Chapter Text
“Take a flashlight. And a gun.” Had been her roommate, Benji’s advice.
Grace doesn’t have a gun. But she has the knife she found tucked inside her mom’s sock drawer when she was looking for one. The flashlight is a cheap, plastic job she picked up at 7-Eleven on the ride over. It flickers as she turns it on and she smacks it on her palm, jarring it until the light strengthens.
“Shit, this place is creepy,” she mutters, flashing the beam of her flashlight over a sign that reads Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center.
The name of the place is all over her mom’s notes. Her mom who coincidentally said she would be back by the end of the night, two nights ago.
Alyssa Ashcroft’s disappearances are not new to Grace. She gets sucked into a case and sometimes she doesn’t surface for days; but she always checks in. This time, dead silence. No text, no call, no email.
They have an agreement for just such a situation. Grace should be packing and calling the number on the card her mom has magnetized to the fridge door - Leon S. Kennedy, DSO, is embossed on it in thick black letters.
She has no idea who Leon S. Kennedy is, but she has the card tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, just in case.
The wrought iron entrance gate is already open and there is a Porsche Cayenne parked on the circular drive. Rain drops on the windows reflect the light from Grace’s flashlight as she scopes the car. It’s empty, but the hood still feels warm when she hovers a hand over it.
The closest Grace has gotten to breaking and entering was in 7th grade when her crush mentioned being into “urban exploration”. They got stuck in an elevator shaft in an abandoned canning factory and Alyssa banned Grace from having a girlfriend for a year.
Her sneakers are quiet as she jogs up the marble steps and approaches the huge double doors. She hesitates, shifting as she looks around, wondering if she should knock, or find a window to crawl through.
But it’s a hospital, right? Who breaks into a hospital?
The door groans inward and she blinks around the edge of it, finding a well lit, overly ornate lobby, all marble and gleaming tile and carved wooden ceilings. The soles of her shoes squeak as she crosses the floor, pausing in front of the unmanned reception desk.
She notices a leatherbound visitor’s log and glances around, sweeping her gaze up along the stairs on either side for any unwelcome observers. Finding no one, she pulls the ledger close, quickly scanning the entries. Her eyes widen as she finds the name Alyssa Ashcroft written in a tight, familiar hand.
Her grip tightens on the flashlight. At least she is in the right place.
A sound catches her attention and she spins, her eyes quickly scanning the entrance hall. There is no one to be found, but she hears the noise again, a low moan, like someone in pain.
Her throat tightens and she swallows. She opens her mouth to speak but can’t quite manage it and licks her lips.
“H - hello?” She manages finally.
No answer.
She hesitates, one foot sliding forward, but the rest of her leans back, as if willing her body to stay put.
That moaning again.
Slowly, reluctantly, she inches forward, back the way she came. There is a hallway to the left of the entrance door. The windowed doors are closed but click open on smooth hinges when she pushes. Thunder cracks outside and she jumps, her hand trembling as lightning paints her face in a flash of white.
She follows the tile until it splits into two more hallways and pauses, holding her breath as she listens. The sound once again comes from her left and she turns. Her steps are muffled by thick red carpet. She follows the sound until she reaches another door. Her hand falls to the knob but she hesitates.
This is how every blonde ever dies in the movies.
“You can do this,” she whispers to herself.
The room is utterly dark. Her flashlight picks up desks in disarray, thick, closed curtains, gold framed paintings on the walls.
The groaning comes from a corner deep in the back of the room.
Grace’s breath shudders as she inches forward. Her beam catches a figure and she gasps, nearly jumping out of her skin.
“H-hey. Are you okay?”
The man doesn’t turn. He is dressed in the dark jacket and slacks of a security guard. His arms hang loosely at his sides. His head is lowered, as if staring at a stain on his shirt.
Grace shifts forward, frowning. “Can you hear me?”
Something that sounds very much like a croak issues from the man’s mouth and his head twitches up with a jerky movement. He turns suddenly and Grace takes a step back, keeping the light trained on him.
His eyes are dazed and unfocused, his mouth slack.
“Are you, uh, okay?” Grace asks. The lack of response from him unnerves her, sets her on edge. “I - I - uhm. My name is Grace. I didn’t break in or anything! The door was open.”
A string of drool slips from the man’s mouth. It’s tinged red.
Grace takes another step back.
Suddenly, the man begins to shake. It starts in his legs, quickly traveling up to his shoulders and his head twists, his eyes rolling until the whites show in the beam of Grace’s light. He thrashes, teeth grinding violently, blood that’s far too dark and too thick bubbling between his lips.
Grace panics. “Wh-what do I do? Uhm - “
The security guard bends backwards at an unnatural angle and something snaps. He teeters, arms dangling back, and something inside of him squeaks, like wet organs sliding and congealing together.
For a moment, the only sound is the rain on the windows.
The security guard snaps upright and his face is all wrong. His skin has gone grey and his eyes are bleeding, tracking dark, bloody tears down his cheeks. He opens his mouth and hauls up an arm as if it’s almost too heavy to lift.
A single, awful finger points at Grace.
“Intruder!” the thing gargles.
“Wh-what? No!”
It’s too late. The thing lurches towards Grace much quicker than she expected. She throws herself backwards, but she hits a desk, sending papers scattering in a flutter. The security guard lands on top of her with all his weight, bearing down on her as his teeth snap in her face. She gets a hand under his chin, forcing his face away. She repeatedly slams the flashlight into his head, hoping to either knock him out or knock him off - but the light breaks like the cheap piece of shit it is and his hands go around her throat.
She tries to cry out, but her air vanishes as his hands squeeze and she realizes she is going to die.
Her hand flails over the desk, scrambling as her vision begins to blacken at the edges. Distantly, she remembers the knife sheathed at her thigh. She reaches for it, nearly drops it as the security guard tightens his grip.
The guard stiffens as the serrated blade of the combat knife punches through his skull and buries into the moist center of his brain. His grip slackens, and it’s just enough for Grace to roll out from under him, coughing and gagging as she hits the floor. She scrambles up, tries to dart away, but he lurches, and this time, his teeth catch the back of her arm. He bites down like he has every intent of turning her into a cracker topper, his teeth punching through her skin like a toothpick through styrofoam.
She screams, blinded by the pain and horrified at the feeling of hot blood welling around the security guard’s mouth. Her blood.
Suddenly, the security guard’s weight disappears. She instantly scrambles away, crawling along the floor until her shoulder hits the edge of a desk. She rolls under it, pulling her knees up to her chin as she folds herself. Blood trails down the back of her arm, drips off her elbow.
Silence.
A step. Heavy and close.
“Grace Ashcroft,” says a voice.
Light clicks on and Grace blinks rapidly, frantically trying to focus her vision.
“Come on out Grace,” the voice says. There is a sibilant hiss to it, something greasy about the words, like they’re coated in slick poison. “You have nothing to fear.”
It sounds like bullshit to Grace, but she doesn’t see another choice. She lets out a breath and crawls out from under the desk, holding her wounded arm.
The owner of the voice is tall, too tall. He wears an immense coat, scaled in the patterns of a diamondback snake. A seam of joined skin runs up his chest, all the way up to his oddly flat, wide lips. He wears some kind of device on his head, lensed, a glow of red heating up as he scans Grace. He smiles and his teeth are dark gold.
A flash of anger makes Grace bold and she glares. “Wh-who are you?”
His smile feels oily, filthy. “Just a friend. You’ve come for mommy dearest, haven’t you?”
She takes a step forward. “Where is she?”
He holds out a hand. His fingers are tipped black. “I’ll take you to her.”
If there is one thing Grace knows for certain, it’s never trust a stranger in BDSM clubwear outside of the club.
She bolts, tries to make it to the door. But the man is surprisingly quick for his size. He covers the distance between them in a few lazy strides, catching her by the throat. His embrace is almost loving as he presses her to his side.
“Sleep now, Grace. All your prospects will look better tomorrow.”
Unlike the security guard, he knows what he’s doing. Grace has a moment of panic, but it’s quickly gone, swallowed by the blackness behind her eyes as she loses unconsciousness.
When Grace jolts awake, her mind doesn’t understand the break in consciousness and she immediately tenses, fully expecting to find that cold, massive hand still at her throat. Instead, the world is upside down.
“What is this?” She says, eyes darting as she tries to reorient herself. She jerks against the restraints at her wrists and ankles, using her shoulder blades to wrench herself as violently as possible. “Hey! Help”
All of her blood is in her head and she can’t breathe and -
“No no no no no,” she murmurs. She breathes through her mouth. “You gotta stay calm. You gotta stay cool. Come on. Think.”
She twists her neck and she sees it, an IV line dripping blood into a glass jar. Her blood, she notes as she takes in the needle pushed into her arm.
She grits her teeth and stretches her fingers as far as she can, tugging on the IV. The rack holding the line teeters and crashes with a shatter of glass.
“Yes!”
She drags the line up and the remnants of the broken jar along with it.
Now if she can just get a good angle…
She hisses as the glass slices her wrist. Worse fates than minor cuts await her if she isn’t quick and so she begins to saw, working at the material with one eye on the door.
She makes quick work of the stiffened strap, and frees her other wrist with her newly liberated hand. She is strapped to some kind of gurney, a heavy old thing that rattles when she tests it with her weight. She rips the IV drip out of her arm, groaning at the pain the big needle causes as it rips from her skin. She unbuckles the leather strap at her waist.
“Okay, okay,” she murmurs, gripping the metal bars on either side.
She sucks in a breath, stealing herself.
This is going to hurt like a bitch.
She tenses, putting her full weight behind her movements as she twists, allowing the leverage of her bound ankles to rock the gurney. She crashes to the floor in a tremendous sound of metal and she can’t help but cry out as she twists, checking the room’s only door. When no one bursts in screaming and shouting, she scoots back along the floor and releases her ankles.
She moves to stand but her vision blurs and pain blooms between her eyes. It sends her crashing back to her knees, clutching her head.
What the hell did they do to me? she wonders.
It’s with this thought in mind that she searches the room, pausing at the clipboard left next to an armchair.
She scans the notes, frowning as the word Dexifil stands out. She remembers it from one of her mom’s articles. It was developed after Raccoon City, mass produced and administered as an anti-inflammatory with possible suppressant qualities.
Her mind flashes back to the security guard, his teeth tearing into her skin.
Was that a fucking zombie?
She doesn’t dare look at the dark smear her spilled blood left on the tile as she steps over it to check herself in the mirror. She hates to think of her blood like that, outside of her body, spoiling.
Her arm has been bandaged, but there is a new wound on her chest, one she didn’t sustain in her struggle with the security guard. She bites her lip as she examines the bloodstain soaking through the white linen in a red bloom.
This is so fucked, she thinks, staring at herself.
Priorities, Grace.
She needs to leave. Quickly.
Her backpack is nowhere to be seen and her jacket is gone as well. She checks her pockets and finds the Swiss Army knife she had grabbed on an impulse.
Great. Raw dogging a creepy, possibly zombie filled hospital with a tiny multi-tool. What could go wrong?
The corridor outside is dark, lit in patches by moonlight that filters through the windows. Debris crunches under her boot and a draft of cool air hits her from above. She pauses, tilting her head to look up, and sees the vague outline of a hole in the ceiling.
She chooses not to think about what could have caused that kind of damage.
She is terrified the sounds of her movement will draw unwanted attention and so she moves slowly, keeping close to the wall. There is a door ahead, and what looks like a darkened nurse’s station.
Nope. Fuck that.
She bypasses the nurse’s station entirely and makes her way down a long hallway lit by red emergency lights. The light she flicks on illuminates a strange marble statue tucked into an alcove at the end of the hallway - it’s a rearing horse, bit clenched between its teeth, a shrouded figure mounted on its back. There is something deeply unsettling about it, the flickering light blinking it in and out of visibility.
She follows the natural turn of the hallway, spying a lit lamp and an armchair. Some kind of fuse box is mounted to the wall, the door of it open. When she checks it, she sees a fuse missing.
“Of course,” she mutters. Her fingers wrap around the metal gate that has lowered from the doorway and blocks her off from what looks like the center’s massive lobby.
Okay. Find the fuse, open the gate, find Mom.
On a whim, she opens the drawer of the end table pushed in the corner. Inside she finds a key. It’s an ostentatious thing, cold and heavy and decorated with a motif of a cherub. She remembers passing a door similarly adorned and back tracks along the hallway.
The key fits.
The room inside is a bedroom. A single metal framed bed is pushed against the far wall, flanked by a side dresser and a small table and chair. An ancient, heavy looking typewriter sits on a small desk. Grace runs her fingers over it, turning her head to check the rest of the room.
She notices a sink, and next to it, a closet thrown wide open. Inside she finds cupboards and drawers, seemingly holding linen. A metal lighter sits next to a stack of towels. She turns it over in her hands, holding it close to her face as she examines it.
It’s gold, ornate, and heavy. It flares to life as she grinds the flint.
The fuse she needs glows behind a glass door mounted into the wall. She notes a phillips head screw holding it shut and quickly retrieves the swiss army knife from her pocket.
“Knew this would come in handy,” she says, working on the screw.
Removing the fuse kills the power. Something flutters down to her shoulder and lands softly. Slowly, she raises her eyes to the ceiling, lifting the lighter to better see. Another hole, the wood broken outwards. Dust drifts down. As if something up there has disturbed the debris.
“What the fuck?” She stands up on her tip toes, trying to peer into the darkness.
Thunder cracks and suddenly she sees it, reaching out from inside the ceiling - the clawed hand is massive, and the creature attached to it slithers down from the darkness like a fever dream. It’s all teeth and strange eyes and something that sounds suspiciously like shackles clank when it moves.
In moments of fight or flight, Grace is a bird. She turns tail and runs, but she’s moving too quickly, too frantically and she stumbles, nearly falling to the floor before she catches herself. She grabs the doorway as she runs past it, using her momentum to swing around and launch herself further down the hallway. She can hear the thing behind her, fingernails scrambling at the floor, chains rattling, the flesh of it heavy on the floor.
She stumbles again as she reaches the fuse box, grabbing onto it as she nearly slides past in her panic. She slams the fuse into place and immediately hits the gate button, dropping to the ground and scrambling under it as it begins to rise.
The creature screams and follows.
Seeing it in the light is even worse. It is goliath, wisps of white hair clinging to its scalp, mismatched eyes and teeth bloody and caked with decay. Somewhat oddly, it wears an old, formerly white nightgown, ragged and torn and dirty. Its skin sizzles under the light but it presses on heedless, ducking under the gate with a snarl. It looses a high pitched, angry scream, swooping down to seize Grace’s ankle.
She doesn’t even have time to struggle. The creature drags her along the floor and swings her up by leg, slamming her back first into the radiator bolted to the wall. She cries out. The impact feels like a car fender straight to the kidneys. Her body tries to curl and protect itself, but the fear and panic fills her up, driving her to roll back onto her stomach.
She begins to crawl again, but the thing is on her, grabbing her. She palms at the ground but the creature is strong and quick and she begins to slide.
This is it. There is nothing else she can do.
The realization hits her in the gut.
She is young enough that she has never thought about dying. Not really. Sure, death exists, but other people die. Not her. Not her mom.
Sorry, Mom, she thinks
As if sensing the exact moment Grace accepts her fate, the creature crows, and begins to drag her from the light into the dark.
A shot rings out, quick, abrupt.
The hand on her ankle flutters, releases.
She sees the beam of a flashlight. Two figures stand behind it, their stances defensive.
“Hey, over here,” comes a man’s voice.
Grace is not in the business of fucking around and finding out. She jumps to her feet, renewed hope giving her a burst of adrenaline as she rushes towards the pair of strangers ahead. The creature behind her hisses, reaching for her, and the man shoots again. Grace cries out, covering her ears to block out the gun’s roar. He shoots five times, gun barrel painting the air with fiery flashes. He shoots until the creature’s skull is red paste scattered across the floor.
The sound of the gun, the smell of blood, the entire shitty situation is too much for Grace. She takes her hands down from her ears and breathes, sucking in harsh, trembling breaths, gripping her knees to anchor herself.
“You okay?” The man asks. She can hear the rustle of his jacket as he holsters his gun.
“Y-ye-yeah. Thanks!” She scrambles back as he approaches and his hand raises in a soothing gesture.
“Leon Kennedy. DSO.”
“Easy there,” says another voice.
The woman at Leon’s side steps into the light of the clinic, approaching Grace with a hand raised. Her gaze is steady on Grace’s face. “We’re here to help.”
Suddenly, gates around the clinic screech and slam shut. The gate Grace just opened is no exception, slamming down and immediately separating the trio - Grace and the strange woman on one side, Leon on the other.
A metal shutter slowly begins to lower.
Grace rushes to the gate, grabbing the bars. “Wait! Leon Kennedy? I - I have a card with your name on it.”
She fumbles the card out of her back pocket and slips it through the bars. “My mom gave me this.”
Leon’s gaze is hard on the card. “Who is your mom?”
“Alyssa Ashcroft.”
“You’re Alyssa’s kid?”
“Y-yes!.”
“What are you - “ but he stops. The shutter is closing too quickly. “There’s no time. Jill, take care of her.”
He reaches into his coat, drawing the biggest fucking pistol Grace has ever seen her life. “Here, take this. I’ll find you.”
She almost drops the damn thing, has to hold it with both hands. The shutter seals against the floor and Grace stands staring at it. Leon is gone and there is just Grace.
Oh, and -
“Are you injured?” The woman asks. Her eyes sweep over Grace, pausing on the bloodied bandages.
“I - I’m okay,” Grace says, backing away from her.
She is anything but okay.
She swallows, licks her lips. “I’m Grace. Ashcroft.”
In a civilized world, you shake hands. And so the woman extends her hand.
“Jill Valentine.”