by Tim Waggoner
INDIANAPOLIS 116 MILES
CHICAGO 296 MILES
ST. LOUIS 359 MILES
RACCOON CITY 425 MILES
This was the first sign she’d seen that listed Raccoon City, and she smiled. She was halfway there, and at the rate she was going, she’d be there in another six hours, maybe seven. Encouraged, she pressed down on the accelerator. Too bad there weren’t any radio stations left. It would be nice to have some music to drive to.
Back in D.C., Alice had chosen the Honda because it had been the least damaged vehicle she could find. The battles that had taken place in the former capital over the years had done a number on any cars that had been left out in the open, and while the Honda might’ve been lacking in the style department, at the end of the world, beggars couldn’t be choosers. The car’s battery had been long dead, and she hadn’t been able to find a replacement, so she’d been forced to jury-rig a solar panel to the roof to power the battery. One thing about surviving on her own for so long: she’d picked up a lot of different skills, along with learning how to improvise. The Honda’s trunk and backseat were filled with gas cans so she wouldn’t have to stop and look for fuel along the way, and a cloth bag containing food and water bottles sat on the passenger seat next to her. She’d also scored a package of caffeine pills from an abandoned pharmacy, for which she was profoundly grateful, as the last coffee shop in the world had closed a decade ago.
Alice had embedded the combat knife into the dash so she could reach it more easily. Next to it was a bobblehead figure, some athlete she didn’t recognize. She’d considered removing the figure when she’d first found the car, but she’d decided to keep it. She had a long drive ahead of her, and she could use the company.
The hardest part of the drive wasn’t staying awake, though. It was trying not to be overwhelmed with despair by the wasteland that America had become. The cities were bad enough—empty streets, silent buildings… the ruins of the old world. But the T-virus hadn’t just affected humans—somehow it had gotten into the ecosystem itself, drying up rivers and lakes, killing plants and trees, and transforming fertile farmland into desert. A once-living, vital world had been reduced to little more than a sad, desiccated corpse. She’d thought she’d gotten used to the desolate landscape long ago, but now she saw it through different eyes. Even if she made it to the Hive and somehow managed to find and release the antivirus, how could it possibly reverse the damage done to the planet itself? Would she save humanity only to see the remaining survivors die off because they’d inherited a world no longer able to sustain life?
She decided she couldn’t worry about that right now. She needed to concentrate on her mission. Once Umbrella was stopped and the antivirus was released, then she could worry about humanity’s prospects for long-term survival. Right now, what she needed to do was drive.
She didn’t see many Undead as she drove, and the ones she did spot were a long way off. A couple were closer to the highway, and one jumped out at the Honda from behind a wrecked paramedic vehicle as she detoured slowly around it. But it was a garden-variety Undead, slow-moving and awkward—and thankfully, with only two eyes—and she had no trouble avoiding it.
Alice continued driving, and after a while, she noticed the gas gauge needle was hovering on empty. A few more miles, and she’d need to stop to refuel. She’d keep an eye out for a good spot to pull over, and if it looked safe enough, she might even take a few minutes to do some stretching exercises. Sitting behind the wheel for so many hours after everything she’d gone through in D.C. had left her muscles feeling stiff and sore.
The road ahead of her was covered with a thin layer of dust. Nothing special about that, as the wind often blew dry, loose soil onto the highway, and it wasn’t as if there was any regular traffic passing through to blow it off. There was an overpass ahead, and clustered in front of it was a collection of burnt-out vehicles, the result of another long-ago accident. Among the cluster of vehicles was an abandoned semi-trailer, the kind that was used to haul heavy equipment. It was empty, and no truck was attached. Alice assumed that at some point in the past, the driver reached the mass of burnt and blackened vehicles, realized it would be too difficult to go around with the semi-trailer attached, unhooked it, and drove the truck around the wreckage.
She was doing eighty, and she lifted her foot off the accelerator. But before the Honda could begin to slow, the car juddered as it rolled over something hard, and then all four tires blew. Alice fought for control of the Honda as it began to slide sideways, but there was nothing she could do. Whatever she’d hit, it had reduced the vehicle’s tires to shreds, and the best she could hope for was to keep the car from flipping over and rolling. Normally an icy calm descended on her in situations like this, but this time she was close to full panic. If she died now, so did the human race—and Becky. She had to live so they could, too.
A flash of orange caught her eye then, and she realized the Honda was heading for the semi-trailer’s front end, which was approximately at the same level as her head. Alice had on the seatbelt, but now she took her hands off the steering wheel, unbuckled the belt, and then ducked down, twisting to press the upper part of her body against the passenger seat as the Honda struck the semi-trailer’s front end head-on. A sudden impact jolted the vehicle, accompanied by a shriek of tearing metal. Alice grabbed hold of the passenger seatbelt with her right hand and gripped the front edge of the passenger seat with her left, and held on for all she was worth as the Honda continued sliding across the asphalt until it slammed into a fire-blackened transit bus and came to an abrupt stop.
Alice lay on the passenger seat, breathing rapidly, ears ringing in the sudden silence following the awful sounds of screeching tires and twisting metal. The gas cans in the back seat had been thrown around during the crash, and some of them had leaked, filling the air with the acrid tang of spilled fuel. She’d been lucky that a spark hadn’t set off an explosion. After several seconds she let go of the belt, released her grip on the seat, and sat up, taking stock of her physical condition as she did so. She was sore as hell, but she didn’t think she was seriously injured. But even if she had been, she wouldn’t have remained in the car. If there were any Undead in the area, the noise from the crash would be like a ringing dinner bell for them. Any number of the creatures could be converging on her, and the Honda’s tires hadn’t spontaneously blown, not all at once, which meant that something—or someone—had caused it to happen.
Time to get moving.
She crawled out of the Honda, or rather what was left of it, wincing as her body complained. She glanced back at the dashboard. The bobblehead was gone, but the combat knife was still embedded in the dash, and she pulled it free. She had a feeling she was going to need it.
Gripping the knife, she quickly scanned the area, prepared to fight if she had to, but she saw no sign of a threat. She didn’t fully relax her guard, though. She wasn’t stupid. She checked her watch then, and was relieved to see that it was still working, but the digital countdown reminded her that she was losing time with every passing second. She needed a new set of wheels—now.
Speaking of which…
She gave the Honda’s shredded tires a quick look to see if she could figure out what had happened to them. Her best guess was that she’d hit a spike strip that someone had placed across the road and which had been concealed by dirt, maybe purposely. A look backward at the highway confirmed her guess. Sharp metal spikes rose upward from the road, gleaming in the sunlight. The strip had most likely been set up as a trap for any survivors who might be driving this way. The question was, how long ago had it been put here? If the spike strip had been in place for a while, then whoever had placed it here was probably long gone, and most likely dead by now. But if it had been placed here recently, whoever had done it might be lurking nearby, waiting to see if anyone had survived the crash before venturing out to examine what the trap had caught. Alice would have to keep a sharp eye out while she searched for a vehicle to replace the
Honda.
Not that it looked like there was much to choose from here. All the vehicles she could see were burnt-out wrecks, just so much junk blocking the road. She started walking toward the overpass, hoping that there might be some undamaged vehicles on the other side, abandoned by their owners because they’d been attacked or had simply run out of fuel. Gas wouldn’t be a problem for her. Some of the fuel containers in the Honda’s back seat were still intact, and she hadn’t checked the ones in the trunk yet. She—
Her thoughts broke off as she saw the silhouette of a motorcycle parked in the shadows beneath the overpass. From what she could see, it appeared undamaged, and she jogged toward it, ignoring the protests of her bruised and battered body. As she drew closer, she was able to see the bike more clearly, and once she did, she stopped and stared. The bike was a BMW, and it was painted black and red.
Umbrella colors.
Before she could react, a half-dozen black-uniformed Umbrella troopers emerged from hiding places in and around the wrecked vehicles, faces disguised by goggles and breathing masks. They wore black helmets with the Umbrella logo on the front and carried CTAR-21 assault rifles—which they immediately pointed at her. Her knife wasn’t any defense against the rifles, and she knew it, but she raised it anyway, as a warning for the troopers not to come any closer, a warning which they ignored as they stepped toward her. Reflexively, Alice took a step back and felt something tighten around her feet. The next thing she knew, her legs were yanked out from underneath her, and she was pulled into the air. She’d walked into a wire snare, as the troopers had no doubt planned.
The sudden motion caused her to lose her grip on the knife, and it clattered to the ground beneath her. She reached for it, but she was too high up and couldn’t get hold of it.
Idiot! she thought, furious with herself. She couldn’t believe she’d been dumb enough to walk into a trap, and such a simple one at that. She’d been so concerned with reaching the Hive before time ran out that she’d hadn’t paid enough attention to her surroundings. And her carelessness might just get her—and as a consequence, every other human left alive on the planet—killed.
A trooper stepped forward then and with his rifle’s strap still slung around his shoulder, he slammed the butt of the weapon into Alice’s stomach. Breath whooshed out of her lungs, and she started swinging back and forth like a pendulum. She gritted her teeth against the pain.
“That all you got?” she said.
She couldn’t see the trooper’s features behind the goggles and breathing mask, but she could tell by the way his body tensed that she’d pissed him off by her failure to be intimidated by him when she was so obviously their helpless captive. He stepped forward to strike Alice again, but this time she was ready for him. She jack-knifed upward and used her momentum to headbutt the soldier. The maneuver hurt like hell, but it caused the man to stagger back, just as she wanted.
She swung forward, grabbed hold of the soldier with one arm and snatched his weapon with her free hand. She was still upside down and the rifle was still slung over the trooper’s shoulder, but that didn’t prevent her from wielding the weapon. She pointed it at one of the man’s fellow troopers and began firing. Blood sprayed from the second trooper’s chest and his body shuddered and jerked from the bullets’ impact. Alice kept firing, letting the rifle’s recoil spin her around so she could attack the remaining troopers. She used the man whose gun she’d “borrowed” as a shield, so while some of his companions managed to return fire, instead of hitting Alice, they took out their fellow trooper for her.
By the time Alice had made a complete revolution, all of the troopers—including the one who’d struck her—were dead. Now that her shield had served his purpose, she let him go. As he dropped lifeless to the ground, she held onto his rifle, pulling it free from his shoulder. She then aimed the weapon up at the snare, whose other end she could now see was attached to the bottom of the overpass, and fired a quick burst. The wire was cut in half, and she fell to the ground. She quickly unwrapped the wire from around her ankles, and then—keeping watch in case the troopers had more friends who might suddenly jump out from their hiding places—she stripped the dead troopers of their weapons.
As she did so, she smiled grimly.
Big mistake, guys, she thought. Just because I don’t have super powers anymore doesn’t mean I can’t kick ass.
She scored several rifles, all their extra clips, and she retrieved her knife. She slung the rifles over her shoulder, tucked the clips away in the pockets of her body armor, and slid the knife into her boot sheath. She then headed toward the motorcycle. She wasn’t thrilled about riding an Umbrella vehicle, but if it got her to the Hive in time, she wasn’t going to cry about it. She climbed onto the bike and hit the ignition switch. The first thing she wanted to do was check how much fuel the tank held, but as the digital display on the dash activated, she saw the words UNAUTHORIZED HANDPRINT.
Crap.
Before she could throw herself off the bike, the vehicle’s security system emitted a powerful burst of electricity. Alice’s teeth slammed together and her body shuddered violently as the current coursed through her, and then darkness rushed in to claim her and she knew no more.
4
From somewhere deep in the dark of her inner mind, Alice became aware of a rocking, swaying motion. Wherever she was, the air was warm and stuffy, and it stank of unwashed bodies, piss, and shit. She forced her eyes to open, but the light was so dim that at first she feared she’d been blinded. Her vision adjusted quickly, and she soon realized she was inside some sort of vehicle, sitting on the floor, her back against the wall. But what caught her attention were the hundreds of crucifixes hanging from chains affixed to the ceiling. Some of the crosses were plain wood, while others were ornamental gold. It looked like someone had looted the contents of a dozen different churches. The crosses swayed with the movement of the vehicle, striking each other with soft clicking and clanking sounds, like a bizarre set of wind chimes.
She shifted her body to get a sense of how injured she might be, and was rewarded with a metallic clinking sound. Her hands were locked in a pair of electronic manacles. She tried to stand and discovered she was held in place by a high-tensile chain with an electronic lock attached to a wide leather belt fastened to her waist. There were other people with her in the vehicle, and they were manacled and chained, too, like slaves in an ancient galley ship. It was difficult to make out many details of her fellow passengers in the gloom, but she could tell there were eight of them, both men and women, and they were all in a wretched state: bodies emaciated; hair long, tangled, and matted, the men unshaven; clothes little more than filthy rags. They displayed various injuries—scars, missing eyes, hands that had been broken and left to heal improperly.
She checked her watch then. 18:17:42. She’d lost valuable time.
“Damn it,” she muttered to herself.
She turned to the man sitting next to her. While everyone in the hold was suffering from malnutrition, this man was the worst of the lot. He looked like a skeleton that had been painted in flesh tones.
“What is this place?” she asked.
The Thin Man didn’t speak or look at her, and she wasn’t sure he’d heard her. As sick as he looked, he might not be fully conscious, she realized.
A woman sitting across from Alice spoke in a whisper.
“Be quiet, please. He doesn’t like us to talk. He punishes us…”
As if to demonstrate the truth of the woman’s words, the Thin Man turned to Alice and opened his mouth to show that he no longer possessed a tongue.
Alice felt a twist of nausea in her gut at the sight of the man’s mutilation, followed quickly by a surge of anger.
“Who did this? Who punishes you?” she demanded.
“Just be quiet,” the woman pleaded again.
A man with one ear cut off leaned out of the shadows and looked at the woman. “Let her talk,” he said. “Let her be the one chosen next.”
> Another man, this one with deep scars cut into his face, spoke then, an almost religious fervor in his voice. “Yes! Let him cast her out!”
“Please,” the woman begged. “Please be quiet!”
A hatch opened in the ceiling then, spilling light into the hold’s filthy interior. A moment later, an Umbrella officer dropped down to stand on a metal walkway slightly elevated above the prisoners. They quickly averted their gazes, and Alice could see that they weren’t just intimidated by the man—they were terrified of him.
Alice squinted up at the man, trying to get a good look at him, but because he was backlit by sunlight, she couldn’t make out his facial features. He was dressed in black, like the troopers that had attacked her, but his head and face weren’t covered, and around his neck hung a variety of crosses and religious icons, with a large hunting knife was strapped to his thigh. Alice thought of the prisoner with the scarred face and knew the poor man was an example of the blade’s work.
The man in black spoke softly.
“Silence… silence…”
He dropped down into the hold then, his back to Alice, so she still couldn’t see his face. But there was something strangely familiar about his voice, and it gave her an uneasy feeling. The man continued speaking in a soft, calm tone as he went on.
“A fool’s mouth is his sin. And his lips are a snare to his soul.”
He turned to the woman who’d begged everyone to be quiet, knelt down, and grabbed her roughly by the face.
“Shall I save your soul? Cut your lips away?”
He squeezed her lips between his fingers until they bled.
“Please…” the woman begged. “Please…”
The man leaned his face closer to hers. “Bring unto me the sinners. Are you a sinner?”
“No…” The woman tried to shake her head, but the man held her lips too tight for her to do so.
“A dirty, dirty sinner. I think you are.” The man was practically cooing now. He let go of the woman’s lips and put his hand down the front of her ragged blouse. “A dirty, filthy, little whore.”
