The mansion hall was as silent as a tomb.
The air smelled of old mold, mixed with the wet chewing noises drifting from around the second-floor corridor.
Richard pressed himself tight against the wall.
He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the darkness above the stairs.
“Squish…
crunch…” The sound became clearer, like something tearing raw meat apart.
They could even hear bones snapping between teeth.
Leon stood in the middle of the hall and glanced toward the second floor.
His broad shoulders filled out the black plate armor.
Beneath his short blond hair, his brow cast a hard shadow over his eyes.
He reached back and drew the roughly sharpened black-steel greatsword.
“This household’s hospitality really sucks.” Leon tilted his head and looked toward the half-open teak double doors on the west side of the first floor.
The chewing wasn’t coming from upstairs—or rather, not only from upstairs.
The same nauseating sound came from deeper in the western corridor, and it was closer.
The air was stifling.
The smell of blood was so thick it was like standing in a slaughterhouse after three days.
“That way.” Leon pointed with the sword and strode toward the western doors, heavy boots striking the marble floor.
Richard startled and hurried after him.
Rebecca raised her weapon and naturally covered Leon’s flank.
Leon kicked the half-open door wide without ceremony.
It slammed into the wall and shook dust from the ceiling.
A narrow corridor lay beyond, dimly lit, its wallpaper peeling away in broad strips.
A long, horrifying trail of dark-red blood had been dragged across the carpet, disappearing around the far corner.
The chewing came from beyond that turn.
Leon led the way.
His black armor caught the yellow wall lamps in hard reflections.
He didn’t hurry, but every step was steady.
Richard followed behind, breathing like a broken bellows.
He recognized the blood trail—and the unmistakable smell of human blood.
“Kenneth…” Richard’s voice trembled.
“Kenneth went this way earlier…” Leon didn’t answer.
He had already reached the end of the corridor and turned the fatal corner.
The view opened—and filled instantly with blood.
Bravo Team scout Kenneth Sullivan lay in a pool of it, his chest torn completely open and his organs scattered across the floor.
A figure in a tattered white lab coat crouched over the mutilated corpse.
Its head was buried against Kenneth’s neck, making disgusting swallowing sounds.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, the lab-coated figure stopped feeding.
Slowly, stiffly, it turned its head.
A pale, bloated face laced with purple-black veins came into view.
Its mouth had split at the corners.
A chunk of flesh still attached to skin hung from its chin, and cloudy white eyes fixed on Leon at the front of the group.
“Jesus…” Richard peeked around Leon and sucked in a breath.
His hands shook so badly he could barely keep hold of his gun.
That thing is enough to ruin anyone’s appetite.
Guess the food standards around here really are low.
The zombie opened its blood-smeared mouth, rasped deep in its throat, and lurched upright with both arms reaching for Leon.
Leon met the horror with cold eyes and stepped forward.
Both hands tightened around the greatsword’s hilt.
The crude but sharpened edge flashed coldly in the dim light.
Using the monstrous power of his waist and core, Leon swung the heavy blade in a clean horizontal cut.
The black edge passed through the zombie’s neck without resistance.
Its pale, blood-soaked head left the body instantly, spun high through the air in a shallow arc, and landed on the carpet several meters away.
Filthy blood erupted from the severed neck and painted the corridor walls and ceiling in ugly splashes.
The headless body staggered two more steps before collapsing.
The entire exchange lasted less than two seconds.
Leon stopped the swing and flicked his wrist, snapping the remaining blood from the blade onto the wall.
He looked down at the headless corpse with a mocking half-smile.
“Looks like this gentleman never learned table manners.” The corridor fell silent again, except for blood bubbling weakly from the severed neck.
Richard stared at Leon’s back, mouth open, unable to speak for several seconds.
Rebecca moved around Leon and hurried to Kenneth’s body.
Her eyes reddened at the sight of her teammate’s chewed, mangled face.
Her body trembled slightly, both hands clenched into fists.
The medic was growing fast.
In a place like this, tears were the least useful liquid in the world.
After the hell of the train and underground facility, the young medic understood that this wasn’t the time to grieve.
Rebecca drew a deep breath, forced down her tears, and crouched beside him.
Her shaking hands searched Kenneth’s ruined tactical vest.
With practiced movements, she opened several Velcro flaps and pulled three fully loaded 9mm magazines from his pouches.
Then her gaze fell on a heavy weapon lying beside Kenneth’s body.
A blood-smeared grenade launcher with a thick barrel rested on the carpet.
Rebecca grabbed it immediately.
The weapon’s reassuring weight settled into her hands.
She checked the chamber and found an explosive round already loaded.
Leon stood behind her like a black iron tower, greatsword in hand as he watched the opposite end of the corridor.
His broad back blocked much of the weak light, yet somehow gave Rebecca an absolute sense of safety.
“He was a good cop.” Leon’s low, rough voice carried through the corridor with quiet certainty.
He turned his head slightly toward Rebecca as she stood.
“Take his ammunition.” He paused, voice steady.
“Don’t let him die for nothing.” Rebecca nodded hard.
She slung the grenade launcher over her shoulder and brought the shotgun back to ready.
Her eyes now had the hard look of a veteran who had crawled through a field of corpses.
Richard watched all of it and suddenly felt that he, the actual S.T.A.R.S.
officer, was as fragile as paper beside this black-armored special recruit.
Then an abrupt mechanical roar broke the mansion’s oppressive silence.
“Whup-whup-whup-whup—” The chopping roar of a heavy helicopter’s rotors came from outside the mansion—and was rapidly moving away, with the unmistakable sound of a panicked retreat.
Gunshots sounded beneath the rotor noise.
“Bang!
Bang!
Bang!” Sharp, rapid shots—like an M92FS being emptied as fast as possible—mixed with the furious snarls of some animal.
Someone’s alive out there.
Judging by the gunfire, they’ve got serious firepower.
Richard whipped around toward the hall.
His pupils contracted, grief instantly replaced by panic.
“Leon!
What’s happening outside?
Is that Brad?!” Richard shouted, voice cracking.
“Our helicopter’s out there!” Leon spun immediately, black armor stirring a rush of air in the corridor.
He carried the bloodied greatsword one-handed and strode toward the exit.
“Stay here,” Leon ordered without looking back.
“But outside—” Richard tried to argue.
“I said hold the safe hall and watch her.” Leon cut him off and pointed the greatsword’s hilt toward Rebecca.
“This is your defensive line.” Leon crossed the corridor and returned to the silent main hall.
The gunfire outside grew denser.
The beasts’ snarls became more frantic.
Leon reached the heavy carved front doors and closed his steel-braced right hand around the bronze handle.
He pulled.
The heavy door groaned dryly and slowly opened inward.
Night wind carrying rain and rot rushed into the hall, blowing Leon’s blond fringe back from his forehead.
He stood in the doorway like a black reef facing the storm.
Muzzle flashes flickered faintly through the darkness outside.
Richard shouted anxiously from deeper in the hall, “What is happening out there?” Leon didn’t turn.
He rested the heavy black-steel greatsword across one broad shoulder and stepped over the threshold.
“Sounds like some lost Boy Scouts ran into trouble.” His voice dropped, hard and cold.
“I’m going to say hello.”