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Empty Eden	By : maiafay376 Category: +M through R > Resident Evil Views: 4591 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Resident Evil or characters therein. I do not profit from this story. Original characters and new Plaga species are mine

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
-Chapter 2: Facets of the Past-
He dreamed.
Helicopter blades. Silent. Rotating. Fire ate his legs, a faint twinge of the agony it had been. Darkness coiled around him. Uroboros, unable to flee his flesh, his rage.
The smug expressions of Chris and Sheva. Tiny faces. Far away, yet close enough to touch. The sweat beaded on Chris' upper lip. The powerful urge taste it. He shuddered, growing hard. Everything rippled in flames.
Snow falling. He lay on his back in a sea of white, one gloved finger tracing a figure eight. Beginning and the end. The snow never touched his face. Big flakes. Like stars falling. His breath plumed ice crystals. Black diamonds.
A mailbox in the middle of a vacant street. Gifts in his arms. Red and green wrapping. Golden bow. Another year of hard work. His contingency plan. Inside glass tubes shimmered gems. Obsidian. Deadly. Would melt at the human touch. Not mailed to government, or even to the rich. He gave to the poor, the ignorant.
All over the world. A secret Santa.
Merry Christmas.
Let fate decide who was naughty or nice.
The volcano. His hell. The helicopter, a white speck in the sky. Fools. All of them. The rockets had missed. He was alive. Burning, but alive.
Inch by inch he crawled from the hot soup, his would-be molten grave. The memory of the pain had him screaming. Snow falling here, too. This time it touched his face, cooling, turning to soot. His fingers dug into the earth. Uroboros used his body as a cave to hide. A wary, exhausted beast. It hissed one word.
Live.
He opened his eyes. Sunny bands on the carpet. Jagged glass reflected prisms on the wall. He lurched to his feet and into a corner, his hands denting the plaster. His breath came in rasping spurts.
Assess.
Carpet ripped, revealing scratched hardwood floors. Gouged wallpaper. Tar stains over the walls, ceiling. Smells assaulted him, a festering slaughter house. His stomach cinched in dismay.
In the wrecked bathroom, he heaved. Fingers clutched the sides of the filthy toilet. Glass cut into his knees. The window gaped, a distorted mouth where teeth hung in pieces, tongue in ribbons. Close to fainting, his forehead on the toilet rim. Inside, bile mixed with purple. It smelled wrong. Not blood. Good. Inhale through nose. Exhale through mouth. The breeze outside cooled his sweat. Refreshing. Sweet.
Downstairs, the Unworthy gurgled.
He hauled himself to his feet. Left his mess. His clothing on the floor, scattered. Boots, MIA. His body armor? Ruined. It reeked of offal. Dried slime crusted the torn edges. He would have to find something else.
No bodies left behind. Just their blood. Purple trails of mucus. The scientist in him ignored his aches and complaining stomach. He went into the kitchen, rummaged through the termite-infested cupboards. Found a dusty shot glass. He collected enough mucus to fill it halfway, and covered it with plastic wrap.
Plastic. The ever versatile resource.
Dizziness ebbed. Then left him entirely. His stomach quit turning itself inside out. He traveled through rooms without fear. Past experiences told him they would not return until dark. Cliché. Did they sleep in coffins? Fear the cross? Holy water? He chuckled without amusement.
The Unworthy babbled, reminding him of its presence.
The stair railing, once white, now covered in mold. Moisture from the broken window had encouraged fungi, small plants to sprout between the cracks in the wood. Details he had missed last night. Understandable. He had been...preoccupied.
Below him, the Unworthy ambled in circles. It bumped into the walls, disturbed the ivy growing there. It tasted the leaves, then spat them out. Noises like a cooing baby. Endearing. Strange. He thought of reasons for its behavior. Had he...damaged it somehow? He could not deny last night. Even with the haze, the surreality of it all. He had summoned it. His own personal golem.
The implications. Too many. He had avoided these creatures all these years. Never tried to make contact. Unthinkable. They were Unworthy. Beneath him.
Still saved your worthless ass, though, didn't it? Chris said. No face this time. Just his impudent voice. Shouldn't you say thank you? Give it a hug?
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" When he spoke, the Unworthy stopped moving. Its coos ceased. Its bulk shifted upward, swaying. Sightless eyes studied him.
I think it's waiting for orders, sir. Maybe you should make it carry you down the stairs? Feed you grapes? Fan your delicate pale skin?
"I will do nothing." Even in death, Chris provoked him. He was the worst of the voices. His ghosts. Excella was tolerable. Even desired...at times. But even she was prone to fits of shrill ranting.
The pretend, the perfect imitation of the real.
Listen to him. Musing on echoes. Giving them motivations. They were dead.
And you murdered us, Chris and Excella whispered.
The Unworthy reached for him. One tendril slipped around his leg. Tentative. He stomped on it with his bare foot, goo between his toes. It shrieked. Fluid spinning motions. Black splattered, oozed. It crashed into walls, ripped free the dangling chain lamp above, and burst through the patio doors, taking part of the wall with it.
He followed this flailing, liquid child. It howled again. Movements sporadic, wild. A porch swing tipped over. A rusted table flung into the fence. Grass and dirt scattered in clumps.
This temper tantrum, because he had spurned it?
It regained its senses. Or seemed to. It swayed to a halt. Limbs dropped. Twitched. Then it tipped to one side. Inch by inch it tipped until it slumped over, a giant black wedding cake melted by the sun. Patches of gray spread over its flesh. Ash. Entire surface consumed within seconds. It uttered one last, wrenched cry.
Then died.
On cue, the wind.
The wedding cake became sand.
He sifted through the remains, saw purple glitter among the ash. It became clear. It had been poisoned. By them. The Unworthy must have tried eating them, or they had stung it.
The results, fatal.
Monarchs, Albert. Butterflies with poisoned wings.
He resented these plagas. These new mutations. It was practically cheating.
Getting a taste of your own medicine sucks doesn't it, Captain?
Ghosts. He did not answer them. The purple glitter went into another shot glass. More plastic. His coat pocket would shelter the samples for now. His sanctuary wasn't far, a small Tricell clinic a few blocks away. Too bad it didn't have running water. He was thirsty.
Still barefoot, he left the house.
Birds outside, trilling new songs. He would have observed them in normal conditions, catalog any unfamiliar species –
His walk faltered.
His notebook. In his bag –
In the gas station bathroom.
He spat one word. Birds alighted, squawked at him in rebuke.
Oh, potty mouth. It's your own damn fault. Chris laughed in his head. Chased by vampire plagas and you fall apart. Shoulda left that bag in your hidie hole, eh? Poor baby. Better get back there, and see if they left it in one piece. God forbid if they took Samurai –
He reached the gas station in record time.
Inside, no bodies. Just like the house. What remained were blood stains. Toppled aisles. Packages of mummified food. A destroyed coffee station.
The bathroom.
He slammed open the door, looked, then slammed it again. And again. And again. It fell off its hinges. He picked it up and threw it through the wall.
For Samurai, he peered under the displays, under the hot dog island, behind the resister counter, under fallen racks. Searching became a frantic, labored pursuit. Sweat poured. Breathing changed to panting. Nothing. Not. A. Damn. Thing. He stood there in the station, shaking. Gone. His gun. His bag. The last six years of personal reflection. Species gathering. Gone.
Stolen by flower-mouthed idiots.
Something worse than fury possessed him. Worse than rage.
A brittle twig to begin with, his restraint snapped.
"Why? Why the hell my bag and gun?" he shouted at the empty station. "For what purpose? They don't use weapons! They can't even form coherent sentences! Father. Come play. Nothing but drivel. Nothing but nonsense!" He flipped the last standing aisle on its side. Relics from the Old World flew over the floor, garish logos meant to attract the eye, but they repelled his. Syrup dribbled from the soda fountain. Sugar. Preservatives. He tossed it through the window. "Parrots. Mimics. Mimes. Chemical misfires from the host's decomposing brain. Empty-headed, smelling pests! Why couldn't you all just fucking die?"
Darling, darling! This is unbecoming. Excella at his side, purring, a cat trying to sooth her master. Calm yourself.
"No! I despise them all!" Another crash. The cash register shared the soda station's fate. Faded bills fluttered between the rusting shells of cars. "They fed on me. Put their filthy mouths on me. And then they steal my work? For what purpose? None! My journal is gone! Samurai is gone – and that gun was mine! Kendo made it for me!"
Yes, it was beautiful. Excella stroked his cheek. He swatted her hand away. The hot dog display. He intended to pummel that next. She whispered in his ear. Warm breath. Inviting. Her words began to make sense. But it was only a weapon, Albert. Just a hunk of metal. Frivolous. You are ranting about things you cannot change. What's done is done. Begin again. Move on. Adapt. Be stronger, smarter than they.
Fingers to his forehead. Trembling. Moisture on his cheeks. Not sweat. That sobered him, brought him back. He closed his eyes. Gathered himself. Took a long breath. Better. Much better.
Screaming at no one had parched his throat. In the bathroom, he bent under the faucet. Drank like a horse.
Rusty water had never tasted so wonderful.
Woodward Avenue. Highway. Six lanes. Now, a sylvan paradise. Over his shoulder, a new bag. A black and gray monstrosity designed for the gym. It should be full. He shouldn't be able to zip it. Inside, samples from the house in proper containers, hygiene products, grooming items, rechargable batteries, bottled tap water from the gas station (the reason he had been there in the first place), another solar lamp, digital camera, USB flash drives, and new clothing courtesy of Meijer.
Three items missing. The substitutes he had gleaned from the store could not compare.
He had packed in haste. Outside the Tricell clinic, handprints on the dirty windows. Dozens of them. No forced entry, but they knew.
A miserable cloud hung over him. Pessimistic rain. Sullen thunder.
Excella called it, "brooding".
Chris called it, "pouting".
He preferred, "pensive".
Morning temperatures had started off mild, sunny. Mid-afternoon, thirty degrees cooler. Snow flakes drifted. Michigan weather. Obnoxious. Long treks like this made him wish for a plane. No longer possible. Three in the past year, sabotaged by them.
To taunt him further, his stomach gave a fierce, growling kick.
Add another grievance. Hunger.
The pangs had begun in the Meijer stockroom, where he foraged for paper supplies not nesting material for rats, or eaten by bugs. He ignored the human urge, beset by more crucial objectives. Samuari. Journal. Notes. It would retreat, only to circle around and attack again. Vicious beast. Relentless.
The longest he had gone without eating. Five days. It had been only two. The cause was obvious.
Their venom, thief of his strength.
He appeased his ravenous appetite with a promise. Sustenance wasn't far. To the southeast, the scent of fur and blood. He had spotted the herd from a mile away, grazing with refugees from the Detroit Zoo.
Before Uroboros: Whitetail. Zebra.
After Uroboros: the Whitetail had bred with exotic cervine from the zoo. Antlers unbranched, spiraled two feet above their heads. Their shaggy coat, dappled crimson and black. These colors provided camouflage for their choice of sustenance, a new species of flowering bush he called Blood Thorn.
The Zebra had lost their stripes in favor of denser fur for Michigan's fickle climate, ivory encroaching brown. In winter they would become hornless unicorns.
Herd less than a quarter mile. He kept to the treeline, cautious. These deer still saw in monotone, sensed predators with their nose. Their munching neighbors did not. The zebras yodeling calls would be disaster.
Closer. Downwind. Zebra lifted their heads, eyes aware. Watchful. Deer flicked their puffy tails. He set his bag to the side, behind a large, golden-leaved oak. His coat came next, his turtle-neck. He crouched, stalked toward them on his hands and knees. Several prey within range now. Blood sang in his ears, his heartbeat doubling. Familiar fluttering throughout his thighs, his hamstrings. Wait. Not right. Not preparing. Weakness. Fatigue. He paused in the grass, a cheetah uncertain for the first time if he would be fast enough.
He had one go at this. If he failed, hunger would be the least of his problems.
The herd continued to graze, unaware. Then the nearest doe curved her neck toward him, dainty nostrils flaring.
Instinct shoved aside misgivings.
He sprang.
They scattered.
In a chorus of bleats, three young stags darted in three different directions. Clumsy, panicked. His scent baffled them, drove them into a frenzy. What was this? A two-legged wolf? A hairless lion?
His muscles protested. His speed suffered. The distance widened. Then by chance, they converged, the middle stag jostled, thrown to the back. Its misfortune, his opportunity. He tackled it, wrestled it to the ground, wrapped his legs around the flailing torso. Its scent thrilled him, the power in its struggles. It gave one shrill cry before he cracked its neck. Motionless. Both of them. His breathing slowed. His heart settled.
His nose in its fur, inhaling, nuzzling. His hands around its throat, relaxing, stroking the fur. Soft. Hot. His prey. His.
That feeling again. Something else inside him. Uroboros opened its tarry maw and snapped its jaws once. No fire for this meal.
He tore into it with his bare hands.
Renewed. Fresh meat had purged the last of the venom from his body. Uroboros was sated. Bottled water and hand sanitizer took care of the blood. The carcass itself he left in the street turned meadow. Scavengers had their way with it now. No Unworthy would touch it. Those who survived Uroboros had impunity. Even the lowest creature. Even plantlife that appeared unaffected.
After the Unworthy took to the streets, their breath tainted the air. At the peak of outbreak, millions of them, expelling Uroboros with every mewling cry.
Complete global saturation.
The sun hid, a ball of light behind a gauzy gray shroud. Snow increased. Flakes melted on his hair, his face. His dream lingered in his mind, those gifts in his hands. A building ahead. St. James Catholic Church. Ivy climbing the walls, steeple tower leaning, but intact. Windows retained their glass.
He considered, hefting the bag higher on his shoulder. Why not?
Inside, he reclined on a pew, his bag next to him. The interior remained unchanged. No moisture from a collapsed roof. No open window to invite the rain. Dust and cobwebs transformed this Old World relic into a luxurious attic. The sun had bled the color from the stained glass. The alter candles lay toppled and strewn. Rusted chalices. Bibles with shriveling pages.
A tristful Saint Mary gazed at him. Soulful eyes.
He unzipped his bag, pulled out his new "notebook".
He had chosen the most masculine color of the bunch. Red. But the round white face, black dot eyes, pebble nose, whiskers, and poofy bow diminished any attempt at dignity.
Hello Kitty. Journal and diary. The diary even had a lock. Plastic heart keys.
In consolation – maybe the bright colors and cuteness would confuse them.
Them.
They needed a name.
On the first blank page, previous notes, written in haste.
Gregarious. Hunts in packs. Aggressive. Relentless. Limited vocabulary.
Now the difficult part. He took off his new sunglasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose with the pen. Observe. Stay neutral, unbiased. Facts only.
Hosts of new variant: human male. Population: unknown. Method of propagation: unknown.
Characteristics: Oral cavity houses the inner mouth, larger in diameter than typical majini or ganado. Interior mouth has a venom sack attached to the stigma. Size of this organ is approximately four inches. The delivery method of venom is a protuberance resembling a scorpion metasoma, complete with telson. Venom secretions are a muddy purple in color.
Symptoms: dizziness, sweating, nausea, hot flashes, increased blood flow to –
He leaned back. Saint Mary watched him. Eyes no longer sorrowful. Conniving.
Groin. Acute arousal. Dilation of the eyes. Feelings of euphoria. Lust. Dulled inhibitions. Prologued exposure increases these symptoms. Time of recovery depends on amount of venom induced.
He paused again. What to call them? He had enough information to be creative.
A memory came. He had been fourteen. His birthday. Spencer walked with him down a museum hall. Art on the walls, in cases. Sculptures and mosaics. Spencer knew the names of all, made him memorize them. They stopped at painting. A crude depiction of a woman eating children, a serpent tail instead of legs. Dark colors. The swirls of red, vibrant. A smile quirked the corner of Spencer's mouth.
"Lamia, Albert," Spencer said. Rich voice. Sonorous. A contrast to the quavering old man he would one day become. "The queen who seduced Zeus. His wife, Hera, became jealous and punished Lamia. Took her beauty and forced her to eat her own children. Other myths have Lamia charming virile young men. They would seduce knights and heroes, drink their blood and eat their flesh. The Greek's version of vampires. Ah, the colors. Such a foreboding tone. I adore it."
Spencer led him then to the gift shop. He could chose one item for his birthday. Didn't matter the cost. This was a treat given to only Spencer's best students.
He never chose the most expensive. He chose the most practical.
That year, a chemistry set. The largest one they carried.
Nostalgia. Bittersweet. Memories were biased, malleable things, easily altered to fit mood and creed.
These plaga may not have the lower body of a snake, but the blood drinking, the forced seduction. It fit.
Pleased with himself, he wrote in the space reserved for their appellation.
Type-four plagas: Lamia.
Before he left the church, he noticed the black stains on the pews. Large circles, some lopsided, some more oval than circle – several in a row. He frowned at them, brushed the dirt away. Touched one with his finger. Smelled it. Oil, rank meat.
Unworthy remains.
He wiped his hand off as if he had stuck it in raw sewage. This made no sense. Pew after pew. Stains no bigger than the average human, side by side. They must have gathered here before the end. Praying and weeping for a miracle that had never come. God had not saved them. All had been judged by Uroboros.
But with so many in one place, this church should be in shambles. Ink should be dried blotches on the ceiling. These pews should be matchsticks.
Instead, little stained circles. Not one Unworthy had struggled. Not one had consumed the others.
Saint Mary did not glare under her shroud. Gone was the shrewd expression of before.
She regarded him now with...compassion.
Poor lost lamb, all alone. There's no one to find you. The shepherd is dead.
No one looked at him like that. Not even a statue.
He fled her eyes. Her damn piteous eyes.
Autumn meant shorter days. He used frequent bursts of speed to cover more ground. Sprinting kept his mind occupied. Kept it from drifting into darker territory.
Nothing eventful happened. He saw the usual animals, the usual flora. It wasn't until he came out of a particularly long dash, legs ready to melt beneath him, that he heard it.
A fluting bellow, a whale out of water.
The sound vibrated the earth, shook his teeth. He stood there on the outskirts of Detroit, awed. A monstrous thing greeted him. Excella's final form could fit in the palm of its hand.
The Behemoth.
It towered above the city, a creature straight out of a Lovecraftian horror novel. Black tendrils waltzed over and around the skeleton remains of buildings. Not a brick fell, not a steel beam tumbled. A careful monster. The snow added a mystical effect; the city could be the sea, the buildings eroded rocks, and the Behemoth the Kraken rising from the depths.
Yep, sure is bigger than the one in Europe, Chris said. Wonder if it's everyone. Had to eat a lot of Unworthy to get that size.
"I don't know," he said to the ghost. "It's...possible."
So how does it feel? Knowing that every man, woman, and child in America is probably in that thing?
He said nothing.
From the Behemoth's position, it appeared it had rooted itself Downtown, near the destination he had in mind. Tricell's corporate laboratory, Zion. This could pose a problem. The bigger the Behemoth was, the harder gravity punished it. Their movements would grow more and more sluggish until they stopped moving at all. And there they stayed until they died.
But before that happened, they would draw all Unworthy in the area to them, a siren call their smaller counterparts could not deny. In Europe, he had watched a line of Unworthy throw themselves at a Behemoth like lemmings off a cliff.
Hypnotic movements, charmed snakes under the mist. He had no idea if it was dying, or even close to dying. His experience with these aberrations was limited.
'cause the first one had you running like a scared little girl. Never seen your ass run so fast in my life. Chris' chortle was muffled, as if he tried stifling it. Admit it, Captain. You look at that thing, and you actually feel guilt. You hear it cry in your dreams. And what really scares you is –
"Shut up, Chris."
Lights. Dozens of them through the snowy fog. Lights. He gripped the bag in his hand, unable to move. Wait. Lights didn't mean Worthy. Lights meant plaga.
Lamia.
He almost turned back. A Behemoth and the lamia. Together. Too risky.
But, Albert, Excella said. What if the Worthy are here? You would be walking away from your own people.
"Why would they be here? In the company of those creatures?"
They could be hiding. They could be frightened. Can you take that chance?
He could not.
Daylight gone in two hours. He could make into the city in one. Then it would become a waiting game. Cloak and dagger. Move from building to building, leave nothing for them to find. He could make it work.
The Behemoth's whale song resonated, challenging.
This time, he ran toward it.
God did not exist. He had decided this at eleven years old. No all-knowing being dictated his future. He determined his own fate – even when it threw a curve ball at his face.
An obvious trap. Mice trying to bait the cat.
But if he walked away, it might not be there in the morning. Wasteful sentimentality. Why was he so conflicted? He had made harder decisions than this. Ended lives with less fuss over consequences.
Samurai, placed between Spirit of Detroit's green crossed legs. The inscription on the stone wall behind: Now the Lord is that Spirit: and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.
The lamia were mocking him.
Full dark now. Down the street, Hart Plaza glittered like a present left out in the cold. No one to appreciate the illuminated sculptures, the fountains flowing. The Behemoth guarded the city from somewhere to the west. Branching arms of thick sinew passed above, the whoosh of air like great swooping birds. The motion stirred debris into mini cyclones. Its cries had silenced with the descending sun. A small comfort. At this distance, the creature would create an earthquake.
In front of his temptation, his legs glued to the pavement. An easy target.
The verdant statue, contemplative, one hand holding the sun, the other a tiny family, their miniature hands raised to the heavens. Pristine condition. No pigeon droppings, no rust, no signs of decay. Had the lamia planned this lure? Had they polished the golden sun, the obsolete family, knowing he would stand here like a fool, wondering why they had bothered?
Samurai shone, taunting him between Spirit's bare toes. His fingers twitched, ready to hold it again.
It's just a gun, Albert. You know they are watching. Waiting.
But Kendo made you that gun, Captain. He sweat and bled over your prissy specifications. You owe him. He died in Raccoon because of Umbrella. Because of YOU. You owe him. Bigtime.
"I owe no one," he said. "This is another test. That's all. A test to see what I will do. I think they are...studying me. Just as I've been studying them. If I leave, they win. And I can't let them claim another victory. No. Not after what they did last night."
Albert, please. You are one man. They are many.
Oh, what happened to you being a god? The Almighty One? You can take them. Come on, Captain, go kick some lamia ass.
His speed. His only advantage. But the effort to arrive here before nightfall had depleted his resources. He was hungry. Again. A long sprint could injure him, even knock him unconscious.
A short dash, then. The Arklay mansion version of Chris, before he had learned of his Captain's betrayal. Earnest candor. Eager to please. Just zip on in there, snatch it, and zip on out. They can't touch you.
"They'll try, but they won't." He passed his eyes over the wall behind Spirit, both sides of the road, the buildings cloaked in dusk. No sign of them. The moment he grabbed the gun, they would swarm.
Go for it. Stop being a pussy.
He snorted. Hips tilted, his shoulders dipped. He imagined himself at the start line, the magnum his prize. Catch him, catch him, if they could.
A crack of his neck and he steadied himself. Ready. Set. G –
He shot forward, hand outstretched. Cool metal grazed his fingertips. Samurai was home again. He skidded to the left, aimed and fired at the first figure that dropped from the nearby building.
Empty clicks.
Empty.
They had taken the bullets.
He spun, drove his heel skyward, caught one lamia in the neck. He avoided a sting from behind, and to the left, and to the right. He dropped low to the ground, his leg swinging in a wide arc. Crowd control. Four lamia fell.
Samuari safe in his pocket, he tore down the street.
They vaulted from the rooftops, skimmed the sides of buildings, using the peeling framework to their advantage. He lost his balance rounding a corner, his coat ripping away from a clutching hand. Smaller figures looped behind him, faster than the others. Their breath scorched his neck. He zigzagged through a collapsed parking complex, evading, dodging, shoving his way past their attempts to grab him.
Out of the complex, into the street. Ford Field loomed ahead, the stadium promising a terrain he could navigate to his advantage.
Over the threshold, into the heart of the stadium he ran. A overgrown jungle of trees, shrubs and foliage. Bats shrieked above, disturbed by the intrusion. Other animals scurried out of the way with alarmed cries. His body on the verge of shutdown, he tried to lose them in the dense greenery. When that failed he doubled back.
Two groups flanked him. The smaller lamia climbed the trees, flitting from one to another with ease of primates. The bigger ones traversed the undergrowth with the ease of serpents.
They surrounded him. Shrill cries from the small lamia. Sighs from the bigger. Communicating. They pressed in, the circle getting smaller and smaller. The dark hid their appearance, but he saw tails on the small lamia. Prehensile, slender, two pronged hooks at the end. No wonder they flew through the trees without effort. He snarled, as fearsome as a cat without teeth or claws. One of the small lamia laughed. Tinkling, like high notes on a piano.
Female.
The laughing lamia stepped into view, confirming this. His eyes deceived him. Not human. Maybe never had been. Some hybrid of Homo sapien, plant, and lizard. Her eyes, slanted pupils – like his – but such a striking yellow-green they looked poisonous. Speckled markings descended her temples. Exact color, uncertain. Curved lines in the center of her chin, her cheeks, her forehead, as if her face had been sectioned for easy peeling. Hair, black and pleated in tight rows, hung to her waist. Plump ruddy lips, very human. Her body also, humanoid. Small breasts free and speckled along the sides. Her groin and stomach white like the underbelly of a snake. No navel. She moved with the sashay of a human woman, seductive, every bit the name he had chosen.
He backed away, into their arms. The males restrained him despite his reeling and bucking. They held him for her, and her alone. The other females had vanished. Was she their leader? Was this a Matriarchy? Nose to nose, her viper eyes mapped his face. Those lines on her cheeks and chin, they pulsed, pushed open a crack. Panic made another unwelcome visit. Nostrils flaring, he fought them. Kicked and squirmed and twisted. They held on, letting him exhaust himself. He slumped, hating them. Hating her most of all.
"Father tired. Nice?" she said. A finger without nails traced his lips. He tried to bite it. She laughed, that same finger now a painful pressure point under his chin. His jaw shut with an audible sound. "No bite. Bad, Father." Her finger directed his head to the side, baring his neck. This caused another flurry of struggles. Tiny ones, butterfly flutters.
The sting would come next. He prepared for it.
Her face pulsed open, a beautiful flower revealing rancid innards, filaments and anthers rotting. A second face beneath the other, black soulless eyes under the green ones, skull holes for her nose, small dark barbs like stiff hairs along her spread mandibles. A dozen of these dislodged at once. Struck his neck. Dissolved. The fizzing, the burning in his blood. He sagged in their arms. Uroboros sought its cave and cowered there. Summoning was out of the question. No Unworthy for miles. The Behemoth had seen to that.
Her fingers over his lips again. He didn't bite. Her thumb slid past his teeth, caressed his tongue. He sucked on it with his entire body. Salt and leaves from the trees she had swung from. The ones holding him slackened their grip, repositioned. His legs buckled. The males kept him from falling. He couldn't keep the moans from leaving his mouth. Her eyes, shining like the dolls in the yard. They did not accuse. They desired. Her hands went to his pants, questing fingers. He thrust when they made contact, a wanton thing, starving for it.
Her mouth lowered to his throat, above his pulse. She hovered for several moments. It drove him mad. He ground himself against her hand. She did not strike. Waiting became unbearable. What did she want? Him to beg? He obliged, pleading in a voice he did not recognize. Now. He wanted it now. Whatever she was going to do, drink him dry, tear him to pieces, fuck him senseless, he didn't care.
Her throaty laughter, a low C on the piano. "Yes. Father. We all take."
The initial bite was hers. Lily mouth fastening ever-so-slowly onto his neck, a ripe fruit she must treat with care. His nectar was precious. The others did not share her patience. They shredded his clothing, struck one after another, his inner elbows, the junction of his thighs, behind his knees, his wrists.
The sensations, exquisite and agonizing. They dragged his heart to them, each one taking a drink, taking their fill. The world dimmed, the bats, the trees, the silver dome above him. They lowered him to the ground as if he might break. She switched her mouth from his neck to his inner thigh, her hands lifting his ass, nuzzled him as he had the stag that afternoon. They all held him that way, as if afraid he would somehow rise and escape them again.
Not much of his essence left, but they sipped, tasting him like fine wine. His breath expelled in drawn gasps. The entire stadium heard him. He began to see things, shimmering faces of foes and old friends. William Birkin at the altar, wringing his hands. Annette walking in time to the music, white lace trailing behind her. Spencer, his constant dissatisfaction, his desperation, his heart dripping on the floor. Chris, sneering at him, then laughing, then firing those rockets.
Jill, after the window, her broken body at his feet, her defiance in the years following. He had desired her instead of Excella, but his pride never allowed it. Her shallow grave, all he could do for her in the end, the wooden cross he had found to mark it.
The lamia withdrew from him. He floated in a boat without an anchor, faces of the dead in the water.
They waited.
In small amounts, his blood came back. Rain refilling a pond. Bit by bit, the waters replenished. The progenitor virus, a tireless machine. It would keep on repairing, rejuvenating. Uroboros, the lubricant for that machine. It would keep him alive. Whatever it took.
He had secured his immortality.
Cuddled in their arms, they fed a second time. No chance of him springing free, not with so many greedy mouths leeching his strength. Lampreys on a shark. And after the second siphoning, there would be a third, and a fourth. He had been so wrong. These lamia were no random quirk of anatomy, or haphazard mutation.
Like every creature after Uroboros, they had adapted to their ideal food source.
Him. And anyone like him.
The Worthy.
Happy birthday to me :) How old am I? Not telling!
Commentary on this chapter will be posted to my FFN profile on Saturday.
And credit goes to my friend Skarto for the Hello Kitty notebook. We both thought that would be hilarious. Poor Wesker. Poor, poor, Wesker.
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Empty Eden