The 0714 Files: File #1 Inferno
ZombieGirl880
Summary:
Madeleine Sówka spent years of her life believing she knows what monsters look like. They are people who hide in the background, preying on the vulnerable, and taking them the second their mother's and father's turn their backs.
And she thought she knew what hell on Earth was after twelve years of being imprisoned in Umbrella's hands. Until the night of July 24th, 1998...
S.T.A.R.S. has disbanded and members are on the down low, but things are far from settled amongst the civilians in the nearby town of Raccoon City. The place that she lives. People are going missing and an unknown disease is slowly spreading through the city, a disease that the S.T.A.R.S. team members know very well what it truly is, and just exactly what it means for Raccoon. But days before she can escape the city is overrun and destroyed by the same T-Virus infected, flesh-hungry zombies she fought for her life against in the mansion.
It's dim and hopeless, with no end to the misery in sight. But what she doesn't know is two people are on their way to that same city, and they just might be the people who will save her life and gain her the freedom she has so desperately sought...
Chapter 1: Prologue
Notes:
"When freedom does not have a purpose; when it does not wish to know anything about the rule of law engraved in the hearts of men and women; when it does not listen to the voice of conscience, it turns against humanity and society." – Pope John Paul II
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
September 29th, 1998
A large semi barrels down the road in a storm. Thunder strikes are heard off in the distance every few minutes while the windshield wipers feebly work to keep blinding rain off the windshield.
The trucker in the front seat hears each muffled strike but ignores them. He has another hundred miles until he reaches his destination, so he won't be stopping for several hours. No. He cares more about the smell of the burger he bought a few minutes ago sitting on the dashboard, growing colder by the minute. He hasn't gorged on it yet, slightly nervous because of the weather. He wants to be a safe driver, to pay all of his attention to the road, and all that "driving course" safety crap.
But the rain has shown no sign of quitting for several hours at least. Then he rations how he hasn't eaten in hours, that he's seen nobody else on the road in a while…
He licks his lips and turns the radio up before grabbing the bun. Throwing caution to the wind for now and giving in to temptation. His justification with hunger and that he's in the middle of nowhere winning. He's within no proximity to cause an accident if his eyes wandered long enough to take a bite.
"Look man, I'm serious, okay? I saw this with my own eyes."
"Oh, I believe you, buddy, I believe you. Just tell us a story, tell us a story!"
He scoffs, mouth full of food. Another whack job is on the radio again for some talk show host to poke fun at for anyone listening. At least they'll provide him some entertainment for the next couple of minutes.
Taking another bite, he licks his lips and his mind settles in for whatever crazy story he's about to hear.
"Okay, well, it was last Friday night. I was walking home from the bar… This woman started walking towards me…" there's a pause, small, but audible. "She was staggering, you know? So, I, I figured she was drunk."
"Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Okay, be honest now. Tell us how many drinks you had?"
The trucker has the same disbelief towards this guest. He's hardly heard any of this story and it's already sounding like a drunk person misinterpreting something they saw. Kid likely had a shot too many of some liquor after being goaded on by his co-workers, or college buddies. Then those same friends were dumb enough to let him walk home alone. In his younger days, he did the same stupid shit too.
"No man. I, I barely had a buzz on!"
"Oh c'mon!"
It's heard in the guest's voice he's getting irritated he's not being taken seriously. "No, just listen alright? She got closer and I got a good look at her…" this pause is huge. "You had to see her eyes, her nose. Her whole face… it looked like it was rotting!" the host makes a noise of disgust, spurring the man further into his hysterical tirade. "You had to see her man. She looked like a corpse. Like a walking corpse man!"
The story might spook a few folks tuned in this late at night. Hell, if he believed in monsters, he might also feel a bad vibe at the woman described as undead. Being married close to fourteen years now though, he's seen his high school sweetheart in every appearance imaginable. Her arrival home in the morning alone appeared as if she'd been run over while working third shift at the new chain grocery store in town.
This description gives the trucker a chuckle as he mumbles aloud, "Sounds like my wife," before taking a bite. If anything, this walking corpse of a woman was likely a junkie. If her described appearance is even true.
Halfway through his burger, now wishing he had bought some fries or a drink. The trucker's eyes begin to droop and he abruptly shakes his head to fight the oncoming sleep. He's exhausted. No avoiding pulling over at the next truck stop for rest at this point. Unfortunately for him though, there isn't one until outside the next city.
He hates driving through the cities, especially with the weather as is and exhaustion setting in.
"I've never seen anything like it… I haven't been able to sleep since that night," whoever is speaking sounds desperate, on the verge of tears. This story is full of it, but this guy really believes he saw a rotting woman. Monsters don't exist though; he'd argue if in front of the kid. And if this crazed woman bothered him that much, he should get some help.
The host seems to be panicking, thinking their guest is ready to have a mental breakdown on live radio. "Alright. Calm down, buddy, calm down. Just… Hey. You gotta stay strong, okay? Don't give in to fear out there, right?"
On his left, the trucker can see a car with the passenger door open, and the overhead light is on. It looks like nobody is in it, and it might even be abandoned, but he's too sleep-deprived to think through something like the idea of stopping to inspect it. That, and he doesn't want to get out to check only to find out it's a false alarm. It's just someone taking an unfortunate emergency leak in the bushes.
"Yeah, you got that right. If you freeze up around these things… they'll sink their teeth into you. I saw it attack somebody—" and then much to the trucker's dismay, the radio starts to crackle as the transmission starts to go out.
He slams what little of his burger is left onto the dash in an impatient tizzy. "Come on! Just getting good," he grumbles, taking his eyes off the road to fidget with the radio knob. The first station he's found in hours to play anything other than music or static, and now he's out of range and unable to hear the rest.
It was slightly entertaining at least, no matter how fake.
His eyes are drooping even more than they were a minute ago, and a yawn ripples through his throat as his body attempts to stretch. "I need some sleep," he doesn't see the woman stagger into his lane until it's too late to stop the truck. "Oh shit!" he stomps on the brake, trying to bring the vehicle to a halt. He's able to see the woman's black hair in a flurry above the hood. It's damn near impossible for the eighteen-wheeler to slow immediately with the speed and rain-slick road.
Adrenaline and fear settle in his system before he even gets out of the cab. His heart's racing when he sees dripping blood spattered across his headlights. The woman's body is crumpled face down on the ground in front of him.
Undoubtedly, he killed her. Broke every bone in her body with the force of the eighteen-wheeler from the speed he'd been traveling at. There's no escaping taking her to a hospital. A hospital that will call the police, and lead to his arrest for negligent driving, and whatever else they can charge him with.
Thoughts of his wife come to mind. They're struggling to make ends meet with their mortgage, and him going to jail for manslaughter… This will devastate them emotionally and financially. His mind races at the thought of never seeing the light of day again as he takes off his cap, wiping the rain from his balding head in his state of uncertainty. "What am I gonna do?"
He turns away to stare blankly out at the dark, desolate road. His clothes are now soaked despite his earlier attempts to stay out of the rain. He wipes a hand over his bloodshot eyes, now wide awake, "What am I gonna do?"
Just as he's debating the unthinkable, running over her body the rest of the way and getting the hell out of there to avoid incarceration. Speculating if maybe the rain will wash the evidence away on his truck before he reaches Raccoon. There's a gurgle from behind him and some scuffling of shoes.
Pivoting, he watches as the woman shifts to her feet, her head hung low and matted from the rain. Her white, long sleeve button-up is soaked in her own blood and her ankle is twisted out to the side with the bone protruding through the skin.
He doesn't have a strong stomach for wounds like that. Seeing her stand though puts enough glee into his body that he disregards how only a moment ago he figured she'd never walk again. He steps forward and puts his hands out, "Are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?" such a stupidly obvious question. It's all he can think of at that moment with how dumbfounded he is at her wounds. Yet there's no crying. No screams of pain, just. Nothing.
She raises her head. He pales at the white irises of a dead person and gouged skin of her throat that has been torn out. Her jaw isn't sitting right, but it doesn't stop her from opening it and snarling as she drags her mangled leg toward him. Reaching and drooling. "W-Wait! Don't come any closer!" he warns, backing around the grill. Her state of appearance has startled him, and he'll admit, he's noticing she not only looks wrong. She smells wrong too.
He puts his hands out, hopeful she'll stop approaching, but it does nothing. In fact, she nearly trips over herself trying to grab a hand. He yelps, realizing he's at his door now. Hitting her or not, this woman is crazy. He'll send an officer out to her. Yeah, that seems safest to do. He'll drive to Raccoon City's Police Department and bring someone out with him. He's driven these roads a long time and knows roughly where he is. From the looks of this woman, even if it may be accident abandonment. He's honestly afraid she's going to hurt him—
His hand fumbles to open the door. She crashes into his body just as he does, pushing him against the side and forcing it closed. Gnashing her teeth and screaming, he weakly shoves back. "Get off lady! What's wrong with you?"
Her hands manage to pull back his jacket and unexpectedly her top teeth sink into his left shoulder, through his flannel and undershirt with ease. He screams in pain, sweating and shoving her back again. To which she stumbles onto the ground, chewing fruitlessly with her broken jaw. Already standing back up.
He gets in the truck, jumping when she smacks her arms on the doors and window with a haunting snarl echoing the otherwise empty road. "Crazy bitch," he grabs the stick and switches the eighteen-wheeler to drive. Pressing a hand against his wound, he peels away from the scene as fast as the truck can allow.
It's then the car he saw not far back comes to mind, and he wonders if that was hers. Maybe she had been attacked; was trying to find help when he hit her, but it doesn't justify her trying to take a chunk out of his neck. Or explain how she even managed to survive the collision. Explain how she looks and smells like a walking dead body.
Must be contacts in her eyes. Yeah. I bet she's one of those weirdos that does this to strangers on the side of the road. Even put on a really good prosthetic so it looked like her throat was eaten. The joke just didn't go her way this time when I hit her, so she tried attacking me in response. He tries to reason to himself how she could have the state of appearance of a rotting corpse. Ironically finding himself just slightly like that panicking interviewee on the radio from minutes ago now.
First the hospital, and then he'll send the police her way. He'll also make sure to tell them she's a crazy fucking cannibal woman before they leave.
Notes:
This book can be found over on Wattpad too with the same name on here!
Thank you to anyone who gives this a chance, this is a book I have been writing for a long time and have finally decided to post it online! I will give a warning right now that there is a lot of grotesque violence in here with the zombies, but there are also mentions of torture, child kidnappings, suicide, and sexual assault, it's a very heavy book and I would hate to upset anybody not in the right mind to read this. I hope you give it a chance though, this is a wonderful story I've put blood (imaginary of course), sweat, and tears (this is a sad book in a lot of parts) into. I will give weekly updates for this baby on every weekend as parts can be long so I'd like people giving a read to have a chance to finish, comments and kuddos will let me know if you guys like it!
This week I will post the prologue and chapter 1 though! I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 2: Chapter 1
Notes:
So, it's been like 2 months now and I just realized there was a screw up where the prologue posted twice? I am sorry everyone this website confuses me
Chapter Text
Her body is strapped to a metal table against her will.
That's the first thing that dawns on her when she scans around the room. Finding she's no longer in the light blue dress she was taken in. Instead, she's now in a pair of white shorts, a camisole, and white ankle socks. The same ones they had "assigned" to her when she'd woken up.
She's tired and thirsty, even in her sleep she couldn't escape the tears or the trauma. Every time she'd awake, blindfold around her eyes still, it wasn't to the comfort of her mother after a horrible nightmare. It was to the cramped, dark confines of a space she was trapped in as she was jostled. Where they were taking her, she didn't know yet.
Her cheeks are swollen and her throat is raspy because no, not even in the safety of sleep could she stop her crying. And as her eyes dart around the room wildly, afraid that she's back here again after so long. All she can think beyond the fear is the childlike thought she had when strapped here so many years ago about how she wants more water. A drink she'd always choose last when offered against chocolate milk or pop.
The gag and blindfold they put on her were long gone by the time she'd woken up. The room she was in a few minutes ago had no furniture besides the bed she was on. A single pillow with a simple white blanket and white sheets were all it had.
A few people stepped in like they knew the very second she was awake. One gave a glass of water, another a tray of food with a sandwich, and an apple. While the third set a pile of new clothes on the bed next to her.
She paid no mind to the clothing or food first as she snatched the glass and chugged the water fast enough that some ran from the corners of her mouth onto her dress. She'd stuffed her mouth too, hungrily, puling with each bite of the sandwich. Too scared to tell them she doesn't like Turkey, and that apples are too hard for her teeth.
The food was finished all too soon, and she'd timidly reached, with a shaking hand, outwards. The glass held tightly inside. Asking for a second that she was told, "No," until she was dressed in the new clothes.
They were nice enough to at least let her change alone. One of the people took her dress, her white saddle shoes, tights, and child-sized pair of white underwear once they re-entered though. When she questioned why they were taking the dress she and mommy went shopping for the week before in preparation for her birthday. She was answered with, "To clean it." Words she would learn were a lie when she never saw any of the articles of clothing again.
They whisked her off to a new room then, never giving her that second glass.
The people around her now are different from the others. They'd tried calming her down at least. Lying to her face, promising she's safe and is just going to get a shot before she's sent to her new home. One of them even went so far as to ask her if she'd ever heard of France, and when she nodded, "Yes," told her they're in Paris with a thick accent.
Learning she's in Paris, and the gentleness of their words can't make the crying stop though. Everything inside her screams that this isn't home. Mommy and Daddy would have never sent her away like this, especially not in such a scary manner.
She wishes she were with the other group now, deeming very quickly that these new people are scary. They use big words she doesn't quite understand, and they're easily upset when she doesn't listen or innocently asks a question.
She whips her head to gawk at the towering doctors. She thinks they're doctors at first since they're all wearing white coats like the ones she'd see them wearing in all her checkups. She remembers now how Daddy said the people who wear them can be either "doctors" or "scientists". And with the revelation, she suddenly can't tell if they are one or the other. They certainly don't act as nice as any of the doctors she's seen in the past.
Memories of seeing a scientist in a movie once appear. She recalls how Mommy likes to watch "scary movies" late at night when she's supposed to be asleep. How in one of her favorites she owns the tape for, a man becomes a fly.
Thoughts of him scare the shaking little girl in the chair. As much as the mysterious people scurrying around her to get something in the room ready does now. She's had nightmares that the fly comes to eat her ever since she snuck a watch of it. A decision that was made late at night one time to creep into the living room and watch whatever scary movie was on the TV to prove to herself she's brave. By chance, that's what was on.
Mommy and Daddy found her though. They always do whenever she does this. Suddenly she recalls how one time she passed out before the movie was even over and she could sneak back to bed. They weren't mad, they never are. Mommy would just tuck her into bed, telling the little girl how she wishes she wouldn't watch them. How she's not old enough yet, but she loves her regardless. Daddy makes sure to tell her they're only movies and monsters aren't real, but she doesn't believe him. Not when some of the bad men end up in her dreams and make her wet the bed every so often.
The matching blue headband with the flowers adorning the cloth material fell out at some point. Her curly strands were pulled as tight as the woman could get them in the other room into a ponytail. All traces of her outfit, and subsequently, her childhood, were stripped and replaced in a matter of minutes.
One of the nurses complains to another about her crying, and she notices how she's glaring at her. It doesn't sway her determination though, "Where's my mommy?" she asks pitifully, lips trembling as tears stream.
"Preparation for the tracking device is complete," somebody says in the corner, ignoring her question. Uncaring how she was strapped to a chair the moment she arrived in the room and should be let out.
She wonders naively, mind still processing. Where's Mommy? Where's Daddy? Why aren't they here to say anything against the poking and prodding these strange men and women have been doing? Why has she been taken to Paris?
She cries even harder then, at the thought of Mommy holding and shushing her like she does when she's this upset.
I want them to come get me, tell me I'm safe and I'm going home now, she thinks in the safety of her thoughts.
A needle is stuck into the back of her neck without warning. The most being the brushing up of short strands before feeling a wet swab of disinfectant. The move is surprisingly gentle considering the roughness and annoyance of the people around her. Her neck becomes tingly within seconds, she can't even feel the prodding of the fingers that ensure it worked. "Ready," a woman's voice responds when the numbness is confirmed by the little girl herself as she struggles against the thick leather straps holding her wrists and ankles in place.
Then her head is jerked forward and she stops moving, too scared of what's about to happen.
"Inserting tracking device into the neck."
A sharp needle digs into the same spot they were kind enough to numb. Kind enough, she thinks because she still screams in pain, even if it's gone as fast as it came. "Booting the device," a man in a lab coat announces to her right as a nurse begins rubbing the fresh wound down with more funny smelling liquid before bringing a bandage to her neck. The scientist looks at her then and says the words that seal her fate.
"Welcome to Umbrella, 0714."
. . .
September 24th, 1998 7:06 P.M
I startle awake, standing abruptly from the chair I was sleeping at. The chair rolls a good foot from the force, stopping short of hitting the wall behind me. Raking in gasps and grabbing at my sweat-soaked hair in one hand. The other flies to the gun in my thigh holster as I stumble sideways, my eyes darting around the room.
For a petrifying second in the haze of waking up, I believed I was there. Where the walls, ceilings, and tiled floor are too white, and the air smells of nothing but disinfectant.
I calm down upon seeing the S.T.A.R.S. plaque on the wall to the side. I'm not strapped to that chair. Not in attendance at that academy anymore, not in that...
There are worse places to remember being trapped in, I reason internally.
My cheeks are damp from crying in my sleep.
Releasing a shaky breath and removing the hand from my holstered gun. I curse at the overreaction, wiping my eyes and nose. Calling it as such, at least, because it makes it easier to not feel crippled after the nightmares for any longer than necessary.
I don't want to admit how this happens every time a nightmare about those places occurs. Admit that even when there's no weapon on or near me, I still reach for one. Eyes blurry with tears each time in dread of being in prison again. The phantom weight of a weapon is hard to forget after years of carrying one constantly.
Catching sight of Chris's bomber jacket, I give another sigh in relief. The brown leather jacket decorated with a pin-up girl on the back, holding a missile with the words: "Made in Heaven" beneath her another reminder I'm still in the R.P.D. Still safe. Still free...
Then I see Jill's beret on her desk, and there's a fleeting pang in my heart replacing the dread. The cleaning crew's been missing this room with the evident layers of dust piling up on both articles of clothing.
Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. I put the chair back in its spot at my desk before exiting the office.
Staring through a window ahead of me when the door is closed. There's still daylight outside, but the street lights are turning on. The sun is in the process of setting, "Shit!" I fume. Night's falling and I've been passed out. It wasn't like that either when I ducked away from my paperwork downstairs. Marvin and Rita are going to kick my ass when I get back.
I'd foolishly laid my head on my desk, and that was it. The nightmares in the last two months are worse. Somehow. The lack of sleep has taken a heavy toll too, because if I wasn't reliving years under Umbrella. I was in the mansion. The same one we watched blow up in the outskirts of the Arklay mountains. I'd be there again, fighting for my life against the monsters we'd all encountered.
In some nightmares, Wesker succeeds in more than just outing me to the survivors of the team. He puts a bullet in my head too.
Umbrella sent us all into that mansion to die. I didn't though, and what remained of the original team didn't either. We made it to their hidden lab beneath the fountain behind the house instead. There I was nearly murdered by Wesker after he first shot Rebecca. She narrowly avoided dying that night herself when the bullet struck her bulletproof vest and she played dead until he and the Tyrant were subdued. After all, she'd gone through herself too, both there, and in the Umbrella training facility she'd found herself in some miles away. In the same forest as the mansion, and just as hidden too.
I turn right from the door. Hurrying down the hallway past the shower rooms to the main hall. The gate just before entering the hall is open as usual, I can't say I've ever seen it closed. It's one of the last remnants of this station's hay day as an art museum. Maybe if I wanted to waste more time and piss them off more, I could've gone through the library too.
Chris sent a letter to Jill last month, and she brought it in the following day. Only Brad and I were there to read it after her though. Through code, he let us know he'd discovered their HQ at some point. Wording it as something about feeling up a European chick under an "umbrella". The unfortunate, painstaking part is he didn't hint where in the entire letter. I informed him long before he left to shoot for France. Wondering if the facility I knew as "home" during the short reprieve between missions I'd been sent on by the company in the last two years was a good suspect.
The letter's been left abandoned on a bench in the room's armory since, collecting as much dust as our desks. Desks of S.T.A.R.S. members, and their contents that have been untouched in over a month since we were "disbanded," Irons had put it. All the while grinning from ear to fucking ear to unofficially render us inoperable. Removing the unit that's been pestering him since the end of July. The only desks to be touched since then were those with friends or family members from both Alpha and Bravo teams who could come in to collect their belongings.
Richard's girlfriend, Bridgette, was the worst to experience that with; maybe even Rachel, Forest's sister too. I had to move aside when she walked in so Bridgette had full access to the desk we'd both shared for only a short amount of time. Witnessing in silence both times with both young women, the tears of grief in their eyes. With Bridgette, hers went unheard as she packed a box of what little of his belongings she could before leaving. As if the eulogy she gave at their funerals for him specifically wasn't hard enough to sit through… Forest's sister… She'd had a breakdown in the office and had to be consoled by Chris, one of Forest's best friends.
My attention is drawn to the lion statue sitting ahead when I enter the main hall: a bronze statue of the animal with a large paw resting on a plaque with an engraved medal inside. There's a large replica of the R.P.D. patch hanging up on the wall behind it, between two large paneled windows on the back wall: the same one adorning my left and right sleeves. It had adorned my S.T.A.R.S. uniform too. A uniform I wore for a little under a month before it became irrelevant because not long after the disbanding they all withdrew from the station a few days later. A late response I suppose to the shit show that followed once Chris left. Everyone else in the unit is long gone.
Bravo team's medic… and only survivor, Rebecca Chambers, left the city. Not a word has been heard from her since. Alpha team's backup man, Barry Burton, moved his family. Only telling us as such in a vague letter to Jill when he said they were settled. Never divulging where though, the envelope itself labeled with a return address I'd bet money on being fake.
Alpha team's main pilot and rear security, Brad Vickers, is hanging somewhere around the city Jill told me. Alpha team's second rear security, Jill Valentine… She's laying low like Brad, like me. Collecting any information about the company while getting out of her apartment as little as she can.
There's also Chris Redfield, Alpha teams point man… He left for Europe under the guise of vacation, leaving more than just his jacket behind as he did so. His last month away had been spent searching for Umbrella's headquarters before he'd informed of us the discovery. Their official pharmaceutical HQ is well known for being in Berlin… But that's not the one we were trying to track down.
Then there's the last member of Alpha team, third rear security, and sharpshooter, Patricia O'Donnell... The worst fake name for somebody if you ask me. I'm the only one left working in the station, despite my better judgment I suppose, or Raymond's. I was transferred to another precinct after the team was shut down.
I look away from the statue and plaque, taking the shining marble stairs quickly. Like being any faster will lessen the reaming I'm going to receive from the Lieutenant.
My eyes flit to the marble goddess statue as I pass it. I imagine it was the center of attention once you entered the museum through its main doors back in the 60s. Seeing as it's literally centered in the middle of the entire room; wedged tall and proud between the two staircases leading to the second floor. The sleeve of her himation hangs from her shoulder as she holds a marbled flag in one hand, a shield in the other. There are empty slots in the gold plating carved below her feet. Medals of some kind belong in them, but I've never seen them there. Rita told me in my first week in the precinct a rumor that there's a tunnel beneath the statue leading under the station. It's yet to be proven though, no one knows what medals fit into the slots.
Why the city bought and renovated an art museum of all things into the current station is a question nobody's been able to answer since my first day here. With the lustrous marble and granite blocks making up the walls and balcony of the main hall, flooring half the building. I can understand how Umbrella funding half this city was the only way they afforded remodeling this building into the police station. In the end, I relented it's definitely impressive, but also excessive.
Some of the doors around the station are weird: a few carry etchings on them of what key is needed to unlock them. The west office door carries a turquoise spade etching itself, one that can be found on the library's door, and the door to the hallway leading to Irons office too. Some doors carry other etchings and use other keys, but I mainly ever go through the library or west office door.
As I enter the room, I catch a glimpse of Raymond Douglas in his side office. A few people have gone home already it appears from the faces of those who work later shifts passing me in the hall. I spot Rita and Marvin at their desks to my right, mine is at the far end.
It's then I once over the new roll-top desk closest to me on this end, it was added earlier today. A new recruit is arriving Monday, an actual rookie who attended the police academy named Leon Kennedy. He graduated best of his class I was told. Interviewing for a job here sometime last month with Raymond of all places. We've been so shorthanded I heard he was hired on the spot, both from that and apparently, he'd pushed himself through a law program in college. Making him more prepared for police work than half the other men and women who have walked into this station as rookies themselves at some point in their life.
Hanging from the ceiling are paper plates painted blue with yellow letters spelling out: "Welcome Leon!", for his upcoming party.
I think I saw the man in passing as he left that day, only figuring it out after hearing of him by word of mouth. I was sitting on the stairs by the main doors, too involved in my thoughts to truly notice him. He'd disrupted what was running through my head, nice enough to ask if I was okay. My response, I recall was telling him I was fine. When I was anything but because at the time S.T.A.R.S. was unraveling. Mentally and emotionally. We knew our days in the unit were numbered. A hand was on their coffins, just waiting for the cue to shut it and end their careers and ability to investigate. It wasn't the worst outcome when comparing it to everyone figuring out somebody's following them everywhere they go.
The closer we get to Leon's arrival, the more buzz there is amongst the others. Co-workers who had met him told me he was nice. They seemed extra grateful he wasn't a prick, a common occurrence with rookies apparently. Too overconfident to the point they were thickheaded and frustrated the living hell out of their field training officer.
"Where'd you go, O'Donnell?" Marvin probes, from where he's staring down at some files.
I say nothing, walking over to my desk where I plop down and boot my computer, "I went out, sir." Rita looks up from her computer at his question then.
Sergeant Rita Philips. When I first met her, I thought she was pretty with her short blonde hair, meek brown eyes, small stature, and porcelain white skin. Attributes that give a false feeling of frailty. Proving me wrong when we practiced in the shooting range for the first time where she showed off her shooting skills. She's far from happy at seeing me at my desk after so much time has passed. But Rita never yells. "You still have that report to fill out, Trish," her tone is tense. The nickname she's taken to calling me is the only part of that sentence that sounds calm.
"I know," I grumble groggily, logging in before grabbing the paperwork waiting patiently to be filled out for a case from today. It was to a homicide. A woman called the landlord this afternoon complaining of an awful smell coming from her neighbor's apartment and how she heard what sounded like kids screaming from within. We'd been called, but the landlord checked himself while waiting on us. It turned out a single mother of two living in the place was eating her children as he entered. In self-defense, he'd managed to shoot her in the head when she didn't back down and tried attacking him.
Rita and I were closest to the location when dispatch made the report so we investigated. I knew from the second I saw her face though what was wrong with her. Milky white irises, her lips were covered in drool and blood, her fingernails had skin buried in the cuticles from tearing her own children apart, and parts of her body had seen sloughing. There was a nasty bite under a bloodstained gauze on her wrist. She was a zombie.
My mind goes to Jill. How when I last saw her a few days ago, her sapphire blue eyes had dark bags under them. She looked as exhausted as me, yet somehow, in a pair of jeans and sweatshirt, she made everyone else's outfits look dull around her. Instead of faking the bubbly tone when meeting in public, she was grim as we sipped our coffee in Emmy's diner. We ignored the conversations around us as we did so. This day, beyond the happiness of seeing each other alive and… hardly doing well. We couldn't fake it as we stared at the newspaper she'd grabbed on the way over. The headline reading: "Cannibal Murders Rise in Numbers This Week".
We knew what the headline meant. What every child's disappearance meant, what every news article about another person showing up in the hospital with skin rotting off. Every adult who went mad and started eating the person next to them before being shot or killed in self-defense.
The T-Virus made its way into Raccoon City, and it made it in with a vengeance.
We didn't speak as we sat there initially, contemplating to only our thoughts. We never spoke freely about what was happening around us when we met under these circumstances. Somebody would be listening. We learned quickly in Chris's absence that Brad, Jill, and I are all being watched. I'm sure we were thinking the exact same thing though, how we'd hoped it wouldn't happen. That the mansion exploding would end the nightmare we went through and the city wouldn't see the same end. I was stupid to believe so anyways.
There was a reason we met that day in particular: tucked inside the folded paper was my new fake ID, birth certificate, and passport so I'm ready at the airport on Friday. A lie Jill gave out of a justified paranoia so I could even take the newspaper with me was her saying she was already done reading it and that I could have it if I wanted so I could read it for myself. That way I didn't have to "buy one on the street."
Walking through this city without checking over your shoulder every second so you know you're still safe is difficult. Doing so with something that Umbrella will kill you for if you're caught with it? I couldn't even give a proper word for what I was feeling right then. I don't think I was able to even breathe until I barricaded my apartment door that day.
A detective took the case in the end, but I have to write out my own report. Rita probably filed her report hours ago while I retreated to the S.T.A.R.S. office. Taking a minute to regain my panic at what I'd witnessed in the apartment building. A sense of dread in my guy that something bad will happen any day now with the number of cannibal cases skyrocketing in the last week alone.
"Give me a sec' and I'll help you," her southern accent evident in her words. She'd told me not long into training with her she'd moved here from Texas when she was fresh out of the police academy.
"Got it," I reply, beginning to fill it out.
Marvin towers over his desk at his height and I want to hide behind the computer because I'm in deep shit. "O'Donnell," I shut my eyes, knowing better than to think he'd let my answer go and prepare for a reprimanding, "You've been gone for the last hour. Where'd you go?"
I give a real answer this time. "The S.T.A.R.S. office," the words are soft-spoken.
"Why?"
Sighing, I lower my head to run my hands through my curls in defeat. Looking at him, "I needed a second to breathe after Rita and I reported to the homicide earlier today… then I fell asleep," I answer honestly.
He eyes Rita. She gives a small shrug while he gives a disappointed sigh. "Kid, we've been over this before. You have a job to do, you can't wander off. And you certainly can't sleep on it!"
Staring at the screen, leaning back in my chair. I huff and lean my forehead into my palm. "I know, Marvin. I know. I'm sorry, I haven't been sleeping well for the last few… days." I lie, not wanting them to know. Not wanting to give more reason for them to believe I'm crazy like they do towards the other S.T.A.R.S. members after July. I've been working on levels of exhaustion that shouldn't be possible since that night this summer. Mainly relying on coffee and adrenaline from the job keep me awake most days. Even that's barely working now.
The longer we stare at each other, the more I understand there's no anger in his face. I guess I'm not getting yelled at worse like I initially thought. "I honestly didn't mean to. It won't happen again."
His expression softens and he sits down, "Well, it can't happen. It's gotta stop. You can't sleep on the job, O'Donnell. Next time you disappear like that too, I will write you up."
"Yes, sir," is all I respond with because there will be no next time.
My eyes drift over to inspect Marvin as he sits down. Although he's in the same standard police uniform as Rita and I. Marvin is the type to routinely wipe his badge every few days. Among the newer recruits he's known for coming off harsher as they don't know him well, but he's far from it. His hazel eyes are usually relaxed when in a good conversation, and when I think about it. I've only seen him get truly angry with someone once. He's attractive with his dark brown skin, short black hair, and a strong jaw. His body is much leaner compared to some of the men around him in the station. I'm not interested in him, but I'll admit it adds to his appearance.
In the last month, I've found myself looking up to the Lieutenant. His presence gives me a feeling of comfort I generally don't feel a lot regarding others. Even if half the time I'm worried about being in trouble.
Marvin eyes Rita, "You turned in yours already, right?"
"Yes," and he nods, pleased that at least her part of the work is done.
Marvin's eyes are locked on me, "I want yours before you leave," and he's looking at her report on his desk.
I still don't understand how I was transferred here. A transfer that barely happened, only because Raymond fought to keep me in the station and bring me to work in his department. Arguing how I didn't create a stir like the other members. Arguing we're so shorthanded he needs all the people he can get. Arguing to keep me, unlike…
In the shambles of that lab with the rest of S.T.A.R.S. I learned I'd been an unwanted child soldier to Umbrella for some time. They could brainwash me to some extent, but they couldn't keep me permanently obedient and loyal to their cause. So, they sent me off to die, all the while capturing footage of one of their best U.S.S. soldiers in combat. After kidnapping me, and molding me to their will for twelve years. They gave up and threw me away like trash, but I survived.
That's when Raymond's usage of words pops into my head. "A stir," he'd said to Irons. Sugarcoating the team's distraught nature by a mile. Within days of us escaping the mansion, the only thing they knew to do was fuel their sorrow and rage into a demand for justice for their friends. They wanted to launch an immediate open investigation into Umbrellaand wereabsolutely befuddled when it was denied by the Chief, but when they kept pushing…
A knife twists inside me then as my eyes roam over the desks in this room. It's irrefutable that this city will fall sometime soon with an outbreak, but Jill and I will be safe on the other side of the world when it happens. Safe… while many in this city die…
Tomorrow night I'm leaving this country. The location on my plane ticket for a town in France I don't quite remember, but the takeoff time I've grained into memory. The airport is in Old Court, the next town over. The money for the possible amount of cab fare is stowed away in my wallet. Along with more hidden under my bed to take with me and exchange when I arrive.
I'll meet with Chris and wait while Jill will remain a while longer to continue her investigation. I'll escape this city and Umbrella. I'll go on the run.
S.T.A.R.S. fought tooth and nail with Irons for only a few weeks about investigating Umbrella before giving up. While they kept up their short-lived crusade though. I began my own, one that contained coping with being somewhat free of Umbrella'sgrasp. Caught in the fallout, picking up the pieces to an existence in a city I know nothing about. At a job I had only weeks to understand how it worked beforehand, with an abundance of time on my hands I'd never had before and, many times, didn't know how to spend when outside of work most days. If it weren't for Chris and Jill helping me around the city, showing me stores for groceries, clothing, or whatever menial thing's I needed. I don't know how I would have fared these last two months.
I eye the doorway to Raymond's office, postponing my work for a little longer. I'm certain everything on his shelves is filed alphabetically, but there's paperwork all over his desk. I learned quickly he's an organized man in the field, but he isn't tidy about current paperwork. He's extremely kind, and though Raymond is only Deputy Chief, he's picked up Iron's slack on running the station.
I pull on my shirt's collar and grimace. I hate wearing this thing. I miss wearing my S.T.A.R.S. uniform over this shirt and the black slacks. The other uniform had more freedom in movement.
But it beats wearing…
I don't want to think about that uniform anymore, not what wearing it would often lead to.
Rita pulls a chair out from George's desk and sits beside me, "What have you got so far?" she takes the clipboard holding the report with a pen in hand while I sit back in my chair. She reads the words, crossing out and fixing a few statements. Telling me what sounds better for the next time we fill out a report like this. Things that are more Marvin's duties as our supervisor, but she prefers to help out more than what's necessary. "Looks good," she hands it back to me, "not much left to fill out."
I scoff, "Took longer than it needed to get it done," I grumble. Watching her with the apology in my eyes, "I'm sorry for disappearing."
Rita sits back in her chair now. I stare at my screen as she stands, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Just buy me dinner the next time we're here late and we'll call it even," she grins, grabbing the chair and replacing it. "You know. I've been wonderin' how Leon's going to start out, bein' a rookie and all. You never know with them. They either learn it," she snaps her fingers, "Like that. Or they take forever to get the hang of it." Like you, she didn't imply, but it's true.
Rolling my eyes and eyeing my clipboard with a pencil in hand. "Please, I bet he'll be a pro at it within weeks," I predict with a light laugh. She laughs in return as she returns to her desk. Well, maybe she won't admit it, but I'm sure he will fare better than most because he's both been to college and trained at an academy where he learned about this. Meanwhile, they're still trying to help me get the hang of this position after transferring straight from S.T.A.R.S. to here.
Before anything else can be said the radio goes off, "We have a 10-34 at Warren Stadium. All units please proceed with caution."
"Riot?" my ears perk at the word. I'm still trying to learn the codes. Rita stands abruptly, "Raymond, there's a riot at the stadium?"
He's already standing in front of us, his neck-length white-blonde hair is pulled back as his cap covers his head. "There's a football game going on there tonight between the Sharks and the Old Court Thunders. We're going to need a lot of officers there to handle it," he disappears into his office, spewing orders into the radio. "All officers report to the armory for their riot equipment now, and then to the parking garage. Briefing will be held upon arrival," and we're standing. I abandon the incident report, following the others out the door.
I rush down the ramp after them, finding the reception desk empty with the computer monitor powered down. Caroline runs the desk as the main receptionist. Another girl ran the one upstairs as Iron's personal secretary. Not long ago though she disappeared and he'd told everyone she quit one day for no reason.
"O'Donnell, you'll accompany officer Rita to the stadium, but I want you two near the back. Marvin…" I tune out after hearing Raymond's orders to us.
Officers are in the armory throwing on riot gear when we arrive, Rita steers us over to the lockers where the riot gear is. Retrieving two for both of us. I hook up the protective and padded material of the gear to my legs before fastening it to my chest and arms. Shutting my eyes as I grab my gloves, I take a deep breath on the bench I'm sitting on. I was shown this uniform a couple weeks before, hoping I'd never have to use it because it reminds me of…
I've become used to the weight of my gear by the time we get off the plane, but it's not the gear I'm worried about. It's the people inside and the mission we were given…
"Hey, no time for dilly dallying, Trish. We gotta get movin'!" Rita thankfully interrupts the flashback with her words and grabbing of my shoulder. I nod my head, and we finish getting into the gear before holstering our guns.
Chief Irons is in the parking garage with the rest of us for once, giving orders to everyone ready to leave. I. Hate. Irons. He makes my skin crawl whenever I'm around him. There's something about the looks women mention catching him give them, and his obsession with the taxidermized animals in his office too. He's older than anyone else in the station and very much overweight. A trimmed graying mustache sits on his upper lip while his graying hair is parted off-center to the left. Dressed in a black, button-up vest, over top of a white, long sleeve dress shirt, he has on black dress pants and loafers to match. He wears his badge on the left breast with a red tie tucked beneath his vest.
To the city, he's an All-American hero. A man who contributes to a dozen different causes. The city's magazine: "Raccoon Monthly", practically made him out to be God sent in the June issue I'd once read by chance. Like that isn't enough, he's also good friends with the mayor. It's bullshit if you ask me, but the uncomfortableness felt around him is an ineffable one you can't prove why. Many just take solace in that at least others carry the same feeling, not just them.
"This isn't a riot, most likely it's just a fight that's gotten out of hand between a few drunks over the game. It won't require the entire force. Those who are already on patrol have been dispatched, the weapons on you now should be enough to handle the crowd," his voice bounces off the asphalt and concrete in the room.
Everyone starts looking around at each other in the middle of the room confused, and then Irons starts doing a role call. I hear my name, Rita's, and Marvin's amongst many others that I assume are going to be told we're the ones reporting to the stadium as Raymond said. Iron's looks up from a clipboard in his hand, "Your assistance won't be required for this. The rest of you, get to the stadium and stop the fight."
Baffled by his command for us to remain. I look to Rita whose shock is plain as day on her face, "But, sir!" she speaks up—
"I recommend you go home or return to your job and finish it up for the day. Your assistance. Isn't. Necessary," he snaps.
Her eyes fall on me a moment later after observing the officers who were told to help climb into their squad cars and exit the lot with their sirens echoing down the street. I whisper to her once they're gone, "Shouldn't more people be sent in? Warren stadium is huge."
She shakes her head, "I don't know. I don't know what he's thinkin'." Everyone's bewildered by Iron's decision from the buzz in the garage. Unsure of what to make of him sending so few people when they'd precisely sent out a riot code. Not domestic disturbance. Not to mention with only their 9mm HP Browning's too.
Raymond calls to Irons as he heads to the door that takes him to his private elevator. "We need to send more people. This isn't enough Brian!"
Irons whips around and points a finger at him. I learned within the first day of working here that he hates being called by his first name. Only Raymond is stubborn enough to do so, regardless of how pissed it evidently makes Irons. "Don't tell me what you think, Douglas. I know what I'm doing," he turns around, "questioning of my goddamn authority is out of line anyways," he murmurs loud enough we can hear it as he walks through his door before Raymond has a chance to make any rebuttal.
Raymond stands there for a minute with his back to us. His arms are crossed before he pivots and walks to where the officers stand. There's an unreadable expression on his face, "Just return to your jobs. If more backup is required, we'll send more of you out," he heads to the basement door. His shoulders are tense while his head shakes in agitation.
Marvin's in front of us now, "Those of you finished with your work today, go home for now like Raymond said, just be ready for a call to come back in." Some head for the garage door undoubtedly heading straight for the armory to take off their gear. He looks at Rita now, "Rita, I'm heading back up to have a talk with Raymond."
She nods, "I'll join you," her eyes move to me, "Just put your gear up, finish your report, and head home, alright?"
People are talking amongst each other in the locker room and armory when I arrive. I remain silent, listening to how nobody understands what Irons is doing. Worrying that sending out so little might be suicide for their safety and helping the crowd.
I'm out of the gear in a matter of minutes, following Rita upstairs to the office the second it's placed back in storage. Thankful I didn't have to wear it outside this station after all, despite how I feel about the situation. How maybe we should've gone.
Sitting at my desk, I try to finish the rest of my incident report. Marvin appears to my side then, "Hey," he starts, and I look up at him. "How much of that do you have left?
I blink, "Not much?"
He rubs his jaw, "Go home for right now, okay? Finish it tomorrow first thing when you get in," he goes to turn then stops. "This is the only time I'm letting this happen, alright? Don't get used to it," he adds.
Friday is mine and Rita's desk day. I suppose I don't have to worry about not getting it done on time once I arrive, but… "Are you sure, sir?"
"Yes, O'Donnell. Now go home," he orders, then steps into Raymond's office with the others.
Chapter 3: Chapter 2
Chapter Text
I got my things together and left quickly. I suppose that's rather easy though when the thing I need most is my apartment key. Besides the cab fare money in my wallet, the fake ID inside from Umbrella is mostly useless. My car and parking garage card were left at home as I decided to walk to work today, like an imbecile I feel now.
Rita stormed from Raymond's office in a huff not long after Raymond's phone rang. Her arms were crossed and her face carried a terse look before telling me to be safe on the way home as I made my way to the side office. The others were concerned themselves when I popped in long enough to assure Marvin I'd be in early and would finish the report. They were talking quietly as Raymond was off the phone. Telling them something about how Irons is now ordering a disbursement of ammo throughout the station to avoid… "terrorism."
I couldn't figure out what he meant by that if I tried.
My apartment's a block or two away thankfully. Conveniently close to the station, a few blocks away is a small park too. As I begin my short walk though, I begin regretting not taking my car this morning. Goosebumps prick on my back and arms. Something is not right in this city. Going home tonight does not feel as safe as this morning when I walked in.
I stay alert with a hand hovering over my gun the entire walk. Only moving it away upon entering the apartment building's lobby. Barely dodging a family barging through the door, watching as they run down the street, luggage and kids in tow. Where they load their car upon reaching it in a frenzy, before climbing in and flooring it out of sight.
I enter the building, observing how the white walls and mosaic tiled floor are dusty and flecked with dirt. PO boxes are locked up to my right while a wilting, potted fern sits on the main desk.
The front door shuts then and I nod at my landlord, Adam, standing by an open door to his office. He nods back and goes into his room at the sound of a phone ringing. He's in his early forties, with curly brown hair, and a short beard. A smile is generally on his always tired face. When I'd first moved in, he'd told me as he gave me the keys and showed me the apartment about how he'd moved here from Glasgow with his family as a child. How they'd had no money, but through hard work when he got older, he'd planted his feet into real estate and eventually bought the current building I'm living in. The only thing he'd not been able to learn though, he'd joked, is how to speak with an English accent.
It was a story I was impressed to hear, even if from an overtly bubbly stranger I'd just met. I felt distant though as I in turn lied to him how I was moving into town from somewhere out west. Having found employment through S.T.A.R.S. after getting kicked out of the army at twenty. "Too stubborn for them, huh?" he'd asked in a thick Scottish accent before laughing as I told it.
I'd smiled, finding the comment was true in some way. Just not towards what he believed, "Yeah, I guess so."
He isn't the type to hang out by the door like that though. And that family was fleeing too, what's going on?
I head for the stairwell as he returns, "Patricia," Adam announces, I was bracing for it. Stopping just before I'm out of sight and gritting my teeth. Two months after receiving that name and hearing it over and over. I've come to loathe it. Along with another name Umbrella assigned me… "I received a notice there's an evacuation of this area, lass. The building has to be emptied as soon as possible."
My annoyance at the fake name is forgotten then. Holy shit… It's only been a half hour at most since I clocked out for the night. What's happened since then?
Another person might've asked what should they do with their belongings. With the livelihood they're being ordered to practically abandon. I was already going to abandon what little I own tomorrow anyways; the concern just isn't there. And though he seems perplexed, like he expected more to be said from me. My only response is, "Thank you for telling me." Then I'm ducking away, a heavy knot having appeared in my stomach.
I retreat to my apartment. Sitting at the end of my bed with my head in my lap and my hands in my hair. Then I look up to stare at the rotary phone on the wall. If only I could call Jill about any of this… With the flight scheduled for tomorrow though, and an evacuation happening tonight…
I have two choices. Overlook that I told Rita I would return to the station and hold out here until it's time. Or leave Raccoon City right now without a second thought. Maybe I can even cut the tracking device out right here and hold up in a motel room for the night instead.
Then a third choice pops into my head. One that suggests I do go to the station, and I offer them any help they'll take.
My mind immediately argues against the second choice, because as much as I'd like. I can't just leave. Umbrella is in the surrounding towns too no doubt, and if I dropped off the map like that with a whole day between now and fleeing the country… No. It's far too risky.
But if I don't escape the city right now, do I stay here or do I go to the station?
I deliberate for a moment, uncertain on the decision. Until I think of how alone and scared I was in the mansion before finding and teaming up with Rebecca. Then the others when we found them. Thinking of how if anyone comes to the station, they'll be the same way…
I'm going to regret this decision… aren't I? I ask myself dismally, mind made up on where I'm going tonight.
Staying there with other officers is better than being alone while everyone else evacuates. I'll stay through tomorrow and then head for the airport. Although with everyone being forced to leave the city, taking a cab might be impossible now. I might have to use my car, after all, to get there, something I wanted to avoid because they'd surely tail me the moment I take off and learn exactly where I was going…
Stop fretting. I do this enough without what's happening outside, I reason. After this, I'll be out of the country. This city, the never-ending eavesdropping that happens every time I'm in public. All to make sure I'm acting accordingly, despite Umbrella wanting me dead still, and not screaming from the rooftops who I am and what's my real name… None of it will be my worry any longer, only what lies in wait in Europe. That's a fact. Nothing will stop me, and until I leave, I'll just assist at the station.
Pretend everything's alright to the officers. Pretend with the evacuation, riot, and slow rise in cannibal murders since that leak in the mansion we learned happened all the way back in May that it doesn't look like…
I manage to get some food down. A simple TV dinner, because even after two months of learning how to cook. I still suck at it. I started a pot of coffee too after turning the oven on, having a feeling I'll need some before I return tonight.
Just remain calm. Nothing good comes out of panicking. At least I still have a plane ticket and a car to rely on for escape.
Jill comes to mind for the umpteenth time as I head into the small bathroom for a shower. Wondering what she's going to do now herself. She can't keep investigating if we have to leave our homes. Leave this city. I debate if I should call her after all, just to check on her… Reasoning quickly that I can't.
We'll make it out of here on our own if the situation somehow gets any worse… I just hope if that does happen that she makes it out safely.
Under the hot spray of water, I decide to turn on the TV when I'm out to see if there's anything on the news. With our station, more than likely there is. The local news has been on top of the cannibalistic encounters since they began popping up in May.
A journalist named Ben Bertolucci came in unannounced weeks after the mansion one day. He flashed his badge at Caroline, informing her he wanted an exclusive interview with the S.T.A.R.S. members who'd survived. I'd declined myself, halfheartedly lying that the night is too traumatic to think about. Not stupid enough to give an official record in an Umbrella-supervised newspaper. The others entertained him by talking for a few minutes though, not giving much as they were privately investigating by then.
Yeah, there will be something on by now. An interview with a victim, a view of the police officers, a shot of the stadium. There's no way there isn't anything.
Stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my body over to the sink, I press my palms into my closed eyes. I haven't felt this kind of dread since…
My brain fights with itself for a moment before he groans. A long, wet, drawn-out, spine-chilling groan.
I grip the sink basin tightly. Swallowing hard as saliva pools in my mouth, my heart pounds as my skin breaks out in an annoying fresh sweat. My legs are weak as the noise invading my nightmares every night for the last two months works to cripple me right now.
I can't stop. I need to get dressed and leave quickly. I can't let their creatures scare me.
Taking a shallow breath, it's not much to relax. I shouldn't give that company any more of my emotions than I already have. I shouldn't give them any more than I already have. Terror is hard to fight in your body after something like what we saw in those mountains though. Terror that's evident in shaking hands and trembling legs when I'm alone in a hallway in the station.
Sometimes I'll hear the growling of a decaying dog around a corner, or the chewing of flesh off a body from behind a closed door I'm passing. Those aren't even half of the monsters we encountered in those mountains either. Somehow though, they were better than Crimson Head's, overgrown insects, and other hybrid creatures we came across. The horrendous nightmares, the flashbacks when something triggers a memory…
Wiping a hand on the mirror. I stare at my complexion of "S" shaped, dark brown thick curls as they drip with water. It's grown just past my shoulders now since I began allowing it to in the beginning of June. When I first learned I was being sent here.
I observe my round jaw and pink lips sitting above a medium-sized chin. A smattering of freckles is spread across my nose and cheeks. Since June I've discovered through conversations with Rita that I must've gotten my mother's nose because of its distinct shape. The muddled tan skin of Grecian descent that's also from her is flushed from the shower's heat.
There's something else I received from her: dark green eyes. The same ones I've been told a few times before by someone in the station, or randomly on the street, that they loved the color. In my months of living here, I never learned what to respond with to the compliment. I'd just give a meek, "Thanks," and quietly move on.
The permanent look I'm sure many have seen that they carry inside is from me alone. A look of sadness from years of grief hiding inside.
I step out of the bathroom after fixing my hair into a loose bun. Steam wafts out into the chill room while the towel is clutched firmly in my hand.
Standing in the entryway to my apartment, regarding it for what will be the last time. It isn't special, and in the end, I won't cry over leaving it. A small kitchen is shoved into the right corner, occupied by a stove and fridge that came with the place. The coffee maker, smallest set of dishes and silverware I could find, I purchased myself though. There's a seatless bar top counter too, and on a shoddy TV stand in the opposite corner is the cheapest TV I could afford. Against the left wall is a full-sized bed. That, and the dresser beside it are the only furniture Umbrella bought out of its own pocket. Why bother with making it into a home for me when I was supposed to die in a shallow grave in the middle of the woods within a week of arriving? Not that they're renting it now anyways, I paid off the last two months of rent myself.
In the whole apartment, a metal folding chair is the only thing to sit in. There's maybe eleven feet of area between every item in the room with it being one of the more inexpensive studios.
With all the movies Umbrella had us watch back in the day in an attempt to make us like fighting and not be so scared to kill. I was legitimately astonished to learn Adam isn't a sleazy landlord despite the quality of the apartment I moved into. If I saw a mouse? He was on it. A leak in my sink? It was fixed by the time I came home from work. I guess the movies I watched weren't always correct about life outside the academy…
And then I think of the academy. The place I spent thousands of hours of my life with others who were kidnapped too. Learning our basic classes so we didn't fall behind in education, training every other day in close quarters combat so we knew hand to hand, how to fire a gun, and how to fight with a weapon.
The building where on Saturday night if you did well enough during the week your floor got to pile into one room and watch whatever action, or horror movie they picked for the night. We never watched any other type of genre, only ones with death and fighting. Ironically, despite them working on a virus that creates the undead, we never once watched a movie that contained zombies.
It was also the building with the room in the basement for training. The one you'd be dragged to if you were too fussy that day. The one with padded walls so you couldn't hurt yourself when they'd throw you in with the lights off and the door locked. A means to break the errant child, and frighten the others into submission. You couldn't be their perfect soldier if you didn't know obedience and subservience to their liking.
I spent more time in the room than anyone else in the years we attended. They'd only throw you in for a few seconds in the first couple of instances. Maybe even a few minutes if you'd really irritated them that day. By the time I was shipped to Rockfort at 16 though? I'd get thrown in for hours on end, even if months passed between incidents.
The best part of those occurrences is then I'd be obligated to make up the lessons I'd missed as a result. Even if it went well into the night, because my sleep didn't matter. 5:00 A.M every morning you were expected up and ready for whatever new lessons were thrown your way that day.
My constant state of punishment wasn't always the case in the academy though. There was a time I was considered one of the more well-mannered kids there. Eagerly attending their classes, learning how to fight, how to shoot, waiting with anticipation for Saturday to roll around. Fingers crossed that they'd play "The Terminator" or "Aliens" for the millionth time because they were some of the movies our group enjoyed the most.
But then puberty hit, and so did the memories I'd repressed within months of being kidnapped of my life before the academy. I suddenly remembered my name wasn't a number they called me by every waking day. That past the walls of my dormitory and across an ocean is a bedroom I used to sleep in, a proper school I'd used to attend. A mother and father were waiting for my return, one that will never come.
I walk over to the cherry wood dresser beside my bed and drop the towel. Then for once in the reflection of the dusty, thinly framed mirror I've never wiped down since moving in, I look at my own body. The mirror itself hangs above the dresser that'd also come with the apartment.
I don't usually care enough to give myself more than a once over unless I just shaved my legs, but today I do.
I've gained weight since July. I'd once topped out at 115 pounds on a scale back in the facility during my monthly checkups. On a scale someone had left in the women's locker room for anyone interested in using it. I'd discovered my weight had jumped to over 130 now. The weight gain can be seen, my cheeks are rounding out now. No longer appearing slightly sunken. My breasts and butt are getting bigger too, and though I've learned through multiple sources over the years which sizes of both are considered most attractive to men. I personally could care less whether either part of my body is considered small or big. If anything, I'm exasperated to need new bras and underwear already because the pairs I arrived with are much too small now.
I'm happy in way I hardly ever feel as I run my hands over myself. No longer able to easily view the outline of my ribs, or the vertebrae of my spine for that matter.
I drop my left hand, then turn the other inward. Rotating the wrist the wrong way where I can spot the scars on the right side of my right hand and then some inches down on my forearm. Jagged, dark, and puffy. It's from where I cut myself diving through a window to escape the Cerberus. Running a finger softly over the numb skin, another scar for the collection. At least it's not as bad as the mess my back is.
My weight was once mostly made up of muscle, and a good portion still is. But with Chris showing me every fast-food place and diner in the damn city though in what short time we spent together… Going for a jog every morning and working out in peace at the gym with the membership I signed up for became a necessity. I was glad to help my body retain its strength in response to the weight gain. Spending the majority of my free time hitting a punching bag and imagining every punch landed was on the superiors I dealt with on Rockfort and in Paris was more than cathartic.
If things were different… If I had a normal life… Would I consider myself… attractive? It's something I never think about myself, mainly only toward the men who've caught my eye.
Men have found me that way it seems. Once or twice, I've been given a number and asked to call them. They try chitchatting with me at the gym a lot or at shops when all I want is to get my groceries or buy some clothing in peace. I'd responded every time with the excuse of being too busy to talk, or crumpling the paper up and tossing it when they were out of sight. Sometimes right in front of them if they wouldn't leave me alone. That's been met with an infuriated expression and a loud, "Bitch!" as they walked off a few times.
None of them would want to be with me if they knew the real me. Dating in my predicament is plain stupid anyways. On the outside I look normal, but when I'm alone at night. Unable to sleep, staring at the barricaded front door in the apartment's lone chair with a gun in hand because I'm afraid someone's going to barge in and kill me…
I'm beyond fucked up. P.T.S.D., traumatized, however one puts it. Somewhere deep inside me not long after my 18th birthday… I began to truly believe that no matter what. I am a monster.
It's while those thoughts swarm my head that I turn my arm slightly. Eyeing the number 0714, inked into my skin there. A permanent reminder of who I was, of who used to own me.
I give the same excuse to everyone who questions the strange numbers. "Oh this? It's the date I joined the army," I'd give a fake laugh before continuing the lines I'd rehearsed in my head a dozen times. "I was in basic, really drunk on a night off one time. Some of my army buddies egged me into getting a tattoo. Thankfully I choose this instead of something stupid."
It was a lie. One that after Wesker outed me as a traitor, I revealed it wasn't the date I joined the army. For the first time in my life. I told them it's my barcode number to identify me within Umbrella. Something I'll bear until I died.
I'd scream inside each time I told the story to somebody days into my arrival. The missing child in me desperate, "See me. Recognize me. Recognize that this tattoo isn't a date and isn't normal. Help me, please." Until I'd shut her up, silence her and try to ignore how the lies destroyed me. Freedom at my fingertips, but I'll never be safe enough to say who I am. My secret burning a hole in my throat, until a week later.
S.T.A.R.S. will be the only people to ever know that I am Madeleine Sówka. A girl kidnapped from her home at eight years old, unsure of her own parents faces or names it's been so long since she last saw them. A girl whose real name she isn't supposed to remember, to Umbrella I am 0714 until the day I die.
I wrap the towel around myself again, deciding to dress in another minute. I switch the TV on quickly to the news station.
A woman with long black hair in a ponytail sits at the desk in a white, button up. Holding papers in her hand alongside her male co-host. He's in a charcoal business suit that has no wrinkles on it, but no makeup on either person's face can hide their distressed state. "There was a disruption at Warren Stadium tonight between the Raccoon Sharks and the Old Court Thunders. The number of people hurt is unknown; however, the injured have been taken to Raccoon Hospital. The fight apparently began when an unruly fan turned on another and attacked them—"
I swallow and flip the monitor off, "An unruly fan turned on another," replays in my head. Was the man a zombie? Did somebody infected turn at that game and attack people? Every cell in my body wants to run now, wants to forget the plan I decided on minutes ago and flee the city. There had to be hundreds of people attending the football game. Hundreds. Irons sent out what? Roughly a dozen officers in the garage, along with anyone already on patrol? Were they overwhelmed by the crowd if there was a zombie? If there's one, there will be more…
You'd think because this is an Umbrella city that they'd take their own action against the T-Virus. It's been obvious for months it's here, but who knows what they're doing. Raccoon might just burn to the ground. All they'd probably care for is the plant running here and it staying safe.
I pack the Benelli M4 shotgun I'd hidden in the dresser's bottom drawer. Loading its slug shells before racking it. Its custom. The first weapon I had made by the station's gunsmith, Kendo. I spent a lot of time in the shop and got to know him and his wife well. Their daughter, Emma, became fond of me when I'd come in with either Chris or Jill a lot. Eventually making those visits by myself. Wanting to add on a ghost ring sight to the Benelli before eventually buying a Glock 19 over the standard Samurai Edge they provided me.
A soft spot formed for Emma not long into meeting her. I always felt content when I saw her head pop up from behind the counter with a smile on her face.
Packing some clothes, and my toothbrush too, leaving my Glock out. When I reach my hand into the dresser drawer and it comes into contact with a jean jacket I stop. What I'd originally planned to pack is forgotten for the moment. The jacket is an article of clothing I don't want to forget. Something I have to take with me because of how precious it is. Carrying one of the few memories I have of my mother. Once it's folded and tucked away, and then subsequently buried under a pile of more clothing with a packaging of hair ties. I leave the bag alone on the bed with the clothing I'll throw on in a minute beside it.
I pour myself a cup of coffee finally and casually blow on the surface. After a few minutes of waiting for it to cool, I sip gradually. Jill's words to never drink coffee freshly poured always repeat in my head when a mug is in front of me.
I'll get dressed and head out after. If that riot turns out bad as it might…
Nobody believed S.T.A.R.S. when we returned from the woods. Now…
I lower my hands till they're just hovering over the counter, in a stupor. A thoughtless lick of my lips cleans the remaining taste from them as I carefully hold the handle. My fingers cradle the rim of the mug where it's cooled off. I'm completely disgusted by the taste of black coffee every time I drink some. No amount of sugar or cream has ever masked it for me. I have no choice in drinking it though, not when it's the main thing that keeps me running.
My mind switches between being blank to so many other thoughts, I can't keep up.
I'm halfway through the cup when the unmistakable sound of growling echoes through the other side of my apartment's wall. I go still, and my heart races. A sick feeling emerges at the animalistic growling belonging to one source. The undead.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the fear away. My brain tries convincing me I'm not, hearing it for real. It's just in my head.
It's on the other side of that wall like every other time I've heard it. Nothing's really there. There is no zombie in my next door neighbor's apartment…
A feminine voice echoes through the room into mine from where the growling came from. My eyes snap open at what starts off as a calm conversation, and then spirals into hysterics from the woman. She screams, and I drop my mug on accident. The porcelain shatters and coffee splatters everywhere on the counter. Droplets sting my skin where they land, a majority of the warm liquid soaks the front of my towel. Spinning around, I stare at the wall ahead where the screams echo from.
Get… gun. The words appear muffled at first, like they're trying to rise through thick water. Get… the… gun… Stronger this time than before. GET YOUR GUN! The words shrieked now.
My mind sputters the command through the panic bubbling up my throat and I run for where I left my gun on the bed. Uncaring I'm in a towel as I prepare to break into the next apartment to help—
There's a weighted thump, and even without seeing, I know I was too late in spurring myself into action.
Mrs. Newman and her husband lived next door. An older couple I spoke to a few times in the past. Now… she's dead, and it doesn't take a lot to guess it her husband who's infected.
The chewing starts then. The slurping as flesh is ripped from her bones, there's a groan in response. As if the monster doing it is in ecstasy. I shut my eyes, swallowing the acid in my throat. I saw bodies being eaten too many times in the mansion to erase the sound. It's not fake, this time it's real.
I get dressed then. Wiping the coffee off myself and discarding the ruined towel in a useless heap on the floor. Tugging on a loose gray tee, jeans, and fitting brown boots, I throw my bag over my shoulder. Looping my knife holster onto my belt, I sheathe the knife engraved with the S.T.A.R.S. logo last.
The last thing I do is flip my mattress, fishing out a small envelope from a hole I'd cut into the bottom. I'd saved up a good five grand over the last two months. Two of it went to purchasing the car outside. A number that's easy to make I suppose when outside of the main necessities each month there's not much else to put your money towards. I'd pull it in small amounts every other day from the new bank account I'd set up. Having to switch to a different bank after July when I went to check my checking statement and found I no longer had an account with them.
Tucking the envelope into a shirt at the bottom of my bag for safe keeping, guilt courses through me. Shame that I was too late in saving the woman next door, but… It happened so fast. Easier to believe than admitting I froze in denial for too long.
I shut my eyes at the thought, forgetting her and the money for now. I open them and head for the door.
Chapter 4: Chapter 3
Chapter Text
Mrs. Newman will be up again soon, undead this time though. Running on a sole instinct to eat any flesh available. With the sounds of movement in every apartment around me as people collect what they can take and run. Disturbing the active corpse of her husband until she too gets back up. Staying here any longer is too dangerous.
I only have one box of twenty handgun bullets in the bag, another fourteen bullets are in the Glock's magazine. One waits patiently in the chamber. Hopefully I can reach the station without using any.
A swear passes my lips in frustration, I wish I'd bought more at Kendo's shop while I had a chance. I wasn't expecting to need more though. If anything, I'd planned to leave these behind as they'd never make it past airline security.
Grabbing the bag and throwing it across my shoulder and torso. I take light steps towards the door next to avoid causing creaks in the wood to not alert the zombie. With the chaos throughout the rest of the building, my footsteps are the least likely to get its attention though.
Aiming the handgun, I delicately turn the round, brass knob of my apartment door before quickly stepping in the hallway—There's a group of people outside the apartment door already. They duck or shout in surprise to see my gun aimed at them, I quickly holster the weapon in my waistband with my hands up. Not many in the building know me, and vice versa. I pull out my badge then, hurriedly explaining away, "I'm Patricia O'Donnell from the R.P.D. This is my apartment." Their faces mostly change from terror at a gun trained on them to relief.
"We heard a scream…" a woman tells me timidly. Her red hair is in a loose pony tail while she wears a pair of high rise jeans, a tee with some pop company logo I've seen in grocery stores and black toned sneakers with the pants rolled up just past her ankles. She points at the door where a man stands beside it, jiggling the doorknob before ramming it with his shoulder. Fuck.
"Hey, stop that!" I shout at him and he whips around to me with wide eyes.
"We have to get in! Someone was screaming bloody murder in there!" part of me wants to scoff at how unaware he is of how true his words really are.
I step further into the hall, "I'm sure it was nothing. Things are stressful with the evacuation going on. Just go back to your apartment's and get out of here," I feebly lie to make them walk. To get them on their way of fleeing the city with their lives.
The man who was ramming the door shakes his head. "Bullshit, Ma'am. I know these people, and they aren't the type to be screaming like that. Something's wrong in there. You're a cop, aren't you supposed to investigate this kind of stuff?" he argues and the group stares at me incredulously at my rather thoughtless response.
What do I say though? "Don't go in that apartment. The same zombies all of S.T.A.R.S. tried convincing the city exists only to be laughed out of town for are in there!" These people won't understand. They don't know what danger we could all be in if I open that door… "You're right, I'm sorry," the apology escapes before I can think. "I'm going to have to ask you all to head home now though, I'll call in back up and take care of this," I offer the group. One or two of them nod their heads in agreement and head back to their apartments with ease.
"With all due respect, Ma'am. No. I'm staying right here. I want to see that they're okay. They've had me come in a few times when they were out of town to water their plants. They're a pretty old couple." I take in his appearance now, the long blond hair and dark blond beard with a gray beanie plastered with band pins on his head. He's wearing a dirty sweatshirt with sweatpants matching the need for a wash. He has a strong smell to him too, I think it's weed from the few people I've booked with Rita for possession of Marijuana. One of the few slang terms for drugs I've learned the academy actually knows, there were many they didn't though. Something I had to find out the hard way when I didn't recognize well over half of them in my day to day as a cop.
"Stand behind me then," I order him firmly and thankfully he listens this time. My hearts in my throat as I sidle in front of the door. My hands are sweaty and my legs are shaking too as the adrenaline that'd worn off by the time I was fully dressed minutes ago returns. I step closer, raising a hand and hesitating to knock, shutting my eyes. This is pointless. My brain argues with me now like the crowd behind me.
Knocking finally, though you could hardly call it one from how light the raps are. "Mr. and Mrs. Newman? It's Patricia… from the R.P.D. Is everything alright in there?" I shout as low as I can. Knowing if either come to the door the likelihood they'll be able to open the knob is small. Maybe I'll get lucky and they bolted their own door so they can't even do that. But still, I'd like to not have them come over and start trying to break it down.
When there's no answer, I press again. Hating myself every second for acknowledging the uselessness of checking on them, but being unable to leave if this crowd won't. "Mr. and Mrs.—" I start, and everyone including myself jumps when there's an unexpected banging on the door this time with a snarl.
"What the hell?" someone behind me shouts and my body freezes. Unsure of where to go from here, I can't break that door down. I cannot let this door be opened.
I turn around, throwing caution to the wind of whether they'll think I'm crazy or not. "Get out of here now. Whatever's in that apartment isn't human, and his wife isn't either anymore," I warn.
"What in the hell are you on about?" the beanie wearing man asks at my crazy statement.
"You don't understand, what's behind me in this apartment is dangerous. You all need to get out of here," the words do nothing to get them to drop checking the deceased couple.
Beanie shakes his head, "If you're not going to break down that door, then I will!" he shouts. Pushing me roughly out of the way, "One of you guys call the actual cops, clearly she doesn't know what she's doing as one," he taunts as he stands in front of the door. Ignoring the inhumane screaming from the other side at our commotion. "Jeanine? Isaac? I'm gonna break down the door, okay? Back up so I don't hurt you!" he calls through the snarling.
I back up through the crowd wordlessly, heart violently beating in my chest. Blood pulsing in my veins as the anxiety tries crippling me again when he lifts his foot to drive the heel into the center of the door.
I've dealt with zombies before today, surely this is no different? This shouldn't be a problem to handle. But it is different when I've spoken to them and heard their voices when they were living. I can't shout, can't fumble a weak order to not open that door past my lips as he grunts, then kicks the door once more. Closer to the door handle this time.
"Do you need help?" another man offers. He appears middle aged, slightly overweight too with graying black hair, in a pair of jeans and a light purple button up.
Beanie shakes his head, "Nah, just one more. It felt loose after the second time," he informs. Lifting a sneaker-clad shoe one last time and driving it into the wood besides the doorknob now.
The door flies open then. The body of an elderly man with a balding center of his head in a buttoned light brown sweater, tan pants, socks and slippers stumbles through, landing flat on his stomach on the carpeted floor. Everyone crowds around him, Beanie kneels down beside him instantly, "Isaac! Are you okay? I'm so sorry, we tried getting in sooner…" he rambles to the elderly man. Cutting off when there's a low groan from the body, an aging hand raises to grab Beanie's ankle—Mr. Newman lurches from his spot on the ground for the limb, Beanie's doesn't even flinch backwards too dumbfounded to move, I'm sure.
I snap from my stupor this time though. Shoving people out of my way, yanking my gun out and firing at Mr. Newman's head before anyone can demand what I'm doing. The gunshot echoes loudly in the hall, Mr. Newman's head jerks forward from the angle the bullet entered his skull. A puddle pools around his head as brain matter is scattered around him. More people run now, there are screams this time and slamming doors in a panic.
There's not even time for any of those remaining to react to what I did before Mrs. Newman staggers through the door herself now. There's no way she's alive.
I balk at the stream of fresh blood running from the massive chunk of missing neck down her pink sweater and ankle length brown skirt to her bare feet. How could she have turned already? "Jeanine! Oh my god, I'm so sorry," Beanie cries in misunderstood grief, still unaware of the danger he was in seconds ago. He stands, dashing for the woman whose trachea is visible. Husband took no time in eating her, I think as I take in how her braided gray hair is a mess. She rasps through her broken throat wetly, her white irises land on Beanie. She then reaches for him too.
Somebody shouts a warning on Beanie's behalf, in disbelief like the rest that Mrs. Newman's even walking with a wound like that. In disbelief to Beanie's obliviousness to the impossibility of her being alive, approaching her without a second thought. She grabs his sweatshirt, and I can't move people out of my way fast enough to shoot as she leans forward. Using the same move her husband most likely just did to her in their home on Beanie. Digging her teeth into his throat, eliciting a scream from him as he aggressively shoves her back in retaliation.
"What the fuck!" he screams again, a hand cupping his neck as I get a clear shot and fire on her too. The bullet leaves a hole in the middle of her forehead and she slumps to the ground in a heap, midchew.
The hallway empties out completely now, nobody stays behind for Beanie as he weakly collapses against the wall by the door. Blood pours from his wound and stains his clothes as he eyes his bloodied hands in shock. I kneel beside him in a frenzy, "Hey! It's okay. I've got you," I assure him as I press his hands into his neck so he'll apply pressure. Bloodying mine in the process.
"She bit me… she fucking bit me like a zombie!" he cries hoarsely.
I ignore it though, "Just keep your hands like this, okay? I'll be right back," I tell him and he nods back, the devastation evident in his eyes and now speechless mouth. I dart through my open apartment door, heading straight for what little of my clothing I left behind in the dresser. He's infected. My mind repeats as I tear the top drawer open to grab the first article of clothing my hand lands on. A plain white tee.
I run straight for the door, disregarding for now that he's infected and will turn at any point. Instead focusing, pressure, he needs to maintain pressure on that wound…
I kneel back in front of him, pressing the ruined red tee to the injury. "Just hold that there, okay? We're gonna get you to the hospital," I promise, not processing he's too white from blood loss, forehead covered with a sheen of sweat, and the extent of how much she took out of his neck is too severe.
The door of my apartment slightly bounces on the wall and Beanie looks me in the eye. His hand's quivering as they hold my tee to his neck. "I'm sorry for not listening…" he whispers in response; a tear runs from his eye before he gives one last breath and rests his head on the wall. His hands drop with the tee to his lap, blood running from the wound down his dirty sweatshirt, but I don't have to check to know…
"I'm sorry I let you," I whisper back to my neighbor pathetically, whose name I didn't even know before he died.
Chapter 5: Chapter 4
Chapter Text
My lips are pursed as I stand with my gun in hand, firing for the third time in minutes. This time being at the man slumped against the wall, blood and brain staining the white paint behind him.
I can hear more screams within the walls in response, but I don't care. I couldn't leave him to turn and hurt others. I couldn't… couldn't leave him like that at all.
It's then I head inside my apartment again. Flicking on the bathroom light before doing the same with the sink, I thrust my hands into the water. The crimson runs from my skin, flushing into the drain as I close my eyes and breathe past the smell of it. This can't be happening. I didn't just kill three people in a matter of minutes.
Zombies or not…
The bile rises to my throat and before I can stop it, I empty my stomach into the sink. The heavy stream washes the coffee and half-digested TV dinner away. I push away from the sink then, not shutting it off as I press against the wall and stare into the mirror ahead. My reflection staring back, a teary-eyed, starting to sweat mess. Spatters of Beanie's blood are in random spots on my pant leg from grabbing and pocketing my Glock.
I have to get to the station. I remember my initial objective now. Wiping my face and abandoning the apartment for the stairs to the lobby without any more distractions. I don't even bother to shut the sink off or close my door as I do so.
I cautiously survey the visible portion of the lobby, not seeing or hearing anything out of the ordinary. The layout of the room has a right wall that juts out, blocking my view of the front desk and the back office. Adam's probably in his apartment right now. Unaware that a tenant in his building was eaten and there are three dead bodies upstairs. How long will the city last if people started turning as fast as Mrs. Newman did upstairs? If everyone at the stadium was possibly turned?
I step further into the room to be sure I'm alone, planning to knock on his door to warn him to get the people out of here faster. As fast as their feet can move them.
His office is shut with a sheet of paper tacked to it.
I approach the door guardedly, eyeing outside the building's glass exit. Tentatively tearing the paper off, it's written in pen in the style of Adam's handwriting.
Some man walked in here with a bite wound like the news has been warning us about for the last couple of weeks... I've decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and have left to drive him to the hospital. Even though I'm not here, evacuate this place immediately.
-Adam.
I flip the page over to see on the back is a hastily written memo, in his handwriting too.
Citizens… evacuate from uptown district… ASAP. If unable to find transportation, send tenants to… police department for help.
Tacking the paper on the door again for others who come down, the bleak feeling that Adam might die emerges. Somebody with a bite wound he's taking to the hospital? Something I didn't even think of until now. The news said they were taking the injured there, possibly the infected. If any of them turned, it'll spread the virus amongst staff and unaware patients. First the riot, is the hospital next?
Pushing open the front door, it swings shut on its own as I jog to the sidewalk. Stopping to inspect the road on both sides of me. The street is busy unlike when I first got here, cars and people dart every way down the street. Cars that used to line both sides of the road are gone now too, leaving a few lone cars for their owners to grab.
I run to where my 88' red Buick Regal is parked beside a tree a few feet from the building. I bought it not long ago. Learning after a full day of walking to get everywhere with sore, blistery feet, it wasn't going to work. I wasn't sure whether I'd get away with purchasing a vehicle or not under Umbrella's watch, not sure what I could do for anything really. When a week passed though, then three, and it was still there, I figured they either weren't worried I'd use it to run. Or they weren't going to waste the time on hauling away an obvious piece of crap.
There's a distant buzz, closer now. It dawns on me it's a continuous sound of screaming somewhere in the distance. If someone turned in the stadium and it started a riot… Did those who Irons sent out fail? Did it filter onto the streets? I need to get the hell off the road and to the station right now.
I remove the duffle bag from my shoulder and toss it into the passenger seat then. Music fills the car from the last time I drove, the lyrics to some song by Alice in Chains plays.
Offhandedly, I muse to myself as a distraction from the chaos that I'm glad in the months away I learned about life outside Umbrella's suffocating walls. They allowed me the usage of a CD player not long after making it into the U.S.S. their one act of kindness I suppose. Even if it wasn't true, because the condition was they prohibited what I could or couldn't hear. Can't let their soldiers listen to songs that argue against what they taught us.
The team all listened to different genres I learned very quickly, Barry was more of a country, and 50's kind of guy. Jill surprisingly loved pop, "As a guilty pleasure," she'd admitted one day. And Chris… he was a definite "metal head" he'd called it. He certainly managed to get me into liking rock the most when he introduced me to new bands and songs from the genre that I was never allowed to hear before.
A subconscious smile reaches my lips at a memory of him jokingly headbanging to Mötley Crüe while driving us to the same diner for the dozenth time that week. I could see fairly quickly why Jill liked the goofy point man, something she never spoke of aloud. I saw it in her eyes though. She considered herself a bit too serious sometimes, despite the hell going on around us in that station.
I never found myself feeling like that towards Chris though in the weeks we worked together. He felt too much of a brother, and besides, I've never even liked another—The thoughts are disrupted when a car blares it's horn. I tear my gaze from the radio, the thing causing the reminiscing, to see a pedestrian was running aimlessly across the road without looking.
Right, there's more pressing things at moment than reliving old memories.
I pull out of the spot then after the car passes and it's clear on both sides. Making it halfway down the road, preparing to stop at a stop sign when I reach my hand for the car radio. The tunes of whatever band came on after the song, "Nutshell" abruptly changes as I fidget with the knob.
Maybe I'll find a news channel on it to listen to—My eyes randomly dart into my rear mirror then, in time to see a large truck swerving past mine in the road. I slam on the brakes yelling, "Holy shit!" as it rams into a small boutique ahead. There's smoke upon impact and as I put a hand on the door handle. Ready to get out of the car and help any survivors—I see from the rear window how the driver's body is being torn apart by a large man, the passenger. The windshield of the car is sprayed down in a red wash of blood. Zombies have made it onto the streets. It's the mansion all over again…
Disregarding the thought with a heavy swallow and knotting of my stomach partially caused by the sight. I hit my blinker, checking behind me this time to make sure nobody else is going to nearly dodge rear ending me to turn and bypass the accident—Another errant car zooms into view then, and I slam on my breaks again. Helplessly watching as the car ahead plows into the crashed truck, resulting in a pile up.
I sit there for a while, staring as the driver in the car slumps onto the steering wheel. Half theiro fast myself. head dented in, the horn endlessly honking. "Oh my god," I pant, swiftly making the turn and speeding off from the wreck before any more cars appear. Slowing mine when I realize I'm going to
There was nobody left to save in that accident.
The remembrance that my apartments near the back of the station comforts me. Minimally though. I can park in the parking garage and head up through the east wing. I can grab whatever ammo is left in the armory too, finding they were beginning to disperse it by the time I finally left earlier. I stop at the sight of a man in a tattered brown suit several yards ahead of the car limping away. I stop the car; my vision suddenly blurs.
—I get out of the car with my Glock in hand.
Walking forward only a few steps, "Sir?" I whisper, the man continues on and doesn't answer. I should know better, but I follow after anyways, "Sir, are you hurt? Do you need any help?" I stop a couple of feet from the man, he stops too.
The man turns around, forehead wrinkled, back hunched. His eyes are glazed over, mouth dropped open with a mixture of blood, and saliva drooling from it.
I step back in aghast at the sight, foolishly not expecting to find a zombie roaming the street like this and then spot why he's limping away so bad.
It's a miracle that its walking at all; the right ankle is broken. The brown pant cuff is soaked is blood.
The man stumbles to face me, raising his arms up; a harsh gurgle comes from his throat as he growls ravenously, walking clumsily towards me.
I raise my arms as well, knowing I have to shoot, but face to face with these things again… Terror is winning even though I told myself only an hour ago I wouldn't let it. I turn to run away to the car to get inside when his ankle gives before I can dodge him. The man tackles me, my head smacks against the door and knocks it shut before hitting the ground; my hand flies out, releasing the Glock on accident. I hear my skull crack open and feel blood begin to trickle. I moan in pain.
I struggle to push myself up and feel the man's hand tearing down my gray tee before crushing my split head into the concrete with a heavy fist. I can't roll over, the head injury leaving me in a dazed, concussed state.
There's snarling in my ear and then hot, wet, reeking breath fanning across the side of my neck before the man's mouth is pressed against my neck, his vile tongue disgustingly runs over the supple skin.
His teeth sink into my tender flesh. Even in my muddled state I'm still cognitive enough to close my eyes and emit a bloodcurdling, desperate screech at the agonizing pain coursing through my body. I jerk my back against the man's chest as my voice lowers to short, quiet whimpers. As I feel his mouth remove from my neck, the chunk of flesh in his mouth being ripped away.
I feel a tingling sensation as my head is dragged towards him and realize the skin's still attached to my neck.
Blood gushes from the wound. I gasp at the excruciating pain, screaming once again until my voice is hoarse as I try to pull away. My heart jerks and goes into overdrive, my blood pumps with useless adrenaline. I feel the man's hands curling into my shirt and faintly sense mine doing the same.
There's a nauseating, wet, popping sound as chords of connective tissue are forcibly torn away by the man's persistent teeth. My fingers flex and curl, my body seizes like that'll do anything to keep me alive.
My vision is darkening by the second. The man's mouth is on my perforated muscle once again seconds later and mercilessly he sinks his teeth into the exposed flesh. Dying. I'm dying and will become one of these things because I was foolish enough to turn and run when I know I should have shot him right then and there.
A heavy breath releases through my empty body. All that remains is a twitching heap lying beneath the cannibalistic man as he goes in for another bite—
I shake my head in confusion at the daydream running through my head. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" I whisper, unnerved by the immediate thought that he's a zombie and I'll die if I get out. Looking up at the stumbling man in bewilderment. "It doesn't matter right now," I mumble, shaking my head. Whatever I was just thinking about is gone now and I have bigger things to worry over.
I get out of the car with my Glock in hand, blatantly ignoring my instinct to drive by without caring for the man's safety. Walking forward only a few steps, I cautiously whisper. "Sir?" the man continues on without answering. I keep as much distance from him as possible as I follow after. "Sir, are you hurt? Do you need any help?" I stop several feet from the man, when he stops too.
The gray-haired man turns around. His forehead's wrinkled like he's getting on in his years, back hunched, eyes glazed over and pupils white. His mouth is dropped open with a mixture of blood and saliva drooling from it. Half of his face is dented in too, with a chunk of his rib cage gouged out.
I step back in aghast, grasping too late he is one after all and why he's limping so bad.
It's a miracle that its walking at all: the right ankle is broken, bent at such an odd angle toward the left foot that the bone pierces the skin and even skids the ground. The brown pant cuff is soaked in fresh blood, he must have only died just recently, maybe a victim to the crowd at the stadium… or someone else nearby.
The man stumbles to face me, raising his arms up with a harsh gurgle coming from his throat as he growls ravenously. He walks clumsily towards me. I raise my arms as well in response with my gun in hand, stepping my left foot back. Shoot it. I have to shoot or I'll die like Beanie did or Mrs. Newman—The zombie tackles me before I listen to myself. I collapse hard against the door. Knocking it shut as my hand flies out, and releases the Glock on accident.
I yelp as I tumble to the ground with the body on top of me, the hands bolstering the man back up once we settle on the asphalt. All I can think in the back of my head through the panic is the wondering of how I picked the one roadway that's momentarily barren with nobody to come by and help?
"Shit. Shit. Shit!" I shout reaching my left hand out to grasp the man's throat as he tries to lean over to rip out my throat. "Keep your fucking mouth off me!" I swear, using my free hand to frantically search around the right side of my body where my Glock fell.
When I don't feel it, I groan in frustration and lift my head to see where the hell it went.
It lies a couple of inches away, just barely out of my reach under the car. Of course, it would be just out of reach. With no way of reaching the weapon, I have no choice but to use my knife. Retrieving it from its sheath, glad I fixed it on before leaving the apartment. I grit my teeth, and with a clear look of murder in my eyes, I shove the blade mercilessly into the zombie's temple without a second thought.
I yank the blade back and push the body off me to the side, panting heavily from the skirmish.
I lay there for a moment staring up at the cloudy sky. My fourth person… and even worse, I froze again at the sight of the turned man, and this time it almost got me killed. "I cannot make this mistake again," I grumble aloud, livid at myself. I know better, and yet…
Rolling onto my stomach, I crawl under the car. Grabbing the Glock from where it sits before hastily crawling back out.
This is happening. The impending outbreak Jill and I knew would come any day… It might be starting now, with us trapped in the middle of the city. But Umbrella won't do a goddamn thing about it, I'm sure. The mansion wasn't enough for them, was it?
I huff, yanking open the car door before getting in and slamming it closed. I reach my hand to the shift, freezing when I grip the leather material before switching to drive.
Suddenly I feel like the protagonist in many of the movies we watched. The one who finds themselves at a crossroads, torn on what to do and where to go. In some way this moment is monumental… because I can continue driving to the station. Regardless of what I know is happening in this city, to offer my help. Then I'll sneak away tomorrow evening, unknowing of the plight this city will be in by then. Or I can get out now, and risk being caught by Umbrella before I'm long gone…
My eyes land on the body outside the car, watching as blood pools around the head. If Umbrella finds me… that will be a fate worse than death… Maybe if I stay for even a couple hours… I could help a few people escape the station at least.
Against all rational thought, I turn my gaze to stare at the road. I switch the gear to drive and turn to the next street to reach the back of the station in no time. Where the entrance to the parking garage waits. Further down, the road is out currently. It was being torn apart so a new drainage system could replace the old one. The street has reeked for the last few days because of it.
I'm shaking by the time I open the gate with my keycard and parking the car. I cut the engine, and for the second time, "This better not be a mistake," I determine to myself. Trying to entertain the faux confidence in the decision in ultimately riding this out in the safety of the R.P.D.
I get out a moment later, with the bag thrown over a shoulder. Moaning echoes from near the gate just as I take a step for the door. I whip my head around to see a zombie followed me as it slowly comes down the ramp to enter the room. Thankfully the gate's closed already and it can't get in.
She's persistent though, sticking her arm through the small slots to impossibly reach for me as she snaps her jaw and snarls. I never forgot how relentless the ones in the lab were. The nightmares never allowing it either when I so desperately wanted to.
I abandon the parking garage and the body of the undead girl, heading straight for the armory.
Chapter 6: Chapter 5
Notes:
I have no idea what I was doing with the naming of the chapters *facepalm* very sorry for any confusion, I did not post chapter 6 before 5
Chapter Text
I've always hated going through the basement of this building. The kennel is on the other side of the wall to my left with the morgue being a bit farther down, I imagine the dogs are all asleep now even after the commotion from earlier. It's quiet in here at this time, in a way that's eerie even with the lights on.
Part of me wants to pop into the kennel, I like visiting the dogs. Well-trained German Shepard's with beautiful, shiny brown coats who helped me get over my phobia of dogs. In fact, they were the only thing to help me after watching the one's in the lab named "Cerberus" mercilessly tear Joseph apart, nearly giving me the same fate.
The shooting range is behind me on the left, a room I spent quite a lot of time in when I wasn't patrolling or doing paperwork. I rarely practiced with another person in the room though, self-conscious in a way, I guess. Even with the lie of serving in the military before coming to S.T.A.R.S. I still have an irrational fear that somebody will put pieces together about me they didn't even the parts to. Nobody would ever jump to the conclusion that really good accuracy must mean I'm an Umbrella spy.
I enter the armory, running to the shelves to find 9mm for my gun and more shotgun shells too. Practically sprinting from the basement when I grab enough boxes of shells and bullets. I stare down the long corridor to the night watchman's area as I approach. Kevin won't be in for his night shift, not tonight. Probably never… If there was any place he'd probably been at during the riot, it's J's bar. Collecting debt on his large and unpaid tab before coming into work.
We met after bumping into each other in the hallway late one evening when he was making his last rounds. He introduced himself and welcomed me to the building. Even though it was already my third week there by then. I guess he'd tried joining the team multiple times in the past, but failed every time. I'd nodded along nicely when he tried to make a lighthearted joke about it. Holding in the comment about how it was for the best he never joined. He would've been slaughtered like the others, another life that would've been needlessly lost.
Another couple encounters like that of him making his rounds and us by chance bumping into each other around the building occurred. Eventually led to an acquaintanceship of some kind throughout the months of remaining here. He'd actually come to me a few days ago, excited he was being drafted into the new S.R.T. unit. Even showed off the new gear he was assigned the next day. "Closest I'll ever get to S.T.A.R.S. level, but… Whaddya think?" he'd asked me, arms spread as he did a three-sixty.
The uniform consisted of dark blue pants and shirt with the R.P.D. patch on the left and right arm with a bullet vest that had, "R.P.D." in bold letters across it. Around his waist was a belt for carrying grenades or flash grenades more likely, a radio, a tazer, and handcuffs, he had new combat boots and fingerless combat gloves.
A hand to my lip as I looked him up and down while mulling over my answer, "I'm thinking… that your outfit's lacking."
To which he became confused and disappointed at my answer. I think Kevin had grown to like me more romantically than platonically. Between my background and our age gap though, I wasn't very interested outside of the occasional light conversation. He was good for a joke; an aspect Chris had lost when half of his best friends on the team were murdered. The gleam in his eyes he'd have that first week we met when a joke genuinely got to him was never there anymore. Even when he pulled the stunts like headbanging to make me laugh.
"Well, you're no fun," Kevin replied with what was most likely a mock gloomy look.
"I'm kidding," my hand flew out and connected with his chest in a joking push. I don't really know how to flirt, and I suppose in hindsight it was probably stuff like that, that read as if I was trying to. "You look good, just don't get too cocky. That vest only covers your chest, not your head, arms or legs."
"You know I will."
Taking a slow breath in an effort to remain calm. I make my way to the lobby, eyes wide to see there's already people sitting on cots along the sides of the east hall. Officers kneel beside a few to see if they're okay, leaving when they're satisfied to assist someone else in need. The doors to the conference room are propped open and I see more people in there too, weeping or staring at the ground, like they don't know how to react. People in the hall stare at me as I slow to a hurried walk, afraid to trip on someone's shoes or somebody will run out in front of me.
"Patricia!" Rita emerges from the conference room and heads straight for me.
"Rita," though internally my eyes are rolling at hearing the fake name. The relief I feel to see her can be heard in my words, and is felt when I wrap my arms around her in a tight hug.
She meets me with the same move, wrapping her arms around me. I don't necessarily miss the split second of stiffness at the unexpected action. I don't blame her though. A simple heartfelt hug is something I've never done with her, not with anyone besides Chris. Even then, it was only once, in the mansion when I found her and Chris after that first…
In this moment, I needed something as simple as a hug.
"You okay?" she asks, pushing me back a bit where her eyes roam over my body like she's searching for injuries. "You have blood on your hip, Trish!" her voice low, but words sharp with concern. "What happened?"
I look down to where the splatters of Beanie's blood are, my jeans light enough it can be seen. Guess it's good I washed my hands before I came in, who knows what people would've thought at that one. "There was an accident in my apartment building…" I explain, not sure what to say. "They didn't…"
I don't know what I was expecting to hear at that. A demand why I didn't call for help? A reprimanding? When all I get is an, "I'm sorry," in its place I find myself floored.
Not wanting to bring more attention to it though, because I'm sure it'll be dealt with in a minute. I scan around me at the officers, seeing most of them still in uniform. A few are in their street clothes though, probably ones who went home like myself and then returned when panic started. "Where is everyone? Did anyone make it back from the riot?"
She starts walking for the main hall, "As far as we know, nobody in the riot has gotten back to us… I think they were overrun by the crowd." My heart leaps into my throat, it's true. Zombies did make it out from that game. "Many were sent out by Raymond. Not long after you left, we were getting reports that the riot broke out into the streets. Raymond along with others left to evacuate parts of town…" she stops just as she takes on step onto the small set of stairs to the platform leading into the main hall. "Trish…"
Putting a steadying hand on her shoulder, "What's wrong?"
Her brown eyes meet mine and a look like she thinks she's crazy passes through them, "The mom we found today… and the two children?" she whispers.
I nod, having a notion of where this is going, "What's wrong?"
She gapes at the floor like she can't bear to look at me as she says the next words, "There are reports of people being eaten just like the other cases from the last few months, just like she was found eating them. But," Rita finally meets my eyes. "These people… Civilians have come in screaming about zombies and monsters. Saying they'd shoot them over a dozen times, but they wouldn't die. Saying they're already dead, Patricia… The dead are walking and eating people. Can you believe that? That's… that's insane, right?"
"I…I," I stutter. What do I say? Rita knows I was with S.T.A.R.S. that night, and I've heard the rumors spread about that I'm just as crazy as the rest because I refused to speak on it too. Or S.T.A.R.S. was keeping me quiet because whatever happened out there, they didn't want me to talk. Every single survivor has cried themselves to sleep every night since, drank themselves to a stupor to forget, or couldn't sleep at all because they were too scared to close their eyes, wishing we'd all never stepped foot into the helicopters. We did. I did. And we all went through a horrific nightmare.
"Trish," she turns more towards me, "Is what S.T.A.R.S. went through… happening here too?" I fumble for words then at the acknowledgement that Rita believes S.T.A.R.S. but needs me to say it aloud so it'll register.
Nodding, "Whatever outbreak happened in that mansion the others tried warning everyone about… It's happening here, Rita," and she bites her bottom lip, looking as if she's on the verge of panicking like the others in the hallway with us.
"I… I didn't think it was true. I thought you never spoke on it because you didn't want to go along with them, but didn't want to lose your job," she rushes out, the words apologetic in nature. Not once in the weeks that she was assigned to me for my training period did we ever bring the mansion up. I think she was scared to; I'd seen the look in her eyes at times when any of the members were brought up, alive or dead. She wanted to know more, wanted to ask my thoughts on it, but didn't want to open Pandora's box on the only member still working at the station. Just in case I was as big of a loon as the rest of them. I'm sure. "Oh god… Trish. I'm so—"
I cut her off and grab both her shoulders now, "Listen, I'm gonna speak to Marvin. I can try to help, okay? Don't panic in front of everyone. We're the only ones that will keep them calm," she seems to feel better at my words. A masks forms over her face of calm and confidence, like she knows exactly what she's doing, even if it's the polar opposite. As she remembers she is in fact, an officer, and the emotional crutch every civilian in this place will rest on throughout the chaos. "Just keep helping people, I'll be back soon."
The main hall is filled with officers and wounded civilians. Worried and incessant chatter ricochets in the large room. People asking questions, wanting to know what's going on in the city. Wanting to know what the police are going to do about the robbery's occurring. The murders that some saw happen right in front of them.
Cots are already being set up around the large room with I.V drips and partitions hanging near some. A few people are being attended to on them, bleeding, gripping their necks or arms.
My blood feels as if it freezes at the sight. Thinking of Beanie from half an hour ago, how his blood is dried on my pants and gun. There are infected people in here, what are we going to do? There are so many if even one person turns…
Those who aren't interrogating any officer they can with twenty questions are sedentary in their spots. Waiting for an officer to direct them like the ones in the east hall. It's clear on their faces that their minds are comprehending the anarchy, the utter insanity of the walking dead tearing this town apart. When only a couple hours ago it was a calm September evening with a football game happening at the college stadium. It's clear everyone here, including the officers themselves are expecting somebody more in charge to speak.
I'm at the steps to the main floor when a man bursts through the doors, startling everyone surrounding the front of the hall. I jump along with them. He comes to me first, "Miss, I need help. I was separated from my daughter outside the station," his voice is petrified.
I turn to a man in a brown coat with a buttoned red and white flannel beneath, his jeans look tattered on his left leg. It happens to be his luck the first person he ran to is an officer, "What happened? Do you know her last location?"
"She's eight! L-l-long blonde hair and in a, a, a pink nightgown!" he stammers. "W-we were trying to get inside when there was an accident," it's then I see the blood on the side of his head. Concussion can be possible; his head needs to be checked out soon. As well as that leg. "I was hit by a car as we were crossing the road, woke up to one those freaks biting into my leg, but she was gone. She's gone," he's grabbing my arms, "Please help me find her, she's all I have left."
He's bit, and I'm not sure his daughter is alive either, but I know telling him so could get a bad reaction.
"Sh-h-h, just calm down sir, I'll get somebody on it right away—"
The door is barged through again, by a woman in a black skirt, black heels, or heel, as one shoe is missing, and a blazer. She snarls as blood drips from her lip, her shirt is covered in nothing but blood and gore. He points, "That's her! She's the one who bit me! She must've—"
Everyone turns to look and screams, panicking at the sight. "Monster!" I hear somebody shriek, cutting off the father as it rings through the hall.
In one fluid motion, I push the man to my side with one hand and lift my gun in the other. Only seconds are needed to line my sights up and blow her brains out. The cracking sound of the bullet bounces around the main hall and splinters into the wood behind her. Her head snaps to the side, bits of skull with a splattering of blood and brain matter hit the wall. And an unfortunate person who's too close. The craze continues despite the woman being dealt with; officers dash over from whomever they were talking to.
Stopping in their tracks when they see me still aiming my gun at the slumped over body. "What happened?" one of them demands.
Turning around and spotting the shaggy, sandy-blond hair of the officer who I know as John. I point at him, "John, help me. Let's get this body out of here," he transferred a few months ago and as I ask for help, fear sparks in his brown eyes.
"O'Donnell, what happened?" a different officer demands again, more serious this time.
"She was one of them and if I hadn't shot her, she would've attacked me or someone else. Now stop asking me questions and either help me carry this body or go help people in through the gates!" I urge the group. Looping my arms around the woman's waist and hauling her limp body against my chest. A person, she'd been a person just moments ago and now I'm discarding her dead body outside.
John is the only one to scramble up the steps, he grabs the woman's feet, lifting them into the air. "Thank you," I tell him as we carefully maneuver her down the steps behind us and gently put her down next to them.
Stepping back into the room, seeing none of the dumbfounded officers moved from their spots in the last minute. "Somebody's gotta watch the gates! There are too many zombies outside for everyone to be in here and not helping civilians enter the station," I order.
"Zombies?" one questions in a befuddled, mocking voice.
Ignoring him and nodding to the man behind me, "He was separated from his daughter outside just a moment ago. If you check the area, don't go too far and whatever you do," my voice drops and I step closer to officer Bridges whom just ridiculed my usage of the term "zombie". With a low voice, "If you see a zombie, you shoot it in the head. Not the leg, not the heart. The. Head," I ground out.
His eyebrows furrow together when he realizes I'm being serious. "Okay," his eyes nervously looking to the others for a better response, like maybe they'll argue what I said, but I'm taking a step back. Weaving through the throng of people for the west office before he can ask questions.
I enter the office cutting out the sounds of the incessant panicking as I close the door. I can see from here Marvin's in Raymond's office, leaning over the desk, the phone handle to his ear as he listens intently.
Walking inside, he sees me and puts a finger up to immediately silence me. He's furious, the same look I've only seen the other time when he reprimanded an officer. I stand there, patiently waiting for him to finish. My body settles at seeing for myself he's also okay—I jump when he unexpectedly slams the handle down on the receiver shouting. "Goddammit!" he slumps in the chair behind him and gestures at the phone. "I can't get anyone at the hospital to pick up," he explains, now moving his hand to where the two-way home base radio is sitting.
Static repeatedly goes off as he continuously fidgets with the radio's stations calling into it every few minutes, "This is Lieutenant Marvin Branagh! This is an emergency! Are there any officers who can respond?" he lets go of the receiver for a few seconds. Pressing when there's no voices heard, "You are to return to the police station immediately. Bring any civilians you can with you…" he waits a few seconds to give someone a chance to say anything. "Somebody, please respond!" he shouts desperately into the radio. There's no reply in the end and he groans, putting the receiver down in defeat.
"Marvin, what's going on? I just got kicked out of my apartment. Rita said Raymond and others are evacuating town."
He looks up, "Whatever has been spreading around. There were reports from the officers when they arrived that people in the crowd were attacking others and eating them." Marvin runs a hand over his mouth and sits back in his chair, waving his hand at a map of the city that has writing all over it. "So many people are turning that several groups of officers were sent to help with evacuating parts of the city. We even set out to main street to detonate a bomb not long ago to wipe out most of the crowd from the stadium, but I haven't heard from anyone in the last hour if it was done so, and I can't seem to get anyone to answer their fucking radios!"
Turning. 'People are turning,' he said; like Rita, he must be convinced too of what those things are out there. And they were going to set off a bomb?
Shaking his head, he huffs and sits back in his chair. Something's on his mind, but he doesn't speak it, instead, "Irons has basically locked himself in his office with the mayor's daughter, Katherine. And no one can get him to come out. That bastard… he sent out maybe fifty fucking men and women to help like it was some bar fight happening. Not a riot," his face scrunches up. "Someone who escaped the crowd came in here, raving about the crowd being made of zombies. How all the officers who arrived are all dead…" Marvin closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and the loss is written on his face. "I think Raymond's dead."
I stand there baffled at the abrupt announcement, unable to move. I remember the mayor coming in earlier today, showed up right as Rita and I returned from investigating the call in. He asked Caroline to speak with Irons specifically. His daughter, Katherine, was with him. A college student that upon seeing her for the first time I thought she was rather beautiful. Long blonde hair in pigtails, flawless ivory skin. Even her outfit was fashionable as she wore a white jumpsuit with a white and black belt around her waist, a gold band wrapped around her left bicep with a backpack slung on one shoulder in small heels. She could be a model without even trying.
Personally, I thought it'd become a little too chilly outside to wear an outfit like that anymore. I suppose my easiness to freeze can be explained by living most of my life in a building and rarely ever getting to experience weather outside. Not until attending Rockfort, and even then, the heat there was miserable. Rain was the only weather I'd come to embrace while there, because without it, the sun would easily bake us when we trained outside.
Irons came down not long after Warren arrived, the two began talking to the side while Katherine hung around Caroline's desk. She herself was beginning to pack up for the day, but chatted with Katherine as she did so. She must come in quite a bit, because she even waved to those walking by. Rita included, who joined in the conversation to see how she's been. She gave a joyful smile when they said things like, "How's college going?" or "Your old man drag you in here again?".
None of us knew in that moment her father was entrusting her to be watched by Irons for a few days. Warren walked to her a couple minutes later, gave her a hug and a kiss on the forehead, and then left with a promise he'd be home soon. And of course, to stay on her best behavior for her uncle.
He just left his daughter, for vacation? For work? When it happened, I couldn't figure out why. But now I wonder if he somehow knew things were about to get really bad.
And Raymond… He was alive only hours ago, giving us orders, talking to us and seeing how our day was going and… And now he's dead? I can't believe I actually made it to this station safely if the situations this bad. Will getting out of here tomorrow even be possible? My heart races at the thought, would I even be able to escape if I left right now? I knew I'd live to regret this decision, goddammit… my thoughts fret.
Trying to quell my worries about that for now. "What do you mean Raymond's dead?"
He puts a hand on the desk and looks at the wall for a minute, collecting himself, but from his expression I know he's struggling to remain calm. "Raymond… Raymond was sent by Irons to evacuate parts of the uptown. Last I heard from him was around eight o'clock, just before he made it to J's Bar, but I haven't heard from him since and there's been reports that the uptown has been overrun." J's Bar? I was only a couple blocks from there and I managed to miss an entire crowd of them? Kevin might've been there too tonight… Oh god.
"There are riots all over, I can't even tell you how many stores are being called in for looting… The dead are walking," he says the words as if he can hardly believe them himself. He's rubbing his forehead, and I give him a minute. "S.T.A.R.S. really was telling the truth," he looks up, "weren't you?" the pleading in his eyes says he wants me to say otherwise, but I can't.
I kneel in front of him, "You have to listen to me, okay? I need to speak to the other officers, Marvin. I have to, I'm the only one in this station who has dealt with these things before. If I don't talk to you guys, and tell the rest how to deal with them. This could get even worse." This spiraled out of control so fast, I honestly don't know if I can help. This is a city of 100,000 people. 100,000. We don't have the ammo or people to handle these many zombies. Half of this city is on the verge of collapse within the hour I was gone from here…
I may have survived that mansion and the creatures in it, but this is beyond that. There are infected people coming into this building for shelter as we speak.
Marvin looks up, the lines in his face from age worsening. I've never seen a man's face age so fast in my entire life, "We should've believed you guys." There's despair in his voice, "This is what S.T.A.R.S. went through in that forest. You found that mansion and there were zombies inside," he states hopelessly.
I nod, it's the only thing I can do.
He gives a mirthless laugh and shakes his head, "This is crazy. The last hour I've been getting report after report and now there's nothing. I can't reach more than half my men out there because of those things... Zombies belong in horror movies, O'Donnell, not real life." I feel pity at his words, pity for him and everyone else in this city.
"Is that what the bomb is for?" he nods and I'm terrified. Jesus, if there are that many undead a goddamn bomb is needed. What chance do we stand in this building with only a quarter of our force? Not a good one. "It doesn't matter anymore," I stand, trying to reason with the Lieutenant. It's much too late now for apologies and understanding that S.T.A.R.S. was telling the truth all along. "What matters right now is having as many officers that can fit in the operations room listen to me. We'll start laying out a plan to block off the station and for evacuating people—"
The door opens before I can finish, we look to see Elliot appear in the doorway. His short blond hair, blue eyes, height and uniform easy to spot, except now he has a bullet vest thrown on over it. "Marvin, we've been able to settle everyone down, but they're getting impatient and want answers on what we're doing, they want to hear it from you or…" Or Raymond, but he can't say it. The loss heavy on him too, on everyone in this precinct.
From the corner of my eye, Marvin nods nervously and I look at him. Nodding myself now and he stands, "Alright, let's go."
He stands on the main desk when we're down the ramp, everyone looks at him and the whispering halts. "Look… I won't lie and say the situation is okay. It's bad, but right now you're all safe and we're trying our best to get this under control," their faces are blank as they watch him. Probably not knowing what to think at his words. "We're putting together a plan of evacuation—"
"But how will we evacuate with so many of those monsters out there?" murmurs start in the crowd.
Marvin gets down from the desk, "I understand your concern, these problems are being taken into consideration. So, for a few minutes I'm going to have to ask everyone stay where you are and to also stay calm while we step away to figure out our best course of action," he gestures to those on the cots. "Those who are wounded especially please stay where you are. We will treat you as best we can," he assures.
In his speech I see the man who'd been asking about his daughter sobbing on the steps and I know… they didn't find her.
The crying ceases and he stands suddenly, wiping his eyes and nose. It doesn't take much to see he didn't like what Marvin said as he steps forward, "How can you not know already, huh? Shouldn't the police be prepared for emergencies?" he demands, creating a stir in the crowd and their doubt is heard.
Marvin raises his hands passively, "We're short on vehicles because of the riot. We will figure this out. Please sir, just wait until—"
"There's not enough cars to escape then?" the man interrupts, shouting at Marvin.
It's just a question, but the way he says it has everyone questioning Marvin, demanding to hear a plan right now and not later.
"You, you people were hired to help this city, but you couldn't even find my little girl!" the man yells.
The ground shakes then unexpectedly. Not hard, mostly a vibration, enough the whole crowd feel it though. Marvin and I share a look before we do the same with the others as we all know. It's not an earthquake. That team he and Raymond sent out must've set the bomb off finally, how big was it? Is it enough to take out the crowd from the stadium by itself?
John takes the moment of confusion in the crowd at the quaking to step forward to appease the grieving father—Without warning, the man takes a step forward and throws a punch at John. The crunch of his nose breaking and his cry of pain is heard in response. Rita and Elliot are on top of the man instantly, restraining him as I drop to John's side and inspect his nose. Pressing gingerly, it moves and John jerks back, moaning softly in pain while blood starts dripping to the carpet. "I'm sorry," I apologize for hurting him, "Give me a second and I'll get you gauze," I promise and he nods, wincing.
"This station has no idea what it's doing! You people are going to get us all killed!" I hear the man screech beside me.
Knowing he's only doing this out of grief, but fed up with him inciting the crowd. I stand up beside John with my Glock in one hand, unashamedly aiming it at him.
My hand actually shakes from the action, and I have to remind myself I'm not really going to shoot in order to stop my heart's uncontrollable racing. Tell myself that the only way to get a handle on this was by doing something drastic. He hurt John, yes. Broke his nose. Which requires supplies to treat that we can't afford to use on ourselves, and is on the verge of starting a frenzy in here too.
But I will never kill another innocent person.
The crowd goes silent and he does too, no longer struggling against Elliot and Rita as he puts his hands up in self-defense. "Shut your mouth," my voice low. "I'm sorry you lost your daughter; I don't know what kind of pain you're in from it. But you scaring the rest of these people will not change that! You're only preventing us from being able to help calming them down so we can make a plan to help everyone."
All eyes are locked on me, nobody dares move or breathe. After a solid second of keeping my aim focused, I see him physically relax, and know he's backed down. At my words or the Glock, I guess, I'm not sure.
I raise my gun to the ceiling and quickly switch the safety on with everyone watching before tucking it into my pants. Showing them, I'm not going to mercilessly gun him down like…
Elliot is behind him again, finally handcuffing the man and moving him roughly off to the side.
I get on the desk myself now, "All we are asking is for you to be patient, we'll be gone for thirty minutes at most and when we return, we will have a plan," they're still weary. "We're doing the best we can. We're low on help because so many were sent to the football game and others have been sent out to aid other parts of the city being evacuated," I point at the man who's being held up by Elliot and Rita now, "We cannot afford to fight each other right now—"
The words die when I see the sweat on his forehead and the bloodshot eyes. The signs of infection starting, I read the diaries in the mansion. Entries made by scientists until they were so far gone it was like a child had written them. He had said he'd been bitten by one of the freaks outside.
I look at Marvin, I can't wait anymore. I need to talk to the others, and I need to talk to them now.
Chapter 7: Chapter 6
Chapter Text
A dozen pair of eyes squished into the operations room stare at where I stand in the front beside the podium. The chalkboard stands behind me, a map with a section of the city is drawn on, labeling central street and parts of downtown. Most likely where they planned to set up the bomb. A bomb that if they successfully did just detonate it, means blocks worth of main street are no longer there.
John sits in the corner with gauze taped over his nose, Rita and Marvin are standing off to the side of me. Ready to listen, prepared to back me up on what I'm about to say to the others because while they undoubtedly believe me now. Many still don't.
"We have to discuss what's happening outside before we can attempt an evacuation," I start and they listen intently. "I'm not stupid I know you all think S.T.A.R.S. is insane, that what we went through in the forest is some story we fabricated. Made up for attention or whatever else bullshit lies were spread. I'm not though and the others aren't. Don't think I haven't noticed the stares some of you've given me as I pass you in the hall, or are giving right now."
Some of those I call out actually have the gall to look away as if in shame. Disregarding their refusal to meet my eyes, and leaning an arm on the podium. "I don't really care, because you guys are going to listen, and if we're going to make it. You have to believe me now." Silence. If anyone wants to stop me, they don't.
"The night we went to rescue Bravo team we were attacked by half-rotting, undead men. Men we learned were scientists who worked in the mansion we'd run to for safety. They worked for Umbrella, making viruses. They tested those same viruses on animals and people, but in May they fucked up and the T-Virus leaked. They all became infected and either killed each other or just died off before coming back from the dead to attack those who remained. That is why the cannibal murders started in May."
Tick. Tick. Tick.
"They were zombies. They infect through bites and if you hesitate to shoot, they will kill you—"
"Marvin, are we seriously going to listen to her?" someone interjects and the Lieutenant raises his hand, silencing the objector. Staring at me as I explain myself and the story that for too long nobody wanted to believe, in what I'm now nervous is a useless attempt.
Marvin and I search for the person behind the complaint, Paul. I know him, he's one of the same people I just referenced. He constantly gives me untrustworthy eyes whenever I pass him in the hall. "Listen to her, officer," is all Marvin says, his tone making it clear he doesn't want to hear it.
But Paul pushes, "So what? You believe those crazy asses now?" he gives a mocking laugh, "Sir, I'm sorry, but S.T.A.R.S. was fired for a reason, we can't—"
Out of frustration at what's happening outside and there's still people in here with their heads in the sand. I bang my hand on the podium, cutting him off. "Then I want you to go outside and see it for yourself! Just like we did, Paul. Because we did. We were trapped in that forest for over twelve hours, Bravo team was there for a whole day! And not one, but two teams who were this city's best were nearly wiped out. So, you can all keep laughing, you can keep mocking me and the others on that team. But I promise you, we didn't make up the living dead for a fucking joke then. And I'm not making it up now as this city falls apart."
His face goes slack like my words are actually making a dent in his thick skull. I point behind me, "That man back there who punched John? When he asked for my help, he said he was bitten outside. It means he's been infected and is already showing signs he'll turn, and I know there are others sitting on those cots who are bitten too. We have enough infected people to overrun this station if we don't get a handle on them."
As we left the room, the man sat against a wall, still handcuffed with Elliot remaining there to keep an eye on him. He was sweating so hard it poured off his face, the flannel he's in I would bet is soaked. The visible signs of his imminent death and his miserable sobs as he mourned the loss of his daughter created a hate inside me. Hate to see someone suffer like that, just like my parents probably did. Neither got to say goodbye, one second their daughter was there playing in the park, the next she was gone.
"So, what do we do?" a woman next to Paul asks, Edith, her red hair is unmissable, "We can't just let them go untreated, can we?"
I close my eyes and release a shaky breath, a pit in my gut at the horrible words I'm about to say. "The problem is, Edith. That they will all die. No matter what treatment they get, they will, that's how it works. I read diaries from some of those scientists in their last days, it started as the shittiest cold they'd ever had. It caused a fever and even nausea, then they experienced an uncontrollable hunger. Their bodies began to rot from the inside out and their skin fell off," everybody stares at me like I've grown three heads.
"Jesus Christ," Paul mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. "So, there's really nothing we can do?"
I don't blink as I meet his perplexed blue eyes, seeing that he's coming around now. "If we're lucky, they'll die quickly and we can take care of them before they turn, but if we're not. They'll suffer, and we cannot make the mistake of taking our eyes off them…" I look down and shake my head, for the first time since this conversation began, I can see how terrified they all are. Looking at Marvin, "They need to be taken away to the cellblock. They can't be allowed to remain in the main hall with everyone else."
"They're still human, we can't just shove them into a corner to die!"
"Then those who want to volunteer to watch over those infected can, but we can't allow them to be in the main hall when they turn. And when they do, somebody has to be willing to put them down." I look over, Mitch is the one who made the comment, he carries an appalled look on his face.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I purse my lips and look at the officers again, "Healthy people have to be the first we evacuate, no matter what. Those with bites or are showing signs cannot be allowed to leave. I know these people are scared, I know you're all scared, and I am scared too. I wish we could get everyone out of here, I don't want to ask you to do this to the people we've sworn to defend. But if people who are infected with the T-Virus leave, it will spread, and then we won't be looking at just our city having an outbreak, another will have one too."
"What are you suggesting we do about those who are infected?" Marvin asks this time and I turn to the Lieutenant.
Then I regard the others, all silent and I know without asking that most believe me now. The evidence is too far in their face to ignore any longer. "Who wants to volunteer to watch those sick in the cellblock?" a minute passes, several people raise their hands. "Clear out any of the convicts locked up. And see if anybody else wants to volunteer before taking the sick down, that way there's enough people…"
I pause, thinking of how to word it, "Make sure everyone's who infected passes before handling them. You can't… kill zombies any other way than destroying their brain, whether you shoot or stab, it doesn't matter. But if you don't destroy their brain, then they're not dead. The officers in the main hall who can't be here need to hear this."
Looking in between each other, I see John anxiously purse his lips and nervously lick them, "What should we do next, Patricia?"
For the first time since July. The poisonous secret I've hidden for months in that name alone doesn't just annoy me. It infuriates me to hear it as I stare at the crowd of innocent men and women. All scared this might be their last night alive.
I look over and stare into Marvin's eyes for a long time, then look out among the sea of nauseated and anxious faces. I hope Jill and Brad survive this mess. I hope if Jill goes to Europe in my place, she manages to find Chris, because my chance to escape here safely has come and gone. I'm honestly not sure how we're going to survive this, and at this point… I don't expect to.
. . .
Teams were sent to the streets intermittently through the night to attempt putting up barricades to any road leading to the station. Hoping to divert the zombies and keep the location safe for even a little while longer… Even attempting that proved too dangerous, we lost Bridges to a crowd of them when the first team was in the process of returning.
We went straight to the garage afterwards, escorting all of those in the station who were bitten or showed any sign of sickness to the cellblock. Some of the sick we transported to the cellblock were already looking worse than when I first arrived by the time we left the main hall.
Anyone still locked up was released, not for a second chance on life though. Many went straight upstairs to join the crowd there, offering their help around the building like a few other civilians already have. Two of them ultimately decided they'd take their chances on the streets.
It was after helping those who volunteered get comfortable that we found a problem. Of all the S.W.A.T. vans we were relying on to escort the people out, there are only two left. I'd cursed at the sight, angry that I didn't think of how they would've taken them to the stadium. Or to get around parts of the city with many completely overrun already. A dozen people can be carried at a time in the armored vans, if we're lucky enough for that many. We decided immediately those uninfected and gravely wounded, children, and older people were to be sent away first, those sick or adults were held back. A few stayed much to our dismay, their families or themselves refusing to be separated.
We went through all the first aid kits we could find. Other groups went around the station, grabbing the emergency supplies of food and bottled water. Bashing in vending machines and raiding all they could from them. In the end, we established we don't have enough supplies to last us long. Water and food are the scarcest with so many here. Marvin begrudgingly mumbled something under his breath about how, 'We don't know how long it will be until anyone's sent in to help. The station wasn't equipped to handle this many people for longer than a couple days.' Meaning somehow, we'll have to manage and ration carefully.
Eventually when thing's in the station began to calm, as much as the situation allowed. I sat at the unoccupied main desk, and when nobody showed up over the course of a half hour since doing so. I began staring at the grain of the wood with my hands in my hair. Like it has answers, all to prevent myself from falling asleep.
Throughout the night more arrived seeking shelter. On the speakers outside plays a recording through speakers lining the roads. It boasts a warning every thirty seconds for people nearby to come to the station for shelter.
After the third time I nod off and jerk awake before my head slams onto the desk, I stand. Taking a moment to ask people who are nodding off by the steps if they're alright before going outside.
Nobody's caused problems since the father from last night. How he's doing now I don't know, there's no word on any of the other sick people either. The officers from the cellblock have barely come up except for getting more food. I'm trusting that they're handling them when they turn, no matter how hard it is to do so… I told the volunteering officers a second time that there is no choice, the infected have to be put down after they pass.
It killed me to say it to them, to see some of the looks on those officer's faces that said they were at a loss, that they didn't want to shoot them. But no matter how much we don't want to hurt the people many on this force have served, some for several years. People I myself promised to serve and protect in the short time I've served as a real officer myself… "They have to be shot if they turn," I'd warned somberly.
And it's killed me inside every hour since this nightmare began last night. How the same people dying horrendously beyond these walls are the same I was taught to think of as only things. That the only ones who mattered most in this world, in my life as a soldier, are myself and my unit. People outside Umbrella were nothing more than distractions.
Two years of my life were spent training on Rockfort Island until I was 18, honing my skills to finally be put to use in the field. From then onward, I was confident the rest of my life would be spent serving as a mere tool. Some days we served as guards to the Paris facility when we weren't on missions, and sometimes as guards to visitors coming in from the outside. They mostly ranged from scientists to the company's own CEOs, but there were times government officials from other countries arrived. Seeking out the products Umbrella sold. If only I knew then what they were in talks of buying, no doubt it was the monsters and whatever other viruses they were making…
Another two years were spent trudging through labs and warehouses. Anywhere Umbrella sent us with objectives of gunning people down with my unit. All to obtain whatever they were keeping inside, or sometimes simply just to eradicate them and the annoyance they were causing higher ups.
Then what felt like my thousandth mission came in during the beginning of June. Except, unbeknownst to me, this would be my very last and I wouldn't be serving it with my unit either. I would spend the next month learning about Raccoon City, where my apartment is, what my job in the police station would be. Then I'd fly to Raccoon City under the guise of being a new S.T.A.R.S. recruit, makes acquaintances with the two teams for the week we'd work together, and then help Wesker with luring them into the woods for them to be slaughtered.
Something happened early on in my time spent under the U.S.S. Whether from the strain of committing murder, or from the years of trauma they put me through. Eventually my mind couldn't take it anymore and it was diagnosed not long after turning 18 that I had developed a second identity. One that only came in and out when I went out on missions requiring the elimination of targets.
I've looked back on it a lot in the couple months of freedom. Bitterly laughing at the morbid irony of how the one child who caused the most problems for her last four years of attendance in the academy and even on Rockfort despite the punishments, finally snapped. Making an identity that bent to their whim and carried through orders without question, without mercy. But it wasn't enough in the end.
The scariest part of my existence since that night is if the T-Virus hadn't leaked in May. If I hadn't been sent in with a whole week of getting to know the targets of a mission yet to be fully divulged to me by Wesker. Something I'd never had the opportunity for before. Allowing a crack to form in myself and the second identity, causing a hesitation towards killing them when we were in that mansion… I might have been sent off on a different mission where I'd have surely been killed. I might have still been sent into the Arklay Forest even, murdered the remainders of S.T.A.R.S. obediently through the other identity and been congratulated with the barrel of a handgun before Wesker ran off with the data.
My hand stills on a doorhandle as I'm about to step outside, I suck in a sharp breath.
Those soft eyes that are so earnest and the only evidence of true fear. Eyes that only I will be the last one to see after…
I squeeze my eyes shut as thoughts of him come to mind for the first time in four years. Not him.
My eyes snap open and I release a withheld breath before jerking the door open and stepping out. Marvin glances over from where he's standing by the main gate, his radio in hand, and a hand on his hip.
The memory makes me shake as I quietly step outside where I sit on the cool cement of the top step. The warning on the speakers booms loudly down the street noticeably drawing some of the zombies towards them. Drowning out the sounds of bodies being eaten for a few blissful seconds every time it plays.
Feigning my shaking being due to the chill weather of the early morning isn't hard. And as I sit, I distract myself from thoughts of Umbrella and… him by scanning around the familiar courtyard. My eyes immediately land on the business woman's body though. Bridges was abandoned out on the road to be consumed by the same undead that killed him.
We should try burying bodies, hers being the first. They may have turned into monsters, but they were human once. Receiving enough humanity to be at least buried is an ending more fit than what the scientists in the lab deserved.
The sun's not up yet, it's cloudy, and cold, and with the streetlamps as the only source of light right now. It's creepy. I find myself shivering from the temperature through the jean jacket I'd thrown on. It's in the same cold that I reflect on what little memories I have of fall as a child, most were forgotten long ago. In a way, this is my first autumn. Now I'll always have this to remember, if I even make it out.
Leading to today, in the gym when I'd workout or from a window in the station. I'd watch the trees in the courtyard and in the park's as their leaf's turned different shades of red, gold, and orange. Children at the park's playground would run from the swings and dive headfirst into a raked leaf pile, giggling and smiling as a parent would lift them up and play with them.
It made me think about my parents a lot in those bittersweet moments, the rare ones where I felt the want to smile. The very few memories I have of either… I can't recall their faces. Just a fuzzy, black void. And all those innocent children I'd silently watch while they'd play with others their age… They're gone now. And the knowledge of that, knowing I once worked for the company behind it. It's enough to almost make me put my face into my hands and sob in anguish.
"You alright?" Marvin checks quietly from his spot when I stare off into nothing for too long. Rita watches from where she's standing beside him and strolls over, resting beside me and putting a hand on my back.
"You look like a wreck, Trish. Have you gotten any sleep yet?" she's worried. I can tell from her voice and the way her face is scrunched.
I shake my head, and then yawn. "I didn't want to with all the shit happening last night. Besides, neither of you have yet," I whisper, rubbing a bleary eye. I'm in a frantic need after getting none last night. Or the last three weeks, but it doesn't feel right regardless.
"Stop. We all need to sleep eventually, go back inside and rest in the backroom. We've got this covered for now," she offers, nodding her head at the main doors.
I shake my head again, "Not yet, not until…" I lose track of my words and press a hand to my forehead. I don't think I can stay awake much longer. Even if I want to.
"You're too stubborn for your own good," she grumbles and stares out into the street with me. We'd been able to send out the vans with the first two groups and are waiting for them to return for the next set. From here the main gates inaccessible though. I'm sure they're both only outside for only a moment of peace, despite the speakers and zombies in the background.
There was a crash last night, leaving a bus and multiple cars in a pile up. Blocking off the entire intersection now for any cars that try to make it through. We tried helping people inside to safety who were still traveling on foot. I was certain the second cars finally stopped adding onto the pile up and nobody had begun crawling out from the previous cars that anyone survived. And when a mob of the undead came out of nowhere... checking for survivors became impossible.
Standing, I sidle next to Marvin, "Any word?" I inquire, leaning against the wall next to him. None of us say a thing as we regard the sight only a few feet outside the wall. Most of the bodies that turned since the accident disappeared, stalking around not too far away. From here I can see some though, the most disturbing of them is a little girl in a pink nightgown. Arm skinned, lower jaw matching in damage. Must be that man's poor daughter. Eating a body on the sidewalk with parts of her body indisputably eaten by the zombies around her.
I shut my eyes and look away as I regain myself. A horrible fate for someone so young, it makes me sick.
He shakes his head, "Not in a while. Told them to drive the people to the nearest town and then come back, hopefully I'll hear something soon and they haven't run out of gas or been caught by these things."
I'd left the main hall doors open while coming out and stare through the open doorway. I look across the distance to the front of the desk and spot a girl with sandy, long, blonde hair, a red and white, leather racing jack, and matching pants there. A man stands in front of her now. I think he's the new detective that was promoted around the time I arrived. He's talking to her about something serious by the expression on his face. Then he walks out of sight a moment later, I'm pretty sure its Grant talking to the girl.
"This is officer Ramirez; we're back in the city and returning now. Dropped the people off at the Stone-Ville police station. Looks like the military's starting to arrive too, maybe they'll help us with getting more people out… Should be about another ten minutes before we arrive," my thoughts are interrupted by the radio's message.
There's relief in all of our faces at the mentioning of military showing up. I look back over at Marvin finally and we make eye contact for a split second. Before I can't help myself and make a comment in my tired state. "Well… I guess it's better than nothing."
Chapter 8: Chapter 7
Chapter Text
It wasn't better than nothing.
By the time the vans came back, boarded the second group, and left it was much too late. The sun had risen for the city, the streetlamps shut off one by one, and the National Guard had fully arrived. Except they weren't here to help civilians make it out safely. They were setting up barricades around Raccoon's perimeter that nobody was allowed through. Ramirez reported through the radio again how they'd sent the vans, and all the people inside, back to the station to wait.
At his words, and looking at the officers faces who'd all heard it. I could see the optimism drain from them, because just like that. It seemed to many that the situation is hopeless, and our lives are officially cut short.
I didn't know what to think when I first heard the call, mind not registering the situation. I'd crashed not long after the vans returned. The people inside crying, some inconsolable that their own military was turning their backs on them when they knew what was happening in this city. Rita came to me in the parking garage as we helped lead people back to the main hall. I only made it up the stairs to the watchmen's hallway though before she made me lie down on a bed in the backroom. I lied down reluctantly, staring up at the top bunk for all of five seconds until I fell asleep. It was sometime mid-afternoon upon reopening my eyes hours later.
I'd sat up in the bed, hair a wild mess, boots off so I could sleep comfortably for once under the scratchy blanket each bunk bed used. As I put my boots back on, a thought in my head appeared abruptly. What am I going to do with us blockaded in?
The shred of hope I had at making it out of the city to the airport is lost. We're trapped until the military takes the blockades down. But who knows how long that will take?
Once it processed in my head, once the block of sleep deprivation was removed and allowed me to think right. The finality of missing my flight tonight and escaping this place set in. I began to cry uncontrollably, for what would probably be the first time of many in this nightmare. I honestly didn't know what made me feel worse either as I sat there and bawled. The fact I wasn't going to escape, or the selfish fact that if I had been able to. It meant leaving all these people here to their fate, just like I had realized days ago. But now I was trapped here to see it for myself while living through it with them.
It was when the tears stopped running that I washed my swollen face in the room's sink. Remembering how outside this room I am still an officer, and these people are relying on me for the stability I chided Rita over last night when she nearly had the same breakdown.
I wiped the sleep and sand from my exhausted eyes, and the salt from my cheeks before heading to the main hall again. John was there, greeting my puffy eyes and solemn attitude with rations that were being handed out. His cheeks and eyes black and blue, and incredibly swollen. He'd handed me my share, taking a minute to thank me for helping him with his broken nose. I told him I didn't do much, that it was another who patched it in the end, but he insisted on his thanks anyways.
Being outside the academy taught me another lesson, overwriting what they'd ingrained. People aren't always selfish, aren't always caring only for themselves. Sometimes, even if you didn't do much, just the act of offering sincere support was enough to gain thanks and friendship from people.
I ate without a second thought, sitting in the lonely desk chair that no one claimed in my time away. My stomach was growling and hurting from having last eaten so early the night before. Only to puke it back up moments later after Beanie…
The rest of the afternoon somehow passed with little happening. I'd stepped away once more, to the women's locker room this time when the pressure on my bladder unexpectedly made itself known since the last time I went was this morning. I'd grabbed my toothbrush from my duffle and figured while I was up there, I'd at least brush my teeth too. Officers made their rounds in the station, making sure the building is secure and zombies didn't find a way in from the outside. Marvin made another plan to have us go onto the street and set up another blockade.
The biggest surprise was when Irons finally stepped into the hall. Katherine tagging along, meek… submissive, making herself seem small to those around her. It was not how she was only a day before, and though the situation is grim. I didn't like it one bit.
It happened enough on Rockfort that I recognized the look of fear instantly. It was worn by so many others, some in the very unit I trained with. Teenagers around me sometimes disappeared for the night, and when they returned come morning, their eyes would be red and swollen from crying. It was rare, but once or twice a kid didn't come back at all in my two years of training.
It was assault. Plain and simple. Other guards on the island didn't care about it, because they themselves were in on it too. And there wasn't a damn thing the soldiers who did notice could do to stop us from being abused, or tortured.
I don't know to this day, why I never suffered the same fate. I'd be given a wandering eye, or would hear a debauched innuendo. Girls and boys alike on the island were used to it, nobody under 16 was sent there to train for the U.S.S. And all us of were in the full swing of puberty and maturity by then.
There were nights the guards would come into our barracks. Rattling their keys mockingly to let us know one of us is getting taken to be used as their play toy for the night. I'd shut my eyes tightly and pray to whatever's out there as tears would prick my eyes that they'd walk past my bed. Past all of our beds, straight outside, where they'd be struck down with lightning instead. Where they'd burn to a crisp for desecrating us worse than this company already has. No. To this day I still don't know why I wasn't touched, and sometimes. All I can contribute it to is maybe it was because of my reputation on the island after that day in December with the guard.
The same one that is the only reason I wear camisoles under my shirts wherever I go. Even to the gym. To hide my back from everyone's sight. The only thing I received on that island besides my back and my training was the triggered state I'd fall into sometimes at something as simple as the rattling of a set of keys.
It was the way Irons stared at her too when she wasn't looking, when nobody else, but myself was looking... Like she was some prized possession, a piece of meat to him. It gave me goosebumps when I caught it. I kept it to myself at first, wondering if it was just me or not. Nobody's said a thing yet though, maybe I'm just imagining it because of the stress and exhaustion.
As the night sky settled in full swing, marking the first twenty-four hours of being trapped here. I stepped into the detective's room for a couple minutes, peering up through a window to watch the clouds passing over and the stars. A solitary tear escaped when I caught sight of two flashing red lights hundreds of miles upward. A plane heading towards its destination, who knows. Maybe it was my flight, heading towards its layover destination of N.Y.C. before departing to France. The timeframe for boarding the plane not too far off, if it wasn't happening now.
I didn't want to resort to the state I found myself in this morning. Heading to the west office immediately afterwards to sit at my desk in silence as I stared at my computer.
When I tire of that too, I desert my desk and the abandoned incident report from last night. Stepping into Raymond's office where Marvin's looking over the city map again. He's become anxious to find some way out without coming across the National Guard, but with no way of knowing, and us safely assuming they're blockading every road...
He falls back in his chair with a sharp sigh, and runs a hand over his shaved head. Realizing I'm there, "Sorry, kid. Didn't see you," he admits and I step closer, examining the map now. "There's no way out, they probably blocked every road out of town by now. And with this many people it's not possible to attempt another escape any other way," I nod, seeing for myself there's nowhere to go.
My gaze lifts and I see between the partly closed blinds the paper plates hanging from the ceiling. Then it falls to the new desk, the one Marvin shut and locked on both sides. Taped a letter to it, informing the rookie how he'd have to unlock it by putting the first initials of officers in order. Marvin's subtle way of making Leon Kennedy learn the names of his co-workers on his first day. Inside the desk is a high-capacity magazine the precinct all pitched in to buy. Raymond told us how the rookie is bringing in his own Heckler and Koch VP70, and he wanted us to give a welcome gift.
That's when I'm reminded in the middle of this mess. The new recruit, he's scheduled to arrive in a matter of days… "Does the phone still work, Marvin?"
"I haven't even thought of it honestly. Why?"
"The rookie's supposed to come in on Monday," my eyes on him. "If the phones are still working, somebody needs to call him and tell him to stay home," I point out.
He nods, "With all that's happened in the last day alone I never thought about him," he admits and stands, walking over to a book shelf where he squats and opens the bottom panel to pull out a manila folder. He drops it on the desk in front of me, "I'll be right back, his phone number is in that file. Call him and give whatever excuse necessary. I do not want him coming in," Marvin asserts. "I don't need another death on my hands," I hear him whisper as he walks away.
I open the folder and spot a picture of Leon for the first time since hearing about him that day. I'd only heard how he looked through other people, some of the women making flirtatious comments about how, "They sure were looking forward to having him around." My memory seems to recall the outline of that face looking down at me from the second to bottom step of the entrance. This is the man who'd asked if I was okay that day.
Then I get a familiar feeling as I consider the photo. Is it just me… or does he look a lot like Grant? A younger version of him at least by a couple years, maybe with a different hair style too.
Thinking nothing more into it, I pick up the phone handle and as I cradle it between my ear and shoulder. Surprised there's a ringing saying the lines even working. I carefully dial the number. It's nighttime now, and I'm sure if he hadn't gone to bed already. He's about to, his file reads he's living in New York City right now. Probably where he'd lived while in the academy and has been staying since graduation.
I remember learning the norths about an hour ahead of us, but I'm so happy I'm actually hearing a buzz instead of silence that I'm not concerned over disturbing him.
"Hello?" the voice on the other end rough with sleep and masculine. It has to be him, and I definitely woke him up.
"Is this Leon? Officer Leon Kennedy?" I correct myself, wanting to sound a bit more formal.
"Yeah, this is him. Can I ask who this is?"
"This is… Patricia O'Donnell; I'm calling from the R.P.D.…"
"Oh, I'm sorry," he suddenly sounds more alert I notice, "Is everything okay?"
What do I say? "Some things have come up in the station, and… and your supervisor, Lieutenant Branagh, has expressed he thinks it best you not come to town this Monday."
There's a long pause and I hear him take a breath, "Uh, okay… I mean is everything alright? Is there another date I should come in later this week?"
I swear internally. Come up with a lie, but I don't, "It's… It's best you don't come in at all, Leon."
"Wait, what?" he sounds dumbfounded now, "I don't understand, what exactly is going on that I'm not supposed to come in? Have I been fired or something?"
I swallow and look at his file, "No, you weren't fired. Marvin has informed me to ask that you don't come in. At all, please," I try to make the begging in my voice apparent.
There's another minute of silence on his end before I hear a scoff, "Okay... If it's possible I wouldn't mind having Lieutenant Branagh or Raymond calling back to explain what's going on a little better." I stare at the desk solemnly at the latter name, he never did respond to Marvin last night. Everyone's taken his loss very hard, "Thank you for calling… Have a good night."
"You too," I hang up with a catch in my throat.
I hear footsteps approach, and look up to see Grant standing by the doorway: in a pair of jeans, black boots, a brown belt, and a white t-shirt with the R.P.D. logo stitched into the sides of both the short arm sleeves. The short sleeves leave his arms bare; I see the defined muscles of his arms, there's a clenching in my stomach I sometimes experience with men.
His resemblance to Leon is definitely uncanny after seeing him up close now. I look away long enough to close the file in front of me. "You know where Marvin went?" he asks, blue eyes on me when I look back up.
I shake my head, "He stepped out for a minute, he should be back soon," I get up and he takes a step back to let me through the door. "What do you need him for?" I see the girl from earlier leaning against the counter to the waiting room window. She looks rather anxious despite her attempt to appear nonchalant.
I raise an eyebrow at her timidity, she didn't strike me as that kind of girl from her racing jacket that I now see has the words: Raccoon University printed on the front. Then again, my appearance doesn't say, "Murderer". She's from the college? I wonder if any of those students had been evacuated before it was too late with the stadium next door.
"Needed to speak to him about something, but it can wait till he's back," Grant answers. I turn around to see he's scratching the back of his head. I watch the way his muscles move and stop staring at him long enough to speak to the girl.
"What's your name?" I ask her, she looks over at me with firm blue eyes that show surprise somebody has acknowledged her presence.
She nods, "Elza Walker."
I nod back, "Patricia O'Donnell. Grant giving you a hard time?" I joke, trying to lighten the heavy mood somewhat. Hating how giving the fake name became second nature in these last few months. Not even to strangers did I risk giving my real one, not when any one of them could've been Umbrella trying to test me. Give them more of a reason to take me out the second I was alone somewhere without witnesses.
There's a small smile and she chuckles, "No, actually he uh, he saved my life last night," she answers, looking at him the same time I do. "In all honesty, I kinda owe him."
He shakes his head and causes his gelled bangs to fall forward. "You owe me nothing, it's my job," he looks at me, "Found her cornered in a diner about to get mauled by one of those things," he explains. I raise my head and then nod in understanding: he barely saved her life. At least somebody in this station has done good, it's more than I can say about what I've done.
"I'm gonna go now, but just wait here I'll make sure to tell Marvin you need to speak to him," switching focus to Elza. "It was nice meeting you Elza, you two stay safe."
"It was nice meeting you too," she tells me and I leave the room.
Chapter 9: Chapter 8
Notes:
Tiniest bit of domestic assault in this chapter, nothing crazy, but I don't want anybody getting upset! :P
Chapter Text
September 25th, 10 P.M EST, N.Y.C.
"Thank you for calling… have a goodnight."
I settle the phone back into the receiver and rub my sleep encrusted eyes. "It's best you don't come in at all, Leon." The woman on the other end from the R.P.D. told me abruptly, after implying something big in the station has happened.
Calls me and tells me without a reason not to show up the night before I'm supposed to drive out. Perfect.
Switching on the lamp on the end table beside the butter yellow couch Grace insisted on us buying. A soft glow is emitted into the room, and from it, I can see the closed door to our bedroom. Even though I've been sleeping on the couch for the last few weeks now.
She's in there right now, probably fast asleep in our bed we bought together in her never-ending state of constantly ignoring me this week—The door cracks open, and for the first time in the last day Grace actually graces me with her presence and attention for once.
Long, bright blonde hair pulled into a messy bun, she rubs a tired brown eye with a light pink painted fingernail. "Who's calling so late at night?" she demands, her plush lips turned into a frown. She went to bed in the world's shortest pair of striped pink and purple pajama shorts and matching short sleeve button up. The same ones she's had since we spent our first night together in college. The pair she knows I can't help but feel a little bit of blood flow south in my sweatpants because of memories of taking her out of said pajamas.
Clearing my throat while feigning a cool expression. If that's what she wanted, it's the reaction she got. But like hell I'm interested in the thoughts involving her that it's provoking right now. "It's nothing," I grumble, standing to walk around the coffee table bearing the remains of my dinner tonight. A box of Chinese takeout and a bottle of Mountain Dew are waiting to be thrown in the trash, because whatever Grace made tonight when she got off work before me. She made only for herself.
I'm getting really tired of this silent treatment—"Hey!" she grabs my arm as I pass the entryway into the small dining room and kitchen, and flick the dim light on. "Who was it that called?"
I stop and turn to Grace, somewhat startled by the physical contact. She hasn't actually touched me in over a week since the last time she tried making a move. Resolving in not even kissing me anymore when I told her I didn't want to have sex with her after how she's been treating me.
Shrugging her arm off, "The R.P.D., okay?" I respond sharply.
Her waxed brows furrow in confusion, "At ten o'clock at night? Why?" she pulls her hand away and crosses them over her chest. Like she's purposefully trying to accentuate her breasts that I now spot the first and top button are undone and reveal better. She damn well knows I know she's not wearing a bra either. She never has.
We haven't done anything remotely intimate in over a month. The last time being shortly before my big news of the R.P.D. in Raccoon City, Missouri offering me an interview. It's like she's been trying to whittle me down, as if sex will be the thing that changes my mind. She's tried everything under the sun to break me, both towards that and not leaving for Raccoon tomorrow morning. She knows the moment I'm in my car and I drive away it's over between us if she won't join me in the decision. I won't change my mind in starting my life in a city that's offering a promising start to my career as an officer.
With the lack of any packing on her part, while I myself have boxes of what little I've moved between a college dorm, an academy dorm, and here. Already duct taped and stored safely in boxes in a corner of the living room. Ready for tomorrow when I set them into the back seat of my Jeep for the long drive across the country. I know she's not leaving, that this matter has been settled without so much as uttering a word.
Ark is already waiting for me to show up when I reach his place in Ohio. He lives an hour outside of Cincinnati, and rather than let me rent a motel room, he's going to have me stay for the night. I'll have to call him tomorrow when I'm up and let him know that I guess I won't be needing a room for the night after all…
Walking to a cupboard by the sink, I open it and grab a glass. "Had something they needed to tell me," I answer vaguely, opening the fridge to grab the gallon of milk from there. Pouring it into the glass before returning it and shutting the door. I sit at the small, round dinner table in the middle of the room.
"And?" she's staring from the entryway with tangibly excited eyes. Deducing from my attitude and the call coming in so late, it was undoubtedly bad news for me, and good news for her.
I can't look at her though. Staring at the table with the glass in one hand and the other balled into an aggravated fist. I wish she'd leave me alone to process the possible news I've been fired without even arriving to the place in peace. "I've been ordered by Lieutenant Branagh to not arrive Monday," is all I give before taking a small drink. I wipe the remnants of milk from my mouth, looking at where's she's staring intently. Yeah, that's definitely an expression of unadulterated happiness at hearing I can't go in.
I fully expect to hear a call from either man tomorrow explaining why I'm not to come in at all out of the blue.
"That's… that's great!" my eyes snap to hers in shock, even though I'm sure she's been praying for this call to come every day since I came back from my weekend away to Raccoon City in August. Her inability to read the room is clear. "Maybe they don't need you after all and you can interview with the N.Y.P.D. instead?" she suggests the same fucking suggestion I've heard more than a hundred times it feels in the last month.
I say nothing, I don't know what to say anymore. Her treatment has left me feeling so… numb to anything regarding this whole situation. All I can manage is a, "Yay-y-y-y," a mocking of her cheery attitude with a shaking fist like I too am bursting with excitement at the news of being fired. Of having my chance to escape this shit hole apartment, godforsaken city, and terrible girlfriend torn away from me.
"What?" she asks forlornly, like she can't see it on my face how devastated I am.
"I'd like to be left alone, Grace. Maybe it's the best news you've heard all week, but it's the worst I've gotten," I state, taking another drink from the glass.
She comes over and sits in the chair beside me, I refuse to meet her eyes. "Come on! You know deep down this was a bad idea. You were going to move to a whole new city with a crime rate you don't know, and would be the furthest from your family you've ever been. You told me that yourself!" she argues.
Side eyeing her, it's not worth arguing. Not even remotely, we'll just go around in circles, except this argument won't end in me staying firm in my decision. It'll end in me not knowing what I'm going to do. Neither of us have admitted it aloud that we know how this was supposed to end come Saturday morning. I haven't dared because who knows how she'd act then, if she's silent treated me for a week over refusing sex. I don't want to find out what she'd do at the mentioning of officially breaking up while we're living under the same roof.
"You know… if you don't leave…" she reaches a hand across the table for mine. My eyes meet her fully at unexpected contact again as she weaves her fingers through mine, "We could talk about getting married?" she prompts the idea. A devious look on her face, like she thinks she's so clever.
I have to clench my jaw from letting it drop wide open. An entire month of treating me like garbage, barely uttering a word to me outside of offering sex once, in what I know was only an attempt to manipulate my decision. Not letting me sleep in the same bed, and leaving the room when I enter. And she has the absolute gall to bring up marriage of all things?
Retracting my hand from hers, I finish the glass without a word. Wiping my mouth again and standing for the sink. "We've only been dating for two years, Grace. You don't want to wait longer?" You don't want to think about what an actual, coldhearted bitch you've been to me over getting a job and starting my life?
She's behind me when I turn around from rinsing out my glass in the cramped sink. "Exactly, Leon! It's been two years; don't you want to get married?" then she takes my hand in hers and presses it to the soft flesh of her clothed breast. My heart stutters then, and without hesitation. I instantly feel myself harden completely at the simple act; her voice lowers to a sultry tone. "We could get jobs near our parents?" she steps closer into my space, moving my other hand onto her hip. "You can become a cop somewhere safe, while I become an artist," she whispers softly up at me. My erection's so hard now, it actually hurts, "We could move into a big house…" she trails off as her own hands run from my bare chest, over my abs, to the waistband of my sweats. She'd more than appreciated how police academy easily worked my body into the shape it's in now.
I look elsewhere, arousal dizzying my senses. My determination to not give into Grace no longer as steadfast. "Maybe one with two or three bedrooms?" she now not only suggests the idea of getting married, but of having children together too. Enough to make any sane man tear her hands from their waistband and run straight from the apartment into the night. "We could start right now… If you want?" she tempts, like a siren to a captain. Trying her hardest to draw my ship closer to crashing against the jagged rocks of her crazed island.
I say nothing, screaming obscenities at myself internally when her hands pull my waistband down. "It's been a long, hard month," I don't miss Graces double meaning, and swallow thickly. "Let me make the bad news up to you, okay?" she offers, and then she's lowering between my legs.
I wish I could say I shoved her away like a rational person should've done. Called her what I'd really been thinking of her since the week before. But I didn't, instead, the arousal was too much and I gave in after so long of being pushed away. Her attempts this time to get me into bed with her again not the same as last week, where then she'd just asked me. This time…
For the first time in a month, I'm allowed to sleep in the same bed as her. Completely spent from getting out a month of pent-up frustration out after a few hours of sex. I don't think I'd remotely consider what we did, "love making", in any way though. I was too angry with her and myself, and she was far too obvious about her feeling triumphant over me for it to be more than a fling. Even if the disappointment was written on her face at me using a condom. I might be stupid for sleeping with her, but I'm not so stupid I wouldn't protect myself from the entire possibility of having children with her.
I slept for a while, comforted to at least have her warmth at my side after going so long without. But everything was wrong now, the vanilla and spice of her shampoo perfume almost disgusted me, the very pressure of her body against mine too much. It was a sickness that didn't go away until I passed out on my side of the bed.
Despite those hang ups, I was okay. I was able to fall asleep at least. Getting hours in that I hadn't been able to since moving to the couch, where it was far too uncomfortable to sleep right.
I fell hard into a familiar dream, one where even though the voice on the phone was distorted. I thought it sounded like the voice of the woman I'd seen on the steps of the R.P.D. last month. I fall into the same dream that's popped in once or twice since that day where she's telling me she's fine when I try being nice enough to ask if she's okay. And the look on her face, even after she lies, says whatever's going on, is the furthest from her answer. "Help me," seemed to be the thoughts coming from her sad eyes, but I didn't ask. Didn't push the conversation with a stranger I didn't know yet.
When I wake up the next morning, the image of green eyes flash in my head from the dream one last time. I need to call the station again, creeps into my mind. I'm not going to allow them to brush me off so easily, maybe I will try calling back myself…
. . .
September 26th, 9:30 A.M EST
Grace is in an entirely different mood from last night when we fell asleep. In fact, as I open the bedroom door, fix my sweatpants on, and smell the cooking of bacon. I know immediately she's an entirely different person now too.
"What're you doing?" I ask, from where I lean against the arched entryway into the kitchen. Legitimately perplexed because this is the first time she's cooked with me nearby in a long time. Both because our work schedules were opposite, and because she went out of her way to do so.
She looks at me from over her shoulder, "Making you breakfast, silly," she chirps happily. She's taken a shower already I can tell.
Standing in a pair of tight jeans, a black camisole, and her blonde hair pulled into a high pony tail so it's out of her face. Had this been a month ago, I might have been interested in another round in the bedroom, but today. Knowing what we did last night, and seeing her again this morning, it just leaves a pit in my stomach. One that not even the smell of bacon or the sight of cooked pancakes can overcome.
It's too late to bang my head against the wall now though and yell at myself, "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!"
I point over to the bathroom, "I'm gonna take a shower really quick, okay?" I don't even wait for her to respond before taking a step for the door.
"Don't take too long! It'll get cold!" she teases as I shut the door. Sitting on the edge of the porcelain tub as the water runs to give it a minute to warm up.
I rub my face with my hands, "How could you sleep with her?" I whisper, absolutely annoyed with this whole morning already. With her blatantly obvious attitude that she thinks she's won and I'll do whatever she asks of me.
I shower quickly, deciding while in it that I need to get dressed and make that call to the station as fast as possible to figure out what's going on over there. If they give me an actual answer this time, I'll just go from there on what I'm going to do. If not… I'll wait until that moment happens, if it does.
Running the towel through my hair, I wrap it around my waist before leaving the bathroom. Hastily cutting past the kitchen to the bedroom so I can avoid any more conversation with Grace. She's still busy cooking it looks like, though from a glance I saw she was at the last of the batter in the bowl.
I don't even think when I get around, too busy wanting to make the phone call to care about the clothes I put on. Stepping out of the room in my jeans, socks, and a gray tee, I head straight for the yellow couch where I plop down and grab the phone.
Hitting the redial button so I don't even have to press the numbers. I press the phone to my ear—And am greeted by the tone of a busy signal. At ten in the morning? That's weird. I try probably another three times to redial the same number and get the same response every time. Staring at the phone incredulously, maybe I'll eat breakfast and try again. It'll go through by then and somebody will surely pick it up.
Grace decides it's a good time to pop out from the kitchen, a plate in hand. "Breakfast's—" she starts but stops the moment she sees the phone in my hand. Her face falls, taking on an almost angry expression again at the sight. "Who're you calling?" she tests.
It's like the warmth in the room is frozen in reaction to the icy tone of her words. I'm used to it by now though. Thank god I know how to lie better from my time in the academy as the response, "Thought I'd let Ark know I'm not coming," rolls off my tongue smoothly.
"Oh," and the foreshadowed expression is gone. "Well, breakfast's ready," she informs me without pressing the matter further, and I quickly hang up the phone and follow her.
Eating with the anxiety in my stomach at her watchful eyes while the busy signal beeps in my head feels like a herculean task. On any other day the thought of having an actual breakfast that didn't consist of milk and cereal would make me happy. But all I can do is look at the clock every few minutes, waiting for enough time to pass to call again so I know if they don't pick up this time, then something's up.
"Got somewhere to go?" Grace asks with a raised brow before taking a sip of coffee from her mug.
I tear my eyes from the clock on the wall to hers, there's a promised look of destruction in them if she finds out I'm thinking of the station still. "Just impatient this morning for no reason… I guess," I mumble the last part to myself mostly.
"Hm-m-m," is all she lets out. Setting the mug down, "I think we should take a walk in the park today," she proposes suddenly. "It would clear our heads, let us spend some time with each other. I'm off today, and you're off, we can do it!" she says, knowing I can't lie because I was free today for a reason.
I chew on the piece of bacon in my mouth slowly. Lie. I need to come up with a lie, "I, uh, can't yet," before she can even ask, "I think I'm gonna call Mom and tell her what's going on. She'll be worried thinking I'm on the road otherwise, and you know how she is when I call."
Her lips turn into a stiff line, she does know how my mom is. How calling about one thing can turn into an hour, or more, long conversation. "Well, see if today she'll let you go sooner," is all she says before grabbing her plate and mine from under me. Both are empty except for the bacon strip in my hand. She places them into the sink, they're clanging barely audible. I never thought I could feel so on edge around someone before, this feels beyond manipulation and saying hurtful things to make me stay. This is starting to feel like if she catches me making that call to the station, she'll strangle me or something.
"Shoot!" she yells, and I jump from where I'd been staring into the grain of the table again.
"What?"
"There's not enough milk to make cookies with," she says, looking at me with a pouty face. "I'll have to run to the corner," she concludes somberly, and if my heart could leap from my chest at the news she'll be out for even five minutes. It would. She's standing there making me think if I sleep tonight she'll smother me, but is worried about making cookies? My brain demands, stupefied. She doesn't wait for my response, running over to the cutaway in the wall between the living room and kitchen. Grace grabs her purse and throws it on her shoulder, "I'll only be a few, and then I'll make you your favorite cookies when I'm back while you call Mom," she tells me.
I nod in response, unsure of what the hell is going on with her. She's out the apartment door in less than a minute though, thankfully.
I don't have to be asked twice, I'm out of the chair and heading for the door. Locking it and checking the peephole before darting for the phone again. I redial the station's number just as I did twenty minutes ago, knowing the busy signal has to be gone by now—It's still there. Not disappearing once in the four other times I call.
Setting the phone down then, I pace for a minute around the living room. My hands behind my head as I try not to panic. What do I do? The station's not calling, Grace is acting all kinds of scary, and now all I'm getting is a busy signal from them.
"Marvin has informed me to ask that you don't come in. At all, please," is what that woman had said. Like something really bad was going on, but she wasn't allowed to say.
I stare at the boxes in the corner of the room, the one's patiently waiting for me to either move back into the closet. Or into the Jeep. "It's best you not come in at all," replays in my head and the decision is made.
Without a word I stuff my feet into my white sneakers, starting forward for the boxes. Car keys in my hand. I don't know what I'll find, or what trouble I'll be in from Marvin or Raymond when I arrive despite being told not to. But being reprimanded is better than staying here and living in hell on earth for another minute longer.
I'm exceptionally glad that for once I was able to park my Jeep in front of our apartment building. Glad that we live on the first floor too as I carry the three laughably small boxes in my arms to the car. Not much is in them, books, a few V.H.S. tapes of my favorite movies. Some of my academy and college stuff too. It's light enough I'm not even worried about the possibility of dropping them as I open the building's door, walk down the steps to the car, and slide them into the backseat with ease.
I turn for the building's door again after closing the car door—Grace is staring at me from a couple of feet away on the sidewalk, a carton of milk in her hand. It looks like there are tears in her eyes to see me there packing my car, but they're fake. I've been with her long enough to know she isn't really sad, she's probably going to yell at me the second we're in the apartment. "What are you doing, Leon?" she asks casually, but I can see her nails digging into the cardboard container in her hand.
"Packing," I mutter and head for the building. Locking the door so she can't grab my boxes and leave them outside while I'm grabbing my clothes.
""Packing"?" she repeats in disbelief, following after me. "I thought they told you not to come in? I thought you were going to stay—"
"The station's not picking up when I call them and the woman who told me to not come in last night sounded like they're in trouble. I don't know what's going on, and I'm driving down to find out," I turn the doorknob of our apartment door, "I'm not staying here any longer, Grace—" I stumble forward when something hard hits my back. It explodes upon hitting the hardwood floor and soaks the backs of my pant legs. "What…" I turn around, seeing the hard object that she hit me with was none other than the milk carton she had in her hand.
"You're not leaving me!" she shouts in the long hallway. "What happened to last night? You don't want to get married or have kids?"
At seeing the milk pour out into the hall, collecting around her sandaled feet before continuing further. I finally snap, raising my eyes to her coldly, "I'd rather shoot off my own foot than spend the rest of my life with you," I tell her bitterly. Turning into the apartment, the tension in my shoulders tight with the fury coursing through my entire body. We've yelled at each other before, and we've fought like every couple does. But I am not about to stay with someone who'd so easily physically hurt me.
The carton of milk will hardly leave a bruise on me, but the weight of it did cause a sting.
"But… but I love you, Leon. I want to spend my life with you! Why don't you get that?" she demands, and I can tell she is actually befuddled at how she sounds at my heartless words.
Crashing through our bedroom door, I grab my suitcase from the closet and head for the dresser. "Because at this point. I don't love you, okay?" the words burn coming out. I did truly love her at one point, and I did have thoughts of possibly marrying her in my mind. But they honestly died right around week two of her treatment. "You've done nothing but mistreat me since the minute I told you about moving away. I've given you time to choose to move down with me, and you decided not to go. Well, I'm not going to stay, so at this point. It's over!" I finally shout the words aloud we've needed to hear for weeks.
I duck before the bedside lamp crashes into my head. It hits the wall behind me, leaving a dent in the plaster from the base, the shade is broken as it lays in a heap. "It's over?" she echoes me a third time, emotionlessly at first. I whip my head in her direction with rage in my eyes that I never thought I could feel before. I didn't see that she'd come into the bedroom with me, nor her picking up the object. "You… you asshole! I won't let you leave me! You'll never find anyone better than me." She's lost her absolute mind to be screaming those things while throwing stuff at me at the same time as she now reaches for the alarm radio.
I put both of my arms up to block my face as she throws that next. The hard plastic hurts a lot this time when it hits my forearms. I'll just buy new clothes in Raccoon after my first check. Get the hell out of here!
Zipping up the suitcase with it well under the carrying limit. "I honestly think you need help, Grace," I tell her in the nicest manner I can manage considering the last few minutes. She just stares at me with wide, wild, and crazy eyes, "I'm sorry to leave you like this," is all I say before turning and hightailing it for the open apartment door. Managing to snag my gray jacket off the coat rack just before I'm gone.
Then she does the last thing I ever expected as I step into the hallway. She ducks and wraps her arms around my leg tightly, like a child would to their parent. "Please don't leave me. Please!" she begs hoarsely, I can see real tears streaming down her face for once now.
But as I look into her brown eyes, an image of green ones from that woman appears. I have to get to Raccoon, something's happening at the station and I want to be able to offer my help if they'll take it.
"Goddammit, Grace. Get off of me!" I shout, trying to figure out how this happened. How the beautiful, smart, and mature woman I met in my junior year of college could turn out this insane? I set the luggage down beside me, and for the first time in my life handle a woman roughly. I grab her by the shoulders and have to actually pry her from my leg. "You're making this harder than it has to be!" I scold her, seeing how she allowed herself to get dragged through the milk just to stop my escape.
"I don't want you to leave!" she blubbers inconsolably, finally letting go when I push her back hard enough. I grab the suitcase and run then: she just watches from the floor as I head for the exit. "I hope you rot in hell! You and that whole station, you fucking asshole!" her wild scream is cut off when the door closes.
I don't even look back when I get into the car, don't stop to dry my pant legs that are still soaked. Mathilda's already safely tucked into the glove compartment, my suitcase, and boxes are in the back. I'm officially moved out and free.
Locking the doors, I wait for a break in traffic and speed off down the street. Suddenly glad I decided to have a random glass of milk last night for the first time in months. Praying to whatever's out there that the women in Raccoon City are not a fraction as crazy as her.
Chapter 10: Chapter 9
Notes:
Alright guys, this is a serious trigger warning. There are themes of sexual assault in this chapter. I won't say anymore to avoid spoilers so I will warn to please read at your own risk!
Chapter Text
September 26th, 5:37 P.M CT, The R.P.D.
We're down several officers; several more people have ended up infected too. They were escorted to the cellblocks, where the officers inside still haven't told us how anybody down there is doing.
A man attacked Thomas while he was checking on people in the middle of the night. I'd been asleep at my desk in the west office when it'd happened. Waking to the sounds of yelling through the door and shouting on my radio of a zombie being in the main hall.
They thought at first the man broke, had a nervous breakdown, and was fighting him for no reason. Until he bit some of the people when they tried to defend Thomas. Thomas himself was knocked over in the clash, the back of his head caught on the ledge of the stairs when he fell. He was dead before we could even see how bad the wound was: it'd smashed the back of his skull in.
His body is outside now; wrapped in a bloodied white sheet with the infected man lying beside him. I inspected him myself as we did so, one of the women mentioning he was one of the very few who'd actually made it out of the car crash from the first night. He had a bite on his side I found, patched with duct tape he must've put on himself in secret to hide the bleeding.
On top of that, Rita and Marvin went through our supplies. Making the devastating realization that food and medicine are beginning to run out.
Today is another day of being forced to sit and twiddle our thumbs. There's nothing we can do besides patrol the building, tend to those still hurt, or hand out rations. Some of the officers decided to bury the bodies beginning to collect outside, packing the dirt in on at least two graves by this evening.
It's frustrating to be able to do nothing while those things swarm outside the station and we lose people one by one.
Food and medicine are not the worst things we realized. Very evidently today we learned somebody within the station is trying to sabotage us. The radio in Raymond's office was found smashed by Marvin. The damage was impossible to repair, and with the phones finally going out at some point this afternoon. There's no way we can attempt any more communication. Thankfully we still have our personal radios… but that's it. As far as this station goes: we're lost to the outside world.
I'm glad I was able to make that call to the rookie. It seems like it was just in time or else he would've come into this city and…
We're starting to run very low on ammo too. A small horde of zombies somehow broke through the main gate this afternoon. The officers who'd been there when that happened used most of their handgun rounds to fight them off. The group retreated to the Lieutenant in the office, whispering to him that with Irons orders to disperse ammo. None of them have a clue where to look and some of their guns are completely empty. When they tried for what little ammo was locked away in the evidence room until what Irons had scattered was located. They found there that the second and third keys in the keypad terminal have been torn out: they couldn't get into over half the lockers.
I offered what little of the boxes I'd hoarded the first night. Things are getting so desperate I'm afraid we're going to run out.
I couldn't stop thinking about the gate though, somebody had to have opened it. The bar was pushed through to keep it shut and everybody, even the civilians, knows to not touch it. There is no way zombies could get in and yet they did. Somebody had taken the time to open it. Getting more of our people killed, and I have an inkling of who did it.
Marvin tried checking the security camera outside the door. We forgot it broke the previous week and needed to be fixed. There was a nagging feeling in my gut, something that made me jump to the idea maybe Irons did it when nobody was looking. He's the only one in this station we haven't seen in the last two days.
Eyeing the unoccupied computer gave me an idea to check the cameras around the building, specifically the ones in the evidence room. There, plain as day I saw the bastard walk in and pry them up before pocketing them and leaving.
I told Marvin then, showed him the footage and we went to his office to confront him about that and why he had the ammo dispersed in the first place. Discovering the man wasn't there, and neither was the mayor's daughter.
Something about Irons is wrong. I've always felt uncomfortable around him since the first time we spoke. Hating his overtly aggressive attitude toward those he speaks with, but how in press conferences he was so nice it made me gag. Hiding those keypads, hiding most of the remaining ammo in the station under the lie of "terrorism" when a full-scale outbreak was beginning, and Katherine disappearing. It all raises my suspicion.
With Katherine missing, I'm angry again as a strong gut instinct boils through me. He's left us defenseless; we might run out of ammo. Now, I wonder if he's done something to her as well.
I sat there for a while, searching through footage once again to see if any exit in the building caught them leaving. "Marvin, look," he'd been standing next to me by chance when I caught it. He comes over to watch footage of Irons in the parking garage, opening the gate before leaving with Katherine.
"We have to go after them," I implore, "We can't just let him take her to god knows where."
"Wait," he points at the time on the footage, "This was an hour ago, O'Donnell. They could have gone anywhere."
"Marvin, we can't just let him go…"
He shakes his head and my plea trails off, "We just…" he sounds pained to say the next part. "We just don't have the men to send out there to look for them, not when they're needed here. I don't want to say it, but… we can't go after Katherine. She's gone," there's guilt and grief on his face. "I can't believe the Chief has fucked us over on any of this," he huffs. "Think you know somebody, and then find out…" he doesn't finish.
That they've been sabotaging you? Undoubtedly, we all believe that's what he did now. By sending so few officers from here and the ones on patrol to the stadium… A lamb to the slaughter I think is how they say it. If only there was a way to contact Jill and Chris, tell them that us being fired was inevitable. Irons has been working against the survivors since they returned from the mansion day one. I'm beginning to see it more clearly with everything happening around us.
I know how betrayal feels, S.T.A.R.S. too. In fact, when the team initially learned who I was in the lab, every one of them agreed to leave me behind with Wesker to die.
The one I feel worst for out of every surviving member of the team was Barry… He knew betrayal well, with his family held hostage by his own team leader. Blackmailed into helping get S.T.A.R.S. to the mansion under the threat his wife and daughters would die. The story was nothing more than a fabrication we'd learned once we were in the bottom of that lab. But the lie worked all the same on someone trying to spare his family. Until he realized it, and pulled his gun on Wesker finally.
Up until he moved, Barry had a hard time just being near me or even looking at me in the office. I think I disgusted him; I didn't blame him. I disgust myself.
I sat him down though. We'd found ourselves alone in the office one day, Chris was in France, and Rebecca had left for who knows where. Brad and Jill stepped away to do something elsewhere in the building too. For the first time in a month, with enough nervousness, I almost puked in front of him. I got up from my chair, approached the older man, and tried to talk. Tried to explain my life, why I was even brought here, my kidnapping and imprisonment in Umbrellaand all the things I'd done, the missions I went on by force to survive. That I've done horrible things, but I would've never hurt anybody if it didn't mean I'd die.
Reliving the heartache of twelve years all at once for the first time in my entire life so he could understand I'm sorry things went this way. I cried. So hard he took me into his arms and told me he was sorry. That now he sees my side of the story, and we sat like that for what seemed a long time. Holding me like a father would, maybe mine if he'd ever found me… that's if I'd even allow him to, not because I'd be against it, but…
No, instead it was another little girl's father who comforted me that day. He was the first one I'd ever allowed to see my bare back to prove how merciless Umbrella is to anyone who puts up a fight. I hope he's doing okay; he and his family deserve better.
"Don't go near him, I'll warn the other officers to steer clear if he comes back," Marvin advises after several minutes of staring at the monitor in deliberation. He then leaves to attend to a different matter somewhere outside the main hall, but I'm not satisfied with just sitting around anymore. I wait a long time to see if he'd return at all, and the second I see him enter the garage. I check every camera until I find him entering the interrogation room.
I set out for him then, bypassing people in the conference room as I cut through the side door to that hallway. They're all quiet, watching their children run around, lacking the morbidity to tell them our situation is serious and playing shouldn't happen. Maybe they let them because they know what's happening, and these are their children's last few hours of innocence… of life.
Upstairs is Irons office, and above that is the attic where a balcony and ladder can be found to the second floor. A storage room and balcony connect to the clock tower and library. Even with people on the other side of the wall, they won't be able to hear us though. I am alone.
Shutting the door, "We tried finding you earlier," I announce my presence with an innocent tone. "Why haven't I seen you since before the horde hit us in the courtyard?" I then pry.
He had to have opened those gates, from his wing there's a door that leads into another courtyard connected to the main one. No camera in the main courtyard, a second entry to it. Why is he working to screw this station over so hard? I don't understand.
Irons simply grunts at the question, I proceed forward. "We're running low on ammo, why'd you make us disperse what's in the armory? And where are the keys to the keypad, Brian?" I ask him outright. I'm not scared of Irons one bit, not after watching him take away Katherine.
The man stops looking through the boxes labeled: Sexual Assaults, August 24th-September 20thand eyes where I stand in front of him. I cross my arms over my chest impatiently, a half-deranged and malicious look on his face.
He stands up, nostrils flaring like he's annoyed by any of the things I said. He's still in his clothing from the other night, it's menacing how neatly dressed he is when compared to the crazed look in his eyes saying he's anything but conscious of appearance.
Then he speaks, "You officer's, you think I owe you everything don't you?" his gruff voice demands. "After all the work I've put into this station, you just piss it away," he rambles.
"Where are the keys, Brian?" I ask more firmly.
"I've told you before that you'll only call me chief in this station!"
The table is the only thing dividing him from me right now, but I can handle my own against him if need be. I think. "Fine. Then listen to me carefully when I say this, asshole," I don't miss the glare in his eyes at the provocation. "I'm not stupid, I know you purposefully hid the keys somewhere in the building to fuck us over if we can't find them. And I know you took Katherine outside the station; she better be safe and not dead."
His eyes promise me murder at the accusations, "What gives you the right to speak to me like this, you bitch!" I don't flinch like I know he wanted. "I won't put up with this treatment from you," he refers to me like I'm something vile.
I narrow my eyes and point a finger at him, "If anybody dies because we have no ammo. I'm coming for you," I threaten.
He starts sidestepping his way around the table to my left, but I stay where I am. Knowing I can just run past him or around the table if I have to. "I'll do what I please with that girl. Her father left me in charge of her after all," he boasts like she's some dog he's taking care of for a friend. "And as for you, Patricia. I'm not stupid to your plot either, I know you're working with Umbrellato take me out!" he blurts, pulling out a magnum.
I panic at the accusation, my mind blanking as I foolishly try to duck past him for the door while I have a chance. Irons is too quick and grabs my right arm, yanking me back to him before shoving me into the wall. The muzzle of his Desert Eagle is pressed against my temple while his other hand grips my throat. I claw at his hand, pressing my thighs together while pushing against his shoulder, but he knocks my hand off. Shoving his leg between mine before moving closer.
"Stupid woman!" he cackles at my efforts, releasing my throat to grab my right hand and force it against the wall. Harsh breaths escape my mouth and I turn my face from him, "You're all the same," he insults, like he's been in this position before. "Usually I prefer blondes, but I think this time I can make an exception for a brunette," he snickers, shoving his nose into my hair and neck, inhaling deeply and lewdly moaning. I pale at the position when I realize I can't escape from it, comprehending he has been in this position before. Meaning for me—
Oh god. He's going to rape me.
A newfound spirit slams into me, "Get off of me!" I seethe. Trying to stomp on his foot, but his leg between my thighs avoids it. My heart is racing, Irons tucks the magnum into his waistband and grabs the sides of my arms before hauling me over to the interrogation desk. He slams my front against the metal table and leers at me, "I'm going to send Umbrellaa message about sending their spies after me," he admits. Chest heaving at whatever atrocious thoughts he's having as he runs a hand over my butt.
I can't reach my Glock, but my knife… "I'll fucking kill you!" I snarl. Reaching for where it's sheathed at my side, he catches my wrist. Squeezing the bone so hard I cry out.
He gives a dark, throaty laugh, "I like that spirit, keep fighting, I love it when you women do," I ignore the taunt. Unsure if he's saying the words in his obvious insanity or if he's telling the truth that he knows about me.
Revulsion runs through me as I feel his hand press in between my shoulder blades. Forcing me down as his other hand now reaches around my waist to where my pants zipper sits. I jerk, pushing and shoving with all my strength because I won't go through this without a fight. But then he grabs my hair before wrenching my neck back and slamming my head down. "You little bitch, why don't you just stop so this can be more fun."
I go still, dazed and nauseated that the first time I do this is going to be through rape. Like so many of the girls I was raised with lost theirs on Rockfort. Raking in sharp breaths, knowing what's about to happen. I can't help but admit to myself I'm petrified at his words and the promise they hold.
I close my eyes, running away in my mind. Reliving the same dream I always do when enduring some uncontrollable pain.
. . .
There's no dog. Just a thicket of overgrown brush. I give my stuffed elephant Oscar a hug and then hop off of the swing and race over to Mommy and Daddy and my aunt: her and Mommy don't look the same. She has golden, straight, short hair instead of the chocolate brown, curls Mommy has, and her skin's much lighter.
When I asked once why they look so different, Mommy said she was… ad-op-ted and like family. But not actually related. That grandma and grandpa died when she was very young and the word means a couple who were having trouble with having a baby takes in another one and loves them just the same.
I run up to Daddy where he swoops me into his arms, and I laugh, swinging my legs. "Daddy! Let's play catch!" I beg.
"In a moment, sweetie, your aunt has something to say," he hushes me and I turn to look at my aunt.
She flashes her small, white teeth at me in a sincere smile. "I can't believe how old she's gotten on me," she looks at Mommy in her confession. She looks back over at me and I smile.
"Happy birthday, Madi."
. . .
What I didn't know at that moment, pinned to the desk and about to be violated is I'd left the laptop open. Cameras to the interrogation room are still up on the laptop. John happened by, witnessing Irons and I in horror. He dropped everything and came running, and just as he left…
An officer stumbled into the east hallway from the watchman's room. A woman had seen him and with no other officers around, she'd walked over to check on him. He ripped her throat out and started a panic, everyone split up, carrying their children and those abandoning what little they'd brought to the station. But that isn't the worst of it.
Sounds of muffled glass breaking in the hallway can be heard in the room, disrupting my fantasy. My hiding. I push against Irons's hand in protest, he halts from pulling my pants and underwear down the rest of the way. Thankfully it was only just past my butt at least. He grabs his magnum from his waistband again, pointing it at my head, warning. "Don't move."
He reaches his hand for the doorknob and quietly opens it: the door swings open and the direction of his gun's focus moves to in front of him hastily. "Goddammit!" Irons fumes and starts shooting madly, "Zombies broke through the windows!" He grunts loudly, stopping to resupply his magazine with more bullets. I jerk my pants and underwear up, not even stopping to button them. Taking the chance, I rush Irons and jab my boot's heel forcefully into the back of his leg.
He crashes to the floor, exclaiming a swear. In his rage, he raises his magnum at me. A click sounds, informing both of us the weapon is still empty. I duck past him without warning into the hallway. Weaving through bodies of the undead, shoving one away as it tries grabbing me. I make it around the corner just as Irons starts firing again. Wood splinters as two bullets pierce the wall in an attempt to kill me.
"This isn't over, you bitch!" Irons roar echoes down the hallway as I run into John's chest in my race through the conference room's side door. Behind him, the rest of the room is in chaos. The survivors in here just minutes ago have abandoned the room.
There's not even a second to process what nearly just happened to me. There's only enough time to finally button and zip my pants back up because now a new emergency has begun.
"Zombies!" the screams can be heard from here, the zombies that came after me are pounding on the door, their rotting faces shoved against the glass. The door opens so hard the doorknob breaks the plaster, and we run, glass shattering in the rest of the hall can be heard. Windows are breaking, and more zombies are getting into the east wing. If any officers in the wing ran into the main hall…
The emergency shutter…
I grab John's hand; I can't allow the chaos around us to freeze me like I did in my apartment and on the road that first night. If we sit here any longer: we'll die.
"Run!" I shout and drag John, "Everyone! Get in the main hall!" I yell. Retrieving my gun as we make our way through the crowd of shoving bodies.
Gunshots go off somewhere in the hall, killing zombies around us but not before they take out the people. It's a blood bath, John and I barely miss a few zombies amongst the bodies ourselves.
The shutter is in sight, halfway closed though. Who the fuck flipped that switch? A mixture of bodies dart into the detective's office and under the shutter. "We won't make it!" John yells when he too sees the shutter closing, scared as much as I am.
We're the last to climb the stairs, "Drop and roll!" I order, crashing to the floor and rolling under the shutters. John follows and I see a bloody hand reach out for him: a woman screaming for our help. Removing her arm from his reach just as the shutter closes and traps the remaining people inside.
Chapter 11: Chapter 10
Chapter Text
September 26th, 7:00 P.M
I hold my hand to my mouth in horror as John pushes away from the shutter as fast as he can. Bodies bang against it, snarling and people screaming alike as survivors beg for us to open it over and over until they begin to die down.
Then the main doors are barged open. More zombies pile through it, heading straight for those in sight. "We have to close that door right now," I grit, standing and pulling out my gun. "Everyone out of the way!" I warn the survivors frantically escaping the crowd. "John, help me close these doors!" I fire into the crowd of undead, making sure each one I hit in the head, because there's no option for missing and wasting bullets with so many in front of us.
Edith is in the crowd of survivors herself; she too grabs her gun and starts firing at bodies. We clear them, the three of us run for the entrance, forcing the doors closed against the new wave of dead trying to get through, shutting them and quickly threading the locks at the top of both doors. "We should put something through those handles," I tell the others, scanning behind us quickly noticing an I.V. pole past Edith to the right.
I dart for the pole, jerking it apart, "Move!" I order. They back out of the way as I push the pole through the handles, adding more security to the door.
It's then our attention returns to the shutter, something's banging against it now. But what we don't know as growling and screaming both reverberate through the metal. John takes a couple steps for the switch—I follow him, shoving him into the side railing beside us. "What're you doing?" I yell hysterically.
"We can't leave those people! I'm opening it—"
Shaking my head and gripping his collar, "No you're not! The second you do we all die," I try to make him see clearly, see how stupid his idea is. How stupid and traitorous it is to the people who ran to us for safety and are now dying on the other side. Their blood leaking under the door now as the bloodcurdling screams reemerge on the other side from more innocent people a result.
Trembling, his collar still in my fist. The whole situation slams into me, of what I just went through, of the people dying on the other side of this shutter. The fact we too nearly met their fate because somebody closed the fucking exit on us. I don't know who it could be though with so many officers in the room...
I back away from John, eyes darting among the faces in the crowd. I recognize them all, despite some in their street clothes, these are all officers. With a plummeting heart, did none of those survivors we took in make it out alive? Tears come to my eyes then as I realize, none of those people ran into the main hall, like I'd originally thought. Not that just, but also the fact it's not just adults, but children are dying in there too.
My hands go into my hair as I sit, ducking my head to hide the tears running down my cheeks. All I feel is guilt and shame at the willpower I have to muster to not open the shutter to help like we are supposed to. "We can't save them," I whisper, voice hoarse.
Murderers. Cowards. Monsters. My internal voice chastises destructively.
"Patricia!" I look and see Marvin coming down the stairs. "What the fuck is happening right now?"
I weakly stand, "Zombies broke into the east wing, the shutters… somebody started to shut them, we barely made it out ourselves before it closed."
Marvin stops on the last step, and from here I can see him eyeing the shutters himself. The screams on the other side echo loudly into the hall. He snaps from his stupor, it's like nobody wants to even suggest an idea of how to help the situation on the other side of the shutter. Marvin even shocks me, because he doesn't spur into action and tell us to open the shutter. Doesn't spew some plan forming in his head right this second that we'll charge the wing with guns ablazing to save the survivors. No, the words, "Somebody! Go to the microphone and call any survivors to the operation's room now!" thunders in the hall from his order.
It's Edith who reports to the building's announcement system. "This is Edith McIntyre! There is an emergency in the east wing. If any of you can hears this, all survivors in the R.P.D. are to report to the operations room in the west wing on the first floor! There is an emergency staircase to the second floor that will lead you into the main hall. I repeat, come to the operations room now!" she shouts the last order.
John grabs me by my arm, hauling me with him for the door. I stop long enough to grab my bag from under the desk, shadowing him and the others into the west office.
I look up at the: Welcome Leonbanner and drown out the chaos of Marvin shouting orders. One or two officers bust in behind us now. It seems so unreal as now Marvin grabs my arm and drags me along with him when he sees me just standing there. I just left behind an entire wing of live people to die; I feel a twisting in my stomach as we make it to the operations room.
It's then my belief is affirmed that we won't make it out of this town. Nobody in this station. All of those faces in the main hall, but none of them were survivors.
I sit on the small stage, head between my legs. Trying to reel in my verging panic attack because I know. The station and its force are too far gone after this. This… this is the beginning to our end.
Chapter 12: Chapter 11
Chapter Text
September 26th, 9 P.M EST, N.Y.U. Dormitory
"Claire, you're out of your fucking mind to be driving to Raccoon City on a whim! It's a twenty-hour drive alone! And you're only taking your bike?" Jennifer practically shrieks at me from where she's sitting on her bed as I dart around my room. Grabbing small things like my brush, toothpaste and toothbrush, deodorant, wallet, and a couple changes of clothes because there's no way I'm making this drive in one go.
I wish I could bring more, but there's only so much space in the back of the bike, and I definitely want enough room for the SLS Chris bought me when I moved into this place and hip holster for safety.
"Yes, I'm going, Jen!" I state firmly to her, calling my roommate by the nickname I know she prefers as I count the remaining money in my wallet. A whole ten-dollar bill. I'll have to pull from savings from the bank on the way out if I want to afford this impromptu trip. "I've been calling all day, and nobody's answering. I'm getting nothing but a busy signal, which I know isn't normal. That city's police station is big, but it isn't that big," I reason as I throw everything into a plastic bag before ducking down to the drawers under my bed.
Grabbing a white tee, socks, and a new pair of jeans. I throw them on quickly before grabbing the leather jacket Chris bought as my high school graduation gift. Putting it on swiftly, bag in hand, I head for the door—Jen literally jumps in front of the door now, blocking my exit.
She flaps her arms frantically at me, "Hey! Earth to Claire Redfield! You cannot just jump onto a bike and ride off into what is a now set sunset. You need to think this through before you leave on a whim." Her blue eyes are wide in fright, she's been fighting me for the last ten minutes as I've hurriedly packed. Her initial words to try talking me down quickly failed after a spurred decision to call Chris's apartment instead of the station. I was met with the same buzz of a busy signal from there too.
He's not answered me in over a goddamn month, any calls to the station are always sent straight to Jill. Now there's a busy signal from his own apartment phone and the station's? Something's up, and I guess I'm going to have to drive there myself to figure it out. I'm gonna wring Chris's neck when I get there.
"Jen, I'm going because I have a brother who hasn't answered my calls with his own voice in over a month. I want to go check on him," I coolly explain to my terrified dormmate. Knowing she doesn't understand, having told me herself she's an only child and has no idea what it's like having siblings. Especially when they're your only form of a parent after losing your real parents so young.
"Come on! You can write a letter to him, or keep calling. You can't just go though. It's too long, you'd miss a whole week of classes getting there and coming back. You didn't even put in that you're leaving!"
I purse my lips in frustration, she's being a good friend. With this being our second dorm we've shared together since freshman year. I will give Jen that at least, because if I had another dormmate, she probably would've let me ride off into the unknown without so much as a blink.
"Jen, please move. I'm going no matter what you say, and the longer you stall me. The longer I'll be on the road before stopping somewhere for the night."
She goes to say something, but I just raise an eyebrow in retaliation. She won't change my mind, not even if she grabbed my leg and I had to drag her out to my motorcycle with me. Without waiting to see what she'll do next; I roughly push into her and grab the doorknob. Opening it quickly and rushing out the door with my bike key in hand.
"Wait!" Jen yells, but I don't as I dart past a group of students coming in through the stairwell. One of them holds the door open for me and I thank them as I take the steps nearly two at a time. I hate that we're on the fourth floor of this building…
By the time I'm at the first floor, an elevator dings behind me before I hear the doors open. "Claire!" Jen's voice booms loudly in the empty commons area, and I stop, sighing and turning around to face her.
"What?" I demand, exasperated now.
She stands in front of me, a folded paper in hand. "I know I can't talk you out of it, so call this number if anything happens and you need help. Mom and Dad prefer I use it emergency's only, but I'm sure they'll get it. It's to my personal cellphone."
I take the sheet, kind of surprised by the offer. I guess I knew Jen's parents were rich judging by the designer clothes she owns, the type of makeup she wears, and the people she hung around when she wasn't with me. I just didn't think they were so rich Jen had a cellphone of her own. Not even Chris had one yet before…
Taking the sheet and tucking it into my wallet, "If I run into any problems, I will call you the second I'm able to," I promise.
"You call me when you're near Raccoon, okay? Otherwise, the time frame for a missing person's report is twenty-four hours. If you don't call by then, I'm calling the cops," she threatens in a serious manner. But I just smile and even giggle a bit at the sincerity behind it. At least someone in this world gives a shit about me beyond Chris and his co-worker, Jill. Even if she too was dodging my calls and questions a lot these days.
"Give me forty-eight, okay? I gotta sleep on the way," I budge the timeframe.
"Fine…" she huffs, not wanting to, but even in her panic she knows I'm going to stop at least once on the drive. "Forty-eight hours, and then I call the police on your missing ass," she jokes.
Rolling my eyes as a jest, "I'm not going to get kidnapped, but I appreciate the thought," I step forward to give her a hug. Something we don't normally do, but with me driving off like this, it felt necessary. "Alright, I'm heading out now, okay? Just tell anybody who asks I had an emergency with Chris and it's why I'm gone. I'll be back by the end of the week, I'm sure," I determine.
"Okay," she nods, and at that we wave our goodbyes as I step outside into the cool September breeze. Glad I brought my jacket; I tell myself when I reach my Harley out in the student parking lot. Grabbing my bike helmet from the cubby in the back of the motorcycle. I replace it with the plastic bag before slamming the seat into place.
Fixing the helmet on, "Alright Chris, you better be there when I arrive so I can kick your ass," I say aloud as I climb onto the bike. Turning the ignition, I kick the kickstand up, and quickly leave the parking lot for an exit ramp out of N.Y.U. and New York City altogether. My only destination is Raccoon City from here on out.
Chapter 13: Chapter 12
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
September 27th, 11:00 P.M CT, The R.P.D.
Just like I predicted... We lost every single civilian in that attack. And things are beyond falling apart here.
Stephan made it to us, being one of the many that'd gone to the cellblock on that first night. Right about the time we could hear gunshots going off both outside and inside the building. He'd made his way to us, barreling into the main hall through the second floor. Babbling wildly that everyone was dead. Those we'd brought down had turned in their cells and one had managed to attack one of the officers. When they came up here after him, finding the east wing completely overrun with the zombies of officers, and civilians alike. He said they'd grabbed what guns they could from the armory and down to the bullets laying on the floor, reloaded their guns and went on a rampage.
We didn't know what to do except join them in their endeavor at clearing out the east wing to secure it again. Anybody within a block could hear the thundering of our guns. But as soon as the last zombie was dealt with, without a word the same officers that'd split from us in the beginning went back downstairs. Where they climbed into their squad cars, and left the station for who knows where.
At seeing the state of the east wing for ourselves as we cleared it out. Despite the fact it was singlehandedly all our fault for not opening that shutter and helping. Marvin still took the loss heavily. He stepped away into Raymond's office for a little bit where upon me checking. I caught him sitting in that chair, besides the destroyed radio equipment, with tears streaking his cheeks for the first time since this nightmare began. He'd finally been even just the slightest bit broken…
David's started recording everything that's happened so far, when he's not downing his bottle of whiskey and staring at his shotgun in the corner. He's writing a memo I guess, to the unlucky bastard who's unfortunate enough to wander in here in case we're all…
Marvin and I read the reports, he'd gone as far back as that fight night in telling what happened. Reading the events from the 24th to today I came to one conclusion after mulling our predicament over. How our numbers are slowly, but very surely, being worked down to nothing.
We didn't know what to do after the officers from downstairs left. Numbly sticking to the operations room for the night so we were all together at least. Sleeping in the cramped room was a struggle, if you could anyways. Most were too scared with what happened to shut their eyes, and by the time we'd even retreated into there. It was only hours from morning.
When morning came, and with it, actual light. A group began roaming the station for materials to board the windows with, grabbing hammers, and nails from a janitor's closet. The spare wood came from anything they could pry it from, and by the afternoon they'd set to boarding up as many of the west wing windows as they could. Trying to prevent anymore invasions from the outside, like what happened in the east wing.
There were at least twenty of us left in this place, there was roughly six who decided they would patch all the windows. Edith and Paul were two of them, while I, Marvin, and even John were in the main hall trying to figure out if maybe there was a way to escape with one of the vans with a few others standing there. But while our group was busy, another mob of the undead broke through on that side.
The blaring on our radio's startled us, and everyone left inside the building ran straight for the hallway. It was a slaughter inside when we got there, and over twelve were left dead by the time the last zombie was shot down. Edith and Paul being two of them. The assault effectively took all of us down to our final magazines, some didn't even have that anymore.
Marvin wasn't the only one to break. Many became distraught messes afterwards, the sounds of crying never ceased from then on. There are only eight of us left. Eight. Out of a station of almost two hundred men and women. All we could do was pick up where the others had left off and finish boarding up the windows through the long hallway. The few who didn't, carried the bodies outside to immediately bury. Turning the once grassy side yard where you could eat your lunch on the bench they'd sat between trees, into a cemetery.
Through the chaos of the last day, I hadn't come out to Marvin about Irons trying to rape me. At this point, I don't think I will honestly. John tried speaking to me this morning before we all split off into our groups. Pulling me aside in the records room beside the operation room in private. Wanting to see how I'm doing, but I didn't want to talk about it to anyone yet. I'm not ready. I… I don't think I ever will be.
The most he asked about after that response is how my heads doing, since Irons slamming it into the table left a purplish knot near my hairline. I told him to not worry, aside from it being tender. If I don't touch it, I'm fine.
He hasn't bothered me about it since, but I see him glancing my way every so often with concern in his eyes.
There has been something else that's been eating at me. I've been debating throughout the day if I should confess to at least Marvin who I am. I haven't made up my mind yet, not sure what I'd say, or what they'd think—Terrified would be the closest word to my mental state, but it still doesn't feel right.
When it began to feel as if I was being torn in two about telling them. I, along with John and Stephan, decided to go out and check the windows of the west wing together. Marvin said John and I were only allowed to patrol if another person went with us. Stephan, a man with black hair cut into a mullet and brown eyes, ended up joining. He turned out to be a quiet man older than John and I by several years.
"I don't think the military's going to save us," John admits to me quietly as we inspect our first window a couple feet to the left of the operation room doors. His voice is just the slightest nasally, and the gauze on his nose is gone now. The bleeding stopped several days ago, the swelling itself went down sometime in the last day.
It just serves as another reminder of all those medical supplies from the main hall and the food, the ones we'd depleted. We've been reduced to raiding the vending machines in the wing and rationing on soda and candy to survive. The water bottles were for only emergencies only. The thought of which makes me swallow and feel the beginning of an overbearing dryness in my throat. And although it's one of the last things on my mind in this chaos, I miss showering. The last time I had one was the night I came here.
I shrug, "I don't know. At this point… I don't think they are," I admit my pessimism aloud myself now as we walk again. All I can bitterly think is how typical it is for the government to abandon its own people. My hatred for the entity never ending because of the children they've let be stolen by the company under its own nose. I'd determined long ago when I saw firsthand a government official from China arrive to the facility that the company has to have people in every big government in existence.
We stop to peer through a window, a breeze comes through the shattered window pane. "You think so too?" John's tone matches the sadness of his words, and I couldn't blame him one bit. We're beginning to starve, we've watched everyone around us die, and at any time, we could be taking in our last breath.
I look at him, "I haven't had faith they'd rescue us since they turned those vans with civilians away." I tell him a bit too somberly, and when I catch his reaction to it. It's a long, hard stare at the ground in silence, like he too felt the same way as far back as then. But didn't want to accept that it seems the military is allowing this many people to die.
His eyes drop to the floor, "I should've taken a job in Old Court," he tries joking. Like the words will somehow lift the tone of the conversation, of both our demeanors.
"Bet you're really regretting that now, huh?" I try to joke back, even if there's no part of me that's in the mood.
He huffs, rather hollowly though, "Wish we could be anywhere else but here…" he rubs the back of his neck, cheeks turning dark red. "Can I tell you something?"
Raising an eyebrow, "Sure?"
He sighs in thought, as if he's wondering how to say it. "Guess I wanted to tell you before we died…" he starts. "I, uh, had been wanting to ask you out for a while…" my brows furrow now. "Not much of a point in that anymore though," he relents dejectedly before looking outside the window himself now.
I stare forward through the slats as I mull over the words. John is attractive, much like how a still-finding-his-way boy is and how's he been more attentive since… The survivalist part of my brain has been paying more attention to him as a result, but—"Well… I appreciate the thought at least," I look at him as I answer truthfully. Surreal couldn't properly explain how I feel at hearing a co-worker of all people tell me his original intentions. Maybe it's because I'm so used to hearing the confession from complete strangers. Maybe it's because we're going to die soon.
This isn't the mansion, there is no escape…
And then the thought of dating someone emerges, and it's strange. I've never dated anyone in my whole life. Never even had feelings about anything other than understanding a mission was to be completed. Or else. Feelings towards another human that were more than just acquaintanceship is something Umbrella doesn't allow to happen under any circumstances on them. Allowing it meant their soldiers could develop emotions, emotions to Umbrella mean an "imperfect" soldier.
Something I learned the hard way after executing a boy Umbrella had felt I'd gotten too close to when I was sixteen.
"Shoot me. You have to."
"I can't do it, Ryan—"
I shut my eyes tightly, stop thinking. Don't think about him.
Opening my eyes, I think of something else instead. Of John's words and how after Umbrella spent years brainwashing us into ignoring their existence. I'm not naive to the feelings of attraction, and how overwhelming it feels when I'm close to a period.
And for someone who's never so much as held hands with a person. Regardless of Umbrella's teachings, once or twice I've acted on them in the security of my apartment. It's the most human and normal I'd feel. Those rare moments of exploring myself, not just looking, but actually touching.
Another memory comes to mind then. One of Jill and I walking around Raccoon the second weekend after the mansion. She was trying to show me some of the clothing stores around the city in case I ever needed any. At that point, I was desperate for more. That day in particular though, we'd found ourselves outside of the clothing district. Liquor stores and movie rental shops took the place of things to buy, though liquor was, and is something I've never tried to this day. We'd walked by a shop that was vaguely labeled as: "Adult entertainment".
I'd looked at Jill when I saw it, asking her out of curiosity. "What is this place?"
She'd turned from where she was standing a few feet away, eyeing the window up and down. "A sex shop." She'd stated plainly, and looked completely uninterested in it too.
My eyebrows flew up at that. I suppose in a way I can still be considered a heavily sheltered individual despite the sex education when I was younger in the academy. "What's in it?" I'd asked her naively then, because outside of knowing the basics of what goes where. I guess I was struggling at that moment to figure out why there was an entire shop dedicated to it.
Her face turned red at the question, "Um-m. I mean…" she'd fumbled harder for words then than even when she'd found out who I was in the mansion. And I knew right there that she was an individual who was not open to discussing the topic. If I wanted to know what was inside, I'd have to see for myself.
But I didn't that day though, I just shrugged off the idea and joked, "It's okay. Let's just head home." I never did enter after spotting it, and the many others I noticed hanging around the city. Still leaving me in the dark on what's so popular about sex.
That was probably the worst thing about what Irons tried with me. Not that I'd never done it, never even had a want to try it because in our predicament after the mansion, who could. But the fact that I knew… almost nothing about what all he'd intended if he'd had his way.
I turn from the window then and keep walking. John, and poor Stephan, follow along quietly. My footsteps halt abruptly at the entryway into the next hall, his words distant in my head.
My hand grazes a dented in portion of the wall, and the claw marks embedded in it. What the fuck could have caused that? That was not like this when we last saw it earlier. Eyeing John, "Please tell me you see this?" my voice is barely audible.
John's eyes are locked on the marks too. "What could've caused that?" he asks himself, swallowing nervously. "Maybe we should turn back," he suggests, and I think I hear Stephan happily agree behind me.
I take a step forward into the room though, with the smallest amount of trepidation because undoubtedly this is stupid. That mark almost reminds me of the hunters in the mansion, except, this is double the size of those creature's claws. I hope they were all destroyed when that mansion exploded.
"Patricia…" John warns, but trails after silently.
"You can go back. I'm going to check it out, okay?" I whisper to him without looking. The white floor with spots of black tiles was once spotless from the janitors cleaning it the other night and every other night before then. But now there's blood and bullet casings everywhere. A window on the far right seems to have had its barrier broken down too. I'd grumble at the sight if I weren't so scared at wondering what knocked them down. After the hell we went through to get these boarded up…
The sound of faint clicks echoes in the empty hallway and goosebumps immediately raise on my skin. When they don't end by the time we're rounding the corner I stop to look at John beside me, wondering if he's hearing them too. From how he's looking around the hall in front of him I can tell he does hear it and is trying to find the source.
Stephan, who had remained voiceless until now, finally speaks up when John and I stop walking. In a feeble attempt to further decipher the source of the odd noise. "You guys here that too?" he whispers, and I peer over my shoulder at him. Having realized too late where the noise is coming from, and to answer the man—I stop short, mouth still open to answer him, and my face pales.
Time slows for John and I at the sight of what looks like muddled pink rope curving around Stephan's neck. My stomach seems to shrivel up in horror at the foreign body and just as I reach a hand out to cautiously try to squeak any word of warning out—The cord around Stephan's body tightens. He's jerked upward, eyes bulging out of his head; his hands lift to his neck in protest of his body leaving the ground. There's a sickening, wet crack and his hands fall to his side before they reach the unidentifiable cord.
John and I don't have enough time to comprehend his death before the cord tightens and Stephan is violently beheaded. Hot, crimson blood splatters in our faces as the sliced head falls to the floor in a wet thud. I blink, wiping an eye of the blood that'd blinded it. Retracting my hand, I blink it again as it stings from the foreign fluid. Staring at the red dripping from my hand in absolute horror—My stomach wants to revolt as the wound continues spraying blood at us with every passing heartbeat as it falls.
"Run!" John suddenly yells and something on the ceiling screeches in response. The body collapses to the floor as it's released. My head snaps up from Stephan's twitching body to the door to the records room. I push my body forward, barging through the door.
What was that? It looked… like a tongue! It couldn't be though, that's impossible for something to have a tongue that long—I turn around at the sound of John's cry to see him trying to stand from where he must have tripped in his dash, settling to his hands and knees as he sways weakly.
"John come on!" I panic and scream in frustration at his sluggish movements. He must have hit his head in the fall from the way he's moving.
I look from him to see a flash of something drop onto the floor at the end of the hall. And as I reach a hand for John, I see the new creature stalking us. Like food. Like we're it's momentary toys. John reaches his hand, but is so disoriented from hitting his head his fingers brush mine as his hand falls to the floor to support himself.
I should've stepped into the hallway, grabbed his arm and dragged him into the room…
Instead, I panic. Panic that he can't walk, that he won't make it into the room. Leaving me unable to shut out whatever monster that thing is in time—My judgment clouds over in the same way it does on missions. I suddenly no longer feel like me. I feel like—
Dropping my hand, straightening my back and coldly staring John in the eye. I back up to grab the door, watching the man closely as he continues to crawl towards me for safety. "Survival is your responsibility," I repeat my mantra of Rockfort Island's training facility. Shutting the door on him immediately after, I trap him in the hallway with the unknown creature.
He pounds on the door, hitting it insistently, begging. "Patricia! Let me in, Patricia please! Let me—"
John's plea is cut off and there's a screech, then a heavy thud against the floor on the other side. "Patricia? Patricia! Patricia!" John cries out, each time increasingly more desperate until the fake name is no longer heard.
I release the doorknob at the sound of the gurgles echoing from the next room into the hallway. I think about John and his fate behind that heavy oak door with the green club etching. Though I know how she felt towards the man, towards not wanting to singlehandedly kill others. I feel absolutely nothing for that man myself. Survival is my only way.
Emotionlessly, I turn to return to the operation's room for my report. I make it to the other door before I go through in my head what I'll report to Lieutenant Marvin… Marvin.
The cloud disappears, and I stop dead in my tracks at the thought of the dear Lieutenant.
My hand slowly finds its way to my mouth at the images flashing through my head that must belong to someone else. But they're mine. My god… What did I just do? Did I… did I just murder John in cold blood?
I turn against the door with the bloodied hand still on my mouth. The other is pressed against the door for support as I slide down it to my butt, raking in heavy gasps. My mouth waters, my eyes well up with tears mixed with Stephan's blood. All at the thought of what I've done, and while I'm dealing with this… I'm forced to wonder what could have possibly made me do that? Make that part of me take over and shut the door on my co-worker, the man who saved me from being raped. My… my friend.
The last time I could remember that part of me coming out was in the mansion, but even then. It was proven the cracks had formed within the reasoning for its appearance within me as nobody on the team was hurt. So why now… why after two months did it show back up?
I've never wanted to hurt anyone… even the civilians in the east wing. That was just pure… cowardice towards those people that got them killed. And I suppose from a morbid point of view, maybe it was easier to accept memories that weren't mine, even if they were witnessed by my own eyes. Recollections of boarding the helicopter to leave after murdering innocent people just minutes before were easy to swallow if I reasoned that ultimately they worked for Umbrella. I'd never spoken to them once before the mission so I didn't even have a name to the face before they were killed. I knew this was why I never laid a finger on anyone in S.T.A.R.S.
This time though, I did know the person. He'd just admitted that if this week had gone a different way he would've asked me out. And in return, I committed something unforgiveable in an act of panic, so… monstrous.
I wrap my arms tightly around my body to keep my body's trembling at bay. I try to quell the nausea and ignore tightness of my throat caused by the overwhelming need to give in to a mental breakdown. My hands thread through my hair and I shake my head with eyes closed as tears keep coming, as vile thoughts run amok in my skull. There's a part of me I have no control over, one that does what it pleases and that's the scariest part. If it hadn't come out, I would've done the right thing, I would've saved John. I wouldn't have left him to die.
Monster. Monster. Monster. Murderer. You felt nothing as you heard him die. My brain screams at me unforgivingly, because the rationale that it was the other identity who did this doesn't shake the pain away.
I sit there for so long my legs go numb, finally standing to take languid steps into the back area of the operation's room. At this moment… I feel like I'm eight years old again, only a week into training at the academy. The amnesia not having repressed my memories just yet, and I'm being forced to fire a handgun. Over and over. Despite the ache in my arms and the bruise forming on my cheek from where the gun smacked me the first time as a result of being a child who knew nothing of recoil. I feel right now as I did then, like I have no control over what happens to my own body.
The trainer had laughed. Laughed and then continued to make me shoot even with my eyes blinded by the salty tears as I cried, 'I want my Mommy.'
When I open the door to the room, the quiet chatter from the four officers comes to an immediate halt. Their eyes are on my sweaty, disheveled, gasping frame. Marvin looks up from where he'd been staring at the desk. The second his eyes land on me I see the alarm in them, and who can blame him? There I stand in the doorway, face splashed in blood with speckles down my body, sweat rolling off my forehead from lack of bathing and stress, and my eyes puffy from a failed attempt at holding myself together as tears and blood mingle together on my cheeks.
I probably look like one of the infected right now.
"Patricia. Kid… what the hell happened to you? Where's John and Stephan?" he steps out from behind the desk, coming for me. Rita, David, Neil, and Elliot are all doing the same.
Stephan's head being sliced off… Closing the door on John and hearing his screams without a care for his death. Echoes of that fake name play on repeat in my head, intermingling with the echoes of my real name too. Patricia. Madeleine. Does your real name matter when all you are to yourself is nothing more than a murderer?
I double over, and collapse for a second time in minutes onto the stage in a heaping, miserable mess.
Notes:
Hey everyone! I hope you like the book so far! I just wanted to apologize for the late chapter, I am currently in my first trimester and the pregnancy brain has already kicked in it seems! XD
Chapter 14: Chapter 13
Chapter Text
There's something I've decided on. Something that has to happen tonight in case there is no tomorrow for us.
"Marvin… can we step back here?" I sniffle quietly while asking the Lieutenant weakly an hour or two at most after…
He looks up at me, blinking and changing his whole demeanor in one second from utter defeat to being someone attentive and willing to listen, "Yeah… sure," he responds, then stands. He looks over at Rita, "We're just gonna step into the back room. Get us if anything comes up," he orders.
She steps out from the desk she was sitting at, "What's up? Something I can help with?" she asks. No doubt going stir crazy just sitting here, aimlessly staring at the floor with nothing to do.
My throat practically closes shut at the offer though. I'm sweating and anxious at the thought of telling Marvin alone, I don't know if I can handle telling Rita to her face too. "Uh-h," Marvin looks back at me, "Is it something you need her for too?" And there it is, I can send her away and reveal it to just him, or I can place the burden on her too.
Swallowing, "She can come," I answer distantly.
Then we walk into the back room, Marvin sits on the corner of the desk and Rita stands to the side. I stand with her, my arms crossed as I burn a hole into the linoleum floor. "What do you need to tell us, kid?" Marvin prompts when it's silent from my side for too long.
Rita steps forward, rubbing a hand on my arm. "… you okay, Trish?" she pries slightly at seeing the look of distraught on my face.
And that was all I needed to start this ordeal that I can't foresee how it ends, but the truth has to come out before we die in this place. "My real name's not Patricia, Rita," I confess to her in a depressed whisper.
Her hand motion stops brusquely on my arm, she retracts it to back up a step and match my pose with her own arms crossed. Her brows are scrunched together in confusion, Marvin's face matches hers too at the sentence. "What?"
My eyes lift from the ground to the woman who's been my partner and training officer for the last month. And then to the Lieutenant whom without ever meaning to, became something of a father figure to me.
"I don't… know how to say this. My name isn't Patricia O'Donnell. It's Madeleine Sówka."
Then it's back to silence between us all, I give them time to absorb the new information. Waiting for them to ask—"What the hell are you talking about?" Marvin demands impatiently.
Then my eyes drop again, in shame. "I didn't come to S.T.A.R.S. straight from the military… I was never in the military…" I allude and the two stare at me now, but I can tell from the look that they're not regarding me as the young kid they've known for the last two months, but as a complete stranger. "I don't know where my hometown is, or what state I came from. When I was eight… I was kidnapped by Umbrella," their eyes go wide at that.
"You're…" Rita says but doesn't finish the thought. Like she couldn't process the right words to finish it.
Tears come to my eyes; I have cried enough in the last week to last a lifetime it feels. Wiping a stray one from my cheek, "From the time I was eight until I turned eighteen, I was raised as a child soldier through the company… I was sent in by them in July to help the team's own leader, Wesker, in killing them off in the forest—" Rita's putting a hand to her mouth, Marvin's eyes never leave me. Another stray tear escapes and I wipe it away, "I've hurt people-I've… I've killed people for them…"
"Why are you telling us this?" Marvin asks, unlike Rita his face is a worrying blank slate of what he's thinking.
I shrug, no other word except exhausted is good enough for the strength it took to even do that. "I uh, I don't see us surviving this honestly. And I… I guess I just couldn't take the lie anymore. That the company I used to work for did this to this city… I wanted somebody in this station outside of S.T.A.R.S. to know the truth about me," I admit. Rita turns around and walks over by the door, bracing a hand against the wall as if for support. "I'm… I'm sorry. I never—"
Rita stalks over to me suddenly, raising her hand and slapping me before I could tell them I never wanted to hurt anybody. Never wanted to see them suffer the way they are now or wanted to have to even have an affiliation to the ones causing them their pain.
Marvin jumps from the desk and grabs her around the waist, hauling her back from no doubt strangling me next.
"You shut your mouth!" she yells at me, as my hand flies to my cheek. The skin instantly burns, instantly turns red I'm sure to show the evidence behind the force of it. "You kept this from us this whole time? And now when there's only six of us left in this entire station you think it's okay to tell us as such?" I can see tears running down Rita's cheeks now when I look up.
I say nothing at first, "I never asked to be a part of the mess they caused."
"But you were! You were sent in to kill people from our own station!"
"And I'm sorry! What do you want me to say? Do you want me on my knees? Do you want to hit me more? I've faced the consequences of being a part of that company for my entire life, Rita!" I snap at the Sergeant. "I wanted to tell everyone I knew from the moment we came back from that mansion. I wanted you to know—"
"I don't care! I don't care what your real name is, whether it's Patricia, or Madeleine. I don't fucking care! Because you've hurt people," Rita determines. And I finally have the answer to my question on just how badly this would go, and end.
I shouldn't even defend myself, but, "I was just a kid when they took me, Rita. If I didn't do what they said they would've killed me—"
"Well, you should have let them!" she yells unforgivingly.
Biting my lip and wiping my eyes at the horrendous statement, "I'm sorry—"
"I don't want to hear it!" she interrupts with a sob; Marvin is surprisingly silent still. Just holding Rita back with a pained look in his eyes, "We trusted you. You have no idea how we feel, Patricia!"
"And you have no idea how I feel!" I scream at her hoarsely at the fake name. "I have a real name. It's Madeleine Sówka. And I have lived my life as a prisoner under Umbrella. This tattoo on my arm isn't the date I joined the military. It's my barcode for them!"
The words don't sway her even remotely though, and even through my grief I still understand. "Get out!" Rita shouts then, freeing a hand and pointing it at the door to the hallway behind me. "Get the fuck out, Madeleine! I don't want to spend my last day alive with a murderer near me!" she shouts, and the air is ripped from my throat. My eyes glance from behind them to the open door to the operations room where the three remaining men watch wordlessly. It appears nobody, except for Rita, knows what to say at the information of who I am.
"Rita!" Marvin finally speaks for the first time since our shouting match began.
She shoves herself out of Marvin's arms, "I want her out! That company is the reason we're sitting on our goddamn asses, waiting to die in this fucking room!" I've never heard her swear so much before.
Then the same thought I had days before at opening the door to Mr. and Mrs. Newman's apartment comes to mind. This is pointless. Wiping my eyes, "Just…" they stop and look over at the pathetic person standing ahead of them. "Just let me get my bag and I'll leave," I offer, not having it in me any longer to keep fighting.
Marvin eyes Rita for her reaction, "Fine!" the word spat. "Get your bag and leave us. Don't let me catch you in this station or I'll shoot you myself," she demands, storming off into the operations room. The rest say nothing, not even Marvin, before walking into the room after her. I follow, long enough to collect where my bag is by the podium. I sling it over my shoulder, looking behind me at the five men and women remaining of the original numbers that made up this police station.
Rita's sobbing in a corner, David's eyeing his shotgun again next to his nearly finished bottle of whiskey, Elliot's consoling Rita. Neil and Marvin watch me with weary and sorrowful eyes. Like hearing what I said actually did strike a chord of empathy in them to know I at least regret what has happened and what I've done, but we're too far past the point of no return. What I did was unforgivable. Untrustworthy.
Even now, two months later. I find myself still paying the consequences of having ever been taken by this company.
I shut the door behind me, leaving them without a goodbye.
Chapter 15: Chapter 14
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Are you looking for someone, little girl?" a woman with black hair and brown eyes asks as she kneels.
"There's a dog over there," the little girl points at the shaggy, golden-haired retriever who is currently sitting down, and panting hard in the shade. The air is hot and heavy: it's a humid summer day.
"Oh, Ralphie? He's my dog sweetie. Would you like to pet him?" she stands, reaching her hand for Madeleine's. She reaches hers up too, stopping at the remembrance of her parent's warning. "Don't trust strangers."
This isn't a scary stranger though. No, she has a dog and seems very friendly to the little girl with her gentle smile.
"Yes please, Ma'am," she beams back at her, naively. Innocently, because how could a child so young know that there truly are people in this world with intentions of harming children?
They pass some tall shrubbery walking over to the canine. The little girl doesn't notice how far away they are from her parents and aunt until her vision goes black. Terrified and startled, she opens her mouth to scream for help. She's met with a mass of cloth that's shoved in before she can scream, gagging her instead. It's then taped over, preventing her from spitting it out. Preventing her from calling for Mommy and Daddy as she's hauled off the ground and crushed hard over someone's shoulder. The tears start coming uncontrollably in muffled hiccups of confusion and fear.
She reaches blindly for Mommy. Daddy. Anybody… until she loses her bearings and is carried away from all she knows.
. . .
September 28th, 7:00 A.M
I jolt awake from the nightmare, but I don't move. Only turning my head from where I fell asleep sitting upright in the cramped space to stare at the back cabinet on the wall behind Wesker's desk.
My bloodshot, unfocused eyes land on the papers and debris that are scattered on the floor from last night when I got here. Where I'd trashed the office after several minutes of staring in from the entryway. In utter disbelief, I was banished from seeing the remaining officers for the rest of our time alive here. I didn't even grab any food or water to take with me, my departure from the operations room was so hasty. I was legitimately afraid if I took too long that Rita would hold true to her promise and shoot me. Like she no doubt will if she finds me in the building still because even after telling me to get out, I stayed. Rather risking her fury than dying on the road while running around in the middle of the night.
I'd stepped into the office cautiously, still afraid of the very presence it exuded after the two months of being here. And then… I just broke. Broke at the thought of being inside the office of the man partially at fault for my predicament. The man whose body hopefully burned to oblivion at the bottom of that lab, but not before destroying the lives of the S.T.A.R.S. team. I cried as I tore the paintings from the walls, slamming them all onto his desk to shatter the glass before tearing them in two. The picture that stopped me in my rage was a photo of said team all lined up. Smiling proudly while they posed for their very first photo together.
It was the picture that froze me in my tracks, where I picked the frame up and sat on the floor under the desk as I touched the faces of the men and women, both alive and dead. Apologizing, muttering my regret aloud for being part of the plan that killed them. Not stopping until I passed out at some point.
I twist my sore, stiff neck, feeling nothing in response but a dull ache and go to climb out from under the desk. The movements are hindered when I'm met with the swirling and blurring vision of vertigo. I shut my eyes tightly, disoriented by the dizziness.
It takes a moment for my ears to register anything, and when they do, I detect nothing but white noise.
When I open my eyes and the world doesn't spin so bad. The last two days come crashing down on me again. A shaky breath enters and then escapes me as John and Stephan come to mind, their deaths replaying, and then Irons does too. The reoccurring thought that the only thing saving me from being raped by him was the zombies breaking into the east wing, and if that hadn't happened. John would've done something when he came to save me… maybe even been killed because Irons is off his fucking rocker. Irrationally dangerous. I have no doubt he might've shot John. Mercilessly. Just the same as me.
Shutting my eyes, I am not like him. I chant faintly to myself like I'll believe it.
Crawling out and standing, I bend over to retrieve the picture frame from where I left it on the ground. I tuck it safely into my duffel bag then, before carefully stepping out into the hallway.
My heart's pounding as I push the door open, where I'm greeted by the morning light streaming in through the windows, but that's it. The overhead lights above are all off, did the power go out? Maybe it's just this hallway, the S.T.A.R.S. office still had power in it.
Unsure of which way to go, I head to my left for the library. Plodding down the corridor as quietly as I can manage with the duffel bag slung over my shoulder again. My breath is caught in my throat the entire time, and as I open the door to the balcony with the bronze unicorn statue that overlooks the waiting room. I freeze.
Elliot stands there, back to me as his arm moves while he mumbles something aloud to himself. "Two down, where's the third one?" he turns around then, freezing too when he sees me standing there. I don't know what to say at first, bracing for any kind of reaction at this point with the state I left them in last night. "You stayed," he states firmly, and I can hear it in his voice he too is also at a loss of words.
"Yeah… I didn't want to leave until morning," I admit.
"Oh… yeah, that's… fair enough…" he at least gives me that, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly with a notebook and pencil in hand.
Silence falls between us; I eye the door to the library nervously. "I should probably get going before Rita catches me and shoots me," the words a gloomy effort at a jest.
Elliot looks at his notepad, squeezing his eyes shut as if in agony. "Rita's gone," he announces.
My mouth drops slightly, "Wh-wh—"
I don't finish before he answers my stupefied response, "I think you admitting your past was the final straw for her. She got in a squad car not long after you took off and left by herself… David and Neil are gone too. Went upstairs to look for you after she left and… they never came back," he informs morosely.
My eyes fall to the ground, they died because they were trying to find me.
"I don't know where Marvin is either. When morning hit, he left the operations room and… I haven't seen him since," Elliot tells me dejectedly, his blue eyes filled with regret. And the situation slams into me like bricks, all over me and my decision to tell them the truth of who I am. I singlehandedly tore the last of us apart, made Rita flee, and caused David and Neil to die, and who knows where Marvin went. It's like… I destroy everything I touch.
"What're you doing?" is all I can think to ask Elliot.
He lifts the notebook up, "Trying to see about that tunnel Rita always told me about. Got no way else out so…" he steps out of the way of the unicorn statue. Revealing the sight of the medallion that's sitting inside the grooved center, where it's been since I started here. When I don't put two and two together, "I think… I think these medallions are what fit into those slots under the goddess statue in the hall," he clarifies.
My eyes widen, "You're joking."
He shakes his head, "Wish I was. Always thought Rita was pulling my leg but… four days into an apocalypse, and I finally figured it out. There's a third one though, and I don't know where it is, and even when I find it… these things have a code to unlock the medallion inside," he shrugs. "Guess that's what my day's gonna be spent on at this point."
I nod, "Elliot…" his eyes meet mine. "Why are you telling me any of this?" his eyes fall to the ground at the question. "I… after Rita's reaction, I thought you all wouldn't even look at me—"
"I felt that way for a good while after you left last night," he cuts me off and admits. "But… knowing you're going to die at any moment really puts a lot of things into perspective. Like the girls I wish I'd dated, the people I wish I'd spoken my mind to… Marvin told us what you said to them, Madeleine." My eyes snap to his, at hearing my name get used by somebody for the first time in twelve years. Not even anybody in S.T.A.R.S. could risk using it. "I'm sorry about what happened to you. It makes me feel disappointed as a cop to know that you were kidnapped and put through those things. We may not have had much time to know each other personally, but I can say, you didn't have to lift a goddamn finger to help this station this week, but you did. You stayed instead of fleeing town, and that in my book after this week, means you're not evil the way your past would make someone else believe."
If only what had happened to John wasn't playing in my head, maybe I'd feel truly better for the first time at his speech. Still, tears manage to well in my eyes and I look away, sniffling. "You have no idea what that means for me to hear it," I tell him.
He clears his throat, "Well… I'm pretty certain we're going to die at this point. So, I thought you should hear somebody say it." When nothing is said on my behalf for a while, "I didn't sleep much last night, so I guess I'm gonna head back to the operations room for now and get some rest…" he tucks his notebook into a pants pocket. "Don't leave," he advises suddenly. Like he could tell I was planning on it still. "It's too dangerous out there, Rita's not here anymore so you're not in any danger from here… and here," his hand delves into a pants pocket, pulling out a candy bar. "Wish I had something to offer for you to drink, but here's breakfast. There's not much left now," he offers, and then warns.
I put a hand out to push the bar away, "I can't take it—"
He shakes his hand, "Yes, you can," he interrupts for the second time. "I'll grab another one when I get there, you haven't eaten since last night."
Swallowing at the sight of the bar, I slowly put a hand out and grab it from him. "Thank you," I tell him before I unwrap it right there and take a needed bite to satisfy the hunger in my stomach.
He yawns, "Don't mention it… I don't know when I'm going to be back at it, okay? But don't go anywhere crazy in this place, we don't know where those lickers have gotten to—"
"Lickers?" I ask at the unexpected name, taking another bite. "That sounds…"
"Vaguely dirty. I know. It's what we decided on though because of that long tongue you mentioned it having."
Recollections of that discussion from last night come to mind, of me trying to explain what happened last night to everybody. How some monster cut off Stephan's head with what could only be an impossibly large, elastic tongue, and that when John and I tried running away… I couldn't get that part out. I'd choked as "Monster" ran rampant through my head, and at that Marvin had dispelled the questioning. Ordering everyone to leave me for the moment and give me some time to cope with the shock.
Marvin followed that up with nobody was to go into the hallway again for the time being either. They'd ended up wrapping something around the doorknobs of the door so the creature or any of us couldn't nudge it open on accident.
"The second floor doesn't seem to have power anymore," I bring up to Elliot before he goes. "Do you know why?"
He purses his lips in thought, "Could be the backup generator running out of juice. Might be dropping the least necessary parts of the building. Only part that'd need it the most is the main hall," he explains.
I nod, "I'll let you get some sleep now, okay?"
He grabs my shoulder, "Get some too when you have a chance. If you did last night, you didn't get much. You're not looking too good," he jokes.
I huff, "Sure know how to make a lady feel pretty," I try joking back. The lightened mood feels so odd right now, but as he's said multiple times in this conversation. We're going to die at any point, we might as well have little moments like these before then.
He winks, "My specialty… I'll see you soon, Madeleine," he says my name again. Drops his hand, and heads for the door behind me.
. . .
I ended up using the library at my route to the main hall. Still untouched as it was the last time, I was in here the other day.
I ended up having to turn right around just as I stepped onto the second floor balcony though because the urge to pee hit me right then. The locker room's luckily enough still have light to them, something I'm happy for because it was how I caught that the color of my urine is noticeably beginning to darken. At that I turned a faucet on full blast and gulped down as much as I could manage. Between the lack of access to water and the crying, I hadn't felt myself this starved of water since…
"One last punishment, 0714. One last punishment and then you'll be back to your regular training and meal schedule. I bet you'd like a nice full glass of water for the first time in a week." Officer Dickhead, taunts from where he's kneeling in front of my famished frame.
I grit my teeth, wanting with every fiber of my being to spit in his face. Or to tell him to go to hell, but it'd just make whatever he's threatening as my final punishment worse.
When I did make it to the main hall, and reached the bottom of the stairs. I looked to my right where the placeholder for an emergency fire axe beside the reception entryway sits. Without hesitating I walked over to the box and roughly slammed my elbow into its protective glass to shatter it. Where I grabbed the heavy-duty weapon inside.
At this rate, it won't hurt to have something else on me besides my knife and gun. I'm too low on ammo, I need something else until I find more. And while the red and white object does weigh a lot to be lugging around. I'm used to carrying heavy weapons like this all the time with no problem.
For a third time since I've boarded the 'copter I remove the magazine to my Heckler & Koch MP5. The primary weapon I'll be using, the others are just ideas to entertain in case somebody puts up more of a fight than expected and the waste of my H&K's ammo isn't necessary.
I grab a side of my head, burying my nails through hair and scrape a bit of skin in an attempt to stop thinking of that memory. Or any others that try to follow.
After what I saw in that hallway and what Irons tried to do to me. Losing Mrs. Newman, then Beanie, and all those civilians and nearly dying myself. I'm not taking any more chances; I refuse to be put in those positions again and if by chance I come across a survivor... If.
Newly acquired axe in one hand, I jog over to the front desk and see the laptop is still in its spot. Caroline comes to mind then, her sparkling attitude and organization of her space to a T. She had a child I remembered, a little baby boy. She was a single mother I learned from speaking with her. The boy's father, her fiancé, was sent to Kosovo not long before their son was born. There her soon to be husband served for his country, and there he'd died for his country.
Putting the axe into my belt, I drop my duffel under the main desk and lean over the little one the laptop's still sitting on. Checking the cameras again for an idea of where the others are—
There's a small, folded over sheet, laying on the keyboard of the computer. I pick it up and see it's from Rita. Madeleine, it reads on the front part, I flip it open. My eyes fly over the words.
I don't know if you actually left this building. Or if you were stupid enough to ignore my warning and hide out in a different part. But just in case you chose the second option, I'm leaving this for you to eventually find. I took you on a month ago, knowing full well what everyone was saying about you and everyone else from S.T.A.R.S. I didn't care what they thought though, I was just happy to have a new face to train… I'm not sorry about the way things ended between us. Not sorry about the things I said, because if you were in our shoes, you'd feel the same way. I'm sorry though because of what happened to you, Madeleine. And I'm sorry you had to walk through these doors every day for the last two months hiding a secret like that inside… I don't think I'll make it very far in this city, but I just can't stay here anymore... I'm sorry, to you, and the others.
- Rita
A pit forms in my stomach and I bring up footage from the parking garage. Elliot's words that she left on her own coming to mind, and there upon rewinding to a few minutes before the gate's closing in the recording. I catch sight of Rita's blonde hair running for one of the last few squad cars in the garage. She looks up at the camera at the last second and I see it: the guilt written on her face. She climbs into the car and drives away, glimpsing the time in the corner: 3:00 A.M.
It's like somebody punched me in the gut to see it for myself after reading that letter. Rita… she left them behind.
Taking a step back to sit in the desk's chair, I lean my head into my hand. I should be angry, frustrated, but I'm more hurt and hoping she survives instead. I can't wish death on her just because of how she reacted to me telling them the truth. Nobody deserves to die in this city…
Then the thought occurs to me that Elliot also said he couldn't find Marvin after this morning. Giving me another reason to search the cameras again, giving me another reason to do anything at all.
I search every room through the cameras, frustrated when I'm unable to find Marvin anywhere. Some of the rooms have yet to see cameras put in during the renovation of this place, if he is in the station. He could end up being in one of those rooms, but I suppose right now, finding him isn't my biggest concern. It's the fact I'm down to one magazine that is.
I walk over to the shutter to the east wing and look it up and down. A cardboard sign with: Keep out is written in black marker and taped to it. A precaution made Saturday night after it was cleared so if anyone came in and looked around, they wouldn't go into the most dangerous part of the building.
Guess today's the day to be that idiot who ignores the sign though as my hand falls on the switch. I stare down at the congealed blood on the floor, gagging. I can't stand blood, the sight of it, the smell. A trauma I'd gained after so many murders, almost akin to my need to sleep with a light on in the room. Walking in the dark is one thing, but something about sleeping in it after all those times of locking me into a dark room created a fear.
Pulling the handle down, the shutter opens all the way and though I gratefully won't be crawling through blood. I am met with a dark hallway. The lights must have gone out in here at some point. I run to the front desk and rifle through a drawer for a flashlight, returning when I snatch one and find it still works. I switch it on and gawk in utter horror at the blood on the walls and floor. It's everywhere. It's on everything, and the smell of rotting flesh that has been holed up in here the last two days... It's overpowering.
Bodies lie on the floor in front of that shutter, apparently not having been grabbed by anybody when we went through the station and cleared it out… They're all ripped apart where they are.
I step over the bodies and down the stairs. My foot splashes in water, "What the—" I shine the light at the floor, discovering the entire hallway is flooded. Though the source I'm not going to take the time to find out as I cut through the detective's office. The water isn't so bad in here, nor are there many bodies like—
I see an officer slumped against the wall to my right, and a broken window beside him. The sunlight takes the edge off the darkness like in the S.T.A.R.S. hallway upstairs. Thank god at least this room and the hall outside have windows. I can't imagine what going through here without any power is like at night.
I keep going, almost out of here. Papers are scattered everywhere, and the desks are disorganized, on par with the state I left Wesker's office in last night. I never came in here; I don't know how the office looked on a daily basis. I seriously doubt it was this messy.
Stepping into the hall, I see light peeking through the small cutout in the wall. The door closes behind me and I take a step for the watchman's office—Bad luck seems to always be on my side as Irons walks through the door leading to the staircase that takes you to the second floor and the station's other courtyard.
The corner of his lips twist into a wicked and deranged smile, "Officer O'Donnell," he begins, and my blood curdles in my veins. My body prepares to run—He raises his Desert Eagle and points it straight at my head unashamedly.
"So nice to see you're alive."
I somehow duck just as Irons pulls the trigger. The door splinters when a large bullet tears through the wood, the sound as it's fired is almost deafening. My ears ring just the slightest as I scramble from Irons down the hall. My footsteps are impossible to hide in the water as I splash through.
Panicked, I duck into the women's restroom. The hallway further down was cut off with the gate being pulled shut between the two bathrooms. Before we grabbed whatever we could to stack in front.
I know how foolish the decision was as soon as I do so. Reasoning he'll just come in right after me and I'll be trapped like a rat. Then I perform another dumb act by locking myself into a stall, a torrent of water can be heard escaping the toilet in the stall to my left. Now I know what's flooding the hall.
Seconds tick by, then several minutes. I'm sweating heavily in my nervous state and my heart races as my mind stupidly debates leaving the safety of the stall. Maybe he's just waiting for me to lose my mind as I sit here, unsure of what to do—
The door swings open then, his footsteps wading in the shallow water are the only giveaway as the door's hinges don't squeak. "Here kitty, kitty," he taunts, and I cover my mouth to hide the whimpers his voice creates even with the flooding water being louder than everything else.
Quietly, I press my hands into the wall as I lift one foot onto the toilet seat behind me, then the next. Careful to not slip because I know if I do it'll be the last mistake I make. It'll keep my feet out of sight in case he checks through the stall's open bottoms to find me. "Things could have gone much different if you'd just let me have my way with you," god, the way he's scolding me so carefree makes me want to vomit. How did nobody notice this is how crazy their Chief of Police really is? How could he himself hide this side so well?
I shake, adrenaline and the cold air the leaking plumbing create in the room cause shivers to wrack through me.
There's splashing, and then I hear the first stall squeak open. "I'd have started gently," oh god. I shut my eyes and bite my lip, "Even though I hate being gentle during sex, but there's always an exception isn't there? Patricia." He cackles, and I want to scream at him to never let even my fake name pass those vile lips again. The continual use of my fake name still is the only thing telling me Irons accused me of being an Umbrella spy out of insanity. He doesn't know anything about me. "I removed the fuse to the shutters, don't bother trying to escape to the main hall. There's only one way out of here," the stall beside me opens as he shouts.
"I'll be nice if you come out on your own, I promise," he then lies and laughs sarcastically. He's standing outside my stall now, but I've already moved. Having stepped into the water while he opened the stall beside me, as subtle as I could manage to avoid splashing. I unlocked the bolt and grabbed the hook in the center of the door to prevent too much shaking. In the dark he's still able to make out my movements, but I'm not too worried by now. "Are you in this stall?" he taunts menacingly.
Gritting my teeth, "Fuck you," I speak finally and back up enough to slam my heel into the door. It flies open, crashing against his gun that was aimed at my skull. Managing to knock it backwards where he fires another round at the ceiling above me, deafening me again in the echoing, tiled bathroom. The slide collides with his face, through the ringing I hear a crunch and know it caught his nose as he stumbles back.
"You little…" his hand cups his nose and moans in pain. He looks up as I throw open the bathroom door and run into the hall. "You bitch!" I dash, turning right down the hall while jamming my flashlight into my back pants pocket. Stopping in an attempt to grab a cabinet and pull it over to block the path just as he's about to reach me. Buying me precious seconds to escape through—
He blocked off the main hall. I can't escape, I'll have to cut back through the detective's office and either go upstairs or— Fucking debate this when you're a little farther away and not in the middle of the goddamn hallway, Madeleine!
"I'll make sure to hurt you," I hear him move the cabinet, it slams into the wall again a second later. "I'll make sure you stay awake and suffer as I cut you open and pull your intestines out!" he threatens loudly.
Jesus Christ. What a fucking psycho. I barge into the detective's office, grabbing a chair closest to me, "Hey Irons!" I shout. "Thanks for the offer, but I'd rather see you break your nose again than have sex with your fat ass!" I boldly quip at him as I prop the chair at an angle under the door. His response is pounding on the door with another tyrannical threat about turning me into a quadriplegic without any anesthetics before killing me. It's by a miracle that the office doors were built to open inward, the only thing keeping me alive as I stack heavy books into the light chair and then dart for the back of the room.
Irons pounds on the door as I dart for the door. "The next time I see you, you bitch. You'll pay!" are the last words I hear before I'm running out into the courtyard.
I crash through the gate to my right and down the path, tripping over a cobblestone that juts too far out of the ground. Scrapping my hands, bruising my arms, legs, and hip when I fall hard on both them and the axe in my belt. I moan in pain and sit up, so much adrenaline rushing through me that as I stare at the bleeding scrapes. I can barely feel them.
My eyes flit to the east wing's door, seeing the courtyard gate closed. He'll be out any minute, I need to get the hell out of sight and back to safety…
As I stand and limp away, I can't figure out where to go. Where is safety? Elliot is asleep in the operation's room, Rita is gone, David and Neil are… And I couldn't find Marvin anywhere in the rooms that have a camera in them.
Numbly, I descend the stairs. Stepping into the underpass room to hide for a minute where I lock the bolt on the door and sit against it then. I press against the wall with my arms crossed, hiding myself almost, making myself look as small and weak as I feel right now. It's too much, losing everyone at once, and now—
Sitting on the cold, concrete ground hard. I stare at the cement ground wordlessly. I don't even know what day it is, Monday? The riot seems like a lifetime ago, when this station still had a purpose and half of this city hadn't died because of Umbrella.
The rookie comes to mind at that moment, and I scoff. That man has no clue… No idea. Just how lucky he is to have been called to not come in. If he had, he'd no doubt have been slaughtered, or if he was lucky. Turned away by the military with whatever excuse they were told to give people trying to enter the city.
I squeeze my eyes shut in fury. The military. The government.
Fury fuels through me at the thought of both for who knows how many times. I've been angry with them for years. Why shouldn't I? Governments around the world not only know what Umbrella is up to, they partake in their illegal products. They've let Umbrella get away with their crimes. They abandoned me and so many others at the moment we needed the people and the "justice" they so virtuously speak of and fight wars over.
Despite Elliot's appreciated words only a short while ago. I let it sink in: the hard, cold, depressing truth that as of this moment I am all alone. My worst fear has come to life after the long hours of being trapped in my room. When I was a child with the lights off and no one to speak to. Relying on only my thoughts for communication, unable to recall memories because by then the amnesia had made its home in my mind. My eyes unable to become used to the impenetrable darkness until I was released to continue training.
Those years served to break me. Until I turned eighteen they manipulated me to their liking, and carved themselves into my body with that second identity. A second identity that wasn't enough, would never be enough because it was me, they wanted to break.
Useless. Expendable. Murderer. Monster.
Umbrella always gets what they want in the end many have promised me. And now… I can't bear to be in my own skin with how disgusting I feel. It's not just his murder plaguing me, it's all of them now.
When Irons doesn't come after remaining in hiding inside for a long time. I stand, exiting the room and ascend the stairs to the other side of the courtyard. Seeing what remains of the grass in the cemetery beyond me, I lie down in it. Where I stare up at the sky, regardless of Elliot's words about my selflessness in staying to help the station. I still longingly wish I'd been in the air Friday night and away from this place. Even if it meant... Meant the same thing I keep reminding myself of, that I would've avoided this whole outbreak on the other side of the world while these people died horribly.
I bask in the smell of the grass, practically shoving my nose into that and the dirt beneath. The longer the outbreak goes on, the worse the smell has gotten with the zombies rotting in the city. But in the safety of the small field though, surrounded by grass and its subtle smell with the few trees to the side in the early morning light… I roll over to my side, feeling the first tear escape the corner of my eye before I can catch it. I didn't cry much before coming to this city, the tears ending not long after I'd accepted I'd never be going home.
I curl into a ball as that tear seems to unleash a new avalanche of bottled emotions inside me. I try to shove them down, to ignore them, but it's to no avail.
Don't cry. That company doesn't deserve my tears. But this city does. S.T.A.R.S. does. My parent's do for the little girl they lost. The people who died in this station do, because it is just as much my fault as Umbrella's that so many are dead. I could have, should have, tried harder. Pushed harder in the aftermath of the mansion to get the people to believe us, but instead I listened to Chris and Jill and hid. Like a coward. That's all I am, a coward, and if not that, a murderer.
A zombie crashes into the gate behind me, but I don't look as they snarl and rattle the metal to get to me. At this moment, I've reached a point where…
My arms wind around my chest and stare blankly at the cement wall in front of me with the station sitting just beyond and the benches lining it.
I've reached a point where I don't care if I die.
Notes:
Hey guys, I am very sorry for the late update yet again. I was honestly busy playing through Remake 4 this weekend, and then I kept forgetting to upload it past that. I hope you enjoyed the last chapter and this one too!
Chapter 16: Chapter 15
Chapter Text
I lay there for a long time, staring at the morning sky. The tears ended a while ago, though they didn't do much. They haven't at any point this week really. Crying my agony out into the cemetery doesn't help me feel any better. Doesn't make me feel healed in any way. I suppose no amount of crying can change that I'm going to die here no matter what I do. Or that maybe even if given a chance…
Instead, I just finally admit things I've been bottling. I miss my parents, and even though I don't deserve it. I want to go home and know real freedom again, to feel know real warmth from an unconditional love. I'd give anything right now to see them one last time before I die in this hell. To… know what their faces look like and not fuzzy abysses. I gave up on the idea, concluding long ago after the things I've done that they would be disgusted to witness the monster their daughter became. Maybe it's best the little girl they remembered be the only thing they remember.
I even begin to wish I'd died in my time in Umbrella. Lamenting that I should have allowed them to kill me before I committed my first murder.
The sky in a matter of that period turns cloudy again like the first morning when Marvin and Rita waited outside for updates from Ramirez. It goes a step further and starts drizzling just the slightest as I get up, where I head to the gate for the main courtyard.
I scan the decorative walls bordering the entrance when I sidle in front of the stairs. It was a place I'd retreat to when I needed time to myself. It happened more often than it should've, it's the main reason the rookie caught me on the steps in a somber mood that day. I'd sit on them and eat lunch or maybe just take a minute to breathe. Sometimes Marvin would join me, and we'd talk for a little bit.
They were the moments where work wasn't the main focus and he'd tell me past stories of his time in this place and make jokes. That was when I began to look up to him, realizing he was nice, and not stern like those new to the department led people to believe. He was somebody I wanted to be like if I was free to do so, someone who served and protected no matter what came his way. Those small conversations over lunch are where I found my respect the job I was doing.
Taking a step up to enter the main hall. I halt when I think I hear whispering and the scuffling of feet on concrete.
Turning around as the sound nears, I startle when I see a mop of brown hair and somebody wearing a shirt with: R.P.D. on the sleeves come into view. The person immediately turns themselves to face me and appears startled too, like he wasn't expecting anyone to be in view.
Hair disheveled and matted down in the back with what's no doubt layers of sweat and grease from no bathing. There's stubble on his face too, having been unable to shave for the last four days. His uniform is in rough shape from the day he'd first showed it off to me, parts of it torn or bloodied, a pant leg is singed as if he'd been too close to fire at one point. Not to mention the blood on his face and arms; the .45 ACP he bought not long ago is held one hand.
There's a second of regarding each other as three other people surround him. Two men and one woman.
"Patricia? Is that you?" Kevin asks from behind the gate, and I blankly stare back. Processing the fact that he's standing in front of me and is alive when I thought we'd never meet again.
Taking a few steps down, "Yeah…" approaching the gate, "how did you make it here?"
There's a hint of pride in his eyes in the sense of still being alive, "It's a long story—"
"And he'd love to tell it to you, but the rest of us would also like to get beyond this gate first. If you don't mind," the woman steps closer to us as she interrupts. Blonde hair in a pixie cut with the bangs at an angle, her scarlet pants suit is tattered and ruined to the same extent of Kevin's uniform and the other two men behind them. Along with the black pair of flats on her feet that are currently caked in mud and bear scratches in the soft material.
Alyssa… Ashcroft, is it? A journalist for the Comet Press. I heard she'd investigated a scandal earlier this year involving the Raccoon Zoo. The Chairman was found to be obtaining money from illegally selling rare orchids specimens. Rita told me all about the affair after it'd been mentioned in the department one day. She, like Ben Burtolucci, also came and tried interviewing S.T.A.R.S. too after the mansion. She was told even less than him, they'd long since lost interest in answering questions by then.
Saying nothing, I grab the bar and jerk it back. Pulling one of the gate doors open, the survivors hurriedly shuffle in.
Closing it with a loud clank, I turn around and regard the other two members in the group. They're both men, one's in a tan jump suit with a leather belt hung at an angle around his waist. His black hair is pulled into a small bun at the back of his head, he's wearing heavy duty, brown work boots. A small pouch hangs from his belt that I can see a wrench poking from. He was once a janitor or handyman, I'm guessing. The defined muscle on his arms says he worked a somewhat strenuous job.
The second man isn't in the same shape. The dark brown skin of his forehead is naturally wrinkled, and flecks of gray can be seen in the dark hair of his mustache and goatee. He's older than the rest of us, and I can tell under the black padded coat he's overweight. Fur lines the collar of the jacket, and his black slacks and brown shoes match all the others in appearance. Dirt and scratches are scattered across the coat, some that have pulled white fluffs of material out. Security
is printed in white above a buttoned pocket, just below a badge printed with the insignia of whoever he worked for. A set of keys dangles from a belt loop, the only things that remain unscathed.
While he heads to the stairs to sit down, Alyssa and the other man stand nearby. "David," the man in the jump suit tells me before heading over next.
"Mark," I hear the security guard announce himself once he's settled on the steps. "Wish we could've met under better circumstances," he mutters glumly.
Alyssa is the last one to introduce herself, I beat her to it though. "Ashcroft, right?"
"Comet News's best reporter," her hand moves to her pocket, bunching up her jacket, then she stops. Reflex to grab her credentials I'm guessing from the defeated way she moves her hand to cross her arms instead. "Though there isn't much left to saying that anymore," she mumbles.
Kevin steps in my view now, his arms wrap around me in an unexpected, but still crushing hug. "I was afraid I wouldn't find anybody alive at the station," the words are muffled. There's silence following his statement that seems deafening as I regard the others again from the corner of my eye. David has sat next to Mark, while Alyssa sits on the edge to the base of a column a second later. They all have pensive expression on their faces.
Kevin steps back, looking over at the barred gate now. Hands on his hips as he gives a quick shake of his head, "It all happened so fast, Trish. We were all at J's bar, I was having a few drinks after leaving my shift for the night… And then this guy barges into the place, and take's a chunk out of the bartender's fucking neck. Next thing I know, some of the guys from the station are outside, and Raymond's trying to escort us away from a mob of those things."
"You were with Raymond?" part of myself hopeful, but quickly rationalizing how he's not in the group. Meaning…
Kevin looks at me, and I can see the grief in his eyes. "We were almost overrun trying to escape an alley, he made us go first. I tried helping, but he refused… they got him before he could get away."
There's a sinking in my chest. I should've known better than to allow even a smidge of hope at finding another survivor. Everyone's gone, and I have to accept that outside of this sole group of survivors, Elliot, Irons, and I are all that might be left in this city. Maybe even Marvin ran just like Rita did…
"Marvin was convinced by the end of that first night he was dead… Everybody is now," I say loud enough Kevin and the rest can hear.
"Everyone?" his eyes widen. "Shit, I knew things were bad for us, I just… I hoped you guys were faring better. Fuck!" he swears. David purses his lips before his hangs his head, Alyssa and Mark faces are blank like they braced for this outcome.
"We tried evacuating people out of the city with what vans we had left, but by that first morning the National Guard blockaded the roads. Nobody's allowed in or out of Raccoon," I make sure to tell them. Cutting the small group down harder with the news that there is no faith in being rescued from this outbreak by the military, or Raccoon's own police. Safety for anyone in this city is at their fingertips, and yet still completely out of reach.
"They blockaded the roads?" David demands, irritated and confused. "What the hell were they thinking?"
"That they don't want to let anyone in or of the city like she said," Mark responds to him hollowly, before huffing and shaking his head.
"What happened to those who couldn't get out then?" Kevin asks, my eyes drop.
Hugging myself, "A horde of zombies broke into the east wing, I thought a bunch of them had fled into the main hall. Somebody had flipped the emergency shutter switch… I made it through with… one other person, but we couldn't open it again. Not unless the rest of us wanted to die too." There's a pause as I try to not let myself cry, "I thought all those people I saw going to the main hall were civilians, but they were officers."
"You let all those people die?" Alyssa stands and approaches us, prying at my words.
Kevin's eyes narrow at the accusation, and he whips his head to her, "What were they supposed to do, Alyssa? Open the door and die with the others?" he naively defends. She opens her mouth, eyes narrowing right back at him, but I shake my head at the ridiculous statement, and she stops.
"She's right," I sniffle though no tears come. It seems I'm empty for the moment. "We didn't open that shutter because it meant the rest of us might've died right there… We let them all die, Kevin. Like a bunch of cowards," I state the words that branded my mind Saturday night.
The disbelief on his face says he doesn't want to believe we'd allowed for such a despicable thing. He turns his head away and takes a deep breath, "Shit!" he swears again, then looks back.
A beat passes, "You said there are vans?" Alyssa asks suddenly. It seems not even she wants to keep the focus on such a harrowing topic when there are other things to discuss.
Thrown off by the question, I loosen my arms so that they're just crossed now. "Yeah, we still have two left down in the garage, but they won't get you guys anywhere with the roads blockaded," I dissuade, sure of the reason she asked already.
"You guys?" Kevin interrupts when he catches the way I say that last part.
Alyssa doesn't give a chance for me to respond, not that I'd know entirely what to say to him anyways because… "That was the first day though, maybe things have changed since then. Maybe they're helping civilians at the blockades now, or maybe we can find a different way out of here," nobody looks like they believe that, not even her. She throws her arms in the air, stumped by the lack of response to the suggestion. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm not interested in just sitting here and twiddling my fucking thumbs hoping the guard will come save us!"
David stands now and walks over, "I'd rather try getting out than doing nothing. If there's nothing left at the station, then that's our best chance now."
Mark doesn't say anything, he just shakes his head again and stares at the steps at his feet.
"Alright," Kevin says quietly, then looks at me. "We're gonna try a van and get the hell out of here then."
Nodding my head, eyeing the entrance, my bag's still under the desk, but… "Let's get to the basement then," I tell them, faking a small smile to Kevin. Dropping it once I turn around to head for the underpass.
"Why don't we go through the building?" Kevin asks, recommending the route.
I stop in my tracks to turn and stare at him with defeated eyes. "The breaker to the emergency shutter has been pulled since then. It can't be opened."
His brows furrow, "Who the fuck did that?"
"Somebody who wanted to see the rest of us die," I answer, "keep an eye out for Chief Irons," is the most explanation I give as I head for the gate.
I hear them follow, each footstep on the stones in the courtyard making a soft thud as we round the corner for the stairs. When we arrive to the east wing's entrance, I draw my gun with a slightly shaking hand. I did need to go to the armory, my brain reminds me as I think of how I have only one magazine left in the weapon.
I'm dreading to find Irons in here still, he'd undoubtedly put a bullet into each of our heads at the sight of us. I don't know if he went to roam the rest of the station either. I hope wherever Elliot went to sleep in the operations room was hidden well in case Irons searched it. I grit my teeth in anger, the city's Chief of Police, just as corrupt as the city officials most likely were. Nothing was safe from the swaying hands of Umbrella, was it?
Pushing the door open, I keep my gun pointed and stay ready to shoot at the slightest provocation. Even the barest sight of that bastard and I'm going to fire…
When I don't see him, only the bullet-riddled detective's room door. My shoulders give in the smallest form of relief, and I lower my gun. "I don't think he's in here," I tell the others, stepping into the room for the watchman room's door.
"Irons?" Kevin prods.
"Yes…" is all I was going to say but… "He tried to kill me a few minutes ago. That's why the shutters aren't working, he trapped me in here."
"What?" he demands now, "What do you mean?"
I don't even stop walking as I warn him, "I don't know if he was this crazy and just hid it that well, or if this situation made him snap. But Irons is a marble short in his head these days. He shorthanded the number of officers needed at that riot at the stadium. Then he dispersed all the ammo in the station so we couldn't find it all and started running out. Katherine Warren was being watched by him for a couple days in the beginning of this mess, but even she went missing when he took her somewhere outside of the station." The others say nothing for several minutes, in shock I'm sure at learning just how crazy the man running their police is.
Then there's a disgusted scoff, "Something about that asshole never seemed right," I hear Alyssa behind me. "If we find him on the way to the vans, he's dead," is all she says as I lead them down the hallway and into the basement.
The keys are in the ignition of one of the two remaining trucks. After debating who should drive between the four survivors, Mark ultimately decides to take the wheel while the others quickly climb into the back. David and Alyssa leave the passenger seat open for Kevin, whom as he turns away to get in, notices I'm still standing there in the garage.
He looks back at me, "What're you doing? Get in," he chuckles lighthearted at first. Assuming there was a misunderstanding on my part with where I'm going to sit. But when I don't move, he stops and the joking smile on his face goes away. Taking a step towards me, "Patricia, get in," Kevin presses, the look on his face serious now, and it's then that I step towards the back of the cab.
Their eyes are on me, waiting for me to get in. I met Alyssa's eyes and then David's as I grab the first door. Staring into them a moment to find he nods in understanding that I'm not getting into the truck: I'm not coming with them. "I hope you make it," I tell them, and close the door.
"What're you—" Alyssa protests, but I close the second door next before I can hear the rest.
Stepping away from the truck, Kevin's face twists into frustration and distress as he realizes what I'm doing. "Patricia, I'm not leaving you behind. You'll die here."
I nod earnestly, knowing full well that's what's probably going to happen. Tears are starting to run down my cheeks again then. I knew they wouldn't be gone for long, "I think it's best that I stay, Kevin," I answer him brokenly. "Elliot's asleep right now and Marvin's somewhere in this station."
His face morphs into confusion, "Well then we'll go find them ourselves. They can wait a minute while we go look for the others!" he shouts, on the verge of panicking now. When I don't relent to his words though, "Patricia, please—"
"GO!" I scream, and it echoes in the garage. Kevin takes a step back in surprise, "There's nothing for me outside these walls, there's nothing for me anywhere. You all have a chance though; you have families waiting for you somewhere."
He doesn't move and neither do I for several minutes, "Don't worry about me, I'll be okay," I lie.
He drops his head and brushes his greasy hair back with a hand, but I see a tear hit the ground just before he wipes his face. "Okay," he shakes with withheld sobs, looking up at me.
"Goodbye, Patricia," Kevin says softly. Before he gets into the truck, where they pull out of the garage, and out of sight.
Chapter 17: Chapter 16
Chapter Text
I realize upon returning to the main courtyard to enter the main hall that the doors were left wide open. Whether they let air out of the hall or allowed the stench from the city to enter instead. I suppose I really don't care as I step back inside. Where I sit on the steps and begin to sob amidst the empty room. I'll help Elliot escape too through the tunnel mentioned when he's awake again, but regarding myself…
I've lost the will to live to the point I told my only chance to escape this city to leave me behind. It seems stupid, why cry when I've resigned to my fate? I suppose you can't reason with emotions though when you know you're definitely going to die now.
It's when I calm down that I scan the room for the first time in days. Really look and absorb its state beyond glimpsing around as we went off to whatever task was needed. It's uncanny how a room can be the same one you'd enter every day for weeks on end, but somehow not be the same anymore. There are no bodies in here, any that somehow got through were carried out and wrapped in the sheets outside. Bloody footprints now stain the carpet in front of the main desk, leading up the ramps to who knows where. Some of the cots were tipped over in the rush to get out of the hall and to safety.
I sniffle, and stare at the closed entryway to the west wing. Standing when an idea comes to mind.
I'm rooted there for a second, debating what I'm about to do, but… My feet carry me in that direction then, opening the shutter and walking through the clean reception room, through the door to that same hallway before I can stop myself.
I have to… I have to see what it did to John. A part of me wants to punish myself, I realize. Wants to know the misery I caused him in that short time before he finally died.
I'm sorry John… I suppose it's time for me to go through this hallway and witness what that thing did to you.
I'm unsure of what I will see, but as I approach the corner. I brace for what's on the other side—Stumbling around it and gawking in horror, because no preparation could've had me ready for the sight of the hallway.
"Oh my god," I cry out, eyes wide as I gape down the hallway.
It's like somebody took a gallon of red paint and splashed it around. The boarded windows are covered in splatters of crimson and flesh. The floor has random coagulated pools scattered across the tile. A trail of blood leads from the door out the loan window without boards beside me. In front of me I witness the legs of a dangling body. When I look up, I see that even the ceiling has been coated in the gore too: nothing in this hallway was safe from the spray. And the body. Stephan… he's the one hanging from the ceiling. A broken pipe is stuck through the stump of his neck and his abdomen is torn out. His intestines and other organs hang or lay on the floor.
In the split second, I saw it… before that thing killed John. I caught that it was crimson head to toe and covered in a glisten of some kind of fluid. Its entire body looked like it was stripped of skin, save for the possible white and pink brain matter that seemed to be growing around the outside of the head. Its face was flat, flaps of brain tissue obliterated the part of the skull where eyes should be and with no noticeable nose, all that made up the face was a mouth. A mouth lined with sharp, unforgiving teeth to match its massive body size.
The worst thing wasn't any of that though. It was the claws jutting from its hands. The hands and claws together were monstrous, out of proportion with the rest of its body… And I let him die to it. His body, the scattered pieces of flesh, and clothing are all that is left of him now while I stand here breathing in the tang of metal.
Stephan's body is just hanging there like he's the animal's trophy. Waiting for someone like me to stumble across it. I close my eyes and breathe, try to distract my stomach from throwing up at the smell of their blood with the knowledge that I chose to come in here and see what I caused him.
I take a step back, my heel squishes in thick blood. At the taste of acidic saliva, I know that I have to get out of here—a licker drops from the ceiling tile to my side as I start to run back to the waiting room.
I yelp as I trip over my own feet trying to avoid running smack into the thing. My axe scratches the tiles, bruising my hip a second time this morning when the two collide hard as the weapon clatters loudly against the floor. The licker screeches and gawks around, trying to decipher what made the noise.
Gasping, I roll over. Expecting to be attacked and die before I even have the chance to, but I'm confused when I see that it's swinging its head back and forth. As if it doesn't see me.
The licker lingers there for a moment. Breathing heavily, moaning lowly every few seconds with its tongue sticking out of its mouth as it languidly hangs in the air. Why isn't it attacking me? I'm sitting right here. I'm in broad daylight, and yet it's turning the other direction. Leaving me alive.
It moans again, talons scrapping against the tile, making me cringe at the noise. The tongue swishes in the air as beads of saliva drip in dots onto the floor. I retrieve the axe from my belt then, grabbing some debris on the floor where I toss it a foot from the licker. It snarls and scurries closer to the rock, stopping when there's nothing there.
Is it blind? My brain wonders as it still doesn't turn around for me.
Lightly dragging the axe across the floor as I push up onto my knees and stand. I glare at the licker, heat blooms in my chest as I take a step forward. Disregarding the moaning, I take another. Then another. Crossing the distance to the creature: it must be blind. That's the only reason this thing hasn't killed me.
Towering over the licker, breathing quietly. I scrutinize where it's crouched in front of me, groaning softly.
I lift the axe into the air, screaming as I bring it down into the spine of the licker. The axe cuts through the thick muscle of its hide, severing its exposed spine effortlessly. A sickening crunch emits in the hallway. The licker roars in anguish, unable to move, paralyzed now.
I jerk the weapon from its spine and swing it above my head again.
For John.
I smash the weapon into its neck next, only penetrating a small portion of the bone through the tough muscle. It cries out, motionless on the ground below me. I groan in annoyance that the axe didn't go through all the way and yank the axe. Raising it again.
For Stephan.
I swing down again and drive the axe into the neck with all my strength. Another sickening crunch is made as the appendage cleaves from the body. Blood spurts from the wound and pools around the body, my boots included. My eyes snap up to stare down the hallway at the exit as I pant heavily and collect myself.
Collapsing into the wall behind me, I shake my head. This is too much; I can't do this anymore…
And just like that, without saying anything…
My world dims like I'm asleep and I stand. Walking to the main hall where I collapse into the front desk, trying to catch my breath. Feeling sicker and weaker than I've ever felt before. Thoughts run rampant through my head, memories, and nightmares I've been burying inside myself for twelve years. Playing over and over, winding together inside my subconscious till it feels like they're overlapping. Until finally…
. . .
My hand shakes violently despite an attempt to keep it steady as I point the handgun in between the dark brows lining the smooth youthful skin and terrified brown eyes. Those soft eyes that are so earnest and the only evidence of true fear. Eyes that only I will be the last one to see after…
"Shoot me. You have to." 0516 whispers from where he's kneeling on the ground before me, head hung low. Rain soaks his short black hair, it runs into my regretful eyes, momentarily blinding me. It drenches the both of us as we slowly sink into the muddy ground, paralyzed in our spots. I grit my teeth, ball my fist, my grip tightens on the gun, but I don't squeeze the trigger.
Why him? Why does he have to die? Why did he selflessly choose to take the fall for a friendship that doesn't exist between us? Not the way the superiors see it at least.
Voice raw with unexpressed tears. I tremble, "I can't do it, Ryan—" I mistakenly use his real name. He's one of the very few, like me, who remembers his name.
"0714! Shoot him or else I'll just shoot you both instead!" The sadist with gelled back blond hair, in his uniform of tan slacks and red military tunic with shining medals, and half-crazed brown eyes orders from the sidelines. Like a sixth sense I can feel the focus of his rifle's laser on my temple now when it abandons Ryan's.
Ryan's eyes are locked onto mine. His shivering is impossible to miss as he begs for me to shoot. I falter in my defiance, to somehow prolong his life by seconds. It's like… Maybe he didn't selflessly throw himself into execution.
Maybe he wants to die.
I close my eyes, the pouring rain muffles everything, but its roar does nothing to stifle the agony inside me.
A murder. A cold-blooded murder is what I'm about to commit.
Opening my eyes, a mixture of tears and rain run down my flushed cheeks. Ryan looks up at me again with innocent eyes and a reassuring smile, "It's okay," he whispers, my heart clenches and my throat tightens.
Goddamn this company. Goddamn everyone who works here.
"I'm sorry, Ryan," my finger pulls, and my arm jerks. His body totters a millisecond, falling backwards in an awkward position into the mud as brain matter and blood are sprayed everywhere behind him. The bullet drives through his skull and buries into the mud.
I drop my arm to my side. My body and soul an empty shell for a fleeting second as I scrutinize the confidence gleaming in his soft dead eyes. There's no conviction in them, no hatred held against me, just an acceptance that somebody was going to die tonight, and he wanted it to be him. There's an undeserved forgiveness in those irises, almost as if Ryan could still breath he'd say, "Thank you."
The loss suddenly morphs, twisting into violence as hatred fuels every cell in me. Frustration pounds in my heart to know I am utterly alone and outside of this company there is no one that knows I exist. There is no savior. There is no being rescued. There is no escape.
Slow, menacing claps echo in the courtyard like instead of a murder. The sadist watched a movie, or something else applause worthy. The spotlight that sat on us turns upward into the sky, the clapping stops. "The next time I hear of you getting close to another prisoner, you'll be the one getting executed," the man warns. "Take 0714 back to her bunk and burn that body!" he then screams the orders.
I drop my sight to the ground in submission, a strong hand wraps around the tightened muscle of my bicep a second later. Influenced by my rage, my brain chants in the back of my head like a broken record. Fight. Fight. I'd never make it out of that decision unscathed though, I'm not strong enough. Fighting back would either earn a near death beating or a bullet in my head and a shallow grave beside Ryan. I can't die only seconds after he sacrificed his life for mine.
I obediently follow the officer to my bunk where I silently sit. "Role call starts in six hours, 0714. Better get what sleep you can," the officer laughs menacingly. I watch as the officer leaves the barracks, leaves behind a shivering and dripping mess. The other soldiers were undoubtedly awoken both times we came in and out tonight, but none of them say anything as I lie down in my bunk. They're probably overjoyed the officers jingling of keys wasn't for them tonight. Wasn't a warning somebody would return in the morning to train all day after being assaulted all night.
Tears want to run, want to pour. Want to release the shattering scream while destroying the swelling and burning of my throat I've held inside for the last eight years of my life.
But I won't let myself cry. Not in this place, where the commander tortures the inmates and uses them in our day-to-day training. Where guards take pride on breaking the training soldiers as it's their only form of "fun."
Hell on earth can't describe this existence. I can't let them break my spirit though, I won't. I'm not going to end up as another child who inexplicably disappears in the night.
Two years. Two long years I will be stuck here, training and learning to be a perfect soldier.
. . .
The memory that I shoved into the back of my mind four years ago replays in my head suddenly. And it's the final straw after this week. A long, heart wrenching, mournful scream rings through the lobby and hallways for anyone still alive to hear. It goes on for an eternity and with it I feel the last, and already damaged, strings of my sanity slip away. I don't stop screaming until my vocal cords can't take any more. Until my lungs burn from the lack of air sitting in them, until my mind crumbles to dust.
I stop, sucking in gasps of air and close my eyes. I release a shaky breath.
I walk outside blindly, like I've lost control of myself and am falling into a dream.
Whistling at the already riled zombies lining the road and gate through dry lips. Their heads turn towards me, and I open the main gate for them to walk through. I shut my eyes then.
To my right I hear a zombie approaching me, the stench and its snarling make my eyes flash open again with a crazed look.
Snap.
Slowly I face the undead creature, eyeing it and tilting my head to the side. A blank stare sits on my face, and without further provocation I lift up the axe to bury it into its head.
Chapter 18: Chapter 17
Chapter Text
September 28th, 11:34 A.M
I grit my teeth and take a step backwards, dragging the brutalized body along with me by its lone leg. Looking over my shoulder shows I'm only a couple of feet from the pile.
This is the last one to take care of.
My focus returns to the body then where I stare forlornly at it and take in the damage. Whether it was a man or a woman is indecipherable from the face alone. Though the clothing and body shape give away it was a woman. Being unable to tell that detail happens when a body is missing half of its head. The right knee is also missing with the bottom half being cut off.
I haul the body with me again as I take my last step to the pile of bodies sitting off to the left of the now locked gate.
Gasping, I gaze over my shoulder at the sky. It's no longer morning, my guess would be it's still sometime late in the morning as the clouds have dispersed and it's unusually warm for the first time in several weeks. The sudden humidity and heat have left me drenched in sweat from the work. If the clock tower were still working maybe I could check the time on that, but with it breaking down last week I can't. I'm just left to guess it's maybe eleven at the earliest.
The smell of blood reaches my nostrils abruptly. A stench I'd been lucky enough to not notice until now in my exhausting work. It sparks a sweep of nausea. I should wash myself thoroughly, the idea of risking going to the shower room upstairs comes to mind. If it means peeling these disgusting clothes from my body, I just might do it.
Walking over to the stairs for the underpass. I descend the concrete steps to where I know a spigot is fixed along the wall. Here's to hoping it still works.
Kneeling beside the metal pipe, I switch the faucet on and watch water run from it. I wash my hands thoroughly before rinsing my face and the back of my neck next. Then I duck my head into the stream of water, scrubbing to remove the layer of grime my hair's been collecting for the last week. More than likely it'll look worse now from the lack of proper care, but at least nobody will be here to see it.
Maybe if I'm crazy enough… I cringe at the word, a poor choice for where I'm at mentally. But maybe if I'm willing to risk it, I can strip and wash right here instead.
In the end, I don't. I just wipe my hands on my pants to dry them and then trudge back up the stairs. I stop when I reach the top of the steps, staring at the gate to the graves. I take more time to find enough wood and nails to board it up in case something breaks through the side gate.
I peek through the planks at the fresh grave mounds and drop the hammer beside my foot. I feebly retreat into the lobby, shutting the doors behind me before I head to the front desk. In the act, I glimpse at the axe while descending the stairs from where I'd discarded it just to the right and shut my eyes.
I attempt to wipe my mind clean. To forget the blurry memory that invaded mine the moment I regained my senses after several hours. But in all this time I haven't been able to. You can't forget something as horrific as this, especially when you're the one who did it.
My legs tremble with each fatigued step. I'm so weak I barely make it to the desk's chair before collapsing into it. I want change into another outfit, but I can barely move.
I rake in heavy gasps, leaning over the table as I do so with a hand threading through my bangs while I try to get a handle on my breathing. Try to prevent another spout of hyperventilation, but instead I shut my eyes.
I'm too tired to fight the memory trying to play in my head, and I relive the last few hours.
. . .
Panting. Frustrated screaming. I hear a voice that's recognizable, but I know it doesn't belong to me as it continuously echoes inside my head. Where am I? Why can't I see anything?
My vision seems to clear right then. In time to witness my axe dive and split the face of a young woman's head in two before getting stuck in the cavity. My eyes widen in shock as I pant heavily, still gripping the handle for dear life as I remain stuck in that position for what feels like forever as my mind runs in a frenzy to grasp what's happening.
Straightening my back finally with the axe clattering to the floor and the cleaved portion of head splitting away. I stumble backwards in shock.
What the hell is happening?
I shove a hand into my bangs as I slowly observe the room around me. I can feel that some of my hair is matted to my forehead and my clothes are soaked in sweat like I've been exerting myself for several hours. Bodies are scattered throughout the lobby. Blood runs in red streaks down the ramps, pooling in spots on the tile floor. It's a bloodbath, and I…
I look down at where the axe lays. I'd cut her right leg in half to make her fall down before chopping her head in half as well.
—Something only a monster could do—
My hand is wet. I can feel it as I wipe the sweat dripping from my forehead. I halt the motion and slowly lower my palm into focus. I bite back a pained moan at the sight of not just my right hand, but my left hand too, dripping with blood. I close my eyes, willing the crimson away. Telling myself that it's not my fingers that are dripping with red, it's not my hair that's soaked in sweat from exertion I don't remember.
I can't be the cause of all these bodies… Whose faces are smashed in, and their limbs are separated from their bodies to render them immobile and easier to kill.
I couldn't have done this. Could I?
Looking behind me, the doors to the lobby are still open from earlier. Unmistakably letting in a breeze of morning air and a stench of unbearable rot now. I take tentative steps up the stairs and out into the courtyard to see what the cause of the overwhelming smell is.
Maybe it wasn't me, maybe it was 0714 again…
The gates are closed, and the street is practically empty now. The sound of flies buzzing incessantly penetrates my wandering mind and I turn my head to the left to discover the cause—I take a step back at the ghastly sight of a pile of bodies over two feet high.
My hands are in my hair again. Pulling at the strands, coating them in more blood. As I try to regain my sanity at the gruesome sight. Oh god. The sight of them. I put these bodies here, I came through and butchered these bodies… The bodies' chests and faces have been pulverized so badly you wouldn't know they were once human. Gouges are in their chests, shaped like the edge of my axe…
I shake my head, hands tearing at my curls as I frantically chant, "No. No! NO!"
Then I'm crying again. The wall I put up, that I managed to fight off earlier, it hasn't just cracked. It's caved in. Allowing an unstoppable current from running down my blood-encrusted cheeks. The axe is still waiting patiently in the lobby beside the sliced head.
I fall down, shudders rack my body at the uncontrollable, sobbing breaths. I shake my head, how could that side of me do this? How could it just take over again and do this to these bodies? Saliva and mucus run down my face, mixing in with the tears. When I go to wipe the stream away, I leave another streak of blood.
Whether this was 0714 or not, I'm still the cause of all these bodies. I am the monster that butchered the corpses of the civilians I once actively wanted to protect.
Letting the thought in strips my heart and my sanity in one motion, leaving nothing behind but a broken soul.
Completely broken. What Umbrella wanted from me all along. Only this time it won't gain my obedience. This whole situation has finally broken the one child that hadn't after twelve years. But now an ocean separates us and nobody, not even myself, can save me.
I snivel pitifully, pressing a stained hand to my forehead in utter defeat as I hiccup and choke on another sob. I don't know what to do except clean up the bodies from inside the lobby.
Looking at the pile again, I reluctantly stand. Wanting to go to sleep, but I can't. The bodies have to be taken care of; the smell alone is already making me nauseous and sick.
I retreat into the lobby... It's time to get to work…
. . .
The memory finally dissipates in my head, and as soon as it does. My head collapses into the wood of the desk and I fall into a dreamless sleep for the first time in years.
. . .
"Madeleine! Madeleine! Come on, we've gotta go!"
I stir, confused at the sound of the familiar feminine voice. At the sound of her saying my real name.
Peeking out from hooded eye lids, I stare into my lap for a moment to gain my bearings before looking around. I can tell I've been out for a while at how light my hair is now. It's dry from washing it earlier, who knows when earlier was though. There's nothing in front of me and I sigh in disappointment, until I see somebody crouched beside me to my right—I startle, raising an arm in defense like that'll protect me. I relax at the sight of Rita kneeling with a troubled look on her face.
"Rita?" I ask in disbelief. Glimpsing around the area behind her, "Why are you here? I thought you left?"
She shakes her head vehemently, "Course I didn't. I would never leave you," she smiles. And maybe it's naïve of me to do so, but I smile back. Hope bubbling in my chest at the fact she didn't leave me behind after all.
She waves her hand, "Come on, let's go now. They're waiting for you to get in the car," then holds her hand out for me to take it.
I tentatively reach mine out and place it into her palm. I feel the warmth in her skin and smell the sweat that matches mine from not bathing in four days. I know she's real, and I knew she wouldn't leave without me. And at having another opportunity for escape, I'm forgetting the bleak thoughts I had this morning that I didn't care if I died. I'm happy to know I'm really getting out of here alive after all.
I blink, and as if she was made out of thin air she's gone. The mirage vanishes just like that.
Seconds tick by, my smile falls away and is replaced with a blank expression as I look down at my hand. It hovers in the air where Rita's had been only seconds ago. I lift it towards me and stare at it, like that'll explain the warmth I felt or the pressure of it residing there for even that one millisecond. I shut my eyes and open them again immediately to find Rita's still not in front of me.
My hand shakes. Shivers wrack my body when the fragile state of my mind is damaged even further...
I'm seeing things.
I put my face into my hands and focus on my breathing, trying to calm myself down. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy.
The sound of hinges squeaking interrupts my racing thoughts as footsteps echo down the ramp. There's a small gasp escaping the mouth of somebody to my right.
At the sound my attention is averted from my hands: a little girl stands on the ramp to the west office. Her lips are parted in shock at the small gasp as I take in her appearance of dirty blonde hair in a braided bun with a red headband tucked above her bangs. Variations of checkered blue color her sweater vest, a blue bow is at the crest of her shirt, a locket hung around her neck is clutched in her small hand, and black shorts make up her school uniform.
This girl is alive. My heart hammers against my chest at the sight of the little girl. She can't be that old, she must be only twelve and with no one showing up behind her she's probably alone. With those things outside I should offer help or protection, she can't be wandering this station by herself.
I stand slowly. Afraid I might scare her, forgetting the disheveled state I'm in. No doubt at this point I probably look like a crazy person who might hurt her. Her eyes roam my body and then remain glued to my face as I reach a hand out.
"Hey. Are you here all by yourself?" I take a step forward.
Before I can gauge her reaction, she turns around and runs back up the ramp.
"No wait!" I call out, chasing after around the railing. I race into the office after her calling out, "It's okay! I'm not gonna…" the little girl isn't in here, but I notice the door to the west hall never opened either.
I make my way around to the left side of the room, trying to find any sign of her presence. "Little girl? I'm sorry if I scared you. I'm… Patricia O'Donnell from the R.P.D." I lie to her about my name. Not even in the chaos of this city do I feel safe enough to let a child I've never met before hear it. I duck my head to check under Leon's desk, and then Marvin's. Hoping to spot her, hoping that seeing her again will prove she's real. "There's nobody left around here besides me and one other person. I don't think it's safe for you to be by yourself," I try to coax her from hiding.
When I don't find her though, and she doesn't come out… Did I just imagine another person? Did that door never open because she's not even real? I bite back a cry of anguish that it was just another hallucination and pivot—I stop short at the sight of a body in Raymond's office, a muffled breath escapes my lungs and I dart around the desks.
"Marvin?" I call to the body of the Lieutenant lying face up on the floor in front of me. He wasn't there this morning, maybe he ended up here sometime after I…
"Marvin?" I take another step forward. He doesn't answer, doesn't move, doesn't breathe. He's dead. The blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his stomach proves it so.
I lay my arm on a desktop to stop from falling to the floor as I sit down, a feeling of being utterly defeated consumes me. I wrap my arms around my knees, curling into the fetal position I was always assuming when alone after hours of training. It doesn't feel so long ago now as I do it again.
"I'm crazy," I whisper aloud dejectedly. Tears roll down my raw cheeks as I accept it. I murdered John, butchered all those dead bodies, I formed that body pile and pulverized the faces of those people into nothing, and now… Now I'm seeing things. Seeing Rita and that little girl, to top it all off now I find Marvin's…
"Sówka!"
My head snaps up at his voice, and at the usage of my real last name. I see him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a hand on his stomach. Astonishment swells in my heart, but then my eyes drop to where his body is still lying on the ground behind him. The smile on my face drops in understanding: it's another mirage. "You gotta get up, do you hear?" his voice rings through my head, through the room, like he's real.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the image away despite his words. You're not the real Marvin. You're not the real Marvin. "Come on, kid. Don't ignore me now, you have to get up. You have to get up and leave this place or else you're gonna die!" he asserts. I turn away from the doorway and press a wavering hand to my forehead. Wondering if maybe I have a fever and I'm just dreaming, not listening to a mirage of yet another dear friend of mine.
He takes a step forward and then crouches. "Come on, kid. You can do it. I know you can!"
"Stop it," I beg. The more he speaks the more I feel what little sanity I have left slip from my grasp.
Marvin persists, "You have to escape this town. You'll die here if you don't…"
"Leave me alone!" I holler, losing the ability to listen to another hallucination. I grab a stack of papers on the ground beside me to chuck at the apparition.
He's gone when I turn around to throw the paper, leaving behind the body of the real Marvin on the floor. My hand drops, and I release the papers as I stare ahead blankly.
I stay in that spot, for how long I don't really know. Drawing in a sharp breath, I use the desk as support again to stand up. Just before exiting the room, I see the welcome paper written to Leon by Marvin. Discovering it's extremely bloody now in the corner.
Marvin had written on it again at some point: a note saying he's glad the rookie isn't here. I sigh at how ironic the statement is when I'd thought the same to myself earlier this morning. The blood can only mean he was injured between now and the last time Elliot saw him himself, and though I'm crazy enough to see him talking to me. I'm not stupid enough to know his body on the ground isn't real.
I shut the door behind me quietly, the latch clicking a nail into my head at just how alone I truly am in this station. In this forgotten city. Even with Elliot passed out in the operations room, if he actually is with so much time passing since he left me upstairs. I know that I am as alone now as I was before S.T.A.R.S. left one by one.
I sit in front of the door then, draping my arms over my knees. Returning to my hunched position in complete loss and silence.
Chapter 19: Chapter 18
Chapter Text
How much time passes from that moment on, I'm unsure of. It's a concept that has managed to become a luxury for me in this place.
When I regained some sense of reality, I got up and made my way up the stairs through the shutter leading to the second floor.
I step into the women's locker room with a gun drawn as I make sure the stalls are all empty. I lock the door the second I'm satisfied and undress in the locker room before showering. Uncaring at this point, numb to the possible enemies that could be outside and want to kill me.
I don't want to die. But knowing that we're trapped with no means of making it out of the city. I just… don't care.
The water is miraculously still working, despite the fact nobody's been in the sewers for a week now. The hot water works too, and the pressure itself remains okay. It makes me wonder how much time the backup has left before I lose all power in the station.
Pressing both my hands to the wet wall. The thought is lost as I embrace the warm water removing the grime from my body. Water that I realize is too hot when I see how red my skin is and I suddenly feel sick enough to pass out.
I'm thankful when the thought pops into my head of how I left my toothbrush in here from the last time I was able to use it Saturday morning. I guess if I die, at least I won't completely smell like one of those corpses.
I wrap a towel around my body, eyeing the bruise on my head from Irons. It's begun to turn green now, I should be happy I suppose that it's healing at least…
Quickly brushing my teeth after inspecting other places on my body. I was fortunate enough to find a spare tube on a sink at the end on Friday morning. Even without toothpaste though, I'm glad to be able to at least brush them. The last time I went this long without proper hygiene or dental care was…
"Yes… I suppose she will need to use the restroom every so often. We don't want her sitting in her own waste, do we?"
I grab the sides of the sink at the memory plaguing me. I don't want to think of that and the torture it led to a week later. Torture that makes me pull my sopping hair over one shoulder as I turn my back to the mirror and see the outer tips of dark, puffy, jagged scars peek from beneath the towel. I look away abruptly then when the echoes of my screams from that day play in my mind.
When I'm done, I sit down on the bench. Water drips from my hair, a red blush is flush across my skin, and droplets are scattered on my legs and back. It feels nice to bathe, to be clean of the physical evidence of what I've done. Now if only I could only find some deodorant…
Picking through one of the lockers, I manage to find deodorant along with spare clothes. I grab the thigh holster deserted inside the locker too and stare at it for a moment. I suppose I'll take it.
It's then I realize I never grabbed my bag from the front desk. The one with all my clothes in it. Abandoning my old clothes and the locker room, I grip my towel, the deodorant, and the thigh holster together in one fist and with a trembling arm hold my gun up as I step through the door. I hear nothing, no growls to indicate there are any zombies in the hallway, and I run around the corner back into the main hall. Setting my gun down long enough to grab the shutter, heaving with what strength I have to pull it down, blocking another exit, but also an entrance.
I hurry to the front desk, and as I drop my towel, an ache forms in my chest at the thought of that little girl. I wished she was real…
Reaching for my duffel bag, I unzip it and pull out one of the many clean pants, underwear, socks, and shirt I'd thankfully packed away that first night. Something that feels like a lifetime ago by now.
The air in the room causes a shiver to wrack my body, the AC unit hasn't run in days and yet right now I'm freezing. I tug on the socks, underwear, and pants first, the shirt is last to be put on: a black tee with short sleeves. I'm about to pull the shirt on when I feel goosebumps raise on my neck. Something's not right…
Scanning the floor around me and the balcony above shows nothing. Gradually I check over my shoulder at the other side. I see nothing there either and pull the shirt over my head. Reaching for my jean jacket and grabbing it next, I sit in my chair and brush my fingers along the back of the jacket. Where the painted orchid sits, pink with mixtures of white. A flower I can remember my mother grew in a small pitcher in my room. "A flower that is always beautiful, no matter the conditions it's grown in," she told me. I'm sure she was smiling as she watered it, but her face is blurry.
Sighing, I tug it on. One sleeve at a time…
Out of the corner of my eye I see somebody further down the balcony. My heart pounds with apprehension as I slowly drag my eyes to the figure in question. The color drains from my face and my eyes widen in shock. I take in the curl of that unforgettable curled mustache sitting over a predatory grin, the eyes aren't visible from here, but I'm sure if I could see them, they'd promise something sinister.
Irons leans over the railing and watches me wordlessly from his spot down the balcony.
A horrified gasp escapes my mouth, he's been watching me change this entire time and I didn't know. Violation twists into my stomach at the possibility of him seeing my naked body. I close my eyes, shoving my palms into them out of panic and hoping he's just a hallucination that'll go away. Peeking my eyes open, I release a breath of relief that indeed he was just a mirage—I balk when I realize that he only changed his spot on the balcony.
He stands directly above me now in front of the door to his secretary's office. My eyes widen, and I take a step back. Unsure of what to do…
His mouth parts just slightly and I think I see his tongue dart across his lip as if he was…
I pull my Glock out and fire at his head without thinking at the lewd gesture. It goes through him as if he's made of air and hits the wood. My hand hovers in the air in shock realizing far too late that he is a mirage as his lips pull tautly into an even wider smirk.
I tear my gaze away from the hallucination. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy.
That bastard isn't actually there right now. If he was smart, he'd stay away. I'll shoot him on sight if I see him again. The last time I was just unprepared to deal with the factor he is still alive after that horde of zombies cornered him. But I won't make the mistake of letting him walk if we cross paths a third time…
I'm thirsty and hungry.
The thoughts pop into my head, distracting me from the hallucination watching me from the balcony.
I press my palms into my eyes and release a trembling breath. An intense headache from dehydration is forming at the thought with a dull ache blooming throughout my skull. I need to eat and drink more water before it gets any worse. I make a bitter scoff, "Like it'll make a difference," I mutter aloud and look at the floor behind me. Giving my body sustenance will only prolong my life for a short amount of time.
It's hard to deny the growl that tears through my stomach in demand for food though. I drop to my hands and knees, emotionlessly searching for a stash of food Marvin told me about leaving around the desk the other day. I know he said there's a pile here, it's got to be somewhere…
I crawl to another desk a typewriter sits on, and yank open the bottom drawer. I don't find any bottled water or packaged junk food. Instead a small black, silver, and white Panasonic tape recorder slides into view.
Grabbing the device, I eye it for a second before shaking my head and putting it on the desktop. Several more minutes of searching yields me some ink ribbons, blank cassettes for the recorder, and a stash of ammunition. It doesn't fit my Glock though, which has fallen to its last magazine.
I stuff the ammunition in my duffel bag regardless, it belongs to the Browning HP. A handgun almost every officer here was issued. Maybe I'll find it on a body…
A loud masculine scream erupts outside the lobby doors, and I halt any further movements. Afraid of the reason behind the screaming. Gunfire erupts then, and I scramble to crawl into the small space under the desk to hide in case whomever it is comes inside.
A door opens a moment later before its slammed shut, footsteps pound on the floor of the left ramp. I peek out from under the desk in time to see a woman in a blue sleeveless top, chest holsters and possibly a skirt fly up the stairs. "Running away" is a better description at the speed she's moving. In one hand she holds a shotgun while a handgun and magazines are stuck into a belt on her hip.
Her hair, I recognize the unruly bob she'd cut it into: it's Jill.
The door to the library shuts behind her, and I creep out from under the desk and stare at the door. Wondering what just happened—abrupt violent pounding on the front entrance interrupts me and I jump in response. Whatever's behind that door caused the screaming, and before it crashes through I should probably be long gone from this room.
I run up the stairs after Jill, knowing that with her going this way she most likely went for the S.T.A.R.S. office. I have to pull my flashlight out again when I enter the pitch-black hallway.
What would she be looking for in there though? I don't remember her leaving anything important behind besides her hat—Jill looks up from where she's pocketing something in the front of what I now see is a black miniskirt when I reach the S.T.A.R.S. office. The light on one of her holster straps, is on too and blinds me for a second. The favor is returned though as she puts a hand out in retaliation like I'd blinded her. Offhandedly I notice she's also wearing brown boots with her outfit and attached to her holster's strap is a light, her S.T.A.R.S. badge is clipped to her belt.
We stare at each other for a second, I take in the bob that she'd recently cut it into. Inches of long brown hair gone to better disguise herself. Her skin is dirty and a few buttons on the top are open to reveal the once white camisole beneath. I catch how her blue eyes seemingly soften when they land on my face, a smile forms on her lips.
She wraps her arms around me before I have time to react and then I do the same to her. Holding her tightly because for all I know I'll open my eyes again and she won't be there.
"Thank god, Madeleine," she breathes. And I'm shocked that for the first time since we've met, she used my real name. "I thought you might have died… Brad just… something out there attacked us, and it killed him."
"Jill," my voice wavers with tears at the information Brad's gone now. There's an overflow of emotion inside me, but I don't know whether to cry at hearing another member of S.T.A.R.S. is gone, or cry because Jill is here, and I know she'll help me. Even if in a way I've lost the will to do so myself. Burying my head into her neck to deepen the hug the way I need it, "Everyone's gone," I whisper hoarsely, and she stays silent, "it's just us."
She pushes me back, her blue eyes taking a tone of remorse. "Not anymore. We're getting out of here, okay? Do you have your ID and passport?"
I nod, "They're in my bag downstairs."
She nods back, "Good, that'll make getting to Chris easier. Let's go, the faster we get out of this city the better—"
Without warning something crashes through the door at the end of the hallway.
"S.T.A.R.S." An inhuman voice growls out and heavy footsteps plod in our direction. I freeze, my blood chills in my veins and my body goes cold with an overwhelming urge to shiver.
"Oh shit," Jill looks to her left down the hall and then grabs my wrist, "Run Madeleine!" she orders and drags me with her. I obey without question and follow after, thankful to see a real human being and it be Jill. But also terrified to face whatever is around that corner. It drags back memories to…
The tank lights up and inside I can better make out the form. A monster in height and appearance with massive talons on its left hand, gray skin with dark veins, and an inhumanly-sized exposed heart beating on the right side of its chest. That thing's face… oh my god. Is that thing…
Jill rounds the corners and stops to stare at something behind me, prompting me to turn around and look as well.
I cry out, "Jill, what is that?" as I flash my light down the hall and take in the shadowed figure in a pair of black combat boots that are much larger than the size of an average human. Then I see a matching black trench coat and gloves, but the fingers… oh god. Brown fingertips the size of sausages have the skin drawn tightly over them. I drag my eyes up to see the face that belongs to the hulking creature, noticing a series of belt buckles secure the coat in place as I do so.
Purple tube-like obstructions run in and out of the dark, rotten skin around its head and collarbone. It must be over eight feet tall, but the worst thing about this thing isn't its height. Not even the rocket launcher sitting on its right shoulder.
No, the worst thing is its face.
It has no hair, making a long cut in the flesh that goes over where its right eye should be and up past its forehead visible. Along with the stitches inserted in various places that hold the skin together. The other eye has no pupil, completely white, and the lipless skin around its mouth is stretched back to reveal a row of teeth.
My jaw drops and I can't breathe, so terrified that my need for air is forgotten. Short gasps escape my mouth—
"S.T.A.R.S." it repeats again and we're running around the corner, almost smacking into the barricade we'd put up the other night.
"That thing is what killed Brad!" Jill informs me and we begin pulling furniture off the pile to toss it out of the way.
Seconds. We only have seconds before the creature's rounding the corner and pinning us. My brain laments then, why didn't they just keep an open wall between the locker rooms? Sure, it would have been embarrassing to be seen or to see something I didn't intend to—
"Come on, let's go!" she squeezes through the barest path made, before yelling after me and dashing off.
I squeeze through after her, just as that thing rounds the corner finally. "Hopefully that crap will distract him," she tells me as we race for the stairs. Not stopping when we hear debris being flung everywhere as it no doubt barrels through the barricade.
Jill heads for the operation's room—Elliot must have gotten back to checking the statues in the station hours ago. Is he somewhere in the building and we're about to leave him behind?
"We'll cut through the records room!" she informs me and interrupts the worry, but when she tries to enter the door, it doesn't budge. "What?" she jingles the doorknob, "It's been locked!" My jaw drops in shock, and we turn around at the creature growling again not far from us.
Terror grips my heart, "What're we—"
Jill darts for the west office instead. We barely make it inside before that creature rounds the corner and spots us. Its thundering footsteps mean its running now and it bursts into the room at superhuman speed. Catching up to us within seconds and knocking me back into the stairs when it reaches the door before I'm out.
I land on my side on the edge of a hard step, sharp pain jolts my ribs and I yelp at the pain.
"Madeleine!" Jill shouts with panic in her voice, she grabs her Glock 23 from where it's tucked away and aims it at the monster. Shooting it repeatedly in the chest, but to no avail.
It starts running after her. My vision darkens.
—"Run Jill!" I shout and lift my hand up to fire at the monster in an attempt to distract it. The bullet drives into the flesh on its head and it stops, only taking a second to turn around and come for me.
I cower against the stairs, continuously firing off round after round anywhere I can. The bullets don't make a dent in its armor, falling to the ground in useless clumps or burying into the material in a flattened lump. It lunges forward before I can get away. Its fingers clamp down on my head and pick me up, squeezing to the point my head throbs in excruciating pain.
I scream, trying to kick its side or claw into the fingertips, but it doesn't—There's a loud crunch in the hallway signifying that my skull has busted open. Blood drips from the wound. Seconds later—My skull is crushed in the monster's hand. Blood and brain matter fly everywhere. My body drops to the floor in a writhing mess as streams of crimson pool beneath was it left of my skull—
My vision clears. I suck in a gasp of air, now's not the time to be thinking of the outcome!
I forget what I was even thinking about as I lift my Glock up and fire several rounds at the back of the creature following Jill. "Run Jill!" I scream at the woman standing a few feet away, her pursuer turns around to face me. I get up from my spot to run to the other side of the lobby, but without warning the thing slides and juts its side forward. It rams into my front and I'm thrown backward, my head roughly smacking into the stone steps.
A sharp cry echoes through the large hall, I slump into a heap on the steps. My vision is blurry as I lift my head and watch Jill fire her shotgun into the things back just as it reaches for me to no doubt kill me. "Keep your hands off her you fucking monster!" she roars at it and fires a second shot, riling it up and making it turn around.
It throws its head back and roars right back at her, Jill's running by the time it stops. Her throwing the main hall door open is the last thing I hear before my head droops to the floor, and I fall unconscious.
. . .
My head is throbbing. My ribs ache so bad it hurts to breathe.
My eyes flash open, my lips part in response to the pain with a hiss as I try rolling with quivering legs and arms onto my knees on the steps. Looking up to search around the hall: no one's in here. Jill is most likely long gone with that monster chasing after her.
Exhaling a shallow breath, I sluggishly raise a hand to the railing for support. I grab it and gradually sit up then as my hand finds its way to the back of my head. I cradle it as I stumble down the steps towards the front doors. My vision swirls with vertigo, and I'm dizzy. "Jesus," I gasp, grabbing onto the railing harder before I fall over. At this rate I might not make it there, but I have to get to her. Jill needs me. I can't…
I trip over my feet on the last step and crash to the floor.
"Goddammit," I moan. Jill is forgotten as bile rises in my throat from my chest making contact with the floor. Without warning I heave onto the dirty ground. When I'm done, I get back up and wipe the saliva dribbling from my mouth with a harsh groan. I need to find aspirin to deal with this monstrous migraine.
I barge into the office without a care and survey the room. I thought I saw tape in the front desk while going through it, but there's definitely some aspirin in a desk in here. I'm sure of it. If I can't find any in the lobby, maybe there's some in that office…
Staggering down the steps, I collide with Leon's desk first. I gasp at how it winds me. It hurts so bad. It doesn't occur to me it's going to be empty as he's not been here to use it yet as I yank open the drawers. I'm feeling sick again by the time I realize there's nothing in them. In my search I see the sheet of paper taped to it, I can barely read the words Marvin wrote.
It doesn't matter now. I just quickly move onto Marvin's desk instead. Rifling through it until I find a bottle of medicine in the first drawer. My vision is too blurry to make out the letters though, I squint my eyes like that'll make them work. "Not good," I mutter, touching the back of my head again. My fingers come into contact with a lump at the back of my skull, I'm lucky enough when I pull my hand away it doesn't come back with blood. I need to find water and take this now.
And my ribs. It feels like I was hit by a car. I have to check them, maybe I'll tape them up for now...
Why I'm even bothering to do all this when I've resigned to knowing I'm going to die? I don't know. Maybe self-preservation is just that strong.
My gaze tears from the bottle to Raymond's office with Marvin's body still on the ground. Although I could be very wrong, it looks like it's shifted. I debate going in to check for tape but settle on searching the hall's front desk.
I leave the room. Wishing it could be in silence but with the pained wheezes escaping my mouth, I know it won't happen. When I open the door to the lobby I lurch into the room. Jill's no longer here. But I rationalize through the pain and loss that with that thing going after her, there's no way she could stay.
I reach the railing and weakly turn around it, sliding on some papers and jarring my head.
Setting the pills beside the typewriter, I scrounge around the area and come across a bottle of water and some packets of trail mix. I suck the water down along with some pills, hoping it'll alleviate the migraine even the tiniest bit. The agony of my ribs will be dulled for a while too, but despite this, I don't admit to myself how grateful I am to have been able to drink water today. The last time I'd gone to the bathroom my urine was a dark yellow, the water I'd gulped down in the sink earlier not having been enough.
While searching the front desk again I come across a roll of duct tape. Sitting in the chair, I tug off my tee and inspect my body.
My eyes widen before my brows come together in a worried knot. Jesus… this is worse than any bruises I ever got in training. It reminds me of the one or two times I saw a domestic violence victim. The olive-toned skin of my breasts is riddled in violet bruises, and my ribs… They'd taken the brunt of that creatures ramming. Now exposed to my eyes I take in that they are a deep black color, the bra I was once grateful to have on and cover up with now is like a vice grip. I remove it and it helps the tiniest amount.
I bite my lip and reach for the tape then, stretching out several rolls across my chest below my breasts before fixing my shirt back on. My gaze falls on the tape recorder then. At first, I disregarded the idea of doing anything with it, but… I eye the object waiting patiently for someone's use.
If I'm going to die, I want somebody to find that recorder at least. Just like they'd hopefully find David's report. Whether it's a civilian or a soldier if they ever do come into the city. I want somebody to know what Umbrella did to both me and this city. I want everyone to know that true evil is sitting in everyone's backyards. Poisoning their well.
I grab the sleek machine and pick it up tentatively, observing its light weight. It's empty of a cassette tape. I grab one sitting beside it and sit in the metal chair. I fidget with the tape for some time to make sure it hasn't been used, and then I finally press play on it.
"My name is Madeleine Sówka… The date is September 28th... I am the last survivor of the R.P.D. and for all I know I might be one of the last survivors in this city…"
Chapter 20: Chapter 19
Notes:
What's that? Is that... finally another chapter with Leon? Yay! I hope you guys enjoy and thank you for the long wait :)
Chapter Text
September 28th, 11:21 P.M EST, Winchester, Ohio
"You wanna go upstairs?"
I double take at the girl I've danced with for the last twenty minutes. Everyone else around us is in every sense of the words, "dirty dancing" while she's got her arms over my shoulders and my hands are on her waist. I'm too drunk to try anything else, and even then, I'm barely able to keep standing.
More times than I'd be proud of if I was sober, I've actually rested my forehead on her shoulder while she's laughed in my ear at our awkward drunkenness. It seems okay though because she's done it in return as well.
Her green and black flannel is tied around her waist, a white camisole strap is drooping off her shoulder, and her jean skirt is just the slightest bit intriguing. For some reason though, I'm surprised to hear her shout what are magic words to every drunk person at this party. I couldn't have guessed that in a million years, our terrible attempt at slow dancing whilst laughing between each other at our state of intoxication would lead to her wanting to go so far as that with a complete stranger.
If I'd known Ark was going to throw me a party on the last day I was staying at his house. I might've decided to forgo staying with him and checked into a motel instead.
Especially if I'd known if it was going to end with me staggering drunkenly up the stairs to the guest room he'd set up for me with said girl in tow. Too drunk to reason that a rebound this soon after that entire ordeal with Grace yesterday morning wouldn't do anything for me.
It wasn't for lack of trying though. I did try getting out of this by trying to politely decline the offer for a "farewell" party. Reasoning with him I better get on the road since we're still a full nine-hour drive from the city and I need a full eight hours for when my first shift starts at the station tomorrow morning. If they'll even allow me to, because I tried calling them multiple times yesterday only today to be answered with the same busy tone.
"Hey! They told you to not even come in, I think they'll live if you come in a little later than planned," he argued when he could see me becoming antsy to leave when people started arriving unexpectedly in the early afternoon. None of them were people I knew. Everyone was undoubtedly his friend through one way or another. Since he'd taken off straight out of high school for the military, and then became a P.I. a few years later, he's met a lot of people. We grew up on the same street in Syracuse, and all through middle school and high school, were pretty tight-knit. Even if he was two years older than me and long gone when I was only in my sophomore year.
He'd handed me a bottle then, "Kennedy. Don't pull that, 'I'm fine,' crap, okay? I know you two were together a long time and how she was this last month. She left you a wreck, and now you have to get over her like you were never with her. But you're getting ready to start a new chapter too! You need to let loose one last time before you become a party buster. It's just a few drinks and then you can get going, I swear!"
What a load of shit that was.
I didn't even learn the girl's name before we went upstairs. She just came up to me when she noticed I was sitting in a chair in the corner. Quietly observing the party without much interest, sipping cold beer from a solo cup. The number of how many I'd had by then, I wasn't sure. Ark had replaced the cup in my hand with a full one so many times by now. It was well over a dozen, I'm sure. The music I didn't recognize, I didn't know if even Ark liked this, or if someone else helped themselves to the stereo and turned it on.
"You're looking lonely," she'd commented on my obvious state of mopping. The alcohol was amplifying the breakup instead of dulling it like I'd intended when I finally gave in.
"Haven't been to a party in about… seven months," I'd confessed, to the wavy, strawberry blonde-haired girl who'd decided to pull up a chair next to me. Her pink lips spread wide in an earnest smile at the joking tone of my words. "I also just broke up with my girlfriend yesterday."
She looked towards the packed crowd of bodies as if in thought. "You wanna dance?" she proposed as she stood and crossed her arms over her chest. "Dancing with a stranger won't hurt you," she teased, and before I knew it. I was setting the cup down and following after her to the crowd of bodies.
Now she's sitting on my lap in the unmade bed upstairs. Her lips are pressed to mine and the strong smell of beer on her breath is filling my nose. Her hands are fumbling with the button of my jeans impatiently, and when she realizes she's too intoxicated to undo them herself. She settles for undoing the buttons of my white, short sleeve button-up instead.
I shrug the shirt off with some difficulty in trying to not throw her off or topple over from that in my state. "Haven't been this wasted in a while," she admits aloud when her swollen lips leave me. She grinds her waist against mine where we sit on the edge of my bed.
"Used to party back in high school," I slur the words as I tell her. She sloppily reaches for the bottom of her camisole and pulls it up. Revealing the light pink bra she's wearing underneath that I've seen the straps to since we met only a half hour ago. "Ark used to throw parties like these even back then."
She chuckles, "Yeah… he definitely knows how to throw a kegger," she slurs too. She presses a little harder into my shoulders, and we fall back onto the bed. She then breaks into a fit of giggles, "Oh god!"
"What?"
"This is so stupid," she laughs into my bare shoulder at the statement, and I do too. "I can't even think straight…" she then whispers and suddenly, even through the alcohol. My brain sobers enough to put on the brakes and really think about what we're about to do.
"Hey… I don't even know your name?" I ask her then, beginning to doubt if we should be doing this.
"It's Annabelle," she hardly gets her own name out of her mouth.
We… can't… my mind eventually gets the words out through the haze. "I think… I think you should go back downstairs, Anna," I shorten her name when I fear I also won't be able to pronounce it right in my state.
"What?" she pushes up and straddles me. Her jean skirt is hitched high up around her butt and shows off the matching underwear she's wearing underneath. If I could even get hard through the alcohol, I probably would. That's when I finally realize—
"I don't even have a condom," I tell her. Fully changing my mind now and hoping the excuse will be enough.
She sits back and stares down at me, "Oh… Well…"
I don't even let her finish, "We really… shouldn't."
Her lips form a pout, it'd be cute if it weren't for the fact even in my state, I think she's just trying to get her way. But I didn't escape one bad relationship to get a girl whose full name I don't know yet pregnant.
She ended up climbing off me, putting her shirt back on, and heading downstairs without another word when she realized I was serious. I'd finally looked at a clock for the first time in hours then and saw just how late it'd become. At this rate, Ark was right. I'm going to be late to my first shift after all.
I went to bed immediately then. Not even wasting the time to get undressed the rest of the way, I just kick my sneakers off and crash into the pillow. Marvin and Raymond are going to kill me. If the hangover I have tomorrow morning won't do it itself. Going to have to drive another nine hours like this too, I complain in my head.
Maybe it's good we came upstairs and almost fooled around. Who knows how much longer I would've stayed up if I hadn't?
Ark bursts into the room a few minutes later, checking to see where I've run off to. But I'm already passed out, the alcohol making falling asleep easy when thoughts of Grace started coming to mind.
He just shuts the lights off in my room and covers my half-undressed form with the comforter. He was always like the older brother I didn't have. He once admitted to me how he saw me as the younger brother he'd always wanted. Even in his time in the military he made sure to write and check in on me to ensure I wasn't becoming stupid in his absence.
"Get some sleep man. You're gonna have a long day tomorrow," his voice reverberates in my head.
Chapter 21: Chapter 20
Notes:
Thank you to everyone who has waited so patiently. The day has come and we are finally beginning the events of Remake 2!
Chapter Text
September 29th, 10:18 P.M
"I'm so sorry for your loss."
I'd heard those words enough times in a few short months after that night in October that it was enough to last the rest of my life, and yet none of the people who said it could bring back Mom or Dad.
It was a car accident: that's what Chris and I were told the night we both got the call. They were driving back from a friend's wedding upstate, and a drunk driver missed the stop sign. Snatching our parents from us in a matter of seconds. Chris was still in the Air Force at the time, and from that night onward he struggled to keep up with his duty in the military while picking up the duty of my main caretaker when I had no choice but to move into an apartment with him on base in the city. With our grandparents gone on Mom and Dad's side, and them being only children themselves. There wasn't much choice about who to go to when they passed. It was to either Chris, or foster care.
Everyone has a rough patch in their life, the one that they look back on and can say with certainty. "That was the worst part of mine." Between fifteen and sixteen for me, was definitely it. The number of times Chris would be checked on by C.P.S. in the first year of taking me on fully was enough to prove how willing they were to take me.
He managed though; he always does. I picked up a job myself to help out with bills and saving for college once I turned sixteen. I made good friends with the neighbors in our building and even started dating a boy. It didn't last long between us, but it was enough of a distraction from the heartache and stress of going through school with Chris hardly around and Mom and Dad being gone.
But then… Chris managed to get himself kicked from the Air Force months from me turning seventeen. His stubborn and rash behavior ended up being the end of that career. On a limb he moved us all the way to Missouri to some city I'd never heard of at the time. His good friend from the military, Barry Burton, retired himself finally. He'd written letters about moving there and the station was looking for people to form a new antiterrorism unit for the city. He offered to help him get a spot on the team. Individuals with military, or police work elsewhere were sought after. And even though he'd been kicked out, it was still good enough to get hired.
Once I hit eighteen and graduated high school though… I came back to the city for college.
It wasn't like Chris at all to just not pick up the phone and answer me. Hell, he was the one that outright demanded we call once a week to check in on each other so he knew I was okay in school and with money. So, when he stopped answering and Jill started taking the brunt of answering phone calls with vague excuses for why Chris wasn't picking up along with reinforcements that he's okay. Being suspicious became a bit of an understatement.
The roar of the motorcycle is the only thing I've heard since leaving N.Y.U. the other day. I've been sitting on this bike so long with barely any breaks to eat, sleep, or to go the bathroom my butt has gone numb. My back hurts too, and with this rain in late September weather I'm sure I'll be unlucky enough to catch a cold. Within minutes I was completely soaked and have been for the last hour. I've been shivering violently every few seconds, really glad now for bringing the leather jacket with me. It's probably the only article of clothing that isn't soaked at this point.
But I can't stop to dry off. Not until I'm close to the city.
I can tell from the landscape I'm getting close there now and smile with relief. I took this route since I know it best. There's hardly any traffic, and four miles out is a gas station. Perfect to grab a snack and make that call to Jen like she asked for. Maybe I'll refuel the bike too, it's starting to get low.
The neon lights of the Mizoil gas station can be seen from here, it'd been put up about a year ago. While visiting Chris on my first weekend at college I'd stopped here when I saw it for the first time. The price of the gas is surprisingly cheaper in the middle of nowhere than in some of the cities I drove through. That's good though, I only have about a hundred dollars on me now from when I had to pull a bunch from the bank on the way out of New York. It's what's left of my savings from waitressing over the summer when I spent it with Jen in the city. I'd saved just enough to get me here, but I doubt it's enough to get me back. If Chris is there, I'll have to ask him for help, if not…
Let's not think about the if not for now, because I'll have a lot more problems on my plate than the possibility of not getting home. I'm worried that Chris got hurt on the job or the impossible chance he's missing.
Slowing the bike, I turn into the station and see the green and white sign sitting straight ahead welcoming me to Raccoon City. Jen's note with her phone number sits in my pocket like a lead weight. I'll make that call first and then I'll fuel the bike.
Depositing some quarters into the coin slot, I dial Jen's number and tap my foot while waiting for her to answer. Closing the booth's door as I wait another few seconds, it blocks some of the rain from getting in.
Her voice is raspy when she picks up the phone, "Hello?" I must've woken her up. It had to be sometime after ten, she always went to bed earlier than I did. The only reason she was still up by the time I took off the other night is because it was Saturday, and her dormmate was unexpectedly running off to Raccoon City.
"Hey Jen. It's Claire," I eye the surroundings of the station. Noticing the police car sitting at one of the pumps with the driver's door sitting wide open. Its headlights flood the front of the station, and I can see a banner with writing about hamburgers on it. Food outside of trail mix and power bars would be nice right now.
Knowing it's me seems to have woken her up a bit. "Claire? Oh my god—are you okay? Where are you? Did you find your brother?"
"Whoa. Slow down. I just made it to a gas station not far out of town, I'm fine."
"I've been worried sick about you! I thought you would've called way by now, but when you didn't, I thought you'd been kidnapped or something—"
I cut her off mid tirade, as nice as it is to hear her voice. I need to get going before I pass out on the bike. Crossing an arm over my chest, I play with my necklace, "You gave me forty-eight hours remember? I wasn't kidnapped. I'm good Jen, you don't have to worry about me I'm a big girl," I laugh, and I know on the other end she's smiling. "I can't talk for long though, I gotta go now."
She groans, "Okay, but make sure to call me when you're actually in the city and you've seen Chris. When you get home, we'll go out to celebrate his safety or something else," I roll my eyes and smile to myself.
"Sounds good. I'll be back as soon as I find Chris," I promise.
I hear her yawn and feel one coming on myself, I'm tired from driving all day. I can't wait to get to Chris's apartment and crash on the couch like he always lets me do when I visit.
I try hard to desperately ignore the nagging thought in the back of my mind of what if. "Just be safe," she still sounds worried.
"I will, but I gotta go," and I hang up the phone without a second thought.
Stepping out of the booth, "Why does everyone think I'm going to get in trouble?" I mumble and take a step towards the bike—The sound of glass shattering from inside the gas station makes me freeze and divert my attention to the store. What was that?
. . .
My eyes drift from the empty highway to glance over the clock on the dash for what must be the hundredth time in a matter of hours: 10:18 P.M.
I curse at the sight, Shit. I'm way past overdue to arrive at the station. I won't even have time to go to a motel to drop off my suitcase or boxes, they'll just have to sit and wait for me in the Jeep while I work.
The storm grows worse by the minute and the windshield wipers do little to help the rain pouring on the window. In an attempt to soothe my frayed nerves, I fidget with the knob on the radio in hopes I'll find a station to play. The rhythm of R&B, Pop and then finally the lyrics to Cemetery Gates fill the silence in the car as I drive through the empty highway for Raccoon City. I spot the tall sign advertising that a gas station is not far up ahead. Good, I need to refuel the car.
I lower the radio's volume just enough that I can listen intently to some background noise then leave the station as is.
Stop freaking out. I've only been to this city once before and that was for an interview. Whatever was enough I needed to stay away, I'm sure they'll appreciate me coming in to help at all by this point.
I scoff then mutter, "Yeah, I'm sure they'll appreciate me showing up to help. Three days later."
I should've never let Grace get to me Friday night. I could've been on the road earlier than when I left. Ark might not have thrown me that party either, and maybe I wouldn't have felt so inclined to drink myself into an intoxicated mess. I wanted to move, and to help my co-workers. Somehow without having seen her in days, she's still finding ways to screw things up.
Gritting my teeth as a flush of hurt overcomes me. I dispel the thoughts of this weekend, outside of seeing Ark for the first time in a while, from my head. She's not that important to get this wrapped up in right now, especially when I'm worried enough as it is without being distracted by her.
I slow the car and turn into the gas station, lining beside a pump to pay with my card before I start refueling.
I'll have to grab my uniform once I get there. If I'd had it on me now, stopping here would've been a good time to get dressed in it before arriving. I guess in reality though I'm not too bothered to not have it yet. Once the sun set, the gray jacket I'd managed to snag on the way out of the apartment came in handy as it was thrown on over my blue button up. Helping to keep out some of the chill of the autumn air. Of course, I could've rolled up the window long before the storm hit. But I'd opened it in the first place to enjoy the fresh air of the countryside after six months of dealing with the polluted air of Brooklyn. And I know that despite this offering the perfect opportunity for job growth, this city's air quality will unfortunately be no better.
If there was one thing I remembered about visiting last month it was that the city reeked. On par with the stench that hung over Brooklyn and Manhattan. Of garbage, of piss, of car exhaust, you name it, and that stench was detectable. It was hard to believe a city of only 100,000 people could actually smell that bad, but somehow it did.
Despite the massive difference in population size, parts of Raccoon are just as run down and filthy. It reminded me a lot of Syracuse actually. Sections of that city and its interstate system are seeing a bad decline. And like the suburbs in Raccoon City, the suburbs I grew up in are generally safer from the dangerous streets of the inner city. They're cleaner too.
Syracuse is pretty problematic for crime though: murder and robbery are a common occurrence to this day. So, I wasn't too surprised by the monthly murder count of Raccoon City when I went in for my interview in August and saw it for myself. Crime always picked back up in the summer in Syracuse.
That and just getting me out of the city for a while were the main reasons Mom and Dad would send me to Mom's Grandparent's farm upstate. They lived somewhere near the Adirondacks, just outside the small town of Saranac Lake. They considered it the safest haven for a teenage boy from the dangers of the city. I never minded being out in the countryside, it gave me a few moments to breathe and think about the direction I was heading in life. There was at least one summer or two that Ark was even able to stay the entire time and help out.
That on top of the hard summers of hauling hay for goats and cows. Along with chopping firewood and stacking it in preparation for the oncoming winter are the reasons I'd decided to graduate college with a law degree. Busted my ass in that time to graduate a year early too.
Those months of solitude made me think of the murders occurring back home. I wanted to prevent them. I wanted to stop so many from occurring. And maybe be so bold as to believe if I worked hard enough I could stop all of them one day. I knew that would never come though, crime in cities like that is too common to ever prevent fully.
My father's experience as an officer was another reason I went in for training to become an officer myself at twenty-one. Not long after the cannibal murders had begun in Raccoon, I'd decided that's where I would go to begin my career. Start off with a smaller city first, gain some footing for myself and then eventually return to New York to serve in Syracuse. I might even have a girlfriend to consider marrying by then…
Suppose that thought is for another time, I think, and then sigh. I just need time to get over Grace.
That's when I think of the R.P.D., think of that call Friday night and then the dream I had. The memory from last month comes forth suddenly as thoughts of those green eyes pop into my head. I don't know what it was about her eyes, really. You see a stranger's eyes every day of your life and never put a second thought towards them, but to this day. The sadness evident in hers is still in my mind.
. . .
I grin at Raymond confidently as I give him an excited handshake. "Thank you for this opportunity, sir," I thank him in response to the Deputy Chief promising me a job at the station as an officer at the end of next month.
"Please," he retracts his hand. "Call me, Raymond for now. Sir makes me feel older than I actually am," he insists and gives a throaty chuckle, the laugh makes me grin. We step out of his private office a minute later, "Before I forget," he starts and I look over at him, interrupting my effort to take in the chaos of the room. "Your training officer will be Elliot," and I nod, knowing I'm going to be looked over by one of the officers in here then.
When I'd met the others in the room, Raymond walked me to the main doors after informing him I'd parked out on the street.
Stepping out, I give Raymond one last goodbye and turn around. There's a woman sitting on the steps beside me, in an olive toned shirt and charcoal black B.D.U. pants with a S.T.A.R.S. patch on her left arm. She stares out the gates silently, a pensive look on her face.
My jaw nearly drops when I look at her face. She's…
She doesn't even acknowledge me when I come into her view. "You alright, miss?" I ask, trying to be considerate of her.
She side eyes me for a second, then looks down and stands up. She's slightly above me on the top step, though I'll guess she's much smaller than I am. "I'm alright, thank you," she answers, like she's not really paying attention to me and then heads inside, closing the door behind her.
. . .
If the woman who called me was her, I'll have to ask what her name is when I arrive.
—I hear a crash just as I replace the nozzle and turn around to gape at the gas station. Observing the abandoned sheriff's car and blood on the ground that I somehow missed minutes before. Not far from a phone booth to the right is a motorcycle propped onto its kickstand. The driver of it also being nowhere in sight.
Looking around the area: blood on the ground not far in front of me prompts me to reach over to the passenger side's glovebox and retrieve my H&K VP70. The handgun my father gave to me the day I graduated from the academy. The same weapon he'd had on him since I was a young boy. And the one I planned to protect myself with when working at the R.P.D. I've treasured it since the moment he carefully put it into my hands and warned me to take care of it. I don't know how he'd feel about the engraving of: Mathilda on the slide. A name I'd given the weapon after watching "Leon: The Professional", one of my few favorite movies. Not because the main character has my name, as some have tried poking fun at me for throughout the years.
Other than the engraving. I've treated the weapon like gold since it was gifted.
Checking to make sure the magazine is full. I switch the safety off and shove Mathilda into the gun holster I strapped to my right thigh, and then head for the door into the station.
Chapter 22: Chapter 21
Chapter Text
10:27 P.M
I ignore the bike for now and walk to the station's front door. The blinds are closed and through the door's glass it looks dark inside. Quietly opening it sounds a bell installed at the top to ring when the door knocks into it and reveals the lights are off.
I squint my eyes at the pitch-black surroundings past the first shelf. A flashlight sits alone on the ground in front of me, shining towards the ice cream cooler to the left. I hurry inside to pick it up and scan the shelves in front of me. The rack closest to me has a few tampon boxes knocked off, along with a few medicine bottles. Beside them spattered on the ground looks like large pools of blood, like someone wounded walked in here recently.
There's a lump in my throat: this doesn't feel right. "Hello? Anyone there?"
Somebody is gasping from somewhere further into the station while what sounds like a skirmish is possibly going on in the back room. I can hear grunting and snarling, and the sheriff's car comes to mind. Is the clerk in trouble? Maybe the store was being robbed and now the robber is putting up a fight against the sheriff while being detained?
I stand and walk past the shelves to the end of the aisle. Bloody footprints lead around the left corner where the refrigerators are.
Shining a light down a second row of shelves with more items knocked onto the bloodied floor. I switch the light rapidly to a man collapsed beside it. An open door is next to him leading behind the refrigerators. It's then I see that his hands and neck are covered in blood. I run over without thinking and kneel, "Hey, are you okay?" I shout, anxiety getting the better of me. I spot the name tag and realize this is the store clerk.
He's clutching his throat, red streams of blood seep between his fingers and stain his blue shirt. I lift a hand towards his, instinct taking over. Chris taught me how to deal with injuries, putting pressure on them is the first step. There's nothing around to use unless I tear a part of my shirt or his.
Maybe if I look around, I'll find something else to use—an imaginary smack lands across my thoughts then and I chastise myself for sitting there, gaping around myself wildly as the man bleeds out.
"Hold on, I'm gonna call an ambulance!" I stand. Ready to run back outside—
"Wait," he rasps, grabbing my wrist with his bloody hand before I leave and shakes his head when I look back at him. I gape at the wound on his neck, it looks like a bite. Somebody bit this guy? Who does that?
Pointing to the open door, "Customer came in. Sheriff might need help," he pants, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Help him or help the sheriff? My body makes the decision before my brain does and I'm walking through the door. I'll come back for the clerk the second I know the sheriff is okay.
There's light back here. I can see half opened and unpacked boxes, cases of beer, and liters of soda waiting to be stocked in the station. Ten feet ahead, the door to the back room sits ajar. The sounds of the struggle get louder as I approach the door.
The growling frightens me. Making me want to turn around and assist the clerk instead. "You can do this," I tell myself. Chris raised me to be brave. Not to be a chicken shit.
I place a hand on the SLS 60 in my thigh holster, nervous about what I'll find behind that door. Though there are only five bullets in it and the rest are tucked away in the small leather bag strapped around my waist. Pushing the door open, my light shows a man in a sheriff's uniform trying to hold a man back with his hand at the attacker's throat. "I said hold still!" he orders through his teeth.
"Excuse me, is everything okay?" he's obviously struggling to keep the man at bay.
There's blood on his cheek when he turns around and puts a hand out to keep me away. "Stay back ma'am, I got this," he assures. That split second, he drops his guard the man in front of him uses to his advantage. He lifts the sheriff's arm and manages to turn him around and trip him. He drops to his hands and knees then and presses a hand into the sheriff's shoulder blade, forcing him to the ground.
I'm frozen in place, helplessly watching as the man lowers his mouth. He bares his teeth caked in something red before sinking them into the sheriff's throat.
I put a hand to my mouth, acid rising in my throat and sheer terror in my stomach at the sight. "Oh my god," I cry as the sheriff screams, and the man on him pulls away with a chunk of his neck in his mouth. "Get off him!" I unfreeze and find enough thought to step further into the room and angrily roar the command.
Blood pours from the wound, spraying everything in their proximity, and I scream this time. "I said get off him!"
The sheriff's shirt and the man's sleeves are soaked in crimson. Nauseatingly the skin holds on, still connected by fat and muscle. To which the man jerks his head back and the flesh makes a wet pop as it separates. He works his jaw, chewing and raising his head again to look at me. I allow myself to gag this time as I can see his lower jaw is exposed. The white of the bone and fat are easy to see from here.
He stands and I take a step back through the door. Pulling my gun out. I aim it at him, knowing I should shoot. I have to shoot or else he'll attack and rip my out my throat too or worse. My hands shake and I know I can't muster the strength to shoot this man, dangerous or not.
I turn and run.
I run out of the back room and stop beside the injured store clerk. Prepared to help him up and get him out of here with me when he looks up at me with white eyes. White eyes. The kind that only belong to the dead.
He opens his mouth and makes the same guttural groan as the man in the back did. Fear floors me and I desert him before he can attack me as the other man did the sheriff.
The sheriff… that poor man. Why? Why did that man tear his throat out? What the hell is going on?
A man I didn't see when I first entered the station suddenly collapses against the soda rack just as I pass it. Knocking it over and just barely missing me. I stumble when it manages to catch the back of my leg. I don't allow myself to be slowed down though, I have to get out of here. The bike will have enough gas I can make it to the city fine, there are gas stations there too. It's not like—a shadow appears in the tinted door and a man bursts through. Rain beads his forehead and has darkened his dirty blonde hair, but that's all I observe before he aims his gun at me.
I raise my hands in defense, "Whoa, don't shoot—"
"Get down!" he shouts, and I crouch without question. He fires a bullet and I look behind me to see the store clerk crumpled on the floor with a hole in his forehead.
I take a second to compose myself, my entire body is shaking now. Eyes darting to the man in front of me, I stand and squeeze past him out the door. "We gotta get out of here," I tell him, looking over at my bike and where I see a Jeep Wrangler idling by a gas pump. It's got to be his car, but neither are possible to get to because now there's a horde of people just like the clerk and the man who killed the sheriff coming toward us from seemingly nowhere.
"You alright?" my last second savior asks as he sidles beside me with his gun aimed out at the crowd.
"I think so," I pant, "thank you."
Nodding, "You can thank me later, when we're safe." The horde closes in, they're on the brink of sandwiching us between the wall and them.
We must be sharing the same idea because without speaking we dash for the sheriff's car. Ducking and weaving between bodies as they grab at us. "Get in!" I hear him shout over the growls and I duck into the passenger seat the same time he settles into the drivers. He twists the key, and the engine turns over.
"Hold on," is the only warning I have before the car is thrown in reverse and he spins it around a pump, barely missing his Jeep. He swiftly switches to drive and peels out of the parking lot.
It's silent for a moment and then he's peering from the corner of his eyes. "Buckle up," he reminds me, and I do so, I didn't in the relief of making it into the car safely.
Falling against the seat when I hear the buckle click. A wave of air escapes my mouth, I press a hand to my head. I almost died in a matter of minutes. Twice.
"You okay?" there's concern in his voice and I nod rapidly at the loaded question.
Was I okay? No. Is there anything I can do about it? Also no. "Yeah," it's fake and both of us can tell, but he doesn't call me out. Reality snaps in and I look at him, observing the unzipped gray jacket and jeans, his hair reminds me of a singer from one of the boybands Jen listens to. He's white knuckling the steering wheel, he's as tense as I am. Anybody in our situation would be. "What the hell is going on?" I blurt before I can stop myself, my filter having disappeared.
He keeps his eyes on the road, the storm making it hard to see anything even with the wipers going at full speed. "I don't know," he admits sounding defeated, "hopefully they'll have some answers at the police station."
I'd been gawking out the window, but his words make my head whip around in surprise. "Wait. You're a cop?" he looks young. He can't be older than his early twenties at most, but for some reason hearing him mention the station and guessing his profession leaves me more surprised than I should be, or sound.
He nods, "Yeah. Leon Kennedy," he glances over, and I catch his blue eyes. "You are?"
"Claire. Claire Redfield."
"Live around here?"
Although it's hardly the time to do so, the question makes me give a sharp laugh because in a way I do, but I sure wish I didn't right now. It seems to surprise Leon as he looks over and I deadpan, "Uh, no. I came here looking for my brother. He's a cop too."
He gives a firm nod, "Well, it's a good thing we found each other. I don't know what to expect anymore."
. . .
They're convening, coming straight for us without any hesitation.
Our eyes spot the sheriff's car, and we run for it. The girl darts over to the passenger side. She wouldn't think it's mine since I'm not wearing my uniform, but it doesn't change the fact our survival depends solely on me right now. The gravity of my actions weighs heavily on me, I have to protect her until we get to the station. I'm a cop. I'm supposed to be strong and brave, but right now I'm so fucking scared of these monsters I'd be lying if I said wasn't ready to piss myself.
I climb into the driver's side, locking the doors the second I slam mine shut.
The keys are still in the ignition. If we weren't crunched for time I'd close my eyes and pray to whatever god there is for us to be so unbelievably lucky. I settle for thanking instead. Thank god the keys are still in here. We can get the hell out of here and safely travel to the police station.
"Hold on," I inform the girl, doing the same myself before turning over the engine and stomping on the gas. Barely missing the body of an eviscerated woman as I reverse the car and plow through the bodies. She doesn't say anything, eyes scanning over everything in the road while I keep my sights ahead.
Don't crash the car. Don't crash the car.
I manage to calm my nerves in time to slow the car down, so much for having a clue where I'm going. The car is low on gas too.
I know the station is in the middle of the city, I just hope nothing blocks the way or we'll have to go on foot. My eyes are on Claire's face every few minutes to gauge her reactions and make sure she's okay as I finally reach the city limit, still shaking from that close encounter with…
With what, Leon? The undead? Monsters, Kennedy. They're monsters.
The police car slows to the city's preliminary speed of thirty miles per hour while my gaze falls to the sky just above the small metropolis. Claire sees it the same time I do, and we stare in awe, it's… orange. It reminds me of a setting sun, but it's ten o' clock at night in September in the pouring rain. The sun has long since set.
I drive past a big green sign on my left with white, bolded letters reading: Welcome to Raccoon City. Home of Umbrella.
Something about seeing that sign and a dark, cloudy sky awash in a bright, red orange in the background unsettles me. After what we just went through, I won't let my guard down for even a second. I want the hell out of this car if this is what fate thinks is funny to do to me.
I'm entering town before I know it, unease quickly settles into my stomach as goosebumps raise on my arms suddenly at the street laid out ahead. Small roadblocks have fallen over, and orange warning signs sit next to them on the ground. Like they were meant to be put up but had been abandoned before it happened.
Maybe it's construction or…
The car, the rain, and flashing neon lights of the shop signs are the only signs of life. Its desolate, papers are scattered about on the street, a few telephone pole's bulbs have gone out and add an unnerving shroud of dark. A few boutiques have their shutters down, one though apparently wasn't closed and the front window is smashed in. Whatever was in the display is long gone, and ahead I can see shoddy and run down apartments and motels on the outer skirts of the city.
A particular building catches my eye. Is that smoke I see coming from the window of that motel?
"Holy shit," Claire breathes, looking at it too.
Smoke leaks from one of the many windows lining the wall, red and yellow flickers signal a fire is only inches behind it. The building is burning, it looks like it has been for quite a while despite the rain. Yet there's nobody here putting it out.
Claire and I share a long look and my attention falls onto the stretch of road. "Hold on," I mumble and her grip on the seat belt tightens as I continue further down the street. A sign informs me that I'm entering the downtown area and also to: Drive safely! but there's a problem past the sign.
Straight ahead of me, cars line both sides of the road, but there's no one. Not even a person walking around…
I do end up seeing someone actually, but the man is shambling. Most likely one of those things. This street is completely abandoned besides him. "What happened here?" I mumble more to myself than Claire. "Shock" or "disbelief" seemingly not good enough words to use at this point to describe our emotional state's.
I remember on my left is the Raccoon City College and on my right is a small park. A continuation of the college's land. None of the windows in the dorms have any noticeable lights on. I know personally that not all college students are asleep at this time of night.
And that's when I notice it.
Something smells... wrong. The stench overpowers the garbage and urine I'd encountered last time, almost like… Like the unmistakable smell of a rotting body. I know what a rotting body smells like from an off chance of coming into contact with one on a case while still in training. It's comparable to the smell of roadkill that's been sitting in the sun for two days. It was that smell exactly, but times a hundred in this city right now.
The realization peaks my suspicion. From how strong the smell is I'd guess there's more than just one rotting body nearby. It could be this entire city.
I say nothing aloud about my suspicions. I just keep going, raking the roads for people or any… bodies.
The stench becomes too heavy to stand and assaults my senses. I turn off the fans in the car to help stop any more of the smell from getting in through them. If I didn't have a strong stomach, I'd probably be on the side of the road emptying it right now.
I notice that the college is not the only site showing no signs of working power. A row of shops and restaurants lining Raccoon-Stone Ville Line are all devoid of life. They're all college spots that should be bustling with college students and partygoers at the moment, but I don't spot anyone. In fact, at a few restaurants with an outside, some of the patio equipment has been turned over and lies in disarray. Whomever was eating there left in a hurry.
Not much longer and I'm at the bridge to cross over Circular River further into the desolate city. I turn left off of Raccoon Street onto Warren Street, and about halfway down the road I spot a body lying in my path before coming to an abrupt stop.
"Leon, what're you doing?" Claire asks and I shake my head, going around the body of what looks like a shredded gray dress and soaked red hair.
The reeking air trapped inside the car and a foolish burst of optimism makes me want to assume that maybe it's caused by this body, but I know it isn't. The stench in the city is too strong to be caused by this body alone if I could detect it by the college.
"Just can't believe this is happening right now," I offer an excuse. Having felt an urge at the body to get out of the car and inspect it.
. . .
September 29th, 10:46 P.M
The further we get into town, the more anxious I am, and my hope of finding Chris safely fades. There's no way… everyone we pass on the street… they're all dead.
Through the rain beating on the roof, I hear something playing loudly outside. "Wait, do you hear that?" I ask, just barely rolling the car window down. Leon's doesn't stop the car, but we both listen to the muffled announcement.
"Attention to all citizens: Due to the citywide outbreak, you are advised to take shelter at the Raccoon City Police Station. Free food and medical supplies will be provided to everyone in need."
I roll up the window and sit back in the seat with a huff, "Oh my god this is so unreal," I say aloud. From the corner of my eye, I see Leon's trying to hide the distress on his face. Pretending to be just absorbing everything alongside me and not have an internal panic inside himself.
His lip's part and he glances at me for a second, "The police station's not much farther. They'll know something," he sounds too hopeful, like he doesn't entirely believe his own words.
I fidget uncomfortably in my seat then look at him, "Yeah, but… what if we're the only ones? What if there's no survivors—"
Shaking his head in disbelief, "No. There's survivors," his eyes train on me, "it's a big city, there has to be."
I wish that were the case, but the more bodies we drive by and the more buildings I see with signs of robbery or are in the advanced stages of burning down. The more I'm unable to convince myself of those words, being an officer must be hard on him at this moment. To come into this nightmare with no clue, no communication with your own people. I'm somehow able to feel sorrier for him than I do myself.
The car decelerates and my attention turns to about ten feet beyond us where a large blockade cuts off the rest of the road. Just before Leon can make a turn to the station's road. Empty cars go on for a hundred feet. Even if this blockade wasn't here there's no way the car will get through.
Leon switches the wipers off, "Looks like we're walking from here," but I'm not paying attention to him. No. I'm paying attention to the two bodies eating a third under the flickering light of the streetlamp above them.
"More like running," I turn my head away in disgust when one of them looks our way, to his calming eyes.
He's watching the scene too and nods, "Yeah, good call."
A hand slams on his window causing us both to startle and jump in fright, "Jesus Christ," Leon swears and more of them start piling against the car. Banging their hands and fists on the windshield and windows, he shifts the car into drive as my focus changes to out the back window.
"Leon, we gotta back up," I inform him, seeing there's less… zombies Claire—less zombies at the back of the car then the front. But just as he shifts the car to reverse and looks out the back window with me—headlights appear that can only be to a large eighteen-wheeler. And from here I can see it running over every body that stumbles in front of it as it swerves to stay in the road.
"What the?" I blurt out, realizing at the same time Leon does that they're not slowing down.
"Holy shit," his voice is despaired, "Claire get out. Get out now!" he orders. We tear our eyes off the sight to slam our bodies into our doors.
It's no use though, the weight of all the bodies on our doors makes it impossible to get them to even budge. Terror is in my heart, "I can't!" I scream, allowing my fear to take hold at the thought we're about to die—
"Hold on!" Leon shouts and throws the car into drive again to force us forward, but only by a couple feet. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace my hands on the dash as the wheeler collides into us.
Chapter 23: Chapter 22
Chapter Text
September 29th, 10:36 P.M
I release a shaky breath at the feel of the cool muzzle pressed against my temple at my own volition. I can't do it. It's become too hard.
My eyes shut as another dejected thought races through my mind. Just do it. Once it's complete it'll all be over and you'll have escaped for good. Umbrella will never lay a hand on you again to manipulate you into the monster they want you to be.
Then why is it suddenly so difficult to pull the trigger when I've never struggled to do it before if I'm this desperate to end my agony? Am I that scared of dying? Or maybe I'm just scared to be the one who does it.
I open my eyes and penetrate the dark oak of the desk in front of me. The tape recorder sits beside my right arm and has long since been forgotten. Tears well in the corner of my eyes, and for a few seconds they obediently stay and don't run. My body doesn't accept how pointless it is to keep trying to fight for some kind of hope as easily as it's accepted the damage done to me by everything else that's happened in this week. The bruises on my chest haven't begun to heal yet, though the tape I put on last night has since been removed. But I still can't wear any of the bras I packed, though it's not like it matters if I'm without one.
Miraculously my ribs weren't cracked or broken by that monster ramming into my chest yesterday, but breathing is still difficult. And I can't apply any pressure to any part of my torso without feelings of excruciating pain accompanying it.
Standing alone produces a dull ache that's impossible to ignore.
Besides the physical trauma there's also the mental trauma. I don't know how well I've recovered from seeing things all day yesterday. Witnessing those visions seemed to only damage me further.
Do it, Madeleine. Take away your pain once and for all. There's no one here to see you at your lowest point and know how weak you've become.
There really isn't anyone left, is there? In a matter of five days, the people I knew, the home, and the friends I had made in this city? It was all gone. Slaughtered and robbed from me by the outlandish crimes against nature that Umbrella made plausible with the creation of their T-Virus and everything else. The people in this city who were hurt because of their products… John, Stephan, and Marvin on top of all of the others. They were innocent people who lived their lives like they deserved to. In peace and ignorance of the residing evil in their town. They lived their lives the way I'll never get to experience.
I should have left with Chris the day he went to Europe, and now I'm paying the price for my decision. Waiting to die from either this gun, another monster inside the police station, or maybe even Irons if he finds me again in this state. The latter actually did end up coming through here again not too long ago, rattling something loudly in his hands while I ducked beneath a desk behind me. Hoping, and praying to whatever that he wouldn't come around the corner and spot me hiding there. I don't know what was scarier about the situation either, thinking I might be spotted any minute, the sound of the mysterious object in his hands, or the whistling of some tune I don't know like it was a regular Monday for him.
If I'd been in a better condition, I was certain that I'd have shot him then and there. I was so terrified by the possibility he was just another hallucination though... I cowered and hid instead.
Elliot found me earlier today at least. He'd informed me that he had finally found the third statue and was working on getting the codes to unlock the medallions. He tried the best he could to check me, saying it'd take something like several weeks for my ribs to heal in their state. If I had a concussion, it wasn't enough to require immediate medical attention. Although, when was that going to be possible in our predicament? He gave me more Tylenol and Ibuprofen to help with the pain and swelling, cautioning to go easy on them. But when he knew he couldn't do anything else, he set off again to see if there was anything to tell him of the codes. I appreciated what little help he could offer though, it's more than I expected. Maybe even more than I deserved.
Setting the Glock down on the desk, I curse at my weakness. The tears spilling over as I openly weep into my palms, "There's nothing left," I chant again and again until they stop coming.
I haven't reported to that company in two months and somehow, I'm still just another expendable product for Umbrella. They destroyed me and this city. They left their machinations to grow inside of us, to take hold and change us.
Slowly my hands fall away from my eyes to land in my lap as the thought pops into my head. Umbrella… it's their fault for everything. Their fault for this outbreak, the experiments, for abandoning this town when it needed them most.
But what about John? His death was entirely your fault.
I glare at my hands in knowing, but I retaliate at the thought. He wouldn't have died from that licker if that second identity hadn't come out. It's their fault. Their fault for what they've done to me and those children back home. I can't forget the entire reason of why I was going to risk my life to escape Raccoon in the first place and find Chris: those bastards need to pay for their crimes.
I have to escape this city before there are no more chances.
I abruptly stand up and check my Glock's magazine before pushing it back into the weapon. I never did go to the armory like I'd wanted to yesterday, at some point there was no reason for it. There aren't many bullets left in the handgun, but I managed to keep at least one box when handing them out, and I have my shotgun too.
I just need to get the hell out of this town before time runs out for me.
I run outside. Maybe I'll scout ahead at the very least and pick some zombies off on the way while I decide a route. The pouring rain soaks me within seconds, not even the jean jacket can do anything against it or the proceeding cold.
Stepping from the security of the R.P.D.s gate, I run straight down main street, dodging and crawling over cars in the huge wreck. The zombies in the area aren't active, a lack of food and anything alive running around has left a few just sitting or staring into nothing. That changes as my feet splash into puddles and my footsteps scuff the asphalt. It dawns on the creatures there's fresh meat for the first time in what is probably several days.
I'll find a car and hotwire it if needed, I just can't stay in that building any longer—Boom! There's a loud crash, like one car is slamming into a dozen different ones in their way, despite there being no one left. I take a couple of steps, almost on the next block and am cut off by a small explosion then. What the fuck is happening—A few seconds go by and then another, much louder and more intense explosion follows. So powerful, it shakes the buildings and ground. I stumble back from the force into a car behind me, orange and red paints the stores around the corner and immediately I smell gasoline and smoke.
A fire, something with gas in it must have exploded, but what?
. . .
The force of the eighteen-wheeler hitting the car sends us into a tailspin until the rear collides with another wrecked car. I grip the back of my neck and my face scrunches in pain, I'll be feeling the effects of whiplash tomorrow morning. It adds to where a faint bruise on my back did end up forming from the carton Grace threw at me.
Groaning, I unbuckle myself and stumble out of the car sluggishly. My ears ring from the crunch of metal and the popping of the air bag that nearly missed my face.
Jesus that thing hit us hard, and as I take a few more steps while the rain beats down on me again. Claire—The car explodes and is covered in flames when I turn around in utter horror that—I see the eighteen-wheeler turned onto its side and realize—That's a gas tanker. "Oh shit," and I pivot to run—The tanker booms and the air released from within the pressurized metal hits my back hard enough I'm thrown forward. I grunt in pain as I'm knocked to the ground where I hit it and roll, weakly pushing up to stand on my knees when I've stopped to inspect the damage. That was loud, there's no way nothing within several miles didn't hear that. They're probably already on their way and Claire-—My heart is heavy at the thought that while I lived…
"Claire?" my voice echoes in the lone road and I faintly hear grimacing over the roaring fire. She's alive. "Claire, you okay?" her groaning not telling me anything, the wall of fire makes it impossible to run around and check her myself.
I press a hand into my knee to stand and stumble with a sharp hiss. Oh yeah. There are going to be some major bruises all over me within the next few hours and by sunrise, I'm going to be needing Tylenol.
"Yeah, I'm alright. How about you?" her voice emits suddenly, bringing a wave of relief.
There's a large pause and I look around. Spotting bodies getting up not too far away, "I can't stay here! It's not safe!" now there are zombies walking through the fire toward me, the flames are unable to catch their soaked clothing. "Go on ahead! I'll meet you at the station!" and I turn, not running very far before I stop.
The outline of a woman about some feet ahead of me by a car wreck surprises me, she's panting like she's out of breath. Staring at me, her eyeing makes me feel odd… like she's watching me. I stare back at her unashamedly, taking in from afar in that split second her curly, brown hair, and olive toned skin. Noting the black tee with a jean jacket over top, pants, and brown boots she has on too. The clothes aren't familiar, but the hair and skin color are. I know this woman…
I don't miss the hand curled around her ribs like she's been hurt. The other is slowly coming up to cover her mouth in horror. I look behind me at the reaction, wondering if one of those things is about to attack me. I'm met by a wall of fire and same approaching zombies. I need to get the fuck away from here right now.
I turn back around in confusion, walking forward to escape the creatures and to say something to her.
She takes a step backward, shaking her head back and forth repeatedly and I stop. The actions warn me that she's possibly unstable, I'm unsure what she's about to do. If she's a civilian I need to get to her and take her into the station for safety— "N-no," her voice breaks. A sense of familiarity hits me again at that quivering word and instantly I'm concerned. She's panicking over something, but I can't figure out what.
Her brows twist together, she looks… she looks terrified. "You… you can't be real. You're not Grant! You died!" she rakes in a gasp. "You all died!" she's threading the hand that was over her mouth into her hair as she whispers the words harshly enough, I can hear them here.
Her words concern me. Scare me even. Everybody's dead? It can't be. The state this woman is in, the expression on her face tells me something's off with her.
She could be crazy. I don't have to be next to her to see that she's unstable—No. she must have gone through a lot. Chances are she's been here for a while. I can't even imagine being in this city for any longer than what short time I already have been.
Bodies are beginning to appear everywhere around us now. Crawling out of empty cars and staggering out of shops to the side of us. The crash and the shouting awakened them.
To hell with the possibility of her being crazy. I have to help her out, it's my duty to do so.
I take a step toward her. "Miss are you—"
The color in her face drains, and she turns around to run to the right down the street where not many zombies have appeared.
"Hey!" I yell as I reach a hand out in an attempt to stop her, but she's already gone. "Wait!"
Chapter 24: Chapter 23
Notes:
Well guys, I did it again. I disappeared for farrrr too long with this newest update and I apologize. My birthday was one weekend, the gender reveal of my baby was the next, and just trying to edit this book and write two others with one of the two frustrating me immensely caused a burn out in between. But I'm hoping to be over that hump! Here is the newest chapter, and I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text
"Oh god," I whisper and sprint over a few feet, aggravating the ache in my rib cage. I wrap an arm around my frame in hopes the pressure will help ease the pain—I freeze the second my eyes make contact with something in the middle of the street. A person running from the flames before stopping to openly stare back at me. I'm bewildered at the presence of a living person in front of me, and in response my eyes rake over their body in disbelief. Definitely a man based on the height and build. He's wearing a gray jacket with a blue button up and white undershirt underneath along with pants and white sneakers.
There can't be anyone left, I fret to myself. The screams and gunfire of desperate people have been gone for days now.
He steps forward a bit more, having seen me now as well. Despite the danger we're both in with the stirring zombies, I take in the man's face from afar—and take a step back in shock.
The blinding rain makes his features difficult to make out, but from here those short bangs, the dirty blond hair, and the tanned skin remind me of… Grant? Why is his hair different? And his face is younger since the last time I saw him? He has a slight babyface now over a hardened one.
My hand finds its way to my mouth at seeing who's stands before me. I take another step back, shaking my head in another bout of insanity. I don't miss when he takes a couple steps toward me in response. No. It can't be Grant. "N-no," it's clear I'm hallucinating again just when I decided to break free. My hand threads into my hair as I pull at it, shouting, "You… you can't be real. You're not Grant! You died!"
Confusion passes over his face, and I shout once more, "You're all dead!"
Died. Ran away. Left me behind to suffer the fate that I deserve for the pain and horror I've caused to so many others.
"Hey, wait!"
I hear Grant shout the words only seconds before his footsteps pound against the asphalt to chase after me as I flee from his sight. My heart spikes in fear and a shot of adrenaline pierces my system. The pain of my injuries dulls as my body falls into its flight response.
What do I do? Where do I go? What will make this thing go away?
"Get away from me!" I scream in fright like that'll make my brain force Grant's image to disappear. At least besides Irons and this one, the others disappeared after I looked away.
They died or ran. Every last one of them. Yet over and over I've endured mirages of those I befriended and cared for. I've wondered dozens of times in the last day why these illusions continue appearing to me. The thoughts of, I don't deserve this, wanting to be screamed aloud. The statement I wouldn't believe to be true though: I do deserve this. In every way. Understanding that all I've done is wrong doesn't change the past.
"Wait. Come back!"
I don't look back, don't stop running like it's from the Devil himself. Afraid that allowing him to get close, allowing myself to believe in the warmth of skin that isn't there will shatter my barely recovered mental state for good this time.
I shield my face from the rain and duck into an alley to the right, the closed gate is keeping those things out. I reach the entrance and rush between the grimy walls, turning around to witness how close Grant is. In a panic I slam the gate, locking it in the process to block him out. He crashes into the metal a moment later, rattling it. His eyes are on mine, and I falter, tripping over my feet and yelping when I crash into a puddle.
"Please let me in!" his voice permeates with an attempt to reason through the alley.
"Patricia! Let me in, Patricia!"
The pleas in Grant's voice drags me back to the other night. To the sounds of John's desperate crying on the other side of the door as he begged for his life. Gripping my skull with a whimper to quiet the sounds of his screams. I stand, abandoning my spot to run—then I come to an abrupt stop. "No," I whisper and shake my head at the man standing before me. "No!" the word is barely audible on my lips.
Familiar hazel brown eyes, and black hair groomed into a mullet spark another burst of noises in my head. One's consisting of the sounds of his choking before his neck was snapped. Stephan. The other man beheaded by the licker approaches me aggressively, there's agitation in every step.
"You… you let us both die, Madeleine."
I hold my ground, "I didn't. Not you, Stephan… You died before either of us knew what was happening," I counter his anger pathetically. I blink and witness Stephan standing in front of me now with his nose rotted off, leaving behind a bloodied, grotesque mound. The flesh around his mouth is split at the corners of his lips up to his cheekbones like his jaw was forced open too far. The unhinged mandible drops to his collarbone, scarcely held together by strings of sinew and muscle. White eyes and Stephan's hands roughly grab my shoulders, ripping a scream from my lips.
His jaw flops as he gurgles the words, "You led us into that hallway. You can't let a man die in front of you and not blame yourself!"
I push against his shoulders, "I didn't let you!" I shriek in desperation and fury. He seems so real, cold to the touch and reeking of decay. So real like Rita yesterday morning that he could fool me for an actual body and not a figure my mind conjured up.
Gritting my teeth, we manage to turn in the scuffle, "Get off of me!"
Shoving hard against his chest, I hear the gate spring open. There's a quick, "Get back!" and then a gunshot blares in the alley. Painting the zombie's brains across the wall as I cover my ears at the echo.
Gasping, and falling backward, I blink at the body lying on the ground. Stephan's face is replaced by an unknown civilian.
Oh god… I hallucinated him… onto a person. A zombie. I could have reacted differently, just moved wrong and it would've…
The gate screeches and I pivot to see Grant closing it only five feet away. When he sees me sitting there his eyes lock onto mine and widen with caution. He takes another tentative step forward when I stay still, raising his hands slowly. Something shot that zombie a second ago. Was it him? But how could he?
He takes a third step forward. "Miss…" he manages to keep his voice level and quiet, "I just want to help. I'm here to—Hey, stop!" he shouts when I scramble to my feet in the opposite direction and bolt.
"Stay away!" I call out.
Heavy footsteps echo on the pavement behind me as I exit the alley. I already know that if I stop, he'll catch me. He's much taller than I am, the height difference and my wounded body are easily letting him keep up. I curl an arm around my ribs at the pain spreading through my diaphragm that the adrenaline pumping in my veins can't smother anymore.
I can't keep running forever. At some point, Grant will disappear. He has to.
Upon exiting the alley onto the street, I immediately know which road I'm on. Right up the street is the same gate to the side yard where just yesterday morning I laid in the grass and cried—fingertips unexpectedly graze my elbow and I snatch my arm from the grasp in shock. It felt real, like that second's worth of contact had force in the hand trying to snatch me.
Something in my brain stirs then. A face and voice I saw just days before and had thought looked similar to Grant's…
Bodies line the road, stumbling toward us at the commotion. Weaving through them, I round a car and nearly avoid smashing into a broken headlight. Gunshots go off behind me and my steps falter. If he isn't real, then how is he doing that?
I make it to the yard but don't bother shutting the gate. He does as I hear a screech and then him barring the door.
I should know by now he's not really a mirage. That this is a real live person, and I know what this man's name is. That he isn't a hallucination of someone that could very likely be dead. But… how do you make someone who's seen things for the last twenty-four hours believe this though?
The throbbing in my ribs hurts so much I'm practically limping down the stairs. I'm almost out of that underpass. Just a couple more steps and I'll be at the second set of stairs…
Strong arms encircle around my waist and haul me backwards from the steps before I can climb the first one. I let out a scream at the forceful grip around my ribs and retaliate against the confining hold. "Put me down!" I roar, akin to a caged animal. I finally grasp now that this person is real, because there's no way I'm floating in the air.
There's grunting in my ear as I thrash against the broad chest I'm pinned to. Then something makes me freeze. A frantic thought appears then that maybe I did see the face wrong, and just like Stephan's hallucination this is a real person who is alive. But maybe he has bad intentions toward the obviously crazy woman he met on the road and…
My thoughts are reduced to repeating, "Oh god not again," as I fight off a panic attack. My legs buckle as Irons' snarls invade my head while I try to cover my ears to ignore it, a whimper leaves my mouth. The man's hold is strong enough I don't fall to the ground, but he releases enough that the constraint around my ribs is gone.
"I'm not going to hurt you," his promise is hushed through my hands. The sound of his tenor voice and his harsh breathing on the nape of my neck create another panic inside me. I drop my hands and thrash in his hold again, desperate to put distance between myself and this person. "Hey. Hey! Stop it," his voice hardening as he chides me. He grabs my wrists to pull them taut against my chest as he tightens his hold back up when I don't listen.
My wrists and ribs cry out in protest, I beg as tears trail down my cheeks. "God—please don't. Let me go! Pl-Please don't hurt me," I ignore his promise just seconds before, blubbering the words. Some emotionless, merciless soldier I am right now. I bet they'd beat me just for this display of weakness alone.
"Hurt you?" the man asks, incredulous at the statement. "My name is Leon. I work here at the station, I just got into town and had escaped from a tanker crash when I saw you," he stumbles over his introduction. I tremble in his hold at hearing the name aloud, absorbing the information. He's the rookie I warned to not come in. "What's your name?" he asks me softly, there's youth to his tone.
I say nothing at first, "Leon?" I whisper the name, the sincerity in his voice prompts me to close my eyes in relief. "You're… you're real?" I whisper as more tears escape, but from a completely different feeling.
A beat passes, the sounds of us regaining our struggled breathing echo in the walkway. Then, "If I let you go. Do you promise you won't run?" he mutters, the air grazing my ear. I don't answer him though, reeling from the revelation that the man I'd been chased by is in fact very much real and alive. He sighs, hesitantly dropping his arms before stepping back to give me some space. "There's a room right here. Why don't we go in here for a minute and calm down?"
That's all it takes. A room. He wants to be in a room all alone. I go to run, but he snatches my elbow and pulls me back to his chest where I yelp. "Stop! I'm not going to hurt you, okay? There are things roaming around and I don't want us out in the open," I shut my brain off then. Saying nothing, trying with everything to believe his words hold no danger and force myself to forget the past several minutes.
"Okay," I whisper, stepping out of his grasp when he reluctantly let's go. Walking into the storage room beneath the main courtyard, I sit in the room's only chair. The ability to relax is nonexistent as I wrap my arms around my ribs, on edge and shivering as the cold sets in. Short strands of hair are plastered to my face and I hastily brush my hand over them.
Leon, who moved to kneel in front of me, watches my face. For what, I don't know. Maybe some sign that I'll bolt. I look at where my hands lay in my lap and ignore his staring.
"Where did you come from?" he questions when seconds tick by and the tense silence seemingly gets to him too.
I blink away tears from the alarm my body went into at the thought he'd assault me. "The station," my swollen throat rasps.
"Where is everyone?"
I look off to the side, "They died or ran away."
He's thrown off by the lack of emotion to my voice, if only he knew what I'm really feeling inside. "How… how long have you been here?" I don't mistake how gentle his voice becomes in response. A complete one-eighty from the sternness it had a moment ago when he was yelling.
Burning my focus into the metal of the chair, "A week… Five days to be exact," I shut my eyes in disbelief. I've been trapped for that long, I can't believe I was able to regain my sanity today, or just now.
"Jesus," I hear Leon mutter. He looks down at the floor now, giving me a chance to glance his way and take in his body up close as he ponders. His facial features appear weary with uncertainty, somehow though, his cornflower blue eyes have a natural calm to them. They flicker every so often to different spots on the floor and chair as he's thinking something through.
He looks exactly like that picture in his folder. Why wouldn't it? Pictures usually don't look different from the person in question.
The blush staining his cheeks earlier has dissipated and his breathing, like mine, has returned to normal. I see the way his lips are slightly parted and note the subtle pink coloration in the flesh compared to the slightly tan skin on his face and his cleft chin. What makes up a strong and defined jaw is set. That's when I notice he's gritting his teeth and his brows knot together as he looks up at me unexpectedly.
I meekly drop my eyes before I can observe the rest of him. Feelings of shyness overtake me, and I can't bear to make any more eye contact. Is it weird I liked the intensity in his eyes that split-second I saw them? Or is that something that nobody thinks of?
"Can you tell me your name?" he asks again.
My name. Do I give him my real name? Or the fake one? I say nothing, contemplating the decision. Wondering why I've become so nervous. There's nothing about Leon's appearance that makes him any different from the other men. Although now that I've observed him up close, I realize that he doesn't look exactly like Grant, but both men do look like they belong in one of those boybands I've found most teenage girls to be obsessed with over these last few months. If Grant is still alive that is. He and Elza disappeared not too long after that meeting at the west office with Marvin, nobody saw them again after that.
Grimacing, I finally gaze up at the officer to answer him.
. . .
10:55 P.M
I don't ignore how hesitant she is to make eye contact with me. Were we in another place at another time without the threat of flesh-eating monsters, I might have thought her timidity is… cute? This isn't the place though, and the way she was running and screaming at things that weren't there. Looks can be very deceiving of how sane she is.
The flush in her olive cheeks is gone now, her breathing has returned to deep intakes of air. Air that I detect is ripe with the smell of mold and decay.
She glances up at me, meeting my eyes with hers with the same shyness still. There's water running down her cheeks— That's not water you idiot, those are tears. She's crying. I reach forward with a hand and my sleeve tucked higher, but when she sees it, she flinches back. "I'm just…" my hand brushes her face and the fear in her eyes makes my chest tighten. I've never seen someone this afraid of another person, what the hell happened to her? Continuing to brush my hand across her cheeks, "I just wanted to wipe some dirt from your face," I lie and the look on her face says she knows it too, but she remains silent.
My hand drops from her cheek. I observe a smattering of freckles spread out across both cheeks and the bridge of her nose when I do so. Along with a yellow bruise around her hairline, like she'd been hit pretty hard there in the past week. I know this is the woman I saw on the stairs the day of my interview. Her features are roughly the same even with a month of time between them, but that's not what grabs my attention though. In one look her gaze tears down to my very soul. The amount of raw hurt that is settled into dark green irises… it could steal my breath. Her eyes… I've dreamed about them before. I remember how they gave away the unexplainable and unheard hurt she was clearly feeling in that first meeting. But I've never seen someone look at me with this kind of agony, like something unimaginable has happened to her in this city. I would feel awkward from how long I'm staring into her eyes… except she's doing the exact same thing. Wordlessly watching me, maybe even calculating me.
If she finds something about me that she's curious of, she doesn't say anything. A frown remains on her face, long enough I catch it and look away. Clearing my throat while doing so, I feel blood rush to my cheeks at what was originally unabashed observing has now become embarrassed staring. On both parts it seems, "My name's… Madeleine," the word's a murmur on naturally reddish lips, I have to strain in order to even hear it.
Madeleine… I don't recognize the name. She sounds just like the woman who called me on Friday and said not to come in though. Didn't that woman say her name was Patricia? That's odd, maybe her and Patricia just sounded alike.
"Madeleine," I nod at her, she seems startled at the sound of her name on my lips like she hasn't heard anyone say it in a while. I reach out a hand to lightly touch the one sitting in her lap, she eyes where my fingertips lay against her skin, and without a word retracts her hand. She's uncomfortable with being touched at all. My hand returns to my side to avoid further unsettling her, feeling bad now for wiping her face off far longer than I should've.
We shiver in tandem then, and I look around, spotting lockers behind me. I stand and open one to find a thick grey blanket inside. Removing the cloth and opening it, I drape the blanket around her trembling shoulders. "Here, you must be freezing," I speak, hoping the small act allows her to see I mean no harm towards her.
She purses her lips and wraps it tighter around herself, "Thank you," she whispers into the felt material.
Whirring of a helicopter's blades surprises both of us and we look at each other. I move to the door—the ground shakes and the loud whirring ends abruptly, much too soon for a proper landing. Did it crash somewhere nearby? "Just stay right here, I'm gonna go check that out," I pivot and tell Madeleine with a shake of my hand. She looks up at me with wide eyes, but then they relax and her focus falls from me to the floor where she nods.
I'm out the door and up the steps to my right, following the crash around a corner in a courtyard to a fence and gate. Like I'd suspected, I see the tail end of a helicopter protruding from a wall on the second floor beside a balcony that leads to it. I can hear sparks all the way from here and wonder with the rain if it'll catch fire—a door above me on the balcony opens. With not enough light to show who it is, I think I make out a ponytail and jacket as a flashlight lights up the damage of the wreck…
Grabbing the fencing in the door, I step closer. Knowing it's crazy to think it might be her, but I shout anyways, "Hey, Claire?" please let it be her. Please tell me she got here safe despite how we parted on the road.
A head pokes over the railing, and the light above the door to my left illuminates the ponytail hanging limp to the side of her neck. From here I can see she's soaked, but there's a smile on her face though. One forms on mine too as excitement rushes through my body, "Leon! Stay there, I'll be right down."
She made it. Thank god.
I go to open the gate, but it doesn't budge. Seriously? It's locked. "Come on," I grit my teeth and kick the door. Madeleine and I might have to find another way in.
Stepping back as she approaches the door and her fingers thread through the fencing next to mine, "Leon," she beams, "we gotta stop meeting like this." I detect the flirtation in her words, but figure she means nothing by it. Even if she did, you've got more important things to worry about than a girl you just met flirting with you.
"Are you okay? The police chopper came out of nowhere," I gesture at the crashed aircraft.
She nods, "Yeah, I'm fine."
My eyes drop to the door handle. It's a one in a million chance she'd have a key on her but... Jostling the handle, "Gates locked. You wouldn't happened to have grabbed the key to it would you?"
Shaking her head, "No… but it's good to see your face though. I was afraid something might have happened on your way here."
"You have no idea," I mumble as a halfhearted joke, thinking of Madeleine who's still waiting for me. Which makes me wonder, "You find anyone in the station yet?" If there are any survivors, she's had to have come across at least one in there so far—she shakes her head again, I curse before the words even leave her mouth.
"Only one, an officer named Marvin. He's seriously hurt though. I don't think he's going to make it… He gave me something to hand to somebody here before dozing off, but… I've checked all over the station. And there's nobody… I don't think they made it." There's an uncomfortable silence, but the prior name strikes a chord in me. Marvin… Lieutenant Marvin Branagh? I met him the day of my interview, he seemed well respected by the others around him and never made a big show of his rank.
"—You?"
The question pulls me out of the somber recollection, "Found a woman on the road after the accident. I don't know if she's all there though, had to chase her here and she was talking to one of those things like it was speaking to her…" her brows come together in worry. "She's been here over five days. I can only imagine."
"Five days?" her brows fly up at that in shock, just as much as I was when I heard it the first time. "I can't imagine being trapped here that long. This is a nightmare."
Remembering why she's here in the first place, "You find out about your brother?"
Hope is in her bright blue eyes, "Yeah! He—"
Boom. The helicopter explodes and sends a wave of fire thundering out of the wall. The initial crash was loud, but the explosion is deafening, meaning more monsters will be heading our way. "Just when you think it can't get any worse," Claire mutters and looks over at me, her eyes widen, "Leon…"
I turn around to see zombies starting to sit up and pile against the fence at the far end of the courtyard. Dread starts to fill me, but I don't want her to see. "I'll be okay, get yourself to safety." I try to keep a steady gaze and calm expression, I'm a hell of a lot more scared than that though.
She walks over to the door to her right and stops, we see the chain-link locking it shut. "There are others like this in the station," she informs me as she grabs the chain. Dropping it, "I haven't been able to find anything to cut them though…" Claire trails off and stares at something to my left.
A bolt cutter sits haphazardly draped over the edge of a wheelbarrow, "Here, that should cut them. Can you toss it over?"
I grab the hefty cutters, "Stand back," I warn, knowing they'd come down hard when I throw them. I swing the pair, testing my aim. Once. Twice.
They barely make it over the barbed wire from their weight, but thankfully they do. Clattering loudly to the muddy ground, she grabs them and takes a step for the door then looks at me. "Will I see you again?" the dread in her voice is impossible to miss. Neither is the rattling nor snarling of the zombies thrashing against the metal.
Taking a step back, alright. It's time to grab Madeleine and get us both inside. "We'll make it through this, both of us," I promise, then pivot and run.
Chapter 25: Chapter 24
Notes:
Just a heads up! I have swapped work schedules for the summer so apologies on chapters running late as I can no longer stay up late to edit these! I hope you enjoy this new chapter though!
Chapter Text
When I enter the room, I'm panting and there's heat in my cheeks from sprinting all the way here while water from my hair runs down my back. Water drips onto the concrete as Madeleine sits in the chair with a blanket pulled around her body and curiosity in her eyes at my disheveled state.
The fence should hold, but we need to get out while we have a chance. I spot a uniform in an open locker and grab it, along with a key hanging beside it. Maybe it will unlock the gate? There's a loud shiver from the woman behind me, as I second guess the possibility of the key being so easily found right here. I have to at least try it though, otherwise we'll need to find another way in. And I'm certain I saw that a path to the main courtyard was boarded up while chasing...
Stepping over to Madeleine, I hold the key in front of her. Her eyes meet mine before her gaze drops to my hand. "Hold onto this," I tell her, and her hand comes up to grab it before returning to holding that and the blanket. I return to the locker once more to pick up the uniform inside. Eyeing it for a moment, I should wear something—anything—to represent myself as an officer to any civilians. This might be my last chance to put on a uniform if the R.P.D. is crawling with those things.
''They died or ran away,'' her words replay in my head. The station can't be safe. I can't believe she survived so long if she was all by herself. Thoughts buzz through my head in a blur as I deliberate again. "She's not all there," that's what I'd told Claire a moment ago, but deep down I know I'd probably be just like her if I watched everyone around me die. Maybe I'd be dead myself if the police station was decimated down to only one survivor sitting behind me. Maybe it would've been best if I hadn't come in yesterday like planned. Or at all like I'd been told. But then I would've remained trapped with Grace…
Just like that at my own form of cowardice, I regret saying those words like that. Like she's insane.
"I'm gonna put this on," I tell her suddenly, gesturing the clothes in my hands to her and her gaze lowers to the floor. She turns around fairly quickly, and I waste no time in throwing the clothes down into the locker to remove my jacket and the shirts beneath it. The jacket makes a ruffling noise as it falls to the floor, and as soon as my chest is unclothed, I kick off my sneakers. Unbuttoning my pants and unzipping as I do so, pulling them down the second my shoes are off. My eyes then wander over to the girl then, finding her back is still facing me. I don't know why I checked. I'm not entirely sure what I would've done if I'd caught her staring at me in just my boxers, but she isn't. She's shivering and trying to run the blanket around her hair to dry it. Hair that is just past her shoulders and curly. If we were in another place, I'd think it pretty.
I distract myself from the thought, instead thinking of how it's pointless to dry it as she'll be soaked again once we step outside this door. I'm not going to be the one to say so though, she must know that already. "The gate's locked. I'm hoping that key will unlock it," I inform her as I throw on the uniform's pants, covering my legs and waist. Securing some kneepads with the Velcro, "I need to go inspect the rest of the building for survivors when we get inside. You don't have to come, but I would feel much better if you did," I offer her the chance to say no. Hoping she doesn't.
All I hear from the chair is a quiet, "There's no point... Everyone's gone."
Jesus she's blunt. Maybe it's just how she's coping with the trauma. "As an officer of the R.P.D. I still have a duty to check the building for anybody," I counter her apathetic response. Throwing on a white long sleeve and then the police shirt, it's a little tight, but I'll live. Might pull a few threads out by the time I take it off though. The bullet vest, elbow and knee pads, and belt are the last to go on. As I connect the radio on my shoulder to the walkie on my belt, I see Madeleine's eyes wandering to peek over her shoulder. She looks up at me when she sees I'm fully dressed with fear swarming in her wide eyes. Is she afraid to be by herself?
I kneel in front of her, "I'm not going to leave you alone if you don't want me to… and I'm not going to let anything hurt you, okay?"
Her eyes drop in contemplation. I take a minute to stand and compare the boots in the locker to my own feet. Way too small, I'd be better off without them and the blisters that will accompany that size by tomorrow morning. I drop them and grab my shoes from where I kicked them off to tug them back on with ease. When they're on and my attention returns to her, I see she hasn't made up her mind. I reach out my open palm for her, "Come on, I know there's at least one person here to rescue," offering an unspoken promise to protect her. No matter what.
She stares at it, then hesitantly reaches her hand out to accept mine. I help her stand up before retrieving Mathilda from my holster, "You okay to walk on your own?" I check. Disregarding how far she managed to run from me earlier. Adrenaline can allow a person to do a lot of things, but by now it's worn off and I'm sure without it she's not in the best condition.
Her brows come together at my question. I can't help but ask when it's obvious she's hurt. "I'm okay," she replies curtly with red coloring her cheeks.
I turn around, stopping before I take a step for the door. "Just make sure to tell me if you need a break, okay?" she nods and then stand up, dropping the blanket when she does. I turn around at that and step out the safety of the room with her following. As we climb the steps, I can hear the rattling of the fence as the bodies torque the metal with their thrashing and weight. "Let's get inside," I tell her and our paces hurry, as we approach the door. "You still have the key?" I ask and she hands it over, staring at the bodies while I unlock it. "C'mon," I nod to the open gate, she looks back at me and follows.
"We can't go that way," she blurts out as I move to the door Claire went through.
Regarding the rivulets of water running down her face and the soaked fabric of her jean jacket and tee, "Why? What's wrong?"
"The… the fuse to the shutters that lead to the main hall were…" she cuts off abruptly and doesn't finish.
"Pulled?" I finish for her out of curiosity, "why? What happened?"
Her arms wind tighter around her chest and her eyes drop from mine. When she doesn't answer after a few seconds, I know she's not going to at all. Something bad must have happened if she's refusing to say why. "A girl unlocked the door," I point at the chain link discarded on the ground now. "I came into town with her, when the helicopter exploded, she ran through here. Maybe she found a way to get the shutter up?"
Her brows come together at the mentioning of Claire, then she drops her gaze and purses her lips nervously. "Maybe…" it's clear she's made a decision when her eyes meet mine once more, "I have to grab some things from the main desk then," she relents to the idea quietly and we step into the building.
It's dark in the hallway, but luckily the uniform came with a flashlight. I switch it on and use it to scan ahead of us, witnessing the blood and gore covering the walls and the slumped over bodies of civilians and officers visible now. "Jesus Christ," I whisper, seeing how an officer's laying on his back in an inch of bloody water that appears to be flooding the hall from somewhere else. There's a bullet hole in his left eye and his throat has been torn out, along with several other parts of his body that are missing chunks of flesh. Just like the other bodies in front of me and the ones on the street.
Was this why the fuse was removed? I don't ask. Guessing that, surely, this must be the case. Maybe zombies broke into the station through this wing and the shutter was closed to keep them out? The bullet hole might have been caused by Claire when she came through here.
That's when the stench of rot in the wing overpowers me and I cover my nose. Taking a calming breath through my mouth, "Why's the hallway flooding?" I ask, ignoring my racing heart. I take a step forward and splash through the water as I wait, but she says nothing and the silence is already getting to me. Having a person next to you who almost refuses to speak at all is grating—my brain chides me then. She went through a nightmare in this last week. She might need some more than five minutes of knowing a complete stranger before she opens up the way you want. "Let's just keep going," I tell her and walk ahead into the dark hall. She follows behind quietly, our shoes splashing in the cold water. The air not only smells of decay, but it's freezing in here too. Every few minutes I hear Madeleine's teeth chatter behind me and mine do the same.
Beside a door on our left lies another chain link, Claire definitely cut that with the bolt cutters she had on her. Why was not one, but two doors locked with those? Didn't she say she came across more? They must've been used to keep these things locked into these rooms and this part of the building. I turn ask Madeleine to make sure—she's eyeing it wearily with a look in her eyes that says she too doesn't have a clue about it.
Looking away with a frustrated sigh, I enter the room and retrieve Mathilda. Having a bad feeling that thing's in this station are going to get complicated from the foreboding looks on her face. Shining the light throughout the room, I see nothing in here but a row of cluttered desks with binders toppled over and papers floating in the water. The entire wing is flooded, not that it matters anymore I suppose since nobody's left to care about water damage.
Don't think that way. Just because Madeleine and Claire said everyone's gone doesn't mean it. There has to be somebody left in this station besides them. As we wade through the water to the double doors straight ahead I notice a chair toppled over with a pile of books beside it on the floor. At seeing that, I admit to myself that any faith I had when we first arrived is quickly vanishing. Besides Claire and Madeleine, I don't think I am going to find anyone else alive in this place, or this city.
"I can't believe you were here for so long," I whisper to the woman behind me, my eyes scan every inch of our path for a body, a limb, any kind of evidence of a body hiding. She remains silent, but the sweat breaking out across my body and racing heart excuse it for a moment as the dread of something bursting from nowhere makes my hands shake.
We step out of the room, avoiding any zombies appearing and see the light beaming into the hall from the open shutter to the main hall. "Looks like she did get it open," I tell Madeleine, even though she can see it for herself.
Her eyes flicker from the entryway to me, "I guess so."
I turn from her quickly at the words, her gaze giving me a feeling of my throat closing with the emotion in her eyes. We step out from the dark corridor into the bright main hall, and I feel myself relaxing the smallest amount for at least having visibility again. The size and sheer presence of the hall I never forgot. The first time I saw the station I was staggered at how large it is on the outside, the building's much bigger than any other police station I've ever seen. The stations in the city weren't even a fraction of this size.
Madeleine passes me without a word, making her way behind the front desk abruptly. She's fumbling around with something by the time I step over. I quietly lean against a table beside the desk with my arms crossed, waiting for her to grab her stuff. Wondering to myself as I watch about how Claire had mentioned Lieutenant Branagh is still in the building. Is he nearby? Should we find him? She'd said it didn't look like he had much time left.
Madeleine's back is to me as she adjusts a knife holster onto her belt before lifting her leg languidly onto the desk chair to strap on a thigh holster. I say nothing when she tetters the slightest, like the action of putting her foot down made her lose her balance. She grabs a shotgun from the bag then, the build of the weapon looks like a Benelli M4. It's a powerful shotgun, but not one that the station carries. Is it her own? It's then that I see the S.T.A.R.S. insignia carved into the side, just above the trigger. It's definitely hers. It must be custom-made.
My eyes fall from her to scan around the small area as she leans over to grab a duffle bag by her feet. A pile of bloody clothes lays in a cluster on the floor beside the desk chair, an empty water bottle along with some wrappers are discarded wherever. This has to be where she's been hiding out the last few days as everyone…
Has she eaten? By the looks of it I'd say she hasn't had a proper amount of food or water in days. Besides the few instances of her cheeks reddening, overall, they seem rather pale and the bags under her eyes are severe. No proper sleep or sustenance in how long? She can't be doing too good. I was worried about Claire's safety with her only protection being her handgun. But with the signs of minimal food, water, and noticing just how hurt Madeleine appears. I realize how badly I need to find Claire and get us all out of here now. The first place we're going is a hospital to get this woman looked at, maybe ourselves too. For now, before we find her though, I'll just have to keep a close eye on Madeleine. My concern will be towards her, and I'll have to hope Claire stays safe until we meet back up. Why didn't I tell her to wait up for me so we could all go together? I don't know. It's a decision I'm coming to regret as she could've run off to anywhere by now.
The sound of a zipper tells me she's packed the shotgun into the duffle bag. "Is…" the word is spoken so softly I miss what she said and only hear a squeak from her. My attention snaps onto her frame as she puts a hand on the desk beside her to stand up. I don't think twice before strutting over to help. She's hurt you idiot, why wouldn't you help her in the—as my hands find their way onto her she yelps, like I'd shocked her, and pushes me away at the contact of my hand on her stomach and forearm. She stumbles backwards into the metal desk in the process and we stare at each other wordlessly. What the hell can I say though? "Sorry I tried to help you and you pushed me away like I was attacking you"? A nausea forms in my stomach to think that she believes I'd try hurting her somehow. Forgetting the circumstances of the entire city, whatever happened in here alone has made her reluctant to be touched.
"I'm sorry," I tell her though, regardless of me knowing I did nothing wrong. I'm not heartless enough to not apologize. Her eyes scan my face before falling to her feet, she's white knuckling the edge of the desk. When I'd touched her in that room under the courtyard she'd pulled away, but this… My thoughts from earlier are confirmed that it's going to take time for me to gain her trust like that.
"Listen…" I start and her arms wrap around her small frame, she's trembling. I wish I knew what to do or say. I start with raising my hands again to show I mean no harm, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, or to hurt you if I did. I just want to help. You seem injured and I wouldn't feel right standing by and doing nothing."
A flush spreads across her face, she bites her lip and then nods her head in understanding. Before shaking it a second later in frustration, "I'm sorry," she finally speaks, the words mumbled. I'm just happy she said anything at all and didn't ignore it, "I…" she starts like she wants to admit something, but never finishes the statement. "So, there's someone here you're looking for?" she shifts back to talking about Claire. Breaking the quiet, and tension growing between us.
I nod, she doesn't acknowledge the gesture though. I speak up in case she didn't see, "That girl I told you about a few minutes ago? I'm trying to find her," she nods, but still refuses to make eye contact.
Sighing, I look around the lobby. The last time I was here everything was spotless and well-kept by the cleaning crew. A friendly receptionist named Caroline greeted me when I came through the door. Now there's blood staining the R.P.D. carpet, and rivers of red dried on the ramps. Running into congealed puddles, splattered all over the walls. Cots are overturned, the smell of decay isn't as strong as it was in the east wing, but it's still evident. The worst part though, it's jarringly quiet. Like walking into an abandoned home or school. You know there were lives inside those walls, but they're gone now.
Between my soaked clothes and the chills the hall are giving me, I shiver. A place that once felt warm and lively with officers walking to and from between sections is now silent.
Why am I waiting so long to talk?
"She's already made it here, but—" chasing you stopped me from catching up to her, "…she came here looking for her brother."
Her eyes are on me at the hasty cutoff, she knew what I stopped myself from saying. Guilt crosses her eyes, "I'm sorry," she mumbles once again.
Immediately I feel like an ass. "Don't worry. I needed a good stretch anyways," I try to joke, but she doesn't react. Maybe she's just not the person to make jokes with. Now I know how the guys back at the academy felt when they'd make jokes with me, and I'd pay them no mind. Only two weeks in I'd earned the nickname, "Hardass," from all the other recruits because I took training more seriously than the rest.
I suddenly remember Claire mention in the car that Chris is a cop then. I was told during my interview how the team initially consisted of a Bravo and Alpha team. Maybe Madeleine worked on the same team with him?
"Do you work with Chris Redfield on the S.T.A.R.S. team by any chance?"
Madeleine freezes in the middle of checking her Glock's magazine, "Why?" The question is serious, and her eyes are narrowed just enough I can see she's suspicious of my probing.
I'm curious why she reacted as such and fumble a little to answer. "That girl I mentioned earlier is his sister, Claire. She came here looking for him," the seriousness in her eyes lightens a bit and her eyes are no longer narrowed. They go a little wide actually.
"Claire is here?" she asks surprised, looking away and smacking the magazine back into the holster. Her focus returns to me, "I do know him. We worked together in the S.T.A.R.S. unit… but he went away on vacation last month to Europe for a while." Claire must not know that her brother's gone if she's here searching for him. Why wouldn't her own brother tell her something as simple as he's taking a vacation? Especially over in Europe?
"How long was he supposed to be gone until he came back?" I prod, reckoning as a teammate of his that she'd know more than just that.
"I… don't really know," she tells me hesitantly, as she holsters her gun. "We didn't know each other well outside of work. And before I knew it, I heard he'd knocked out a guy in another precinct for spilling coffee on him. He left the country not long after on sabbatical. I wasn't here very long before that though, or…" she trails off, a look in her eyes. Turning from me to lean on the desk for support again. "He's not here," her words firm.
There's more to whatever caused her to get that look, but I have a feeling that's the most I'll get out of her. "We need to get going then, she's here looking for him," I give her frame a once over. "I want you to stay behind me, okay?" she watches me, then nods wordlessly, but I can tell she didn't like the order. I retrieve Mathilda from her holster, gripping the weapon as I turn around and leave the desk.
"The office is on the second floor of the west wing, she might be there," she informs me.
"Can we go through there?" I nod to the reception room while asking and her eyes follow to see what I'm referring to.
Her head snaps back and she glares, "No."
Taken aback and uncertain of her harsh reaction. "Why?"
"Just… no," again, her words are firm and still refuse to give any indication of why she's so abhorrently against the idea of going through that room. Maybe there's something in there? Zombies? Something she doesn't want to see? Changes in mood swings can often be expected from someone who's gone through a deal of trauma and in Madeleine's case, it's must be that there's something in there, because if not, the only other assumption I can make are that her reactions are mood swings. I'm not quite sure what I did wrong otherwise.
"Okay, I'm sorry. Let's just go another way then," I offer.
Her eyes soften and it's obvious she realizes how she acted. She nods, then turns to the desk to grab her duffle bag. Her grip gives though, and she drops the bag to the ground. Her nose flares and eyes narrow a bit in irritation, but I wouldn't admit to her that I find the look of annoyance surprisingly charming. She leans over to grab it a second time—I cross the distance in a single stride and snatch it off the ground before she can. Her gaze is on me to witness the bag being offered to her in a loose grip. "You didn't have to," she protests as she takes it from me. I hold my arms at my side to keep from trying to help her lift the bag over her head to let it sit against her back.
"I want to help."
Her eyes find mine and I hold in a breath as she whispers sincerely, "Thank you."
Something about how she says that, and then looks at me, flips my stomach straight upside down. The reaction startling me on the inside, though on the outside I remain nonchalant towards her.
At that Madeleine turns and steps from the desk first. I scan the area one last time and spot—a tape recorder? One with a series of tapes sitting beside it on the desk. Maybe somebody used it recently during this outbreak? Would it be foolish to listen in case there's something important on it? Honestly if it's in what I can only presume is her area, it might belong to her.
"Hey… there's tape recorder…" I announce and take a step over—groaning comes from behind me. There's a gasp from Madeleine before she unexpectedly darts off behind the partitions on the floor behind me.
"Hey!" I shout, running out from behind the desk. Afraid to find a zombie in the main hall.
Chapter 26: Chapter 25
Chapter Text
I didn't even consider the fact that he could be a hallucination—or worse—a zombie, when I ran to his side.
A guttural moan was emitted at the sound of me walking up the ramp, a sound signifying his pain. I think I hear Leon say something behind me, but in my gawking, I don't take in a thing he says. I'm unable to with my heart feeling like it's completely lodged in my throat.
I run to Marvin's side when the injured man draws in a raspy breath. His face grimaces like just that alone caused him unimaginable pain. With a hand on his left side and his gaze focused upward from where he lies on his back on the leather couch. He begs, "Claire, I told you to—"
I kneel beside Marvin, all rational thought leaving my mind as I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders. Burying my face into his chest, I whimper his name, "Marvin."
The tension in his shoulders only a second ago loosens at the trembling sound of my voice. I feel him shift, and his free hand brushes my side in a way I know he's going to hug me back. But as soon as I realize this though, his arm crumbles to the couch in a useless heap. He's too weak to lift it any higher.
"Madeleine…" he uses my real name. It seems all of them picked it up after I told them the truth. "You're still here? I thought you might've left for real," he resorts to speaking. Tone sympathetic and mournful at his inability to hug me back.
Footsteps scurry, scuffing against the dirty floor as I pull away from the wounded man to take in the fading color in his dark complexion as he barely manages to sit up in his seat.
"Madeleine!" Leon shouts, I look at him in astonishment at how scared he sounds. He runs to us, "What's—" he trails off at the sight of Marvin. Hands covered in blood, now limp by his sides, the stomach bandage I'd seen him wearing in my hallucination yesterday now lies on the floor beside his left leg, seeping a small puddle of coagulated blood. Dark speckles line his short sleeve, even the badge he used to routinely clean off is dirty. His abdomen though... His intestines are visible, quivering with each shaking breath he inhales. Irritated skin puckers up around the gray and red matter of his intestines and stomach as rivulets of dried blood cling to his dark skin. Marvin takes in a deep breath, face scrunching up in an expression of unimaginable pain.
If I weren't so overjoyed to find him awake and cognizant, I'd be nauseated at the grotesque sight of his abdomen's perforation. Parts of my brain fight with each other, wanting to know what caused that wound, but are too afraid to ask despite already knowing what caused it.
"Lieutenant?" Leon breaks the silence. He holsters his handgun and comes over to kneel on the other side of Marvin by the weeping bandage.
He says nothing in response at first, "I thought you were told not to come in?" The seriousness on both men's faces tells me the words were not to be taken lightheartedly. His brows twist together and he frowns, "I guess it doesn't matter anymore since you're already here," he stops to glance my way, guilt in his eyes.
"Can you move?" Leon asks, patiently waiting with bated breath for something bad.
Marvin shakes his head. "No, I can't. And don't try to help me either."
My brain doesn't want to accept what caused that wound. Or why it looks so much like a bite. The side of myself that's clinging to any shred of hope he'd let us help him deflates when he refuses. There's a scoff to my left and the other man shakes his head next, "I don't understand. What's going on? What happened to this city?" Leon demands. I don't have to look at him to know he's stunned at Marvin's refusal for help.
The older man shuts his eyes to shake his head again, "It all happened so fast. People started getting sick all at once and then by last week they were dying by the dozens. Then all in one night, the dead began to raise. Overran us pretty easily… S.T.A.R.S. tried to warn us what was happening and who was behind it…" he stops, panting. He eyes me, and then Leon's eyes are on me next. "We wouldn't have even made it as long as we did if she hadn't told us how to handle them," he informs the rookie.
A half-deranged look flashes across Marvin's eyes then. It's then I notice the trickles of sweat running down Marvin's face now. I stand to press the back of my hand to his forehead at the beads of perspiration.
"Marvin, you're burning up!"
He chuckles humorlessly, "Am I? I'm so cold right now if I had the energy to shiver I would. S'pose I finally get to know what it's like to experience slowly dying of infection," he slurs.
Infection? No. It can't be, I shake my head. Denial is a very strong thing, "We have to get you out of here."
"Madeleine—"
"No! I… I can't leave you behind!" I interrupt, panic in my chest as reality crashes down on me that Marvin is going to die. That not long after he'll come back as another bastard creation. Good men like him… they don't deserve this. Nobody deserves this. "I can't… I can't lose you too," I sit down, absolutely defeated, hiding my face with a hand as more tears come. This is really about to be goodbye to the last person I knew in Raccoon City, isn't it?
"I said no goddammit!" he yells, face barely darkening with exertion before losing its color as fast as it forms. He softens when I jump at the outburst. Panting heavily, "Y-you can't, Madeleine. I got bit by one of those things and if I'm sweating this bad… it means I have a fever. I can't have much time left." His words are final. He's showing the signs, just like I'd told him about only a few days ago.
I hang my head to force in a shuddering breath to regain my emotions. Throat swollen with the overwhelming need to continue crying my heartache aloud. All I manage to reply is, "Okay," as I accept that there will be no goodbyes, no funeral, and no one to remember who he was except for Leon and I.
A heavy and bitter sigh escapes Marvin at my defeated tone, he turns to look at Leon now. "You need to get out of here, both of you," the order is more of a plea. "Redfield's sister Claire came here, I sent her to find some medallions Elliot had been searching for and she'd managed to find two of them until that crash occurred... She found the last one not long before you came in and went through there a few minutes ago," he points to his right and our eyes move.
The goddess statue is raised higher into the air, and an open entryway to a flight of stairs resides below it. The medals sit in the open slots in the plaque, it looks like Rita's rumors turned out to be true. "I thought Rita was just trying to mess around with that rumor…" I tell the two aloud. "Where's Elliot?" I ask when the thought comes to mind of the officer.
Marvin shakes his head, "He's dead."
"Dead?" my jaw practically drops, "I just saw him… I just saw him only a few hours ago." I whisper pathetically, wishing, and regretting not finding him and getting him into that van with Kevin. Did I single handedly sentence another person to their death through my decisions?
"Listen to me, okay? Go through there, hopefully it'll lead out of the station," Marvin tells us and Leon nods in agreement, before standing—Marvin somehow gains enough energy to grab his arm and stop him from walking away. "You have only one order tonight, rookie." He grunts through gritted teeth, "I want Claire out of danger, but keep her safe too," he begs, referring to me. "She's a good cop, she's stubborn, she's done stupid and rash things and been a pain in my ass since they transferred her to me from S.T.A.R.S., but get her out. She doesn't deserve to die here… please. Help me save at least one person in this godforsaken city," tears run down his cheeks now.
I can take care of myself. Are the words I want to say to the two. Taking care of myself is how I should be, how I have always been. And right now more than ever I want to be able to act according to the strength I know I have. I can defend myself like Umbrella has trained me to do, but the longer the words sit in my mouth, unused and dissolving, the more I accept the truth. The injuries I sustained from that thing last night, the starvation and dehydration I'm experiencing, and the hallucinations all of yesterday make it improbable for me to survive alone.
I say nothing. No solutions come to me of how I can escape. Not even my own brain wants me to attempt something so disastrous. So stupid .
The rookie nods and swallows, most likely nervous at the gravity of Marvin's words. "Of course, Lieutenant," he agrees, his firm voice hiding if he is indeed nervous or not. He finally stands, reaching over to help me do the same seconds later before he stops. Letting me do so myself as shoving him away only minutes ago has clearly left him hesitant to try again. I wipe my eyes and nose in that time before standing myself.
This is goodbye.
"Madeleine," Marvin whispers, "I gave something to Claire for you… It's about…" his eyelids droop until they're shut and his head falls back onto the seat before he finishes the sentence.
I balk, "Is he…" not yet. Not before I've even left the room…
Leon's pressing his middle and index finger against Marvin's pulse point before I finish the question. He shakes his head, "No. He just fell asleep, he'll probably be out until…" he never finishes the statement because we both know: at any moment Marvin could die and come back as a zombie.
"He gave something to Claire?" I whisper to myself, but loud enough Leon could hear the question.
The rookie crosses his arms, "She mentioned something about it before she took off again. I didn't realize it was meant for you," he confesses, and I timidly side eye him for a moment.
Shutting my eyes, what was it he was going to tell me it was before passing out? What does Claire have that's important enough I need it? I give up after thinking on it for a few seconds, having no clue what it could've been."Let's go find her," I blurt, not wanting to be near Marvin anymore. I can't afford to break again tonight.
As we step into the staircase Leon takes the lead like he said he would and we quickly enter a circular room with a floor and walls that plainly escaped remodeling. A mahogany desk sits across from us, cluttered with papers, and to our left is a replica of the police station sitting on a marble top with marble statues of a lion and unicorn to our right. It was like something straight out of a black and white movie, the art deco flooring had to go back to the days this place was an art museum.
Shelves filled to the brim with books line the walls. Shelves that are devoid of any dust. They've been cleaned recently. I've never seen this room, nor has anyone else in the station as far as I can tell based on how many scoffed at Rita's rumors. Was this place used in secret then? Leon shares the same thoughts as he sifts through the papers on the table, eyes skimming the pages. "For being a place no one knew about, somebody did. This room's been kept clean and these documents are recent… Wait," he picks one up and eyes it closely.
It's much cooler here than in the main hall. Goosebumps rise along my skin and I shiver from both the air and my damp clothing. Pulling my jacket tighter over my chest, I cross my arms suddenly at the innate and acutely aware remembrance that my ribs were still hurting too bad to wear a bra. And between the chill and the wet shirt…
I distract myself from thoughts about that with noticing how Leon's uniform is wet too, but not nearly as much as my clothes are. He focuses on something another one of the papers says and I take a step forward—grating can be heard and the floor vibrates beneath my feet just slightly. By the time we turn around, the exit to the main hall has disappeared. Separating us from the station as we leave that and Marvin behind. Panic overwhelms me at the claustrophobia. I hate the dark, but not as much as I hate being trapped with no exit. Fear grips my chest and I feel like I can't breathe.
He must've said something to me, but I didn't hear it from the blood roaring in my ears— "Hey!" Leon's hand is on my shoulder and he forces me to turn around. For the hundredth time tonight alone, tears are close to shedding from my wide eyes as both of his hands land on my shoulders now. He levels his head with mine, "Are you okay?" he asks with his brows drawn together. I don't answer him, the suddenness of his actions have startled me.
I'm inattentive to his hands on my shoulders at first. Until their warmth is evident, and the softness behind his fingertips gliding over my jacket is impossible to ignore. My eyes lift to see his hold a seriousness behind the tender and concerned look in them. For some unknown reason, it makes my stomach flip as they linger on mine. I can smell some kind of cologne on him too that I hadn't caught before. Of course, I haven't let him get close to me long enough to have had the chance to detect the subtle scent.
He shifts closer and my breath hitches, it's enough our bodies are only a foot apart. Though his intentions are nothing like that, my body heats up and a blush spreads across my face. Being closed into this space is forgotten at the feelings rushing through my body. I drop my eyes in case he can detect whatever emotion is evident in them.
I don't know this feeling. Is this normal in a person beyond the tightening of a stomach from arousal?
"Are you okay?" he breaks the tension growing inside me with his voice and I keep my head down, unable to find it in myself to answer— "You gotta talk to me, okay? I don't know what you've gone through in this city and I can't begin to understand. But if we're going to make it out alive, we have to be able to communicate and trust each other."
I nod quietly, knowing full well he wants a verbal answer. Biting my lip, I notice his eyes drop for a second to them and the attention causes me to release it from my teeth. I look away, "I'm fine. I…" taking a shaky breath, "I don't like being in enclosed spaces."
He nods, "Just try to breathe, Claire's already gone which means there's another way out."
It's quiet as I recuperate from the panic, processing the logic in his words. His hold on my shoulders becomes comfortable and unpredictably, I feel myself relax into the calm his presence creates. I actually lean into his hands wanting more, desperate for human contact—until my skin crawls at the thought of Irons and the feel of his hands grazing over my body. Or the thought of Rita's hallucination, grabbing my hand, promising me escape. My stomach takes a sickening turn. Don't touch me, don't promise me safety you can't give . A scared voice cries in my head and I lift my hands to swat his away as I step back. Realizing the harshness of my actions too late as he stares at me with wide eyes. Unable to figure out what he did wrong to receive the reaction towards him for the second time in minutes of meeting tonight.
"I'm… I'm sorry. I just don't…" I can't find a way to tell him I don't want to be touched, or why I don't want to. That I'm not purposefully batting his hands away, or shoving him out of spite. I don't want an aversion to his contact, not when he's the closest I've come to being near someone for longer than mere minutes in the last two days. All I want to tell him now and even back at the desk was, " I don't mean to. I've been seeing things, and the only reason I even ran from you is because I thought my mind was playing tricks. " How do you say that to somebody though without sounding completely insane, and worse, completely unreliable? He'd never trust me to handle myself, let alone to possibly not kill him with his back turned.
"I… understand," he promises with a slight pause, the look in his eyes is the only proof I need of his confusion. My stomach sinks in regret that I can't be honest with him. Not anymore than I already have been with giving my real name, a decision that I don't know if I'll ever come to regret. At least I didn't give my last name, as long as he doesn't know that…
He takes a step back, "If I have to touch you. I'll tell you before then, okay?" he proposes and I nod in appreciation to the thoughtfulness behind it. The panicked part of my brain doesn't let its guard down though, irrational that his intentions aren't good and he's not to be trusted. He waves, unknowing of the fight in my head towards him, "Come on, let's get out of here and find Claire."
My attention returns to Claire at the words. To the college student and younger sister whom Chris had spoken of proudly once before the Mansion. He'd told me how she's only nineteen, but together they'd worked hard to raise some money for college debts. How they'd afforded it through him working at the station and her working for the year she lived here at a local movie theater. It was tucked into a savings account to be used at the start of each semester. One that they'd both continued adding to when they remembered, but then the mansion happened. And those additional deposits stopped occurring from his side.
He told us she was going in to earn a degree in teaching. That believe it or not, despite the two siblings being into biking, rock and heavy metal, and everything else that apparently made people think otherwise. Claire wanted to become an elementary teacher for a few years before moving on to earn a master's to teach other college students.
Now she's here. In this city. In complete and utter danger like Leon. Despite Jill always answering her worried calls in August to speak to him, promising he's fine, or saying he's busy and can't talk. She came to find her brother after all and unintentionally put herself in harm's way. I can't let anything happen to her. I'll never forgive myself if Chris's sister is hurt while I'm nearby.
We head for the dark entryway that leads out of the noir decorated room into a small passage with an elevator shaft to the left. "Looks like this is the way out," he surmises beside me, pressing the button to call it. Within seconds it arrives and the gate opens for us to walk through before we descend further into the unknown area beneath the station once he presses a button inside. Even the floor in the elevator is worn, whoever used this room must have been using it for a long time. If not, they weren't the only one to use it. This room's certainly been here since the building was built, unbeknownst to the entire station.
"I don't understand," Leon starts, " Was this place known about?" he asks me, eyes searching mine. I can hear the incredulity dripping in his question.
Shaking my head, then quickly correcting my lack of answering without words. "No. The most I heard was a rumor from Rita, but nobody ever believed it," I answer as the elevator settles at the bottom floor.
His face says he's still in disbelief, "Some of those papers were addressed to Chief Irons," he admits in a hushed tone and looks ahead.
Was that Iron's office? I scoff and roll my eyes. Now it makes sense. Of course it belongs to him. What else is the psycho hiding? Affiliation with Umbrella, undoubtedly being the one chaining doors around the station like the one in the east and west wing… Leon eyes me curiously at my response. I meet his eyes, and the words escape before thinking it through. "I think you're going to learn a lot of things about this city and the people that you won't want to."
Chapter 27: Chapter 26
Notes:
Should I consider it a victory to have this update posted so early today? Well, either way. I hope you all enjoy it and are basking in the amazing presence of Leon.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There's no light beyond what little the elevator shaft provides, and Leon has to use his flashlight again to even see where the elevator has taken us. I regret leaving mine on the main desk and wish the path hadn't shut behind us so I could grab it.
He'd ignored what I'd said a moment ago about Raccoon, and the implication of the corruption going on in it. It doesn't bother me though, I suppose if I had never been through that mansion, I'd be right there with him.
Leon shines the light around, showing the area ahead is made entirely of concrete. A staircase leads downward, straight into an abyss of blackness. "Stay behind me," Leon orders and steps out while I absentmindedly glare into his back. Until I remember Marvin's words and the fact I'm injured, that he's not treating me like I'm weak, but instead like...
I'm injured, weak, whatever you call it. He's looking out for me, so I don't do something stupid like even Marvin's said I have done before.
It hurts to think of him right now, the acknowledgement of his death is so fresh. But I do so anyways, and immediately in the middle of my chest is a pang. If only I could prevent his death... Make it so I'm the one who will die, because out of anyone who deserves to suffer that way— It's Umbrella who should suffer, not me. Not anyone else, but them. I didn't shoot myself because of that reason: remember it.
I spot the metal railing and rusted bars with a walkway in the middle, it adds to the unnerving feel of the new location. This place is… creepy. Beyond that. It's admittedly downright terrifying. I've never been here before and something screams at me that this place is more than just a hidden area for Iron's when he needed to relax.
It's soundless besides our footsteps as we make our way down the stairs. Neither of us speak and I think it's more out of tension than anything else. Wanting to be able to hear something and because we're too busy looking around, discovering a part of the R.P.D. that was hidden well out of sight until tonight.
We pass some turned-over construction cones as we descend to the next flight of stairs. A gate sits open in front of us beside an emergency fire hose, the red light sitting above the container's door is still going. "She might have gone through here," Leon mutters, sounding like it was mostly to himself, but the words echo loud and clear through the stairwell. He stops off the bottom step to a small landing and focuses his gun out in front of him as he slowly steps out in front of the door. Lowering the gun and switching off the light, "Let's check through here," he looks up at me, a glow on his face that says there's light in the corridor.
Descending the last few stairs, he continues through the door with me only a step behind. The clunking of machinery and the heat it gives off are heavy in the air. The warmth is a welcome change compared to the freezing cold everywhere else we've been so far. Pipes and metal grating of the walkway make up the majority of the room, and as we round a corner—something metallic clatters against the lattice above us. Accompanied by a growl that's human and abruptly cuts off into… Something that definitely isn't human.
"What the hell is that?" Leon asks, and instantly we're both on edge. Our guns are out as we stare upwards.
"I… I don't know," I admit to him, and our eyes find each other's with shared looks of worry.
He scans the doorway into the darkness behind us, "Maybe we should find another way?" he suggests then. The fake bravado is heard, but even if he let on that he's scared. I wouldn't blame him. "Whatever it was sounded pretty big."
I purse my lips. Yeah, it definitely did, but… "I don't think there's another way out of here," I level with him. Begrudgingly advocating for us to keep moving forward in the new area despite the growls we just heard.
He looks up one more time, "Well… whatever that thing is. If it jumps out, we'll just run, okay?"
I nod nervously, not sure if I should tell him about the lickers and how that won't be an option if we come across any. "Okay," I agree, for now. He turns around and leads us forward again. I continue inspecting the surroundings around us, quickly finding that besides the grating above us. There isn't any way to be ambushed from the sides thankfully. Unless whatever it is that ran through decided to barrel straight ahead without any qualms of being fired upon before reaching us.
Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse with the zombies and lickers. There's another monster down here, and by the clunking from the grates as it ran across them and that noise. Just like Leon said… It's big.
Marvin told Leon about S.T.A.R.S. and mentioned the zombies. He even told him that I tried helping the station throughout the week, but he didn't tell Leon that Umbrella's behind it all. Does he deserve to know that at least? If we're going to work together to make it out of this city alive, the rookie needs to know what's going on. Especially… in case I die.
"Leon," I start, and he stops, seemingly surprised at his name on my lips. Maybe even that I'm speaking without him making initial contact. "There's something you should know."
The sound of the machinery dwindles the farther we are from it as we've almost reached an entryway into what looks like a more open area. He nods, pursing his own lips in a debate to stop and listen or keep walking and wait. He chooses the latter, "We'll talk in a minute," he says, "I don't like whatever we heard, it could be close by."
Hopefully we don't come across whatever before I tell him.
The balcony wraps around a corner with a walkway leading to the left, but we continue straight over going through there. As we round the corner, I look below us to find a maze of pipes and more dated machinery that release puffs of heated steam every couple of seconds. The temperature in here dropped by a few degrees and is much cooler compared to the corridor behind us. What is this place?
Leon stops in front of the doorway when he realizes I'm not following, "Madeleine?" he calls, and I look over—time goes by in a blur as a figure drops down into the room behind him. I take a step back as he whips around to face whatever's in front of him. A hand finds its way cupped against my mouth in horror and disgust—"Jesus!" Leon shouts as it stands at a towering height above him. He blocks a portion of the lower body, but I can't miss the large, grotesque, and mutated right arm of whatever is in front of him. It glistens with some substance, a distorted black and red pulsating sinew of exposed muscle and bone can be seen, but the disturbing part isn't either of those. It's the bright yellow eye bulging from where the shoulder's socket is that makes my mind go blank. The ginormous pupil inside not regarding Leon in the slightest, it's trained solely on me.
It's another lab freak like the Hunters or Chimera.
The thing charges Leon before either of us can react in our states of bafflement, and I see the face. A pale human face of a male with the right side covered in slimy muscle with bright blond hair, and the tattered remains of a lab coat: a scientist. Could he be someone who worked for Umbrella? My mind tries piecing the idea together in the chaos.
It doesn't matter who he was though as its other, remarkably more human hand, grabs Leon's bullet vest. The rookie trips over his own feet in his rush to back up, and the two go down. The monster dwarfs Leon even just kneeling over him as he lies on the floor and my brain sputters, shoot. SHOOT. It's going to kill him!
I raise my Glock, but where do I shoot? Its head? Its arm? That eye looks like a more than convenient place to fire, but what if it just pisses it off even more—"Madeleine! Help!" Leon yells, staring up helplessly, and the thing roars. Lifting the mutated arm over its head and I see the iron pipe clutched tightly in its hand—I squeeze the trigger and fire a bullet into its chest. My head roars in protest from the head injury at the loud gunshot, but the shot does nothing, and my biggest fear comes true as the monster lifts Leon by his vest. Smashing him into the grate in response, denting the metal with the force of contact. Only to lift him up a second time and crush him against it harder.
There's a shout from the rookie each time his back and head hit the metal. All the while I stand locked in place with my gun trained on the creature as Leon's slammed into the grate again—the metal gives and both collapse to the floor in a monstrous groan and a sharp cry. I regain the function to move then, yelling at myself, you've seen monsters like this before. That Tyrant in the mansion was just as terrifying as this thing, as was the licker. Why do you keep freezing? You can't let another person die!
I know why, but as I drop to my knees and peer down through the open platform to see the thing stand while Leon is sprawled out on his back with his eyes closed. I realize I could care less at the moment. Either the fall or the bashing has knocked him out and has left him completely vulnerable to being attacked. "Leon!" I call out, the sheer terror of him being hurt worries me as much as the thought of that thing harming him anymore than it already has.
It's one of the stupidest decisions I've ever made, but I know I have no choice. I jump down beside the sleeping man, seeing no other way to him that's close enough to reach him. The throbbing in my ribs returns full swing at the sudden jostle of my chest, but I can't afford to give it attention. I crouch and press my fingers to Leon's carotid to make sure it didn't somehow manage to kill him already while keeping my gun focused on the creature ahead.
It shambles around to mindlessly glare at me, and I know right then and there that I have to get this thing away from him.
I stand, brazenly firing a bullet that smacks into its broad chest, doing little damage. The deformed mouth of the man's opens, and it roars. Staggering me when the growl of an animal breaks off into a human's scream as it clutches mindlessly at the bullet hole.
Taking the momentary distraction, I rush past it and abandon Leon to turn right into the maze I witnessed above. Heavy footsteps plod after, white light and sparks fly as I hear the pipe collide with the metal around it while a guttural groan is emitted. "Wa-a-a-i-i-t! H-h-hel-l-lp me-e-e-e-e!"
I halt in my running, just past a large gap in the maze where a railing and inky darkness sits on the other side of it can be found. Stumbling around, my mind comprehends the words I heard that thing say. Jesus Christ, this thing can speak?
Stopping proves to be a bad idea as it runs with the pipe held up in the air. I put my arms up as if that'll block the devastating blow it'll land as it swings the pipe down at me. It misses by centimeters, a deliberate miss considering how close we are. It grips its skull with the non-deformed hand and drops a knee down to the ground with a frustrated growl. A cloud of smoke comes up from the damaged concrete and I take the second to consider how shooting its chest did nothing, but the eye…
I fire and the squish of the eye being punctured is heard, along with a pained groan.
As if disturbing whatever subconscious fight the thing is in. It grunts, and unpredictably swipes the pipe to the left and trips me. I fall hard on my side with a yelp, creating yet another bruise on my ribs. I roll onto my back now, the bag holding my shotgun lays beneath me and I consider that if I could just get away from this thing long enough…
"Madeleine? Where are you?" I hear a muffled voice call my name: Leon. He woke up.
And my vision blurs—
—The sound of his voice distracts me, and I miss the pipe being lifted up over me. It crashes down into my ribs so hard there's a crack. At the spitting up of blood from my mouth and inability to breathe, I know multiple have been broken, and one has punctured a lung. The swing might've even ruptured a few internal organs in its vicious landing.
I gasp the same time as Leon rounds the corner. He stumbles back at the sight of me in shock and I reach a hand for him in a feeble attempt for help that'll never come because I'm—the pipe comes down again on my skull this time. Hitting and bouncing my head off the concrete, unforgivably caving my skull in on both sides with the battering.
Brain matter and blood paint the ground below my head. There's a weak slip of breath in my throat, and my hand falls to the ground, still in a lifeless reach for help—
I don't have time to answer his anxious searching though as the pipe lifts over me. I yelp again and roll to my left, dodging what would have been a very fatal blow that would have dented my skull in. "Madeleine!" I hear Leon's footsteps now and gratefully look up to see the young man standing at the far end of the platform with a wild look in his eyes at the scene. Never in my life have I ever felt so happy to see another person in front of me.
His eyes are torn to the creature hovering over me, and he raises his gun. "Run, Madeleine!" he shouts and fires.
I scramble to Leon's side, "Ma-a-a-a-adel-l-l-leine!" we hear the shriek of my name. Ending with a gargled, "Don't sho-o-o-ot!" and then another scream of pain.
"It talks?" Leon asks, dismayed. The gun in his hand shakes a smidge.
I don't answer the question though, "There's no way we can beat this thing with our guns," I tell him. My mind is unresponsive to my name on its tongue in an act to not think about it. The thing heads our way now and the metal pipe drags on the ground. Sparks fly every way from the contact and we both pivot, sprinting back to where they fell to put some distance between us and it.
Panting, "I-I can't keep going," I admit with an arm wrapped around my chest as the dull ache is now an unignorable throb. The chase from Leon earlier and now is hurting too much to keep going this hard.
Gripping a corner for support, we stop moving and his hands lift to touch me. But then withdraw as he remembers my previous reactions. It becomes quiet in the room besides our breathing and the machines. It does nothing to calm the racing of my frantic heartbeat though. Like I learned in the mansion: quiet never means safe.
"It's gone," Leon whispers, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand. He checks the left walkway and returns to in front of me to check the right, "Where did it go?" he grumbles. I take a chance to catch my breath and grab my bag to unzip I to retrieve the shotgun from inside. He eyes me wearily, and is the first to react, "That thing can talk. It… it said your name—"
And now I have to come to terms with what just happened. It did say my name, and I have no idea why. "Maybe it's smart enough to recognize stuff like that still," I suggest, but I don't believe it. I don't know what to think of that revelation besides the fact some creature of a man I've never seen before in my life is trying to kill us and has enough remnant of humanity to talk. "I don't think it's gone, it could be hiding," I tell Leon and step out from around the corner in front of him with my shotgun raised—the creature drops down between us suddenly, knocking Leon back and grabbing my shirt in the confusion and leaving what feels like thick mucus on my chest and shirt.
I gasp when it drags me forward, narrowly avoiding tearing my shirt as it drops the pipe from its monstrous hand. Said hand comes level to my mouth next and a large flap opens to reveal a weeping hole of mucus in its palm. Something I can't see begins to squelch from within—its head cracks forward as a pipe is swung against it. "Get off her!" Leon yells and I realize he'd hit it with another smaller pipe he must've found lying around. How do you like that! is taunted in my head as Leon drops the pipe from his hands then, and its hold of me releases.
I drop to the ground, staring up and shaking in wide eyed terror as it grabs and then swings its own pipe wildly against a pillar behind it. The hit is so hard it causes a ladder leading to the balcony above to plummet to the ground.
Something was about to come out of that hand and more than likely go into my mouth. Infect me. That's what might've just happened. After all the things I've seen that's what it had to be trying, but with what? And Jesus, what would I turn into?
"Hey!" Leon's at my side now, forgetting his promise for now to grab my arm. Yanking me off the ground with him into a path to our right. Every other time my body has protested his contact, but right now at the possibility of death, it's needed. His presence is the only thing keeping me sane in this fight.
When I stop, jerking away at the last second, it's not because of him. "Wait!" I shout suddenly, shaking from that thing attempting whatever it tried on me. But I can't allow that to stop me, and right now I'm thinking about the railing and the drop beyond it. If we could lure it… it seems fixated on me.
"What're you doing?" Leon shouts back, in disbelief at my refusal to follow.
Looking over my shoulder at where the thing is still gripping its bleeding skull and bellowing another long roar of agony. "Oh, my go-o-o-o-od!" the ending of that word almost demonic with the anger sewn into its throat.
I breathe and point to my left where he can't see but I can. "There's a railing over there, I'm going to lure it—"
He doesn't like that and cuts me off, "Are you crazy? You could be knocked right over with it!" he objects and steps closer in response. Grabbing my arms in a tight, but concerned grip, "We can fight it—"
"We don't have the bullets," I assert, and I know deep inside he understands this.
His eyes flit to the thing and he lets go, taking a step back as he comes to terms with the idea. "I'll come around this side…" he gestures to the path behind him. "… you better still be there," he warns, but there's more panic in his voice and those unsettled blue eyes than anything else. He turns and disappears around the corner. He doesn't like the idea, and I'll admit I don't like it either with just how many things could go wrong, but we're left with no choice.
This thing has to be taken out this way or we're going to die trying.
"She-e-e-e-ery-y-y-y!" it yells out another name now, dragging me back to reality and out of the conversation.
Pivoting, the hulking mass stalks forward and I fumble with the shotgun to send a blast point blank into its stomach to stun it. The skin tears open with a jellied substance leaking from the rupture that resembles nothing of organs or blood. The smell of putrefaction and metal from the wound reaches my nose and if I weren't threatened with death, it'd make me sick to my stomach. It stops advancing, long enough I move into the correct path and start walking backwards to the railing.
"Sto-o-o-o-p!" it pleas a second time, doubling over for a moment and causing more of the vile liquid in its abdomen to leak before righting itself. The shotgun never lowers, and my grip tightens as it growls and the stalk swiftly turns into a limping run. The pipe it used as a weapon is forgotten in a whole new surge of being pissed off, and then some.
My breathing is ragged, sweat forms all over my body, and my legs shake. Then the thing does begin to run properly now, fervid and hellbent on getting me. "Mad-d-d-del-l-l-leine!" it shouts, and I realize too late I can't duck out of the way in time—a hand flashes out from the corner of my eye and snatches my wrist. Pulling me to the left into a hard, yet welcoming chest as the shotgun is dropped and clatters to the cement floor.
I grip the vest beneath my fingertips as a harbor as hands instinctively wrap around my waist and shoulders. The cologne I inhale with a deep breath tells me it's Leon and the tension in me dissipates. The creature who had almost killed us tries to stop running, but the weight of its body makes it strike the railing. With a feeble half-human scream of, "Hel-l-lp me-e-e-e!" it topples over the ledge and into the dark.
Panting loudly, the realization hits me: Leon saved my life. If he hadn't grabbed me and pulled me out of the way that thing would have taken me over the railing with it. Pulling back, I look up at him with an open mouth and downright amazed expression. "Thank you," I rasp.
"No problem," he answers like the act was no big deal when I had a feeling to him it meant just as much as it did to me. Breathless himself and cheeks noticeably as red as mine feel. He bends to grab the shotgun from where it landed by his feet and hands it to me. "I'm just glad you're safe. It's a little hard to help you escape like Marvin asked when you're…" he doesn't finish. Seemingly mournful at mentioning the Lieutenant's name. Unthought of in the chaos.
I take the shotgun from him and stuff it back into my duffle bag. We both look over at the ladder at the far end of the path. "Let's get out of this place before anything else shows up," Leon voices what I'm thinking with the same apprehension I'm feeling. He steps forward. Then stops and regards me. "... Are you okay? Or do you need another minute?"
Another minute to rest certainly wouldn't hurt to let the ache in my already formed and newly forming bruises dwindle in even the slightest, but we have to keep moving. It's best we get out of here and find Claire. I'm not going to feel any better from just taking a minute with my wounds. Here's to hoping she hasn't left the station yet. With how long we've taken down here though, there's a very good chance she already has.
"I'm… fine," in less than a minute of calming down, I've found myself reverting to being closed up.
He heard it too, the return to a quiet speaking person. He nods and ever so quietly huffs in disappointment, but says nothing and walks forward anyways. Presumably to give me space that I don't necessarily need. I'm grateful. Grateful that somebody who didn't even know me, and I'd proved to be a nuisance to before we'd even properly seen each other's faces actually went to such a dangerous length to get me out of the way of that monster. Especially when he could've climbed up that ladder while it was distracted with me and left. Like I'd been trained to do if the situation was overwhelming, and it appeared there'd be no survivors. Just like with…
John.
When we reach the ladder Leon gestures to it and I recognize he wants me to go up first. I do so without a complaint, steadying myself on the rims. I climb up, hoping this place has an exit and I'll never have to be here again.
Leon's a second behind me when I'm on the balcony. Standing and wiping a hand across his forehead while I wipe the mysterious mucus off my chest with a look of disgust. The heat of the room and that thing bashing its pipe into its surroundings caused dust and whatever else to fall. His cheeks, and I'm sure mine as well, have a fine layer of sweat and grime on them. "If that thing didn't kill us, I think the heat in here might have," he comments as he walks ahead, retrieving his gun from where he'd put it in the thigh holster. I'll wait a minute to take mine out, for now, we should be relatively okay.
"What…" he gazes over his shoulder at the quiet and unfinished question. My eyes meet his from where they'd thoughtlessly been staring at his back, noting the broadness of his shoulders. The way his police shirt and dirtied, white, long sleeve is a little too small, clinging to him tightly. Allowing me to observe how taut it is on his arms. He's fit, there's no doubt about it. Fit, but a combination of lean from how deftly he was able to move by that thing, but also bulky because of the muscle around the rest of his body. A perfect combination. A perfect what? I ask myself at the unprovoked thought.
A heated feeling buds in my body at this discovery, determination, and the way his eyes watch. He knows I was… well honestly at this point I was staring.
Tearing my eyes from him, another blush forms in my face. Shit. What the hell am I doing paying attention to something like that? Especially in such a dire position? "What're we going to do if we don't find Claire?" I ask as a distraction from the awkward exchange.
His eyes move forward as we climb a set of steps to another office. "I don't know. If she isn't here, then all we can do is worry about getting out ourselves. She seems smart, I'm sure she can handle herself." I say nothing, but in reality, I want to scoff. I was trained to be a soldier for over half of my life, and I've still almost died numerous times to these monsters. He may have faith, but I don't… Please don't die, Claire.
We step out of a small room onto another catwalk dangling several feet in the air above the ground, "Can I ask you something?" Leon prompts, his eyes back on me a second as he steps off the bridge. I nod hesitantly. "You said you're a part of S.T.A.R.S., right?" and my eyes widen in response to the question, I wanted to talk to him about that before we were attacked. Seems he had his own agenda too by asking first, "Marvin said you all tried telling this city the truth, then you mentioned there's things about this city I won't want to learn. What do you mean? What happened exactly?"
Oh god. That question. He wants to know what happened in this city beyond what Marvin told him. I'd been prepared to tell him what occurred in the mansion, but the last few days in that station…
When he checks over his shoulder again as we approach a small locker room. He stops at what can only be a worried look on my face. "I know you went through a lot, and I don't exactly mean to pry…" he trails off, clearly upset. Running a hand through his hair, "Honestly, Madeleine. It's taking just about everything in me right now to not panic about what we just saw in there." He's panicking a little bit, regardless of saying he isn't, but I say nothing towards it.
I look up at the ceiling, going over in my head how to even start. How to tell someone who just walked into this mess everything, from the beginning in July.
Boring a hole into the handle of my holstered gun, "Bravo team went missing on an investigation in the Arklay forest for an entire day. Alpha team was sent out around nine the next night to find them… almost everyone on Bravo team was slaughtered by these… creatures we'd found in a mansion we'd been led to."
"Led?" he picks up on the use of the word.
Nodding with an unexplainable sorrow lodged in my throat and heart. "The captain of the team, Wesker, he was working for Umbrella and had led everyone there to basically be used as test subjects against their creations… we found zombies there," my eyes lift to Leon's, and I swallow at the reaction it causes in me. "They'd made a virus, but it was accidentally leaked and had infected everyone in the building. So, when we got there…" shaking my head at the echoes of growling in my mind from that first zombie I'd encountered.
"Everyone died," he answers for me, shifting awkwardly on his feet.
"Thirteen people walked into that forest. Six people walked out."
"Fuck," he whispers, like the information is horrible enough he doesn't know what else to say. "Umbrella…" he whispers the name, linking the company with this ever-growing puzzle of deceit and loss. "What happened to Wesker?"
I remember exactly what happened to that bastard. How Barry was blackmailed through a threat at his family's safety. How Wesker told us that S.T.A.R.S., and not just me, were a means to an end. Guinea pigs against the Hunters and Chimera, the zombies and Cerberus, and because his betrayal wasn't enough. He told them who I was and my treachery against the team, even though hours before then I knew couldn't hurt them.
I remember the moment he unveiled the Tyrant and all the documents I'd read by then came together. A stomach-churning understanding of that monstrosity being a human test subject made a hate I'd never known for Umbrella take root in my body. The second that Tyrant's claw shattered the tube it resided in and that overgrown claw punctured Wesker's stomach… something in me changed permanently for the better.
"He got what he deserved," the tone dark and clear of what I mean. His brows furrow at the husky answer that shows no remorse, but I'm sure he understands that if he were in our shoes, he'd feel the same way. "I'd hoped the destruction of the mansion was the end, we all hoped so. It was too late when we realized it wasn't," I admit to Leon sadly. "Irons disbanded S.T.A.R.S. within days of you being hired actually. Raymond brought me in to work in his precinct then… I guess we would've worked together at some point," I lie to ease the somber mood between us. Knowing that had things gone very differently and according to the plan, we would've never met properly at all. But he doesn't have to know that though.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes, "with that and the city…"
I can't… "I don't… I can't… talk about this anymore." There. At least he knows what happened to S.T.A.R.S. and who was behind it. All without finding out who I am, that in some ways I'm no better than Wesker. Even after everything I went through with that team after we escaped, I'll never be able to erase the entire reason I was there was to ensure nobody lived through the night.
He raises a hand to scratch the back of his head, knowing he unintentionally overstepped his boundaries. "I get it. I won't ask any more questions," he promises.
I lick my bottom lip nervously, finding it dry and cracked. I need water, when's the last time I had more than a few drops at a time? "You…" his hand drops to his side, watching closely, "You did nothing wrong. You should know what happened," I reassure.
At that we leave behind the faded green, dusty walls of the locker room. Coming upon another ladder with a manhole at the top. "Here, let me go up first this time," Leon offers and climbs the ladder before I can protest. I pout quietly, I'm not incapable of doing anything. "It's safe," he announces after scanning the area the manhole leads to, grunting as he lugs the heavy cover up and over onto the surface above us. He climbs up the rest of the way, my chest starts heaving as I follow suit. To my surprise, he kneels, putting his hands out for me to grab my waist when I near the top of the manhole myself before I can say anything.
The reaction I have isn't one I expected though. Saying his touch on my waist goes unnoticed is a lie. Goosebumps raise when his fingertips graze the curves of my body before actually grabbing my sides to help me up the ladder the rest of the way.
He's just helping me, that's all this is.
So why do I feel nervous, why does my skin tingle where his hands are? A feeling no other man has inspired in the miniscule brushes I've made with them. As I fall back onto my butt when I'm out of the underground, I'm more out of breath from him than the climb up.
I give the area a once over as I catch my breath from the energy the short climb stripped from me. My eyes growing accustomed to the darkness inside—the parking garage?
Examining the police cars, and the peek of the gate from behind Leon's body as he stays crouched over me. I find myself completely and utterly… stumped. "Hey," I look up, to see his brows furrowed again the longer I whip my head around to his, in shock. "Everything okay?"
Swallowing, it's just another surprise. An underground passage the chief had access to that connected to somewhere else in the station has gone unnoticed all along. How many times had I walked over the manhole, or looked its way and brushed it off like I did with so many other unimportant things in the building? While that place existed only a few feet beneath?
My brows knot together, and I open my mouth to answer, "I'm—"
The click of high heels interrupts my reassurance and makes us turn to see the barrel of a gun pointed unwaveringly right at us.
Notes:
Cheers to the books first boss fight! I remember how hyped I was when I wrote this all these years ago. So glad it still holds up after all this time. I hope you guys liked it too 3
Chapter 28: Chapter 27
Notes:
To anybody reading in the U.S. I hope you had a very happy 4th of July last week!
Chapter Text
I open my mouth to say something in a panic to stop the offender from shooting—Leon reacts faster than I do. Yanking me hard between his knees, against his bullet vest clothed chest with his left arm, raising his right with gun in hand. "R.P.D. Lower your gun, now," he barks at the assailant, arm wrapping tighter around my back.
"Put yours down first, Officer," a woman speaks with a lilted voice, the click of heels echoes the garage once more. My mind is a flurry of confusion the longer I'm pressed against the rookie's chest in his act to protect me from being shot. I hear ruffling of clothing and a whiff of air, "F.B.I," she says and though I can't see, the agency's name sounds a bit like a sardonic taunt to Leon.
F.B.I.? Wasn't the city sealed off? Leon and Claire managed to get here themselves, but that was purely by mistake though. It doesn't explain why only one F.B.I. agent is standing here with us, and not a battalion of soldiers. Soldiers that are most likely still guarding the perimeter of this city in case people try escaping.
His arm stays wrapped around me with his gun raised for all of two seconds. Then it lowers, and I'm released from his tight hold. Slowly, I peel back and inch my gaze upward, taking in the curve of his throat and how when he swallows, his Adam's apple bobs. The action results in a timid swallow from me next, why does being this close to Leon feel weird compared to other times in our short span of working together?
Leon's blue eyes are on mine suddenly, he's anxious. I find myself unable to breathe right despite his worry as he gives me a once over and then stands. He faces the woman, and my gaze falls to the ground, my thoughts a complete mess. "I was afraid you two were zombies, it was after I aimed my gun that I realized you weren't," she explains. I use the excuse of examining the agent to ignore the unrecognizable thoughts in my head.
I observe her sunglasses immediately, a tan trench coat lined with black buttons covers her body. There's a fashionable gray and white checkered scarf tucked into the coat against her collarbone. The thick sunglasses make her eyes impossible to view. I bite back a bitter laugh at them at the recollection it gives me of Wesker's. Then I see the black tights and matching leather gloves and black high heels, topped off with fine black hair cut into a bob. Her bangs are tucked ever so slightly behind a lens. Is her favorite color black or something?
"Sorry," Leon apologizes, and her lips turn into a frown as he crosses the distance to the mysterious woman with a hand out to shake hers, "We've been through a lot, I wasn't sure if—"
She turns and starts walking back toward the gate, my brows scrunch up in skepticism. She's dressed like an agent I suppose. I wouldn't know from never seeing one until now. Since most of my time in the later years of captivity was spent in tactical gear. I'm guessing the noise I heard earlier while my face was practically shoved into Leon's stomach must've been the sound of her showing off her badge. I'm still confused why she pointed her gun at what had to be two obvious humans, not zombies. But I give her the benefit of the doubt, for now. If she just got in, she probably doesn't know much about these things.
"Hey!" Leon drops his hand, his shoulders in a defeated slump as he calls and trails after. Leaving me behind to stand by myself, "Can you at least tell us what's going on? What's the F.B.I. doing here?"
The woman doesn't even stop when she says, "'Sorry, that information's classified," and passes a row of construction equipment left next to the jail cell's door.
"Where are you going?" Leon asks and she stops as I wipe more dust from my face while walking over myself. A large S.W.A.T. van is stalled in front of the two pillars that lead to the jail cells, blocking the rest of the way.
"I was on my way back from searching for the key when I saw you two," I notice she doesn't answer his question. "I wasn't able to find one though. I thought I'd pull some of that clutter out of the way instead, but it's too heavy for me," I approach the two cautiously. Eyes narrowing on the back of that woman's head at the way she's speaking to us.
A hand ends up on my hip as we all stare at the vehicle for a few seconds in silence.
She takes a step forward and puts a hand on the side, "We should be able to move it together," she turns just enough to eye Leon. Her gaze creeps to the unaware officer and she smiles, but something about it isn't genuine. It's a look I'd seen a woman give to her boyfriend once so he'd get something for her while I was buying clothes in a store…
"Could you help me… Officer?" I don't miss the short pause before saying the title with a honeyed voice. I haven't missed how everything is referred only to Leon. I don't think she's acknowledged my existence since aiming her gun at us.
Is she… flirting? No, I doubt it. This isn't the time or place. Although, I hardly even know how to pick up on that with how little experience I have with it.
"If we put the van into drive and someone steers it, that'd make pushing it out of the way easier," Leon suggests and then looks over his shoulder at me. "Madeleine, do you want to?"
She turns around with him and the smirk on her face morphs into a frown. Damn, even with one and those sunglasses on I begrudgingly have to admit to myself she's beautiful.
Crossing my arms over my chest, "I can help push, she can steer," I propose instead. Having an urge to prove I can hold my own. I've been in situations like this before in terms of injury and was expected to succeed. Or die. Maybe I can't make it out of the city by myself, and maybe I'm not at my strongest, but something in me just wants to prove I'm not useless.
He shifts to face me more, "You're hurt though."
"I can do it," I say more firmly, biting my cheek. A part of me happy he cares enough to at least point out why I shouldn't be doing something so strenuous, but still annoyed. "Besides, she's in heels," I point my hand at the pair of pumps she's in. She looks down at them now, the frown on her face still there. Skepticism is in me that of all the types of shoes she could've worn, she came to this city in heels.
There's a short exhalation and I know he's sighed in disappointment. I can tell from his expression he's worried I'll end up hurting myself. I could, but he could too, and she definitely might if she pushed with those on. The van is huge, and heavier than anything we should be pushing.
The woman decides for us, walking to the door and getting into the driver's seat as we eye each other wearily. "Ready," her shout is a distraction as he hesitantly breaks eye contact. The van leisurely rolls forward, veering to the left as Leon steps to the right side of the vehicle. I watch as he struggles just slightly to push it forward and I swiftly join, shoving my back into the middle of the doors to avoid irritating the bruises. It doesn't entirely alleviate the stress of the van's heavy weight though and as a result, my face scrunches in pain as a silent whimper is heard at the strain.
I push my cheek into the door and bite my lip to muffle myself. When I lift them, it's to find Leon's eyes on me then. Watching, lingering, before he moves his head, pressing it into the metal as he heaves the van the last few feet forward with hardly any of my help.
"Stop," I hear the woman shout and the vehicle lurches as the brake lights come on and the van is parked. I sit down and gasp, a hand wrapping around my stomach.
How strong is he? The uniform gives no justice to the muscle hiding beneath it.
He kneels, "Hey, are you okay?" it seems like he's asked me that question alone about a dozen times by now. I just nod, regaining my breathing while my face burns from the exertion. Echoes of my relieved gasps bounce around the concrete walls as the van door opens.
"Thank you," she nods, as I slump against the doors. The lack of water and food hitting me hard with the energy spent trying to move this van. I try to stand finally, my knees shaking too much.
Leon's still kneeling in front of me, "Can you stand?" he asks quietly. I spot the woman eyeing me from the corner of my eye with an unreadable expression because of those damn glasses.
I lower my gaze to his eyes and nod.
"What're you looking for exactly—" Leon cuts me off before I can attempt to answer him and stops himself at the click of her heels walking away. "Where'd she go?" he grumbles, eyes on her as she walks to the door for the cell block. "Hey! What're you doing?"
I had an inkling we were moving this so she could get in there. There wouldn't be a point if it wasn't for her to gain easier access. But this place was abandoned after those who came here to take care of the infected left. What could possibly be in there that an F.B.I. agent is interested in?
My stomach clenches from an emotion I don't know then. I'm more irritated than I should be at getting blown off by the rookie for the other woman. A woman we've known for all of five minutes. At least that's what I've been told this is what it's like to have someone do that to you.
She stops and turns around, a smirk lifting the corner of her crimson lips. My thoughts are most likely written across my face, so, I sheepishly look at my feet to avoid the eye contact. Cursing at myself for allowing her to cause the reaction. The sweetness to her tone earlier has disappeared, "I'm surprised you two made it this far," and my eyes snap up to her blank face with an impatience in them. You have no idea just what I've survived.
Apparently, she got the reaction she wanted as she takes a small step towards us with agitation in it. "Now do yourself a favor: stop asking questions and get the hell out of here," her words show signs of annoyance now, no doubt at Leon's pestering. She turns away and struts through the door to the jail cells with ease.
Wouldn't an F.B.I. agent want to help civilians escape? Why is she dismissing us like we're unimportant?
I stand still. For half of a second and then I sigh and prepare to head in the other direction. Deciding in my head it could only make sense a government authority is here, but not willing to rescue us—Leon heads for the cell block, "Hey! I'm not done talking to you!"
I freeze right where I'd turned, and just like that, out of nowhere. I find myself almost seething with anger at his reaction. Maybe it's at the stranger and the way she's speaking to us so rudely, while also hinting here and there at flirting with Leon. Maybe it's also the way it's so obviously working on him too. The near death I'd experienced multiple times with that thing below, and the constant treatment as if being made of glass are all building up my frustration. My brain argues it's because he's trying to keep me safe like he was told and has enough care to do. Even though I saved his life after being knocked out by that thing. He saved mine too. I grumble at that because it's true.
I take another step forward, debating on letting him go his merry way after her while I search the station for Claire…
Groaning, I spin around and run to catch up to him. In what feels like a feeble protest, "Leon, what about Claire?"
He doesn't halt at the name, but there's a rigidity to his shoulders like she hasn't left his mind for one second. "We'll look for her in a minute, I want to know what's going on with that agent and why she's here."
There's a small rumble in the ground and the ceiling shakes, letting loose a cloud of dust and some rubble. It isn't a force that makes us stumble or trip, but it's strong enough it stops us both in our tracks as we hear it. A crash most likely, or god forbid another explosion of something nearby. When Leon continues on, I disregard whatever it is and pursue him through another door.
"She's F.B.I., I'm sure she can handle herself if she made it all the way here okay. She's sounds like she's not even going to rescue us though, and Claire could be in danger right now…" the objection dies on my tongue as we enter the cell block, finding it just dark enough to require a flashlight. The low groaning is what quiets me, the hair-raising rasps, and throaty gurgles. Confirming what I'd been unable to, those officers never did put down the people they brought in here. Leaving them in here to rot for all this time as everyone around them died.
Leon turns around to face me at the sound of them, "I know she could be in danger, okay? We are still going to look for her, but right now, there's an F.B.I. agent with answers that I need to get," he reasons. I bite down on my tongue at the fact that she's acting pretty odd, looking in a police station's cell block of all places for something and ignoring the two officers she came across.
What exactly could he possibly ask her about this city that I couldn't answer for him, and haven't already? The gnawing in my stomach seems to worsen the more questions I ask, prompting me to stop asking them altogether. I don't know what's going on with me, or why I'm acting like this.
Passing the occupied cells and disturbing the zombies standing in them as they moan. Leon dodges back as one shoves an arm through the cell door, teeth gnashing as it flails its decaying hand in an attempt to grab. A second arm reaches for us from behind Leon that makes him jerk forward. "Christ," he whispers when he settles.
"The doors are locked, they can't get us unless we're too close," I tell him, and we continue on. There's no light throughout the entire passage, yet we spot a glow from just ahead around the left corner.
"Why are there so many bodies anyways?" Leon worries as we pass the arms reaching for us in blind hope. I think the first two spooked him, they certainly managed to scare me.
"A few officers volunteered to keep an eye on those who were infected. We'd released the prisoners in here on that first night to make room," I explain, eyeing the rotting and bloody hands grasping at air. "I tried telling them how to take care of them once they passed… I don't think they could."
I can tell he's partially listening and partially scouring for that woman to see where she disappeared to. "Well… let's just be glad the power being out didn't release them," he replies. We round the corner, the smell of cigarette smoke hits us and a plume can be seen escaping one of the largest cells in the area through the metal bars. Somebody's alive in here?
A masculine voice pierces the quiet and riles the undead behind us in the fruitless pursuit of an unreachable source. "Hello?"
The man we come upon in the cell is sitting on the cot. Though relaxing is not how to describe him with the shaking of his leg as he impatiently stares in our direction, waiting for us to come into view. Leon's walk sees a small change in pace, "Hey," he responds and sidles in front of the cell's door.
Astonishment and a borderline crazed gleam enter his eyes at the sight of us, a wide grin splits across the man's face. I notice the unshaven and stubbled jaw, the brown jacket with a long blue button up underneath, the sleeves of each are rolled up to his elbows. The blue jeans and brown loafers, topping the ensemble off with brown hair long enough to be pulled back into a ponytail. He's wearing glasses and I catch that something is hanging from his neck: a parking garage key card.
He stands, excitedly walking over to the door now, "I can't believe it. A real human." His voice is that of pure joy as he grabs a bar and takes a step that would've been considered too close to the door, and Leon and I, a few days ago. Judging from his appearance and the look in his eyes, he's been down here awhile, but why? "Hello, human!" he takes a long drag from the cigarette.
"Ben?" his eyes are on me now and the look of recognition of my face is evident on his. I tilt my head to the side and a confused crease forms between my brows. He's the reporter for the Raccoon Press who interviewed us in the beginning of August. He was always getting himself into deep shit with the department and around the city outside of that interview from what I've heard. In the months after the mansion, he was especially hated by Irons. I think Ben and Katherine's relationship being leaked was more to blame. Irons' obsession with her staying close to him in her last days makes more sense now that I'm putting pieces together. "What're you doing down here?"
His smile fades away, "Irons put me down here about a day ago when I came looking for Katherine. Have you seen her by the way?"
"Her father brought her here before this all started, but Irons took her somewhere a few days ago and never came back with her," I answer honestly and there's mourning in his brown eyes. Stepping closer, "Why did he put you down here though?"
Ben takes another drag from his cigarette, then flicks it away to leave it burning on the dirty floor of the cell. He shrugs, "Probably because I was about to blow the whistle on his dirty ass…" he shrugs, "Or maybe because I was just dating his half-baked interpretation of a niece. Who the fuck knows with him?" He pauses for a moment, "You're one of the S.T.A.R.S. members," it's not a question. "You didn't want to interview like the others did," he informs Leon more than myself, "guess it wouldn't have mattered, would it? Not with Irons firing you all within weeks of that."
"No, it wouldn't have," I answer dejectedly.
"It's Madeleine Sówka, right?"
I have to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. I never… How did he— "How do you know that?" I step closer to the cell's bars in my demand at the announcement of my real name. Knowing I gave him the fake name Umbrella assigned me. Forgetting the rookie to the side who is now staring at me, and is very confused by my outburst at hearing what sounds like a simple question directed at me.
Ben eyes Leon vigilantly before fixing his gaze on me. He gives a lighthearted laugh that's so good it's nearly indecipherable that it's fake. "Because… I interviewed you… remember?" he coaxes, like he's trying to remind me. Don't give yourself away if he doesn't know the truth, jackass.
Crossing my arms, his words unsettle me. "I am. Y-yes."
"Can you get me out of here?" Ben asks suddenly, "I haven't eaten in days, and Irons didn't exactly give me the five-star treatment when he threw me in here."
Leon's face is blank as he interjects before I can respond. "I'd have to talk to the chief first," and my jaw does drop that time, baffled by the answer. Furious at the idea he'd trust anything that comes out of the chief's mouth more than what I've told him, or he's already figured out about Irons corruption.
Ignorance sure is bliss. Glaring at him, I don't know how the hell Ben figured out my real name and what that could mean about him, but… "Wait a second. We can't just—"
"I'm not letting any prisoners out without orders. He could be dangerous—"
"I'm the one who had the initial prisoners released. And I've been living here longer than you, I think I have the right to decide if he can be let out or not," I fume. Now it's his turn for his jaw to just about drop at my new and unanticipated snarky tone. The anger from earlier returns at such a callous decision. Returning to the previous matter with the promise already made in my mind to get Ben out of the jail cell, "What do you mean you were about to blow the whistle?"
A scoff that travels more through his nose and tells me it was a laugh fills the quiet. "I found out everything about that asshole. You know he's been working with Umbrella? Taking bribes from them? He's who kept S.T.A.R.S. looking crazy after that incident to cover up for the company." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a tape recorder, "Here. I was originally going to use this for an article, or maybe even evidence, but I imagine you'll want to listen to it."
Leon takes this whole ordeal in quietly while accepting the recorder.
"That's not even one of the worst parts about him either," Ben distracts us from our thoughts.
"There's more?" Leon presses this time, awestruck that there's still more to learn about Irons illegal and corrupt matters. He tucks the recorder into a pocket absentmindedly.
Ben eyes him, "There is… He was almost convicted twice in college for rape. Apparently, he got let off because they couldn't believe someone with such good behavior would do it, but I'm pretty sure they said whoever did do it was violent. Like, they carved into their backs with knives. It was brutal."
It's like the floors and walls have turned into a black void and are stripped from me. My throat closes and my heart beats fast at the information, I become sick to my stomach as heat breaks out across my body. The reaction doesn't go unnoticed by either man, especially Leon. "Hey, what's wrong?" his hand touches my shoulder and I jerk back in disgust. Smelling not his cologne, but Irons, feeling not his touch, but Irons, seeing not those worried blue eyes and round face, but the cold threat in Irons that he was going to hurt me in one of the cruelest ways.
I'm glad I broke his fucking nose…
A harsh shudder escapes me, "Jesus Christ…" Ben whispers and my eyes are focused on him. He leans closer to the divide, "Did he…" and the look on my face gives it away to the both of them. He nods now, "I'm sorry, hopefully that bastard is somebody's meal right now," he tries to comfort me with the odd phrase.
Leon swallows and looks away, an expression of shame on his face. Please don't ask about this when we're out of here—
"So, can you get me out of here?" Ben regains our conversation.
I raise a shaking hand to my hip now, "Of course." Although I fully expect to find out where he's been snooping if he knows me as Madeleine Sówka, and not Patricia O'Donnell.
The sound of a thud echoing down the hall interrupts the conversation. Leon and I check, spotting nothing there, but like an instinct, Ben seems to know what it is. He takes a step back, "Oh shit. It found us," he breathes roughly, gripping the bars so tight now his knuckles are white at the disturbance.
It's when he takes a step back and his entire body trembles that Leon speaks up at the omen to something coming. "What found us?" Ben doesn't respond, his face turning now white as he inches towards the back wall of the cell. "Hey!" he grabs the bars, and rattles them to get the reporter's attention again, "What's coming?"
"Ben! What is it?" I demand myself next.
"A tyrant!" he stutters over the word and the blood in my veins turns to ice. How does he know what that is?
Before I can ask another question, something bursts through the wall. Spewing white dust everywhere and clouding what my brain comprehends as, a hand. That's a hand that just busted through that wall like it was paper and not three inches worth of brick. The gloved hand slams over Ben's face, jerking him back into the wall before he's lifted into the air. All the while he screams and claws at the hand to get away. Leon draws his gun, but he doesn't fire. We stand and watch helplessly as the arm cuts a line through the wall of bricks until Ben's dangling at least two feet in the air—
He's screaming now, screaming with abandon as a third dog mangles his leg and tears away the cloth of his pants and also a chunk of his calf. My magazine runs out, but like I can't comprehend this I keep pulling the trigger. Over and over and over.
—And then, with one final hoarse scream, the hand forces his head so far back against the wall I hear the crunch of shattering skull and watch the blood splatter as an eye pops out of its socket.
I gasp and take several steps back in revolt with my hands over my mouth. "Oh my god," Leon blurts out the same time I duck to a corner with a hand to the wall, puking mostly retched bile from my stomach.
Leon's by me a second later. "Hey, it's okay," he assures, even though we just saw what we did and both know that thing might be wandering the building now.
His hand finds my shoulder while the other one rubs my back soothingly as I wipe the saliva and tears from my eyes. Pulling my hair back, it hurts to puke, and my ribs are screaming at me now. It's something I've done dozens of times since July after a nightmare. And yet, right now, I'm surprised I even could with what little is in my stomach.
"'Sorry," I mutter in unexplainable anguish to the man I hardly know for doing such a disgusting thing in front of him within an hour at most of meeting.
Like it was timed, the obnoxious click of heels from earlier echoes behind us in the shadows and the bile burning in my throat dissipates. Leon's hand abandons me to raise his gun, "Who is that?" the abrasive tone that should be there isn't with how his voice waves, as does his hands.
I shakily stand back up as the woman emerges fluidly, strutting with her feminine walk and a frown on her lips. "You can lower the weapon. It's just me," she doesn't sound worried at all though at the possibility of being shot on accident, or purpose. Almost like she has confidence in a yet to be proven fact that Leon doesn't have it in him to do so.
He does as she says and holsters his gun, eyeing me to see my nod that I'm okay before walking over to gesture to the deceased reporter she's staring at. "We don't know what happened. It just… it happened so quick," he explains, face giving it away that he thinks he's gone crazy.
The woman inspects Ben's dead body for a moment, "I thought I told you to get out of here," she grumbles, nodding to the man. "You wouldn't want to end up like Ben here, would you?" the mock easy to hear, I look down with a clenched jaw.
Until my brain pushes past the emotion this woman causes to surge through me. She said Ben's name. "You knew him?" I inquire and her hidden eyes are on me as I walk over. I bet she's glaring at me right now too from the distasteful frown plastered permanently on those lips in my direction.
A hand on her hip, she faces me. "He was an informant. Had information of use to my investigation," she crosses her arms now. "Did he mention anything to either of you before he died?"
Narrowing my eyes. If she is F.B.I. then I guess that really does mean the government knows about the city, but even worse, they're looking for people living here to collect information from, instead of rescuing them it seems. "No, he didn't," I lie, thinking of the recorder tucked away in one of Leon's many pockets. Whatever is on that, I want to hear it first before handing it over to her. Maybe I shouldn't even let him hear it, what if it has anything on that tape regarding me?
Her chin jerks up and there's a disappointed huff that escapes her nose. She goes to leave, giving me a strange feeling of happiness.
Leon grabs her arm, "Hey, you can't keep walking away from us—"
She shrugs his hand off her elbow and steps closer to him as if to square off. Daring him to touch her again evident in her stance, he practically shrinks in a silent apology of stepping over the line. "I don't even know your name," he tries to explain his actions. He puts his hand out, "I'm Leon Kennedy."
His eyes cast my way in that tense moment, and I know he wants me to say my name too like it'll lessen the tension. "Madeleine," I mumble my name. Not wanting to have said it around her at all. I look elsewhere during the admission.
The woman bores at the rookie for a solid minute, not even bothering me a look, I'm sure. Taking a step closer, he gives a small, anxious swallow. "Find a way out. Leon," I don't miss the way she said his name, like a taunt, like maybe he gave his name, but she doesn't have to give hers. "Then we'll talk," she proposes, turning around.
"Name's Ada," is the last thing we hear from her as she turns into the cell block that reeks of decay and now fresh blood.
A breath rolls through me as I stand there a minute in slowly wavering surprise. Something about her name is so familiar, like I've heard it before, but I don't know where. Definitely not in the R.P.D.
I look over at Leon then stop, my gaze hovers over the dead body in the cell. Prompting me to inspect it again now that my need to throw up has passed. His left eye is popped out of his skull while the other is crushed in and rolled up to his forehead. Some of which was pressed in far enough to penetrate the brain and makes it visible from over here. His mouth hangs open and a few teeth are bent inwards from the hand, his jaw looks crooked, broken most likely. Blood is running from his eyes and brain, and will be for maybe another minute before…
"Don't look at it," Leon chides. Standing in the way of the body, blocking my view of the mutilated corpse.
"Nothing I haven't seen before," I whisper, more to myself than him. I see the frown on his face at the truthful statement, only able to imagine just what exactly I saw in the mansion and in this week. The frown tells me it bothers him more that I went through any of it more than it says disapproval of the comment.
Shifting awkwardly on his feet, "Well… still. Let's get out of here, okay? Maybe we can find Ada. I don't feel right leaving her alone," he innocently offers.
My eyes bore into the ground, and I clench my teeth tightly. I don't like that woman. I don't know why either. I've never felt my stomach twist this far into knots before over somebody else in a way that wasn't basic arousal or anxiety. Eyeing the rookie's blank face, "You go look for her then, I'm going to look for Claire," I snap and leave without him.
Chapter 29: Chapter 28
Chapter Text
I watch as Madeleine turns the corner into the dark cellblock. Pissed off enough she doesn't even care I have our only source of light. Aside from the odd demand she gave about how he knew her name of all things, and then yelled at me for wanting to get approval first before letting the journalist out. This is the angriest I've seen her so far tonight since we met.
What the hell was that about? "You go look for her then," she said with strong acidity. Like she wanted to smack me or strangle me for simply suggesting we find Ada. Then she said she'd go look for Claire and I foolishly realized that it must've sounded like I was ignoring looking for her for Ada.
Ada… I don't know how I feel about her yet. She's definitely closed off to the both of us on everything. Any other time I would understand, but not in the middle of a zombie-infested city with other monsters like the one we fought in that underground. She claims she's F.B.I., and I'd like to believe that too after the last hour of hell Madeleine and I have been through in this basement alone.
Giving Ben's body one last glance. "Madeleine!" I shout and chase after her to see she's at the end of the cell block.
She looks over her shoulder, "What?"
Reaching her and ignoring the growls in the cells behind us. I grab a shoulder to make her look at me, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she mumbles, the word bounces around in my head. Nothing. Her reaction isn't nothing, she seemed to be getting better. More accepting of my contact and attempts at communication until…
"Do you have a problem with Ada?" I demand, and I'd be lying if the widening of her eyes as if caught off by the question doesn't inspire a want to laugh. It's best to not beat around the bush though. We're not in a place for this kind of stuff, not that I ever want to be here again after the four long years of high school. Or after what I went through with Grace just to get here…
She shrugs my hand off and takes a step back, "No." I'm unable to read her to resolve if she's telling the truth or lying. Shaking her head, "We need to find Claire, she's probably gone now with how long we've taken," she interrupts my scrutinizing. Just like that she turns around again to leave through the door. I want to let her go, let her get over whatever's made her angry by herself, but then that gloved hand comes back to mind, and I tag along. I didn't see the face behind it, just the hand and arm, but if both were strong enough to move through brick like it was nothing. It's safer if we stay together.
"Hey," I grab her wrist this time and she twirls around with wide eyes again that would match mine if I didn't keep a serious and nonchalant face. I comprehend just how close we are then for the first time since that unknown area when a faint floral scent reaches my nose I hadn't caught before. Maybe because she's still soaked to the bone and it's close to being masked by her sweat. It's coming from her, her shampoo maybe? God, she smells…
Breaking the train of thought right there. I let go of her wrist instantly. Backing up a good foot, I can't notice those kinds of things. I shouldn't be after just breaking up with Grace, and for Christ's sake, there are zombies walking around.
Madeleine's reaction alone to learning of the Chief an dodging arrest in college for sexual assault tells me something happened that should make me sick for thinking that way about her. He did something to her. It's clear, considering even Ben asked, "Did he…" and when I touched her shoulder. She pushed it away. Hard. Harder than any other time she'd pushed me before then, with a look on her face like back on the road that it wasn't me she was seeing. But someone else.
"'Sorry," I mumble, and she crosses her arms, far from angry. She appears more confused than anything, but from what, I don't know. "I'm sorry for grabbing you like that," I apologize, ignoring how my brain won't stop picking up whatever perfume clings to her. Focusing on the awkwardness grabbing her wrist caused. I don't mean to hurt her or make her uncomfortable whenever I put a hand on her. Whether in an intimate manner, to calm, or to help with something, touching is a habit I had with Grace. A habit that's hard to shake and right now it seems like it's going to get me in trouble with Madeleine.
She nods, with a lip between her teeth, and turns around without saying anything to me. "I don't want us splitting up," I tell her, matching her pace easily. "Whatever that thing is that killed Ben, if it finds us and we're alone…"
"I get it," she agrees, leading us to the key card terminal. We stare at it a moment, and as I open my mouth to tell her I thought I saw one on Ben. "I have a card, but I think I left it upstairs along with my car key…"
Watching her, "You have a car? What were you doing on the road outside?" I ask suddenly. Not even thinking the pushiness of my question through before asking it.
She nods, "I guess I just forgot about that with the city cut off... I was… scouting ahead to see if maybe I could get out when I saw you," she admits. Before I can respond and ask if that meant she was trying to escape the station when we crossed paths. There's an echo of some unidentifiable object scraping the cement floor. I turn around with Madeleine doing the same a second later. Caution makes me stand in front of her at the recognition of nails from a dog, just as the panting begins.
She murmurs a protest, but I look at her with a finger to my lips to hush her. "Don't move," I whisper, returning my gaze ahead of me. To a dog approaching us. It doesn't sound healthy, it sounds…
It steps out in front of us from behind a red Buick Regal and I stop. My heart pounds on my rib cage and a sweat begins breaking across my body.
I know the moments its eyes train on me as it growls lowly. The warning echoes throughout the garage while the ferocity in that gurgling snarl frightens me. A German Shepard sits ahead only a few feet from where we are, legs spread in a standoff. But that thing isn't a normal dog. "You gotta be kidding me," a half-groan, half-gasp leaves my mouth.
Red tinted foam falls in foul-smelling waves to the ground, its muzzle pulls back to reveal black gums and flesh-caked canines. Its ears are tattered and pinned back as another imposturous loud snarl rips through its throats. What should be a glossy, black, and tan colored coat of fur is missing chunks of flesh, the dog's collar is still intact. I watch in revulsion as a piece of rotten flesh near the hind leg begins to droop away from the muscle, like wallpaper curling off a wall, with the pink muscle beneath tensing upon exposure. I've seen and smelled a lot of things in my training, but like Madeleine earlier with Ben. I'm gonna be sick.
"Leon?" Madeleine whispers at the noise.
"It's okay," I lie, scared shitless right now. How many monsters are there in this building? Jesus even the goddamn animals are infected.
The dog begins to bark. Wildly, angrily, spittle flying everywhere. It breaks into a run, and I stand there stunned—until Madeleine shoves me out of the way and raises her gun. Two gunshots go off with bullets catching the dog in the throat and chest, the Shepard lets loose a yelp. Flying backwards from the brute force of the close ranged shot, collapsing in a lifeless heap on the floor. She doesn't seem satisfied as she tiptoes over to the limp body, nudging it with her toe.
It doesn't move and both of us let out harsh breaths of relief in an acceptance that it's dead. "So," I sidle next to the woman, my respect for her that'd begun blooming during the fight with that monster below tripling at the marksman skills. "Even the dogs are infected?" I ask as she kneels to inspect the dog's body.
She grumbles, standing up after a minute. "I guess so…" the reply somber.
"What?" I ask when she trails off.
Shaking her head, a mask falls over Madeleine's face to hide the sight of the dog as more of a loss than she wants to let on. "Nothing. We need to get that key card, and hopefully we'll come across Claire on the way there," she plots as we weave through the cars.
A door sits to our left, "What's through there?" the question is innocent.
"The chief's private elevator," the information apathetic as she keeps walking. Not even bothering to turn her head as she innately knew what I was referring to. "I don't want to go there…" and she doesn't finish. In case there's a chance we'll run into him…
That's when it hits me. The city's own police chief raped women in college, maybe more, and he tried something with her too. Didn't I catch a magazine in a gas station in town as I was leaving my first time exclaiming about donations he made to the women's shelter?
Knowing that sends a wave of fury strong enough to make my heart race. Maybe it's a good amount of projecting after the hell Grace put me through when I left Saturday morning, but… My hands shake at the thought of anybody laying a hand on somebody like that. "I understand," I tell her, hoping she'll read into it. See I'm not blind to her fear towards Irons and have a little bit more trust that I won't let her get hurt. Before swearing and berating myself internally in disbelief I denied Ben rescue when he asked for it. I didn't believe him at first until he told us all he'd dug up and how it proved the papers I saw in that hidden office with Irons' name on it. If none of that was enough, Madeleine's reactions drove the point home.
I take a heavy, trembling breath of unadulterated rage as we step through the door into the pitch-black hallway. If we ever come across him, I might kill him myself.
Chapter 30: Chapter 29
Chapter Text
The air is staler and mustier in here, much like in that secret stairwell. For having just entered, the reeking smell is already hitting me. Nothing will beat the unpleasant and revolting smell of blood and rotting flesh in the halls of the R.P.D. though. Something Madeleine has suffered for days now and might not even register anymore. That's how long she's been trapped with it.
I suddenly find appreciation to have had the freedom to experience clean air in the long drive to the city at that thought.
After everything I've experienced in the short time of being here. I'm starting to believe maybe this is life's fucked up way of telling me to forget the fallacy I've had of eventually becoming a detective who solves crimes in a big city since I was fourteen, and to instead settle down in a small town somewhere back home. One that doesn't reek of sewer gases and bodily wastes the way this city did before this. One that doesn't have people eating each other or have monsters that should belong to movies roaming around. One that certainly isn't making me question the possibility of escaping this city completely unscathed and whether shooting myself now would prevent the nightmare of becoming one of those things or losing Madeleine or Claire and shooting them.
The thought of that replaces the burning anger and nauseous anxiety in my chest to the thought of happily shooting Irons to punish him for his crimes. But when it comes to the two women… I don't know what I'd do if had to watch either of them die to one of these things.
An easy existence, in theory, never satisfied me. Considering I went straight from high school to college with the sole purpose of becoming a knowledgeable officer. Loans for which I'm still paying off at this time with the job I'd picked up last month in between graduating from the academy and transferring here. A job that at some point offered more than just money to pay the bills and staying alive. It gave me an escape from Grace and our miserable relationship. What was doomed to inevitably fail the day I told her of the potential interview in Raccoon.
An inkling of where we were heading emerged around then, because she didn't offer the "Congratulations!" or "I'm so proud of you!" I'd hoped for. No. She'd simply laughed. Laughed for a couple seconds like it was a joke only she'd ever find funny, then looked back at me and said, "You can't leave. What will I do with you so far away?" To which I thought the idea was obvious: that she'd move with me and support my decision. It wasn't like she worked a job herself where she couldn't. She'd worked the last year as a waitress and in a convenience store not far from our apartment.
Her behavior took an unprecedented, icy, turn after that. The fighting and berating with her was exhausting. It took a hard toll on me. A weekend away, and one hangover later was all I needed to accept it wasn't my fault at all for wanting to start my life. She'd started off sweet and one of the best girlfriends I've been with, but she quickly turned into an abusive person.
When the call came in from the station, from the woman who sounded strikingly similar to the one in front of me, telling me to stay home on Friday. I almost listened. And as we've crept around the station, trying to find a way out. It's shoved in my face more and more that this is why I should've listened and instead should have gone upstate to visit Mom and Dad.
I couldn't believe Grace's reaction of, "That's great!" when she could see me sitting at that kitchen table, knowing how depressed the information of possibly being fired made me. Five long weeks of hoping, like a devoted and loyal boyfriend of two years should, that she'd be happy for me. That she would express some of the same fucking energy she put towards guilting me into staying instead towards celebrating a new chapter in our lives. It was all for naught.
Searching the basement of an overrun station with no power in the hallway. Zombies, flesh-hungry dogs, humanoid monsters, and whatever smashed Ben's face in like a grape, surrounding us. The thought comes to mind once more that I honestly think I would take this all back. I'd never show for the interview, I'd take one look at the cannibal murder cases in my newspaper, and I'd show it to my friends in the academy for a good laugh. Maybe I'd call Ark and make a joke that he should do some sleuthing in the city to figure out what the hell's going on over there. I'd tell him it sounds like a zombie apocalypse is happening. Without ever knowing just how true that statement would become.
But then Madeleine turns around in the hallway, and those green sorrow-filled eyes focus on me in a way that leaves my tongue heavy and my throat dry. They're a heavy reminder to me that if I hadn't shown up at the gas station, or survived that crash out on the main street. She or Claire might die here. The longer I'm here and we come across no survivors, only the F.B.I. agent Ada, who seems like she won't rescue us anyways. I realize... Nobody is coming to rescue either woman. And nobody is coming to rescue me. We have to save ourselves.
Fate? It seems like it is. Accepted? Unwillingly, but at least I'll save somebody's life. That's more than a lot of others could say. And isn't this is the reason why I set out to become an officer to begin with?
"Leon?" I spot her hair is close to dry now. Mine feels like it is too, our clothes I'm sure won't be for hours. I shiver when I think of that and the cold air in here.
"Yeah?" I ask. The lack of light in the hallway requiring my flashlight again, and at her prodding I take the darkness as an excuse to step forward to lead us through the unfamiliar corridor. Something Madeleine could do herself, but I want to protect her. Be the first to catch a bullet, or god forbid, a bite.
She's quiet as we walk straight and I'm assuming the lack of correction in the direction we're heading in means I'm going the right way. That and the green light screwed into the ceiling with a bolded white arrow pointing to a hallway just out of sight on our left implies as such. Beyond it is a gate that most likely leads further into the basement.
"If I get my car key and key card, we all can get out of here with my car," she proposes.
Rounding the corner, a door sits at the end, and I lower Mathilda to reach my other hand for the doorknob. It jostles slightly, but the door doesn't open, "This the only way out of here?" I ask Madeleine, turning to her.
"Yeah, it is."
Groaning, "Great," I grab my gun again. "It's not opening, and I don't see a keyhole. Is there another way to unlock it?"
She's peering through the window cutout to my left and I do the same. Looking past the protective wire mesh to find a small portion of the room is filled with light. It has to be from an emergency light because past a chain-link fence that serves as a divider, the rest of the room is just as dark as the hallway we're standing in.
"The door is connected to the power, and because it's out…" she starts, staring inside the room.
"We're going to have to turn it back on," I finish.
"Yeah," she mumbles, and her teeth chatter with a hard shiver as her arms wrap around her chest to keep warm. "I think I know how to get there. The only places in this part of the basement are the morgue, the armory, the generator room, and…"
I tilt my head when she stops speaking, "And?"
"The dog kennel," Madeleine finishes, and I understand the apprehension in searching for the power room. The lone dog in the garage was easy to handle. Unforeseen, but she managed put it down. With a speed and accuracy I don't think even I have developed just yet. But the possibility of there being an entire kennel of them? "I can go," she offers, observing my reluctance. "I've dealt with dogs bigger than them before," and I'm reminded of what she's been through.
I still don't like it, or the thought of us separating with another monster thrown into the ever-growing mix. "We go together. The last thing I want is for you to get caught by something and get hurt." She scrunches her brows like my words puzzle her for a reason not even she understands.
"Okay…" she replies with uncertainty and leads us back out into the main hallway. Madeleine tries the gate I saw earlier, having noticed then it was shut. She finds it to be locked now, "Long way it is—" her timid whisper is cut off as we approach a corner to our left by a snarl that causes goosebumps to raise on my arms. It isn't a zombie. Their groans and growls still sound somewhat human. This is…
It's high pitched, sounding as if we disturbed whatever it is. Thus, it released the noise to show we did as a warning and indicator we're in its territory. Without a doubt it's downright one of the most terrifying sounds I've heard all night. Even compared to that thing in the basement screaming for help and Madeleine's name.
Terror elicits the reaction of shining my flashlight ahead down the long hall. Catching a glimpse of a thick meaty leg on the wall as an unknown creature its attached to crawls out of sight. I could have sworn I saw the red and white of exposed muscle… "What the fuck is that?" I nearly shout and there's another screech in response. Madeleine whirls around, smacking her hand across my mouth. Her fingers are firm on the sides of my jaw, but her palm presses softly against my lips in an attempt to not hurt me as she literally shuts me up.
The action baffles me and my eyes widen. For a second, I feel the heat in her hand and notice the nearness in her body. I'm caught in complete surprise by her first initiation of physical contact instead of the other way around…
She presses a finger to her lips and whatever thought pops into my head concerning her closeness is gone in the reminder of our danger. Shushing me again, her eyes say what she refuses to speak: don't talk.
Whatever we saw must've been something she's already come across. Jesus, what even is it? It's leg alone is huge, powerful muscles whose main purpose must be for leaping…
It's best we keep away from it then… Even though we have to walk right into the area it just crawled off too.
Neither of us speak as we tiptoe down the long hallway. The ability to even breathe becomes a labor the closer we get to the corner. Madeleine holds her arm out then, arm suddenly up in a ninety-degree angle with her hand in a fist. Her normal stance of shaking and being withdrawn has disappeared and has now left behind somebody else entirely. The dog in the garage comes to mind once again, it's incredible how fast she reacted. I guess S.T.A.R.S. really was one of the best, no wonder they were their own precinct.
The off handed question of wondering what she offered to the team forms. Remaining on my tongue with the circumstances being too dangerous to speak. She was probably on the team for a while to be this graceful and sure of her steps. Hell, she was probably in the military for a short time too since experience in one of those fields is a requirement to be recruited. Madeleine doesn't look old enough to have been properly released though if she did serve, she's barely over twenty I'd guess.
When I came for my interview, I'd mentioned the team and how impressed I was by their achievements in the short time of the unit being around. Beginning the conversation in which Raymond gave me some background. I could tell he was sad as he gave the names of the current, and deceased, members from July. How successful S.T.A.R.S. was in their missions before then, how they were formed back in '96 and…
And how they'd just added two new recruits in June and July: Rebecca Chambers and Patricia O'Donnell. Of all the names he gave me though, Madeleine Sówka was not one of them. She can't be too new because she clearly was here in July. So, why wouldn't Raymond have named her as one of the new recruits like he did for the other two then? Why wasn't she named at all? Ben knew her by name…
After all this time, I'm still just the slightest curious about how Madeleine and Patricia sounded so similar too. In a way that you can't chalk up to maybe it's just how they sound on the phone—Why does this matter right now? Pay attention before you get her or yourself killed!
Madeleine steps out first, a fluid and sweeping motion of swinging her whole body to the side and forward at the same time. Like she's done it more times than can be counted. I missed that she'd removed her shotgun from the bag as that's what's aiming ahead now. I watch her rack it, the sound accompanied by a snarl from somewhere else. The ghost ring attachment glows faintly in the dark so she can see through it. Moving silently to her right side, I focus the flashlight ahead of her, allowing us to see down the hall.
I see her eyes flash my way for a fleeting second, an acknowledgement of my presence. Her eyes say, "Thank you," and I nod, raising Mathilda myself. Observing the unending tension in Madeleine's body: her shoulders are drawn like a string so tight that when it might snap is unpredictable. This creature has to be incredibly dangerous. She hasn't looked like this with any of the others besides the thing downstairs.
Nothing is in sight. The only thing in the hallway is an overturned shelf blocking the slightly declining ramp. A fix I could make do with no effort, but with something so close by, even just shifting it might be too dangerous and attract the thing our way.
She lowers the shotgun just slightly at a door on our right, my flashlight reveals it as the armory. That would help a lot if we could get in there and grab more weapon or more ammo. She grabs the door handle and twists, but it doesn't give. "Does it work without power?" I nearly whisper the words in her ear, assuming that's why she must have tried.
Shaking her head in frustration, her face in mine. "It's supposed to, but I think somebody locked it…" she stares down at the handle. "Irons made us spread the ammo across the station that first night, and what was left was used to clear out the east wing." Meaning there's no use in trying to unlock it anyways at this point.
We startle when a dog's howl emerges from the closed door on our left and Madeleine's focus shifts now. She steps towards the door and her head turns back, forgetting entirely about the armory now. Her eyes find mine with a grave look in them as if telling me to prepare myself for what lies ahead, and then she enters the room.
The crunch of bone, tearing of muscles, and careless slurping of something being eaten is the first thing we hear.
Then I see it: a creature with red and pinkish muscle covering its entire body, white and yellow around its joints with some spots of fat. Its backbone protrudes with every notch in its vertebrae visible, the feet have jagged claws, but nothing close to the ones its hands hold. I take a step back and my heel scuffs the floor. Expecting the shining of the light to alert the ravenous monster and finding that the noise does instead as it stops eating and looks up. I see the curves of an exposed brain and a tongue well over a foot long extending out of its mouth towards the kennels where I find a lone dog growling.
The tongue darts lightning fast through the slots in the crate. There's a hoarse yelp from the dog as the crate shoves backwards from the force inside before the tongue retracts. A small dripping red mass is curled around its tongue. The dog's heart. That thing's tongue ripped out its heart! Even the blood in every part of my body stops running in unabashed terror.
Madeleine's eyes are on me, intent, and a haunting and unknowing grief to them. The sole communication between us. She undoubtedly sees I'm two seconds away from running because she stealthily lowers the shotgun and presses a finger to her lips again. Shaking her head vehemently as if to say, "Don't run!"
Scanning the flashlight on the ground around us shows several other dogs met the same fate. Explaining why some of the gates are torn open. The metal is bent inwards from a vicious effort to get to the canines.
I see another problem adding to the threatening predicament we're finding ourselves in now though. There was the one dog in the garage and in here I've witnessed two bodies—now three—but there's seven crates in all, meaning three more dogs are loose. With the monster in front of us though, I suppose that takes precedence over the dogs—Crack! Madeleine's shotgun fires despite the lack of light and I startle. Flashing the light on the creature ahead to see without fail that Madeleine managed to hit the brain. Leaving behind a mushed puddle of brain matter and blood.
There's a second screech in the room and her head snaps up along with the gun. I think I hear rustling to our left and shine the flashlight. A second bullet is fired, but it misses the head and buries into the shining wet skin of its shoulder blade. The thing loses its grip and collapses to the floor. I hear her grunt in annoyance as it falls, but she just fires a third bullet. Hitting the brain this time. It crumples under its weight.
Her having military experience? A definite maybe, but working here long enough to be this skilled? Not possible, not if she just joined.
Madeleine lowers her shotgun when we don't hear any more noise in the rooms besides our ragged breathing. "I don't have much ammo left in this thing," she announces, voice still in a hushed whisper, nudging an empty shell beside her boot. "S.T.A.R.S. office might have some ammo left, maybe another weapon," the idea more to herself than me.
"You've dealt with these things before?" I eye the leaking puddle of brain matter and blood by my feet. Taking in the razor-sharp teeth lining the powerful jaws of the creature.
She's deathly quiet, "I managed to kill one," she admits after standing there, gawking at one for too long. "We named them lickers," her attention focuses on me. "They go by sound, not light. They're strong too, they…" she takes a deep breath. "They killed two people right in front of me."
There's a heaviness in her words, "I'm sorry," I tell her, deciding to focus on something else now. "Let's get the power turned on and we'll check there after getting your key card," I tell her, and she nods. Staring again for a lingering second at the crates. I step closer to Madeleine, "What's wrong?" a furrow in her brows and somber glaze over her eyes creates a frown on her lips.
Eyes never leaving the cages unless it's to take in the carnage at her feet. "I had a phobia of dogs after the mansion. There was… a pack of genetically enhanced Doberman's that nearly ran us down. I watched them tear Joseph apart limb by limb..." she must be talking about Joseph Frost. "Their trainer, Tony… he seemed to notice I was nervous around them and would bring me here every so often to prove dogs are nothing to be scared of…" She squats and pulls the collar off the dog the licker had been devouring. "And now they're all dead," she grips it in her fist, angry it appears, and then fixes it back around the dog's neck. A sign of respect and a gentleness to her I didn't think I'd see after she said she had a fear of them. But if she cared enough to put the collar back on… She must've loved these dogs and them being gone is crushing her.
Madeleine stands then, "Let's get to the generator room and get out of here."
Chapter 31: Chapter 30
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
We leave the dogs in the kennel, and I stay on guard for any others as we exit the room. He's leading even though I know he has no clue where to go, having never been here before.
The space behind the crates is littered with bowls and bags of dog food that'll never be used again… It'd be a lie to myself to say I didn't care about those dogs dying. Without a doubt they'll try to kill us because that's what the T-Virus does to anything it infects, but to see them like that. To know they must have suffered a death alone in those crates. Lacking the thoughts and knowledge humans so often take for granted as they wasted away. Unable to know it wasn't their fault for this and they didn't deserve such a painful death…
"I'm sorry about the dogs," Leon mumbles in the hallway in front of me. Peeking over his shoulder long enough to ensure I'm okay.
Shotgun returned to my bag and my Glock in my holster. I keep my arms wrapped around my chest as I shiver. "It's just one more loss," I reply dejectedly.
"You've gone through a lot," I detect the gravity in his words.
We round a corner and take a few more steps before I whisper to myself. "You have no idea," and stop.
He does too at a shutter that's pulled down and blocks our path. "Looks like this is supposed to be opened with a crank," Leon informs, shining the light on a box to our right. Running his hand over a red sign bearing a diagram for the crank and a red circle above with a square hole in the middle.
"I don't know where we'd find that, these halls were never closed." Another ploy by Irons to keep people cut off from places, I'm sure. Might explain why the gate closest is locked in the first place.
"How are we supposed to get through here?" Leon grumbles as I see there's maybe an inch of space between the ground and the shutter. Maybe Irons did try blocking us off, but I doubt he'd think anybody would be desperate enough or have the help to attempt pushing the shutter up manually. I step in front of the metal barrier and squat. Sliding my hands under the dusty and grimy surface of the bottom, I hope there's nothing on the other side to grab my fingers.
"What're you doing?" Leon asks, perplexed at my intentions.
Nodding to the shutter, "We have to get it open somehow, or else we're not getting out of here. Help me," I somewhat order the rookie and he promptly kneels beside me.
The muscles in my biceps tighten, and my thighs burn from exertion after a lack of use in the last few days. If the bruises on my chest could speak, they'd be screaming obscenities at me again after pushing the van and now this. I heave the shutter with all my strength despite Leon's help, in an effort to prove to him and myself that I'm still capable. I grit my teeth to hide the groaning that's more from pain than the frustration of lifting the heavy door.
I stumble back when it's just a foot past Leon's head. My body cries out, and an arm wraps around my ribs, I gasp and sit down. "I can't push anymore," I tell him with a raspy, dry throat. Water would be nice right now. If we get out of here, maybe I can grab a drink from the sink in the backroom.
"I know you're hurt. I don't think you should be doing stuff like this," Leon protests and I wave a hand.
"No, I'm just tired—"
"You've had an arm around your ribs for the last hour. I saw your face while pushing the van," he walks over and crouches in front of me. "Maybe I should take a look at your ribs?"
My heart leaps into my throat at the prospect of Leon's hands touching me and my face becomes hotter than I've ever felt it before. Why? Why is it hot? He's offering to check my ribs, something I'm against entirely and yet…
What would his hands feel like touching there? No. No. I barely know this man. I will never see him again after we escape this city… Why am I getting fidgety towards a simple offer to just check me?
I huff, "No. You don't need to look. I'm fine, Leon…. Just let me catch my breath," I gasp and restrain the vehement reply I nearly gave. For a few seconds we stare at each other in the dark hallway, my ragged breathing is all that can be heard as the ache dissipates. I look down, shut my eyes, and shake my head in frustration. Then I finally give in and voice my irritation from the last hour, "I can take care of myself."
I meet his inquisitive eyes. "You're… you're treating me like I'm made of glass, and I know I'm not in the best condition, but I can do more than just follow you."
He pursues his lips, deliberating on what to say. His lashes fan across his cheekbones as his eyes lower to the ground, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I… I don't know what I'm doing, Madeleine," he confesses. "I just got out of a really, really bad relationship to even get here. I… I left my friend's house this morning thinking I was coming into this city tonight to get yelled at for missing my first day. Not to find everyone dead, and definitely not to find zombies."
Guilt pierces my gut when his eyes find mine. His façade of calm cracks and I can see how burdened he is, "I'm not trying to make you feel like your glass. You fighting that monster downstairs like Rambo tells me you're not—" I look at the ground then, somehow actually managing to smile and give even the smallest laugh at one of the few references I know. Only for it to dwindle quickly, because that series was some of the academy's favorite to play for us over and over again…
"—I'm just trying my best to do whatever I can to make sure you stay safe. I don't think we're gonna find anyone else in this place to rescue, and the one other person I have found besides Claire…" he stops then. Like he doesn't know how to say the last part, "… I don't want to fail Marvin, or you."
I blink in surprise, never hearing words like that towards me before. I turn my face away hurriedly, saying nothing in return. His words play in my head and create just the slightest twinge in my stomach.
Looking at him properly when I feel safe enough to do so. I see the situation from his perspective suddenly. Observing not just a cop, but the rookie I've been referring to him as in my head since we met. A rookie who's not even experienced one proper day on the job. A rookie that entered a city of the dead, and if saving his own life wasn't going to be hard enough already. He's had not only Claire's life thrown into his lap, but mine too.
Dropping my eyes in shame this time, I catch his feet as I do so. He has his white sneakers on instead of the pair of boots I know come with the outfit. Observing that they're already scuffed and filthy from our excavating around the R.P.D. I don't know why, but I quietly laugh then. The sight of his white sneakers completely standing out from his outfit the funniest thing I've witnessed in the last week.
"What?" he asks, brows furrowed, floored by the laughter.
"I don't know why, but your shoes. They just look so out of place."
His eyes gaze down then, confused still, until he notices the shoes himself and nods with a chuckle. No doubt taking advantage of the lightening in the tension between us. His eyes return to mine, "I'm pretty sure I'm breaking regulation right now, honestly."
"Marvin would've definitely given you a warning and made you put the right shoes on." I give the faintest smile at the thought of the Lieutenant, and our short spurt of laughter immediately ends. A tear escapes my eye suddenly at my mentioning of his name and I quickly wipe it away. "You would've liked working with him. Raymond too. They were all excited to have you join the precinct, really. They even put money together to buy you a bigger magazine for your gun as a welcome gift," I admit to him, recalling its state of being locked away in his desk.
"Everyone seemed so nice when I came in for my interview," he tells me somberly, eyes dropping to the ground again in thought. "Too bad I won't get to test out that magazine," he eyes the gun in his hand. "Would be handy right about now… Course, I don't think you guys were planning on an apocalypse for my surprise party either, were you?" he jests with a grin on his face. Trying to joke with me again I can tell, it works as I drop my head and give a hidden smile.
It dawns on me that we've wasted too much time down here. We need to get out and find Claire. I move to stand and Leon does too. "Thank you," I whisper to him when we're both standing once more, appreciating his patience. Recognizing I've not been the easiest to deal with since we met. He just nods, but something between us has changed I determine.
I eye the stairs ahead of us and put a hand on my ribs at the constant dull ache. My belief in our partnership strengthening on some level is reaffirmed when he pockets his gun and flashlight. Then he reaches towards me with his hands tentatively, but I don't feel hesitant when he touches me like before though. The red light from the fire hose container behind us provides just enough light to see in the small space around us.
His hands send a spark of an unrecognizable want right to my gut when one grabs my wrist. His fingertips brush the bare skin peeking past the cuff of my jacket and the other winds around my waist.
"I'm just going to hold you," he assures me, and I don't argue. Afraid that anything I say will be an uninterpretable jumble of words as my brain seemingly short circuits in a way I've never experienced. I'm unprepared again for how his touch makes me feel. If I thought my stomach's tightening at his hand on my wrist or waist in the garage was bad, it was nothing. It's incomparable to his fingers spreading and skimming across the skin of my clothed abdomen, all to keep me steady. Something in my head thinks of it differently though.
My mouth drops open in the dark hall as we take that first step together and my cheeks become hot with a rush of blood. My heart beats fast, while a sheen of perspiration forms across my body, and though my stomach turns, it's not with nausea. I'm dumbfounded as I attempt to understand the fluttering. But I don't… I don't know this feeling.
"We'll just walk up these steps, okay?" Leon whispers in my ear and my throat closes at his cologne overwhelming my nose. In a way that's far from annoying or choking. The smell of it the other few times I've been this close to him didn't have the kind of impact in the way that it's having now. It seeps into my memory, invades my senses in a way, and the way his breath runs across the tip of my ear flips my stomach even harder.
"Okay," the word is so raspy it sounds like I'm out of breath, because in truth I am.
I can't seem to stop a part of my brain that wonders again despite the situation we're in, what his hands would feel like with no gloves on. Going so far as to expand and now add the concept of them on other parts of my body—I huff at the inappropriate thoughts, and he halts on the middle step. Grip tightening like I'm going to pass out, "Do you need to stop?" he asks in a low voice, and I'm shocked to find that I have to keep from shivering.
Shaking my head, "N-no," I stutter, and he takes an unsure step first with me climbing after.
I suppose I shouldn't complain about what this is doing to me. Even if I'm having an existential crisis on figuring out just what exactly it's doing to me. The unknown emotions swirling around my body feel almost like arousal in a way.
Trying to distract myself, I think back to the van. Wondering, why when I was clearly hurting way more then, did he only spare me a few glances before returning his attention to Ada? But now with something as simple as climbing stairs he's helping me.
His hands slide away quickly, and I immediately miss the contact after we climb the last step. We eye the door to the generator room now, "You okay?" he checks. His voice sounds husky, like he's out of breath too. How he is, I'm unsure. I could feel his muscles against my arm. He's strong, just like I figured from the size of his arms from the tightness of his uniform. Something has to be the reason why. I'm just not going to ask.
I nod to avoid speaking. Needing another minute to clear my head. He tilts his with a furrow in his brow like he'd rather I reply verbally but settles for the nod as he grabs the light from his belt and heads for the door.
Following behind him abashedly, the bravado I'd felt mere moments ago when there were lickers nearby is nonexistent now between that and the tears shed over Marvin. In the safety of my thoughts, I admit it was nice to feel strong and sure of myself for the first time… Ever. I think the only time I've come to feel that way is when I found myself on the roof with what little remained of S.T.A.R.S. after having been threatened by Jill to stay behind. They were fighting the tyrant Wesker unleashed upon them. The traitor who was lying dead in a pool of his own blood in the lab below.
In the chaos, I knew I was about to watch them die. And I was going to die myself the second I was spotted by that thing. Then I looked to the left of the elevator, saw the anti-tank rockets that Brad had thrown down to be used, and I sprinted with a vigor I'd never known before. There was a feeling of heart stopping terror for the first time in my life at the thought of people I cared for being annihilated by the monster that had once been human. That had been transformed into what it was by Umbrella.
I dream about it sometimes, vividly remembering throwing the weight of the rocket launcher on my shoulder. Before kneeling, targeting the creature in its roar and screaming my voice raw over the helicopter propellers, "Get out of the way!" and firing—
"Hey," Leon's voice interrupts the memory, and my eyes meet his from where I'd been gawking at somewhere random in the room. Even in the darkness, I can make out the cornflower blue. Can see how focused they are on my face. I spot the hand he's using to hold the flashlight up.
Furrowing my brows, "Yeah?"
"Just making sure you're alright," he answers, and I find myself appreciating the honesty. The fact he cares enough to continually check on me. Maybe he's just worried I'll lose my mind on him though.
I scan our surroundings now, catching the clanging of our shoes on the metal grating below us echoes in the room. "Careful, don't trip," Leon warns at the discovery of thick, black wires strewn across the floor in our path. To our left is a small stand loaded down with clutter and an orange box with electric parts. The sight jogs my memory about the technician who was supposed to come in. Something happened to the clock in the clock tower, it wasn't ringing right and there was a concern the beam holding the giant bell inside had a crack.
The dust finally gets to me for the first time in this place, I sneeze abruptly. Leon's shoulders shake with signs of laughter, "What?" I ask quietly, uncertain what's funny. Considering where we are, how exactly he could find anything funny?
"You have a dainty sneeze," is all he says, and I tilt my head in a perplexed manner. Are sneezes… cute to some people?
We turn the corner of a chain link fence and see light ahead. Leon clicks the flashlight off at the sight and tucks it into his belt before returning to a regular stance of holding his gun up. More litter is shoved into the corner on our right with a moldy tarp thrown over it while some machinery is to our left. In the opposite corner of the litter is the generator.
"Looks like we found it," Leon announces, sounding about as relieved as I feel. "Maybe it'll turn the lights on too," he steps in front and his gaze flickers to where the door sits in front of us beyond the wire mesh.
"Hopefully. I imagine holding the flashlight gets tiring," I jest.
He eyes me with a look that says what I felt earlier. Something between us has changed. It's no longer as stressed and feels more vocal, more trustworthy. Knowing this has occurred should upset me. I can't allow feelings of whatever kind of attraction he's causing inside me. But if we're going to make it through tonight, we have to become comfortable and feel safe like this around each other. After all my years in captivity, and the hours alone in this building. It's relieving to meet a stranger that I can tell gives two shits about me.
Leon grazes a red switch in the generator, one of the four waiting to be flipped. "I don't even know what to do…" he admits sullenly.
I examine the switches and the hands in the meter. "There's two red notches," I point to each one, stepping into Leon's space in the movement. "Here and here."
"So… maybe the switches need to be flipped in an order so those hands fall into those spots," he guesses. It's the only assumption I can come up with.
He grabs one randomly and flips it up. By some miracle he's already picked the correct one because it sends the first hand skyrocketing into the red notch. "Okay, that went better than expected," he says aloud to himself. Evidently more focused on the generator than anything else around him. I think I hear growling and whip around, peering into the dark, snagging Leon's attention from the generator. "What?" he questions and the longer I go without speaking, "did you hear something?" he turns away, reaching for his gun.
"I… I thought I did," I admit, the longer nothing appears though… "Maybe I'm just really paranoid," I counter my own concern.
He turns around with a finger hovering beneath a switch, "Just keep an eye out, with those other three dogs still missing this might attract at least one of them." Leon flicks another switch, finding it's not the right one. "So, you were in S.T.A.R.S.?" he asks suddenly.
"Yeah, I was there for a while."
He flips a second switch. It too isn't the right one. "Raymond told me all about the team the day of my interview. He didn't really tell me much about July…" his hand hovers on the last switch as he meets my eyes. I'm sure he can see in mine the look of hurt at bringing it up. "There was a woman sitting on the steps outside of the station one day…" he leads on. "That was you, wasn't it?"
"Yeah... it was," I answer. A weird feeling at clearing that up with him. Not in a bad way though, almost in a way I couldn't honestly describe.
"I guess I figured you must've been because I could see your unit's patch and all on your shirt. But I wasn't sure, there's a lot of people in this station, you know?" he reasons, and I nod. "Do you…" he stops to think his question through. "Do you know what happened to your teammate, Patricia?"
I press my lips together, fake a story. "She died," I lie smoothly.
He nods sadly, buying the words with ease. "Guess I should've figured… You two have really similar voices is all. She's the one who called me and told me to stay home originally. I thought she was you until you gave me your name," he clarifies. And it takes everything in me to not fidget nervously and stay stone still like Patricia O'Donnell did exist. Like she was a separate woman who made that call to him and died sometime this week in an unknown fate in the R.P.D.
He flicks the last switch out of nowhere. Whatever he had on his mind answered and spoken, for the time being. I have to be careful though in what I tell him, one wrong sentence and the lies could be unraveled. And if that happened well before either of us were out of here and I had to come clean…
I blink and look away as a loud buzz goes off. The lights above us are brighter than they already were and in front of me in the rest of the room it's no longer dark. There's a noise behind us and I pivot to see the blaring red light above the exit door has turned green. "It's unlocked," I state with a sigh adjoining the words.
"Looks like it."
—There's a metallic pop, and then a thunderous clang on the floor. Our eyes tear over to the walkway.
I hear the nails scratch the concrete before a dog turns into sight, barreling straight for us. I'd stupidly holstered my gun and unlike with the last dog that had given me a chance to retrieve my Glock, this one's running too fast.
Bang! The dog trips as the bullet Leon fired catches its shoulder.
Hurrying to the collapsed dog, I put a foot down on its neck. Holding it there as it snarls and thrashes under my hold while I retrieve my gun. Aiming it down, I fire a bullet into its head, barely acknowledging the recoil as a hole is torn into the canine's eye. Spewing vitreous jelly, coagulated blood, and brain matter with a fleeting cry of pain.
A few tremors roll through me as I keep the gun pointed down. Mourning yet another loss added to what seems like an immeasurable pile.
Thankfully no other dogs appear, and I remove my foot from its throat. Five police dogs down, two left roaming around god knows where in this basement. Regarding Leon, "Let's get out of here."
Notes:
I hope you're all enjoying the story so far! Did you like that tension on the staircase? Leon's sure asking a whole lot of questions now too!
Just want to give a little heads up that I am officially into my third trimester and am starting 30 weeks in a matter of days. Babies sure do love to come whenever they feel like it so if randomly I ever stop uploading for a long stretch of time, just know I am far from finished on updating this book and have not abandoned it! I might just have a little human that I have to care for and am unsure how much time I'll have for editing and uploading chapters.
Have a great day, and I look forward to next week :)
Chapter 32: Chapter 31
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Stepping out into the hall and finding it lit with the restarted generator provides relief and safety. A kind you never know could exist until it was lost. Though the latter is something I've never truly had and neither of us feel entirely right now. I allow myself to experience it a little in Leon's company. Since at any moment we could be separated, or…
No. I don't want to think about that.
We've only been working together to stay alive for maybe a little over an hour, but he saved my life when that creature almost took me over the railing with it. He also pulled me against him when Ada had pointed her gun at me, and numerous times he's led the way even though he has no idea where he's going. I think it's more to do with him taking anything that comes our way… To protect me.
Thinking about the last part. Wondering if Leon is willing to be hurt or even killed to keep me safe…
I watch his back for a second time, where my eyes drift down to his legs and then rise to the back of his head. Maybe it's just me, but I've seen the outfit on Kevin before and never did I think of it as much until now with Leon wearing it. It seems to fit him, maybe not in size, but seeing him in the uniform feels right. Something I never felt whenever I wore mine.
I shouldn't be thinking it, but the thought pops into mind yet again that he's attractive.
Rolling my eyes, why do I keep returning to that? "Is this the morgue?" his question is a needed distraction.
Leon's eyeing the door as if debating if the room should be checked when he pulls me from my thoughts. "Yeah," I tell him, "but it's probably best we leave it. They were still bringing bodies in here until the day this started, any of them could be zombies."
His chin jerks up in a half nod in the morgues' direction as he scrutinizes the now threatening door, "Okay."
Claire crosses my mind again at that moment. We've taken so long I wouldn't be surprised if she found a way out of the station by now.
We're about to pass the shooting range when I remember the Glock is low on bullets. With the armory locked, the possibility of there being a possible small stash of ammunition in here hits me. We won't be able to find her if we run out of bullets. "Wait," I announce, and Leon stops a few feet ahead, "I need ammo, there might be some in here," turning my head from the door to him. "I'm gonna check… There might be something in here for your gun too," I half-heartedly tempt.
His eyes glide to the door and with the consideration made. "Alright," he agrees, and we enter the shooting range. Empty shells are scattered across the floor and to our left are the stalls with targets hung in the air some ten feet ahead of them. Waiting to be used. A wait that will remain permanent.
The memories of being in here with Rita return at the sight of one partially destroyed: the colored black head riddled with bullets.
I'd fired a few shots, per her request to see how well I shoot. Despite the lie I came from the army and my short lived work in S.T.A.R.S. I'd purposefully missed a couple to throw her off, "You'll get better. Don't beat yourself up," Rita never once made me feel bad for the shitty aim.
I laughed at the reassurance, not admitting to myself at the time how I appreciated her uncaring response toward me missing a target. Doing such a thing too many times in the facility would mean I'd stand there, firing round after round until I hit all the vital parts of the target that'd maim or kill. Doing such a thing on Rockfort would get me a smack in the face. Sometimes they were hard enough to bruise my cheek and dared me to screw up again. Depending on the guard, they'd punish with a punch.
There was only one time I fought back on that island. Not long after Ryan died when I'd been pushed so hard, and I was assigned with one of the guards who eagerly punched errant trainees. I was suicidal, wanting to end it all then and there. Praying that pissing the wrong group of guards off would result in such…
. . .
The dirt is still soggy from the earlier rain. One of the reasons why I kept screwing up during the knife training. I'm shoved to my knees in front of this hour's commanding officer whose name I don't know. "Officer Dickhead" is what I called the monotony of guards circling this prison, keeping us here.
I stare at the ground, pretending my subservience to both men beside and in front of me. But inside sorrow and agony fester like an untreated wound, a wound that only grows worse by the day. And after Ryan's death three weeks ago, I wonder if it will eventually consume me.
Maybe it already has, because only ten minutes earlier I snapped on a guard overseeing my training. Grabbed the same pathetically bony wrist attached to the hand that caused the now swelling black eye on my face. Watched his eyes widen in surprise that I could be as strong as him, and I twisted his arm around his body. Pulling his back taut to my chest and hearing his breathing go ragged at the turn of events.
Everyone in the yard had stilled then. The trainers, the guards, the others training, even I had. Unsure of what I was doing, wondering if I had gone mad to pull this stunt.
But then I retrieved the knife from my holster. I'd jammed it with all my strength and fury into his back with a sickening slice. Reveling in how he cried out in surprise. Gritting my teeth like an animal because I was—am—sick. I am tired. I'd snarled into his ear menacingly and tauntingly, "How's that for attack and defense?" before retrieving the knife with a sharp yank. Releasing his arm and letting him stumble forward a step or two, then lifting my boot and driving it hard into his backside so he could fly and land in the mud.
Whether he would die or not I don't know. The act landed me a hard-driven butt to my head with another guard's gun and they dragged me off to where I am now.
"What'd this one do?" the commanding officer demands.
"0714 stabbed her overseeing guard in the back with a knife while training—" he stops, and suddenly large fingers are weaseling into my hair. Gripping both the strands at the base of my head and the ponytail just below. Jerking my head back so I'm forced to confront them with my eyes. My lips turn into a grimace and my hands are tied uselessly behind me. "He's been taken to the infirmary, but we aren't sure if he'll live," he delivers the information with a monotone voice. Like he could care less a man he worked beside had died, not when it came to the punishment of the offender.
They were sadists. Every single one. Sadists. Sadists. Sadists—But they're nothing compared to the man running this place. Alfred Ashford, the same man who aimed his rifle at my head while I trained my gun on Ryan. Debating whether I should defy and let myself be gunned down with him or obey because I didn't know what else to do.
"Fierce one. Aren't we, 0714?" the man in front asks mockingly. "I'll admit. I'm impressed by your bravery to pull an act so soon after the last punishment," chalking murder up to something so small. Like there wasn't an equivalent to it.
I purse my lips but refuse to talk.
"Mute, are we? Nothing to say for your actions? Not like it matters, you'll be punished all the same." What will they do this time, not feed me? Beat me? Or maybe… maybe they'll kill me and end this, end the nightmares and suffering I've endured and will begin once these two years are over. I know what waits for me at the end. Missions. Duties to carry out for the company as a U.S.S. soldier. As a tool.
The relief must be evident on my face at the false hope they'll kill me. "You look so calm at the thought of punishment," he squats and is only inches from my face and I smell the mint of his toothpaste that makes me want to vomit. Monsters like these people should smell disgusting and look it too. Not appear kempt and clean while I looked like I'd been dragged through the mud, because I had been. My hair is released by the first guard, and now his hand is in it. "I'd almost believe you think your punishment is death for possibly killing a guard..." I swallow nervously. He gives a wicked smile, "But that'd be too kind to you or any others like you."
He lets go of my hair and stands again, "Take her to her bunk and cuff her there. She gets one meal a day for the next seven days…" he eyes me. "And only give her water when she looks like she's dehydrated from lack of."
"And bathroom?"
The commanding officer lifts onto the balls of his feet excitedly. Happy to know the suffering that's about to occur on my behalf. "Yes… I suppose she will need to use the restroom every so often. We don't want her sitting in her own waste, do we?" he eyes me as he asks.
"Yes sir," the other replies. And I'm hauled to my feet, forward to where my cabin and bed are. Where I'll be locked for the next seven days. In my mind I'm kicking out, screaming obscenities, fighting to escape from the guard's grasp. Screaming my throat raw as tears slide down my cheeks because I realize I wanted them to kill me. I wanted to be told I'd die.
I want an end to this. When will there be an end?
There's a chortle from the commanding officer and I know he's watching me still. "Enjoy your punishment. I'm sure you'll make sure to not fail us again. 0714."
. . .
The main reason I was released is the psychopath running that place heard of my imprisonment and had me let out. It wasn't mercy though. He attended some of my training afterwards. I think he was interested in seeing another violent outburst from me. Curious in some twisted way to understand why a training soldier would commit two crimes in their eyes in such a small period of time.
The longer I went without giving him another show though, the less he stopped attending. Until one day I'd realized it'd been a month since seeing him last.
"I'm sure I will, but how about you?" I'd questioned, curious at the time to see Rita's skills.
Rita raised her gun and fired at multiple locations on the paper dummy, all places that were nonlethal with quick treatment—A hand lands on my shoulder and I jump, swinging my head to find Leon standing there. I'd mindlessly walked to a stall, pressed my palms flat on the cool, tiled surface, and stood there blankly staring in my recollection.
"You looked like you were somewhere else," his eyes drop to my back as his hand retreats to his side. My guess is he's observing the orchid. If only he knew what was beneath the two pieces of clothing. I nod with lids lowered in solemnity and return my gaze to a target.
"I was," the answer airy and hiding my thoughts. Not that he'd ever know what I was thinking of. Jerking my head up, I point to my right to where the metal divider and blacktop counter resides. Where Joe would distribute the ear plugs and ammo for those practicing in their free time, especially the rookies. "Door is next to it, ammo will be in there," I inform, and he sets out.
The sound of him opening the metal cabinets in the room reaches my ears. Inhaling a breath of stale and musty air, my hands slip from the counter, and I enter the room.
His back is to me as he inspects something. I open the cabinet closest to the door and find it bare. Figures its empty, officers probably raided the guns the lower on bullets we got as the days went by. I do find a box of ammo that will fit the Glock though, and at it, the tiniest smile lifts a corner of my lips in victory.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Leon gazing my way and meet his eyes. The smile is gone, "What?" I ask confused and unsure of what he's staring at.
His eyes drop immediately like I caught him in the act of doing something bad. "It's, uh, just nice seeing you smile."
It grows awkward suddenly at his admission, but I'm more embarrassed than uncomfortable. I can't say it's what caused his sudden dropping of eye contact and closing of the locker he'd been searching through. "I found some bullets for my gun but not a lot," the silence is broken as he shakes a box in his hand. "Found these though," he goes to walk over the same time I do.
I peer up at him, semi-dwarfed by his taller height, to see his eyes are just wide enough to know I surprised him too by us nearly running into each other. His dark blue irises are trained on me and my face, emitting a rush of blood to my cheeks and heart. Nervously tucking a strand of hair in my face behind an ear, I grab the box from him slowly. My eyes abandon Leon's at the jostling in the box to find it labeled as shotgun shells.
Pocketing it in the duffle bag, Leon wordlessly sidesteps me, and I follow as he leaves the room. Our search is over, and there's an equally felt growing need to move on.
"I'm sorry," I apologize suddenly, unsure of what just happened in there as the door shuts.
Leon looks over his shoulder just before stepping past the wall's corner, brows knotted and eyes on mine. Appearing as if he wants to say something, but then they narrow, and he doesn't as his head whips forward. There's clicking of talons on the floor and the low growl of a dog.
Leon steps out from the wall and as I follow, my vision blurs.
—It jumps too quick for him to get out the way and I stumble back in my shock, tripping over my feet and jolting my wrist painfully into the concrete as I fall while Leon's rammed into the wall. My gun slips from my hand and slides almost to the shooting range's back door as the dog pins him against it.
His lips purse for a moment as his fingers dig into the dog's throat to keep it at bay. I can tell he's struggling to do so though. "Madeleine!" he shouts desperately, and in a panic, I get up to grab my gun—Leon's fingers slip as the skin of the dogs neck actually peels back and the dogs sharp canines land on both sides of his throat. Clamping down viciously and in that second, I see the jolt of pain and drastic turn in the situation in the rookie's eyes as—The dog jerks back, and in one fluid, it motion rips out Leon's throat. His eyes go wide, and he gurgles in pain as he tries to breathe through his disconnected trachea. Blood splatters the dog as it backs off and eats his own flesh in front of him. Speckling my face in it as he bleeds out.
His hand reaches up slowly towards the edges of his throat. The stump of his trachea bobs, and his head turns just enough I see it. When the light in his eyes goes out. And then his hand is falling to the ground.
It takes a moment, a long moment for his death to settle into my body. And then, I'm backing up, until I hit the wall. Covering my mouth with my quivering hands as tears escape my eyes. And then, I'm screaming. Releasing the raw hurt at watching him die right in front of me and I didn't do a thing to stop it, just like…
Angry and losing all will. I snatch my knife from my belt and tackle the dog, ignoring the sickening crack in my ribs that signifies one breaking as we crash hard to the floor. Keeping my eyes away from Leon's head and disfigured throat as I do so. He pushed me out of the way, he died keeping me safe like I knew he'd try.
Screaming again. I bury the blade into the dog's skull, and it slumps over to the floor.
I stand, sniveling pathetically and reach a trembling hand for Leon's face and then stop. Moving to sit on the floor, I wind my arms around my knees and just… rock. As I stare at his face and his still bleeding throat. Waiting for him to come back, no matter how long it takes…
I need to put him out of his misery—
Leon takes another step and is rammed into the wall behind him as I trip over my feet and hurt my wrist in the crash. My gun clatters over to the shooting range's back door as the dog pins Leon to the wood. Where it snarls and its reeking saliva dribbles onto his uniform, hitting his face as it barks.
"Madeleine!" Leon shouted and I break out of my stupor. Knowing the gun is too far away, I retrieve my knife from its holster. I struggle to stand, but I drive my heel into the dog's leg when I do. Knocking it off of him with a crunch before stepping over Leon's legs to kneel to the floor and drive the knife into the side of its skull.
Panting, I whip the blade out and wipe the blood off onto its fur before sheathing it. Moving to kneel beside Leon, "Are you okay?" it's my first time asking him the question finally. My eyes flicker to his bloody hands and I worry he was hurt in the scuffle.
He nods and releases a deep breath. "Yeah, that just…" he doesn't finish, and we both look over at the dead Shepard. "You saved my life," he whispers, eyes intent on mine with a tangible amount of appreciation when ours meet again. "Thank you."
Then my throat goes dry, and I don't know what to reply with because, for a single moment, it was no big deal. It isn't the first time I've saved him within the short span of knowing him. And the same goes for him covering my ass too. Both on the road and with that creature in the basement below this one. Now though, it suddenly is, because what's inside my head… those seconds the dog was on him…
I was afraid Leon was going to die. A mind numbing, heart racing, and sweat inducing terror that's left my legs shaking with the adrenaline pumping through my blood.
My eyes drop and I stand abruptly, and clumsily. I'm letting myself get too close to him. I've been so wrapped up in guarding myself from whatever I felt a few minutes ago that I…
That I what? I walk for the door and leave Leon behind. Needing a moment to myself as I feel nothing but confusion. An overwhelming want to keep him safe is gradually burrowing inside me. Something I felt towards so many people here, and even just slightly towards Claire though I've never met her. I've felt scared about people dying before, but why is it like if he had I wouldn't have been able to go on? Didn't we just meet only a short while ago?
"Hey!" Leon grabs my shoulder before I go through the door to the hallway, turning me to him. "What did I say?" his brows are knotted together in concern over me trying to leave without saying a word to him.
I stare at his hand for a long time thinking… that I'm not just missing the feeling of his hands, or having ideas about them. I like when he touches me. Even for something as simple as this. What am I thinking? My exact thoughts when we were at the stairs a while ago, or when he was calming me down in Iron's secret den. Shrugging his hand off at the traitorous thoughts, "I was… scared by the dog, I just needed a second. I'm sorry," I blatantly lie. Don't let him hear it. Don't let him see what you're thinking.
Nodding, "I understand," but he doesn't. He doesn't have an idea of the turmoil in my body. "I'm gonna check one more thing, you can go ahead if you need to," he promises and turns around.
I enter the hallway quickly. Stopping when there's a metallic crunch much like the one heard in the generator room. But it's somewhere up ahead and I can't see it from here. I jump for the millionth time in fright at the sounds of slobbering now. The ominous click of talons on the cement almost compels me to hide in the previous corridor as a Shepard comes into view.
It's just as decayed as the others, and just as vicious too as it eyes me and even with ten feet of space it squares off. Spreading its legs apart and drawing its muzzle back with a low growl.
I reach for my gun—it charges me so fast I have no time. I get only a step backwards in a flight response before it lunges. Colliding with my chest, hard and strong enough to knock the wind from me.
I fall hard onto my back with a sharp cry emitting past the shooting range's door. I hear its talons skid on the floor as it runs away, only to return to another attack stance.
Leon must've heard the commotion as he bursts through the door now and sees me on the ground. Gasping and barely managing to get any air down my throat. "Madeleine!" he shouts, and I muster enough energy to shake my head.
"Do-o-o-og-g-g-g," I rasp, and point because even I'm unable to make sense of the word passing my lips.
His attention snaps to the now snarling canine, who's abandoned its attack stance and approaches cautiously. Drool foams and its gums are black from rot, reeking so bad if I wasn't already struggling for air, I would be now. I reach for my holstered gun when Leon doesn't move, terror at being pounced eating the fact I can still hardly breathe.
It starts running before I can remove the gun and unexpectedly Leon does too. Jutting his shoulder forward and catching its side with a crack of ribs. Literally throwing himself at the deranged animal and knocking a whine from its mouth as they hit the floor.
He rolls onto his back, and I stare in awe at the situation as the dog gets up, returning its focus to me. I squeak in response, pushing backwards—Leon shoots up and grabs a leg before it darts my way, pulling the thing off its feet where it lands on its side. It retaliates with the snapping of unforgiving jaws at his hand and arm, pulling its leg from his grasp and standing. Leon falls onto his back just as it lunges and kicks a leg out, catching it in the chest this time and sending it backwards several feet. He stands before it does and dashes to its side, towering over the creature and lifting a foot to drive the heel hard into its skull.
He doesn't waste a second and is at my side, "Are you okay? Can you breathe? Here let me…" the questions come out so fast that I can't keep up. His hands find themselves under my armpits and with some of my help he moves me off my back on the dirty floor to be propped against a wall where he kneels beside me. There's a crease between his brows, his shoulder is filthy from where he skidded across the ground on it. I see him eyeing my chest as his hands are moving slowly toward it now. "I'm going to check your ribs, okay?" my eyes widen as I understand full well that might require pulling my shirt up to do so.
Shaking my head now, "No, I'm okay—"
"You could barely breathe when you were lifting that shutter and just had a dog knock the wind from you. Let me check, please," he implores.
Biting my lip, I want to say no again to prevent him from seeing how hurt I am, but a look enters his eyes. Sad and begging, needing to check and make sure I'm alright. I release my dry lip and I nod timidly, "Fine," I almost rasp. His fingers are at my stomach— "But I'm not…" he stops and meets my eyes. "I'm not wearing a bra," I admit aloud so he doesn't pull the shirt up too far.
I can see the visible swallow, as if the statement made him nervous, "I'll, uh, make sure not to pull it up too far," he promises. Then his fingers find themselves under the thin fabric of the black tee as he bunches it ever so softly like I'll startle and fight him. I can feel the warmth in those digits like every other time, except now that they're grazing bare skin it causes a flash of goosebumps across my entire body. His cologne is all I can smell again with him so close. I'm hoping the twitching of my chest from the reaction of his touch is interpreted as rasping from still catching my breath.
He lifts my shirt up, creeping towards my ribcage. I move my right hand quickly to wind it around my breasts in case the shirt is raised too high. Not that I think he would, as he promised he wouldn't, and how would one talk themselves out of that mess anyways? He gives me a look like he appreciates the sentiment though. His bunching creates anxiety in my stomach at his possible response to the hideous black and blue bruises that have been hiding there. "Holy… shit," the first word is heavily drawn out as he whispers the statement a little breathlessly to himself when my ribs are fully unveiled. He retracts his hands before he lifts them any higher to my breasts.
The panic in it is better than anything else I heard in my head. "Madeleine… why didn't you tell me you were hurt this bad?"
I choke on an exhale, "I-I didn't want you thinking I was weak because of it," I admit, like I did behind the kennels.
His eyes are on mine, worried in a way I've not seen yet. "Can you blame me?" he retorts, and then lowers them back to my ribs. He scratches the back of his head, "This is something you see on victims beaten to death, Madeleine… There's no way to treat this… How did this even happen? Who did this to you?"
"It wasn't… It wasn't a person who did it," I stress the word. "There are worse things in this city than the dogs and zombies..." I allude, and his eyes widen in shock that I could've dealt with anything worse in this place. "Your reaction… is exactly why I didn't want to tell you," I respond to his alarm filled tirade. "I bandaged it up with tape yesterday," the look he sends says he's far from impressed by the improvised bandaging, but it was all I could do or knew to say.
He raises a hand, stopping it and keeping it at his mouth in hesitation before moving it back towards me. "I just want to feel to make sure there's no broken ribs, okay?" It's then I'm reminded he's being an officer whose checking my injuries. Not a man overstepping his boundaries. His palms are flat on my ribcage at the nod of my head, his thumbs press tenderly into the skin and I stiffen, emitting a sharp hiss of pain.
I'm completely blindsided by a feather-light throb when his hands slide down my curves almost to my hips. I gape at him in surprise at the feeling, looking up from his hands to his face and see the way he's staring at my stomach. Like it's taking every ounce of energy to not look a few inches up, taking everything in him to keep this exchange professional and innocent. He's concerned I'm hurt, not about what's hidden under my shirt…
"Does that hurt?" he asks, moving his hands up my body gradually. Every few times he prods my ribs, there's a hiss with a lying nod. It aches, but it's better than what it was yesterday at least.
Another minute passes and with a heavy sigh, his fingers retract to the shirt's hem to return it to below my navel. Leaving a wake of arousal flooding my head and the urge for his hands to remain on me. "We'll just be more careful from now on, okay?" I groan a little, even though he told me he wouldn't treat me like glass. I know that's going to change no matter what I say after this.
Then his hand is on my right hip, and he grabs my right hand to place it on his shoulder. I hiss in pain from falling onto it in the armory, "'Sorry," he murmurs and grips me tightly as we stand together. He quickly puts a foot of distance between us once I have my footing though. I see his cheeks are red, probably the same as mine. Without speaking he verges left from me and heads straight for the hallway to the stairs. Unintentionally answering my questions while at it.
The exchange seemingly left him just as unnerved as me, and now I know. Leon is willing to be hurt, or killed, to keep me safe.
Notes:
I have to apologize for the wait on the new chapter. My hours have shifted back to normal so I have officially returned to working second shift, and unfortunately I suffered a death in my family in the last week so I have not edited the chapter yet. I appreciate the understanding from everyone and am glad for those who continue to read this story and enjoy it.
Chapter 33: Chapter 32
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Can we stop in here for a minute?"
Leon turns to me abruptly when we reach the top of the stairs, like he was caught in his thoughts and my voice startled him. He sees I'm referring to the backroom, "Something you need?"
"Water," I tell him with a dry mouth, heading for the door without waiting to see if he'll follow or not. "Might change my shirt too. I don't know what that thing got on me when it grabbed me but… it's uncomfortable," I tell him as I step through the door with my gun raised. The light is off, but I flick it on quietly, not hearing anything further inside.
He's behind me when I step inside the room. I head straight for the sink in the back at the lack of hearing anything. Where I bend over and turn the faucet on to pitifully grab whatever water I can into my mouth. Parched beyond belief after being cut off from it besides the water I rationed myself on all of yesterday and today. "How long have you been without food or water?" Leon asks from somewhere behind me. It sounds like he hung back in the other room, maybe in case I choose to change my shirt unexpectedly.
I shut the water off and eye myself in the mirror, not finding him in view of the reflection and concluding he remained in the other room. "Besides here or there. I haven't had a full meal in three days," I answer, wiping the water from my chin. "I'm… changing now," I anxiously warn, stepping to the side in between the bunk beds. There's no answer in response as I take off the jean jacket and whip the shirt up and over my head with some pained groans.
The cool air hits my wet skin, and goosebumps instantly form as I drop the soiled shirt onto the floor. I'm running out of clothes at this rate as I unzip the bag and grab a different black tee. This one has a v-neckline.
It's quiet. In a way that feels too quiet. I was never the one to start a conversation, always preferring to stick to myself. I'm sure I was always considered the quiet one by the others in this station. Racking my brain for something to say… Anything. I can't think of a comment to make. Torn in a want to have a conversation with the one person I've been around in two whole days, against a need to not learn more. The more I learn, the more I become attached in a way. And though I know how I feel towards the idea of him dying now…
Stepping over to the mirror with the clean shirt in one hand pressed to my chest to hide my bare breasts. The jean jackets in the other and is promptly thrown into the sink. I stare at the disheveled reflection of myself, my eyes moving up where my stomach is hidden by the shirt to my blackened ribs. His hands… I can still feel their warmth and pressure. It hurt when he pressed, but it felt good in a way I've never experienced before.
And then slowly I break the spell of the thought of his hands by rotating my body to look at my bare back in the mirror for the first time in a long time.
There, clear as day, are fifteen lash scars in my skin. "One last punishment, 0714." Plays in my head again and I clench the shirt in my hand tightly as another memory triggers in my head.
. . .
They dragged me from my bed to the same spot I'd shot Ryan. The rain is pouring again like that night, but this time is different. Instead of finding it empty there, there's two pikes hammered into the ground, and drilled into both are chains that lead to cuffs. "Kneel," the guard who transferred me here orders, and on shaking legs I abide. Kneeling into the water-logged dirt obediently, unsure of what it is they're planning—The doors to our section of the island are opened and in pours as many soldiers to line the back walls as possible. When no more can fit they just stay by the door.
"I hear 0714 has had a habit of being disobedient. Not only here, but at the academy she attended too," the same commanding officer who ordered my prison sentence last week announces loudly. "In fact, I have heard it's not just her, but many of you have been disobedient since coming here," he chastises, but chuckles quietly beside me. "But since your fellow soldier is determined to continuously get into trouble… Well… We must punish."
It's then that two guards come over. Grabbing both the chains and my wrists, cuffing them quickly into the metal and spreading my arms out. The commander steps in front of us and then squats, he puts a finger up. His other hand holding what looks like a stick wrapped in frayed twine. "One last punishment, 0714. One last punishment and then you'll be back to your regular training and meal schedule. I bet you'd like a nice full glass of water for the first time in a week." Officer Dickhead, taunts from where he's squatting in front of my famished frame.
I grit my teeth, wanting with every fiber of my being to spit in his face. Or to tell him to go to hell. But it'd just make whatever he's threatening as my final punishment worse.
"You make for the perfect example of what happens to those who dare touch one of our guards in your time here," he grins wickedly. "I hope after this today, we don't have to worry about you disobeying in any way ever again."
I say nothing, trying everything in me to maintain a nonchalant demeanor. "Not scared? Don't worry. In a few minutes we'll all hear your screams," he taunts, bringing the stick to my mouth. "I'd bite down if I were you," he warns.
My eyes flicker to the stick, and I open my mouth, doing as he says as my brain warns whatever they're about to do will need that. I gnash my teeth into the surface, the rain blinding me slightly as he stands up. "Tear her shirt," he orders, and before I have a chance to even muffle something in protest—A guard's hands are on the collar of the back of my shirt. Tearing it down the middle and exposing my back to their eyes, my bra the only thing keeping my front decent. "And the bra," the commander orders next, and then that's torn too, but whatever they're planning is far worse than the exposure to anybody who can see.
And then it's silent, nothing but the pad of the rain against the mud can be heard as the guards all walk away. Then after that, nothing—The loud crack is heard by the others, but is inconsequential to me compared to the excruciating sting of something hard striking my back. I give a garbled scream in pain at the first blow and grab the chains, pulling against the shackles with all my strength. "That's one!" the commander yells proudly, before I'm hit a second time.
He continues this, whip after whip. Some of the strikes cut my skin open, the blood in my body mingling with the rain. Until fifteen are counted in my mind in total and suddenly the strikes stop coming, but the pain doesn't. The whipping seems to have mercifully ended.
"Release her," the commander orders, and the guards are at my sides again, undoing the cuffs. My hands move to in front of me to catch myself despite the exhaustion as they let me fall into the mud. How I didn't pass out from the pain, I don't know. It would have been a blessing if I had. As I grab the stick from my mouth, "Take her to the infirmary. She's to arrive back for training starting tomorrow and to be there tonight for dinner," the commander orders. And without warning, I'm hauled to my feet.
I press the ragged remains of my soaked shirt and bra to my front as I'm forced to walk past the other trainees. Some carry blank expressions of having long since been broken in this lifestyle. Others bear a look of fear while few harbor an anger in them towards what they're doing to us.
One or two… I can tell it's not rain running down their cheeks.
. . .
I pull the shirt on. Remembering that I'm partially naked and in the other room is a man that I'm sure would be as uncomfortable as I if he walked in on me in this state. The jacket is added on top immediately after before wiping the fresh tears from my eyes. I try not to recall that memory, or the stinging phantom pain sometimes felt all these years later at random moments.
Leon steps into view then behind me, I look at him in the mirror before turning around. I wipe an eye again as he watches, "Hey… I just… wanted to check on you. See if you… changed," he confesses, cheeks going bright red as he rubs the back of his neck.
"I'm okay," I lie, the burning sensation from the whip returning at the memory. His hand drops to his side, "I was just, um…" I don't know what to say then. He has a look of understanding on his face though. Like I don't need to explain, because even if he doesn't know exactly what's running through my head. What's happening outside is more than enough reason.
"Are you okay to head out?" he prompts, and I'm glad he changed the topic off of the crying.
Nodding, "Yeah… there's a laptop in the main hall. Maybe we can use it to find Claire," I suggest.
He nods and goes to turn around, then stops and looks at me. "It's… it's okay to cry, you know?" he tries offering. "What happened to everyone here…" he trails off, unsure of what else to say. The words create a swelling feeling in my chest at their sincerity though. Without another word, he heads out of the backroom with me in tow.
. . .
We came across two zombies in the watchman's hall. They were devouring the remains of tattered pants barely covering the legs they'd once clothed. Someone had been caught under the shutter from the blood spray on it and the lack of an upper body. We could tell from the pants the body was another officer. An officer who'd been torn apart while trying to get through.
I killed the zombies eating the corpse. Blowing a hole into the back of both of their heads, but then our attention fell on the partially closed shutter. Was it like that yesterday morning? I don't think it was. It could have been lowered at any time with how long I stuck to the main hall for safety though.
Yesterday morning… Or is it already two days ago that this had occurred?
What was worse than seeing the dogs turned was lifting that shutter—I disappointed Leon when I stubbornly helped too. We could hear the gurgling of another zombie in the room before opening the shutter. Once it was up, a trail of blood led to the body of an eviscerated person who had crawled away. It wasn't far though.
Elliot. It was Elliot clawing at the door to the east wing. Making harsh groans, scraping bloody stumps of fingers at the door to leave the office while his intestines dragged behind him on the dirty floor. When he snapped his head and his teeth our way, I made out the milky white of once brown eyes. Leon had to be the one to shoot him when my hand wavered in an attempt to. All the while his words about how he felt towards me and who I truly am played in my head.
Marvin told us Elliot was dead, but… Fuck, I didn't think of the possibility of finding him like that.
If Kevin escaped, that means Leon and I are without a doubt the only police officers left in this city.
We're in the lobby again, where I immediately retrieve my car key from my pants pocket along with the parking garage key card. I stuff both into the front pocket of my jeans. Leon's searching security cameras in the station for any signs of Claire. Checking older feeds from up to an hour ago, he thinks he saw her in the S.T.A.R.S. hallway not long ago. A brunette with a ponytail and a biker jacket walks down the hallway with a flashlight in her hand and, a grenade launcher. She must have made it into the S.T.A.R.S. armory. He finds the time the footage was caught, "This was not long before the helicopter crash, I don't know if she's here still." A hand comes to his jaw in thought as he skips through other times and different cameras.
It's not long after that we catch sight of her popping out of the manhole in the garage. Running up to the key reader with— "Wait," I tell him, leaning beside Leon now as Irons enters the parking garage. He walks up to Claire as a third person moves behind her, "Is that a kid?" I gape as Claire kneels with her hands up at gunpoint. A girl stands not too far away from her. It's hard to make out too much from the grain and the dark garage, but… she looks too similar to the little girl from the other day. Was she real after all?
Unable to listen to the audio in past recordings, we watch the footage in silence as Irons throws something to the girl. Waving an arm at Claire before aiming his gun at her head. The altercation ends with Irons bashing Claire's face and dragging the young girl out of the garage.
We say nothing for a few minutes as we watch Claire get up, kick the gate, then run out of view. The fight took place most likely before we'd even made our way into the bottom of the building judging by how she returned the manhole to its original position like how we'd found it. "What's the Chief doing with a kid?" Leon mumbles, dumbfounded. All I can find in myself is to sit in a nearby chair. Furious with Irons and bewildered at why he kidnapped the little girl. Something in me wants to jump into action, run to the parking garage immediately and… And what? "What do we do?" he asks, turning from the computer to where I'm staring at the desk.
"I don't know," I state bleakly, "she could be anywhere by now. She probably didn't take long to get out of here and go after Irons and the girl." Worrying my lip as I take a second to think now, Irons could have taken that girl where he'd taken Katherine, but I don't know where that is. If Claire left the station to go after her… and we have no idea where she went…
Our chance of catching up with her and getting out together is gone.
Leon's attention returns to the camera in the parking garage. "Well maybe she hasn't left yet. I can keep checking," he offers, scanning the footage from the scuffle between Irons and her onward. While he's doing that I glance around the area, at the wrappers from what little I've even in the last few days. My bloody clothes from changing yesterday evening, and…
I eye the tape recorder and tapes beside it. Eyeing Leon warily to see he's still affixed to the camera before quietly collecting them into my bag. I doubt he would even bother with taking the time to listen to them because in the next few minutes we need to get moving again, but still, I can't risk that chance.
As I zip up my duffle, another thought occurs to me. Ben handed us a recorder before he died. We should listen to it—
"Hey," looking over my shoulder from where I reload my shotgun and Glock. Question on my tongue to listen to the recorder dying as Leon eyes something on the laptop with a perplexed and anxious face. "Madeleine," my name's called then, there's a twinge of panic to his voice.
"What?" I question, and he nods to the laptop.
Holstering my gun and setting the shotgun on the desk, I sidle beside the rookie and inspect the camera. Heart leaping into my throat at a tall figure menacingly walking towards the shutter in the east hall. The audio is a minuscule attempt at emitting how loud his footsteps are as he approaches the camera to the watchman's hall. Then he stops, looks up, and glares at it.
Impossibly close to the device's height above the ground. I view a face gray with artificial wrinkles and blank eyes, an olive fedora on his head, and trench coat covering his body. Gray… just like, "A tyrant!" Ben had screamed. Is this the thing that killed him? Is this a fully operational tyrant?
The tyrant jerks an arm back and sends it straight into the camera, sending the feed into a crackling and useless source. Well, if it's not the tyrant Ben screamed about. It's definitely not human either. I reason in my head at the pallor and blank expression it carried. Unable to fully express the horror internally that the one we fought in the lab wasn't the only one in existence. They've made more since then.
"What the…" Leon starts.
A door slams hard into a wall far from us in the east wing, I snatch my shotgun from the desk and put it in my bag. Grabbing Leon's wrist in response and slinging the bag over my shoulder along with it. "We need to get the hell out of here," I assert, not even registering that I'm touching him on my own again.
"Yeah," he agrees, taking a step back with me. Also ignoring the same thoughts, though I see the acknowledgment in his eyes of it. "Something tells me he's not a cop."
We head for the stairs to the second floor, bypassing the putrid puddle of dry vomit from me last night on the way. For a brief instance I think of Marvin and my attention is diverted to the couch to find it abandoned. There's a short lived seize in my chest. Where did he go? The time to find him is over though, and I don't know how I'd handle it when finding Elliot alone was gut wrenching.
"Let's head to the S.T.A.R.S. office," I suggest. Claire was in there at one point. It'd let me see what all she found in there about Chris if we checked it out.
The tyrant seen in the east wing doesn't make it to the main hall before we enter the library. I take extra care in closing the door quietly anyways though. The longer we go undetected by that thing the better. "What is that thing? Is that what killed Ben?" Leon asks when we're pacing through the library.
"It's a tyrant," I tell him, stopping myself from saying anymore as we open and shut the door from the library into the alcove with the unicorn quietly. Leon is surprisingly silent when we come across the door that was busted down last night. Caused by the creature that interrupted the bittersweet reunion with Jill. I whisper when we're far enough down the hallway, "We fought one in the mansion, but…"
"But what?" he whispers back as we round the corner.
"The one from then wasn't nearly as… sophisticated as this one," I inform him. Unable to think of a proper word for comparing the state of the two monsters between then and now.
The creature from last night had to have been sent in to kill anybody in the city from the team. The memory of which causes the sore spot on the back of my head to hurt on par with how it did yesterday. A part of me wonders if I will ever find out if she made it out of this city alive after that. I wouldn't put it past Umbrella for even a second for them to send in other creatures too. Maybe not just the monster that chased Jill, but the tyrant scouring the building now has the same purpose.
Claire isn't in the office, but the drawers to Chris's desk are open. She ransacked them for sure, likely searching for any scrap of clues as to where he might have gone. She wouldn't have found any though. Chris was careful to leave nothing that said what his true intentions were in Europe in case somebody went through the office.
I turn my head and glimpse inside Wesker's office, eyeing the mess I'd left it in the other night. There's nothing in there for us. The framed photo of the S.T.A.R.S. team still lies wrapped carefully at the bottom of my bag.
"It looks like they gave it a human face," Leon remarks about the tyrant's appearance. Looking over at me when he's done examining the state of the room.
Listening intently for any sound in the hallway. I relax when I hear nothing. "They didn't give it a human face," I tell him frankly, meeting his eyes with my own.
His eyes widen in horror, understanding exactly what I'm implying. "That thing is…" he doesn't even finish, a state I recall finding myself in once. On a night much like this in what feels like a lifetime ago.
"We can't get caught by it. It's too dangerous… it's probably here to kill anything in its path," I cut off his panic, warning him grimly.
"We shouldn't stay here long then," Leon concludes, heading over to the open armory door swiftly. Proving my thoughts that Claire went in and obtained the grenade launcher. Not like I blame her or accuse her of stealing, it's not like there's anyone left in S.T.A.R.S. to…
It's best to stop thinking about Jill for now. We survived the mansion. I have no doubt she'll make it out of this.
Walking to my desk, I pull open a drawer. Happy with myself that I stowed a box of ammunition in there and add it to my bag. I halt from joining Leon's side in the armory at the sight of my nameplate. The black plate carved with gold letters spelling: Patricia O'Donnell. A gift to me from the team on my first day here, as well as the knife in my holster that I unconsciously run my thumb over the hilt of.
"Claire's definitely not here anymore. She was trying to get out when Irons took that kid. She wrote to us to get out of here," Leon appears at my side with a paper in his hand. He stops when he sees me running my thumb over the nameplate like it'll provide answers that aren't there. Answers to what? Who I am? Who my parents are? Where my real home is? That's a lot to be asking an object made from a block of wood and a sheet of thin metal.
"You know her well before this?" he probes somewhat.
I mull the words over, thinking of what to say. "Not too well, I guess. I know she liked keeping extra ammo in her desk," I look at him and softly smile. "It just so happens to fit my gun," I try to joke before looking away.
He chuckles, "Yeah, guess she was pretty smart…" and then he quiets in a way that says he's sad to bring up another deceased person. If only he knew the sheer irony of bearing those feelings towards Patricia O'Donnell though. The women he thinks is deceased like thousands of others but is really standing beside him.
Why did I tell him my real name compared to Patricia though? The fake name had become second nature. When a stranger asked for a name, it was the automatic response to them. Yet with him, it's like… I didn't even think it through, and now I'm having to juggle the lie of not knowing this person whenever she's brought up. "How did you say your last name again?" he asks out of the blue.
"Su-f-ka."
"Pretty," he surmises, and my cheeks heat up. I've been told a lot of things about me are pretty, but somebody saying that about my real last name is new. "Is it Russian?"
I ponder that for a moment and shake my head at a small remembrance. "Polish," I reply, a faint memory in the back of my mind of my father telling me at a young age how his family moved from Poland to America in the fifties. How my grandparents were oppressed by their government, and they came here for a better life for him.
"Really?" Leon further questions, "I would have never guessed." I look over at him, the traits of my tan skin and green eyes from my mother's Grecian descent are far from the traits of people from my father's. Their genetics are the most I know about them after doing some research in my free time in the last few months. "It's just… your nose, I guess? I can tell its Grecian. Living in a lot of big cities lets you learn that kind of stuff," he reasons, like I'd take offence about the nose comment.
"Is there a problem with my nose?" I act like I was offended after all. Wanting to mess with the man just the slightest. In a way that reminds me of how Chris would tease me. This isn't the same though.
He puts a hand out, "No! That's not what I meant."
"I was just messing with you," I then admit with a mock serious expression, before giving him a small smile.
"Oh..." his brows furrow as he looks at the nameplate in front of us again like he's thinking. What it's about though, I don't know. "I found this in the armory," he dispels the conversation and holds out a .50 ae magnum, like he's offering it to me.
I put a hand out, pushing the magnum back to him. "You keep it. I have enough weapons on me, you've only got your handgun," it's then thoughts of the regular and flash grenades stored in the armory occur to me. I sidestep him, hurrying to the armory now where I open the locker they should be kept in. I find a few of each left over from when the team was disbanded last month. They'd yet to clear this office out for something else with the chaos the station was in from the rise in crime.
"What're you…?" Leon asks, his question answered when he sees the locker.
"We can't bring them all, but…" I grab two flash grenades and two regular grenades, clipping them to the notches on my belt. "Between the tyrant, and the lickers... I don't know what's running around this place anymore. It's better to be safe than sorry," I hand Leon the same amount of each, and he clips them to his belt.
Once they're secure, "We just need to get to the garage then and get out of here," he determines.
Contemplating for a second, "You're sure Claire didn't mention anywhere on that letter where she might've gone?" I prod him on the letter one last time.
He shakes his head, shrugging, "I wish she had, I don't want to leave her." I don't either, I wish there was some way of being able to figure out what happened.
Weapons at the ready, we step out of the safety of the room, and to myself I say my final goodbye to the office. Leaving behind Chris's jacket to the fate of whatever will happen in this city. I'd once planned on bringing the jacket with me, but it's far too late. Now Claire… She's out of the station, meaning I've lost my chance to find her and explain what I could about her brother. Hopefully she makes it out of town safe with that little girl. I don't know what Irons took her for, but I can only assume it's for the worst.
I stop when we enter the dark hall and hear the thundering of footsteps. Leon hears it too, and we freeze. For all of five seconds before we determine at the same time in a look at each other and then down the hallway that they're coming from the left. That thing's going to come around the corner any second. He grabs my wrist, "The other way," he mumbles and drags me to the right with him in a sprint, uncaring if it hears us so long as we're out of sight in time.
Marvin returns to my thoughts unexpectedly in our panicked run, but… It's most likely he's dead and wandering around the station. Or Claire already got to the Lieutenant before us.
But it doesn't matter anymore because now we're running from that monster. We almost trip over parts of the barricade that were knocked down last night when we reach that part of the hallway. And the thundering behind us is getting louder. How am I reliving this nightmare within a day of experiencing it with another monster?
Leon still hasn't let go of my wrist, and at this point I'm glad because I fear I'd trip in our mad dash over the debris in our path. That's when the idea dawns on me, "Upstairs! There's a balcony on the third floor we can cut across," I barely manage to keep from stuttering the information.
We turn left and I yank my hand from Leon's grasp as we climb—climb—for our lives up the stairs to the third floor. Those terrifyingly heavy footsteps echo in the stairwell as it climbs the stairs after us. "Jesus, does that thing ever stop?" Leon shouts as we turn into a busted-out section of dry board and wood. A small desk lamp and his flashlight are the only other source as we dash into another corridor.
"Just keep going!" I crow and turn a corner. Just as a licker runs across the window beside us. Christ it's like they all know this thing's after us. "I'm going to throw a flash once we get in this room," I announce, and as we barge through the door, I wrap my hand around a grenade. Pulling the pin and holding the lever down tightly.
There's a screech at our footsteps. And then scurrying, but I've already tossed the grenade to our right. We cover our ears, missing the concussive flashbang as we escape into the library and the door slams shut once we're out of its way. The walkway on the other side of the balcony is out, but it appears someone moved all the bookshelves together to the left under another portion that went out some weeks back. It was supposed to be patched up this week too. Now it's left behind under the stampede of our boots as we run.
My heart's pounding so hard against my ribs it's like they might shatter the fragile bones in its wrathful wake. My lungs are burning, and my throat is rasping. My body is too tired to continue like this.
"Leon… I have to hide," I plea. Giving him the chance in a way to leave me and have us split up so he can get away.
He looks over his shoulder while sprinting through the ominous hallway of the third floor's balcony to see I'm exhausted. My chest heaving and legs solely moving because I'm afraid if I break the pattern of their movement. I'll crumble from being under the terror of this chase and the lack of remaining strength.
He slows down as we reach a corner of the balcony. Head snapping from side to side in a millisecond decision to keep going or hide in the room to our right. His eyes look forward and before I can gauge his actions, he darts through the door. "In here!" he grunts, pivoting to snag an arm around my waist. Hauling my back against his chest and inside the room with a feeble cry passing my lips at being grabbed.
The door slams closed the same time he sets me down. I trip over my own feet in an attempt to turn around, sending us both tumbling to the floor. I gasp, the room so dark it's impossible to see a damn thing and all I can feel is the dread in my stomach and his leg pressed between my thighs.
My eyes shoot to his face as the flashlight comes on. He'd been so preoccupied he'd forgotten to switch it on after we left the library. We stare at each other with wide eyes and blink, then hear a door open outside the room so hard I'm sure the marble wall was cracked by the handle. "Hide," he whispers, and we scramble off each other, darting for the corner of the room beside a large mechanism for the bell. That's when I realize we're in the clocktower.
I fit rather easily, but Leon is practically squished into the cramped space in our desperate, last chance to become hidden. He sits to my side with his right arm out and gun at the ready, flashlight off. I struggle to catch a breath, tears at the thought that we're about to die wanting to shed.
Leon hears this and whether it's to shut me up or calm me. I don't know, but he holsters his gun and wraps an arm around my waist. Quietly drawing me once again to his chest where I press a hand to my mouth the same time he does to hide the gasping breaths from echoing in the room.
The door slams open then, and I can't think.
Notes:
I apologize again for such a long wait. I plan to post another chapter within the week to make up for the long wait in chapters!
Chapter 34: Chapter 33
Chapter Text
Madeleine's tears soak the fabric of my gloves as I keep my hand cupped around the one she's already clamped on her mouth. An action I can't afford as I try to help her remain silent. I curl my lips inward and have been biting down on them for the last minute to keep myself silent instead.
We stare at the hulking shadow in the mouth of the dark room's door. Though I highly doubt the original architects of this building ever foresaw this occurring. By some act of perfectly planned construction, the door opens inwards towards us. Blocking any light in the main hall from possibly shining on us and showing where we are. We're two trapped bugs compared to the size of that thing. A tyrant. That's what Ben and Madeleine called it.
It walks forward from what I can observe in the dark. The shoes its wearing must be made out of fucking brick, or the thing is just that loud as the outline of its head swivels around. The fedora it was seen wearing in the camera is still there like this is an action movie with a nightmarish take on a henchman in the mafia and not actually some monster trying to kill us.
Please for the love of god let this thing be something that can't see in the dark. Madeleine implied it's human. Surely Umbrella couldn't have managed to give it night vision.
Another step forward, then another. That walk threatening once again, to make me piss myself in absolute fear. I saw a lot of horror movies the older I got and with the money I could buy tickets with from odd jobs I'd do around the neighborhood. Seeing a horror film, and living one is the difference of night and day though.
Then I hear the grating of something impossibly heavy being shifted in the middle of the room. Madeleine jerks, and unwillingly I press my hand tighter against her mouth. A flinch on my behalf to whatever is being moved and her. I don't want to die here. Not here, in this godforsaken city. If I die, she'll die too, and then there will be nobody to spread the truth of what happened.
I hear it turn around quickly. Stepping, advancing closer to us in our corner. Her body is shaking, and I debate for a moment on risking the noise to grab a flash grenade like Madeleine did and throw it to allow us to get away. I quickly decide fairly quickly how that would be stupid though. It'd just render us both deaf, blind, and concussed no matter where it landed in the room. What would that do for us then? Especially if by chance this thing doesn't have the same reaction as us?
It stops, and the hair on my body stands on end as a sense says its standing there. The creepiest part of this thing is as it attempts to scour in the dark for us. I hear no noise follow it besides the footsteps. There's no breathing, no ruffling of the coat cladding its body, it's almost robotic. If it really was human once, it's nothing remotely close to it anymore.
What feels like an eternity passes with us hiding in that cramped corner. My legs grow sore, numb, and even begin to cramp in their want to move. At last, the thing walks over to the door, and unlike the other ones we heard get slammed into the walls. This one is calmly opened before it exits the room without a single realization of where we are.
Our hands remain on her mouth for several more minutes. We dare not move in the case it's somehow an attempt to psyche us out and catch us when we try to escape.
My hand drops first, "I think it's safe," I keep my face angled towards hers as I speak.
My head falls back against the metal with a thump as I release a torrent of withheld breaths and press a hand against the metal contraption behind us to stand. Rolling out the kinks in my shoulders, I turn and lean to help Madeleine stand.
I wanted her to trust being close to me, to be comfortable if I even grazed her elbow. Now a part of me finds her closeness unnerving. Ever since that breakthrough in the basement about how she felt I was treating her, ever since we almost ran into each other in the shooting range, ever since… She outwardly told me she's not wearing a bra and it caused a nervous feeling in my stomach like that's what I was going to see even though I knew I wasn't.
I didn't check her to be a pervert, or to somehow catch sight of a part of her I'd deserve to get punched in the face for if I did. I legitimately wanted to make sure she was okay. That dog was the final straw and with the noticeable way she's carried herself all night... Distraught doesn't properly word how I still feel at seeing the violent colors adorning her waist. Shades of coloring that I was serious about mainly dead bodies bearing. Memories of seeing a few in that condition during my training in the academy came to mind before I told her.
At the thought of her lacking a bra though, a small surge of blood runs south. The rest of my blood runs cold at the reaction as a new sweat breaks out, one from wrecked nerves. No. I can't be feeling this way about Madeleine. Not a complete stranger. Not somebody who's been through a week of horror and needs me to be the rational and strong one for her to lean on. Certainly not when we keep almost dying. And what about Grace? She didn't end off in our relationship as girlfriend of the year, but… I guess she lost the right for me to think of her from that perspective when she threw stuff at me, and I tried having a rebound within a day of leaving her.
Madeleine stands fully, reaching under my chin in height as I retrieve my flashlight to turn it on. Go away. Go away! I chant the words in my head in protest to the embarrassing erection taking its time to disappear. Madeleine stumbles backwards then. Eliciting the quick response of my hands grabbing her arms to steady her. "Are you alright?" I ask, worried. I can smell the floral scent and sweat that belongs to her, recognizing the scent as rose now despite the smell of oil in her hair. I'm internally swearing when it makes the tightness in my pants worsen.
Nodding to me, the flashlight in her face blinding her and creating a wince. "Yeah, I'm just hungry is all," and at that, her stomach gives what could almost be a comically small growl like in a cartoon.
I swallow at the noise, guilty that I don't have even a granola bar on me. Wishing I had something for her to eat. She said the last full meal she had was days ago. "When we get out of here, we'll go get something to eat," I promise. The prospect of taking her to get a meal gives me a feeling that's both odd and pleasant. Like taking her out on a date, except instead of treating her to a nice meal. I'm helping her eat some real food. She seems surprised by the gesture as her eyes meet mine. "It's not a date, I promise," I tell her then as a joke.
Her brows furrow at my poor attempt to cover up my unintentional wording. Like she'd never even considered it as a date as a possibility. How she didn't read into it that way even on accident makes me wonder if she's ever been on a date at all. Maybe she's just not interested in me like that. Which is pretty understandable, given where we are.
My mind immediately scoffs at the prior thought. There's no way in hell she hasn't been on at least one. Without a doubt, Madeleine is beautiful. I'd even say gorgeous in spite of her current state of appearance. She's attractive in a way I'd think she's out of my league when I was in high school. If we'd ended up working together, I might not have ever felt confident enough to ask her out. She has to be a girl who gets asked for her number a lot when on the street or out shopping.
So why is she giving you a funny look that says she's not evening jumping to conclusions that you're asking her on a date like another girl might? I try not to be narcistic when it comes to my looks, but I know I am attractive. It was probably the main reason Grace even started speaking to me in college. The older I got, leaving behind my adolescent appearance and unfortunate stages of puberty, the more girls wanted to speak to me. Even though gaining muscles and a more defined jaw didn't stop me from being awkward as all hell with girls.
Huh.
We have to get out of this room, get out of this station like Claire already has. I'll never see her again, but I can live with that so long as she actually makes it out of this place alive and in one piece.
Letting go of Madeleine's arms and creating a wide berth between us. "Let's get to the garage and get out of here," I blurt to distract myself from my thoughts.
She nods, "I know a fast way there, so long as you're okay with going into the rain again," she offers and though I'm sure both of our clothes are beginning to dry out. The faster we get there, the faster we leave. I can live with sitting in sopping wet clothes as we drive out of here so long as it means we're getting out of here.
Taking a step back and waving my hand for her to step in front of me, "Lead the way."
She does, slowly, but after what we went through. I can afford the patience to give my own body time to settle from the adrenaline, and… other things. "There's a shortcut to the watchman's hall on this side of the building," the marble and curving of the roof carries her voice some ways out. "It just means we'll have to go outside to the roof to reach it," she explains and leads us across the balcony to a door sitting at the very end on the other side. Parallel to the one we entered from the library.
Her gun is already out, and I'm shining the light ahead so she can see. Bodies with bullet holes in their heads lay on the floor in the foul-smelling room. Claire maybe. She seemed in a rush in the few feeds I was able to catch her on. In one of them, she was rolling around a huge cog from this room to the clock tower on the one security camera that was working up here. Whatever she was doing with it must have been important, it shows she can defend herself. The cog probably weighed fifty pounds alone, maybe more, and with her carrying everything else. That had to have made the task even more difficult to accomplish.
We step into a small annex area with a stairway leading to the second floor, but we head instead for the door to our right. I grimace at the cool rain and raise a hand to shelter my face from the pelting when we step outside. It apparently hasn't lightened up in the time since arriving here. "Would be nice if it stopped raining," I declare, at least appreciating the fact it's cleaning the soot, sweat, and dog saliva off my face.
"Rain doesn't bother me much," Madeleine replies. Looking over her shoulder from where she stands in front of a ladder. She turns around and points, "We go down here, through that hallway, and then take a staircase to the first floor," she elaborates. Kneeling and swinging her body effortlessly to get a foot on the ladder before descending.
I approach the ledge and wait for her to climb halfway down before following suit. Scanning below me to make sure she's off the ladder, I see her wait a few feet away. Arms crossed, and from here I can see she's shivering even after stating it didn't bother her. I should know better than to think that though, I freeze every winter in New York, and yet I love when the first snow hits the state.
At the halfway point, I lift my foot up to set it onto the next rim down—A connector on the left side of the ladder gives just as I do so and I jerk back. Throwing the disconnected portion of the ladder I tore off in my hand haphazardly where it clangs to the ground at Madeleine's feet. "Leon?" she gasps and takes a step forward—
"No, stay back!" I warn and try to pull my body closer to the ladder. Crossing imaginary fingers that it'll stay together long enough to get my footing. Almost falling the first time torqued the metal several rims below me. It snaps under my weight with a crunch. The rain and give of a large portion of the ladder from its frame cause me to drop. I hit the ground hard on my side with a pained groan as the ladder falls to the ground a few inches from me. I draw in hard breaths, getting my breathing under control from the flurry of panic it sparked in me. "Dammit!" I huff noisily, Madeleine's kneeling beside me. Hair soaked and unruly as it slightly hangs past her shoulders with her dark brows drawn tightly together. A soft, hurried hand lands on my arm and shoulder.
"Are you okay?" she implores, and I scrunch my face in pain as I nod. Yeah. I've definitely started bruising from the car crash and tanker exploding, and this only made it more evident.
I roll onto my back, cocking my head to look up at her, "Don't worry," I lie through the jarring discomfort, "I'm ok…"
A black shadow appears on the ledge over us. My mouth drops open in astonishment at the hulking behemoth intimidatingly standing there, staring at us. I see the hat and make out the trench coat, instantly knowing what it is. "Jesus Christ!" I shout and Madeleine peers up in response to see the same tyrant that chased us through half the building a few minutes ago looming over us now.
"Oh god!" she croaks and pulls at the straps of my bullet vest with one hand. Wrapping the other around a bicep, in what would be a humorous way when comparing the size of her hand to the large muscle. But at staring at that thing and knowing what's coming. It's nauseatingly far from it. "Run, Leon!"
I scramble to my feet, running before I'm even fully standing properly in the direction of the rooftop's only door.
Soaked through a second time tonight, in another run for our lives. We crash through the door and stumble slightly when the ground shakes. I know as we head into the long stretch of hallway it just stepped off the ledge. Landing on its feet. My brain comprehends the helicopter crashed through the walls and roof and the fact it's been pushed up with the tail bent against the roof. Jesus did that thing lift the helicopter? How strong is it?
Ben's death replays in my head, and how that thing punched through the brick. A feat that could never be done by a human being. It's strong, dangerously so. No wonder Madeleine warned to not get caught by it in the S.T.A.R.S. office.
"Holy shit!" Madeleine shouts, surprising me to hear her swear for the first time as she shouts when she sees it herself. Grabbing my wrist as we turn the corner and head for the door waiting at the end, "This way!"
The door behind us smacks hard into the wall like all the others, but we're already on the metal stairwell outside the building. I stop on a step and peer through the gaping hole in the wall created by the missing helicopter and see it walk by. Eyes focused solely on us as it walks forward like the goddamn Terminator—
"Leon!" Madeleine practically shrieks from below when I'm not behind her.
At her voice, I continue racing down the stairs. "I'm here!" I promise, pushing her tiny frame through the open door.
We sprint past the body of Elliot next. Finding him earlier had brought back the memory of meeting him at my interview. He was on two feet, firmly shaking my hand as I introduced myself. Raymond made the sergeant aware of my six-month training period taking place under his supervision then. He'd been nice. Grinning and nodding. Not at all objective of the idea. Now we're running past what's left of his body for the stairs sitting twenty feet ahead after I shot him when Madeleine couldn't.
We reach the top step and Madeleine begins descending, but I whirl around at the sound of those boots thudding on the floor.
"What're-you-doing?" her words are so rushed they seem strung together into one.
I yank a grenade off my belt, a regular one instead of the flash. "It's going to keep following us, we can't let it," I determine, waiting patiently with a hand raised, and the grenade held inside.
It appears around the corner, like a missile locked onto its target. Its pace becomes even faster when it sees me standing there. "Eat this you son of a bitch!" I bark as I pull the pin and release the lever, chucking it at the thing. It explodes upon hitting the floor and it puts an arm up in defense, taking a step back as if to absorb the blow. "Oh my god," I falter when I realize the grenade did nothing to harm it.
Madeleine pushes past me, snatching the magnum from where it was tucked into my belt. "Fucking die!" she screams in a manner that might shock me in different circumstances. I hear the powerful gun being fired through the white noise it creates. Gaping at her when she fires another round. Knocking the fedora off its head, the bullets leave large holes in the face where they bury themselves. Her shoulders are hardened, absorbing the recoil of the gun like the thing ahead did the first grenade's blast. As if doing so is like inhaling air.
I know she was in S.T.A.R.S., but… goddamn. Her Glock can't be even a fraction as powerful as the .50 ae.
It stumbles back, and my heart leaps into my throat as I prepare for us to run again—The creature drops to one knee, a hand gripping its exposed grey and bald skull. There's a short-lived rush of victory as Madeleine lowers the gun, "Let's go. Who knows how long it'll be down?" she cautions and spins, returning the magnum to me.
Accepting it, I stuff it back into my belt again. "Yeah. The faster we're out, the better," I agree and lead us to the basement again. Not even stopping for her as I know with that thing upstairs, she'll be following.
We reach the empty parking garage, and there's a small reprieve in knowing that there's no dogs left to come try and tear out our throats like the first time… or second, or third.
"You still have Ben's tape recorder on you right?" Madeleine inquires suddenly as we reach the gate.
I'd honestly forgotten about it. With everything going on though, I doubt anybody in our situation could blame me for it. "I do, yeah. Why?"
She crosses her arms, "I want to listen to it," is all she says.
Nodding, "Okay…" I mumble and pull the recorder from where I'd tucked in into a pants pocket. Holding the device up between us, I hit play and then the plus button a few times to increase the volume that could hardly be heard by either of us.
"But that doesn't explain the rumors about the orphanage. I-I just find it way too coincidental Umbrella's one of the benefactors."
"Orphanage?" I ask, and her eyes tell me to shush as there's a feminine scoff on the tape.
"You told me this interview was about a new scholarship Umbrella set up," whomever this woman is that belongs to that scoff. She clearly wasn't happy and sounded angry at the reporter for prying into business he hadn't claimed to be there for.
Ben chuckles, "Come on, Annette. Nobody cares about that. They want to know about the G-Virus and—"
"G-Virus?" Madeleine mouths the word.
"You know what it is?" I question, wondering if maybe she's surprised to hear Ben speaking about it.
She shakes her head, "Only the name, Chris was going to look into it after catching wind of the name from an unknown source, but then he left for Europe…" and she cuts off so abruptly I actually turn around. Thinking that maybe she saw something behind me. There's nothing. Prompting me to look back, feeling like an idiot for a solid second before wondering what made her stop talking.
Wait. Didn't she tell you earlier she didn't know much about Chris's vacation?
Then something else also occurs to me… I remember scanning the nameplates in the S.T.A.R.S. office. But none of them carried her name. Something's not adding up about her in what she told me happened between July and August. Something's not adding up about her in general. And now with what I can tell is a slip up she just had...
"…Big fucking sink hole in the city, which, by the way, rumor has it goes straight down to your underground lab…"
"Lab?" we both ask at the same time. Eyes meeting with equal parts confusion at the revelation of there being an actual lab beneath the city.
"Now are you going to talk to me or…"
There's a scratching of something on some unknown source in the tape. Possibly a person standing and sending the chair backwards. "This interview is over," the woman, Annette, announces and there's a door slamming shut a moment later.
Ben scoffs, "Bitch," and the transmission ends.
Pocketing the device, "So there's an underground lab now?" I scoff and look up at the ceiling as I roll my eyes. "What exactly isn't being hidden in this city?"
"I told you you'd find out things about this place you wouldn't want to," she reminds me of the statement she made all the way back on that secret elevator. If only I knew then just what she'd meant. "You open the gate and I'll start my car. Then we can get out of here," Madeleine orders, pulling the key card out and handing it to me. Our fingertips brush when I grab it from her, and goosebumps raise along my arms from the warmth in her hands.
We split up. Approaching the key card terminal, I brace a hand on it and eye the card for a moment, reading the numbers on it. Huffing, I'm just happy we're getting out of this. Inserting the card, I retrieve it and the red lights turn green with a satisfied beep. The gate rattles as it goes up while the engine of a car turns over behind me. I pivot to find Madeleine sitting in the front seat of the red Buick I'd seen earlier. A late 80's model, I would guess if I knew cars as well as my father did. Paint chips flaking, some minor rust around the wheels. There's nothing so bad one might question whether they'll make it out of the city alive, or if it will break down before they even get on the road.
Music fills the garage then: Peace Sells, it sounds like from the vocals. Funny, I picked her as someone who'd listen to NSYNC or maybe Backstreet Boys since those two bands are all the rage right now. If we were elsewhere, I might've found myself enjoying the tune of the song. Rock is a favorite genre of mine too.
A hand on the wheel and the other on the stick, she looks over. "Are you getting in?" she asks, and I take a step. About to tell her to let me drive so she can rest—Chunks of concrete and the tearing of metal along with the clatter of the metal door erupts to the left. All go flying in a cloud of white dust as the tyrant bursts into the garage.
"Should've known you wouldn't stay down," Madeleine fumes. Surprising me when instead of getting out of the car I think I hear her foot step on the brake to switch gears—She stomps on the gas, burning rubber on the concrete as it goes tearing towards the thing standing in the doorway. Fedora gone and somehow with no expression on its face, it manages to appear incredibly pissed off with wide holes in its forehead and cheek created by the magnum's bullets as it takes a step for me—The cars slams into it, crushing the fender and hood in from the force. Knocking it backwards into the previous hallway, but not off its feet completely.
"Madeleine!" her voice echoes in the garage as I hear coughing and some wheezing in response. A leg swings out of the vehicle, and then the other. A hand flashes out and she grabs the open door for support while the other hand is tugging her bag onto her shoulder as she reaches for her belt.
I go for her—
"Stay back!" she warns, pulling a grenade from a notch and stumbles. Turning around as the car begins to be pushed back like it weighs nothing. "Shit!" she groans and throws the grenade into the front seat, turning and managing to run away a few feet to duck with me behind a nearby car—The grenade goes off and glass in the car shatters along with the gasoline tank, literally adding fuel to the fire.
I pop up then, spotting the inferno the car is in and yank another grenade from my clip. Throwing it, I duck again before it explodes. When we stand the thing is currently stepping back and plummeting once again to a knee. Its skull riddled with bullet holes and now also charred from the fire, its trench coat is in a shredded state.
When it doesn't get back up, I kneel beside Madeleine. Wrapping a hand around her stomach, careful to grab her shoulder to avoid accidentally squeezing her chest and hurting her or… Or accidentally grabbing her breast.
She puts a foot under her and finds leverage to stand. There's another cough that escapes her lips and her eyes find mine. Indebted to how much I've helped her and hypnotizing in the way they stare at me. As if trying to see past what makes up my body to my soul. "Thank you," she whispers and steps out of my hold.
"That was… that was pretty badass," the comment made as I find myself genuinely impressed. She drove headfirst into that thing without thinking. Bold and reckless. Thoughtless and stupid. Those are all for sure because of what could have gone wrong in the last second plan, but she's still alive, and that thing is done. Permanently I hope, but then I realize it the second she does.
"Yeah, but now we have no car," she complains, rubbing above her brows in a way I can tell she's thinking to herself. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid! Not too much unlike how I felt Sunday morning after giving into Grace the night before.
Our heads turn to the burning car as we gawk at our only ride out of the city for a second. A door opens before screeching shut then. Our eyes desert the wreckage to the cellblock door where Ada is walking out. Even though the main reason I was going to look through the station at all was to find her and Claire when she wandered off. I honestly forgot about her.
"Thought I heard something," her sultry voice carries across the space between us.
"Ada?" I call, stepping away from Madeleine to meet the ever-mysterious woman in the middle of the parking lot. "I thought you had left by now," I confess my disbelief to find her here.
Her lips tilt into an annoyed frown, "Ben had something on him I wanted to investigate first before leaving, but it wasn't there when I checked."
I wonder… I pull the tape recorder from my pocket, "Is it this?" I ask as Madeleine takes her place beside me. Her eyes say she's not happy when I toss it to Ada. "Mind explaining to us what's on it?" I demand.
Ada takes the recorder and lifts it to eye level to inspect it. "Maybe… after I hear it," the response sounds like a taunt of some kind. "I take it you found a key card?" she queries as she turns and just barely misses shouldering Madeleine on her way to the open garage gate. "Makes it a lot easier to leave when the shutters are open," I hear her quip, and see Madeleine's nostrils flair for a second before her eyes are on mine. Call me crazy, but I have a strong feeling neither of the two women like each other. Even though they've known each other for all of ten minutes combined.
Madeleine turns, her normal walk having an edge to it now as her heels hit the ground harder than usual. Reminding me of a toddler stomping away if I'm being honest. Something about Ada clearly makes her angry.
Up ahead Ada passes an abandoned car with her arm raised as she cocks her hand to her ear with the tape recorder in it. My pace quickens and I pass Madeleine to sidle beside Ada, curious if what she's listening to is whatever she claimed preferring Ben alive for in the first place. "That the intel you needed?" my voice has a small echo as we reach the main street.
Looking from where I'd been eyeing an ambulance and an empty gurney hanging half outside of the vehicle to her. She pockets the device, "Unfortunately no. Ben didn't come through."
What could she possibly be depending on Ben for with information? "Well, what did you need exactly?" I ask, wondering if this is something Madeleine and I could aid in. Seeing as we have no car and no way of escape, Ada might provide our only help if she'll give it.
"More info on the people responsible for this mess."
Why didn't she just say so? "Madeleine was in an Umbrella mansion a few months ago," I confide and hear said woman's feet scuffle to a stop behind me.
We both turn around to eye where she's trailing several feet back with her arms crossed over her wounded chest. At my divulgence of her experience, her eyes narrow on me, and I find her cheeks flushed from the cold. Did she not want me to say anything? Why wouldn't she? We may not know Ada, but she says she's F.B.I., and even has a badge to prove it.
My thoughts are cut off by Ada, "You were in an Umbrella laboratory?" she steps closer to Madeleine who stands rooted in place.
Eyes switching to her, she raises her head a tad. Her eyes are unblinking as the rain pours down her face. "I was, yes."
"And did you come across anything there?" Ada puts a hand on her hip like she's actually interested to hear whatever Madeleine has to say for the first time.
"I did," Madeleine puts a hand on her hip now to match Ada's stance. "We were in a lab we discovered in the mountains this July. We came across zombies and animals whose DNA were being combined with the T-Virus, but all the evidence was destroyed when we set off a self-destruct mechanism in the laboratory to prevent them from escaping."
Ada's hand drops, and she turns around. Lips turned in exasperation at the lack of important news, as if we got her hopes up and then didn't deliver. "Road's out. Looks like we'll be cutting through that gun shop," she informs us, heading straight for the doors of a building to our left. I stare out into what can only be described as a black abyss that takes up the street for a second, it appears there are lights in the missing chunk of road along with some scaffolding off to the right.
"Why is the road out?" I ask and watch Madeleine for an answer.
She takes a step, "Construction. They were replacing old sewer drainage pipes with new ones," is all she gives for an explanation.
Nodding, I follow after Ada to the store she's standing in front of. Tubed lights with neon colors spelling out: Gun Shop Kendo, and a green light handgun adjacent to the word Gun are screwed in above the front doors.
Regarding Madeleine: she's hesitant to enter the place as Ada pushes the double doors, finding they refuse to budge. "Door's locked, give me a minute," she kneels and pulls something out and reaches her hands for the lock. She knows how to pick locks? Just what do they teach agents in the F.B.I. exactly?
"Are you okay?" I whisper to Madeleine the longer she stares at the sign wordlessly.
Her eyes drop and her arms are crossed again as she shivers. "Had some friends who owned the shop. Two brothers and their wives and children. They supplied S.T.A.R.S. with their own guns, had a few made myself, but I haven't seen them in a while. I guess…" looking away from me at the dirty pavement of the sidewalk. When she doesn't finish, I understand she's not going to, and I back up to give her a short-lived moment of privacy before we go in.
Then the bolt can be heard unlocking and Ada stands up. "There," she announces, pushing the doors open.
The streetlamp behind us illuminates the entrance of the boutique, and the first thing witnessed is the utter chaos the first three visible feet are in. The front glass display is shattered and caved in as a shelf has fallen on it. Dozens of muddy footprints are dried on the floor: looters most likely. Explaining why half the shop is in ruins and every display is devoid of weapons.
A black banner hangs above us toting: Ballistics Ammunition, in bolded white letters. Targets of different kinds and colors are hung around the store with unintelligible prices written on the corners in blue ink. "What a mess," Ada groans next to me and I see her nose crinkle up in disgust at the state of the store.
"It didn't look like this before the outbreak," Madeleine states, scooching behind me to the left side of the store. "Compared to some of the other shops I've been in, it was the cleanest of them," she adds, wiping a finger on an empty shelf and inspecting it for dust. She sighs and shakes her head, "Might as well check for ammo or weapons," and I take a step forward with a need to see if she's okay—
"She's right. There might be something in here we could use," Ada agrees, probably the first thing they've agreed on since we've met.
Shrugging, "Okay," I mutter and quietly walk past Madeleine to another shelf. There are some weapon parts laying at the corner of a rack, freshly put here it appears with the lack of dust collected on it. Like someone grabbed it, realized they couldn't use it and set it down to find anything else of use.
If the store was looted it might explain why the doors were locked. The owners Madeleine spoke of no doubt barred the place so nobody else could get in.
Picking the parts up, it almost looks like…
"Magnum parts," Madeleine startles me when she speaks. Her footsteps are silent in spite of being on the hardwood floor. I manage to not jump at her voice though as her hand reaches. Brushing my fingertips with hers to take the hefty metal from my hand. "Would probably be useful on your gun, but we don't have the tools to equip it," she mutters and sets the parts back down before stepping away.
Her voice... She sounds like she was in mourning as she spoke. Something about the lower tenor of her voice. How sophisticated it is even in the rare moments. She's clearly lost in her own thoughts right now too.
And her lips.
I watch as she bends over to pick up a piece of wood and throws it to the side to observe the bullets hiding beneath. Unable to stop my eyes from dropping to her boots and inching up her legs. I take in jean clad calves that even hidden beneath clothes I can tell they are strong. Moving to her thighs and studying the curving of her butt in the jeans. She fits them well.
I drag my eyes away to the shelf in front of me, catching a held breath in a failed attempt to dispel the idea that—I wonder if her thighs are soft? In the corner of my eye, I see her squat and at the errant thought of Madeleine's bare thighs under—Jesus Christ, Kennedy. STOP.
Squeezing my eyes shut in frustration at what was once just wayward observations of Madeleine are now inappropriate thoughts. I check over my shoulder to see Ada crouched in front of the open doors while Madeleine's still inspecting her area too. I take in a deep breath of the cool, rain-soaked air before letting out a long sigh. I reason that in a minute, the thoughts and tightness will be gone.
As they disappear into the back of my subconscious, I turn around. Flitting past Madeleine and avoiding even glancing her way to pass the open shutters for the back counter—A blur steps out from the shadows to my left: an older man with black hair, peppered with gray and white around his temples and some spots in the unshaven stubble on his jaw, in a black and yellow checkered flannel, jeans, and combat boots.
I raise my arms in immediate surrender when I comprehend the shotgun pointing unashamedly at me.
"Don't move."
Chapter 35: Chapter 34
Chapter Text
"Don't move."
"I'm not gonna hurt you—"
"I said, don't move!" my eyes flash to my right where I see Leon's back to me, the bold white letters of R.P.D., and his hands up in the air facing nothing means someone's at his side out of sight. Someone who sounds a lot like Kendo. And by the bark in that command for Leon to stay still and his hands up like that. He must have a weapon pulled on the unarmed rookie.
Leon hangs his head, struggling to appear like he isn't shaking from either nerves or being chilled. "I'm just passing through. I'm going to ask you to lower that weapon—"
There's a scoff, "Like hell you are," Kendo threatens. "You're going to turn around, and go right back out the way you came," he instructs and Leon's arms lower. Kendo is a lot of things: the occasional hunter and fisherman, a respected citizen among the officers in the R.P.D. and friends with S.T.A.R.S., especially Barry, but he is not a murderer.
I think I hear a rasp. Subliminal like it's coming from something, or someone small.
Leon's head turns more to his left now before looking away. "I think your daughter needs your help, sir," and I stand, as if shocked, at the mentioning of Emma the same time Ada does from the shelf she'd been inspecting. Retrieving her gun while at it and stepping swiftly out from the corner to approach them.
I hear a shotgun rack, "Don't you tell me how to handle my daughter," and I pull out my gun next. Suddenly worrying he'll take a drastic measure to keep Emma safe.
Ada, however, beats me to it. Fluidly pointing her gun at Kendo and warning in a serious tone that says one wrong move and she won't hesitate. I stop at an unsettling realization then. I never told Kendo my real name. He's only ever known me by Patricia…
"Drop it." Leon aims his gun next, and I start forward slowly. Hesitant. Afraid to see what might be waiting around that corner.
Her gun's focus shifts to elsewhere, "No, wait!" Kendo yells in response.
"Step aside. We need to terminate her before she turns," Ada's head tilts at the demand like it's as easy as breathing air. Terminate… she actually said terminate. And at the sounds of harsh breathing from out of sight… No. Is Emma… Is she sick?
My question is answered, "Terminate?" her word spit out from his mouth as the vilest thing he's ever heard, and I'm not far from the feeling. "That's my fucking daughter!" I've never heard Kendo this angry. At the horrendous term, and the way she keeps her gun focused without wavering…
"Daddy?" her voice is like a punch to the gut. It's harder than that thing chasing Jill ramming me. Harder than crashing my car into the tyrant in the garage thoughtlessly destroying our only way of escape… So small, so youthful, so innocent and sickly. Oh god…
And Ada referred to her like she's a fucking cockroach to be squashed under a boot. Not a child who is only nine years old, whose birthday was just last month, and she'd even begged me to attend despite not knowing anything about what a party with children was like. Nobody ignores her pressure on the little girl's father. Leon's head snaps in her direction and fury I have never felt on this level towards another human being outside of Umbrella's hold blooms in my chest. It takes all my strength to not focus my gun on her.
I step out from behind Leon, and I see the scene that has been unraveling for the last minute. See Kendo. See her.
I offhandedly take in Kendo's haggard appearance: the bags under his eyes that no doubt match mine, the unshaven jaw with days' worth of scruff and grime covering his skin that says he hasn't been able to take care of himself like I have. That was another thing about him, he took his cleanliness and duty seriously to keep his appearance professional.
When he sees me his shotgun's aim falters just slightly at my unexpected appearance. "You're alive?" the utter shock and relief in the syllables that form that question… He must've thought, like me, that they were the only ones left in this place. His eyes widen, and Ada and Leon keep their aim steady, but I don't miss the rookie shooting his eyes my way at the recognition. "Are you with them?" the way Kendo demands it. He's sickened that Leon or I could be working with a woman like Ada.
I don't pay attention to any of them though. Not at the little girl rasping a few short feet behind Kendo's tightly coiled frame. In an unkempt, purple, striped shirt, jeans with pant cuffs dragging across the muddy ground, and bare feet as she takes a miniscule step forward. The little girl who used to run up to me smiling the more often I'd come to the shop to check on the progress of my Benelli and Glock. The little girl who started calling me "'Trishi" and even liked visiting S.T.A.R.S. at the station every few weeks. Going out of her way to bake cookies with her mother for us as thank you for giving her father and uncle so much business... And to say sorry for our terrible losses after the mansion.
The one who came to me sobbing one afternoon because a girl at school had bullied her over something so cruel as the ethnicity of her mother and father. Kendo and his brother, Joseph, are descendants of Japanese immigrants, and her mother, Jessica, isn't.
"She called me names and… I didn't understand what they meant. And she made fun of my eyes," she'd cried.
She couldn't bear to tell her parents she'd been bullied over it. Coming to someone else she trusted instead and crying on my shoulder as I hugged her in the same alley we were standing in now. Where I told her then there's nothing wrong with her parents or their families before her. That she should be proud. I tried to make her feel better by fabricating a story of being harassed in high school for my nose.
"But I didn't let them upset me, you know why?"
"Why?" her lips waver with unshed tears.
I brushed her hair back and even wiped the tears and mucus from her red and tear swollen face, "Because that lets them win. That lets them think anything they have to say is important, and it's not. The next time they make fun of you, just remember you're a strong girl and what they say about you, or your parents doesn't define who you are…"
Those same eyes that had been bright and honest like every child's… Her right eye is puffy, swollen, appearing white and reminding me of every zombie I've come across. She's shivering, her cheeks are red with what can only be a raging fever, and the front of her shirt is covered in bloody vomit. Her lip droops just a tad as she opens her mouth and lifts her chin from behind her father when she spots me between the two people holding guns at him.
"Trishi?" she rasps and my heart leaps into my throat at her calling my nickname.
I don't even care that she said the nickname in front of the unsuspecting man beside me. The one I catch a curious eye from at the mentioning of it. I put my gun into my holster and step in between the three with their guns all still raised to rush to Emma's side. I decide I can deal with it later if he asks.
I stop in front in front of her and kneel on one leg. "… Hey sweetheart," I whisper quietly, but it echoes in the walled alleyway that connects to their apartment building.
Her eyes alone give away her exhaustion with how weakly they lift to meet mine. I tilt my head, "I… don't feel well," she tells me. In her mind admitting her ailment, unknowing that I can already see how sick she is. Can already see the blood trickling from the corner of her left eye or notice the scabs on her neck from scratching too hard or too much.
Pressing the back of my hand to her head in feigning checking her forehead for a temperature. I drop my arm and smile weakly. "You feel a little warm…" she's burning up. A kind of fever that leaves somebody drenched in sweat and, if left for too long, they'd be seeing things. She should be in a hospital for this… she should be able to get treated and not be forced to remain at home and die from it getting too high… Oh my god she's going to turn. My brain processes the harrowing thought after spending the last few minutes in denial. I have to bite my lip to keep a sob from leaving my mouth.
"But… you know what?" I lead on, hoping she'll ask. I try to keep back the tears prickling my eyes so she has no reason to be frightened.
"What?" she sounds so tired that what I know is excitement is dulled by the lack of energy.
Grabbing her arms gently and rubbing little circles into them with my thumbs. "I still think you look beautiful."
There's a faint smile from her, but then it's gone and she's looking over at Kendo. "Daddy?" she calls again.
"Step. Aside," Ada orders more forcefully this time, taking a step out from the store and into the rain.
"You get back or I'll shoot. I've had enough problems with looters in my store, I'll sure as hell die before I let you put a hand on my little girl," Kendo retorts. I look over my shoulder at the woman in her trench coat and hidden eyes, but frowning lips, still irritated by this exchange. From where I'm kneeling and holding Emma by her arms, I glare at her. Unabashed hatred rooted into my irises, wondering if maybe looks could kill because at this moment, for being so heartless to a father in misery and his suffering daughter, it's enough to want to aim my gun and…
Leon holds a calming hand out to the woman, "Ada… Just let them be," he reasons, blue eyes locking onto mine. Watching me there in the rain with the little girl I know practically nothing of and yet holding her in my grasp and witnessing her with the knowledge that she's infected with the T-Virus is enough to bereave me.
"Emma… sweetheart I told you to stay put," Kendo chides her as if despite the gun's previously being trained on him did nothing to sway him from his fatherly duties.
She steps from my hands, "I'm… hot," she tells him.
He lowers his gun and steps towards us, kneeling beside her now to look into her eyes. "Daddy's here, Emmie. We'll go inside in a minute and take some medicine to help your fever." Kendo pulls Emma into a hug with a trembling breath. When his eyes flicker to mine, the sorrow there is so real and so tangible. "Those fucking things outside, 'trish," he whispers quietly to me and sniffles. He's crying. "Look what they did to us," he chokes on hiding his tears from Emma. Then he pulls from her and bores his eyes into mine, "You're cops. You were with S.T.A.R.S. You're supposed to know something," his eyes tear to Leon now. "How did this happen? Huh?"
I drop my leg and sink to the balls of my feet in defeat at the anger in his words. We let them all down… I think dejectedly.
Emma rakes in a harsh breath of both a dry throat and just from being sick. Kendo licks his lips, the rain running down his cheeks not enough to hide the evidence of his tears.
"She was our sweet little angel."
Leon's face and unblinking eyes show remorse at the heartbreaking words but also carry an unforeseen anger inside.
"Mommy?" Emma turns around, looking at me and then the door behind her.
I lower my head again. The rain pours down my soaked back and drenches my hair as I bring a hand up to my face. I press my lips and eyelids tightly shut, hiding from her the curling of my lips as a sob attempts to escape and let my grief be heard. Grief at the knowledge that I once worked for the company behind this nightmare. Behind children disappearing from under their parents' noses, behind these viruses and their purposes. Behind all the children like Emma in this city, this city of the damned, who died.
I've been beaten, whipped, and broken. But that is the thing that will kill me inside until the day I die.
Kendo turns his attention back to her and gently grabs her shoulders. "Mommy's sleeping, honey, okay?" and I know right then and there Jessica died too, that he killed her.
I stand, staring at the image of a father trying to keep himself together for his daughter's sake and a daughter unaware that she's dying. "And I'm going to put you to bed too, okay?"
She takes in a breath, "Can Jill and 'Trishi come visit when I feel better?" and I stare hollowly at the ground at the names.
He nods, "Of course sweetie. Of course, they can come visit you," he goes to pick her up.
"Wait," I announce, and he stops, head snapping up to me. I kneel for a second time and turn the little girl around, pulling her into my arms.
Resting my chin on her petite shoulder, "You feel better, okay?" I fruitlessly request, knowing. Knowing what Kendo's going to do the second they step behind the confines of that door.
Emma doesn't reply. She just gasps while her slender arms reach to wrap around my back as she hugs me. "I'll get better," she promises, and I shake. Turning my face away to Leon's where he watches as I struggle, like Kendo, to hold myself together.
I back away and Kendo scoops her up in an arm, his shotgun is in the other. She wraps her arms around him with pained rasps and as he makes his way inside the open door, he turns back to look at the three of us.
"Just go," he cries, "Give us some privacy."
"Kendo," I call to him. My mouth fumbles for something to say. "I'm sorry," I sob.
He nods, like hearing the sentiment from me is appreciated, but it does nothing. Heals nothing. Cures not the little girl made of his own DNA, half of his own flesh and blood and half of the woman he married twenty years ago out of love, but at least alleviates the tension between us and lets him know that I'm sorry right down to my soul for what has happened to him and his family.
He slings the shotgun's strap over his shoulder and slams the door closed.
It's quiet for all of ten seconds, "You know, it's one thing to barely tell us anything, but why him?" Leon demands Ada.
There's a racking and then. Bang! It's muffled but comes from inside the building and I wheeze. Feeling like a piece has been torn from me at the sound of that gunshot. As I raise a hand to my mouth—
"It's just one less creature," Ada determines, and I whip around with wide, angry eyes. My feet carry me across the short space between us where I cock my elbow back and punch her as hard as I can in the jaw.
"Fuck you!" I scream at her, for being so merciless, so fucking soulless. No better than me, but at least I have the heart to cry at seeing a child die. To have nightmares from all the people I have killed in my life. Not like her, I bet she does this all the time without blinking, without caring or looking back on it.
F.B.I. my ass, I doubt killing an innocent and unarmed child is protocol in that agency, and if it is. They are no better than me or Umbrella.
My wrist is snatched back by Leon as her hand cups her wounded jaw, "Madeleine!" he shouts, and I look at him. His mouth snaps shut when he sees it, the tears mixing effortlessly with the rain, the trembling of my lips. He feels it in my shaking wrist. My anger, my blood-boiling fury, isn't what's heard by Leon, who helplessly stands there and watches me weep while Ada rights herself. Loss escapes my mouth in body-wracking sobs. A kind I've never felt until now, until I lost another person I cared about more than anyone else.
Some part of me wasn't just fond of Emma, I'd grown to love her. And now she's gone…
He pulls me into his arms, encircling my waist instinctively as I bury my face into his shoulder and wrap my arms around his neck. Wordlessly pleading for physical contact from the man on a level I've never felt until now. "I failed them. I failed this whole city." I cry as I admit to him the feelings I've held for days.
Leon shifts on his feet at the contact, his hands find themselves on my upper and lower back in an embrace. There's nothing but the patter of rain as he keeps quiet and allows me to let out the heartache. The warmth in Leon's embrace, the gentleness in his touch. They serve to remind me of the contact I've lacked my entire life. The sanity I've lost. My first mission resurfaces then, and I recall the last shred of hope I gave up when I returned "home".
You'll never truly experience this. Nobody could love you after the things you've done.
"You okay?" Leon mumbles into my ear when the sobbing eventually slows.
I mull over the question. No, I don't think I'll ever be okay, but instead of giving the truth, I lie. "I'm okay," the words are hardly audible, he hears them though and nods. When I step back, his hands move to my hips and mine find themselves on his biceps. I subconsciously feel the muscle hidden beneath his uniform again.
Feeling self-conscious, I remove a hand to wipe my eyes and the mucus running down my swollen face. Many times I have promised myself Umbrella would pay, but after this. They weren't just going to pay. They are going to suffer. Just like Emma, like me, like Lisa Trevor and her family in that lab, and everyone else who's ever been hurt by them.
Stepping out of his grasp and swiveling my head to Ada, who watches us with a red mark on her jaw. I hope it hurt. I hope her jaw's throbbing from the punch and that it stays that way for the next few days to remind her of what she did to deserve it. I shake my head at her, my mouth curls in absolute disgust as I walk away from them to take my place at the closed gate where I prop a foot against the chain-link fence and hang my head.
Leon looks from me to Ada, gesturing to the closed door of Kendo's home. "I want to know more about what's happening here, and stop the people behind it," he tells her. "Helping people like them… that's why I joined the force," he argues with the agent who I've gone from having misgivings about to a refusal to believe she's in the F.B.I. With no proof, or any way of achieving this, there's nothing I can say, except go along with whatever and pretend to be working with her. Though at my outburst towards her, I'm sure she knows just where I stand with her.
She edges in front of him, arms crossed I can tell and her head jerks up. "My mission is to take down Umbrella's entire operation…" tilting her head, "we may not make it out alive." She confesses, warning him, and I'll admit that my jaw just about dropped at her lack of beating around the bush and openly divulging two random civilians on something that she had once mocked us with being "classified".
He shakes his head, "Whatever it takes to save this city. Count me in."
Stepping forward, she twists at her waist before turning around all the way. Seemingly uncaring of the fact I just punched her hard enough to knock a tooth out. "And you?"
Boring into those sunglasses, reminded of the man who abandoned the team that trusted and respected him. The same one who planned on leading them all to die alone in the woods in unmarked graves before taking the data collected on them, on me, to another company like the pawns we all were that entire time.
I clench my jaw in fury again, "I'm in," I answer, heart dead set on wherever this woman might take us.
I made the decision that night among the remnants of that team. The ashes of that mansion, that given the chance I'd bring down Umbrella. No matter if it cost me my life, I lost the chance when this city became blocked off and I couldn't regroup with Chris. I will not lose it again.
Dubious of her background and intentions or not. I have a feeling she knows just where that underground laboratory Ben was speaking about can be found. If she's offering me the prospect of bringing the company down, I'm in.
Chapter 36: Chapter 35
Chapter Text
Madeleine's violence was not something Ada nor I could've predicted. Tensions were high between the two women even before this, but now with what happened between the owner, Kendo, his daughter, and us, I don't know how much worse they can get. But still, Madeleine was not in the right to do it. Though the punch did impress a part of me.
Her fixing the dog collar in the kennel or hugging the little girl by the name of Emma, tightly in a want to make it last… All before crying in my arms… It made me believe she's someone who isn't like that. And the soul-stripping stare she gave me alone as she held Emma in her arms… it was of a person who knew it was the last goodbye. And I'd prepared from the second I saw it, that the moment their door slammed shut, that she would need a minute to grieve. We aren't exactly pressed for time anymore, not in a way she couldn't at least cry somewhat then and there.
As that fist connected with Ada's jaw though, she was not who I saw when we met on the road. The woman who'd flinched when I went to wipe the tears from her eyes or continuously brushed my hands away until she trusted me enough to allow it. The woman who stands in front of me now is…
The little girl had called her multiple times comes to mind. "'Trishi,". A nickname that reminded me nothing of anything to do with Madeleine. It almost makes me think of…
Patricia.
I said nothing about the nickname to the woman I've been walking besides all night when I heard it. Determining I'll ask at a different time. Ask why I didn't see her own nameplate, didn't hear her name as a member of the team from Raymond, and why she was referred to as "'Trishi". Between the shop keeper leaving and Ada telling us that she's here to bring down Umbrella, with Madeleine and I willingly joining her. It feels far from the right time as we're now following the agent into the unknown.
Ada pushes through the gate, heels clicking on the pavement and my growing questions are stifled for now. "Just how much do you know about Umbrella, Leon?" Ada inquires as she struts away with us close behind.
Madeleine had told me about the mansion and what happened to S.T.A.R.S. She said there was a virus and it leaked… "Enough," I answer after an internal debate of what to say.
"So, you know the company is making bioweapons?" she doesn't stop to acknowledge if I'm replying to her. "They made the T-Virus in that laboratory you spoke of Madeleine being in. It's what's causing these people to turn into zombies, but now they've also made a new one."
"The G-Virus," Madeleine blurts aloud the name we heard on the tape recorder in the parking garage.
Ada gives a once over her shoulder at the brunette walking beside me before averting her eyes to the steps leading into the scaffolding I saw earlier. "Correct."
"Do you know something about it?" Madeleine probes.
"I know who's behind making it: Annette Birkin. I was sent here to find her. She's the one at Umbrella responsible for unleashing the T-Virus."
"Okay, wait," Madeleine announces, her footsteps stop and so do we to regard her. The expression on her face: furrowed eyebrows and wide eyes says she's baffled. "So, the F.B.I. has known this entire time who's behind this outbreak? Meaning you've also known what Umbrella was doing all along. Why hasn't anyone put a stop to it?"
Fair point. If the government's known this for what sounds like it's been a while. Why are they only taking steps to end it now?
Ada takes a firm step towards us, leaning just slightly with a sly grin on her face like she knows more. "Because…" she tilts her head, "breaking into Umbrella would see the government's loss of several billion dollars, along with outing any politician involved with the company. We needed time to figure out who knew, and who didn't, and then we needed evidence to bring them and the company down." She pivots, "But first Annette, I'm going to bring her down."
Then she kneels and before I can grasp what she's doing. Her legs slide out to the side and her body drops with a heavy thud from below. The ledge from which Ada dropped is easily ten feet, I have to wonder how she managed it in her heels. That can't be safe, it sounds like the best way to either sprain an ankle or break her heel and leg, but I keep the concerns to myself. Seeing as she landed safely and is already walking ahead to the large pipe sitting open at the end of the scaffolding.
Eyes averting from Ada to Madeleine, "Do you need…"
She drops to sit on the platform. "I can do it. Don't worry," she assures, fixing the strap of her bag to being over her shoulder and stomach before grabbing the ledge with one hand. Pushing off a second later, she grabs the ledge with the other hand now and dangles before dropping from a slightly lower height.
I immediately follow, copying how Ada dropped down herself. Wondering how strong Madeleine is to have been able to pull off the move while injured. "Where is this taking us?" Madeleine asks, already walking over to Ada. I've noticed that since deciding to partake in this mission to find the secret Umbrella lab she's become more vocal with the woman. She's become more vocal in general over the course of partnering with her.
"Straight to Annette," Ada answers, stepping to the side of the pipe.
The three of us take our places outside of it. My nose scrunches at what must be the smell of the sewers wafting out from what has to be another connected pipe a little ways down in the inside. Both women appear to be just as affected by the stench with the expressions of repugnance on their faces. It smelled pretty bad the first time I was in the city, but now this combined with the disgusting odor of dead bodies. It's a little more than stomach churning to say the least.
"Based on what I've heard, the sewer seems fitting," I comment, the first person to speak since we took our place in front of the abhorrent smelling pathway.
Ada huffs, "Well said," then she looks at me. Waving her hand and proffering the chance to be the first person to enter. "After you," she quips.
"Gee, thanks," I reply and cross the pipe's threshold.
Filthy doesn't describe the amount of trash littered on the floor. There's a wheelbarrow and some construction equipment to the side along with cinder blocks and dirt lying about. Though the debris is an obstacle to go around, the dirt offers some form of traction on the pipe's floor when it becomes a downward slope. At least none of us slip and fall, I can't imagine having any other part than my shoes touching this place.
There are lights in here at least. Dim from running nonstop, but they work all the same. "Can't imagine a real scientist working down here," I tell Ada as I turn into the next pipe.
"According to HQ, this leads right into Umbrella's secret facility," she replies.
Ben said in his tape there was a sinkhole rumored to lead right into the lab, but still. "Come on. Sewers are run by the city. How could they have a facility down here without the authorities knowing?"
"Sounds just like the government," I hear Madeleine mutter under her breath, and I find myself surprised by the statement. Is she not a fan of the government? A lot of people I knew back home weren't either with some of the problems the country's going through. Though I hardly paid attention to politics and mostly buried my head into textbooks to get good grades to obtain as many scholarships as possible for university.
Ada agrees with her statement, "Welcome to corporate America, Leon. Umbrella's controlled Raccoon City for years."
Besides the comment, Madeleine's been quiet since entering this area. When I check over my shoulder, I see her there. Eyes trained on the ground and watching her every step, lips pulled tight in an intense frown.
Looking away to observe further ahead as we come upon an intersection in the tunnels. We discover one side is grated, blocking us from going that way. "This way it is," I mumble, making it five feet down the path—There's a crash. It shakes the ground, causes bits of concrete to fall from the ceiling. Some of which barely miss us. I stop walking it's so intense, "Jesus! Is that an earthquake?" oh great. Not only are we going to die. We're going to die in the sewer, surrounded by rats and the days old piss and shit of other people.
"I sure as hell hope so," Ada retorts.
"The T-Virus can infect animals, is it possible something down here got infected?" Madeleine suggests as I turn into a small corridor out of the main tunnel.
The idea pushes me to withdraw my gun from where it's been waiting patiently. Ahead is a grate with something large beyond it, the lack of light in our corridor and lighting behind the grate is just right to make it impossible to see what it's besides the surface that looks somewhat jagged.
It moves, rumbling the ground again. A feral snarl echoes in the tunnel as— That's a goddamn tail! What could it belong to? "What the hell!" I shout. My heart pounding as I really don't want to walk any further now.
"What was that?" Madeleine asks as we move into an actual room with a sink coated in substances, I don't even want to begin to know what they are and rust coated barrels.
"Stay sharp," is all Ada says as we quickly exit into the same tunnel we saw that thing.
Up ahead large pieces of concrete lay on the floor, but thankfully there's a small flight of stairs to the left. We won't have to keep going straight and possibly run into whatever was on the other side of those bars. "Let's go this way," I tell them, already climbing the steps before descending the next set a foot away. More shaking. Dust and debris fall, "Again?" the word made equally of terror and frustration. A sweat breaks out across my body in a rational fear that at any moment we'll cross paths with the monster.
"It's not too late to turn back, Leon," Ada taunts.
"We can do this," Madeleine responds with a strong and self-assured voice of somebody who's been through this before and can do it again. Her words and attitude give me a needed inspiration to forge ahead and power past whatever's in our path.
Shaking my head as we come upon a metal catwalk, the sewage smell is stronger in here. We must be in the heart of it now, "No chance of us leaving. You're stuck with us till the end."
"How touching," I hear Ada retort.
Reaching the end of the catwalk, I flash a light down to find the sewer water waiting below. Rolling my neck. Great. This is definitely not about to be the highlight of my night. "I'll go down first, you two wait," I order them. Meeting Madeleine's timid gaze like she wants to tell me to not go but she can't find it in herself to say it.
Holstering the gun into my waistband instead of my thigh holster before squatting. I swing my legs out and tuck my lips between my teeth as I feel my stomach jostle as I drop. I'm met with a face full of greasy, freezing cold water. My hands scrape the surface while preventing myself from crashing in all the way. The jolting of my neck sends a pain through my body that reminds me of the crash and that the bruises are well into forming now. Give it a couple more hours and the ones from falling off the ladder will be there too.
Standing, I grimace as I wipe the foul water around my lips onto the shoulder of my uniform and make a groan. "Are you sure this is the right way?" I ask, a moment too late. This is something I should've clarified before submerging half my face and body into foul water.
"Unfortunately, yes," she answers. I look up to see the two women kneeling and peering over the side at me.
"I'm not quite sure how to ask this…" Madeleine starts, scrutinizing behind herself. "But why didn't we just keep walking further down this catwalk?" she questions. It's then I look past them and see the catwalk expanding past them into the dark tunnel.
Of course, I chose the worst direction possible in the sewers. I grumble to myself, covered in ungodly waste and seeing a possible different route I could've gone that didn't include wading through here.
Ada looks behind herself as well now but says nothing with a blank expression. I determine that even if she realized the screw up made by letting me jump in here. She's not going to admit it. "Are you okay?" Madeleine then asks, "maybe we can find a way to get you out?" she then suggests.
A rumble that's far too close for my liking grabs our attention and we stare into the dark tunnel now. "Hey…" Madeleine starts again.
"Just wait there," I put a warning hand up and grab Mathilda, worried she'd drop down with me. What I saw in that previous tunnel was huge, if it's nearby and comes after, I'm afraid her injuries will make any fast escape impossible.
A series of mini-earthquakes continues. Dust coats myself and the water at this point and my stomach twists into a tight knot—There's a roar as something bursts from the water, sending a wave of it in my direction. I see the rows of razor-sharp teeth meant for tearing apart prey with ease and the scales. It's an alligator! An alligator that takes up almost the entire tunnel with its massive build stands before me.
It throws its head against a wall beside it and then the other. I shrink back, instinctively putting my hands up to protect my head in the case concrete comes flying at me. The water grows warm as my brain lapses in judgement and my bladder empties before I can stop it. In fear I thought I'd known already tonight but am quickly proven wrong.
"Leon!" Madeleine screams from above. "Get out of there!"
Synapses decide to fire correctly at her command, and I turn to run.
Chapter 37: Chapter 36
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Holy shit!" I scream as I work my legs through the waist high water.
There's no way I can outrun this thing, not an animal made to run in—"Keep going!" Madeleine shouts, and there's a splash in the water behind me. Bang! Light blinds me for a moment and my ears ring as a flash grenade goes off in the water several feet behind me. Madeleine must have used her last flash grenade on this thing to momentarily stun it. But I don't stop to look behind me to see if it distracted the alligator, knowing it'd be the last thing I ever did.
Beyond the Styrofoam containers, deteriorating papers, and other bits of trash floating in the water. There's a massive pile of garbage lumped together in the middle of the path, forcing me to stick to the right wall.
With a growl, the alligator crashes through the pile. Sending trash scattering into the water around me before its teeth gnash together as I duck my head again. It's close enough a whiff of revolting breath cascades over me and wind grazes the back of my neck. The thought of any part of my body getting caught in those deadly jaws drowns me in icy cold fear.
Another trash pile is in my way now and I have to hasten my steps, my heart is in my throat as I wade through the water to the other wall. It's safer to stick to the walls while I can, I'm not running in the middle like an idiot.
There's another roar and the ground shakes. I feel water droplets hit my neck and arms as splashes are made while it barrels forward, trying to lunge for me. My legs are shaking with adrenaline coursing rampantly through my body as it nears. Its powerful jaws snap at me, but I've already darted back to the other side. Not a moment too late as it reacts at missing me a second time by diving a second time.
I hit the wall so hard I lose my train of thought. I just keep pushing myself on and finally see there's a dip in the tunnel. Thank god, maybe it's a drop too big for this thing to follow me through. My hurried footsteps carry me closer, a light hanging above lights the area up and I can make out the wall—growling erupts just as my hand makes contact with the ramp and I vault my legs out of the water onto it. Hitting the ground hard, I throw my head back at the last second as I nearly miss the pipe strung horizontally across the ramp.
The crunching of metal is heard behind me as I reach the bottom and from there I see nowhere to go. The dip led me to a dead end.
A ladder plummets to my right then. Splashing into the water and I look up to see Madeleine standing there. "Climb!" she commands, yanking her gun out as I wade over. Not needing to be told twice.
I'm at the top of the ladder, almost onto the catwalk with her and out of the room—Boom!
I grip the last rung tightly as the blast of air nearly knocks me off the ladder. I stop and look behind me to see bits of skull dropping as the body of the alligator crashes to the water below with half its head missing and its body twitching. Averting my eyes to Madeleine, she shot that pipe. It must have been a gas line. She saved my life. Between all the creatures that managed to pin me more than her in the station. I'm becoming more indebted to her than I could've ever planned on.
When I climb onto the catwalk, I give the alligator one last glare. I hope that son of bitch choked on that pipe.
Ada appears from an open doorway that Madeleine must have come through.
"What the hell was that?" I demand as she does.
She scoffs and nods her head in the direction of the door before turning around. "Can't say I didn't warn you," the tone extremely unappreciated after what I just went through.
"How was I supposed to expect a super grown alligator in the sewers?" I snap. I actually pissed myself for the first time since wearing diapers.
She just keeps walking like this whole situation hasn't affected her once. Hell, it appears only Madeleine gives a shit I was just about to be eaten by that thing. Even though she was extremely hurt she managed to keep up with me while I ran. She even used her flash grenade to stun that thing. It was probably the only thing that saved me at least once during the chase.
"Fair point," Ada finally relents, marveling, "I'm just impressed you made it in one piece."
I think I see a slight shaking of Madeleine's head in disappointment. "And if he hadn't?" she demands.
Ada steps in front of an elevator and presses the call button before her head lolls to us. "Then I guess it'd be just us going to the laboratory now, wouldn't it?" her tone apathetic as she now tilts her head.
"Cute," I mutter bitterly at her lack of concern on whether the alligator ate me or not as the lift arrives and the gates open. We all step inside in momentary silence; Madeleine takes her place at the back while Ada and I move to the sides. The two women match each other once again by crossing their arms during the descent.
It bugs me enough to have to ask, "So let me get this straight. Umbrella sells monsters like that to who? Our military?" god help us… "Somebody else's?"
Ada's eyes are on me, "They don't sell the monsters, they sell the viruses that make them," she clarifies. "And Annette is who makes the viruses, so as scary as that alligator was, she's far more dangerous."
To my right I hear Madeleine mumble, "They do."
Ada and I share a look at her as the statement shoots Ada's down. Did she learn that in the mansion?
The elevator doors open.
Stepping outside, the two rooms we go through pass by in a blur of more construction equipment. I push a door open, hearing muttering of a feminine voice just before it's opened all the way, "...definitely William's handiwork."
"Identify yourself!" I aim my gun at a woman squatting beside a dead body. A large gaping hole rests in the sternum as if something emerged violently from within the chest. It reminds me of the many times I rewatched Alien with that actress from Ghostbusters when Ark and I snuck a V.H.S rental of it on a Friday night in middle school.
The woman in question wears a pair of stone washed jeans and burgundy red flats, a white lab coat and a gray top underneath with a necklace hanging down and a small watch on the wrist facing me. A subtle layer of grease from lack of showering can be seen in the light shining in the room, her hair itself is pulled into a side ponytail. Her eyes flit to me and it's obvious she saw me.
I hear Ada's heels as they click to stand beside me. "Annette Birkin."
The name… "She's who we're looking for?" for some reason she didn't strike me as a person capable of making bioweapons. But like with Madeleine in that first encounter and how things regarding her are beginning to not add up. I've learned looks can be very deceiving.
Annette's eyes return to the body and her head shakes as she stands. "Not much time…"
Madeleine appears to my right. Her gun is drawn, but not raised. There's a look of shock in her eyes that catches me off guard, like maybe she recognizes the woman. "We're here for the G-Virus," Ada's words distract me from further deciphering Madeleine's expression as my eyes look forward again.
Her lips split into a grin, "Is that so?" her eyes move to the right and I think I see the slightest widening of her eyes too. Her lip's part to speak…
"I'm warning you, doctor," Ada interrupts whatever was about to be said with her clear threat, and Annette's eyes tear from Madeleine to her.
"That's not going to happen," she states. The verdict final to her.
Removing a lighter from her pocket suddenly, she flicks it on and tosses it to the body where the shirt erupts into flames and spreads with ease to the other articles of clothing.
She pivots and runs then. "Hey!" I shout and Ada chases after her.
"Stop!" she yells as Annette rounds the corner and bullets are fired.
Without thinking, "Ada!" I shout her name and dive, grabbing her small frame in an act to protect her.
A bullet pierces my uniform. Wedging into my skin between my left shoulder and heart. A cry escapes my lips in pain unlike anything I've felt tonight or before, worsening when we crash to the floor on my wounded arm.
"Leon!" I hear Madeleine's voice and the scuffling of her feet.
"You'll never get the G-Virus!" Annette taunts as I lay there. Able to feel where the bullet is lodged into my shoulder. My face contorting in pain.
There's a huff from Ada as Madeleine's hands come to the bullet hole. "I didn't expect that from a scientist," the prior groans and kneels beside Madeleine now. I stare for a second in amazement when I see her sunglasses were knocked from her face. I take in the almond shaped hazel brown eyes that have been hidden for half the night.
"Leon!" she whispers. It's the most worry she's actually shown for me tonight.
Panting, I feel the blood running from my shoulder and feel incredibly faint. "Just go… find her… before she gets away," I whisper, and feel my consciousness slip from me.
Notes:
Hey everyone! You guys by chance miss this book? :D
I've been gone for a while, I know. Raising a newborn is taxing and I've not much time for writing these days, but I promised myself today I'd get out a chapter or two for those who are patiently waiting. I hope you guys enjoy and thank you for hanging around!
Chapter 38: Chapter 37
Chapter Text
There's so much blood. Running everywhere. Staining everything in sight. The faces of the scientists all stare back at me openly. Questioning why they had to die, why I had to gun them down along with every other soldier in the room…
The moment his eyes flutter closed my heart is in my throat. Beating wildly. The fear all the way from the basement of the station that he could've died overtakes me again. I reach a hand, shaking and bloody, from his wound towards his throat. Keeping it steady long enough to feel a pulse there, a pulse that's slowing…
Ada stands in the corner of my eye, "Up," she orders. I don't have to look to know there's a gun aimed at my head.
Angling my head, observing her in a completely different light now. I refuse to shield the hatred in my eyes as I stare into the barrel of her handgun. "I should've known," I seethe my anger. She's not F.B.I., she can't be, especially not after this stunt. Lucky me that she waited for Leon to fall unconscious before showing her true colors. How touching. How much like Wesker she's turning out to be.
A smirk lifts her lips, "Consider this as repayment for the punch, it won't be happening. Now up, I won't say it again," she orders.
I abandon Leon's body, putting my hands in the air in defeat because I can't reach my gun in time to defend myself. Shaking my head, "Want me gone so you can wrap him around your finger?" I spit, accusing next, "I'm not stupid. You're not F.B.I., I doubt you have anything to do with them."
"Perceptive," she taunts, side stepping Leon's unconscious form to stand in front of me. "Now if you're as smart as you claim to be, you'll get on that lift behind you. And you'll leave before I shoot," she threatens.
Taking a step back, "I hope he finds out who you are."
Smirk still there, "He won't. And if he does. I'll kill him."
"Is taking lives so easy for you?" I demand, riled beyond any recognition of myself at the idea of her doing anything to hurt Leon.
Her lips turn into a grim line for a moment, "It kinda is in my line of work," she taunts again, and I glare. "You make it so obvious," she then says and my brows knot together in uncertainty.
"Make what so obvious?" I repeat her words, unsure of what she's implying.
The smirk leaves her lips as she deadpans, "You mean, you don't know?" know? Know what? Then the mocking smile is back, "That's precious, you don't understand your own feelings. Haven't you ever dated before, Madeleine?"
I imagine the look on my face must say my lack of dating experience or anything to do with men in general. "What're you implying?"
"I'll let you figure that out. Now get on that lift, and get the hell out of here," she orders as my feet come into contact with metal.
I look to see I'm on it now before looking back up…
Stepping forward, I grab her wrist and yank her to me to thrust my elbow into her chest. Knocking the air out from her lungs before I snatch the gun from her hand. My thumb finds the magazine release and it clatters to the ground, rendering her gun useless until she can put it back together.
Unexpectedly her head smashes into mine, catching my nose and immediately my eyes water as the cartilage barely escapes snapping. I don't stumble though, having had that move pulled on me too many times in training to count. Though a small stream of blood does end up dripping down my lip. I do drop the gun though, and for a satisfying second time grab her other arm and drive my fist into her jaw again. Her head snaps back, and then returns to glaring at me. Her eyes burn with a look as wild as mine, I'm sure.
"Bitch!" she swears, grabbing my shoulders and driving her knee into my stomach. The bruises cry out and so do I as I collapse to my hands and knees, winded and trying to catch my breath.
I hear the magazine being slapped into place now, "I've had enough of you, get up. And get out of here, now. The longer you take, the more he bleeds. He might die if I take too long to treat him," she ridicules, and my eyes go to the rookie. Where he's sleeping peacefully, unaware of the fight going on just a few feet away. I see the circle of blood staining his shirt and seeping from his shoulder.
Gritting my teeth, I stand. "Don't hurt him," I plea, holding my hands up. Anxiety over the unconscious man the only reason I retreat onto the lift and fumble a hand blindly for the button to activate the machine. It whirs, lifting me away from him and Ada.
Lip busted and another bruise forming on her jaw, "He'll live." Is all she promises with a sneer on her face, and then I'm out of sight.
Chapter 39: Chapter 38
Chapter Text
Treating the young man came at little cost besides time and what little bandaging she carried in for herself.
Although she won't disagree that treating an unplanned bullet wound was a nuisance. Seeing the young cop's body, even if it was just his chest, wasn't something she found herself against either. His bloodied long sleeve undershirt is lying to his side right now, and when she'd taken it off, she took a moment to admire his form.
She bandaged his arm and chest, buttoning his police shirt back on afterwards to be nice. Leaving the bullet vest to the side for him to put back on himself. Just dealing with removing his clothes was a task with the weight of his torso alone. Maybe she'd just tear off his sleeve for easier access next time.
Of course she knew with him there would be no next time.
He'd begun to shiver in his sleep from the blood loss. It was then that she'd shrugged off the trench coat and laid it over him to help the chill. In less than five minutes down here she'd lost most of her disguise and only form of warmth. The only part of her ruse remaining is the fake ID badge. There's nothing to hide the EMF gun from him now though when he wakes. Certainly not in her red cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline. The one she wore with a black camisole beneath that sports a little bow between her breasts. It's clings to her curves in the way she specifically bought it for in case she needed to gain appeal with the men…
She'd just have to deal with that later. For now though, Leon's healed. More than likely he'll survive from the wound as it didn't hit anything vital. She just can't promise something else won't kill him before an actual doctor can inspect her bandaging skills. But the second most important thing. Madeleine is out of her way now. Someone who hasn't figured out her true motives, just that she's not F.B.I., but Ada's yet to figure out who the hell she is herself. Something is amiss with the young woman though from the nickname of "Trishi" she'd caught the little girl calling her. A name that incited a foreboding expression of, "I'll get to that one later," from Leon towards her as she sped past the two to the sickly child.
The only thing more important than the threat of her removal though is Annette being nearby. Information is waiting to be obtained from the scientist after a long flight to the nearest airport and a hard to gain entrance into the infested town. Not a piece of cake by any means, but it could've gone worse.
Ada rubs her aching jaw. Wanting Tylenol right about now to make the throbbing go away. That woman looked weak. She'd never once considered her a problem. Until she'd been punched square in the jaw in the alley of Kendo's shop after her comment towards the infected little girl. It blindsided her as much as the action would have anyone else. To be fair though, it was deserved. She processed too late that her words were too cruel for the situation, but did Madeleine make sure she knew that in her own way. Not only did she punch her, but she'd also yelled the obscenity at her.
Her ribs are hurting too. Something fierce at getting elbowed in them, and her forehead is on fire from head butting Madeleine in retaliation for the attack.
A martial artist? A boxer? Goddamn, whatever that woman is. She knows where to hit and how to make it count, but lucky for Ada she'd been through plenty of training like that herself. She just wasn't bracing for an offensive move like the grabbing of her gun and dropping the magazine so Ada couldn't fire off more than the one bullet in the gun's chamber. Not that she would, or wanted too like she'd taunted her with when it came to Leon. The bullet would go through Madeleine's skull and maybe reverberate back at Ada and wound her too. It would be incredibly messy with the blood and brains, and, oh yeah, hiding her dead body from Leon would be difficult. Next to impossible, and so would regaining his trust after murdering her.
Madeleine was turning out to be a formidable foe in many ways, but she's gone now. And hopefully with them finding themselves in the sewers, she won't be coming back.
Chatter comes from her small radio, her supervisor wanting to know just what is going on. The sleeping officer is to the side, head rolled to his right shoulder and his eyelashes fanning his cheeks. How sweet. The epitome of a sleeping angel, and at the corny thought she wants to snort. Laughing is something she hasn't found the situation to do so in quite a while.
It seems her feelings for the man have taken a sharp turn. Him literally throwing himself in front of her to catch a bullet might do that to anyone though. No man in her agency would ever do such a thing, and after knowing Leon for what… two hours? He'd done it for her without thinking.
She understands why Madeleine is so caring of the man now, even if she's blatantly ignorant of her own feelings. Something she absolutely couldn't believe given how beautiful the woman is, much to her chagrin. The amount of looks she'd caught her giving Leon in the parking garage and Ada had caught him giving her in return at the Gun Shop or in the pipe just before nearly being run down by the alligator spoke volumes to her. But apparently to them, it's obvious there's something going on between them not even they were picking up on.
And after this display? Leon without a doubt is a man willing to die in his duty to serve and protect. He's most likely confused towards Madeleine too judging on those same looks given… Something she just might use to her advantage if given one. She'll twist those feelings to her own ambition. It's not like she hasn't had to before with this job when she visited John in the same lab that Madeleine had apparently went to herself this summer.
He really must be dead. No wonder why I never heard from him again after our last call. Is all she thinks to herself before reporting, "I'm right outside the facility, in pursuit of Annette," in a whisper, in the off chance he wakes up.
"So where is the G-Virus?" her boss demands.
She gives the charred body a once over, smelling the burned fat and clothing. Before it'd been burned an embryo must have burst from the chest and killed the poor bastard instantly. "If it's not on her then it'll be in NEST," is all she says.
"Retrieve it, Wong. Time is ticking, and the longer you take, the harder it will be to send someone in to collect you."
She smirks, what a charmer he is, but after working with him for two months. She expects no less from the man. "Once it's in hand I'll call for extraction," and she tucks the radio away before he responds. Not that he would. She learned fast he's a man of few instructions and radio silence.
Ada's eyes travel to Leon again. It's time to go. He'd served his purpose of getting her down here, and even saving her life from Annette's shooting, but she has a mission to carry out.
"You can run Annette, but you can't hide," she jeers as she struts towards the same way the scientist had gone. Where the inaccessible walkway hidden behind the door concealed as a wall that the scientist escaped through waits. To the left is a ladder leading into a vent with a fan though. The grating in front of the vent is somewhat of an issue too, since there's no way she'll be able to get through it.
By her luck, today she has the new EMF gun her agency had obtained. It was a small device that could hack certain electronics. Pulling it out: it's time to put the gun to the test. "It's secret weapon time," she jokes, almost immediately cringing at what she just said, and points the sleek visualizer at the power box the fan is connected to. Hearing the click of the gun and hearing the fan turn on, she directs her aim to that now and pulls the trigger, listening as the fan picks up speed. The turning of the rotary growing too fast for what it was made to handle.
It comes undone, blowing out the grate with the remnants scattering around her and inside the vent.
Candy from a baby, she thinks as she stuffs it into the right side of her holster vest. The left pocket carrying her Broom HC, only one of five thousand that had been created.
Climbing the ladder, she runs through the rusted and mold reeking vent to the end, coming upon another grate and oversized cockroaches. Another byproduct of the T-Virus, most likely through secondhand infection like the alligator and the dogs in the station. The bugs were practically the size of her feet.
The alligator… Although she had taunted Madeleine with an uncaring attitude of Leon dying. She actually found herself worrying that he would be crushed or devoured by it. What's with her? Having any kind of thoughts towards that man. It doesn't matter in all honesty; it's just unsettling to know she's grateful that her allowing either person to tag along hadn't gotten him killed in the process. Yet.
Quickly doing away with the fan, Ada drops into the following room and kills a zombie who stands at the disturbance. He's well in the stages of decay, skin sloughing to the floor as he rights himself, body no longer bloated from the buildup of gas. Disgusting. She'll be happy the moment she's out of here.
A sheet of paper is lying on a worktable to her right and upon inspection it mentions an ID bracelet. Something about the one the workers had wasn't working and a replacement was requested. Could this mean there's one laying around? It would certainly make getting into the NEST easier by having it. She knows there's a cable car and doesn't want to learn the hard way her EMF gun won't cut it.
Stepping out of the warm room into a rather cold one. There must be an open space in here allowing the draft.
She tiptoes across the metal grating of the catwalk both to be quiet in case of zombies, and having found the same trouble with the other one when Leon was being chased. The only reason Madeleine made it to that ladder first, or so she tells herself, maybe it was just the lack of motivation. Maybe it was Madeleine's unacknowledged feelings that carried her to that ladder like a bat out of hell.
How could someone be so clueless to their own thoughts about another person? Her eyes went wider than a saucer plate when she'd even clued the woman in on picking up on whatever unspoken bond is developing between her and Leon. It's like she'd been sheltered her entire life, all the way until now…
She makes her way down the stairs leading to the right and comes upon a lift where she steps on and listens as the mechanism slides the platform up to the overlooking balcony above. And there she sees Annette, walking towards her on the other side of what she would assume is bulletproof glass. "Got you now," Ada speaks with a curve to her lip as Annette turns the corner and heads into another hidden section of the laboratory as the wall behind her slides shut, meaning Ada's going to have to find another way in.
"You're good at running Annette, I'll give you that," she then says as she opens the door the platform leads to. "But not good enough," she resolves what would be interpreted as a compliment towards the scientist, when it was anything but.
She's halfway to the hallway's only other shut door when a large thud makes itself known to her. Ah, there it is. The same Tyrant that killed Ben and chased Leon and Madeleine around the station. She'd let them take the burden of being chased by that thing while she snooped around the rooms for ammo and information. The latter she found little of as Irons must have been hiding it somewhere she either couldn't reach or take the time to find out where.
"Persistent bastard, aren't you?" she asks, feeling confident as she pulls the lever belonging to the door down. It dwindles when the door doesn't open: the power must be off.
Ada retrieves the EMF and pulls the trigger to see the faint glow of blue as its light radiates through the thick concrete. Following it to the power supply situated to the right where she turns it on and pulls the lever a second time, she finds a short purchase of relief when it opens. The door had crashed open behind her seconds ago, and as she begins to run, she knows she doesn't need to look back in order to see the Tyrant at the end of the hall. Honing in on her and picking up speed at the sight of the spy about to burrow her way further into territory she didn't belong in.
She's close to getting away. Until she comes across another fan with the grating just thin enough she can't fit through to slip away. "Right," she mumbles, knowing it was her luck to have this kind of thing happen to her, and she hurriedly traces the faint blue light of the power back to the same spot the door's power ran to.
The Tyrant enters the room then, and there's a moment of chase around the table in the middle of the room as she switches over the power to the fan. She isn't strong enough, nor is her gun to fight off that thing, though those two apparently had from the state she'd found it in just before leaving the parking garage. Well at least she knew neither of them were willing to die without a fight, more than she could say for some of her coworkers.
Rotary in the fan giving with the debris going everywhere. Ada sees the grating didn't go this time but finds a space between the grating has opened regardless. She runs and holsters her EMF gun and, in one fluid motion, she grabs a piece of grating. Where she lifts her legs, shoots them forward, and propels herself through the slot to land on her feet at a small drop below.
The Tyrant sure is persistent, but he doesn't follow her through that. She's more than satisfied with this realization.
A door to her right leads her to another small set of stairs, where a rotted crate and empty barrels of whatever residue was left behind sits next to a door. This is one she definitely hadn't seen before. It looks new, not in just construction, but technology as well. Umbrella's always advancing in science and technology though, so she isn't surprised. More so just caught off guard to see it sitting right here in the middle of the sewers.
Must be a section only Umbrella employees are allowed in, it would explain the paper she found back at the first vent.
Ada approaches the door— "Umbrella ID band of at least level one required to gain access," a robotic feminine voice announces and Ada's teeth clench. Yes, she remembered hearing about this before she arrived, their new system had ID bracelets that varied in levels. Level one being a guest all the way to level five being a head scientist of the research facility like Annette Birkin, or her husband, William.
She has the idea of finding a body of an employee here, guessing they would have a bracelet on them. "Has to be something," she whispers, eyeing the area around her. Deciding to check the small balcony above where she finds another paper detailing a large piece of trash caught in the incinerator. The person on duty was going to check, but chances are they didn't make it that far, meaning she would check now.
The lever to the right of the paper is pulled, and she hears the door of the incinerator below opening as she's already making her way down the stairs.
Entering the incinerator, the smoke and stench of putrefaction catches her off guard and she stumbles back to catch a breath. Something's been rotting in here for quite a while now. Or someone, she learns as she approaches the dead body of a worker. Kneeling and removing the bracelet from his disintegrating wrist, she takes an extra second to wipe the back of it off on his pant leg.
The whirring of gears drags her eyes to the closing door of the incinerator where she sees a pair of blue jeans and flats just before it shuts completely. A slot in the middle of the door that was previously shut opens and there she sees Annette Birkin's face peering into the incinerator where Ada's trapped inside as live bait.
She stands, slipping the bracelet on and with a head tilt. "Bravo... Gonna burn me alive now?" is all she asks.
"You'll never get your filthy hands on G."
Scoffing, "I'm not the only one after it, you realize that?"
Annette feigns a face of thinking the words through. "Then you won't die alone," is the conclusion she comes to before shutting the window. A buzzer sounds a second later. Heat and gasoline waft from below her feet now and she curses. Any second the fire can spark, and she'll be caught in the flames.
She knows the second she panics though is the second she might as well bend over and kiss her ass goodbye in this thing. Putting a hand over her mouth to stifle the gas, Ada thinks it through that there's going to be a power box.
So, where is it?
Her gun lights not one, but three power boxes up. All leading to different locations, but she keeps her cool, knowing she has to get out of here. That the sweat spreading across her body as anxiety tries to curdle her blood will prohibit this. Breathing calmly, she tracks the first line to the power supply, switching it on and then returning to the other to overload the circuit.
The heat dies a tad at the loss of one of the three power supplies, and she sets to work on the second, doing the same with that as she did the first. Now the heat in the incinerator is halved, the flames are unable to catch.
Her heart stops racing in fear of dying by burning alive as she moves her gun's focus to the last power supply. Wires can be heard fraying and the panel bursts, gears that'd locked the door to the incinerator click as they're released and the door pops open.
Without hesitation, she runs out. A panting, sweating, and admiring mess of the state that scientist left her in with the ingenious plan of leaving her to cook in there. Obviously, it wasn't foolproof because she'd gotten out. A feat she could only thank the EMF gun for. Whoever developed it she could kiss because it's the only thing that saved her life.
Standing once she's regained her breath and no longer smells smoke, "That bitch knows what she's doing," she rasps and steps towards the exit.
It opens, "Visitor clearance confirmed. Your ID is authorized until October First. Please return before this date," the message ends, she laughs in response.
"Not going to happen," she replies, darting for the door to her left. Shoving it open, she continues a slow jog past pipes and leftover trash from the construction workers until she reaches a catwalk with no railings. Her jog returns to a walk, tentative and untrustworthy as Ada makes her way across it—A spotlight flashes to her right when she's standing in the middle and she lifts her hand to protect her eyes from the blinding light, wishing she had her sunglasses still. The intensity is lessened as her retinas grow used to it and she sidesteps directly in front of it. Once the light is out of her eyes she's able to see Annette standing behind the glass.
"Enough with this cat and mouse game!" she yells, frustrated at this point.
"The game is over. You lost," Annette states like it's a fact as undisputable as animal's breathe in oxygen to survive before stepping behind a control panel. She must have flipped something on as the sound of machinery coming to life can be heard around her now.
This doesn't scare Ada one bit though, "Tell me: is your husband still alive? Or did you kill him, so you could take credit for G?"
"Interesting theory," Annette boasts with an unreadable tone, and jerks her hand back, lifting a large trash compactor to Ada's right. "But I have a question for you now," she announces, Ada of course doesn't answer, but she has a feeling the scientist wouldn't care if she did or not. "What do you know about that woman you're working beside?"
Madeleine? Lifting her chin indignantly. "Why? Gonna kill her too?"
There's a laugh through the speakers, "No actually, I have different plans."
She isn't going to waste time talking to this woman about some other whom she knows nothing of. "If you don't cooperate, I'll just get a sample of G from NEST," she threatens.
It doesn't have the effect she's hoping to achieve on making the scientist give up. It apparently rattles her though. "Over my dead body," her voice permeates through the speakers gruffly.
The trash compactor slams down only five feet from Ada's body, sparking as it slides her way. Driving Ada to run to her left to avoid being hit or squashed by the brutal machine. It collides with some barrels and a desk to her right as she grabs a railing with her left arm and holds on tight as she swings her body out. She latches onto it with the other next, barely missing being crushed by the compactor.
Her weight and the damage caused on the catwalk bends the metal, and the railing takes a drastic dip from vertical to horizontal.
"Oh shit!"
The platform gives and she crashes hard onto a garbage pile below her. Where she rolls hard for a few tumbles until she hits the dirty concrete floor of the waste disposal. Burning erupts in her outer right thigh as something punctures the skin, making her grunt and scream in pain. She props herself up on an arm, witnessing the split in her black tights caused by the three inches of sharp metal buried into her thigh. Fuck, that's going to make walking hard once she removes it. That's without considering the trouble she's in with being in the sewers with bacteria that could easily get inside the wound and infect it.
Wrapping her hands around the metal, she yanks. Harder than she's felt she's ever needed to, but nothing happens. She's too weak to pull it out, and she can't walk with it stuck in her leg.
"Goddammit!" she shouts, angry at herself for feeling feeble when she knows she is anything but. The doors to the room are open at least, and above there's windows leading in so if he happens this way, he'll be able to come and rescue her…
Ada hates feeling this weak. And she'd not anticipated seeing or needing Leon again after leaving him in the sewers, but as she lays her head back, she wonders aloud for the first time. "Where's Leon when I need him?"
Chapter 40: Chapter 39
Chapter Text
Thirty minutes before
I realize upon stepping off the lift that I have no flashlight. The one I'd lamented leaving behind on the main desk back in the station was long gone by the time we'd returned. I couldn't be sure it was even there when Leon and I were at that desk the first time. Maybe that's why I'd overlooked it. Either way though, without a flashlight, I have no source of light to see with in wherever the hell I am in the darker sections of… wherever here is.
Descending a set of stairs, I'm smacked with a wall of noxious gases and can hear a strong, steady current of water. I must be in the heart of the sewers right now, and if there are zombies, but I have no flashlight…
"Don't think about it," I whisper to myself to help keep what little calm I can in place of the fear.
I come to a ledge lacking a railing, and as expected, to my right is a waterfall of water with god knows what captured within its brown and gray stream. Scanning the sides of the walls below me, I bite the inside of my cheek and sigh in disgust at seeing no platforms to walk on to escape the river. Meaning I'm about to walk in other people's shit and urine. Sitting down on the edge, I lift my shirt to my nose and take a deep breath. Though through the material I'm still inhaling foul air.
Not wanting to submerge the gun into whatever's in the water below. I take a moment to store my handgun, and after consideration, my knife, into my duffel bag. It's at the restriction of movements from the tight jean jacket that I deliberate removing that too. I do as such then, taking the bag off long enough to painfully shrug the jacket from my shoulders before safely tucking it into the bag next. They'll wait inside until I'm situated in the stream.
Tightening the straps as much as possible so it won't be too submerged in the water. I silently thank the R.P.D. for the thought of buying waterproof duffel bags and giving me one later on in the week after my arrival. I press a hand on the concrete, wrap my lips around my teeth to keep them tightly shut and push off. Stumbling, and dunking my hands in the water, while shooting pain straight to my chest. Gasping at the deep sting and icy cold liquid soaking my clothes up to my navel that reek like no tomorrow. Some droplets splash on my face too.
I rub a cheek on both shoulders, gritting my teeth and wishing there was another way to go through here. "It's just water. It's just water," I chant as I wade through it a foot with my hands up like I was about to get shot and I'm not trying to keep my balance to prevent slipping. An event that if it occurs and I get more of this stuff on me besides my legs and waist...
I'll toss these clothes when I get a chance. I could feel my boots flood with water in the drop and even as I walk, I have to refrain from flexing my toes in the shoes. I don't want to feel the muddy water squishing around them. I'll probably have to thoroughly scrub down there too to avoid the hellish bacterial infection it might cause …
I'm glad I took the jacket off. The orchid painting on the back means too much to watch burn up in flames if it had touched this river. It was a reflection of my first occurrence of acting out against Umbrella. I'd draw the flower over and over again on the inside of anything I could when overlooked. Each time I was caught I was beaten too for doing so, but I never stopped drawing them those few precious chances I had.
At first, I didn't know why I drew it. I was given pencils for note taking and classwork in the academy. I'd grown bored one evening while studying when I was still considered "One of the good ones". The idea for a flower is one I finally understood when puberty set in. When memories flooded back in an overwhelming sense that left me crying every second the first week with each one. Unless I was in the presence of someone. Then the tears would forcefully stop.
The more I drew it the better the flower became. The painting on my jacket is the first one I've done in color, and the last tangible thing I have of my mother. Even if I painted another one, it'd never be, or feel, the same. Nothing like wading through people's shit to make you contemplate a sad moment in your life.
I stop before exiting the small area, staring into the abyss straight ahead of me. So dark if it weren't for the faintest light on the left, I wouldn't even know where it ends. Clenching my jaw at the thought of that woman, because being angry at Ada is much better than focusing on the dread. I take a step into the dark tunnel; my eyes faintly grow used to the lack of light. I can make out a few piles of garbage to the sides of the walls and wonder just how much regular trash is down here. All to avoid thinking the few times my foot squishes in something under the water.
I'm only halfway through the tunnel when I hear a guttural groan reverberate off the walls around me. Nothing any zombie would produce. It's long and spine chilling.
I wildly look around in the dark, but there's no point. The water, the lack of light, and bricks create a displacement. Making it impossible to determine the source of the noise. I fumble where I stand, dragging the duffle around to my front where I unzip it and perform a careful dance of rifling through the bag in the dark. Managing to not sink it below the surface of the water as I retrieve my handgun with trembling hands before zipping it closed. Moving further, aiming the Glock. Part of me reasons how useless this is, because if a zombie appears, there is no doubt I'm going to die.
Of all the places I thought I might die. In a river of fecal matter is not one of them. I can't die. I just can't. I have to get through here and somehow regroup with Leon and warn him about Ada. Somehow. I don't know how I'll ever find him now from here…
"And if he does. I'll kill him," Ada had threatened. Promised to take his life just as easily as she'd pointed that gun at Emma and told her own father to step aside so he could watch her be shot. Gritting my teeth, Irons and Ada. They're two people in my life I'm okay with murder. The other being Wesker in that short period before the Tyrant did it for me. I hope Irons has a violent and brutal end for what he's done, to everyone who's suffered because of him.
Stepping into a connecting hall where the light's coming from. I scan both sides, my left is blocked off with grating. A swarm of moths flutter their wings at the light they're surrounding. Unable to go through there, my attention diverts to my right where past more piles of collecting garbage, two tunnels sit. Leading off into different directions I presume, which means if I go through the wrong one. I could be walking farther from an exit point. And Leon.
I close my eyes and look to my side at the murky water with an unknowing huff. I'm concerned about him, yes. Honestly, the word doesn't even describe how I truly feel at the thought of abandoning the rookie to Ada's care, but I can't afford to let it distract me. Ada promised she wouldn't hurt him though, and until I see him again. I have to believe she kept her word and helped him with that gunshot wound.
The wound I found myself running to his side when I heard that cry pass his lips and knew he'd been shot by Annette. Yet another reaction towards him that was unplanned and just happened without a thought at him being injured.
I'll decide what to do if I see Ada without him.
At the thought of Annette Birkin, I come to a stop on my way to the right tunnel. The only one that's had the best source of light so far and doesn't appear so ominous.
There's something about the blonde hair, the lab coat, and how shocked she looked at the sight of me. I know she's one of the many scientists who ran experiments on me with the others in that first week at the facility in Paris before I was officially transferred to the academy. I wouldn't doubt the possibility she transferred here during my years of captivity. The two research facilities were always in a competition to outdo each other from what I heard when I began serving guard duty in my off time. I wouldn't be surprised if she left for here thinking it was better.
It's a little hard to believe that though as I continue walking through the freezing water of human waste. Knowing an Umbrella lab is claimed to be hidden somewhere nearby by Ben and Ada.
The tunnel curves suddenly, leading me mercifully to a platform. I smile for a fleeting second, then purse my lips again remembering I'm not out of here yet.
Grimacing when a drying hand comes into contact with the water-logged sheets of paper beneath my palm. I set my gun down and heave a leg up onto the ground. Then the next, pulling the first up so I'm sort of kneeling and grab the gun, holstering it into the sopping thigh holster. I unzip the long stretch of zipper on one boot to release the water inside. Disgusted when it spills onto my hand, but glad as I take the boot off completely to empty the rest out before putting it back on and doing the same with the other boot.
Taking a deep breath. I look to my left at the stairs—I still at the dead body slouched messily against a wall several feet ahead. The helmet-clad head is rolled downwards towards their shoulder as if sleeping, and the wall behind them is covered in blood. I zip the second boot up and stand. Approaching the body cautiously, I see the black gear, the matching black color of a helmet and boots, pants and long sleeve, and a tactical bulletproof vest with large pockets to hold other equipment.
An MP5 lies by their side. Kneeling, I pick it up to inspect it—It clatters to the ground and I stand abruptly. My disbelief is proven wrong by the recognition of the person's outfit and weapon.
This is a U.S.S. soldier.
I should've known, I once wore that uniform. Carried that same gun in my hands and went on missions that more often than not, ended in massacres. I didn't want to admit it though as I drew nearer to the body, my mind picking up on details too fresh in my mind. When the shock of the unexpected discovery dispels, I kneel back down to further inspect the body. Finding the helmet not just dented, it was bashed in. The left leg is twisted in a sickeningly broken way. Something hard was used to literally beat this soldier to death.
There's a throaty snarl echoing off in the distance behind me and I swing my head in the direction. While I'd like to sit here and figure out why there's a U.S.S. soldier in the sewers, I can't. I take the soldier's shotgun though and check for how many rounds are left, the pockets in the vest too. Grabbing several more, and even getting so fortunate as to find a flash grenade. I store everything into the duffle bag, determining the more weapons I have, the safer I am. When I find Leon again, I can give him the shotgun… If I do.
I abandon the body then, aiming my gun and inhaling reassuring breaths as I spot a small set of stairs. There's a second body lying face down beside them, an arm held out as if for the soldier behind me. That's when I see a VHS tape in front of the first step, like someone dropped it in a hurry and didn't have time in their fleeing to reclaim it. I look over my shoulder at the deceased soldier, wondering if this belongs to them. I snatch it. The way it sat there makes me think it was thrown from the white scratches on the surface. I doubt I'll come across anything to watch it with, but I put it in the duffle bag anyways.
I climb the steps to a third U.S.S. soldier's body. Slouched over in the same condition as the last one, arm and head smashed into bloody pulps by something merciless and violent. It reminds me of the creature from the station's basement, and the pipe it carried and attempted to bash my brains out with. It's not that thing though, this has to be another creation loose in the sewers. Maybe it's whatever made that moan not far back.
These bodies have been here a while from the odor caught from all three. They must've died from their wounds and weren't infected with the T-Virus before death occurred, or else they'd be walking around too. Before I desert the body, I collect any abandoned ammo again.
My breath trembles as I climb the painted red steps and shiver. Rounding a corner, and with a few lights strategically sitting several feet away from each other. It provides just enough light I make out the outline of a zombie in front of me, wearing a blue jumpsuit and a name tag. I conclude the man must've been a janitor of some kind down here. What an awful place to die…
I fire a bullet into his decaying head, wishing I'd taken my Tylenol as the reverberation makes the back of my head throb. Will I have to go to a hospital at this point? I don't know if it's feasible, and what would they say to all the injuries I'm carrying anyway?
I'm guessing the workers have all been down here for a while like I'd originally thought. They smelled worse than the bodies on the street, and not because of where they've been rotting for the last week. Let's hope I don't come across any in the water.
A door beyond the janitor marked: Treatment facility sits to my right. I jiggle the door handle and find it's locked. It must be to an office, though I doubt there's anything of importance inside.
I step towards the railing to the door's left and peer over to see another river of sewage. A small platform that drops into it can be found sitting just barely within sight, my guess is the door to my right leads to it. I start for the door, finding that I couldn't have gone any other way if I wanted to with a bridge lifted into the air and well out of reach.
Opening the door, the body of a dead employee lays on the floor with a hole in his head. He'd been shot and dealt with. Somebody came through here at some point and put the undead man out of his misery. In the corner, past a cluttered table and work benches that takes up half of the room is an empty space. When I check, I see there's a lift waiting some feet below me. Too far to jump, an action that undoubtedly would lead to a broken ankle.
There's a clear button to the side and I know it must be the call button for the lift. Gears work as the lift rises to reaches room level and I step on, putting them back to work by lowering to the bottom floor again. The floor in here is just as dirty as everywhere else with a pile of trash bags filled to the brim with whatever. Broken down cardboard towers against a wall in front of me. I take a step off the lift…
That sound I heard some ways back echoes into the room again. Much louder than before and possibly meaning the source is…
"I wish I had a flashlight," I mutter to myself to unsuccessfully displace the fear creating a sweat across my body as I continue to the open walkway. Halting so fast my feet scuff the floor when I swear, I catch something large, pink, and shining wet sink below the water's surface through a small vent in the wall to my left.
The hairs on my body stand on end, in reaction to comprehending some monster just disappeared into the very water I have to climb into. I grab my shotgun in response and practically tiptoe to the exit of the room. There's nothing waiting outside when I scan both ways, but seeing nothing doesn't make me feel any better. Despite knowing the imminent danger, I grit my teeth as I purse my lips and lower to the floor to scooch into the infested water. Shivering from the temperature and nauseated when the suctioning of water filling my boots is felt again. I aim the shotgun instantly when my feet are settled at another long, echoing moan.
What the fuck is crawling around through here? Whatever I saw. It's big.
Some kind of debris is building alongside the walls as I make my way through the stream, brown and wet in a layer of dripping mucus. Another two tunnels sit in front of me, but one lacks any light while the other I can see a ledge providing another escape from the water. I hope I'm getting somewhere in this place and haven't been walking through here for nothing.
Water splashes behind me and I feel droplets wet my hair as I turn around—
"Jesus Christ!" I scream, heart pounding so hard with adrenaline my legs are shaking again as I fumble to aim the shotgun at the overtly large hand with its open palm racing straight for me. I fire a shot without any time taken to aim, not that it would matter with so much of the body hiding in the water. The slug shreds a devastating hole through the palm into the arm, tearing off several fingers in the process.
A creature bursts from the water with a garbled roar in response as liquid that isn't blood spurts from the wounded hand. Topping in height at ten feet at least, the hand is adjoined to an arm almost the length of its body with a grotesque mass of gray growing atop the left shoulder. Its neck is long too, and its head isn't formed all the way. There's a noticeable split down the middle and a gap in a jaw lined with sharp teeth.
I watch in horror as a wet, slimy detachment occurs in its face in front of me. Splitting apart into four sections as something resembling a fat tongue appears from the split mouth and lowers to the water. Wispy tendrils flail about. There's a screech and then a lump appears in the throat. A small body plops from the mouth, a tail at the end writhing as it wriggles and I see a gaping hole with teeth and then eyes inches above open.
"What the fuck!" I yell as it rolls over and both creatures come rushing for me, but I've already turned and started running. I'm going to be easily overwhelmed by both if I deal with them here.
Whatever the thing produced has a mouth… and eyes! Eyes with pupils that glared right at me as it thrashed in the water. I knew right then I wasn't going to kill either creature without getting hurt or infected.
I swing a leg up onto the concrete, then the next. Rolling away on the filthy floor without a care for the dirt or the cry my ribs give at the action as I hurriedly push myself up and turn around.
The small creature slithers onto the platform with me. I lift my foot to ruthlessly stomp the heel into the middle of the expected soft surface of its back. I hear a crunch and realize there are bones of some kind within the tissue as it gives a pathetic cry and its movements stop. My eyes find the other creature where it's chasing after and I aim my gun, not so frightened anymore now that I'm above ground. I fire at its head, the bullet spatters liquid everywhere. The other arm I'd missed, smaller and comparable to a human's, comes up to grab its injury in anguish.
"Just die!" I aim at the lump on the shoulder and shoot. Bursting the mass, my jaw drops as the shot reveals an inhuman yellow eye concealed there. A fourth shot follows, and the eye bursts with a pop. Vitreous fluid weeps as the mouth within its head stretches out by a good foot. Warping and gnashing wildly before it takes a half step and collapses into the water with a garbled yelp.
Panting, I take a step back against the wall with my gun remaining focused in case I'm wrong and the monster is very much not dead. I step a few feet to my left and when I don't see any disturbances in the creature's state of floating in the water, I deem it's safe enough to turn around and get out of here. I flee up some stairs and through a door into a chilly room, worsened by the damp clothing.
The first thing I catch is the bulky cable car, inactive, and just beyond a railing in the middle of a large tunnel connected to wires. Residing on tracks that lead it elsewhere from here.
My face scrunches in confusion, "Cable car?" of all the things I've seen tonight, in a mind-boggling way, this is the most surprising. Ben's recorder and Ada's words return, and I wonder if this has anything to do with that lab. Hell, if I'm lucky enough this is what would take me to it. That's when I see the large Umbrella logo engraved into the side and the suspicion is confirmed: it definitely will lead somewhere important at the very least.
How do I get to it then? Maybe if I found my way to it and waited, Leon and Ada would turn up. This has to be the way in that she's looking for. There can't be that many entrances to a top-secret underground lab in this city.
A hand on the railing, I peer to the right. If this does lead to the lab, it must be well past this place. I eye where the track leads, determining past the light of this room that I can't see anything but an unlit tunnel ahead. I stop for another few minutes after to, yet again, empty the soiled water from my boots. When my second boot is affixed onto my foot, I turn to my left and spot a ladder at the end leading to a balcony. I climb, nervously peeking around the room at the sparking of a cable.
The unwarranted thought of wishing Leon were here right now creeps to mind as I walk into a room the balcony leads to. Resulting in a shunning of the desire so fast, it leaves my head spinning, because having him here while injured means he could get hurt. Or die. My brain complicates my feelings even more by being worried about him staying alive. I worry about everyone we've come across staying safe, except for Ada, but that feeling towards him is stifling how strong it is—and still is—since it first appeared with the dog.
I'm not sure what's more confusing. Wanting him here, meaning on some level I want his company for safety and a way to be more relaxed, or not wanting him here because I'm afraid he'd get hurt further. "Stop thinking about him. He might find me again soon if they head this way," I chide myself aloud in the empty room.
Giving the control panels and thick glass in front of me a once over, along with the bookshelf to my right. Its contents are strewn everywhere like somebody went through it in a rush. A dead body sitting against a wall in an orange jacket with reflective tape, mud encrusted jeans, and work boots answers the unasked question of who's the culprit behind the mess. Beside her are safety rails and when I walk over to look down, I find a small drop, and the lift jammed in the middle. With no other exit I crouch and drop, my stomach tightening at the loss of gravity as it always does and repeat the motions again to stumble a step forward. Releasing a punch of air at the knocking of my rib cage when I reach the bottom floor of another room.
A wall in front of me has windows installed all the way around the corner to the next door, and in the corner across is a white board situated behind a table carrying a TV and… a VCR. The VHS tape should play on that with no problem, it might allow me to see whatever's on it. Might allow me to see why the hell they were here and what they were doing.
Crossing the distance, I open the bag and grab the tape. Flipping it over in my hand, I carefully insert it into the VCR and fidget with the buttons to get it to play.
The date in the corner reads: September 23rd, 1998, with the time being: 1:18 most likely at night and not day. A whole twenty-four hours before this outbreak started, and the city went to shit. Wasn't there maintenance occurring in the sewer around that time? The water was planned to be cut off and so everyone in the city was asked to not use any in the time span from midnight to six to prevent a water shortage. Now I have an inkling why: the U.S.S. was sent in at this time.
In the bottom corner is the soldier's name: A. Kirkpatrick. Apparently, there is another camera as this is the second recording.
"Please… Oh Please… S-stop!" the recorder begs weakly. A briefcase sitting wide open is in view with cartridges wedged inside the foam. Test tubes it looks like. Were they here to take something from the Umbrella lab?
My attention is drawn from that to the muzzle flash in the top left corner as someone shoots at something as a hand comes into view, snatching the briefcase off the ground. Lifting it to where its contents are overturned, that's when I spot a lab coat and a mutated arm…
My face pales. This is the monster that almost killed Leon and I in the basement. Calculating today's date and the videos, that means it's been roaming beneath the city for six whole days now. Was this thing why they came here? Was it a scientist who got infected and only the U.S.S. could come take it out? It looks like they failed in the end. Miserably.
"Over here you freak!" the person behind the muzzle flash keeps shooting. The brief case rattles with the popping of test tubes as its dropped to the ground.
The camera flashes for a second and when the static disappears the back of the creature is in view. Showing how it's waving its monstrous arm and catapulting the man firing at it into the wall as the other cries. "Don't… Don't hurt him!" Apparently, that wasn't enough as even though the man was obviously already dead. That same pipe used against us is brought down hard on a leg and a moment later. His head.
Rats scurry into view, eating the leaked contents of the test tubes, and though it's a large jump of conclusions. Judging how the infected cases jumped so drastically this week alone. "Bet the T-Virus was in those," I mumble aloud. Meaning if they'd infected themselves, they probably started going after other creatures when they turned. Like people. If any of that's true, they were a vector in this outbreak. "Figures," I say then, taking a step back after the camera feed becomes static. Grabbing my jean jacket from my bag, I throw it back on now that I'm out of the waterway.
My head whips to the side when I hear a small cry of discomfort through the open door. "Hello?" I call out, realizing it sounded human and nothing like a zombie or those things out in the sewers. "Is someone there?" I cautiously approach the door—And halt at the flash of blue in the corner of my eyes in the room the windows allow me to see into. I press my hands against glass so dusty, I can hardly make out the form of a…
"Hey!" I shout at a child lying on their side with their back to me. Running down the stairs the door leads to, almost tripping in my race around the corner to the room. A large door blocks the path labeled: Waste Disposal. I slam the lever to the side down and the door begins to lift. The smell of smoke is close to suffocating in here for some reason, the source I can't take the time to find though.
A little girl lies in the middle of the room, but not just any. The same one I saw two days ago at the station, the same one in that camera feed getting dragged off by Irons. Same clothing, same blonde hair braided into a bun, and at her shiver I dart to her side and kneel with panic in my throat. "Hey," I whisper gently, rolling her onto her back. Seeing the jagged inflammation forming on her left eye. I kneel beside her—aching ribs be damned—and scoop a hand under her head, "Hey…"
A door crashes open somewhere outside of the room. "Who are you!" a feminine voice shouts from behind me, but I ignore the woman as the girl stirs in my grasp. Gently opening her eyes to reveal the startled light blue orbs staring up at me in a sickly way.
"You're…"
"Get your hands off her!" the woman shouts again, and I hear her footsteps approaching so I turn around.
She has a gun aimed at me. Her hands are shaking, her lip is busted from Irons hitting her in their skirmish. Her dark jeans, red leather jacket, and brown hair pulled into a ponytail are soaked. Her boots are muddy and from the stains on her duffle bag and pants, I'll take a guess she also had to walk through the sewers like me, but none of it matters.
I raise my hands, the little girl forgotten behind me at the woman threatening to shoot because I'm too close. A shaky breath passes my lips, "You're Claire, right? I'm with Leon."
Chapter 41: Chapter 40
Chapter Text
"911, what's your emergency?"
"H-hello? I need help. A lot of sick people are walking around my street, and I even saw a man attack my neighbor. I called because- because I don't know what to do—"
"Are you parents' home?" the woman's voice works hard to keep steady for the sake of the little girl on the line.
A trembling breath on her end, "N-no, they're at work."
"I need you to stay calm, okay, sweetie? Listen to me. I'll send somebody out right away to check the problem. Until then I need you to find a place to hide in your home. Don't come out until you're safe. What's your name?"
"Sherry. Sherry Birkin."
Sherry had held the phone handle gripped tightly in her hand during that phone call. So much so, she thought if she were a little older and a little stronger, it might snap under the pressure. She'd been crying while speaking to the 911 operator, something she seldom did, but given the circumstances of watching her neighbor's throat be torn out right in front of her. It was a display of emotions she could afford in her young mind's working through the trauma from witnessing the gruesome scene.
What was worse than watching the fourth-grade school teacher she'd lived next to all her life—and had even attended her class—die that way, was the fact that after the prospect of safety was promised, it was never delivered. Nobody came to check on Sherry, and when hours passed, when waiting in her cramped closet till her butt and back were numb from sitting was found useless. She'd crawled out to see both the man who'd attacked Mrs. Gold was gone, and so was her body.
She tried calling the number Mommy left her to the front office of the chemical plant they work at. Nobody answered after six calls. She was scared, in a way she'd never known and when neither came home that evening…
Then the TV went out, the phone was gone within the next two days and with that. The spotty internet connection in the behemoth of a computer they'd bought for her last year. Finally, when it seemed like it couldn't get any worse. The power went out in the middle of the third night, shutting off her bedside lamp and leaving her scrambling for the flashlight beneath her bed.
All she had was herself and that flashlight as the moans from outside echoed into her bedroom through the locked window. The growling of people, who weren't people. She could also hear screams as one by one neighbors were chased down and mauled by the zombies she'd come to accept as a reality. Not a movie. It was a nightmare, and she wanted out of it, crying into her pillow till dawn in quiet, body wracking sobs that she needed Mommy to come home and tell her what to do.
They'd told her what to do for everything. Call the police if there's an accident, call Mommy or Daddy if it's absolutely urgent. She even knew how to use a fire extinguisher if there was ever a fire in the house. But they never told her what to do if people started eating each other. Or when those same people who died right outside the house would then get up a few hours later and walk around to do the same to another person.
Zombie apocalypses were always joked about in school thanks to the plethora of zombie movies produced over the decades. Sherry never foresaw a future where one would be occurring outside the safe walls of her house. Or at least she had thought were safe. On that third night alone in her bedroom the house was broken into, leaving her hiding under her bed as the house was robbed. There she fell back asleep after the house grew deathly still when the thieves left.
When she awoke it was to a sore neck, tear swollen cheeks, and a heavy heart to see the rifled dressers in her and her parents' bedroom. There were cracked frames throughout the house, especially a recent one taken not long ago: she and Mommy wearing white, loose, and flowing blouses, while Daddy wore a black, long-sleeve sweater. One of their family outings that didn't even qualify as rare with how little they happened. Her parents were more consumed with work than anything to do with Sherry. That bitter thought didn't stop her from shaking out the broken glass and returning it to the place on the side table it'd been knocked from though.
Four days she'd remained there, unsure of what to do, and on that fourth morning she knew it was time to say goodbye to her childhood home and find shelter elsewhere. With the innocent mind of a child, the first safe place popped to mind: the police station. The same people who'd neglected to check on her, but at the dangerous idea of leaving the house. It was all she could think of.
With her polka-dotted backpack filled with several cans of food and a can opener, and a fresh set of her school clothes on her back. She, and what little items she had, made their way to the station. The last thing she'd grabbed on the way out from her home was her locket.
She hated the locket in a way. Loathed it and how it represented another birthday gone by with no parents to make her feel special because they were too busy at work. The locket was simply another materialistic way for Mommy to say she was sorry. Like she did with the computer, the stuffed animals, and the books. All things that if they'd spent time at home with her more often, they would've known she didn't want, or had grown out of.
She clutched the brass pendant in her hand though as she walked down the street with only a faint remembrance of the way there. The other simply white-knuckled a strap of her backpack. Her tether to calm as she abandoned her house. The same one she'd clutched from her home all the way to the station as she ducked through empty yards and empty shops. Narrowly avoiding zombies on the way and losing her backpack in a fight to get away from one she hadn't spotted in a dark alleyway in the inner city. Nightfall would be setting in only a couple more hours, and she'd spent all day trying to find her way there.
It was the same locket she dropped in the parking garage of the station while being dragged off to the orphanage by police chief Irons, away from Claire.
There was an aching relief in her chest at seeing the big block letters: R.P.D. It was something she'd never felt on this level before with how exhausted and scared she was by then. That was until she walked through the side gate, the main gate was barred shut, and saw the graves. With a feeling of sinking hard under the water in a pond, her hope deflated just like that because she knew it could only mean the station had been attacked. Maybe even overwhelmed. And the safety she was desperate for was, yet again, out of reach.
Her instincts told her to turn right back around and brace the road to leave town, but she couldn't. The shaking of her legs, the parched throat and rumbling stomach drove her inside in the hopes of finding food and warmth.
She regretted it.
She had to enter the main hall through the second floor as the lack of light in one wing was scary enough to dissuade her from entering. If the overturned cots and disarray of chairs she saw inside weren't enough to say what happened here. The rivers and pools of blood were. Overrun, gone, every officer in the station was gone.
Her naivety didn't want to accept this lack of protection or that she came here on a limb instead of going the opposite direction to where the nearest town would be. So, she'd made her way down a staircase and searched for any unlocked doors in the main hall. Finding they all were, and one in particular went into an office with a strung-up banner reading: Welcome Leon. The sight of which led her into a sadness she'd never known before that made her sit on the steps of that office and cry a time for which she didn't know the count. Terrified, she'd ended up alone in the city.
It was when her tears were spent that her brain decided it was best she get the hell out of dodge. The time that had passed in her small breakdown was unknown, but it had been enough as the sky and clouds were well into the evening.
She left the office then, walked down the ramp, and that's when she spotted a woman turning her head around to gawk at her where Sherry stood in bewilderment. She froze at the sight of the crazed look in her eyes, like she couldn't discern if Sherry was real or not. Her eyes were wide with a look she couldn't quite decipher as scary or a cry for help. It terrified Sherry all the same. This was certainly something she wouldn't have bet on coming across in a million years. Even after the harrowing trudge through the streets where bodies of the dead were walking or eating each other.
Then the woman stood, raising a hand out to her, "Hey. Are you here all by yourself?" Her voice was raw and cracked at those two words, calling out to her like Sherry's very presence was a lifeline. She was concerned, but Sherry's eyes took one look, and the decision was made: run.
The shaking hand, the maddened eyes, the blood spattered all over the room. It was too much for Sherry, so she bolted back into that office, "No, wait!" she heard the desperation in that command for her to stay put. The scuffling of the shoes in a dash to get around the desk, but Sherry had already hidden under a desk when she barged into the office behind her.
She didn't seem too crazy to Sherry. It was mainly her appearance and the state of the main hall that overwhelmed her. She even debated crawling out from the last desk on the end at the promise the little girl would be safe to see if she could help. Until she started talking to a voice she couldn't hear and concluded this woman was crazy. Going so far as to whisper to herself for the little girl to hear an admission of being crazy in a way that her soul wept.
Then she screamed and Sherry nearly jumped out of her skin in response. Going still and not affording to even properly breathe for a few minutes until the door to the office closed.
She wandered the rest of the building afterwards, getting lost numerous times and coming across places with no light that she turned around at to evade. Eventually, she'd lied down to sleep in the S.T.A.R.S. office under the desk of a Patricia O'Donnell.
When she awoke it was daylight, and she was starving and thirsty. She took what little was left in a vending machine upstairs in a small sitting area just down the hall and ate it happily, downing a pop with it. It wasn't a flavor she liked, the word: Diet was on it. She was sure she'd been told not long beforehand that the word meant it was for somebody who was trying to lose weight to drink, but it still tasted terrible.
With a belly sort of full, she sat in the S.T.A.R.S. office and waited. For what, there was no answer, as she knew nobody was coming to get her.
As with all young children, she eventually tired of this endless task and left the room. Looking for the library she knew to be stocked full of something to read. Maybe not the slightly advanced chapter books she'd left at home, but anything, even material she couldn't quite understand yet, was better than nothing.
She was right in that she understood very little of the books she divulged herself in. Law books. It was all boring and not exciting like she thought it might have been to go through them. It passed the time at least and that's all that mattered. Sherry knew it was time to leave the station though, waiting here would bring her nothing. And who knows when more zombies would get in?
She grew scared when she went to exit the library and remembered the door locked. Sometime last night in her wandering a big monster broke into the building. She'd seen that woman and another with short brown hair and in a sleeveless top and skirt running down the hall as it followed them from a spot she'd squished herself into beside a chair in that sitting area.
She came across a vent not long after and got an idea. That's how she began to travel through the station, the vents all led somewhere. Never too long, and eventually she knew where they all went, avoiding monsters at times in the rooms she came across them.
It worked well. Until she fell hard down one on accident, and when she crawled out of it, she was in a place she'd never seen before. With a headache forming alongside a new bump, she'd walked around the area, an underground of some sort. It was warm at least, but she spent many hours scouring for a way out, coming across a bridge that had been moved. Again, Sherry wished she was older and stronger for a second time in a matter of days because her youth led to her weakness. She couldn't pull the lever to move the bridge.
Sherry had inadvertently found herself trapped.
She remained stuck there for a long time, wandering the halls and catwalk so many times she knew them by heart. Giving up well before then on her hope of escape… until she heard a door open in the stairwell to her right from where she'd been sitting on the catwalk. Eyes shutting as sleep tried taking over. For some odd reason she didn't jump down to see who it was in utter glee of a person finding her. Sherry ran instead for some better cover, clanging against the catwalk stupidly as she did so, she thought to herself.
It hadn't turned out to be a monster though, nor anybody scary. It was a woman not older than a teenager with a pistol in her hand, raised and at the ready because she'd heard Sherry's flight. When she'd come across the downed shelf in the doorway of an office, one Sherry had just grown accustomed to climbing under. She'd kneeled, and with strength she didn't expect, the woman heaved the shelf up and onto its bottom. Revealing the little girl scrambling away on her hands and butt with fear in her heart.
Till the woman holstered her gun and put her hands up, much like the other, but this woman didn't have an insane look in her eye. Or talked to things that weren't there. "Hey… are you here by yourself?" she didn't approach her in the concerned question, instead kneeling where she stood. Something Sherry appreciated in that moment of dread as she nodded. "Have you been stuck down here?" another nod, so the woman nodded too, "Okay, well… would you be okay following me out?"
At that Sherry grew excited, no longer cowering as her brain had determined the woman as a non-threat. "Will you help me find my mom?" she climbed from her dirtied butt to stand.
The woman's pretty blue eyes and brown brows had a crease develop between them and her heart almost sunk in the belief she was going to say no. "Of course, I'll help you," she was surprised her by agreeing, albeit with some misgiving in her voice.
She was beautiful, her brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail and ivory cheeks slightly flushed from the heat of the room. A heat she'd known no refuge from all day and drooped under many times in its sweltering intensity. Her red leather jacket was unzipped, and she could see the gray camisole and white undershirt beneath, along with the sticky blood stuck to the front and her thighs too like she'd crawled through some at some point.
Then the woman stood, well above her in height. "Your mom is down here?"
Sherry nodded a third time, "I think so," her eyes dropped to look out the door beside them to the walkway leading to the office with the immovable lever. "I hope so." She stepped towards that door before the woman stood, racing out of the room towards the steps, "This way!" Sherry informed her happily.
They climbed the steps, "How long have you been stuck?" the pretty woman asked.
"I don't know. Since this morning? I-I tried to get out. There's even a lever in here to move that bridge, see!" she broke into another run to point out the culprit behind her inability to escape. "It won't move," frustrated and upset that she'd tried pulling with all her might, but nothing came out of it.
The woman reached a slender hand out and wrapped around the lever, pulling it herself and finding the same problem. "You're right," she admitted, jerking it harder, "it might be jammed," she said through gritted teeth as she braced a hand on the control panel and gave one final pull. The lever relented, and the disconnected panel started moving to form one whole bridge again after so many hours of being trapped in here.
"You got it!" Sherry jumped, actually jumped with excitement to hear the gears whirring and see the bridge move.
She allowed the woman to lead them out of here now as she had an actual weapon and neither knew the territory that laid beyond the bridge. "So, what's your mom like?" the woman went out of her way to make chitchat, and probably to calm Sherry's nerves if she still had any reason to be nervous. Something she found herself glad about in the end considering where she was in that disposal room.
"She works at Umbrella. She's making an important new medicine," why she said that last part she didn't really know. Maybe it was a reflex from saying it to so many other adults over the years. "Yes, I am the daughter of the famous scientist's William and Annette Birkin. They're always working on new medicines to save people's lives." Then the chorus of probing questions she didn't want to answer began and never ended.
"Umbrella? Your mom works for them?" she'd almost pried at Sherry's revelation.
She pursed her lips as they continued on, "My mom's always at work, so I never get to see her much," the somber admission making her sad again. She hated that Mommy and Daddy worked all the time, it hurt her in a lot of ways she'd shut up and grow up about at the end of the day. It never changed that she wanted to know they were okay and feel one of their arms wrapped around her to tell her it was okay and they were proud she made it this far on her own.
Sherry was capable. After her days surviving this alone, she knew it without a doubt. Or she did, until she fell down that vent.
"Well, hopefully you'll get to see her again soon," her voice was soft, and Sherry found herself liking the way it already made her feel safe. They'd made their way into a small locker room of a sort, "So, where's your dad?"
Probably at work with Mommy, she thought to herself. "He works with my mom, but I never see him either. It feels sometimes like he's gone," having known this woman for five minutes and she'd opened up a wound nobody ever got to hear. It should have unsettled her greatly in every way, but the woman looked over her shoulder with an understanding sadness to those peaceful irises before turning around as they made their way for the ladder at the end of the hall.
"Both of my parents are gone too. It's been just me and my brother for a long time," the story startled Sherry. On some level… they were alike in at least one way.
She still felt sorry she made her dredge up a bad memory, "I'm sorry," she apologized.
The woman put a foot on the ladder and stopped, regarding her with no anger, but complete… sympathy. "Don't be, it means we have something in common. And that's always a good thing, right?" Sherry's heart felt like it swelled in her chest that she was pitied in a way. But this woman had taken that and turned it into showing Sherry she knew the pain of having no parents.
She'd gone up after the woman went first, lugging a manhole out of the way long enough for Sherry to get through before moving it back in place. Then they'd raced for the garage gates, everything going smoothly and for the first time in five days she thought she was getting out. Then they found they were lacking a needed parking garage key card, and luck was on neither girl's side as Irons showed up.
"I've been looking everywhere for you Sherry. A brave little girl running around in this mess," Sherry was absolutely befuddled how this man knew her name or the fact she was here. It didn't matter as his attention turned to the woman and he pulled a gun on her. "On the ground, hands above your head," he ordered callously.
"You can't be serious," she gaped in disbelief, but was quickly proven wrong when he fired a bullet at the windshield of a car to her right. The loud shot made Sherry cover her ears in pain as they rung.
"On the ground. Now." The woman did as she was told while Sherry watched helplessly from the sidelines. Irons then retrieved plastic from his pocket and tossed it to her, "Tie her hands," he commanded, and she stared down at it realizing it was a zip tie.
She wanted to cry at the thought of hurting the woman who just made her feel normal and safe after so many days of lacking such an unthought of necessity. Lip trembling, "Why are you doing this?" she wanted to know, she thought she had the right to know.
"Shut up," he replied, and Sherry guessed she didn't in his mind, but she still stood in place. Until he'd stepped forward, pressing the muzzle of his gun right to the woman's forehead, "You tie her up now. Or she dies."
She didn't want to. She hoped the woman understood this as she picked up the plastic and reached for her wrists with quivering hands. Making sure to not secure the tie too tight so she wouldn't be hurt as the woman demanded, "What's this all about?"
"Child endangerment for starters," Irons mocked with a snicker, swiping his key card in the parking garage terminal. The gate began to rise, and he waved his gun, "Sherry. Come here."
"What are you going to do to her?" the woman didn't seem fazed by her tied hands or the gun in his grip, she cared more about Sherry's wellbeing than her own.
"None of your fucking business," he said slowly and with a low voice.
"If you hurt her, I swear to god my brother is S.T.A.R.S.—" Irons started over to the woman in the middle of her threat. "…and I will fucking—" and he lifted his leg, driving it hard into her side, knocking her to the ground.
"Sherry. Get. Over. Here," he demanded with a voice that made her shiver because she knew he wouldn't say it again, he'd just take action instead. Still, she stood in place, shocked and ashamedly crying quietly now. Irons strutted over to the woman, kneeling beside her and grabbing her hair to pull her head back and force their eyes to meet.
"What's your name?"
It had occurred to her then that neither knew each other's names. That for the last ten minutes she'd been referring to her as 'the woman' and both seemed okay with taking the short time to become accompanied before asking.
She panted as she stared up at him with hatred in her eyes, "Claire," she spit through her teeth.
He hummed, and in a way, Sherry didn't understand yet, but an older, more primal based part of her was disgusted. It recognized the look in his eyes as mischievous as he eyed her breasts while holding the gun to her throat. Not too long ago the girl had gone through the dreaded sex ed. class in her middle school as puberty had already started in many others, including herself. "Sherry," he was eyeing Claire down, then focused on her, "you come with me now, or say goodbye to Claire."
She gave up, not wanting to watch Claire die and it be her fault if she did.
He'd dragged her through that gate, but not before swatting Claire hard in the jaw with his gun and knocking her down again. Sherry watched her spit the blood out of her mouth and saw the split in her lip. She'd subconsciously held her locket before he grabbed hold of her wrist too tightly. Yanking her forward so hard her hand pulled the chain and broke it, causing her to drop it on the parking garage floor.
It was forgotten as she returned her attention to the grinding of bones in her wrist as he ignored her cries of complaint while they traveled a couple blocks in the pouring rain to the tall building she knew the outline of: the orphanage.