Lincoln searched the five corpses one by one.
In the suit-wearing man’s pocket was an internal Umbrella employee ID, though blood had smeared most of the name and ID number.
The department section barely showed a few letters: “R&D Div.” Research and Development personnel.
In the lab coat’s breast pocket, he found a pen and a folded memo.
The handwriting on the memo was scribbled and stained with blood, but Lincoln still managed to decipher a key phrase: “Executive Training School.”
He tucked the paper away.
His mission briefing had mentioned Umbrella facilities in the Arklay Mountains, but only referred to them as the “target zone.”
If this railway served as a dedicated line connecting Raccoon City to the mountain facilities, then the people on this train were very likely R&D staff heading to the Executive Training School.
They had been infected en route during their commute.
Where was the source of infection?
Was it already on board, or had it spread from the facility?
Lincoln pondered the available clues for a few seconds, but found no definitive answer.
Standing up, he walked toward the next car.
The vestibule between cars was a short metal gangway with open sides, offering a view of the surrounding mountain forest and train tracks.
The night breeze blew through, temporarily diluting the lingering rot.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door to the next car.
The second car was in even worse shape than the first.
Splatters of blood coated the seatbacks, windows, and ceiling, while several pairs of shoes and a shredded briefcase lay strewn across the floor.
A massive pool of congealed blood pooled in the middle of the aisle, large enough to indicate at least one person had bled to death here.
Yet there were no bodies.
Blood, shoes, torn fabric—all present, but not a single complete corpse.
Lincoln sensed something off.
His gaze settled on a trail of drag marks on the floorboards.
It stretched from the pool of blood all the way to the door at the rear, made by something dragging a body along.
The drag mark was continuous without intermediate footsteps, indicating whatever was pulled had lost mobility and was dragged away by sheer force.
And the direction led toward the rear of the train.
What lay further back in this train?
Lincoln didn’t rush in pursuit.
First, he cleared every corner of the car to ensure no hidden threats remained, then advanced along the drag marks.
The third car was a dining car.
The layout was completely different—no double rows of seats, replaced instead by a bar, dining tables, and a small kitchen area.
Most of the liquor bottles on the bar had shattered, spilling alcohol and blood across the floor.
Knives were scattered over the stainless steel kitchen counters, one cleaver coated in dried blood.
Judging by the signs, someone had attempted to defend themselves here.
The dining car was relatively open with good sightlines, making it safer than the previous seating carriages.
After a quick sweep, Lincoln noticed a body lying on the floor behind the bar.
But this one differed from the previous ones.
It wore a waiter’s uniform, lying face down with a distinct blunt-force wound on the back of its skull, as if struck from behind.
No bite marks on the neck, no signs of mutation.
Lincoln crouched down to inspect it, his expression turning subtly complex.
This person hadn’t been killed by the infected; they were murdered by a living human.
Rummaging through the pockets yielded nothing.
However, he noticed the corpse’s right hand clenched into a fist, fingers tightly locking something in place.
Prying open the rigid fingers revealed a brass key stamped with the number “002.”
Lincoln took the key.
Unsure whether any locked doors lay between the train cars ahead, he kept it handy.
Past the dining car, the layout changed once more.
The fourth car consisted of private sleeper compartments.
The aisle narrowed, flanked on both sides by four small rooms with sliding wooden doors bearing room numbers.
Most doors stood open, their bedding tossed about in chaotic disarray.
Only one door remained shut—stamped with “002.”
Lincoln inserted the key, turned it, and felt the lock disengage.
He pushed the door open.
The compartment was compact: a single bed, a folding table, and a wall lamp.
No one was on the bed.
A laptop sat on the desk with a black screen, beside a stack of paper documents and a small briefcase.
The briefcase had a combination lock and couldn’t be opened immediately.
Lincoln picked up the papers and flipped through them.
The first page was a printout of an internal memo, bearing the Umbrella Pharmaceuticals logo at the top and dated July 22, 1998—yesterday.
Scanning the contents quickly, it was an operational status report regarding the Executive Training School:
“…Dr. Marcus’s leech research project was officially terminated ten years ago, and related facilities were repurposed for training… Multiple anomalous incidents have recently occurred in the perimeter around the training school, reported to the Security Management Department… Recommendation: Suspend this week’s personnel transfer plan until safety can be confirmed…”
Attached at the back was a signature page signed by the Facility Management Director, James Marcus Institute.
The rest of the documents were shredded beyond readability.
Lincoln stared at the document, his brow furrowing as his mind pieced the clues together.
Dr.
Marcus’s leech research was shut down a decade ago.
Yet the pathology on the mutant dogs he encountered in the forest was fresh—the degree of muscle necrosis suggested infection mere weeks old at most.
If research ended ten years ago, why were new infected appearing now?
Considering the possibilities, two scenarios fit: either old viral samples had leaked, or someone had restarted the research.
Regardless of which, this memo proved Umbrella high-command had been attempting to operate this shuttle line as late as yesterday.
They had either underestimated the severity of the outbreak, or knew how grave it was but gambled on keeping it under control.
The result: a train filled with R&D personnel turned into walking corpses.
Lincoln folded the useful document into his waist pouch, exited the compartment, and pressed onward.
…
The instant he pushed open the door to the fifth car, a different sound reached his ears.
Gunshots.
Muffled pistol fire, one or two cars away.
Three consecutive rounds, evenly spaced, followed by silence.
Then came a female voice shouting, tone urgent, though the words were indecipherable.
Followed by two more gunshots.
Further down the train, survivors were fighting.
Lincoln paused to quickly assess the situation.
He was currently near the rear-middle section of the train.
The sound originated from the tail end, likely separated by one or two cars.
The firearm was a pistol caliber, and the cadence of fire indicated a trained shooter.
He recalled the mission briefing about S.T.A.R.S.
Bravo Team losing contact.
As far as he knew, the standard issue sidearm for Raccoon City’s S.T.A.R.S.
was the Beretta M92F, 9mm caliber.
This gunfire definitely sounded like 9mm.
Lincoln took a few steps forward and cautiously pushed open the door to the fifth car.
This car was another seating carriage, though shorter than the first.
Three infected filled the aisle, all facing toward the rear of the train, back turned to him.
Drawn by the gunshots, they were shuffling toward the noise.
Lincoln paused at the doorway for a second.
With three targets facing away, the closest under three meters off, firing now would only draw more attention.
After brief deliberation, he holstered the M1911 and reached behind his waist to draw his KA-BAR tactical knife.
The nearest infected wore technician coveralls, slender in build, with severe necrosis across the back of its neck.
Moving slowly, its attention was entirely consumed by the noise ahead.
Lincoln closed in from behind, cupped its forehead with his left hand, and thrust the knife upward into the base of its neck with his right, piercing the medulla oblongata.
This junction of the brainstem and spinal cord operated on the same principle as a headshot—destroying the central nervous system.
The creature twitched once and went limp.
Lincoln guided it gently to the floor, making minimal noise.
The two ahead didn’t look back.
Retrieving his blade, he repeated the motion.
Approach, grab, thrust into the neck.
The second went down.
As he approached the third, it suddenly halted.
Another volley of gunshots cracked ahead.
Seemingly agitated, its body jolted, and its clumsy shuffle accelerated into a jog.
It wasn’t fast, but significantly quicker than its former uncoordinated stumble.
Lincoln abandoned the knife.
There wasn’t enough time to close in, and with the target accelerating straight ahead, a rear takedown was impractical.
Switching back to the M1911, he fired a single round from behind as it covered five paces.
The round entered the back of its skull, dropping it mid-stride to slide half a meter across the floorboards.
Forty-four rounds remaining.
The panel popped up once more.
Collection Progress: 10/100 Safety Threshold: 90/100
Setting the stats aside for now, the situation ahead took priority.
Lincoln stepped over the three corpses, crossed the car quickly, and pushed open the end door.
Across the gangway lay the final car.
The door hung half-open, riddled with several bullet holes punched from the inside—someone had fired outward from within.
Surprisingly, the interior lights were on inside.
The emergency lighting system was still running, illuminating the space with a dim amber glow far brighter than the previous cars.
Within that dim amber light, Lincoln saw two people.