The 0714 Files: File #1 Inferno (Remake 2)

Chapter 39

Thirty minutes before

I realize upon stepping off the lift that I have no flashlight. The one I'd lamented leaving behind on the main desk back in the station was long gone by the time we'd returned. I couldn't be sure it was even there when Leon and I were at that desk the first time. Maybe that's why I overlooked it. Either way though, without a flashlight, I have no source of light to see with in wherever the hell I am in the darker sections of... wherever here is.

Descending a set of stairs. I'm smacked with a wall of noxious gases and can hear a strong, steady current of water. I have to be in the heart of the sewers right now, and if there are zombies, but I have no flashlight... "Don't think about it," I whisper to myself to help keep what little calm I can in place of the fear.

I come to a ledge lacking a railing, and as expected, to my right is a waterfall of water with god knows what captured within its brown and gray stream. Scanning the sides of the walls below me, I bite the inside of my cheek and sigh in disgust at seeing no platforms to walk on to escape the river. Meaning I'm about to walk in other people's shit and urine. Sitting down on the edge, I lift my shirt to my nose and take a deep breath. Through the material I'm still inhaling foul air though.

Not wanting to submerge the gun into whatever's in the water below. I take the moment to store my handgun, and after consideration my knife, into my duffel bag. It's at the restriction of movements from the tight jean jacket that I deliberate removing that too. I do as such then, taking the bag off long enough to painfully shrug the jacket from my shoulders before safely tucking it into the bag next. They'll wait inside until I'm situated in the stream.

Tightening the straps as much as possible so it won't be submerged in the water too much. Silently thanking the R.P.D. for the thought of buying waterproof duffel bags and giving me one later on in the week after my arrival. I press a hand on the concrete, wrap my lips around my teeth to keep them tightly shut and push off. Stumbling, and dunking my hands in the water, while shooting pain straight to my chest. Gasping at the deep sting and icy cold liquid soaking my clothes up to my navel that reek like no tomorrow. Some droplets splash on my face too.

I rub a cheek on both shoulders, gritting my teeth and wishing there was another way to go through here. "It's just water. It's just water," I chant as I wade through it a foot with my hands up like I was about to get shot and I'm not trying to keep my balance to prevent slipping. An event that if it occurs and I get more of this stuff on me besides my legs and waist...

I'll toss these clothes when I get a chance. I could feel my boots flood with water in the drop and even as I walk, I have to refrain from flexing my toes in the shoes. I don't want to feel the muddy water squishing around them. I'll probably have to thoroughly scrub something else too to avoid the hellish bacterial infection it might cause down there...

I'm glad I took the jacket off. The orchid painting on the back means too much to watch burn up in flames if it'd touched this river. It was a reflection of my first occurrence of acting out against Umbrella. I'd draw the flower over and over again on the inside of anything I could when overlooked. Each time I was caught I was beaten too for doing so, but I never stopped drawing them those few precious chances I had.

At first, I didn't know why I drew it. I was given pencils for note taking and classwork in the academy. I'd grown bored one evening while studying when I was still considered "One of the good ones". The idea for a flower is one I finally understood when puberty set in. When memories flooded back in an overwhelming sense that left me crying every second the first week with each one. Unless I was in the presence of someone, and then the tears would forcefully stop.

The more I drew it the better the flower became. The painting on my jacket is the first one I've done in color, and the last tangible thing I have of my mother. Even if I painted another one, it'd never be, or feel, the same. Nothing like wading through people's shit to make you contemplate a sad moment in your life.