Rebecca fired until the slide clicked empty, then kicked the Cerberus off her boot. Its limp body hit the tracks with a wet thud. Her chest heaved, her ears ringing with the echo of the crash and the snarls of things still prowling in the dark.
But then the tunnel shook with a low, clicking hiss.
Rebecca froze, pistol raised, every nerve screaming. From the smoke and fire crawled a familiar silhouette—its armored carapace cracked and glistening, jagged claws scraping sparks against the rails.
The scorpion. The same one that had nearly killed her on the train.
Somehow, impossibly, it had survived the crash. Now it was furious.
Rebecca backed up fast, heart pounding, her boots catching on rubble. She fired three rounds into its faceplate—sparks flew, ichor splattered—but it only shrieked and reared higher, its tail lashing against the tunnel wall hard enough to shake debris loose.
Her pistol clicked empty. She fumbled for a spare mag—nothing left.
That's when she saw it.
Half-buried in a collapsed storage crate, the steel barrel of a shotgun gleamed under the firelight. She dove for it, yanking it free from the wreckage. A pump-action. One shell rattled loose beside the corpse of a security trooper.
Rebecca slammed the shell into the chamber, another into her pocket, and spun just as the scorpion lunged.
The blast thundered through the tunnel. The slug tore into its underbelly, staggering it back.
It shrieked, tail slamming down, missing her by inches.
Rebecca pumped the shotgun, sweat dripping into her eyes. "Come on. Stay down!"
The second shot tore through its face, cracking the armored shell. It reeled, ichor spraying, but still it crawled forward, claws scraping sparks across the tracks.
Rebecca's chest heaved as the shotgun clicked empty. The scorpion reeled, its carapace split and glistening, but it still crawled toward her, tearing through steel with every step.
Her eyes darted across the wreckage—ammo spent, no time to reload. Then she saw it: a toppled supply crate, its contents spilled across the floor. A portable pesticide sprayer. A cracked fuel canister. Rags soaked in ethanol.
Rebecca's mind raced. She dropped the shotgun, snatched up the sprayer, and rigged the hose into the fuel line. With shaking hands, she tore a strip of cloth from her sleeve, wrapped it around the nozzle, and struck a lighter she'd scavenged earlier.
The rag burst into flame.
The scorpion lunged.
Rebecca pressed the trigger. A stream of fire roared across the tunnel, washing over the monster's exposed underbelly. The creature shrieked, thrashing, its armored shell blistering under the heat. It reared back, tail flailing wildly, but Rebecca held on, forcing every ounce of fuel into the jet of fire until the tank hissed empty.
The beast convulsed, flames eating through the cracks in its shell. With one last screech, it collapsed, its body twitching before going still, smoke curling from its blackened hide.
Rebecca staggered back, staring at her makeshift weapon. Crude and unstable, but it had worked.
She checked the fuel line. The sprayer was dented but still intact. She could refill it if she found more ethanol or compressed gas. It wasn't much—but it would do. Rebecca slung the weapon over her shoulder.
Her eyes flicked to Jack. Still unconscious. Still healing in ways she didn't understand.
She knelt beside him, brushing soot from his face. All at once, Jack's eyes fluttered open.
His gaze was unfocused at first, then sharpened as the smoke and fire painted the world around him. He tried to sit up, but Rebecca pressed a hand to his chest.
"Don't move. You're hurt."
Jack gave her a faint, incredulous smile. "Doesn't… feel like it."
Rebecca's gaze flicked to his wounds, where the torn flesh had sealed almost completely, leaving only a faint scar. Her stomach twisted. No amount of medical training could explain what she had witnessed.
Jack looked at her, then at the smoldering corpse of the scorpion. "Did I miss something?"
"You missed it," Rebecca said, exhaling a shaky laugh. "Big, ugly, and very flammable." She nodded toward the jury-rigged sprayer slung over her shoulder.
Jack's brow arched faintly. "You built that?"
Rebecca shrugged, cheeks flushed. "Chemistry's good for more than exams."
For a moment, the chaos of the tunnel faded. The sight of him awake, alive, was enough to loosen the knot in her chest. But then the echoes returned—the low groans of the dead, crawling closer through the smoke.
Jack shifted, trying to rise. She helped him sit, steadying his shoulders. His wounds were already sealed, faint scars replacing what should have been fatal injuries. The sight made her swallow hard.
"Jack… your injuries—"
"Later," he cut in softly, reading the worry in her eyes. "Right now, we move."
After a quick scavenging stop, Rebecca found a few magazines on the corpse of an Umbrella security guard. She slid the rounds into her pistol, the weight of the weapon suddenly reassuring in her hands.
They followed the tunnel, which eventually widened into a service corridor. Rebecca kept the makeshift flamethrower slung tight across her shoulder, her pistol gripped firmly in her hands. Jack moved behind her with a wary step, scanning the shadows.
They passed a row of shattered bulkheads and twisted steel doors. Inside, Rebecca glimpsed containment chambers—tanks cracked open, fluid dripping to the floor in foul puddles.
She slowed, the hair on her neck rising. Some chambers still held the remains of what once had been inside: claws pressed against broken glass, twisted limbs curled in stagnant liquid, teeth bared in death. Others were empty, the restraints snapped or melted away.
Jack's jaw tightened as he scanned the destruction. He knew this place. He had once been trapped in a chamber just like this.
Rebecca's stomach turned. "Those things we fought outside… they came from here."
At the end of the corridor, a terminal blinked weakly on backup power. She stepped closer, brushing ash from the display. Lines of data scrolled across the screen—feeding logs, neural conditioning schedules, virology reports.
Rebecca skimmed the entries, her throat tightening. T-Virus Test Subjects. Developmental Notes. Weaponized Variants.
A clipboard lay half-buried under broken glass. She pulled it free, her hands trembling as she read the Umbrella insignia stamped at the top.
Umbrella Corporation – Bio-Organic Weapon Research Division.Specimen containment: Cerberus, Eliminator, Leech-based organism.Notes: Current results show promise for military deployment. Further trials authorized.
Her eyes blurred. The monstrous dogs she had killed, the scorpion, the crawling horrors in the dark—they weren't accidents. They weren't natural.
Umbrella had made them.
Before she could read further, the corridor shook with a deep vibration.
Thud… thud… thud.
Jack froze, every muscle in his body tensing. The sound was all too familiar. It dragged him back to the Congo Basin, to the nightmare that had haunted him ever since.
Rebecca glanced at him, her voice barely a whisper. "Jack… what is it?"
The corridor shook again, dust sifting down from the ceiling.
From the darkness at the far end of the hall, a massive silhouette emerged.
Its body was swollen with muscle, pale skin stretched taut over failed grafts. One arm ended in a grotesque, oversized claw, the other flexed with raw, unnatural strength.
And then its single red eye opened—glowing like a furnace in the shadows.
The Proto-Tyrant.
Rebecca's breath caught. Her mind screamed to move, to run, but her legs felt rooted to the floor. Jack staggered forward, instinctively putting himself between her and the creature, though even he looked small against its monstrous frame.
His thoughts reeled. Last time, in the Congo, the Tyrant hadn't been trying to kill him. But this time? He wasn't so sure. One truth cut through his fear with brutal clarity.
They had to run.