I
Miller looked at the plans of the building. Marcus's labs in the basement, the staff and student quarters in the west wing, the lecture hall and library on the first floor...
"Miller?"
Marcus called out from the desk in his exclusive office. Finally, his boss had been able to realise his dream: a facility all to himself. He knew Spencer was the one who had granted his wish, but with a quid pro quo: Marcus would be the director. And so it was, to his regret, that he became the director of the facility that Ashford and Spencer ordered built on the outskirts of Raccoon City. But not only of the laboratory that Spencer gave him, but of something else that infuriated the Texan.
Ashford and Spencer were in the midst of a business expansion process whereby they turned Umbrella Pharmaceuticals into the Umbrella Corporation, a biomedical conglomerate with Umbrella Pharmaceuticals as the parent company and thus Ashford and Spencer as the outright owners. In a face-to-face meeting, Spencer told them that he had spoken to Ashford about the possibility of building some kind of training centre for company employees. He told them that this appealed to investors and set them apart from other pharmaceutical corporations that did not invest in this kind of project. Marcus seemed to ignore it at first, as it seemed like a typical political issue that he couldn't care less about. Or so they thought until, in an unexpected twist of fate, Spencer assured them, not suggested or recommended, that the training centre would be located in the same lab he was going to build for Marcus.
Marcus was obviously very angry. He threatened to shoot Spencer with his revolver, but the posh Englishman was smarter and, with a sharp tongue, swore to him on his ancestors that Marcus would not have to take care of the training centre at all, that all this would be handled by a admin office in Raccoon City and by a coordinator, namely Miller, Marcus's secretary. Miller made excuses with his doctorate, but it didn't work. Spencer would pay him for his PhD if that was enough for him to continue as Marcus' secretary. The end result was that, much to his chagrin, Marcus ended up accepting the position of director of the place, the uncreatively named Umbrella Training Facility, as the only requirement for dominance over the lab. Nominal director because de facto Miller would have to take all the managerial shit and deal with the incoming students. For the moment, he had been given a list of fifteen students, all of them fresh out of college and, except for a couple, rich kids whose parents were Spencer's friends and acquaintances.
"Yes?" replied the secretary.
"Have you prepared tomorrow's speech for me?"
Miller searched his folder.
"Yes, I have it here."
"Read it to me."
He cleared his throat. He hoped it was to his liking.
"Attention. This is Dr. Marcus speaking. Let's have a few minutes of silence to reflect on our company motto. Obedience brings discipline. Discipline brings unity. Unity brings power. And power brings life."
He finished.
"And that's it?" Marcus sounded surprised.
"Yes. Well. That's what you asked for: direct, concise and without wasting time."
The director turned around in his chair to look out of the window.
"It looks like a pamphlet signed by Orwell[1]."
"Spencer suggested it to me. It had to sound grandiloquent for the kind of students who would be coming."
"Grandiloquent," Marcus guffawed sardonically. "Grandiloquent..." He turned around. The chair mechanism squeaked. "Never associate with an Englishman if you don't want to be fucked with his courtly blather..." he spat haughtily.
Miller pocketed the paper. Marcus, visibly serious and irritated, stared at him. Uncomfortable, the secretary stood up, ready to leave. He still hadn't gotten used to his thesis advisor's sudden mood swings and inflexibility. It seemed that even having his own lab had not softened his temper. And from the xenophobic comment he'd just made, he figured he was having a falling out with Spencer. Be that as it may, he didn't care. He left the office with the plans, the speech and the list of students. It was the latter list that he pulled out for a final check. Alongside the first name and surname, the nationality and age had been included.
Akers, Akhila (F) United Kingdom. 23 years old. Birkin, William (M) United States of America. Age 15. Bronson, Gustav. (M) United Kingdom. Age 24. Cipriani, Nina. 24 years old. Age 24. Deschamps, Pierre (M) France. 24 years old. 24 years old. Dunn, Myles (M) Ireland. 25 years old. Age 25. Grigorescu, Saveli (M) United States. 24 years old. 24 years old. Kapanadze, Nili (F) United States. 26 years old. 26 years old. McCallum, Francis (M) United Kingdom. 27 years. Age 27. Royce, Megan (F) United States. 24 years old. Age 24. Scrivenor, Ravi (M) United Kingdom. 23 years old. Age 23. Starek, Hilda (F) United States. 23 years old. Age 23. Wang, Marit. (F) Netherlands. Age 24. Wesker, Albert (M) United States. 17 years old. 17 years old. Ziegler, Agnes (F) Federal Republic of Germany. 24 years old. 24 years old.
He hadn't interviewed any of them, that had been the responsibility of human resources, although he had been warned to be careful with minors for legal reasons. He had no idea what the fuck a couple of minors were doing there; only that they had been attached to him as his main responsible and supervisor. Marcus had washed his hands of it and so had the admin office. So it was his turn to be the sucker on duty. Anyway.
II
His parents were waiting for him outside with the car parked on the road. He took a last look at his bedroom: Star Trek posters and a periodic table, pictures of animals and sticky notes with formulas only he understood. And, of course, his first university degree: a degree in microbiology from Harvard University. Number one in his class and fifteen years old. Fifteen years old. No one would be able to beat that mark. He puffed out his chest as he retrieved the letter from Umbrella Pharmaceuticals from the disorganised bedside table. The letter stated that he had been accepted into a pilot programme for future executives of the company. They were confident in his talent and the bright future that awaited him. In fact, he had always wanted to be an astrophysicist. Ever since he was a child, travelling through space on the USS Enterprise was more appealing to him than spending idle hours staring at a molecule through a microscope. He realised, however, that physics was already saturated with towering figures and, if there was one thing that surpassed his desire to be something, it was his desire to be the best. And he would be the best because he felt he was the best.
He picked up the letter containing the invitation to the Training Facility and stuffed it into the unfolded, overflowing suitcase he had placed on top of his unmade bed. Mixed in were pants, shirts, a jacket, pyjamas, dress trousers and jeans, a pair of shoes, acne cream, a comb and many more books and notebooks. So that the container wouldn't burst, he had arranged the contents like a kind of chaotically designed puzzle. Without further inventory, he closed the suitcase and left the house. His parents were waiting for him at the porch entrance. Both wore proud but worried smiles. They had accepted his new dream of becoming a virologist despite the initial reluctance caused by his unexpected rejection of a large scholarship to study astrophysics.
"Ready?" His father, who had donned his lucky San Francisco Giants cap, ruffled his hair affectionately.
Their mother headed straight for the car. They followed her into the car. He sat in the back row of seats, his suitcase on the floor of the car and off to the side. His parents, in front, would take turns driving four hundred miles from Baltimore to Raccoon City. His mother started up. She increased the speed of travel. His inner voice said goodbye to the suburbs.
III
He raised his finger to hitchhike. The car passed him by. He sat down. Another car in the distance. He got up. Hitchhiked. Passed by. Sat down. A van. Pulled up. Hitchhiking. Passed by. Stopped. The van stopped on the roadside. He approached it with his rucksack over his shoulder. He approached the driver's window. A Mexican couple.
"Where are you going?" asked the driver, shouting over the thunderous volume of the music.
"Raccoon City."
"And where is that?" The driver paused the radio.
"In Ohio, by the Appalachian Mountains."
The driver took off his cap to wipe his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. The co-driver leaned over the dashboard to look at the hitchhiker.
"Phew," sighed the driver. The co-pilot said something in Spanish. The pilot refocused on the hitchhiker. "I can drop you off in a nearby city... That's a long way from where I'm going."
"Okay."
"Come on," the driver invited.
He opened the side door of the van. They were carrying timber, tools and cans of paint to renovate a house. He sat down in the available space between a toolbox and a couple of stacked cardboard boxes. He settled in, tucked in, with his rucksack on his legs. The driver released the brake and rejoined the road.
After a while of hellish cruising, with the radio thundering and the shock absorbers whipping his back, the co-driver rose from her seat and slid into the boot, sitting in the gap between the two seats. She was a young, dark-haired, dark-skinned woman. Her curly hair had been pulled back into a dishevelled bun.
"What is your name?" She hugged her legs, showing interest in the hitchhiker.
The hitchhiker didn't answer at first. The young woman, intrigued, introduced herself first.
"My name is Maria. And you?"
"Michael."
Maria settled back in her seat, stretching her back.
"And how old are you? I'm twenty-one."
"Eighteen."
"What were you doing here? Hitchhiking? Did they leave you stranded?"
"I don't have a car."
The driver turned up the volume.
"Where are you from? I come from Veracruz with my father."
"New York."
"Oh, and from what hood?"
The hitchhiker didn't answer and didn't want to continue talking.
"Downtown New York?" Maria persevered.
"Yes."
"Maria, help me here," the father ordered.
Maria crawled into the passenger seat. The pair began to argue in Spanish about what the hitchhiker could guess as the direction to take. The latter, with the other two debating in the background, leaned against the van door. He concentrated on ignoring the ambient noise.
The hitchhiker dismounted at a bus stop outside Stoneville. He reported to a nearby convenience store that the bus to Raccoon City would be coming in half an hour. He had five dollars to spare. Either he would eat or save it for transportation. He chose the second option. He sat on the bench by the bus shelter, his hood up and his hands hidden in his sweatshirt pocket. He clutched a concealed butterfly knife in his right hand. The backpack was on the ground and between his legs. He had forgotten his cap at home. He was hungry and thirsty. An elderly couple sat next to him. The old people were talking animatedly to each other.
Finally, he spotted the bus in the distance. He asked the driver if it stopped near the Umbrella Training Facility on the outskirts of the city. The bus driver told him no, that it did not stop nearby and that he would have to walk there along the road. He paid him and sat in the last row. It had started to rain. He took the letter of invitation from the back pocket of his jeans.
Dear Mr. Wesker. Your son, Albert, has demonstrated his unparalleled potential for... He didn't want to read any further. It didn't matter. That invitation would be his escape route.