My wound hasn't healed.
I place my knee under the bath tap, the blood washing away with the run of the water, staining it red as it fills the tub.
It's bigger now, uglier, infected and inflamed, fat tissue peeking through the red flesh underneath. I squeeze to let more of the clotted blood out, a sharp pain tangling in my bones. I wince, turning off the tap and patting it dry with sterile gauze Piers offered from the infirmary downstairs a few days ago.
It's been a week.
A week that I've been living in the safehouse amongst the other survivors. Amongst the B.S.A.A.
A week without Leon.
The mansion is big, endless from the inside, but cozy—the foyer lit up by a warm chandelier, contrasting the flood of camouflage from the B.S.A.A. people. There are different doors to different rooms and hallways, two kitchens and two dining halls and multiple rooms on all three floors. It reminds me of the mansion from Resident Evil 1—only less creepy, less like an endless maze of horror.
I haven't explored it much, only staying in the confines of the room Chris placed me in as soon as we arrived, coming out whenever they called for food in the dining area. I haven't talked to them either or seen them much. They're always lost in a sea of camouflage and rifles, gliding through the corridors and rooms, talking about rescuing more survivors from the nearby towns.
The room is small, but not smaller than the motel rooms Leon and I have stayed at—wooden floors and a queen sized bed in the middle. The bedframe is lacquered wood, the nightstand mahogany and the closet oak.
There's a certain air of fragility in it, even amidst the strict protection of the rescue operatives and the reinforced walls of the house. I'm an exposed nerve waiting to be struck.
Every night I'd wake up in a cold sweat, expecting I'd be back in my apartment and everything was just a nightmare. But it doesn't happen. I keep waking up there. On that bed, with the weight of this world on my chest and the pain of my wound.
I'm beginning to forget.
Beginning to lose the details of my old apartment. What the wallpapers looked like, the position of my TV in the living room. The color of the carpet under my couch that I slept on for weeks when I found out Elliot was getting married. And it terrifies me.
I'm not supposed to forget.
It's the only thing I have left of reality. The only thing I have left to come back on that has nothing to do with this world. The only thing that feels real.
But I'm afraid it doesn't anymore.
I wrap up my knee with a fresh roll of bandages, tugging it snug and secure.
A series of knocks rap on the door outside, my head snapping up. I push myself from the edge of the tub, limping my way out of the bathroom and to the door.
When I open it, Chris stands on the other side.
What is he doing here?
"Hey, did I pull you from anything?" He chimes.
I glance to the room, and then back at him. "Not really, no. What's up?"
"Just wanted to check up on you. Do you have a minute?"
Hesitation flickers in me.
I've been alone in this room since I was put in it, I've practically memorized every single dent and scratch on the floor. And I'm sick of it.
"Yeah, I got a minute." I step out, closing the door behind me.
Chris marches across the corridors, boots heavy on the lacquered floorboards. I limp behind him, holding onto the walls for support. The hallway is teeming with survivors and rescue operatives, ones I recognize from passing but haven't really talked to yet, the mansion buzzing with chatter and footsteps.
He leads me out to a backyard—an empty clearing in the back of the mansion, the woods looming just beyond the same barbed wire fence, the light grey skies beating down the soil. The distant chirps of birds echo from the trees. No more are the footsteps of boots and feet inside the mansion, mixed in with muffled conversation bleeding through the walls.
Just serene, quiet.
We stroll slowly, the soil crunching under the weight of his boots. I let my eyes wander. Two camouflaged men and women stand near the fence, talking, not paying attention to us.
"So how are you holding up?" Chris speaks, back still turned to me.
"I'm okay, I guess. Not zombie food yet." I reply flatly.
He chuckles softly. "That's good. That's the last thing we need right now." He mumbles. His gaze lands on my bandages. "What happened to your knee?"
"I injured it. Jumped off a window a week ago. I was with Leon."
He just nods and keeps walking.
A breeze blows on us—the pungent scent of soil and leaves sifting through the air.
My mind swims back to Leon, and an ache spreads in my ribs. "Have you heard from Leon at all?" My voice falters.
"Not yet." He stops in the middle of the yard, looking far out into the woods. He crosses his arms. "It's been radio silent out there in the past week. We're not even getting anything from Washington."
No news from Leon?
I should know better than to worry. Know better that he's more than capable of beating every adversary that comes his way.
And maybe I do know better. But something about his absence fills me with pain. Something about not having him there in the same room when I wake up.
And it's crazy because we were only together for a few days. I've spent longer in the safehouse than with him.
"Don't worry about him. Leon's a tough one, he knows how to take care of himself." Chris puts a hand on my shoulder, softly squeezing. "We're going to try to radio the town again for survivors. Maybe he'll pick it up and inform us of his whereabouts. Either way, he'll be okay."
I exhale through my nose, letting my shoulders drop. "Thanks, Chris . . I really appreciate it."
"Don't mention it, Illa."
He lets the comfortable silence sit between us for a moment, just standing there, the cold noon breeze cool on the skin.
"So how did you guys know each other?" He looks over at me, a tinge of curiosity written on his face. "Old RPD colleagues? Police Academy?"
"Uh . ." I stammer, rubbing the back of my neck. I'm definitely not going to tell him the truth. Leon didn't even believe me, let alone Chris Redfield. He might as well hold a gun to my head. "He rescued me from my apartment a couple of weeks ago. Took me in." I nod.
Chris raises an eyebrow and stares at me for an eternity, processing my words. I know him better to be aware that he doesn't believe me. And maybe that makes me more suspicious than just telling the truth.
"It's complicated." My chuckle comes out shaky, clasping my hands together.
"It's alright, take your time. You don't have to give me your whole life story if you don't want to."
"Maybe you should ask Leon when he arrives. He'd say it better than I will." I shrug.
Leon wouldn't tell him right?
A shadow of doubt slithers over his eyes. "I'm not gonna lie, you've really got me curious. If it's that difficult to explain, I'll have to interrogate Leon when he gets here." He smiles, but there's a hint of something else in it.
Quick, heavy footsteps close in on us—a BSAA soldier named Flint. He stops dead in front of us, hands on his knees. "Captain!" He pants. "We rescued more survivors two towns away. One of them is injured!"
Chris's expression falls into worry. "What happened?"
"The girl was stabbed by a piece of shrapnel while escaping. She's bleeding out."
"What?! Where's the medic?!"
"Silverson was K.I.A'd after the Alison County incident. There's no medic left in the safehouse."
"We're running a safehouse with fifty survivors without a medic?!" Chris's voice pierces through the yard and Flint flinches.
Stabbed by a piece of shrapnel and she's bleeding out? That's a double whammy of external hemorrhage and tetanus poisoning.
Maybe even sepsis.
"I'm sorry, Illa. I have to go and check the survivors. Are you going to be okay here?" Chris turns to me concerned.
The diner flashes back to me—the chaos, the squelch and spray of blood on the dining floor when zombies came staggering from the kitchen. The waitress gasping for air on the bar whilst clawing at her throat.
I didn't even do enough to save her.
"Where was she stabbed?" I speak before I can think.
"What?"
"I'm a Med student, maybe I can help."
Chris opens his mouth to say something but decides against it. He nods at Flint.
The girl is at the infirmary in the mansion basement, her wails ripping through the white concrete walls as Chris, Flint, and I pace to the door.
She's on one of the gurneys, face glistening with tears and eyes wild with pain. She's young, probably sixteen or seventeen—a man and a woman holding her hands on either side. Probably her parents.
Her arm is slashed open, yellow fat and red muscle tissues exposed, silver pieces of metal embedded deep in the flesh, the white sheets of the infirmary bed puddled with a pool of dark red.
The skin is already greyish, her lips pale and cracked. I move quickly—gauze, bandages, saline, forceps and tourniquet, my hands shaking as I rummage through the infirmary supplies. I check vitals, her pupils are blown wide, her heartbeat elevated and her pulse quick in her neck. Her breathing is fast and shallow but no signs of obstruction. If the shrapnel came any closer, it would've struck her in the chest.
I put on some gloves and apply pressure first to stop the bleeding, using the sterile gauze and pressing on the wound. Her cries cut through my ears, clawing at my wrists to stop me, a few scratches landing. Her parents restrain her against the bed, comforting her, telling her it's going to be okay.
The bleeding doesn't stop too much, still pouring from the blown blood vessels but slowly thinning out. I hesitate to douse her cut with saline. She's going to get feral if I do that. Nonetheless, the pieces of metal stuck beneath the skin is going to infect her to death.
I douse the slash with saline and she screams, trembling and writhing against the infirmary bed. I do my best to keep my hands steady, taking the pieces of shrapnel out of her arm one by one. Her breath hitches at every one of them, gasping for me to stop and leave her alone.
When I'm done, I clean the wound, making sure there's no more pieces of metal between the folds of her muscles and fat. Eventually, she falls silent, just laying there, breathing still shallow but from pain. I stitch her up, tying every single inch of thread secure to close up the slash.
By the time I finish the last stitch, she's passed out, hair stuck on the sweat of her face, head on her mother's hand. I give her a tetanus shot from the medical supplies just in case.
I sink onto the floor in the corner of the infirmary, taking in a sharp breath, my hands numb, thrumming with pressure from the previous procedure.
At least she's good for now. She's not going to die, but she'll need to be on antibiotics for a while.
A hand latches onto my shoulder. It's Chris. "Good job, Illa. You saved that girl." He flashes a smile.
"Didn't know we had a doctor in the house." Piers comments from behind him.
I roll my eyes. "Not a doctor yet."
"Hm, close enough." Chris shrugs.