Chapter 4 – The Woman in Red
Congo Basin, 1997
The jungle pressed down heavily, wet heat clinging to skin and gear. Bugs buzzed like static. Sergeant Ortiz—bronze-skinned, his build a little shorter than Jack's or TJ's—marched at the front with an M16A2 in his hands and a heavy radio pack strapped to his back.
The squad consisted of nine Marines, including Jack and TJ.
They reached a village. Too quiet.
Empty huts. Cold fire pits. A child's toy left in the dirt.
Sgt. Ortiz lifted his fist, signaling a halt. The squad spread out, rifles ready, boots crunching softly over the packed earth.
"Eyes sharp," Ortiz muttered. "Whoever did this didn't leave tea and cookies."
Corporal Ross crouched near the drag marks in the mud. "Lots of bodies, Sarge. Looks like they were pulled toward the jungle."
"Rebels?" Ramirez asked, his light machine gun hanging from his shoulder.
"Rebels don't clean out whole families and Marines," Walker cut in, smirking despite the tension. "Unless they're starting a collection."
Gallagher snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, that's real funny, Jimmy. Remind me to laugh when one of 'em puts a machete through your skull."
"Wouldn't be the first time somebody wanted to shut me up," Walker shot back, grinning.
"Both of you, lock it up," Ortiz growled, low and sharp. The humor died instantly.
Behind them, Klein adjusted his helmet nervously, gum snapping between his teeth. "This place gives me the creeps. I swear I keep hearing something moving."
"That's your knees shaking, Boot," Ramirez said with a wolfish grin. "You'll get used to it."
"Don't listen to him," Okafor said, his voice calm and steady. "Fear sharpens the senses. Just don't let it own you."
Chu said nothing, but his glasses flashed as he scanned the huts, quietly pointing toward overturned furniture and scattered shoes.
Ross followed his gesture and nodded. "Looks like they left in a hurry. No gunfire, though. Strange."
Jack was wiping his new strap-on glasses clean. "Couldn't be rebels then. Maybe slavers?"
"Slavers don't abduct our own men," TJ said, squatting next to a truck tire track.
Gallagher muttered, "You're right. Intel said some of our guys went missing. So what the hell are we dealing with anyway?"
Sgt. Ortiz straightened, face grim. "Doesn't matter. We find 'em. That's our job." He motioned them toward the trail leading into the trees. "On me."
The squad moved out, nine rifles sweeping the jungle's shadows.
Jack fell in beside TJ, lowering his voice. "Think we'll actually find them?"
TJ smirked. "What, you scared, Jack?"
Jack scoffed, tugging at the strap of his launcher. "Nah. Just don't like ghost towns."
"Relax," TJ said, grinning. "What's the worst that could happen?"
A crow burst from the treetops, cawing sharply as if mocking him.
Jack frowned at the noise, uneasy.
The trail led deeper into the basin. Hours passed until the brush thinned again, opening onto a chain-link fence tangled in vines. Beyond it loomed an old concrete building, cracked walls streaked with mildew. The faint outline of a red-and-white Umbrella logo clung to a rusted sign.
"This totally doesn't give off haunted industrial site vibes," Walker said sarcastically. "Oh, we definitely need to investigate this place. Wait—better idea—we should totally split up and let the only black guy here be at the back of the group."
Klein looked even more nervous. "I-I've got a bad feeling about this place, man… I've seen too many horror movies. This doesn't end well for us."
Okafor, calm as ever, put a hand on his shoulder. "Breathe, son. Fear's only deadly if you let it guide you."
Jack forced a smile, but unease prickled his gut.
Then—movement.
Across a shadowed catwalk above the courtyard, Jack glimpsed a woman. Slim, elegant, short black hair. A red dress, stark against the abandoned building covered in foliage. Clean. Too clean.
Jack blinked, and she was gone.
"What is it?" TJ asked, concern in his voice.
"I saw a woman in a red dress," Jack said aloud.
Walker snorted. "Great. Blondie here's sharing his fetishes. Just what we needed."
"Shut it, Walker," Ortiz barked. His eyes swept the courtyard. "If Hale saw someone, then someone's here. Eyes sharp."
The squad filed into the compound, rifles sweeping side to side. Broken glass crunched under their boots. A gutted lobby stretched before them, papers strewn across the floor, the Umbrella logo barely visible on a cracked wall sign.
"Looks abandoned…" Klein whispered.
"That's the problem," Ross muttered. "Feels too abandoned."
Ramirez muttered something crude in Spanish, gripping his light machine gun tighter.
That was when they all heard it—a hiss through the vents.
A soft release at first, like steam escaping a pipe. Then louder. Vents overhead rattled as white vapor poured into the air.
"Gas!" Ross shouted.
"Masks on! Now!" Sgt. Ortiz barked.
Jack yanked at the strap of his mask, fumbling to get it over his glasses. His vision was already hazy. The air grew thick, sweet, aromatic.
Klein gagged. "I—I can't—" He collapsed, mask still half on his head.
Ramirez tried to run back to the double doors they came through, but realized the reinforced glass had already slid shut, locking them in.
Jack's muscles felt like lead. Through his dazed eyes, he saw TJ beside him, mask in place but already slumping, eyes rolling back.
Figures moved through the haze. Black uniforms, gas masks, Umbrella insignias on their shoulders. Calm. Professional.
Out of desperation, Ramirez let loose with his light machine gun, cutting one of them down. But he was tackled from the side, slammed into the floor, and pinned.
Gallagher roared, firing his rifle. He dropped one soldier before another jammed a shock baton into his ribs. He convulsed, then collapsed.
Walker tried to lift Klein, dragging him toward cover, but a cloud of gas enveloped them both. Their bodies slumped together.
Jack fought to stay upright. His rifle shook in his grip. He squeezed the trigger—the shot went wild. Black shapes swarmed him, boots slamming into his ribs, wrenching his weapon away.
Through the blur, a tall figure emerged. A pristine white lab coat, silver-colored hair, and silver-rimmed glasses. He leaned casually on a black cane, surveying the scene like a man observing insects in a jar.
"Perfect," the man said, voice calm as silk. "Fresh subjects for the Aegis trials."
Jack tried to get up, but his body betrayed him. His vision tunneled.
Then Jack embraced the darkness.