Jill admitted it to herself, though she never would’ve said it aloud. She was a little jealous. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault, and certainly not Rebecca’s, who had been more than happy to share stories about her relationship with one Daniel Carter. Jill was genuinely happy for her. Honestly, she was glad to see Rebecca smiling so much. Still, every time her friend came bouncing in with that glow about her, Jill couldn’t help but feel the sharp reminder of her own dry spell. Eight months since she’d last had anyone in her bed, and at this point she swore her bits were starting to wither on the vine.
Her last serious relationship hadn’t been much to write home about. The guy had been decent enough in bed, funny sometimes, but he was kind of listless outside of that. No ambition, no spark, just someone satisfied to do the bare minimum and coast along so long as the bills were paid. That was fine for someone else, but Jill needed more. She needed someone who wanted something out of life, someone with drive. They hadn't been a good fit anyway, and by the time they ended it it wasn't even a fight, they'd just drifted apart. Now he was happy with some accountant girl who met him at some hobby shop and she was glad for him. She knew that somewhere deep down she'd been the problem, not him. She had, and she quoted, no chill, according to the guy.
After that breakup she’d been off her game, and she knew it. She was used to the agonizingly long days, the constant low-level intensity that consumed her work-life, and honestly she wouldn't have it any other way. But sometimes the silence, the empty home, the... the... she didn't even have a word for it, but that thing she knew she didn't have grated on her. It was a really stupid way to go about things, and she was self aware enough to know that, but maybe one day, some day, she could find it. Just... not right now.
The job was merciless when it came to her personal life, and she had walked into STARS knowing that. A fourteen-hour day wasn’t the exception, it was the rule, and after nearly half a decade of that pace she had learned to live without much else. The action and intensity thrilled her, and she loved being surrounded by people who’d shared her level of drive and ambition. From their youngest rookie Rebecca to the seasoned old hand Barry, every one of them belonged. But that life left her with precious little room for herself.
Her apartment was still as bare as it had been the day she moved in, boxes stacked in corners where she had never bothered to unpack. Nights at home were usually marked by takeout cartons and cold leftovers. On the rare nights she cooked, her food was bland, overcooked, or underdone, and she had next to no desire to change that. She sometimes joked in her own head that if it weren’t for her time in the military and their regimented lifestyle her place would look like a frat boy’s pad. The only thing that kept it from that fate was her pride. Yes, she might get lazy with laundry, but she wasn’t about to leave old clothes and underwear scattered across the floor like some lifetime bachelor.
Even so, she still felt the weight of what she didn’t have. Dinner dates, nights out, or even a fling were luxuries she’d long stopped chasing. Hanging out with Chris was a nice distraction, but Jill could honestly say the man only had one real love in his life: the job. Maybe two, if you counted his sister. She had even tried nudging him once or twice, dropping hints that she’d be open to something more, but he either missed it entirely or ignored it out of kindness. She wasn’t sure which was worse. In the end she let it go, resigned to the idea that she wouldn’t find what she wanted there. So she filled the gaps by living vicariously through Rebecca’s stories, listening to her colleague gush about Danny and trying to be glad for her friend while hiding the small, selfish ache that never quite went away.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t concerned, though. Jill had heard about what had happened with Daniel. The bruises, the sickness. Jill didn’t know Danny well at all. A few chance meetings, mostly when he picked Rebecca up after work or when he showed his face at one of those endless outreach events. He didn’t seem like a bad guy, not at all, but there was something about him that made her pay closer attention. It wasn’t the dangerous edge some of her Delta acquaintances carried, but he had that quiet confidence, the kind that came from surviving hard things. She wanted to call it experience, but that didn’t square with the man she first met.
Barry was sniffing around too, though Jill only knew that because she’d caught a glimpse of some of his notes when he wasn’t looking. He hadn’t shared details, but it was obvious he was digging. Rebecca had been openly agitated at the time, both at how helpless she felt and about Danny himself. The man had refused to bend about going to the hospital, stubborn as stone even when bruised and worn down. That reaction had stayed with Jill. It was equal parts frustrating and telling, the kind of thing that made her wonder what he was hiding. Hiding or running from.
Back then, he had been every inch the civilian. She’d meant her little joke about Rebecca eating him alive. The medic had a wild streak Jill had spotted early on, one she hid better than some people who made a profession of it. She remembered how Danny had looked then, with that relaxed, open gait of his. He hadn’t struck her as someone who could keep up with Rebecca, much less survive whatever repressed nerd tendencies she had once things got private. In those moments, Jill had been sure Rebecca would run him ragged, and she’d laughed about it more than once. That version of Danny had been soft around the edges, a man who seemed destined to be overwhelmed by the girl who had decided that was where she wanted to lay her head.
Yet somewhere along the way, Danny had changed, and that was what unsettled her. He carried himself differently now, shoulders squared, gaze steadier, like someone who’d been through some shit and came out the other end. That transformation was too sharp for Jill to ignore, and it nagged at her whenever she thought about it. Her concern mixed with curiosity, because sudden changes like that didn’t happen without a damn good reason. Everyone had baggage, scars tucked away behind their practiced smiles. Jill knew better than most that the past left marks that never faded, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that Danny’s were just under the surface. The thought left her uneasy.
He wasn't the type to lie or manipulate people like that. She would know, she'd dealt with more than a few and she knew that Rebecca aside, Chris and Barry both had been watching him whenever they were out, especially at first. But aside from the sudden, subtle, and if the suspicions of some were correct, earned wariness he was still the same guy. Lots of passion for shooting, lots of exercise (Jill had been shocked at how ripped he was) and a tendency to get lost in his own head, but none of that was new. So she had been willing to watch and wait.
Still, if Rebecca ever asked for her help, whether it was with Danny or with whatever had left him so battered, Jill would be there. She always looked out for Rebecca. The kid might’ve been a full-fledged STARS member, but Jill still saw the sweet, stubborn cinnamon roll underneath the uniform. And truth be told, she wouldn’t mind stepping into the fray herself. Jill Valentine loved a good fight, and if helping Rebecca meant she got to land a few punches along the way, then all the better.
000
Rebecca had noticed the SUV parked in the apartment lot a few times, but she hadn’t thought much of it at first. All black with tinted windows, polished finish, and built like a tank, it looked like the kind of ride that cost as much as one, too. It stood out against the mess of minivans, economy cars and the occasional truck she saw parked there, and she had wondered idly about the type of person who drove something like that. It had surprised her to find out it belonged to Danny. His old beater had disappeared quietly, and she’d just assumed he’d sold it since he didn’t need to drive much. But when she finally asked, he gave her that smile, the one that made her knees weak, and told her about this grand victory that she just knew he was embellishing for her benefit, but she could forgive him for that.
“So, you’re telling me this is yours?” Rebecca asked, giving the vehicle a slow once-over. She pressed her palm against the glossy side panel, the paint so pristine it looked like it had just rolled off a showroom floor. “Danny, this looks like it belongs to some shady government three letter agency, not parked in front of our building.”
“Got a hell of a deal on it,” Danny said with that devilish smirk, leaning against the hood with casual ease. “Friend of mine used to do custom jobs for a security company. They went under, folks who ordered it skipped town, and he got stuck holding the bag. Thing sat around for ages until he figured he’d let it go to me for cheap.”
“Cheap?” She raised a brow, folding her arms. “Danny, nothing about this screams cheap. This thing looks like it should be escorting the President.”
“Thirty grand.” He said it like it was a casual grocery bill. “Sounds like a lot, I know. But he told me it was probably worth four or five times that with all the upgrades. Too customized to move on the market, so he let me have it.”
Rebecca blinked. “Thirty grand… for this monster?”
He nodded, grin widening as if her shock was the punchline to some private joke. “Best deal I’ve ever made. Practically stole it. He was glad to have it off his hands.”
Rebecca circled around the vehicle, fingertips tracing the line of the door. The tires looked like they belonged on an armored personnel carrier, heavy tread and reinforced rims that could’ve handled some real damage. It came with a push bumper and a rack of floodlights, and a snorkel of all things, though what good that might do in the middle of Pennsylvania Rebecca didn't know. Still, it was an impressive machine on the outside, and while cars really weren't her thing, she'd heard Forest going back and forth with Chris and Enrico enough to have picked up a bit, and none of these bits said 'cheap' to her.
When Danny opened the door for her, she ducked inside, and her breath caught. The interior was even more absurd than the exterior promised it would be. Plush leather seats adjusted in ways she hadn’t even realized were possible, each with heating and cooling functions and memory settings for comfort. The headrests shifted with a button press, sliding into place as though the car already knew what she wanted.
Her gaze went to the console, a sleek screen mounted at the center, crisp and modern. It was impressive enough on its own, but what made her laugh out loud was when Danny pressed a switch and a fold-down TV descended seamlessly from the ceiling. It was far larger than she expected, dominating the space for a moment before retracting again. When it slid back up, it folded into the roof so smoothly it was as if it had never been there at all.
Rebecca leaned back into the seat, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is ridiculous,” she murmured. “Danny, just what exactly were these security people supposed to be protecting? Celebrities?” Danny just shrugged in that gormless way of his, pulling another giggle from her lips.
She couldn’t resist running her hands over every feature. Cupholders folded out with a satisfying click, and small storage compartments popped open with hidden catches she hadn’t noticed at first. The seats folded flat in seconds, the back row vanishing into the floor to leave a cavern of space so large she half expected a minibar to slide out.
Rebecca leaned back, shaking her head in disbelief. “Where do you even find modifications like this...” she muttered, more to herself than to Danny. “It’s like a rolling fortress. Please tell me this thing is bulletproof too, because it feels like it is.”
She rapped her knuckles against the panel, wondering if the windows and doors had been reinforced. With suspension like that, she wouldn’t have been surprised. The engine, when Danny started it up, rumbled with the growl of a beast, filling the cabin with a low vibration that made her chest hum. Yet he claimed it got decent gas mileage for something this size. That thought almost made her laugh again, the idea of a steel-plated monster like this being that practical.
Danny, of course, had the audacity to look completely nonchalant about all of it, as if owning a tank on wheels was the most ordinary thing in the world.
“And you've just been driving this around town?” she asked, sliding into the passenger seat and sinking into buttery-soft leather. “You haven't taken it anywhere interesting?”
“Oh? You want to go somewhere interesting, hm?” He slid behind the wheel, turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life with the kind of low, controlled growl that made her stomach flutter. “Well, I had been thinking of somewhere interesting I read about not too long ago.”
And so they went, out past the edge of Raccoon, up into the winding trails that led toward the Arklay Mountains. She remembered the view even now: the city lights flickering faintly behind them, the endless dark forest spreading ahead. The SUV had eaten the road with ease, gliding over rough gravel and sharp inclines as if it were nothing. She had laughed, actually laughed out loud, at how absurdly smooth the ride was. Danny just grinned, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over hers.
They had tested the space in the back. Enthusiastically. Several times. Enough for a blanket, a bevy of snacks, and… other things. She had no regrets, even if she’d been jelly-legged when they finally packed it in. When they got back to his place, he cooked, and that might have been what surprised her most. Despite the bachelor vibe his apartment gave off, the man could cook. Chicken teriyaki, perfectly seared, tender, glazed just right. She’d licked the plate clean and then him, afterwards. That day had been perfect, burned into her memory.
It was more than she had hoped for, more than she had ever dared expect. Nearly a month since they had officially become a couple, she was still glowing. Every morning she caught herself smiling for no reason, reminded by some small detail of the time they shared. She surprised herself with how quickly she had grown accustomed to waking up beside him. It wasn’t every night, just two or three days a week at most, but it gave her a sense of comfort she hadn’t realized she had been missing. There was safety in it, a steady warmth she could lean into. Danny was a cuddler, wrapping her in his arms as though he meant to shield her from the world, and it seemed to keep the nightmares that plagued him at bay. They had become less frequent, which eased her a lot worries and she slept better all the more for it.
On the nights when the dreams did claw their way through, he always tried to make it right in the mornings. He brewed her coffee strong and rich, never the instant she had grown up on, and cooked her a full breakfast that always carried the quiet intent of apology. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, or sometimes just perfectly toasted bread with fruit, but the coffee was always the star. She had sworn off instant forever after tasting his. It was a ritual now, a way to smooth out the rough edges, and one of the countless little reasons she found herself falling deeper into the rhythm of their life together.
Rebecca found herself noticing the little things. How he shifted in his sleep, curling toward her automatically. The way he leaned into her when they walked side by side, shoulder brushing shoulder. He always carried some of that tension, that readiness in his body, but in the quiet mornings, with coffee in hand and half-lidded eyes, he was soft. Human in a way that made her heart ache.
They went on more dates in the weeks that followed, and each one surprised her in its own way. Bowling was the first, where she discovered she actually had a knack for it. Danny laughed himself hoarse every time she got competitive, cheering when she hit a strike and teasing her mercilessly when she missed. Painting came next, which turned out to be one of his quiet talents. He had an eye for color and shape, and his pieces carried a level of life that startled her, even when he claimed they were just practice. Watching him work with brush and canvas was strangely intimate, a different side of him she hadn’t expected to see.
Their quieter nights were just as memorable. Movie marathons sprawled out on her couch became a ritual, working through her growing collection of B-rated horror and monster flicks. He seemed to enjoy the ridiculous slashers and laughed at the giant monster films, but zombies always made him tense. She found that adorable, the way his eyes narrowed and his shoulders tightened, as if he expected them to crawl right out of the screen. He swore there was nothing there, and everything was fine, but they still seemed to creep him out. She had to remind him more than once that they weren’t real, and he never quite looked convinced, which only made it cuter, and she eventually began saving those films for Halloween or other special occasions when she could get away with teasing him for it.
Halloween had been a riot. She’d put on her sluttiest nurse costume, fishnets and all, and spent the night teasing him until he could hardly breathe. He’d even let her dress him up as her little naughty little patient, complete with collar and cuffs. The pictures were safely hidden away, but she would never forget the sight of him baring his teeth, playing along with that mock-growl as she dragged him around by a leash. Of course once they headed to bed he'd gotten his payback, but she had no complaints about that.
Now November had come, the chill creeping into Raccoon City, tucked as it was against the mountains. She didn’t mind. More reason to spend the nights under the blankets, pressed together against the cold. She liked the way his body heat soaked into her, the way his breath tickled the back of her neck. Simple things, but they grounded her. Reminded her that she wasn’t alone. That she didn’t have to be.
Everything was good. Better than good. Life was great for Rebecca Chambers. She could hardly believe it sometimes. A month ago she had been trying to work up the courage to even take that first step, and now she had this. A man who cooked, who listened, who made her laugh, who held her when she woke up shaking. Someone who made her feel wanted. It was almost too much. She caught herself humming on her way into the RPD, smiling at nothing, her teammates giving her knowing looks. She didn’t care. Let them talk. Let them guess.
Which was why, when she came home Friday night and found Danny staring down at his cell phone like it had slapped him across the face, her heart sank. He sat on the couch, shoulders hunched, a glower on his face as he stared at the little device. She'd almost never seen that look on his face, and the alien hostility there clouded around him like a thunderstorm. He didn’t even look up when she stepped through the door.
“Danny?” she asked softly, dropping her bag by the door. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer right away, chewing on something, something foul and frustrating, but not in the way someone might after receiving bad news. It was the look of someone who had just found something out, something that hooked them, that was dragging them down. It cleared up when she wrapped her arms around him, gently, but when he told her what the call was about, it made her heart sink.
"It’s nothing." Was what he said, and he was unwilling to discuss it further. That alone set off more alarm bells in her head than anything else, and she... she needed to talk to Barry, to Jill, maybe even to Chris, even though they weren't close, just because Danny called him a friend. Because whatever this was, he had the tone of a man resigned to something unpleasant when he spoke about it, and that... that scared her.
000
The fall afternoon was cool, downright chilly, really, and Daniel found the weather appropriate for the way his thoughts kept circling. Low clouds flattened the sky into a dull lid, and the streetlights had not yet come on, but twilight had already started to leach color from the storefronts and the rows of maples that lined the block. He walked without a destination, gloved hands in his jacket pockets, boots ticking over grit and damp leaves. He wasn't heading to a training session nor was he cutting across to the hideout five blocks from his apartment. He moved because stillness made the noise in his head louder, even as each breath stung a little in his throat. The air smelled like the slow roll of autumn, every inhale tinted with the sickly sweet undertones of dying leaves and plants.
Last night had been a mess. He had braced for a fight, but had gotten something worse. Becca hadn't raised her voice. She didn't need to. She had asked and then asked again, pleading with him to let her in. She knew him well enough to catch small things that other people missed, the stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the coiled stress that wrapped his body. He had spent most of the night trying to calm her down, to get her to leave it alone. He had played it off and kept it vague, but she kept nudging past his deflections with that patient, steady pressure that felt impossible to resist.
She got him to admit that something was wrong. She got him to admit that he was agitated about it. That it had been complicated news, that it was something that involved him. He had called it “family issues,” as weak an excuse as that seemed to be, and watched the concern in her face deepen because she could tell he was using that phrase to cover up the real issue. That he didn't even have all the details himself. That it was his problem that he didn't want her getting dragged into.
He knew it would worry her. He hadn't meant to let any of it show, not after the last few weeks of trying to build something normal between them. He had wanted to keep the ugliest parts of this away from her. The timing couldn't have been worse. It felt like the Survivalist had waited for the worst time to call, right when she had decided to come home a bit early. The call had come through while he was alone, the tone flat and unhurried, the words arranged with that casual patience that always felt like a trap. The next target was ready. A location that matched his request, complete with the gory details. It hadn't been a good call, the information painting a damning picture.
He had hung up just as Becca opened the apartment door. She looked at him once and read him like a book. He hadn't needed to speak, as whatever his face did in that first second set the whole night’s course. He hated that most of all. He hated hurting her. He hated the way her hands had trembled when she poured coffee and the way she still tried to make a joke to keep him at the table. He tried to meet her halfway and failed. He didn't have enough info, enough proof, enough data to be able to convince her of anything. He didn't even have enough to start to try. So he delayed and obfuscated, and he knew she noticed.
The Survivalist had come through, at least on paper. The dossier described a hospital out in the Arklay Mountains, and the deeper he went, the more complicated the web was. Dates and parcel numbers sat next to a list of corporate shells that ended where Umbrella liked to make things disappear. The official story was noble, respectable even, the purpose behind the facility marked as cancer research. That was the public face that had let them build and bill without anyone asking hard questions. The supposed director was a man named Dr. Albert Lester, who had run the project but didn't seem to have any accolades worth noting for someone in such a prestigious position. The report contained very little else on the staff roster, less on the patients, and almost nothing on what they had been doing there to begin with. It read like it was missing whole sections, but that didn't surprise him. Umbrella wouldn't want anything connecting them to whatever it was they got up to there.
It was the other details that made it feel more and more like some kind of coverup, though. County road barricades had gone up around the old feeder routes, then a bridge had been taken out by flooding and never repaired. The maintenance records showed excuses stapled to other excuses, and then the paper trail went thin. Information on closures, on more road damage, on notices upon notices that slowly cur off the hospital from the world outside, then memory holed it all under a mountain of forgotten bits of paperwork.
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But that wasn't all there was. It never could be, could it? People had gone missing. Hikers. A pair of urban explorers who had posted to a bulletin board and never logged back in. A hunter who had not made a family dinner. The pattern didn't exist if you looked a all the incidents in isolation, but once you started connecting things, they all seemed oddly close to the old abandoned building. The notices from the RPD were the worst part. A few were simple advisories, stamped with Irons' signature, then notices that the investigations were being picked up by the Parks service, that there were jurisdictional issues and memorandums and none of it lead anywhere. Raccoon did have a Parks service, but it was underfunded and they did maintenance, and never left the city proper. The whole thing stank.
Daniel stopped at a crosswalk and watched a bus wheeze past. The warm smell from its exhaust blended with the bite of the cold. He let the signal change without moving, lost in thought. If the dossier was right, the place had been an Umbrella facility that was now off the official books. That combination matched what he had already seen in the city. When Umbrella broke a toy, they didn't throw it away. They fenced it off and waited. Waited to see what developed, what happened, what they might use to make a profit or a new weapon or glean some new, twisted idea for a new horror. There was still something up there, Daniel was sure of it. Something was killing people, disappearing them and the Company was putting their finger on the scales to keep anyone from noticing.
It was a sickening thought, not only for how listlessly evil it was, but with how easily he could imagine them doing it. He still remembered being down in that lab with vivid detail, the scent of rot and ammonia wafting through the air as the former staff shambled around, wheezing out that toxic sludge with their dead, glassy eyes. The sound of scraping, scrabbling flaws across the concrete, the boundless nightmares that came flying at him over and over again, trying to pry open his armor to get at the squishy meat inside, and the neverending burn that seemed to infest his skin from being trapped in those narrow halls and makeshift labs.
A delivery truck turned across his path and sprayed his boots with rancid water. He stepped back and checked the street again without thinking. The Survivalist had left the drive containing everything at the hideout. It had been waiting on his desk, with no other sign that the man had been there, and at this point Daniel wasn't even surprised at that. There had been a note in the same neat hand he had seen before. It told him to come by before he left town. There was no signature, but he didn't need one.
The next morning Barry had called. Of course he had. Becca had told him something because she cared about him, and probably hoped Barry could get more out of him. Barry’s voice had the steady tone that meant he was measuring and keeping things friendly so he could get to his questions. What was going on? Did he need help? Was this related to the last time? Daniel had had to lie through his teeth, just to get the man to lay off. He had used the same phrase he had given Becca. Family issues. He had thrown in times and places that didn't matter. Details that were real enough but meant nothing.
Barry didn't believe him. Daniel could hear it in the quiet words that followed each answer, and he could hear it in the way Barry changed the subject, eventually, if only to not seem like he was trying to piece something together. None of that gave Daniel more time to worry about it, however. The need to get out there, to see what was going on, to find something, anything, that he could use was all-encompassing, and every day that passed could mean one more opportunity lost.
Daniel turned down a side street where the wind worked like a funnel, dead leaves spinning against a loading dock. He pulled his jacket tight and let the chill cut him. His mind lifted pieces of the dossier and played them back in his mind's eye. The hospital had been isolated when it ran. Isolation would be complete now that bridges had been closed. The access notes were old. A ranger had logged tree fall on the service track three years ago and proposed clearing with a crew that never got funded. The last photograph in the packet was a gray smear of buildings taken from a ridgeline. No people. No vehicles. Just a large, strange, grainy protrusion that seemed to be growing out of the roof of the old building.
He tried to pin down what he was feeling. Part of it was the familiar pull that came with a target. It was the way an objective got into his muscles and made him plan without telling him to plan. Part of it was dread. He could admit that inside his own head even if he wouldn't say it out loud. The anticipation of a fight, of whatever horrors might be waiting in there, of what might happen if he didn't come back this time. He could hear Becca asking him to let her help. He could hear the way her breath had changed when he said no. And through it all, he didn't have a good answer to the simple question that sat under every one of her words. Why not?
He didn't have a good answer. hell, any answer would do, besides the nothing he had. He just... part of him wanted to come clean about it, to try and bring her in, but what if she didn't believe him. What if she did? What if she believed that he believed, and decided that he needed help. Paranoid delusions. That what he thought she might think. Government conspiracies, a megacorp making weaponized zombie plague, and an apparatus meant to keep it all under wraps. It sounded like some deepnet conspiracy mixed with bad fanfiction. He was almost more afraid to take that step, to see what she thought, to face her judgement. Worse, he was risking the very real chance of an apocalypse if he wound up incarcerated or hospitalized. No, there wouldn't be any talk like that only when, and until, he had real, cognizant proof. He just hoped she could tolerate him until he did.
He paused outside a bakery and watched a woman pull down the front gate. He recognized the place as the one he'd gotten Becca her doughnuts from, all those months ago. It was a bitter feeling, but also a warm one. It was the first time he'd really started to admit just how much he liked the younger woman, and he held onto that feeling. That care. It gave him a reason, a real reason, for why he was doing all this. Before it had been vague, selfish really. He did it because he didn't want to live in that world, but now... now he didn't want her to live in it, in a nightmare where the world died and everyone died with it.
He sighed as he glanced at his watch, realizing just how the clock had ticked by, as he wandered lost in his thoughts. He needed to do something more productive, so he tried to picture the map that had been included in the USB. The route notes had been cautious, and the roads were blocked. That meant any approach he made had to go by foot for a decent portion of the trip. The file had also marked where the trails had been shut down and abandoned, where there were fresh landslides and washouts, and, buried under all of it, where the old logging trails still sat, untouched and forgotten. There was a road that would take him close enough, to an old campsite that had been shut down in the 80s, and that was his way in.
No more mistakes this time. Daniel was determined to come prepared, approaching it with a focus that bordered on obsession. He ran through a mental checklist as he walked: slugs, buckshot, specialty rounds, spare magazines for the P90, and the punishing +P+ loads for the Jericho. It might have sounded like overkill to anyone else, but he wasn’t sure even that would be enough. He had learned from the last time, the locked doors, roving dead, and the things that waited in the dark, hungering. He would be ready.
The problem, of course, was the people he would leave behind. His job would not tolerate another unexplained absence, not after last time. Rebecca and Barry certainly wouldn't accept the excuse of “family issues” again. They had been patient before, but patience wore thin when his bruises showed up without explanation and he spent days fighting off god knew what. He doubted he could look either of them in the eye and expect them to believe it a second time. If they did, they would want more, and he didn't know if he could give it.
He sighed and found an empty bench along the street. The metal was cold through his coat as he sat. He had taken care to shake any tails, doubling back through side streets and alleys before stepping into the factory hideout earlier. It was weird to worry about that, especially when those tails could be Becca, or Barry, or any one of their friends. All well meaning, all of them friends on any other day, and if any of them saw his hideout, or even knew it was there, he'd have a great many questions to answer. None of which he could afford to.
The sun had been high when he'd arrived, and once more he went through the rituals that he'd drilled over and over again. He'd pulled his gear from storage, laid it out, and checked each piece with deliberate care. Armor plates inspected, magazines topped off, grenades and tools laid out. He had a bunch of new things to pack. Magazines for the Saiga, spare rounds for all of his guns, food, water, his computer and all the other bitbobs that made up his kit. He took special care to sheathe the combat tomahawk he'd gotten, opposite his knife, with a wicked sharp edge and a piecing spike on the back. Tomorrow he would head out. Friday, the doorway to the weekend, and as long as he dared to hold off, all for the sake of maintaining a job he was beginning to question the value of.
That left tonight for Becca. He needed to try to smooth things over, at least enough to ease the look of worry in her eyes. Damn the Survivalist anyway, for dropping that on him when he did, even if he knew that there was no way the man had been able to time that so well. It still left a bitter taste in his mouth, especially when he'd taken everything Daniel had gathered in that lab. Any evidence he might have gathered before was gone, and it pissed him off every time he thought about it.
Now the bastard was playing games with him, dangling information as if it were a lure on a line.
The change in the rules still gnawed at him. The Survivalist had said he could buy information with platinum coins. That was the price, clear and fixed. But ever since that declaration, the man had found excuse after excuse to withhold said information. Daniel had pressed, but the responses were always the same: half-smiles, reassurances, reminders that patience was a virtue, and things moved at their own pace. It smelled like bullshit to him, but what was he going to do?
He hated every second of it, but he needed the man. He was too well connected, too efficient at delivering results to let him go. Beyond that, though, what Daniel had seen of him gave off the kind of weight that made crossing him feel suicidal. His word was his bond, so he said, but it was a transactional bond, simple as that. And it was the only bond Daniel had, much as it irked him. He'd need to figure something out there, but right now he was stuck spinning his wheels.
That was a problem for later, though, and he knew it. The first hurdle was getting up to the hospital. The packet included a route, but most of it was offroad. His new SUV could chew through the mud and stone with ease, but even the mapped foot trail ended at a derelict cabin maybe a third of the way there. From there it was going to be hours of hiking through dense forest. The elevation climbs were sharp, and he would be hauling armor and ammunition the whole way. He told himself he could handle it, that his body could bear the weight, but he knew it would take planning. Planning and care, since he had no idea what he was walking into.
And he would need to finish that plan tonight, before Becca came home. It was better that way, not giving her an excuse to start poking around again. He didn't want that for tonight, and if she had a reason, any reason, she would dig. He had to keep this one step ahead, hidden until he had something solid to bring back. Proof. Evidence. Something undeniable. Something real that he could maybe show her, maybe try to explain.
The thought twisted him. Proof for what? To exonerate himself? To convince her he wasn’t delusional? He didn’t even know anymore. He had no ready excuse for heading into the Arklays on a whim. He couldn’t tell her he needed to chase a ghost of Umbrella’s past. Even if he brought back photographs, files, or samples, how could he convince her that the corruption ran through every level of power? Wesker. Irons. The mayor’s office. State, federal, maybe beyond. Saying it out loud would sound like conspiracy drivel, the kind of lunatic ramblings that came almost exclusively from the deep web. He used to laugh at people like that. Well, guess who's laughing now, he supposed. He was living the conspiracy and it was just as murky and tangled as the worst fiction.
He hated thinking this way. He hated that it was his reality now. But he couldn't let go. Not with what he had seen.
The Survivalist had given him the info and the route. He’d drive as far as he could, stash the SUV, and then the logging path would theoretically lead to the hospital’s ruins. The easier paths were gone thanks to time and the woods reclaiming them. He would have to pick his way carefully. It would be hours, even moving at a steady pace. His kit wasn’t really great for long marches, but haul it he would. He couldn’t afford to go light, not with what might be waiting inside. God only knew what had formed through that old wreck with half a decade to stew in it’s juices. Something had shut the place down so thoroughly that even Umbrella tried to erase it from the records. That never boded well.
He rubbed his hands together, blew into them, and stood from the bench. He still wasn't done, and there was one last stop before he could finally go home. Then he would do his best not to think about the nightmare that was coming, one small ticking second at a time.
000
The Survivalist's camp was tucked away under the same overpass that it had been for the last several weeks. At least that much hadn’t changed, despite the cold and the rain that came down over Raccoon nearly every day now. The ground squelched under Daniel’s boots, the walk in more like crawling through a bog than crossing a field. Mud clung to his soles, and the waterlogged grasses slapped at his legs. The overpass loomed above, concrete slick with moisture, its supports streaked with moss and runoff. The faint glow of firelight guided him in, orange flickers against the gray afternoon.
Despite the weather, the man he had come to meet looked perfectly comfortable. The Survivalist sat in his usual camp chair, posture lazy, a burbling pot suspended over the fire. The flames had been stoked just high enough to ward off the chill, smoke curling upward to mix with the mist. The man’s tent had changed, now more winterized, its seams reinforced and canvas heavy, but the figure himself was unchanged. Same scarf covering his face, same jaundiced eyes watching Daniel approach with sharp amusement.
Daniel slowed as he crossed into the camp, each step sinking softly into the damp earth. The smell of wet soil and smoke mixed with the richer scent of whatever stew the Survivalist had bubbling over the fire. The fire popped and hissed, and the crackle filled the pause before Daniel’s voice cut through, steady and edged with caution.
"What did you want?" Daniel opened, tone carefully neutral. It was the first time he had ever been summoned here instead of the other way around, and it set his nerves on edge. Since the lab, the old man had been scarce with him. The few visits Daniel had made had led to little more than platitudes. Patience, promises, and nothing concrete. But now, things were moving. It made him wonder what the guy wanted.
The Survivalist chuckled under his breath, leaning back in his chair. "Aw, now don't be like that, Partner. I know you weren't all that happy with how long it took me to find yer next target, but you gotta admit, it was worth the wait, eh?" His tone was genial, as he stirred his stew, his posture relaxed. It made Daniel think of some big cat at rest.
Daniel scowled faintly. "Maybe. But that doesn't answer the question. What did you want? I'm juggling enough without running out here to deal with you." His voice carried the edge of annoyance, but the man only seemed to find it amusing. The Survivalist always liked getting a rise out of him, and Daniel could feel the weight of that grin hidden under the scarf.
"Well, fine, if'n you wanna be that way. I just wanted to make sure you kept our deal in mind, son." The Survivalist spoke easily, tapping the arm of his chair with a gloved finger. "Last time paid out well, for both of us."
Daniel’s eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'our deal'? Because the way I see it, you've changed the rules on me. First time, I came to you. But this time I had the coins, have the coins, and you still stonewalled me." His words were a low growl. "Far as I'm concerned you're the one making assumptions on how things are going to be."
"Now now, hold up there, Partner. I never changed the rules, I just didn't have the info you wanted. Findin' this stuff ain't easy, y'know?" The man’s drawl was calm, as if he were discussing the weather. "That's all I meant. I got other things I could sell you, if'n you took the time to ask. Maps, dossiers, the whole nine yards. All you wanted was a target. That ain't on me." His voice carried that silky edge, the same slow southern cadence that had lulled Daniel into lowering his guard more than once.
Daniel’s jaw clenched. "Funny how you only mention that now." He started to rise from his chair. "Is that all you wanted, old man?"
The Survivalist wagged a finger. "Aww, now look, Partner, I can see yer a little sore about it, and fair 'nuff. Yer still a young'n in all this spywork after all. So I tell ya what, I got a little gizmo in that'll make this job a damn sight easier, and I'll give it to ya for a song." His tone warmed, almost jovial. "As an apology for makin' you think I was runnin' a card on ya. And hey, afterwards when ya get back, I'll walk you through the stuff I got that you might want. Fair?"
Daniel paused, then slowly settled back into the camp chair opposite him. He met the jaundiced gaze across the fire and gave a small nod. The Survivalist clapped his hands once, delighted.
"Thataboy. Now then." The man leaned forward, rummaging in his crate with casual ease. Metal clinked and wood shifted as he muttered under his breath. After a moment, he hauled up a strange contraption and set it across the lid. At first glance it looked like a belt, but skeletal braces jutted from its sides, mechanical hinges catching the firelight. The joints clicked faintly as it shifted under its own weight, a metallic gleam playing in the glow.
Daniel frowned. Against his better judgment, he asked, "What the hell is that?"
The Survivalist’s eyes gleamed. "This, partner, is an exoframe skeleton. Latest in prosthetic-assistance tech. The belt goes 'round your waist, supports run up to your shoulders with these here suspension straps, and the legs lock onto your thighs and shins. Once you power it up, it reduces your body’s weight load and amps up your running speed. Does wonders for your endurance too." He chuckled, tapping the brace with a gloved finger. "Tricell patented this two months ago."
Daniel arched a brow. The name rang a bell. Tricell... another of the pharmaceutical giants, the kind that crept into Umbrella’s markets and carved a niche where they could. Prosthetics, medical electronics, MRI machines. They had made a fortune pushing into any opening Umbrella left. He blinked at the device, incredulity seeping into his voice. "Tricell? You're telling me you stole it from them?"
The Survivalist’s grin widened beneath his scarf. "Borrowed permanently, let's call it. And I'll have you know, I had nothing to do with this little acquisition. Someone had a debt to pay, partner, if you catch my drift." He leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial lilt. "Originally they were designed to help folks to walk again, but some enterprising young buck got it in his head to rework it for military applications."
"Clever little shit ruggedized it. Jacked up the torque, water-sealed it and swapped out the civvie powerpack with a hardened li-ion rechargeable plug-in." He said with a laugh. "It’s low profile too, so it won’t interfere with your loadout. Just the thing to help you while you trek on through those woods."
Daniel stared at it. "That sounds... oddly convenient." His skepticism made the old man laugh.
"Pure coincidence, I promise."
"So what is it, some kind of spring system or-?" Daniel started, but the Survivalist cut him off.
"Naw, Partner, this is all machine assisted. Comes with two batteries, three hours each, but the belt itself has a gyroscopic motion generator. The charger lets you passively recharge one battery while the other’s running. Works like a car alternator, movement feeding the charge. You run, fight, move around? You’re feedin’ juice back into the spare. You understand, son?"
Daniel’s eyes stayed on the device. "And you’re sure it works."
The Survivalist nodded with confidence. "Tried and tested. You won't need much adjusting to it either. Tricell made it so it'll fit to you on its own, damn if I know how though."
Daniel gave a small snort. "Comforting. And I'm guessing you want...?"
"I told you this was on a discount, and I aim to keep my word. Worth a plat, but I'll take that gold. Figure you might wanna hold onto that one for afterwards anyway." The Survivalist’s drawl was smooth, his gloved hand extending expectantly.
Daniel hesitated, then drew out the token. As the coin passed between them, the Survivalist tucked it away with a satisfied nod. Daniel could not shake the feeling he had been played, no matter how genuine the man’s easy manner seemed in the glow of the fire.
000
The hallways are dark, dank, miserable and strangely unreal, as if half remembered from some fever dream. The walls seem to breathe with damp and shadow, each step echoing in ways that feel both close and impossibly distant. The floor is filthy, lined with dead leaves and broken twigs that crunch and dissolve like fragments of reality. Many of the windows were shattered, the jagged glass catching faint flickers of uncertain light, shimmering and fading like reflections that shouldn't exist.
The rooms drift past, hazy at the edges, each one revealing hospital beds abandoned to time. Patient restraints dangle from the frames like chains in some twisted prison ward, swinging slightly though no wind stirs them. The mattresses are mottled with brown stains, the smell of waste and old blood seeping out, too sharp for a dream yet too strange to be real. Above, the ceiling tiles hang broken, some missing entirely, exposing a tangle of pipes and wires where long vines slither downward, writhing as if searching for something. They twitch and sway, alive, aware. The stench of rot, mildew, and copper blood clings like a fog. The corridors shimmering at the edge of sight, unreal but undeniable. Still they press on, deeper and deeper.
There is a man ahead. His face is hidden, indistinct, though his dark blue suit is clear against the shadows. His clothing looks all wrong here, like it belongs in some office boardroom instead of in these ruins. He steps with care, shoes clicking softly, and they follow him. The trip to reach this place was brutal, a grueling hike through layers of barriers and fences meant to keep people out. Inside, the punishment is worse. The rooms are not empty. Bodies lie chained to the beds, slack and pale. Roots and fleshy cords burrow into their skin, pulsating, feeding. The sight is horrific but unseen, unacknowledged, as the figure presses forward. The stairs loom. Endless stairs. They climb, careful never to step on the vines, because the vines know. They feel. They cling like hungry tentacles.
The man raises a camera, flash igniting the gloom. He whispers something indistinct as he turns, and then nothing. A burst of blinding light swallows it all. A figure appears, maybe a man, maybe a woman, their shape unclear. Hands grab the man in the suit. He thrashes, the sound of struggle filling the air. A scream rips through the hall, followed by tearing cloth and the wet spray of blood. So much blood. Then silence. The figure falls, tumbling down the stairs. Panic claws at them as they stumble to stand. Another shadow comes. They run, legs pounding, lungs burning. The walls shift, the vines stretch after them, and still they run. The light blazes again, searing, blinding. Arms seize them, hard and unyielding. Yellow hazmat suits, masks, the glint of weapons. Hands hold them down. Pain bites as needles pierce skin. Darkness floods in.
Alyssa Ashcroft bolts upright in bed, gasping as if drowning. Her chest heaves, sweat soaking her skin, her sheets sticking damp to her body. The night air is cool but does nothing to chase away the suffocating heat left behind by the nightmare. She drags a shaking hand across her face, smearing tears she barely realized were there. Her voice cracks into the stillness of the room.
"God, why that dream... why again?" she whispers, the words trembling out of her. A sob follows, raw and helpless.
The nightmare lingers, sharper than any she has ever had. Its not the first time, not even close, but a repeating hell that seems to chase her. The same halls, the same roots crawling into pale bodies, the same faceless man and the fall. Each time it plays in her head it grows more vivid, more real, like some broken record forcing itself on repeat. She tried everything to make it stop, to fix whatever was broken in her, but it never seems to help. Therapy sessions that went nowhere, the therapists all repeating the same lines, about how it's not real, about trauma and childhood abuse and it was all some fucking metaphor with them.
Their solutions were always the same in the end. A cabinet of pill bottles, medications meant to soothe or to numb, leaving her a zombie while her career withered. Her editors shuffled her from one assignment to another, each more irrelevant than the last. The pills made it hard to think, hard to feel, and she was a reporter damnit! Her passion was all she had, but even now her drive to to much of anything, much less dig like she used to be able to, was all but gone.
But the dreams don't care. They come every night, hunting her like wolves that smell her fear in her blood. She's terrified to sleep, terrified even to close her eyes for long. Sometimes she fears the drift of her thoughts in her waking hours, afraid the memory will claw up through the cracks in her mind. The pain of it all seeps through her body, her stomach twisting, her jaw clenched until her teeth ache. She remembers every scream and shadow even when her mind wants to forget. It chews at her from the inside, grinding her nerves down to dust. The nightmare doesn't fade when the sun rises; it clings to her skin like sweat, whispering behind her eyes. Bit by bit, it eats through her life, gnawing away everything she used to be until only fear is left.
She grips her knees tight, pressing her forehead down as if she could squeeze the thoughts out through sheer will. Her body trembles with each breath, the movement small but desperate, like she's trying to hold herself together but it doesn't help, not now, not then. Her thoughts churn in ragged circles, chewing through her memories until they blur. She remembers a time she'd been more than this, sharp, ambitious, relentless in chasing truth, fearless about stepping into danger if it meant getting the story. That woman feels like a ghost now, faded and distant. What's left is someone hollowed out by fear and exhaustion, haunted by echoes she can't silence, desperate for escape, desperate to feel like herself again even if it kills her.
More and more, the dream pulls at her with a strange drive. A call. Somewhere in the mountains, though she's never heard of the place, though she has never been there, she feels she knows the path. Knows she's meant to walk it. It frightens her, yet tempts her, the way an abyss tempts those who stand on the edge. She lifts her head and looks at the nightstand. Her eyes fall on the drawer. Inside rests the small 9mm pistol she bought after the dreams became too real to ignore. At first she told herself it was protection, that the weapon would help her feel safe. Lately, in darker moments, she admits she is not sure if she keeps it to fend off what frightens her, or to end the fear entirely.
Her hands curl into fists, nails digging into her palms. Desperation gnaws at her with teeth sharper than any nightmare. She knows she can't keep living like this. Either she finds out what keeps calling to her, or she dies trying. The fear of sleep, of shadows, of her own mind... she can't carry it any longer. It's too much, too heavy, too all-consuming and with every passing day it just gets worse, like a Sysiphean stone that gets bigger with every push up the hill. And it will never, ever get lighter.
She stares at the pistol's resting place, her lips quivering. "One way or another," she whispers, voice shaking. "I'll find out the truth. Or I won't come back at all."
AN: What is this!? A wild Alyssa appears, and I bet you didn't see this coming hehe. That's right, we're diving headfirst into the Arklay Hospital, and all the fun things just relaxing and enjoying life there. I admit, one of the funnest parts of this chapter was writing Jill, who hasn't had near enough screentime despite being one of my favorites. And of course, there's the Survivalist, being all helpful and whatnot, and a few other things besides. All in all I wanted to touch base on a bunch of things that I haven't had a chance to before diving into the second great Biohazard Incident, which, much as I hate to say it, seems to be also growing into a monster, though hopefully with better pacing. I do occasionally listen to my critics after all. But honestly I've been having a lot of fun building these little adventures (though they take a lot of work, ngl) and it kinda makes me wish I had the time or the talent to put together a CYOA or tabletop ruleset for it. I'm kind of a huge nerd like that. As a side note, there is something oddly satisfying about posting a chapter for a Resident Evil fic on Halloween. I mean, technically. It's 11:30 where I am anyway.
