Killshot ✷ Leon Kennedy

001. Unburied

       THE EARTH'S SOIL WAS PLAGUED with the rotting bones of the dead, and the torrent of rain was interrupted by your pensive sighs.

And yet, still the rattling of skeletons, the pouring rain, and your bothered exhales weren't loud enough to awake the cursed, sleeping village that were lengths away from you.

Here you were, back against a wall, pistol in hand, the cool metal against your palm doing nothing to settle your spiking nerves. You've done this countless times before. But the prickling fear always seems intent to stay.

But you also lived for the fear, and the adrenaline rush that came with being an agent. You've grown so in tune with your terror that it became another weapon for you to point and shoot with. Though sometimes you found yourself staring down the barrel of your own gun if you weren't too careful.

Don't let yourself get carried away this time.

A clear, firm command from your superior.

You were to follow the rules. You had to. If you wanted to keep your family safe.

You swallowed, still in your defensive stance against the back of the house. The rumbling and banging you heard from within the walls earlier ceased, silence settling in its place. It seemed like the wind stopped howling at the same time. It was your cue to move in.

You quietly pushed open the door, stepping foot into the house. You checked your right, keeping your gun close. Silently you moved through the house, eventually reaching a room. The crackling of a fire could be heard from behind the door. Other than that it was eerily silent. You slowly open it, the creaking door making you cringe with its loud noise.

Walking in you see the body of a gruff, sickly looking man on the floor. His neck looked broken, and his head was bent in a very unnatural way.

Someone was here before you.

Your senses heighten, your grip on the handle of your gun tightens. Kai's briefing of the mission didn't seem to include any anomalies, let alone another variable in play with you. You didn't want backup. You didn't even need it.

Asking for help was never an option ever since Raccoon City.

Keeping this in mind you walk around the room, looking for any clues that could help with your search. You peer into the cauldron above the fire and see a disgusting mix of animal and some broth. Or maybe it was mud. Or . . .

Holding back a gag, you continue looking around.

A tiny splatter of crimson on the stone floor catches your eye. You kneel down, viewing it closer. The splatter had a clear, straight line run down its side, indicating that it splattered on something else. Whatever it was, it wasn't here anymore. Something small, definitely.

The person before you must have taken it.

Now they're really getting on your nerves.

With a huff you get up, walking out the room. You turn the corner but are met with an ax to the face.

You move your face away from it, taking the swinging man by surprise as you quickly sidestep him, twisting his arm against his back, using your other hand to unsheathe the knife on your thigh and stick it right in his throat. He crumbles easily to the floor.

Wiping away the spray of blood on your face you kneel down, pulling your knife out of his neck. Turning him over on his back you see his red, glazed eyes and a frozen face.

You knew there was something off about him the moment you felt his ax's blade just centimeters away from your nose. His swing was precise, too precise for a zombie. He never made any groaning sounds, or recklessly slashed. He was smart; he knew what he was doing. And yet . . . he didn't. He was possessed by something. Judging from his red eyes it wasn't anything good.