RF0 Chapter 6

A thick mist clings to the ground. The others aren’t kidding about it being spooky. Rebecca is acutely conscious of every footstep, yet the mist almost seems to make things quieter. It will be much too easy to get lost among these trees. The voices of the others sound faint.

Rebecca’s radio crackles, and she turns it down. A twig snaps, and her heart pounds more than it should. She’s not afraid of the dark, but the woods at night are the opposite of relaxing.

She holds still. “Anyone there?”

Something moves ahead. Rebecca puts her hand on a tree trunk and steps over the roots in time to see a figure move out of sight. She has a job to do.

“RPD,” she calls out, lifting her flashlight. “I’m with the police. I’m not here to hurt you.” She follows, keying her radio. “Movement in my sector. I’m taking a look.”

She spots lights and breaks into a jog. Suddenly, she’s on asphalt. This is a road, and the lights mean vehicles. The cars are strange, lumpy shapes in the dark. Rebecca hurries up to find two military police Humvees. The engines are still running and the headlights shine blindingly on the mist.

“Hello? RPD,” she calls out as she circles the vehicles. The one in front has blood on the grill. There’s more blood on the road. Rebecca sweeps her light around, but there’s no other sign of an injured person or animal. She grabs her radio. “Guys, I think we have a problem. Got a couple of Arm vehicles on the road. It’s got to be that prisoner transport. Right?” She leans into the back of the rear Humvee. Leg shackles lie in a pile on the floor. “So watch out. There might be some MPs out here. And a fugitive.” There’s a clipboard. “A, uh, Lieutenant Billie Jacques.” This was mentioned in the briefing, but Rebecca hadn’t realized this prisoner was being taken to be executed. That’s awful.

She turns to look around, then squints. Lifting a hand to block the glare from the headlights, she spots something else glowing in the night.

Light means people. Rebecca steps off the road and jogs into short, damp grass.

Part of Jill’s interest in this property was the evidence she found of large amounts of materials being quietly moved. With that in mind, this train isn’t what Rebecca expects. It’s old-fashioned, at least on the outside, and there’s no cargo. The cars all have plenty of windows, all glowing yellow. There’s not a single shipping container in sight.

The train isn’t moving. Rebecca rubs her nose, which tickles as though her allergies are flaring up. The stillness is so strange. The train seems vast, or maybe the dark woods just make Rebecca feel small. She grips her radio. “This is Rebecca again. I found a train. It’s not moving.” She licks her lips. “Big Umbrella symbol on it.”

The radio crackles, and Carla speaks. “Rebecca, we need to find those MPs and their prisoner. That convoy gives us all the PC we need. Check it out and report back.”

“Copy,” Rebecca says. “How do we even still have trains anymore?” she mutters as she hauls the door open. It would be one thing if the US had bullet trains like Japan, but this is the opposite of that.

It’s warm inside, although the air smells ripe. “Oh, man.” She climbs aboard and pulls the door shut. The train is definitely old-fashioned. The seats are 1980s style, upholstered with seatbelts and big buckles. Gaudy, faux-candlelight fixtures hang from the ceiling. Rebecca wrinkles her nose and the carpet squishes underfoot. There’s a dark stain, but it isn’t blood. She smells ammonia, body odor, and something else. Sudden lightheadedness makes her grab the nearest seat to steady herself. She feels a hint of the excitement that she sometimes feels around Jill and the captain.

She stops herself there. She needs to be sharp and attentive, not swooning while thinking about what happened in Captain Wesker’s office. She desperately wants to swoon. Instead, she straightens up. This train cannot be deserted, and someone here will have some answers.

The sound of breathing makes her stiffen.

“Hello?” she says uncertainly, using her thumb to pop the snap on her holster.

A woman emerges from between the seats ahead. Her business clothes are rumpled and stained.

“Oh.” Rebecca is momentarily at a loss. “Are you OK?”

The woman fixes her with an unearthly, red-eyed stare. The sound from her throat is more like a growl than a human voice.

Rebecca’s fingers tighten on the grip of her gun. “RPD,” she says, and is struck from her left by another woman, who lunges from between the seats. Rebecca is bashed against the opposite row, and she crashes to the carpet.

Rebecca rolls over and struggles, but the woman on top of her is aggressive and strengthened by adrenaline. A hard, gray penis protrudes from torn slacks, dripping. The woman claws at Rebecca’s pants.

“Hey! Oh!” Rebecca tries to kick her off, thrashing. She rolls onto her stomach to crawl away, feeling clammy hands grabbing at her. The pouch in the small of her back and her duty belt make the zombie’s job more difficult, but there are two of them. Rebecca freezes as the shadow of another erect cock crosses her face. The other zombie kneels, bringing her cock in. Rebecca tries to push her away, then grabs for her gun. She gasps as the one on her back presses her flat with her full weight on top, pinning her wrist. Drool falls on her face as an erection rubs against her clothed bottom. The zombie humps her desperately while the other one moves in again, fixed on Rebecca’s mouth.

The one on her back is suddenly pulled off. Rebecca grabs her gun and lunges upright, throwing her shoulder into the other zombie, sending her tumbling down the aisle.

She turns to find a woman in jeans and an undershirt, grabbing the first zombie by the hair. She deals a sharp blow to the zombie’s face with her knee, and the zombie drops in a limp heap and doesn’t move. The woman pushes Rebecca aside and launches a roundhouse kick to knock the other one cold.

That done, she sighs and pushes shaggy hair out of her face. She’s taller than Rebecca, and obviously stronger. A couple of odd, rectangular tattoos decorate her bare arms—it looks like she’s had some ink covered up. She wears an unfriendly expression, and a pair of handcuffs hang from one wrist. She looks pretty different from the relatively clean-cut photo that was in the MP file.

Rebecca swallows. “Billie Jacques.”

Thunder rumbles, and rain begins to patter against the windows.

The woman looks tired. Her shoe is on Rebecca’s Beretta. She moves her toe so that the STARS emblem on the grip is visible. “And you’re a cop.”