Venom Snake, real name Vince Ahab, and also known as Big Boss, or simply Snake, is legendary mercenary leader in control of the P.M.C, Diamond Dogs after M.S.F's destruction. Venom is the legitimate son between Naked Snake and EVA and as a result. Inherited the title of Big Boss after proving his capabilities on the battlefield. Initially a quiet and determined soldier, The male picked up many of his father mannerisms and skills due to directly training him in a multitude of techniques and combat based tactics. Entering the battlefield when he had only been 14, Venom had found himself time and time again combatting different threats. To such a degree like that of Skull Face despite such, Venom is determined to bring the world to peace with the art of war. A hypocritical statement that he vows to keep in tow.
Codenames and aliases
The codename "Venom Snake" was a reference to the "demon" inside him due to the anger, hatred, and pain he felt as a result of the destruction of Militaires Sans Frontières and the original Mother Base. Although not a codename, Venom Snake was briefly referred to as "V" as part the codeword "V [had] come to" after he had woke up from his coma.
The title of "Big Boss" was awarded to Venom Snake's former commander, Naked Snake, following Operation Snake Eater, being regarded as being "above even The Boss" after his defeat of the former legendary soldier. Due to Venom Snake being Big Boss's son, he shared the title of "Big Boss" with his father from when he woke up from his coma and for the rest of his life. but also due to the fact Venom Snake and Naked Snake were both Big Boss had built the legend of Big Boss together. By 1995, Venom Snake, would just go by the title Big Boss.
Personality and traits
Venom Snake shared many aspects of Big Boss's personality. Unlike Big Boss, however, Venom Snake was far more reserved in his speech and absent of the wit of Big Boss. He rarely made comments regarding his enemies' tactics, and most of his reactions were comprised of through simple body language rather than words. Despite this, Venom Snake was calm and collected. Like Big Boss, Venom Snake preferred to work alone. While stepping up to measure himself in the light of his father, he adopted much of his commander's personality and possessed a similar physical appearance, Following his escape from a Cypriot hospital and recovery from muscle atrophy, Venom Snake gained muscle mass similar to that of Big Boss.
As a result of the wounds sustained in the helicopter crash, Venom Snake had several pieces of shrapnel embedded in his body. The pieces that remained after surgery were located in his forehead in the shape of a horn, while other pieces were inserted near the heart, and also lost his left arm and the use of his right eye, with the latter being covered by an eyepatch matching Big Boss's iconic appearance. He was given a crude prosthetic hook, which was later replaced with a bionic arm.
Like Big Boss, Venom Snake displayed compassion toward his enemies and preferred righteous acts of justice as he chose not to kill Quiet or Huey and instead had the former imprisoned and the latter exiled with food and water. He would even develop a strong bond of mutual respect with Quiet.
Venom Snake is very skilled in using weapons and CQC, which he was skilled in during his tutelage under Naked Snake, even before he became Big Boss. He presumably learnt CQC from his father, Naked himself. Venom Snake's ranks and abilities were so high that they even surpassed Big Boss's ranks and abilities, further proving that Venom Snake was Big Boss's best soldier and worthy of being Big Boss, Venom Snake shared many of Big Boss's habits including his habit of frequently smoking cigars, both real and electronic ones.
CQC: Unique and highly efficient martial arts allowing a soldier a variety of options while not denying them the use of weapons.It generally has the user taking a stance with knife and a handgun thus he/she could grab/throw opponents in melee, threaten/execute people with the sharp blade or shoot down opponents who're otherwise outside the user's range. CQC mostly focuses on grabs, throws and other methods to disarm the target, allowing one to take down enemies without killing them or use them like a human shield. A skilled practitioner can even "chain" throws, allowing to rapidly neutralize an entire groups of soldiers.
Name: Ahab
Alias: Punished "Venom" Snake, Saladin, V, Big Boss, Big Boss' Phantom, Phantom Age: 30
Zodiac: Sagitarius
Weapons: AM MRS-4, Species: Human
Eye Color: Aquamarine Hair Color: Sienna Brown
Origin: United States Allies: YoRHa Unit 2B, YoRHa Unit 9S
Fact:
Relatives
Undisclosed | Mother
Naked Snake | Father
Liquid Snake | Son
Solid Snake | Son
Full Last | N/A
Status: Single
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual Started Dating: 00/00/00
Official: 00/00/00 First Kiss: 00/00/00 | Where at?
Song Dedication: Song Title - Artist Lyrics: Lyric that relates to your relationship
Love Songs: Song Title - Artist | Song Title - Artist | Song Title - Artist
A warped psyche had led to deviations where the shadows cast in her apartment by the lone moonlight and white noise coming from her television made her believe there was no place where she could truly be safe. It had been the beginning of her mental health's decay as Umbrella started her merciless hunt for her and her former teammates. A patrol outside her apartment, men following her every step whenever she dared to walk out of the containment and safety of the four walls where her sanity was somehow still contained. But now, seeing the men storm inside the library with the intent of destruction, early preconceptions shifted and molded. The splinters of the bookshelves landed upon her face without mercy, and though her ears still rung in the aftermath of bullets grazing her, a deep breath was all she needed to focus and react accordingly. Fear had become a vanity she could no longer afford, and one mistake was all their assailants needed in order to lay their claim on them.
"No matter what happens, always keep your focus, kiddo." The deep octaves of a man who had been her mentor resonated louder than the aftershock of the men's bellicose attempts to end their lives. Paternal in every little action he performed, Barry's bravado had left an imprint on her, and in more than one way, he had become a parent to her. A stark contrast to the unlawful man that was her true biological father, now behind bars, paragons of moral rectitude had kept her going through troubling times. Much of the warrior she was now, no doubt, was the forging and training she underwent with the eldest S.T.A.R.S. member and Chris Redfield, and the gleam of her own battle experience, lassoed with the knowledge of two seasoned men, was about to reveal itself. She shifted her weight and willed her legs to move in a heightened sprint, choosing to zigzag across the two queues of bookshelves that bordered the long hallway deeper into the library. Her primary attempt was to make herself visible enough to provoke her pursuer into emptying his current magazine and thusly make an opening for herself to counterattack.
It was always for someone. Whenever she faced one of Umbrella's cronies (she could only assume the men that had stormed into the library belonged to the pharmaceutical company, their brutality and precision foretelling what would happen if they caught any of them), she made sure to neutralize them in honor of one of her fallen S.T.A.R.S. teammates. The anger and rage that had carried her for the last couple of months made every kill easier, and even though she would never admit it to herself, exacting revenge had never felt so sweet. It was a mistake to allow her emotions to be this volatile and wild, but she was beyond caring. She had already burned so much of her former self to reach the point where she was now, and she would not stop until she exacted revenge on those who had taken so much away from her.
The drilling sound of the assault rifle depleting its rounds drummed on, until a pause that led to the undeniable sound of a magazine being reloaded alerted her it was her cue. Every lithe muscle in her body began to sing a deadly harmony, and she unsheathed the knife Eli had tried to steal just moments ago, throwing it forward with excelling precision, aiming at the man's right hand. There was a scream of pain that indicated the blade had met its mark which gave her a momentary advantage. As a reflex, the man lowered his gun and took his eyes away from her as he assessed the damage that had been done to his hand. She took this opportunity to rush forward and towards the man, only to stop inches away from him. She grabbed onto his tactical vest with both of her hands to pull him down and closer to her, her left foot planting itself firmly and inches away from him. The movement gave her enough momentum to throw both of her legs around the man's neck, whose surprise, along with the pain of his hand, made him fall right into her leg hold. The speed and weight of her opponent caused her to fall on her back straight to the floor pulling the man down with her, and despite his attempts to break free, her ankles were quicker as they intertwined behind the man's neck, cutting off his air supply. He struggled for a moment before he was left unconscious, the inert body going lax in her hold. Only when she was completely sure she had neutralized the man, she unfolded her legs and slowly started to get up.
It took her a moment to catch her breath and answered the crackling call of her radio. "Yeah... I'm good. The other guy wasn't so lucky, though." She reported back, taking the assault rifle and strapping it around her back. She scavenged what she considered of use: a grenade, more ammo. But what truly caught her eye was something that peered from one of the pockets of the man's tactical vest. She dropped herself to her haunches to take a better look, and successfully drew what seemed to be several crumbled papers. As she unfolded them, the pictures of young children were revealed. They were dressed in the Academy's uniform, an absent gaze staring back at the camera. She skimmed through the papers without really looking for something, until she found it: the men had a picture of Eli with them.
"What in God's name were they doing in this place?" Hastily, she folded the pictures once again, and in light of her new findings, she urged her teammates through her radio. "Hey, guys, I found something you should see..." She contacted them as she made her way back to them, and as soon as she rounded the last corner that would make her rendezvous with V, Medic, and Eli, she gave them a quick smile as she got ready to share her findings.
"Guess that debt of wings and beer is just getting bigger, hmm?" To ease the current situation's tension, her lackadaisical comment was no different than a lighthouse eager to guide a boat to a safe port amid darkness. The small reprieve that followed allowed her to gather her bearings. Perhaps no more than thirty minutes had transpired between her separation from the others and their current reunion, but it certainly felt much longer than that. The undeniable sense of relief of seeing them still alive and well made her overall outlook in their current situation far more positive than before. Now that they had recovered Eli, they needed to figure a way out of the city as soon as possible.
"I thought they were chasing me, but it turns out they might have been after someone else," She primed herself to tell her story, but it would have to be told some other time as she was harshly interrupted by a loud sound, and even though she should be completely used to it by now, her heart rate spiked as a consequence of this new, unlabeled threat. There was no time for her to object V's request, and after seeing that Umbrella was looking explicitly for Eli, she understood it was fundamental to gain as much distance as possible between the young boy and the culprits of the outbreak. "I'm counting on you, too, V. Don't do anything stupid." With a last, quick smile she bid her farewell, and held onto Eli's wrist, taking him away with her towards the vents.
The sound of whatever new menace they were about to face steadily grew louder, and by the time she finally reached the vents, she listened the monster's wailing sound that beseeched her and her former S.T.A.R.S. buddies. It was like nothing she had heard before, and the notion that Umbrella seemed to manufacture a monstrosity designed explicitly to annihilate her sent chills down her spine. But she refused to show any signs of fear as she ushered Eli into the vents with her following suit. It felt cramped and stuffy, and it felt like the feeble material would not be able to sustain their weight, but she powered on, following whatever sliver of light they could see and would be able to guide into safety.
Finally, the recognizable cracks of a trap door came to sight, and maneuvering accordingly, she crept into that direction. Her young companion opened it for both of them, and once they were out, after taking a moment to allow their eyes to adjust to the change of lighting, she tried to find things that would help them see where they were.
"I think we're somewhere down in the basement... I can see the furnaces over there," Eli pointed out towards the darkness, to some place where she could only see shapes and amorphous shadows. "The door that the cleaning staff uses should be close by," he pipped before he took in a direction Jill was unsure of, and within seconds the young boy was lost to her.
"Eli, wait! Don't run off like that!" Instantly, she was right behind the impetuous child, turning on her shoulder flashlight to help herself guide through the darkness.
Yet, unbeknownst to them both, the man placing the charges, who had parted ways from the assault team that had raided the library, watched the scene unfold from the shadows, his eyes following the young boy first, then settling on the young man who had called after him.
Then, it came. A blinding pain that sent a feeling of shellshock through her body stemming from the back of her head. The last thing she remembered was dropping to her knees before falling face first onto the floor, completely unconscious.
The voices inside her head had spoken of deviations, and sins that had been committed in transgression to the rosary of moral commitments she had abided to for most of her life. The person before her had the same shape of her eyes, nose, and mouth, and if she strove to look a little deeper, she could catch the glimmer of cerulean that once was so full of life stare back at her; the only difference was her hair, no longer a lustrous auburn, but a dull blonde that only acerbated her paleness. The thing about revelations was that they failed to answer to the physical aspects of whatever muscle memory a warrior carried. They were symbiotic to the mind, to the memories, and the chagrin that things were burdened by the curse of the indomitable: no matter how much you wished to change the past, it will always stare back at you.
Enough time had transpired for her to understand the events she had been subjected to. Though still a long way awaited before she could fully allow forgiveness to come (especially learn how to forgive herself), her involuntary deconstruction from a human being to a killing machine had left her feeling raw and angry. Perhaps someone else would not have been able to endure what she had survived twice and thrice, and though most lauded her ability to cope and thrive, the screams she truly wished to utter were always contained within her ribcage, until they became a throbbing and pulsing thing. The irony was not lost on her, and even now as she reached upwards to touch the scar in her bosom, she steeled herself not to cry.
"In our struggle to survive the present, we push the future farther away."
She was no foreigner to this anger, the kind that clouded judgment to the point where tunnel vision decreed retribution to see the world as it was once was. When the world fell apart for her for the first time and swore vengeance against the responsible people who had brought down her beloved city, there had been words of wisdom she never forgot and shaped rivulets inside her mind. A parting gift that was a weapon but carried meaning, a sleek and raven MK3 Navy Combat Knife that belonged to the man who encouraged to subdue the anger when they parted ways. The tired look in his good eye had always held the power of a storm, wild and volatile waters that had seen horrors that superseded whatever she had overcome. And though he stood as a weapon embodied in a man, she knew those words to be spoken like the counsel of a true friend—no, comrade.
Years may breadth among the present and their last encounter, but the words, along with the blade she had been given stood by her, especially now, of all moments. The reflection in the mirror, with its ashen and colorless strands of a previous vivacious auburn stared back at her vacantly for the last time. Holding with her right hand the knife V had given her, she held her hair in a loose grip with her other hand. The blade may have glided smoothly over her hair as she serrated through it, cutting it just above her shoulders, but his words were the energy and drive she needed to pull through.
Today, she would forget about her struggle with the present. Today, she would embrace her future.
The definition of a perfect storm stapled a particularly bad or critical state of affairs, arising from a number of negative and unpredictable factors, and though argumentatively they had separately lived through different horrors, what was about to unravel would test them all in unimaginable ways. A perfect storm was brewing for them, where all the negative elements of an already terrible night would come together in an attempt to hinder their escape.
As the group of darkly-cladded men scavenged deeper into the school, their undertaking led them to abandon the second floor and continue forward towards the main hall, a whirlwind of tossed documents and objects a testament to their professionalism and the speed in which they sought to complete their objectives. So far they had not found any of the gifted children they were supposed to rescue, but their employer's last report led them to believe there were at least two children within the school, and despite the evident urgency of their actions, though heavily underlined by a professionalism only seen in select individuals, a plan schemed to perfection was the answer to the caution and exacerbated search they were performing, with no apparent heeding of the time they took to find their targets. Doors torn at their hinges for the sake of proficiency and speed along with the corpses of the undead they encountered in the wake; a small war wrecked within something akin to hell.
Heavy boots finally echoed among the tiles of the lobby, the school's natural layout connecting the flight of stairs with the main hall and the corridors that led to the library. There was no need for them to exchange words or glances as they swerved and continued with their eyes trained forward, ready to face off whatever creature was in front of them. Fast and effective, they reached the very start of the hall, the first cries of the undead swelling their ears. Augmented by the numbers they amassed, and despite their sluggish speed, the men's instincts kicked in fast. Excelled combatants as they were, they took the necessary precautions to avoid alerting the crowd of undead they had heard incoming. Instead, and in perfect synchronization, each discarded a grenade and removed the safety clip, tossing them both in the direction of the incoming horde before them. Seconds transpired before the explosion made the walls of the reduced corridor reverberate, putrid flesh lathering the surfaces around them as the blast took down most of the zombies that stood in their way. The few that had remained unscathed were shot by a dance the mercenaries already knew like the back of his hand: target acquired, shot fired, threat eliminated.
The men's approach was only a culmination of an already tense family reunion. The concept of having disarmed a child that had taken her knife still seemed surreal to her, but the pent-up adrenaline that had kept her alive up to this moment made her muscles and mind function extraordinarily in tandem. The string of curses that abandoned the child's lips made no dent in her, and once she reincorporated and sheathed her knife back to its place, she extended a hand forward for Eli to get up. She wanted to understand the circumstances that had made a young boy like him resort to this kind of violence, to elucidate the machinations behind his unbridled anger. There were so many ways in which a heart could break and seeing violence at such an early age was one of the aggravations that held an important tier in her scale. Lips parted as she was about to speak up again, but the sound of movement in the vents and the subsequent revelation of her makeshift team members occupied her full attention.
Human beings were a curious thing, and despite knowing these two men for little over than two hours, the relief she felt at seeing them climb down unscathed could not elude her face, nor the soft sigh she emitted as she took a step back to observe the exchange between V and Eli, allowing their body language and curt communication to fill in the spaces for her. Where was this boy's mother? What possible events in his life had led up to this very moment? The questions made her head swim and shed a different light to her companions, but in the end, V's words sliced through the haze of her confusion. They had the same objective. They wanted to get out of here alive. They were all comrades, even if it was just for a one night.
"I'm fine," she turned sideways to face Medic, a taciturn smile echoing her words. "As fine as we all can be. Eli's the only one person I found available." As soon as these words were uttered, her eyes fell instantly on the young boy's, offering him an olive branch. "We have everything we need to finall--"
Her words were cut short with the sound of the explosion outside, and soft as her question would be, the answer came in the sound of someone loudly knocking the library's wooden doors now. No matter how fast they attempted to be, they virtually stood in the middle of the room, and in no time, crimson laser pointers fell flatly upon them.
"You have got to be kidding me," she growled, instantly ducking away from the men's field of vision as she sought to take cover behind one of the nearby shelves, drawing her gun as she did.
The silent duo had no qualms to shoot at them, the echo of their magazines being emptied ricocheting of the quiet of the room they all had taken temporary harbor in. Their aim continued to be trained upon Medic, V, and the shelf she currently had taken cover behind, perhaps giving away the true intent of their raiding. They wanted to take in Eli alive. From her vantage point, she waited until the first rounds were fired and their assailants were getting ready to reload their weapons, but the sounds of the night coming alive took the length of her sense, the embodiment of what would become a genuine and authentic nightmare bellowing its first cry in the night. It may have been afar, but she acknowledge the articulation it vociferated, loud enough to make the soil below them tremble, was all she needed for all blood decant from her face with a kind of fear she had not experienced before:
She waited a couple of second til her Pod was done scanning. Once it was done it reported back "No signs have been detected." 2B was surpised that there wasn't any machines wondering around this place. Or hiding near by. Maybe they were....and she was unable to pick up any readings on them? She'll find out in time, if they are. The voice of Soldius gained her immedate attention. 9S and her mosey in his direction upon his discovery. It was just a steel door. It could lead to something? But what exactly? Those questions bubbled at the top of mind. Acting on the notion to ask him. She halted on the spot. Observing the white haired male whom now held his sword in his grasp. In a crouching position - a crouch that was familiar to her. Readying himself in concentration before unleashing a swift slash upon the door.
Now they've gain entrance to explore what lies beyond. The two units cautiously followed after Solidus. Remaing cautious if any machines some how inhabited this place. But that doesn't seem to the case. Her optics took noitced of the extremely dusty and rust that coated the walls. Nothing took refuge in this place for years it seems. Forever curious the Scanner is; Happily examining everyting within his sight. Anything that could prove to be handy down the road. 2B took it upon herself to act as their ears. For 9S was lost in his own world yet again. She spoke aloud curious of something "So, this said item you mentioned is located around here?" She didn't question her leader's judgement. Just pondering if the item is in this moldy area. Is stil operational for their usage? She had to place in him that it does.
As the trio gandered down the mysterious tunnel. Another group of YoRHa andriod's tagged after them in dead silence. Waiting for the opporitune moment to strike down their fellow 'infected' comrades. All for the sake of their last duty from YoRHa. 8B continued to study the trio ahead of them. Still, waiting for the right time before they were found.
Boots upon the dampened school roof were continuous as the trifecta travelled fast and inconspicuous, the green tincture of their night vision goggles safely secured on their eyes brought froth a sleuth of inanimate objects they had no issues circumventing. Men that would carry out their mission unquestionably and without qualms: a shortlist that offered children's names where Umbrella saw profit and value, along with the missive of destroying whatever evidence they could where the pharmaceutical company's involvement was laid bare in its gruesome experiments; a hunting ground of talented minds whose ambition they could shape and mold without issues.
When they reached the door that lead to the very bowls of the school, they parted into two groups, as two operatives moved in to seek the children, and the other one careened columns and halls with the precision of experience, canvasing the area and identifying the best places where he could place the explosive charges that would effectively place lay tons of cement as a burial ground, the former structure of the academy cemented, along with its plethora of secrets. The two in charge of rescuing the children prowled the upper halls, M-16's trained in their hands, their crimson pointer seemingly leading the way and marking walls and the foreheads of the undead. Where it zeroed in, a bullet was delivered, and a creature fell inanimate on the floor.
Doors were repeatedly knocked down as they continued their pursuit, and reports indicated that the school had long been ravaged by monsters, so their constant and monotonous walk through the serpentine halls was performed routinely. They did not fear the interference of any human hostiles on their wake, simply the malformations of experiment gone awry who were too slow for them. They were steadfast and fearless men with one objective in mind.
Unlike the men who seemed to effortlessly carry out their mission, hues of confusion tinted the normally peaceful azure of Jill's eyes, who had lowered her guard around Eli, unbeknownst to whatever ill sentiments ran between the boy and his father. Earnestly, she had fallen unsuspectingly right into his trap, with her attention shifting instantly to the fallacious object he had pointed out for her to see, just enough to feel his presence drawing closer to her, snatching the knife away from her armory as fast as lighting.
She took notice a moment too late, when the knife was already being held up and menacingly, and though she believed she could quickly overpower him and disarm him, her instincts told her it would not be a good idea to try something out without attempting to reason with him first. She held her hands up, looking at him directly in the eye, eager to discern some humanity or kindness in the boy that she could work with. Thus far, it was evident that her fellow survivors were no ordinary people, but the notion that they all had been working together on the same side had been enough for her to place aside any qualms or reservations she would normally have about pairing up with people she knew nothing about and seemed to be mercenaries, more than any kind of law enforcements. What kind of bad blood ran between a father and a son that shaped the latter into the defensive youth before her?
While she would not make the mistake of treating him in a condescending manner, she still managed to crack a forced smile at his last quip, "If you wanted a weapon you could have just asked me for one. I know you can defend yourself pretty well, but it’s not longer necessary." The words felt rough and incredulous on her lips, and though she knew these were strange circumstances and uncanny people she had been working with, to say those words out loud felt like a betrayal to her own principles. Children shouldn't be carrying any weapons, and their protection was strictly the responsible of adults. When a day came that those that were sworn to protect were proficient in wielding a weapon, they had failed in their duty.
Here was when she needed to assess the situation before it escalated out of proportion. Years of training had helped amass enough of an experience cache that should allow her to overpower the youth. Seeking to continue to distract him, she carried on. "I know you're a very capable young man, Eli, but you really don't have to worry about anything as long as you're with me. I'm part of S.T.A.R.S., an elite force within the Raccoon City Police Department. I'm sure you've heard of us--"
Careful enough not to give him any further warnings, she grabbed one of the books carelessly discarded to her side, instantly throwing it at Eli with the aim of hitting the hand that's holding the knife and disarm him. Even if she missed its mark, she sought that her taunt would be fast and unsuspecting enough for him to be distracted, and for her to sprint and leapt forward to abridge the distance between herself and him. With the speed and weight of her body, along with the timing of the thrown object, she hoped that it would be enough for her to tackle Eli, disarm him, and buy herself just enough time for V and Medic to arrive to their location, so she could make sense of just how deep enmity between father and son really ran.
One day, when all is said and done, you'll look back.
You'll see that you've climbed a mountain.
Seconds passed, but they felt like eons. For a while, she heard neither the rattling of the door nor the tinny voice echoing beyond it, whimpering in panic-fueled desperation at a lock that wouldn't give. For a while, Claire was as still as the grave, her breath slow and even. The only thing existing—beyond the shotgun she held—the lumbering figure ahead: looming menacingly upon the grated walkway, the metal creaking and groaning beneath its enormous weight.
William Birkin walked brokenly, loud tip-tip, tip-tips marking a slow, anticipatory path forward that only whined further with the pipe he dragged along. His roaring had grown silent since his arrival. If it was because some part of him knew, even before anything happened that he had won, Claire could only guess. Nothing stood in his way now.
Sherry was crying. The girl was terrified. Lesser people would have gone running by then, but there was no sign of giving up, not even under better advice. Claire wished she wouldn't; she'd long concluded, come what may, that she was a dead woman. And her grim determination felt strangely good. There may have been a fine line between bravery and stupidity, but self-sacrifice was a sweet prospect when someone much younger might benefit from it—might even live in the process. All notions she held dear kept her knees from buckling, her arms from shaking when the Remington suddenly swung away from the creature's face. She'd be reduced to ribbons, but she'd go down fighting. And the woman had enough of that f***ing eyeball, still gawking furiously at her, it's red-rimmed, cat-like pupil spinning like a compass as the thing it belonged to cut the distance between them again by more than half. He raised an arm past the open door, ready to forge a way into the office. He was much too large to walk right on in—
The shotgun bucked against Claire's shoulder. She pulled back the forearm, ejected the spent shell casing—
"No!" The little girl cried, clawing furiously at the surface that separated her from the older woman.
Then the loudest scream she'd ever heard in her life barreled into the claustrophobic tunnel. The noise threatened to raise dead things that weren't already walking meters above them on those burning city streets. She would hear it repeatedly as the creature that'd once been Umbrella's lead scientist staggered back against the railing. She'd listen to it replayed even more in nightmares for the rest of her life.
The rotating disc on the beast's shoulder exploded.
Jelly goo covered the wall outside of the door and beyond, a mosaic accompanied by patches of deep, scarlet blood. Oddly enough, it was as if she'd shot him in the face, but worse somehow; the logistics boggled Claire's mind, even as she witnessed it firsthand. Whatever happened to this creature, whether he was victimized by all that had made Raccoon City it's playground, was somehow personally responsible for the devastation that'd destroyed the lives of so many, or both, ultimately deformed its vital points into something bizarre. Physiology and anatomy transmuted. Things appeared where they shouldn't. Then she stepped forward and away from the door she put herself against. She glared down into the gaping red wound where the eye had once been. Down into the flesh and blood-covered pit, with chunks blown away from the impact, Claire took aim and fired again.
Sherry was shouting something again, but this time it sounded far away. By the second blast, any exterior noise was overcast. By the third, there was very little left where the top of his shoulder had been. By the fourth, she was shocked the limb hadn't fallen off entirely—complete and utter devastation had rendered it virtually unusable. And still, more wailing bellowed. More angry roaring filled the damp space, making her blind and deaf to anything other than what stretched out ahead. And despite her best efforts, he was very much alive.
When Claire pulled the trigger once more, she came up empty. Sh*t.
She dropped the shotgun, pulled out the Browning. Took aim...and paused, taken suddenly aback. In the breath or so it took to move, something happened, presenting more of a problem as the moments pressed on than shocked stillness ever could.
What the f***...?
Again, the woman put her back against the locked door, Again she watched. Sweat rolled down her face; the man now rose once more from the walkway. And she saw with clarity that he began to heal.
Pieces of new skin grew into scar tissue right before her very eyes, stretching insanely, developing into patches to conceal recent wounds. Missing chunks reemerged, puzzle pieces that slid home from absolute nothingness, bulbous and otherwordly—new muscle. New bone popped and crackled, frothing with yellow fluid, bursting with power. The arm swelled as if inflated, then elongated in sickening bursts that congealed, then exploded with even more dangerous claws than before. And the one she hadn't touched did the same. And then the head shrank, the vertebrae broke, reformed. Reprocessed. Oozed blood in a fountain when a new skull unveiled itself like a show was about to begin. This one was barebone with only pieces of tendons, the eyes cold and red. The teeth were sharper than knife points—
His legs shifted, conforming to equal amounts of distortion that would somehow equate to making him stronger, faster. The torso broadened to twice its original size. And, suddenly, there was that eye again. Then two. Then three. More than shaking, Claire watched each wobble teasingly, scrambling for purpose. Confused. Each and every one of them centered on the much tinier figure she made, pressed against the front of the door. They were furious. And suddenly, her last stand never felt more pathetic, her death more imminent and painful than ever before.
Monstrous fingers braced themselves on the open threshold. Where it's entire body had previously been unable to squeeze past it, they now pulled to forge a path. Metal that might as well have been paper with how it tore away, useless.
The door behind her opened—
Sherry, pale and teary-eyed, stepped aside with a key in the palm of one hand. Claire fell back onto the grated walkway; she hadn't been breathing, and just recently discovered she knew how. She was still staring at the impossible thing now feet away from her, making waste of the office, and looming closer. She didn't question her good fortune; death still felt very imminent.
The shotgun fell with her, forcing her back into reality. She grabbed it, looked blindly ahead. Then threw the Browning into a holster before taking the girl's arm. "W-we need to go," the woman stammered. She got to her feet, nearly slipping. Another rip and tear echoed in her hindsight. "Now."
Sherry dropped the key as she was practically dragged off her feet. Several doors lined the walkway; Claire didn't care about them. As the other side of the office bowed forward under the weight of something larger than life, she didn't give a sh*t about anything other than their lives, and the elevator perched at the far end. Below—they needed to go below. And when the grate parted, she pushed the girl inside, then behind her as she later stepped in, slamming furiously on the arrow pointing down.
When they began to move, Claire wouldn't be aware that there were voices back the way they fled until long after both she and girl were on the bottom floor, running across a long corridor smelling heavily of sh*t. By that time, Lupo's shout and the spray of automatic gunfire would long be drowned out by Sherry's whimpering, then running water that still wouldn't stop either of them as they plunged inside.
The library was an offered respite, and though she could still listen to the incessant drum of her heartbeat palpitate in her ears, her paced breathing was taking care of the adrenaline spike. Despite the madness they had just evaded, this newfound place offered them sanctuary, and a much-needed break to organize their next move. She had been separated from V and Medic for what seemed an eternity now, and though it was already a proven theory, she was reminded that these type of survival scenarios were overcome by strength in numbers. With the child securely back in their custody, escaping together seemed the next, logical step. As soon as her comms went live with the voices of the other males, her unease was banished for good.
"Copy that, Medic and V. We're going to sit tight and wait here for you guys. Don't try the main entrance, though. The hall has been overrun by zombies. I'm going to look for another way out."
Before she set out in the pursuit of what she had just promised to her companions, her full attention returned to Eli. Up until just a few hours ago she had been completely oblivious to his existence. All she knew about him were brief stories from a man she had just met, but there was something intangible about that youth that made her curious. Her eyes finally took him in with a clinical eye, noting the vermillion splattered all over his uniform and face, a vagrant stare that did not quite register on anything, until she finally settled on the necklace. She ignored its origins, so she assumed it was nothing more than a memento of sorts. Her brief time spent with V had already proven to her these were no ordinary people. But the most important result of her assessment was that he did not seem injured... and most importantly, bitten.
With a soft nod and an almost imperceivably hum of affirmation, she chose to answer his question about who had come for him. "Yeah. I ran into him when I was trying to escape the city, while also looking for survivors. We're all gonna get out of here as soon as we rendezvous with them," her voice sounded cordial, and her customary soft and warm smile reached all the way up to her blue eyes. Barry had once told her they could tell just how honest she was by looking at her eyes. It was also the reason why she lost so often at poker. "Are you hurt?"
Telling herself they were safe here for now, she took to exploring the library. It had been built in the shape of a circumference. With a high ceiling and the door to her back, she could appreciate two complete floors with books towering over them, being cradled among wooden shelves that no doubt were of antique origin. There was that distinctive smell of mold and humidity hanging heavy in the air, but it was a welcomed change, as opposed to the stench of decay and rotten flesh she had been smelling for the past few hours. Right before her, small desks peppered the main floor, each with an individual light long turned off. She had never cared much to investigate the school's funding, believing that anything for the sake of science, knowledge and development was an extraordinary achievement. How wrong she had been.
"You should take a seat," she turned her head over her shoulder, nodding to Eli then to the desks in the middle of the room. "It's probably going to be a while before they come here, and we have a long way ahead of us. You should rest up as much as you can. Here," her hands traveled to one of the small pockets of her cargo pants, extracting one of the granola bars they had taken from the truck they had taken away from the people that tried to assault them. She handed it over to Eli. "Just in case you're hungry."
Her first order of business, like she had done in the kitchen, was to barricade the doors that originally led to the hall. For this, she pulled one of the nearby metal shelves and let it ungraciously fall onto the floor, the thud ringing loudly within the library. She then stacked as many chairs as she could. It might not have been her best work, but at least it would keep them safe until V and Medic reached their location. "Right. That ought to do it."
Next, her eyes carefully canvased the area around her, taking small steps forward and in the direction where her curiosity took her. She crossed the expanse of the study desks with the gun in her hands, and tried a couple of doors that led her to dead ends: closets, rooms where they were keeping books and related paraphernalia, until enough minutes lapsed and she managed to explore the entirety of the lower floor. The process was repeated through the second tier, without any luck. Until her eyes settled on the air vents. Momentarily, she holstered her gun and dragged one of the stairs usually employed to reach book from the higher tiers of the shelves. She climbed the steps and removed the lid, taking a quick look around to explore the surroundings. Once she was satisfied, she fastened the lid once again and climbed down the steps. Unless her travelling companions had enough explosives to break through one of the walls, they would have to squeeze in through the vents. Before she radioed her companion, she returned to the main reception desk where she had left Eli.
"V, it's me again. I couldn't find any entrances, but the air ducts seem free if you want to give them a try."
Meanwhile, a helicopter's blades slowly came to a stop as it touched down on the school's roof. Dark as the very night it used to cloak itself with, there was only one distinctive sign on the side of the aircraft: a white and red umbrella symbol. Three men completely attired in black and armed to their teeth touched down on the floor without waiting for the engine to fully stop. Among the manual signs they exchanged to signalize they were about to go into the Raccoon City Private Academy, their comms frizzled alive with the necessary instructions to fulfill their objective.
One day, when it is all said and done, you'll look back.
You'll see that you've climbed a mountain.
Darkness emerged to envelop everything: cold, wispy tendrils that dragged her down, down, down into the black underbelly of the abyss. Panic came in waves, made reality float in uncertainty for a time. A blink of sudden awareness, though, and it all went crashing ahead, and Claire suddenly smacked onto a steel platform, her impromptu entrance into the underground marked by a gasp and a wince.
Calves burned. Feet ached.
For a second, her body remained mostly unbalanced, crouched. Quiet. But her eyes were fierce, even as the rest remained in shock, unable to recuperate in that short timeframe.
Past the hollow, emotionless space she had adopted to cope with all the death, the sheer horror of what that had twisted Raccoon City beyond repair, and hell, most of all the orphanage, the drum of her heartbeat swelled to a deafening crescendo. The atmosphere felt thick. Smothering, and not just because it smelled like sh*t. Though that certainly didn't help matters. The entire world had veered further onto its head—the girl on the table. Brian Irons, there and vanished in an instant. He'd been torn in half right before her eyes, in a way that unveiled itself too vividly in the memory that came to Claire in flashes, much like droplets of red that stained a room where he once felt comfortable enough to smile—to threaten. To make his demands, whether they be one way or another. The hole in the wall had appeared abruptly. The monster that had crawled through, its figure hulking and covered with scar tissue, was an even bigger surprise. It had barely been recognizable as human. As anything, really. And all traces of mercy were gone.
Then she jerked. Gazed upward. She wondered at the fanfare that may or may not follow and end her life in a different manner than she imagined all of five minutes ago...and recoiled in shock at what occurred in its place.
Something roared again.
The same pained noise called louder this time, but was shortly accompanied by other sounds—the complete destruction of everything surrounding it.
The wooden desk in Irons's playroom broke on a splintering crack. Metal objects were clattering to the floor. Tools the former chief of police had utilized to further his psychotic whims were neatly arranged one second, then displaced in one fell swoop. Claire could hear the harrowing tinkle they made, deadly little chimes that echoed into the tunnel's mouth, where she still waited with bated breath. Still attempted to encourage herself to ease back. Then won, finally, with tenuous footsteps.
There was a pause, a great, rhythmic thump. Then all of it repeated, backed by much more intensity this go-around, and another pained wail—until the eye that she saw earlier reappeared. Twitched madly at the base of a bloated arm, the oblong gash of a pupil red-rimmed and hungering as it fought with all its might to see.
Something splattered nearby. Warm gore splashed again onto Claire's face, nearly causing her to tumble backward in disgust. She shrieked without knowing, glanced down. Saw the slack-jawed face of a bisected man she once knew, however briefly. Glassy eyes bulging, staring lifelessly up at her face. It was Irons—
—Jesus Christ he THREW him at me—
—and she was running. No longer waiting, thinking. No longer filled by some morbid curiosity that had robbed her of sense, her legs whipped at ankle-breaking speeds as she bolted down the thin corridor. The redhead tucked the stock of the Remington to her front along the way, cringed at noises that now bounced off walls in her hindsight—the sound of talons digging violently into the stone opening she once stood beneath. Chunks of rock accompanied the scratching, the ripping, gouging strokes that made the entire construct break apart. Gradually, it began to cave in on itself to forcefully admit that great, misshapen lump of a monstrosity. And she couldn't worry about it—not a thing. Not now. She wouldn't be stuck fighting there, not with what she had.
A set of metal stairs blinked into view. Another arrived, shortly later on, wobbling back and forth between the thin ray of her flashlight, and reverberating with the pounding footfalls that soon came. Then another. And another. Down, down, down once more. How? How this place existed without people knowing? And why—especially as it sat right beneath a place meant for children? The woman took steps two at a time, gaining more distance. Not much longer now before it buckles.
Staggering, nearly falling to her hands and knees at the base, she skidded forward, instead, onto yet another path with a door at the end. If it was locked, Claire was f***ed. The drop over the railing was too narrow. Too far, even past that, barely glittering with water near the end. Hell, even if the room wasn't locked, she might be f***ed anyway.
Grabbing the knob the second it came into view, she twisted. A shoulder bashed into the flimsy blockade, and it was locked. F***. Her body threw its entire weight against the frame once more. Then again. Again. AGAIN...
"SHERRRRRRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!" A barbaric voice, bubbling wetly. The metal above creaked and groaned with sudden added weight. And Claire would have paused in astonishment at that if self-preservation hadn't taken hold. Would have looked behind her, if only to question—what the hell did he just say?!—
The door flew open.
An office surged into view, some sort of control room for something irrelevant beyond. There were levers. Buttons on a panel with screens. A small metal desk in one corner, with a couple of bins scattered around for paperwork. A window, high above. Another door at the end that registered very, very frantically—and a partridge in a pear tree. Move, you f***ing idiot—
Then, the face of a twelve-year-old girl appeared. Body huddled tight, her eyes were tear-filled and frightened beneath messy blond hair. Her small lips were trembling in a way that had taken Claire aback. So the chief had hidden the child away there. The daughter of William and Annette Birkin looked a bit relieved at the appearance of her friend. But she too had heard the voice. Even more than the figure standing in the room with her, she also knew what it meant. As a result, the reunion was robbed of any emotion beyond the fear, the deep need to press onward that became increasingly paramount. Both had maybe three minutes before all things between them ended with even more horror than either had witnessed thus far, and Claire had no desire to watch it all crumble.
"C-Claire...?!" Sherry squeaked, gazing at what the redhead knew lurked in the distance. "The door is locked—"
Of course, it is—
She looked up at the window, swallowing dryly. Then put the gun aside, dragging the girl to the wall with haste. Hands clasped together, and just as fast, she began hoisting her up the face of it. "See if you can't open it from the other side!" Claire all but shouted and watched small arms and legs begin wiggling through the tight opening. Curiously, it filled her with some strange relief. Even if the girl entirely up and abandoned her, or the woman died regardless of what happened next, perhaps Sherry would stumble across Vic. If the man was still alive, anyway. He'd protect her, see her out. Guide her to some form of safety.
Someone had to.
Tiny hopes to hold near and dear while facing her seemingly-inevitable demise. Claire reached over again, grabbed the Remington, pulled the stock to her shoulder. And then turned around, faced the looming, bulging beast gradually stomping into range. She didn't know how it knew the girl; she didn't care. She just smiled, feeling vicious herself beyond the panic, her feet planted firmly against the ground.
Some cardinal, unscripted rule in the survival handbook spoke about parting ways and its inconveniences, but they had gone against her better instincts and chosen to split up for the sake of escaping the school and the city as fast as they could. Now, evident disadvantages were rearing their ugly head, and though the trepidation that was starting to crawl in her senses threatened to overwhelm her, she knew better. Worse odds had been dealt in her favor, and the darkened, tenebrous halls of this school would prove no match for her or her seasoned companions. With her gun and flashlight still trained on the path ahead, she gathered her bearings and analyzed what the best subsequent course of action would be.
With Medic's whereabouts unknown to her, it was paramount to rendezvous with V as fast as she could so they could all meet up and continue the pursuit of the missing child. Her bearings were slowly gathered, and the familiarity of what any normal school layout would harbor slowly came to her. The cafeteria and main hall to her back and the gymnasium straight ahead, she was about to radio the one-eyed man army and inform him of her location, but a scream in the dead of night came to her--
There was no mistaking it, as the nature of that cry had become a permanent tenant in her mind ever since she escaped Arklay, replaying itself time and time again. Sometimes in real life, most time in the midst of her worst nightmares, as she pitied herself in delusional scenarios where she was forced to gun down one of her friends, one of the people she owed her life to. Her eyes squinted amid darkness, but she still managed to reach for her radio, V's words having just drifted off.
"I'm outside in the hall and close to the gym, but I just heard some possible survivors. It could be the same one I spotted earlier. The sounds seem to have come from the east side of the school. I'll meet you there."
But she and her entourage had not been the only ones who had heard the cries of another human. A small group of undead that up until the boy's scream had been scratching at a door in hopes of finding a hapless victim to sink their teeth into, instantly turned their viscose and putrid heads around, lulled by the new sound that erupted the peace of the school. The sound of nails against the wooden door they had been scrapping against ceased to be, replaced by the monotonous sound of feet languidly shuffling upon the floor and heading off into the new direction.
The Raccoon City Private Academy was a magnificent structure that, with the aid of multiple anonymous donors, had consolidated itslef as an exemplary educational center. Its intricate halls and multiple rooms harbored different wings, all to ensure their students offered their topmost potential. Unbeknownst to its trio of uninvited guests as they continued to stalk the school, the scream had originated from one of the laboratories, the child in distress hunkered down with a friend to stay alive as long as they could until help arrived. With the waning pass of hours, however, the inevitable realization that perhaps no help was coming commenced to sink in.
"No, wait, wait, wait!" The infected child's final screams made the boy with blue eye's ears reverberate, the thought of having to end a fellow classmate's life with his own hands a very cruel turn of events. The levy of taking a life, regardless of it already being doomed, was a selfish burden, more so for someone so young. But it had been necessary, survival instincts kicking in with every impact of the bat upon a former known friend. No one could ever hold him accountable for doing whatever it took to survive, but perhaps the horror of this night would haunt him for years to come.
As soon as the boy with the bite stopped moving, the blonde student dropped his bat on the floor with a loud noise and wiped his hands off on his uniform, the vivid vermillion staining its fabrics. He wanted to make sure his classmate had really been exterminated, and when the body remained motionless on the floor, he wanted to get out, put as much distance as he could between himself and the corpse. With his eyes out of orbit and peaking adrenaline, shaking hands picked up the bat once again, taking a couple of cautious steps towards the door. Once he reached it, he peeked outside the laboratory towards the hall, unbeknownst to the S.T.A.R.S. operative being right behind him, turning the around the corner.
It had been a glimmer, so minimal that if she had been distracted, she would have dismissed it as one of the night's infinite devices. But the gentle acoustics of the boy's soles against the tiled floor couldn't be mistaken, its rapid tempo bouncing off the walls as he ran. She set off in the pursuit of the young student, identifying herself so the boy would know he was in the best of hands, and she was here to help. "My name is Jill Valentine and I am with the R.P.D.! I am looking for survivors--"
The frenzy she had been running with had momentarily forced her to forego the usual precautions she would take when looking for survivors. Mind your surroundings, be always alert and mindful of everything around you. The elusive student had missed it, too, for the panic he had felt moments ago was nothing compared to what he felt now. At the end of the corridor they both had just turned, the mass of undead that had heard the boy’s scream made its sluggish, yet certain trek in their direction. The boy turned to see her, those deep blue eyes harboring the imprint of horror beseeching her for help, as he stood frozen on his position. She was the one who acted first, reaching over for the last Molotov she had crafted, and tossed it at the mass of undead. The smell of scorched flesh instantly hit her nostrils, and before she could assess the damage she had done, she placed her arm around the boy, and directed them both towards the closest door, hunkering there for now.
"V, it's me. I have located one of the survivors," her eyes darted around this new room, trying to identify anything that would help her realize where they were. The area where they were had a spacious desk shaped in a half moon, pressed against the wall to her left. Beyond that, amid darkness, she could see books piled up from the floor to the roof. "But we had to hide inside the library since we had a crowd of undead coming our way. I'm going to check out a possible escape route. Over." Taking a couple of depth breathes, her eyes kept examining her new surroundings in hopes that she would find something-- anything, that would aid her, and her new fellow survivor safely leave the room.
But first she needed to make sure he was okay.
This was the first time she came across someone so young in her desperate escape, feeling an unimaginable anger at the cruel circumstances he had been pitied against. She crouched just before him, her hands safely on his shoulders. "My name is Jill and we're gonna get out of her. I promise you. What's your name, kid? Do you know if there are more survivors in this school?"
One day, when it is all said and done, you'll look back.
You'll see that you've climbed a mountain.
Raccoon Orphanage didn't seem like a haven for small, parentless children. In fact, the old building on Willow Street felt like a monument to something more. Something terrifying.
Darkness had invaded the space, unavoidable with recent power outages casting much of the city into shadow. Yet, the creep-factor had increased a thousandfold long before her eyes could absorb the wood-paneled walls, or the ancient polished staircase winding treacherously up to the second floor. There was a massive fence on the perimeter outside guarding a pathetic playground—some sad affair that only consisted of a few slides rather than anything a child might consider "fun." The top of the enormous stone construction had been lined by folds of barbed wire, and inside the area that these things concealed, chains glittered upon several locked doors that the woman eyed within seconds of coming in. Odd. But none of that bothered her as much as what she didn't see. The atmosphere reeked of something. It took her a moment to realize what that was; not counting recent experiences, Claire never had much time to think outside of the box. But she came to her conclusion quicker than most in her position. Part of the smell was rotting flesh. The other part was fear.
Terror might have been somewhat cleverly concealed in the recent past; pastel paints, smiling stuffed animals, and rainbow motifs granted a cheery tone. Yet all of these things, happy as they might be to a child eager to go from there to a loving family, didn't have the same effect on an adult. Instead, it was like pouring glitter onto a sh*t pile or slapping a bandaid over a festering wound. The emotion wasn't new, either; the sense of being afraid was old, existing long before Raccoon went to hell. This made another word came to Claire's mind, one she just couldn't shake as her eyes drifted this way and that in what few seconds of indecision were afforded to her. The building was not an orphanage; that would have been too simple an explanation.
It was a goddamn prison.
Uncertainty curdling and sour in the pit her stomach, Claire clenched the small gold medallion in her jacket pocket until all five of her knuckles went pale beneath the strain. "Sherry?!" she shouted. "Are you here?!"
Silence echoed back, hovering, wrapped around the presence of a thousand unheard screams that came to her swiftly. Like ghosts, the wispy presence of memories long forgotten felt like ice on the back of her throat, raising the hairs on end—
Keep moving.
Boots clicked upon the hardwood floor. Rainwater trickled down the rubber soles and marked her pace with every step. She found the door, the only one that hadn't been chained shut, next to an overturned workspace littered with crayon drawings. The smiling face of a stick-figure boy waving her in that same direction unsettled her further, the name "Tom" in the corner in first-grader script.
The hinges creaked. The Remington's barrel pointed ahead, it's stock weighing against her shoulder. The shifting beams of her clip-on flashlight flickered to unveil a long, L-shaped corridor ahead, the ground covered by plush carpeting that gave the locale a haunted mansion quality. Fitting. Near the end, however, she thought she heard something—a noise that intensified the overall experience along with the overwhelming dread. A woman was singing in low, somber tones—an aria of sorrow. Opera. What in the hell...?
Behind a window at the bottom of the hall was a drawn, blood-stained curtain that confused her further. Though Claire said nothing as she traversed the otherwise abandoned space, keeping her breathing calm. The urge to tremble, to scream, or both of those things combined, was nearly too powerful to contain. The room was next on her itinerary.
A second door gave sight to a further enclosed space, that same medical-grade cloth concealing much of what Claire could see on her left. Shelving on her right, their lacquered surfaces covered by tools, the purposes of which didn't exactly make sense. So many sharp objects and pincers were out of place in a building meant for young children, which changed her initial suspicion rather quickly from what she assumed was really a prison, and forced any concern she harbored for Sherry Birkin into maximum overdrive.
Claire rounded the corner, heart pounding, ready for anything and everything now that her misgivings had skyrocketed to cosmic proportions. She expected to see Irons on the other side, plump, with aged features twisted with an undeserved sense of self-satisfaction—
What the woman saw instead made the world around her spin, then dig in its heels, coming to a standstill that time itself forgot.
She no longer heard the singing; that was unimportant now, although the sound of it was deafening with the record player echoing from one corner. More ominous tools lined the walls, glittering at her from where they'd been mounted—some stained with scarlet. Some not. Those, too, were of little significance. Instead, it was what Claire eyed on the worktable that seemed to suck her in. Like a moth to the fire, she was transfixed. There was a woman there, pale and beautiful, even in death. A spill of blond, curly hair cascaded past her shoulders to her waist—not a stitch of clothes on her body. Skin glowed under the bright overhead light—what parts that hadn't been filleted, drawn back like the flesh of a prize-winning buck.
Claire's mind was subdued in those breathless few seconds. Four-letter words and exclamation points soon followed. She could have puked right then and there. How she kept from doing so even before that compulsion grabbed hold, God only knew.
A sound behind the thick white curtain stopped her from walking ahead, and the shotgun snapped back to attention. Claire felt strangely cold, then angry when the barrel of a nine-millimeter suddenly met her call to arms, the smiling face behind it too soft to belong to a madman. But who in the past would have ever assumed that Brian Irons was anything less than saintly?
"I've been waiting for quite a while, little girl," he said, pulling the stylus from the record with the hand that didn't have the gun aimed at her head. The music stopped, and there was quiet. "You'd think that someone concerned with the life of a small child would have—you know—hurried the f*** up."
Claire had no words—not for a while. She was stone. Hell, the young woman wasn't even shaking anymore, strangely enough. It was as if something primal had possessed her, aging her well beyond nineteen years into the mindset of a calculating survivalist. Or a murderer.
Then, quietly, deadly, and oh-so evenly, the words finally came."How long...?"
Her finger weighed hard on the trigger, still slick with droplets of rainwater she hoped to God wouldn't impede her now in some fashion. "How long did it take you, Chief?" Again, because that was never enough—it would never be enough. "How long did it take you to sell out thousands? To go from upstanding police boy to sucking chump change from corporate bankroll like the dirty whore little you are?" Claire's head shifted, signaling the dead woman nearby, who hadn't suffered a nibble from the undead wandering the streets, much less a bite. "How long did it take you to go from turning a blind eye to murdering your own cops before they could find out the truth? To peeling that poor girl like a goddamn onion? And God only knows what happened to the children here—"
"Shut up," Irons spat. All congeniality was gone, replaced by diabolical certainty. "You're the same—you're all the same! I see the disgust on your face. I saw it in the eyes of my men, too. In her eyes." He tightened his hold on the grip of the pistol. "You take the moral high ground for so long, you forget what's underneath. The world is a desert, girl, and the devil's water is sweet. You can pretend it's wrong all you want, and that you don't dip your feet in every once in a while when you think it's convenient, but face facts. We all get our piece of what we think we deserve. We're all sullied in some way. Don't stand there and tell me for one second that you wouldn't have filled your pockets just as quickly; that you wouldn't have turned the other cheek." He stepped forward, hugging the wall. "Get your jollies in while you can. Life is short and getting shorter by the second."
"One more step." Her arms hadn't moved. Not an inch. "One more. I swear to Christ, any undead wandering into this place will have to lick you from the wall to eat what's left—
"Where is she, you F U C K I N G sociopath?!"
"Safe, as promised on the phone," the older man said, smiling again at the sudden emotion in Claire's voice. Finally, the entire affair was winding down to brass tacks. "You have the locket, I'm assuming. Let me see it, then move slowly towards me—nice and steady. We'll maneuver to opposite sides of the room." His shoulder jerked. "Behind the curtain near the window is a trapdoor. Slide the medallion on the ground towards my feet when you get there. Fair exchange. Then you and that brat can die together."
Violence was difficult to restrain, a bomb counting down, ready to erupt from Claire's insides with the strength of nuke. She wanted to tell the chief of police exactly where he could shove his demands. She wanted to do a lot of things, like rip his eyeballs from his sockets. To hell with the shotgun. In the end, she couldn't leave Sherry without someone to depend on. If she died right there, what little remained of girl's life would be torturous. So, as her body eased ahead past the dead woman, he got to live. As much as wished him the worst death humanly imaginable, he got his way, though the exchange was hardly what anyone in their right minds would consider fair.
Footsteps sounded at the perimeter of the table. The young woman was a breath from rounding the corner; those bright blue eyes fastened on the man's plump form, still hugging the wall alongside all those tools.
She made it about halfway, inching for that locket—
There was a loud crack nearby—the sound of wood splitting. For a second, Irons looked confused, an expression very much out of place, given that notes of sanctimony had existed seconds earlier. What...?
The wood-paneled wall behind him burst. Past the reinforced stone that lay beyond it, a hole simply exploded into existence, monstrously large and ragged and crumbling with the force of the crash. The world shook. Rubble sprayed. Taxidermy instruments went flying, clattering loudly onto the floor, stabbing past the cloth beside her, and forcing Claire to forget everything that'd happened in the effort to avoid being skewered.
There was a cry after. The sound had perhaps been human once, but infection took root. Long hours of mutation robbed the creature of the frailest semblance of what had once been whole, or hell, even the shell of a man—
A long arm shot out. Moist, raw, bleeding, covered in layers upon layers of scar tissue, muscle, and lord only knew what else, it registered in Claire's line of sight like a fearful omen even before everything began spiraling out of contr. A warped shoulder followed along in behind, a glowing red eyeball wobbling about, seeking out a target to settle upon. The body lumbering forward half a second later was just as misshapen, with a face slack-jawed, depicting nothing but pain—
Then Irons was suddenly in the air. The former police chief was shouting, his gun clattering to the floor as his arms grappled uselessly at the world-ending strength that fastened swiftly around his throat.
Claire heard the wet crunch of bone before the view could fully register. The beast's claws ripped entirely through the length of the man's body in one deadly stroke, spraying scarlet and tissue in a massive, gore-filled shower that brushed sickeningly against her face, dotting the barrel of the shotgun in gleaming droplets. There and gone, he was suddenly quiet. And she would have been happy if she wasn't about to die of a heart attack.
William Birkin thrashed Irons' corpse tempestuously for a while; the ragged remains wobbled back and forth before falling to the overturned worktable with a thud.
Claire was already behind the curtain. She was wedging the trap door open, shaking, praying as those horrible footsteps continued to hammer nearby. So close now, relief only came temporarily when the metal hatch opened on a loud squeal, displaying foul-smelling darkness beyond in a drop the woman couldn't waste time lowering herself into safely. So she didn't. Nor did she look back. Not even as a breath later, wind from that same powerful blow brushed against the ends of her hair, cutting strands of her ponytail free from their hold.
