Run Like Hell

If Only

"Ain't no angel gonna greet me... it's just you and I, my friend..."

9

Glancing into the rear-view mirror, Leon noticed that Sherry had finally fallen asleep. More than four hours had passed since they parted company with Claire, and the dim warmth and muffled drone of the engine had finally claimed her senses. At first, she had been very quiet - too quiet for a kid her age, Leon thought - staring blankly out of the windows at the landscape being swallowed by the gathering night. Then he remembered that she'd lost both her parents to Raccoon, and Claire, who'd been looking after her - her lifeline - had gone too. Now she was alone, really alone; a lost little girl that didn't look to be much past twelve years old... he could only guess what fear and loneliness she was damming back.

At least she seemed to take some comfort in that fact that he was a cop - a good guy- and that they were finally free of the City and its unnamed terrors. Even so, he saw she was still doubtful, even while trusting to Claire's judgement... clutching desperately at the threads of some tattered wish, or glimmer of hope sorely tested - perhaps nearly extinguished. He was glad when he saw her asleep, lost in a deep, exhausted slumber that suffused all apprehension, her arms loose, head resting forward on one small shoulder.

But what now? he thought anxiously.

Take her somewhere safe... but where?

Not Nevada, that's for sure - it was indolent enough for him to go to ground there briefly, yes - though Ms. Wong had picked up the scent of Umbrella's grisly celluloid leftovers easily enough... but Walker and his FBI buddies would be another matter. And who knew what other vultures were watching, waiting for their moment to swoop?

He knew one thing: Nevada wasn't nearly remote enough to stave 'them' off for long, once their minds were set. They were looking for Ada too, that was obvious; and while their surveillance folks had screwed up somewhere down the line, he knew the calm wouldn't last. Ironically, the sheer enormity of the Raccoon tragedy had afforded him a temporary reprieve, but when it all blew over they would come for him... sooner rather than later if they figured out what had happened back at the Haze. Ada had had no trouble in tracking him down... it would be a walk in the park for Them.

And now he had Sherry on his hands to take care of, at least for a few days...

Birkin's daughter.

So she's the kid of those scientists who created the plague in Raccoon? Way to go, Mom and Dad...

A wave of pity for little Sherry Birkin struck him, and a half-imagined horror for the parents she must have once looked up to with trusting, innocent eyes; for what lies and optimism she must've clung to, now ultimately stripped away - and for the desolate life that she would live from this day on, an orphan...

And then, another thought crept up on him:

If she's Birkin's daughter, then 'They'll' probably want her too...

But I can't keep on driving forever, his mind argued. I've got two full gas cans in the back, sure, but...

Where can we go...?

Leon closed his mind to questions and tried to think of somewhere safe. Some place Umbrella wouldn't or couldn't follow. And while he tried not to think of Ada and where he guessed she might have gone, she crept constantly back into his thoughts, haunting him in and out of consciousness more relentless than so many faceless Raccoon fiends.

10

Sherry yawned and wiped her eyes sleepily. Her neck was stiff from sitting upright, and for a moment she thought she was back at home - her home, waking up to the sound of Daddy's snoring. But that was bizarre in itself - and Daddy never came home these days, he was at the Chemical Plant most nights... perhaps he had come home this time?

She blinked. She wasn't at home - she was in the back of a hire car with faded, peeling window stickers, blinding sunlight streaming in and burning the seats - and somebody was asleep in the driver's seat, snoring faintly.

"Leon?" she mumbled, the memory of their dark journey over the flat, featureless scrub rushing back to her.

Leon looked dead beat; she had to pat him on the shoulder to wake him up. He mumbled something incoherent as she pawed at him agitatedly, the sudden jolt in his wounded arm jerking him awake.

"Leon, why are we stopped?"

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed, grabbing the wheel reflexively and making Sherry jump with fright. Then he remembered. "Uh, I mean..."

"It's okay," Sherry giggled nervously. "I am twelve, y'know."

"Right..." he grunted, frowning and looking a little confused. "Didn't mean to sleep this long... musta been bushed."

"Where are we? Are we lost?"

Leon screwed his eyes up a few times to shake off fatigue and cast about for the map. He scrutinised it briefly, then passed it carefully to Sherry. "There," he said, tapping his forefinger about half an inch below four winding lines in red ink, meeting in a cross.

"Wells..." Sherry read aloud. "Is that where we're going?"

"Yup."

"Do they have a store there? I need a drink..." she pleaded. "And I gotta..."

"Can you hold on?" he asked, handing her a bottle of water he'd brought along with him from the Motel's vender, loosening the top. Sherry took it gratefully.

"I think so."

It would take no more than a quick half-hour to reach Wells, he figured... although it was daylight now - no breaking the speed limit. He laughed inwardly at the thought of being pulled over by some salty-faced patrol cop in mirror shades. He couldn't be the cop anymore; couldn't afford to get noticed.

"Let's get going then," he rapped, twisting the ignition key firmly. The engine whined, stuttered, and petered out with a sigh like a tired beast. "Come on," he implored it quietly, "not NOW..."

"Maybe its out of gas?" Sherry suggested.

"Yeah," he blinked, recalling briefly. "We covered 'bout four hundred K last night... not bad."

Sherry watched absently as Leon lugged out one of the big 5-gallon cans from the back and tinkered with it. Taking a deep gulp from the bottle of slightly warm (but otherwise heavenly) water, she was too absorbed in the immediate relief to worry much about whatever perils lay ahead - if Leon could get the car started at all to meet them. She resigned to the notion that Leon could do anything - he was a grownup after all - and while most of the grownups in her hometown had not fared so well, he and Claire had her wide-eyed respect and admiration. He was a policeman too... and with that fearsome-looking gun he carried around with him... no, nobody would mess with Leon. Not even zombies or monsters...

After fifteen minutes they were on the road again.

"Thanks," he said, smiling into the rear view mirror.

"No problem," she answered coolly, mimicking the composed police-officer voice he occasionally slipped back into. Not that he had had much practice at it since joining the R.P.D. ...

"Do I really sound like that?" he laughed.

"Uh-huh," Sherry nodded and giggled.

11

Ada sat outside a dusty drive-in on the main route to Roosevelt, the morning pale and cool and so pleasant that she just had to stop for a cigarette on one of the white plastic dining tables. She'd promised herself she'd quit so many times it was laughable; a curse, perhaps, that meant she'd never give up. Even the sign hanging over the roadside, so rusted that the lettering was gone and only the faded image of a California gull remained, wasn't as old as that promise. Not that it really mattered... anymore.

So calm and quiet here...

Not only that, but Trent hadn't called for some time now - not since well before the 'incident' - before John's death. Perhaps he thought she was dead too; anyhow, his silence was both welcome and infuriating. He'd sent her into that hell; possibly knowing damn well just what was going on - and now, conveniently, he was nowhere to be found. He'd done it again - played them all for a pack of fools - and was probably sipping cocktails with a skinny blonde on some beach by now. Somewhere very far away from the whole messy affair.

I'm not getting paid for this...

No, you're not, she thought bitterly. If anything, you're the one who's paying...

She glanced at her wrist, rubbing at a small, red puncture mark near one of the darker veins. It wasn't swollen - not yet. How long did it take, anyway?

I can reach Chicago in time... in time to get the vaccine from Wesker.

Wesker - that asshole...

She stubbed her cigarette out on the edge of the table as she thought of him; the twisting curls of acrid smoke causing her to wrinkle her nose at the smell. Wesker... whatever deal he had, it was not with Trent. And with the girl - Birkin's daughter - now in his sights as well, Ada found herself loathing him even more. He was crazy - a brilliant agent, but a goddamned lunatic, nonetheless. Who else would inject himself with a dormant strain of the T-virus and try to fake his own death at the hands of a Tyrant? Yes, he faked his own death, escaped retribution, disappeared into the wide holy Blue Yonder... only to sell out to one of Umbrella's top European competitors. If only she'd picked up on it earlier, if his eyes weren't so fathomless behind those shades... she'd have told him to shove the offer up his own greedy ass.

There had to be something else - something else besides money driving him...

Or maybe he was just insane.

...Whatever, she mused. It's not my concern. My concern is pretty goddamn close to home this time.

Ada closed her tired eyes, tilting her head to the clear skies and its wisps of cottony cloud, allowing herself the moment. She might never feel the warmth of sun on her skin again, or breathe the free air for much longer...

And time was precious.

So why was it so comfortable here, alone, in the void of the world, minute and insignificant beneath the immeasurable blue? Where the shadows were driven away at last, and the breathless, endless chase seemed so fruitless and distant...

Time - if only I had a little more of it.

And if I did...?

Her thoughts turned to Leon. He deserved better than a second callous rejection... he was a good kid - seemed to radiate a sort of decency and integrity she'd long since lost - untouched as yet by shadows and sin; and if she'd been a better woman - if she'd had the time - she would have gone with him. Yes, she knew that now; that was what she wanted, what she'd always wanted in her heart. To escape somewhere, anywhere... to abandon this deceitful, tiresome, smothering charade - quit the game, God forbid. Could've made a life anew, together maybe. She didn't care about the money... what sort of life they would lead didn't matter...

He loves you. Or at least he thinks he does...

It was crazy, sure - but...

- But you can't.

He deserves better. Better than you. He doesn't know it, but you do.

And anyway, you're not human anymore, you're...

Tears came much more freely now; because she knew she was losing it - her gritty composure crumbling inexorably with each breath and every mile she'd gone. In acceptance, she'd hoped to banish the beast of self-pity; that she'd at least be able to go out strong, even after so many failures, so much selfishness, in one last great act of self-centredness. Yet now she knew she'd be denied even that.

Yes, Leon deserved better.

Ada barely found the strength to stand and stagger back to her car, choked with a sudden treacherous remorse, shedding blinding tears that ran free like blood for what could have been - and for the pain she knew was to come.

12

At midnight on September 30th, the U.S. Secretary of Defence gave the final Order. All citizens dwelling within a one hundred and fifty mile radius of Raccoon City, Utah, were evacuated and moved to temporary shelter; all roads leading to the city were detoured and barricaded permanently at minimum safe distance of seventy-five miles. Martial law was declared in the region in the interests of peacekeeping and National Security.

Daybreak, October 1st, 1998: the U.S. Government ordered a one-megaton hydrogen bomb unleashed over the epicentre, vaporising everything - living or otherwise - within a distance of ten miles.

From his back seat in the chopper, Walker gazed on at the searing flash and the beautiful, terrible plume unfurling, crawling slowly up into the glowing sky. Silent, yet strangely appeased, he leant back against the bulkhead, exhaling carefully, and closed his heavy eyes for a moment.

Raccoon was no more.

13

Leon pushed open the dirt-blasted glass door, wincing at the jangle of cheap chimes and garish old trophies hung haphazardly from the walls and windows. It reminded him vaguely of Kendo's - only this was Dan's - and from the looks of it, Dan was into his hunting all right. A bunch of desiccated rattler skins grinned hollowly at him from bobbing hooks above the door; antlers and a bear hide were nailed askance to the counter, the desk itself dominated by a huge, rather decrepit-looking moose head. Stepping cautiously inside, he detected the faint, familiar scent of cordite and kerosene, but the dusty interior resembled an abandoned museum more than it did a gun store, everything wan and benign in the sunlight.

"Hello?" he began, loud and deliberate, glancing around for signs of life. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a wolfish dog - looking for all the world like it was stuffed - suddenly leaped up and snarled at him.

"Shaddap, Nellie!" came a rasping yell from a back room beyond, and the dog slunk away. Leon breathed hard, half-amused at himself and the way he'd darted back so fast.

Spooked by a dog, after all I've been through...

Its owner emerged a few seconds later - Dan, presumably. He was an elderly man, thin and leathery-skinned, with small, coal-black eyes and grey stubble on his blunt chin. He wore a lumberjack and crumpled black fishing hat with bright-colored lures stuck in it, and he eyed Leon doubtfully from under the brim.

"What can I do for ya, son?" he ventured hoarsely.

Leon put his Desert Eagle down firmly on the counter between them. ".50 cal rounds," he said, point-blank.

Dan looked dubiously from the Magnum-shooter to Leon in his dusty get-up, face covered in scratches and looking a hell of a lot like some dishevelled kid on the run from the Law. The kid read his expression immediately, pulling something out of a jacket pocket - a new, shiny-looking wallet with a photograph of himself inside, but smudged and stained with something that looked suspiciously like dried blood...

"I'm a cop," the kid assured, fixing the store owner with a sober stare.

No badge.

Dan picked it up with a bony hand and scrutinised it, casting a sharp look outside at the car and the little blonde girl curled up in the back, then back at the kid.

"Whatever you say... Officer," he grunted disparagingly, and shot Leon a look of heartfelt mistrust.

He didn't buy it, though cops carried Eagles sometimes - but he wasn't about to blow a sale, either. Whatever the 'Officer' was up to, it wasn't any of his business, and the kid didn't seem eager to hang around telling him. Sniffing loudly, he shuffled off into the back room, muttering to himself.

"Lessee... .50 cal... .50 cal - Myra, where'd you put the dang A.E.'s?" he shouted, and a rough woman's voice floated through from what sounded several rooms away, jabbering and incoherent.

"Speak up, dammit," the old man hollered irritably from the bottom of his tobacco-ravaged lungs. "My ears ain't worth a shit, 'n' all you can do is mumble."

Eventually he returned and spilled a small boxful of loose .50s onto the scarred wooden counter, watching Leon impassively as he loaded up. The smooth, practiced movements with which the kid filled the clips somewhat reassured him; he was young, early twenties, maybe... but he obviously knew what he was doing. Didn't mean he was what he said he was, but it was something.

"I don't often go huntin' with an Eagle," the old man confessed, when Leon emptied the box. "Not really my kinda weapon." He flashed his crooked, nicotine-stained teeth, the toothy grin reminding Leon quite suddenly of an elderly dog his grandparents had once owned.

Just then, Myra emerged behind him, dusting off a floral apron that was somewhat dwarfed by her enormous bosom. "Why didn'tcha tell me we had customers?" she snapped, to no-one in particular.

Dan gave her a look of undisguised annoyance, as if suddenly deciding he preferred the company of Leon. "This is... Officer..."

"Scott," Leon answered curtly. "...Drunk and disorderly patrol."

Drunk and disorderly... that's a good one, Leon thought, grinning inwardly.

"Well now, ain't that just fine," Myra responded, her impatience melting away as she swept Leon with quick, keen eyes. "You can take mah sorry excuse for a husband wit ya, for starters. Right now."

"I told ya, I quit last month," Dan protested feebly as he was ousted from the counter. "I ain't touched a drop."

"You knows you're going to Hell for breachin' the ninth Commandment, Mister," she returned acidly.

Back in the car, Leon breathed a sigh of relief, partly from the satisfaction of having five full ammo clips, and otherwise glad to leave Dan and Myra to their wedded bliss. They seemed almost to have forgotten him, until he handed over a few bucks, and before he'd even left they were at loggerheads again, in the way only people who were painfully accustomed to each other could...

But he felt glad, too. At least they could go on quarrelling, surrounded by the familiar and safe; never knowing or suffering the ghastly fate that had befallen Raccoon's hapless citizens.

Because they were all dead. Obliterated. He heard as much on the radio... a hundred thousand people gone, just like that, and a smoking, two hundred foot crater where the center of the humble city once stood.

Umbrella.

He could feel the anger rising in his chest when he thought of it.

Now that Ada was gone for good, he found a silent fury growing inside of himself, nurtured daily by having to conceal his intent from just about every other human being he met. He felt like a criminal, hunted and reviled, and already he'd begun to avoid other people like he suspected them of some malevolence. In fact, since 'that' night, something had snapped deep inside - changed him fundamentally; and he knew, subconsciously, that things would never be the same again. Not for him. Or for the world, for that matter.

But it wasn't his way, and it felt wrong - horribly wrong - that he should have to run away. He hadn't become a cop to fly in the face of danger, and he sure as hell hadn't become a cop to end up rotting in some Government safe house... or worse.

All because of those bastards from Umbrella.

And Birkin.

Suddenly he thought of Sherry, asleep again on the back seat after the biggest cheeseburger and fries she'd ever been bought.

He was doing it to protect Sherry, wasn't he?

I'm not running. I'm keeping a promise...

A promise to find somewhere safe, till Claire got back. Umbrella could wait - there'd be another time.

Right. So let's get the hell out of here.

Leon bit his lip and turned the key.

14

Ada wasn't feeling too good. Despite the chilly evening air blowing through her hair, she felt hot, prickly beads of sweat were breaking loose and trickling down her back, plastering the loose shirt to her skin. She pulled to the roadside for a breather, leaning back against the car's bonnet to ease her shaking legs.

I'm losing it, she thought.

How long before it takes me over completely?

It was pointless even trying to guess, because, for all the information Trent had been inclined to relay on the layout of facilities and technical specs, he never once mentioned the possibility of becoming infected. Ada hadn't stopped to consider it either, having arrived in Raccoon a full two days prior to the outbreak; but from what she'd seen, she knew it couldn't be the T-Virus. T-Virus carriers became mindless within two hours of infection, and the G-Virus was even faster.

Delayed action, perhaps?

How could she make it to Chicago in time, if it was already beginning to manifest itself?

She took a few deep gulps of the cool, invigorating air - felt like drinking champagne after the stench of all that fear and death. It smelled like pine needles and turned earth and mold - a pleasant, natural smell. A smell she wasn't all that used to.

And hadn't her sense of smell seemed keener of late...?

Ada closed her eyes and thought of home. Her very own home in Chicago, a decent, clean apartment, save for the odd item of clothing strewn about the place, and an empty bottle of amaretto on the glass-topped coffee table. That was how she'd left it - what now seemed a lifetime ago - and it was still there, waiting for her. Couldn't she simply go home, to her own bed, and die there in peace?

That ever-calm and calculated thinking had begun to crack - strange fantasies seeping in, dancing in its stead; feelings of dread and elation crept up her spine, mingling, conflicting in her brain. An almost overwhelming urge to scream shook her - to scream until her head burst, or her lungs gave out, or someone, anyone, came to take her away. Away from the dark and latent fear, leaching relentless into every crevice of her soul like a searching poison.

Yes. I'm losing my mind. I must be.

I'm going to die, horribly - and nothing can stop it.

Except Wesker.

Yes, that was the deal, wasn't it? Get me the girl, and I'll give you God...

Ada laughed - an expletive devoid of mirth. It was all so clear to her now, as if a mist had suddenly lifted from her eyes. Wesker was using her, of course; subtly leading her by the nose into a trap, ever manipulative... And she'd been so busy trying to manipulate him, assuming control, so absorbed in keeping one bound ahead of him... that she'd failed to grasp the dumb and glaring certainty: running straight into the open mouth of the lion. There'd be no pick-up at the end, no walking away from this one. He'd kill her, rather than give her the vaccine.

So preoccupied with the idea of putting a bullet between his eyes that you missed it...

"Stupid bitch," she admonished herself, through bursts of joyless laughter. "You really thought - "

You really thought you were going to win?

You lost, sugar.

He'll kidnap the girl, and he'll go on living - another of Umbrella's nameless freaks... living until someone decided that he'd caused enough problems...

"I wanted to kill him," she breathed, addressing the stars, the dormant silence. "For what he did to me - for bringing me to this..."

Too late. It's too late now. Pretty soon you'll be -

She sniffed, angrily, blinking back stubborn tears. What use was it to wonder what kind of end awaited her? Now that it came to it, it was hard to think straight at all. About anything.

And then - again - she thought strangely of Leon. Leon knew where the girl was - that was what Wesker had said, wasn't it? That the girl was a viable G-virus carrier, that Leon knew her whereabouts -

...And just how - and when - did Wesker discover that?

A sudden pang of suspicion arrested her thinking, before the numb realisation finally dawned - Wesker had been watching her, following her, since their escape from Raccoon. How else would he have known about Leon's escape? About the girl being a carrier? She'd never told him where she was going, the night she tracked Leon down at the Haze Motel... being so damn preoccupied with the idea of stealing whatever tidbits she could before double-crossing him. Wesker had been watching, tailing the cop and the woman and the girl he escaped with all along.

Which meant -

He wasn't in Chicago at all. Couldn't possibly be. Somebody else would be waiting for the pickup there, ready to pop a cap in her ass.

Wesker was loose...

Revulsion hit her like a massive wall, then rage, bubbling up from within, feeling like cold, seething fire. She reproached herself savagely for her own stupidity, her own blindness. But more vehement was her disgust for Wesker and his constant betrayals, that furtive, wolfish grin -

She brought her fist down hard into the bonnet of the black sports car, again and again, pounding the cold, alien metal with tight, white knuckles. There was no pain, even when the blood came; just a dull, bitter ache. She collapsed against the car again, not knowing whether to laugh or scream or cry, but knowing one thing for sure...

...Screwed.

I'm screwed, Leon's screwed... and the girl's most definitely -

But...

Maybe you can help them, warn him... do something good...

Ada smiled through knots of anguish, for once surprised. Now there's a thought. Strange coming from you...

Yes. I kept his number. He didn't know it, but when I left that note, I tore off the end. I wrote his number on it - I guess I felt something after all.

Hell with Wesker. Hell with his fucking vaccine.

Something good -

She pushed herself away from the cold metal, balancing carefully on her long, slender limbs. She was feeling a little better now, despite the turmoil within; the wind had chilled her, giving her system a sobering slap, and the prickly, nauseous feeling had all but receded. She sniffed again, smoothing clammy hair back from moist eyes and slipping mechanically back into that calm, composed skin that was Ada Wong.