Identity
folder
+M through R › Resident Evil
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
6
Views:
3,722
Reviews:
10
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+M through R › Resident Evil
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
6
Views:
3,722
Reviews:
10
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Resident Evil or any of its characters. Capcom et al. own the creative rights to all of them, and I am in no way making a profit from any of these writings.
Drifter
“No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks.” -- Mary Shelley
The only dream he ever remembered was of a windy grey sky. He couldn’t tell how long ago he’d had it, and that was how it was with recurring dreams; whether you just woke up from one or had it a year ago, it felt the same. People always talked about how much they loved sleeping, but there wasn’t much to love about grey skies and wind.
He walked along the train tracks and glanced at his compass. His boots crunched gravel and dirt, the air was flat and sticky, and birds chirped morning song from their homes. The freighter was due northeast. He had about half an hour until it reached marker 36, and another twenty minutes while they loaded and checked inventory. After that it was three hours to Baltimore. If he was lucky, he’d get some shut eye.
The strap of his bag felt loose and uneven. He stopped walking and placed his bag on the ground. The buckle was broken and the nylon strap was tearing at the edges. Kneeling over, he adjusted the strap and replaced it over his shoulder. One by one, he pushed off of one foot and stepped with the other.
—two three four. One two three four…
The bag felt light. His mouth tasted mint toothpaste and he thought of the things he’d need to buy. He thought of how much money he had, and suddenly his wallet felt light, too.
A thick drop of rain splashed the crown of his head. He ran a hand through his hair, along his face; he’d have to hold off on the barbershop visit for a bit longer. There was a community center in Baltimore where he could shower and clean up.
His stomach growled under his jacket. Unzipping his bag, he took out a protein bar and unwrapped it. He downed half of it before tucking it into his pocket. Reaching back into his bag, he grabbed a water bottle and took a few sips. Rationing was practical as much as it was a discipline.
Cigarettes were also good—calming and appetite-reducing. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a smoke from his pack. Only three left—he needed more of those, too. He grabbed his metal lighter and flipped the top. On the reflective surface, he saw a letter B along the front. He sparked the cigarette and let it rest in his mouth as he walked. A lingering speck of food and water caught the smoke and he was hunched over coughing. He spat the cigarette to the muddy ground, and he fixed his eyes on it as he rode out his cough.
Rain soaked his head and his lungs settled. He straightened his posture and inhaled oxygen. He looked down to the ground and spotted the tobacco traitor.
Cancer sticks.
He felt a weight compressing his lungs as he continued along the tracks. He needed to cut back and start running again. Soon as he got the money, he’d invest in some decent sneakers. Unemployment had its benefits, but paychecks weren’t one of them.
The freighter bellowed from the southwest. He looked over his shoulder and stepped along the gravel. He’d stay in Baltimore for a night or two until he got some cash. After he stocked up, it was D.C.
He pulled out a pocket map and unfolded it. A trail of black ink marked the tracks, and the nation’s capital was circled at the end of the eastern freight line. There were other cities he could do, countless small towns and villages he could disappear in—
He folded the map and slid it back into his pocket.
It had to be D.C. Uniforms, weapons, chain of command—no matter where he went, the feeling was always there, reeling him in. It was like an itch that wouldn’t go away, an old song he knew the words to, impossible not to sing along. He’d pretty much decided to hell with them a long time ago, but he found himself wondering how angry he still was. They screwed him over, but they were still part of him.
He thought about how long he’d stay in the District. Cities were expensive, but he’d learned plenty in Atlanta and New York.
No more than five feet in front of you.
—but first, Baltimore.
The rain grew heavier and louder. The freighter whistled and crows chirped at the intrusion. He stopped walking. His ears perked up and he turned his head to the cawing noise. He dug his feet into the gravel and tensed his muscles. He listened to the trees.
It’s okay.
The wind fluffed through his hair, picking leaves up off the ground. He checked his watch, checked the sky—faintly lit, slowly coming to life. He kicked a protruding railway spike, adjusted his bag on his shoulder, and resumed his trek.
It's over.
The tracks were his family, reliable friends he could always count on for rides. Even in bad weather, they saw traffic. He was a drifter drifting through life, and they were a perfect fit for him. Lieutenant William Coen was dead, and the dead weren’t allowed to live.
Rain fell and soaked the ground. He looked up at the windy grey sky and frowned.
* * *
The only dream he ever remembered was of a windy grey sky. He couldn’t tell how long ago he’d had it, and that was how it was with recurring dreams; whether you just woke up from one or had it a year ago, it felt the same. People always talked about how much they loved sleeping, but there wasn’t much to love about grey skies and wind.
He walked along the train tracks and glanced at his compass. His boots crunched gravel and dirt, the air was flat and sticky, and birds chirped morning song from their homes. The freighter was due northeast. He had about half an hour until it reached marker 36, and another twenty minutes while they loaded and checked inventory. After that it was three hours to Baltimore. If he was lucky, he’d get some shut eye.
The strap of his bag felt loose and uneven. He stopped walking and placed his bag on the ground. The buckle was broken and the nylon strap was tearing at the edges. Kneeling over, he adjusted the strap and replaced it over his shoulder. One by one, he pushed off of one foot and stepped with the other.
—two three four. One two three four…
The bag felt light. His mouth tasted mint toothpaste and he thought of the things he’d need to buy. He thought of how much money he had, and suddenly his wallet felt light, too.
A thick drop of rain splashed the crown of his head. He ran a hand through his hair, along his face; he’d have to hold off on the barbershop visit for a bit longer. There was a community center in Baltimore where he could shower and clean up.
His stomach growled under his jacket. Unzipping his bag, he took out a protein bar and unwrapped it. He downed half of it before tucking it into his pocket. Reaching back into his bag, he grabbed a water bottle and took a few sips. Rationing was practical as much as it was a discipline.
Cigarettes were also good—calming and appetite-reducing. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a smoke from his pack. Only three left—he needed more of those, too. He grabbed his metal lighter and flipped the top. On the reflective surface, he saw a letter B along the front. He sparked the cigarette and let it rest in his mouth as he walked. A lingering speck of food and water caught the smoke and he was hunched over coughing. He spat the cigarette to the muddy ground, and he fixed his eyes on it as he rode out his cough.
Rain soaked his head and his lungs settled. He straightened his posture and inhaled oxygen. He looked down to the ground and spotted the tobacco traitor.
Cancer sticks.
He felt a weight compressing his lungs as he continued along the tracks. He needed to cut back and start running again. Soon as he got the money, he’d invest in some decent sneakers. Unemployment had its benefits, but paychecks weren’t one of them.
The freighter bellowed from the southwest. He looked over his shoulder and stepped along the gravel. He’d stay in Baltimore for a night or two until he got some cash. After he stocked up, it was D.C.
He pulled out a pocket map and unfolded it. A trail of black ink marked the tracks, and the nation’s capital was circled at the end of the eastern freight line. There were other cities he could do, countless small towns and villages he could disappear in—
He folded the map and slid it back into his pocket.
It had to be D.C. Uniforms, weapons, chain of command—no matter where he went, the feeling was always there, reeling him in. It was like an itch that wouldn’t go away, an old song he knew the words to, impossible not to sing along. He’d pretty much decided to hell with them a long time ago, but he found himself wondering how angry he still was. They screwed him over, but they were still part of him.
He thought about how long he’d stay in the District. Cities were expensive, but he’d learned plenty in Atlanta and New York.
No more than five feet in front of you.
—but first, Baltimore.
The rain grew heavier and louder. The freighter whistled and crows chirped at the intrusion. He stopped walking. His ears perked up and he turned his head to the cawing noise. He dug his feet into the gravel and tensed his muscles. He listened to the trees.
It’s okay.
The wind fluffed through his hair, picking leaves up off the ground. He checked his watch, checked the sky—faintly lit, slowly coming to life. He kicked a protruding railway spike, adjusted his bag on his shoulder, and resumed his trek.
It's over.
The tracks were his family, reliable friends he could always count on for rides. Even in bad weather, they saw traffic. He was a drifter drifting through life, and they were a perfect fit for him. Lieutenant William Coen was dead, and the dead weren’t allowed to live.
Rain fell and soaked the ground. He looked up at the windy grey sky and frowned.
* * *