July 24, 1998 – 23:08 hours
Spencer Mansion – Western Hallways
The scent hit Chris first—copper and rot, thick and choking. It clung to the back of his throat like grease, made him want to gag. The hallway was long, lined with faded red carpeting and wooden paneling carved with archaic symbols he didn't recognize. The sconces cast a yellow, dying light. Somewhere in the distance, he could still hear it.
The moaning.
It wasn't a human sound, not truly. It dragged syllables through broken vocal cords, wet and low, like something trying to remember how to speak.
Chris's heartbeat thundered in his ears. Not from fear—he told himself—but from adrenaline. Combat training demanded a calm mind. But this wasn't war. It was worse. The rules didn't apply here.
His back pressed to the wall.
The figures shuffled into view.
Four now.
The one in front was female—had been, once. She was missing most of her hair, and the skin on her scalp was sloughing off in sheets. Her eyes were milk-white, pupils lost in the cloud of death. Her jaw hung at a crooked angle, and blood had dried in long rivulets down her chin, soaking into what remained of her lab coat.
Chris lifted his pistol.
He didn't want to shoot.
Not because he was afraid, but because of what it meant. These had been people. Scientists. Workers. Victims. And now they were puppets—walking meat. Their bodies desecrated. Their minds gone.
But they kept moving.
Slow. Heavy. But relentless.
Chris fired once—into the chest of the leader.
She didn't stop.
Another shot.
Still nothing.
His breath quickened. This isn't working.
He took aim higher.
Crack.
The top of her skull burst outward in a spray of blackened gore. Her legs folded beneath her. The others stepped over her like she wasn't even there.
Chris backed away, fast. Limited ammo. Too many targets. He turned and sprinted down the hallway, boots slamming against the floorboards.
Behind him, the moaning rose again—joined by a chorus.
Main Hall – 23:10 hours
Jill stood near the base of the staircase, hands braced on the cold marble rail.
She was shaking.
Not visibly, not yet. But inside, her nerves were thrumming with electricity. Her mind couldn't stop replaying Kenneth's death—the way his face had twisted at the moment of impact, how the skin around his throat had torn open like wet paper.
And then that thing—that half-human creature chewing on his corpse like an animal. The look it gave her.
Not hunger. Not rage.
Emptiness.
She had seen death before—real, battlefield death. She'd kicked in doors in warzones, seen civilians caught in crossfire, even faced cartel executions in South America.
But nothing had ever looked at her like that corpse had.
"Jill," Barry said, his voice low.
She turned to see him holding something in his gloved hands.
It was Kenneth's camcorder.
"I took it from the scene," Barry said. "Still warm. The battery's fried, but we can recover the data later. We'll need it."
Jill nodded, her voice tight. "Assuming we get out of here."
Barry looked at her. "We will."
The door on the far end of the hall slammed open. Chris burst through, eyes wide, panting, sweat beading on his brow.
"Zombies," he said.
Jill stared. "What?"
"I don't know what else to call them," Chris said. "They're dead—but they're moving. One to the head drops them. Otherwise, they keep coming."
Barry looked grim. "I saw something like that once. During my army years. Village in Africa. People infected with something—they'd move even after you shot them. But that was... different."
Chris wiped his face. "This is organized. I think this place is more than just a hideout. There's a system. Traps. Locked doors. Like it's designed to keep things in—or people out."
He looked around.
"Where's Wesker?"
No answer.
Jill stepped forward. "What if he knew about this? About what was happening here?"
Chris's face hardened. "Then we're not just fighting monsters. We're being hunted."
Dining Room – 23:14 hours
The door creaked open again. Jill stepped in, this time slower. She walked past the rotting table, the mildew-stained walls, and moved toward the grandfather clock. The ticking was louder again.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
There was something... off about it. The hands didn't move. The sound was mechanical, but the source was wrong—coming from beneath the clock.
Jill reached out and touched the ornate woodwork.
The wall clicked.
The clock shifted slightly, revealing a hidden compartment with two slots—each shaped like medieval shields.
She stepped back, breath catching in her throat.
"Puzzles," she whispered. "Locks disguised as games."
She felt her pulse spike with dread. This wasn't just a mansion. It was a labyrinth. Something ancient and engineered. The mansion wasn't housing a secret—it was the secret.
Barry's voice came over the radio.
"Guys. You'd better get back to the hall. I think we're not alone in here."