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Resident Evil: Quarantine - Part One
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 One: Rupture
Chapter 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.
Chapter 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.
Chapter 3 – The Cover Up?
The Umbrella Corporation. Thank God for the Umbrella Corporation. Where would this country be without it?
Sheila Romero was addicted to coffee. This was her third this morning. She stared down at her reflection in the black substance, admiring her own beauty. She then applied just the right amount of half and half and watched as her mirror image disappeared. The cream swirled lazily, dying the coffee, enriching the scent. She ripped open four sugar packets at once, and gently tapped them into the mug. With a thin red straw, she meticulously stirred clockwise five times, then counter-clockwise five times. She sucked the drop of coffee from her forefinger and took a sip. Just right. She gulped a sip more, to ensure that as she walked to her office it wouldn’t spill over the edge.
She walked confidently and smooth, a mellifluous look about her face. She neither greeted nor nodded at anyone she passed in the softly-lit, carpeted halls to her office, even though a few extended that courtesy to her. They all glared at her back.
A corner office. How pleasant. And with such a view as well. She looked out the large window, pleasurably taking in the sunny, Santa Cruz landscape. The beach, all-too crowded, still called to her, and the palm trees swayed gently in the temperate ocean breeze as if they were waving at her. Lovely.
However business beckoned her, and its urge, along with all the money that followed it, could not be trounced by lazy, sun-tanning desires. She sat at her mahogany desk, ran a hand over its glossy finish, and listened to her voice-mail. She had only one. And it was from Daniel, the big boss. The big boss she fucked on a regular basis. Her rosy red lips curled into a grin at the sound of his voice.
“Hello, Sheila, when you get this, I need to see you. It’s urgent.”
Be right there, Danny boy.
She coolly strode into her office bathroom and applied a touch more of lipstick, blush, and eye shadow. She smoothed her dress, adjusted her bra, and smiled deliciously at her gorgeous reflection once again. Whenever Daniel called her and they “rendezvoused” she nearly always received something in return. Be it a raise, a higher position in the Umbrella Santa Cruz Branch, or even a corner office with a view. I’m not a whore. I’m a businesswoman. A smart one.
She then went directly to Daniels own office. She greeted no one.
Gently rapping on the door, Sheila quivered a bit in lusty anticipation. “Enter,” his booming voice said. She entered.
Daniel Doyle was a large guy, nearly forty, but cut and well groomed. He sat behind his desk. Sheila’s heart fell a bit when he didn’t stand and greet her and strip himself of his shirt.
Instead, he leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Sit,” he said, eyeing her legs.
This wasn’t the normal routine, Sheila thought. Damn it, he wants something else. She sat down and crossed her legs provocatively. “Yes, Daniel?”
“I’ve just had an order from Lamont for a full quarantine,” he said.
Putting sex and its perks aside, Sheila knew this was a serious matter. “At the Ivory Bay installation? What happened?”
“We don’t know. I received a call at my home last night at around 11:40. It was from Lamont’s cell phone. He sounded…distraught, anxious…almost panicked. He gave the authentication code, which was DDSR923 in this operation.”
DDSR923. Dan Doyle, Sheila Romero 923, Sheila surmised. He’s not being very careful. Umbrella had strict rules about inter-employee relations. She’d chew on this later. “He didn’t give any details at all?” she asked.
“He’d been instructed not to. I realize now that was a grave error. In any case, he was very serious. I’ve made the call. Ivory Bay is completely sealed. No one gets in or out without an entry password.”
They sat in silence for a few seconds. “Well, what do you want me to do?” she asked. This day was going very fast downhill.
“You need to go there. HQ is going to send us an infiltration squad.” He checked his Rolex. “They’re on their way now, actually.”
“And I’m going with them?” She was flabbergasted.
Daniel rose from his seat in a flash of fury. “You’re the fucking Ivory Bay site manager! What the hell did you think that title meant exactly?” She could see him trying to come up with some quick-witted sarcastic comment, but he couldn’t. So the question was left uncomfortably in the air, instead of being rhetoric, as it would have been had he been a bit wittier.
She struggled with a cool response. “I—well, I obviously knew that there would be some important responsibilities, but I—well, Daniel, are you really going to endanger me like that? D-do you remember what happened to the site manager for the Raccoon City installation?” A chill ran the length of her spine.
He sighed and hung his head. “Please, Sheila, don’t give me trouble. Just go. The squad will be arriving in about thirty minutes on the heli-pad on the roof. Please go meet them there.” He was obviously restraining himself from lashing out at her.
“What about a cover up? For the locals?”
“I’ll call a board meeting. We’ll come up with something realistic. We’ve rehearsed this. I’ll call you. Don’t worry about any contamination equipment. The squad will provide you with the proper suit and a sidearm.”
A sidearm. Oh my God, what I am going into?
She had changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and as she stared into the mirror once again, she saw not stunning beauty, but a trembling lip and a streak of eye shadow running down her smooth cheek.
A walkie-talkie clipped to her waist crackled and an unknown voice said: “They have arrived, Ms. Romero. Please make your way up to the roof ASAP.”
Her heart was racing.
On the roof, a Black Hawk helicopter, long and grim, rested upon the Heli-pad. Like a big, black hearse. Another tear slid down her face. A man in a black jumpsuit with earmuffs, a headset walkie-talkie attached to them, stood between her and the chopper. He beckoned her. The rotor wash from the whirling blades above their heads was incredible. Sheila’s slender body fought against the wind and each footstep slid back a little. When she reached the earmuff man, he grabbed her arm and assisted her to the chopper. She climbed in and sat down on an uncomfortable leather seat, suspended from the ceiling of the aircraft. The earmuff man buckled her in as she stared at the men already in the chopper. Everyone stared back. The earmuff guy slapped her shoulder and gave her thumbs up.
Suddenly the aircraft lifted with a startling jolt. The sound of the rotors was deafening. She could see the men conversing with each other and wondered how they were doing it. Her answer came as a set of earmuffs with a headset, identical to set on the guy who strapped her in, was handed back to her from the cockpit. She put them on. No change. She was still deaf. She looked at the guy next to her. He smiled lightly and tugged on a wire from his own earmuffs that led to the ceiling. She found the end of her own chord, and found the socket in the ceiling to plug it into. Abruptly she could hear tinny, garbled voices, a constant hum of static in the background.
“Can you hear me all right?” said a voice. It was the man next to her.
She nodded.
“You ever been in a helicopter before?” he asked.
She shook her head, still not sure if she spoke she would be heard.
“Well it’s gets bumpy. You may get motion sickness. If you do, you’re lucky. Just puke out the door.” With a smile he pointed to her right, out the open door.
A dizzying spin overtook her as she instinctively looked where he was pointing. They were at least 300 feet in the air, moving across the city. She could still see the beach, fading into the landscape. With a pang of anxiety, she remembered that just an hour ago, she was staring out at the same beach, but from a much more stationary position. She was starting to feel a bit sick.
The man next to her launched into a story about how the first time he rode in a chopper, it was in the same seat as she, and he did puke out the door. He graphically described what exactly the vomit was composed of and how it hit the tail rotor and showered the whole tail of the chopper.
Sheila closed her eyes and tried speaking. “How long will this trip be?” She was surprised at how clearly she heard her own voice as if someone else had said it, and yet sounded so garbled like the rest of the voices.
The man didn’t seem to mind that his story was interrupted. “Ivory Bay is about thirty miles from Raccoon City, on Lake Ivory. Raccoon city is a good hour and a half a way. So, I’d figure…an hour and forty-five minutes. More or less.”
Wonderful, she thought.
Chapter 4 – A Lovely Vacation
Ivory Bay was where Shea grew up. And he loved it. A lot of people try to stay away from their childhood locale, but the crystal clear waters of that expansive and secluded lake, buried deep within a thick pine forest, were where Shea had some of his happiest memories. Besides of course with Caroline.
So screw the depression of that apartment, that city, leave those memories behind. That’s what I need, a lovely vacation on good old Lake Ivory. His duffel bag was only half-full when Shea decided that those were the only clothes he’d need.
Satisfied, he picked up his phone and dialed a familiar number. It rang three or four times before a disgruntled, and groggy voice answered. “Hello?”
“Hey Kelly. It’s Shea.”
“What is it, Shea?” His brother was so pleasant over the phone.
“Listen I’m coming down for a few weeks. Or more.”
“Yeah, sure. Listen, I’m hitting’ the shower. See ya.” He hung up.
Shea grinned. It was nice not to hear some flowery, sugared up voice.
Shea and Kelly were the only two children of Mr. and Mrs. James Lawler, of Rocky Shore Avenue, Ivory Bay. A prominent figure in the community, Jim Lawler had grown up in the inner city, Chicago. It’s difficult for black children to succeed growing up in that setting, but Jim thrived and devoted himself to school. He graduated valedictorian and went to Brown.
He moved to Ivory Bay, set up a quaint pharmaceutical company and was soon exceedingly wealthy. He and his wife Janette had their two boys and life was great.
Thirty some odd years passed and the happy couple moved to their vacation home in the Keys, allowing Kelly, who’d done virtually nothing with his life, to move into their Ivory Bay home, and feeling satisfied that at least one of their boys had made it. Shea. Their prodigy. Their genes to pass on. They had doted on Shea his entire life, and Kelly, being the second child and a natural “I don’t give a damn what you think” couldn’t care less how is parents felt about him. So they all lived happily ever after.
Exit 79. Ivory Bay. Shea maneuvered his Camry through the mid-day traffic, blaring jazz out of his speakers and enjoyably sipping off a Dunkin Donuts ice coffee. This vacation, or whatever it might turn into, would be great. He exited the freeway and felt a rush of reminiscence as he saw the familiar signs, stoplights, and that tiny restaurant that looked scummy and he’d never eaten at. Instead of turning left, toward his childhood house, he went right and drove into the restaurant parking lot.
They were still serving breakfast. It was greasy and scummy and Shea regretted buying it. He left a 50% tip and most of the food still on the plate.
It was a large house. Old and creaky, but pleasant and right on the water. He parked the sparkling Toyota next to his brothers ’78 rusted out Camaro. As he exited his car, Shea wrinkled his nose at the site of that car. “What a piece of shit,” he muttered.
He jiggled the doorknob to the left a bit and entered the house. Familiar scents filled his nostrils, though his eyes were less than pleased. The entryway that led to the kitchen was cluttered with endless fishing gear. There was a narrow pathway through the junk in which one could walk without stepping on anything, and it looked as if it had been there for months.
The kitchen was no less repellent. The number of dishes sitting in the sink was appalling. And flies everywhere. Kelly, where is your sense of hygiene?
He shook his head slowly and proceeded through the house into the living room, where Kelly sat, still draped in a towel, though had clearly been out of the shower for some time, a bowl of microwave popcorn placed precariously on the arm of the chair. He was fast asleep. Shea rolled his eyes and couldn’t stop the smile. He set the popcorn on the floor, and picked up a newspaper that had obviously been stepped on by a wet foot. He rolled it up tightly, reached back, and slapped his brother’s chest. The slap-whump to his bare chest jump-started Kelly from his stillness. “Cut it out!” he barked. He then came to his senses and saw his grinning brother standing over him. “Oh…hey Negro.”
Shea’s smile dropped. “Kelly, we aren’t in the ghetto and we didn’t grow up in the ghetto. Stop acting like the stereotypical black thug and try do something to discourage that image from the public eye.”
“Calm down, Malcolm X. When did you get here?”
“Not five minutes ago. The place looks great,” the sarcasm was palpable.
“Juanita is on vacation,” he quickly put a hand to his mouth, “Oops! Another stereotype! Sorry, Martin Luther!”
Shea slapped his brother again. “Grow up and get dressed, you bum.”
When he flopped down onto the leather couch, Shea realized he was still holding the newspaper. He unraveled the makeshift weapon and read the headline.
This is bizarre, he thought. The headline read:
Brutal Murder of Ivory Bay Man Shocks the Town
He read further.
Ivory Bay deputy Frank Wallace happened upon a grisly murder yesterday afternoon, as he made his routine rounds of the Bay. 38 year old Oliver Crenshaw was found floating face down in the water, near Sergeant’s Marina. He was apparently mauled to death.
“It wasn’t a bear or a dog. There were several human-like teeth imprints along the neck of the victim, along with human fingernail marks across his chest and arms,” says Police chief Vincent Bloom.
Shea stopped reading. Oh my God, that’s sick. Kelly trotted happily down the stairs, apparently happy that he had some company. He noticed his distraught brother. “Oh, you reading that murder story?”
He nodded, “It’s awful.”
“Tell me about it. I saw the guy. Me and Hank just had come in from fishing; we were landing the boat just as the ambulance arrived. It was gross, man. The cops questioned us, but let us off when they saw we didn’t have didn’t ‘have any signs of struggle.’ Anyway, the whole town’s freaked out. Did you know that there hasn’t been a murder in Ivory Bay since 1956?”
Shea felt disturbed. “Do they have any leads?”
Kelly shook his head, “Nada one. The water washed away any fingerprints on the guy and the teeth marks don’t match anyone on record around here. But the cops did get some clues from us. We didn’t see a body when we went out. But the guy had obviously been in the water for hours. He was all bloated and stuff. So he wasn’t dumped after we went out, but he wasn’t anywhere near the Bay before. They have no idea what the hell happened. There’s going to be a town meeting about the whole thing tonight.”
“We should go.”
“You can if you want, but I’m not.”
“Yeah, I guess I won’t.”
“Let’s go fishing,” Kelly’s eyes lit up.
Shea considered this for a moment. “All right, let’s just hope we don’t find any surprises in the bay.”
The boat-launch was about ten yards away from where the guy was found, and police tape was extended from the shore to buoys about fifteen yards into the bay. SCUBA divers were combing the water, occasionally coming up with scraps of garbage: soda cans, empty potato chip bags, a shoe or two. Probably none of it was related to Oliver Crenshaw. Just litter. Shea and Kelly watched a while before asking a Sergeant’s Marina manager to load Kelly’s motorboat into the water.
It was an extremely nice boat, and very expensive. A gift from retired parents.
A boat of that size and power is completely unnecessary for trout fishing, but Kelly liked to be flashy when he could. They loaded the fishing gear and set off, Kelly relinquishing the helm to his brother (“How often do I get to drive a boat like this, Kelly? And how often do you?”). If Kelly was ever one thing to Shea, it was not fair. But Shea supposed this was Kelly’s way of showing him that he grieved for him and Caroline. He was glad that Kelly made no mention of it, nor spoke to him like he was an injured fawn. Maybe it was yet another favor of pity, but this time Shea happily obliged.
They anchored in between the Bay and Blueberry Island, the largest of a string of islands that nobody had ever been allowed to go onto. They cast their lines and cracked open some cheap beers, and let lethargy take over.
Shea was dozing when he heard a distant thumping. He opened blurry eyes and searched for the source. Before long, it revealed itself. A tiny black dot on the horizon quickly materialized into a large helicopter, flying low and flying fast. The thumping soon became loud and forceful, like a machine gun. When it passed overhead, Shea realized exactly how low it was flying. He could clearly make out every feature of the chopper, and could even see the pilots in the cockpit. The sound was now monstrously deafening. And the wind from the spinning blades rocked the motorboat with the ferocity of a stormy sea. He turned to see Kelly standing, shaking a fist at the helicopter and screaming, though he was muted by it. When it passed, Shea could hear what Kelly was gibbering. “-- scaring away all the damn fish! Who do you think you are?”
The chopper came to a hover above Blueberry Island. It rotated slowly, and descended directly down. It soon disappeared behind the foliage of the dense trees. The sound was abruptly cut.
“That’s the second time this week!” Kelly still shouted irately.
“Isn’t that a Black Hawk? What’s the military doing here?” Shea stared at the calm island, half expecting something to happen.
Kelly shook his head in disgust. “Nah, it’s not the Army. It’s Umbrella. They have a facility on that island. God only knows what goes on in there.” He irritably reeled in his line and cast it again.
Chapter 5 – The Machine
With an unsettling CLUNK, the Black Hawk came to rest, the blades overhead grudgingly churning to a stop. The squad within the chopper seemed hastily busy, clipping this to that, loading that into this. No one was paying attention to Sheila. She was hopelessly lost with just the buckle. Why the hell would they make this so complicated? The guy next to her took pity again and unclipped the belt. “Thanks,” she said softly. Shrugging the uncomfortable straps off her slender shoulders felt wonderful. She threw her legs out the large open door and hopped down to solid earth. Her knees were a bit wobbly, but she felt much more at ease. Wait, where the hell am I?
She hadn’t really been looking out the open door, and she hadn’t a clue where she was. Obviously she was on Lake Ivory, at the installation, but was she in the middle of the woods? She turned in circles looking for a sign of human presence, but saw none. Pretty bad for a site manager not to know where the site she was managing was. She felt a twinge of guilt for thinking only of her corner office at those meetings.
The squad began to file out of the chopper. Watching them, she realized how professional they were in every tiny facet. Just the way the walked, carried themselves; every soldier in complete unison with all the rest. The only words spoken were ones of necessity. She could hear them muttering quietly to one another, voices drifting among the black armored troops so that she couldn’t tell who was saying them. She felt like a lonely outsider, a useless part in an otherwise perfect machine. She wandered among the troops, who were nearly all busy with their large assault rifles. Their faces showed no emotion and in that respect she couldn’t tell them apart. None of them showed any notice in her. Not even the man who’d been seated next to her. When she finally picked him out, she almost expected him to be relieved to see her, but she then realized that unlike her, he knew everyone here and was comfortable in their midst.
Even still she stayed by his side.
A few seconds later, a guy appeared from seemingly nowhere, and handed her a black jump suit. “Fitted to your sizes, ma’am.” She smiled, grateful that someone had finally acknowledged her presence.
“Oh, thank you.” She took it from his hands. Doing so revealed a large silver handgun in his grasp. He thrust it out to her, as if she was a part of the team. She shook her head at it. “No, I’ve never—”
“It’s just a sidearm, ma’am.”
Slowly she opened her palm. He laid the gun in it, smiling gently at her discomfort. The thing was surprisingly heavy. She wrapped her fingers around the grip and unsteadily leveled it at the guy who handed to her.
“Whoa,” he said, and quickly pushed the barrel toward the sky. “Don’t ever point a loaded gun at anything you don’t intend to shoot. That’s lesson one. Ma’am, this is a Desert Eagle. I think it may be too large for you.”
Surely the thing felt massive in her hand, but she was empowered by it. “No, I can handle it.”
He looked unsure, but nodded slowly. “All right. Put the safety on, then get into your jumpsuit and holster that beast. Chances are you won’t need it.”
She climbed into the jumpsuit that was rife with useless pockets and zippers, but nevertheless felt better in it, felt more a part of the machine. She was then handed a pair of heavy combat boots, which she laced up enthusiastically. She was beginning to enjoy this. She was surprised to find herself staring longingly at an assault rifle that had been laid on the ground.
One of the few women in the squad found Sheila and handed her a hair tie. “You’ll want it,” she said, knowingly. Sheila fixed her auburn hair into a tight bun.
After that, yet another squad member sought her out and pulled her aside. “Ma’am, I’m Drake James. I’m this squad’s commander. You stick with me. We got a call for a full quarantine. In this business, that’s a very serious thing. It means something has gone very wrong. So it’s imperative that you do not get separated. Chances are nothing will get out of our hands and we can be out of here as soon as you can make a full report. Do you have any questions?”
She hesitated. “What can we expect to see in there?”
James stared at her for a moment. “We’re going to need to fit you with a gas mask. Would you follow me please?” He turned and walked around to the other side of the chopper. Her heart began to thump hard and she followed.
The gas mask was dreadfully uncomfortable, but amazing. The eye lenses were fitted with night-vision goggles that could flip up. She had told them that her prevalent eye was her left, and they adjusted the complex mask so that a bright green display was projected onto the left lens, reading information like their coordinates, squad status, and such. She thought that it would be a great distraction, but it was surprisingly easy to defocus the text and watch where she was going. Breathing was light and easy and in many ways superior to regular oxygen intake. Each breath was fresh, crisp, and cool. Too bad they were so damned uncomfortable.
With the team in masks, she couldn’t distinguish anyone, but to her extreme surprise, whenever she looked at a squad member the green display in her lens would display a small picture of whoever it was she was looking at, and their name would scroll beneath it. It was remarkable.
“All right team, we ready?” James’ voice came from somewhere.
A unified “Affirmative.” Sheila said nothing.
“Into the darkness we go, then.”
He started into the woods, his team trailing behind him like he was the head of a centipede. Sheila, in last, craned her neck to see where James was leading them. It was before long that she found out. A large pile of rocks, stacked unnaturally upon one another, seemed to be their point of destination. The team assembled in a circle around the rocks. The guy she’d sat next to in the chopper pulled Sheila into the near-perfect ring. His name was now revealed to be Stan Larkin. He nodded at her. She gave a tiny nod in return.
Drake James, standing upon the rocks, hoisted the very top stone up, and handed it to whoever was behind him. Sheila peered closer into the dark hole that had been opened. She couldn’t see anything. She thought to use her night-vision, but James acted too quickly for her to do so. He thrust a hand into the crevasse, fished around for something, and then the sound of a rusty crank being turned was heard.
Suddenly, with a grinding rumble, Sheila and the rest of the squad began sinking into the ground. No, we’re not sinking. This is an elevator. This is the secret entrance. The walls around them were not earth, but steel, a bit rusted and moldy. The hole above them was shrinking and it was getting darker as they tunneled deeper into the ground. After a few moments, the ride came to stop. The darkness was consuming, powerful. Almost painful. The light was weak, and Sheila’s knees felt the same. She heard soft clicks around her, and she then realized that everyone was flipping down their night-vision. She copied.
The sight was green, like the movies, and she couldn’t see the transparent green text on the left lens.
James walked towards her, pushed her gently aside and stood behind her. She turned to watch him. There was a door. It was metal, with one large window. Moss was obscuring the view inside. James was punching numbers into a keypad to the right of the metallic door. The code must have been very long, because the faint beeps emanating from the pad seemed to go on for minutes. Unexpectedly, the code was done and the metal door opened with a pop, as if all gases that had been trapped inside were finally expelled. The door swung wide open. Sheila peered into the chamber beyond. Even with the night-vision, the view was murky and dim. A subtle mist appeared to be hanging above the floor.
James without hesitation entered. Sheila being closest to the door was expected to follow. Her heart thundering, she gave a glance at the team behind her, all of who seemed to be staring at her. I don’t want to do this, she pleaded to them silently. She clenched her jaw and followed James.
***
More to come...
This work was written, in whole, by:
Peter (Parasaur.w) Castello
8/28/2003 1:49:58 AM
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