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Resident Evil: Quarantine - Part 1 and 2
By Parasaur.w
Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome.
Isaac Asimov (1920 – 1992)
Memo - #45963-DG
To: Staff of Ivory Bay Project
From: Dennis Garrity, head of Research and Development – IB Project
Subject: Contamination procedure and analysis
It should be noted that on Wednesday, the 30th of June, a strain of the T-virus, “T17C-virus” (water born agent, CE, 6/4/2010) was detected in the north quarter men’s bathroom. Andy Porter reported a “funny smell” when he washed his hands in the #2 sink. Minutes later he experienced convulsions, vomiting, and several other noted symptoms of the “T-virus syndrome.” (For full account and documentation of Porter’s symptoms please refer to the Med Log, entry T-v: 147.)
A contamination team discovered T17C in the water. The north quarter men’s bathroom has been quarantined. The water supply obviously has been cut and the anti-viral agent MS7r-01 was administered to kill the detected strain and results were successful. As a precaution, the water supply was drained, the reservoir scrubbed and new water pumped in. New tests detected zero trace of T17C, and the water is safe.
However, questions are being raised as to how T17C got into the water supply. A full investigation is under way. Please cooperate with any Umbrella officials who might question you. Do not take this matter lightly.
Part 1 – Everyday Hurt
As soon as Shea woke up, even though he had tried not to let it happen, it happened. The shimmering, smiling face of his wife invaded his bleary wakening thoughts. He felt the sharp poke of pain, a sudden cold burning deep in his sternum. She died, Shea, let her go.
All at once the six months of torture, the agony, the doctor’s with the fleeting glances and hands in their pockets, those damn MRIs: they all slapped Shea with hard bitterness.
A brain tumor, Shea thought, his unseeing eyes fixed on the ceiling. That’s something you see in a movie. Not on an X-ray.
Coffee: sucked. The morning news: who cares? Toast with strawberry jelly: can’t taste it. And that humming bird, go away. The feeder is empty, you idiot.
Shea shifted his weight and pretended to read the newspaper, but his eyes slid over the words like they were blurred together. His mind was elsewhere. For no reason he picked up the phone. He stared at it for a while, wondering why he had done it. He could hear the muffled tone, quiet and constant. In a little bit, it would go from the smooth buzz to the irritating chirp that always happens when you don’t dial or leave the phone off the hook for too long.
Maybe I just want to talk to someone. Must be.
He dialed the first number that came to mind, and as he was doing so, he decided on a matter that he had been mulling over for the past few days. Feeling for the first time in months the least bit satisfied, he determinedly put the phone to his ear and silently rehearsed. When prompted, he entered the four-digit extension and exhaled.
“Mr. Collins’ office. This is Cheryl speaking,” came the smooth, flowing, and all-too-cliché voice of Doc Collins’ secretary.
“Is Doc available, Cheryl?” Shea said.
The line was quiet for a moment. “Shea?”
“Yes.”
“How are you?” Her voice was still silky, but he could hear her concern. He hated the “worried, softened, and sympathetic” undertone that people had recently started adding to their conversations with him.
Pushing his frustration aside, he answered with the same, polite response to everyone who asked him that question (and everyone asked him that question). “Fine, thank you. I’m working through it.” Of course, he never had to worry that they may not be referring to his wife’s death and the anguish they went through because they always were. Shea wondered if they actually cared.
“Good, good, I’m glad, sweetie. Doc’s in the middle of some paperwork, but I’ll put you through, anyway.” That was another thing: the never-ending favors of pity.
“Thanks.”
“You take care, Shea.”
Before he could reply, she connected him and Doc’s phone rang. He picked it up. There was a moment of hesitance before Doc’s voice said, “Hey there, Shea.”
“Hi, Doc. Listen I –”
Doc interrupted. “Shea, I can’t tell how sorry I am for you, buddy. We all are. Did you get the fruit basket my wife sent you?”
Shea looked at the nearly empty, colorfully decorated basket sitting on the counter. “Uh, no.”
“Damn. She’ll send another. Anyway, how are you?”
Shea’s jaw tightened. “Fine, thanks. I’m working through it. But Doc, listen, I’m not going to be able to come in tomorrow, like I said.”
“That’s fine, Shea.”
Somewhere, in the dark bays of Shea’s sunken and depressed mind, a tiny voice – just like in the books – told Shea not to say it, but he said it anyway. “In fact, I don’t think I’ll be able to come in at all. Ever.”
Shea was suddenly immersed in a cold silence. It was like someone had just pulled the phone chord out of the wall. And if Shea’s personality was at all like it once had been, he would have squirmed at the dead quiet and said something like “well, maybe not ever.” But, today was different. He let the silence hang like a choking fog. Let him gag on it. I won’t crack first.
When Doc spoke, it wasn’t a quivering, broken voice, nor was it a raging, furious bark. Simply matter-of-factly. “I don’t get at least two weeks?”
“No, I’m sorry.” It seemed strange to be talking.
“All right, Shea. I’ll send your last paycheck with the fruit basket.” Doc then hung up.
Shea stared at the phone as if it was Doc himself. “Hmmm.”
Shea had been told, time after time, that the worst was over and Caroline was much happier now, not that it made him feel better. Good for Caroline. She’s in heaven now, and I’m in hell. Everything is just fine.
Also his therapist had told him, no less, that each day the hurt lessens. Each day grew progressively better. What a quaint idea, that one day he wouldn’t give a damn that Caroline shriveled away before his eyes, that his emotional pain almost compared to her physical torture, and that her dying moments were spent awash in her own vomit.
No, no. Everyday hurt. And that was how he wanted it.
Part 2 – Investigations and Tribulations
If subtlety was something that Kevin Lamont was hoping to accomplish, he was more than disappointed. His investigative team had been brutal to the Ivory Bay installations employees. And after seeing a grown man cry as he was shaken roughly by the shoulders, Lamont decided a new tact was probably in order.
He’d seen Porters mutated body. The pictures told a gruesome tale. His pupils, when once were apparently a deep brown hue, had lost all pigment, and somehow acquired a pale silvery tone. Much of his hair had fallen out, and what remained was wiry and gray. His face was host to several nauseating lesions, where his skin was cracked and torn, and the reddish pink flesh that was exposed contrasted bizarrely with his greenish skin. His mouth was agape and was missing some teeth, and a shriveled tongue, the color of avocado, was hidden in the darkness like an eel. Lamont couldn’t shake the feeling of a primal rage, an instinctual hunger as the pictures stared back up at him.
He had his own suspicions of how this travesty occurred. Umbrella hadn’t had an “accident” in over twelve years, since the Raccoon City incident. Not that he knew of anyway. Ironic that Lamont had such a critical position in Umbrella, yet the secrets that were kept from him were countless.
The investigation team had uncovered some in their scrupulous research and analysis. Lamont couldn’t nail anything to floor quite yet, but there were some incriminating documents floating around. No, Kevin, focus on your assignment.
The police report filed Porter’s death as an “accidental death in the work place.” They hadn’t seemed very thorough. In and out, it took less then fifteen minutes. Lamont wondered if the cops had been bribed. Of course he was surprised that Porter’s accident had been reported at all. Umbrella wasn’t above hiding bodies. He knew that for sure. The morality of working for such corruption when it pays so well is a complex thing. On the one hand, Lamont couldn’t remember how many times he turned the other cheek, burned files…burned bodies. Sometimes, it was too much. He was stressed all the time, and when he could sleep, he had nightmares. It was unbearable. On the other hand, he opened every paycheck with a grin. Twice a month he forgot his concerns, his stresses, the horrors he’d witnessed. Lamont often asked himself: is it worth it? In the end though, he nodded to himself, a self-assured grin. Yes, Kevin, it is.
The office that he was given at the Ivory Bay installation was miniscule. That’s what I get. For being the bad guy, that’s what I get. Lamont and his team had been treated like the disease that had destroyed Porter. Perhaps that’s why the unit was so cruel to the employees. But to no avail. Nothing concrete had surfaced.
Lamont propped his booted feet upon the steel desk, groaned, and removed his glasses. A nap? No, just get this over with.
He replaced his spectacles and began flipping through the various reports his investigative team had produced. All of them were bland, long, and excruciatingly similar to one another. So far. He’d read through about twelve of them (about twelve meaning: read seven, skimmed three, and glanced over two). He picked up two more that had been handed to him today and glanced through them. The first one was like the rest. An interrogation, checking time charts, researching suspect history. How dry.
The second was different. The document began as a fax.
ASSIMILATION: Stndrd. Prtcl = T-virus + 17C agnt
CONDITION: Unstable
Reg. DG.457 = Advise?
Notes: When T-virus was spliced with 17C agent, results seemed unstable. The cellular structures bonded but within moments would disintegrate. We tested them in the following substances: Human flesh-NEGATIVE /Canine flesh-NEGATIVE /Amphibious flesh-NEGATIVE*
More tests will soon be administered. Suggestions?
*The T-virus and 17C agent bonded and remained stable for almost an hour longer in the frog flesh, but ultimately collapsed. Tomorrow we’ll test on a live frog.
C. Emanuel
Lamont frowned as he brewed this new information in his head. Porter had been killed by the T17C-virus. The water born virus. So they obviously found a way for the two structures to bond and stay bonded. Lamont flipped the page. It was an interrogation performed by one of his investigators, John Richmond, on Charles Emanuel. For the most part, the account was as dry and boring, but Lamont soaked every last word up. Near the end, some interesting dialogue was recorded. Namely the last few sentences.
JR: And how did you keep it from collapsing?
CE: T17C needs water to survive.
JR: So how do you think it got into the water supply?
CE: We think it’s a “seeker” agent.
JR: What is a seeker agent?
CE: Our most advanced project. We engineered it to be just what it became and it’s out of hands. We destroyed all samples. Except the one we administered to the live frog. We thought the virus died. We thought the frog died as well. So when we put the frog in a holding tank for study, we had no idea, it would spark the virus, and the frog back to life.
Interrogator’s note: He said no more after this. Even after repeated imploring, he remained silent. He also did not seem to be in control of himself. At random moments, he would burst into laughter, immediately after that would secede, he would sneeze. It was very odd.
************************************************************************
Lamont sat stunned for a moment then frantically looked for something else in the report. There was nothing else. But this was it! Everything they had been looking for stumbled onto their laps while they taking a dump. But it wasn’t completely everything. He still had more questions. Especially for Emanuel. He quickly opened Notepad on his laptop and furiously tapped in some questions he planned to ask.
As he entered his sixth inquiry, a horrifying thought dawned upon him: they were going to have to quarantine this entire facility. They were in huge danger. With a choking terror, he estimated nearly everyone in this place was infected already with T17C.
He grabbed a slip of paper and wrote in hasty lettering: MS7r-01. Abandoning his laptop, Lamont leapt from his chair and sprinted from his office. He slammed the composite wood/plastic door open and ran into the long, narrow hallway ahead of him. I need to find Emanuel. I need to find MS7r-01.
Somewhere in that long, fluorescent-lit hallway, between his office and the rickety elevator that he hated, the power went out, and Lamont was engulfed in blackness.
***
More to come...
Written in whole by:
Peter "Parasaur.w" Castello
8/21/2003 5:16:10 PM
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