AutumnXd
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CHAPTER 39
🕑 Added 2025-06-23 16:04:57 +0000 UTC"You sure about this path, son?" Dr. Ashford leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. The old man's eyes held that particular weight that came with too many years of watching brilliant minds make terrible choices.
Ward didn't hesitate. "Dead sure. Look, I've been obsessed with bionics since I was a kid, but the T-Virus? That's game-changing shit right there." He gestured toward the window, where Raccoon City sprawled below them. "Umbrella's been playing in this sandbox for decades. All that research, all those breakthroughs—it's sitting right here, waiting for someone smart enough to use it."
And stupid enough to get close to it, he didn't add. But that was the beauty of his plan. Ashford was brilliant, sure, but he was still just middle management. The real power—the real access—belonged to the founding families. Dr. Isaacs was a psychotic nightmare wrapped in a lab coat, but Alicia Marcus? She controlled half the company and had daddy issues to spare. A recommendation from her father's old friend would open doors that twenty years of ass-kissing couldn't.
Ashford's weathered face creased into a frown. "It's dangerous territory. The kind that swallows careers whole."
"Everything worthwhile is dangerous."
A long silence stretched between them. Finally, Ashford nodded. "I'll make the call. Can't promise she'll bite, but I'll give you the introduction. Until then, you're still my assistant. We clear?"
"Crystal." Ward grinned. "Oh, and I'm gonna need a bigger budget. Can't revolutionize science with pocket change."
"Done. Your little serum project has the board throwing money at us like confetti."
One month later
Raccoon City was dying.
Not literally—not yet—but Ward could feel it in the air. The city had developed a fever, that electric tension that came before everything went to hell. Umbrella's PR department was working overtime, spinning stories about "minor chemical incidents" and "routine security exercises." The black vans were multiplying like bacteria, and the news kept reporting "isolated incidents" that weren't so isolated anymore.
Ward buried himself in his work. His lab had become a fortress of steel and science, the only place that still made sense. Meanwhile, Ashford had basically become a hermit, spending every spare moment with Angela. Smart man. He could read the writing on the wall.
The writing that said: Storm coming. Take cover.
Deep underground, in the facility they called the Hive, someone fucked up. Big time.
The T-Virus got loose. The Red Queen—Umbrella's supposedly perfect AI—decided the best way to contain a viral outbreak was to turn the entire facility into a tomb. Every single person inside died. When the cleanup crew finally breached the Hive, only two survivors emerged: Alice and Matt.
Umbrella's response? "Excellent. Let's experiment on them."
Project Alice was born. The Nemesis Program kicked into high gear.
And then—because apparently mass murder wasn't enough—some genius decided to unseal the Hive.
What could go wrong?
Everything. Everything went wrong.
The dead came pouring out like water from a broken dam. Lickers, zombie dogs, and shambling horrors that used to be human—all driven by an endless hunger for living flesh.
Umbrella hit the panic button. VIP evacuation protocols activated. Dr. Ashford got hauled out of his house like luggage. On the way out, Angela's convoy met with an "accident"—a semi-truck that came out of nowhere and turned her car into scrap metal.
But Angela survived. Enhanced by the T-Virus cure, she walked away from a crash that should have killed her instantly.
Ward? Ward got forgotten. No extraction team. No phone call. No "thanks for your service, here's your golden parachute."
He was officially expendable.
Three days into the apocalypse
Ward was putting the finishing touches on his masterpiece when lunch arrived. The microbot armor was finally complete—two years of work compressed into a suit that could stop bullets, deflect blades, and shrug off zombie bites. Missiles were still a problem, but you couldn't have everything.
The delivery kid looked like death warmed over. Pale, sweaty, with eyes that couldn't quite focus. There was something wrong with the way he moved, too—like a marionette with half its strings cut.
"Dude, you look like you need a hospital," Ward said, keeping his distance.
"Nah, I'm good." The kid's voice was slurred, dreamy. "Got bit by some crazy fucker in Chinatown, but it's just a scratch."
Ward looked at the wound on the kid's arm. "Scratch" wasn't the word he'd use. "Festering hellmouth" was more accurate.
"Right. Let me grab some cash." Ward backed toward his lab, every instinct screaming danger.
The delivery kid watched him go with hungry eyes.
In the lobby, the new security guard—a thin, nervous man in his fifties—emerged with a trash bag. "Hey, kid, take this out for me?"
The delivery boy turned. Smiled. It wasn't a human smile.
"What's wrong with your—"
"RAAAAHHHH!"
The scream that followed wasn't human either. It was wet, desperate, and cut off way too quickly.
Ward was already moving. He slapped the neural interface headband onto his forehead and thought the command. The armor against the wall dissolved into a swarm of black particles, flowing through the air like liquid shadow. The nanobots enveloped him, hardening into sleek black plating with gray accents. The faceplate sealed with a soft hiss, and suddenly the world was overlaid with data streams and threat assessments.
"Time to earn your keep," he muttered, heading for the door.
He opened it to find two heat signatures swaying in the hallway. Through the infrared filter, he couldn't see the blood, the torn flesh, the terrible hungry look in their eyes. They were just targets now.
"Hey!" he called out. "You guys still want that tip?"
Both zombies turned toward his voice. The delivery kid still had gore dripping from his mouth. The security guard was missing most of his throat.
They charged.
Ward raised both hands, palms out. "Invoice paid in full."
Two silent pulses of concussive energy. Two heads exploded like ripe melons. Two bodies hit the floor with wet thuds.
"Efficient," Ward noted, examining his palms. "But energy-intensive. Need to work on that."
Back in his quarters, the armor's faceplate flowed away like liquid mercury. Ward grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV.
"—mysterious attacks spreading throughout the downtown area—"
"—authorities maintain this is an isolated rabies outbreak—"
"—police are asking citizens to remain indoors—"
The screen showed chaos. Zombies pouring out of burning buildings. Cops emptying their clips into things that wouldn't stay down. Citizens screaming and running and dying.
Ward reached for a bag of chips, then paused. On screen, a zombie was enthusiastically devouring someone's intestines.
He put the chips back.
Thanks for nothing, Umbrella.
The city was falling apart, and he was stuck in the middle of it. Alone. Forgotten. With nothing but his wits, his armor, and a really strong urge to make someone pay for this clusterfuck.
He leaned back and watched the world end on live television.
This is going to be interesting.
