Rain streamed down the edge of the black-steel greatsword, tracing watery lines across its surface.
In the shadows beneath the trees, seven or eight ulcerated Dobermans finally surrendered to their bloodlust.
Hollow snarls escaped their ruined throats as their hind legs drove off the ground, sending them at the prey in the center from different directions like foul-smelling black lightning.
Leon stood where he was, feet set in a loose fighting stance and planted firmly on the slick asphalt.
He did not retreat.
The 161-kilogram Doorstop still hung from his right hand.
The instant the mass of rotting flesh was about to reach him, he moved.
His thighs tightened, hips and waist twisting as years of hauling hundreds of kilograms drove the power of his core up his spine and into his right arm.
Brute force, multiplied by the weapon’s enormous mass.
Leon whipped the black-steel greatsword through a full one-handed arc, carving a fan-shaped zone of absolute death through the rain.
The heavy steel slab shoved the air aside with a low howl.
There was no sound of an edge slicing flesh—only the blunt violence of raw physical impact.
The first three zombie dogs smashed into the sword’s spine.
A mountain of force poured through their bodies, shattering ribs and pulping organs at the instant of contact.
A chain of muffled fractures sounded.
They never even managed to yelp before flying backward like sacks stuffed with rotten meat, moving far faster than they had on the way in.
They crashed into the roadside brush hard enough to snap several branches.
The remaining dogs fared no better.
The greatsword’s sweep crushed through them with centrifugal force, breaking bone and tendon until bodies lay collapsed across the road like mud.
The horizontal blow had carried tremendous momentum and reached the end of its arc, leaving the sword low to Leon’s left.
In the fraction of a second after the old force was spent and before new force could be generated, the last dog—the largest, its half-skinned face exposing white bone—shot out from beneath the pickup.
It ignored Leon’s limbs and went straight for the back of his skull.
Rotten breath and rain struck the back of his neck.
There was no time to drag a hundred-plus-kilogram sword back into guard, so Leon loosened his grip instead, refusing to let the weapon’s inertia dictate his movement.
He pivoted on his left foot and wrenched his body through half a turn in place.
His core produced savage torque.
His right leg rose with a rush of air, and a vicious spinning kick intercepted the attacker in midleap.
The sole of his heavy combat boot smashed into the zombie dog’s face.
Crack!
Its cervical spine broke instantly, wrenching its head sideways at an unnatural angle.
The mutant animal, weighing dozens of kilograms, flew straight toward the pickup.
With a dull BANG, the corpse struck the door hard enough to dent the steel, then slid into the standing water like sludge.
Its legs twitched twice and went still.
Leon lowered his right leg and let out a long breath.
He casually pushed the wet hair off his forehead.
Somehow, his signature fringe still stubbornly held its shape.
He looked down at the mangled bodies scattered around him, brows knitting.
They could move after fatal trauma, felt no pain, and remained aggressive even with their organs hanging out.
This was not rabies.
Anything capable of wrecking the nervous system this thoroughly had to be some kind of high-grade infectious pathogen.
“Captain Wesker said those terrorists were drugged out of their minds.
Looks like they’re making bioweapons too.” Leon muttered under his breath.
Scratches, bites—even infected blood splashed into the eyes or an open wound—could transmit something like this.
He couldn’t take that risk.
He turned to the back seat, opened the door, and stripped off his soaked gray T-shirt.
Thick back muscles flexed beneath the cold rain, exposing the scabbed-over bullet wounds.
Without hesitation, he dragged on the heavy black bomb-suit liner and cinched the thick industrial nylon straps one by one.
The high-carbon-steel chest plate marked 25 KG settled over his heart, followed by the shoulder and leg armor.
One hundred and fifty kilograms of dead steel turned every step heavier, each boot sinking into the mud.
Finally he lifted the twenty-kilogram solid-iron helmet in both hands.
Click.
The clasps locked.
There were no glass goggles, and the narrow viewing slit cut away most of his field of vision.
He engaged the air-isolation valve, sealing out the carrion stink and rain.
His breathing, filtered and resonating through the internal tubing, became a harsh, heavy mechanical rasp.
Hsssh—huff— In the blackness of the storm, the nearly two-meter man with shoulders like a wall ceased to look human at all.
He became a steel reaper.
Leon took the 161-kilogram greatsword in one hand again and dragged it behind him.
The tip scraped a trench through the asphalt, kicking muddy water aside.
The train’s braking scream had not repeated, and the storm had thoroughly scrambled any sense of direction.
Leon stood at the roadside, slowly turning the massive helmet.
Through the tangled gaps in the forest canopy, he caught a faint patch of warm yellow light.
Beneath the rain he could just make out the low thrum of a diesel generator.
All this light in deep forest, in a storm, in the middle of nowhere?
Leon raised an eyebrow beneath the visor.
“Has to be the terrorists’ transport—or a hidden base.” Dragging the greatsword, he simply crashed into the roadside brush.
Heavy steel boots snapped dead branches and churned mud.
Thorny brambles screeched across the external carbon-steel plates without slowing him by so much as half a step.
Like an armored beast, he bullied a path through the storm and headed straight for the light.
The sight beyond the trees made him pause.
A retro luxury train stood on an abandoned stretch of track, zodiac emblems painted along its cars and gleaming faintly beneath the rain.
Bright light shone through the windows, making every strand of rainfall visible.
Yet the entire train was unnaturally quiet.
Apart from the generator, there was no trace of living passengers.
Leon approached one of the car doors and pushed.
It was locked from inside.
He glanced at the keypad beside it and decided not to bother.
Thick fingers inside tactical gloves hooked directly into the rubber seam between the pneumatic doors.
His shoulders tensed.
Muscles locked.
K-k-k-k— The hydraulic locking mechanism groaned under impossible strain.
Then came a sharp snap, and Leon physically forced the reinforced doors apart until there was enough room for his armored frame to pass through.
He dragged the sword into the train.
The car was a luxurious dining coach.
Heavy red carpet covered the floor, silverware sat on solid-wood tables, and a pot of soup was still bubbling gently.
Someone had clearly been eating here not long ago.
Yet an unmoving “old man” sat slumped on one of the sofas.
His head hung low, hands limp on the armrests.
Leon crossed the carpet toward him.
That old guy looks familiar.
A hostage the terrorists grabbed?
Leon leaned half a step closer.
Even through the iron helmet, his heavy breathing rasped audibly.
Leon reached out with an armored finger to check the old man’s condition.
The instant his fingertip touched the old man’s shoulder—SPLASH!
The apparently intact body collapsed apart at his touch.
Clothes slumped to the floor.
Where flesh should have been, countless thick black leeches spilled out, slimy bodies writhing over one another and leaving revolting wet trails across the red carpet.
The leeches rolled around his boots.
Leon frowned behind the visor.
“These terrorists are disgusting.
Parasites too?” he muttered dryly.
He raised one heavy boot and crushed the slippery mass into pulp.