The Madness Of Brian Irons

Part Three – For Beverley’s sake

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Irons grunted as he heaved the girl’s slender body over-shoulder, tucking the gun into his belt and attempting to scale the emergency ladder with her legs tucked tight beneath one stout arm. Beverley was a rather petite individual, but still, the weight was substantial on his protesting hip and lumbar region. Her arms flapped insensibly as he went, and despite the warm, sticky wetness of her blood against his cheek, her body was a dead-weight, completely inert.

“What will I do now, Uncle Brian?” she pressed his mind hopelessly. “I’m going to turn into a zombie, aren’t I? I’m going to become a monster, just like all the rest of them...”

“No,” he panted, clutching her closer. “I won’t let it happen!”

“But it’s going to happen, sooner or later.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“What will you think of?”

“I don’t know.”

“Uncle Brian, I’m scared. I’m scared of becoming a zombie.”

Pausing for a rest, Irons leaned against the balcony, wiping the moisture from his well-rounded face with one sleeve, glancing briefly around for any sign of danger. Luckily, the virus didn’t lend any greater intelligence to its hosts, else the upper floors of the Station might have been crawling with dangerous mutant flesh-eaters; as it was, he saw only the occasional ‘licker’ clinging languidly to the ceiling or a marble pillar, gorged after a heavy feast, and far too sluggishly to faze him. The lickers were the most agile and irksome of the mutants he’d seen so far, but evidently they were blind, relying on sound and smell to navigate – and were easily distracted by the corpses that now littered the Station. That didn’t stop one from dropping down in front of him, however - almost giving him palpitations in the process. He leaped back as fast as his fatigued vigilance could manage, but there really was no need. The thing convulsed briefly, flopping lifeless to the floor, a stream of gummy pink ooze pouring lazily from a hole in the exposed and glistening cerebrum.

Looks like a bullet-hole...

Irons’ wary eyes scanned the massive lobby for any clues as to the mutant’s demise, but only the blank, reticent grandeur of the hall greeted them. It reminded him – painfully – of how much he’d loved the Station and its bold architectural overtones, its quaint passages and stairwells, lavishly decorated. It had been the main public library once, and one of Raccoon’s most cherished buildings; too bad it had become a hive of activity for so many of Umbrella’s revolting creatures.

He had to get Beverley safe – that was all that mattered now – to his office. And then – well... then he would have to think a little.

Doing so proved much easier than he’d at first imagined. The upper floors had been cleared of any potential threats, and he soon found himself leaning back against his office door, breathing deep gusts of relief, the familiar hint of formalin and dust soothing his taut nerves. He was home now, safe; despite the forced door, there was nothing to surprise him there. Limbs quaking from the effort, Irons approached his desk, placing Beverley down on it with the care and deliberation reserved only for his most prized antiques. She lay there, obedient, like some delicate and fragile dream, golden hair spilling over ashen shoulders, her faultless face a mask of peace.

“You’ll be safe here,” he sighed, leaning upon the desk to ease his back. “If only you hadn’t left to begin with.”

Once more the ghastly sight of her severed stomach forced him to look away, but her voice was silent. The room was just the way it always was, composed and quiet, the way he liked it. Its normality afforded him some recovery, Beverley’s silence lending time to gather his restless, disorderly feelings.

Had she really been speaking to him?

Had Raccoon really been overrun, or was this all some bizarre, whiskey-induced nightmare? He often dreamed of being in his office, away from the banality of the world - why not this time too? Could Umbrella have actually unleashed this plague on Raccoon, turning all of its inhabitants into zombies? A ridiculous notion! And yet...

Beverley was dead. And she had been beautiful, so alive –

Just then, an enormous rending crash resounded close by – so close that the walls of the office reverberated, the lifeless animal heads on the walls swaying with the shock. Irons barely flinched, but he sensed that something disturbingly big had ruptured the corridor, piercing the masonry on the east side of the block. Had he heard voices just before the impact? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Perhaps it was some hideous, overgrown monster roaming the place; he’d heard the S.T.A.R.S. muttering as much only days before. Or perhaps Umbrella had sent in their 'team' in some half-baked attempt to counter the decidedly successful effects of the G-virus - either way, it made no difference; Brian Irons’ life was here in Raccoon, surrounded by his trophies and his animal heads. There was no question of a rescue, of taking the fall for their mistake, he thought grimly.

They’d better not come and try to save me. It’ll be just another part of their plan, so I can take the blame for them, and for Birkin... and after all I’ve done for them!

Well let them come! I’ll take them down myself...

“Uncle Brian?” said a voice suddenly, close by, but not in his head this time; it was beneath him, weak and trembling. Something touched his arm.

“Beverley?” he gasped in bewilderment, searching her face for signs of hungry malice. She had stopped breathing before; yet now she was awake, her eyes flickering, straining to see. There were no signs of decay, no peeling of skin – and yet, she’d definitely been bitten by one of those things –

“What’s happening?” she croaked, eyes half-closed as she tried to remember. She moved to raise her head, to make sense of the blur that loomed above her, but the neck was too weak; instead it lolled to one side, her body restrained under its own weight.

Perhaps she’d only fainted from shock, and now she’d regained consciousness...

“Everything’s fine,” he found himself saying. “Rest now, Uncle Brian is here.”

“My stomach,” she moaned. “It hurts...”

“Just rest. I’ll find something for you.”

Closing her eyes again, Beverley seemed to believe him. He could only wince at the gaping wound, guessing that the pain and blood loss had left her at the end of her strength, though she herself was too weak to see it. Such an injury was clearly fatal, hardly to be rectified even by the most skilled of surgeons, and she was failing fast. It was a mercy, he thought; a mercy that she would soon pass beyond it, that she was beyond saving. The scarring would have been terrible, anyway. And there was nothing here to bind the wound even if there’d been a chance – nothing surgical, save for the instruments in his hobby room...

It would be kinder to kill her now, he thought. Before she turns into one of them. But how can I hurt that dear flesh? Tear that perfect, creamy skin...

“I’m glad you’re here, Uncle Brian,” she said in a cracked whisper.

A wave of emotion rushed over him, something deep, confusing, and something he couldn’t quite place. Guilt, perhaps? Guilt for neglecting her safety, for not staying with her to protect her from the death and the danger that stalked her innocent shadow? For letting it come to this; her pain, disfigurement, and the muzzle of a gun...

Anger, maybe? For Umbrella’s meddling, his own stupidity in allowing them so much slack rope... and now for what they’d done to Beverley. How could he have been so blind? Of all the baubles and works of art he’d collected, she was surely the finest, and the most precious of them all.

"Weren't you going to think of something?" the Voice objected. "You said you would."

“I’m sorry,” he sighed again, rubbing the barrel of the gun to the beat of his harried thoughts. “I don’t deserve to be your Uncle anymore.”

“What do you mean?” she asked feebly, but her eyes remained closed.

“I wanted to protect you, Beverley, but I couldn’t. So you’ll forgive me, won’t you? I brought you somewhere safe, like you wanted. But that’s all I can do. I can’t save you from... from -”

The girl’s eyes opened momentarily to see that Irons’ gun was pushed against her temple, and his eyes were screwed shut.

“Uncle Brian? What... what are you doing...?”

“I can’t! I can’t do it!” he begged. “Not there! Don’t make me!”

How Beverley’s other voice was pleading inside of him for peace, for release, was tormenting him. She was asking him to end her suffering, to end it all before he saw her turn. She said she couldn’t bear for him to see her that way – and he couldn’t.

Somehow he managed to bring the gun away from her temple, away from her frightened eyes, but the Voice wouldn’t stop. Behind her terrible, incessant pleas he heard a distant scream and the crack of the gun, before he sank helplessly down, head in his arms, weeping to her blissful silence.