as she slapped her amicably on the shoulder.
There was a sudden pressure that built in her sinuses, every hair on her body standing to attention. She barely had time to react to the impending sense of danger before the sound hit. Sharp, quick; like the bang of a firecracker magnified several times. Then...more, firing in rapid succession, the volume increasing with every crack. The final assault shook the very walls, and she found that her feet were no longer touching the ground. Air rushed past, the thick steel of the door she had only just stepped through looming every closer.
Pain exploded in her head, flaring for a brief second before...darkness.
"I feel fine," she assured the medic. "My ears are ringing, but I think I can safely say we all have that problem."
She watched in concern as Cavanaugh pressed a finger into his ear, shaking his head gently. Leon's eyes were closed, a look of mild irritation on his face. The last explosion had been loud, forceful and she was willing to bet that a large chunk of the facility was now absent.
"Fuck, my head hurts," she groaned.
"I'm not surprised," Tessa laughed, finally dropping her hands to her side. "You must have one hell of a hard skull; that was a pretty nasty knock."
"Base, do you copy?" Leon called, raising his voice above the silent tone. "Come in. Shit."
Jill pressed her earpiece hard into the tough skin of her ear, listening intently for the fizz of static. As she expected, there was nothing; no amount of hammering the buttons that lined the smooth black device could connect her to HQ.
Somehow, she found herself succumbing to the sickening sense of familiarity.
"Miller, give me your radio," Leon ordered, frustration now showing in the frown that had seized his expression. "Base, do- What the fuck is going on?"
Jill reached for the broken radio, knowing that she was the only member of the team who had any chance of understanding what was wrong with the device. Her vision drifted in and out of focus, the room seeming to quake around her as she searched for a view that did not make her insides turn inside out.
"Do you think Bravo-" Donny began, but shied away as all eyes turned in his direction. "Never mind."
She flicked every available switch on the device in her hands, reverting to the state of an annoyed technophobe; truly, she was mere moments away from bashing it against the wall just to see what happened.
"I think it's safe to say that the mission is a failure," Abramowitz announced. "I'm sure the orders would be to retreat."
Jill looked back to the door that separated them from the ruins that lay beyond. The way back was likely blocked, the way forward likely leading to a dead end.
'This does not make sense...we should have been in that corridor. That bomb wasn't meant to trap us; it was meant to kill us.'
And suddenly the chill that settled upon her skin had not a thing to do with the malfunctioning air conditioning unit that rained sparks onto the tiled floor. Her mind may not have been clear, but she could see the situation for what it was; a set-up. Someone knew they were coming, and they did not want to leave any survivors.
She knew better than to assume that the rigged hallway had been the end of their plan. These were Umbrella's remains; dirtier, more disorganised but dripping the same quantities of venomous malice.
"How are you holding up?" Leon asked, crouching to her position in the ruse of examining her injury himself. His fingers were far gentler than Tessa's had been, more considerate to the pain he likely empathised with.
His words had referred to the situation with Bravo, she knew this, and she wished that he were capable of reading a little deeper than surface level.
"Not too good," she admitted. Now was not the time for lies. "But we need to get out of here before we can worry about them."
Leon nodded knowingly, and for a moment she witnessed the same pain in his expression. Because the truth was that emotion could never be pushed aside, not truly. Had Chris merely been her friend, she would have worried about him with the same agonising desperation. Had he been little more than a teammate, concern would have prevailed. Because a life was a life, no matter the emotional tag she placed upon it.
"Leon, I'm concerned," she voiced, casting these thoughts aside. "Look at this."
She held the small radio before him, signalling with the thumb of the hand that held it to a small green light.
"So the battery is still running?" he shrugged, failing to see the importance in her display.
"No," she sighed. "I worked on communication for a little while in S.T.A.R.S. and...my friend Brad taught me a thing or two before..."
The pause was involuntary. Even after all these years it was difficult to speak of her old friends to someone who had not known them as she did.
"These devices are old; the light refers to the strength of the signal. If there is no light, there's no signal."
He seemed to discern her meaning at long last, expression falling deathly serious.
"The signal is strong, Leon, and if you listen..." She flicked a switch on the top panel, and a low, jittery whine spiralled out. "I heard that exact same noise over Richard Aiken's radio when we were trapped in the grounds of the Arklay Mansion. The radio is working perfectly fine, but the signal is being blocked."
There was no need for her to continue her explanation; Leon knew exactly what she meant and took the news quite well, she noted.
"Then Claire was right," he breathed. "Shit..."
August 22, 2003. 9:40pm. BSAA Temporary Headquarters. El Paso, Texas.
The rumours spread too quickly for her to pick any gossip from the grapevine. Whisperings were all she heard, muted conversations and sympathetic glances that were sent her way. Nobody trusted her, and she had accepted that this would be the case, but it was steadily becoming more than a minor pain in the ass.
"Parker!" she called as she jogged up behind an agent who seemed to be in far too much of a hurry. Quick steps and a fast pace always meant that they had somewhere to be; individuals in this situation were far more likely to offer up information than a stationary soldier.
"Sorry, Redfield, I'm a little busy at the moment," he told her, waving her off with an uncaring hand.
"I don't care!" she growled, voice rising a little higher than she had intended. She had always fought her temper, so afraid of becoming her volatile brother, but this was an occasion when she knew her best option was to ride the beast and point its anger in a useful direction. "Nobody around here is saying a damn thing to me. I want answers!"
Parker continued his journey, but offered her at least a little of his attention. Her temper had a knack of bringing about such a change in attitude.
"Bravo were ambushed by bioweapons," he explained hastily. "Moments later, half the facility disappears; Alpha along with it. We have one confirmed fatality on Bravo, Alpha are presumed KIA."
The words she had prepared to speak next froze in her throat, her legs continuing to move despite the line between muscle and brain being brutally severed. It was a harsh blow, but she did not feel it as she should; the wound was numb around the edges, hiding reality behind a sheet of frosted glass.
"So, if you don't mind-"
"The fatality," she interrupted, wanting answers while the book was still open. "Who- Who was it?"
Did she honestly want to know the answer?
"Gregory Cavanaugh," Parker replied, impatience now setting in. "As far as we know, Hillary Jones is a casualty and the others are fine. At least, that was the story before the lines went dead."
"Dead? How?"
This time, Parker stopped in his tracks, premature wrinkles prominent as he frowned.
"Miss Redfield, remember your place," he reminded her, not caring to be friendly about it. "The only reason you are allowed to set foot in this base is because your brother allowed for it."
Ordinarily, she would have chased him down as he walked away and verbally assaulted him for his insult. But there was not an ounce of anger left within her and all she could do was sway on the spot as he left, reaching for a nearby window frame when her balance became unsteady.
'They're alive,' she told herself. 'He's alive. He's not Steve. He's older, more experienced...and Jill is with him!'
But it was entirely possible that Jill had also perished. Then what? Age and experience did not factor into danger as they knew it; skill was irrelevant, Sherry Birkin had taught her that much. When survival rested on nothing more than dumb luck, where did one look to in the search of hope? Live or die, place your bets...everyone has an equal chance of either.
As tears welled in the corners of her eyes, she reached for her cell phone. Tears solved nothing; action at least could relieve the symptom.
"Blackwell?" she sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand. "Please give me some good news."
The silence at Blackwell's end spoke volumes.
"He missed check-in, Claire," she explained. "We lost contact twenty-four hours ago."
'If something good were to happen, now would be the time...'
"We think his position may have been compromised," Blackwell continued.
"No. No, something happened. Have you heard from the BSAA?"
Soft, ironic laughter sounded down the line. Somehow, it brought the ghost of a smile to her lips; Blackwell always succeeded in soothing her nerves, even when she herself was unaware.
"Nothing you haven't told us," she sighed. "You know they like to keep us 'activists' in the dark."
Claire smiled, having just experienced the physical aspect of the blackout the BSAA had imposed upon them. If it weren't for Chris's position, her current assignment would have been nigh on impossible to complete.
'I guess the only way of knowing of his death is the revocation of my privileges,' she thought morbidly.
Her lips parted to breathe a reply, but suddenly a hand clasped to her cell, disconnecting the call before she could protest. She turned, swinging an arm before her as she had learned in her brother's rather unorthodox self defence lessons. But the stranger anticipated her move and caught her wrist with a strong hand...a strong, tanned hand.
"Carlos?"
Carlos raised a finger to his lips and suddenly she fell silent. He released her wrist as he gestured to follow him into a nearby empty room. Perhaps ignoring her instincts, she followed and stepped aside as he checked the hallway one final time before closing the door behind him.
"Aren't you supposed to be catatonic on a beach in Cuba?" she asked bitterly, annoyed that a conversation with a friend had been cut short.
"Puerto Rico, actually," he corrected. "But hello, nice to see you, it's been so long."
She rolled her eyes at the sarcasm in his voice.
"You were going to reveal information to an outside source?" It was a rhetorical question but she felt compelled to answer anyway.
"She works for Terra Save," she explained. "We have a contact-"
"I know," he let her know. Irritation rose by the second and she did not know how many more she could spend in his company. Why did his sudden appearance annoy her so? They had parted on good terms, had even exchanged several emails over the year apart. But he was always Jill's friend, never hers. She liked him, but her brother's hostility towards him was contagious. It was silly, really, hating a man because of his historic attraction to her brother's girlfriend. Perhaps it was the fact that he would blatantly flirt with Jill in front of Chris, and would make no secret of his attraction to her? If this reason was true, it was truly ridiculous; Carlos would be the first to admit that he no longer felt for Jill that way. It was Redfield reasoning, and she was not one to question it.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
It appeared to be an embarrassing subject and he averted his eyes from hers as he spoke.
"This Major guy they are hunting...they believe he was in Raccoon during its final days," he explained. "As an ex-UBCS soldier, they figured I was the best person to advise on this case. Evidently they did not do their research."
"Unpaid and expended?" she asked with a smile. Carlos laughed.
"Ouch, chica," he chuckled. "I know of the names and backgrounds of several high-level Umbrella employees; people we were ordered to help evacuate. Some are dead, others in jail...but a few are still out there somewhere. But, they kicked me out not too long ago, won't breathe a word of what has happened. I had to find out from the janitor, of all people. I guess we're in the same boat now...suspects."
"Suspects?" she protested. "I never worked for Umbrella! I've spent the last five years fighting-"
"Whoa, simmer down! It's simple; they don't know who to suspect, so as always their attentions are turning to the outside. There is the ex-Umbrella employee - as you continue to remind me - and there is the activist who has had more dealings with Umbrella than half the staff here combined. Honestly, I would suspect me. In your case, I think they're clutching at whatever they can find."
She had not looked at it this way; she was an outsider in this world, and the guilty party rarely looked within.
"I agree with you," Carlos told her. "Something is not right. But if I were you I would keep all that you know to yourself, otherwise you may end up inadvertently adding to the problem, or worse."
And then she felt her composure faltering. How could she keep silent, knowing what had happened?
Were they even doing anything to help them? Had she any less sense, she would have travelled to the facility herself and stormed the perimeter. She doubted that she would get far, but at least she would have tried.
Carlos' hand moved to her shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly as she allowed her head to fall.
"They're alright," he assured her. "This is nothing they haven't dealt with before."
But she knew that he was wrong. They had always had help; they had never struggled through alone.
"You saved Jill's life in Raccoon," she pointed out. "If it weren't for-"
"Don't think like that," he warned. He knew all too well where these thoughts often led. "I found a serum and I injected it; I barely did anything. Trust me, she saved my ass many more times. I'm still trying to make it up to her."
The hostility she had previously felt towards him drifted away with this admission. Because no matter how hard she tried to hate Carlos, she always arrived at the conclusion that he was a genuinely nice guy, and would bend over backwards for his comrades in the same way that the others would. She felt that she offered him an apology, but the genetic pride imbued deep within her refused such an act of penance.
"Having said that...I think I was wrong," he admitted, hand dropping lifelessly from her shoulder. He appeared as worn-out as she felt, stretched too thin despite being trusted with so little. "These failures, they...they are not the impulsive actions of a mad scientist; whoever planned this must have military knowledge of some sort. I figured... To be honest, I don't know what I think anymore."
Claire grimaced, knowing that an ex-military whack job was equally as likely to pose a serious threat as a disgruntled scientist with several experimental viruses up his sleeves.
All so could do for now was hope, but for what, she did not know.
August 22, 2003. 10:00pm. Verisanda Technologies, East Wing.
The clap of footsteps echoed throughout the empty corridor. It was a short walkway, breaking off only into rooms of varying degrees of worrying calibre. It became obvious that the facility had been vacated, the only blemishes upon sterile tiles those that transferred from the feet of Officer Jones.
Connolly gripped her firmly, DeChant a little more concerned about hurting her. Connolly knew in the back of his mind that he should not have moved her, but was faced with no other choice. If she moved, she risked further blood loss but if she remained as she was she would have bled out anyway; at least this way, there was a chance of survival.
"Alicia..." she whispered. A gasp, barely a breath upon the clanging tones of nothingness, but it carried with the same insistence as a blast from an air horn.
Chris turned, caught off guard by her sudden utterance. She had been so silent until now. Connolly shook his head gravely in response to the questioning look he received; she was losing far too much blood.
"Hang in there," he told her. It was futile, really; she could not hear him through her own thoughts.
What would she hang on for? He had no idea where he led them, and the radio had fallen deathly silent a while ago. It was obvious that they were on their own and he had never felt so damn lost.
'It's a lot better than where Alpha are at right now.'
He cursed inwardly, thrusting the thought aside. Every time he considered their fate, an unsettling numbness settled into his chest. He thought of Leon, and the arm he would have likely thrown out to push her aside...and of course, there was the woman herself. Over and over again, Jill's death played out in his mind. A different angle, a different possibility, but all equally as crippling.
'You don't know that they are dead,' he continued to remind himself. 'They know better than to walk into an obvious trap.'
Because that was what it had been, pure and simple. Someone had tried to eliminate both teams. They had failed with Bravo, and he was sure as hell they had failed with Alpha. At least, he pretended to be sure. Truthfully, he had never before held so much doubt in his mind.
"Do you hear that?"
He had heard nothing above the roar of his thoughts, but Connolly's words hammered home reality and his mind was once again back in the moment. It was there, barely on the edge of perception; a sound akin to a rat pulling the skin from a smaller rodent.
"Big rats..." Chris muttered beneath his breath. With a sudden swipe of the hand, he motioned for Connolly to remain and DeChant fell to his side. Whatever was out there, Hillary was in no condition to face it. In all honesty, he was unsure that he would be fit to face it.
The corridor was empty, though cluttered. Trolleys lay horizontal against the floor, paperwork scattered across every surface. The walls remained the same sterile white they had been immersed in for the last several lengths of tiled floor, clinical excellence taken to the next extreme. But something stained the tiles beneath the carpet of paper, something that squelched beneath his boot.
DeChant kicked aside several leaves, exposing the stained tiles beneath. Crimson. That was never a good sign.
Movement was caught in the corner of his eye and Chris stood to attention, weapon trained on what he could not yet see. The position of scattered artefacts blocked the far end of the corridor from view, enough to force the hair on his arms to rise involuntarily when the sound that had previously pervaded the atmosphere ceased.
He recognised all the signs, did not need to wait for the stench to hit them before he was forced to accept the inevitable.
Truly, it had been expected. He had simply hoped this time that he had been wrong in his pessimistic assumption.
The researcher pulled himself wearily to his feet, the remains of his victim still coating his chin. It by no means resembled the creatures in Spencer's Arklay mansion or indeed those that had roamed the grounds of the Caucasus facility. Little flesh had decayed from this being, and for all intents and purposes it still appeared to be human, albeit one with a hell of a hangover. Detachment was far more difficult in these instances; where did the monster end and the man begin?
Chris fired.
There was nothing left of the researcher inside his shell, only primitive instincts driven by a virus; an inanimate shell powered only by biological function. There was no soul behind glazed eyes. The researcher had died long before they had arrived.
But still, seven words came to him moments before the man at his side chose to speak them.
"What the hell is going on here?"
August 22, 2003. 10:20pm. Verisanda Technologies, Control Room.
He quickly regretted confining the cleaners to the main body of the facility. The scientist had left behind quite a mess and the mercenaries were worse cleaners than they were fighters. Mess generally did not concern him, but he still held the intention of rolling out the red carpet and he would have preferred it not be made of blood.
"Awaiting your orders, sir," saluted the mercenary at the door. Of course, they could not function without him. It was better for the organisation if they had no mind of their own, yet it proved irritating on far too many occasions.
"Are you ready?" he asked. There was only one answer he would hear; even if it had been a lie, he knew they were too afraid to respond in the negative.
"Affirmative," the mercenary confirmed. "Locked, loaded and ready to move out."
He hummed in mild approval. Because honestly, he did not care what happened to them after this point. His escape route was secure, and they would only get in the way. It was likely he would have to put a few of them down just to speed progress.
She stepped again onto the screen, her shoulders poised at a more confident angle this time. He did not like confidence. Confidence often nurtured misguided hope, and he wanted none of that. He offered mercy only in the form of a bullet, but even this was not on the table. There had been too much deviation from the original plan; from here on out he would stick to the schedule and hope her screams weren't too jarring. After all, his hearing was not as it once was.
"You still intend to proceed?" the mercenary asked, surprising him with his sudden bold move. "I mean...with all due respect, sir, it is an awfully large risk for one person."
The point had occurred to him, but this would go his way as everything else often did.
"This is personal," he pointed out. "Besides, the mouse is already caught in the trap; why not toy with it before putting it out of its misery? Entertainment is so difficult to come by these days."
The mercenary let out a dubious chuckle.
"What about the others?"
He looked to another monitor and frowned. He had underestimated the abilities of the others. But of course, this was Chris Redfield. He scrutinised the face that gazed despondently into the distance, the flicker of something familiar flashing across his expression.
He turned to the previous screen and familiarity struck again.
"It seems that the mice travel in pairs now," he laughed. "When will they ever learn?"
Worry. It was an unfamiliar emotion to him but he could detect it upon the features of the two agents, rooms apart but together in thought. They were a couple if he ever saw one; lovers, companions, whatever way it was phrased.
'Things just got interesting,' he chuckled inwardly. Emotions were a wonderful thing. They bound two individuals in a way that physical restraints never could. There were even those who would beg for death rather than allow their loved ones to suffer. But what if they had no choice? To know of suffering and of one's helplessness to stop it...that was the greatest form of torture.
"Sir?"
"Let's speed things up," he coughed. "I am becoming anxious. Let them go."
"S-sir, are you-?"
"Yes, now go before I tire of your presence."
August 22, 2003. 10:21pm. Verisanda Technologies, East Wing.
The sounds had ebbed into silence hours ago, but still he dared not explore. It had taken him the better part of an hour to find the courage to crawl from the locker into which he had neatly packed himself, and even then it had been to crawl to the supply closet to arm himself with whatever was available. Short of ammonia and a mop, there was nothing of use.
He still brandished the mop, clutching it to his chest as though it were his lifeline. But what good would it do, really? These creatures were strong, and they were relentless. If they wanted to peel the flesh from his bones, a flimsy mop sure as hell was not going to stop them.
Footsteps echoed out in the hallway. He knew that retreating to one of the laboratory rooms was a bad idea. There were many places into which he could fold his body, but only two doors; it was so easy to be ambushed. They may not have been intelligent, but there were enough of them to pose a serious problem when encountered en masse.
The only chemicals that remained in the room were those that had caused the problem in the first place...and cleaning fluids. He already felt ridiculous with his mop.
"Are you sure-"
"No, but do you have any better ideas?"
Hushed voices were audible next, which was strange because the dead did not speak. Finding courage in a confused moment, he shuffled to the edge of the unit he had crouched behind and glanced at the door as it slowly opened. Black feet struck white tiles, two dragged rather than moving of their own accord.
'Should I say something?' he wondered. After all, they could be his men. He did not know who to trust anymore.
"Wait a minute," spoke one voice, deep and masculine. He was American, just like him; the mercenaries were mostly foreign. "Who's there?"
He had barely made a sound, how did-
He looked up and swore beneath his breath. Having failed to judge the height of his weapon, the mop head was visible above the surface of the unit.
'How have I survived this long?' he asked himself.
"Don't shoot!" he pleaded, pushing the mop aside before rising to his feet with hands in the air. "Please, I-"
Three men stood before him, a heavily injured women hanging from the neck of the man he assumed to be the team medic. These were not mercenaries, looked far too lost to be involved.
"Wait!" he exclaimed suddenly. "You're the BSAA?"
The foremost man turned to look at his comrades, weapon held stubbornly before him. There was something familiar about his eyes, though what exactly it was eluded him. A look of confusion spread across the man's features and suddenly everything made sense.
"Thank God," he muttered. "I thought you were never going to- Mike, Mike Norton, I'm-"
"Terra Save's contact," acknowledged a man he thought to have just a little less hair than his father. "I'm a little surprised that you're still alive, to be honest."
Mike attempted a chuckle but achieved only a weak smile. He may still be alive, but the question of whether or not he - or any of them - would make it out of there in the same condition had yet to be answered.
"Please tell me you know your way around?" asked the foremost man again, finally lowering his weapon. And suddenly, the reason for his familiarity struck Mike like an anvil.
"Chris Redfield, right?" he asked. "You have the same eyes as your sister. Reluctant though I am to admit this, my knowledge of the layout of this facility is irrelevant for the most part. There is one straight path to the main entrance hallway, but this path also happens to be where the majority of the infectees are gathered. I was...moving towards the rear exit, through the warehouse. It's the only way-"
"The back entrance is off limits," Chris notified him. "The cages sprung; we barely made it out of there in one piece."
He could tell from the hidden emotion in the eyes of this man that he held only mistrust towards him. Mike did not blame him; he would have reacted the same had their roles been reversed. But he cared not if he was not extended unearned trust, his only concern remaining with finding a way out and reuniting with his family. This was a favour he never should have obliged.
"What happened here?" asked Chris, and Mike shrugged in reply.
"The virus got out," he explained, stating the obvious. "Everything went downhill as soon as the major arrived. Something tells me it wasn't an accident."
"Is he still here?" asked the bald man. He should have expected a round of twenty questions.
"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe, maybe not. Everything surrounding his arrival was hushed up; we weren't even given information about the man himself. All I know is that he is European and gained favour within the ranks of Umbrella during their final days. That description fits a lot of ex-Umbrella employees. The loyalists emerged when every other employee deserted them."
Chris nodded slowly as he took in this new information. Something distracted him, but Mike dared not ask any questions of his own. He needed these soldiers to help him escape with his life and they needed him if they stood any chance of making it out on their own two feet and not in pieces in a body bag.
"Oh God, no..."
He had almost forgotten about the woman. Suddenly seized by uncontrollable tremors, the medic was forced to lower her to the ground before she wriggled from his grasp. Her eyes were wide and wild, fear of the purest form etched into fading blue irises.
"No!" she screamed, pinned down only by the medic's strong hands. Many wounds punctured her pale skin, but none bled despite their severity. As though by reflex, Mike dropped to her side and placed a hand against her forehead. She was feverish, body beginning to convulse as she cried out in pain. He could see that the tissue of one badly mangled ankle had begun to change colour, and the faint smell of almonds was perceptible as he leaned close. He had seen this before...
"You know she's infected, right?" he asked. Chris turned his eyes from him, expression falling instantly. It was evident that the thought had crossed his mind, but he was unwilling to accept the possibility.
"Is there anything you can do?" asked the medic, pulling an ampoule from his pack.
"You can put that away," Mike sighed. "Antibiotics won't help. How long ago was she attacked?"
"Almost an hour."
"Shit," Mike breathed. "With the extent of her wounds, her chances are slim. Multiple bites are essentially multiple doses of the virus; the more bites, the quicker it affects the host. The flesh of her left ankle is already showing signs of necrosis. There isn't-"
"Raccoon City," Chris interjected suddenly, crouching down to his level. His mere presence was intimidating and suddenly Chris's trust was the one thing in the world he wished to gain in that moment; better to be trusted than suspected, especially where a man of his strength and reputation was concerned. "Jill Valentine was infected in Raccoon City, and she was administered a serum that suppressed the virus within her system, effectively curing her. Umbrella manufactured this serum, surely you-"
"It was a prototype serum," he sighed. He had read the report, had even enquired about the serum upon joining the unscrupulous ranks of Verisanda. "The Raccoon team had been working on it for decades, and all data pertaining to this 'cure' were lost along with the rest of the city. As far as my analysis of the report is concerned, Valentine did not display any signs of necrotic tissue; if she had, amputation would likely have been unavoidable. What she described - the smell of rotten flesh - was an olfactory hallucination, brought on by the fever induced by the virus. Once the necrotic process extends beyond a small cluster of cells, it is irreversible. Valentine was lucky, that is all."
He thought long and hard about this. There were some prototypes he had been working on, but none had proved successful. There were a couple of samples that had yet to be tested, but he could not inject them directly when he did not know of their effect.
Given the circumstances, was this a risk that was beneficial to take? She was certain to die if they did nothing. This, at least, was something.
"I may be able to help," he voiced. "I can't guarantee anything, but it's better than nothing."
"Do it," the girl pleaded, catching the end of the conversation. "Please...just...make it...stop."
"How much time do we have?" asked Chris.
He did not know. Truthfully, he did not believe that there was much hope.
"The Raccoon serum was apparently developed with the intention of reversing a little of the damage caused by the virus," he explained. "Which is why it suppressed the virus rather than destroy it completely; it used its own mechanisms against it. I worked on the same principles whilst attempting to manufacture a new cure. That may alleviate the gangrene developing in her ankle, if not then we need to get her to a hospital quickly if there is any chance of avoiding amputation. This is assuming that the cure works; as I said, it is still in the early stages of development. Traditionally, the effects of the virus are reversible up until the point where the fever breaks. After this, infection is impossible to control, and the body is too damaged to survive independently of its influence."
"In other words, we need to hurry?" Chris asked, sarcasm dripping from his words. Mike felt as though he could smile, but the situation called for a sombre state of mind. He knew the effects of the T-virus, knew of the horrifying nature of the transformation.
He did not envy that poor girl.
August 22, 2003. 11:03pm. Verisanda Technologies. Inner Sanctum, Area 3L.
The creature fell against the tiled wall, falling into the resultant splatters of its own blood. Jill did not know how she had wound up leading the team once again, but here she was, working at the point. The others followed her obediently, too scared to break formation.
"You think that's all of them?" Tessa asked nervously.
"No," Jill admitted. "So we should hurry."
Another 'why?' that continued to niggle was the why of the continuation of the mission. Rather than evacuate and head for the nearest exit, they journeyed further and further into the centre of the facility, towards the control room that would give them greater control of the facility.
Leon had claimed that it was nothing they had not handled before, and the priority of the mission was great enough to cover the associated risk. Jill concurred, but could not help but wonder if the opportunity to discover what had happened to Bravo factored into her decision to progress. She hoped that they would be at the checkpoint on time.
The infectees did not pose much of a problem. They were slow, and despite their strength were deceptively easy to disable. A single shot to the head, no need for wasted ammo. She did not dwell on the nature of infection; it was characteristic of Umbrella to infect a facility they knew would soon be raided without a thought for employees in mind.
No sooner had the infectee's body slid lifelessly to the floor, another could be heard, though from which direction Jill could not discern. The others glanced around, Donny and Leon spinning around to cover the area to their rear. Flesh scraped against tile, deep breaths audible from seemingly every direction.
"Where is it?" Abramowitz muttered. Jill dared not breathe a guess.
Then, a hiss permeated the tension, deep and guttural, hitting each and every nerve capable of sensation. She felt Leon freeze behind her, his elbow carelessly knocking hers.
"Oh God..." he exhaled.
Something detached from the high ceiling above them; a large red form that crashed into Tessa. Jill could hear flesh tear as she cried out, blood spilling onto the otherwise spotless floor tiles. They fired before they could identify the assailant, round after round pummelling into thick flesh. Jill holstered her weapon, seizing the opportunity to drag Tessa out from beneath the creature. Blood coated her hands, but she could see that the medic's injuries were superficial at best. In fact, before her wounds had opportunity to be inspected, she had pulled free her own weapon and fired several screaming shots into the exposed parietal tissue of the brain.
In a deafening display of relinquished life, the creature collapsed, tongue lolling out from between disturbingly human teeth.
"Fuck!" Tessa screamed, pressing a hand to the incisions on her upper arm. "Lickers? Where the fuck did they come from?"
Leon kicked the rear leg of the creature but it remained still and silent. But somewhere in the distance, another hiss could be heard, screeching through the silence of the hallway.
"Did we really think that would be it?" she asked upon witnessing Leon's horrified expression.
The attack came from both sides, and suddenly there were simply not enough weapons to provide an adequate defence. A razor-sharp tongue darted past Jill's leg, the appendage ripping the fabric of her fatigues but leaving skin gratefully intact. Another flew towards her, deflected only by a hail of bullets from Abramowitz's weapon.
"Come on," he urged, gripping the collar of her uniform to drag her backwards into an empty laboratory room. Rodents of varying sizes squealed in their cages, gunfire continuing to erupt behind them.
"Leon!" she called out, recognising that they were not being followed as they should have been.
"Get out of here!" she heard him call. "We'll rendezvous later. Go!"
She did not think to argue his command. Falling in line behind Abramowitz, she reloaded, slinging the MP5-A3 she carried on her back into a better position. The P8s seemed to have very little effect on the lickers other than to piss them off. Fortunately, the adjoining corridor appeared to be empty, though she knew not to take her surroundings at face value.
The facility appeared to have a rather simple layout; many corridors adjoining several smaller rooms that were evidently utilised in experimental procedures. As a result, most rooms led on to one another and most corridors connected eventually. It was impossible to outrun anything because there were simply too many shortcuts.
"Clear," Abramowitz called.
"Clear," she agreed, seeing nothing of concern to the south end of the corridor. "If we wind around to 3F we can come up behind-"
Abramowitz followed her suddenly diverted gaze, staring fearfully down the North end of the corridor before shrugging. It was likely an infectee; they were easy to dispatch.
"It's times like these we really need backup," he sighed with an attempted smile. "Are you alright?"
"Thanks to you," she smiled. It pleased her to see a sense of camaraderie in a unit that was essentially in the early stages of finding its feet.
Again, a muffled scrape of flesh against floor. It was much too slow to be a licker, too slow to even be an MA model. It was definitely merely an infectee. She shouldered her weapon, unintentionally taking a step closer to her comrade.
"Don't they ever stop?" he growled.
Then suddenly, she found that she gazed at the ceiling. She was unsure what exactly had hit her, only that the ground appeared to have been pulled from beneath her unsuspecting feet. Gunfire sounded above her, Abramowitz stepping forward, no doubt to provide cover until she could find her feet.
"What the fuck-" he began, cut short when his weapon suddenly clattered by Jill's slowly rising form. She made to reach for it, but was pulled roughly to her feet, the powerful firearm forgotten as she was dragged towards the south end of the corridor - away from a possible way to the others.
Something had spooked him, that was for sure, and though it was common sense to know your enemy, she chose to sprint for the door that loomed ever closer rather than take a moment to investigate their assailant. As expected, the lock was engaged. They had accumulated several key cards through their journey, but Leon carried them all. She did not doubt that she would be able to disengage the lock, but it would take time and t did not seem as though they were in possession of such a luxury.
"Come on!" she screamed, bashing her fingers furiously against the electronic keypad.
And then, Abramowitz was gone.
"Kirk?" she whispered, knowing that she would not agree with whatever sight lay behind her.
Then, he reappeared, smashed violently against the doorframe. All she felt able to do was scream, and watch helplessly as something thick, bulbous and vaguely reminiscent of a hand pressed against his skull. He ripped at the flesh with his fingernails and somehow, she succeeded in pulling her knife from her boot, slashing away at sinewy tendons as soon as she had the chance.
His body jerked, and the knife fell from her grasp. Over and over again, his body slammed against the metal frame, bones breaking from the force of the impact. She heard his skull crack beneath the pressure of the oversized appendage, could do nothing but watch in horror as bloodstained fragments of his cranium broke the skin, until his head resembled little more than a battered papier-mâché project.
It was as his broken body fell to the floor that she found the courage to turn.
She had seen nothing quite like it in the five years she had fought bioterrorism. It had once been human, that she did not doubt, but no skin remained on its bloated body, flesh seeming to melt to bone. The left arm had atrophied, leaving nothing but a wrinkled mass of muscle. The right...it trailed across the floor, back to where the creature's body stood over four meters away. With no eyelids or lips, its expression seemed twisted in a permanent sneer.
Before she felt able to react, her form was suddenly slammed against the door, long, thick fingers sliding across her skull. The pressure was immeasurable, pain emanating from every inch of skin that the hand touched. She pulled and pried at the fingers, but they did not budge; only seemed to grip tighter. She was quite sure that her skull would implode, and knew that inevitably that was where this assault led. No amount of panic could dislodge its grip, and she slowly felt the pressure climb past the point of that which was bearable.
"Jill!" Leon's voice called out, startling, it seemed, both her and the creature. The grip loosened, and then relinquished entirely as gunfire rang out.
She dropped to the ground, landing partially on what remained of Abramowitz.
'Now is not the time to mourn,' she reminded herself as she felt tears well within her. Every loss hit her with the force of a familial death, and this was no different. After all, comrades were family, especially in this line of business.
Though the pressure had eased, the echo of pain lingered and she stumbled as she rose.
Leon, she noticed, had stepped dangerously close to the creature - a normal safe distance but well within unexpected range. But as she parted her lips to warn him, she recognised that it was too late. The creature's hand found its way to his shoulder, ripping it from the socket as he was slammed carelessly from wall to wall for three repetitions, his body sinking uselessly to the ground with the final blow. She had witnessed his head strike the plaster, knowing that the blow had been harsh.
She found her weapon before it turned and squeezed the trigger with every scrap of strength that remained within her. Weakened by Leon's previous assault, it was not long before it fell to its knees. Perhaps as a precautionary measure, she slammed in a second clip and fired into its skull at close range, satisfied only when the last pop rang out.
Leon pushed against the ground several meters away, groaning aloud, only to collapse once again beneath his own weight, no movement following this time.
Concerned, Jill rushed to his side, rolling him over onto his back as she checked for broken bones.
"Your shoulder is dislocated," she told him. "I need to reset it but I need to pull you upright first, alright?"
He replied with muttered nonsense, head lolling against his shoulders as she pulled. He was heavier than she anticipated and simply pulling him to the side proved nigh on impossible. As soon as she had placed him into a position that allowed her to work, she set about rotating the dislocated arm, ignoring his pained grunts until it had set correctly.
It was then that she noticed his attention was not quite where it should be.
"Leon," she spoke, placing a hand on his cheek to tilt his head towards hers. "Are you alright? Talk to me."
A groan was all that answered her, unfocused eyes closing slowly.
"No, no!" she called. "Stay with me! Leon!"
"It's not..." he muttered. "Claire..."
She smiled at the mention of their friend's name. It is said that the mind often drifts to that which it holds to great importance in dire moments. That he should think of Claire at such a time spoke more than he would allow his words to.
"Stay with me," she urged, voice softer this time. "You need to stay awake because Claire will be there when this is all over."
The pounding of boots was audible in the distance, and she waited patiently for Tessa and Donny to fall beside her.
Jill moved back as she began her routine, much to Leon's dismay. Donny stared dead ahead, avoiding what he knew lay behind him. There was no possible way they could have emerged into the hallway without catching sight of Abramowitz's body. She could almost hear the thought that no doubt swam through his mind: 'who is next?'.
"I'd say you have a grade II concussion," Tessa announced. "Looks like your participation in this mission is over."
"Go," he muttered, head dropping onto his chest momentarily. "Find...control...should be able...contact base."
"Nuh-uh," Tessa refused. "You're not going anywhere and we can't leave you on your own. I would suggest that Jill go and we stay. I'm not trying to single you out, but you're the most competent out of all of us."
Jill smirked grimly. She was terrified of the prospect of stepping out on her own but knew that it would be unprofessional to let this show. With one teammate dead and another incapacitated, morale could not possibly have been any lower.
"Donny..." Leon sighed. "Go with Donny. Don't...go alone."
Once again, she frowned. Her trust of Donny was not where it should be and, trust aside, she did not feel safe working with anyone when their mind was obviously elsewhere. But as always, the stakes of the mission were high. Leon needed medical attention, as did Tessa; they needed to contact HQ.
Slowly, carefully, she nodded. Tessa's dubious expression spoke what she dared not. But emotion did not carry weight on a mission.
The only way out was onwards.
AN - Please review :)