Fic: Resident Evil; Down the Line (Chapter 4)
Down the Line
Games!verse, Post RE5. Eventual Billy/Rebecca fic. Chapter 4 of ?
A new variation on the T-Virus threatens the world in a way no other strain has, prompting the BSAA to send one of their own to South America to investigate.
This is the ORIGINAL version of chapter 4.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |
Billy stayed in bed for a lot longer than he usually did one morning a few days after Rebecca's arrival. He stared up at the ceiling, hands hooked behind his head, absently following the swirls and patterns in the concrete as he thought. Every now and again his gaze would dart towards the bathroom - not because he needed to use it, but because on the other side of the bathroom's wall was his guest bedroom, where Rebecca was sleeping.
He rolled over onto his side, back to the bathroom, and drew a hand down his face. Of course the Alliance would send her. She was their best. She was the goddamned best. And he was thrilled to see her.
No, more than thrilled. There was no point in fooling himself. Ten years had passed since they'd parted ways on that ridge, ten long and frustrating years, and now they were back together and things felt…
It was hard to put it into words.
When he'd first gotten on that train, he'd felt nothing but terror, a raw and instinctive terror like nothing he'd ever felt before. He'd been barely able to suppress it, and God knew his circumstances weren't helping matters any. The two MPs back at the truck were dead, and unless forensics looked closely and whatever cop assigned to the case was thorough, he'd probably be nailed again. He'd only just managed to get himself free of one cuff - one! - and that was by nearly breaking his hand. He had a gun, sure, that he'd picked up, but God only knew when it had been cleaned last and it wasn't like he had a lot of ammo anyway.
But he'd had no choice. Then she came along, that barely-legal little princess, and even though logic told him he was better off without her, something else told him he needed her.
That feeling, the sense that he needed her, hadn't left him since.
The hell are you doing, Coen, Billy thought, pressing a fist to his forehead. You don't have time for another trip down memory lane. Get your ass up. It's time to work.
Growling to himself, Billy kicked off the covers and got out of bed. He skipped right over the bathroom, walked right past the kitchen, and had barely grabbed a jacket off the rack before he was out the door.
The ground outside was soaked through from the rain. There was no sense taking the Jeep; chances were he'd just get bogged down in the mud.
There was another row of dark clouds sitting on the horizon. Though there was very little wind at the moment, Billy knew the clouds were heading their way. They'd bring storms like the one from last night: a wild, raging thing indicative of the rainy season here on the Yucatán Peninsula.
The Market would shut down just before the rain hit. It always did. Billy would have to hurry up and get there if he wanted to talk to Vargas before the storm broke.
The Luna Bar was empty when he arrived, as were the Market's muddied streets. Only a few stray dogs wandered through the alleys, looking for whatever food scraps might've survived the storm.
Though he did occasionally come here early, Billy was used to seeing these streets when they were packed with people and filled with the sounds of their chatter - in Spanish, Russian, Farsi, English, and about a dozen other languages. Now there were barely any signs of life at all, and the deep quiet was eerie. Craning his neck, he could just see the single, small window towards the back of the Bar, where the kitchen was. Soft light from inside bathed the yellow-brown brick a pale orange. Vargas was there, probably already cooking.
Billy slid onto one of the stools by the bar and rapped his knuckles on the counter. Vargas, though older, had both sharp hearing and a knack for sensing when people arrived at his bar, and Billy knew he'd be out in a few minutes.
While he waited, he turned and looked up the Market streets again, eyeing the storm clouds that were definitely getting closer, trying to figure how long he had before the first drops of rain began to fall.
Billy heard a noise and he turned back to the bar. Vargas slipped out from behind the door to the kitchen.
"Guillermo," he said, grinning his nearly toothless grin. "Señor Rodriguez. I have not seen you here this early in a long time. What's on your mind?" Vargas' voice was soft and lightly accented, and his Spanish was easy to understand.
"What," Billy asked, fully aware of how heavy his voice sounded, "can you tell me about Pig?"
"Pig?" Vargas shifted his weight, scratching at his stubbly chin with his calloused fingers. Then he shrugged, throwing up his hands. "You've dealt with him almost as much as I have. Why don't you tell me?"
Billy looked away, back down the main road. He hadn't seen Pig in a few days - not since he'd picked up Rebecca in Cozumel, actually. With anyone else, that wouldn't have been unusual - dealers came and went from this place, often twice in a day depending on what they were after - but Pig was a creature of habit, and his habit was to stick around in the Market for at least a week before leaving again.
Billy kept thinking back to how their meeting had gone. How nervous Pig had been. How jumpy. None of that was completely out of character - Pig was paranoid on even the best of days - but something about his behavior had felt off that day and felt worse now. "Something's not right."
"What," Vargas said, "you think Pig might've gotten himself into something?" He laughed. "This is Pig. I shouldn't have to tell you how good he is."
He didn't. Pig was well known around the Market for being a shrewd, cunning, able businessman. He'd been dealing in bio-weapons since long before the current, post-Umbrella boom - anthrax, smallpox, hell, even modified strains of the goddamned flu. There'd been an outbreak in Mexico City over the summer, and Billy'd be damned if Pig hadn't had some role in that. The guy knew how to make deals, get samples and turn a nice profit without making enemies - or mistakes. He'd been doing this for so long there was no fear any more, just the ease of familiarity. There was no one better, not in the whole wide world.
Billy knew all of that. Everyone on the Market did.
"That's why I'm here," he said. "You know how he is as well as I do." Billy held up his hands and began ticking off fingers one by one. "He doesn't make bad deals, he doesn't undersell, and he definitely doesn't skip town before his week's up. So where is he?"
"Yeah, you're right," Vargas agreed. Then he shook his head. "I can't say anything for sure."
"Nothing?" Billy shot Vargas a look. "Your little act hasn't gotten you anything?"
Vargas' 'little act' involved pretending he was a deaf-mute most of the time. Only a very small handful of people knew that he could actually speak, and all of them knew to keep that information to themselves. People - that is, those who believed Vargas was a deaf-mute - spoke much more freely when they thought the bartender couldn't get a better lot in life than waiting on them, taking orders by hand gestures and notes written on napkins.
"No," Vargas said, relenting. "I haven't got anything. No one's stopped by looking for him. No one's asked about him. No one has stepped foot in this town who has no place here. If you're looking for ideas, though… Maybe he stole it from someone and he was worried they were after him. Pig likes his own skin enough to change up habit for that. Or maybe he tried to sell it to someone before you, some new hot shot or somethin'. Maybe the deal turned sour, and Pig's worried he'll be traced back here. Maybe he had a little run in with the cops and would rather not be the reason this place gets shut down. I can't say for sure. All I can say is that I haven't seen him or anything outta the ordinary."
Billy continued to stare hard at the bartender. Vargas stared back. For a few minutes the two men simply studied each other, each trying to see if his patience could outlast the other's.
Finally, Vargas snorted. Waving a grizzled, calloused, liver-spotted finger in Billy's face, he said, "Things have been changing out here. Can't deny that. There was that whole incident in - oh, hell, Africa somewhere. You know."
"Kijuju," Billy said.
"Yeah, there. I dunno what the hell went on down there, but ever since the Alliance has been stepping up its efforts to get all you dealers off the streets and all those virus samples into some big storehouse somewhere or something, whatever it is they…"
Billy rolled his eyes. "The Alliance is a joke," he said, his voice harsh. "Bound by the same stupid treaties and laws and regulations as the UN, slaves to the Global Pharmaceutical Consortium…" He shook his head. "The Alliance hasn't once stopped an outbreak, just gone in and cleaned up the mess. Pig's not afraid of them, and he shouldn't be. They're too busy calling out big firms and patting themselves on the back when they take down CEOs to even realize that dissolving those companies just feeds the Market even more - and cuts down on all of the GPC's competition."
Vargas raised his eyebrows. "Well, aren't you just an expert on the subject."
Billy paused. He might've gone just a little bit too far there. He grit his teeth and thought, Great job, Coen. You're a real genius, you know that?
Drumming his fingers on the counter, he told another lie: "The Alliance has been on and off my tail for the past few years. They haven't caught me yet. So either I'm very good - which we both know isn't true - or they're very bad."
"Hm," Vargas replied.
Billy looked up, confused, watching as Vargas suddenly reached below the bar and grabbed a bunch of napkins. Taking a pen out of his back pocket, he hastily scribbled something on one of the napkins, then pushed it towards Billy. In his simple, clear handwriting, he had written: "Maybe. Maybe not. I know a thing or two about acting. The Alliance may be acting."
Vargas had a point. A good one, especially when Billy considered his own circumstances. He leaned back a little as the first rumble of thunder echoed through the humid air, but didn't respond to what Vargas had written. He had to get going, anyway.
"Thank you," he said, rising from the stool.
Vargas frowned, pulled the napkin back. He quickly scribbled something else on it, pushing it across the counter towards Billy when he was finished. Without giving Billy a chance to read it and respond, the old bartender turned on his heel and disappeared back into his kitchen.
Billy looked at the napkin only after he had left the bar and started back down the muddy road towards the Bunker.
"If I were you," Vargas had written, "I'd worry less about Pig and more about yourself."
It was pouring by the time Billy got back to the bunker. It was a cold rain, too, with fat raindrops that stung every time they hit bare skin.
The guest bedroom's shower was running - Billy could just hear it over the sound of the rain pounding on the roof. Rebecca was awake. Kicking off his shoes and hanging up his dripping coat, Billy quickly put a pot of coffee on and settled down at the kitchen table. He'd start breakfast when Rebecca was done with her shower.
Over the past four days, the two of them had managed to settle into an odd routine. Rebecca spent most of her day poring over the virus, studying small droplets of the sample under a microscope, running it through test after test, all in an effort to figure out, she said, what it did, how it did it, how it might be stopped - and who made it the way it was.
For his part, Billy provided Rebecca with whatever she needed - from someone to bounce ideas off of to an errand boy to something like her personal chef. He prepared her meals because she was frequently too wrapped up in her work to even notice it was lunchtime. Billy was pretty sure that if he didn't feed her, Rebecca just wouldn't eat.
Beyond that, however, they spoke and interacted very little. Things were still painfully awkward between them and whatever barriers were keeping them from being comfortable around each other showed no signs of falling anytime soon.
He hated it, but didn't really know what to do about it.
Billy heard Rebecca's door open and jerked his head around, watching as she all but staggered into the kitchen.
"Morning," he said to her as she slid into a chair.
"Morning," she replied, rubbing at her eyes as though she had just rolled out of bed.
"You're up late."
"Was up half the night working." She dropped her forehead into a palm, shaking her head slowly. "This virus is incredibly complex. I've never seen anything like it - not since T. I've hardly even started to figure any of it out, and it's already been almost a week."
"Four days is not 'almost a week', Rebecca."
"We need to figure this thing out as soon as we can. You know that." She lifted her head and looked at him. "Have you got any leads?"
Billy shook his head. "The guy I bought it from seems to have skipped town. No one seems to know where he is." He sighed. "And I'm not likely to find out much more as long as the weather stays like this. It'll be hard to even find anyone outside in weather like this."
"You guys can afford to close up when it rains?"
"Sort of. Dealers tend to migrate for the rainy seasons and go where it's not quite so wet. A few places are still up, though. Just not here."
"You could…" Rebecca began.
"No. Absolutely not."
Rebecca gave him an odd look, but didn't say anything.
Billy clenched his jaw, feeling prickles of warmth in his cheeks. He'd spoken way too quickly. Turning his head to look out the window, he drew a hand down his face - paying particular attention to his cheeks - and added, "I'd really prefer not to leave you alone here."
"This place is armed to the teeth. You said so yourself."
"Sorry. Still ain't gonna happen."
"Why not?"
Billy rubbed at the stubble on his chin, wondering which of his many reasons was the best. Finally, he settled on listing the top three: "One, dunno where my seller is. God knows the rat bastard mighta sold me out. Two, you can't activate or deactivate any of the systems I got here. Three, you aren't a field agent. Said so yourself. Means you oughta have someone keeping an eye on you."
Rebecca scowled at him.
He'd gotten her there. That third one did it for sure. Billy flashed her a grin and added, "And why are you so eager to kick me out, huh? Gotta make a private call to your boyfriend?"
The scowl deepened, and now Rebecca's cheeks were reddening, too. "No," she snapped, eyes flashing. Through gritted teeth, she added, more to the table than to him, "I don't have one."
Billy's heart skipped. No boyfriend? He felt a giddy smile tugging on his lips.
Bad time to smile, dumbass, he thought, clamping down on the inside of his cheek.
"You hungry?" he suddenly asked, by way of catching himself. He stood up and started towards the stove.
"You don't have to-"
"No, but I'm gonna anyway. Get used to it. It's how things go in Casa de Coen."
At that, Rebecca laughed.
Billy smiled. Looking out the small window at the pouring rains, he smiled as wide as he had in months.
Finally, the walls were coming down.
The storms had died out again by that evening. Forecast was, of course, calling for more rain over the next few days.
Bad timing, Billy thought. He'd really been hoping to get a few days' break - long enough that he and Rebecca could head up to Cozumel and do a little digging. He really wanted to find Pig, or, barring that, some kind of lead to the source of the virus.
He drew a hand down his face. Suicide, that's what that was. In the market, you didn't go after the source. You dealt. You bought and sold and you didn't ask questions that weren't really important. If you happened to find a direct line to your own source, fine and dandy, but you sure as hell didn't go looking for one. The Alliance, though not a terrible threat, hung over everyone's heads like a dark cloud. Anyone caught sniffing around
There were people he could call, favors he could cash in. He could find a way. But it might take months, and with a virus like T-Loki…
The thing with most of the viruses on the market was that a couple of samples - never, ever just one - were usually sold to terrorists and other zealots as a means of getting them tested in the real world. Some strains of T worked really well in the lab, but were duds when introduced to a mass population, while others only made a dent in the local population before, believe it or not, said population developed a natural immunity to it.
But on the whole, it seemed, no one had managed to quite recreate the success Umbrella had had with the original T- and G- viruses.
T-Loki, though…
If it worked as well in a population - and what Rebecca had managed to find out so far suggested as much - it could devastate the world in a way that Umbrella might not even have imagined.
And, of course, he wasn't the only one out there with a sample.
Sighing heavily, Bill dropped his head, staring at the floor through the gap between his knees.
So much shit on his plate. So much of it.
"Billy?" Rebecca suddenly called from the kitchen.
Jerked out of his thoughts, Billy called back, "What is it?"
"I…I think you need to see this." Her voice was clipped.
Billy rose from the chair and went over to her, circling around behind her so he could see the screen. He had expected to see some email from Graves or one of her friends on the B.S.A.A., or maybe some shots of the virus' cells or something.
What he saw instead was an article on a popular news website.
About him. About his case.
With his picture nestled right next to the text.
Sonofabitch.
"Did you know about this?" Rebecca asked, looking up at him.
Billy clenched his teeth, pushing a hand through his hair. "Sort of," he finally admitted, closing his eyes and trying desperately to wish that article away.
"'Sort of?'"
Billy growled in frustration, the sound rumbling deep in the back of his throat. Five days. It had been five days.
Under wraps my ass.
Beginning to pace, he said, "Graves called me a few days ago. Mentioned that one of the other guys from…from my old unit had killed himself - and left a note. Apparently it was enough to turn a few heads and make the new brass a little curious." He growled again, an angry fire building in his chest.
"But… Why didn't you mention it?" Rebecca asked, climbing out of the chair.
Billy glanced back at the screen. "Because I don't know how I feel about it."
"It's good news!" she replied, her voice earnest.
"Is it?" Billy retorted, spinning to face her, his hands balling into fists. "Tell me, how is it good news? I've been working with the cartels for the last ten years, Rebecca. I've been in close contact with men who have killed in the past to keep their identities secret! If they find out that that-" he jabbed a finger at the computer, where an eleven-year-old photo of him in full Marine Corps regalia was displayed in his resolution on the screen "-is me, that I was a Marine, what do you think they're going to do? They'll think I've been feeding information to Uncle Sam. They'll think I've been on some secret undercover operation to get them thrown in jail. And they'll come after me, Rebecca. They'll hunt me down and they'll kill me. Maybe they'll even wrap up some of my body parts and ship 'em off to NCIS as a warning. How many times do you think I can cheat death? 'Cause I already think I'm deep in debt right there."
"But it means you can come home!"
Billy shook his head furiously. "Billy Coen is a dead man as far as the United States is concerned. Innocent or not, he died in July 1998, alone and on the run from a bunch of goddamned zombies. What they're doing now - it's bullshit. It's about some young journalist wanting a shot at a Pulitzer. I guarantee you, he'll go and he'll interview the last two survivors of that incident. He'll tell their spin on the story, maybe embellish a little bit here and there, maybe try and find the words to describe the special kind of hell that place was. And then Donovan and Kerns will feed him some line about how telling this story after so many years makes their souls feel lighter or something, and all of 'em will say a few pretty lines about how I was just a victim of the American drive for justice even at the expense of the truth. It'll sound pretty. Might make a few people cry.
"Hell, the might even make a movie out of it. What do you think - am I good enough for Hollywood, or am I just gonna be some special miniseries on cable? Who do you think could be me? 'Cause I kinda like the idea of being played by Hugh-"
"Stop," Rebecca said, her voice barely above a whisper. Billy could see her eyes were wet, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. He wasn't done. And since no one else would hear his story or get his say, she was going to have to.
So he went on: "This whole thing, it isn't about clearing my name. It's about lining the pockets of anyone who can claim tangential involvement. It's just about letting those people sleep well at night. I get nothing. Nothing but another ruined life. I already can't be a Marine anymore. Now I won't be able to be a dealer anymore either.
"I'm running out of things I'm good at, Rebecca. And it was a short list to begin with."
Billy trailed off, breathing heavily. His hands were balled up so tightly he could feel his nails digging deep into his palms and there was a tight knot in his chest and stomach.
He couldn't look at Rebecca. He didn't want to know if the tears had started falling, because he wasn't sure he'd know what to do to help. Not when he'd been the asshole that had made her cry to begin with.
But suddenly he heard her move, felt her step in beside him, and the next thing he knew she had wrapped her arms around his neck.
"You're a hero, Billy Coen," she said, her voice thick. "I know it, you know it, Graves knows it. And it's about fucking time America knew it."
Startled, Billy stood frozen. He just let Rebecca cling to him, pressing her face into his collarbone. Then he relaxed, tilted his head so his cheek lay against her hair, and wrapped his arms around her back.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry." He tightened his grip on her, holding her as close to him as he could. "I'm sorry."
Games!verse, Post RE5. Eventual Billy/Rebecca fic. Chapter 4 of ?
A new variation on the T-Virus threatens the world in a way no other strain has, prompting the BSAA to send one of their own to South America to investigate.
This is the ORIGINAL version of chapter 4.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |
Billy stayed in bed for a lot longer than he usually did one morning a few days after Rebecca's arrival. He stared up at the ceiling, hands hooked behind his head, absently following the swirls and patterns in the concrete as he thought. Every now and again his gaze would dart towards the bathroom - not because he needed to use it, but because on the other side of the bathroom's wall was his guest bedroom, where Rebecca was sleeping.
He rolled over onto his side, back to the bathroom, and drew a hand down his face. Of course the Alliance would send her. She was their best. She was the goddamned best. And he was thrilled to see her.
No, more than thrilled. There was no point in fooling himself. Ten years had passed since they'd parted ways on that ridge, ten long and frustrating years, and now they were back together and things felt…
It was hard to put it into words.
When he'd first gotten on that train, he'd felt nothing but terror, a raw and instinctive terror like nothing he'd ever felt before. He'd been barely able to suppress it, and God knew his circumstances weren't helping matters any. The two MPs back at the truck were dead, and unless forensics looked closely and whatever cop assigned to the case was thorough, he'd probably be nailed again. He'd only just managed to get himself free of one cuff - one! - and that was by nearly breaking his hand. He had a gun, sure, that he'd picked up, but God only knew when it had been cleaned last and it wasn't like he had a lot of ammo anyway.
But he'd had no choice. Then she came along, that barely-legal little princess, and even though logic told him he was better off without her, something else told him he needed her.
That feeling, the sense that he needed her, hadn't left him since.
The hell are you doing, Coen, Billy thought, pressing a fist to his forehead. You don't have time for another trip down memory lane. Get your ass up. It's time to work.
Growling to himself, Billy kicked off the covers and got out of bed. He skipped right over the bathroom, walked right past the kitchen, and had barely grabbed a jacket off the rack before he was out the door.
The ground outside was soaked through from the rain. There was no sense taking the Jeep; chances were he'd just get bogged down in the mud.
There was another row of dark clouds sitting on the horizon. Though there was very little wind at the moment, Billy knew the clouds were heading their way. They'd bring storms like the one from last night: a wild, raging thing indicative of the rainy season here on the Yucatán Peninsula.
The Market would shut down just before the rain hit. It always did. Billy would have to hurry up and get there if he wanted to talk to Vargas before the storm broke.
The Luna Bar was empty when he arrived, as were the Market's muddied streets. Only a few stray dogs wandered through the alleys, looking for whatever food scraps might've survived the storm.
Though he did occasionally come here early, Billy was used to seeing these streets when they were packed with people and filled with the sounds of their chatter - in Spanish, Russian, Farsi, English, and about a dozen other languages. Now there were barely any signs of life at all, and the deep quiet was eerie. Craning his neck, he could just see the single, small window towards the back of the Bar, where the kitchen was. Soft light from inside bathed the yellow-brown brick a pale orange. Vargas was there, probably already cooking.
Billy slid onto one of the stools by the bar and rapped his knuckles on the counter. Vargas, though older, had both sharp hearing and a knack for sensing when people arrived at his bar, and Billy knew he'd be out in a few minutes.
While he waited, he turned and looked up the Market streets again, eyeing the storm clouds that were definitely getting closer, trying to figure how long he had before the first drops of rain began to fall.
Billy heard a noise and he turned back to the bar. Vargas slipped out from behind the door to the kitchen.
"Guillermo," he said, grinning his nearly toothless grin. "Señor Rodriguez. I have not seen you here this early in a long time. What's on your mind?" Vargas' voice was soft and lightly accented, and his Spanish was easy to understand.
"What," Billy asked, fully aware of how heavy his voice sounded, "can you tell me about Pig?"
"Pig?" Vargas shifted his weight, scratching at his stubbly chin with his calloused fingers. Then he shrugged, throwing up his hands. "You've dealt with him almost as much as I have. Why don't you tell me?"
Billy looked away, back down the main road. He hadn't seen Pig in a few days - not since he'd picked up Rebecca in Cozumel, actually. With anyone else, that wouldn't have been unusual - dealers came and went from this place, often twice in a day depending on what they were after - but Pig was a creature of habit, and his habit was to stick around in the Market for at least a week before leaving again.
Billy kept thinking back to how their meeting had gone. How nervous Pig had been. How jumpy. None of that was completely out of character - Pig was paranoid on even the best of days - but something about his behavior had felt off that day and felt worse now. "Something's not right."
"What," Vargas said, "you think Pig might've gotten himself into something?" He laughed. "This is Pig. I shouldn't have to tell you how good he is."
He didn't. Pig was well known around the Market for being a shrewd, cunning, able businessman. He'd been dealing in bio-weapons since long before the current, post-Umbrella boom - anthrax, smallpox, hell, even modified strains of the goddamned flu. There'd been an outbreak in Mexico City over the summer, and Billy'd be damned if Pig hadn't had some role in that. The guy knew how to make deals, get samples and turn a nice profit without making enemies - or mistakes. He'd been doing this for so long there was no fear any more, just the ease of familiarity. There was no one better, not in the whole wide world.
Billy knew all of that. Everyone on the Market did.
"That's why I'm here," he said. "You know how he is as well as I do." Billy held up his hands and began ticking off fingers one by one. "He doesn't make bad deals, he doesn't undersell, and he definitely doesn't skip town before his week's up. So where is he?"
"Yeah, you're right," Vargas agreed. Then he shook his head. "I can't say anything for sure."
"Nothing?" Billy shot Vargas a look. "Your little act hasn't gotten you anything?"
Vargas' 'little act' involved pretending he was a deaf-mute most of the time. Only a very small handful of people knew that he could actually speak, and all of them knew to keep that information to themselves. People - that is, those who believed Vargas was a deaf-mute - spoke much more freely when they thought the bartender couldn't get a better lot in life than waiting on them, taking orders by hand gestures and notes written on napkins.
"No," Vargas said, relenting. "I haven't got anything. No one's stopped by looking for him. No one's asked about him. No one has stepped foot in this town who has no place here. If you're looking for ideas, though… Maybe he stole it from someone and he was worried they were after him. Pig likes his own skin enough to change up habit for that. Or maybe he tried to sell it to someone before you, some new hot shot or somethin'. Maybe the deal turned sour, and Pig's worried he'll be traced back here. Maybe he had a little run in with the cops and would rather not be the reason this place gets shut down. I can't say for sure. All I can say is that I haven't seen him or anything outta the ordinary."
Billy continued to stare hard at the bartender. Vargas stared back. For a few minutes the two men simply studied each other, each trying to see if his patience could outlast the other's.
Finally, Vargas snorted. Waving a grizzled, calloused, liver-spotted finger in Billy's face, he said, "Things have been changing out here. Can't deny that. There was that whole incident in - oh, hell, Africa somewhere. You know."
"Kijuju," Billy said.
"Yeah, there. I dunno what the hell went on down there, but ever since the Alliance has been stepping up its efforts to get all you dealers off the streets and all those virus samples into some big storehouse somewhere or something, whatever it is they…"
Billy rolled his eyes. "The Alliance is a joke," he said, his voice harsh. "Bound by the same stupid treaties and laws and regulations as the UN, slaves to the Global Pharmaceutical Consortium…" He shook his head. "The Alliance hasn't once stopped an outbreak, just gone in and cleaned up the mess. Pig's not afraid of them, and he shouldn't be. They're too busy calling out big firms and patting themselves on the back when they take down CEOs to even realize that dissolving those companies just feeds the Market even more - and cuts down on all of the GPC's competition."
Vargas raised his eyebrows. "Well, aren't you just an expert on the subject."
Billy paused. He might've gone just a little bit too far there. He grit his teeth and thought, Great job, Coen. You're a real genius, you know that?
Drumming his fingers on the counter, he told another lie: "The Alliance has been on and off my tail for the past few years. They haven't caught me yet. So either I'm very good - which we both know isn't true - or they're very bad."
"Hm," Vargas replied.
Billy looked up, confused, watching as Vargas suddenly reached below the bar and grabbed a bunch of napkins. Taking a pen out of his back pocket, he hastily scribbled something on one of the napkins, then pushed it towards Billy. In his simple, clear handwriting, he had written: "Maybe. Maybe not. I know a thing or two about acting. The Alliance may be acting."
Vargas had a point. A good one, especially when Billy considered his own circumstances. He leaned back a little as the first rumble of thunder echoed through the humid air, but didn't respond to what Vargas had written. He had to get going, anyway.
"Thank you," he said, rising from the stool.
Vargas frowned, pulled the napkin back. He quickly scribbled something else on it, pushing it across the counter towards Billy when he was finished. Without giving Billy a chance to read it and respond, the old bartender turned on his heel and disappeared back into his kitchen.
Billy looked at the napkin only after he had left the bar and started back down the muddy road towards the Bunker.
"If I were you," Vargas had written, "I'd worry less about Pig and more about yourself."
It was pouring by the time Billy got back to the bunker. It was a cold rain, too, with fat raindrops that stung every time they hit bare skin.
The guest bedroom's shower was running - Billy could just hear it over the sound of the rain pounding on the roof. Rebecca was awake. Kicking off his shoes and hanging up his dripping coat, Billy quickly put a pot of coffee on and settled down at the kitchen table. He'd start breakfast when Rebecca was done with her shower.
Over the past four days, the two of them had managed to settle into an odd routine. Rebecca spent most of her day poring over the virus, studying small droplets of the sample under a microscope, running it through test after test, all in an effort to figure out, she said, what it did, how it did it, how it might be stopped - and who made it the way it was.
For his part, Billy provided Rebecca with whatever she needed - from someone to bounce ideas off of to an errand boy to something like her personal chef. He prepared her meals because she was frequently too wrapped up in her work to even notice it was lunchtime. Billy was pretty sure that if he didn't feed her, Rebecca just wouldn't eat.
Beyond that, however, they spoke and interacted very little. Things were still painfully awkward between them and whatever barriers were keeping them from being comfortable around each other showed no signs of falling anytime soon.
He hated it, but didn't really know what to do about it.
Billy heard Rebecca's door open and jerked his head around, watching as she all but staggered into the kitchen.
"Morning," he said to her as she slid into a chair.
"Morning," she replied, rubbing at her eyes as though she had just rolled out of bed.
"You're up late."
"Was up half the night working." She dropped her forehead into a palm, shaking her head slowly. "This virus is incredibly complex. I've never seen anything like it - not since T. I've hardly even started to figure any of it out, and it's already been almost a week."
"Four days is not 'almost a week', Rebecca."
"We need to figure this thing out as soon as we can. You know that." She lifted her head and looked at him. "Have you got any leads?"
Billy shook his head. "The guy I bought it from seems to have skipped town. No one seems to know where he is." He sighed. "And I'm not likely to find out much more as long as the weather stays like this. It'll be hard to even find anyone outside in weather like this."
"You guys can afford to close up when it rains?"
"Sort of. Dealers tend to migrate for the rainy seasons and go where it's not quite so wet. A few places are still up, though. Just not here."
"You could…" Rebecca began.
"No. Absolutely not."
Rebecca gave him an odd look, but didn't say anything.
Billy clenched his jaw, feeling prickles of warmth in his cheeks. He'd spoken way too quickly. Turning his head to look out the window, he drew a hand down his face - paying particular attention to his cheeks - and added, "I'd really prefer not to leave you alone here."
"This place is armed to the teeth. You said so yourself."
"Sorry. Still ain't gonna happen."
"Why not?"
Billy rubbed at the stubble on his chin, wondering which of his many reasons was the best. Finally, he settled on listing the top three: "One, dunno where my seller is. God knows the rat bastard mighta sold me out. Two, you can't activate or deactivate any of the systems I got here. Three, you aren't a field agent. Said so yourself. Means you oughta have someone keeping an eye on you."
Rebecca scowled at him.
He'd gotten her there. That third one did it for sure. Billy flashed her a grin and added, "And why are you so eager to kick me out, huh? Gotta make a private call to your boyfriend?"
The scowl deepened, and now Rebecca's cheeks were reddening, too. "No," she snapped, eyes flashing. Through gritted teeth, she added, more to the table than to him, "I don't have one."
Billy's heart skipped. No boyfriend? He felt a giddy smile tugging on his lips.
Bad time to smile, dumbass, he thought, clamping down on the inside of his cheek.
"You hungry?" he suddenly asked, by way of catching himself. He stood up and started towards the stove.
"You don't have to-"
"No, but I'm gonna anyway. Get used to it. It's how things go in Casa de Coen."
At that, Rebecca laughed.
Billy smiled. Looking out the small window at the pouring rains, he smiled as wide as he had in months.
Finally, the walls were coming down.
The storms had died out again by that evening. Forecast was, of course, calling for more rain over the next few days.
Bad timing, Billy thought. He'd really been hoping to get a few days' break - long enough that he and Rebecca could head up to Cozumel and do a little digging. He really wanted to find Pig, or, barring that, some kind of lead to the source of the virus.
He drew a hand down his face. Suicide, that's what that was. In the market, you didn't go after the source. You dealt. You bought and sold and you didn't ask questions that weren't really important. If you happened to find a direct line to your own source, fine and dandy, but you sure as hell didn't go looking for one. The Alliance, though not a terrible threat, hung over everyone's heads like a dark cloud. Anyone caught sniffing around
There were people he could call, favors he could cash in. He could find a way. But it might take months, and with a virus like T-Loki…
The thing with most of the viruses on the market was that a couple of samples - never, ever just one - were usually sold to terrorists and other zealots as a means of getting them tested in the real world. Some strains of T worked really well in the lab, but were duds when introduced to a mass population, while others only made a dent in the local population before, believe it or not, said population developed a natural immunity to it.
But on the whole, it seemed, no one had managed to quite recreate the success Umbrella had had with the original T- and G- viruses.
T-Loki, though…
If it worked as well in a population - and what Rebecca had managed to find out so far suggested as much - it could devastate the world in a way that Umbrella might not even have imagined.
And, of course, he wasn't the only one out there with a sample.
Sighing heavily, Bill dropped his head, staring at the floor through the gap between his knees.
So much shit on his plate. So much of it.
"Billy?" Rebecca suddenly called from the kitchen.
Jerked out of his thoughts, Billy called back, "What is it?"
"I…I think you need to see this." Her voice was clipped.
Billy rose from the chair and went over to her, circling around behind her so he could see the screen. He had expected to see some email from Graves or one of her friends on the B.S.A.A., or maybe some shots of the virus' cells or something.
What he saw instead was an article on a popular news website.
About him. About his case.
With his picture nestled right next to the text.
Sonofabitch.
"Did you know about this?" Rebecca asked, looking up at him.
Billy clenched his teeth, pushing a hand through his hair. "Sort of," he finally admitted, closing his eyes and trying desperately to wish that article away.
"'Sort of?'"
Billy growled in frustration, the sound rumbling deep in the back of his throat. Five days. It had been five days.
Under wraps my ass.
Beginning to pace, he said, "Graves called me a few days ago. Mentioned that one of the other guys from…from my old unit had killed himself - and left a note. Apparently it was enough to turn a few heads and make the new brass a little curious." He growled again, an angry fire building in his chest.
"But… Why didn't you mention it?" Rebecca asked, climbing out of the chair.
Billy glanced back at the screen. "Because I don't know how I feel about it."
"It's good news!" she replied, her voice earnest.
"Is it?" Billy retorted, spinning to face her, his hands balling into fists. "Tell me, how is it good news? I've been working with the cartels for the last ten years, Rebecca. I've been in close contact with men who have killed in the past to keep their identities secret! If they find out that that-" he jabbed a finger at the computer, where an eleven-year-old photo of him in full Marine Corps regalia was displayed in his resolution on the screen "-is me, that I was a Marine, what do you think they're going to do? They'll think I've been feeding information to Uncle Sam. They'll think I've been on some secret undercover operation to get them thrown in jail. And they'll come after me, Rebecca. They'll hunt me down and they'll kill me. Maybe they'll even wrap up some of my body parts and ship 'em off to NCIS as a warning. How many times do you think I can cheat death? 'Cause I already think I'm deep in debt right there."
"But it means you can come home!"
Billy shook his head furiously. "Billy Coen is a dead man as far as the United States is concerned. Innocent or not, he died in July 1998, alone and on the run from a bunch of goddamned zombies. What they're doing now - it's bullshit. It's about some young journalist wanting a shot at a Pulitzer. I guarantee you, he'll go and he'll interview the last two survivors of that incident. He'll tell their spin on the story, maybe embellish a little bit here and there, maybe try and find the words to describe the special kind of hell that place was. And then Donovan and Kerns will feed him some line about how telling this story after so many years makes their souls feel lighter or something, and all of 'em will say a few pretty lines about how I was just a victim of the American drive for justice even at the expense of the truth. It'll sound pretty. Might make a few people cry.
"Hell, the might even make a movie out of it. What do you think - am I good enough for Hollywood, or am I just gonna be some special miniseries on cable? Who do you think could be me? 'Cause I kinda like the idea of being played by Hugh-"
"Stop," Rebecca said, her voice barely above a whisper. Billy could see her eyes were wet, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. He wasn't done. And since no one else would hear his story or get his say, she was going to have to.
So he went on: "This whole thing, it isn't about clearing my name. It's about lining the pockets of anyone who can claim tangential involvement. It's just about letting those people sleep well at night. I get nothing. Nothing but another ruined life. I already can't be a Marine anymore. Now I won't be able to be a dealer anymore either.
"I'm running out of things I'm good at, Rebecca. And it was a short list to begin with."
Billy trailed off, breathing heavily. His hands were balled up so tightly he could feel his nails digging deep into his palms and there was a tight knot in his chest and stomach.
He couldn't look at Rebecca. He didn't want to know if the tears had started falling, because he wasn't sure he'd know what to do to help. Not when he'd been the asshole that had made her cry to begin with.
But suddenly he heard her move, felt her step in beside him, and the next thing he knew she had wrapped her arms around his neck.
"You're a hero, Billy Coen," she said, her voice thick. "I know it, you know it, Graves knows it. And it's about fucking time America knew it."
Startled, Billy stood frozen. He just let Rebecca cling to him, pressing her face into his collarbone. Then he relaxed, tilted his head so his cheek lay against her hair, and wrapped his arms around her back.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry." He tightened his grip on her, holding her as close to him as he could. "I'm sorry."