Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Susann Edison ran down the dark corridor. The flickering fluorescent lights overhead turned the hallway into a stuttering storm of harsh, synthetic flashes. Gasping for breath, she reached the video and data room.

She glanced back and saw the trail of blood she had left behind. The gashes on her arm and leg were deep, and the pain clawed at her sanity. Trembling, she fumbled for the keyring in her lab coat pocket, but it slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Her knees nearly gave out as she bent to retrieve it. The world tilted and dimmed. For a heartbeat, everything went black.

The scraping behind her grew louder. The shadow of the creature appeared at the far end of the corridor, stretching and swelling as it drew closer.
Panic surged through her, but somehow she managed to fit the key into the lock and turn it. The heavy door swung open, and she slipped from the stuttering light of the hallway into absolute darkness. For safety reasons, the video and data room’s power didn’t run through the main grid. All auxiliary systems had gone offline after the accident.

Susann slammed the door shut and threw the bolt with the last of her strength. Then she slid to the floor, heart pounding. She knew the door could be opened electronically if the auxiliary systems were reactivated. But those things weren’t capable of that anymore. At least for now, she was safe.

In the hallway, the creature let out a piercing shriek. Susann curled into herself, trying to choke back her whimpers, but the pain was too much. Her blood ran warm down her arm. She felt faint and drained. The metallic tang of it mingled with the stale air of the room.

For endless minutes, only her sobbing filled the silence. Then that too faded. As consciousness slipped away, she toppled onto her side, landing with a dull thud. She closed her eyes, telling herself it would only be for a moment. Deep down she knew that when she opened them again, she wouldn’t be Susann Edison anymore.

Chapter Text

Rebecca stood by the vending machine, glancing at her watch before retrieving a can of cola.
She’d made excellent time since Bravo Team leader Enrico Marini had called her at home and ordered her to report to the station. Not even twenty minutes—a commendable feat, considering she’d thrown together a sandwich and run a comb through her hair before heading out. It was a little over three miles from her uncle’s house, where she was staying, to the precinct. Looking back, she was glad she’d taken the tram and skated the rest of the way on her inline skates. It helped her avoid the worst of the evening traffic. Since the 10 PM curfew had been imposed, Raccoon City’s nightlife had exploded.

The briefing was set for 8:30. She still had about ten minutes. Rebecca just needed a moment to catch her breath. She sat on a nearby bench and rested the black file folder containing copies of her new teammates’ personnel files on her lap.

Three days ago, she’d passed her exam and stress test. Chief Irons had assigned her to Bravo Team just yesterday. Since Marini’s call, she’d been a bundle of nerves. Excitement and the fear of screwing up battled for control. After all, this was her first official briefing. She flipped through the files again, trying to memorize the faces that went with the passport photos. Aside from Captain Marini, she hadn’t met any of them in person.

Finally, she set the folder aside and closed her eyes. The nearby fan sent out a pleasant breeze as it rotated. Rebecca took a deep breath, switched off her Walkman, and pulled down her headphones. The sounds of the station filled her ears—the chatter, the footsteps, the constant motion. The whole place was buzzing. During her brief visits, she’d already noticed how many officers were overworked, and just as many civilians were agitated. It might not have been the norm, but ever since the string of murders began, everyone was on edge.

She popped open the can of cola and took a sip. For the past five weeks, she’d been putting in up to twelve hours a day on training, then studying at night for her exams. With the current crisis, the chief had fast-tracked everything, and it was taking its toll. Rebecca could feel it now—how tired she really was.

Of course, she’d have preferred if things had gone according to plan. Finish basic training, have time to prep for the written exam, get properly oriented with the new team, maybe even earn some extra certifications. Extra shooting practice would’ve been nice. She still struggled with moving targets. But given the circumstances, that was just wishful thinking. The chief had made it clear from their very first meeting what she was in for. The situation in the city left no room for the usual process. And at her age, she was lucky to get a shot at S.T.A.R.S. at all, thanks only to her stellar record at the university.

'Special Tactics and Rescue Service, S.T.A.R.S. for short. Split into Alpha and Bravo teams. The RPD’s SWAT unit, specially trained in various fields, deployed primarily against the rising crime rate in Raccoon City and the surrounding counties.'
She could still hear Irons’ enthusiastic voice in her head. Then she yawned.

The station was huge, and she still had trouble finding her way around sometimes. The building was strange—lots of twisting hallways, oddly placed rooms. But despite the confusion, it had its charm. Large mosaic tiles, dark wood paneling, murals and frescoes, and so many windows. Through her research, she’d learned the place had once been an art museum, and before that, a city archive.

Thanks to the building’s age, the constant opening of new departments, and the reshuffling of spaces, renovations were always going on somewhere. It added to the sense of disorder.

Rebecca checked her watch again, slung her heavy backpack over one shoulder, and walked the last few yards to the briefing room.

But instead of Chief Irons and her new team, she found only a few other RPD officers.

   »Excuse me, but—« she began.

The tall, lanky man at the chalkboard cut her off. »S.T.A.R.S. Bravo meeting’s upstairs. Chief Irons’ office.«

Rebecca smiled awkwardly.
   »I’m sorry,« she said quickly, and pulled the double doors shut behind her.

She needed to think. The chief’s office was in the East Wing, on the opposite side of the building. Rebecca cursed under her breath and headed down the corridor. She grabbed the clipboard with the room assignments the chief had given her two days earlier, trying to make sense of the crossed-out, half-erased, or taped-over labels. If she kept going and turned left, she’d pass the darkroom and could take the stairs up. That would bring her back to the main hall. She could also loop back through reception or cut through the West Office, but with so many civilians inside, she preferred the upper-floor route.

Rebecca rounded the corner—

And ran straight into someone.

The collision sent her staggering back a step, and her folder slipped from her grasp. Papers, notes, and paperclips scattered across the floor. She dropped to her knees to gather them, glancing at the person she’d bumped into.

The woman knelt too and smiled as she helped collect the papers.
   »Sorry about that!«

She handed Rebecca a few pages.

Rebecca took them and stuffed them into the folder.
   »It was my fault too.«

The woman picked up the clipboard and gave it a quick glance. »New here?«

Rebecca nodded.

   »Okay, then here’s a free tip for nearly knocking you out. Don’t waste time wondering why on earth a police station has a clock tower. I still don’t know. But you’ll get used to it.«
She laughed.

   »Yeah… maybe. Someday,« Rebecca said, mostly to herself.

The woman’s gaze flicked to Rebecca’s visitor badge clipped to her backpack strap. She hadn’t gotten her ID or uniform yet.
   »Well, good luck, Rebecca. See you around.«

Rebecca smiled back. »Thanks.«

Now she was definitely going to be late.

***

Chris parked his Jeep between two other cars and got out. The underground garage was cool, and he welcomed the relief, even though the familiar smell of damp and mold clung to the air. No matter how hot the summers got in this region, the old basement never completely dried out. Winter was even worse.

He locked the Jeep, slung his denim jacket over his shoulder, and headed for the firing range.

When he stepped into the adjoining hallway, he stopped short at the mess blocking half the passage. Bags of dog food stood among packed crates filled with leashes, harnesses, muzzles, blankets, collars, bowls, and brushes. Other boxes held training gear; vests, arm and leg guards, and equipment for portable search and obstacle exercises. The larger pieces like rails, poles, supports, and folded tunnels, leaned against the wall.

A moment later, Tony from K-9 rounded the corner, another crate under one arm.
   »Hey,« he greeted Chris.

Chris nodded. »If I'd known you were still prepping for tomorrow, I would've lent a hand.«

Tony set down the crate and gave him a look.
   »Ah, don't worry about it, kid.«

Tony was pushing fifty and called all the younger guys 'kid'. Chris had gotten used to it.

Tony checked his watch, then planted his hands on his hips. »Didn't you clock out already?«

Chris shrugged. »You know how it is.«

   »Yeah, they always find some poor fool for the crap jobs after hours. And here I am.«
He smirked but then hesitated. His tone shifted, more serious. »Don't tell me it's another body.«

Chris nodded. There was truth in that. If there was one thing he'd seen enough of in recent weeks, it was torn-up, half-eaten corpses.

One of the dogs started barking. A second later, two more joined in. Tony gave a sharp whistle, and the barking died down.

   »They know something's up,« he muttered.

   »Sure. But it's still the same stinking basement. Once they figure that out, they'll settle down again.«
Chris clapped him on the shoulder. »No idea how long I'll be tied up upstairs. But if you need help later—«

Tony nodded and headed back toward the kennels.

Chris continued on, past the firing range and up the stairs to the next floor. The hallway above was brightly lit. One of the windows was open, and a few moths flitted around the fluorescent lights. The break room door stood ajar, the murmur of the TV spilling out. He moved down the corridor toward the main hall, passing one of the large open-plan offices. The air was thick with tension, conversations low and hurried. The closer he got to the entrance area, the more civilians he saw—people waiting, complaining, demanding answers.

And there, mingling with the crowd near the reception desk, stood Ben Bertolucci.
Of course he was. Chris groaned inwardly the moment their eyes met.

   »Redfield!« Ben called out, pushing through the waiting civilians. »Been waiting here for twenty minutes. Your press officer's a no-show.«

Chris kept walking, rubbing a hand over his face.
   »Ben... mornings are for coffee and compliments. Not for ambush interviews.«

Ben blinked, thrown for a second. »It's night.«

   »Exactly.«

Ben hesitated for a moment, realizing he'd been had, then hurried to catch up. Chris didn't slow down.

He’d brushed him off more times than he could count since this all started. It was practically routine by now. Ben wasn't local; Chris remembered hearing he came from Chicago—or maybe Boston. The guy changed his story every other week. A big-city freelancer chasing the kind of scoop that would land him a national byline. The kind who could smell blood in the water. Chris respected persistence. Hell, he had it himself. But tonight wasn't the night.

Ben kept pace, voice low and urgent. »Come on, man. You've gotta give me something. The city's scared. People deserve to know what's going on.«

Chris exhaled through his nose, his jaw tight.
   »Ben, you know I can't comment on an ongoing investigation. I can't help you.«

But Ben wasn't giving up. »Off the record? Something about those bodies? More disappearances? You S.T.A.R.S. guys are in the thick of it. You've seen what's really going on, haven't you?«

They reached the big fire shutter. Chris stopped, looked at him with deadpan calm, and said nothing.

Ben kept going. »Maybe one detail? A hint? I won't print it if you say so.«

   »Okay,« Chris said at last. He hit the emergency switch, and the heavy door began to lower.

Ben looked briefly puzzled but curiosity got the better of him.
   »Yeah?«

Chris folded his arms. »But this didn't come from me.«

Ben leaned in, ready, eyes flicking between Chris and the lowering shutter.
Chris didn’t answer. He waited a little bit longer, then ducked under the gap—low enough to slip through, high enough he didn’t even have to rush.

Ben realized too late to follow. »Seriously, Redfield? Damn it!«
His voice echoed as the shutter clattered down the last bit and thudded shut.

At the reception desk, Marsha had left her chair. She'd worked nights here longer than Chris cared to remember, and she shook her head at him, clearly angry.
   »Chris! You know Security Room's gonna be here in two minutes complaining all his warning lights went off again.«

Chris grinned as he kept walking. »Tell him I said hi, Marsha—and that it really was an emergency, I swear.«

Chapter Text

The briefing was over. Rebecca glanced around the room, which looked more like a hunting lodge exhibit than an office. The glass eyes of the stuffed animals—and the mounted heads of a deer and a buffalo—sent a chill down her spine, fueling her need to get out of Chief Irons' office as fast as possible.
She didn't waste a second acting on it.

It had only been about two hours since the hiking group was reported missing to the RPD. Everything after that had happened fast. If she hadn't been so damn tired, Rebecca might've even been excited at the idea of an early deployment. But right now, she just felt drained.

Irons' frantic energy didn't help. He kept calling the planned recon flight a simple routine assignment, saying it would only take a few hours and that they'd mostly just sit in the chopper scanning the vast woods around Raccoon City and into the Arklay Mountains where the hikers were last headed.
But his tone said otherwise. Probably because the press had already caught wind of the situation. A reporter from the Raccoon Press, who Irons kept referring to as a vulture, was already outside his office waiting for a statement. Irons was under pressure, visibly stressed, and didn’t waste a single word on explaining her presence.

Rebecca pushed her doubts aside, telling herself she wouldn't get lost or left behind. But the tightness in her chest stayed. She felt out of place among five men whose faces she knew only from their files.
It wasn't much better for them. Rebecca caught their glances—curious, unsure. She knew how she must look. She always seemed younger than she was, and people usually guessed wrong. And with her being just shy of her nineteenth birthday, her new teammates wore an expression she recognized all too well. She was used to it. At fifteen, she'd gotten the same looks walking across the university campus.

She tucked her folder under one arm, exchanged a brief glance with Richard Aiken, the team's comms specialist, and left the room.

Out in the hallway, she spotted the reporter, a sharp-featured woman in her early thirties, with auburn hair pulled back tight and a notepad in one hand. Her eyes were focused, alert, flicking up just long enough to catch Rebecca’s nod before returning to her notes.
Rebecca sidestepped the stuffed tiger mounted on the wall, feeling its glass eyes on her the whole way past.

I'll never get used to that thing, she thought, remembering how it had made her jump the first time she'd been here.

Out on the gallery overlooking the main hall, she leaned against the wall, exhausted.

The station's main hall was massive; three stories tall, a strange but impressive blend of oak and marble. Every sound echoed through the space, even at this late hour. The pale tiles, with the RPD emblem at their center, gleamed under the lights. In the rear stood a large fountain, flanked by ramps that led up to the reception desk. At its center towered a statue of a naiad, a jug resting on her shoulder as she stared blankly at the ceiling—a remnant from when the building had been City Hall. The second floor was ringed with a grand gallery leading to Chief Irons' office and the station's library.

Rebecca noticed her teammates filing past. Richard paused, offering a small smile.
   »You'll need to change, and fast—five minutes, tops,« he said. »You know where the locker rooms are?«

Rebecca nodded, forcing a smile. She didn't want to come off as rude just because she felt overwhelmed.

   »Good. Meet us out at S.T.A.R.S.-office. We will equip you real quick.«

He was off again, his boots echoing on the gallery floor as he disappeared through the library doors.

Rebecca closed her eyes for a second and silently hoped she'd find her footing here.
Irons had mentioned in their first meeting how much he hated relying on the local hospital for medical emergencies. He'd said it was time for S.T.A.R.S. to expand its capabilities—how the RPD depended too much on outside labs for forensic work.
He'd told her about his plan to set up an in-house clinic for basic treatment and a lab for their own forensic investigations. There were unused rooms in the basement, apparently. And he'd garanteed her the lead position.
But first she'd have to complete the training, support the teams with her expertise, and then, when everything was ready, focus fully on biochemistry.

The thought of running her own lab felt like heaven.
Determined, Rebecca pushed off the wall and headed out.

***

Jill made her way through the RPD’s upper floor, drawn back to the station like the rest of the team after Wesker’s call. New developments, he’d said—something about the case had shifted. The S.T.A.R.S. office door was propped open, as always on nights this hot. Though golden evening sunlight flooded the corridor, the fluorescents still buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glow on the old wood floors.

Halfway down, Chris Redfield appeared. Jill quickened her pace to intercept him before he reached the door.
   »Hey, Chris, wait up. We need to talk!«

Chris stopped, grinning. »Let me guess—you finally want to ask me out?«

   »In your dreams,« Jill shot back.

Chris kept that smirk as she stepped in front of him, trying to look serious.
   »No, seriously, Redfield. If you park me in one more time, a note on your windshield’s gonna be the least of your problems.«

Chris played innocent.
   »That was from you? What’d it say again—something like 'I didn’t sign up for late-night yoga'?«
She could see him fighting a laugh as he mimicked her angry tone. »Can’t blame you. Yoga sucks. But hey, there are plenty of other things we could do late at night that are a lot more fun.«

   »Your flirting skills need serious work,« Jill said, though by now she wasn’t really annoyed anymore. Truth was, she hadn’t even been mad when she’d written the note and left it under his wiper.

Chris followed her inside, adding with a grin, »So do your love letters.«

Jill sighed but couldn’t help a small smile. The guy was impossible.
She set her cap on her desk and glanced around.

A few steps away, Brad stood at the comm station, watching the monitors. Barry sat at his desk, field-stripping his Beretta, laying the parts out with practiced ease. At the next desk, Joseph was hunched over, buried in a pile of scattered papers and rolled-up plans.
She glanced through the glass panes into Wesker’s adjoining office. He wasn’t there.

Strange. After all, he was the one who'd stirred them all up and called them in early, even though Bravo was next in line.
   »Did he tell any of you more on the phone than just ‘get your ass over here’?« she finally asked.

   »Nope,« Joseph replied without looking at her, still rummaging noisily through the folders of blueprints.

Jill took in the mess he’d made, which had already spilled over onto Kenneth’s desk. »What are you even looking for?« 

   »Blueprints. The captain needs them.«

She didn’t push it.

Chris dropped into his chair. His desk was a disaster: CDs, gun mags, pens. His leather jacket with the Made in Heaven patch hung over the chair; his guitar, still with a broken string, leaned against the wall. His sunglasses were buried somewhere, next to Forest’s cowboy hat and that busted glow yo-yo he refused to throw out.
   »The AC still busted?« he asked.

Barry shrugged. »You know how it goes. No budget for things that make our lives easier.«

   »I found it!« Joseph suddenly shouted, waving the folded plans as his chair rolled back.

Chris glanced over. »What’ve you got there?«

   »Spencer Estate. Not Trevor’s original blueprints, but copies—including…« he answered, lifting a page, »renovation plans. Wow.«
He turned to Barry with a grin. »Told you. Shame we didn’t bet on it.«

   »I stopped betting with you for a reason, skinny,« Barry said, piecing his Beretta back together.

Joseph crossed his arms, smirking.
   »Jealous, old man?«

Jill watched, amused. Joseph never let up—Barry caught it the worst, being the ›old guy‹.

   »See you at the pool table. We’ll settle it there,« Barry shot back.

   »Why do we need those plans anyway?« Brad asked.

Chris leaned back. »The place sits dead center in the attack radius. You saw the reports, didn’t you?«

Brad shook his head. »We don’t have clearance, man. Umbrella owns that place. We can’t just waltz in, y’know.«
He said it with an edge, sarcasm in his voice.

But Chris didn’t bite. »As soon as we have the warrant, we’re going in. And we will get it. The evidence is clear.«

Brad folded his arms.
   »You sure about that? Umbrella says it’s clean. No judge in this county’s gonna cross them without rock-solid proof.«

Chris opened his mouth to fire back—

—but the sudden thrum of a helicopter engine outside cut him off. The low rumble shook the walls just enough to make them all freeze.

They exchanged puzzled looks, but no one spoke.

Then Wesker strode in, boots heavy on the floor. He didn’t say a word, didn’t even glance at the team. Just walked straight into his office and shut the door behind him.

Joseph broke the silence first, still clutching the blueprints.
   »Okay… that was weird.«

The hum of the helicopter grew louder, vibrating through the walls. Then Wesker came out again, his expression tight, sunglasses still in place.
   »Report just came in. Hiking group went missing out in the Arklays. Irons is sending Bravo to search.«
Without looking at him, he snapped his fingers at Brad, »We’re on standby. For now.«

Brad was already moving. He slid into the comm chair, adjusted the mic, and pulled on the headset.

Chris frowned, leaning forward. »Why aren’t we going too?«

Wesker didn’t break stride, already heading for the door.
   »I’m going to find out.«

The door swung shut behind him, leaving the room in tense silence.

***

Trevor Wentworth sat in the last car, in the rear compartment that marked the boundary between the passenger area and the staff section. A simple wooden door blocked the view into the next car, hiding the staircase to the upper level where the dining room was, as well as the mechanical door leading to the kitchen and storage rooms.

The train, like most other company transport, was decked out in a strange mix of pomp, showmanship, and a hint of old-world charm. Faded decadence everywhere he looked. But Trevor had long since stopped wondering about the company’s choices. He’d worked for them too long for that.

His tie was loosened, his jacket draped over the seat beside him. The sun was setting, casting the sky in shades of red, though the dense forest along the tracks blocked most of the view. Trevor checked his watch, sighed, and picked up his documents again. Silently, he went over what needed to be done once they finally reached the facility.

A woman’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker, announcing that the kitchen was ready and the dining car upstairs was now open. The announcement had that typical tinny quality.

It didn’t take long before some of his colleagues entered the car, passing his row of seats.
   »Hey, Trevor. You not coming to eat?«

It was Linda, a molecular biologist from Station 2. He’d worked with her a few times.

For a second, he considered saying yes. Four weeks minimum at the facility—keeping some friendly company close wouldn’t be the worst idea.
   »No thanks. Not hungry,« he said at last.

She smiled, tilting her head slightly, her long earrings clinking together.
   »Maybe next time, then.«

If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it.

Trevor watched her go until she vanished through the wooden door. He drew a deep breath and leaned back. The steady clatter of the train was starting to grate on him. What had the company been thinking, sending them in this creaking old relic? Sure, the tracks ran right up to the estate, but it wasn’t like they lacked the budget for a newer model.

The door behind him opened. Trevor didn’t bother looking. Probably just another colleague heading to eat.

But when the door closed again, a strange sound mixed with the familiar rattle of wood on wood. A sloshing, wet sound.

Plap — plap — plap.

It sounded like footsteps. Wet footsteps. Like someone stomping around in waterlogged boots.
Trevor turned in his seat and peered down the aisle. A man stood there. His gray suit glistened. His face looked wet.

What the hell…

Trevor got to his feet. He didn’t recognize the man. He knew everyone on this transport, at least by sight.
   »What are you doing here?«

No response.

   »Hey! You’re not supposed to be on this train. Do you understand me?«

Nothing.

Trevor took a step closer. »Fine. We’ll just let the conductor deal with you. See how fast—«

The man lunged. So fast Trevor barely registered it. Cold, wet hands clamped down on his shoulders, squeezing hard.

   »Hey! Let me go!« Trevor shouted, but the man didn’t react.

Then came a sickening noise—a crackling, slimy tearing sound.

Trevor stared at the man’s face. It split. Cracks spread from his mouth, along his cheeks, around his eyes. The flesh came apart in chunks, held together by strands of glistening slime like thick, gray honey.

For a moment, Trevor was too shocked to move.

The grip tightened. Pain shot through him, white-hot. He cried out.
Chunks of flesh fell, slapping wetly onto the floor. They began to move—gray slug-like things, leaving slimy trails on his clothes as they crawled up his legs.

He tried to swat them away, but his shoulders gave out, broken under the crushing force.

The man’s torso hollowed out. His arms and hands dissolved. Trevor collapsed. He managed to roll onto his back, gasping.
The hollowed-out body toppled forward. A flood of the gray creatures poured over him.

He felt them squirming, cold and slick, over his face. Slime filled his ears, burned in his eyes, ran down his throat.
He coughed, gagged, choking on it.

Darkness closed in. Above him, he heard boots pounding, voices shouting, cries for help. For a second, he thought he heard Linda’s voice in the chaos.

Then everything faded.

Chapter Text

From the rear window of the helicopter, there was a sweeping view of the Raccoon forests.
Rebecca watched the winding path of the Victory River and the endless carpet of dense mixed woodland that stretched across the landscape. Here and there, a clearing broke through the green. The warm light of the setting sun came from behind and to the side, casting a golden haze over the land ahead of the helicopter. In the distance, still miles away, the Arklay Mountains rose from the picturesque scenery, dark clouds gathering above their peaks.
With the sticky heat, it was no wonder that a storm was brewing. Rebecca just hoped it wouldn’t complicate their search.

Before takeoff, she’d helped load gear into the chopper: weapons and ammunition, vests and packs, flashlights, radios, med kits, rations, water. Richard had taken the chance to explain that from now on, she’d be solely responsible for preparing medical supplies before missions.

Her gaze wandered through the cabin, studying the others. She mentally matched faces to the ID photos she’d memorized, pulling up names and details from their files.

Up front in the cockpit sat the two pilots, talking over their headsets. Edward Dewey, according to his file, wasn’t just a pilot—he was also a mechanic. The other pilot, Kevin, wasn’t on Rebecca’s list at all. That meant he wasn’t officially Bravo Team. Probably another officer or maybe borrowed from Alpha.

Enrico, the team captain, sat directly across from Rebecca, his eyes fixed out the window, watching the sea of trees below with focused attention. He was tall and solidly built, with medium-length hair and a mustache—Italian roots, or so his accent suggested.

Next to him sat the rest of the team: Forest, Richard and Kenneth Sullivan. Rebecca studied their serious faces, trying to read anything beneath the calm.

Forest was twenty-nine—something she’d never have guessed at first glance. His teenage face didn’t match the record that showed how he’d worked his way up from RPD officer to Bravo sniper in just two years. His style fit the image of a young daredevil: worn jeans, frayed T-shirts, tattoos everywhere, long hair slicked back, and that unmistakable Alabama drawl.

Kenneth, originally from Seattle, was older than even Enrico. The age gap, in some cases more than twenty years, only made her feel younger. Kenneth held a doctorate in chemistry and had switched careers several years ago. His expertise in chemical and biological weapons made him invaluable, and he’d completed advanced scout training as well.

Richard suddenly glanced her way, catching her watching. He smiled.
Rebecca smiled back, then looked out the side window again.

The evening sun was vanishing behind the massive Arklay peaks. The red light seemed to be swallowed by the heavy clouds piling up above the ridges. The helicopter crept closer. Daylight wouldn’t last much longer.

Rebecca felt a growing unease at the thought of finding the hikers in the rain and darkness ahead. Even in daylight and good weather, searching these woods felt like hunting a needle in a haystack.

She looked over at Richard again. In the last half hour, he’d shown her the armory and the supply stores—patient, friendly, doing his best to help her feel less lost in all this chaos Irons had thrown her into.

He had worked at a communications firm in Europe, then at a major police station up north before transferring to Raccoon City. He’d climbed the usual ladder, from patrol to the special unit. 

Thinking of how the others had built their careers, Rebecca couldn’t help but reflect on her own. She’d applied with nothing but her university degree and a stack of certificates from various medical courses. At just eighteen, sure, that was something. But she hadn’t really believed Irons would hire her. And yet he had—and offered her that tempting promise of her own lab.

A strange sound pulled her from her thoughts. Something wasn’t right. The steady thrum of the rotors was overlaid by a rising, hollow whine—

Then a blast rocked the chopper. Rebecca was slammed sideways, her shoulder hitting the window hard.

She felt the helicopter pitch and drop. Instinctively, she grabbed for a handhold.

Enrico was already up, pushing forward to the cockpit.
   »What’s going on?« he shouted over the engine noise.

   »Engine failure—forced landing!« Edward yelled back, eyes locked on the view through the windshield. »There! A clearing!« 

Rebecca’s stomach clenched as she spotted it through the window—an open patch of grass, ringed by towering trees that seemed to rush up at them.

The chopper sank lower, rotors whining, the blare of warning alarms screaming in her ears. The cabin filled with the smell of burning wires and scorched metal.
Edward cursed nonstop, fighting to steer them through the trees. Kevin broadcast a distress signal.

The helicopter clipped something—Rebecca felt the jolt as they started to spin. She fumbled for her harness, yanked it tight as the centrifugal force pinned her to the side.
Trunks flashed past the windows. Branches lashed against the fuselage. The downdraft of the rotors whipped the forest into a frenzy, leaves and limbs bending in the artificial storm.

Then Richard’s hand shoved her head down. The world narrowed. Even the roar of the engine and the shriek of the siren seemed far away.

The impact came like an explosion.
Noise and force slammed into her all at once, knocking the senses from her. Chunks of dirt and debris flew past the window as they hit the ground. The helicopter kept spinning from the momentum, slamming Rebecca against the cabin wall.

Metal screamed as it warped. One rotor sheared off, the grinding echo of steel biting into earth filled the cabin. The chopper kept turning, unstoppable.

Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut.

***

J’s Bar was a small, cozy-looking place. According to Barry, it served good food and even better drinks. Jill had passed the place a few times but had never found a chance to stop in until now.

Through the broad front window, she could see into the brightly lit interior. A huge wooden bar dominated most of the space. Behind it, a massive mirrored wall stacked with shelves reflected the soft glow of the old-fashioned lamps.
Only a few people lingered there. After everything that had happened—the murders, the curfew finally enforced for kids and teens—Jill wasn’t surprised the place was so quiet.

Barry, ever the gentleman, opened the door and let her go in first. Jill stepped inside and immediately felt the welcome cool air. Outside, the muggy heat of the summer night had been stifling, and she let out a low sigh of relief.
   »Damn, it’s been so hot today—still is, even now,« she muttered, picking a bench by the window and dropping into it, her bag at her side.

Barry grinned as he followed her in, taking a seat across from her.
   »One of the few things I actually miss about L.A.—it was hot there too, but at least it was a dry heat.«

Jill smirked and leaned back in her seat. »Right—former SWAT, moved here when your wife got pregnant with your first daughter, family property, figured Raccoon would be a better place to raise them. Did I miss anything?«

   »You’ve been doing your homework,« Barry chuckled.

Jill smiled short, letting her gaze drift to the window and the darkening sky beyond. It wasn’t so different for her, really. New York had felt just as stifling toward the end—only the reasons for leaving had been... different.

A young waitress approached, her long blonde hair tied back in a braid, gray eyes that stood out and matched her work uniform perfectly. She quickly cleared a few empty glasses from the neighboring table before stepping over to them, smiling politely.
   »Good evening, Mr. Burton. What can I get you?«

Barry glanced at Jill. »Beer?«

She nodded. »Yeah, thanks.«

Barry turned back to the waitress.
   »Two, please. Thanks, Cindy.«

As Cindy moved off toward the bar, Barry leaned back slightly and shook his head with a small grin.
   »Cindy Lennox. Her mom and my wife Kathy have been friends for years. Strange kid. She’s known me forever but still insists on calling me Mr. Burton. I’ve given up trying to change it.«

Jill watched Cindy weave between the tables, then let her gaze drift out the window again. The last light of day was fading fast, the sky deepening to a hazy purple. Inside the bar, the soft clink of glass and low murmur of voices blended with the hum of the overhead fans.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the day pressing down again.

The last few hours had been especially draining. Being called back to the station after their shift had already ended. The uncertainty—what the hell was going on. The news that Bravo was being sent out. The waiting, hoping Wesker’s talk with Irons might change something.

And then Chris. Chris, who hadn’t taken it well at all. He’d been pacing, frustration written all over his face, fists clenched, his voice tight as he argued with Wesker. He’d insisted it was a mistake, that Bravo shouldn’t be out there alone—especially not now, with the new recruit.

Wesker had kept his cool, as always. He’d reminded Chris that they had their orders, that it wasn’t his call. That Bravo was out there now as the first response, to show the city that action was being taken right away.
In the morning, Bravo would get support, with regular units and the state police joining in. A proper, coordinated effort.
Tonight was about acting fast, showing the flag, but only sending the bare minimum into the woods in the dark—which automatically meant it would be their turn the following evening. Time to rest, to decompress. It was necessary, so they’d have a clear head and enough energy for the twenty-four-hour shift waiting for them.

Chris hadn’t shouted. But the tension had been thick enough to cut with a knife. Up to a point, she’d understood his anger. Waiting while Bravo swept the woods, knowing they might need backup—that hadn’t been easy for any of them. But Wesker wasn’t wrong. And neither was Irons, really. Running both teams into the ground overnight would only leave them all wiped out when daylight gave them a better chance.

Just then, Cindy returned with their beers, setting them down with a polite smile before slipping away again.

Jill blinked, pushing the thought aside, but Barry had already picked up on it.

   »What’s eating you?« he wanted to know.

   »I just don’t get why Chris was so worked up.«

Barry shrugged. »It’s the whole situation. He’s been on edge since this started. That’s just how he is—duty first, heart on his sleeve. It gets under his skin when he can’t do something about it.«

Jill wasn’t so sure. She liked Chris, but he struck her as hotheaded. The kind of guy who clashed with the brass more often than not. If the rumors were true, he’d been discharged from the Air Force over it—something about a botched op and disobeying orders. The only reason he got off with a dishonorable discharge, they said, was because he’d ended up saving lives.

She took a drink, letting the cool bitterness of the beer settle her nerves. 

They drank in companionable silence for a while, both watching the dark clouds gather outside. The distant rumble of thunder rolled in, low and steady at first, then louder, closer. Lightning flickered along the horizon, throwing the street and the bar’s interior into stark relief for a heartbeat at a time.

Barry took a slow sip, then his eyes droped to Jill’s bag.
   »You’re really hauling work home after a day like this?«

Jill followed his gaze, tugging the bag a little closer.
   »Force of habit. Figured I’d skim the reports again. Maybe spot something we missed.«

Barry shook his head, smirking. »You know you’re not even supposed to take that stuff out of the station, right?«

Jill raised an eyebrow. »You gonna report me?«

That earned a low chuckle from him.
   »Nah. I get it. Just... don’t let it eat you alive.«

A flash of lightning lit the street outside, followed by a crack of thunder that seemed to rattle the windows. Barry glanced toward it, then back at her.
   »Looks like we won’t make it home dry.«

Jill drained the last of her beer and set the bottle down.
   »Might as well head out before it breaks.«

They stood. Barry reached for his wallet, pulled out some bills, and laid them on the table—far more than the tab. Then he hesitated, patting his pockets.
   »Got a pen on you?«

Jill fished one out of her bag and handed it over.

Barry grinned, grabbed a coaster, and sketched a quick, lopsided smiley face on it.
   »Cindy loves these,« he said, amused, setting it carefully atop the stack of bills. »Says they’re good luck.«

Jill shook her head with a smile as they made their way to the door.

As they stepped out into the heavy night air, Barry glanced sideways at her.
   »You heard anything about that new member? The kid Bravo took with them?«

Jill shook her head. »Nothing solid. Just that she’s young. Really young. Fresh out of school or something.«

Barry nodded slowly, his expression turning thoughtful as another rumble of thunder rolled over them.
   »Let’s hope she can handle herself out there.«

Chapter Text

The downed helicopter lay tilted on its side in the forest clearing. Steam from the coolant hissed into the darkness, mixing with the rising ground fog to form a milky haze that seemed to wrap around everything. Only the crack and pop of cooling, contracting metal broke the silence. Otherwise, there was nothing.

Rebecca opened her eyes, lifted her head, and took in her surroundings. Forest and Kenneth sat across from her. Up front, Edward was breathing heavily, then unclipped his harness.

Richard glanced over at her, nodding. Rebecca nodded in return, then unfastened her belt. The cabin stirred with more movement as the others unbuckled too and got to their feet.

Rebecca watched them. »Anyone hurt?«

But the men just shook their heads.

   »Gear up. Let's move out,« Enrico ordered.

Rebecca was on her feet in a second, drawing her Beretta and checking the magazine. In the next moment, Forest handed her three full mags from the ammo locker beside him. She slipped them into her belt pouches and checked the straps on her med kit.

Enrico forced open the side door, which groaned in protest from the damage. With a simple hand signal, he motioned for them to follow. He grabbed one of the radios hanging near the door before stepping out. Edward was right behind him. While Kenneth strapped on a leather harness fitted with a small shoulder camera, Richard grabbed one of the Benelli M4s, slung it over his shoulder, and jumped out of the chopper as well.

Rebecca paused, taking in the cabin as Forest adjusted the strap on his grenade launcher. The hull had taken a beating—mud caked the windshield, and one of the side windows was shattered, pierced through by a thick branch that jutted into the cabin. Looking at the wreck, she couldn't help but think it was a miracle they'd come through in one piece.

As she reached the door, cool evening air heavy with the scent of oil and pine rushed over her. Kevin was still in the cockpit, working the radio, trying to raise a signal. He glanced over at her. Rebecca grabbed one of the radios for herself and gave him a quick thumbs-up with an easy smile. Her boots clanked on the thin metal step, then sank into the thick grass as she hit the ground.

   »Edward, check the chopper's condition and see if you can ID what brought us down. Everyone else—spread out, three hundred meters, check the area,« Enrico said, voice firm.

And so they all spread out. The clearing around the crash site felt lifeless. Nothing stirred except for them forcing their way through the brush, and the thin trail of oily smoke rising from the wreck, climbing toward the night sky. Rebecca's eyes scanned the dark forest. The trees loomed like giant mushrooms, their massive trunks merging in the distance into a tangled web of shadows. The last light of day was swallowed by the gathering clouds. The air had turned heavy, the first gusts stirring the branches above. A low rumble of thunder rolled in from the distance, and flashes of lightning flickered through the canopy. The storm was closing in.

It didn't take long for them to sweep the immediate area. One by one, they regrouped at the wreck. Enrico and Richard climbed back into the chopper to confer with Kevin and Edward, while the rest of them waited nearby.

Rebecca drew in a slow breath, willing herself to stay calm. Her pulse was faster than she liked, her hands just slightly too tight on her gear. She glanced at Kenneth and Forest—both focused, steady. Determined not to look like the rookie on her first mission with shaky nerves—even if that's exactly what she was—she squared her shoulders and set her face, forcing the tension down. Then Enrico, Edward, and Richard returned.

Enrico came to stand beside her, arms folded.
   »Looks like lightning hit us. Fried most of the electronics. The transmitter's down, too.«

Rebecca didn't know much about the tech, but she understood well enough what that meant. The chance of being found by anyone tracking the signal had just dropped to zero.

   »We can still broadcast our last known coordinates,« Kenneth suggested.

Richard shook his head. »That's the second problem. No one's answering. Since we sent the first mayday, we've gotten nothing back.«

Rebecca frowned. The comm station in the S.T.A.R.S. office should've been manned. And even if it wasn't, the RPD's main comm center would have picked up their signal—there was always someone on duty there.

   »It's probably on our end. The radio must've taken a hit too,« Enrico added.

Forest glanced at Richard. »Any chance you can fix it?«

Richard shook his head, his expression grim.

   »Kevin stays with the chopper,« Enrico said. »Alpha's on standby—they'll find us once they realize our signal's gone. The smoke column will guide them. Fan out again. 700-meter radius this time. Sweep the area. With any luck, we’ll come across some trace of the hikers. Beats just sitting around and waiting. Keep your comms on. Let's move.«

They all nodded their acknowledgment and broke off, scattering into the surrounding forest. Leaves and old branches crackled under their boots. The forest was darker now, the storm nearly upon them. The wind had picked up, cooler and restless, making the branches creak and sway. Thunder rolled louder, no longer distant but close enough that she could feel its vibration through the ground. Lightning split the canopy again and again, harsh and bright, casting the trees in stark, shifting shadows. The ground was uneven, slick in places from the rain of a few days ago. Moss-covered stones and fallen trees forced them to weave and stumble, and roots caught at their feet like grasping hands.

Rebecca kept close at first, sticking with the others as they worked through the brush.

Then Enrico gave the signal to fan out further, and she didn't hesitate. The longer she moved with the team, the steadier she felt. Maybe some of their quiet confidence was rubbing off. Or maybe she was just starting to find her footing. Either way, it felt good.

The wind picked up again, carrying the smell of rain and ozone, heavy with the promise of the downpour that hadn't started yet. Rebecca shivered, the beam of her flashlight trembling with her. For the first time, she wished she'd chosen heavier gear. She swept the light ahead and pressed on.

***

The twilight that had just bathed the mountains in a majestic red was now almost entirely swallowed by the darkness of late evening and the thunderclouds gathering in the distance. The asphalt road twisted its way through the deepening black, flanked by shadows. Groups of trees lined the deserted country highway.

Claire was exhausted, physically and mentally. And the fact that her rear end had been aching for hours didn't make the ride any easier. The heavy motorcycle rumbled down the road, its steady thrum so deep in her bones now that she doubted she'd ever shake it. But stronger than the ache or the numbness was the knot in her gut—the nagging worry that had sent her on this ride in the first place: not knowing how Chris was doing.

The first raindrops started to fall, speckling the gray road with dark spots until the asphalt darkened by several shades. Claire shivered in the growing chill and wet, pulling her visor down. She could have kicked herself. The warm weather earlier had convinced her to skip her full riding gear. The leather jacket kept the rain at bay, barely but her jeans soaked up the water like a sponge. She could feel them clinging tighter to her legs by the minute. The wind did the rest: she was freezing, drenched, and if luck really wasn't on her side tonight, she'd be nursing a nasty summer cold soon. Chris would be furious. She knew that much.

A few minutes later, shapes began to emerge from the dark ahead. Buildings she knew well. Claire had driven this stretch a hundred times. The cluster of structures belonged to a large farm. She rode on without giving them much thought. Soon she'd pass the truck stop with its gas station and massive lot, then the old sports field with its storage sheds, and finally the abandoned drive-in theater at the northern edge of Raccoon City. Given how much she wanted off this bike, she was deeply grateful to be this close.

And then the beam of her headlight swept across a small metal sign by the roadside as she sped past:

Welcome to Raccoon City

Another mile on, she turned onto Powell Street, one of the main north-south arteries into town. Bars, restaurants, and boutiques lined the street. If you turned off onto one of the side streets, like Oaken Street, you'd reach Emmy's, the restaurant she and Chris called their favorite. They'd burned the midnight oil there more than once, thanks to Chris's less-than-stellar cooking skills.

Claire took the turn, leaving the main road behind. Cars lined both sides of Oaken Street, and she navigated carefully between them, keeping an eye out for oncoming traffic.

Emmy's glowed warmly, its glass front giving a clear view of the cozy interior—from the barstools bolted to the floor at the counter to the padded booths along the walls. Fewer people than usual filled the space. Claire figured the fatal incidents in Raccoon over the past few weeks were keeping folks home. But in the midst of the sparse crowd, she spotted a familiar face: the waitress who always served her and Chris—the one who, as far as Claire could tell, had a bit of a thing for her brother.

She'd planned to head straight for Chris's apartment on the other side of town. But it hit her that he might be here instead. Everyone knew him at Emmy's, and no one would bat an eye at him bringing Sam along.
And Chris was a terrible cook. Even if he wasn't here, the detour might be worth it. She could ask the waitress if she'd seen him lately. And maybe grab a sandwich. She hadn't eaten since she left nearly five hours ago.

***

Rebecca moved carefully through the dense underbrush.
The rest of the team was nearby, close enough that she could still catch glimpses of their flashlight beams through the trees.
The longer she stayed in this forest, the eerier it felt, and she caught herself wishing for Kevin’s voice to crackle through the radio on her belt, telling them their ride was finally on its way.

A few meters ahead, a wall of tall shrubs blocked her path. Rebecca swept her flashlight beam across the thicket, making sure nothing was lurking there, then began pushing her way through, easing aside low branches with her shoulder and slipping through the undergrowth.

Just ahead stood a cluster of towering trees. Rebecca raised her weapon, the attached flashlight cutting into the dark.
That’s when she saw it—a blue-gray transport vehicle lying on its roof, the letters MP stark against the metal, the rear mesh doors hanging wide open.
Broken glass glinted in the dirt. Deep gouges marked the earth. A wheel lay torn from its axle. A bush had been uprooted, its branches punched through the windshield. And bodies—four of them, men in uniform, some inside the wreck, others sprawled on the forest floor, all of them drenched in blood.

For a moment, Rebecca froze, too stunned to move. The grisly scene before her seemed unreal, like something out of a nightmare.

Then, a beam of light swept through the darkness beside her, cutting across the wreckage at a different angle. Enrico.
Without a word, he stepped up next to her, his expression tight as he took in the sight. His flashlight steadied on the overturned vehicle, the shattered glass, the twisted wreckage. 

He grabbed his radio with one hand and glancing at the compass built into his watch.
   »About two hundred and twenty meters southeast of the crash site. Move it, boys!«

Rebecca shot him a worried look. He met it and gave a quick nod toward the bodies. She understood and approached the nearest uniformed figure, fishing a glove from her med pack. Each step made her stomach knot tighter. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen death before—she’d completed plenty of forensic courses—but this was different.

Swapping her tactical glove for the disposable one, she crouched and gently turned the man over. Though she was certain she wouldn’t find a pulse, she checked anyway. Then she closed the man’s wide, lifeless eyes and began examining him.
Cuts, bruises, blunt force trauma—all of it clearly from before death.
She looked for bite marks. None. What stood out was a thin, slimy film clinging to parts of the body, most of it on his face.

Just to be sure, Rebecca moved on, checking the others. All of them showed the same signs.

Footsteps rustled in the undergrowth as the rest of the team arrived one by one, their flashlight beams cutting through the gloom from different angles, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the wreckage.

   »Cannibals? Dogs?« Richard asked shortly.

Rebecca drew a deep breath, steadying herself. »Neither.«

   »Meaning?« Enrico sounded puzzled.

   »No bite marks. Just heavy blunt and cutting injuries, probably from the crash. But...« she hesitated, searching for the words. »They’ve got this slime on their faces, around the nose and mouth mostly.«

Forest stepped past her, studying the man who’d been thrown through the windshield, legs shattered, deep gashes across his body.
   »This stuff here? What is it?«

   »No idea. But I’m pretty sure they suffocated. Three out of four had injuries that wouldn’t have been fatal.«

   »So they crashed, were hurt—but alive. Then something made them suffocate?« Richard pressed.

Rebecca nodded. »That’s how it looks.«

   »How long have they been here?« Edward asked.

   »No rigor yet. Less than four hours.«

   »All right. Let’s figure out what caused the crash. Edward—check the vehicle. The rest—search the area,« Enrico ordered.

Rebecca turned back to the body, closing the man’s eyes. She touched the slime—sticky, stringy, clinging to her glove. Like gray honey, she thought. She rubbed it between her fingers. Nothing she’d ever seen.

Switching gloves again, she finished checking him—missing sidearm, baton, ammo pouch. She stood, circling the vehicle, casting quick glances at the other dead men. Their gear seemed intact.
Then her boot struck a metal case. It clattered loudly. Edward looked over; she gave him an apologetic smile and knelt to examine it. Papers. A file on top. A transfer order with a mug shot of a dark-haired man, steel-blue eyes.

She brought it to Enrico.
   »Captain.«

He took a glance, then let out a sharp whistle to call the others back.

Once they’d gathered, Rebecca read aloud: »Transfer order. Prisoner Billy Coen, former U.S. Marine lieutenant, age twenty-six. En route to Ragithon base for execution. Sentenced to death July 22 by court-martial.«
She hesitated, staring at the photo. »Sentenced to death.«

Edward peered over her shoulder, took the file, and then glanced at the corpses.
   »Is he one of them?«

Rebecca shook her head.

Edward growled under his breath. »Poor bastards. Just doing their job.«

   »If Coen’s not here, he’s on the run,« Kenneth said.

   »Vehicle status?« Enrico asked.

Edward frowned. »Front’s a mess. Can’t be from that bush alone. Must’ve hit something bigger, but there’s nothing here.« 

   »An animal maybe,« Rebecca offered.

   »What about the gear? Anything missing?« Enrico wanted to know.

Rebecca nodded. »One’s missing his basics—sidearm, baton, ammo.«

Enrico snapped up the file.
   »New priority. Fan out—find the escapee. Stay sharp. Our friend’s armed.« 

Chapter Text

Chris steered his Jeep through the falling night.
After stopping by home, he'd picked up Sam so they could take a walk through the park.
Glancing at the dashboard clock, he sighed. If it hadn't been so late, he would've swung by Kendo's. Robert was always good for a chat, and tonight, Chris could've used the distraction.

The first drops of rain splattered across the wide windshield. Chris flipped on the wipers.
The whole situation still gnawed at him.
No fight with Irons this time. Just a useless back-and-forth with Wesker.
He was still fuming. They'd all been called back in, dragged out of their off-hours, just to be told Bravo was already on the way. By the time they had assembled at the station, the decision had been made—Irons's decision.

How the hell did it make sense to send Bravo out alone into the woods at night? God forbid anyone accuse the great Chief Irons of sitting on his ass while civilians were missing.
Chris snorted under his breath. Everybody knew the forest wasn't safe anymore. More eyes out there would've made sense. Hell, any backup would've made sense. But no, Irons had his plan: Bravo stumbles around in the dark, and when the sun's up and the press starts asking questions, he can say he's got more search teams rolling out to support them. Then Alpha gets to take over tomorrow night, after Bravo's worn themselves out and needs rest.

It was bullshit.

Chris had tried to argue, but Wesker had shut him down. Backed Irons up like always.
'The chief's made his decision', Chris.
Chris could still hear Wesker's voice, smooth, detached—like it was all just business as usual, like any of it made sense.

And now? Now they'd been sent home. Again.
What the hell was the point of hauling them in at all if they were just going to sit this one out?

The rain grew heavier. Chris cranked up the wipers as the drumming on the roof turned into a steady roar.
From the backseat, Sam started to whine. Chris glanced over his shoulder, reaching back to give him a reassuring pat. The dog welcomed the attention, wagging his tail and pressing his head into Chris's hand. Chris smiled, turned his eyes back to the road—

—and something darted across the headlights.

He saw the shapes at the edge of his vision first, three of them off to the left, and then they were in front of him, caught in the beam for just an instant. He caught a glint of blood on the creatures, broken up by dark patches, flashes of white between; teeth and bare bone.
But most haunting were the six pairs of eyes, glowing bluish against the bloodied flesh as they reflected the headlights.

Chris jerked the wheel. The rear of the Jeep fishtailed, tires skidding on the wet road toward the shoulder. One of the things slammed into the swinging front end. Chris felt the impact for just a second, a resistance that couldn't hold against the Jeep's weight and momentum, as he fought the skid, foot hard on the brake. The Jeep spun. He let off the brake for a heartbeat, then stomped it again. The vehicle spun once more, then came to a jarring stop.

Chris drew a deep breath. The headlights lit up a stand of trees, bushes just a few yards from the bumper.

Sam had slid down into the footwell behind the passenger seat. He scrambled back onto the rear bench as Chris checked on him, growling, his eyes locked on the darkness outside.
Chris scanned the area, sweeping the surroundings for any sign of movement.
Sam kept growling, baring his teeth.

Chris popped the glovebox and pulled out his sidearm and a flashlight. One more look around, then he eased the door open. Weapon raised, he stepped out.
Sam erupted into barking, scrambling across the backseat. Chris shut the door, locking the noise in with him.

Slowly, he circled the Jeep. Sam's racket only got louder. Chris struggled to block out the barking, to tune in to any other sounds: the rain drumming on the Jeep, trickling down and splashing onto the asphalt; the light breeze mixing with the steady hum of the idling engine; the faint chirp of a cricket somewhere.
Chris blinked, trying to keep the rain from his eyes as it streamed down his face.

He moved along the Jeep. Up front, something clung to the grill. Chris shone the flashlight on it—bloody, mostly black. He took another step closer. In the light, he could make out strands of hair, sure now it was the remains of a patch of fur. He stepped in, catching a whiff of rotting flesh, and froze.

He'd been ready for blood. But this? This was foul.
Finally, he crouched for a better look. He nudged the scrap with the barrel of his gun. Where rain and gravity hadn't done the job, that touch was enough—the piece of flesh peeled off and fell to the ground with a wet slap. A wave of stench hit Chris. He recoiled instinctively. Unbelievable that something that small could reek that bad.

Sam was still going wild. Chris straightened up, made his way back around to the driver's side, and climbed in. Only then did he realize how soaked he was as he shut out the rain. He stowed the weapon and flashlight back in the glovebox, but even without touching the thing, he had the overwhelming urge to wash his hands.
Sam barked and whined. Chris tried to calm him, but it was no use. It had to be the smell—if it made him sick, it had to be hell for Sam.

Determined to get the hell out of there, Chris threw it into first and hit the gas hard enough that the tires spun on the wet pavement.

***

Kenneth and Richard moved northeast, sweeping the unfamiliar terrain with focused precision.
The forest seemed endless—ancient trees rising high into the night, their gnarled branches tangled against the storm-heavy sky. The air was thick, humid, charged with the promise of rain. Every few moments, lightning slashed across the clouds, casting the woods in stark white for a heartbeat at a time. Thunder rolled in the distance, low and steady, like the growl of something massive and unseen.

Their boots crunched softly on damp leaves and the occasional snap of a twig echoed louder than either of them liked. The forest smelled of pine sap, earth, and the faint tang of ozone. Somewhere far off, a night bird cried out—then silence, deep and waiting.

They kept their eyes sharp for signs a man on the run might leave behind: fresh prints in the softer ground, snapped branches at shoulder height, scuffs on bark where someone had brushed past in a hurry. They checked every shadow, every tangle of undergrowth that looked too dense, too perfect. A desperate fugitive might think himself hidden there.

Eventually, they reached a clearing—rough ground with patches of grass flattened by wind or maybe by passage. Kenneth checked his compass, wiping sweat from his brow.
   »About five hundred meters. Another five hundred, we check in with Enrico.«

Richard nodded, about to answer, when he froze. His head cocked slightly, listening.

   »What is it?« Kenneth asked, dropping his voice low.

Richard didn't reply—just raised a finger to his lips, eyes narrowing.

And then Kenneth heard it too: a faint rustling, maybe twenty meters off, behind a wall of head-high bushes that marked the edge of the clearing. Too deliberate to be the wind. Too soft for an animal that size.

Richard signaled: flank right.
Kenneth acknowledged, drew his weapon, and began moving low and steady. His boots barely disturbed the forest floor. Every nerve was alive now, his pulse steady but hard.

If this was their guy, they could wrap this up fast.

   »S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team,« Kenneth murmured into his radio. »Five hundred meters northeast of crash site. Possible contact. Advancing slow. Aiken, Sullivan—secure perimeter, wait for my go. Over.«

He watched Richard move forward in a slow, zigzag advance, using the trees for cover, keeping his silhouette broken. Kenneth found his angle, dropped to one knee, sights on the dense brush. He gave the ready signal.

The air felt heavy, the quiet around them deeper somehow. Lightning flashed again, casting the scene in white and black. Both men held still, listening—waiting—for what came next.

***

Rebecca forced herself to focus.
Carefully, she moved through the underbrush, staying alert as she ducked beneath low-hanging branches. The forest felt heavy, the air thick and still, as if the storm overhead was holding its breath. Every so often, lightning lit up the night in sharp flashes, casting the trees into stark relief.

Blood. There has to be blood somewhere, she thought. If her hunch was right, there should at least be some trace.

Behind her—rustling!

Rebecca spun around, flashlight cutting through the shadows as she aimed her Beretta. A pair of birds burst from a bush, flapping hard as they vanished into the night. The surge of adrenaline left her flushed, heart pounding so loud she could almost hear it in her ears. She froze for a few seconds, forcing herself to steady her breath.

A quick scan of the darkness. Nothing. No one waiting to strike. She exhaled and turned back the way she'd been heading. Lightning flickered again, throwing the woods ahead into strange patterns of light and shadow. The air smelled damp, heavy. The rain was close.

And then she saw it. Between the firs, a narrow opening in the wild growth. A natural path, edged by tangled brush and deep black beyond. Rebecca raised her weapon and light, sweeping the beam low. Still no blood. But the ground had been disturbed—leaves pressed deep into the soft earth, faint indentations that looked like fragments of a boot tread. No clean print, but better than nothing.

Rebecca squared her shoulders and followed the trail. She glanced down at her compass, still silently counting her steps.

Seven-fifty-seven...

She ran through the procedures she'd drilled into memory these past weeks, letting the routine calm her, keep her sharp.

Seven-eighty-nine...

The path grew narrower, swallowed up by the forest with every step. Rebecca stopped. She swept the beam of her light over the undergrowth, but the darkness seemed to swallow it whole.

Eight-fifteen...

The sky above rumbled, deep and long. Before the sound faded, the first fat raindrop hit her uniform.

Rebecca turned slightly to the right. A stand of massive fir trees loomed a few yards away, and beyond them something glinted silver in the dark. She moved toward it, slow and careful. The rain began to fall harder.

Eight-thirty-two...

Wind stirred the trees, rustling the branches as she slipped between the firs. The forest opened up—and there were the tracks. Rebecca stopped short, eyes tracing the rails until they met the outline of a stationary train. A double-decker, streaked with rain, the lettering on the side blurred but still legible: Ecliptic Express, Umbrella Inc. & Corporation.

Her stomach tightened. Umbrella. Even as a newcomer to Raccoon City, she knew the name. The company was everywhere—pharmaceuticals, cosmetics, schools, the hospital and library, the zoo. It had built the city as much as the people had.

Beep. Beep.

Her radio. She raised it, but only static answered. Frowning, she clipped it back onto her belt. Maybe the storm. Maybe not.

Rebecca hesitated, then approached the train, weapon ready, eyes scanning the windows. The angle was bad. The cars were dark inside, she couldn't see a thing.
Her boots crunched over wet gravel as she stepped onto the tracks. The voice in the back of her mind was loud now.

Something's wrong. Why is this train just sitting here, out in the middle of nowhere, no lights, no signs of life?

No sign of a crash. No damage she could see.

She raised the radio again. »S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team, come in. Chambers here. Over.«

Nothing.

She switched the unit off and on, tried again.
   »I repeat, S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team, come in. Chambers here. I've located train tracks and a train belonging to the Umbrella Corporation. Requesting instructions. Over.«

Still nothing but static.

Her thoughts flashed to Billy Coen. Could he have found the train too? Maybe he was inside, trying to rest, patch himself up, stay out of the rain.

Rebecca moved along the train's length, checking both doors. No blood. No drag marks. No prints she could see—not in this rain, anyway.
Alone out here, she felt exposed. But what if Coen was inside, hurt? What if she missed her chance to capture him?

It wasn't like she had many options. She nodded to herself, climbed the short set of steps, and eased the door open, weapon raised. The beam of her flashlight swept the darkness, moving with the Beretta as she entered. Her eyes adjusted fast, drinking in the low light of the car.

Nobody.

The smell hit her first: stale air, rotting fruit, and something else. Blood? She wasn't sure.

She looked around. The interior was almost elegant. Antique lamps, thick-cushioned seats, lace curtains at the windows, dark wood trim, and a red oriental carpet running down the aisle. The whole place felt expensive—expensive, and wrong.
On the wall right beside her, she noticed a schematic showing the train's layout. Rebecca swept her flashlight over it, studying the details: three carriages and an engine car, six compartments in total, some split into two floors, multiple staircases leading up, emergency exits marked in red. She traced a finger over the diagram, trying to fix the plan in her memory. If she had to move fast later—or get out—she'd need to know exactly where she was going.

She let her flashlight sweep over everything one more time, from left to right, and made a quick decision to try the right side first. At the far end of the compartment was a mechanical door. She moved toward it and tested the panel. It didn't respond. No power. Just to be sure, she flipped the light switch next to the door. Nothing.

Rebecca took a steadying breath, listening to the rain hammering the roof, and turned around. At the opposite end of the car was a wooden door. That one didn't need electricity. Resolute, she started forward, stepping between the rows of seats, boots soft on the runner. She reached for the handle. It turned. A faint smile touched her lips, brief, almost automatic. Greenish light spilled into the car as the door swung open, bringing with it a blast of rank air that made her gag.

To the right, stairs led up to the second level. The car looked much the same as the one she'd just left; wood-paneled walls, thick curtains, scattered papers and belongings, but no people.

Her flashlight swept ahead—and froze on a figure slumped against a window. Tall. Dark hair, rumpled suit. Eyes closed.

Rebecca unclipped the light from her pistol, holstered the weapon, and stepped closer. She swept the beam over the man again, studying him in the dim glow.

No response to the light.

She hesitated, then reached out and touched his shoulder.
   »Sir? Are you alright? Do you need help?«

Still nothing.

She felt for a pulse at his throat. Nothing. The man was dead. A closer look. No gunshot wounds. No obvious injuries. But a sheen of slimy residue on his face—just like the MPs out in the woods.

No way that was coincidence.

Rebecca backed up a step, trying to escape the stench. Maybe she should step outside, try the radio again, further from the train.

And then she saw it. Something on the floor, a foot in front of her.
She crouched, light sweeping over it. Gray, lumpy, like some kind of sea creature washed up on shore.
Rebecca grabbed a nearby umbrella and prodded it. No movement. But it was covered in that same slime.

That was when she felt it: a shift in the air behind her, a faint creak of leather, the scrape of a shoe against the floor. Something moved.
Before she could turn, the wave of rot hit her, thick and suffocating, and fingers tangled in her hair.

Reflex took over. She dropped flat, rolled hard onto her back. The flashlight skittered across the floor, beam swinging wildly as it went—

The dead man wasn't dead anymore!

He loomed over her, eyes wide, spit dripping from his mouth, arms clawing as he stumbled free of the seats. Rebecca crab-crawled backward, heart hammering, the stench hitting her like a slap. She scanned for anything to use as a weapon, but he lunged again. She dodged, his bony fingers grazing her vest. She lashed out with a kick, caught him in the gut. He staggered back, but kept coming. Her hand found a seat armrest. She started to haul herself up—

Someone dropped down in front of her, moving fast: a man, broad-shouldered and solid, one arm marked with a tattoo. Without a word, he shoved the attacker back. But the thing came right at him again, arms outstretched, stumbling forward with mindless determination—

A shot rang out.

The attacker dropped, a hole in his forehead, as the echo faded. Rebecca climbed to her feet, bracing on the armrest.

The man with the tattoo turned to face her. She recognized him.

Billy Coen.

Chapter Text

The chopter cabin was dim, lit only by the weak glow of the emergency lights along the ceiling and instrument panel. The air inside still smelled of burned wiring and hydraulic fluid.
Kevin sat in the pilot's seat, headset useless around his neck, eyes locked on the dark treeline beyond the windshield. The storm crept closer, thunder rolling low and steady over the hills.

A cool breeze slipped through the shattered side window, carrying the sharp scent of pine, damp earth, and rain. The helicopter's frame groaned softly, the metal settling after the crash.

Behind him, Enrico sat hunched over, paging through Billy Coen's transfer file, the faint emergency light casting sharp shadows across his face. The papers were smudged and damp at the edges, his thumb pausing on a line that made him frown.

   »Captain?« Kevin's voice cut through the stillness. »You think Coen's still out there?«

Enrico didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed on the file, jaw tight.
   »Twenty-three civilians,« he muttered. »Supposedly killed during a mission in Africa. They had him locked up in a secure psych facility before the transfer.«

Kevin twisted in his seat, scowling.
   »Psych facility? Great. That's just what we needed.«

Enrico gave a low grunt, already reaching for the handheld radio.
   »That's not going to make this any easier.«
He keyed the mic. »Bravo Team, this is Captain Marini. Be advised: subject Coen was reportedly responsible for the deaths of twenty-three civilians and was being transferred from a secure psychiatric institution. Proceed with caution. Do not attempt engagement alone. Repeat—do not engage alone. Over.«

Static hissed back at them.

Enrico tried again, voice harder now. »Bravo Team, come in. Chambers, Frost, Sullivan, Kenneth—report. Over.«

Nothing but the soft crackle of dead air.

Kevin grabbed his own portable, leaning slightly toward the shattered window as if that might help.
   »Bravo Team, this is Kevin. Anyone reading me? Respond. Over.«

Silence. Just the sound of the wind slipping through the broken window and the steady drum of thunder, closer now.

Enrico lowered the radio, his jaw tight, eyes meeting Kevin's through the dim light.
   »No one's hearing us.«

Kevin didn't say anything. He just stared out at the dark, the weight of the night thick around them. The helicopter creaked again as a gust rattled the hull. The first drops of rain tapped on the chopper—slow at first, scattered—but within moments it became a steady drumbeat. The storm was here.

The edges of the windshield were starting to fog, thin traces of moisture creeping in along the frame. Kevin stared out at the grass, dark and wild, the trees at the clearing's edge bending like giants against the storm.

And then he saw it.

Something that parted the grass in a way the wind never could. A shadow, low to the ground, moving too fast, too smooth. Gone before he could truly register it.

   »What the...?« Kevin muttered, leaning forward, squinting.
He blinked at the rain-streaked glass, not sure what he'd seen. He turned toward the cabin. »Enrico... did you see that too?«

Enrico's head lifted, eyes narrowing. He didn't say anything—just reached for the handheld spotlight and went to the cabin door. Rain hit him full in the face as he jumped down. He switched on the lamp, the beam slicing through the downpour and the wild, thrashing grass.

Kevin grabbed his weapon, stood, and moved to the doorway, staying in the shelter of the fuselage, watching as Enrico moved low, pushing through the wet, thrashing grass. Enrico worked his way along the side of the chopper's nose, sweeping the light not just across the field but toward where the shape had vanished, his boots squelching in the mud.

Kevin watched from above, rain dripping down his face, breath held. And then—

   »There!« he called out, pointing, eyes locked on the shape that flickered at the edge of the clearing, low and fast, blue eyes glinting back for just a second in the spotlight's edge.

Enrico pivoted, swinging the beam to follow, catching the glint of slick hide—then it was gone again into the storm-wracked grass.

Kevin grabbed his radio. »Bravo Team, this is Dooley. Something's out here—doglike. Can anyone hear me? Over.«

Only static answered.

   »Bravo Team, respond. I repeat: We've got movement near the chopper. Doglike. The area's probably not secure.«

The rain hammered the hull, the wind howled through the broken side window, drowning out everything but the hiss of the storm.

Enrico backed toward the chopper, his weapon raised, eyes scanning the dark. Kevin reached down, offering a hand to help him up as another gust rocked the helicopter. Inside, they slammed the sliding door shut, the latch clanging home as the metal protested against the wind.

Weapons up. Breaths tight. Waiting for what came next.

***

Billy Coen leveled his weapon at her.
The flashlight on the floor pointed straight at him, its beam catching him and the corpse behind him in stark relief.

Rebecca forced herself to stay calm, taking in every detail she could. His long hair and clothes—blue jeans and a muscle shirt—weren't soaked like hers. He must've been here before the rain started. No major injuries, just scrapes on his arms. A single cuff dangled from his right wrist. His sharp blue eyes tracked her every move, cold and alert.

   »Billy,« she said. »Lieutenant Coen.«
Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

   »So, you know me,« Billy said, his tone low and rough. »Guess that means they're already out looking for me. I must be pretty popular.«

   »You're the convict who was being transferred for execution at Ragithon,« Rebecca said, her voice gaining firmness. »And those officers out in the woods—they were your escorts.«

She could tell by the way Billy was watching her that he was sizing her up.

   »Oh, I see,« he said, his eyes flicking to the S.T.A.R.S. emblem on her arm. »Special forces, huh? They must've really rolled out the big guns for me.«
His voice carried a clear note of defiance. »No offense, sweetheart, but... our little chat ends here.«

Rebecca felt her breath hitch. The way he said it—like he was about to pull the trigger.

But instead, Billy lowered the gun, turned, and walked toward the door at the end of the car.

For a second, Rebecca froze in surprise. Then she moved too.
   »Hey! Stop! Drop your weapon and slide it over—now!« she ordered, hand resting on the grip of her holstered sidearm for emphasis.

Billy stopped, turned back, head cocked.
   »Why would I?«

   »You're under arrest!« she snapped.

She grabbed for her radio. »Bravo Team, this is Chambers. I've located the fugitive Billy Coen. Over.«

No response.

   »Bravo Team, please respond. Over.«

Billy smirked. »No backup? That's a shame.«

Rebecca clenched her jaw, shoved the radio back on her belt.
   »I'm not gonna say it again. Drop the weapon and slide it over. Now.«
She pointed at the cuff dangling from his wrist. »And lock yourself to one of those seats.«

Billy just grinned. »No thanks, princess.«

He turned and covered the last steps to the door leading to the next car.

   »Don't make me shoot you!« Rebecca called after him, but he was already through the door.

Rebecca cursed under her breath. She ran through her options in a flash. She couldn't just let him go, but how the hell was she supposed to detain him? He wasn't injured, and he was bigger, stronger—and way too fast with his mouth.

Then there was the train itself. She glanced at the body with the head wound. He'd tried to attack her. Tried to bite her. She couldn't ignore that.

She couldn't just let Billy slip away, but leaving the train to try to get a better signal might risk losing him altogether.

Beep! Beep!

   »Bravo Team, this is Captain Marini.«

Thank God.

But before she could reply, the message continued: »Be advised: subject Coen was reportedly responsible for the deaths of twenty-three civilians and was being transferred from a secure psychiatric institution. Proceed with caution. Do not attempt engagement alone. Repeat—do not engage alone. Over.«

Rebecca's heart pounded.

Twenty-three civilians. A psych facility.
That's why the death sentence.

She keyed the mic, quick and urgent. »Chambers here. I've located Coen. Proceeding—«

No reply.

   »Captain? Please respond. Over.«

The radio stayed silent. Rebecca glared at it, frustration boiling up.
   »Goddamn thing!« she muttered.

She couldn't make sense of it. How had Marini's call gotten through—but none of her messages and replies did? That didn't add up. The storm? Interference? Or was the radio just dying on her now?

No more transmissions came through. She clipped it back onto her belt, took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

Twenty-three civilians.

If she was going to have a chance, she needed to get him to cuff himself to a seat, secure him somehow. There was no way she could drag him through the woods alone. And now that Billy had seen her, knew she wasn't alone, leaving to get help wasn't an option. He'd vanish before she got back. 

She had to act—fast. Rebecca squared her shoulders, grabbed her flashlight, reattached it to her weapon, and moved. She passed the center rows, eyes flicking left and right.

In the last row, her light caught another body: a man slumped across two seats, motionless, pale, bloody. Opposite him, a woman in a business suit. A conductor in uniform. All the same. Still. Bled out. Faces slick with that same slime. Rebecca didn't stop. She grabbed the next door's handle, weapon raised, and stepped into the next car.

***

Chris guided the Jeep down the last street before home, his mind still replaying the night's events.
The rain hammered on the car, the steady rhythm almost masking the thrum of his own pulse. The images wouldn't leave him—the dogs, or whatever the hell they were. Twisted faces, bare bone, rotting flesh. That stench. God, he could still smell it, or thought he could.

He turned into the driveway, headlights sweeping over a motorcycle parked near the porch. Under the overhang stood a figure, trying to stay out of the rain, helmet on the ground.

Chris recognized her instantly. Claire.
He killed the engine, unbuckled, and stepped out into the downpour. Sam jumped out right behind him, tail wagging like crazy as he raced toward Claire.

Chris walked up, rain soaking his clothes in seconds all over again, running down his neck, dripping from his hair.

Claire crouched, laughing as Sam practically bowled her over.
   »Hey, boy—you miss me that much?«

Chris stopped in front of her.
   »What the hell are you doing here?«

   »Visiting my brother. What's it look like?« she countered.

Chris shook his head, trying to keep the edge out of his voice—but failing. »You came all the way out here? In this?«

She stood, meeting his stare.
   »Okay. So Joann was right. There is something up with you. Is it work?«

   »Really?« he said, rolling his eyes. »This is the last thing I need right now—a lecture from my little sister.«

But Claire didn't let up. She never did. »Come on, Chris. Like she hasn't been watching the news. Is that why you didn't call her for weeks?«

Chris clenched his jaw. »You here to check up on me or what?«

Her expression hardened.
   »You brought this on yourself. Maybe if you picked up the phone once in a while, she wouldn't have to send me.«

He didn't have an answer for that—just looked at her.

Claire huffed, grabbed her helmet from the ground, a shiver running through her.
   »Can we go inside now? I’ve got to get out of these clothes.«

   »Yeah, yeah«, he said, patting his pockets for the keys.

When he unlocked the door and pushed it open, Sam bounded through first, shaking water everywhere. Chris stepped aside to let Claire in first and then followed, pulling the door shut against the wind.

   »You're soaked,« Claire teased.

   »No kidding,« Chris shot back. »At least I didn't decide riding a bike in this weather was a good idea.«

Claire smirked. »Fair. But I did it for you.«

Chris gave a tired laugh. »What's next? We gonna drink coffee like that’s gonna fix everything?«

   »Actually... yeah.«
She grinned, warm, mischievous, and held out her helmet to him. Inside, tucked in the lining, was a takeout bag with the familiar Emmy's logo. »And if you knew there were two sandwiches from Helen in there, you'd already be thanking me.«

Chris laughed for real this time. »Damn right I would.«

Claire pushed the helmet into his arms and peeled off her dripping jacket.
   »Guess that's settled. Now where's something dry I can borrow? I hope you've got something shrunk in the wash. Knowing you and laundry, that shouldn't be a problem.«

Chapter Text

Rain sheeted through the trees, turning the underbrush into a mass of dripping shadows. Richard pressed his shoulder tighter to the trunk, his Beretta steady on the black tangle ahead. Every breath came with the cold stink of wet soil and old leaves.

Kenneth crouched a meter to his left, motionless but for the way his eyes tracked every shift in the grass. Rain beaded on his bare head, trickling in cold lines down the back of his neck. The only other sound was the soft hiss of Forest approaching through the rain.

Richard lifted two fingers: Where's the rest?

Forest crouched low, his voice a rasp just above the downpour.
   »Didn't see them. I was on sweep. No sign of Enrico or Edward.«

   »Shit.«
Kenneth's jaw clenched.

   »We hold position,« Richard whispered back. »They'll come.«

Or they wouldn't. He wasn't sure anymore. The trees felt too close. Every second without word made the dark seem heavier.

A shift in the grass caught his eye. No wind this time. Just a slow, deliberate parting of the wet stalks, low to the ground. Something creeping closer.

Kenneth angled his Beretta, lips barely moving.
   »Animal?«

Richard couldn't tell. All he could see was a glisten of pale hide between the grass stems—like something peeled raw.
They waited, breaths shallow, rain pattering off their shoulders. Then another shape moved behind the first. And a third.

Forest edged forward, trying to get a better angle.
   »Hold fire,« he whispered. »Not yet.«

A distant crack split the night—a single gunshot from the direction of the helicopter. All three of them flinched, hearts kicking up into their throats.

   »That was at the chopper,« Kenneth hissed, voice strained.

Richard was about to reply when the underbrush exploded. Three shapes burst from cover, snarling. Their bodies were huge; rotting muscle stretched over jutting bones, patches of hide hanging in wet ribbons. The eyes glowed pale blue in the beam of Forest's light, glassy and fixed.

   »Contact! Dogs!« Forest snapped, bringing his sidearm up.

And in an instand, the closest one lunged at Kenneth.

Richard fired, the slide snapping back, but the impact only rocked the creature off balance. A strip of skin tore free from its shoulder—he glimpsed exposed sinew, dark and slick—and then it came on again, jaws gaping wide. The second dog peeled left, circling to flank them. The third stalked low and slow, head swinging side to side as it tested the distance.

Kenneth fired twice more, rounds punching bloody craters in the lead dog's ribs, but it didn't fall.

A noise clawed its way up Richard's throat—a disbelieving sound between a curse and a gasp.
   »Shift right!« he barked, his voice sharp over the hammering rain.

They pivoted, staying close, muzzles tracking the lunging shapes. Forest squeezed off two more rounds. Another dog staggered as bone splintered along its jaw, but it barely slowed.

Then another shot thundered from the helicopter—closer this time, echoing across the clearing.

The second dog charged. Kenneth met it with a burst of fire, rounds punching through its torso, splattering the grass with wet strings of tissue. It howled, a shrill, bubbling sound, but it didn't stop.

Richard swallowed, trying to keep his hands steady.
   »Too many. We can't hold here.«

Kenneth's face was pale. »Fallback?«

Richard hesitated—open ground, no cover, the helicopter maybe crawling with more of these things—but staying meant being overrun.

He flicked a look at Forest. Rain tracked down the sniper's cheek, his jaw tight.
   »On me,« he ordered. »We move together. Suppress as we go.«

Forest reloaded one-handed, Beretta rising again.
   »Copy.«

The dogs crept closer, weaving side to side, like they were herding them back. Richard caught a clear glimpse of the lead one's face: bone exposed down the muzzle, teeth gleaming wet, one eye a milky ruin. It snarled, and he felt something primal seize his chest.

   »Go!« he snapped.

They broke formation, boots churning mud as they backed toward the treeline.

Snarls rose all around them and the three dogs closing in, jaws snapping, feet silent on the wet ground.
Kenneth fired again, hitting the third dog square in the chest. Ribs cracked. The thing shuddered but lunged anyway, its maw gaping. Forest stepped in, muzzle pressed almost to the dog's skull, and fired twice. The head snapped back, spine arching—and finally, finally, it dropped.

Richard didn't wait to see if it stayed down. He kept moving, breathing hard, eyes darting between the other two shapes pacing them through the grass.

***

Rebecca closed the door behind her as quietly as she could.
Ahead stretched another narrow corridor, dimly lit. She aimed her flashlight down the unknown passage and flicked the switch on the wall beside her, but nothing happened. The main power was out. At least the backup generator still kept the glowing emergency strips and exit signs alive along the walls.

It didn't stink nearly as bad here as it had in the last car, probably because of the open window on her right. Rain blew through it, soaking a round table, two chairs, and the faded blue carpet at her feet.

She kept her weapon and light crossed in front of her, advancing step by step. On the right were two cabin doors, brass plaques reading 202 and 201. Pale curtains covered the windows on the left, blocking any view outside. Wooden coat racks lined the walls.

Rebecca tried the knob to 202. The moment she cracked it open, the stink of decay hit her in the face. She took a deep breath to fight back her gag reflex and nudged the door wider with her foot, staying in the hall.

Empty.

Her flashlight swept over a wardrobe, a basin, a table littered with empty wine bottles and an abandoned briefcase. A bunk bed stood under the small window. She leaned in just far enough to check behind the door. Nothing. No sign of Coen.

She eased the door shut and stepped over to 201. Same routine—gun up, slow push inward, quick assessment. A desk with a lamp and an old typewriter. A stool. Dead plants. A bunk stained with old blood and scattered personal effects.

If she was unlucky, Billy was already off the train. But she couldn't take that for granted. Before she moved on, she had to check every space he might be hiding in.

Something on the floor at her feet caught her eye: a scrap of paper torn from a larger document. Rebecca picked it up and skimmed the first few lines: something about a training facility that had been closed ten years ago, plans for a possible reopening, two investigation teams. One military, one scientific.
She shook her head. Not helpful. Not now.
She folded the note and tucked it into her pocket, then cast one more look behind the door before stepping back into the corridor.

Moving on, she followed the hallway's curve. To her right, a row of rain-streaked windows. To the left, two wooden doors. The first was a storage room. The door hung open, but the entrance was blocked by toppled crates and equipment. She swept her light over the mess. Nothing moved.

She continued. Her beam landed on the brass plate over the second door: Conductor's Office. She tried the handle, but it wouldn't budge.

Where the hell are you?

Rebecca approached the last door at the end of the car. It was another electric lock—no way through without a keycard.

Probably climbed out a window, she thought bitterly, and hated herself for the thought.

She turned on her heel, retracing her steps—

—just as the window ahead exploded inward in a spray of glass.

Rebecca jumped back, her Beretta snapping up. Shards rained down across the carpet. A figure crashed through the broken frame and landed hard on the floor, dragging in sheets of cold rain.

It took her a second to recognize the face behind the blood.
   »Edward!«

She dropped to her knees beside him and placed the weapon on the floor, adjusting it so the mounted flashlight cast its beam across Edward's face and chest. He was covered in blood, all over. She searched for wounds and found it: a gash on the side of his neck, a wound tearing across his upper arm, a split at the temple.

   »What happened?« she asked.

Was he even conscious? She wasn't sure.

But then Edward looked at her, blinking slowly, one hand clamped over his neck, the other pressing against his arm.
   »Rebec—,« he rasped, voice thick with blood. »It's...worse than— the Forest— We can't—«

He pressed harder on his neck, but bright red kept pulsing through his fingers.

Rebecca pulled gauze and bandages from her med pack, heart hammering. She needed to stop the bleeding fast. She tore open a compress and reached for his hand.
   »Edward, let me see. I have to put pressure on it.«

   »No. You...need to—warn the others—«
He trailed off. His breathing was ragged.

Rebecca nodded, trying to keep her voice calm. »It's okay. Just don't talk. The others are fine.«

   »The woods—full of—monsters. Be care—«

His head sagged. Rebecca caught him before he hit the floor, but he was too heavy to lift.
   »Goddamn it,« she hissed, dragging him closer by the straps of his vest—

Another window shattered down the corridor.

Glass burst across the floor. Rebecca threw her arm up to shield her eyes. In the corner of her vision, a shape landed among the shards. It rose, low and snarling. She picked up her weapon from the floor, sweeping the light across it.

A dog.

She knew in a sick instant what she was looking at. Its hide was half gone, skin flayed back in strips, teeth glistening wet where part of the jaw was missing. Rebecca pressed harder on Edward's neck wound, raised her Beretta. The thing growled again, creeping closer, blood and saliva dripping from its ruined maw.

Then it lunged, and Rebecca fired.

A split-second later, gunfire erupted behind her—two sharp cracks. Bullets tore into the dog's flank and throat, spraying gore across the walls. The body hit the floor, skidding in a streak of dark blood.

Rebecca's hand were slick with Edward's blood. The dog twitched. Then it started to rise again. Two more shots. Rebecca flinched at each one. The rounds punched through the creature's skull. Finally, it collapsed and didn't move.

She looked back at Edward, felt for a pulse. Nothing.

   »You should move away from him.«
The voice came from behind her.

Rebecca turned. Billy stood in the doorway.

   »If that thing bit him,« he said evenly, »he'll get up again. He won't be the same.«

Tears burned her eyes. She lowered Edward gently, her pants soaked red, her hands shaking.

   »I'm sorry,« Billy said.

   »Save it,« she shot back, voice raw.

Billy held his hands up in surrender. »All right.«

He walked past her, heading toward the floor she'd come through.

Rebecca bent over Edward, closed his eyes with a trembling hand. She laid his arms across his chest. Then she unclipped his headset and radio, fastened them to her own belt. Last, she took his spare ammo pouch.

God, what happened out there?

Was the team looking for her? Were the others okay? Alive?
She glanced at the corpse of the dog. No doubt what had killed Edward. And if Billy hadn't shot it, it would have—

At the far end of the car, the door clanged shut as Billy disappeared into the next compartment.

Rebecca rose, wiping her bloody hand on her thigh. The Conductor's Office door hung open now. Billy must have been hiding there. She closed her med kit, clipped it back on her belt, and started after him, her boots silent on the soaked carpet.

***

Richard’s heart hammered as they sprinted into the open. Behind him, Kenneth and Forest kept pace, the three of them working in a rough wedge as they pushed toward the downed helicopter. 

Somewhere ahead—somewhere—Kevin and Enrico should’ve been holding this sector. But the dark was silent, no sign of friendly gunfire, no voices over the comms.

The beam of Forest’s flashlight cutting wildly through the slashing rain. The two creatures paced them along the tree line, dark shapes low to the ground, weaving in and out of sight.

Kenneth stumbled over a hidden root, caught himself, and kept going.
   »How far to the chopper?« he shouted, breath ragged.

   »Couple hundred meters!« Richard called back, glancing ahead.
All he could see were shadows, rain lashing across the field, the wreck looming somewhere in the black.

   »Keep moving!« Forest shouted. 

They fall in formation—Richard in the lead, Kenneth a step behind, Forest covering their rear with his Beretta. The dogs closed in, snarling as they loped through the high grass. Every time one slipped closer, Forest spun, fired, and fell back into motion.
Once, he hit one square in the shoulder. It yelped and vanished into the grass—but he doubted it was dead.

Ahead, the clearing narrowed, and trees crowded in, forming a patch of dense forest. They plunged into the darkness between the trunks, their boots crunching over wet pine needles and tangled roots. Here, the rain thinned to a steady patter on the leaves above. The grass gave way to slick earth and underbrush, but at least they could see better—no swaying weeds to mask the dogs.

The creatures split up, weaving among the trees, circling. Rainwater dripped from the branches. The flashlight beam swept left and right, catching glimpses of wet, raw muscle and bared teeth. Richard felt his stomach twist. They were flanking them, waiting for an opening.

   »Keep going!« Richard ordered. »Don’t stop!«

They picked their way over a fallen log, the trunks crowding closer, and one of the beasts burst out from behind a tree. Kenneth and Forest both fired. The dog shrieked, staggered, and collapsed in a heap of glistening sinew.
The other one sprinted through the gap behind it—Forest’s next shot caught it in the ribs, but it kept coming.

   »Reload!« Forest called, pulling back to swap mags.

Richard tracked the dog, squeezed off a shot, caught it in the ribs too. The creature yelped and twisted away, vanishing behind some trees.

Ahead, the trees were already starting to thin again. Richard caught a glimpse of open ground—just a few more meters, and they’d be back in the clearing.

They kept moving, boots squelching in the wet earth, while the wounded dog prowled the shadows, circling for another attack. Kenneth turned, fired again, and this time the shot hit true—bone shattered, and the animal collapsed with a strangled cry.

The three of them pushed on, weaving between the last few trunks. Rain started to filter through the thinning canopy in fat drops.
Then they broke free of the trees at a run, out onto the clearing. The downpour slammed into them at once, blinding, drumming against their gear.

Richard wiped water from his eyes, scanning the field—and froze. Another shape bounded through the grass to their left, coming fast.

   »More—Left flank!« Forest barked, pivoting to meet it.

Lightning strobed across the clearing. In that searing flash, Richard counted two more of them, emerging from the direction of the helicopter. No wonder no one was shooting.

They fired in tandem again. Muzzles flashed in the rain, lighting up the two gaunt shapes slipping between the grass, bone and muscle gleaming wetly where fur should’ve been. One dog stumbled and vanished into the weeds. The second kept coming.

A snarl ripped through the storm. One of the things broke into a full sprint, weaving low, too fast. Forest fired, missed—fired again. Blood sprayed the grass, but the dog didn’t slow.

Richard felt his pulse hammering, too close now to take time aiming. He lined up a hasty shot and fired. His round clipped the dog’s shoulder, spinning it aside just long enough for Forest to brace himself.
Kenneth stepped up beside him, both of them unloading into the second dog. It bucked under the impacts, staggered, and fell. For half a heartbeat, Richard thought they’d bought themselves a breather—

Then the other one lunged from the side, jaws gaping. It clamped onto Forest’s lower leg, jerking him off balance.  Forest let out a ragged yell and went down hard. His Beretta clattered from his hand into the wet grass.

   »Forest!« Kenneth surged forward.

Richard pivoted, leveled his gun, but the dog was almost on top of Forest, thrashing to tear loose more flesh.

Forest didn’t hesitate. He pulled the heavy grenade launcher off his back—didn’t even try to aim—and swung it like a club. The impact cracked bone, sent the animal reeling, but it was back up before Richard could blink.

Kenneth fired twice more, one round tearing through the dog’s flank. Still, it kept coming.

   »Dammit—«
Richard lined up the sights, fighting to keep steady, and put a round through the back of its skull. The creature pitched forward and went still.

For a second, all Richard could hear was the hammering rain and Forest’s ragged breaths.

Kenneth knelt by him, hands pressed over the shredded mess of his leg. Blood pumped between his fingers.

   »Hold pressure,« Richard ordered, voice tight.
He scanned the clearing, waiting for another charge, but nothing moved now but the grass.

He crouched next to Forest, pulled his belt free, and looped it high around the thigh. Forest groaned but didn’t fight him.
   »Bite down if you have to,« Richard muttered and hauled the strap tight.

The makeshift tourniquet bought them a little time. Not much.

   »Help me get him up—now,« Richard said.

Kenneth nodded. Together, they dragged Forest upright, each taking a shoulder. His weight sagged heavy between them, breath hissing through clenched teeth.

They started the final push to the helicopter, slogging across the churned-up clearing.

As they neared the wreck, Richard cupped one hand to his mouth, voice hoarse but firm.
   »Kevin! Enrico! Rebecca! We need assistance—Forest is down!«

The clearing seemed to swallow his words.

   »Anybody! Come in! We’ve got a man injured!« he shouted now, trying to outshout the pounding rain.

No movement. No answer. Nothing. Richard’s gut sank.

They reached the open hatch, half-lifting Forest up the step. The flashlight beam caught a dark shape slumped across the controls—Kevin, unmoving.

   »Jesus,« Kenneth whispered.

No Enrico, no Rebecca, no Edward. Just Kevin, throat torn open, his sidearm on the deck by his limp hand.

Richard swallowed hard, his jaw tight.
   »Inside,« he ordered. »Barricade the door. We hold here until we know what the hell we're going to do next.«

Kenneth nodded grimly. They pulled Forest all the way in, slammed the hatch, and braced it shut against the night.

Chapter Text

When Rebecca stepped into the next car, Billy was already halfway down the aisle, just past the body lying in the middle of the walkway.
   »Stop right there, Coen!« she shouted after him.

He turned to face her, raising one brow.
   »Seriously?«

Rebecca advanced a few steps.
   »You're still under arrest. I want you to follow me outside.«
She didn't raise the Beretta, the muzzle stayed pointed at the floor, the tight beam of her flashlight pooling in a harsh white circle on the carpet between them.

Billy let out a short, humorless laugh. »Unbelievable. I've saved your ass twice now.«

Rebecca squared her shoulders in front of him. »I don't care. You're coming with me. We're getting off this train—now.«

Billy didn't flinch. He stared at her for a beat, then slowly lifted his weapon. For a second, she thought he meant to point it at her. But then she heard it: the wet, ragged moan behind her.
Rebecca spun around, heart hammering against her ribs.

The woman in the business suit was standing now, moving stiffly into the aisle, arms groping forward like some puppet on tangled strings. Billy leveled his gun at her, his flashlight beam catching her face. It looked just as waxy as the face of the man who had tried to grab her—and the memory flashed back.

Of his cold fingers brushing over her head.
Of the lifeless expression on his face.
Of the guttural sounds he'd made.

Rebecca felt her hands started shaking. Her finger hovered uselessly on the trigger. 

Another moan, deeper, joined in from the other side. She flicked her gaze over and saw the male passenger rising out of the shadows between the rows of seats, head lolling sideways, dead eyes locked on them.

Billy stepped up beside her, shoulder brushing hers. Calm. Steady.
   »Aim for the head,« he said, voice flat. »Their bodies are too tough. You'll only waste ammo.«

The woman kept lurching closer, bumping against the seats as she passed them one by one, close enough that Rebecca could see the blood smeared across her jaw.
It was like déjà vu.
Only this time, she didn't dodge or kick or fight back.

But Rebecca just stood there. She couldn't move. 

Billy didn't wait longer. He fired once, clean through the woman's skull. She dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, collapsing out of the flashlight's beam.

Behind them, the man stumbled forward, grunting. Louder now. Closer.
Billy pivoted, fired again.
Rebecca flinched at the crack of the shot. She didn't have to turn to know Billy had hit his mark, the heavy thud of the body hitting the floor was proof enough.
Her chest was tight, every breath too quick, and her hands trembled—so much it felt like the gun might slip from her grasp at any moment.

Billy turned to her again. He saw the shock on her face, the tension gripping every inch of her body, and his voice dropped low.
   »Hey. Breathe.«

   »You just—«, Rebecca started, her voice caught in her throat. »You shot them.«

Her composure was gone.
What was happening here? How could any of this be real?
First the man. Then Edward. Now the woman and the other man...
With every dead body—every unreal moment—a little more of her composure had crumbled away.
And now there was nothing left.
She lifted her hand, pointing at the first man, his lifeless body still sprawled in the aisle, like the other two now, »Just like... him.«

   »Did you forget what he tried to do?« Billy countered. »He was going to bite you, rookie.«

She swallowed, her voice cracking. »But maybe there's still a way to help—«

   »No,« Billy cut in quietly. »Not anymore. These leech things? They crawl on you, choke you out. You stand up again, you're not you anymore.«   

Rebecca's stomach twisted, and a numbness spread through her body. She couldn't decide which was worse: the situation itself, or the way he sounded so sure... as if there was even a chance he could be right.
No. No.

She shook her head hard, fighting the burn in her eyes. She needed to get away. From the bodies, from this train—and from him. From his big ego and that damn mouth, acting like none of this mattered.
As if they hadn't been people at all. Just monsters.

Without another word, she shouldered past him and moved quickly down the aisle. With every step, she felt the numbness starting to fade, replaced by something sharper. Determination.
Out. Just out. Anywhere but here.

Billy followed without a word.

Rebecca threw open the next door. The car beyond was empty, silent. The door she'd come through earlier, the one she'd left open, was now shut tight. She didn't hesitate, sprinted the last few steps and grabbed the handle—

Nothing. Locked.

   »What the hell...?« she muttered, more to herself than him.

Billy opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, the lights flickered to life overhead, one after another in a rolling wave down the length of the car. For a moment, everything strobed between darkness and a harsh, yellow glow, shadows leaping wildly across the walls.

And then the whole train lurched.

They staggered, grabbing for the seats as a second jolt followed, and then the motion steadied as the train began to crawl forward.

   »No!«
Rebecca lunged at the door, hammering the lock. Useless.

She ran to the nearest window, trying to shove it open. It didn't budge. Her heart pounded against her ribs.
She looked around, scanning the car: pillows, an umbrella, a laptop, a hat—and then her gaze landed on a heavy suitcase in the luggage rack. Metal-reinforced corners. Perfect.

Without thinking, she seized it, swung it down, and stomped over to the window. She raised the case overhead and smashed it against the glass. A spiderweb crack bloomed across the pane, but the window held.

She hefted the suitcase again—but Billy grabbed her arm.
   »Easy, freckles.«

She jerked away, voice sharp. »Sure. You're fine staying on this deathtrap. I'm not.«

Billy let go and shrugged.
   »Suit yourself. But by the time you break that, this thing's gonna be moving too fast to jump.«

Rebecca looked at him, her breath ragged, but said nothing. He was right. The train was old, no bullet train, but it wouldn't take long to pick up enough speed that jumping meant sprained ankles, if not worse.

   »If you wanna get out of here alive, you should calm down first,« Billy said. »Then we figure out what's happening.«

   »Oh, great,« Rebecca snapped, sarcasm dripping. »You want us to check it together?«

He gave her a sour look. »I don't love it either. But I'm thinking we've got a better shot of not dying if we team up.«

   »Like hell I care what you think. I can manage on my own,« she shot back, planting her hands on her hips.

   »Yeah, I saw that, sweatheart,« Billy said dryly. »Twice now you almost ended up dog food.«

   »Stop calling me like that!« she snapped, heat flooding her face. 
She hated how helpless she felt—and how he kept rubbing it in.

Billy grinned, stepped forward, and tapped her lightly on the forehead.
   »Sure thing, Miss Do-it-Yourself. What do you want me to call you?«

She recoiled from the touch.
   »The name is Rebecca Chambers,« she said sharply, her voice trembling with anger.
God, she'd love nothing more than to wipe that stupid grin off his face. »Not rookie. Not freckles. And not sweetheart. It's Officer Chambers to you.«

   »Well then, Rebecca,« Billy drawled, deliberately emphasizing her name. »Look, I'll make it simple. We push to the engine car. Best-case scenario? Some corpse fell on the throttle. We stop this train together—and after that, you can arrest me all you want. But right now, you should be thinking about keeping yourself alive.«

He paused, watching her for any sign she'd budge. When she didn't respond, he let out a sigh. 
   »Forget it, then. Just don't get bitten.« 

He turned for the door.

Rebecca weighed her options, jaw clenched. She could try the radio again, but every minute the train moved farther away from the others, less chance she'd reach them. And even if she did, what then?  

She glanced out the window, watching the trees slide past. She didn't like it, but Billy was right. Until this train stopped, she was stuck.  
   »Fine,« she said at last.

Billy stopped, looked back at her. 

She unclipped her old radio, set the channel, and tossed it to him. Then she fitted Edward's headset to her ear and synced the second radio to match.
   »But hear this,« she said coldly. »If you try anything stupid, I will  shoot you.«

Billy raised both hands, deadpan.
   »Sure. Fair trade.«
He tossed her a spare magazine.

Rebecca caught it, blinking. She opened her mouth to snap back, but no words came. Instead, she just exhaled hard.
   »...How do you want to do this?«

   »The door with the card reader's the straight shot to the engine car,« Billy said. »But we don't have the key card.«

She shook her head and stepped past him, striding toward the schematic posted on the wall. Her finger traced the outline of the last car.
   »Better idea. Emergency brake,« she said, stopping on the large emergency symbol.

Billy hesitated. Just for a flicker of a second. But it was there.

Rebecca turned to look at the mechanical door. Now that the power was back, the panel above it glowed steadily. It was the better plan.
It wasn't much, but it steadied her. Gave her back a scrap of control. And for the first time since they had met, she felt the small satisfaction of knowing that Billy Coen actually kept his smart mouth shut—

   »Then let's move, Princess.«

Or maybe not.

Rebecca rolled her eyes and started walking.

***

Jill switched on the kettle and watched the little red light blink to life. A soft hum started up. A glance at the clock told her it had gotten pretty late.
Outside, the storm was still raging, rain battering the closed shutters.

The water began to boil, the old heating element straining with effort.

She walked into the living room, weaving around the unpacked boxes. Not because she needed anything—she just couldn't stand there doing nothing while the whistling grew more and more shrill.

There wasn't much in the living room. The old, worn-out couch had been here when she moved in, along with a couple of side tables and a floor lamp.
She hadn't brought many personal things from New York, and the few she had were still buried somewhere in the boxes. The old TV had been a gift from a neighbor, but she only ever turned it on in the mornings for the news.

Her eyes fell on the rickety table she was using as a makeshift desk. Her bag was slung over the chair, the edge of a folder jutting out from the top.

The kettle's whistle grew sharper, nearly shrieking.

The straps on the bag were frayed by now. The thing was old. One of the few possessions she'd actually unpacked. Otherwise, it looked as if she'd moved in just two days ago instead of months.

Why had she even bothered to bring that file home?
She knew exactly what was in it. Every page, every note, every photo. Nothing she hadn't looked at a hundred times already. Nothing that was going to help her figure out anything new tonight.

The kettle shrilled like it was about to burst.

She forced herself to look away from the bag and walked back to the kitchen. Her breathing was shallow. She picked up the kettle, feeling the water inside still churning, waited a second, then poured it into the mug. She set it down on the counter but didn't stir. Still, the bitter smell of instant coffee wafted up to meet her.

She sighed, leaning back against the counter. Her gaze drifted to the open doorway, back toward the living room.

Maybe she'd hoped that combing through the file again would distract her. That there'd be something in there that demanded so much focus she wouldn't have room for anything else.

A hallway full of dust and concrete.
A door that had locked itself.
A body buried under rubble, nothing left intact.

Jill blinked hard, forcing down the tightness in her throat.
This was different, she kept telling herself. Over and over. Different city. Different victims.
But the truth was, it felt exactly the same. The same helplessness she couldn't shake, no matter how many times she told herself she couldn't have done anything differently.

She checked the clock again. Maybe Bravo had already found the missing hikers. She didn't know. Irons and Wesker had benched them, told them to get some rest.
As if that were even possible. The questions and the tension were probably keeping everyone awake half the night.

One thing was certain—give it a few hours, and all she had to do was turn on the TV for the local news. She didn't even have to wait for Wesker to call.

She inhaled slowly. Exhaled.

Just go back in there, pick up the bag, open the damn file.

It wasn't that hard. But why? It wouldn't change anything. She turned for the bedroom and left the mug untouched on the counter.

***

The air in the helicopter had turned damp and heavy, clinging to their skin like a fever. With the side door locked now and only the cockpit door left open, there was no significant breeze, leaving the air filled with the smell of blood and sweat. Condensation trickled down the inside of the canopy in wavering lines.

Richard paced up and down the short length of the cabin, footsteps ringing hollow on the metal floor. Every time he passed Kevin’s body slumped in the cockpit doorway, he averted his eyes.
   »…Repeat, Bravo Team requesting immediate assistance. One officer down, critically wounded. Enrico, Rebecca—come in.«

His voice blended with the steady drumming of rain on the helicopter’s shell and the unrelenting sound of his boots.

Kenneth sat on the floor in front of the row of seats where Forest lay. He looked up, felt like the hundredth time in the past few minutes. Forest was breathing shallowly, one arm draped across his eyes. Even so, it was clear how pale he’d gotten.

   »This is Bravo Team. Anyone—any frequency. Respond.«

No static, no crackle. Just nothing. Richard reached for the next radio, ripped it from its mount, and tried again.

Kenneth briefly watched him. The remains of the med kit were scattered across the floor; he hadn’t bothered to clean up after fashioning a makeshift bandage. The tourniquet was still cinched tight in place.

   »…Repeat, Bravo Team requesting immediate assistance. One officer down, critically wounded. Come in. Anyone.«

The same words, over and over. Footsteps. Rain.
And no answer.
Nothing.

   »He’s still bleeding,« Kenneth said eventually.

Richard turned, letting the useless radio fall to his side. 

   »We can’t keep that tourniquet on forever,« Kenneth continued, voice low. »We need Rebecca. If we’re going to save the leg—«

   »I know.«
Richard’s reply was rough. »You think I’m doing this because I’ve got nothing better to do?«

Forest stirred, lifting his arm enough to peer at them.
   »Hey. Cut it out. I’m not unconscious yet, and as long as I’m awake, you two are not going to start ripping each other’s heads off over me.«

Richard exhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose. His gaze drifted across the cabin again, catching on Kevin’s body—one leg hanging limply out the open side door, rain dripping steadily into the soaked fabric.

Kenneth pushed to his feet, grabbed one of the water bottles, and held out his hand to Forest.
   »Come on. You need to drink.«

Forest took his hand and let himself be hauled upright, trying to keep the injured leg as still as possible. He groaned under his breath. When he was sitting halfway up, Kenneth passed him the bottle and sank down next to him.

For a few seconds, only the pounding rain filled the cabin.

Richard didn’t even think about sitting down. He started pacing again, lifting the radio to his mouth, thumb pressed to the transmit button.
   »…Repeat, Bravo Team requestin—«

Without warning, something slammed against the cockpit doorway with a hollow metallic clang.

Richard’s head snapped up. A flash of motion—black and sinew-slick—vanished into the storm.
   »Shit.«
He lunged for his Beretta, heart thudding.

Kenneth was already on his feet. Forest didn’t try to stand, but he reached for his sidearm anyway.

A second impact rocked the helicopter as the creature hurled itself against the side, claws screeching over the hull. Richard could hear it snarl—deep, ragged, loud enough to cut through the rain.

   »Richard! Door!« Kenneth shouted at the same instant.

He didn’t need to say more. Richard was already by the cockpit, grabbing Kevin’s limp leg and hauling him further inside to clear the entrance. Blood streaked across the metal floor as he dragged the body.

Kenneth was right behind him, forcing himself to lean out just far enough to reach the handle. Rain pelted his face in a stinging sheet. The creature was circling the chopper, only a few meters away, its eyes glinting in the darkness.

He pulled the cockpit door shut just as the thing lunged. The impact reverberated through the frame, a deep shudder that rattled Kenneth’s teeth. Something wet smeared across the window—blood, saliva—and then a dark shape reared up, scrabbling at the glass with broken claws.

Kenneth stumbled back, breath coming in sharp gasps. He heard Forest groan behind him, trying to push himself upright. Richard shot him a look that said it all: Don’t even think about it.

Forest let himself sag back and raised both hands in surrender, his face slick with sweat.

Outside, they could hear the dog circling the helicopter.

   »Front glass,« Kenneth managed, voice raw.

Richard stepped up beside him, Beretta drawn, face set. For a moment, everything was still, only rain. But then the dog charged again, smashing its bulk against the windshield with a heavy, meaty thud. Cracks spidered across the glass.

   »Gimme the shotgun,« Kenneth said, sliding his own pistol back into its holster without taking his eyes off the cockpit.

Richard passed it over, checking the chamber first.

Kenneth locked it into his shoulder and drew a steadying breath.
   »One way in. Let it try.«

They waited. Seconds stretched. Rain streamed down the fractured glass. Richard’s grip on the Beretta was tight.

But—nothing.

No more impacts. No padded footfalls. No moving around the outside. Just the steady drumming of rain and Forest’s ragged breathing. Kenneth lowered the shotgun by a few inches but didn’t relax. His arms ached from holding it so long, but he kept it raised, ready. Eyes locked on the cockpit.

Richard slowly sank to the floor across from Forest and took an unopened bottle of water.

   »You think it’s gone?« Forest asked hoarsely.

Kenneth shook his head, voice low.
   »Can’t hear it anymore. Doesn’t mean it’s not out there.«
He kept watching the cracked glass, then glanced briefly toward Richard. »Plan?«

Richard checked his watch, wiped rain from the face, and exhaled slowly.
   »Facts first: No contact with the others. No backup. No evac ETA. That thing might still be out there. Maybe more than one. Right now, this is the only safe spot. We’ve got water, ammo, and shelter. Normally, I’d say we hunker down and wait.«

Forest raised a shaky hand in mock salute. »Hey. Party crasher here, doing my best.«

Richard gave the ghost of an eye roll. »Right. So. We either try for the road and flag someone down—which is a long shot—or we head for the Spencer place. Problem is, most roads are blocked. Zero guarantee anyone’s out there. And who knows if the house even has a working phone.«

Kenneth grunted. »If we try to hike back to Raccoon, we’re looking at an all-night slog. I’d rather gamble on a phone line. But if Chris and Barry were right—if that place really is some kind of nest…«

   »Then we just make it to the walls,« Forest cut in, his voice rough but steady. »Doors, locks. We can barricade. We’ll hold.«

Kenneth gave a slow nod. »And Umbrella?«

Richard snorted. »Fuck Umbrella. One man’s already dead, another’s bleeding out. They can kiss my ass.«

Kenneth didn’t answer right away. The silence held a moment longer.
   But then, »Spencer Mansion it is.«
He looked down at Forest. »You up for that?«

Forest nodded, jaw tight. Pale, sweating, but clear-eyed.

They all knew what was waiting out there—and it was going to be hell.
But they all knew they were out of time anyway.

Chapter Text

The first thing Claire noticed when she woke up was that her back ached terribly. The second was Chris's loud, steady snoring.

They'd both fallen asleep on his couch, which probably had as much to do with sheer exhaustion as with the mind-numbingly boring crime movie Chris had put on after flipping through the local channels.

Claire sat up and stretched, then glanced at the clock. The awful movie was finally crawling toward the credits. She reached over and picked up the remote from Chris's lap, turning the volume down another notch.
Sam, curled up at her feet, lifted his head. She scratched him gently behind the ear, then looked over at her brother.

Over coffee and sandwiches, Chris had told her everything. More than she'd ever read in the papers or heard on the evening news. And now, for the first time, all of it formed a picture that almost made sense.

The first victims had been a young couple. Out camping in the woods. Their bodies had been found three days later by a pair of hikers. Back then, no one suspected anything beyond a tragic accident. Sad, but not unheard of.
Raccoon City was a small town, surrounded for miles by dense, sprawling forest. It took a good twenty minutes to get to the next cities. Isolated, quiet, hemmed in by wilderness—that was Raccoon City in a nutshell.
Everyone who lived here knew there were real dangers out there. Wolves, black bears, cougars. Things you learned to be careful about, in the unlikely event they ever wandered too close.

But then the incidents kept coming. Strange sightings, probably wild dogs. Dead livestock on nearby farms. And then more human victims: first hikers and campers deeper in the woods, then deaths closer and closer to the outskirts of town. Until it all culminated a few weeks ago, when those two little kids had been found dead in their own backyard—partially eaten.

Since then, Chris and the rest of S.T.A.R.S. had hardly had a moment's rest. Both teams were working rotating shifts, practically handing off cases to each other at the door. They were covering crime scene processing, collecting evidence, running patrols, canvassing neighborhoods for witnesses, checking any lead that came in, no matter how thin. And, most recently, leading the search for the missing hiking party.

Chris had shared things with her he definitely wasn't supposed to. Accounts and reports that made no sense. Lab results so bizarre he was convinced the samples were contaminated. Bite marks that looked unmistakably human, like someone had tried to cover them up as animal attacks. The rumors had spread like wildfire. Talk of some cannibal cult hidden out in the forest.

People were panicking. Losing faith in the police. Because no matter how many teams the department sent out, there were no clear answers. Just more bodies, more incidents. Like an avalanche burying the city in fear.

And the more Chris had talked, the clearer it had became what was really eating at him: some of the field reports suggested those wild dogs were claiming territory and spreading closer to town every week. And right in the middle of that territory sat an old mansion—Umbrella property. Which, on its own, wasn't unusual. Almost everything in Raccoon City either belonged to Umbrella or was paid for by their money.
What was strange was how the company had refused to grant S.T.A.R.S. authorization to search the place. Even with all the evidence piling up that most of the attacks had originated somewhere nearby.

And then there was Billy McKinley.

Chris's old friend from high school. The one he'd almost lost touch with during his years in the Air Force. But when Chris had moved back to Raccoon City, they'd started seeing each other more often again. Billy had been hired at Umbrella about a year ago. Research division, Chris thought, but he was never too specific about what exactly he did.

And four weeks ago—just as everything had started spiraling out of control—Billy had vanished. No warning. No goodbye.

Claire stood and stretched again, picked up the remote, and switched off the TV. She looked down at her brother and felt a pang of guilt about waking him, but if he spent the whole night like that, he'd regret it in the morning.

   »Hey, Chris...wake up.«
She touched his shoulder gently.

Chris jerked upright, blinking at her in confusion.
   »What?«

The look on his face was so endearing she couldn't help but smile.
In some ways, he was still exactly the same as he'd been when they were all still a family. She suddenly pictured his messy teenage bedroom and the way he'd end up sprawled half-covered on the bed after an all-nighter, snoring so loud their mom would spend half the morning trying to drag him up.

   »Come on—go sleep in your bed. I'll take the couch,« she said.

But he shook his head, stifling a yawn.
   »No...you go ahead. I'm fine here...« he said, gestured vaguely toward the bedroom.

Claire rolled her eyes and turned away. Whether it was stubborn hospitality or plain old laziness, she knew better than to argue with him about it.

Chris's bedroom was simply furnished. Light-colored furniture over dark hardwood floors, matching linens, heavy curtains drawn over the big French doors. It was surprisingly tasteful for someone who never seemed to keep anything tidy.
Even so, he still managed to make the place look like a mess with just a few well-placed piles. In here, it was the laundry—weeks' worth of clothes stacked neatly on a chair beside the dresser.

Claire grabbed one of the spare sheets and a pillow and went back to the living room.

She paused for a moment, taking in the space. She actually liked Chris's apartment a lot. The building had once been a textile factory, left empty for years until a family bought it and turned it into a big home with room for themselves and a tenant.
Chris's unit spanned two floors: an open living room, two old iron spiral staircases, a lofted gallery, ceilings that stretched all the way up to the peaked roof, and huge floor-to-ceiling windows.
Exactly the kind of place she could never live in herself. Especially those massive windows. In the living room, they rose so high and angled so strangely it was impossible to hang blinds over them.
He'd put up a few curtains under the gallery, but it wasn't nearly enough for her taste. That constant feeling of being watched, especially after dark, would have driven her crazy.

Chris had finally stretched out across the couch. She handed him the pillow and blanket, though he probably wouldn't bother using them. It was still too warm.

As she turned back toward the bedroom, her eyes drifted across the low dresser along the wall. She stopped, letting her gaze wander over the row of picture frames lined up there.
One of them showed Chris and Billy.

When Chris had talked about him earlier, she hadn't been able to picture his face. But now, she remembered.
That lanky, soft-spoken guy with the dark hair. The one who always showed up at their house just when she was trying to get her homework done. She remembered him sitting at the kitchen table with Chris, drinking cheap beer and talking about cars and girls and whatever plans they thought would change their lives.

The way he used to say he'd stay here in Raccoon City and work for Umbrella. Back when that still meant something good.
And she remembered the look on Chris's face when he described driving over to Billy's place after weeks of no contact, finding it empty. No one had seen him, his apartment abandoned, mail piling up. Not a single word left behind.

His colleagues at the PD had been polite but dismissive. There were bigger problems shaking up the city, they’d said. No resources to chase down an adult with no clear signs that anything had actually happened. No forced entry. No blood. No struggle.
As far as the RPD was concerned, it was simple: just another adult who didn’t want to be found. But Chris hadn’t bought that. You could hear it in his voice. He still didn’t. But if he was being honest—everything else that was going on left him no time to truly look for Billy either.

She walked the last few steps into the bedroom. Whatever was happening in this town, it wasn't over. And Chris was already in deeper than he realized.

***

This time, the panel above was lit, and the door slid open without any problems.
Beyond it was another staircase leading to the upper level and a second electronic door. It opened into a cramped galley kitchen. Here, the train's disarray was more obvious than anywhere else; pots, utensils, and food supplies littered every surface. The sink was so full of grimy water that every sway of the train sent small waves sloshing onto the floor. Open cabinets, a thawed-out refrigerator, and a freight elevator leading up.

At the far end of the room stood another door. Billy approached, weapon ready. He paused for a heartbeat, then glanced back at Rebecca. She nodded.

The door slid open with a faint hiss—
And a fresh wave of rot rolled out to meet them. Rebecca grimaced. It was revolting.

It was a storage compartment. Boxes, heavy crates, and suitcases were stacked along the walls. The swaying train made the single overhead bulb swing in wide arcs, the shifting beam barely lighting the room.
Billy scanned the shadows before moving further inside. So far, they hadn't run into anyone, or anything.
But the stench was getting worse. There had to be something here, or at least something had been here. That smell didn't just come out of nowhere.

She crept behind Billy, weapon raised. 
Halfway through the storage car, something moved beside them—

A high-pitched, bone-chilling screech tore through the air, followed by the metallic rattle of a cage shaking violently. Both of them jumped and swung their weapons up.

It was a monkey.
It crouched on its hind legs in a cage far too small for it, gnarled fingers gripping the bars as it let out another shriek and shook the door with grotesque strength.

Rebecca swallowed. The animal showed the same symptoms as the dog that had killed Edward. Its muscles looked swollen, too big for its frame—pale skin split and weeping between tufts of filthy fur, raw tissue bulging out in infected lumps. Its jaw and hands were horribly deformed; claws twisted like hooks, teeth jutting out like something prehistoric.
With every thrash, the stench worsened. Two of those strange gray leeches lay motionless on the floor nearby.

Rebecca forced herself to breath through her mouth and looked around.
On the crates next to the cage, some documents were scattered.

She stepped over and picked up the topmost clipboard, leafing through the pages while the monkey thrashed and howled.
   »Training facility...« 
Maybe it was the same one mentioned in the memo she'd found earlier? She flipped the page, scanning the dense text, her voice dropping to a murmur. »Recombinant viral vectors... forced protein expression... systemic necrosis... phase three trials...«

Billy glanced over, raising one eyebrow.
   »Sounds like you actually understand that,« he said, his tone more serious now.

   »Some of it,« Rebecca admitted, closing the file. »Enough to know this monkey was supposed to be a test subject. But whatever they were trying to do to it—this wasn't the plan.«

The monkey let out another shriek, slamming itself against the bars.

Billy looked back at the cage and the leeches, then let out a dry, humorless laugh. »Yeah. Figures. Our little gray friends again.«

The monkey shrieked once more and hurled itself into the bars, but the cage didn't budge. The heavy bolts were locked tight to the floor.

Suddenly, the train jolted on the tracks, the overhead bulb swinging wildly again. Rebecca braced herself against the nearest crate and waited for the motion to settle.

   »Let's move,« Billy said flatly, nodding at the monkey. »He's not getting out.«

Rebecca nodded. She needed to get out of there before she puked. She went to the door and yanked it open. Rusty hinges shrieked, but the sound was instantly drowned out by the pounding rain and the roar of wheels on steel.

Rebecca stepped out onto the rear platform—the last car of the train. A large control panel labeled EMERGENCY BRAKE was bolted next to the door.

For a moment, she allowed herself a smile. She just had to pull the lever, wait a second, and she could jump. No clue how far she’d come, but if nothing else, she’d just follow the tracks until something better came to mind.
Determined, she grabbed the lever, bracing for the jolt—

Nothing happened.

Rebecca yanked it again, harder this time. Still nothing. The lever stayed limp in her hand.
She stepped back, her jaw clenched tight. 
   »Goddamn it,« she hissed loud, shouting over the raging wind. »Why won't it work?«

Billy studied the panel, then pointed at an unlit indicator light.
   »Not engaged.«

Rebecca let out a groan of frustration. What the hell was the point of an emergency brake if you had to activate it first?

She headed back inside. Even that minute in the rain had soaked her to the bone again. Billy didn't look any better; his jeans clung to his legs.

Rebecca passed the still-screaming monkey without looking, furious, and stepped back into the galley. The train lurched again. She grabbed a service counter to keep her balance.

Billy shut the door behind him, sealing out the monkey's madness, looking at her.
   »Guess that just leaves the upper floor...«

Rebecca glared at him. »Thanks for the reminder.«

   »Hey, I'm just here for the moral support,« he countered, holding up his hands. 

Rebecca rolled her eyes and left the kitchen.

   »Ladies first,« he called after her, clearly amused, then fell in behind her.

She ignored him and started up the stairs, with Billy close behind. The narrow stairwell creaked under their weight.

Halfway up the stairs, Billy spoke again.
   »Tell me something, Shortstack. If you understood what was in that file… does that mean you’ve got some idea what the hell’s going on here?«

Rebecca didn’t even glance back. »I’m a biochemist. What do you think?«

They reached the top landing. Rebecca stepped aside to get her bearings, but Billy moved past her and stopped right in front of the door—reaching for the handle, blocking her path.

   »Biochemist? Seriously?«, he motioned to the red cross on her gear. »And here you are, patchin’ people up?«

She crossed her arms. »Got a problem with that, Lieutenant ?«

   »Just sayin’,« Billy said with a shrug, »but you’re a clearly lab coat, not combat boots.«

What a jackass.

   »And you’re a convicted murderer,« she shot back. »Looks like neither of us is where we’re supposed to be.«

Billy grinned. »Touché.«

They stared at each other for a second—measuring, testing. Then Billy turned the handle and opened the door.

***

Peter Nigel tightened his grip on the Colt as he crept through the corridor.
Sweat soaked his clothes, stinging the open wounds along his arms. His tongue felt swollen, too big for his mouth. His gums bled, leaving a constant metallic taste. His vision swam, like looking through frosted glass.

Worst of all, he couldn’t remember.
Not where he was. Not where he was going.
Just his name. The fields around his home. And a cat... Clide? Cid? He wasn’t sure.
Everything else was gone, swallowed by a feverish fog.

He moved through the dark halls, guided only by touch, like a blind man. That strange growth—whatever it was—kept brushing against his fingers. It hung from the walls like vines, slick and twitching, rustling with every breath of air.
And the smell; a sickly-sweet stench of overripe fruit mixed with thick, rotting swamp.
He gagged.

A door resisted as he pushed. Something was blocking it. Pain flared through his body as he forced it open.
Moonlight spilled in. A figure lay slumped on the floor. It didn’t move, not even when Peter nudged it with his boot.
A lab coat. Deep, circular wounds on the flesh. Dry, bloodless. He knew this man. Or had. But the memory was gone.

Peter staggered back into the hall, leaving the body behind. Then it hit him.

A massive plant, covered in claws.
Vine-like appendages twisted like tentacles.
Suction cups along the arms, like an octopus.
Blotches of bright green, mossy green, bluish green. At the center, a huge pulsing bloom—blood-red and rimmed with thorny, petal-like blades.
It moved. It breathed. It hungered.

His skull felt like it was splitting open. Peter dropped to his knees, vomiting blood and bile onto the floor.
Then he collapsed, clutching his head, curling into himself, whimpering in pain.

He never heard the footsteps in the dark. Slow, dragging, coming closer.

Chapter Text

Thin smoke greeted them, curling up from a small fire on a table; oil from a broken lamp had pooled on the tablecloth, feeding the flames. The fire hadn't reached the wood yet, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
Billy didn't hesitate, stepped forward, grabbed the hanging edge of the cloth, and flipped it over the flames to smother them.

Rebecca took in the rest of the room. It was a large dining car that stretched the entire length of the carriage. A serving counter with a pass-through window stood to their left. Off to the right was an open door leading to a service area, apparently connected to the galley below via the freight elevator.
Windows lined both sides of the car, some shattered. Rain spilled in, curtains flapping in the wind. Tables and red-upholstered chairs were scattered everywhere. The chaos was undeniable: broken glass and porcelain littered the floor; chairs and tables were overturned or knocked aside. Spilled wine formed wet, dark puddles. Some reddish streaks and smears looked like blood, but in the dim light, it was hard to tell.

At the far end, a red EMERGENCY EXIT sign glowed.
Next to it stood a table—untouched. The cloth laid out properly, white porcelain in place, even filled wine glasses standing still; the liquid inside swaying softly. And on the only chair sat a man. Motionless, head bowed to his chest.

Rebecca and Billy exchanged a skeptical look. Then Billy aimed his flashlight at the man.
A gray suit, clean and neat. Hair slicked back. Hands folded in his lap. No blood. No stains. Even from a distance, he didn't look infected.

Rebecca didn't hesitate, stepping forward. But Billy caught her arm. »Bad idea.«

   »He doesn't look like the others,« she said.
More like someone who'd just fallen asleep mid-meal.

Billy paused for a second, then let her go. He nodded toward the man and raised his weapon, flashlight crossing beneath the barrel. He had her covered. Rebecca crept forward. Billy's light stayed on the man, but he didn't respond to the beam, his head still low, chin to chest.
But the closer Rebecca came, the more she saw the slow rise and fall of his chest.

   »He's breathing,« she said, relief in her voice.

She closed the last couple of steps and touched his shoulder.
   »Sir?«
And immediately felt the wetness.

She recoiled, disgusted.

   »You okay?« Billy asked.

She nodded, wiping the slime off on her pants.
   »He's... wet.«

   »Wet?« Billy echoed, stepping closer.

But before she could answer, the man twitched. It started at his legs and rippled upward, a violent, shuddering motion, like something inside him had just activated. A wet, slurping sound followed.
In the next moment, his head jerked up, locking eyes with Rebecca. Pale gray. His face gleamed with mucus. So did his hands. His whole body beneath the suit shimmered with an organic wetness.

   »Get back!« Billy shouted.

The man twitched again, then stood. Not like a person, like a liquid. Too smooth. The slurping noise grew louder. Rebecca stumbled back, nearly falling, but Billy grabbed her and yanked her upright. The man's body began trembling. His suit rippled and bulged, as though something moved beneath the fabric. Skin bubbling. Shapes crawling. The slurping turned into a wet chorus.

Billy didn't hesitate. He fired.

The man collapsed instantly, like a wet sack of bricks. The bullet punched through the air where his head had been. Chunks of gray mass hit the floor and began to writhe. They split, squirmed, slithered... Leeches. Big, gray, fast. Dozens. Hundreds.

Billy yanked Rebecca back.

The leeches moved like water, then climbed over each other—merging, reforming into a shape. A wet pillar. Arms. Legs. A torso.
In seconds, the man was standing again. Still him. Still the suit. Still wrong.

Billy raised his gun. Rebecca mirrored him.

The creature snapped its arm forward. The limb stretched unnaturally, whipping through the air.
They dove apart. The hand slammed into a table behind them, shattering wood, then recoiled like rubber snapping back into place.

Rebecca scrambled up. Billy was already firing. Bullets tore into the creature, but it didn't stop. It stepped forward, body rippling like a disturbed pond.
More gunfire. No effect.
The arm lashed out again, hammering the floorboards. Splinters exploded. Rebecca felt the shockwave. If that thing landed a direct hit, they were done. She backed away, and bumped into a table.

Billy glanced at the galley behind them. »Dead end.«

   »Then back down—« she began.

The arm struck again and she dropped flat. The limb whooshed over her, so close she felt it graze her hair. The arm snapped around toward Billy. He rolled sideways, came up firing.

And the creature burst apart again, chunks thudding to the ground. Leeches... everywhere. They surged forward—straight at Rebecca. She scrambled upright, raising her weapon. Billy was already firing, leeches popping into slimy bursts.
Rebecca dodged just in time as the wave passed her, leaving slick trails of mucus across the floor. She took aim, but then stopped.
The leeches weren't attacking. They were moving, with purpose. Toward the door; toward the stairs.

Were they... fleeing?

Beside her, Billy racked the slide on his gun and aimed again, but paused too, watching.

But then, suddenly, the swarm halted—and began to merge again. One leech onto another, one gray blob onto the next. Legs formed, then hips, then a torso. Arms slid into place, a head rose.
And once again, the man stood, fully reformed.

   »You've got to be kidding me!« Billy shouted.

Rebecca got it too. It wasn't fleeing. It was blocking them.

   »Emergency exit!« Billy barked. »Move! Now!«

Rebecca bolted. Behind her, the arm lashed out again. Wood shattered. Billy fired rapid shots. Rebecca ran without looking back. At the hatch, she yanked the lever. The glass panel slid up, rain and wind slammed her face, but she saw the ladder across the gap—leading to the roof.
She turned, gun up, light scanning. The beam caught the creature and she fired.

Billy turned and ran. The creature followed, relentless, arm raised again.

Rebecca shot it in the head, again and again. The rounds hit home and the flesh reacted. It rippled, then split. Mucus and leeches burst out. They crawled back toward the mass, but it kept coming. Step by step, more leeches peeled off with every bullet.

Billy reached her and Rebecca fired once more, hitting what was left of the head. And the creature spasmed. It convulsed, inflating with grotesque blisters, lost its shape—became a swollen sack of boiling pustules. Billy didn't wait. He shoved Rebecca through the hatch. Her boots clanged against the rungs as she climbed. At the top, she rolled onto the roof, wind and rain tearing at her. She dropped flat, holding on, and looked back.

Billy climbed through the hatch too, stepping onto the ledge, reached for the hatch—

A sickening splatt echoed below.

A wave of slime and shredded leeches exploded from the opening, coating the outside wall and splattering across Billy's legs.
He yanked the hatch shut. It clanged into place.

Billy looked down at his soaked pants. »Did that thing just explode on me?!« he shouted over the storm.

Rebecca nodded—couldn't help the smirk—as he started climbing after her.

***

She was alone.
The corridors lay gutted before her, plaster hanging in long, curling strips from the walls, steel beams jutting out like broken bones. Dust hung heavy in the air, swirling lazily in narrow shafts of light that filtered through cracks in the ceiling. The smell of something burnt was everywhere, sharp and metallic, as if it had soaked into the very walls.
Each step echoed dully, but the echo didn't come back in the right rhythm, as though another pair of footsteps shadowed her own.
But there was no one there.

She kept moving. The floor beneath her boots shifted without warning: first the crunch of glass under concrete, giving way in fine splinters, then something soft, fibrous, yielding. She didn't look down. She knew what lay there.
The silence was so dense it felt like it was pressing in on her from all sides, thick enough that even her own breathing sounded foreign, almost borrowed.

Ahead, the hallway kinked to the left in an unnatural angle, and she followed it into a narrow stretch where the walls seemed to lean inward. Her shadow warped along the jagged surfaces, bending in ways her body did not. She glanced into an open doorway. Inside was nothing but collapsed ceiling and a single chair lying on its side, one leg snapped clean off.
She blinked, and for an instant, the room was whole. The chair was upright, a mug sat steaming on the desk.
Another blink, and the roof had caved in again.

She pressed on. Somewhere behind her, a faint metallic tapping rang out, the kind of sound a cooling pipe might make, except it was too deliberate, too regular. She quickened her pace.

Then the hallway turned sharply and suddenly she was no longer standing among the ruins.
The room before her was bright, intact, sunlight spilling through a wide window that framed a pale, cloudless sky. A desk stood in front of it, papers neatly stacked, a pen laid across them as if frozen mid-thought. A woman in uniform sat there, bent over the files.
She knew the uniform; it was the same as the one she wore.
And she knew the face. 
The woman lifted her head, and the corners of her mouth moved as if to speak, but the words never came.
A blink, and the room was ruined again, the light gone. Smoke clung to the corners, the desk was split down the middle, and the chair lay overturned on the floor.

She stepped back into the hall. The air was colder now, dry enough to sting the back of her throat. Each doorway she passed opened into nothing but wreckage; rooms stripped bare, the walls splintered, the floors littered with fragments of things she couldn't name.

A sound cut through the stillness.
Wet, tearing, the crack of something resisting before finally giving way. But it didn't come from ahead—it came from somewhere behind her.
She turned, saw nothing but debris. Faced forward again, and now the sound was closer. She followed it through a half-collapsed doorway, brushing past a wall smeared with dark, almost black stains. The floor here sloped unevenly, and with each step, dust rose in clouds, catching in the light that seemed to have no source. The smell was stronger here. Thicker, more organic.

Then she saw it.

A woman's body among the wreckage. The same uniform as before.
The same face.
It had fallen to the side, the skin pale in death, eyes cloudy and fixed on something far beyond this place.

Two dogs were hunched over the corpse, their bodies sinewy, ribs stark under matted fur. Their ears twitched at her presence, but they didn't lift their heads. Saliva dripped from their jaws as they tore strips of flesh from the corpse's cheeks. The sound was everywhere now—wet tearing, the brittle snap of bone giving way.

She wanted to step back, but the floor clung to her boots, as if the ground itself refused to let her go.

The dead woman's eyes moved. Only the smallest twitch, but it was there. The faintest blink—

—and everything was silent.

The cool hum of the AC replaced the ringing in her ears. 

Jill lay on her side, motionless for a moment, letting the details around her come into focus. The room was half-dark, her bare arms prickling under the chill from the vent above. The door stood open just enough for the faint light from the dining room across the hall to carve pale shapes into the darkness.
Her gaze drifted through the gasp to the table with her bag hanging over the chair, the edge of the folder jutting out from the top. For a heartbeat, she thought the papers inside shifted, though there was no breeze.

Jill exhaled slowly, focusing on the sound of her own heartbeat until it steadied. Turning her back to the light, she pulled the blanket higher over her shoulders. The red digits of the alarm clock read just past midnight, barely twenty minutes since she'd last looked at it.
She shut her eyes again, though the images still clung to the backs of her eyelids.

It was going to be a long, long night.

***

The worst of the rain had hit them on the clearing when they’d left the chopper. 

Now, beneath the canopy, it was muted. The storm was still there, pressing on them from above, but the leaves and branches broke its force. Water dripped in steady patterns from the boughs, soaking through his shoulders in slow, chilling rivulets. Every few steps, a branch dumped its collected weight in a sudden splash, cold enough to make Richard flinch.
The ground underfoot was no better; slick with wet leaves, patches of mud sucking at their boots. Richard kept his pace deliberate, watching where he put his feet. One bad step here could put all three of them down.

He took point, M9 in a low-ready, sweeping his sector in slow, controlled arcs. The muted drum of rain on the canopy made it easier to pick out other sounds, but not by much. The wind pushed through the higher branches, rattling them like distant movement. Every shadow between the trunks looked deeper than it should.
Behind him, Kenneth carried part of Forest’s weight, one arm clamped across his back. Even without looking, Richard could hear the change in Forest’s gait—shorter steps, heavier landings. His breathing was growing shallower, and his boots dragged enough that Kenneth had to keep adjusting his hold.

A flash of lightning lit the trees in stark, colorless detail. In that momentary glare, Richard glanced back. Forest’s face was ashen, his jaw tight, rain and sweat dripping off his chin. His eyes were open but glassy, as if focusing took effort. Richard didn’t say anything. They all knew how bad it was.

He turned forward again, pausing every dozen steps to listen. Ears straining past the rain, he swept the muzzle slowly across his sector, then checked the flanks. They kept tight formation—close enough to reach each other in a second, but staggered enough to cover more ground visually.

Another crack of thunder rolled directly overhead, loud enough to make the air vibrate in his chest. Richard froze mid-step. In the silence that followed, he thought he heard something else—low, almost a growl. Could’ve been the wind through the roots. Could’ve been something worse. He raised his left fist, halting them. Kenneth stopped instantly, tightening his grip on Forest.
Richard held his breath, scanning the treeline. Rainwater dripped over his face, blurring his vision before he blinked it clear.
Nothing moved. No silhouettes, no glint of eyes in the beam.
He waited five more seconds, then gave the forward signal.

They moved on, pace slow and steady. Richard’s thighs ached from bracing on slick ground. Forest stumbled once, catching his boot on a root hidden under the leaves. Kenneth shifted to keep him upright, murmuring something Richard couldn’t catch over the rain.
Forest’s free hand hung low, his pistol angled toward the ground. Richard made a mental note—if they had to engage suddenly, Forest wouldn’t be ready. That meant more weight on him and Kenneth to keep the line.

They came to a narrow gap between two pines and he slowed, sweeping his light along the dark hollows at their bases. A sudden dump of water from above smacked his shoulder and splattered across the back of his hand. Richard ignored the chill creeping into his gloves and stepped through, angling the beam up into the lower branches, then back to ground level. Dogs came in low and fast—last time had been from the side.

A gust carried the smell of wet earth, faintly metallic underneath. Blood? Hard to tell. He tightened his grip on the pistol, thumb brushing the safety in a quick, familiar motion.

They crossed a patch where the trees thinned and the rain hit harder. Richard didn’t like the exposure—too easy to see them here, too little cover to react.
He picked up the pace for ten meters until the canopy closed in again, then slowed. He could feel the cold settling into his fingers despite the gloves, his trigger finger numb enough to make him flex it now and then.

Lightning flashed again, and in that brief strobe Forest’s head was down, eyes half-closed.

   »About fifteen minutes if we keep this pace,« Richard said to him.

As if to confirm it, Kenneth nudged Forest. »You with us?«

Forest swallowed hard. »Yeah. Just… keep moving.« 

The forest swallowed them again, shadows shifting with every sway of the branches. 

Richard kept the pace deliberately slow now, eyes raking the undergrowth for movement. His focus flicked between the ground ahead and the half-seen shapes behind them in the beam.

And each time he looked back, Forest seemed a little heavier on Kenneth’s shoulder.

Chapter Text

The wind tearing past them felt like a damn hurricane. Even with Billy in the lead giving her a bit of cover in his slipstream, Rebecca struggled to keep her footing. The roof was slick with rain, each step a gamble on the wet metal. Her boot slid out from under her near the edge, and she stumbled, catching herself at the last second.
   »Watch your step, princess,« Billy said as she regained her balance.

Rebecca shifted from a crouch onto her knees, moving forward on all fours.

Together they crawled across the roof of the forward car until they reached the end. Beyond the engineer's compartment, she could make out the dimly lit rails winding through dense forest.
Billy moved ahead, but instead of climbing down, he stopped. He motioned for Rebecca to ease forward and flattened himself against the roof, peering over the edge. She followed suit.

Half the length of the engine car was taken up by a caged section housing a massive, thundering machine. To the left ran a narrow catwalk ending at a steel door. That whole side was open to the weather, protected only by a waist-high railing.
Through the sheets of rain, Rebecca spotted two figures on the catwalk and immediately understood why Billy hadn't climbed down.

At first she thought they were more infected, but then she saw the uniforms. Full tactical gear: Kevlar vests, visored helmets, assault rifles.

One of them lifted a radio to speak. »About five minutes 'til the siding.«
He had to speak loud to be heard over the wind.

Rebecca scanned for any identifying marks on their black uniforms but found only small patches reading U.S.S.
Billy's skepticism had been warranted; there was no telling if these soldiers were going to help or shoot them on sight. What was certain was that they were the ones who had started the train.

One of the men shifted, tightening his grip on the rifle. The other jerked his head toward the shadows below the catwalk, visor tilting as if he'd caught something Rebecca couldn't see. A beat later, both men shouted at once.

  »What the hell?!«
  »SHOT them!«
  »No, get it off me!«

They opened fire wildly. Rebecca didn't wait to see what they were shooting at—Billy slid back on the roof and yanked her with him. She heard rounds ping off the steel siding.

   »No! NO—« one of the men shouted, then the gunfire stopped.

Rebecca exchanged a quick, uneasy glance with Billy. They inched forward again and looked over the edge.
Both men lay sprawled and unmoving on the grate. Leeches slithered away from their bodies, disappearing between the gaps in the flooring.

Billy turned and started down the ladder. 

Rebecca grabbed his wrist. »Are you out of your mind?«

   »We can't stay up here,« he shot back, already climbing down.

She knew he was right, but the knot in her gut didn't go away.
She followed, grateful to have solid footing again but expecting one of those things to come launching at her any second. Her sidearm was in her hand before she even realized she'd drawn it.
She cast a quick glance at the soldier at her feet. The visor of his helmet was cracked, giving her an unobstructed view of a face slick with slime. Blood seeped from his mouth, his eyes wide and glassy. 

   »Did you ever clock how long it takes them to get back up after an attack like that?« she asked.

Billy didn't answer—his attention was locked on the wire mesh wall to their right. She followed his gaze and saw it: a sprawling nest packed with thousands of dark, glistening eggs the size of grapefruits.
They were all over this train. A shiver ran through her, her mind flashing images of the creatures swarming from every corner to tear into them—

A voice crackled over the dead soldiers' radios. Rebecca couldn't make out the words at first, so she crouched and picked one up.

   »Alpha Team, come in. Alpha Team, what the hell's going on? Respond!«

She looked at Billy, but he was already heading for the door. 

   »I wouldn't answer that. Guy sounds pissed,« he said, pulling it open.

Rebecca set the radio back down, the voice still barking for a reply. Billy was right; best not to engage. She followed him, gripping the rail as the train rocked again.

Inside the engineer's compartment, the sudden absence of wind and rain was almost disorienting. She stood dripping for a second, taking in the cramped space and resisting the urge to shake off like a wet dog. 

Billy went straight for the control panel, its indicator lights blinking steadily.

A metal wall panel beside her caught her eye; Umbrella's logo was etched into it alongside a network of lines and markings. It was a track map. Miles of straight rail, one single siding that dead-ended shortly after, and then the mainline ending inside a tunnel with some kind of facility beyond. If the scale was right, they didn't have far.
   »That soldier said something about a siding. Five minutes to get there,« she said.

Billy didn't look up from the controls. »We're moving too fast. Siding or not, at this speed we're gonna come off the rails. Sure, 'mission: stop the train' would be accomplished, but so would 'mission: kill ourselves.'«
He tapped at the speed control keypad—nothing. »Controls are dead,« he muttered, rifling through papers scattered on the console. 

Rebecca stepped in, scanning for anything marked emergency. Then it hit her.
   »If we can't control it from up here, we'll have to stop it manually,« she said, half to herself. »There's got to be a way to trigger the emergency brake from here.«

Billy lifted a stack of folded papers and maps, pulling a black-and-red magnetic keycard from between them.
   »The one at the rear of the train?« 

Rebecca nodded, eyes drifting to the rain-blurred windshield. A striped column of some kind whipped past on the right. Maybe the siding.

   »There,« Billy said suddenly, moving to a bank of controls along the left wall. He keyed in a sequence and pulled a lever. A red lamp flipped to green. »Brake should be engaged. If not, we're history. I'm going.«

   »No, I am,« Rebecca cut in, stepping in front of him.

   »What's the matter, sweetheart? Afraid I'll bail once the speed drops?«

She gave him a thin, sarcastic smile. That was in the back of her mind, but right now she just wanted to get off this train alive, and she didn't know the first thing about these controls.

Before she could say so, Billy kept going. »Would it kill you to be nice to me? I mean—«

   —»you've saved my ass twice already, yeah, I know. You want a medal?« she snapped.
God, he could be such a pain in the ass. She yanked the keycard from his hand. »Do me a favor: shut up and figure out why the controls aren't working. I'd like an option B if the brake doesn't cut it.«

She turned for the door, determined to leave him to it. She was just about to reach for the handle when his voice cut in.
   »Hey!«

Rebecca stopped, bracing for another jab.

   »Watch your back,« he said simply.

The honesty in his voice caught her off guard. She gave a small nod and stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind her.

Wind and rain battered her as she crossed over the bodies. She swiped the card through the reader; the lock released. The hallway beyond was just as she remembered; the conductor's office, the storage closet. But now, something was wrong. She saw it in the blood-soaked gauze beneath the shattered windows.

Edward's body was gone.

Weapon up, she advanced. Blood smeared across the floor led toward the corner, with handprints and a partial boot print trailing behind. She heard the sounds before she even looked—and then she saw him. Edward was crouched beside the dead dog, feeding. The animal's flank was torn open. Edward's hands dug into the cavity, pulling free slick strands and shoving them to his mouth. The wet tearing sound hit her harder now that she could see it, sending a chill straight down her spine.

Rebecca stumbled back a step. Edward lifted his head, fixing her with vacant eyes, blood slicking his mouth. He rose unsteady, bracing against the wall for support. The bite on his shoulder was ragged and deep; as he dragged himself upright, he smeared a red trail along the wall.

Billy had been right—less than an hour, and he'd turned.

Rebecca backed up another step.

   »Stay back...«
It was barely more than a whisper.

Edward kept coming. He moaned—a deep, guttural sound that rattled in his chest. He lifted his arms toward her. Rebecca's hands trembled, tightening on the grip of her pistol as if that would make a difference. Then she raised it.

Blood spilled from Edward's lips as he closed the distance. Rebecca felt tears sting her eyes.

Goddammit...
She couldn't look into those dead eyes.

She fired. Two rounds punched into his chest and shoulder. The third drilled clean through his forehead. He staggered once, then collapsed hard to the deck.

Tears blurred her vision.
Goddammit!

The train lurched into another curve, wheels screaming against the rails. Debris clattered out of the storage closet behind her. Rebecca staggered, wiped her eyes, and vaulted over Edward's body, pushing on toward the rear.

She was out of time.

Three infected waited in the next car. The closest one registered her first, but before it could charge, the train banked hard again, throwing all three across the seats. Rebecca seized the opening, hauling herself forward by the chair backs.

Then it hit—sudden and violent. A deep mechanical jolt shuddered through the floor, pitching her forward against the seats. Metal shrieked under the strain, sparks streaking past the windows as the wheels locked and skidded. The infected groaned as they were thrown about again.
Rebecca caught herself, chest heaving. The brake. 
She felt it through her whole body, the vibration hammering her bones. The train was slowing—but not enough. The tempo bled off unevenly, each shudder rattling the frame.

She forced herself on, gripping the seatbacks to stay upright. One of the infected clawed for her, but she was already past—far from her biggest problem. She had to reach the rear, hit the emergency brake. Only then would it be enough...

Another jolt slammed through. The lights flickered, then died, leaving only the dim red glow of the emergency strips. And then darker still.
She snapped her head to the windows. No rain. Just black stone rushing past.

A tunnel.

The realization hit her. End of the line. She wouldn't make it, and one brake alone wasn't going to save them.

Rebecca braced against the seats, eyes cutting for anything solid, anywhere to take cover. She dropped between two rows just in time as the car pitched again, harder, the wall rolling under her like the floor. Her pulse hammered in her ears. Glass burst inward, showering her in shards. She ducked low, one arm over her head, the other gripping the frame.

The car twisted, metal screaming. Sparks strobed outside the windows. She curled down tighter, thought stripped to one thing only—ride it out, survive the hit.

Ahead, a row of seats tore free, crashing across the aisle. A cable snapped loose and whipped overhead. The lights flared once, blinding white.
And then everything was black again.

***

After what felt like an eternity, the trees began to thin and the mansion emerged through the darkness. The pale facade caught the faint light, its upper windows yawning black. Even half-hidden by the line of trees, the place loomed larger than Richard expected. Twin marble columns flanked a broad staircase, its stone weathered and streaked with age. Ivy clung to the walls in brittle patches, dead leaves rustling against the masonry in the wind.

They reached the base of the steps. The marble was cracked, groaning under their boots as they climbed. At the top, the main doors rose before them: two massive oaken panels, their brass handles shaped into lion heads dulled by time.

Richard tested one of the handles. Locked. He rattled it once, twice. Solid.
   »No free rides,« he muttered, then set his shoulder against the wood.

The first hit shook the frame, the second splintered something deep inside. On the fourth strike the doors groaned open, hinges protesting as the darkness inside yawned wide.

Richard swept in first, weapon raised, flashlight beam slicing through the gloom. Kenneth dragged Forest just inside and lowered him against the wall to the right of the doors—close to cover, clear of the entryway. Forest sagged down, breathing hard but still conscious.

Richard scanned the immediate area, then gave Kenneth a nod. Kenneth shoved the doors back into place—rough fit after Richard’s breach, but the heavy top and bottom bolts slid home with a solid clack.

   »Switch on by the door,« Kenneth said, nodding at a panel a few feet away.
He went and flicked it.

Old lamps buzzed, some sputtering, a few failing altogether. But enough came alive to throw a pale, uneven glow across the entrance hall.

The space was massive. The ceiling soared two stories high beneath a vast dome, its central skylight hidden now in the storm outside. A red-carpeted staircase dominated the center, rising to a landing before splitting left and right to upper balconies. Dark wood paneling wrapped the walls below ornate plaster reliefs, and marble columns supported archways along both sides. Twin chandeliers hung from chains above.

   »Clear to center,« Richard said, flashlight beam sweeping across the marble floor. 

flashlight beam sweeping across the marble floor. He advanced in slow arcs, muzzle tracking each doorway. Kenneth stayed back near Forest but kept his weapon trained, pivoting with Richard’s movements, covering the angles.

Richard paused at the base of the grand staircase. Beyond it, a narrow recess led under the steps. He swept his flashlight across, catching the glint of two iron-barred doors. Carefully, he moved down into the alcove and tested them. Locked. Solid. Nothing but blackness beyond, though the first few steps descending into the dark were still visible.
Set into the metal halfway up the doors were plates, their outlines unmistakably shaped like the Umbrella crest. But the emblems themselves were missing.
   »Basement access, sealed,« he called. »No breach.«

He swept the shadows once more before returning to the others, confirming, »Clear.«

Kenneth holstered his pistol, then crouched beside Forest, checking his leg. The tourniquet still held, but his face was pale in the flickering light.
He forced a grin anyway.
   »Biggest damn foyer I’ve ever seen. We could park our helo in here.«

Richard’s gaze swept the hall.
   »Yeah. Whole damn place is this big. And somewhere in here there’s a phone...«

Forest coughed. »Sounds good. You two find that phone, I’ll hold the fort. But light a few of those candles for me. Makes it feel cozier.«

Kenneth shook his head, torn between relief and concern—if Forest was still cracking jokes, like always, it meant things weren’t completely lost.
   »You’re not staying alone. We move together.«

Richard scanned the stairwell once more, then dropped his voice. »We keep it tight. First pass is the adjoining rooms only. Right side first, then left, stay on this floor. Back when this place was built, phones were usually set near the main halls or studies. That’s where we start.«

For a moment, all three were silent, the storm whispering faintly through cracks in the old glass above.

Kenneth pulled Forest back up to his feet. He groaned under the strain, breath ragged, but once he’d steadied himself, he managed a nod.
   »Yeah… let’s find that damn phone.«

Chapter Text

The stench of burning plastic yanked Rebecca back to consciousness. Her eyes snapped open, and the first thing she registered was the throbbing pain in her skull. It felt like someone had clamped her head in a vise.
The train had come to a dead stop. She was sprawled across a row of seats, right where a window had been. Cold concrete pressed against her side, and above her were the shattered panes on the opposite wall. Not a single window had survived the crash. Flickers of firelight pulsed through the wreckage; the only source of light.
Through the broken glass, Rebecca could see no sky, just thick smoke, stained yellow by firelight, choking the air. That meant they had slammed into a maintenance bay.

She tried pushing herself up. That's when she noticed a suitcase pinning her legs down and the sharp sting of glass shards scattered all over her body.

A helicopter crash and now a train wreck in the same damn day... some luck, she thought bitterly.

Her head was still spinning, but she managed to sit upright. She ran a quick check for injuries, touching the tender spot on her scalp; the blood had already dried.
With shaky legs she forced herself up, brushed herself off, and took stock of her surroundings. The train was completely on its side. The only exit was through the shattered windows high up on the opposite wall. Rebecca climbed onto the seats, using the armrests for leverage. From there she pulled herself across and hauled her body through the frame.

Once on top, she got a full view. The train had plowed into a massive concrete chamber. The locomotive and first cars were tipped sideways; the last two cars were stacked on top of each other like toy blocks, tangled with rubble and debris that sealed off the main gate. The heavy metal doors had been ripped clean off their hinges. Fire raged in the rear cars, cutting off any chance of climbing through to the tunnel beyond.

For once, Rebecca was glad she hadn't made it to the emergency brake. If she'd been anywhere past the kitchen when the train hit, she'd probably be dead.

   »Rebecca?«

The voice carried through the smoke—Billy.
She spotted him a few yards away, clutching his right arm tight against his chest.

The smoke pressed low against the ceiling, and the scratch in her throat told her it was thickening fast. They couldn't stay here long.

   »Come on down!« Billy called, arms raised like he was ready to catch her.

Rebecca blinked, half-surprised. Sure, she was relieved he wasn't a smear under the wreck, but she wasn't about to throw herself into his arms.
The drop was a solid ten feet. She swung herself over, used the metal grooves for footing, and jumped.

She landed beside him.
   »You okay?« 

   »Cracked ribs. I'll live,« Billy grunted.

She gave him a once-over, scanning him from boots to shoulders. He looked battered. 
   »Sorry. Probably wouldn't have hit that hard if I'd made it to the brake.« 

   »Yeah, well. Nobody's perfect,« Billy shot back, bone-dry. 

Rebecca huffed, caught between the urge to bite back at his arrogance and the nagging sense she owed him thanks for getting the brakes engaged at all—and the cold fact of who she was dealing with: a man who clearly enjoyed poking at wounds just to get a rise.
   »You talking about yourself?« she countered, one brow arched, even a little surprised at how quick and resolut the retort came out. 

Billy smirked, then, still holding his arm tight against his chest, started sweeping the room. Rebecca fell in behind him.

The hall was bare except for a few shelves and busted crates. Only one door, twenty yards from the wreck. They were moving toward it when both radios crackled.
Billy ignored his, but Rebecca keyed in. She recognized Enrico's voice instantly, though half the transmission was garbled.

   »S.T.A—Marini—can any—hear me? ...copy, over.«

   »Chambers here, over,« Rebecca replied, headset mic hot.

   »B—R.S. Bravo—ni here, anyone—S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Te—need—over.«

It was obvious the team hadn't regrouped, not fully. Otherwise Enrico wouldn't be calling out blindly. Maybe the others' comms were busted too.

Rebecca repeated, firm and clear. »Chambers here. Reading you, Captain. Your signal's weak. Please confirm. Over.«

Nothing.

She tried again. Her voice echoed faintly from Billy's set until he turned it down.

   »S.T.A—eam. Copter—un—secure. I'm—heading for the mansion—we'll rendev—«

The signal cut dead.

Rebecca stared at the handset. Did he just say the helicopter wasn't secure? »Captain, come in. Over.«

Silence. The frequency was gone.

   »You're lucky you even picked him up in here,« Billy said. »And whatever mansion he's talking about, it's sure as hell not this one.«

Rebecca nodded. They'd covered miles on the train. Enrico couldn't be anywhere close.
The weight of it hit her like a punch, and just in that moment, she felt she wasn't ready for the flood of emotion.
She thumbed off transmit and leaned against the wall, forcing slow breaths.

   »You alright?« Billy asked.

She shrugged first, but then she admitted, »No.«

He looked at her but stayed quiet.

   »I don't get it. I've only ever heard him transmit from the helo. I haven't picked up anyone else from the team, not once. No replies, nothing.«
She pointed at Billy's unit. »Before you turned it down, I was coming through both. These things work. So why?«

   »What's their range? Ten klicks?« Billy asked.

She nodded in response. »But I was never that far from my team while I was searching the train.«
She hesitated. »Could the storm have done it?«

   »Not likely,« Billy said. »You know what mansion he meant?«

   »Spencer Estate, in the middle of the forest. Maybe tied to the string of murders we're investigating. We were out for a group of missing hikers. Running into you was a detour not far from where we set down.«

   »Set down?« Billy raised a brow. 

   »Engine failure. They figured we took a lightning strike.«

   »What's your play now?«

Rebecca lifted her shoulders. She didn't have an answer. Edward had gone looking for her, that much she knew. But she'd never learn what happened after. Enrico was banking on her regrouping with the team and heading to the new rally point, maybe the Spencer Estate, maybe somewhere else.
She eyed the burning wreck. If the fire and rubble weren't blocking the tunnel, she'd probably double back down the tracks, chasing the hope of hitting the starting point of this nightmare. Or maybe climb high ground, look for a road.
   »One exit sealed, not many options left,« she muttered.

Billy moved to the door, weapon raised with one hand, and peered into the dim corridor beyond, barely lit by a few flickering fluorescents.
   »Then, how about a little company? Just until we find another way out.«

She glanced back once more at the wreck. The infected problem would solve itself soon enough, the fire was chewing through the cars fast. Whatever twisted them—virus or parasite—it wouldn't survive the flames. No freak leeches stacking themselves into mock humans this time. What could possibly go wrong?

In the end, she pushed off the wall. »Sounds tempting.«

   »Exactly what I wanted to hear,« Billy shot back, vanishing into the hall.

Rebecca drew her Beretta and followed. 

The underground corridor dead-ended after only a few meters. At its end there was nothing but a steel ladder set into the wall and, above it, a hatch in the ceiling. Having no alternative again gave Rebecca that claustrophobic, lab-rat feeling—like she was being walked down a predetermined path.

Billy climbed up first and threw the heavy metal lid open. Rebecca watched from below as he hauled himself through the hole, then she started her own ascent. Billy secured the area, turned back to her and offered a hand.

Once she was up, Rebecca scarcely trusted her eyes; they were standing in the rear of a vast lobby, mostly hewn from brown stone.
On the far wall was a massive double door, larger than any other exit in the room, clearly the main entrance. Windows flanked it, opening onto darkness.
Beside Rebecca and Billy a staircase led up to a kind of dais from which stairways rose left and right to the next floor. There, a gallery ran the length of the upper level, providing a walkway along all four walls with access to several doors.
Ornately carved columns and rounded arches lined the staircase and supported the gallery below. Elaborate stucco work decorated the walls while a massive painting covered the entire ceiling, somehow integrating the natural brown tone of the stone into its design.

Rebecca and Billy took a few steps into the center of the hall. On either side of the stairway several old chairs upholstered in red fabric were arranged. The two areas were cordoned off by antique stanchions with heavy red ropes, as if they were meant to serve as waiting areas. Controlled fires burned in four brazier bowls, bathing the enormous space in a dim, almost living light.
The whole place looked as grand as the entrance of some billionaire's villa—after just coming through that mildew-smelling basement corridor, the sight struck Rebecca as unreal. At the same time, the furnishings gave her hope. Where there was this much pomp, there had to be a working phone. A call to the police department and this would be over faster than she'd dared hope half an hour earlier.

Billy drew a slow breath beside her. The air was stale, smelling of damp wood, stone and soot. Thick dust lay on every surface, even on the floor. Rebecca looked down and saw a large emblem set into the tiles in front of the first step.

She knelt and brushed the dust away. A symbol of a red-and-white striped, opened umbrella stared back.
   »Umbrella Training Facility. Raccoon City 1969.« 

   »Take a look at that,« Billy said, nodding toward the staircase.

Rebecca stood and looked up at the dais. Hung on the wall between the two staircases to the upper floor was a huge oil portrait. The canvas was milky with grime and eaten at by time. The face looked familiar—only on a second look did Rebecca recognize him.
   »Is that the man from the train?!« she said in disbelief, mounting the steps.

   »Yeah, that exploding leech-guy,« Billy confirmed, following.

They stopped in front of the portrait. Rebecca carefully wiped the dust from a gilded plaque beneath the painting.
   »Doctor James Marcus.«

   »You know him?« Billy asked; he hadn't missed the way she said the name.

   »Only the name. I did some digging on Umbrella before I came to Raccoon. Dr. Marcus is—along with Ozwell Spencer and Alexander Ashford—one of Umbrella's founders. But from what I read, they're all dead. Marcus has been gone for ten years.«

   »A train full of walking corpses and a leech freak who's supposed to be dead,« Billy sneered. »This just keeps getting better.«

Rebecca said nothing. She walked back toward the stairs and peered down. From the dais they were more than a meter above the marble floor of the hall. Only from that raised vantage did the boot prints in the dust become obvious. The trail started at the large double door that seemed to lead outside and then split to both sides. The prints led to two of the side doors and disappeared there. One of the tracks had been partly smudged by Rebecca's and Billy's own footprints.

   »They're—« Rebecca began.

   »Yeah,« Billy said, coming up beside her. »Looks like combat boots. And if I take our shoes off, I'd bet on ten people.«

They started down the steps together when a voice suddenly echoed through the lobby:

»»ATTENTION: This is Doctor Marcus speaking.««

Rebecca and Billy snapped their weapons up and searched for the sound's origin.

»»Please remain silent while we internalize our company motto: Obedience brings discipline. Discipline brings unity. Unity brings power.««

The voice warbled and sounded muffled; Rebecca concluded it was probably an old tape recording. She could see no speakers.

   »Okay, time to get out of here,« said, taking the last two steps in one move. 

Rebecca watched him, surprised. »What?«

Without answering, Billy went to the large double door. With a strong yank he pulled back the massive bolt that held it shut.

Rebecca hurried down the staircase and reached him just as he shoved one of the door leaves inward. A cool, damp breeze swept in. Billy quickly scanned the area beyond with his weapon raised and eyes sharp.

   »What's this supposed to be?« Rebecca asked.

   »Take a wild guess, sweetheart,« he said. »Fresh boot prints, burning braziers, and a tape playing while we're standing here—three damn good reasons to get out of here.«

Of course she'd expected Billy to try to bail the moment he got the chance. The problem was, Rebecca had no way of stopping him.
   »But—« she started, and Billy was already slipping outside. 

Determined, she followed him. The rain had stopped; a thick mist had formed. Somewhere she heard the sound of running water. She glanced left and right. They stood in a large paved courtyard bounded by high walls. By her estimate the courtyard ran the full length of the house but was only a few meters wide. Several lanterns stood about, but only the two nearest the entrance were lit. Directly ahead the courtyard opened onto a wide paved path, and Billy headed straight for it.

While the front section of the path was still walled and clearly part of the courtyard, it opened up further on. Mist rolled in thick waves across the way, which fell away on both sides. Rebecca could barely see five meters ahead; the sound of flowing water grew louder.

Billy was a short distance ahead when she called, »Hey! You can't just take off like that!«

   »And why not?« he replied.

Rebecca stopped, hand on the Beretta in its holster. »Like I said on the train, Coen. Stop right now, or I'll shoot you where it hurts.«

   »And then you'll carry my wounded ass the whole way across the woods to your team. What a neat trick,« Billy shot back without stopping.

He always had to have the last word. Angry, Rebecca chased after him. Still, he had a point. How far would they get if she shot him now and left him bleeding?
Billy knew that and marched on with the smug confidence of someone who knew he was right.

Rebecca was almost at him again when he unexpectedly stopped mid-stride. He extended his arm, signaling for her to halt too.
Rebecca looked puzzled, then realized the path ahead ended abruptly, plunging into nothing.
On both sides were sheer drops and the roar of water below. It looked as if the path led to a bridge—only there was nothing left of it, as the yawning black hole before them proved. Rebecca switched on her flashlight, stepped to the jagged edge and shone it into the wall of fog. It did no good. Whatever lay beyond the gap and to the sides, they could not see, nor could they tell how far down it dropped.

   »Shit!« Billy sounded pretty pissed.

Rebecca picked up a stone and dropped it into the void. She heard it strike the rim several times before hitting water; the noise was almost swallowed by the rush of the river.
She counted under her breath, then took another rock. This time she threw so it wouldn't bounce. She counted again and heard the splash.
   »Fifty meters. At least,« she said.

   »What?« Billy asked, incredulous.

   »Well, one took eight seconds and the other four seconds to hit the bottom, but I'm ignoring the first throw because the rock bounced and the equation only applies to uniformly accelerated motion—«
She stopped when she met Billy's look; he was staring like she'd just told a bad joke.

   »You're kidding me, right?« he said.

   »No. Speed of sound is 340 m/s,« Rebecca began. »If you neglect air resistance and factor in that I threw the rock in an arc, it comes out to roughly fifty meters. Like I said.«

   »Air resistance,« Billy repeated. »You're pulling my leg!«

Rebecca could see how angry he was and that he was trying to cover it with sarcasm. For a split second she almost broke. She was exhausted, and damn tired of taking this sarcastic crap.
But she reminded herself who she was and what she had set out to do, lifted her chin and squared her shoulders.
   »Think what you want,« she said confidently.

Billy looked at her. Rebecca held her ground—there was something in his gaze: she'd got him; for the first time.
   »But as for your escape plan,« she went on, pointing at the hole, »that looks like one-nil in my favor.«
She grinned and didn't even try to hide the mean edge to it. 

Billy said nothing—he didn’t have to. His face said it all. He pivoted on his heel and started back the way they’d come. Rebecca followed.

Halfway back he stopped. She braced for a jibe about being glued to his heel, but instead he said, »Okay, brainiac. You win! More time with me. Now what? Go back inside, find another exit, and pray you stumble on a phone to call the cavalry? And if we run into the homeowner or those ten soldiers—yeah, that’ll go over great. ‘Hi, we’re Rebecca and Billy. Sorry about the burning train in your garage.’«
He wasn't shouting, but the irritated edge in his voice was unmistakable.

She still had him.
   »You done? Then get a hold of yourself and let's be logical about this.«

   »Well, now I’m curious.«
Billy crossed his arms, pure sarcasm in his tone.

   »The tracks start at the main door. That means the soldiers came from outside. No idea how, but that doesn’t matter. I found a memo on the train. Out of context it made no sense, but now it does: it mentioned this training facility. Said it was shut down ten years ago, probably after Marcus died, and was supposed to reopen. Two teams. The military team first, to check the situation, get the generator running, stuff like that. Then the science team a few days later, to bring the place back online. That’s why they had the ape. In the document he was listed as a test subject for the training facility.«

   »So you figure the suit-and-tie crowd on the train were the science team.«

Rebecca nodded. »Exactly. Which means the soldiers were here days ago and already gone. The tracks only go one way, so they didn’t leave the same way they came in.«

Billy thought for a moment. »You wanna follow the tracks, see where they lead. Use their exit.«

   »Yes.«

   »Fine. Sounds like a plan,« Billy said and moved off.